It is evening in Vrindavan — or perhaps it is always evening here. The kadamba tree spreads wide above them, peacocks settled in its branches, the crescent moon already risen before the sun has fully left. Krishna plays. Radha holds a lotus, unhurried. The river below is full and calm, fish moving through pink blossoms that have no reason to be there except that they are.
This is the image of two people who have nowhere else to be. Not devotion in the formal sense — something older than that. The particular stillness of being completely seen by another person.
