It’s become a pattern now: a gruesome case of violence against women is reported and in response, people talk about the traditional importance accorded to women in Hinduism. Cue in chatter about Shakti and Durga and Kali, and studied silence about how Hindu commentators have presented so many mythical women, like Sita (abused by her husband and venerated for being subservient) and Surpanakha (mutilated and vilified for daring to proposition a man).
It’s not that there aren’t feisty women in Hinduism. You just have to look past the blinkered retellings offered by the fiercely casteist and patriarchal custodians of Hinduism to find them. What’s more disheartening are the attitudes and actions of so many male heroes in Hindu epics. Barring a few, most of our mythical men don’t really have a way with women. There are, however, a few illustrious exceptions. Janmashtami seems like a good day to remember that Vishnu’s only purnavatar — one in whom divinity is manifested fully — didn’t need to be an alpha male to establish himself as a god; he needed and loved strong women.
Simply put, Krishna is less the perfect Hindu male and more the original Bad Boy (with a bansuri instead of a bike). To begin with, he’s the poster boy of the Dark is Beautiful campaign. He also goes against the established conventions by rejecting monarchy and setting up a different system of governance for Dwarka. Then there’s the fact that he positively enjoys breaking rules and deceiving people. Just look at what he does to Duryodhana. From repeatedly conning the Kaurava prince to finally telling Bhima to break Duryodhana’s thigh even though that’s against the rules of wrestling, Krishna isn’t particularly nice or fair. No wonder we’re more comfortable idolising him as a cuddly toddler or cute teenager, rather than as an adult.
He may be worshipped for his smarts, but Krishna is not what you’d call traditionally heroic. He’s all about sleight of hand rather than direct action. Plus, this is the chap who’s also known as Ranchhod because he decided fleeing to new pastures was a better idea than fighting a war he didn’t think his people could win. Pragmatic, yes. Heroic, no.
Also, given his favoured weapon is the sudarshan chakra, which is like a super fast and super sharp boomerang, it’s quite obvious he prefers to keep his physical activity at an optimal minimum. No heavy lifting of maces or bows, or chasing the bad guy for Krishna. Let the sudarshan chakra do all that legwork.
Yet, despite these dodgy details, Krishna is undeniably masculine and heroic, and the credit for that reputation being rock solid has to go to the lovely ladies with whom he’s surrounded himself.
Today, if a boy grew up with thousands of female companions, we’d probably think he’s weird or gay. Krishna, however, is depicted as neither. He has his male friends, but (smartly) seems to prefer the company of women. Not just that, while traditionally the male companions establish a human as divine — Ram had Hanuman; Jesus had his apostles; Muhammad had the men who would become the first caliphs — in Krishna’s case, it isn’t Sudama who completes him, but Radha.
Radha was a minor character in the early accounts of Krishna’s life in Vrindavan, which isn’t surprising since as a married gopini, her cavorting with Krishna is essentially adultery. Let’s not forget Ahalya got turned into a boulder for messing around with a god, so clearly the Hindu establishment wasn’t really supportive of spreading the love as Krishna did in Vrindavan. It was in the twelfth century Sanskrit classic Gita-Govinda that Radha emerged in all her glory, courtesy Jayadev’s poetry and imagination. Krishna’s veneration of Radha flouts a variety of conventions — she’s another man’s wife, she’s older, she orders him around — but remains enshrined in Vaishnav mantras and practices even today. Yes, she thinks he’s divine, but he quite cheerfully worships her too, to the extent of drinking her charanamrit (the water in which her feet were washed), supposedly to cure a headache.
Even after he grows up and leaves Vrindavan, one of the constants in Krishna is his fondness for strong women. This is amply evident in how he and Rukmini elope. He’s quite happy to be depicted as the man who is effectively kidnapped by the woman, rather than the alpha male who rescues the princess. Despite all the attempts to assert and reassert Krishna’s divine status in the narration, it is the worship-worthy Rukmini who is the mastermind behind the elopement.
And then there’s Krishna’s special relationship with Draupadi, mythical evidence that a man and woman can be friends after all. It’s quite obvious from the Kaurava taunts in different episodes of Mahabharata that the unusual situation of Draupadi being wife to five husbands did nothing for her respectability. This didn’t stop Krishna from favouring her. When Dusshasana attempts to rape Draupadi, her husbands are silent and still. To them, she is a possession who has been lost in a game and since they don’t own her, there is nothing they can do when she is being manhandled. It’s Krishna — a man who has no claim upon Draupadi and technically, no responsibility towards her — who protects her dignity with that unending supply of sari. In this poetic description of a miracle lies a man’s ability to see a woman as a human being rather than an object or possession; as a person who isn’t sullied by what is inflicted upon her.
Afterwards, in stark contrast to how we react even today, Krishna doesn’t blame Draupadi. The fault lies with the men — the Kauravas for thinking of and attempting rape; the Pandavas for witnessing it without a protest. If only some of Krishna’s contrariness had made an impression upon Hindu society, instead of his boyhood love for fatty milk products.
