The secret blooming in the Nikunj (3)

In care of Ram das

These lilas of Radha and Krishna are understood in many bhakti traditions—especially in rāgānugā bhakti—as symbolic expressions of divine love, longing, and union between the soul (jīva) and the Supreme (śrī rasa-vigraha).

Let us approach this theme with spiritual sensitivity and respectful boundaries. This is a tender, metaphor-rich scene that continues their divine loveplay with deep emotion and devotional feeling (bhāva), within a tone that honors poetic dignity, where every touch, breath, and gesture is soaked in transcendental sweetness.

This unfolding lila now deepens further into the heart of intimacy and play. In Chapter 5, we let the veils fall even softer, as Radha and Krishna's divine love becomes more intense, yet still wrapped in poetic metaphor. The sakhis are drawn closer into the current of their union—not just as witnesses, but as extensions of the rasa, helping the divine lovers express the fullness of their desire in sweet, hidden, sacred ways.

Here you may listen to part 1 (S'ouvre dans une nouvelle fenêtre) and part 2 (S'ouvre dans une nouvelle fenêtre).

Podcast part 3 (chapter 5 and 6)

Podcast on Spotify (S'ouvre dans une nouvelle fenêtre)

Chapter 5:
The Grove of Shared Secrets

The sun had fully risen now, but the forest canopy of the nikunj filtered its golden light into something softer—more private. It was no longer night, but it was not quite day either. This in-between time shimmered with secrets, as if the world itself had paused to listen for Radha’s breath and Krishna’s sigh.

Radha sat still atop Shyam, her eyes lowered, fingers lightly playing with the strands of his dark curls. Around them, the sakhis lingered like petals circling a blossoming flower, their cheeks flushed from the game, their hearts filled with something deeper now—an ache, a sweetness, an invitation.

Krishna looked at Radha, then at the sakhis. »Your plan,« he said, voice like honeyed thunder, »awoke a fire within Me that no teasing can quench. And now, My body aches not only for You, Radhe—but for the full nectar of Your circle, Your sakhi-mandala, who knows Your beauty like no one else.«

Radha’s lips curved in a smile. »The fire burns in them too. Can you not feel it in the silence of their breath?«

The sakhis, standing around in a half-circle of blushing innocence, looked to one another. No words were spoken—but the invitation was already shared in glances and sighs.

Radha turned to them. »Come, my beloveds. This lila is not a play of just two—it is a garland of many flowers. Without your fragrances, our joy cannot reach its full bloom.«

And so, slowly, reverently, the sakhis came closer.

Pyari Kripa Sakhi, Radha’s devoted shadow, was the first to kneel beside her, her eyes wide, her lips trembling not from fear, but awe.

»Swamini,« she whispered, »I have always served your joy from afar… dare I offer my touch in service of it now?«

Radha reached for her, placing her hand over Pyari Kripa’s heart. »Your touch has always been with me. Now let it be with us.«

Rami Sakhi, bold and glowing like sunrise, approached Krishna from the other side. »Thakur ji,« she said with a coy (schüchtern) smile, »you always teased me, but now I see… your thirst was never only for Radha—it was for all that blooms around her.«

Krishna nodded, his voice hushed (gedämpft). »You are her reflection, her extension. When I touch you, it is her skin I feel mirrored in new sweetness.«

And so, the circle closed around the Divine Couple—Lalita, Visakha, Rupa, and others joined, each sitting closer, some resting their heads against Radha’s lap, some brushing Krishna’s arms with flower petals, some whispering verses of longing and surrender.

No longer mere attendants—they became vessels of rasa, channels of sweetness, pouring their hearts into the love that blossomed before them.

Krishna reached for Radha again, this time pulling her close, their breaths mingling, foreheads touching.

»I want to drink from your lotus—not only the petals of your mouth, but the hidden buds that hold your nectar.«

Radha smiled, then looked toward the sakhis. »Prepare Him.«

At once, soft hands moved toward Krishna—not with desire for themselves, but in devotion, like preparing the deity for abhishek. They unwrapped the silks around his chest, exposing the blueish skin beneath. Pyari Kripa Sakhi gently caressed the lotus-tips on his chest, watching them rise like buds meeting the morning sun. Rami Sakhi traced her fingers across his navel, where longing swirled like the eye of a storm.

And Radha, now emboldened by the support of her beloved friends, leaned down and kissed Krishna’s heart—slow, lingering, sending a tremble through his whole body.

»You belong not to yourself now,« she whispered, »but to all of us who carry your image in our souls.«

The sakhis now surrounded them like garlands—some kissing Radha’s feet, some kissing Krishna’s shoulders, some leaning in to brush their cheeks against the Divine Couple’s entwined forms. It was not lust that moved them—but a sacred sakhi-bhava: the deepest yearning to share in their Beloveds' joy, to dissolve into the ocean of Their union.

