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Picture it. The amorous play has just subsided, and Rādhikā, who only a breath ago clung to Śyāma the way a golden creeper winds itself around a dark Tamāla tree, has come undone. Her garments are slipping, Her ornaments scattered, the careful work of the morning ruined by love. And already, before the warmth of His embrace has cooled, a new wave is rising in Her: She wants Him again. O Rādhe, how strange and how beautiful this is, that the longing returns even fuller than before, even in the heart that has just been satisfied.

The tradition names this rising. It is anurāga, and Rūpa Gosvāmī fixes it for us in the Ujjvala-nīlamaṇi, among the marks of the sthāyibhāva, that "sadānubhūtam api yaḥ kuryān nava navaṁ priyam, rāgo bhavan nava navaḥ so'nurāga itīryate": the attachment that keeps the beloved ever-new, tasted as though it were never tasted before, is what the learned call anurāga. So the "new meeting," the nava-saṅgama for which You tremble, O Rādhe, is no first shy encounter, no pūrva-rāga of strangers. It is the same love made new a thousand times, never once stale, and that is why She who is graver than a million oceans, She who is vāmya-bhāvavatī and turns Her face from easy meeting, is even now restless to go to Him once more. Tarale, the verse calls Her, and the Hit rendering calls Her cañcala-rūpe too: O restless one, O trembling form.

But there is a tender embarrassment in the scene. Her sakhīs will arrive any moment, and She cannot be found like this. So She turns to Her Nāgara and says, quickly, dress Me, ornament Me again, before they come and shame Me. And Kṛṣṇa begins. He sets His hand to paint the playful dolphins upon Her breasts, bending close in concentration. But O foolish, blessed Lord, He cannot do it. The nearer He looks the more the beauty undoes Him; ecstasy takes His hand and the lines go wrong, again and again. He of all beings cannot complete this small service.

And so Rādhā calls for the one who can. You do it, She tells Her maidservant, quickly, for He does not know how. Hear what passes through Kṛṣṇa then. Flabbergasted, He thinks within Himself: Alas, how unqualified I am. I would be blessed if only I could serve as this maiden serves. The whole secret of the verse is hidden in that thought of His.

Now watch the hands that the singer prays to become. First she takes a towel and gently wipes the small beads of sweat from Rādhā's face. Then, swiftly and without a tremor, she paints the lovely leaf-pictures, the patrāvalī, across the bright fruit of Her cheeks. She lines the lotus eyes with kajal. She reddens the bimba-fruit lips, the tāmbūla-color of betel upon them. She anoints the breasts with saffron, with kuṅkuma. And kneeling, out of pure love, praṇayāt, she lays the bright red lac, the suraṅga jāvaka, along the soles and down the very rows of the toes. Every stroke perfect, every stroke quick, every stroke an offering.

Then comes the reward that is not asked for. Rādhā casts down upon her servant one merciful glance, seeing how expertly and how fast it has all been done, and She turns to Śyāmasundara and says: did You see how skilled she is at dressing Me? You should learn all of this from her. And Kṛṣṇa, struck speechless, looks at the maidservant and begs her in a small and pitiful voice: please, teach Me also this service to your Svāminī. The Lord of all asking the servant for lessons. And the maidservant, drenched in the mercy of the youthful Couple both at once, floats away on waves of bliss. O Rādhe, this is the fullness the singer means by pūrṇā: not beauty handled, but a love so trusted that even Kṛṣṇa envies the hands that hold it.