Subrat Mishra, Bhubaneswar, 16 August 2025
In the dark heart of Mathura’s prison, midnight paused.
Silence was ominous, panic palpable.
And in that stillness,
a light emerged from a mother’s womb—
a light not born of sun or stars,
yet vast enough to cradle them.
A light that gathered itself in the form of a child.
Upon His chest, the Śrīvatsa bloomed,
and Kaustubha, jewel of the ages,
caught the breath of eternity.
Yellow pitambara fell in gentle folds
upon cloud-dark Shyama skin—
an infant in form, yet Infinite in truth.
Vasudeva bowed low—
not to a child, but to the axis of creation.
“Purushottama,” he whispered,
“you who weave beginnings,
gather endings,
and hold all life in the space between.”
Devaki trembled—
eyes like twin moons,
full of fear, full of worship—
for Kamsa’s shadow still prowled
her womb’s memory.
Yet she knew Him:
the Parambrahma who alone remains
when the last wave of Pralaya
has swallowed the worlds.
O Prishnigarbha! O Upendra! O Krishna!
Three births, one vow to Prishni and Sutapa—
the word of Narayana, woven into lifetimes,
knotted with love and serenity,
bound by the yearning of a mother
and the austerity of a sage—
You came as boon, as truth, as love,
as son—yet never bound.
Yogamaya unlatched the iron doors,
chains fell like old serpents’ skins,
and guards sank into dreamless night.
Upon the head of Vasudeva, in a wicker basket,
the cosmos swayed,
while Adi-Shesha unfurled His hood—
a canopy for the infant-infinite
against the lashing rain.
Yamuna rose in welcome,
waters trembling with joy,
parting to let her Lord pass.
The sky wept silver rain,
and the night wind carried His fragrance
to the sleeping fields of Gokul.
There, beside Yashoda Maa,
the Eternal closed His eyes—
and the seed of tyranny’s end
was laid in a mother’s arms.
Hari’s lotus feet touched the earth,
and the world awoke to a new dawn.
O Krishna—
whose flute-song will one day
make the forests rejoice
and the hearts of Gopis dissolve,
who will lift Govardhan with a little finger
and humble the pride of the mighty,
who will dance upon Kāliya’s hoods
and make even poison taste like nectar,
who will steal butter as a child
and hearts as a youth,
who will wrestle Chānūra
and break the chains of fear,
who will cast down Kansa from his dark throne
and free Mathura’s breath,
who will speak the Gita on the battlefield
where worlds decide their fate—
Enter the secret chambers of our being,
be born again in us tonight,
and never leave.
