and played by the Apsarases. Sītā’s fortunes after her abandonment are
depicted; she weeps and casts herself in the Bhāgīrathī; she reappears,
supported by Pṛthivī, the earth goddess, and Gan̄gā, each carrying a
new-born infant. Pṛthivī declaims against the harshness of Rāma, Gan̄gā
excuses his acts; both ask Sītā to care for the children until they are
old enough to hand over to Vālmīki, when she can act as she pleases.
Rāma is carried away, he believes the scene real, now he intervenes in
the dialogue, now he faints. Arundhatī suddenly appears with Sītā, who
goes to her husband and brings him back to consciousness. The people
acclaim the queen, and Vālmīki presents to them Rāma’s sons, Kuça and
Lava.
Indian tradition asserts that of the Mahāvīracarita Bhavabhūti wrote
only up to stanza 46 of Act V, the rest being completed by Subrahmaṇya
Kavi; if this were to be taken as certain, it would be a sign that that
drama was never completed, and so was the last work of the author, but
the maturity of the Uttararāmacarita makes it clear that, whatever
there may be of truth in the story, the incompleteness cannot have been
due to lack of time.
3. BHAVABHŪTI’S DRAMATIC ART AND STYLE
It is difficult to doubt that Bhavabhūti must have been induced to
write his Prakaraṇa in an effort to vie with the author of the
Mṛcchakaṭikā. It is true that no such humour as lightens that drama is
found in the Mālatīmādhava, but that was doubtless due to Bhavabhūti’s
own temperament; conscious that he had no gift [401] in that direction,
he omitted boldly the part of the Vidūṣaka which he could clearly not
have handled effectively. But in doing so he lessened greatly his
resources, and has to select for his theme in lieu of comic relief
incidents of the terrible and horrible type blended with the
supernatural. The main love-story, with the episode of the two young
lovers, whose desires are thwarted by interposition of a powerful
suitor, and whose affairs are mixed up with those of two other lovers,
both affections ending in elopements, occurs in the Kathāsaritsāgara,
[402] and in that collection as elsewhere [403] we find the motifs of
the sacrifice of a maiden by a magician and the offering of flesh to
the demons to obtain their aid. But the credit is due to Bhavabhūti of
combining them in an effective enough whole, and of producing in Act V
a spectacle at once horrible and exciting. He has also improved his
authorities in detail; the escaped tiger replaces the more conventional
elephant; and the intrigue is more effectually welded together by
making Madayantikā the sister of Nandana, the king’s favourite.
Further, he has introduced the machinery of Kāmandakī and her
assistants Avalokitā and Saudāminī. This again is taken from the
romance; Daṇḍin, as Brahmanical an author as Bhavabhūti himself, adopts
Buddhist nuns as go-betweens, and Kāmandakī’s offices are perfectly
honourable; she merely undertakes, at the request of the parents, to
subtract Mālatī from marriage with one unworthy of her and not her
father’s choice. The influence of Kālidāsa explains Act IX, which is a
manifest effort to rival Act IV of the Vikramorvaçī, which it excels in
tragic pathos, if it is inferior to it in grace and charm. The same Act
has a flagrant imitation of the Meghadūta in Mādhava’s idea of sending
a cloud message to his lost love, and is full of verbal reminiscences
of that text.
The plot, however interesting, is extremely badly knit together; the
action is dependent to an absurd degree on accident; Mālatī twice on
the verge of death is twice saved by mere chance. Moreover, the
characters live apart from all contact with real life; they are in a
city like the characters of the Mṛcchakaṭikā, but seem to exist in a
world of their own in which the escape of tigers and the abduction of
maidens with murderous intent cause no surprise. There is little
individuality in hero or heroine, though the shy modesty of the latter
contrasts with the boldness of Madayantikā, who flings herself at
Makaranda’s head. A friend of Mādhava, Kalahaṅsa, is asserted later
[404] to be a Viṭa, but has nothing characteristic, and probably the
assertion is without ground.
The Mahāvīracarita lacks the novelty of the Mālatīmādhava, but
Bhavabhūti’s effort to give some unity to the plot is commendable,
though it is unsuccessful. The fatal error, of course, is the narration
of events in long speeches in lieu of action. The conversations of
Mālyavant and Çūrpaṇakhā, of Jaṭāyu and Sampāti, of Indra and
Citraratha, and of Alakā and Lan̄kā are wholly undramatic; the
word-painting of the places of their adventures, as seen from the
aerial car on the return home, has not the slightest conceivable right
to a place in drama. The elaborate exchange of passionate and grandiose
defiances between Rāma and Paraçurāma which drags through two Acts does
credit to the rhetorical powers of the dramatist, but is wearisome and
a mere hindrance to the action. On the other hand, the scene where
Bharata determines to act as vicegerent and that between Vālin and
Sugrīva are effective, while with excellent taste Vālin is made an
enemy, who opposes Rāma under bad advice, and the treachery and
fraternal strife of the Rāmāyaṇa disappear for good. The
characterization is feeble; Rāma and Sītā are tediously of one pattern
without shadow on their virtue, and neither Mālyavant nor Rāvaṇa
surpasses mediocrity.
The Uttararāmacarita reaches no higher level as a drama; he has a
period of twelve years to cover, as he had fourteen in the
Mahāvīracarita, and to produce effective unity would be hard for any
author; Bhavabhūti has made no serious effort to this end; he has
contented himself with imagining a series of striking pictures. The
first Act is admirably managed; the tragic irony of Sītā’s gazing on
the pictures of a sorrow over for good just on the verge of an even
crueller fate, and of asking for a visit to see the old scenes of her
unhappiness as well as her joy, which affords the king the means of
immediately abandoning her, is perfectly brought out. Yet excuses are
made for the king; it is the voice of duty that he hears; his
counsellors who might have stayed his rash act are away. The scene in
Act III, when Sītā sees and forgives her spouse, is admirable in its
delicacy of the portrayal of her gradual but generous surrender to the
proof that, though harsh, he deeply loved her. Lava again is a fine
study in his pride, followed by submission to the great king when
approached with courtesy, but the Vidyādhara’s tale of the use of the
magic weapons, doubtless an effort to vie with Bhāravi’s Kirātārjunīya,
is ineffective. The last Act, however, reveals Bhavabhūti at his best;
the plain tale of the Rāmāyaṇa makes Kuça and Lava recite the story of
the Rāmāyaṇa at a sacrifice and be recognized by their father; here a
supernatural drama with goddesses as actors leads insensibly to a happy
ending, for Bhavabhūti again defies tradition to attain the end,
without which the drama would be defective even in our eyes. Sītā and
Rāma are splendidly characterized; the one in his greatness of power
and nobility of spirit, the other ethereal and spiritual, removed from
the gross things of earth. Janaka and Kauçalyā are effectively drawn;
their condolences have the accent of sincerity, but the other
characters—there are twenty-four in all—present nothing of note. It was
not within Bhavabhūti’s narrow range to create figures on a generous
scale; in his other dramas they are reduced to the minimum necessary
for the action.
As a poem the merits of the Uttararāmacarita are patent and undeniable.
The temper of Bhavabhūti was akin to the grand and the inspiring in
nature and life; the play blends the martial fervour of Rāma and his
gallant son with the haunting pathos of the fate of the deserted queen,
and the forests, the mountains, the rivers in the first three Acts
afford abundant opportunity for his great ability in depicting the
rugged as well as the tender elements of nature; what is awe-inspiring
and magnificent in its grandeur has an attraction for Bhavabhūti, which
is not shown in the more limited love of nature in Kālidāsa. He excels
Kālidāsa also in the last Act, for the reunion of Sītā and Rāma has a
depth of sentiment, not evoked by the tamer picture of the meeting of
Duḥṣanta and Çakuntalā; both Rāma and Sītā are creatures of more vital
life and deeper experience than the king and his woodland love.
We find, in fact, in Bhavabhūti, in a degree unknown to Kālidāsa, child
of fortune, to whom life appeared as an ordered joyous whole, the sense
of the mystery of things; ‘what brings things together’, he says, ‘is
some mysterious inward tie; it is certainly not upon outward
circumstances that affection rests’. [405] Self-sacrifice is a reality
to Bhavabhūti; Rāma is prepared to abandon without a pang affection,
compassion, and felicity, nay Sītā herself, for the sake of his people,
[406] and he acts up to his resolve. Friendship is to him sacred; to
guard a friend’s interests at the cost of one’s own, to avoid in
dealings with him all malice and guile, and to strive for his weal as
if for one’s own is the essential mark of true friendship. [407]
Admirable also is his conception of love, far nobler than that normal
in Indian literature; it is the same in happiness and sorrow, adapted
to every circumstance of life, in which the heart finds solace,
unspoiled by age, mellowing and becoming more valuable as in course of
time reserve dies away, a supreme blessing attained only by those that
are fortunate and after long toil. [408] The child completes the union;
it ties in a common knot of union the strands of its parents’ hearts.
[409] Bhavabhūti was clearly a solitary soul; this is attested by the
prologue of the Mālatīmādhava:
ye nāma kecid iha naḥ prathayanty avajñām: jānanti te kim api tān
prati naiṣa yatnaḥ
utpatsyate ’sti mama ko ’pi samānadharmā: kālo hy ayam anavadhir
vipulā ca pṛthvī.
‘Those that disparage me know little; for them my effort is not made;
there will or does exist some one with like nature to mine, for time is
boundless and the earth is wide.’ Yet we may sympathize with those who
felt [410] that his art was unfit for the stage, for Bhavabhūti’s style
has many demerits in addition to the defects of his technique.
Bhavabhūti in fact proclaims here as his own merit richness and
elevation of expression (prauḍhatvam udāratā ca vacasām) and depth of
meaning, and we must admit that he has no small grounds for his claims.
The depth of thought and grandeur which can be admitted in the case of
Bhavabhūti must be measured by Indian standards, and be understood
subject to the grave limitations which are imposed on any Brahmanical
speculation as to existence by the orthodoxy which is as apparent in
Bhavabhūti as it is in the lighter-hearted Kālidāsa. When, therefore,
we are told [411] that ‘with reference to Kālidāsa he holds a position
such as Aeschylus holds with reference to Euripides’, we must not take
too seriously the comparison. No poet, in fact, suggests less readily
comparison with Euripides than does Kālidāsa. He has nothing whatever
of the questioning mind of the Greek dramatist, contemporary of the
Sophists, and eager inquirer into the validity of all established
conventions. In style again he aims at a level of perfection of
achievement, which was neither sought nor attained by Euripides.
Unquestionably, if any parallel were worth making, Kālidāsa would fall
to be ranked as the Sophokles of the Indian drama, for as far as any
Indian poet could, ‘he saw life steadily and saw it whole’, and was
free from the vain questionings which vexed the soul of Euripides.
Bhavabhūti again cannot seriously be compared with Aischylos, for he
accepted without question the Brahmanical conceptions of world order,
unlike the great Athenian who sought to interpret for himself the
fundamental facts of existence, and who found for them no solution in
popular belief or traditional religion. There can, moreover, be no
greater contrast in style than that between the simple strength of
Aischylos, despite his power of brilliant imagery, [412] and the
over-elaboration and exaggeration of Bhavabhūti. The distinction
between Kālidāsa and his successor is of a different kind. Both
accepted the traditional order, but Kālidāsa, enjoying, we may feel
assured, a full measure of prosperity in the golden age of India under
the Gupta empire, viewed with a determined optimism all that passed
before him in life, in strange contrast to the bitterness of the
denunciations of existence which Buddhism, then losing ground, has set
forth as its contribution to the problems of life. Bhavabhūti, on his
part, recognized with a truer insight, sharpened perhaps by the obvious
inferiority of his fortunes and failure to enjoy substantial royal
favour, the difficulties and sorrows of life; his theme is not the joys
of a pleasure-loving great king or the vicissitudes of a Purūravas, too
distant from humanity to touch our own life, but the bitter woes of
Rāma and Sītā, who have for us the reality of manhood and womanhood, as
many a touch reminds us: [413]
kim api kim api mandam mandam asattiyogād: avicalitakapolaṁ
jalpatoç ca krameṇa
açithilaparirambhavyāpṛtaikaikadoṣṇor: aviditagatayāmā rātrir evaṁ
vyaraṅsīt.
‘As slowly and gently, cheek pressed against cheek, we whispered soft
nothings, each clasping the other with warm embrace, the night, whose
watches had sped unnoticed, came to an end.’
As regards the formal side of Bhavabhūti’s style we must unquestionably
admit his power of expression, which is displayed equally in all three
dramas. To modern taste Bhavabhūti is most attractive when he is simple
and natural, as he can be when it pleases him. Thus in Act VI of the
Mālatīmādhava we have a pretty expression of Mādhava’s joy at the words
of love of him uttered by Mālatī when she has no idea of his presence
near her:
mlānasya jīvakusumasya vikāsanāni: saṁtarpaṇāni
sakalendriyamohanāni
ānandanāni hṛdayaikarasāyanāni: diṣṭyā mayāpy adhigatāni
vacomṛtāni.
‘Fortune has favoured me, for I have heard the nectar of her words that
make to bloom again the faded flower of my life, delightful, disturbing
every sense, causing gladness, sole elixir for my heart.’ The
deliberate rhyming effect is as appropriate as it is uncommon in such
elaboration, and it is characteristic that the same effect is shortly
afterwards repeated. Effective simplicity and directness also
characterize the speech, in Sanskrit contrary to the usual rule, of
Buddharakṣitā in Act VII, when she clinches the argument in favour of
the elopement of Madayantikā and Makaranda:
preyān manorathasahasravṛtaḥ sa eṣaḥ: suptapramattajanam etad
amātyaveçma
prauḍhaṁ tamaḥ kuru kṛtajñatayaiva bhadram: utkṣiptamūkamaṇinūpuram
ehi yāmaḥ.
