Sarasvatī’s true play

In this section I want to demonstrate that the opening verse about the self, in which the shining Śrī enjoys herself or plays like the discriminating female goose (haṃsī), anticipates the point of the seventh verse about Sarasvatī, the sacred Vedic river and pool of poetry, in which aquatic birds and poets shine and play (lasat). The first and seventh verse seem to make a pair, separated from each other by five verses which simultaneously address the Jain ford-makers and the main Hindu deities. Moreover, this pair can be said to purposefully enclose and playfully undermine the ‘truth value’ of the verses in between. Verses two to six ostensibly praise the Hindu and Jain ‘deities’ for their extraordinary illuminating powers to dispel darkness, thus continuing the line of thought from the first verse. However, Nayacandra subtly distances himself from these evocations by putting them in the ‘may you’ (vas) perspective, whereas the first and seventh verse are treated from a ‘let us’ (nas) point of view.

This meta-poetic sandwiching in the opening benediction (verse 1-7) can be said to mirror or anticipate the somewhat deceitful framing of the poem as a whole, which is similarly sandwiched between two statements about Hammīra’s exemplary greatness and luminous ‘goodness’ (sattva), put in the mouth of what others say (1.9-14.1), reaching the

33 This religious interpretation is what the Jain commentary emphasizes, explicitly remarking that HMK’s opening verse conveys the aesthetic flavor of quietism (śānta), which is the “seed” (bījam) of the cessation of desire or “thirsting” (rasaś câtra śāntas tṛṣṇā-kṣayaṃ bījam)

34 Poetically speaking the non-semantic features almost make audible what it semantically says. The verse starts with a powerful ‘pulse’ or beat through the repetition of da-sounds in the first foot (sadā-cid-ānanda-mahôdayaîka), which continues harmoniously but more softly in the second line with the succession of sibilant sounds (yasmin śiva-śrīḥ sarasîva haṃsī), perhaps making audible Sarasvatī’s gushing flow. When reaching the next five syllables viśuddhi-kṛd-vā we may hear a brief rupture in the flow, which expresses well what is meant by the double-entendre of the compound viśuddhi-kṛd-vāriṇi, which means “in the purifying water” (viśuddhi-kṛd-vāriṇi) but also – and less obviously - “warding off” (vāriṇi) “that which cuts the pure (self)”(viśuddhi-kṛd) (namely the dirt that attaches to the self, according to the commentator). After the slight audible ‘cut’ in the flow of the verse, the verse literally comes to rest in the smooth repetitive sounds of the verb ram. There is typically a small pause in the 21-syllable indravajrā meter after the fifth syllable of a foot, which seems to purposefully split the word ‘water’ vāriṇi in two, so that the last two syllables riṇi smoothly flow into the reduplicative form of ram (vā-riṇi raṃramīti) and reinforce its sound and meaning.

poet’s ears. Nayacandra’s benedictive verses can be said to already subtly anticipate this distancing technique on a micro-level.

Before moving on to the intriguing ‘concluding’ verse 7 about Sarasvatī’s all-pervading purifying flow, I want to briefly address the recurrent point in the five preceding verses.

I already mentioned that the second verse pokes fun at Brahmā, the creator god, who effected the end of his own existence on earth. Nayacandra’s verse humorously urges him to ‘make hurry’ (tvaratām) to help you (vas) attain ‘liberation’ (śiva). The point implicit in this verse is that Brahmā, like his Jain counterpart, the first ford-maker Ṛṣabha, is not really worth evoking as a divine principle to help us attain fortune. And this may well apply to the male ‘deities’ evoked in the next verses.

The over-arching point in these verses seems to again revolve around the shining (and playful) principle of Śrī – repeated several times - bestowing male ‘deities’ the power to dispel darkness/ignorance and awaken the people: the Hindu trinity Brahmā, Viṣṇu and Śiva, and the Sun and Moon, corresponding respectively to the most popular Jain saints Ṛṣabha, Pārśvanātha, Mahāvīra, Śāntinātha, and Neminātha. Importantly, the principle of Śrī therefore already seems to acquire her hall-mark propensity to shift partners or split herself up.

