Balarāma and Śrī Kṛṣṇa's Many Enchanting Pastimes with the Cowherd Boys

Balarāma and Śrī Kṛṣṇa's Many Enchanting Pastimes with the Cowherd Boys

Autumn offered heaps upon heaps of lotuses to Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra. Hemanta worshiped Nanda's son by arranging mounds of newly harvested grain. Winter strung countless garlands of dewdrops and spread a path for his blessed feet. Spring erected canopies of flowering creepers and budding mango branches, waved a fan of the Malaya breeze, and welcomed the Dark Beauty at every moment with the humming of bees and the cuckoo's call of “kuhū, kuhū.” Thus, after Dhenuka's death, four seasons arrived. Having increased Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra's joy and fashioned the proper place and time for each of his pastimes, they hid themselves in the dense bowers of Vṛndāvana. After them, at the appointed time, came the summer of Nanda's son's seventh year. Mere contact with summer makes embodied beings burn, so it is not very dear to them. Yet contact with Vṛndāvana makes even summer delightful and utterly transforms its scorching, fiery nature. By the calendar the residents of Vraja may reckon that it is summer, but none of summer's burning qualities enter their sight. Only the splendor of spring extends there. And why should it not? Where Bhagavān himself, Vrajendra's son, the abode of infinite majesty, visibly dwells with his elder brother Śrī Balarāma, and where the conscious, nectarous current of the celestial Gaṅgā of their pastimes flows eternally, why should the beauty of spring not fill even summer's blazing eyes?

The season called summer arrived, a season not greatly loved by embodied beings. Yet through the virtues of Vṛndāvana it appeared like spring, for there Keśava, Bhagavān himself, dwelt together with Rāma.

(Śrīmad Bhāgavatam 10.18.2-3)

The summer season appeared in its natural character, bringing misery to everyone in the world. Yet no one there was aware of its fierce heat; frogs rested beneath the shade of serpents' hoods.

When that season entered Vṛndāvana, it became as lovely as the fresh spring. Through the virtues of blessed Vṛndāvana, everyone beheld it as the season of blossoms.

Summer came, and the terrible sun appeared with piercing heat. Its blazing disk seemed to scorch the earth, the sky, and every quarter. The wind arrived in a fierce rush, searing and violent, racing through every opening of the directions and filling them with streams of dust. Sūra says its flames burn the heart of the world, yet its fierce power cannot touch those who dwell in Vraja.

How extraordinary the forest's beauty truly is, even in summer! The sweet rushing sound of countless waterfalls has drowned out the crickets' harsh chirping. Innumerable droplets continually leap from those cascades, drenching the whole woodland and moistening every row of trees, which shine with wondrous beauty. A carpet of green grass seems to cover everything. The wind passing over the waves of rivers, lakes, and waterfalls grows exceedingly cool. Gathering the pollen of water lilies, lotuses, blue lotuses, and many other flowers in its hem, it circles the forest and the settlement of Vraja. Moving very gently with a soft rustling, it touches every resident of Vṛndāvana. Therefore no forest dweller feels the fiery heat of the summer sun. The rivers have not lost their water, the deep pools have not dried, and the lakes have not lost their loveliness. Instead, all are filled with unfathomable water. Lofty waves still rise within them and continually flood their banks. Moisture fills the earth and the sandy shores everywhere. The rays of the sun, fierce as poison, have been wholly unable to draw the moisture from the forest floor and the land of Vraja or steal away its verdure. Greenery remains everywhere just as before. Rows of trees and creepers still bend beneath clusters upon clusters of flowers. A stream of beauty flows from every particle as fully as ever. The calls of many wondrous birds, the graceful roaming of deer, the lovely cries of peacocks, the sweet humming of bees, and the calls of cuckoos and cranes all remain unchanged. The matchless splendor that forever pervades Vṛndāvana has not diminished in the least.

