A playful and discriminating Splendor (Śrī): introducing a tragic poem

Opening verses provide a good starting point to explore what a literary text ‘intends’ to say. This may sound obvious, or needless to emphasize. Curiously, however, most modern scholarly analyses of Nayacandra’s great poem of Hammīra have paid little attention to HMK’s prologue. We can nevertheless expect any author of a literary work to put extra effort in the opening lines of his work. After all, such lines must try to seize the attention of the reader. The prologue, or indeed the very first verse, may already give a glimpse of what the literary work will be about. In the next sections I will highlight how HMK’s prologue – the first twenty-six verses - already introduces most of the major motifs, thematic ‘questions’ and axes of tension. A close consideration of these verses allows us to understand and appreciate HMK as a carefully constructed aesthetic whole. The alluring ambiguities in the prologue clearly set the tone for the rest of the poem. And since the epilogue (canto fourteen) purposefully returns to what is said or suggested in these verses, a careful reading of HMK’s opening is necessary to understand how the poem comes full circle at the end. Clearly, Kirtane’s derogatory claim about HMK’s “very uneven” narrative structure is misleading. It made him discard the ‘poetical chaff’ from the valuable historical information.²² The historical narrative may be uneven – purposefully so -, but the poem itself is beautifully structured.

We are drawn into Nayacandra’s poetic world through a set of carefully crafted benedictive verses. They introduce the reader to the poet’s skill in the fascinating art of simultaneous narration (śleṣa). This allows the Jain author of the poem to simultaneously evoke the foremost deities from the Hindu pantheon and those of his own tradition, the Jain ‘ford-makers’ (tīrthaṅkara), the spiritual ‘conquerors’ (jina) who have succeeded in crossing the ocean of worldly existence (saṃsāra). On the surface, one could say that Nayacandra intends to make an appeal to both a Jain and Hindu audience. It’s important, however, to not reduce these verses to being just that. I want to show that Nayacandra’s benediction is clearly not just about making a religious point; nor is it just a display of the poet’s skill in the art of simultaneous narration - as the benediction is ‘footnoted’ in Kirtane’s influential paraphrase.²³

In this section I want to stress the relevance of not skipping over the seven verses preceding the introduction of the ‘main’ subject matter, Hammīra Chauhan. He will be presented – somewhat ambiguously - as the only praiseworthy king of the present age (1.8), as they say (kila, 1.9). I want to demonstrate how the preceding seven verses already

22 Kirtane 1879: v.

23 Kirtane 1879: iv.

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invite the reader to be attentive to the ambiguity of poetic speech. We are implicitly urged to not take words of praise at their face value. Nominally these verses ‘just’

simultaneously evoke the Hindu deities and the Jain saints (1.2-1.6), enclosed by an opening verse about the self (ātman) and a ‘concluding’ verse about Sarasvatī, the riverine goddess of Vedic literature, and Poetic Speech embodied. I will highlight how ultimately all these verses make a statement about the extraordinary power of poetry. The craft and experience of poetry is subtly presented as being superior to religious devotion or worship (bhakti) as a means to purify and awaken the self (ātman). It is Sarasvatī alone who can provide a genuine passage or ford (tīrtha) to grasp the multi-faceted nature of reality. The experience of poetry may be ‘spiritually’ more effective than worshipping the Hindu gods, the Jain ‘ford-makers’, or indeed historical heroes like Hammīra.

Arguably, the very first verse already contains the ‘essence’ of the whole poem. The anonymous Jain commentator of the single surviving though incomplete commentary (dīpikā) on HMK - “Light on Hammīramahākāvya” - stresses its central importance. The short preface ends by stating that we should fix all our attention on the first verse, for it condenses everything that is taught in this world – theoretical, religious, worldly, philosophical and social knowledge, etc. (śāstra, darśana, puruṣârtha). Let me therefore start with a translation and elaborate discussion of the first verse. It may be possible to hear the whole range of layers making up the complexity of the poem as a whole:

thematic, intertextual, meta-poetic, religious-philosophical, etc. In the space of single verse Nayacandra condenses these levels into a carefully crafted auditive experience.

What they call the great rise of awareness and bliss we always worship its only cause: that Supreme Light.

It is there - in that (light) which wards of darkness - that this auspicious Splendor

like a female goose

in the pond’s purifying water plays and plays.²⁴

Because of the layered texture and multiple semantic connotations of the original Sanskrit, any translation will fall short to fully express what this opening verse conveys.

