Utkalika Vallari

Alone, having entered the heart of Vrindavana, crying out, my soul overwhelmed by waves of longing, I now break open the hard, burning seal of tears that has been sealed within my heart.

O forest of Vrindavana, who indeed has not swiftly attained the path of supreme bliss by devoting themselves to your service here? Therefore I humbly beg, on my own behalf: teach my mind the best means to glimpse the divine Pair, show me the way — oh, be merciful!

O goddess Vrinda, both scripture and tradition loudly proclaim that here, in your forest, Krishna the enemy of Mura forever sports with his beloved. Knowing this, I bow at your feet, O Vrinda — quickly show me your mercy, so that the tree of my longing may at last bear fruit.

O virtuous Vrinda-devi, this creature — whose heart has long harbored the sphere of hope resting on the feet of your two Masters — now begs at once for your permission to petition Them. Please be gracious, and cast upon me a glance moist with compassion.

Him who bears a form that is a sprout of radiance, lovely as a cluster of blooming blue lotuses, and who shines with masses of charming rays that outdo the luster of gold.

Him who is covered with the sheen of a silken cloth like a line of lightning on a cloud, and who is glorified by a captivating silk garment whose hue is akin to the luster of musk.

Manifesting a brilliant sweetness, a gracefulness surpassing even the Lord of Fortune Himself, an exalted splendor that astonishes even Indira (Laksmi) and the host of beautiful young women of the sweet cowherd village.

Him who is the Rohana mountain of a store of abiding, jewel-like virtues that others can hardly attain; and Her who is rich with true virtues that fill the hearts of all virtuous women with abundant wonder.

Him, the king of emeralds adorning the crown of the peerless circle of Vraja's youths; and Her, the crowning garland of the fresh young women who shine in Gokula, splendid throughout the world.

Krishna, who has made Radha the makara-emblem in the sea of his own heart; Radha, who has made Krishna the deer-mark upon the moon of her heart — his mind maddened by his beloved's fragrance, her every sense captivated by the fragrance of her most dear one.

Krishna, whose flute is made eloquent by singing the glories of the excellent goddess of Karttika, the very embodiment of love; and Radha, whose tongue knows the taste of chanting the many names of Mukunda, the delight of the universe.

He who, with the sweetness of His lotus eyes, holds captive the swan of the heart of the crown-jewel of Vraja's young women; and She whose sidelong glance is a net skillful at catching the royal fish that is the heart of the cowherd king's son.

Krishna, whose flute-song is like the pot-born sage Agastya drinking up the ocean of steady composure of the daughter of the cowherd king's friend; and Radha, whose venerable singing with the Mahati vina, greatest in artistry, has enchanted the deer of the heart of Him who enchants all.

He who, upon someone incidentally uttering the name 'Radhika,' forgets his entire repertoire of playful arts; and she whose whole being, upon merely hearing the two syllables of the name 'Krishna,' becomes enveloped in a great display of stunned stillness.

And You, O son of the king of cowherds, and You, O daughter of Gokula's most eminent cowherd — this unfortunate soul, raising folded hands to his head, humbly begs for some small mercy.

Ah, may You two, whose hearts are lakes brimming with a cascading nectar of compassion, be gracious! To this wretched person here, grant even a glimmer of that love which is the pledge of seeing You.

The sweetness of You both — dark Krishna in the beauty of fresh youth, fair Radha in spotless splendor and glory, together the crown-ornament of all loveliness — may that sweetness forever shine within my heart.

O two most excellent children of the cowherds, I fall prostrate and pray to You both — playfully grant me Your own service, playfully grant me Your own service!

Bowing down, I petition You with plaintive words, O son of the cowherd king — make this person a vessel of the mercy of Her who is the crown-garland of Vraja's young women.

Honoring You with flattering words, O Urjesvari, I beg this best of boons — that by belonging to You, the killer of Baka may bestow upon me still greater mercy.

O hosts of Their loving companions, who wander in every direction, sporting together with the two excellent children of the cowherds — hear my plaintive cry, and show me mercy.

O goddess Lalita, the divine Pair, so skilled in the bowers and cottages of the hills, are ever attentive to you — for you, therefore, nothing is impossible. Out of mercy, accept me as your own.

O Visakha, you hold the highest place in the love of the fair-hued and dark-hued forms; through that intimacy, obtain for me a glance moist with compassion from Your own beloved Pair.

O Subala, you are the dearly beloved friend, in Vraja, of the two excellent children of the cowherds — so today, out of mercy, present this grief-stricken soul before Them, if only for a moment.

Please listen mercifully, O you overwhelmed with love for the Lords of life — hear for a moment what this wretched creature, with humbled heart, would submit: will he, together with all of you, even for an instant, ever be granted loving service to Them both at once?

Where is this utterly base creature, and where is that goal hard to attain even for those already blessed with loving attachment? And yet this ever-fresh, weighty burden of longing still keeps me restless.

O Lord, Your flute-song — its glory magnified by the jingling of Urjesvari's anklets, which eclipses the abundant cooing of Brahma's swan — has attained supreme sovereignty over the entire realm of melody. When, out of love, will that most worshipable sound reach these two dull ears of mine?

