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Thursday, April 16, 2015

Dynasty of the Kurus


महाभरत
Mahābharata
As retold by
Michael Dolan, B.V. Mahāyogi

Dynasty of the Kurus

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They walked again to the holy place where the great man lay pierced with arrows from head to toe. The grass was stained with blood. Bhishma was eager to see his royal relatives. They took up their positions around him. Yudhisthira asked, "Tell me of our dynasty, and how it was continued after Chitrangada and Vichitravirya. Tell us the story of our fathers."

And Bhishma continued. Satyavati was the mother of us all.

SATYAVATI

Bhiṣma continued, “Satyavati would become a second mother to me. She had been born of a forest sage and a river mermaid then left to die on the banks of the river. The history of this great queen was not fully known to me until later, when it was my duty to continue the dynasty of the Kurus. At that time she confided in me the entire story of how she had met the sage Parashara, and how the island-born Vyāsa, compiler of the Vedas, had been born to her. Now I will tell the story of Satyavati, my father's second wife.

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“By the good fortune of Kṛṣṇa and the gods, Satyavati was saved by a fisherman and raised as his daughter.  She was a mere girl who ferried passengers across the Ganges in a small boat, built for the purpose. She was a nubile maid, a child of the river.

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Satyavati crossing river.

 “Her father, a crafty fisherman had raised her to ferry passengers across the Ganges. As she lived in a bamboo shack beside the river with her father, she spent every morning cutting and scaling fish. After morning duties, she ran the ferry. 
Now it came to pass that one morning a great saint by the name of Parashara Muni had to cross the river. 

Now Parashara had spent a long time in the mountains meditating on the nature of the absolute and had not seen a woman during his time there. When he came upon this innocent girl, he was stunned by her beauty and determined to lay with her.

 “Satyavati, of course, had never considered herself a great beauty, for everyone insulted her and called her foul-smelling and 'fish-breath'. In truth, her mother had been a beautiful water-sprite of the river, an apsara, a kind of mermaid. How could she understand the attractive power of her beauty and the madness it would provoke in a saint? As the boat entered the smooth waters of the Ganges, Parashara, beholding her nymph-like charms, approached her gently, saying, “Oh divine nymph, come to me. Allow me to embrace you and let us know the joys of mortal love together.”
The young Satyavati was furious at the forest sage whose green eyes had a penetrating and hypnotic stare. She laughed at him and made as if to strike him with an oar if he came any closer.
“Stay away from me,” she said.
Parasara Muni and Satyavati
“I have acquired certain mystic powers by dint of my long years of penances and austerities in the mountains of the Himalayas.” He said. “Tell, me, what is your heart’s desire?”
“No closer.” she said.
“I can grant you a boon or benediction as you wish.” He said. “Don’t be afraid of me.”
“Well, if you really have any mystic powers at all,” she said, softening “Make me fragrant. The fishy smell that permeates me offends all suitors and young men everywhere.  Please help me. I have lived so long in the house of a fisherman that I smell like a fish and no one will touch me.”
“Done.” He said, and her new aroma of sandalwood and roses permeated both sides of the river with a strange and lovely perfume for eight miles in all directions.
“What more do you ask of me,” said the sage, moving closer, with his strange visage and matted hair, dressed as he was in a deerskin. “Come to me.” he gestured to her.

“Satyavati Fault Lines VIII"   Karthika Naïr 

“Well, if we are to know the joys of mortal love, transform yourself into a handsome young man in fine clothes.” she challenged.

Parasara Muni

“Done,” said the mystic and assumed temporarily the aspect of a handsome young man in fine clothes. “So now leave the oars. Come to me.”
“We shall be seen!” she exclaimed, at once alarmed and attracted. “My reputation will be ruined.”
“I’ll see to that.” He said, and so a fine mist began to pervade the atmosphere of the river. Their boat stopped dead in the water, it floated into a vast clump of golden lotus flowers. The fragrance of Satyavati changed with her mood and she now exuded the scent of jasmine flowers in the sunset.
 She smiled, coyly. “If I fall into your embrace,” She said, then I will no longer be a virgin.”
“Then“ the sage smiled, “By the mystic power of the great yogis achieved after long penance and austerities - I shall restore your virginity.”
“Can such a thing be done? What if I am with child?”

“Your child shall be born immediately. We shall leave him on yon island. His name will be Vyāsa and he will be the greatest of sages and the writer of the Vedas. His dynasty shall rule the earth. What more would you ask?”
"She smiled, her objections overcome. They embraced in the cool privacy of the scented mist.
When they reached the other side of the river, the saint Parashara once more assumed his normal appearance, an old man with matted hair in a deerskin. He again retired to the mountains of the Himalayas to pass a long time in meditation."

Riverboat,Ganges
"Now, the river-born Vyāsa was left on an island where he was later found and raised by river spirits and mountain sages. Satyavati was now a woman and her beauty famous. Not only were her eyes pure, her form shapely, but her perfume, which changed with her mood, was now redolent of sandalwood, then jasmine, and then the musky aroma of lotuses at sunrise."

And so it was that my father, childless and forlorn, having conquered vast lands beyond his own kingdom, met and fell in love with the beautiful Satyavati. Upon crossing the river he was utterly enchanted and lost his wits in the charms of love.
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King Shantanu and Satyavati


"But I have already explained all these things. 

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The River-born Vyasa, Compiler of Vedic Literatures

the dynasty continued

Bhishma continued, “And so, as I have already explained, after the death of the warlike Chitrangada, I went to great labors to secure a wife for my brother Vichitravirya at the Swayamvara of Amba, Ambika, and Ambalika held by the King of Kashi.  Alas, by this time my father had ascended to the heavens to be with the gods, having lived his life in accordance with dharma.

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“I have told you of the great Swayamvara in the court of the King of Kashi and how I bore off his daughters in my chariot and finally how they were married to Vichitravirya.  You must know that Vichitravirya was unlucky.  After enjoying his wives for some time, Vichitravirya was still unable to conceive an heir with them. So Vichitravirya and his wives had no children or heirs to the throne.
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Hindu boy-king
“And then, further tragedy struck our family. It was the will of the divine powers that he leave this world. After a time that child among men, the gentle Vichitravirya contracted tuberculosis and died leaving no heir.

Bhishma's Vow

“With the death of the good Vichitravirya, I therefore went to my father’s widow, Satyavati in order to better ascertain what should be done. That good woman, my second mother, advised me that I must now break my vow and take the wives of Vichitravirya as my own to continue the dynasty.
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Satyavati from TV Mahabharata

“My dear son, Bhishma,” Satyavati said. “My sons, your brothers, are gone. The Lord has taken them to their fate. Still we must continue our dynasty.  The House of Kuru will die if we do not have heirs. Now it is your duty to continue the line.”

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Devavrata's vow: "Never shall I marry."

“Who am I to beget children?” I said. “I have sworn a vow of lifelong celibacy. Have you forgotten my vow?”
The fragrant Satyavati said, “You must take the wives of your brother, Vichitravirya. They are young and ready to have children. It is the law of dharma that you do so.”

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Bhishma at the Swayamvara of the daughters of Kashi: Amba, Ambalika, Ambika

“Perhaps you forget the circumstances of my vow, fair lady."
“I remember full well how these things came to pass, my son. Listen to me. If we are to rule Hastinapura and the kingdom of the Kurus, we must have an heir. Otherwise our plans are doomed to extinction and oblivion."

