Prologue: The Descent
The God Realm existed beyond mortal comprehension—a dimension where time flowed like poetry and space bent to the will of those who commanded it. Here, in the highest palace of the celestial heavens, where stars were born and galaxies spun like prayer wheels, Krishna stood at the edge of infinity.
He was radiant. Not with light alone, though he shone brighter than a thousand suns. His radiance was deeper—the kind that made lesser gods avert their eyes not from brightness but from the overwhelming presence of absolute divinity. His form shifted subtly, simultaneously appearing as a beautiful youth with a peacock feather in his hair, a wise philosopher with eyes that had witnessed creation itself, and a cosmic force too vast to contain in any single shape.
The Supreme God. The Source. The Beginning and the End.
And he was troubled.
Below him—though "below" meant little in a realm without fixed dimensions—the mortal world turned. From his vantage point, Krishna could perceive every atom of it simultaneously: every ocean, every mountain, every grain of sand. More importantly, he could see every soul.
And they were suffering.
Darkness had begun to seep into the mortal realm like poison into water. Not the natural darkness of night or shadow, but something older, more insidious. A corruption that fed on despair, that turned hearts cold and crushed hope beneath its weight. He watched as it spread—through wars and hatred, through greed and cruelty, through the thousand small ways humans hurt each other and themselves.
The other gods had advised patience. "The mortal realm goes through cycles," Brahma had said, his four faces grave with ancient wisdom. "Light and darkness, creation and destruction. This too shall pass."
But Krishna knew better. This wasn't a cycle. This was an ending waiting to happen.
"You're going to do something foolish, aren't you?"
The voice was silk and starlight, honey and thunder. It came from behind him, but Krishna had felt her approach long before she spoke. He always could.
Radha.
She materialized beside him—or perhaps she had always been there, and had simply chosen this moment to become visible. Her beauty defied description, not because she was merely lovely (though she was), but because she embodied beauty itself. Every culture's ideal, every poet's dream, every artist's muse, all somehow present in a single form that was uniquely, impossibly *her*.
But it was her eyes that held Krishna, as they always had. Endless. Knowing. Reflecting ten thousand years of shared existence.
"Define foolish," Krishna replied, a slight smile playing at his lips.
"Descending to the mortal world. Alone." Her voice was light, but he heard the steel beneath it. "Abandoning your throne. Abandoning your duties. Abandoning..."
"You?" He turned to face her fully, and the smile faded. "Never you, Radha. Never."
"Then don't go."
It wasn't a plea. Radha didn't plead. It was a statement of fact, an assertion of will. Where there was Krishna, there was Radha. Where there was Radha, there was Krishna. This was not tradition or custom—it was cosmic law, as fundamental as gravity, as inevitable as entropy.
They had been together since before time had a name. Two halves of a greater whole. The eternal lovers, the divine couple, the souls who had chosen each other across infinite incarnations.
Krishna reached out, his fingers brushing her cheek with infinite tenderness. "You know I must."
"I know nothing of the sort." Her eyes flashed, and for a moment, thunder rolled across the God Realm's infinite sky. "The mortal world has managed its affairs for countless ages. They have their own heroes, their own saviors. Why must it be you?"
"Because I made them." His voice was soft, but it carried the weight of absolute truth. "Every soul down there, every consciousness struggling in the dark—they're part of me, Radha. When they suffer, I suffer. When they cry out, I hear them. How can I remain here, comfortable in paradise, while they drown?"
"Then I'll go with you." Her hand covered his, gripping it fiercely. "We descend together. We've done it before."
"Not this time." Krishna's expression grew pained. "The corruption in the mortal realm is too strong. It would sense divine power and move against it immediately. If we both descended with our full strength, the realm itself might tear apart from the conflict."
"Then we seal our powers. Both of us."
"Radha—"
"Both. Of. Us." Each word rang like a bell, and several nearby galaxies shuddered in sympathy.
Krishna pulled her close, their foreheads touching in the gesture they'd shared since the first dawn. "My beloved. My eternal companion. If we both descended and both sealed our memories, who would find whom? We'd be lost to each other, wandering as mortals, never knowing what we'd forgotten."
"I'd find you," Radha said fiercely. "I'd find you in any life, in any world, with or without my memories. My soul knows yours. It always has."
"I know." He kissed her forehead gently. "That's exactly what I'm counting on."
