The Enchanting Childhood Pastimes of Śrī Kṛṣṇa

In Nanda's courtyard, radiant beneath the pure moonlight, Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra dances to the rhythm marked by the women of Vraja.

“Beloved child of the lord of the clan, you who utterly enchant by your childhood ways, younger brother of Bala, dance, dance! Let us offer ourselves to ward away every evil from you.” Thus urged by the women, Hari danced within the circle of rhythm they fashioned with the syllables “ti-thi-thitthi-thī.”

(Śrī Gopāla-campūḥ)

“Darling of Vraja's lord! Enchanter through your childhood gestures! May we all be sacrificed for you. Dance for us! Dance, younger brother of Balarāma! Here is the beat: theī, theī, theī, tatt, theī!” As the beautiful women of Vraja coaxed him and began marking the rhythm, Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra began to dance.

Fifteen days earlier, while offering arghya in the basin around an aśoka tree, the queen of Vraja had watched from behind a branch as her blue jewel danced for the very first time:

Hari sings a little in his own courtyard.
With tiny steps he dances, delighting his own heart.
Raising his arm, he calls the cows Kājarī and Dhaurī.
Sometimes he calls Father Nanda, and sometimes he enters the house.
Taking a little butter in his own hand, he smears it upon his tiny face.
Sometimes he sees his reflection in a pillar and feeds it with a morsel in his hand.
From a distance Yaśodā watches this play, her gladness and joy ever increasing.
Sūra says: each new day the childhood deeds of dark Śyāma grow dearer to behold.

The mother forgot her worship of the aśoka tree, and the vessel of arghya remained in her hands. Gazing without blinking at her blue jewel's wondrous, indistinct singing and his dance set to the jingling rhythm of his anklets, she lost awareness of herself for who knows how long.

The next day Nanda came, his very life filled with longing, for he wished to see his son's enchanting dance. But at the sight of his father, Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra grew a little shy. His mother lifted him into her lap, repeatedly kissed his cheeks, and bathed him in a stream of maternal affection. When his shyness had been carried away in that current of love, she set him once more upon the jeweled floor and began to encourage him:

Again and again I give myself for you. Sing in your sweet voice.
This time, my prince Kanhaiyā, dance and show Nanda.
Clap your own hands and awaken the highest love.
Why fear when you hear the sound of another creature? Put your neck within my arms.
Have no doubt in your heart, my darling. Why let yourself be confused?
Raise your arm as you did yesterday and call the cow Dhaurī.
Dance just a little. I give myself for you. Fulfill my longing.
Let the jeweled girdle and anklets upon your feet ring in your own joyous way.
A little child is reflected in the golden pillar. Feed him a morsel.
Sūra says: my dark Śyāma, I cannot bear to remove you even a little from my heart.

Thus the irresistible love of his mother and the longing of his father's very life did indeed make Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra dance. Clapping his hands to the jingling rhythm of his anklets, he began to move, and Nanda's mind danced with him. More than that, Nanda's mind seemed to leave his body entirely and dissolve into the sound of those anklets. Mind emptied of every other thought, Nanda leaned the weight of his body against a coral pillar, filled his unblinking eyes with that lovely vision, and forgot everything else for an entire watch of the day.

Now a wave of excitement swept through Vraja. Groups of its women came to watch Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra dance, and he freely distributed this sweetness among them. Nor was that all. He embellished it with countless other gestures natural to childhood. It was as though the stream of his infancy steadily deepened: first bubbles arose, then the current foamed, then waves danced upon its breast, and finally whirlpools formed within it. At first indistinct, faltering sounds emerged from his lotus mouth. Then came lisping speech adorned by a radiant smile, followed by sweet song and dance, until those songs and dances became enclosed within utterly enchanting childhood gestures. A wondrous current of the nectar of divine play flowed through Vraja. Indirā could not taste even one drop of it in a dream, yet the women of Vraja drank it by the handful and bathed within it. The Vedas sought to determine its nature; Maheśa pondered it; Śeṣa exhausted every argument. Still, none could reach the end of what this current of nectar was, what it was like, or how wondrous it might be.