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Ruins of Harrapa, 5,000 years old, near Hastinapura

However Satyavati, being a woman, was unable to comprehend my sacrifice. For my father’s sake and for the good of the kingdom of all the Indias, I had renounced my everything! My youth, my position as crown prince of the realm, the joys of marriage, the boast of heraldry, the pomp of power.

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“My mother Ganges, the goddess of the river, had prepared me with arms and the knowledge of the Vedas for princely rule. I had given my word before my father and the gods, and for what? For Satyavati. So that Satyavati and her sons could have glory. For my father, that in his old age he could enjoy renewed youth again and have queens and princes. I had disgraced Amba and that charming and beautiful maiden had sworn her eternal hatred against me, all because I had taken the vow never to marry.

Ganga Devi

“My own guru, the terrible hater of kings, Paraśurāma had ordered me to take Amba and live in peace. I defied my allegiance to my guru deva and challenged him to arms, and thereby nearly destroyed the world; so that the son of Satyavati could be king in my stead. Now Amba had sworn to revenge me in a terrible battle with the help of Lord Shiva.

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I could not, then, in good conscience follow the order of Satyavati, although, being my father’s wife, she was still my mother. It seemed to me not to be in keeping with dharma. 

“After debating the finer points of dharma in this way, we were unable to come to a decision as to how to continue the line. Satyavati, with all her charms was unable to move me from my fierce determination to keep my word. Dharma was everything to me.  I would not give it up.

“It was at this time, however, that Satyavati revealed to me the secret of her conceiving the sage Vyasa, the island-born compiler of the Vedas, the story I have just told.  

I had a mysterious step-brother, Veda-vyasa. In days of old it was considered correct for a brother to add new blood to the line to perpetuate the dynasty. We decided that he alone could continue the family line of the sons of Bharata. There is a tradition that when the king’s line is weak, it may be revived by a worthy brahmaṇa. Vyasa, born of Satyavati was such a brahmaṇa.

Veda Vyasa

VYASA, AMBIKA, AMBALIKA, AND THE SHUDRA:  

            Bhishma said, “Now I will narrate the story of how the Kuru line was continued by Vyasa and the wives of Vichitravirya. How Dhritarashtra, Paṇḍu, and Vidura were born.  After consulting with Satyavati we decided to continue the line with the help of Veda Vyasa, my step-brother. It was at this time that my stepmother Satyavati narrated to me the story of how she had met with the sage Parashara and how she had given birth to the great sage Vyasa. I will now explaiin this to you.

“It was decided that Vyasa, being a brahmaṇa and a member of the royal line, was qualified to beget children with the wives of Vichitravirya and so continue the line. I was pleased to have such a brother as the great writer of the Vedas, Vyasa himself and was pleased with the plan of Satyavati.
            “So Satyavati retired to her quarters and sat in meditation, prayed to her son, Vyasa, while remembering him. She could communicate with him simply by thinking.  That great saint, absorbed in meditation heard her plea and after a short time, he appeared at the great marble palace of Hastinapura, seat of all the Indias.
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Vyasa and Satyavati


There Satyavati greeted her son, embracing him and bathing him in her tears. The once poor daughter of a fisherman, now the great queen of Hastinapura wept to see her long lost son. 

“Vyasa was moved at her tears and said, “I am here to grant any wish you have, my lady.” Whereupon Satyavati explained her need to continue the line of the house of Kuru and implored his help. So Vyasa was called upon to produce children with Ambika, and Ambalika.  He told Satyavati, “You have given me life, O Mother. I cannot deny your request.

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“However - look at me. I am thin, wasted by a life of austerities,” said Vyasa.  “My skin is like leather and my hair disheveled and unkempt, matted in knots and twisted.  I am utterly unattractive to women. You must give me some time to make myself presentable to these young ladies. You must speak to the wives of Vichitravirya and explain what must be done.”

But Satyavati had no patience for these formalities.
"We must act at once," she said. "Enemy kings are surrounding Hastinapura even know. We must have an heir."

Reluctantly, Vyasa agreed.


            “The princesses consented to bear the children of Vyasa, but found the forest sage repulsive. The queen had ordered it, Vichitravirya had passed away, and his wives had no children to continue the dynasty. They had no choice in the matter. If they didn't bear sons, they would die in oblivion. 

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"Continue the dynasty: beget children with Vyasa"

"And So it was that on a dark night with no moon Ambika waited for the forest sage. She had bathed in the cold waters of the Ganges and perfumed herself with jasmine.  Her mind and body were clean. She waited naked on a soft luxurious bed, beneath the silk sheets decorated with garlands of fragrant gardenia flowers.

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A single oil lamp lit her chamber.  She heard a sound in the corridor outside her room. The door creaked open. It was Vedavyasa - of dark complexion, his hair matted, his odd appearance revolting to the young princess. He wore a deerskin and his eyes blazed with fire.
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 She recoiled at his dark skin and grim beard. She cringed at his leathery touch.  She surrendered to him, but, because of the physical ugliness of Veda Vyasa, Ambika closed her eyes. And when Vyasa left the bed-chamber of the young princess, she shivered with fright.
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Vyasa and Satyavati
            As Vyasa was leaving, the queen met him in a dark corridor of the palace and asked the sage, “Will my daughter have a suitable heir to rule the throne of India?”  And Vyasa responded, “He will have the strength of a thousand elephants. He will be an illustrious royal sage, learned and intelligent. One hundred warrior sons will be born to him to continue the dynasty.
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The blind Dhritarastra
But know this, because the princess was unable to tolerate my ugliness, and because she recoiled at the sight of my dark skin and grim beard she closed her eyes, so her son will be born blind. He will see with the eye of the mind.”  Satyavati was shocked, saying, “A blind man cannot rule. You must give us another son. You may try again with Ambika when the time comes.”

Dhritarashtra  धृतराष्थ्र

            Vyasa left. Months later, a son was born to the royal house of the Kurus. He was my nephew. As told by Vyasa, a consequence of Ambika closing her eyes at the time of conception, her son was born blind, Dhritarashtra. 

            Satyavati was not satisfied that he would make a good king. So again she prayed to Vyasa to help her. Vyasa returned to the marble palace of Hastinapura where the elephants once roamed over the fair plains of Northern India. 

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This time he was to visit the youngest of the daughters of King Kashi, the fair Ambalika.  As the full moon shone through the window of her bedroom, the chaste and delicate daughter of the King of Kashi waited for him. The second and youngest wife of Vichitravirya was a frail girl. While she had bathed in the sacred waters of the Ganges to purify herself and decorated with kunkum and fragrant with sandalwood perfume, she trembled in fear.
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            She had seen the sage Vyasa visit the palace and was terrified by him. As he entered her chamber in the pale moonlight, she turned pale with fear beholding the grim visage of the fantastically ugly forest sage. 
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Trembling and pale with fright she received him on her soft feather bed. When he left her chamber, Vyasa was again met by Satyavati in a dark corridor of the palace.

