A Story of Dvapara Yuga in Prose
(Part-6)

By Lokanath Mishra

The night was still heavy with silence. In the darkened corridors of Mathurā’s palace, two guards hurried breathlessly, carrying the news no one dared to bring. They stumbled into the inner chambers, their voices trembling:

“The child is born!”

Kaṁsa, king of Mathurā, sprang up from his bed as though struck by lightning. His hair disheveled, his eyes wild, he seized his sword without even splashing water on his face. His bare feet thundered against the stone floors as he rushed toward the prison. Each step seemed to make the earth quake.

Inside the dim prison cell, Devakī and Vasudeva’s hearts pounded with terror. Devakī had hidden the infant girl in the folds of her garment, clutching her close. Could this frail shelter protect her daughter from the monster who ruled the land?

The prison door burst open with a deafening crash. Kaṁsa entered like Yama, Lord of Death himself. His voice boomed through the dungeon.

“Where is the child? The one foretold to kill me? My enemy, where have you hidden him?”

Tears streamed from Devakī’s eyes. With one hand she clutched her baby; with the other, she fell at her brother’s feet.

“Brother,” she pleaded, “have you not tormented me enough? This is no son—only a daughter. How can a girl harm you? Spare her! I am broken, cursed by fate. Let me at least keep this one child. In my old age, let her be my comfort.”

But Kaṁsa’s heart was stone. The prophecy haunted him day and night: The eighth child of Devakī will kill Kaṁsa. Could this be the trick of destiny? Could Viṣṇu Himself be hiding within this girl?

His voice thundered. “Was it not a woman, Kāṭyāyanī, who destroyed the clan of Kāuṇapa? Was it not the Goddess who slew Mahisha, Śumbha, and Niśumbha? Foolish woman! Do you think I will be deceived? Give me the child!”

Devakī clung tighter, trembling, her tears falling upon the infant’s face. Kaṁsa wrenched at her arms. Vasudeva stood frozen, powerless, his fists clenched in helpless rage.

With a brutal kick, Kaṁsa struck Devakī aside. He tore the infant from her embrace and stormed out into the courtyard. His generals and demons stood waiting.

A story of Dvapara Yuga in Prose ( part-2)

“As I slew the others,” Kaṁsa roared, “so too shall I slay this one!”

He seized the baby by her tiny feet, raising her high to smash her upon the stone. But in that instant, the child slipped from his hands. Before their eyes she blazed with light, transforming into the radiant Goddess Mahāmāyā.

Descending upon a celestial chariot, she spread her arms wide, her voice like rolling thunder:

“O wicked Kaṁsa! The foe you fear has already been born elsewhere. He lives, and he will destroy you and all your demon kin. Free your prisoners! Seek refuge, for your end is near!”

The heavens rang with her words. Then, in a blaze of light, she vanished.

Kaṁsa staggered back, his mind reeling. Could it be true? Could the prophecy no longer be denied? He returned to the prison, forcing a smile, speaking honeyed words. He freed Devakī and Vasudeva from their chains, pretending kindness. But the fire of fear still smoldered within him.

That very night, he summoned his demon generals to the palace hall. His face was pale, his voice low.

“My death is born,” he confessed, “but where?”

Chāṇūra, the fierce demon, rose and spoke with grim certainty. “O King, the child must be in Mathurā or the surrounding lands. We shall search every town and village, every street and hut. Wherever a child has been born this week, we shall strike it down. Thus your enemy shall perish before he learns to walk.”

Kaṁsa’s eyes gleamed. “Yes. Let it be so.”

The demons spread out like a storm over the land. Among them went Pūtanā, Kaṁsa’s foster-sister, her heart black with malice. “Brother,” she vowed, “I will take the form of a nurse, with poison flowing in my breasts. I shall slay every infant I touch.”

And so the hunt for the divine child began.

In the royal city of Ayodhyā, after fourteen long years of exile, Rāma returned victorious. The city was lit with lamps, the people rejoiced, but one chamber remained dark. Queen Kaikeyī sat alone, her heart drowning in grief. The name of Kaikeyī, once spoken with honor, had become a curse upon every tongue.

