Stanza 7: Deeper Slumber – Kīsu Kīsu
The quartet, now invigorated and physically buoyed by Lakshmi’s transformative joining, moved with a rhythmic, intentional grace through the labyrinthine, dust-moted paths of the cowherd colony. The atmosphere had shifted; the silver-grey mist of the pre-dawn had surrendered to the first assertive flush of daybreak, which had now deepened into a rich, molten golden light. This celestial glow acted as a divine brush, painting the humble thatched roofs and the sturdy mud walls of the village in hues of warm ochre and burnt sienna, making the entire settlement appear as though it were fashioned from gold leaf. Lakshmi, whose earlier reticence had been completely shed like a discarded serpent’s skin, walked with a newfound, infectious buoyancy. Her eyes, once shadowed by the heavy curtains of solitary meditation, now sparkled with the kinetic joy of shared purpose—a realization that her individual spark was meant to fuel a much larger conflagration of love. In the distance, the towering silhouettes of the Srivilliputtur gopurams seemed to lean in closer, no longer distant stone monuments but living, breathing sentinels of the sky, their ancient granites radiating a silent, protective strength that vibrated through the girls' bare feet.
Their next destination was the dwelling of Priya, a girl whose very name whispered of the "Beloved." She was a figure of exceptional, ethereal beauty, but it was her spiritual depth—a profound, almost frightening interiority, that set her apart. Priya was the girl often observed lost in a state of Samadhi while others went about their chores, a faint, enigmatic smile playing upon her lips as if she were privy to the sacred secrets whispered by the wind or the hidden murmurs of the river. Unlike Lakshmi, who had been a novice to the vastness of Krishnanubhavam, Priya was an adept, a soul well-versed in the intricate nuances of the Lord’s divine play. The paasuram itself acknowledges her elevated status, hailing her as a "leader among girls" and describing her as "sparkling."
However, this very brilliance was the source of her current inertia. Priya possessed a light so bright that she had become mesmerized by her own internal sun, content to remain within the safety of her house, savoring the nectar of the Lord in a state of blissful, stationary absorption. She was a master of the "Experience," yet she had forgotten that the dawn calls for "Expression." Kodai understood that to wake Priya was not to teach her something new, but to remind her that the Lord’s beauty is not a prize to be hoarded in the dark, but a song to be sung in the marketplace.
The spiritual inertia that held Priya in its grip was not the heavy, dark slumber of the ignorant, but rather a luminous, honey-like stasis. She represented a sophisticated stage of devotion where the internal rasa, the aesthetic and emotional essence of the Divine, was so intoxicatingly rich that it created a private universe, rendering the external world a faint and unnecessary shadow. For Priya, the "experience" had become a destination unto itself. She was the soul who, having tasted the nectar of communion, found the act of rising and walking to be almost a descent. She lingered in the warmth of her bed not because she was lazy, but because she was engaged in a "luxurious indulgence" of the spirit, feigning sleep so that she might overhear the melodic praises of her friends outside. To her, their voices were like distant flutes on the Yamuna, and she wished to remain the passive listener, the one for whom the song is sung, rather than the singer herself.
Kodai, with her sharp spiritual intuition, recognized this subtle trap of self-sufficiency. She knew that Priya was perhaps "too deeply immersed" in the nectar of her own heart to realize that the Lord, the Maayan, delights even more in the messy, vibrant, and collective dance of His devotees than in the solitary bliss of a single quiet room. This was a challenge of a different kind: it was the task of convincing a queen to leave her palace for the dust of the streets.
As the four girls approached Priya's dwelling, a palpable sense of quiet anticipation settled over them, dampening the sound of their footsteps. The air in this part of the colony felt different—vibrant and dense, as if the very atoms were dancing to the sounds of the awakening village. The distant lowing of cattle and the rhythmic thud of grain being pounded provided a grounded, earthly pulse to the scene. Yet, Kodai sensed that for a soul like Priya, mundane logic would fail. She required a more "pointed, almost lyrical persuasion", a bridge of beauty that could span the distance between her internal sanctuary and the communal dawn.
