[[Mohan K.V 2014-05-11, 08:09:25 Source]]
सदास्वादः
60
आस्तां तावद् वचन-रचना-भाजनत्वं विदूरे
(āstāṃ tāvad vacana-racanā-bhājanatvaṃ vidūre)
Meaning
“[The question of my very] worthiness to [even] converse with you, let that be aside”. One of a translator’s most cherished challenges is when he feels the need to pad the translation with clarifying parentheses and footnotes. By that measure, this mandākrānta verse seems to be off to a fantastic start from the first line! ‘bhājana’ is an idiomatic word, literally meaning ‘vessel’, but taken to mean ‘recipient’, often ‘worthy recipient’ in a deferential, respectful way. (A synonym of this, ‘pātra’, which means the same thing, appears to have become much more popular in Sanskrit’s daughter languages – ‘prīti-pātra’, ‘gaurava-pātra’, etc.) The line here literally means “Set aside speaking-composing-worthiness”. The fact that it is ‘vacana-racanā’ ‘composing speech’ and not just ‘vacana’ suggests that it is not just any kind of blabber, but one in which the speaker is fully involved, the kind of conversation where all of one’s senses and mind are ultra-attentive. Adding ‘bhājanatva’ ‘worthiness of being a recipient’ to that suggests that this speech is very highly valued by the speaker. Note also the euphonic alliteration formed by vacana-racanā-bhājana- – one wonders if such micro-artistry is a by-product of the original thought, or the other way round! But after all this work, the poet dismissively says, ‘let it be!’. A free translation to English would be something like, “Those hopes of having long and witty conversations with you, set them aside;” Phew! Where is this leading to? Read on!
Context
The last few chapters involved quite some heavy lifting, so we wondered if we could give our gentle readers some respite by featuring a single muktaka (literally ‘pearl’, and used to refer to self-complete single verses).
आस्तां तावद् वचन-रचना-भाजनत्वं विदूरे
दूरे चास्ताम् तव तनु परीरम्भ-सम्भावनापि ।
भूयो भूयः प्रणतिभिर् अहं किन्तु याचे विधेया
स्मारं स्मारं स्वजन-गणने कापि लेखा ममापि ॥
āstāṃ tāvad vacana-racanā-bhājanatvaṃ vidūre
dūre ca āstām tava tanu parīrambha-sambhāvanā api |
bhūyo bhūyaḥ praṇatibhiḥ ahaṃ kintu yāce vidheyā
smāraṃ smāraṃ svajana-gaṇane kāpi lekhā mama api ||
“Those hopes of having long and witty conversations with you, set them aside; [I feel that would be asking for too much];
Even imagining embracing you [is too overwhelming];
Over and over, with much reverent hesitation, I request only for this –
On some occasion, when you happen to idly count the people you consider as your own, would you place a tally mark for me too?"
We explored the ‘poetic density’ of the first line in the ‘Meaning’ section above; the other three lines are no less brilliant. In the second line, the choice of ‘ambha’ as the alliteration naturally lets the stress fall on ‘sam’ – this is great, because the result is as if we italicized ‘sambhāvanāpi’ ‘even imagining’! The poet is making us tease out his meaning by just his choice of sounds! ‘sambhāvanā’ is also often used to mean ‘possibility’, in which case the idea is even stronger – ‘even the possibility of’. Note that the repetition of ‘āstām’ – which would normally be considered a fault, all the more so in a single verse – is a beautiful example of the rhetorical device of anaphora used to brilliant effect. A word or a phrase is repeated at the beginning of each line, and the construction is such that not only does it not seem wasteful, it is necessary to create a ramp up in intensity.
Coming back to our little pearl now, which quickly seems to be containing the whole universe in it! The third line skilfully brings out the hesitation – ‘bhūyo bhūyaḥ’, ‘again and again’, and with such reverence that the preface to the request lasts a full line! And what is it that is being asked with humility? Just that when the person being spoken to is thinking of people she considers as her own, to spare a stray thought for the speaker too! Here again, the poet masterfully works the idiomatic intricacies of the language. ‘gaṇanā’ is literally ‘counting’, but in practical usage means something like ‘considering’ or ‘thinking about’. But the poet insists on using the literal meaning, of counting with tally marks, allowing for his request to be placed in an even more deferential way – ‘when you happen to idly count the people you consider as your own, would you place a tally mark for me too?’. All the poet asks for is a tally mark!!
The last 7 syllables of the this mandākrānta verse are cleanly separable, and have the feel of a ‘punchline’ or ‘signature’. Our poet asks for simply, ‘kāpi lekhā mamāpi’, and we cannot but give away our full hearts in return. Such signatures are very popular in other metres like Śārdūla-vikrīḍita, and many verses are in fact known by their signatures – ‘kālāya tasmai namaḥ’, ‘satyaṃ paraṃ dhīmahi’, ‘premṇā calaṃ mañjulaṃ’.
Anyone who has experienced the self-diminishing helplessness of being attracted to a superior, perfect being – a lover, leader, or god – can instantly tell you that the question “Well, what do you want from her?” is meaningless. They don’t seem to want anything from them, and yet can’t stop thinking of them! The most tormenting question of love in pursuit is “What am I to her?”. And the only answer that is in any way is satisfying: “Her own.”
The soul of poetry is in identifying emotions we all feel but have not consciously explored or put into words. If it is embodied in creative indirectness – as a character’s dialogue, allegory or setting – then it verily comes alive.
We see this verse resonate everywhere, not just in romantic relationships. It is the same selfless, overwhelming feeling that we see in Hanumān, who announced himself as ‘dāso’haṃ kosalendrasya’ ‘I am the servant of Rāma’ to the city of Lankā. It is the same feeling in countless Bhakti poets over the centuries. Why, we even see this in the touching faith that people have in their leaders, ready for any sacrifice for a mere acknowledgement of their relationship, which defines their very identity.
And to them, a verse like this, which so beautifully describes this feeling and its tensions, is as comforting and dear as a trusted friend!
Parting Thought
Oscar Wilde once quipped, “How can a woman be expected to be happy with a man who insists on treating her as if she were a perfectly normal human being?”. This chapter’s poet, who seems to be completely overwhelmed by the very idea of his beloved, would have nodded his assent. Here is a light verse in the same metre from the evergreen Amaru-śataka, which too demonstrates a masterful use of repetition, and with which too our poor poet would have vigorously assented:
प्रासादे सा दिशि दिशि च सा पृष्ठतः सा पुरः सा
पर्यङ्के सा पथि पथि च सा तद्वियोगातुरस्य ।
हंहो! चेतः प्रकृतिरपरा नास्ति मे कापि सा सा
सा सा सा सा जगति सकले कोऽयमद्वैतवादः ॥
prāsāde sā diśi diśi ca sā pṛṣṭhataḥ sā puraḥ sā
paryaṅke sā pathi pathi ca sā tad-viyoga-āturasya |
haṃho! cetaḥ prakṛtiraparā nāsti me kāpi sā sā
sā sā sā sā jagati sakale ko ayam advaitavādaḥ ||
“She’s all I see when I gaze afar, in every quarter, to every side,
In bed and travels near and far, my lovesick eyes see no other guide.
There’s nothing of me that’s still my own, My dear friend! In all the world,
it’s she and she and she alone: into what Advaita have I been hurled!”
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