KRISHNA CORIOLIS#1: Slayer of Kamsa (4 page)

He glanced in the direction of their leader, the one who sat on the Andhaka throne bearing the raj-mukut, the crown of beaten gold that was placed upon the head of the people’s chosen leader, for the Andhaka Yadava nation was a republic in the truest sense of the word.

The being seated there glared down at him with a look of pure fury. He bore the familiar aspect and human garb of Chief-King Ugrasena. He was shouting stern commands that he foolishly expected Kamsa to obey. That old man seated upon the Andhaka throne was not his true sire; that honour fell to a noble being named Drumila, a powerful daitya from the netherworld. Unable to take birth in this age in his true form, he had disguised himself as the chief-king of the Andhakas, Ugrasena, and in this guise, he had deceived Ugrasena’s wife Padmavati in younger days, siring a male child upon her. Kamsa was that child, and he felt the rich, noble blood of his true father raging in his veins now, as he did at such times, and ignored the blathering objections and orders of Ugrasena, a feeble old man who possessed neither the will nor the strength to do what had to be done:
Exterminate all enemies. Kill them where you find them, by any means possible.
Yet, somewhere within Ugrasena’s incompetent form, there remained a vestige of Drumila and it was to this truth that Kamsa bowed and conceded lordship.

‘Fear not, Father!’ Kamsa said aloud, as the stunned gathering still reeling from the shock of his bold
intrusion and even bolder act of recklessness turned to stare at him.‘I have slain the enemy in our midst. No more will his deception veil our senses from the true nature of his evil mission!’

He saw Ugrasena blink several times as he absorbed this shouted message. Beside him, Kamsa’s mother Padmavati, once known for her beauty, now a wasted shadow of her former self, covered her face and seemed to weep.
Tears of joy, surely,
Kamsa told himself.
She must be overjoyed at my speed and boldness.
His true father Drumila did not respond as Kamsa had expected either: he did not loudly hail his son’s achievement to the assembly or come to Kamsa and press him to his breast in that fierce embrace that Kamsa had craved for so often during his growing years and received so rarely. But that was only to be expected; in his human disguise as Ugrasena, Drumila must needs conceal his true feelings for his son. No matter. Kamsa knew his parents were proud of him, and that was enough.

He executed a deep bow in the direction of the throne, and raised his head, smiling. The smile faded as he saw the crowd that stood encircling the spot where Vasudeva – that wretched spy and eternal enemy of his clan – had stood only moments ago, part to reveal something quite extraordinary.

Vasudeva stood as he had before, facing him. The stupid cowherd that he was, he had neither flinched nor taken evasive or defensive action when Kamsa had flung the spear. Not that anyone could deflect or dodge a throw by Kamsa easily; but the man might at least have made an attempt. To simply stand there facing death was an act so contemptible, it made Kamsa want to spit his mouthful of tobacco on the polished floor in disgust. Of course, such steadfastness might be misconstrued as heroism – a yoddha facing certain death without so much as flinching. But Kamsa knew better. The man was a coward and so unexpected and stunning was Kamsa’s action that he had no time to react. He simply stood there as Kamsa’s spear sped towards him to end his life. Kamsa had flung it with force enough to punch through armour, bone, flesh, gristle, sinew and spine, and emerge out a man’s back – he had done precisely that to other men a hundred times before and knew exactly the force, trajectory and impact of his throw.

The spear still stood there.

In mid-air.

Before Vasudeva.

Kamsa stared, blinking several times to make sure
his eyes were not still obscured by the blood from his last skirmish with some cowherds who had strayed across the demarcated border into Andhaka territory. Well, technically, they hadn’t strayed, but the heads of their cattle were pointed towards Andhaka territory, so it was obvious they intended to cross over. He had slaughtered the cowherds and their cows, down to the last suckling calf and mother of both species. Their blood had spattered on his face, obscuring his vision, and it had taken considerable scrubbing to remove the stubborn spatters. Damned enemy blood. Burnt like acid too.

But no amount of blinking and rubbing his eyes made this particular sight vanish or change.

His spear stayed there, hanging inches from Vasudeva’s chest, its deadly barbed tip pointed precisely at the point where the breastbone met the ribcage, that soft yielding spot in the centre where the spear would have punched through with minimal resistance, bursting through the heart and emerging out of the rear of the Sura’s body.

