Hesitancy flashed across the pristine features of Dhananjaya's youngest, as her arched eyebrows scrunched together, and two pearly white teeth nibbled at the satiny skin of her lower, rosy lip.

"I'm not so sure about this, Madhava..."

A mischievous smirk lifted the cheeks of Krishna, as he observed his dear Priya Sakhi, crouched by him, atop her cotton lehenga-covered knees. Hidden well behind a stack of hay, concealing the pair of mischief-makers from the eyes of the many Yadava women.

Eyeing the rounded grey pebble, clasped securely between her partner's fingertips, Mitra watched with caution as uncertainty clouded the golden skin housing her ever-sharp features, magnified by the afternoon rays of Suryadev, filtering through the gaps of the stratocumulus work of Indradev's magic. Playfully attempting to veil the chaste mischief of their shared grandchild, much to the dismay of the former.

"I thought you desired makhan, Priya," smirked Krishna.

Mitra raised her eyebrows at her Sakha, as she observed him silently chuckle behind the reddened palm shielding his rosebud lips.

She briefly remembered her Aunt Jambavati asking her this morning if she would like to taste some freshly churned Dwarakan butter. Yet, not even a syllable slipped the smiling lips of Karna Nandini before the troublesome prankster, come King of the palace, had steered her away from the grand kitchens and towards the gateways, citing he would obtain fresh butter for her. A confused Mitra had remained silent, yet curious as she witnessed the Yadava Shreshta shake his head, with an exasperated sigh while regarding his younger brother with a reprimanding look.

"For heaven's sake Kanha, you're the leader of this Kingdom! You do remember that right?"

To which her Natkhat had just laughed, the ethereal music effortlessly tugging at the lips of the mighty Haladhara, Maatha Subhadra and the remaining prestigious Queens of the Yadava Dynasty, as it without a doubt swelled their hearts with love.

"Always a young cowherd at heart, Dau!" Gopala had chuckled in response, as he swiftly guided away a bewildered Mitra, who struggled to paste the pieces of the puzzle together.

And now, with her eyes gawking at his sweat-dotted fingertips gripping the fortunate pebble, and her inability to shift her sand-adhered limbs into a more comfortable posture behind their current place of concealment, she glared wholeheartedly at her Shyamal-coloured best friend; the puzzle now securely pieced together.

"I promised you we'll obtain some makhan, didn't I?" questioned Manmohana, his tone dripping with the sweet innocence, which never failed to be feigned, nor charm the hearts it was directed at. "What form of example would I be if I failed to keep my word?"

"Of course, you did. And I'm sure you just conveniently refrained from conveying the basic part of this particular transaction... the fact that we won't be purchasing or making any ourselves, but rather 'STEALING' it!"

"Stolen butter has a splendid taste of its own, my dearest," chuckled Krishna, as he cautiously poked his head over the straws of hay towards the hanging goal of his mischief.

The golden rays of Surya Narayana bounced off the jeweled headband, the reflection of the glare ricocheting off the swivels of the rich, raven-black tresses – splayed generously atop and around his broad shoulders. The silkiness of the locks, a texture unfelt by any till day, bowed low in respect to the satin-smoothness of the conch-like neck of the bluish-black hued Keshava, they dreamt of caressing. The single morpankh, resting atop the glistening, lone 'Manikam' gem adorning the right of the vaidurya-stone lined band, swayed gently along with the thin afternoon breeze, that blew as per the mercy of the winds, amidst the hot summer afternoons surging across the many lands of Aaryavarta.

Mitra watched with spellbound eyes, the lotus ones of her Kamalanaatha, dreamily grazing the series of handcrafted clay pots. Each a unique mesh of hues – imprinted with various symbols of the Yadavas and their Shironmani, from where they hung at unreachable heights upon the rooves of the huts. Overflowing with the rich creaminess of freshly churned butter.

"Makhan Chor," she mumbled, the mock glare failing to mask the grin beginning to sprout upon her rosy lips, in response to witnessing the child-like innocence of the Lord of the three worlds.

Swivelling his head to face Mitra, a toothy grin spread its reign over the storm-cloud hued skin tone of Shyama Sundara. The magnificence of the smile effectively masking the watery shine of the expressive orbs, that housed for eternity the mother, whose name the world still lovingly took before his own. The one who had bound him with ropes to the innumerable columns of both Gokul and Vrindavan, lovingly chastising him as 'butter thief' many memorable years ago.

Ironic, isn't it? The one who encompasses the three worlds within himself. From the speck of sand carried upon the minute head of an ant, to the ginormous ball of flame situated many million miles away from the Earth, providing for the sustenance of living beings – is there anything that does not belong to this being abounding with the purest of love?

