Brahmā Returns and Sees the Cowherd Boys and Calves in Divine Four-Armed Forms

The measure of time in this world held no significance for four-faced Brahmā, creator of the universe. Satya, Tretā, Dvāpara, and Kali together form one cycle of four ages.* One thousand such cycles end by the evening of one of Brahmā's days, and his night lasts for another thousand cycles. When two thousand cycles of the four ages pass in a single day and night for him, what value could the days, months, and years of this world possess?

According to Brahmā's own measure of time, his journey took only a single truṭi.† After moving Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra's cowherd friends and calves elsewhere, he went to Satyaloka and returned to the sky above Vṛndāvana within that interval. Yet that single truṭi in his reckoning amounted to one full year by human time. Throughout that year, Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra's uninterrupted self-enjoyment continued. Today the year was complete. Exactly one year earlier, on this very day, Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra had performed His meal līlā upon the riverbank, and the boys and calves had been abducted. On that day Balarāma had not gone with His younger brother to tend the calves. Now, by the inspiration of the inconceivable great power of līlā, the day of Balarāma's birth constellation had again arrived, so He was kept at home for the scripturally prescribed observances.

Once again Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra alone entered the forest surrounded by the boys and calves who were forms of His own self, and He roamed freely in a distant woodland. Brahmā saw Him in precisely that state. Before receiving this vision, however, the creator had undergone another extraordinary experience within his own realm. Thrown into confusion by it, he had immediately raced back.

Kali-yuga lasts 432,000 years. Dvāpara-yuga is twice the length of Kali-yuga, Tretā-yuga three times its length, and Satya-yuga four times its length. Thus one cycle of the four ages lasts 4,320,000 years.

† A truṭi is a measure of time equal to one 182,250,000th part of a day.

The event was extraordinary. After placing the calves and boys in their appointed location, lotus-born Brahmā arrived at the great gate of his residence in Brahmaloka. Far from welcoming him, the gatekeeper blocked the entrance with angry eyes and demanded his identity. Brahmā, whose vehicle was the swan, sank into astonishment as though dreaming. With eyes opened wide, he tried to satisfy the gatekeepers, but they proudly replied in substance, "Sir, whoever you may be, you are certainly not our master, the ruler of Satyaloka. Our lord is seated upon his throne, surrounded by the deities who preside over the Vedas. Sanaka and his brothers, the divine sage Nārada, and others have also arrived, and our master is offering them the nectar of Śrī Kṛṣṇa's narrations. We do not know who you are, imitating the form of our lord."

The lotus-born one saw clearly that the gatekeepers' speech possessed force and complete conviction. An invincible power surrounded them, and to cross them and enter his inner residence would be sheer recklessness. Honoring them, Brahmā requested that they bring him before the lord of Satyaloka, and the gatekeepers admitted him to the assembly courtyard.

Lotus-born Brahmā stared with all eight eyes. "A four-faced Brahmā truly sits upon my own throne. Crimson radiance pours from his limbs. A brilliant splendor streams from his red-hued body, as though the light of millions upon millions of risen suns illuminated every particle of Satyaloka. The sound of the Vedas also resounds from him in the high, low, and circumflex accents." Dumbfounded, Brahmā stood motionless. He heard the gatekeepers humbly informing their master about him. Then came the ruler's grave command in a voice deep as a cloud: "Gatekeepers, no one other than me possesses independent right to Brahmā's throne. Remove this person beyond the boundary of Satyaloka." Before Brahmā could understand what was happening, his own servants had placed him outside Brahmaloka.

Brahmā's heart began pounding, not from distress at this humiliation, but from remembering his offense against Śrī Kṛṣṇa's devotees. He quickly understood who the new creator seated upon his throne must be. Who besides Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra, Lord of all universes, possessed such power? Brahmā had bewildered the Lord's own devotees, the cowherd boys and calves, with illusion and separated them from Him, and then had swelled with pride over the deed. What wonder was there if this offense to the devotees deprived him of the right to Brahmā's throne?

