Krishnapriya Devashree

25. Makhan

After finishing all the duties her Gurus gave her, Devashree entered the kitchen area. 

In the soft light of the twilight, she embarked on the labor of friendship, her heart brimming with joy. 

The day was special as she needed to prepare makhan (butter) for Krishna, her Shyam. She quietly chuckled to herself, how she had thought him to be a figment of her mind. She was glad and thankful that he was as real as the earth beneath her feet.

First, she gathered the milk, collected from the cows in the cool hours of the morning. Then, pouring the milk into a large, earthen pot, she set it over a gentle fire to boil. 

As the milk heated, she stirred it slowly, her thoughts adrift in memories of Krishna-his smiles, his laughter, his divine dance, his playful words, and his enchanting smile. She sighed softly at her thoughts, which were filled with a sweet anticipation of a yearning to see him and hear his voice again.

Once the milk had come to a boil, she set it aside, allowing it to cool to the perfect temperature before adding a few spoonfuls of yogurt as a culture, leaving this mixture undisturbed. Then covering it with a cloth in a warm corner of her simple hut, she went to sleep. 

Overnight, the magic of fermentation transformed the milk into curd, a thick and creamy base from which the makhan would be churned.

The next morning, waking up before dawn in her excitement, Devashree placed the curd into a large wooden churn and began the rhythmic process of churning. 

Back and forth, her hands moved gracefully with the strength required for this task. The churn sang a soft, creaking melody, a tune that seemed to harmonize with the songs of the birds outside. Closing her eyes, she tried to remember every glimpse she ever had of him-the Govardhan on his little finger, his face covered in makhan, his beautiful raas, and the dance on the serpent's head she had seen yesterday.

After some time, as the sun began to climb higher, the butter started to form, floating up in delicate, creamy clumps. Devashree gathered these with a gentle touch, her fingers caressing the soft texture of the makhan and then molding it delicately and shaping it with care.

This makhan, prepared with such love and care, became more than just food; it was now a symbol of her unyielding affection and developing feelings towards Krishna. 

She placed it in two large, intricately decorated pots, sealing it with a tender smile. 

Her heart was full, knowing that this simple offering, made with such dedication, would soon be in the hands of Krishna.

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In the quaint and peaceful village of Vrindavan, the day had unfolded with the usual chorus of birds and the gentle rustle of leaves. 

As the sun began its descent Krishna was waiting on the banks of Yamuna, for his beloved with a heart full of anticipation.

The fragrance of freshly churned makhan reached him before he heard the sound of her lotus feet, and it was as if each particle of air was infused with her essence. 

His heart swelled with a love so profound and all-encompassing that words faltered in their attempt to capture its depth. 

Finally, he would taste the makhan, made with love, a love so pure and so selfless that it sought nothing in return.

He smiled widely at her, turning back to see Devashree carrying two pots of makhan with her, her delicate face sporting a wide grin. 

She carefully sat beside him and handed over the pots to him.