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

  12

  As you lay on the palace couch of sea-yellow and showed me lovelinesses, saying that they were unimportant, our King was counting his number of gold breastplates and litters woven from bird feathers. I would have made stanzas about your hands.

  13

  Dust of dead flowers, O tigress, has been spilled smoothly on the body of your breasts. It is a task to praise your breasts, for their tips are gilded like the sun and red like sunset. And I do not know what to think of them.

  14

  Suavely the wine pouring from your lower lip has called the gold swarm. It is a crimson fruit and has called the bees. The boy who has sucked that carmine fruit is drunken, and I am drunken, and the gilded bees.

  15

  Early you have plunged as a fire coal into the river pool, the fishes love you, and your breasts displace the water. The demon of the stream, having come down to drink between his tigers, leaps out upon you. He bears you down, and you come up uncooled from the cool river.

  16

  Now you pout your fruit-red lower lip, O woman with wet hands, to be a comfort to those that thirst. You make me cool with the breathing of your underlip, though crimson lac is afraid before it, and to touch it is annihilation.

  17

  Old maker of careful stanzas as I am, I am also as the fishmonger’s ass and smell to you in riot. He is insensate and does not care though the Royal retinue be passing. He climbs and is not otherwise contented. And he brays aloud.

  18

  Rapture disturbed the gold water-hornets, they were in a cloud about your navel. It was deep with blue deeps, a flower on the river. It was cut as if with the three strokes of a sharp sword. A child with his hand full of musk unguent could by no means have filled it.

  19

  Once I told my King that night had fallen, and he said: ‘It is as yet noon.’ But I insisted, proclaiming: ‘Night has descended in long shadows, because that woman has let fall her most heavy hair.’ And he said: ‘You are an old man, Mayura.’

  20

  For now I break branches out of my path, seeing that the soles of your feet are red. The rain-scent of the coupling of the trees comes again to the poets’ assembly, and your hair is nightfall, and I am an old man.

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

  The Loves of Haralata and Sundarasena

  Damodaragupta

  There is a great city named Pataliputra; it is the gem which decks the forehead of the world. Sarasvati, Goddess of Wisdom and Learning, dwells there; high over the residences of Indra towers that city. Above it the moon stretches down her rays like white hands, to steal the charms of its women to adorn her lotus; it is as if she felt shame for the stains upon her face and desired to hide them.

  In Pataliputra men grow slack to their wives because of the steel-tipped arrows of the moving eyes of the girls with rounded buttocks.

  The noble ladies of that place are famed for the delicacy of their discourse, and of their hands and feet; for the purity of their hearts and the instability of their regard; for the firmness of their breasts, for their exceptional regions, and for the great heaviness of their hair; for their natural inclination to their lords and masters, and for the supple graciousness of their waists; for the depth of their sensibility, and of their navels, which are the quivers of love; for the ample expansion of their hinder parts, and for their ardent veneration of all such men as are worthy of respect.

  It was there that Purandara dwelt, who, in his time, was held to be the very home of wisdom. He came of a lofty family and was estimable in all things.

  Although he was avid to follow the straight way, although he turned from all human frailty and avoided the wives of others, yet he could not prevent his heart from dreaming a little of women.

  Therefore he had a son called Sundarasena, whom the Creator had formed to be a second God of Love. The noble women found it difficult to remain in the paths of virtue when once their glances had fallen upon his beauty. ‘Is it the sun himself that such charm should flow thence? Was he made from shining fragments of the moon, that he brings us so much sorrow?’ It was with such thoughts that the caravan of local ladies looked upon him, and could come to no decision.

  He borrowed a very joyous look from the rays of the moon, and from the mountain its solidity; its haughty movement from the cloud, and depth from the sea.

  He was the dwelling of irreproachable conduct, the home of intelligence; the fortress of perseverance, the palace of discourse, and the throne of upright dealing.

