Chapter 39
"The time has come."
Cold winds howled around the towers of Dwaraka. Mouthless, tongueless, they keened and wailed like mourners. With fervent hasty hands the gusts caught hold of the trees in the city’s many gardens and pulled them this way and that, tearing off their leaves. The wind brought dense clouds, blue and violet and gray as ashes, and night fell over the city long before sunset.
Krishna stood looking out of the window of his high bedchamber. He could see the dark sea beyond the great dyke raging, troubled by froth-capped waves. The waters seemed to rise and rush forward, striving to surge over the dyke and flood the city. They could not yet breach Dwaraka’s defenses, but Krishna knew that the sea was hungry to reclaim the land that had once been hers. It was only a matter of time, and precious little time at that.
The dark prince closed his eyes. He sent his sense of hearing roaming far through the city, beyond the walls and out into the vast enclosing world. He heard the waves crashing on the shore and the wind whispering in the reeds.
Go away, called the anxious wind. Go back. The time has come.
Years ago, when Krishna’s youngest son Samba was still a boy, three great rishis came to visit Dwaraka. They were tall, with fire-bleached eyes and long matted hair. They were men of enormous presence and power, but Samba and his playmates, urged on by inexorable fate, decided to play a prank on them. An innocent prank, perhaps, but one that would stir up terrible consequences.
His friends dressed Samba up as a young woman and put a big melon under his upper cloth. He looked like a very young mother expecting her first child.
“Oh great ones,” they asked, bringing Samba before the rishis, “o venerable ones! This is our Babhru’s wife. She wants a son! Tell us, to what will she give birth?”
The three rishis flew into a rage. Their eyes blazed. Flecks of spittle flew from the lips of the eldest as he shouted,
“This is Samba, Krishna’s son! You insolents wretches! The boy will give birth to an iron club for the destruction of this house!”
As soon as the words were pronounced Samba felt an enormous weight in his belly. He fell to his knees, dropping the melon which rolled away utterly forgotten. His friends ran to him and saw to their horror and wonder that his belly had really grown large and round, like a pregnant woman’s. When they turned back to plead with the seers to lift the curse the three old men had vanished.
That night Samba lay in bed moaning pitifully. The thing inside him wanted to be born, but it had no way out into the world, and it tortured its male mother as it tried to find an exit. In the darkest watches of the night the physicians of Dwaraka cut open Samba’s belly and found a vicious black iron club immersed in his viscera. The club was covered with strange, unreadable signs and symbols, like something from an alien world, and it seemed to stare at them without eyes. It took three men to lift it out of Samba and place it, dripping, on the floor.
Samba recovered, thanks to the wonderful skill of Dwaraka’s healers, but his malignant child, the fearful iron club, filled all who saw it with a nameless dread. King Ugrasena ordered that the club be destroyed, but no hammer could so much as put a dent in it. The fires of blacksmiths had no effect on it. Finally, Balaram smashed it with his own battle-mace. He pulverized the club into shards and dense black powder. The Vrishnis scattered the bits of broken club outside the city, in the reed beds of the salt marshes at Prabhasa.
The river of years ran on. The heroes went off to the great war and many did not return. Dwaraka flourished again. But thirty-six years after the conflict at Kurukshetra, omens of destruction appeared. Teeming masses of rats appeared in Dwaraka suddenly, as if born from the streets themselves. Freshly prepared food rotted and seethed with maggots by the time it was brought out of the kitchen. The constellations appeared dismembered and astrologers could make no sense of the sky. The wind howled from the sea and the ocean seemed to grow darker and more menacing with each passing day.
King Ugrasena, who was by now truly ancient, called for a council of the chiefs of the clan. They gathered in his resplendent sabha: the heroes of House Vrishni, House Andhaka, House Bhoja. Krishna sat beside Ugrasena, his grandfather, and did not speak. He seemed withdrawn, as if some other time or place demanded his attention.
“My people,” said Ugrasena, pressing his palms together. The old king’s body had become feeble, but his voice still carried a tremendous air of command. “My people, you all must know why I have asked you to gather here today. The omens all bode destruction. This month we have witnessed two eclipses such as we have not seen since the terrible war. I wish to know what is in your hearts. Do any of you nurse malice for each other? What do these evil omens portend?”
