The Līlā of Boundless Love

May Śrī Priyā and Her most beloved Lord be ever victorious.

The Līlā of Boundless Love

Śrī Priyā is proceeding into the forest to gather flowers. Rūpamañjarī walks at the very front. In her hand is a basket whose inner surface has been lined with bright yellow banana leaves. Lalitā is on Śrī Priyā's left and Viśākhā on Her right. Citrā and the other sakhīs walk sometimes ahead and sometimes behind. They all follow the footpath that runs southward along the bank of the Yamunā. A row of henna bushes borders its eastern side, while on the west, a little removed from the water's edge, grow thickets of wildflowers.

Again and again Śrī Priyā glances behind Her. Red, blue, and white lotuses bloom along the banks in the Yamunā's limpid current. Swans and other waterbirds fly down from above and splash into the water. The wind stirred by their wings and the force of their plunges set the water rolling in waves, making the open lotuses sway swiftly. From time to time Śrī Priyā also casts Her gaze upon those moving flowers.

Walking along the path, She reaches the place where it crosses the royal road. There She pauses and begins to look west. Just then a cowherd girl comes running from the east. Her hair is dishevelled, her face flushed crimson, and her eyes lifted and wild, as though she were intoxicated. She comes and clings to Rādhā, while streams of tears flow from her eyes. Rādhā's eyes also fill. In a voice overflowing with affection She asks, “What is it? Speak!” and presses the girl firmly to Her heart. The cowherd girl raises her head and looks to see who is present. For a while she laughs like one bereft of reason. Then, after falling silent for a few moments, she suddenly sings in an exceedingly sweet voice:

Why does the Dark One shoot the arrows of His eyes at me?

Having sung only that single line, she repeats it again and again like a madwoman, clapping her hands as she plunges into the dense forest toward the southwest. Rādhā calls aloud, “Rūpa! Rūpa! Take care of her.” At Her command Rūpamañjarī runs after the girl, and soon the trees hide them both from sight.

Rādhā now leaves the riverbank and enters the thick forest by the footpath, inwardly humming, “Why does the Dark One shoot the arrows of His eyes at me?” The more Her heart repeats that line, the more the same vision appears all around Her, east, west, north, and south. She sees beloved Śyāmasundara standing in the shade of a kadamba, breathing music into His flute. A gentle smile rests upon His face, and He looks toward Her with an oblique glance brimming with love. Rādhā's heart begins to escape all restraint. What She had hummed within spills from Her lips, and for a moment Her exquisitely melodious strain makes the whole forest resound: “Why does the Dark One shoot the arrows of His eyes at me?”

Hearing Her voice, Lalitā steps in front of Her lotus face. In great agitation Rādhā says, “Lalite! Look here! He is standing in every leaf of the jambu tree.”

Lalitā looks toward the tree and tells Her, “See, you are still close to home. Walk with a little care.”

A trace of alarm comes over Rādhā's face. She steadies Herself, quickens Her steps, and reaches a mango tree heavy with blossoms. Three or four cubits east of its trunk, She sits facing south.

Crowds of honeybees buzz over the mango blossoms, and black bees hum as they circle them. On a branch sits a bird resembling a cuckoo but larger, calling softly in a sweet voice. Its wings are red and pale black, and its eyes are entirely crimson. Rolling its red pupils toward the corners, it looks at Rādhā. She raises Her gaze to it. At first it appears merely as a shadowy bird, but in the very next instant She beholds Śyāmasundara in the pupils of its eyes and in every part of its wings, casting His sidelong glance upon Her. Her heart again rapidly repeats, “Why does the Dark One shoot the arrows of His eyes at me?”

Now even the bird's call seems to Rādhā to be singing that same refrain. Her heart becomes so laden with emotion that once again She sings it aloud in an exceedingly sweet voice.

Still singing, She rises, bends down a branch of the mango tree, and plucks one or two blossoms. As She gathers them, the blossoms once more turn into a vision of Śyāmasundara. They fall from Her hand, and Lalitā picks them up and puts them into the basket at Her right.