‘Here is thy beloved, on whom a thousand times thy hopes have rested;
in the minister’s palace the men are asleep or drunken; impenetrable is
the darkness; be grateful and show thy favour; come, let us silence our
jewelled anklets by laying them aside, and depart hence.’ Equally
effective is the expression of the admirable advice tendered to Mādhava
and Mālatī at the moment when Kāmandakī has succeeded in securing their
union:
preyo mitram bandhutā vā samagrā: sarve kāmāḥ çevadhir jīvitaṁ vā
strīṇām bhartā dharmadārāç ca puṅsām: ity anyonyaṁ vatsayor jñātam
astu.
‘Know, my dear children, that to a wife her husband and to a husband
his lawful wife are, each to each, the dearest of friends, the sum
total of relationships, the completeness of desire, the perfection of
treasures, even life itself.’ Pretty again are the terms in which
Kāmandakī laments Mālatī in Act X when she learns of her disappearance:
ā janmanaḥ pratimuhūrtaviçeṣaramyāṇy: āceṣṭitāni tava samprati tāni
tāni
cāṭūni cārumadhurāṇi ca saṁsmṛtāni: dehaṁ dahanti hṛdayaṁ ca
vidārayanti.
‘My body is aflame and my heart torn in sunder by the memory of thy
childish movements which grew more delightful every hour from thy
birth, and of the beauty and sweetness of thy loving words.’
It is, therefore, the more to be regretted that Bhavabhūti was not
content with simplicity, but is often too fond of elaborate and
overloaded descriptions, which are fatally lacking in simplicity and
intelligibility and can be fully comprehended only after careful study
and examination. We must, however, it is clear, admit that Bhavabhūti
definitely improved in taste as the years went on. The latest of his
dramas, the Uttararāmacarita, is far less obnoxious to criticism for
defects of judgement than the Mālatīmādhava, which may be set down as
an adventure in a genre unsuited to the poet’s talent. There is an
admirable touch in the scene in Act I of the play where Sītā, wearied,
falls to rest on the pillow of Rāma’s arm, that arm which no other
woman can claim and which has ever lulled her to sleep, and he gazes on
her in fond admiration: [414]
iyaṁ gehe lakṣmīr iyam amṛtavartir nayanayor
asāv asyāḥ sparço vapuṣi bahulaç candanarasaḥ
ayaṁ kaṇṭhe bāhuḥ çiçiramasṛṇo mauktikasaraḥ
kim asyā na preyo yadi param asahyas tu virahaḥ.
‘She is Fortune herself in my home; she is a pencil of ambrosia for the
eyes; her touch here on my body is as fragrant as sandal juice; her arm
round my neck is cool and soft as a necklace of pearls; what in her is
there that is not dear, save only the misery of separation from her?’
Scarcely are the words said than the attendant enters with the word,
‘It has come’, which on her lips is to announce the advent of the spy
whose report is to lead to Sītā’s banishment, while the audience,
following the words, applies it at once to the separation which Rāma
was deploring, and which to him was the parting in the past when Rāvaṇa
stole his bride.
The spontaneous regard which springs up for each other in the hearts of
the two princes Lava and Candraketu when they meet is admirably
depicted: [415]
yadṛcchāsampātaḥ kim u guṇagaṇānām atiçayaḥ
purāṇo vā janmāntaranibiḍabandhaḥ paricayaḥ
nijo vā sambandhaḥ kim u vidhivaçāt ko ’py avidito
mamaitasmin dṛṣṭe hṛdayam avadhānaṁ racayati?
‘Is it this chance encounter, or his wealth of splendid qualities, or
an ancient love, firm bound in a former birth, or a common tie of blood
unknown through the might of fate, which draws close my heart to him
even at first sight?’
The rebuke which Vāsantī addresses to Rāma for his treatment of Sītā,
despite the loyalty of the queen, is effectively broken off by a faint:
[416]
tvaṁ jīvitaṁ tvam asi me hṛdayaṁ dvitīyam
tvaṁ kaumudī nayanayor amṛtaṁ tvam an̄ge
ity ādibhiḥ priyaçatair anurudhya mugdhām
tām eva çāntam athavā kim ataḥ pareṇa.
‘“Thou art my life, my second heart, thou the moonlight of my eyes, the
ambrosia for my body thou”: with these and a hundred other endearments
didst thou win her simple soul, and now alas—but what need to say
more?’
Elsewhere we have less simplicity, but in these cases we must
distinguish carefully between those instances in which the difficulty
and complexity of expression serve to illustrate the thought, and those
in which the words are made to stand in lieu of ideas. In many cases
Bhavabhūti may justly claim to have achieved substantial success, even
when he is not precisely simple. The effect of love on Mādhava is
effectively expressed: [417]
paricchedātītaḥ sakalavacanānām aviṣayaḥ
punarjanmany asminn anubhavapathaṁ yo na gatavān
vivekapradhvaṅsād upacitamahāmohagahano
vikāraḥ ko ’py antar jaḍayati ca tāpaṁ ca kurute.
‘An emotion, evading determination, inexpressible by words, never
before experienced in this birth of mine, wholly confusing because of
the impossibility of examination, is at once numbing me within and
filling me with a torment of fire.’
The poet’s command of the philosophical conceptions of his day is shown
in the verse following:
paricchedavyaktir bhavati na puraḥsthe ’pi viṣaye
bhavaty abhyaste ’pi smaraṇam atathābhāvavirasam
na saṁtāpacchedo himasarasi vā candramasi vā
mano niṣṭhāçūnyam bhramati ca kim apy ālikhati ca.
‘Though an object be before one’s gaze, determination is not easy;
brought back, memory intervenes to introduce an element of falsity;
neither in the cool lake nor in the moonbeams can passion be quenched;
my mind, powerless to attain a fixed result, wanders, and yet records
something.’
We have a further effective picture of the physical effect of love on
Mādhava when he seeks to assuage his sorrows by depicting his beloved
from memory: [418]
vāraṁ vāraṁ tirayati dṛçor udgamam bāṣpapūras
tatsaṁkalpopahitajaḍima stambham abhyeti gātram
sadyaḥ svidyann ayam aviratotkampalolān̄gulīkaḥ
pāṇir lekhāvidhiṣu nitarāṁ vartate kiṁ karomi.
‘Time after time the tears that stream from my eyes blind my sight; my
body is paralysed by the numbness born of the thought of her; when I
seek to draw, my hand grows moist and trembles incessantly; ah, what is
there that I can do?’
It is, however, easy to pass into exaggeration, as in: [419]
līneva pratibimbiteva likhitevotkīrṇarūpeva ca
pratyupteva ca vajralepaghaṭitevāntarnikhāteva ca
sā naç cetasi kīliteva viçikhaiç cetobhuvaḥ pañcabhiç
cintāsaṁtatitantujālanibiḍasyūteva ca lagnā priyā.
‘So have I grasped my dear one that she is as it were merged in me,
reflected in me, depicted in me, her form mingled in me, cast into me,
cemented with adamant to me, planted within me, pinned to my soul by
the five arrows of love, firmly sewn into the fabric of my thought
continuum.’
A stanza like this, whatever credit it may do to the ingenuity of its
author, hardly gives any high opinion of his literary taste, but we are
undoubtedly forced to assume that he believed deliberately in the
merits of the style he adopted, which as contrasted with that of
Kālidāsa belongs to the Gauḍī type, [420] which loves compounds in
prose, and aims at the grandiose rather than sweetness and grace. The
adoption of such a style, possibly under the influence of the
reputation of Bāṇa, is wholly unjustified in drama; the prose, which
normally in the plays moves freely and easily, is hampered by compounds
of ridiculous length which must have been nearly as unintelligible to
his audiences as they are now without careful study. The defect, it is
true, gradually diminishes; the Uttararāmacarita is far freer from sins
of this type. In the verse the theory does not make such demands for
compounds, so that the poetry is often better than the prose;
especially in his latest drama it gains clearness and intelligibility.
Sanskrit, however, was clearly in large measure an artificial language
to Bhavabhūti; he employs far too freely rare terms culled from the
lexicons, honourable to his scholarship but not to his taste, and the
same lack of taste is displayed in the excess of his exaggerations. Of
the sweetness and charm of Kālidāsa he has as little as of the power of
suggestion displayed by his predecessor; but he excels in drawing with
a few strokes the typical features of a situation or emotion. He seeks
propriety in his characters’ utterances; Janaka shows his philosophical
training, as do the two ascetics in Act IV; Lava manifests his
religious pupilship under Vālmīki; Tamasā as a river goddess uses
similes from the waters. Effective is the speech of the old chamberlain
who addresses the newly-crowned Rāma as ‘Rāma dear’ to remember the
change and fall back on ‘Your Majesty’. It may be admitted also that in
many passages Bhavabhūti does produce effective concatenations of
sounds, but only at the expense of natural expression and clearness of
diction. The appreciation which he has excited in India is often due
not to his real merits, but to admiration of these linguistic tours de
force, such as the following:
dordaṇḍāñcitacandraçekharadhanurdaṇḍāvabhan̄godyataṣ
ṭan̄kāradhvanir āryabālacaritaprastāvanāḍiṇḍimaḥ
drākparyastakapālasampuṭamiladbrahmāṇḍabhāṇḍodara—
bhrāmyatpiṇḍitacaṇḍimā katham aho nādyāpi viçrāmyati.
‘The twang, emanating from the broken staff of Çiva’s bow, bent by his
staff-like arms, is the trumpet sound proclaiming to the world the
youthful prowess of my noble brother; it ceases not yet, its
reverberations enhanced by its rumbling through the interstices of the
fragments of the universe rent asunder by the dread explosion.’ It may
readily be admitted that the sound effect of such a verse is admirable,
but it is attained only at the sacrifice of clearness and propriety of
diction.
4. THE LANGUAGE AND THE METRES
Bhavabhūti, with his limited scope, confines himself to Çaurasenī, and
models his style on Sanskrit, so that the speakers of Prākrit are
committed to the absurdity of elaborate style in what is supposed to be
a vernacular. For him doubtless as for later poets the production of
Prākrit was a mechanical task of transforming Sanskrit according to the
rules of Vararuci or other grammarians.
In metre the Mahāvīracarita shows a free use of the Çloka, as is
inevitable in an epic play; it is found 129 times; the Çārdūlavikrīḍita
(75), Vasantatilaka (39), Çikhariṇī (31), and Sragdharā (28) are the
other chief metres; the Upajāti, Mandākrāntā, and Mālinī are not rare,
but the Āryā (3) and Gīti (1) are almost gone, and there are only
sporadic Aupacchandasika, Puṣpitāgrā, Pṛthvī, Praharṣiṇī, Rathoddhatā,
Vaṅçasthā, Çālinī, and Hariṇī. The Uttararāmacarita has the same
metres, save the Sragdharā, a curious omission; it adds the
Drutavilambita and Mañjubhāṣiṇī; the occurrences of the Çloka are 89,
the Çikhariṇī is second (30), Vasantatilaka third (26), and
Çārdūlavikrīḍita fourth (25). The Mālatīmādhava has the same metres as
the Uttararāmacarita plus the Narkuṭaka [421] and a Daṇḍaka of six
short syllables and sixteen amphimacers; here the Vasantatilaka takes
first place (49), Çārdūlavikrīḍita (32), Çikhariṇī (21), and Hariṇī
(12). The Mālinī (21) and Mandākrāntā (15) take on greater importance,
while the Çloka is negligible (14). The fact that there are only 8
Āryās reflects the changed character of Bhavabhūti’s versification from
that of Kālidāsa.
IX
VIÇĀKHADATTA AND BHAṬṬA NĀRĀYAṆA
1. THE DATE OF VIÇĀKHADATTA
A curious vagueness besets our knowledge of Viçākhadatta or
Viçākhadeva, son of the Mahārāja Bhāskaradatta or the minister Pṛthu,
grandson of the feudatory Vaṭeçvaradatta. None of these persons are
elsewhere known, and for his date we are reduced to conjectures. The
play ends with a stanza mentioning Candragupta as would be natural in a
play of which he is hero, but there are variants in the manuscripts,
including Dantivarman, Rantivarman, and (A)vantivarman. The last has
been utilized to fix the date, but in two different ways; Avantivarman
might be the Maukhari king whose son married Harṣa’s daughter, or the
king of Kashmir (A.D. 855–83); Jacobi [422] identifies the eclipse
referred to in the play as that of December 2, 860, when, he holds,
Çūra, the king’s minister, had the play performed. There is no
conclusive argument for or against this clever combination. Konow [423]
sees in Candragupta the ruler of the Gupta line, and would make the
poet a younger contemporary of Kālidāsa, but this is fantasy. We have
some evidence of imitation of Ratnākara by Viçākhadatta, but it is
possibly not conclusive as to date. Still less weight attaches to the
fact that in one manuscript the Nāndī is supposed to be over before the
play begins, for that is merely a habit of South Indian manuscripts,
true to the Bhāsa tradition. There is nothing that prevents a date in
the ninth century, though the work may be earlier. [424]
2. THE MUDRĀRĀKṢASA
Whatever its date, the Mudrārākṣasa [425] is one of the great Sanskrit
dramas, although in India itself its merits have long been underrated,
because it does not conform to the normal model. It is a drama of
political intrigue, centred in the person of Rākṣasa, formerly minister
of the Nandas, who is now sworn to revenge their destruction on
Cāṇakya, the Brahmin who vowed to ruin them, and who, in pursuance of
this end, secured an alliance between Candragupta, their rival, and
Parvateça [426] and attacked Pāṭaliputra. Rākṣasa seeing resistance
vain surrendered the city; the last of the royal house,
Sarvārthasiddhi, retired to an ascetic life, and Rākṣasa left to weave
plots elsewhere. His effort by a poison maiden to slay Candragupta
miscarried; instead, Parvateça fell a victim through Cāṇakya’s cunning.
