Produced by James Simmons
VIDYĀPATI
VIDYĀPATI: BANGĪYA PADĀBALI
SONGS OF THE LOVE OF RĀDHĀ AND KRISHNA TRANSLATED
INTO ENGLISH BY ANANDA COOMARASWAMY AND
ARUN SEN WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES AND
ILLUSTRATIONS FROM INDIAN PAINTINGS
LONDON: THE OLD BOURNE PRESS,
15 HOLBORN, E.C.
1915.
The whole creation will be consumed and appear infinite and holy,
whereas it now appears finite and corrupt. This will come to pass by an
improvement of sensual enjoyment.
--_William Blake._
Be drunken with love, for love is all that exists.
--_Shamsi Tabrīz._
TABLE OF CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
KRISHNA PŪRBBARĀGA: The First Passion of Krishna
RĀDHĀ BAYAHSANDI: The Growing-up of Rādhā
RĀDHĀ PŪRBBARĀGA: The First Passion of Rādhā
SAKHĪ-SHIKSHĀ-BACANĀDI: The Counsel of Girl-friends (Sakhīs)
PRATHAMA MILNA: First Meetings
ABHISĀRA: (Rādhā's) Going-forth (to visit Krishna)
VASANTA LĪLA: Dalliance in Spring
MĀNA: Wilfulness
MĀNĀNTE MILNA: Reunion after Wilfulness
ĀKSHEPA ANUYOGA O VIRAHA: Reproaches, Lack and Longing
PUNARMILNA O RASODGĀRA: Reunion and the Flow of Nectar
NOTES
ELUCIDATIONS
BIRDS, FLOWERS AND TREES
ILLUSTRATIONS
TEXTS
CORRIGENDA
INTRODUCTION.
VIDYĀPATI THĀKUR is one of the most renowned of the Vaishnava poets of
Hindustān. Before him there had been the great Jāyadeva, with his Gītā
Govinda made in Sanskrit; and it is to this tradition Vidyāpati
belongs, rather than to that of Rāmānanda, Kabīr, and Tul'si Dās, who
sang of Rāma and Sītā. Vidyāpati's fame, though he also wrote in
Sanskrit, depends upon the wreath of songs (_pada_) in which he describes
the courtship of God and the Soul, under the names of Krishna and Rādhā.
These were written in Maithilī, his mother-tongue, a dialect
intermediate between Bengālī and Hindī, but nearer to the former. His
position as a poet and maker of language is analogous to that of Dante
in Italy and Chaucer in England. He did not disdain to use the
folk-speech and folk-thought for the expression of the highest matters.
Just as Dante was blamed by the classical scholars of Italy, so
Vidyāpati was blamed by the pandits: he knew better, however, than
they, and has well earned the title of Father of Bengali literature.
Little is known of Vidyāpati's life[1]. Two other great Vaishnava poets,
Chandī Dās and Umāpati, were his contempories. His patron Rājā
Shivasimha Rūpanārāyana, when heir-apparent, gave the village of Bisapī
as a rent-free gift to the poet in the year 1400 A.D. (the original deed
is extant). This shows that in 1400 the poet was already a man of
distinction. His patron appears to have died in 1449, before which date
the songs here translated must have been written. Further, there still
exists a manuscript of the Bhāgavata Purāna in the poet's handwriting,
dated 1456. It is thus evident that he lived to a good age, for it is
hardly likely that he was under twenty in the year 1400. The following
is the legend of his death: Feeling his end approaching, he set out to
die on the banks of Gangā. But remembering that she was the child of the
faithful, he summoned her to himself: and the great river divided
herself in three streams, spreading her waters as far as the very place
where Vidyāpati sat. There and then he laid himself, it is said down and
died. Where his funeral pyre was, sprang up a Shiva lingam, which exists
to this day, as well as the marks of the flood. This place is near the
town of Bāzitpur, in the district of Darbhangā.
Vidyāpati's Vaishnava _padas_ are at once folk and cultivated art--just
like the finest of the Pahārī paintings, where every episode of which he
sings finds exquisite illustration. The poems are not, like many
ballads, of unknown authorship and perhaps the work of many hands, but
they are due to the folk in the sense that folk-life is glorified and
popular thought is reflected. The songs as we have them are entirely the
work of one supreme genius; but this genius did not stand alone, as
that of modern poets must--on the contrary, its roots lay deep in the
common life of fields and villages, and above all, in common faiths and
superstitions. These were days when peasants yet spoke as elegantly as
courtiers, and kings and cultivators shared one faith and a common view
of life--conditions where all things are possible to art.
It is little wonder that Vidyāpati's influence on the literature of
Eastern Hindustān has been profound, and that his songs became the
household poetry of Bengal and Behar. His poems were adopted and
constantly sung by the great Hindū lover, Cāitanya, in the sixteenth
century, and they have been adapted and handed down in many dialects,
above all in Bengālī, in the Vaishnava tradition, of which the last
representative is Rabindranāth Tagore. A poem by the latter well resumes
and explains the theory of the Vaishnava lovers:[2]
_Not my way of Salvation, to surrender the world!_
_Rather for me the taste of Infinite Freedom,_
_While yet I am bound by a thousand bonds to the wheel:_
_In each glory of sound and sight and smell_
_I shall find Thy Infinite Joy abiding:_
_My passion shall burn as the flame of Salvation,_
_The flower of my love shall become the ripe fruit of Devotion._
This leads us to the subject of the true significance of poems such as
Vidyāpati's. It is quite true, as Mr. Nicholson says, that students of
oriental poetry have sometimes to ask themselves, 'Is this a love-poem
disguised as a mystical ode, or a mystical ode expressed in the language
of human love?' Very often this question cannot be answered with a
definite 'Yes' or 'No': not because the poet's meaning is vague, but
because the two ideas are not at all mutually exclusive. All the
manifestations of Kama on earth are images of Pursuit or Return.
