The night was long. Sleep came in fitful waves, snatched away by dreams of voices she could no longer reach, of warm arms she could no longer run to, of a home that felt impossibly distant. Finally, giving up on any hopes of getting any rest, Abhijishya sat up, her heart heavy with unspoken dread. The cool air of the chamber did little to soothe the unease thrumming beneath her skin.

With a quiet sigh, she reached for the writing materials set on a low wooden table nearby. Ink stained her fingers as she pressed the quill to parchment, her hand trembling ever so slightly. The candle on her bedside flickered, casting long shadows across the stone walls of her chamber. The night outside was eerily quiet, save for the occasional rustle of wind against the palace corridors. Somewhere in the distance, a conch shell sounded—a deep, resonant call marking the final hours of the night.

She swallowed hard. The weight of isolation sat heavy in her chest. She had held back all day, suppressing her emotions, trying to be practical. But now, alone and unable to sleep, in the dim glow of the lamp, there was no distraction, no pretense. Just her, the parchment, and the unbearable ache in her heart.

She dipped the quill into the ink again and wrote.

To Shree Krishna and the revered Yadavas,

I do not know if this letter will ever reach your hands. I do not know if you already know of me, if you are waiting for me to call upon you, or if I am merely whispering into a void.

I am lost. I do not know how, I do not know why, but I have been taken far from my home, farther than any human should ever be. I do not belong here. My family does not know where I am. I do not know if I will ever see them again. And I—

Her throat tightened. Her vision blurred. She wiped at her eyes harshly and continued.

I am scared. More than anything, I am scared. I do not understand the people around me, I do not understand their words, their customs. And yet, they have been kind. They have sheltered me. But kindness does not erase longing, nor does it fill the void of a missing home.

Shree Krishna, I do not know what else to do. I beg you—please, if you can hear me, if you can see me, help me find my way back. I shall remain forever in your debt.

With all my hope,
Abhijishya

Her hand hovered over the parchment, fingers curling slightly. Was this enough? Did it convey everything she needed to say? She had never written a letter like this before. Letters were meant for relatives, for friends. Not for gods.

But Krishna was not just any god.

He was her god.

She let out a shaky breath and carefully rolled up the parchment, tying it with a thin strip of fabric. At dawn, she would give it to Nakul and ask him to have it sent to Dwarka. And then—then all she could do was wait.

And when the sun finally arose, she woke to the call of the dasis, their voices gently rousing her from slumber.

"Rajatithi," they called, the name they had given her in this world. A foreign title. A borrowed identity.

She sighed as the reality of her situation settled upon her once more. The dim blue of predawn filtered through the windows, casting a soft glow over the stone walls. The air was cool, crisp with the freshness of a new day.

Kunti had sent for her.

Abhijishya quickly freshened up, washing herself with the water the dasis provided, brushing her teeth with a neem twig that left a bitter aftertaste in her mouth. The clothes laid out for her were soft, well-woven, and of deep earthy hues—more suited to a royal woman than someone like her. She draped the veil carefully, ensuring it settled over her shoulder rather than obscuring her face.

As she stepped outside, she found Nakul and Kunti speaking in hushed voices.

She pressed her hands together and bowed slightly, murmuring, "Pranipaat."

Kunti smiled warmly. "Kalyan ho, putri."

Abhijishya turned to Nakul. "Pranam, Rajkumar Nakul. Patra for Shree Krishna. Dwarka," she said, carefully picking her words. She held out the letter.

Nakul took it, his expression unreadable, but there was something steady in his gaze, something almost reassuring. "Don't worry," he said. "I’ll send it at once." It was as if he could read the terrible hope she had enclosed in the lone request.

"Dhanyavad," she whispered.

With that settled, she turned to follow Kunti to the temple, her heart pounding in anticipation.

The temple was within the palace grounds, an open-air sanctum bathed in the soft golden light of dawn. White marble pillars lined the entrance, intricately carved with images of deities and celestial beings. Delicate floral garlands adorned the sanctum, their fragrance mingling with the scent of sandalwood and camphor. The air was thick with divinity, a sacred hush settling over the space as though time itself slowed within its confines.

The soft glow of flickering lamps bathed the carved idol of Narayan in golden light, his serene expression untouched by the turmoil raging within her.

