Ch. 1: The Offering for Indra

In the land of Vraja, where the river Yamuna runs slow and green between its banks, the cowherds lived as their fathers had lived before them. They rose before the sun to milk the cows. They drove the herds out to the pastures when the dew still lay upon the grass, and they drove them home again at dusk, when the dust raised by a thousand hooves hung golden in the evening air. Their wealth was not in gold or in grain but in cattle, and their cattle were their pride and their joy.

Above the pastures rose the hill of Govardhan. It was not a great mountain like those of the north, whose snows touch the sky, but it was broad and old and generous. Streams ran down its sides. Trees grew thick upon its slopes, bearing fruit for the taking. Its grasses were sweet, its caves were cool, and in the heat of the day the cows lay in its shade and chewed in peace. The children of Vraja climbed its rocks and knew every path upon it, and the old men said that no herd had ever gone hungry while Govardhan stood.

In those days there lived in the village of Nanda, chief of the cowherds, a child whose name was Krishna. He was the son of Nanda and of Yashoda his wife, and he was dark as a rain cloud, with eyes like the petals of the lotus. He wore a crown of peacock feathers and a garland of wild forest flowers, and he carried a flute of bamboo. When he played it, the cows lifted their heads from the grass and came to him, and the birds fell silent in the branches to listen. Though he was still a boy of seven years, the people of Vraja had seen wonders done by him that they could not explain, and they loved him more than they loved their own lives.

Now the season of the rains had ended. The sky had grown clear and blue, the fields were green, and the river ran full. It was the time when, every year, the cowherds of Vraja made their great offering to Indra, king of the gods, lord of the clouds, who sends the rain.

The whole village was busy with it. In every courtyard the women were cooking. There were pots of rice and pots of milk boiled thick and sweet; there were cakes fried in ghee, and curds, and butter heaped in bowls of leaf. Men carried firewood and sacred grass. Brahmins were sent for to recite the hymns. Smoke rose from the hearths, and the smell of good food drifted through the lanes, so that even the dogs sat waiting at the doorways with hopeful eyes.

Krishna walked through all this with his brother Balarama. He saw the heaps of food and the eager faces, and he went to his father, who was sitting with the elders of the village. He knew very well what was happening, for he knew all things, but he asked as a child asks, with his head on one side.

“Father,” he said, “what is all this preparation for? What festival is coming? To whom is this offering made, and what good does it bring? Tell me, please. A wise man does not keep secrets from his own son.”

Nanda smiled and drew the boy to him. “My dear one,” he said, “this is the sacrifice to Indra. Indra is the lord of the rain clouds. The clouds are his servants, and they pour down the water that makes the grass grow, and the grass feeds the cows, and the cows feed us. So every year, when the rains have done their work, we honour him with these offerings, as our fathers did. It is the custom, and whoever gives up a custom out of carelessness does not prosper.”

Krishna listened. Then he looked out past the village, to where the herds were grazing on the green slopes of Govardhan, and he spoke in a voice that was clear and gentle, so that all the elders turned to hear him.

“Father,” he said, “we are cowherds. We are not kings with cities to rule, nor farmers with ploughs and fields, nor merchants who travel the roads. We are people of the forest and the hill. Our wealth is the cows, and the cows live on the forest and the hill. Every creature is born by its own nature, lives by its own work, and goes on its way according to its own deeds. Where then is Indra in this? He does not give the cows their grass. Govardhan gives it. The clouds pour rain on the sea and on the desert as well as on our pastures. They rain because it is their nature to rain.”

The elders murmured among themselves. Some frowned. But no one interrupted, for there was something in the boy's face that made them want to hear him out.

“Let us honour what is in front of us,” Krishna went on. “Let us honour the cows, who give us everything. Let us honour the Brahmins, who keep the sacred word. And let us honour the hill Govardhan, which shelters our herds and feeds them and gives us water and fruit and shade. Take all this food you have made for Indra, and make an offering of it to the hill instead. Feed the Brahmins until they are satisfied. Give food to everyone, even to the poorest, even to the dogs. Give the cows fresh grass. Then dress yourselves in your best clothes and garlands, and walk around the hill with the cows, keeping it on your right hand. That is the sacrifice I would like to see. It would please me, and it would please the cows and the Brahmins, and it would please the hill.”

There was a silence in the circle of elders. A breeze moved the leaves of the great tree above them. Then Nanda looked at his son, and his heart was full, and he looked at the old men around him.

“What the boy says is true,” said one of them slowly. “We are people of the hill. The hill has never failed us.”

“He speaks well,” said another. “Let it be as he says.”

And all of them agreed, for in the presence of Krishna it was hard to hold to any other opinion than the one he gently offered. They did not know who he truly was, though they had seen enough to wonder. They knew only that they loved him, and that his words seemed to them like water to the thirsty.

So the word went through the village: this year the offering would be made to Govardhan. And the women, hearing it, laughed and went on cooking, for the food would be eaten by somebody either way, and they had a feeling in their hearts that this year's festival would be better than any they had known.