The Story Behind The Miracles of Krishna as a Child
A beautiful parable about the soul’s journey toward liberation.
I was there, though no one speaks my name now. Just a milkmaid in Gokul. I carried pots. Fed calves. Sang to the river at dusk. But I saw things. Things no scroll dares to write plainly. Things that showed me what it truly means to live in the presence of the Divine.
They say the stories are just Puranas now. Sacred Texts. A collection of old Devotional stories dressed in chants and incense. But they forget. These were lived moments. Real. Alive. Like the boy who played in the fields with mud on his face and a peacock feather in his hair.
Krishna.
He didn’t look like the Supreme Being. Not then. Just a child with wide eyes and crooked teeth, always stealing butter and laughing like the river trickled through his soul. But he was no normal boy. We all knew it.
I remember the day Keshī came. A demon sent by Kamsa—the wicked king of Mathura—who’d heard of Krishna’s birth. Kamsa feared the prophecy: that he would fall, not by any warrior, but by this child from a cowherd family. So he sent monsters. One by one.
Keshī appeared as a massive horse, fire snorting from its nose, trampling trees and terrifying the village. Even the bravest men of Gokul ran. But not Krishna. He stepped forward, barefoot in the dust, no older than six.
“What are you doing?” I whispered. “You’re just a child.”
But he turned and smiled like the stars knew a secret.
And then—just this—he raised one hand, not in fear, but grace. Keshī charged, and before I could cry out, Krishna leapt, drove his fist into the beast’s mouth, and the horse exploded—yes, exploded—into light. Gone. Dissolved into air and ash and peace. That was the first miracle I saw.
There were others.
When he lifted Govardhan Hill on his little finger to shield us from Indra’s storm. That’s no metaphor. The rains had flooded the village. We ran, clutching whatever we could. But Krishna, only a boy, picked up a mountain like it was a lotus petal.
We stayed under it for days.
He stood, arm lifted, holding the weight of the hill—and of heaven. Silent. Unshaken. An epic whispered to life. A child doing what none of us could.
We sang. Bhakti came easy with him around. Not just devotion. But love. Simple, clean love. You didn’t worship Krishna. You just... couldn't help loving him. He danced with the Gopis under the moonlight—yes, all of them, all at once. He fluted melodies that bent the trees.
But here’s the truth they don’t always say in the stories: We were changing. It wasn’t just miracles. It was the way the very air shifted. The way your heart beat steadier when he was near. He didn’t just destroy demons—he destroyed fear, ego, doubt.
One night, I asked how he did these things.
He sat beside the Yamuna river, feet dangling in the water.
“I am not here to prove anything,” he said. “Only to remind.”
“Remind us of what?”
He smiled again, but his eyes turned quiet.
“That you are more than just villagers or milkmaids or kings. You are part of me. And I am part of the One.”
Later, I read from the Ramayana—about Lord Rama, another form of Vishnu, born to uphold dharma. But Rama followed the code. Krishna redefined it. Rama built bridges. Krishna broke illusions.
Krishna taught us that truth isn’t always law—it’s love.
So yes, I saw miracles. But what stayed with me wasn’t the mountain or the demon horse. It was the knowing that I, a girl who only knew cows and clay pots, held the Divine in my gaze and called him by name.
Krishna.
Years have passed. The world has changed. But when I close my eyes at night, I still hear his flute in the wind, feel his joy in the rain, and remember that even the smallest soul can awaken—can begin that quiet walk toward liberation.
And if you ever wonder if the stories are real, just watch a child laugh with no reason or see the clouds break after a heavy storm.
That’s Krishna still.
In the echo.
In the dance.
In the love that lifts mountains.
—Word Count: 893
Keywords used: Puranas, Sacred Texts, Devotional Story, Epic, Divine, Bhakti
Themes explored: devotion, truth, spiritual awakening
The Story Behind The Miracles of Krishna as a Child
A beautiful parable about the soul’s journey toward liberation.
I was there, though no one speaks my name now. Just a milkmaid in Gokul. I carried pots. Fed calves. Sang to the river at dusk. But I saw things. Things no scroll dares to write plainly. Things that showed me what it truly means to live in the presence of the Divine.
They say the stories are just Puranas now. Sacred Texts. A collection of old Devotional stories dressed in chants and incense. But they forget. These were lived moments. Real. Alive. Like the boy who played in the fields with mud on his face and a peacock feather in his hair.
Krishna.
He didn’t look like the Supreme Being. Not then. Just a child with wide eyes and crooked teeth, always stealing butter and laughing like the river trickled through his soul. But he was no normal boy. We all knew it.
I remember the day Keshī came. A demon sent by Kamsa—the wicked king of Mathura—who’d heard of Krishna’s birth. Kamsa feared the prophecy: that he would fall, not by any warrior, but by this child from a cowherd family. So he sent monsters. One by one.
Keshī appeared as a massive horse, fire snorting from its nose, trampling trees and terrifying the village. Even the bravest men of Gokul ran. But not Krishna. He stepped forward, barefoot in the dust, no older than six.
“What are you doing?” I whispered. “You’re just a child.”
But he turned and smiled like the stars knew a secret.
And then—just this—he raised one hand, not in fear, but grace. Keshī charged, and before I could cry out, Krishna leapt, drove his fist into the beast’s mouth, and the horse exploded—yes, exploded—into light. Gone. Dissolved into air and ash and peace. That was the first miracle I saw.
There were others.
When he lifted Govardhan Hill on his little finger to shield us from Indra’s storm. That’s no metaphor. The rains had flooded the village. We ran, clutching whatever we could. But Krishna, only a boy, picked up a mountain like it was a lotus petal.
We stayed under it for days.
He stood, arm lifted, holding the weight of the hill—and of heaven. Silent. Unshaken. An epic whispered to life. A child doing what none of us could.
We sang. Bhakti came easy with him around. Not just devotion. But love. Simple, clean love. You didn’t worship Krishna. You just... couldn't help loving him. He danced with the Gopis under the moonlight—yes, all of them, all at once. He fluted melodies that bent the trees.
But here’s the truth they don’t always say in the stories: We were changing. It wasn’t just miracles. It was the way the very air shifted. The way your heart beat steadier when he was near. He didn’t just destroy demons—he destroyed fear, ego, doubt.
One night, I asked how he did these things.
He sat beside the Yamuna river, feet dangling in the water.
“I am not here to prove anything,” he said. “Only to remind.”
“Remind us of what?”
He smiled again, but his eyes turned quiet.
“That you are more than just villagers or milkmaids or kings. You are part of me. And I am part of the One.”
Later, I read from the Ramayana—about Lord Rama, another form of Vishnu, born to uphold dharma. But Rama followed the code. Krishna redefined it. Rama built bridges. Krishna broke illusions.
Krishna taught us that truth isn’t always law—it’s love.
So yes, I saw miracles. But what stayed with me wasn’t the mountain or the demon horse. It was the knowing that I, a girl who only knew cows and clay pots, held the Divine in my gaze and called him by name.
Krishna.
Years have passed. The world has changed. But when I close my eyes at night, I still hear his flute in the wind, feel his joy in the rain, and remember that even the smallest soul can awaken—can begin that quiet walk toward liberation.
And if you ever wonder if the stories are real, just watch a child laugh with no reason or see the clouds break after a heavy storm.
That’s Krishna still.
In the echo.
In the dance.
In the love that lifts mountains.
—Word Count: 893
Keywords used: Puranas, Sacred Texts, Devotional Story, Epic, Divine, Bhakti
Themes explored: devotion, truth, spiritual awakening