All the individual elements evoked and implied in this verse - the brilliance, the darkness, the self as the ‘Supreme Light’ (paraṃ-jyotis), the great rise (udaya) of awareness and joy, its only cause (eka-hetum), a playful Splendor (Śrī), the female goose (haṃsī) enjoying herself (ram) in the purifying water or pond (saras), even the first temporal marker sadā

24 sadā cid-ānanda-mahôdayaîka-hetuṃ paraṃ-jyotir upāsmahe tat | yasmin śiva-śrīḥ sarasîva haṃsī viśuddhi-kṛd-vāriṇi raṃramīti ||1.1||

‘always’ – will carry an important structuring function throughout the poem. They are the motifs and symbols holding the poem together as a unified aesthetic whole. They spring forth from a single, carefully constructed verse. And they are deeply and intricately intertwined. Our poet, of course, almost never speaks directly about how exactly these elements intertwine. We are, in other words, invited to explore their connections and fill in the semantic and symbolic values of words like śiva, śrī, haṃsī and even tad “that”.

Most evidently this opening verse addresses the religious-philosophical topic (and problem) of the nature of reality. It raises the important theme of the ‘supreme self’

(paramātman), in relation to the natural make-up of reality, which in mainstream Vedāntic traditions is believed to be eternally conscious and joyful (cid-ānanda). Instead of using Jaina specific terminology, Nayacandra chooses to use an arguably more universally applicable Upaniṣadic vocabulary.²⁵ The absolute self, in its pure and natural state, is thus cast as a bright and shining principle, the “Supreme Light” (paraṃ-jyotis), to which we should devote ourselves in an Upaniṣadic fashion. Or rather, we are already

“being or sitting near” to it (upāsmahe). Nayacandra may be purposefully reinforcing this Upaniṣadic imagery by calling the Supreme Light ‘that’ (tat). This neuter pronoun, placed emphatically at the end of the first line, may denote the much-discussed relation of the

25 There seems to be enough common ground between Jaina and Vedāntic traditions to adopt the view that the self (ātman), in its pure state, is eternally conscious and blissful. This adaptation of the terminology or imagery of other religious-philosophical traditions is not uncommon by Jain authors. Jeffrey Long (2010:

90-93) explains that “[n]ot unlike the jīva of Jainism, which is pure bliss, perception, consciousness, and power, Brahman is described as infinite being, consciousness, and bliss (sat-chit-ānanda)” (p. 92). Perhaps Nayacandra is not just adopting this view, but subtly playing with the resemblances and differences.

Somewhat curiously, perhaps, Nayacandra leaves out one traditional attribute, namely that of sat “being, real, existent”. This is the quality of brahman which generally - in the Upaniṣads, as in later philosophical treatises of various Hindu traditions - precedes cit and ānanda. We are thus expected to find sat as heading the compound sat-cit-ānanda, “existence- consciousness-bliss”, the traditional make-up and nature of ultimate reality. Instead we get the adverb sadā, “always, perpetually” which despite being semantically clearly different from sat, “real”, may sound as a distortion of the expected word. Is Nayacandra starting his poem with a playful twist? Is he denying “reality, existence” to a mainstream idea about the natural make-up of reality, as if to already give a glimpse of his recurrent concern with playfully challenging his readers’

pre-conceptions, expectations and traditional knowledge? Or perhaps rather, by leaving out the quality of sat (real, existing) in a verse ‘about’ ultimate reality, Nayacandra may be anticipating his concluding ‘point’

in the seventh verse about the extraordinary reality of poetry as means to achieve true success or completion (nālika-saṃpad) or true play (nālika-līlā), as the commentary states. Nayacandra seems to purposefully start his poem by raising or playing with a major concern in the South Asian intellectual tradition, namely the opposition between (and problem of) what is ultimately, or absolutely real – denoted by the concept of brahman - and what is only real in appearance, the phenomenological world which in mainstream Hindu thought is said to be māyā, an illusion (<ludus, in play), fabricated through the divine play (līlā) of the gods.

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individual Self (ātman) to the concept of brahman, the ultimate reality of things, the primordial substance of everything contained in the universe, including the self. In Upaniṣadic terms the ultimate spiritual goal consists in realizing that “you are that” (tat tvam asi). Nayacandra deliberately and playfully picks up on this topic in the next verse:

The wise, who fix their attention on understanding the knowledge of that say that its essence is the supreme brahman.

Let the navel-born (Brahmā/Ṛṣabha) make hurry to bring you liberation (Śiva):

that man who dwells in a lotus the one with lotus feet

and created the end of his own worldly existence and who created a prosperous dwelling place.²⁶

The verse somewhat humorously urges the Hindu creator god Brahmā (who was born from Viṣṇu’s nābhi navel) and the first Jain ford-maker Ṛṣabha (whose father was named Nābhi) to ‘hurry up’ (tvar) in order to help the people – you (vas) - attain liberation (śivāya).

