Shreya and the Butter Thief of Vrindavan
A personalised storybook starring Shreya, age 10
On Janmashtami morning, Shreya dresses up as little Krishna and is swept into Vrindavan, where she joins a mischievous butter-stealing adventure with the gopalas. Caught by Ma Yashoda, Shreya learns that owning up honestly and sharing the fun matters more than the butter itself — a lesson she carries back home, tucked between her fingers and her heart.
Shreya sat cross-legged on her bed while Ma pinned the last fold of the yellow dhoti at her waist. The golden waistband caught the morning light. Diyas were already lined up on the windowsill for tonight's Janmashtami. 'Hold still,' Ma laughed, tucking a peacock feather into the little crown. 'A butter thief must look his best.' Shreya giggled and reached for the small wooden flute waiting on the pillow.
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Ma turned Shreya toward the mirror. There stood a boy in yellow and gold, peacock feather tilting over one eyebrow, flute tucked under one arm. Shreya lifted the flute to her lips, even though she didn't know how to play a single note. 'Today,' she whispered to the mirror, 'I am little Krishna.' The room smelled of marigolds and warm ghee, and somewhere downstairs, someone was singing a bhajan.
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Shreya closed her eyes, just to feel what it was like to be someone else for a moment. The singing grew softer, then farther away, then gone. When she opened her eyes, the walls of her room had turned into green fields stretching to the edges of the sky. A kadamba tree stood twisted and tall nearby. Cows ambled past, bells clinking at their necks. Clay houses with thatched roofs lined a dusty path. This was Vrindavan.
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'Krishna! There you are!' Three boys came running — Subal, Madhumangal, and little Sridama, all barefoot and grinning. 'Ma Yashoda hid the butter pot up on the high shelf again,' Subal whispered. 'But we found a way.' Shreya felt her own feet, light and quick, already following them toward a clay house where a fresh pot of butter sat just out of reach, high above a stack of wobbly stools.
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Sridama was too short to climb. Madhumangal was too scared of falling. So Shreya had an idea: 'Stand on each other's shoulders, like a human ladder!' They stacked up, wobbling and laughing, until Shreya's fingers finally touched the cool clay pot. Her hand dipped into the soft butter — but her elbow bumped the shelf, and the pot tipped, crashing to the floor in a splash of white.
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Ma Yashoda appeared in the doorway, hands on her hips, trying very hard not to smile. The boys scattered, but Shreya stayed, butter dripping from her fingers. 'I broke it,' Shreya said quietly. 'It was my idea to climb.' Ma Yashoda knelt down. 'A boy who owns his mischief is worth ten who hide from it,' she said, wiping Shreya's fingers with her sari. Then she laughed — really laughed. 'Besides, look how well you all worked together.'
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Ma Yashoda scooped fresh butter into small clay bowls for everyone, even though the good pot lay in pieces. 'Sharing tastes better than hoarding,' she said, ruffling Shreya's hair. The gopalas sat in a circle in the dusty yard, licking butter from their fingers, laughing about the wobbly human ladder. Shreya closed her eyes just for a second, savoring the taste of butter and the warmth of the Vrindavan sun on her shoulders.
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When Shreya opened her eyes, she was back in her room, peacock feather still tilted over one eyebrow. But her fingertips felt strange — soft, faintly greasy, smelling of fresh butter. From somewhere far away, or maybe very near, came the thin, sweet sound of a flute. Ma called from downstairs, 'Shreya, come light the diyas!' Shreya smiled at her fingers and ran down, feather bobbing, keeping her secret warm inside.
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