DIVINE CHAINS AND ANKLETS OF JANMASHTAMI
~ "As bhakti filled the night, an ancient dark shadow whispered its darker desire." ~
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The night sky shimmered with countless stars, as though the cosmos itself was holding its breath—awaiting the descent of the eternal one—the greatest flute-player ever, Shri Krishna. In the silence of Mathura's prison, divine radiance bloomed. The chains loosened, the guards slipped into slumber, and in that sacred moment, the Lord descended—shyām[1] as the endless sky, eyes twinkling with compassion, holding the promise of dharma's restoration.
His childhood became the melody of Vrindavan—the sound of anklets as he danced among the gopīs[2], the laughter of a boy who stole makhan[3] with mischievous grace, the fearless child who crushed serpents and demons alike. His life was not merely a tale of miracles, but of love, wisdom, and the eternal battle between righteousness and darkness. From lifting Govardhan Parvat[4] on his little finger to giving the Bhagavad Gītā's[5] immortal guidance, every step of his journey was a lesson etched in eternity.
And as the chains in Mathura's prison loosened long ago, tonight too, the chains of doubt and fear seemed to soften in every heart that listened.
Vedika's voice was soft, almost musical, as she narrated the divine tale. A lamp flickered beside her, and the sweet fragrance of marigolds and sandalwood filled the air. Aishwariya sat among others, her innocent eyes glowing, drinking every word as though it were nectar. The sound of conch shells from the temple drifted into the night, weaving themselves into Vedika's voice.
"And so, Krishna reminded the world," Vedika said, her lips curving in a gentle smile, "that no matter how dark the night, the divine light always returns."
With reverence, she lifted a silver plate of prasād[6]. "Take this, Aishwariya," she said, offering the sacred sweetness. "It is not just food—it carries blessings."
Aishwariya accepted it with clasped hands, her small palms pressed one over the other, her heart swelling with devotion. For a brief moment, the stars above seemed brighter, as if the cosmos itself had bowed in honor of the tale just spoken.
Then, as the midnight bells tolled, the clock struck twelve, the air blossomed with bhakti[7]. They sang bhajans[8] of Lord Krishna, their voices rising like fragrant incense towards the heavens. Some clapped with joy, others danced with unrestrained happiness, while the chaapan bhog[9] was lovingly shared among their comrades. One by one, they gently rocked little Laddu Gopal[10] in the beautifully decorated jhula[11], their faces radiant with faith and love.
But joy often casts the deepest shadows, and not every eye gleamed with devotion.
Amidst the joyous crowd, hidden in the shadows, a figure perched silently upon the branch of a tall neem tree. His eyes were locked upon Vedika—her laughter, her song, her dance, her devotion—each movement making her seem like a celestial being descended to earth. His lips twisted into a smile, dark with desire and something older… something far more dangerous.
He whispered to the night, his voice coiled with obsession:
"You will always be mine. Only mine. By hook… or by crook. I will never let you walk your destined path. Never. Ever. This is my promise to myself."
A low chuckle followed, sharp and unsettling. "My Vedika. My O... no, no, no. You still don't remember your past... and you never should."
His creepy whisper once again chilling with a sense of faint celestial irony:
"You speak of dharma, of Krishna's light… but tell me, Vedika, who will protect you from me?"
With that, he slipped away into the darkness, vanishing like smoke.
Vedika suddenly faltered mid-step, her chest tightening as though an ancient chill—a long-forgotten shadow—had brushed against her soul once again. She looked around, her eyes scanning the night sky, the trees, the courtyard—yet nothing seemed out of place.
"Vedika!" Shivangi's cheerful voice broke through her unease, as she grabbed her hand and pulled her back into the circle of dance.
Vedika forced a smile and swayed with her friend, but deep inside, a gnawing unease lingered. Her heart whispered of an unseen shadow—of a presence unseen, of a shadow clinging like a storm not yet born. She didn't know what it meant, but the feeling refused to fade.
But she had just spoken of Krishna's promise—that light always returns after darkness. Yet in her heart, she wondered:
> What if the darkness was already here?
Somewhere in the silence beyond stars, a flute played—a melody both tender and warning, reminding her that every birth of light also awakens its shadow.
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[1] shyām: dark-blue complexion
[2] gopīs: maidens
[3] makhan: butter
[4] parvat: mountain
[5] Bhagavad Gītā: divine scripture
[6] prasād: blessed offering
[7] bhakti: devotion
[8] bhajans: hymns / devotional songs
[9] chaapan bhog: fifty-six delicacies
[10] laddu gopal: child Krishna idol
[11] jhula: swing