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 the vast subcontinent. But the wispy wind that whistled through the lissome branches of the cherry blossom tree in his front yard reminded him of his mother. Just thinking of her swaddled him in a baby blue blanket of love, just as baby Krishna must have felt on Yashoda's lap in the legendary lands of Brindavan.

The iPhone kept ringing shrilly, rudely interrupting pleasant moments of fantasy, demanding his immediate attention. Pushing down the tiny stirrings of irritation bubbling inside, he dragged himself from the mythical land of loving moms and babies to answer the unrelenting ringtone from reality. 

It was his mother calling. She sounded agitated. She was out of vitamins. Her aches and pains have been acting up. The massage oil was running low. Her insurance forms needed to be filled. The land taxes had to be paid. The shower was leaking. The water heater had broken down. The maintenance fees of the apartment had to be paid. The Internet was down. 

He felt the pale stirs of irritation wriggle and grow inside, turning rather violent. Why can't she take care of all these pesky minutiae of daily living? She could send the driver to get the vitamins and get him to fix whatever needed fixing. Why does she have to tell me, who is so far away and couldn't possibly help? Why is she being so fussy, and needy, and clingy? Why can't she take care of herself? Why does she crib so much? 

As though he didn't have any of his own woes. Stepping out with bare feet on the cold, crinkly grass, he shared with her how miserable his life was, how difficult it was for him to bring up kids without any support from family. How he had to teach them their multiplication tables, take them to enrichment classes, help his wife with the housework. It was not at all like the life of men in India. This week had been so challenging. The older boy had caught a viral infection, and he had to take the child to the doctor. The younger one had a football tournament and he had to ferry him around for practice every single evening after work. The steady stream of return complaints, like return gifts, worked like a soothing balm on a mosquito bite. Reciprocity is a great equalizer. That quieted her. 

Her 43-year old son had morphed into baby Krishna. Her baby boy was having a rough time in a faraway land, left to fend for himself and his young brood, without anyone around to help. The napping mom in her, resting after years of caring for her child, woke up, ready to look out for her dear son. She had to fix his worries, wipe his nose, make sure he was okay. "Do you need any money, my dear child," she asked ever so gently. She was uber careful to add extra dollops of gentleness to the question, because she shouldn't offend him by offering money, but then, that's all she could do from so far away. The deep concern in her voice seemed to quieten him, as always. She could hear the resigned calmness in his words, as her baby Krishna comforted her, "No amma, I am fine." 

The call soon ended and she leaned back into the rickety cane chair she had dragged onto the balcony to get better cell phone reception. She drew a slow, raspy breath, her aching gnarled fingers still resting on the hot phone. Never mind the aches and pains, the empty vitamin bottles, and the broken down Internet. She had done what mothers had been taught to do for generations. She had taken care of her baby boy. As the sun slipped beyond the ragged skyline of the noisy metropolis, she felt the joy Yashoda must have felt as she cradled baby Krishna under the branches of the ancient banyan tree in Brindavan. 

Faraway, he finished the call and stepped out into the cool morning air. It was a beautiful Sunday. He walked around the perfectly manicured garden. A tidy patch of rich green lawn was bordered by a small koi pond, its watery sides lined with damp, dark mossy rocks, reflecting cheery shadows of the  overhanging cherry blossom tree. He felt loved. He had once again become his mama's little boy. As the cool spring breeze wafted through the pale pink sakura blossoms, he felt the joy baby Krishna must have felt, cradled on the lap of loving Yashoda under the branches of the ancient banyan tree in Brindavan. 

Everything felt so right in the eternally peaceful land of lores and legends, where realties don't disrupt fantasies.

Pic courtesy: By Raja Ravi Varma - http://www.museumsyndicate.com/item.php?item=25576, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15010638