[[Mohan K.V 2013-07-24, 07:24:25 Source]]
सदास्वादः
प्रशान्त-दावेव वनान्त-लक्ष्मीः, गतोपरागा गगन-स्थलीव, / कलिन्दजा मर्दित-कालियेव
(praśānta-dāveva vanānta-lakṣmīḥ, gatoparāgā gagana-sthalīva, / kalindajā mardita-kāliyeva)
Meaning
“Like a forest after a blaze has subsided, like the sky after an eclipse has passed, like Yamunā after the demon-serpent Kāliya was killed…” – note the simplicity of style and the juxtaposition of simple images in an innovative sequence. The three similes progress from the most immediate to the most abstract: a forest fire directly causes physical pain; an eclipse is ‘higher up’ – everyone can see it, and the darkness it casts has a more pervasive effect on the right order of things; the story of Kāliya is from the realm of mythology and peoples’ conception of their own culture. So what is it that’s found release at so many levels? Read on!
Context
Today’s phrase is taken from the epic poem Madhurā-vijaya of Gangā-devi. This six-hundred-year-old poem is about the life and times of Kamparāya, a prince of the Vijayanagara empire of Hampi, and culminates in his grand victory against the brutal Madurai Sultanate. This work is among the several great works of Sanskrit that were discovered in a period of great renewal in the South about a hundred years ago. Today, we are amidst possibly one of the greatest revivals of Sanskrit as far as accessibility of texts is concerned, and to be overwhelmed with gratefulness one needs to do no more than to read of the hardships that were faced just a couple generations ago. In the first-published Trivandrum edition of the Madhurā-vijaya in 1916, authors Harihara Sastri and Srinivasa Sastri write in their preface:
[The manuscript] was found in an extremely worn-out volume, combined with the disarranged leaves of portions of the Siddārthacarita or Padyacūḍāmaṇi and a naṭaka of unknown name. It is written in grantha characters and is not free from errors. The Madhurā-vijaya begins on the 109th leaf and closes abruptly on the 169th leaf. It is not possible to infer how many more leaves of the manuscript have been lost. A few leaves are also missing in the middle of the manuscript and most of the remaining ones are bored with holes by insects. The first five sargas of the manuscript are, to some extent, continuous but the remaining portions are fragmentary.
The poetess Gangā-devi was Kampārāya’s wife and Queen of the Vijayanagara empire at the time of its greatest ascent. Shankar Rajaraman and Venetia Kotamraju in the introduction to their excellent translation of the work write:
At times poems with such interesting backgrounds have little else to recommend them, and thus soon become no more than carrion for sociologists and historians to pick over. Not so the Madhurā Vijaya. Gaṅgādevī’s poem is so good that the editors who originally found it noted that scholars could not believe it had been written by a woman.
We’ll express our own admiration via a somewhat circuitous route. There is an often quoted observation that in Sanskrit literature that the first work of a genre is usually the best. Examples include Vālmīki’s Rāmāyaṇa and Vyāsa’s magnum opus Mahābhārata – they were the first mega-stories of their kind, and nothing that came after even came close to surpassing them. The same is true for the Amaruśataka, which was the first, and is still the finest, collection of love-poems in Sanskrit. Ditto with Kṛṣṇa-bhakti poetry of the Kṛṣṇa Karṇāmṛta.
The observation is true, but it disturbs us somewhat. This is not how things should be. Ideally, newer artists should take on the ideas of old masters and forge brilliant new art that would make even the masters slack-jawed with joy, wonder and amazement. We see such a progress in film. Orson Welles’ Citizen Kane was an extraordinary film when it first came out, and was groundbreaking in its cinematography, storytelling and a hundred other areas. Nobody had ever seen anything like it, and it was the toast of the critics and laymen alike. With time, a generation of filmmakers were deeply inspired by it, and directors like Stanley Kubrick and Steven Spielberg took Welles’ ideas to fascinating new realms in new epochal works like Full Metal Jacket and Schindler’s List.
