Krishna, p.11
Krishna, page 11
“Go after Akrura,” he tells one of them. “The old demon Kesin prowls Vrindavana. Tell him to kill Krishna and Balarama.
“Lest he fail, get the elephant Kuvalayapida ready for Siva’s festival. Let Chanura and Mustika be prepared too. I have a potion for them to drink before they wrestle on that day, and another one for the beast.
“It is time we are rid of these paltry annoyances. It is time for greater dominance. The simpering Vasudeva must die, and Devaki. They shall be brought to the chamber one night, soon.” He moistens his snake’s mouth at the thought.
“Nanda must die, and the old dotard Ugrasena, whose cowardly spirit still haunts this palace. And all these primped Yadava lords who dare clap for the cowherd in my sabha—I will put an end to all the traitors. As soon as I put an end to this Krishna, this…cowherd.”
He and his comrades in evil begin to laugh to think that a cowherd is the one meant to overthrow them.
“They would find a cow-grazer to worship,” cries Kamsa, holding his lean sides. “Because we have made cows of them all, while we are the only bulls left in Mathura.”
But memory can be a wicked thing. Suddenly, Kamsa remembers Narada’s story of Arishta, the bull bison, and how Krishna killed him. The demon of Mathura falls silent, his face twitching.
Green eyes full of fear, he waves his confederates away from his presence.
TWENTY-FOUR
Purusha Tribhirguna mayai...
t would rain today on Kurukshetra. Kshatriya’s blood and common soldier’s blood would mingle with rainwater and flow in red streams, before the earth drank it down, and what remained was dried by wind and sun in stains of violent remembrance: if the Avatara had his way.
Krishna looked out to the Kaurava army, knowing his own kin were among its legions, fighting this last battle against their prince of grace. Catching the sentimentality in himself, he thought perhaps if Arjuna hadn’t broken down, he, Krishna, might have done so. And then who would have freed him from his sorrow?
“It is the three gunas that delude, Arjuna; all this maya of life and death is theirs. Who makes me his sanctuary crosses the ocean of the world, the sea of samsara. Demons, evil ones, do not seek refuge in me yet.”
Now Krishna smiled, “The virtuous who worship me are of four kinds: the man in trouble, the seeker after knowledge, the seeker after happiness, and the man of discernment.
“The discerning man is dearest to me. Why, he and I are one. Unlike the others, he comes to me after many lives, having realised that I am all there is. He is the rarest of the rare, the mahatman, the great soul,” said the Dark One pointedly.
“Those whose minds are full of lust worship the Devas with rituals. And yes, I grant them their hearts’ desires, make their faith fruitful, whatever form it takes. Those who worship the Devas, go to the Devas; but my bhaktas come to me.
“Those who are confused think of me as my manifestations. They don’t know my transcendent nature, Un-born, changeless, supreme.
“Arjuna, I know all the beings, those alive now, those of the past and all those yet to be. All. But who knows me? Only the enlightened who have overcome sin, who are set free from duality’s delusions, who find sanctuary in me and are saved from old age and death.
“They know the atman and Brahman and all about karma. They know that I rule both this world and the next, and they come to me when they die.”
Prakriti
On the thirty-fourth day of Krishna’s mystic lovemaking with the gopis in the circle of dance, Akrura, the master of gifts from Mathura, arrives in Vrindavana as evening grows into night. When the last rays of the sun mantle the forest and the village, he arrives in his elegant chariot, and asks some surprised cowherds where he can find Krishna.
Akrura is a Vishnubhakta, a cloistered midnight student of the holy Shastras, and he knows all about the prophecy. He has also heard the whispered, legendary rumours in Mathura, and his heart is in his mouth with anticipation at the thought of meeting the Avatara.
After his month with the Raasakridha, the Dark One is more aware than ever of his own destiny. He knows his manhood has come, a deeper phase in his life. It is time for him to leave the environs of his idyllic boyhood, they cannot contain him any more.
Yasodha catches him staring at her as if he was trying to imprint her every feature on his mind. But when she asks him why he stares, he only smiles and moves away. He tells Balarama he feels sure it is almost time for them to leave Vrindavana. Though he doesn’t know yet for what destination.
