One day mother Yashoda bathed little Krishna and decorated him to perfection: pearls, a golden chain strung with pearls around his waist, kajal darkening his eyes — she made him so lovely you could not look away. Then Kanhaiya, the moment he was let go, toddles out into Nanda Maharaj's courtyard — and there sits a great heap of turmeric. "Oh, lovely!" In he climbs with delight, rolling and tumbling about, until he is smeared head to toe in yellow — and to the turmeric clings the dust and cow-dung of Gokul. In one little minute all her care is undone: a jewel of a boy turned into a filthy yellow imp. Having played his fill, all at once he feels it: he is hungry. "I want my mother's milk." And, not the least bit bothered by his own filth, back he waddles into the house — straight to her breast. He who nourishes and upholds the whole universe, in Vrindavan suckles at Yashoda's breast: the Lord of all worlds, wholly in her lap.