A Story of Faith and Belief

Harry and Krishna

Once there was a little boy who lived with his poor, widowed mother in a far away village.
His name was Harry. During school holidays he had no friend with whom to play. His mother was a loving woman and played with him when she was not busy with her household chores. One day, however, she fell ill and Harry became very lonely. His mother consoled him and told him to go out and play with Krishna.
‘Who is Krishna?’ Harry asked his mother.
‘Krishna is the friend of all!’
Harry rushed out eagerly calling ‘Krishna! Krishna!’
‘Hello!’ said a cow herd boy coming from behind a tree ‘why are you calling my name?’
“Let’s play!’ Harry uttered with joy.
They played together during the school holidays.
Back to school, Harry told the school master about his new friend, Krishna. The school master listened to his story but did not believe a word of it.
Soon it was the birthday of the school master. Harry became very sad; he had no money to buy him a birthday present. His mother then reminded him of his friend Krishna.
‘Go and talk to your friend Krishna’ she told Harry, ‘he will surely help you!’
Harry did as he was told and Krishna gave him a pot of butter milk.
‘Here! This is a birthday present for your school master!’
Unfortunately, the school master was not happy with the present. He scorned at it and asked his servant to throw the milk curd away. The servant complied but amazingly, the pot was filled with milk curd again. After several attempts to empty the pot, he ran to the school master to tell him about the incredible happening.
‘What!’ the school master exclaimed ‘it must be a magic pot!’ He immediately summoned Harry and asked him about the source of the pot.
When Harry replied that his friend Krishna gave it to him, the school master asked him to take him to Krishna immediately.
‘I want to see your friend!’ he exclaimed.
The school master followed Harry to the place where he met Krishna. At the top of his voice, Harry called for his friend but Krishna did not appear. Then from behind a tree, they heard another voice:
‘Why are you calling me Harry?’
Harry recognized the voice of his friend Krishna. He replied:
‘My school master wants to see you.’
‘The school master cannot see me, Harry, because no one can see me unless he believes in me!’ said the voice gently but firmly.
The school master was bowled over. He returned to the school with his tail between his legs.

Anita Bacha

Friends

My birth mother and my adoptive mother

My Birth Mother and My Adoptive Mother.

Her shiny brown eyes like ripe tamarind pulp,

Her olive color skin, her long flowing black hair,

Her cute oval face and sweet, crying voice,

Her fragrance, vetiver interlaced with wild musk,

Tore my heart apart as I let go of her linen camisole;

She is my mother!

Locked in her arms, I snuggle, forgetful of the world,

Throwing my legs and arms in gleeful abandon,

I yawn,

Languidly I open my eyes,

Her loving, sky blue gaze,

Her porcelain white skin glowing in the sun light,

Her golden curls dancing around her pretty face,

Her perfume, carnation interlaced with red rose,

Fill my heart as I bury my head in her silken stole,

She is my mother!

Mother is the one who renounced me,

Mother is the one who found me,

Mother Is

Mother always will be

Anita Bacha

I am sharing this poem that I wrote a decade ago when I was Head of the Central Authority for Inter-country Adoption , set up by The Hague Conference , in Mauritius. Strange are the ways of God, I found.Not every bud becomes a flower; not every daughter becomes a mother.Anita Bacha.

Illustrative photography: Anita Bacha.