Janmashtami Away from Home
Dr Rashmi Sharma, Dr Vikas Sharma
As the clock inches toward midnight, temples across India shine like jeweled crowns under the night sky. The rhythmic clanging of bells merges with soulful bhajans, the air is thick with the scent of incense, and devotees sway together awaiting the sacred moment. It is Janmashtami-the birth of Lord Krishna, the eighth avatar of Vishnu, the eternal symbol of joy, wisdom, and resilience.
More than 5,000 years ago, in the stillness of midnight, under the heavy shadow of cruelty, Krishna took his first breath – not in freedom, but within the cold, dark walls of a prison in Mathura. His life was never about wealth, but about bravery in tough times. His first moments were spent not in a palace, but in chains. And yet, from that darkness came a light that would guide generations.
But in today’s world, not all Janmashtamis unfold in the glow of temple lamps or the laughter of family gatherings.
For thousands of resident doctors, MBBS students, engineers, and young professionals scattered across cities, the festival is a quiet one-punctuated with duty, sprinkled with sacrifice, and garnished with the oh-so-flavorful topping of “maybe next year.”
Picture a resident doctor in a busy city hospital. Her phone vibrates with messages from her mother-photos of a beautifully decorated swing for baby Krishna, videos of the midnight aarti, reminders to “at least eat some prasad.” She watches them in between attending to emergencies-patients with oxygen masks, newborns who need resuscitation, accident victims rushed in with minutes to spare. Somewhere between inserting an IV line and rushing to a code blue, she sips vending-machine tea that tastes like liquid sugar and mentally rebrands it as “prasad.” After all, who needs homemade makhan when you have hospital chai in a paper cup?
Meanwhile, in a PG hostel, a group of doctors gathers for their version of Janmashtami “celebrations.” One will bring a small printed photo of Krishna, another brings a packet of sweets that he might have got from home in his last visit And “still tastes fine.” They bow their heads, murmur a prayer, and within ten minutes, the “event” concludes because the next shift is calling. Instagram-worthy? Not quite. Duty-worthy? Absolutely.
Then there’s the MBBS student in her hostel room. Her laptop streams the Janmashtami ceremony from her hometown temple while her textbooks glare at her with the silent judgment only deadlines can deliver. She lights a solitary diya, its glow flickering between the pages of pharmacology notes. At 1:45 a.m., she breaks her fast with a bowl of instant noodles, the steam curling upward like a whisper of warmth in the silence. Around her, the world sleeps, but in this little corner, faith and fatigue share the same table. And strangely enough, it isn’t a complaint-it’s a quiet badge of honor.
Like Vasudeva carrying infant Krishna through the storm, they carry the weight of sleepless nights, endless patients, and the unglamorous reality of service. Like Krishna on the battlefield of Kurukshetra, they wage wars-not against armies, but against illness, chaos, and sometimes the sheer fatigue of being human. Krishna’s birth in a prison is more than a myth-it’s a metaphor they live. For them, the cramped hostels, call rooms, and endless hospital corridors are their own “Mathura cells.” Yet, within those confines, they breathe life into patients, tend to wounds, and plant seeds of hope. They don’t have the luxury of temple bells, but the beeping of monitors and the shuffle of nurses’ shoes provide their own “bhajan.”
So, when the midnight bells ring somewhere far away and chants of “Nand ke anand bhayo” echo in the distance, these doctors pause-sometimes just for a heartbeat. They close their eyes and join silently, knowing that devotion isn’t always measured in rituals. Sometimes it’s measured in stitches, IV lines, and blood pressure readings.
Because in their world, Janmashtami isn’t just a festival-it’s an everyday practice.
An offering made in the currency of time, energy, and missed celebrations. A reminder that keeping someone alive through the night is its own kind of cradle ceremony, and ensuring a patient’s heartbeat is its own form of aarti.
So yes, while the rest of the world swings little idols in flower-laden cradles, these “fortunate” souls are busy swinging between wards, duty rosters, and caffeine fixes. But that’s okay-Krishna would probably understand. After all, he too knew what it meant to be born into chaos and still bring light.
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