The Festival of the Birth

Hari is glorious.

Contemplation on the Divine Pastimes of Śrī Kṛṣṇa

The Festival of the Birth

Yaśodā, mistress of Vraja's kingly household, sits silently and motionless, her eyes closed, leaning against a jewel-studded wall. Śrī Rohiṇī's eyes are also closed. All the other attendants, overcome by sleep, have likewise lost awareness of the outer world. Thus no one saw the Supreme Brahman, bearing a divine human form, enter the lying-in chamber. Yet the instant He arrived, the entire chamber was flooded with a wholly new current of spiritual rasa, and every atom there became immersed in it. The swoon of Vraja's queen, born of the pains of childbirth and inspired by divine play, and the drowsiness and sleep of Rohiṇī and the attendants, induced by Yogamāyā, were transformed at the touch of that rasa into a spiritual absorption of sacred emotion.

Śrī Hari, the very source of existence, consciousness, and bliss, lies in infant form against Yaśodā's lap. If, through boundless good fortune, some poet had received eyes more divine than the divine, had beheld the beauty of that moment, and had gained the power to express the vision in words, he could only have said this: it was as though an astonishing, unprecedented, utterly new blue lotus had just blossomed in a lake filled with the nectarean rasa of spiritual consciousness and bliss. It was a lotus such as had never existed before, one whose fragrance no honey-scent-seeking bee had ever inhaled, whose perfume the wind had never enjoyed the fulfilment of carrying away, which no water had ever produced, which the restless waves playing upon the bosom of the water could not boast of having made tremble, and which no one anywhere had ever seen.

Unsmelled by bees, its fragrance never carried off by the winds,

never born in any water, never struck by masses of wave-drops,

and never seen by anyone anywhere, that radiant splendour appeared

in Yaśodā's lap like a blue lotus from the lake of consciousness and bliss.

(Śrī Ānanda-vṛndāvana-campū)

• The meaning is this: the sweetness of Śrī Kṛṣṇa's incomparable and faultlessly beautiful form had never been experienced even by the devotees, represented by the bees, in any previous incarnation. Even the sovereign poets, represented by the winds, had never before unfolded such unequalled beauty of form while describing the Lord's pastimes. The Lord had never appeared in the phenomenal world, represented by the waters, in such an incomparably beautiful, sweet, and enchanting form. This form lies wholly beyond the three guṇas, represented by the multitude of wave-drops.

Moved by the great power of His inconceivable līlā, Mother Rohiṇī is the first to open her eyes. She understands that Yaśodā has given birth to a son. The attendants also awaken. But the beauty of that infant, radiant like a blue sapphire, is so extraordinary that they can only gaze at Him with unblinking eyes; no one remembers the duty of the moment. They hear the newborn child's soft, indistinct crying, yet all remain exactly where they stand, like wooden dolls. Excess of joy has left their bodies entirely powerless. Surely the all-pervading Lord, the indwelling witness of all, remains alert even within bodies rendered helpless. Seeing the delay, it is as though He Himself speaks through Śrī Rohiṇī's mouth: "Girls! Will you all do nothing but stare? Let someone run and give the news to the lord of Vraja." Indeed, had the indwelling Lord not spoken, who knows how much longer Śrī Hari in infant form would have had to cry before drinking the rasa of maternal affection? Rohiṇī is senseless with joy, and the power to give the proper instruction at the proper moment has completely deserted her. Be that as it may,

This command set ripples moving through the stream of joy flowing in the attendants' innermost hearts. In the very next moment the lying-in chamber rang with a tumult of delight. At once everyone took up the work that had to be done. One ran toward the cowsheds to inform the lord of Vraja, another went to summon the midwife, another returned within moments after giving the supremely auspicious news to Upananda's wife, another reached the home of the shehnai player, while yet another, like a woman gone mad, ran through all of Vraja township announcing the news with all manner of unrestrained cries of joy. All this was taking place, but within the chamber the queen of Vraja remained immersed in an indescribable absorption of sacred emotion.