Kodai signaled for the others to wait. She looked at the closed door, behind which a "sparkling" leader lay in a trance of her own making. The task was to prove that the music outside was even sweeter than the silence within. Kodai took a breath, preparing to launch a sensory assault of birdsong and churning butter that would leave Priya with no choice but to open her heart to the morning.
Kodai stepped forward, her voice cutting through the golden morning air like a silver flute, vibrating with a playful yet firm spiritual authority. "Did you not hear, Oh slow-witted girl," she called out, her voice a gentle chide, laced with a deep, sisterly affection that bridged the gap between the mundane and the celestial. "The distinctive, silver-sharp twittering sound of the black birds of the morn—the 'Kīsu Kīsu' that sounds like a secret, confidential talk between them? Are you so immersed in your own thoughts that you cannot hear the conversation of the cosmos?"
As if responding to her invocation, the atmosphere around Priya’s house became hyper-resonant. From every sweeping branch of the ancient neem trees and every unseen nook of the eaves, the Kingcrows, those glossy, obsidian-feathered sentinels of the dawn, erupted in their distinctive "Kīsu Kīsu" chatter. It was a surreal, precise, almost conversational sound, resembling the rhythmic chiming of tiny crystal bells, yet possessing an insistent, percussive quality that pierced through the broader morning chorus. To Kodai, these were not merely birds; they were the Lord’s own messengers, their every chirp a staccato syllable of an unwritten Veda, weaving a dense tapestry of divine sound that acted like a physical tug at Priya’s lingering, luxurious slumber. The birds seemed to be debating the glory of the rising sun, their voices a sharp reminder that the world had already moved into the light while Priya remained anchored in the shadows.
Lakshmi, now fully vibrant and sensing the weight of Priya's self-contained bliss, pressed closer to Kodai. Her earlier shyness had completely evaporated, replaced by an eager, electric desire to help bridge the soul of her friend to the collective joy. "And beyond the Kingcrows, Priya," Lakshmi added, her voice soft but imbued with a new, earnest gravity, "did you not hear the tingling sound? When the big and small coin-like pendants, those precious gold kasu malai and shimmering mookuthi, on the cowherdesses rub against each other as they move, did you not hear their delicate, rhythmic music?"
She gestured toward the neighboring courtyards where the village women were already in motion. Each movement of their bodies, dedicated to the service of the Lord’s cattle and the upkeep of their sacred hearths, produced a metallic symphony. The larger gold coins of the necklaces clashed softly against smaller beads, creating a rhythmic jingle-chime that was the heartbeat of the morning. This wasn't just jewelry making noise; it was the sound of Karma Yoga, devotion expressed through action, ringing out in defiance of Priya’s stationary, silent contemplation. The air was thick with these overlapping frequencies: the sharp "Kīsu Kīsu" from the trees and the melodic gold-on-gold percussion from the earth, both demanding that the "sparkling leader" finally unlatch the door of her heart.
The soundscape of the village was undergoing a profound transformation, turning the mundane into the miraculous. To a listener like Priya, still perched on the edge of her bed, the world might have seemed merely busy, but to the awakened eyes of Kodai and her companions, the morning was a structured liturgy of movement and sound. From the neighboring huts, the activities of the household were not mere chores; they were a sacred rhythm, a physical manifestation of a life lived in constant alignment with the Divine.
The cowherdesses, their hair still damp from pre-dawn ablutions and adorned with fresh, dew-heavy blossoms, were already deep into their service. As they bent to soothe the restless calves or swept the thresholds with rhythmic, sweeping motions, their movements were punctuated by the soft, metallic clinking of their traditional jewelry. The kasu malai, necklaces composed of large, flat gold coins, rubbed against smaller, round golden beads with every breath and every exertion. This was not a random noise, it was a gentle, tinkling melody that served as a metronome for their devotion. It was the spiritual cadence of Karma Yoga, where the sweeping of a floor or the milking of a cow became a ritual of the highest order. The gold spoke to the gold in their hearts, ringing out a soft, percussive truth: that every act, no matter how humble, is an offering to the Lord of the Universe.
