[[Mohan K.V 2015-07-27, 04:12:18 Source]]
सदास्वादः
78
वाहि वात यतः कन्या तां स्पृष्ट्वा माम् अपि स्पृश
(vāhi vāta yataḥ kanyā tāṃ spṛṣṭvā mām api spṛśa)
Meaning
“Fly, O Wind, touch her, and touch me”
Context
This chapter’s phrase is from the Rāmāyaṇa, from the beginning of the Yuddha-kānda. The monkey army has just arrived at the ocean shore. Rāma has been convinced by Sugrīva and others that building a bridge across the ocean to Lankā is the way forward. One phase of Rāma’s life—the months of agony following Sītā’s abduction—is just about to end. That phase was filled with introspection and reminiscence; the phase following is full of action and choices. This scene is the last instance where Rāma longs for Sītā in isolation.
Dusk sets in, and the moon rises just after the army sets up camp near the shore. The poet remarks,
पिनष्टीव तरङ्गाग्रैः समुद्रः फेन-चन्दनम् ।
तदादाय करैर् इन्दुर् लिम्पतीव दिगङ्गनाः ॥
pinaṣṭi iva taraṅga-agraiḥ samudraḥ phena-candanam |
tat ādāya karaiḥ induḥ limpati iva dig-aṅganāḥ || 4.115
“The tips of the ocean waves crush the froth-sandalwood;
the moon then anoints the directions with it”
This is a highly celebrated verse: it’s quoted as an example in multiple texts on alaṅkāra-śāstra like Kuvalayānanda, and is featured in many subhāṣita collections. The underlying image is that of a lover anointing his beloved with sandalwood paste. It automatically carries connotations of beauty, intimacy and gentleness, and at a more physical level, of coolness and whiteness. Here, the ocean is compared to a flat stone, and its froth as sandalwood being ground. The tips of the waves are the ones doing the grinding: a very apt visual analogy to how sandalwood is ground. The moon, the lover, then takes this white froth and anoints his beloveds, the directions personified as ladies. There is a stock pun on ‘kara’, which means both ‘ray’ and ‘hand’: the moon’s rays as the lover’s hands. It’s dark and the moon has risen, spreading his cool white light everywhere, as if anointing the directions with sandalwood paste.
Phew! It’s quickly apparent that the difficulty in translation is not in the words, but in the cultural backdrop. The verse assumes a familiarity with the natural use of sandalwood, from its grinding to the setting of its anointment, something impossible to put across to a reader of a different cultural context. One word, ‘digaṅganāḥ’, ‘the direction-ladies’, captures in it the idea of the directions personified as ladies, built up over hundreds of verses in the kāvya lore – as they lighten up with expectation in the morning, become red with anger in the evening, or cool and relaxed in the moonlight. The stock pun on ‘kara’ similarly demands a shared context. To someone who knows all this, this verse is an amazingly compact piece of art that captures so many ideas so naturally, so quickly.
This beautiful setting moves Rāma to longing. Indeed, as Kālidāsa remarks in a deep verse,
रम्याणि वीक्ष्य मधुरांश्च निशम्य शब्दान्
पर्युत्सुको भवति यत् सुखितो ऽपि जन्तुः ।
तच्चेतसा स्मरति नूनम् अबोध-पूर्वं
भाव-स्थिराणि जननान्तर-सौहृदानि ॥
ramyāṇi vīkṣya madhurān ca niśamya śabdān
paryutsuko bhavati yat sukhito api jantuḥ |
tat cetasā smarati nūnam abodha-pūrvaṃ
bhāva-sthirāṇi janana-antara-sauhṛdāni || AS 5.2
“After seeing wonderful sights and hearing tender sounds,
even though one becomes happy, a strange longing takes over.
Perhaps the mind unconsciously recalls
affections from the past that live on in the heart.”
(The depth of this verse deserves its own chapter; we’ll come to it soon.)
