[[Mohan K.V 2016-10-29, 03:16:19 Source]]
सदास्वादरोमन्थः
Dear readers,
The last few chapters elicited a wide variety of responses. Thank you for your continued support!
In chapter 78 and the following Romantha 21, we had discussed many examples of how the mind seems to get attached to small things, almost as a rule. Gestures, mental images, tiny things that caught one’s eye – all seem to have an outsized influence on our actions and behaviors.
Mmanu Chaturvedi recalled those examples when he sent in a snippet from the Victorian novel Jude the Obscure. In one scene, the protagonist Jude is shocked to learn that his wife Arabella’s dimples aren’t real, and are instead a trick that she learned to do when she was working as a barmaid. The fact itself is trivial, but sets off a series of events that lead to a crisis in the marriage. We couldn’t resist recalling the quip, “‘Many a man who falls in love with a dimple makes the mistake of marrying the whole girl”!
In Romantha 22, we had discussed examples of epic poets’ humility when starting their ventures. Piyush Srivastava mentioned Tulsidas, who evidently devotes several verses to an enumeration of why he is incompetent for the task he has undertaken:
मति अति नीच ऊँचि रुचि आछी । चहिअ अमिअ जग जुरइ न छाछी ॥
“My intellect is low, my aspirations high.
I want Amṛta, but in this world I cannot even fix myself a lassi!”
Piyush mentions that he immediately follows this with a sentiment very similar to that of Kamban:
छमिहहिं सज्जन मोरि ढिठाई । सुनिहहिं बालबचन मन लाई ॥
जौ बालक कह तोतरि बाता । सुनहिं मुदित मन पितु अरु माता ॥
“The good men will forgive my insolence, thinking of it as a child’s speech:
Just as when a baby stammers and lisps, the hearts of parents are filled with joy.”
But then there’s always a ‘comeback’:
निज कवित केहि लाग न नीका। सरस होउ अथवा अति फीका ॥ “Who does not like his own poetry, however interesting or bland it might be?”
There’s a proverb in Kannada that expresses the same sentiment more forcefully: “ಹೆತ್ತವರಿಗೆ ಹೆಗ್ಗಣ ಮುದ್ದು” – “To its parents, even a fat rat is cute” :-)
In chapter 85, we had discussed several allegorical verses. One of them rued that crows were the recipients of many ritual offerings, while koels got nothing. Dr. Arvind Iyer added one more to the list of reasons why crows might have been given this special place: it may be because the crow has no superficial beauty that charity is mandated for it. It is easy to care for a dove or to remember to feed a swan, but to do so for a crow takes more. In his words, “…leaving some leftovers for the ants is seen as an expression of charity extended to the tiniest of beings. Perhaps the offerings made to crows may also have been meant to signal that the lowliest-seeming of beings is not excluded from our all-embracing charity.”
We had mentioned some of the benefits to society arising from crows, and Dr. Iyer mentioned that Tulsīdās’ work pays homage to it in a special way: one of the three principal narrators of the work is a crow, Kāka-bhūṣuṇḍi, who instructs the mighty Garuḍa about the tale of Rāma. One of the famous exponents of the work, Morari Bapu, saw many layers of poetry in this choice: Vālmīkī is often compared to a koel, and like a koel, he happened to need a crow’s help to nurture his creation and set it forth in the world.
On the other hand, the high status accorded to koels is also somewhat cultural. Australians, for example, seem to hate the critter for its tendency to start singing at 2 AM!
In the parting thought, the verse talked about how having wealth seems to turn negative traits into positive ones. The ‘wealth’ in question need not only be material wealth, but also ‘psychological’ wealth, in the form of having a good image:
In social psychology, the pratfall effect is the tendency for attractiveness to increase or decrease after an individual makes a mistake, depending on the individual’s perceived ability to perform well in a general sense. A perceived highly-competent individual would be more likable after committing a blunder, while the opposite would occur if a perceived average person makes a mistake.
In chapter 86, we had discussed some verses from Bhartṛhari. In response to the line, “sukavitā yadyasti rājyena kim”, Mmanu Chaturvedi chipped in with this strikingly similar verse by Ghalib:
सुख़न क्या का नहीं सकते कि जूया हों जवाहिर के
जिगर क्या हम नहीं रखते कि खोदें जा के मादन को
“Can’t we compose poetry? [When we can, then] why would we search for jewels?
Can’t we look into our own mind? Why would we go dig in a mine?”
[We have taken some liberties with the translation of ‘jigar’]
The central idea, ‘vrīḍā cet kimu bhūṣaṇaiḥ’, is a staple even of SMS-shers: ‘sādgi mai bhi to qayāmat ki adā hoti hai’ :-)
In the parting thought, we had asked for other possible solutions to the challenge, “sa jāto yena jātena X” (“Only he is truly born who .. X”). Dr. Arvind Iyer suggested: रूढेर् उल्बम् अपावृतं – “shed the cocoon of tradition” – tradition has its place and protective function, but serves its purpose fully when outgrown.