O queen of Vrindavana, when will that sound of Your Mahati vina, which spreads stupor and loudly makes even the flute of Him who wears a peacock-feather crown falter in its tone, become, if only for a moment, a guest in my ears?

Whose, indeed, will that day be, O supreme Lords, when Your melodious song, swelling with rich waves of sweetness, washes away the accumulated sins of my ears?

O supremely skilled lovers, will the stream of fragrance that flows from You both — gracing the musk and saffron upon Your fair and dark limbs, a single atom of whose greatness covers all other fragrances — ever become, here for me, a festival for the bee of my sense of smell?

Placing his forefinger in his mouth, this person again and again cries out upon the forest ground: 'Be gracious, O Sovereign Pair, be gracious for a moment! Let the splendor of lightning and cloud flash before my eyes!'

O crest-jewels of Vraja's sweet people, this person begs something of You both: may the moonlight streaming from the moon-like nails of Your feet, if only for an instant, fill my eyes with wonder.

May the splendor of You two — embracing in the courtyard of the bower, radiant in fair and dark limbs, joy welling up from an unexpected mutual glance, lovely as a golden jasmine-cluster gleaming with bees — abound and fill my eyes with wonder.

Even the greatest of the great cannot attain, even in thought, the slightest capacity to behold You directly — yet this creature, desiring to have You Both appear upon the path of his own eyes, has conquered and swallowed his fear and shame.

Or rather, what fault is truly mine, O sovereign rulers of Vrindavana? The ever-fresh sweetness of Your qualities — whom indeed does it not madden?

Ah, will that blessed hour ever come for me, O finest of Vraja's dancers, when Your twin moon-faces — blazing with the nectar of kindled mercy, filling the cakora-bird hearts of Your attending companions with wonder — will travel the path of my own eyes?

O sovereign Pair, will wonder be created here for my ears by the exalted conduct of Your dear companions, who join in like allies striking from the rear, by deeply intricate maneuvers, by a grand display of crookedness, and by the playful jests of Your loving quarrels?

O Krishna, slayer of Agha — when this flute is secretly stolen away by her, and You send Your eager glance searching in every direction, questioning, only to be teased by the sakhis with their smiling, mischievous faces — when will You grant satisfaction to my eyes with that sight?

When, O goddess, Krishna, having Himself made a mark upon the petal of His own lip, tells Lalita, 'This was done by your friend,' while Radha's brows arch slightly and the corners of Her smiling eyes flash — when will the splendor of Your face, O Radha, grant delight to me?

How can this base creature clearly be worthy even to desire this, which befits only the highest? And yet — O Protectors of the afflicted, who set aside all reckoning of high and low — may the radiance of Your mercy alone be triumphant.

O Damodara, when, by fate, a meeting with Radha, the daughter of Your father's friend, has failed, and Your eyes dart about in fear of Lalita, who is stirred up with fury, while the female parrots, clever at timely words, swiftly reproach You, oh, when will You grant abundant delight to my eyes?

When, at the start of the rasa dance, Kesava abandons the whole crowd of lotus-eyed gopis and leads You to a secluded place in Vrindavana — You whose limbs are honored by Your attaining the position of one whose dearest beloved is under her control — having beheld this from a distance, will I not soon feel my heart filled with pride?

O Lord of Vraja, when, in the morning, with locks lovely and reddened by the traces of Radha's red lac, eyes still heavy and half-closed with languor, You are glimpsed sidelong by Candravali's pale, disconcerted attendants — when will the beauty of Your face grant me such delight and joy?

In the eager festival of splashing play, when the wager for drinking the nectar of the lips is proposed, and eager Krishna, having won, holds You by the neck to drink — O goddess, when shall I behold before me Your face in that moment: eyes half-closed and faintly flushed, brows arched in playful, crooked disdain, at once smiling and in tears?

O son of the cowherd chief, when Radha, having slowly approached with her friends, is joyfully stealing Your flowers, when shall I see You suddenly step forward, a hidden smile on Your face, and forcibly snatch the upper cloth from the breast of Bhanumati?

When the spring festival surges, crowded with throngs of companions, when shall I see You, O son of Vraja's Indra, here kissing the face of Guna-manjari, who had hidden herself, prompted by the restless corner of my queen's eye, bright with a smile?

When You two, wearied from sporting in the forest along Kalindi's banks, rest at the threshold of the lovely madhavi-bower — when will this person here, loosening his own gathered locks, use them to gently wipe clean Your lotus feet?

O sovereigns of the bower — when, O when, shall I, in a bee-filled grove, arrange for You both a bed of soft, spotless flowers, gathering tender sprouts into a pillow fit to bear the burden of Cupid's battle?

When, together with Your own beloved attendants, shall I perform the washing of Your lotus feet as You recline upon the pleasure-couch — using waters fetched, gleaming like rows of bees, from the stream of the Sun-god's daughter, borne here before You in golden pitchers?