Let me briefly illustrate these points. Thus, the third verse addresses Viṣṇu/Pārśvanātha, as the supreme being who has Śrī at their side (śrī-pārśvaḥ). They both bear the mark of śrī-vatsa “favorite of Śrī” on their chest and are praised because of the greatness of their widespread fame and compassion. They are evoked to spread forth great Splendor (śriyaṃ atanvīm). The fourth verse addresses Śiva/Mahāvīra, who, followed by his female consort Śivā/Good Fortune (śivānuyāto) is endowed with playful/flashing power (vilasad-vibhūtiḥ). They are famous for taking away the pride of Kāma (darpaka-darpa-hārī). Moreover, with their white/radiant appearance (śubhra-sthitir) they are also credited, respectively, with destroying the “movement” of the blind demon Andhaka (andhaka-ara) and destroying (mental) darkness or ignorance (andha-kāra, “blind-maker”). The fifth verse addresses the splendid Śāntinātha or peaceful Sun (bhāsvān saśāntiḥ), who are credited with the power to spread right knowledge/awakening (samyak-prabodha-prathana-prabhūṣṇur). They are evoked to appease the wicked (śamayatv aghāni). They indeed both produce a waking up, the Sun literally from sleep, and Śāntinātha a metaphorical awaking from ignorance. Finally, the ‘last’ verse is about the Moon/Neminātha. Endowed with great light (mahā-mahā), he has eclipsed or destroyed the mass of darkness/ignorance (dhvasta-tamas-samūhaḥ). They are evoked to remain there for the sake of Splendor (śriye stāt).

Thematically speaking these verses can be said to introduce the poem’s central guiding motif, namely that reality appears to express itself into a perpetual oscillation between

‘light’ and ‘dark’ principles, forces, modes or states: seeing and blindness, wisdom and ignorance, purification and pollution, waking and sleeping, fortune and misfortune,

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remembering and forgetting, etc.³⁵ This natural but somewhat mysterious interplay is effected through the supposedly dark force called Time, kāla, which is not yet explicitly introduced here. But it will play an important role as the invisible, all-pervasive force that manages to trick people into ignorance and sleepiness, when wakefulness is most needed, as explained in chapter three.

The point worth emphasizing here is that these verses are not really meant to praise the Hindu gods and Jain ford-makers as divine principles worth evoking or worshipping to attain liberation (śiva) or brilliant fortune (śrī) – the recurrent point in these verses. I suggest that there’s a purposeful switch in tone, or at least in perspective, between these verses and the enclosing first and seventh verse. Moreover, through the poetic embrace of śleṣa, both the Hindu deities and Jain ford-makers are subjected to the atheistic metaphysical position of the Jain tradition. Nayacandra might be playing upon the fact that in both traditions they are nevertheless popular objects of devotion and praise, perhaps not unlike historical heroes like Hammīra, and others.³⁶ Worship (bhakti) should be truly reserved for the ever moving, shimmering and tranquillizing flow of Sarasvatī, the topic of the ‘concluding’ verse 1.7, to which I turn now. As often in Sanskrit poetry, the verse plays upon the dual meaning of Sarasvatī as the personification of poetry and the sacred river from Vedic literature.

lasat-kavi-stoma-kṛtôru-bhaktir nālīka-sampat-subhagaṃ-bhaviṣṇuḥ | sva-darśanena tri-jagat-punānā sarasvatī no nayatāt prasattim ||7||

- Sarasvatī as Poetic Speech-

With her widespread worship (bhakti) accomplished by the praises of playful poets she becomes beautiful

through a correspondence (sampad) that is true.

By showing herself

she purifies the triple world:

let Sarasvatī lead us to tranquility.

