All Lies, Says Krishna

By J. Rajasekharan Nair

It' s thirty-six years after the Great War of Kurukshetra. The curse of a bereaved mother has deprived Krishna of everything, except his life. And so he journeys to Vrindavan, the village of his innocence, to spend the concluding hours of his life with his childhood friend and lover, Radha. In her presence, Krishna peels off the layers of myth that portrayed him as the incarnation of God. And at her request, he retells the story of the Mahabharata, like you have never heard before. All lies, says Krishna is an emotional journey into the tortured inner universe of its central characters, focussing more on their flailings than on their heroism. A charismatic retelling of the Mahabharata, this compellingly told narrative has a distinctive voice which sets it apart from anything you have ever read.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fingerprint Publishing
• Release date: Jun 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9789354402630

Book preview

chapter 1

pilgrimage

Will she recognize me? Krishna wondered.

He was weary at the end of his long walk from Dwaraka, after the tidal waves had wiped out his kingdom. His wrinkled face was caked with layers of sweat and dust. His legs were shivering, unable to stand the strain anymore. Yet, he took the hard walk across the wheat field and reached the jungle of creepers and climbers that marked the boundary of Vrindavan, the village of his innocence, faster than expected.

On the mud rim of the well, in front of the jungle, there was a small wooden pitcher with water in it, as if somebody had been expecting him. Krishna gulped a few mouthfuls of water. Resting his forehands on the fragile rim, he leaned forward and looked in. He saw his turbulent mind in the water before it reflected his cloudy countenance.

Will she . . .? Fifty years have elapsed. Quite a long time . . .

He washed his face, and walked towards a mango tree near the well. He sat under its canopy, resting his head on the mossy trunk. He was ravenous. The tree bore ripe mangoes but its branches were too high for him. Some mangoes, decayed, lay strewn around, though.

He recalled how as a boy he would run towards the tallest mango tree, before dawn, to pick the ripe mangoes and present the best ones—

A ripe mango fell into his lap just then. He thanked the tree for its benignity. But before he could bite into the fruit, something took him back to the time of his early youth. A smile surfaced on his sunburnt lips and he held the mango close to his heart. He remembered how he had pressed her breasts against his drumming heart when he had first seen them bare. It had happened inside the arbour, when an unexpected sleet had showered ice pellets in Vrindavan.

The canopy swayed in the breeze. A few dewdrops fell on his shoulders, soothing the tender pain the wheat spikelets had woven across his aged skin. The drops that fell on his eyelashes seeped through the silky sieves and bathed his sleepy eyes.

He sat engrossed in the arbour, the treasure house of memories, watching the silky tendrils of the climbers swing and the coils of his memories unwind. The arc of a spectacular rainbow appeared in the west, signalling it would rain heavily before sunset. Krishna got up. But a strange thought from nowhere paralyzed him. He wondered how it came to his mind suddenly. He hadn’t thought of this possibility even when he had to witness the carnival of death. Never asked that question, even when he saw the pools of blood his clan had littered on the seashore or during his long journey from the woods, after filling his brother’s grave with earth and tears.

He remembered that he had never enquired about his childhood friend in Vrindavan during all these years of war and bloodbath. But when his fabulous palace had suddenly become a house of the dead, and the sea had submerged the golden city of Dwaraka, taking away from him the last vestiges of power, wealth, and glory, it had been her face that had come to his mind as the island of solace.

And now, when it was just a few minutes’ walk to her home, the question whether she was alive, drained even his internal strength. He walked slowly, holding the mango close to his heart. The narrow and curvy lane lay ahead. The smell of sleety rain, a few days old, hung on in the air. The village remained unchanged. The same landscape. The same smell. Even the clouds hovering above the thatched roofs appeared to be the same.

But he smelt fear in his breath.

His steps turned slower. Shorter. After a few more steps, he stood in front of the house he knew through and through. He wanted to knock at the door. But he could not. He felt the pull of fear. A shudder of alarm ran through him. He heard his heartbeat.

Before he could knock, the door opened. The storm within settled.

Kanna, you have not forgotten it, Radha said, looking at the ripe mango in his hand.

Fifty years vanished in a flash.

It is from the sapling we had planted, dear Radha. It has grown big. I rested under its canopy.

The sapling . . . Radha whispered. She rubbed the yellow skin of the mango with the loose end of her pallu. She cupped the fruit with her palms and kissed it.

Someone has kept the pitcher full. Have you been there, Radha?

A week after you left, she said as she spread a grass mat on the cow dung-smeared floor. She seated him on it.

Two days ago it rained ice pearls. I thought of you then, Kanna.

Its smell is still in the air.

