Chapter Eight: Literature of the Rasika Tradition in Hindi

Come, friend—let us go toward Sphatika Shila.
The royal youth wanders there with his own companions.
In Chitrakut, beneath the golden shade of champak vines,
Chandrakala roams with an arm around Shyam Sakhe’s neck.

Chitrakut is a beautiful wish-fulfilling tree that grants the heart’s desire.
Shyam Sakhe says: serve Rama, giver of the supreme abode, for this very reason.
In Chitrakut’s forest gardens, even four-armed Brahma and Isha
Assume the forms of companions and serve King Rama.

Raghubar, how could I forget those words?
When shall I become a bride within my husband’s household? Your image has taken hold of me.
The words exchanged upon the riverbank left my understanding steeped in rasa.
Shyam Sakhe says: my handsome dark husband, I shall clasp you to my breast.

Raghubar came in the fresh guise of a woman.
Adorned like a beautiful young water-carrier, he bore a heavy pitcher upon his head.
The night passed as he went from house to house in that water-bearing form.
Shyam Sakhe says: my heroic, pleasure-loving husband wanders in delightful recreation.

Raghava Ji’s eyes have spread across the space within my own two eyes.
Beholding their redness, friend, I became intoxicated, and rapture expanded through my whole body.
Dark Shyam wounds me day and night, then gives me a cooling balm.
Shyam Sakhe says: I have sold myself without price to that sidelong glance.

The nectar-filled words of darling Raghava steal consciousness away.
Beholding his arched brows, curling locks, and cap, my understanding was lost.
Neither the comfort and wealth of home nor nights beside an earthly husband please me.
Shyam Sakhe says: day and night my heart longs only to press my beloved to my breast.

My heart is dyed in the rasa of Sita’s bridegroom.
From the moment it became steeped in his nectar, my consciousness grew pure and joyful.
Clothing, perfume, laughter, and the company of young women now seem insipid, friend.
Shyam Sakhe says: without beholding that sweetness, ardent youth is passing away.

My eyes met merciless Shyam as I went to draw water, and I forgot my pitcher.
His turban sat at an angle, his locks spread loose, and his dark body swayed as he sang a melody.