11 – Krishna Comes!
Sixteen-year-old Mukunda rose tranquilly from his early-morning worship in the garden and went toward the Ganges to Bathe. As he walked, tears of love for all God’s creation came into his eyes. He glanced up. How majestic was the sun as it first appeared in the heavens! How softly ran the clouds over the blue sky, like maiden messengers of heavenly peace! Mukunda smiled, watching the grass nod and wave before the breeze as if it, too, was thrilled with God’s love. Glad carols leaped from the throats of birds; Mukunda’s footsteps lightened as he walked. Hearing the song-birds, watching the rhythmical dance of all Nature, he felt that his heart would burst for very joy. He began singing of love for the Lord. The morning air rang with devotional music. Soon he reached the river Ganges and, still singing, bathed in the water.
Wasn’t God very near that day? The dance of His lotus feet of love seemed audible. Life, death, health, disease, pleasure, pain – before Mukunda’s enraptured gaze these shadows melted and were no more. Only one Ocean of light shone blissfully. In that Ocean he saw everything dwelling, like little waves that dance and change and disappear on the surface of the sea. All Life is one. To Mukunda nought was, except that Life – a Life that breathed with joy in every atom of creation.
Hours passed. Mukunda remained in the water, as though transfixed. His voice carried far across the Ganges, leaping over the waves. He sang of his devotion to God; he sang of his deathless trust. Ere his tears of love touched the water, they became transmuted into divine jewels of joy.
When at last, continuing his chanting, he left the Ganges, the sun had already changed its course in the heavens. Like an arrow shot from a bow, rising unerringly, it had tired at last. Gracefully now it dipped its head as though hunting a resting place in the earth below. Mukunda was so engrossed in the Lord that he was unaware of his own person. He had forgotten the customs of man. (Was he far more than man today? He was the secret Life that danced in every leaf, that nodded and smiled in every flower.) Drunk with the thought of God, he had neglected even to dress himself in his dhoti-cloth when he had come out of the water. Oblivious of everything but the Divine, he strolled chanting through the streets. Though he was without clothing, no one, strangely, seemed concerned.
He had walked for about ten minutes when an aunt of his spied him. Aghast, she approached him swiftly, saying, “Evil creature! What are you doing, passing through the streets like that?”
“Evil?” he asked, not knowing what she meant, scarcely recollecting who she was.
“Wicked boy!” she shouted. “Look at you! Just look at you! Where are your clothes? How dare you walk about like that and disgrace your father’s good name?”
Mortal memory then returned to Mukunda: he was offending some worldly custom; his dhoti had been left by the riverbank. Smiling calmly, he gazed at his aunt. “The sin is in you,” he replied.
She struck him angrily. Mukunda turned away and, singing, went back to the Ganges to retrieve his dhoti.
When he left the riverbank a second time, he was wearing his dhoti. A young friend, Bivhuti, accosted him.
“Mukunda!” his friend cried, laughing, “I saw you before, walking about like a young Adam. What on earth possessed you?”
Mukunda smiled. “God! God possessed me. And He still possesses me.”
“God!” his friend cried, a suggestion of a jibe in his voice. “Always God! If God comes to men, why can’t I see Him? Why can’t my mother see Him? She meditates all the time. Why is the world full of people who keep calling Him, but who never see Him?”
Mukunda’s eyes were deep and still. “They never see Him because they never try to see Him.”
“Never try!” the other exclaimed.
“Never sincerely try, I mean.” Mukunda’s smile was remote from this world. “Isn’t He a Lord of love? He longs to appear openly to His devotees.”
“If He longs to, then why doesn’t He do so?” his friend inquired.
“Because He can find no room in cluttered hearts that yearn for worldly things. Devotees must want Him, and only Him. As the drunkard craves wine, so must the devotee crave the nectar of God’s love.”
Bivhuti, somewhat swayed by Mukunda’s eloquence, was still doubtful. “Well, perhaps someday – in the next life or . . . “ He smiled as if to say “never.”
“Why later? Why not now?” Mukunda demanded. His voice was positive. “When devotees have learned to say with utter faith, ‘Today! Today I must see Thee, Lord!’ – then He will come. Why should He hide any more?”
