gleam of naked rebellion shone there. ‘It is time to put it to the test. Let us see how long Vasudeva upholds his end of the treaty when I come galloping into his lands and lay waste his townships.’
Being Kamsa’s friends and advisors, the pair glanced at each other, increasingly uneasy. Yet none dared speak a word. It was one thing to offer a suggestion or two, but quite another to defy his gesture ordering them to be silent; if either one spoke now, he would find his own corpse piled upon one of the several dozen burning heaps that were all that remained of the village they had just pillaged.
‘They call me a rakshasa,’ Kamsa said, unmindful of the blood still streaming down the side of his head. ‘They call upon Lord Vishnu to protect them from me. Let me see if Vishnu has the courage to descend to prithviloka in yet another avatar, this time to confront Kamsa. It will be good to have a worthy opponent to sink my sword into for a change. I am tired of stabbing cowherd flesh and slaughtering hairless boys.’
He raised his head towards the smoke-filled sky and bellowed: ‘YOU TOOK AN AVATAR ON EARTH TO BATTLE RAVANA. THEY SAY WHENEVER YOUR PEOPLE ARE UNABLE TO DEFEND THEMSELVES, YOU DESCEND TO PROTECT THEM. NOW DESCEND TO FACE ME, KAMSA OF MATHURA! I CHALLENGE YOU!’
Bana and Canura exchanged startled glances. Even the soldiers accompanying them looked shocked at Kamsa’s bold, blasphemous challenge.
As if in response, a deep rumbling roar came from the smoke-stained sky, followed by an angry crash of thunder. Canura winced, his horse neighing. The smell of imminent rain filled the air, along with a damp coldness. Thunder crashed again, far away in the distant horizon.
Kamsa listened, head cocked to one side like a curious hound, then threw his head back and laughed long and hard. The laughter echoed across the razed settlement, silencing the last desperate cries of the hopeless and the dying.
nine
Queen Padmavati listened with mounting horror as her spasa, a personal guard specially deputed to collect intelligence discreetly, recounted the many atrocities and war crimes perpetrated by her son. At last, she shuddered and interrupted him mid-sentence.
‘Enough! Enough! I can hear no more.’
She rose from her lavender seat and went to the casement, fanning herself. Summer had come down upon Mathura like a hot brand and even the coolest chambers in the palace were barely endurable. The whiff of wind from the window felt like steam off a boiling kettle.
She turned around to see maids watering down the flagstone floors to cool them. Her spasa waited, head bowed. The sight of him made her stomach churn. If she had not already heard rumours and other snatches of news corroborating parts of his report, she might have ordered her guard to drag him away to be executed instantly. As it was, she was tempted to give the command, if only to prevent him from recounting the same horrific tales to others in the palace. But, she reasoned with herself, what good would that do if these things were already known! In fact, it appeared that she was the last to learn of her son’s misdeeds – at least the extent and severity and sheer volume of those misdeeds. No, it was no fault of the spasa; the poor man had only done his job as she had commanded.
Even the fragrance of the water being sprinkled on the floors, drawn from the deepest well and made fragrant with the scent of roses from the royal gardens, could not calm her nerves. Her son? Doing such terrible things? How had things come to such a pass? Oh, that she should have lived to see such a day!
Suddenly, she lost her patience. Trembling, she shouted at the maids, the spasa, even at her personal guards standing at the doorway.
‘Out! Everyone out! I wish to be alone.’
A moment later, sitting in the privacy of her chamber, she broke down, sobbing her heart out. She thought of little Kamsa, a pudgy, fair boy with curly hair and a fondness for young animals of
Being Kamsa’s friends and advisors, the pair glanced at each other, increasingly uneasy. Yet none dared speak a word. It was one thing to offer a suggestion or two, but quite another to defy his gesture ordering them to be silent; if either one spoke now, he would find his own corpse piled upon one of the several dozen burning heaps that were all that remained of the village they had just pillaged.
‘They call me a rakshasa,’ Kamsa said, unmindful of the blood still streaming down the side of his head. ‘They call upon Lord Vishnu to protect them from me. Let me see if Vishnu has the courage to descend to prithviloka in yet another avatar, this time to confront Kamsa. It will be good to have a worthy opponent to sink my sword into for a change. I am tired of stabbing cowherd flesh and slaughtering hairless boys.’
He raised his head towards the smoke-filled sky and bellowed: ‘YOU TOOK AN AVATAR ON EARTH TO BATTLE RAVANA. THEY SAY WHENEVER YOUR PEOPLE ARE UNABLE TO DEFEND THEMSELVES, YOU DESCEND TO PROTECT THEM. NOW DESCEND TO FACE ME, KAMSA OF MATHURA! I CHALLENGE YOU!’
Bana and Canura exchanged startled glances. Even the soldiers accompanying them looked shocked at Kamsa’s bold, blasphemous challenge.
As if in response, a deep rumbling roar came from the smoke-stained sky, followed by an angry crash of thunder. Canura winced, his horse neighing. The smell of imminent rain filled the air, along with a damp coldness. Thunder crashed again, far away in the distant horizon.
Kamsa listened, head cocked to one side like a curious hound, then threw his head back and laughed long and hard. The laughter echoed across the razed settlement, silencing the last desperate cries of the hopeless and the dying.
nine
Queen Padmavati listened with mounting horror as her spasa, a personal guard specially deputed to collect intelligence discreetly, recounted the many atrocities and war crimes perpetrated by her son. At last, she shuddered and interrupted him mid-sentence.
‘Enough! Enough! I can hear no more.’
She rose from her lavender seat and went to the casement, fanning herself. Summer had come down upon Mathura like a hot brand and even the coolest chambers in the palace were barely endurable. The whiff of wind from the window felt like steam off a boiling kettle.
She turned around to see maids watering down the flagstone floors to cool them. Her spasa waited, head bowed. The sight of him made her stomach churn. If she had not already heard rumours and other snatches of news corroborating parts of his report, she might have ordered her guard to drag him away to be executed instantly. As it was, she was tempted to give the command, if only to prevent him from recounting the same horrific tales to others in the palace. But, she reasoned with herself, what good would that do if these things were already known! In fact, it appeared that she was the last to learn of her son’s misdeeds – at least the extent and severity and sheer volume of those misdeeds. No, it was no fault of the spasa; the poor man had only done his job as she had commanded.
Even the fragrance of the water being sprinkled on the floors, drawn from the deepest well and made fragrant with the scent of roses from the royal gardens, could not calm her nerves. Her son? Doing such terrible things? How had things come to such a pass? Oh, that she should have lived to see such a day!
Suddenly, she lost her patience. Trembling, she shouted at the maids, the spasa, even at her personal guards standing at the doorway.
‘Out! Everyone out! I wish to be alone.’
A moment later, sitting in the privacy of her chamber, she broke down, sobbing her heart out. She thought of little Kamsa, a pudgy, fair boy with curly hair and a fondness for young animals of
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