TABLE OF CONTENTS - Vidyāpati: Bangīya padābali; songs of the love of Rādhā and Krishna - 2

VIDYĀPATI THĀKUR is one of the most renowned of the Vaishnava poets of Hindustān. Before him there had been the great Jāyadeva, with his Gītā Govinda made in Sanskrit; and it is to this tradition Vidyāpati belongs, rather than to that of Rāmānanda, Kabīr, and Tul'si Dās, who sang of Rāma and Sītā. Vidyāpati's fame, though he also wrote in Sanskrit, depends upon the wreath of songs (pada) in which he describes the courtship of God and the Soul, under the names of Krishna and Rādhā. These were written in Maithilī, his mother-tongue, a dialect intermediate between Bengālī and Hindī, but nearer to the former. His position as a poet and maker of language is analogous to that of Dante in Italy and Chaucer in England. He did not disdain to use the folk-speech and folk-thought for the expression of the highest matters. Just as Dante was blamed by the classical scholars of Italy, so Vidyāpati was blamed by the pandits: he knew better, however, than they, and has well earned the title of Father of Bengālī literature.

Little is known of Vidyāpati's life^[1]. Two other great Vaishnava poets, Chandī Dās and Umāpati, were his contempories. His patron Rājā Shivasimha Rūpanārāyana, when heir-apparent, gave the village of Bisapī as a rent-free gift to the poet in the year 1400 A.D. (the original deed is extant). This shows that in 1400 the poet was already a man of distinction. His patron appears to have died in 1449, before which date the songs here translated must have been written. Further, there still exists a manuscript of the Bhāgavata Purāna in the poet's handwriting, dated 1456. It is thus evident that he lived to a good age, for it is hardly likely that he was under twenty in the year 1400. The following is the legend of his death: Feeling his end approaching, he set out to die on the banks of Gangā. But remembering that she was the child of the faithful, he summoned her to himself: and the great river divided herself in three streams, spreading her waters as far as the very place where Vidyāpati sat. There and then he laid himself, it is said down and died. Where his funeral pyre was, sprang up a Shiva lingam, which exists to this day, as well as the marks of the flood. This place is near the town of Bāzitpur, in the district of Darbhangā.

Vidyāpati's Vaishnava padas are at once folk and cultivated art—just like the finest of the Pahārī paintings, where every episode of which he sings finds exquisite illustration. The poems are not, like many ballads, of unknown authorship and perhaps the work of many hands, but they are due to the folk in the sense that folk-life is glorified and popular thought is reflected. The songs as we have them are entirely the work of one supreme genius; but this genius did not stand alone, as that of modern poets must—on the contrary, its roots lay deep in the common life of fields and villages, and above all, in common faiths and superstitions. These were days when peasants yet spoke as elegantly as courtiers, and kings and cultivators shared one faith and a common view of life—conditions where all things are possible to art.

It is little wonder that Vidyāpati's influence on the literature of Eastern Hindustān has been profound, and that his songs became the household poetry of Bengal and Behar. His poems were adopted and constantly sung by the great Hindū lover, Cāitanya, in the sixteenth century, and they have been adapted and handed down in many dialects, above all in Bengālī, in the Vaishnava tradition, of which the last representative is Rabindranāth Tagore. A poem by the latter well resumes and explains the theory of the Vaishnava lovers:^[2]

Not my way of Salvation, to surrender the world!
Rather for me the taste of Infinite Freedom,
While yet I am bound by a thousand bonds to the wheel:
In each glory of sound and sight and smell
I shall find Thy Infinite Joy abiding:
My passion shall burn as the flame of Salvation,
The flower of my love shall become the ripe fruit of Devotion.

This leads us to the subject of the true significance of poems such as Vidyāpati's. It is quite true, as Mr. Nicholson says, that students of oriental poetry have sometimes to ask themselves, 'Is this a love-poem disguised as a mystical ode, or a mystical ode expressed in the language of human love?' Very often this question cannot be answered with a definite 'Yes' or 'No': not because the poet's meaning is vague, but because the two ideas are not at all mutually exclusive. All the manifestations of Kama on earth are images of Pursuit or Return.

