SLAYER OF KAMSA: Book 1 of The Krishna Coriolis – Excerpt#4
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4
Blood pounded in Kamsa’s head with the ferocity of a kettle-drum. His vision blurred for a moment and once again he saw the same horrendous vision that had met him moments ago: The sabha hall was filled with fierce kshatriyas and mighty yoddhas, all determined to destroy him and his kin. To wipe out his entire race from the face of the earth. He recognized many of the faces as new aspects of old foes, reborn in this age for the express purpose of decimating and committing genocide upon his true blood-kin. He had met them before, in another city, another age. A place named Ayodhya, where twice before he had bravely attempted to strike a blow for his people’s cause, and had tasted the bitter fruit of their deceitful thwarting of his noble efforts. He had been in possession of a different form himself in that age and place, and been known by another name. It eluded him now, but he knew that his given name in this life simply meant ‘amsa’ of ‘K’, K being the first vowel of that ancient name and amsa being a partial rebirth, similar to an avatar. This was but the newest round of battle in an age-old conflict with the greatest enemy of his kind.
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 even moved and spoke like him, shouting stern commands that he foolishly expected Kamsa to obey. Kamsa was not fooled by this clever disguise and performance. 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 fleshly diguise, 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 he 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 enemy. 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 smriti truth that Kamsa bowed and conceded lordship.
“Fear not, father!” Kamsa said aloud, as the stunned assemblage still reeling from the shock of his bold intrusion and even bolder act of heroism 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 missive. Beside him, Kamsa’s mother Padmavati, once legendary 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 as well; 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 encircling the spot where Vasudeva 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 nor defensive action when Kamsa had flung the spear. Not that anyone could deflect or dodge a throw by Kamsa easily; but at least the man might have made an attempt. To simply stand there facing death was an act so contemptful 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 oncoming 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 the spear, flung by Kamsa with force enough to punch through armour, bone, flesh, gristle, sinew, spine, and emerge out the 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 – sped towards him to end his life.
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 kine, 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. Damn enemy blood. Burned like acid too.
But no amount of blinking or rubbing of his face made the sight vanish or change.
His spear stayed there, floating in mid air, inches from Vasudeva’s chest, its deadly barbed tip pointed precisely at the point where the breastbone met the ribcage, that soft yielding centre spot where the spear would have punched through with minimal resistance, bursting through the heart and emerging out the rear of the Sura’s body.
It just hung there, suspended by no visible means. Floating in mid air. Not floating exactly, for it did not so much as move an inch, merely hung there as if deeply imbedded in some solid object.
But I heard it strike! It hit bone and flesh and cartilege 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 he had simply remembered it from previous occasions. The outburst from the onlookers that exploded 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 standing beside Vasudeva stand his ground staunchly, alongwith several others he recognized as the Sura’s 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 slowly around it. He examined it from all angles.
He could not fathom how the trick had been done. The spear simply stood there, embedded solidly in…in thin air!
He took hold of the spear and grasped it. He felt a shock as it failed to budge.
He yanked down upon it, hard.
Nothing.
He pulled it to the left, then to the right, then pushed upwards. His biceps and powerful shoulder muscles bulged, and he knew that were this a lever he was pushing 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 moulded into solid rock.
It 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 kettle-drums played out their mad rhythm in his blood, pounding his brain with unending waves of agony.
Then, to the sound of a shocked Aaah from the watching assemblage, Vasudeva reached out, took hold of the spear, which came free of its invisible hold as easily as if he had simply picked it up from a wall-stand. Several spectators clasped palms together and cried out “Sadhu! Sadhu!” in reverential tones – for what 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 not I,” 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 Prithvi-loka.”
The fantastic adventures of the Hindu God Krishna have entertained and inspired people for millennia. Playful cowherd, mischievous lover, feared demon-slayer, the legendary exploits of this super-being in human form rival the most rousing fantasy epics. Now, the author of the Ramayana Series®, the hugely successful epic retelling of the ancient Sanskrit poem, works his magic once again with the tales of Krishna. All the pomp, splendor and majesty of ancient India come alive in this extraordinary eight-book series.
SLAYER OF KAMSA
The Krishna Coriolis: Book 1
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