Upananda's wife arrives, and soon groups of townswomen begin to gather in Nanda's courtyard. The tremendous sound of rejoicing makes not only the birth chamber but the entire palace resound. The queen of Vraja's absorption gradually relaxes, and she slowly opens her eyes and begins to look around. After gazing for a few moments, she understands that the child in her womb has been born. But what is this? Wonder and fear spread across the mother's face. She sees her own face reflected in the infant's dark limbs and thinks, "How can this possibly be?" The heart of the mother, filled with parental love, trembles with fear of misfortune. She thinks, "Surely, while I lay unconscious, some yoginī who steals infants came here by magic, assuming my appearance, and now hovers in the air. This is her reflection. Alas! Alas! Nṛsiṁha! Glory to Nṛsiṁha! Protect us. By the power of Nṛsiṁha's fear-dispelling name, may that yoginī be destroyed. Nṛsiṁha! Nṛsiṁha! Ḍākinī, go away, or you will be destroyed." In an anguished voice the queen of Vraja pours out many words at once. Her distress breaks the concentration of her gaze, and the reflection disappears. At that very instant the rasa of affection stored in the heart of Yaśodā, the embodied concentration of parental rasa, surges upward, enters her eyes, and, finding no obstacle before it, begins to fall as teardrops. Overcome with feeling, Nanda's queen savours her son's beauty by lowering her head deeply, tilting it to the left, turning it to the right, and lifting it high. As she moves, the falling teardrops form the shape of a garland. It is as if the mother has offered a flawless pearl necklace as her first gift. The gift is perfectly fitting, for the rule of divine worship is that the garland is offered first and only then the food offering. Here too the deity of love is being worshipped. Whatever the articles used in the highest worship of spontaneous love may be, why should the rule be transgressed? It is therefore as though Mother Yaśodā offers a lovely garland of teardrops before presenting the offering of her breast-milk, the very essence of parental rasa.

Learning that her child was born, she bent down to behold him;

seeing her own form reflected in his body, she anxiously took it for another.

Intent on driving that figure away, crying, "Begone from here!", she gazed upon his face

and offered, as if a necklace of pearls, the drops of her loving tears.

(Śrī Ānanda-vṛndāvana-campū)

Meanwhile, an attendant comes to Vraja's king, Nanda, who is engaged in milking the cows, to give him the news. It is his daily practice to enter the cowsheds himself after midnight and tend the cows. He has come today as usual. Remembering Nārāyaṇa, his chosen Lord, he stands beside a cow. The attendant says, "Most fortunate one, you have been blessed with the jewel of a son." It seems to Vraja's king that someone has suddenly poured nectar into his ears. No, more than that, a vast ocean of nectar begins to surge all around him, and he sinks into it. Not only this: the powerful current of the Mandākinī of bliss forms a whirlpool in that ocean. Vraja's king is caught in the vortex and turns round and round, while the Mandākinī of bliss winds her arms around him and whirls him about.

As though he had entered vast oceans of nectar, as though he had been embraced by the Mandākinī of bliss.

(Śrī Ānanda-vṛndāvana-campū)

Losing awareness of the outer world, Nanda Bābā, lord of Vraja, enters the realm of inner consciousness. A scene from the past appears before him. Vraja's king is saying to Vraja's queen, "Beloved, I know clearly that the success of the many sacrificial rites I have performed, the Putreṣṭi and others, seems impossible. Yet, seeing the insistence of our family and cowherd kinsmen, I consent to their arrangements. The result must accord with the resolve made at the rite. How can a resolve for an impossible thing possibly succeed? Whenever I sit to make the solemn resolve at the beginning of a rite, my mind conceives a singular son. Tell me, can anyone in the three worlds, at any time, be more beautiful than Nārāyaṇa, my chosen Lord? Impossible, utterly impossible! Yet at the very moment of the resolve, the figure of just such a boy is engraved upon the ground of my heart, a boy of indescribable, endless, immeasurable beauty, even more beautiful than my chosen Lord Nārāyaṇa. Oh! At that moment I see plainly that this child is seated in your lap, playing upon your milk-flowing breasts. Beholding his dark limbs and his restless, lovely, long eyes, I become completely enchanted. I cannot tell whether it is a dream or waking. I am wholly unable to decide what it truly is. I have thought that I should ask you whether the same experience arises in your heart at that time."

