HARE KRISHNA HARE KRISHNA KRISHNA KRISHNA HARE HARE HARE RAMA HARE RAMA RAMA RAMA HARE HARE 18 страница
Radhe! Is the freshly donned, gleaming golden dhoti embracing His handsome hips now audaciously posing as a rival of You who yearn to lovingly envelop their pride in the fury of Cupid’s erotic embrace? I think Your all-attractive nagara will surely abandon that rival of meager sway in the progress of Your culminating intimacy.
As I fasten His ankle bells, He will mischievously tease me by tugging again and again on my plaited hair. At that time, I, steeped in the remembrance of Your painful separation, will take the opportunity to secretly kiss His lotus feet. He Radhike! When ostensibly dissatisfied Shyama repeatedly removes my artistically painted gopi-dots from around His ever-enchanting lotus-petal eyes, I, flustered, my bodily hairs standing on end, will many times softly appeal to You in restless apprehension.
Just as I finish my perfect final touches, suddenly, to my sheer astonishment, roguishly playful Shyama, with His two wayward lotus hands, will shamelessly seize my two firm, freshly blooming breasts! I will skillfully retreat while vociferously rebuking Him, exclaiming, “Aré! What are You doing, Shyama? You know I’m just an insignificant maidservant. I belong to that girl for whom Your avariciousness is actually meant! Without Her permission, You are not allowed to even so much as lay a hand on any of us, so why do You bother Yourself so?”
Beaming broadly, jestfully winking at my shyly smiling friends, and looking just like sweetness personified, cunning Shyama will rejoin, “Hey kinkari! I was just demonstrating to you what I’m going to do to your svamini when we rendezvous this evening. Why are you so upset? I’m not lying. When you return to Her lotus feet, just tell Her everything that has happened.”
Just then, as we, like dry scattered leaves blown by a whirlwind, quickly retire from sight, cheerful Nanda Maharaja and Balarama will arrive, taking Shyamasundara to the dining hall for dinner. When will I be blessed with the occasion to blissfully behold the sweet manner with which beloved Shyama heartily accepts His evening meal? Sumptuously feasting upon and praising the many varieties of tasty delicacies offered to Him at the insistance of Father Nanda, Balarama, Mother Yashoda, Rohini, and other superiors, Shyama will happily relish the four types of foodstuffs with great gusto.
Finally, the greatly fortunate Yashoda-mayi will offer all varieties of sweet preparations saying, “O Lala, happily eat all these delicious sweets prepared by the peerless hands of the daughter of Maharaja Vrisabhanu and You will live a long, healthy, and happy life!”
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He Radhe! As charming, quintessentially delicious Shyama begins to taste one of Your succulently delicious manohara laddus, He will become suddenly overwhelmed by the indescribably delicious thoughts of Your incomparably delicious form, qualities, and nikunja-lilas. When I see His unexpected loss of appetite perturbing the mind of His mother; when I notice His love-stricken listlessness, His pretentious muffled belch overtly indicating the conclusion of His meal, and His persistent parents’ total inability to persuade Him to eat even a morsel more; and when I see His affectedly cheerful request to retire to His shayana-mandira with a few of His intimate friends, I, slightly smiling, will understand everything!
Unseen by others, I will go to learn from Him the venue of our evening tryst. When will that auspicious moment come when I will find Him lying on His spacious bed, His lotus eyes brimming with suppressed tears of fathomless, overwhelming love for You? Seeing His condition, I too will be submerged in a welling stream of love-filled tearfulness as I recall the untold afflictions of Your inconsolably lovelorn heart!
He Radhe! Receiving the remnants of His repast from the hands of thoughtful Dhanistha, I will then return to make You happy by joyfully recounting every detail of what happened at the house of Nanda. I will inform You about Shyama’s proposed tryst; feed You His remnants, His ambrosial adharamrita kisses; excitedly help to ready You for Your abhisara; and blissfully take You into the night, down a secret forest path to meet the Lord of Your life!
He Shyama! The enchanting Shyama kasturi musk anointing Your unlimitedly beautiful body will stealthily rob Your in-laws of the power to persist with their moral wakefulness! Your stifled anklets will render their notice of Your stealthy departure conspicuous by its sonorous slumber! Your dark bluish-black Shyama-colored dress; Your deep-Shyama- blue sapphire ornaments; Your beautiful Shyama-bluish-black braided hair; the dense, dark, nocturnal Shyama-expectant forest of Shyama-bestowing kalpa-vriksa trees; the Shyama-dark current of the Yamuna flowing along the side of Govinda Sthala; and the Shyama-ness of the moonless amavasya night will all envelop You, every step of the way, at every turn, in inestimably profound, ecstatically exhilarating Shyama- exuberant love fascinations! All glories to Your rapturous, madly Shyama-anxious evening abhisara! I, assiduously anticipating Your course, will find myself running ahead to carefully brush aside the ominously obstructive brambles and branches along the forest pathway to the sanketa-kunja palace.
