Story Prism

Krishna and the Govardhan Hill is a story of courage and faith from the Bhagavad Gita, a famous Hindu scripture Free activity sheet available at www.rituvaish.com/krishna-and-the-govardhan-hill Send your artwork to [email protected]. Transcript The rain had been falling for hours. Not the gentle rain that makes the earth smell fresh. Not the rain that makes children run outside with their faces turned towards the sky. This was different. The clouds were black and swollen, rolling across the sky like enormous mountains. Lightning tore through the darkness. Thunder shook the ground. The cows huddled together, frightened. Children clung to their mothers. The little village of Vrindavan had never seen a storm like this. And then— another flash of lightning. Another deafening crash. A little boy stood in the middle of it all. His clothes were soaked. His curls were dripping with rain. But strangely…he wasn't frightened. And was smiling. He was Little Krishna! Krishna looked towards the enormous Govardhan Hill. Then he turned to the people of Vrindavan and said, “Do not be afraid.” There was something in his voice that made everyone stop. “Come with me.” But what had caused this terrible storm? Why was the king of the gods angry with a village of cowherds? And why was a young boy about to do something that no human being could possibly do? To understand that……listen ahead It was festival time in Vrindavan. The village was buzzing with excitement. Women were preparing mountains of food. There were sweets, rice, vegetables, fruits and freshly churned butter. Children, which is your favourite sweet? The cows were being washed and decorated. Children ran through the streets. Everyone was getting ready to worship Indra, the god of rain and storms. After all, the villagers depended on the rain. Children, do you also think that rain is important? Why?? Rain filled their ponds. Rain nourished their crops. Rain gave them grass for their cows. So they believed they owed Indra their prayers and thanks. And they had followed this tradition for generations. But there was one person who was not convinced. Krishna. He was still a child. Yet he had a habit that sometimes made the grown-ups uncomfortable. He asked questions. Lots of questions. Krishna watched everyone preparing the offerings. Then he asked his father, “Why are we doing this?” His father smiled. “Because, Krishna, we must honour Indra. He gives us the rain.” Krishna thought for a moment. Then he asked, “Does he give us the grass?” His father hesitated. “Well… the rain helps the grass grow.” Krishna continued. “Who gives our cows a place to graze?” “The earth.” “And where do our cows graze?” “On Govardhan Hill.” Krishna's eyes lit up. “So perhaps,” he said, “we should thank Govardhan Hill too.” The adults laughed. But Krishna wasn't finished. He looked around at the fields, the cows, the trees and the mountain. “We work hard. Our cows give us milk. The earth gives us food. Govardhan gives our cows grass and gives us water and shelter.” Then he asked the simplest question of all: “Why don't we celebrate what is actually part of our lives?” The villagers fell silent. Children, what do you think was Krishna thinking ?? Well, Krishna suggested something completely unexpected. Instead of preparing an offering for Indra… they should celebrate Govardhan Hill. They should thank the earth. Thank the cows. Thank the farmers. Thank the mountain. And so the villagers followed Krishna's advice. They carried their food to Govardhan Hill. They decorated the cows. They sang. They danced. They offered their food with joy. The village celebrated. But far away…someone was watching. Lord Indra: The king of the gods. And he was furious. “How dare they?” He had expected their offerings and prayers. Instead, they had turned their celebration towards a mountain. Indra's anger grew. And when the king of the gods becomes angry… the sky listens. The first cloud appeared. Then another. Then hundreds. The sky darkened. The wind howled. And suddenly— The rain began. It poured down upon Vrindavan, but it was no ordinary rain. The storm grew stronger. Water rushed through the streets. Trees bent beneath the wind. The cows cried out. Children screamed. People ran desperately for shelter. And above them all, Indra commanded the clouds: “Let the storm continue!” The villagers were terrified. The water rose higher. Their homes began to flood. The wind became almost impossible to stand against. Then Krishna looked at Govardhan Hill. He knew what he had to do. Krishna walked towards the mountain. The villagers stared at him. What could one little boy possibly do? Krishna placed one hand beneath Govardhan Hill. And then— he lifted it. The enormous mountain rose from the earth. As easily as someone might lift an umbrella. Krishna held it above his head. “Come!” he called. The villagers stared. Then slowly… they began to move. Families hurried beneath the mountain. The cows followed. Children came running. Soon, the entire village was sheltered beneath Govardhan Hill. And Krishna stood there… holding the mountain on one finger, for seven days and seven nights. Children, think about that. Seven days. Seven nights. The storm raged outside. But beneath the mountain there was something extraordinary. The villagers were together. They shared food. They comforted frightened children. They looked after the cows. They told stories. They sang. And gradually, they stopped being afraid. Perhaps they also began to understand something. Krishna had not simply saved them. He had brought them together. Outside, the storm continued. But Indra was beginning to realise that his anger had accomplished nothing. The people were safe. The mountain had become their shelter. And the little boy he had underestimated… had shown a strength far greater than his own anger. At last, Indra understood. He had allowed his pride to take control. And so he stopped the storm. The clouds disappeared. The rain faded. And sunlight returned to Vrindavan. Krishna gently placed Govardhan Hill back where it belonged. The villagers stepped out. The sky was blue again. And everyone looked at Krishna. The little boy simply smiled. The story of Govardhan teaches us to be brave, thankful, and united during difficult times.

