How Krishna Lifted Govardhan Hill

In Vrindavan the morning begins with the cows. They come out of their pens — white, red, speckled — and the dew flies up from the grass under their hooves. Behind them walk the cowherd boys with sticks on their shoulders, and ahead of them all walks Krishna. He is seven years old. He lifts His flute, and a strange thing happens: the cows stop and turn their heads, as if He had called each one by name. That is how every day begins in Vrindavan. This one began the same way — and nobody guessed that it would end quite differently.

From early morning the village was packed. Men rolled carts of rice, women carried baskets of flowers, and in the middle of the street firewood was being stacked for the sacrificial fire. Krishna took His father by the hand: “Papa, who is all this for?” Nanda Maharaj was the elder of Vrindavan; he was used to being asked few questions, and he liked answering this one.

“We are honouring Indra, the king of heaven,” said Nanda. “Indra sends the rain. The rain waters the earth, the earth grows the grass, the grass feeds the cows, and the cows give us milk. My father did this, and his father before him.” The elders around them nodded: quite right, that is how it is, that is how it should be.

Krishna looked at the green hill standing just beside the village. “But isn’t it Govardhan who feeds our cows? Grass grows on him, streams run down from him, we hide from the heat in his caves, we build our houses from his stones. We live in the palm of his hand — and we thank someone we have never seen. Let us honour the cows, the brahmanas and Govardhan Hill.” The grown-ups looked at one another. There was no disrespect in the boy’s words — only a simple truth that, for some reason, nobody had said before. And no one argued with Krishna.

Vrindavan prepared a feast such as the old people could not remember. Sweet rice boiled in enormous pots, stacks of flat breads rose higher than a man, sweets were rolled, and milk, yoghurt, honey and mountains of fruit were carried out. Such a mountain of food is called annakut — “a hill of food”. They piled it at the foot of the hill and called the brahmanas, the guests and everyone who was hungry.

And then they went to the hill. The cows walked first, in garlands, with painted horns and bells on their necks. Behind them the cowherd boys beat drums, behind them the children danced, and the women carried trays of offerings on their heads. Vrindavan was going to bow to its own hill, and was wonderfully glad about it.

And then came the thing they would tell their grandchildren about: the hill came alive. Huge eyes opened on the green slope, the mountain smiled, and two arms grew out of it. With the right hand Govardhan took the food and put it in his mouth, with the left he waved: “Bring more!” “I am Govardhan!” he said. The people fell to their knees. And little Krishna bowed along with everyone else — only He knew to whom they were bowing, because that enormous form was He Himself.

Then they all walked around the hill, and the circling took half a day. People touched the warm stones with their palms, sang, looked back at the cows, and that evening nobody in Vrindavan was thinking about any king of heaven.

But the king of heaven was thinking about them. Indra sat on his golden throne in his palace of clouds and looked down — at the village where, for the first time in many years, his fire had not been lit. Pride is a strange thing: it can live even in the heart of a demigod, and it aches like a splinter. “They have forgotten me,” said Indra. “Because of a cowherd boy.”

He called the Samvartaka clouds — the very ones that flood the world at the end of time. They are usually kept locked away, and no one should ever let them out over an insult. “Go,” said Indra, “and wash this village away along with its hill.”

Over Vrindavan it went dark in the middle of the day. The clouds came low, climbing over one another, the wind bent the kadamba trees to the ground, and torn leaves and petals flew through the air. People came out into the street, tilted their heads back and fell silent: no one here had ever seen a sky like that.

And then the rain came down. Not a warm summer rain, the kind that is good to run about in barefoot — but a wall, solid water, with hail and wind. Water ran down the streets in streams, put out the hearths and knocked down the fences. The cows shivered, the calves pressed against their mothers, the mothers hid their little ones under their shawls and did not know where to run: everywhere was equally wet and frightening.

And then all of Vrindavan ran to Krishna. “Krishna, save us! We listened to You, we honoured the hill — and look what has happened to us. We have no one else to go to.” They were running to a seven-year-old boy — and it was the most sensible thing they could have done.

