Krishna, p.15
Krishna, page 15
When they see her, the common people of Vidarbha say to each other, “She is fit only for Krishna.”
And against the designs of their king Bhismaka and prince Rukmi, out of a simpler, greater love, the people of Vidarbha shower her with rose petals—to bless her marriage to the Blue God!
Nonchalant as ever, Krishna arrives in Kundina with Balarama and his army, just as if to attend his cousin Sishupala’s wedding. Bhismaka receives him with honour, but accommodates him on the outskirts of the city, because Jarasandha and his allies have already occupied the mansions closest to the lavish mantapa within Bhismaka’s own palace.
But the people of Vidarbha flock to the edge of town to see the Avatara.
Surrounded by guards, eunuch chamberlains, hundreds of courtesans, family elders, friends, brahmanas, bards, singers and clowns, Rukmini comes on the eve of her wedding to worship Parvati. Kings and princes follow her to the temple to catch a glimpse of her beauty, and stand bewitched when she emerges after her prayers, her long eyes shining.
Later, in the confusion, nobody remembers from where the golden chariot appears, it may well have been out of thin air. Nor do they recall which way it flies, in a thunder of hooves, Krishna a flame in it as he sweeps his bride up from under the noses of Jarasandha and his friends and storms away, waving to them in mockery.
Jarasandha bellows, “Shame on us. We are all kshatriyas here, the masters of the age. And a cowherd snatches what is ours from under our eyes, like a deer from a tiger. To arms!”
The warriors scramble to don mail. Clambering into their chariots, each followed by an army, they give Krishna chase. Paundraka is there, Dantavakra, Viduratha and Salva the black. But they get no farther than the outskirts of Kundina, where the Yadava army looms in their path with Balarama cool and menacing at its head.
Once again Jarasandha tastes swift defeat. Unlike his forces, which have been drunk and debauched in Kundina, Balarama’s Vrishni army out of Dwaraka is fresh and sober, and has come here just for battle.
Horses fall, and elephants; chariots are smashed by storms of Vrishni arrows. Krishna’s subtle plans turn even his abduction of the lovely Rukmini into another bloodbath. Jarasandha’s routed legions turn tail but not before a great number of their men have been cut down by the army from Dwaraka.
With a small, fleet force, Rukmi dodges this battle and, weaving through the alleys of Kundina, goes after Krishna. Before he rides he swears an impetuous oath to his friends, to salvage some honour from the disgrace.
“I swear I will not enter Kundinapura again without killing the cowherd and bringing Rukmini back.”
Like the north wind he goes after the Dark One. Leagues fly past, and then, far away on the banks of the Narmada, Krishna allows Rukmi to catch up with him. He turns suddenly on his pursuer.
An astra, in complex, eerie flight, cuts down Rukmi’s bravado in a flash. His sarathy’s throat is pierced, his horses lie twitching, his contingent is slain. He himself has his bow and his sword, his spear and mace shattered into fragments by that missile.
Rukmi finds himself flung from his broken chariot, and lying in the slush of the river-side. Krishna stands over him, eyes glittering, his foot planted across Rukmi’s chest, and a short sword in his hand.
Rukmini clutches his arm, wailing, “You can’t kill my brother today.”
But the spirit of battle is roused in the lion. He won’t so easily be done out of his prey, especially Rukmi who taunted him. Rukmini falls at his feet on the banks of the Narmada. Her mouth is parched; her voice comes in a sob. Her golden chain snaps and falls into the silt.
But Krishna is far away from her, wrapt in his rage. He only laughs fiercely. Growling, his movements abrupt and deranged, he rips away Rukmi’s clothes and ties him naked and sobbing to his chariot-wheel.
Rukmini wails to someone, anyone, to please save her brother. But Krishna still growls softly in his throat, truly a beast of prey that has scented fresh blood. He laughs again, dementedly, uttering no coherent word.
He lunges at Rukmi with his sword. Rukmini shrieks. But Krishna doesn’t kill the scion of Vidarbha, he begins to shave him. Bending over the helpless prince, he shaves some of Rukmi’s head and half his haughty moustaches. He begins to shave below Rukmi’s neck and, eyes shut tight in terror, that kshatriya sullies himself. Rukmi whimpers like a whipped dog, and his filth trickles down his legs; while Rukmini screams on.