His repentance knew no limit. Let the office of Brahmā be lost. He had no need of it. But he became distraught with fear that the moonlight of Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra's toenails might disappear from his heart and that the priceless treasure of remembrance of Śrī Kṛṣṇa's feet might be taken away. He immediately descended into the sky above Vṛndāvana:

Brahmā too was humiliated by his own attendants through Śauri, who had assumed a four-faced form and occupied his throne. He therefore turned back.

By Brahmā's own measure of time, only a single truṭi had intervened before he saw Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra again. Yet what he saw left him speechless. The same free play continued exactly as before, unchanged in every respect. All the cowherd boys, the companions of the līlā, remained just as they had been, and the countless host of calves was entirely the same. The child-pastime enjoyer's gestures and moods were unchanged. His play had not paused even for a moment. Everything had continued in its prescribed sequence, uninterrupted, exactly as before:

Returning after what was only a truṭi by his own measure of time, self-born Brahmā saw Hari playing with the entire company just as before, although a full year had passed.

One year passed in this way, while for the lotus-born Brahmā only a truṭi elapsed. After a year of earthly days, Brahmā returned and was greatly astonished to behold the play.

The same pure calves and boys of Vraja were there, and Nandalāla played upon Yamunā's bank. Brahmā saw all the friends and saw the calves grazing just as before.

Brahmā thought, "How has this happened? Did Lord Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra, the abode of infinite majesty, summon the friends and calves whom I had bewildered with illusion as soon as I left? No, that did not happen. Look there: every cowherd boy and calf from Vraja still lies asleep exactly as before, enchanted by my illusion. Their bewilderment has not ended, and they have not awakened. Yet at the same time, how astonishing! A short distance from here are just as many cowherd boys and calves. No, they are exactly the same ones, unchanged in every detail, and they have been playing with Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra for a full year. These must differ from the boys and calves bewildered by my illusion, for the first group still remains in precisely the same state. Then who are these? Where have they come from?"

As he continued thinking, the lotus-born creator's power of discrimination began to vanish. At one moment he ran to the boys sleeping beneath his illusion; at another he approached Nandanandana Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra, who appeared intoxicated with exuberant play upon Yamunā's bank. Finding exactly the same presence at both places, his astonishment became limitless. Suspecting that some illusion was confusing him, he extended his vision to both locations simultaneously. In the light of his knowledge, he inspected both places at the same moment, but nothing changed. The condition at each location remained exactly as it was.

Surely one of the two groups had to be real and the other an illusory creation, so he tried to determine which was which. Yet he met only utter disappointment. The creator's unerring knowledge failed him. Like a yogī striving for union, he ceased relying upon direct sensory experience and entered samādhi to ascertain the truth. Yet even that mass of supersensory light seemed dissolved beneath a covering of profound darkness. The lamp flame of his eternal knowledge, by whose light he could see even the subtlest events of former cosmic ages, seemed extinguished. He could reach no conclusion. For no one knew how long he continued trying. He took refuge in external knowledge and the knowledge of samādhi until he was exhausted, yet he learned nothing. No illumination came regarding which group was real, which was created by illusion, who were the true companions of Śrī Kṛṣṇa, and who were not. He proved wholly incapable:

Every boy and calf from Gokula still lay upon the bed of my illusion and had not yet risen.

Then where did these others come from? There are exactly as many of them, distinct from those bewildered by my illusion, and they have been playing here with Viṣṇu for an entire year.

Self-born Brahmā meditated upon the difference between the two groups for a long time, but he could not discover in any way which were real and which were not.

"I placed all the boys and calves upon the bed of illusion, yet here I find another group exactly like them, playing together.

Are those real, or are these the true ones?" Thus his heart became agitated and filled with doubt. He moved back and forth, beholding both places, each filled with the delightful boys and calves.

Those there were just like these here. He wondered which group could truly be real.

