Shri Jayadeva’s Gita Govinda: The Loves of Krishna and Radha – George Keyt, Kutub, Bombay, 1947.
In a bamboo clump by the side of the Jamna
To Madhava seated troubled and sad
Little Radha’s confidante said:
She despises using her unguent of sandal,
she is pale as moonbeams, she discovers sorrow,
Frail she grows, intangible;
Malayan breezes act like poison upon her.
She fears an attack of Love upon you,
and lies away hidden;
She wastes away, Madhava, parted from you!
Armour she makes of tender lotus garlands
to hide her bosom from you
Large garlands, as if to protect you
from heavy showers of shafts from the god of love.
Full of seductive art she makes and prepares,
as a rite, a bed of flowers,
A couch for the rapture of your embrace,
of flowers like heads of the arrows of Love.
Like the moon with its streams of nectar welling
when rent by the teeth of the frightful Rahu,
So her face like a lotus she bears,
so proud and heavy and streaming with troubled tears.
She depicts you in secret,
with a piece of musk for pencil,
you her Kama, her Love,
As the god of love – the monster beneath,
the mango sprout in your hand – and worships.
You are very remote, to be summoned
before her only in spirit,
through dwelling upon you;
She laments, she laughs, she is gloomy,
she is restless and walks,
she releases her sorrow.
She says, “At your feet I am fallen,
O Madhava! Long as averted your face is from me
Not even a store of nectar may soothe,
but tend to increase the fire of my fever.
The poem of Shri Jayadeva, containing
the words of the friend of the herd-girl Radha,
Who sorrowed in Hari’s absence,
should be acted if real delight is sought.
Her house into a forest she turns,
and into a noose the garlands change,
Even the garlands given to her by her cherished friend;
The warmth of her body
her gasping breath has fanned into flames;
She has taken the form of a doe
through the pain of your absence,
And, alas, how Love like a tiger in sport,
acts upon her like death!
Love song of the dark Lord: Jayadeva’s Gitagovinda, Barbara S Miller, Columbia University Press, New York, 1977.
In a clump of reeds on the Jumna riverbank
Where Madhava waited helplessly,
Reeling under the burden of ardent love,
Radhika’s friend spoke to him.
She slanders sandbalm and moonbeams – weariness confuses her.
She feels venom from nests of deadly snakes in sandal mountain winds.
Lying dejected by your desertion, fearing Love’s arrows,
She clings to you in fantasy, Madhava.
Trying to protect you from the endless fall of Love’s arrows,
She shields her heart’s soft mortal core with moist lotus petals.
She covets a couch of Love’s arrows to practice her seductive art.
She makes her flower bed a penance to win joy in your embrace.
She raises her sublime lotus face, clouded and streaked with tears,
Like the moon dripping with nectar from the cuts of the eclipse’s teeth.
She secretly draws you with deer musk to resemble the god of love,
Riding a sea monster, aiming mango-blossom arrows – she worships you.
She cries out the words, “Madhava, I fall at your feet!
When your face turns away, even moonlight scorches my body.”
She evokes you in deep meditation to reach your distant form.
She laments, laughs, cries, trembles, utters her pain.
If your heart hopes to dance to the haunting song of Jayadeva,
Study what her friend said about Radha suffering Hari’s desertion.
Her house becomes a wild jungle,
Her band of loving friends a snare.
Sighs fan her burning pain
To flames that rage like forest fire.
Suffering your desertion,
She takes form as a whining doe
And turns Love into Death
Disguised as a tiger hunting prey.