“You will come back here, but not I.”
He ranges the forest and the riverbank, gazing around him, while all the memories in familiar tree, cool water and charmed glade assemble before him, and his eyes brim over. More often than usual these days, the cowherds hear his flute; but now a song full of sorrow, and they wonder what the matter is with Krishna.
And the gopis? And Radha? Radha feels him withdrawing into himself as the days and the forbidden nights flash by like moments. His loving is as awesome as ever, but in the lull, when the dance grows languorous, she sees something in his sea-eyes that contains yawning vistas of time and place.
Akrura first sees Krishna among the calves at milking-time. He is the colour of a full-blown blue lotus, swathed in golden light, as if all the last rays of the sun fell in yearning just on him. As Krishna turns slowly to face his future, the nobleman from Mathura sees his great, petalled eyes, full of vast intelligence, set in a face truly like a dark sea; a face so powerful it is more than merely handsome; a warrior’s face already, yet compassionate more than fierce, and still young.
The Srivatsa is twirled on his bare chest; his arms hang down to his knees. He wears flowing pitambara robes, electric yellow, and is adorned with forest blooms. He has a white lotus for an earring, his nails are long, and his feet red with forest earth. Above it all the peacock-feather gleams.
Balarama appears at Krishna’s side, white as wave-froth and jasmines, wearing robes as blue as his brother’s skin. They stand facing Akrura in the dying light, their grace and presence startling: two young cowherds and so much more.
Stirred more than he can bear, with a cry Akrura falls at their feet. Bending his head in ecstasy he worships the twin vision, not knowing that he is the first to do so.
Moved, Krishna crosses quickly to the prostrate Yadava. But he hesitates. He bends and touches Akrura’s head in baptism with his palm marked with the thunderbolt and the conch.
Then, reverting at once to his earthy gopa self, Krishna pulls the messenger to his feet and embraces him, crying, “Welcome to Gokula!”
Later, Akrura eats with them in their home. The brothers now share a kutila of their own in the moon-crescent, a small way from Nanda and Yasodha. And instead of being Kamsa’s faithful messenger, Akrura tells them all about the monster in Mathura: his persecution of the Yadavas, his secret police, and his sinister tyranny. He tells them about Kamsa’s plan to have them killed at the wrestling.
“Powers greater than himself, to whom he has given his life, guide his destiny. And he worships Siva, who forgives his bhaktas any sin at all. But, Krishna, there is something else I must tell you today which might change your lives.”
Akrura knows he must take Krishna with him. He draws a deep breath, “Yasodha is not your mother, nor Nanda your father.”
In the lamplight, shock leaps in the Avatara’s eyes. Balarama puts a hand on his brother’s shoulder. Krishna sits very still. Softly as the dark breeze in the trees outside, he says, “My lord, I know you speak the truth because I see your heart is clear. But though Yasodha did not give birth to me, nor Nanda sire me, they will always be my mother and father.”
Krishna’s voice fails him. Rising quickly, he strides out into the night under the streaming moon. Through the window they can see him in silver light. He bends his body, buries his face in his hands, and sobs tear their way out of him. Akrura gets up to go out to Krishna, but Balarama restrains him.
“Let him be. It is done now, and he must face the truth.”
Outside, visions beset the young God. As if learning that Yasodha and Nanda are not his natural parents has released a flood of other memories—of fathomless pasts and strangest times yet to be: a kaleidoscope of soul-lives. And this small life of his is, somehow, at the heart of this web of fate, transforming all the rest.
Out under the blinding moon, he sees Kamsa also as part of the quivering web, in this life and in countless others. He clearly sees the demon’s purposes; he learns his deepest affiliations.
Yet the tears of simple grief for a mother and father snatched from him, course down his face and a new resolve steals over its beauty. Gradually the tremors subside. Wiping his eyes, he turns back to the hut.
“Who then, good Akrura, are my mother and father?” asks Krishna, returning to his wooden stool beside Balarama.
