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Picture the hour. The sun has gone down behind the kadamba trees, and a full moon climbs the eastern quarter of the sky and pours its milk across all of Vṛndāvana. The Yamunā turns to running silver. And then, threading through that silver, comes a sound no heart in Vraja can refuse: the flute. O that flute. Śyāma is playing, and the Vrajasundarīs, caught by it, rush from their houses to meet Him. He invites them all to the night-tryst, yes; but listen close, and you hear that through the flute He is singing one name above every other, calling Rāseśvarī Rādhikā, the Queen of the rāsa, for without Her He has no taste for the dance at all. The tradition keeps the old line of the Caitanya-caritāmṛta close to its heart: "tāhā vinā rāsalīlā nāhi bhāy cite": without Her, the rāsa-līlā does not please Him.

So the flute-song is really an invitation, a courteous summons riding the breeze straight to Her courtyard; the very waves of the music kneel and beg Rāseśvarī to come to the sweet and beautiful festival. And see how She receives it. As a woman adorns herself before any great festival, so the sakhīs would adorn Her, seeing how eager She is to heed that flute-call. Yet here is the secret the tradition tells so tenderly: already, simply by thinking of the rāsa-festival, Rādhā wears the twenty bhāvālaṅkāras, the emotional ornaments that no jeweller can fashion, the trembling and the flush and the radiance of bhāva itself. Still Her girlfriends long to deck Her on the outside too, to let their own hands serve Her loveliness into the night.

And She cannot do it Herself. She who is expert in all sixty-four arts, who could adorn Herself more exquisitely than any artist alive, cannot now lift Her own hand to the task; the love has driven Her mad. Kṛṣṇa-prema-pāgalinī, the One wild with love for Kṛṣṇa, would put every ornament in the wrong place if She tried. She would hang Her hand-ornaments upon Her feet and Her foot-ornaments upon Her hands; She would clasp Her waist-chain around Her throat and let Her necklace fall at Her waist, so scattered is She, so flooded.

So the sakhīs do what no force could do: they steady Her by speaking of Him. They crystallise Kṛṣṇa before Her with sweet words, painting Him so vividly in the air that the river of Her madness slows enough for them to work. Then their fingers go to it. They wrap Her in the ujjvala dukūla, the blazing two-piece silk that seems lit from within, and over it the sat-kañcuka, the fine, enchanting blouse. They draw the tilak upon Her brow. They touch fragrance to Her, the perfume that will go out ahead of Her on the night air. They lay garland upon garland across Her shoulders, and set the wondrous ornaments each in its right and perfect place, until She who needs no adorning is adorned past all telling.

And when they are done, they bring a great mirror and hold it before Her. "Look," they say, "look how we decorated You." See Her gaze fall upon Her own reflection, and watch Her grow almost shy of Her own splendour, until a single thought rises in Her: "Even when I am not decorated He goes mad; what now? what will become of Him now?" O Rādhe, even Your wonder at Yourself is for His sake.

Now She moves. Picture Her going forth, a river of love in flood, running strongly toward the trysting-ground with thousands of sakhīs streaming behind Her like the current's many ripples. And all of Vṛndāvana knows She is coming. Knowing that Vṛndāvaneśvarī, the Mistress of the grove, is on Her way to the sweet festival, the very land extends its beauty to welcome Her. The full moon's rays pour brighter over the woods. Flowers that were shut begin to open, and the bees come buzzing sweetly to the new bloom. The cool Malayan breeze drifts through, and every creature of Vṛndāvana, the moving and the unmoving alike, horripilates with joy where it is touched, the leaves shivering, the deer trembling, the grass standing on end in bliss. On the breast of the Yamunā the lotus and the lily and the pale Kahlāra unfold their petals, and the moonbeams play upon the blue waves, and the river runs on toward the ocean as if hurrying to announce to the whole world the gopīs' sweet abhisāra, their secret love-journey through the night. Thus the Vraja-sīmantinīs come to Rāsa-rasika, drawn helpless by His sweet flute, and the whole grove is a single held breath of welcome.

And there, at the centre, Rasika Śekhara waits. The other gopīs have come, every one of them beloved, but the dance cannot begin, will not begin, until She arrives. So He fills the waiting in play, stirring this gopī and that through a hundred little weathers of feeling, anger and softening, all by His clever, playful words, until the One arrives for whom the whole festival is held. For understand why the rāsa happens at all: it is staged so that Kṛṣṇa may relish Rādhikā's mādana-mahābhāva, the highest, most intoxicating reach of divine love, which is the very best ingredient of the entire night. Without Her presence the rāsa-līlā cannot satisfy Hari; the other gopīs, dear as they are, are there only to nourish the rasa of Rādhā and Kṛṣṇa's prema-keli. She is the foundation of the whole dance, and without Her everything is useless.

Then She comes. Rāseśvarī enters the rāsa-maṇḍala with Her girlfriends, and Śyāmasundara lifts His eyes and sees the very glow of Her body light up the circle and gild the whole ring of the dance. There is no end to Rāsa-Vihārī's bliss in that instant. With reverence, with His own hand, He brings Her inside, leads Her to the heart of the maṇḍala, honouring Her before all. And the kiṅkarīs, the maidservants watching, feel their hearts swell with pride, pride in their Svāminī's honour, pride that the whole festival rose and waited and bloomed for Her, and now bows to Her.

This is the longing the tradition pours into the verse, the cry of Śrīpāda Prabodhānanda's heart through the dāsī's voice: O Queen of the rāsa-dance, O Rādhārāṇī, naṭinīra śiromaṇi: crown-jewel of all dancing-girls; kalāvatī parā ṭhākurānī: artful maiden, supreme Goddess; snehāmṛte paripūrṇa: brimming with the nectar of affection; śrī-kṛṣṇa-priyatamā: Kṛṣṇa's dearmost beloved; kṛṣṇamayī svāminī: my mistress, made wholly of Him. O cāru-candrānanā, O beautiful moon-faced girl, in the nibhṛta nikuñja vana, the hidden arbour-forest, Your beloved sakhīs robe You in dukūla and tilak and blouse, in fragrance and garland and ornament. O mahojjvalā hemāṅginī, greatly effulgent golden-limbed One, be merciful, and in Your new dancing-dress enter the lovely sweet ground of the dance to whirl in the festival. And this alone is the longing kept at my Īśvarī's lotus-feet: when, O when, will I be absorbed in the ecstasy of thinking myself Rādhikā's own sevikā, and when will that blessed day dawn that I come at last to the shelter of Her feet?