Extreme Poetry: The South Asian Movement of Simultaneous Narration 9780231525299

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EXTRE ME P OETRY

south asia across the disciplines

SOUTH ASIA ACROSS THE DISCIPLINES

 edited by dipesh chakrabarty, sheldon pollock, and sanjay subrahmanyam

Funded by a grant from the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation and jointly published by the University of California Press, the University of Chicago Press, and Columbia University Press Extreme Poetry: The South Asian Movement of Simultaneous Narration by Yigal Bronner (Columbia) The Social Space of Language: Vernacular Culture in British Colonial Punjab by Farina Mir (California) Unifying Hinduism: The Philosophy of Vijnanabhiksu in Indian Intellectual History by Andrew J. Nicholson (Columbia) Everyday Healing: Hindus and Others in an Ambiguously Islamic Place by Carla Bellamy (California) South Asia Across the Disciplines is a series devoted to publishing first books across a wide range of South Asian studies, including art, history, philology or textual studies, philosophy, religion, and the interpretive social sciences. Series authors all share the goal of opening up new archives and suggesting new methods and approaches, while demonstrating that South Asian scholarship can be at once deep in expertise and broad in appeal.

extreme poetry

the south asian movement of simultaneous narration

Yigal Bronner

columbia university press

new york

Columbia University Press Publishers Since 1893 New York

Chichester, West Sussex

Copyright © 2010 Columbia University Press All rights reserved Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Bronner, Yigal. Extreme poetry : the South Asian movement of simultaneous narration / Yigal Bronner. p.

cm.—(South Asia across the disciplines)

Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN9 78-0-231-15160-3( cloth: a lk.p aper)—ISBN9 78-0-231-52529-9( electronic) 1. Sanskrit poetry—History and criticism. I. Title.

PK2916.B72 891'.21009—dc22

2. Puns and punning in literature.

II. Series. 2010 2009028171

Columbia University Press books are printed on permanent and durable acid-free paper. This book was printed on paper with recycled content. Printed in the United States of America c 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 p 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 References to Internet Web sites (URLs) were accurate at the time of writing. Neither the author nor Columbia University Press is responsible for URLs that may have expired or changed since the manuscript was prepared.

For my parents, Dina and Fred Bronner



do ārat sabad jis kavit mem na hoi do ārat sabad bāj rījhe na koi A poem that doesn’t have Dual-meaning words, Such a poem does not Attract anyone at all— A poem without Words of two senses. —Ma{navī Kadam Rā’o Padam Rā’o of Fakhr-e Dīn Nizāmī, p. 133, translation ¨ by Shamsur Rahman Faruqi

CONTENTS

Figures and Tables xiii Acknowledgments xv A Note on Sanskrit Transliteration

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introduction

xvii

1

1.1 Ślesa: A Brief Overview of the Mechanisms of Simultaneity 1.2 The Many Manifestations of Ślesa: A Brief Sketch 1.3 What (Little) Is Known About Ślesa

6

7

1.4 The Anti-Ślesa Bias: Romanticism, Orientalism, Nationalism 1.5 Is Ślesa “Natural” to Sanskrit?

3

9

13

1.6 Toward a History and Theory of Ślesa

17

experimenting with lesa in subandhu’s prose lab 20

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2.1 The Birth of a New Kind of Literature

20

2.2 The Paintbrush of Imagination: Plot and Description in the Vāsavadattā 25 2.3 Amplifying the World: Subandhu’s Alliterative Compounds 2.4 Showcasing Ślesa: The Opening Lines of the Vāsavadattā

33 38

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2.5 Teasing the Convention: The Targets of Subandhu’s Ślesa 2.6 Bāna’s Laughter and the Response to Subandhu

44

50

2.7 Conclusion 55

the disguise of language: lesa enters the plot 57

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3.1 Kīcakavadha (Killing Kīcaka) by Nītivarman

58

3.2 The Elephant in the (Assembly) Room: Nītivarman’s Buildup

60

3.3 From Smoldering to Eruption: Draupadī’s Ślesa and Its Implications 64 3.4 Embracing the Subject: Ślesa and Selfing

71

3.5 Embracing Twin Episodes: Ślesa and the Refinement of the Epic 75 3.6 Flowers and Arrows, Milk and Water: Responses to Nītivarman’s Ślesa 78 3.7 Sarasvatī’s Ślesa: Disguise and Identity in Śrīharsa’s Naisadhacarita 82 3.8 Conclusion

88

aiming at two targets: the early attempts 91

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4.1 The Mahabalipuram Relief as a Visual Ślesa 4.2 Dandin: A Lost Work and Its Relic

92

99

4.3 Dhanañjaya: The Poet of Two Targets

102

4.4 Lineages Ornamented and Tainted: On Ślesa’s Contrastive Capacities 106 4.5 What Gets Conarrated? Dhanañjaya’s Matching Scheme 4.6 Ślesa and the Aesthetics of Simultaneity 4.7 Why Conarrate the Epics?

119

115

112

contents %xi&

% 5 & bringing the ganges to the ocean: kavirja and the apex of bitextuality 122

5.1 The Boom of a Ślesa Movement

123

5.2 The Bitextual Movement and the Lexicographical Boom 5.3 Sanskrit Bitextuality in a Vernacular World

132

5.4 Kavirāja’s Matching of the Sanskrit Epics 5.5 Amplifying Epic Echoes 5.6 Conclusion

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128

140

148

153

lesa as reading practice

155

6.1 The Imagined Ślesa Reader: Representations and Instructions

156

6.2 Things That Can Go Wrong with Ślesa: The Theoreticians’ Warning 159 6.3 Seeing Shapes in Clouds: Different Readings of Meghadūta 1.14 169 6.4 Old Texts, New Reading Methods: The Commentaries on Subandhu 176 6.5 Ślesa and Allegory in the Commentaries on the Epic

181

6.6 Double-Bodied Poet, Double-Bodied Poem: Ravicandra’s Reading of Amaru 183 6.7 The Ślesa Paradox

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192

theories of lesa in sanskrit poetics

7.1 Theorizing Ornaments: An Overview of Alamkāraśāstra 7.2 Ślesa as a Theoretical Problem

203

7.3 Speaking Crookedly and Speaking in Puns: Ślesa’s Role in Dandin’s Poetics 214 7.4 Dandin’s Discovery in Its Context

226

195 196

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toward a theory of lesa

231

8.1 A Concise History of the Experiments with Ślesa 8.2 Ślesa as a Literary Movement 8.3 Ślesa and Sheer Virtuosity

231

234 239

8.4 Ślesa and the Registers of the Self 8.5 Ślesa and the Refinement of the Epic

242 246

8.6 Playing with the Convention: Ślesa and Deep Intertextuality 8.7 Ślesa and Kāvya’s Subversive Edge

254

8.8 Extreme Poetry and Middle-Ground Theory: The Challenges Posed by Ślesa 257 Appendix 1: Bitextual and Multitextual Works in Sanskrit 267 Appendix 2: Bitextual and Multitextual Works in Telugu 272 Notes 277 References 315 Index 331

250

FIGURES AND TABLES

figures The Svayamvara of Damayanti/Damayanti Carried to the marriage choice xx 4.1 An Overview of the Mahabalipuram Relief

93

4.2 Śiva Grants a Boon to an Ascetic: Detail from theMaha balipuramRe lief 94 4.3 Center of the Mahabalipuram Relief: The River Ganges

96

4.4 The Bull-Elephant: A Motif from the Jalakantheśvara Temple inV ellore 98

tables 4.1 Triads of the Jain Epic Narratives

106

5.1 Bitextual and Multitextual Sanskrit Works by Period

123

5.2 Bitextual and Multitextual Telugu Works by Century

135

6.1 Different Readings of Meghadūta1 .14

175

6.2 Different Readings and Interpretations of a Go-Between’s Message in Subandhu’s Vāsavadattā 180 7.1 Dandin’s Simile, Vyatireka, and Ślesa-Vyatireka 226

AC KNOW LEDG MENTS

T

his book was a long time in the making, and along the way I have incurred many debts. It is my pleasant duty to thank all those who helped me in the process of researching, writing, and editing it and bringing it into its current shape. First and foremost, I wish to thank my two lifelong teachers: Sheldon Pollock, who encouraged, facilitated, and immensely enriched my work on this project in its many incarnations; and David Shulman, who introduced me to the field of Sanskrit poetry and poetics and who has offered endless support and invaluable feedback in the process of completing this book. My debt to these two men and their intellectual and personal generosity would be impossible to repay. For their guidance, patience, and generosity I am grateful to many other teachers as well. These include H. V. Nagaraja Rao in Mysore, as well as N. R. Bhatt, K. Srinivasan, and the late S. S. Janaki in Chennai. Although they were never officially my teachers, Lawrence McCrea and Gary Tubb have taught me a great deal, and their comments on this book as it evolved were simply priceless. Special thanks are also due to V. Narayana Rao and Vimala Katikaneni, who, together with David Shulman, helped me with the Telugu materials, and my colleague Sascha Ebeling, who enriched my understanding of Tamil ślesas. I am also indebted to Steven Collins and Wendy Doniger, my former professors and now colleagues, and to the many colleagues at the University of Chicago who offered crucial intellectual and moral support. Finally, I wish to convey deep gratitude to my beloved and much-missed Tamil teacher, Norman Cutler, who died prematurely in 2002. Many people helped me in the process of gathering materials. In particular, I am grateful to James Nye, Chief Bibliographer for South Asia at

%xvi& ac know ledg ments

Chicago’s amazing Regenstein Library; Dr. V. Kameswari, Hema Varadarajan, and the entire staff of the Kuppuswami Research Institute in Chennai; Professor Saroja Bhate in Pune; Dr. E. R. Ramabai and Dr. M. Visalakshi at the University of Madras and the New Catalogus Catalogorum office; and Dilip Kumar, who was in charge of sending endless packages of books from Chennai to my various addresses. Thanks also to Michael Rabe and Anna Seastrand, who kindly shared with me their photography of and thoughts about Indian art, and Jonathan Bader, who did the same with regard to the hagiographies of Śa]kara. I am deeply indebted to all those who helped me revise and prepare this book for publication: Catherine Rottenberg and Neve Gordon, friends and partners in many ventures, who carefully read many of my drafts and who were always there for me whenever I needed any help or advice on the intricacies of the academic and publishing worlds; Daisy Rockwell and Daniel Wyche, who both read through the entire manuscript and made extensive editorial suggestions; and Jeremy Morse, who has been a oneman tech team and without whose help I could not have formatted the bibliography and footnotes. Thanks also to Alicia Czaplewski for all her assistance. I am also grateful to the two anonymous reviewers for their many useful suggestions and corrections and to Avni Majithia-Sejpal, John Donohue, Charles Eberline, and the outstanding editorial team at South Asia Across the Disciplines and Columbia University Press. Several institutions and foundations contributed to my research and writing: The U.S. Department of Education Fulbright-Hays Doctoral Dissertation Research Abroad program, the Mrs. Giles Whiting Foundation, the American Institute of Indian Studies, and the Committee on Southern Asian Studies at the University of Chicago. Special thanks to the Institute of Advanced Studies in Jerusalem, which generously hosted me several times during the past years. Finally, I wish to express my deep appreciation to my family. My parents, Dina and Fred Bronner, and my sister, Sharon Bar-Shaul, have always stood by me, even as my academic work took me far away from them. To my beloved children, Amos, Naomi, and Rivka, all three of whom were born at a time when their father was working on ślesa, and, last but not least, to my wife Galila, my best friend and better half: I thank you for bearing with me.

A NOTE ON SANSKRIT TRANSLITERATION

Q

uotes from Sanskrit are given in roman transliteration according to standard rules. I have usually standardized the spelling of the original and corrected obvious typographical errors. Where it seemed helpful or pertinent to the discussion, I have introduced indications of word boundaries within compounds, such as hyphens and circumflex marks. However, in passages involving ślesa I have avoided boundaries and marks of the sort that might preclude entertaining particular choices of meaning. To give a simple example, the sequence dāsyasītyuktvā could be carved into words in two ways: dāsyasîty uktvā (saying [to myself ] “you will give!”) and dāsy asîty uktvā (saying “you are [my] slave”), depending on the intended meaning. So as to not privilege one meaning over the other, I kept the sequence undivided (for the full text of this particular example, see chapter 3, note 30). I have used the same method in transliterating texts whose ślesa nature is doubted, but which some readers sought to read twice (as discussed in chapter 6).

EXTRE ME P OETRY

The Svayamvara of Damayanti/Damayanti Carried to the marriage choice, Rajput, Pahari, Kangra, about 1790–1800. Nainsukh family, Punjab Hills, India. Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, Ross-Coomaraswamy Collection, 17.2394. Photograph © 2010 Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. See section 3.7 for a discussion of this episode.

[  ] INTRODUCTION

I

magine a poem of large or even epic proportions, say, the Iliad. Now try to imagine that the language of this poem is constructed in such a way that it simultaneously tells an entire additional story. Suppose, in other words, that each verse of the Iliad could simultaneously be read as narrating the Odyssey as well. It is hard to imagine that language could sustain such an effort and still be intelligible, let alone beautiful. We can conceive of punned words or even proverbial utterances that are doubly readable, such as “Gladly the cross-eyed bear” for “gladly the cross I’d bear,” but a large-scale poem that is consistently “bitextual” seems inconceivable. Now try to imagine the effort required to put together such a work. As a preliminary step, the poet would probably need to go through a whole set of dictionaries and systematically record all homonyms (e.g., cross, bear). Our poet would also do well to list as many homophones as possible (eyed/I’d; night/knight), which an ordinary dictionary would not indicate. In addition, the poet might need to study special lexicons of scientific or other jargon, because the daunting task of making every line in a text convey two different meanings may force him or her to draw on less-than-common linguistic registers. The author would also have to gain a perfect knowledge of syntax and its possible ambiguities (e.g., “visiting relatives can be tedious,” where “visiting” can be either a verbal noun with “relatives” as its object or an adjective modifying “relatives”), as well as the intricacies of grammar. And, of course, he or she would have to be very familiar with phonetics, because it is useful in the creation of homophonous utterances (e.g., “the stuff y nose can lead to problems” for “the stuff he knows . . .”). Only then could the poet attempt a merging of the two epics—word by word, scene by scene.

%2& introduction

Even if there were a person qualified to compose such a bitextual poem—a master linguist, philologist, literature specialist, and gifted poet in one—it would be far from easy to establish a readership for it. The decoding of such poetry would require a reader just as knowledgeable as and no less capable than the poet. The reader would have to master the same dictionaries and lexicons as the poet and go through the same linguistic and literary training. He or she would have to be an equal partner in the act of making double sense of a single text. However, it is not just the immense difficulty of composing and reading such poetry that makes it so hard to imagine. The very idea seems alien to modern aesthetic values and to our notions of how literature should be enjoyed and how language works. Why, one might ask, would poets invest such effort in composing a bitextual poem? Why would readers take the trouble to read it? What possible enjoyment could one find in the conarration of the Iliad with the Odyssey besides marveling at the actual feat of combining them? At the very least, it is difficult to imagine that such poetry would be the result of a sudden, inexplicable burst of creative energy. Had we been asked to believe that a few dozen Iliad-Odyssey works actually existed, we could only assume that they were the product of prolonged cultivation by a large group of authors, readers, language specialists, and critics. Only then could we envision a variety of bitextual works, including not just double-epic poems but also, say, “an Iliad where every line and every word should bear a secondary reference to Napoleon’s campaign in Upper Italy.”1 In South Asia the phenomenon I have described here does, in fact, exist. The creation, consumption, and study of doubled texts using the literary device called ślesa was a robust literary movement that lasted over 1,000 years throughout the Indian subcontinent. It is primarily associated with Sanskrit, but it existed in several other languages as well. Ślesa was used for many purposes, but most productively to conarrate the two great South Asian epics, the Rāmāyana and the Mahābhārata. But despite the central place this phenomenon occupied within the Sanskrit tradition, the existence of ślesa is wholly uncharted in modern scholarship. It is often ignored or deplored and at times even denied by researchers. Some of its manifestations are treated as if they never existed, while others are presented as the result of a sudden outburst of individual creativity that requires no explanation. On the whole, it is a phenomenon viewed today as

introduction %3&

too peculiar to be taken seriously and, at the same time, something natural to India. It is an aberration, but it is also normal. As a result, this fascinating literary movement has been left in utter obscurity. No one has ever bothered to examine when and how bitextual ślesa poetry was composed, let alone why. Not a single bitextual poem has ever been studied analytically by modern academics. Many Indologists have only a faint idea that this productive genre exists, and those interested in South Asian culture more generally typically know nothing about it. Similarly, Western literary theorists, who have only recently begun to consider wordplay and puns as a worthy object of serious interrogation, are totally unaware of the existence of ślesa, undoubtedly the greatest experiment with such poetic devices in the history of world literature. The purpose of this book is to begin filling this wide lacuna. It is an attempt to underscore and examine the various literary goals and contributions of the ślesa movement. The book charts the major phases in the evolution of the movement and offers a close reading of several central poems from each subgenre in its history. Attention is also given to the readers of ślesa poetry, as well as to the extensive theoretical discourse dedicated to it in Sanskrit. My ultimate objective in this work is to address two crucial questions: Why was South Asian culture so fascinated with the possibility of saying two things at the same time? And what does this literary phenomenon teach us about poetry in general, and about the ways texts generate meaning?

1.1 les. a: a brief overview of the mechanisms of simultaneity A. K. Ramanujan, the famous poet and scholar of South Asia, once told the following story: A man was traveling on a train from Bombay [now Mumbai] to Delhi. He made a reservation for the upper berth, where he sat and slept during the long journey. At one of the many stops on the way, he stepped down to the platform in order to refresh himself with a cup of chai. The man took his time at the tea stall, and in the meantime his train departed. In its place appeared another train, traveling in the opposite direction—from Delhi to Bombay. Not noticing any of this, the unsuspecting traveler again embarked on the train. He was surprised to find that “his” upper sleeper was now occupied. Fortunately, though, there was an empty berth just beneath it, which he inhabited. The train took off, and

%4& introduction

he happily relaxed in the bottom sleeper. It was a while before he began to sense that something was not in order. He turned to his neighbor and asked, just to be on the safe side, where they were heading. “Bombay,” came the answer. For a long while the man felt puzzled. Finally he exclaimed: “How amazing is modern technology! In the same train, the upper berth travels to Delhi and the lower to Bombay.”2 Ramanujan used this story to illustrate a kind of mental flexibility on the part of the puzzled passenger. In his view, that the passenger could think in two opposite ways simultaneously is symptomatic of his thesis regarding an “Indian way of thinking.” The subject matter of this book also demands such mental flexibility on the part of its writers and readers alike. In the following pages we will examine a literary train that does indeed travel in two directions; and we will take a look at its engine. The literature in question was created by Sanskrit poets using a variety of techniques, some more familiar to the Western reader than others. These techniques were cataloged by Sanskrit literary thinkers under the heading ślesa (embrace), a term that underscores the tight coalescence of two descriptions or narratives in a single poem. Let us look at a couple of simple examples: Here’s a king who has risen to the top. He’s radiant, his surrounding circle glows, and the people love him for his levies, which are light.3

This poem depicts moonrise as a king’s rise to power. This dual effect is achieved by the careful juxtaposition of lexical items that lend themselves to the portrayal of both the lunar and the royal: udaya refers to the eastern mountain, over which the moon ascends, as well as to a king’s rise to power; mandala means a circle, like the moon’s disc, but has a more technical sense in political discourse of a king’s circle of allies; karas are the moon’s rays, but they also denote the taxes a king levies; and the moon itself is conventionally thought of as the king of the stars. Thus the poem is consistently dual, and both its registers are instantly audible to the trained listener. In cases like this opening example, the ślesa seems to be based on the different meanings of the same words, although whether these are indeed the same words remains a highly contested issue within the tradition. Such poems may occasionally be translated in a single text, assuming that

introduction %5&

we can find similar homonyms in the target language.4 But Sanskrit poets have other, more sophisticated ways of creating linguistic embraces that can be reproduced only by resorting to a set of two parallel translations. Consider the following example: Having secured an alliance with that vicious king, whose conduct is far from noble, is there anything to stop this villain from tormenting his enemy— me?

A villain made an unholy alliance with a corrupt king in order to harm his nemesis. But the portrayal of this dubious political deal can also be read as describing the rising moon. Read differently, the cruel knight is the night, always tormenting the lonely: Now that he’s joined by that nocturnal king, who resides among the planets, is there anything to stop the evening from tormenting me— separated from my beloved?5

For pining lovers, the moon is indeed a vicious king who joins forces with their dreaded enemy, nightfall, in a scheme to torture them. Each “translation” considered separately obviously misses the poem’s main objective, namely, the simultaneous depiction of a king and a moon. This special effect is achieved by the poet’s carefully crafted oronyms, those “strings of sounds that can be carved into words in two different ways.”6 Take a very simple oronym. The word naksatra means “planet,” but it can also be read or heard as two separate words, the negative particle na and the word ksatra (warrior). Thus, depending on how we carve words from the poem’s string of sounds, it can portray either the moon “who resides among the planets” or a king who does not follow the warriors’ code of conduct. These specific lines are by Dandin (c. 700), a poet and critic to whom we will return in later chapters.7 Here it is important to emphasize that a ślesa, at least in some cases, is not solely an “embrace” of the signified (e.g., a king and the moon), which it certainly is, but also, and perhaps primarily, a union of two sets of signifiers, each with its own signified. Ślesa, then,

%6& introduction

is not an allegory or an insinuation based primarily on extralingual factors, but a unique manipulation of language itself with the aim of making it consistently double.8 This manipulation very often involves the construction of the utterance so as to allow it to be segmented into words in more than one way. Such “resegmentable” utterances rarely appear in Western literature. In Sanskrit poetry, however, they are numerous and follow highly elaborate patterns, often exploiting the ambiguous resolution of Sanskrit’s euphonic combinations. Thus our opening examples only scratch the surface of ślesa.

1.2 the many manifestations of les. a: a brief sketch Sanskrit belles lettres, or kāvya, started to emerge around the beginning of the Common Era.9 During the first few centuries of Sanskrit literary production, the pun seems to have been but one among many rhetorical devices at the poet’s disposal. But around the sixth century poets began to experiment extensively with punning and bitextuality. Thus in the prose poetry of Subandhu and, to a lesser extent, his follower Bāna, ślesa became the major medium of long descriptive passages. Other poets were soon attracted by the possibilities of using ślesa to depict specific situations and specific types of characters. In this capacity ślesa came to occupy sections and even whole chapters of poems, which treated those parts of the plot that seemed particularly suitable for the use of a double language (e.g., when the heroes are disguised or conflicted). Finally, there are the full-fledged bitextual poems dedicated to narrating together the two great South Asian epics, the Rāmāyana and the Mahābhārata. Ślesa was a dominant literary mode not just in mainstream kāvya but also in the related inscriptional poetry, which accompanied official notices of kings and served to eulogize them. It came to dominate royal inscriptions throughout South Asia and in more remote areas of what Sheldon Pollock has termed the “Sanskrit Cosmopolis,” such as Southeast Asia (especially among the Khmer), as well.10 In particular, it was used to conarrate stories and descriptions of the king and the deity, a trend that extended, around the turn of the first millennium, to epic-sized ślesa poems depicting the royal and the divine at the same time. Ślesa also began to appear in poetry that simultaneously described binary opposites, such as sensual love and renunciation. Several full-fledged collections of verses were dedicated to this topic in the medieval period, as well as quite a few

introduction %7&

shorter poems. There are also ślesa verses (and possibly works) dedicated to the complementary yet antithetical relationship between Śiva and Visnu, the prominent South Asian gods, as well as the dialectic relationship between Śiva and his wife, Pārvatī. There are also cases of ślesa in which a single passage is able to pass for both Sanskrit and one of its Prakrit sister languages. Other ślesas are bilingual in the sense that two different narratives in two different languages are embraced in one utterance. And although ślesa was primarily composed in Sanskrit, it was adopted by South Asian poets writing in a wide variety of languages, including Telugu, Tamil, Persian, and Urdu. Finally, ślesa was not limited to the linguistic medium but extended to other artistic domains, such as sculpture and architecture. There are images combining Śiva and Visnu, as well as Śiva and Pārvatī, which the corresponding ślesa poetry seems to verbally iconize. There are temples and other architectural buildings that include various kinds of “puns.” In the ancient South Indian port city of Mahabalipuram there is a gigantic narrative sculpture panel, dated to the middle or second half of the seventh century CE, that can be interpreted as a kind of visual counterpart to “double-epic” poetry. Examples also exist in dramatic works, a genre more closely associated with poetry. Several bitextual plays were composed, and actors were trained to play two roles simultaneously. In this context it is also crucial to mention the large body of commentarial work accompanying ślesa poetry, the numerous lexicons and manuals for composing it, and the vast ślesa-related discourse in the tradition of Sanskrit poetics. Ślesa is therefore much more than just a narrowly defined technical term or a specific rhetorical ornament (alamkāra). Rather, it denotes a cultural phenomenon of major proportions—a large and selfconscious literary movement. No other contrivance listed by Sanskrit rhetoricians has ever enjoyed such an extraordinary career. How can one explain the profound fascination with what is, technically speaking, a single poetic device?

1.3 what (little) is known about les. a Surprisingly, the field of Indology lacks any systematic treatment of the literary and cultural phenomenon in question. A good number of Sanskrit specialists are familiar with the existence of ślesa as an isolated ornament of speech in poetry and a topic of discussion in Sanskrit poetics, but few have examined instances of ślesa in any detail. Not more than a handful of

%8& introduction

living scholars have actually read a bitextual poem, and no modern scholar has seriously analyzed one. Bitextuality as a phenomenon is, simply put, off the scholarly radar. The most important extant work on this topic remains a rather terse essay by Louis Renou (first published in 1951 and reprinted in 1978) that alludes to the size and importance of ślesa literature without mapping it in any detail.11 A few editions of ślesa works have appeared with informative introductions, but the vast majority of ślesa poems remain unpublished.12 Sanskrit literary historians from M. Krishnamachariar to Siegfried Lienhard dedicate only a few pages to ślesa poetry and relegate it to the status of an oddity.13 The little that has been written on ślesa poetry is of a descriptive, nonanalytical nature. This is true of introductions to printed poems, of literary histories (e.g., A. K. Warder’s monumental Indian Kāvya Literature), and of the handful of essays that directly address bitextual poems.14 Perhaps the only exceptions are David Smith’s note on ślesa usage in Ratnākara’s Haravijaya, an article by David Shulman regarding its use in Harsa’s plays, and an article by Christopher Minkowski on Sanskrit verses that can be read from both left to right and right to left.15 But even these important essays do not discuss ślesa works per se. Some attention has been paid to the use of ślesa in identifying the king and the god, particularly in inscribed panegyrics.16 But beyond a generally utilitarian approach that highlights the political benefits of such identification, there is very little literary analysis of these inscriptions and no study at all of the large-scale king-god bitextual poems, such as the Rāmacaritam of the eleventh-century poet Sandhyākaranandin, which conarrates the deeds of King Rāma of Bengal’s Pāla dynasty with those of the Rāmāyana’s Rāma.17 Similarly, no research whatsoever has been carried out on bilingual ślesas, with the exception of a single essay by Michael Hahn.18 Nor has bitextual poetry in Telugu and Tamil been charted, let alone studied.19 Very little, if any, attention has been paid to bitextual works combining eroticism and asceticism, a genre that usually takes the form of collections of short poems.20 The state of affairs is slightly better in the study of Sanskrit poetics. Edwin Gerow and Marie-Claude Porcher have summarized important portions of the ślesa-related discussion within this tradition, and scholars such as Madan Mohan Agrawal and J. A. F. Roodbergen have shed light on some specific passages. But the reasons that rendered ślesa the “most discussed alamkāra” have yet to be explored, and the relationships between

introduction %9&

the theory and the poetic practice have not been adequately assessed.21 To the best of my knowledge, nothing whatsoever has been written on the readership of ślesa poems. It is important to mention that several art historians of India have begun to recognize the importance of ślesa in their respective fields. For example, there are studies of ślesa in temple architecture in general, by Michael Meister and Devangana Desai, and works on the Mahabalipuram relief in particular, most notably by Michael Rabe and Padma Kaimal.22 These art historians, however, find few interlocutors among scholars of Sanskrit literature and culture. In short, Indology has yet to conceive of ślesa as a general cultural phenomenon that is worthy of charting and understanding in its own right. What exactly is the project of ślesa poetry? How does it stand in relation to other cultural productions? And what theoretical insights can it engender? These are questions that have never been asked in modern scholarship.

