XVI
59.
Thirty-six years after Yudhishthira
had come into his kingdom, strange portents
began to trouble him. His reign had been
largely without incident, prosperous
and peaceful. But now he felt uneasy.
Strong winds howled through the streets, scattering stones.
The great rivers flowed backwards to their source.
The sun and moon were cloaked in angry colors,
partly obscured by fog and framed in black.
Then came dreadful news: Krishna’s people,
the Vrishnis, had been violently destroyed,
killed by an iron bolt, through a curse inflicted
by outraged brahmins. It seemed that only Krishna
and his brother, Balarama, had escaped.
The Pandavas cried out in bleakest grief.
Janamejaya asked Vaishampayana,
“How could all those warriors have been killed,
slaughtered in front of Krishna’s very eyes?
I want you to explain to me in detail.”
Vaishampayana did as he was asked.
One day some Vrishnis tried to play a trick
on a distinguished group of brahmin sages,
including Narada, who were visiting.
They dressed Krishna’s son, Samba, as a woman
and called out to the sages, “Hey, rishis,
this is the wife of Babhru. As you can see,
this lady is expecting—can you tell her
if her offspring will be male or female?
She really wants a son.” The holy brahmins
were not deceived, and they took great offense.
“Wicked and cruel louts, drunk with pride!
This son of Krishna’s will certainly give birth,
but to an iron club, which will bring destruction
and death to the entire race of Vrishnis.”
The sages traveled on to visit Krishna
and told him what had happened, and of their curse
on his crass relatives. This would fulfill
his own purposes; he would not intervene.
As was foretold, Krishna’s son gave birth
to an iron bolt, a messenger of death.
The king, Krishna’s father, in great distress
decreed that the bolt should be ground up small,
reduced to powder, and the powder then
be scattered in the sea. He issued orders
that no intoxicants of any kind
should be manufactured. The frightened people
obeyed, hoping to avert disaster.
In the sea-lapped city of Dvaraka,
Time stalked the streets in an embodied form,
a bald and monstrous figure. Few could see him
though his relentless tread was heard by many.
Cooking pots cracked; cats were born from dogs,
elephants from mules. All was awry.
Dharma began to be disregarded.
Krishna knew the signs, and as he watched
his Vrishni people wallowing in sin,
Gandhari’s old curse came into his mind.
He knew catastrophe was in the offing,
and that his time on earth was almost over.
He would see Gandhari’s words made true.
Signs of doom and decay were everywhere.
Rats and mice infested every house
and ate men’s hair and nails while they were sleeping.
Freshly cooked food rotted instantly.
There were unceasing cries of raucous birds.
People became deranged, wives attacked husbands,
fathers killed their children. Priests and elders
were treated with contempt. Witnessed by all,
Krishna’s discus rose into the air
and flew back up to those celestial regions
from whence it came. His splendid horses fled,
pulling his divine chariot behind them,
galloping over the surface of the sea.
Krishna summoned his kinsfolk and explained
Gandhari’s curse. They were filled with fear.
Knowing events would take their predestined course,
he told them to undertake a pilgrimage
along the coast, to bathe in the sacred ocean.
A huge expedition was prepared
with an armed guard and wagons of food and drink,
and the Vrishnis set off, with their families,
to Prabhasa, on the rocky coast,
where the sacred Sarasvati joined the sea.
Rather than a sober pilgrimage,
this was a bacchanal. There was loud music,
actors and acrobats entertained them,
trumpets blared and, as the sun went down,
men became more and more intoxicated.
Food that had been cooked specially for brahmins
was doused in alcohol and given to monkeys.
Krishna joined the party, silently.
Satyaki started taunting Kritavarman
for his involvement in the night attack
on the Pandava and Panchala camp.
“What kind of a kshatriya are you,
slaughtering sleeping men, put up to it
by a perverted brahmin! Shame on you!”
His friends clapped and cheered uproariously.
“What right have you to take the moral high ground?”
shouted Kritavarman, pointing the finger
of his left hand in disrespect. “Call yourself
a hero? You cut down Bhurishravas
despicably, when he had lost his arm
and had withdrawn from battle.” Krishna frowned
at Kritavarman.
The quarrel escalated.
Satyaki leapt to his feet in a fury.