  He was the adoration of women, the touch-stone of perfection, a benevolent tree upon the arid road of life.

  The conversation of upright men delighted him; his criticism of fine tales was in exquisite taste; he was the thicket of desires to all who loved him.

  He had a friend as frank and noble as gold, whose name was Gunapalita; they were bound together as ocean and the moon, and shared both pain and pleasure.

  As these two were walking in a solitary place, they heard a voice saying these words:

  ‘Those who have not travelled, and are ignorant of the manners, customs, and character of alien peoples, and have thus not learned to pay respect to the respectable, such are as bulls without horns.’

  When Sundarasena heard these words, he said to his good friend: ‘O Gunapalita, the thoughts of that unknown but upright man are excellent.

  ‘It is only by passing over the earth, girt like a fortress with her moat of seas, that we can learn those things which make up knowledge: the conduct of the brave, the wiles of the wicked, the innumerable characteristics which distinguish men, the pleasant conversation of the cultivated, the wanton discourse of shameless women, the conduct of priests, the practice of sharpers, and the life of harlots.

  ‘Therefore, my friend, put your heart to my heart, for we have exhausted the little pleasure of these places. Let us embark upon a journey together which shall complete our learning and ripen our intelligence.’

  But when Sundarasena had spoken so with his whole soul, his friend made answer thus reservedly:

  ‘It gives me as much shame as pain to set an obstacle on the path of another’s prayer; but listen, and I will tell you something of a traveller’s suffering.

  ‘At the fall of day the voyager drags himself to some village, his body covered with rags, his strength exhausted by the unforeseen length of the day’s march, all grey with a layer of dust, and asks for shelter:

  “’O mother, O sister, be pitiful, and do not harden your heart against us! Doubtless your sons and brothers are also travelling on business into far lands, and are exiled from the hearth as we are.

  ‘Would we destroy your house before we leave tomorrow? Nay, for when a stranger finds comfortable shelter in the home of excellent persons, he treats that dwelling as his own.

  We would pass the night in any way at all, upon this spot, O mother. See, the sun has already fallen! Whither could we journey further at this hour?”

  ‘Such are the sad words which the poor traveller must repeat from door to door, while the suspicious housewives answer him with arrogance:

  “’The master is not at home! You croak for nothing! Go to the temple! . . . It does not matter what one says to these people, they will not depart! The importunate impudence of some folk!”

  ‘And when, after making great difficulty and before the ever increasing vehemence of their prayers, the master of another house has pointed to the corner of a hut, and said disdainfully: “Lie there!” they listen all night to the poor man being tortured by his tender wife: “Why have you given lodging to men we do not know?” and hear him eternally answering: “They seemed unfortunate and quite respectable. What else was I to do?”

  ‘Also a crowd of women will run in from the neighbourhood on the pretence of borrowing a pot or some other thing, but really to find out what is going forward, and to take their sister’
s part. “You will have to keep an eye on the house,” they say. “Many thieves have been seen passing upon the road.”

  ‘And, when he has thus visited a hundred houses and has suffered the tortures of privation, the unfortunate traveller will soon come down to begging by the roadside: a meagre handful of rice or beans, of peas or lentils.

  ‘A wanderer’s food depends upon the caprice of others: the earth is his bed, the temple is his home, and Destiny has prepared a broken brick to be his pillow.’

  He fell silent and waited for Sundarasena to speak; but just at that moment someone chanced to sing these most appropriate verses:

  To him who journeys with a goal worth proving

  What matter the conditions of his roving?

  The temple floor shall be a palace to him,

  The stony hearth a feather bed to woo him,

  And leathery scraps which stay-at-homes abhor

  Shall be to him a banquet and much more.

  And when he had heard this singing, the son of Purandara turned with joy to his friend, and cried: ‘That unknown man has expressed my heart for me. Come! Let us set forth together!’