Balarama arrives on that scene at the head of the triumphant Yadava force. Leaping down from his chariot with a cry, he pulls his brother away, admonishing him loudly, mainly for Rukmini’s benefit. Krishna comes away, choking with laughter.
“To dishonour a relative is like killing him,” says Balarama. “It is only an arrogant man, blinded with prosperity, who will offend a kinsman like this.”
He holds his own mirth, bubbling dangerously near the surface, in firm check. Gently he helps Rukmini to her feet. He cuts Rukmi free from the chariot-wheel. He helps him wash himself in the river, and offers him fresh clothes. After which, he allows the prince to ride away, speechless, still sobbing; his shame unwashed, unwashable, a stain on his soul.
Balarama scolds Krishna again, very much the elder brother, and the only one Krishna ever allows this liberty. All this is for Rukmini’s mollification, just as Krishna has planned.
Until, Krishna himself seems to come back to his senses. He stops laughing, and gravely asks Rukmini’s pardon. He tells her it is over now, his bit of fun.
“But you are my bride taken in rakshasa vivaha, and I had to behave like a rakshasa today. Don’t cry. I haven’t killed your brother, have I?”
He takes her behind a chariot. He kisses her for the first time, and is rewarded with a wan smile. But Krishna wonders if the lesson he meant to impart has been brought home to her proud spirit. Somehow, he doubts it.
All wonderful Dwaraka waits for them, athrob and decked out for the occasion. If Rukmini’s father would not celebrate her marriage to Krishna, the Yadavas certainly will. At last, their queen has come, and what a welcome she gets. Loyal kshatriyas from other lands are here, all Krishna’s allies and Jarasandha’s enemies, as splendid in their finery as are the Vrishnis of Dwaraka and as Devaki and Vasudeva are, today.
Flags for Indra, who is the day’s deity, flutter in the ocean breeze. Archways of celebration have been made from fine crystal and studded with jewels. Auspicious incense, aguru, hangs piquant in the sea-swept streets, sprinkled with ichor from the temples of elephants. Dwaraka is alive with the heady tale of Krishna’s dashing abduction of the lovely Rukmini.
For seven days and nights, the festivities never pause in the sea-city, and there is singing and dancing in the streets till dawn. But every night, fiercely as his blood is moved, Krishna makes love to his young, young wife, her body hardly full-grown, but her passion so mature.
Only once during all those nights, when she screams long in abandon, another face floats up before Krishna’s eyes in their moonlit room, where the song of waves echoes—a face as lovely as Rukmini’s, a face woven into memories of a brooding jungle, a midnight-blue river, a magic flute-song, and a faraway green pasture: all from another life.
THIRTY-FIVE
Purusha Sarvendriya gunaa bhasam...
e seems to have the qualities of all the senses, but is beyond them.
He is perfectly unattached, yet supports the universe. He is free of the gunas of nature, but enjoys them. He is within every creature and past them all, ever working, always still, subtle beyond the mind’s grasp; so near us, so utterly remote.
“He is one, and with every creature at once: creating them, nourishing them, destroying them, creating them afresh. He is the light of lights, beyond darkness. He is knowledge, all knowing’s only object and its sole purpose, innate in every heart.
“Nature and Soul, Prakriti and Purusha, both have no beginning. The soul in nature enjoys the infinite essences in nature. It is attachment that causes the soul to incarnate in wombs of good and evil.
“The witness is the Brahman in the body. He is the atman, the last self, the final experiencer. No matter how a man has lived, if he once experiences the Brahman directly, beyond the gunas, he will not be reborn.
“By meditation some reach the atman, some by knowledge and others by the way of deeds. Yet others are ignorant of these three paths and resort to worship. They too cross over the sea of death by their devotion to what they have heard.”
Prakriti
War and women. Women and war. Women.
The old fire still sears him. Only one thing helps at all—women. And none of his women ever complain of neglect; nor do we hear of envy, at least not openly, not yet.
Satrajita of Dwaraka is a devotee of the sun, of coruscating Surya Deva who is his friend as well; strange are the ways of destiny. Surya gives Satrajita the wondrous Syamantaka jewel to be a sign of their friendship and an emblem of their covenant as Deva and bhakta. Wearing the brilliant thing around his neck Satrajita goes about proudly, as dazzling as the Sun God himself.