"And beyond the gentle chimes, Priya, did you not hear the sound of the vigorous pull?" Dharini’s voice rose now, her words painting a vivid, kinetic picture in the cool morning air. She stood with her arms slightly outstretched, as if mimicking the very action she described. "Can you not hear the sound of the curd churner being pulled with such strong, rhythmic intent by the flower-bedecked cowherdesses? It is the sound of the world being turned!"
From within the courtyards, the deep, hollow thrum-swish of the wooden churners began to dominate the auditory space. This was the Mathanam, the churning of the milk of existence. The girls could almost feel the vibration through the earth beneath their feet. The thick, white curd in the large clay pots was being twirled vigorously by the wooden mixer, creating a deep, resonant sound that seemed to hum in a low frequency, echoing the primordial sound of creation. It was a thick, liquid churning, a swirling vortex of devotion where the essence, the butter of the Divine, was being separated from the watery illusions of the world. Each pull of the rope was a mantra, each revolution of the wooden shaft was a prayer. The sound was heavy, frothy, and full of life, a visceral reminder that the Lord is found in the exertion of the soul, in the "vigorous pull" of the heart towards the center of all things.
From within the depths of the nearby kitchens, the rhythmic thump-swish, thump-swish of the wooden curd churners began to rise, creating a primal, heartbeat-like cadence that vibrated through the mud floors and stone thresholds. It was the sound of a village coming to life, but more importantly, it was the sound of a sacred labor. The fragrant tresses of the cowherdesses, heavy with the scent of fresh jasmine and the fiery orange of kanakambaram flowers, swayed in a mesmerizing arc as they threw their weight into the work. Their arms, decorated with simple glass and shell bangles, moved in a blur of devotion, vigorously pulling the braided ropes that spun the fluted wooden shaft within the deep, earthenware clay pots.
This was far more than the mere making of butter; it was a living metaphor for the churning of the human heart. It represented the necessary agitation of the mundane, the repetitive, often difficult tasks of life, required to extract the divine essence of the soul. Just as the hidden butter emerges only after the milk has been vigorously stirred, the "essence" of Krishna-consciousness was being drawn out of the ordinary morning. The sound of the churning curd itself, a rich, frothy, and sonorous swirl, filled the air with a tangible promise of nourishment and spiritual transformation. Each auditory layer, from the silver-sharp "Kīsu Kīsu" of the Kingcrows to the deep, bass thrum of the churners, acted as a subtle form of divine music, a celestial hook designed to gently pull Priya from the self-imposed, silken trance of her solitary meditation.
Kodai took a decisive step closer to the heavy wooden door, her presence radiating a sovereignty that seemed to command even the shadows to retreat. Her voice was no longer just a song; it was a direct, piercing appeal to Priya’s own heart, a recognition of her friend's inherent spiritual leadership and capacity for greatness.
"Oh, leader among us girls," Kodai called out, her voice vibrating with a rich, nectar-like authority. "How can you remain lost in the silken, indulgent folds of slumber, when the entire world is literally erupting into a celebration of His glory? How can you remain a passive witness, reclining in the comfort of your own peace, when the very cowherdesses around you, women with simple hearts and calloused hands, and even the distant, austere sages in the hills, have begun to sing the names? They are singing Narayana and Kesava, names that are not just words, but sweet, cooling streams of nectar that have the power to extinguish the fiercest fires of the worldly mind. Can you truly hear the Name and remain still?"
Kodai’s words hung in the air like incense, challenging Priya to realize that the highest form of leadership is to join the chorus, to turn one's internal light into a communal flame.
Inside the cool, darkened chamber of the hut, Priya lay perfectly still, but her stillness was not the heavy inertia of the unawakened. Her eyes were closed, yet her internal landscape was a vast, crystalline lake, its surface undisturbed and reflecting the rising sun of a profound, interior devotion. She was indeed the "sparkling one," her consciousness already saturated with the presence of the Lord. She had been awake for quite some time, caught in the exquisite web of Rasanubhavam, the refined, aesthetic savoring of the Divine. To Priya, the sounds filtering through the door were not mere noises of the morning; they were orchestral movements in a celestial symphony.
