Radha: The Princess Of Barsana Recalls Classic Tale Of Star-Crossed Lovers

The princess of Barsana, Radha Rani, of the perfectly formed conches on the soles of her feet, knows from her childhood that she is not mere mortal. Her dreams are of a blue-skinned deity who lives only in her mind. As she grows older, she marries Ayan Gopa, the powerful and handsome chieftan of the Yadavs, but her heart still belongs to the blue-skinned one. When she actually meets the mysterious dark boy of her dreams, he is but a child. Radha knows her love is true and not bound by the rules of the world she lives in, but will others understand? Or will she be branded an adulteress and punished for loving the only Lord she has ever wanted—Lord Krishna.

Here's an excerpt from Neelima Dalmia Adhar's Radha: The Princess Of Barsana

On the eighth lunar day of the waning moon, in the year of Vishvavasu, during the second fortnight in Shravan, a male child of distinctly dark complexion was born to Nand Maharaj, the king of the Gopas, the cowherd clan of Vrindavan, and his beautiful wife, Rani Yashoda. The long-awaited heir to the royal couple had finally arrived, and joy and mirth exploded in the air.

At the Shashthi ceremony six days later, the family members bathed and adorned themselves in ceremonial attire, ornaments and flower garlands, in anticipation of the rituals to commemorate the birth of the dark prince. The village astrologers were summoned to draw up a horoscope that would mark the positions of the planets in his chart at the time of his birth.

Early that morning, people assembled in a quadrangular courtyard in the palace under a sprawling banyan tree, where the family priest—the senior-most astrologer—was seated on a raised platform made of sandstone. Bare-chested, with three horizontal lines of sandalwood and saffron paste smeared across his wide forehead, the kulguru wore a yellow dhoti of silk that sharply contrasted with his matted, weather-beaten face, greying hair and flowing beard that reached his navel. They eagerly waited for him to read out his predictions from the judiciously constructed birth chart of the newborn prince. This was going to be a life-defining moment, for the blueprint of the child’s future would be laid bare in front of all who had gathered there that auspicious day.

Nand Maharaj and other male members of the family dressed in their regal finery, with flaming red turbans of fine silk, sat down in front of the Brahmin priests who had congregated there. The priests began to chant Vedic mantras to invoke good fortune for the child. Loud incantations addressed to the demi-gods of the Hindu pantheon and the revered line of deceased ancestors could be heard, invoking blessings for the newborn boy.

Silence descended on the crowd as the priest pulled out a parchment scroll and began reading.

‘This child is the ninth divine incarnation of Lord Vishnu,’ he said in a deep, guttural voice. ‘He has taken a mortal form to rid the world of all that is ugly and evil. His fame and glory shall surpass that of anyone who has preceded him or is likely to succeed in the future generations. He shall be a powerful, benevolent ruler and live on this planet for one hundred and twenty-five years.’

The kulguru blew his conch long and loud to conclude his Proclamation.

‘Rejoice, people of Vrindavan! Rejoice!’ he said. ‘Let the festivities begin. And make the most of his presence in your rich land of milk and honey, for he shall not stay with you longer than a span of sixteen years.’

No one heeded the latter part of the prophecy that was drowned in the jubilant cheering of the crowd and the rolling drums; an atmosphere of unrivalled exuberance prevailed.

In accordance with the highest Vedic tradition, Nand Maharaj prostrated before the revered assembly of pandits and commenced with distributing two lakh white cows to the Brahmins present there.

The cows adorned with red velvet wraps and peacock feathers had been anointed with a mixture of oil and turmeric and their curling horns had been painted in bright gold. To each of the Brahmins, he also gifted sacks of freshly harvested grains, bags filled with gold and silver coins, and rich ornaments, the likes of which had never been seen before
.
Soon, the auspicious sounds of music and drums boomed across the rolling green pastures, reverberating through the village homes, the walls of which had been adorned with coloured rice powder and sprinkled with scented water that flowed down the dusty lanes outside.