As Vidyāpati himself says (No. LXIII):
_The same flower that you cast away, the same you use in prayer._
_And with the same you string the bow._
It is quite certain that many poems of Vidyāpati have an almost wholly
spiritually significance.[3] If some others seem very obviously secular,
let us remember that we have no right to detach such poems from their
context in books and still less any right to divorce them from their
context in life.
We may illustrate this point by a comparison with poetry of Western
Europe. Take for example a poem such as the following, with a purely
secular significance (if any true art can be said to be secular):
_Oh! the handsome lad frae Skye_
_That's lifted a' the cattle, a'oor kye._
_He's t'aen the dun, the black, the white._
_And I hae mickle fear_
_He's t'aen my heart forbye._
Had this been current in fifteenth century Bengal, every Vaishnava would
have understood the song to speak as much of God and the Soul as of man
and maid, and to many the former meaning would have been the more
obvious. On the other hand, there are many early medieval Western hymns
in which the language of human love is deliberately adapted to religious
uses, for example:
_When y se blosmes springe,_
_And here foules songe,_
_A suete love-longynge_
_Myn herte thourh out stong;_
_Al for a love newe,_
_That is so suete and trewe._
_That gladieth al mi song._
Here the 'new love' is Christ.
Finally, there are other Western lyrics, and very exquisite ones, that
could equally be claimed as religious or secular, for example:
_Long ago to thee I gave_
_Body, soul and all I have--_
_Nothing in the world I keep._ [4]
The Western critic who would enquire what such a poem meant to its maker
and his hearers must be qualified by spiritual kinship with him and with
them. Let us demand a similar qualification from those who propose to
speak of Oriental poetry:
_Wer den Dichter will verstehen._
_Muss in Dichter's Lande gehen,--_
if not in physical presence, at least in spirit.
In ecstasy, man is beside himself: that this momentary escape from
'himself' is the greatest gift life offers, is a promise, as it were a
foretaste, of Release, warranting us that Nirvāna is something more than
annihilation. At the same time, be it well understood that such
ecstasies are not rewarded to those who are followers of Pleasure, nor
to those that cling to self-will. In Vaishnava literature this is again
and again emphasized. It is not till the ear ceases to hear the outside
world, that it is open to the music in the heart, the flute of Krishna.
If the objection is still made that our poet sings rather of human than
divine love,--and we do not deny that he worships physical beauty,
albeit the critics have told us that Rabīndranath Tagore is the first
Indian poet to do so,--we answer with him that Love is One, and we would
also quote the very splendid passage of the _Prema Sāgara_ where the doubt
is resolved, "How could the love of a certain milk-maid have brought her
salvation, notwithstanding that her love for Krishna was paramours, and
she knew him not as God, but as man?" The answer is given as follows:
Shri Krishna sat one moonlit night at the edge of a deep forest, playing
his flute with intent to lure the milk-maids from their homes. The Braj
girls could not rest nor resist the call, and abandoning the illusion of
family and the ties of duty, they hurried in confusion from their homes
to the forest. But one was seen and detained by her husband; yet she, in
the intensity of her absorption in the thought of Hari, abandoned her
body and was the first to reach Him. Perceiving the love of her heart.
He gave her final release.
The king to whom the story has been thus far related, remarks that the
milk-maid did not worship Krishna knowing him to be God, but regarded
him as an object of sensuous desire, and asks, 'How then was she saved
by her love?' The answer is given that even they who worship Krishna
unawares obtain emancipation; just as the water of life makes the
drinker immortal, without question whether he knows or does not know its
virtue.[5] Should anyone with any purpose worship, he will be
emancipated. Shri Krishna was reverenced in many ways, and in each was
salvation obtained. Thus, "Nand, Yashodā and others knew him as a child,
the milk-maids as a lover, Kāns worshipped him by fear, the cowherds
called him their friend, the Pāndavas knew him as an ally, Shishupāl
worshipped him as a foe, the Yaduvamsīs thought him one of themselves,
the Yogīs, Yatīs and Munis meditated upon Him as God; but at last
everyone of these obtained deliverance. What wonder then if one
milk-maid by devotion to Him, was able to cross the sea of life,--to
reach the further shore?"[6]
This pure humanism is the Vaishnava equivalent for: "Inasmuch as ye have
done it unto these, ye have done it unto Me," and "The worship of God is
. . . loving the greatest men best."
We may also give here the Indian answer to the objection sometimes
raised respecting the morality of Krishna Himself,--much as the
Pharisees questioned the right of Christ to pluck the ears of corn. The
Bhāgavata Purāna in one place answers as Blake or Nietzsche might, that
_dharma_ is not the same for the great and the small. More than this, it
is a fault in logic to subject to ethical criticism a Power Who is by
hypothesis Infinite, beyond the Pairs of opposites. As Purnendu Narayan
Sinha expresses it: "Nothing that we know, nothing that we are composed
of, nothing that shapes our experiences, that causes our likes and
dislikes, limits Krishna. He is the absolute, for the relatives we know
of, or which we may even think of, have no place in Him."[7] And indeed,
this ought to be obvious to anyone that understands the language of
mythology; for the multiplication of Krishna's form in the circular
dance, and at Dvārakā, and the fact already alluded to, of His
accessibility in every form, are clear indications of His Infinity. It
is nowhere suggested that the illusion of family and the ties of duty
may be abandoned except in self-surrender to Him.
It must also be remembered that the Krishna Līlā is not a historical
record (as Nīlakantha remarks, 'The narration is not the real point');
His Līlā in Brindāban is eternal, and Brindāban is the heart of man. We
are thus concerned with ideas and symbols, and not with history. The
most that an objector could then adduce, would be to suggest that the
symbolism may be unwisely chosen, and may be misunderstood. I should
treat this objection with respect, and would agree that it may be valid
from the standpoint of the objector. But I do not think it is valid from
the standpoint of the lover. I would not even say, Let those who are
able to take this passionate literature only in a carnal sense (and we
have admitted that much of it has a carnal as well as a spiritual
sense), therefore ignore it; for if the worship of loveliness is not
Love, it is none the less a step on the way to Love.
