Baby Krishna in My Lap ❤️

'Where there is love, there is God.'

The most beautiful experience of life is not merely finding God—it is discovering, one day, that He has quietly begun living with you. He becomes a part of your mornings and evenings, your laughter and your tears, your meals, your prayers, and your silences. You are no longer alone. Someone is always there—watching, listening, playing, and sometimes simply sitting beside you without saying a word. For me, that someone is Baby Krishna.

I don't remember exactly when He became a part of my life. There was no dramatic moment, no announcement, no particular day I can point to and say, “This is when it happened.” He simply came… and stayed. Most of the time, He sits in my lap. Before I eat or even drink water, I never forget to feed Him first. He loves joining me for the morning and evening aarti. But what He enjoys most is marjayami—the ritual in which water is sprinkled over oneself for purification. And like any little child, He absolutely loves playing with water! Sometimes I look at Him and wonder how the Lord of the entire universe can be so delightfully mischievous. Perhaps that is the mystery of Krishna. He doesn't always come to you as the majestic Lord of the cosmos. Sometimes, He comes as a child who simply wants to be loved.

When I feel sad, He takes my hand and dances as though sadness has no place in His world. When I cry, He wipes my tears with His tiny hands and seems to whisper, “I am with you. Always.” What greater comfort can there be? Perhaps devotion is not merely about knowing God; perhaps it is about developing such an intimate relationship with Him that His presence begins to become as natural as breathing.

Last December, while casually scrolling through videos, I came across a discourse by Indresh Upadhyay Ji, a kathavachak from Vrindavan associated with Bhaktipath. I watched one video, then another, and then another. His narration was soaked in devotion. His stories were not merely stories; they seemed to carry me somewhere deeper—somewhere beyond words. I listened, contemplated, and meditated upon the divine leelas of Baby Krishna. And somewhere in that quiet journey, something inexplicable happened. He came. Quietly. Almost unnoticed. And one day I realized—Baby Krishna was sitting in my lap. How He came, I still do not know. Perhaps He was always there. Perhaps I simply became quiet enough to notice Him.

Ramakrishna Paramahansa beautifully said, “The winds of grace are always blowing, but you have to raise the sail.” Perhaps devotion was the little sail I finally raised.

After that, even ordinary things began to feel different. I found myself enjoying lavish meals. I developed a strong liking for butter. I began craving curd. I wanted to play like a child. I started watching cartoons—not just any cartoons, but stories about God and His divine leelas. And something else happened. I developed a strong urge to help a cow, sometimes simply by praying for her. It is strange how devotion changes you. You don't always consciously decide to become different. Love changes you from within.

I have heard the stories of Lord Krishna since childhood. I have read the Bhagavata Purana, Brahma Vaivarta Purana, and commentaries on the Srimad Bhagavad Gita by more than a dozen authors. Yet something about Indresh Upadhyay Ji's narration touched a different chord within me. His style is unique. He doesn't merely tell a story; he seems to immerse you in it. Listening to him, I find myself sinking deeper and deeper into the ocean of bhakti—until Krishna's leela no longer feels like something I am merely hearing about. It feels as though I am witnessing it, as though I have been invited into that divine world for a few precious moments.

That, perhaps, is the beauty of katha. A story heard with the ears becomes knowledge; a story heard with the heart becomes devotion.

There are many stories narrated by him that I love, but Shiv Vivah holds a special place in my heart. I have watched it numerous times, and yet, every time, I want to watch it again. That is the strange sweetness of devotion. You don't get tired of what you love. You can hear the same name a thousand times, sing the same aarti every evening, listen to the same leela again and again, and still the heart says, “Once more.” That is bhakti.

I have not shared my spiritual experiences publicly for almost three years. Some experiences are too precious to explain; they feel almost sacred when kept quietly within the heart. But this time, I couldn't resist. Not because I want anyone to believe me. Not because I want to prove anything. But because I have experienced something so beautiful that I wish everyone could take at least one dip in this divine ocean of devotion.

Listen to His stories. Contemplate upon them. Meditate upon them. Let the stories settle into your heart. Take one step closer to Him. And perhaps, one quiet day, you too may suddenly discover that He was already there—sitting beside you, walking with you, eating with you, dancing with you, wiping your tears, and reminding you in the simplest possible way, “You are never alone. I am with you.”

Kabir's immortal words capture this mystery so beautifully: “Moko kahan dhoondhe re bande, main to tere paas mein.” Where are you searching for Me, O seeker? I am right beside you.