1.4 the anti-les.a bias: romanticism, orientalism, nationalism The prevalent disregard for this literary movement has partly been the result of a strong distaste for ślesa among modern scholars, both Western and South Asian. The vast amount of energy Indologists have invested in writing against ślesa is quite remarkable, particularly when it is compared with the relatively small amount of scholarly work that has been produced about it. Take, for example, the following passage describing Subandhu, the author of the ślesa-dominated pathbreaking prose work, the Vāsavadattā: The author is always very verbose and never cares for the plot. He is fond of using all kinds of similes—unnatural and disgusting though some of them are—for the purpose of giving free scope to his extreme partiality to slesha [ślesa] or pun upon words. The introduction traces the origin of this deceased imagination which appears to have exercised so much influence on Subandhu as to make him not to care for anything else except the use of a string of words and phrases full of slesha. From this it will be clear how the process of deterioration has proceeded and how the story, the necessities of the circumstances, the dictates of reason, of nature and even of decency,

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were all set aside for the author’s inordinate love of profuse verbosity and dry pun.23 Subandhu is not the only ślesa poet to draw such harsh criticism. Nītivarman, the author of the Kcakavadha (Killing Kīcaka)—one of the many important ślesa works that this book attempts to resurrect—is said to have been “not a great poet in the proper acceptation of the term, nor even a mediocre poet.” His writing amounts to “strained efforts at mere verbal jugglery, with the result that the story is embellished out of all recognition.” Thus “his theme is slender and no attention is being paid to its really poetic possibilities.”24 Nītivarman, though, is still considered much better than other authors of the “class of factitious compositions,” like the famous Kavirāja. Indeed, Kavirāja, the most celebrated ślesa poet, has come under severe attack. His work is flatly decried as an “incredible and incessant torturing of the language.”25 Even harsher is the critique of a poem of seven concurrent narratives by the poet Meghavijayagani, a work that one critic has dubbed “nothing short of a crime.”26 This is only the tip of the iceberg, and what is particularly interesting is that many of these comments appear in introductions to printed editions of the very poems they discuss. Thus they serve as labels warning any potential reader: “Beware! This is terrible poetry!” This approach has had an immense and lasting influence on the study of Sanskrit: academic institutions tended to remove ślesa works from their curricula, and scholars and readers were actively dissuaded from studying them.27 The omnipresent characterization of ślesa as unnatural—an extravagant display that necessarily comes at the expense of the plot and is therefore “decadent,” “torturous,” “disgusting,” and even “indecent” and “criminal”—is indicative of the influence of Romanticism, which dominated European literary criticism in the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries and still seems to reign in Indology today. According to this approach, which can be traced back to poets like Wordsworth and Coleridge, a poem has to be composed spontaneously, as a result of the inspiration of a muse or of  nature. Its plot should be “simple,” “natural,” and “unembellished.” Complex and ornate works, of which ślesa serves as an extreme example, are deemed decadent. This critical view has prevailed not only in relation to ślesa poetry, however. Major parts of the Sanskrit canon suffer from similar criticism. The same has been true of Urdu poetry, as Ralph Russell and Frances Pritchett have demonstrated, to say nothing of the way

introduction %11&

modern critics have dealt with embellishments in Indian architecture and sculpture.28 Indeed, as shown by Frederick Ahl, scholars of Hellenistic and Latin literatures tended to display a similar “discomfort with figures of speech that pluralize meaning.” They formulized what Ahl describes as the “assumption of explicitness”: “ ‘classical’ texts are (or should be) sincere, spare and restrained.” When wordplays or puns suggest themselves, the critic’s first strategy is to ignore them and assume that their appearance is coincidental. This strategy is meant to protect the poet, to allow him to remain classical. For if the poet nonetheless “resists explicit interpretation, he is decadent, post-classical, or, as we like to say nowadays, ‘mannered.’ ”29 The condemnation of “manner,” “style,” and ornamentation is ubiquitous. Ironically, even the poetry of Wordsworth himself later became subject to similar criticism.30 This universal approach had a unique local manifestation in the study of South Asia by serving as part of the ideology legitimizing colonialism. This ideology portrayed India as in decay and wild, a civilization long past its golden age and much in need of Western values. This master narrative of Orientalism—which Edward Said first charted in general and Ronald Inden and others have demonstrated in the Indian case—was used in a wide variety of discourses on South Asian political and cultural formations, including Indian literatures.31 Kālidāsa, the fourth-century Sanskrit poet and playwright, was celebrated in nineteenth-century Europe as natural, simple, humane, and expressive. His poetry was seen as giving voice to “the true spirit of the Indian people” and was identified with the tradition’s brief moment of glory, while later literary developments, consisting of the vast majority of what constitutes the Sanskrit corpus, were considered indicative of India’s putrefaction.32 It was in the context of this Orientalist narrative that ślesa works were often characterized as a “real Indian jungle” (ein wahrer indischer Wald) and their authors dubbed “no better, at the very best, than . . . specious savage[s].”33 There are probably several reasons that this colonial approach has had such a lasting impact. The most important of these is that India’s nationalists adopted major components from the Orientalists’ master narrative. Thus they too viewed their true national spirit and original culture as victims of a lengthy process of deterioration and hence in need of being revived.34 Whatever the specific reasons for this approach, it is still a pervasive

%12& introduction

view that “little occurred in Sanskrit poetry that was really new after Kālidāsa[, when] poetry grew convention-ridden and unnecessarily difficult [and writers] seem . . . to be lacking in sensitivity.”35 This is not to say that the Orientalists have entirely invented a canon of kāvya, with Kālidāsa at its center. Representatives of the tradition itself— theoreticians, poets, compilers of anthologies, and commentators—all regard Kālidāsa as one of kāvya’s dearest sons, quite possibly its preeminent author. Likewise, the notion of a lost golden age in itself is not wholly alien to the tradition. The poet Subandhu, in a famous verse, bemoans the loss of kāvya’s “nine gems” (which probably included Kālidāsa) and the rise of the lesser “modernists.”36 More specifically, the tradition occasionally raised its own concerns about ślesa and similar devices in comparison with the poetic ideal of evoking emotional “flavor” (rasa). Thus some theorists may have considered ślesa poems part of an inferior category of poetry when compared with poems informed by models such as those provided by Kālidāsa.37 Still, the Orientalist system of canonization within kāvya is far removed from the traditional view. This is as true of the exaggerated attention to Kālidāsa as the last worthy poet—the Sanskrit tradition, by contrast, hails numerous subsequent poets—as it is with respect to the uncompromising criticism of ślesa. The poetry discussed in this book was widely read, intensively commented on, and incessantly copied before the colonial era. Poets from Subandhu in the sixth century to Kavirāja in the twelfth and Śesācalapati in the seventeenth took immense pride in their bitextuality, and many critics hailed ślesa as the hallmark of learnedness and poetic power. Even theorists like Ānandavardhana (c. 850), who argued that poetry should evoke emotional “flavors,” did not abstain from composing ślesa. Thus even if we find some ambivalence in the emic approach to ślesa, it is nothing like the adamant dismissal of it in the last 250 years to be found in the etic. So blinding was the impact of this bias that the authoritative Sanskrit literary histories still flatly deny the very existence of ślesa poetry in the first millennium CE.38 These histories relocate bitextuality to the late medieval period, presumably to sanitize and marginalize this derided literary form. It is ironic that although Western literary theory has now become interested in ornate poetry and punlike devices—see, in particular, On Puns: The Foundation of Letters, an important volume of collected essays edited by Jonathan Culler, or a book such as Puns and Pundits, dedicated to puns and wordplays in the Hebrew Bible and in classical and ancient Near Eastern literature—this trend has not yet reached Indologists.39 It is

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often still the case that merely to mention ślesa poetry is to offend the taste and sensibilities of a good number of scholars.

1.5 is les. a “natural” to sanskrit? The same scholars who view ślesa poetry as unnatural also paradoxically see it as natural to the Sanskrit language. Indologists have time and again explained the unique phenomenon of ślesa poetry by the particular “innate” features of Sanskrit. For example, it has been repeatedly argued that Sanskrit has a rich vocabulary and a wealth of synonyms; it allows for great freedom in creating epithets; it possesses manifold ways of expressing the same idea; it lends itself to ambiguity because of the diverse ways in which its compounds can be analyzed; its writing system is phonetic and thus generates more homonyms; its phonemic strings can be segmented in various ways; and the resolution of its euphonic combinations lends itself to ambiguities. Thus there is a consensus that only “a language as flexible as Sanskrit” could have yielded a phenomenon such as ślesa poetry. English, on the other hand, would “not support the burden of simultaneous apprehension.”40 Although some of these observations are accurate, both the significance attached to them and the conclusions drawn from them are flawed. It is one thing to clarify the conditions of possibility that reveal how ślesa works, and an altogether different thing to invoke these conditions as an explanation of why it exists. The substitution of the “how” for the “why” has proven all too convenient for a variety of researchers.41 It negates the need to investigate a given poet’s motivation, at a certain time and a certain place, to compose a poem that simultaneously narrates the two principal epics of his culture. This line of argumentation, then, is deterministic: it views language and literary culture as frozen, ahistorical entities and does not consider poets, critics, and readers as historical agents. It thus ignores the historical processes that made Sanskrit flexible and overlooks the possibility of other languages becoming ślesa friendly. The fact that puns are language specific does not imply that any one language has a monopoly on puns. All languages possess a fair number of potential ambiguities. Some languages have a very loose, ambiguity-prone morphology, even while their word order may be more strict and nonambiguous (e.g., English), while others have it the other way around (Sanskrit). All languages contain both numerous redundant and equivocal signs (synonyms and homonyms). All phonetic systems are prone to

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resegmentation (oronyms) because word boundaries have no physical reality in speech and, at least in antiquity, were not represented in writing.42 Finally, all orthographies are potentially ambiguous, whether because they are shallow (that is, wholly transparent, as in Sanskrit) or precisely because they are deep (as in English). Even in the absence of an objective measure of ambiguity, I see no reason to assume that one language is inherently more ślesa friendly than another.43 Indeed, there are ślesas and ślesa-like devices in other languages, even if on a smaller scale. To appreciate the sheer load of multivalent punning and ambiguity that English can carry, one needs only to glance at Finnegans Wake, at an advertisement in any English-language magazine, or even at a children’s rhyme, characterized by “imperfect” puns: “Do you carrot all for me? / My heart beets for you / With your turnip nose / And your radish face / You are a peach. / If we cantaloupe / Lettuce marry, / Weed make a swell pear.”44 The extent to which this kind of multivalent punning is possible through the use of ślesa in other South Asian languages is particularly telling. The Tamil ślesas, for instance, are often based on phonetic, morphological, and syntactic traits that are specific to the language, and the same is true of Telugu. At least one poet, Pi]gali Sūranna (late sixteenth century), explicitly called attention to the fact that although some of his bitextual techniques are borrowed from Sanskrit, many others are unique to Telugu. 45 Moreover, in both of these languages the composition of ślesa was a major cultural phenomenon that began around the beginning of the seventeenth century and was carried with full force into the nineteenth and even the twentieth century.46 So if Tamil and Telugu—which do not belong to the same family of languages as Sanskrit, but do share with it a similar cultural milieu—possess their own arsenal of ślesa tools and demonstrate a long-standing tradition of bitextual poetry, then perhaps it is not the nature of language that determines such traits, but a historically traceable use and even modification of the language by its agents. Perhaps, then, “the special advantages afforded by Sanskrit” could also be enjoyed by other languages.47 It is true, of course, that the Sanskrit lexicon is extraordinarily structured. Words like “lotus,” “elephant,” or “king” have up to 100 synonyms in Sanskrit. Various Sanskrit words have dozens of meanings, a phenomenon unheard of in most other tongues. The main question that I wish to raise here is this: in what sense can this lexical situation be considered natural? Our knowledge of the rich Sanskrit lexicon comes from the nu-

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merous works of indigenous lexicographers, which include long lists of synonyms, polysemic words, and monosyllabic signifiers. The uncritical assumption of many is that these works simply reflect the language’s “natural” state of affairs. This assumption overlooks the important possibility that lexicographers are agents of change who participate in the process of shaping their tongue, or, more generally, that a culture’s awareness of its language has significant consequences for its use. It is well known that the study of language—grammar, phonetics, syntax, and lexicon—was uniquely central to Sanskrit culture. The grammar of Pānini, to give the most obvious example, is unprecedented in its accurate description and its complex and elegant metalinguistic conceptualization of vast linguistic phenomena. The existence of such a sophisticated tradition of grammar and the fact that a mastery of it was a basic requirement in elite education clearly influenced and changed the use of language. One very obvious example is the fact that Pānini’s descriptive account of the Sanskrit language quickly became prescriptive. But there are less obvious implications, some of which have to do with ślesa. Consider Pānini’s rules of euphonic combinations (sandhi). Phonemes are differently pronounced in different contexts in all languages, and euphonic glides and assimilations are a universal phenomenon. But Sanskrit alone came to possess a near-perfect description of these that was studied and memorized by every educated person. It is this intimate knowledge of the language, rather than its “natural” characteristics, that uniquely empowered Sanskrit poets to exploit the language’s phonetic ambiguities. Likewise, the fact that South Asian orthographies all represent euphonic combinations, and that words are written differently in different phonetic contexts—supposedly making written Sanskrit more ślesa friendly—is by no means determined by the language’s phonetics, but is precisely the result of the grammarians’ investigation of its phonetic structure. This, then, is a clear example of how the history of examining and analyzing the language changed its actual usage, in this case, the way it was written. The sciences of grammar and phonetics represent a conscious investment of the early Vedic culture in the accurate preservation of the scriptures. The rich tradition of kāvya, however, involves a somewhat different attempt to manipulate and control language. Sanskrit poets created an idealized literary world, for which they needed an aesthetically refi ned language. Such a language was not there to be found waiting for their use; the poets produced it. They created and revived metaphors, invented and

%16& introduction

played with names and epithets, and flexed and expanded beyond recognition the expressivity of language. This also raises the question of the so-called naturalness of the lexicon. How is it that the word rājan (king) is also listed by the lexicographers to mean “moon”? Is it an arbitrary characteristic of Sanskrit, or is it the result of an incessant and conscious metaphorical identification of the two entities? How is it that the various thesauri list as many as twenty meanings for the word hari (sun, moon, monkey, horse, Indra, Visnu, wind, fire, yellow, and so on)? Are we to believe that Sanskrit simply is so multivalent, and that the thesauri only reflect this quality faithfully, in its “natural” form? And what of the monosyllabic lexicons, wherein syllables like ka are listed to mean Brahma, Visnu, love, fire, wind, death, sun, soul, king, knot, bird, mind, body, time, cloud, hair, light, word, wealth, happiness, water, and so on, few of which are recorded outside poetic texts? Are these all “natural”? As we shall see in chapter 5, the massive appearance of these lexicons and thesauri coincides with the boom of ślesa poetry, and this was not coincidental. Quite a few of these wordbooks and their sections were specifically designed to cater to the needs of ślesa poets and readers. Some of them even have the word ślesa in their title, while others were composed by ślesa poets themselves. Insofar as lexicographers merely reflected a reality, they reflected the conscious effort of poets to expand and reinvent their language. But, as I argue later, there is good reason to believe that they too were active agents in this process. The idea that the linguistic construct found in grammars, lexicons, and poems reflects some kind of natural state of affairs and the thought that Sanskrit as we know it—a language whose very name means “the Refined”—is a natural product do not stand to reason. The state of a language, any language, represents the active awareness of its users.48 It was the users of Sanskrit who produced what Daniel Ingalls has called the “well-cut and tempered tools” that James Joyce did not have at his disposal when he composed Finnegans Wake.49 There is no inherent or natural reason why English writers could not have crafted tools similar to those used by Sanskrit poets, had they so desired. After all, poetry is often not “natural” to the language it is written in, nor should it necessarily be. Poets typically write against their language, breaking conventions, transgressing grammatical rules, and saying what could not have been said ordinarily.50 It is not language that writes poets, but the other way around.

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1.6 toward a history and theory of les. a The apparent contradiction between the notion of ślesa as unnatural poetry, the product of a long period of decadence, and the view of it as resulting from the natural characteristics of the Sanskrit language should not blind us to the important similarity between the two ideas. In effect, both serve to dehistoricize ślesa literature. This is perhaps more easily demonstrable with the latter, deterministic view, but it is equally true of the Orientalist and Romantic approaches. The axiomatic position that, on the one hand, real poetry expresses a nation’s character and, on the other, that only “the earliest poets of all nations wrote from passion excited by real events” (that is, naturally), whereas their followers imitated them mechanically (that is, unnaturally), eliminates the need for serious historical explanations.51 A nation’s character, according to such Romantic notions, is an unalterable essence, and the cycle of a short moment of insightful revelation followed by a long period of decay is ostensibly fixed and universal. All that one has to do is to discover the poet who best expresses the spirit of the nation one wishes to study (or control), and the rest will fall into place. There is no need to study later poetry of the ślesa type, given the predictability of such decadent growth. Thus instead of writing about ślesa and explaining its evolution, Sanskrit literary historians have written it off and explained it away. The early evolution of this amazing literary experiment has been negated, an act that has also served to deny the significance of its later appearances. We are therefore asked to believe that poems such as the celebrated Rāghavapāndavya of the twelfth-century poet Kavirāja that perform the almost inconceivable task of narrating the Rāmāyana and the Mahābhārata simultaneously appeared out of the blue. According to this view, they were not an outcome of historical developments integral to the South Asian world and had neither precursors nor influence on future poets. It is clear, then, that the only way to remedy this amazing neglect and explore the purpose and meaning of the ślesa phenomenon is through charting its evolution. Thus the belief that in order to theorize one must first historicize governs the plan and structure of the present book. Although this book is no doubt ambitious, it is also of limited scope. There is no feasible way to exhaust the entire span of ślesa production in Sanskrit, let alone its other manifestations in South Asia, in one book. Consequently, the following chapters offer a skeletal narrative that closely examines only representative works. My hope is that this approach is not

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without its benefits and that it will allow the reader to experience, firsthand, some of these unique poems without losing sight of their context. Chapters 2 through 5 provide the main historical account of bitextual literary production. Chapter 2 discusses the first vast experiments with ślesa in the prose works of the sixth and seventh centuries. Chapter 3 examines how poets and playwrights of the seventh and early eighth centuries turned ślesa into a plot device. Chapter 4 explores how ślesa was reinvented as the medium of full-fledged double-epic poems in the eighth and early ninth centuries. Chapter 5 charts the “bitextual boom” of the second millennium and the reasons that may have led to such a boom and to the continued efflorescence of ślesa in the late medieval and early modern periods. At the center of each of these chapters stands a close examination of the work of one representative author. In chapter 2 it is Subandhu, the prose master and the great pioneer of ślesa. Chapter 3 looks at the work of Nītivarman, who masterfully employed ślesa to portray the disguised protagonists of the epic. At the heart of chapter 4 is the first extant Rāmāyana-Mahābhārata poem by Dhanañjaya. Chapter 5 examines the Rāghavapāndavya by the twelfth-century Kavirāja (King of Poets), the genre’s most celebrated work. In chapter 6 I look at the same history from a different perspective, examining the possibilities and dangers of reading ślesa from the standpoint of authors, critics, and readers of Sanskrit literature. Specifically, I explore the things that can go “wrong” with reading practices that involve this device. That chapter also continues the chronological trajectory of the book, for it focuses on a group of early modern commentators who, empowered by ślesa, produced textual exegeses that seemed unforeseen or even unwelcome to some of their fellow readers. Here too I focus on a representative work: Ravicandra’s controversial reading of Amaru’s famous collection of erotic poems (the Amaruśataka) as being also, if not primarily, about dispassion. Chapter 7 examines the discussion of ślesa in the emic discourse of Sanskrit poetics. It identifies the central questions that propelled this discussion about ślesa between the seventh and the seventeenth centuries CE, maps the main historical phases of the debate, and considers the oftenoblique relationship between this theory and the poetic praxis. Again I emphasize one seminal work, Dandin’s Kāvyādarśa (Mirror of Poetry), where ślesa is viewed as central to Sanskrit poets’ playful or “crooked” expressivity.

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In the final chapter I revisit the initial questions: Why was South Asian culture so fascinated with the possibility of saying two things at the same time? And what does this literary movement teach us about poetry in general, and about the ways texts generate meaning? I examine the various ways in which ślesa pushes to the extreme, and thus serves to underscore, some of the basic themes and practices of Sanskrit culture. I also explore the manner in which ślesa can enrich current theoretical discussions on questions of interpretation, puns, and, most important, intertextuality, of which ślesa can be seen as an extremely potent manifestation.

[  ] EXPERIMENTING WITH ŚLESA

IN SUBANDHU’S PROSE LAB

W

hen and why did the fascination with ślesa begin? Historians of Sanskrit literature argue that poetry written primarily in ślesa began to appear only in the second millennium CE. At the same time, they maintain that before the late efflorescence of works that were mainly bitextual, ślesa always enjoyed a prominent place in the poetic tool kit of kāvya.1 Both views are erroneous. In this chapter I tackle the latter notion, namely, that, as an ever-popular device among Sanskrit poets, ślesa has always existed. The bulk of this chapter is dedicated to an exploration of a pioneering work by the sixth-century author Subandhu, the first writer to use ślesa as a major literary vehicle. I analyze Subandhu’s work, his use of ślesa, and why it became the centerpiece of a new prose style. The chapter concludes with a brief discussion of the response to Subandhu’s experiment, particularly that of his best-known successor, Bāna.

2.1 the birth of a new kind of literature In early Sanskrit poetry ślesa was rarely used. Vālmīki’s Rāmāyana, for example, is traditionally regarded as the “first poem” (ādikāvya) and dates to the beginning of the Common Era. But ślesa is virtually absent from the Rāmāyana, despite the presence of many tropes and figures of speech.2 Ślesas begin to appear in the first extant “grand poems” (mahākāvyas) and plays of the second-century author Aśvaghosa, but even in the works of the fourth-century poet and playwright Kālidāsa they remain few and far between.3 It is only in the verse of the sixth-century author Bhāravi that ślesas begin to gain prominence.4 A similar picture emerges from the

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corpus of inscribed panegyrics (praśasti), whose language closely mirrors that of courtly kāvya. In Rudradāman’s Junāgarh inscription (c. 150 CE) there is only “a faint attempt at slesha [ślesa],” and even in the highly ornate panegyric of Samudragupta, inscribed on the Allahabad Pillar by the poet Harisena at the end of the fourth century CE, it is rarely used in comparison with other poetic devices.5 It is only in the second half of the first millennium CE that ślesa becomes a major mode in inscribed poetry.6 This is not to say that before the sixth century CE Sanskrit poets were totally disinterested in ślesa-like devices. Particularly relevant here is the rhyming device called yamaka, or “twinning,” where phonetically identical duplicates are repeated, each time with a different meaning. Aśvaghosa and his followers began to experiment with twinning early on and did so in ways that are highly reminiscent of later ślesas.7 First, the techniques that underlie such rhymes are identical to those used in crafting ślesas, including resegmentation. Second, poets allowed twinning to dominate long sections or even entire poems, just as they later did with ślesa. Thus the anonymous Ghatakarpara (a short, twenty-verse poem that is believed to have preceded Kālidāsa) is marked by twinning throughout, and Kālidāsa’s Raghuvamśa contains a lengthy section in which each verse contains a pair of verbal twins.8 Finally, as with ślesa, poets tended to use yamaka meaningfully. For instance, Gary Tubb demonstrates that Kālidāsa’s twinning amplifies the thematic and psychological concerns of the Raghuvamśa.9 But the early tendency of poets to repeat such homophonous twins only underscores their relative indifference to using them with both meanings intended simultaneously. The initial preference for yamakas had partly to do with the fact that such rhymes were originally associated with versified poetry. Sanskrit kāvya originated in verse form. The famous moment of kāvya’s conception in the Rāmāyana is really described as the invention of the śloka meter.10 It hardly seems a coincidence, then, that the term yamaka is almost as old as the earliest extant kāvya, and that early discussions of yamaka all include a classification of this device according to its metrical position.11 While yamaka was initially associated with stanzaic poetry, large-scale experiments with ślesa are closely linked to the later appearance of kāvya in prose.12 The very designation “ślesa” is recorded for the first time in the sixth century CE, in Subandhu’s Vāsavadattā, the earliest extant work written entirely in prose (with the exception of a short introduction in verse and a handful of interspersed stanzas).13

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One must be cautious, of course, when asserting that a Sanskrit author or work was the first to set a new trend, given the likely loss of earlier materials and the immense difficulty in dating what has been preserved. Indeed, little is known about Subandhu, and scholars can only deduce with certainty that he composed his Vāsavadattā before 608 CE.14 Subandhu certainly did not coin the term ślesa, for he uses it as already established, and he may well not have been the first to compose an entirely prose kāvya work. Stylized prose passages begin to appear in Sanskrit inscriptions from the second century CE onward and in a variety of primarily Buddhist works from this period. These include the anonymous Lalitavistara, a work from the first or second century CE that narrates the life of the Buddha, and Āryaśūra’s Jātakamāla, a poetic rendition of the Buddha’s previous lives that is dated to the fifth century.15 Prose, we should also note, is more difficult to memorize than verse, which makes the loss of early works quite possible.16 Nonetheless, there are compelling reasons to believe that Subandhu’s prose style, with ślesa as its centerpiece, was a groundbreaking innovation. The very fact that his Vāsavadattā was preserved is a strong indication of this. If prose works are more difficult to transmit, and if earlier works did exist but were not handed down to us, then perhaps there was something special or novel about the Vāsavadattā that ensured its survival. Note that Subandhu’s work also fared far better in its preservation and “shelf life” than those prose works that followed it. Of Sanskrit’s triad of prose masters, which includes, in addition to Subandhu, his successors Bāna and Dandin, Subandhu’s work seems to have been transmitted and studied most widely. For example, more than twenty commentaries on the Vāsavadattā exist, and the commentators often explicitly declare that it was Subandhu’s ślesa that attracted them to write about his work.17 These clearly outnumber the commentaries on the prose works of Bāna and Dandin combined, and the prose of Dandin, at least, has reached our hands in a highly fragmented form.18 More significant than the implications of the Vāsavadattā’s longevity is the author’s own awareness of his innovative style, evident in the work’s signature verse: Graced by Sarasvatī’s gift of clarity, I, Subandhu, the sole soul mate of people of taste, was empowered to complete this composition.

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I amassed a wealth of craft constructing a configuration that consists of ślesa in letter after letter.19

This verse is the earliest known record of the term ślesa, but its importance goes well beyond that: what we have here is the proud unveiling of a new literary form. After all, if works saturated by ślesa had been standard in Subandhu’s days, he would have had no cause to boast about his use of the device. Indeed, it is only here, while claiming credit for a work that contains ślesa “in letter after letter,” that our author reveals his identity, as if to ensure the association of his name with this new style of punning. Note that Subandhu’s statement is exaggerated. Although ślesa is certainly the most important literary vehicle in the Vāsavadattā, it is not the only trope that marks his distinctive style. In fact, this verse displays several other key elements of his innovative prose. Its first compound contains a ślesa: Sarasvatī is a river and also the goddess of poetry, yielding Subandhu the lucidity of her water and words. This ślesa is then followed by a play on the author’s name, Subandhu, which is glossed by the echo compound sujanâika-bandhu (“the sole soul mate of people of taste”).20 Such plays on names and echo effects are very common elsewhere in his work. Finally, the second half of the verse supplies a tiny sample of Subandhu’s tendency to use long alliterative compounds, which involve no ślesa. But for its final word, the entirety of the verse’s second half is a single, reverberant compound word: praty-aksara-ślesa-maya-prabandha-vinyāsa-vaidagdhanidhir nibandham. In content and form, then, this stanza inaugurates the main components of an unprecedented literary style. Subandhu introduces not only an innovative style but also an experimental plot whose cast of characters and main events are unprecedented in kāvya. His work begins with Prince Kandarpaketu, the perfect son of a perfect king, Cintāmani. Prince Kandarpaketu falls in love with a beautiful girl he sees in a dream. Lovesick, he leaves the palace with his close friend Makaranda and roams Mount Vindhya. Resting under a tree at night, he and his friend overhear a conversation between a parrot and his female partner, a mynah bird. The parrot has been away and, by way of excusing its absence, tells the mynah about a certain princess named Vāsavadattā. It appears that she has had a dream similar to that of Prince Kandarpaketu, in which she dreamed of a beautiful prince; ever since she has been filled with a burning desire to see him again. What had detained the parrot

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was its effort to help Princess Vāsavadattā locate this prince, whose name, Kandarpaketu, was disclosed in her dream. Upon hearing this, the overjoyed Kandarpaketu introduces himself to the parrot, who offers to lead him to the princess. The two lovers unite and use a magic horse to elope back to the forest. There they enjoy only a cruelly short-lived union, for the princess disappears the following morning. Confused and desperate, Kandarpaketu is about to drown himself in the ocean when a voice from heaven promises a reunion with his beloved. After additional months of wandering, he comes across a stone resembling Princess Vāsavadattā, and when he touches it, the stone transforms back to the living princess. She then narrates her part of the story to him—how she had gone to fetch him food and got caught between two hostile armies. Fleeing them, she disturbed an irritable sage who turned her into stone. Once reunited, the two live happily ever after. This plotline is strikingly novel for the conventions of kāvya.21 It is, however, reminiscent of kathā literature—a large pool of tales and fables in Prakrit, epitomized by the famous Brhatkathā (The Vast Story) of Gunādhya, a work that is now lost. It seems that for Subandhu, a major objective was to import Gunādhya’s world of talking parrots, magic horses, and heavenly voices into the high literary form of kāvya. Just as Aśvaghosa and Āryaśūra rendered the popular tales of the Buddha into poetry, and Kālidāsa rendered stories from the epic and Purānas into ornate verse, Subandhu aimed to rework kathā materials into the cosmopolitan and prestigious medium of Sanskrit belles lettres. Like the earlier breakthroughs of Aśvaghosa and Kālidāsa, Subandhu’s poetic reworking of the kathā genre resulted in a new and distinctive literary form. As Louis Gray noted a century ago, with the Vāsavadattā Subandhu began “a new literary genre in India.”22 Existing scholarship on the Vāsavadattā offers us a variety of possible labels for its genre. The work is often classified as a novel, although the plotline and the style of Subandhu’s prose are far removed from any specimens of this genre.23 Gray and others were probably right to suggest that the work resembles more a romance by John Lyly than a novel, although this European example explains little about the actual features of Subandhu’s prose and the role of its proclaimed cornerstone, ślesa.24 Others have tried to label the Vāsavadattā by using the terminology of Sanskrit literary theorists, but the two relevant emic categories, ākhyāyikā and kathā, have proved equally uninstructive.25

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At any rate, the quest for a genre label is clearly superficial if it is not backed by a detailed and careful analysis of the work’s form and contents. We should note that the structure and themes of Sanskrit prose in general are largely uncharted in emic poetic theory26 and have mostly been ignored by those modern scholars who dismiss kāvya in prose as “a real Indian jungle.”27 Robert Hueckstedt’s study of Bāna stands out for its serious analysis of Bāna’s techniques of sentence building, verb placement, descriptive structure, and syllabic texture. He convincingly argues that Bāna’s prose, far from being a chaotic jungle, is a “highly sculptured garden.”28 But the work of Subandhu, Bāna’s greatest influence, still awaits analysis, and very little attention has been paid to the various innovative elements of the Vāsavadattā—its plot, its use of alliterative compounds, and its dominant literary vehicle, ślesa. In short, Gray’s century-old claim that Subandhu invented a new genre remains unsubstantiated.

2.2 the paintbrush of imagination: plot and description in the vsavadatt The Vāsavadattā is comparable in size to a longer short story or a short novella.29 It contains no formal divisions but can be divided into four roughly equal quarters, each narrating one eventful night in the lives of the hero and the heroine. At the heart of the work’s first quarter is Kandarpaketu’s dream-vision of Vāsavadattā, described in one extremely long sentence. As a prelude to the dream, the author introduces King Cintāmani and his son, Kandarpaketu, and afterward he tells of Kandarpaketu’s miserable awakening and seemingly hasty decision to escape the capital, accompanied only by his initially skeptical friend, Makaranda. The second quarter is devoted to the nocturnal narration of the parrot, which Kandarpaketu and Makaranda overhear while resting under a tree on Mount Vindhya. This story within a story introduces Vāsavadattā’s town, her father and mother, and then Vāsavadattā herself. The parrot next describes the spring season, during which Vāsavadattā’s parents decided to arrange the marriage of their daughter and to summon all the kings of the earth to a groom contest (svayamvara). Vāsavadattā, the parrot reports, declined to choose a suitor, and it is after this futile event that she dreams of Kandarpaketu and wakes up equally in love. At the end of the story Tamālikā, a messenger accompanying the parrot, presents Kandarpaketu with a love note from Vāsavadattā.