The champions of the clan all eyed each other but did not speak. Most of them had not yet been born when the great war took place, or else they had been boys unable to go and fight. They were strong, ambitious, hot-headed, and would have loved nothing better than a second war in which to test their mettle.
One young warrior stood up and placed his hand on his chest.
“I have heard many of the elders say that these are the same omens they saw before the great war,” he said. “If it is so, it must mean that a new war is soon to begin. We Yadava houses still have many enemies, and we are strong and eager for wealth. Give us the word, king, and we will conquer whichever land you choose.”
This met with many cheers from the younger generation, but the elders shook their snow-white heads.
Pradyumna, Krishna’s eldest son, rose and pressed his palms together.
“My lords,” he said, “the omens may portend great calamity, but why should we hasten to bring it about?”
He looked around the sabha, taking in the glares of the young kshatriyas.
“Of those sitting here today,” he continued, his voice calm and level, “only Satyaki, Kritavarman, and my father fought at Kurukshetra. Thousands of our best and bravest warriors went there, but none returned save those three. Why should we seek out war and call down destruction on another generation?”
“Ah!” exclaimed another of the young hotheads. “What Pradyumna says is right—only Krishna, Satyaki, and Kritavarman fought in the war. Why did he not fight? He was of age, wasn’t he? Why should we listen to the words of a coward?”
“Be quiet!” Pradyumna’s voice was so commanding that the young man sat down again at once. “What do you know of it? What do you know of war? The horrors of Kurukshetra should never be known again on this Earth, yet you fools lust after them. I did not fight, like my uncle Balaram, because I felt loyalty to both sides and could not participate. It was not cowardice that kept me from the battlefield.”
As if summoned by the mention of his name, Balaram entered the hall. His enormous frame swayed slightly as he walked and his step was heavy. In a dead silence he ambled the length of the sabha and flopped down into his seat next to Krishna.
Krishna could smell the drink on his brother’s breath and see the redness in his eyes. He took one of Balaram’s enormous hands and stroked it.
“Already drinking?” he whispered.
Balaram snorted and spoke loudly in response.
“What of it? Everyone is! The whole city is given over to drink.”
Ugrasena glared at his grandson.
“I strictly forbade the production or imbibing of liquors in our city seven days ago,” said the old king. “Whence came the alcohol?”
Balaram smiled wide.
“Little gandharvas have delivered it,” he said, chuckling to himself.
Krishna sighed. He looked around the hall, at all the faces of the men of his clan, and felt sorrow for them all in his heart. He knew that the time had come for Gandhari’s curse to bear fruit. Still holding Balaram’s hand, he rose to his feet.
“Kinsmen,” he said. “Friends, sons, nephews, fathers and brothers—this is no time for war. These unfortunate omens signify the end of our race, but not by the hands of others. We must make a pilgrimage to the holy shore of Prabhasa.”
No one dared contradict Krishna’s words. Once spoken, it was as good as decided. The men of Dwaraka would leave the city and purify themselves at Prabhasa.
“We must journey in peace,” Krishna added, “for we are a great danger to each other. We will carry no weapons and bring no mead.”
Old Ugrasena gave his assent to the pilgrimage and the council disbanded.
As soon as he returned to his own palace Krishna summoned Daruka, his driver. They met in Krishna’s garden.
“Daruka,” he said, “the Yadava men are leaving the city. We will go on a pilgrimage to Prabhasa. But I do not think we will return. Ride swiftly to Hastinapura and tell Arjuna to come here as fast as he can. The elders, children, and women of the city will need a guide.”
“A guide?”
“Yes. When I am gone, the ocean will recover the land that was once hers. Dwaraka will be a city for fishes and crabs. Barnacles and anemones will cover these palaces and seaweed will grow in these gardens.”
“But my lord,” said Daruka, “can you do nothing to prevent this fate?”
Krishna smiled, but for once there was little humor in his eyes.
“Go, and tell no one of what I have told you.”
Daruka bowed his head and departed. Krishna watched him leave, then turned away and entered his palace. Inside the air was cool, almost cold, as if evening had slunk in prematurely. It was dim and quiet. No servants, no lamps burning.
Krishna climbed the steps up to his high bedchamber and went inside, closing the door behind himself. Through his windows he could see the day outside, still bright, and the sunlight on the ocean. The sky, for once, was blue and clear. Yet even now, in broad daylight, strange stars were visible.
