Chapter Eight: Literature of the Rasika Tradition in Hindi

Smiling gently and yawning, he bends toward Sita’s body as though falling into a current of nectar.
Seeing this sweet form, says Ramsakhe, life returns powerfully to my heart.

Companion, he has become fixed within my eyes.
The beautiful royal prince looked upon me and cast some spell.
I cannot take another step upon the road; my feet falter and the mind has become helpless.
Dark Awadh’s prince remains spread through Ramsakhe’s heart day and night.

My beloved of Awadh entered and became contained within my eyes.
Smiling softly, he swept the curls from his face and cast me down with his enchantment.
What shall I do and where can I go, companion? I cannot drive him from the heart.
Even home has become painful, says Ramsakhe, now that my mind is intoxicated with his beauty.

I shall soak your veil in colour and give myself in sacrifice before you.
Though repeatedly warned, beloved Awadhesh, I fall again and again at your feet.
My delicate hand will twist and break—look, do not seize my arm!
Beloved, let me go now, says Ramsakhe; my mother-in-law will be angry at home.

Ah, beloved Rama caught hold of Sita while the companions snatched at his waistcloth.
In the circle of Holi, like the circle of rāsa, he did whatever pleased his heart.
He rubbed red powder across Mithili’s face and darkened her eyes with collyrium.
Beholding Awadh Lal, says Ramsakhe, the Lord has become soaked in his beloved’s colour.

The beloved plays Holi with her lover.
Within the rāsa-circle of Pramodavana, an immense festival of colour arises.
Sita flings red powder upon her beloved, and he answers with the syringe.
Beholding this vision, Ramsakhe sacrifices life itself before them.

The lover tells his companions of the Sita he saw in a dream.
Filled with affection and modesty, he describes how the Lady revealed herself.
Turning her tender body and moving a lotus hand, she came close to the couch.
She wore a fine blue sari, and over her head spread a dark cloud of desire.

Her long hair had come loose and fell to her heels; overcome with rasa and reserve, she yawned.
Smiling, she placed a morsel of betel in my mouth and, embracing me, extinguished the burning in my heart.
Delicate beyond flowers, her lovely moon-like face put the moon itself to shame.
Her tilak shimmered, her cosmetics were sweetly disordered, and a line of betel-redness had run down her cheek.