Long, long ago, when mountains were believed to be the homes of powerful spirits, a terrible black dragon lived high on Mount Baekdu. Now, this was no ordinary dragon. Long ago, he had been thrown out of heaven because of his cruel and wicked nature. Instead of learning from his mistakes, he became even more selfish and angry. From the top of the mountain, he ruled over the nearby villages through fear. Children, can you imagine one cruel thing he did? Let’s listen ahead He demanded that the villagers build him a grand palace. He demanded chests filled with precious treasures. He demanded baskets overflowing with delicious food. The frightened villagers obeyed. They were too terrified to refuse. But then... The black dragon made a demand so cruel that the entire village fell silent. He ordered the people to sacrifice their own sons and daughters to him. The villagers looked at one another in horror. "No," they whispered. "We cannot do this." For the first time, they stood together against the dragon. The black dragon was furious. With a mighty roar, he smashed part of the mountainside. Rocks and earth crashed down, blocking the rivers and streams that carried water to the villages below. Children, why do we need water? That’s great! Soon, the wells ran dry. The streams disappeared. The crops on the fields dried. Trees drooped. Flowers wilted. Even the birds stopped singing. The people had almost no water to drink. Day after day, they gathered beneath the open sky and prayed. "Please," they cried, "Send someone to save us." One hundred long days passed. Then... The clouds began to swirl. Thunder rolled across the mountain. A flash of brilliant blue streaked through the sky. Out of the clouds descended a magnificent blue dragon. His scales shimmered like the deepest ocean. His eyes glowed with kindness. His voice echoed across the mountains. "Black Dragon!" he called. "You were cast out of heaven because of your wickedness. Yet instead of changing, you continue to bring suffering to innocent people." The black dragon laughed. "I am the king here," he roared. "Anyone who dares challenge me will not survive!" With that, he breathed out a river of blazing fire. The flames raced across the mountainside. But the blue dragon rose into the sky and summoned dark rain clouds. Rain poured down heavily, hissing as it met the flames. The fire disappeared. Then the battle truly began. The dragons circled through the sky. They clashed among the clouds. Their roars shook the mountains. Lightning flashed. Thunder boomed. For days they fought. Neither dragon would give up. Finally, exhausted and wounded, both dragons crashed to the ground. For a long moment... everything was silent. Then the blue dragon heard something. Soft voices. The villagers. They were crying. Gathering the last of his strength, the blue dragon lifted his head and called out to the heavens. "Lightning!" "Strike down the evil!" A brilliant bolt flashed across the sky. It struck the black dragon with tremendous force. The mountain echoed with one final roar. The evil dragon would never rise again. The blue dragon looked at the grand palace that had been built through fear and suffering. With one mighty sweep of his tail, he destroyed it completely. In its place, fresh mountain water began to flow. The crater slowly filled until it became a sparkling lake, so clear that it reflected both the sky above and the clouds drifting by. The blue dragon remained there, watching over the lake and sending its cool, pure water into every stream and river below. The wells filled once again. The fields turned green. Flowers bloomed. Birds returned. And laughter echoed through the villages. The people named the beautiful lake Cheonji—Heaven Lake—because they believed it was a gift from heaven itself. Even today, visitors standing beside the peaceful waters sometimes whisper that, if they are very lucky... they might catch a glimpse of a blue dragon rising silently from the lake before disappearing into the clouds. And perhaps... just perhaps... the guardian of Heaven Lake is still watching over Mount Baekdu. Thank you for listening to this ancient Korean folktale. Until our next story, keep wondering, keep imagining, and remember—every mountain has a story waiting to be told.