On a table near the window rested Krishna’s discus, the Sudarshana Chakra. He went to it and lifted it in his hands. A circle of shining metal with a razor-sharp edge. He turned it in his hands, recalling the day when Varuna had emerged from the Yamuna River and given it to him, the same day Arjuna had received the Gandiva. It seemed long ago and yet, at the same time, it felt as if barely any time had passed. As he held it the discus began to glow, faintly at first, then brighter and brighter. Its edge shimmered with starlight.
Krishna did not move. The Sudarshana Chakra, blazing with light, lifted itself from his fingers and hovered before him for a moment, then shot out of the open window and sped skyward. In an instant it was lost in the blue vastness. Krishna pressed his palms together in farewell.
“My love?” said a voice from outside the door.
“Enter,” said Krishna.
He turned away from the window and welcomed Rukmini and Satyabhama. His two chief wives were old women now, yet still straight-backed, strong and beautiful. Rukmini’s hair was still black as ebony, but Satyabhama’s had turned ash white. Krishna embraced each in turn and then sat beside them on his bed.
“We have heard the news,” said Satyabhama. “You are taking all the men away on pilgrimage.”
“Yes,” said Krishna. “To Prabhasa.”
Rukmini looked closely at her husband’s face.
“And you do not mean to return,” she whispered.
Krishna closed his eyes.
“No,” he said, “we will not return. The time has come for the Yadavas to leave this Earth. Queen Gandhari’s curse has caught up with us at last.”
“What of us?” asked Satyabhama. “What will we do?”
“Beloveds,” said Krishna, opening his eyes again, “I too am going to die. After I leave my body, the sea is going to break down the dyke and flood the city. All who remain within will perish. After the men leave, wait here. Arjuna will come to lead the women to Hastinapura. Once the city is empty, the ocean will return.”
There were tears in Satyabhama’s eyes, but Rukmini looked stern.
“You know we will not do that, Krishna,” she said. “Go away to live as widows in a foreign land? For what purpose? Dark lord, if we cannot see you or touch you, what sweetness will be left in life? If you are leaving the Earth, then so shall we. We will remain in Dwaraka and let the sea cover us.”
Krishna looked from Rukmini to Satyabhama.
“What do you say?” he asked.
Satyabhama wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand.
“I will stay,” she said. “I know that this world is but a shadow, Krishna, compared with the garden of freedom to which you will return. I want to follow you there.”
“And you will,” said Krishna. “You will. Any of my wives who remain in the city will not suffer. I will take them with me as soon as I go. But do not ask any woman to remain against her will: those who wish to go to Hastinapura with Arjuna must be allowed to do so.”
Rukmini rose up and went to the window.
“Dwaraka,” she said, under her breath. “City of wonders. The world won’t know another like it, not until the next cycle of eons.”
Satyabhama remained beside Krishna, studying his posture and face.
“What of Arjuna?” she asked. “He is your dearest friend. Will you not see him again?”
“Not in this body,” said Krishna. “But he will come to me at last. Everyone will, though some come swiftly and some slowly, some by straight roads and some crooked. All come to me when their desires are finished.”
The Yadava men set out for Prabhasa on a dark, overcast morning. They carried no weapons and wore only the simplest attire, but many earthen jugs of honey wine and sugarcane liquor were hidden among their other provisions. As they traveled, some on foot, some in chariots, others on horseback, the young warriors began to drink. The clouds did not break all day, and when they reached Prabhasa’s white sands and reed beds at evening the dark lay heavy over land and sea.
The pilgrims, most of them by now thoroughly intoxicated, pitched tents or simply sprawled on the sacred beach. They lit great fires and plunged into drunken revelry as if compelled by a force far beyond themselves. Their store of wine seemed inexhaustible. Krishna watched in silence as Balaram guzzled jug after jug of liquor. Satyaki, Kritavarman, even Pradyumna, drank and ate and laughed, their faces transformed into grotesque masks by the firelight.
In the midst of the party into which the pilgrimage had degenerated, Satyaki stood up and pointed at Kritavarman. The still-youthful face of the enemy-butcher was slick with perspiration and his hawk-gold eyes glimmered dangerously.
