SPRING was in the air, and the lavish preparations had already begun for the Phagwah festival. The songs, the colours, the dances always brought happiness and joy to the celebrations for all, rich and poor.

Radha stood on the balcony, her eyes closed, a picture of beauty and simplicity, her mind focused only on the sounds of the flute, borne by the wind from the forest, the melody mesmerising her. She wondered not anymore, whose enchanted lips played those tunes and from whence he came, for she had seen him the last Holi festival and in her mind, she visualised him, sitting by the stream; fair and handsome, long hair falling over his shoulders and the charming smile, that had stolen her heart. He was like Krishna, the God she worshipped, and she yearned so much over the years to listen to his music and let herself be lost in his seemingly godly presence.

But he could not come to the mansion to seek her hand, for he was born of the lower caste. Her father wanted for her a groom of high caste and social standing, following the tradition of the family, but he knew not that her heart was already lost to someone else.

“Radha.”
She turned around and smiled as her father walked towards her. The sound of the flute flowed through the windows into the hallway, and he stood for a moment listening, then asked, “Why are you sad, my dear?”
“Papa—,” she started to say, “No, Radha,” he stopped her, “I held you in my arms from the moment your eyes opened; as a baby I watched every step you made as you grew, your smiles, your laughter, always a joy to my heart so I would know my child, when you are sad.”

She lowered her eyes and did not answer, for she knew not if he would be hurt or angry if she told him the truth.

He took her hand gently and said, “Look at me Radha, you are a blessed child, and your happiness is all I want. The Maharaj of Rajput is coming soon for a visit with his son for whom he seeks a bride. I will meet with them because I want the best for you.”

She nodded her head and kissing her on the forehead, he turned to go, then stopped.
“The sound of the flute is really beautiful. Where does it come from?”
“From the village, beyond the forest.”
“Where mortals of the lower caste dwell?”
She nodded.

“You seem enchanted by the sound.”
She smiled, a light dancing in her eyes at the thought of him. Her father looked at her for a long moment then said, “Tradition cannot be broken, it must be upheld, even if we have to give up what we most cherish, or what our hearts desire and you, my child, are the symbol of that culture, don’t ever forget that.”
“Yes Papa,” she said with a slight, trembling voice.
She felt heartbroken, like a flower withering day after day, for her love would not be allowed to bloom.

The day of the Holi festival was celebrated in a rainbow of colours, singing and dancing, a cultural tradition filled with so much gaiety.
Radha did not hear the flute that day or many days after as preparations continued in earnest for the Maharaj’s visit. Expectations were high, and she knew she had to fulfil the tradition of her generation, as was in the past and as of now. In her heart, she said, “Goodbye, my Krishna, for I have to go to another.”

That was a day she had hoped wouldn’t come, but it did.
She walked down the stairs, slowly, with leaden feet and stopped abruptly. From somewhere in the mansion, she heard the soft, melodious tune of the flute.
She looked around surprised and breaking from the arms of those who were escorting her, she ran down the steps, her feet now as light as a feather, and bursting through the doors of the ornate room where only royals are entertained, she caught her breath.

Her Krishna was standing there in princely clothes with a warm smile on his face, beside his father, the Maharaj, who had come with a huge entourage. She looked at them stunned, then at her father and asked softly in disbelief, “What is happening, Papa?”

He took her hand, saying with great pride, “Come, let me introduce you to the Prince of Rajput.”
She looked at the prince somewhat confused, “B-but, I saw him in the village,” she paused, “By the stream.”
“And you thought I was from the village?” the prince asked, a teasing glint in his eyes.

She nodded, still stunned by this unexpected surprise, seeing him as a prince and not the poor boy whom her heart had spoken for.
The Maharaj now stepped forth and said, “The prince had been visiting different districts and villages for the past two years, and that day he saw you, he knew he had found the princess of his heart.”

Tears of happiness filled Radha’s eyes as her father said to her, “He will be your groom, the one who brings a smile on your lips and light in your eyes, and whose heart holds the richness the world possesses not.”
The sweet sounds of the flute filled the mansion as Radha looked at her Krishna across the room. Her love would be allowed to bloom as the spring flowers, and she could now hold his hand and sit by the gushing stream in the embrace of his love and music.