The prison was dark. The stone floor was cold, and the tears in Devaki’s eyes seemed to have dried after fourteen long years of suffering.
Kamsa had been slain. The chains had fallen away. Standing before her was her son Krishna—not the Lord of Dwaraka, but simply her beloved child.
Yet, in Devaki’s heart, a painful question arose, stronger even than a mother’s love.
“Krishna!” Her voice trembled, mingling sorrow with anger.
“You are divine! If you had wished, you could have opened the prison doors in an instant. You could have reduced Kamsa to ashes. And yet… you took fourteen years to free us from this prison! Six of my children were brutally killed before my very eyes, their lives ended by being dashed against stone. My seventh child was taken away from my womb. And when I gave birth to you, my eighth child, I had to hand you over to someone else on that very night. Tell me, Krishna, what kind of justice is this?”
Vasudeva silently lowered his head. Krishna, however, continued to smile.
There was no mockery in that smile. It was filled with the boundless compassion of eternity.
“Mother,” Krishna said gently, sitting beside her. He took her hands, still marked by the wounds of her chains, into his own.
“This is the law of karma, Mother.”
Devaki was startled.
“Remember, Mother. In a previous birth, you were Kaikeyi.”
Devaki’s eyes widened.
“In that birth, I was Rama, and Kausalya was my mother. You, as Kaikeyi, asked for two boons: the throne for Bharata and fourteen years of exile for Rama. For those fourteen long years, you separated me from my mother, Kausalya. You caused a mother to endure the agony of separation from her son. The consequences of that deed had to be experienced.”
Krishna’s voice softened.
“The fourteen years of separation you imposed in that birth returned to you in this life as fourteen years of anguish in Kamsa’s prison. The separation you brought upon others as Kaikeyi became your own suffering as Devaki. The account is settled, Mother. The law of karma spares no one—not even the mother of God.”
Tears flowed from Devaki’s eyes once more. But this time, they were not tears of anger. They were tears of understanding.
“And what about Kausalya?” she asked.
A divine smile blossomed on Krishna’s face.
“Kausalya, who suffered the pain of separation from her son in that birth, became Yashoda in this life. While you endured suffering in the prison, she lived in Gokula, witnessing my childhood pastimes with her own eyes. She held me in her lap, fed me butter, and experienced the joy of watching me grow. Her devotion and sacrifice were rewarded with the priceless happiness of raising me as her own child. And through your suffering, the consequences of your past actions have been worked out.”
Devaki embraced Krishna tightly.
The anguish of fourteen years in prison seemed to melt away. Only one truth remained in her heart:
Time does not treat anyone unjustly. We reap what we sow. Those who laugh today may weep tomorrow, and those who weep today may smile tomorrow. Everything moves within the wheel of karma.