Yashoda's Ode
They let me stand at the edge of the crowd, behind gold-cloaked queens and guards of flame. He didn’t see me- or maybe he did- and smiled the same. They say he is a prince now, son of kings and ancient light, cradled not by calloused hands, but by the silks of royal right. They say he wears a peacock crown, he holds a bow, commands the skies- but I remember muddy feet, and milk-white teeth in mango lies. They speak of battles, of demons slain, of chariots and warlike men- but I recall my Lala, the butter thief, who’d smile and steal my heart again. He left with eyes too old for boys, too knowing for his tender years. Yet when he touched my feet to go, he left his smile, and took my tears. No labor bore him from my womb, no birthmark bound us, blood nor bone- but when he called me Maiya once, I knew no love more fierce, more known. I nursed no prince, no god, just raised a child- the sweetest boy the world has known. With scraped-up knees and endless, laughing songs, Years slipped by like your whispers, soft and wild. If Devaki birthed the god, then I raised that boy to be one. No cradle held him like my arms. No storm outshone his laughing hour. I taught him how to tie his sash, to whistle low, and climb trees. I taught a god to eat with both hands- Oh, I taught a god to eat with both hands. Devaki stood with the pride of dawn, her hands soft-folded, eyes gone wet. And I? I smiled too, because I know she grieves the years I can’t forget. So let them say he saves the world, let them crown and call him wise- I only hope he eats enough, and still looks up at the stars. Some nights, I wake with silence in my arms- no flute, no laugh upon the breeze- but every morning, I still stir his curds and Makhan with memories. So go, my moon, my flame, my very breath- be what the world must call divine. But if your feet should wander home… your Maiya waits, her old arms still wide.
Art by @saranagati.art from Instagram