He carries a heart that is as soft as the butter, he fondly indulges on, while he himself remains within each particle of the sweet and savoury delicacy. Yet, from the aged to the young, from the intellectual to the illiterate - we find immense pleasure in addressing him as 'makhan chor' (butter thief), while he lovingly responds to the call with a smile, unimpeachable in bestowing his beloved blessings. Again, if this fails to be considered as love, then what does the emotion encompass?

'Crack'

The sound of hardened clay shattering effectively pulled the princess's thoughts back to her surroundings, as she witnessed a bustle of cotton, sari-clad women rush towards the series of newly crafted clay pots, stacked atop one another. Among which the top one – now in pieces, lay upon the sandy ground. Ignoring the slight pinch of her heart, at observing the women huddled around what had once been an intricately designed pot; peach pink in hue, with a linear trail of painted peacock feathers adorning its swell – Mitra spun to see her partner, spellbound by the buried intelligence behind his orchestration of mind.

A smiling Kanhaiya situated in the centre behind the hay, his lotus eyes determinedly set on the multi butter-filled pots hanging on one end of the field. And the gathering of confused, and chastising women huddled around the empty, shattered work of art on the other. Much too far, to come running quickly, if ever realized what had truly transpired upon the scene.

With her tactile system vaguely registering the strong, yet gentle grip of the dark fingers circling her slender wrist, Mitra felt herself hauled towards the hanging source of the puller's delight. A bunched handful of her skirt's teal cotton silk in one hand, its deep maroon borders grazing the wheatish span of her skin, just visible above the intricately carved lining of minute pearls adorning the oxidized pair of ghungroo anklets – she followed in close pace to the speed of the butter-driven one before her.

Upon reaching the area below the hanging pots, Mitra felt her heart thunder rapidly within the ribbed confines of her chest, as she watched Bhaktavatsara kneel before her, upon his knees sheathed by the silk of his Pitambara vastra. With the single blink of his lotus gaze, and sweet smile reassuring her restless heart, the princess gently clasped his sturdy bicep, lined by a simple band of gold, for support, as she hoisted herself to a standing posture upon his broad shoulders.

The solid planes of his shoulders - that had once been circled by the arms of Sudama and other gwala lads of Braj, as they lovingly latched themselves onto the back of their Kanha, while he affectionately carried them through the lush green forests of Vrindavan - now supported the flower-soft soles of Partha's breath of existence. The reddened palms, that had once stretched towards the topmost of the butter-filled pots of Gokul in their younger days, while firmly situated upon the mighty shoulders of Balarama, now gently clasped the slender ones of Vasusena's pride, stabilizing and raising the damsel up towards the goal of their teamed mischief.

"How times have changed...with the years having flown by within a blink of an eye."

Mitra raised her eyebrows questioningly, in response to the chuckling remark of Krishna, as her free hand grasped the rim of a heavy pot, filled to its coloured edge with overflowing butter. Her pristine fingers worked swiftly at the knots; carefully removing the pot from its adhered ropes, binding it to the numerous other coloured ones, while her eyes never failed to keep a watch upon the gathered women situated at the other end as well.

At last, while freeing the pot from its binds and gathering it close to her bosom, a wide smile of satisfaction lit the princess's features in response to the creamy odour of freshness greeting her longing senses. Gazing down, her eyes locked with those of her beloved butter thief as she winked in cue, indicating the completion of her task, while he chucklingly helped her lower herself down, with the pot clutched tightly between her one arm.

While awaiting the kiss of the sandy grounds against her bare soles once more, Mitra endured mild surprise to find her legs, along with the multi-coloured beads of her side drawstring, being swung over the forearms of Keshava. His hands swiftly tucking below her skirt-sheathed knees, while holding her up securely in his arms against his tall frame. With the clay pot of butter resting snugly between her semi-existent lap and flat torso, the Priya Sakhi of Krishna smiled in response, as she felt the secure embrace of her Sakha's other arm, circling her upper back, with his palm resting atop the java-green hued threaded morpankh, embroidered against the left sleeve of her teal cotton blouse.

Her doe eyes twinkled with mirth, as her fingers dipped just below the rounded rim of the elegantly decorated pot, scooping a layer of the freshly churned smoothness, pale-yellow in hue. Despite the longing of her sharp tongue to taste the sweetness of the creamy texture, her heart preceded the battle, in wanting to savour the joy of feeding it to her best friend. 

Glancing up with love, Mitra extended her petite hand forward, only to frown in response, as Krishna's larger one halted its movement towards him. Her confusion diminished within a moment, with a surge of unrivaled warmth replacing its cool unknowns, as she watched his bluish finger scoop some of the butter off the insides of hers and raise it towards her slightly parted lips.

