Janmashtami has never seemed to me to be only the story of the birth of God. Perhaps it is because the Krishna I have known through the years has rarely been the majestic Lord Krishna of temples and scriptures. He is the child, the one with butter on his hands and face, dust on his feet and a special talent for getting into trouble.

Much of that comes to me through Mahakavi Surdas,  a blind 16th-century poet and a devotee of Krishna. The story of his birth is full of miracles: midnight in Mathura, a prison cell, Vasudeva carrying the newborn across the Yamuna. But once Krishna reaches Gokul, the story becomes a regular story of a mother, a child, a kitchen, a courtyard, and lots of mischief. Surdas describes that naughty child beautifully. There is scarcely a single nuance of the bond between the mother and son that has escaped his poetic genius.

There is lots of butter in Krishna’s childhood stories, which he steals; the women of Braj are forever arriving at Yashoda’s door to complain. His defence is one of the most delightful pieces of childhood courtroom drama in Hindi poetry,

Maiya mori, main nahin makhan khayo.
Gwaal baal sab bair pare hain, barbas mukh laptayo.
Main barak bahinayan ko chhoto, chheenkai kehi vidhi payo.

(Mother, I didn’t eat the butter. The cowherd boys are all against me; they smeared it on my face. I am a little boy, my arms are too short. How could I possibly have reached the butter hanging in the basket from the ceiling?)

With butter smeared on his face, this is an ingenious defence by baby Krishna. Then comes the complaint to mother against his elder brother-

Maiya, Dau mohin bahut khijhayo.
Moso kahat mol ko linau, tohi Jasumati kab jayo

(Mother, Dau troubles me a lot. He keeps telling me that you bought me, when did Yashoda give birth to you?)

One can almost hear the innocent anger in his voice. Surdas’s Krishna complains, argues, lies, sulks and then looks at his mother with the expectation that she will understand everything.

Young Krishna complains to Yashoda (Jasumati) that she only scolds him while sparing his older brother.

Tu mohin ko maran sikhi, Dauhin kabahun na khijhai.
Mohan mukh ris ki ye baten, Jasumati suni suni rijhai.

(You have only learned to scold and punish me, you are never angry with Balarama. Hearing these words from Krishna, Yashoda is filled with pure delight) 

Surdas makes the divine lovable and not intimidating.

Boojhat Shyam kaun tu gori,
Kahan rahati kaki hai beti, dekhi nahin kahun Braj khori.

(Shyam(Krishna) asks, ‘Who are you, O beautiful maiden? Where do you reside, and whose daughter are you? I have never seen you before in the lanes of Braj) 

Radha shows her indignation and answers, 

Kahe ko hum Brajatan aavatin, khelati rahahin aapni pauri.
Sunat rahati shravanani Nand dhota, karat phirat makhan dadhi chori.

(Why should I come to Braj? I am quite happy playing at my own doorstep. I have heard about the son of Nand, the one who goes about stealing butter and curd.)

Krishna, undeterred, immediately turns the conversation into an invitation and playfully reassures Radha,

Tumhro kaha chori hum laihain,
Khelan chalau sang mili jori.

(What of yours have I stolen, come, let us go play together)

There is no theology here, no distance between the divine and the human. There is simply a little boy trying to make friends.

And there is another Krishna tradition I love for an entirely different reason, a sohar, folk song sung to celebrate the birth of a child. In the old Gangetic cultural world, baby Krishna is celebrated with the earthy tenderness of a beautiful song,

Allah Miyan bhauji ko deejiyo Nandlal…

(Allah Miyan, bless Bhauji(Sister in Law) with a Nandlal)

There is something wonderfully Indian about that line. Hindu Krishna enters a cultural world in which Allah Miyan can be asked to bless the household with a Krishna like child. That is the Ganga-Jamuni tehzeeb I find so beautiful. Krishna is welcomed with a blessing that crosses religious boundaries. Somewhere along the banks of the Ganga and the Yamuna, for centuries such songs have flowed into one another, and survived rulers and people in power.

Janmashtami feels less like the birthday of a distant god and more like the celebration of a child everyone claims as their own. Not the distant god on a pedestal, but the little boy in Gokul, running barefoot through the dust, his mother calling after him, Gopis complaining, the cowherd boys laughing, and a butter pot hanging just a little too high.

At midnight, when the bells ring and the conch shells sound, I like to imagine that somewhere beneath all the ritual, the old songs are still travelling along the river Yamuna.

Krishna is still a child, still mischievous, his face covered in butter.

Happy Janmashtami!

In Urdu one can wish Janashtmi as- Hazrat Devkinandan Krishna ki yaum-e-wiladat par tamaam ahle-watan ko pur-khuloos mubarakbaad. 

Professor Danish Iqbal presents- Aa gaya wo Krishna, Urdu poetry on Krishna in this video.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zfFdZihlqYI