PAṆḌU  पण्डु

She asked him, “Will this child rule the throne of all the Indias?” Vyasa smiled and told her, “Because she was pale with fear at the sight of my grim countenance, her child will be born pale. His name will be Paṇḍu the pale. So her son was born pale as an albino, the great king Paṇḍu. The every scheming Satyavati, who was as crafty as her father the fisherman, was then worried that the offspring so born were not fit to be kings.
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Hindi TV version of Pandu
So Vyasa was again called for by Satyavati. This time the queens of Vichitravirya, knowing of the disgusting aspect of the great forest sage conspired amongst themselves to send a servant girl to Vyasa as their substitute.  They left her in the royal bedchamber decorated like a princess in the dark of night. Indeed by the feeble light of the oil lamp it was difficult to distinguish this girl from a princess, for her beauty was like that of a forest nymph.



When Vyasa of grim visage entered her bed-chamber, she rose to greet him. She spoke to him with pleasing words saying, “O Vyasa of great wisdom, it is my honor to receive you as your wife. You are the all-knowing writer of the Vedas. Your visit is a blessing from the gods. This girl out of piety accepted him as her husband. When Vyasa left, he turned to her and said, “After this, you shall be free and will never again be a slave in the house of wealthy patrons.

vidura  विदुर

“Your son will be fortunate and virtuous,” that great sage told her, “He will be the wisest of all those who rule in the house of Kuru.” Her son was born Vidura, free from passion and desire. Indeed Vidura was none other than Yamaraja, the god of death and justice, who was cursed to walk the earth for having unjustly punished a brahmaṇa.”

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Vidura, son of Vyasa
At this, the great Bhishma paused his narrative. He looked to the sky and watched an eagle wheeling high over the Kurukshetra war plains. The great Yudhiṣthira  sitting with his brothers, listening to the  story of the old warrior, asked him, “How was it that the lord of death was cursed to walk the earth among the members of the house of Kuru? What did the god of justice do to be so cursed? And what brahmaṇa cursed death himself to be born in a lower class?”

THE CURSE OF YAMARAJA यमराज

 “I will now tell you how the Lord of Death was cursed by a brahmaṇa for unjustly punishing him and how death himself was then punished by being born a mortal as the sagacious Vidura.
“Once there was a brahmaṇa, Mandavya, devoted to dharma. He used to sit by his ashram at the foot of a tree with arms upraised. 


He worshiped the gods in this way, and followed a severe vow of silence.  It came to pass that a group of bandits hid in his ashram along with their stolen loot. The sage was unmoved. He followed his vow without a care for what went on in the world around him. When the king’s men arrived searching for the bandits, he still held fast to his vow of silence. 
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Yamaraja, lord of Death
“They questioned him saying, “O great sage, tell us, did you see anyone go by here? We are looking for some dangerous men. Did they pass by here?” Of course, the sage maintained his silence, with his arms upraised. The king’s men searched the ashram and found the bandits hidden there. Naturally, they accused the sage of conspiring with the bandits. He was arrested by the king’s men and then sentenced to death. He was finally executed by being impaled on a javelin. On leaving his body, his spirit entered the hall of the god of death, and he asked him, “Why was I tortured so?”
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Death personified
Death replied to him, “In your previous life, when you were a child you impaled an insect with a blade of grass. This was your karma and so you are now punished.”  The great saint and brahmaṇa who had suffered so much for such an inconsequential act cursed the god of death himself, saying, “It is unjust to punish children for their innocence. The punishment must fit the crime. As you have punished me unjustly, so must you be punished. I curse you to take birth in the lower classes, that you might learn what is justice and injustice.”
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So it was the god of death was cursed and took birth as Vidura, the wise advisor of the Kurus, who knew only too well the laws of justice.
            Yudhiṣthira  asked: “Tell me O Grandfather, how was the dynasty continued? How was my father married, and how did our uncle the blind king Dhritarashtra come to marry Gandhari and have one hundred sons?

THE GOLDEN AGE

            Bhishma continued his narration of the story of Greater India, the Mahabharata, saying as follows: “After Dhritarashtra, Paṇḍu, and Vidura were born, the kingdom prospered. Kurujangala, Kurukshetra and the Kurus grew in wealth. The monsoon rains came and went. The land was green with the rice harvest. The papaya and mango trees were rich with fruits.
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Coin from Harrapan Civilization cerca 3000 B.C.
“We cultivated wheat for bread and all kinds of fruits and vegetables including cauliflower, lettuce, mustard, cabbage, and different kinds of leafy spinach. Bananas, mangos, papaya and jackfruit were plentiful. The oxen ploughed the black earth and the cows were happy and gave us milk, cheese, and butter. The forest animals played in the jungle without a care; the elephants helped clear the land for agriculture and houses, and family dogs were playful in the town.
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            “In that golden age, the gardenia and jasmine flowers were so plentiful the air was perfumed with their fragrance for miles on both sides of the Ganges. The towns were well-organized and all varieties of fruits and vegetables, rice, beans, tea, milk, butter, and palm fruit sugar were available in the market. There were rich cloths of silk, cotton, and wool to be had as well, along with varieties of tools made of iron and wood, toys and musical instruments. The towns near Hastinapura were filled with merchants, artisans in stone, wood, iron, glass, and other materials. There were artists and musicians of all descriptions.
King's head, Vedic Age
            “In this golden age, there was no crime, no robbers, or evil-doers.  The people of Hastinapura were devoted to virtuous acts, and there was no sin or dishonesty. The people were brave, learned, honest and happy.  The people were devoted to sacrifice and truth and lived with one another in love and affection.  Free from lust, anger, greed, and pride they took joy in simple living and high thinking.
The ruins of Nalanda University in India where...
Ancient University
“They enjoyed innocent sports.   At that time, Hastinapura had many palaces and mansions. There were gates and archways in the Vedic style. The young men would swim and play water sports in the rivers, lakes and ponds. They held races and ball games on the plains and picnics in the charming bamboo groves and green woods. There was no racism or class distinction. 
Indus seal with unicorn bull about 2000 b.c.
The southern Kurus kept company with Siddhas, Charanas, and Rishis. There were no misers, no bankers, no capitalists exploiting poor people, no money-lenders. The woman all had husbands and it never rained during the day; only at night. The wells and lakes were always full of water; the groves green with trees. The homes and ashrams of the brahmaṇas full of wealth. Every day was a festival or saint’s day, or joyous festivity of some sort. 

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Religious festival, Ganges

Bhiṣma as regent

            “In those days, of course, I was the de facto  ruler of Hastinapura until the sons of Vichitravirya, Dhritarashtra, Paṇḍu and Vidura came of age. It was a time of perfect peace and harmony. We held sacrifices to the gods and the country was virtuous in every way.  
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River offering

Our fair city and the countryside around was so attractive indeed that people would come from miles around, leaving their native homes and villages to live with us or near us in fair Hastinapura.  So the population increased. The citizens were filled with hope of an even brighter future, seeing the youthful deeds of their great princes. The common expressions were, “Eat, my friend,” and “Take, it is yours,” and “Just ask, let me give it to you.” and “My house is your house.”
            “The sons of Vichitravirya were given a fine education by the best saints and scholars in the land. They grew into fine young men, skilled in the Vedas and athletic sports. They were expert in archery, in horsemanship, in the martial arts. They were trained in sporting duels with the mace, expert with sword and shield. They were trained in managing elephants in battle and in the science of morality. They were well-read in history and science, critical thinking and the wisdom books of the Vedas.

