The Penguin Book of Classical Indian Love Stories and Lyrics Read online

  And here I am.

  You shall not come in, my dream suffices me.

  67

  O Dayamati, you know everything. Why do youths not look at me? I walk against the wind until my tunic clings to me, but they cross and continue their way. What must I do to show them I am old enough?

  You must let them suppose you have been loved already.

  How?

  Passionately.

  I do not mean that. I mean how can I get the youths to notice it?

  One day they will see that you no longer walk against the wind, and have draped your tunic into concealing folds.

  68

  By the sixty paps of Bhavita, I teli you he deceived you with Narayani, and I surprised them. Yesterday he took hold of my breasts by guile. Do you hear that? He took hold of my breasts. Also he kissed me by force this morning and tore my lips.

  You lie!

  Look at these wounds.

  I cannot believe my eyes. I must taste them, taste them. I must taste them.

  69

  How can you leave that passionate lover to murmur at your door? Alas, alas, he might as well be writing his charming lines upon the sand, since you teach them to your wanton parakeet for fun. The young man is rich, and we have need of money.

  70

  And you love him?

  Indeed I do.

  Do you not know that I also love?

  I was afraid so. Now there are two of us to love

  him. Even if one of us dies he will have a mistress.

  You? You die?

  We never know.

  O Sadahi, star of my day, have you not understood that it is

  you I love, and that I am jealous?

  71

  What did he do then?

  He set a pillow of fresh grass under my head and

  went to fetch the milk.

  And you slept?

  You are foolish. I rose and broke a branch of dadali

  and reddened my lips with the sap, I made my lids

  blue with the juice of the wild plum, I powdered

  my breasts with the pollen of the giant lotus.

  Observation

  72

  He came to tell her that he was leaving her and that he loved another. She wept. He had departed, saying nothing of her new way of doing her hair.

  73

  She used to pass singing, but since that very handsome boy caressed her, she does not sing, and all is sad on the road she used to take. Why, Madahi, are you so desolate? Is there only one very handsome boy between the Red Mountain and the seashore?

  74

  He covered her face and her breasts and her arms with kisses, and then went away. Because he did not dare to kiss her mouth, she is passing her lips along her trembling arms now.

  75

  A gust of wind will blow open the petals of a poppy that is slow in blossoming. Love suddenly brings the spirit of a girl to flower.

  76

  One day young Sita of Ratnavali indented this determination upon a rose petal: The prettiest boy in all the world. But I will never love him. Love is too cruel. She had just graved the last word when the West Wind carried away the petal.

  77

  ‘Clumsy!’ said Narati. ‘A fool!’ said Dayamati, and they both laughed. But Ambati does not tell them that he has the most extraordinary eyes in all the world, and that the blackbird tries to peck at his mouth when he lies sleeping in the garden.

  78

  See how these vernal airs, charged with the sunrise water-lily, clear the bright sweat from the forehead of this girl, and tangle her hair, and swell her veil in the fashion of a lover, and give back her strength.

  79

  I have come out of doors the better to hear this passionate voice, which is kissing all the fields. It is of a woman, a warm and serious voice, saturate with love; but it has ceased. The nightingales have been dumb tonight.

  80

  . . . and those women who have broken their lutes go to dream by the small waters. . .

  81

  This dancer pleases you, but there are fifteen coveting her. Therefore carelessly drop an incendiary phrase into the conversation, say that the talent of the poet Sadasa is open to discussion, or that the army of Kamatrasnu is not invincible. Let it work upon heated nerves, and the walls will soon be shaking. Do not wait until your companions come to blows, but make a sign to the dancer.

  82

  He entered the house of his mistress after long journeys, trembling with desire, emotion and impatience. And he found her surrounded by women friends, who took malicious pleasure in prolonging their visit. But she was more eager still, and crying: ‘Ah, something bites me!’ lifted her veil and fanned out the flame of the only torch with it. So that the guests departed.

  83

  As men speak:

  You are imbecile to groan so because she has refused to let you in. Wash away your tears and crown yourself with jasmine petals. Sing one of the native songs of her servant, for the girl is charming, more beautiful than Vadiha. She will come out at once, and pay you for the rigours of her mistress.

  Leave me alone, for I love Vadiha! Leave me alone!

