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Picture it. The kuñja is hushed in the way only a kuñja can be hushed after love has had its way inside it. The vines lean a little lower than before; the leaves still keep the warmth of two bodies that lay among them. And into that soft disorder the maidservant steps, and she sees what love has done. Śyāmasundara stands undone. His crest of peacock-feathers has slipped and fallen; His necklaces of pearls have snapped and lie scattered, the loose pearls shining in the grass like a little spilled river of light. He does not mind. He stands as one who has surrendered every ornament, every defense, every kingly thing, into the keeping of the One who undid Him.

And She, our Svāminī, looks upon Him. See Her face. There is laughter in it and tenderness in it and a sweet rueful wonder at what Her own love has wrought. "Sundara," She says, "Beautiful One, only look at the state I have brought You to. Wait now. Wait, and I will dress You again." And She moves to gather what will deck Her Prāṇanātha afresh. Krishna, the lord of all the worlds, the one before whom the Vedas fall silent, simply submits. He yields Himself wholly into Her hands. In this moment He is not the master of the grove. She is. She stands among the bruised vines as the very deity who presides over this bower, vṛndāṭavī-nava-nikuñja-gṛha-adhi-devyāḥ, the goddess of the fresh arbour-houses of Vṛndāvana, and He is the willing object of Her care.

Now turn and see the maidservant, who has already been at her work. She slipped out into Vṛndāvana, into the green deep of it, searching. Not for herself. She gathered the freshest peacock-feathers, nava-candraka, the ones with the newest, brightest eyes of color in them, little moons of blue-green fire. And she searched out guñjā berries, those small beads the tradition loves, red flushed through with black, the color of a love that is at once burning and tender, sweetness shot through with the dark of longing. With her own hands she fashioned a crown of the feathers, cāru-mukuṭa, a crown made charming because love made it. With her own hands she threaded the berries into a garland, guñjā-āracita-hāra. And then, her heart running ahead of her feet, she came hurrying back into the kuñja, upāharantī, bringing, carrying, offering.

And here is the marvel the tradition holds out to us, the thing that makes the maidservant's knees go weak with joy. These are exactly the two things Svāminī had in Her mind. Exactly these. A feather-crown and a guñjā-garland, the very ornaments to dress Her Prāṇapriya. Before Svāminī can so much as ask, the servant is already there with them in her hands. And notice, O heart, and tremble at it: these ornaments are not fit to dress Svāminī Herself. They are śyāma-yogya, made for the dark Beloved's body alone. The servant does not dream of decking Rādhā. She dreams of placing into Rādhā's hands the very things with which Rādhā will deck Her own beloved. The servant's whole happiness is to be one small link in Rādhā's loving of Krishna. To serve the One who serves Him. To be the hands behind Her hands.

And Svāminī sees. She sees that this little maidservant has read Her heart, has run into the forest and come back carrying the unspoken wish of Her mind, and at this She turns Her eyes upon the servant. O that glance. The tradition will not let us pass it lightly. It is as though mercy itself comes pouring out through Her eyes, gushing, overflowing, a flood of grace let loose through two dark glances. The servant stands in that flood and knows herself the most fortunate, most blessed creature in all the worlds. Nothing more is needed. To have been seen by Rādhā like that, to have been found useful to Her love, is heaven complete.

And then Svāminī takes the crown and the garland and turns back to Her waiting Śyāma, and She swims, the tradition says, in oceans of bliss as She adorns Him. She sets the fresh feather-crown upon His tousled hair. She lays the guñjā-garland against His chest. She rebuilds the beauty Her love had scattered, and the servant stands a little apart, drowning in the sweetness of watching her own offering become the ornament of the Beloved. There is no higher use to which a feather, a berry, a pair of hands, a whole life, could be put.

The tradition lets us hear the servant's own voice, cresting again and again into the same question. O Princess Rāi, she sings, O crown-jewel of all Kṛṣṇa's lovers, when will I see You as the bower-goddess, the kuñja-devī, on the night You go out to Your tryst, Your abhisāra, into a fresh bower-house ringed by Your sakhīs? I will fashion the crown of new peacock-feathers; I will string the garland of guñjā beads; O best of the young ladyloves, O dearmost beloved of Kṛṣṇa, when will I place them into Your hands? These feather-crowns and guñjā-necklaces are fit only for Śyāma's adorning; when will You look on me with a heart all bliss as You behold these poor things of my service, sevāra sāmagrī, and keep me at Your feet as Your maidservant?

O wind of Vṛndāvana that has carried this scene to us across the ages, carry our longing back into it. O peacock that gave its feather, you became Śyāma's crown. O small guñjā berry on the forest vine, you became a garland for the Beloved's breast. And what of me? The one who fashioned the offering longs for one thing only, and the longing breaks open into the cry that is this whole verse: śrī rādhike tava kadā bhavitāsmi dāsī. O Śrī Rādhike, when, when, when will I become Your maidservant? When will I be the one who slips into the forest to find Your feathers? When will my poor handmade things be exactly what You wished for? When will Your merciful glance come pouring out over me?

The one whose voice this is, whom the tradition names Prabodhānanda, does not ask to taste the rasa himself. He asks to be put to work in it. The vision fades from before his eyes, and he prays: O My most merciful Īśvarī, fulfill this one desire; O Queen of Vṛndāvana's bowers, vṛndāṭavī-kuñja-rāṇī, You who are apāra-karuṇāmayī, boundless in mercy, give me the nectar of Your service, dāsyāmṛta, make me Your servant, keep me at Your feet, let my hands be of some small use to Your love for Him. This is the whole of the prayer, and there is no prayer sweeter under the sky.