Grandfather Brahmā had gone to bewilder the Supreme Lord of lords and witness the result of extending his illusion, but he himself became confused. The four-faced creator had failed to consider whether anyone's illusion could affect Him who pervades everything from Brahmā down to a blade of grass, the greatest beings and the smallest microbes, as the inseparable efficient and material cause; who is the support of all and the indwelling witness within all. What effect could a display of illusion have upon Him whom bewilderment can never touch, who is eternally free from delusion, and whose own Māyā continually bewilders every moving and unmoving being in the universe? How ridiculous would it be to throw a wooden rod and a length of rope, each measuring seven spans, into the ocean or sky in order to fathom the ocean's depth or the extent of the heavens. Brahmā's endeavor was just like this.

Brahmā forgot how limited his own power was beside the supremely glorious Lord Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra and attempted to employ his petty illusion against the master of all Māyā. What had to happen then occurred: his illusion became the instrument of his own bewilderment. Darkness produced by fog can cover trees, vines, animals, birds, human beings, insects, moths, and beetles, but it cannot cover the darkness of a night already enveloped in profound gloom or the dense blackness of a moonless night. As soon as it meets a stronger darkness, fog must dissolve its covering power into that darkness and becomes covered by it.

Likewise, the tiny light of a firefly may briefly grant a faint gleam to part of a leaf during a night covered in deepest darkness, but before the brilliantly shining midday sun, its existence becomes utterly insignificant. In the same way, both a small person's petty illusion directed toward the great and his display of petty grandeur prove futile. Indeed, they create bewilderment and impurity only for the one who employs them and become the cause of his own radiance being stolen away. This became wholly true for Brahmā. He went to bewilder the supremely glorious Lord with his illusion and was himself bewildered. He went to display his grandeur before Him and became dumbfounded:

Thus Brahmā tried to bewilder Viṣṇu, who is never bewildered and who bewilders the entire universe. Yet although unborn, Brahmā was himself bewildered by his own illusion.

As fog is obscured by darkness and a firefly's glow by daylight, so the illusory power of a lesser being is destroyed when directed against a greater power and returns upon the one who employs it.

Confused at heart, he stood silent. Great delusion increased within him. His mind had desired to bewilder Bhagavān, who enchants the entire universe. He employed illusion and stole Hari's calves, but he himself fell helplessly under bewilderment.

Through the Lord's Māyā, innumerable universes are formed, each filled with immeasurable creation. Cosmic spheres abide within every pore of His body, yet Brahmā wished to test His power. How could anyone bewilder the Lord who masters Māyā and holds the entire universe in His hands? Kṛṣṇacandra's moonlike face shines with the brilliance of millions upon millions of suns. Brahmā's illusion resembled a firefly, leaving him ashamed and humiliated.

As the night may be filled with immense darkness and then an even darker fog appears, the two darknesses merge into one, and the fog possesses no separate strength. As the light of a thousand fireflies cannot appear distinct in daylight, so every illusion dwells within Hari's Māyā. If a lesser being casts illusion upon a great person, that illusion can never touch him. Instead, it rebounds upon the one who employed it.

Brahmā's visions of wonder did not end with this. Much remained for him to see, and now he began to see it. Suddenly a supremely divine radiance arose within all eight of his eyes. In that transcendent light he beheld every calf and cowherd boy beside Vrajendra's son transformed into a four-armed form, dark as a fresh raincloud and splendid in yellow silk. Each held conch, disc, mace, and lotus; wore a jeweled crown, jeweled earrings, pearl necklaces, and a forest garland; and bore the Śrīvatsa mark upon his chest. Armlets graced their arms, jeweled bracelets and bangles their hands, anklets and rings their feet, girdles their waists, and rings their fingers. Tender fresh garlands of tulasī offered by supremely fortunate devotees adorned every limb from toenails to crown.

A gentle smile like moonlight danced upon each pair of lips, while honey poured from glances cast by the reddish corners of their eyes. Those crimson eyes seemed to embody rajas, continually creating fresh desires for service within the devotees' hearts. Their brilliant laughter seemed to embody sattva, dancing upon their lips and sustaining the devotees' cherished desires.