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O Radhe! When will I, overwhelmed with insuperable distress upon seeing Your incessant torrents of tears, overhear the sharp rebukes of Lalita Sakhi: “Utkanthita Sakhi Radhe! It has been hours since our coming to this hard-hearted forest grove and You still think it wise to wait for Him? You might as well be happy with Your own disappointment! I’ve told You time and again not to make any more friendships with that bogus blackish boy, but You just don’t listen! That nonsense, morally debased, deceitful, debauched cheater-number-one is black not only outside – He’s black through and through! No doubt He will show up at the end of this unbearable night, sporting kajjala upon His coppery lips, kiss marks on His cheeks and arms, and a host of candravali crescent-moon fingernail marks on His chest, along with smudges of kunkuma, won while gallantly pressing the breast of the girl who is Your constant competitor! You should angrily take no notice of Him; turn Your face away! Don’t be so gullible as to believe any of His lamebrain excuses! And, if You actually want Your ultimate good, don’t, even for a moment, abandon the dignity of Your disdainful demeanor!”
Hearing these discouraging words from Your dearest sakhi and feeling inconsolably dejected and let down at heart, You will indignantly order me to promptly remove anything and everything that in any way reminds You of unreliable Shyama! Your Shyama-blue sapphire ornaments – discarded; Your Shyama-bluish-black clothes – cast aside; Your enchanting Shyama-kasturi musk body-unguent – disdainfully wiped away; Your beautiful Shyama-bluish-black hair – bound up and imprisoned in an anguish-knot behind Your head; the lovely Shyama-blue lotuses pushed over Your ears – flung afar wilted – distraught and disappointed! The Shyama-bluish-sapphire- studded drinking goblets, pan boxes, and spittoons – good riddance! Has the removal of the elegantly embroidered Shyama-dark draperies not revealed the absolute Shyamishness of the darksome night through the window lattice of the kunja palace? Shall we now throw away the earlier-thought-to-be- favorable dark’s duration? Unable to discard the diminutive remainder of the already irretrievable night and helplessly engulfed in Your inability to forget inconstant Shyama even for a moment, You will futilely attempt to escape by retreating behind the closed windows of Your Shyama-darkened eyes! Seeing nothing but Shyama within and without, exasperated to the point of total devastation, and collapsing, fainted upon Your now withering bed of stemless flowers, Your every attempt will be baffled as You become overwhelmingly sunken in an ocean of Shyama-blackish oblivion! He Radhe! When will I, posted by Rupa Manjari at the pastime palace gate, eyes drowsy with sleeplessness, relentlessly ignore Your lover who, clasping my ankles with His two lotus hands while crying and crying streams of tears upon my feet, blubbers plaintive supplications, wishing to glimpse even the rays of Your effulgently sparkling toenails! At long last, unable to any longer suppress my hot tears of yawning indignation, I will reproach Him mildly, saying, “O Shyama! What is the use of Your crocodile tears now? The night has already come and gone! When were You ever in Your whole life sincere about anything other than Your own madcap infidelity? She is now peacefully resting and does not want to be disturbed. Your mother is calling You. Just go! It’s time to go home and milk the cows!”
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My dearmost kindhearted Shrimati Radharani! When, one morning, as the pitiless crimson shafts of sunlight pierce upward through the unsuspecting ruby cloudbanks along the eastern skyline, will I, upon arriving at the palace of Nanda Maharaja, see nearby with my own two tear-filled eyes, the flag atop the chariot of Gandini’s son, Akrura? How will I, with my scorched existence, protect You from the malevolent grip of imminent providential calamity? How will I have the strength to withstand the weight of Your inestimable desperation? How will I ever have the power to console Your infinitely disconsolate heart?
