Tracing Rādhā’s Footsteps: A Journey to Barsana
In this reflective and deeply personal piece, the writer explores their lifelong connection with the goddess Rādhā, tracing its roots from childhood stories told by their grandmother to an immersive visit to Barsana, her divine abode.
The name “Rādhā” first danced upon my lips when I was but a child, and from that moment, her essence wove itself into the fabric of my being. Her tales, rich with devotion and longing, were the very lifeblood of my childhood, recounted in the lilting voice of my Aita, my maternal grandmother, whose stories were far more captivating than any television drama. When I left for boarding school in the third grade, Aita pressed a small idol of the cowherd god Kṛṣṇa into my hands, urging me to treat him as a confidant, a friend who would listen to my joys and grievances alike.
The connection to Kṛṣṇa and Rādhā was not merely a thread but an intricate tapestry in my lineage, for my grandfather, Dr. Maheswar Neog, was a luminary scholar who delved into the realms of Bhakti Movement and Neo-Vaishnavism. Through his work on projects like the Gita-Govinda in The Assamese School of Painting, Sattriya Nritya, the divine romance of Kṛṣṇa and Rādhā seemed less a myth and more an eternal truth, one I felt privileged to inherit. As I grew older, my affinity with Rādhā deepened. I began to see her not as a figure of devotion alone but as a mirror of human longing and divine love.
Years later, destiny led me to Barsana—a quaint, picturesque hamlet nestled in Uttar Pradesh, a two and half hours’ drive from Gurugram- a place that breathes Rādhā in every whisper of its wind. While the crowds throng to Vrindavan, clamouring for a glimpse of Kṛṣṇa, Barsana sits in serene splendour, suffused with Rādhā essence. This is no mere village; it is a canvas of devotion, painted with the hues of her laughter, her grace, and her eternal bond with the divine.
We arrived in Barsana at dawn, the chill of the morning air biting but invigorating. Seeking warmth, I was drawn to a modest tea stall near the Kirti Mandir. The tea-seller, an elderly man wrapped in layers of wool and wisdom, seemed plucked straight from the pages of a mythological tale. His kind eyes twinkled as he brewed the tea with a reverence and metaphors that suggested he served not just a beverage but an elixir for the soul.
“First time in Barsana?” he asked, stirring the steaming concoction with deliberate care. I nodded, and his smile widened. “Here, Rādhā isn’t just a goddess. She’s “the” goddess. While Vrindavan sings of Kṛṣṇa’s glory, Barsana lives and breathes Rādhā’s grace. She is the mother of all, the heart of this land.” He mentioned that Rādhā was proficient in 64 ‘kalas’. He quipped, “You have come late but Radharani will embrace you with as much love as a mother would no matter what. I hope you are going to observe the morning worship at Shreeji Mandir and not run away like all else to Vrindavan.” Well, most people these days are more interested in ‘bribing’ Lord Kṛṣṇa with the most exquisite of material gifts with the intention of gaining extremely rich dividends. One of our avaricious relatives bought a silver flute to gift it to Kṛṣṇa in Vrindavan, he thinks these are sure shot ways of earning windfall gains. Little did he know about the heartbreak etched in the final chapter of Rādhā and Kṛṣṇa’s immortal love. When Rādhā, frail with age and aware that her end was near, made her way to Dwarka, it wasn’t just a journey; it was a soul’s last pilgrimage to its eternal source. She longed for one last moment with Kṛṣṇa, the companion of her heart and the melody of her existence.
As her breath grew shallow, Kṛṣṇa, with tears clouding his celestial gaze, asked her if she had any final wish. With a voice that was both a whisper and a prayer, Rādhā made her request: “Play your flute for me, one last time.” It was the sound that had once called her across the meadows of Vrindavan, the music that wove their love into the cosmos.
Thus, Kṛṣṇa lifted his flute to his lips, and the air filled with a melody so hauntingly beautiful it seemed to halt time itself. The notes rose and fell, carrying the weight of lifetimes, as Rādhā closed her eyes. Her soul, bathed in the music of her beloved, gently left her body and merged into his being—two essences becoming one, as they had always been destined to be.
The flute fell silent. Kṛṣṇa’s hands trembled as he held the instrument that had been both his companion and his voice to the world. In a moment of unbearable anguish, he broke the flute—the vessel of his love for Rādhā—into two. The sound of its fracture echoed like the shattering of universes. With a trembling hand, he cast the pieces away, vowing never to play it again. And he never did.
The melody that had defined their love was now gone, silenced forever. The world continued to spin, but Kṛṣṇa’s music, like his heart, was left incomplete. From that moment, the universe carried a wound—a silence so profound, it whispered the story of a love that transcended time, yet broke the heart of eternity itself. So, of what use is a flute bought for him by a greedy mortal being, it gets relegated to the realm of hellish doom.
As the morning unfolded, Barsana revealed its secrets. From the rolling hills to the timeless temples, every stone seemed imbued with Rādhā’s spirit. The Shreeji Mandir, perched atop the Bhanugarh hills, was a sanctuary unlike any other. The air trembled with the chant of “Rādhā Rādhā,” a melody so pure it felt as though the heavens themselves had descended. As I conversed with the townsfolk of Barsana, a distinct impression began to take root—a delightful notion that they regarded Kṛṣṇa not as the exalted deity of lore, but as the playful cowherd, endearingly audacious in his attempts to charm their cherished daughter, Rādhā. Intrigued, I sought the opinion of a flower-seller nestled within the hallowed confines of the ancient Shreeji Mandir, a shrine whispered to be steeped in the mysteries of five millennia. When I enquired if we ought to be cautious of the monkeys flitting about us, his expression grew solemn, and with a touch of poetic gravity, he responded: “These monkeys are not akin to the rogues of Vrindavan, whose antics bear the unmistakable imprint of their mischievous lord. Here in Barsana, the monkeys mirror the essence of our goddess—innocent, serene, and unerringly straightforward.”
We waited inside the Shreeji Temple, with its chequered floor. Unlike the temples in Vrindavan and elsewhere, here the people were waiting calmly, without pushing others around them to catch a glimpse of Rādhā. When the temple curtain lifted, there she was— Rādhā, radiant and resplendent, her divine presence arresting every soul in the room. Tears pricked my eyes, unbidden, as I felt her grace wash over me. In that moment, I understood what the old tea-seller had meant. This wasn’t just a ‘darshan’; it was a communion, a glimpse of the infinite through the veil of the mortal.
Barsana, I realized, is not merely a place on the map; it is a realm of the heart. It is where Rādhā whispers her timeless truths—that love is boundless, forgiving, and profoundly human. As I stood there, bathed in her effulgence, I felt not like a visitor but like a long-lost child, finally home. And in that fleeting instant, amidst the chants and devotion, I was no longer merely myself. I was hers.
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