The Mountain on a Finger

In the green country of Braj, by the slow river Yamuna, the cowherds lived a happy life. They had soft grass for their cows, warm flatbread for their children, and a small dark-skinned boy among them who could make even an old aunt forget her aches by smiling at her.

The boy was called Kanha. The world would later call him Krishna.

Every autumn, the people of Braj held a great festival for Lord Indra, king of the gods and giver of rain. They piled up rice, ghee, fruits, and sweets, and prayed that the next year's clouds would come gently.

One year, when Kanha was about seven, he watched the preparations with a small, thinking smile.

"Father," he said to Nanda, the village headman, "why do we give all our best food to Indra?"

"Because he sends the rain, child."

"Does he?" said Kanha. "Or does the mountain do it? Govardhan is the one whose forests catch the cloud. Govardhan is the one whose streams water our fields. Govardhan is the one our cows climb every morning. Should we not thank the mountain?"

The elders looked at one another. The boy was small, but his question was not small.

They thought about it. They walked up to Govardhan that very evening. They laid out the festival food on a wide flat rock — the rice, the ghee, the sweets. They circled the mountain slowly. They thanked it for everything it gave them, every day, without ever asking.

Up in the high cloud-kingdom, Indra heard.

Indra was a god, but not yet a wise one. His face turned dark as monsoon iron.

"A village child has turned my own people against me?" he said. "Then let them see what a sky can do."

He called the Samvartaka clouds — the great clouds of the end of an age. He pointed at Braj.

The rain that began that evening was not rain. It was a wall. It came down in long grey ropes that broke the branches of the mango trees. The Yamuna rose. The cattle bellowed. Children cried in their mothers' arms.

The villagers ran to Nanda's house.

"What have we done?" cried one. "We angered the king of the gods."

"My cows!" cried another. "My cows are out on the slope!"

Kanha was sitting on the doorstep. He stood up. He was very small, and the rain was very large, and yet he did not look worried.

"Come," he said. "All of you. Bring the cows. Bring the calves. Bring the old grandmothers. We are going to Govardhan."

They ran behind him through the slashing rain.

When they reached the base of the mountain, Kanha bent down. He slipped one finger — only his little finger — beneath the edge of Govardhan.

And the mountain lifted.

It rose into the sky like an enormous green umbrella, slow and steady, its forests dripping, its streams pouring sideways now into the rain. The villagers stared.

"Come," Kanha said quietly. "Stand inside."

They ran in under the mountain. The cattle, the calves, the children, the old men with their walking sticks, the women with babies tied at their hips. The rain hammered on the upper slopes of Govardhan and could not reach them.

For seven days and seven nights, the small boy stood there. He did not change his finger. He did not change his foot. He smiled at the children who looked up at him, and he made a soft sound at the calves who pressed against his legs.

"Are you tired, Kanha?" said an old woman.

"No, grandmother," he said. "You are inside. That is all that matters."

Up in the cloud-kingdom, Indra began to be afraid. He had thrown his whole rage at one village. The village had not even gotten wet.

On the eighth morning, he let the rain stop.

The sky went pale. The sun came back. The villagers walked out from under Govardhan, blinking. Kanha set the mountain down, very gently, exactly where it had been. He patted its side as if it were a cow that had behaved well.

Indra came down himself, on his white elephant. He stepped off and stood, for a long moment, in front of the small dark boy. Then the king of the gods knelt in the wet grass.

"Forgive me," he said. "I forgot what I was."

Kanha put his small hand on Indra's crown. "Don't worry," he said. "You remembered in time."

The villagers walked home through the soft, washed light. They lit lamps. They cooked simple food. They put the children to sleep on their laps. No one shouted. No one had the strength to shout. They only listened to the river going down.

Little mother, you are holding up a mountain too. Every day. Quietly, without making any noise about it. The small one inside you stands inside the shelter of your body and does not even know yet that a sky exists.

Tonight, when the day's storms have softened, place your hand on your belly. Whisper, if you like — you are inside. That is all that matters. Then breathe. The rain will stop. The river will go down. You are doing it. You are already doing it.