were mistaken in their assumptions, their confidence misplaced.
The worst was yet to come.
seventeen
Kamsa eethed on the ride homewards.
He could not believe he had been bested by a gowala, a mere govinda, a milk-sodden cowherd armed with nothing more than a crook. His head still spun from what had transpired. He rode alone, even his fellow marauders avoiding him for fear that he might take out his frustration and bitterness on them: he tended to be harshest on those he was closest to at such times. The rows upon rows of cavalry and foot-soldiers straggled on towards Mathura, attempting to keep their voices low to avoid incurring their commander’s wrath, but not wholly succeeding.
Kamsa heard snatches of talk everywhere, always about Vasudeva and the ‘chamatkar’ they had witnessed. He knew that the incident would become a great legend over time, and that it had already damaged his leadership badly. He had held his army together by brute force and fear of his own viciousness. They obeyed him because he was their lord and because they believed that none other could stand up to his brutal belligerence in battle. Now that someone had stood up to him, and triumphed so successfully, theyhad no reason to fear him any more.Yadavas were too independent minded to enjoy the rugged discipline and command structure of a standing army; if he could not hold these men together, they would soon drift back into their traditional occupations. And if he could not keep his core contingent together, the army at large would lose morale as well.
What had happened was an unmitigated disaster. There was no other way to look at it. He was still badly shaken by it. Outwardly, he succeeded in keeping up appearances. Inwardly, he was trembling with shock. How had Vasudeva done it? It was impossible! Yet it had happened in front of his very eyes. He had tested it every which way he could think of, and found no trickery, nothing to indicate maya or sorcery.
But if not sorcery, then what?
The other explanation, the one his soldiers were bandying about, was too preposterous to consider for even a moment. Hand of Vishnu indeed! As if almighty Vishnu would reach down from vaikunthaloka and protect a simple Vrishni clan- chieftain!
But what else could have accomplished such a feat?
He was still lost in his own morose thoughts when his horse whickered and came to a halt, stamping its feet.
Kamsa looked up to see what was obstructing hisway.
A sadhu. A penitent hermit clad in trademark tattered ochre robes, resting his weight on a roughstaff. But unlike most tapasvis, he had no flowing white beard or the stick-thin body of one who had wasted away through prolonged fasting and self- deprivation.
Kamsa’s horse whinnied uneasily and shied away from the man. Kamsa tightened his already strong grip on the reins, pulling the horse’s head down, yanking the bit hard enough to cut its mouth to remind it of the consequences of acting up. It settled reluctantly, but he could see its eyes looking off to one side, rolling to show their whites, as if afraid of the man who stood in its path.
Kamsa frowned down at the sadhu.‘Old Brahmin,’ he said impatiently, ‘get out of my way. Do you know who I am?’
The sadhu looked up at him imperiously with that supremely arrogant Brahminical look of superiority that Kamsa had loathed ever since he was a boy.
Ugrasena-putra, Padmavati-putra, your end is nigh.
Kamsa’s horse reacted before he did, bucking hard. It took a few sharp applications of the stick and some forceful twisting of its mouth to keep it from bolting. Only then did Kamsa allow himself to feel the shock that had struck him the instant that booming bass voice had resounded in his ear.
It’s the same voice, the one that spoke to me on the field before I attacked Vasudeva.
He was overcome by a powerful urge to spur his mount on and run the Brahmin over. But the horse was acting very strangely now; it persisted in shying and whickering
The worst was yet to come.
seventeen
Kamsa eethed on the ride homewards.
He could not believe he had been bested by a gowala, a mere govinda, a milk-sodden cowherd armed with nothing more than a crook. His head still spun from what had transpired. He rode alone, even his fellow marauders avoiding him for fear that he might take out his frustration and bitterness on them: he tended to be harshest on those he was closest to at such times. The rows upon rows of cavalry and foot-soldiers straggled on towards Mathura, attempting to keep their voices low to avoid incurring their commander’s wrath, but not wholly succeeding.
Kamsa heard snatches of talk everywhere, always about Vasudeva and the ‘chamatkar’ they had witnessed. He knew that the incident would become a great legend over time, and that it had already damaged his leadership badly. He had held his army together by brute force and fear of his own viciousness. They obeyed him because he was their lord and because they believed that none other could stand up to his brutal belligerence in battle. Now that someone had stood up to him, and triumphed so successfully, theyhad no reason to fear him any more.Yadavas were too independent minded to enjoy the rugged discipline and command structure of a standing army; if he could not hold these men together, they would soon drift back into their traditional occupations. And if he could not keep his core contingent together, the army at large would lose morale as well.
What had happened was an unmitigated disaster. There was no other way to look at it. He was still badly shaken by it. Outwardly, he succeeded in keeping up appearances. Inwardly, he was trembling with shock. How had Vasudeva done it? It was impossible! Yet it had happened in front of his very eyes. He had tested it every which way he could think of, and found no trickery, nothing to indicate maya or sorcery.
But if not sorcery, then what?
The other explanation, the one his soldiers were bandying about, was too preposterous to consider for even a moment. Hand of Vishnu indeed! As if almighty Vishnu would reach down from vaikunthaloka and protect a simple Vrishni clan- chieftain!
But what else could have accomplished such a feat?
He was still lost in his own morose thoughts when his horse whickered and came to a halt, stamping its feet.
Kamsa looked up to see what was obstructing hisway.
A sadhu. A penitent hermit clad in trademark tattered ochre robes, resting his weight on a roughstaff. But unlike most tapasvis, he had no flowing white beard or the stick-thin body of one who had wasted away through prolonged fasting and self- deprivation.
Kamsa’s horse whinnied uneasily and shied away from the man. Kamsa tightened his already strong grip on the reins, pulling the horse’s head down, yanking the bit hard enough to cut its mouth to remind it of the consequences of acting up. It settled reluctantly, but he could see its eyes looking off to one side, rolling to show their whites, as if afraid of the man who stood in its path.
Kamsa frowned down at the sadhu.‘Old Brahmin,’ he said impatiently, ‘get out of my way. Do you know who I am?’
The sadhu looked up at him imperiously with that supremely arrogant Brahminical look of superiority that Kamsa had loathed ever since he was a boy.
Ugrasena-putra, Padmavati-putra, your end is nigh.
Kamsa’s horse reacted before he did, bucking hard. It took a few sharp applications of the stick and some forceful twisting of its mouth to keep it from bolting. Only then did Kamsa allow himself to feel the shock that had struck him the instant that booming bass voice had resounded in his ear.
It’s the same voice, the one that spoke to me on the field before I attacked Vasudeva.
He was overcome by a powerful urge to spur his mount on and run the Brahmin over. But the horse was acting very strangely now; it persisted in shying and whickering
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