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Begin with the hush after love's storm. The lovemaking is over now, and Śrī Yugala, tired of their play, sit up in the flower-bed of the kuñja, breathing deeply, Their limbs still glowing, the dew of perspiration beaded on Their skin. Into this quiet the maidservant steps. She has not come to look. She has come to serve. And the whole of these lines is one trembling sigh rising from her chest: kadā, kadā, when, when. When will this serving be mine.

See her first take up the soft palm-leaf fan. She moves the air across Them, not so much to cool as to carry, for she fans with a secret intent: she wants Śrī Rādhikā's fragrance to drift into Śyāma's nostrils and His into Hers, so that even Their fatigue is lifted by breathing each other in. O blessed, blessed maidservant, that by the mere stirring of a fan she can lay Rādhā's sweet form and fragrance again and again before Madhusūdana, so that He never ceases to relish Her. And sometimes, just sometimes, she fans in such a way that Śrī Rādhikā's scarf slips the smallest measure off Her shoulder, and Her Nāgara, who thought His thirst was slaked, grows eager all over again to enjoy Her. Even the wind from a servant's fan becomes a matchmaker in the grove.

Now the sweatdrops upon Their faces have dried, and she takes a soft cloth steeped in scented water and wipes Their brows, Their cheeks, with hands that scarcely dare to touch such tenderness. Then comes the drinking. She brings the cool draught mixed with delicious camphor: susvādu ambho'mṛtam, delicious nectar-water. And here pause, O heart, for the tradition lingers on a wonder. Water is already called nectar; why then is the word nectar set down a second time beside it? Because two nectars are at play. Śrīmatī takes the glass of camphor-syrup and hands it to Śyāmasundara, and He receives it, and what He first relishes is the fragrance that the scent of Priyājī's lotus-mouth has left upon the rim. Seeing Him relish it so, a small smile breaks upon Śrī Rādhā's face, and from that smile there trickles a nectar a million times more delicious than any camphor-syrup, and Śyāma gathers that nectar with the two cups of His lips. He kisses Her. Then Śrīmatī casts a long loving glance at His face, takes the glass back from His hand, and with Her own hand sets it to His mouth and makes Him drink the syrup, now wedded to Her nectar, until She closes Her eyes in ecstasy. And Śrīpāda confesses he cannot tell whether She is tasting the sweet drink or tasting Him, since every quality of His lips has passed into the cup; adharera guṇa ihā sob sañcārilo, sings the Caitanya-caritāmṛta, all the qualities of His lips have been infused in it. This is the draught the maidservant longs to carry. Not the water only. The whole hidden exchange the water has become.

Then she brings the betel. She offers the pān folded with camphor, and consider who these three are at this moment. He is rasikendra-mauli, the crown-king of all who relish. She is rasikā-śiromaṇi-nāyikā, the crest-jewel among all heroines who taste. And the maidservant herself is sevā-rasa-mūrti, the very embodied form of the mellow of service. All taste lives folded in this one small green leaf. And the longing of the servant is not even that Śrī Rādhā simply eat it. Śrīla Rūpa Gosvāmī has prayed the secret aloud in the Cāṭu-Puṣpāñjali, that O Bimboṣṭhi, Whose lips are already red as ripe bimba-fruit and need no further reddening by pān, the servant will yet offer the betel to Her lotus-mouth so winsomely that greedy Śyāma, the son of Vraja's lord, will dart in and snatch it from Her very lips and eat it Himself. And when, the servant prays, shall I float in that ocean of rasa, watching Her relish and watching Him steal. How much sweetness is folded in so small a service.

Now she will adorn Them anew. The play has loosened and spoiled the adornments, and Śrī Rūpa Gosvāmī teaches in the Ujjvala-Nīlamaṇi that maṇḍana is fourfold: caturdhā maṇḍanaṁ vāso-bhūṣā-mālyānulepanaiḥ, garments, ornaments, flower-garlands, and fragrant unguents, all four. So with deft and reverent hands the maidservants redress the divine Couple, the yellow upon Him and the blue upon Her, the blouse and the scarf set right again. They gather fragrant blossoms and string them into fresh garlands to hang around Their necks, and they anoint Their limbs with fragrant unguents: musk and sandalpaste, aloe and vermilion, until the Couple shine once more as the grove first found Them.

And now the tenderest moment of all. She sees the lotus-eyes of the young Pair begin to show the signs of exhaustion, the lids beginning to fall with the sweet weariness of love. So the maidservants lead Them to a beautiful bed, and They lie down facing each other. The servant takes Their feet, caraṇau saṁvāhayāmi, and begins to press them, and under that quiet massaging Their eyes close the last small measure and They drift toward sleep. O behold it. How beautiful, the lotus-eyes of the loving Couple closing of fatigue after love. The four pupils of Their two pairs of eyes look like four black bees folded shut within the whorls of four lotus-flowers as the petals of Their eyelids draw together. The divine Couple falls asleep. And the maidservant keeps Their feet still against her own chest and stares at Their sweet beauty without once blinking, while one anxious tender thought turns in her heart: what will happen if, in Their sleep, They should stir and fall from the bed? So she keeps her vigil, the feet of her Lord and Lady held to her breast, the whole of her watchfulness become love. What a blissful consciousness. What a blissful meditation for the practising devotee. This is the awareness the lines ache toward. Not to be served, but to keep that watch.