The Cow-Milking Līlā

May Śrī Priyā and Her Beloved be victorious!

The Cow-Milking Līlā

Śrī Priyā stands facing west upon the highest terrace of Her palace, both hands resting upon its parapet. A mañjarī stands at Her right. Śrī Priyā gazes toward Nanda’s cowshed. With an intoxicating gait Śyāmasundara approaches to milk the cows, while His companions walk before and behind Him carrying milk pails.

Beloved Śyāmasundara holds His flute in His right hand. At times His left arm rests upon Subala’s shoulder; at others He lowers it. Now and then He lifts His scarf with His left hand to wipe His face. His gaze repeatedly returns to Śrī Priyā. Through the center of the cowshed run eleven feeding platforms from east to west. Each is a yard high, a yard wide, and two hundred yards long, fashioned from a brilliantly gleaming metal. At intervals of about a yard, beautiful vessels are set into the platforms. Cows stand on both sides eating grass and grain.

Many cowherds and maidservants of Queen Nanda are engaged in service, and Nandarāya himself is present. Because Śyāmasundara is there, a flood of joy rises in every heart. Some calves drink from their mothers’ udders, while others frolic here and there with foam upon their mouths. Some cows abandon their fodder, raise their tails, and begin leaping. The cowherds try to restrain them. When a cow leaps so vigorously that they cannot manage her, a cowherd says, “Look, beloved Śyāmasundara is coming. If you do not eat your grass and grain, He will be grieved. He told us to feed you.”

At once the cow grows calm, places her mouth peacefully into the fodder vessel, and begins eating. Śyāmasundara reaches the row of cows. A cowherd is feeding one of them. Standing beside him, Śyāmasundara says, “Uncle, today I shall milk the cow.”

Śyāmasundara’s nectarean voice sends love coursing through the cowherd’s entire body. Overwhelmed, he embraces Śyāmasundara and stands motionless for some time, holding Him to his heart as if bereft of life. When he recovers, he says, “No, son, You watch. I shall milk her before You.”

Śyāmasundara becomes lovingly insistent. “No, no, uncle. Please grant My request today.”

The cowherd’s eyes fill and his throat chokes with love. Śyāmasundara takes his hand, and the cowherd says in a faltering voice, “Ah, Your tender hands will begin to ache, my darling boy!”

“No, uncle,” Śyāmasundara replies. “Just watch today. They will not ache at all.”

After reflecting for a while, the cowherd agrees. Śyāmasundara tucks the flute into His waistband, takes the milk pail from Subala, and sits beside the cow. The instant He approaches her udder, the calf stops drinking and begins sniffing Śyāmasundara’s body. The mother too abandons her grain and grass, brings her muzzle near His shoulder, and inhales His fragrance. Milk swells within her udder. Śyāmasundara places the vessel beneath it and begins to milk with His fingers. His fingers merely touch the heavy teats, and the milk streams by itself. It flows so rapidly that milk immediately gathers in the vessel with a resonant rumbling sound. In a short while the pail is full.

Śyāmasundara rises laughing, gives the vessel to the cowherd, and pats the cow’s body. “My darling Śyāmalī! Maddened by love for Me, you wish Me to milk you more. But My Mohanā will remain hungry. So no, not now. I shall milk you again in the morning.”

• Śyāmasundara has named this cow’s calf “Mohanā.”

Śyāmasundara then takes the calf’s muzzle and brings it to the udder. Immersed in love, however, the calf turns away and gently rubs his neck against Śyāmasundara’s hand. Śyāmasundara coaxes him in a sweet voice, “No, My Mohanā, drink a little.”

Madhumaṅgala says, “Look, Kānū! As long as You remain here, neither Your Mohanā will drink milk nor Your Śyāmalī eat grass.”

Madhumaṅgala draws Śyāmasundara away toward the cow’s tail. Śyāmalī begins to low. Śyāmasundara quietly returns and says, “My darling Śyāmalī, eat your grass. Meanwhile I shall milk Śvetālikā.”

