The torment of complexity, the cunning dominion of delusion, the rigid sovereignty of ego—these, even when shattered, even when the bonds of society are rent asunder—could not turn the heart of Sri Radha away. Her mind yearned with singular intensity toward Krishna at the kadamba grove, toward that supreme abode, toward the Absolute himself, casting aside all chains of the past, all pull of desire, all clamor of the senses. And then came Brinda, the messenger of consciousness, and in the wake of her arrival came, one by one, nine companions with Vishakha—the nine modes of devotion as spoken of in the Bhagavata Purana and the sacred texts of bhakti: listening (tested by Parikshit), singing (as Mirabai), remembrance (as Prahlad), worship (as Prithu), service at the feet (as Lakshmi), servitude (as Hanuman), friendship (as Arjun), surrender in praise (as Akrur), and complete self-offering (as the great King Bali).
With the aid of Brinda and her companions, through manifold communion and earnest striving to chart the way of practice, through countless meetings and partings—wanderings upon both the true path and the false—when Radha at last yearned for complete union, for merger into the Absolute, her anguish of separation multiplied a hundredfold. In that boundless, infinite torment, burning through obstacle after obstacle on the spiritual path, through countless alternations of hope and despair—glimpses of the Divine followed by their sudden loss when faith faltered—through many signs received, many trials endured, many forms of seeking and understanding, stumbling and persisting upon the way, at last in the darkness of a dreadful night, having drawn near to the highest reaches of practice, she found the path to that beloved kadamba grove.
A forest path—one that the inexperienced traveler knows not how to walk—and worse, in the depth of night. After storm and downpour, the ground lay treacherous, slippery with the risk of a single misstep ending all. Stones and thorns—endless obstacles and temptations arrayed on every side. To move forward seemed impossible; the way would not yield. And when Radha and her companions—Brinda and the assembled maidens, embodiments of consciousness and devotion—saw that Krishna was not yet revealed, that self-knowledge had not yet come, they cried out in anguish: "Madhusudana, save us! Lord, son of Nanda, deliver us from these trials and tribulations!" And in that very moment, they heard the strain of Krishna's flute—the music of divine love—drawing ever nearer. Radha, Brinda, and all the companions together turned toward that sound, that melody of the Beloved, that unmistakable call of the Absolute itself, and they ran toward it as one.
Wounded by countless thorns, stumbling and falling again and again, worn out by the severity of their striving—all of them, every faculty and companion of the soul's ascent toward Brahman-knowledge, came to the vision of Sri Krishna alongside Sri Radha. And Krishna, the son of Nanda, overjoyed, satisfied by their unwavering devotion, called out to his companions: "O beloved friends! Why have you come on this terrible, fearsome night? For whom have you come, tell me? What is it you seek? Today I am ready to give you everything."
All of them smiled softly, and Vrinda's messenger spoke up: "O Krishna! What do you possess that you could give to us? Tell us! Whatever you had, all of it has already been taken from you—taken by all of us, yearning and searching, stripping away every covering to know the Supreme. What have you left to give? You are a pauper, a pauper for the devotee's sake. Whoever calls, you are always there, present in all—so enslaved are you!"
Then, with a certain pride, they said: "Yes, we can give something, because we have something—we have ego and pride. But what do you have to give? O Krishna! We have come to give nothing away; we have come to offer everything we are. What we give as an offering at the feet of the Divine—the Divine has no need of it, yet the devotee does. The soul performs this offering for its own need. Thus all that is gained through such striving belongs to the soul, not to the Divine—forgetting this great truth, they speak this way. What the devotee offers to God is, in true reckoning, an offering to themselves. God's dwelling is not in temples; it is in the devotee's heart. Whoever keeps God only in temples has God nowhere."
All were honored equally then—each acknowledged for their own gifts and parts—yet leaving them all behind (naturally shedding illusion, delusion, ego, and the mind's chatter, carrying only the soul—comparable to the essence of Tagore's "The Golden Boat"), Sri Krishna withdrew with Radha into the groves of Vrindavan (into the depths of the heart, for intimate dialogue with oneself) in hiding (so that the individual soul might unite with the Absolute). And all the others began searching, began weeping; yet nowhere could they find Radha and Krishna again (when the individual soul rushes toward union with the Absolute, it pushes all ego and illusion far, far away).
