The Universe in His Mouth

In the village of Gokul, there was a small house with a small kitchen, and in that small kitchen there was a tall clay pot of fresh butter. The butter shone like the inside of a moon.

The pot belonged to Yashoda, the mother of Krishna.

Krishna was four years old. His curls were the colour of wet earth after rain. His eyes were the colour of the river at evening.

He loved butter the way a bee loves the first flower of spring.

Yashoda had hung the pot from the ceiling with a strong rope, far above the reach of small hands. She had done this many times. Each time, Krishna had found a way.

This morning, she stepped into the kitchen and stopped.

The pot was on its side on the floor. Half the butter was gone. A trail of small footprints, white and shining, led toward the door.

In the corner sat Krishna, his cheeks smeared, his curls dotted with cream, his hands behind his back.

"Krishna," said Yashoda, hands on her hips. "Did you eat the butter?"

"No, Maa," said Krishna. His eyes were very wide and very innocent.

Yashoda looked at his face. She looked at the white moustache of butter above his lip.

"Open your mouth," she said.

Krishna pressed his lips tightly together.

"Open your mouth, child."

Slowly, slowly, Krishna opened his mouth.

Yashoda bent down to look inside.

And she saw —

She saw the sky. She saw the river. She saw the cows in the meadow and the trees by the path. She saw her own house, her own kitchen, her own self, bending over a small boy.

She saw the stars wheeling. She saw the moon rising. She saw Gokul, and beyond Gokul the great wide world, and beyond the world the great wide silence in which the world floated like a sleeping child.

She saw, somewhere very far inside, an old grandmother she had never met, rocking a baby in the dark and singing softly.

She saw all of this in the mouth of her four-year-old son.

Yashoda staggered backward. Her hand went to her heart. The wooden ladle dropped from her fingers.

"Krishna —" she whispered.

Krishna closed his mouth. He looked up at her with his river-coloured eyes.

"Maa," he said, "is something wrong?"

Yashoda sat down on the floor of her kitchen. The half-empty butter pot lay beside her. She did not seem to see it.

For a long moment, she could not speak.

Then she laughed. A small, trembling laugh.

Then she cried. A small, trembling cry.

Then she did the only thing she knew how to do.

She opened her arms.

"Come here, my child," she said.

Krishna ran to her. He climbed into her lap. He pressed his butter-stained cheek against her shoulder.

She held him. She did not ask him about the butter. She did not scold him for the trail of footprints. She did not wipe the cream from his face.

She only held him.

She rocked him very slowly, back and forth, the way she had rocked him when he was newborn, when his whole body fit inside the curve of her one arm.

"My little one," she whispered into his curls. "My little one. My whole sky."

Krishna nestled closer. His small breath warmed the soft cloth of her sari.

"Maa," he murmured sleepily, "I am sorry about the butter."

"It is only butter," Yashoda said. She kissed the top of his head. "I will make more. I will always make more."

She thought of the things she had seen. She knew, in the quiet, deep place that all mothers know, that her child was carrying something enormous inside him — far more than a small boy could hold, and yet, somehow, he was holding it.

She felt suddenly afraid. Then the fear passed, the way clouds pass.

What was left was love. Only love. A love so large it did not need to understand what it loved.

Outside the door, a cow lowed softly. A bird called. Somewhere in the village, a flute began to play.

Krishna fell asleep in her arms.

Yashoda stayed very still. She did not want to move and wake him.

She bent her face to his small face. She listened to his breathing.

Inside her arms, she thought, was the entire universe. And the universe was breathing the way every baby breathes — in and out, in and out, slowly, peacefully, trusting that the arms holding it would not let go.

She closed her eyes.

"You can rest, my whole sky," she whispered. "You can rest. I have you."

The butter on the floor began to soften in the warmth of the morning. The sun moved a little higher. A small white footprint near the door slowly, slowly faded into the clay.