There the crickets' cries were silenced by the thunder of waterfalls, and the circles of trees were ever adorned by the spray they cast. The breeze passing over rivers, lakes, and cascades carried the pollen of water lilies, lotuses, and blue lotuses. Thus the forest dwellers felt no torment from the forest fire born of the summer sun amid the luxuriant grass. Deep waters filled its lakes, whose waves washed their shores, and moist sandbanks surrounded them on every side. There the fierce and venomous rays of the scorching sun could not drink the earth's moisture or take away its green covering. The flowering forest shone with beauty, filled with the calls of many-colored birds and beasts, with singing peacocks and bees and the cries of cuckoos and cranes.

(Śrīmad Bhāgavatam 10.18.4-7)

Abundant waterfalls descend in many lovely forms; all the crickets' cries are broken and subdued. Rows of trees shine along their banks, bewitchingly fresh and green from the droplets of water. Fruit, leaves, and flowers are lovely in every season; their fragrant nectar entrances even sages' minds. The rivers, lakes, and woodland grounds are graceful beyond compare, and many-colored clusters of lotuses bloom. Touching them, a gentle breeze blows, cool and comforting, taking away all pain.

The grass and banks are green, lovely, and delightful, destroying the residents of Vraja's floods of heat and distress. Summer cannot prevail there, nor can the sun's fire burn. The forest dwellers remain joyful as they behold Nanda's son.

The pools hold unfathomable water, and their restless waves touch the banks. All the grass remains freely green, while the earth is ever moist with mud. The fierce rays of the sun do not touch it, nor, O king, do they ever drink that land's moisture. Those rays that scorch the whole world do not affect the land of Vraja in the least. The flowering forest is exceedingly beautiful and pure; lovely birds and beasts utter their charming calls. Many intoxicated peacocks sing, while bees and cranes mingle their notes as one.

(From a handwritten manuscript of the Bhāgavatam)

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Here and there waterfalls descend from the hills, their waters falling upon the rocks. From them deep rivers flow, their waves touching the land far and wide. There are also many unfathomable lakes, while the trees sway and whirl in delight. All the grass and plants beneath them are filled everywhere with vivid green. The sun's rays do not touch them at all, and at every moment their beauty grows more succulent. The flowering groves rejoice exceedingly, with a splendor surpassing even spring. In lake after lake the lotuses bloom, and wanton swarms of bees wander, lost in delight. The lotus-scented breeze and sandalwood breeze flow together. Who can describe the joy? Parrots speak as though the sage Śuka were reciting scripture, while cuckoos sing sweetly like Sarasvatī. Peacocks utter soft, melodious notes that steal the heart of Nanda's son.

(Nandadāsa)

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In bower after bower, clusters of kadamba trees mingle with the creepers. Flower-laden branches sway, shaken by bees that dart and whirl around them. The fierce rays of the sun cannot enter there, where droplets fall from the waves of Yamunā's water. The fragrance-bearing breeze pours nectar into the lotus cups; at its sight, the burning thirst of every scorched heart disappears. Flocks of swans sport, cuckoos pour out sweet calls, and countless bright-winged birds steal the heart with their songs. The forest forever gives delight and is filled with floral fragrance. What need is there of Indra's grove? This forest truly bears the name Nandana, the giver of joy.

(Kṛṣṇacandrikā)

And so today, as always, Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra proceeds to sport in this supremely delightful forest, flowering on every side and gathered into a mass of verdure. Countless cows bound and leap ahead, while innumerable boys, brimming with delight, skip along as they surround the herd on every side. His elder brother Śrī Balarāma, walking beside him, directs the path, for today the Dark Beauty himself holds the flute to his lips and sways, absorbed in sounding the melodies of many rāgas.

Then Bhagavān Kṛṣṇa, intent upon play and accompanied by Balarāma, entered the forest sounding his flute, surrounded by cowherd boys and cattle.

(Śrīmad Bhāgavatam 10.18.8)

Merciful Kṛṣṇa entered that forest, the cowherd abode of beauty, together with his brother. Playing the flute, he took the cowherds with him, while cows of many colors went ahead. Yadu's delight went there to play, Hari, protector of all, the very root of bliss.

