The Night Krishna Was Born

A storm, a locked prison, a baby carried across a river. His story starts like no one else's.

Locked in a Mathura prison by her cruel brother Kamsa, Devaki gives birth to her eighth child on a thunder-filled midnight. The doors fly open, the guards fall asleep, and Vasudeva carries baby Krishna across the rising Yamuna to safety in Gokul. Nobody else has a story that begins quite like this.

The Cell with the Iron Door

Long ago, in the kingdom of Mathura, there was a prison cell with a heavy iron door. Inside the cell, a young woman named Devaki sat on the cold stone floor. Her husband, Vasudeva, sat beside her. They had been locked in this cell for years.

It was night. Outside, the wind was beginning to howl. A few drops of rain had started to hit the small window high up on the wall.

Devaki was about to have a baby. Her eighth one.

She was scared. She had a good reason to be scared.

The Voice from the Sky

To understand why, you have to know about Devaki's brother. His name was Kamsa. And he was the worst kind of king.

Kamsa was Devaki's own brother, but he was cruel and full of anger. The day Devaki got married to Vasudeva, Kamsa himself drove their wedding chariot through the streets of Mathura. He looked very happy.

Then, halfway down the road, a strange thing happened. A voice came from the sky. Nobody could see who was speaking. But everyone could hear.

The voice said something terrifying.

"Kamsa," it said. "The eighth child of this sister you are driving today will be the one who kills you."

Kamsa froze. He looked at Devaki. His own little sister. The girl he had grown up with. And his face changed.

In one second, his sword was at her throat.

Vasudeva fell to his knees. He begged. He promised. "If you spare my Devaki," he said, "I myself will bring you every baby we have. Every single one. You can do what you want with them. But please, do not hurt her."

Kamsa thought about it. He pulled the sword back. But he didn't trust them. So he locked Devaki and Vasudeva in a prison cell with a heavy iron door, and he set big guards outside, day and night.

Six Babies

Over the years, Devaki had six babies in that cell. Six tiny boys.

Kamsa came each time. He took the babies. He killed them all.

It is a hard part of the story. It is not for jokes. Kamsa was so afraid of dying that he was willing to do the cruelest thing in the world to make sure he wouldn't.

Devaki cried for years. Vasudeva held her. The cell stayed locked.

The Seventh Baby Disappears

When the seventh baby was on the way, something strange happened. Devaki was pregnant. And then, one morning, she simply was not pregnant anymore.

The baby was gone. Like a candle blown out.

Kamsa was confused. The guards were confused. They thought Devaki had lost the baby. Even Devaki herself was confused.

But what really happened was this. Far away, in a small village called Gokul, on the other side of the Yamuna river, a kind woman named Rohini suddenly had a baby boy. A strong, fair, happy baby. They named him Balarama, the strong one.

The gods had quietly moved the baby from one mother's tummy to another's, to keep him safe. Even Kamsa with all his guards couldn't catch a baby the gods had decided to hide.

Devaki and Vasudeva were sad to lose another baby, but somewhere in their hearts, they hoped.

The Eighth Night

Now we are back at the beginning. The night of the eighth baby. The night the storm started.

The wind howled outside. Lightning lit up the cell. Thunder shook the walls. The Yamuna river, far away, was rising fast. The guards outside the door were already falling asleep, leaning against their spears.

At exactly midnight, the eighth baby was born.

A boy. A small, perfect, dark blue boy with the kindest eyes Devaki had ever seen.

And the strangest thing happened.

The heavy iron door of the cell quietly swung open. The chains around Vasudeva's wrists fell off, just like that. The guards outside started snoring loudly. Even the watchdogs went to sleep. The whole prison, the whole palace, went quiet.

Devaki and Vasudeva stared at the open door. They stared at each other.

Devaki whispered, "Take him. Take him now. Save him."

Across the Yamuna

Vasudeva picked up a small woven basket. He laid the baby gently inside. He covered the basket with a soft cloth to keep the rain out. Then he stepped over the sleeping guards and walked out into the storm.

The rain came down in sheets. The road was empty. Vasudeva walked fast. The basket was light. The baby did not cry. Not once.

When Vasudeva reached the Yamuna river, his heart sank.

The river was huge. The storm had filled it. It looked like a hungry brown sea, swirling and roaring. There was no boat. No bridge. Nothing.

Vasudeva took a deep breath. He held the basket high above his head. And he stepped into the water.

The water came up to his ankles. Then his knees. Then his waist. Then his chest. Then his neck. He kept walking.

And then, just as the water was about to cover his head, something rose up out of the river.

It was Sheshnaga, the great cosmic snake, with many shining hoods like a giant umbrella. He spread his hoods over Vasudeva and the baby, sheltering them from the rain. The river itself touched the baby's tiny foot, and then quietly settled back down to let Vasudeva pass.

Vasudeva walked across the Yamuna with a snake holding the sky up over his head. Try and picture that.

Gokul

On the other side of the river was the little village of Gokul. Sleeping cows. Wooden houses. The smell of wet earth and butter. Vasudeva walked quickly to the home of his friends, Nanda and Yashoda.

Nanda was a kind cowherd chief. Yashoda was the gentlest woman in Gokul. And that very night, Yashoda had also given birth. To a beautiful baby girl.

Mother and baby were fast asleep when Vasudeva slipped in.

He placed his own son, the dark blue baby, beside Yashoda. Then he gently picked up Yashoda's baby girl and put her in his basket. Yashoda did not wake up. The baby boy did not cry. The baby girl did not cry. The whole village kept sleeping.

Vasudeva turned and walked back into the storm.

He crossed the Yamuna again. Sheshnaga rose again. The rain washed his footprints away.

When he reached the prison, the guards were still snoring. Vasudeva stepped quietly back inside. He laid the baby girl beside Devaki. The chains slid back onto his wrists. The heavy iron door swung shut on its own.

It was as if he had never left.

Devaki looked at the baby girl. She knew. She smiled for the first time in a very long time. Her own son was safe. Far away, in a little village, sleeping next to a mother who would love him as her own.

His name would be Krishna. The dark, beautiful one.

And the world would never be the same again.

In Your Life

Sometimes the people who love you most have to do very brave and very strange things to keep you safe. Vasudeva walked into a flooded river in the middle of a thunderstorm with his own newborn son in a basket. He didn't know if he would make it. He went anyway.

Think about your own family. Your Amma, your Appa, your grandparents. They have done quiet things for you that you don't even know about. A meal cooked when they were tired. A worry held in their heart so you didn't have to. A long drive in the rain to pick you up. That is Vasudeva-love. It is everywhere. It is just usually too quiet to notice.

The next time someone in your family looks tired, give them a hug. Not because they asked. Because you saw.

And somewhere in Gokul, a tiny blue baby was just opening his eyes for his new mother. The story of Krishna had just begun. And oh, what a story it was going to be.