Growing up with Janmashtami

Janmashtami is round the corner and it’s the time for children to be told stories about Baby Krishna’s mischief. And they will giggle, knowing they were just as lovable and loved, when they were babies.

Here is one of the typical things that the butter-loving child would do:

 

Photo credit: festivalsasia.in

Krishna was born at midnight, so preparations would begin the afternoon before. I remember returning from school as a child to see a big kolam drying in front of our house. Large floral motifs in bold strokes of pure white would be ready to appease my cranky eye. On Gokulashtami, the point of interest went beyond the beauty of the design, it was the tiny feet drawn at the door that awaited my arrival. Something like this:

photo credit: http://elaichii.blogspot.in

I would ring the doorbell with a surge of excitement and my mother would appear with a big smile, ‘My Krishna has come.’ 

Her reasoning for Janmashtami was this, it is a celebration for children. No parent expects a real Krishna to appear at the door, their children’s smiles are enough for them. It is a labour of maternal love, done willingly, hopeful for a bright smile in return.

The annual ritual continued for a while.  At some point, the feet designs stopped, the busy hue at the time of year reduced. I didn’t notice. I just didn’t notice.

I must have been a teenager when I asked her, ‘You stopped making those tiny feet, why?’

She replied simply, ‘You grew up.’She had opened the door, I hadn’t noticed her or the larger design or the feet as I rushed in and rushed out for some urgency, for sure. And she knew that a phase was past. Maybe her heart broke a little, she didn’t say. 

Then I had a kid. My schedule was busy and I declined most religious rituals. But in a throwback to times past, on this day I would make floor designs of baby feet, painstakingly leading them to the designated god center. My son would ring the doorbell and I would open the door with a smile as I saw his eyes light up at the feet drawn just for him. He graduated from putting his feet into the wet design to trying to help me make the drawing, to following the feet without messing the design.

We would discuss the stories around Krishna and he would watch as I made the ‘vella payasam’ (sweetened rice), my shortcut culinary offering since I was not inclined to the more demanding traditional foods. Besides, my son liked ‘vella payasam' and that was enough for me.

But I wanted insurance, so I told him, ‘When you lose interest, tell me. I’ll stop taking the extra effort to make these ‘kolams’.’

He agreed. But children forget, and one day he entered the house with barely a glance at the fruit of my effort and certainly no smile. He watched television, ate something and hurried off to play. Later, we had a few free moments but the innocent glee was missing. The interest was gone.

And I knew a phase of childhood was gone forever. My heart broke a little. I didn’t say.