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Begin with a sigh, the kind a heart makes when it has reached too long for something held too high. The tradition gives us a servant standing at the rim of his own longing, whispering, "Śrī Rādhā's lotus-feet are so rarely won. Where could I possibly go to find them?" The grief settles like dusk. And then, the way a single shaft breaks the grey, mercy comes. He remembers Vṛndāvana. He remembers that Rādhā's own playground is tender toward those who love Her, and that he is himself an object of that forest's mercy. We know how richly Vṛndāvana has showered him, for in his own Vṛndāvana Mahimāmṛta he sings it: "Worship only Vṛndāvana, where the divine youthful Couple of golden and blackish forms are always playing ever-fresh playful sports." And again, of the very faculty this verse will employ, "Here the mind freely runs after the mellows of Śrī Hari, off the leash, beyond all curbing." The despair lifts. The eyes turn inward, and a picture rises sweeter than anything the outer world can hold.

Step into it with him. The springforest stands in full bloom, flower upon flower, and the bees come humming, drunk and circling, unwilling to leave such sweetness. The cuckoos sing in the fifth note, that high romantic call that makes the whole grove ache pleasantly, and into that singing Śyāma lifts His voice, the young transcendental Cupid of Vṛndāvana, singing alongside Ratipriyā Svāminī, Rādhikā, She who enchants a million loves with a glance, and alongside Her girlfriends and maidservants too. How sweetly They play, wandering the bowers, admiring the beauty of the spring, drawn close as a pair of elephants moving together. The sakhīs weave their songs around the Youthful Couple, the Lilā-Kiśora-Yugala, and every note is an offering meant to kindle the tenderness already burning between Them. And the servant is there, in her kiṅkarī-form, the maidservant's body the heart takes when it enters this love, doing the small humble work of service while the great love unfolds.

O the vines. Watch what happens to the vines. Rādhā lifts Her hand to gather flowers for Her Beloved, and the moment Her fingers brush a creeper, the vine cannot contain itself. Rādhā-karāvacita-pallava-vallarīke: the buds bloom open at Her touch, the whole vine thrills. See how it answers Her. It smiles, and its smile is its flowers bursting wide. It horripilates, the thrill running up it visible as fresh sprouts standing on end. It weeps, and its weeping is the honey trickling down in slow bright threads. The creeper does what every lover of Rādhā longs to do in Her presence, blossom, shiver, overflow, and it does it simply because Her hand has passed. The forest itself is a devotee. Even the green growing things lose their composure when She comes near.

And She is laughing all the while. She makes Her jokes with the sakhīs as She picks. Viśākhā teases, "Sakhi Rādhe, be careful, a greedy bumblebee is circling up to drink the honey of Your moon-like face," and everyone in the grove knows the bumblebee is Śyāma Himself, never far, always thirsty for Her. Rādhā turns it back with Her quick sweetness, "Why would a bee come to Me, sakhi, leaving behind the fragrant lotus-faces of beautiful girls like you and your friends? You call My face a moon, but the moon has no fragrance at all, so what would draw the bee to it?" The grove rings with their laughter, and the love hides itself inside the play the way honey hides inside the flower.

Then comes the moment the bumblebee cannot resist. She reaches for a blossom too high, stretching up, and Śyāma, catching sight of Her lifted arm, of the grace of Her whole reaching body, is undone, and runs to Her. Tenderly He pulls the high branch down so She can reach. She closes Her fingers on the flower at last, and in that instant He lets the branch go. Up it springs, and up She flies with it, light as She is, and the fear flashes across Her face and She cries out, "Lalite! Lalite! Help me!" while Śyāma throws back His head and laughs aloud and claps His hands like a delighted child. Lalitā comes running, draws the branch back down, and sees that tender Rādhikā is set safely on the earth again. It is all play, all the gentle teasing of a love that trusts itself completely.

And where Her feet have come down, the earth itself is transfigured. Rādhā-padāṅka-vilasan-madhura-sthalīke: the ground is made sweet, made luminous, beautified by the marks of Her feet. The dust of Vṛndāvana wears Her footprints like ornaments. Every place She has stepped is now a holy place, a sthalī made madhura, made sweet, simply because She walked there. The servant sees it and would press her face to that ground if she dared, for the soil has received what the heart most wants, the touch of Rādhā's feet.

Then She gathers Her flowers and sits upon a jewelled platform, and with Her own hands begins to string ornaments, garland and crown and bracelet of fresh blossoms, all of it to decorate Her Śyāmasundara, all of it made by the same hands that made the vines bloom. And as She works, the birds break into song, and their song is Her glory, only Her glory. Rādhā-yaśo-mukhara-matta-khagāvalīke: the rows of birds, drunk, beside themselves, chatter and trill of nothing but Rādhā's fame. And Śyāmasundara Himself and the sakhīs are flooded with ecstasy to hear it, for there is no sound sweeter to the Beloved than the praise of the Beloved. Even the creatures of the air have caught the one madness worth catching.

And then, the way a vision must, it thins and goes. The grove dissolves, the laughter fades, the servant is returned to herself, to the ache she began with. But she is not empty-handed now. She turns to her own mind and says the thing the whole verse has been climbing toward: Rādhā-vihāra-vipine ramatāṁ mano me. O my mind, find your pleasure here, in Rādhā's playforest. If I cannot directly stand among these loving pastimes, if Her lotus-feet are too rare and too high for me to reach in this life, then let me at least remember Śrī Vṛndāvana and mentally witness these sweet, nectarean pastimes. Let my mind run into this grove and never come out. Let it gather flowers with Her and shiver like the vines and sing like the drunken birds. Smaraṇa, this loving remembrance, becomes the doorway when every other door seems shut. The forest the eyes cannot enter, the heart can. And the heart, once it has tasted this, wants nothing else.