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Begin in a small bower-house at Yāvaṭa, where Śrīmatī keeps Her days. The light is soft and green, sifted through leaves. And here, by Her grace, the tradition tells us, Śrīpāda Prabodhānanda is no longer himself. A transcendental vision has been granted to him, and in that vision he sees his own form as a young maidservant standing near Her, breathing the same grove-air, waiting only to be useful. This is the secret heart of the whole prayer, and the tradition names it plainly: the desire for Rādhā's maidservice. It is not a wish to behold Rādhā from afar, nor to praise Her from the safe distance of a worshipper. It is a wish to own a body whose every limb has work to do in Her most intimate hours.

Listen, O wind of Vraja, and carry the rest. From somewhere far across the groves, Śyāmasundara lifts His flute to His lips and plays. The enchanting notes come threading through the trees, and the moment they touch Śrīmatī's ear She is undone. She grows restless, then upset, then almost wild with longing; She would rush out this very instant, just as She is, to where that sound is calling. And here is where the maidservant's whole existence flowers into purpose. The little dāsī does not let Her run out unkempt into the night. She pacifies Her: she speaks sweetly of Kṛṣṇa, naming His beauty, His waiting, His love, until Śrīmatī's trembling steadies just enough to be dressed nicely and properly before She goes. To soothe Her by speaking of the very One She aches for: this is the maidservant's first service, and already it is heaven.

Then come the hands. O these hands, what fitting (ucitaṁ) work could there be for them. Upon Śrīmatī's breasts the maidservant paints the patrālī, the kim api leaf-designs, the indescribable tendril-and-vine pictures that adorn a beloved going to her tryst. The tradition lingers tenderly here, that those breasts are like baskets, like brimming vessels that hold everything for Kṛṣṇa, every sweetness reserved for Him alone. And the maidservant's fingers move over them not as one who takes but as one who prepares an offering, decorating the gift before it is given; then she completes the rest of the toilette, the ornaments, the garments, the flowers in the hair, until Śrīmatī stands radiant, made beautiful for Her Beloved by these very hands. The Rādhāvallabha stream gives this whole moment its own loving name: bhṛṅgāra karane kī abhilāṣā, the longing to perform Her adornment. Could any hands ask for more? "O Śrī Rādhe Vinodinī," the heart cries, "ramaṇī-mukuṭa-maṇi: crown-jewel of all ladyloves, You who are absorbed in Kṛṣṇa and are His dearmost: when can my hands serve You by painting these leaves upon Your breasts?"

And then come the feet. Now Śrīmatī can wait no longer. Out She rushes into the dark groves on Her abhisāra, Her secret journey to meet Govinda, and the maidservant follows Her like Her own shadow. O these two feet, let them have this single task: to keep pace behind Her through the kuñjas. The little dāsī is no passive follower; she walks close, whispering courage, making Her Svāminī fearless of the dark, of the path, of the long grass and the night-sounds, steadying Her all the way to the gate of the trysting-bower where Śyāmasundara waits with His own anxious, aching heart. "He hari-garavini," sings the longing, "O You who are proud before Hari: when You go to the play-bower to meet Govinda, then may these two feet of mine follow You there."

And last, O Rādhe, the eyes. When You and Your Beloved meet at the bower's threshold, when the long waiting breaks and Your love-game begins, the maidservant does not stay inside to gaze. She withdraws. She steps out of the arbour and leaves the two of You alone in Your union. But she does not go far. She presses close to the leafy wall and finds the cchidras, the little gaps, the slits between the woven branches, and through those tiny openings her eyes catch a glimpse, only a glimpse, of the hidden play within. These nibhṛta-keli, these wonderful, artful pastimes of union, the tradition sings, are aparūpa keli-kalā, a very storehouse of rasa, a rasera bādara, a rain-cloud of nectar bursting open. "O Haripriyā, Beloved of Hari," Śrīpāda Prabodhānanda pleads at the close, signing his own name into the song, "when can I watch them through the holes in the kuñja-foliage?" Even this, even to be the one outside the bower with her eye at a gap in the leaves, is treasure beyond measure.

See, then, what this longing truly asks, and the Rādhāvallabha gloss lets us hear the speaker's own voice in it, feminine and sure: dekhūṁgī, "when will I, the maidservant, see this day." It does not ask to be the beloved. It asks for hands that paint, feet that follow, eyes that watch from the threshold. It takes the whole body and lays each part down in service to the Yugala-kiśora: the hands to adorn, the feet to escort, the eyes to keep loving vigil at the edge of a joy that belongs to Another. And the only word for such a life would be śubha-dinam, an auspicious day, a blessed day, the one morning worth all the mornings of all the ages. So Śrīpāda does not declare it has come. He asks. He stands at the rim of that grace and pleads, yadā vīkṣe rādhe, when, O Rādhe, when. And in the very asking the door is already trembling toward open, for to want only this, and nothing for oneself, is itself the dawn beginning to break.