It had stalled midway, suspended by no visible means. It wasn’t floating exactly, for it did not so much as move an inch, merely hung as if embedded in some solid object.

But I heard it strike! It hit bone and flesh and cartilage with that typical wet crunching sound they always make at this distance and force.

Then again, he was so accustomed to hearing that sound that it was possible that he had simply remembered it from previous occasions. The outburst that exploded from the onlookers the instant he flung the spear had drowned out everything else, after all.

He strode towards the Sura chief-king, people stepping back or moving away, wide-eyed, to give him a wide berth.

He saw a man beside Vasudeva stand his ground staunchly, along with several others he recognized as the Suras’ clan-brothers and allied chieftains. They stared fiercely at Kamsa with the look he had seen so
often before. He saw fists clench empty air, muscles tighten, jaws lock, and knew that they were prepared to take him on with their bare hands if need be. They did not worry him; he could take them on single- handedly even if Haddi-Hathi was not there to back him up, which he was.

Kamsa stared at the spear. He walked around it; examined it from all angles. He could not fathom how the trick had been pulled off. The spear simply stood there, embedded solidly in ... in thin air!

He grasped the spear to dislodge it from its position. He felt a shock as it refused to budge.
 

He yanked down upon it, hard.

Nothing.

He pulled it to the left, then to the right, then
pushed it upwards. His biceps and powerful shoulder muscles bulged, and he knew that were this a lever he was exerting all this force upon, he could have moved a boulder weighing a ton with this much effort.

Yet the spear just stayed there, as immobile as an iron rod welded into solid rock.

This was impossible!

He looked at Vasudeva. The Sura chief-king’s face was hard, ready for anything, yet not cruel and mocking as Kamsa had expected. Not the gloating glee that a triumphant enemy ought to have displayed at such a moment.

‘HOW!’ Kamsa screamed. ‘BY WHAT SORCERY DID YOU DO THIS?’

Vasudeva looked at him for a moment with eyes that seemed almost cow-like to Kamsa’s raging senses. The kettledrums played out their mad rhythm, pounding his brain with unending waves of agony.

Then, to the sound of a shocked
Aaah
from the watchingassemblage,Vasudevareachedoutandtook hold of the spear, which came free of its invisible hold as easily as if he had picked it up from a wall-stand. Several spectators clasped their palms together and criedout‘Sadhu!Sadhu!’inreverentialtones–forwhat had happened was no less than a miracle.

And to Kamsa’s continued disbelief and amazement, the Sura chief-king held out the spear upon raised palms, the action of a man surrendering rather than opposing.

‘It was no tI,’Vasudeva said quietly,‘but the great Lord Vishnu who did this. For it is clear that he desires our people to be at peace. Accept this as proof of his grace and a sign of his protection over all those who work to achieve shanti upon prithviloka.’

five

‘Father?’

Devaki had scoured the palace for Ugrasena. When a sipahi informed her that her father was still in the sabha hall, she was surprised. It was the last place she had expected to find him, so long after the ruckus caused that afternoon by her brother. But when she entered the darkened hall, lit only by the light of a few flickering torches that created as many ominous shadows as they threw light, her heart sank.

Ugrasena sat on his throne in exactly the same position in which he had been seated when she had left the hall hours earlier, after the fracas over Kamsa and his boorishly violent actions had disrupted the celebration. As she walked the several dozen yards to the throne dais, the crackling mashaals sent the shadows of the endless rows of carved pillars fleeing and skittering in every direction. The echoes of her footfalls whispered from the far corners of the large chamber which was acoustically designed to carry the words of every speaker at the public sabha sessions to even the farthest reaches of the great hall.

She shivered, feeling the cold damp stone of the chamber pressing down upon her. Through her childhood and brief youth thus far, she had come to associate this hall with war: war councils, preparations, emergencies, talks, negotiations, breakdowns in talks ... Until today, her strongest memory was of angry voices raised in heated discussion over some seemingly insignificant matter of territorial water rights or foraging boundaries – those twin bugbears that had plagued the Sura and Andhaka clans since the time of their mutual forebear Yadu himself.

She reached the foot of the dais and instinctively bowed formally, awaiting the liege’s permission before approaching closer.

Ugrasena sat like a statue wrought of old wax, his lined and worry-worn features as deeply etched as with a sculptor’s chisel. His posture, leaning back and resting sideways, with the side of his head resting on one palm, suggested anxiety too. She waited patiently for him to respond. Finally, he broke out of his reverie and registered her presence. He sighed and frowned down at her, eyes watering either from strain or age.

