KRISHNA CORIOLIS#6: Fortress of Dwarka (28 page)

Young maidens. Old grandmothers. Matronly daiimaas, some with their wards suckling. Young housewives. Middle-aged women. Little girls. Women of all ages, shapes, sizes, colors, tribes, castes, classes, faiths, commingled in this unifying tradition, united by their common love for their princess, the closest they had to a queen since Rukmini’s mother had died of an ailment a decade ago. The love she felt, the blessing, the warmth and affection, were overwhelming. She walked in the shadow of their love and aspirations.
 

The way to the temple of Devi Bhawani was perhaps a kilometre, winding through back roads and behind the market area, passing stablery and other places of trade. But today, it was a river of women, and she saw not a single man’s face among them all the way. Beyond the immediate press, she sensed the roar of a great number of people: the town was filled with more numbers than it had ever seen in its entire existence. Music was everywhere: the masculine rhythm of Mrdnga, the triumphant trumpeting of conch shells, the heart-thrilled beat of smaller drums, the gay tweeting of flutes, and an orchestra of other instruments played all around, singers adding their sonorous voices to the acclaim and celebration.
 

Courtesans huddled immediately outside the temple, for it was their privilege to honor the Devi most fervently, through their own services as well as their private devotion. This was the only time that even the wives of brahmins rubbed shoulders with the dancing women and pale features were visible alongside painted ones--all made resplendent with garlands, fine garments, ornaments and redolent with perfumes that clashed and filled the air with an intoxicating miasma. The singing was very loud here, near the temple and within it, the fervent rhythm of ecstasy, the half-maddened bawling of the temple musicians seeking to reach the ears of godhead through their heartsongs.
 

Rukmini was made to pause at the temple steps, rituals performed, feet bathed, mantras recited, unguents and ashes applied, then she was given a sip of the water of ablution--Ganga water again--and a narrow gap parted to permit her entrance into the inner sanctum of the Devi.
 

Here, democracy ended and only the elder brahmin women remained, guiding and managing her through the final rituals. She offered her respect to Ambika in her form as Bhavani, named so for her consort Bhava, namely Shiva. She paid homage with water, scented oils, wholegrain, agar, fine garments, flowers, sandalwood garlands, silver and gold jewellery, with clay diyas, each offering a ritual in itself.
 

Then she respected the brahmin wives of the priests who managed the temple, for no men could yet be present until this stage was past, honoring them with gifts of fruit, tambul nut, pieces of sugar cane, and ritual food items. The brahmin women performed the ritual, then returned the balance of the items to her, now blessed by the Devi’s grace. She broke her fast only with a token morsel and a great wave of excitement rippled back down the river of women all the way across the city.
 

Now, her vow of silence was ended and she could speak and express herself freely.
 

Her prayer to the Devi was brief and unctuous, yet deeply sincere:
 

As you have Krishna, father of your children, great one, grant that my eternal consort, my Krishna, be my mate in this life as well. Grant this sole wish of mine.
 

And then, it was time to proceed to the swayamvara. A maiden approached bearing a cushion upon which was presented to Rukmini a jewelled signet ring: the official seal of the Queen of Vidarbha. The ring had last been worn by the Late Queen and it was inextricably linked with Rukmini’s last memory of her ailing mother during those last weeks of suffering. She recalled kissing the ring over and over and praying that her mother would recover, somehow. But there were some wishes even goddesses could not grant.
 

“You must wear it, Princess,” said the maid in a voice that cut through Rukmini’s commingled emotions. “It is the sign of your ascencion to bridehood. Now you are blessed by the Devi and ready to choose your husband under the laws of your nation.”
 

Rukmini looked up into the maid’s eyes and saw her future blossom.

***

Jarasandha’s felt his interest prickle as the crowd of women parted and the Princess of Vidarbha stepped out into the open. Like the petals of a lotus touched by water, the colorfully clad and ornamented women shifted to reveal Rukmini as she emerged from the temple precincts.
 

The God Emperor of Magadha was not easily moved but the first glimpse of Rukmini took his breath away.
 

Jet-black her skin color, as dark as Lakshmi herself. Her face was colored with her own excitement and anticipation. Clad in the customary low-waisted garment revealing her abdomen and leaving her shoulders and throat bare, she was as alluring as Lakshmi made flesh. Her narrow waist was spanned by a jewelled girdle that hung on the edges of her hips, swaying as she walked, the tiny silver bells adorning the girdle swaying and tinkling softly.
 

Still bare-footed she walked with a careful cadence which emphasized her feminine form, causing her feet to swing around each other and step directly before one another, like a mare attempting to cross a narrow pathway. But her gait was that of a swan rather than a mare, a black swan with eyes that glowed like clay diyas in the ebony angular shape of her beauty. Her lips were red as bimba fruit, her teeth as white as nightqueen blossoms. Her feet jingled with anklets. A jewelled signet ring upon her finger appeared too large for that slender hand and delicate fingers--or indeed too large for her entire slender body.
 

Around him, Jarasandha sensed the reactions of the other kings and chiefs. Across the swayamvara field, the collective gaze of men fixated on this vision of feminine perfection approaching them. He knew that if he, with his asura powers, could be so deeply aroused by this mortal wench, then they must be overwrought with lust and desire. Every man present must be clenching his fists and wanting to step forward here and now to claim her for his own. It would not surprise him if many did so.
 

If they did, he would be the first to step out and hack them down before they reached within yards of the Princess.
 

He would brook no man approaching that vision of ethereal luminescence.
 

She was too beautiful to
 
permit any mortal man to come close, let alone touch.
 

This was no mere mortal woman. This was a goddess incarnated upon earth. There was no question about it now. Earlier, he had not seen her with such clarity or vision. Somehow, his obsession hatred of Krishna had caused him to overlook this unspeakable gift of perfection set upon the mortal realm.
 