Abhijishya swallowed. She had seen Krishna’s idols before. But here, in the stillness of this ancient world, under the weight of her grief, the stone figure felt more real, more present than ever before.

Wordlessly, she began preparing for the aarti. She rolled the cotton wick, dipping it into the oil, just as she had seen her mother do countless times. Kunti silently guided her hands as she ground sandalwood paste, the motions repetitive, almost meditative. She washed the tulsi leaves, arranged the flowers, set the kheer and laddoos in polished copper plates.

She did everything as she had been taught, but inside, she was unraveling.

As the aarti began, Kunti’s voice filled the small temple, rich and melodious, each note steeped in devotion. Abhijishya held the conch to her lips, drawing a deep breath before blowing into it. The sound rang through the chamber, sacred and commanding, marking the start of prayer.

She knelt.

She pressed her forehead to the ground, gripping the edges of her veil, and whispered the only words she had left.

"Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Hare Hare…

"Hare Ram, Ram Ram, Ram Ram, Hare Hare."

Again.

And again.

The mantra was an anchor, a thread tying her to the only hope she had left.

She whispered it once more—

And then—

A breeze swept through the sanctum, though the air had been still. The flames of the lamps flickered, bending as though in greeting. A hush fell over everything. The scent of blooming kadamba flowers filled the space, inexplicably sweet, familiar yet otherworldly.

A presence.

She instinctively turned towards the entrance, her heart in her throat because—

Of course. Of course. She didn't even need to send the letter. Her despair and prayers had reached.

Her God had answered. Of course, her God, her Shyam, her Gopal, her Krishna had answered immediately. Laughter bubbled from throat, her eyes turned into rivers of devotion because—

Stepping through the golden morning light, he appeared.

Shree Krishna.

He was divine and human all at once—clad in the golden yellow garment, a crown of peacock feathers adorning his dark, curling hair. The Urdhva Pundra on his forehead gleamed in the soft light. His smile was gentle, yet it held the weight of the cosmos. His very being seemed to hum with something beyond mortal comprehension—an infinite vastness contained within the frame of a man.

He turned his gaze upon her.

The moment his eyes met hers, she felt it—everything.

A tremor ran through her. She was small, minuscule, nothing before him. A fleeting mortal before the eternal, before her eternal. She wanted to kneel, to bow, to weep, but all she could do was stare, overwhelmed, lost in his presence.

He spoke, his voice warm, familiar.

"Prasad nahi khilaogi?"

The simple words shattered her restraint.

"Gopal," she whispered. And then she ran to him, stumbling, reaching, breaking all decorum, her hands clasped together in pleading desperation. She didn't hear Kunti's calls or the dasis alarmed glances.

She wept, raw and unguarded. She wept for her fear, for her helplessness, for the years she had turned away from him, thinking him distant when he had always been there.

He cupped her cheek, wiping her tears, his touch light as a whisper. "Sakhi," he murmured, "I have never forsaken you."

Her sobs wracked her body. "Please," she begged, "send me home, Gopal. Please."

Krishna’s expression softened, but his eyes held a sadness she could not understand. "I cannot," he said, the words gentle but firm. "Forgive me, sakhi, but time has already moved along. You are here because you are meant to be."

Despair crashed over her. But before she could collapse beneath its weight, he spoke again, offering a balm.

"Your family has not suffered," he said. "They have lived well. They have loved. They have found peace."

Abhijishya clenched her fists. "I do not belong here," she pressed on, her voice rising, desperate. "I cannot understand these people. Their words, their customs—I am lost. I do not know how to live in this world, how to—" Her voice broke, and she swallowed down the sob clawing at her throat. "Please. I just… I just want to go back."

"My dear sakhi, your pain is my pain," Krishna murmured. He wiped her tears with his thumb. "You must persevere and leave the rest to your Gopal."

She shook, her heart breaking, but also—somehow—mending. What could she do other than trust her God.

As if reading her worries, Krishna glanced to the space near the window, from the golden light, a soft melody rose. The sweet, ethereal sound of a vina.

A glow, bright yet soothing.

Goddess Saraswati had appeared.