Ah! Kinnara women burdened by the fullness of beauty and youth had never seen him. Gandharva women able to enchant the world with the resonance of their vīṇās had never brought him within their gaze. The young serpent women who possessed the splendor of the netherworld, rare even to the gods, had never discovered him. Yet cowherd girls who shaped cow dung cakes made that very Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra dance like a monkey on a string by clapping their hands, and he danced entirely in accord with their feeling. He did more than dance. He fulfilled every wish and obeyed every command. One gopī would say, “My darling, pick up that wooden sandal and put it in my hands.” At once, Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra would go, lift Nanda's wooden sandal in hands like tender red shoots, bring it back, and place it in her hands. Another would say, “Treasure of my life, use your strength and bring that stool!” Yaśodā's son would go to the stool, first rest it on his knees, then against his belly, and walk slowly to set it before the cowherd woman. Seeing him seem tired from carrying the stool, a third would ask, “Treasure of my heart, do you know what a broom is? Put it in my hand so I shall know that you do.” Nanda's son would cast a charming glance toward the broom lying beside the threshold fashioned of ruby, bring it back, and place it in her hands. A fourth would say, “Nanda's darling, climb the stairs for us.” Śrī Kṛṣṇa would run toward the crystal stairway joined to the roof of the house fashioned from cat's-eye gems and begin to climb. Overcome with joy, her eyes filled with tears, the cowherd woman would quickly catch him and set him down again in the courtyard. Another cowherd girl would point and say, “Look there, blue jewel! See the peacock dance. Ah, how beautiful it is! Dance like that for us.” To fulfill her desire, the blue jewel would stretch both arms behind his back, bend at the waist, curve his back, lift his neck, and circle the girl while his anklets rang. Nanda's courtyard would resound with the women's tumultuous cries of delight. Another would ask, “Tell me, darling, how does a bee hum?” Śrī Kṛṣṇa would watch for a few moments as a honey-intoxicated bee flew in from the garden, then imitate it with a long “Gūṃ, ūṃ, ūṃ, ūṃ!” The gopīs burst into laughter, and Kṛṣṇa laughed as if blending his voice with theirs. A cowherd woman would command him to race to the doorway, and the blue jewel would run. Before he reached it, she would remove her diamond necklace and cast it upon the threshold, her very life trembling: “Ah, what use is this diamond necklace now? I shall make Yaśodā's blue jewel the necklace upon my breast.” Whatever the women of Vraja commanded, Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra did. Afterward he would ask in his lisping speech, “I am clever, aren't I?” Of course, if someone instructed him to lift a heavy object such as a balance weight and he could not raise it, he would begin to cry. The moment he cried, his mother would rush to him, clasp him to her heart, and kiss his red lips. At so tender an age he had learned many things. With childlike gestures he recited them to the women of Vraja in lisping words, then looked at them expectantly and began to laugh. Instead of answering, the women enfolded him in their arms. Their joy knew no limit. They forgot every household task and every service, following Śrī Kṛṣṇa and Balarāma like shadows from waking until sleep. They began to rise above hunger and thirst. From Kṛṣṇa's honeyed deeds, a ceaseless waterfall of sweetness descended, and as they drank it they grew intoxicated. Filled by the nectar of Kṛṣṇa's divine play, every other store of nectar became tasteless to them. The desire for paltry worldly pleasure could not even arise within them; compared with this supreme bliss, even the happiness of liberation desired by the greatest yogis and sages tasted bitter as salt:

Hari's play has become the gopīs' natural treasure for the taking;
even in a dream Kamalā does not receive such grace.
The Vedas cannot determine it, and Tripurāri remains absorbed in thought;
Śeṣa exhausts himself, yet cannot find its limit.
Again and again the Kinnara and Gandharva women,
and the serpent women too, cannot bring him within their gaze.
The girls of Vraja clap their hands to that darling cowherd
and, taking hold of him, make him dance like a monkey.
One says, “Darling, bring me the wooden sandal.”
Another says, “Dear child, use your strength and bring the stool.”
One says, “Darling, put the broom in my hand.”
Another says, “Dear child, climb the stairs.”
One says, “Darling, see how the peacock dances.”
Another asks, “How does the bee hum?”
One says, “Run as far as the doorway and come back, dear child,”
and, overcome with delight, offers necklaces of pearls.
Whatever the women of Vraja say, he does exactly that,
and his lisping speech sounds lovely.
When he cannot lift a heavy thing, he begins to cry;
his mother kisses his face and clasps him to her heart.
After speaking, he gazes again with his lovely, laughing face;
they draw him between their arms and frolic with him.
The women of Vraja forget all the work of their homes
and wander in the company of Kānha and Balarāma.
Sūra says: after drinking the honey of Giridhara's honey-sweet deeds,
every other nectar tastes strange.
Who would desire the other pleasures of a pauper?
Even liberation tastes as salty as brine.

At times, to increase the delight of his own people, Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra would fling out his arms and challenge others to a trial of strength. The gopīs might then say, “Blue jewel, Rāma is stronger than you.” Hearing this, Kṛṣṇa shook his head, adorned with soft, curling locks, to show his disagreement. Rohiṇī's son Rāma also looked at his younger brother and laughed. The women fondled both boys and stood them beside each other, then divided themselves into two groups. One declared Kṛṣṇa stronger, while the other supported Rohiṇī's son Rāma. Then:

Matched with Bala in strength and seeming to display their power to one another, he would pass above and below him and make all the women laugh.

(Śrī Gopāla-campūḥ)

Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra would spread his tiny arms and grapple with Balarāma. Each seemed to display his superiority over the other. At one moment Kṛṣṇa was above and Rāma below; at the next Rāma was above and Kṛṣṇa below. In this way they created a supremely charming new wrestling game and, through the sweetness of their childhood, made the women of Vraja laugh until they rolled upon the ground. Whenever the two brothers came together, their beauty was wondrous. Their lucidity was like a great emerald beside a crystal jewel. Their soft luster was like a tender rain cloud adorned by the full moon. Their fragrance and delicacy were like a blue lotus blooming beside a radiant white lotus. Their blissful movement was like a wave of the Yamunā encircled by a swan. The radiance of their sacred bodies was like a shoot of darkness joined with a fragment of moonlight.

Then the great emerald appeared beside the crystal jewel; the tender rain cloud beside the moon; the blue lotus beside the white lotus; the wave of the Yamunā beside the swan; and the mass of darkness beside a fragment of moonlight.

(Śrī Ānanda-vṛndāvana-campūḥ)

So be it. Today a full fortnight has passed since then. Seeing Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra dance, hearing him sing, and watching him play have become the uninterrupted daily life of the women of Vraja. On this night of Kojāgarī, the full moon of Āśvina, they have gathered in Nanda's home on the pretext of keeping vigil. Wonder of wonders, Kṛṣṇacandra has not yet fallen asleep tonight. How could he? Before the world and its countless masters of yoga and sages, he must reveal his incomparable submission to his devotees. At every moment, in response to the signals of the women of Vraja, he unfolded ever-new gestures of childhood and immersed Vraja in bliss, thereby displaying his unequaled willingness to be governed by his servants:

Revealing to those who know the truth how subject he is to his servants, Bhagavān carried Vraja into delight through his childhood deeds.

(Śrīmad Bhāgavata 10.11.6)

Could he possibly sleep tonight, when hundreds of thousands of beautiful cowherd women arrive concealing within their hearts a longing to see some new gesture from him? Taking the reflection of their desire, he is about to assume a childhood pose more lovely than anything they could imagine. He waits upon Yogamāyā's prepared stage for the women to arrive and the performance to begin. How could sleep touch his eyes? They find Kṛṣṇacandra awake, tireless, and lively as in the daytime, and begin making him dance. He steps to their rhythm, “theī, theī, theī, tatt, theī.”