Now, his eyes were opened, the webs removed. He could see her for what she truly was: a woman too perfect for any mortal man to deserve. Only a god could truly appreciate and exalt such celestial excellence.
 

And what a god could possess, so could an asura.
 

Not just any asura--he would not brook
anyone
coming before her, now that he had seen her in all her heavenly glory.
 

Only himself, Jarasandha.
 

How could he ever have thought to permit that fool Sisupala to possess this divine creature?
 

She deserved no lesser being than the God Emperor himself. Only he would do for her. They would make the perfect pairing of all Creation.
 

Jarasandha. And Rukmini.
 

Yes. That was how it must be, would be.
 

Jarasandha had decided.

11

Rukmini
glanced around in perplexity at the wan, drawn faces of the kings and chiefs gathered at the swayamvara. They stood, each and every one of them, exactly where they had risen from their seats, transfixed like men hypnotized by some heavenly phenomenon. Their eyes were glazed, their mouths slack, their hands hanging limply by their sides, their bodies swaying from side to side like men struck on the heads in the moment before their bodies recieved the message that their brains had been struck unconscious. Even Jarasandha, the frightful man she loathed and feared most of all, just stood in one spot, staring.
 

The odd thing was though they all stared at her, their eyes turned to follow her, their chins jerking, necks craning, bodies twisting to keep sight of her, they seemed unable to do anything else but look. It was as if their bodies were frozen, fixated in some muscular rigor that prevented them from performing any other action.
 

“What is wrong with them?” she asked her companion as they moved across the field. “Why do they all stare that way at me without moving or speaking?”
 

Her companion smiled. “Such is the shakti of Devamaya.”
 

She looked at him. Krishna grinned at her and winked once. “The effect will not last long. We must hurry before they begin to recover and realize what is transpiring. The miasma only works when you are clearly visible. The instant they lose sight of your face, the effect begins to wear off. Still, they will be groggy awhile, so that should give us enough time to make our escape.”
 

After the ritual in the Devi’s temple was complete and she had stepped out of the inner sanctum, she had been shocked when she saw that the maid who offered her the royal signet was none other than Krishna himself, clad in a woman’s garb. But then her heart had filled with joy for it was clear then that the Devi had answered her prayers. “I have come to steal you away from yourself,” he said to her quietly. “Just continue to walk with me and say or do nothing to arouse suspicion.”
 

She had done so and nobody, not even the women thronging her, had even realized that there was a man among them. Then again, was Krishna merely a
man
? Surely not.
 

Now, they were in the middle of the swayamvara field. Various items had been laid out for contests of skill, archery, strength, weaponry and the like. Krishna glanced back before stopping in an open area. “Here. We wait here a moment.”

She took the opportunity to glance at the men around them. They were all staring at her blankly, afflicted by the same miasma, standing stock still, staring mutely, slack-jawed and glaze-eyed. They did not even lift a finger or raise a foot to step towards them although by now, Krishna had dropped the shawl that had covered his head and it was quite obvious that he was a man and not a lady companion. Still, they just stood and stared, enraptured, at her face. At more than her face, of course, but it was her face that held them and hypnotized them, she saw. What had Krishna said? Devamaya? Of course. It came to her as a faint memory. Deva Maya, the Illusion of Gods. A phenomenon caused by mortal beings looking upon a divine aspect.
 

The mortal mind was not designed to see gods. The closest they could manage was to perceive that aspect of godhead most like themselves: the eternal mistake that mortals made, assuming that they were made in god’s image. In fact, they were only made to resemble one specific form of a god’s image, not the complex and humanly incomprehensible whole. DevaMaya occurred when mortals actually had a glimpse of that incomprehensible complexity. She knew that the shock could drive all memory and functionality from a mortal mind forever, rendering the person senseless and witless.
 

In this case, the men looking at her had all seen this particular mortal aspect of her’s before, which perhaps accounted for the fact that they were not driven senseless permanently. From the looks of them, they seemed as if they might recover and regain their wits. Or she hoped so. Suddenly she realized that her father and brothers were present here too and undoubtedly stricken alongwith every other man.
 

“They will recover, will they not?” she asked suddenly, clutching Krishna’s arm.
 

He grinned. “Completely, and within moments. That is why it is only affecting the men, not the women. This is the after effect of the Devi’s protection give to you during the ceremony in the temple.”

She was puzzled. “But I did not even know about it, how then did the Devi know to grant me this protection at this time?”
 

“I asked her for it,” he said.
 

Then a golden sky chariot descended vertically in a rush, landing as softly as a feather on the ground before them. The instant it was on the ground, Krishna took her aboard and they looked back at the field filled with captivated suitors.
 

“Take a last look at your homeland, Princess of Vidarbha,” he said gently. “You may never see her again in this lifetime.”
 

She sighed. “After marriage, every wife goes to her husband’s home. My homeland is where you are, Krishna.”
 

Krishna leaned over and kissed her on the forehead.
 

The Pushpak rose as suddenly as it had landed, carrying them away.
 

12

Jarasandha
bellowed with rage. He was the first to break free of the miasma of the DevaMaya. He shook his limbs, raging with fury as he realized how he had been duped. It did not matter that every other man present had been deluded by the same illusion. For Jarasandha, only one person mattered: Jarasandha himself.
 

He could not brook being deceived by his own mind and perception.
 

DevaMaya depended on the looker being taken unawares and being transfixed by the shock of viewing an actual god in person. But in this case, he had known that Rukmini was no mere mortal. He should have been able to resist her allure and miasma. The fact that he had been as captivated as the other mortal fools around him meant that he had allowed his masculinity to rule his asura strength. He had reacted as a man in short! Not just a mortal man, just a male.