Tava Kathāmṛta
Nectarean Talks About Kṛṣṇa
IN VṚNDĀVANA
VOLUME FOURTEEN
Nectarean Talks About Kṛṣṇa KṚṢṆA
Tava Kathāmṛta
Based on the writings of A. C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupāda and the previous ācāryas
Śivarāma Swami
Table of Contents
1. Preface 7
Part 1: Kusuma-sarovara
Chapter 1: The Gardener of Govardhana
Chapter 2: The Servant of Rādhā
Chapter 3: The Appearance of Kusuma-sarovara
Chapter 4: Mahārāja Vajranābha Visits Vṛndāvana
Chapter 5: Vajranābha Meets Uddhava
Chapter 6: Kṛṣṇa’s Last Words to Uddhava
Chapter 7: The Song of the Gopīs
Part 2: The Rāsa-dance
Chapter 8: Kṛṣṇa Leaves the Dance
Chapter 9: Candra-sarovara
Chapter 10: Rādhā Finds Kṛṣṇa
Chapter 11: Jaya Rādhā-Mādhava
Part 3: Rādhā-Śyāma
Chapter 12: Their Names
Chapter 13: Their Qualities
Chapter 14: Their Forms
Chapter 15: Their Sweetness 1
Chapter 16: Their Sweetness 2
Chapter 17: His Flute and Her Vīṇā
Chapter 18: Thunder and Lightning
Chapter 19: The Two Kṛṣṇas of Vṛndāvana
Preface
I began Tava Kathāmṛta in 2001, and while Keśava Bhāratī Goswami and I worked on it a little, our progress stopped in early 2003.
That this book has taken nearly twenty-five years to come to print deserves something of an explanation. So, here it is…
Initially, Tava Kathāmṛta was to be the third instalment in the “Kṛṣṇa in Vṛndāvana” series, following after Na Pāraye ’Ham. However, I temporarily put all writing aside while the question of whether I should or should not be writing “such books” became a controversy within some sectors of iskcon. In time, the debate died out and, while not exactly given blessings, I was given a green light to continue.
Yet my heart was not fully satisfied. Other’s doubts about my books had planted a seed of doubt in me.
In February 2003, in the holy dhāma of Jagannātha Purī, I spent the month writing Kṛṣṇa-saṅgati. I would rise early, chant japa, write for eight to ten hours, and then late in the morning perform pūjā of Dayāla-Nitāi–Gaura-Hari. At midday I would swim with devotees in waves sanctified by Haridāsa Ṭhākura and Caitanya Mahāprabhu, honour kṛṣṇa-prasāda, and rest. In the afternoon I would take long japa walks on the beach, return for kīrtana, and retire for the night.
It was a restful time, a peaceful time, and the all-pervading shelter of Lord Jagannātha was all-encompassing.
Yet as I dived deeper into Kṛṣṇa’s pastimes of leaving and meeting with the Vraja-vāsīs, I longed to reaffirm for myself the authorisation by which I continued to write about Kṛṣṇa’s vraja-līlā. I wanted to resolve the doubt I harboured of my own qualification to write kṛṣṇa-līlā, especially Kṛṣṇa’s pastimes with the gopīs.
The subject matter of vraja-bhakti is infinitely deep. Kṛṣṇa’s exchanges with the gopīs are inescapably intertwined with vraja-līlā, and are the domain of liberated souls. And here I was writing of this topic, like the proverbial dwarf trying to capture the moon!
I had heard the call to write about Kṛṣṇa’s pastimes many years ago. And the more I wrote, the louder that call became. But the spiritual challenge in writing Kṛṣṇa-saṅgati stirred a sense of unease that I needed to placate.
There are three factors that authorise Gauḍīya Vaiṣṇavas to write transcendental literature: the Gauḍīya tradition, the order of the guru, and the order of Kṛṣṇa.
About the Gauḍīya tradition, Śrīla Prabhupāda writes,
Lord Caitanya Mahāprabhu instructed his disciples to write books on the science of Kṛṣṇa, a task which those who follow him have continued to carry out to the present day.1
Then, as my spiritual master, Śrīla Prabhupāda had ordered his disciples,
You should write, every one of you, what you have realised about Kṛṣṇa. That is required. Whenever you find time, you write. You are hearing, but you have to write also what you have heard from your spiritual master, and from the scripture.2
And finally, Śrīla Prabhupāda emphasised Kṛṣṇa’s fundamental role in authorising Vaiṣṇava literature:
A Vaiṣṇava always follows the order of guru and Kṛṣṇa. Kṛṣṇadāsa Kavirāja Gosvāmī took permission from both, and when he received the mercy of both guru and Kṛṣṇa, he was able to write this great literature, Śrī Caitanya-caritāmṛta. This example should be followed. Anyone who attempts to write about Kṛṣṇa must first take permission from the spiritual master and Kṛṣṇa.3
Sitting at my desk, looking out at the ocean and its never-ending waves, I reflected upon the three factors that had first inspired me to write. As a follower of the followers of Lord Caitanya, I knew I should write. As a follower of Śrīla Prabhupāda and his order,
I had to write. And as one who had heard Kṛṣṇa saying within my heart “Please write,” I had no choice.
Yet the ever-unfolding intimacy of vraja-līlā, the daunting task of making it available to a devotee audience, and the uneasiness within my heart forced me to again take stock of my qualification. I longed for some confirmation.
I would lie awake long into the night, reflecting and praying. When sleep came it was fitful, and I would awaken frequently, calling out to Lord Jagannātha.
All of a sudden, my peaceful writing retreat had lost its serenity. My time for respite had become a time of challenge.
Then one day, while leafing through Caitanya-caritāmṛta, I gained strength from the following śloka:
śrī-caitanya-prasādena tad-rūpasya vinirṇayam bālo ’pi kurute śāstraṁ dṛṣṭvā vraja-vilāsinaḥ
By the mercy of Lord Caitanya Mahāprabhu, even a foolish child can fully describe the real nature of Lord Kṛṣṇa, the enjoyer of the pastimes of Vraja, according to the vision of the revealed scriptures.4
“If a foolish child can describe vraja-līlā,” I thought, “then why not I?” Lord Caitanya’s mercy is powerful beyond compare. Is not the order of superior authorities, the intelligence to write, and the overwhelming endorsement of iskcon’s members confirmation that Lord Caitanya—who can empower even children—has endorsed the effort to write the “Kṛṣṇa in Vṛndāvana” series?