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In this way Vṛndāvana attained its full beauty, as the Enchanter of Hearts grazed the cows there. Together with Balarāma and the boys of Vraja, the abode of all splendor gave happiness to everyone.

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The trees swell with life, the creepers sway, and endless flowers cluster thickly. Deep and cooling is the shade where Nanda's young prince roams.

Before their forest excursion begins, each of them must, of course, put on the adornment his heart desires. The presiding goddess of the forest has already made every arrangement. Look there, ahead in that broad woodland. Beneath the canopy of trees, beside the green creepers that touch the earth, all the desired materials have been assembled. The tender new leaves bend low as though inviting them: “Come, gods of the forest! Fulfill me by granting me a place upon your blessed limbs and the limbs of your friends. What greater fortune could be mine than to become your ornament?” Heaps of peacock feathers wait like wide-open eyes: “When will we receive the touch of Nanda's son and his friends?” Someone appears to have carefully gathered a mound of flowers. In their form, the joy within the hearts of the trees and creepers, waves of joy scattered abroad, seems to await them: “The Dark Beauty is coming. He and the friends dearer to him than life will wear us and become adorned!” Red ocher and other colored minerals seem to have made their eternal homes beside those forest paths so that they might offer the affection of their innermost hearts: “Who knows when the Dark Beauty may desire to be colored by us?” When all these things are available together, why delay their use? In moments Rāma and Śyāma and the cowherd boys adorned themselves in many kinds of dress with tender new leaves, peacock feathers, variegated clusters of flowers, many-colored flower garlands, and bright mineral pigments.

They fashioned ornaments from tender shoots, peacock feathers, flower clusters, garlands, and mineral pigments.

(Śrīmad Bhāgavatam 10.18.9)

With peacock feathers, garlands, pigments, and tender shoots, and clusters of flowers, they fashioned splendid attire.

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Some fashioned ornaments and forest garlands, taking fruits, leaves, flowers, and tender shoots.

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Peacock feathers arranged upon their heads shone among their locks. Mineral pigments from the hills brightened their bodies with color. Broad, spotless necklaces of guñjā berries rested upon their chests, and dense garlands of lovely, fragrant flowers adorned them.

Then Vrajendra's son went forth to play many games filled with dance, music, and displays of physical strength.

Rāma, Kṛṣṇa, and the other cowherd boys danced, wrestled, and sang.

(Śrīmad Bhāgavatam 10.18.9)

Rāma, Kṛṣṇa, and the wise cowherd boys joined together in dancing, singing, and contests of strength.

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There they danced, assuming the gestures of countless pastimes, filling innumerable rhythms with every variety of movement.

Who has the power to portray precisely this play of the embodiment of conscious bliss? Those whose eyes are anointed with the dust of Śrī Kṛṣṇa's lotus feet can do no more than prepare a mere list. Even that list says only this much. Whenever Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra began to dance, Balarāma started a musical melody in his exceedingly sweet voice, and one group joined their voices with his. Subala filled his flute with notes, and some boys eagerly played their flutes in imitation of its resonant turns. Arjuna led the playing of horns, while another group blew their own horns in the same rhythm. Some boys, their eyes half closed, and others gazing without blinking, kept time with their palms. A group led by Stokakṛṣṇa and boys of his age became absorbed in precisely imitating the Dark Beauty's gestures and trying to dance just as he did. On such occasions Śrīdāma occupied the president's seat, while ecstatic cries of “Wonderful! Wonderful!” from him and all the other boys repeatedly resounded through the sky.

