How Krishna Lifted Govardhan Hill

Morning in Vrindavan. The cows walk across the green meadow, and the cowherd boys follow them with their sticks. Running ahead of them all is Krishna, a little cowherd with a peacock feather in His hair. He plays His flute, and the cows turn their heads: they know His voice.

In the village everyone is busy today. The men carry heavy pots of rice and butter, the women carry baskets of flowers, and in the middle of the village they lay the fire for the offering. “Father, what is the festival for?” asked Krishna, tugging Nanda Maharaja by the hand.

“We are honouring Indra, the king of heaven,” His father answered. “He sends the rain, the rain grows the grass, and the grass feeds our cows.” Krishna looked at the green hill Govardhan. “But isn’t it the hill that feeds our cows? Grass grows on it, streams run down from it, and in its caves we hide from the heat. Let us honour the cows, the brahmanas and Govardhan!”

No one argued with Krishna. The women cooked sweet rice in huge pots, baked flat breads and rolled sweets. The mountain of food grew taller than a man — a mountain like that is called annakut.

And then a wonder happened: the hill itself came alive! Two huge eyes opened on the green slope, Govardhan smiled and began to eat the feast — taking with one hand and waving with the other: “Bring more! I am Govardhan!” And little Krishna bowed to him together with everyone else.

Then they all walked around the hill: first the cows in their flower garlands, then the children, then the grown-ups. They sang, and it seemed that the hill was listening to them.

High in the sky, in a palace of clouds, sat Indra. He saw it all and frowned. “How can this be? The cowherds have forgotten me,” he thought, and pride pricked his heart.

Black clouds crept over Vrindavan. The wind rose, the trees bent low, and it grew as dark as night.

And the rain came down. Not a warm summer rain, but a heavy one, like a wall of water. The water ran through the streets, the cows pressed close together, and the mothers tucked their little ones under their shawls.

Then everyone ran to Krishna. “Krishna, save us! You are our friend, we have no one else to run to!” Krishna stood in the rain and smiled.

He walked up to Govardhan Hill, slipped the little finger of His left hand under it — and lifted it. As easily as you pick a mushroom off the ground. The enormous hill hung over Vrindavan like an umbrella.

“Come inside!” Krishna called. And they all came in under the hill: with the cows, the calves, the carts and the pots. The cowherd boys propped the hill up with their sticks — they were sure they were helping Krishna.

One day passed, then another, then a third… For seven days Krishna held the hill and never once lowered His hand. He did not eat and did not sleep. His friends sat beside Him and could not take their eyes off Him — and they did not feel like eating or sleeping either.

Indra watched from above and could not understand: where does a little boy find such strength? And then he understood. The pride left his heart, and he called back the clouds.

The sky grew light. The sun came out, a rainbow rose above the wet hill, and the peacocks spread their tails.

Everyone came out, and Krishna set the hill back in its place. Mother Yashoda hugged Him and cried for joy, His father laid a hand on His head, and flowers rained down from the sky.

And in the evening Indra came quietly. Without his crown, without thunder. He bowed before the little cowherd: “Forgive me, Krishna. I grew proud and forgot who You are.”

With him came Surabhi, the cow of heaven. She bathed Krishna with her milk, and the elephant Airavata poured the water of the heavenly Ganges over Him. “You protect the cows,” said Surabhi. “So let Your name be Govinda.” And ever since, Krishna has been called Govinda.

Now play this story at home. The hill is a cushion under a green blanket. Hide the cows and the cowherd boys underneath it. Who will be Krishna? Who will be Indra? And the rain you can make out of strips of paper.