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“When insolent Indra inundated the land of Vraja with torrents of rain and hail, was that not a stroke of unprecedented good fortune? She then had the opportunity to relish His matchless sweetness, beauty, and handsomeness without any distraction as He held up Govardhana Hill continuously for seven days! Is ill-tempered Indra now revenging his defeat by withholding his devastating deluge at this dire hour of need? Why, now, do the hard-hearted cloud friends of Krishna not rain torrents of tears to daunt His departure?” Thinking thus, will I not then witness the magnitude of the gopi’s love as they despondently muddy the ground with their dispirited Samvartaka-cloudburst constant torrents of tears? Will the tender creepers of their hopes of somehow permanently sinking the wheels of the chariot now prepared to at once abscond with the Lord of Your life not bear fruit? Has not the water of Vrindavana now become exceedingly salty on account of their perpetual weeping? Are we to believe His cheating words as He cunningly promises His early return? We know what “Just now coming” means in the land of Vraja! “Just now” never comes! Incessantly crying and crying to no avail, I will throw my parched self down before the cruel one to supplicate his mercy upon the denizens of Vraja!
Ha Radhe! The measure of my everlasting love for You, the outcome of lifetimes of dedicated devotional practices, the consequence of having served and satisfied many spiritual masters, the effect of having progressively evoked the causeless compassion of innumerable Vaishnavas, the result of having earnestly scrutinized untold volumes of scriptural texts, the ultimate point of my many lifetimes of determined sankirtana and transcendental book distribution, the mark of Your matchless mercy upon Your minuscule me, the degree of my highest prema – all will be tested by my ability to somehow solace your hopelessly heavy heart as cruel, inconsiderate Akrura mercilessly takes Him away. As You stand stunned, robbed of the very life of Your life, like a painted picture of a totally traumatized, inconsolable Radha, we will helplessly behold the last traces of the dust clouds upraised by the wheels of the chariot as it quickly departs and disappears toward the precincts of Kamsa’s capital. He Praneshvari! I will ever consider it my supreme constitutional dharma to carefully minister to the heart-rending desperations of my gopi mistresses as they, unable to tolerate Shyamasundara’s absence for the mere twinkling of an eye and thus cursing the Creator for designing their bodies with eyelids that blink, become inimitably maddened with severe su-dura-pravasa feelings of separation in total disappointment upon His leaving the sweetest land of Vraja to reside in the opulent city of Mathura.
“Ha Prana-natha! Ha Priyatama! Ha Madhava! Shyama! Please return again to the path of My eyes! Out of jealous anger, contrariness, or sheer capriciousness, I would indignantly refuse to see You or would prankishly play hard to get. Taking You for granted, we thought You would always stay with us in Vrindavana to enjoy in our company. Now You have forsaken us and gone afar! Only now have we come to fully appreciate the value of a moment of Your company. O Krishna! If I could just have back all those priceless moments in which I scornfully denied You, I would never refuse to see You again. Please return to the tear-worn path of My eyes!” Ha Radhe! When will I, hearing You submissively sob these wistful words of utter remorse, be submerged by the irresistible influence of Your special causeless mercy in an ocean of ever-swelling waves of prema for Your lovelorn lotus feet.
Ha ha Radhe! Could the young city ladies of Mathura ever express, in their anxiousness to see Him, a love in any way comparable to the immaculate kevala-madhurya-prema of Your incomparably beauteous sakhis of Vrindavana? How rasika was His display of mercy toward Kamsa’s scentless pumpkin flower of a maidservant, Kubja, anyway? Was His breaking Kamsa’s sacrificial bow such an act of chivalry? Let us see Him break the all-powerful bow of Cupid, which incessantly pierces our hearts with the painful shafts of premikaa cupidity for His eternal life- long loving service! Krishna easily killed the enormous fearsome elephant, Kuvalayapida, but what about the more than formidable maddened elephants of our excruciating fears of being endlessly downtrodden and neglected by Him? Okay! So He triumphantly killed Kamsa, fear of death personified, but how will He kill our dread of the fateful demise threatening our ruthlessly abandoned You, without His penitent return to this land of Vraja?