Again, however, it is not meant to imply that the pastoral and romantic
conditions indicated in Vaishnava literature do not exist, and have
never existed, anywhere in India. On the contrary, if India is the
classic country of lyrical poetry, this is because she is also the
classic country of love.[8] Love is certainly of more significance to
the Indian consciousness than to the European, and the Western fear of
voluptuousness is hardly known in the East. But just as beauty was never
in India glorified as an end in itself, so romantic love never obtained
there such hold and possession over life and art as it has in the West.
To put the same conclusion in other words, the Indian culture is
nowhere corrupted by sentimentality. The reason of this is to be found,
I think, in a wide-spread and deep-rooted consciousness of the principle
of Impermanence. It is just this consciousness of evanescence which
gives to the voluptuous and passionate art of Ajantā the spiritual
significance that is all the more impressive because of its sensuous
setting. Non-attachment is a greater quality than non-participation.
Where life is transparent, the enjoyment of life is never a spiritual
bondage. One might almost believe that to the Ajantā painters and the
Vaishnava poets had been granted the prayer of Socrates,--"O beloved
Pan, and all ye other gods of this place, grant me to become beautiful
in the inner man, and that whatever outward things I have may be at
peace with those within."
A few words are needed to explain the method of translation. The
rendering is line for line, and often word for word, but whenever a
choice lay between expressing the letter and the spirit of the original,
the latter has been considered of the first importance. Vidyāpati
reflects a certain view of life: it is this, rather than the form of his
utterance, however perfect, that touches us most nearly. A single word
in the original is often rendered by two or three in the translation,
for the terseness of the Bengālī could rarely be repeated.
Notwithstanding that our translation does not pretend to be metrical,
much care has been taken with the phrasing, to make it readable: for it
would appear that alike in music and poetry, _rasa_ is more closely
bound up with phrasing than with a regular division into bars or
feet.[9] At the same time, a few examples of the original text are
quoted in the 'Notes,' in order to give the reader some idea of their
form.
It should be noticed that the songs here translated are but a part of
Vidyāpati's _Bangīya Padābali_. Two hundred and two songs are given in
the edition of Kāliprasanna Kāvyābhisharad which we have chiefly used;
and there are over nine hundred in that of Shrī Nagendranath Gupta
published in Nāgarī character for H. H. the Mahārājah of Darbhangā,--to
whom I am indebted for a copy of the edition. The order of our versions
follows that of Kāliprasanna Kāvyābhisharad; the songs omitted are those
which are almost repetitions of those translated, or of which we could
not make a satisfactory rendering.
It has been very difficult to find such words as can express Vidyāpati's
transparency. English since the Elizabethan age has grown poor in purely
lyrical words and idioms, for modern literature, like modern plastic art
or music, rarely deals with unmixed feelings. To present Vidyāpati in
English in a form at all comparable with the original, would require all
the facility and elegance of the Elizabethans joined to nearly all the
seriousness of the earliest English lyrics. I say nearly all, for
Vidyāpati is a very conscious artist, with a considerable sense of
humour; and though he is certainly far more serious than the elegant
Elizabethans, he is not in any sense a primitive.
The rendering of certain words in the original demands a brief
explanation. _Sakhī_ (the _chetī_ of Mr. Bain's beautiful Sanskrit
imitations), meaning a girl-friend and confidante of the heroine,
usually used in the vocative, is translated as 'my dear.' _Dūtīka_, the
messenger or go-between, is a _sakhī_ or any woman who carries messages
between the lovers: but often, too, the poet himself is the messenger,
and in this case there is perhaps a conscious reference to the artist as
go-between God and the soul. The _gopīs_ are the milk-maids of Gokula,
of whom Rādhā is Krishna's beloved.
_Añcala_, meaning the upper part of the _sārī_, thrown across the
breast and over the shoulder, also forming a head-veil, we have
translated, not quite accurately, as 'wimple,' for want of a better
word. _Nibibanda_, which means the knotting of the _sārī_ round the
waist, is rendered as 'zone' or 'girdle,' though it is not properly a
separate garment.
The word _rasa_ can never be adequately translated into English, and
perhaps it should be adopted there as a loan-word, together with such
others as _karma_, _yoga_, _dharma_, _samsāra_, _nirvāna_. _Rasa_,
like the word 'essence,' has both a concrete and an abstract
significance; it has, amongst others, such meanings as juice, nectar,
essence, taste, flavour, savour, lust, and in an abstract sense, taste,
appreciation, passion, ecstasy, love and so forth. _Rasa_ is equally
the essential element in love and in art. It would be defined from the
Indian standpoint as an emotion provoked by the recognition of reality.
From _rasa_ are derived the two important words _rasika_ (a
connoisseur, lover), and _rasavanta_ or _rasamanta_ ('possessing
_rasa_' said either of an individual or of a work of art).
It is a canon of Indian dramatic criticism, not only that _rasa_ is
unique, but that those only can experience rasa who are temperamentally
qualified to do so by virtue acquired in a former life,--_Poeta nascitur
nonjit_. All these associations give great weight to Vidyapati's
splendid aphorism:
_Rasa bujha, i rasamanta_
'None knoweth love but the lover, none ecstasy save the ecstatic.'
If we apply this to life and art, it means what Blake meant when he said
that enthusiasm is the first and last principle of criticism.
It should not be forgotten that Vidyāpati's songs, like those of all the
Vaishnava poets--from Jayadeva to Rabindranath Tagore--were meant to be
sung; and as the latter says himself, "In a book of songs the main thing
is left out: to set forth the music's vehicle, and leave out the music
itself, is just like keeping the mouse and leaving out Ganapati himself"
('_Jiban-smrti_,' p. 148). The padas of Vidyāpati may still be heard on
the lips of Bengali singers, albeit often in corrupt forms. It may also
be noted that song was constantly illustrated by the conventional
language of descriptive gesture. We are able to partly compensate the
lack of this in reproducing the eleven illustrations from Indian
sources; for although not designed directly to illustrate Vidyāpati's
text, there is to be found in these an immediate expression of the same
ideas. A further account of all the illustrations is appended to the
'Notes.'
