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.