This so far aided Rākṣasa that his son Malayaketu left Candragupta and
is now his ally, preparing with the aid of a host of motley origin,
including princes of Kulūta, Malaya, Kashmir, Scind, and Persia to
attack the capital. Act I shows Cāṇakya’s schemes; in a monologue he
expresses his detestation of the Nandas and his determination to secure
Rākṣasa as minister for his lord, for he is convinced of Rākṣasa’s
worth and has no desire himself to rule. Nipuṇaka, his spy, enters; he
has found a Jain Jīvasiddhi hostile to the king—he is in reality
Cāṇakya’s agent; the scribe Çakaṭadāsa is a real enemy, as is the
jeweller Candanadāsa, in whose house are Rākṣasa’s wife and child; by
good fortune he has secured the signet ring of Rākṣasa, dropped by the
former in pulling indoors the child. Cāṇakya sees his chance; he writes
a letter, has it copied in good faith by Çakaṭadāsa and sealed with
Rākṣasa’s seal; Çakaṭadāsa is then arrested, but on the point of
impalement is rescued by Siddhārthaka, another spy of the minister’s,
who flees to Rākṣasa; Jīvasiddhi is banished in ignominy to the same
destination, and Candanadāsa is flung into prison, to await death for
having harboured Rākṣasa’s family, which has escaped. Finally, it is
reported that Bhāgurāyaṇa and others of the court are also fled, news
received by Cāṇakya with admirable composure, for they are also his
emissaries.
Act II shows Rākṣasa’s counter-plots. Virādhaka, in a serpent-charmer’s
disguise, bears him news of ill import: the scheme to murder
Candragupta, as he passed under a coronation arch, has failed,
Vairodhaka, uncle of Malayaketu, who stayed when his nephew fled and
had been crowned also as lord of half the realm, being slain in lieu of
Candragupta; Abhayadatta, who offered him poison, has been forced to
drink the draught; Pramodaka, the chamberlain, has flaunted the wealth
sent to him to use in bribes, and is dead in misery; the bold spirits,
who were to issue from a subterranean passage into the king’s
bedchamber, have been detected by the king through the sight of ants
bearing a recent meal, and burnt in agony in their hiding place;
Jīvasiddhi is banished, Çakaṭadāsa condemned to the stake, Candanadāsa
to the same fate. The tale of woe is interrupted by the advent of
Çakaṭadāsa with Siddhārthaka, who restores his seal to Rākṣasa, saying
he had picked it up at Candanadāsa’s house, and begs permission to
remain in his train. Virādhaka now gives the one piece of good news:
Candragupta is tired of Cāṇakya. At this moment Rākṣasa is asked if he
will buy some precious jewels, and hastily bids Çakaṭadāsa see to the
price, little knowing that they are sent by Cāṇakya to entrap him. Act
III displays Cāṇakya at his ablest; a fine scene takes place between
him and Candragupta, on the score that he has forbidden all feasting
without telling the king; the monarch finally upbraids him, the
minister taunts him with ingratitude and insolence, resigns office, and
leaves in high dudgeon; none but the chief actors know the whole is but
a ruse, and Rākṣasa’s fortunes seem again fair. In Act IV the bright
prospect begins to darken; Bhāgurāyaṇa, for the officials who have
deserted to Malayaketu, explains to that monarch that they desire to
deal direct with him, not Rākṣasa; the latter, they suggest, is no real
foe of Candragupta; if Cāṇakya were out of the way, there would be
nothing to hinder his allying himself with Candragupta. The king is
perplexed, and his doubt increases when he overhears a conversation
between Rākṣasa and a courier who bears the glad tidings of the split
between the king and Cāṇakya; Rākṣasa eagerly exclaims that Candragupta
is now in the palms of his hands (hastatalagata), a phrase which
unhappily lends itself to the suspicious interpretation that he
meditates alliance with that king. Malayaketu’s conversation with
Rākṣasa, which ensues, leaves him half-hearted for an advance, for he
cannot rid himself of his suspicions of the minister. The Act ends with
Jīvasiddhi’s admission to see Rākṣasa, who asks him in vain for
intelligible advice as to the time for an advance, receiving in lieu
much astrological lore and what is really a presage of disaster. This
is achieved in Act V. First Jīvasiddhi approaches Bhāgurāyaṇa, who is
entrusted with the grant of permits to leave the camp, and admits—with
feigned reluctance—in order to get a permit, that he fears Rākṣasa, who
used him formerly when he was arranging for the poisoning of Parvateça,
but now seeks to slay him. The king, who overhears this, is wild with
rage; he had deemed his father slain by Cāṇakya, and Bhāgurāyaṇa has
great difficulty in persuading him that Rākṣasa’s action might be
deemed justifiable, and that at any rate vengeance must wait.
Siddhārthaka, however, now appears a prisoner, caught trying to escape
without a passport; beaten, he finally gives evidence against Rākṣasa
in the shape of the letter written in Act I by Çakaṭadāsa, which he
asserts he was to bear from Rākṣasa to Candragupta, a jewel sealed,
like the letter, with Rākṣasa’s seal—one given by Malayaketu to Rākṣasa
and by him to Siddhārthaka for rescuing Çakaṭadāsa, and a verbal
message, stating the terms demanded by the allied kings for their
treachery, and Rākṣasa’s own demand, the removal of Cāṇakya. The king
confronts Rākṣasa with the proofs, and the minister has made his case
worse from the start, for, asked the order of march proposed, he
assigns to the allied kings the proud duty of guarding the king’s
person, which Malayaketu interprets as a device to facilitate their
treachery. Rākṣasa is bewildered; he can deny the message, but the seal
and the writing are genuine; can Çakaṭadāsa have turned traitor through
fear? The argument against him is clinched by the king’s seeing that he
wears a fine jewel, one of those purchased at the close of Act II; it
was the king’s father’s, and must, he insists, be the price of the
minister’s treachery. Incensed, the foolish king gives orders to bury
alive those allied kings who craved territory as their reward, and to
trample under elephants those who sought them as their share. All is
confusion, and Rākṣasa, insolently spared, slips away to fulfil his
duty of rescuing his friend Candanadāsa.
Act VI reveals Rākṣasa in the capital deeply soliloquizing on the
failure of all his ends, and the fate of his friend. A spy of
Candragupta’s approaches him, and passes himself off as one seeking
death, in despair for Candanadāsa’s fate, on which Candragupta’s mind
is relentlessly set. He warns Rākṣasa that he may not attempt a rescue,
for, when they fear one, the executioners slay the victim out of hand,
and Rākṣasa sees that nothing save self-sacrifice is left for him. The
net is now firmly cast; Act VII sees Candanadāsa led out to death, his
wife and child beside him, a scene manifestly imitated from the
Mṛcchakaṭikā; the wife is determined to die also, but Rākṣasa
intervenes; Cāṇakya and Candragupta come on the scene, and Rākṣasa
decides to accept the office of minister pressed on him by both, when
thus alone he can save, not his own life, but that of Candanadāsa and
his friends. They, indeed, are in sore case, for Malayaketu’s massacre
of the kings has broken the host into fragments, and the apparent
rebels have taken the moment to capture him and his court. As minister,
Rākṣasa is permitted to free Malayaketu and restore his lands,
Candanadāsa is rewarded, and a general amnesty approved.
The interest in the action never flags; the characters of Cāṇakya and
Rākṣasa are excellent foils. Each in his own way is admirable; Cāṇakya
in his undying and just hatred of the Nandas, and Rākṣasa in his
unsparing devotion to their cause, his noble desire to save
Candanadāsa, and his fine submission, for the sake of others, to a yoke
he had purposed never to bear. The maxims of politics in which both
delight may amuse us; they are essentially the Indian views of polity
and give the play a contact with reality which Professor Lévi [427]
wrongly denies; the plots and counterplots of both ministers are the
type in which Indian polity has ever delighted. The minor figures are
all interesting; Siddhārthaka and Samiddhārthaka, gentlemen who even
disguise themselves as Caṇḍālas in the last Act, so that they may serve
Cāṇakya’s aims; Nipuṇaka, whose cleverness in finding the seal
justifies the name he bears; the disguised Virādhaka, the honest
Çakaṭadāsa, the noble Candanadāsa and his wife, the one female figure
in the play. The kings Candragupta and Malayaketu represent the
contrast of ripe intelligence with youthful ardour, and the weak
petulance of one who does not know men’s worth, and who rashly and
cruelly slays his allies on the faith of treachery. Bhāgurāyaṇa, who is
the false friend deluding Malayaketu in Candragupta’s interest, is a
carefully drawn figure; he dislikes the work, but dismisses his
repulsion as essentially the result of dependence which forbids a man
to judge between right and wrong.
Viçākhadatta’s diction is admirably forcible and direct; the martial
character of his dramas reflects itself in the clearness and rapidity
of his style, which eschews the deplorable compounds which disfigure
Bhavabhūti’s works. An artist in essentials, he uses images, metaphors,
and similes with tasteful moderation; alone of the later dramatists, he
realizes that he is writing a drama, not composing sets [428] of
elegant extracts. Hence is explained the paucity of citations from him
in the anthologies, which naturally find little to their purpose in an
author of a more manly strain than is usual in the drama. It is
significant that the Subhāṣitāvali cites but two stanzas, under his
name, as Viçākhadeva, both pretty but undistinguished; the second [429]
is graceful:
sendracāpaiḥ çṛtā meghair nipatannirjharā nagāḥ
varṇakambalasaṁvītā babhur mattadvipā iva.
‘The mountains, with their leaping waterfalls, girt with rainbow
clouds, shone like rutting elephants clad in raiment of bright hue.’
More characteristic is the terse and effective phraseology in which he
describes the dilemma of Malayaketu when his mind has been poisoned
against Rākṣasa: [430]
bhaktyā Nandakulānurāgadṛḍhayā Nandānvayālambinā
kiṁ Cāṇakyanirākṛtena kṛtinā Mauryeṇa saṁdhāsyate
sthairyam bhaktiguṇasya vā vigaṇayan satyasandho bhavet
ity ārūḍhakulālacakram iva me cetaç ciram bhrāmyati.
‘His loyalty was founded on his love for the family of Nanda, it rested
on a scion of that house; now that the cunning Maurya is severed from
Cāṇakya, will he make terms with him? Or, faithful ever in loyalty,
will he keep his pact with me? Perplexed with these thoughts my mind
revolves as on a potter’s wheel.’
There is effective gravity in the manner in which the aged chamberlain
handles the regular topic of his failing powers in old age: [431]
rūpādīn viṣayān nirūpya karaṇair yair ātmalābhas tvayā
labdhas teṣv api cakṣurādiṣu hatāḥ svārthāvabodhakriyāḥ
an̄gāni prasabhaṃ tyajanti paṭutām ājñāvidheyāni me
nyastam mūrdhni padaṁ tavaiva jarayā tṛṣṇe mudhā tāmyasi.
‘Sight, alas, and the other organs, wherewith aforetime I was wont to
grasp for myself the sights and objects of desire which I beheld, have
lost their power of action. My limbs obey me not and suddenly have lost
their cunning; thy foot is placed on my head, old age; vainly, O
desire, dost thou weary thyself.’
Rākṣasa’s name inevitably demands the usual play on its sense of
demoniac, but Malayaketu’s feeling redeems the use from triviality:
[432]
mitram mamāyam iti nirvṛtacittavṛttim
viçrambhatas tvayi niveçitasarvakāryam
tātaṁ nipātya saha bandhujanākṣitoyair
anvarthasaṃjña nanu Rākṣasa rākṣaso ’si?
‘My father’s mind rested secure in thy friendship; in his confidence he
entrusted to thee the whole burden of his affairs; when, then, thou
didst bring him low midst the tears of all his kin, didst thou not act,
O Rākṣasa, like the demon whose name thou dost bear?’
The martial spirit of Rākṣasa is admirably brought out in Act II: [433]
prakārān paritaḥ çarāsanadharaiḥ kṣipram parikṣipyatām
dvāreṣu dvipadaiḥ pratidvipaghaṭābhedakṣamaiḥ sthīyatām
muktvā mṛtyubhayam prahartumanasaḥ çatror bale durbale
te niryāntu mayā sahaikamanaso yeṣām abhīṣṭaṁ yaçaḥ.
‘Around the ramparts be the archers set at once; station at the portals
the elephants, strong to overthrow the host of the foeman’s herd; lay
fear aside, in eagerness to smite the host of the foe that cannot
withstand us, and issue forth with me with one accord, all to whom
glory is dear.’ The burden of duty is expressed admirably: [434]
kiṁ Çeṣasya bharavyathā na vapuṣi kṣāṁ na kṣipaty eṣa yat
kiṁ vā nāsti pariçramo dinapater āste na yan niçcalaḥ
kiṁ tv an̄gīkṛtam utsṛjan kiraṇavac chlāghyo jano lajjate
nirvyūḍhiḥ pratipannavastuṣu satām ekaṁ hi gotravratam.
‘Is it because Çeṣa feels not the pain of the burden of the earth that
he flings it not aside? Is it that the sun feels no weariness that he
does not stand still in his course? Nay, a noble man feels shame to lay
aside the duty he has taken on him, like a meaner creature; for the
good this is the one common law, to be faithful to what one has
undertaken.’ The minister’s resolve to save his friend is forcibly put:
[435]
audāsīnyaṁ na yuktaṁ priyasuḥrdi gate matkṛtām eva ghorām
vyāpattiṁ jñātam asya svatanum aham imāṁ niṣkrayaṁ kalpayāmi.
‘Indifference is impossible since my dear friend has fallen into this
disaster for my sake; I have it: my own life do I set as ransom for
his.’ There is grim humour in the command of the infuriated Malayaketu:
[436] ‘Those who desired my land, take and cast into a pit and cover
with dust; those two who sought my army of elephants slay by an
elephant,’ and in the Caṇḍāla’s remark [437] when he bids his friend
impale Candanadāsa: ‘His family will go off quickly enough of their own
accord.’ The revelation of Jīvasiddhi’s treachery wrings from Rākṣasa
the cry: [438] ‘My very heart has been made their own by my foes
(hṛdayam api me ripubhiḥ svīkṛtam).’ Proverbs are aptly used, as in the
same context the Sanskrit equivalent for an accumulation of evils (ayam
aparo gaṇḍasyopari sphoṭaḥ).
