THE HEART OF A GOPI

THE HEART OF A GOPI
By RAIHANA TYABJI

East-West Publications Fund
c/o B/12 Nizamuddin West.
New Delhi-110013, India.

© Copyright 1971
East-West Publications Fund
78, Anna Paulowna Straat
P.O. Box 7617, The Hague, Holland
Printed at The Military Press, Lajpat Nagar, New Delhi-110024

The First Day

So, this is Gokul.

But yesterday I lived and moved and had my being in a palace, and to-day—today I am in a hut! But yes­terday I was a rich man’s beloved daughter, and to-day I am the wife of a Gauli! Where are my father’ and mother now? Fled from the wrath of the King—their daughter delivered to her saviour—Do they remember me? Perhaps they are at peace, knowing that I am safe. And, truly, that is much to be thankful for in these troublous times. Where are they hidden? He knows. But he will not tell even me, for the tongues of women, he says, wag in their sleep. But they are securely hidden, of that he assures me. And to me he could not lie. But yesterday—or is it a thousand yugas or a thousand kalpas ago?—I was clad in silk, and to-day but a red rag conceals my nakedness. (Yet He likes the colour.) And yesterday I picked flowers with my sakhis, and many maidens hung upon my lips to fulfil my slightest command. To-day I must go milk his cows with other milk-maidens, and it is I—Sharmila, daughter of the great chief—(hush! his name must not even be whispered, not even thought of!)—who have to wait on the father, mother, sisters of a Gauli! Is it a dream? Nay, this hut is real. And this red rag that covers me is real. And the ground is real, whereon I slept. But yesterday —but why remember yesterday? Our Guru spoke truly when he advised my father to look upon the past as unreal, since it was not, and the future as unreal since it, also, was not—is not…………………..

Yea, this Gokul is pleasant. He, this Gauli, who, having saved my life, hath made it his own, is kind to me. And his father is kind. My mother-in-law ……Ah, to her I am a stranger. She loves her son.

And how may she love me, who, so she thinks, have taken her son from her ? And his sisters………………. But I will not think of his sisters. For what said our Guru? “See not the faults of others, and, if thou seest, speak not of them.” Ah, Guruji, never more may I hear your words of wisdom! Yet, having heard some, let me act upon them. So, perhaps, peace might come. For my heart is nigh to bursting, and my head swims and reels, and mine eyes burn with the tears that surge against them………  Nay, nay, courage, Sharmila!

For what said the Guru ? “He alone is brave who, in darkness, thinks on the light.” And I am brave. For do I not come of a long line of chiefs who were famous for their courage and skill in arms ? Gokul, perhaps, hath some gift in store for me. Perhaps 1 For did not the Guru swear, that God takes with one Hand but to give more with the Other ? Courage, Sharmila ! Let me think on the light.

This Gokul is truly a pleasant place ! How the birds sing ! “Pee Fee Pee! ” and “Piyu Piyu.” Ever “Pee” and “Piyu! ” What know they of “Pees” and of “Piyus? ” And what did Sharmila know ? But yes­terday—but yesterday she knew naught of “Pees” and of “Piyus.” And to-day—to-day ?—Ah, to-day she knows ! How brave the trees sway to the wind ! And see how the Madhu-Malati clings to them with green tendrils, winding and clutching…. They are as the arms of a loving woman around her stalwart lord. And the Papeeha sings the love that runs like sap through their green veins. And the breeze is like a child, now playing with this blossom, now with that. And the flowers are as the thoughts of a mother! about her child…… Yea, verily it is pleasant, this Gokul!

But what is this ? Is all nature but a mirror of man ?

New thoughts come thronging into my mind, till my head is like to burst with them……….

Alas, my saree is torn ! And he will be sad. I would not have him sad. But yesterday I knew not of his existence, and to-day—to-day I would not have him sad ! Strange, strange is the heart of a maid ! At dawn he came upon me kneeling by the streamlet that runs through yon farther grove, I had loosened my hair, and the ‘tilak’ was fresh upon my forehead. He said, “Truly, truly, thou art like a creeper, and a flower, and this stream, and the river…………  I know not what thou art like, and what thou art not like ! For all the beauty of the universe is contained in thee.” Whereat the blood came into my cheeks, and my head dropped lower. Then said he, gentle and thoughtful, and yet in a voice strangely glad, “And the ‘tilak’ on thy brow is like a red sun in a champak sky, and thy brows are as two inverted crescents in sheathes of night…….  And thy mouth, truly, was created by Madan for the undoing of poor mortals like fine…” Never had mine ears heard such words. I was dumb,  and stricken with fear and joy all at one and the same moment,—though I know not how this may be? And then I peeped at him through my lashes, and the sight of that strong, god-like hero kneeling before a woman’s weakness filled me with a sudden sense of power, and I knew that iny weakness itself made my power. And, overcome with the contradictions that are the essence of a woman, I smiled. He reeled then, and cried, hand on eyes, “Ah ! Thou hast vanquished me! Thou hast vanquished……………..  ” I would have asked him how, but that my mother-in-law sent her younger daughter to fetch me……… Ah! I forget. I turned once and peered into the stream to see if my hair had been parted straight. “Mine eyes are clear,” he said. “Make them thy mirror.” But when I would have looked into his eyes, I could not. I know not why.

