The Butter Thief Everyone Loved

He stole from every house in the village. Nobody could stay angry.

In the village of Gokul, little Krishna and his friends climb on each other's shoulders, break open the high pots of fresh butter, and run away with their faces sticky and yellow. The mothers of the village come to complain to Yashoda. They are giggling even before they finish their sentences. Yashoda tries to be strict and fails. Behind all the mischief is a lesson about love, joy, and why this naughty little blue boy has been making people smile for thousands of years.

Morning in Gokul

It was just after sunrise in the village of Gokul. Cows were lowing in the sheds. The river Yamuna was running silver between the trees. And in every kitchen, the women were doing the same thing they did every morning. Churning butter.

The sound was everywhere. Ghutuk, ghutuk, ghutuk. The wooden churning rod spinning inside the clay pot. Big copper pots of milk warming on the fires. The smell of hot ghee and cardamom drifting out of the doorways.

And in one such kitchen, a young mother named Yashoda was tying the day's fresh makhan, butter, into round little balls. She placed them in a special hanging pot called an uri, made of black clay, and lifted it up to a hook on the ceiling. Very high. As high as her arms could reach. Higher even than the tallest uncle in the house.

She stepped back and put her hands on her hips and smiled.

"There," she said to the empty kitchen. "Try and reach that, you little monkey."

She was talking, of course, about her son. The blue-skinned, curly-haired, peacock-feather-wearing little troublemaker who could not, for the life of him, leave butter alone.

His name was Krishna. He was about five years old. And he was already the most famous thief in Gokul.

The Plan

In the courtyard outside, Krishna and his best friends were sitting in a circle. Some of them you might know. There was his brother Balarama, big and strong, with skin like a fair full moon. There was Sudama, who would one day grow up to be a poor brahmin and Krishna's dearest friend. There were maybe a dozen other little cowherd boys, called the Gopa-balas, all of them with sticks and turbans and butter on their fingers from yesterday's adventure.

Krishna had a plan.

He was drawing it out in the dust with a twig.