Raya was a spirited 6-year-old girl. She lived with her grandparents and her mother at her grandparents’ house in a small village in South India called Mithra. Raya’s days were filled with going to school, playing with her cousins, and all of them listening to her Thatha’s stories on the veranda when the lights went out in their small village at night. It was a rural village, so it was common for the lights to go out to conserve electricity at nighttime.

Raya’s Thatha—grandfather in her mother tongue—was a source of inspiration for Raya, her cousins, and the neighborhood children who would play together after completing their homework. Well, as much homework as is given to 6-year-olds. Raya hated studying. She was a normal 6-year-old, I guess. Not driven to learn through practicing repetition and memorizing, she often found solace in Thatha’s stories instead. She would ask her mother to tell her what it means to learn, why she needs to learn. “Can’t it be more interesting like Thatha’s stories?”

Raya’s mother, Dharma, was vexed. She decided to address Raya’s curiosity by considering starting tuition for Raya. Thatha intervened and said Raya was still too young for tuitions—it is only natural for a little child to be curious about the world and not follow the rhythm of adults. Dharma, while conflicted, finally relented to her father’s request.

Every morning, Raya’s grandfather would do prayers to many God figures at the altar in their home. Raya would watch curiously while her grandfather sounded the bell and burned camphor, reciting mantras to the Gods. When Raya questioned why her mother and father don’t do that, Dharma would say she doesn’t believe in so many gods, and that for everyone, God is a topic that is personal. Raya never understood that. After all, she was 6 years old. But the ever-curious Raya would question Thatha about what each idol figure’s name was and why he prayed to them. “Who is your favorite God today, Thatha?” was her amusing question every day. “Is there a God’s festival to celebrate today?”

One evening, the children had gathered and Thatha started telling the story of Krishna, the God of Love. Krishna happened to be the name of one of Raya’s cousins. “What stories of Krishna are you going to tell us, Thatha?”

“The story of a young boy who was mischievous but also God in disguise as a human to spread dharma to people,” Thatha replied.

“Huh? What are you talking about, Thatha? How can Krishna Anna be God in disguise? He is always giving me pencils to practice my homework.”

Thatha laughed a loud belly laugh and hugged Raya for her innocence. “No, Rani”—as Thatha liked to call her, a queen she was to him—”this is not a story about your Anna (big brother) who ever pesters and dotes on you with not just pencils but your favorite Cadbury chocolates. It’s a story about Lord Krishna, you know, the god with a flute at my prayer altar?”

“Ooooh, okay Thatha, I didn’t know. Why is Anna named after God?”

“Would you like to hear Krishna’s story, Rani? I will even tell you why your Anna’s name came to be that.”

“Yes, Thatha,” Raya replied.