Śrīla Prabhupāda writes,
One should not write books or essays on transcendental subject matter for material name, fame, or profit. Transcendental literature must be written under the direction of a superior authority because it is not meant for material purposes. If one tries to write under superior authority, he becomes purified.5
This reasoning was powerful evidence in support of my case. But I knew that some Vaiṣṇavas outside iskcon would reject it. These Vaiṣṇavas doubted that Lord Caitanya had blessed my efforts. They doubted that I was qualified to write. And they even doubted that iskcon’s members were qualified to evaluate what I wrote.
I knew that those devotees would only be satisfied, if at all, with some objective form of evidence that would be visible to everyone. They would want to see irrefutable proof of Lord Caitanya’s empowerment.
The challenge reminded me of the young brāhmaṇa’s dilemma in the story of Sākṣi-gopāla. Only the personal testimony of the deity would satisfy the sceptical audience who doubted the honesty of the young brāhmaṇa. This was the kind of evidence my critics would accept. But could I, an inconsequential ant, even dare to hope that the Lord would testify on my behalf?
As the days stretched into weeks, I continued my writing, bathing in the ocean, and walking. Yet I was troubled. In the solitude of my room, I prayed to Caitanya Mahāprabhu, “Please be merciful to me! Please give me a special sign to confirm the authority of my pen.”
I perceived the Lord’s undeniable presence in the dhāma, in his deity, and in his name. Yet my request for extraordinary recognition remained outstanding.
Then one day, an argument with my disciple Kṛṣṇa-līlā Devī Dāsī sparked a chain of events that resulted in reciprocation beyond all expectations.
Two years prior, I had lent Kṛṣṇa-līlā a set of small, uninstalled Rādhā-Kṛṣṇa deities to help her through a time of personal difficulty. With that difficulty now passed, I asked her to return my Rādhā-Kṛṣṇa, as I missed them.
“You can get some other deities!” she said defensively.
“But those deities came to me of their own accord,” I replied. “I don’t want to go looking for Kṛṣṇa in the market.”
“I am sure he will come to you if you ask him,” she replied. And that was that!
I was hurt, and did not reply. Not only was she kidnapping my deities, she was lecturing me on why I should comply with her demands. I continued my pūjā of Gaura-Nitāi and calmed down.
I looked at the beautiful deity of Lord Caitanya and thought, “Anyway, you are Rādhā and Kṛṣṇa. Why should I look elsewhere when they are present in you?”
This was my conviction: Lord Caitanya was Rādhā-Kṛṣṇa. But the desire to serve the gold- and sapphire-coloured forms of Rādhā-Śyāma persisted in my heart. And with that growing compulsion, I began to think of how I could acquire some new deities of my own.
As I sat before Gaura-Nitāi, the sound of crashing waves mingled with my churning thoughts. Then, spontaneously, the form of Kṛṣṇa appeared within my mind.
It was the form of a deity I knew well—the form of RādhāDāmodara, the deities who resided in the nearby temple of Jagadānanda Paṇḍita, deities who had been the personal deities of Svarūpa Dāmodara Gosvāmī, Caitanya Mahāprabhu’s personal associate and secretary.
But would they come to me? Although not the presiding deities in the temple, Rādhā-Dāmodara were of historical significance with a following of their own. Svarūpa Dāmodara, Lalitā-devī in Kṛṣṇa’s pastimes, had served Rādhā-Dāmodara with love and devotion. Lord Caitanya had taken darśana of these deities and honoured their prasāda.
After living in Purī for 500 years, would Rādhā-Dāmodara now travel to the West? Would they leave behind their local admirers for the service of iskcon devotees? I did not know. But a spark of possibility smouldered upon the tinder of my desire to serve them. My eyes closed, I continued to meditate upon the form before me. Kṛṣṇa’s appearance was distinctive. Instead of holding the flute to his right side, he held it to his left, offering it to Śrīmatī Rādhārāṇī. By comparison to his fifteen and a half centimetre height, beautiful Rādhikā was petite at only 11 cm.6 And above all, they perfectly resembled the deities of Rādhā-Śyāma in New Vraja-dhāma, deities whom I perceived and worshipped in every form of Rādhā-Kṛṣṇa.
“Why not call them!” I thought to myself. “Will you ever forgive yourself if you don’t try? At least you should try!”
“Very well, then,” I replied to Kṛṣṇa-līlā. “That is just what I’ll do. I will ask Rādhā-Śyāma to come to me.”
And that was the beginning of a wonderful pastime, whose
Śrī Śrī Rādhā-Dāmodara, the deities originally worshipped by Svarūpa Dāmodara Gosvāmī in Purī.
ending so marvellously fulfilled all desires and answered all questions.
I will not go through the daily negotiations Tārakānātha Prabhu undertook to help fulfil my attempt for Rādhā-Dāmodara’s service, nor the nightly strategy meetings of our group of pilgrims. Nor will I describe the auspicious signs that encouraged our venture, nor the devastating near-failures that almost made us give up. This pastime contains too much detail for a book’s Preface, and could easily fill a book on its own.
Suffice to say that after intensifying our efforts to a fever pitch, Lord Jagannātha, the all-cognisant master of Purī, took pity on us and finally fulfilled my desire.
Thus, by his grace, one day near the end of our visit, when the sun was highest in the sky and the waves washed hot bubbles over our feet, our small pilgrim group carried Rādhā-Dāmodara along the ocean’s shore and to our garden residence.
Accompanied by kīrtana, we entered what served as our temple room and carefully placed the deities on the table. I paid obeisances and offered prayers, my heart echoing the wonder of my disbelief. Then I sat before the two tarnished golden forms before me.
As I did, the weeks-long adventure of acquiring Rādhā-Dāmodara receded into the background. I had become so engrossed in acquiring them that I had forgotten the original reason I had called them. Now that they had come, I again remembered my desire for a special sign from Lord Caitanya.
Mahāprabhu’s secretary—without whose permission no one could recite to him any composition, book, or drama—had given me his personal deities. He had given me Rādhā-Kṛṣṇa, the source of vraja-līlā. It was a sign, plain and simple. Svarūpa Dāmodara Gosvāmī had accepted my compositions. And if he had, then so had Caitanya Mahāprabhu.