“I swear,” he shouted, “you’re about to join
Draupadi’s sons, and those other heroes
you cruelly killed, you coward!” And with that
he rushed at Kritavarman and cut his head
from his body. Then Kritavarman’s friends
attacked Satyaki with any implement
that came to hand, and soon the entire party
were striking one another viciously.
Krishna watched calmly, knowing what must happen,
but when he saw his son Pradyumna killed,
then his son Samba, and Satyaki his friend,
Krishna became angry and snatched up
a handful of the coarse eraka grass
that grew there on the shore. In his hand
it became a massive, lethal club, transformed
by the powdered iron—the brahmins’ curse.
Others copied him. Each blade of grass
became a deadly weapon, capable
of penetrating the impenetrable.
Inflamed by wine, the fighters soon became
indiscriminate, father attacking son,
brother killing brother. Before long
there were few survivors, and those few
were killed by Krishna, instrument of fate.
The moon rose on mound upon mound of corpses.
What would happen, now, to all the Vrishni
women and children—no men to protect them
against brigands? “Daruka,” said Krishna
to his charioteer, “go quickly now
to Hastinapura and seek out Arjuna.
Give him the news; tell him he should come
without delay. He will know what to do.”
Daruka flew off. Then Krishna noticed
one Vrishni hero, Babhru, was still alive.
Krishna sent him running to the city
to report, and to protect the women.
But Babhru too had been a reveler
and the sages’ curse caught up with him:
a massive club hurled by a hidden hunter.
Krishna perceived that his earthly power
was waning. He told his brother Balarama
to go to the forest and wait for him there.
First, he himself must return to Dvaraka.
Already news had reached the bereaved city,
and the streets echoed with the sounds of sorrow,
fear and confusion. Krishna reassured
the women, “Arjuna will soon be coming;
Arjuna will protect you.” Then he went
to see his aged father for the last time.
He bent his head to touch Vasudeva’s feet.
“Father, this slaughter fulfills the sages’ curse.
The holocaust that has destroyed our people
is akin to the deaths at Kurukshetra:
it had to happen. Now my time on earth
is almost over, and I wish to spend it
in yoga with Balarama in the forest.
You must guard the city, until Arjuna
arrives to take command, as I have asked him.
Arjuna and I are a single being.”
Vasudeva assented, broken-hearted.
Krishna found Balarama among the trees
sitting in meditation. From his mouth
a huge, white, red-eyed serpent was emerging,
the celestial snake which had inhabited
Balarama’s body until then.
The snake made its way toward the ocean
and many distinguished creatures honored it—
highborn members of the Naga people.
Then it slithered into the sea and vanished.
Thus Balarama shed his earthly life.
Krishna wandered in the peaceful forest
in profound meditation. He reflected
on Gandhari’s curse of long ago, and knew
the time had come for him to leave the world.
Now, all his tasks had been accomplished.
He lay down on the ground, closed his eyes,
and withdrew his senses. A passing hunter,
taking him for a deer, shot an arrow
and pierced him in the foot. Running up,
the horrified hunter saw what he had done.
No deer lay there, but a dark-skinned man
in a yellow robe. Krishna blessed him.
“It was meant to be,” he said—and died.
The immortal spirit of the blessed Lord
rose swiftly, lighting up the firmament,
passing through heavens, worshiped by the gods,
until he reached his own celestial region,
inconceivable, ineffable.
As soon as Arjuna received the summons
from Daruka, he started off at once
for Dvaraka. He found the place desolate,
unnaturally silent. The streets and squares
of the noble city, formerly vibrant
with song and color, were empty and forlorn,
like a lotus pool in the depths of winter.
Krishna’s sixteen thousand wives and concubines
were beside themselves. When Arjuna saw them,
and when he learned that his dear friend was no more,
he moaned with grief, and sank down on the ground.
Two of Krishna’s most important wives,
Rukmini and Satyabhama, raised him
and made him sit, while the women gathered round
talking, praising their beloved Krishna,
finding solace in sharing their distress.
He went to see his uncle, the old king,
and the two men wept together. “Arjuna,
I have lived too long,” cried Vasudeva.
“Krishna could have acted to prevent
the sinful self-destruction of our people—
was he not Vishnu, lord of the universe?
He refrained from canceling the curses
uttered by Gandhari and by the brahmins.
The Vrishnis, influenced by Satyaki
and Kritavarman, brought it on themselves.
Now that you have arrived, I can abdicate.
Food and drink will no longer pass my lips.