Chapter 87 was on Tārā’s lament, and the connection to Malleshwaram seems to have stimulated a lot of memories!
Jagdip Dave offered a lovely detail to the story behind the parting thought. It’s worth recalling the setting:
In one circumstance, Bhoja had announced a prize of a lakh gold coins per syllable for verses. People started palming off old verses as their own, so a committee of scholars was set up to confirm that a verse was new. But jealous and bereft of talent as such committees often are, it turned to be an overcompensation: the committee was overly critical, and for every verse submitted, they would find some tenuous link to some past verse and dismiss the verse as ‘not new’ or ‘just restating known ideas’.
Jagdip mentions that this ‘committee’ consisted of 4 pandits, EkaPāṭhi, DviPāṭhi, TriPāṭhi and ChatuṣPāṭhi. EkaPāṭhi was an ekasandhi-grāhi, with a talent to memorize a verse after hearing it just once. DviPāṭhi was a dvisandhi-grāhi, needing to listen to a verse twice before it stuck to memory; TriPāṭhi three times, and ChatuṣPāṭhi four times. The pandits’ talents were known only to themselves, and they had colluded in a scam.
As soon as a hopeful poet recited a verse in Bhoja’s court, EkaPāṭhi would recite it back and say, “See, I remember this verse from before. This isn’t new.” By this time, DviPāṭhi would have listened to two recitations and would recite it back with the same comment. TriPāṭhi and ChatuṣPāṭhi would follow similarly. As all four poets on the committee knew the verse, the king would doubt whether the verse was new. This charade continued till Kālidāsa came along with स्वस्ति श्रीभोजराज!
We were particularly impressed by the story for its many dhvanis: a person gifted with such an amazing talent as eka-sandhi-grahaṇa is somehow automatically expected to be ethical in his use of it. If not, how easily they can cheat others! How many of our modern professions, from medicine to law to public policy, are like this!
Chapter 88 was on the Kannada epic Kumāravyāsa-bhārata, consisting mainly of Krishna revealing the secret of Karna’s birth. We were initially apprehensive about whether its reach would be as broad as that of our conventional Sanskrit chapters. Thankfully, it appears that the shared cultural mindscape was sufficient to make it engaging for a number of our readers. Thanks for your feedback.
The epic is massive: at 159 sandhis, a version with even minimal explanatory commentary runs into almost two thousand pages. Contrary to the ‘intensity’ of poetic thrill in muktakas and many other works we’ve featured, epic works seem to operate at a much slower, boring pace. Pratap Prasad had a great anecdote, where he once asked Śatāvadhāni Dr. R. Ganesh to just pick out the most memorable verses or scenes. Dr. Ganesh replied that that was akin to wanting pick out only the raisins and cashews in a thick pāyasa! There is a distinct joy in stumbling upon a handful of ‘intense’ verses amidst a sea of routine narrative verses, that is somewhat diminished if the contrast is taken away.
We had commented on how almost every verse of Kumāravyāsa draws a picture, and how the work naturally lends itself to a public performance setting. There’s a popular verse by Kuvempu that summarizes well:
ಕುಮಾರ ವ್ಯಾಸನು ಹಾಡಿದನೆಂದರೆ
ಕಲಿಯುಗ ದ್ವಾಪರವಾಗುವುದು
ಭಾರತ ಕಣ್ಣಲಿ ಕುಣಿವುದು! ಮೈಯಲಿ
ಮಿಂಚಿನ ಹೊಳೆ ತುಳುಕಾಡುವುದು!
“When Kumāravyāsa sings, Kaliyuga turns into Dvāpara.
Bhārata dances in front of the eyes, and a thrill runs down the body!”
Given how much of Indian sensibilities are acutely captured in the work, the pun on “Bhārata” meaning both “the Mahābhārata” and “India” is apt.
Piyush Srivastava pointed to the Hindi epic poem Rashmirathi by Dinkar as one of the prominent modern epics centered around Karna. The positive slant toward Karna is already apparent, and just like with Kumāravyāsa, the poetry is excellent. One chapter in the work, Krishna ki chetāvani, seems to have been included in many Hindi textbooks, and is a much-loved poem, akin to Puṇyakoṭi or Tārā-pralāpa. The kinds of poems which gain such wide acclaim seem to have much in common!
In that chapter, we had discussed how the positive slant might have evolved because of a move away from an honor-based culture. The world of the epics, and even the works of a few hundred years ago, seems to have a radically different set of societal values than what we see out in the world today. This is an active topic of study, having far-reaching consequences in every facet of society, from education to politics; especially so, when the transition from honor to dignity to victimhood has occurred so quickly.
