Viśvanātha supplies the words the verse left unspoken. The full sense is: the svarūpa is 'resident-in-both' where the essential form of the two — Kṛṣṇa and his fair-browed beloved — is grasped in both of them at the same moment. The key word he adds is yugapat, 'simultaneously': it is one form seen in both at once.

Viśvanātha sets the scene. During a sun-worship rite, Rādhā catches sight of Kṛṣṇa dressed as a brāhmaṇa. At that moment she does not know who he is. Yet love for him surges up in her simply from seeing him — and by that surge alone she infers, 'this must be Kṛṣṇa.' So she speaks to her friend Lalitā, in the 'sahacari' verse. The rati arising in her is itself the clue that identifies him.

A short word-gloss: brahma-veśa in the verse just means 'a brāhmaṇa's dress.'

Viśvanātha raises the natural objection: 'But how can you be sure this figure, dressed as a brāhmaṇa, is really Hari?' Rādhā's answer is the line beginning 'kim ayam' — 'why else would my heart melt?'

Her proof is arthāpatti (presumption): anyathā-anupapatti, 'it could not be so on any other supposition.' Her heart's melting is a fact that has no explanation unless the man is Kṛṣṇa. That impossibility-otherwise is, by itself, the valid proof of his identity.

Viśvanātha now maps the verse onto the three forms of love. This line — 'why else would my heart melt?' — reveals the kṛṣṇa-niṣṭha svarūpa, the form of love that resides in Kṛṣṇa: his power to draw love out of the beholder.

And the same line reveals the second form at the same time: the lalanā-niṣṭha svarūpa, the form of love resident in the woman — Rādhā's own heart melting the instant she sees him. Both forms surface together in the one utterance.

The 'śaśadhara' (moonstone) line, Viśvanātha says, drives the point home by arthāntara-nyāsa — the figure where a particular claim is backed by a widely-known general truth. The general truth: moonstone sweats only in moonlight. It corroborates the particular: her heart melts only before Kṛṣṇa.

He spells out the maxim behind the line: a dais made of moonstone does not exude any moisture unless the moon's light falls on it. Moonlight is the one thing that makes it sweat.

Now the analogy's terms. In the moon-and-moonstone illustration the 'moon' corresponds to Kṛṣṇa. The moon's own resident form (candra-niṣṭha) is two things: its power to gladden, and its rare joining of brightness with coolness (most bright things burn; the moon shines yet is cool). This answers to what belongs to Kṛṣṇa in his own right.

That gladdening, cool-bright quality is not the moon's private possession — a trace of it runs through all things, and so it shows up even in the moonstone. In the analogy: the effect Kṛṣṇa has is felt broadly, reaching even into the beloved (the 'stone'). This sets up the contrast with the next quality, which is not universal.

The moisture, though, is different. Sweating belongs to the moonstone alone — you never see clay or common rock sweat under the moon. In the analogy this answers to the lalanā-niṣṭha form: the melting is peculiar to the beloved, as the sweating is peculiar to the moonstone. The 'tu' sets this special quality against the universal one of the previous sentence.

And this sweating has two conditions at once: it needs the moon present, and it needs the moonstone to appear in — it happens nowhere else and at no other time. This double condition is the whole point: the moisture depends on both moon and moonstone together, which is what 'resident-in-both' will mean.

Here is the payoff. The moonstone has a special nature — 'meltable by the moon and nothing else.' But then the moon must be granted a matching special nature — 'able to melt the moonstone and nothing else.' Neither quality belongs to just one of the pair; it takes both together. That mutual, two-sided quality is a third form, the 'resident-in-both' (ubhaya-niṣṭha) form of moonstone-and-moon. Exactly so with the gopī and Kṛṣṇa: their resident-in-both form of love is a genuinely distinct third thing — not the same as the form resident in Kṛṣṇa alone or the form resident in the gopī alone.

This is why the text draws three distinctions, not two: the form resident in Kṛṣṇa, the form resident in the woman, and — distinct from both — the form resident in both together.

He names the first two forms concretely. Resident-in-Kṛṣṇa: his power to awaken love in every good-hearted person who meets him. Resident-in-the-woman: her capacity to feel him vividly present even when he is nowhere to be seen or heard — as Rādhā's heart melts before she even knows him. Each form 'lives' on one side of the pair.

And the third form, resident-in-both: at the mere sight of Kṛṣṇa, two things happen inseparably — an extreme melting is produced, and extreme agitation is stirred up in the gopī. The melting on his side and the agitation on hers are one linked event, needing both parties at once. That paired, two-sided effect is the ubhaya-niṣṭha svarūpa — matching the moonstone's sweat that needs both moon and stone.

A further point, widening the illustration. When the moon rises, each thing bound to it responds in its own way: the night-lotus blooms, the moonstone melts, the cakora bird drinks the moonbeams, the ocean swells into tides. One moon, many answering effects — the effect takes the shape of whoever receives it.

And it works the other way as well: the moon, meeting each of them, becomes the one who confers on each its own particular trait — bloom to the lotus, melting to the stone, and so on. The relation is reciprocal, which is why the shared form is truly 'resident-in-both.'

So, just as different objects respond to the moon differently, the resident-in-both form varies by which gopī is paired with Kṛṣṇa. Each particular pairing yields its own degree, and there is a whole graded scale of the ubhaya-niṣṭha form running through many gradations.

A caveat. The three-way split of the form was made here only as a teaching aid — to train the student's grasp of the subject. It is not a claim that three separate loves really operate side by side in the gopīs. The next sentence gives the real state of affairs.

The real teaching: when it comes to the gopīs, only one of the three forms truly counts — the lalanā-niṣṭha, the form resident in the woman, her own love. And that form is by its very nature the highest of all. The 'tu' ('however') sets this settled truth against the three-fold division, which was only a scaffold.

As for the other two forms — the Kṛṣṇa-resident and the resident-in-both — they finally come to no more than uddīpana, stimulants that kindle the gopī's love. Only her own love is the abiding sthāyi; the rest merely feed it. The 'tu' again marks the demotion of the other two beneath the woman-resident form.

A bare reference number carried over from the edition. It marks a source note and does nothing in the commentary's reasoning.