Bhagavatham Stories

As Krishna matured through childhood, continuing his enchanting pastimes in Vrindavan, there came moments when his cosmic nature would break through in unexpected ways, reminiscent of his infancy but now more consciously received and understood by those around him. One such incident involved Krishna's elder brother Balarama, who had also been brought to Vrindavan and had grown alongside Krishna. Balarama, though an expansion of the divine himself, possessed a different character than Krishna—where Krishna was playful and unpredictable, Balarama was strong and steady, often serving as the moral compass of the cowherd community.

One day, as Krishna and Balarama were playing a game with the other cowherd boys, a dispute arose about who had won. The competition had become heated, with accusations of cheating and unfairness flying back and forth. In the midst of this quarrel, Krishna, in his playfulness, revealed a glimpse of his cosmic nature. For just a moment, his form seemed to expand, encompassing all the other children, and they felt themselves absorbed into him. They experienced an overwhelming sense of the infinite, of existing within a vast consciousness that contained all of them. Then, as suddenly as it had happened, the vision receded, and Krishna was once again simply a child among children, though now there was an unmistakable aura of divine presence around him that the children could not quite explain.

Balarama, understanding more of Krishna's nature than the other children, gently reprimanded him for revealing himself so directly. "Brother," he said, "you are playing with souls who are not yet ready to comprehend your true form. Your pastimes are meant to be performed within the framework of their ordinary understanding. If you continue to reveal your cosmic nature, you will scare them and rupture the beautiful simplicity of these childhood days." Krishna accepted the reprimand with grace, recognizing the wisdom in Balarama's words. This exchange itself became a teaching—that the divine, in its infinite intelligence, constrains itself voluntarily in order to remain accessible, intimate, and relatable to those who are not yet ready for the full revelation of transcendence.

Following this gentle correction, Krishna began to focus his pastimes more consistently on the level of ordinary childhood, though always with an extraordinary dimension of grace and sweetness beneath the surface. His pranks became more elaborately choreographed, his games more deeply meaningful, his interactions with the gopis and the other villagers more poignantly designed to awaken the love and devotion that lay dormant in their hearts. He seemed to understand intuitively that the pastimes that appeared most ordinary on the surface were often the ones that touched people most deeply, that the most profound spiritual teachings could be conveyed through the simple events of daily life.

During this period, Krishna also began to more consciously cultivate his relationships with specific individuals. There was Nanda, his foster father, who had given up the life of a wealthy yadava prince to be Krishna's father—a sacrifice that Krishna recognized and honored. There was Yashoda, whose maternal love for Krishna was so total that she seemed to have been born for the sole purpose of loving him. There were the gopis, whose hearts were increasingly being drawn toward him through his music, his playfulness, and his mysterious presence. There were the cowherd boys, who would become his eternal companions in the pastimes of existence. And there was Balarama, his brother, whose steady strength balanced Krishna's playful unpredictability.

One particularly moving incident occurred when Yashoda, growing increasingly concerned about the strange stories surrounding her son—the tales of demons coming to destroy him, the rumors that he was no ordinary child—decided to perform a ritual blessing and protection ceremony for him. She fastened holy threads around his wrists and neck, and performed elaborate rituals to protect him from evil and harm. As she was performing these ceremonies, Krishna looked at her with eyes full of love and amusement. He did not tell her that he needed no protection, that he was the source of protection for all existence. Instead, he allowed her the fulfillment of her maternal duty, accepting her rituals with apparent seriousness, letting her believe that her mother's love was what was keeping him safe. In allowing her this illusion, Krishna was actually serving her most profound need—the need to feel that she was necessary, that her love and care mattered for her beloved son.

By the end of this phase of Krishna's childhood, the entire community of Vrindavan had been transformed by his presence. The village had become a place of unusual spiritual energy and happiness. The cows were more fertile and gave more milk. The crops grew more abundantly. The weather seemed more favorable. The people themselves seemed gentler, more compassionate, more inclined toward devotion and spiritual practice. Some attributed this to favorable karma; others whispered that it was the presence of something divine among them. Yet all agreed that something had shifted in Vrindavan since the arrival of the beautiful dark-complexioned child. The foundations were being laid for the great revelation that would come—that indeed, the Supreme Lord had chosen this simple village as the stage for his greatest pastimes, and that all of existence, from the highest gods to the smallest creatures, was participating in a divine drama that would illustrate for all time the nature of love, devotion, and the relationship between the infinite and the finite.