Blog

Ask yourself the question, "Was Kamsa really scared of death?" And be sure to hear the tyrant roar with laughter in the grave. Death can never scare a 'kshatriya' because his principles are more vital to his existence than just protecting a physical body.

A valiant warrior never accepts victory without its price tag - heroic fighting! For him, bodily death is secondary to the prime cause of laying down his life for a noble goal, as much as an international soccer star thinks nothing about slipping and tumbling in his team's quest for a World Cup title. Moral integrity is the better part of valour!  

How then, did such an invincible demonic conqueror become possessed with unreasonable fear, ever since he heard the strange celestial voice proclaim that the eighth child of his sister, Devaki, would kill him? Was he really afraid to die?  

Kamsa was not an ignorant man as he was more than aware that even if death were to destroy his present physical body, Nature would immediately provide him with another. However, the loss of a body was not as unnerving as the loss of his reputation.

It was just too mortifying to ever imagine that his own little nephew could kill him. What a devastating blow to his false pride? Kamsa's delusion knew no bounds - he was too obsessed with playing the game of "Lord and Master of all I survey!"

Kamsa, the egotist, scripted his own infernal drama. The universe was his stage. His formidable body and ravenous senses were perfectly sculpted by his venerable ego, with the chisel of his manipulative mind and scheming intellect.
 
He stepped onto the centre of the stage attired in costumes of incest and covered with the make up of deceit; his charming smile of intrigue was disarming. On his head was a crown of envy bedecked with sparkling jewels of duplicity. His golden earrings of conceit swung to and fro as he acknowledged thunderous applause.

The adulation was too intoxicating. His mighty arms wielded the sword of greed and a shield of false pride. Glittering necklaces of ambition adorned his broad chest. Garters of deception clung to his calves as he stalked the stage, in a mood of mistrust, with the savage boots of a predator.

Spotlights pursued him to every nook and corner as he raved and ranted. This was the greatest show. King Kamsa's cohorts swooned and stomped in rhythm to his nostalgic song of delusion: "I am the greatest - the God of vain dreams, No one dare match me - Controller supreme."

Suddenly, tragedy struck as the mysterious celestial voice proclaimed his irrevocable doom when he was caught in the strange act of playing charioteer for his newly wedded sister, Devaki. Kamsa, the hero, was petrified. It suddenly dawned on him that somewhere, hidden behind the scene, there was a director who decided to end the show.

Soon the curtains would come down as the deafening applause would subside into the petrifying silence and the blazing spotlights would fade out into the darkness. No more glamour and glitter - just a deserted theatre full of past dreams. 

Kamsa's dream of illusion was over; but his nightmare of reality had begun. It was this journey - from the zenith of fame to the nadir of oblivion - that was unbearable for his bloated ego and more painful than physical death.
Only when the dark skinned, lotus eyed eighth son of Devaki, Krishna, straddled Kamsa's chest and pummeled his false ego to death, in the wrestling arena, was he promoted to a higher existence, free from the perils of duality and strife, and felt deep tranquility in the infallible shelter of the lotus feet of his Creator.

Sources: Thane Plus