Yet the effect of the Dark Beauty's dance, which enchanted the three worlds, was wondrous. Within moments the boys dancing beside him became spellbound. They stopped dancing and gazed at him without blinking. Rāma and the singers accompanying him felt their throats choke, the flowing notes ceased, and all of them, as though intoxicated, simply looked toward Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra. Arjuna and his companions, who had been filling their flutes with sound, met the same fate. They did not even know when their playing had stopped. Their fingers remained upon the holes and their lips retained the posture of blowing, but the active impulse to produce breath and sound suddenly dissolved into Nanda's son, wholly absorbed in dance. The horn players too lost awareness of themselves and remained frozen in their poses, gazing toward Vrajendra's son. The boys keeping time with their palms were also overwhelmed, and their rhythm ceased. The voices of Śrīdāma and the young members of the assembly fell silent. Thus a wondrous stillness spread. Amid it, the Dark Beauty's dance continued to the chiming rhythm of his own anklets, bracelets, and waist bells.

At that moment the gods who traveled through the sky found a beautiful opportunity. Assuming the forms of cowherd boys, they descended and began to praise Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra, the Supreme Absolute and highest Person in cowherd form, as actors might praise the finest man seated upon a stage. Meanwhile the devotional absorption of the young spectators, the flute and horn players, the keepers of rhythm, and the singers broke, and this festival of dance concluded with a mighty roar of applause.

Then came a succession of other games. Sometimes the two brothers, Rāma and Śyāma, clasped hands and spun like a potter's wheel. Their curling locks swung over their shoulders and assumed a wondrous beauty. Once again applause rang out, and at once the boys began imitating this whirling game. Meanwhile Rāma and Śyāma would begin a contest to see who could leap farther across the ground. Both jumped side by side and cleared stretches of earth many cubits long. At other times they tested who could hurl a clod, a stone, or a fruit of a certain weight the farthest with a sling or simply with the force of his arm.

Sometimes, slapping their arms in challenge, the two brothers became captains of opposing teams. The Dark Beauty or Rāma would wrap his upper cloth around a cow-milking rope. Rāma's team took one end together with Rāma, while the Dark Beauty and his team held the other. Then both sides pulled it toward themselves. The gods traveling through the sky could see who won, as could those gifted with such eyes. Among the boys, however, a dispute arose: “I won!” “No, no, my team won!” Rāma and Śyāma were surely laughing even then. When the teams challenged each other to wrestling in order to decide their relative strength, the two brothers laughingly fought the first bout themselves.

This wrestling match could not continue for long. As always, Stokakṛṣṇa roared out, and everyone became anxious: “Oh! Kannū has grown tired.” To change the subject, one group would inevitably present a request to the elder brother or to the Dark Beauty: “Brother Rāma! Brother Kannū! We have not had a chance to dance. Come see some of our skill too!” At once Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra and Rohiṇī's son changed their program. The flute sounded again, a honeyed stream of music began to flow, and those boys started dancing. Śyāma and Balarāma themselves encouraged them by singing rāgas and playing flutes and horns. Somehow, whenever the dancers changed rhythm, the flow of melody and resonance of instruments remained unbroken, while the brothers' nectar-dripping cries of praise infused their friends with ecstatic joy.

This exuberant dance awakened lively mischief once more. In moments a game began in which they threw bilva fruits, nutmegs, and āmalakī fruits at one another. To escape being struck, the losing team hid in a bower, and thus a game of hide-and-seek began. Within it they also started running after one another in a game of tag, and the play continued onward in countless forms.

Imitating the movements of birds and animals was an essential part of their daily play, so they did this as well. And how could Rāma and Śyāma fail to play at hopping like frogs with the younger boys? They also delighted their friends by puffing out their cheeks and contorting their faces into all kinds of shapes. Furthermore, the rows of motionless trees stood waiting to offer service and receive the touch of their blessed limbs, a touch difficult even for the greatest yogis and sages to attain. How could the supremely generous Lord, treasury of all virtues, fail to fulfill their longing? Śrī Kṛṣṇacandra therefore hung a swing from their branches with his own hands and began to swing.

Nor could those boys rest without playing at governing a kingdom and caring for its subjects, so they enacted that in full as well. Either the Dark Beauty or Balarāma adorned the throne, and their marvelous make-believe system of government then became a sight worth seeing. Such is a brief catalogue of their summer games, especially the games they played today.

