In some verses, Go·vardhana uses markers for particular types of people and specified scenarios. It is with these solid pieces of information in mind that less obvious verses can be approached and imaginatively read in a similar light. For example, once we have read stanzas that specifically refer to a man’s go-between, other verses, in which a man is praised to a girl, can be located in that same context.
We can distinguish a variety of such person markers. The most obvious one is that of profession and social group. But there are dangers lurking here. Albrecht Weber, the first scholar who worked seriously on the Sattasai, mistakenly thought that Hala’s collection represented “peasant poetry” merely because farmers are spoken of in some of the verses. In fact, the opposite is true: in Hala, peasants are specifically marked because they are outside the poets’ own milieu. The same applies to Go·vardhana.
A Note on the Translation
No doubt, the translations offered here will be criticized for their clumsy syntax. I would agree with this criticism. In fact, perversely as it might seem, many of my earlier versions, which aimed at smooth, elegant readability, have been discarded, in favor of the versions printed here. Why ________
have I been prepared to pay such a heavy price? Let us look at what Go·vardhana himself does:
In the real life context for which the poetry was intended, someone would slowly recite to an audience, bit by bit. Thus we start with, suka iva, “like a parrot.” Something, as yet not introduced, is compared to a parrot. The next element, daru/salaka/panjaram, “the cage made of wooden twigs,” logically connects with “parrot,” and (simplifying matters somewhat) the listener will assume that the parrot does something to its cage. Next comes anudivasa/vardhamano, in itself unambiguous: “growing bigger day by day,” which appears to be a meaningful description of a parrot. So far so good; but the word me at the end of the first line breaks the smooth flow of ideas or images. This “of me” or “to me” has to be retained in one’s mind in isolation (with “my parrot” as one possibility). The krntati at the beginning of the second line tells us now what the parrot does to its cage: “it tears it apart,” though how it does so remains unsaid so far. With the next phrase, dayita/hrdayam, “the heart of the beloved,” an entirely new feature is introduced. All that can now be said is that possibly the me belongs to it, viz. “my beloved,” and that the heart is set in parallel to the cage, that the something which is compared to a parrot, breaks it apart. This now is revealed to be sokah, “grief.” Finally we have a complete sentence, and what otherwise might appear ______________
as a most incongruous simile, grief resembling a parrot, is logically justified, as well as being embedded in wordplay: suka ⋮ soka. Moreover, both can be said to be growing bigger day by day. Yet the poet has a few more syllables left, so he can add Smara/visikha/tiksna/mukhah, in order to explain the nature of the grief: “with the arrows of Kama as its primary painful cause” (various other interpretations are possible). This is a slightly odd phrase, which makes us think back to the parrot. Indeed, we find that the parrot can break the cage because it has “a beak as sharp as Kama’s arrows.” This now cements the simile of parrot and grief, for the single phrase, analyzed differently, characterizes both the bird and the woman’s emotions. So what Go·vardhana does, here and in a large number of other verses, is to challenge the listener, by offering him ideas and mental images which only towards the close of a verse build up to a meaningful, logically coherent whole. It is precisely this element of tension, anticipation, expectation, struggle, and eventual surprise that a smooth-flowing translation will destroy.
Like a parrot its cage that is made of wooden twigs, growing bigger day by day, it tears apart the heart of my beloved—grief with the arrows of Kama as its primary painful cause ⋮ with its beak that is as sharp as Kama’s arrows.
A possible alternative rendering (e.g. “cutting to pieces” for “tearing apart”) has to be kept in mind, since the basis of the comparison is not yet revealed. What precisely grief does to the heart of the beloved remains in suspense. But ________
what does grief do that can be compared to the parrot’s ac- tion?
To express in a brutalist manner what is going on here, the translation ought to be something like the following.
Like a parrot wooden twigs cage, every day increasing my demolishes beloved’s heart grief Kama’s arrows sharp mouth.
This would no doubt present a challenge to any reader or listener, but I doubt that it would serve much of a purpose for the kind of enterprise undertaken in this book. Alternatively, this is what an “elegant,” smoothly flowing translation could look like.
Grief, with the arrows of Kama as its primary painful cause, must be increasing day by day and will be breaking my beloved’s heart, like a parrot whose beak is as sharp as Kama’s arrows, when, growing day by day, he bites his way through the cage made of wooden twigs.
This is the compromise I have adopted in many places, where the poet uses the syntactical and psychological structure analyzed above.
The many allusions to myth and other features of Indian culture, to say nothing of the use of puns and poetic conventions, make reading the “Seven Hundred Elegant Verses” somewhat challenging; this is particularly true of the first thirty-eight verses of the Prelude. For the rest, however, the adventurous reader is encouraged initially to ________
try to go it alone. For a fuller understanding, notes on most verses can be found at the back.
Notes
1Translated by Lee Siegel, Clay Sanskrit Library, New York: New York University Press & JJC Foundation, 2009.
2Translated by Sir James Mallinson in “Messenger Poems” (Meghaduta, Pavanaduta & Hamsaduta), Clay Sanskrit Library, New York: New York University Press & JJC Foundation, 2006.
Bibliography
Aryasaptasati with the Commentary of Ananta-Pandita. Ed. Durgapra- sada and Kasinatha Panduranga Paraba. Bombay: The “Nirnaya-sagara” Press, 1886 (Kavyamala 1).
Aryasaptasati of Govardhana. Ed. Ramakant Tripathi Varanasi: Chow- khamba Vidyabhawan, 1965 (Vidyabhawan Sanskrit Granthamala 127).
Aryasaptasati, Parvatiya Visvesvara Pandita with his own commentary. Hyderabad: Sanskrit Academy, 1966 (Sanskrit Academy Series no. 13).
A. Weber, Uber das Saptacatakam des Hala. Leipzig: F.A. Brockhaus, 1881 (Abhandlungen fur die Kunde des Morgenlandes, vii/4).
V
ictory to Shiva’s body, adorned with ashes, its hair standing on end at the thrill of touching Uma’s hand! Although nothing but ash was left of Kama, here he seems to sprout to new life.*
In the morning, Shiva was told by a terrified Brahma: “Don’t spit that poison out! Keep it down!” Victory to him, who got embarrassed at having his lips stained with lamp-black.*
With the poison decorating his throat resembling a dagger tied to it and lying at the feet of his beloved, that enemy of passion appears to be surrendering to Kama with his cruel arrows. Victory to that Shiva!*
Victory to Shiva’s sidelong glance! When he was lying prostrate at the feet of his beloved, that glance from his forehead,