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Vedic literature in Sanskrit

Pale Paṇḍu

            “Pale Paṇḍu was the best archer, while none rivaled the blind Dhritarashtra in physical strength. None would equal Vidura in virtue, wisdom, and morality.  Seeing the line of Shantanu restored by such great sons, the saying was coined that among mothers of heroes, the daughters of Kashi were first; among countries, Kurujangala was first; among the Virtuous, Vidura was first; among cities, fair Hastinapura was first.

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Archers on elephants, India

Blind dhirtarashtra

            “Now, while Dhritarashtra was first-born, according to the ancient laws of kings he could not rule the kingdom, being born blind. His physical disadvantage was not acceptable to the rulers of those times.  Vidura, having been born of a Shudra woman could not rule a kingdom.  In this way, his younger brother, Pale Paṇḍu became king. When I saw they were mature enough, I told these young men that the time had come for them to take wives. There were three candidates: the daughter of Surasena of the Yadavas, the beautiful Kunti; the daughter of Subal, and the princess of Madra. When my nephews agreed, I did what I could to arrange the marriages.
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Gandhari, blindfolded with her husband

Gandhari 

            It was said that the amiable daughter of the King of Subal, Gandhari, by name, had obtained a boon from the Lord Shiva to have 100 sons.  The King was hesitant, at first, due to Dhritarashtra’s blindness but considering the noble blood of the Kurus, he relented. Gandhari was a suitable virgin. Famed for her chastity, she was an amiable and charming bride. In solidarity with her husband and with great love and respect for him, she blindfolded her own eyes, so that she would live as he did, with no sight. This vow would later endow her with special powers.
            Her brother, the clever Shakuni, gave her away at the nuptial ceremony which we celebrated with great pomp according to ancient traditions. All the Kurus were impressed by her chastity and respectful manner. We felt that we had made the best match possible to continue the greatness of our dynasty in the golden age of Hastinapura.
            Now at this time there lived a great Yadava king named Sura. His daughter was called Pritha, and she was an unrivaled beauty. His cousin and friend, Kuntibhoja raised Pritha as his own daughter, in accordance with the wishes of Sura. She was well-formed and lotus-eyed, with full hips and round breasts. She was chaste and accomplished in the sixty-four arts.
And yet, no prince had asked for her hand.  So her father Kuntibhoja held a Swayamvara ceremony allowing the princess to select her husband from among many princes and kings. When she saw young Paṇḍu, proud as a lion, broad-chested, bull-eyed, and endowed with great strength, she quivered with emotion as she placed the nuptial garland around his neck.
            The other kings honored her decision and so Kuntibhoja married them in the assembly of great princes and with the daughters of kings gathered there as witnesses.
            Some time after this, knowing full well the tragedy that accompanies those unable to get suitable heirs for their kingdom, I determined to marry Paṇḍu with a second wife and so went to the king of Madra and asked for his daughter Madri.  When he consented, she too was accepted as wife to the great King Paṇḍu. In like manner I found a wife for the pious Vidura in the daughter of king Devaka.  Vidura had many children with her, but they could never rule the kingdom, having come from a family of shudras.
            Meanwhile the virtuous Gandhari had one hundred sons. How she did so, I shall now tell you.

The Hundred Sons of Gandhari

Yudhiṣthira  said, “How did Gandhari bear 100 sons? How were we, the sons of Paṇḍu born to our mother, Kunti?”
            Bhishma continued his story, explaining the birth of the 100 sons of Dhritarashtra and Gandhari, saying:
“The saint who gave Gandhari the blessing of 100 sons was none other than the great island-born Vyasa, the same Vyasa who compiled the Vedas. Once upon a time, exhausted and hungry, he visited the King of Gandhara and came to the abode of Gandhari. Chaste and amiable as ever, she entertained the great sage with her hospitality. And well-satisfied with her, he blessed her that she would have 100 strong sons.
            “Some time after her marriage with the blind Dhritarashtra, she became pregnant. Her pregnancy lasted a long time--more than two years.  Depressed and angry that she was unable to give birth after such a long time, she became frustrated. A rumor had circulated that the fair and beautiful Kunti, daughter of Surasena, her rival, had already given birth and that the child had been born with a golden effulgence that illuminated the night sky like the very sun. 
“Remembering her rivalry with Kunti she became increasingly angry that her rival might bear a child before her. So it was that Gandhari, in anger and frustration struck her womb with great violence until she gave birth to a hard mass of flesh. And when she was about to dispose of this hard mass of flesh, Vyasa, learning everything by his spiritual powers, came to her.
“Seeing the ball of flesh, hard as leather or iron, he told her to bring 100 glass jars filled with ghee. The ball was divided into 100 parts, each about the size of a thumb, and an equal part placed in each glass jar to incubate. She was given a formula and special incantations and told by the sage to incubate the embryos in glass jars for another 24 months.
“While Gandhari was dividing the ball of flesh into a hundred parts with the island born Vyasa, she asked him if it were possible to have a daughter, and dividing one of the parts again, they found an extra part of flesh which was enough for a daughter. So dividing the parts they left them in glass jars of ghee to incubate again for 24 months.
            “In course of time, the jealous Duryodhana was born as the first and foremost of the sons of Dhritarashtra.

Image result for Duryodhana
Duryodhan from Hindi TV series.

            “When the envious Duryodhana was born he began to cry and bray like an ass. Hearing this sound, wild asses, wolves, vultures, jackals, and crows began to fill the sky with their shrieks and cries. Violent winds blew and fires burned in the forests. Earthquakes and lightning storms announced the birth of one who would destroy the world. Jackals and tigers howled. Prophets announced the end of the world. Within a month the rest of the hundred sons of Dhritarashtra and one daughter, Dushala, were born. In secret, Dhritarashtra begot with a Vaishya woman another son who was Yuyutsa the Bastard.”
            

Wednesday, April 15, 2015

Shakuntala Commentary I

The Life of Kalidasa, and the difference between the Mahabharata and Kali Das versions of the Shakuntala story.

The story of Shakuntala, mother of Bharata and of India is found in the first book of the vast epic poem Mahabharata. The story has a natural place there, for Bharata, Shakuntala's son, is the eponymous ancestor of the princes who play the leading part in the epic. The distinctions between the Kali Das and Mahabharata versions are important for they reveal something about the process of art, poetry, and the culture of India as well as how traditions develop. I am indebted to the Arthur Ryder translation of Shakuntala which is in the public domain and so fair game for adaptation, but it’s worth having a look at his biographical view of the poet as well as his brief explanation of the differences between the two versions. I reproduce both here. [Michael Dolan]
KALIDASA—HIS LIFE AND WRITINGS
By Arthur Ryder, from Shakuntala and other translations