But he must be hungry now. I must take him his pot of butter-milk, as his mother bid me. I could find it in my heart to love his mother. He is precious to her.

My sisters-in-law have cleaned the pots and pans, but not to my liking ! I will clean his pot with mine own hands before I fill it with the chhachh.

Truly, this Gokul is a pleasant place. If but my father and mother were here !

I must water that Tulsi plant from which he pluck­ed leaves for worship………

The Next Day

The water in the Jamuna at dawn is like running crystal, and the sky at dawn is like a great sheet of crystal, filmed with delicate tints whose names I know not. And there is a hush upon the earth, as though all things prayed. And the breeze that ruffles the water of the Jamuna is like a message from a land where Gods dwell. It was pleasant going with my companions to the Ghat in the early morning. And the bathing was pleasant, and the songs, and talk, and laughter. We flung water upon one another, and wetted one another’s hair, and my sakhis cried “Hari! Hari!” And some wept—I understand it not! And one cried “Gopala! ” and well nigh swooned. And one said. “Mine eyes thirst for the sight of him.” And another, “Mine ears are, as it were, perpetually pricked for the sound of his flute.” And a third said, “My heart breaks. When will he come? ” And a fourth, “Life is intolerable without Hari.” And one said, “Yet, even, thought of him is as rest, and food, and drink to the fainting soul.” And another sighed and beat her breasts in silence. But one. said. “True, true. But life is also intolerable because of him!” And there was a great outcry at her words, and all said, “How? Intolerable ? What meanest thou? Thou ungrateful, unloving one!” And there was such a babel of voices, that I clean forgot to ask who “he” was! (I will ask him.) But when the Gopis all turned upon her, that one that had said life was “intolerable because of “him”, lifted her gagar to her head, then, supporting it with one hand, raised the other for silence.

“Yea,” she said at last. “I say, because of him. For my husband, who loves me, is filled with wrath at what he calls my, “obsession” and will not eat food cooked by me, and mother-in-law will not talk to me, and my sisters-in-law make my life a misery with their taunts and harsh speech. So I say, would this Krishna were at the bottom of the Jamuna!”

And so saying, she turned and walked away, one hand on her gagar, the other on her swaying hip. And her back itself seemed, as it were, to cry out wrath and despair.

My companions seemed to be stupefied at her words, but one said, after a while, “Krishna be prai­sed! All men are not like the husband of that unfor­tunate one ! What, jealous! and of Krishna! ” Whereat all the Gopis laughed in merry contempt. As for me, I wondered so much who this “Krishna’’ might be that I forgot’ even to ask! It is a sweet name. “Krishna”. Who can he be ?

A Week Later

It is eight days since I came to Gokul, and now that old life with its pomps and ceremonies, its arti­ficial gaiety and pleasures, is as a dream. Brindaban grows upon the spirit. It steals into the heart until one becomes its mirror, and one’s soul responds to and echoes its colourful music. I thought at first the life would be dreary, and the daily tasks such hateful drudgery as I could never endure. But it is not so. The early morning bath at the Ghat, the gleaming pots of milk and dahi, the lowing of the cows, the tinkling of their bells mingling with the chiming of our anklets, the swish and fragrance of the warm, frothy milk as it streams into the pails, even the warm breath of the cows, filled with the fragrance of lush grass, is truly delightful! The verdure of the woods around, the scent of flowers and the hymns of birds, the swaying of the trees, the ‘‘Sain Sain” of the breeze as it slips through the tree-tops, all these lull my spirit to a deep content. And at night the stars that watch over Brindaban, twinkling their Japa, and the deep, deep mysterious, solemn sky, that seems to be brooding for ever and for ever over a vast secret, and the continu­ous “Om! Ommmm!” of winged creatures that fly by night, and the deep peace that rests over all the world, fill me with awe and a holy joy, and I long to worship and to weep. But never to talk. Within me grows a silence, born of the silence of Brindaban. I know not what it is in the very air of Brindaban, in its very greenness, in its colour, that makes the heart crave to worship. The very Tulsi here seems to be conscious of its holiness, and the milk is nectar, and the dahi and chhachh so delicious that I laugh when I think of the rich food I used to eat and to enjoy. And the water is so pure and clear and sweet that, while thirst is slaked, desire grows for more. And it is pleasure even to sweep and dust and cook and scrub, for this Brindaban is as a temple, and all acts seem here to be pious offerings and sacrifices in love.

