sri-gopya ucuh:
aksanvatam phalam idam na param vidamah
sakhyah pasun anuvivesayator vayasyaih
vaktram vrajesa-sutayor anavenu-justam
yair va nipitam anurakta-kataksa-moksam
(Srimad Bhagavatam 10-21-7)
In the heart of Vrindavan, where the air itself seems to dance with the divine fragrance of love, the gopis gathered in secret bowers, their eyes gleaming with the soft light of devotion. Draped in resplendent garments adorned with intricate jewelry that shimmered like stars against the twilight, these maidens of Braj whispered amongst themselves, their voices carrying the sweet nectar of Krishna’s glories.
“Ah, dear friends,” one gopi began, her voice trembling with emotion, “what fortune do those eyes hold that have beheld the beauty of Nanda’s son? As they drive the cows into the forest, surrounded by their playful companions, the sight of those two—Krishna and Balarama—brings an indescribable joy to the heart. With their flutes poised at their lips, their sidelong glances filled with tender love, they bestow blessings upon all of Vrindavan. How can any other vision compare?”
When the heart receives a gift from a loved one, it treasures it like a precious gem, guarding it jealously in the depths of memory. These tokens—perhaps a soft word, a shared glance, or a tender embrace—linger in our minds, wrapped in the warmth of affection, and every time they resurface, they bring a rush of joy that is pure and untainted. But what happens when the heart is filled with love for the most loving one? It overflows with a bliss so profound that it defies description. The mere thought of the beloved can send waves of joy coursing through the veins, like a river overflowing its banks after a long-awaited rain.
And what can one say about the one who is not only the beloved of your heart but also the heart's beloved of those you love most? The joy multiplies, filling every corner of your being with a lightness that makes the soul dance in silent ecstasy. Speaking of this beloved, or even holding his image in the mind, is like opening a window to a world bathed in golden sunlight, where every moment sparkles with the brilliance of divine love.
The beauty of this beloved is such that it captivates the heart with a single glance. Just as a beautiful object draws the eye irresistibly, so too does this beloved's form pull the heart towards him, with a force that is gentle yet unyielding. His beauty is not merely skin deep; it is an essence that radiates from every part of him, each feature more perfect than the last. His eyes, filled with kindness and mischief, draw you into their depths, while his smile, like the first rays of dawn, melts away all sorrow. His every movement is a dance of grace, and his every word, a melody that lingers in the air long after it has been spoken.
And then, there is his flute—the source of a music so sweet, so enchanting, that it seems to embody the very essence of joy. The notes it produces are like drops of nectar, each one more intoxicating than the last. When he plays, the world itself seems to pause, captivated by the sound. The birds fall silent, the leaves cease their rustling, and even the rivers seem to still their flow, all drawn to the music that flows from his lips.
How can one possibly describe the beauty of such a being, whose every part is the very definition of beauty itself? Words falter, and the heart stumbles in its attempt to capture the essence of what it sees and feels. Yet, the heart cannot help but try, for in the attempt lies a joy that is as profound as the beauty it seeks to describe. In the end, it is this joy—the joy of loving, of being loved, and of being in the presence of such unparalleled beauty—that remains close to the heart, filling it with a warmth that never fades.
Suta Muni gazed at the assembly of sages, their faces aglow with the soft light of the setting sun. With a gentle smile, he addressed them, “Close your eyes, O learned ones, and let your minds paint a picture of the most fortunate beings in all of Braj—the gopis.”
In the depths of your mind, imagine hundreds of young, radiant maidens, their beauty rivaling the blooming flowers of Vrindavan. Each one is adorned in the finest garments, shimmering with the hues of the rainbow, and their jewelry sparkles like the stars in the night sky. They are seated in lush, green bowers, hidden from the world, where the air is thick with the fragrance of jasmine and the sound of rustling leaves whispers of divine secrets.
Every day, these gopis gather in these secret groves, their hearts brimming with love for Krishna, the son of Nanda. They speak in hushed tones, their voices laced with awe, as they recount the tales of his divine pastimes. Their eyes gleam with devotion as they describe the unmatched beauty of his form—the softness of his cheeks, the mischievous glint in his eyes, and the way his flute rests gently against his lips, producing melodies that seem to come from another world.
But amidst this serene gathering, there are moments when the love of one gopi becomes too intense to bear. Overwhelmed by the sweetness of her emotions, she slips into a state of prem samadhi, losing all awareness of the world around her. The other gopis, recognizing her state, know exactly what to do. With tender care, they begin to speak of Krishna’s beauty, describing the curve of his smile, the grace of his movements, and the enchanting notes of his flute. Their words are like drops of nectar, slowly bringing the unconscious maiden back to the realm of the senses. As they pour this divine nectar into her ears, something remarkable happens. The gopis themselves, in the act of recounting Krishna’s leelas, feel their own hearts lifted, their spirits soaring higher with each word. One gopi speaks, and when she falters, another takes up the thread, weaving a continuous tapestry of divine love and beauty. This sharing of Krishna’s glories becomes a never-ending process, like a river of sweetness that flows endlessly through their hearts.
One sakhi, her voice soft yet filled with the weight of her devotion, began to pour her ecstasy into the ears of the others. “Dear friend,” she whispered, “there are countless objects of beauty in this world. Our eyes, like eager blossoms, open wide and sparkle at the sight of them. But these eyes of ours have become accustomed to beholding the most exquisite form—the form of our beloved Krishna. They have grown so attached, so grateful for the vision of that divine beauty, that they now consider themselves to be eyes only because they have witnessed it. For what else can be called eyes but those that have gazed upon such a heavenly form? Eyes that have not been blessed with this vision are eyes in name alone, mere ornaments like the lifeless eyes of the departed, open yet seeing nothing or the beautiful turquoise eyes embedded by nature in the feathers of peacock. They may be called eyes, but do they truly behold?”
