One night when the moon was full, in the month of Kārttika, the gods got together in a circle to watch the dance of the perfect lovers, Kṛṣṇa and Rādhā. This time Śiva sang an accompaniment in a voice that was rarely heard. Gazing at the two twining bodies, the brilliant colors mingling together, the gods fell into a gentle swoon. When they awoke, the lovers had melted to become a spring that flowed silently into the Gangā.
Kṛṣṇa left the forest and meadows of Vṛndāvana for the city of Dvārakā, where he was united in wedlock to eight queens. The gopīs now roamed in silence. Accustomed to the emotion of stolen love, when they were alone they would sometimes say the words “you thief” over and over, but without getting any response. Life went on as though Kṛṣṇa had never been with them. Separation, emptiness, absence: this was the new emotion, and the only one.
Shut away in his palace, his eight worthy, pompous queens orbiting around him with implacable precision, Kṛṣṇa was getting bored. Occasional relief came in the form of conversations with the old Nārada. Born from the neck of Brahmā, condemned by Brahmā to wauder forever without respite, Nārada had been through so many stories, seen so many places. Old now and cunning, curious, part pander, part court counselor, a great musician, a great teller of tales, deceitful, voyeur. flatterer, intelligent. malevolent — who better than he to distract one from melancholy? thought Kṛṣṇa. They spent the nights playing chess and talking. Then Nārada would play the vīṇā, as masterfully as ever. Kṛṣṇa enjoyed teasing him too. Once he said: “Now tell me about the life when you were a worm and tried to avoid the chariot of that king.” “Of course, we are always attached to our bodies, even when we’re worms…,” said Nārada. He smiled, but somewhat nervously. The stories Kṛṣṇa liked most were the ones about the two lives when Nārada had been transformed into a woman. “Even though you have lived as a woman and borne dozens of children, before climbing over their corpses that time to pick a mango, you never understood anything about women…” “You might be right,” said Nārada. “For example, I don’t understand how you manage with all these queens…” “But these are not women,” said Kṛṣṇa, suddenly gloomy, and he went back to staring at the chessboard.
One evening Nārada realized that Kṛṣṇa was shivering, his eyes glazed. “What is the matter, my Lord?” he asked. “I’ve got a fever,” said Kṛṣṇa. The next day. Kṛṣṇa didn’t get out of bed. “He’s delirious,” whispered the serving girls. Days went by, and the fever was as fierce as ever. Nārada sat alone in his rooms, already thinking of setting off on his travels again, but worried. A doctor knocked on the door. “Lord Kṛṣṇa is still delirious,” he said. “He has but one wish. He says he will only get better if someone brings him the dust stuck to the feet of certain women. We were wondering if the wise Nārada, who knows the world better than anyone else, might be able to help,” the doctor finished, embarrassed. “Of course,” said Nārada. He had never refused an assignment that whetted his curiosity. And he was curious about everything. “I’ll do what I can,” he added.
His first move was to ask for an audience with the eight queens. He spoke with his subtle, supple eloquence, as though advancing a noble and solemn request. The queens looked at each other for a moment. Then the first spoke for alclass="underline" “How could we? Our feet are perfumed with jasmine. We spend our time making sure that every inch of our bodies is pure. We couldn’t offer our Lord Kṛṣṇa anything that wasn’t perfect. We’ve even forgotten what dust is.” Nārada was taken aback. Kṛṣṇa was still delirious. Nārada went to the most noble ladies of Dvārakā and repeated his request, at once urgent and uneasy. Nobody would agree to it. To do something the queens had refused to do would doubtless be an unforgivable indiscretion. They didn’t say as much, but they feared for their heads.
The despondent Nārada went back to the palace, where he found a message from a doctor: “Lord Kṛṣṇa asks whether Nārada, who seeks far and wide, has also sought in Vrndāvana.” No, Nārada said, he hadn’t been to Vrndāvana. He set off. Leaving the city behind, he came across some huts and animals. The countryside was ever more lonely and enchanting. In a meadow surrounded by tall, dark trees, near the waters of the Yamunā, he saw a patch of dazzling colors. A herd of cows were grazing. It was silent. Getting closer, he saw that the patch was made up of a number of crouching figures, who now started toward him. “You are Nārada, you have seen Kṛṣṇa,” said a sharp-eyed little girl as the others gathered around. Nārada was looking at the ground. He saw all those small, bare, dirty feet. “Lord Kṛṣṇa is ill,” he murmured. “He needs the dust stuck to certain women’s feet.” The gopīs didn’t even answer. One took off a blue rag, and all of them shook the dust from their feet into it. They even scraped dust off with their nails. Then the first gave the rag to Nārada. “Here. Give it to our playmate. If this is a crime, we will face the punishment. We are ready. We are always ready. Kṛṣṇa is everything to us.” Nārada said not a word. He put the rag full of dust on his shoulders, like a bundle, and set off again toward Dvārakā. He walked deep in thought, head bent. He looked like a pilgrim now, or a beggar. All at once he stopped and caught himself saying out loud: “Kṛṣṇa, you were right. Now I understand.”
XIII
Memories of his time with the gopīs would well up in Kṛṣṇa’s heart like a spring of clear water, hidden beneath rushes. Now he was surrounded by people who knew nothing of his herdboy’s adolescence, who thought of him only as a shrewd, mature king, his body still powerful, his face furrowed with fine wrinkles. Kṛṣṇa hardly ever spoke about himself.
One day he was visiting Indraprastha, where his sister Subhadrā had married Arjuna and borne him a son. Kṛṣṇa celebrated his nephew’s birth rites. The hot weather was setting in. Arjuna said: “I’d like to leave the city and bathe in the Yamunā with our girls.” Kṛṣṇa added: “I’d like to play with our girls in the Yamunā too.” Preparations were made. At first light, a colorful procession set out from the city gate. Servant women, maids, and ladies clustered around carts laden with fragrant food baskets.
Hidden among the sunshades, Arjuna’s two wives, the majestic Draupadī and the enchanting Subhadrā, talked together. It looked like an exodus of young maidens. Among them, toward the end of the procession, came just two men, Kṛṣṇa and Arjuna. They too were talking together.
The sun was still low when they reached the banks of the Yamunā. The provisions were unloaded in a chatter of trilling voices. The girls spread white and embroidered clothes on the grass. Like skilled craftsmen they erected delicate pavilions. The water was already sparkling. Behind them the grassy clearing was surrounded by the dark presence of the Forest of Khāṇḍava, the Sugar Candy Forest. The air rang with the highest spirits. Already you could hear flutes, vīṇās, tambourines. Some of the girls had dived in the water, others had gathered in the pavilions, others were laying out the food. There was laughter, weeping, the whispering of secrets. Draupadī and Subhadrā were seen taking off their jewels and fastening them around the necks, wrists, and ankles of the first girls they came across.