But there’s a sting to the message. From a Jain perspective there is no creator god. Both Brahmā, and the Jain ford-makers do not concern themselves with the world, which the verse jokingly makes explicit by having them hurry up. Moreover, taking the verse as speaking about Brahmā we read that he “created the end of his own existence” (klṛpta-bhavâvasānaḥ). The commentary makes explicit the common ‘ridicule’ that Brahmā is not worshipped any longer on earth; he has no devotees. (And he is typically blamed as the cruel Creator god or Fate (vidhi), who apparently without any reason creates suffering for the people – a major theme throughout HMK).²⁷ This verse and the next five benediction verses can be said to serve a ‘literary purpose’ only, to anticipate Nayacandra’s point in the seventh verse about the extraordinary quality or reality of poetry, which deserves our real attention.

But let us first return to the first verse, which already anticipates his view on what poetry does. Unfortunately, the self – conscious and blissful in its pure state - has the natural tendency to get afflicted and obscured by defilements and delusions of various sorts. We will see how the heroes in HMK repeatedly fall victim to various kinds of

‘darkness’ (viśuddhi-kṛt “what cuts purity”), not only by external enemy forces, but especially by obscuring forces within - like greed, excessive anger, pride, lust, etc. This is often explicitly linked to a self-destructive and self-deluding heroic masculinity (vīrya,

26 taj-jñāna-vijñāna-kṛtâvadhānāḥ santaḥ para-brahma-mayaṃ yam āhuḥ padmâśrayaḥ klṛpta-bhavâvasānaḥ sa nābhi-bhūr vas tvaratāṃ śivāya ||2||

27 I discuss this at length in chapter three and four.

puṃstva), which makes the warrior-king ‘sleepy’. When such forces take over, and take on excessive proportions, these ‘internal enemies’ – as they are often called - have a darkening, blinding effect on the self, or on the all-important feminine principle that energizes it: Śrī. Nayacandra introduces this principle positively as that “auspicious Splendor” (śiva-śrī) or the “Splendor of the Auspicious One”, the god Śiva or any auspicious being worthy of Śrī’s attention.²⁸

Put most simply (and positively), the notion of Śrī represents the bright side of reality.

Śrī represents a universal Splendor or Brilliance, giving off light and radiance, and thus conferring ‘shine’ and beauty to entities of all sorts. Importantly, this beautiful and beautifying Splendor is a feminine principle, which is naturally active, potent and playful.

It is the ‘energy’ that makes people shine, especially the noble kings from great, successful dynasties. The whole universe is thus pervaded by Śrī, who confers her splendor to entities like the moon and sun, plants and animals, everything that shines and ‘blooms’

at day and at night. Entities take a “share” of this Splendor, which axiomatically constitutes one principle. But they also distribute it again, by reflecting or radiating it back to others.²⁹ As Lakṣmī, the goddess of Fortune, Śrī embodies the energizing power (śakti) of her divine husband Viṣṇu, the preserver of the universe; as Pārvatī or Umā she embodies the female aspect of Śiva; and as Sarasvatī she represents the all-important creative consort of the creator god Brahmā.

It is in her personification as Lakṣmī, that the – occasionally blinding - brilliance of Śrī comes to symbolize the unstable nature of power, the king’s notoriously unfaithful or fickle wife Royal Fortune (rājya-śrī or rājya-lakṣmī). Important to recall is that HMK is a poem about the downfall of the Chauhan dynasty with the death of its last ‘glorious’ ruler Hammīra. Put differently, in symbolic terms HMK is a poem about Royal Fortune’s complete disappearance from the Chauhan side.

28 We can take śiva as an adjective, qualifying śrī Splendor, or we can take the whole as a tatpuruṣa compound. Like for example in Kālidāsa’s Kumārasambhava, 2.58, where Śiva is referred to as the “supreme light” (paraṃ-jyotis), and to which Nayacandra’s opening may be purposefully alluding. The commentary of HMK glosses Nayacandra’s compound śiva-śrī as mokṣa-lakṣmī, the “Fortune of liberation”.

29 See for example Shulman’s discussion (2014: 44-45) of Śrī in Raghuvaṃśa, and Hiltebeitel 1990: 143-192, on Śrī in the Mahābhārata. That virtuous people may earn a ‘share’ of the notoriously fickle Śrī is often expressed by the root bhaj, to divide, ‘allot a portion’, as for example in Pañcatantra, book III, v. 103, saying that only a wise man gets a share of fortune and fame (lakṣmyā yaśasāṃ ca bhājanam, Hertel 1908: 193). This logic also works the other way around. For example, in one verse in HMK we learn that:

tyāgāya bhogāya viveka-bhājā janena śaśvad vidhṛtā karābje |

lebhe ‘vakāśaṃ capalā ‘pi lakṣmīḥ palāyanaṃ karttum aho na yatra || 11.29

“In order to distribute and enjoy her (i.e. Fortune/wealth), a man who possesses (the lot of) right discernment, always keeps her asunder in his lotushand. Oh! But there [in Ranthambhor] this Lakṣmī, despite her fickleness, doesn’t take the opportunity to escape.”