Nor was this all. Countless Brahmās were present. From Brahmā down to a blade of grass, every moving and unmoving being stood there embodied in the form of its presiding deity. With dance and song, each presented suitable offerings and worshiped those endless four-armed forms. The mystic perfections beginning with aṇimā, the many potencies such as Māyā and Vidyā, and the presiding deities of the twenty-four principles beginning with mahat surrounded them, awaiting service. Time, which agitates primordial nature; inherent disposition, which causes its transformation; latent impressions, which awaken desire; and desire, action, the guṇas, and their presiding deities all worshiped every form of Bhagavān. Before the Lord's power, the existence and greatness of those deities had become insignificant.

Oh, those innumerable forms of Bhagavān! Every one was truth unhindered in past, present, or future; the self-luminous embodiment of knowledge; infinite and unlimited by place, time, or any other boundary; the embodiment of bliss; and one undivided rasa. Even those who see through self-knowledge cannot realize their inconceivable and infinite greatness:

Then, in that very instant and before the eyes of unborn Brahmā, all the calves and their keepers appeared dark as rainclouds and dressed in yellow silk.

They possessed four arms, holding conch, disc, mace, and lotus, and wore crowns, earrings, necklaces, and forest garlands.

They shone with the Śrīvatsa mark, armlets, jeweled ornaments upon their arms, conch-shaped bracelets and bangles upon their hands, anklets, foot ornaments, waist cords, and finger rings.

From feet to head they were completely adorned upon every limb with tender, fresh tulasī garlands offered by devotees possessing abundant merit.

Their smiles were pure as moonlight, and their glances came from reddish eyes. Like rajas and sattva, those glances and smiles created and sustained the desires of their own devotees.

From Brahmā down to the smallest blade of grass, all embodied and disembodied moving and unmoving beings worshiped each form separately with dancing, singing, and countless suitable offerings.

They were surrounded by powers such as the mystic perfections beginning with aṇimā, potencies beginning with Ajā, and the twenty-four principles beginning with mahat.

Time, inherent nature, latent impressions, desire, action, the guṇas, and their embodied presiding deities worshiped them. The greatness of all these beings was destroyed before the forms' own supreme majesty.

Each form was the single, undivided embodiment of truth, knowledge, infinity, and bliss. Their immeasurable greatness remained untouched even by the vision of those who see through the Upaniṣads.

When Brahmā returned to that place, everything had somehow become altogether different. As many boys and calves as stood there, and as many flutes, horns, canes, and leaves as they carried, so many charming four-armed forms he beheld. Their pearl and guñjā garlands, jasmine flowers, anklets, little bells, and lovely bracelets had all assumed divine splendor.

Their bodies were dark as rainclouds, clad in yellow garments, and adorned with forest garlands. Their broad eyes resembled crimson lotus petals. Earrings decorated their handsome cheeks, jeweled crowns rested above curling hair, and the Kaustubha gem shone upon their conch-shaped necks. Their hands bore the conch, disc, and other weapons. Tulasī garlands overflowed with beauty and extended majestically to their feet. A lovely smile shone upon every face like moonlight amid sandalwood paste.

Different universes appeared, and within each one a divine form shone. From Brahmā down through every moving and unmoving being, all assumed embodied forms and worshiped them. The mystic perfections beginning with aṇimā and all manifestations beginning with the cosmic principle mahat stood there. Time, action, the guṇas, and endless other powers served them in embodied form.

At that moment the lotus-born one beheld another wonder with his own eyes. Every calf keeper Brahmā saw instantly displayed an extraordinary form: a four-armed body dark as a raincloud, with incomparable yellow cloth shining at the waist. They held mace, disc, and lotus, and lovely crowns upon their heads gave delight. Moving earrings, necklaces, forest garlands, and the broad and graceful Śrīvatsa mark adorned them. Their conch-shaped necks and armlets were charming, and golden jeweled bracelets graced their hands. Lovely anklets and foot ornaments shone, while girdles at their waists enchanted the three worlds. Beautiful ornaments adorned all ten fingers, captivating every beholder's heart.