Finally, in the matter of transliteration: since these versions are
intended rather for the _rasika_ than for the _pandit_, we have done
no more that mark the long and short vowels of Indian names and words
occurring in this Introduction or in the text. The reader will not go
far wrong if he pronounces such words as if in Italian. C has the the
sound of ch in _church:_ for ś and ṣ we have used sh throughout.
It is by an inexcusable oversight that the poet's name has been printed
as Vidhyāpati throughout the text. (Transcriber's note: This has been
corrected).
ANANDA COOMARASWAMY.
Britford, _December_, 1914.
[1] _What is here given is mainly derived from: G. A. Grierson, 'The
Vernacular Literature of Hindustan,' and Dinesh Chandra Sen, 'History of
Bengali Literature.'_
[2] _The Tarjuman al-Ashwāq_, 1911 _p_. 7.
[3] _I do not here refer to the details of concrete symbolism (for which
see Purnendu Narayan Sinha, 'The Bhāgavata Purāna, a Study,' Benares,
1901), but to the common language of mysticism._
[4] _Translated by Henry Newbolt from the French of Wenceslas._
[5] _Thus the Hindūs hold that it is better to be the foe of God, or to
use His name in vain, than to live without knowledge of Him and without
speaking His name._
[6] _Prema Sāgara, Ch. xxx._
[7] _loc. cit. p. 302._
[8] _We have already mentioned the 'Gītā Govinda.' It needs scarcely to
be said that Indian lyrical poetry is of still older ancestry. The
reader of Kalidāsa's 'Shakuntalā' for example, will find there
innumerable parallels both to Vidyāpati's combined tenderness and
wisdom, and his quaint conceits. These parallels are so many that we
have made no attempt to mention them in the 'Notes' The same spirit,
too, is already recognizable in the lyrical passages of the 'Rāmāyana.'
All this is no more than to say that Vidyāpati is essentially and
typically Indian._
[9] _According to Hindu theory, Kāvya (poetry) includes both prose
(gadya-kāvya) and verse (padya-kāvya)._
KRISHNA PŪRBBARĀGA
I.
_Krishna:_ Some damsel I saw, supremely fair--
A moon unstained, that slowly rose,
Or a golden vine.
Eyes twin lotus-blooms, dyed with sūrm,
The playground of waves of love--
Twin timid partridges, snared by Nature
With nought but a rope of collyrium!
A garland of ivory-pearls caressed the burden
Of her mountain breasts--
Kāma pouring celestial streams from a brimming conch
On a golden Shambhu!
The sacrificer of a hundred offerings on a sacred shore
Were blest by such reward!
_Vidyāpati says: It is Gokula's lord._
_The herd-girls' darling._
II.
_Krishna:_ Your hair dismays the yak, the mountain sinks into the vale,
Fearing your face, the moon is fading in the sky,
The antelope is fearful of your eyes, your voice dismays
the koil.
Your gait alarms the olifant, he hides him in the wood:
Why came you not for speech with me, fair may?
All these have fled afar in fear of you,
How then should you in turn fear me?
Dismayed by your breasts, the unblown lily lingers under lake.
The globéd jar leaps into fire.
The honey-apple and the pomegranate abide aloft.
And Shambhu drinks his poison.
Dismayéd by your arms, the golden lily-root leaves not the mud.
Affrighted by your fingers, the flower-stems are shivering!
_Vidyāpati asks: How many shall I cite_
_Of spells of Love like these?_
III.
_Krishna:_ Which of the gods this fair face fashioned?
Beauty-surpassing, heart's-bliss-granting,
Garland-victress of the Triple Worlds.
The sun-bright eyes of her fair face
Are tricked with sūrm--
Restless wagtails on a golden lotus,
At play with pitch-black snakes.
The vine of down from her navel's well
Is a serpent thirsting for air:
Thinking in terror her nose is Garuḍa's beak
It hides in the valley of her bosoms' hills.
Love with three arrows conquered Three World's,
Still two of the arrows remained:
Very cruel is Nature to slay the love-lorn,
Surrendering those to her two eyes!
_Vidyāpati says: Hearken, fair maids_
_Who haunt the well of Love:_
_Rājā Shivasimha Rūpanārāyana_
_And Lakshmī Devī be witness._
IV.
_Krishna:_ Why did that moon-face cross my path?
Just for one moment her eyes met mine,
Whose sidelong glance is all too keen:
An ill day that for me!
My thoughts were set upon her breasts,
Love lay waking in my heart.
Her voice was ringing in my ears:
I would have gone, my feet refused to move.
_The bonds of hope constrain me yet:_
_Love is a tide, says Vidyāpati._
V.
_Krishna:_ Fair-face, red brow-spot, there-behind the heavy
jet-black hair--
As if the sun and moon together rising left the night behind.
Ah damsel fair! with what and what devoted care,
Has Nature given to you the utmost beauty of the moon.
A grass green bodice binds your breasts, a glimpse is
only seen;
So jealously you cover them,--but never snow may hide
the hills!
Dark sūrm decks your curving restless eyes.
As if the bees would rest their weight upon some
wind-bent lotus.
_Hearken, young thing, says Vidyāpati; these charms,
you know them all,--_
_Witness be Rājā Shivasimha Rūpanārāyana
and Lakshmī Devī._
VI.
_Krishna:_ She left the shrine at cowdust-time, passing gliding
Like a flash of lightning mated with a fresh cloud.
Tender of age she was, a garland deftly woven:
A glimpse could not content my hope, but Love's fire
fiercer fanned.
Bright was her body, shining under wimple with the
shene of gold:
Long locks, small middle, sidelong-glancing eyes.
And softly smiling, pierced me with the arrows
of her eyes,--
_Lord of the Five Gaurs, live for ever, says Vidyāpati!_
VII.
_Krishna:_ Laughing, talking, milk-white girl.