Ha Radhe! In the madness of prema, I will hear Your mesmerizing maha-bhava-spirited speeches to the black Krishna bee who mischievously poses, incognito, as His own messenger just to savor the delirium of Your piteously impassioned heart! How encouraging were Uddhava’s notorious jnana-maya messages, the recollection of which only redoubles our distress? How considerate was Shyama’s drastic decision to further dissociate Himself from us by relocating to His cleverly constructed, far-off island fortress of Dvaraka? How valorous was His kidnapping princess Rukmini from the midst of a few insignificant jackal-like so-called princely men of this world? So what if He miraculously created nine hundred thousand skyscraper palaces within the twinkling of an eye. Was that actually so wondrous and magnificently majestic? Was His simultaneous expansion into sixteen thousand one hundred and eight husbands, one for each of His sixteen thousand one hundred and eight queens, really so very astonishing? Did He not inimitably expand His original form by the millions to synchronously sport with His millions of gopi wives in Your most charming realm of Vraja? His love for the exalted queens of Dvaraka may certainly appear to be very wonderful, but it could never compare with the concentrated amorous intoxication He relished in the company of even the least of Your vraja-gopi girlfriends. In this land of Vrindavana the supreme prankster, Krishna, made His self-willed adolescent shenanigans successful by deftly stealing away the garments of the unmarried vraja- kumaris. Is he now trying to amend His wicked ways by conversely contributing an unlimited measure of sari cloth to protect the dignity of the Pandavas’ queen, Draupadi? I have heard of Shyama’s occasionally condescending to become the humble order-carrier, servant, and messenger of Yudhisthira. That, in some way, may appear to endow His character with slight dignity and appeal . . . until we reflect upon the pitiable plight of the people of Vraja. All this far-off news sounds so strange and grating to my aching ears that earnestly long to hear the bitter-sweet songs of His now heartlessly abandoned flute!
Rolling on the ground with straw between His teeth, tears flooding His lotus eyes, His peacock-feathered crown fallen in the dust of Vraja, He, fawning in this way, would again and again beg each and every maidservant for the smallest dust particle of service to the dazzling dust of Your delicate foot-soles. O Radhe! Did He not mean well by all these antics? Was there not even a scrap of sincerity? Will Shyama not soon reappear to revive the people of Vraja and make You happy with His merciful sidelong glances, sweet love talks, and passionate embraces?
I will never, not even for a moment, accept that our beloved Shyamasundara is the son of anyone other than Mother Yashoda and Nanda Maharaja! That He ever left Vrindavana to save the lives of His “real” parents, Vasudeva and Devaki, is merely a mayic myth, a ruse! That Satyabhama and the other thousands of princesses married by Dvaraka-natha are really none other than You and the other gopis of Vraja is only so much conciliatory phantasmagoria. How could it be otherwise? For You and all of Your associates ever remain here to decorate this sweetest land of Vraja with Your nectar pastimes. He Radhe! Neither You nor Your Vrajendranandana Shyama ever take a single step out from the borders of Vraja-bhumi! His apparent absence is simply His playfulness, which occasions Him to camouflage Himself against the blackened background of Your loving delusions so as to shroud the whole of Vraja in a Ghanashyama monsoon cloud of confusion! Do You think that when Shyama now exuberantly dances with You at night in the rasa-lila, it is just a dream? Do You think that when He stands before You with a smirky smile, when He passionately pulls at Your sash of kinkini bells, when He forcibly folds You into His tight embrace, drinking the ambrosia of Your bimba-fruit lips, or when He piquantly plunges into Your nectar pool of amorous deliciousness within a cave on Govardhana Hill, He is just a figment of Your imagination?
He Radhe! In Your land of Vraja, by the influence of His inscrutable attraction, nectar and poison become indiscernible; meeting and separation are integrally interconvertible, co- existing substantialities. Reality becomes illusion and illusion becomes reality. Stone-like hearts melt, and the softest hearts break to pieces like brittle stone. Wakefulness is taken as dream, whereas one’s innermost cherished dreams awaken to tangible existence beyond one’s wildest dreams! He Karuna- mayi Radhike! Shyama, in this way, even to this very day, augments the intense loving attachments of the residents of Vraja to the point of sublime supramundane excruciation! You should, please, kindly not blame Him for this, for after all, from the standpoint of His absolute, masculine autocracy, He is unable to factually fathom by direct experience the deep nectar ocean of loving devotion to His lotus feet.
My dear most loveworthy and merciful Radha- Shyamasundara! May the broad-minded, forward-thinking souls evermore respect these deliberations, which are replete with profound concerns for advancing a more progressive culture of antaranga-bhakti in the lives of Your seriously dedicated sankirtana devotees. Please let those essence-seeking, deeply introspective, softhearted individuals who patiently and sincerely read or hear these verbose utterances very soon attain the highest transcendental happiness (paramananda) in the spontaneous loving service of Your lotus feet according to their innermost heart’s aspirations.
Fourth Heartfelt Effusion
My dear Shri Shri Radha-Shyamasundara! Crying at the lotus feet of Shri Guru, one very fallen and destitute soul humbly offers to You the following unrestrained stream of prayerful outpourings for Your kind and considerate audience.
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