Prarthanamrta Stotra

By taking innumerable births, if need be, eager only for service at the feet of Sri Rupa Manjari and Rati Manjari, may I dwell eternally in Vraja.

When, oh, will this soul — its body bathed by streams of water falling from both eyes in ecstasy, its hairs standing on end and dancing — behold, in the rasa dance, Radha and Krishna, beautiful with love's own tears and thrilling hair, both more skilled than Cupid himself?

When shall I, water streaming to the ground from my eyes in an outburst of love, my body pale and deeply trembling, remember Radha and Krishna — the roots of their standing hairs bathed in perspiration, speaking to each other with smiles, greatly skilled in love's own battle-sport?

O sakhi, when with my own eyes shall I behold Krishna — his body's splendor as radiant as fresh, emerald-born tamala wood, glistening with pure mellow — and Radha, resting asleep upon his chest, her face praised even by the full moon, her eyes drowsy with sleep?

O sakhi, when will Sri Radha, her hand visibly thrilling with excitement, lovingly fashion a necklace for Hari, choosing the many-colored, brilliant jewels one by one — and, by her mercy, let me hand them to her, near her feet?

Radha, her mind overtaken by jealous anger yet still tender within, having quickly sent word of her distress, hears the truth of Krishna's disguise and his fault told to her; then, embracing the messenger with satisfaction, and now understanding all, she grew calm.

"O sakhi, who is this — his radiance like a rain-laden cloud, his garment shaming refined gold, his crest set with a peacock feather, happily dressed in forest attire, playing a flute held to a face whose beauty surpasses even the full moon — who is this, stealing my mind away with his flute?"

"O Lalita, listen to this one wonderful dream — ha, sakhi, let me tell it! In the dream, when you and I had gone into the forest together to gather flowers, someone smiling, his body handsome as a raincloud, forcefully and rapturously embraced you before me, your limbs restless with a startled, sidelong glance."

Seeing the torment of the cowherd king's son, the flute itself has fallen silent; every being, moving and still, born in the land of Vraja has grown faint. He too lies rolling on the ground, without ornament, wasted, surrounded by anxious friends. O Radha, only you can nourish his heart's desire — do so now, joyfully, always.

"O Radha, where are you? Come here directly! Ah, come and bathe this person, who is yours to command, with the mellow of your joyful compassion!" — thus, as Krishna anxiously made a choked, pleading sound through the hollow of his flute, she appeared, smiling, having turned coyly aside.

"Taking today in her left hand a bow of flowers, and with the two curved fingers of her other hand fitting a straight arrow aimed before her — who is this dark one, dressed as a dancer, making sport together with his friends, smiling, O beautiful one, wandering about, his very glances maddened as if by Cupid?"

O sakhi, when, having come at last and seen with joy the bower strewn with fallen garlands, kunkuma, and cooling sandal-water — the traces of Syama and Syama's own passionate love-battle — will that pair, resting in a breeze some distance off, turn their smiling glances upon me, tired from searching to find them?

I bow to a certain wondrous cuckoo, golden-hued, its beauty surpassing splendor, greedy for the honeyed sweetness rising from the sprout-like lips of Subala's friend.

I glorify, for a long time, that wondrous bee, crowned with a peacock feather, dressed in yellow silk, eager to drink the nectar of the bimba-red lips of the vanquisher of the bull-demon.

"The moon has been conquered in fame by me" — do not, O hero of the cowherds, hold such foolish pride, for the flood of tears from the eyes of those who envy your beloved has already forcibly overwhelmed even the moon's own shore.

"O sakhi, who is this bride of Vraja, appearing as if never seen before — from where has she come, incomparable one, to enjoy you, arriving from Mathura?" — hearing this clever, teasing remark from Radhika herself, Hari, his youthful game now exposed, only smiled.

By your good fortune, O moon, your light, adorning this forest-jewel dwelling all around, shines here where darkness has been vanquished and midnight has passed; so hurry, O thirsting cakora bird, from your own sky to drink of it, before the jealous sun rises here and drives you far away.

When will these eyes of mine behold Hari here — dark as a tamala tree yet radiant as a rising bee, embraced by Radha as by a golden creeper — sought as the cakora seeks the moon flooded with moonlight, or as the cataka bird longs for a fresh, divine raincloud girded with steady lightning?

O sakhi, I bow to that accomplished flute, which, through its whispered, pleading sound, extinguishes here the fire of Radha's jealous anger — a fire that could not be quenched even by the enemy of Baka himself, though he sent flattering messengers, though sakhis pleaded for him in heart-rending tones, or though he bowed his head, dust from rolling at her feet still clinging to it.

"Vraja, the very land of my life's sportive pastimes, its people, my mother, the cows, my friends, and the gopis — without that one, Dvaraka has become poison to me, my friend" — hearing these words of Madhava, broken with the feeling of his own dream, even Bhama felt it right that all of this be seen, and pleads with him for it with flattering words.

O sakhi, behold for a long time this venerable, radiant golden jasmine vine with its swarm of restless bees, resting in the lap of a tamala tree — for it recalls Radha, brilliant as lightning, smiling, her eyes restless, seated in the lap of cloud-hued Krishna, whose own splendor she outshines.