‘My good daughter, why do you stand there? Come, come to me. Why do you stand on ceremony so? You need no permission to approach.’

‘Father,’ she said, climbing the stone-cut steps to the raised platform that served to elevate the Andhaka seat of governance above the sabha hall’s floor. She knelt on one knee, taking her father’s hands in her own. She was shocked to feel how cold and withered
they were. Had they been so weathered this morning when he clasped her hands and uttered the traditional blessings? She didn’t think so. He seemed to have aged years in a single day. Her heart went out to him and she leaned forward and kissed him quickly on the brow. His eyebrows rose in surprise at the unexpected affection, but she knew he was pleased. Her mother was not given to demonstrations of affection, and she had often felt that her father must suffer from its lack.

‘What occasions this generosity?’ he asked, a faint trace of a smile on his puckered mouth. It pleased her to know that she was the one responsible for it.

‘I am rich today,’ she said brightly, determined to elevate his mood.‘I am rich in family and friends and allies. And soon I shall be rich in matrimony too. This is the happiest day of my life, Father. And I owe it all to you. You promised that I would wed Vasudeva and you kept your promise. You are truly a king among men!’

He laughed. A brief chuckle, gruff and involuntary. But still a laugh. It gladdened her heart to hear the sound of his amusement as she now felt confident that he could overcome the day’s setbacks and Kamsa’s awful transgression. He was her father: King Ugrasena, lord of the Andhaka Suras, the greatest nation in all Aryavarta – in all prithviloka – and nothing was impossible for him!

But the chuckle turned to a choked cough, then into a bout of violent chest-racking bursts that bent
him over double and turned his face red. Alarmed, she patted him on the back and poured him water from the decanter beside his throne. Why had he sent away even his serving boys and girls? When the coughing fit finally ceased, it left him looking stricken, like the time he had taken to his bed with the purging sickness. It pained her to see him so weakened.

Then he did something that alarmed her even more. He bent over, pressed his palms to his face, and wept. ‘Father,’ she said urgently, concerned,‘why do you
weep so? You are lord of the Andhakas. The world lies awaiting your command. Nothing can resist y our power.’

His greying head shook with the force of his weeping. She felt her heart sink, all her bonhomie and optimism waning like water dripping out of a leaking pot. She felt the fear that had clutched her mind that morning return, strengthened by the ugly rumours and gossip that was circulating around the palace like a fetid odour carried in the wind.

When he raised his head at last, she was dismayed to see his eyes red-veined and rheumy, streaming tears. ‘I fear ...’ he said in a choked voice, faltered, then continued,‘I fear that your brother may go out of hand this time.’

A chill swept down her back.‘Control him, Father. He respects you greatly. He will abide by your commands.’

He shook his head, still coughing into his fist. His beard was flecked with saliva and shiny with caught tears. She was frightened and made nervous by his seeming collapse of nerve.‘He has no respect for me or anyone else,’ he said gruffly, almost scornfully – though the scorn was not directed at her but at the subject of their discussion. ‘Not even his own mother! Nay. He only fears me ...’ He paused, musing sadly.‘Feared me. Now, even that may not be enough to keep him in check.’

She clasped his hands. ‘You underestimate your powers, Father. I am sure you can control him even now. He is nothing more than a spoilt child running amok. Too long has he lived as he pleased, done as he willed, without care for dharma or karma. It is time he was checked. And you alone can do it.’

His eyes, gazing out with a lost expression into the dark flickering shadows of the sabha hall, turned back down towards her, finding her face. They softened and a semblance of a smile twitched his careworn features.‘My child. My jewel. You would believe your father capable of crossing swords with almighty Indra himself! And perhaps once, yes, I would have dared to attempt even such a feat. But not now. Not in my current state and age. More importantly ...’ and here his face darkened by degrees, as if the mashaals had begun to snuff out one by one,‘you do not know your brother’s present strength. He has the shakti of a danav, a daitya, a rakshasa, and every other breed of asura all rolled into one now. He is far, far more than just a spoilt boy run amok. He is a force of destruction.’ His head dipped in evident shame.‘Perhaps once he could still have been tamed and checked, put on a leash or trained and commandeered. But now ... now it is past sunset in the deep recesses of his soul. Now he has descended into the pit of madness. And he is well on his way to destroying us all.’