Then, in a movement as fluid as moonlight on water, Radha lay herself bare against Krishna, skin against skin, not hidden now by any metaphor but revealed through the trembling poetry of presence. Her lotuses, now fully opened, pressed against Krishna’s chest, their tips aching for his mouth.

Krishna, reverent and wild, cupped them gently in his hands.

Like a bee drawn to nectar, he bent forward—kissing one, then the other—drawing the milk of her love, drop by divine drop.

The sakhis, overcome, pressed their palms to their hearts, weeping softly, chanting mantras of love under their breath.

»Oh Rasika Nagari,« whispered Pyari Kripa Sakhi, »you are the temple… and Krishna is your eternal worshipper.«

»Oh Shyam Sundar,« Rami murmured, her voice shaking, »may you drink forever from the fount of her beauty, and may we bathe in the overflow of your love.«

Thus, in the sacred heart of the nikunj, where the play of soul and soul merged into one endless sigh, the sakhis did not remain onlookers.

They became the threads of the love-garland… each touch, each word, each breath offered into the Divine Fire that is Radha-Krishna’s madhurya-lila—sweet, secret, and infinitely pure.

Chapter 6:
The Song of the Flute and the River

The nikunj lay bathed in golden stillness. A thousand birds had fallen silent, as if holding their breath for the secret unfolding within. Even the breeze slowed, circling the sacred space like a devoted priest fanning the altar of divine union.

Radha lay like a moonflower in bloom, her body glistening with the dew of awakened longing. Krishna, her eternal lover, hovered above her, his skin glowing like monsoon clouds lit by inner fire. The sakhis, now seated in a gentle circle, watched with tear-soaked eyes—witnesses to love that was beyond flesh, beyond thought, beyond time.

Radha’s golden pitchers—her twin treasures of compassion and delight—rose and fell with every breath, the soft pink of their tips blushing with sweet yearning. Krishna, like a thirsty traveler reaching the Yamuna after lifetimes of desert-wandering, lowered himself with reverence.

He did not rush. He circled her like a bee intoxicated by the fragrance of the lotus.

Radha whispered, her voice trembling:
»O Madhava, your flute has played so many songs… but now let it play deep inside the river of my soul.«

Krishna smiled, his eyes dark as love itself.
»O Radhe, your Yamuna calls Me more sweetly than any melody I have ever known.«

And so, as the sakhis chanted soft verses of rasa, Radha opened herself—like the sacred Yamuna parting her waters—to receive the flute of Shyam. With infinite care, he entered her, their union like the merging of two eternal streams.

No cries escaped, only sighs—slow and holy.
The golden pitchers pressed against Krishna’s chest, rising and falling like sacred bells in a temple of longing.

Krishna moved within her, not in haste, but in rhythm—like a raga unfolding at twilight, each note dripping with meaning. His hands caressed her hips, her waist, her thighs—tracing the divine curves of śṛṅgāra, not with hunger, but with worship.

Radha’s fingers twined in his curls. Her lips grazed his ear.

»Do you feel it, Shyam?«
»What, my Premmayi?«

»The river doesn’t flow anymore... it surges. It floods. Your flute has broken the banks.«

Krishna laughed softly, his breath hot against her neck.
»Then drown Me, Radhe. Drown Me in Your mercy.«

The sakhis, overwhelmed by the beauty of what they beheld, began to sway as if caught in a trance. Lalita pressed her hands to her chest, tears streaming as she whispered,
»This is not a union of bodies, but of divine essence. This is soul tasting soul.«

Pyari Kripa Sakhi touched the ground with her forehead.
»Where this love flows, there is no ego left. No name, no form. Only rasa.«

And still, the flute played in the river, deeper and deeper, until Radha cried out—a soft, trembling cry that cracked the sky. Not pain, not even pleasure—something more: release.

The Yamuna overflowed.

Krishna, now still, held her tightly, forehead pressed to hers, their hearts pounding together in rhythm.

They did not speak. They did not need to.

The sakhis rose slowly, approaching in silence, surrounding them like garlands of love. Each one touched Radha’s feet and Krishna’s hands—not out of desire, but reverence. They were not spectators to lust, but priestesses of divine union.

Rami Sakhi, her voice choked with tears, whispered:
»O Radha, O Krishna—you have shown us the highest truth: that the soul’s union with its Beloved is the only real ecstasy.«

And in that sacred grove, where the flute had become one with the river, the wind carried only one word on its breath:

Prem.

To be continued ;)

© images: whoo.in, Adobe Photostock, unknown