Radha was five when I met her. Radha
opened her eyes for the first time when ma
took me to see her. I was four.
Radha was the daughter of the chieftain of
Barsana, a few kilometres from Nandgaon,
where I lived. Baby Radha''s eyes were shut
tight when she was born, as most babies'' are.
But, strangely, Radha''s did not open for five
years. Whether she refused to open them or
some muscle-weakening of the eyelids
prevented her from seeing the world around
her, no one could tell.
Ma had been a close friend of Radha''s
mother, but my birth and Radha''s had
somehow driven them apart. Radha''s mother
was wrapped up in her child''s affliction,
taking her to men of science, religion,
whoever could help her daughter open her
eyes. Helpless to the vagaries of the
universe, she yearned for her little girl to be
able to see. Ma, on the other hand, was
wholly engrossed in me.
However, after one-to-many attempts on my
life, ma decided that she needed to take me
somewhere safe, if only for a little while.
And so, at the ripe old age of four, the
vanquisher of many a demon, me, and my
mother went to visit her dear friend, Radha''s
mother.
Our mothers hugged, kissed, cried, and after
all the necessary courtesies of two friends
meeting after ages had been dealt with, I was
taken to Radha''s room where she had been
napping as most children do during the early
afternoon leaving their mothers to catch up
on neighbourhood gossip.
I entered the room holding on to my mother''s
hand, and Radha woke up and looked up
from her bed at me, with large dark brown
eyes framed by the longest eyelashes I had
ever seen. And then she smiled. At me.
I could not take my eyes off her. I walked
towards her, my arms outstretched wanting
to hold her, hug her, and never let go of her.
But, instead, Radha laughed and jumped off
her bed, running in a swirl of red, blue, and
green, the colours of the long skirt she wore.
She ran away from me. I chased after her.
I could hear Radha''s mother chanting, "Oh
my God, she opened her eyes" over and over
again, sounding tearful and happy all at once.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.Radha had opened her eyes for me. I knew.
We stayed at Barsana for nearly six months
Radha and I, Me, and Radha, always
together. Inseparable. Even when Ma
decided to go back to our home, I would
keep thinking of ways to get Radha to visit
or Ma to visit Barsana, taking me with her.
The time I spent with Radha was the most
beautiful in all my hundred and twenty-five
years. It was an innocent time, full of love,
laughter, and the naivety of childhood.
As soon as I was old enough to venture out
of Nandgaon on my own, I went to Barsana.
There was an orchard of fruit trees between
Nandgaon and Barsana where Radha would
come accompanied by her friends. I found
myself waiting for her almost every other
afternoon. Our friendship had deepened with
time. We laughed, danced, talked, and found
innovative ways of spending more time in
each other''s company.
Many of my friends married as children. I
wanted to get married too to Radha. I was
still very young when I asked her to marry
me. I told her she would not have to worry
about talking to her parents. I would ask my
parents to speak to her''s. We were already
together much of the time; it would be so
much fun. But Radha just laughed. I asked
her again two days later. She said no. I asked
her a third time a month after the second
rejection. We had been hanging out under the
Kadamb tree, me playing the bansuri, Radha
listening with eyes closed. I had not been
playing for nearly half an hour when I asked
Radha to marry me again. Radha looked at
me with a distant faraway gaze and asking
me to sit down, and she said, "Why? Why do
you keep asking me when you know I do not
want to marry? You do know, don''t you?"
I sat there, knowing in my heart that I had
places to go, I would not be satisfied with the
bucolic settings of Vrindavan, and Radha
would never be happy away from it. We had
the wisdom of centuries in our soul, what I
had almost forgotten in the song and dance
of the last ten years, Radha brought to the
forefront. I had a purpose, separate from
Radha. If we were together, we would seek
nothing, finding completion in each other. To
be able to accomplish our goals, the reason
why we chose to be born, we needed to stay
apart. To achieve, one must strive, and one
can only persist when there is a part missing.
Radha and I, we could not let ourselves
complete each other; we needed to set each
other free.
I did not speak of marriage to Radha again.
But I vowed to make every moment I spent
with her count.
I spent my childhood with Radha. I loved her
with a purity that is rarely possible as a man.
I loved in life, in death, and after.