Gods were not immune to insecurity.
If anything, they were experts at it.
High above the clouds, seated upon a throne of lightning and arrogance, Indra frowned at the world below. Rain-bearing clouds hovered obediently at his command, their thunder muted, awaiting instruction.
"Vrindavan," Indra muttered.
Once, offerings had risen faithfully from those lands—chants, rituals, reverence. Now?
Nothing.
No prayers.
No sacrifices.
No fear.
Only laughter.
Only music.
Only a blue child who dared let rivers decide for themselves.
Indra's jaw tightened.
"Do they forget who brings the rain?" he demanded.
A lesser deva hesitated. "My lord… the people seem… content."
Content.
Indra scoffed. "Content without me?"
He rose.
"Summon the clouds," he ordered. "If they forget the heavens, remind them."
Below, Vrindavan prepared for a festival.
Not to Indra.
To the land.
Govardhan.
The hill stood serene and massive, sheltering the village naturally from harsh winds. The people gathered with joy—milk, fruits, butter, flowers—all offered in gratitude for the land that sustained them.
Krishna sat among the children, Radha beside him, watching elders arrange offerings.
Radha frowned thoughtfully. "Why don't we thank the rain god like before?"
Krishna smiled. "Because gratitude should go where effort lives."
She blinked. "That… makes sense."
The system chimed approvingly.
«Philosophical Shift Detected.
Dependency Reduction: Healthy.
Divine Ego Alert: Incoming.»
The sky darkened abruptly.
Thunder rolled.
Rain fell—
Hard.
Too hard.
Within moments, it turned violent. Wind howled. Rain lashed sideways, flooding paths, tearing at roofs.
Children screamed.
Animals panicked.
Indra laughed from above.
"Beg," he commanded. "Remember me."
Krishna stood calmly as chaos erupted around him.
Line crossed.
Collective punishment.
Unacceptable.
He felt Radha's hand grip his sleeve.
"Krishna…?"
He smiled reassuringly. "It's fine."
He walked to Govardhan Hill.
Placed his finger beneath its edge.
And lifted.
Not straining.
Not shouting.
Just… lifted.
The hill rose effortlessly, hovering above the village like a vast umbrella. Rain struck it uselessly, water cascading harmlessly down its sides.
The village froze.
Then stared.
Then laughed.
Children ran beneath the shelter.
Cows gathered calmly.
Yashoda stared at Krishna, heart pounding—but strangely steady.
He held the mountain casually, chatting as if nothing extraordinary was happening.
"Stay together," he called. "Don't step in puddles."
Radha stared at him, eyes wide—not in fear.
In awe.
"You said you wouldn't leave," she said softly.
"I didn't," he replied. "I brought the roof."
Above, Indra faltered.
"What—what is that child doing?"
He sent more rain.
More lightning.
Nothing worked.
Days passed.
Seven.
Seven days of failure.
The clouds weakened.
Indra's pride shattered.
He descended finally, drenched and furious—then stopped.
Krishna stood smiling beneath the mountain, village safe and laughing behind him.
Indra knelt.
"I was wrong," he said quietly.
Krishna nodded. "Yes."
The system chimed dryly.
«God-Level Ego Neutralized.
Method: Structural Demonstration.
Collateral Damage: None.
Style Rating: Excessively Calm.»
Krishna lowered Govardhan gently back into place.
The storm ceased.
Sunlight returned.
Indra departed silently.
Vrindavan cheered—not in worship.
In gratitude.
Krishna rejoined Radha, who punched his arm lightly.
"You could've warned us."
He grinned. "Where's the fun in that?"
She laughed.
That night, Vrindavan slept safely.
And the gods learned—
Dharma did not answer to pride.
--chapter 19 ended--