  It was thus that Sundarasena resolved to go down into a sea of suffering, and take his friend for a companion there. He told his father nothing of his project, but left the flowery city of Pataliputra on that same day.

  With his faithful friend he wandered over the whole earth; and in each new country that they found they eagerly collected the discourse of the learned, and exercised themselves in various weapons. They digested the contents of wise books, and were witness of many prodigies. They perfected themselves in painting and sculpture, music and dancing. They became expert in the tortuous ways of knavery, and listened with attention to the gallant speech of courtesans and their lovers.

  When they had plumbed to the depth of every science, and had studied each manner of life among many peoples, they turned their feet homewards, and thus came on a certain day to the mount Arbuda.

  When Gunapalita saw that his friend wished to pause upon this vantage point of earth, and to look down from it upon the smiling country unfolded beneath his feet, he said to him: ‘Let us now look upon this queen of mountains!

  ‘This daughter of the height is rich in running waters. They are cool and clear. Surely they were cast down in pity upon the desert by the glaciers of Himalaya. ‘She has the brightness of Shiva; her brow has the grace of the cold rays of the moon. A few solitary penitents live upon her flanks, and the pure air feeds them.

  ‘Hither innocent and fair young girls come in a troop as if to pluck the stars, astonished to see the stars like buds of fire.

  ‘And by a miracle the seven points of the Great Bear dwell very close to her. Who would not be moved by the sublimity of this enormous rock?

  ‘She leans above the path of the air. Surely she was created that the weary feet of the horses of the sun might find a resting place.

  ‘The grasses, by growing here, have entered into communion with the moon. Might we not follow their example and after due precaution, find out a sweet affinity with God?

  ‘There is no true friendship save in common labour, therefore this mountain pours down the refreshing drops of her cascade about the cosmic elephants, to refresh them at their task of holding our earth in air.

  ‘The men who abide in this loneliness bend all their zealous energies towards the conquest of another life. But though they have stifled inclination in their hearts, they will not wound any creature, even a serpent. Although they feed upon fruits, they are not monkeys; and although they follow their holy pleasure in all things, they find no pleasure in a savage deed. Although they are filled with love and compassion and pity for all who seek refuge among them, yet they rejoice in an utter peace of the spirit.

  ‘Also the land which spreads at the feet of this mountain shines with all pleasant things: it is filled with as ardent light as the path of the Sun god; it is adorned with trees of every kind; it is peopled by monkeys and gazelles and bears and elephants.’

  While his companion was thus assisting Sundarasena to admire the beauties of the mountain, and while he himself, in joyful curiosity, banqueted his eyes upon her, he heard some person singing:

  Who has not seen Arbuda’s flanks

  Has but his journey’s pain for thanks.

  ‘That man has sung very sensibly,’ said Sundarasena. ‘Come, my friend, let us climb to the highest of these amiable peaks, that we may enjoy the beauty of their prospect in full.’ Soon they reached the summit of Arbuda, and contemplated the dwellings of the wise hermits in delight; their green gardens, their pools and fishponds and small streams. But while they walked thus upon the back of the world, decked out with abundant thickets and with meadows of new flowers, Sundarasena beheld a girl who was strolling and playing games with her companion. She had the swift beauty of the sun, yet the softness of moonlight. She was the Creator’s perfect work; she was the crown, the achieved model of all life, the weapon of Kama, a steel to cleave the shield of holiness.

  As Sundarasena stood regarding her his heart became disturbed, and he said to himself in admiration and surprise:

  ‘Whence came a Creator of such exquisite cunning that he could unite these contradictory perfections into one girl?

  ‘She is friendly in her aspect, she is a star and without blemish. She has a face of impeccable lotus, and surpasses the lute.

  ‘The shapes and junctions of her body are beyond cavil, and she has high breasts. She borrows her colour from the autumn moon.

  ‘She has haughty attitudes, fine walking, and a mighty region. She takes pride in the noble posture of her feet.’

