Chapter 4 foregrounds Rasikbihari’s songs, documenting her contributions to Kishangarhi literary production. They are preserved overwhelmingly in conjunction with Nagaridas’, which allows for studying up close the synergy of the early-modern literary couple. First are featured her debut songs for a poetic symposium that the prince organized during the monsoon of 1742. Intertextual analysis of the poetic interchanges that took place there reveals that she was taken seriously as a poetess in her own right, also by other courtier-poets present. Next are featured the exchanges in recitals through the seasons, as can be traced from his liturgical anthology for temple festivals and thematically arranged celebrations of intimate moments, which pertain more to the genre of courtesan songs. The scope of poetic interchange extended also more broadly, as both referenced earlier devotional songs, including those by the sixteenth-century devotee-princess, Mirabai. The couple also responded to the new Urdu (Rekhta), rage in Delhi, experimented with Punjabi, and the musical genres of Khayāl and Kabitt. In poetic analysis surfaces the complex issue of their gendered personhood in performance, as he composed frequently from the perspective of a female admirer of Krishna, just like she did. She may well have been his muse in some of these trends.

Chapter 5 traces the legacy of Bani Thani’s contribution to Kishangarhi artistic and literary production. First, it explores whether her poetry inspired Kishangarhi paintings, presenting correlations between the two. Next is presented her “spiritual testament” on the basis of newly discovered manuscript material. Its autobiographical posing in Sita style hints at her agreement with the prince’s inclusion of Rama-devotional attitudes after he lost his throne. This is picked up by the inscription on her memorial. The location of her cenotaph close to his in Vrindaban perpetuates the story of their love beyond death. The literary exchange of the pair lived on in manuscript as well as in liturgical singing, as evidenced to this day by combined performance of their songs, though over time, the memory that she was the composer has become blurred. Chronicles document the court’s choice to remember the devout stepmother queen, and the exiled prince, rather than the concubine. Some of her songs made it in a court-sanctioned lithograph edition of the prince’s devotional output, but only as a coda. By the end of the nineteenth century Kishangarh’s inspirational muse herself had practically fallen silent. The amnesia of her authorship endured, even as her features were immortalized.