Of course there have been quite a few tales

Of how I had lost all the colour

All the vigour

of my

Milk like skin

On your departure.

What can I say

They weren't tell tales,

Certainly.

I had stopped

Decorating myself

Adorning

My hair with

Those flowers you so loved

My eyes with kohl

My lips with soft carmine

My ears with wild blooms

My bosom with incense.

There was no point.

I was adorned by you once

And now

It was just

Pointless

And baseless.

Those Gopis would

Bring me my gold lacquered mirror

And exclaim, with unimaginable melancholy

You aren't Radha anymore

I would look at the reflection of my face

It wouldn't sadden me.

It wasn't me anyway.

The Radha so known to them

Had died inside.

But I remember that one bright day,

Krishna

The sun had shone brighter

Its rays had pierced my dark quarters

And a song of sweet cuckoos

Woke me up.

The river shone bright blue

Dancing its own dance

Happiness

Was contagious.

I saw it that day.

Of course it had to be that blessed day

Of your birth.

I couldn't help

But dress up

Like my girlhood days

Maybe it was your magic that played

Or the haunting charm of your existence somewhere

That forced me to be me again

I know not.

And so I did.

Flowers in my long tresses

Kohl in my eyes

Carmine for the lips

Wild blooms for the ears

And

Incense for the bosom.

I can assure you

I surprised quite a few people that day.

The Gopis being few of them.

And ritualistically,

They brought the gold lacquered mirror with tremendous delight

Held it in front of my adorned face

And gasped.

They didn't expect your reflection in the mirror, Krishna.

I could only smile

And feel me again.