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I want to emphasize that it is not a coincidence that the poem starts by evoking the principle of Śrī. This beautiful and beautifying Splendor is thematically, religious-philosophically and meta-poetically speaking at the heart of the whole poem. The point of importance is that Śrī doesn’t just passively dwell in the self, but – like a female goose in a pond or stream – has the potency to enjoy herself, have fun, make love, again and again: she plays and plays. I chose to translate the crucial final word of the verse raṃramīti, as “plays and plays” to keep open the multi-semantic significance of the verbal root ram and represent the ear-catching intensive mode (which is poetically reinforced by the preceding two syllables of ‘water’ vā-riṇi raṃramīti). Most generally the verb ram means

“to enjoy one’s self, take delight in something”. However, depending on the context, it may take on sexual, martial, spiritual and aesthetic connotations. It may thus mean “to have fun, make love, dally, play” but it also has a more ‘religious’ or less active peaceful connotation “to be (joyfully) at rest, be quiet or still, desist from action.”

It is the comparison in this verse between Śrī and the female goose (haṃsī) that turns the whole verse into a meta-poetic statement. This aquatic bird, which is white in color, not only represents the pure and migratory nature of the self, but also the all-important cognitive faculty of right discrimination (viveka). Importantly, this female goose may represent Sarasvatī herself as her supporting vehicle (vāhana). Ideally, both the brilliant Śrī and the white Sarasvatī can enjoy themselves, in the purifying waters of poetry, and in the light of the self.

I believe Nayacandra’s opening verse already purposefully introduces the shining energy of Śrī positively (!) as a playing, purifying and discriminating principle, anticipating the thematic and meta-poetic importance of this triad throughout the poem. The opening verse may already tell us that the fascinating principle of Śrī, in her shining, active, playful, migratory and discriminatory activity, may not really deserve the typical blame of being fickle (capala) or fleeting (kṣaṇa-bhaṅgura, “breaking instantly”). She may be something fragile indeed, but she is especially something valuable, something difficult to attain or maintain, but worthy of attention. Śrī, in her various manifestations as Lakṣmī, Pārvatī, Sarasvatī, etc., may want her many different partners – like kings and poets - to

‘play along’. But she may ‘fly off’ and find fortune elsewhere when she suffers from a lack of sustained attention. Despite Śrī’s tragic propensity to wane, this important and all-pervasive principle likes to shine and play, always, somewhere and with someone. Only when we pay close attention to this inner, playful, shining and potent principle within the self – when we sit near to it (upāsmahe) in an Upaniṣadic fashion – it may exert a purifying and discriminating power (viveka) and dispel the darkness of delusions and moral defilements.

Apart from the intertwining of meta-poetic, thematic, and religious-philosophical levels, Nayacandra’s opening verse also purposefully alludes to the opening verses of other authors. There’s a clear nod to Daṇḍin’s famous theoretical treatise on poetry, the Kāvyadarśa (“Mirror of Poetry”, ca. 7^th-8^th century) and to the Kumārapālabhūpālacarita

(“The deeds of king Kumārapāla”, 1365), composed by Nayacandra’s own guru Jayasiṃha Sūri, to which I return later in this chapter.³⁰ We may also be able to hear an intertextual nod to the opening verse of the historical play Hammīramadamardana (“Crushing the intoxication of the Commander (hammīra)”, ca. 1227-30) by another, earlier Jain poet also called Jayasiṃha Sūri³¹ And finally, I think Nayacandra’s semantic choices and the careful placement of the words also make audible a nod to a crucial, turning-point verse from Kālidāsa’s Kumārasambhava (“Birth of the Prince”, 4^th century) where Śiva desisted from his yogic pose (upā-rarāma) when he saw the supreme light in himself, signaling the upcoming sexual union with Umā.³²In short, it looks like Nayacandra did his best to create a monumental opening for his great poem. His opening verse is clearly not only about evoking the religious ideal of purifying the self, the ideal of ‘liberation’ (mokṣa), affecting

30 I thank Yigal Bronner for directing my attention to this point about Daṇḍin’s opening verse, where the same imagery of the goose with the verb ram is used. Thus (Sanskrit quoted from ed. of Belvalkar 1924)

catur-mukha-mukhâmbhoja-vana-haṃsa-vadhūr mama | mānase ramatāṃ dīrghaṃ sarva-śuklā sarasvatī ||1||

Dwelling with her female goose in the thicket of Brahmā’s four lotus faces,

may this all-white Sarasvatī, for a long time, have fun in my mind – the Mānasa lake.

The poem of his guru’s historical poem, about Kumārapāla also reaches back to Daṇḍin. Thus, the opening

The poem of his guru’s historical poem, about Kumārapāla also reaches back to Daṇḍin. Thus, the opening