3. THE LANGUAGE AND THE METRES OF THE MUDRĀRĀKṢASA
The Sanskrit of the Mudrārākṣasa is classical, and the Prākrits number
three, for, in addition to the normal Çaurasenī and Māhārāṣṭrī, Māgadhī
is used by the Jain monk, by Siddhārthaka and Samiddhārthaka as
Caṇḍālas, by a servant and an envoy. We may take it that Viçākhadatta
wrote from the grammars, and this is confirmed by the fact that we find
in some of the manuscripts traces of the carrying through of
characteristic Māgadhī features, ññ for ṇṇ for Sanskrit ny; ẖk for kṣ;
çc for cch, st for sth, sṭ for ṣṭ and for ṣṭh, and the usual ç, l, and
e. It is possible, of course, that these are no more than restorations
by scribes, but they may easily be more venerable. It is also
interesting to note that there appear traces of Çaurasenī verses, which
is perfectly possible, as the theory does not necessitate all persons
who use Çaurasenī in prose singing in Māhārāṣṭrī; that is given as
requisite for women only, and in this play they are men who use these
Çaurasenī verses.
The metres most used are Çārdūlavikrīḍita (39), Sragdharā (24),
Vasantatilaka (19), and Çikhariṇī (18); the Çloka occurs also 22 times.
Other metres are sporadic, save Prākrit Āryās; they include Upajāti,
Aupacchandasika, Puṣpitāgrā, Praharṣiṇī, Mālinī, Mandākrāntā, Rucirā,
Vaṅçasthā, Suvadanā (iv. 16), and Hariṇī.
4. THE DATE OF BHAṬṬA NĀRĀYAṆA
The age of Bhaṭṭa Nārāyaṇa, Mṛgarājalakṣman is unknown. But he is cited
by Vāmana (iv. 3. 28) and Ānandavardhana [439] and so is before A.D.
800. Tradition, preserved in the Tagore family, makes him out to be a
Brahmin summoned from Kanyakubja to Bengal by Ādisūra, the founder of a
dynasty of eleven kings, who are supposed to have reigned before the
Pāla dynasty came to the throne in the middle of the eighth century
A.D. It has been suggested [440] that it was identical with the Guptas
of Magadha since Ādityasena, son of Mādhavagupta of Magadha, made
himself independent of Kanyakubja; this would make Ādisūra Ādityasena,
who was alive in A.D. 671. The date, however, is clearly conjectural
for the present.
5. THE VEṆĪSAṀHĀRA
Bhaṭṭa Nārāyaṇa has chosen as his topic [441] one episode from the
great epic and has endeavoured to make it capable of dramatic
representation. One of the worst of the insults heaped on Draupadī in
the gambling scene of the epic is the dragging of her by the hair
before the assembly by Duḥçāsana, one of the Kauravas. Draupadī vows
never to braid her hair again until the insult is avenged, as it
ultimately is.
Act I shows Bhīma in conversation with Sahadeva as they await the
result of Kṛṣna’s visit as an envoy to seek to settle the feud between
Pāṇḍavas and Kauravas; Bhīma shows his insolent confidence in his power
and his bitter anger, by declaring that he will break with Yudhiṣṭhira
if he makes peace before the insult to Draupadī has been avenged.
Sahadeva in vain seeks to appease him, and Draupadī adds to his
bitterness by relating a fresh insult in a careless allusion by
Duryodhana’s queen. Kṛṣṇa returns, nothing effected; indeed he has had
to use his magic arms to escape detention in the enemies’ camp. War is
inevitable, but Draupadī, more human now, bids her husbands take care
of their lives against the enemy. Act II opens with an ominous dream of
Bhānumatī, Duryodhana’s queen; an ichneumon (nakula) has slain a
hundred serpents; it is a presage that the Pāṇḍavas—of whom Nakula is
one—will slay the hundred Kauravas. The king, overhearing but not
understanding, thinks he is betrayed; learning the truth, at first he
inclines to fear, but shakes off the temporary depression. The queen
offers oblation to the sun to remove the evil omen; the king appears to
comfort her: a storm arises, and they seek security in a pavilion,
where they indulge in passages of love. Then appears the mother of
Jayadratha of Sindhu, slayer of Abhimanyu, son of Arjuna, who fears the
revenge of the Pāṇḍavas; Duryodhana makes light of her fears; he
despises the resentment of the Pāṇḍavas, gloating over the remembrance
of the insults heaped on Draupadī. Finally he mounts his chariot for
the battle. Act III presents an episode of horror but also of power; a
Rākṣasī and her husband feed on the blood and flesh of the dead on the
battlefield; they have been summoned thither, for Ghaṭotkaca, son of
Hiḍimbā by Bhīma, is dead, and his demon mother has bidden them attend
Bhīma in his revenge on the Kuru host. They see the first-fruits in
Droṇa’s death at the hands of Dhṛṣṭadyumna, when he lets fall his arms,
deceived by the lie of his son’s death. They retire before Açvatthāman
who advances, but is filled with grief when he learns of the
treacherous device which cost his father’s life. His uncle Kṛpa
consoles him, and bids him ask Duryodhana for the command in the
battle. But in the meantime Karṇa has poisoned Duryodhana’s mind; Droṇa
had fought, only to win the imperial authority for his son, and has
sacrificed his life in disappointment at the failure of his plans. Kṛpa
and Açvatthāman come up; Duryodhana condoles, Karṇa sneers, Açvatthāman
asks for the command, but is refused it, as Karṇa has been promised it.
Açvatthāman quarrels with Karṇa, and a duel is barely prevented;
Açvatthāman accuses Duryodhana of partiality, and will fight no more.
Their disputes are interrupted by Bhīma’s boast that he will now slay
Duḥçāsana; Karṇa at Açvatthāman’s instigation makes ready to rescue
him, Duryodhana follows suit, Açvatthāman would go also, but is stayed
by a voice from heaven and can only bid Kṛpa lend his aid.
In Act IV Duryodhana is brought in wounded; recovering, he learns of
Duḥçāsana’s death and a Kuru disaster; a messenger from Karṇa tells in
a long Prākrit speech of the death of Karṇa’s son, and gives an appeal
for aid written in Karṇa’s blood. Duryodhana makes ready for battle,
but is interrupted by the arrival of his parents, Dhṛtarāṣṭra and
Gāndhārī with Sañjaya, whose advent begins Act V. The aged couple and
Sañjaya urge in vain Duryodhana to peace; he refuses, and again,
hearing of Karṇa’s death, unaided, is ready to part for the field, when
Arjuna and Bhīma appear; Bhīma insists on their saluting with insults
their uncle; Duryodhana reproves them, but Arjuna insists that it is
just retribution for the acquiescence of the aged king in Draupadī’s
ill-treatment. Duryodhana defies Bhīma, who would fight, but Arjuna
forbids, and Yudhiṣṭhira’s summons takes them away. Açvatthāman
arrives, and seeks reconciliation with Duryodhana, who receives him
coldly; he withdraws, followed by Sañjaya, bidden by Dhṛtarāṣṭra to
appease him.
Act VI tells us from an announcement to Yudhiṣṭhira and Draupadī of
Duryodhana’s death at Bhīma’s hands. But a Cārvāka comes in, who tells
a very different story; Bhīma and Arjuna are dead. Yudhiṣṭhira and
Draupadī resolve on death, and the Cārvāka, who is really a Rākṣasa,
departs in glee. When, however, they are about to die, a noise is
heard; Yudhiṣṭhira, deeming it Duryodhana, rushes to arms, while
Draupadī runs away, and is caught by her hair by Bhīma, whom
Yudhiṣṭhira seizes. The ludicrous error is discovered, and Draupadī
binds up at last her locks. Arjuna and Vāsudeva arrive, the Cārvāka has
been slain by Nakula, and all is well.
The play is on the whole undramatic, for the action is choked by
narrative, and the vast abundance of detail served up in this form
confuses and destroys interest. Yet the characterization is good;
Duryodhana, as in the later Indian tradition, is unlovable; he is proud
and arrogant, self-confident, vain, and selfish; he laughs at
Bhānumatī’s fears and has no sympathy for the maternal anxiety of
Jayadratha’s mother. He is suspicious of Droṇa and Açvatthāman, and
thus deprives himself of their effective aid; Karṇa, whose jealous
advice he accepts, he leaves to perish. Bhīma again is a bloodthirsty
and boastful bully; Arjuna is equally valiant, but he is less an
undisciplined savage, while Kṛṣṇa intervenes with wise moderation.
Yudhiṣṭhira is, as ever, grave and more concerned with the interest of
his subjects than his personal feelings. Horror and pathos are not
lacking, but the love interest is certainly not effective, and it may
be that it was forced on the author by tradition rather than any
thought of producing a real interest of itself. Bhaṭṭa Nārāyaṇa’s
slavish fidelity to rule brought him censure even from Indian critics.
The style of the play is clear and not lacking either in force or
dignity: dismayed by the dream of Bhānumatī Duryodhana comforts
himself. [442] An̄giras says:
grahāṇāṁ caritaṁ svapno nimittāny upayācitam
phalanti kākatālīyaṁ tebhyaḥ prajñā na bibhyati.
‘The movements of the planets, dreams, omens, oblations, bear fruit by
accident; therefore wise men fear them not.’ Graceful is his address to
Bhānumatī if out of place: [443]
kuru ghanoru padāni çanaiḥ çanair: api vimuñca gatiṁ parivepinīm
patasi bāhulatopanibandhanam: mama nipīḍaya gāḍham uraḥsthalam.
‘O firm-limbed one, make slow thy steps; stay thy trembling gait; thou
dost fall into the shelter of my arms; clasp me closely in thine
embrace.’ But any display of tenderness is abnormal in Duryodhana; he
rebukes his aged mother when she urges him to save his life by coming
to terms with the enemy: [444]
mātaḥ kim apy asadṛçaṁ vikṛtaṁ vacas te: sukṣatriyā kva bhavatī kva
ca dīnataiṣā
nirvatsale sutaçatasya vipattim etām: tvaṁ nānucintayasi rakṣasi
mām ayogyam.
‘O mother, strange and unseemly is thy bidding. Ill accord thy noble
birth and this faintness of spirit. Shame on thee, without natural
affection, in that thou dost forget the cruel fate of thy hundred sons
in seeking to save my life.’ In vain is Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s manly appeal to
him: [445]
dāyādā na yayor balena gaṇitās tau Droṇabhīṣmau hatau
Karṇasyātmajam agrataḥ çamayato bhītaṁ jagat Phālgunāt
vatsānāṁ nidhanena me tvayi ripuḥ çesapratijño ’dhunā
krodhaṁ vairiṣu muñca vatsa pitarāv andhāv imau pālaya.
‘Slain are Droṇa and Bhīṣma whose peers none were deemed in might; all
shrank in terror before Arjuna as he slew Karṇa’s son before his eyes;
my dear ones slain, the foe’s whole aim is against thee now; lay aside
thine anger with thy foes, and guard these thy blind parents.’
Admirably expressed is Bhīma’s wild fury when he disdains Yudhiṣṭhira’s
effort to secure peace: [446]
mathnāmi Kauravaçataṁ samare na kopād: Duḥçāsanasya rudhiraṁ na
pibāmy urastaḥ
saṁcūrṇayāmi gadayā na Suyodhanoru: sandhiṁ karotu bhavatāṁ nṛpatiḥ
paṇena.
‘Shall I not in anger crush the hundred Kauravas in battle; shall I not
drink the blood from Duḥçāsana’s breast; shall I not break with my club
the thighs of Duryodhana, although your master buy peace at a price?’
Admirable also is his description of the sacrifice of battle: [447]
catvāro vayam ṛtvijaḥ sa bhagavān karmopadeṣṭā hariḥ
saṁgrāmādhvaradīkṣito narapatiḥ patnī gṛhītavratā
Kauravyāḥ paçavaḥ priyāparibhavakleçopaçāntiḥ phalam
rājanyopanimantraṇāya rasati sphītaṁ yaçodundubhiḥ.
‘We are the four priests, and the blessed Hari himself directs the
rite; the king has consecrated himself for the sacrament of battle, the
queen has taken on herself the vow; the Kauravyas are the victims, the
end to be achieved the extinction of our loved one’s bitterness of
shame at the insult done her; loudly the drum of fame summons the
warrior to the fray.’ Equally effective is his summing up of his feat:
[448]
bhūmau kṣiptaṁ çarīraṁ nihitam idam asṛk candanam Bhīmagātre
lakṣmīr ārye niṣaṇṇā caturudadhipayaḥsīmayā sārdham urvyā
bhṛtyā mitrāṇi yodhāḥ Kurukulam akhilaṁ dagdham etadraṇāgnau
nāmaikaṁ yad bravīṣi kṣitipa tad adhunā Dhārtarāṣṭrasya çeṣam.
‘His body is cast upon the ground; his blood is smeared as sandal paste
on Bhīma’s limbs; the goddess of fortune, with the earth bounded by the
waters of the four oceans, rests on my noble brother’s lap; servants,
friends, warriors, the whole house of the Kurus has been burned in this
fire of battle; the name alone, O king, is left of Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s race.’
Effective is the appeal which Dhṛtarāṣṭra bids the faithful Sañjaya
address to the righteously indignant Açvatthāman: [449]
smarati na bhavān pītaṁ stanyaṁ cirāya sahāmunā
mama ca malinaṁ kṣaumam bālye tvadan̄gavivartanaiḥ
anujanidhanasphītāc chokād atipraṇayāc ca tad—
vikṛtavacane māsmin krodhaç ciraṁ kriyatāṁ tvayā.
‘Forget not the milk which thou didst so long drink from the same
breast with him; forget not my robe that thy childish feet so often
soiled in play; his grief is bitter for the death of the younger
brother whom he loved so dearly; be not, therefore, wroth for the
unjust words he hath spoken to thee.’
On the other hand, we find in Bhaṭṭa Nārāyaṇa many of the defects of
Bhavabhūti, in special the fondness for long compounds both in Prākrit
and in Sanskrit prose [450] and the same straining after effect which
gives such a description of the battle as that vouchsafed to Draupadī
by Bhīma, when she warns him nor to be overrash in battle: [451]
anyonyāsphālabhinnadviparudhiravasāmāṅsamastiṣkapan̄ke
magnānāṁ syandanānām upari kṛtapadanyāsavikrāntapattau
sphītāsṛkpānagoṣṭhīrasadaçivaçivātūryanṛtyatkabandhe
samgrāmaikārṇavāntaḥpayasi vicaritum paṇḍitāḥ Pāṇḍuputrāḥ.
