The morning after Diwali always feels quieter. The diyas have burned down, the sweets are half finished, and the house smells of smoke and ghee. Govardhan Puja arrives in that stillness, and I’ve come to think the timing is deliberate. After the light and noise, the festival asks one question: what actually holds you up?
The story is simple. The people of Vrindavan were about to offer their usual grand rituals to Indra, the king of the heavens. Krishna, still a boy, asked why. The hill fed their cattle, the rivers watered their fields, and the trees gave them shelter. Why not honour what was in front of them? Indra, offended, sent a deluge. Krishna lifted Govardhan Hill on his little finger, and the whole village stood beneath it for seven days.
As a child I took this as a tale of strength. Now I read it as a tale of attention. Krishna’s miracle came after a quieter act, which was noticing what really sustains us.
Living in Dubai, far from where I grew up, I feel this more each year. We build such efficient lives that the sources of things disappear. Food arrives at the door, water comes from a tap, and comfort is a button. Annakut, the mountain of food offered on this day, pulls the other way. It makes me look at the table and see the soil, the farmer, the rain and the many hands behind it. In a year of climate extremes and uneasy headlines, that old idea of gratitude as ecological awareness feels more practical than poetic.
The little finger is the part I return to most. Krishna doesn’t strain or heave. The shelter holds because the whole village stands under it together. I used to read surrender as giving up. Now I read it as the end of pretending I carry everything alone. Anyone who has run a business, raised a family or kept a household together knows the temptation to be the one who holds the sky up. The story is gentle but firm on this: the mountain is lifted by one finger and held by many people.
There’s also Indra, who is easy to overlook. His storm comes from wounded pride, and I recognise him in myself more than I’d like. Every one of us has stood in the rain of our own ego, convinced the world owes us its offerings. Krishna doesn’t destroy Indra. He outlasts him, and in time the pride runs out of rain.
So this year, between the leftovers and the quiet, I’m asking myself three things. What sustains me that I’ve stopped noticing? Whom do I stand under the hill with? And what storm am I still sending out of pride?
If you’re reading this, you’re probably part of my answer to the second question.
To my family and friends: May your home be full of warmth and your table full of gratitude. May the people you shelter with stay close, and may every storm this year pass over you quickly. Thank you for being the ones who stand beneath the hill with me. Happy Govardhan Puja, and a very happy new year to you all.
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