  And even as he felt an invincible inclination towards her, she also fell beneath the hand of Kama.

  She leaned forgetful against the root of a tree, and felt the true pain of love flowering upon her body’s stem.

  The scented magnificence of the garden became accomplice to increase her trouble, for gardens also feel Kama.

  Her members, with their veins and joints, were softened, and gave birth to pearls.

  She had fallen into the nets of the god, the slight one! Her harmonious body shook in agony! Her fixed regard was lost in emptiness! She was like a silver fish flapping in a wicker snare! She stiffened and trembled and the small hairs of her body stood on end! Her sighs now put her sweat into condition; for the god with the uneven number of darts had so commanded it. With so exceptional a beauty, ah, well, he knew his game.

  Her very pain dowered her with sweetest attractions; for her deep sighs moved her breasts enticingly. Her sincere passion added the enchantment of tenderness to her glances; her hidden inclination gave her face new brightness; the charm of trembling words and uncertain walking came from her trouble. But although her beloved was near her side, and although the sharp arrows of Kama rained about her like hail, she dared not speak of the new thing which grasped her heart, for fear of killing it.

  Then her friend led her away, for she recognized that lover was looking upon lover, heart burning to heart. Therefore she led her away, saying:

  ‘Alas, alas Haralata! Beware of these movements; a true and candid inclination of the heart augurs no good to a daughter of joy, for the reality of love is forbidden her who lives by her body.

  ‘Despise the man who brings no money, honour the man who has a solid fortune; our beauty is but nature’s tool for building riches, O fair innocent.

  ‘If you amuse yourself with love with a handsome boy, and take no regard for profit, then you will be mocked, O beautiful, by all the troops of thoughtful prostitutes.

  ‘Men who stand in glorious youth and are protected by their star, whose good works bear fruit, who carry the desire of joy . . . such men will seek you of themselves, infallibly wounded. Bees are not sought for by the flowering branches.’

  But when her friend had thus spoken, Haralata, whose every limb was torn by the arrows of desire, let indistinct syllables painfully fall from her, in a voice which lacked assuran
ce:

  ‘Dear friend, lend me your cares for the cure of my exceeding trouble, for those who are bound by such are not accessible to reason.

  ‘A lover not yet yoked, a breath of wind, and the soft month of Spring—all these devote our heart to death.’

  So Shashiprabha, when she saw the body of her friend thus poisoned by the venom of the snake of love and understood that great misfortune reigned in her heart, went out to find the son of Purandara and, having made him a reverence, spoke to him:

  ‘Although the embarrassment which suits my trade would force a courtesan to silence, yet it is most necessary that this affair be adjusted, and in misfortune, very dear friend, decorum may be discarded.

  ‘Haralata saw you for a moment, and lo! she has fallen already; the god has stricken her.

  ‘He lives within our hearts; his arrows, piercing her shield of stiffened hairs, have found her labouring body.

  ‘What shall the poor child do? Where may she grieve? To whom shall she have recourse, being tortured by the wind which comes from the south?

  ‘The green-billed cuckoos have already broken their vows of silence to make her suffer; they rack her with their jargoning.

  ‘The walk of the tenderly-membered girl now wavers and is uncertain. The swans, unheeding of weariness, rejoice to come and go upon the water.

  ‘Though the honey-fly stifles under the hot sighs of the flower who faints for him, he will not grant her a moment of repose. Love’s pain cannot forswear love’s happiness.

  ‘Do not repulse me—thus the bee makes murmur in his love communion. The flower he woos is at a girl’s ear, and pensively, feeling her body weaker, the fair one dreamily hears him: Do not repulse me.

  ‘If the gold circlet has fallen from her arm, it is because she has let her hand droop by her side.

  ‘Behold a miracle! The belt of her waist has become undone in her walking, and hangs upon her haunches; but to rest thus on a heavy buttock leads fatally to falling.