‘The sons of Pāṇḍu are well skilled to disport in the waters of the
ocean of the battle, wherein dance headless corpses to the music of the
unholy jackals, that yell in joy as they drink the thick blood of the
dead, and the footmen in their valour leap over the chariots that are
sunk in the mud of the blood, fat, flesh, and brains of the elephants
shattered in mutual onslaught.’ The adaptation of sound to sense here
is doubtless admirable, and the picture drawn is vivid in a painful
degree, but the style is too laboured to be attractive to modern taste.
None the less Nārāyaṇa has the merit, shared by Viçākhadatta, of fire
and energy; much of the fierce dialogue is brutal and violent, but it
lives with a reality and warmth which is lacking in the tedious
contests in boasting, which burden all the descriptions in the Rāma
dramas of the meeting of Rāma and Paraçurāma. Duryodhana is not behind
Bhīma himself in insolence, though perhaps more subtle than that of the
violent son of the Wind-god: [452]
kṛṣṭā keçeṣu bhāryā tava tava ca paços tasya rājñas tayor vā
pratyakṣam bhūpatīnām mama bhuvanapater ājñayā dyūtadāsī
tasmin vairānubandhe vada kim apakṛtaṁ tair hatā ye narendrā
bāhvor vīryātibhāradraviṇagurumadam mām ajitvaiva darpaḥ.
‘Thy wife—whether thine, O beast, or that king’s or the twins’—was
seized by the hair, in the presence of all the princes, by my command
as lord of the earth, she won as my slave at the dice. With this
abiding cause of hatred between us, say what wrong was wrought by the
kings whom thou hast slain? When thou hast not conquered me, why vainly
dost thou boast of the cumbrous strength of thy huge arms?’
Violent as is the language, there is some excuse for it in the
extraordinarily heartless character of Bhīma’s address to the ill-fated
Dhṛtarāṣṭra, which almost justifies the recalling of the disgraceful
slight put on Draupadī: [453]
nihatāçeṣakauravyaḥ kṣībo Duḥçāsanāsṛjā
bhan̄ktā Duryodhanasyorvor Bhīmo ’yaṁ çirasā nataḥ.
‘Bhīma bows low his head before thy feet, Bhīma who has slain all the
scions of Kuru, who is drunk with the blood of Duḥçāsana, and who shall
shatter the thighs of Duryodhana.’ Effectively contrasted is the stern,
but courteous rebuke addressed by Yudhiṣṭhira to Kṛṣṇa’s elder brother:
[454]
jñātiprītir manasi na kṛtā kṣatriyāṇāṁ na dharmo
rūḍhaṁ sakhyaṁ tad api gaṇitaṁ nānujasyārjunena
tulyaḥ kāmam bhavatu bhavataḥ çiṣyayoḥ snehabandhaḥ
ko ’yam panthā yad asi vimukho mandabhāgye mayi tvam?
‘Thou hast forgotten the love due to kindred blood, thou hast violated
the law of the warrior, thou hast ignored the deep friendship between
thy younger brother and Arjuna. Granted that thy love for both thy
pupils may be equal, nevertheless what is the cause that thou dost show
hostility to me in my misfortune?’
These and many other passages are cited by the writers on poetics who
find in the Veṇīsaṁhāra an inexhaustible mine of illustration of the
theory which doubtless deeply affected the author in his composition.
They do not, however, eulogize him blindly; the love scene with
Bhānumatī is definitely treated as out of place. [455]
6. THE LANGUAGE AND THE METRES OF THE VEṆĪSAṀHĀRA.
The Sanskrit and the Prākrits offer no special features of interest.
The latter is mainly in Çaurasenī, but the speeches of the Rākṣasa and
his wife at the beginning of Act III are clearly in Māgadhī; they show
the characteristic signs of e for the nominative singular, both
masculine and neuter, of a-stems; l for r, and ā in the vocative of
a-stems. The suggestion of Grill [456] that the dialect is more
precisely Ardha-Māgadhī is not necessary, for the points enumerated—the
presence of s beside ç, the variation of o and aṁ in the nominative for
e, and the use of jj for ry, and not yy—can be explained readily by the
error of the scribes or the mistakes of the author. The freedom with
which those worthies acted is seen clearly enough in the fact that one
representative of the Bengālī as opposed to the Devanāgarī recension of
the text has systematically rewritten the Prākrit into Çaurasenī.
The metrical treatment is noteworthy for the almost equal use of
Vasantatilaka (39), Çārdūlavikrīḍita (32), Çikhariṇī (35), and
Sragdharā (20). There are 53 Çlokas, and a few stanzas of Mālinī,
Puṣpitāgrā, Praharṣiṇī, and one each of Aupacchandasika, Vaitālīya,
Indravajrā, and Drutavilambita, with 6 Āryās, and 2 Prākrit Vaitālīyas.
The versification is thus decidedly of the later type.
X
MURĀRI, RĀJAÇEKHARA, THEIR PREDECESSORS AND SUCCESSORS
1. THE PREDECESSORS OF MURĀRI
We know definitely of very few dramatists of the eighth and ninth
centuries. Kalhaṇa [457] mentions expressly Yaçovarman of Kanyakubja as
a patron of literature, who, as we have seen, patronized Bhavabhūti and
Vākpati, and we learn of his drama Rāmābhyudaya, which is mentioned by
Ānandavardhana in the Dhvanyāloka, by Dhanika and Viçvanātha, but has
not yet been found. To Kalhaṇa [458] also we are indebted for knowledge
of the period of Çivasvāmin, who lived under Avantivarman of Kashmir
(A.D. 855–83) and was a contemporary of the poet Ratnākara. He wrote
many Nāṭakas and Nāṭikās, and also Prakaraṇas, but save an occasional
verse in the anthologies his fame is lost.
Anan̄gaharṣa Mātrarāja, [459] on the other hand, is known to
Ānandavardhana and Abhinavagupta, and his play Tāpasavatsarājacarita is
a variation on the theme of the ruse of Yaugandharāyaṇa to secure the
marriage of Vatsa and Padmāvatī, in face of the deep love of the king
for Vāsavadattā. Vatsa in this drama, which is of little poetic or
dramatic value, becomes an ascetic on learning of his queen’s supposed
fate, whence the title of the play. Padmāvatī, who had become enamoured
of the king from a portrait sent by the minister, follows suit.
Eventually Vāsavadattā and Vatsa are united in Prayāga when each is
about to commit suicide in sorrow at separation, and the usual victory
is reported by Rumaṇvant to give a happy ending. There seems little
doubt that the author used the Ratnāvalī, which gives the upper limit
of his date. His father’s name is given as Narendravardhana.
Māyurājā [460] has been less fortunate in that his Udāttarāghava is
known only by reference. Rājaçekhara represents him as a Karaculi or
Kulicuri, which suggests the possibility that he was a king of the
Kalacuri dynasty, of which unhappily we know little during the period
in which he is probably to be set. He seems to have known Bhavabhūti.
Like him he eliminated treachery from the slaying of Vālin by Rāma, and
he represents Lakṣmaṇa as first to follow the magic gazelle, and Rāma
as going later in pursuit. He is cited more than once in Dhanika’s
commentary on the Daçarūpa.
No other dramatist of this period is known with any certainty; the
Pārvatīpariṇaya once ascribed to Bāṇa is now allotted to Vāmana Bhaṭṭa
Bāṇa (c. A.D. 1400), and the Mallikāmāruta, wrongly thought to be
Daṇḍin’s, is the work of one Uddaṇḍin of the seventeenth century.
Of these dramatists Yaçovarman has had the honour of being considered
worthy of quotation by the writers on theory who have preserved for us
some interesting verses: [461]
ākrandāḥ stanitair vilocanajalāny açrāntadhārāmbhubhis
tvadvicchedabhuvaç ca çokaçikhinas tulyās taḍidvibhramaiḥ
antar me dayitāmukhaṁ tava çaçī vṛttiḥ samāpy āvayoḥ
tat kim mām aniçaṁ sakhe jaladhara dagdhum evodyataḥ.
‘My moans are like thy thunder, the floods of my tears thy
ever-streaming showers, the flame of my sorrow at severance from my
beloved thy flickering lightning, in my mind is her face reflected, in
thee the moon; like is our condition; why then, O friend, O cloud, dost
thou ever seek to consume me with the burning pangs of love?’
This is decidedly pretty, and there is elegance and beauty in another
verse: [462]
yat tvannetrasamānakānti salile magnaṁ tad indīvaram
meghair antaritaḥ priye tava mukhacchāyānukāraḥ çaçī
ye ’pi tvadgamanānukāragatayas te rājahaṅsā gatās
tvatsādṛçyavinodamātram api me daivena na kṣamyate.
‘The blue lotus which rivalled thine eyes in beauty is now sunk in the
lake; the moon which imitated the fairness of thy face, beloved, is
hidden by the clouds; the royal swans which aped thy lovely gait are
departed; cruel fate will not grant me even the consolation of thy
similitude.’
This verse is appropriated by the Mahānāṭaka, and so is the following,
[463] which deals elegantly enough with the commonplace contrast
between the sad lover and the Açoka tree, whose name is interpreted as
‘sorrowless’, and which flowers, as the poets never weary in telling
us, when touched by the foot of a fair lady, especially one young:
raktas tvaṁ navapallavair aham api çlāghyaiḥ priyāyā guṇais
tvām āyānti çilīmukhāḥ smaradhanurmuktāḥ sakhe mām api
kāntapādatalāhatis tava mude tad api mamāvayoḥ
sarvaṁ tulyam açoka kevalam ahaṁ dhātrā saçokaḥ kṛtaḥ.
‘Thou are proud in thy new shoots, I in the glorious excellences of my
beloved; the bees resort to thee, to me the arrows shot from love’s
bow; like me thou dost delight in the touch of thy dear one’s foot; all
is alike for us both save only that, O tree Sorrowless, the creator
hath made me a man of sorrows.’
kāmavyādhaçarāhatir na gaṇitā saṁjīvanī tvaṁ smṛtā
no dagdho virahānalena jhaṭiti tvatsaṁgamāçāmṛtaiḥ
nīto ’yaṁ divaso vicitralikhitaiḥ saṁkalparūpair mayā
kiṁ vānyad dhṛdaye sthitāsi nanu me tatra svayaṁ sākṣiṇī. [464]
‘I have not recked of the wound given by love, the hunter, for the
memory of thee hath been my elixir; the fire of separation hath not
consumed me straightway because of the nectar of the hope of union with
thee; all this day hath been spent by me in limning thy fancied form;
nought else have I done, as thou thyself art witness, for dost thou not
live in my heart?’ We may regret the loss of a work which contained
verses as pretty as these, even on the outworn topic of Rāma and Sītā.
It might be interesting to know whether Yaçovarman was successful in
introducing any new element into the established plot. The play is
cited in the commentary on the Daçarūpa [465] to illustrate the device
called deception or humiliation (chalana) and the parallel cited is
that of the treatment of Vāsavadattā in the Ratnāvalī. The definitions
of the theory leave this idea far from clear; Viçvanātha seems to treat
it as the bearing of insult for the sake of the end to be reached, and
the allusion in the case of Sītā may be to her abandonment by Rāma as
an act of duty.
A much less favourable impression is left by the few fragments of the
Udāttarāghava which are preserved. The poet seems to have affected the
horrible, as two of his few stanzas deal with it; the better is: [466]
jīyante jayino ’pi sāndratimiravrātair viyadvyāpibhir
bhāsvantaḥ sakalā raver api rucaḥ kasmād akasmād amī
etāç cograkabandharandhrarudhirair ādhmāyamānodarā
muñcanty ānanakandarānalamucas tīvrā ravāḥ pheravāḥ.
‘The victors are vanquished; thick darkness invades the sky and
triumphs over the brilliant rays of the sun; why this inexplicable
event? Why do these jackals, whose bellies are swollen with the blood
sucked from the wounds of bleeding corpses, and whose gaping jaws belch
flame, utter these piercing cries?’
A somewhat flat passage illustrates the conflict of thought in Rāma’s
mind when appealed to by Citramāya on the score that Lakṣmaṇa is in
danger from a Rākṣasa: [467]
vatsasyābhayavāridheḥ pratibhayam manye kathaṁ rākṣasāt
trastaç caiṣa munir virauti manasaç cāsty eva me sambhramaḥ
mā hāsīr Janakātmajām iti muhuḥ snehād gurur yācate
na sthātuṁ na ca gantum ākulamater mūḍhasya me niçcayaḥ.
‘The boy is an ocean of valour; how can I fear danger for him from a
Rākṣasa? Yet the sage here is terrified and calls for aid, and my own
mind is confused; my master too in his affection ever begs me not to
leave Janaka’s daughter alone; my heart is troubled, and in my
confusion I cannot resolve either to go or to stay.’
Another Rāma drama, the Chalitarāma, is also referred to by Dhanika in
his comment on the Daçarūpa; it may belong to this period, or fall
somewhat later; we have from it a picture of the leading captive of
Lava: [468]
yenāvṛtya mukhāni sāma paṭhatām atyantam āyāsitam
bālye yena hṛtākṣasūtravalayapratyarpaṇaiḥ krīḍitam
yuṣmākaṁ hṛdayaṁ sa eṣa viçikhair āpūritāṅsasthalo
mūrchāghoratamaspraveçavivaço baddhvā Lavo nīyate.
‘He who caused such trouble to the Sāman reciters turning to look at
him in his childish play, who amused himself by stealing and giving
back strings of beads and bracelets, he, your heart’s joy, his shoulder
pierced by arrows, powerless through entry into the dread darkness of
fainting, is being led away bound, even Lava.’
Another stanza refers to Bharata; Rāma returning to Ayodhyā in the
celestial chariot declines thus to enter the town, since it is not his,
but under the rule of Bharata; scarcely has he descended when he sees
before him his brother: [469]
ko ’pi siṅhāsanasyādhaḥ sthitaḥ pādukayoḥ puraḥ
jaṭāvān akṣamālī ca cāmarī ca virājate.
