Krishna sits down first on the jewelled throne and calls out: "Radhika, come, sit here on my lap." And the moment she settles beside him — old Mukhara, Radhika's grandmother, comes hobbling up. Her eyes are weak and short-sighted; she squints their way and grumbles: "What's that over there? That rascal is with my daughter-in-law again!" And now the One whom no guard of the universe can catch, whom no bonds can bind — takes fright. He leaps up from the throne and dives headlong into the bushes: let Mukhara make out what is going on here, and there will be a great scandal across all of Vraja. And the old woman is already groping toward the thicket, hands stretched out before her half-blind eyes: "Aha, now I've caught you!" — yet she cannot lay a finger on the fugitive. Only imagine: Bhagavan, before whom all the worlds tremble, is crouching in the bushes more dead than alive — afraid not of a demon, not of Kamsa, but of a purblind granny and the village gossip about Radha.