Krishna and Narada - On Divine Playfulness

Narada arrived in Dwaraka after visiting thirty-six different realms, each with its own crisis, each with its own story of divine intervention—or absence.

Narada: "I need to understand something,"

he said without preamble.

Krishna: "You never need anything, Narada. You only want. But ask."

Narada: "Why do you play games?"

Krishna looked up from the scroll he was reading.

Krishna: "Which games?"

Narada: "All of them! The Mahabharata—you could have killed Duryodhana yourself instead of orchestrating an eighteen-day war. The Gopis—you could have simply told them the nature of divine love instead of making them suffer through separation. Even as a child—why steal butter when you could create infinite butter?"

Krishna: "Ah. You're asking why God bothers with drama."

Narada: "I'm asking why you make things complicated when they could be simple."

Krishna: "And if they were simple? If I appeared, solved every problem, and disappeared—what would remain?"

Narada: "Solutions. Happiness. Peace."

Krishna: "Emptiness. Narada, why do you travel between worlds?"

Narada: "To spread devotion."

Krishna: "You could simply send messengers. Or write books. Why travel yourself?"

Narada: "Because... the journey is part of it. Meeting people. Understanding their struggles. Seeing how devotion manifests differently in each realm."

Krishna: "Exactly. The journey is the point. Not the destination. And my 'games,' as you call them, are journeys for souls."

Narada: "But people suffer during these journeys!"

Krishna: "People grow during these journeys. The Pandavas who emerged from exile were not the same Pandavas who entered it. The suffering transformed them. The games, as you call them, are refining fires."

Narada: "Then why not simply tell them the lesson and skip the suffering?"

Krishna: "Have you ever tried to explain color to someone born blind? Or music to someone born deaf? Some truths cannot be transmitted through words. They must be lived. The Gopis didn't understand divine love because I explained it—they understood it because they experienced longing, loss, and reunion."

Narada: "But it seems cruel."

Krishna: "Does it? Or does it seem loving? I could have been a distant god who occasionally blessed people. Instead, I chose to be present. To play with them. To joke with them. To let them be angry at me. To have relationships—complicated, messy, human relationships—rather than worship."

Narada: "You prefer relationship to worship?"

Krishna: "I prefer love to ritual. And love requires engagement. Games, if you will. When Yashoda chases me for stealing butter, she forgets I am God—she remembers only that I am her son who needs scolding. In that forgetting is the purest love. She loves me, not my divinity."

Narada: "But you ARE divinity."

Krishna: "I am also Krishna. The boy who played by the Yamuna. The teenager who danced with the Gopis. The man who befriended Arjuna and counseled Draupadi. If I appeared only as divinity, I would be worshipped but not known. The games let me be known."

Narada considered this.

Narada: "So the universe is... a game?"

Krishna: "The universe is a lila. A play. But not in the sense of something trivial—in the sense of something joyful. Even the tragedies are part of the play. Even the suffering. Because within the play, growth happens. Connection happens. Love happens."

Narada: "And when the play ends?"

Krishna: "It begins again. Different characters. Different stories. Same love. Always the same love."

Narada smiled.

Narada: "I travel thirty-six realms and learn less than I learn in one conversation with you."

Krishna: "That's also part of the play. Sometimes wisdom comes easy. Sometimes it comes hard. The variation keeps things interesting."

Narada: "For whom? You or us?"

Krishna: "Yes,"

Krishna said, and his smile held all the mischief of a boy who had just stolen butter—and all the wisdom of the one who churned the cosmos into existence.