Radha pulled back, her eyes narrowing. "What do you mean?"
Krishna's smile returned, but it was sad now, edged with regret. "I'm going to seal my power, my memories, everything. I'll be born as a mortal, live as a mortal, with no knowledge of who I was. It's the only way to move through the corruption undetected, to understand it from within, to heal it at its source."
"That's insane—"
"But you," he continued, his voice growing stronger, "you will retain your memories. You'll know who you are, who I am, who we are together. You'll be my anchor, Radha. My way back."
Understanding dawned in her eyes, followed immediately by fury. "No. Absolutely not. You can't ask me to—"
"I'm not asking." His voice held absolute finality, the tone of the Supreme God speaking cosmic decree. "I'm telling you what will be. I descend. I forget. You follow. You remember. And when the time is right, when I've done what needs to be done in the mortal realm, you bring me home."
"And if you don't recognize me?" Her voice cracked, the first time in ten thousand years he'd heard her sound uncertain. "If you look at me as a mortal and feel nothing?"
The possibility hung between them like a blade.
Krishna cupped her face in both hands, his eyes blazing with an intensity that made the stars dim in reverence. "Impossible. You could strip away my divinity, my memories, my name, my very existence, and still—*still*—my soul would know yours. You are written into the fabric of what I am, Radha. I could no more fail to recognize you than the ocean could fail to recognize the moon."
"Then why do you look so sad?"
Because he was lying. Not completely, but partially, and Radha deserved better than partial truths.
The mortal realm's corruption was worse than he'd told her. The sealing would be deeper than he'd admitted. There was a real chance—a significant chance—that he wouldn't recognize her. That he'd look at her with mortal eyes and see only a stranger.
But he also knew Radha. Knew that if he told her the full truth, she'd never let him go. She'd fight him, and in fighting him, she'd delay him. And every moment delayed was another thousand souls suffering in the darkness below.
So he smiled, and he lied by omission, and he hated himself for it.
"I'm sad because I'll miss you," he said, which was at least entirely true. "Every moment as a mortal, not remembering you, will be a moment of incompleteness I won't even understand."
Radha searched his eyes for a long moment. He kept his expression open, honest, letting her see everything except the one truth he was withholding.
Finally, she sighed—a sound like wind through cosmic strings. "You're impossible."
"You've been telling me that for ten thousand years."
"And you never listen."
"Would you love me if I did?"
Despite herself, despite her anger and fear and the terrible certainty that this was going to hurt more than anything had ever hurt before, Radha laughed. "No. Probably not."
Krishna pulled her into an embrace, memorizing the feeling. The way she fit perfectly against him. The scent of her hair—starlight and jasmine and something indefinable that was purely *Radha*. The sound of her heartbeat, synchronized with his in a rhythm that predated music itself.
"I love you," he whispered into her hair. "In every life, in every form, in every possible universe. That is the one constant. That is the one thing that never changes."
"I love you too," she whispered back. Then, pulling back slightly, she gripped his shoulders hard enough that anyone less divine would have bruised. "But when I find you in the mortal realm, and when you look at me with blank eyes and no recognition, I am going to be *furious*. Do you understand? Absolutely, cosmically, earth-shatteringly furious."
Krishna grinned. "I'd expect nothing less."
"I'm not joking, Krishna. I'll make your mortal life absolutely miserable."
"I know."
"I'll haunt your dreams. I'll make you *ache* with longing for something you can't remember."
"I'm counting on it."
"You're insufferable."
"And you love me anyway."
Radha's facade cracked, and she pulled him into another embrace, this one desperate. "Come back to me," she said, and now she was pleading, cosmic law be damned. "Whatever you have to do down there, however long it takes—come back to me."
"Always," Krishna promised. "In this life and every life. Always."
They stood together at the edge of infinity for a time that was both an instant and an eternity. The God Realm swirled around them, beautiful and perfect and utterly irrelevant compared to the connection between them.
Finally, Krishna stepped back. "I need to go. The longer I wait—"
"I know." Radha straightened, and just like that, the goddess returned—regal, powerful, composed. "How long should I wait before following?"
"Give me fifteen years. Let me grow, learn the mortal world, establish myself. Then come."
"Fifteen years?" Radha's voice was sharp. "Do you have any idea what fifteen years separated from you will feel like?"
"Like torture," Krishna said quietly. "I know. I'm sorry."