The queen of Vraja cannot properly welcome the assembled cowherd women just now, yet her joy at seeing them knows no bound. Nanda's queen thinks that while they keep vigil and utter Śrī Nārāyaṇa's name, no calamity will be able even to touch her blue jewel. Ever since Tṛṇāvarta was slain, the mother has been extremely vigilant. Even when a gust of wind shakes the leaves of a tree, the mere sound of their movement makes her lift her son into her lap. Nor is the queen of Vraja alone in her vigilance. Nanda too is exceedingly alert. That very day he reached a unanimous decision in his great assembly and established this rule:

“This cowherd settlement has become a dwelling place for the wicked. Therefore the two boys must be kept hidden inside the house.”

(Śrī Gopāla-campūḥ)

For this reason, from that day onward Kṛṣṇacandra was not permitted beyond the festooned gateway. The vast jeweled courtyard became the stage for his divine play. There now resounded the melody of his anklets, while the young women of Vraja sacrificed body, mind, and life at the sight of his dance. Suddenly Kṛṣṇacandra stopped dancing, laughed, and looked toward a nearby churning pot. The moon in the sky was reflected in it, and that reflection caught his attention. Drawing nearer, he gazed into the vessel and wondered what this beautiful object might be. After a few moments he asked, “Mother, what is this exceedingly bright thing inside the pot?” Hearing her son's innocent question, his mother only looked at his lotus face and gave no answer. Receiving none, Kṛṣṇa went to where she stood a short distance away, caught the end of her garment, and asked again. This time she laughed and said, “My darling, that is the moon's reflection.” Kṛṣṇa opened his eyes wide in wonder. “That is the moon?” “Yes, treasure of my life,” his mother replied, “that is the moon.”

Kṛṣṇa's delight now knew no limit. Waving his hands and clapping, he said, “My mother, take it from the pot and place it in my hands!” Nanda's queen laughed, and the women of Vraja laughed until they rolled upon the floor. Still clutching the edge of his mother's garment, Kṛṣṇa repeated, “Take it out! Quickly take it out and give it to me!” His mother tried to distract him, but he would not forget and began to cry. Prabhāvatī, Upananda's wife, who stood nearby, conceived a clever plan and whispered it into Nanda's queen's ear. She went to the storeroom, returned hiding a large lump of fresh butter behind her back, and slipped it into the churning pot without Kṛṣṇa seeing. Wiping her son's eyes with her garment, his mother said, “Very well, come. I shall put it in your hands.” She reached into the pot, withdrew the shining lump of butter, and placed it in the blue jewel's hands. Ah, Kṛṣṇacandra's joy knew no bound, as though the moon itself had truly come into his hands. Absorbed in happiness, he looked toward the pot. Because the gopīs now stood close to it, the reflection had disappeared, and Kṛṣṇacandra thought the moon had left the pot and entered his hands:

When the child cried for the moon reflected in the churning pot, the elder woman satisfied him with a lump of fresh butter.

(Śrī Gopāla-campūḥ)

Clutching the lump of butter, he ran into the courtyard. Nanda's queen and the gopīs ran behind him, but the doorway leading outside was blocked by their crowd. Unable to leave, he returned to the churning pot, where the moon was again reflected. The blue jewel saw it at once and concluded that his mother had deceived him: the moon was still in the pot. Anger, wounded pride, and grief filled his lotus eyes. He threw himself upon the ground and began beating his hands and feet in piteous sobs.

Sulking, Kṛṣṇacandra refused even to rise into his mother's lap. Somehow she lifted him to her breast and explained, “My darling, the moon is in the sky, not in the pot. Look there:”

Standing in the courtyard with Hari in her arms, Yaśodā shows him the moon.
“Why do you cry? I give myself for you. Look with eyes filled full and let them be soothed.”

Seeing the moon in the sky, Kṛṣṇacandra fell silent. He looked back and forth between the moon above and its reflection in the pot, believing there were two moons, one in the vessel and one in the sky. His mother understood his thought and explained, “Treasure of my life, the moon comes to see your face. When you look into the pot, it enters the pot. When you look into the sky, it goes into the sky.” This satisfied the blue jewel that there was only one moon, but what of it? He wanted that moon. Devising a way to obtain it, he again insisted that his mother bring it to him:

Hari reasons silently within his mind, then asks his mother to bring it to him.
“I am hungry and shall eat the moon. Give it, give it!” he cries, growing angry and contrary.

