Krishna Jayanthi

It's the birthday of Lord Krishna, who was born in a prison. In paintings, we see the baby carried by his father across a swollen stream protected by a seven-headed serpent.



Devotees ask one another kannan onga veetukku vandacha? That's "has Kannan come to your house?" to you, and if the grandmother of the house has dipped the youngest child's feet in flour to make footprints in the hall leading from the front door to the shrine, the answer is a qualified yes. We can imagine that Krishna has come to celebrate with us. Otherwise, there are little silver cutouts of feet you can get at the store.



To observe the day, offerings of butter and yogurt are made in Krishna's image,and there are sweets made from jaggery called vella cheedai. Delicious as this treat is, there is no competition with murukku, a crispy snack made with rice and dal, flavored with cumin, sesame, and chili powder. That's an old favorite at our house. I'm going to make you hungry now, fair warning:







Gopalkala is an interesting part of Janmashtami celerbrations. A Dahi Handi, the pot of milk, curd, butter, fruit juices and Gopalkala (Soak beaten rice for fifteen minutes. Melt some ghee in another pan, toss in cumin seeds. Add finely chopped chilies and ginger. Add rice and salt it. Sprinkle it with sugar and grated coconut)is hanged with a rope at a height, and a pyramid of celebrants try to break it. The winner is showered with colored water.



About that human pyramid and pinata: my husband remembers a passer-by turning a hose on the boy at the top just to make it more difficult for him to strike the pinata. Nobody sued! If you want to know more about all this, Jennifer Kumar will enlighten you here.



I wrote a poem inspired by the idea of Krishna, and offer it in the spirit of celebration through Western eyes:



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The boy sits astride the dagger of land,

watching jesus lizards skip toward the bottom

of the world. From his left hand, the moon rises.

In his right, he catches the setting sun.



Pilgrims come to witness the phenomenon.

With cones of bhel-poori in their hands, they watch

blue shadows lengthen in the boy's brain.

A shiver ascends the knuckles of his father's spine.



In the temple, the father sits with back bowed.

His head is in his hands. Quarter-tones float past

like speech obscured by a trick of air.



From the sanctuary of carved white pillars,

priests with sun-bleached eyes chant slokas.

Against a cycle of relentless beginning,

they believe that nothing ever dies,

though the world is made of tears and sweat.

The sea.