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Begin in the noonday grove, where the light comes down soft through the kadamba leaves and lies in pools across the forest floor. The world has narrowed to one bower, one fragrance, one waiting. And here the servant of this remembrance asks for nothing grand, nothing of power, nothing of possession. He asks only that one form become visible to the eye behind his eyes. Ten small graces, and through them, all of Her. This is dhyāna in the exact sense Jīva Gosvāmī fixes it in his Krama Sandarbha: viśeṣato rūpādi cintanaṁ dhyānam, that of the five kinds of meditation, dhyāna is the specific dwelling of the mind upon a particular divine form. So O Śrī Rādhe, let these ten be seen.

First, the softness. Gaurāṅge mṛdimā. Picture the golden body, lustrous as molten dawn, so tender that softness itself cannot bear to touch it. Rūpa Gosvāmī tells us in the Ujjvala Nīlamaṇi that tenderness is counted among the very bodily perfections, listed with age and form and elegance and beauty and pleasantness and sweetness; and there he gives a strict meaning to it: mārdavaṁ komalasyāpi saṁsparśāsahatā, mārdava is when one cannot even endure the touch of something soft. The tradition keeps a memory of this that should make us go still. In the Ujjvala Nīlamaṇi, Rūpa Mañjarī confides to Rati Mañjarī: O friend, last night Śrī Rādhikā lay down upon a fresh bed of jasmine blossoms, and in the morning the astonishing thing was that not one petal had withered, every flower whole, yet Her tender body had been bruised by their touch. Think of that. A flower is the gentlest thing the world makes, and it was too rough for Her. This is no ordinary tenderness. This is a sweetness so refined that the kiss of jasmine falls on it like a wound. O wind, you would not dare brush such limbs. O golden Prāṇeśvarī, let me see even this, the softness that softness cannot equal.

Then the smile. Smite madhurimā. It is barely there, a budding thing on the cherry of Her lips, and it undoes the one who undoes all worlds; for that slight smile enchants even enchanting Śyāmasundara. Kṛṣṇadāsa Kavirāja sings it in the Govinda Līlāmṛta, that Her very nose is Kāmadeva's quiver, packed with arrows of sesame-flower, and when Her lowered face lifts into that faint smile, the hunter Cupid looses his shaft straight through the door of that mouth into the deer of Hari's mind. One small curve of the lip, and Śyāma, the enchanter of the three worlds, is pierced. This is the moonrise that brightens the darkness of His desperate, longing heart. And the servant whispers what Śrīpāda whispers: if I am not fortunate enough to stand and watch that smile come, then at least let me meditate upon it; that, at least, is my desire. O Rādhe, give me the sweetness of Your half-smile, even in thought.

Now the eyes. Netrāñcale drāghimā, the long reach of the sidelong glance. Of all Her limbs the eyes are loveliest, wide and restless, more fickle than the wagtail-bird that cannot hold still upon a branch. Raghunātha Dāsa Gosvāmī sets it in Her very names, one of the hundred and eight: saubhāgya-kajjala-aṅkita-netra-nindita-khañjanā, She whose eyes, lined with the kajjala of good fortune, shame the very wagtails for their darting play. And mark how little it takes. In the Vilāpa Kusumāñjali the same Raghunātha Dāsa cries that the slightest movement at the corner of those wide eyes binds up the great Kṛṣṇa-elephant in ropes he cannot break, and prays, when will I be so fortunate as to worship these eyes by anointing them with their liner. O Śyāma, look how You are held. O Rādhe, when will I be so blessed as to serve those eyes? Let the long sweep of Your glance fall across my meditation.

And the breast. Vakṣoje garimā, the fullness, the weight of it. Here the tradition offers a wonder that makes one laugh and bow at once. Giridhārī lifts the vast Govardhana on the little finger of His left hand and feels no strain at all, an entire mountain held aloft like nothing; but let His eyes fall upon Śrī Rādhā's breast, and that same hand begins to tremble and to sweat. The cowherd boys, not knowing, think He tires of the hill and rush to prop it up. They cannot see what shakes Him. Only the sakhīs and the mañjarīs understand the greatness of that which a mountain could not equal. O Rādhe, let me, the lowest of Your maidservants, glimpse what even Govardhana could not weigh against.

Then the waist. Madhye tanimā, the thinness, slender as a lion's middle, so fine the tradition sings keśarī jini kṛśa mājhakhāni, muṭhe kori yāy dharā: Her waist outdoes the lion's, a single fist could close around it. And here the loving handmaidens grow afraid. For this thread of a waist must carry the heavy fullness above and balance the broad sweep below, and when Śrī Rādhā walks the mañjarīs reach out to hold Her, certain that so delicate a center will break beneath the burden of so much beauty. Picture them, hands hovering at Her waist, hearts in their mouths. O Svāminī, let me too be near enough to fear for You, near enough to steady You. Let the slenderness of Your waist be shown to me.

