Chapter 2
Dehna Village, 2015 – Radhika's House
Radhika froze, her breath catching in her throat as she turned to face her father. Bhanuprakash stood near the doorway, his expression twisted in fury, his voice still echoing with the cruel word he had just used—"transgender." Her heart pounded as her eyes met his, filled with a mixture of fear and disbelief.
Madhav. Her Madhav.
Her best friend since childhood—two and a half years younger, yet her classmate, because she had deliberately repeated two grades just to remain by his side. To the world, it was foolishness. To her, it was loyalty.
Bhanuprakash had never hidden his disdain for Madhav. He looked down upon the boy not only because of his modest background, but because Madhav walked with grace, spoke with softness, and danced with the elegance he inherited from his mother—traits that didn't sit well in the rigid boxes Bhanuprakash believed boys should fit into.
Madhav's mother, Devika Rane, a widow and a proud Kathak dancer, had been abandoned by her family for marrying a man of her own choice. Since her husband's untimely death—before Madhav was even born—Devika had raised her son single-handedly, pouring into him not just love but art. Her modest dance school, run from a corner of the village, was where it had all begun.
Radhika was three when Bhanuprakash first brought her to Devika's dance class. Madhav had been a baby then, gurgling in a cradle. From those early days bloomed a bond unbreakable by time, status, or social judgement.
But to Bhanuprakash, Madhav was a threat. Not because of what he did—but because of who he dared to be.
Now, as Bhanuprakash took slow, deliberate steps toward her, his rage simmered just beneath the surface. Radhika's fingers clenched tightly into the folds of her school skirt, her knuckles whitening with each step he took.
"Are those extra parathas for that..." Bhanuprakash began, his tone laced with disdain.
Before he could finish, Radhika's voice rang out—loud, sharp, and unwavering.
"Madhav!" she said, her eyes locked on his.
He flinched slightly, surprised by her interruption.
"His name is Madhav, Pa. And don't you dare insult him by reducing him to a label you don't even understand!"
A stunned silence filled the room for a brief moment. Then Bhanuprakash's voice roared, "I'm insulting him? The entire village calls him that! And you—you're fighting me, your father—for that boy?"
Radhika stood her ground, her voice steady, even as emotion flickered in her eyes.
"Yes, I am. Madhav is my best friend, Pa. He is as dear to me as you and Ma are. And I will not stand silently while anyone—even my own father—disrespects him."
Her voice trembled slightly at the edges, not from fear—but from the power of her conviction.
"He may be different, but he's brave, kind, and talented. And if people mock him for the way he walks or talks, then I'll stand by him. I'll fight them all—for him. Always."
She grabbed her school bag, slung it over her shoulder, and without another word, turned and walked out of the house.
Bhanuprakash stood frozen, taken aback by her defiance, while Kirtida watched silently, her eyes reflecting a mother's worry—and perhaps a quiet pride.
Outside, Radhika walked into the sunlight, her steps quick and sure, her heart pounding—but her spine unyielding.
1995 – Shamli's College, Nashik
Shamli arrived at college, her presence as radiant as the morning sun. Her friends greeted her warmly, one of them slipping a glossy wedding card into her hand. "Here, Shamli," she said with a grin. "Don't forget to come to my wedding! And hey—your parents have been looking for your Prince Charming for ages, haven't they? When will we be holding your wedding invitation, hmm? Or are you still waiting for that perfect man who ticks every box?"
Shamli laughed awkwardly, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. Before she could answer, a gentle but haunting melody floated through the air.
A flute.
The sound was delicate, enchanting—almost divine.
"Wow," Shamli whispered, instinctively drawn to the melody. "Who's playing that beautiful tune?"
"It must be someone from the inter-college music fest," one of her friends said. "It's on all week—probably a participant rehearsing."
"Let's go check it out!" Shamli urged, curiosity dancing in her eyes.
They followed the music toward the open stage, where a crowd had already gathered. Cheers erupted: "Gopal! Gopal! Gopal!" The name echoed across the courtyard.
Shamli's heart skipped a beat.
