Grace Bestowed upon the Fruit Seller

The fruit seller lowered from her head a basket filled with many kinds of fruit, including bananas, jujubes, pīlū berries, and oranges. She set it upon the ground and rested there in the cool shade of a sacred fig tree. Her body was old and the basket heavy, and the elderly woman had become utterly exhausted. Even in the chill of Hemanta, beads of perspiration glistened upon her forehead. Gathering her scattered silver-white hair, she tied it in a knot and wiped away the sweat with the edge of her torn veil. Directly before the place where she sat was the threshing ground of the lord of Vraja adjoining his palace. Heaps of newly harvested grain stood there, and the fruit seller gazed toward those countless, immense mounds.

It is already midday. The fruit seller left her home at daybreak, when dewdrops still lay scattered everywhere. Since then she has wandered through the streets of Vraja calling, "Fruit! Come and buy fruit!" Again and again she went to the doors of the rows of lofty jeweled mansions lining both sides of the royal road and tried to attract the attention of the cowherd children. But such was providence's play that she saw not one customer today. No child answered her call, no noble woman of Vraja came to bargain for fruit, and not even a playful cowherd boy made a game of haggling with her. She had yet to make her first sale.

Despair spread across the fruit seller's face. She wondered, "Will the whole day end like this? Whose face did I see when I awoke?" Just then the leaves of the sacred fig began to flutter, as if signaling: "No, no, fruit seller, do not despair. Today is the supremely holy, radiant, and most blessed dawn of your life's good fortune. He before whom the beings of infinite universes extend their hands for the fruits they seek, He who has freely bestowed fruits upon all since beginningless time, will extend His hands before you to receive fruit. Today you will give fruit to the giver of all worlds' fruits.

"Since beginningless time you have wandered ceaselessly with the burden of karmic fruits upon your head. Until today, no one has taken your fruits and freed you of that load. But today you will meet an extraordinary customer who will take all your fruit and pay an unexpected, immeasurable price. Today you will be forever delivered from bearing this beginningless burden of fruit and will attain supreme fulfillment." Be that as it may.

Looking toward the immense quantity of grain in the threshing ground, the old woman again thought, "Is not even one grain of it destined for me today?" At that very moment, as if in answer and as though signaling, "Woman, not one grain. Today the master of all this goddess of grain is Himself entering your destiny," Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra, seated in the courtyard near the heaps, destroyed the little houses of grain He had just made and began scattering handfuls of rice in every direction. Before the old woman had even reached the shade of the sacred fig, He had already slipped through the north gate of Nanda's residence, approached the heaps of grain, and begun to play there. He had come alone, though maidservants appointed by the queen of Vraja were surely concealed at a distance, watching His supremely charming infant play.

The fruit seller again called in the enticing tone long familiar to her: "Fruit! Come and buy fruit!" Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra heard the call. Ceasing to scatter the grain, He turned His restless eyes toward the direction from which it had come.

Again the same call sounded: "Come, someone, buy fruit!" This time He quickly leaped down from the mound of grain and ran in that direction, thinking, "What is fruit? Let Me go and get some, and then I shall see." Waiting for an answer, the fruit seller continued looking toward Nanda's residence. Suddenly she saw a child standing at the small gate in the garden wall. He had the hue of a fresh rain cloud, and a cascade of beauty flowed from every limb:

Loose curls lay scattered upon His face, naturally lovely without adornment. Seeing the lotus face beneath the moon, bees seemed to have come to offer their aid.

His moist eyes and graceful nose created supreme beauty. A pair of wagtails seemed to bow before the forest set between them.

His crimson lips and the gleam of His teeth admit only the faintest comparison. They seemed like pearls placed in a blue casket and soaked in vermilion.

Who can describe the beauty of charming child Mukunda? A dot of collyrium shone above His brow, and even Sūrdās could not sing it fully.