Yet in Radha's heart, pride crept in by degrees. Slowly it began to seem to her—"I alone am the greatest; otherwise, why would the Lord of Vrindavan, Krishna, leave everyone else behind and wander joyfully in these groves with me alone? Why would he be so devoted to me? I must surely be supreme, and therefore Krishna is my devoted servant of servants." (The Absolute dwells within the individual soul as Brahman. So long as the outer veils remain unlifted, the individual soul cannot unite with the Absolute. If even a single veil persists through ignorance, the vision of the Supreme Brahman is not attained. When one considers the nature and essence of Brahman, one sees that the work of casting off all outer veils belongs to the individual soul alone; the Absolute has no role here—He is unchanging, attributeless, unconditioned, immobile—without understanding this, knowledge of the Absolute or Brahman is impossible.)
Thinking thus, she grew comfortable and began commanding Sri Krishna—take that flower, fetch this fruit...give me this—and so on, until at last she said—"I cannot go on any longer, I am utterly weary. If you wish to keep me with you, then carry me on your shoulders." (The Lord bears his devotee only when the devotee has become worthy of surrendering completely at the Lord's feet. In ignorance, the devotee cannot grasp this at first.)
Krishna offered his shoulders and said, "Come." The moment Radha tried to mount...she saw that Krishna was gone! Where was Krishna? Where had Krishna hidden, in whom—Radha could not fathom it in the slightest. (The Absolute resides within the individual soul. Then how can that Being bear the individual soul or obey its commands when He dwells within it? The Absolute, though omnipresent, is unmoved; how then can He become the servant of the individual? The Absolute stands firm and still within the soul and life—whether the soul perceives it or not. "Krishna offers his shoulders" means the individual soul alone offers itself shoulders—the Absolute is not there. Were He there, the unmoved, unchanging, attributeless Absolute could not offer his shoulders. Here, the individual soul has not yet fully shed its veils to unite with the Absolute. Then how can it ride upon its own shoulders?)
Finding all around her empty (for the individual soul has lost the perception of the Supreme Self through its own ignorance), she burned again in that fire of separation. In that burning, cursing herself (seized by the sharp remorse that so many years of practice would be rendered fruitless because of a small mistake), she fell and wept aloud—Radha cried out in anguish (the individual soul, in the beginning, lacks the strength to accept that all blame rests solely upon itself, and so comes such a cry)—and no longer had the strength to rise (for the Supreme Self had withdrawn once more from her inner chamber, and thus could not guide the individual soul toward himself, having removed his own presence from there).
It was then that the companion souls too were searching for Krishna (when the individual soul does not walk the true path, consciousness and all its faculties naturally go astray); they came upon the place and saw Radha's misery. (Though consciousness, delusion, illusion and all others together strive to guide the individual soul toward the Supreme Self along the rightful path, they found the individual soul in a state of despair.) Seeing Radha, they all grieved and, taking her by the hand, lifted her up. (These beings worked together to restore the individual soul to motion and its natural state—which is ultimately what the repentant soul accomplishes within itself.) Together with Radha, they all began to search again. (Steeped in the nectar of practice, the individual soul began once more to pursue discipline and devotion to unite with the Supreme Self.)
A pathless forest; in the thick darkness of night, those women known as helpless showed no fear, harbored not a single doubt or worry in their hearts. (The Bhagavad Gita too declares that when a practitioner comes to know and understand how to practice, even if he should stray from the path of practice, he does not struggle greatly to return to it. Here the individual soul has already come to know how to walk the difficult path of practice. Therefore, it is not difficult for him to turn himself and all the inner faculties back to the rightful way.)
Nanda's beloved son, Lord Krishna—that beloved of Radha, that beloved of the gopis—not finding him, all called out in piteous voice, "O Krishna! Where are you?" To the gopis' yearning cry (as the fruit of rigorous practice), the Supreme Being Lord Krishna appeared once more. All began to dance again in great joy. Much was spoken of pride and wounded feeling, many judgments were made of right and wrong (the time required in a practitioner's discipline is relatively less if there is no repetition of past mistakes and the rightful path is followed. The individual soul has again drawn near to the Supreme Self through practice. Having learned from the previous mistake and applied that learning, the individual soul did not again obscure the Supreme Self through error. From the mistakes of the past came the judgment and decision of the rightful path in the present.); then Brinda, the go-between, spoke out: "O son of Nanda, O king of Brindavan! O shepherd-king Lord Krishna! Today speak truly (consciousness always journeys toward truth)—tell me, what kind of person is it who, when another worships him, returns that worship? And what kind of person does the opposite? And when someone worships another and that other does not return the worship—speak of that too."