Krishna sits at dice one day, when some Yadavas who have seen Satrajita in the street come running in to him, “Krishna, Surya Deva has come to see you.”
Krishna laughs, “It’s only Satrajita with the Syamantaka round his neck.”
Satrajita installs the jewel in the temple of his kula devatas, dominated by an idol of the Sun God. Even at night, the shrine shines as if the star has set in it instead of the sea. Each morning Satrajita finds the jewel, which is a tiny piece of cooled sun, resting on a bed of fresh gold.
Krishna knows that the occult thing keeps away famine and illness. He also knows its curse. One day he comes to visit Satrajita, who has quickly become a wealthy and influential man in Dwaraka.
“Satrajita, my friend, I have been looking for a gift for Ugrasena. He is our king, and I thought the Syamantaka might please his heart. Of course, he is past the age when the gold from the jewel would tempt him. And I know you don’t care for it yourself. So I thought...”
“I am sorry, Krishna,” says Satrajita. “It is a gift from Surya Deva, and I cannot give it away. Not to anyone.”
“Of course,” says the Dark One. “How thoughtless of me.”
Smiling to himself, Krishna goes back to his palace.
The next day, Satrajita’s brother Prasena picks up the Syamantaka from its bed of gold, wears it round his neck and goes hunting in the forest looking like a star loosed among the trees. A lion sees him, gives chase to the unearthly dazzle, knocks the witless Prasena from his horse and kills him with a blow of its paw.
Taking the jewel up in his teeth the lion climbs to a cave high on the mountainside, to hide it from the rest of the forest. But Jambavan, ancient king of changeling bears, catches its sparkle from the cave-mouth where he lies basking. He climbs down to the lion’s den and kills the beast for the charmed stone. Jambavan gives the Syamantaka, its heart glowing with candescent visions, as a plaything to his small son.
But in Dwaraka, when Prasena doesn’t return, Satrajita declares, “Krishna has killed my brother in the forest. He wanted the Syamantaka, he begged me for it.”
Within the hour, whispers of this reach Krishna. Taking some prominent Yadus with him, because there are those in the ocean-city who will say he is envious of Satrajita, he sets out on Prasena’s trail.
In the forest, they see from hoof-print and pug-mark how Satrajita’s brother was killed by a lion. They track the lion down and find him in his lair with his neck broken. Another trail of prints, half-human, half those of a great beast, leads away higher up the mountain.
Someone whispers, “What footmarks are these? Who could have broken a lion’s neck as if it were a twig?”
“Only someone from another age, the creatures of this one are too feeble,” replies Krishna tartly.
Near the very summit is Jambavan’s cool dark cave. From inside, the Syamantaka shines like a bit of the sun. But within is also Jambavan, king of bears from the time of Sri Rama. The wild warrior had fought at that Avatara’s side in Lanka, an age ago, when heroes were far greater than in this lesser time.
Telling his companions to wait for him outside, Krishna walks into the cave.
A battle erupts, as Krishna tries to take the Syamantaka from Jambavan’s son and, not knowing him, Jambavan attacks, roaring. They fight like titans of a lost age, inside the cave and across a hidden maze of tunnels deep in the mountain. How dare a mortal of this dwarfish time intrude into the home of Jambavan, king of bears, friend and ally of Sugriva?
The battle recedes into the belly of the mountain, and out of hearing. Shortly, when Krishna doesn’t appear, the shocked Yadus turn home. They believe he has fallen victim to another yuga. They are convinced the Syamantaka has been the death of Krishna. It was the accursed gift of Surya Deva who, after all, is no mortal man but always and unambiguously a God.
Rukmini and Devaki mourn, Vasudeva mourns; all of Dwaraka is stricken. The very foundations of the city seem to have dissolved in insecure tides.
Within the mountain, unused to such powerful fighting as Jambavan offers, Krishna takes a while to summon his other strength. Once he does, he knocks Jambavan breathless with a flurry of blows that has the king of bears kneeling at his feet crying, “Rama! You are the ancient one. Lord, you have returned.”
Other memories stir to bemuse Krishna, memories from a life when he was another man, and this world was a nobler place. He lays a hand in benediction on Jambavan’s head.
“I came for the Syamantaka, lord of the jungle, for in Dwaraka they say I stole it.”
