In Every Birth, Find Me
The night air in Mathura was thick with monsoon rains. In her small room lit only by a flickering diya, Radhika drifted into sleep, the sound of distant thunder echoing like a drumbeat of another world.
And then—there he was.
Krish. Not of this earth, not entirely. His eyes shone like the Yamuna at dawn, dark yet full of light. His smile curved like the crescent moon, playful and disarming. A flute rested in his hands, and the first note he played melted into her very breath.
Radhika stood still, her anklets chiming without her moving. He came close—closer than she dared imagine—and bent down, his breath warm against her temple.
“Radhika,” he whispered, his voice like a sacred raag vibrating through her bones, “in every birth, find me.”
Her fingers clutched his kurta desperately, as if letting go would tear her apart from him forever. Their hearts beat in unison, each thrum a promise. He leaned in, lips nearly brushing hers—when—
CRASH!
The window flung open, and the storm rushed in, lashing her face with cold rain. She jolted awake, alone. Her room was empty, silent except for the howl of wind. No flute. No Krish.
Radhika’s chest heaved. She touched her lips, still tingling with the ghost of his almost-kiss. Her heart ached with a longing too sharp to name. It was only a dream. And yet—the feeling was terrifyingly, achingly real.
The next morning, Mathura was washed clean by the rain. The narrow lanes buzzed again with temple bells, vendors calling out, and the chatter of pilgrims making their way to Banke Bihari Mandir. Radhika, still heavy with the memory of the dream, walked slowly, carrying a basket of marigolds for her mother.
She paused near the chowk, distracted by the sound of a flute.
Her heart stopped.
The notes were playful, winding, as though teasing her memory. She turned, almost afraid—and saw him.
Not a vision. Not a dream. A boy stood leaning against the old neem tree, a bansuri resting against his lips. His eyes—those same dark, mischievous eyes. His smile—warm, unsettlingly familiar.
Her basket slipped, flowers tumbling onto the wet earth. He noticed, and with easy grace, bent to pick them up.
“Careful,” he said, handing them back with a grin. “Marigolds shouldn’t cry.”
Radhika could only stare, her pulse thundering.
He tilted his head, amused. “You’re looking at me as if we’ve met before.”
Her lips parted. The words caught in her throat, but somehow they found their way out. “Maybe… in another life.”
He chuckled softly, tapping the flute against his palm. “I’m Krish. Krish Upadhyay. And you are…?”
“Radhika Sharma,” she whispered, still dazed.
His smile deepened, and for the briefest moment, it felt like time folded back on itself, carrying the echo of his dream-whisper.
“Radhika,” he repeated, like a sacred raag.
Her breath caught. The storm of the night before had left her shaken—but this? This was far more terrifying.
Because now the dream had stepped into daylight.
And the feeling? The feeling was real. Terrifyingly real.
It didn’t end there.
The next day, she saw him again—outside the mandir, this time helping an old priest carry a heavy trunk of garlands. He flashed her that same smile when their eyes met, and she quickly looked away, flustered.
That night, she dreamt of him again. The same closeness, the same whisper: “In every birth, find me.”
The following afternoon, she bumped into him near the Yamuna ghats, almost colliding as she hurried down the steps. His hand shot out, steadying her wrist.
“Twice in two days?” he teased. “Are you following me, Sharma ji?”
She pulled her hand back quickly, cheeks warm. “Maybe you’re the one following me.”
He laughed, the sound ringing brighter than the temple bells.
That night—again—she dreamt of him. His breath, his touch, his voice calling her name like a song that had never stopped playing.
And then it became a pattern. Days of accidental encounters. Nights of hauntingly vivid dreams.
She would be carrying vegetables home from the market—and there he’d be, bargaining with a vendor. She would be lighting diyas at the temple—and he’d appear beside her, brushing his shoulder against hers as he bowed his head.
And every night, in her sleep, he returned. Sometimes with his flute, sometimes with nothing but that look in his eyes that told her she had always belonged to him.
It terrified her. It thrilled her.