I
Kalidasa probably lived in the fifth century of the Christian era. This date, approximate as it is, must yet be given with considerable hesitation, and is by no means certain. No truly biographical data are preserved about the author, who nevertheless enjoyed a great popularity during his life, and whom the Hindus have ever regarded as the greatest of Sanskrit poets. We are thus confronted with one of the remarkable problems of literary history. For our ignorance is not due to neglect of Kalidasa's writings on the part of his countrymen, but to their strange blindness in regard to the interest and importance of historic fact. No European nation can compare with India in critical devotion to its own literature. During a period to be reckoned not by centuries but by millenniums, there has been in India an unbroken line of savants unselfishly dedicated to the perpetuation and exegesis of the native masterpieces. Editions, recensions, commentaries abound; poets have sought the exact phrase of appreciation for their predecessors: yet when we seek to reconstruct the life of their greatest poet, we have no materials except certain tantalising legends, and such data as we can gather from the writings of a man who hardly mentions himself.
One of these legends deserves to be recounted for its intrinsic interest, although it contains, so far as we can see, no grain of historic truth, and although it places Kalidasa in Benares, five hundred miles distant from the only city in which we certainly know that he spent a part of his life. According to this account, Kalidasa was a Brahman's child. At the age of six months he was left an orphan and was adopted by an ox-driver. He grew to manhood without formal education, yet with remarkable beauty and grace of manner. Now it happened that the Princess of Benares was a blue-stocking, who rejected one suitor after another, among them her father's counsellor, because they failed to reach her standard as scholars and poets. The rejected counsellor planned a cruel revenge. He took the handsome ox-driver from the street, gave him the garments of a savant and a retinue of learned doctors, then introduced him to the princess, after warning him that he was under no circumstances to open his lips. The princess was struck with his beauty and smitten to the depths of her pedantic soul by his obstinate silence, which seemed to her, as indeed it was, an evidence of profound wisdom. She desired to marry Kalidasa, and together they went to the temple. But no sooner was the ceremony performed than Kalidasa perceived an image of a bull. His early training was too much for him; the secret came out, and the bride was furious. But she relented in response to Kalidasa's entreaties, and advised him to pray for learning and poetry to the goddess Kali. The prayer was granted; education and poetical power descended miraculously to dwell with the young ox-driver, who in gratitude assumed the name Kalidasa, servant of Kali. Feeling that he owed this happy change in his very nature to his princess, he swore that he would ever treat her as his teacher, with profound respect but without familiarity. This was more than the lady had bargained for; her anger burst forth anew, and she cursed Kalidasa to meet his death at the hands of a woman. At a later date, the story continues, this curse was fulfilled. A certain king had written a half-stanza of verse, and had offered a large reward to any poet who could worthily complete it. Kalidasa completed the stanza without difficulty; but a woman whom he loved discovered his lines, and greedy of the reward herself, killed him.
Another legend represents Kalidasa as engaging in a pilgrimage to a shrine of Vishnu in Southern India, in company with two other famous writers, Bhavabhuti and Dandin. Yet another pictures Bhavabhuti as a contemporary of Kalidasa, and jealous of the less austere poet's reputation. These stories must be untrue, for it is certain that the three authors were not contemporary, yet they show a true instinct in the belief that genius seeks genius, and is rarely isolated.
This instinctive belief has been at work with the stories which connect Kalidasa with King Vikramaditya and the literary figures of his court. It has doubtless enlarged, perhaps partly falsified the facts; yet we cannot doubt that there is truth in this tradition, late though it be, and impossible though it may ever be to separate the actual from the fanciful. Here then we are on firmer ground.
King Vikramaditya ruled in the city of Ujjain, in West-central India. He was mighty both in war and in peace, winning especial glory by a decisive victory over the barbarians who pressed into India through the northern passes. Though it has not proved possible to identify this monarch with any of the known rulers, there can be no doubt that he existed and had the character attributed to him. The name Vikramaditya—Sun of Valour—is probably not a proper name, but a title like Pharaoh or Tsar. No doubt Kalidasa intended to pay a tribute to his patron, the Sun of Valour, in the very title of his play, Urvashi won by Valour.
King Vikramaditya was a great patron of learning and of poetry. Ujjain during his reign was the most brilliant capital in the world, nor has it to this day lost all the lustre shed upon it by that splendid court. Among the eminent men gathered there, nine were particularly distinguished, and these nine are known as the "nine gems." Some of the nine gems were poets, others represented science—astronomy, medicine, lexicography. It is quite true that the details of this late tradition concerning the nine gems are open to suspicion, yet the central fact is not doubtful: that there was at this time and place a great quickening of the human mind, an artistic impulse creating works that cannot perish. Ujjain in the days of Vikramaditya stands worthily beside Athens, Rome, Florence, and London in their great centuries. Here is the substantial fact behind Max Müller's often ridiculed theory of the renaissance of Sanskrit literature. It is quite false to suppose, as some appear to do, that this theory has been invalidated by the discovery of certain literary products which antedate Kalidasa. It might even be said that those rare and happy centuries that see a man as great as Homer or Vergil or Kalidasa or Shakespeare partake in that one man of a renaissance.
It is interesting to observe that the centuries of intellectual darkness in Europe have sometimes coincided with centuries of light in India. The Vedas were composed for the most part before Homer; Kalidasa and his contemporaries lived while Rome was tottering under barbarian assault.
To the scanty and uncertain data of late traditions may be added some information about Kalidasa's life gathered from his own writings. He mentions his own name only in the prologues to his three plays, and here with a modesty that is charming indeed, yet tantalising. One wishes for a portion of the communicativeness that characterises some of the Indian poets. He speaks in the first person only once, in the verses introductory to his epic poem The Dynasty of Raghu.[1] Here also we feel his modesty, and here once more we are balked of details as to his life.
We know from Kalidasa's writings that he spent at least a part of his life in the city of Ujjain. He refers to Ujjain more than once, and in a manner hardly possible to one who did not know and love the city. Especially in his poem The Cloud-Messenger does he dwell upon the city's charms, and even bids the cloud make a détour in his long journey lest he should miss making its acquaintance.[2]
We learn further that Kalidasa travelled widely in India. The fourth canto of The Dynasty of Raghu describes a tour about the whole of India and even into regions which are beyond the borders of a narrowly measured India. It is hard to believe that Kalidasa had not himself made such a "grand tour"; so much of truth there may be in the tradition which sends him on a pilgrimage to Southern India. The thirteenth canto of the same epic and The Cloud-Messenger also describe long journeys over India, for the most part through regions far from Ujjain. It is the mountains which impress him most deeply. His works are full of the Himalayas. Apart from his earliest drama and the slight poem called The Seasons, there is not one of them which is not fairly redolent of mountains. One, The Birth of the War-god, might be said to be all mountains. Nor was it only Himalayan grandeur and sublimity which attracted him; for, as a Hindu critic has acutely observed, he is the only Sanskrit poet who has described a certain flower that grows in Kashmir. The sea interested him less. To him, as to most Hindus, the ocean was a beautiful, terrible barrier, not a highway to adventure. The "sea-belted earth" of which Kalidasa speaks means to him the mainland of India.
Another conclusion that may be certainly drawn from Kalidasa's writing is this, that he was a man of sound and rather extensive education. He was not indeed a prodigy of learning, like Bhavabhuti in his own country or Milton in England, yet no man could write as he did without hard and intelligent study. To begin with, he had a minutely accurate knowledge of the Sanskrit language, at a time when Sanskrit was to some extent an artificial tongue. Somewhat too much stress is often laid upon this point, as if the writers of the classical period in India were composing in a foreign language. Every writer, especially every poet, composing in any language, writes in what may be called a strange idiom; that is, he does not write as he talks. Yet it is true that the gap between written language and vernacular was wider in Kalidasa's day than it has often been. The Hindus themselves regard twelve years' study as requisite for the mastery of the "chief of all sciences, the science of grammar." That Kalidasa had mastered this science his works bear abundant witness.
He likewise mastered the works on rhetoric and dramatic theory—subjects which Hindu savants have treated with great, if sometimes hair-splitting, ingenuity. The profound and subtle systems of philosophy were also possessed by Kalidasa, and he had some knowledge of astronomy and law.
But it was not only in written books that Kalidasa was deeply read. Rarely has a man walked our earth who observed the phenomena of living nature as accurately as he, though his accuracy was of course that of the poet, not that of the scientist. Much is lost to us who grow up among other animals and plants; yet we can appreciate his "bee-black hair," his ashoka-tree that "sheds his blossoms in a rain of tears," his river wearing a sombre veil of mist:
Although her reeds seem hands that clutch the dressTo hide her charms;
his picture of the day-blooming water-lily at sunset:
The water-lily closes, butWith wonderful reluctancy;As if it troubled her to shutHer door of welcome to the bee.
The religion of any great poet is always a matter of interest, especially the religion of a Hindu poet; for the Hindus have ever been a deeply and creatively religious people. So far as we can judge, Kalidasa moved among the jarring sects with sympathy for all, fanaticism for none. The dedicatory prayers that introduce his dramas are addressed to Shiva. This is hardly more than a convention, for Shiva is the patron of literature. If one of his epics, The Birth of the War-god, is distinctively Shivaistic, the other, The Dynasty of Raghu, is no less Vishnuite in tendency. If the hymn to Vishnu in The Dynasty of Raghu is an expression of Vedantic monism, the hymn to Brahma in The Birth of the War-god gives equally clear expression to the rival dualism of the Sankhya system. Nor are the Yoga doctrine and Buddhism left without sympathetic mention. We are therefore justified in concluding that Kalidasa was, in matters of religion, what William James would call "healthy-minded," emphatically not a "sick soul."
There are certain other impressions of Kalidasa's life and personality which gradually become convictions in the mind of one who reads and re-reads his poetry, though they are less easily susceptible of exact proof. One feels certain that he was physically handsome, and the handsome Hindu is a wonderfully fine type of manhood. One knows that he possessed a fascination for women, as they in turn fascinated him. One knows that children loved him. One becomes convinced that he never suffered any morbid, soul-shaking experience such as besetting religious doubt brings with it, or the pangs of despised love; that on the contrary he moved among men and women with a serene and godlike tread, neither self-indulgent nor ascetic, with mind and senses ever alert to every form of beauty. We know that his poetry was popular while he lived, and we cannot doubt that his personality was equally attractive, though it is probable that no contemporary knew the full measure of his greatness. For his nature was one of singular balance, equally at home in a splendid court and on a lonely mountain, with men of high and of low degree. Such men are never fully appreciated during life. They continue to grow after they are dead.