He becomes more kind with the passing of. each day, and my life and heart are filled with him. And they are all kind, indeed, except my youngest Nanand —but of her I will not think—no, not even of how she pinched me, because he brought me a new saree, nor of how she pulled my hair, because she saw him car­essing it, nor of how she flung, my milk away, and let me go hungry the whole day, since dry bread still sticks in my throat, and she knows it.

But I will not think of her. For .what said our Guru? “Know, O Chief, that nothing is evil until one makes it so by thinking of it as such.” I laughed at our blessed Guruji then, but I know now what he meant. And I will not think of her as wicked, lest, by thinking, I make her more so. Yet she haunts me. I will think of something beautiful, something joyous, and innocent, and kind

That Krishna seems to be a wonderful being! Who he is, what he does, where he lives, where he is now, all this is a complete mystery. The Gopis know, and speak of him always. I often long to ask them, but some inner reticence, some enjoyment of the mys­tery itself, as also a strange feeling that the very sound of the name arouses within me, checks my idle curio­sity and keeps me silent. “Krishna!” A beautiful name ! A name that steals into my blood as moon­light steals into those silver ripples that play upon the Jamuna. A sweet, sweet word. An exquisite word ! It steals into my heart and illumines it, as the shy moonlight steals into those ‘dark groves yonder and fills them with a tender unearthly radiance. Truly, it is a name full of colour, full of light, full of music: “Krishna!” And he who bears this most sweet name, this Krishna, is he, too, full of colour, full of light full of music ? Ah, one day I shall know! But the know­ledge will come of itself, in its own time. I would not hasten it, for even not to know all about Krishna is sweet! Krishna, in my imperfect knowledge of him, is as the crescent moon, slipping in and out of dark and heavy clouds, so slim, so softly shining,—but a curved hair of light—that oft times it is seen only as a silver dream………. a luminous illusion…………  So that name gleams and slips and hides through and between the folds of my ignorance. Krishna ! Krishna !

Two Days Later

They call him also “Mohan” and “Hari” and “Nand Kishor,” and “Kanhayya,” and “Kanha,” and many, many other names besides. Each new name is like a newly learnt note in a celestial Raga. I collect these pearls of names, that fall sweetly from the lips of my companions, and slip them, as it were, upon the golden wire of my memory, and wear them as a necklace.

This name hath so enthralled me, that oft times I forget all else and remember only “Krishna”! Yet, strange to say, this remembrance is outside my daily life, and in no way affects my relationship with those around me. Yet I must be careful for my lord looked upon me with astonishment this morning when, pluck­ing the Tulsi leaves for him, I suddenly lost myself in that word “Krishna”, and completely forgot him and his puja, and the Tulsi leaves! My lord’s dis­pleasure would be worse than death, for now has he truly become lord of my heart, and I am but a part of him, and nothing at all apart from him. So let me be careful, lest this word “Krishna” rob me com­pletely of my senses, and wound thereby that strong and tender heart that has become my refuge, my stay, my pillar of strength.

Later

As I wandered in the woods with my sakhis to-day, I saw a strange sight. One with hair dishevelled, saree tom, eyes sunken with tears and sleeplessness, hands outstretched in seeking and in supplication, wandered in and out of the trees, stumbling, falling, staggering, as one who had lost her wits. My com­panions paused, and a whisper went round, “Mai Ja­shoda!” “Alas! Poor Jashoda Mai, seeking him who comes not!” “Truly, it breaks my heart to see her!” “Dim are her eyes with tears, and she neither eats, nor sleeps, nor can work.”

“Is this Mai Jashoda? ” I whispered.

As my companion nodded, finger on lips, Mai Jashoda turned towards us, and from her lips came a moan, and then a cry, “Krishna! Krishna!” We went to her, and she asked piteously, looking at each Gopi in turn, “Daughters, have you seen my Krishna ? Truly, I am half dead for lack of him—I can nei­ther sleep nor eat since my Krishna, light of mine eyes, delight of my heart, is no longer here to give sleep its rest and food its savour. Tell me, tell me have you seen Krishna? ”

Her sweet voice broke, and her bosom heaved, as my companions slowly and heavily shook their heads.

“We, too, seek Krishna,” said one, “And our days are as nights without him.”