Nectar-showering as autumn moon at full:
Jewel of beauty surpassing, passing before me,
Gainly of gait as olifant-king.
Small was her middle as any lion's, her frail frame breaking
With the burden of the honey-apples of her breasts.
Her lovely eyes shone white beside the sūrm that dyed them.
Bees, as it were, mistaking them for spotless water-lilies.
_Says Vidyapati: The Lord of lovers_
_Sorely tholes the sight of Radha's loveliness._
VIII.
_Krishna:_ I could not see her clearly:
Like a vine of lightning flashing from a wreath
of cloud,
She plunged an arrow in my heart.
Half the wimple had slipped, half was her face in smiles.
Half a wave in her eyes:
Half of her bosom I saw, half of the wimple filling,--
Love consumes me ever since.
Bright was her body withal, and golden cups her breasts.
Her bodice, Love transformed:
My wits were routed,-- meseems this snare
Was set by Kāmadev.
Pearl-teeth arow her lips did meet.
That murmured gentle words.
_Vidyāpati says: Grief haunts my heart:_
_I saw her indeed, but hope was not sated._
IX.
_Krishna:_ Beholding that my love was at her bath,
She pierced my heart with arrows five,--
The stream of water pouring from her tresses.
Was her moon-face weeping, frighted by their gloom.
The wet cloth clung upon her corse,--
So might Kāma shake a hermit's heart!
Twin breasts were cakravākas sweet.
United by the gods upon the self-same shore,--
Caged in the prison of her arms.
Lest they should fly away in fear.
_Vidyāpati, the poet, sings:_
_The precious maid her lover meets!_
X.
_Krishna:_ A joyous day this day for me!
I saw my love when she was bathing,
A stream of water pouring from her hair,--
The clouds were showering strings of pearls!
Wiping her face intentifly,
As though she cleansed a golden mirror,--
Discovering both her breasts.
Where had been set inverted golden cups,
She let her zone fall free:
_That was the bound of my desire, says Vidyāpati._
XI.
_Krishna:_ Rāi of the lily face had not yet climbed the bank,
When she beheld brave Kān before her:
'A maid demure, with hanging head, in company of elders.
How was I to see her face?'
But matchless was the bright may's art:
Stepping before them all, she called aloud,
With half-averted face,
And broke withal her string of pearls.
Crying aloud: 'My garland's broken!'
Every person, one and all, was gathering up the beads,--
Then she gazed on Shyāma!
Her partridge-eyes beholding Krishna's moon-fair face.
Were drinking draughts of dew:
_Each on the other gazing, spread abroad the taste
of bliss,--_
_That Vidyāpati knoweth well._
XII.
_Krishna:_ She smiled a little when she saw me lurking there--
As if the rising moon lit up the night:
And when she rained on me her sidelong glances,
The heavens became a swarm of bees.
Who knoweth whose the maid may be,
Setting my heart a-shake, and vanishing?
The humble-bee is prisoned in the lotus-flower of love,--
I was amazed to see the timid fair one passing by.
Then was made manifest the beauty of her breasts,--
(Whose heart does not the golden lily snare?)
Half was she hidden, half revealed.
Her globéd breasts told me of her desire.
_Vidyāpati says: That was love's dawn:_
_Whom does Madans secret arrow spare?_
XIII.
_Dūtikā:_ The flower is open all amidst the thorns;
The frenzied bee can find no place of rest,
But haunts continually the nectar-laden jasmine,
Reckless of life in eager thirst.
He honey-life, you honey-heap.
Already hiding hoarded sweets,--
The maddened bee has neither home
Nor rest without your jasmine-self.
Deep in your heart consider this:
Why should you be the murderer of a bee?
_For Vidyāpati avows: He will return to life._
_If He may drink the nectar of your lips._
XIV.
_Krishna:_ Wheresoever her twin feet fall,
A lotus-flower uplifts them:
Wheresoever her body passes swaying,
There is the lightning's undulation!
Surpassing radiance that I beheld,
Has made her seat amidst my heart:
Wheresoever her eyes are opened,
There are water-lilies seen!
Wheresoever her light laugh rings,
There very nectar sours in envy:
Wheresoever fall her sidelong glances,
Fly the myriads of Madan's arrows!
Even an instant to behold such loveliness
Suffices to eclipse the Triple Worlds:
But and I see her once again,
My mourning may depart!
_Says Vidyāpati: In sooth,_
_For your dear sake, I'll bring her._
RĀDHĀ BAYASANDHI
XV.
_Dūtikā:_ Childhood and youth are mingled both,
Her eyes have taken the road to her ears:
Wily are her words, and her low laugh
As if the moon appeared on earth.
She takes a mirror to array herself,
And asks: 'What is the game of love, my dear?'
How many times she secretly regards her bosom,
Smiling to see her breasts!
First like a jujube, then like an orange,--
Love day by day enfolds her limbs:
O Mādhava, I saw a girl surpassing fair.
Childhood and youth were one in her!
_Saith Vidyāpati: Oh foolish maid,_
_The wise would say, The twain have met._
XVI.
_Dūtikā:_ Day by day her breasts grew great.
Her hips increased, her middle waned:
Madan now enlarged her eyes.
All of her childhood fled in fear.
Breasts that are jujubes first, and then like oranges,
Daily the sting of Love increasing them:
Thereafter waxing greater than the pummalo,
Now they are twin ripe honey-apple fruits.
Ah Mādhava! I saw the fair one freely,
I suddenly beheld her as she bathed;
The filmy muslin clung upon her breast,--
Happy he who sees her thus!
Her jet-black hair poured down her breast
As though a shaggy yak concealed a gold Mahesh:
_Hearken Murāri, Vidyāpati saith:_
_So fair a may may dally with a man of worth._
XVII.
_Krishna:_ Now and again her eyes to their corners fly,
Now and again her filmy robe receives them;
Now and again her serried teeth laugh out,
Now and again the smile delays upon her lips.
