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Picture it. The whole night has gone by, O Rādhe, and You waited, every breath leaning toward the bower path, every leaf-rustle a false promise. He did not come. And now, in the thin light of morning, He arrives at last, and on His body are the unmistakable marks of another's love, the signs of Candrāvalī left openly upon Him. The wound is real. The resolve that rises in You is real. This is no small sulk; this is māna, the proud, hurt mood that floods a beloved when she has been slighted by the one who is her very life.

So You make Your stand, and Your friends, the sakhīs, gather close, half-teasing, half-aching for You. "Rādhe," they say, "how many times must You suffer this māna and drag us through the suffering with You? The moment He leaves, the regret comes back, and Your pique melts away. It is so weak, so short-lived." And You answer with fire: "Friends, today I promise you, I am finished with this rascal for good. Never again will I look upon His face. Never again will I speak to Him. Never again will I touch Him. Help Me keep these three vows." The sakhīs sigh: "We always warned You. Love this one and You will weep forever. But You would not listen, because He looked so sweet. If only You could let Him go, You might find peace at last, and Your peace would be our peace too. Yet, Rādhe, how many times have You sworn this very oath, only to grow restless and cry after Him again?" And You, lifting Your chin, declare: "I have learned My lesson. From a distance I offer Him My obeisance, and that is all. Never speak to Me of Him again." Then You sit down and draw Your veil over Your lowered face, and the matter, You believe, is settled.

But Śyāmasundara is standing a little way off, and He has heard every word. See the spark in His eye. With a clever, secret gesture He tells the sakhīs: "Friends, lend Me only a little help and I will make Her break all three of these vows in no time." And the sakhīs, who are forever ready for sweet mischief, return the hint: do it, and we are with You wherever You need us. At this the maidservants begin to float upon an ocean of rasa, for they know what tender comedy is about to unfold.

Watch the first wall fall. The sakhīs begin to whisper to one another, pitched so that You cannot help but overhear, though they pretend to keep it secret. "Ah, how beautiful is Nāgara's threefold-bending form, the tribhaṅga grace of Him. How wondrous His sweetness. Surely the life of any girl who never beholds that sweetness is wasted utterly." And the thought rises in You against Your will: "I have drunk His sweetness My whole life long, yet the thirst of My eyes has never once been quenched. His beauty is new at every moment. My friends are right. My life is useless if I do not look at Him for even an instant. I swore I would not, but if I do not steal one glance I cannot live. I will peek just once, when they do not notice." So You peek, O Rādhe, just once, from the corner of Your eye, from the triangle-corner where a stolen look hides itself. But one glance is never one glance with Him. You must look again, and again, and Your eyes and Your mind drown together in His sweetness. The sakhīs pounce, laughing: "Rādhe! You looked at Him! There goes Your vow!" And You protest, "How could I not, when you yourselves were describing His sweetness aloud? I told you from the start I could not do it without your help." They tease back: "Why listen to our chatter? Be stronger. One vow is gone; two remain. Guard them well."

Now Kṛṣṇa winks to the sakhīs: watch, I will ruin the other two as well. The maidservants drown afresh in oceans of prankish delight. Nāgarendra begins to speak, cleverly, sweetly, in such a way that silence becomes impossible, and the second wall trembles. You forget the vow of silence entirely and suddenly cry out: "Go back to that girl You love so much! Why are You lingering here, spinning all these clever words?" The sakhīs clap: "Rādhe! Now You have spoken to Him too. The second vow is broken!" And You, flushed, turn on them: "You are so tricky. Why are you keeping this boy here at all? Why do you not chase Him away? How can I stay quiet against His clever talk?" They answer with mock helplessness: "We are only weak girls, Rādhe, and He is an independent prince. How can we drive Him off? You are the princess; this is Your arbour. You alone can send Him away. Why do You blame us falsely?"

And so the third wall falls. Stung, You forget the last vow, and with both Your hands You seize Nāgara and push Him out of the kuñja. The sakhīs erupt: "O Rādhe! Now You have touched Him too! Gone is the third vow!" "Oh no," You admit, "I have touched Him. But did you not tell Me to put Him out?" "We never told You to touch Him," they laugh; "we only thought You would scold Him from afar. It is not our fault." And then, O Rādhe, comes the tenderest turn of all. "Well," You say, "if I could not keep a single one of My vows, what is the use of scolding Him now? Go, bring Him back into My kuñja." And the maidservant who has watched it all laughs and laughs, not in scorn but in wonder, at how impossibly hard it is for Svāminī to hold Her māna for even an hour.

This is what the verse adores: Your resolve was true, O Rādhe, every word of it sworn from a real wound. But Your vows are built of pride, and Your eyes and Your voice and Your hands are built of love, and love wins every single time. Each shattered vow is not Your weakness but love's victory over pride. The sakhīs read each break as a triumph, the maidservants taste it as rasa, and the speaker asks for nothing in all the worlds except this: to stand near, laughing softly, and behold the wondrous failing state of Rādhā's māna, the vicitra māna-daśā, the strange and beautiful collapse of pride into love.