fenced-off pens that line the road. Their sole purpose is not to be religious icons but to spurt out milk.
Then I remember: Krishna’s favorite food is butter. It is His only weakness. In the Bhagavad-Gita , which my mother used to read to me, Krishna appears wise and seemingly invincible; He gives advice to the warrior Arjuna in the middle of a battlefield, bookended by the opposing armies of the brothers Duryodhana and Dhritarashtra. Krishna is the fount of wisdom, and He represents everything calm and honest and impenetrable about God and man. And yet butter was His culinary kryptonite, His dairy downfall. When He was a child, the baby-blue Krishna would raid His mother’s pantry and steal a pot of butter, which He would set on the ground and wrap His plump little legs around before ingesting all of the creamy smoothness inside. Most portraits of Krishna as a baby show what looks like a little girl, her hair festooned with gold ribbons, a sun or a moon behind her head, and her little, red-palmed hands covered in yellow goo. On her face, there is the pleased look of a child who knows she’s done wrong, and yet there is a certain momentum contained within the picture, as if, right when you turn your back on it, the little girl will resume her sloppy eating right away.
I can encapsulate cows and milk at the same time, and so I write
4. Butter eater .
The last thing—which in many ways was the first thing in my mind—is Krishna’s status as the ultimate lover. In many pictures, He is pictured with Radha, His consort, a traditionally beautiful Indian girl who wears simple saris but still looks devastatingly beautiful. The two of them are usually sitting on a hillside, with Radha propped up on one arm and Krishna right behind her, sculpting His frame to fit the curves of her body. It is almost as if Radha is daydreaming but has a luxurious specter whispering things into her ear. Although Krishna wears flashy clothing and has pierced ears and has red lips, there is also something masculine about Him, a tautness in the bulge of His blue biceps and blue chest, a sense of dominance about His posture. He is the lover extraordinaire, aware of the power of his body and his sensuality. I will need to find a girl with whom I can feel entirely comfortable yet whose actions I might be able to control somewhat.
For my last item, I write
5. Girlfriend
I look at my list again.
1. Blue skin
2. Show-off
3. Flutist
4. Butter eater
5. Girlfriend
I have already mastered the art of making myself blue thanks to Estée Lauder, and so I put a check mark next to number one.
I put a check next to number two: I know that I have already succeeded in many ways in making myself extravagant. Still, I will have to find new ways to keep myself continually renowned. This is where the talent show will factor in. I just know it.
Number three. I think for a while, wondering where I may get a flute. I am stumped. Maybe I will steal one from the school. I circle number three.
I come to number four and frown. Butter. Eating butter seems like something inextricable from the persona of Krishna; it is something I will have to do full-force. Being a god is not easy, I tell myself. Gods have to attend to the entire world; they have to listen to everyone’s prayers and preserve. I circle number four, knowing that I will have to create a stash of butter to sate my Krishna appetite.
I am just about to consider number five— Girlfriend —when my father comes into the kitchen with a copy of India Abroad and seats himself at the table.
“Vhat are you doing, beta ,” he says, smoothing the newspaper in front of him like an archaeologist planning a dig.
“Oh, nothing,” I say, folding up my list quickly and clutching it at my side. “Math homework.”
“Good,” he says, already lost in the newspaper. He acknowledges my mother with a clearing of his throat when she appears, as if by magic, and takes her place at the stove.
I am a walking
Then I remember: Krishna’s favorite food is butter. It is His only weakness. In the Bhagavad-Gita , which my mother used to read to me, Krishna appears wise and seemingly invincible; He gives advice to the warrior Arjuna in the middle of a battlefield, bookended by the opposing armies of the brothers Duryodhana and Dhritarashtra. Krishna is the fount of wisdom, and He represents everything calm and honest and impenetrable about God and man. And yet butter was His culinary kryptonite, His dairy downfall. When He was a child, the baby-blue Krishna would raid His mother’s pantry and steal a pot of butter, which He would set on the ground and wrap His plump little legs around before ingesting all of the creamy smoothness inside. Most portraits of Krishna as a baby show what looks like a little girl, her hair festooned with gold ribbons, a sun or a moon behind her head, and her little, red-palmed hands covered in yellow goo. On her face, there is the pleased look of a child who knows she’s done wrong, and yet there is a certain momentum contained within the picture, as if, right when you turn your back on it, the little girl will resume her sloppy eating right away.
I can encapsulate cows and milk at the same time, and so I write
4. Butter eater .
The last thing—which in many ways was the first thing in my mind—is Krishna’s status as the ultimate lover. In many pictures, He is pictured with Radha, His consort, a traditionally beautiful Indian girl who wears simple saris but still looks devastatingly beautiful. The two of them are usually sitting on a hillside, with Radha propped up on one arm and Krishna right behind her, sculpting His frame to fit the curves of her body. It is almost as if Radha is daydreaming but has a luxurious specter whispering things into her ear. Although Krishna wears flashy clothing and has pierced ears and has red lips, there is also something masculine about Him, a tautness in the bulge of His blue biceps and blue chest, a sense of dominance about His posture. He is the lover extraordinaire, aware of the power of his body and his sensuality. I will need to find a girl with whom I can feel entirely comfortable yet whose actions I might be able to control somewhat.
For my last item, I write
5. Girlfriend
I look at my list again.
1. Blue skin
2. Show-off
3. Flutist
4. Butter eater
5. Girlfriend
I have already mastered the art of making myself blue thanks to Estée Lauder, and so I put a check mark next to number one.
I put a check next to number two: I know that I have already succeeded in many ways in making myself extravagant. Still, I will have to find new ways to keep myself continually renowned. This is where the talent show will factor in. I just know it.
Number three. I think for a while, wondering where I may get a flute. I am stumped. Maybe I will steal one from the school. I circle number three.
I come to number four and frown. Butter. Eating butter seems like something inextricable from the persona of Krishna; it is something I will have to do full-force. Being a god is not easy, I tell myself. Gods have to attend to the entire world; they have to listen to everyone’s prayers and preserve. I circle number four, knowing that I will have to create a stash of butter to sate my Krishna appetite.
I am just about to consider number five— Girlfriend —when my father comes into the kitchen with a copy of India Abroad and seats himself at the table.
“Vhat are you doing, beta ,” he says, smoothing the newspaper in front of him like an archaeologist planning a dig.
“Oh, nothing,” I say, folding up my list quickly and clutching it at my side. “Math homework.”
“Good,” he says, already lost in the newspaper. He acknowledges my mother with a clearing of his throat when she appears, as if by magic, and takes her place at the stove.
I am a walking
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