Krishna’s Damodar Leela: The Day Yashoda Tied the Untiable Supreme God

The Damodar Leela is one of the most inconceivable, yet deeply intimate pastimes of Shree Krishna’s childhood. In this sweet and tender moment, the infinite Brahman who is beyond time, space, and creation allows Himself to be tied with a simple rope. But it is not the rope that binds Him; it is the pure love of His devotee. 

And beneath this innocent play, Krishna is also quietly fulfilling a divine task of liberating the cursed sons of Kuber, Nalkuvar and Manigriv. What appears to be a child’s mischief is, in truth, a moment of divine grace. Even as He steals butter and plays in the courtyard, He uplifts souls. Such is the extraordinary nature of Krishna’s Leela, sweetness on the surface, divine grace at the core.

Krishna is then a little over two years old. One golden morning in Gokul, Mother Yashoda sits in her kitchen churning yoghurt. Her heart, as always, is full of her little Lala’s love. “Today I’ll feed him fresh butter with my own hands. How much joy he’ll feel!” she thinks lovingly.

Just then, Krishna toddles into the kitchen, His anklets jingling softly. He climbs into her lap without a word. Smiling, Yashoda embraces Him and begins to nurse Him with all her maternal affection. Her love flows like an endless stream, just as the milk flows from her heart.

As Yashoda cradles Krishna, a pot of milk in the next room begins to boil over. Alarmed, she quickly sets Krishna down and rushes to save it. But Krishna notices. “Ah! The milk is more important than me!” He thinks. “Let me teach Maiya a little lesson.”

With divine mischief in His eyes, Krishna picks up the churning rod and wages a war in the kitchen. Pots fly. Butter spills and yoghurt splashes. Krishna sits in the middle of it all, gleefully eating the butter. Not only that, He invites the monkeys and begins feeding them too. “If it’s not for me, let my friends enjoy it,” He thinks.

Yashoda returns and gasps. Has a tornado passed through her kitchen? Her Lala stands there, butter smeared across His face, surrounded by a battalion of monkeys. Furious, she picks up a stick. Seeing her, Krishna’s eyes widen. He, who makes the whole world tremble, begins to tremble Himself.

Later, when Kunti Devi reflects on this Leela in her prayers, she exclaims in wonder:

“He who is (कालमीशानमनादिनिधनं विभुम्) Kaal- eternal time itself, Ishaanam- the Supreme Lord, Anaadi-Nidhanam- without beginning or end, Vibhum- all-pervading, is trembling in fear before a mere stick in His mother’s hand! What kind of God is this!”

Seeing Yashoda’s wrath, Krishna runs barefoot, skimming the soft lanes of Gokul. His anklets jingle with each swift step. Behind Him, Yashoda Maiya runs determined, breathless, and a little amused. He is tiny, swift like a calf darting away from its mother. She is larger and faster. He swerves left, then right, dodging, teasing, laughing.

But then, Krishna glances back. He sees her hand on her waist, gasping for breath, sweat beading her forehead. And in that moment, His mischief pauses.

“I have not come to trouble her. I’ve come to give her bliss,” He thinks.

So He slows down, and Yashoda catches Him. She drags Him to the courtyard, where the heavy ukhal (mortar) sits.

“You must learn your lesson today!” she says, calling the Gopis for a rope. One rope, two ropes, three ropes, they tie them all together, but no matter how much they add, it always falls short by two fingers.

What are those two fingers by which the rope always falls short?

It is only when both come together that the unbindable can be bound.

Shukadev Goswami tells King Parikshit:

Meaning: "He, who has neither inside nor outside, who has neither a beginning nor an end, He who is within everything and also beyond everything, who is both the universe and the source of the universe. (Bhagavat 10.9.13)

And yet, Yashoda tries. She brings more and more rope, calls the Gopis for help, adds every strand she can find in the house, but each time, the rope falls short by exactly two fingers. It is as if the infinite refuses to be measured.

Finally, Radha Rani hears of the divine drama. Smiling, She hands Her Sakhis a soft Resham ki dori (silken thread) and says, “Give this to Maiya. He will get tied now.” With that delicate thread of divine love, Yashoda binds Him at last. From that day, He is known as Damodar: Dam (rope) and Udar (belly)—the One tied around His belly by the love of His devotee.

After tying Krishna to the mortar, Yashoda goes inside, unaware that her Lala is about to perform yet another divine act.

In the courtyard stand two tall trees. But these are no ordinary trees; they were once Nalkuvar and Manigriv, the sons of Kuber, the god of wealth. And as they say, children born into too much luxury are often the most vulnerable to arrogance.

Intoxicated by their wealth, these two celestial brothers once indulged in shameless pleasure. They were drunk, sporting with heavenly maidens in the waters of the Mandakini river, with no regard for decency or humility. Just then, Devarshi Narad passed by. The maidens, out of modesty, immediately covered themselves. But Nalkuvar and Manigriv, intoxicated by wine and blinded by pride, remained unconcerned, naked and indifferent, even in the presence of the great sage. Their arrogance was not in words, but in their complete disregard for Dharma and respect.

Seeing how wealth had blinded them, Narad Muni cursed them, “Go become trees, still and silent. If you take pride in displaying your bodies, then stand on display like this for thousands of years!” Yet, the curse was laced with mercy. He added, “You will be freed by the Lord Himself when He appears on Earth.”

And so, they stood there, silent witnesses in Nand Bhavan, waiting for Krishna. Now, the time has come. Krishna, dragging the heavy mortar behind Him, crawls between those twin trees. With one divine pull, CRASH! The trees fall, and from within emerge the two humbled souls. They offer their obeisances to Krishna and depart, liberated not only from the curse but from their inner darkness, with realisation and added humility.

This heart-melting Leela reminds us that God is not conquered by power, ritual, or intellect. He is conquered only by the innocence of love, the effort of surrender, and the grace of bhakti.

May we too, like Mother Yashoda, bind Krishna in our hearts, not with a rope, but with the thread of unshakable devotion.

In every whispered prayer, in every tear we shed, He leans a little closer, rope in hand, waiting to be bound again.