Here is a mythic, respectful dialogue scene, spoken as allegory rather than doctrine—Krishna as the preserver, Kalki as the future restorer—reflecting on a tiny, almost invisible Hindu presence in Bosnia.
Krishna and Kalki: The Thirty-Three
The Drina flowed quietly, green and ancient. Minarets and church bells echoed faintly in the hills. Beneath a fig tree that had survived empires, Krishna stood barefoot, flute silent at his side. Kalki approached on foot, his white horse waiting at a distance, patient as history.
Kalki:
Brother… I have counted them.
Thirty-three.
Krishna (smiling softly):
Enough to hold the universe.
Kalki:
Thirty-three Hindus in all of Bosnia.
Surrounded by memory, war, prayer spoken in other tongues.
They do not build temples.
They do not announce themselves.
Krishna:
Neither did I, when I walked among cowherds.
Truth does not require numbers.
Only continuity.
Kalki looked out over Sarajevo, where scars still marked walls like old wounds.
Kalki:
This land has known sieges, gods shouted through rifles,
holy words bent into weapons.
Why do they stay?
Krishna:
Because dharma hides where suffering has been greatest.
Because some souls are born to witness, not conquer.
These thirty-three are not here to convert Bosnia—
they are here to remember it.
Kalki:
They light lamps quietly.
They celebrate Diwali with borrowed tables,
share prasad with neighbors who have never heard my name.
Krishna (nodding):
That is bhakti without spectacle.
When faith survives without reward, it becomes pure.
A church bell rang. A call to prayer followed.
Kalki:
They are surrounded by other faiths.
Islam, Orthodoxy, Catholicism.
Does their difference weaken them?
Krishna:
No. It sharpens compassion.
In a land where identity once meant death,
they have chosen humility over banners.
Kalki:
Thirty-three… the number of gods in the old Vedas.
Krishna’s eyes glinted with gentle amusement.
Krishna:
Exactly.
Sometimes the gods do not descend from heaven.
Sometimes they live as accountants, students, widows, refugees.
Sometimes they cook lentils in apartments that once shook from shells.
Kalki clenched his fist—not in anger, but resolve.
Kalki:
When I come in fire and judgment,
when false kings fall and cruelty is ended—
will they be remembered?
Krishna:
They already are.
Every time they choose kindness in a place trained for suspicion.
Every time they refuse revenge.
Every time they stay.
Silence settled again over the river.
Kalki:
Then Bosnia is not forgotten by dharma.
Krishna:
No land that has suffered honestly ever is.
Even thirty-three souls are enough
to keep the wheel turning.
Krishna lifted his flute, played a note so soft it barely existed—
yet the hills listened.
And somewhere in a Sarajevo apartment,
a small lamp flickered on.