“Kamsa’s sister Devaki and her husband Vasudeva, whom the king holds his prisoners.” Akrura stares at his hands for a moment. “Vasudeva is your father also, my lord,” he says quickly to Balarama. “But why am I telling you all this? Surely, you must know, you are incarnations.”
Balarama has frozen, but now Krishna cracks a smile, “My lord, we didn’t know these things. I am afraid you do not properly understand what you call incarnation!”
All of a sudden his golden laughter fills the night in that simple hut.
“But grant us one boon tonight, O Akrura, though I suspect you have come to take us from our home for good.”
“What is that, Lord?”
“Though you sever every other tie, at least let Rama and me remain brothers,” Krishna laughs again. But his laughter has grown hollow; a shadow crosses his face. He hugs his brother fiercely, and Balarama strokes his hair.
Krishna rises. “It is late, and you must be exhausted from your journey. Sleep well, dear Akrura. And be assured,” an edge is in his voice, “that we will go back to Mathura with you tomorrow. We must leave early. Yes, we will be pleased to come and wrestle in your great city.”
He leaves them and glides out into the night, for it draws on time for the dance; the glade in the forest waits for him.
Still in a daze, he walks through the vana. Suddenly a figure in a white robe appears like a vision to accost him. Keeping pace at his side, its head bent, the figure speaks in a tongue older than the world, which Krishna somehow knows.
“Remember the curse of Sudaman,” says Brahma. “Your manhood has come, and for a hundred years you must be parted from Radha. A hundred brief, mortal years, Krishna, there is much to do.”
“But why?” cries the young God in anguish, turning to the ancient one. But Brahma has vanished.
Then, a woman’s voice, an asariri, speaks out of the night, “Kill Kamsa, he deserves to die. Free your mother and father, they have suffered too long in Mathura; and remove the rest of the burden of evil from the earth. Compelled by the demon’s tapasya of another life, Siva has blessed Kamsa. Who will tame his overweening power but you?”
That night’s loving is fiercer than any other, even the first. Radha is alone with him, because tonight his song had called only her; he frightens her with his intensity. In the throes of her efflorescent climax, she reaches out a slender hand to wipe a tear from her lover’s eye. The dance having ended in sweet tumult, they fall asleep in each other’s arms.
An hour before daybreak, Krishna rises softly. For the last time, he kisses her eyelids, tremulous with dreams, he kisses her lips and her naked breasts. Drinking deeply of that final sight of her, clothed only in a veil of dew, he steals away while he can still bear to. By her side he leaves his lotus, like a precious child.
But Krishna cannot bear to see Yasodha before he leaves Vrindavana.
Book Three
TWENTY-FIVE
Purusha Kim tad Brahmam
rjuna asked, “What is Brahman? What is the atman? What is karma, sublime Krishna? What is the domain of the elements and that of the Gods? How can a man know you, as he dies?”
Krishna answered, “Brahman is the imperishable. Brahman alive in the individual being is the atman, the soul; and karma is the force of creation. And he who thinks of me, as he dies, he certainly comes to me. Whatever a man thinks of as he dies, to that he attains, absorbed in his final thought forever.
“He who says AUM
AUM as he dies, thinking of me, he attains the absolute, the Brahman: the seer, the ancient, the subtlest, the supporter beyond darkness.
Those who come to me, Arjuna, never return to impermanence, the places of sorrow. They are not born again. They have reached perfection. From Brahmaloka down, all the worlds and their creatures die and are reborn. But the one who reaches me never comes back.”
Prakriti
Just within the limits of the dark city, still on the king’s high road, they see a hunchbacked young woman. Her face is fresh as spring, and Krishna leaps down from Akrura’s chariot. A palpable aura of evil hangs over Mathura like a curse. Balarama shudders.
“This is a change from Vrindavana,” he says wryly.
“Tell me, darling,” cries Krishna to the bright hunchback, “whose oil are you carrying in that jar, lotus-eyes?”
She is smitten, she is aquiver. The beautiful stranger appears like someone from another life, a lover from a dream; and her heart is seized with yearning. She has never seen eyes like his, certainly not in emasculated Mathura. She feels naked in that gaze, so known and so wanted, hunch and all.
