The companion said, “Kunda desires that you will sing a hymn.”  The Boisnavi then began a hymn.  Kunda, seeing that the Boisnavi had neglected all other commands to obey hers, was much abashed.  Haridasi, striking gently on her tambourine as if in sport, recited in a gentle voice some few notes like the murmuring of a bee in early spring, or a bashful bride’s first loving speech to her husband.  Then suddenly she produced from that insignificant tambourine, as though with the fingers of a powerful musician, sounds like the crashing of the clouds in thunder, making the frames of her hearers shrink within them as she sang in tones more melodious than those of the Apsharas (celestial singing women).

The ladies, astonished and enchanted, heard the Boisnavi’s unequalled voice filling the court with sound that ascended to the skies.  What could secluded women understand of the method of that singing?  An intelligent person would have comprehended that this perfect singing was not due to natural gifts alone.  The Boisnavi, whoever she might be, had received a thorough scientific training in music, and, though young, she was very proficient.

The Boisnavi, having finished her song, was urged by the ladies to sing again.  Haridasi, looking with thirsty eyes at Kunda, sang the following song from Krishna’s address to Radhika: 

THE BOISNAVI’S SONG.

    “To see thy beauteous lily face
    I come expectant to this place;
    Let me, oh Rai! thy feet embrace. 
    To deprecate thy sullen ire,
    Therefore I come in strange attire;
    Revive me, Radha, kindness speak,
    Clasping thy feet my home I’d seek. 
    Of thy fair form to catch a ray
    From door to door with flute I stray;
    When thy soft name it murmurs low
    Mine eyes with sudden tears o’erflow. 
    If thou wilt not my pardon speak
    The banks of Jumna’s stream I’ll seek,
    Will break my flute and yield my life;
    Oh! cease thy wrath, and end the strife. 
    The joys of Braj I’ve cast aside
    A slave before thy feet t’ abide;
    Thine anklets round my neck I’ll bind,
    In Jumna’s stream I’ll refuge find.”

The song over, the Boisnavi, looking at Kunda, said, “Singing has made me thirsty; give me some water.”

Kunda brought water in a vessel; but the Boisnavi said, “I will not touch your vessel; come near and pour some water into my hands.  I was not born a Boisnavi.”  By this she gave it to be understood that she was formerly of some unholy caste, and had since become a Boisnavi.

In reply to her words, Kunda went behind her so as to pour the water into her hands.  They were at such a distance from the rest that words spoken gently could not be heard by any of them.  Kunda poured the water, and the Boisnavi washed her hands and face.

While thus engaged the latter murmured, “Are you not Kunda?”