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It begins not with a list but with a longing. Śrīpāda, drawn into Rādhā's pastimes in the quiet of remembrance, still turns his head, still looks all around, aching for one thing more: Her direct darśana. He cannot be satisfied with the inner picture alone; he wants to see Her. And then, to those spiritualised eyes, a vision opens of itself.

See it as he sees it. Premamayī Rādhā, love made into a person, slips out toward the Yamunā on the slender pretext of fetching water, when truly Her whole self is aching to see Śyāmasundara. Śrīpāda follows in his kiṅkarī-form, close as Her shadow, the maidservant who lives only to attend Her. And there, on the bank, under a Nīpa, a Kadamba tree, stands a cloud-blue form. Rādhā stops, enchanted by that bluish effulgence, and remembers with a start: this is why My friends once forbade Me to fetch water from this river. Their warning comes back to Her in song. O Rādhe, do not go to the Yamunā-water, the sakhīs had pleaded, for a glossy blackish light shines at the foot of a Kadamba, and that fresh monsoon-cloud form enchants even the minds of the sages. He stands in His threefold bending grace and defeats Cupid in playfulness; the sandalpaste on His brow defeats the moon; a world-conquering garland hangs at His moon-like neck like lightning laid across a monsoon cloud. He shoots arrows at Your heart with His glances and His flute-song, they had warned, and once You hear that flute Your heart can no longer stay still, and if He looks at You He will take Your very life. Govinda's hue defeats the blue lotus, Dvija Caṇḍī dāsa sings, and when He glances from the corners of His eyes, O sakhi, then who will save Your life at all?

So the two stand enchanted, each undone by the other's sweetness, and the maidservant, reading what they cannot yet say, quietly arranges their meeting in a nearby solitary grove. And there, as the old padāvalī tells, the two delight to behold each other and drown together in an ocean of nectar; when their eyes at last grow steady and they look full upon each other's faces, they begin to perspire; Pītavāsa, dark Kṛṣṇa robed in yellow, takes Rāi by the hand, seats Her at His left, and tenderly wipes the sweat-drops from Her face. And all the while the maidservant serves, fanning the divine Pair, asking nothing, only tending.

Now look where the four streams rise from, for each one is a place in that scene. O Rādhe, how lovely is Your cherry-like lower lip when You smile softly at Kṛṣṇa and speak with Him. It is as though millions of fresh nectar-oceans well up and stream from those bimba-fruit lips, and Śyāma relishes that endless sweetness with the very cups of His lips, while the maidservant tastes it together with Him. Śrīpāda is not guessing; he speaks from experience, from the inside of service.

And see the second stream. Even as Kṛṣṇa, who is ecstasy itself made flesh, becomes overwhelmed relishing the sweetness of Your lips, You cast at Him one luscious sidelong glance, and it pierces Him like millions of Cupid's sharp flower-arrows. The maidservant watches in wonder: the transcendental young Cupid of Vṛndāvana, the one who undoes everyone, is Himself struck through and suffering under the arrows of Your eyes. And by Your grace alone she can read the inner feeling of the loving Couple at all. Seeing such expertise in her, an expertise that comes only from pure love, Rādhā and Mādhava give Themselves over to her completely.

Then the third stream. As Śyāma grows eager for union, the maidservant steps softly out of the kuñja and peers in through the small holes in the vines, to see how sweet are Your breasts, O Rādhe, and they are as beautiful as the very essence of millions of ecstatic rasa-arts, the all-in-all of intoxicating, blissful love. She floats away on countless waves of that rasa-ocean even as she looks. And the Rādhāvallabha singers, true to their bent, gaze straight at this without the surrounding scene, naming it "Priyā Aiśvarya," the glory of the Beloved Herself, and singing in their Sragdharā meter how the all-in-all of intoxicated rati-kalā shines manifold in Her breasts.

And the last stream, the longest and lowest, is the one the servant herself drinks. When the amorous pastimes are over, the fortunate maidservant enters the kuñja and engages in the service of her beloved Pair: fanning Them, massaging Their feet, bringing cool scented water and fresh betel-leaves. And when she takes Rādhikā's lotus feet to her own chest and begins to press them, she drowns in oceans of bliss, feeling how millions of fresh nectar-oceans flow out from those feet, niravadhi, without limit, never stopping. This foot-nectar, the old teachers say, is far more relishable and far more intoxicating than any nectar that oozes from the moon or from the lotus. O Rādhe, the count is not the point; "koṭiḥ," millions, rests on every line only to say that Your sweetness has no floor and no edge, that it keeps coming and never runs dry. And Śrīpāda himself confesses at the end that there are no words in all of Sarasvatī's storehouse to hold this beauty; he has only set down a hint.