Krishna Had Sudama, But Who Do We Have in Kalyug?

Whenever I hear the story of Krishna and Sudama, I can’t help but think of lunchboxes and sharing chocolates. Sudama didn’t have much, but he brought Krishna a small handful of poha—flattened rice—packed with love. And in return, Krishna gave him a palace.
As a kid, I don’t have palaces to hand out or big problems to solve. But I do understand what it’s like to miss a friend who used to sit next to me in class and then suddenly moved away. I know how special it feels when someone quietly shares their eraser without asking for anything back. Honestly, in moments like that, it feels like something royal.
We grow up hearing stories and watching cartoons where Krishna never made fun of Sudama’s old clothes. And that makes me think—why do we still laugh at kids who don’t wear branded shoes? Why do we choose friends based on their iPads instead of their ideas?
Maybe today, being like Krishna means being kind to the kid who doesn’t have lunch. And being like Sudama means always saying thank you, even for something as small as a candy.
Adulthood feels like a constant battle—not the kind fought with swords, but with EMIs, office politics, and the pressure to keep up with perfect lives on social media. These days, we network instead of making real friends. We "connect," but we rarely care.
The story of Krishna and Sudama wasn’t really about gifts. It was about understanding. Sudama never had to ask—Krishna just knew.
How often does that kind of understanding exist now?
I might have thousands of followers, but not one person I can call at 2 AM when everything's falling apart. The people around me know my job title, but not the things that keep me up at night. Being vulnerable is seen as weak now, even though deep down, we all want someone who sees us—even when we’re not visible.
Sudama didn’t have much, but he had something rare: a friend who remembered the person he used to be, not just the man he became.
In today's world, Krishna might not show up with a flute and peacock feather. He could be the colleague who notices you’re quiet in a Zoom meeting. Or that old friend who still calls you by your childhood nickname.
Are we showing up for our friends the way Sudama did—with sincerity, without expectations? And are we seeing them the way Krishna did—without judgment?
I’ve seen a world that moved from black-and-white TVs to smartphones. From hand-written letters to vanishing messages. And if there’s one thing I’ve realised, it’s this: friendship today is quicker, but not as deep.
Back in Dwapar Yug, Krishna walked barefoot to meet his old friend Sudama. In today’s world, we sometimes forget birthdays—even when our phones remind us. It’s not that good people have disappeared. They’re still around. They’re just tired, worn out, and guarded.
Sudama’s strength wasn’t in asking for help—it was in knowing that Krishna would understand without him needing to say much. That kind of quiet faith? We’ve slowly lost it. In others, and even in ourselves.
But now and then, I still see glimpses of it. Like when a grandson patiently teaches his grandma how to use a smartphone. Or when a neighbor brings groceries to an elderly man during a lockdown. Kindness hasn’t gone—it just speaks more softly now.
Krishna may not come down from the heavens anymore. Maybe, in this age of Kalyug, we’re the ones meant to be Krishna for each other. To notice the Sudamas around us—not with gifts or wealth, but by simply showing up.
He’s that friend who sticks around when everyone else has walked away. The one who doesn't need a reason to stay—he just does. At work, he’s the colleague who notices when something's off, gently saying, “You look tired—want to talk?” He’s also the voice behind the midnight voice note when you're feeling invisible, reminding you that someone out there sees you. Sometimes, he’s just a stranger who holds the elevator for you when you're running late, and somehow, that small gesture feels bigger than it should.
And who is Sudama? She’s the girl who still sends that first message, even after being ignored. He’s the guy who remembers to show up for you, even if you forgot something important to him, like his birthday. Sometimes, Sudama is a parent—the kind who quietly lets go of their own dreams so there’s more room for yours.
Let’s face a difficult but necessary question: why don’t we see friendships like that of Krishna and Sudama in today’s world?
Back in the Dwapar era, people understood the value of patience. Sudama didn’t expect instant responses or quick rewards. He waited, trusted, and walked miles with nothing but faith. Today, in the fast-paced world of Kalyug, we’ve grown impatient. If someone doesn’t reply to a message within ten minutes, we often assume they’re ignoring us or simply not interested. Our culture demands instant gratification, leaving little room for the quiet endurance that once defined deep relationships.
Our modern relationships, whether romantic, professional, or even friendly, often feel transactional. We calculate the value of interactions—what’s in it for me? In contrast, true friendship, like Sudama’s, is built on giving without expecting anything in return. It asks a much rarer question today: What can I offer, not what can I gain?
There’s also a growing fear of vulnerability. Showing need or emotion is often mistaken for weakness. Many fear becoming like Sudama—open, humble, and vulnerable—because they don’t believe there’s a Krishna out there who will respond with love, understanding, and generosity.
And then there’s the paradox of our times: we’re more connected than ever through technology, yet we’re more emotionally distant. In this hyperconnected age, genuine connection is harder to find. People cry out for help in the form of memes or jokes, but their real feelings go unnoticed. That’s the irony of Kalyug—we scroll past each other’s silent pleas, too busy, too distracted, or too guarded to reach out.
Rather than asking, “Who do we have in Kalyug?”, perhaps the more important question is, “Who are we willing to be?”
Are we willing to be like Sudama—someone who, despite personal hardships, makes the effort to reconnect with an old friend? Not in the literal sense of walking miles, but by setting aside ego and discomfort to value a relationship?
And can we be like Krishna, who, even while facing his own battles, opened his doors and his heart without hesitation? It wasn’t about wealth or charity—it was about seeing pain in someone else without them having to say a word. That’s empathy. That’s what makes a bond sacred.
In this age, divinity doesn’t come with a crown or supernatural powers. In Kalyug, true divinity is found in kindness, in understanding, and in compassion.
In today’s fast-paced world, where everything seems temporary—be it jobs, trends, or even attention spans—the value of true friendship stands firm, offering a sense of belonging and emotional refuge. While we may not see Krishna in the flesh or Sudama in rags walking among us, their spirit and the essence of their bond still live within us.
We can honor that spirit by raising children who are emotionally aware and compassionate. It’s equally important to encourage adults to reach out to one another without hesitation or fear of judgment. And we must not forget our elders—reminding them through our actions that they are still seen, heard, and deeply needed.
In the age of Kalyug, we don’t need gods to descend from the heavens; what we truly need is to embody godlike kindness and empathy in our everyday lives. That is how we keep the timeless friendship of Krishna and Sudama alive—not through rituals or statues, but by carrying them in our hearts and in how we treat each other.

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