A dark child with restless, lovely, long eyes is clearly seen by me,

playing in your lap upon your breasts flowing with milk.

Is this a dream, or is it waking? What else could it be? I cannot decide.

Tell me truly, my virtuous wife: does this same child appear within you too?

(Śrī Gopāla-campū)

The queen of Vraja replied, "My lord, at that very time exactly the same vision arises in me. Out of modesty I have not been able to tell you until now."

In a single instant, Vraja's king, unaware of the outer world, beholds this entire scene. The attendant stands watching his condition, not knowing what he sees. Addressing the other cowherds, she says, "All of you come. Release the calves and let them drink. Come just once and behold that wondrous child. Your eyes will be soothed. Never before..." While speaking, the attendant sits down right there. She nearly forgets that she came to summon Nanda Rāya. The birth chamber appears before her eyes, and while sitting there she begins to behold the infant who is a treasury of beauty.

Vraja's king is still savouring that current of emotion in his mind. He sees that they have worshipped Śrī Nārāyaṇa for a full year. Appearing in a dream, Śrī Nārāyaṇa says, "Noblest of cowherds, he is indeed your eternally perfected son. Your resolve will soon come true." Some days pass after this event. Today is the first lunar day of the dark fortnight of Māgha, and the night appears endowed with a strange splendour. Suddenly awakening from drowsiness, the queen of Vraja says, "Lord, just now I saw clearly that the very same child emerged from your heart and entered mine. There is another astonishing thing. A radiant divine maiden seems to form a covering over his beautiful dark body. At first glance he appears to be a luminous girl, but when one looks with a little greater attention, his incomparably beautiful dark form becomes plainly visible." Hearing this, Vraja's king is entranced with joy. He too has already had such an experience.

The sequence of events just described is not an imagined construction in the mind of Vraja's king. It took place exactly in this form. The attendant's words merely awakened the memory of the past, causing the king to see that event as though it were occurring at this very moment. In any case, through some unknown prompting, the words once again ring in Nanda Rāya's ears: "Most fortunate one, you have been blessed with the jewel of a son." Nanda Rāya opens his eyes and immediately runs toward the palace, with the attendant running behind him. As he goes, he wonders, "Has that very same dark child truly been born?" Yet discernment has vanished in the swelling flood of joy within his heart, and his power of thought is tossed and made restless by waves of bliss. Who, then, could reach a conclusion? The lord of Vraja cannot decide.

The child was born together with overwhelming joy. Could it be that he was that very child?

Nanda's usually discerning mind had no power to distinguish the truth in this way.

(Śrī Gopāla-campū)

Arriving at the courtyard before the birth chamber, Vraja's king comes to a halt. He has come with a life-breath full of longing to behold his son's face, yet he cannot see him. The doors of the chamber stand open, but the families of Upananda and Sunanda and the crowd of neighbouring gopīs form a barrier stronger than the doors themselves. Whenever the lord of Vraja had entered the inner apartments before, the gopīs would draw their veils and move aside. Today, however, delight has made them unaware even that he stands there waiting for a path. Nanda Rāya's very life grows restless. Just then a small opening appears for a few moments between the gopīs who are looking in, and the lord of Vraja receives a clear glimpse of his son. Ah! It is he, it is he! That very child has truly come! At once a gopī steps before the opening, the gap closes, and Vraja's king closes his eyes too. Yet wonder of wonders, now no obstruction seems to remain. The lord of the cowherds sees clearly that the infant lies on his back upon the birthing couch. What is this child? He is like a blossoming flower in a garden of wish-fulfilling trees formed from the accumulated merit of countless births. No, more than that, he is the sweet fruit of the whole spreading row of wish-fulfilling vines that are the Upaniṣads.

