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Begin at the threshold, for that is where the whole longing of this prayer stands and trembles. Not inside the bower, where the divine Couple are hidden. Outside it. At the leafy door. There she waits, the one who sings this verse, a single confidential maidservant, her hand resting against the woven curtain of vines, her whole body turned toward a sound she cannot yet hear and aches to hear.

Picture how this hour came to be. A little while ago Śrīmatī Rādhārāṇī was lost in the strange ecstasy the tradition calls prema-vaicittya, that exquisite suffering in which the lover feels the agony of separation even while the Beloved is present and holding Her. Slowly She surfaces from it, the way one rises through deep water, and opens Her eyes, and there before Her stands Śyāmasundara. A shyness sweeps over Her, and She lowers Her head. And He, the dark and tender one, is still drowned in His own trance, His eyes shut fast, lost in the wonder of having watched Her love overflow, still tasting the rasa of Her.

And here mischief enters the grove, the divine playfulness that is itself a flavour of this love. Seeing Him sealed away in His ecstasy, a slight smile curves on Rādhā's lips. She will tease Him. Soft as a thought She slips away and hides Herself in a nearby kuñja. The maidservant catches the whole prank, presses her veil to her mouth, and giggles behind it. With a single glance from Her eyes Svāminī commands her: say nothing, breathe nothing to Him. And the maidservant, sworn into the secret, keeps still.

Then Kṛṣṇa, the very king of rasa, comes back to Himself. He opens His eyes, and His Priyājī is gone. At once the calm of His trance breaks into anxious tenderness. He searches every corner of the bower, parting the leaves, turning, calling out, "O Rādhe, where are You? Show Yourself to Me!" O the sweetness of this distress. He for whom uncounted beautiful daughters of Vraja secretly burn, He who is the treasure every heart hungers after, is now Himself the one hungering, calling and calling for one girl of Barsana. "O Priye, how long will You joke with Me? When You are not beside Me, cruel Kāma looses his arrows and they do not miss. Cool the heart that is burning in the fire of this separation." Dehi sundari darśanaṁ mama manmathena dunomi: grant me Your sight, O beautiful one, for the god of love torments me. So lost in love is the dark Nāgara that He sees Her everywhere, and for one breath He throws His arms around a golden flowering vine, certain that the gold of its blossoms is the gold of Her limbs.

And the maidservant, watching all this through the screen of leaves, is beside herself, not with fear but with a holy pride. See it, she thinks, see what my Svāminī is worth. He for whom millions of lovely girls of Vraja hanker is now hankering for Śrīmatī alone. The Lord of all the worlds is pacing in helpless longing for Her. This is what it means to serve such a Mistress. Her pride is not for herself; it is the servant's joy in the glory of the one she serves.

Now He sees the maidservant and turns to her, and behold the wonder, He folds His own hands before a sakhi. "O sakhi, tell Me, where is your Īśvarī? In which grove has She hidden to make sport of Me? Bless Me, lead Me to Her, quickly." And the maidservant, smiling sweetly, plays her own loving part in the game. "O Rasika Śiromaṇi, O crest-jewel of all rasikas, do You truly not know where Your beloved has gone from Your lap? A moment ago, see how She suffered there, weeping in the very pain of separation while held in Your arms. And now will You not weep even a little for Her? She has gone home to Yāvaṭa with Her girlfriends. Give up Your hope of meeting Her today." But Śyāma reads the truth in the maidservant's face, knows it is teasing, knows His Priyā is surely hidden close by, and He lets His eagerness blaze openly so that the maidservant will relent. Seeing how He yearns, she takes pity and leads Him to the right grove. And there They meet again, and a tide of love rises and overwhelms Them both at the sight of each other, and the maidservant standing near feels herself the most blessed of all beings to witness the meeting of the Two.

This, this is the festival the verse names. Kuñjāntare kim api jāta-rasotsavāyāḥ: inside the bower an indescribable festival of rasa has come into being. The tradition lets us read it also as kuñjāntare kim api jāta mahotsavāyāḥ, a great festival come to life, for the meeting of the divine Couple in the kuñja is a real festival, and there is no word for what passes between Them. Śrī Rādhā pours nectar over Her Beloved with the sweet low words She speaks to Him, and as She moves, as She gestures, the anklets sing, the girdle of little bells answers, ornament upon ornament chimes its own soft music. And mingled into one stream, the murmured words and the jingling become a single sound: tad-ālapita-śiñjita-miśritāni, the talking and the chiming woven together past separating.

And where is the one who prays? She does not ask to be inside. She does not reach for Their privacy. She asks only to stand at the door, dvārasthitā, at the gate of the grove, and to hear, to catch those mingled sounds through the leaves. And the prayer says: when I hear them, let me fall. Let me sink. Patitā kadā syām: when shall I fall into the rasa-hrada, the very pool of rasa, and drown there at the summit of bliss. O Rādhe, when will that day come?

Linger on the image of the pool. A pool is not the shoreless ocean. A pool has its banks; it holds a measured sweetness within bounds. So too this secret bower of Vṛndāvana is a bounded place, a small grove, a single door. And exactly there, within those tender limits, lies a rasa found nowhere else, in no other holy abode, no other lila, no other form of God. It is the sole treasure of Vṛndāvana's kuñjas. The tradition says plainly that even Brahmā, even Śiva, even faithful Uddhava cannot step into this pool. It is too intimate, too inward, kept behind the leaves. And yet, by the boundless mercy of Śrī Caitanya Mahāprabhu, it has been opened to the suffering souls of this dark age of Kali, set within reach of hearts that thought themselves shut out forever.

So the longing of the maidservant becomes our own longing, taught to us, lent to us. She does not ask to seize the secret. She asks to be allowed to stand near it and hear it and dissolve. Take shelter of Vṛndāvana-dhāma, with the feet if one can and always with the heart, and there lovingly hear and chant and remember the sweet pastimes of Śrī-Śrī Rādhā-Madana Gopāla, until one day, standing humbly at the door, the soul hears that braided music of words and bells, and falls, at last, into the pool of rasa.