Mother Yashoda's Worry over the Cowherd Women's Complaints and Her Irritation with the Complainant

Mother Yashoda's Worry over the Cowherd Women's Complaints and Her Irritation with the Complainant

Seeing her Nilamani scattering water from the ripples very close to the flowing current of the daughter of Kalinda, Queen Yashoda's heart began to pound. She flung the vessel in her hand to the ground, ran forward, and caught Shri Krishnachandra from behind. The restless waves began touching the queen of Vraja's feet. She thought, "Oh! Had I been delayed even a moment, and had Nilamani taken even one more step, the waves would have swept him away. I would have lost everything..." With anxious eyes she first looked toward the high, surging waves of Shri Yamunaji, daughter of the sun. Striking the bank again and again, they changed direction with great force at every moment. Then she looked at the tiny cowherd children standing on that very bank.

The cowherd children were making little bowls from many kinds of leaves and setting them afloat in the Yamuna's current. This was the game they had been playing before Mother arrived. They competed to see how many bowls each cowherd friend could launch from a distance of ten cubits from Shri Krishnachandra and how many of the drifting leaf cups he could catch. As soon as the cups left the boys' hands, they danced upon the waves and were carried away. The current swept some into deep water, while others moved as though brushing the shore. Shri Krishnachandra caught some by extending his hands, while the currents carried others away. Whenever a leaf cup reached his hand, he looked toward the bank in victorious delight and his friends raised a joyful clamor. But whenever he failed to catch one, the children clapped. Such was their game, and Mother arrived and interrupted it. The cowherd boys were a little frightened at the sight of her, but Shri Krishnachandra, brimming with excitement, proclaimed his victory to Maiya: "Look how many leaf cups I have drawn from the water!" At first somewhat angry and then full of affection, Mother repeatedly instructed Shri Krishnachandra and the other boys. She warned them all never again to enter the water or play such a game and frightened them by explaining that they might drown. But having done so, she herself became immersed in worry: "What remedy can I devise now?"

Shri Krishnachandra had begun creating so much mischief in the cowherd women's homes that one gopi or another was always present in Nanda's house to complain. The queen of Vraja knew very well that the complaint was only a pretext and that the woman had actually come to see her Nilamani. The king of Vraja had learned this too, for one day an elderly gopi began complaining to the queen in his very presence:

O mother, you are exceedingly miserly, more so than a village headman's wife! Though you have been given milk and curd of many kinds, you keep them hidden from your son. You do not have many children, only one prince, Kanhai. Yet he wanders from house to house, stealing and eating butter. In your old age, through the fulfillment of your merits, you have gained this immense treasure. Why be so calculating even about his food and drink?

Hearing this, a shadow of shame fell across the king of Vraja's face. But Queen Yashoda laughed and explained the whole secret to him:

"Nanda, do not heed the words of this clever woman," Yashoda explained. Surdas says that she has come on the pretext of Shyama's stealing merely to behold him.

Yet whenever a young woman arrived filled with great anger and said, "Look, Queen of Nanda! Your son went to my house and made a river of fresh butter flow. When I tried to catch him, he broke my bangles and tore my sari to pieces. See for yourself what a wretched state he has left me in," Yashoda's heart, full of maternal love, began to pound. She would think, "Who knows, perhaps my son's actions have truly distressed her so much. What proof is there that the complaint is merely a pretext? What if she curses Nilamani?" Frightened in this way, the queen of Vraja would begin placating the young cowherd woman, give her little bowls filled with butter, and find rest only after somehow pleasing her. Once the woman had left, Yashoda would laugh, clasp Nilamani to her neck, and question him:

I offer myself to you, my child! Why, dear one, do you go to others' homes and repeatedly steal and eat curd and butter? They catch you with their own hands, empty the pots, and come and go on the pretext of complaints. Fearing their curses, Mother Yashoda placates them and gives them vessel after vessel full. They bring laps full of broken bangles and display torn garments upon their bodies. Surdas says that the mother of his Lord embraces him to her heart and laughingly asks what happened.

Hearing his mother's words, Shri Krishnachandra would laugh and say such things in a nectar-filled voice that the ocean of Mother's affection surged. Swept away in it, she even forgot which gopi had just come and what she had said. This seemed to give Nilamani fresh inspiration. In truth, a new color appeared each day upon Shri Krishnachandra's playful actions. The cowherd women too devised ever-new language for their complaints and came to Nanda's house to portray Shri Krishnachandra's unrestrained behavior so vividly that, although the queen of Vraja knew everything, she began to feel confused. She perceived great agitation in the hearts of those women who loved Shri Krishnachandra more than millions upon millions of their own lives. Again and again she instructed Nilamani:

My darling, do not go anywhere. Listen, dear Gopala, for your sake alone I have kept six kinds of delicious foods in filled vessels. Why go to others and resort to so many schemes? There too are only milk, curd, ghee, and butter. They show no consideration and speak bitter words. I grieve as I endure the utterly shameless things they say. These brazen cowherd women of Vraja, sellers in the marketplace, feel no hesitation in abusing me even while I quarrel with them. How long can I bear this anger? I have grown thin from their words. Surdas says that on this pretext they long to see Shyama's face.