When Vrindadevi put her question to the Lord Krishna, He pondered for a moment (at the very threshold of the soul's approach to the Supreme, or its union with Him, the individual soul thought through mind and intellect—what from a certain standpoint appears as the Supreme's own thought, though this is mere illusion). Then He spoke: "Dear friend! When there is mutual self-interest (when the Supreme appearing as Krishna awakens the individual soul appearing as Radha, or in the Gita as Arjuna, as a devotee or lover, as a disciple or friend, and Himself steps into the role of guru. The guru's excellence depends upon the disciple's striving for excellence. A worthy guru manifests only through the force of a worthy disciple. Here the individual soul reveals the Supreme out of her own need. The Supreme does not reveal Himself, yet an intense longing to find Him awakens within the soul precisely because He is)—then alone do they worship each other. There is no righteousness or affection in this; self-interest is the sole purpose. (For the sake of union with the Supreme, the individual soul engages in such practice. Here there is no thought of religious duty, of maintaining harmony, of acquiring virtue—none of this occupies the soul's mind. A mother nurtures her child with love because she finds joy or satisfaction in it—this is not righteousness, it is self-interest.)
Their (the individual soul's and all that attends her) worship also takes two forms—as with mother and father: first, the compassionate; second, the affectionate. Through the first quality, compassionate persons attain the dharma of liberation, while affectionate persons attain harmony. From this worship arise both the dharma of bliss and the dharma of affection. (What is liberation for the individual soul becomes, for her companions—consciousness, intellect, mind, discrimination, delusion, illusion and such entities—affection itself. When united with the Supreme, the individual soul attains freedom, while these companions attain the pure joy of helping the soul in her practice like true friends. The Supreme dwells as the Eternal in all beings. Depending on how the individual soul comes to know or understand the nature of this eternal presence of the Supreme, she rushes toward Him in precisely that manner, sometimes with her companions, sometimes leaving them behind in time. In exactly the same way, a child reads the temperament and nature of mother and father, and conducts or presents itself accordingly, all for the sake of obtaining their compassion or affection.)"
"And those who are atmarama and atmakama—that is, utterly self-satisfied and scorners of the guru—they worship no one. Leave aside their talk. Hear me speak of those, dear friend, whom though always worshipped, never themselves worship—one of them is I (the Supreme). If anyone worships Me, I do not worship him in return. This is because he will become immersed in thoughts of Me, and no other thought will find place in his heart. Just as you have abandoned all dharma and adharma, the world, society, caste, family, children—everything—and come running to Me alone." (For the sake of attaining the Supreme, the individual soul practices; but the Supreme or Brahman, being attributeless, motionless, unchanging, lacks the quality of practicing for anyone. A self-satisfied being does not strive to seek the Supreme. So why speak of them? They do not even wish to tread the path of practice! Yet when the individual soul yearns to feel the eternal presence of the Supreme, even after repeated failures in that practice, she does not abandon it, because this pull toward the Supreme completely seizes her mind and intellect, and she rushes toward Him in utter self-abandonment, enduring a thousand sorrows.)
"O beloved companion! I was hidden away—in formless being, for you, the individual soul, had veiled me, rendered me invisible beneath the shroud of your own nature. And yet, at your call, I could not remain concealed. Your earnest yearning has unveiled me anew, stripped away the covering. Do not reproach yourself for this. Blame falls never on another; the soul ensnares itself in its own trap, writhes and struggles for deliverance. From this day forth, I shall encircle you on all sides. Wherever you turn your gaze—in every direction, in all things—you shall perceive only me. The Supreme Self pervades all existence. One must come to know this truth; therein lies the knowledge of Brahman. Through ceaseless practice, the soul conquers the passions and senses, attains that knowledge, and thereafter perceives the manifest presence of the Supreme Self in all directions."