Another sakhi, moved by her friend’s words, leaned closer and asked, “O dear friend, what did you see with your eyes that has left you so unable to forget? How can my eyes become as meaningful as yours? Please, tell me—I long to hear of it. I too wish to enlighten my eyes with that vision.”
The sakhi continued, her voice trembling with emotion, “O my dear friends! I see you all running here and there, your hearts aflutter, as if driven mad by the sight of that divine form. How can we remain calm after witnessing such beauty? Every evening, as the sun dips low and the sky is painted in hues of gold and crimson, Krishna returns home with his cows and calves, their day of grazing in the lush pastures of Vrindavan complete. Beside him, Brother Balaram walks with his gentle strength, and the other cowherd boys follow, their voices carrying the sweet melodies of folk songs that seem to echo the very rhythm of the earth itself. The cows, with their soft eyes and gentle steps, lead the way, while the boys, full of joy, bring up the rear, their hearts light as they sing.
But oh, the eyes that have glimpsed Krishna and Balaram at this hour—how blessed they are! Those eyes that, with a mere sidelong glance, have caught the image of Krishna’s flute, kissed by the ambrosia of love and held to his enchanting lips—those eyes have truly fulfilled their purpose. How can one describe the sheer beauty of Shyam Sundar as he returns home, surrounded by his loving entourage?” Her voice quivered, and she fell silent, overwhelmed by the desire to once again drink in the beauty of Shyamsundar’s form. Words failed her, and she could not speak anymore.
Sensing her friend’s deep longing, another sakhi spoke up, her voice filled with admiration, “The beauty of the brothers, Rama and Shyama, is beyond compare. They are not merely cowherd boys—they seem like celestial beings who have descended to this joyful land of Vrindavan to engage in their divine play. The whole of Brajmandal is their playground, and they are the stars of the ever-unfolding stories that enchant our hearts. The cowherd boys are their companions, supporting them in their playful acts.
When the brothers return home in the evening, it is a sight that fills the soul with nostalgia and awe. They appear as if draped in the very essence of heaven, with peacock feathers gracefully adorning their crowns. Beautiful garlands of flowers—tulsi, hibiscus, jasmine, Parijat, lotus, and many other divine blossoms—are strung together with mango leaves, resting upon their chests. The air is filled with the sweet fragrance of these flowers, a scent so divine that it seems to carry the very breath of Vrindavan itself. Bees swarm around the garlands, their gentle humming creating a melody that blends with the songs of the cowherd boys, as if the garlands themselves are singing in tune. As the brothers glide through the herd, they move with an elegance that is almost otherworldly, like actors gracing the stage with their presence, covering the space with a grace that captivates all who behold them. It is a scene that etches itself into the heart, never to be forgotten.”
Upon hearing this vivid description, Rishi Saunak, his brow furrowed in thought, gently inquired, “O Suta Muni, I noticed that the sakhi was describing the unparalleled beauty of Shyamsundar. But then, she suddenly brought Balaram into her narrative and began speaking of his charm. Why did she do this?”
Suta, with a knowing smile, replied, “O revered king, this is the intricate dance of love, where feelings and intentions are often veiled. In the realm of divine love, the heart’s true desires are not always revealed outright. Indeed, the sakhi’s heart was brimming with the desire to describe Krishna’s divine form and the enchanting notes of his flute, which captivate her soul. But in her subtle way, she concealed her deepest longing by also mentioning Balaram, as if to temper the intensity of her adoration for Krishna. The language of love is unique, full of delicate nuances. Here, what is spoken aloud may not always reflect what is truly meant. It is in these hidden layers, these gentle diversions, that the true depth of their emotions can be found.”
As the maidens of Brij gathered to sing the praises of Krishna’s flute, the same sakhi, her voice tinged with a playful envy, spoke again, “O dear friends! We all know that in this world, there are two things most fortunate beyond measure. One is the Renu—the sacred dust of Braj—and the other is the Venu, the flute that rests in Krishna’s hand. These two are always close to him, always clinging to his divine form.
When Krishna takes his cows to the forest, and as he returns at dusk, the dust of Braj rises up to meet him, swirling and dancing in the air until it envelops his entire body, settling into the curls of his hair, becoming one with him. Such is the devotion of the dust of Braj—it does not hesitate to embrace every inch of him.
But oh, just look at the flute! Shamelessly it clings to his lips, drinking in the nectar from his lotus mouth, flaunting its fortune right before our eyes! How audacious it is! Can anyone even begin to imagine the incredible fortune of this flute? We, who are blessed to taste the sweetness of his lips even once, are overwhelmed, losing ourselves in that moment. But this flute, this fortunate creature, after drinking deeply from those lips again and again, remains insatiable, unaltered, and unperturbed. What a sly and cunning thing it is!”
As the sakhi recalled the exquisite sweetness of Krishna’s lips, a wave of overwhelming emotion swept over her. Her heart could no longer contain the intensity of her longing, and with a soft sigh, she slipped into a trance, losing all sense of the world around her. Her body, no longer able to support the weight of her love, gently crumpled to the ground, as if surrendering to the deep and all-consuming bliss of her remembrance.
Inspired by Sri Prabhudatta Brahmachari's 'Bhagabata Katha'.
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