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Picture the kuñja a moment ago. Śyāma has just slipped inside the bower, and at His coming the fire of Rādhā's separation is put out as swiftly as a lamp pinched between two fingers. But love is an ocean, and no sooner is one wave stilled than another rises. Now a fresh swell lifts in Her heart, and it is the wave of māna. She grows proud and hurt that Nāgara-maṇi has left Her so suddenly, and a single suspicion lights in Her, sharp and sweet: "This cheater must have gone off because some other girl drew His eye." And with that, O Rādhe, You rise and walk proudly out of the bower.

He follows. Of course He follows. The very thing that wounds You is the thing He cannot live without, for there is no sweetness in all the worlds like the sweetness of Your proud anger, and He comes after You only to drink it. No gopī alive can make Nāgara-maṇi float helpless on the ocean of sweet rasa the way You can, and this is why the whole tradition crowns You the jewel of all the gopīs. You forbid Him. You forbid Him again. And still He comes, step for step behind You, refusing every "no."

It is here that Her dear maidservant steps near, and what she carries is not solemnity but laughter. She is no stranger to this love; she is Rādhā's own girlfriend as much as Her servant, and so she is not the least bit shy to speak boldly. She begins her jest, and notice how cunningly she begins it, for she addresses Rādhā as kamala-nayane, lotus-eyed girl, and that single tender word is aimed sidelong at Kṛṣṇa, agitating Him even more, fanning His longing while she pretends only to counsel Her friend. One joke, and both lovers catch fire.

"O lotus-eyed one," she says, "it is no use, this stopping Him again and again with words. bhūyo bhūyaḥ, over and over You forbid, and mudhā, in vain; vāṅ-mātre, by mere words, You will never turn back this dhūrta, this trickster. But listen, I know the way. Open Your bodice just a little. Show Him only the edge of Your breast. Then watch: His mind is so soft, mṛdu, mṛdīyaḥ, the tenderest thing there is, and it will rush out the very door of His eyes, cakṣur-dvāra, and fall upon that beauty, and there it will be ground to powder, cūrṇatām etu cetaḥ, crushed to nothing. Once His heart lies shattered there, He will not be able to follow You another step."

Hear what the maidservant is truly saying beneath the mischief, for the whole tradition will not let this jest pass as only a jest. She is glorifying You, Rādhe. Think of who this trickster is whom mere words cannot stop. Śrī Śuka Muni sings in the Śrīmad-Bhāgavata, in the ninth canto's tenth chapter at the Dāmodara pastime, of the yogīs who chase the Supreme Truth through years of harsh austerity and never lay a hand on Him, the yam āpa yogināṁ, the One whom the meditators' minds cannot enter even when driven by fierce tapas. That same uncatchable Truth fled in fear from a cowherd mother and let Himself be bound by her rope. And now, O wonder of wonders, that very Supreme Truth runs panting after mahā-bhāvavatī Śrī Rādhā, aching only to touch Her, and will not halt though She forbids Him with all the pride in Her heart. The yogī cannot seize Him; Rādhā's love drags Him helpless in its wake. This is the intoxicating power of mādana, the crown of mahā-bhāva, ruling over the Lord of all. The maidservant's naughty counsel is, at bottom, an act of worship, a hymn to the conquering sweetness of Your love.

And she is the most skilled of servants. Whatever art she has, she learned at Your feet, O Īśvarī; Śrīpāda sings of her in the Vṛndāvana-Mahimāmṛta as śrīśvarī-śikṣitāśeṣa-kalā-kauśala-śālinīm, adorned with every art and cleverness taught by Śrī Īśvarī Herself. So her teasing is not idle. By these bold, naughty words she does the deepest service of all: she swells the mutual hunger of Rādhā and Mādhava until it overflows, and then, blessed beyond telling, she arranges Their secret meeting in the kuñja and stands by to relish the beauty of the pastime she herself has stoked into flame.