Near the beginning, Krishna is trying to make Karna comfortable, and says “There is no hierarchy or precedence between the Yādavas and the Kauravas”. The idea was that Karna could speak freely to Krishna. But hidden in this is a delicate nuance: Karna may have been insecure about not being treated on par as a kṣatriya among the Kauravas, but there was also a perception of the Yādavas as not being a high-class clan on par with the Kuru clan. In Krishna’s words, there’s a subtle nod to both Krishna and Karna being ‘outsiders’.
Near the end, we had mentioned how the ‘stories’ we have of things constitute a large part of their value. There was recently a fascinating demonstration of this in action, when a wine seller defrauded his clients by selling fake high-quality wines. The only catch: the wines were thought to be so high-quality that almost none of the buyers dared to actually drink it, and merely showed off the bottles on their mantelpieces! The bottles were real. If they never drank the wine, did it matter if it was fake or not?
Chapter 89 was the second half of the Karna-bheda episode, and its main contents were Karna’s response.
We’d mentioned that Kumāravyāsa is fantastic as far as his emotional content goes, but he doesn’t appear to care very much about metrical rules, grammar, conventions and such details. This is evident starting from his first refrain, which is possibly the most famous line in all of Middle Kannada: “ಕಾವುದಾನತ-ಜನವ ಗದುಗಿನ ವೀರನಾರಯಣ”.
A joke goes that purists objected to the mangling of the most important word “Nārāyaṇa” as “Nārayaṇa” just to fit the meter. A wag replied, “ಏನೂ ಪರವಾಗಿಲ್ಲ ಸ್ವಾಮಿ, ಕುಮಾರವ್ಯಾಸನ ಕಾವ್ಯ ಎಷ್ಟು ಸೊಗಸಾಗಿತ್ತೆಂದರೆ ಶ್ರೀಮನ್ನಾರಾಯಣನೇ ‘ಆ!’ ಎಂದನಂತೆ, ಆದ್ದರಿಂದ ಒಂದು ‘ಆ’ ಹೊರಗೆ ಬಂದುಬಿಟ್ಟಿದೆ!" – “No problem, Kumāravyāsa’s poetry was so wonderful that even Lord Nārāyaṇa himself said ‘aah!’ on hearing it, and so one ‘ā’ has come out of ‘Nārāyaṇa’!”
The concept finds much resonance in the faraway field of electronics, in the magic smoke theory: :-)
magic smoke: n. A substance trapped inside integrated circuit packages that enables them to function (also called blue smoke). Its existence is demonstrated by what happens when a chip burns up — the magic smoke gets let out, so it doesn’t work any more.
In the middle of the chapter, Karna laments that he had a simple mission in life: serving Duryodhana. Now, that mission is broken, and he does not know what to do. Till then, Karṇa was a sidekick who enjoyed the luxury of simply following his master’s orders. He could afford to be a fearless warrior, for he had nothing to lose. In contrast, after the revelation, he is no longer free because he is more “powerful”, paradoxically. He now has to tackle impossible dilemmas.
The TV series The Wire has a scene where a newly-elected mayor seeks advice from a former mayor. He asks the former mayor why he left after his first term. In a graphic metaphor, the former mayor blows away any illusions that a mayor position is about exercising power, leadership, or “running the city”: it is simply a never-ending game of playing off self-interested groups and manipulation.
Jagdip Dave suggested a verse by Amir Khusrao, similar to the one in the chapter’s Parting Thought:
Khusrau darya prem ka, ulti wa ki dhaar,
Jo utra so doob gaya, jo dooba so paar.
“Oh Khusrau, the river of love flows in strange ways.
He who steps into it drowns, and he who drowns, gets across.”
The idea easily extends to Bhakti as well, and perhaps to life itself: if one tries to plan around it or be too careful, one is likely to be overwhelmed, but ‘going with with the flow’ is often a wiser alternative.
As always, we welcome any thoughts, feedback and suggestions from you all. Please email us at kvm….@gmail.com and shree…@gmail.com
Parting Thought
We came across a doha attributed to Kabir that was strikingly similar to some “converging dilemmas” we’ve seen before:
पूत कपूत तो क्यूँ धन संचय
पूत सपूत तो क्यूँ धन संचय
pūt kapūt to kyū dhan sancay
pūt sapūt to kyū dhan sancay
“If the son is a bad one, what is the point of hoarding money?
If the son is a good one, what is the point of hoarding money?”
It lends itself to Sanskrit so easily: ‘kuputro yadi jāyeta dhanānāṃ saṃcayena kim?’, but evidently not well enough to whatever language our leaders understand.
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