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The third portion of the work consists entirely of the events of the following night, with a particularly lengthy description of the nightfall itself. Once the moon is out, Kandarpaketu leaves for Vāsavadattā’s city, finds her home, and meets the princess, the beloved of his dream. The new couple wastes no time: to foil the plan of Vāsavadattā’s father to have his daughter wed by dawn, they elope on horseback before the momentous night is over. A fourth fateful night determines the events of the work’s final quarter. Passing through a nightmarish and gruesome cremation ground, the couple rides into the dark Vindhya Forest, where they spend the hours of darkness together. Kandarpaketu is late to rise, and when he does wake up, Vāsavadattā is nowhere to be seen. Her disappearance leads to his aborted suicide attempt and his subsequent successful search for his beloved. Vast portions of the text are devoted to lengthy descriptive passages, dedicated to the heroine and hero and to a variety of natural entities such as nighttime, spring, Mount Vindhya, and the ocean. Subandhu is regularly accused of neglecting the plot and criticized because the “slender thread of his narrative is lost beneath his numerous descriptions.”30 But  although he is clearly invested in the work’s descriptive portions, Subandhu is not unmindful of the plot. The Vāsavadattā is carefully built around the parallel versions of the shared dream experienced by the hero and the heroine—one narrated directly, the other through the parrot’s story- within- a-story—and prudently withholds the mystery of Vāsavadattā’s disappearance until the heroine’s explanation at the very end. Thus for every major event, we first see things through Kandarpaketu’s eyes and then get Vāsavadattā’s version. It also seems that special attention is devoted to creating parity between pairs of actors and pairs of actions, such as the pairing of Kandarpaketu’s wise friend Makaranda and Vāsavadattā’s shrewd companion Kalāvatī,31 that of the parrot and Tamālikā,32 or the parallel episodes of lovesickness33 and the dual escapes to Mount Vindhya.34 Moreover, many of Subandhu’s descriptions are pertinent to the plot. Long-drawn-out depictions are often strategically located to amplify the appropriate mood and build up suspense. Take, for example, the prolonged portrayal of nightfall that precedes Kandarpaketu’s first meeting with Vāsavadattā. Subandhu dwells at length on the succession of twilight on sunset and darkness on twilight, the appearance of the stars, and the ascent of the moon, which last gives rise to a burst of activity on the part of go-betweens, arranging trysts for the lovers of the world, before the

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moon finally makes an appearance and lights the way for Kandarpaketu’s journey to his beloved. This extended passage heightens the erotic intensity of the narrative and creates an acute anticipation of the rendezvous of the hero and the heroine. Consider, likewise, the potential suspense in the poet’s detailed meditation on the qualities of the seashore, with the intensely erotic activities of its wildlife, and the ocean, with its ferocious waves, just as Kandarpaketu, separated from his beloved and having resolved to die, is about to submerge himself in the water. The very syntax of Subandhu’s long descriptive sentences adds an element of suspense. While retaining the normal Sanskrit word order of subject-object-verb, Subandhu often inserts large numbers of modifiers, severing the subject from the object and the verb. Alternatively, he may begin a sentence with a mammoth adverbial phrase consisting of a long chain of locative absolutes and continue with a set of complex adjectival clauses before disclosing the object and the verb, into which the subject is finally built. An extreme example is the work’s longest sentence, containing Kandarpaketu’s dream, where the verb apaśyat (he saw) and its object kanyām (a young girl) come at the very end of eighty-six lines that depict the nocturnal setting and then focus on a description of the physical attributes and many charms of Vāsavadattā.35 Moreover, Subandhu’s elaborate and intricate descriptive sentences with their artificial syntax actually do advance the plot. By way of example, consider a typical sentence of twenty-five lines depicting Vāsavadattā’s house when Kandarpaketu sees it for the first time. The pronoun “he” and the gerund praviśya (having entered [town]) are given at the outset, along with the adjective katakaika-deśe vinirmitam (standing in one part of the capital), but the actual object “house” and the verb “saw” are withheld till the end. In between is enclosed a lengthy portrayal, moving from an outer wall with its protruding flags to streams in the garden, adjacent mansions in the compound, and, finally, various aspects of the house itself. This concentric modification of the residence, which has yet to be identified, thus imitates the course of Kandarpaketu’s movement and gaze, and the sentence, with its almost unbearable gap between gerund and verb, slowly moves the hero toward the much-anticipated union with his beloved. Descriptive passages that consist of a series of short sentences also add to the emotional buildup and suspense of the story. For instance, immediately after the sentence that slowly zooms in on Vāsavadattā’s home is a set of short verbal exchanges: questions, teasing remarks, and instructions. These are thrown at the reader without any warning, so that their context

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is initially unclear. Gradually it becomes evident that it is the chatter of Vāsavadattā’s female friends, although this is ascertained only at the end: “Hearing the love-invested chitchat of the ravishing maidens, Kandarpaketu, accompanied by Makaranda, entered her house.”36 If the previous long sentence narrated the visual impressions as Kandarpaketu neared the house, the series of shorter utterances depicts an auditory veil that he passes through at its threshold. Although Subandhu’s descriptions are by no means inimical to the plot, they do have a life of their own, characterized by constant fluctuation and intricate structure. In addition to mixing long and short sentences, descriptive passages also oscillate among a host of semantic and musical verbal patterns. There is a continuous variation within and among metaphoric, alliterative, and punned units of depiction, and a similar fl uidity characterizes the logical structure. Hueckstedt, for instance, has noted that Subandhu is not bound by the standard foot-to-head method of portraying human characters, and we find a considerable variety of upward and downward descriptive movements.37 Likewise, the pace of description can change dramatically, with slow motion used for some objects or scenes and a kind of fast-forward for others. Think, for example, of the hardly mentioned daytime hours between the story’s momentous nights, the horseback journey from the cremation grounds to the forest that passes “in a wink,” and the months of Kandarpaketu’s loneliness that lapse within the span of a brief sentence at the end, when the work’s overall pace accelerates significantly.38 Thus even before we have examined his imagery and vocabulary in detail, it is apparent that Subandhu presents his readers with a highly complex descriptive arrangement. Modern critics of the work have been right to see this arrangement as the core of Subandhu’s creation, although they have failed to appreciate its poetic qualities and understand its multifaceted relationship to the plot. Subandhu may have designed his complex descriptive language as the only verbal medium poetically fit to represent the magical and fantastic world of kathā literature. Indeed, the author’s focus on descriptive language may be consonant with a major narrative choice of the work. To understand how this is possible, we have to compare the work with a significant intertext. Scholars have neglected to notice that the Vāsavadattā fits into a large subset of tales featuring a shared dream, a motif studied by Wendy Doniger O’Flaherty.39 Of these, the story of Usā (Dawn) is particularly relevant. Usā, the beautiful daughter of the demon

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Bāna, was raped in her dream by a handsome youth, although in some versions the dream consists of consensual lovemaking. This dreamed sexual encounter leads to profound personal and cosmological consequences. Madly in love with the molester or lover from the dream, Usā falls ill. Her friend Citralekhā, “the Portraitist,” is called to the rescue. Citralekhā prepares sketches of the entire pantheon of gods, among whom Usā recognizes her beloved. It is Aniruddha, grandson of Krsna and son of Pradyumna, the god of love. Citralekhā miraculously causes Aniruddha to materialize through her sketch, and the lovers secretly unite in the palace of Usā’s father. When the demon discovers his daughter’s secret lover, he promptly jails him. Krsna and Pradyumna intervene to kill the powerful Bāna, thereby restoring the cosmic balance and allowing the lovers to reunite.40 The similarities between the Vāsavadattā and Usā’s story are clear. Both feature an erotic dream encounter that leads to a love affair in waking life, and in both the heroine miraculously finds the hero, who secretly joins her in her palace. In each story the lovers separate before reuniting in the end. Lest these similarities be lost on readers, Subandhu explicitly compares Kandarpaketu with Aniruddha and Vāsavadattā with Usā and unmistakably plants a portraitist named Citralekhā in Vāsavadattā’s retinue.41 These points also highlight crucial differences between the two narratives. Subandhu dispenses with the cosmic struggle between the gods and their enemies that frames the Usā-Aniruddha story. Accordingly, the final battle between Aniruddha’s party of gods and Usā’s father’s army of demons is utterly transformed in the Vāsavadattā’s parallel battle scene. Perhaps with Usā’s story in mind, Vāsavadattā initially mistakes the soldiers she sees in the forest for her father’s rescue team or Kandarpaketu’s loyalists. Then she realizes that she has inadvertently stepped between two warring forest tribes and escapes the scene, only to be cursed by an irritable sage.42 Thus whereas Usā of Bloodtown (Śonitapura) reunites with Aniruddha thanks to the intervening troops, an interfering war sets Vāsavadattā of Bloomtown (Kusumapura) apart from Kandarpaketu. Indeed, while Aniruddha’s rape of Usā makes the gods’ plan to kill Bāna possible, in the Vāsavadattā it is Kandarpaketu’s desperate love for Vāsavadattā that forces the heavens to comply and promise a reunion. Free from the constraints of the intertext’s cosmic paradigm, Subandhu delves deep into the interior world of his couple. Kandarpaketu and Vāsavadattā ardently pursue their innermost visions and obey only the dictates of their hearts. In their quest for someone they have seen only in

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a dream, they do not hesitate to leave their kingdoms behind and attempt to take their own lives.43 Commonsensical, pragmatic approaches are rejected outright: think, for example, of Makaranda’s political advice to the lovesick, bedridden prince, which is flatly refused.44 The lovers are only rewarded for seemingly unreasonable behavior. Vāsavadattā writes in her love note to Kandarpaketu that she is unsure of his affection because she felt it “only” in a dream.45 But oddly enough, her message, entrusted to a search team that was given no directions, soon lands right in the hands of the overjoyed Kandarpaketu. Kandarpaketu, for his part, miraculously runs into the parrot and then into the stone image of Vāsavadattā despite wandering aimlessly. Then there is the heavenly voice that prevents his needless suicide. This intervention comes as he is in the midst of sharkinfested waters, but even the cruel sea monsters become friendly to the hero in love.46 Finally, when Kandarpaketu recognizes his lover in the rock, even hard stone yields to his loving touch. Subandhu clearly and consistently privileges the internal love vision of the dreamer over conventional reality. Subandhu can be seen as taking an inner turn from love as part of a divine plan, played out in the social, political, and universal arenas, to love as a private human matter, enacted primarily in people’s hearts and dreams and then forcing the world to comply. If this is the case, perhaps this turn can also be associated with his focus on a certain kind of descriptive language. Consider again the role of visual art in the story of Usā and Aniruddha, where a sketch enables the lovers’ union after their encounter in a dream. Significantly, this visual medium is replaced in the Vāsavadattā by a verbal one: the story of the parrot and Vāsavadattā’s love note, with the poem giving voice to an emotion that her codreamer immediately recognizes as his own. Could Subandhu be suggesting by this substitution that a certain type of poetic language is closer to the emotional landscape of the love dream than a visual representation might be? Support for this hypothesis can be found in the work’s recurrent dismissal of paintings. As already mentioned, Vāsavadattā too has a Citralekhā portraitist, and after her dream, like Usā before her, she asks her to prepare a sketch of her beloved. This request, however, is one of a long list of pleas for distractions, all of which prove futile. Subandhu’s Citralekhā cannot provide her friend even with a momentary diversion, let alone a reunion with her beloved. This is perhaps why Vāsavadattā scolds her for her unreliability.47

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The point, though, is not so much Citralekhā’s deficiencies as a painter as it is that the lovers have no use for a painted imitation of one another. All they need to do in order to see one another is to look within. The lovelorn Kandarpaketu can “see his very beloved as if painted with the paintbrush of his imagination on the canvas of his heart.”48 Vāsavadattā, for her part, envisions Kandarpaketu thus: As if painted on her heart, as if chiseled, as if inlaid, as if hammered in, as if swallowed, as if fixed in cement, as if held in the cage of her bones, as if entered into her depths, as if soaked in her marrow, as if enveloped by her life breath, as if kept inside her inner soul, as if dissolved into her blood, as if dispersed in her flesh.49 This is just a tiny sample of Subandhu’s masterly prose. Note the bold imagery, the constant train of thought, the meaningful shift, midway in the passage, from the artistic to the emotional and corporeal, and the dizzying rotation between the encompassing and the encompassed—she contains him, he, in turn, is suffused by her, and, in the end, there is no telling if her flesh is his or hers. Note also that this passage, portraying him as internalized by her, is sandwiched between two other sections of the sentence that depict Vāsavadattā herself in a fit of madness caused by love. His depiction is thus literally contained in hers, perhaps as a hint from the poet that although external visual representations are useless, language is quite capable of being iconic. The lovers’ impressions of each other are so powerfully and deeply etched in their psyches that they can easily project them outward— perhaps the beginning of the process by which they transform the harsh and external reality of the outside world by means of their inner visions. Thus Vāsavadattā can see Kandarpaketu “everywhere, as if imprinted into the wild blue yonder, as if engraved on the heavens, as if reflected inside her eyes, or as if seen on a canvas in front of her.”50 The same dizzy blurring of inside and out is found in Kandarpaketu’s dream of Vāsavadattā. Seeing her in his mind’s eye, he already envisions her as “a painting on the wall of life that provides the set design to the worldwide stage of the mind.”51 As soon as Kandarpaketu sees Vāsavadattā in his dream, this vision fills his mind and swells to universal proportions. With the whole world as a screen for the projection of their minds, what use could the two lovers possibly find for a human-made portrait?

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Indeed, paintings are a pale imitation of the original even in the case of people, creatures, and things that are not the objects of affection of the main characters. When Makaranda and Kandarpaketu arrive at Mount Vindhya, they come across a magnificent, fierce lion. As they face down the lion, Makaranda comes up with a pair of striking verses, one of which reads: The upward movement of the neck when intent on an instant assault, the sheen of its swaying mane, the terrifying contours of the enormous cavern of its maw, the upright pillar of the tail, the tension of all its tendons— No painter can portray this lion when it stands astride the skull of an elephant that bellows in the mountain hollows.52

To this close naturalistic description (svabhāvokti) of the fine details of the lion’s posture from neck to tail, Subandhu adds some magical touches. He lingers on the beast’s still, tense stance for three-quarters of the verse, a suspenseful buildup to a dramatic climax when the lion is suddenly found on top of its prey in the fourth. Then there are the amazing sound effects, impossible to capture in translation. Consider, for instance, the sequence of horrifying, harsh syllables in the compound that depicts the lion’s formidable jaws, krūrâkāra-karāla-vaktra-kuharah (“the terrifying contours of the enormous cavern of its maw”). The sequence of consonants creates a veritable roar. Or take the long compound that consumes most of the last line, leaving room only for the long-anticipated, concluding head noun, “lion.” The animal’s movement is insinuated by the nonstop flow of syllables, and the trumpeting bellow (pht) of the elephant is amplified by sequences of echoes (kuñja-kuñjara, sthala-stha). Moreover, to the ear of the trained kāvya reader, even the pattern of long and short syllables resembles the trot of a large cat, hence the meter’s name: śārdūlavikrdita (the tiger’s play). Thus while explicitly asserting that the sight of the lion can never be encapsulated in a painting, the stanza strongly implies that poetry has the power to capture and magnify the beauty of its appearance, its growling, and its movements. If my interpretation is correct, this is a strong metapoetic statement. The repeated rejection of the visual arts in the Vāsavadattā is meaning-

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fully combined with an intensified verbal mode, evident in the marvelous descriptive passages that make up the bulk of the work. Both the constant assertion that the lovers’ imagination is a brush that allows them to paint each other’s images and the fact that the whole world yields to their imagination seem to apply to Subandhu’s notion of his own creative process. In the very first line of his first benedictory verse, Subandhu tells us that the entire world is like a tiny jujube held in the poet’s palm.53 Like the powerful visions of his characters, the poet’s subtle perception (sūksmamati) is intense, all-encompassing, and far superior to the tiny, handheld world.

2.3 amplifying the world: subandhu’s alliterative compounds Subandhu’s repertoire of descriptive methods is vast. Although he is rightly famous for his ślesas, his mastery of anuprāsa (alliteration), a crucial tool in his literary kit, is often overlooked. We have already seen a hint of this in the poem depicting the lion. But it is in his prose that, free from metrical constraints, Subandhu systematically explores the potentials of reverberation. Subandhu is not the first poet of Sanskrit to make use of sound repetition, and alliterative prose passages appear even before the Vāsavadattā in inscriptions and in works that mix verse and prose.54 But these precedents are a far cry from the amazing mellifluousness of Subandhu’s writing. Alliteration in the Vāsavadattā usually dominates the early parts of descriptive sentences, either in the form of a long set of adverbs or as a part of adjectival clauses, subordinate to an object later disclosed. In either case the alliterative clauses tend to consist of large or even colossal compounds, up to thirty words in length. These gigantic compounds, often bunched together in sets of six or more, provide a long and sonorous meditation on the described object or setting. Perhaps consistent with their early place in the descriptive configuration, the alliterative clusters are never used to portray the main characters themselves. Rather, they serve an atmospheric purpose, particularly in creating an erotic mood. Alliteration is used in portraying love-related activities during some of the plot’s momentous nights and during the spring season, and in locations such as Mount Vindhya, the river Revā, or the seashore. A long alliterative passage also plays a crucial role in creating a gory and frightening ambience when the couple passes through the cremation ground.

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Like the rest of the Vāsavadattā, Subandhu’s alliterative units are marked by a constant variation within an overall pattern. Some consist strictly of lengthy compounds, whereas others contain clauses in which a shorter composite word follows and echoes a longer one. In some cases sound repetition is combined with metaphorical attributions of human motivations to natural occurrences (utpreksās), although more often than not we find reverberation without any accompanying figures or tropes. Indeed, as already observed by Heuckstedt, Subandhu never mixes ślesa with anuprāsa: the alliterative units are devoid of puns, just as the bitextual clauses contain no sound effects.55 Thematically, the alliterative passages are unified by their appropriateness to the mood and their pertinence to the topic. In the case of the erotic scenes, the alliterative clauses are dedicated to love-related activities of humans and in particular young women, as well as to objects and scenarios that are conventionally related to eros in kāvya: lotuses and a variety of other blossoms, the honey from flowers and the bees it attracts, elephants and the aromatic secretion they emit while in heat, and also peacocks, cuckoos, geese, shelducks, partridges, and other birds courting and nesting. Occasionally an alliterative block is more tightly structured, as in the case of the six clauses describing women from six different regions (Lāta, Karnāta, Kuntala, Kerala, Mālava, and Āndhra) while luxuriating in the scented breeze of spring.56 But many of Subandhu’s alliterative passages are less structured and shift rather freely between a variety of objects and items pertinent to the mood or setting. Perhaps the most consistent and enchanting aspect of Subandhu’s extended alliterative lines is their tendency to mimic the sound produced by the objects they describe. In discussing the prose of Subandhu’s successor, Bāna, Hueckstedt has referred to the tendency of certain syllabic and phonemic arrangements to reinforce the meaning of the passage, citing examples of a percussive sound pattern in a description of drums and a clinking resonance in a depiction of armlets.57 The patterns we find in Subandhu, though, seem far more conspicuous and prevalent. To begin with, many of Subandhu’s alliterations explicitly call the reader’s attention to the auditory aspect of the entity described. Many of the alliterative compounds contain nouns and adjectives denoting specific sounds such as “drone,” “vociferous,” “jingle,” “(bird)song,” or “squawk” (mukharita, vācāla, śiñjita, ruta, ārāva), and often the reverberation is built around the sound of that word. Consider a tiny two-word combination that is part

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of a longer compound. The word rasita, which means “cry” (of a bird), is juxtaposed with sārasa, an epithet for the common crane that is made of a very similar set of phonemes. The result, sārasa-rasita (crane-cry), amplifies the particular sound being captured.58 Moreover, quite a few of the compounds center on onomatopoeias, typically echo words similar to “ticktock” in English. Consider, for example, the cuckoo cry (kuhū) of cuckoos, the high-pitched cooing (kuhakuha) of peacocks, the melodious chitchat (kalakala) of sparrows, the humming (gumagumāyita) of bees, the murmur of children eager to hear a story (again, kalakala, a favorite of Subandhu), or the sizzle of human fat dripping on burning pyres in the cremation grounds (simasimāyamānavasā).59 It is also very common for alliterative compounds to contain “sound bites” from the scenes they depict, using the compounding technique of a sound X plus a derivation of the action verb kr: for instance, the sigh (stkāra) of a woman removing the hair stuck to nail marks left on her body by her lover; the bees’ buzz and hum ( jhamkāra-humkāra); the elephant’s bellow (pht-kurvat, or the yelp ct in Hall’s edition), already heard earlier; or, again in the context of the chilling imagery of the boneyard, the tick (ta]kāri) of blood trickling from the maimed noses of impaled thieves and the loud ( patu) rattling (catātkāra) and cracking (tamkāra) of skulls (nrkaroti) on the pyre reserved for criminals (katāgni).60 Other sound effects include the drip of honey, a sound that recurs throughout the Vāsavadattā. Subandhu often refers to honey, as well as to the scented secretions of rutting elephants, by repeating the nd sound found in bindu, the Sanskrit word for “drop.” A combination like makaranda-bindu-samdoha (mass of honey drops) is typical as a building block in longer compounds. For instance, it may modify the rows of beautiful honey-crazed humming bees (lubdha-mugdha-mukhara-madhukaramālā) that lend their blackness to the night.61 Sounds are often hinted at even in the absence of explicit references to auditory effects. Consider, for example, the rooster’s cock-a-doodle-do, clearly audible in the phonetic combination kukkuta-kutumba (flock of cocks).62 Or take the chirping of partridges, audible in the repetition of velar stops and nasals in one of the descriptions of the seashore (sahacar-sahacarana-cañcura-cakoracuñcunā) when no word for the song of a bird is mentioned.63 As should be clear from these examples, Subandhu consistently strives to re-create the sound of his depicted objects, using onomatopoeia and a

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variety of other mimicking techniques. He then amplifies these sounds by surrounding them with nouns and adjectives that cause them to reverberate dramatically. To understand this effect, it is useful to read aloud a typical segment from a compound, such as this one, the first in a set of composite words depicting the trees in the Vindhya Forest: kulāyârthi-paraspara-kalaha-vikala-kalavi]ka-kula-kalakala-vācālaśikharesu . . .64 The [tree]tops were vociferous (vācāla) with the chirrup (kalakala) of the flock (kula) of linnets (kala-vi]ka), unsettled (vikala) by their tussle (kalaha) with one another ( paraspara), en route to their nests (kulāyârthi) . . . The vociferousness of the treetops is certainly audible in the compound’s repetition of the k and la sounds, surrounding and echoing the central echo word kalakala. Note also the echo word paraspara (one another), which contributes to the overall resonance. Subandhu is extremely fond of echo words in his alliterative clauses. Indeed, the compound depicting the linnets, a segment of which we have just examined, begins by describing their aerial maneuvers, diving down to the dust and flying up again, with a pair of twin participles, “rolling and rising” (luthitôtthita). Such paired participles are found elsewhere in the Vāsavadattā. Consider, for example, the front and rear ends (pūrvârddha-paścârddha) of the lion, which are “bent- up-and-bentdown” (udañcad-avāñcad), the young girls’ firm buttocks (yuvatijanaghana-jaghana), “submerged-and-emerged” (majjad-unmajjad) as they bathe in the streams adjacent to Vāsavadattā’s mansion, or the loving couples in the groves who are “sleeping-and-waking” (supta-prabuddha).65 In such examples the compounding technique gives rise to the impression of a world in constant motion. Subandhu may also use the compounding method of pairing (dvandva) to create long lists of echoing nouns. The clause opening the depiction of the beach, for instance, is a  catalog of its fresh, lush flora: navya-nala-nalada-nalin-niculapicula-vañjula-sarala-vidala-vakula-ciribilva-bilva-bahulena.66 There is no need to give the English names for all the trees, flowers, and reeds in the compound. Simply reading it aloud reveals the rich repetition of phonemes, syllabic patterns, and echo words (nala-nala, bilva-bilva), combining to reinforce the impression of luxuriance conveyed by the

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adjective bahulena (brimming with), which governs this minicatalog of a compound. We begin to see that in addition to mimicking and amplifying the auditory aspects of the objects it portrays, alliteration in the Vāsavadattā also creates an impression of constant motion and incredible density. The world of love is saturated with honey and bursting with alliterative, loverelated activities, the nights’ darkness is palpably thick with resonating bees and other jet-black items, and the cremation ground is steeped in blood, bones, black magic, and harsh phonemes. Not at all worried about redundancy, Subandhu repeats adjectives, nouns, and their combinations within and between compounds to intensify this effect. Moreover, it is crucial to realize that many such densely packed compounds, particularly in the case of the dominant erotic mood, have their elements interact, thereby creating an entire ecosystem of love that evolves in an unexpected and complex chain of events. Consider a relatively simple example from the parrot’s description of spring:67 komala-malaya-mārutôddhūta-cūta-prasava-rasâsvāda-kasāyakantha-kala-kantha-kuhū-ruta-bharita-sakala-di]-mukhah . . . 68 Here it is the soft, scented, southern breeze (komala-malaya-māruta) that mobilizes the world of love as it gently shakes the mango blossoms (uddhūta-cūta-prasava). These, in turn, flow with rasa, the sweet essence of love. Honeyed by the savoring of this nectar, the voice of the sweetthroated cuckoos (rasâsvāda-kasāya-kantha-kala-kantha-kuhū-ruta) fills every corner of the heavens (bharita-sakala-di]-mukhah). When it comes to the reverberations of love in the Vāsavadattā, the sky is the limit. Such masterful passages, full of alliterative compounds, are distributed throughout the Vāsavadattā and offer dramatic support for Subandhu’s implied claim for the advantages of poetic language over the visual medium of painting. They create the appropriate atmosphere of love or horror by means of slow and sonorous meditations on each scene’s densely arranged and constantly interacting elements. Verbal language, like painting, is capable of subtle descriptions, but it can also be breathtakingly musical. Moreover, the ecosystem built into many of Subandhu’s compounds validates his notion that love evolves inside one’s heart and then erupts and pervades the entire cosmos. The scented breeze, the courting song of

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a bird, the humming of a bee, and the lover’s vision always end up reverberating throughout the world.

2.4 showcasing les.a: the opening lines of the vsavadatt Considering this incredible display of anuprāsa, we may ask what role ślesa plays in the Vāsavadattā, and why Subandhu privileges the latter literary device in the work’s signature verse. In order to begin to answer this question, it may be useful to look at the text’s opening sentences. While elsewhere in the Vāsavadattā puns and alliteration are carefully orchestrated, the opening lines are almost entirely in ślesa. It is as if Subandhu used the beginning of his work to highlight the centerpiece of his new prose style. “There [once] was what never before was” (abhūd abhūtapūrvah) are the opening, echoing words of the first prose sentence. The morphology indicates that the unprecedented entity spoken of is a man, although the notion of newness seems pertinent to the work as well. The next modifier, the only alliterative compound in the work’s opening pages, portrays this man as a powerful king, at whose feet all monarchs of the world prostrate themselves. From here onward the introduction is all ślesa. First comes a series of clauses that compare the unnamed king with a variety of gods and sages. In such statements of similarity, one observer has noted, “the substance of the simile becomes the subject of the pun.”69 In other words, in each comparison the shared attribute yields one meaning for the royal and another for the divine. In an attempt to render this untranslatable set of ślesas into English, the reading befitting the divinity is given first, and beneath, indented and italicized, I supply the meaning appropriate to the king: [who,] like the Man-lion Visnu, performed the spectacle of tearing apart the body of the demon Hiranyakaśipu, amazed the world with gifts of gold, garments, food, and land, like Krsna, made his father, Vasudeva, satisfied, satisfied the gods with wealth [spent on sacrifices], like Nārāyana, took the form of a boar and carried Earth on his back, easily gained control over the earth, like Krsna, the Slayer of Kamsa, made Yaśodā and Nanda [Krsna’s foster parents] prosper,

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amassed fame, gave to charity, and boosted public morale, like Ānakadundubhi [Krsna’s father] frightened the Demoness Kāvyā, was revered by poets, like Visnu, sleeping on the ocean bed, had his feet illuminated by the rays emanating from the jewels on the hoods of the serpent Ananta, had his feet illuminated by the crown-jewel rays of endless kings, like Varuna, was lord of the [Western] direction, provided protection and guaranteed peace, like Agastya, ornaments the South, fulfilled everyone’s desire with his sacrificial gifts . . . 70 All eight clauses in this unit are identically designed nominal phrases. Each begins with a mythic standard of comparison (e.g., Krsna) followed by the word iva (like) and ends with a short compound word that supplies the punned attribute. The ślesas are either on words of multiple meanings (e.g., dāna, “giving,” “tearing”) or on phrases that could be segmented in more than one way, often names and epithets (thus the compound naming Krsna’s foster parents, Yaśodā and Nanda, can also be read as yaśo-dânanda, or “fame,” “charity,” and “morale”). The clauses are also thematically coherent. The first six compare the king with aspects of Visnu: the man-lion and boar incarnations, Krsna and his family, and his image sleeping on the snake-made mattress on the ocean bed. Digressing from the Visnu theme, the last two clauses compare the king with Varuna and Agastya, but this digression follows a train of association that is distinctive to Subandhu: Varuna is the lord of the ocean, where, in the previous clause, we found God sleeping. Agastya, in turn, is Varuna’s son and is also connected to the ocean in mythology. In addition, as the text specifies, Varuna and Agastya are each associated with one cardinal direction. The royal register of the ślesa is also cohesive in its portrayal of a perfect and just king who conquers the world, distributes his wealth generously, performs sacrifices, and protects his people. There is, of course, nothing new in comparing a king with God, and Visnu, who in various incarnations saves the world, protects the law, and rules the earth, always supplies kings with a worthy model. Subandhu’s prose serves to amplify the stock simile of royal eulogy by repeatedly using the same utterance to portray both the regal and the divine. Indeed,

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such punned homologies themselves become standard in inscribed panegyrics from the end of the sixth century onward, possibly following Subandhu.71 But one might wonder what the import of Subandhu’s ślesas really is. Does the simultaneous expression of the attributes of both the king and God merely tighten their perceived union, or can the modifiers with their two separate readings also underscore their differences? Our king’s generosity and heroism may be modeled after that of the gods. But as impressive as he may be, he could not possibly have performed, like the man-lion Visnu, “the spectacle of tearing apart the body of the demon Hiranyakaśipu.” His feet may well be illuminated by the crown jewels of bowing kings, but these are a far cry from the jewels decorating the hood of the cosmic serpent Ananta, on whose coils God rests. The union or “embrace” that is ślesa suddenly leaves the reader with an unsettling cognitive dissonance. This dizziness is increased in the next clauses, where the author swiftly compares the unnamed monarch with a whole universe of entities, including the ocean, Lord Śiva, Mount Meru, the sun, and the god of love, each with its own attributes, separated from those of the king. Then, while still withholding the identity of the subject of the sentence, Subandhu shifts gears and moves from expressing punned homologies to presenting his readers with what seem to be stark contradictions between pairs of adjectives, both of which nonetheless modify the subject: [A king who,] though a demigod, [is] a god, though Dhrtarāstra, a friend of Bhīma, though a resident of earth, holds court in heaven, though a branch of pine, a bamboo cane, though son to a buffalo, a father to a bull, though not the centerpiece of a necklace, the main gem.72

