“Kanha,” she whispered into the dark, “why do you hide when I seek you? Why do you play your flute only when my eyes are closed?”

She saw him — Kanha, with his peacock feather and mischievous smile, stealing butter, stealing hearts, stealing her sleep.

Her phone buzzed. A ringtone broke the silence: “O re Kanha, nainan ko nahi chain…” (Oh Kanha, my eyes find no peace…) It was her friend teasing her, playing that old devotional track. But Radha didn’t laugh. She just closed her eyes, and suddenly, she was no longer in her room. She was on the banks of the Yamuna, centuries ago.

She picked up her phone. Instead of rejecting the call, she let it ring. And in that loop of melody, she replied softly: “Tere bina, Kanha, nainan ko nahi chain… But I don’t want chain. I just want you.” The night smiled. Somewhere, a flute played — just for her.