Rādhā sits down and covers both ears with Her hands, assuming the posture of one listening with profound attention. Then, fixing Her gaze intently upon a tamāla tree farther south, She says, “Lalite! Listen! He is calling me by name. Ah, how sweet His voice is!”

Lalitā looks at Her with eager concern. After watching for a few moments, she says softly, “But I hear nothing at all. See, just as before, you have fallen into an illusion today. Śyāmasundara has already signalled that He will meet us in the campā grove. He must be there.”

Rādhā runs swiftly south and stops beside that very tamāla. She begins speaking with immense affection, as though Śyāmasundara stood before Her and were conversing with Her. “Beloved Śyāmasundara,” She says, “Lalitā does not believe me. Laugh aloud just once.”

Rādhā experiences Him laughing aloud at Her request. Her delight knows no bound. Beaming, She says to Lalitā, “Look, Lalite! Now tell me, were you not calling it an illusion?”

With an air of astonishment Lalitā replies, “I do not know, sister, what has happened to you. Truly, Śyāmasundara is not here. You laugh yourself and then believe that beloved Śyāmasundara is laughing.”

Saddened by Lalitā's words, Rādhā goes and embraces the tamāla. In a voice mingled with sorrow She says, “Beloved, what can I say? This Lalitā will not believe. How shall I make her understand?”

After a moment or two, Śrī Priyā assumes the expression of one to whose ear Śyāmasundara is whispering, and She listens with complete attention. Remaining so for a while, She begins to smile gently and then exclaims with great delight, “Lalite! Beloved Śyāmasundara has told me the means. See, I shall make you believe this very moment.”

Lalitā interrupts, “What means has He told you?”

Rādhā grows a little abashed. After pausing, She says, “Where has Rūpa gone? Ah, has she still not returned?”

Even as She speaks, Rūpamañjarī arrives holding the cowherd girl's hand. Delighted to see her, Rādhā calls, “Girl, come here.”

At Rādhā's command, Rūpamañjarī comes and stands near. Rādhā embraces her and says, “Rūpa, look there. Tell me, is my beloved Śyāmasundara not standing there?” With Her finger She indicates the very tamāla. The instant Rūpamañjarī turns her gaze toward it, Śyāmasundara appears to her in that exact place. She begins to drown in love. Seeing her condition, Lalitā asks in astonishment, “Rūpa, why have you suddenly become so overwhelmed?”

Rūpamañjarī replies, “Ah, Lalitā Rānī! Look there! With what a loving gaze beloved Śyāmasundara is looking at me.”

Lalitā's amazement knows no limit. Her throat fills and, with intense urgency, she says, “My dear Rūpa, I cannot see Him.”

Rādhā laughs brightly. “Lalite! Now tell me. In your eyes I may be mad, but Rūpa is not. Why then can she see Śyāmasundara?”

Lalitā approaches Rūpamañjarī with great affection and quickly asks, “Rūpa, is Śyāmasundara truly standing here?”

“Yes, Lalitā Rānī. Look, He is smiling and looking toward you.”

In profound astonishment Lalitā immediately asks, “Rūpa, then why can I not see Him?” Rūpamañjarī grows ever more unsteady with love. Lalitā goes and supports her, and leaning upon Lalitā she slowly sinks down at her feet. Lalitā remains thoughtful for a few moments, then says, “Very well, Rūpa. Ask Śyāmasundara why He is visible to you.”

Rūpamañjarī looks toward the tamāla for some time and says, “Lalitā Rānī, beloved Śyāmasundara says...” Her throat fills and her voice fails before she can finish. With deep affection Lalitā urges, “Yes, yes, what does He say? Speak!”

Regaining herself a little, Rūpamañjarī says, “Beloved Śyāmasundara says, ‘Only a moment ago my darling Rādhā pressed you to Her heart. That is why you can see Me.’”

