U Lakshman Rao
In the age of Dwapara, when the weight of unrighteousness pressed heavily upon the earth and the tyrant Kamsa ruled Mathura with fear and blood, a prophecy resounded through the heavens—that the eighth child of Devaki would be his doom. In terror, Kamsa chained his sister and slew her newborns, one after another, six in count. Yet when the seventh quickened in her womb, divine will stirred. By mysterious grace, the unborn soul was drawn forth and placed within the womb of Rohini, Vasudeva’s other queen, dwelling in the quiet safety of Gokul. Thus, was born Sankarshana, he who was drawn away—Balarama, elder brother of Krishna, harbinger of strength and dharma, and incarnation of Ananta Shesha, the timeless serpent on whom Vishnu rests.
Balarama’s life moved in tandem with Krishna’s like two notes in a sacred hymn. Where Krishna wielded charm and guile, Balarama stood tall in forthright power. He was the axis of discipline, the embodiment of direct truth, and the rod of righteousness. With plough in hand and mace at side, he strode the earth as the protector of the land, the guardian of strength, and the silent tiller of the soil of souls.
He rose in Gokul among cowherds and sages, his limbs strong, his heart noble. Demons he wrestled and felled in his youth—Dhenukasura the devourer, who cloaked the forest in terror, and Pralambhasura the deceiver, who wore a friendly face yet bore poison in his intent. With each act, Balarama struck at chaos and upheld the law of truth.
As the lord of agriculture, he was beloved by farmers and labourers, who saw in him not a god of thunder and wrath, but of sweat, soil, and just reward. His plough was more than a weapon—it was the symbol of sacred effort, of the dignity of labour, and the peace that grows from honest toil.
His virtues shone again when the house of Kuru dared injustice. Samba, son of Krishna, had dared to love Lakshana, daughter of proud Duryodhana. For this, the boy was seized and bound by the Kauravas. The drums of war began to beat among the Yadavas, but Balarama, he who cherished harmony, chose the path of peace. Alone with sages, he journeyed to Hastinapura, and from Puropavana sent forth his word. Received with honour, he spoke clearly—that the imprisonment of Samba was an offence against righteousness. Yet Duryodhana, steeped in arrogance, laughed and mocked. Then Balarama’s wrath flared like fire beneath the mountain’s calm. He raised his plough, and the very earth trembled as he pulled at the roots of Hastinapura, threatening to cast it into the Ganga’s embrace. Only the pleas of elders—Bhishma, Drona, men of wisdom—soothed his anger. He forgave, restored peace, and brought home Samba and Lakshana in honour.
Yet the land knew no rest, for Dwivida, a monstrous gorilla of ancient power and hatred, stalked the borders. An ally of Narakasura, he sought vengeance upon Krishna’s kin. He burned fields, drowned cattle, imprisoned men, and harassed women. His fury brought him to Mount Raivata, where Balarama, in mirthful ease, played dice and drank wine. But when the beast laid hands upon the innocent, Balarama rose. Trees fell, rocks split, the ground shook under their struggle, until the plough struck final and the demon perished, and silence returned to the land.
When the great war of Kurukshetra arose, Balarama turned away. Though both Bhima and Duryodhana had learned the art of mace from him, he would not choose between kin whose hearts had strayed from dharma. He walked instead the pilgrim’s road, seeking stillness where the world clamoured for blood. His neutrality was not cowardice but wisdom—the wisdom of one who sees beyond victory and loss, to the eternal rhythm of truth.
And so, his life passed—not in the blaze of glory, but in the quiet shaping of the world’s backbone. Krishna shone like the sun, dazzling all with his brilliance, yet Balarama, steadfast as the mountain, held the weight of virtue. Where Krishna spun words and wove fate, Balarama struck true with hand and heart. The plough he bore tilled not only soil, but soul—breaking the hardness within, that the seed of spirit may take root.
Thus, he stands in memory, not as the hero crowned with praise, but as the silent guardian, the noble elder, the unyielding staff of righteousness. His was the strength that does not boast, the love that disciplines, the peace that ploughs deep. In an age where dharma trembled, Balarama was its hidden spine.
