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Begin in a kuñja at the soft hour when Vraja goes quiet and waiting itself becomes a fragrance. Nāgara is seated within the bower, and He is not at ease. He watches the leaf-curtain at the entrance; He listens past the bees and the river for one footfall. He has come to meet His Beloved, and She has not come, and the longing in Him has the shape of a name He has not yet dared to say.

Now hear who cannot enter this grove. There is nothing in all the worlds more delicious than nectar, and yet the devas in their bright heavens, garlanded and worshipped, drinking that very celestial nectar that is called the highest sweetness there is, are utterly far from this name. Their paradise has them too drunk on enjoyment ever to bend the whole heart toward such love. The steady devotees who serve in awe and reverence, the great souls, a Dhruva, a Prahlāda, king Ambarīṣa, whose worship is faultless and grand, do not taste this either; nor do those who long for liberation. The liberated, melted into the formless and wanting nothing further, are nowhere near it. Even Kṛṣṇa's own cowherd companions, a Maṇḍalībhadra, a Subhadra, a Vijaya, stand far outside; only His most inward friends, a Subala, a Madhumaṅgala, catch even the faintest scent of who Rādhā is. Only those who love Rādhā and Kṛṣṇa in the sweet mood of the Vraja-devotees can drink this. So even Mahādeva himself, who knows all glories, says it plainly to Nārada in the line the tradition has kept: "brahmādīnāṁ mahārādhyaṁ dūrataḥ sevate suraḥ, tāṁ rādhikāṁ yo bhajate devarṣe taṁ bhajemahi": O Devarṣi, I worship the one who worships Śrī Rādhikā, She who is served only from a distance by the demigods and is most worshipable for Brahmā and the rest. This name is the secret jewel hidden in the thickets of Vṛndāvana, the cintāmaṇi-name, the deep-set treasure of the nikuñja, and it lies beyond the reach of all the peaceful and the saintly and the wise, beyond the jñānī and the karmī who chase knowledge and enjoyment and release. It cannot be seized by attainment. It is given by love, and love alone holds the key.

And consider what is hidden inside the name. When a lover chants the holy name, the forms and qualities and pastimes of his Beloved rise up within it; and the holy name of Śrī Rādhā holds all of Her divine love folded into its syllables. The lotus-feet of Kṛṣṇa's own name are worshipped by the crown-jewels that shine on the heads of all the Upaniṣads, every revelation bowing to touch them; and yet that very Kṛṣṇa stands lost, absorbed, drinking the sweetness of Śrī Rādhā's names. If His name is worshipped by all scripture, and He in turn worships Hers, what tongue can measure the glory of "Rādhā"?

So the one who sang this poem, the tradition tells us, came to know the greatness of the name only by the mercy of the name itself, and in his outer breath he cries: this nectarean name of Śrī Rādhā is my very life. As the body without the soul is only a corpse, so the whole body of his bhajana is a dead thing without this name. The name keeps him alive. He is burning in separation from Her, and only Her name upon his tongue holds his breath inside his body; without it he would simply die. When he says "Rādhā is my life," he is not turning a phrase. He means it the way a drowning man means the word for air.

Then, by the grace of that same name, the grove opens and a sweet pastime is shown. Śrīmatī has in fact come near, but She wishes to witness and test how truly Her Beloved loves Her. So She slips into a neighboring arbour and hides, and sends some of Her sakhīs ahead into the kuñja where Kṛṣṇa waits. He sees the friends arrive without Her and asks at once, eager, almost pleading: "O sakhīs, where is Priyājī?" They answer smoothly, "Śyāmasundara, today Her elders have forbidden Her to leave the house; She could not come." But Śyāma is not deceived. "Then why," He says, "do I smell Her bodily fragrance on the air? Tell Me the truth. She is hiding in some grove nearby, only to make sport of Me." The sakhīs cover for Her: "Śyāma, that scent is on our own garments, for we are always close beside Her. Truly, today She could not come." Distressed, He asks, "Then how can I still meet Her?"

Hear now the turn that makes this verse weep. The friends, watching His distress, give Him counsel that is also a gift: "Stay here a while, and be fixed in chanting Her honey-sweet name. She is drawn by such chanting. Call Her name, and She will come." And so Kṛṣṇa, the worshipped of all the Upaniṣads, whose feet the crown-jewels of revelation bow to touch, lowers His voice and begins, lovingly, to chant: Rādhā, Rādhā. The Lord of all becomes the chanter of Her name. After a time He looks up, almost like a beginner at his beads: "O sakhīs, I have chanted so long, and still your friend has not appeared." So they teach Him the next limb: "Along with the chanting You should also do some hearing. We will chant Her name, and You listen." And this is premṇā ākarṣayate: the sakhīs sing "Rādhā," and Śyāma listens with His whole love and attention, drawn deeper into Her with every syllable, the name pulling Him toward Her like a tide. Still He says, "Now I have heard Her name too, and still She has not shown up."

Then one sakhī teases Him, and the tease is the sweetest theology: "Śyāmasundara, I think You are committing offenses to the chanting of the holy name, and that is why You get no fruit. Tell me, did You wander into Candrāvalī's grove today?" And there, hidden in Her arbour, hearing Her own friends scold Her Beloved with such loving mischief, Svāminī laughs behind Her hand. And the servant who sang this, in his eternal kiṅkarī form, clings to Her like Her own shadow and floats in oceans of bliss to see Her smile. The sakhīs press on: "Just clap Your hands and chant Her name out loud, openly; then Your offenses will fall away, and the name will be pleased with You." And now the King of lovers, Nāgararāja, in helpless loving ecstasy, with tears streaming down His face, breaks into open Rādhā-nāma saṅkīrtana, His hands keeping the beat, His voice cracking on Her name, the transformations of prema rising visible upon His dark limbs. This is the verse made flesh: He listens to it, He murmurs it, He sings it aloud to the sakhīs, He stammers it through tears. The name of His own Beloved has conquered the Conqueror.

And She cannot bear it. Seeing such ecstasy poured out over Her name, Śrīmatī can hide no longer; She steps from Her arbour and enters the kuñja and blesses Nāgara with the gift of Her audience. The name brought Her. The name always brings Her. Consider what has been shown: the very Hari whom liberation longs for, the goal of every meditation, is found undone, weeping, dancing in kīrtana among the gopīs, drunk on a single name, and that name is "Rādhā." How sweet is Rādhā-nāma, the tradition sings: it is the abode of all sweetness and the limit of all transcendental bliss, the cintāmaṇi-jewel of the name, a most nectarean beverage, an ocean of rasa rarely glimpsed even by the gods, the secret jewel from the bushes of Vṛndāvana. Let the tongue but vibrate this name aloud and with love without ceasing, and there rises a rasika ecstasy as pure as gold molten a hundred thousand times.

So when the servant of Śrī Rādhā lays down everything and says the simplest thing, he says only this: that tearful Hari, and the nectar-name He weeps over, this "Rādhā," is my very life. There is nothing else he wishes to keep. Let the heavens keep their nectar. Give me only this limitlessly glorious name, and let it keep me breathing.