II
Kalidasa left seven works which have come down to us: three dramas, two epics, one elegiac poem, and one descriptive poem. Many other works, including even an astronomical treatise, have been attributed to him; they are certainly not his. Perhaps there was more than one author who bore the name Kalidasa; perhaps certain later writers were more concerned for their work than for personal fame. On the other hand, there is no reason to doubt that the seven recognised works are in truth from Kalidasa's hand. The only one concerning which there is reasonable room for suspicion is the short poem descriptive of the seasons, and this is fortunately the least important of the seven. Nor is there evidence to show that any considerable poem has been lost, unless it be true that the concluding cantos of one of the epics have perished. We are thus in a fortunate position in reading Kalidasa: we have substantially all that he wrote, and run no risk of ascribing to him any considerable work from another hand.
Of these seven works, four are poetry throughout; the three dramas, like all Sanskrit dramas, are written in prose, with a generous mingling of lyric and descriptive stanzas. The poetry, even in the epics, is stanzaic; no part of it can fairly be compared to English blank verse. Classical Sanskrit verse, so far as structure is concerned, has much in common with familiar Greek and Latin forms: it makes no systematic use of rhyme; it depends for its rhythm not upon accent, but upon quantity. The natural medium of translation into English seems to me to be the rhymed stanza;[3] in the present work the rhymed stanza has been used, with a consistency perhaps too rigid, wherever the original is in verse.
Kalidasa's three dramas bear the names: Malavika and Agnimitra, Urvashi, and Shakuntala. The two epics are The Dynasty of Raghu and The Birth of the War-god. The elegiac poem is called The Cloud-Messenger, and the descriptive poem is entitled The Seasons. It may be well to state briefly the more salient features of the Sanskritgenres to which these works belong.
The drama proved in India, as in other countries, a congenial form to many of the most eminent poets. The Indian drama has a marked individuality, but stands nearer to the modern European theatre than to that of ancient Greece; for the plays, with a very few exceptions, have no religious significance, and deal with love between man and woman. Although tragic elements may be present, a tragic ending is forbidden. Indeed, nothing regarded as disagreeable, such as fighting or even kissing, is permitted on the stage; here Europe may perhaps learn a lesson in taste. Stage properties were few and simple, while particular care was lavished on the music. The female parts were played by women. The plays very rarely have long monologues, even the inevitable prologue being divided between two speakers, but a Hindu audience was tolerant of lyrical digression.
It may be said, though the statement needs qualification in both directions, that the Indian dramas have less action and less individuality in the characters, but more poetical charm than the dramas of modern Europe.
On the whole, Kalidasa was remarkably faithful to the ingenious but somewhat over-elaborate conventions of Indian dramaturgy. His first play, the Malavika and Agnimitra, is entirely conventional in plot. The Shakuntala is transfigured by the character of the heroine. The Urvashi, in spite of detail beauty, marks a distinct decline.
The Dynasty of Raghu and The Birth of the War-god belong to a species of composition which it is not easy to name accurately. The Hindu name kavya has been rendered by artificial epic, épopée savante, Kunstgedicht. It is best perhaps to use the term epic, and to qualify the term by explanation.
The kavyas differ widely from the Mahabharata and the Ramayana, epics which resemble the Iliad and Odyssey less in outward form than in their character as truly national poems. The kavya is a narrative poem written in a sophisticated age by a learned poet, who possesses all the resources of an elaborate rhetoric and metric. The subject is drawn from time-honoured mythology. The poem is divided into cantos, written not in blank verse but in stanzas. Several stanza-forms are commonly employed in the same poem, though not in the same canto, except that the concluding verses of a canto are not infrequently written in a metre of more compass than the remainder.
I have called The Cloud-Messenger an elegiac poem, though it would not perhaps meet the test of a rigid definition. The Hindus class it with The Dynasty of Raghu andThe Birth of the War-god as a kavya, but this classification simply evidences their embarrassment. In fact, Kalidasa created in The Cloud-Messenger a new genre. No further explanation is needed here, as the entire poem is translated below.
The short descriptive poem called The Seasons has abundant analogues in other literatures, and requires no comment.
It is not possible to fix the chronology of Kalidasa's writings, yet we are not wholly in the dark. Malavika and Agnimitra was certainly his first drama, almost certainly his first work. It is a reasonable conjecture, though nothing more, that Urvashi was written late, when the poet's powers were waning. The introductory stanzas of The Dynasty of Raghu suggest that this epic was written before The Birth of the War-god, though the inference is far from certain. Again, it is reasonable to assume that the great works on which Kalidasa's fame chiefly rests—ShakuntalaThe Cloud-MessengerThe Dynasty of Raghu, the first eight cantos of The Birth of the War-god—were composed when he was in the prime of manhood. But as to the succession of these four works we can do little but guess.
Kalidasa's glory depends primarily upon the quality of his work, yet would be much diminished if he had failed in bulk and variety. In India, more than would be the case in Europe, the extent of his writing is an indication of originality and power; for the poets of the classical period underwent an education that encouraged an exaggerated fastidiousness, and they wrote for a public meticulously critical. Thus the great Bhavabhuti spent his life in constructing three dramas; mighty spirit though he was, he yet suffers from the very scrupulosity of his labour. In this matter, as in others, Kalidasa preserves his intellectual balance and his spiritual initiative: what greatness of soul is required for this, every one knows who has ever had the misfortune to differ in opinion from an intellectual clique.


