The Night He Came Home

The fragrance of tulsi leaves and freshly churned butter filled my home long before the first conch echoed across the streets. I had been awake since dawn, my hands busy grinding sandalwood paste, my heart silently counting down the hours. Tonight, my home would be Gokul, and my soul, a cradle for Kanha.

The day felt like a river of devotion. I strung jasmine garlands one after another, each knot tied with a prayer. The temple bells outside rang in soft intervals, blending with the laughter of children rehearsing Ras Leela in the courtyard. I too was once that child—dancing barefoot on the cool earth, believing Krishna himself might sneak into our little play and join us.

As evening descended, the air shifted. Devotees in vibrant clothes arrived, their anklets jingling in rhythm with their steps. The streets glowed with rows of oil lamps, casting golden halos on the faces of those who passed. I lit lamps in every corner of my house, each flame flickering like my heartbeat. In the center of our decorated altar, the idol of Baby Krishna rested in a silver cradle, his tiny hands poised as though ready to steal butter from my kitchen.

When the clock struck midnight, the world seemed to hold its breath. The chants of “Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna” swelled, carrying me into a realm beyond time. In that moment, I didn’t just see an idol—I saw him. His eyes sparkled with mischief, his smile was a melody, and in his little fingers was a lump of butter, as if he had already claimed my offering.

I leaned close and whispered, “Welcome home, Kanha.” My hands placed the makhan before him, but my heart knew I had given something far more precious—myself. My family gathered around, our palms folded, our eyes moist—not because of tradition alone, but because we could feel him there, breathing in our prayers.

The night stretched on in music and joy. Sweet voices sang bhajans, drums kept the beat of devotion, and the air was thick with the perfume of incense and faith.

As I finally sat in stillness, I understood—Janmashtami is not only about the birth of a God thousands of years ago. It is the rebirth of love, hope, and faith, every single year.

That night, I didn’t just celebrate Krishna’s arrival into the world. I celebrated his arrival into my heart.