‘There stands some one, below the lion throne, before a pair of
sandals, wearing his hair long, bearing a rosary, resplendent beneath
the chowrie.’
The same play [470] contains an amusing slip by Sītā where she bids her
boys go to Ayodhyā and tender their respects to the king. Lava
naturally replies by asking why they should become members of the
king’s entourage, and Sītā answers because the king is their father, a
slip which she explains away as well as she can by saying that the king
is father of the whole earth.
Yet another drama of which we know nothing else is revealed to us by
Dhanika, the Pāṇḍavānanda, from which is cited a stanza interesting in
its series of questions and answers, a literary form of which the
dramatists are fond: [471]
kā çlāghyā guṇināṁ kṣamā paribhavaḥ ko yaḥ svakulyaiḥ kṛtaḥ
kiṁ duḥkhaṁ parasaṁçrayo jagati kaḥ çlāghyo ya āçrīyate
ko mṛtyur vyasanaṁ çucaṁ jahati ke yair nirjitāḥ çatravaḥ
kair vijñātam idaṁ Virāṭanagare channasthitaiḥ Pāṇḍavaiḥ.
‘For the good what is there praiseworthy? Patience. What is disgrace?
That which is wrought by those of one’s own blood. What is misery?
Recourse to another’s protection. Who in the world is enviable? He to
whom one resorts for aid. What is death? Misfortune. Who escape sorrow?
Those who conquer their foes. Who learned this lesson? The Pāṇḍavas
when they dwelt in concealment in the city of Virāṭa.’
We learn also from Dhanika of two further dramas, of unknown authorship
and date; they are mentioned [472] as illustrating the two kinds of
Prakaraṇa as a dramatic form, the basis of distinction being whether
the heroine is the wife of the hero and therefore a lady of good family
or whether she is a courtesan. Of the latter class we have an example
in the Taran̄gadatta, and of the former in the Puṣpadūṣitaka; the latter
name occurs in the slightly altered form of Puṣpabhūṣita in the
Sāhityadarpaṇa. As an example of the Samavakāra the Daçarūpa [473]
mentions the Samudramanthana, a title doubtless as well as the
description of the drama in question.
2. MURĀRI
Murāri tells us that he was the son of Çrīvardhamānaka of the Maudgalya
Gotra and of Tantumatī; he claims to be a Mahākavi, and arrogates the
style of Bāla-Vālmīki. His date is uncertain; he is certainly later
than Bhavabhūti since he cites from the Uttararāmacarita, [474] while
we have evidence from the anthologies that he was reckoned by some as
superior to Bhavabhūti, apparently his predecessor. A further
suggestion as to date may be derived from the Kashmirian poet
Ratnākara, [475] who in his Haravijaya makes a clear reference to
Murāri as a dramatist, for the effort of Bhattanatha Svamin to disprove
the reference must be deemed completely unsuccessful. As Ratnākara
belongs to the middle of the ninth century A.D., this gives us that
period as the latest date for Murāri. Curiously enough, Professor
Konow, [476] who accepts the disproof of the reference to Murāri in
Ratnākara, admits that the reference to Murāri in Man̄kha’s
Çrīkaṇṭhacarita [477] (c. A.D. 1135) suggests that he was regarded by
that author as earlier than Rājaçekhara, a fact which accords
excellently with his priority to Ratnākara, and is far more important
than the fact that he is not cited by the authors on theory of the
eleventh century A.D. A further effort to place him late is that of Dr.
Hultzsch, [478] who infers from verse 3 of the Kaumudīmitrāṇanda of
Rāmacandra, pupil of Hemacandra, that that dramatist was a contemporary
of Murāri. But the evidence is clearly inadequate; the words used are
perfectly compatible with the fact that Murāri was dead, and there are
grave chronological difficulties in the way of the theory. It is
practically impossible that a contemporary of Rāmacandra could have
been cited by Man̄kha at the date of the Çrīkaṇṭhacarita. Moreover
Murāri seems to have been imitated by Jayadeva in the Prasannarāghava.
[479]
Of his place of activity we know nothing definite. He mentions,
however, Māhiṣmatī as the seat of the Kalacuris, and it has been
suggested that this indicates that he lived under the patronage of a
prince of that dynasty at Māhiṣmatī, now Māndhātā on the Narmadā.
3. THE ANARGHARĀGHAVA
Murāri declares in the prologue to the solitary drama, the
Anargharāghava [480] which has come down to us, though quotations show
that he wrote other works, that his aim is to please a public tired of
terror, horror, violence, and marvels, by a composition elevated,
heroic, and marvellous throughout, not merely at the close. He defends
his choice of the banal subject of Rāma; his character adds elevation
and charm to the poet’s work, and it would be folly to lay aside so
splendid a theme. The Anargharāghava, however, does little to justify
the poet’s confidence in his choice of topic. The theme, treated
already at length by Bhavabhūti, offered no chance of success save for
a great poet, and Murāri was not such a poet save in the estimate of
occasional later writers who extol his depth (gambhīratā) without any
shadow of justification.
Act I shows us Daçaratha in conversation with Vāmadeva. The arrival of
the sage Viçvāmitra is announced; he exchanges with the king hyperbolic
compliments of the most tedious type, but proceeds to business by
demanding the aid of Rāma against the Rākṣasas which are troubling his
hermitage. The king hesitates to send one so young and dear into
danger. The sage insists on his obeying the call of duty, and he hands
over Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa to the care of the ascetic. The herald announces
midday, and the king mourns the loss of his son. In Act II we have
first a long-drawn-out conversation between Çunaḥçepha and Paçumeḍhra,
two pupils of Viçvāmitra, which serves to enlighten us on the history
of Vālin, Rāvaṇa, the Rākṣasas, Jāmbavant, Hanumant, and Tāḍakā. The
entr’acte is followed by the appearance of Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa who
describe the hermitage and the doings of its occupants, and then the
heat of midday. Time, however, does not trouble the dramatist; though
there is no further action and no interruption in the dialogue, we find
ourselves transported to the evening; Viçvāmitra enters and describes
in converse with the boys the sunset. A cry behind the scene announces
the approach of the demoness Tāḍakā; Rāma hesitates to slay a female,
but finally departs for the necessary duty; on his return he has to
describe the rising of the moon. Viçvāmitra then suggests a visit to
Janaka of Mithilā, affording an opportunity for a description of the
city and its ruler.
In Act II only do we reach the motif which Bhavabhūti with far greater
skill made the leading idea of the drama, thus giving it effective
unity, so far as the story permits. The chamberlain of Janaka in
conversation with Kalahaṅsikā, one of Sītā’s suite, lets us know that
the princess is now ripe for marriage, and Rāvaṇa seeks her hand. In
the scene that follows the king accompanied by Çatānanda receives Rāma,
but hesitates to put him to the severe test involved in bending Çiva’s
bow. Çauṣkala, Rāvaṇa’s envoy, arrives to demand the maiden’s hand, but
indignantly declines the request that his master should bend the bow.
He eulogizes Rāvaṇa whom Rāma depreciates. Rāma is at last allowed to
make the trial; those who remain on the stage describe his wonderful
deed in breaking the bow. He is promised Sītā’s hand, while the other
sons of Daçaratha are also awarded consorts. Çauṣkala departs, menacing
revenge. Act IV shows us Rāvaṇa’s minister Mālyavant lamenting the
failure of his scheme to win Sītā. Çūrpaṇakhā arrives from Videha and
tells of the union of Rāma and Sītā. Mālyavant recognizes that Rāvaṇa
will insist on seeking to separate the pair, and he counsels Çūrpaṇakhā
to assume the disguise of Mantharā, the maid of Kaikeyī, with the view
of securing the banishment of Rāma to the forest, where he will be more
vulnerable to attack. He is also cheered by the news given by
Çūrpaṇakhā of the approach of Paraçurāma to Mithilā, whence some gain
may accrue to his cause. The following scene shows us Rāma and
Paraçurāma in verbal contest; Rāma is even more polite than in the
Mahāvīracarita which is obviously imitated, while the friends of Rāma
carry on a vituperative dialogue behind the scene without actually
appearing. Finally they resolve to fight, for Rāma has annoyed his
rival by reminding him that the flag of his fame won by his destruction
of the Kṣatriyas is worn out and challenging him to mount a new one.
The fight itself takes place off the stage; Sītā, we learn from a voice
behind the scenes, is apprehensive lest Rāma be drawing again his bow
to win another maiden. The rivals then appear on excellent terms;
Paraçurāma exchanges farewells with his former interlocutors and
disappears. Then enter Janaka and Daçaratha. The latter is determined
to resign his kingdom to Rāma, but Lakṣmaṇa enters introducing Mantharā
who bears a fatal missive from Kaikeyī, bidding the king grant the two
boons of the banishment of Rāma and the coronation of Bharata. The
kings faint; Rāma sends Lakṣmaṇa to tell Sītā, and commends his father
to Janaka.
In Act V a conversation between Jāmbavant and an ascetic lady, Çravaṇā,
tells of the doings of Rāma until his advent in the forest. Çravaṇā
goes to Sugrīva to bespeak a kindly welcome for the wayfarers, while
Jāmbavant overhears a dialogue between Rāvaṇa, disguised as a juggler,
and Lakṣmaṇa. The vulture Jaṭāyu then appears with the grave news that
he has seen Rāvaṇa and Mārīca in the forest; Jāmbavant goes to warn
Sugrīva of the danger, while Jaṭāyu sees the rape of Sītā and pursues
the ravisher. After this entr’acte Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa enter, wandering
in grief in vain search. They are interrupted by a cry and see the
friendly forest chief, Guha, assailed by the headless Kabandha.
Lakṣmaṇa rescues him, but, in doing so, knocks off the tree, on which
it was suspended, the skeleton of Dundubhi, to the annoyance of Vālin,
who appears, and after a lengthy conversation challenges Rāma to
battle. The fight is described from the stage by Lakṣmaṇa and Guha; the
enemy is slain. Voices from behind the scenes report the coronation of
Sugrīva and his determination to aid Rāma in the recovery of Sītā, and
Lakṣmaṇa and his friend leave the stage to rejoin their party. In Act
VI Sāraṇa and Çuka, two spies of Rāvaṇa’s describe to Mālyavant the
building of the bridge over the ocean and the advent of Rāma’s army.
Voices from behind announce the departure of Kumbhakarṇa and Meghanāda
for battle; in the same way we learn of their fall and the last exit of
Rāvaṇa, whom Mālyavant decides to follow to the field. The final
struggle is described with tedious and tasteless prolixity by two
Vidyādharas, Ratnacūḍa and Hemān̄gada, and with this the Act closes.
In Act VII we have a determined effort to vie with the close of the
Mahāvīracarita. Rāma, Sītā, Lakṣmaṇa, Vibhīṣaṇa, and Sugrīva proceed in
Kubera’s celestial car to Ayodhyā. But the route is diversified from
the simplicity of the model, for the travellers are taken to the
celestial regions to view in all its aspects the mythical mountain
Sumeru and the world of the moon; only then do they commence their
journey in its terrestrial aspect by a description of Siṅhala,
distinguished as usual from Lan̄kā; the route then passes over the
Malaya mountains, the forest, the mountain Prasravaṇa, the Godāvarī,
mount Mālyavant, Kuṇḍinīpura in the Mahārāṣṭra country, Kāñcī,
Ujjayinī, Māhiṣmatī, the Yamunā, the Ganges, Vārāṇasī, Mithilā and
Campā; the car goes then west to Prayāga, and later turns east to
Ayodhyā, where the priest Vasiṣṭha waits with Rāma’s brothers to crown
him king.
The demerits of the poem are obvious; there is no attempt to improve on
the traditional narrative, though Vālin is honourably killed; the
characters are as stereotyped as ever. The author, however, delights to
overload and elaborate the theme; hyperbole marks every idea; his
mythological knowledge is adequate to enable him to abound in conceits
and plays on words, when he does not sink, as largely in Act III, to
mere commonplace. The taste which invents the visit to the world of the
moon and Sumeru is as deplorable as that which substitutes the dull
dialogue between Jāmbavant and Jaṭāyu for the vigorous conversation of
Jaṭāyu and Sampāti in the Mahāvīracarita. For dialogue in general
Murāri has no taste at all, and what merit his work has lies entirely
in the ability which he shows to handle the Sanskrit language and to
frame sentences of harmonious sound in effective metrical forms. His
knowledge of the lexica is obvious, while his love of the recondite in
grammar has won him the fame of being used to illustrate rare forms by
the author of the Siddhāntakaumudī. These linguistic merits have
secured him the preference shown for him by modern taste. Nor indeed
can his power of expression be justly denied: [481]
dṛçyante madhumattakokilavadhūnirdhūtacūtān̄kura—
prāgbhāraprasaratparāgasikatādurgās taṭībhūmayaḥ
yāḥ kṛcchrād atilan̄ghya lubdhakabhayāt tair eva reṇūtkarair
dhārāvāhibhir asti luptapadavīniḥçan̄kam eṇīkulam.
‘There are seen the towering slopes as of sand where the pollen tilts
off from the mango shoots, shaken by the female cuckoos, maddened by
the intoxication of spring; scarce can the antelopes in their fear of
the hunter leap over them, but the dust which they raise in showers
accords them security by concealing the path of their flight.’ The idea
is certainly trivial enough, but the expression, which defies
reproduction in English, is in its own way a masterpiece of effect.
A pretty erotic verse is found in Act VII: [482]
anena rambhoru bhavanmukhena: tuṣārabhānos tulayā dhṛtasya
ūnasya nūnam pratipūraṇāya: tārā sphuranti pratimānakhaṇḍāh.
‘When the moon is placed in the scales, fair-limbed one, against thy
face, assuredly it is found wanting, and to make good the deficit the
stars must shine as make-weights.’
Not a bad example of more elaborate, yet graceful, eulogy is found in
the following stanza: [483]
gotre sākṣād ajani bhagavān eṣa yat padmayoniḥ
çayyotthāyaṁ yad akhilam ahaḥ prīṇayanti dvirephān
ekāgrāṁ yad dadhati bhagavaty uṣṇabhānau ca bhaktim
tat prāpus te sutanu vadanaupamyam ambhoruhāṇi.
