Parikrama

The Kinnar Kailash plan died over burnt toast on a Tuesday morning. I'd brought it up, Shiva and Parvati's temple somewhere in the mountains, and she'd looked at me over her coffee like I'd suggested we climb Everest in flip-flops.

"Start smaller," I said. "Vrindavan. Mathura. Flat ground. Temples we can actually reach."

She'd shrugged, scrolling through her phone. "Fine. But I'm not pretending to be athletic about it."

Vrindavan hit us like colour and sound thrown against a wall. The lanes were too narrow, the crowds too thick, cows blocking doorways while bhajans leaked from every courtyard. At Banke Bihari, she gripped my arm as bodies pressed close, her dupatta caught twice in the surge toward the deity. When we finally got out, she was flushed and annoyed.

"That was chaos."

"That was devotion."

"Same thing, apparently."

But at Prem Mandir that evening, she went quiet. The white marble caught the colored lights, and the carved panels showed Radha and Krishna in a dozen scenes of longing. She stood in front of one for a long time, Radha reaching, Krishna turning away, and I didn't interrupt.

At Nidhivan, the guide told us Krishna danced here every night with Radha, that no one could stay past dark or they'd go mad. She rolled her eyes, but I saw her look back at the grove as we left, her expression caught between scepticism and something softer.

We ate kachoris at a stall where the oil was too hot and the chutney burned. She complained about the grease, then ordered jalebis anyway. We sat by the Yamuna for the evening aarti, and she leaned her head on my shoulder without asking if I minded.

"This is working," she said, half to herself.

"What is?"

"Not thinking about work. Not checking email every five minutes." A pause. "Just being here."

I kissed her hair. It smelled like incense and sweat.

On Govardhan Puja, the town swelled with pilgrims preparing for the parikrama, the 21-kilometre walk around the hill Krishna had lifted to shield the villagers from Indra's storm. Most hired cycle-rickshaws. Some took tempos. We stood near Mansi Ganga, watching the crowd gather, and I said it before I thought it through.

"Let's walk."

She turned. "The whole thing?"

"Why not?"

"Because it's 21 kilometres, Pratap. And neither of us has walked 21 meters without complaining in the last six months."

"Scared?"

Her jaw tightened. "Don't."

"What?"

"Don't dare me into stupid things."

"So you're scared."

"Fine. We'll walk. And when I collapse, you're explaining it to my mother."

The first stretch was deceptively easy. Morning air, steady rhythm, her hand in mine. A peacock startled from a wall, and she laughed, sharp, surprised, and I caught it on my phone. At Radha Kund, she wanted to stop and watch the women circling the pond with offerings, but I tugged her along.

"We'll never finish if you stop at every temple."

"You're the one who wanted to do this."

"And you're the one who'll complain if we're still walking at midnight."

She didn't argue, but her silence felt pointed.

By eight kilometres, we'd stopped talking much. The sun was high, unforgiving. She'd tied her dupatta at her waist, and sweat darkened the back of her kurti. A sadhu passed us, barefoot and unbothered, and she muttered something about how we were clearly doing this wrong.

At kilometres, we stopped for chai. She dropped onto a bench and stared at her feet.

"What's wrong?"

"Shoes are rubbing."

I knelt before she could protest, setting the chai cups in the dust. "Let me see."

"It's fine, "

"Let me see."

Her sock was damp near the heel. When I pressed, she flinched. I didn't say anything, just unlaced carefully and slipped the shoe off. The blister was small but angry.

"We'll rest," I said.

"We're already behind."

"We're not racing anyone."

She watched me, something unreadable in her face. "You don't have to fix everything."

"I'm not fixing. I'm just looking."

We made it one more kilometre before she stopped mid-step, her hand clamping onto my arm.

"Cramp."

I guided her to a bench under a neem tree. Pilgrims flowed past, chanting, laughing, indifferent to our small crisis. I went down on one knee and pulled her foot onto my thigh.

"People are watching," she hissed.

"So?"

"So this is embarrassing."

"I'm helping my wife."

"We're not married yet."

"Close enough." I removed her shoe despite her protests, working my fingers along her arch until I found the knot. She bit her lip, half from pain, half from mortification. I stretched each toe, then laced my fingers between hers, making space.

"Better?"

She nodded, face burning.

I leaned down and kissed the top of her foot, quick, light, then tickled her sole.

"Pratap!" She jerked back, her expression caught between fury and laughter. "What is wrong with you?"

"You looked like you were about to cry. Had to reset."

"I'm going to kill you."

"Later." I helped her shoe back on, then scooped her up before she could stand.

"What are you doing? Put me down!"

"No."

"People are staring!"

"They'll survive." I adjusted my grip. My arms were already aching. "You're my better half. I'm taking care of that part."

She buried her face in my neck. "I hate you."

"No, you don't."

Her breath was warm against my skin. After a moment, her arms tightened around my shoulders.

I walked. One kilometre. Two. My lungs burned. My legs shook. At three kilometres, I had to stop.

"Okay," I gasped. "Love remains. Breath does not. You're walking now."

As I set her down, carefully, because I was shaking, she looked up at me, her face unreadable.

"No more paranthas for you. You're joining a gym."

"Deal," I wheezed. "How's your foot?"

"Better." She squeezed my hand. "Let me know if you need me to carry you."

"Hilarious."

We walked the rest in near silence, slower now. The path took us past Kusum Sarovar just as the light turned gold. She leaned against the railing, staring at the water, and I stood behind her, my arms around her waist because I didn't know what else to do with them.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

"For what?"

"For..." She hesitated. "For this. For carrying me. For making me feel like, "

"Like you matter?"

"Yeah."

I kissed her forehead. "You do."

She turned in my arms, and for a moment we just stood there, dusty and exhausted and held together by something neither of us had words for yet.

We finished the parikrama as darkness fell, strings of lights marking the path and oil lamps flickering at roadside shrines. When we reached our starting point, she collapsed onto a stone step with exaggerated drama.

"I'm never walking again. My feet have officially retired."

I sat beside her, equally destroyed. "Worth it?"

She looked at me, her eyes tired but soft. "Yeah. Worth it."

Somewhere in the distance, someone was singing about Radha's love, about devotion that looked like madness from the outside.

But when you're in it, I thought, it just feels like this.

She rested her head on my shoulder. I took her hand, lacing our fingers the way I had with her toes.

"When we do Kinnar Kailash," she murmured, "you're definitely hitting the gym first."

"Without question."

"But I'll still expect you to carry me if I need it."

I smiled into her hair. "Always."

The parikrama was complete. But the journey, I knew, was just beginning.