[[Mohan K.V 2015-02-24, 05:08:21 Source]]
सदास्वादः
74
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तद्-गुणैः कर्णम् आगत्य चापलाय प्रचोदितः
(tad-guṇaiḥ karṇam āgatya cāpalāya pracoditaḥ)
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Meaning
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Literally, “By their virtues which came into my ear, I was compelled to fickleness”. The original is rich with idiomatic usage: In many Indian languages, we still often hear an equivalent of “It came into my ear” to mean “I heard”. The ‘cāpala’, ‘fickleness’, refers in a self-effacing manner to something the poet did. So a more ‘natural’ translation would be, “I happened to hear of their virtues, and cannot stay quiet!” Phew, who is this, sending us into such delicious idiomatic knots in just half a śloka, and what did he do?
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Context
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This chapter’s phrase is from the Raghuvaṃśa, the immortal epic by Kālidāsa on Rama’s ancestors. We had started our very first chapter with this work, and are delighted to revisit it.
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Kālidāsa means many things to many people. To connoisseurs of kāvya, he is the absolute perfection of the Vaidarbhī form, Sarasvatī herself in human form showing us how it’s done; everything from his masterly construction of compounds to his delicate use of the Sanskrit idiom – why, even his deliberate choice of samyuktākṣaras (half-consonants) to soften the melody of his verses – is a source of joy and learning. To those interested in culture, he is a rich mine of insight about the last time Indian culture was whole – majestic, yet sensitive; powerful, yet kind; united, yet brimming forth with multifarious ideas. To traditionalists interested in śāstras, he is the touchstone to test interpretations against, because Kālidāsa was the master of them all in their most vibrant stage. Even to a curious onlooker, he is the first source of so many things we still see today: the first poet to describe a svayaṃvara or an āśrama; the first poet to use the vasanta-tilakā metre for a suprabhāta, which has almost become a tradition; the first to use the Mandākrānta metre; the list goes on!
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Of these dozens of dimensions of genius, in this chapter we will focus on just one: his legerdemain in depicting ‘voices’ with the gentlest of touches. We had once called him the ‘James Bond’ of Sanskrit literature for his panache and unefforted genius. For now though, the closest analogy that comes to mind is a genial Sir Humphrey Appleby from the series Yes Minister :-)
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There is reasonable evidence to suggest that the Raghuvaṃśa was among the last of Kālidāsa’s works; one could suppose that he was past his middle age when he wrote it. We imagine him as an old man, with a twinkle in his eye, surrounded by a flock of young children, all of them latching on to every word of his with rapt, child-like attention. He begins,
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वाग्-अर्थाव् इव संपृक्तौ वाग्-अर्थ-प्रतिपत्तये ।
जगतः पितरौ वन्दे पार्वती-परमेश्वरौ ॥1.1
vāg-arthau iva saṃpṛktau vāg-artha-pratipattaye |
jagataḥ pitarau vande pārvatī-parameśvarau ||
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“I pray to the parents of the world Pārvatī and Parameśvara, who are united like sound and meaning, [for my words] to gain mastery in both sound and meaning.”
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We’d noted earlier that the invocation verse is a very important feature of a work, and is in a sense a microcosm of the whole work, and indeed, of the poet himself. Kālidāsa begins with an upāma (simile), a figure of speech in which his genius has been lauded for centuries. Books upon books have been written on this one sublime simile: how the ardha-nāriśvara form of Śiva is subtly called out; how the femininity of vāk and the masculinity of artha is apt at multiple levels, from the grammatical to the poetic to the spiritual; how the prayer is apt to the deity being prayed to; how ‘aucitya’ ‘aptness’ suffuses the whole verse from different angles; one could go on!
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To these myriad insights mined from this verse, we add our humble take: vāk, ‘sound’, carries with it automatic perception – immediate appeal and beauty. We don’t need to actively think to enjoy a melody, just like we don’t need to think to feel sugar is sweet. But artha, ‘meaning’, includes the aspect of conscious thought. One needs to actively think and reflect to find depth and profundity. Kālidāsa’s prayer is for mastery in both modes: for his words to appeal to us innately, and then over and over again as we turn them over in our minds and grow with them. What more could a poet, a wordsmith, possibly ask for!
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The economist Daniel Kahneman speaks of much the same kind of distinct modes in his book Thinking Fast and Slow; from a review:
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System 2, in Kahneman’s scheme, is our slow, deliberate, analytical and consciously effortful mode of reasoning about the world. System 1, by contrast, is our fast, automatic, intuitive and largely unconscious mode. It is System 1 that detects hostility in a voice and effortlessly completes the phrase “bread and. . . . ” It is System 2 that swings into action when we have to fill out a tax form or park a car in a narrow space.