“There rests a sadness on Brindaban,” said an­other, “And flowers have ceased to blossom, and trees have lost the freshness of their verdure and creepers their lovely suppleness, since Krishna is not here to see them.”

Mai Yashoda sighed.

Then said a third, “My brothers and cousins have lost all craving for food and wander day and night in Brindaban, seeking their truant playmate.”

Mai Jashoda sighed again, and shook her head.

And then said a fourth Gopi, “Ah, Mai, we come to you complaining of that mischievous Kanhayya, who waylays us on our way from the Ghat, and trips us up, stealing behind us as noiselessly as a cat, and runs away with our pots of ghee and, pushing us sud­denly unawares, drenches us with water from our own gagars ! And sometimes his flute sounds from the South, and sometimes from the North, and sometimes from all directions at once, until we are utterly con­founded, and run about here and there, wild and witless, like demented squirrels! And many a scold­ing hath he earned us, and our houses ring with harsh complaints of his roguish tricks.

Yet—yet—better his pranks than his absence ! Truly, we are tired of a Gokul that hath no Krishna.”

And at this Mai Jashoda sank to the ground and wept despairingly, until our hearts were like to Iburst with grief for her.

Alas, it is very sad to see her. My heart aches with pity for her. And how sweet, how sweet she is! Not with the insipid sweetness of sugar, nor the cloy­ing sweetness of honey. Nay, her sweetness springs, as it were, from a union of strength and tenderness, and her eyes look upon all creatures as though they were her own children. She is the Mother, the univer­sal Mother. In mothering Krishna, she seems to have become the mother of the universe itself.

But, who is this Krishna, in whom dwell the light and life and beauty and joy of Gokul ? I shall know. When the time comes, I shall know,

Three Days Later

He hath been seen ! He hath been seen ! We sat on a hillock to-day after our day’s work was done, and made garlands, and laughed, and talked and some sang, and some danced, to lighten the load on their hearts. But there was one who kept silent, and neither talked nor moved, gazing away into the green distances of Brindaban with a strange glow in her eyes, and a mysterious smile on her lips.

Suddenly the Gopis seemed to lose all joy in their sporting, and flung themselves upon the ground, sigh­ing, and one said.

“Play! There is no joy in play without Kanha.”

Then that silent one turned her eyes slowly upon us, and spoke slowly and deliberately, and her words made the Gopis thrill and tremble, and filled the very woods with joy. For she said,

“I have seen him.”

Then the air rang with a very clamour of eager voices.—“Seen him ? Where, oh, where ? Oh, thou blessed one ! Oh, thou beloved of the gods ! Where, where didst thou see him ? When? Tell, tell, speak quickly! How looked he ? Had he his flute with him ? Said he anything ? But art thou sure ?”

Oh, such a hum and babel of voices! The air seemed to be filled with swarms of angry bees…

At last, when the noise of breathless question­ing grew less, she said, that blessed, joyful one, “Yes, I saw him on my way home from taking the bread and milk to my lord. He leaned against an Ashwattha Vraksha, and gazed up into its branches deep in thought. And the murli drooped forgotten in his flower-like hand, and the peacock-feather in his “mugut” stirred not. So absorbed was he, that not even the jingle of my anklets could rouse him. I stood and gazed upon him for long, and his blue radiance filled all my being until I felt drowned in Akasha. 1 know not how nor when I reached home. And to-day I move as in a dream. The sight of him hath cooled these thirsty eyes, and I look for ever inwards, seeing but him.”

And there was silence, then, and when I looked around me, lo, all eyes were brimming, and all faces wet, with tears.

At last, oppressed with the desire to know, my heart leaping and my pulses thrilling with a new sweet joyousness, I asked, “How old is this Krishna? ”

“Ten years old,” answered one Gopi.

“But”—seeing my amazement—, “he is no ordi­nary mortal, to be bound by laws of time and space. Ten years in age, aye, but in wisdom, in strength and beauty, in stature, in power, he is a very God! ”

I was silent awhile, then asked again. “Is he well known, this Krishna? ”

“How should we know?” said my companion carelessly.

“ But you know him,” I said.

“We ? Ah, but we love him! ”

So! I was silent, pondering this. Not all may know Krishna, then, only those who love him. Alas, then shall I never know him ? For how may I love Krishna, I, who love my lord ? Is not my lord the master of my heart and soul ? Is he not my shield, my refuge, the sight of mine eyes, the very beating of my heart ? He, he alone is the temple, the shrine, the idol. Nay, Krishna, I may not love thee, since I love but my lord, and always shall. And alas! Then I may not know thee ? —But how about these

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