Rāma entered quietly, bowing at her feet. She lifted his face with trembling hands, her eyes red with tears.
“My son,” she whispered, “I loved you more than Bharata. Why then did you cover me in such infamy? Why did you make the world spit upon the name of Kaikeyī? Was it because I did not bear you in my womb?”
Rāma clasped her hands, his voice tender.
“Mother, the gods willed it so. Through you, their plan unfolded. For this burden you bore, I owe you a boon. Tell me your heart’s deepest desire.”

Kaikeyī wept. “Then grant me this: let me know a mother’s fortune—the fortune Kauśalyā held, of bearing you in her womb. Can you give me that?”
Rāma closed his eyes for a moment. “Mother, to Kaśyapa and Aditi I am bound by eternal promise. In every birth, I must come as their son. Yet your wish shall not go unfulfilled. In my next descent, though I take birth of Kauśalyā’s line, I shall rest in your lap as your son. The world shall know me as yours.”

Thus was the divine promise given. And in another age, when Hari descended as Kṛṣṇa, that promise found its form—Yaśodā became his foster-mother, yet to the world she was the one who held him, fed him, and called him her own.
In the quiet of midnight, as thunder rolled over Mathurā’s prison, Vasudeva carried the newborn Kṛṣṇa across the swelling Yamunā, while guards lay in enchanted sleep. In Gokula, Yaśodā too had given birth that very night. Exhausted, she drifted into slumber, not knowing what miracle was unfolding.

When she awoke to the cry of a child, joy burst forth in her heart. Her arms trembled as she held the little boy, his skin glowing like a raincloud, his eyes sparkling like twin lotuses.
Word spread swiftly through Gokula. From hut to hut, the news leapt: “A son is born to Nanda and Yaśodā!”
Gopas and gopīs poured into their home with gifts—pots of butter, curds, and honey, anklets ringing, bangles clinking, voices singing. Some danced, some clapped, some simply stood in awe, gazing at the infant.
Even the gods could not stay away. Brahmā, Śiva, and Nārada descended to see the divine child. They showered flowers from the sky, their voices praising the Lord who had come in human form.

The cows were bathed, their horns painted with bright colors, their necks adorned with bells. The streets of Gokula rang with conches and drums. Nanda gave away gifts freely—golden ornaments, cloth, cattle—to all who came.
Rohiṇī, elder among the mothers, wept tears of bliss. Yaśodā’s face glowed brighter than the sun itself. All of Gokula seemed to dance in joy.

While Gokula rejoiced, darkness spread from Mathurā. Kaṁsa’s demons prowled the land, slaughtering infants wherever they were born. Mothers hid their babies in barns, in baskets, even in the fields. But Pūtanā, Kaṁsa’s foster-sister, roamed with poisoned breasts, her beauty hiding her monstrous intent.

Parswa Parivartana Ekadashi – The Day Lord Vishnu Turns

One evening she entered Gokula, her form disguised as a radiant maiden. The villagers, thinking her a goddess, welcomed her with reverence. She entered Nanda’s house, her eyes falling upon the sleeping infant Kṛṣṇa.

“Ah,” she thought, “here is the one. Let me feed him and end my brother’s fear.”

She lifted the child, pressing him to her poisoned breast. But Kṛṣṇa, the eternal Lord, did not drink the milk—he drank her very life. With a scream that shook the village, Pūtanā’s true form emerged—huge, terrible, demonic. Her body crashed to the ground like a mountain, crushing trees and huts.

The gopīs ran in terror, but Kṛṣṇa lay upon her breast, smiling, untouched. The mothers rushed forward, weeping, laughing, lifting him in their arms. They bathed him in cow’s urine, dust, and sacred herbs to ward off evil. But deep in their hearts, they knew—this was no ordinary child.

A Story of Dvapara Yuga in Prose ( part-5)

( to be continued)