Sometimes she hurries nervously, sometimes she walks
but slowly,
Now for the first time learning Madan's lessons:
She steals a glance at her breasts' buds,--
Sometimes she draws the wimple close, sometimes she
stands astonished.
Childhood and youth are met in her.
None knoweth which is first or last:
_Hearken, O Kāna, says Vidyāpati,_
_The marks of youth and childhood are indivisible._
XVIII.
_Krishna:_ Childhood and youth are face to face,--
She stands uncertain, in the hold of rival factions:
Sometimes she binds her hair, sometimes she lets it fall,
Sometimes she hides her body, sometimes she leaves it bare.
Her tranquil eyes are somewhat troubled,
There where the breasts arise are purple stains,
Her restless feet reflect her heart's unrest:
Madan awakes, whose eyes were shut.
_Hearken, Murāri, saith Vidyāpati:_
_Sustain with patience till I bring her._
XIX.
_Dūtikā:_ The little buds are peeping shyly,
Her eyes have stolen the dancing of her feet,
Her hand remains continually upon her robe,
She is ashamed to question her companions.
Oh Mādhav! How shall I recite her growing-up?
E'en Madan's heart, beholding her, must be ensnared!
Love is forsooth the ruler of her heart:
Setting the jars upon her breast, he straightens out her form.
She bends her mind to learn the lore of love,
Just as the deer to hear the song:
Strife springs up twixt youth and childhood.
Neither admits defeat or victory.
_Lo, Vidyāpati's enquiry,--_
_Shall she not leave her childhood finally?_
XX.
_Dūtikā:_ Now youth advanced, childhood withdrew,
Her eyes have caught the dancing of her feet.
Twin eyes performed the task of messengers,
Her laughter hid, and shame was born.
Continually she sets her hand upon her robe.
Speaks every word with hanging head:
Her hips have gained their full-grown glory--
She leans on her companions when she walks.
Hearken, O Kana: I have drawn my own conclusions,
Hearken now, and make your own decision:
_The savour of this matter is well-known to Vidyāpati,--_
_Record I take of Rāja Shrvasimha and Lakshmī Devī._
RĀDHĀ PŪRBBARĀGA
XXI.
_Rādhā_: How shall I tell of Kānu's beauty, my dear?
Who shall describe that dream-shape?
His lovely form is a fresh cloud,
His yellow garment the lightning's flash.
So black, so black his waving hair!
The peacock-plume so near the moon's orb!
For fragrance of the screw-pine and the jasmine,
Madan casts away his flower-arrows in dismay.
_Vidyāpati asks: What more shall I say?_
_Nature has emptied Madan's treasury!_
XXII.
_Rādhā:_ I had desired to look on Kānu,
But when I saw him I was filled with fear:
Ever since then I am both fond and foolish,
I have no knowledge at all what I say or do.
My twin eyes wept like dripping rain,
Unceasingly my heart went pit-a-pat:
I cannot think what made me look on him, my dear,
Just for that whim, I lent my life into another's hand!
I cannot tell what that dear thief has done to me,--
When I beheld him, he did steal my heart, and went away,
And as he went he showed so many signs of love,
The more I would forget, the less I may!
_Hearken, fair maid, says Vidyāpati:_
_Have patience in your heart, for you shall meet Murāri._
XXIII.
_Rādhā:_ A peerless beauty I beheld, my dear,
If you but listen, you may know it was the vision of a dream
Twin lotus-feet that wore a string of moons,
From them two tender tamāl-shafts arising,--
Around them twined a vine of lightning,
(He slowly passed along Kālindī's bank):
Upon his leaf-like hands another string of moons--
The lustre of the sun on new-blown flowers.
Twin flawless bimba-fruits were ripe.
Above them sat a tranquil parrot:
Over him twin restless wagtails.
Over them a serpent coiled about his head.
My playful maid, explain:
Why did he steal my wits when I beheld him thus?
_Vidyāpati says: It is a sign of love;_
_Well have you weighed the worthy wight._
XXIV.
_Rādhā:_ How can I tell the limits of my grief, my dear?
The blowing of that flute diffuses poison through my frame:
Insistently I hear it sounding,
And then my heart and body melt in shame.
In that supreme instant, my body fills to overflowing,
I dare not lift my eyes lest anyone should know of it:
In the company of elders, waves of emotion sweeping through me,
I draw my dress across each limb to hide it carefully.
With softest steps I walk about the house--
Kind fate has so far hidden my secret shame--
But rapture fills my heart and body, my girdle slips!
_Vidyāpati is dazed! What can he say?_
SAKHĪ-SHIKSHĀ-BACANĀDI
XXV.
_Sakhī:_ Happy is your birth, and blest your beauty!
For all are crying upon Kānu, Kānu,
And he is laden deep with love of you.
The longing cloud desires the cātak,
The moon desires the partridge,
The vine upholds the full-grown tree,--
There is amazement in my heart!
When there you stood with hanging hair,
Across your breast but half its veil,
Then Kānu, seeing all, was sorely troubled,--
Tell me, dear damsel, what is your intent?
When you laughed and showed your teeth,
With hand on hand held over head,
And your unconscious glances pierced his heart,--
Then seeing him, you took a maiden on your lap!
Such is my tale of you, O beauty,
Advise you thereupon:
_You are the idol of his heart, and he a frame forlorn,_
_Says Vidyāpati the poet._
XXVI.
_Sakhī:_ Hearken, hearken, O virtuous Rādhā:
Murdering Mādhava, what is the good you will gain?
By day the moon is pale and lonely,
Likewise _he_ waxes thinner and thinner:
His rings and bracelets slip,--
I think he must remake them many times.
_I cannot understand your ways;_
_The poet rests his head upon his hands!_
XXVII.
_Sakhī:_ Make your decision, Beauty:
Kāna is waxen wood for want of you,
Sometimes he laughs for little cause:
What would he say with passionate words?
Very sorry are his sighs,
He cries, _O Wel-a-way:_
His helpless body trembles,
None can hold him still.