With no little abbreviation of its epic breadth, the story runs as follows:—
THE EPIC TALE
Once that strong-armed king, with a mighty host of men and chariots, entered a thick wood. Then when the king had slain thousands of wild creatures, he entered another wood with his troops and his chariots, intent on pursuing a deer. And the king beheld a wonderful, beautiful hermitage on the bank of the sacred river Malini; on its bank was the beautiful hermitage of blessèd, high-souled Kanva, whither the great sages resorted. Then the king determined to enter, that he might see the great sage Kanva, rich in holiness. He laid aside the insignia of royalty and went on alone, but did not see the austere sage in the hermitage. Then, when he did not see the sage, and perceived that the hermitage was deserted, he cried aloud, "Who is here?" until the forest seemed to shriek. Hearing his cry, a maiden, lovely as Shri, came from the hermitage, wearing a hermit garb. "Welcome!" she said at once, greeting him, and smilingly added: "What may be done for you?" Then the king said to the sweet-voiced maid: "I have come to pay reverence to the holy sage Kanva. Where has the blessèd one gone, sweet girl? Tell me this, lovely maid." Shakuntala said: "My blessèd father has gone from the hermitage to gather fruits. Wait a moment. You shall see him when he returns."
The king did not see the sage, but when the lovely girl of the fair hips and charming smile spoke to him, he saw that she was radiant in her beauty, yes, in her hard vows and self-restraint all youth and beauty, and he said to her:
"Who are you? Whose are you, lovely maiden? Why did you come to the forest? Whence are you, sweet girl, so lovely and so good? Your beauty stole my heart at the first glance. I wish to know you better. Answer me, sweet maid."
The maiden laughed when thus questioned by the king in the hermitage, and the words she spoke were very sweet: "O Dushyanta, I am known as blessed Kanva's daughter, and he is austere, steadfast, wise, and of a lofty soul."
Dushyanta said: "But he is chaste, glorious maid, holy, honoured by the world. Though virtue should swerve from its course, he would not swerve from the hardness of his vow. How were you born his daughter, for you are beautiful? I am in great perplexity about this. Pray remove it."
[Shakuntala here explains how she is the child of a sage and a nymph, deserted at birth, cared for by birds (shakuntas), found and reared by Kanva, who gave her the name Shakuntala.]
Dushyanta said: "You are clearly a king's daughter, sweet maiden, as you say. Become my lovely wife. Tell me, what shall I do for you? Let all my kingdom be yours to-day. Become my wife, sweet maid."
Shakuntala said: "Promise me truly what I say to you in secret. The son that is born to me must be your heir. If you promise, Dushyanta, I will marry you."
"So be it," said the king without thinking, and added: "I will bring you too to my city, sweet-smiling girl.
So the king took the faultlessly graceful maiden by the hand and dwelt with her. And when he had bidden her be of good courage, he went forth, saying again and again: "I will send a complete army for you, and tell them to bring my sweet-smiling bride to my palace." When he had made this promise, the king went thoughtfully to find Kanva. "What will he do when he hears it, this holy, austere man?" he wondered, and still thinking, he went back to his capital.
Now the moment he was gone, Kanva came to the hermitage. And Shakuntala was ashamed and did not come to meet her father. But blessed, austere Kanva had divine discernment. He discovered her, and seeing the matter with celestial vision, he was pleased and said: "What you have done, dear, to-day, forgetting me and meeting a man, this does not break the law. A man who loves may marry secretly the woman who loves him without a ceremony; and Dushyanta is virtuous and noble, the best of men. Since you have found a loving husband, Shakuntala, a noble son shall be born to you, mighty in the world."
Sweet Shakuntala gave birth to a boy of unmeasured prowess. His hands were marked with the wheel, and he quickly grew to be a glorious boy. As a six years' child in Kanva's hermitage he rode on the backs of lions, tigers, and boars near the hermitage, and tamed them, and ran about playing with them. Then those who lived in Kanva's hermitage gave him a name. "Let him be called All-tamer," they said: "for he tames everything."
But when the sage saw the boy and his more than human deeds, he said to Shakuntala: "It is time for him to be anointed crown prince." When he saw how strong the boy was, Kanva said to his pupils: "Quickly bring my Shakuntala and her son from my house to her husband's palace. A long abiding with their relatives is not proper for married women. It destroys their reputation, and their character, and their virtue; so take her without delay." "We will," said all the mighty men, and they set out with Shakuntala and her son for Gajasahvaya.
When Shakuntala drew near, she was recognised and invited to enter, and she said to the king: "This is your son, O King. You must anoint him crown prince, just as you promised before, when we met."
When the king heard her, although he remembered her, he said: "I do not remember. To whom do you belong, you wicked hermit-woman? I do not remember a union with you for virtue, love, and wealth. [1] Either go or stay, or do whatever you wish."
When he said this, the sweet hermit-girl half fainted from shame and grief, and stood stiff as a pillar. Her eyes darkened with passionate indignation; her lips quivered; she seemed to consume the king as she gazed at him with sidelong glances. Concealing her feelings and nerved by anger, she held in check the magic power that her ascetic life had given her. She seemed to meditate a moment, overcome by grief and anger. She gazed at her husband, then spoke passionately: "O shameless king, although you know, why do you say, 'I do not know,' like any other ordinary man?"
Dushyanta said: "I do not know the son born of you, Shakuntala. Women are liars. Who will believe what you say? Are you not ashamed to say these incredible things, especially in my presence? You wicked hermit-woman, go!"
Shakuntala said: "O King, sacred is holy God, and sacred is a holy promise. Do not break your promise, O King. Let your love be sacred. If you cling to a lie, and will not believe, alas! I must go away; there is no union with a man like you. For even without you, Dushyanta, my son shall rule this foursquare earth adorned with kingly mountains."
When she had said so much to the king, Shakuntala started to go. But a bodiless voice from heaven said to Dushyanta: "Care for your son, Dushyanta. Do not despise Shakuntala. You are the boy's father. Shakuntala tells the truth."
When he heard the utterance of the gods, the king joyfully said to his chaplain and his ministers: "Hear the words of this heavenly messenger. If I had received my son simply because of her words, he would be suspected by the world, he would not be pure."
Then the king received his son gladly and joyfully. He kissed his head and embraced him lovingly. His wife also Dushyanta honoured, as justice required. And the king soothed her, and said: "This union which I had with you was hidden from the world. Therefore I hesitated, O Queen, in order to save your reputation. And as for the cruel words you said to me in an excess of passion, these I pardon you, my beautiful, great-eyed darling, because you love me."
Then King Dushyanta gave the name Bharata to Shakuntala's son, and had him anointed crown prince.
It is plain that this story contains the material for a good play; the very form of the epic tale is largely dramatic. It is also plain, in a large way, of what nature are the principal changes which a dramatist must introduce in the original. For while Shakuntala is charming in the epic story, the king is decidedly contemptible. Somehow or other, his face must be saved.
To effect this, Kalidasa has changed the old story in three important respects. In the first place, he introduces the curse of Durvasas, clouding the king's memory, and saving him from moral responsibility in his rejection of Shakuntala. That there may be an ultimate recovery of memory, the curse is so modified as to last only until the king shall see again the ring which he has given to his bride. To the Hindu, curse and modification are matters of frequent occurrence; and Kalidasa has so delicately managed the matter as not to shock even a modern and Western reader with a feeling of strong improbability. Even to us it seems a natural part of the divine cloud that envelops the drama, in no way obscuring human passion, but rather giving to human passion an unwonted largeness and universality.
In the second place, the poet makes Shakuntala undertake her journey to the palace before her son is born. Obviously, the king's character is thus made to appear in a better light, and a greater probability is given to the whole story.
The third change is a necessary consequence of the first; for without the curse, there could have been no separation, no ensuing remorse, and no reunion.
But these changes do not of themselves make a drama out of the epic tale. Large additions were also necessary, both of scenes and of characters. We find, indeed, that only acts one and five, with a part of act seven, rest upon the ancient text, while acts two, three, four, and six, with most of seven, are a creation of the poet. As might have been anticipated, the acts of the former group are more dramatic, while those of the latter contribute more of poetical charm. It is with these that scissors must be chiefly busy when the play—rather too long for continuous presentation as it stands—is performed on the stage.
In the epic there are but three characters—Dushyanta, Shakuntala, Kanva, with the small boy running about in the background. To these Kalidasa has added from the palace, from the hermitage, and from the Elysian region which is represented with vague precision in the last act.
The conventional clown plays a much smaller part in this play than in the others which Kalidasa wrote. He has also less humour. The real humorous relief is given by the fisherman and the three policemen in the opening scene of the sixth act. This, it may be remarked, is the only scene of rollicking humour in Kalidasa's writing.
The forest scenes are peopled with quiet hermit-folk. Far the most charming of these are Shakuntala's girl friends. The two are beautifully differentiated: Anusuya grave, sober; Priyamvada vivacious, saucy; yet wonderfully united in friendship and in devotion to Shakuntala, whom they feel to possess a deeper nature than theirs.
Kanva, the hermit-father, hardly required any change from the epic Kanva. It was a happy thought to place beside him the staid, motherly Gautami. The small boy in the last act has magically become an individual in Kalidasa's hands. In this act too are the creatures of a higher world, their majesty not rendered too precise.
Dushyanta has been saved by the poet from his epic shabbiness; it may be doubted whether more has been done. There is in him, as in some other Hindu heroes, a shade too much of the meditative to suit our ideal of more alert and ready manhood.
But all the other characters sink into insignificance beside the heroine. Shakuntala dominates the play. She is actually on the stage in five of the acts, and her spirit pervades the other two, the second and the sixth. Shakuntala has held captive the heart of India for fifteen hundred years, and wins the love of increasing thousands in the West; for so noble a union of sweetness with strength is one of the miracles of art.
Though lovely women walk the world to-day By tens of thousands, there is none so fair In all that exhibition and display With her most perfect beauty to compare—
because it is a most perfect beauty of soul no less than of outward form. Her character grows under our very eyes. When we first meet her, she is a simple maiden, knowing no greater sorrow than the death of a favourite deer; when we bid her farewell, she has passed through happy love, the mother's joys and pains, most cruel humiliation and suspicion, and the reunion with her husband, proved at last not to have been unworthy. And each of these great experiences has been met with a courage and a sweetness to which no words can render justice.
Kalidasa has added much to the epic tale; yet his use of the original is remarkably minute. A list of the epic suggestions incorporated in his play is long. But it is worth making, in order to show how keen is the eye of genius. Thus the king lays aside the insignia of royalty upon entering the grove (Act I). Shakuntala appears in hermit garb, a dress of bark (Act I). The quaint derivation of the heroine's name from shakunta—bird—is used with wonderful skill in a passage (Act VII) which defies translation, as it involves a play on words. The king's anxiety to discover whether the maiden's father is of a caste that permits her to marry him is reproduced (Act I). The marriage without a ceremony is retained (Act IV), but robbed of all offence. Kanva's celestial vision, which made it unnecessary for his child to tell him of her union with the king, is introduced with great delicacy (Act IV). The curious formation of the boy's hand which indicated imperial birth adds to the king's suspense (Act VII). The boy's rough play with wild animals is made convincing (Act VII) and his very nickname All-tamer is preserved (Act VII). Kanva's worldly wisdom as to husband and wife dwelling together is reproduced (Act IV). No small part of the give-and-take between the king and Shakuntala is given (Act V), but with a new dignity.
 Arthur Ryder--Shakuntala and other dramatic works in translation.

