Krishna gulps down milk and yoghurt, burfi, malaai,
Much of it not his, oh, no, nor of his family;
Still Krishna grows chubby, as also you can
If you can filch, and charm your way out of any jam.
His grin (impish, mocking, but also disarming),
Affords him this luxury, among a myriad of things.
.
What do you do with him, who’s so out of hand,
So stubborn; who’ll follow no command?
Today Yashoda finds him frolicking,
Frolicking, burrowing through mounds of sand,
Clawing at it, throwing fistfuls at his chum:
A roguish child who’s having his fun.
.
But what’s this now? Yashoda panics,
As Krishna, with a glint almost manic
Stuffs sand in his mouth, chomping and crunching.
‘Stop that!’ shouts Yashoda, loud and rasping.
‘What’s that in your mouth, young rascal?
Show your ma now – now, this instant.’
.
Still grinning, Krishna drops his jaw.
In his mouth is all that God has wrought.
Plants, animals, humans; plains, mountains, sky;
Colours and odours, music and cacophony;
Mathura, Vrindavan, Krishna, Yashoda.
Yashoda bows: ‘Now I know you, my Lord.’
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