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Picture the last moment of the whole work. Śrīpāda has just fallen at Śrī Rādhikā's lotus feet, his forehead against the ground at the hem of Her garment, the entire ocean of his verses poured out as a single prolonged obeisance. And when he lifts his face to look, She is gone again, slipped away as She so often does, the way fragrance leaves the air and yet you know it was there. He is not crushed by this. His heart is blossoming. The touch of Her compassion is still warm on him; he feels, with a quiet certainty, that Śrīmatī is satisfied with the prayers he has laid at Her feet through all these verses, that the offering was received. So the book closes not in grief but in a kind of fulfilled hush, the joy of a servant whose service has been accepted. And out of that fullness, his hands open toward others.

He turns to the wise, the rasika ones, and he calls to them: O learned devotees, if you are greedy after some wonderful bliss, then drink the nectar of this "Rādhā-Rasa-Sudhā-Nidhi" through the pitchers of your ears. Hear how he names what he has made. Adbhuta: wonderful. Ānanda: bliss. He is not promising the ordinary. And the book itself he names sudhā-nidhi: a nectar-ocean, rasa for its very flavour. He does not call it a treatise or a teaching; he calls it a sea, and he invites you not to study it but to drink it, karṇa-kalaśaiḥ: with the pitchers of the ears. The ear becomes the vessel; hearing becomes the act of drinking; and the wise one lowers that vessel into the sea and lifts it brimming.

But hold the single small word on which the whole invitation turns: cet, if. If you are greedy. He sets one condition at the door, and it is not the condition you would expect. He does not ask whether you are learned, or pure, or worthy. He asks whether you long, whether there is in you that adbhuta-ānanda-lobha, that hunger for wonderful joy. This lobha, the tradition fixes it firmly, is the very root cause of rāgānugā bhakti, the devotion led by spontaneous love. Viśvanātha Cakravartī sets it plainly in the Rāga-Vartma-Candrikā, that lobha eva pravartakaḥ: sacred greed alone is the impeller, the one engine that sets this path in motion. So Śrīpāda is not handing his ocean to all comers in the same way. The one who is particularly greedy to taste the rasa of Rādhā's service in the mood of Vraja, that one is qualified to drink here, and that one will find an ocean. The one who approaches Śrī Rādhā only in awe and reverence, keeping a respectful distance, will find this book less attractive, will taste less, because the book is made of nearness, not of distance.

And why does mere hearing carry so much? Because of what Śrī Rādhā is. She is the very form of mahā-bhāva, the highest reach of love, and the words that glorify Her are themselves saturated with that same mahā-bhāva. The praise is not a description placed beside Her; it is steeped in Her. So to an offenseless heart, the syllables themselves astonish; reading this book becomes a great and wonder-filled pleasure, because the rasa is already inside the words, waiting in the ear-vessel like nectar in a pitcher.

Then comes the benediction Śrīpāda seals upon his readers, the last gift of the last verse. The one who, by Śrī Caitanya Mahāprabhu's grace, becomes greedy after the taste of Rādhā's service will constantly drink this nectar-text through the pitchers of his ears. And the drinking carries him. Floating on the waves of sweet rasa, he is borne to the gate of Rādhā's grove; and there, at the threshold of Her kuñja, he is given a transcendental mañjarī-form, a body fit for eternal, blissful service to Her. That is the promise breathed over every offenseless reader: not information, but a destination; not a book finished and shelved, but a current that drinks you in and floats you home to Her bower. So the work that began as obeisance ends as embarkation. O wise one, the pitcher is in your own ears. Lower it. Drink.