Gangā-devi, happily, is an exception to the oppressive first-is-best rule. In a way, she is the Quentin Tarantino of Sanskrit literature: exceptionally talented, deeply conversant with the work of past masters and gifted with the ability to bring out a master’s idea more lucidly than the master himself. Just like Tarantino’s best works like Inglourious Basterds and Django Unchained take inspiration from hundreds of older works and surpass every single one of them, Gangādevi pays her homage to the greats like Kālidāsa, Bāṇa and Daṇḍī, and often surpasses them in the Madhurā-vijaya. She is a master of the vaidarbhi style – simple, unornamented Sanskrit that relies on the juxtaposition of simple images and ideas for strength – and many times beats Kālidāsa in the lucidity and relatability of her metaphors, emotions and flourishes of cleverness. At times she beats Bāṇa in wild imagination and fantastic figures of speech that first make us smile, and then think. Although we don’t quite know why Daṇḍī got a reputation as being very musical in his writing, Gangā-devi’s sonorous speech can stand its ground against the best of śabdālaṅkāra in Sanskrit.
In addition to so many literary delights, there is an altogether different set of reasons that make the Madhurā-vijaya a compelling read. The Madurai Sultanate, the enemy in the epic, was by every account the most inhuman, most debased and most putrid blot that the South had the misfortune to count among its rulers. Even a seasoned traveler like Ibn Batuta, well-familiar with harsh administrations, rule by the sword, and cruelty, is shocked and sickened by the wanton horrors perpetrated by the Madurai Sultans. After seeing women and children being murdered for sport, he is compelled to note:
This is shameful conduct such as I have not known any other sovereign guilty of. It is for this that God hastened the death of Ghiyath-eddin [the Sultan then].
When we know this, we find ourselves rooting for the hero even more. If the villain was some imaginary king, we’d probably just go along with a rough idea that he’s a bad guy. But now, now, we relish even every line of the description of the sword that would eventually chop off the tyrants’ heads. Off we go, then:
आसीत् समस्त-सामन्त-मस्तक-न्यस्त-शासनः ।
बुक्कराज इति ख्यातो राजा हरिहरानुजः ।1.26।
āsīt samasta-sāmanta-mastaka-nyasta-śāsanaḥ |
bukkarāja iti khyāto rājā hariharānujaḥ |1.26|
“There once lived a king by name Bukka-rāja, brother of Harihara, whose decrees were humbly carried out by all his subsidiaries (literally, ‘whose decrees were ensconced on the heads of his subsidiaries’)”
Bukka-rāja and Harihara were of course the founders of the Vijayanagara empire, under the able guidance of sage Vidyāraṇya. In this line, Gangā-devi is offering a hat-tip to Bāṇa, whose Kādambarī begins with almost the exact same line, except in prose. Note the lovely melody of the ‘sta’ alliteration. An old master’s (Bāṇa’s) idea, with added bonuses (of melody and metre) – a theme we will see repeatedly throughout the work.
A nice description of Vijayanagara follows. An example:
यत्-सौध-चन्द्र-शालासु विहरन्त्यो मृगेक्षणाः ।
शशाङ्कम् अवलम्बन्ते मुक्ता-कन्दुक-शङ्कया ॥1.56॥
yat-saudha-candraśālāsu viharantyo mṛgekṣaṇāḥ |
śaśāṅkam avalambante muktā-kanduka-śaṅkayā ||1.56||
“[In that city,] Young girls playing in the penthouses of tall buildings tried to grab the moon itself, thinking it to be a pearl ball”
This is classic vaidarbhī style. The buildings were so tall, and the pearls in supply were so big and so common as just playthings, that young girls thought the moon itself to be just another pearl!
In some time, Bukka-rāja’s queen Devāyī becomes pregnant with Kampa, the epic’s hero. As in every classical work, there is much foreboding about the child’s future greatness when he’s born. Gangā-devi combines this with a lovely twist on describing a warming fire in the room:
आगामिनीम् अध्वर-हव्य-सिद्धिं
निश्चित्य देशेष्वपि दक्षिणेषु ।
प्रदक्षिणी-भूत-शिखा-कलापो
ननर्त हर्षादिव हव्यवाहः ॥ 2.17 ॥
āgāminīm adhvara-havya-siddhiṃ
niścitya deśeṣvapi dakṣiṇeṣu |
pradakṣiṇī-bhūta-śikhā-kalāpo
nanarta harṣādiva havyavāhaḥ || 2.17 ||
“Seeing that ritual yagas would again take place in the South, the fire itself danced with joy, bending itself into a pradakṣiṇā-like flames.”
