Maa and Me
It was August 1970, the Tamil month of Avani. The streets were decorated with festive flair, and houses were adorned with white footprints of little feet. I ran home barefoot from school, with my sling bag perched on my head. Amma was draped in her nine-yard maroon saree, neatly pleated, looking absolutely stunning. As I ran to hug her, she stopped me a few feet away with a gesture. “Vishnu, go to the backyard, wash your feet, and then come inside,” she instructed. I did as she said, and even took a bath, scrubbing my back with a gossamer thread just like my father does every day. Emulating him filled me with a quiet joy. I then dressed in a four-yard white dhoti and a matching towel, and performed my evening prayers by the well. When I entered the house, the familiar sounds of Krishna’s stories filled the air—our usual evening ritual for Krishna Jayanthi. I searched for Amma and found her in the backyard, lighting the lamp near the divine Tulsi plant. The lamp's flame mirrored the hues of the twilight sky. Her glass bangles jingled in rhythm as she gently extinguished the matchstick. The flowers in her long braid swayed, and her jhumkas danced lightly as her hand trembled. I always cherished these moments, watching quietly. “Amma, Amma…” “Yes, Vishnu? Stories of Krishna, right?” she asked with a smile. “Yes, Ma, but I want it with a twist! Like the murukku you offer to Krishna. I've heard all about His birth and incarnation, but can you share some life lessons from Krishna instead?” “Life lessons?” she echoed. “Yes, Vishnu,” she began thoughtfully. “Krishna may be an incarnation, but He left Vrindavan to defeat Kamsa, served as Arjuna's charioteer, and even accepted Gandhari's curse, yet you’ll never see Him frowning. Learn to smile and stay calm like Krishna, even when life’s troubles weigh you down.” “Oh, so that's why He’s always smiling, right, Ma?” “Yes, Vishnu. And you’ll never see toddler Krishna sitting still. He’d run here, jump there, and steal butter straight from the pot. He lived his childhood to the fullest.” “Yes, Ma, I know! That’s why we decorate our homes with those little white footprints.” “You’re right, Vishnu. It means we should enjoy life to the fullest because we never know when our journey might end. Have you heard of Kuselar?” “Yes, Ma, Krishna’s friend, right?” “Yes, he’s also known as Sudhama. They were childhood friends. When they met again in Dwaraka, Sudhama, who was poor, offered Krishna some beaten rice. Krishna ate it, and the moment He did, Sudhama became wealthy. Krishna teaches us the value of true friendship—no matter what happens, a true friendship should never be broken.” “Kosalai, Kosalai!” came a voice resonating from inside the house. “Vishnu, I think Appa is calling us to start the pooja. I’ll tell you the rest later. Come inside and sit with Appa for the pooja. And remember,” she added with a smile, “don’t eat the snacks before they’re offered to God.” With that, she signaled for me to join her, then hurried inside to take charge of the evening’s pooja.
