This flute is all-powerful: let Krishna play it at Vamshivata, and thirty-three million gopis across all of Vraja lose their minds and come running to the sound. And now Radhika, weary of holding her feigned sulking-maan, tilts her eyes just slightly toward him — and that glance is filled with prema, filled with mahabhava. It strikes like an arrow. Krishna's palms break out in sweat, tremble and go stunned — and the flute slips from his fingers and falls to the ground. He does not even notice it has fallen: his lips are still pursed, he is still blowing — into empty hands, without a single note. As a warrior struck by an arrow on the battlefield drops first his weapon, then his cloth, then trembles and falls senseless, so Krishna first lets the flute fall. The gopis love the singing of the flute. But the manjaris, the maidservants of Srimati Radhika, love the silent flute more than the sounding one — for it means Krishna has utterly forgotten himself, struck down by one glance of their mistress.