The Unending Dream TS - Chapter 2 pg 2 - Page 2

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Originally posted by: SilverBell

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Originally posted by: Aleyamma47

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Chapter 2 (The Last Birth)

The monsoon had passed, but in Radhika’s heart, the storm lingered.

Days melted into each other, golden and fleeting. She and Krish met every evening by the Yamuna, their laughter mingling with the murmur of the river. He would play his flute, she would hum softly beside him, and for a while, the world seemed perfectly aligned — as if Mathura itself held its breath, watching them.

But fate has a way of testing those who believe they’ve found peace.

One evening, as the sun dipped behind the ghats, Radhika brought Krish a garland of fresh jasmine. “For your flute,” she said shyly.
He smiled, tucking one bloom behind her ear. “For my muse,” he murmured.

Then came the shadow.

A wandering sadhu approached, his saffron robes dark with dust. His eyes — ancient, unreadable — lingered on the couple. “Beautiful, isn’t it,” he said softly, his voice rough like wind over stone. “When love returns from another birth.”

Radhika froze. “What do you mean?”

The sadhu smiled faintly. “You two have met before. Many times. Each life, the same yearning. The same promise.” His gaze deepened. “But beware, child. Even the truest souls cannot escape the price of what was never completed.”

Krish frowned. “What price?”

The sadhu only shook his head. “Ask the river. She remembers every Radha and every Krishna who thought love could outlast fate.” Then he turned, walking away into the mist before either could speak.

Radhika’s fingers tightened around Krish’s. “Do you think he meant—?”

“No,” Krish interrupted quickly, forcing a smile. “He’s just another mystic with stories. Don’t let him scare you.”

But that night, the dream returned — darker than before.

Radhika stood on the banks of a raging Yamuna, the sky aflame with lightning. Across the water, Krish reached for her, calling her name. But when she tried to move, her feet sank into the mud. She screamed his name, but the thunder drowned her voice. And then — the water rose. It pulled him under. His flute floated to her feet, cracked in two.

She woke up gasping, her pillow damp with tears.

The next day, Krish didn’t come to the ghat.

Nor the day after.

Nor the one after that.

Radhika went to his house, but the door was locked. The neighbours said his uncle had fallen ill suddenly, and Krish had left for Vrindavan to fetch a healer.

But something inside her whispered otherwise — a chill that felt too much like the echo of her dream.

On the fourth night, she wandered back to the ghat. The moon was pale, the river restless. She knelt by the water, whispering, “If you can hear me, Krish… come back. You said we’d find each other in every birth.”

A sudden gust rippled across the water. And then — faint but clear — she heard it.

A flute.

Her heart leapt. She turned toward the sound, running along the riverbank. The melody grew louder, haunting, almost desperate. She followed it through the mist, calling his name.

And then she saw him.

Krish stood in the shallows, drenched to the bone, his bansuri trembling in his hands. But his eyes — those eyes — were different. Darker. Lost. As if he wasn’t fully here.

“Krish!” she cried, wading in. “What are you doing? Come out!”

He looked at her — and smiled faintly. “You found me.”

“Of course I did!” She grabbed his arm, trying to pull him back. “Let’s go home!”

He didn’t move. “I remembered, Radhika,” he whispered. “Our last life. The one before this. Do you know how it ended?”

Her heart pounded. “Don’t—”

“You died first,” he said quietly. “By the Yamuna. Waiting for me.”

Her breath hitched. “Krish, please—”

“I promised I’d find you again,” he continued, his voice breaking. “But each time we meet, something takes you from me. A curse, maybe. A thread we can’t untangle.”

She shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “Not this time. Not in this life. We can break it.”

He smiled, bittersweet. “That’s what you said last time too.”

And then, before she could stop him, he took a step deeper into the river.

“Krish!” she screamed, clutching at his hand. “Don’t you dare—”

But her fingers passed through his — like mist.

The bansuri fell into the water.

And Krish vanished.

Radhika fell to her knees, sobbing, the current washing over her hands. Around her, the night was still — until a voice, soft as breath, echoed inside her chest.

“In every birth, find me…”

She looked down. The flute floated back to her — whole again, shining faintly in the moonlight.

And for the first time, she understood:
Love wasn’t meant to end. It was meant to be remembered.

The River Remembers

The days that followed were a blur of silence.
Mathura moved on as if nothing had happened—bells chimed, markets buzzed, rain clouds drifted lazily above the Yamuna—but for Radhika, time had stopped at the riverbank.

Krish was gone.