Perhaps God does not always have to be found. Perhaps sometimes… He simply has to be loved enough to be noticed. And when that happens, the greatest miracle of life may not be that you found God. It may be that you suddenly realize—God had quietly found you.

And now, my little Krishna sits in my lap.

And I pray that He never gets down. 

Just as we lovingly give a name to a newborn child, I feel there is a beautiful tradition of giving a name to the little God who has entered our lives. Meera Bai called her beloved Krishna “Giridhar Gopal”, declaring, “Mere to Giridhar Gopal, doosaro na koye”—Giridhar Gopal is mine; I have no one else. My little Krishna, too, has quietly become such a beloved presence in my life. So, dear readers, I have a humble request: please suggest a beautiful name for my Baby Krishna. Perhaps the name will come from you, but who knows—maybe it will be Krishna Himself who chooses His name through you.

Happy Krishna Janmashtami to everyone!

Pic : AI Generated

When She Became a Mother

“Stop! Stop! STOP!”

The urgency in the voice made me turn instantly. An autorickshaw stood abandoned in the middle of the road, its passengers looking confused, while the driver ran towards me, breathless yet determined.

For a moment, I wondered what could have gone so wrong.

“You feed dogs with milk every day,” he said, his voice filled with hope. “You are a pious person. There is a bitch who has given birth near a tea stall. Please feed her too. God will bless you.”

There was something earnest in his request—something that needed no questioning.

“Sure,” I replied, and began walking in the direction he pointed, my mind already curious about this new mother.

The tea stall was simple, run by a middle-aged woman whose eyes spoke of quiet resilience. When I asked her, she pointed toward a small hut just behind it.

From a distance, the hut looked fragile—almost as if it existed more on hope than on structure. A single bed occupied nearly all its space. I called out softly, but there was no response.

Two children playing nearby came to help. They tried to nudge the dog out with a stick, but she refused to move. Perhaps the cold held her back… or perhaps it was the warmth of motherhood that made her stay.

After much coaxing, she finally emerged.

There she was—a tricolour beauty, her black back gleaming, brown limbs steady, white feet almost glowing in contrast. The tip of her tail flickered like a small flag of joy. The moment she saw me, she leapt with excitement, her eyes sparkling with recognition.

“Oh my God… she became a mother!” I whispered.

Memories rushed back. I had seen her when she was just a tiny pup, injured badly after being run over by a vehicle. I had given her medicines, watched her heal—though a slight hunch and a limp remained as silent reminders of her past.

And now, here she was—strong, alive, and a mother.

As Mahatma Gandhi once said, “The greatness of a nation can be judged by the way its animals are treated.” Standing there, I felt that kindness had quietly come full circle.

I fed her gently, watching her eat with both hunger and relief. There was a softness in her now—a protective calm that only a mother carries.

The next day, I returned.

The hut looked the same, but something felt different. Someone lay on the bed, completely covered with a blanket. I called out, once… twice… but the dog didn’t come out this time.

Instead, the figure on the bed stirred. Slowly, the blanket was pulled aside.

And there he was—the same autorickshaw driver.

Another surprise unfolded quietly before me. This humble hut was his home. The tea vendor was his wife. The plea from yesterday was not just about a stray dog—it was about someone who cared deeply, even in the midst of his own struggles.

In that moment, I was reminded of Albert Schweitzer’s words, “Until one has loved an animal, a part of one’s soul remains unawakened.”

Sometimes, kindness doesn’t come from abundance—it comes from empathy.
And sometimes, the most unexpected people carry the deepest compassion.

As I stood there, watching the little world they had built—of survival, care, and quiet love—I realized — kindness needs no wealth, only a willing heart.”

Pic : AI Generated 

In the Light of Satyarth Prakash

The afternoon sun hung lazily in the sky as I stopped by my regular vegetable vendor. There was something different about him—not just the way he arranged his fruits with care, but the quiet dignity he carried.

We had spoken a few times before. I knew he was well-educated, yet life had led him here, selling vegetables to make ends meet. That day, as I handed him a book on Ayurveda, hoping it might help with his health issues, his face lit up—not with surprise, but with curiosity.

“As I am an Arya Samaji, I have a keen desire to read Satyarth Prakash,” he said thoughtfully.

There was a pause. Then I asked, almost instinctively, “Should I give that to you?”

His eyes widened slightly. “Do you have that too?” he asked, raising his eyebrows—half disbelief, half hope.

Without another word, I walked back home and returned with the book. It was a hardbound copy, its pages smooth, its print refined—one of those books that feels valuable the moment you hold it.