Again and again the mother tried to reason with her obstinate son:

You are my good darling, so do not be stubborn like this.
Take whichever you like: honey, fruit, delicacies, or sweets.
Fresh butter, ghee, and curds are prepared, and you may drink sweet milk.
I fall at your feet. Do not persist so greatly, lest intense anger wear away your body.

But Kṛṣṇa would not agree. His mother could not discover how to persuade him. She thought that she had erred by showing him the moon in the pot:

By what means shall I make Kānha understand?
I foolishly showed him the moon, and now he says, “I shall eat it!”

After pondering for a while, the mother spoke again:

Kanhaiyā, has such an impossible thing ever happened? It has neither been seen nor heard.
This is everyone's plaything, dear child. Why do you say you will eat it?

“Very well. Let it be a toy. Bring it to me. I shall not eat it; I shall play with it. I must have this toy.” Kṛṣṇacandra became still more insistent than before:

Mother, I shall have the moon as my toy.
I shall roll upon the ground this very moment and will not come into your lap.

The women of Vraja now devised a new plan. They filled a spotless vessel with water, and over that vessel his mother invoked the moon:

Again and again Yaśodā explains to her son, “Come, moon, my darling calls you.
He will eat honey, fruit, delicacies, and sweets himself, and he will feed them to you.
He will hold you in his hands and play, and will never set you upon the ground.
I lift this vessel of water in my hands. Come and assume your form within it.”

After repeatedly inviting the moon to come in this way, his mother placed the vessel upon the ground and said in a voice filled with delight:

Take it, Mohana, take the moon.
Lotus-eyed child, I give myself for you. Be attentive and look down a little.
For the sake of this moon, my beautiful son, you have been so stubborn.
Look, Kanhaiyā, that very maker of nectar lies within the vessel.
I have brought it near from the sky and kept it safely in a fold of water.
Draw the moon out with your own hands and do with it whatever you please.
A bird was sent to seize it and bring it from the celestial sphere.
Sūradāsa says: why is my darling so obstinate over so small a matter?

This time Kṛṣṇacandra's wish seemed fulfilled. Filled with joy at seeing the moon clearly in the water, he climbed down from his mother's lap and thrust both lotus hands into the vessel to catch it. The shimmering reflection vanished. At that very moment, inspired by Yogamāyā, a white bank of cloud covered the moon in the sky. Kṛṣṇacandra looked upward, but the moon was gone from there too. “Mother, where did the moon go?” he asked. “My darling, you tried to catch it in your hands, so it grew frightened of you and fled to Pātāla.” Filled with wonder, Kṛṣṇa urgently asked, “What is Pātāla?” At last his mother found a way to distract him. “My blue jewel, there is a beautiful story about Pātāla. Come, I shall tell it to you.” Embracing him to her heart, Nanda's queen set out for the bedchamber.

The women of Vraja had said that they came to keep the Kojāgarī vigil, so they went to Nanda's temple of Nārāyaṇa. They did indeed remain awake there, but Kṛṣṇacandra pervaded their eyes, minds, and lives. They forgot to utter Nārāyaṇa's name and instead told one another the condition of their hearts. One beautiful cowherd woman described her state:

I saw Yaśodā's little son playing in the courtyard, dear friend.
In that instant my life was overturned, and my body and mind turned dark like him.
I brought that sight within and stored it in my heart, closing the doors of my eyelids.
Yet, friend, I became bewildered: light spread throughout every direction within my heart.
If Mount Sumeru were weighed against a guñjā seed, that sight would still be far heavier.
As a drop disappears into the ocean, so have my virtues and knowledge disappeared.
Am I within him, or is he within me? I can no longer keep awareness of my body.
Is the seed within the tree, or the tree within the seed? The two are one and not distinct.
Across water, land, sky, forest, and home, as far as I extend my sight,
there before my eyes, everywhere, Nanda's darling dances.