This was the sign that I had requested, but a sign even more explicit than I had dared imagine. A sign visible to everyone. A sign standing on the table before me in the form of Rādhā-Dāmodara! I bowed before the deities for a long time, and in the presence of
others I restrained the expression of the emotions welling up within me. When my heart was finally peaceful, I thought, “Lord Caitanya has blessed my compositions on vraja-līlā.” I sat up and repeated this verse from Prārthanā:
lalitā-viśākhā-ādi jata sakhī-vṛnda ājñāya koriba sevā caraṇāravinda
When, following the orders of Lalitā, Viśākhā, and the other gopīs, will I serve the lotus feet of the divine couple?7
The service of Rādhā and Kṛṣṇa, which includes glorification of their pastimes, depends upon the order, ājñā, of the gopīs. Without the permission of the gopīs headed by Lalitā-devī, no one can have access to Rādhā-Kṛṣṇa’s pastimes. Caitanya-caritāmṛta explains this principle:
The pastimes of Rādhā and Kṛṣṇa are very confidential. They cannot be understood through the mellows of servitude, fraternity, or parental affection.
Actually, only the gopīs have the right to appreciate these transcendental pastimes, and only from them can these pastimes be expanded.
Without the gopīs, these pastimes between Rādhā and Kṛṣṇa cannot be nourished. Only by their co-operation are such pastimes broadcast. It is their business to taste the mellows.8
After I had repeatedly begged that order from Caitanya Mahāprabhu, merciful Lord Jagannātha had directed Svarūpa Dāmodara Gosvāmī to place his personal deities in my hands. And so my two desires were fulfilled. First, I received tangible evidence of Lord Caitanya’s blessings upon my writings. Second, I was blessed with the personal service of Rādhā-Dāmodara, a service that would mitigate my feelings of separation from Rādhā-Śyāmasundara.
I was now fully satisfied. More than that, I was in bliss. I had read of such wonders, but had never imagined that they would happen to me.
And so it was that Tava Kathāmṛta continued to languish in my files. After Rādhā-Dāmodara came to me, I continued with the “Kṛṣṇa in Vṛndāvana” series and Nava-vraja-mahimā. Perhaps it was too much of a reminder of earlier criticism. In 2002 I nearly deleted it by accident, and so I moved the file and stored it within my computer. Then, as fate would have it, I completely forgot about it.
Fast forward to 2023. I was cleaning my computer and came across a well-hidden file, Tava Kathāmṛta. When I mentioned to Braja Sevakī Devī Dāsī, my editor, that I had found a long-lost book, she insisted I immediately send it to her to avoid me losing it for another twenty years. After reading the book, Braja was so enchanted that, although working on Vilāpa-kusumāñjali, she insisted that we immediately edit and polish Tava Kathāmṛta and print it. She said,
“Devotees will love it. They will eat it up! It is so delicious.”
And so the Lāl Team set about turning that long-forgotten manuscript into this book. I had only one condition: I did not want to engage in the editing, or the production, or have anything to do with the content. I was working on my Patrāṅkitā commentaries to Śrī Vilāpa-kusumāñjali, and it had become my sole focus. I did not want any distractions, and I knew if I were to look at Tava Kathāmṛta, I would add, change, write, and alter the content, and consequently be pulled away from my Vilāpa-kusumāñjali commentary.
The only exception I made was to view the artwork. Taralākṣī Devī Dāsī had also “almost completed” her work on the book twenty-plus years ago, and her files had remained as dormant as the manuscript. I had not seen her work since then, and so her additions and updates were sent to me. I consequently feel that this book is as new to me as it is to the reader.
Vaiṣṇavas neither glorify themselves, nor do they like others to do so. However, as exemplified by Śrīla Kṛṣṇadāsa Kavirāja Gosvāmī in his Caitanya-caritāmṛta, an author may inevitably cite evidence that describes how he was the recipient of the Lord’s grace to certify the authority of his writing.9 Nonetheless, that same author simultaneously thinks himself an unqualified instrument in the hands of superior authorities.
The story of how Rādhā-Dāmodara came to accept the service of this unqualified person is their pastime. I have described it in support of the authority of the books in the “Kṛṣṇa in Vṛndāvana” series. If my readers object to what appears as self-glorification in the story of Rādhā-Dāmodara, I apologise from the core of my heart. What else can I do? This pastime, and their exceptional mercy, should be known.
I am ignorant, low born, and full of material desires. Yet by the constant encouragement of the Vaiṣṇavas and the Lord, I continue to write books about Kṛṣṇa’s vraja-līlā. Until they order me otherwise, I shall continue to do so.
Śivarāma Swami, Budapest, May 30th 2024
Notes
1. Teachings of Lord Caitanya, “Lord Caitanya’s Mission.”
2. Lecture, Brahma-saṁhitā 32, Los Angeles, 14 August 1972.
3. Śrī Caitanya-caritāmṛta, Ādi-līlā 8.73, Purport.
4. Cc. Ādi-līlā 4.1.
5. Cc. Ādi-līlā 11.7, Purport.
6. This is the size of Rādhā’s and Dāmodara’s bodies. Their stands add an extra 4cm and 4.5cm, respectively.
7. Prārthanā, “Sakhī-vṛnde-vijñapti.”
8. Cc. Madhya-līlā 8.201–203.
9. In Caitanya-caritāmṛta (Ādi-līlā 8.65–84) the author describes how he was ordered to write this epic by the order of the Vaiṣṇavas, and how the deity Madana-mohana, who dictated the entire book to him, confirmed that order.
PART ONE Kusumasarovara
CHAPTER 1
The Gardener of Govardhana
Every year, in the last week of Āśvina, the festival of Sāñjhī is observed in Vṛndāvana. It is autumn, and to celebrate, the residents of Vraja adorn their courtyards and exterior walls with artistic drawings.1 The young girls of the villages compete to make the most beautiful pictures of cows, gopīs, elephants, peacocks, and auspicious symbols fashioned from coloured rice flour and cow dung, and decorated with flowers.
On the first day of the festival in Varṣāṇā, Rādhikā rises early, keen to participate in the event. The princess is bathed and dressed by her maidservants in a new blue sāṛī, and calls together her intimate friends.
