The Most Beautiful One

CHAPTER : 3

Devotion to Krishna became my life, becoming like Meera Bai. Every morning woke me up with his name, and every evening dipped me into sleep with his. My heart felt that it found its real home, and the childish mind clung on to all the love I imagined he showered down upon me. Little did I know that my journey with Krishna was about to start.

One day, when I was in the 4th standard, something happened that would forever deepen my connection to him. It was an ordinary day during Hindi class. My teacher, Mrs. Verma, had just finished writing a verse on the board. She explained that it was a *shloka* from a very ancient, sacred text.

"This is a shloka from the *Bhagavad Gita*", she said with an inflection in her voice that made me sit up in my seat. "It is the song of the Lord, the song of Krishna".

The moment I heard those words, my heart began to race. *The song of Krishna*? How had I not known? How was it possible that there were words spoken by him—by the one I thought of day and night?

The thirst to learn became urgent and all-encompassing questioning. That evening, I brought up the subject of the *Bhagavad Gita* with my parents. "Can we get a copy?" I begged with wide, excited eyes. Of course, my practical parents brushed it off lightly. "You're too young for such things," they said. "You wouldn't understand it yet."

But I was not prepared to wait. Days pass and become weeks, but my craving for Krishna's words hasn't let me go. At school, I began questioning my teachers, my friends; anyone who might know where one could find the book. But wherever I went, whoever I asked, I was met with the same answer: "You're too young."

I could not digest that. The mere idea of holding Krishna's words in my hands, of reading what he had once spoken to Arjuna, filled me with a longing so intense that I could hardly think of anything else. I would imagine myself sitting under some tree, reading the *Bhagavad Gita*, with Krishna smiling over my shoulder, proud that I was seeking him.

And then, one day, my waiting came to an end in the most unexpected way.

It was just another school day. The rain had gone away and the fresh air was cool. I remember sitting in the assembly hall fidgeting in my seat when an announcement was made: "Today, special guests from ISKCON will come here to distribute copies of the *Bhagavad Gita* to the students."

Now, that was a story for the books. My heart skipped a beat. Bhagavad Gita? Today? My pulse quickened, and before I knew what was happening, a bunch of devotees clad in white and saffron robes entered the hall with huge stacks of the sacred book. As they began to give them out, I waited breathlessly, hoping to my last prayer that one would find its way to me.

And then it did. A devotee placed a small, beautiful copy of the *Bhagavad Gita* in my trembling hands. I couldn't believe it. I stared at the cover tracing the letters with my fingers as if Krishna himself had given me this gift.

At first, I was holding that against my chest, feeling its weight, knowing that within those pages lie the words of the Lord to the heart in it. My excitement overcame me that day, and I rushed home so as quickly to dive into the book I had been searching for.

But when I opened the first page and read, my heart sank a bit. Words appeared difficult to understand. The meanings were something way beyond my young mind. I hardly could understand the shlokas or philosophy or teachings. It felt as if the whole world of Gita was out of reach.

But I did not go away. Each evening, I would sit with the book across my knees, tracing my fingers over its pages; my eyes following the thread of Sanskrit words that meant nothing to me. That too was inconsequential. What mattered was that those words, spoken once upon a time by Krishna—my Krishna, whom I loved more than anything else in the world. And it was sufficient for me.

I would sit for hours looking only at the text, imagining Krishna speaking such words directly to me. Sometimes I would say the things aloud that I had just read, not knowing what the words meant, hoping Krishna might hear my whispering, hope that he would know how much I wanted to understand and to be near him.

And in the quiet times, holding this book in my hands, I felt something that no one could have ever forged in my imagination. It was as if words on the page throbbed with Krishna's presence. I sensed him around me, comforting me, guiding me though I didn't know a thing about what the words meant.

Then, one evening, as I sat by the window with the *Bhagavad Gita* open in my lap, the sweet breeze drifted through and disturbed its pages. I smiled, closed my eyes and whispered softly, "Krishna, are you here?"

And in my heart, I felt an answer- a quiet but surely powerful reassurance that yes, he was always there. I didn't have to understand every word that *Gita* said yet. All I needed to know was that Krishna was with me, guiding me patiently as I took my first steps on this new journey of devotion.

It was at such quiet moments with the *Bhagavad Gita* that I understood devotion had nothing to do with knowing everything or getting every detail. It was about feeling. It was about love. And my love for Krishna, like Meera's, was growing day by day, page by page, shloka by shloka. And though only a child, with so much more yet to learn, still I was sure, I knew within my heart that Krishna waited to be found by me, to grow in my mind, and, as Meera had done all those long centuries ago, to await my discovery.