The Madurai Sultanate had forbidden any kind of Hindu ritual, and here the poetess says that the fire itself foresaw that this was going to change. A pradakṣiṇā is a clockwise motion that signifies reverence. This is another classic mark of vaidarbhī – a small thing (“A flame flickered”) is observed with great detail and linked back to the main story elegantly.
Kampa soon grows up to be a fine youth with the best of education. Gangā-devi has a scene where Bukka-rāja advises Kampa on the right conduct of kings, and concludes with verses like these:
तद् एवम् आत्मन्यवधार्य धैर्यतः
तथा विधेयं भवताऽपि धीमता ।
यथेयम् एकान्तचला भवद्गुणैः
लभेत लक्ष्मीः स्थिरताम् अनारतम् ।3.37।
tad evam ātmanyavadhārya dhairyataḥ
tathā vidheyaṃ bhavatā’pi dhīmatā |
yatheyam ekāntacalā bhavadguṇaiḥ
labheta lakṣmīḥ sthiratām anāratam |3.37|
“Therefore, holding yourself firm with intelligence and courage,
Act in such a way that even the ever-fickle Lakṣṃī attains constancy by associating with you”.
This is again a hat-tip to Bāṇa. His Śukanāsopādeśa is possibly the greatest essay on the nature of wealth and kingship ever written in any language, and it is also set as a monologue delivered by the wise minister Śukanāsa to the young prince Candrāpīḍa. Gangā-devi takes inspiration from it, but many ideas (including this one) in this passage are her own. Even Bāṇa would be proud!
A little later, Kampa sets out on his mission to conquer Kāncīpuram, an intermediate step to defeat the Madurai Sultanate. Just before he sets out, he is united with his magnificent horse. No poet of any sort, from Bāṇabhaṭṭa describing Indrāyudha in the Kādambarī to J. R. R. Tolkien describing Gandalf’s Shadowfax in The Lord of the Rings to Peter Jackson’s faithful reproduction of that feeling of awe in his films to J. K. Rowling’s description of Harry Potter riding Buckbeak the hippogriff, can miss an opportunity to describe the hero’s trusted steed!
लवणोदन्वद्-एकान्त-लङ्घना-मात्र-गर्वितम् ।
हसन् इव हनूमन्तं हेषितैः फेनपाण्डुरैः | 4.24 |
lavaṇodanvad-ekānta-laṅghanā-mātra-garvitam |
hasan iva hanūmantaṃ heṣitaiḥ phenapāṇḍuraiḥ |4.24|
“The horse with its neighs seemed to laugh mockingly at Hanumān, whose claim to fame was merely that he’d jumped over the ocean!” The horse seems to be saying that he can jump over much more! :-)
लोल-वालाग्र-लग्नेन सेव्यमानो नभस्वता ।
रंहो-रहस्य-शिक्षार्थं शिष्यतामिव जग्मुषा | 4.26 |
lola-vālāgra-lagnena sevyamāno nabhasvatā |
raṃho-rahasya-śikṣārthaṃ śiṣyatām iva jagmuṣā | 4.26 |
“The Wind-god himself seemed to devotedly follow his swinging tail, as if he’d enrolled under him as a disciple to learn the secrets of speed!” Note the rare word jagmuṣā – it is the tritīyā-vibhakti (instrumental case), ekavacana form of jagmivas, ‘he who had arrived’, deriving from the root gam, ‘to go’, and the kvasu pratyaya.
The horse runs so fast that the Wind-god himself wants lessons on speed from him! This is pure genius that combines śabdālankāra, wild imagination and simple vaidārbhī!
