169

Begin at the threshold of the bower, where the leaves thin and the path gives way to a clearing of soft grass. Do not step in. Stand at the very rim, the kuñja-sīmni, the outskirts of the play-grove, the only place a servant is permitted, and look. There, half-hidden in the green, two forms are caught in the slow weather of love, and the tradition gives this scene a tender name: nitya-vihāra, the eternal play that never began and will never end.

One of Them glows. Her complexion is the gold of the campaka flower, that creamy, lamp-lit yellow that seems to hold light from within, as if a flame had been folded into petals. The other is dark. He is the colour of a rain-swollen cloud at evening, a deep blue-black śyāma that the eyes drink and cannot finish drinking. Set the gold against the dark and the whole grove becomes a single jewel. But the tradition is honest with us here, and we should keep its honesty: no flower, no cloud, no gold of the earth can truly carry Their luster. These are only the poor hands of the poets reaching toward what cannot be held, pointing at the moon with a finger. Take the campaka, take the raincloud, only as a door, and then let the door swing open into something the words cannot reach.

Look now at the dark One, kandarpa-uttaralaṁ: agitated, trembling, made unsteady by desire. And consider the wonder of it. He who is the rest of all the worlds is Himself restless. Cupid himself, the lord of all longing, loses his very senses when Kṛṣṇa floods Vṛndāvana with the nectar of His limbs and the nectar of His smile. The old song the tradition sings catches it: His soft, fresh limb-beauty seems to melt and roll upon the earth, and at the faintest smile, breaking over Him in waves, even Madana, the god of desire, swoons away. The one who makes the whole world tremble with longing is here the one who trembles. His sweetness is so dense that it overpowers even the god of sweetness. And this melting glory, this very Vrajendranandana whom the worlds adore, now stands at the edge of a grove longing for a single glance from a cowherd girl of Barsana. He who needs nothing needs Her. He who is full leans toward Her as toward His own fullness, eager only to meet Her and to drink the nectar of Her prema.

And She will not turn. This is the marvel the tradition lingers over: naivānukūlaṁ bahiḥ, externally She is not favourable, not at all. The Rādhāvallabha rendering puts it with perfect balance: anukūla within, pratikūla without; favourable in the depths of Her heart, contrary only on the surface. Within, Her heart strains toward Him as the river strains toward the sea; within, She desires the meeting as much as He does, perhaps more. But She is proud, naturally proud and unsubmissive, and Her pride is no coldness. It is bahu-māna-bhaṅgi, the many graceful turns and poses of honour, a sweetness She wears so that He may taste it. She draws the veil up over Her head. She turns Her shoulder. O Rādhe, how sweet is this māna of Yours, this beautiful sulking that is no rejection at all but a deeper invitation in the mask of refusal.

Listen to Her, for the tradition lets us hear Her voice. "Go away, You cheat," She says, and there is laughter hidden in the sternness. "Keep Your clever pranks for someone who does not know You. I understand Your deceitful words. I know how You smile so sweetly, how You let the tender words fall, how You throw those playful sidelong glances and pour the nectar of Your loving ways over a girl until she forgets herself. If I do not get away from here quickly the whole village will be laughing at Me." And saying this, proud and lovely, Śrīmatī pulls Her veil close over Her head and stands as one already leaving.

Now hear Him, the impatient hero, undone, working His rasavac cāṭūni, His flattering and rasa-laden words. He who is the shelter of all takes shelter of Her. The song of Jñāna dāsa lends Him His voice: "O girl, forgive My offense. I cannot bear this ache in My heart any longer. I have come to You for refuge. The sweet smile on Your moon-like face keeps rising again and again within My chest and will not leave Me in peace. I swear to You, I will die if You do not lift Your face and look at Me even once. The touch of Your body lengthens My very life. You are My japa and My tapa, My whole prayer and My whole austerity. You are the enchanting flute resting in My hand. You are the essence of My body and My home, and You are the pupil of My eye. Without You, even half a moment is total darkness. I can give up everything for You; I think of no one but You. Take this note I have written to You, and accept Me, of all things, as Your servant." And Jñāna dāsa himself leans in to plead with Her: "Listen, O beautiful one, what kind of attitude is this? Kṛṣṇa is so eager to meet You. Be kind to Him. Why will You not give Him Your love?" The Lord of all asks to be the dāsa of His own beloved.

And still She holds. The tradition shows us this clearly, and it is breathtaking: though Her Prāṇaballabha, the lover of Her very life-breath, is anxiously praying at Her feet, She keeps the outer pose unbroken. With a grave, steady voice She answers, "Say nothing more, O Mādhava. What is the use? It will not work on Me. I come from a spotless house. Put away Your crooked ways. I know Your character far too well."

But we, watching from the rim, are let into the secret. She is only pretending. She wears this anger the way one wears a fine ornament, to deepen the flavour for Him, to make His longing sharper and His joy, when it comes, more complete. Her refusal is the salt that makes the sweetness sweeter. And when at last His every effort to please Her has failed and He stands desperate and helpless, the Lord turns to Her sakhīs, Her own maidservants, and takes shelter of them, that they might soften their Svāminī's heart. And here is the mercy that should make every servant weep with hope: it is these maidservants, the humble kiṅkarīs, who manage to pacify their Svāminī, and it is they who are then rewarded. To them, for their loving service, is given the very vision the whole heart aches for, Rādhikā and Mādhava at Their play on the outskirts of the bower. paśya krīḍati kuñja-sīmni tad aho dvandvaṁ mahā-mohanam: look, at the edge of the grove, at play, O, this great enchanting Couple.

This is the whole prayer of the verse, breathed by the tradition through the longing of a servant-girl, Śrīpāda himself in his kiṅkarī-rūpa kneeling at the rim: not to seize, not to enter, but to be allowed to stand on the threshold and behold. Aho, the heart cries, and the question rises in the first person as the Rādhāvallabha devotee keeps it, kyā maiṁ keli-nikuñja kī sīmā meṁ in mahā-mohan yugal ko dekh sakūṅgī, will I be able to see this great enchanting Couple at the edge of the love-bower; when, when will I see Them, the golden campaka and the dark cloud, He trembling and pleading, She proud and turning away with love hidden in Her every gesture, this Couple who enchant even the enchanter, at Their endless play in the bowers of Vraja.