But Nilamani would not listen to a word. Every day he returned after performing some new act at one cowherd woman's home or another. Matters went so far that today one cowherd woman came in great anger and said even this to the queen of Vraja:

Take back your own village, Queen of Nanda! You are the daughter of a great man, yet you have taught your son excellent manners indeed. He enters my house with a crowd of friends. If he ate it himself, I might endure it, but what virtues shall I recount from when I went forward to catch him? They ran away and disappeared somewhere. When I returned home and lay down, he slowly crept up behind me, seized my braid, and tied it to the bed.

This was why the queen of Vraja had today imposed a strict restriction upon Shri Krishnachandra: apart from the garden, the nearby grove, and the bank of the Yamuna, he could go nowhere else. Maiya had fixed his boundaries and stationed guards. Laughingly accepting his mother's discipline, Shri Krishnachandra went with his friends to the Yamuna's bank and began playing at setting leaf cups afloat. As he played, he entered the water. By good fortune Mother saw him, ran forward, and brought him out. Thus Yashoda was now reflecting upon this very event and seeking a remedy. Again and again her heart trembled at the thought of the terrible consequence her restriction upon Nilamani had nearly produced.

Maiya reflected, "I obstructed his free play, and the result was that I nearly lost everything. Only a single moment stood between me and losing my Nilamani in the Yamuna's waves! Ah, I shall never say anything to him again. But what arrangement can I make for these gopis? He simply will not be content without visiting their homes." Caught in this perplexity, the queen of Vraja held Shri Krishnachandra's hand and returned to the courtyard. She ordered him to play in the yard before her eyes, then began thinking very gravely: "Why does Nilamani truly go to the cowherd women's houses even after I forbid him so much? Are the curd, fresh butter, and other things in their homes more delicious than those in mine? Here, only after hundreds of entreaties can I place a little fresh butter in his mouth. Who knows how much coaxing it takes before he puts even a trace of curd upon his lips, and how many temptations make him drink milk merely for form's sake. Yet in the cowherd women's absence he steals and eats fresh butter, milk, and curd from their homes. Narayana, Lord and chosen deity of my heart, why have you given my Nilamani such a disposition? Deva, Nilamani belongs to you, does he not? Why has he become like this, Lord?" Today the queen of Vraja began to feel a certain sorrow.

If only Shri Krishna's mother could have imagined that one day, in Vaikuntha, this very Nilamani of hers, in the form of Narayana, had instructed the exhausted, weary, frightened Durvasa and proclaimed:

O brahmana, I am wholly subject to my devotees and am as if not independent. The holy devotees have captured my heart, for I love those who love my devotees. Without my saintly devotees I do not desire even my own self, nor my eternal consort Shri, for I am their supreme destination. They have abandoned spouse, home, children, relatives, life, wealth, this world, and the next, and have taken refuge in me. How could I ever wish to forsake them? Those holy ones, equal in vision, have bound their hearts to me and bring me under their control through devotion, just as faithful wives win their virtuous husbands. Fulfilled by serving me, they do not desire even the four liberations beginning with residence in my realm when these are offered through such service. How, then, could they desire anything else that time destroys? The holy devotees are my heart, and I am the heart of the holy devotees. They know nothing apart from me, and I know not the slightest thing apart from them.

"O revered brahmana! Although I am completely independent in every respect, I am wholly subject to my devotees; before them I possess no independence. Simple-hearted devotees, empty even of the shadow of deceit, have forever taken possession of my heart. They alone are the objects of my love, and I alone am the object of theirs. I am their sole support. Without those devotees of saintly nature I do not desire even myself, and without them I do not desire Rama, my eternal companion. They have renounced spouse, children, home, elders, life, wealth, this world, the next world, and everything else, and have taken refuge in me alone. How could I resolve to abandon them? Their hearts are bound only to me. With equal vision everywhere, they behold me alone. Just as a faithful wife brings her virtuous husband under her control through fidelity, they bring me under their control through pure love. Pure service to me is the supreme aim of their lives, and in attaining my service they experience perfection. The four kinds of liberation appear before them as fruits of serving me, yet they have no desire for them. When they are so indifferent even to these, what need be said of things that perish in time? Those saintly devotees are my heart, and I am the heart of those saintly devotees. They know nothing apart from me, and I know nothing apart from them."

