Chapter 2 Part 2

The Garland of Tears

The western horizon glowed beneath a mantle of rain-heavy clouds. Twilight had not yet descended, yet the sun seemed to hide itself behind a veil of sorrow. A streak of lightning tore through the heavens, illuminating Vrindavan for the briefest instant.

In that sudden flash, Yashoda saw what no mother wished to see.

The crimson veins spread through Radha's eyes.

They were not the redness born of sleepless nights alone. They carried the burden of countless tears that had refused to fall, of questions that had never found answers, of words swallowed before they reached the lips.

Yashoda's heart trembled.

"Are those eyes burning with longing for my Kanha?" she wondered.

"Or are they aflame with the silent anger of a young maiden whose beloved has deceived her?"

A mother's heart could not decide.

She looked upon Radha not merely as Vrishabhanu's daughter but as the girl who had filled Krishna's childhood with laughter, who had chased him through flowering groves, who had scolded him for stealing butter only to forgive him moments later.

Now before her stood the same Radha.

Yet she appeared older than time itself.

The innocence of youth had transformed into the serenity of sacrifice.

Yashoda gently asked,

"Radha... today your Krishna has entered a new phase of life. He has accepted Princess Rukmini as his queen. Did you not prepare anything to send him?"

The words were spoken softly.

But each syllable echoed through the silence.

For a moment Radha remained motionless.

Her gaze wandered toward the distant fields where the monsoon breeze danced over green grass.

Then a faint smile appeared upon her lips. It was not the smile of happiness. Nor of bitterness.

It was the smile of someone who had already accepted destiny. Very quietly she replied,

"From where do I bring a special thing that was never His to receive, Bhabhi?"

Her voice carried neither complaint nor disappointment.

"If the entire universe already belongs to Him... then who is the giver... and who is the receiver?"

Silence followed.

The simplicity of her question carried a philosophy that even sages struggled to understand.

If everything belonged to Krishna... Could anything truly be offered to Him?

Yashoda lowered her eyes. She had no answer.

Even the wind seemed to stop for a moment.

Standing beside them, Ujjwala observed Radha with growing fascination.

During the entire journey from Dwaraka, she had recalled Krishna's words about Radha.

Not once. Not twice. Again and again.

Whenever the conversation drifted toward Vrindavan, his voice would soften.

Whenever someone mentioned flute melodies, moonlit forests, Yamuna's banks or flowering kadamba trees...the name Radha would quietly emerge.

She had wondered...Who was this woman?

Was she merely a childhood friend?

A memory? A forgotten chapter?

Now, standing before Radha, she realized how insufficient every description had been.

No one could describe sunlight to someone who had lived only beneath clouds.

One had to experience it.

Gathering courage, Ujjwala stepped forward.

Her eyes reflected reverence.

"Radha..."

She began gently,

"The Princess of Vidarbha prayed with all her heart that Krishna should become her husband. He answered that prayer."

"There was danger everywhere. Kings had gathered. Armies surrounded the city. But Krishna rescued her."

Her face brightened while remembering the scene.

"While returning, they halted near the temple of Devi Maa."

"There..." she smiled

"Krishna himself entered a grove filled with flowering creepers. He gathered blossoms with his own hands. Princess Rukmini wove two garlands. One he placed around her neck. And the other..."

Ujjwala carefully lifted the fragrant garland she had protected throughout the journey.

"...he asked me to bring it for you."

She placed it in Radha's hands with the devotion of a priest placing sacred flowers upon an altar.

" Here is that garland" she whispered,

No royal ornament could have carried greater value.

The fragrance of fresh jasmine mingled with lotus petals.

Hidden among them were tiny blue flowers rarely seen outside Vrindavan.

Radha received it with both hands.

Her fingers trembled. She did not immediately wear it.

Instead, she lowered her eyes. The fragrance carried her back through years.

To moonlit nights.

To laughter echoing beneath kadamba trees.

To stolen moments beside Yamuna.

To flute melodies that seemed to bloom directly from the soul.

The garland was no mere collection of flowers.

It was remembrances woven into petals.

Ujjwala continued softly,

"Before our journey...I heard many stories. Not from anyone else, but from Krishna himself."

She looked directly into Radha's eyes.

"He spoke of your courage. Your wisdom. Your compassion. He said that whenever people praise him for becoming who he is today...they forget the one who quietly shaped his heart long before kingdoms knew his name. He said..."

Ujjwala paused,

"...that Radha is not behind his life. She lives within it."

Emotion filled her voice.

"Only today I understood those words. You are the most important person in his life. If you wish to send anything to your Krishna..."

She folded her hands, "...we shall carry it with great joy."

Radha listened without interruption.

Each word settled within her like rain upon parched earth.

She slowly lifted her eyes toward Ujjwala.

For the first time she truly looked at her.

This young woman had crossed mountains and kingdoms carrying not merely a garland but Krishna's remembrance.

She has come from where my Krishna lives... It means she is closer to my heart than distance permits.

Radha gently took Ujjwala's hands into hers.

Her touch was astonishingly warm.

"What can a cowherd maiden send to a prince?" she asked with a smile. We possess neither jewels...nor silks...nor gold. We are not as wealthy as your Prince."