He took it gently, almost reverently, flipping through its pages as though touching something sacred.

“It must be very costly,” he murmured.

“Yes, it is,” I replied simply.

For a moment, he said nothing. I could see the conflict in his eyes—the desire to read it, and the hesitation to accept something so valuable.

Then, after a long pause, he spoke with quiet honesty, “If I take this… I may not return it. I will keep it with me.”

There was no greed in his voice—only sincerity.

I smiled and said lightly, “Then every time you read it, you’ll remember me as the one who gave it to you.”

He looked up, and in that moment, there was something unspoken—gratitude, respect, and perhaps a silent understanding that some things are not borrowed, they are shared.

As I walked away, I realized that the value of a book is not in its price, but in the hands it reaches and the minds it touches.

And sometimes, the simplest exchanges carry the deepest meanings.

Pic : AI Generated

A Bagful of Navratri Blessings

The festive air of Navratri had just begun to settle in—soft echoes of prayers, the faint fragrance of incense, and a quiet sense of devotion in the surroundings.

That morning, I noticed a new face at the gate—a female security guard. The bright streak of sindoor in her hair and a simple bindi on her forehead spoke of her rootedness, her quiet strength.

“Do you have kids?” I asked, more out of warmth than curiosity.

She looked at me, a little surprised, then replied softly, “Yes, a 12-year-old boy and a 10-year-old girl.”

There was something gentle in the way she spoke of them—like they were her entire world.

“After Navratri prayers, I usually buy gifts for a girl child,” I said. “Can I buy something for your daughter?”

She nodded, but there was hesitation in her eyes—as if she wasn’t used to accepting kindness so easily.

“What does she like? Art and craft? Or should I get her something useful, like a school bag?” I asked.

A faint smile appeared. “She loves to draw,” she said, “but a school bag would be better. She goes to a village school… coloured pens won’t last long. Other children might spoil them.”

Her answer carried practicality, shaped by experience. It wasn’t about denying her daughter’s interests—it was about choosing what would help her move forward.

Later that day, I returned with a school bag, a tiffin box, a water bottle, and a neat little pencil set. Nothing extravagant, just simple things—but chosen with care.

When I handed them to her, she held them gently, almost as if they were fragile.

Her eyes filled with tears—not loud, not dramatic—just a quiet overflow of gratitude.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

In that moment, the spirit of Navratri felt complete—not in rituals or offerings, but in a small act of sharing. As Mother Teresa once said, “It’s not how much we give, but how much love we put into giving.”

And perhaps, that is where true devotion lives—not in grand gestures, but in the simple, heartfelt connections that light up someone’s world.

Pic : AI Generated

The Fabric of Kindness

“It’s too hot!” 

“It’s really hot!”

“I am perspiring heavily!”

For days, my new maid repeated these lines like a tired refrain. She had come in place of my old maids, who had gone back to their villages to cast their votes in the ongoing elections. At first, I simply nodded in agreement—summer, after all, has its own way of making itself known. But gradually, something about her constant discomfort made me pause.

The weather wasn’t unbearable. Not yet. Then why was she struggling so much?

The answer revealed itself quietly—through the fabric she wore. Her clothes, made of polyester and other synthetic materials, clung to her uneasily, trapping heat and refusing to absorb sweat. Comfort, I realized, is often woven into the simplest things. As Yves Saint Laurent once said, “Fashions fade, style is eternal.” But what good is style without comfort?

Pure cotton, soft and breathable, would have been ideal. But the market had made it a luxury—scarce and expensive. For a mother of three school-going children, it was simply out of reach.

That evening, I made up my mind.

“Would you like some of my cotton suits?” I asked gently. “You won’t feel so uncomfortable then.”

She hesitated, then replied with surprising firmness, “Please don’t feel bad, but I do not wear old clothes worn by others.”

There was dignity in her words, quiet but unwavering. I respected it.

“I’ll give you a fresh one,” I said.

“If you buy it from the market, I will surely wear it,” she replied.

I smiled, walked to my almirah, and took out three cotton suits—unworn, untouched, their price tags still intact. Sometimes, abundance sits forgotten in our cupboards while someone else lives without it.

“See if you like any of these,” I said.

Her eyes lit up. She carefully picked a cream-colored suit, delicately embroidered at the front.

“Can I try this?” she asked, her voice carrying a hint of excitement.

“Of course. And don’t forget to look at yourself in the mirror.”

Moments later, she emerged, her face glowing. “It’s perfect—the length, the color, the size. I want this.”

“You can try the others too,” I suggested.