Averting her gaze to hide the glistening brown orbs, Mitra felt her lids seal themselves in delight, as the fresh texture melted against her savouring tongue. It's sweetness immaculate in flavour, despite grazing the dew drops of salted perspiration coating her philtrum. Oh, dear Lord, how was it that the butter here tasted like nectar, in comparison to all the butter she's ever had? Where was this rare sweetness found? Did it dwell within the roots of the greenest of grass overlaying the Dwarakan soils and devoured by its many cows, the beloved companions of Gopala? Or did it flourish in unlimited spans within the repeated chants of 'Jai Shri Krishna,' uttered by the hearts of the women, whose fingers, repeatedly calloused from the firmness of the ropes - churned batches of the creamy butter adored by Devaki Nandhan?

If one believed savouring the butter fed by the hands of Kanhaiya was the peak of ecstasy, then what to term of the uncontainable swell of the heart, at witnessing the lips of Murari accept the loving offering from mere human hands?

Mitravinda's spellbound gaze refused to direct elsewhere, as they held with wonder – the celestial image of Hrushikesha, the Lord of the senses, lovingly savouring the tiny lump of butter contained within the slender fingers of her young hands. The flowering eyelids sealed, with the remaining lotus features brightening in pure bliss. Uncaring of the light smear of the cream that coated with delight the Oh so reddened lips – rich in hue like the Bimba fruit, as mentioned in the Sri Damodharashtaka.

"idam te mukhambhojam atyanta-nilair

vritam kuntalaih snigdha-raktais ca gopya

muhus cumbitam bimba-raktadharam me

manasy avirastam alam laksha-labhaih"

Translation: 0 Lord, Your lotus face, which is encircled by locks of soft black hair tinged with red, is kissed again and again by mother Yashoda, and Your lips are reddish like the bimba fruit.

May this beautiful vision of Your lotus face be ever manifest in my heart. Thousands and thousands of other benedictions are of no use to me.

A salty droplet of betrayal escaped the kohl-lined ridge of the young eye and rolled carelessly down the slope of her rosy cheeks, as she wished for nothing more than to picturize this moment. The charming face of her Damodhara before her eyes for all of eternity.

A similar droplet of longing escaped the sealed lids of the Vrindavan vasi, as the abounding love behind the simple, yet affectionate gesture of Karna Nandini, and the bliss of relishing stolen butter once more after many years – effectively dug up the sweetest of memories that swam beyond unreachable depths within the ocean of life, their waves swarming the shores of Madhava's heart. Emotions believed by the world to be dormant within the now Dwarakadheesh, but were eternally vigilant within the soul of the leader, who remains the eternal resident of Vrindavan; regardless of where within the vast spaces of the numerous universes he be physically situated.

For the one whose mind dwells upon Krishna, the body may be elsewhere, but in that sole moment...thy butter soft heart shall be blissfully stolen by Makhan Chor and hidden safely among the flowerings of Vrindavan bhoomi, swaying forevermore to the soul-stirring chants of 'Radhe Radhe.'

And among all the fondest of memories, one shone as bright as a cluster of stars among the vast blackness of an empty night sky. Taking the form of a maiden, who held the heart of the Goloka Vasi since time immemorial, and will continue to do so till the end of that measure of pace. The Goddess of Love whose flower-soft soles, their edges dyed by the richest of red alta, eternally pattered against the luscious soils of Vrindavan; earning her the name Vrindavaneshwari.

'Radha,' murmured Shyam, as he immersed his soul in the ocean of blissful love and divine wisdom ignited by the two syllables of ambrosial elixir.

Miles away, the alta-dyed hands, their softness caressing the rim of the pot, filled with the flowing waters of Devi Yamuna, halted in their act of quenching the thirst of the auspicious tulsi, adorning the vast lands of the lush Vrindavan gardens. The ruby red lips of Srimati, the beautiful one, pulled up in a smile, as the blackness of her doe eyes glazed, shedding tears of longing which streamed reverentially down the slopes of Krishna Samyuta's pearly white cheeks.

'Kanha.'

With the caress of the young feminine fingers over the luminous dark skin, effectively wiping away the lone tear of longing that cascaded down the slope of his raised cheekbone, Shyama Sundara's eyes fluttered open once more. With a blooming soft smile on his lips, he regarded his Priya Sakhi, her rosy lips quivering, as tears sprung against the glassy brown orbs, making them dazzle as crystals in the reflecting rays of Lord Surya. The shake of her head in the negative, facilitating the slip of the pearls of pain, as they escaped the darkened edges of her doe features and traversed the slopes of her defined jaws.

"Never shed tears, Madhava," she whispered, as another traitorous one of hers followed the wet treks left by the former. "I beg of you."

A soft chuckle escaped the lips of Krishna, as his dark brown orbs, lit by a twinkle, keenly observed the sorrow in hers.