And this too I declare: that you have broken free from that iron household chain—the bondage of Divine illusion, delusion's pull, the urge of passion and more—and come to unite with me; in this there is no sin, no cause for blame. Even were I to be granted the endless life-span of the gods themselves, I could not repay what you have given. Through ages, I remain in your debt. This debt shall never be settled. For the Supreme is incapable of repaying—formless, without attribute, motionless, utterly still. To exist is the sole measure of His being. He cannot act for another. He is neither witness nor seer nor creator. He pervades all places, yet no being can contain Him. He is like the wind. Whether fragrance or foulness flows past, He is no part of it. His existence depends not upon those currents, nor they upon Him. He dwells in His own abode, whether other beings exist or not. The existence or non-existence of all else bears no weight upon the Absolute's own being."
Hearing such words of solace from the lips of Nanda's son—words of assurance and inspiration that keep the soul upon the path of practice—Radha and her companions cast off the anguish born of separation, that torment of delayed union, that weeping and remorse for forgotten sins. Desires fulfilled, they ascended to the rasa-dance, that stage transcendent, serene and blissful, where the soul stands with all its faculties gathered. Nanda's son, Lord Krishna, thereupon commenced the incomparable, indescribable rasa-lila, that dance of infinite and wondrous delight, with open and eager heart. Before each gopi, Krishna appeared in His radiant luminous form, suffused with love itself. "Krishna, the cowherd's beloved, stands before me!"—thus each one beheld Him; the festival of rasa began. When the soul, accompanied by all its companions, beheld the true form of the Supreme Self, all were seized by the supreme bliss of liberation, of deliverance itself. A current of satisfaction flowed through the entire being of the soul. A celestial nectar of love bathed every part—the living consciousness, the mind, reason, discrimination, all—every fiber of being! Between themselves and the Absolute, all separation dissolved—here none stood greater, none lesser; all were equal. In the Divine's presence, perceiving that wondrous non-duality, all became intoxicated with the rapture of love."
The heavens filled with gods and their consorts. (Freed from earth's bondage, the soul seemed to discover the celestial realms. All directions grew suffused with heaven's grace and abundance. Paradise descended upon the earth itself.) The dundubhi—that herald of truth, that guide along truth's path—sounded forth. The danka—that power which sweeps away all obstacles on the path to divine knowledge with thunderous resonance—resounded through the air. Flowers fell like rain; the gandharvas—as if all beings in every direction became celestial in a single moment—bowed with folded hands and sang in praise. (The hymn of the Supreme Soul, the Brahman-song—the joyous music of celebration.) The tinkling bells, bracelets, and anklets of the companions rang out in tumultuous chorus. (As the individual soul and all its attendant aspects moved toward divine knowledge, their harmonies blended in unison, as though a single celestial song! Nothing unwanted remained anywhere that could obstruct this path of wisdom.) Thrilled by Krishna's touch, the companions burst into song with full voice. (At the vision or experience of the Supreme Soul, an endless spring of joy flowed through all beings. The individual soul, through reason, consciousness, intellect, delusion, illusion, perception—through all its facets—held and savored this revelation of the Supreme within itself.)
In that divine dance, the gopis grew weary. And so they could no longer bear the weight of their ornaments. (When the individual soul, in devotion to the divine, surrenders completely to the Supreme along with all its companions, dedicating itself entirely, no thought remains, no need for external power persists—it gradually fades away.) In perspiration's glow—in divine rapture, in the joy of attaining the Eternal—every face shone with incomparable beauty, suffused with the bliss of liberation. Every lock of hair—the bonds of worldly existence—and every garland—the illusion of the world—came undone. From that unreserved laughter and joy, even the son of Nanda played among them all, and placed the betel he had chewed—the Brahmic knowledge he had pondered—upon the lips of Sri Radha. (The Supreme Being poured forth all knowledge of himself abundantly into the ignorant soul, transforming it into the supremely wise, the knower of Brahman—here too the same truth holds—it is the soul that performs this act, the attainment belongs to the soul, though from certain perspectives it appears to belong to the Supreme.)
Witnessing this spectacle, the stars—along with the moon, the mind empowered by the divine—forgot their own motion; and thus night itself grew longer. (Rising far beyond the body's decay and death, the soul became one with the Supreme. Conquering all passions and the tyranny of the senses, the soul then partook of infinite joy and life eternal. Divine devotion frees the human being from age and the fear of age. As fever consumes the body, yet the mind burns with unconquerable fire—such is the incredible power of Brahmic wisdom!)
