Yashoda: He looks so grown up now. I no longer see my little boy in him.

Devaki: He is there. A son never really grows up for his mother.

Yashoda: No – my son was a butter-stealing cowherd. He spent his days in the sun with his cows and playing his flute. Your son, mother, is the king and the future God.

Devaki: You are right. I much as I try – I can't see the carefree cowheard him. He smiles, yet the smile rarely reaches his eyes, his flute is his constant companion, yet no one hears the lovely notes anymore. Do you see the weight he carries on his shoulders?

Yashoda: Who can unsee that? I miss his carefree smiles and the sparkle in his eyes. No matter how his day went, he always fell asleep in my arms playing with my hair.

Devaki: I only hugged him when I saw him, he returned it warmly. But that was it. You had him for yourself – I share him with the world.

Yashoda: I always knew he was on loan. He was mine for a little while. I knew he would go one day, but never imagined he would leave so suddenly and never look back.

Devaki: You kept a chunk of him in your heart – his childhood. I think it was right in a way- he would lose it here. The world is a cruel place mother, even for our Krishna. You have his innocence mother, hold it tightly in your hand and never let go.

Yashoda: We are two sides of the same coin, each desiring what the other has and yet never really see the other.