Krishna stood in the downpour and smiled. “Do not be afraid,” He said. “Not one drop will fall on you.” He walked to the foot of the hill, and the water parted under His feet.

Krishna slipped His hand under the edge of Govardhan and lifted the hill. Easily — the way a child picks a mushroom off the ground. An enormous mountain, with its trees, caves, streams and peacocks on the slopes, hung over Vrindavan, and one finger of His left hand held it up. The rain beat against the green sides of the hill and ran off the edges in a wall of water, and under the hill it was quiet.

“Come in!” called Krishna. And the whole of Vrindavan came in under the hill: people, cows, calves, carts, pots of milk, bundles of clothes. The cowherd boys propped the hill up with their sticks and were very pleased: it seemed to them that they were helping. Krishna did not talk them out of it — He liked having His friends beside Him.

Under the hill it was dry and warm. The calves pressed to their mothers’ sides, the little ones fell asleep on their mothers’ laps, the girls carried round the milk, the old men settled down on the bundles. Outside, the end of the world was raging; in here someone was quietly singing, and it smelled of wet grass.

A day went by. Then another. For seven days and seven nights Krishna held the hill and never once changed hands. He did not eat and did not sleep. The cowherd boys sat around Him and watched Him — and they too did not feel like eating or sleeping. Mother Yashoda could not take her eyes off her son and did not dare come closer: her heart was breaking, and He stood there and smiled at her.

On the seventh day Indra looked down — and could find nothing to say. He was the king of heaven and he knew what his clouds could do. And down below stood a boy holding a mountain as though it weighed nothing at all. And then the pride that had brought all those clouds here simply ended — the way darkness ends when a lamp is carried in. Indra called back the Samvartaka.

The sky grew lighter and cleared. The sun came out, a rainbow stood over the wet hill, the leaves dripped, and the peacocks on the slopes spread their tails, as though someone had called them too.

“Come out,” said Krishna. “The rain is over.” The people led out the cows, carried out the pots, rolled out the carts, and when no one was left under the hill, Krishna set Govardhan back exactly where He had taken it from. The earth did not even tremble.

What happened next is hard to tell in order. Yashoda hugged her son and wept. Nanda put his hand on His head and could not get a word out. Balarama embraced His brother, the cowherd boys hung on Him all at once, the women brought yoghurt and flowers, and petals rained down on Vrindavan from the sky: the demigods, the very ones who live beside Indra, were congratulating the boy.

That evening the elders sat in a circle and talked about one thing only. “Who is He, our Krishna?” And Nanda remembered: when his son was very small, the sage Garga Muni had looked at Him and said strange words. He said that this child would have as many names as He had deeds, that He would protect Vrindavan from every misfortune — and that happy is the one who comes to love Him. At the time the words had sounded like politeness. Now they sounded like a prophecy that had come true in front of everyone’s eyes.

And at night, quietly, with no thunder and no retinue, Indra came. He took off his crown and held it in his hands. “Forgive me, Krishna,” the king of heaven said to the little cowherd boy. “I decided that the rain was mine and the glory was mine. You stopped my sacrifice not to punish me, but to cure me. I understand now.” Krishna raised him from his knees: He had never been Indra’s enemy — only his physician.

With Indra came Surabhi, the heavenly cow, the mother of all cows. She bathed Krishna with her milk, and the white elephant Airavata raised his trunk and poured the water of the heavenly Ganga over Him. “You protect the cows and care for them,” said Surabhi. “Let You be called Govinda — He who gives joy to the cows.” Krishna has had that name ever since that night. When you sing “Govinda”, it is this rain and this hill that you are remembering.

And ever since, every autumn, on the day after Diwali, Vaishnavas all over the world pile up a mountain of food — annakut — before Krishna and walk around Govardhan. At home you can act the story out too: the hill is a pillow under a green blanket, with cows and cowherd boys beneath it, and one person holding it up with one hand. You will find out at the same time what it is like not to lower your arm for seven days.