When Krishna Lifted a Whole Mountain
The rain wouldn't stop. The village was flooding. Krishna held up Govardhan with one finger.
The cowherds of Vrindavan were getting ready for their yearly Indra Puja. Little Krishna asked a simple question. Why thank a god in the sky who never visits, when our own Govardhan hill feeds our cows every day? The villagers agreed. Indra got furious and sent a flood that should have wiped Vrindavan off the map. Krishna walked over to Govardhan and lifted the entire mountain on the tip of his little finger. The whole village stood under it for seven days and nights, dry and safe.
A Question Before the Festival
It was the end of the monsoon, the time of year when the cowherds of Vrindavan got ready for their biggest festival. Every household was scrubbing the brass pots. Every grandmother was grinding spices. Every uncle was rolling out the white cotton dhotis nobody had worn since last year.
This was the Indra Puja. Once a year, the whole village offered the very best of everything they had to Indra, the king of the gods, the lord of rain and thunder.
Krishna was about seven years old. Maybe eight. He was sitting in the courtyard with his foster father Nanda, watching the preparations. He had a peacock feather behind his ear and a flute tucked into his belt. He chewed thoughtfully on a piece of sugarcane.
"Baba," he said. His voice was light and curious, the way a child's voice is when they are about to ask something big. "Why do we do this puja?"
Nanda smiled. "Because Indra sends the rain, my son. Without rain, no grass. Without grass, no cows. Without cows, nothing."
Krishna nodded slowly. He took another bite of sugarcane.
"But Baba," he said. "Indra has never visited Vrindavan. Not once. Govardhan hill has been here our whole lives. Our cows climb it every morning. They eat its grass. They drink from its streams. They rest in its shade. The rain comes from the sky, yes. But everything the rain becomes, it becomes on Govardhan."
Nanda put down the rope he was twisting.
A New Puja
The other elders had come over by now. They sat in a half-circle around the small boy with the peacock feather.
Krishna kept going, gently. "Why thank only the far god in the clouds? Why not also thank the mountain that is right here, that we can touch, that we climb every day? Why not thank the cows, who give milk? Why not thank the river, who never runs dry?"