- Sarasvatī as sacred river -

35 This oscillation aligns with natural phenomena, like the rising and setting of the sun, the waxing and waning of the moon, the water in streams and lotus-ponds, fated to dry up in the hot season, and be replenished with the monsoon rains. As we will see, occasionally, these ‘bright’ and ‘dark’ principles-forces-modes conflate, mix up, get inverted, as I explain in chapter three. I will suggest that throughout HMK the reader is meant to grasp the intricate relation between ‘dark’ Time (kāla) and ‘brilliant’ Fortune (śrī).

36 In his play Rambhāmañjarī, 1.6, Nayacandra also makes fun of the traditional gods when evoking them, saying that they only deceive us: only Kāmadeva rules this world.

With her wide streaks (bhakti)

created by the flocks of frolicking water birds she becomes beautiful

through her correspondence (sampad) with the lotus flowers.

By showing herself

she purifies the triple world:

let Sarasvatī lead us to tranquility.

I think the beauty and difficulty of this verse lies in filling in what is meant by the sampad or ‘correspondence’ between Sarasvatī as the sacred river and poetic speech, by the

‘playful’ or shining poet (lasat-kavi) and the frolicking or shining ‘water-bird’ (lasat-ka-vi).³⁷ The multivalent word sampad literally denotes the ‘falling together’ and indicates the fulfillment or perfect result or realization of a preceding process.³⁸ Again, like the imagery of the first verse, this word has clear Upaniṣadic connotations. It is used, among other things, to denote the ultimate completion of one’s past actions, the ultimate “destiny”

(gati) of things, which eventually takes place when one realizes the sampad or

“correspondence” between the self (ātman) and ultimate reality (brahman.)³⁹ Again, Nayacandra deliberately bends his employment of Upaniṣadic vocabulary to meet his own poetic ends. We are invited to explore what exactly ‘falls together’ in this verse.

The idea, or image conjured, is somewhat paradoxical and confusing, and this might be the point. This is also reflected in the commentary. Unfortunately, the commentator thus skips over the term sampad, or rather, replaces it by the word līlā “play”. We may wonder whether the commentator had a manuscript with this variant, or whether he tries to cover up his own struggle with the first line of the verse. In any case, the choice

37 In the verse I chose to translate lasat here as “playful” and “frolicking”, instead of something like

“shining” or “brilliant”, another common meaning of the word. The root las, with or without the intensifying prefix vi, is on the one hand used to express the shining appearance of things and people, a “shining forth”, and on the other hand refers to playful movement. It is worth reflecting on the shared semantic space. The root las denotes a glittering, flickering, or flashing, namely a movement of light, which strikes the observer as ‘play’, which is why we speak of the play of waves or light, as observed, for example, in the glittering appearance of water. Things that are lasat or vi-lasat are flashing, active, playing, like the vibhūti of Śiva, his

“power” or the sacred white ash on his body, described in verse 1.4 as vilasat. The sense of playfulness is especially foregrounded in this verbal root’s derivative noun vilāsa, which denotes the playful gestures of women, their coquetry, but also more generally comprises the playful activity of kings. We will soon encounter vilāsa in this sense, in 1.9, as an essential attribute of kingship’s brilliance (rājya-śrī).

38 I’m indebted to the detailed discussion of sampad in Bodewitz 2003, who explains its wide range of meanings, tracing its used from Vedic literature to texts like Kauṭilya’s Arthaśāstra.

39 Bodewitz 2003: 255. See also Shulman 2012: 127-129, who connects it to the process of poetic imagination, a “linkage wrought by and in the mind” (p. 129).

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for līlā is significant, because it fits well with the general image of Sarasvatī who becomes beautiful through activity that is playful. Moreover, the concept of līlā, with its connotation of creative ‘divine play’ in Hindu thought, also suits well the general religious-philosophical and meta-poetic atmosphere of the prologue. Furthermore, the sound of līlā rings well with the preceding nālīka. Taken together, the commentator thus explains how Sarasvatī, the river, becomes beautiful through the līlā, the play or ‘graceful movements’ of the lotus flowers (nālīka-līlā).⁴⁰ As Poetry embodied, she becomes beautiful by līlā or play that is genuine, not false (na-ālīka-līlā).

