Chapter 73: The Melody That Reached Vidarbha
In the vibrant kingdom of Vidarbha, where the winds carried fragrances of blooming kadamb trees and the palace gardens were always in bloom, a young heart stirred restlessly.
She was Rukmini, princess of Vidarbha, known for her grace, wisdom, and unspoken sorrow.
For though her days were draped in silk and song, her heart belonged elsewhere—to a boy she had never met.
Krishna.
The Dark One. The Murliwala. The one whose laughter echoed through the tales of traveling bards.
She had first heard of him as a child—how he had lifted Govardhan Parvat, played divine tunes on his murli, and danced with Gopis by moonlight.
She had imagined him riding through clouds on Garuda. Saving kingdoms. Teasing Radha. Stealing butter.
Somewhere between stories and sighs, her heart had chosen him.
And there was no turning back.
—
But not everyone in Vidarbha shared her devotion.
Her eldest brother, Rukmi, despised Krishna.
"He's a cowherd," he would spit. "A trickster raised in a village, with no lineage worthy of our sister."
He couldn't stand Krishna's popularity, nor the fact that Rukmini—his gentle, intelligent sister—was slowly losing herself in silent longing.
Rukmini didn't fight him. She simply stopped smiling.
Until one day, the blow came.
"Your marriage is fixed," Rukmi announced at the royal dinner.
She froze, her hands trembling above her plate.
"With whom?"
"Chedi Naresh Shishupaal."
The words hit like arrows. Shishupaal? The arrogant prince who had once mocked a temple priest for stammering?
"No," she whispered.
"It's done," Rukmi said sharply. "You'll forget Krishna. That's an order."
Her throat tightened. She stood and left without a word.
—
That night, Rukmini sat at her writing desk. A single lamp lit the room. Her fingers trembled as she picked up the quill.
She didn't know if Krishna would come. She didn't know if he even remembered her name.
But she knew she had to try.
"To Krishna, son of Vasudev,
I do not know if this letter will reach you, nor if you'll read the words of a stranger.
But my heart has walked the gardens of Vrindavan long before my feet ever touched its soil. I have known you through stories, smiles, and stars.
And today, they say I must marry another. One I do not love. One who cannot sing the songs you have placed in my soul.
If you still play the murli, if your heart still hears the cries of a woman who dreams only of you, then come to Maa Chandi Mandir at dawn. And take me away.
Yours, Rukmini"
She tied the letter to a pigeon, whispered a prayer, and let it fly into the dark.
—
Far away, in the city of Dwarka, Krishna lounged in the garden beside a lotus pond. Radha sat beside him, humming an old Braj melody.
Suddenly, a golden pigeon landed on Krishna's shoulder. He smiled, curious.
Unfolding the letter, he read the words slowly.
Then again.
And again.
His smile faded. His brows furrowed.
Radha leaned in.
"Who writes to you with such trembling urgency?"
He handed her the letter. She read it silently.
The melody of the garden fell into a heavy hush.
Radha folded the letter, pressed it to her lips, then sighed.
"I knew this day would come."
Krishna looked apologetic.
"Radha, I—"
"No," she said gently, yet firmly. "Don't explain. I understand."
She rose, walked a few steps, then suddenly turned back. Snatching a thin bamboo stick, she poked him in the ribs.
"You foolish boy! Who told you to play the murli so well, huh? Another poor girl has fallen into your magical web!"
Krishna, laughing and dodging the stick like a mischievous child, replied:
"It wasn't me! I swear! Mahadev himself knows I only played it because Rudra bhaiya gifted me that flute! He said it would calm my mind! This is all his fault!"
—
Meanwhile, in the skies above, Rudra was returning to Mahishmati after meeting Anupriya. Suddenly, he sneezed—a mighty, thunderous sneeze that startled nearby birds.
"Achooo— Jai Shiva Shambhu Shankar!" he roared. "I haven't sneezed in decades! Someone must be blaming me for something stupid!"
Then he paused. Smirked.
"Must be either Kanha or Ishita..."
And he flew on.
—
Back in Dwarka, Radha rolled her eyes.
"Don't you dare drag Rudra bhaiya into this. Now go. Rescue your Rukmini. Take Tau with you. You'll need muscle if Rukmi stands in your way."
Krishna saluted her playfully.
"As you command, Maharani."
He ran to his Tau Balram, with radiant excitement.
That night, under a blanket of stars, he wrote back to Rukmini.
"To Rukmini, my moon amidst storms,
Your words reached me like the murli reaches Gokul. Tomorrow, before the sun rises, I shall wait for you at Maa Chandi Mandir.
If your heart still beats for me, come.
And we will write a story the stars shall sing forever.
— Krishna"
—
In her chambers, Rukmini read his letter by the light of a diya. Her hands trembled. Tears rolled down her cheeks.
"He's coming..." she whispered.
That night, she packed a small satchel. A few clothes. Her mother's bangles. Krishna's letter. And hope.
She didn't sleep.
She watched the moon all night. Waiting for dawn. Waiting for Krishna.
—
At the break of day, in the fog-laced sanctum of Maa Chandi Mandir, Krishna stood cloaked in simplicity. Tau waited behind him, sharpening his mace casually.
"You sure she'll come?" Tau asked.
"I believe in her heart," Krishna replied.
A soft footstep echoed. A silhouette approached.
Rukmini.
Veil over her head. Anklets silent. Eyes brimming.
Krishna stepped forward. They stood inches apart.
No words were needed. Only one glance.
And the world shifted.
"You came," he said.
"You called," she whispered.
He reached out. She placed her hand in his.
And together, they turned. Running.
Running toward a chariot parked in the woods. Toward the rising sun. Toward a future written not in bloodlines, but in love.
Behind them, Tau groaned.
"Romantics. Always forget I'm the one doing all the fighting."
And with a grin, he followed.
Chapter Ends.