Long ago, in a small village nestled among green hills, the villagers had a problem. They did not trust strangers. Whenever a traveler arrived, doors would close. Windows would lock. And everyone would pretend they had nothing to share. One evening, a group of tired and hungry travellers arrived at an unfamiliar village. They had been walking all day and were hoping to find a warm meal and a place to rest for the night. "Good evening!" they called. But the villagers quickly hid inside their homes. The travellers knocked on a door. "Could you spare a little food?" they asked politely. "I'm sorry," replied the woman inside. "I have nothing to spare." The travellers tried another house. Again, the answer was the same. "I have nothing." "I have no food." "I cannot help." Disappointed but determined, the travellers gathered in the village square and whispered among themselves. Children, what do you think they were discussing? Great…Let’s listen to the story As the travellers whispered to each other one of them spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear. "What a pity! If only we had a large pot of water and a fire, we could make our famous stone soup." The villagers looked at one another in surprise. "Stone soup?" they murmured. "What is stone soup?" Children, have you ever heard of a soup made of stones? Curiosity soon got the better of them. Before long, someone brought a large cooking pot filled with water. Others gathered wood and helped build a fire beneath the pot. As the water began to warm, one of the travellers reached into his pocket and pulled out a clean, round stone. With great ceremony, he dropped it into the pot. Plop! By now, a crowd had gathered around to watch. They all peeped into the big pot excited to see what a stone soup looked like Then the traveller stirred the pot thoughtfully and then dipped a finger into the water to taste it. "Mmm," he said. "This stone soup is already quite delicious. But it would be even better with a little onion." An old woman in the crowd spoke up. "I believe I have a spare onion at home." She hurried away and soon returned with it. The onion was chopped and added to the pot. A little later, the traveller tasted the soup again. "Wonderful!" he exclaimed. "Now, if only we had a carrot or two." A farmer smiled. "I can spare some carrots." Into the pot they went. As the evening wore on, the travellers continued to taste the soup and make suggestions. Each time, a villager remembered something they could contribute. A few potatoes appeared. Then some cabbage. A pinch of salt. A knob of butter. A handful of celery. A few tomatoes. Even some meat. With every new ingredient, the soup became richer and more fragrant. Soon, a wonderful aroma drifted through the village, making everyone's mouths water. At last, the travellers tasted the soup one final time. "Perfect!" they declared. "The stone soup is ready." The villagers eagerly filled their bowls. The travellers did the same. Together, they sat around the fire, eating, laughing and sharing stories. It was the most delicious meal any of them could remember. Children what is your favourite soup? Great! That night, grateful for the feast and the companionship, the villagers had a change of heart. They invited the travellers to stay in their homes. As for the mysterious stone, it had done nothing more than sit quietly in the pot. Yet it had helped everyone discover an important truth: when people share what they have, even if it seems small, together they can create something wonderful. And from that day on, the village became known for its generosity, always welcoming travellers with warmth, kindness and a hearty meal.

