Krishna has offended Radhika somehow, and now she is in mana — while he burns in separation, under the rain of Cupid's arrows, praying: "I will never behave like that again; give me your darshan, save my life." Radhika with her sakhis comes to a kunja on the far bank of Radha-kund — and there a breeze is stirring. It lifts the corner of her anchal and becomes infused with the fragrance of her anger — one of the twenty-five qualities of Radhika. And the breeze itself grows drunk: like an intoxicated traveller it stumbles across Radha-kund, slowly, slowly. That fragrance it carries into the very nostrils of Krishna — and in that instant the form of Radhika blazes up before him. He folds his hands and prays to the wind. Brahma, Shiva, the Kumaras in samadhi count themselves blessed to glimpse a single ray from the tip of his toenail — yet Krishna himself feels his life fulfilled if only, from afar, he can catch on the breeze the fragrance of Radhika's anger.