07/11/2025
Black Coffee. Black the colour of Krishna. Krishna, whose stories I grew up listening to. Krishna, who people say is god. Krishna who became my teacher, friend, guide, ideal. Black and dark stands the statue of Krishna, the once king of Dwarka. Dwarka, where people settled in search of peace, away from conflict and malice. And then drunk on that peace, lay waste to everything. Now Krishna stands silent, eyes closed, mum, if at all he is there. For, the misery, laziness, futility, and characterless anxiety of the excuse of people swarming the streets can bring shame even to gods. They sell Krishna, his name, in his name, for Rs. 10, blessings for Rs. 200, and the blessings across generations for Rs. 1000. Who was Krishna, they don't know, they don't care. What did he stand for, they don't know, they don't care. What did he say, do, and why, they don't know, care. They care about how many times he married. They care about the flowers and sweets. They care about touching the marble, and getting close to it. They care about getting ahead of other anxious vain stooges, so that they can get a faster view at the marble. It is marble, it is stone, it is not a temple, no god, at least not Krishna. I am convinced of that. Because if Krishna was there, he would've slain these cockroaches in no time, in the hope that a newer society, better one rises from the ashes. He's done it before. Sounds dark? It is because, it is. Dark, bitter, true, invigorating, enticing, addictive, energetic extreme. Like Krishna. Like Black Coffee.
