The Flute Still Beckons

JANMASHTAMI HAS PASSED, but its meaning lingers like music in the night. My mother marked it, as she always does, not only with ritual but with remembrance—five parables of Krishna that shimmer with conscience more than creed. These are not just stories from scripture; they are signposts for living. They tell us the heart of religion is not ritual, but responsibility.

Not division, but dignity. Not dogma, but humanity.

Restraint: Shishupala insulted Krishna ninety-nine times at Yudhisthira’s Rajasuya. Krishna forgave every time, until the hundredth. Power lies notininstant retaliation butin the patience to pause.

In an age where outrage is reflex, his equanimity is reminder: forgiveness is fortitude, patience is power.

Paradox: The same Krishna who wielded the Sudarshan also played the flute. He could destroy with a weapon yet preferred to delight with a melody. That is not contradiction—it is completeness. Strength is not only in striking but in singing, not only in conquest but in creativity. We too must balance arsenal with art.

Friendship: Dwarka gleamed with palaces, yet Krishna embraced Sudama, his childhood companion in torn dhoti and poverty’s dust. He washed his feet, ate his humble rice, and honoured him with love. Wealth without warmth is worthless, grandeur without gratitude meaningless. Friendship outshines fortune, loyalty outweighs luxury.

Dance: The poisoned Yamuna writhed with the serpent Kaliya, yet Krishna did not strike with fear—he danced on its hoods. Death became a drumbeat, danger a dance floor. Even amid toxicity, one can choose rhythm over rage, grace over grievance. Despair can be turned into dance.

Humility: Offered a choice between his army and himself, unarmed, Duryodhana chose battalions; Arjuna chose the man. Krishna became a charioteer, guiding horses and hearts, delivering the Gita from the humble seat of service. Leadership is service—not supremacy.

Five stories, five mirrors. Not mythology to memorise but morality to live. Krishna does not ask for worship; he asks for practice: patience in insult, balance in power, loyalty in friendship, grace in adversity, humility in service.

That is why Janmashtami is not just laddoos and matki phod, midnight lamps and temple bells.

It is a call to conscience. To reclaim religion not as superstition policed by priests, but as compassion practised by people. To celebrate faith not as fortress but as field, not as division but dignity.

When Prime Minister Modi invoked Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam—“One Earth, One Family, One Future”—at G20, he gave the world a phrase as old as the Upanishads and as urgent as our times. It is Krishna’s vision too: the cows of Vrindavan, the queens of Dwarka, the Pandavas, even his enemies—all part of his circle. To be Krishna-conscious is to be connection-conscious.

To see the planet as kin, the future as shared.

And how much we need that consciousness today. Borders are barbed, politics polarised, faith fractured. Krishna whispers otherwise: break boundaries, build bridges, bless the world with care. Humanity is not hallowed by ritual alone, but by respect, empathy, generosity.

My mother’s stories were never just about a god in blue. They were about the best in us. About being warriors of heart, not hate. About living as if our choices matter—because they do. About seeing that true devotion is not in candles lit on altars, but in compassion lit in lives.

That is Krishna’s gift. That is Janmashtami’s meaning. To remind us gods are not imprisoned in idols but reflected in our actions. To remind us the flute still plays—if only we pause to hear it.

One Earth. One Family. One Future. Not just the Upanishadic call. Not just the Krishna call. It is ours to answer—with equanimity, with empathy, with enduring humanity.

cuisinesfestivalsfoodJanmashtamiKrishna-consciousladdoosmatki phod