Rādhā is at the threshold of adolescence, vayaḥ-sandhi, and thus loving feelings for Kṛṣṇa are awakening in her heart. Her eyes are restless, her smile is mild, and her hips are bound by a sheer sash trimmed with tinkling bells. The childish behaviour of girlhood has retreated, and in its stead a different kind of bearing and speech, sprinkled with shyness and hidden meanings, is prominent.
Surrounded by close friends like Lalitā, Viśākhā, and Citrā, Rādhā sits in the courtyard of King Vṛṣabhānu’s palace. Her voice quivers with excitement.
“Sakhīs! Today is the first day of Sāñjhī. We must beautify our homes. We simply cannot be outdone by Candrāvalī, Bhadrā, or Śyāmalā.”
Lalitā claps her hands and exclaims, “Wonderful! Wonderful! When do we start?”
Following Lalitā’s lead, the young gopīs respond in unison, “When do we start? When do we start?”
Rādhā raises her palms in a gesture of uncertainty,
“I do not know. There is a problem, and until it is resolved we cannot begin our decorations.”
The gopīs are suddenly silent. Tuṅgavidyā asks, “Problem…problem…? What is the problem? Is there a shortage of rice flour or cow dung in Varṣāṇā?”
The gopīs laugh in chorus.
“Silly! There is plenty of rice flour, and cow dung is available everywhere.”
Citrā says,
“Sakhī Rādhā! Why can we not start decorating?”
Rādhā lifts her hand, the veil of her sāṛī drifting over her forearm like a gentle breeze.
“Dear friends! To make beautiful decorations we need many flowers. But here in Varṣāṇā there are no flowers or blooming forests, only our parents’ gardens, and those are strictly reserved for the families’ deities.”
The gopīs again fall silent, but soon take up their melodious chatter.
“What shall we do?” asks one.
“I do not know!” replies another.
“How will Sāñjhī go on without flowers?!” cries a third.
The Princess of Varṣāṇā thinks for a moment and then calms her friends.
“I have a plan that will solve everything.”
Rūpa and Rati gaze at Śrī Rādhā with love.
“Oh, do tell us!”
Pausing again to catch their attention, Rādhā says,
“ Sakhīs! There may not be many flowers on the stony crags of Varṣāṇā, but in Puṣpavana we can collect as many flowers as we like.”
Citrā objects,
“Puṣpavana! Puṣpavana! Why, Puṣpavana is at the far end of Giri Govardhana!”
Rādhā replies excitedly,
“Yes! That is why we must start our morning duties early, and, moving like the wind, complete them within a fraction of the usual time. Then, taking permission from our parents, we shall meet here again and swiftly go to Puṣpavana to collect flowers.”
Thinking Rādhā’s proposal most agreeable, the gopīs of Varṣāṇā raise a joyous din and embrace her as they would their very lives. They are pleased at the prospect of beginning Sāñjhī in a spectacular way. The adventure to Puṣpavana sounded like just the medicine to cure the boredom of household chores. And besides, perhaps someone else may be picking flowers at Puṣpavana!
The excited girls run in different directions, like multicoloured lava flowing from a volcano. They go about their duties like never before, drawing water, making patties, and cutting vegetables, all the while singing the glories of Vṛndāvana, of autumn, and of Śrī Rādhā.
The gopīs’ parents are very affectionate to their daughters. Observing the diligent labour of the young gopīs, each parent thinks,
“My little girl has grown up, and is now a beautiful, responsible woman. I must quickly find a suitable husband to protect her newfound vitality.”
The gopīs’ brothers notice the flurry of activity in their homes and quickly uncover their sisters’ plan. Guided by Rādhā’s brother Śrīdāmā, the gopas also resolve to herd their cows near Govardhana Hill to join in the fun of collecting flowers at Puṣpavana.
News of the day’s excursion quickly spreads from Varṣāṇā to Nandagrāma, and an excited group of cowherd boys gathers in the courtyard below Kṛṣṇa’s bedroom window. With great love Subala cries out,
“O friend! O Gopāla! Wake up at once! Today a great adventure awaits us. You are sleeping, but the cows will not give milk until they see your shining lotus face.”
The cowherd boys respond to Subala’s words by blowing buffalo horns and playing flutes, and the combined tumult startles Tāṇḍavikā, Kṛṣṇa’s pet peacock. The parrots Dakṣa and Vicakṣaṇa fly to the balcony railing and sing,
“Glory, glory to you, the source of auspiciousness for Gokula! O Govinda! Your every step increases the joy of Nanda and of all surrendered souls!”
As the boys’ eagerness grows, so too does the pandemonium they raise. When would Kṛṣṇa come? Eventually, Hari appears in his balcony doorway like a monsoon cloud draped in lightning. His curly hair falls about his shoulders, his eyes are still red from sleep, and his teeth sparkle like pearls.
Like Rādhā, Kṛṣṇa has just crossed the threshold of adolescence. Just as a forest displays different climates and foliages in different seasons, so Kṛṣṇa displays various physical, mental, and emotional symptoms according to his age.
His bodily lustre shines like an indranīla jewel, a reddish border spreads around his eyes, and small, soft hairs appear on his body. The tips of his nails are as delicate as new bamboo leaves, and his reddish teeth reflect the growing fullness of his bimba -fruit lips. His eyebrows, which resemble the bow of Cupid, sometimes dance, clearly indicating his growing interest in young girls.
Captivated by Kṛṣṇa’s smile, the gopīs are completely bewildered, and in this condition they are unable to express themselves to others. The young girls of Vraja celebrate the kaiśora age of Kṛṣṇa, but his parents, servants, and friends are under the sway of pure devotion and are thus unable to recognise his new-found adolescence. They see Kṛṣṇa simply as a beautiful young boy.
As Vicakṣaṇa flies onto Kṛṣṇa’s shoulder, the cowherd boys cheer, and one gopa shouts,
“Sakhā! Today we are planning a special excursion.”
Govinda opens his eyes wide in silent reply. Another gopa exclaims,
“It is the first day of Sāñjhī. All the girls, headed by Vṛṣabhānunandinī, are going to collect flowers in Puṣpavana. Placing our cows and calves in the lead, we should also go.”
