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 take Them as his own. Please be gracious, and cast upon me a glance moist with compassion.

May they display forms radiating a burst of splendor — beautiful as a cluster of blooming blue lotuses — whose loveliness cheats the splendor of gold, shining with lovely masses of light.

Adorned with garments whose sheen suits the shifting mass of monsoon clouds, glorified by a captivating silken cloth touched with the fragrance of musk.

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

A form like the gem-mountain Rohana, source of an abiding treasury of virtues unattainable by ordinary beings, rich with true qualities that fill the hearts of every virtuous woman with abundant wonder.

The crest-jewel emerald adorning the peerless assembly of Vraja's youths, a garland-crown of ever-fresh youthfulness that delights all of Gokula and shines 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.

Radha, the supreme goddess, the very embodiment of love, by whose glories His flute is made eloquent; and Krishna, the supreme knower of the rasa that is savored in the kirtana of His own assembly, which delights the entire universe.

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

His flute-song, like the sage's vessel that drained the ocean, drains away the firm composure of the daughter of the cowherd chief's friend; and she, the enchantress of all, whose deer-like heart is itself captivated by that most venerable, supremely sweet melody.

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,' visibly manifests the semblance of being stunned into stillness.

And You, O son of the king of cowherds, and You, O cherished daughter of Gokula's chief — 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! Grant even a fragment of the pledge of Your own glance to this wretched person here, devoted though unworthy.

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 cries in every direction, 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, queen of Vraja, I beg this best of boons — that by belonging to You, the killer of Baka may bestow upon me still greater mercy.

O company of 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 on Their behalf.

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 unrelenting, heavy burden of longing still drives me on.

O Lord, Your flute-song — its glory magnified by mingling with the swan-like murmur of the mystic sound in the darkness and the jingling of Urjesvari's anklets — 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, that sound — which stuns even a pillar into astonished stillness, surging loudly in waves of melody from the flute of Him crowned with a peacock feather — when will it, in its greatness, become for even 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 pervades all things — ever become, here for me, a festival for the bee of my sense of smell?

Placing his finger to his lips, 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, conquers his fear and shame and cries out.

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, through the elevating sport of Your dear companions' heel-catching games, through deeply intricate incidents, through displays of coy trickery, and through the playful banter of Your lovers' quarrels — what wonder remains still to be wrought for my ears?

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 Krishna, having Himself made a mark upon the petal of His own lip, tells Lalita, 'O goddess, 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 could this base creature even dare to desire something so exalted? Clearly he deserves only what fits the lowest of the low. 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 a quarrel with Radha, the daughter of Your father's friend, has arisen by fate, and, agitated with passion, Your restless eyes dart about at Lalita's insinuations, while the sakhis, adept at the moment, swiftly reproach You — oh, when will You grant 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 worshipped by the touch of Your submissive beloved's feet — 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, moves to drink before her whom He holds embraced by the neck — O goddess, when shall I behold 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, having slowly approached with her friends to steal a garland of flowers from You, Radha's face hides a smile — shall I suddenly step forward and watch as she forcibly snatches the upper garment from Your very chest, O daughter of Bhanumati?

When the spring festival surges, crowded with Your throng of companions, when shall I see You, O daughter of Vraja's Indra — Your face, hidden like a bud amid its cluster, kissed by me here, drawn by the unwavering, radiant, restless promptings of my queen's smiling glance?

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, at the start of your reconciliation, 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, following Your own instruction, shall I undo the goddess's slipping hair-crest — its peacock feather fallen, its rows of spotless flowers scattering loose — and braid for Her a plait crowned at its tip with a lotus?

O lotus-faced one, when, with joy, having gathered into a braid the mass of Your hair — loosened from 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, competitive gambling match, You are defeated by the crest-jewel of Vraja's young women, and she casts forth, with a sidelong glance, the deer that was Your wager — shall we, numbered among Her circle of dear companions, then go to claim and hold it?

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 message repeated by the messenger-bird, I wait here above Your kunda, dear friend — why this delay?' Thus runs the message. O Damodara, when will You take up this flower of my own petition, and no longer delay in carrying this person's plea to her?

Understanding the veiled meaning in Your words — 'Let this cheat, who comes disguised as a woman aided by his friend Subala, not appear again before me, whose treasure is her pride!' — 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, in a lovers' quarrel, You both refuse to look at each other, yet each stubbornly guards a hint of playful teasing beneath the pride — do I not catch the smile hidden in You both? Do You then try, Mukunda, with a sidelong dance of Your eyes and feigned words of 'enough now,' to wave me away?

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?

The good fortune of service by which such love for You both is easily attained — not even a trace of it 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, adorned with pure love, long even to be born as a mere blade of grass — there, You have granted me a place, however lowly, like that of some humble bird in the Vraja forest. I praise, before this assembly, that very mercy of Yours, which reaches even the most wretched.

O sweet Madhava, You who have attained sovereign glory over the forest floor, whose fragrance blossoms throughout Vrindavana's expanse, You are the wish-fulfilling tree that dispels all torment — by the mere shade of the far-reaching canopy of Your fame, the whole world knows no burning heat. How wondrous, then, must be the fruit attained by those who dwell in the very presence of Your feet!

By the joyous stream of the honeyed nectar of Your pastimes, flowing from the dark rain cloud that is Krishna, and spreading its fragrance among the wish-fulfilling vines of Sri Vrindavana, the entire universe is nourished with vast sweetness. No wonder, then, that for those who have obtained the dust of Your feet upon this earth, ever-greater abundance and festivity spring up.

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.