At the sight of His beauty, the fruit seller's eyes ceased to blink. For several moments she forgot everything. When outward awareness returned, she found her heart beating violently while all her other limbs seemed devoid of consciousness and utterly rigid. And the child? He still stood exactly as before at the gate, raising His right arm and moving His fingers to signal that she should wait. In her Pulinda village, the old woman had heard descriptions of the unequaled beauty of the lord of Vraja's son, but had never seen Him. This was her first sight, yet the moment she beheld Him she knew He was Nanda's son. She gazed upon Him with unsated eyes. Her life trembled and tears filled her eyes. She wished to call, "Nanda's darling, come here!" But her throat was completely choked and her power of speech vanished. Helpless, overwhelmed, and agitated, she remained there like a painted figure.

Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra crossed the gate and walked toward her, His anklets sounding run-jhun, run-jhun. Worried that someone might hear the jingling and that the maids appointed by Mother might discover He had gone outside, He swept His restless eyes in every direction. Soon He crossed the veranda and reached the fruit seller. Seeing Him approach, the hairs of her body stood erect, and her heart, melted by bliss, flowed out as tears through her eyes. Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra wondered in astonishment, "Why has she begun to cry?"

It was as though some inconceivable power suddenly restrained for a few moments the swelling current of her emotion for a particular purpose. The fruit seller recovered a little composure and her power of speech awakened, though tears continued to surge within. In a tear-filled voice she asked, "Will You take fruit?" Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra merely nodded His head, crowned by a mass of thick, dark, curling hair. That movement churned the fruit seller's heart once again. Seeing this incomparable infant gesture, she became restless and almost mad, unable to contain her feelings. She lifted the basket onto her head and stood, without knowing what she meant to do. Streams of tears flowed as she remained silent, gazing at Śrī Kṛṣṇa with a strange expression and occasionally making an indistinct gesture. Who could know what she wished to say?

The fruit seller's strange bearing made Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra, intoxicated by the rasa of infant play, suspect that she might be taking the fruit away. Seeing the yellow bananas and jujubes, juicy pīlū berries, and red oranges arranged in the basket, He now understood what fruit was, and His desire for it grew even more intense. If she left, how would He get any? He therefore cried impatiently, "Woman! I want fruit! Fruit!"

The fruit seller heard Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra's exquisitely sweet voice, which put the vīṇā to shame, and felt as if nectar had been poured into her ears and a supremely divine stream of honey released into her life. The river of emotion flowing within her merged with that current of sweetness. This was no ordinary stream, but one of unfathomable depth. It absorbed her river of feeling and all its restless waves. Every surge and whirlpool that had arisen within her dissolved into the stream of honeyed nectar flowing from Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra's lotus mouth and became one with it. The fruit seller returned to outward composure. As though awakening from samādhi, she lowered the basket from her head and placed it near Him. Still the words echoed in her ears: "Woman, I want fruit."

Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra again spoke in that vīṇā-surpassing voice: "Woman! Do you not hear Me? Give Me fruit. I want fruit." This time His līlā potency filled the fruit seller with the power to answer. "Son of Nanda, You want fruit? Very well. Take it. I shall certainly give You fruit. But tell me, what will You give me as its price?" Her throat choked again as she spoke. Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra looked at her in wonder, for He did not understand what a price was. Oh, how enchanting is this infant absorption, this intoxication with the rasa of childhood, in Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra, the Supreme Person and Absolute Brahman whom the Upaniṣad calls "the all-knowing knower of all."

With great impatience He asked, "Price? What is a price? I do not know. Just give Me the fruit." She quickly replied, "Nanda's darling, when someone takes a thing, he must give something in return. What is given for the thing received is called its price." Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra immediately exclaimed, "Woman, how foolish you are! Every day My mother gives Me many sweets, fresh butter, and all kinds of toys. The cowherd women also give Me many things. But I never give them anything in return, and they never ask." Having said this, He looked at her hopefully. Tears brimmed in her eyes. Gathering all her composure, she tried once more to speak, but no strength remained. The barrier around her heart broke and an unchecked stream of tears drenched her cheeks and breast.

Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra, who delighted in infant play, once more fell into thought and searched for the reason behind her unchecked tears. He finally concluded that she must be crying for the price. The moment this thought arose, He ran to the threshing ground and reached the nearby heap of grain. Joining His fingers into cupped hands, He filled them with rice and hurried back toward the fruit seller at the same speed. His eyes remained fixed upon her as He ran with all His bodily strength.