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We imagine the crowd of children seeing this invocation as something very curious – everyone ‘gets’ the fact that it is a prayer, but the meaning seems like an addictive Rubik’s cube that’s just a couple steps away from completion, and if only you look at this way and make this move and… but wait! What’s that? He’s already singing the next verse:
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क्व सूर्य-प्रभवो वंशः क्व चाल्पविषया मतिः ।
तितीर्षुर् दुस्तरं मोहाद् उडुपेनास्मि सागरम् ॥ 1.2
kva sūrya-prabhavaḥ vaṃśaḥ kva ca alpaviṣayā matiḥ |
titīrṣuḥ dustaraṃ mohāt uḍupena asmi sāgaram ||
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“Oh, how great is that glorious Sūrya-vaṃśa, and how puny my intellect! I am trying to cross an ocean with a raft!”
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With just these words, we imagine the master actor frowning and drooping his eyebrows… the crowd goes quiet now, sighing and emitting a barely audible ‘awww’ of disappointment.
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[In passing, we note that the ‘kva-kva’ is literally ‘where is that, where is this’; this construction still thrives in virtually every Indian language. It does not seem natural in English at all – if we’d said “where is that Sūrya-vaṃśa, where is my intellect!”, the reader may be forgiven for thinking they are both lost somewhere, probably in the ocean in the next line!]
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मन्दः कवियशः प्रार्थी गमिष्याम्यपहास्यताम्।
प्रांशु-लभ्ये फले लोभाद् उद्बाहुर् इव वामनः॥ 1.3
mandaḥ kaviyaśaḥ prārthī gamiṣyāmi apahāsyatām|
prāṃśu-labhye phale lobhāt udbāhuḥ iva vāmanaḥ||
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“I’ll be ridiculed for being a dullard looking for poetic fame,
like a dwarf trying to reach with outstretched arms the fruit of a tall tree!”
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Oh no! It all seems to be over in just the 3rd verse! Yes, that is quite a ridiculous image, and if he really means it, it looks like everyone’s probably going to have to head home soon. The long ‘a’ in ‘udbāhu’ seems to be mocking the dwarf’s stretched arms by its own stretchedness. So pack-up time then? Sure looks like it… but hold on, what’s this we see? Is it a twinkle in his eye?!
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अथवा कृत-वाग्-द्वारे वंशे ऽस्मिन् पूर्व-सूरिभिः।
मणौ वज्र-समुत्कीर्णे सूत्रस्येवास्ति मे गतिः॥ 1.4
athavā kṛta-vāg-dvāre vaṃśe asmin pūrva-sūribhiḥ|
maṇau vajra-samutkīrṇe sūtrasya iva asti me gatiḥ||
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“Or maybe… Masters before me having already carved a path for me,
my course may be easy, like a thread gently entering a pearl through a hole cut by a diamond!”
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Yes! There’s a way out! And what a beautiful, self-effacing, way out it is! The whole thing was a gentle ruse to pay homage to past poets and masters, the real diamonds, and a way for the poet to show his humility, the mere follower-thread that he is! We see the Master smile, and the mood in the room instantly pick up. The tentativeness in the word ‘athavā’ ‘or maybe…’ that switches the mood is palpable. And now, such pleasantries being disposed with, the genius of Kālidasa roars with four ślokas, each with a majestic quarter-length compound describing the kings of the dynasty:
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सो ऽहम् आ-जन्म-शुद्धानाम् आ-फलोदय-कर्मणाम् ।
आ-समुद्र-क्षितीशानाम् आ-नाक-रथ-वर्त्मनाम् ॥ 1.5
so aham ā-janma-śuddhānām ā-phalodaya-karmaṇām |
ā-samudra-kṣitīśānām ā-nāka-ratha-vartmanām ||
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यथा-विधि-हुताग्नीनां यथा-कामार्चितार्थिनाम् ।
यथापराध-दण्डानां यथा-काल-प्रबोधिनाम् ॥ 1.6
yathā-vidhi-hutāgnīnāṃ yathā-kāma-arcita-arthinām |
yathā-aparādha-daṇḍānāṃ yathā-kāla-prabodhinām ||
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त्यागाय संभृतार्थानां सत्याय मितभाषिणाम् ।
यशसे विजिगीषूणां प्रजायै गृह-मेधिनाम् ॥ 1.7
tyāgāya saṃbhṛtārthānāṃ satyāya mitabhāṣiṇām |
yaśase vijigīṣūṇāṃ prajāyai gṛha-medhinām ||
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शैशवे ऽभ्यस्त-विद्यानां यौवने विषयैषिणाम् ।
वार्धके मुनि-वृत्तीनां योगेनान्ते तनु-त्यजाम् ॥ 1.8
śaiśave abhyasta-vidyānāṃ yauvane viṣayaiṣiṇām |
vārdhake muni-vṛttīnāṃ yogena ante tanu-tyajām ||
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“So then, Of them who were saintly from birth, who persisted till they succeeded,
who ruled the earth right up to the sea, and the tracks of whose chariots went all the way to Heaven, [their conscious striving enhanced their innate abilities; their chariots, after ruling over their vast realm, were welcomed in heaven – a beautiful metaphor for their just and righteous rule; note how idiomatic the bahuvrīhis feel – ‘ā-nāka-ratha-vartman’ ‘till-heaven-chariot-track’ i.e ‘they whose chariot tracks go till heaven’]
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Who respected every ritual, who never turned a seeker away,
whose punishments fit the crimes, and who knew the right time to act [devoted to tradition, and yet placing humanity above it; who knew that there is a place for sticks as well as carrots, and who knew the right time for them]
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Who gathered riches only to give them as charity, who restrained their speech to always be truthful,
Who conquered for fame, who were responsible husbands and fathers, [husbands not just to Jayalakṣmī or Rājyalakṣmī, but also to their wives, the mothers of their children]
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Who were taught well in their childhood, who enjoyed the pleasures of youth,
who practiced detached wisdom in their maturity, and who left the earth in peace, [nothing left undone, nothing regretted, at peace with the world – an ideal for death can be as beautiful as one for life!]”