But her wits have been sharpened by her deformity. She flashes him a tart smile and says, “Don’t you recognize me, my love? I am Naikavakra.”
Hers is a fearless voice in those repressed streets. Some townsfolk gather round at once, attracted first by her ringing tones, and then by the striking appearance of the two youths who ride in Akrura’s chariot. Wild, those boys seem, dangerous looking. Already, the people’s hearts skip a beat when they see Balarama and Krishna.
“I am Kubja, if you want the name my mother gave me. And as everyone here knows, pretty stranger, I am Kamsa’s masseuse. He isn’t happy with the oil ground by anyone else.”
She grinds her bent hips, winking at him. “He rewards me well, stranger, for I am the best at my trade, and my king knows it.”
Krishna throws back his head and laughs, as perhaps no one has laughed here for years. Like bees drawn by honey, more and more people collect around Balarama, Kubja, and the holy Darkling. Krishna signals to Akrura and the lord of gifts leaves, unnoticed.
The brothers’ attraction is hypnotic. They are radiant in their garlands, with hair down to their shoulders, come fresh from the forest to this forlorn street of crippled spirits. But if Kubja’s back is bent, her spirit is straight as a sunbeam. Krishna swaggers up and throws a saucy arm around her.
“Tell me, darling, are my brother and I fit for your scented oil? Or aren’t we royal enough?”
He winks at her too, slipping a flagrant hand under her clothes, bold as cowherds, fondling her soft breast. She is briefly taken aback. Then she flashes her stunning smile again.
“Come, sit on the pavement and let me anoint you. Let these others see what they might have been like, except that they have let Kamsa take their manhood from them, and turn their lives into a nightmare.”
By now, the street corner is thronging with curious townsfolk. This is the day before the festival of Siva’s bow, and the secret police have instructions to handle the people carefully. Travellers from other lands will come to Mathura and the city shouldn’t appear to be repressive.
At the farther reaches of his self-deception, Kamsa even sees himself as a benevolent ruler. Then again, he is confident nothing untoward will happen in his city when Siva protects it, as proclaimed by His bow that stands tall in the palace. Moreover, Kamsa knows that after being cowed for so long by his brutality, his people no longer have the spirit to rise against him.
Kubja kneads the young strangers with expert hands. She is enjoying herself. A fair crowd gathers there by now. The brothers shine in her rainbow oils in that defeated place, the paranoiac street of the city of darkness. Krishna moans in contentment. Brazen as money, he lies on the pavement with his head in Kubja’s lap as she tends to him.
“At last there are some men in this city,” says Kubja when she has finished. Krishna rises, glowing in the twilight.
“And perhaps they will come home with me?” she asks now, hopefully. But also playfully, never able to forget her deformity.
“And why not?” Krishna cries merrily.
He takes her chin in his palm and turns her face up to his. “I will surely go to the house of such a beautiful girl if she asks me. But first, dear Kubja, be straight!”
Even Balarama’s mouth falls open when, as in a wish, covering her feet with his own, and with a clicking of her spine, Krishna pulls her hunched back straight as an arrow. In the wish he sets her down, kissing her lightly, laughing.
Such a hush falls. Someone from the back of the crowd whispers, “Who are you, stranger?”
“I am no stranger, friend. I am Krishna.”
“Sadhu, sadhu!” they breathe, and mill round to touch the brothers’ feet, to prostrate themselves abjectly. Feeling sorry for them, broken and pathetic as they are, Balarama and Krishna raise them up and embrace them.
Kubja pulls Krishna’s hand to her breast in unabashed gratitude. She cries, “Can’t you come home with me, beautiful one? You shall have my virginity, which not even Kamsa has broken. And I will make love to you as no one ever has. Come, my lord, heal my heart as you have my body.”
Krishna throws back his head and roars with laughter. He allows her to take his hand and lead him away, Balarama following disconsolately. But a short way off, taking directions to her house and making sweet promises to her for the night, the brothers slip away towards the palace and the enclosure of Siva’s bow.