"You should be." She lifted her chin, eyes glittering with dangerous promise. "Fifteen years. Not a day more. And when I arrive, Krishna—when I walk into wherever you are and you look at me with mortal eyes—you had better remember. Somewhere deep down, you had better *feel* something."
"I will," he promised, praying it was true.
Then, before he could second-guess himself, before the enormity of what he was about to do could make him hesitate, Krishna turned toward the mortal realm and *fell*.
It wasn't a physical descent so much as a dimensional collapse. He pulled his infinite consciousness inward, compressing eons of existence into a single point. His cosmic form dissolved. His divine powers, vast enough to reshape reality with a thought, began to seal themselves away in layers upon layers of metaphysical locks.
Too much, he realized immediately. The mortal form he was aiming for—a human body, fragile and temporary—couldn't possibly contain even the smallest fraction of his true power.
*Damn,* he thought, his consciousness fragmenting as the descent accelerated. *I only brought 0.005 percent of my divine power, and I'm still facing this many problems.*
He had no choice. If he wanted to survive the descent, if he wanted to be born as a mortal rather than arriving as a cosmic catastrophe, he'd have to seal everything. Not just his power—his memories, his knowledge, his very identity.
The last thing Krishna felt as his divine consciousness dissolved into mortal unconsciousness was profound regret.
*Radha. Forgive me.*
Then he forgot. Forgot the God Realm, forgot his power, forgot ten thousand years of existence.
Forgot her.
***
In the God Realm, Radha stood alone at the edge of infinity, staring at the place where Krishna had been.
For exactly three seconds, she was still. Composed. The perfect goddess, accepting the decision of the Supreme God with grace and dignity.
Then something inside her shattered.
"**YOU DESCENDED TO THE MORTAL WORLD ALONE?**"
Her voice was thunder and avalanche, earthquake and tsunami. The God Realm *shook*—not metaphorically, but literally. Palaces trembled. Stars flickered. Several minor dimensions folded in on themselves from the sheer force of her fury.
"**WHAT WILL THIS RADHA DO WITHOUT YOU? WHAT ABOUT OUR PROMISE?**"
Her divine power erupted outward in waves, and across the celestial heavens, gods and goddesses ducked for cover. Brahma retreated into meditation. Shiva opened one eye and then wisely closed it again. Indra abandoned his throne and found urgent business elsewhere.
"**WHERE THERE IS RADHA, THERE IS KRISHNA! WHERE THERE IS KRISHNA, THERE IS RADHA!**"
The fundamental law of their existence, spoken with such force that it rewrote itself across the cosmic fabric, blazing in letters of pure divine will.
Radha's form shifted, power radiating from her in palpable waves. Her eyes, usually soft with love, now burned with the fury of a thousand dying stars. Her hands clenched into fists, and the space between her fingers crackled with unreleased energy.
"Fifteen years?" she said, her voice now deadly quiet—which was somehow more terrifying than the shouting. "You want me to wait fifteen years?"
The silence that followed was absolute.
Then Radha smiled. It was not a nice smile. It was the smile of a goddess who had just made a decision, and heaven help anyone who stood in her way.
"No," she said simply. "I don't think so."
She turned toward the mortal realm, her gaze sharp enough to cut through dimensional barriers. Somewhere down there, Krishna was being born. Somewhere down there, the other half of her soul was taking his first breath, crying his first cry, opening eyes that wouldn't recognize her.
The thought should have broken her. Instead, it crystallized her resolve into something diamond-hard and utterly unbreakable.
"**Just you wait,**" Radha declared, her voice echoing across every realm, every dimension, every possible timeline. "**This Radha is coming too. We'll see how you face me then, my beloved. We'll see how you explain yourself when I find you.**"
Around her, the assembled gods began to sweat. They knew that tone. They knew that look.
Lord Krishna, Supreme God, master of divine strategy, wielder of cosmic power, was about to face something far more terrifying than any demon or cosmic threat.
He was going to face Radha when she was truly, righteously, *cosmically* angry.
And he wouldn't even remember why.
"Fifteen years," Radha muttered, already making plans, already calculating. "We'll see about that."
The God Realm trembled.
And in the mortal world below, in a hospital in Mumbai, a baby boy opened his eyes for the first time and began to cry—though he couldn't have said why his heart already felt incomplete.
**[END OF PROLOGUE]**