Once more, the identical pattern of the clauses is noteworthy. Each clause consists of two short compound words interrupted by the repeated word “though” (api), which highlights the paradox and keeps the beat. The first three clauses continue the allusion to divine and mythic heroes, while the latter three are more unruly, pertaining to animals, plants, and precious stones. A growing playfulness that overrides any concern for thematic uniformity is noticeable. As Richard Salomon has noted, there is a close affinity between riddles and virodhābhāsas (apparent contradictions), the term for such seemingly paradoxical statements.73 One is either a pine or

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a bamboo, a buffalo or a bull, and the reader is prompted to solve the conundrum presented by the absurd statement that the king is both kinds of plants and both types of animals. If one rereads the clauses, the original pairs of oppositions dissolve. In their place the reader discovers pairs of adjectives that actually complement one another in praise of the king, [who is] wise and sharp-minded, a protector of the kingdom and a friend to virtue, tolerant and righteous, of a kind heart and as mighty as Arjuna, son of the chief queen and an agent of justice, an unwavering leader of his army. Here, as elsewhere, Subandhu exploits the etymological basis of epithets and nouns to enable a second reading. For instance, the name of the epic character Dhrtarāstra also means “the protector of the kingdom,” and Guna, the epithet of his opponent Bhīma, typically signifies “virtue.” Once we realize this, we can see how the passage’s hidden meanings are coherent and serve to portray a perfect king. Indeed, even the device of apparent contradiction later became a staple in royal eulogies from the sixth century onward. In such contexts, as one scholar has argued, paradoxes referring to the virtues of a king and a deity would lead the reader to apprehend the ultimate homology of royal and divine.74 But at least in Subandhu’s case, virodhābhāsas seem to have little to do with equating a ruler with a god. On the contrary, the contrasts only intensify the reader’s vertigo, for the aftertaste of the paradox does not entirely dissipate even once the riddle is solved. Consider, for instance, this part of the virodhābhāsa: though a resident of earth, [he] holds court in heaven . . . Even after we reread the same clause for its other meaning, [he is] tolerant and righteous . . . the second reading of the ślesa only bypasses the paradox of the first and does not really resolve it. Indeed, the original, stark contradiction between heaven and earth continues to linger, perhaps as a comment on the problematic pairing of the king and God in the previous similes. At this point the sentence finally ends with an unveiling of its subject, “a king, Cintāmani by name.” But as soon as these fourteen lines of

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dazzlingly playful and enigmatic language come to a syntactic conclusion, Subandhu takes his dizzy readers on another roller coaster of a sentence. So far he has used ślesa in similes and contradictions, but he now introduces another structure suited for punning, that of parisamkhyā (delimitation).75 Each of the seventeen clauses in the following sentence, which describes prosperity during Cintāmani’s reign, begins with a negative sociopolitical term such as “poverty,” “corruption,” “crime,” “torture,” or “capital punishment.” Each of these evils is then said to have been entirely curtailed during King Cintāmani’s rule. For instance, of all the subjects, only snake charmers associated themselves with liars, and the cruel practice of eye plucking was found only among the hermits. Such peculiar statements immediately send the reader checking whether the words do not convey some additional, hidden meaning, which, indeed, they do. Ślesa allows a reading according to which snake charmers simply trained their serpents, who, like liars, are “of two tongues” (dvijihva-samgrhti), and hermits plucked “eyes” (netrôtpātanam) not of men but of tree bark to prepare their ascetic garments.76 If in the previous clause the ślesa contained the elements of a riddle, here there is also humor: the snake charmers, ascetics, and their ilk become the object of ridicule. Indeed, as in the previous clauses, the supposedly apparent meaning of the ślesa never fully dissolves even after the deeper one is comprehended. For instance, when Subandhu says that poverty, but really atheism (nāstikatā), existed only among the Cārvākas (materialists), or that deception, but really a set of slick and unsound oratorical tricks (chala-jāti-nigraha), was found only among the logicians, or that bad kingship, but really the evil Duhśāsana, was spotted only in the Mahābhārata, a semantic residue is left once the puzzle is solved. While realizing that King Cintāmani’s rule was free of any form of cruelty and evil, the reader is left with a surprising bunch of snide remarks: the materialist doctrine is impoverished, the logician’s oratory consists of red herrings, and the Mahābhārata is filled with vile characters. This residual derision intensifies as the author once again turns to apparent contradictions. The previous long sentences are now replaced by a series of brief statements, each paradoxically describing a famous hero. For example: Rāma, though leaving Janaka’s daughter behind, took Janaka’s daughter with him to the forest. Bharata, though displaying loyalty to Rāma,

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had Rāma removed from the throne. Nala, though married to Damayantī, wed a widow.77 To be sure, there is a solution to each contradiction. Rāma did not leave behind his wife, daughter of Janaka, but rather the land of his father. Here the word bhū, which means both “daughter” and “land,” is used, and janaka is both a proper name and the word for “father.” Bharata did not displace his brother Rāma from the kingdom. The phrase that creates this impression can also denote his aversion to power because of the ambiguity of the word virāma, which means both “Rāma-less” and “disinterested.” Nor did Nala remarry a widow. Rather, the compound punarbhūparigrahah is understood, in second reading, to consist of two separate words ( punar bhū-parigrahah) that convey his eventual regaining of his kingdom. Still, the original, apparent meanings simply refuse to go away. Did Rāma not try to leave Sītā behind when he left for the forest, and did he not indeed desert her there later on? Was not Bharata implicated in banishing his brother, Rāma? This, at least, is what many characters in the Rāmāyana strongly believe.78 Did Damayantī not arrange for herself a second groom-choice ceremony after Nala, her husband who deserted her in the forest, was feared dead, and did Nala not show up to remarry his own “widow”? Lest there be doubt of the critical intent of these punned sentences, Subandhu summarizes the passage by wryly remarking: So there is really not much you can say for these ancient kings, can you? Or rather, there is much you can say—against them. Our king, by contrast, was different. Compared with him, the record of all past monarchs pales.79 The passage that began by suggesting that Subandhu’s King Cintāmani is similar to, even if not quite the same as, the gods and the sages now concludes by finding him far superior to a similar set of entities. True, presenting the subject of comparison as surpassing its standard is a common kāvya ploy: a woman’s spotless face often surpasses the dotted moon, and the king is of greater depth than the insentient ( jadātman) ocean.80 But it is one thing to poke fun at the ocean’s watered-down intelligence and an altogether different thing snidely to question the conduct of idols such as Rāma, the ideal king and avatar of Visnu. There is something new and

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unsettling about this passage, and it becomes increasingly evident that Subandhu’s ślesa packs a punch.

2.5 teasing the convention: the targets of subandhu’s les. a Despite the brevity of sampling from the opening pages, some of the differences between Subandhu’s ślesa and anuprāsa are immediately discernible. His ślesa lacks the rich musicality we have seen in the alliterative blocks, and the steady down tempo of the long and sonorous compounds is decidedly at odds with the snappier punned analogies and apparent contradictions. After the initial showcasing of ślesa during the section that introduces the hero and his father, Subandhu creates a complex and rhythmical balance between his two main descriptive devices. Typically, anuprāsas supply the initial, slow buildup of mood, and ślesas lead up to a climactic ending. In some of the longer sentences we find more than one cycle alternating between alliterative and punned clauses.81 This is related to another difference between the two. Unlike alliteration, Subandhu’s ślesa works as a descriptive mode for any object, be it the setting (e.g., spring, Mount Vindhya, and the boneyard) or the main characters (Kandarpaketu and Vāsavadattā). A more important distinction has to do with the humorous and potentially subversive undercurrents of ślesa, absent from the alliterative blocks. The reverberating composite words repeatedly articulate a closed set of elements conventionally associated with the relevant emotional flavor: for instance, bathing women, blooming lotuses, humming bees, and cooing peacocks, which create an erotic mood, or bones, skulls, and blood for a setting of horror. The alliterative compounds are not without their overtones, such as rasa (love) in the combination referring to the cranes’ courting song (sārasa-rasita). But such echoes only intensify the overall atmosphere and remain well within the established bounds of love-related agents and actions. Subandhu’s ślesa, by contrast, opens up space in the text for a wide array of topics and images, some of which are conventional (e.g., gods as role models for kings), while others are totally unexpected (e.g., the king is “son to a buffalo” and “father to a bull”), amusing, and provocative. To be sure, there are cases where the humorousness of the ślesas is appropriate to the situation or mood. Consider, for example, the speech of the go-betweens, setting rendezvous for their mistresses, as soon as the

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moon rises and right before Kandarpaketu himself meets Vāsavadattā. Such messenger girls always coax and prod their stubborn addressees, and it is significant that in the Vāsavadattā they use melodious, alliterative language to cajole some men and ślesas to tease and taunt others.82 Another example is in the parrot’s depiction of the princes who turn up for Vāsavadattā’s groom contest. The suitors try to make fun of each other, and readers, like Kandarpaketu, listening in from under the tree, perhaps hope that these competitors of his will make fools of themselves. It is thus particularly appropriate for the narrator to depict them with a highly comical tone, for which purpose he employs analogies and paradoxes that are punned and pointed.83 More often than not, however, clever puns are simply introduced for objects of description, wherein ślesa’s second register is used to comment on a vast variety of texts and topics. Witty ślesas may, for instance, reflect on the Vāsavadattā’s own plot and design. Take, for example, Subandhu’s repeated pun on the name of his most important intertext, Gunādhya’s Brhatkathā. The first of these ślesas is found in the beginning of the parrot’s tale. “I have an unusual and long story” (apūrvā brhatkathā), he tells his mynah-bird partner, in a statement that can also mean “I have a whole new Brhatkathā” to tell. This could easily be read as Subandhu’s self-conscious and clever description of his own work with regard to one of its most kathā-like moments, the appearance of a talking bird.84 In the same vein, we have already referred to the comparison of Vāsavadattā and Kandarpaketu with Usā and Aniruddha, the couple from the intertext, also through ślesa. Similar puns are found throughout the text. The most conspicuous example is when the author compares the mating of ruddy geese (cakravāka-mithuna) with the composition of good literature (sat-kāvya-viracana): just as the geese are skilled in embracing and in stroking each other’s beaks, so too are the poets skilled in crafting ślesas and inserting into their works verses in the vaktra meter (suślesa-vaktra-ghatanā-patu). The modern commentator R. V. Krishnamachariar’s observation that Subandhu had his own prose in mind in this instance seems entirely accurate.85 Beyond commenting on his own work and its narrative source, Subandhu uses ślesa to correspond with a large variety of intertexts: works on prosody, Pānini’s grammar, the epics, and the Kāmasūtra. Many of the references to these texts are pointed and witty: Mount Vindhya, the Ganges, and the waist of Vāsavadattā are all likened to a specific work on prosody,86 Pānini’s rules for omitting the suffix named kvip are mentioned in the context of praising the perfect rule of Vāsavadattā’s father, 87 and the

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river Revā, where the naked torsos of beautiful, bathing women can be spotted, is compared with a particularly gory scene from the Mahābhārata’s war.88 Some of the funniest puns pertain, perhaps not surprisingly, to the treatises on sex. Consider, for example, the jibe at Vātsyāyana Mallanāga, author of the Kāmasūtra and the greatest authority on lovemaking in the Sanskrit tradition, who famously claimed that he composed his manual “in chastity and in the highest meditation.”89 Subandhu must have suspected a slightly more empirical methodology when he commented, in a pun on the description of Mount Vindhya, that work on the Kāmasūtra was “spiced with the ecstasy of all the girls Mallanāga had slept with.”90 This passage can also be read as a description of the mountain ridge, but there is nothing in the presentation to diminish the ridicule of Mallanāga’s disclaimer. On the contrary, the fact that in the mountain register mallanāga is a word for an elephant in heat drives the point home. The Buddhist and Jain traditions are a regular target of Subandhu’s ridiculing puns, regardless of the context. For instance, when Vāsavadattā recounts her experience in the midst of the battling armies, the cowardice of some of the combatants reminds her of the followers of these heterodox religions. One soldier, she tells Kandarpaketu, using a series of homonyms, had his ears chopped off, his mouth cut open, and his eyes plucked out in much the same way as Buddhism is torn apart by Brahminical scriptures and philosophies (ksapita-śruti-vacana-darśanah). Another punned simile involves a soldier who hid himself in a pile of corpses, like a Jain monk “concealing himself in the mound of his matted locks” (katâvrta-vigrahah).91 Subandhu also has a few amusing things to say about nighttime: the darkness obscures the behavior of certain loose women, provides a remedy for the graying hair of aging courtesans, and assists evildoers. Indeed, darkness is also reminiscent of the Buddhist doctrine, for it eliminates the very objects before the eye, just as the Buddhists deny their existence (both actions are conveyed by the root apahnu).92 But Subandhu uses his ślesas to pick on the orthodox schools of thought as well. He pokes fun at the logicians’ empty rhetoric, the yogis’ painful postures, and the hypocrisy of renunciants (munis) who never give up their drinking habits.93 Then there are the ślesas that ridicule the deeds of gods and epic heroes. We have seen a relatively mild example of this in the work’s opening pages, which praise King Cintāmani at the expense of Rāma, Bharata, and Nala. A more striking example can be found in the introduction of Vāsavadattā’s father, King Śr]gāraśekhara, whom the parrot contrasts with Indra, this time in verse. Here the apparent reading,

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more befitting Indra’s official mythology, is given first, and the alternative, iconoclastic one is supplied beneath it, in smaller font: One is a protector of the gods, [or:] is addicted to alcohol,

while the other’s heart is set strictly on the purest of deeds. One has Jupiter as a minister in his cabinet, is obsessed with the wife of another,

whereas the other never strays from the proper path. The hand of one always holds the thunderbolt, is stretched in begging, as he is always in need of hundreds of billions,

while the other gives away everything he has. One is Indra, king of the gods. He isn’t worth a straw when compared with this other king.94

The verse’s alleged meaning, portraying Indra as the mighty holder of the thunderbolt and protector of the gods, magnifies Śr]gāraśekhara’s status by claiming that he is even better than his divine role model. But it is only the punned meanings that justify the verse’s stark moral contrast between the two and the emphatic denunciation of Indra in the end. It is not so much Śr]gāśekhara’s eminence that resonates when we understand the verse as it is Indra’s drinking problems, illicit relationships, and total fi nancial disarray. Subandhu’s iconoclasm seems to intensify as the work proceeds, reaching a peak when his hero is about to take his own life. In his thoughts Kandarpaketu justifies the forbidden act of suicide by going through another list of former kings, each marred by some major fault. Unlike in earlier passages of this kind, there is hardly the façade of a face-saving reading, and both registers of the ślesa are accusatory. For instance, Nala is criticized for his defeat by the dice, as well as for being possessed by the evil Kali (both conveyed by kalinâbhibhūta), Samvarana for losing his standing because of an affair with the Sun’s child, as well as for falling in love with the daughter of his best friend (based on the ambiguity of mitra: “friend,” “sun”), and Daśaratha for dying as a result of his passion for a woman, as well as from agony due to the exile of his dearest son Rāma (here on the basis of different ways of segmenting the compound ista-rāmônmādena).95 One may sympathize with Daśaratha’s anguish over the departure of his beloved son and chosen successor. But anyone

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who knows the Rāmāyana immediately realizes that the two criticisms are really one: Daśaratha himself exiled Rāma precisely because he allowed himself to be manipulated by his junior queen. The semantic gap between the two readings of the ślesa thus dramatically narrows here, and the passage culminates in a statement involving no pun at all. Th e last in the list is Yudhisthira, who, plain and simple, abandoned truth at the height of the battle (samara-śirasi satyam utsasarja).96 The reference here is to the famous Mahābhārata episode of overcoming the mighty Drona by misleading him to believe that his invincible son, Aśvatthāman, had died. Questioned by the dumbfounded Drona how this could possibly be the case, Yudhisthira, who had never before strayed from the truth, confirms that an elephant called Aśvatthāman had indeed been slain. But he utters the word “elephant” inaudibly, in effect confirming Drona’s worst fears. Convinced of the death of his son, Drona allows himself to be killed, paving the way for the victory of Yudhisthira’s camp.97 Technically speaking, Yudhisthira did not utter a lie, but it is significant that Subandhu condemns the epic hero unequivocally precisely where he finds the intertext ambiguous. No other reading serves to hide this outright accusation, and there is nothing in it to allow the reader to take it lightly, tongue in cheek. In this case, then, the absence of ślesa is the means of harsh reproach. So far we have seen how Subandhu’s pointed ślesas allude to, tease, and criticize a variety of identifiable characters and intertexts. Ultimately, though, he aims at and disrupts deeper textual tendencies and patterns, what Becker has called the “prior text” of all poetic statements.98 More than the Brhatkathā and the Kāmasūtra, the heterodox scriptures and the epic, the target of many of Subandhu’s punned descriptions is the poetic convention itself—the endless precedents of comparing a king with God and a woman’s face with the moon. Even in the absence of an explicit and thorough theory of what can be compared with what, Sanskrit writers came up with a relatively closed set of subjects and standards of comparison that could be paired. Informed by this shared notion of aesthetic and moral decorum, readers could immediately tell an unsuitable combination, such as the comparison of a faithful servant with a dog rather than with a friend or of a firefly with the sun rather than with a lamp.99 Against these orderly conventions of poetic propriety, Subandhu’s punned similes, his commonest form of ślesa, touch down on the text like tornados, uprooting numerous articles and restoring them to the ground, often in the most unexpected places.

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One small example of this phenomenon can be found in Subandhu’s depiction of the tree where Kandarpaketu rests. He compares its impressive boughs with the multifaceted Veda, a highly appropriate choice that builds on the age-old image of the tree of knowledge and its branches. But he has no qualms about adding, in the same breath, that the tree’s numerous blossoms call to mind prostitutes, who flourish in the presence of multiple customers.100 The sudden grafting of this racy standard onto the same branches that were just compared with the scriptures leaves the reader off guard and unsettled. A more elaborate example is when the parrot compares spring with a wide variety of contradictory entities: it is akin to a bad person, a lousy family, and the notorious demon Rāvana, but also to a good king, a great hero, and Indra himself. It is also like a righteous person (satpurusa), as well as a skirt chaser (sidga), and a fisherman (kaivarta), as well as a townsman (vāstuka). Moreover, free from snow showers (tuhi-nipāta), but also from the typically meaningless filler particles tu and hi (tu-hi-nipāta), spring calls to mind the work of a good poet.101 One gets the feeling that for Subandhu, a truly gifted poet is measured not only by his avoidance of meaningless morphemes but also by his ability to compare his subject matter with just about anything. Where previous writers have all compared darkness with black substances and dense matter, Subandhu likens darkness to sunrise as well, for in the nighttime the world (kuvalaya) seems to shrink (samkucat) just as the blue lotus (also kuvalaya) contracts when the sun begins its climb.102 Hence the two opposites of dark and light are suddenly joined through ślesa. Alternatively, Subandhu will employ a whole set of the most conventional standards of comparison in describing the “wrong” entity. For instance, if his predecessors eulogized their kings by likening them to Śiva, Visnu, Indra, and the ocean, he will use an identical set of standards in portraying the khala, the vile enemy of the just king.103 Subandhu’s most daring punned analogies involve his lead female character. The eyes of the beautiful and delicate Vāsavadattā are shockingly compared with the audacity of the Mahābhārata’s protagonist, Duryodhana, and her beaming youth with the forest of arms of the Rāmāyana’s hideous monster-king, Rāvana.104 Or consider the climactic moment when Kandarpaketu’s gaze finally falls on his beloved. His eyes drink her from the bottom up: her feet, which he compares with Pānini’s grammar with its section beginning with the aphorism on the word “red,”105 her knees, which are similar to the cherished chapters of the Mahābhārata, her thighs, which are reminiscent of the Rāmāyana’s “Beautiful Book”

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(Sundarakānda), her waist, which resembles a tract on prosody, her ears, which are like the astral sciences, her radiance, which is like logic, her ornaments, which call to mind poetry, and her utter blissfulness, which is reminiscent of the teachings of the Upanisad.106 Unlike the previous examples, here the portrayal of Vāsavadattā does not involve loathsome characters, but like them, it dramatically and humorously estranges kāvya’s standard vocabulary for female beauty. Subandhu’s ślesa throws open the doors of the “prior text” of his tradition and opens up an altogether new poetic space. Let us summarize some of the groundbreaking aspects of Subandhu’s work. His innovative reworking of a magical kathā tale entails a strong preference for the lover’s dream over tangible reality. Subandhu’s foray into an inner, imaginative universe accompanies his extensive experiments with the powers of poetic language, carried out in the laboratory of his prose. His melodious and dense alliterative compounds prove capable of intensifying the setting and the mood, besting even the capabilities of the visual images on a painter’s canvas. Set against these are his startling puns, which tend to puzzle, tease, and even shock the reader. Subandhu thus creates a new descriptive language that immensely enhances poetic convention but also humorously parodies it. Ultimately this mosaic of language itself is of greater interest to Subandhu than what it depicts. Thus in the end the couple’s return to Kandarpaketu’s city is mentioned briefly and unceremoniously, and the reader is perhaps less invited to take away the kind of conclusions about the world that literature is sometimes capable of providing. Rather, he or she is urged to enjoy the ever-creative, self-reflexive, and colorful system of signs that characterizes Subandhu’s prose.

2.6 bn. a’s laughter and the response to subandhu Subandhu’s grand prose experiment was received with ambivalence. On the one hand, there are clear signs that later tradition admired Subandhu’s achievements. As noted at the outset of my discussion, the Vāsavadattā was preserved and continually studied and enjoyed a remarkable number of commentaries. In the circle of later ślesa writers, Subandhu’s name was immortalized by Kavirāja, author of the best-known poem narrating two stories, as the first among the masters who ventured down the “path of crooked speech.”107 On the other hand, Subandhu is hardly mentioned by

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poets outside this circle and is rarely cited in anthologies and poetic treatises, where he is eclipsed by the popularity of Bāna.108 Indeed, it is in the writings of Bāna himself, a self-proclaimed successor of Subandhu, that we first come across this ambivalence. Bāna’s two prose works, the Harsacarita (Life of Harsa) with its historical and autobiographical themes, and the Kādambar, which, like the Vāsavadattā, is a fictive tale named after its heroine, owe much to Subandhu’s texture and rhythm. Both consist of extensive descriptions that are made from blocks of punned similes and identifications, apparent contradictions, alliterations, and other devices. Bāna emulates Subandhu’s sense of humor and emphasis on the imagination of a lover or a poet,109 and his ślesa also indulges in dialogue with a variety of intertexts. There are even several passages in Bāna’s works that are borrowed wholesale from Subandhu. Indeed, in some respects Bāna appears to push Subandhu’s experiments further. His long sentences are far longer than Subandhu’s,110 the passages adapted from his predecessor seem intentionally expanded, 111 and the Vāsavadattā’s symmetrical and suspenseful structure with its story within a story pales in comparison with the Kādambar ’s intricate system of nested narratives and gallery of character doubles. It is perhaps not without reason that the commentators on this latter work understood Bāna as implying that he wrote it with the hope of outshining the Vāsavadattā.112 But there are also many features that set these two prose masters apart.113 Central among them is their distinctive approach to ślesa, visible already in Bāna’s prefatory remarks to his Harsacarita. It is here that Bāna extols the Vāsavadattā, the first work he mentions by name, in a tribute that includes a Subandhu-like jibe at the epic heroes.114 But instead of committing himself to one literary vehicle “in letter after letter” and making puns his hallmark, Bāna cautiously charts in his introduction an entire universe of poetic fashions: northerners favor ślesa, westerners care only about the meaning, utpreksā (poetic fancy) is a specialty of the south, and Bengalis in the east cherish sound patterns. The implication is that Bāna is not wed to any particular preference and is free to use these styles eclectically.115 Perhaps resembling his patron and hero Harsa, who controlled all quarters of the subcontinent, Bāna insinuates that he has not just one regional style at his command, but the entire poetic landscape. In the same vein Bāna itemizes a variety of ingredients essential for making good literature. Only somewhere in the middle of his list does he mention ślesa, a necessary device so long as it is not strained or far fetched (aklista).116

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It thus seems that Bāna may have hoped to distance himself from Subandhu’s narrower focus on ślesa and from instances of punned comparisons that he may have felt went too far. Indeed, although his prose is by no means exempt from ślesa, this device occupies a less prominent place in Bāna’s work than in Subandhu’s. More important, there is a clear sense that Bāna attempted to tame and refine Subandhu’s uninhibited ślesa and somehow make it safer. Although I do not have the space here for a thorough study of Bāna’s work, I will provide two examples to indicate some of the ways in which Bāna domesticated Subandhu’s puns. Both examples are taken from the Harsacarita, a work written early in his career and under strong influence from Subandhu’s Vāsavadattā.117 The Harsacarita begins by narrating the tale of Bāna’s own family, upbringing, and lively youth, during which time he roamed the land with a group of colorful friends and made a name for himself in poetic and bohemian circles. Bāna’s life changed when, one day, he was unexpectedly invited by the great emperor Harsa (r. 608–645) to join his court. This twist in the plot of the author’s life led to the telling of his patron’s story. My first example concerns ślesa’s ability to poke fun at the conduct of revered kings. There are repeated instances of such derisive passages in the Vāsavadattā, and it is significant that one of them reappears in the Harsacarita. As we have seen, Subandhu’s Kandarpaketu justifies his decision to kill himself by citing the crimes of his forerunners and concluding that none of them was faultless. Bāna’s friend Śyāmala repeats the very same precedents in the Harsacarita in order to convince Bāna that Emperor Harsa, unlike all former kings, is flawless. There can be little doubt about the act of literary borrowing in this case because all of Kandarpaketu’s fifteen sentences appear in the Harsacarita in exactly the same order, even as Śyāmala inserts some additional examples of imperfect monarchs and tops off the original ślesas with a few of his own.118 As noted by Hueckstedt, the major difference between the nearly identical passages is the context. The Vāsavadattā’s catalog of ill precedents, meant somehow to vindicate its hero’s decision to take his own life, becomes, in the Harsacarita, a lighthearted praise of Harsa, and when Bāna hears the oncepoignant internal monologue of Subandhu’s hero uttered by his juvenile (kanyān) friend, he bursts into laughter.119 Hueckstedt concludes that in this case Bāna’s borrowing “may be a classic case of parody.”120 But the passage may convey a more nuanced reac-

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tion to its antecedent. Subandhu’s pointed ślesas are restated verbatim and, indeed, embellished in those instances where the original is untypically lacking in puns. Here, as elsewhere in the Harsacarita, it is clear that Subandhu supplies Bāna with his most significant model to follow and outshine. Seen from this angle, Bāna’s laughter may be taken to convey his appreciation of the unique sense of humor of his predecessor, represented by his dearest friend ( preyān) Śyāmala. At the same time, the edge of Subandhu’s unconventional puns is blunted by their placement in a new context, and it is safer to savor them when they are bracketed as the speech of a young and cunning companion and punctuated by Bāna’s laughter. To a reader familiar with the intertext, the passage may suggest that Bāna, although appreciative, represents a less iconoclastic and more mature version of his maverick forerunner. My second example concerns Subandhu’s tendency to compare his subjects with highly unconventional standards. Recall, for instance, his likening of Vāsavadattā, when beheld by Kandarpaketu for the first time, to a series of texts and disciplines. The Harsacarita offers an equivalent situation when Bāna sees Harsa during their first meeting. There are many parallels between the two encounters: Bāna, like Kandarpaketu, unexpectedly meets a messenger with a personal invitation for him; the emperor’s palace, like Vāsavadattā’s, is portrayed in narrowing circles as Bāna gradually nears Harsa; and both passages culminate in a depiction of the limbs and appearance of the beloved and the monarch, respectively. But among the crucial aspects that set the two passages apart is Bāna’s distinctive use of ślesa. Rather than allowing it a dominant role at the climax, Bāna uses a handful of puns at the ser vice of his immensely intricate imagery, in which aspects of the king are associated with a variety of highly appropriate standards. In other words, ślesa is not used to compare the monarch with tracts on prosody and treatises on grammar but is subordinate to his association with mountains that support the earth, celestial bodies, and gods. Moreover, Bāna uses ślesa to support meaningfully his description of an inherently dual aspect of Harsa’s character, namely, the dissonance between his powerful personality and his dislike for power, a major theme in the Harsacarita. As soon as Harsa’s gaze falls on him, it is immediately clear to the poet that Harsa was made king against his will but in agreement with his deeper disposition. “It is as if,” he says, “the gang of his royal birthmarks, holding fast to his arms and legs and ignoring his protests, forcefully

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dragged him to the throne and placed him on it.”121 If the Harsacarita is meant to put a positive spin on the ascendancy of a junior prince whose father, elder brother, sister, and brother-in-law all conveniently died or disappeared almost at once, Bāna brilliantly achieves this goal. Prince Harsa had no desire to rule, but his destiny, embodied in the full set of physical marks that dot the limbs of born kings, overcame him. The same tension is immediately restated as a contrast between Harsa’s irresistible sex appeal and his chastity: “He was embraced by Lady Fortune yet celibate.”122 Apparently it was after the death of his brother, an event that paved the way to his own coronation, that Harsa vowed to remain celibate until he had entirely conquered the earth.123 This vow represents his aversion to royal powers and pleasures, if not a wish to renounce the world altogether. But paradoxically it is also linked to his consolidation of power and worldwide conquest, indicated by the tight embrace of Fortune. Bāna thus concludes his train of thought by dubbing Harsa a sage-king (rājarsi). It is here, in support of this hyphenated identity, that ślesa is employed. Harsa earned the title of sage-king by “vowing to seize the edge of the sword” ( pratipannâsidhārā-dhārana-vratam), a punned phrase allowing two readings. It refers, first, to the highest feat of abstinence, when a man shares his bed with an attractive woman but resists temptation. In effect, a married Harsa, in sustaining twelve years of self-imposed celibacy, withstood such a trial so difficult it was comparable to clutching a sword by the blade. But the compound also refers to Harsa’s fulfillment of his martial oath as he seizes the blade of his enemies’ swords and defeats them. The pun thus lends unique credibility to both sagelike and kingly aspects of Harsa’s personality. Indeed, the ślesa singles him out from a lineup of past monarchs whom poets baselessly aggrandized as “sage-kings,” thus devaluing the noble epithet. Having gripped the sharpest blades of asceticism and heroism, Harsa is a sage-king “rightly so called” (avisamvādinam). Bāna’s ślesa, at least in this case, does not do away with the cliché in favor of something entirely unconventional or shocking. On the contrary, it uniquely reinvigorates a basic and fitting trope that had been overused. We begin to see that although Bāna was no less capable and creative with puns than his predecessor, he veered away from what he viewed as Subandhu’s far-fetched (klista) ślesa. Instead of puns that calculatedly estrange the convention and offend the sensibilities of his readers by pairing items not considered on a par, Bāna used ślesa more selectively. He avoided Subandhu’s most iconoclastic puns, blunted the edge of others, and harnessed his own to highlight the meaningfulness of poetic conven-

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tion and empower the eulogy of Harsa. In the last example we also get a hint of a nascent tendency of ślesa to specialize in the depiction of characters who are truly dual. My claims here certainly require substantiation through a detailed study of Bāna’s prose, which is beyond the scope of this book. But a quick consideration of Dandin, Sanskrit’s third prose master, who followed Bāna by a few decades, allows me at least to speculate that we are looking at a trend. As a theorist, Dandin allotted ślesa a dominant role, possibly reminiscent of its place in Subandhu’s prose. Indeed, his examples of this device, given in section 1.1, are possibly a tribute to Subandhu.124 In his prose, however, Dandin moved even further than Bāna from Subandhu’s ślesadominated model and used Subandhu-like puns far more sparingly.125 At the same time, Dandin may have launched a groundbreaking poetic form almost entirely in ślesa, harnessing its dual powers to the narration of two consistent epic narratives, as discussed in section 4.2.