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As if taking a breath now, and realizing that even a master like him has slipped in his excitement to share, he concludes, exhaling and almost apologizing:
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रघूणाम् अन्वयं वक्ष्ये तनु-वाग्-विभवो ऽपि सन् ।
तद्-गुणैः कर्णम् आगत्य चापलाय प्रचोदितः ॥ 1.9
raghūṇām anvayaṃ vakṣye tanu-vāg-vibhavaḥ api san |
tad-guṇaiḥ karṇam āgatya cāpalāya pracoditaḥ ||
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“I will speak of that lineage of Raghu, even though my poetic abilities are meek.
I happened to hear of their virtues, and cannot stay quiet!”
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This ‘admission’ is what makes the whole act so endearing – a poet who is known to weigh every syllable saying that he isn’t able to contain himself because he is so excited about his subject! The Raghuvaṃśa proper soon begins:
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वैवस्वतो मनुर् नाम माननीयो मनीषिणाम् ।
आसीन् महीक्षिताम् आद्यः प्रणवश् छन्दसाम् इव ॥ 1.11
vaivasvataḥ manuḥ nāma mānanīyaḥ manīṣiṇām |
āsīt mahī-kṣitām ādyaḥ praṇavaḥ chandasām iva ||
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तद्-अन्वये शुद्धिमति प्रसूतः शुद्धिमत्-तरः ।
दिलीप इति राजेन्दुर् इन्दुः क्षीर-निधाव् इव ॥1.12
tad-anvaye śuddhimati prasūtaḥ śuddhimat-taraḥ |
dilīpa iti rājendur induḥ kṣīra-nidhāv iva ||
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“Vaivasvata Manu [born of the Sun (Vivasvān)], was the first of all kings, like the mystic Om which precedes the Vedas.
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In that immaculate lineage, a glorious king called Dilīpa was born, like the moon rising on an ocean of milk.”
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The text continues thus with the story of Dilīpa, father of Raghu and great-great-grandfather of Rāma – we’d covered a bit of this in our very first chapter. :-)
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For centuries, the Raghuvaṃśa was one of the first texts encountered by a child in his curriculum. The very same verses would grow with him, revealing more and more of their shades of meaning with time, till it became a reference worthy of a scholar’s close attention in any extant field imaginable. Generation after generation marveled at this immortal treasure, savoring its delicate nuances. Even until a few decades ago, it was common to hear these same verses ring out of classrooms, their sound so arresting that people remembered it in their dotage effortlessly. What more can we say? Sarvaṃ yasya vaśād agāt smṛtipathaṃ – kālāya tasmai namaḥ.
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Parting Thought
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Kālidāsa say this in his transition from the introduction:
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तं सन्तः श्रोतुम् अर्हन्ति सद्-असद्-व्यक्ति-हेतवः ।
हेम्नः संलक्ष्यते ह्यग्नौ विशुद्धिः श्यामिकाऽपि वा ॥ 1.10
taṃ santaḥ śrotum arhanti sad-asad-vyakti-hetavaḥ |
hemnaḥ saṃlakṣyate hi agnau viśuddhiḥ śyāmikā api vā ||
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“Good people, who can acutely separate good and bad, should listen to [my story]. After all, [only] fire can distinguish pure from impure gold.”
This is quite a different approach to placing something before the world, than the ‘image management’ we see rife in every sphere! But Kālidāsa did leave us an easter egg: ‘santaḥ’ ‘good people’ are very rarely ‘sad-asad-vyakti-hetavaḥ’ ‘who can acutely separate good and bad’. As a satirist once observed, “Men of genius are not quick judges of character. Deep thinking and high imagining blunt that trivial instinct by which you and I size people up.” :-)
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