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Begin with the flute. It comes drifting over the groves of Vraja in the failing light, and at the first all-enchanting note something inside Her gives way. Picture the river when the monsoon has finally broken. All season the channel kept itself politely between its banks; now the rains pour from the hills and the water rises and rises until it can no longer hold its course, until it overruns its own two embankments and goes pouring across the land with a force nothing can call back. That is what happens in Her when Kṛṣṇa's flute sounds. She rushes out to meet Him as a river goes forward to meet the ocean. O Rādhe, You are that river. You are Sura-taraṅgiṇī, the Gaṅgā of the gods, Mandākinī herself come into a young girl's body, and every wave that crests on You is a divya-keli, a divine pastime, a kallola of love breaking and breaking again, until You are strung with all those waves as a garland is strung with blossoms.

See how the tradition reads the two banks. A river in flood overflows its dukūla, its twin shores; and Rādhike, swept by waves of love too sweet to be governed, overflows Her own du-kula, the two families that hem Her in, Her birth-home and the home of Her in-laws, the whole careful architecture of what a respectable woman is permitted. This river of passion breaks every dam of religious and traditional principle by sheer force of longing for Kṛṣṇa, and it does not pause to count the dangers on the road. The water only knows the ocean is that way, and it goes.

And how She prepares for that going. Govinda Dāsa sings the tender memory of it. In the daylight, the Svāminī who will walk to the trysting-grove at night rehearses the whole journey in advance. She scatters thorns across Her own courtyard and treads them, teaching the soles of Her feet to bear the prick without flinching, so the night-path will not stop Her. She binds Her anklebells in cloth and learns to muffle their silver, so that not a single chime will betray Her as She runs. She pours water over the yard until it is slick and learns to keep Her footing on the slippery dark. She covers Her eyes with both hands and walks blind through Her own house, schooling Herself for the moonless way. She even rewards a snake-charmer with a jewelled bangle to learn the mantra that quiets serpents, so the creatures of the night road and the wild beasts of prey cannot harm Her. To the warnings of Her elders She turns as if deaf, hearing one thing and seeming to hear another; at the scolding of relatives She only smiles, like a simple girl who understands nothing. O Rādhe, for the sake of Śyāmasundara You take even unlimited misery and count it as great bliss. This is the river learning, in daylight, how to flood by night.

And this is why the tradition calls Her by Her own name. You are Rādhikā because You fulfill every desire of Śrī Kṛṣṇa; the Caitanya-Caritāmṛta sings it, kṛṣṇa-vāñchā-pūrti-rūpa kore ārādhane, ataeva rādhikā nāma purāṇe vākhāne, that She who accomplishes the fulfillment of Kṛṣṇa's longing through Her worship is for that very reason named Rādhā in the Purāṇas. The greatest worshipper of Kṛṣṇa, the one whose ārādhana is His happiness itself.

Sura-taraṅgiṇī holds a second sweetness too: enjoyer of amorous play. The waves of love are not only around Her, they ripple along each of Her limbs, and on every one of them She thinks only of His happiness. O Divine river of pastimes, how many remembered sports rise up in the heart of the servant who dares to call You by such a name.

Then lift the eyes to Her face. Lasad-vadanāravinde: O girl with the shining lotus face. Picture the golden stem of Her body rising from the bright current of that Gaṅgā, and at its crown this lotus open and aglow, and a bee drawn helplessly to it. The bee is Madhusūdana Himself, the dark Kṛṣṇa-bee grown thirsty for Her honey, circling, unable to leave. Rūpa Gosvāmī fixes it in the Vidagdha-Mādhava, that the radiance of Her face transgresses the beauty of a whole forest of fragrant lotuses in full bloom, mukhollāsaḥ phullaṁ kamala-vanam ullaṅghayati; one face outshines an entire flowering grove. And lower, in the Gaṅgā of rasa, turns Her navel, an enchanting whirlpool, deep and lovely and rucira, and the moment Mādhava's gaze falls into it His mind is caught and pulled down like a single blade of grass spun into the eddy and lost. He looks, and He is taken.

Śyāmāmṛtāmbu-nidhi-saṅgama-tīvra-veginī: O You who flow with violent speed toward union with the nectar-ocean named Śyāma. The river was made for the sea. All its hurry, all its overflowing, all its disregard of banks is only the homing of water toward the deep where it belongs. And this Gaṅgā is no ordinary holiness. To the sakhīs and the mañjarīs it is as sacred and as gladdening as the earthly Gaṅgā is to those who bathe in her, and they live always at its waters. The minds of devotees still on the path bathe here too, at this most holy place, washing themselves clean, ripening toward the day they may be qualified to serve the Yugala-Kiśora. To stand on the bank of this river is itself a sanctuary.

And now hear the cry the whole prayer has been carrying. The servant who has followed Her all this way, helping Her toward the Śyāma-ocean, sees how fast She is running and is suddenly afraid for Her. The road is strewn with thorns and sharp pebbles, and Her footsoles are so tender. The Gīta-Govindam puts the very plea in the servant's mouth, rādhe, pathi muñca sambhramam abhisāre, cāraya caraṇāmburuha dhīraṁ sukumāre: O delicate one, let go of haste on the trysting path, set down those lotus feet gently. I am running behind You and I cannot keep pace. Do not leave me. Take me with You. Mama sannidhehi: stay near me, come close, let me be at Your side. It is half a warning born of love and half a plea to be kept in Her company, and the two are one prayer. And the tradition trusts that when the Svāminī hears the worried, breathless calling of Her maidservant, She will surely turn, and be merciful to her.