Maithili, the language of the Indian kingdom of Mithila, is now a dead language but was a precursor of Bengali (Bangla). Vidyapati (circa 1400-1506) is acknowledged as the greatest poet in this language. Later, Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941) revived this language by writing Vaishnavite verses under the pseudonym of Bhanusingha Thakur. Translation by Srinjay Chakravarti

Madhav, bahut minati . . .

Madhav, I plead with You so much!
With tulsi leaves and til seeds
I surrendered this body to You --
All-Merciful, do not leave me now.

If you consider my faults
You will see I have no virtue at all;
But You are Jagannath,
Lord of the World,
And I too am part of this world.

As a human or beast,
I could be born a bird,
Or even an insect or worm;

Vidyapati says, in extreme distress,
To cross the ocean of samsara --
I have taken recourse to Your feet
Grant me mercy, Friend of the Needy.

Sajani sajani Radhika lo . . .

Beloved Radhika, turn and look --
Shyam softly comes to You,
Singing His song softly.

Put on Your necklace of flowers,
put on Your blue garment;
Beautiful girl, colour Your forehead
with the vermilion of sindoor.

Come, friends, let us dance,
sing the song of union;
With the tinkling tumult of your anklets
fill with melody the sky in the grove.

Friends, make the temple glow
with the light of golden lamps;
Make the garden house fragrant
by pouring this perfumed water.

Pick up, child, the flowers now --
mallikas, chamelis, belis,
Weave juthis, weave jatis,
weave garlands with bakul blooms.

With his thirsty eyes, Bhanusingha
waits in the orchard's pathway --
Shyam, softly coming now,
Softly singing His song.

Gahan kusum kunja majhe . . .

Inside the garden, deep with flowers,
a soft sweet flute is playing;
Beloved Radhika, come, come,
forget Your fears, forget what people say.

Wearing a pretty blue garment,
Your heart is piled
with the flowers of love;
in Your doe eyes, pure laughter;
come, come to the grove now.

The blossoms pour fragrant swirls,
the birds pour sweet melodies,
the moon pours streams of nectar
glowing with unalloyed silver.
Softly bees hum, a thousand flowers
bloom in groves -- bakuls, juthis, jatis.

See, my friend, Lord Shyam --
love spills from his eyes --
His sweet face, a store of nectar,
before which the moon pales.

Come, come, all my friends
we shall watch Sri Govinda --
and Bhanusingha comes to worship
the lotus feet of Lord Shyam.

© Translations copyright 2005 Srinjay Chakravarti