Externally, Kṛṣṇa shows little interest in this news, but internally his heart is restless with joy. While fragrant morning breezes caress his limbs, and Vicakṣaṇa paces back and forth across his shoulders, Hari thinks,
“This is good news. These gopīs often complain about my pranks. This may be my chance to teach them a lesson.”
But then he reconsiders,
“But what about the gopas? If they are with me, how can I mingle freely with Rādhā and her friends?”
At once a plan hatches in his mind.
As the cowherd boys look on, Hari pretends to slacken his limbs and makes his eyes roll. Holding the railing of the balcony, Kṛṣṇa shakes as if with fever and holds his stomach, calling out again and again,
“Oh! Oh!”
Seeing his feeble condition, the parrots fly about Hari’s head as the alarmed boys run into the palace and up the stairs. Pleased with his dramatic performance, Kṛṣṇa quickly goes back into his room, lies down on his bed, and pulls the sheets over his head.
Led by Baladeva, the boys burst into the room, calling out,
“Gopāla, here I am! Fear not!”
Overwhelmed by fraternal affection, they run to Hari’s bed and surround him like relatives around a departing soul. Seeing that Kṛṣṇa is under the bed covers, Balarāma puts a finger to his lips and quiets the boys,
“Shhh! Shhh!”
Balarāma places a loving hand on Kṛṣṇa and asks,
“Kānāi! Are you not well? Is something wrong?”
The boys hold their breath as Kṛṣṇa moves slightly but makes no response. Some of the younger ones begin to cry as Daujī again rubs Kṛṣṇa’s arm, saying,
“Kānāi! What can we do? Should we call the royal physician?”
By this time, the balcony is crowded with concerned monkeys, parrots, and peacocks, who have all heard the news of Kṛṣṇa’s illness.
Just as Balarāma is again about to speak, from beneath the sheets a raspy voice says,
“O Daujī! I am not well.”
The voice is little more than a whisper, but somehow it carries to all corners of the room. With drawn-out words Kṛṣṇa continues to speak,
“I have such a bad headache. I am so tired. I could never walk behind the cows today.”
The boys look at one another in disbelief. Kṛṣṇa is not going out? How is that possible?
“Today I will stay in bed. You please care for the cows.”
Then he slowly rolls over and pulls the sheets tighter around his body.
As the cowherd boys look on, Hari pretends to slacken his limbs and makes his eyes roll. Holding the railing of the balcony, he shakes as if with fever and holds his stomach, calling out again and again,“Oh! Oh!”
For a moment everyone is silent. Only Balarāma, the knower of everything, understands that there is more to this illness than meets the eye, but he says nothing. He simply motions to his friends to leave. Then, with a last touch to Kṛṣṇa’s leg, Balarāma says, “O Kānāi! I shall pray to Lord Nārāyaṇa for your recovery. Surely you will feel better.”
Kṛṣṇa lifts the sheet just enough to expose one dark-bumblebee eye, and with a grateful glance thanks his elder brother.
Balarāma rises, his crystal complexion flashing through the room like a second sun. As he strolls out the door, gathering his friends along the way, he resembles a baby elephant. When the boys reach the courtyard, they crowd around blue-clad Balarāma like valuable gems set around a brilliant diamond.
Since Kṛṣṇa would be absent for the day, Balarāma comforts the boys and stresses the need to reconsider their plan. What if a demon were to attack? Who would protect them? Would the cows and calves be safe and happy?
Balarāma’s friends boast that he, like Kṛṣṇa, would quickly dispose of any threat. But in the end, everyone agrees that herding in the pastures below Nandagrāma would be more prudent than going to far-off Govardhana. And so, for the cowherd boys, the Puṣpavana outing is cancelled.
Reluctantly, the gopas leave for the barn. They take their horns, flutes, and sticks, but leave their darling Kānāi behind. As Balarāma sets off, he casts one last look towards Kṛṣṇa’s bedchamber. Sure enough, hovering behind an embroidered curtain, a bluish-black form monitors every step the gopas take. That cloudlike figure sees Daujī watching, and stealthily slips from view, leaving behind a fluttering curtain.
Balarāma was right! His younger brother has other plans for the day. Haladhara smiles, and placing his plough on his wide shoulders, he strides down the hill to his waiting friends.
At an auspicious moment, Rādhā and her friends set out for Puṣpavana, carrying flower baskets and merrily chatting about their plans. The sun god appears above the horizon to worship Śrī Rādhā,
the source of his own effulgence. The air is crisp and clean, birds fly overhead, and flowers, bushes, vines, and trees blossom all around.
Winding through the shaded groves of campaka, aśoka, nīpa, āmra, punnāga, and bakula, the path leading to Govardhana is soft and sandy. Rādhikā moves like a young swan, occasionally stumbling from the happiness rising in her heart. Rūpa-mañjarī walks in front, Lalitā and Viśākhā at each side, and Rati follows behind, ready to hold Rādhā’s waist should she trip.
When Lalitā looks at Rādhikā’s flawless profile, she sees the face imprinted on the coins of Cupid. But Lalitā knows that Rādhā’s beauty is the only currency that can purchase the untamed elephant of Hari’s heart—not a beauty born of pious deeds or good fortune, but of love’s full splendour. And only the complete embodiment of love, Śrī Rādhā, can attract the son of Mahārāja Nanda.
Lalitā calls,
“O Viśākhā-sakhī! The fragrant forest gardens of Govardhana Hill are carefully guarded by venomous serpents, especially one dangerous black snake. While collecting flowers, how will we be safe?”
“Our Rādhā knows a magic potion to bring the most dangerous snakes under control. In her presence, we have nothing to fear.”
“Viśākhā! What you say may be true, but I know that our princess did not bring any potions with her. Look at her empty flower basket.”
“That may be, but rest assured Rādhā knows a siddha-mantra that can subdue any snake. Even if the king of serpents comes slithering down Govardhana Hill, Rādhā will cast a magical spell to bring him into submission.”
“How did our princess acquire such a siddha-mantra, and when did she attain such perfection?”
As the other gopīs crowd closer, Viśākhā’s bluish eyes open wide, and with dramatic flair she tells the story:
“One day, while on the forest path, Rādhikā was met by that ever-roving prince, Kṛṣṇa. Relieved to find company, our Sakhī said, ‘O Śyāma! This snake-infested forest is not safe. I am afraid that I shall be punished by the bite of a poisonous snake for neglecting goddess Kātyāyanī.’”