Hearing this, Rādhā bursts into delighted laughter. Lalitā, however, appears so disordered that she seems to be pondering something with great seriousness. Rūpamañjarī now goes and stands beside Rādhā. In a somewhat grave voice Rādhā asks Lalitā, “Well, do you believe now? You were calling me mad, were you not?”

In a voice laden with anguish Lalitā says, “Rūpa, ask Śyāmasundara once why He is deceiving me. I cannot see Him. Why is that?”

Rūpamañjarī again looks toward the tamāla, then says, “Lalitā Rānī, ah, look! Standing right beside your right shoulder He says, ‘Rūpa, if I do not deceive Lalitā and the others, a whole gathering of madwomen will assemble here. My beloved Rādhā is already mad. If Lalitā also becomes mad, who will care for my sovereign of life, Rādhā?’”

While speaking to Lalitā, Rūpamañjarī begins to swoon with love. Lalitā's face too becomes utterly flushed under the force of loving ecstasy, and her mind sinks and rises in an ocean of feeling. She is about to speak when Rādhā, like one completely maddened, suddenly races southward.

Her wrap falls from Her body, and the end of Her veil is on the verge of slipping from Her head. As She runs She calls aloud, “Look! I shall catch Him now. I know how to run too.”

Seeing Her condition, Lalitā's mood changes at once. She runs swiftly after Rādhā to protect Her and catches hold of Her. Rādhā had been running so hard that Her whole body is drenched in perspiration. The instant Lalitā catches Her, She cries, “Let me go, let me go! Otherwise He will get far ahead.”

Rādhā struggles vigorously to free Herself, but cannot. Helpless, She turns a piteous gaze upon Lalitā. She experiences Śyāmasundara running south along the path and believes that She too is running to catch Him. Unable to escape Lalitā's hold, She calls loudly, “Beloved, stop!” At once She experiences Śyāmasundara standing about one and a half or two yards to the south, facing Her. Rejoicing that He has stopped, She says to Lalitā, “Look there! Ah, my Lord of life has honored my words. Seeing me exhausted, He has stopped.”

Lalitā looks, but sees nothing behind them except flowering bushes. Suddenly Rādhā no longer sees Śyāmasundara there. With a cry born of the anguish of Her very life, She clasps Her forehead in both hands and sinks down. Lalitā reflects and devises a way to tell this maddened friend that Śyāmasundara is waiting in her bower. She signals to Viśākhā. Rādhā sits with head lowered, almost lifeless. Gently shaking Her shoulder, Viśākhā says, “Mad girl! You sit here like a stone image while beloved Śyāmasundara waits for you in the campā grove.”

Rādhā slowly turns toward Viśākhā and after a few moments asks, “Girl, was I truly deluded? Is beloved Śyāmasundara not there?”

Viśākhā answers quickly, “Yes, sister, you were deluded.” Hearing this, Rādhā grows grave, rises, and quietly begins walking south along the path with a calm bearing.

Lalitā wishes to keep her maddened friend somehow occupied while they walk, for only then can they arrive quickly. Otherwise, who knows into what ecstasy She may fall before reaching the bower? If nothing else, let Her at least walk peacefully as far as the Girivara stream, after which there will be no danger. With this in mind Lalitā says, “You had said that you would tell me your dream. Tell it now.”

As though awakening from sleep, Śrī Priyā asks, “What dream?”

“Have you forgotten? You said that at the time of dawn today you were seeing a most beautiful dream.”

Delight spreads over Rādhā's face. “Yes, I did say so. Truly, Lalite, it was a beautiful dream.” Lalitā eagerly urges Her to recount it.

Rādhā starts to speak, pauses, and then smiles. “Look, pressed to my beloved's heart, I had remained absorbed in bliss. Not for a moment had sleep come to me during the night, but just before the final moment preceding dawn, my eyes closed. I saw that it was evening. I had come to the bathing place at Keli-sarovara to bathe before worshipping Gaurī. Clouds covered the sky. No sooner had I set foot upon the landing than I saw beloved Śyāmasundara standing beside a bush in the northeastern corner. My beloved gazed fixedly at me, and I gazed fixedly at Him.”

