On the banks of the Yamuna, among the wild champa and the sound of water, she has rested her head against him. He plays. Not for the gopis, not for Vrindavan — for her alone. The peacock feather catches the light. The garland of flowers has come undone. Neither of them notices.
This is the moment devotion stops performing itself. Two figures, a river behind them, a world that has agreed to pause. What they share is not easily named — it sits somewhere between longing and arrival, between music and silence.