Reality and dream blurred, until Radhika Sharma no longer knew whether she was dreaming of Krish Upadhyay—
—or waking into him.
By the fourth day, Radhika Sharma could no longer keep the truth locked inside her. The coincidences were too many. The dreams too vivid. Krish Upadhyay wasn’t just another boy from Mathura. Somehow, impossibly, he was her Krish—the one who had whispered to her soul even before she opened her eyes each morning.
Her heart raced as she walked through the narrow gullies, searching for him. She rehearsed the words in her head: “I dream of you every night. You call my name. You tell me to find you.” It sounded mad, but the ache in her chest told her it was the only truth she had.
And then she saw him.
He was at the tea stall by the corner of the chowk, laughing at something. For a moment, her courage held steady. Until her gaze shifted.
A girl stood beside him, smiling as she stirred her chai. She was beautiful, her bangles tinkling as she leaned in to whisper something to him. Krish laughed again, the kind of easy laughter that only came when one felt at home.
The stall owner called out, “Arre, Krish beta! Rukmini ji ke liye ek aur chai banani padegi!”
Rukmini.
The name hit Radhika like a stone against glass, shattering her fragile hope. Her chest tightened. The courage she had carefully gathered all morning dissolved into dust.
Without waiting for him to notice, she turned on her heel and walked away, her marigold dupatta fluttering like a wounded flame behind her.
That night, the storm returned.
Radhika’s dreams swept her into the same world of moonlight and bansuri. Krish was there again—close enough that she could feel the heat of his breath, close enough that his lips brushed the air above hers.
Her heart trembled. But this time, she pulled back.
“No,” she whispered, her eyes burning. “Not again. Krishna was never meant to be Radha’s. And this Krish… this Krish is never meant to be mine.”
His expression softened. He cupped her face, his thumb brushing away a tear that didn’t exist outside of sleep.
“Radhika,” he murmured, his voice the same eternal raag that had followed her through centuries, “in every birth, find me.”
Her chest ached, torn between longing and despair. “And if I do? What if I find you and lose you again?”
He leaned in, his forehead pressing gently against hers. “Then find me again. A thousand times. A thousand lives. Until the world itself learns our song.”
She closed her eyes, and for the first time, she let the dream break her completely.
Because even in heartbreak, she belonged to him.
Even if he was never meant to be hers.
The next morning, Radhika Sharma tied her dupatta tighter around her shoulders and told herself she would not look for him. Not at the mandir, not in the market, not anywhere. Krish Upadhyay belonged to someone else. To Rukmini. And Radha had never been meant to keep her Krishna.
But fate, it seemed, did not care for her resolve.
At the vegetable market, as she haggled with a vendor, a familiar voice teased behind her, “Careful, Sharma ji. That lauki is overripe.”
Her heart jumped. She didn’t turn. She handed the vendor the money, grabbed her basket, and walked away.
“Arre! No hello?” Krish called after her, half laughing. But she didn’t stop.
The following day, she went to the Yamuna ghat at dawn, hoping the quiet waters would soothe her restless heart. She bent to touch the river, when a shadow fell beside hers.
“Seems like you and I pray at the same time,” Krish said, his tone soft.
Her throat tightened. She rose quickly, muttered a hurried “I’m late,” and brushed past him, her anklets jingling with every hurried step.
Krish watched her go, puzzled. His flute dangled loosely from his fingers.
The third time was at the sweet shop. Radhika was waiting for her turn to buy peda for her mother when she heard a laugh that made her pulse stutter. She didn’t need to turn—she already knew.
Krish.
He was joking with the halwai, his sleeves rolled up, looking so ordinary yet so impossibly familiar. Their eyes met, just for a heartbeat.
Radhika looked away at once. When the shopkeeper called her number, she rushed forward, grabbed her packet, and left without a word.
Krish stepped out after her, calling, “Radhika—wait!”
But she was gone, her dupatta vanishing into the crowd.
That night, she dreamt of him again. His touch, his breath, his whisper: “In every birth, find me.”
