A Short Story on a Child Who Was Born in the Village of Dwarka, India

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Once upon a time, an effervescent baby boy was born in India on an auspicious day. He was born on the same day as the birthday of the blue-skinned, flute-playing Krishna. Naming after the God, his parents were overjoyed that such a healthy son was born to them on such a propitious occasion. The mother, whose name was Monica, and the father, whose name was Rajesh, were mesmerized by the luck they were granted with, and happily took their son home to their bungalow in the village of Dwarka. The one-story house consisted of a dubious foundation, however the residents were joyfully acclimated to its homey vibe. It was of the traditional sort, somewhat of a doughnut shape, with an open area in the middle of the dwelling, and pillars on the edges to hold up the weakening roof. Many a time, as Krishna grew up, he would spend time with his parents in the… let us call it the ‘doughnut hole’. They would swing on the jhoola and inhale the sweet , wafting scents of jasmine flowers that blossomed in beautifully carved, clay pots that were stationed at every surrounding pillar of the ‘doughnut hole’. Every so often, the warm scents befuddled everyone into a deep slumber as they lay gazing at the stars many a night. Monsoon after monsoon passed by, and soon enough Krishna had become a young educated man, extremely bright, both in book-smarts, from transcribing every lecture he had ever heard verbatim, and street-smarts, from having learned to bargain in the Indian markets. He had garnered

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