Hearing this, Śyāmalī begins to eat and Śyāmasundara moves onward. In this way every cow being milked feels that He has come personally to her. One experiences that beloved Śyāmasundara milked her with His own hands. Another feels that although a cowherd milked her, Śyāmasundara patted her all the while. One feels that He fed her grain with His own hand; another that He placed a garland around her neck; another that He anointed her horns with ghee using His own cloth. In short, every cow and calf tastes in some form the bliss of Śyāmasundara’s touch, and all become immersed in joy.

Śyāmasundara reaches the eastern boundary wall of the cowshed, beside which rests a beautiful stone platform rising two yards above the ground, with steps leading upward. He climbs it and sits facing south with His legs dangling. From here Śrī Priyā can clearly see Śyāmasundara, and He can clearly see Her. Subala, Madhumaṅgala, Śrīdāma, and the other companions also gather upon the platform, some sitting and others standing, all facing their beloved friend. Śyāmasundara draws the flute from His waistband and begins filling it with melody. Waves of supremely sweet sound resound throughout the cowshed.

The stream of melody reaches Śrī Priyā’s ears, but there it assumes an even more extraordinary form. She distinctly feels that Her beloved Lord of life has gathered all the love of His heart and is singing in the sweetest voice:

“You are My adornment, You are My very life, You are the jewel in the ocean of My worldly existence. May You remain ever lovingly responsive to Me, for therein lies My heart’s most earnest endeavor.”

(Gīta-govinda 10.20)

“Beloved, You are the beauty of My life. No, My beloved, You are My very life. You pervade Me as every atom of My life-breath and cling to every atom of My body as its ornament. Ah, for a destitute person like Me, You are a priceless jewel. I remain afloat in the ocean of existence only because I long for such a priceless jewel as You. Queen of My heart, You Yourself know whether I speak truth or falsehood. Every chamber of My heart strives only that all the love of Your tender heart may flow ceaselessly toward Me, forever fulfilling and blessing Me.”

The effect of Śyāmasundara’s melody upon Śrī Priyā is so profound that She can no longer remain standing. Her feet falter and every limb begins to tremble. The mañjarī catches Her in her arms and slowly leads Her to a bench to the north. Śrī Priyā sits motionless for several moments while wave after wave of emotion rises within Her heart. Then, wearing a grave expression, She stands and returns to the parapet. Moving a little southward, She stops beside a vast kadamba tree growing below. It rises fifteen or twenty cubits above the parapet, and several of its branches touch the terrace. Śrī Priyā grasps a twig and plucks one leaf, then another, as though wishing to join the two. Finding no means to fasten them, She places the second leaf within Her bodice. Her eyes brim with tears and remain fixed upon Śyāmasundara.

Even now Śrī Priyā hears clearly within Śyāmasundara’s flute, “You are My adornment; You are My very life...”

Priyā begins humming in precisely the same melody, though Her voice is indistinct. After humming for a few moments, She asks the mañjarī to bring the betel casket. When it arrives, Śrī Priyā gestures for something. Understanding Her sign, the mañjarī opens the casket and swiftly cuts a clove with the nut-cutter into a slender stylus, then places it in Her hand. Humming, Śrī Priyā writes upon the kadamba leaf:

“The intimate conversations that awaken love within the heart, Your smiling face and loving glances, Your broad chest, the abode of Śrī: beholding them, My mind is repeatedly bewildered by overwhelming longing.”

(Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam 10.31.17)

Having written this, She looks toward beloved Śyāmasundara and says, “Support of My life, I remember everything. Ah, could I ever forget that vision?”

Śrī Priyā reflects for a while, then says, “O wind, just as you have brought the fragrance of my Lord’s limbs concealed within your heart, conceal this letter there as well and carry it to Him.”