Do you still enjoy sieving smells?

It comes to me naturally. The rose is its fragrance.

You killed the poet in you, Kanna.

They whisked me away from your lap.

Radha went to the kitchen and returned with a cup of milk. She gave it to Krishna and watched him empty it down his throat.

You have not changed a bit, Kanna. You didn’t ask me whether I needed even a drop.

Krishna smiled.

He looked out through the side window. The lotus pond had two flowers in full bloom and a few buds. Beyond the pond lay the vast grassland that stretched up to the stream, with tall trees lacing the stream’s borders. Buttress roots and their cosy niches. Crystal-like water licking the foot.

Do you remember how you scared all of us by throwing a stone at that snake? she asked, looking towards the stream.

That incident had happened when Krishna had been a small boy. He had been playing with Radha and his other friends when he had seen a snake on the bank of the stream. He had thrown a stone at it, thinking that it were an ordinary rat snake.

But when I told you the snake could kill a man with just a hiss, you hid behind me.

Elsewhere, it is a different story, Krishna smiled.

What is it?

That it was a monstrous snake with many hoods; all spewing venom. I fought with the snake, climbed on its head, and danced until all the hoods vomited blood.

You! I can still see the fear in your eyes, she said as she bit the mango without peeling it, and passed the slice into his mouth.

Sweet. Why doesn’t anybody pluck mangoes from our tree, Radha?

None—

Why? Krishna interfered.

It remained barren for long until Nandan hanged himself from a stooping branch. It blossomed that year. Villagers say the fruits are his teardrops.

Nandan?

Our son.

Our son!

Krishna got up with difficulty and staggered towards her. He held her close and cupped her cheeks with his trembling palms. Tears welled up in her eyes. He kissed her eyelashes to dab the drops. But the drops drowned him in a deluge of memories, sighs, and whispers.

Memories, they never leave us, she said, pulling him out from his world of reminiscences.

And we grow by forgetting.

Kanna . . .

I never enquired about you. Never knew we had a son . . .

Krishna moved towards the side window. Planting his palms on the ledge, he looked towards the jungle, hoping to see at least a branch of the mango tree, which they had planted together. But the slanting roofs in the lane blocked his vision.

Did he resemble me, Radha?

Look into my eyes and you will see him.

Played bansuri?

Unlike your music, his songs had a haunting poignancy to them.

My son, what made you so deeply sad? Krishna let out an anguished cry.

His eyes always had tears in them, ready to drip. But I never saw him cry. He rarely came out of his room. Talked seldom, even with me. But when he did, he only wanted to hear stories about you. He believed you would come for him, one day. Maybe he wanted to share his pain with you. I promised him you would . . . Yes, you are here now. But he has left.

Leaving a drop of tear for me . . .

Krishna took a cup of water from the earthen pot kept on the ledge. When the rim of the cup touched his lips, he closed his eyes in deep agony. He turned and rested his face on her frail shoulder. She felt his tears on her neck.

Come, I shall bathe you, Kanna.

Radha smeared a few drops of oil on his grey hair before she led him near the well in the backyard. A thick layer of moss caused the mud casing of the well to glow in the morning light. She drew water from the well and poured it gently over his head. It flowed through his skin, cooling his soul. But when it touched his foot, his face reflected pain.

While I was taking rest under the shade of a banyan tree yesterday, a hunter mistook me for a deer.

You are one.

She wiped his body with a clean white towel and applied a paste of tulsi leaves and turmeric on and around the wound. This will take care of it.

He followed her to the kitchen. She placed an earthen pot near the mud-oven and started churning curd. He sat on the cow dung-smeared floor. When the butter surfaced, he stretched his right hand.

Give me some, Radha.

Steal it. Is it not your style?

chapter 2

prisoner of vows

While I was churning curd, I couldn’t help but laugh, thinking about you. Do you even know how many stories have been woven around you? Radha asked.

Krishna passed a rueful smile. Most of them are colourful lies.

Then tell me about the real Krishna.

I lost my joyful days the day I left Vrindavan. At Mathura, people revered me as the saviour who came to free them from Kamsa, a ruthless king. I killed him and reinstated his father, who was till then in captivity, to the throne. I then moved to Dwaraka, where I built a new city. Though I was the prince—you know, my brother Balarama was the king—I had to rule the kingdom and wage many wars because Balarama was inebriated most of the time. I married Rukmini and Satyabhama. And, like any other man, I too fathered my children.

Only two! They say you had sixteen thousand and eight wives.

How many?

Sixteen thousand and eight.

Krishna was rendered speechless. Who painted me so ugly? he eventually managed.