The verse itself, however, has sampad, and not līlā.⁴¹ Let me therefore try to take seriously the notion of sampad “falling together”, which may be likewise indicative of the transformative power inherent to the concept of play (līlā). Importantly, the notion of sampad indicates the successful completion or fulfilment of a preceding process.⁴² We may take this verse to literally express the perfect culmination of an auditive and cognitive process which took off in the first verse. All the poetic imagery of the preceding verses seems to purposefully come together in this verse. The cumulative process, involving the many manifestations of Śrī’s energizing Splendor, reaches its peak in the first line of this verse. This process, Poetry’s becoming beautiful, literally comes to rest in the last line, suggesting that it is the bhakti “worship” of Sarasvatī - and not of the preceding male

‘deities’ – which truly leads us to tranquility (no nayatāt prasattim). The syntax, imagery and semantic choices in this verse purposefully mimic that of the preceding verses, but they all come out stronger and more truthful.⁴³

40 If Sarasvatī, as river, becomes beautiful through the play of the lotuses (nālika-līlā) we can understand the play of the lotuses, their līlā, in the word’s original sense as a slow, gracious back-and-forth movement. After all, the poet invites us to see the connection between the beauty or play (līlā) of the lotuses and the image preceding it. The lotuses must be moving because of the movement of the water, created by the wide streaks (uru-bhakti) of the frolicking water-birds (lasat-ka-vi). Or perhaps rather, the lotuses appear to play in the sense of imitating (another common meaning of līlā) the frolicking movements of the water birds.

41 The manuscripts I know of do not have the līlā variant. We can assume with certainty that Nayacandra had used the word sampad. In the prologue of his guru Jayasiṃha Sūri’s Kumārapālabhūpālacarita, on which his own prologue is modeled, thus also has this conspicuous word, in verse 1.12 “preritas tad-guṇa-grāma-rāmaṇīyaka-sampadā” (“I was impelled by the pleasurable ‘perfection’ of the assemblage of his virtues.”) I explain the influence of this poem on Nayacandra’s work in the next section.

42 Bodewitz (2003: 257) explains that sampad in its most general sense means “(full) growth, successful close of an activity, (perfect or successful) the conclusion of a process or activity, culmination of a development, ultimate result/effect/gain/success, outcome, final product.”

43 Thus, the last pāda “let Sarasvatī lead us to tranquility” (sarasvatī no nayatāt prasattim) purposefully resonates with the last pādas from the preceding verse, where we for example hear (1.2) “let Brahmā/Ṛṣabha hurry up to make you reach liberation” (sa nābhibhūr vas tvaratāṃ śivāya) and (1.3) “let Viṣṇu/Śrī-Pārśvaḥ spread out his great Splendor for you (śrī-pārśvaḥ śriyaṃ vas tanutād atanvīm). Also, whereas the Sun/Śāntinātha (1.5) becomes beautiful (subhagaṃ-bhaviṣṇuḥ) through a splendor that has the power to

Unlike the previous verses, which similarly exploit the correspondence between the Hindu gods and Jain ‘ford-makers’ (tīrthaṅkara), there may be something more genuine about the ‘falling together’ (sam-pad) of Sarasvatī, as river and poetry. They share something that is not false or pretended (na-ālīka). This impression may also be reinforced by the fact that the second line, unlike in the preceding verses, doesn’t require the punning device of śleṣa to suggest similarity. Thanks to the work of Yigal Bronner we know that śleṣa is not just used for the sake of word play, it is “not an end in itself, but a poetic device subordinate to concerns of plot and characterization.”⁴⁴ Although the complexity of śleṣa indeed reaches its peak in the first line of this difficult verse, in the second line the ambiguity smooths itself out in two simple verse feet without equivocal imagery. At last Sarasvatī shows herself - clearly (but temporarily) - as a placid stream, to bring us tranquility.