Excited by this revelation, the gopīs cry out,
“And then…and then?!”
Rādhā holds her head high, as if indifferent, but her erect bodily hairs disclose her true feelings. Viśākhā happily continues,
“Out of fear, Rādhā, who is very submissive, humbly beseeched Kṛṣṇa, ‘O you who played on the raised hoods of Kāliya! O Govinda! I am surrendered to you! Please be kind and give me a mantra to counteract the venom of poisonous snakes.’”
Lalitā exclaims,
“How interesting! Viśākhā, did Rādhikā’s guru impart to her a suitable snake mantra?”
Viśākhā replies,
“Having sanctified Rādhārāṇī with Yamunā water, Śyāmasundara whispered a mantra into her ear. Then he collected the customary dakṣiṇā.”
One naughty gopī enquires,
“What dakṣiṇā did the Kṛṣṇa-guru collect?”
Viśākhā smiles,
“True to form, this guru of many arts did not collect a donation within his disciple’s means. Motivated by greed, he extracted inordinate payment.”
The gopīs impishly beg,
“What payment was that?”
“After whispering the mantra in Rādhā’s right ear, Kṛṣṇa kissed her glowing cheek.”
The gopīs giggle, and Rādhikā, embarrassed, veils her face and casts a reproachful glance at Viśākhā. To atone for teasing her mistress, Viśākhā quiets the gopīs and says,
“To be fair, Rādhikā needs no potions or mantras to bring black snakes under control. The mere syllables of her name, rā-dhā, at once charm the snake-king of Vṛndāvana and make him sway back and forth to the tune of her will.” * * * *
Laughing and joking, the gopīs pass beneath the canopy of trees leading to Govardhana Hill. They arrive quickly, bewildering time itself with the speed of their journey. Śrī Vṛndāvana-dhāma is beyond the influence of material qualities. Such things as time, the
modes of nature, and karma hold no sway in this transcendental realm. How, then, can its residents, what to speak of its master and mistress, be affected by such mediocre forces?
When Rādhā sees distant Govardhana Hill, she smiles and says, “Sakhīs! Behold the best of Hari’s servants!”
Following her lead, the gopīs offer praṇāmas to Girirāja. Then they continue on, their sweet chatter trickling amongst each other like the sound of the mountain’s waterfalls.
The gopīs reach a clearing and see the king of mountains in his full splendour, shining like the treasure chest of Indra. In some places he is the sapphire colour of Kṛṣṇa, in others the golden colour of Rādhā. In other places he is the ruby-like colour of burgeoning passion, and in still others the crystal colour of Daujī. Here and there flourish dark and light jade forests, sub-forests, gardens, and pleasing meadows, the favourite grazing grounds of Govinda’s cows.
Govardhana’s multi-hued form shines with a multitude of bright, jewel-like flowers that fill the air with a captivating aroma. There are sprays of pink, splashes of lavender, blushes of red, streaks of gold, tinges of saffron, tones of blue, and shades of purple—a dazzling rainbow of colour crowning the best of mountains.
Bees, deer, peacocks, and other birds play near Govardhana’s turquoise lakes. Dotted along his length and breadth are jewelled cots, thrones, and swings. Bathing in the mid-morning sun, Girirāja shines with pure goodness, pleasing the heart of Rādhā, the foremost of gopīs.
Great devotees have described the form of Govardhana Hill to be shaped like a peacock: Pūñcāri is its tail, Puṣpavana its neck, and Rādhā-kuṇḍa and Śyāma-kuṇḍa are its two eyes.
Arriving at their destination, the gopīs are pleased by the aromatic blossoms of Puṣpavana’s benevolent trees. Surrounded by millions of colourful flowers, the gopīs spread out to fill their baskets, all the while singing of Kṛṣṇa’s heroic deeds.
At first the vraja-gopīs are within earshot of Rādhā, and occasionally speak to her. One gopī calls out,
“He Rādhā, just see! Puṣpavana is a virtual goldmine of fragrant flowers!”
Another gopī says,
With their princess between them, and using only their eyes to communicate, Lalitā and Viśākhā silently exchange their concerns of the dangers Rādhā may meet in the forest, particularly one famous black serpent.
“O sakhīs! With the flowers we have gathered, our decorations will be the most beautiful!”
Yet another gopī calls,
“This is a royal start to our festival! This Sāñjhī will be the best yet.”
The gopīs joyfully collect flowers, yet they themselves are the fragrant flowers of the creator’s skill. Their whorl-like faces, petal-like arms, and ambrosial bodily aroma far exceed in beauty even the flowers of heaven.
Fully absorbed in thoughts of Govinda, beautiful Rādhikā sets about filling her basket. Although she wants to collect many flowers, she is distracted by her absorption in love, and so her basket remains empty.
Rādhā remembers the previous day when, in the presence of her relatives, Kṛṣṇa crossed the pathway of her eyes, glowing with youthful beauty. Fearful that her superiors would detect her attachment, she looked away as if uninterested. But clever Lalitā tugged at her little finger and whispered,
“O Rādhā! Opportunities offered by destiny are quickly destroyed by time. Do not hesitate to look at Hari, for this favour may never come your way again.”
Oh, how Rādhikā treasured that stolen glance! Kṛṣṇa’s restless eyes were like two śapharīs; his strong limbs churned the waters of fresh youth; the dark hairs on his chest announced Cupid’s royal edicts; and his graceful gestures conspired with his ever-fresh sweetness to capture the eyes of all the gopīs.
Remembering the gopa Prince of Vṛndāvana, Rādhā sighs deeply, the flowers in her hand wilting from the scorching passion of her breath.
Bewildered, Rādhā recalls an earlier occasion when she had hidden behind a network of creepers to watch Kṛṣṇa play ball. How wonderfully he had moved as he tossed a red ball in the air and swiftly pursued it! Remembering how his large dancing eyes had followed the movements of the ball, Rādhikā relishes a festival of transcendental bliss.
From a distance, Lalitā glances at her dear friend. Rādhā appears to be a statue: her right arm is raised, her delicate fingers are poised above a flower, and her entire body is stunned, unable to move. She
looks like a deity commissioned by the creator to embody the ideal forest goddess.