She laughed aloud and gave him roti, dal, and juices from the fruits.

Take rest. You look terribly tired.

I feel fresh.

If so, please tell me the story of the Mahabharata.

It is the chronicle of a feud between the Kauravas and the Pandavas over the question who should oppress the people of Hastinapur? It is a story of humiliations and revenges. About self-denials and betrayals. It is a coppice of haunting gazes and dehumanizing helplessnesses. Cries and whispers. Above all, it is about a bloody war at Kurukshetra that saw the victory of death. Which story should I tell you? Where should I start from? I am confused. Maybe I should begin from Bheeshma, the patriarch of Hastinapur.

Krishna narrated the story of Bheeshma, son of Shantanu.

***

One evening, as Shantanu, the king of Hastinapur, was watching the sundown on the shore of the Ganga, he saw a woman jump into the river. He asked his soldiers to rescue her from drowning. They brought her in front of him.

Why do you want to end your life? the king asked.

She didn’t tell the king that her husband had died in a war before he could even embrace her. And that the war was fought for the king.

In the twilight, her body shone like a statue of fire. Shantanu realized that her contours, drenched in water, had set fire to his passion. He wanted to make love to her then and there. But his own sense of modesty caused the king to quell his lust.

I need you, he said.

She turned her face towards the king.

As my wife.

She looked askance at him.

As the queen of Hastinapur.

She broke down into tears and collapsed on the shore. Shantanu sat near her, caressing her long hair.

Before the night set in, she agreed to be his wife on the condition that she should be allowed to do whatever she liked and that he would never find any fault with her. On her part, she agreed that she would not leave him until he breached his promise.

The king readily agreed. He didn’t know why he agreed to her condition without making any effort to know her origins. He took her in his arms, kissed her naval, seated her in his chariot, and ordered his charioteer to drive it—faster than the wind—back to the palace.

While the concubines were waiting in the harem not knowing whom the king would choose for the night, Shantanu barged into the royal bedroom with his new lover and closed the door with a bang.

The door remained shut for three days.

One night, the beheaded body of her husband woke the woman up from her dreams of opulence. She felt so guilty over her hidden desires that she threw the palace out of balance, hoping the king would find fault with her. But Shantanu was not ready to forgo her. His passion for her was so strong that each time she broke a precious war souvenir, he kissed her naval.

Slowly but eventually Shantanu lost interest in her and thought of ways to get rid of her without his decision causing any damage to his reputation of making the widow of a soldier the queen of Hastinapur.

It was during this time that she gave birth to his child. Lying on her bed, the woman who had almost become insane, lifted her child by its legs. A stream of twilight bathed the child.

Before she could throw the child out through the window, Shantanu stopped her, breaching his vow. She handed over the boy to him and walked towards the river. Shantanu stood on the balcony, clasping the child close to his heart. He saw his wife submerging into the waters.

He kissed his son.

The boy was named Devavrata. Shantanu groomed his son with utmost care. He bathed and fed the boy with his own hands. Great masters taught the boy scriptures and weaponry.

Shantanu felt relieved of the tantrums and the intermittent insanity of his wife, and his harem beamed with joy, having regained its lost splendour. But the king could not make love to any of the concubines because his wife had implanted in his sexuality the smell of river.

Shantanu felt lonely in the palace. Lonelier in his bed.

One day, while Shantanu was hunting in the forest, the smell of river aroused his libido though no river was seen around. He stopped hunting, returned to his chariot, and lay in it, groaning. The charioteer understood his master’s urge to have sex and drove the chariot towards the source of the smell, and halted it in front of a hut on the bank of the Ganga.

An old man and a young woman came out and knelt before the king. Shantanu expressed his desire to mate with the woman. But the old man made it clear that his daughter, Satyavati, would mate only with her husband, hiding the fact that she had already mothered a son.

Shantanu then applied the old tactic. He said he would marry her.

Oh! It is unbelievable that the king himself has come to the hut of an old fisherman seeking the hand of his daughter. Yet, I have my reservations.

Reservations?

Satyavati is dear to me. She is my only child. Her mother died the day she was born. I brought her up as the finest girl in our community, not to become yet another concubine in your harem.

The king did not hide his displeasure over the fisherman’s greed at a time when heavenly luck was knocking at his door.

She shall be the queen of Hastinapur.

I trust your words. But will he agree to it?

Who?

The crown prince.

Marrying your daughter?

Giving birth to your son.

What do you mean?

I am happy to give my daughter in marriage to you. But her son, through you, should be the next king.

The king stared at the fisherman. He glanced at the sky.

I can take your daughter without your permission.