Bivhuti’s gaze was thoughtful. “Do you mean that if we sat down this very night, and really called to Hi, He would come?”
“Why should He refuse us – we who don’t refuse Him?” the young yogi said softly.
Enthusiasm came into Bivhuti’s eyes. “And why should He hide from us, if we hide nothing of ourselves from Him?”
Mukunda smiled happily. “He does not keep us in darkness when we long for His light!” Gratitude for countless divine favors rang in his voice.
“Tonight! Why not tonight?” his friend said. “We’ll go to your room and call Him and call Him until He can’t hide any more.”
“Agreed!”
“We’ll stay all night!” Bivhuti vowed.
The friends parted, their heats glad with anticipation.
The sun had set. The stars were beginning to show themselves like small shy children, hesitantly peering from behind the skirts of gathering night. The two young boys went to the small attic room in Mukunda’s house. Eagerly they closed the door behind them, placed mats on the floor, and seated themselves in lotus posture.
“Do you think we might see the Lord in the form of Sri Krishna?” Bivhuti asked.
“Why not?” Mukunda replied. “Sri Krishna will surely come tonight.”
“Tonight! Tonight!” his friend repeated, wonder-struck at the newborn faith in his heart.
Mukunda and Bivhuti began to chant, their faces suffused with peace. Thoughts of the world, of the day’s events, of people seen, of things done, vanished from their minds. Chanting done, the boys sat straighter still. Calmly they practiced pranayama[1] meditation. Earnestly, with ever growing longing, they besought the Lord as Sri Krishna to appear before them.
The stars came out of hiding, danced quietly for a time, then fled before the rising moon. One by one they reached a safe haven, hiding behind the housetops. The people of Calcutta, one by one, sought rest in sleep. Hours passed; still the young boys sat, their hearts fixed on Krishna, Lord of Hindustan.
(Many centuries before, Sri Krishna had walked the earth. As a young boy he had played his flute by the banks of the river Jumna. The boys and maidens in the village in Gokhul, tending their cattle, would hear his music. Hearts enraptured, they would search for him, wandering fruitlessly ever farther through the forest – until at last they stopped, and sat still, seeking him only within the depths of their own souls. There they heard his flute notes calling gently, thrilling their souls with inner ecstasy. For Krishna came on earth to symbolize the call of the Divine Cowherd, ever luring the lost calves back to His fields of eternal joy.)
Softly, Mukunda sang again of his love for Sri Krishna. Bivhuti joined him, his eyes filled with tears. Chanting, then meditating, then chanting again, the two boys passed the night. It was almost dawn before Bivhuti said hesitantly, “Mukunda Sri Krishna hasn’t come. I don’t believe he will come now.”
“He will come!” Mukunda replied. “Sit still; keep trying.”
They meditated for another hour. Bivhuti at last sighed, “What chance is there? The dawn is breaking. Let us go to bed.”
“You may go to bed, if you like. But if I die trying, I shall sit here till he comes.” Mukunda spoke calmly but with iron determination.
Suddenly, within the inner temple of his being, he beheld a wondrous vision: Krishna! Krishna, walking on soft clouds of gold! Krishna, thrilling the air of heaven with the music of his flute! Krishna, sweetly smiling his smile of peace! Krishna, his lotus eyes full-blown with love, softer than flowers, dispelling the darkness of night!
“I see him!” Mukunda cried. “I see him, the fair Moon of Gokhul!”
“It can’t be true. You must be imagining it,” his friend replied, his voice yet betraying a renewed note of hope.
“You shall see him yourself.” Mukunda struck his friend gently on the chest.[2]
“I see him, too!” Bivhuti cried at once, “I see him, too!”
What bliss welled up in their hearts! Gratefully they thanked the Lord of his wondrous visitation. Bivhuti’s gratitude was mixed with tears for having doubted the divine loving-kindness.
Mukunda wept for joy. “O Krishna,” he cried, “Lord of Hindustan! I have sorrowed by the lonely Jumna riverbank, where thy flute notes thrilled the air and led wandering calves to their homes. O Divine Krishna, lead all thy lost children, as thou hast led me, back to thy realm of everlasting bliss!”
