ĀKSHEPA ANUYOGA O VIRAHA

XCIV.

Sakhī: The mournful beauty, gazing on Kānu's face, Was sobbing loud with brimming eyes: The peerless moon-face, when he said 'Farewell,' Fell fey upon the ground, with cries of 'Hari, Hari!'

How distractedly did Hari comfort her,— 'Now I shall not go to Mathura': When this sweet sound reached her ears, The lovesick nymph revived.

And taking Kānu's hands in hers. She lifted them to touch her head: 'Say unmistakeably, good Kān, my lord, 'I will not go to Mathura.''

And when the damsel had this comfort, She raised herself again, and sighed no more. Murāri went his way, when Rāi was soothed— Vidyāpati refrains from words!

XCV.

Dūtika: Mādhava, O moon-face, Never can you have known the sting of separation! Hearing you are departed to another land, she wastes away: O wretched Rāi, bereft of wit by force of love!

Refusing even buds of flowers, she lies exhausted on the ground, The calling of the koil fills her with fear, Her tears have washed the beauty-spots away, Her wasted arms let slip their ornaments.

With hanging head Rādhā regards her throat, Now are her fingers raw with writing on the ground: Says Vidyāpati: Recollecting all his ways, And taking count of them, she fainted.

XCVI.

Rādhā: A sorry end to all my love, my dear, To let my life depend upon a wanton,— Nowhere to look for help!

I could not see the hidden well, But as I ran, I fell therein: At first I nowise knew the heavy from the light,— Now would I might return!

His honey-speech I understood for love, At first I knew no better: I yielded all my skill into another's hands, Pride had fled afar my heart.

Till now I led another way of life, But now I know what drowning is: I with my own hands sharped the stake, Whom can I blame now?

Hearken, fair young thing says Vidyāpati: No other thought be in your heart! Oft is life lost for sake of love, Who does not know this in the world?

XCVII.

Rādhā: Why would you burn my body, O thou Bodiless? I am not Shankara, but a gentle girl,

This is my flowing hair, not matted locks, Not Gangā, but a jasmine garland on my head.

This is a pearl tiara, not the moon, No eye upon my forehead, but a scarlet beauty-spot:

Not poison, but a trace of musk upon my throat, A necklace on my breast, and not the lord of serpents.

Blue silk my robe, and not a tiger's skin, This is a lotus of delight, and not a skull!

All this is loveliness, says Vidyāpati: Not ashes on her limbs, but dust of Malaya.

XCVIII.

Dūtika: Often, in meditation on the name of Mādhava, She changes into Mādhava himself: Forgetful of her own desires and of her own identity, She is enamoured of her own charms.

O Mādhava, your love is peerless! The fire of sundering from herself devours her body in its flames, I doubt if she may live.

Her friends are filled with grief, so sadly she regards them, The tears are pouring from their eyes: The cry of 'Rādhā, Rādhā,' echoing repeatedly, She murmurs broken words.

When she is with Rādhā, she thinks that she is Mādhava, And when with Mādhav, Rādhā: And even so, this bitter love may not be broken asunder. The pang of separation hurts her more and more.

Just as a tree both sides aflame quite utterly consumes Some wretched insect's life: In such a plight, Vallabha, I saw the nectar-face, Says Vidyāpati.

XCIX.

Rādhā: Where wanton Murāri is wont to sit, There write my name or twice or thrice: Lay by his side the jewels from my body, This is my life's last prayer!

And all the number of my friends, write ye my name,— Kind was my darling, only fate was cruel. I die indeed, for Kānu's sake: Seek some occasion to ask news of him.

Once on a day let my beloved write my name, And pour the lustring water with his rosy hands! Hearken fair damsel, says Vidyāpati: Be patient of heart, you shall meet your Murāri!

C.

Rādhā: Hari has gone to Mathurā town. And Gokula is void to-day, My ribs are all shrunken with weeping, The cows are roaming on the road to Mathurā.

Herdsmen and maidens no more wandering Beside the Jamunā's banks,— I shall cast my life away in the waves, And I will be born again as Kānu!

Then shall Kānu be Rādhā, To suffer the pangs of love. Vidyāpati gives this advice: No need for weeping now!

CI.

Rādhā: Now Mādhav has gone to Mathurā town, (Who can have stolen the jewel of Gokula?) Gokul resounds with the noise of weeping. See how the waves are swollen with tears!

Empty the temple, empty the lover, Empty each airt, empty all! How can I go to Jamunā's banks? How can I look on the booths and the groves?

How can I look on the place and live, Where he smothered my friends with flowers? Vidyāpati says: Be well advised, Maybe he is hiding there in jest!

CII.