Before He crossed the gate, His cupped hands loosened in the restlessness of childhood. His tiny joined fingers relaxed, several openings appeared, and the rice gradually began to fall. By the time He crossed the veranda and reached the woman, only four or five grains remained. When He opened His hands above her basket, only one grain fell, for only one was left. Nanda's son did not know this. He believed He had brought a full double handful and eagerly declared, "Woman, look! I have brought the price of your fruit. Take this rice and give Me fruit now. Give Me all of it. I shall take everything."

The fruit seller, meanwhile, entered a strange condition. When Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra went inside for grain and disappeared from view, her life seemed to depart. "Alas! Nanda's son has gone away without taking fruit. Unfortunate as I am, I could not give Him any." The pain set her body, mind, and life ablaze at once. Had He delayed one moment longer, her anguished life would have flown from her worn body, scorched by grief. But Śrī Kṛṣṇa immediately reappeared, and at the sight of Him her departing life returned. The fruit seller truly received new life.

This time she became suddenly grave. Her anguished life had reached the ultimate state, touched its final boundary, and returned. The force of her emotion was therefore nearly calm, and she even lost the memory of the pain she had just suffered. Quickly taking the single grain that had fallen from Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra's now empty hands, she held it before Him and said faintly, "Nanda's darling, is one grain of rice the price for all my fruit?"

Śrī Kṛṣṇa now understood that the rice had fallen from His hands somewhere along the way. Turning His curved eyes behind Him, He saw that it had formed a line upon the ground. Shadows of hope and despair, eagerness and dejection, touched His lotus face at once. Gathering His courage, He said, "Look, fruit seller, I truly brought rice. I brought a whole handful, but it fell while I was running. If I go back for more, Mother may see Me. She will probably come at any moment. So give Me fruit today and go home. Come again another day, and I shall certainly pay you then." He looked at her hopefully.

Hearing His sweet words, filled with utter innocence, the fruit seller's eyes again filled and her throat choked. "Nanda's darling, as the fruit of my deeds the ordainer made me a caṇḍāla woman. I have no right, as the cowherd women do, to have You enter my lap and call me Mother. In this impure body I have no hope of attaining that right, perhaps beyond this life..." She broke off and began to sob. Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra did not fully understand. How could He know what a caṇḍāla woman was or what a right might be? But He understood that she would surely be pleased if He entered her lap and called her Mother. After thinking, He said at once, "Very well. Woman, are you listening? Tell Me, if I climb into your lap and call you Mother, will you give Me fruit without taking any price?"

The fruit seller's head moved involuntarily in assent. She did not knowingly nod. Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra looked once in every direction, raised His arms, sprang into her lap, touched her chin, and said, "Mother, give Me fruit now." Oh! Countless sovereign yogīs and sages labor tirelessly over birth after birth yet cannot touch Him even in meditation. The revealed scriptures grow weary searching for Him and cannot find His limit. That very Bhagavān, the Supreme Person Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra, climbed into the lap of a caṇḍāla woman devoid of every spiritual practice, called her Mother, and asked for fruit. O boundless ocean of compassion, glory to the majesty of Your grace! All glory!

The fruit seller dissolved into an unbroken samādhi of supreme bliss lasting through endless time. From the outward perspective, the gods in the sky surely saw only these few further actions performed by her hands, feet, and mouth. Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra immediately climbed down from her lap and stood before her with His hands cupped, just as they had been when all the grain fell. With both hands the fruit seller began filling them. Every fruit in her basket fit within His tiny palms. Until then, the grain that had fallen from His empty hands remained pressed between her fingers. Now it dropped into the basket and, the instant it fell, became a priceless jewel. In the next moment the entire basket filled with many kinds of precious gems:

The fruit seller filled both His hands, from which the grain had fallen, with fruit, and her fruit basket became filled with jewels.