But not my self-respect. I will jump into the Ganga and die, than live in a kingdom where the king threatens a helpless father and kidnaps his hapless daughter.

Shantanu didn’t reply. He asked his charioteer to slowly drive back to the palace so that he would get more time to get over his madness.

Will you give me in marriage to him if he agrees to your demands? Satyavati asked her father after the king’s chariot left the shack.

Yes.

He is older than you.

Being the queen of Hastinapur is something you cannot even dream of. The wealth of the palace will be your wealth. Your son will be the next king. And I will be the father of the queen, father-in-law of the king, and grandfather of the crown prince.

You are talking business.

What else is life?

Are you saying I have to forget my lover?

No. You can help him. The fish he catches can now be bought, in bulk, by the palace.

But, Father . . .

Get me my nets.

Back in the palace, King Shantanu spent some time with his concubines but could not sleep with any of them. He left the harem and went to Devavrata’s room. He stayed late with his son, planted a kiss on his forehead, and slunk out to his room to fight yet another lonely night.

Next morning Shantanu woke up late and gloomy. He didn’t take his regular stroll in the garden. Didn’t go to his bathhouse. In fact, he didn’t come out of his room. Nor was anyone called in.

Devavrata didn’t disturb his father, but grilled the charioteer, and understood what plagued his father. Before noon he halted his chariot in front of the fisherman’s hut. He tried to barge in but Satyavati stopped him with a stare. The power in her stare downed the arrogance of power in him.

The crown prince bowed before the fisherwoman.

I have come to invite you to my palace as the wife of my father, King Shantanu.

I prefer to be your wife, Satyavati whispered, looking passionately at his broad shoulders and hairy, muscular chest.

Can you please, mother, step into the chariot I have brought for you? Devavrata said aloud, pretending that he had not heard what she had whispered.

I want her son to succeed the king. When your coronation is to take place soon, how can I hope for it? the old fisherman asked Devavrata. He also told him the king did not accept his conditions, fearing objection from the prince.

Devavrata thought for a moment. It implied he had to forgo the crown. He did not want it to happen. At the same time, he wanted to make his father happy.

I take the vow that I will not, under any condition, be the king of Hastinapur, even for a day.

Neither the old man nor his daughter could believe their ears. But the thought of fortune further fed their greed.

Only a soul with exceptional qualities can take such a vow. But your children need not be that selfless. In fact, nobody can be as great as you.

Devavrata read the cue. I will not marry. I will not, under any circumstance, father a child, he said.

Dear daughter, didn’t I tell you the royal proposal would come again? Bear the king’s child without waiting for tomorrow. Since he is too old and you are too young, you can wield real power very soon, and can remain powerful for long, the old man whispered to his daughter.

Dear father, I think it is time for you to go fishing. Don’t forget to take your nets. Take him also with you for help. Pray the catch is big enough for the palace, Satyavati said aloud.

The old man feared his arrogant daughter would do something that would undo their golden future, which had sprung from nowhere. So after the prince’s chariot left the shack with the queen, the old man decided to outspeed the chariot and chain the prince to his promises before he could reach the palace.

He beckoned his fellow fishermen who gathered around. King Shantanu is blessed to have given birth to a pious son. Even the gods felt pleased over his selflessness that they showered flowers on him and called him ‘Bheeshma’ thrice. The wily old man then distributed a portion of wealth he had kept for the marriage of his daughter amongst them. He asked them to rejoice over a heavenly luck that had reached one among them and, more importantly, to spread news about the greatness of the crown prince.

Hastinapur eulogized Devavrata for his selfless gesture. Overnight, he got the status of a demi-god! But he realized that his life had fallen apart. He was about to break down into tears when he heard the chuckle of his father from another corner of the palace. He opened the window. He didn’t know that it was the night of the lunar eclipse.

Next morning, Devavrata woke up late. His hair and beard had grown long! And they were grey!

***

The vows of Devavrata grew taller than him. Quite often people revered his vows but missed him completely. Soon, even Devavrata forgot he was Devavrata. He was Bheeshma, even when he was alone; even to himself.

Satyavati gave birth to two sons before King Shantanu died. The children grew under Bheeshma’s shade. The eldest died in a war and was childless. It gave the younger brother Vichitravirya, born with tuberculosis, the right to the throne. By the time he became a young man, the disease in him had grown too old. Efforts to get a bride for him failed, for the news of the prince’s illness had spread beyond Hastinapur. So when the king of Kasi announced the swayamvara for his daughters—Amba, Ambika, Ambalika—he did not send an invitation to Hastinapur.

Bheeshma felt humiliated.

He stormed into the palace of the king of Kasi, took the princesses by force, and ordered