Sakhī: Watching with streaming eyes the way her darling went, Half a second seems an aeon,— 'Fate is most bitter, sundering thus Murāri far from me!

'What shall I do, my dear? What karma's fruit is this, my dear one gone abroad? Perpetually pierce me the pangs of Madan.

'O that a woman's sighs, may fall beside my dear! (By whom is my beloved sitting?) Were I but a bird, I would fly to his side, And describe to him all my distress!

'Bring me my darling, and save my life,— Will no one take pity?' Vidyāpati says: Soon ye shall meet, Possess your heart in patience.

CIII.

Rādhā: I am a girl on fire, in the temple bird-alone, No friend is here with me: The rain comes on, my love is gone abroad, And cruel Love is hostile.

This is my day of dissolution, Fresh clouds are driving in every quarter, My life is flying from the sight.

Again the thunder roars, my life is shaken as I listen, My heart is pounding: The cruel peewit, calling 'Piu, piu,' Reminds me of his lap.

And since it rains incessantly, I know my life will end, As though in flames of fire. Vidyāpati says: Hearken, fair lady, The worthy lover shall be yours.

CIV.

Rādhā: Even the moon's cool rays are scorching-hot, The Spring is comen in: Even from a crow's mouth not a word of Kānta! What makes this cruel Madan?

I know, my dear, my evil day is come: At what a time has Fate opposed me, Denying me to see him more!

So many days, I kept my body carefully And now I know my end is near: My last faint hope is but a legend now,— How long my wicked heart endures!

Evil is Madan's mood, says Vidyāpati: To whom may you confide your care? Fiercer than flames of a sea of fire This bitter severance from your darling!

CV.

Rādhā: Fresh flowers are springing by every cabin, brake and copse. The koil sings the pancam note: The southern breeze has reached the snowy hills, And yet my darling has not come again!

The lunar sandal burns my body hotly, The bees are buzzing in the woods, The Spring is here and Kānu far away, Unfriendly Fate I see.

With steadfast gaze to scan my Master's face, My eyes have no content: So many hardships may a woman's shrivelled heart Endure in such a joyful season!

My body wasting daily, like the winter lotus, I know not what the end will be! Fie upon life, for shame, says Vidyāpati, Pitiless Mādhava's heart!

CVI.

Rādhā: Unhappy I, all birdalone. Calling for Kānu, Kān, my life slipped by: With promise of return, my lover went away, He has forgotten all my former charms!

The flowers are blowing in every glade, Now Spring has come, my dear, The host of koils spread their noise: My darling is abroad, I may no more sustain!

To whom shall I confide my heart's distress? No living creature of the Triple World such pain may know! Hearken, fair Rāi, says Vidyāpati: I shall expound it all to Kānu.

CVII.

Rādhā: There is no limit to my woe, my dear! O heavy rains of autumn-tide, My house is empty!

Impenetrable clouds are thundering unceasingly, And all the world is full of rain: Kānta is a stone, and Love is cruel, A rain of arrows pierces me.

A hundred flashes blind my eyes, The peacock dances in an ecstasy: The happy frogs but croak and croak, My heart is bursting.

Utter darkness, night impenetrable, Unbroken line of lightning: Vidyāpati says: How may you pass The day and night alone?

CVIII.

Rādhā: Who says that Mādhava will come, my friend? How can I ever cross the sea of longing? I have no faith within my heart!

Expectant every moment, I pass the livelong day, Expectant day by day, a month goes by: Expectant every month, I pass the year, I have forsaken all hope in life.

Expectant every year, I pass my life Wasting my flesh with hopes: If the lotus die of the winter moon, What shall avail in the spring?

If the flower be scorched by the summer sun, What shall avail the autumn rains? If I waste in longing this fresh young life, What shall avail my Lover's love?

Vidyāpati says: Hearken, young thing: Do not be hopeless now: That Bliss of Braja, and Heart's Delight Shall quickly be at your side!

CIX.

Dūtikā: O Kān, I saw the tender she beside herself! Love is distraught by koil's calls,— And day by day she wastes away.

He stays abroad, he sends no news,— How shall the Braj girls live? The best and fairest of the world endures The poison and the pain of parting!

She who might have no bed except his bosom, Now grovels on the ground,— As if the full round moon lay fallen asunder In a withered campak garland.

From then till now I have consoled her, Nought else has saved her life! Vidyāpati says: O pitiless Mādhava, She swooned away to hear your name!

CX.

Sakhī: Making a promise to return 'To-morrow,' her lover went away,— Writing the word 'To-morrow,' the wall is full! The day had dawned, she asked of everyone: Tell me, O tell me, when will to-morrow come?

'Awaiting to-morrow, abandoning hope,— Never again shall I lie by Kānu's side.' Vidyāpati says: Hearken, fair damsel: The beauties of the town are holding him back.

