The Friend Who Brought Rice

The sages told the Pandavas of Sudama, the poor brahmin who had been the boyhood friend of Krishna, and of how a single handful of beaten rice, given with love, drew down upon him the boundless grace of the Lord.

In their youth, Krishna and a poor brahmin boy named Sudama had studied together at the hermitage of their teacher, sharing the same lessons and the same simple life, and a deep friendship had grown between them. But after their schooling their paths had parted utterly. Krishna had gone on to become the lord of the golden city of Dwaraka, glorious and beloved, the king and the very God walking the earth. And Sudama had remained what he was born, a poor brahmin, and as the years passed he sank into deeper and deeper poverty, living with his wife and children in a humble hut, often without enough food to fill their stomachs, scraping by in honest want. Yet through all his poverty Sudama never lost his serenity nor his devotion; he was content with his lot, devoted to God, and asked nothing of anyone.

But Sudama's wife grieved to see their children hungry, and at last she came to her husband with a suggestion. "You have told me," she said, "that in your youth you were the dear friend and schoolmate of Krishna, who is now the great king of Dwaraka, lord of all that city's wealth, and known above all for his love of his friends and his devotees. Why do we suffer such want when your own friend is the richest and most generous of kings? Go to him. He will surely remember you and receive you with joy, and out of his love and his generosity he will relieve our poverty. Go, for the sake of your hungry children, and see your friend."

Sudama was reluctant, for he was a proud and humble man at once, and the thought of going to his glorious friend as a beggar, to ask for wealth, shamed him. He had no wish to trade on their friendship for gain. Yet his wife pressed him, and his children were hungry, and beneath his reluctance there stirred a deep longing simply to see his beloved friend Krishna again after all the long years. So at last, more out of longing to see Krishna than out of any hope of wealth, he agreed to make the journey.

Now it is not fitting to visit a friend, least of all a king, empty-handed, without some gift, however small. But Sudama was so poor that there was nothing in his house worth giving to anyone, let alone to the lord of Dwaraka. So his wife went and begged from the neighbors a small quantity of poha - beaten rice, the humblest of foods - and she tied this little handful of flattened rice in a small bundle of tattered cloth, and gave it to her husband to carry as his gift for Krishna.

Sudama set off for Dwaraka with this poor offering - a handful of beaten rice knotted in a rag - and he was deeply embarrassed by it. What a gift to bring to a king who possessed all the wealth of the world! He was ashamed of its poverty, and as he walked the long road he wondered how he could possibly offer so wretched a thing to the glorious Krishna. Yet it was all he had, and his wife had given it with love, and so he carried it, hidden under his arm, all the long way to the golden city.

At last the ragged, dusty, travel-worn Sudama came to the magnificent golden city of Dwaraka and to the gates of Krishna's palace. The guards looked askance at the poor brahmin in his tattered clothes, but he asked them to tell their lord that his old schoolmate Sudama had come.

When the message reached Krishna, the Lord did a thing that astonished his whole court. He did not send a servant; he did not wait upon his throne for the poor man to be brought before him. He leaped up from his couch and ran - the great king of Dwaraka, the Lord himself, ran out barefoot to the gate to meet his poor old friend. And there, before all his court, Krishna threw his arms around the ragged, dusty Sudama and embraced him with overflowing love and tears of joy, as though Sudama were the most precious and honored of all guests.

Then Krishna led his astonished friend by the hand into the palace, seated him upon his own royal couch, and with his own hands - the hands of the Lord of the worlds - washed the dusty, travel-worn feet of the poor brahmin, honoring him as one honors a god. He had Sudama bathed and fed and rested and treated with the very highest honor, weeping for joy at the reunion, heedless entirely of his friend's poverty and rags. The whole court marveled to see their glorious lord lavish such love and honor upon a penniless brahmin.

Krishna and Sudama sat together and talked, and the years fell away, and they were boys again. They remembered their days together at their teacher's hermitage - the lessons they had shared, the chores, the time they had been sent into the forest to gather firewood and had been caught in a storm and spent the night together cold and hungry in the rain, sharing what little they had. They laughed over old memories and rejoiced simply in each other's company, the king and the pauper, the Lord and the devotee, bound by a friendship that wealth and station had never touched.