Knowing well the heart of her friend, Lalitā does not disturb Rādhā, but continues to collect flowers, thinking,
“It does not matter whether or not my Sakhī fills her basket today, because we shall pick extra flowers for her.”
In search of fresh flowers, the gopīs enter deeper into the forest and further away from one another. Unmindful of being separated, the fair-faced gopīs are lost in thoughts of Kṛṣṇa, whose captivating form, qualities, and behaviour subdue their minds.
Two types of gopīs enter the forest of Puṣpavana: those who desire Kṛṣṇa’s personal friendship, who are known in the annals of love as heroines; and those who desire to serve the heroines, and in that way associate with Kṛṣṇa. Lalitā is the leader of the first group, and Rūpa-mañjarī of the second.
The gopīs in both groups know that their love for Kṛṣṇa is insignificant compared to Rādhā’s. Never desiring to compete with Rādhikā, they see their service as subordinate and complementary to hers. In this way, various moods of conjugal love grow within the hearts of the gopīs.
Meanwhile, bereft of the reassuring company of her friends, Rādhā’s heart smoulders in separation from Kṛṣṇa. Feeling vacant in Hari’s absence, seeking shelter of Govardhana Hill, unhappy Rādhā prays,
“O king of mountains! You shine in this land of Gokula and your lofty peaks touch the planets of the demigods. Please look in all directions and tell me where the crest jewel of cowherd boys is enjoying himself now.”
When Girirāja fails to answer, Rādhārāṇī speaks to a fragrant breeze,
“O southern breeze, laden with the aroma of sandalwood! You may incite the happiness of love, but you remain empty-handed. Be kind to me. O breath of the universe, please place Mādhava before me and make me breathless!”
But the wind, powerless to fulfil her desire, takes an easterly course and leaves Rādhikā alone with her ever-expanding love. The buzzing of honeybees reminds her of the sound of Kṛṣṇa’s flute, and she thinks,
“The humming of these bumblebees should sound sweet, like a vīṇā playing the fifth note, but instead it is like the cracking of thunderbolts.”
Turning away she cries,
“Alas! Even bees are the enemies of one condemned by destiny.”
Entering deeper into the forest, Rādhā extends her arms, and, with a voice quivering like a forlorn cuckoo, appeals to the plants and creepers, “O tulasī, abundant with beauty! O mallikā creeper, filled with charming blossoms! O land-lotus, splendid with an aura of bees! O my friends, please tell me at once where the son of Mahārāja Nanda, the king of cheaters, is playing now?”
Rādhā continues to wander aimlessly through the gardens of Puṣpavana. The forest is sanctified by the touch of her feet, perfumed with the fragrance of her body, and enlivened by the sound of her voice. Rādhā’s breath sweetens the air of Puṣpavana, and her presence beautifies the already glorious forest.
When she enters a cluster of fragrant bushes known as hīṁsā, Rādhā slowly returns to external consciousness and again starts to collect flowers.
Hīṁsā have delicate, aromatic flowers that are bright yellow and well-suited for garlands and decorations. Their thorns, however, are more perilous than most, with barbed ends.
Rādhikā moves carefully. If the thorns were to catch her clothing, she would be unable to free herself, and there is no one in sight to help her.
No one, that is, except the self-appointed gardener, mālī, of Puṣpavana, Vanamālī-Kṛṣṇa. Smartly dressed and decorated with forest flowers, he carries the implements of his trade, and sports a handsome moustache. So perfect is Hari’s mālī disguise that neither Govardhana Hill nor the all-knowing sun, what to speak of the trees and forest creatures, recognise him. They all think,
“The king must have appointed a new mālī to Govardhana’s forests.”
From a distance, unbeknown to Rādhā, Kṛṣṇa watches her movements as closely as a shadow follows its form. As Rādhā’s golden complexion touches the trees, imparting her colour to them, Kṛṣṇa’s eyes are soothed and his heart glows. And as Rādhā’s bodily aroma
spreads throughout the forest, a fragrance that surpasses the heady perfume of a lotus smeared with kuṅkuma, Kṛṣṇa longs to fly to her like a bee pulled by a flower’s irresistible scent of nectar droplets.
It appears that Kṛṣṇa is pursuing Rādhikā with his eyes, but actually her unique qualities are chasing him. And when those qualities counter-attack his senses, he reels like one intoxicated by excessive nectar.
Kṛṣṇa thinks,
“Is this the family goddess of lustre, or the goddess of youthful beauty? Is this the opulence of sweetness personified, or a flood of transcendental elegance? Is this a river of bliss or an overflowing stream of nectar? Or is this Rādhā, giving joy to all my senses?”
Restlessness, eagerness, and joy transform Kṛṣṇa’s body into a stage ablaze with dancing ecstasies. As he leans against a tree for support, its boughs touch the ground, and its flowers blossom in joy as they reach for his lotus feet.
Govinda wipes the tears from his eyes, and sees Rādhikā raise her vine-like arm to touch a tree. By the influence of her prema, the buds of the tree quiver in ecstasy and burst into bloom, offering a cascade of flowers that fall at her lotus feet and cause goosebumps to erupt on Kṛṣṇa’s limbs.
Observing the gardener’s love-inebriated condition, a pair of astute parrots become suspicious, and chirrup,
“Only one male in Vraja exhibits such symptoms of love.”
Rādhā approaches the thorny hīṁsā bush, and Kṛṣṇa watches as she stands on her tiptoes, arms fully extended to pluck a most fragrant yellow flower. Suddenly, the top piece of Rādhā’s cloth is caught by a thorn. Balancing herself, Rādhikā tries to free her cloth, without success. Holding the branch, she leans back on her soles, only to be caught again by a thorn from a lower branch. As she stumbles to catch her balance, a third branch touches her shoulder, and she is now caught up, both front and back.
At first, Rādhā patiently tries to free herself, but when she fails, she contests her destiny. She is furious! Frustrated by her predicament, she can only cry. What was she to do?
Hot tears glide down Rādhā’s flower-painted cheeks, staining her shoulders and blessing the earth. She glances around like a frightened deer, her bimba-red lips quivering as she calls out,
“Lalitā! Viśākhā! Rūpa! Rati! Where are you?”