As Vidyāpati himself says (No. [LXIII]):

The same flower that you cast away, the same you use in prayer.
And with the same you string the bow.

It is quite certain that many poems of Vidyāpati have an almost wholly spiritually significance.^[3] If some others seem very obviously secular, let us remember that we have no right to detach such poems from their context in books and still less any right to divorce them from their context in life.

We may illustrate this point by a comparison with poetry of Western Europe. Take for example a poem such as the following, with a purely secular significance (if any true art can be said to be secular):

Oh! the handsome lad frae Skye
That's lifted a' the cattle, a'oor kye.
He's t'aen the dun, the black, the white.
And I hae mickle fear
He's t'aen my heart forbye.

Had this been current in fifteenth century Bengal, every Vaishnava would have understood the song to speak as much of God and the Soul as of man and maid, and to many the former meaning would have been the more obvious. On the other hand, there are many early medieval Western hymns in which the language of human love is deliberately adapted to religious uses, for example:

When y se blosmes springe,
And here foules songe,
A suete love-longynge
Myn herte thourh out stong;
Al for a love newe,
That is so suete and trewe.
That gladieth al mi song.

Here the 'new love' is Christ.

Finally, there are other Western lyrics, and very exquisite ones, that could equally be claimed as religious or secular, for example:

Long ago to thee I gave
Body, soul and all I have—
Nothing in the world I keep. [^[4]]

The Western critic who would enquire what such a poem meant to its maker and his hearers must be qualified by spiritual kinship with him and with them. Let us demand a similar qualification from those who propose to speak of Oriental poetry:

Wer den Dichter will verstehen.
Muss in Dichter's Lande gehen,—

if not in physical presence, at least in spirit.

In ecstasy, man is beside himself: that this momentary escape from 'himself' is the greatest gift life offers, is a promise, as it were a foretaste, of Release, warranting us that Nirvāna is something more than annihilation. At the same time, be it well understood that such ecstasies are not rewarded to those who are followers of Pleasure, nor to those that cling to self-will. In Vaishnava literature this is again and again emphasized. It is not till the ear ceases to hear the outside world, that it is open to the music in the heart, the flute of Krishna. If the objection is still made that our poet sings rather of human than divine love,—and we do not deny that he worships physical beauty, albeit the critics have told us that Rabīndranath Tagore is the first Indian poet to do so,—we answer with him that Love is One, and we would also quote the very splendid passage of the Prema Sāgara where the doubt is resolved, "How could the love of a certain milk-maid have brought her salvation, notwithstanding that her love for Krishna was paramours, and she knew him not as God, but as man?" The answer is given as follows:

Shri Krishna sat one moonlit night at the edge of a deep forest, playing his flute with intent to lure the milk-maids from their homes. The Braj girls could not rest nor resist the call, and abandoning the illusion of family and the ties of duty, they hurried in confusion from their homes to the forest. But one was seen and detained by her husband; yet she, in the intensity of her absorption in the thought of Hari, abandoned her body and was the first to reach Him. Perceiving the love of her heart. He gave her final release.

The king to whom the story has been thus far related, remarks that the milk-maid did not worship Krishna knowing him to be God, but regarded him as an object of sensuous desire, and asks, 'How then was she saved by her love?' The answer is given that even they who worship Krishna unawares obtain emancipation; just as the water of life makes the drinker immortal, without question whether he knows or does not know its virtue.^[5] Should anyone with any purpose worship, he will be emancipated. Shri Krishna was reverenced in many ways, and in each was salvation obtained. Thus, "Nand, Yashodā and others knew him as a child, the milk-maids as a lover, Kāns worshipped him by fear, the cowherds called him their friend, the Pāndavas knew him as an ally, Shishupāl worshipped him as a foe, the Yaduvamsīs thought him one of themselves, the Yogīs, Yatīs and Munis meditated upon Him as God; but at last everyone of these obtained deliverance. What wonder then if one milk-maid by devotion to Him, was able to cross the sea of life,—to reach the further shore?"^[6]

This pure humanism is the Vaishnava equivalent for: "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto these, ye have done it unto Me," and "The worship of God is . . . loving the greatest men best."