But old eyes shining, a gleeful Jambavan recalls a promise made to him when the earth was newer—that in return for the inestimable service the king of bears had rendered during the battle of Lanka, his precious Rama would come again, one day, to marry a daughter of his! And when Krishna sees the lissom Jambavati, the old fire surges in him.
So, for a month, he gladly remains in Jambavan’s home of labyrinthine caves and the hidden valley beyond, making love to Jambavati, dark herself as he is. Some times they are both human at their torrid sport, but on the night of the full moon they are wild bears in season. Krishna, who can assume any form he wants, transforms himself in lustful caprice; and to her it is natural. And none so pleased as the grizzly Jambavan.
In Dwaraka, despair grips the city of wonder. Satrajita is being blamed for Krishna’s death. Even those who took his side once in the matter of the Syamantaka now curse him, and say he should be executed for treason.
All the Yadavas, who had begun to take Krishna for granted, are frantic with remorse. They turn in penitence to Durga, Mother of the Universe, and pray for the return of their Blue God.
He, meanwhile, is blithe in the forest. Jambavan has given his daughter to the Avatara in the unfettered rites of the wise tree and young wildflower, jungle stream, secret cave, and the entrancing moonbeam that falls into it. Krishna remembers Vrindavana’s moon-drenched spring nights as he wanders Jambavan’s domain, absorbed in his fascinating new bride.
But then, too quickly, it is time to return to Dwaraka. His Yadavas have been punished for long enough, and he remembers how much they need him.
One day, Krishna calls Jambavan. The great reeksha knows that at last his time has come. He embraces his daughter, then kneels at Krishna’s feet. Krishna is incandescent when he places his hand on Jambavan’s head. The ancient bear’s body blazes at the Avatara’s touch. As Jambavati stands watching, her father dissolves into that light. With an ecstatic smile on his face, Jambavan melts bodily into Krishna.
The next day, with Jambavati at his side, to Rukmini’s consternation, Krishna materializes out of thin air in the sabha of mourning at the palace in Dwaraka: a bit like the risen sun, for he has the Syamantaka round his neck.
With a cry Satrajita falls at his feet, bathing them in tears. Right there he offers his daughter Satyabhama to the Avatara. Krishna accepts her with no hesitation. He is in his prime, and Satyabhama is ravishing.
Though he doesn’t protest, Akrura, who is no longer young, and to whom she is betrothed, is deeply hurt by this.
Krishna unfastens the Syamantaka from around his throat, saying, “I am no Surya-bhakta, and you are. So keep this bauble. But since you have no son, and your daughter is now my wife, bring me the gold from the gem. I am its heir now.”
He hangs the jewel around Satrajita’s throat, knowing that very soon that throat will be slit for the cursed stone of dreams. Since the days when it was first cut by hands not of flesh out of a piece of the sun, the Syamantaka was always a stone of misfortune to whoever owned it with even a trace of attachment.
THIRTY-SIX
Purusha Kshetra kshetrajna samyoga...
ll that live do so by the union between the kshetra and its knower, nature and soul, Prakriti and Brahman. The man who sees God abiding in all things, all beings, dwelling deathless within the mortal world, he truly sees.
“The man who sees that only the gunas of nature act, not the atman, he surely sees. The atman is actless. When a man sees that manifold, multitudinous existence is centered in just the One, and how from that One it spreads, he attains Brahman.
“The Brahman is without beginning; it is before and beyond the gunas. Arjuna, the Brahman lives in the body, but it does not act nor is it tainted by karma: just as the pervasive ether is always pure, because it is so subtle, immaculate.
“Even as the sun does the world, the Lord of the field illumines every kshetra.
“He who sees the difference between the kshetra and its knower, sees the liberation of man from nature. He becomes free.”
Prakriti
War and women. Women!
Then there was dark, dark Kalindi, Surya’s daughter, and an unworldly beauty who lived hidden away in a mansion of river-walls and sunbeam-floors built for her by her father under the Yamuna. Until, one day, out hunting with Arjuna near Indraprastha, Krishna saw her, dusky enchantress at her bath, and sent his cousin to ask who she was. She told the Pandava she was waiting just for Vishnu to marry her, that no other would do. Krishna married her when an auspicious constellation was rising, on an auspicious day.