She turned her face away even in sleep. “Stop haunting me. You’re not mine. You never will be.”
But Krish only smiled in that maddeningly gentle way, his voice warm as the bansuri’s note. “Even when you run, Radhika… you’ll still find me. And I’ll still find you.”
Days turned into a blur of collisions and silences. Each time she avoided him, her heart cracked a little more. Each night he came back in her dreams, stitching the pieces together only to break them again at dawn.
Fate wasn’t letting her forget him.
And Krish Upadhyay?
He wasn’t letting her go.
It had been over a week.
A week of Radhika Sharma dodging Krish Upadhyay in every lane of Mathura.
A week of hurried footsteps, turned faces, and silences heavy enough to choke her.
But Krish wasn’t blind. And he wasn’t patient anymore.
That evening, as she carried a brass pot of water from the Yamuna ghat, she sensed him before she saw him. His presence always felt like the note of a flute—low, humming, impossible to ignore.
“Radhika.”
She froze. The way he said her name—like it belonged to him—sent a shiver down her spine. She lowered her gaze and quickened her pace.
But in two strides, he was in front of her, blocking the narrow path.
“Why?” he asked softly, eyes searching hers.
She clutched the pot tighter. “Move, Krish.”
“No,” he said firmly. “Not this time. Not until you tell me what I’ve done. Did I offend you? Did I hurt you? Because every time I see you, you look right through me as if I’m a stranger. And I can’t stand it.”
Her lips trembled. She had rehearsed silence, not answers.
Krish stepped closer, his voice low but urgent. “You don’t even give me a chance to speak. To know you. Why are you running from me, Radhika?”
Her chest heaved, the storm inside her breaking loose. “Because I already know you!”
The words slipped out before she could stop them. Krish blinked, startled.
Her throat tightened, but the dam had broken. “Every night, I dream of you. Your voice. Your eyes. You call my name like it’s the only song in the universe. You tell me—‘in every birth, find me.’” Her eyes glistened. “But you don’t belong to me, Krish. You belong to someone else. To Rukmini.”
Krish’s brows furrowed. “Rukmini? You mean…?” And then he laughed, almost in disbelief. “Oh god. Rukmini is my cousin. She’s practically my sister. We grew up together!”
Radhika blinked, stunned. “What?”
His smile softened, touched with something deeper. “You think I’m in love with her? Radhika, when I look at you, I don’t see anyone else.”
Her breath hitched.
She wiped at her tears, her voice barely a whisper. “But these dreams—they terrify me. Because Krishna was never meant to be Radha’s.”
For a moment, Krish only looked at her, his eyes unreadable. Then, slowly, he exhaled.
“You’re not the only one dreaming, Radhika.”
Her head jerked up, startled.
“I see you every night,” he admitted, voice hushed but steady. “Your smile, your touch, the way you whisper my name. In my dreams, I reach for you, and when I wake up, I ache because you’re not there. I thought I was losing my mind… until the day I first saw you in the market. That’s when I knew my dreams weren’t just dreams. They were memories waiting to become real.”
Tears spilled down Radhika’s cheeks. Her heart raced as the storm inside her finally surrendered.
Krish stepped closer, his hand finding hers. “You said Krishna was never meant to be Radha’s. Maybe that’s true for the stories. But we’re not bound by their ending. We’re bound by our beginning. And I love you, Radhika. Not just in dreams. Here. Now. Always.”
Her resolve melted, leaving behind only truth. “I love you too, Krish. I think I always have.”
He leaned in, gently cupping her face, his breath mingling with hers. And when his lips finally met hers, it was as if the dream had spilled into reality. Soft at first, then deeper—full of every promise their souls had whispered across lifetimes.
The kiss sealed it.
As their lips parted, Radhika’s heart raced with an epiphany. “All this time I thought I was only dreaming… but I wasn’t. I’ve simply woken up in my own story.”
And with that, the dream was no longer just a dream.
Krish and Radhika had found each other—
—in this birth, in this life.
And this time, they were meant to stay.
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The End.
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