Krishna and Radha - The Love That Needed No Marriage

The night was ending. Krishna would leave with Akrura at dawn, and Vrindavan would become a memory.

Radha found him by the Yamuna, playing his flute one last time.

Radha: "So you're really going."

Krishna: "I have to. Mathura needs me. Kansa must die. There are things I came here to do that can't be done among cowherds."

Radha: "And us?"

Krishna stopped playing.

Krishna: "What about us?"

Radha: "You never asked me to come. You never offered to stay. You never— You never made any promises at all."

Krishna: "Would promises have made this easier?"

Radha: "No. But they would have made it official. They would have given me something to hold when you're gone."

Krishna set down his flute.

Krishna: "Radha. What we have doesn't need promises. Promises are for people who might forget. For people who might change. What we have—"

Radha: "What do we have, Krishna? Tell me, so I know what to call this ache when you're gone."

Krishna: "We have the only kind of love that lasts. Not the love that's bound by rules and rituals. Not the love that needs society's permission. We have the love that exists because it cannot not exist. Because your soul and mine recognized each other the moment we met."

Radha: "That sounds like philosophy avoiding commitment."

Krishna: "It sounds like truth avoiding reduction. I will marry in Dwarka. Many times. Princesses and politics and alliances. Those marriages will be real—I'll love my wives, raise children, be a good husband. But none of them will be what we are."

Radha: "What are we?"

Krishna: "The original. The template. The love that all other loves are trying to remember. A thousand years from now, when people want to describe devotion so complete it transcends everything, they will speak of us. Not of my marriages. Of this. Of Radha and Krishna. Of love that needed no ceremony because it was already sacred."

Radha: "That's beautiful. But I'll still be here, and you'll be there."

Krishna: "Distance is for bodies, Radha. Souls don't know distance. Every time you think of me, I will feel it. Every time I play the flute in Dwarka's palaces, I will be playing for you. Every breath you take, I will breathe with you."

Radha: "How is that possible?"

Krishna: "Because we are not two. We never were. You are my shakti—the energy that makes me possible. I am your purpose—the awareness that gives your energy meaning. Separate us, and neither is complete."

Radha wept.

Radha: "I don't want to be incomplete."

Krishna: "You won't be. That's the secret—what we discovered here in Vrindavan doesn't depend on my physical presence. Close your eyes."

She closed them.

Radha: "Where am I?"

Krishna: "Everywhere. Inside me. Around me. You're— How did you do that?"

Krishna: "I didn't do anything. That's how it's always been. You just didn't need to notice when I was standing right here. When I'm in Dwarka, fighting wars and ruling kingdoms, notice. When you're here, tending cows and growing old, notice. I am always this close."

Radha: "Will I see you again? In this body?"

Krishna: "Once. Near the end. I'll come back to Vrindavan before I leave this world entirely. You'll be old then. So will I. And we'll sit by this same river and laugh at how much we worried about separation."

Radha: "Promise?"

Krishna: "I don't make promises, remember? Call it a prophecy instead. Prophecies are more reliable."

The sun rose. Akrura's chariot waited.

Krishna picked up his flute and walked away from Vrindavan forever.

Radha watched until he disappeared.

Then she closed her eyes.

And found him exactly where he said he'd be.

Everywhere. Inside. Around. Closer than breath.

Still there.

Always there.

Love that needed no marriage had proven stronger than any vow.