‘Krishna Suffers in Your Desertion’
God as Devotee, Debtor, Patient
Ever since your name has entered Hari’s ear
It’s been “Radha, oh Radha, “ an infinite mantra,
a formula chanted to a secret string of beads.
Nightly he sits by the Jumna, in a grove
far from his friends and his happiness and home.
He yearns for you. He has turned into a yogi:
constantly wakeful, whatever the hour.
Sometimes he spreads himself a bed of tender leaves;
sometimes he recites your treasurehouse of fames;
Sometimes he pledges silence: he closes his eyes
and meditates on every pleasure of your frame—
His eye the invocation, his heart the oblation,
his mutterings the food to feed
the priests who tend the fire.
So has Syam’s whole body wasted away.
Says Sur, let him see you. Fulfill his desire.
(Surdas: John Stratton Hawley and Mark Juergensmeyer)
Transfixed on Beauty
Transfixed on beauty’s gem-like face
Shyamalo gazed upon her face
eye-contact exiled vireh’s longings.
His embrace made her half his body;
still fixed on beauty’s gem-like face.
Arms round his neck she lauds him;
You’re my sanctuary, he declares,
my splendour, my heart’s adornment!
Their ecstatic minds in concert sway,
transfixed on beauty’s gem-like face.
Flesh and spirit, soul and wealth—
all yours, believe me doe-eyed one.
My mouth forgets to kiss, beloved,
my heart is not forgetful, Love—
transfixed on beauty’s gem-like face.
Krishna sings your paeans, bless’d one.
On him Shiva meditates.
Narsi’s Swami is ocean’s roar
Your mutual praise the ocean sings
transfixed on beauty’s gem-like face.
(Narsinh Mehta: Keki Daruwalla and Meena Desai)
Lotus-eyed Krishna Longing for Love
“I’ll stay here, you go to Radha!
Appease her with my words and bring her to me!”
Commanded by Madhu’s foe, her friend
Went to repeat his words to Radha.
The Tenth Song
Sandalwood mountain winds blow,
Spreading passion.
Flowers bloom in profusion,
Tearing deserted lovers’ hearts.
Wildflower-garlanded Krishna
Suffers in your desertion, friend.
Cool moon rays scorch him,
Threatening death.
Love’s arrow falls
And he laments his weakness.
Wildflower-garlanded Krishna
Suffers in your desertion, friend.
Bees swarm, buzzing sounds of love,
Making him cover his ears.
Your neglect affects his heart,
Inflicting pain night after night.
Wildflower-garlanded Krishna
Suffers in your desertion, friend.
He dwells in dense forest wilds,
Rejecting his luxurious house.
He tosses on his bed of earth,
Frantically calling your name.
Wildflower-garlanded Krishna
Suffers in your desertion, friend.
Poet Jayadeva sings
To describes Krishna’s desolation.
When your heart feels his strong desire,
Hari will rise to favour you.
Wildflower-garlanded Krishna
Suffers in your desertion, friend.
(Jayadeva: Barbara Stoler Miller)
In devotees’ hearts, I build my home
and guard it with divine conch and whirl-blade,
the talismans of their faith.
Like a calf hungry for its mother’s milk
I follow my disciples for their love.
Strung to their devotion like flowers on a thread,
I exist only in the garlands of their love.
For my family and friends
my heart sheds blood.
I did not hesitate to defend my followers at Hastina,
nor did I balk at eating a meal from humble Vidura’s plate.
The blisters of their weight feel like balm to my shoulders
and how I long for them to kick me in mock fury. 1
Says Salabega, a devotee from Islam,
my Vrindavan pilgrimage awaits the sanction of my Lord
at Puri.
(Salabega: Prabhanjan Mishra)
Jana sweeps with a broom
The Lord loads up the garbage
Carries it in a basket on His head
Throws it away in a distant dump
So much under the spell of bhakti is He
He now performs the lowliest of tasks
Says Jani to Vithoba
How shall I return Your favours?
(Janabai: Dilip Chitre)
Among basil plants growing wild
Jani loosens her hair:
The Lord with butter in the palm of His hand
Gently massages her head:
“My poor little Jani has no one but me!”
He thinks as he pours down water:
Jani tells all the folks
“My boyfriend gives me a shower. “
(Janabai: Dilip Chitre)
He’s worn out. Bring him to me.
I’m the specialist in that disease.
Too many eyes have pierced him.
I may have to use love-charms, extra-strength.
His muscles are sore from battling breasts.
I’ll massage him with a warm embrace.
I’m the specialist.
He must be exhausted from so much loving.
I’ll touch him with the herb that revives.
His sensitive parts have melted down.
I’ll bring them to life
with charms of shyness.
I’m the specialist.
Those artless women — how exciting can they be?
I have the right drug.
He’s the handsome god on the hill,
and I’m Alamelumanga.
He’s with me now. I can cure him.
I’m the specialist.
(Annamacharya: V Narayana Rao and David Shulman)