The Sacred Land of Brindavan
Long ago, over five thousand years in the past, in the sacred land of Brindavan, a story unfolded that still echoes through time. Brindavan, a lush village filled with cows, rivers, forests, and gentle hills, was not merely a settlement of farmers and cowherds; it was a divine stage where the eternal drama of dharma, pride, and divine wisdom was to be enacted.
Brindavan was no ordinary place—it was chosen as the playground of the Supreme Lord Himself. Lord Krishna, born to Devaki and Vasudeva in Mathura, had been secretly brought here to Nanda and Yashoda to escape the cruelty of King Kamsa. Here, amidst the forests and cowherds, the divine child grew, enchanting everyone with his mischievous smile, soulful flute, and extraordinary acts that often revealed glimpses of his godhood.
By the time Krishna was seven years old, his presence had already transformed the village. His playful pranks with the Gopas and Gopis, his loving bond with cows, and his protection of the people from demons like Putana and Bakasura had convinced many that he was no ordinary child. Yet, none had foreseen the miracle that was about to unfold—an event that would forever remind humanity of the limits of pride and the power of divine humility.
The Festival of Indra
It was the beginning of the rainy season. The sky was veiled in gray clouds, and a faint drizzle had kissed the earth, leaving the soil fragrant and the meadows richly green. The river Yamuna shimmered like silver, winding her way gently through the heart of the land. The cows grazed happily on the fresh grass, while birds sang melodies in the canopy above.
The villagers of Brindavan bustled with joy. The rains had been kind that year, nourishing their crops and filling their granaries. Everywhere, one could see faces lit with gratitude and relief. It was at this time, as tradition demanded, that the villagers prepared to honor Lord Indra, the mighty king of heaven and the ruler of storms and rains.
One early morning, Krishna awoke to an unusual commotion. It was still dark, but the streets of Brindavan were alive with activity. Men swept the pathways, women strung fresh garlands, and children ran about carrying clay lamps to decorate every doorstep. Curious, Krishna peered through his window, his innocent eyes twinkling with wonder.
“What is happening today? Why is everyone awake so early?” he murmured.
He stepped out and saw his father, Nanda Maharaj, overseeing the preparations. Approaching him, Krishna asked with a tilt of his head:
“Father, why are the streets filled with flowers and lights? Is there a festival today, or perhaps a wedding?”
Nanda smiled warmly at his beloved child. “No, dear Krishna. Today we prepare for Indra Yajna—a festival to honor Lord Indra. He is the king of the heavens, the one who commands the clouds and brings us rain. This year our crops are abundant, and our cows are thriving. Out of gratitude, we must worship Indra so that he continues to bless us with rains.”
The villagers nearby nodded in agreement, their hands busy weaving garlands and preparing offerings of ghee, grains, and sweets.
Krishna Questions the Tradition
Krishna, however, was not convinced. His youthful face turned serious as he frowned slightly. “Father, how do you know that it is Indra who gives us the rains?”
The villagers paused, startled by the question. To them, this belief was as old as time itself. Nanda, though slightly uneasy, replied with patience, “It is known through the scriptures and traditions, my son. Indra is the lord of the clouds. Without his mercy, the rains would not come, and our lives would wither away.”
Krishna shook his head. His voice, though gentle, carried a firmness far beyond his years.
“No, Father. The real source of our prosperity is not Indra but Govardhan Mountain. Look around you—the herbs that heal our wounds, the grasses that feed our cows, the clear waters that quench our thirst, and the forests that give us shade—all flow from Govardhan. The mountain collects the clouds, it nourishes the rivers, and it shelters countless creatures. Why should we not offer our gratitude to Govardhan instead of Indra, who lives far away in his palace in the heavens?”
The villagers exchanged nervous glances. Such bold words against the mighty king of gods had never been uttered before. One elderly cowherd whispered, “Can a child dismiss the power of Indra so easily?”
But Krishna continued, his eyes glowing with conviction.
“Think carefully. Our cows eat the grass that grows on Govardhan’s slopes. Our fields thrive with water that flows down from its springs. We gather firewood from its forests, and the herbs that cure our fevers grow upon its earth. Govardhan is alive—it is our friend, our protector, and our true benefactor. Should we not worship what we see and experience daily, rather than an unseen deity who sits upon a throne of pride?”
The words, though spoken by a boy, pierced the hearts of the villagers. Slowly, heads began to nod. Murmurs of agreement spread through the crowd. “Yes… Krishna speaks the truth. Govardhan nourishes us. Why not honor him this year?”
Nanda, however, hesitated. He feared the consequences of offending Indra. Yet, seeing the villagers persuaded by Krishna’s wisdom, he reluctantly agreed. “Very well, son. If the people wish, this year we shall worship Govardhan Mountain instead of Indra.”
And so, a new festival was born—the Govardhan Puja.
