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Picture the late afternoon in Varṣāṇā. The light has gone golden over the hills, and the time of uttara goṣṭha has come, the hour when Kṛṣṇa turns homeward from the pastures with His countless cows and His laughing cowherd companions, walking the royal road toward Nandīśvara. This verse opens the door on five sweet scenes drawn from that single hour, when the prince of Vraja passes by the abode of Mahārāja Vṛṣabhānu. And know this first: in Her father's house Rādhā is freer than anywhere else. There is less watching, less restraint here than at Jaṭilā's house in Yāvaṭa, and so the mellows that ripen at Varṣāṇā have their own particular taste, different from those tasted at Yāvaṭa. Knowingly or unknowingly, every creature and every breeze of Vraja is conspiring to bring Rādhikā and Mādhava together; the whole land is in on the secret of Their eternal love.

Begin with the girl Herself. She is sā kācid, that certain incomparable one, bālāvalī-mauliḥ: the crown of the whole flock of young maidens, playing in the jewelled temple of King Vṛṣabhānu within Her garlands of girlfriends, the sakhī-mālā. Śrīpāda Prabodhānanda, who beholds all this in his own kiṅkarī form as a maidservant within the līlā, watches Kiśorī-maṇi play and eat and sleep among Her dear ones, Lalitā and Viśākhā at Her side. He is no distant onlooker; he stands inside the bower as a humble servant, and from there he tells us what he sees.

Now Kṛṣṇa appears on the road, and all the gopīs go mad with the sight of Him again. They have ached in His absence all the day long, and now, knowing the world-enchanting prince will quench the fire of their separation with the cool of His beauty, hundreds of them worship the very dust of the road with their flower-soft glances. And He, O the wonder of it, walks with His Cakora-bird eyes hunting for one face only: the moon-face of Rādhikā. Up on the Candra-śālikā, the watchtower, Śrīmatī stands. Her loyal Śyāmalā teases Her: "Rādhe, this is no place to put on proud airs of shyness. The blessing-giver Himself, Paśupati, has come before You. Cast Your lotus glances, with their restless blackbee pupils, straight at Him. Please Him, and He will release You from all the affliction of love. Such auspicious chances do not come often." And Rādhā, sweet and sly, turns it back: "Sakhi Śyāmale, you worship this Maheśa with the soft buds of your own lotus breasts. O fair-faced one, when He is pleased with you, your desires will be fulfilled, and so I too shall be plunged into an ocean of nectar." So Rūpa's lineage preserves it, the words drawn from the Śrī Kṛṣṇa-Bhāvanāmṛta.

While they spar so tenderly, Śyāma's eyes have drifted to Śyāmalā's face, and how lovely it is then, lowered and bashful. And here is the heart of the verse: seeing Śyāmalā in that condition, Śrīmatī gives her dīkṣā, initiation, in the very art of shyness and of the dancing of the eyes. Watch the word: ādīkṣayantī dṛśau. She is not merely practicing; She is teacher and pupil at once, watching the shy dancing arts of the young couples and consecrating Her own glance into that play. This is the naṭa-kalā of the gaze, the bashful, half-veiled choreography that no one can resist.

Then Kṛṣṇa's Cakora-eyes fall at last upon the moon of Vṛṣabhānu's daughter. For a long breath They drink each other in, eye locked to eye. And then Śrīmatī turns away, drawing Her veil across Her face, vṛṇvānā, concealing. Yet She cannot quite leave. She lingers to steal one more look at Her young lover, praying humbly to Lajjā, the goddess of bashfulness Herself: "O Lajje, leave the corners of My eyes free for just a little while." But when She opens them, the shyness will not wholly go; some of it stays, caught in the corners. And O, how beautiful Her eyes are then, brimming all at once with humility, with bashfulness, with amorous longing, with delight, four moods trembling in a single glance.

Now the enchanter is the enchanted. Viśva-mohana Śyāma, who maddens the whole world, cannot take another step. His thirsting eyes fall upon Her breasts, mountain-like, ratna-stanam, as though they would gather up the great jewels of them on the spot, sañcita-mahā-ratna-stanam. And cakitena, with a startled gasp, Śrīmatī quickly throws Her scarf across them, covering even Her chest, ca api uraḥ. How many moods does that one form reveal in a single instant: longing and modesty, the reaching out and the drawing back, all at once. And the sakhīs and the mañjarīs, who stand near in pure service, are free to relish every shade of it.

Then Śrīmatī's heart speaks within Her: "Aha, how sweet is My Śyāma. And now He will go away." And at that thought Her whole being yearns for union, and She grows eager to attain mahā-sārūpya with Kṛṣṇa. Here the tradition is careful, and we must be careful with it. This does not mean, as so many mystics imagine, that She wishes to take on the same form as Kṛṣṇa, to dissolve into Him and be lost. It means only this: She wants to meet Him. Mahā-sārūpyam ācinvatī: She extends, She seeks, a great nearness, a great equality of belonging. Only the sakhīs and mañjarīs understand what this longing truly is.

And the tradition gives us a luminous image for it. Kavi Karṇapūra hints at this very mahā-sārūpya in his Alaṅkāra-Kaustubha, that Rādhā's complexion of molten gold turns Kṛṣṇa's dark-blue luster into the green of emerald, while Kṛṣṇa's blue luster turns Her gold into the same green gem. When the two are apart, each keeps a separate hue, Her gold and His blue; but when They stand in one place, Their radiances meet until They shine with one equal light. That is mahā-sārūpya: not the erasing of one into the other, but the meeting of two who belong wholly to each other, until each wears the other's glow. So Śrīpāda Prabodhānanda, the one who tells of Rādhikā the cloud of sweetness who sports upon Hari's chest, distributes these nectar pastimes to the gathered devotees, just as they rise revealed within his own heart.