The Story of the Boy Gopala

"O mother! I am so afraid to go to school through the woods alone; other boys have servants or somebody to bring them to school or take them home—why cannot I have someone to bring me home?”—thus said Gopāla, a little Brahmin boy, to his mother one winter afternoon when he was getting ready for school. The school hours were in the morning and afternoon. It was dark when the school closed in the afternoon, and the path lay through the woods.

Gopāla’s mother was a widow. His father who had lived as a Brahmin should—never caring for the goods of the world, studying and teaching, worshipping and helping others to worship—died when Gopāla was a baby. And the poor widow retired entirely from the concerns of the world—even from that little she ever had—her soul given entirely to God, and waiting patiently with prayers, fasting, and discipline, for the great deliverer death, to meet in another life, him who was the eternal companion of her joys and sorrows, her partner in the good and evil of the beginningless chain of lives. She lived in her little cottage. A small rice-field her husband received as sacred gift to learning brought her sufficient rice; and the piece of land that surrounded her cottage, with its clumps of bamboos, a few cocoanut palms, a few mangoes, and lichis, with the help of the kindly village folk, brought forth sufficient vegetables all the year round. For the rest, she worked hard every day for hours at the spinning-wheel.

She was up long before the rosy dawn touched the tufted heads of the palms, long before the birds had begun to warble in their nests, and sitting on her bed—a mat on the ground covered with a blanket—repeated the sacred names of the holy women of the past, saluted the ancient sages, recited the sacred names of Nārāyana the Refuge of mankind, of Shiva the merciful, of Tārā the Saviour Mother; and above all, (she) prayed to Him whom her heart most loved, Krishna, who had taken the form of Gopāla, a cowherd, to teach and save mankind, and rejoiced that by one day she was nearer to him who had gone ahead, and with him nearer by day to Him, the Cowherd.

Before the light of the day, she had her bath in the neighbouring stream, praying that her mind might be made as clean by the mercy of Krishna, as her body by the water. Then she put on her fresh-washed white cotton garment, collected some flowers, rubbed a piece of sandalwood on a circular stone with a little water to make a fragrant paste, gathered a few sweet-scented Tulasi leaves, and retired into a little room in the cottage, kept apart for worship. In this room she kept her Baby Cowherd; on a small wooden throne under a small silk canopy; on a small velvet cushion, almost covered with flowers, was placed a bronze image of Krishna as a baby. Her mother’s heart could only be satisfied by conceiving God as her baby. Many and many a time her learned husband had talked to her of Him who is preached in the Vedas, the formless, the infinite, the impersonal. She listened with all attention, and the conclusion was always the same—what is written in the Vedas must be true; but, oh! it was so immense, so far off, and she, only a weak, ignorant woman; and then, it was also written: “In whatsoever form one seeks Me, I reach him in that form, for all mankind are but following the paths I laid down for them”—and that was enough. She wanted to know no more. And there she was—all of the devotion, of faith, of love her heart was capable of, was there in Krishna, the Baby Cowherd, and all that heart entwined round the visible Cowherd, this little bronze image. Then again she had heard: “Serve Me as you would a being of flesh and blood, with love and purity, and I accept that all.” So she served as she would a master, a beloved teacher, above all, as she would serve the apple of her eye, her only child, her son.

So she bathed and dressed the image, burned incense before it, and for offering?—oh, she was so poor!—but with tears in her eyes she remembered her husband reading from the books: “I accept with gladness even leaves and flowers, fruits and water, whatever is offered with love”, and she offered: “Thou for whom the world of flowers bloom, accept my few common flowers. Thou who feedest the universe, accept my poor offerings of fruits. I am weak, I am ignorant. I do not know how to approach Thee, how to worship Thee, my God, my Cowherd, my child; let my worship be pure, my love for Thee selfless; and if there is any virtue in worship, let it be Thine, grant me only love, love that never asks for anything—‘never seeks for anything but love’.” Perchance the mendicant in his morning call was singing in the little yard:

Thy knowledge, man! I value not, It is thy love I fear; It is thy love that shakes My throne, Brings God to human tear. For love behold the Lord of all, The formless, ever free, Is made to take the human form To play and live with thee. What learning, they of Vrindā’s groves, The herdsmen, ever got? What science, girls that milked the kine? They loved, and Me they bought.

Then, in the Divine, the mother-heart found her earthly son Gopāla (lit. cowherd), named after the Divine Cowherd. And the soul which would almost mechanically move among its earthly surroundings—which, as it were, was constantly floating in a heavenly ether ready to drift away from contact of things material found its earthly moorings in her child. It was the only thing left to her to pile all her earthly joys and love on. Were not her movements, her thoughts, her pleasures, her very life for that little one that bound her to life?

For years she watched over the day-to-day unfolding of that baby life with all a mother’s care; and now that he was old enough to go to school, how hard she worked for months to get the necessaries for the young scholar!