CXI.

Rādhā: Everyone praises the gifts of love, That love whereby the virtuous woman is made a wanton!

Had I but known how cruel was love, Should I have passed the limits of sin?

Now it has come to be poison to me: Let no one set their love on Hari, on Hari!

Vidyāpati says: Hearken, fair damsel: Would you first drink water and then consider the giver's birth?

CXII.

Rādhā: How many reproaches and scornful words of my elders I counted for nought in my heart, deep-laden in love.

For whose sake I forsook without shame the path of duty, He now has forsaken my companionship.

Now dearest maiden, tell Murari for me and remind him, 'The worthy forsake not any without regard to their innocence.'

O dear companion, he that is wise, Even though sentence be harsh, does justice at least.

What more can I say, that am but a helpless woman? It is you that are skilled in speech and full of resource.

Tell Kānu this with honeyed words, I pray you do it, appease his wrath.

For your wiles are many, and what do I know? Vidyāpati says: This song is of love.

CXIII.

Rādhā: I never thought that love would break, Or that the love of any worthy one might be a stone.

Therefore it is this great misfortune has befallen me, I cannot fathom what Fate has wrought.

And tell my friend, my dear, with folded hands, 'It is but fruitless to destroy the flower of love.'

If he should answer, 'You are senseless,' Say that I gave my heart with a free good will.

Vidyāpati declares: I am amazed; He whom you love, it seems, is blind!

CXIV.

Rādhā: Explain this all to Kānu, dearest friend: 'If you who sowed the seeds of love, destroy the flower, In what way shall I live?

'Just as a drop of oil floats on the surface of the water, Such is the likeness of your love: Just as the water on the sand immediately vanishes, Such is the way of your affection.'

I was a woman of honour, and am become a wanton Since his words beguiled me: I with my own hands shaved my head Because of Kānu's love.

Deep in my heart I am grieved, like the wife of a thief, And hide my face within my veil: Like the eager moth's that flings itself on the flame Was the fruit I sought to enjoy.

Vidyāpati says: This is the way of the Kali age, Let no one wonder thereat: Everyone reaps the fruit of his folly Who puts himself in another s power.

CXV.

Rādhā: I am dying, am dying, I die indeed, my dear: To whom shall I leave my Kānu, my storehouse of treasure? As many as may be, dear friends, remain by me, And when I am dead, write Krishna's name along my limbs.

And Lalita, friend of my life, whisper such spells in my ears That my body may die to the sound of Krishna's name: Nor burn nor cast in the waters Rādhā's body, But hang me high on a tamāl bough, when I am dead.

The tamāl tree is of Krishna's hue, There let my body ever rest: If ever again my darling comes to Brindāban, I shall come to life at the sight of my dear.

If I may not see his moon-fair face again, I shall cast off my life in the fire of love! Vidyāpati says: Hearken, fair damsel, Be patient of heart, you shall meet your Murāri.

CXVI.

Rādhā: After how long shall this sadness depart? When shall the heavy load of this grief be lifted? How long shall it be till the moon and the lotus are joined? After how many days shall the bee disport with the lily?

When shall my lover converse with me? When will he put his hands on my breasts? When will he take my hand to set me on his lap, When shall my longing be realised?

Hearken, fair woman, says Vidyāpati: Every sorrow shall fly when Murāri is yours.

CXVII.

Rādhā: Speak to me, speak to me, dear, and tell me, O tell me, Where is the land where my darling dwells? For Madan's burning arrows, my body is ablaze To hear some news of him.

What like is she my Lord has met, That he is so enamoured? Some maid he must have found, my Lord is glad. And plunges in my heart an arrow.

Shatter my bangles of shell, take off my fine array, And break my necklace of ivory-pearls,— If my dear will forsake me, what is the use of jewels? Cast them all in the waves of the Jamunā.

Wipe from my hair the scarlet line and put it far away. All is hopeless without my darling. Vidyāpati says: Hearken young damsel: Your sorrow is come to an end.

CXVIII.

Rādhā: The day that Mādhava went his way All those words poured forth: My heart was heavy and heavier still to hear, The tears were dropping from my eyes.

When morning dawned, then coming close, Did Kānu swear an oath, I held his hand upon my head: Now all is otherwise.

Scanning the road, my heart is heavy: The mādhavī vine is flowering, The koil is a-calling, Kuhu, kuhu, resounding. And every bee is buzzing.

Which is the city where my dear was stolen. Pleased by what maid he won? Vidyāpati says: Hearken, young damsel: The thief is your lover himself.

CXIX.