  The servant is very beautiful.

  Beauty is not enough.

  Her breasts, her legs.

  Where does she come from?

  From Mahapura.

  Perhaps she knows my brother, who lives near there. I will sing and bring her out, since you advise it.

  I am glad to see you love your brother so. Good-bye.

  84

  She remembers the dusk when he swore under the flowering plum tree he would love her. She remembers his betrayal, his lying, his brutal departure, and rejoices that she has escaped from such a man. But she never sees, save dimly, a branch of the plum tree flowering against the moon.

  85

  The chariot of the thunder is crashing over the clouds, it is almost quite dark and here is the rain! Come and take shelter under my tree, pretty. I invite you for the sake of your new tunic and for the sake of this bird in the branches of my tree. He has never seen a man and a girl not take advantage of a storm.’ ‘Alas, alas, I really must accept your invitation.’ But even so the bird soon flew away.

  86

  Instead of the deep blue lotus her glance to him, her teeth in a lighted smile instead of the jasmine, instead of the cup one moving breast of hers. Thus, though she has little means, she finds a celebration for his return.

  87

  The gold band of princes is about his brow, he has thirty elephants and a hundred servants, his palace is on the bank of the Chandana, and he weeps tonight. He weeps as a labourer in a rice-field, who sees his crop borne down by the flood of the river. O master of thirty elephants and a hundred servants, you will not frighten Love. Your arrows and cutting-wheels will not frighten Love. So weep.

  88

  ‘Now may Love break my heart in a hundred and fifty-two pieces, put out the fire of my eyes, render me as thin as a harp, if I value that faithless boy more than a last year’s nail-paring!’ And then she cast an impatient glance along his usual footpath.

  89

  ‘You are more beautiful with no veils,’ and he sets an impatient hand upon her girdle. Light grows in the eyes of the young girl, and her women file forth discreetly.

  90

  She is young, and has come to sit sadly under a certain cinnamon apple and regard the moon. Her breast is filled with sighs, she falls to weeping and then gives way to sleep. But the wind has listened and makes the cinnamon apple cry down its flowers upon her cheek, so that she dreams that a hand is wiping away her tears.

  91

  Bhavani, Ambalika and Rohini mirrored their smiling faces in the water. And Bhavani, crying: ‘Oh, I am thirsty,’ leaned over the gold disk which was the face of Rohini and kissed it as it floated trembling. And Ambalika must weep.

  92

  She looks at the torrent from the mountain where her lover keeps his flock, and says: ‘Oh, have you seen him
, torrent?’ But the torrent answers with its spumy mouths: ‘I have seen the blue sky and the white cliffs.’ ‘Have you heard the music of a bone flute, O torrent?’ ‘I have heard the noise of the wind breaking against the rocks.’ ‘O torrent, have you seen an eagle towering?’ ‘I have seen an eagle.’ ‘I am happy, torrent, for you have seen an eagle that saw Sadatta.’

  93

  O Fire, most mighty except for Indra, O fever of nature! Spilling from the snow mountains, flowing from the stars in shiny circles, Agni, Agni, Agni! You flicker, a thousand lotuses; you twist up iron like rushes; you flame in the heart of dancers, in the blood of gazelles gasping ahead of the hunt, in the arms of clinging lovers! Agni, Agni, Agni!

  94

  Her husband committed a small fault, and she recalled the eternal perfidious counsel of her women. She bore herself violently, thinking to frighten him; but he only remembered the unchanging sweetness of a certain girl.

  95

  The temple bell has let loose its arrow of sound upon the night, and rapid shadows are passing. That, by the sound of her silver bracelets, is Pritha. And that is Hatanena of the sad hair. That is Uma, and that is Gautami. Soon they will come back, each with a consecrated coal in a leaf of nenuphar; and as ever, because she sets it down in the grass to let herself be kissed, the dew will have quenched Pritha’s.

  96

  Bhavani and Pritha are whispering. What are they saying? Now Pritha runs away. Where is she going? The little bell noises of her bracelets can be heard no longer. Far down there, see, two girls are scratching each other’s faces, and a young man strips the petals from a flower.

  97

  Flutes becoming silent, young girls running, broken lilies. A storm.