Ceilings and roofs of every home had been festooned with vibrant flags that flapped in the breeze, and strings of green leaves plucked from mango and ashoka trees lined all the doorways of Vrindavan.

The village chieftain and the cowherd clans were dressed in ceremonial attire with earrings and necklaces. They wore their most resplendent turbans on their heads. They all carried gifts befitting their status to present to their king, Nand Maharaj, on the occasion. Never before had the wealth and opulence of the people of Vrindavan been more evident.

The ecstatic gopis wore fitted bodices in shades of red, crimson and pink, accentuating their firm breasts over pleated ghaghras that gathered on their narrow waists below their navels, falling sensuously just above their ankles. They donned their finest jewels and beautified themselves with luxuriant cosmetics, leaving trails of fragrance from the most renowned perfumeries of Kanauj, conjuring a magical cloud of pink ambrosia around Them.

Their lips were stained with red betel paste, and their sparkling eyes were lined with fresh coal residue collected from almond wicks burnt in earthen lamps. On their ears, jewelled earrings dangled provocatively, and their slender necks weighed down with gold mesh ropes entwined with coloured gems on tiny padlocks. On their wrists were dozen of bangles of gold jingling sweetly in anticipation of the auspicious ceremony they were about to witness.

The gopis, chattering excitedly, strode over the stone-paved path, unmindful of the carelessly strung jasmine garlands that had fallen from their necks and scattered all around as if to augur well on their journey to welcome the prince.

On setting their eyes on the beautiful baby, swathed in layers of yellow muslin, nestled contentedly in his mother’s lap, the gopis prostrated themselves at Rani Yashoda’s feet and chorused. ‘Jai Ma Yashoda! Mother of the Dark One! Your child shall enjoy unprecedented longevity on earth, just to protect us, the people of Vrindavan. His rule shall be guided by the hand of the Almighty and Vrindavan shall prosper under his glorious reign.’
‘Jai Rani Yashoda!
Jai Mahadev!’

Rani Yashoda’s eyes sparkled with joy as they sprinkled a mixture of turmeric, oil, yoghurt, milk and water on the child’s body and the others around. A band of expert musicians playing a lively orchestra came alive again, and the enchanted Gopas and gopis rose to dance to the spirit of revelry that abounded. The priests continued reciting verses from the holy scriptures glorifying the family ancestors, singing sweet melodies in their praise, and the surreal image of a rapturous congregation was transfixed on the opulent horizon of the blessed land of cows, of milk and honey, of the beautiful gopis, and their handsome newborn cowherd prince.

At thirteen and a half, I, Radha, the newly wedded wife of Ayan Gopa, had dressed in an opulent bodice of a gold mesh. A diaphanous sari, the colour of blood embellished with gold motifs, skimmed over my tiny waist and flowed down to my slender ankles. The soft waves of my long, dark hair, held up by a jewelled pin, had come loose and cascaded down my shoulders and back. I wore jewels encrusted with clusters of amber, coral, amethyst and ruby on my ears and neck. A girdle made of matt gold chains swayed on the curve of my hips. My slender feet glittered with gold anklets that tinkled sweetly as I moved.

As the wife of Chote Mukhiya, a high-born noble whom Rani Yashoda treated as a son, I was entitled to a privileged viewing of the newborn prince. But Ayan Gopa was out of sight, far away, lost somewhere amongst the frenzied, frolicking, dancing and drinking cowherd men.

In the thronging crowd, tightly clutching the carefully wrapped gold statuette of an exotic Ma Laxmi, studded with precious gems, as an offering for the newborn prince, I soon found myself facing Yashoda Jiji who was gazing beatificantly at her sleeping child.

Extracted with permission from Radha: Princess of Barsana by Neelima Dalmia Adhar, published by Westland, an imprint of Westland Books.