The divine presence of Goddess Saraswati enveloped the temple in a soft, golden glow. The very air seemed to shimmer with ethereal light, and Abhijishya felt the weight of something immeasurable settle upon her heart. The sweet strains of the vina wove through the sanctum, a melody not meant for mortal ears, yet it resonated deep within her soul. It was soft, like ripples over a quiet river, yet vast, as though the entire cosmos hummed within its chords.

Abhijishya could not breathe. Could not move.

The goddess stood before her, luminous and graceful, clad in pristine white that seemed woven from moonlight itself. Her long, dark hair cascaded in waves down her back, adorned with delicate white lotuses. A veena rested against her shoulder, her fingers barely grazing the strings as if the music itself sought to flow from her touch. Her eyes—vast, knowing—bore through Abhijishya's soul.

Abhijishya, already on her knees before Krishna, felt her entire body tremble. If Krishna had made her feel small before the infinite, then Saraswati made her feel as though she were but a whisper in the grand song of creation.

Krishna turned to the goddess with a knowing smile, his dark eyes brimming with warmth. “Devi, my sakhi finds herself adrift in a world whose words are foreign to her. Would you grant her the knowledge she seeks?” His voice was gentle, yet resolute—an appeal, not as Narayan, but as a friend asking on behalf of another.

The goddess tilted her head slightly, her lips curving in the faintest smile. "Vasudev Krishna," she greeted, her voice carrying the weight of the cosmos itself.

Abhijishya licked her lips, her throat parched. "Devi," she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. "Mujhe... ghar jaana hai."

Saraswati’s expression did not change. She only watched, her luminous gaze steady, as if waiting for something more.

Abhijishya lowered her head, her shoulders trembling. "Toh phir?" she whispered. "What do I do? I don't even understand their language properly—how do I survive in a world that does not belong to me?"

Saraswati exhaled, a soft sigh that was neither sorrow nor pity—merely understanding. She took a step closer, the hem of her celestial garments barely skimming the marble floor. “You are not the first soul to find themselves lost in a land unfamiliar,” she murmured, reaching out. “But no knowledge is beyond your reach, putri.”

With an almost imperceptible movement, she extended a single, radiant fingertip and touched the center of Abhijishya’s forehead.

A shudder ran through Abhijishya’s body.

Warmth—gentle, consuming, infinite—poured into her being. It was not fire, nor light, nor energy. It was knowing. It seeped into her mind like rain sinking into parched earth, filling the cracks, easing the drought of her understanding. The murmurs of the palace, the prayers whispered in the temple, the conversations that once sounded like incomprehensible melodies—they unraveled, reshaped, became clear.

Sanskrit. Prakrit. Magadhi. And many more. The tongue of the land, the words of the people. The barrier that had stood between her and this world dissolved.

She gasped sharply, her eyes flying open.

Saraswati smiled. "You may not find your way back, but now, you will never be lost."

Tears welled in Abhijishya’s eyes.

She was still stranded, still torn away from everything she had ever known. And yet, she had been given something. A lifeline. A way to navigate this world, to at least survive in it.

Overwhelmed, she lowered her head, pressing her forehead to the cool marble floor. "Dhanyavad, Devi," she whispered, voice thick with emotion. "I do not deserve such a blessing."

A soft chuckle, light as the rustling of lotus petals. "Blessings are not given based on merit alone, putri," Saraswati said. "You have a journey ahead of you. This is but the first step."

As the warmth in her mind settled into clarity, Abhijishya hesitantly raised her gaze, daring to look up at the goddess once more. But the glow had already begun to fade, the divine form of Saraswati dissolving into golden light, the echoes of her vina lingering in the temple air.

Abhijishya remained kneeling, dazed, lost in the enormity of what had just happened.

Then, gentle fingers tilted her chin upward.

She found herself staring into Krishna’s eyes once more.

He smiled, soft and knowing, as if he had already foreseen this moment. "Ab samajh aaya?"

Abhijishya let out a breathless laugh, shaking her head, her heart too full for words.

No, she did not understand everything. She still had no idea why she was here, what purpose fate had in stranding her in this era. But now…

She could at least begin to find out.

And as she gazed upon her Shyam, her Gopal, she realized—

Even if she had nothing, she had him.