The eternally peaceful land of lores and legends
Baby Krishna sat on his mother Yashoda's lap, his chubby fist clutching her silky soft sari. The mild aroma of freshly churned butter wrapped the mother and son in a warm embrace creating a precious moment all of their own. The day had been long. But now they were sitting at their favourite spot. The roughly hewn low slung wall of granite, stacked in a beehive pattern all around the gnarled bulbous trunk of the ancient banyan tree, gave them a perfect view of the setting sun. The curled dusty green leaves of the banyan tree rustled, the air flowing over them. The moment couldn't have been more perfect in the village of Brindavan. The shrill ringtone of the iPhone startled him from his pleasant reverie of lores and legends of the mother and son in the gardens of Brindavan. He made a mental note to change the phone tune to something more pleasant. It was his mother calling from India. His own Yashoda lived in Calcutta and he, her Krishna was faraway beyond the ragged shores of th...