2.7 conclusion During the sixth century, at a time when Sanskrit kāvya was already a well-established tradition with its own set of conventions and literary patterns, Subandhu invented a radically new mode of literature. His Vāsavadattā presents an unprecedented combination of several elements that were new in and of themselves. These included the rendering of the popular kathā, or storytelling literature, into ornate Sanskrit prose consisting almost exclusively of complex and highly musical descriptive passages, with alliteration supplying the sound box and ślesa the dominant tone. Carefully orchestrated descriptive passages, as we have seen, would by no means be inimical to Subandhu’s plot, consisting of Kandarpaketu’s and Vāsavadattā’s magical falling in love and miraculous unions. Indeed, not unlike the inner visions, subjective experiences, and dreams of the work’s hero and heroine, which defy realistic considerations and which hinge only on one another, these passages make up an autonomous linguistic world with its own logic, to a large extent free from references to the external world. This is a linguistic world that thrives precisely by means of its interrelations with a rich array of textual antecedents and because of its ability to reflect on itself. Ślesa is the primary means of achieving both these purposes in the Vāsavadattā, and it may be useful to reiterate several of its major effects in the work. We have seen that there is an element of a riddle built into the

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punned passages, and a strong tendency to playfulness and to a kind of humor that demands decoding. What allows the humor in—not to mention a whole range of effects, including irony, subversion, and parody, but also empathy for the characters—is the self-conscious use of ślesa for often-pointed references to a variety of authors and works (including the Vāsavadattā and its narrative sources). This use of ślesa may convey praise for mythic heroes but often results in an iconoclastic ridicule of their record. Likewise, it allows the poet to juxtapose subjects such as the beautiful and delicate heroine with a variety of standards, some perfectly appropriate, but others highly unusual, bizarre, and even racy. Thus, in the end, the effect of Subandhu’s ślesa is the constant estrangement of the simile— Sanskrit’s basic method of enriching the story with additional elements— and of many other literary patterns and texts, including his own. This playful examination of convention and canon forms a bold experiment with literary language and a major statement about its capacities, some of the more far-reaching implications of which are discussed in section 8.6. It is important to conclude this chapter by noting the partial success this bold experiment enjoyed. In the world of Sanskrit literature Subandhu’s ślesa-dominated prose stands alone. Later tradition continued to read Subandhu, like Bāna, with a combination of admiration and laughter, but like Bāna, it gradually blunted his puns and channeled their energies in other directions, as described in the following chapters. It is somewhat ironic that whereas ślesa became the cornerstone of a whole new and vast exploration in versified narrative poems, prose with ślesa as its major carrying vehicle had no real following, and pointed puns never again played such a dominant role in mainstream literature. Although the later history of kāvya could not have been the same without him, there was no second Subandhu.

[  ] THE DISGUISE OF LANGUAGE lesa enters the plot

A

fter subandhu’s large-scale experimentation, ślesa became an extremely popular device in a variety of poems and plays. No doubt the most conspicuous ślesa trend of the seventh century was its association with subjects whose true self was in some way hidden or dual. Ślesa was now increasingly used to describe and give voice to specific kinds of characters, from those who act under an assumed identity to a cast of go-betweens and emissaries whose intentions are inherently ambiguous and whose speech is equivocal. The tendency to use ślesa for specialized purposes affected its scope in two seemingly contradictory ways. On the one hand, ślesa ceased to be the dominant literary vehicle it had been for Subandhu, a verbal mode used to portray any topic. Instead, it was often resorted to as a plot device, employed when the scenario or the subject specifically called for a doubled tongue. This meant that the use of ślesa was occasionally reduced to incidents of stray verse in works where episodes of concealment or impersonation were of minor importance.1 But poets seemed increasingly attracted to guises, and ślesa came to occupy lengthy passages, if not full chapters, in a wide variety of works where dual and disguised characters played a central role. Unlike in Subandhu’s prose, where it was confined to the descriptive portions and appeared in combination with similes and other ornamental propositions, ślesa now emerged as a device fit for narration and dialogue. The eleventh-century king and theoretician Bhoja noticed these trends, as can be seen from his positing of a new theoretical category of poetry that aims at two targets simultaneously (dvisandhāna). One of his examples of this poetic type consists of the dialogue portions of Nītivarman’s

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Kcakavadha (Killing Kīcaka), a poem that narrates the exploits of the protagonists of the epic while they are exiled and living incognito. Their exchanges are “dual targeted” in the sense that they convey one meaning to outsiders, unaware of their true identity, and another to each other. Such multitargeting was made possible by their use of ślesa, each register of which was directed at a different addressee.2 Bhoja recognized the widening scope of ślesa in such instances. He noted that dual-targeted speech could range from a single sentence to a whole section of a poem or even an entire work.3 How does one explain the emergence of ślesa as a plot and dialogue device? Why did it pervade lengthy passages and even whole chapters? Indeed, why were poets so fascinated by disguised characters, and what exactly was the role of ślesa in their portrayal? In order to answer these questions, I shall closely examine the works mentioned by Bhoja, and in particular Nītivarman’s poem. Although the bulk of this chapter is devoted to this poetic masterpiece, I will explore several other poems and plays of the seventh and early eighth centuries and conclude with a brief look at a related instance of ślesa in a much later work, the famous Naisadhacarita (Life of Naisadha) of the twelfth-century poet Śrīharsa.

3.1 kcakavadha (killing kcaka) by ntivarman Nītivarman’s poem deals with the events of the Mahābhārata’s fourth section, “The Book of Virāta.” This book narrates the adventures of the epic’s main protagonists, King Yudhisthira, his four younger brothers, and their common wife Draupadī, while they are living incognito in the court of King Virāta. Their secret exile represents one phase in a long rivalry between Yudhisthira and his brothers, also known as the Pāndavas, and their cousins, the Kauravas. Their conflict has reached a dramatic showdown when Duryodhana, the Kauravas’ leader, tempts Yudhisthira, known for his weakness for gambling, to stake the fate of their contested throne on a game of dice. Once the game is announced, Duryodhana introduces his uncle, the dice trickster Śakuni, as his designated player. Yudhisthira, unable to withdraw, loses his wealth and kingdom, his brothers, his own freedom and, finally, his wife Draupadī. Draupadī herself is not present at the event because she is menstruating. Menstruating women were considered polluting and were kept in seclusion, where they dressed in a single piece of cloth and wore their hair in a disheveled state. After their dramatic victory

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in the dice game, the elated Kauravas drag Draupadī by her hair into the royal assembly despite her seclusion and polluted state, ignoring all rules of purity and propriety. There they demonstrate their power over their new “possession” by attempting to strip her of her only garment and to treat her as a sex slave. Draupadī barely escapes this assault. This scandalous event triggers a final dice throw, won again by Śakuni, after which the Pāndavas are banished from their kingdom for thirteen years. It is also stipulated that during their thirteenth and last year of exile Yudhisthira and his party will go underground, and that if they are recognized, their exile will begin afresh. This is where we find the Pāndavas in “The Book of Virāta.” After spending twelve years in the forest, they have chosen the court of Virāta, a regional king and cattle tycoon, as a hiding place for the remainder of their exile. They assume false identities and join Virāta’s ser vice. The jobs they take are humiliating. Yudhisthira, who lost all he had on the dice board, becomes the king’s dice master. His brother Arjuna, the virile warrior, takes the role of an effeminate dance teacher to the harem’s ladies. He dresses as a woman and is assumed to be a eunuch. The powerful Bhīma holds the position of a cook, and the twins Nakula and Sahadeva find work in the stable and cowshed, respectively. Draupadī, the former queen, takes the role of a chambermaid, a hairdresser to Virāta’s queen and the other ladies of the court. The court’s strongman is Kīcaka, Virāta’s brother-in-law and chief of staff. Kīcaka is attracted to Draupadī, whom he takes to be a maid and who refuses his advances. Undeterred, he arranges for Virāta’s queen, his sister, to send Draupadī to bring him wine in his chamber, and he accosts her when she arrives. Draupadī escapes to the royal assembly, where Kīcaka catches her, grabs her by her hair, throws her on the floor, and kicks her thigh. Virāta, unable to take action against his general, simply ignores the incident. Her husbands Yudhisthira and Bhīma also witness the assault but do nothing to stop it for fear of being exposed. Later Draupadī secretly approaches Bhīma and begs him for protection. At his advice she initiates a rendezvous with Kīcaka, to which Bhīma arrives dressed up as Draupadī. Bhīma slays Kīcaka, an incident that triggers a dramatic chain of events. The Kauravas, once they hear of Kīcaka’s death, decide to attack Virāta’s kingdom and steal his cattle. The Pāndavas assist in curbing this attack, and Arjuna single-handedly defeats the Kauravas, thereby revealing his identity. This paves the way for an all-out war, the subject of the epic’s remaining books.

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Nītivarman’s Kcakavadha is a relatively short poem, consisting of five chapters and 177 verses. It narrates the main events of “Th e Book of Virāta,” from Kīcaka’s assault of Draupadī to Arjuna’s victory over the Kauravas. Little is known about the poem’s author. It seems likely that he lived somewhere in the eastern part of the Indian subcontinent.4 He praises a royal patron “whose fame spread from Kali]ga,” in today’s Orissa.5 Another verse appears to name the patron Lokavigraha; a king of this name ruled Kali]ga about 600 CE.6 I have argued elsewhere that this king was most likely Nītivarman’s patron.7 What we do know for certain is that Nītivarman’s poem was once quite popular and widely read. It was cited by literary theorists from central and western India, as well as by many grammarians and lexicographers from a variety of localities.8 Today, however, the work is little known even in Bengal, where its transmission was uninterrupted. In 1929 Sushil Kumar De published the poem’s only printed edition, for which he also produced a learned introduction and thorough annotation. Paradoxically, De’s edition further buried the work in obscurity by claiming that Nītivarman was “not a great . . . nor even a mediocre poet.”9 It is telling that De’s edition was not followed by even a single study of the poem. No one bothered to explore the reasons for the work’s popularity or its author’s bold claim that he was composing something totally new, a literary feat never before dared.10

3.2 the elephant in the (assembly) room: ntivarman’s buildup One of the features of Nītivarman’s work that immediately catches the reader’s eye, or ear, is a unique division of labor between its two basic poetic modes. The rhyming pattern that I have called “twinning” ( yamaka) is the default poetic mode of the introductory canto and the four narrative chapters that follow. But whenever the disguised heroes and heroines enter into dialogue with one another, twinning disappears, and the author invariably switches to a different poetic mode, that of ślesa. Ślesa is also used whenever other characters address the topic of the Pāndavas’ disguise. The central role occupied by twinning and ślesa, as well as the regularity with which the two modes are interchanged, leads us to investigate their function in Kcakavadha.11 Let us begin, as Nītivarman does, with twinning, a device that pervades the poem’s second canto, the point at which the story actually begins. This

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chapter already finds the Pāndavas in the rather odd situation of living undercover in Virāta’s court: The sons of Prthā [Pāndavas] once served King Matsya [Virāta] in the guise of menial labor. Hidden too were the Dark One [Draupadī] and their universally celebrated stature. Earning a wage from their worthy crafts, due regard they won. They lived comfortably incognito, their faces shining like the moon.12

One striking feature of these verses is their blatant irony. The statement that servitude was a “worthy” job for the Pāndavas, allowing them a “comfortable” life and earning them “regard,” can hardly be taken at face value. Punctuating the irony is the stark contrast between the Pāndavas’ current, humiliating status as hired hands and their former celebrity. The poet uses the device of twinning to highlight this contrast: he rhymes “menial labor” ( prākrta-cestayā) with “universally celebrated stature” ( jagati cestayā) and twins the “due regard” won by these servants (samprāptapratimānanāh) with their radiating, moonlike charisma (śaśi-pratimānanāh).13 The verses also hint at the contradiction between the Pāndavas’ fame and their need to remain in disguise, thereby suggesting the fragility of their cover story. If their charisma is beaming for everyone to see, how can they maintain their secret?14 Note also the prominence Draupadī is given from the very outset. She is closely associated and perhaps even identified with the Pāndavas’ fame (krti) and is later equated with their royal glory (śr).15 We know, of course, what has become of the royal seat and good name of the Pāndavas and realize at once that Draupadī is also the embodiment of the Pāndavas’ disgrace. The queen-turned-hairdresser is the Pāndavas’ ignominy and a humiliation waiting to happen. With no one to protect her, she is an easy target for the predatory males in Virāta’s court.16 Thus Draupadī, who has already been molested by the Kauravas, is the very epitome of the contradictory mixture of dignity and degradation that characterizes the Pāndavas at this juncture. Nītivarman soon turns to Draupadī’s plight. In his characterization of her we are advised to pay special attention to her hair. Alf Hiltebeitel has written on the symbolism of Draupadī’s hair in the epic, noting that

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after the Kauravas’ assault she maintains the disheveled state of her hair and clothing as a sign of constant impurity and symbolic widowhood. Draupadī vows not to retie her hair until she has combed it with the blood of Duhśāsana, her prime molester, and she predicts that when she finally reties it, a reversal of roles will take place. Th e Kauravas’ wives will then become widows with unkempt tresses, forced to wear impure clothes.17 Thus in the epic Draupadī’s hair is a metonym for her past assault and its violent redemption, her ongoing humiliation and latent powers. In later, poetic versions of the Mahābhārata Draupadī has her tresses in a single braid rather than disheveled, but the symbolism remains the same.18 For Nītivarman too, Draupadī’s braid betokens a similar tension: She was like the fame of the Pāndavas, which crossed the ocean’s farthest border. She beamed like a sacrificial fire, projecting a thin line of smolder.19

Once more Draupadī is equated with the oceanic fame of the Pāndavas. But if the mention of the ocean calls to mind a state of quiet durability, the reference to the fire within Draupadī suggests her volatility. Like the submarine fire in Indian mythology, Draupadī is still smoldering beneath the surface. Moreover, there are external signs of this internal fire, and this is where Draupadī’s hair comes to mind. What is the thin line of “smoke” Draupadī is emitting? “This projection is in the form of her braid,” says the commentator Janārdanasena, “soiled with humiliation and bound for the duration of her vow, till the death of the Kuru clan.”20 According to this interpretation, Draupadī’s braid is the outer manifestation of her inner burning. This implication is immediately made explicit when Nītivarman touches on the fragility of Draupadī’s guise. Note that hair figures in Draupadī’s cover in more than one way. For one thing, it is the source of her livelihood in her role as a hairdresser. For another, although her husbands are secretly present, she has her hair braided, signaling, perhaps, their inability to protect her and provide for her.21 Finally, she covers her tresses with a dark cloth, as befits her status as a lowly servant. Still, it is her locks that somehow manifest themselves as irresistibly attractive. Thus the poet asks rhetorically: “Whom would the Dark One fail to attract, with her beeenticing braid?”22

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She certainly attracts the lustful Kīcaka. The infatuation of a person of low birth (sūtayoni) with this woman of superhuman origin (ayonijā) leads to an inevitable clash (2.9). When Draupadī is assigned to fetch him wine, she weeps silently (2.12). The poet again uses twinning to signal the heightened tension: Draupadī, whom her servants once praised as equal to the queen of the gods in splendor (śriyā bhrtyaih śacva stūyamānayā), has now reached the lowest possible state and has become worthless (avastūyamānayā).23 But she cannot take the risk of disobeying her orders and walks into Kīcaka’s residence. “Love is burning me with his arrows,” he tells her (2.17), and he begs her to return his love. The thought is so appalling and offensive to Draupadī that she does not mince words in her response: When she has her elephant husbands to care for and love, why in the world would a female elephant fancy an ugly-looking, rugged, shaggy ass?24

Kīcaka’s assault, a new humiliation for Draupadī (nave ’pamāne), triggers an internal transformation. Her fury (rusā) is immediately externalized in this harsh and defiant (atiparusā) response, in which she comes close to revealing herself.25 The imagery she uses also suggests this possibility. Draupadī and her husbands are the elephants in the room that is Virāta’s assembly hall, in the sense that their concealment is becoming increasingly impossible. It is thus significant that the poet carries this image over to the beginning of the third canto, where he directly thematizes the volatility of the situation: Like a tormented she-elephant she entered [the courtroom] where Ka]ka, Brhannala, and the others stood intent on serving Matsya.

When Draupadī enters the assembly, her disguised husbands are present. Ka]ka and Brhannala are the aliases of Yudhisthira and Arjuna, respectively. But there is more to this verse than the translation here betrays. The reader immediately notices the disappearance of twinning, which accompanied every verse of the poem thus far. In its stead ślesa is introduced,

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and the comparison of Draupadī with a large, wounded, female beast is developed in a concurrent textual layer: Like a tormented she-elephant dashing into a lotus pond, swarming with fish-cravingh erons.26

If the surface meaning of this verse is in keeping with the Pāndavas’ cover story, the pond image of the second layer suggests its shattering. The maddened she-elephant that is Draupadī creates havoc in the tiny fishpond of the Matsya kingdom, startling its herons (Yudhisthira) and uprooting its lotuses (Arjuna). Nothing will remain the same after her dramatic appearance. If twinning is used to portray the difficult fusion of contradictory identities, ślesa signals the breakdown of this fusion.

3.3 from smoldering to eruption: draupad’s les. a and its implications As Draupadī’s gaze falls on Yudhisthira, ślesa is again used. The two possible readings are presented here in parallel: Deprived of his insignia and luster. Deserted by his supplicants, as were his brothers, like a tree struck by fate, she saw her beloved and cried.27

Deprived of leaves and shade, deserted by fruit pickers, standing on a hilltop,

Sanskrit poets often compare kings with sheltering, fruitful trees. But Yudhisthira has already failed to protect Draupadī once, and by looking at him she instantly knows that he will fail her once again. Yudhisthira, then, is like a barren tree to Draupadī, and this ślesa-based image underscores his painful failure to fulfill his role as a provider. But the mention of a tree at this juncture also suggests that a process of rejuvenation may be under way if the bare branches could once again yield leaves and fruit. For the moment, however, the poet briefly returns to twinning to describe the struggle experienced by Draupadī’s husbands as they attempt to ignore her lest their identities be exposed. Seeing Draupadī crying, their eyes grow moist as well. When she sees this, she responds with a river of

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tears (3.3). At this point it becomes extremely difficult for Bhīma, known for his quick temper and special love for Draupadī, to contain himself. His body language is unambiguous: although “frozen by his enemies, by means of a loaded die,” his body almost “cracks in rage” (3.4–5). Draupadī must act quickly. She has to address Virāta, into whose assembly she has stormed. But she must also find a way to communicate with her husbands if she wishes to contain Bhīma’s ire and channel it into a desired course of action. The ideal solution is, of course, resorting to ślesa, a verbal extension of her physical guise. Most of Nītivarman’s third chapter consists of a doubled dialogue. First, Draupadī addresses each of her husbands while simultaneously speaking to King Virāta; then Bhīma replies in the same vein, secretly promising to kill Kīcaka. Nītivarman’s introduction of ślesa is, therefore, highly appropriate to the circumstances. This is also in keeping with the parallel episode in the Mahābhārata, where Draupadī’s speech to King Virāta, although it is not bitextual, is clearly meant for the ears of her husbands as well. 28 But Draupadī’s ślesa represents far more than just a practical choice. It also allows Nītivarman to characterize his heroine by creating a wide gap in tone and intensity between her two concurrent communications. Her message to Virāta, while full of censure, is not disrespectful. Draupadī demands that the king not behave in a cowardly manner, but she does so while applauding his bravery. She lauds his fame when she warns him of the shame of failing to protect her. She boldly insists that he punish Kīcaka, but in doing so she appeals to his sense of duty. In short, she demands justice from a king she describes as just. Her address to Yudhisthira and his brothers, however, is one of the most sarcastic and contemptuous sermons in kāvya. While Draupadī commends Virāta’s good conduct, comparing it with that of a good horse that never strays from the path, she likens Yudhisthira to a lowly dog (3.10). While reminding Virāta of his duty to protect her and reprimanding him for his dependency on Kīcaka, she again compares Yudhisthira with birds and dogs, “who eat everyone’s leftovers” (3.19). To Virāta she says, “I resorted to you believing you to be a worthy refuge: a king who seeks fame, who is committed to his country, and who can exercise his staff.” But in the register addressing Yudhisthira, she bitterly mocks the fate of his kingship by punning on these very royal symbols: “I married a disgraceful vessel made of unbaked pottery. All that surrounds you are a [potter’s] wheel and stick (danda, cakra).”29 Your mother should be pitied,

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she continues to scorn her senior husband (3.17–18), and your deceased ancestors in heaven will refuse to accept your oblations (3.21). The hidden register of Draupadī’s speech thus allows her to voice both her emotional accusations against her husband and her humiliation at his degradation. Her short communications to Arjuna, Nakula, and Sahadeva are no different in that respect, and the tone only intensifies when she finally approaches Bhīma, whom she has singled out by passing over him in the order of seniority. Furthermore, the ślesa enables Draupadī to combine two sets of humiliating experiences. While addressing Virāta, she talks about her current assault by Kīcaka. But the dominant theme in her address to her husbands is a similar, past event: her humiliation at the hands of her husbands’ cousins. In verse after verse she recalls that earlier trauma. She repeatedly returns to Yudhisthira’s loss in the dice game (3.8–11, 15) and to being stripped of her garment by Duhśāsana and Karna (3.12, 14–15, 28–29, 33). When reminding Virāta of his duties to his country, she decries her husbands’ failure to keep their own land (3.20, 23, 30). Likewise, while inciting Virāta to fight Kīcaka as his enemy, she demands that her husbands fight their archrivals, the Kauravas (3.25, 30, and elsewhere). Thus these two humiliating episodes are respectively embodied in the two registers of Draupadī’s ślesa. This is forcefully exemplified in the following verse, where Draupadī addresses both Virāta and Yudhisthira. To the former she says: Damn me, if I don’t die right here, in this assembly, having been humiliated by your wife’s brother and reduced to begging “protect me!” from someone who does not rely on himself.

This is Draupadī’s strongest indictment of Virāta, a king who is incapable of punishing a criminal in his own court. Virāta, intimates Draupadī, is a puppet king because his wife and his brother-in-law, her molester, really pull the strings. But in speaking to Yudhisthira, her mind is set on another assembly hall and a different set of events: Damn me for not dying then, in that assembly, when your brother humiliated me. He publicly proclaimed, “You’re my slave!” not fearing the consequences, because I was

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the wife of a man who wasn’t himself.30

As painful as Virāta’s inability to protect his wife’s hairdresser may be, it pales in comparison with her own husband’s helplessness. Draupadī’s emphasis in addressing Yudhisthira shifts from his current impotence as a powerless servant of Virāta to the past, when he was the king of his own court. There he betrayed her where it mattered most, in the intimate circle of their family. Note how the words bhāryā (wife) and bhrātr (brother, cousin) denote the same thing in both registers but convey a very different sense in the two different contexts. In addressing Virāta, they refer to his queen and his army general, but in the hidden register they refer to Draupadī herself and her own relatives. Likewise, the fact that Yudhisthira was not himself is of far greater importance to Draupadī than Virāta’s reliance on others, although the same word brings to mind both scenarios (anātman). Ślesa, then, helps mask the identity of Draupadī and her husbands at a crucial moment, when they are in danger of being exposed. But at the same time it reveals Draupadī’s emotions in a forceful manner. More precisely, the conarration of the two episodes indicates that Draupadī is again experiencing the old trauma, the pain of which was rekindled by her “new humiliation.” In this sense the hidden register of Draupadī’s ślesa allows her to embrace a part of herself that for a long time lay repressed. This function of ślesa is forcefully demonstrated when Draupadī finally comes to address her beloved Bhīma. Here are the three opening verses of that peroration: [to virt. a:]

[to bhma:]

How can a person like you, who knows all about protection, fail to help a woman like me standing on the verge of calamity?

How can a man like you, a veteran slayer of demons, resort to cooking soups, When I, your wife, am dying?

You are a protector! A hero! Surely you’re responsible for his [Kīcaka’s] arrogance.

You’ll soon drink blood from the thighs of him who grabbed me by my hair.

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For you act as if you were a pathetic deer and he an elephant-crushing lion.

Sure! Just like a pathetic deer would drink blood off a lion.

You are known for your granting of boons! But even the calm can be led astray by the frenzied, when you are like this. How much more so the lustful?

They who were out of their minds pulled the border of my dress, though blood-stained and polluted, when you were like this! 31

Both texts of the first verse are rooted in the present and betray only a difference in emotion: to Virāta Draupadī is in a dire state, but to Bhīma she is already dying; Virāta fails to protect her, while Bhīma is preoccupied with cookery. In the second verse, however, Draupadī’s sarcasm intensifies, and her focus shifts to the past. While continuing to criticize Virāta’s responsibility for Kīcaka’s behavior, she scathingly mocks Bhīma’s vow to revenge her earlier molestation. Indeed, this verse is a breathtaking example of Nītivarman’s masterful ślesa. The first half embraces two complete sets of separate signifiers, allowing the speaker to refer to two entirely different episodes. In the second half a single image of a deer facing a lion is used for two very different purposes. To Virāta it suggests the inverted hierarchy of his court; to Bhīma it scornfully portrays the unlikelihood of his fulfilling his vow to drink blood from Duhśāsana’s thigh. The third verse continues this trajectory. While Draupadī reprimands Virāta for his current inaction, it is the past events—her being dragged by her hair and stripped in front of her family—that are constantly featured in her address to Bhīma. In the public register of the ślesa a humble chambermaid demands that her master protect her and reinstate good order. But in the private register the true Draupadī emerges, demanding revenge, blood, and a total reversal of fortunes. Draupadī’s furious revelation is at first limited, thanks to her skillful use of ślesa, to the tiny audience of her five husbands, but it gradually leads to the Pāndavas’ resumption of their identities in a wider scope. First comes the response of Bhīma (3.35–40). His surface message is again addressed to King Virāta, demanding that Kīcaka be disciplined. In his concurrent speech to Draupadī, however, he reassures her that he too finds the situation totally unacceptable (3.35–36) and promises that Kīcaka will not see

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the end of the night (3.37–39). He concludes with a comment on Yudhisthira’s dicing fiasco (3.40). This reference to the past signals to Draupadī that he understood the full import of her ślesa and still plans to settle the score, not only for her current humiliation at the hands of Kīcaka but also for her earlier molestation by Duhśāsana. The remainder of the chapter is dedicated to Bhīma’s killing of Kīcaka (3.41–47). Interestingly, this revelation of Bhīma’s violent identity initially comes about through a further disguise. The hero-turned-cook takes on women’s dress for his “date” with Kīcaka. The twinning mode, to which the poet switches as soon as the dialogue ends, is once more instrumental in contrasting his masquerade as a member of the “weak gender” (abalāyamāna) with his inherent powers (balāyamāna). The latter soon emerge from the former, and once Kīcaka realizes whom he is embracing, it is too late (3.44). His death at the hands of Bhīma is brutal and terrible. When the people find Kīcaka’s deformed body in the morning, they view it with horror (3.47). The slaying of Kīcaka is the first public manifestation of the hidden Pāndavas, and it leads to a continued unfurling of their true selves. It is this act that prompts the Kauravas to attack Virāta’s land in an attempt to steal his cattle. Duryodhana divides his army into two parts: one segment draws the entire defending army, headed by Virāta, away from the city, while the main force, led by Duryodhana himself, sacks the defenseless capital (4.1–13). Virāta’s son, Uttara, and Arjuna, in the role of his eunuch sidekick, find themselves alone, facing Duryodhana’s massive body of troops. At this point Uttara does what seems only logical and flees.32 After all, two men cannot overcome an entire army. One of the two, however, has extraordinary powers, even if this fact is still unknown to the other. Arjuna, still sporting a skirt and a braid, chases the fleeing Uttara (4.17) and reprimands him for his cowardice (4.18–21). Arjuna’s words echo Draupadī’s earlier speech to him and his brothers. He whom Draupadī called a “bull among sheep” (3.24) now blames Uttara for behaving as a “she-goat” (4.19). This, however, is still not a sufficient argument to persuade Uttara to take up arms with him. It is only when Arjuna explicitly and unequivocally reveals himself with the words “I am Arjuna” (arjuno ’smi, 4.22) that Uttara agrees to mount his chariot and pursue those who raided his father’s livestock. Arjuna’s revelation is still limited to Uttara alone. A momentous revelation to his Kaurava enemies is still pending, for which purpose Nītivarman again switches to a ślesa mode. The poet turns his attention now to the

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enemy side, which is faced with an unusual offensive—a single chariot manned by a transvestite warrior. A consultation ensues in which the elders, Drona and Bhīsma, use ślesa to discuss the identity of this atypical combatant. In Drona’s ślesa one register depicts Arjuna’s effeminate guise, while the other describes him as the fierce fighter he is (4.24–28). Drona clearly recognizes Arjuna, and his speech serves as a mask (chadmanā, 4.24) prolonging his final revelation. But in Bhīsma’s subsequent speech the gender and identity of the approaching hero are no longer ambiguous, and both registers depict different aspects of Arjuna’s attack (4.29–37).33 Ślesa, which was initially used to signal the heroes’ split identities and then employed to highlight their gradual manifestations, now indicates the completion of this epiphany. The work’s last ślesa forcefully underscores the fulfillment of this process in portraying Arjuna’s chariot: Possessing feathered, pointed arrows, adorned with a variety of missiles, and with its monkey [banner] flapping, his chariot became a wishgranting tree.34

Abounding with leaves and fruits, adorned with colorful birds, as with a commotion of monkeys,

The first register of this verse refers to Arjuna’s recovery of his fabulous weaponry, hidden during his period of disguise, and to his hoisting of his personal ensign, the monkey banner. These actions settle the question of his identity once and for all. His chariot, after it has regained its insignia, resumes its full splendor and is compared with the lush tree described by the ślesa’s second register. Note how the poet completely reverses the image he had presented at the outset, also through a ślesa. If Yudhisthira was compared with a leafless tree, providing no shade and yielding no fruit, Arjuna’s chariot is not only a fruitful tree but indeed a heavenly one as well, one that grants the heart’s desire. This “tree” will finally provide the protective shelter that Draupadī had expected from her husbands all along. Arjuna’s recovered self is now publicly and unambiguously displayed in the large arena of the battlefield, where he single-handedly defeats his adversaries. His reversal of fortune leads to a series of reversals on the part

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of the Kauravas, whom he mocks. It is these archenemies who are now compared with lion-fearing deer (4.55, 5.8, 5.15), pots of unbaked mud (5.1), lowly dogs (4.47), and cowards fleeing battle (5.15). This is not merely a momentary turn of events but a watershed that will leave a profound and long-lasting mark on the course of events. We are told, for instance, that upon seeing the army of the Kauravas defeated in battle, Arjuna considers Bhīma’s drinking of Duhśāsana’s blood a fait accompli (4.48).