Dūtikā: A river of tears is flowing from her eyes, And on its banks she falls and swoons: O Mādhava, your pity is but too perverse, You have no fear of murdering a wife.

Then did her breath grow faint, And some were fanning her with lotus-leaves, And other clever maids were listening for her breath, And I have run to tell you.

Some say that Hari is a-coming, And at that name her wit returns, The dusky braid begins to dance upon her breast— A serpent black upon a lily's lap.

Recounting in your heart your former love, Come back once more to your own home, Vidyāpati the mighty bard declares: The wily wight is well aware of all her woe!

CXX.

Dūtikā: Ah Mādhava, I come just now from seeing Rāi: For grief of loneliness she answers nought, But lies with her face on the earth.

She lay outstretched on the grassy ground, Her body was wasted with love, As if with a touchstone the Lord of Five Arrows Had proved a streak of gold.

The orb of her face lay low in the dust— (More lovely it seemed therefor): The moon in fear of Rāhu had fallen down on the floor— (Such was the fashion of my delusion).

What can I say of the pangs of disunion? Hearken, most cruel Kānu: Vidyāpati says: She is of good fame,— You know that her life is in danger.

CXXI.

Dūtikā: Mādhava, lo, I have seen your lovely Rāi,— Her gaze is fixed like a painted puppet's, Friends surround her on every side, Exceeding faint is the breath of her nostrils.

Exceeding thin is her corse, like a streak of gold, (None that beholds it believes it hers), Bracelets and bangles fall from either wrist, Her hair untressed, her head unhidden.

I cannot solve these sentiments and swoons,— Fiercely the fever of longing scorches her relentlessly. Vidyāpati says: Her loveless body Has abandoned now all love on earth.

CXXII.

Dūtika: Mādhava, prithee, visit yonder babe: To-day or to-morrow she is like to die, Such burning love she bears!

Refreshing water, lotus-leaves upon her bed, Or ointment of sandal-paste, Each and all are flames of fire; The moon with tenfold heat annoys.

Devoid of might, she leans upon the earth to rise, All night she wends and wakes, And starting suddenly, she murmurs 'Shiva, Shiva!' Her fire has filled the earth.

I know not if there be a remedy. Says Vidyāpati the poet: Nought but the fated tenth-day plight remains,— Be well-advised forthwith.

CXXIII.

Dūtika: She turns her face away from looking on the moon. She stands and gazes piteously down the road; With eye-collyrium she makes a painted Rāhu And speaks with him in wrath.

Mādhava, unyielding heart, delaying abroad, Her that you dallied with I have beheld all birdalone, I pray you turn again to home.

How can the tender child support the southern zephyr? For Love is doing her hurt: Her breath has ceased, which hope sustained,— With every finger she draws a snake.

Vidyāpati says: O Lord Shrvasimha, This is the cure for sundering's sorrow— Avoiding the koil, and taking sweets in hand, Loudly to summon the crows.

CXXIV.

Rādhā: There was a time my lover leaned above my face in bliss, Not for an instant would he leave my body: He bound my flesh in a bond of measureless love, Who now forsakes my company.

Why should I live any more, O fair sweet friend? He without whom I could not rest for a moment, Is filled with the love of another.

My friend would fare to a far-away land, and I shall die of grief, I will cast away my heart in the sea, and none shall know: Or taking the necklace lay on my lover's neck, I will wander wide in the world as a yoginī.

Vidyāpati Kavi sings of this sundering— Record I take of Rājā Shivasimha and Lakshmī Devī.

CXXV.

Dūtika: Mādhava and the babe new-led in love,— You have forgotten her, forsaken to her fate, She is become a garland offering.

She who so loves, I see her frame is fretted, She stares upon your path With fixed regard, she hears no word, Her tears are falling fast.

Her country is forsaken of your flute, Her body is wasted all away Most like the narrow streak of gold The goldsmith draws upon the touchstone.

Her hair is disarrayed, she no more tresses it— So little might the fair thing has: Wasted and worn and woeful I have seen her Midst her gay companions.

Like chaff she flies and falls, She needs her friend's embraces: Cure of her sickness lies in other hands, How may she live?

On solemn oath Vidyāpati reveals A yet more ferly thing: Pondering ever on your ways Is the root of her undoing.

CXXVI.

Krishna: Can I forget, my dear and gentle lady, How when I took her hands, and went my way to Mathurā, She fell and fainted?

Nor with what trembling speech and gentle murmuring The fair and gentle creature spake? My body stiffened, I came away indeed, But there was left my heart with her.

Now lacking her, the day and night are dimmed, She is established in my heart: Beside another love in regal state, I live like any anchorite!

Surely I come in a day or twain, Make her assured of this. Vidyāpati says: There lies his heart,— They shall be joined in love.