When Young Krishna Remembered Being Rama

One evening in Vrindavan, Mother Yashoda cradled young Krishna, unaware he was the Supreme Being cloaked in innocence. To lull him to sleep, she narrated the Ramayana—the epic of Lord Rama, prince of Ayodhya.

“Long ago, in the golden city of Ayodhya, there lived a prince named Rama—a paragon of virtue, bravery, and righteousness. His wife, Sita, was the embodiment of purity, her heart as steadfast as the earth itself. To honor his father’s vow, Rama retreated to the forest, where he lived a life of exile, upholding dharma even in adversity.”

Krishna listened, his lotus-like eyes fixed on Yashoda’s face. His occasional hums—“Hmm… yes, Mother…”—were soft prompts for her to continue, though his divine consciousness already knew every word.

As Yashoda described Ravana’s treachery—the demon king’s abduction of Sita—Krishna’s playful smile faded. Memories of another lifetime surged through him: the searing grief of separation, the weight of a divine bow in his hands, the roar of battle cries echoing across Lanka. For a fleeting moment, the child vanished, and the soul of Rama, the warrior-king, blazed forth.

Suddenly, Krishna leapt to his feet, his small frame trembling with righteous fury. “Saumitre!” he thundered, his voice echoing with the authority of a thousand kings. “Where is my bow? Bring it at once! Ravana will not escape my wrath—I will reduce him to ashes!” His eyes, usually sparkling with mischief, burned like twin suns, and his tiny hands gripped an imaginary bowstring, poised to unleash divinity itself.

Yashoda’s heart raced. “Oh, Krishna!” she cried, pulling him into her arms. She glanced around their quiet homestead—no armies, no demons, only the moonlit pastures of Vrindavan. “There’s no Ravana here,” she soothed, cradling him close. Yet her mind reeled. How does he know the name Saumitre, Lakshmana’s patronymic? Why does he speak like a battle-hardened king?

Unseen by her, the air shimmered with a sacred truth: Rama and Krishna, though separated by epochs, were one—Vishnu’s dual incarnations, as declared in the Adhyatma Ramayana: “Rāmo Madhavaḥ, Madhavaḥ Śrī-Rāmaḥ—Rama is Krishna, and Krishna is Rama.”

By dawn, the incident seemed a dream. Krishna darted through the kitchen, stealing butter with his trademark grin, his divine outburst hidden once more behind laughter. Yet this was no mere child’s whim—it was leela, a glimpse of the infinite through the finite. Where Rama had wept for Sita, bound by the mortal anguish of separation, Krishna’s fury was laced with detachment. He embodied the Bhagavad Gita’s teaching: to act with the fervor of duty, yet without attachment to the outcome.

Years later, when Krishna softly told Radha, “In another age, I was Rama,” as described in the Brahma Vaivarta Purana, the devotees understood. The child who once battled an unseen Ravana was the same eternal presence flowing through time—mischievous yet deep, mortal in form yet divine in essence.

Symbolism and Significance

Divine Unity: Rama and Krishna, though distinct in tales, are one divine essence. This story cements Hinduism’s theological tenet of “Ekam Sat, Vipra Bahudha Vadanti” (Truth is one, sages call it by many names).

Leela (Divine Play): Krishna’s outburst was intentional—a glimpse of omnipotence masked as a child’s whim, showing avatars transcend time and form.

Bhakti & Detachment: Rama’s emotional depth contrasts Krishna’s playful detachment, teaching devotees to act righteously without clinging to outcomes.

Literary and Cultural Legacy

This episode thrives in texts like Bilwa Mangala’s Krishna Karnamritam and the Brahma Vaivarta Purana, where Krishna later tells Radha of his life as Rama. It inspires devotion by blending Krishna’s mischief with divinity, urging devotees to see the sacred in simplicity.