𝔎𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔦: The virtue of infinite love

Prelude II

Morning crept in like a shy bridegroom, its golden feet hesitating upon the temple towers. The air hung heavy, not with silence, but with that peculiar stillness when gods hold their breath between heartbeats. The scent of wet earth rose like an ancient chant from the ground, mingling with the crushed dreams of night-blooming parijata flowers.

In Vishnuchittar's home, the Krishna murti stood watchful, His obsidian skin drinking the lamplight, His smile holding the secret of a thousand milkmaids' sighs.

And there—Kothai.

Kneeling like a river bends to the moon, her hands moving through soapy waters as if unravelling the very threads of maya. The silk vastram swirled between her fingers like a surrendered soul, its folds whispering:

"O thief who stole the gopis' clothes,
Will you not steal this heart too?
Or must I drape myself in longing,
And call it bridal silk?"

Her voice was no ordinary singing—the sound of a caged koel remembering flight, of a conch shell humming with ocean memory. Vishnuchittar stood frozen at the threshold, his scholar's heart pounding like a trapped moth against ghee-lit glass.

The way she touched the cloth—

Not as a priestess honours scripture,

But as Nappinai might trace the imprint of Krishna's flute upon her bare shoulder.

"Kothai."

She turned, a strand of hair escaping like a black serpent from its wicker basket. "Appa." The word fell between them—a ripe mango dropping into still waters.

"Come."

She rose, her wet hands leaving starry trails upon her saree, and followed him to the verandah where dawn painted the world in turmeric and doubt. A peacock's cry tore through the silence—one jagged, blue-green wound across the sky.

Vishnuchittar sat like a crumbling pillar of some forgotten shrine. "Daughter," he began, his voice cracking like dry riverbeds in summer, "you wash His garments as if..."

"As if they clothe my soul?" She finished, smiling that smile that always made the temple lamps flicker. Then she sang softly:

"If he is the ocean and I the river,
Why scold the waters for seeking home?
If he is the fire and I the moth,
Who are you to blow out the flame?"

The old man flinched. "This is no child's rhyme! You treat the Lord of Vaikuntha like—"

"Like,hee treated the gopis?" Her laughter was the silver cascade of anklets down marble steps. "Appa, you recite the Vedas but forget their heart:

'Where the mind dissolves like sugar in milk,
Where the soul forgets it ever had a name—
There He waits, not as God, but as Beloved."

A gust of wind sent the sacred Tulasi leaves trembling. Vishnuchittar gripped his knees. "You twist scripture to suit your fever dreams!"

"Do I?" She plucked a jasmine bud from her hair, twirling it between fingers that glowed like dipped gold. "Then tell me, great scholar—when the Upanishads say 'Tat Tvam Asi,' do they mean only bearded men in caves may taste this truth? Or does the antelope know it when she drinks from mountain streams?"

Behind them, the prayer room darkened suddenly, though no cloud crossed the sun. The murti's face seemed to shift, the carved lips parting as if to whisper:

"Who are you to chain the wind?
Who are you to tell the tide 'Thus far'?
Even Time stumbles when lovers meet."

Vishnuchittar's breath came ragged. "You'll drown in this madness!"

Kothai stood, her shadow stretching long across the courtyard—no longer a girl's silhouette, but something vast, ancient.

"Let me drown then,
As rivers drown in the sea.
Let me burn,
As camphor burns to nothing but scent.
What is life but a bubble on His breath?
What is death but His next heartbeat?"

A sound then, faint as a lotus petal detaching.

They turned.

The murti's silken vastram now lay perfectly folded.

And upon it—

A single peacock feather, still quivering.

Vishnuchittar fell to his knees.

Kothai simply smiled, her eyes holding the terrible, beautiful knowledge of lightning that has found its destined tree.

"He was never yours to give me, Appa.
Nor mine to take.
We have always belonged to each other—
As flame belongs to air,
As song belongs to silence."

And somewhere beyond the waking world, a flute began to play.

We have seen Kothai as a child to teen. From the next chapter onwards she will bloom into a lovely maiden