Her eyes smiled with quiet humour.

"Whatever belonged to me...I gave him long ago."

She looked at the garland.

"This alone is a precious ornament more than I deserve."

For a few moments she remained silent.

Her fingers continued holding Ujjwala's hands.

Then very softly she said,

"I shall send only a small offering."

"When you reach him...touch his cheeks once...with these very hands."

Ujjwala listened without breathing.

"And tell him..."

Radha's voice almost disappeared into the breeze.

"...that these palms once touched your Radha's cheeks. Tell him...she has sent her touch as her gift."

The words were simple. Yet they carried the weight of an entire lifetime.

Ujjwala instinctively looked down at her own hands.

Tiny droplets rested upon her palms.

She had not even noticed when they had fallen.

Radha had not wept aloud. Her tears had descended silently.

Each drop glistened beneath the afternoon sunlight like a perfectly cut diamond resting upon human skin.

Ujjwala froze.

Those were not ordinary tears. They seemed almost alive.

She whispered,

"Radha..."

Unable to continue.

How could someone send tears instead of jewels?

How could a touch become a gift?

She finally understood.

Material gifts reach the hands.

Love reaches the soul.

She slowly bowed her head.

"I will do exactly as you wish."

Her voice carried neither pity nor sympathy.

Only reverence.

For what she had witnessed was something beyond worldly affection.

She had witnessed love that sought no return.

Love that neither demanded presence nor questioned absence.

Love that transformed pain into worship.

The sky, which had watched their conversation in silence, suddenly released a gentle drizzle.

Fine drops descended like blessings from unseen worlds.

The earth breathed in relief. The fragrance of wet soil rose around them.

Almost as suddenly as it had begun, the rain stopped.

The dark clouds slowly drifted away.

A shaft of golden evening light descended upon Vrindavan.

It touched Radha's face.

Touched the garland resting in her hands.

Touched the tears still shining upon Ujjwala's palms.

Nature itself seemed unwilling to let sorrow remain unblessed.

The horses were prepared. The charioteer called respectfully.

It was time to leave.

Ujjwala climbed into the chariot, but before taking her seat, she looked back one final time.

Radha stood exactly where she had been.

Motionless. Silent.

Like an ancient sun ray rooted deep within eternity.

The wheels began to turn.

Dust rose from the village road.

Slowly the chariot moved away.

Yashoda watched until it became smaller and smaller.

The bells tied around the horses faded into the distance.

Soon nothing remained except a cloud of golden dust dancing beneath the evening sun.

And Radha. She did not wave. She did not call out.

She simply watched until even the dust disappeared.

Only then did she realize that another chapter of her earthly life had quietly come to an end.

For a long time she remained standing. The garland still rested in her hands.

At last she lifted it with profound reverence.

Closing her eyes, she placed it around her neck.

The flowers touched her heart.

Their fragrance mingled with the scent of rain-soaked earth.

She felt neither possession nor separation. Only presence.

Krishna was not in front of her. Yet he had never left her!

Without deciding where she wanted to go, Radha began to walk.

Her feet chose the path. Not her mind.

She walked through flowering groves.

Past grazing cows.

Past children laughing on the banks of Yamuna.

Past trees beneath whose shade countless memories slept.

Each step carried her deeper into silence.

She no longer searched for Krishna in groves, forests, or distant kingdoms.

She turned inward.

For she knew that love, once ripened into devotion, ceases to seek the beloved outside.

It discovers him within.

The villagers who crossed her path paused instinctively.

No one dared to disturb her.

There was something extraordinary about her that evening.

Pain had not diminished her radiance.

It had refined it.

Her face glowed with an indescribable light.

Not the brilliance of worldly happiness.

Not the fever of longing.

But the serene luminosity is born where the heart surrenders completely.

The setting sun painted the horizon with shades of crimson and gold.

Birds flew homeward.

Temple bells began ringing from distant shrines.

The Yamuna reflected the colours of heaven upon her gentle waters.

And amidst that sacred evening...walked a lone cowherd maiden wearing a garland woven by another woman for the man she loved beyond all measure.

No trace of jealousy shadowed her face.

No bitterness clouded her steps.

She carried only remembrance. Only surrender. Only immeasurable love.

Those who saw her believed that she was walking through Vrindavan.

The sages would have said otherwise.

Radha was not walking through Vrindavan.

She was walking into eternity.

Every step became meditation.

Every breath became prayer.

Every heartbeat whispered only one name—

Krishna.

And somewhere, far away in Dwaraka, a prince would soon feel gentle hands touch his cheeks.

Perhaps he would smile without explanation.

Perhaps tears would gather in his eyes.

For he alone would understand what no one else could.

The touch upon his face was not carried by hands.

It had travelled across kingdoms on the wings of a tear.

A tear that no distance could separate.

A tear that neither time nor destiny could erase.

For flowers eventually fade. Jewels lose their brightness.

Kingdoms rise and vanish.

But a gift offered from the soul, the touch of love preserved within a single tear—

remains forever.... forever!

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Viswasruti2019-01-30 11:10:17