Radharani walks a path through Vrindavan, her mind on Krishna alone. And suddenly, by a creeper, she notices: the buds are nipped, their very tips pinched off. Another would pass by — but Radhika reads the trace: these buds were nipped by Krishna's fingernails; he came this way. And, hiding her real mood, she remarks to her sakhi as if idly: "See how lovely he is — all decked in fresh buds and leaves, like a dancing actor on a stage who sings and dances among his friends." Yet she cannot take her eyes away: how fortunate these buds are — the fingernails of Krishna have touched them! And now the whole of Vrindavan is one long clue. Even the birds have gone still: "Surely these are great sages," she says. "At the sound of his flute they cried 'Jai Krishna,' then closed their eyes and sank into samādhi." A nipped bud, the dust of the path, the hushed birds — all whispering that he has only just been here.