Jai Shree Krishna
The Divine Mischief of Krishna: The Trees That Spoke
One calm afternoon in Gokul, after a particularly mischievous episode of butter stealing, little Krishna was caught yet again. Yashoda Maa, lovingly exasperated by his antics, decided she needed to discipline her child. But what could she do with a boy who seemed to charm his way out of every punishment?
So, in a moment of gentle authority, she tied Krishna to a large wooden mortar with a soft rope. She kissed his head, told him to sit still for a while, and went back to her household chores. She didn’t imagine he would—or even could—go anywhere.
But Krishna, being who he was, had no intention of staying still.
Quietly, he looked around, smiled to himself, and began dragging the heavy mortar behind him. No one knows exactly how he managed to do it, but the weight didn’t seem to bother him at all. The wooden mortar bumped along the village paths as Krishna crawled through narrow lanes and finally wandered toward the forest at the edge of Gokul.
There, between two ancient arjuna trees, the mortar got stuck. The space was just too narrow, and the huge log wouldn't pass through. But Krishna wasn’t one to give up easily. With a slight frown and a determined tug, he pulled harder—and suddenly, with a thunderous crack, the trees snapped and crashed to the ground.
What followed was something no one in Gokul could have imagined.
From the fallen trunks, two luminous figures emerged—celestial beings with folded hands and bowed heads. These were Nalakuvara and Manigriva, the sons of Kubera, the god of wealth. Long ago, they had been cursed by the great sage Narad Muni, who had once found them lost in pride and indulgence. As punishment for their arrogance, he turned them into trees, where they would remain for a hundred years. But even in his anger, Narad’s heart was full of compassion. He had said, “One day, the Supreme Lord himself will come to this world and free you.”
That moment had finally arrived.
The brothers, now humbled and full of devotion, looked at little Krishna and realized who he truly was—not just the naughty child of Gokul, but the divine being who walked the earth in human form. With tears in their eyes, they thanked him, offered their prayers, and left, their spirits finally free.
Krishna, as always, smiled gently—his mischief now revealed to be a part of a divine plan.
The Dance on the Serpent: Krishna and Kalia Naag
Another tale of Krishna’s divine play takes us to the banks of the sacred Yamuna River. It was a sunny day, and Krishna, Balram, and their friends were playing near the water’s edge, tossing a ball and laughing together.
Suddenly, the ball slipped and bounced into the river.
For a moment, the boys hesitated. Everyone in Gokul knew that a dangerous serpent named Kalia Naag lived in those waters. His venom had turned the river black, killing the fish, drying up the trees around it, and making the air thick with poison. No one dared to go near that part of the river.
But Krishna wasn’t afraid.
While the others nervously discussed what to do, Krishna smiled, took a deep breath, and without a word, jumped into the river.
As he swam downward, the water around him grew darker and heavier. Then, out of the depths, appeared Kalia—a massive, multi-hooded serpent, his eyes burning red with fury. Seeing Krishna, Kalia lunged forward and wrapped his coils around the little boy, intending to crush him.
But Krishna’s stillness was not fear—it was divine calm.
Within moments, he broke free from the coils and seized the serpent, pulling him up to the river’s surface. The villagers, who had gathered in fear at the riverbank, gasped as they saw the water churning violently.
Then came the most incredible sight.
Krishna jumped onto one of Kalia’s many heads and began to dance—gracefully, rhythmically, with celestial power in every step. With each movement, he pressed down on Kalia’s hoods, making the mighty serpent cry out in pain. His cosmic dance was no ordinary dance—it carried the weight of the universe. The river, the sky, and even time itself seemed to pause to witness this divine act.
Soon, Kalia was defeated, broken in spirit and body.
Just then, his wives appeared, weeping and pleading with Krishna to spare their husband. Moved by their heartfelt prayers, Krishna stopped. Kalia, now humbled and repentant, bowed before him.
“Forgive me, Lord,” he whispered. “I was blinded by ego and fear.”
Krishna, always merciful, forgave him. He instructed Kalia to leave the Yamuna and return to his home island in the ocean. As a sign of grace, Krishna promised that Garuda, his own divine eagle mount and natural enemy of serpents, would never harm Kalia or his family again.
With that, Kalia slipped away into the depths, and the river slowly returned to its natural, life-giving beauty. The trees grew green again, the fish returned, and the air was once more pure.
These stories are not just tales of miracles—they are reminders of Krishna's divine nature cloaked in the form of a playful child. Whether it was uprooting pride from cursed souls or purifying a poisoned river, Krishna did it all with love, mischief, and unmatched grace.