We may also give here the Indian answer to the objection sometimes raised respecting the morality of Krishna Himself,—much as the Pharisees questioned the right of Christ to pluck the ears of corn. The Bhāgavata Purāna in one place answers as Blake or Nietzsche might, that dharma is not the same for the great and the small. More than this, it is a fault in logic to subject to ethical criticism a Power Who is by hypothesis Infinite, beyond the Pairs of opposites. As Purnendu Narayan Sinha expresses it: "Nothing that we know, nothing that we are composed of, nothing that shapes our experiences, that causes our likes and dislikes, limits Krishna. He is the absolute, for the relatives we know of, or which we may even think of, have no place in Him."^[7] And indeed, this ought to be obvious to anyone that understands the language of mythology; for the multiplication of Krishna's form in the circular dance, and at Dvārakā, and the fact already alluded to, of His accessibility in every form, are clear indications of His Infinity. It is nowhere suggested that the illusion of family and the ties of duty may be abandoned except in self-surrender to Him.

It must also be remembered that the Krishna Līlā is not a historical record (as Nīlakantha remarks, 'The narration is not the real point'); His Līlā in Brindāban is eternal, and Brindāban is the heart of man. We are thus concerned with ideas and symbols, and not with history. The most that an objector could then adduce, would be to suggest that the symbolism may be unwisely chosen, and may be misunderstood. I should treat this objection with respect, and would agree that it may be valid from the standpoint of the objector. But I do not think it is valid from the standpoint of the lover. I would not even say, Let those who are able to take this passionate literature only in a carnal sense (and we have admitted that much of it has a carnal as well as a spiritual sense), therefore ignore it; for if the worship of loveliness is not Love, it is none the less a step on the way to Love.

Again, however, it is not meant to imply that the pastoral and romantic conditions indicated in Vaishnava literature do not exist, and have never existed, anywhere in India. On the contrary, if India is the classic country of lyrical poetry, this is because she is also the classic country of love.^[8] Love is certainly of more significance to the Indian consciousness than to the European, and the Western fear of voluptuousness is hardly known in the East. But just as beauty was never in India glorified as an end in itself, so romantic love never obtained there such hold and possession over life and art as it has in the West. To put the same conclusion in other words, the Indian culture is nowhere corrupted by sentimentality. The reason of this is to be found, I think, in a wide-spread and deep-rooted consciousness of the principle of Impermanence. It is just this consciousness of evanescence which gives to the voluptuous and passionate art of Ajantā the spiritual significance that is all the more impressive because of its sensuous setting. Non-attachment is a greater quality than non-participation. Where life is transparent, the enjoyment of life is never a spiritual bondage. One might almost believe that to the Ajantā painters and the Vaishnava poets had been granted the prayer of Socrates,—"O beloved Pan, and all ye other gods of this place, grant me to become beautiful in the inner man, and that whatever outward things I have may be at peace with those within."

A few words are needed to explain the method of translation. The rendering is line for line, and often word for word, but whenever a choice lay between expressing the letter and the spirit of the original, the latter has been considered of the first importance. Vidyāpati reflects a certain view of life: it is this, rather than the form of his utterance, however perfect, that touches us most nearly. A single word in the original is often rendered by two or three in the translation, for the terseness of the Bengālī could rarely be repeated. Notwithstanding that our translation does not pretend to be metrical, much care has been taken with the phrasing, to make it readable: for it would appear that alike in music and poetry, rasa is more closely bound up with phrasing than with a regular division into bars or feet.^[9] At the same time, a few examples of the original text are quoted in the 'Notes,' in order to give the reader some idea of their form.