Like the flower of a garden of wish-fulfilling trees that has arisen after a very long age;

like the fruit of the entire expanse of wish-fulfilling vines that are the Upaniṣads.

(Śrī Ānanda-vṛndāvana-campū)

Upananda arrived even before Nanda. He is occupied with the arrangements required at the moment and has already sent messengers to summon the brāhmaṇas. Now, near the arched gateway, he is instructing the kettledrum players to proclaim the news throughout Vraja. In a voice choked with emotion, he says:

Fill your eyes with the sight of Nanda's prince.

The moon has risen from Yaśomatī's womb to illumine all Vraja.

Let no cow, calf, or cowherd go to the forest today.

Come together in your finest dress and bring every kind of ornament.

Adorn each doorway with turmeric, sacred grass, unbroken rice, curd, and vermilion.

Fashion courtyard designs from many kinds of pearls and sing auspicious songs.

The shehnai players arrive with their entire company. The kettledrum players strike the first beat, and in the next moment the shehnais begin a melody of surpassing sweetness. Making the jewel-studded walls, roof, and pillars of Nanda's palace resound, that melodious sound spreads through all the township of Vraja. The shehnai had been played in Vraja many times before, but today's melody has sounded only today.

The brāhmaṇas have now arrived. The lord of Vraja bathes, adorns himself, and bows to them. After completing the worship of the Mother-goddesses and the Nāndīmukha ancestral rite, he enters the lying-in chamber accompanied by the brāhmaṇas. The birth sacrament begins according to rule. This is the birth sacrament of Him who is eternally unborn. Countless millions of universes abide in every pore of His body, and within each universe a Brahmā carries out the work of creation under His direction. Today that very Lord is being consecrated by Vedic mantras that issued from Brahmā's mouth. What a divine incongruity! O Player in the realm of līlā, blessed is Your pastime that enchants the minds of sages. Be that as it may, after reciting the mantra beginning "Bhūs tvayi," they slightly open the infant's lower lip, which puts the bimba fruit to shame, and place upon it a particle of ghee with the ring finger bearing gold. During the rite for long life, a brāhmaṇa brings his mouth close to the child's right ear to recite the passage beginning "Agnir āyuṣmān." It seems to him that this is not an ear but a newly opened leaf on an indescribable vine of dark radiance. As he chants, the brāhmaṇa's entire body begins to tremble. He wonders why all his limbs are shaking, for such a thing has never happened before. The child is then touched with the mantra beginning "Divas pari," and the ground is consecrated. The child's limbs are wiped once more, and the remaining rites are performed. Finally, with the mantra beginning "Āpo deveṣu," a vessel of water is placed beneath the birthing couch, touching the child's head adorned with clusters of curling hair. In this way the birth sacrament is completed.

Having caused the auspicious benedictions to be recited, he duly performed his son's birth rite,

and likewise arranged the prescribed worship of the ancestors and the gods.

(Śrīmad Bhāgavatam 10.5.2)

Now the midwife cuts the umbilical cord. Whose cord is she cutting?

From whose lotus-stalk arose Brahmā, the first of all, foundation of the universe,

that Lord of Sūradāsa has appeared in Gokula to remove the earth's burden.

He from whose lotus-stalk all the Brahmās arose, and whom yogic vows seek to attain,

a woman of Vraja has cut His cord, divided it, and tied it with thread.

Never in the midwife's life had such a splendid opportunity arisen to claim a ceremonial gift. Merely by seeing this wondrously beautiful child she had already gained everything and become blessed. Yet why should she forsake the rare joy of affectionately quarrelling with Vraja's queen to receive her gift? She must claim it, for she is the midwife of the lord of Vraja's family.

All the other cowherds belong to others; for me, your house alone is home.