“Just then a violent wind arose. Darkness spread in every direction, and lightning flashed again and again. By its light I saw Him beckoning me with His hands. Like one maddened, I ran. Raindrops fell heavily upon my sari. Lalite, I felt it become completely drenched. Wrapping that wet sari around me, I hurried toward beloved Śyāmasundara, but my feet would not lift. My heart longed to run and reach my beloved, yet I could not. My mind grew desperate. Just then I saw that He Himself had come to me. Love poured from His eyes. The moment He arrived, He said tenderly, ‘Beloved, you are soaked through. Come, let us go into that mango bower. You may leave when the force of the rain has diminished.’

“Lalite, hearing my beloved's words, my heart overflowed. My eyes too filled, as though my heart had become water and begun flowing toward Him. Beloved Śyāmasundara then lifted me with immense tenderness. Only my feet remained upon the earth, while I placed the entire weight of my body upon Him as we walked. Nearby was a bower of densely growing mango trees, and we hid within its shelter. The force of the wind was very slight there. With His loving hands, beloved Śyāmasundara removed my wet garments above the waist and covered those limbs with His yellow cloth. Then He wrapped another portion of His yellow garment below my waist, took my wet scarf in His hands, and began to wring it out. Ah, Lalite! As beloved Śyāmasundara wrung it, streams of water fell upon His feet. At that moment my heart became ever more filled with boundless love.”

As Rādhā recounts the dream to Lalitā, Her heart fills with love. Lalitā interrupts, “Mad girl, have you forgotten? This very event occurred on Ananta-caturdaśī. You yourself told me.”

Lalitā's words startle Rādhā. Her beautiful lotus face assumes the expression of one trying to remember. After standing silently for a few moments, She says, “Yes, girl, that is right. Now I truly remember. Look, perhaps today I did not sleep at all. I was lying with my face hidden against my beloved's heart. On the day of Ananta worship, while describing meditation upon the Kaustubha jewel, you said that the Kaustubha rests upon Lord Ananta's heart. You continued describing the jewel, but my mind became so absorbed in contemplating the beauty of beloved Śyāmasundara's broad chest that I could hear no more of what you said. I began to think: Ah, when beloved Śyāmasundara encircles my neck with His arm and draws me to His heart, my head comes to rest upon His chest. My beloved becomes immersed in joy, but could my hard head be hurting His chest?

“As I lay with my head hidden against my beloved's chest, I suddenly became absorbed in that very feeling again. While I was thinking this, He pressed me tightly within the circle of His arms. With the ardor of His own heart, my beloved filled my mind. Then the scene of the evening bath on that day after the worship began to dance before me. I became wholly absorbed in its contemplation and began to experience everything just as before. When Sārī called, my eyes opened. I thought I had seen a dream. Truly, I had become confused.”

As Rādhā speaks, She suddenly stops and listens. After a few moments She says, “Oh, listen carefully. Is He calling me by name?”

The hearts of the beautiful women of Vraja, steeped in wondrous love, are in truth so completely filled with love for Śyāma that the intellect of the human world cannot even imagine the contours of those nectarean hearts. The Bhāgavata describes how the women of Vraja fearfully place Śyāmasundara's lotus feet upon their breasts, anxious that their own hard hearts might hurt their beloved's tender feet:

“Beloved, fearing for Your fine lotus feet, we place them gently upon our breasts.”

Śrīmad-Bhāgavata 10.31.19

Today I had gone among the bowers when drops poured from dense and lowering clouds.

Deva says: Seeing Hari drenched, the thief of my heart suddenly came near.

At the sheltered bank of the bowers I gathered it in a knot, wrapping the loosened end around my waist.

Love in my heart increased fourfold as He wrung the dripping scarf beneath the vines.

Rādhā's sweet voice sets the forest ringing. Lalitā and the others become somewhat reassured, for they are now far from the cowherd settlement, have left the dense woodland behind, and have entered the bounds of their own bowers. Again and again Rādhā repeats the final line: “As He wrung the dripping scarf beneath the vines.”