It should be noticed that the songs here translated are but a part of Vidyāpati's Bangīya Padābali. Two hundred and two songs are given in the edition of Kāliprasanna Kāvyābhisharad which we have chiefly used; and there are over nine hundred in that of Shrī Nagendranath Gupta published in Nāgarī character for H. H. the Mahārājah of Darbhangā,—to whom I am indebted for a copy of the edition. The order of our versions follows that of Kāliprasanna Kāvyābhisharad; the songs omitted are those which are almost repetitions of those translated, or of which we could not make a satisfactory rendering.

It has been very difficult to find such words as can express Vidyāpati's transparency. English since the Elizabethan age has grown poor in purely lyrical words and idioms, for modern literature, like modern plastic art or music, rarely deals with unmixed feelings. To present Vidyāpati in English in a form at all comparable with the original, would require all the facility and elegance of the Elizabethans joined to nearly all the seriousness of the earliest English lyrics. I say nearly all, for Vidyāpati is a very conscious artist, with a considerable sense of humour; and though he is certainly far more serious than the elegant Elizabethans, he is not in any sense a primitive.

The rendering of certain words in the original demands a brief explanation. Sakhī (the chetī of Mr. Bain's beautiful Sanskrit imitations), meaning a girl-friend and confidante of the heroine, usually used in the vocative, is translated as 'my dear.' _Dūtīka, the messenger or go-between, is a sakhī or any woman who carries messages between the lovers: but often, too, the poet himself is the messenger, and in this case there is perhaps a conscious reference to the artist as go-between God and the soul. The gopīs are the milk-maids of Gokula, of whom Rādhā is Krishna's beloved.

Añcala, meaning the upper part of the sārī, thrown across the breast and over the shoulder, also forming a head-veil, we have translated, not quite accurately, as 'wimple,' for want of a better word. Nībibanda, which means the knotting of the sārī round the waist, is rendered as 'zone' or 'girdle,' though it is not properly a separate garment.

The word rasa can never be adequately translated into English, and perhaps it should be adopted there as a loan-word, together with such others as karma, yoga, dharma, samsāra, nirvāna. Rasa, like the word 'essence,' has both a concrete and an abstract significance; it has, amongst others, such meanings as juice, nectar, essence, taste, flavour, savour, lust, and in an abstract sense, taste, appreciation, passion, ecstasy, love and so forth. Rasa is equally the essential element in love and in art. It would be defined from the Indian standpoint as an emotion provoked by the recognition of reality. From rasa are derived the two important words rasika (a connoisseur, lover), and rasavanta or rasamanta ('possessing rasa' said either of an individual or of a work of art).

It is a canon of Indian dramatic criticism, not only that rasa is unique, but that those only can experience rasa who are temperamentally qualified to do so by virtue acquired in a former life,—Poeta nascitur nonjit. All these associations give great weight to Vidyapati's splendid aphorism:

Rasa bujha, i rasamanta

'None knoweth love but the lover, none ecstasy save the ecstatic.'

If we apply this to life and art, it means what Blake meant when he said that enthusiasm is the first and last principle of criticism.

It should not be forgotten that Vidyāpati's songs, like those of all the Vaishnava poets—from Jayadeva to Rabīndranath Tagore—were meant to be sung; and as the latter says himself, "In a book of songs the main thing is left out: to set forth the music's vehicle, and leave out the music itself, is just like keeping the mouse and leaving out Ganapati himself" ('Jiban-smrti,' p. 148). The padas of Vidyāpati may still be heard on the lips of Bengali singers, albeit often in corrupt forms. It may also be noted that song was constantly illustrated by the conventional language of descriptive gesture. We are able to partly compensate the lack of this in reproducing the eleven illustrations from Indian sources; for although not designed directly to illustrate Vidyāpati's text, there is to be found in these an immediate expression of the same ideas. A further account of all the illustrations is appended to the 'Notes.'

Finally, in the matter of transliteration: since these versions are intended rather for the rasika than for the pandit, we have done no more that mark the long and short vowels of Indian names and words occurring in this Introduction or in the text. The reader will not go far wrong if he pronounces such words as if in Italian. C has the the sound of ch in church: for ś and ṣ we have used sh throughout.

It is by an inexcusable oversight that the poet's name has been printed as Vidhyāpati throughout the text. (Transcriber's note: This has been corrected).