_Saith Vidyāpati: Dear maiden,_
_Witness Rūpanārāyana._
XXVIII.
_Sakhī:_ Hearken fair damsel, to good advice,
For I shall teach you special wisdom:
First you shall sit beside the bed,
With bended neck, but half regarding him.
And when your lover touches you, push out your hand,
Remaining silent, uttering never a word:
And when he takes you forcibly and clasps you to his side,
Passionately you shall exclaim. Nay, nay!
In his embrace, your body you shall wrench aside,
Breaking away in the moment of delight.
_Saith Vidyāpati: What can I say?_
_Yourself the Guru shall teach e'en Love himself._
XXIX.
_Sakhī:_ Now hear me, daughter of a king,
For I have come to speak with you:
You have destroyed the life of precious Kāna,--
What work is this that you have wrought?
When day declined, I think,
You walked beside the water's edge,
And when you saw him, did embrace
Some maiden's neck, demurely smiling:
And showing him your moon-face,
You put him in a sorry plight.
Then suddenly you came away, before he saw you well
Now he is weeping, _Wel-a-way_.
Giving him just a glimpse of your breast,
You stole his heart:
_Vidyāpati enquires: Beauty,_
_How shall Kānu live?_
XXX.
_Sakhī:_ Attend my teaching, artless maid,
And I shall give you good advice:
First you shall deck your hair with jewels,
And paint your curving eyes with sūrm.
Then you shall go to him with all your body folded close,
And seeming to be dumb, shall stay apart:
My dear, at first you shall not go anigh him,
But with wanton glances, fair one, shall awaken Love.
Hiding your breasts, your shoulders showing,
Your girdle knotted fast,
You shall appear offended, yet be loving,
You shall refrain desire, that ever springs afresh.
_Says Vidyāpati: This is the first degree:_
_They that be worthy shall taste the fruit._
XXXI.
_Rādhā:_ I know not the taste of love, nor the colour of desire;
How may I have ado, my dear, with yonder swain,
That I should love him as you ask?
A young thing I, afraid of shame.
What can I tell you, dearest maiden?
I may not dare to have ado with him,
He is a herdsman lover, new-enflamed,
With all five arrows Love awakens his desire.
No sooner seeing me, but he will clip me tight:
Who then will save me, when my life is dying?
_Vidyāpati says: Your fears are vain,_
_Believe me, that his love is not of such a sort._
XXXII.
_Rādhā:_ Leave me, dear maid, I pray you,--
I will not go whereas he is:
Nought do I know the skill of words,
Or art of signs, nor how to pretend offense.
All of my friends arraying me at once,--
I cannot even bind my own hair!
I never have heard what dalliance means,
How may I mix with Mādhava?
He is learned in love, a passionate swain,
And I a weak girl of scanty wisdom.
_Says Vidyāpati: What counsel do I give?_
_'Tis that there should be union._
PRATHAMA MILNA
XXXIII.
_Dūtika:_ Hearken, hearken, beautiful Kānāi:
I give the maiden Rādhā to your care,
A lotus-damsel, softly-wrought,
And thirstier bee than you.
The feast of honey is prepared,--
Only forget the Archer's cruelty,
Touching her bosom gently
As an olifant a lily.
Making excuse to count her necklace pearls,
Your hands may lift the burden of her breasts:
She does not understand the ways of love,
But now consents, and now refuses.
The shirīsh-flower is not more delicate than she, therefore
Inure her to the Archer's way by little steps,--
_The poet Vidyāpati lays down_
_This prayer of a messenger upon your feet._
XXXIV.
_Sakhī:_ When first the damsel to her leman came,
Her heart beat fast with shame and fear:
Like to a golden image, Rādhā stood quite still,
Nor moving forward, nor returning.
Taking her hands, he sets her by his side,
And she in shame and anger veils her face:
When he unfolds her face and kisses her upon her mouth,
She hides the shamefast face in Mādhav's breast.
_This is the merry song of Vidyāpati the poet,_
_Delighting Rājā Shivasimha's heart._
XXXV.
_Sakhī:_ The sakhī soothed her fears, and led her lovingly,--
Her leman's heart was gladdened, he took her by the hand:
But Rādhā paled at Kānu's touch,
A lotus fading in the moon's embrace.
She cries: _Oh no, no, no!_ and tears are pouring
from her eyes,
She lies outstretched upon the margin of the bed,
His close embrace has not unloosed her zone,--
Even of handling of her breasts has been but little.
She lifts the wimple up to hide her face,
She cannot rest, but trembles through and through.
_Says Vidyāpati: The heart of it is patience:_
_Step by step may Madan claim his own._
XXXVI.
_Sakhī:_ Ah damsel fair! in dalliance is no delight,
For Madan wounds the heart with double pains.
The maidens all together setting her by Kānu's side,
The damsel breathes in frightened gasps:
When Kānu lifts her to his lap, she bends her body back,
Like the young snake, untamed by spells.
'But shut your eyes this once, my fair one,
As a sick man drinks his draught:
A little moment's pain, and then the birth of bliss,--
Why do you turn your face away from this, my girl?'
_Hearken, Murāri, saith Vidyāpati:_
_You are the ocean of desire, and she is artless._
XXXVII.
_Rādhā:_ How can I tell of what was done that night?
Unhappily the hours were spent with Mādhava:
He clasped my breasts and drank the nectar of my lips,
Laying his face on mine, he killed my life.
(First youth, and hence this pouring out of passion:
So rash is Kān,--he has no skill in love).
Madan-maddened, nothing recking,
He would not heed how many prayers!
_Hearken, Lady fair, says Vidyāpati:_
_You are but artless, and Murāri is athirst._
XXXVIII.
_Rādhā:_ What can I say, my sakhī? It is shame to tell
All that my Lover did imperiously;
A young thing I, unlearned in lore of love,--
It was the messenger that led me to his side.
My body shivered at the sight of him,
So fierce he was to fall on me,
I lost my wits in his embrace:
How can I tell what amorous play he played?
In everything my Lord behaved ungently,
How can I speak of it amongst my friends?