The necessaries however were few. In a land where men contentedly pass their lives poring over books in the light of a mud lamp, with an ounce of oil in which is a thin cotton wick—a rush mat being the only furniture about them—the necessaries of a student are not many. Yet there were some, and even those cost many a day of hard work to the poor mother.

How for days she toiled over her wheel to buy Gopāla a new cotton Dhoti and a piece of cotton Chādar, the under and upper coverings, the small mat in which Gopāla was to put his bundle of palm leaves for writing and his reed pens, and which he was to carry rolled up under his arm to be used as his seat at school—and the inkstand. And what joy to her it was, when on a day of good omen Gopāla attempted to write his first letters, only a mother’s heart, a poor mother’s, can know!

But today there is a dark shadow in her mind. Gopāla is frightened to go alone through the wood. Never before had she felt her widowhood, her loneliness, her poverty so bitter. For a moment it was all dark, but she recalled to her mind what she had heard of the eternal promise: “Those that depend on Me giving up all other thoughts, to them I Myself carry whatever is necessary.” And she was one of the souls who could believe.

So the mother wiped her tears and told her child that he need not fear. For in those woods lived another son of hers tending cattle, and also called Gopāla; and if he was ever afraid passing through them, he had only to call on brother Gopāla!

The child was that mother’s son, and he believed.

That day, coming home from school through the wood, Gopāla was frightened and called upon his brother Gopāla, the cowherd: “Brother cowherd, are you here? Mother said you are, and I am to call on you: I am frightened being alone.” And a voice came from behind the trees: “Don’t be afraid, little brother, I am here; go home without fear.”

Thus every day the boy called, and the voice answered. The mother heard of it with wonder and love; and she instructed her child to ask the brother of the wood to show himself the next time.

The next day the boy, when passing through the woods, called upon his brother. The voice came as usual, but the boy asked the brother in the woods to show himself to him. The voice replied, “I am busy today, brother, and cannot come.” But the boy insisted, and out of the shade of the trees came the Cowherd of the woods, a boy dressed in the garb of cowherds, with a little crown on his head in which were peacock’s feathers, and the cowherd’s flute in his hands.

And they were so happy: they played together for hours in the woods, climbing trees, gathering fruits and flowers—the widow’s Gopāla and the Gopāla of the woods, till it was almost late for school. Then the widow’s Gopāla went to school with a reluctant heart, and nearly forgot all his lesson, his mind eager to return to the woods and play with his brother.

Months passed this wise. The poor mother heard of it day by day and, in the joy of this Divine mercy, forgot her widowhood, her poverty, and blessed her miseries a thousand times.

Then there came some religious ceremonies which the teacher had to perform in honour of his ancestors. These village teachers, managing alone a number of boys and receiving no fixed fees from them, have to depend a great deal upon presents when the occasion requires them.

Each pupil brought in his share, in goods or money. And Gopāla, the orphan, the widow’s son!—the other boys smiled a smile of contempt on him when they talked of the present they were bringing.

That night Gopāla’s heart was heavy, and he asked his mother for some present for the teacher, and the poor mother had nothing.

But she determined to do what she had been doing all her life, to depend on the Cowherd, and told her son to ask from his brother Gopāla in the forests for some present for the teacher.

The next day, after Gopāla had met the Cowherd boy in the woods as usual and after they had some games together, Gopāla told his brother of the forest the grief that was in his mind and begged him to give him something to present his teacher with.

“Brother Gopāla,” said the cowherd, “I am only a cowherd you see, and have no money, but take this pot of cream as from a poor cowherd and present it to your teacher.”

Gopāla, quite glad that he now had something to give his teacher, more so because it was a present from his brother in the forest, hastened to the home of the teacher and stood with an eager heart behind a crowd of boys handing over their presents to the teacher. Many and varied were the presents they had brought, and no one thought of looking even at the present of the orphan.

The neglect was quite disheartening; tears stood in the eyes of Gopāla, when by a sudden stroke of fortune the teacher happened to take notice of him. He took the small pot of cream from Gopāla’s hand, and poured the cream into a big vessel, when to his wonder the pot filled up again! Again he emptied the contents into a bigger vessel, again it was full; and thus it went on, the small pot filling up quicker than he could empty it.

Then amazement took hold of everyone; and the teacher took the poor orphan in his arms and inquired about the pot of cream.

Gopāla told his teacher all about his brother Cowherd in the forest, how he answered his call, how he played with him, and how at last he gave him the pot of cream.

The teacher asked Gopāla to take him to the woods and show him his brother of the woods, and Gopāla was only too glad to take his teacher there.

The boy called upon his brother to appear, but there was no voice even that day. He called again and again. No answer. And then the boy entreated his brother in the forest to speak, else the teacher would think he was not speaking the truth. Then came the voice as from a great distance:

“Gopāla, thy mother’s and thy love and faith brought Me to thee; but tell thy teacher, he will have to wait a long while yet.”