Radhika slips off to Surya Kund — on the excuse of doing Surya-puja; and her mother-in-law Jatila, noticing the bride has been gone too long, creeps after her: let me see what she is up to. But Krishna too cannot stay away — and he goes to extreme lengths. He disguises himself as a young brahmin: the sacred thread across his chest, a scripture tucked under his arm, wooden sandals on his feet, a tuft of kusha grass in his hand — and offers himself as the purohit, the priest for that very puja. One thing alone betrays him — his eyes. He is dhira-lalita, a hero playful as Cupid himself: his eyes are forever restless, darting here and there, intoxicated. Yet his longing to meet Radhika is so fierce that he stills even them — and stands there grave and composed, for all the world a solemn brahmin. How can the playful one suddenly turn so grave? Only because, by any means whatever, he is desperate to reach her.