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Listen to the small word that returns, line after line, like a heartbeat that will not vary: tavaiva, "Yours only." Eating, only Yours. Hearing, only Yours. Remembering, only Yours. Walking, only Yours. Singing, only Yours. Seeing, only Yours. Every door of the self is thrown open, and behind each door stands one and the same face. This is not a list of separate disciplines stacked one upon another. It is a single life lived in six directions, and all six arrows fly to the same heart. O Rādhe, rasade, bestower of all taste, the one who alone can sweeten what is tasted: the whole prayer is the slow re-aiming of a person until nothing in him points anywhere but to You.

Begin where the verse begins, at the plate. He will eat nothing but the ucchiṣṭa, the remnants of Your food, the leavings turned to nectar by Your touch. The old teachers do not pass over this lightly. By taking prasāda we keep these material bodies alive, yes, but its deeper work is purifying: by it we conquer māyā outright. Uddhava Mahāśaya fixes this in the Bhāgavata, that the servants who eat Your remnants surely cross beyond Your illusion (ucchiṣṭa-bhojino dāsās tava māyāṁ jayema hi, 11.6.46), and the tradition counts this relishing of offered food, naivedyāsvāda, among the sixty-four limbs of devotion. And yet the wise are careful to name the true prize: the conquest of illusion is only a side-effect. The real fruit of eating Your remnants is the rising of prema and the tasting of the sweet nectar of the beloved's very lips. Everything else is a concomitant gift that comes trailing behind that one sweetness.

Then the ears. He will hear nothing but Your caritra, the telling of Your pastimes. Jīva Gosvāmī says that a taste for hearing, kathā-ruci, is the foremost of all the limbs of devotion, because once that taste is born it drags the whole heart helplessly behind it. And of all the hari-kathā there is, the words of the Śrīmad Bhāgavata are the most powerful and the most saturated with transcendental rasa. And of everything within the Bhāgavata, the Rāsa-līlā is the crown, for the one who truly hears it attains the highest devotion of all, the very mood of the gopīs, as the tradition teaches, and is swiftly cured of the heart's old disease, the fever of lust. Surely, O Rādhe, the one who sits and hears Your sweet pastimes will come at last into Your full shelter.

Then the mind, which will remember nothing but the dust of Your lotus-feet. Do not think this dust is a small thing. To remember the rajas of Your feet is to hold, all at once, every one of Your names, Your glories, Your pastimes, Your qualities; the whole of You is folded into that one speck. And in rāgānugā bhakti, smaraṇa, this inward remembrance, is the most important limb of all. Narottama Ṭhākura sang it best: manera smaraṇa prāṇa, that remembrance is the very life of the mind; the sweetest of all remembrances is the union-play of Rādhā and Kṛṣṇa; this is at once the goal and the path, and there is nothing higher, for this principle is the essence of every truth.

Then the feet, which will wander nowhere but through Your kuñjas, Your nikuñja-bowers in Vṛndāvana, which are the only home he claims. To roam all of Vraja is itself a sādhana: by it love of Kṛṣṇa awakens, and the one who wanders there draws down Your causeless mercy, O Rādhe, the mercy that cannot be earned and can only be received.

Then the voice, which will sing nothing but Your divine guṇas. The tradition teaches that to glorify Your qualities is the surest road into Your mercy, for You have said of Yourself, āmāra kathā bole yei, āmāra mata hoy sei, that whoever speaks of You becomes like You. And bound up with this song of praise stands the chanting of the holy name, without which there is no perfection in this age of Kali. The tradition records that the holy name carries the same power in every age, yet in Kali the Lord, seeing the helplessness of the fallen, has singled out the chanting-process for special praise; the Bhāgavata itself declares that the intelligent worship Him in this age by the saṅkīrtana-yajña (yajñaiḥ saṅkīrtana-prāyaiḥ, 11.5.32).

And last, the eyes, which will look on nothing but Your ākṛti, Your form. This beholding can mean the worship of the deity, and here a warning is folded in tenderly: never mistake the form for stone. Pratimā nahe tumi, sākṣāt vrajendra-nandana, the Caitanya-caritāmṛta cries, You are not a statue, You stand here directly as the prince of Vraja. The seeker who can hold this in the heart while he gazes is made happiest of all.

So body, speech, and mind, all three made amala, spotless, are spent entirely in Your service, and this, O Rādhe, is what surrender means. The whole verse gathers at last into the old prayer of the lineage, Vilāpa-kusumāñjali 96: tavaivāsmi tavaivāsmi na jīvāmi tvayā vinā, iti vijñāya devi tvaṁ naya māṁ caraṇāntikam, "I am Yours, I am Yours only; I cannot live without You; knowing this, O devi, take me to Your feet."