“What kind of kshatriya slays men in their sleep?” Satyaki bellowed. “Ha! Do you think any of us have forgotten what you and Ashwatthaman did? We’ll never forgive you, coward.”
Many of the warriors who heard Satyaki’s proclamation applauded. They had all heard the story of Kritavarman’s role in the shameful nighttime massacre of the Pandava allies, and many of the young men wondered when he would receive his comeuppance. Balaram frowned and looked at Krishna. Despite all his drinking, his eyes were now clear and bright and alert.
“Satyaki,” he said, “now is not the time to open old wounds.”
But Satyaki did not seem to hear him.
“Well,” he roared, “what do you have to say for yourself, iron-throated one?”
Kritavarman sneered contemptuously.
“Who are you to make accusations? Where was your great heroism when you cut off Bhurishravas’ head?”
Satyaki lurched toward Kritavarman.
“Get up!” he shouted. “I am going to take that smirk off your face!”
“Wait!” shouted Balaram—too late.
Kritavarman leapt up and ran at Satyaki, shouting a battle cry. The cry was abruptly cut off. Satyaki stood breathing heavily, a sword in his hand. The blade had appeared as if by magic. Kritavarman’s head dropped from his shoulders and rolled into a fire.
“So much for your iron throat,” Satyaki murmured. Blood dripped from the tip of his sword.
The young men of House Andhaka, Kritavarman’s close relatives, rose up roaring death to Satyaki and stampeded toward him. The Vrishni fell upon them like a tiger, slicing them to pieces. A sudden blood-madness overwhelmed the Yadavas. The men picked up anything they found to hand—empty liquor jugs, bridles, burning pieces of wood—and attacked each other in drunken fury. The Andhakas surrounded Satyaki and Pradyumna ran in to defend him. Balaram covered his face with his hands and moaned. The Andhakas and Bhojas overwhelmed Satyaki and Pradyumna, breaking their bodies with heavy pieces of wood.
When Krishna saw his son fall a terrible wrath possessed him. He stood up and plucked a reed from the ground. In his hand the reed became a club of black iron. With a cry he ran into the fray and began to strike with the club. Every blow was a deadly one. The iron club broke skulls, crushed bellies and chests, shattered limbs. The Vrishnis, Andhakas, and Bhojas all fell upon each other in reeling, blind-drunk fury. Whenever a man plucked a reed stalk it transformed into a blood-hungry adamantine club. No one distinguished friend from enemy anymore. Fathers killed sons and sons killed fathers, nephews and uncles and brothers all slew each other, yet no one thought to flee.
Krishna spun in a black whirlwind of death, bludgeoning down all who opposed him. He saw the dead bodies of his sons and grandsons and wept and raged as he fought. All around him he heard the screams and accusations, the tooth-rattling sound of great clubs clanging against each other, and the cracking of bones.
The kin-killing ended as suddenly as it had begun. The pride of the Yadava clans lay scattered on the strand of Prabhasa, heavy with death. Krishna looked around and found himself alone, surrounded by corpses. Away in the East the sky was pink and pale and to the West, out above the vast sea, the strange stars still glimmered. Had the battle gone on all night? Any sense of time had burned away in the mad rush toward annihilation.
Krishna flung down his iron club. It struck the blood-soaked sand and immediately turned back into a piece of reed.
“Balaram!” he called.
His brother was nowhere to be seen. He could not believe that any number of other warriors could have felled Balaram, and indeed that great pale body was nowhere among the dead.
Krishna left the charnel ground. A single set of tracks led away down the beach. Already sea birds were clamoring for the carrion.
He walked South as the morning burned away the night, calling for his brother now and then. The only other sound was the rush and lull of the surf and the constant clattering of gull-calls.
The tracks led at last away from the water, up from the sandy strand and into a forest. The trees, bent by the sea’s everpresent wind, resembled old men and women hunching under a great burden of years. Balaram stood in the trees, still as a statue. His body looked carved from some milky stone. His eyes were rolled back so that only the whites showed and his breath had ceased. All his senses withdrawn into himself, like the limbs of a turtle into its shell, Balaram stood facing the ocean.
As Krishna approached, his brother’s body shivered once and then became utterly still. A long white serpent issued from Balaram’s mouth. The creature’s scales were luminous, like a million tiny replicas of the full Moon. The great serpent slithered down the bank, out of the forest, across the sand, and into the ocean. The waters received it.