Later, after Kāncī is conquered, Kampa gets a break and he has some fun, and Gangā-devi shows her ability to describe the lighter side of things – and excels. One day, just as the stars are aligning for the final conquest of Madurai, a strange woman comes to Kampa and describes to him the sorry state of the city of Madurai under the Sultanate. Parts of this portion of the original are lost, so we don’t quite know who exactly this is. A fair guess might be a guardian goddess of the city, or even the famed Madurai Mīnākṣī herself:
मधुरोपवनं निरीक्ष्य दूये
बहुशः खण्डित-नालिकेर-षण्डम् ।
परितो नृ-करोटि-कोटि-हार-
प्रचलत्-शूल-परम्परा-परीतम् |8.8|
madhuropavanaṃ nirīkṣya dūye
bahuśaḥ khaṇḍita-nālikera-ṣaṇḍam |
parito nṛ-karoṭi-koṭi-hāra-
pracalat-śūla-paramparā-parītam |8.8|
“I weep when I look at the gardens of Madurai: the coconut groves have been chopped down, and in their place stand thousands of pikes with human skulls mounted on them”
This is no exaggeration – there are many references to such a display by invaders to terrorize the local population into submission.
Whoever this messenger is, she is surely a lady of means. She draws forth a magnificent sword, and relates a divine history for it. She then ceremonially hands it over to Kampa, telling him that he now has all he needs to overthrow the Sultanate. Kampa rallies his army, and begins the invasion. Here again, there are major gaps in the manuscript and we have access only to a portion of the text.
Even in the little we have access to, we see that Gangā-devi excels at describing the war as well. A sample:
बाणा निरस्ता यवनेन तस्मिन्
अपाङ्गपाता इव वीरलक्ष्म्याः ।
कम्पेश्वरेणाप्यभिपारसीकं
शराः कटाक्षा इव कालरात्रेः |8.17|
bāṇā nirastā yavanena tasmi-
nnapāṅga-pātā iva vīralakṣmyāḥ |
kampeśvareṇāpyabhipārasīkaṃ
śarāḥ kaṭākṣā iva kālarātreḥ |8.17|
“The arrows the Sultan fired at Kampa appeared like the flirty glances of Vīra-lakṣmī to him, whereas the arrows Kampa fired at the Sultan were like leers of the night of Pralaya!”
Kampa was easily winning, and even the Sultan’s arrows seemed like the taste of victory to him! The war scenes continue for a short while, and finally, in a very satisfying climax, Kampa chops off the Sultan’s head with his sword. Then, today’s phrase appears:
प्रशान्त-दावेव वनान्त-लक्ष्मीः
गतोपरागा गगन-स्थलीव ।
कलिन्दजा मर्दित-कालियेव
दिग्दक्षिणासीत् क्षतपारसीका |9.41|
praśānta-dāveva vanānta-lakṣmīḥ
gatoparāgā gagana-sthalīva |
kalindajā mardita-kāliyeva
digdakṣiṇāsīt kṣata-pārasīkā |9.41|
“Like a forest after a blaze has subsided,
Like the sky after an eclipse has passed,
Like Yamunā after the demon-serpent Kāliya was killed,
The Southern Country was after the Sultan was vanquished.”
As we mentioned, the three similes progress from the most immediate to the most abstract: a forest fire directly causes physical pain; it signifies the citizens’ torment under the Sultans. The eclipse is ‘higher up’ – everyone can see it, and the darkness it casts has a more pervasive effect on the right order of things; it signifies the loss Madurai faced in its social and economic context. The story of Kāliya is the most abstract, and is from the realm of mythology and peoples’ conception of their own identity and culture. Thus on this deeply symbolic note does the great Gangā-devi end her magnificent work!
Thought for today
Gangā-devi writes in her introductory verses:
तार्किका बहवः सन्ति शाब्दिकाः च सहस्रशः ।
विरलाः कवयो लोके तरलालाप-पेशलाः ।1.22।
tārkikā bahavaḥ santi śābdikāḥ ca sahasraśaḥ |
viralāḥ kavayo loke taralālāpa-peśalāḥ |1.22|
“There are thousands of logicians and grammarians, but poets made beautiful by their gentle speech are rare indeed”
This is true, of course, but there’s a deeper layer of meaning lurking. Logicians and grammarians are fundamentally concerned with analysis and judgment, whereas poets are concerned with creation. Seen in that light, this statement applies to every field, be it art, science, engineering or medicine. A quote attributed to Ralph Waldo Emerson says it best: “Build a better mousetrap and the world will beat a path to your door” :-) (Although we learn that some people have taken this quite literally, and thousands of patents have been issued for varied designs of mousetraps, making them the most frequently invented device in US history :-) )
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