The sorrow of a lifetime vanished when I beheld Nanda's darling.

Long have I cherished this hope, and now this quarrelsome woman has begun her quarrel.

And when would Vraja's queen ever fail to answer her?

Nanda's queen smiles within her heart and gives the necklace from her breast.

The lovely and precious necklace of jewels and pearls that had adorned Nanda's queen now swings from the neck of the fortunate midwife. With delighted eyes the nurse looks once toward Vraja's queen and then toward the child, and within moments the cutting of the cord is complete. Until now, reverence for scriptural propriety had remained in the mind of the virtuous queen of Vraja: the birth sacrament must be performed before the child is offered the breast. This rule had stood like a dam in the heart of the mistress of Vraja's kingly house, holding back the currents of parental rasa. Now the rule has been fulfilled. With intense longing, Vraja's queen stretches out her hands, lifts the treasure of her heart, and presses Him to her breast. She opens His lower lip, like the two-petalled bud of a scarlet hibiscus, and places the tip of her breast within it. Milk, the concentrated nectar and essence of parental rasa, begins to flow, and the Supreme Brahman in His extraordinary human form drinks it with profound love and eagerness.

Meanwhile, the lord of Vraja gives honoraria to the brāhmaṇas. On that day Vraja's king gives them two million cows. The cows' horns are sheathed in gold and their hooves in silver, and a necklace of precious gems rests upon the neck of each. All have newly calved. At Vraja's lord's command, seven mountains of sesame are raised without delay. Jewels are spread over them like dense layers of leaves, and the mountains are then covered everywhere with golden cloth. These mountains too are made for the brāhmaṇas and are given to them. When Vraja's king begins to recite the solemn declaration for this gift of mountains, the astonished brāhmaṇas remain speechless for several moments.

All of Vraja is now being decorated. Every palace, every room within each palace, every doorway and courtyard, and every last corner of the entrances and courtyards is first swept and then washed with sandal-scented water. The distilled essence of flowers, perfume, is sprinkled everywhere. Festive hangings of many-coloured cloth and the most tender leaves are tied in place. Flags and banners of varied designs fly in their appointed places. Strings of flower garlands are fastened to jewel-studded pillars and rows of windows. At every doorway stands an auspicious water-filled vessel crowned with mango leaves. Every threshold is ornamented with turmeric, sacred grass, unbroken rice, curd, and vermilion, while ceremonial designs of pearls are laid out at many places.

At one side of the lord of Vraja's beautifully decorated arched gateway, brāhmaṇas seated upon a raised platform recite auspicious words of blessing. A little distance away, Sūtas recite the Purāṇas. Further along, Māgadhas sing the genealogy of the lord of Vraja. Beside them stand rows of bards, singing his praises in sweet voices. Directly opposite the brāhmaṇas is a company of musicians, blending their voices with the vīṇā and unfolding exquisitely sweet melodies. Farther away is a group playing kettle drums, and beyond them other great drums sound. Still farther on, directly opposite the bards, the shehnai players shower rasa as they sound their lovely strains. The royal road runs between them, overflowing with a crowd of cows, cowherd men, and cowherd women.

The cows, calves, and other animals have been coloured with turmeric and oil, painted with red ochre and other mineral pigments, garlanded with peacock feathers and flowers, and adorned with golden chains. The cowherds themselves are dressed in costly garments and ornaments, tunics, and turbans. Carrying in their hands, upon shoulder-yokes, and upon their heads vessels filled with ghee, curd, fresh butter, and curdled milk, all the cowherds of Vraja approach Nanda's house. Behind them the cowherd women come running.

Hearing the news, all the women of Vraja ran forth in their natural adornment.

They wore fresh garments upon their bodies and darkened their eyes with collyrium.

Their bodices were fastened, their brows bore tilaka, and necklaces shone upon their breasts;

bangles graced their hands, and they carried golden trays arranged with auspicious things.

Each group came forth beautifully with its own companions,

like rows of red-robed sages escaping from shattered cages.