Balaram’s body still stood solid as a stone, but no life remained in it.
Krishna walked on, deeper into the forest. The leaves covered the sky, obscured the Sun. Tired, Krishna lay down and leaned his back against a tree, stretching his legs out straight on the ground.
“The time has come,” he said to himself. “It is finished.”
He closed his eyes.
In the depths of his being he saw himself as a small lively dark child, running through bright pastures with his playmates. The grass smelled sweet. He could hear the sound of women washing clothes in the midnight-blue Yamuna, cows lowing for their calves, bells tinkling on the ankles of the boys and girls of Vraj. It was as if all the long years of adolescence and adulthood vanished, had never been. The Vrishni exile, the building of Dwaraka, the burning of Khandava, the great war, the kin-slaughter at Prabhasa, his wives, his children—all of it might have been as insubstantial as a dream that vanished with the light of dawn.
An old hunter, Jara, used to stalk the forests near the ocean, looking for deer and fowl. He carried only one arrow. The point of that arrow was made from a shard of black metal Jara had found washed up on the shoreline, years ago. When he brought his strange discovery home he found that no stone or hammer could put so much as a scratch on it. No matter how long he left it in the fire, it remained cool to the touch. It was impossible to alter in any way, and its edge was as sharp as a well-honed sword blade. Jara tied it to the end of a newly-made arrow, thinking that it would be too heavy, but it proved to be a miraculous weapon. Wherever he aimed, that arrow found its mark. Jara soon realized he needed no other weapon with which to hunt, for the black-headed arrow never failed to kill its intended target.
The morning smelled of smoke. Jara, who always rose before dawn on hunting days, found himself distracted by the stench as he searched for tracks in the vague early light. Was there a forest fire? No, the birds and squirrels were not troubled. But what else could it be?
The Sun rose. Jara crept through the thickets, half his mind focussed on the task of finding a trail to follow, the other half occupied by a strange and unnameable sorrow. Suddenly the corner of his practiced eye caught sight of something: a darkness, a flicker. He stood still, crouched, almost holding his breath. On the far side of a large tree, close to the ground, he saw the ears of a black antelope. The creature must be sleeping, Jara thought. What a prize!
He lifted his bow and slowly aimed the black-headed arrow. The ears twitched.
Jara loosed the arrow. He knew it would find its mark.
But when he came to the place he saw no antelope lying there but a man: a handsome, dark-skinned man dressed in fine yellow silks. He lay nestled in the great tree’s roots, peaceful as a sleeping baby. What Jara had mistaken for an antelope’s ears were the man’s two shapely feet, dark on top with rosy pink soles. The arrow protruded from one of those feet, marring the pristine skin with a trickle of blood.
Jara’s bow fell from his hand.
What have I done?
His legs became limp and he crashed down to his knees, pressing his palms together.
“Oh blessed one,” he said. “Forgive me!”
The sleeping man did not reply. His face could have been the face of a very old man or a very young child, it was impossible to tell. He smiled in his sleep and died.
Tears filled Jara’s eyes. The great sorrow that had hunted him all morning overcame him. Then he saw, through his tears, the blue-black body begin to shimmer like a dark sapphire illuminated from within. The light increased until the body became entirely luminous, so bright that Jara had to close his eyes.
“Do not fear,” said a gentle, soothing voice. “Do not worry. It is time for me to depart. You have been only the instrument of that departure. No crime will attach to you.”
Jara opened his eyes again. The body lay there still, but the light was gone, leaving only a glowing afterimage that faded as Jara blinked. Above the trees the sky itself was radiant, suffused with luster, as if the Suns of myriad worlds were gathered there in celebration. The birds of the forest called and sang and rose up as one from the trees. Wolves howled, deer snorted, bears moaned, insects chittered.
The hunter sat in mute wonder, listening to the sound of all the birds and beasts of the forest joined in a mourning that transcended predator and prey. Such grief, and at the same moment such intense joy. The emotions collided within him, condensed by the density of his human body into unbearable currents. He felt his heart burning, breaking, and he lay face-first on the Earth, pressing his breast to hers, willing her cool soil to hold him in place, in his body, and not let him burn away like a moth in a lamp’s flame.
After a very long time Jara rose trembling and began to walk North, toward Dwaraka.