Shreya and the Butter Thief of Vrindavan
A personalised storybook starring Shreya, age 10
On Janmashtami morning, ten-year-old Shreya dresses up as little Krishna with a peacock-feather crown and a small wooden flute. When she closes her eyes, she finds herself in sun-warmed Vrindavan, running with the gopalas, sneaking butter from a high clay pot, and learning from wise, warm Ma Yashoda that the sweetest things in life are the ones we share. Shreya returns home with butter on her fingertips and a lesson tucked into her heart.
Shreya sat cross-legged on her bed while Mummy tied a golden waistband over a bright yellow dhoti. "Hold still," Mummy laughed, tucking a peacock feather into a little crown. Outside, the Janmashtami lights were being strung up window to window, and the smell of frying sweets drifted in from the kitchen. Shreya wiggled her toes with excitement. "Am I ready?" she asked, reaching for the small wooden flute on her pillow.
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Mummy turned Shreya gently toward the mirror. There she was — yellow dhoti swishing, crown feather bobbing, flute cool in her palm. Shreya barely recognized herself, and she liked that. She practiced a small, mischievous smile, the kind she imagined a naughty little cowherd boy might wear. "Today," she whispered to her reflection, "I am little Krishna." The mirror seemed to whisper it back.
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Shreya closed her eyes, just for a moment, to feel what it was like to be someone else entirely. When she opened them, her bedroom was gone. Green fields rolled out in every direction, dotted with grazing cows. A wide kadamba tree spread its branches nearby, and little clay houses with painted doorways lined a dusty lane. Somewhere, a cowbell jingled. This was Vrindavan, and Shreya's flute suddenly felt very much at home in her hand.
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"There you are!" called a boy with a stick and a herd of calves. "We're going to Ma Yashoda's — she's just churned fresh butter!" Shreya ran with him and two other gopalas, bare feet slapping the warm earth, until they reached a clay house where a tall pot of butter hung from the ceiling, far out of reach. "It's too high," one boy groaned. Shreya grinned. "Then we'll just have to get clever."
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They stacked a stool on a bench, and Shreya climbed up on her friends' cupped hands, wobbling like a coconut on a spoon. She stretched, fingers brushing the cool clay pot, and finally tipped it just enough. Butter plopped onto her fingers, sweet and soft. The boys cheered — until a shadow fell across the doorway. Ma Yashoda stood there, hands on her hips, trying very hard not to smile.
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"Caught again," Ma Yashoda said, though her eyes were warm, not angry. Shreya froze, waiting for a scolding. Instead, Ma Yashoda simply held out a clean bowl. "I already knew, silly boy. But tell me — did you save any for your friends, or did you plan to eat it all up on that stool?" Shreya looked at the half-empty pot and then at her friends' hopeful faces, and felt her cheeks go warm. "I'll share," she said. "Everyone gets a bowl."
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They sat in a circle under the kadamba tree, passing bowls of butter and laughing about the wobbly human tower. Ma Yashoda watched from her doorway, humming softly. "The butter tastes better this way, doesn't it?" she said. Shreya nodded, licking a sweet fingertip, understanding suddenly that the fun had never really been about the butter at all — it was about getting to share it. The fields began to shimmer like sunlight on water.
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Shreya opened her eyes back in her own room, crown feather tickling her ear, flute still in her hand. But there, unmistakably, was a smudge of butter on her fingertip — though she hadn't touched any all morning. From somewhere far off, or maybe just in her memory, she thought she heard a flute's last, fading note. Mummy called her for aarti, and Shreya smiled, tucking the little secret close to her heart.
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