She fell in love
with the boy next door.
She fell in love with his mischief,
how his laughter
sounded like the anklets
tied to a galloping calf,
how he smelled
like the mud on a riverbank,
how his smile
held the innocence
and eagerness of a mother bird
opening her eyes to the first rays of the sun,
how the grip of his hand on her waist
unfolded the wildest desires.
 
They ran after each other,
played and loved passionately,
on the sands,
in orchards,
in ruined castles
and the secret passages underneath.  
 
She was unaware
of his origin story,
his greatness, and his miracles.
He preferred to keep it that way.
He doesn't want her to love him any other way,
or to worship him like a god.
He wanted her to love him like the boy next door.
He was her mischievous boy next door.
 
One summer evening,
resting on a low branch,
he played the flute
as she playfully etched her name
on the sole of his right toe thumb
with a peacock feather.
As the feather's touch
tickled his skin,
he flinched
and jerked his toe away,
reminding her of a deer flicking its ears.

For the gods,
the music was otherworldly,
the essence of the primordial
which weaved into every aspect of creation,
like a soothing echo
of the afterglow.

For him,
the music was an escape.
It’s an expression of the divine
carrying the weight of humanity,
bearing the burden of being human,
the pain of attachment, love,
and the loss of love.

For her ears,
the artistry and wizardry were muted.
The music was the chuckle of flirtation
which flowed through
the undergrowth and the canopy,
bathing every bud, leaf, and bark--
to usher the birds and beasts
from their hollows and burrows. 

Engrossed in the trance
of such enchanting music,
she told herself
she can't love him any other way,
not as a beloved,
not as a wife,
not as a partner.   
She’s his eternal lover,
the inseparable part of his soul
till the end of time.
In this life, she knew
she would disappear like the morning mist.
A discreet tear
trickled down her tender cheek. 

A hundred years passed,
and a thousand tragic stories. 
In the unfolding age of doom,
the grandiosity of the music
was muted.   
Wearied and resigned,
he laid on the forest floor,
on a bed of dried leaves.
While in a dreamlike state,
he felt a feather tip
on his bare sole.
He twitched his big toe.
A hunter on the prowl
took the fatal shot
thinking he had seen a deer flick its ear,
As the arrow
took away his final breath,
he smiled thinking
of the fragrance of her body,
the sweet nothings
whispered into his ears,
her delicate love bites,
how her passion melted into his.
A discreet teardrop
trickled down 
his leathered, wrinkled cheek
when he thought
of the sweetness of her name:
Radha.