Krishna and Vrinda - The Curse That Became Tulsi

Vrinda stood before the river, her husband's ashes still swirling in the current. She knew who stood behind her without looking.

Krishna: "So you've come,"

Vrinda: "I thought you might want to speak."

Krishna: "Speak? You want me to speak? After what you did?"

Vishnu—for it was Vishnu she addressed, not yet born as Krishna—remained calm.

Krishna: "After what I did."

Vrinda: "You took his form. My husband's form. You came to me disguised as him, and I— I didn't know. I thought he had returned from battle. I welcomed you. I embraced you. And because of that embrace, my protection was broken. And because my protection was broken, they could kill him."

Krishna: "Yes."

Vrinda: "You used me. You violated me. And you're not even sorry."

Krishna: "I am sorry for your pain. I am not sorry for the action."

Vrinda: "Explain that to me. Explain how a god justifies rape and murder."

Krishna: "Your husband was destroying the cosmos. His power came from your devotion—a devotion so pure that it made him invincible. Nothing in creation could harm him while your virtue remained intact."

Vrinda: "So you destroyed my virtue."

Krishna: "I created a paradox. You were devoted to your husband. I became your husband. Your devotion remained—its object shifted. For a moment, you loved the deceiver more than the husband, and in that moment, the protection faltered."

Vrinda: "Word games. It was still betrayal."

Krishna: "It was war. In war, betrayals happen. The question is whether the outcome justifies the means."

Vrinda: "Nothing justifies what you did."

Krishna: "Then curse me."

Vrinda stared at him.

Vrinda: "What?"

Krishna: "You have the right. You have the power. Your devotion, even broken, still holds force. Curse me. Make me pay."

Vrinda: "Is this a trick? Another deception?"

Krishna: "No. It's recognition. I violated you, and you deserve redress. The cosmos demands balance. Curse me, and the balance is restored."

Vrinda's eyes blazed.

Vrinda: "Very well. I curse you to be reborn as a mortal. To love and lose. To experience the very betrayal you inflicted. I curse you to have your world destroyed while you watch helplessly, just as you destroyed mine."

Krishna: "I accept."

Vrinda: "And— And I curse myself. I curse myself to become a plant. To lose this form, this voice, this pain. To be rooted forever, unable to run or fight or weep."

Krishna: "That curse I do not accept."

Vrinda: "It's not yours to reject."

Krishna: "But it is mine to transform. You curse yourself to become a plant. Very well. But this plant will be the most sacred in creation. Every temple will hold you. Every worshipper will offer you to the gods. You will be present at every sacred moment—weddings, deaths, prayers. You will be Tulsi, and without Tulsi, no worship will be complete."

Vrinda: "You're trying to make my suffering into a blessing."

Krishna: "I'm trying to ensure your suffering has meaning. You lost everything. You deserve more than just an ending. You deserve a transformation."

Vrinda: "I didn't ask for transformation. I asked for death."

Krishna: "And you will die. This form will end. But what comes after—that I can influence. Do you want to simply end, Vrinda? Or do you want to become something that every devotee will cherish, every morning and every evening, until the end of time?"

Vrinda looked at the river. At her husband's ashes, dissolving into water.

Krishna: "Why would you do this? After what I've cursed you with?"

Vrinda: "Because your curse is just. I deserve to experience mortal love and loss. I deserve to watch my world burn as Krishna in a future age. That curse completes something that needed completing."

Krishna: "And my blessing?"

Vrinda: "Completes you. We are both completed by this. Cursed and blessed in the same moment. That is how the cosmos works—nothing is purely one thing."

Vrinda closed her eyes. When she opened them, they held something other than rage.

Krishna: "I accept your transformation. But I will not forgive you."

Vrinda: "I don't ask forgiveness. I ask only that you let your pain become something larger than itself. Forgiveness can come later. Or never. That's your choice."

Vrinda's form began to shimmer, to shift, to root itself into the earth.

Krishna: "Will I remember?"

she asked, her voice already changing into the whisper of leaves.

Vrinda: "You will remember. That's part of the gift—and the curse. You will be in every temple, and you will remember exactly why."

The transformation completed. Where a woman had stood, a sacred plant now grew—fragrant, green, holy.

Vishnu knelt and touched the leaves.

Vrinda: "Tulsi, The most beloved. The most necessary. The most fierce."

The leaves rustled in windless air. A response, perhaps. Or just a plant being a plant.

Both could be true. Both were.