As Kṛṣṇa danced, some sang and others played instruments; still others praised him with flutes, clapping hands, and horns. The gods, concealed among the cowherd folk in the forms of cowherds, praised Kṛṣṇa and Rāma as actors praise a fellow actor, O king. The two boys with side locks played by spinning, leaping, throwing, slapping their arms, tugging, and sometimes wrestling. When others danced, the two themselves became singers and musicians, exclaiming, “Excellent! Wonderful!” O great king. Sometimes they played with bilva fruits, sometimes with kumbha fruits, and sometimes with handfuls of āmalakī fruits; at other times they played tag, blindman's buff, and games imitating birds and beasts. Sometimes they leaped like frogs or made one another laugh in many ways; at times they played on swings, and at other times they imitated the deeds of kings.

(Śrīmad Bhāgavatam 10.18.10-15)

When Kṛṣṇa danced, one boy sang in a carefully formed melody; others played many kinds of instruments, while some joined rhythm to tune. Blessed indeed are those excellent cowherds who sport in Hari's company. Without abundant merit, no one can receive the touch of the Lord's limbs. Hosts of gods assumed the guise of the cowherd clan and enchanted everyone, as was already related, O king, when the earth went before Brahmā.

Some cowherds praised him there, while others filled their flutes with sound. One cried, “Excellent, excellent, O finest dancer! How beautifully you dance, assuming the loveliest movements!” Another, delighted again and again, spoke in this way, as one actor offers praise to another. The two brothers played in many different ways, their graceful bodies adorned with side locks. Slapping their arms, they leaped and roared, and shone together as they engaged in tugging contests. Sometimes they wrestled vigorously with the cowherds; sometimes they made jokes, laughing and causing others to laugh. When another skillful cowherd danced, the two brothers sang fresh rāgas. Playing instruments, they praised him, as though he alone possessed the highest fortune in the world. Sometimes Hari battled with bilva fruits; at other times he fought with āmalakī fruits. Sometimes they brought many kumbhī fruits and happily battled one another with them. Sometimes they closed their fists and played at boxing; the Lord, protector of the cows, sported with the cowherds. Then they played blindman's buff and imitated the movements of birds and beasts. They walked and made others walk like frogs, creating much laughter and delighting their friends. Sometimes they played upon swings or pretended to act as kings. The Lord of all worlds, the finest cowherd, had become Nanda's darling son.

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Sometimes they set a limit and threw clods; sometimes they played together at rolling objects. Here they played tag, and there they covered their eyes; elsewhere they climbed upon the shoulders of trees. Sometimes the Enchanting Boy danced while the cowherds clapped and sang. Sometimes they made an excellent swing, then swung together, singing and growing radiant. Sometimes they erected a royal throne and fashioned parasols and yak-tail fans from flowers. One became king and displayed his sovereignty, while the cowherd boys sounded kettledrums.

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Singing and voicing melodies, the Enchanter enchanted all. Playing divine lutes and flutes, the beautiful one shone. Then they arranged a great contest of arm-to-arm combat, with rising, darting, leaping, and displays of throwing strength. Seeing fresh, tender fruits, flowers, and leaves, they laughingly joined together and played at fierce battle with them. Then they imitated the calls of deer and many kinds of birds, and every cowherd boy surged with delight and became filled with bliss. Tender Rāma and Kṛṣṇa enacted pastimes of boundless feeling, roamed through numberless exploits, and devised endless games there.

Who could recognize the Supreme Absolute, the highest Person, in this guise? What difference remained between him and an ordinary child?

Like an ordinary village boy, the Lord of the universe played children's games.

Therefore even the demon Pralamba, sent by Kaṁsa, became bewildered. Although he beheld the Lord directly, he could not recognize that abode of infinite majesty. Now the fool assumed the guise of a cowherd boy and set out to deceive the Lord of the universe.

Pralamba, king of demons, arrived and assumed the peerless form of a friend. Know him as the crown of the demon race and regard him as King Kaṁsa's companion. The wicked one joined them and entered their game, betraying nothing of his purpose within his heart. He sought to deceive the very Lord who gives delight to the whole universe.