In groups of ten or five friends they joined to sing songs of blessing,

like lotus buds opening at dawn when they behold the sun.

They did not notice the cloth at their breasts flying loose, so lovely were their many-coloured saris.

Their faces were adorned with red powder and vermilion touched the parts of their hair.

From their exertion their earrings trembled at their ears and their braided hair loosened;

flowers showered upon their heads like fine droplets falling from clouds.

The cowherd women had been behind the cowherds, yet they arrived first.

Filled with immense joy, the beloved women hastened ahead and arrived first.

Rohiṇī and Upananda's wife welcome the cowherd women. They then enter the lying-in chamber one group after another. Beholding the beautiful face of the infant, they feel that the Creator fashioned eyes solely for the purpose of gazing upon this son of Nanda, and that today the making of their eyes has borne its fruit.

Then, entering the lying-in chamber and beholding that utterly new child, they regarded Him as the very fruit for which eyes had been created.

(Śrī Ānanda-vṛndāvana-campū)

The cowherd women began to bless Nanda's son.

Live long, O joy of Yaśodā, and fulfil every cherished desire.

Blessed, blessed is this day; blessed the night, this watch, this very hour.

Blessed, blessed is the queen's womb, filled with fortune and bridal felicity,

for she has borne such a son and brought every happiness to fruition.

He has established the whole family in security and removed the thorn from every heart.

Protect us here for a long time, O prince of Vraja's king,

O infant, O tender child.

(Śrī Gopāla-campū)

O tender child, O prince of Vraja's king, grow up and protect us for a very long time. Outside, the entire company of Vraja's cowherds has arrived with the cows.

Hearing the news, the cowherds turned back the cows and called the calves to them.

They strung guñjā berries, rubbed on forest pigments, and painted every limb.

With jars of curd and butter upon their heads, they sang new songs,

and all went to Nanda's house while cymbals and mṛdaṅgas sounded beside them.

Nanda greets each person in the fitting manner. Nearly intoxicated with joy, the cowherds splash turmeric and curd and display every kind of ecstatic gesture.

One dances and raises a clamour, scattering turmeric and curd,

as though Bhādoṅ's rains were falling and a river of ghee and milk had begun to flow.

Wherever anyone's mind turns, a fresh wonder appears there;

the cowherds are immersed in the rasa of bliss and no one speaks to another.

One runs to Nanda and falls again and again at his feet;

others laugh together and clasp one another in their arms.

One stands fearless and gives away all his garments;

another places curd, yellow pigment, and sacred grass upon everyone's head.

The cowherds' joyful ecstasy keeps mounting. They draw the elderly lord of Vraja into their midst and pour out so much milk, curd, ghee, and fresh butter that it flows like a river. Many deep pools of milk and curd form, and the bodies of the cowherds rolling in them appear brilliantly white, as though the cowherds were the restless waves of the Ocean of Milk.

At one moment the lord of Vraja comes to bathe in this river of milk and curd; at another he stands at the doorway to scatter heaps of jewels. No one needs to ask. Let any twice-born mendicant merely stand before him, and King Nanda approaches with a sack of gems, a bundle of cloth, and a herd of cattle, ending that person's need to beg forever. It need hardly be said that the Sūtas, Māgadhas, and bards of Vraja's royal household become people who never need to ask again.

There is nothing astonishing in the lord of Vraja's giving away so much wealth. His treasury has now become endless and immeasurable, because He of whose foot-servant Lakṣmī all the wealth of the universe is but a partial manifestation has Himself arrived today as the son of Vraja's lord. A material treasury has a limit. Whatever is removed from it diminishes it by that amount, which must then be replenished. The treasury of Vraja's lord, however, is not material. Whatever he takes from it remains there in equal measure. Even if, to his own understanding, he removes the whole, the whole will still remain. Thus there is neither pause nor reckoning in his giving today; he simply continues to give. Yet as he gives, only one thought remains constantly in the mind of Vraja's lord, a mind suffused with parental love.