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Dear Readers: Thank you for your loyalty. I'm doing my best to create a safe haven here, where you can hang out, read about your favorite parts from Mahabharata, Caitanya Mahaprabhu, the Lives of the Vaishnava Saints, and reflections from myself and others with no sectarianism, spite, hatred, envy, pride, illusion, greed or ego. Well, maybe a bit of ego, but perhaps we purify our ego by communicating well with one another and working together. Real criticism is best self-directed. Here we look at important ideas like the traditions and cultures of India and her ancient philosophy, mythologies, scriptural evidence, the perennial wisdom of the parampara, Vedic cosmology and ontology, consciousness and the journey to surrender. We're interested in the true path of self-realization, the highest yoga, and real nutrition for the starving soul. I ask for nothing in return, only the focused attention span of a few readers a few minutes every day. It keeps me going and makes me feel there is something valuable in sitting at the computer trying to reach out. Our readership is breaking 4,000 page views a month. If we double that, it will be around 100,000 pageviews a year. So it's important to share the blog with the people you love; if you thing they will enjoy reading. Thank you again so much for your support.

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Thanks to Muralishwar Prabhu for his voluntary and unpaid Russian translation work which he sends in from time to time from an undisclosed secure location near Moscow. Once again thanks to Tapanandini Devi Dasi of Merida, Yucatan. I've never met her personally, but her Spanish translations are well worth reading. Thanks to Madhumati Devi Dasi for her encouraging me to continue the blog and for Kshama Da for his spontaneous rants and warm words. Thanks to Avadhuta Maharaja for his courageous and entrepeneurial sense of adventure and to Goswami Maharaja for his inspiration. Gaura Hari Bol. All glories to sri guru and gauranga.