237

Picture it. The bower has just emptied of its first long look. A maidservant stands at the edge of the kuñja, and what she sees she can hardly name, so she begins where adoration always begins, with the light: "kāntiḥ kāpi parojjvalā," some supreme, indescribable effulgence. This is no ordinary glow. It is Rādhā Herself, risen from a fresh meeting with Her Mādhava, and She shines so that the very moonlight seems to take its brightness from Her, "nava-milat-śrī-candrikodbhāsinī." The moon borrows; She gives. Begin there, and the whole verse opens.

Look now at Her among Her companions. They are themselves wonders, "rāmādy-adbhuta-varṇa," sakhīs of astonishing golden complexion, and yet She is set among them like the one jewel that draws every eye, the maṇi in the setting. And the marvel does not hold still: "nityādhikāṅga-chabiḥ," the luster of Her limbs grows greater at every instant, eternally increasing, never reaching a ceiling it could rest against. The Gauḍīya teachers, in the lineage of Ananta Dāsa Bābājī, give this a name and a moment: this is Śrī Rādhā's self-surrender, sung in a maidservant's voice just after a new tryst. They tell us that Rādhā and Mādhava show Their cleverness at each fresh meeting, for though They have loved one another from beyond all beginning, every meeting comes again like the very first, and the maidservants taste it that newly too. So Caitanya Mahāprabhu's own words are set here like a lamp before the scene: "yadyapi nirmala rādhāra sat prema darpaṇa, tathāpi svacchatā tāra bāḍhe kṣaṇe kṣaṇa," that although the mirror of Rādhā's true love is already spotlessly clear, still its clearness deepens moment by moment, and there is no end to the increase of Kṛṣṇa's sweetness, which appears in ever-new forms before that mirror. Her radiance grows because His sweetness keeps finding new faces in Her.

And see what has happened in Her mood. The teachers note it with great tenderness: today She lays down Her natural vāmya-bhāva, Her dear contrary, resisting temper, and takes up dākṣiṇya, the soft yielding mood. Her body shines like fresh vermilion, for She knows She has made Kṛṣṇa happy, and the knowing reddens Her like new color poured over the limbs. Her sweetness spills in every direction at once, and the maidservants' eyes, restless as fish, swim helplessly along its current.

Then "lajjā-namra-tanuḥ": shyness bows Her down. Rūpa Gosvāmī fixes the why of it in the Bhakti-rasāmṛta-sindhu, that bashfulness rises in a new meeting, or after some sweet misdeed, or when one is praised, or disrespected, or simply from a tremble of boldness not yet found (2.4.113). So Her body folds a little, modest at the freshness of love. And yet, "smayena madhurā," a soft smile sweetens Her, and that smile carries pride. Rūpa Gosvāmī teaches again that pride wells up over one's own fortune, beauty, youth, fine qualities, or the winning of one's beloved (2.4.41), and Rādhā has won Hers. So three waves rise together in the one ocean of Her supreme love: bashfulness, pride, and joy, three sañcāri-bhāvas braided into a single sweetness. How beautiful Her body is when shyness, pride, and gladness meet in it at once. The maidservant does not merely report the pride; she loves it. She is proud of Her Svāminī's pride, and so she calls Her "smayena madhurā," sweetened by pride, for that proud edge is exactly what makes the surrender sweeter. Śyāmasundara Himself and all the maidservants are caught fast by this rare mingling of mellows.

Now the pearls. "san-muktāphala-cāru-hāra-suruciḥ," She is lovely with a necklace of true, great, brilliant pearls. The plain eye sees an ornament; the rasika devotees, says the tradition, understand the inner thing. Those pearls are the very drops of perspiration born of Her love-play with Acyuta, strewn glistening over Her body so that She seems hung all over with pearl. And the Bengali singers go further still: in each single pearl of that necklace, Hari's reflection falls, so that She wears a hundred small Kṛṣṇas at Her throat, and the limit of all beauty is reached. Thus, the great poet sings, "the jewel of unsubmissive girls," the vāmā maṇi, plays with the Infallible Acyuta.

And here the verse turns, and the turn is everything: "svātmārpaṇena acyutam," by the offering of Her own self She satisfies Acyuta. O Rādhe, consider whom You please this way. He is Acyuta, the never-falling, the one who slips from no place and no power, and yet the tradition dares to say it plainly: He stands like a beggar at Your door, longing only to taste the full sweetness of Your clever, playful love, and nothing in all existence can bring Him to that doorstep except Your spotless love for Him. She conquers the unconquerable not by gripping Him, but by handing Herself away. The Hit teachers, naming Him here as Śrīlālajī, add the last sweetness: in this complete self-offering Rādhā either makes Acyuta glad, or is Herself made glad, and truly both at once, the joy running freely both ways across the bower until you cannot say which heart is the giver and which the filled.