Krishnarey

 

Today, while talking to my mother, she reminded me again about responsibility.

The small things. The future things. The things that make mothers worry.

And like I always do, without thinking much, I replied,
“My brother will take care of it.”

Not Krishna will take care of it.
Not God will help me.

I said, “My brother.”

That’s when my mother paused and told me a story.

She said that once, in heaven, Indra and the celestial dancers were celebrating. Music filled the air, rhythms flowed until suddenly, the drum broke. A celebration without sound is incomplete, even in heaven. In urgency, Indra gave a harsh command. “Go to earth,” he said, “find a human who has never worshipped God. Break their spine, bring it back, and make it into a stick for the drum.”

The search began.

There was only one such person Subhadra, Krishna’s sister. Subhadra had never worshipped any god. Not because she denied divinity, but because to her, divinity lived at home. Her Anna was Krishna. She spoke to him, depended on him, argued with him. If God walked beside her, why should she look elsewhere?

Krishna knew what was unfolding.

Before anyone could reach her, he went to Subhadra and gently asked her to observe Ekadashi Vratham. She did simply, sincere. When the messengers arrived searching for someone who had never worshipped, Subhadra no longer fit their need. She had worshipped that day. And so they left.

Krishna did not change how Subhadra loved him.
He did not correct her faith.
He simply protected her.

When my mother finished telling me this, I understood something very clearly. This is why I speak the way I do. When I say “my brother will take care of it,” it is not ignorance.

It is not escape.
It is not blind faith. It is relationship. I don’t negotiate with Krishna like someone standing outside a temple gate. I speak to Krishnarey the way a younger one speaks to an elder sometimes confidently, sometimes stubbornly, sometimes helplessly. I don’t call him God in moments of fear. I call him brother in moments of truth.

Just like Subhadra did. People may question this closeness. They may ask how faith can sound so familiar. But tradition itself tells us this: Krishna never demanded distance. He accepted responsibility. And maybe that is the quiet courage of this kind of devotion to live without fear, to trust without bargaining, to say, with calm certainty,

“My brother will take care of it.”

Not because the world is easy.
But because love, when it is real, never leaves you unguarded.

Thara