Yashoda Sees the Universe

Long ago, in the village of Gokul, there lived a loving mother named Yashoda. Her little Krishna was full of fun. Everyone called him Kanha.

One sunny day, Kanha was playing in the yard with his friends. They ran and laughed under the big tree. The cows rested nearby, and their bells went ting, ting.

Then his friends came running to Yashoda. "Maiya, Kanha put something in his mouth!"

Yashoda smiled and shook her head. She sat Kanha on her lap. "Kanha, open your mouth," she said. "Let me see." Just as every mother does.

Kanha looked up at her with big, shining eyes. Then he opened his little mouth wide. "Aaa," he said.

Yashoda bent down to look. And then... she saw the sky.

Not a little sky. The whole, wide sky. Stars were twinkling, near and far. The moon was glowing, soft and silver. The sun was shining, warm and gold.

Yashoda looked, and looked, and looked.

She saw rivers flowing to the sea. She saw tall mountains with snowy tops. She saw green forests and quiet villages. She even saw Gokul. She saw herself, holding her Kanha on her lap.

Yashoda looked, and looked, and looked. Her eyes grew wide with wonder. How could a whole world fit inside her little Kanha?

Then Kanha closed his mouth. He giggled. He was just her little Kanha again, with a curl on his forehead.

Yashoda did not ask any questions. She did not need to. Her wonder slowly turned into love. Big, warm, soft love.

She pulled Kanha close and hugged him tight. She kissed his round cheeks. "My Kanha," she whispered. "Whatever is inside you, I love all of it."

A cool breeze rustled the leaves. A cow bell rang softly, ting, ting. Kanha rested his head on her shoulder and closed his eyes.

Yashoda looked, and looked, and looked at him. And she smiled.