Deep inside the wild groves of Vrindavan,
the air hums with the scent of soaked earth and rain.
From high in the kadamba branches,
the bright song of a bamboo flute unspools,
slowing the frantic pulse of the forest like a calm river.
Chink-chink.
A careless shift upon the bark—
golden anklets chime against bare feet,
scattering drops of music through the leaves.
Drawn to the sound, you look up to find the boy:
his dark skin catches the sun and radiates pure gold.
His eyes hold the depth of quiet ocean tides,
radiant with wisdom, yet curved with effortless warmth.
He is the relentless child with butter on his fingers,
the untamed makhan chor breaking clay pots with a laugh.
Beside Balaram, he races barefoot through the lanes,
stuffing mud into his mouth just to show Yashoda the entire universe.
At the sound of his breath, the white cows gather close,
nuzzling his bare knees beneath the shaded trees.
Beside Radha, his song calls the gopis into a breathless circle,
dancing in the dust while the whole world forgets its chores.
No armor guards his heart;
he is the easiest soul on earth to love, and the easiest to be loved by.
Even the demons who came with venom in their teeth,
sent to break the quiet boy of Vrindavan,
fumbled at their final hour.
Looking into that tranquil face, their rage fell apart;
they saw the soul behind the smile—
a love completely free of malice, unbiased, absolute, and pure.
In the song of his flute and the chime of his step,
the whole wide universe stops its noise—
and finally learns how to love.
~Janya
(inspired by The Little Blue Book of Krishna by Dr. Shubha Vilas)
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