The only reply is silence, but for the echoes of Govardhana’s valleys:
“Where are you? Where are you?”
Then again silence prevails: no one is there to respond.
Rādhā calls out again, “Lalitā! O Lalitā!”
And although she calls louder than before, her efforts meet with no success.
Again, all she hears is echoes.
Casting a hot glance at the culprit thorns, Rādhā says,
“O unfriendly hosts. What kind of reception is this to give innocent girls approaching you for alms? Are you so miserly you cannot spare even a few flowers, whose destiny is to otherwise wither and fall from your limbs? Let me go! Let me go!”
But the thorns are unyielding. And with every move, Rādhā becomes more entangled in their prickly network.
Rādhā stamps her feet and fumes,
“O Lalitā! Where are you now? He Viśākhā! He Vṛndā!”
Again Rādhā calls Lalitā. But even as the syllable “La…” dances upon her tongue, she sees a figure on the pathway.
Her heart pounds in fear. Who is this?
The silent figure moves towards Rādhikā, who stands frozen like a rabbit caught in the hands of fate. What was happening? Remembering her worshipable deity, Rādhā prays,
“O my worshipable sun god! O eye of the three worlds! O all-effulgent one! Please protect me. Please protect me!”
When the figure comes closer, Rādhikā sees a handsome, well-built youth, obviously a mālī by trade, lighting up the path with a mysterious effulgence. Beasts, birds, and flowers, as if hypnotised, follow his every step, and the earth seems to tilt, as if overjoyed at the touch of his feet. Had she ever seen such a person before?
The air is thick with silence.
This stranger appears reserved, but the meaningful look on his face reflects a wealth of deep feelings. His every sense exudes an air of gravity.
And that grave silence—which causes the vibrant concert of
singing birds, humming bees, rustling leaves, and splashing streams to sink into stillness—is maddening.
That silence pierces the ether with its intensity and chains Rādhā’s attention, along with her heart, to the post of its mystique.
That silence is a sturdy drawbridge over which the soldiers of this stranger’s qualities march to assail Rādhā’s defenceless mind and senses.
That silence, attended by calmness, peace, and harmony, seems to have nothing to say, but to Rādhā’s emotions it brings restlessness, turmoil, and conflict, and proclaims the secret of the Vedas.
That silence is a magnetic force that spontaneously attracts Rādhā’s senses and reveals the identity of he who stands before her.
That silence is a munificent cloud that showers Rādhā with the nectar of its bluish lustre, dizzies her with its exhilarating sweetness, and quenches the thirst of her cātaka heart.
That silence says,
“O fair-faced one! Your lover, who is the musk-tilaka on your forehead, the musk-pictures on your breasts, the musk-drop on your chin, the black kajjala on your eyelids, and the blue lotus flowers on your ears, has now come to you. You are most fortunate!”
That silence is the only thing between Rādhā and the mālī as he boldly gazes into her bashful eyes, then at the thorns that hold her, and then at her blushing face.
That silence then merges into the ocean of their pastimes, as one by one Hari meticulously removes each thorn, thus freeing Rādhikā. Intoxicated by being so close to him, she takes one faltering step backward, and with the incomparable gift of her sidelong glance, says,
“Thank you!”
Rādhā is like a newly blossoming campaka vine growing towards a young tamāla , a bolt of lightning taking shelter in a billowing cloud. Ignoring the unfavourable wind of her shyness, for a moment Rādhā’s khañjana-like eyes fall upon Kṛṣṇa’s lotus face.
And for Kṛṣṇa, Rādhā’s face is a blooming lotus swaying on the surface of a lake, and his bee-like eyes swarm around that lotus and savour its sweetness.
As Rādhā and Śyāma gaze at each other, all their senses take in each other’s qualities: through their skin they feel the breeze that
Rādhikā moves carefully. If the thorns were to catch her clothing, she would be unable to move, and there is no one in sight to help her—except the self-appointed gardener, mālī, of Puṣpavana, Vanamālī-Kṛṣṇa.
caresses each other’s form; through their noses they breathe in each other’s fragrance; through their ears they hear the sound of each other’s life-breath; through their eyes they drink the beauty of each other’s features; and through their lips they sense the taste of each other’s love. In this way the joy of their senses increases.
The arrow of Śrī Rādhā’s glance pierces Kṛṣṇa’s heart, afflicting his whole body with fever, but the rays of her slightly smiling moonlike face extinguish that fire and revive him.
Then Kṛṣṇa retraces his steps, walking backwards so he can drink through his eyes the vision of his Priyājī’s now-downcast face as he tries with every step to catch one final glance from her doe-like eyes.
Until Hari disappears from sight, he never turns his back to Śrī Rādhā, and never takes his greedy eyes away from her. He is like a black king cobra who has hypnotised his victim, but who is now himself hypnotised.
Notes
1. The subject of this chapter is a rendering of loka-vicāra, traditional narrations as told by the residents of Vṛndāvana about the origin of Kusuma-sarovara. Other līlās are rendered from Ujjvala-nīlamaṇi Chapters 6, 7 and 10, and Govinda-līlāmṛta Chapters 7, 8 and 9.
My Lord, the nectar of your words and the descriptions of your activities— tava-kathāmṛta— are the life and soul of those who are always aggrieved in this material world. These narrations are transmitted by exalted personalities, and they eradicate all sinful reactions. Whoever hears these narrations attains all good fortune. These narrations are broadcast all over the world and are filled with spiritual power.
When King Pratāparudra recited this verse from Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam to Caitanya Mahāprabhu, the Lord was overcome with ecstasy and exclaimed, “You have given me invaluable gems!”
This book is a treasure chest filled with those priceless gems, distilled from the heart of Kṛṣṇa’s pastimes, with the Gopī-gītā, the song of the gopīs, as its crest jewel. These stories form the thick, sweet cream churned from talks of vraja-līlā, the residents of Vraja, and the beloveds of all those residents: Rādhā and Kṛṣṇa.
May the readers’ hearts overflow with the same bliss that Mahāprabhu himself relished.
The pastimes in Tava Kathāmṛta are taken from the books of our previous ācāryas and from traditional narrations, loka-vicāra, passed down by the Vraja-vāsīs of Kusuma-sarovara, Yāvaṭā, and Āyara.