‘Since manifestly in their family has been born the blessed one, sprung
from the lotus; since all day long they delight the bees as they rise
from their bed; since their whole faith they devote to the blessed lord
of the sharp rays, thus, O lovely one, the flowers that spring from the
water attain the likeness of thy face.’
Happy also is another erotic stanza: [484]
abhimukhapatayālubhir lalāṭa—: çramasalilair avadhūtapattralekhaḥ
kathayati puruṣāyitaṁ vadhūnām: mṛditahimadyutidurmanāḥ kapolaḥ.
‘Its painted mark obliterated by the moisture which streams from the
wearied brow over the face, the cheek reveals the longing of women,
melancholy as the wan moon.’
udeṣyatpīyūṣadyutirucikaṇārdrāḥ çaçimaṇi—
sthalīnām panthāno ghanacaraṇalākṣālipibhṛtaḥ
cakorair uḍḍīnair jhaṭiti kṛtaçan̄kāḥ pratipadam
parācaḥ saṁcārān avinayavatīnāṁ vivṛṇate.
‘Footprints on pavements of moonstone, marked with the lac that dyes
deep the feet, wet with drops that have the radiance of rising cream,
made with anxiety at every step as the Cakoras fly up disturbed, mark
the departure of ladies who violate decorum.’ [485]
A further stanza in some manuscripts of the poem occurs in the drama,
while elsewhere it seems to be treated as a verse about Murāri: [486]
devīṁ vācam upāsate hi bahavaḥ sāraṁ tu sārasvatam
jānīte nitarām asau gurukulakliṣṭo Murāriḥ kaviḥ
abdhir lan̄ghita eva vānarabhaṭaiḥ kiṁ tv asyā gambhīratām
āpātālanimagnapīvaratanur jānāti manthācalaḥ.
‘Many serve the goddess speech, but the essence of eloquence Murāri
alone knows to the full, that poet who long toiled in the house of his
teacher; even so the monkey host leapt over the ocean, but its depth
the Mount of Churning alone knows, for its mighty mass penetrated down
even to the realms below.’
4. THE DATE OF RĀJAÇEKHARA
Rājaçekhara, with the usual prolixity of bad poets, is voluble on his
personality; he was of a Mahārāṣṭra Kṣatriya family of the Yāyāvaras,
who claimed descent from Rāma; son of the minister Durduka or Duhika,
and of Çīlavatī; grandson of Akālajalada, and descendant of Surānanda,
Tarala, and Kavirāja, all poets of name. He married Avantisundarī of
the Cāhamāna family, and was a moderate Çaiva. [487]
In the Karpūramañjarī, probably his first play since it was produced at
the request of his wife, and not a king, he refers to himself as the
teacher of Nirbhaya or Nirbhara, who was clearly the Pratihāra king,
Mahendrapāla of Mahodaya or Kanyakubja, of whom we have records in A.D.
893 and 907. The Bālarāmāyaṇa was produced at his request. But he seems
then to have visited another court, for the Viddhaçālabhañjikā was
produced for the Kalacuri king, Yuvarāja Keyūravarṣa of Tripurī. But,
as the unfinished Bālabhārata was written for Mahīpāla, successor of
Mahendrapāla, whose records begin in A.D. 914, we may assume that he
returned to the court of the Pratihāras and died there. In the
Bālarāmāyaṇa he speaks of six of his works, not apparently including
the Viddhaçālabhañjikā and the Bālabhārata, and in fact we have many
stanzas from him regarding famous authors, though of course the proof
of derivation from this Rājaçekara is not always complete.
The Bālarāmāyaṇa shows to perfection Rājaçekhara’s own estimate of
himself. He traces his poetic descent from Vālmīki, through
Bhartṛmeṇṭha and Bhavabhūti, but it is not clear that Bhartṛmeṇṭha must
be assumed to have dramatized the work, and the little we know of this
obscure person merely shows that he wrote an epic, the Hayagrīvavadha,
while his date is involved in the problems of Vikramāditya and
Mātṛgupta. [488]
5. THE DRAMAS OF RĀJAÇEKHARA
The Bālarāmāyaṇa [489] is a Mahānāṭaka, that is one in ten acts, and
the author, to add to the horror of the length, has expanded the
prologue to almost the dimensions of an act, celebrating his
non-existent merits, and has expanded each act to almost the dimensions
of a Nāṭikā. The whole has 741 stanzas, and of these no less than 203
are in the 19-syllable Çārdūlavikrīḍita and 89 in the Sragdharā, which
has two more syllables in each pada or 84 in a stanza. The play has a
certain novelty, because the author has made the love of Rāvaṇa the
dominating feature. He appears in person in the first act, but declines
to test himself by drawing Çiva’s bow, and departs, menacing evil to
any husband of Sītā. In Act II he seeks the aid of Paraçurāma, but is
insulted instead, and a battle barely prevented by intervention of
friends. In Act III the marriage of Sītā is enacted before him to
distract his amorous sorrow, but the attempt is as little a success as
it deserved to be; he interrupts, and finally the scene has to be
broken off. In Act IV the duel of Rāma and Paraçurāma is disposed of,
but in Act V we find another ludicrous effort to amuse Rāvaṇa; dolls
with parrots in their mouths are presented to him as Sītā and his
foster sister; he is deceived until he finds that his grasp is on wood;
distracted, he demands his beloved from nature, the seasons, the
streams, and the birds, as does Purūravas in the Vikramorvaçī. The
arrival of Çūrpaṇakhā, his sister, who has suffered severely from her
attack on Rāma, brings him to a condition of more manly rage. A tedious
Act then carries matters down to the death of the sorrowing Daçaratha.
In Act VII the problem of inducing the ocean to accept the burden of
the bridge is solved; Dadhittha and Kapittha, two monkeys, describe at
length its construction to Rāma. A momentary terror is caused by a
stratagem of Mālyavant; the severed head of Sītā seems to be flung on
the shore, but it speaks and reveals the fraud; it is the head of the
speaking doll. In Act VIII we have Rāvaṇa’s impressions as disaster
after disaster is announced; he sends out Kumbhakarṇa, but sees even
him helpless, despite his magic weapons, before Rāma. In Act IX Indra
himself describes the last desperate duel of Rāma and Rāvaṇa. In Act X
the party of Rāma makes the usual aerial tour of India, including the
world of the moon, and ending with the inevitable consecration.
The Bālabhārata [490] is mercifully unfinished; it covers the marriage
of Draupadī, and the gambling scene with the ill usage of Draupadī. The
other two plays are really Nāṭikās, but the first, the Karpūramañjarī
[491] is classed by the theory as a Saṭṭaka, simply because it is in
Prākrit, none of the characters speaking Sanskrit. It is the old story;
here the king is Caṇḍapāla, possibly a compliment to Mahendrapāla, and
his beloved the Kuntala princess, Karpūramañjarī, who is really a
cousin of the queen. In Act I a magician, Bhairavānanda, displays the
damsel to the king and queen; the apparition tells her tale, and the
queen decides to add her to the number of her attendants. The king and
the maiden fall at once in love. In Act II a letter from the maiden
avows her passion, and the Vidūṣaka and her friend Vicakṣaṇā arrange to
let the king see her swinging and also producing by her touch the
blossoming of the Açoka. Between the Acts we must assume that the queen
has found out the love, and has confined the maiden, while the king has
secured the making of a subterranean passage giving access to her
prison. In Act III by this means the princess and the king enjoy a
flirtation in the garden, when the queen discovers them. In Act IV we
find that the end of the passage giving on the garden has been blocked,
but another passage has been made to the sanctuary of Cāmuṇḍā, the
entrance concealed behind the statue. Thus the prisoner can play a game
of hide-and-seek with the queen, and this enables her to carry out a
clever ruse invented by the magician to secure the queen’s blessing for
the wedding. The queen is induced to demand that the king shall marry a
princess of Lāṭa who will secure him imperial rank. She is still at her
home, but the magician will fetch her to the place. The wedding goes on
merrily, but the princess is no other than Karpūramañjarī, and the
queen has unwittingly accomplished the lovers’ desires.
The same motif is repeated in the Viddhaçālabhañjikā, [492] which is a
regular Nāṭikā. Act I tells us that Candravarman of Lāṭa, vassal of
Vidyādharamalla, has sent to the court of his overlord his daughter
Mṛgān̄kāvalī in the guise of his son and heir. The king,
Vidyādharamalla, recounts a dream in the truthful hours of the morning,
in which a beautiful maid had cast a collar of pearls round his neck;
he is haunted by her, and next finds her in sculptured form
(çālabhañjikā) in the picture gallery. He has a further glimpse of her
in the flesh but no more, before the heralds announce midday. In Act II
we learn that the queen proposes to marry Kuvalayamālā of Kuntala to
the pretended boy, while the Vidūṣaka has been promised by her
foster-sister, Mekhalā, marriage with a lady of the seductive name of
Ambaramālā, Air Garland. Imagine his disgust when she turns out to be a
mere slave; the king has to calm him, and together they watch in hiding
Mṛgān̄kāvalī playing in the garden, and hear her reading a letter of
love. The heralds proclaim the evening hour. In Act III we are told
that the dream of the king was reality, devised by Bhāgurāyaṇa, his
minister, who knew that the husband of the heroine would attain
imperial rule. The Vidūṣaka punishes Mekhalā’s ruse by another; he bids
a woman hide herself and call out a warning to Mekhalā of evil to
befall her unless she crawl between a Brahmin’s limbs. The queen begs
the Vidūṣaka to permit this ceremony, and, it over, he avows the plot
to the great indignation of the queen. The Vidūṣaka and the king then
have an interview with the heroine. In Act IV we learn of a plot of the
queen to punish the king. She induces him to agree to marry the sister
of the pretended boy, meaning that he should find that he has married a
boy. The king agrees; the marriage is completed; news comes from
Candravarman that a son is born, begging the queen to dispose in
marriage of his daughter, who may resume her sex. The queen, tricked
and deceived, makes the best of her situation; with dignity and hauteur
she bestows on her husband both Mṛgān̄kāvalī and Kuvalayamālā, while
news is brought that the last rebels are subdued and the king’s
suzerainty is recognized everywhere.
There can be no doubt of the demerits of Rājaçekhara’s works; he is
devoid of the power to create a character: Vidyādharamalla is stiff and
uninteresting beside his model, the gay and gallant Vatsa; the queen is
without the love or the majesty of Vāsavadattā; Bhāgurāyaṇa is a feeble
Yaugandharāyaṇa, whose magician is borrowed in the Karpūramañjarī and
spoiled in the borrowing. The heroines are without merit; the Vidūṣaka
in the Karpūramañjarī is tedious, but Cārāyaṇa in the
Viddhaçālabhañjikā has merits; he has plenty of sound common sense,
though he is simple and capable of being taken in by others. The
intrigue in both Nāṭikās is poorly managed; the confusion of exits and
entrances in the Karpūramañjarī is difficult to follow and probably
more difficult to act, while in the Viddhaçālabhañjikā the queen is
induced to arrange a marriage out of a puerile incident affecting the
Vidūṣaka only. The taste of giving two brides to the king at once is
deplorable, as is the failure to explain why the king accepts the
suggested marriage when ignorant of its true import.
In all his dramas, however, Rājaçekhara is merely concerned with
exercises in style. The themes he frankly tells us in the prologue to
the Karpūramañjarī are the same; the question is the expression, and
the language is indifferent; therefore Prākrit being smooth, while
Sanskrit is harsh, the language of women as opposed to men, can be used
as a medium of style by one who boasts himself an expert in every kind
of language. We have, therefore, elaborate descriptions in equally
elaborate verses, of the dawn, midday, sunset, the pleasures of the
harem, the game of ball, the swing, a favourite enjoyment of the Indian
maidens, and in the Nāṭakas pictures ad nauseam of battles with magic
weapons, and appalling mythical geography and topography. His allusions
to local practices and customs may be interesting to the antiquarian,
but are not poetical. More praiseworthy is his real accomplishment in
metres, especially the Çārdūlavikrīḍita, his facility in which
Kṣemendra justly praises, the Vasantatilaka, Çloka, and Sragdharā. His
ability to handle elaborate Prākrit metres is undeniable; in 144
stanzas in the Karpūramañjarī he has 17 varieties. If poetry consisted
merely of harmonious sound, he must be ranked high as a poet. He is
fond of proverbs: varaṁ takkālovaṇadā tittirī ṇa uṇa diahantaridā morī,
which gives our ‘A bird in hand is worth two in the bush’; he
introduces freely words from vernaculars, including Marāthī. But,
despite his parade of learning, he cannot distinguish accurately
Çaurasenī and Māhārāṣṭrī in his drama; in the former we find such forms
as laṭṭhi for yaṣṭi, ammi in the locative and hiṁto in the ablative
singular of a-stems, and esa for the pronoun. Important as he is
lexicographically for both Sanskrit and Prākrit, it is undeniable that
both were utterly dead languages for him, which he had laboriously
learned. Forms like ḍhilla equivalent to çithila in the Karpūramañjarī
show how far the vernaculars had advanced beyond the Prākrits of the
drama.
It would, however, be quite unjust to deny to Rājaçekhara the power of
effective expression; like all the later dramatists he is capable of
producing elegant and attractive verses, which are largely spoiled in
their context by their being embedded in masses of tasteless matter.
Thus the benediction of the Viddhaçālabhañjikā is decidedly graceful:
kulagurur abalānāṁ kelidīkṣāpradāne
paramasuhṛd anan̄go rohiṇīvallabhasya
api kusumapṛṣatkair devadevasya jetā
jayati suratalīlānāṭikāsūtradhāraḥ.
‘Family preceptor of young maidens for the bestowal of the sacrament of
love, the bodyless one, dearest friend of Rohiṇī’s lover, he that with
his flower arrows overthrew the god of gods, he is victorious ever, the
director of the comedy of the play of love’s mysteries.’