The point may be that, in the poet’s vision, the shared properties of Sarasvatī’s purifying and tranquillizing flow, as river and poetry, may be truly similar. To begin with, the shared purifying power depends on Sarasvatī’s liquid quality, which is preserved in her name itself: she is the one who is endowed with water, (saras-vatī), with that which flows. Poetic speech too is said to flow and purify, bring mental clarity, and produce rasa, the tasty ‘sap’ of aesthetic experience. For example, in his epilogue Nayacandra speaks of how “the speech of wise men flows forth from or through the playful gestures of Sarasvatī” (vāṇī vāṇī-vilāsāt prasarati viduṣāṃ 14.40). The similarity between the river flow and poetic flow not only depends on its liquidity, but also on the way they flow, and why they are or become beautiful. This may be the all-important point in these verses. Rivers don’t flow in a straight line, they meander, flow in bends, just like poetic speech is distinguished from everyday speech because it is vakra, “bended, curved, twisted”. Poetic speech is crooked, playful speech (vakrokti), which deliberately avoids straightforward explicitness. It thrives on playful ambiguity, paradox, ironies and ambivalences, making the familiar unfamiliar through ways of indirection, disguising meaning. All this ambiguity and the creative manipulation of language potentially evoke a deeper understanding of reality than would be possible through ordinary, direct speech.⁴⁵

Taken together, as one cumulative process, these seven verses thus make an intriguing meta-poetic statement.⁴⁶ To put it most simply, the concluding verse implicitly but

spread forth the right awakening (samyak-prabodhana-prathana-prabhūṣṇur), Sarasvatī becomes beautiful through a ‘correspondence’ (sampad) that is true (nālīka-sampat-subhabaṃ-bhaviṣṇuḥ).

44 Bronner 2010: 102.

45 This idea is very much inspired by the conclusion to the section ‘the disguise of language’ in Bronner’s study of śleṣa (2010: 88-9).

46 Cf. also Ingalls (1968: 34) about the “cumulative flow” of the opening verses of Kumārasambhava:

“Each verse furnishes a separate and complete thought, employs distinct images and usually a distinct figure

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powerfully suggests that it is poetry’s beauty that truly awakens us - or awakens us to the beauty and complexity of reality. Unlike the space occupied by the Hindu and Jain ‘deities’

who don’t intervene in the ordinary world – from a Jain perspective - poetic speech truly pervades the triple world (tri-jagat), that is, the whole universe.⁴⁷ It is Poetry’s playful flow that may provide the ‘real’ tīrtha or fording place to purify the self.⁴⁸

The message implicit in the seven opening verses might be something like this. May you or they evoke the Hindu gods and Jain ‘ford-makers’ to bring about the Splendor of liberation (śiva-śrī). But let us (rather) ‘sit near’ (upāsmahe) or attentively listen to the playful mechanisms of Sarasvatī. What she accomplishes or fulfills (sampad) through her play (līlā) is true, genuine, not false. Poetry of course also operates through tricks and deceit (chala).⁴⁹ The words of poets may even trick the clever (chekila) as Nayacandra puts it in the prologue of his play Rambhāmañjarī.⁵⁰ But at least the experience of poetry’s flow, with its whirls and bends, may truly activate the all-important principle of Śrī, which may be lying dormant in our selves. The verse implies that Poetic Speech alone or truly enables the kind of transformation associated with the waking powers of Śiva, the Sun, etc.

because it calls for a special kind of attention and engagement.

There is probably much more that this Sarasvatī verse evokes through the multivalent concept of sampad. For example, the verse may be playing with the paradoxical idea of bhakti, which, in the words of Shulman, is the kind of love which is experienced as a mode of separation (viraha), a tragic but beautiful “separation-in-union” with a divinity.⁵¹ In this

There is probably much more that this Sarasvatī verse evokes through the multivalent concept of sampad. For example, the verse may be playing with the paradoxical idea of bhakti, which, in the words of Shulman, is the kind of love which is experienced as a mode of separation (viraha), a tragic but beautiful “separation-in-union” with a divinity.⁵¹ In this