"These are tears of joy, my dear," he assured, while brushing away the wetness of her cheek with the soft pad of his thumb, leaving a soothing sensation in its absence.

Trapping the shyamal palm of Govinda between the softness of hers and the velvety span of skin sheathing her cheek, Mitra adamantly held his softening gaze with her tear-stricken one.

"Joy or sorrow. Longing or remorse. I cannot bear to witness them invade the sheer glory of your lotus eyes, Madhava. Each salty droplet escaping your eyes, equates to an ounce of the lifeforce, the very flow driving my sustenance, leaking free in pools of rich red from the veins tunneling their course through this shell of mine. Please never shed tears, Madhava. If you must, then bestow that deed upon me. I shall shed them all my life and beyond on your behalf if I must."

Mitra felt the surge of familiarity, the sensation of 'home' acknowledged by the fathomless depth of her soul once more, as she was pulled against the warmth of her Keshava. With her moon-like forehead resting against the base of his elongated neck, and fingers skimming the solid planes of the rigid chest that sheathed the softest of hearts within, Krishna Priya breathed in the celestial aroma of Madhana mohana, the eternal enchanter of Cupid himself. Combining the scent of musk, sandalwood and aguru, and entwined with the fragrance of bluish lotuses and camphor, as explicitly stated in the Sri-Caitanya-caritamrta (Text 88-106).

"I love you, Madhava."

"samo haṁ sarva-bhūteṣhu na me dveṣhyo sti na priyaḥ

ye bhajanti tu māṁ bhaktyā mayi te teṣhu chāpyaham"

Bhagavad Gita (9.29)

Translation: I am equally disposed to all living beings; I am neither inimical nor partial to anyone. But the devotees who worship Me with love reside in Me and I reside in them.

What to speak of this innocent and pure love, that had managed to churn the heart of the speaker of this imminent dialogue upon the sandy grounds of Kurukshetra years back?

The soul of the three worlds, who dwells within all beings, and holds them all within himself since time immemorial – what difference would it make to him regarding which pair of eyes the pearls of emotion were shed from; those of his child or himself? Would the result not bear the very same agony he endured, with that ever-present heart-capturing smile, worn by the most enchanting of features?

Yet, the naivety of the child within, to wish for nothing more than eternal happiness for the heart of the Lord, even at the expense of never-ending pain upon one's own – what to speak of this state of mind?

But, that is where its purity lies. Within that naïve thought that the Lord may be spared from the merciless claws of sorrow, if willingly taken on by the devotee instead.

One may see it as baseless, while another as nothing but pure love. The unadulterated affection that flowers from the scattering of seeds; the seeds of true realization of the Almighty as the Universe's highest source of power, within the dampened soils of unalloyed devotion. So deeply ensnared within the bonds of love for the one who holds our heart; as a Son, a Mother, a Father, a Guru, a Lover, or a Friend; the mind may at times lose its ability to recognize the all-pervading supremacy of that close confidant.

From Meerabhai, a Rajput Princess and poet, who saw Muralidhara as her husband, dedicating her life to none, but him in pure love and devotion. And Karaikkal Ammaiyar, the famous Southern Tamil poet and devotee of Lord Shiva, whom the Swayambhu himself, knowing no beginning nor end, had lovingly addressed as 'Mother.'

Or the simple, yet innocent worries shrouded by the hearts of devotees offering fresh milk before their deity, whom, in their abounding love, they have failed to view as nothing more than their child. Their child, who in that moment needed to be fed immediately. Fretting upon this simple act, as if though the Supreme One, capable of creating and sustaining the three worlds, may possibly starve if not fed the milk offered by oneself.

Yes, he indulges on that milk. But what he truly savours within the offering is the love behind the intention, stirred along with the 'kalkandu' or white sugar crystals sweetening the fresh whiteness, supporting the growth and sustenance of many past infancy, and gifted by the four-legged universal mother.

Why seek light when standing below the plentiful rays of the sun? Similarly, why seek gems and fortunes, or even endure severe austerities, to conquer the one who has willingly ensnared himself within your naïve love itself?

"I love you always, my Krishna Priya."

Hello my friends! Did you enjoy this light and soothing chapter? 

My mind had been burdened these past few days with certain incidents, so I needed a medium to release the pent up questions and worries in a more positive way - hence decided to once again talk about the unconditional love of the Almighty. 

Please do comment your thoughts and opinions! Again, these are my personal feelings, but feel free to discuss yours in the comments. It's always nice to hear and learn of different viewpoints and experiences. And please do vote if you feel it's worthy!

And are you excited to return back to Hastinapura soon? It's been a while since we've explored the emotions of the revered Kuru family members, hasn't it? Just a hint in the direction we're headed next...

Loads of love,

Geitha (Your Author Friend)