She shook her head thoughtfully. “They are smaller. Cotton shrinks after washing, and there’s no margin to adjust them. This one is just right. I’ll wash it and buy matching lowers.”

There was practicality in her choice, and quiet joy too.

The next morning, as I opened the door, I saw her standing there—wearing that same cream-colored suit, paired with black trousers. She looked radiant. There was a lightness about her, as if comfort had given her confidence.

And something else had changed.

Not once did she complain about the heat.

In that moment, I was reminded of what Maya Angelou once said, “People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

It wasn’t just a piece of clothing—it was comfort, dignity, and a small act of understanding.

And sometimes, that is enough to make even the harshest summer feel a little kinder.

Pic : AI Generated

Ma Matangi's Guidance

“Oh Mother! Your chants are so difficult to pronounce, your mantras for yagna so complex, and your sadhana… it all seems to go above my head,” I whispered in silent prayer. “Guide me instead to help someone who is forgotten by the world—someone isolated, unheard. As you, O Mother, embrace such souls, let me bring even a little happiness into one such life. Show me the way.” With folded hands, I prayed to Ma Matangi. And then, like a soft ripple in still water, an image appeared in my mind—an old man. Fragile. Silent. Alone. Sitting in a park. His words unclear, his presence unnoticed. A man living in his own world, as if the world had quietly forgotten him.

Days passed, and soon the sacred festival of Navratri approached. With devotion in my heart, I picked up a bundle of Nav Durga booklets from Gita Press Gorakhpur to distribute among security guards, housekeeping staff, and anyone willing to receive them.

As I walked, handing out the small tokens of faith, I reached the spot where I had last seen that old man. But he wasn’t there. A quiet disappointment settled within me. Had I misunderstood the Mother’s sanket (signal)? Still, I continued my path, trusting something unseen.

On my way back, I chose a different route. And there he was. Sitting quietly on a chair near the entrance of a building—just as I had remembered him. Time seemed to pause.

I walked up to him gently and offered the booklet. He looked at it, then at me, and a soft smile spread across his face. With trembling hands, he bowed slightly to the image of Ma Durga printed on the cover.

“Can you read?” I asked softly, unsure of his condition.

“Yes,” he replied, his voice faint yet steady, “I will read it when I go home… my spectacles are not with me right now.”

In that simple moment, something profound unfolded. No grand ritual, no complex mantra—just a small act of kindness. I realized then, perhaps this was the Mother’s true teaching. Not in difficult chants or rituals, but in quiet compassion. In seeing those whom the world overlooks.

With the blessings of the Divine Mother, I had not performed a mahan sadhana (great spiritual practice), but I had touched a human heart.

And maybe… that was enough.

Pic : AI Generated

From Carelessness to Compassion

“How cruelly they are plucking the tiny blooming flowers from a tender plant of Jatropha integerrima?” I thought, as my eyes fell upon four young girls, their hands moving quickly, almost restlessly, as they gathered the bright red blossoms.

I was walking along the quiet pavement of the park, absorbed in the deep thoughts of Gita Rahasya by Bal Gangadhar Tilak, listening in noise-cancellation mode. The calmness of philosophy and the harshness of the scene before me clashed within my mind. I instinctively quickened my pace, hoping to reach them in time.

But I was late.

Before I could intervene, a tender branch snapped. The plant seemed to shudder in silence. The girls, startled perhaps by their own act, hurried away before anyone could question them.

I slowed down again, my heart slightly heavy. As Albert Schweitzer once said, “Until he extends his circle of compassion to all living things, man will not himself find peace.”

After completing another round, I approached the same spot. The little plant stood there—wounded, yet quietly enduring. But something had changed.

The same four girls stood near it again.

This time, their hands were folded, their eyes gently closed, lips whispering something inaudible—perhaps an apology, perhaps a prayer. It felt as though their innocent hearts had awakened to a deeper understanding. Whether guided by an elder or stirred by their own conscience, I could not tell. But the transformation was undeniable.

I paused, watching from a distance.

In my next round, I saw them again. But now, they were different—not in appearance, but in action. They were gently collecting fallen twigs, flowers, and leaves from the ground. No force, no harm—only care. Their laughter had returned, but now it carried a softness, a kindness.

They had found a way to play without hurting.

The tender plant still stood there, perhaps in pain, but also as a silent teacher. And those four young girls, once careless, had now become its quiet protectors. “Look deep into nature, and then you will understand everything better.” — Albert Einstein

As I walked on, I realized that sometimes, the smallest moments teach the greatest lessons—not just to children, but to all of us. 

Pic : Pixabay