The description of summer is also pretty if banal:
rajaniviramayāmeṣv ādiçantī ratecchām
kim api kaṭhinayantī nārikelīphalāmbhaḥ
api pariṇamayitrī rājarambhāphalānām
dinapariṇatiramyā vartate grīṣmalakṣmīḥ.
‘This is the glorious season of summer, delightful in the length of the
days, when the royal plantain fruits are ripened, and the milk in the
coco-nut is hardened, and the season bids us enjoy the delight of love
in the closing watches of the night.’
The signs of a maiden distracted by unfulfilled affection are quaintly
described:
candraṁ candanakardamena likhitaṁ sā mārṣṭi daṣṭādharā
bandhyaṁ nindati yac ca manmatham asau bhan̄ktvāgrahastān̄gurīḥ
kāmaḥ puṣpaçaraḥ kileti sumanovargaṁ lunīte ca yat
tat kāmyā subhaga tvayā varatanur vātūlatāṁ lambhitā.
‘Biting her lip, she wipes out the figure of the moon sketched in
sandal paste; snapping her finger-tips she mocks at love as barren; to
flout his darts, the flowers she gathers she tears in shreds; assuredly
the fair one whom thou shouldst love hath been brought by thee to
madness.’
antastāraṁ taralitatalāḥ stokam utpīḍabhājaḥ
pakṣmāgreṣu grathitapṛṣataḥ kīrṇadhārāḥ krameṇa
cittātan̄kaṁ nijagarimataḥ samyag āsūtrayanto
niryānty asyāḥ kuvalayadṛço bāṣpavārām pravāhāḥ.
‘Rippled on the surface of the pupil, slightly foaming, forming drops
on the tips of the lashes, then slowly issuing in streams, betokening
by their weight her heart’s sorrow, there pour forth from the
lotus-eyed one the floods of her tears.’
Of all the plays the Karpūramañjarī is undoubtedly that which contains
the most substantial evidence that Rājaçekhara had some real poetic
talent, despite the banality and stupidity of his conception of love in
Act III. The swing scene contains really effective lines of
word-painting, in harmonious metre: [493]
vicchaanto ṇaararamaṇīmaṇḍalassāṇaṇāiṁ
viccholanto gaaṇakuharaṁ kantijoṇhājaleṇa
pecchantīṇaṁ hiaaṇihiaṁ ṇiddalanto a dappaṁ
dolālīlāsaralataralo dīsae se muhendū.
‘Paling the face of every beauty here, making the sky’s vault to ripple
with the liquid moonlight of her loveliness, and breaking the haughty
pride in the hearts of maids that regard her, appeareth the moon-like
orb of her face as she moveth straight to and fro in her sport on the
swing.’ The effective alliteration and paronomasia of this stanza are
surpassed by the metrical perfection of the next but one, where the
Pṛthvī metre, with ‘its jingling tribrachs and bell-like, chiming
cretics’, is employed in a stanza which admirably conveys by its sound
the sense at which it aims:
raṇantamaṇiṇeuraṁ jhaṇajhaṇantahāracchaḍaṁ
kaṇakkaṇiakin̄kiṇīmuhalamehalāḍambaraṁ
vilolavalaāvalījaṇiamañjusiñjāravaṁ
ṇa kassa maṇomohaṇaṁ sasimuhīa hindolaṇaṁ.
‘With the tinkling jewelled anklets, With the sound of lovely jingles
With the flashing jewelled necklace, From the rows of rolling bangles,
With the show of girdles garrulous Pray whose heart is not bewildered
From their ringing, ringing bells While the moon-faced maiden swings?’
Excellent also is the king’s address [494] to the Açoka when made to
blossom by the touch of the foot of his young beloved, but more
characteristic in his comment, [495] inspired by the Vidūṣaka’s
ungallant comparison of the fresh beauty of the maiden with the passée
comeliness of his queen:
bālāu honti kuūhaleṇa emeya cavalacittāo
daralasiathaṇīsu puṇo ṇivasai maaraddhaarahassaṁ.
‘Though maidens in their young zest for life are fickle of faith, yet
it is with them—their breasts just budding—that the mystery of the
dolphin-bannered doth abide.’
For technique Rājaçekhara is of interest, because he uses in the
Karpūramañjarī the old form of prologue quite openly, with the Nāndī
recited doubtless by the Sūtradhāra, followed by the advent of the
Sthāpaka who recites two verses. It is noteworthy that the manuscripts
often alter the Sthāpaka to the Sūtradhāra despite the clear sense of
the text. The late Pārvatīpariṇaya likewise has a Nāndī before the
Sūtradhāra speaks a verse. It is probable that the older technique long
persisted in the south.
Rājaçekhara’s indebtedness to his predecessors is wholesale; the
influence of Kālidāsa, Harṣa, and Bhavabhūti is obvious, and it is
probably an indication of his contemporaneity with, or slight
posteriority to, Murāri that he does not seem to have known his
writings. Influence of the vernacular or of Prākrit is to be seen in
his occasional use of rhyme, such as is found in the later Gītagovinda
or the Mohamudgara.
6. BHĪMAṬA AND KṢEMĪÇVARA
A verse attributed to Rājaçekhara mentions the five dramas of Bhīmaṭa,
of which the Svapnadaçānana won him chief fame. He is described as a
Kaliñjarapati, whence the suggestion has been made that he was a
connection of the Candella king Harṣa of Jejākabhukti, who, we know,
was a contemporary of Mahīpāla of Kanyakubja, patron of Rājaçekhara,
but we have no ground for positive assertion. [496]
The case is different with Kṣemīçvara, who in his Caṇḍakauçika wrote
for Mahīpāla, doubtless the king of Kanyakubja, patron of Rājaçekhara.
Kṣemīçvara asserts his patron’s victory over the Karṇāṭas, which was
doubtless the view taken in royal circles of the contest against the
Rāṣṭrakūṭa Indra III, who for his part claims victory over Mahodaya, or
Kanyakubja.[496] A variant of the name is Kṣemendra, but he is not to
be identified with the Kashmirian poet of that name. His
great-grandfather was called Vijayakoṣṭha or Vijayaprakoṣṭha, who is
designated as both Ārya and Ācārya, and was, therefore, a learned man
of some sort.
Kṣemīçvara has left two dramas. The Naiṣadhānanda [497] in seven acts
deals with the legend of Nala, famous in the epic and later. The
Caṇḍakauçika [498] reveals the stupid story of Hariçcandra, who, seeing
as he thought the sacrifice of a damsel on the fire rebukes the Kauçika
Viçvāmitra, and in return for his gallant action is cursed by the
irascible sage, who was merely bringing the sciences under his control.
He secures pardon by the surrender of the earth and a thousand gold
pieces; to secure the latter he sells wife and child to a Brahmin, and
himself to a Caṇḍāla as a cemetery keeper. One day his wife brings the
dead body of their child, but it turns out merely to be a trial of his
character; his son is alive and is crowned king. The plot is as poor as
the execution of the piece. He shows in metre a special fondness for
the Çikhariṇī, which occurs 20 times, nearly as often as the
Çārdūlavikrīḍita (23), while the Vasantatilaka appears 27 times and the
Çloka 36. His Prākrits, Çaurasenī and a few Māhārāṣṭrī stanzas, are
artificial.
The compilers of anthologies make little of Kṣemīçvara, with sufficient
reason, for his verses do not rise above mediocrity. The second stanza
of the three-verse benediction in the Naiṣadhānanda is on a common
theme, but not unhappily expressed; it follows a verse in honour of
Puruṣottama and Çrī, with the usual impartiality of this period:
asthi hy asthi phaṇī phaṇī kim aparam bhasma bhasmaiva tac
carmaiva carma kiṁ tava jitaṁ yenaivam uttāmyasi
naitāṁ dhūrta paṇīkaroṣi satatam mūrdhni sthitāṁ Jāhnavīm
ity evaṁ Çivayā sanarmagadito dyūte Haraḥ pātu vaḥ.
‘A skull is but a skull, a serpent a serpent; what more? The ashes and
the skin also which thou dost wear are but ashes and skin. What of
thine hast thou lost that thus thou art outworn? Ah, rogue, it is that
thou wilt not stake Jahnu’s daughter that rests ever on thy crest. May
Hara guard you, Hara to whom Çivā once spake playfully when they
diced.’
This amusing play on the unwillingness of Çiva to prolong the dicing
after he has unsuccessfully staked his necklace of skulls and serpents,
and his clothing of ashes and hide, is followed by a wearisome eulogy
of the glances of the god in the Tāṇḍava dance, alluding to the great
moments in his history. Similar bad taste is shown in the curious and
unusual form of the last verse of the drama:
yenādiçya prayogaṁ ghanapulakabhṛtā nāṭakasyāsya harṣād
vastrālaṁkārahemnām pratidinam akṛçā rāçayaḥ sampradattāḥ
tasya kṣattraprasūter bhramatu jagad idaṁ Kārttikeyasya kīrtiḥ
pāre kṣīrāmbhusindho ravikaviyaçasā sārdham agresarena.
‘Through all the universe beyond the ocean of milk, heralded by the
fame of his bard, the sun, may the fame wander of that scion of
heroism, that god of war, who bade this drama be performed and who in
keen delight at the pleasure he found in it gave daily to the poet
abundant store of raiment, jewels and gold.’ Such a mode of
immortalizing himself, and his patron can hardly be regarded as
precisely dignified, and it certainly is not in harmony with the
traditions of the drama.
XI
THE DECLINE OF THE SANSKRIT DRAMA
1. THE DECADENCE OF THE DRAMA
We have seen already in Murāri and Rājaçekhara the process which was
depriving the drama of real dramatic quality. The older poets were,
indeed, under the influence of the epic; they lived in the atmosphere
of the poetry of the court and their dramatic instincts had always to
fight against the tendency to introduce epic and lyric verses into
their works, heedless of the ruin thus wrought on the drama. Had the
stage been a more popular one, this defect might have been
counteracted, but the audience for whose approval a poet looked was
essentially one of men of learning, who were intent on discerning
poetic beauties or defects, and who, as the theory proves, had
singularly little idea of what a drama really means.
Other factors doubtless helped the decline of the drama. The invasion
of the Mahomedans into northern India, which began in earnest with the
opening of the eleventh century, was a slow process, and it could not
immediately affect the progress of the dramatic art. But gradually, by
substituting Mahomedan rulers—men who disliked and feared the influence
of the national religion, which was closely bound up with the drama—for
Hindu princes, the generous and accomplished patrons of the dramatists,
it must have exercised a depressing effect on the cultivation of this
literary form. The drama doubtless took refuge in those parts of India
where Moslem power was slowest to extend, but even there Mahomedan
potentates gained authority, and drama can have been seldom worth
performing or composing, until the Hindu revival asserted the Indian
national spirit, and gave an encouragement to the renewal of an ancient
national glory.
Yet a further and most important consideration must have lain in the
ever-widening breach between the languages of the drama and those of
real life. In Bhāsa’s days and even those of Kālidāsa we may imagine
that there was not too great difficulty in following the main features
of the drama both in Sanskrit and in Prākrit, but the gulf between the
popular languages and those of learning went on widening every year,
and Rājaçekhara, as we have seen, was, despite his boasted studies, of
which we have no reason to doubt, unable to discriminate correctly his
Prākrits. It in no wise disproves this view that the
Lalitavigraharājanāṭaka of Somadeva shows a close connexion with the
language as laid down in Hemacandra’s grammar, for, as that work
preceded the play in date and was produced at the court of Aṇhilvāḍ,
which was in close connexion with that of Sambhār, where Somadeva
lived, we need not doubt that copies of Hemacandra’s work were
available for the production of artificial Prākrit.
It was clearly a very different thing to compose in Sanskrit and
Prākrit in A.D. 1000, when the vernaculars were beginning to assume
literary form, than in A.D. 400, and the difficulty of composition in
any effective manner must have rapidly increased with the years, and
the growth of the realization that it was idle to seek fame under
modern circumstances by the composition of dramas, for which there was
no popular audience and only a limited market. What is amazing is that
for centuries the Sanskrit drama continued to be produced in very
substantial numbers, as the existence of manuscripts proves, and that
so strong was the force of tradition that the first attempt to
introduce the vernacular into the drama by Bidyāpati Ṭhākur in Behar
took the form of producing works in which the characters use Sanskrit
and Prākrit and the songs only are in Maithilī. So powerful has been
the strength of the Sanskrit drama that it is only in the nineteenth
century that vernacular drama has exhibited itself in Hindi, and in
general it is only very recently that the drama has seemed proper for
vernacular expression. But the writing in artificial languages has
revenged itself on the writers; their works are reminiscent of modern
copies of Greek or Latin verses, which only too painfully reveal
through all the artifices suggested by careful study the impossibility
of the production of real poetry, not to mention drama, in dead
languages. It is significant in this regard that perhaps the most
interesting of later dramas is the Prabodhacandrodaya of Kṛṣṇamiçra, a
drama of allegory on philosophical topics, which claim as their right
Sanskrit as a mode of expression. The Sanskrit of the author thus
represents the medium of his habitual use in discussions and is
appropriate to the matters dealt with.
This is essentially the period when the dramatic rules, strong in their
hold earlier over the minds of dramatists, attain even greater sway. It
is to this that we owe the few specimens we have of the rarer types of
drama which are not represented among the scanty remains of the
classical drama. There is no reason to suppose that these types were
popular among the earlier dramatists; they had, it seems, their vogue
in the time before the Nāṭyaçāstra assumed its present form, but were
rejected as unsuitable by the classical drama. We have also specimens
of types which may have been regularly produced in classical times, but
none of which are represented in the extant literature. Finally, we
have specimens of new forms, the result of efforts to introduce into
Sanskrit dramatic forms which had sprung up in more popular circles.
2. THE NĀṬAKA
The Nāṭaka remains throughout the post-classical period of the drama
the natural exponent of the higher form of the dramatic art. No change
of importance appears in its character; it merely steadily develops
those features which we have seen in full process of production in
Murāri and Rājaçekhara, the subordination of action to description, and
the degeneration of the description into a mere exercise in style and
in the use of sounds.