Utkantha Dasaka

Her complexion is smooth and radiant, shaming freshly cut gold; she smiles, charming at the meeting of girlhood and youth, charmingly dressed in fine, reddish silken cloth, brilliant in her attire, her braid gleaming like the tail of a whirling, dancing peacock; with the corners of her eyes she glances for a moment, delighted, at Mukunda. When shall I worship that Radha?

Strongly drawn by the fragrance streaming from her lovely limbs, the bee that is Govinda, though intoxicated, eagerly drinking the lotus-mouth-honey of the assembled gopis out of affection, still abandons that path and wanders on restlessly, longing for her alone. When shall I worship that Radha, the choicest wish-fulfilling creeper of Vrndavana forest for the saintly?

In a bower on the bank of Sri Radha-kunda, on a bed made soft with petals of jasmine, she again and again defeats the proud Madhava, the very teacher of amorous sport, in a game of dice; smiling, she turns the corners of her eyes into a festival, delighting her friends and making them laugh. When shall I worship that Radha?

In the rasa dance, surrounded by her friends, together with the moon of Krsna who is filled with the mellow of love, expressing dance through the eight ecstatic bodily symptoms of pure sattva, to the enchanting sounds of vina, flute, mrdanga, tinkling waist-bells, swaying anklets and jingling bangles, filling the air with sweet and charming song. When shall I worship that Radha?

In the deep forest, amid the unrestrained love-battle of amorous sport, her full, mountain-like breasts marked by Krsna with the arrow-like weapons of his nails, she in her pride wounds him in return, wild as he is with passion, while her friends, at a distance, offer their blessings. When shall I worship that Radha?

Near the king of mountains, Hari, surrounded by his crowd of friends, forcibly seizes the end of her sari on the path under the pretext of demanding toll; with her smiling friends she angrily flings back sharp, proud words in jest, her eyebrows arched, her eyes like playful cakora birds. When shall I worship that Radha?

The enemy of Kamsa, his heart full of eagerness to sport on the far shore, lifts her into a boat on the brimming waters of the Manasa-Ganga; on the pretext that his worn-out boat might founder, he joyfully takes her alone, with only her shadow for company — Radha, who on the far shore holds her bosom, her bodice torn. When shall I worship that Radha?

At the onset of summer, her heart overflowing with eager delight for water-play, surrounded in the evening by her mischief-loving friends, here in this beloved lake she playfully drenches Govinda, so skilled in aquatic sport, with sprays of water drops from a syringe. When shall I worship that Radha?

Her limbs swiftly adorned, one after another, by the slayer of Mura, who trembles with thrills of ecstasy, with a wealth of ornaments He Himself has fashioned in many ways from heaps of vasanti flowers spreading fragrance all around; flooded with tears of joy, the hairs of her body standing on end. When shall I worship that Radha?

She who is dearer to the enemy of Mura than his very life-breath, and to whom, wonder of wonders, even a single grain of the dust of his feet is dearer than countless lives of her own — she whose glorious fame runs swiftly through all three worlds, the crest-jewel ornament upon the heads of all of Hari's dearest associates. When shall I worship that Radha?

Whatever wise devotee properly praises, in divine melodies, the crowned chief queen of the great king of Vrndavana forest through this utterly fresh Utkantha-dasaka — to him Krsna, his festive joy aroused by relishing the qualities of his beloved who is dear to him as life, swiftly and openly grants this priceless jewel of his desire.