Chapter Eight: Literature of the Rasika Tradition in Hindi

Modes, melodic turns, and the laughter of women arise; beholding them, all the companions become intoxicated.
Gyanali dresses herself completely, wraps her sari, and hastens toward union for her beloved’s sake.

Now I know him as a rasika and a treasury of rasa.
With a single glance he steals the mind, makes the innocent one bewildered, and intoxicates the bee-like heart.
His face is an enchanting mansion of beauty, and when he speaks his words are nectar.
Let the mind become a bee and drink the rasa of his lips—this alone pleases my heart.

Hearing of the laughter and play within the circle of rāsa, the mind rejoices and finds peace.
Gyanali abandons worldly shame and household restraint, selling herself into Siyavar’s hands.

Autumn is the giver of happiness, and my graceful beloved is proud.
He assumes the guise of Natavar beside his beloved, the treasury of every virtue.
Beautiful Shyama is the embodiment of sweetness, and lovely Sita his chief queen.
His glance steals and takes refuge in body, mind, and wealth, leaving nothing at all behind.

Beholding that incomparable, rasa-filled beauty, the understanding becomes mad.
Speech falls silent and poets and scholars grow weary, their minds steeped in the nectar of his form.
Powerful and merciless, his fame is manifest throughout the world and his Name marks all three realms.
Whoever receives the direction of his smiling glance, says Gyanali, becomes wrapped entirely in this rasa.

Spring has arrived for the wedded Lady’s delight—her married glory spreads through all three worlds.
Tell me, who else exists in the world whose fame is sung by Vedas and Puranas?
All Sita’s fresh young companions are free and playful, filled with virtues and radiant beauty.
Where else would they be going, companion, if not to the woman who makes the royal prince dance?

The play of her sidelong glance is extraordinary: it steals the mind of the thief who steals all minds.
Gyanali has seized the one who enchants her heart and today arranged his meeting with Sita Ju.

Sita Ju plays springtime Holi beside her beloved, her delicate body surging with delight.
Millions of princes and princesses form immense crowds upon both sides.
Saffron dye, abīr, and vermilion fly; red powder forms a darkness like fog.
Each great player attacks the next with repeated streams from the syringe.

The river of colour rises so fiercely that it uproots both parties like its two banks.
Shame flees, and unfortunate fear and reserve disappear as everyone sings succulent songs of playful abuse.
Her lover’s yellow garment is drenched, and Sita Ju’s sari is soaked against her body.
Gyanali falls into an ocean of happiness and can perceive nothing in any direction.