Why I Dress My Son as Krishna Every Janmashtami: A Tradition I Hope He Carries Forward

Some traditions are not simply observed. They are inherited, lived—and quietly passed from one generation to the next. 

Every Janmashtami, I dress my son as Krishna. 

I have been doing it since he was one. 

A little yellow dhoti. 
A peacock feather. 
A flute. 
Tiny ornaments. 

And a mother behind the camera, trying to hold on to yet another fleeting moment of childhood. 

But over the years, I have realized that I am not simply dressing my son as Krishna. 

I am introducing him to a story that has travelled across generations. 

A story that was told to us by our parents and grandparents. A story that found its way into our homes through songs, celebrations, paintings, theatre, dance, stories and countless childhood memories. 

And perhaps, one day, I hope my son will pass some part of it on too. 

One Janmashtami I never photographed 

There is one Janmashtami for which I have no photograph. 

We were travelling to his Bua's house that year. 

I had gone through all the effort of renting his Krishna costume and adorning him with every little embellishment. 

He was ready. 

My little Kanha. 

I asked his father to take one photograph. 

Somehow, he didn't. 

And that was it. 

No photograph. 

Sometimes I wish I could go back to that day for just five minutes and capture that one missing moment. 

But I can't. 

Lost time is lost. 

Perhaps that is one of the quiet lessons of motherhood. 

We cannot preserve every moment. 

We can only be present for the ones we are given. 

And perhaps that is why these photographs have come to mean more to me than simply recording what my son looked like at a particular age. 

They have become little markers of time. 

They tell me not only how small he once was, but also which traditions we were sharing with him. 

Why Krishna? 

For me, dressing my son as Krishna has never been only about a costume. 

It is about belonging. 

Belonging to a culture where stories have traditionally been one of the ways values travelled from one generation to another. 

Before children could read them, they heard them. 

From grandparents. 

From parents. 

From bedtime stories. 

From festivals. 

From temples and homes. 

From songs and performances. 

From the countless versions of familiar stories that each family carries in its own way. 

Krishna is one of those stories. 

And that is what makes Janmashtami so meaningful to me. 

The celebration is not only about remembering the birth of Krishna. 

It is also about remembering the stories, traditions and values that have accompanied that celebration for generations. 

A little Krishna costume. A much bigger inheritance. 

When my son wears that yellow dhoti and peacock feather, he may simply see a costume. 

One day, perhaps, he will understand that he was participating in something much older than himself. 

That the same celebration existed before him. 

That his grandparents knew it. 

That his parents grew up with it. 

And that he is now part of its continuing story. 

This, to me, is what cultural heritage really means. 

Not something locked inside a museum. 

Not something we remember only from history books. 

But something we live. 

Something we celebrate. 

Something we teach our children. 

Something that changes a little with every generation, while still carrying traces of where it came from. 

What I hope he learns from Krishna 

And then there is the other reason I continue this tradition. 

The stories we inherit also shape the questions we ask our children to think about. 

Krishna's story has many dimensions. 

For me, one of the most meaningful is that goodness does not have to mean helplessness. 

We often teach our children to be kind, honest, compassionate and good. 

I want my son to learn those things too. 

But I also want him to grow up with wisdom. 

To understand people. 

To question what does not feel right. 

To know that courage does not always mean confrontation. 

And that being kind does not mean being naïve. 

The many stories and names associated with Krishna have given Indian storytelling generations of ways to explore these ideas. 

Ranchod reminds us that sometimes wisdom lies in knowing when to step away from a battle. 

Krishna's strategic and perceptive nature reminds us that intelligence and discernment can exist alongside compassion. 

And above everything, the stories continually bring us back to questions of dharma, truth, responsibility and doing what is right. 

These are not lessons I expect my son to understand at six. 

Perhaps he shouldn't. 

For now, he can simply wear the peacock feather. 

He can hold the little flute. 

He can smile for the camera. 

The understanding can come later. 

What are we really passing on? 

This is the part of heritage that I think about most as a mother. 

We often think of heritage as something tangible. 

A piece of jewelry. 

A handloom saree. 

A traditional craft. 

A painting. 

An old recipe. 

A family home. 

But heritage can also be intangible. 

A song your grandmother sang. 

A festival your family celebrated. 

A story your mother told you. 

A ritual you watched your parents perform. 

A value that was never written down but somehow found its way from one generation to the next. 

These things can disappear quietly if we stop practicing them. 

That is why I dress my son as Krishna every Janmashtami. 

Not because I want to recreate my own childhood exactly. 

And not because every tradition must remain unchanged. 

But because I want him to know where some of his stories came from. 

I want him to have the opportunity to ask questions. 

To understand. 

To decide what he wants to carry forward. 

And perhaps, years from now, to tell the story in his own way. 

One day, the little yellow dhoti won't fit 

One day, the little yellow dhoti will be too small. 

The peacock feather will be packed away. 

The flute will become a childhood keepsake. 

The photographs will sit quietly in an old folder. 

And my little Krishna will become a grown man. 

Perhaps he will have children of his own. 

Perhaps one day, he will dress his child as Krishna. 

And if he does, I hope he remembers that he is not simply repeating a costume. 

He is continuing a story. 

A story that travelled through his grandparents, through me, and eventually reached him. 

That is how heritage survives. 

Not because we preserve everything exactly as it was. 

But because we keep enough of it alive to pass forward. 

What I hope he carries with him 

So this Janmashtami, my wish for my son is not simply: 

“May you always be good.” 

It is: 

May you be kind—but never careless with your kindness. 

May you be trusting—but never blind. 

May you be courageous—but wise enough to know when to walk away. 

May you be intelligent—but guided by what is right. 

May you know your roots—but have the freedom to find your own path. 

And above all: 

May you understand the stories you inherit, so that you can choose what is worth carrying forward. 

Because perhaps that is one of the most beautiful responsibilities of motherhood. 

We don't simply raise children. 

We become one of the bridges between what came before us and what comes after us. 

And perhaps that is what I am really celebrating every Janmashtami. 

Not just the little Krishna in front of my camera. 

But the story, culture, values and memories I am quietly placing in his hands. 

So that one day, when he is ready, he can decide what to carry forward. 

Happy Janmashtami. 🦚 

— From one mother to all mothers raising the next generation. 

At Motherly, we believe that some of the most meaningful things we give our children aren't things at all. 

They are the stories, values, traditions, wisdom and love we leave with them as they grow. 

And perhaps, in the end, that is what heritage really is. 

Something we receive. 
Something we live. 
And something we choose to leave behind.