Full · 6 min aloud
Every year, when the rains were finishing, the people of made a great offering to , king of the gods, who sends the rain.
It took a month to get ready. The rice came in on carts. The butter was churned in the big pots and carried out in the cool of the morning, and the children were told not to touch it about four hundred times.
That year, a boy asked a question.
was seven. He said: whose grass do the cows eat? The mountain's. Whose water do we drink? The mountain's streams. Whose shade do we sit in all afternoon? 's. So why do we never thank the mountain?
The elders argued about it, and you would have argued too. Indra had been thanked for as long as anyone could remember, and nobody could say what would happen if he weren't.
But the boy was seven and would not let it go. And he was also — well. They knew what he was.
So that year the food went to Govardhana. Mountains of rice, hills of butter, whole trees of banana leaf. The village walked the long way round the hill, the entire way, singing — and the cows walked it too, because nobody could think of a good reason to leave them behind.
Indra, up in the sky, was not thanked. And Indra had a temper.
The clouds he sent were black as wet stone. They came in low and they did not move on. The rain fell sideways.
It fell for a day, and then for two, and then the cattle were standing in water up to their knees, and the calves were being carried, and the children were crying, and the roofs were coming apart above them.
The people ran to Kṛṣṇa. Because when you are frightened you run to whoever is not.
He walked out to the hill in all that rain. He put one hand under its edge.
And he lifted it.
Govardhana came up out of the earth like a lid off a pot — the whole hill, with its trees and its goat paths and its streams still running down the sides of it — and he held it over the village on the little finger of his left hand, and he said, come in.
They came in. Everyone. The cows, the calves, the carts, the grandmothers, the dogs, and a truly unreasonable number of cooking pots. It was dry under there. After a while it was warm. Somebody started a fire.
And they stood under the mountain and looked up at this seven-year-old holding it — and one of the cowherds, standing with the rain roaring six feet away and not touching him, thought: he must be getting tired.
So he lifted his stick and pressed it up against the underside of the mountain. To help.
And then another one did. And another.
Seven days. Seven days of rain, and the whole time a ring of cowherds standing with their sticks up against the roof of the world, absolutely certain they were holding it up. Changing shifts. Telling each other to mind their arms.
On the eighth day the rain stopped, because Indra had run out of rain and had begun to work out what he had done. Kṛṣṇa waited until the last cow had wandered out. Then he set the hill down exactly where it had been.
Kṛṣṇa never told them they weren't.
slow down hereThat is the part I like best. Not the lifting. The not telling.
Short · 2 min aloud
was seven when he asked the awkward question.
Every year the village of sent its harvest offering up to , king of the gods, who sends the rain. Kṛṣṇa said: whose grass do our cows eat? Whose streams do we drink? Whose shade do we sit in? 's. Why do we never thank the hill?
So that year the offering went to the mountain.
Indra was not thanked, and Indra had a temper. The rain came sideways, for a day, and then two. The cattle stood in water up to their knees. The roofs began to come apart.
The people ran to Kṛṣṇa, because when you are frightened you run to whoever is not.
He walked to the hill, put one hand under its edge, and lifted it — up out of the ground like a lid off a pot — and held it over the whole village on the little finger of his left hand. Come in, he said.
They came in. Cows, calves, carts, grandmothers, dogs.
And one cowherd, looking up at a seven-year-old holding a mountain, thought: he must be getting tired. So he raised his stick and pressed it against the underside of the hill. To help. And then another one did. And another.
Seven days of rain, and a ring of cowherds standing with their sticks up against the roof of the world, absolutely certain they were holding it.
slow down hereKṛṣṇa never told them they weren't. That is the part I like best. Not the lifting — the not telling.