Rāma begins:
शोकश्च किल कालेन गच्चता ह्यपगच्चति ।
मम चापश्यतः कान्ताम् अहन्यहनि वर्धते ॥
śokaḥ ca kila kālena gaccatā hi apagaccati |
mama ca apaśyataḥ kāntām ahani ahani vardhate || 5.4
न मे दुःखं प्रिया दूरे न मे दुःखं हृतेति च ।
तद् एवम् अनुशोचामि वयोऽस्या ह्यतिवर्तते ॥
na me duḥkhaṃ priyā dūre na me duḥkhaṃ hṛtā iti ca |
tad evam anuśocāmi vayo asyāḥ hi ativartate || 5-5
“[They say] sorrow passes with time, but mine seems to grow every day that I don’t see Sītā
I’m not sad that she’s far away, nor that she’s been abducted.
I only grieve that her life is passing.”
No distance is too far, and no enemy powerful enough that he can’t win her back. He isn’t worried about anything that he can overcome by his intelligence or valor. But Time—merciless, all-consuming Time—is beyond even Rāma. He doesn’t know if it will take him days or years to win the war, and after that, whether the Sītā he will find is the one he knows. The mind fashions an illusion of stability and constancy throughout life, but in reality only small windows exist for our desires, traits and dreams to flourish. Beyond those windows, the same dreams seem silly or plain unfulfilling. One becomes a different person, and the thought of such ‘moving apart’ propels even Rāma to sorrow. He then pleads,
वाहि वात यतः कन्या ताम् स्पृष्ट्वा माम् अपि स्पृश ।
त्वयि मे गात्र-संस्पर्शः चन्द्रे दृष्टि-समागमः ॥
vāhi vāta yataḥ kanyā tām spṛṣṭvā mām api spṛśa |
tvayi me gātra-saṃsparśaḥ candre dṛṣṭi-samāgamaḥ || 5.6
“Fly, O Wind, touch her, and touch me.
In you I’ll find her caress, and in the moon our eyes will meet”
Such heartrending beauty! Rāma, scion of the Ikṣvākus, the mightiest warrior of the land, alone and helpless in spite of being at the head of an army, standing on the seashore just as the moon has risen, speaking to the wind — just that image gives us chills!
From vulnerability, the mood shifts to anger:
तन् मे दहति गात्राणि विषं पीतम् इवाशये ।
हा नाथेति प्रिया सा माम् ह्रियमाणा यद् अब्रवीत् ॥
tan me dahati gātrāṇi viṣaṃ pītam ivāśaye |
hā nātheti priyā sā mām hriyamāṇā yad abravīt || 5.7
“What burns me inside, as if it’s the poison I’ve drunk,
is that my Sītā would have cried out to me, “O Lord!”, as she was carried away.”
It is not anger at Ravana or desire that is at the heart of Rāma’s discomfort. Acting at a much deeper level, it is ultimately an imagined scene that haunts him, looping over and over in his mind’s eye, of Sītā crying out while being taken away. It is impossible for Rāma to come to terms with the image, and it drives him to action. How true this is of our lives too, where moments control decades, voice inflections determine careers, and glances create generations.
The chapter ends shortly thereafter, and the scene shifts to Lankā, where Rāvaṇa is listening to reports of the destruction wrought by Hanumān. The die is cast.
Parting Thought
On moments controlling decades, there’s a nice Urdu sher of unknown authorship:
ye jabṛ bhi dekhā hai tārīkh ki nazron ne
lamhon ne khatā kī thī, sadiyon ne sazā pā’ī
“Time’s eyes have been forced to witness even this,
that moments made the mistake, and centuries received the punishment.”
We wondered how it would sound in Sanskrit:
कालः साक्षी-कृतोऽ स्यापि विधर्मस्यातिनिर्घृणम् ।
निमेषः कुरुते दोषं तपन्ति शतशः समाः ॥
kālaḥ sākṣī-kṛto’ syāpi vidharmasya ati-nirghṛṇam |
nimeṣaḥ kurute doṣaṃ tapanti śataśaḥ samāḥ ||
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