3.4 embracing the subject: les. a and selfing Later I address this symbolic, prophetic quality of Arjuna’s victory in the context of Nītivarman’s overall reworking of the epic, but let me first conclude my discussion of the Pāndavas’ gradual “rebecoming” by postulating a tentative theoretical framework within which it might be understood. One might rightfully question the psychological framework implicit in the preceding discussion. Is it not the case, one may ask, that characters in Sanskrit poems and plays are flat and impersonal, never experiencing the sort of transformation one might find in modern literary narratives?35 Are there any parallels in Sanskrit for the literary process I have been describing? What theory of the self underwrites the terminology of repression and recovery to which I have so frequently resorted? Are these notions not alien to the intended audience of the text? Contrary to popular belief, the evolution of an individual character’s self is actually a major theme in Sanskrit poetry and drama. Many of the characters from this literary corpus are constantly engaged in a search for their identity and are hence, for the most part, not fully themselves. From Rāma in Vālmīki’s Rāmāyana, the tradition’s “first poem,” to Dusyanta in Kālidāsa’s classical play Abhijñānaśākuntala and Arjuna in Bhāravi’s grand poem the Kirātārjunya, heroes only rarely realize the true nature of their capabilities, rarely experience the full range of their emotions, or rarely even enjoy full access to their memories.36 These and other characters constantly strive for moments of selfhood and inner expansion, which, once gained, are short lived. The self, in this sense, is not a stable state but a constant process, a verb rather than a noun. Indeed, there seems to be some regularity to the way this process of “selfing” occurs in early Sanskrit literature. David Shulman, in a seminal article on a pair of plays by Harsa, has identified many of the parameters of this process.37 The playwright Harsa was probably active a few decades

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after Nītivarman and was perhaps influenced by him as well. As Shulman notes, both of Harsa’s dramas follow a very similar plotline that is centered on King Udayana falling in love with a newcomer to his court. Both begin when Udayana’s heart is described as hard or frozen and follow the process of his “internal melting and softening,” which form “an opening to desire.”38 Shulman points out that in both plays this transformation is occasioned by the abnormal temporal context of a ritualized festival, “a time outside of time.” It is only at such moments that the self can liquefy and unfold, for standard time “is somehow inimical to the very existence of this kind of subject.”39 Shulman also discusses the crucial role ślesa plays in this process: “Although ślesa can, naturally, crop up anywhere, it is Udayana who is most susceptible to this type of splitting—in particular, from the moment he begins to fall in love.”40 It is from this juncture onward that ślesa dominates the discourse of the hero, and while it initially signals his “split consciousness,” it goes on to “open up a much deeper vein of doubling, and its potential evolution within the articulated self.”41 In another seminal essay Shulman attempts a more general theory of masks and their role vis-à-vis the “self ” in South Asian ritual, performance, and literary works. On the basis of an analysis of a wide array of texts, rites, and staged activities, Shulman argues that the actor’s or subject’s self in such contexts is seen as a fleeting moment of relative fullness within a constantly oscillating and fragmented subjective experience, and that this momentary experience comes only through what we may identify as “masking” (although, as he notes, the English word “mask” has no clear equivalent in any Indian language). The mask’s role, he argues further, is neither to cover up anything nor to unveil, but to allow the subject to coalesce or superimpose the different aspects of a normally fractured self. Shulman proposes to discern analytically two models for this process of masking, to which he refers with the Sanskrit concepts of pārātmya, or “a selfhood bound up with the other,” and tādātmya, “in which the subject coalesces with his or her self or selves in whole or in part.”42 The former is rooted in the paradigm of spirit possession, whereas the latter seems better suited to dramas and literary representations, although ultimately, Shulman does not consider the two necessarily at odds with each other. It is worth quoting here at some length his description of the coalescence that comes about through tādātmya: Tādātmya is sometimes existentially privileged, if that is the word we want: nothing is harder in the Hindu cosmos than for a person, sub-

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ject, word, or object to coincide with itself. This is largely because the borders themselves are congealed and “false” and because a gap or discontinuity is built into any defined state. Tādātmya masking, then, will bring the masked subject into the mode of congruence in levels of reality that we posited earlier as the antithesis of a normative state of dispersion. What this means, in effect, . . . is that the subject-actor, deliberately or not, enters into an embedded “piece” of his or her own reality—often as if slipping out of his or her position or habitual vantage point on the edge or frame into a very personal, deeply embedded story. Such an experience is usually transitory, often very brief, and always densely textured; self or selves converge powerfully on the surface, for example, in the plainly visible face: the more surface available, the more self. We could also describe such a moment in inverse terms as the extrusion of deep innerness onto the surface. Issues of texture and what I call “tonality”—partly linguistic, partly interactive, and requiring a listening or seeing partner—are also germane to this description. And yet it is also possible to think of possession, which we classed earlier as pārātmya, in quite similar terms, as the assumption of a singular persona with whom the subject is at least temporarily identified, partly or in full.43 Shulman then returns to discuss the pair of plays by Harsa and to place ślesa within his newly proposed and broader framework of tādātmya masking: We naturally tend to think of [ślesa] as revealing a split in awareness—and it is surely the case that the listener or observer proceeds to disentangle the two interwoven registers in his or her mind. But we might be closer to the forces motivating the poet’s choices if we imagine ślesa as a mode of hyperidentification, an expansion that assimilates a more immediate level to a more visionary one, thereby literalizing and literally “embodying” or “in-forming” the latter. Not schizogenesis but a vivid reconnectedness is the true mark of this figure. Ślesa, that is, has existential implications. The king is a reembodied love god within the context of Kāma’s festival: a more narrow and delimited identity has been melted down and its boundaries dissolved in order to “embrace” a divine role form another sphere . . . The king is actually expanded into himself, a subject bursting out of the constricting borders of his earlier, heavily determined

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roles. At the same time, he seems to be retracting an image of his own form; playing at himself, he is, as it were, becoming more and more like himself, impersonating his own impersonators, merging with his own infiguration . . . This is probably as close as he can get to a living self that acts and knows and flows. Moreover, there is always an “as if ” quality to this kind of subjectification, especially since the distinction in levels is never entirely forfeited in the course of their superimposition.44 Shulman’s work allows us to postulate a tentative theory of what I have called “selfing” in Sanskrit literature. According to this theory, subjects are split apart from important portions of their selves during “standard time” but are prone to “re-member” these aspects of their psyche in abnormal temporal settings. Split subjects are buds late to bloom, to use Kālidāsa’s imagery from the Abhijñānaśākuntala, setting suns, or indeed, barren trees, like Yudhisthira in the Kirātārjunya and Kcakavadha, respectively.45 These tropes indicate an acute state of unfulfilled potential, but they also hint at a latent promise and perhaps even at the cyclical nature of selfing. The characters strive to bloom, yield fruit, or rise; in so doing, they reassemble the self. Union among the different aspects of the self is achieved internally through the reintegration of repressed memories, feelings, and powers and then is manifested through some kind of external reunion: Harsa’s Udayana is united with his beloved, Kālidāsa’s Dusyanta is united with Śakuntalā and his son, and Arjuna regains his weapons and insignia both in the Kcakavadha and in the Kirātārjunya. The process is completed with a public demonstration of the reembodied subject, often meeting the universal approval of the gods.46 Moreover, selfing almost necessarily involves disguise, typically of a second order. In the Priyadarśikā Harsa’s Udayana first reveals his love to young Āranyikā in the context of a play within a play, where she is the leading lady and he the understudy for the actress playing him. Indeed, he uses the verbal guise of ślesa to make his feelings known to her while still playing his part. As Shulman points out, it is through this double masquerade, impersonating an actor impersonating him, that Udayana first embraces his self and his beloved.47 Interestingly, the divinity witnessing the subject’s self-resumption may also reveal himself or herself through a guise. This is typical of Śiva, who masquerades as a hunter before revealing himself to Arjuna in the Kirātārjunya and poses as a devotee who imitates Śiva (note, again, the double guise) before his epiphany to Pārvatī

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in Kālidāsa’s Kumārasambhava.48 The gods also undergo a cyclical process of revealing themselves in the presence of humans, in which their brief moments of full self-presence coincide with and indicate the rare fulfillment of a human’s subjectivity.49 My notion of selfing clearly needs further elaboration and validation, but Shulman’s studies and the examples supplied here suffice to show that the evolution of the subject is a major concern in kāvya literature. Nītivarman certainly shares this concern with his predecessors (Vālmīki, Kālidāsa, Bhāravi) and followers (e.g., Harsa). Kcakavadha features subjects who have literally lost their selves to the throw of a dice and are now self-less (anātman). The poem’s temporal setting is certainly abnormal: it has already been argued that the Pāndavas’ thirteenth year of exile, like an extra month in a year, represents “the hinge between one completed term and the next one.” It has thus been said to resemble the spring festival of Holī, marking the end of one year and the beginning of a new one, with a colorful carnival of guises and cross-gender masquerades.50 Such guises, of course, figure prominently in the epic, as well as in the poem, at the end of which we see the Pāndavas recover a whole range of hithertoinaccessible experiences and capacities. Crucial to this process in the Kcakavadha is the unprecedented use of ślesa. Nītivarman harnesses this device in order uniquely to accentuate kāvya’s concern with the evolving subject. As in Shulman’s reading of Harsa’s plays, ślesa highlights the acute split and the final embrace, the beginning and the end of selfing. More important, however, the verbal masquerade of bitextuality in the work’s dialogues allows the poet dramatically to characterize Draupadī’s angry reemergence and Arjuna’s manifestation. Nobody before Nītivarman had ever used ślesa in a manner so attuned to the plot and its characters, and never before had selfing been so powerfully portrayed in kāvya. Nītivarman’s claims for breaking new ground are thus certainly not without merit.

3.5 embracing twin episodes: les. a and the refinement of the epic Nītivarman also uses ślesa to achieve another major goal of Sanskrit literature: the refinement of the epic. The epics form the backbone of postepic literature, but they also contain many scenes that were deemed ethically problematic and hence unbefitting the aestheticized ideal of kāvya. Poets resorted to a variety of means in their effort to improve on their sources.

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Bhoja, for example, noted how writers tended to omit embarrassing episodes in their poetic retellings of the Rāmāyana.51 In the case of the Rāma story, the ethical problems seemed limited to a handful of incidents, but the Mahābhārata, in which the ever-hesitant protagonists carry out an intrafamilial massacre, posed a more serious challenge.52 The theorist Kuntaka commended the poet Bhāravī for his ingenious solution to this problem. Instead of editing out countless passages, Bhāravi chose to represent the entirety of the Mahābhārata through one exemplar episode. His Kirātārjunya (Arjuna and the Hunter) depicts Arjuna’s exploits during the Pāndavas’ exile, in which he successfully wrestles with Śiva and obtains a divine weapon from him. This choice highlights the heroism of the Mahābhārata while relegating the problematic episodes that occur before and after this particular scene to the epic intertext.53 Nītivarman appears to have followed in Bhāravi’s footsteps. His work also sublimates the unacceptable messages of the Mahābhārata by depicting just one of its exile chapters, the Virāta episode. Indeed, Nītivarman’s choice of a narrative metonym seems superior to Bhāravi’s. “The Book of Virāta” already appears to have been intentionally designed as a kind of “microepic” within the Mahābhārata,54 a fraction representing the larger narrative whole. Several scholars have noted, for instance, that Arjuna’s preaching to Uttara in “The Book of Virāta” closely resembles Krsna’s later sermon to Arjuna in the Bhagavadgtā.55 The cattle war, too, is seen as “a preview,” “crafted to foreshadow the events of the great Bhārata war.”56 Indeed, the book has been described as “a disguised summary of the narrative of the larger epic.”57 It is this disguise that Nītivarman breathtakingly highlights through his use of ślesa and twinning. Indeed, he may have been trying to best Bhāravi, whose Kirātārjunya refers to the earlier epic plot through a series of debates among the Pāndavas in its opening chapters and briefly alludes to the later war through Arjuna’s heroic feats and newly won divine weapon. By contrast, Nītivarman, in an unprecedented move, embraced these intertexts into his poem. The result amounts to a large-scale twinning of epic episodes. Consider, again, Draupadī’s ślesa. Her bitextual oratory immediately causes the reader to notice the striking similarity in both structure and detail between the two events that she codescribes: one from her past (her molestation by the Kauravas) and one occurring in the present (Kīcaka’s harassment). Both involve her appearance, in an impure state and improper clothing, on the public stage of the royal assembly. In both she is sexually assaulted and humiliated while idle kings fail to protect her. Both

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feature a molester of low birth (Karna, Kīcaka) and a divine savior, preventing her from further disgrace (Krsna, Sūrya). Draupadī’s ślesa calls our attention to the close affinity between these two distinct portions of the epic story.58 Her bitextual flashbacks make it clear why her “new humiliation” revives a remarkably similar experience. Ślesa is also used to underscore the episode’s “flash-forwards,” from the battle that follows Kīcaka’s death to the all-out Mahābhārata war. In the fourth canto of Kcakavadha Bhīsma uses ślesa in advising Duryodhana of the arrival of the still-disguised Arjuna. In one register he describes him as a cowherd who comes to rescue the cattle stolen behind his back, while in the other he depicts him as a king reclaiming his land snatched by loaded dice.59 Bhīsma’s equivocal speech is faithful to Arjuna’s residual ambiguity, as a soldier serving Virāta and as a king fighting for his own cause.60 But it also highlights the intraepic relationships embodied by the Virāta episode: if the theft of the cows is a reenactment of the Kauravas’ stealing of the kingdom, their redemption is a “preenactment” of the redemptive epic war. Thus when Bhīsma preaches to Duryodhana about the employment of military power (’sau bala) in such raids, he concurrently reminds him of Śakuni’s (Saubala) trickery in dice, which has robbed the Pāndavas of their land (4.34–35), and in addressing Arjuna’s recovery of his livestock he simultaneously predicts his ultimate victory (4.36–37). Once the dialogue ends, twinning is used for precisely the same purpose. For instance, when Arjuna makes the Kaurava elders, Drona and Bhīsma, look like a  pair of frightened, tuft-wearing schoolboys (santrastau bālāv iva śikhandinau), this taunt is echoed by his depiction of them as if already slaughtered by Draupadī’s brothers (dhrstadyumna-śikhandinau, 4.49) in the final war. Arjuna’s heroic feats in this canto thus achieve, as it were, the goals of the ultimate war while avoiding its messy problems and dilemmas. Although rivers of blood flow from the fleeing Kaurava army, their elders are shot with noninjurious arrows (aśaraih śaraih, 4.41), and their leaders are left unharmed. Ślesa and twinning come together to create a substitution for the larger epic that cleverly disguises itself as the larger whole. To summarize, Nītivarman’s narration of the Mahābhārata through the Virāta episode achieves two important objectives. First, it permits him to highlight the Pāndavas’ internal change as an epicwide watershed. To this end, the poet concentrates on only three main scenes: Draupadī’s molestation, the killing of Kīcaka, and the battle over the cattle, which is

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preceded by Arjuna preaching to Uttara in a manner reminiscent of the Bhagavadgtā.61 His focus on the reexperienced humiliation of Draupadī and the preview of the final war allows him to highlight the wider implications and contours of the protagonists’ selfing, an outcome that his ślesa uniquely enables. His poetic narration also achieves a second goal of sublimating the epic. Kcakavadha presents a single scene that is morally and aesthetically superior to its epic whole. It uniquely embraces the sections of the epic that precede and follow its focal episode through a masterful use of ślesa and twinning, poetic devices that serve to render this microepic superior to the macroepic in many ways. Kcakavadha is an extraordinary work of kāvya—a masterpiece that has never received the attention it deserves from modern readers.

3.6 flowers and arrows, milk and water: responses to ntivarman’s les. a Quite a few authors seem to have been inspired by Nītivarman’s use of ślesa. I have already mentioned Harsa’s pair of plays (mid-seventh century), in which the role of ślesa in Udayana’s process of self-becoming through a dual guise as noted by Shulman may well have been a response to some of its functions in Kcakavadha. Bhavabhūti’s drama Mālatmādhava (early eighth century) also features a bitextual speech at a strategic juncture in the plot. As in Harsa’s Ratnāval, the occasion is an internal transformation that takes place at the onset of the spring festival, when the hero Mādhava first sets his eyes on the beautiful Mālatī. The love-struck Mādhava somewhat clumsily tries to conceal his emotional upheaval by weaving a garland made of flowers. Mālatī’s friend Lava]gikā then approaches him with a ślesa. Praising his skill in flower arrangement in one register, she arranges his love union with Mālatī in the other. Her brief speech establishes the loosely knit garland as an icon for the love-torn Mādhava, who is identified, in turn, with Love himself.62 The complex garland icon then binds the couple together and is repeatedly mentioned throughout the play. I hope to elaborate elsewhere on the adventures of this garland. What concerns me here is that this material manifestation of Lava]gikā’s ślesa frames the entire process of Mādhava’s selfing, from his initial moment of splitting to a secret union with Mālatī (when she places it on his neck while he is disguised) and to a final, public wedding. Thus Lava]gikā’s ślesa, brief though it may be, is of playwide importance and works in a manner that the pre-

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ceding discussion has led us to expect. That Bhoja chose it as his example of the aforementioned category of dual targeting on the level of the sentence is perhaps in recognition of its playwide importance.63 A seventh-century poem that seems more directly informed by Nītivarman’s work is Māgha’s famous Śiśupālavadha (Killing Śiśupāla). Māgha is traditionally seen as responding to the poet Bhāravi, but I believe that he was also directly influenced by Nītivarman’s work, a link between Bhāravi’s poetry and his that has been hitherto unrecognized. Māgha’s work, like that of his two predecessors, is a poem that narrates the Mahābhārata through one of its episodes. Indeed, as in Kcakavadha, the episode Māgha chooses focuses on the slaying of one evil enemy. More important, Māgha’s poem also contains a centrally located ślesa section, supplying Bhoja with his example for his discussion of a dual-targeted speech on the level of a chapter.64 Śiśupālavadha retells a story from the Mahābhārata’s “Book of the Assembly Hall.” The context is a grand celebration of Yudhisthira’s universal lordship. Appropriately, all the kings of the earth are invited, including Krsna—a close ally whom Yudhisthira reveres as a god—and Śiśupāla, king of Cedi, Krsna’s nemesis. At the ritual’s climax Yudhisthira chooses Krsna as the guest of honor, a crushing humiliation for Śiśupāla. Śiśupāla challenges this choice and rallies several of the other guest kings against Yudhisthira. He then insults and goads Krsna, who finally kills him with his thunderbolt. Māgha’s monumental poem narrating Krsna’s expedition to the celebration and the events that unfold during the ritual ceremony adds numerous elements to the epic version. Perhaps the most salient of these is a description of an emissary sent by Śiśupāla to Krsna just before their final duel. The most striking feature of this added episode, the subject matter of the entire sixteenth canto, is that the message consists of two clear and distinct meanings (sphutabhinnārtha).65 One is offensive and harsh (apriya, parusa)— essentially a declaration of war. The other is favorable and pleasing ( priya, madhura)—a call for reconciliation (sāntva).66 The following is a typical example. In one register the emissary appears to flatter Krsna by praising his exploits as the leader of the cowherd community: You delighted the cowherds and their wives by killing Demon Buffalo and cracking down on crime. Now your action against the formidable demon Naraka is winning the enthusiastic approval of the people.

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But there is another side to this praise of Krsna’s public stature and popularity. The ślesa, when read differently, contains a far less favorable account of Krsna’s actions: By having sex with the wives of the cowherds you acted criminally and slaughtered justice. Now that your career has hit rock bottom, the people say you got what you deserved.67

As we have seen in Subandhu’s prose, ślesa can be used to reveal the embarrassing aspects of mythology. Krsna’s exploits include not only the slaying of various demons but also a rather wild love life. The messenger’s speech thus combines praise of Krsna’s official record as a god-king with a scathing reproach of his moral conduct. Why would he wish to express two such conflicting messages at the same time? One possible explanation is that equivocal speech fits well with the emissary’s mission. The task of such agents, as the fourteenth-century commentator Mallinātha reminds us, is not so much to deliver a message as to gauge the intentions of the addressee. This is accomplished by presenting him with two alternatives, one conciliatory and one hostile, in order to examine his response. Ślesa, according to this theory, is an aesthetically pleasing and plot-appropriate device that is useful for the depiction of diplomats whose speech is necessarily equivocal.68 Indeed, we have just seen a ślesa used by a love messenger in Bhavabhūti’s play. But there is more to Māgha’s use of ślesa. One of the fascinating aspects of the poem is the way in which ślesa becomes an explicit theme, the object of the characters’ own analysis. The emissary himself characterizes his speech in the ensuing dialogue as an act of kindness. The noble Śiśupāla is willing to offer one last piece of good advice to his self-destructive enemy. If Krsna knows what is in his best interest and, indeed, is capable of grasping the speech’s dual meaning, he should quickly choose the more favorable option.69 The implication is that Krsna should accept Śiśupāla’s rather humiliating offer of a truce. In his comments on this statement, Mallinātha refers to the common legend about milk and water. When mixed together, milk and water become a single fluid. But there is one way to retrieve the milk from the water: legend has it that geese are the only creatures capable of extracting the milk from such a mixture. As Mallinātha remarks, the emissary is claiming to present Krsna with a similar challenge: if he is

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wise, Krsna will extricate the truce from the verbal blend of provocation and conciliation.70 But Krsna’s side rejects the possible interpretation of the messenger’s ślesa as a trial that tests Krsna’s ability to choose the beneficial meaning. Krsna’s close aide Sātyaki characterizes the emissary’s address to his master by using a set of images that suggest an interpretation that differs strikingly from the one just given. For Sātyaki, the ślesa is comparable to the harsh stem of a lotus, covered by a soft blossom, or to a leaf that is soft on the outside but hard on the inside. Just as a traveler, on encountering a bird during his journey, may initially perceive the sight as a good omen and later conclude that it was a particularly evil one, so is the experience of the messenger’s speech.71 Thus Sātyaki believes that the messenger’s ślesa is a device that gradually reveals a harsh inner intent. From his perspective, the ślesa is conciliatory only on the surface, while the true message of provocation and hostility lies beneath. In essence, the dual speech does not contain two meanings but “clearly one” (sphutam ekam eva vacanam, 16.18). Looking back at the messenger’s ślesa, one tends to agree with Sātyaki. The emissary contrasts Krsna’s glorious official mythology with some of its more embarrassing elements in a manner that, as we have seen in Subandhu, seems weighted more toward the latter aspects than the former. Indeed, Śiśupāla’s earlier unambiguous challenge to Krsna in public, both in the epic and in the poem, involves precisely the same sort of juxtaposition.72 Ultimately, then, the messenger’s ślesa does not present two equivalent options: it is neither a means of spying nor a last-minute peace offer. Rather, it is an example of “trick praise” (vyājastuti), a eulogy that barely disguises the censure it contains, as Sātyaki is easily capable of recognizing.73 Śiśupāla’s heart, he perceptively notes, is simply “too tiny to contain his enmity,” and he is thus “forced to express it.”74 The messenger’s mouth, in turn, is “an unlatched city gate” (anargalagopurānana, 16.37). Sātyaki essentially ridicules Śiśupāla’s verbal guise: the combination of a petty heart and a wide-open mouth cannot but reveal one’s true intentions. As in Nītivarman’s poem, then, Māgha’s ślesa is a mask through which the speaker’s true nature is revealed, but this revelation seems to be of a very different type. If Kcakavadha depicts the gradual rebecoming of characters who were not themselves, Śiśupālavadha features an individual who cannot help but be himself. Śiśupāla was born disfigured, only to be miraculously given a normal human form by Krsna himself. Hearing a

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prophecy that the child’s savior would also kill him, Śiśupāla’s mother demanded assurances from Krsna, who promised to tolerate up to 100 grave offenses before harming her son.75 But Śiśupāla ceaselessly offends Krsna, consistently demonstrating his internal deformation. In this sense there is nothing substantially new about his messenger’s speech. As Sātyaki points out, it is simply the final insult,76 the last piece of wood on Śiśupāla’s funeral pyre. In a forthcoming essay Lawrence McCrea convincingly argues that Māgha’s portrayal of the divine in his poem intentionally differs from the extant work of his predecessors. Māgha’s Krsna, he argues, is a constantly conscious god, omniscient and unchanging, even as he descends to earth in a variety of forms. McCrea demonstrates that Māgha presents Krsna as a model of restraint and quiescence who looks on serenely, unlike Śiśupāla, who is portrayed as “a virtual poster-child for emotional excess.” Śiśupāla, too, is a consistent character; although he appears in the world in a variety of guises (e.g., Rāvana, Hiranyakaśipu), his fundamental nature remains unchanged. Hence, as McCrea suggests, Krsna does not actively have to set out to destroy Śiśupāla; rather, it is Śiśupāla’s innate rashness that leads to his self-destruction through Krsna, like a moth drawn to flame (2.117).77 In light of McCrea’s reading we may wish to consider the possibility that Māgha is making yet another attempt to refine the epic. Śiśupālavadha views the Mahābhārata as a story about a restrained god, Krsna, and certain emotionally excessive forces of evil that find their death at his hands. Other sides of Krsna’s story, especially his erotic life, are strictly edited out and find a place only in the slanderous accusations of Śiśupāla and his messenger; Subandhu’s iconoclastic pun is now the weapon of God’s evil enemies. In essence, Krsna is constantly calm and Śiśupāla’s parallel rashness is eternal. Māgha’s Krsna is thus different from Bhāravi’s Śiva and certainly different from Nītivarman’s Draupadī, who is portrayed by her ślesa speech as highly emotional. Māgha’s characters are unchanging, and it is precisely this constancy that is revealed through the verbal guise of ślesa.

3.7 sarasvat’s les. a: disguise and identity in rhars.a’s nais. adhacarita No doubt the most famous occurrence of a ślesa section in a poem is found in Śrīharsa’s Naisadhacarita (Life of Naisadha). This immensely

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popular twelfth-century work, one of Sanskrit’s most cherished poems,78 features a ślesa section at the most suspenseful point in the narrative. Not surprisingly, this occurrence of ślesa takes place in connection with disguise and questions about a character’s true identity. But Śrīharsa’s employment of ślesa with regard to these themes is remarkable and novel, and this may help explain the unprecedented fame gained by his ślesa canto among Sanskrit literati: this chapter became so popular that it was circulated as a short work known by its own name, the Pañcanalya (Five Nalas), independent of its mother poem.79 At the risk of disrupting the chronological plan of this book, it seems only appropriate to conclude our discussion with a brief consideration of the most celebrated example of ślesa as a part of the plot. Śrīharsa’s poem retells the well-known story of Nala (Naisadha). The same narrative already appears in the Mahābhārata’s “Forest Book” as a reflection on the events of the epic’s main plot through a depiction of Nala’s own tale of loss in dice, exile, and recovery. By the twelfth century, however, the Nala saga had become an epic in its own right, with oral, written, and visual versions, not unlike the Mahābhārata and the Rāmāyana. It is this more elaborate epic narrative that Śrīharsa rendered into poetry. The Nala story famously begins with King Nala and Princess Damayantī falling in love. The couple uses geese as messengers to convey their mutual interest before they have actually met in person. When Damayantī resolves to choose Nala as her husband, the gods unexpectedly intervene. Indra, Agni, Yama, and Varuna, the guardians of the cardinal directions, also fancy Damayantī. They cunningly appoint Nala himself as their love messenger. The helpless Nala secretly approaches Damayantī in order to promote his rival suitors to the woman he loves. Damayantī, however, is undeterred. She uses the conflicted Nala to send a firm reply to the gods: she prefers their courier to them. In response, the four gods deploy their divine powers to appear at Damayantī’s groom-choice ceremony disguised as Nala. Suddenly faced with five Nalas rather than one, Damayantī is at a loss. But her insistence eventually wins her the grace of the gods. They allow her to see that their feet do not touch the ground, their skin does not perspire, their eyes do not blink, and their garlands never fade. Damayantī is then able to recognize the only Nala who is human, and she chooses him as her husband. This episode serves only as a prelude for the numerous trials that Nala and Damayantī are forced to undergo. Nala loses everything he owns

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through dice games, is separated from Damayantī, takes on a humiliating guise, and only after many hardships is reunited with her. Interestingly, this later and indeed major portion of the story is excluded from Śrīharsa’s poetic work. His poem is dedicated solely to the initial love story of Nala and Damayantī, culminating in their marriage. Naturally, then, Damayantī’s eventful groom-choice ceremony forms the dramatic heart of the Naisadhacarita, occupying five of its twenty-two cantos. Within the framework of this love story, Śrīharsa’s main narrative innovation is to feature the goddess Sarasvatī, Poetry embodied, as one of his characters. Sarasvatī becomes the hostess of Damayantī’s ceremony, in which role she complicates the visual puzzle of the five Nalas with a verbal puzzle. Sarasvatī introduces each of the four impostor “Nalas” to Damayantī with a ślesa that describes both their disguises and their true identities (as depicted in the Pahari painting on page xx). She then describes the fifth and real Nala alongside his impersonators, again by means of ślesa. The gods will become visually distinguishable from Nala, thus allowing Damayantī to make her choice, only if she can solve the linguistic puzzle Sarasvatī has presented. Sarasvatī’s ślesa, then, is not just the literary vehicle of the canto; it is the main event of the chapter, if not of the poem as a whole. Consider, for example, the description of the “Nala” who is really Indra in disguise. Sarasvatī is explicitly said to describe this suitor by both revealing and concealing his true identity.80 Here is one of the verses where she simultaneously depicts him as Indra (his true self ) and Nala (his assumed identity): [depicted as indra:]

[depicted as nala:]

On the battleground, as in his expeditions, heavenly armies accompany him, bedecked with abundant loot. He has the moon, Śiva’s troops, and Śiva’s son; and his bow, the celestial rainbow, is studded with the shining jewel of the sun.