May Viṣṇu be pleased by this, and through His pleasure may all be well with my son.

(Śrī Gopāla-campū)

May Nārāyaṇa, my chosen Lord, be pleased by this gift, and by His pleasure may my son be blessed.

Inside the women's apartments, everything is awash in a mire of turmeric and oil. The cowherd women splash turmeric and oil upon one another and come outside as they do so. Beholding the condition of the lord of Vraja and the cowherds, they become immersed in joy and begin to sing.

Friends, behold the king of Gokula,

absorbed in play during the festival of his son's birth.

The whole place, flooded with curd, resembles the ocean,

and he has assumed the guise of Mount Mandara fallen within it.

The cloth tied at his waist has become the king of serpents, and his dear friends

pull him by it, while he is exceedingly delighted.

Again and again he gives gifts difficult to obtain,

and wears an appearance radiant with wonder.

Yet one thing in particular is utterly unprecedented:

the moon was born before this churning even began.

(Śrī Gopāla-campū)

• Friends, just look at Nanda, lord of Gokula. Immersed in the joy of his son's festival, how restless and wholly given to merriment he has become today. Sisters, the scene before me brings the churning of the ocean to mind. Look closely: Vraja, filled with curd, has become like the ocean, and Nanda moves everywhere within it like Mount Mandara. The cloth wrapped around his waist, made slippery with ghee and curd and puffed out, has become exactly like the serpent Vāsuki. His dear friends take hold of it and pull him this way and that, and he is exceedingly pleased. Nor is this all. Just as many jewels emerged during the churning of the ocean, while Mount Mandara brought forth and cast out the ocean's treasures, so Nanda repeatedly begins to scatter heaps of jewels. Ah, what wondrous beauty he bears today. But sisters, what can I say? There is no limit to the marvel, for in this ocean-churning something unprecedented has happened. It is famous everywhere that the moon emerged only after the churning began, once the ocean was being churned. Yet Nanda's infant moon appeared before the churning had even begun.

Today the lord of Vraja has shown the highest honour to Śrī Rohiṇī, and today Rohiṇī has accepted that honour. Before this she had never so much as looked toward the beautiful garments and ornaments in Nanda's house. Separation from her husband and his imprisonment always left her inwardly distressed. Today, however, the instant she sees the face of Yaśodā's son, every pore of her being becomes immersed in bliss. Adorned, therefore, in the divine garments and ornaments given by Nanda, she devotes herself to honouring the women of the town.

The day has passed, yet the enthusiasm of the cowherd men and women has not diminished. Nanda's palace still resounds with the same dancing and the same tumult of joy. An elderly bard too has been singing all day in an exceedingly sweet voice, while an unbroken stream of tears has flowed from his eyes. The sun is now descending toward the western mountain, but, wearing his yellow turban, the bard still blends his voice with the shehnai and sings.

From somewhere today a wondrous rain has come upon this Gokula.

The lord of Vraja has poured down torrents of jewels, gold, and diamonds.

The brāhmaṇa frogs, green with gladness in their hearts, recite the speech of the Vedas;

streams of curd, ghee, water, milk, and many colours flow through drains and channels.

Paṭahas, nisānas, kettle drums, and shehnais thunder with the roar of mighty clouds;

Māgadhas and Sūtas call like rain-thirsty birds and cuckoos, while the bards cry like peacocks.

Nanda has clothed men and women in priceless ornaments and garments,

as though an orchard had brought festoons of branches, fruit, leaves, and flowers.

Filled with joy, the women of Vraja dance in saris of every colour,

each a distinct flash of lightning wrapped in clouds of many hues.

The forest fires of everyone's poverty are quenched, and the lakes of the petitioners are full;

the fair river of blessed fame has swollen and shattered the trees of sin upon its banks.

A lovely young tamāla tree has sprung up, and every heart has blossomed.

Longing for its shade, Gadādhara gazes toward the shelter of its feet.