Excellent tulasī garlands adorned them from toenails to crown. Devotees who had accumulated heaps of merit through many births had woven them in many ways. Some greatly meritorious soul had brought tender leaves in pure hands and offered them, and the forms wore them with supreme beauty. Thus Brahmā beheld Manamohana in countless manifestations. Their gentle smiles were lovely moonlight, and their crimson glances were filled with the essence of happiness. They fulfilled the desires of their own devotees and held an inexhaustible treasury for sustaining them. It seemed that sattva and rajas, white and red, dwelt within their smiles and eyes. Whoever beheld those auspicious, sidelong-glancing eyes found peace within the heart.

All moving and unmoving beings, beginning with Brahmā, assumed beautiful, cherished bodies and came bearing limitless offerings of many kinds, each dear to the heart. With dancing, singing, and many instruments, every one worshiped each manifestation of the Lord. The perfections beginning with aṇimā, the glorious powers beginning with unborn Māyā, and the twenty-four principles all became embodied abodes of good fortune and served the Lord's lotus feet. Time, which agitates primordial nature, and inherent disposition, which brings about its transformation, gazed upon the Lord's greatness with astonished hearts and served the refuge of His feet.

They were united with truth and knowledge, infinite and without end, all-pervading and radiant in every place. The protector of Vraja was the embodiment of supreme bliss, whose pure and nectarean glory the śrutis sing. Even those for whom the śrutis are as clear as fruit held upon the palm cannot fathom the vastness of His greatness. They too could not reach the shore of His majesty, and Brahmā's heart became profoundly astonished.

Every boy and calf assumed the form of Viṣṇu. Jeweled crowns rested upon their heads, and makara-shaped earrings adorned their ears. The Kaustubha gem and garlands shone upon their chests, with a gentle smile upon their faces. Each had four arms and held four divine weapons. The great mark of Bhṛgu's foot appeared upon every chest, and their yellow garments shone like lightning. Brahmā and the other gods praised them and worshiped their feet with folded hands.

By the self-revealing potency of Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra, son of the cowherd king, Bhagavān Himself and the Supreme Brahman, this entire visible universe of moving and unmoving beings is illumined. The lotus-born Brahmā now beheld the Lord's eternal associates, the cowherd boys and calves, all together at one time in the forms described above:

Thus unborn Brahmā beheld them all at once as manifestations of the Supreme Brahman, by whose radiance this entire universe of moving and unmoving beings shines.

All at once he beheld everything. Every form was Kṛṣṇa, and nothing else remained to be counted. By His reflected radiance the moving and unmoving world shines. That very Lord appeared as the son of Nanda, king of Vraja.

Four-faced Brahmā no longer possessed the power to see anything more. His eyes became completely filled with this spiritual wonder. The sound of supremely divine hymns filled his ears, and his faculty of smell overflowed with an unearthly fragrance. All his senses of knowledge plunged into a flood of unprecedented bliss. His senses of action became motionless from excessive joy, and his mind drowned in the happiness of the vision and lost its own existence. At first the creator's eleven senses became so agitated by this wondrous sight that it seemed someone had violently churned all the powers within them. Immediately afterward, however, they became so utterly still that their entire existence seemed to have dissolved forever.

Before his eyes, the irresistible radiance of those infinite four-armed forms rendered Brahmā, whose vehicle was the swan, lusterless, speechless, and motionless. It seemed as though a child's plaything, a toy doll, had been placed beside the image of a village goddess worshiped with intense love. Before those endless four-armed forms reverently worshiped by all beings from Brahmā down to a blade of grass, the lotus-born creator appeared entirely insignificant. Like a trivial, golden, inert, and unmoving toy, he slumped upon the back of his swan:

Overwhelmed by the immensity of this wonder, his eleven senses stunned into stillness, unborn Brahmā fell silent before their radiance, like a child's doll beside the deity of a village.

Seeing supreme wonder everywhere, his agitated heart found no rest. His senses, mind, and intellect became exhausted; he fell silent and insensible.

Closing his eyes, unable to utter a word, Brahmā stood there without peace of mind. He resembled a four-faced wooden doll fashioned for play and placed beside a village deity of Vraja.

Brahmā lost all awareness and became unconscious, clinging to the side of his swan. In that instant he appeared exactly like some four-faced toy doll.