Why ask of it, who know it all too well?
Happy is she whom he may not distress!
_Fear not, says Vidyāpati:_
_Such is the fashion of first dalliance._
XXXIX.
_Rādhā:_ Do not urge me, dearest maiden, do not urge.
What can I do, if he should soothe my fears?
Few are my years, for I am not so old as Kānu,--
I am too shamefast and too tender.
Cruel Hari played with me impatiently,
How can I tell how many woes the night bestowed?
Passion flamed up, I lost my wits,--
Who knows when he broke my girdle?
He held me close, with pinioned arms,
And then my heart was beating wildly;
I let him see my streaming eyes,
But even then Kānu had no pity.
My wicked lover parched my lips--
Abetted by the night, Rahu devoured the moon;
He tore my twin breasts with his nails,
Just as a lion tears an elephant.
_Ah amorous woman, says Vidyāpati,--_
_You knew full well Murāri was aflame!_
XL.
_Sakhī:_ Shyāma sitting in his pride
Speaks of the night's delights:
'She is the beauteous sweet-faced Rāi,
With rapture I received her in my inmost heart.
'How many ways she kissed me,
Laughing light and low in gladness,
Diversely disporting,
My dream of delight.
'How nectar-sweet her words,
Eyebrows arching, wanton glances,
Damsel waking in my heart's core.'
_This is first love, says Vidyāpati._
XLI.
_Rādhā:_ O maiden, dearest maiden, do not lead me to him,
Too young am I, and he is a burning lover:
My heart is shaken, going to his side,--
The amorous bee will spring upon the lotus.
The muslin hides my harmless body
Like wimpling waters of a lily-lake:
Oh Mother mine, how creatures suffer pain!
What Power shaped the wicked Night?
_Says Vidyāpati: What is befitting now?_
_Who cannot tell when it is dawn?_
XLII.
_Sakhī:_ Her gentle words she can but stammer,
Her shamefast speech will not well out:
To-day I found her most contrary,
Sometimes consenting, sometimes fearful.
At any word of dalliance, she tightly shuts her eyes,
For she has caught a glimpse of the great sea of Love:
At kissing-time she turns her face away,--
The moon has taken the lotus on his lap!
Stricken with terror if her zone be touched, the shining maiden
Knows that Madan's treasury is being rifled.
Her clothes are disarrayed, she hides her bosom
with her arms,--
The jewels are exposed, and yet she knots her garment!
_What is Vidyāpati to think, forsooth?_
_For at the moment of embrace, she flies the bed!_
XLIII.
_Rādhā:_ Oh Hari, Why do you seek to loose my girdle?
You shall not win your will:
I cannot tell what pleasure there can be in seeing me,
But now I know your guile, O Banamāli!
If you will listen to my plea, Murāri,
I shall abuse you only very gently:
Sufficed with dalliance, what need for sight?
My soul may not endure it.
Never has like been heard,
While lamps are lit, to play with me:
The people of the house will hear our very breath!
Deal with me gently, for the people of the house are
very near.
_This savour Vidyāpati knoweth well,--_
_Rājā Shivasimha and Lakshmī Devī be witness!_
XLIV.
_Rādhā:_ You that are skilled in passion's lore have pity
on my shame,--
I will forsake it when my youth increases:
My little savour cannot satisfy you now,
The little draught will not suffice to slake your thirst.
Would you but take it drop by drop,
Daily increasing like the digit of the moon!
These little breasts of mine will hardly fill your hands
as yet,--
O Hari, do not wound them with your nails, be wise in love.
_Vidyāpati exclaims: What are these gestes,_
_To set such store upon a green pomegranate?_
XLV.
_Rādhā:_ You are that Banamāli that did slay Chānur:
This tender woman is the shirīsh-flower.
O cruel messenger that made this war,
And gave a jasmine-garland to an olifant!
No longer does the sūrm paint my eyes,
And wet with sweat are musk and sandal:
O wounded Mādhav, I beseech you,
Do not offer up my life upon the altar of Desire!
O Hari, Hari, let your purpose be
To spare my life until another day.
_Give Love his due, impatient lover!_
_Says Vidyāpati: Your wish shall be accomplished._
XLVI.
_Sakhī:_ Amorous the swain, and little is his darling:
If hands be laid on her, how many are her wiles!
With what entreaties and persuasions have the maidens led her
To her lover's house, and laid her on his bed!
With face averted, lying closely curled,
(For who may turn the tide when passion flows?)
She hides her face beneath the wimple,--
The frightened moon escaping from the storm.
No word comes out, she hears nought that is said,
Repeatedly she folds her hands imploringly:
With covering arms she guards the treasures of her life,--
She needs no bodice to enfold her breasts.
Insistently from sight and touch alike
She keeps her jewels hidden in the granary of Love,--
A matter for her maidens' mocking many days,
Now learning her the lore of Love.
_Vidyāpati finds great delight herein:_
_For at a sudden touch, she pushes out her hand!_
XLVII.
_Sakhī:_ Enough! and cast the trouble from your heart.
Be not afraid, go to your lover's side:
Have done with obstinacy, for I tell you
Never can be joy without its pain.
But half a grain of grief, and then a life of gladness
Why are you so averse to this, my girl?
Just for a moment shut your eyes,
As a sick man drinks his draught.
_Go, Beauty, go, and play loves game,_
_Vidyāpati prays for your consent._
XLVIII.
_Rādhā:_ O Hari, if you will insist on touching me,
The sin of murdering a wife will fall on you:
You are a guileful lover full of passion
I know not whether it be sweet or bitter.
When passion is outpoured, I shiver
Like an arrow-smitten bounding antelope:
O do not realise your hopes before the time,--
Savour is never lacking to the wise man's end.
_Vidyāpati says: I see it clear,_
_That honeyed fruit is never green._
XLIX.
_Sakhī:_ How to direct the flying arrows of her restless eyes
The Archer-guru teaches her the unfamiliar lesson
(And who would practise uninformed?)