The Gathering Clouds
It was a quiet afternoon in Yāvat. The air was heavy, and the sky wore a robe of gray. Śrīmatī Rādhārāṇī sat by the window of Her chamber, stringing a garland of white jasmine flowers. The breeze carried the faint fragrance of rain, and distant thunder rolled softly like a drum of longing.
Lalitā entered hurriedly. “O Rādhe! The sky grows darker with each moment. It seems the clouds of Vṛndāvana are jealous again — they cannot bear to see You separated from Kṛṣṇa.”
Rādhā smiled faintly. “Yes, Lalite, these clouds are His friends. When He is far away, they come to comfort Me. Their thunder reminds Me of His laughter, and their lightning is like the glimmer of His yellow garments.”
Viśākhā, standing nearby, added playfully, “Perhaps the clouds are not only His friends but His messengers. Who knows? They might bring Him here.”
Rādhā looked out at the swelling sky. “If only that were true. But Jaṭilā has forbidden Me to step outside today. She says the rain will ruin My ornaments.”
The first drop of rain struck the window sill. Rādhā whispered softly, “Let the rain fall. Perhaps it will wash away the dust of separation.”
The Divine Plan
At that very moment, in Nandagrāma, Kṛṣṇa was sitting with Subala and Madhumaṅgala, gazing toward the same dark horizon.
“See those clouds,” He said, smiling mischievously. “They are not ordinary — they are My allies. They will hide My form and drown the roads, so no one will suspect when I go to Yāvat.”
Subala laughed. “You mean to say You plan to use thunder and lightning as Your disguise?”
Kṛṣṇa nodded. “When love is the goal, even nature becomes a servant.”
He picked up His flute and played a melody that sounded like the sigh of a monsoon wind. The clouds thickened, the lightning flashed, and rain began to fall in torrents. The entire forest of Vṛndāvana rejoiced, unaware of the Lord’s hidden purpose.
The Storm in Yāvat
As the rain poured down, Jaṭilā shouted from the courtyard, “Rādhe! Stay inside! The river overflows, and the lightning is fierce! No one must leave the house!”
The sakhīs closed the windows, and the sound of rain filled every corner of the room — like countless drums beating in rhythm with Rādhā’s heart.
Then, through the curtain of rain, a knock came at the door.
“Who dares venture out in such a storm?” cried Jaṭilā.
A voice answered softly, “O Mother, I am a traveler caught in the rain. Please give Me shelter until the storm passes.”
Jaṭilā hesitated. “A traveler? At this hour? The roads are flooded!”
But the voice was so gentle, so sweet, that her suspicion faded. “Very well,” she said. “You may wait in the veranda. Do not come inside!”
When she left to fetch a towel, the “traveler” — soaked and smiling — stepped quietly into the inner room. It was Śrī Kṛṣṇa, disguised in the garb of a wandering mendicant, a saffron cloth over His shoulder and a simple staff in His hand.
The Meeting in the Rain
Rādhā gasped softly. “Kṛṣṇa! How did You come here? If Jaṭilā sees You, all will be lost!”
He smiled tenderly. “The storm brought Me. Could I remain in Nandagrāma when the clouds were calling Your name?”
She looked at Him with tearful eyes. “You risk so much for one brief moment.”
He replied, “A moment with You is worth lifetimes of risk.”
The sakhīs surrounded Them, rejoicing in this sudden mercy of the monsoon. Outside, thunder rolled like drums of triumph, hiding Their laughter.
For a brief while, time itself seemed to stop — the world drowned in rain, and the Lord drowned in love.
The Mother’s Near Discovery
Suddenly, footsteps approached — Jaṭilā’s voice echoed down the hall. “The traveler — where has he gone?”
Quickly, Lalitā threw a shawl over Kṛṣṇa’s shoulders and pushed Him behind the curtain. “He is resting, Mother,” she said calmly. “Please don’t disturb him — he is meditating.”
Jaṭilā nodded, still half-suspicious. “Very well. But tell him to leave when the rain stops. I will not have strange men in this house.”
When she left, Rādhā breathed in relief. Kṛṣṇa whispered with a smile, “See, even the thunder protects Us. The storm outside hides the storm within.”
The Departure
When the rain began to fade, Kṛṣṇa prepared to leave. Rādhā followed Him to the window, watching the drops cling to His dark curls like pearls.
“Will You always come when it rains?” She asked softly.
Kṛṣṇa replied, “Yes, for rain is our secret language. When clouds gather in Your sky, know that My heart is near.”
He disappeared into the mist, and as He walked away, the clouds began to part. A rainbow stretched across the sky — its colors shimmering like a garland woven by divine hands.
Rādhārāṇī folded Her palms and whispered, “Even the heavens rejoice when He leaves.”
The Hidden Meaning
The rainstorm symbolizes the mercy of Kṛṣṇa that descends when the soul’s longing becomes unbearable. Just as rain unites heaven and earth, divine compassion bridges the distance between the Lord and His devotee.
The thunder is the reminder of God’s power, but the gentle rain is His tenderness. Together, they teach that love holds both awe and intimacy — reverence and affection in perfect balance.
Lessons to Be Learned
- The Lord comes to His devotee through all circumstances, even storms. No obstacle can prevent His mercy.
- Nature itself serves the purpose of divine love. When the heart is pure, even thunder becomes song.
- True shelter is not in walls or roofs but in the presence of God.
- The storms of life often hide the Lord’s sweetest arrivals. What appears as trial is sometimes His way of entering unseen.
Reflections
Every devotee experiences seasons of separation and sudden showers of grace. Sometimes Kṛṣṇa hides behind the clouds of circumstance, yet through those very clouds He sends rain — the cooling mercy that reminds us of His care.
Like Rādhā, we too must learn to see His hand in every storm. When difficulties pour, let us not despair — perhaps He has come disguised, seeking entry into our hearts.
And when He leaves, leaving behind peace and a rainbow of faith, we know the meeting was real — for love, once awakened, never dies.
Prayer
O Śrīmatī Rādhārāṇī, who found joy even in the storm, please teach me to see Kṛṣṇa’s mercy in every hardship.
O Śrī Kṛṣṇa, Lord of rain and thunder, when my life grows dark, let me hear Your flute in the clouds.
Wash my heart with the rain of remembrance, until all doubt and fear are gone.
And when the rainbow of peace appears after the trial, let me remember — You were the storm, You were the shelter, and You are the love that never leaves.
Origin of the Story
Adapted from “Vraja-līlā – Part 2” by Deena Bandhu dāsa (Yāvat Part One, “The Rainstorm Līlā”), drawn from Śrīla Viśvanātha Cakravartī Ṭhākura’s Camatkāra-candrikā
