Krishna and Nanda - The Father Who Raised a God

The night before departure, Krishna found Nanda sitting alone by the cowshed. The old man was staring at nothing, his hands working the prayer beads he carried everywhere.

Krishna: "You should be sleeping,"

Krishna said.

Nanda: "So should you."

Krishna sat beside him. The cows shifted in the darkness, their familiar sounds filling the silence.

Krishna: "I'm not coming back, Not to stay. You know that."

Nanda: "I know. I've known since the day you lifted Govardhan. Since the day the serpent Kaliya fled at your touch. My son couldn't do those things. But you could."

Krishna: "I am your son."

Nanda: "Are you? Or have I been borrowing someone else's child for sixteen years? Raising a god and pretending he needed my protection?"

Krishna: "The protection was real. When I was a baby, I couldn't lift mountains. I needed you."

Nanda: "And now?"

Krishna: "Now I need you differently. Now I need you to let me go."

Nanda's face crumpled for a moment, then steadied.

Nanda: "I've been preparing for this. Every time you did something impossible, I prepared a little more. But preparing doesn't make it easier."

Krishna: "Nothing makes it easier."

Nanda: "Will you tell me the truth? The whole truth? Before you go?"

Krishna: "I am Vishnu incarnate. I was born to Devaki and Vasudeva in Mathura. I was smuggled here the night of my birth to escape Kansa, who would have killed me. Everything about my childhood here was real—the love, the games, the scolding, the butter-stealing. But it was also preparation for what comes next."

Nanda: "Which is?"

Krishna: "War. Death. The restoration of dharma. Things no cowherd's son should have to do."

Nanda: "But you're not a cowherd's son."

Krishna: "I am both. That's what you don't understand, Father. I am both. The god who will kill Kansa and the boy who grazed cows by the Yamuna. The cosmic power and the child who hid behind your legs when thunder came. These are not separate Krishnas. They are the same being."

Nanda: "Then why does the god-part have to take you away?"

Krishna: "Because the cowherd-part's work is done. I've learned here what I couldn't learn anywhere else. Humility. Simple joy. The taste of butter. The sound of cowbells. The weight of a real father's hand on my shoulder."

Nanda: "Real father. You said real father."

Krishna: "Vasudeva gave me birth. You gave me childhood. Both are fatherhood. Both are equally real."

Nanda wiped his eyes.

Nanda: "What happens to Vrindavan when you leave? What happens to Yashoda? To the Gopis?"

Krishna: "Vrindavan becomes sacred. A place people will visit for thousands of years, seeking the energy we created here. Yashoda... she will grieve. There's no avoiding that. But she will also know that she raised something extraordinary. Her grief will become devotion. Her devotion will become immortal."

Nanda: "And me?"

Krishna: "You will tend cows. You will watch sunrises. You will tell stories about the boy who lived here to anyone who asks. And when people pray to me in the ages to come, some part of me will always remember sitting in this cowshed, with you, learning what love looks like when it expects nothing in return."

Nanda: "I expect nothing?"

Krishna: "You've never asked me for anything. Not miracles, not blessings, not even explanations. You've just loved me. Without condition. Without reservation. Without questions."

Nanda: "I had questions."

Krishna: "But you didn't need them answered. You loved me first and questioned second. Most people do it the other way around."

Nanda set down his prayer beads.

Nanda: "I suppose I should be honored. Having raised a god."

Krishna: "Or burdened. Having lost a son."

Nanda: "Both, I think. That seems to be how it works with you. Everything is always both."

Krishna: "Everything is always both. That might be the most important thing I've learned here."

They sat in silence as the night deepened. The cows breathed. The stars watched. And a father and son shared their last hours in the place where gods learned to be human.