Indra’s Wrath
But far above in the heavens, Indra sat upon his jeweled throne, his pride swelling like thunderclouds. The sounds of celebration in his honor had reached him, year after year, but this time, there was silence. Instead, he heard that the cowherds had turned their devotion to a mere mountain, led astray by a boy.
“Who dares to insult me?” Indra roared, his voice shaking the pillars of heaven. “Have I not blessed them with rains all these years? And now they dare to turn away from me? This insolence must be punished!”
His eyes blazed like lightning as he raised his golden whip, Vajra, and summoned the storm clouds. “Go! Destroy Brindavan! Let torrents of rain and floods remind them who rules the skies. Let them see the folly of rejecting Indra!”
The clouds, darker than midnight, rolled forth like an army of demons. Thunder growled across the heavens, and flashes of lightning split the sky.
Brindavan in Peril
At first, the villagers were puzzled by the sudden darkness that fell at noon. But soon, the sky burst open with furious rain. Water poured in torrents, turning fields into rivers and paths into swamps. The humble thatched roofs collapsed, cattle bellowed in fear, and families huddled together in despair.
“Save us! Save our children!” cried the women.
“This is Indra’s revenge!” shouted the men, struggling to hold their homes against the storm.
Nanda clasped Krishna’s hand with trembling fingers. “Son, this is the punishment for our arrogance. I fear we have brought ruin upon ourselves by rejecting Indra.”
But Krishna’s eyes remained calm, serene like a lotus untouched by rain. “Do not fear, Father. This storm may appear mighty, but its fury is nothing before the power of dharma and truth. Indra’s pride will be humbled today.”
Krishna Lifts Govardhan
As lightning tore through the sky and thunder roared like a hundred lions, Krishna walked calmly to Govardhan Mountain. The villagers, drenched and trembling, followed him, desperate for guidance.
“Do not run! Do not panic!” Krishna called out, his voice ringing above the storm. “Govardhan will protect us. Come, take shelter beneath its mighty arms.”
And then, before their astonished eyes, Krishna placed his little finger beneath the great mountain and—effortlessly—lifted it high into the sky, holding it like an umbrella.
Gasps of wonder spread through the crowd. “A child has lifted a mountain! Impossible!”
But it was true. There stood the seven-year-old Krishna, smiling gently, holding Govardhan aloft as the villagers, cows, and all living beings rushed beneath its shelter. Safe under the mountain, they watched the storm rage outside, powerless to harm them.
For seven days and nights, Krishna held Govardhan steady. His friends, the Gopas, stood by him, offering fruits and songs. His beloved brother Balarama marveled at his strength. The villagers realized that the boy they had raised with love was none other than the Supreme Lord himself.
Indra’s Realization
Up in the heavens, Indra watched in disbelief. “How can this be? A mere child holding an entire mountain? This is no ordinary boy…”
Then came the voice of Brahma, the creator, resonating across the skies:
“Indra, your pride has blinded you. Do you not recognize him? This Krishna is none other than Lord Vishnu incarnate—the protector of the universe. You, in your arrogance, sought to harm the innocent, but Krishna has revealed your insignificance. Humbled, bow before him.”
Shame flooded Indra’s heart. He realized the folly of his pride. With a wave of his hand, he withdrew the clouds. The rains ceased, the sun shone once more, and Brindavan sparkled fresh and renewed.
Indra descended from the heavens, his crown lowered, his pride shattered. Approaching Krishna, he folded his hands in reverence.
“Forgive me, O Lord,” he said humbly. “Blinded by arrogance, I sought to harm those you protect. Today you have taught me that even the king of gods is nothing without humility before the Supreme.”
Krishna, ever merciful, smiled. “Indra, power is not meant for pride but for protection. Rule with humility, for true greatness lies in service, not domination.”
The Eternal Celebration
Indra bowed deeply and, as a token of apology, ordered the clouds to shower rose petals over Brindavan. The villagers erupted in joy. Songs of Krishna’s glory filled the air, their voices echoing across forests and rivers.
“Long live Krishna! Protector of Brindavan!” they chanted. Children danced, women clapped, and the Gopas sang praises of the boy who had lifted a mountain with his finger.
From that day, the festival of Govardhan Puja became a tradition, celebrated every year with offerings of food and devotion to the mountain, reminding all that true divinity lies not in pride, but in humility and protection.
Moral of the Story
The story of Krishna lifting Govardhan is more than a tale of divine strength—it is a lesson eternal. Pride, no matter how powerful, is always humbled before humility and wisdom. Nature, represented by Govardhan, is to be respected and cherished. And above all, Krishna’s act reminds humanity that the Divine always protects those who surrender with faith.
Even today, devotees across India and the world celebrate Govardhan Puja after Diwali, offering mountains of food called Annakut to remember the day Krishna held Govardhan as an umbrella of love.
And in every retelling, the image shines eternal—a little boy, smiling gently, lifting a mighty mountain on his finger, protecting all beings under its shade.