And the gait. Gatau mandimā, the slowness of Her steps, slower even than the swaying of an elephant in rut. Even Kṛṣṇa, whose own walk the Kṛṣṇa Karṇāmṛta praises as the proud play of a maddened elephant, mada-gaja-ślāghya-vilāsa-sthitiḥ, is enchanted when Rādhā moves. Each step is unhurried, weighted with grace, a thing the whole grove leans forward to watch. O Rādhe, let me walk behind You, slow, slow, in the cadence of Your feet, and let that motion live in my inner sight.

Now the hips. Śroṇyāṁ ca prathimā, the broad and gracious curve. Kṛṣṇadāsa Kavirāja, in the Govinda Līlāmṛta, asks whether the one who calls Rādhā's hips the very bank of the Yamunā does not speak the simple truth, and once you hear it you cannot unsee it: Her braid the dark river itself, Her sash of little bells the swans that sing as they swim, Her hips the shining shore. For why else, he says, would Kṛṣṇa's mind, the finest dancer of all, and all the dancing-girls of His desire, dance the Rāsa there forever and never once lie down to rest? O Rādhe, let that bright shore rise in my meditation, the very ground where the dance never ends.

Then the brows. Bhruvoḥ kuṭilimā, the lovely crookedness of the eyebrows, that bend and loose their arrow-glances and pierce even Śyāmasundara, the ever-young Cupid of Vṛndāvana. How many feelings She speaks with only the tremble of those brows. Govinda Dāsa sings it: yāhā yāhā bhaṅgura bhaṅga vilola, tāhā tāhā uchalai kālindī hillola, wherever the subtle trembling of Her glances passes, there waves of emotion rise as the Yamunā rises in its swells, for Her eyes are blue as that very river. A flicker of the brow, and a flood. O Rādhe, let me read You there, in the bend and trembling of Your brows, and let it be a vision to me.

And the lips. Bimbādhare śoṇimā, the red of the bimba-fruit, the ripe deep crimson that enchants even Kṛṣṇa when He looks. And why so red, the tradition asks, unless that color is Her passion made visible, the red of love itself burning at the surface? O Rādhe, let me meditate upon those ruddy lips, the cup from which even Śyāma cannot turn away.

And last, the heart. Hṛdi te rasena jaḍimā, the love-struck stillness within. This is the inmost of the ten, the one the eyes cannot reach. Her heart is so flooded with rasa, so stunned and steeped in love for Kṛṣṇa, that it goes numb with sweetness, motionless as a jewel held in trance. Loving Rādhikā is forever so, numb out of ecstatic love; and nothing of this is hidden from the sensitive maidservant who watches with her whole being. O Rādhe, let even this be shown to me, the stillness at Your center, the silence where all Your love has gathered.

And then the tradition gives this remembrance a second body, a way to see it whole, the way Śrīpāda sees it in his siddha-svarūpa. Picture the noon tryst, the divābhisāra. Śrī Rādhā sets out at midday to meet Her beloved, full of longing, and the maidservant follows close as Her own shadow. Within the grove the jewel of all gallants, Nāyaka-maṇi, waits, restless. At the first jingle of Her anklets He runs out and gathers Svāminī in with the greatest care and respect and draws Her inside. As He holds Her He feels the softness of Her golden body, gone faintly rose where the sun has touched it, and through Śyāma the maidservant tastes that softness too. He seats Iśvarī upon a bed of flowers and fans Her with soft leaves, or wipes Her with His yellow dhotī. Śrī Rādhā smiles a little, seeing how He loves Her, and oh, how sweet that smile, and He thinks, this is the highest nectar, I must drink it with the cups of My lips. She lifts a glance to Him, and He knows the wideness of Her eyes. Full of desire He lays His hand upon Her breast and knows its fullness. She feigns a small offense and rises and walks away, and so He sees the thinness of Her waist, the slowness of Her steps, the broad grace of Her hips as She goes. He catches at Her garment to keep Her in the bower, and She strikes Him with the trembling of Her knitted brows, and even that is beautiful past bearing. Enchanted, He drinks by force the nectar of Her lips, and through Him the servant knows their red. Then love overwhelms the divine Pair and Their play begins, and Kṛṣṇa, who is rasa itself (for rasena here means with Kṛṣṇa, the very person of flavor), binds Her tight in the ropes of His embrace, and in that holding the maidservant feels the numbness of Her ecstatic heart. And then, all at once, the vision is gone.

And the servant is left with empty hands and a full heart, praying as Śrīpāda Prabodhānanda prays: O cloudbank of sweetness, mādhurya-kādambini, O queen of the hidden nikuñja, O limitlessly merciful Rādhe, Your golden body is a storehouse of rasa; when will it become real to me in my meditation? When will I be conscious of Your tender shining body, Your slender waist, Your gracious hips, Your jewel-like fullness that is the very limit of sweetness? Will I see Your luscious smile, Your bimba-red lips, Your crooked brows, Your slow and beautiful steps that enchant even Madana-mohana? Śrī Rādhikā's heart is brimming with rasa and stunned with love like a jewel, and the servant asks only this: when will I directly see that essence, the whole wealth of remembrance? O Rādhe, let these ten graces be the field of my meditation. Let me see You. Let me serve.