Little Krishna and the Butter Pot

In a green village called Gokul, where the cows wore tinkling bells and the river sparkled, there lived a little boy named Krishna. He had a dazzling smile and twinkling eyes, and more than anything, he loved fresh, creamy butter.

(Whisper the secret smile.)

His mother, Yashoda, kept the butter pot high up on a hanging shelf, far from his reach. “It is too high for you, Kanha,” she said, smiling. But Krishna only smiled a secret smile.

(Tiptoe two fingers along the blanket.)

The next day Krishna called all his friends. “Let’s make a tower!” he whispered. They giggled, trying to be quiet. Tiptoe, tiptoe, tiptoe, they crept into the kitchen.

One friend climbed on another’s shoulders, and then another. Wobble, wobble, wobble! And Krishna climbed to the very top, stretching his little hand towards the pot.

Just then, a sound! Footsteps! Mother Yashoda was coming. “Quick, hide!” whispered Krishna. The friends tumbled down in giggles, and Krishna was left holding the pot, with butter on his nose, his cheeks and his chin.

Yashoda came in. She looked at the buttery face, and at the giggling friends. She tried to look cross, but her lips began to twitch.

(Say Krishna’s line in a sweet, small voice.)

She burst out laughing, scooped him up and gave him a big hug. “My naughty Kanha,” she said, “you are my whole world.” Krishna snuggled close. “Maiya, I love you even more than butter.”

(Hum a little lullaby, or just let your voice go soft.)

That evening the cows came home, tinkle, tinkle, and the sky turned the colour of butter, then of honey, then of deep blue. Krishna fell asleep in his mother’s lap while she hummed a lullaby, and the river sang softly along. Goodnight, little Kanha. Goodnight, you.