Svapnāyamāno jaladair nimīlita-guhā-mukho bāh'ūpadhāne Kṛṣṇasya

Svapnāyamāno jaladair nimīlita-guhā-mukho bāh'ūpadhāne Kṛṣṇasya

(Experiencing dreams from the rainclouds, cave-openings shut tight, on the pillow of Kṛṣṇa's arm)

I never touched the clouds until today, because I am not a tall hill. The gopa-gopī boys and girls race to my summits easily, and their livestocks graze all over me. Buffaloes, goats, sheep, and milk-cows, of course, because I am called Govardhana - all of them find plenty of grass when Śakra has been generous with the rain. My gentle slopes are covered with shrubs and bushes where wolves hide after a kill, regurgitating food for their pups.

That sounds undignified to you? Only because you compare me to the impassable varṣadhara mountain ranges, tall enough to divide weather systems, that stand up to mediate when continental plates collide, and to the self-determined peaks that assail the sky with volcanic vigour. Is it fair of you to count me in their company?

I am not the towering golden Meru mountain, where the luminaries of the heavens gather in Brahman's assembly-hall to discuss strategies to relieve Dharaṇī's burden. I am not Himavat, whose altitude transforms rain into snow, the father of many youthful streams who himself ages at a glacial pace. I am not even Vindhya, who is humble to a fault, but looks majestic even when folded over. I am only Govardhana, just a lithified pile of sediment, breaking down year by year under the rain.

My vegetation holds my soil in place and absorbs the rain, so that I don't waste away so much, but I know what is happening down there. Roots and acids are digging into rocks, teasing them apart to engender soil. I whose innards belong to the endoliths, the anaerobes, am being exposed, particle by particle, to the troposphere, the world of Prāṇa. My animals and people can't live without Prāṇa to inhale, and yet they have antagonized Marutvat Śakra, at whose order the winds blow.

It wasn't my mistake! I know I'm not eternal, and I've accepted that. I enjoy being accessible, approachable, a playground for everyone. My name is Govardhana, the multiplier of cows, after all. My people thought of me as their friend, not their God, until this mischievous seven-rains-old Kṛṣṇa opened his mouth.

Sorry, I shouldn't say 'seven-rains-old' anymore? You saw seven monsoons in the old vraja since your birth in the month of Nabhas, and this past season in Vṛndāvana was the eighth one! All right, Tāta, you're in control now, obviously. You have me on the palm of your hand, literally.

I called it the past season out of habit, because the rains should have come to an end with the month of Nabhasya, and then it was time for the gopa-gopī community to slaughter animals, offer the meat to Śakra as thanks for the rain that provides crops and grass, and partake of the meat themselves. However, this Kṛṣṇa argued that my people's worship should be for cows, hills, and woods. He told them that hills like me take the shape of maned lions and clawed tigers to protect our woods from loggers. Imagine me, Govardhana, doing that!

Kṛṣṇa's idea sounded like fun, so my people listened. They collected all of the meat and grains, curds, clarified butter, and milk from the whole community, and performed a yajña to me, Govardhana the hill. They didn't have to do that. They already made me feel special, every day, just by visiting me.

Then Kṛṣṇa worked his magic, and appearing to be me, Govardhana, he ate from the grains, milk products, and meat. After that, the brāhmaṇa guests ate. Then the boy Kṛṣṇa ate and drank alongside everyone, as if he hadn't already eaten when he was playing my part, and he took the avabhṛtha bath. Miraculously, there were two of him at the same time! Kṛṣṇa as the giant anthropomorphic Govardhana was standing on top of me, laughing and saying that I was pleased, and that they should worship me as their foremost deity from now on, and the boy Kṛṣṇa was in line with the other gopa-gopī worshippers, climbing up my slopes to meet me, to meet himself. They decorated their cows with autumn flowers, feathers on their horns, and dangling bells, and led them all around me, their favourite hill. It was a glorious day, until Śakra found out about the sacrilege against his festival, and decided to make it rain again.

The cows were shivering as the showers fell, mooing pitifully, petrified from hooves to ears, unable to graze, their skin totally wet. Some streams of rain were connected, like human hands, some were thick and undulating like elephant trunks, and some were interrupted by nodes, so that they appeared like bamboo poles. All of the land was waterlogged, and the rivers were rising. Frogs, unable to hop across, fell into the water. Peacocks cried constantly, and the cātaka birds' cries were drowned out by the pounding rain. Trees and grasses were shaking equally. Birds dared not fly, and my wildlife charged up my slopes, desperate for higher ground. Some of the cows died, others collapsed, some stood over their calves, and others fell with their calves clinging to them for heat.

Kṛṣṇa, you got us into this fight. You have to get us out. Even as I was thinking this, Kṛṣṇa ripped me out of my bedrock with both arms. I started shedding gold and antimony and silver from my veins. He opened a pit below me, and stood there, balancing me on his left hand, while the whole community drove their cows and calves into it.

It wasn't a smooth transition at all. Loose rocks and trees fell from my summits as I trembled feverishly. I could hear the Vidyādharas and the Uragas, the Gandharvas and the Ṛṣis, all murmuring musically, "This hill has spread his wings and taken flight!" We hills and mountains used to have wings, until Śakra cut them off with his thunderbolt long ago. And that's really how I looked, like a giant bird, lifting up my crags like talons and with my plateaus flailing and flapping all around!

The peacocks on my slopes went crazy, thinking that the ground under their feet was mixing into the clouds above. Furious cobras, spreading their hoods wide, slithered out of their collapsing and water-filled burrows in such a hurry that they found themselves flying in the sky all around me. Frightened birds, trying repeatedly to fly away, fell headlong every time under the pelting rain. My lions roared back at the thundering clouds, while my tigers roared like butter-churns at work.

Until today, I was a habitat. Today, with this canopy of clouds above me, I've turned into a house! Kṛṣṇa, will you put me down again when this is over, or will I be fixed in the sky forever, like Tripura pierced by Rudra's arrow?

The whole sky is dark, covered by mountainous black clouds. When the lightning flashes, you can see that some clouds are elephant-shaped, others crocodile-shaped, and others snake-shaped, and they are all moving across each other rapidly. I know that Śakra is up there, riding Airāvata and directing the downpour with storm winds. I am touching the clouds, and the rain dripping from them is trickling right through my aquifers.

The amount of water up there is like an ocean. These are not ordinary rainclouds; they are the Saṃvartaka clouds that flood the whole world when it is time to wrap up the spectacle of life on land. Will I be washed away completely today? Where will I be reborn?

I don't recognize myself anymore, Kṛṣṇa. My craggy spots have been levelled, and my worn paths have become inaccessible. Am I inside-out, or upside-down, like Mataṅga trying to fly up to heaven? Are these clouds passing over me in a dream, or am I finally awake? Gods are called asvapna and animiṣa; they don't dream or even blink, except Viṣṇu who is possessed by Nidrā during the rainy season every year. Only you know if you were serious about me being a God to my people, or it was only your līlā, but while you hold me up here, I know that none of my experiences are a secret from you.