After this prayer She tosses the leaf into the sky and closes Her eyes for a few moments. The leaf hovers in the air and falls below the terrace, but the Queen does not see it. Immersed in love, She believes that the wind has carried Her letter away, and every atom of Her being fills with joy.

Only moments later Her love-filled eyes become restless. She longs to see Her Lord read the letter. When some time passes, She tells the mañjarī, “Look and see whether the letter has reached Śyāmasundara. My eyes cannot see clearly. Surely it must have reached Him!”

Hearing the Queen, the mañjarī wonders what reply she should give. At that moment Madhumaṅgala shakes Śyāmasundara’s shoulder and shows Him something in his hand. The Queen assumes that Madhumaṅgala has given Him Her letter upon the leaf and cries, “Look, He is reading the letter.”

The instant She says this, the Queen faints. The mañjarī catches Her. When Priyā’s face disappears from view, Śyāmasundara stops playing His flute, rises, and looks toward the terrace. Within moments Śrī Priyā regains consciousness on Her own. Leaning Her weight upon the parapet, She gazes once more at beloved Śyāmasundara.

Just then Nandarāya swiftly approaches the place where Śyāmasundara stands. Seeing His father, Śyāmasundara appears slightly embarrassed and quickly descends from the stone platform. Nandarāya immediately embraces Him. After a moment he says, “Son, Your mother is becoming distraught, asking where her Kanuā has gone. Come quickly!”

Hearing His father, Śyāmasundara starts at once. He has moved only a short distance westward when He sees Mother Yaśodā approaching. Their eyes meet, and the sight of Him brings her some relief. She had been searching among the crowd of cows for her darling, but Śyāmasundara had reached the far eastern edge of the cowshed and she could not find Him. This had made her frantic. Śyāmasundara comes to Mother Yaśodā. She presses Him to her heart, inhales the fragrance of His head, takes His hand, and begins walking toward the palace.

Śyāmasundara says, “Mother, let Me remain a little longer. I shall see that the cows reach their proper resting places.”

Mother replies, “No, my darling. It has grown dark. Come home now.”

Śyāmasundara cannot resist His mother’s loving insistence, so she leads Him toward the palace while the other cowherds drive the cows to their resting place.

The cows and calves repeatedly look back toward Śyāmasundara. He reaches the veranda of His palace, while the Queen watches without blinking. Standing there for several moments, Śyāmasundara also gazes toward Her palace. Then Mother Yaśodā insistently leads Him inside. When He disappears from the Queen’s sight, She closes Her eyes. After standing for a while, She sits upon the terrace. The mañjarī sits before Her. Resting a hand upon the mañjarī’s left shoulder, the Queen looks at her face for several moments. The mañjarī says, “My Queen, please come downstairs now.”

The Queen gives no reply. After a moment She begins singing softly with a sorrowful expression:

Enchanting is His form, dark and lovely His countenance, and vast His eyes. The nectar-filled flute adorns His lips, and a vaijayantī garland rests upon His breast. O Nandalāla, dwell within my eyes.

After repeating this brief refrain once or twice, the Queen falls silent. A few moments later She embraces the mañjarī and begins to weep. The mañjarī cannot understand how to console Her. Lalitā and the others have gone to Mother Yaśodā’s house carrying many delicacies. The Queen had prepared abundant food for beloved Śyāmasundara, and they have taken it there. One or two other mañjarīs remain downstairs, but only this mañjarī is now with the Queen.

After shedding tears for some time, the Queen grows quiet and says, “Sing today that song which you sang so sweetly the other day.”

The mañjarī begins:

Beloved, pay no heed to anything else. Come, companion, let us meet and preserve Him within our eyes, drinking their nectar. Let us live by beholding the lovely face of dark and graceful Śyāma. Whatever guise will bring us Hari, let us assume that very guise. Mīrā’s Lord is Giridhara, the urbane lover, who is won by the greatly fortunate.