I will withdraw my senses. My earthly life
is over.” And he closed his eyes for good.
Arjuna could not imagine living
in a world that had no Krishna in it,
but he knew that he must not give way.
He called a meeting in the assembly hall
for city dwellers, brahmins and ministers.
The despair in that hall was palpable.
“We must act,” said Arjuna. “The sea
will soon engulf Dvaraka. Everyone
should gather all their portable belongings
and prepare the women for departure.
I will lead you all out of the city
and escort you to Indraprastha. There
you may live in safety. Krishna’s descendant
Vajra will be your king.” Just then a cry
went up from the king’s palace: Vasudeva
was dead.
Arjuna ordered that, straight away,
the king’s funeral should be carried out.
Vasudeva had been greatly loved
and the whole city followed behind his bier
as it was taken to the cremation ground.
Shraddha rites were performed for Krishna,
Balarama and all the dead Vrishnis.
A few days later, the much diminished clan
set off in slow procession from Dvaraka—
thousands of wagons, chariots, elephants
and well-loaded oxcarts. Women traveled
in covered carriages with the children
and old people. To protect the procession,
the remnant army provided outriders.
No sooner had the last cart left the city
than the ocean breached the sea defenses.
The sky grew black and seemed to be torn in two.
The planet Mercury swung from its usual course
and a tempest plowed the foaming ocean
into troughs and mountainous peaks of water.
The sea retreated from the land, then, rearing,
seemed to hang, impossibly still, before
it crashed forward, a voracious beast
savaging the city with watery claws,
devouring streets, squares, palaces and gardens,
indiscriminate in its appetite.
The houses of the poor dissolved instantly.
The mansions of the rich took little longer;
soon every one of the well-constructed buildings,
every tower and pinnacle, was drowned.
It was as if Dvaraka had never been.
The people stared. Then they turned their backs
in resignation. The past closed up behind them.
The stream of sad and weary refugees
traveled slowly. Each night, they made their camp
by a source of water, in some pleasant spot.
Arjuna was vigilant. He made sure
that scouts went forward, to spy out the land
while watchmen were on guard throughout the night.
At first, all went well. But then they crossed
into the country of the Abhiras,
a barbarian land swarming with bandits.
Sighting the procession, guessing its riches,
and seeing that Arjuna was the only bowman,
the army feeble and demoralized,
the brigands struck. Yelling spine-chilling threats,
hundreds of ruffians swept down on the party,
armed with sticks.
Arjuna, confident
that he could see them off with his great bow,
tried to string Gandiva. He only managed
with a huge effort. Then he tried to summon
his celestial weapons, but the mantras
would not come to mind. He loosed some shots
from his bow, but quickly all his arrows
were gone. The inexhaustible supply
had failed. He stared at his empty quivers, then
lashed out at the robbers with the bow,
using it as a club. But he watched, helpless,
as the brigands helped themselves to chests of gold
and seized many of the women; others
went with the bandits of their own accord.
Arjuna understood that his loss of power
was the work of destiny. The diminished group
made its way to the city of Indraprastha.
Many of Krishna’s wives went to the forest
to end their days in prayer and penances.
Now that Arjuna had done all he could
for Krishna’s people, he went to see Vyasa
in his forest ashram. He broke down in tears.
Vyasa was brisk with him. “What is the matter?
Have you killed a brahmin? Have you had sex
with a woman at the wrong time of the month?
Why do you look so wan and woebegone?”
Arjuna told him everything (although
Vyasa must have known it all already):
the destruction of the Vrishnis, the death
of the old king, the drowning of the city,
his own defeat at the hands of the robber band.
But, most of all, Arjuna talked of Krishna.
“How can I live without my friend?” he wept.
“The world is flat and colorless without him,
devoid of meaning. What should I do now?
Tell me, Vyasa!”
“All this, Arjuna,”
said Vyasa gently, “is the fruit of time.
The man, Krishna, was the incarnated
Vishnu himself, born in time to accomplish
his divine purpose. Now his work is done
he has returned to his celestial region.
You and your brothers were also born on earth
to play your part in the grand cosmic plan.
This you have done. Your celestial weapons
have withdrawn their power. Time provides,
and time takes away. Time is indeed
the driver of the universe. And now
the time has come for you to leave the world.
That will be best for all of you, Arjuna.”
Arjuna returned to Hastinapura
and told Yudhishthira all that had happened.