In all this, Krishna's love for his poor friend was so pure and so complete, so heedless of the gulf of wealth and power between them, that Sudama was overwhelmed by it. He had come, at his wife's urging, half-meaning to ask for help in his poverty. But now, basking in the love of his friend, honored and embraced and cherished, he found he could not bring himself to ask for anything at all. To turn this reunion of love into a request for money seemed to him to cheapen it unbearably. He held his peace, and asked nothing, content beyond words simply to be with Krishna again and to be so loved.

There was still the matter of the gift. Sudama, ashamed of his wretched handful of beaten rice, had kept the little bundle hidden under his arm all this while, and now, surrounded by the splendor of the palace and the love of his glorious friend, he was more ashamed of it than ever, and tried to keep it concealed, hoping Krishna would not see it. How could he offer a handful of common beaten rice, knotted in a rag, to the lord of all the world's wealth?

But Krishna, who knows all hearts and sees all things, had already noticed the little bundle, and he knew exactly what it was and what it meant. With a smile, he reached out and took hold of it, asking playfully what fine present his friend had brought him, and teasing it out of Sudama's reluctant grip. "What is this you have brought me, dear friend?" he said. "You must not hide a gift from me. The smallest thing given by one who loves me is more precious to me than the greatest treasure given without love."

And despite Sudama's embarrassed protests, Krishna opened the rag, took out a handful of the poor beaten rice, and ate it with the greatest relish and delight, as though it were the most delicious food in all the worlds - savoring it, praising it, eager for more. He took a second handful and ate that too with the same joy. For the Lord does not weigh the costliness of a gift, but the love in the heart that gives it; and the handful of beaten rice, brought all that way by a poor friend who loved him, delighted Krishna more than all the wealth of his kingdom.

After a joyful stay, Sudama took his leave and set off home - and still he had asked Krishna for nothing. The longing simply to see his friend had been fulfilled beyond all measure; he had been loved and honored past anything he could have imagined; and he could not bring himself to spoil so pure a thing with a request for money. So he went home as poor, in worldly terms, as he had come, carrying away no gift but the love of his friend.

As he walked the long road back, he marveled at all that had happened - at Krishna's overflowing love, the embrace, the washing of his feet, the relish with which the Lord had eaten his poor beaten rice. And he found he did not even mind that he had received no wealth. Indeed, he reflected, perhaps it was the Lord's own wisdom and love that had given him no riches - for perhaps wealth would have turned his heart from God, and Krishna, knowing this, had given him instead the far greater gift of his pure love and company, which no riches could buy. And Sudama was content, even glad, to be returning as poor as he had left, having gained the only thing worth gaining. He bore no disappointment at all, only gratitude.

But when Sudama came to the place where his humble hut had stood, he stopped in amazement. The poor hovel was gone. In its place stood a magnificent palace, rich and beautiful, surrounded by gardens and servants and every comfort and abundance. His wife came out to meet him, no longer in rags but clothed in fine garments and jewels, radiant and joyful, and his children were well-fed and happy, and all about him was wealth and plenty.

Krishna had done it. Without a word, without being asked, without Sudama ever voicing a single request, the Lord had transformed his friend's poverty into great wealth - quietly, secretly, out of pure love, in response to nothing but the handful of beaten rice given with devotion and the love of a faithful friend. He had given, unasked, far beyond anything Sudama would ever have dared to request. And he had given it in such a way that Sudama need never feel he had begged for it, preserving his friend's dignity even as he relieved his want.

Sudama lived ever after in prosperity, but the wealth never touched his devotion or his humility; he remained Krishna's loving friend and devotee to the end, knowing that all he had was the free gift of the Lord's love. The sages drew the lessons for the Pandavas: "See how the Lord loves his devotees and his friends, regardless of their wealth or station - running barefoot to embrace a ragged pauper, washing his feet, cherishing him above kings. See how a humble gift given with love - a mere handful of beaten rice - delights the Lord more than the richest offering given without it; for he weighs not the gift but the heart. And see how the Lord gives, unasked, far beyond what we would dare to request, to those whose hearts are pure - and gives it in love, preserving our dignity. Sudama did not even ask; he sought only his friend; and the love he gave was returned a thousandfold. Seek the Lord for love, not for gain, and the gain will follow of itself, pressed down and overflowing."

And the Pandavas, who counted Krishna their own dearest friend, heard in the tale of Sudama the very nature of the friend they loved.