After Dana Lila

After just a day of Rai’s silence
Kanai began to lose control.
This really is no way to be,
he thought, I am the Supersoul.

Scrambling up to the grizzled top
of Govardhan, across the puzzled haze
he could see the shimmering white
washed walls of Nandishwar, and beyond
he thought he saw Varshana
float mirage-like into sight.

And then, Javat beyond, and Radha there,
silently sweeping floors and churning curds,
her veiled head turned always downwards,
inwards, where she watched, aware
of Banamali waiting, watching
back on Govardhan.

Radha holed up in her home, no more
promenades to Madhupuri market.
Vigilant husband,
nosy nanad,
meretricious mother-in-law,
all creating invisible wall circles
mantra circles round and round
the one of brick and govar,
round and round the one of Vedic law
that stands impregnable,
even in this carefree gopa gopi world.
They held her prisoner.

I don’t need you, Krishna calls out,
in a momentary fit of heroic,
dramatic, childish pique.
I know how to be alone!

What aberration of creative power
has taken him from infinity to finity?
from being the yogic light
of a million simultaneous suns
into this world of darkness?

In some corner of his endless soul,
he regrets having become so temporal:
I could have stayed up in my sky
and been One in my Oneness,
Full in my Fullness,
Complete in my Completeness,
so Neat in my philosophical Neatness!!

Passing nights in hollow trees,
making cuckoo sounds and hooting like an owl,
is so below the dignity
of the Supersoul.

The anxious high pitched koil calls
grate and prick on Kanai's chest.
Why not use my powers, my mystic might?
My flute could conquer all free will,
and set all things a-right
if that was what I chose.

But if he is to be himself,
he must find another way.
In his omniscience he knows.

He too must face reality.
In his omniscience he knows.

Today I saw Sri Radha

Today I saw Sri Radha.
I watched her walking on the path
between Javat and Nanda Gaon.
Her head was uncovered
and her braid dangled behind her
like a python from the branches of a tree.

Like all Vrajavasis,
her easy gait was quick
as she sped to Nandishwar.
She was fast as Garuda, faster than the mind,
followed by a flock of golden Garudas,
surrounded by a sky of lightning strokes
in the dry landscape.

Too fast to talk they almost trot,
their ghaghras behind them streak
like starry, mirrored flags of passion.

The jingling of anklebells,
the tinkling of laughter,
the risque barbs and teasing,
the bits and bribes of songs
trail them like a cloud.

Radha is going to cook
at Yasho Rani’s house
and I struggle to keep up.

Years of aching wishes
caressed that sight.
I felt you there in that smaran;
we watched Rai Kishori's bobbing braids
and the flowing, mocking rainbow
of her friends.

The morning sun has suddenly begun
to pour its heat on Nandagaon.
The dust powder is so fine
you can almost taste it on your tongue
where Rai has touched it with her toes.

And then, against the sun-stained walls,
baked like pueblos on the flattened sky,
Kahnai casts his cooling cloud,
shyam shadow light.

He loiters by the yellow gate,
his arm resting on Subal’s arm.
In one hand he slowly twirls a flower,
nonchalant, as a cowherd prince should be.

Saying nothing, he devours
Radha with his eyes.

She pulls her veil over her head.
She turns her head shyly, slow,
slyly giving him a crooked glance,
shy enough to make him want to dance.

She quivers, trembles, she is unnerved,
his gaze is unwavering and strong.
Do we have to go this way, she asks,
is there no other door?
Afraid she’ll trip, Lalita grabs her hand.
Watch your feet, she says. Watch your mind.

Krishna's gaze does not break,
as if this is the first time
these four bee-like eyes have ever met.
And yet it is--their every glance
a first Cupid arrow fired,
another first wave in eternity.

I bathed in all of that today, and the sight
has filled my every pore.
And now, at night, I feel you pervading me
like Vraja's rasika sun,
bhava and prema, liquid light,
inundate my core.

Here I chant the Holy Name,
these flames pervade my heart and brain.
I see the Yugala's everlasting play
and you pervade my every vein.

This is us and this is them;
it’s a disgrace people will say,
but I don’t see a difference any more.
It's become a sadharani-karan
of two, this time, not one.

Hail the Heroic Losers

Hail the heroic losers,
the poets who proudly point
to the faith-shaped hole
they so nobly fail to fill.

They sigh and shake their heads,
Holes are full of emptiness
they say, and then, world-weary,
turn to the tired trivia
of another day's distractions.

The worst are filled with zeal;
the best struck with ennui,
and before pretending with politics,
they discharge disdain
and condescension
into their void.
That's life.

Thank God there's no final
failure, no end, only delay.
I pray the vastava-vastu
fills their gaping space today.