In his assembly, as in his outings, he is fanned by an entourage of women, all covered with ornaments. Strings of shining, white pearls, interspersed with a rainbow of gems, cover their lovely breasts, as does the shining sun-stone.81

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Indra has the heavens under his command: the rainbow is his bow, the sun and the moon are his ornaments, and the gods and their armies are  his troops. Nala is a king of flesh, rooted in the realm of human love. This amazing, doubled verse could be seen as descriptively embracing man and god. Indeed, the entire chapter could be taken as a meditation on the similarity between the king and the divine—an issue that stands at the heart of ślesa experimentation from the start. In a forthcoming essay Charles Malamoud argues that through Sarasvatī’s ślesa King Nala is gradually understood to be a composite of the guardians of the four directions, in accordance with an ancient theory of Hindu kingship. The fact that Sarasvatī’s final description of the real Nala is concluded with a spectacular, five-registered ślesa, simultaneously portraying him and all four of his divine rivals, seems to lend support to this hypothesis.82 Malamoud’s compelling suggestion notwithstanding, one wonders whether Sarasvatī’s ślesa, like Subandhu’s, actually shows man in a more favorable light than the gods. After all, the Nala story emphasizes the humanness of the real Nala as preferable to the divinity of his impersonators. His feet touch the ground, and his eyes actually blink: these are features that single him out from the impostors and make him worthy of human love. As some scholars have noted, the very name Nala echoes the word nara (man).83 Sarasvatī’s bitextual speech in Śrīharsa’s Naisadhacarita certainly includes hints to this effect. The gods are described as stellar and glorious but not lovable: they have their flaws, as well as many terrifying qualities (e.g., verses 13.18, 30). Sarasvatī makes no secret of the fact that of the four suitors, one is Death embodied, the second Fire, and the third the mighty Ocean. The fourth, she notes in passing, is already married (13.6). At any rate, such considerations are negligible from Damayantī’s point of view. She has already decided that she finds Nala more attractive than the gods and has resolved to take him for a husband. Her urgent problem is not whether to prefer the terrestrial to the celestial but how to tell one from the other. Thus again the two core issues of Śrīharsa’s ślesa are disguise and true identity, but there are crucial innovations in Śrīharsa’s use of ślesa with regard to these issues. First, it is not the hero himself who is disguised in the Pañcanalya, but rather his impersonators. The task of Damayantī is to see through their disguises, a process in which Nala plays no part. Unlike in Kcakavadha it is not a “barren tree” that Damayantī confronts in facing Nala. In what may be an indirect reference to Nītivarman’s

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poem, Śrīharsa instead identifies the problem as the appearance of “five wish-granting trees” rather than one.84 Thus Sarasvatī’s ślesa seems primarily to present an epistemological enigma that bears some resemblance to the use of ślesa in Śiśupālavadha. Śrīharsa pays specific attention to the manner in which Sarasvatī’s equivocal language magnifies the already-dizzying visual confusion Damayantī confronts during her groom-choice ceremony (e.g., 13.7). If her mind is already pulverized by the troubling vision of five Nalas, Sarasvatī’s ślesa further “grinds it to powder” (13.19). But what is most fascinating about the confusion in Damayantī’s mind—and this is where Śrīharsa clearly differs from Māgha—is that it is not purely epistemological. As Śrīharsa notes after Sarasvatī’s codepiction of Nala and Varuna, the ślesa has them uncertain as well: No wonder this equivocal speech nurtured the vines of doubt, stemming from Damayantī’s heart and twining around the trunks of multiple Nalas. But that it nurtured equal doubt both in Nala and in the Lord of the Ocean is a marvel.85

The poet himself highlights what is really marvelous (citra) about his ślesa. It not only reveals the five Nalas as the objects of Damayantī’s confused gaze but also turns them into equally confused subjects, no longer sure who they are. In discussing this point, the commentator Nārāyana invokes one of the standard tropes for epistemic doubt: when viewed from a distance, at twilight, it is hard to discern the difference between a person standing on a veranda and a pillar. But, remarks Nārāyana, when the actual person begins to wonder whether he is a man or a pillar, it is an altogether different doubt.86 Thus a second major difference between Śrīharsa and his predecessors is rooted in the interplay between his use of ślesa and his depiction of the characters’ selfhood. In Nītivarman’s Kcakavadha ślesa allows repressed and frozen subjects to melt and reemerge. In Māgha’s poem ślesa serves as a verbal mask through which the consistently abusive nature of Śiśupāla is finally and ultimately revealed. In contrast, it is hard to resist interpreting Śrīharsa’s unique casting choice of Sarasvatī as the speaker of the ślesa in the Pañcanalya as anything but a strong statement about the challenges

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and powers of verbal art. One might imagine his ślesa chapter as representing the various characters involved in literary production: Sarasvatī represents the poet, Damayantī the reader of the text, and the five Nalas its heroes. According to this interpretation, the self, whether changing or constant, is not something that the characters independently possess. Rather, they depend on the skill of the poet to individuate them meaningfully as subjects and, even more important, on the reader’s ability to successfully decipher this poetic representation. It is only through Damayantī’s successful reading of the Pañcanalya’s verses that Nala and the four gods come to possess individual selves. In this connection it seems significant that during and after the ślesa chapter Śrīharsa focuses on Damayantī’s interpretive process. He portrays her as utterly perplexed throughout Sarasvatī’s equivocal depiction of the Nalas, but he also notes the intuitive sense she has of the identity of the true Nala when Sarasvatī describes the fifth and final suitor. It is here, through Damayantī’s mouth, that the poet explicitly compares her feelings at the groom-choice ceremony with those experienced while reading poetry: All the other Nalas were the same. Why does this final one flood my heart with nectar? It is like two words in a poem, sharing the selfsame set of sounds: It is only in uttering the latter that I relish the rhyme.87

Sarasvatī’s characters are near-identical alliterations till Damayantī can relish and distinguish them from one another. For this purpose a good aesthetic intuition is necessary, even if it is not always sufficient. A reader, it turns out, must also carefully study verse after verse before he or she can understand the poem, which is precisely what Damayantī does. She comes back to examine in an orderly fashion Sarasvatī’s verses—a poem within a poem—before she finally correctly deciphers her poetic puzzle (14.9–11). At the very end of the text Śrīharsa directly describes his vision of poetry in a way that lends support to my understanding of the Pañcanalya episode as a metapoetic statement. He openly admits to those readers who have reached the farthest shore of his vast and difficult poem that he has intentionally planted “knots” throughout his work (22.152). As David

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Shulman, Gary Tubb, and I argue in a forthcoming essay, these knots ( granthi) are integral to, if not emblematic of, his poetic text (grantha), and although they require considerable effort to disentangle, they are not mere obstacles but, in fact, opportunities. In our essay we suggest that “the reader is not meant to cut through the knots, as in the Gordian variety, but to release the multiple threads so as to allow them to unfold and expand in all their fullness.”88 The most conspicuous and important verbal entanglement in the Naisadhacarita is Sarasvatī’s ślesa, a “word-garland” she knotted ( jagrantha) and handed to Damayantī (14.14–15). Damayantī’s successful opening of this spectacular knot exemplifies not just the process by which a text becomes meaningful and its characters self-possessing, but also the manner in which it benefits its reader. It is only her realization of the true, complex nature of the garland of words that allows Damayantī to place an actual garland around the neck of her true beloved and make him her husband.

3.8 conclusion At the beginning of the seventh century Sanskrit writers began to examine radically new uses for simultaneous expressivity. Ślesa of the sort found in Subandhu’s descriptive passages maintained a presence in Sanskrit literature, even if its subversive edge was eliminated or blunted by putting it in the mouths of characters such as Śiśupāla, whose very nature is slander. Indeed, poets and playwrights were now finding ways to integrate this device into plotlines meaningfully. The success of these new experiments is attested by the centrality and dominance of ślesa in a wide variety of works. What Bhoja called “dual-targeted” speeches became an almost standard component of narrative poems and stage plays, often occupying entire sections or chapters and typically appearing at the centermost plot juncture. As the preceding discussion reveals, such bitextual exchanges evoke a coherent set of themes and images that echo one another.89 Most typically, ślesa appears as a verbal extension of some physical guise in connection with the question of a person’s true identity. We have seen ślesa used in a variety of ways and situations vis-à-vis the issues of disguise and mistaken identity. The context may be love and courting, as in Harsa’s and Bhavabhūti’s plays, as well as Śrīharsa’s Naisadhacarita, or heroic deeds, as in Kcakavadha and Śiśupālavadha. Sometimes it is the characters disguising their own identity or intentions who resort to ślesa, such as

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Nītivarman’s Draupadī and Harsa’s Udayana; at other times the speakers are characters who depict or address them, as in Bhīsma’s depiction of Nītivarman’s Arjuna. The disguise may be thin and obvious, as in the case of Bhavabhūti’s Mādhava, or more perplexing and opaque, as we saw in the case of the gods in Śrīharsa’s poem. Indeed, ślesa may be used to express very different approaches to selfhood, seen either as an ever-evolving process or as a constant state. But despite their many differences, all the works discussed here share kāvya’s primary concern with the self, a concern that already finds its roots in the “first poem” (ādikāvya): the Rāmāyana. Nītivarman’s work, like the plays by Harsa and Bhavabhūti, seems informed by Rāma’s constant striving for rare moments of self-awareness and wholesomeness. Māgha appears to be guided by the Rāmāyana’s identification of Rāma with Visnu, who, although appearing in the world in different forms and incarnations, is ultimately a constant and unchanging entity. Indeed, Māgha frames his poem by explicitly stating that the hero, Krsna, is none other than Rāma, just as Śiśupāla and Rāvana represent two different roles assumed by one and the same actor.90 Śrīharsa, in insisting that Nala’s selfknowing depends on the deciphering of Sarasvatī’s verses, echoes the Rāmāyana’s most profound moment of self-realization. It is only when Rāma has listened to his own story told in a recitation of the Rāmāyana that he can finally understand and recognize himself; he is then also able to recognize the pair of bards performing the recitation as his sons. Ślesa has thus consistently been employed in the process of poetic individuation. This remarkable consistency reflects more than just the intriguing, but all too easily trivialized, paradox that a true revelation comes about only through a disguise. Indeed, as we have seen repeatedly with the help of Shulman’s theory of masking, the mask of ślesa is not about the difficulty of disguising one’s self or the epistemological problem of recognizing another for who he or she is, but about the ontological struggle of a subject to become (or, in some cases, resist being) himself or herself, a struggle that, once successful, invariably leads to universal recognition. Moreover, the ślesa usages discussed in this chapter also reflect on the nature and capacities of poetry as a heightened form of language in disguise, where the words of one poem always stand for those of another. Throughout this chapter we have seen ślesas that demonstrate how the epics themselves, the most important source of Sanskrit kāvya, consist of episodes that constantly replicate, predict, and assume one another. A. K. Ramanujan has compared this generative repetition of the Mahābhārata

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with the process of crystal growth. He has demonstrated how each event or pattern in this epic creates for itself many reflections, past and future, and how, as a result, the work as a whole is far more tightly built than most scholars are willing to admit, even though, like crystalline substances, it is not without its oddities and imperfections.91 The poets discussed in this chapter were all well aware of the crystallike nature of their sources. Bhāravi, Māgha, and Śrīharsa used poetry to polish the larger crystal of the Mahābhārata and Nala epics by veiling and then unveiling its complex and imperfect whole through only one of its finer crystalline nodes. But ślesa, as we have seen most clearly in Nītivarman’s work, pushes this capacity of poetic masquerade to the extreme. Every utterance in Kcakavadha is at once itself and its past or future twin; every act is also crafted to be what it reenacts or preenacts.

[  ] AIMING AT TWO TARGETS the early attempts

Ś

lesa is most spectacular in a genre of long poems that simultaneously narrate the two great Indian epics, the Rāmāyana and the Mahābhārata. These colossal bitextual works, almost unimaginable to Western readers, were quite popular in South Asia, first in Sanskrit and later in Telugu as well. How does one explain this incredible poetic genre? When did it originate, and why? The first task of this chapter is to establish the early history of epic conarration. No serious account of these texts exists, although complaints about their abundance go back as far as the late nineteenth century.1 In fact, prominent twentieth-century authorities flatly deny the possibility that the tradition might have had early roots and insist that “although ślesa is a favorite figure of speech with Sanskrit poets, the practice of the ślesa-kāvya does not connect itself with any tradition earlier than the 11th century.”2 Pushing full-fledged bitextuality to the late medieval period helped sanitize and marginalize this “deplorable folly,” as one critic called the genre,3 by placing it in a period whose literary output was deemed necessarily decadent and in no need of serious study. In fact, not only is the practice of epic conarration significantly earlier than these authorities believe, but it also consciously and meaningfully connects with the evolving ślesa experimentation, as described in the preceding two chapters. Take, for example, Subandhu and Bāna, the ślesa pioneers examined in chapter 2. The twelfth-century poet Kavirāja, whose simultaneous telling of the epics will be discussed in chapter 5, names these two writers as his direct influences.4 Even more relevant to this history are Nītivarman and Māgha. As we have seen in chapter 3, these seventh-century poets made ślesa a central feature of their reworking of the epic, used it in a way that

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was appropriate to the epic plot, and allowed it to dominate lengthy sections of their works. Indeed, we saw how Nītivarman used ślesa meaningfully to juxtapose parallel episodes of the Mahābhārata. It seems only reasonable to assume that in narrating India’s two great epics at once, poets built on these earlier attempts at combining narratives and reworking the epics. Support for this assumption can be found in the theoretical treatise of Bhoja (c. 1050). As noted in chapter 3, Bhoja posited a category of poetry that aims at two targets simultaneously (named either tantra or dvisandhāna) and located it on an expanding linguistic scale from a single sentence to a whole section of a poem or even an entire work. He cited both Nītivarman and Māgha in this connection and gave the work of the latter as an example of dual targeting in sections of poems. Bhoja then went on to describe dual targeting at the level of the work as a whole (prabandha).5 Although Bhoja was primarily concerned with presenting examples of such dual targeting according to their expanding magnitude, his discussion indicates an awareness of all the examples as related, if not as the result of a consistent historical effort to push the possibilities of ślesa to their limits. Bhoja’s examples are crucial to my reconstruction of the history of the genre’s development because they include the two earliest known instances of epic conarration: a work by Dandin (c. 700), most of which is now lost, and a vast and fully preserved poem by Dhanañjaya (c. 800).6 My discussion of these early works will go beyond Bhoja’s account, which merely places their bitextuality on a scale of size. Instead, I will explore what Dhanañjaya and his colleagues were trying to achieve by conarrating the Rāmāyana and the Mahābhārata, and how this may have been related to the cultural world that informed these authors. Indeed, the fact that Bhoja concerned himself only with the literary mechanics of the phenomenon should not prevent us from beginning our discussion by entertaining the possibility that epic conarration began with a stimulus from the visual arts.

4.1 the mahabalipuram relief as a visual les. a Let us begin by examining a gigantic sculpted granite rock, located at the ancient southern seaport of Mahāmallapuram, today’s Mahabalipuram (also known as Māmallapuram). This breathtaking relief (figure 4.1)— possibly the largest narrative sculpture panel in the world—was

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figure 4.1 An Overview of the Mahabalipuram Relief. courtesy of michael rabe.

commissioned by the monarchs of the Pallava dynasty, most likely in the middle or second half of the seventh century.7 The art historian Michael Rabe has argued that this artistic masterpiece should be understood as a visual ślesa.8 This intriguing suggestion is prompted by the multiple interpretations of the frieze’s narrative content. For nearly a century scholars have been split between two alternative readings. The two schools of thought agree only on the identity of the trident-bearing, divine figure near the monolith’s center. This figure is Lord Śiva, granting a boon to an ascetic, who is standing to his left (figure 4.2). But who is this austere, famished, unshaven penitent, standing on one foot with his hands raised to the sun in adoration? Local tradition, backed by one faction of scholars, identifies him as Arjuna, obtaining Śiva’s supreme weapon to avenge the dethronement of the Pāndava brothers by their rival cousins—a famous Mahābhārata episode that also forms the topic of Bhāravi’s Kirātārjunya (Arjuna and the Hunter). According to this interpretation of the relief, the dwarf standing between Śiva and the ascetic is a personification of the divine weapon, which Arjuna wins through asceticism and bravery (figure 4.2).9

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figure 4.2 Śiva Grants a Boon to an Ascetic: Detail from the Mahabalipuram Relief. courtesy of michael rabe.

A second group of scholars identifies the hermit with King Bhagīratha, whose penance forced the Ganges to descend from heaven. Bhagīratha needed the river to wash away the ashes of 60,000 massacred ancestors, whose unpurified remains were a blot on his family. Making the Ganges flow downward to earth required an immense effort on his part. In order to secure Ga]gā’s consent to descend and to ensure that Śiva agreed to

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block her potentially earth-shattering downpour with his head, Bhagīratha practiced severe austerities. Even after he safely brought Ga]gā down to earth, he had to overcome many obstacles in leading her to the site of his kinsmen’s ashes, which is where the Ganges now meets the Bay of Bengal. This famous myth appears in the Mahābhārata and various other sources, but its locus classicus is perhaps the first book of the Rāmāyana, where it is recounted at length to the young Rāma, himself a descendant of Bhagīratha.10 According to this reading of the tableau, the Ganges is represented by the cleft vertically bisecting the center, the point through which a cascade of water probably ran in Pallava times (figure 4.3).11 Neither interpretation, as Rabe points out, succeeds in providing a full explanation of the monolith’s vast imagery. For example, if the relief depicts Arjuna’s penance, it makes little sense that the heavenly beings seen as adoring the Ganges “have their backs to Śiva as he grants the boon to the ascetic who is supposedly Arjuna.”12 On the other hand, Śiva does not hold out his hair to absorb the river’s fall, as he does in contemporary visual depictions of its descent.13 Rabe thus maintains that conflicting evidence within each reading of the relief can be explained by the existence of the other. Through a close analysis of its many details, he arrives at the conclusion that the work is deliberately bitextual, simultaneously depicting both penance stories. Rabe backs this argument by demonstrating that both narratives were meaningfully juxtaposed in works of literature and art before and during the Pallava period.14 Furthermore, according to Rabe, the ultimate purpose of this visual tour de force was to eulogize its patron-king, whom he identifies as Narasimhavarman I. Rabe believes that both stories were chosen not just because of their similar narrative elements but also because both played a central role in the Pallava panegyric vocabulary. Arjuna’s penance, after all, led to a wrestling match with Śiva that earned him the title Mahāmalla, “the Great Wrestler.” Narasimhavarman I took this title for himself and named his port city Mahāmallapuram (Great-Wrestler Town).15 The descent of the Ganges to earth was a common trope in eulogizing the Pallava dynasty’s incarnation, and at least one inscription explicitly compares it with the Pallava lineage’s descent to the world.16 Hence, according to Rabe, the bitextual relief ultimately creates yet another layer of signification, in which the signified is the patron Pallava king. It is difficult to assess Rabe’s innovative reading of the Mahabalipuram relief. Portions of his argument seem speculative or circular. For instance,

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figure 4.3 Center of the Mahabalipuram Relief: The River Ganges. courtesy of michael rabe.

his identification of the decapitated figure just under the carved shrine (figure 4.3) as the patron-king Narasimhavarman I is based partly on the ingenious hypothesis that the adjacent figures of Arjuna (also known as Nara) and a lion (simha) hold the key to his identity, and partly on the notion that it would have made sense for the invading Chalukya armies to disfigure the image of their enemy monarch. But the idea that the Chalukyas, who in 674 sacked the Pallava inland capital of Kanchipuram, also

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conquered the seaport of Mahabalipuram has no epigraphic support; it is based primarily on the claim that the headless image must be the disfigured king.17 But even if some of the details of Rabe’s claims are disputable, the overall argument is appealing. Particularly impressive is his consistent effort to read the sculpted composition in the context of the period’s artistic and literary cultures. Indeed, I find his discussion of visual images that can be considered equivalent to literary devices such as similes, metaphors, manufactured doubts, apparent contradictions, riddles, puns, and even palindromes highly compelling. That such ornamental elements traveled between media should come as no surprise, considering the use of the term that denotes them, alamkāra, in various artistic domains.18 Poets and artisans did not work in isolation; they were informed by the same epic narratives, inhabited a single sociopolitical sphere, and probably catered to the same educated elite. If readers were assumed to be familiar with a wide range of intertexts and to be able to make sense of complex verbal devices, why not assume the same for connoisseurs of visual art? There is ample evidence for visual puns in iconography and sculpted friezes elsewhere in South Asia. Take, for example, the image of the “bull-elephant” (rsabhakuñjara), which is a prevalent motif in medieval South Indian temple sculpture (figure 4.4). The two animals stand facing each other, and while their bodies are depicted separately they share a single skull that could be seen either as the elephant’s or the bull’s, depending on the perspective (the elephant’s tusks are also the horns of the bull). This particular image is from the Vijayanagara-era Jalakantheśvara Temple in Vellore (aka Jalakantīcuvarar and a variety of alternatively spelled names). Such cases of isolated visual puns can be easily multiplied, and, as Devangana Desai has convincingly argued, some of these are directly related to verbal puns in poetry.19 Indeed, it is my sense that historians and Indologists are now willing to endorse the interpretation of the Mahabalipuran relief as a ślesa as well.20 More specifically, there is concrete evidence for artistic interactions across media in the Pallava court itself. Dandin, the best-known poet and literary theorist of the court, recounts a visit to the Mahāmallapuram seaport at the behest of Lalitālaya, a leading architect in the local atelier. During this visit Dandin inspected Lalitālaya’s restoration of a reclining Visnu image.21 Rabe identifies Lalitālaya’s father as the artist of the sculpted monolith and conjectures that it was Dandin’s visit to the site of the bitextual relief that inspired him to compose his bitextual poem.22 This, of

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figure 4.4 The Bull-Elephant: A Motif from the Jalakantheśvara Temple in Vellore. courtesty of anna seastrand.

course, is only a speculation because clearly Dandin could have composed his poem regardless of this visit. Still, the close ties between the author of the first known Rāmāyana-Mahābhārata poem and the artisan community of Mahabalipuram, only a generation after the creation of the relief, are certainly thought-provoking. Indeed, the frieze, as Rabe interprets it, shares many structural features with later bitextual poetry. Like its possible literary counterparts, the carved text’s simultaneous featuring of heroes from both epics (Arjuna of the Mahābhārata’s lunar lineage and Bhagīratha of the Rāmāyana’s solar dynasty) highlights their similarity. Observing both Bhagīratha and Ar-

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juna in one stone image, if this is indeed how the work was meant to be perceived, its spectators could not have helped noticing their striking similarities: both penitents assume identical ascetic postures, 23 and both overcome great hardships to obtain a boon crucial to the future of their respective lineages from a demanding but ultimately generous Śiva. The two stories also intersect in other ways. For instance, the Ganges, central to the tableau, is the result of Bhagīratha’s penance and the locus of Arjuna’s. Such connections, we shall see, are precisely what poets capitalize on in epic conarration. Finally, it is also typical for such poems to underscore meaningful differences between their parallel subject matters, and the sculpted rock may have had the same effect. For instance, while Arjuna’s efforts earned him the most deadly of weapons for fighting his own kin, Bhagīratha’s helped him purify the remains of his dead relatives, killed by an enemy. All this makes Rabe’s hypothesis plausible and tempting. Although it is difficult to judge the validity of any reading of a detailed and ancient visual text such as the Mahabalipuram relief, the basic notion that it involved large-scale bitextuality provides an elegant solution to the lasting either-or debate about its meaning, one that seems attuned to the work’s cultural and historical contexts. The carvings on the Pallava walls belonged to the same milieu as literary experiments with bitextuality of growing ingenuity and scale, and the relief ’s narrative of gigantic proportions may well have been the precursor of the first double-target poem by Dandin.

4.2 dan. d.in: a lost work and its relic Nearly everything we know about Dandin comes from the biographical portion of his now-fragmentary prose narrative, the Avantisundar. This text includes an account of Dandin’s ancestry, beginning with his greatgrandfather Dāmodara, a poet who was connected to the leading intellectuals and major royal houses of the southern peninsula in the sixth century. It also refers to the Chalukya conquest of the Pallava capital Kanchipuram in 674 CE, which temporarily forced Dandin, then an orphaned child, into exile. These details allow us to place Dandin’s active career around 680–720 CE.24 Dandin is the best-known writer associated with the Pallavas. His acclaimed theoretical treatise, Kāvyādarśa (The Mirror of Poetry), was extremely influential well beyond the southern peninsula, where it was

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adapted into several local languages. Although Dandin was also a distinguished poet—praised for his flowing style and immortalized in narratives about the lives of Sanskrit writers—his actual artistic oeuvre was not very well preserved. His aforementioned Avantisundar survived in a handful of fragmented manuscripts, and it is possible that both this text and the Daśakumāracarita, another of his prose poems, were once sections of a larger work, much of which is now lost.25 In this case Dandin’s poem conarrating the two Sanskrit epics would have been his third major work in a set of three works that the famous poet and theorist Rājaśekhara (late ninth to early tenth centuries CE) counted among the world’s outstanding triads, similar to the trinity of the gods or the trilogy of the Vedic scripture: There are three fires, three gods, three Vedas, three virtues, and three works by Dandin. Everything that is great in this triple world comes in threes.26

In this connection it is interesting to note that Dandin himself is named as the third side in an all-important literary triangle: Upon the birth of Vālmīki the word “poet” was coined. With Vyāsa it was first used in the dual. And “poets,” in the plural, first appeared along with Dandin.27

Vālmīki and Vyāsa are the revered composers of the Rāmāyana and the Mahābhārata, respectively. That Dandin is the only other true poet counted here alongside these two founding figures is quite possibly an indirect comment on his artistic combination of their epic poems. Th is third work of his must have been quite famous, judging from such enthusiastic eulogies of later poets, but this important text is no longer extant. There is slight compensation for this unfortunate loss in the form of Bhoja’s citation of a single verse from the work. The verse he cites introduces the main heroes of the poem’s parallel plotlines. Here I reproduce the verse, followed by a parallel translation of the two registers side by side:

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udāramahimārāmah prajānām harsavardhanah | dharmaprabhava ity āsīt khyāto bharatapūrvajah || Once lived the immensely majestic Rāma, the famous elder brother of Bharata. He was the delight of his people, their source of justice.

Once lived the son of Dharma, who had Bharata as his ancestor. He was the delight of his people, a garden of immense majesty.28

At least in terms of linguistic techniques, this verse could have easily found a place in later works of its type. Like them, it employs names and epithets in a manner that supports the task of multitargeting. Consider the epithet dharmaprabhava. It could be read as an appellation of Yudhisthira because Dharma, the god embodying justice and law, was his biological father and hence his origin or source ( prabhava). But by exploiting the syntactic ambiguity of such Sanskrit compounds and the abstract sense of dharma (law, justice), it can also refer to Rāma, the source of justice for his people. Likewise, Rāma was senior ( pūrvaja) to his younger brother Bharata, while Yudhisthira had a different Bharata as his ancestor. Hence both are bharatapūrvaja. This strategy of exploiting the ambiguities of names and appellations becomes a hallmark of later bitextual poetry. Later poems are also full of examples of ślesa based on resegmentation, a technique already found in Subandhu and more commonly in the ślesa sections of Nītivarman and Māgha. The string of phonemes that open Dandin’s verse, udāramahimārāma, could be read as consisting of two separate words: the adjective udāramahimā (immensely majestic) and the proper name Rāma, serving as the head noun. But if one resegments the phonemic string to create an epithet applicable to Yudhisthira, the name Rāma suddenly disappears: the resolution of vowel combination (sandhi) allows us to read the word as ārāma (garden) instead. The line now reads as a single compound word, modifying Yudhisthira as “a garden of immense majesty.” It should be noted that it was Dandin himself who, in his theoretical treatise Kāvyādarśa, was the first to recognize a category of ślesa defined by the resegmentability of a phonetic string, a technique he must have used frequently in the rest of his lost poem.29 Another important feature that Dandin’s verse shares with later works of its genre is that it is not entirely punned. The verse’s second metrical quarter, prajānām harsavardhanah (he was the delight of his people),

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involves no ślesa and can simply be used to describe both Rāma and Yudhisthira. This tiny clause is only one small example; significant portions of later Rāmāyana-Mahābhārata poems apply to both epics’ narratives in just the same way, and it is quite possible that larger sections, whole verses, or even entire passages of Dandin’s lost work were not, strictly speaking, bitextual. As we have begun to see in the works of Nītivarman and Māgha, ślesa is not an end in itself, but a poetic device subordinate to concerns of plot and characterization. Dandin, if we can judge on the basis of this small sample, used it only when it supported his goal of conarration. But what is the ultimate purpose of Dandin’s project? Why would one portray Rāma and Yudhisthira simultaneously? How do the work’s two narrative registers relate to one another? The meager surviving sample from Dandin’s lost work does not allow us to draw any further conclusions about its overall effects and purposes. We need more than one verse even to begin to theorize the project of conarration.

4.3 dhanañjaya: the poet of two targets Dhanañjaya, the author of the oldest extant bitextual poem, lived around the year 800 CE, most probably in the Kannada-speaking region of the Deccan.30 He was a Jain layman who authored a variety of Sanskrit thesauri and lexicons, including the Nāmamālā (The Garland of Nouns) and the Anekārthanāmamālā (The Garland of Homonyms), as well as a hymn to a Jain divinity (Visāpahārastotra). His main claim to fame was his Dvisandhānakāvya (aka Dvisandhāna Mahākāvya, Poem of Two Targets), an eighteen-canto work conarrating the two great epics, which contained, in addition to the feat of simultaneous narration, occasional palindromes, diagram poems, and other complex literary devices. Dhanañjaya took great pride in his poetic achievements. In a manner reminiscent of Subandhu, each chapter of his poem ends with a verse involving a pun on his own name, thereby celebrating his authorship of the work and making ślesa his signature. At one point in the poem he even lists some of the more dazzling devices it contains, again, like Subandhu before him, using punning to describe them.31 Ślesa, it seems, was Dhanañjaya’s trademark, and several later writers acknowledged this by using similar puns on his name.32 Dhanañjaya also proclaimed his poetic achievements more explicitly. In his thesaurus, which he completed after his poem, he wrote:

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The logic of Akala]ka, Pūjyapāda’s grammar, and the poetry of the Poet of Two Targets are a triad of peerless jewels. Dhanañjaya is the crown jewel of gifted poets, and this “Garland of Nouns,” with its two hundred verses, is further proof of that.33

Akala]ka and Pūjyapāda were outstanding Jain scholars in their respective fields of logic and grammar. Dhanañjaya claims to have reached a comparable literary status as the crown jewel of poets by virtue of his being the “poet of two targets” (dvisandhānakavi). Dhanañjaya, perhaps in response to the aforementioned verse on Dandin, placed himself as the third member in an altogether different triad, that of the foremost Jain literati. But these two triads were not necessarily meant to exclude one another. One edition of Dhanañjaya’s thesaurus is reported to contain the verse quoted earlier on Vālmīki, Vyāsa, and Dandin, with Dhanañjaya turning this trio into a tetrad: Upon the birth of Vālmīki the word “poet” was coined. With Vyāsa it was first used in the dual. And “poets,” in the plural, first appeared along with Dandin. Then so-called poets endlessly multiplied, a process finally stopped, in our age, with the birth of Dhanañjaya.34

Dhanañjaya is the last in an exclusive club of authors who represents the return of true poetry after a period of inflation and devaluation. He is also, the verse suggests, a direct follower of Dandin, whose bitextual project, in turn, stems from epic texts of Vālmīki and Vyāsa. There is little doubt that Dhanañjaya was familiar with Dandin, whose Kāvyādarśa was an extremely popular text in the Kannada-speaking area, and it is quite likely that he was following in his steps in writing bitextual poetry.35 This, then, is an alternative line within which we can contextualize Dhanañjaya: if in the previously quoted verse he places himself in a lineage of Jain scholars, here he envisions himself as a descendant of a lineage of Sanskrit poets, representing Brahmin orthodoxy.

