Chapter Eight: Literature of the Rasika Tradition in Hindi

Without Awadh’s royal prince, the nights
Do not please me; my breast burns continually.
That connoisseur, my beloved, dwells within the heart,
Yet never comes within my grasp—forever making me yearn, the trickster!

Gyanali, come into these lanes.
Sing ever-new melodies, reveal your eyes, and speak words filled with rasa.

Beloved, I thirst for the rasa of your vision.
Treasury of rasa and giver of every happiness, hear my petition.
You are the sun and gracious sovereign of my heart, illumining the world.
Dear prince of Awadh, defeated by love, look upon me with a smile.

Gyanali says your sweetness is a heap of joy and beauty.
Knowing me as Sita’s maid, pass your lotus hand over me and keep me near.

I know it well, proud one—I have seen your smile.
Setting your brows like a bow, you aim and release the arrows of your eyes again and again.
The wound burns within my heart, yet I cannot think to whom I might describe it.
Gyanali says the beloved friend’s assaults upon the heart follow only his own will.

The monsoon brings hope of union with the beloved: hearing the clouds resound through the sky and seeing the radiance of his form, the peacock of the mind dances.
Lightning flashes without cease, showers patter and gusts drive the rain; the cuckoo’s song is sweet while the frogs’ calls answer it.
Crickets sound jhum-jhananananan, the wind blows sun-sanananan, and the fields draw out tūn-tanananan—the seven notes made true.
Gyanali’s heart delights: in the monsoon her beloved has come home; seeing him, the heart exults and escapes the burning of separation.

The fresh young beloved is like a new tamala tree around which a golden vine has spread on every side.
Gazing upon the nectar of that lovely face, both eyes find fulfilment; the incomparable beauty enters the chamber of the heart, and life’s treasure is attained.
The beloved’s fresh net of beauty catches her lover’s swan-like mind, and a lovely string of pearls sings her glory day and night.
Gyanali’s cakora-heart drinks the rasa of beauty from her beloved’s two eyes, becoming more deeply saturated at every moment.

Companion, the clouds surge and gather, frightening us.
Black upon black, they thunder again and again, revealing the beloved’s form.
The papiha cries “Beloved! Beloved!”; lovely frogs and peacocks call, crickets ring jhanan-jhanan, and threefold winds bring freshness.
The darkness is profound, singular lightning flashes, and masses of clouds roar and reverberate.

Rain falls pleasantly, captivating the mind, while the weighty clouds spread a proud canopy.
Hearing of Ashadha’s arrival, the heart of the mind-enchanting beloved fills with happiness.
Tender shoots of love spring up like grass; even without a vision of him they stir Gyanali’s heart profoundly.