The fruit seller rose, placed the jewel-filled basket upon her head, and gestured to Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra with her hands. He replied, "No, no, do not worry. Just because the grain fell from My hands, will the fruit fall too? I shall eat these fruits." The old woman set off like one intoxicated. At the bank of a lake she lowered the basket, felt the jewels with her hands while keeping her eyes closed, then cast the basket and jewels into the unfathomable water and entered a nearby dense forest. After this, no one in Vraja or the Pulinda settlement ever saw the fruit seller again.

Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra carried the fruit toward the threshing ground. The attendants appointed by the queen of Vraja had watched the entire pastime. When He entered the palace through the north gate, His anklets sounding run-jhun, run-jhun, the maids could no longer restrain their laughter and burst out giggling. Nanda's son looked at them in surprise. At that moment Queen Yaśodā arrived. Seeing her son approaching with hands full of fruit, she stopped. When He came near, Mother lifted her Nīlamaṇi into her lap, kissed His face, and asked:

My son, where did You obtain all these fruits?

"My darling, where did You find so many fruits?" Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra answered innocently in a slightly indistinct voice:

A certain blessed woman, her basket laden with gathered fruit, took grain as the price, became very affectionate toward Me, and gave them to Me.

"Mother, a fruit seller came with a basket laden with fruit. Truly, Mother, she was very kind. Blessed is she. She began to love Me greatly and gave Me all these fruits in exchange for grain." Laughing, the maids said to the queen of Vraja, "Queen Nanda, do not touch Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra! He climbed into a caṇḍāla woman's lap and called her Mother." Mother replied, "May the ordainer grant that my Nīlamaṇi call every woman in the world Mother and, receiving their unfailing blessings, live forever!" As she spoke, two tears slipped from the corners of her eyes and fell upon Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra's head.

Just then His noisy circle of friends arrived. Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra asked Mother to distribute the fruit. Immersed in bliss, she herself prepared it with her soft, beautiful hands. Those hands trembled under the force of joy as she distributed the fruit. She was astonished that although she had been giving it out for so long, the small quantity did not come to an end:

Mother distributed them with both hands, which trembled with boundless joy, yet she never reached their end.

For many days afterward, Mother remained deeply amazed that she could not reach the end of the fruit. Everyone who tasted it was left astonished and could not forget its exceedingly sweet, strange, and wondrous flavor:

For several days she remained smiling in wonder, while those who had tasted the fruit, filled with amazement, could not forget it.

That day, while Queen Nanda seated Nīlamaṇi in the midst of His cowherd friends and distributed fruit among them, a new bride came to Nanda's residence at her mother-in-law's command to borrow a churning rod. Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra was absorbed with His friends in relishing the fruit seller's fruit and did not so much as glance toward the beautiful woman of Vraja. But she saw Him, and at once lost herself. Taking the churning rod, she returned home like a machine, yet in that brief time the color of her entire body had changed. Her relatives and family members became anxious at the bride's sudden transformation, but no one knew its true cause. She did not speak and remained silent as though mute. Her condition continued for a week. Now, after so many days, while bathing on the bank of the Yamunā she revealed the secret of her strange transformation to a friend of her own age:

Friend, I beheld a wondrous sight in the courtyard of Nanda and his queen. I had gone to ask for a churning rod, but upon seeing Him I lost all sense of myself.

In His infant state He gazed upon His mother's lotus face and spoke a little to her. When He smiled, His tiny teeth appeared like pearls gleaming from behind the shelter of petals.

A gorocanā mark adorned His beautiful brow, joined by a dot of collyrium. It seemed like a young bee sleeping, not yet awakened, after drinking nectar to its delight.

Swaying earrings flashed upon His cheeks like reflections in a mirror. I kept gazing and pondering that lovely beauty, but nowhere could I find its limit.

The playful movement of His lovely pupils stole away the cleverness of my heart. It seemed that Love held a bow in his hand and, raising those brows, showered arrows.

I was like the weary crow from the ship upon the ocean that never reached a shore. I do not know in which limb my mind became submerged. I searched and searched, but could not find it.

How far can I devise words to describe that beauty? As I gazed, the movement of my understanding failed. Sūrdās says: for a single hair of dark Śyāma, I would offer my life in adoration.