At that moment She sees beloved Śyāmasundara standing near the bridge on the road between the bowers of Raṅgadevī and Campakalatā, where the road crosses the Girivara stream. She races there to catch Him, saying, “Look there, look there! He has come again. He is standing there.”

All the sakhīs run after Her. Rādhā quickly crosses the bridge, but the moment She arrives Śyāmasundara disappears. With an anxious, astonished gaze She searches all around, thinking He must be hiding nearby. She first places Her hands upon the enclosing wall of Campakalatā's bower, thinking He may have gone that way. Then She searches beside the wall of Raṅgadevī's bower, wondering whether He has hidden inside it. Next She descends the steps of the stream beside the bridge to see whether He is concealed beneath it. Returning disappointed, She looks straight north along the road. There She suddenly sees Śyāmasundara standing near Rādhākuṇḍa. Her joy has no limit. She runs swiftly toward Him, calling, “Bravo, bravo! I surrender myself to such agility. How quickly You reached there!”

Speaking thus, She races on and within moments arrives with the speed of lightning. Yet the instant She reaches the place, Śyāmasundara is again nowhere to be seen.

Rādhā looks here and there. Then She sees Śyāmasundara standing beneath the bridge in the section between Rādhākuṇḍa and Kṛṣṇakuṇḍa. This time She sits down and says with a sulking air, “Go! Now I shall not look at You. You keep running away and leaving me behind.”

She closes Her eyes for a few moments, then looks there again. Now Śyāmasundara's graceful form and heart-stealing glance make Her lose all self-awareness. Once more She runs. As She nears the eastern boundary of the kuṇḍa, Her foot falters. In a state like utter madness, She collapses heavily upon the ground and lies unconscious on the grass. Lalitā and the others come running. Seeing white foam emerging from Rādhā's mouth, every face turns pale. Lalitā instantly lifts Her into her lap and wipes Her face with the end of her garment, but Rādhā does not regain consciousness.

At that very moment Vṛndā comes out from Indulekhā's bower. A grave silence falls over everyone. At Viśākhā's command, Madhumatī begins to sing in a sweet voice. As soon as the music starts, Rādhā's condition appears to improve, so Madhumatī sings with still greater yearning:

Some dark-complexioned maiden keeps passing to and fro this way.

The more my eyes behold her, friend, the more my heart longs for her.

Her face enchants even Madana's heart, and curling locks fall above it.

As I gaze upon that captivating form's sweetness, how lovely is her attire.

Her dark complexion has pierced my heart; her wine-brimming eyes are intoxicated.

The enchantress of beauty has cheated me, friend. Without seeing her I have no peace.

Her great arms steal away composure, and her gait is that of a proud elephant.

The heart that beholds her goes away with her. Such is that forest-garlanded one.

Though I counsel my mind, it will not understand. It remains spellbound and lost.

Rāmarāya says: “O friend, she who is united with that Lord is herself Bhagavān.”

The moment the song ends, awareness returns. Rādhā opens Her eyes, Her face covered in profound gravity. Slowly She sits up, then rises with Lalitā's support. Holding Her, Lalitā begins toward her own bower. They cross the road east of Rādhākuṇḍa, enter the bower lands, proceed directly north, and reach the campā grove.

One sakhī gives a signal, and Rādhā looks east. A maidservant of Vṛndā approaches from that direction and whispers something into Lalitā's ear. With a gesture filled with affection, Rādhā asks the maidservant something without words. The maid points toward Lalitā. After thinking for a few moments, Lalitā leads everyone onward through the campā grove and then turns toward its northwestern corner. Before long they reach its boundary. Pausing briefly, they again proceed due north and enter the grove of custard-apple trees. After some time a beautiful mulberry tree comes into view. Lalitā looks questioningly at the maidservant who had just come from Vṛndā. The maid nods. Holding Rādhā's arm, Lalitā leads Her to that very tree, and there they stand.