I had been accumulating my share of sins for many months now, and it was about time they were washed clean — how else does one gather more? Opportunity came through the medium of Krishna, whose father, a close friend, was planning to celebrate his son’s first birthday in the land of his namesake, with a hawan. “You have to come,” he said. “A divine timing,” I thought. Besides, three hours was convenient enough for this spiritual washing. A huge coordinating exercise later, there we were, at 120 kmph, all set to bless the child and seek Krishna’s blessings in Vrindavan.

But in Krishna’s country Braj, which includes Mathura (where Krishna was born), Gokul (where he was smuggled to escape Kansa’s tyranny), Vrindavan (where he grew up and met Radha) and Govardhan (the mountain he lifted) — there’s no Krishna to be seen or sensed. Poor city planning at Vrindavan has left neither ‘vrinda’ (tulsi) nor ‘van’ (forest). Garbage has expanded the small town’s periphery, providing a base for roads to run on, pushing river Yamuna (in which Krishna fought Kaliya) 70 metres or so away. The cowherd — a term Krishna was often called derogatorily in later life but one he was proud of as it brought back memories of Radha — his flute and Vrindavan, have been replaced by the goon trying to seek ransom from devotees, turning what could be one of the world’s most visited religious destinations into an experience that leaves faithless ashes in the mouth.

... contd.