In the grand court of Emperor Krishnadevaraya, ruler of the mighty Vijayanagara Empire, wisdom glittered brighter than gold… and sometimes, so did foolishness. And where there was foolishness— there was Tenali Raman. It was the season of mangoes. Children, can you tell me the taste of the mangoes? Yes! Indeed they are sweet and juicy! The air was thick with their perfume—sweet, sun-warmed, irresistible. Golden mangoes arrived in baskets from across the kingdom, each one glowing like a captured sunset. Now, the emperor had recently lost his beloved mother. Before her passing, she had whispered a simple wish: “If only I could taste one more mango…” But it was not mango season then. The wish lingered in the king’s heart like an unfinished prayer. The greedy Rajguru convinced the king to give golden mangoes to Brahmins to please her soul. So when mango season finally arrived, the emperor (did what grief often makes us do—he tried to fill the ache with grandeur.) ordered that golden mangoes be crafted—solid gold, studded with precious gems—and gifted to learned Brahmins in his mother’s memory. The court priests nodded solemnly. The goldsmiths worked tirelessly. The treasury… quietly trembled. One by one, richly dressed priests came forward and received a golden mango each. But among the courtiers stood Tenali Raman, who watching the greed of the brahmins (sparkle brighter than devotion.) ,Tenali that evening invited the same Brahmins to his humble home. They arrived eagerly. After all, Tenali was known to be close to the king. So they thought perhaps there would be more gifts? Inside, a large iron rod lay in the fireplace, heating slowly… steadily… glowing red. Children, can you guess what was on Tenali Raman’s mind? Let’s listen ahead. The Brahmins shifted uneasily. Tenali folded his hands and said gently, “My mother, too, had a final wish before she passed away. She longed for relief from her knee pain. The healer had advised a hot iron branding, meaning touching with hot iron to leave a mark—If my mother had a chance to get a hot iron branding it would have cured her.” He paused. “Alas, she passed away before we could fulfill that wish. So today, in her memory, I shall brand each of you… to complete her unfulfilled desire.” The Brahmins gasped. “Brand us?!” “This is madness!” “We will complain to the king!” Tenali smiled calmly. “But did you not just accept golden mangoes to fulfil the emperor’s mother’s last wish? If that act brings peace to her soul… surely this will bring peace to mine.” Silence fell. (Understanding dawned. Their greed had dressed itself as ritual. Their piety had worn the mask of profit.) Ashamed, the Brahmins rushed back to the palace and returned the golden mangoes. When the king heard what had happened, he summoned Tenali. “Was this necessary?” the emperor asked, though a smile tugged at his lips. Tenali bowed. “Your Majesty, true devotion does not weigh itself in gold. A mango given in love is worth more than a hundred made of metal.” The king looked at the returned treasures… and then at his wise jester. The king recognizes the folly of the scheme and rewards Tenali for his quick wit and honesty. And that day, in the court of Vijayanagara, wisdom ripened sweeter than mangoes.

In the grand court of Emperor Akbar, where jewels sparkled, wisdom flowed, and courtiers competed to impress, there once arrived a visitor from Persia. He did not bring gold. He did not bring silk. He brought… a challenge. Under a velvet cloth lay a magnificent lion—(carved entirely from solid wax.) The Persian merchant bowed low and announced, “O mighty Emperor! This lion has been locked inside this iron cage without opening the cage door. If anyone in your court can remove it without breaking the cage, I shall accept defeat. If not… your court’s famed intelligence is but a rumour.” A hush fell over the court. The cage was strong. The bars were thick. The door was sealed. One by one, ministers examined it. They pushed. They pulled. They peered. They puzzled. But the lion sat inside—silent, golden, and impossible. Akbar frowned. His pride trembled. “Is there no one,” he thundered softly, “who can solve this?” From the back of the court, a familiar calm voice rose. “Jahanpanah, may I try?” Children, can you guess who that was?? Indeed, It was Birbal. With steady steps and a twinkle in his eye, Birbal walked toward the cage. He did not touch the bars. He did not shake the lock. Instead, he asked for a long iron rod… and a flame. The court whispered. What was he planning? Birbal heated the iron rod in the fire until it glowed red—fiery, fierce, fearless. Then, slowly, carefully, he slid the hot rod through the bars and touched the lion. There was a pause. A drip. Another drip. Before the astonished eyes of the court, the majestic lion began to melt. Its fierce face softened… its proud mane collapsed… its mighty paws dissolved. Within minutes, the lion was no more than a puddle of wax at the bottom of the cage. Birbal stepped back and smiled. “The lion was never truly trapped,” he said gently. “It only needed the right perspective.” The Persian merchant lowered his head in admiration. “Indeed,” he admitted, “Akbar’s court is as wise as the world claims.” Akbar beamed. Pride returned. Laughter echoed. And once again, Birbal proved— Strength may roar. Locks may intimidate. But intelligence… melts the impossible.