A Story of Dvapar Yuga in Prose ( 31-B)
By Lokanath Mishra
The Call of Sudama : A Tale of Friendship, Faith, and Divine Grace
In the deep stillness of midnight, Dwarkadhish suddenly sat upright on the royal bed. Seeing her Lord awaken in such agitation, Queen Rukmini too rose and sat beside Him.
“Prabhu,” she asked gently, concern flowing from her eyes,
“why do You appear so restless tonight? What worry has disturbed the Lord of the Universe that even His sleep has been shattered in the middle of the night? Who is that blessed soul whose suffering has troubled the Chintamani Himself so deeply?”
Shri Krishna replied, His voice choked with emotion,
“Sudama! My friend Sudama!”
Rukmini was astonished.
“You mean Your childhood companion—the one whose very mention fills You with emotion? Your fellow student from Guru Sandipani’s ashram?”
Krishna said softly,
“He is not merely my classmate. He is not merely my friend. He is among the noblest of my devotees.”
Rukmini asked,
“But why has he come to Your mind at such an hour? What sorrow of Your beloved friend has stolen the sleep of the Destroyer of all sorrow?”
Vasudeva replied,
“Come, Devi. Witness with your own divine vision the unbearable misery my dearest friend is enduring.”
Sudama’s Suffering
Jagajjanani turned her divine gaze toward Sudama’s dilapidated hut in Vrindapuri. Rain poured relentlessly that night. The hut stood half-broken, with only a symbolic thatched roof—one utterly incapable of holding back the rain.
Inside, the Brahmin couple sat huddled together, their bodies soaked, clutching their children tightly. The children trembled with cold and hunger, crying pitifully:
“Mother… we are hungry… please give us something to eat…”
Their cries pierced their helpless mother’s heart, for they all knew the painful truth—there was no food in the house, and on such a stormy night, arranging even a morsel was impossible.
Sudama’s wife, Satya, could no longer restrain her tears. Yet she tried to console the children, saying,
“Let morning come. I will go somewhere, beg if I must, and bring food for you.”
Sudama watched his family’s suffering helplessly. Unable to bear it any longer, he cried aloud,
“O Krishna! O Keshava! My friend! My Lord!”
That anguished cry crossed hundreds of yojanas and shattered the sleep of the Protector of the distressed.
Divine Dialogue
Rukmini’s heart melted.
“Is this a test, Prabhu? Why do You allow Your beloved friend to endure such agony? This will tarnish Your name as Bhakta-vatsala—the lover of devotees.”
Krishna replied calmly,
“Beloved, I am not at fault. Even amidst such suffering, my impoverished friend does not ask for anything. He chants my name without desire, without complaint, without accusation. He does not say, ‘Enough, Krishna, I surrender my household to You.’ He only calls out in pure devotion.”
Mahalakshmi said,
“But You are Antaryami—the knower of all hearts. Must he ask aloud?”
Krishna answered,
“He has accepted the fruit of his own past actions. To ensure no blame of poverty falls upon me, he consumed all he had and embraced this fate himself. What can I do unless he takes one step toward me?”
Lakshmi pleaded,
“Then do not forget me. Find a way to absolve his suffering.”
Krishna smiled,
“He is a proud friend—burdening me with the weight of his devotion yet asking nothing in return. The moment he takes a step toward me, I will act. I wish to show the world what true friendship means. The time is near. Wait.”
The Decision to Go to Dwarka
Morning dawned in Vrindapuri. Sudama could not meet his wife’s eyes. His torn, wet garments barely covered his frail body. The children, having lost hope, went out to beg.
Satya spoke with restrained anguish:
“I do not object if you live detached and chant your friend’s name. I do not complain if you fail to provide me with food or shelter. But to see our children starve—this is an unforgivable sin.”
She warned him that she had borrowed from every house in the village. A greater disaster was imminent.
Sudama picked up his begging bowl and stepped out. Satya smiled—a sorrowful smile.
At last, Sudama thought,
“On this pretext, I will at least behold my friend once more. I have not seen that enchanting form in ages.”
With resolve, he said,
“I will go, Satya. I am ready to seek the darshan of Dwarkadhish—Nanda’s son, Gopinath.”
A faint line of relief appeared on Satya’s face.
“But…” Sudama hesitated.
“Does one visit a friend empty-handed?”
Satya went to a neighbor and returned with a small bundle of flattened rice, tied in a cloth—borrowed with difficulty.
Sudama hesitated again.
“Will he accept such a humble gift?”
Then he smiled.
“He is Bhavagrahi—the Lord who values sentiment, not substance.”
The Journey and the Divine Companion
With prayers at the village temple, Sudama began his journey westward, not knowing the path or distance to Dwarka. He crossed villages and forests. Some kind souls offered him food. Exhausted, he collapsed beneath a tree one evening.
Sweat streamed down his face. Thoughts of Satya and his starving children flooded his mind. A deep sigh escaped his lips.
“Shri Krishna…”
At that very moment, he stumbled—and before he could fall, a strong yet gentle arm caught him.
“I am Nandakishore,” the stranger said, smiling.
“A cowherd by birth, a charioteer by trade. I help travelers find their way.”
Hearing Sudama’s destination, he said cheerfully,
“I am going to Dwarka too. Come, travel with me.”
Sudama rode in the horse-cart, lulled by the sweet flute Nandakishore played under the moonlit sky. Soon, Sudama fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.
Arrival at Dwarka
At dawn, birdsong awakened him.
“We have arrived at Dwarka,” said Nandakishore.
“Now permit me to take my leave.”
Sudama thanked him with folded hands.
Nandakishore smiled—a smile Sudama felt he had seen before… somewhere… long ago…
Before he could grasp the thought, the cart vanished.
Before him stood the magnificent city of Dwarka—palaces gleaming like celestial wonders—calling him forward, as though the Lord Himself beckoned his dearest friend home.
(To be continued )