The Farewell to Radha - Love Beyond Union

The moon is full. The Yamuna glitters. And in the grove where they have met a thousand times, two figures stand facing each other.

Krishna: "I came to say goodbye."

Radha: "I know. I've known for days. The wind told me. The river told me. My heart told me loudest of all."

Krishna: "Radha..."

Radha: "Don't. Don't say you're sorry. Don't say you wish things were different. I couldn't bear it if you lied to me now."

Krishna: "I wasn't going to lie. I was going to thank you."

RADHA (laughing bitterly): Thank me? For loving you? For waiting every night by this river? For giving you everything and receiving... what? The knowledge that you're leaving?

Krishna: "For showing me what love looks like when it expects nothing in return."

Radha is silent.

Krishna: "Everyone else loves me for what I give them—protection, miracles, answers to prayers. You loved me for nothing. You asked for nothing. You simply loved."

Radha: "I asked for everything. I just knew I wouldn't get it."

Krishna: "You got more than you know. Every night I came to you, I learned. I learned that divine love and human love are not different things—they're the same thing, expressed at different intensities. I learned that separation is not the opposite of love—it's love's sharpest teacher. I learned that you cannot give what you are unwilling to lose."

Radha: "Pretty words. They don't make this hurt less."

Krishna: "I know. But Radha, listen to me. What we have will never end. You will marry. You will live a full life. But you will never stop loving me, and I will never stop loving you. And that love—that impossible, unfulfillable, eternally aching love—is more real than any marriage, any kingdom, any victory I will ever win."

Radha: "How is that supposed to comfort me?"

Krishna: "It isn't supposed to comfort you. It's supposed to tell you the truth. Comfort lies. Truth aches. I am giving you truth."

RADHA (breaking down): I don't want truth! I want you!

KRISHNA (holding her): You have me. You will always have me. Not my body—that belongs to destiny. Not my name—that will be attached to queens and battles. But my heart? My heart lives here, in this grove, with you. It always will.

Radha: "Then why leave?"

Krishna: "Because I was born to leave. Because Kansa must die and tyranny must fall. Because the Pandavas will need me and the Gita must be spoken. Because I cannot be fully human if I stay here, and I cannot fulfill my purpose if I remain bound to one place, one love, one life."

Radha: "So I lose you so the world can have you."

Krishna: "Yes. And the world will never know how much that costs. They will see the warrior, the king, the teacher. They will not see the boy who loved a milkmaid by the Yamuna. They will not know that every night, in every palace, in every battle, I am thinking of this grove."

Radha: "Will you come back?"

Krishna: "Not in this body. Not in this life."

Radha: "Then when?"

Krishna: "Always. In every life, in every form, I will find you. We will love again. We will lose each other again. And each time, the love will deepen, and the loss will teach, and we will move closer to the union that needs no bodies, no meetings, no farewells."

Radha: "I don't want union in some future life. I want you now."

Krishna: "I know. And that wanting—that pure, impossible, unfulfillable wanting—is the highest form of devotion. Not getting what you want and continuing to love anyway. That's what the sages seek through lifetimes of meditation. You have it naturally."

Radha: "Don't make this spiritual. This is not spiritual. This is two people who love each other being torn apart."

Krishna: "Everything is spiritual, Radha. But yes—this is also two people who love each other being torn apart. Both are true. I am God, and I am also a boy losing the girl he loves. I contain everything, and I am still not big enough to contain this grief."

They hold each other. The moon watches. The river flows.

Krishna: "When they tell our story—and they will tell it for thousands of years—they will focus on the love. They will paint us dancing, playing, being together. But you and I know the truth: our story is about separation. It's about loving across distance. It's about keeping faith when there's no hope of reunion."

Radha: "That's a terrible story."

Krishna: "It's the truest story. And it will give hope to millions who love without receiving, who believe without seeing, who keep faith without reward. We are their model, Radha. Our pain is their teaching."

Radha: "I didn't ask to be a teaching."

Krishna: "None of us do. We just live our lives, and somehow, meaning emerges."

He releases her. Steps back. Their eyes hold.

Krishna: "Goodbye, Radha."

Radha: "Goodbye, Krishna."

He turns. Walks away. Does not look back, because if he looks back, he will not be able to leave.

She watches until he disappears into the darkness. Then she sits by the river and weeps—not for herself, but for the love that is too large for any container, too fierce for any ending, too true for any world that insists on separation.

The moon sets. Dawn comes. The world goes on.

But in that grove by the Yamuna, something eternal remained—something that time cannot touch, that death cannot end, that distance only deepens.

The love of Radha and Krishna. Separated forever. United forever.

The same thing, seen from different angles of the heart.