  98

  How should we quench love when there is fire even in the pollen of the lotus under water, even in wet sandal essence, even in the dew of the frozen lantern of the moon?

  99

  She played with her collar of shells. She spoke to us of flowers, and her hands were as unsubstantial as a rose petal. She spoke to us of birds, and her voice saddened us more than the crying of a lost bird at night. She spoke of the sun, and her great eyes which had been suns were dimmed to two thin sparks, eaten by the shadow.

  100

  O Death with the face of Dawn! O flower-

  crowned Death! O drunken with having held

  the bodies of every man and every woman in

  your arms since time began! Death with

  sealed lips! O Death, deaf to the supplication

  of the fallen dancers! Charitable to the

  calling of the Buddhas! Creative

  Annihilation! Death

  with the face of

  Dawn!

  ‘Love Poems’ by Amaru extracted from ‘Two Sanskrit Lyric Poets: Amaru and Mayura’ in Eastern Love Vol. II, edited and translated by E. Powys Mathers. London, 1927.

  Pururava and Urvashi

  (Epic version—Mahabharata)

  Shovana Devi

  Urvashi, daughter of the Sea-foam, was the fairest among the nymphs of Heaven, not excepting even Menaka, nymph-mother of Shakuntala. Exiled by the twin gods Mitra and Varuna, the Day-sky and the Night-sky, Urvashi had to leave Heaven and dwell for a time on Earth. Sadly she roamed the world without a companion save her two pet rams. One day, in the course of her wanderings, she met Pururava, son of Budha, and Pururava became enamoured of her celestial beauty.

  ‘O fair one,’ he cried, ‘I look upon thee with eyes of love. Be thou my bride.’

  ‘Only on two conditions can I wed thee,’ said Urvashi. ‘First, I must have these two rams always with me; and second, never must I see thee otherwise than fully clothed.’

  To these terms Pururava agreed, and Urvashi became his bride.

  All the nymphs and fairies mourned the loss of their Queen, and Heaven was joyless in her absence, so her friends the gandharvas, or elves, came stealthily into her room one dark, cloudy night, and carried off her rams. Urvashi cried out for help, and Pururava, forgetful of his vow, rushed into her room, not waiting to put on his garments, but could not see the robbers in the dark. Suddenly there was a flash of lightning, and Urvashi saw Pururava there unclad. Thus the conditions were broken, and Urvashi returned to her home in Heaven and made the gods happy once more with her dances and songs.

  ‘Pururava and Urvashi’, from Tales of the Gods of India by Shovana Devi. London, 1920.

  The Hero and the Nymph

  (Classical version—Kalidasa)

  Shovana Devi

  Once upon a time there reigned over Pratisthana a demigod named Pururava. He claimed the golden Sun and silver Moon for his ancestors. Ila, daughter of the Sun, was his mother, and Budha, son of the Moon, was his father. Ofttimes had he visited the Sun and Moon gods in Heaven in his golden chariot.

  On one occasion, while returning to Earth from a visit to the Sun god, he chanced to hear some apsaras or nymphs crying out for help. Instantly Pururava turned his car in the direction of the cry, and found that it had come from a band of nymphs on Hemkunt, ‘the golden peak of Himalaya’. As he neared the mountain, the nymphs cried out to him: ‘O Pururava, a demon has carried off Urvashi, Heaven’s fairest nymph. Often hast thou warred on the side of Indra, King of Heaven, against the demons. Now rescue his hapless nymph.’

  ‘Wait on this golden peak, fair nymphs,’ said Pururava, and shot away with lightning speed through the air in pursuit of the demon, scattering the clouds before him. Soaring and swooping, even as an eagle flies after its quarry, he overtook him at length, and there was a fight between the Demigod and the demon, and the struggle swayed this way and that, until at last Pururava succeeded in putting his enemy to flight and rescuing Urvashi.

  Urvashi had fainted away, and looked more beautiful than ever in the swoon. In the twinkling of an eye Pururava returned with his lovely burden to the golden peak, and as he was descending Urvashi was thrown right into his arms by a sudden but happy movement of the car. She came to herself, and Pururava said to her, ‘Behold, O nymph, thy friend and deliverer, Pururava.’ She looked up into his face, and her bright, adoring eyes met those of Pururava, and told a tale of love and gratitude.

