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Begin with the moment just past. Kṛṣṇa has been dressing Her. With His own hands He has wound Śrīmatī's braid, He has hung the small lalāṭikā at Her forehead, He has drawn the line of vermilion down the part of Her hair. And now He steps back to behold the sweetness of the form He has adorned. O wonder: if He is already enchanted by Her when She wears no ornament at all, who can measure how happy Hari grows now, beholding Rādhikā fully decorated? His eyes cannot hold still and cannot have enough. And the maidservant standing near is given the grace to watch what happens next: she sees how many shapes His unsatiated eyes assume, each one born only to relish one part of Śrīmatī's beauty.

See the first. His eyes become cakora-birds, and they drink the nectar that pours from the moon of Her face. When the moon rises every creature rejoices, but the cakora's joy is of another order, beyond all comparison, for the cakora lives on moonlight and nothing else. So Rūpa Gosvāmī's lineage fixes the picture in the Govinda-Līlāmṛta, that the Creator fashioned Rādhikā's wonderful, unprecedented, full moon-like face for one purpose alone: to please Hari's cakora-eyes. And into that moon he set the dark marks of Her own deer-like eyes, and bound those two restless deer fast with the ropes of Her ears. One moon, made to feed the gaze of the Beloved.

See the second. His eyes become thirsty bees that settle on the honey of Her lotus-feet, and they cling there, strongly attached, refusing to leave that taste. And because Hari so relishes that savour, the tradition will not even let the comparison to a lotus stand. The Govinda-Līlāmṛta plays it out tenderly: the red lotus, kokanada, is named for the way the koka, the cakravāka, wails its grief at night; the lotus called nalinī is named padma, yet padma carries a stain, for pada is mere position and mala is dirt; the petal pales beside the luster of Her soles. With all these faults heaped upon the flowers, how could any lotus be set beside Rādhā's feet? Her feet have no fault at all, and so they stand beyond every likeness.

See the third. His eyes become the finest of wagtails, khañjana birds, frisking and dancing along the shore, the slope of Her hips and the soft rise of Her buttocks. As restless as the flicking tails of those small birds, His eyes too will not be stilled while they take in that beauty; they dart and return, dart and return, and never settle.

See the fourth. His eyes become fish, quivering and alive, and they swim in pure bliss through the lake of Her rasa. And the lineage names that water plainly: it is the rasa of Her mādanākhya mahā-bhāva, Her supreme love, the very mood that is shaping every transcendental limb of Her body. Where else could the fish of Kṛṣṇa's eyes go to swim in joy? There is no other lake. The Rādhāvallabha singers keep the same picture and call this water Her kuṇḍikā, Her own small pool of rasa, and let His eyes dart through it as restless fish.

See the fifth. His eyes become deer, hariṇa, and they wander loose through the forest of Her delight, grazing in topmost bliss with nowhere else they wish to go. The Hit stream lets that forest be Her very body, śrī-vapu, a whole blissful woodland of Her form through which His deer-eyes roam. For the beauty of Rādhikā's form is the one nectar His mind and His eyes will take as food. He fashioned all the worlds, the eye that watches over everything that is; and here that same eye has shrunk itself down to five small glad creatures, content to live off Her sweetness alone. And when the lineage reaches for one last measure of Her, it finds none: kṛṣṇendriyāhlādi guṇair udārā śrī rādhikā rājati rādhikeva, that in delighting every one of Kṛṣṇa's senses, Śrī Rādhikā can be likened only to Śrī Rādhikā Herself.