Had Queen Yashoda known this nature of her Nilamani and also understood the condition of the cowherd women's hearts, she would have known the secret of why her Nilamani had become this way. Neither Shri Krishnachandra's incomparable, unsurpassed majesty nor his matchless subjection to love ever arose upon the field of the mistress of Vrajendra's house, and she could not accurately know the inner feelings of the young women of Vraja who came to complain. As for the condition of the cowherd women, whether elderly or young, Shri Krishnachandra alone filled the minds and lives of them all. Most of the time they remained as though forgetful of themselves. Their husbands stood before them, but they had no awareness of them. Instead they saw Shri Krishnachandra approaching while eating fresh butter. Their sons asked them for food, but they experienced Yashoda's son as having come to beg fresh butter from them. They perceived images of Shri Krishnachandra inscribed everywhere upon houses made of emerald, golden roofs, coral pillars, crystal column-rings, roof-crests of vaidurya, mansions fashioned from great blue sapphires, and doors made of rubies. Elders came before them, but they felt that Shri Krishnachandra was beckoning to them with his tender hand. Their eyes held no form other than Shri Krishna's, and no sound entered their ears except his nectar-flowing words. Whatever touched them, their skin experienced as Shri Krishna's touch, and in their very life-breath they found only the fragrance of Shri Krishnachandra's sacred limbs. They had no memory of when they themselves had eaten. When this absorption grew exceedingly deep, they became almost completely deranged. Even when it relaxed, their condition remained extraordinary. Sleep had nearly vanished for them all.

At midnight they rise from their beds. One of them churns curd and arranges beautiful, delicious fresh butter. Sometimes she goes outside to wait. Sometimes she hides in the inner room and watches for his arrival. "He came yesterday, or he came two days ago. He may come today as well." With this hope she opens the door of the butter storeroom in advance. When Shri Krishnachandra has not come even a full watch into the day, she herself scatters the freshly churned butter upon the ground. What use is there in preserving fresh butter that Shri Krishnachandra has not accepted? Another young woman takes out her loveliest sari, puts on her finest bangles, and with restless life-breath waits for Vrajendra's son. "Yesterday Shri Krishnachandra came to the neighboring house. When the cowherd woman tried to catch him, he broke her bangles and tore her garment to pieces. Who knows, perhaps he will come to my home today. O Ordainer, will such merit ever arise for me too?" But when noon arrives and Shri Krishnachandra has not come, she herself smashes those finest bangles against a stone and throws them into the nearby lake. She cuts the costly garment into pieces two finger-widths long and casts them upon a heap of ashes. She puts on the same old bangles and old sari as before. Two drops of tears fall from her eyes.

Thus there are countless beautiful cowherd women, each with countless nectarean desires. Every gopi offers her all, or rather, forgets everything other than Shri Krishna, erases even the memory of the desire she formed only a moment before, and becomes absorbed in him. Even when external awareness returns, only the wish for Shri Krishna's happiness arises within her heart made wholly of Shri Krishna. Could it ever be possible for Shri Krishnachandra not to remain subject to the beautiful women of Vrajapura, who are such dense embodiments of incomparable love? Could he bear to leave unfulfilled these cowherd women's desires steeped in loving rasa, their aspirations consisting solely of the wish for Shri Krishna's happiness? Could he rest without setting aside his complete independence and offering them his all? No, that is impossible. But the queen of Vraja does not know this incomparable nature by which her Nilamani is subject to love, nor the indescribable condition of the cowherd women. Maiya, herself a dense embodiment of maternal rasa, forever plunges and rises in the bottomless depths of the ocean of rasa and remains continually bewildered. How could she ever know it? She knows Nilamani only as the son born from her womb, and she believes the cowherd women to be inwardly just as they appear outwardly. Therefore she worries, "Why has my Nilamani become so very mischievous? Why has he become the object of the women of Vrajapura's anger?"

Be that as it may, the shadow of Mother's worry appeared within Shri Krishnachandra's restless eyes. Playing in the courtyard, Shri Krishnachandra abandoned his game and came to Mother. Taking hold of her chin, he asked, "Maiya, what are you thinking?" Then he put his arms around her neck and began swinging from her. In the meantime, no one knew when Yogamaya, expert at making the impossible happen, had used her brush to wipe away the spot of worry inscribed upon Mother's heart. She now felt, "Oh, my Nilamani is so simple, so innocent, and so very little, while the young women of Vraja weave such nets of words! How many fanciful tales they devise about him. The next time they come, I shall scold them thoroughly."

Mother bathed Nilamani in her love, imprinted hundreds of thousands of kisses upon his shapely pair of cheeks, and gave him permission to play without restraint. She did, however, strictly forbid him from going to the bank of the Kalindi or to the lake. Like a young bird released from its cage, Nilamani ran toward the streets of the settlement.

The very next day, scarcely had dawn reddened when a young woman arrived with a complaint. She had come many times before, but on this occasion Mother, filled with anger, began rebuking her in return. Yashoda had been selecting fully blossomed malati flowers to adorn her Nilamani. Setting that task aside, she began to scold the woman:

The cowherd woman loudly lays blame upon Kanha. "For the sake of this little curd and butter, when did he ever go toward your home? Intoxicated by wealth and youth, you rise and come here every morning. My dear prince knows nothing, while you are a young maiden. At whom do you roam casting your raised eyes? Who in Vraja cares a straw for you?" Surdas says that Yashoda spoke in anger: "He is the treasure of my life."