  As the car landed on the peak the nymphs pressed forward with extended arms to embrace Urvashi, crying out in chorus, ‘Eternal be the power of Pururava!’

  Scarcely had the echo of the greeting died away when lo! another car, flaming up half the Heavens, alighted on the peak. ‘Welcome, O King of elves and fairies!’ exclaimed Pururava. It was Chitra Ratha, the charioteer of Indra, King of the gods, sent down to bring Urvashi back to Heaven.

  ‘O Pururava,’ said Chitra Ratha, ‘well hast thou served Indra by rescuing the fairest of his nymphs. With everlasting glory thou hast crowned thy name.’

  ‘O Chitra Ratha, I am but his humble tool,’ replied Pururava. ‘The glory is his, not mine. If the echo of a lion’s roar frightens away an elephant, it is the lion, not the echo, that deserves the praise.’

  ‘Humility is ever the ornament of valour,’ said Chitra Ratha to the brave Pururava, and prepared to depart. As their flight began Urvashi cried out: ‘O Chitra Ratha, wait! My golden chain is entangled with this straggling vine.’ This was but a pretext, for she longed only for one last look behind at her deliverer, Pururava.

  ‘The cruel nymph has borne away my heart in triumph,’ said Pururava to himself after her departure. Despondency clouded his spirit as the days dragged by and brought her no more, and his yearning for the sight of her began to mar his happiness.

  Spring came round with its wealth of flowers and song. The glories of the season lured Pururava from gloomy nooks and corners into his park, bright with a thousand flowers. The jasmine bowers were aglow with pearly blossoms, and the gilded bees swarmed about them, humming. The crimson creepers hung from every bough, waving to and fro gaily in the breeze. The koels, the soft, voluptuous breezes, the fragrant flowers, all these inflamed the soul of Pururava with love, but far, far beyond his reach was his
Urvashi.

  He said to himself with a sigh, ‘The birds sing and mate, the fields are freshened, and the trees are decked with bloom, but there is no Spring for me without my love.’

  Lo! as though in answer, Pururava heard above him a soft rustle, as of the fluttering of an autumn leaf. He looked up and beheld Urvashi on her way through the air to the Paradise of Mahadeva to act the part of Lakshmi in the play of Lakshmi’s svayamvara (choice of a husband).

  There was no time for more, so Urvashi threw down towards Pururava a vurja leaf. Pururava at first leaped back, thinking it to be a snake, and great was his joy when he found out his mistake. He picked the leaf up with tremulous fingers, and lo! it was a love-epistle from her, his beloved Urvashi. ‘O Pururava,’ thus it ran, ‘I love thee. No more does my soft couch of flowers give me sleep at night, or the balmy breezes of Heaven bring peace to my love-tormented heart.—Urvashi.’

  Pururava soon blotted out with kisses and tears the delicate characters traced by her tender hand on the leaf, but time went on, and still he saw her no more. He was sitting alone, one evening, on the terrace of his palace, sad at heart, when all at once light seemed to spread over the sky, and he looked up and beheld the rising moon at the gateway of the east.

  He breathed a prayer to his ancestor, the Moon god: ‘All hail to thee, O Moon, whose silvery beam dispels the gloom of eve. Canst thou not dispel the gloom within my heart?’

  Even as he said this he heard the gentle music of anklets near him and felt soft fingers veil his eyes from behind. ‘Thou art Urvashi, thou art Urvashi!’ he exclaimed with joy, and turned to meet the embrace of his beloved.

  ‘O King,’ said the nymph, ‘the Fates have at last brought me to thine arms. At the mansion of Mahadeva was enacted the drama of Lakshmi’s choice of a lord. I played Lakshimi, and the nymph Menaka was Varuni, wife of the King of the Waters. All the gods appeared, headed by the radiant Purushottam (Vishnu, the Preserver). Menaka as Varuni had to ask me, “O Lakshmi, confess to whom inclines thine heart?” and I lost myself in that impassioned passage. I should have said—”To Purushottam,” but, instead of that, “To Pururava!” escaped my lips. Unluckily thus I stumbled in my part and displeased Lakshmi. And so behold me, condemned to abide a time on Earth. Alas!’ she added with a sigh, ‘our faculties are but the slaves of Destiny.’