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.
PUNARMILNA O RASODGĀRA
CXXVII.
Rādhā: When Hari comes to Gokula town,
In every house shall the trumpets flourish 'Victory'!
I shall give my necklace of pearls for festal knots,
And my heavy breasts as festal urns.
I shall offer my nipples as sprouts of the scented mango,
In Mādhava's service I shall achieve my heart's desires:
I will set before my beloved incense and light and gifts,
And do the anointing with tears of joy from my eyes!
My outstretched hands shall embrace my dear.
Vidyāpati says: This is loves ecstasy.