I first read Krishna (Amar Chitra Katha #11) in 1992, when my idea of gods was still shaped as much by school prayers as by the smell of hot jilipi-kochuri after Saturday temple visits.
Anant Pai’s storytelling, paired with Ram Waeerkar’s art, made Krishna less of a distant deity and more of a living, mischievous presence in my room.
The comic zipped from miraculous birth to butter-thieving childhood, from playful flute music to cosmic wisdom, without ever feeling rushed. I remember lingering on the panels of little Krishna with butter smeared on his cheeks, smiling at his sheer audacity. Waeerkar’s lines gave the story a kinetic energy—cows, demons, and villagers all seemed in motion, swept up in Krishna’s orbit.
What struck me most, even as a child, was the balance of play and power. One page, you’re laughing at him stealing clothes from bathing gopis; the next, you’re wide-eyed as he lifts Govardhan Hill to protect his people. The epic scope was somehow contained in those thin, glossy pages, in a format I could carry to school and read during recess.
Reading it in 1992, I didn’t think of mythology, theology, or cultural heritage. I just thought Krishna was the coolest person—divine or human—I’d ever read about. That feeling stuck.
Even now, the memory of those bright panels feels like the first time a god stepped down from the pedestal and walked, barefoot, into my imagination.