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.

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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.