She had heard the silver "Kīsu Kīsu" of the Kingcrows and interpreted it as the birds gossiping about the Lord's beauty. She had felt the soft, rhythmic tinkling of the cowherdesses' jewelry vibrating through the earth, a golden percussion that matched the beat of her own heart. Even the deep, percussive thump-swish of the curd churners felt like a meditation, an external echo of the way she was churning her own soul to find the "butter" of Krishna within. Most of all, she lingered on the voice of Kodai. Each word of chiding, each melodic plea, felt like a delicate, artistic stroke on the canvas of her inner experience. She loved the Lord so deeply that hearing others articulate His glories was like a cool sandalwood paste applied to her spirit. She was the ultimate witness, the passive enjoyer of the nectar of others' devotion.
However, this solitary enjoyment, while sublime, was a gilded cage. Her heart was overflowing, yet by keeping the vessel sealed, she was missing the "amplified joy" that occurs only when the nectar is poured out and shared. Her devotion was a static pool rather than a flowing river.
Kodai’s final direct address, however, acted like a thunderbolt that shattered the surface of her silent lake. When Kodai named her a "leader among girls," the words carried a weight of responsibility that bypassed Priya's aesthetic trance. It was a spiritual "call to arms." It forced her to realize that true leadership in the path of Bhakti is not found in the most profound solitary trance, but in the ability to ignite that same fire in the hearts of others. To be a leader meant she could no longer remain the listener; she had to become the song. The mention of the sacred names, Narayana and Kesava, acted as the final catalyst. These names were the keys to the universal gate, and as they echoed in the air, Priya realized that by remaining inside, she was holding back the collective energy of the group. The "slowness" of her wit was replaced by a sharp, kinetic clarity: the Lord was waiting for the entire village, and she, as a leader, was the one holding the door shut.
"Oh, She who is sparkling," Kodai concluded, her voice now a vessel of persuasive sweetness that seemed to vibrate with the very luminosity she was addressing. "Be pleased to open the door. The time for silent, cloistered savoring is over; the cosmic hour for vibrant, shared devotion has arrived. Do not mistake the reflection for the Source, Priya. The Lord waits not just in the quiet, abyssal depths of your own heart, but in the thunderous, collective song of His gathered devotees. He is the Maayan who reveals His most hidden secrets not to the solitary hermit, but to the circle of souls who lose themselves in each other's love for Him."
Inside the hut, Priya felt a deeper tremor, not of the earth, but of the soul. The repeated invocation of the names Narayana and Kesava, one representing the vast, all-encompassing Sustainer of the cosmos, and the other the beautiful, long-haired Vanquisher of the ego, struck her like waves of a rising tide. These names were no longer just sounds; they were keys turning in the locks of her internal palace. The realization dawned with a clarity that surpassed the golden light filtering through the thatch: her solitary bliss, however profound, was a stagnant pond compared to the living, rushing river of communal worship. She had been treating the "sweet voice of Andal and her friends" as a private lullaby to soothe her own spirit, failing to recognize it as a clarion call to spiritual revolution.
The "Kīsu Kīsu" of the Kingcrows was now a roar of encouragement. The distant temple conch was a command. The rhythmic, vigorous churning of the curd in the village was the heartbeat of a world that refused to remain still. How much longer could she keep her own light hidden? To stay inside was to deny the sun its right to shine upon her, and to deny her friends the brilliance of her own awakened spirit.
With a heart that felt like it was expanding beyond the confines of her chest, Priya rose. Her hand, trembling with a mixture of awe and newfound purpose, found the heavy wooden bolt. With a resonant thrum that echoed through the quiet house, she drew back the latch. The door swung open, and the transition was absolute. The surreal, crystalline light of the Srivilliputtur morning rushed in, blinding and beautiful.
As she stepped onto the threshold, her face met the unfiltered radiance of the sun and the even more radiant smiles of Kodai, Neela, Dharini, and Lakshmi. The "sparkling one" had finally joined the stream. There was no need for explanations; in the "collective grace" of their shared gaze, Priya understood that her journey had just truly begun. They were no longer a few individuals; they were the beginning of a sacred procession, an unfolding prayer that moved with the inevitability of the seasons toward the feet of the Lord.
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