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Begin at the end of a long pilgrimage of the heart. Every garland of this Sudhā-Nidhi has poured itself toward Her, and now, at the threshold of the final wish, the singer turns and gathers up the whole of devotion into one breath. He speaks not as one who has arrived but as a practitioner still on the road, in sādhakāveśa, a sādhaka's longing trembling in every line. Hear how he names his daily work: I will meditate, always, upon Him who wears the crown of peacock-feathers, śikhi-piccha-mauli; I will sing His name in saṅkīrtana, never falling silent; I will serve His lotus-feet, His very deity-form, with my own hands; I will murmur, low and unbroken, the best of all mantras. Four acts, four flames, and the surface of them looks like nothing other than the worship of Kṛṣṇa.

But look where every flame leans. It leans toward Her. He does not worship Śyāma for Śyāma's own sake. He worships Him only to win one thing: a maidservant's place at the feet of Śrī Rādhā. This is the secret the whole book has been keeping, and here it is laid bare. The rādhā-snehādhikā devotees carry it as their very slogan, sung in the old tongue: āmāra īśvarī hon vṛndāvaneśvarī; tāra prāṇanātha boli bhaji giridhārī: my mistress is the Queen of Vṛndāvana, and I worship Giridhārī only because He is the Lord of Her life. So even the love of Kṛṣṇa becomes a road that runs home to Rādhā, and the crown of peacock-feathers itself becomes precious only because it is a crown that will one day bow at Her feet.

And it does bow. Enter the scene the singer aches to live inside. Picture it: a solitary grove in Vṛndāvana, the leaves drawn close, and he himself there as Her young maidservant, attending Her alone. Kṛṣṇa is late. He has missed the appointed hour, and Prāṇeśvarī is piqued, Her sweet anger gathering like a cloud. And then, to soften Her, to coax the cloud back into a smile, Kṛṣṇa lets His own peacock-feather crown roll down and tumble upon the ground before Her feet. To watch this in meditation, the tradition says, to stand at the hem of Her garment and witness the Lord of all worlds lay His crown in the dust to pacify the One the maidservant serves: this, this very seeing, is the greatest festival of anurāga the heart can know.

So even the chanting is doubled here. He will lift Kṛṣṇa's name, yes, but never alone; he weaves Rādhā's name into it, breath by breath, and it is this twin-sounding that makes the festival of love break open in the heart. Raghunātha Dāsa Gosvāmī prayed in just this key, and the singer takes it up as his own: rādheti nāma nava sundara sīdhu mugdhaṁ, kṛṣṇeti nāma madhurādbhuta gāḍha dugdham: O tongue, suffering and thirsty, take the fresh and lovely wine of the name Rādhā, fold in the wondrously sweet condensed milk of the name Kṛṣṇa, add the fragrant ice of pure rāga, and drink this charmed nectar at every single moment. The name of Her, the name of Him, chilled with love and lifted to the parched tongue forever.

The service, too, opens its inner door. When he says he will serve Kṛṣṇa's lotus-feet, he means the deity tended with his own hands; yet even this folds back to Her. For he will worship his Īśvarī, Śrī Rādhā, with the very remnants of Kṛṣṇa's offering: the food He has tasted, the betel-leaves He has chewed, the flower-garlands He has worn. What is gathered from Him is carried straight to Her, that She may receive what is sweetest. And the murmured mantra is no small thing either; it is the eighteen-syllable gopī-jana-vallabha mantra, the best of mantras, and the tradition opens its very name to him: man, the mind, and tra, that which saves, so that the mind is rescued from all bodily consciousness and drawn down into his true and inward form, the mañjarī-svarūpa, the little maidservant he most deeply is. This is why the worship is so fervent. Each act is a tool set to one buried treasure, and the treasure is a place at Rādhā's feet.

Yet hear the last word, and how he holds it open. He does not say I will have it. He asks: karhi syām, when will it be. He has done all that lies within his power, and still he stands empty-handed, waiting. For this is no prize to be seized; it comes only tad-anugraheṇa, by grace, when She and He choose to grant it. And so the singer signs his longing, as Prabodhānanda does at the close: it is by great fortune, and by the mercy of Kṛṣṇa, the moon of Nanda's dynasty, that one ever attains the rare and rarely-given treasure of Rādhā's maidservice, that bliss which lies beyond all the worlds, lokātīta parama ānanda. The whole book ends not on a claim but on a question, lifted up like cupped hands, waiting for grace to fill them.