Gopal? she thought. Isn't that another name for Krishna? Her mother's words from that morning flashed in her mind.
She shook her head quickly, dismissing the thought. Stop it, Shamli. You don't even know this person. Don't get carried away.
Still, something about the name and the music tugged at her.
Through the shifting crowd, she tried to catch a glimpse of the musician's face, but all she could see were fleeting moments—his hands, the flute, and then, suddenly—his eyes.
Those eyes.
Dark, deep, and inexplicably magnetic.
Just as quickly as she saw them, he turned toward the judges. The music stopped. Murmurs and applause followed.
After a brief discussion, one of the judges stood up and declared, "Congratulations, Gopal! You're through to the finals."
The crowd burst into cheers.
Shamli smiled unconsciously, feeling an unfamiliar warmth in her chest. As the crowd dispersed, Gopal stepped off the stage and was surrounded by his friends. Shamli watched him, disappointed she still hadn't seen his full face.
"I'll be back in a minute," she told her friends and began walking in the direction Gopal had gone, her feet moving as if of their own accord.
She trailed him through the corridor, careful to keep her distance. But suddenly, Gopal slowed down, sensing he was being followed. He turned sharply.
Shamli ducked behind a pillar, heart racing. Gopal looked around, puzzled, but when he found no one, he resumed walking.
Just as Shamli exhaled in relief and decided to turn back, a harsh voice echoed through the corridor.
"Well, well... if it isn't the slum hero himself."
Shamli turned in shock. A group of hostile boys had surrounded Gopal. One of them sneered, "You think you'll win this fest and outshine us all? Let's see how far you'll get!"
Without warning, he punched Gopal across the face.
The blow echoed through the hallway.
Gopal staggered, but retaliated instinctively, sparking a full-fledged brawl. Shamli's eyes widened in horror as she looked around for help, but the corridor was deserted. Then her gaze landed on something—a flute, Gopal's flute—falling from his pocket and rolling to the floor.
Before he could retrieve it, one of the bullies picked it up and, with a wicked grin, snapped it in two.
A gasp escaped Shamli's lips. Gopal fell to his knees, stunned, his eyes fixed on the broken instrument. All the fight seemed to drain from him in an instant.
The group closed in to strike again.
Whack!
A stick came down hard on one of the attackers. Then another. And another.
It was Shamli.
Her eyes blazing, she swung the stick with unrelenting force. "Don't you dare touch him again, you cowards!" she shouted.
The stunned group, unable to stand up to her rage, scattered and fled.
Breathing heavily, Shamli turned toward Gopal, still on his knees, broken flute in hand, his back facing her.
She gently touched his shoulder. "Gopal," she said softly, "let's get out of here."
But he didn't move.
"Gopal!" she repeated, this time more firmly, pulling him up by the arm.
As he rose, he turned toward her—and their eyes met.
Time stilled.
In that moment, they both forgot the broken flute, the bruises, the pain. There was only that gaze—deep, searching, timeless.
Radhe Radhe... Radhe Radhe...
The Radhakrishn theme played faintly in the background of their hearts.
2015 – Dehna Village, School Grounds
Madhav sprinted toward the school gate, breathless. "Dada, please don't close it!" he cried.
The security guard, recognizing him, smiled and held the gate open. "Go in, beta."
Madhav thanked him and stepped inside, only to be tripped by a boy his age. He tumbled forward and hit the ground with a thud. Laughter erupted.
"Well, well... look who's late—Hijra!" the boy mocked cruelly.
But before he could utter another insult—
Smack!
The boy fell to the ground, clutching his cheek.
Silence descended.
Radhika stepped forward, her arm still raised from the punch, standing tall between Madhav and the bully. Her eyes were fierce, defiant.
Everyone stared in shock.
Radhe Radhe... Radhe Radhe...
The melody of Radhakrishn echoed again, this time louder, stronger—like a divine rhythm that never faded.
And then, a voice rang out—Krishna's voice, from a distant, divine realm:
"Roop badla, log badle... na badla toh hai prem.
Prem ke bin jeevan hai aadha.
Dharti par aaye—Krishna aur Radha."
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To be continued.
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