Beyond the grand battles and legendary heroes of the Mahabharata lies a realm of untold stories-fragments of truth that time has veiled. In these hidden moments, souls wrestle with choices, hearts ache in silence, and destinies are forged in the qui...
The sun was beginning its slow descent over the newly built city of Dwarka, painting the sky in hues of gold and crimson. The sea lapped gently against the shore, its rhythm a soothing melody that seemed to harmonize with the whispers of the evening breeze. Krishna stood on the palace balcony, gazing out at the horizon. The city bustled below him, its streets alive with the laughter of children, the chatter of traders, and the quiet hum of life that had taken root in this land by the sea.
But Krishna's mind was elsewhere.
From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a small boy running through the courtyard below, his laughter bubbling up into the air as he darted past a flustered mother who was chasing after him. She called his name with an exasperated smile, her hands outstretched, trying to catch the boy who was too quick, too full of life and mischief. The boy's eyes gleamed with a familiar spark, and in that fleeting moment, Krishna was no longer standing in Dwarka.
He was in Gokula.
The sound of that little boy's laughter stirred something deep within him, a memory from a time long ago. He closed his eyes, and suddenly he was a child again, barefoot in the soft, dusty paths of Gokula, running just like that boy, with his own mother chasing after him.
"Kanha! You mischievous little one, come here!" Yashoda Maiya's voice rang in his ears as if she were right beside him. He could see her now, her face flushed from running, her saree trailing behind her as she tried to catch him. But he had been quick, always quick. He had loved to tease her, to make her chase him, to watch her exasperation melt into laughter when she finally caught him and pulled him into her arms.
The memory was so vivid, so real, that Krishna could almost feel the warmth of her embrace, the soft press of her cheek against his hair as she scolded him gently, her love wrapping around him like a protective shield.
His heart tightened at the thought. Yashoda Maiya. His mother in every sense that mattered. She had cradled him in her arms, soothed his tears, fed him with her own hands, and loved him as only a mother could. And Nand Baba, his father, had held him high on his shoulders, teaching him the ways of the cows, the fields, and the simple joys of life.
But that life had been left behind, swept away by the tides of destiny.
Krishna opened his eyes and looked out over Dwarka, the city that had risen from the ashes of Mathura, a place of safety for his people, built by his own hands but just as much of every citizen. It was magnificent, grand, and prosperous. But in his heart, there was a quiet corner that still longed for the simplicity of Gokula—the smell of fresh cow dung in the mornings, the songs of the Gopis as they churned butter, the sound of Nand Baba's laughter, and Yashoda Maiya's lullabies at night.
He remembered the day he left them. It had been sudden. He had known even then that his destiny was far greater than the peaceful life he had known in Gokula, but that knowledge had not lessened the pain. He could still see the tears in Yashoda's eyes, the way she had held him for a moment longer than usual, as if she knew that once he left, he would never truly return to her.
Krishna's fingers curled around the stone railing of the balcony. He had not cried that day. He had been calm, composed—he had smiled for her sake, assured her that he would come back, that he would always be her Kanha, her little boy. But deep inside, as he mounted the chariot that would take him away from the village that had been his home, he had felt a part of himself being left behind, a part that no palace, no throne, no kingdom could ever replace.
He had never gone back. Gokula was no longer his home. Dwarka was his home now, and people here depended on him. But even as he took the mantle of royal duties, even as he wielded the Sudarshana Chakra, there were nights—nights like this—when the weight of those memories pressed down on him.
Krishna sighed softly, his heart heavy with the bittersweet ache of remembrance. Yashoda Maiya, Nand Baba—they had loved him without condition, without expectation. They had loved him not as the divine avatar of Vishnu, not as the wielder of cosmic power, but as their little boy, their mischievous, playful Kanha who smeared butter on his face and pretended to sleep when caught in the act.
In Gokula, he had been free. Free from the burden of royalty, free from the expectations of the world. He had been just a boy, running through the fields, playing by the river, laughing with his friends. He had known love in its purest, simplest form.
The sound of the boy's laughter below pulled him back to the present. Krishna watched as the mother finally caught the boy, scooping him into her arms as he squealed in protest. But she was smiling, and so was he, their love as tangible as the breeze that carried their laughter to his ears.
A small, wistful smile tugged at Krishna's lips. He had left Gokula, but Gokula had never left him. It was there, in every act of love he witnessed, in every mother who held her child, in every father who smiled with pride. It lived in the quiet moments, in the laughter of children, in the embrace of family.
And though he was far from those simple days, far from the fields and the cows and the warm embrace of his Yashoda Maiya, he carried her love with him still. It was woven into the fabric of his being, a part of him as eternal as his divinity.
Krishna turned from the balcony, his heart a little lighter. The boy's laughter had stirred the memories, yes, but it had also reminded him of the beauty of what he had once known—the beauty of a mother's love, of a father's belief, of a home where he had been simply Kanha.
And in that remembrance, there was peace.
For though he was Krishna, the Dwarkadeesha, the wielder of cosmic power, he would always, in the quiet corners of his heart, be Yashoda's little boy, running through the fields of Gokula, loved beyond measure.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