O sovereign Pair, when Your two forms recline upon the pleasure-bed, smiling again and again and joking abundantly as You playfully vie for 'victory' — shall I, there in the bower, as evening begins, gently, so gently, massage Your lotus feet?

Ah, O sovereigns of Vrindavana, ever ready to begin the joyous battle of passion, hearts brimming with delight — shall I, here, offer to You both, inclined as You are toward the pastime of drinking, a goblet filled with sweet honey-wine?

When shall I serve, with the delightful breeze of a vine-whisk fan, You two ever-fresh young lovers of Vraja, as You lie upon the flower-strewn bed, eyes slowly opening, locks damp with beads of sweat from Your exertions, murmuring to one another?

O subduer of demons, when, by the goddess's instruction, shall I undo Your slipping topknot, its peacock feather fallen from the top and its rows of spotless flowers scattering loose, and braid Your hair into a plait whose tip is adorned with a lotus?

O lotus-faced one, when, with joy, having gathered into a braid the mass of Your hair — fallen loose onto Your shoulders through play and resembling a peacock's plume — shall I adorn it with a garland of blossoming jasmine?

O Lord of Vraja, when, in a fierce dice match bound by mutual rivalry, You, though You have won, are struck by the sidelong glance of the crest-jewel of Vraja's young women, when shall we, counted among Her circle of dear companions, seize Your deer, the wager?

Will that blessed day ever dawn, O goddess, when, having defeated Madhava in the gambling match, You will direct me, with a mere motion of Your eye, to laugh in mockery at his wounded pride?

Will that day ever come for this person, O Lord, when You, repeatedly honoring him, will seek from him the means to dissolve the jealous anger of Radha, daughter of Your father's dear friend?

'Having joyfully heard Your order as told by the sari bird, I am waiting by Your kunda, O friend; why do You delay?' 'Carry this flower of My message to Sridama's sister': when, O Damodara, will You send this person with such words?

Understanding the veiled meaning in Your words — 'I, whose wealth is my pride, will not look at this cheat again; with your words stop Subala's friend, who is entering here dressed as a woman!' — shall I, quick-witted, block the best of cowherds with pretended bluster and trickery?

O Aghahara, with the false report that Your beloved young bull is being violently attacked by a demon in bovine form — when, O Mukunda, shall I, by such a ruse, draw You out from Candravali's dwelling into the forest, and lead You to my own mistress?

O goddess, when, in a darkness so thick it swallows the whole world, piercable only by a needle, shall I — having covered Your radiant body with a cloak black as a bee, and removed Your jeweled girdle-bells and anklets so they will not betray You — lead You forth on Your new secret rendezvous?

O Lord, when You have placed betel from Your own mouth into the goddess's mouth with joy, and She, out of the contrariness born of love, casts it onto a leaf before You — when, understanding the secret meaning of this, shall this person, bending low and hairs standing on end with rapture, secretly taste that very betel?

When, as You both in loving pique refuse to look at each other, though filled with longing, each guarding his own obstinacy, will I make a smile rise on You both with such false words as 'Mukunda, why do You prod me with this dancing of Your sidelong glance? Stop it!'?

O sovereign Pair, will that occasion ever be granted to me — when, deep within the spacious bower, this person, moved by loving devotion, shall spend long hours together with You, tracing upon Her forehead, with fragrant paints of many hues, the manifest beauty of leaf-and-vine designs?

Not even a trace of that love by which this good fortune of serving You both is easily attained stirs within me, even in dreams. Yet, O supreme sovereigns, the bond of hope, born simply of dwelling here following Your Vraja, keeps me steadfast.

In the place where even great souls who have become Yours and are adorned with pure love long to be born as a mere blade of grass — there, in the forest of Vraja, You have granted a dwelling even to me, a wicked person. I praise, before this assembly, that very mercy of Yours, which reaches even the most wretched.

O tamala wish-fulfilling tree, whose limbs are made sweet by the Madhavi vine (Radha) that has attained sovereign splendor over the realm of the forest, and whose spreading fragrance blossoms throughout Vrindavana, by the mere shade of a glimmer of Your fame the whole world is freed from burning heat. Is it any wonder, then, that those who dwell near Your feet attain the fruit?

O wish-fulfilling vine of Sri Vrindavana, the entire universe has been nourished by Your vast sweetness, which spreads its fragrance all around and swells with the honey-stream of Your pastimes, fed by the nectar of the dark rain cloud Krishna. It is no wonder, then, that the plants on earth which have obtained the dust of Your feet grow and flourish.

O two excellent children of the cowherds, I beg this one boon of You again and again: may I have love, birth after birth, for none but Your own lotus feet.

Thus has arisen this 'Vine of Longing' before You both, who are eternally engrossed in Your everlasting pastimes in the forest of Vrinda. Though offered by mere words, may You, upon hearing this exuberant outpouring, grant me the fulfillment of my heart's desire.

In the Saka year known by the chronogram Candrasva-bhuvana, in the month of Pausa, this Vine, called 'Utkalika,' was composed by me, a resident of Gokula.