ANANDA COOMARASWAMY.

Britford, December, 1914.

[1] What is here given is mainly derived from: G. A. Grierson, 'The Vernacular Literature of Hindustan,' and Dinesh Chandra Sen, 'History of Bengali Literature.'

[2] The Tarjuman al-Ashwāq, 1911 p. 7.

[3] I do not here refer to the details of concrete symbolism (for which see Purnendu Narayan Sinha, 'The Bhāgavata Purāna, a Study,' Benares, 1901), but to the common language of mysticism.

[4] Translated by Henry Newbolt from the French of Wenceslas.

[5] Thus the Hindūs hold that it is better to be the foe of God, or to use His name in vain, than to live without knowledge of Him and without speaking His name.

[6] Prema Sāgara, Ch. xxx.

[7] loc. cit. p. 302.

[8] We have already mentioned the 'Gītā Govinda.' It needs scarcely to be said that Indian lyrical poetry is of still older ancestry. The reader of Kalidāsa's 'Shakuntalā' for example, will find there innumerable parallels both to Vidyāpati's combined tenderness and wisdom, and his quaint conceits. These parallels are so many that we have made no attempt to mention them in the 'Notes' The same spirit, too, is already recognizable in the lyrical passages of the 'Rāmāyana.' All this is no more than to say that Vidyāpati is essentially and typically Indian.

[9] According to Hindu theory, Kāvya (poetry) includes both prose (gadya-kāvya) and verse (padya-kāvya).

KRISHNA PŪRBBARĀGA

I.

Krishna: Some damsel I saw, supremely fair—
A moon unstained, that slowly rose,
Or a golden vine.

Eyes twin lotus-blooms, dyed with sūrm,
The playground of waves of love—
Twin timid partridges, snared by Nature
With nought but a rope of collyrium!

A garland of ivory-pearls caressed the burden
Of her mountain breasts—
Kāma pouring celestial streams from a brimming conch
On a golden Shambhu!

The sacrificer of a hundred offerings on a sacred shore
Were blest by such reward!
Vidyāpati says: It is Gokula's lord.
The herd-girls' darling.

II.

Krishna: Your hair dismays the yak, the mountain sinks into the vale,
Fearing your face, the moon is fading in the sky,
The antelope is fearful of your eyes, your voice dismays the koil.
Your gait alarms the olifant, he hides him in the wood:

Why came you not for speech with me, fair may?
All these have fled afar in fear of you,
How then should you in turn fear me?

Dismayed by your breasts, the unblown lily lingers under lake.
The globéd jar leaps into fire.
The honey-apple and the pomegranate abide aloft.
And Shambhu drinks his poison.

Dismayéd by your arms, the golden lily-root leaves not the mud.
Affrighted by your fingers, the flower-stems are shivering!
Vidyāpati asks: How many shall I cite
Of spells of Love like these?

III.

Krishna: Which of the gods this fair face fashioned?
Beauty-surpassing, heart's-bliss-granting,
Garland-victress of the Triple Worlds.

The sun-bright eyes of her fair face
Are tricked with sūrm—
Restless wagtails on a golden lotus,
At play with pitch-black snakes.

The vine of down from her navel's well
Is a serpent thirsting for air:
Thinking in terror her nose is Garuḍa's beak
It hides in the valley of her bosoms' hills.

Love with three arrows conquered Three World's,
Still two of the arrows remained:
Very cruel is Nature to slay the love-lorn,
Surrendering those to her two eyes!

Vidyāpati says: Hearken, fair maids
Who haunt the well of Love:
Rājā Shivasimha Rūpanārāyana
And Lakshmī Devī be witness.

IV.

Krishna: Why did that moon-face cross my path?
Just for one moment her eyes met mine,
Whose sidelong glance is all too keen:
An ill day that for me!

My thoughts were set upon her breasts,
Love lay waking in my heart.
Her voice was ringing in my ears:
I would have gone, my feet refused to move.

The bonds of hope constrain me yet:
Love is a tide, says Vidyāpati.