His uncle returned from Vrindavan alone. When Radhika asked, trembling, where Krish was, the old man only stared at her, confused.
“My child,” he said softly, “Krish died three years ago. Drowned in the Yamuna. On a stormy night.”

The words hit her like thunder. “That can’t be,” she whispered. “I spoke to him. I touched him.”

The old man’s eyes filled with pity. “People say the river takes what it loves. Sometimes, it gives them back—for a while.”

Radhika stumbled out of the courtyard, her ears ringing, the world spinning.
She walked without direction until she reached the ghat. The river gleamed silver beneath the twilight sky, deceptively calm. She knelt, her reflection trembling in the water’s surface.

“Krish,” she whispered. “If you’re gone… then who did I love?”

The wind stirred. A single marigold petal floated toward her, then another, until the river was blooming gold. And through the soft whisper of the current came a faint, familiar hum—a bansuri’s note, low and mournful.

Tears blurred her eyes.
“Are you still here?”

The water shimmered, and before her mind could question it, she saw him—his form faint, woven from moonlight and mist. Krish stood on the other side of the Yamuna, the same soft smile curving his lips.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she cried. “Why let me believe you were real?”

“I was real,” his voice carried across the water. “Every time we find each other, I live again through you. I am born in your memory.”

She shook her head, sobbing. “Why us? Why this curse?”

He hesitated, then said quietly, “Because once, long ago, I chose you over my destiny. And the gods never forgave it.”

The world seemed to still.

He continued, his voice like the rustle of sacred leaves, “In our first birth, I was meant to be one with divinity—to belong to all. But I could only see you. The gods decreed that I would be reborn in every age to seek you again, only to lose you before dawn.”

Radhika’s heart clenched. “Then let them take me too. I don’t want another life without you.”

He smiled faintly. “You can’t. You’re the one who carries the light that pulls me back. Without you, I fade.”

She stepped into the river, the cold water clutching her ankles. “Then take me with you,” she pleaded. “I’m not afraid.”

The moment she said it, the wind changed. The sky darkened. The Yamuna rippled with ancient fury—as if the gods themselves had heard her defiance.

Krish’s form flickered. “Radhika, no!” His voice strained, echoing between realms. “If you cross now, you’ll never return. You’ll lose this life.”

She took another step. “Then let me lose it. What’s a life without you?”

A crack of thunder split the sky. The water surged around her, pulling at her feet. And then, through the chaos, something shifted—an unseen force holding her back.

From the temple steps above, an old woman’s voice rang out, trembling yet powerful:
“Child, don’t fight the river. You’ll drown like she did before.”

Radhika turned. The woman stood draped in a soaked white sari, her forehead marked with sandalwood paste. Her eyes were old, deep, and knowing.

“Who are you?” Radhika gasped.

The woman came closer, clutching a small silver pendant. She pressed it into Radhika’s palm—a tiny charm shaped like a flute. “You were Radha once,” the woman said softly. “And I was your sakhi. I’ve watched you return again and again. But this time, the pattern can break.”

“How?” Radhika asked, tears streaming.

“By remembering,” the woman whispered. “Not just your love—but your choice. Love is meant to liberate, not bind. You must let him go.”

Radhika’s heart screamed against the words. But something inside her—a small, ancient voice—understood.
Love had kept them circling through centuries, beautiful and tragic, never free.

She turned back toward the river. Krish’s form shimmered, fading. “If I let you go,” she whispered, “will I lose you forever?”

He shook his head gently. “You’ll set me free. And maybe, one day, when the river runs still, we’ll meet again—without dreams, without curses. Just love.”

The storm softened. The water calmed.

Radhika pressed the silver flute to her heart and whispered, “Then go. I’ll carry you where the gods can’t reach.”

Krish’s lips curved into that familiar, tender smile.
“Radhika,” he said one last time, “in every birth, you’ve found me. But in this one… you’ve freed me.”

And with that, he dissolved into the river, the ripples glowing gold beneath the moon.

Radhika stood there long after he was gone, the flute pendant warm against her chest. For the first time in her life—perhaps in all her lives—her tears were not of loss, but release.

The bansuri’s melody echoed faintly in the distance, and she smiled through her tears.

Because though Krish was gone, love remained.

And love, after all, was never meant to be bound by birth or death.

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To be continued.

Wow That Was Beautiful So Krish Died Three Years And Found Radha Again

In Their Dreams

The Yamuna River Bought Him Back And Radha Saved Him She Set Him Free

Continue Soon

They have met many times in past lives but was their love ever successful?

A bad dream and then he is gone. What was the dream trying to tell her?

Krish was not even there, only his spirit was. He has been gone for years.

She let him go and freed him. She has her memories to live by.