Sri Krishna, with his auspicious hand, wiped the faces of the gopis, exhausted and unburdened by the dance of love—bestowing upon them the light of Brahman. He placed his blessed lotus feet, a treasure of grace flowing with the knowledge of Brahman, upon the breast of each. At that touch, the gopis bloomed with joy, and Sri Krishna led them all into the waters of the Yamuna—that stream of knowledge where ignorance is wholly dissolved. After bathing in that purification of the self, Radha, devoted seeker of truth, steadfast in her yearning, offered her soul at the lotus feet of Sri Krishna—in that eternal union of the individual self with the Supreme. With her, the circle of sacred women of Vrindavan, all those souls longing for liberation, offered themselves too in worship at those same feet. In tasting that liberation, consciousness itself—the senses, intellect, mind, and all knowing—cast off the transient, the false, the crooked thoughts, the tangles. As pure essence they revealed themselves. From that union with the Supreme came a joy and peace so profound that the soul and all consciousness made a firm vow never to turn away from that divine abode.
Sri Krishna, son of Nanda—the Man of Consciousness, abiding in consciousness itself, dwelling in the fullness of that Absolute Brahman—bestowed upon all the bliss of love's union, the joy of divine knowledge that grants the soul the felt presence of the Supreme, that brings about the great meeting of the individual with the Infinite. Through that blessed union, tasting the ecstasy of consciousness, Radha and her circle of dear companions were swept into the current of perfection through the practice of sacred love—the way of the soul's union with the Absolute. They gained liberation, that final freedom, and committed themselves to unending practice so that they might never fall from it again. Once the soul has touched the Supreme, the waves of the world can no longer scatter it. As the hill by the ocean's shore must stand at a certain height lest the waves reach it, so too the liberated soul must maintain that elevation. To descend from it is peril—the mad waves will come and scatter both body and mind. After gaining liberation, the soul cannot afford to descend from that height, for to do so is to invite the maddened waves of the world-ocean to rush in and destroy the peace won within. To float upon the current of perfection requires unbroken practice, endless discipline.
Jatila, Kutila, Ayan-gopa, and the other cowherd men and women—those who had not sought the knowledge of the self—none of them came to know the truth of Radha and her gopis, those vowed to truth. The path of self-knowledge is steep and narrow. Not all wish to walk it. Most never begin, and some turn back halfway. Only the son of Nanda, Sri Krishna himself, could fathom the mystery of Radha, that supreme devotion, that way of devotional union. The Lord alone can read the lover's heart. The existence of the devotee's devotion is known only to the Lord. By his very nature does the Supreme draw the soul toward the divine taste and ecstasy—or so it appears to our sight; yet it is the soul itself that must walk this path of practice, by the grace of the Supreme's self-revelation. Many seek Krishna, but Radha alone—she who surrendered utterly—knew him. Many are the devotees of Krishna, but only Krishna himself is the devotee of Radha.
Only Lord Sri Krishna possesses the power to turn Sri Radha's gaze away from all that is superficial and outward, directing her entire mind and soul toward the ultimate reality. I shall conclude this reflection by offering an illustration.
Imagine you go to a café with your wife and child for coffee. Suppose, instead of the usual small packet of sugar beside the cup, they offer three sugar figurines—a cat, an elephant, a horse. Your child, upon seeing them, says, "A cat, an elephant, a horse." There is no error in this judgment, for these are indeed exactly that. This manner of judgment is called dualism. Your wife smiles and remarks, "Dear, these are a sugar-cat, a sugar-elephant, a sugar-horse." Still there is no error in her judgment, for these are indeed exactly that. This manner of judgment is called qualified non-dualism or vishishtadvaita—she has turned her sight toward the source, toward sugar itself. Now it is your turn. You see no cat, elephant, or horse here at all; you see only sugar. Whatever form or shape these figurines may assume, they remain fundamentally sugar—just as all things made of clay remain fundamentally clay. Your judgment too is correct. This manner of judgment is called non-dualism, or advaita.
One lives according to how one thinks. One gains in measure with the depth of one's understanding. When the individual soul learns to see only sugar, then and only then does he become fit to receive ultimate knowledge. For such education, not only must there be the proper master—Sri Krishna—but also the proper disciple, Sri Radha herself.