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It is difficult to say whether the latter verse is authentic, but Dhanañjaya certainly tried to appeal to several literary circles and communities in his work. His hymn to a Jain divinity was surely meant for members of his own religious community, while his lexicographical work was explicitly intended for a more inclusive readership of poets.36 And the two narratives of his Dvisandhānakāvya, as we shall see, draw eclectically both on the orthodox Rāmāyana and Mahābhārata and on the Jain versions of these two epics, such as Vimalasūri’s telling of the Rāmāyana in Prakrit, the Paümacariya. This attempt to appeal to multiple audiences through a variety of literary references, another sense in which Dhanañjaya was a poet of more than one target, proved only partly successful. Dhanañjaya was noticed and praised by several authoritative critics outside his community, most notably Rājaśekhara and Bhoja.37 There is also reason to believe that Kavirāja, the author of the celebrated twelfth-century poem discussed in chapter 5, was familiar with his work. Still, the Dvisandhānakāvya was primarily read in the Jain milieu of the Deccan, where the manuscripts, commentaries, and most references to the text are found. It is important to understand that the great epics of South Asia, composed during a period of intense competition among various religious groups in the centuries surrounding the onset of the Common Era, continued to be grounds for contestation between different religions and sects.38 These included Brahmins upholding the orthodox Vedic ritual and those advocating ascetic ideals and lifestyles, Buddhists, Jains, and various theistic movements. The Mahābhārata of Vyāsa and Vālmīki’s Rāmāyana represent views that belong, by and large, to the Brahminical fold. Th ese works came to enjoy a uniquely authoritative position among the vast epic literature, but they are not necessarily the oldest telling of their respective stories, nor did their preeminence prevent a wide variety of Jain and other nonorthodox versions from providing different, often-subversive accounts of their narratives.39 The Sanskrit epics are essentially martial poems that celebrate the heroism of their protagonists, but their Jain counterparts prominently feature heroes who embody the Jain ideals of nonharm (ahimsā) and renunciation. In the case of the Mahābhārata this profound shift is associated with a reversal of hierarchy between Vyāsa’s main story line and one of its subplots. Krsna’s story and in particular his rivalry with King Jarāsandha (a relatively minor event even in the cycle of stories on Krsna) take center stage in Jain versions, and the saga of the Pāndavas’ enmity with the Kau-

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ravas becomes secondary. Among other things, this narrative overhaul moves Krsna’s brother Balarāma, famous for his firm refusal to take any part in the great Mahābhārata battle, closer to the spotlight. Although Krsna is adopted, however uneasily, into the Jain pantheon, it is Balarāma who is portrayed as the paragon of moral behavior.40 A similar shift occurs in many Jain Rāmāyanas. Although Rāma (known in some of these texts as Padma, Prakrit Paüma) remains the main hero of the Jain versions beginning with Vimalasūri’s Paümacariya, his heroic deeds, including his all-important slaying of the demon Rāvana, are typically transferred to his younger brother Laksmana, while Rāma himself abstains from violence. Such changes are by no means haphazard. They correspond to an ancient, rigorous, and comprehensive arrangement of the Jain pantheon. This pantheon consists of sixty-three Eminent Persons (śalākāpurusas), who together form “a conceptual framework within which the Jainas elaborated their own view of history.”41 The sixty-three heroes are further divided into types and subtypes. The most important group consists of the twenty-four trtha]karas, those saints who found the path to liberation and taught it to others and who form the highest object of veneration in the Jain faith. An additional group of twenty-seven individuals includes the protagonists and antagonists of the epics. A third group consists of twelve world conquerors (cakravartins), perfect rulers who support Jainism and attain liberation at the end of their lives.42 The sixty-three men consist of archetypes such as teacher-saints or world conquerors and “appear during every cycle of time, although the names of the individuals are different in each cycle.”43 It is particularly important to bear this in mind in discussing the middle group of twentyseven epic heroes. These men are further divided into three major subtypes—Baladevas, Vāsudevas, and Prativāsudevas—and triads consisting of one character of each type dominate the Jain Purānas. Every Jain epic narrative has a Baladeva who embodies the Jain ideals of nonharm and renunciation and reaches heaven or is liberated at the end of his life. Then there is a Vāsudeva, always a half brother of the Baladeva. A Vāsudeva is an immensely powerful Jain king who protects his community from its enemies, but who, because of the violence inherent in his acts, is reborn in hell before he can again climb up the spiritual ladder. Finally, the Prativāsudeva is a Jain king who misuses his powers and attacks the Vāsudeva, only to be killed by him and be reborn in hell. As shown in table 4.1, Rāma and Balarāma are the Baladevas of the Rāmāyana and the Mahābhārata, respectively, the Vāsudevas of these two major epics are

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table 4.1 Triads of the Jain Epic Narratives Eminent person

Baladeva

Vāsudeva

Prativāsudeva

Rāma Balarāma

Laksmana Krsna

Rāvana Jarāsandha

Epic Rāmāyana Mahābhārata

their younger half brothers, Laksmana and Krsna, and the Prativāsudevas are Rāvana and Jarāsandha.44 The category names of the Eminent Persons in table 4.1 are modeled after the Mahābhārata’s Balarāma and Vāsudeva (Krsna), further underscoring the reversal of roles in the Jain renderings of the epic. For it is Balarāma’s refusal to take sides in the epic war that naturally made him emblematic of Jain ideals, whereas Rāma’s action had to be altered significantly to fit this Baladeva mold. Each of these two nonviolent Baladevas is also associated with one of the sacred Jain teacher-saints. Indeed, Jain authors often subordinate the epic stories to the biographies of these revered leaders: the Rāmāyana is made subservient to the story of Suvrata, the twentieth trtha]kara, and the Mahābhārata to that of Nemi, the twenty-second seer and a cousin of Krsna. Thus a moral hierarchy is built into the Jain pantheon of eminent men. At the top of this hierarchy are the liberated and enlightened Jain saints (trtha]karas). Next in line are the nonviolent heroes of the epics, for whom Balarāma serves as the model and who include a modified Rāma as well. Following the nonviolent characters, we find the martial heroes Krsna and Laksmana. Their moral ground is only slightly higher than that of their archenemies (Jarāsandha, Rāvana), who also belong in the Jain pantheon.45 As we examine the complex and subversive hierarchies of the Jain pantheon, we begin to realize what a daunting task Dhanañjaya took on himself in trying to draw on the two Sanskrit epics of Vālmīki and Vyāsa, as well as the remarkably divergent Jain versions, thereby appealing to more than just one target audience.

4.4 lineages ornamented and tainted: on les.a’s contrastive capacities Appropriately for a dual-targeted composition, the poem opens with a ślesa benediction that simultaneously eulogizes the two Jain teachers Su-

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vrata and Nemi (1.1). Each of these saints is associated with one of the epics in the Jain tradition, and thus the verse not only asserts the author’s religious identity but also alludes to the work’s double aim. This verse is followed by one in praise of Sarasvatī, goddess of speech, also involving a ślesa (1.2), and by customary appeals to readers and critics that also involve puns (1.3–8). In these stanzas Dhanañjaya claims novelty for his poem, even though his story is ancient (cirantane vastuni, 1.4), and he also spells out his own poetic ideal: A poet’s words, if insignificant and unsweet, fail to enter the ear. Think, for example, of a Mahābhārata from which Arjuna and Krsna are absent, and where Karna does not meet his end.

But if well formed and ornamented, his words thrill the wise, like the very body of Rāma, accompanied by the decorated Laksmana.46

That poetry must have significance, be sweet and grammatical, and consist of ornamental devices is not a particularly original statement. The real import of this verse is found in a second ślesa reading, given above in smaller font, without which the verse is syntactically incomplete. Th e message is thus partly rooted in the doubled medium itself: a poem is flat and even deficient unless it conveys an additional layer of meaning. Accordingly, the poet promises that his words will embody the Rāmāyana’s Rāma and Laksmana, and at the same time, he will not neglect Arjuna, Krsna, and Karna of the Mahābhārata. Note, however, the subtle distinction in the way the verse refers to the two epics. Whereas the Rāmāyana exemplifies poetry’s capacity to thrill, the Mahābhārata serves to warn against the perils of senseless and unpleasing poems. This may be an early hint that the poet does not necessarily consider his two targets entirely equal. It is also worth noting that the verse appears to allude to an orthodox version of the Mahābhārata, where the Pāndavas feature prominently, despite the Jain inclination revealed in dedicating the poem to the saints Suvrata and Nemi. Indeed, Dhanañjaya soon turns to the conarration of the setting and the birth of the epic’s traditional heroes: Rāma and his brothers in the

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Rāmāyana and Yudhisthira and his brothers in the Mahābhārata. With the exception of occasional plays on names and epithets, there are hardly any ślesas in the first three cantos: the very same descriptions are used for the capitals of Ayodhyā (Rāmāyana) and Hastināpura (Mahābhārata); the same depictions of the maternal figure apply to both Kausalyā (Rāma’s mother) and Kuntī (mother of the three older Pāndavas); and the same events lead to and follow the births of the epics’ main heroes Rāma and Yudhisthira (canto 3). One gets the impression that the narratives of both epics are initially identical. The plots take a different turn, however, in the fourth canto, where Dhanañjaya narrates the momentous exile of both epics’ protagonists. Here too there are remarkable similarities between the stories. Both Yudhisthira and Rāma have a legitimate claim to the throne. The former has already been declared crown prince, and preparations for the coronation of the latter are literally under way, when both lose their position to a brother or a cousin (both connoted by the same Sanskrit word, bhrātr). Still, the exile plots are not without significant differences. In the Mahābhārata Yudhisthira has agency in his misfortune. In his weakness for dice he gambles and loses all he has without being able to stop. In the Rāmāyana, on the other hand, the decision to exile Rāma is unrelated to the hero’s actions. A hunchback maid convinces Kaikeyī, the mother of Rāma’s half brother Bharata, that if Rāma is crowned, Bharata and his supporters in the court will suffer grave consequences. Queen Kaikeyī manipulates her loving husband, King Daśaratha, to carry out two boons he once granted her by crowning Bharata as king and banishing Rāma to the forest. Rāma is unaware of this conspiracy, and as soon as he learns of it, he embraces exile without question lest his father’s word be broken. Thus although the exodus scene is a sad moment in both epics, there is a crucial difference in sentiment: Yudhisthira and his brothers depart in despair and disgrace. Rāma, on the other hand, gloriously marches from Ayodhyā, accompanied by all its inhabitants, a moment celebrated in numerous poems, paintings, and stone carvings.47 Consider how exquisitely all these similarities and differences are condensed into five ślesa verses by Dhanañjaya (the two readings are presented here in parallel):

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King Bharata’s own mother [Kaikeyī], who seized all that the land had to offer, was scorched upon seeing him [Rāma] like a sun, newly arisen.

Dhrtarāstra’s greedy son [Duryodhana], having only himself in mind, was scorched upon seeing [Yudhisthira] like a sun, newly arisen.

She saw her goal at hand and thus despaired when failing to obtain it. Then with tears in her eyes, she claimed her boon from her lover, the king of the earth [Daśaratha].

He saw his goal at hand, yet poisoning and such schemes failed to obtain it. So he invited the king [Yudhisthira] for a round of his favorite game, where the dice were loaded.

King [Daśaratha] wasn’t thinking of his wife, of his good name, or even of his son Bharata. He did not recognize the scheme, the fact that her actions were highly improper. He fixed his mind on conquering the senses.

King [Yudhisthira] wasn’t thinking of his good lineage, which protects the world. He did not realize that gambling was uniquely harmful and to be resisted. He fixed his mind on winning the game.

Then he [Rāma], anxious not to break his father’s word, quickly renounced his land, though not conquered by an enemy. He left his brave soldiers behind and ardently set out to the forest with the army that was his brother.

Then he [Yudhisthira], anxious not to harm his stature, had to renounce the land that his enemy won by means of the dice. He quickly left for the forest, forced to do so by his cousins.

Turning away an entourage of followers:

Turning away an entourage of followers:

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kings, soldiers, advisors, priests, he lived on a forest mountain, not separated from Sītā, with his younger brother, who was traveling on foot.

kings, soldiers, advisors, priests, he lived in the forest, bereft of his land, accompanied by his younger brothers, as by Draupadī.48

This passage begins by pairing Kaikeyī and Duryodhana. Both of them cannot bear to see the political success of a rival and take steps to seize power. But whereas Kaikeyī appears misguided and genuinely worried about her son, Duryodhana is cynical and motivated only by greed and self-interest; he does not hesitate to use loaded dice and poison to seize the throne. The poet then turns to juxtaposing the deeds of two good kings, Daśaratha and Yudhisthira, who similarly act in a way that is not in their interest. Both betray a lack of political judgment in failing to detect and stem harmful court intrigue. But again the ślesa underscores important differences between them. Daśaratha’s political mismanagement results from his renunciation of worldly matters and his determination to conquer his senses. Dhanañjaya is echoing the Paümacariya, where Daśaratha’s becoming a Jain mendicant led to Bharata’s enthronement.49 If Daśaratha embodies the Jain ideal of a person seeking liberation, Yudhisthira represents an almost negative image of it: a person so enslaved by his obsession with dice that he loses his judgment altogether. Ultimately, though, the passage couples Rāma and Yudhisthira, the two equally majestic and popular kings from Dandin’s relic ślesa verse. Dhanañjaya, too, stresses the parallels between the heroes, whose similar upbringing he has already narrated, by pointing out that the same political misfortune has befallen them both. But here too it seems that his ślesa focuses more on their differences than on their similarities. Rāma’s kingdom has not been “conquered by an enemy,” but still he earnestly and courageously volunteers to go to the forest in order to ensure the fulfillment of his father’s promise. Yudhisthira, by contrast, is forced to leave, expelled from the “land that his enemy won.” His departure is hurried because he is anxious to prevent further humiliation. Using one and the same utterance, Dhanañjaya describes Rāma as praiseworthy and criticizes Yudhisthira. This tendency continues later in the same canto, where Dhanañjaya simultaneously narrates the discussions between the exiled groups of brothers (4.51–55). While in the Rāmāyana register Laksmana is praising Rāma for the way he has handled the crisis, Bhīma is highly critical of Yudhisthira’s conduct on the Mahābhārata side. In this case the intona-

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tion (kāku) of the speakers is understood to be different in the two registers. Thus when Laksmana and Bhīma each tell their brother, “You have done well,” the former speaks in earnest and the latter with irony (4.51). Ślesa, too, is used to the same end. While Laksmana commends his brother for decorating the lineage (samalamkrtam), the very same utterance, if separated into different words (samalam krtam), becomes a strong indictment of its other addressee, Yudhisthira: “You have tainted our lineage” (4.52). In such passages it is clear that Dhanañjaya is using the device of ślesa to contrast the similar plotlines strongly and to present Rāma and his allies as superior to the Pāndavas. Another purpose of Dhanañjaya’s ślesa is to highlight similarities between the epics in places where his readers are less likely to expect them. The parallels between the two exile stories, while clearly remarkable and suggestive, should have come as little surprise to an audience versed in the Rāmāyana and the Mahābhārata. Some of Dhanañjaya’s other matching choices, however, are far less predictable. In cantos 5 and 6, for instance, he pairs the Mahābhārata’s Kīcaka incident, discussed in the previous chapter, with the Rāmāyana’s Śūrpanakhā episode. Śūrpanakhā is the sister of the ten-headed demon-king Rāvana, and her name, “She Who Has Winnowing Baskets for Fingernails,” indicates her own monstrosity. In Vālmīki’s Rāmāyana Śūrpanakhā stumbles on the exiled party of Rāma, his wife Sītā, and his brother Laksmana. She becomes infatuated with Rāma and offers her favors to him. Rāma rejects her advances and directs her, tongue in cheek, to his junior brother Laksmana. The brothers toy with the monstress, who eventually attempts to attack Sītā in a fit of rage. Taking his orders from Rāma, Laksmana cuts off her nose and ears with his sword. Mutilated and humiliated, Śūrpanakhā turns to her brothers Khara and Dūsana and compels them to retaliate by attacking Rāma. When Rāma and Laksmana slay the two and their army, Śūrpanakhā approaches her senior brother, King Rāvana, and incites him to abduct the beautiful Sītā from Rāma.50 To the best of my knowledge, Dhanañjaya is the fi rst to link the Śūrpanakhā and Kīcaka episodes, and in doing so, he reveals striking similarities between them. To begin with, in both incidents a protagonist of the epic story (Rāma, Draupadī) is sexually approached in a manner that is considered improper, and hence, in both the antagonist making the advance is violently punished: Śūrpanakhā is disfigured and Kīcaka is killed. Moreover, both events take place as the two groups of exiled brothers come out of a relatively peaceful period of forest life and enter the eventful and final year of their respective exiles. Indeed, both episodes advance

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their respective plots in similar ways. Śūrpanakhā’s mutilation eventually puts Rāma in conflict with Rāvana, the epic’s main antagonist, while the Pāndavas find themselves facing their archenemies, the Kauravas, in the aftermath of Kīcaka’s death. These structural similarities between the two plots of the epics become apparent through Dhanañjaya’s matching scheme. His conarration of the two instances of infatuation (5.7–16) leads to a single love statement that is uttered by Śūrpanakhā and Kīcaka to their respective objects of desire (5.17–21)51 and culminates in the humiliating rejection both suitors suffer (5.22–31). He then turns to the simultaneous narration of the battle waged against Rāma by Khara and Dūsana with the Kauravas’ cattle raid and their battle with the Pāndavas (5.53–6.52). Here too his ślesa is occasionally used to contrast the epics’ two heroes. For instance, Rāma is described as a self-possessed ( jitātmā) sage, whereas Yudhisthira is portrayed as lacking self-control (ajitātmā, 5.2).

4.5 what gets conarrated? dhanañjaya’s matching scheme My examination of the first third of Dhanañjaya’s work (cantos 1–6) illustrates how he meaningfully juxtaposes the story of the Pāndavas and that of Rāma’s camp. Exploiting the more obvious similarities between the two, his poetic combination highlights both striking differences and unexpected affinities between the adventures of the two groups of protagonists. However, there are indications, even in these early chapters, that Dhanañjaya is not entirely committed to conarrating the exploits of Rāma and Yudhisthira. One such sign is the rather generic story of impressive heroes growing up in amazing towns at the beginning of his poem (cantos 1–3). The epics offer a variety of meaningful parallels and contrasts here, all of which Dhanañjaya ignores. Think, for instance, of the two analogous stories of marriage. As adolescents, both Rāma and Arjuna appear at competitions held for the purpose of selecting a suitable match for a princess, and both stun the crowd by feats that even the mightiest warriors failed to perform. Both feats involve a bow, although Arjuna, clad as a priest, proves his mastery in archery, while the boyish-looking Rāma amazes the crowd by lifting and breaking Śiva’s immense bow. These achievements win Rāma and Arjuna the hands of Sītā and Draupadī, respectively. But while Rāma keeps Sītā for himself, Arjuna shares Draupadī with his four

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brothers.52 If Dhanañjaya’s purpose was to juxtapose the epics consistently and meaningfully, why ignore these rich parallels and differences between the two plots? One possible answer is that Rāma’s entire coming-of-age story, in which he protects Brahmin rituals by shooting a demoness before he arrives at the contest and wins Sītā’s hand, could not be comfortably articulated by Dhanañjaya, given his Jain views. There are certainly instances when Dhanañjaya edits out actions undertaken by Rāma that might be considered less than exemplary to practitioners of the Jain faith, or transfers them to Rāma’s younger brother Laksmana.53 More important, however, Dhanañjaya’s motivation for pairing Rāma with Yudhistira is limited. The ultimate parallels for Rāma and Laksmana lie with eminent persons of their type, that is, Balarāma (Baladeva) and Krsna (Vāsudeva), respectively (see table 4.1). Thus about a third of the way into the poem, the plot of the Mahābhārata register begins to shift. The Pāndavas’ conflict with the Kauravas slips into the background, while the enmity between Krsna and Jarāsandha comes to the fore. At this point the emphasis in Dhanañjaya’s conarration is altered. On the whole, there is little affinity on the level of the episode between the Rāmāyana’s main story and Krsna’s march to kill his enemy Jarāsandha in the Mahābhārata. There is, of course, an overall shared trajectory built into martial narratives of this kind: the great heroes must set out to kill their archenemies at some point in the story. Indeed, in Dhanañjaya’s poem the two groups of heroes hold consultations (cantos 10–11), march off to face their rivals (canto 14), and engage them in battle (cantos 16–18). But rarely is ślesa employed to highlight particular similarities or differences between the two plots. Indeed, in keeping his dual subject matter alive, Dhanañjaya frequently conarrates events that are only superficially similar and feature one story’s protagonists and the other’s antagonists. For instance, Śūrpanakhā’s appeal to Rāvana to set out and take on the cause of his brothers Khara and Dūsana is combined, for purposes of convenience, with Bhīma’s suggestion that Yudhisthira join Ksrna in his city of Dvārakā (7.20–26). Likewise, Rāvana’s kidnapping of Sītā is narrated alongside Yudhisthira’s resolution to join Krsna and regain his kingdom (7.90–94). In the same vein, Rāma’s deeds are occasionally matched with those of Jarāsandha, even though the former is a Baladeva and the latter a Prativāsudeva. Their actions correspond only vaguely—both, for instance, prepare for war and

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shoot arrows (9.1–10, 9.30–38)—and there is no sense that the author intends to compare them in any meaningful way. In such examples it seems that Dhanañjaya’s pairing of the two epics on the micro level is opportunistic. Other matches are opportunistic in that they involve the modification of one of the plots to make it more compatible with the other. Typically it is the Rāmāyana that serves as the model for alterations in the Mahābhārata. Take, for instance, Hanumān’s mission to find Sītā in La]kā. This all-important Rāmāyana episode, the subject matter of an entire book in Vālmīki’s epic, finds a Mahābhārata parallel in Dhanañjaya’s poem in Ksrna’s dispatch of an emissary named Śrīśaila to his enemy Jarāsandha.54 As narrated by Dhanañjaya, Śrīśaila’s mission is clearly tailored to fit Hanumān’s adventures. For instance, while Rāma’s messenger finds the imprisoned Sītā in Rāvana’s garden and delivers Rāma’s message and signet ring to her, Krsna’s messenger also addresses a woman, but his addressee remains anonymous and is never mentioned elsewhere in the poem (13.36–44). The insertion of this woman addressee makes the task of conarration more convenient but seems to serve no other purpose. It suggests that Dhanañjaya is more concerned with the Rāmāyana narrative than with the Mahābhārata. Indeed, several Rāmāyana episodes are narrated without any attempt to match them with an incident from the Mahābhārata. A case in point is the great battle with which the poem ends. Dhanañjaya’s narration of the warfare clearly follows the details of the Rāmāyana tradition, with rather minimal specific references to Krsna’s combat with Jarāsandha. Canto 17, for instance, tells the story of the war’s penultimate day. On the Rāmāyana side Dhanañjaya narrates the story of Laksmana’s death and miraculous revival with the help of a cure brought by Hanumān. Throughout this dramatic episode the fighting in the Mahābhārata side simply takes a break, and Dhanañjaya turns instead to a description of the moonrise (17.35–44). This example is not unusual. Elsewhere in the poem the Mahābhārata narrative halts to allow for the description of various seasons, while the Rāmāyana action continues unabated.55 In such cases Dhanañjaya skillfully uses his ślesa, but his two targets are the Rāmāyana and the beauty of nature, not the two epic plots. All this calls to mind Dhanañjaya’s opening statement, in which he treats his two narrative targets differently: the Rāmāyana is praised as the very embodiment of poetic enchantment, while the Mahābhārata is men-

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tioned in the context of warning against senseless and unpleasing poems. We now realize what hierarchy has been implied in Dhanañjaya’s poetic plan. His Dvisandhānakāvya is first and foremost a mahākāvya targeting the Rāma story—enriched by the mandatory descriptions of cities, seasons, moonrise, sunrise, and other stock topics—and only second a poem modeled after the Jain Mahābhārata. Rāma not only is better than Yudhisthira—ornamenting rather than tainting his lineage—but also is constantly at the forefront of the poem, while a leaner Mahābhārata forms an intermittent background.

4.6 les. a and the aesthetics of simultaneity Dhanañjaya’s opportunistic matches and his partiality for the Rāmāyana notwithstanding, the bulk of the poem contains passages that are not really bitextual and that figure equally in both plots. The author thus dwells on the activities of his protagonists, the Vāsudevas of the Jain pantheon, their enemies the Prativāsudevas, and various other descriptions that apply to both stories simultaneously. In this connection we should mention an important episode in Dhanañjaya’s poem that takes place in both narratives at once. It follows a lengthy consultation held within both parties of characters about the means of dealing with their respective enemies: should a peaceful solution be sought first, as Jambhāvan and Yudhisthira suggest, each in his own story, or is war the only option, as Hanumān and Bhīma argue in response? Because the consultations reach no clear conclusion, a decision is made to put the respective Vāsudevas, Laksmana and Krsna, to the test. Canto 12 is dedicated to the depiction of this dual trial, the results of which will equally determine the future course of both plots. Both parties set out to the same place, Kotiśīla, a massive rock where numerous Jain saints reside. Laksmana and Krsna, to whom the author repeatedly refers by a single name, either Visnu or his epithet Hari, then perform the same incredible feat of lifting the mountain. Emerging triumphant from their trials, the two are promised victory in their future battles. This very same incident in exactly the same location occurs in both stories and has an identical function that is documented in both epic traditions. In Jain Rāmāyanas such as Vimalasūri’s Paümacariya, we find Laksmana lifting Kotiśīla as a proof of his ability to kill Rāvana, and in Jain Mahābhāratas such as Jinasenasūri’s Harivamśapurāna, Krsna is depicted

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lifting up this same rock in connection with his slaying of Jarāsandha.56 Dhanañjaya’s conarration dwells on the visual image of the mountainlifting Vāsudevas, paying close attention to the position of their legs, arms, and fingers (12.35–45). Thus at the heart of the poem is found a powerful visual image of valorous effort—perhaps not unlike the central penance found in the Mahabalipuram relief (figure 4.2)—in which the two heroes are tested and approved not by a Hindu divinity, such as Śiva, but by the collectivity of Jain saints. The entire pantheon of Jain personae is evoked at this central juncture in the narrative. The powerful Vāsudevas perform their amazing deed, which predicts with certainty the death of their enemies, the Prativāsudevas (12.44–45). Then the two Baladevas, Rāma and Balarāma, the elder brothers of Laksmana and Krsna, compose a hymn to the Jain enlightened beings (arhats) and inscribe it on the face of the rock (12. 48–50). Not only is the hierarchy between saints, Baladevas, Vāsudevas, and Prativāsudevas clear, but so too is the way in which this cast of multiple characters is affected simultaneously at the moment the mountain has been lifted up in the air: Foes in fear, friends with jubilation, heaven dwellers in awe, and Hari too, energized, all felt their hair stand on end. I say: multiform matter is uniform.57

Hari’s effort sets off a ripple that is felt instantly by those near and far: by his enemies who are totally unaware of the event, by his surrounding allies, by the gods in heaven, looking from above, and even by himself. As we have seen in section 3.3, a moment of revelation is instantly experienced by the self and by the surrounding universe. The beauty of the verse lies in the uniform nature of the simultaneous reaction to Hari’s act even as it results, in each character type, from a different emotional cause. Such “ripple-effect” tropes are not uncommon in Sanskrit poetry, and theoreticians have codified them as a distinct ornament of speech, ullekha.58 But Dhanañjaya’s verse has another dimension of simultaneity. It describes, after all, not one but two Haris, each lifting Kotiśīla in his own story. Indeed, the verse’s concluding remark, “multiform matter is uniform,” can be seen as a comment on the very project of conarration. The word “matter” (vastu) also means “plot” or “subject matter.” The verse thus suggests that the aesthetic effect of the Dvisandhānakāvya hinges on the amazing

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simultaneity of what, despite their diversity, are essentially uniform stories. It is the simultaneity of subject matter that is at the heart of Dhanañjaya’s poetic vision, rather than the use of ślesa in and of itself. He certainly employs more descriptions that apply equally to the different stories than passages that produce two different narratives. The role of ślesa in the Kotiśīla episode, for instance, is to eliminate an occasional name or epithet that is specific to one story from the register denoting the other; the main verses depicting the heroic feat of lifting the rock involve no ślesa whatsoever. The same is true of the lengthy descriptions of bathing and playing in the water that take place in the ocean, in the case of Rāma’s camp, and in the Ganges, in the case of Krsna, or of the portrayal of elephant troops and other battle scenes in the concluding chapters. The bulk of these are devoid of ślesa, and even in verses that do feature ślesa, it is allotted a minor role. Consider, for example, this description of the mighty protagonist, Rāvana / Jarāsandha, as it comes up in the course of consultation among both epics’ parties: Is he not the renowned choreographer, arranging corpses in the theater of war? Does he not direct his enemies to dance in the gaps between the teeth of Death? A crowd of bowing heads butts against the feet of Ten-Faced Rāvana and his mighty uncle. of Kamsa’s uncle, Jarāsandha, guru of the fools.59

Two epithets are found in this verse, each indicating a different subject of the two narratives. Resegmentation allows the designation of Jarāsandha as “Kamsa’s uncle” (Kamsamātula) to disappear in the Rāmāyana register. It is now split into the question word kam and the adjective samatulam, “he who is with his uncle,” alluding to Rāvana’s powerful relative Marīca. Similarly, the appellation “Ten-Faced” for Rāvana, when resegmented in the Jarāsandha register, disappears.60 But these ślesas, clever though they may be, do not form the verse’s aesthetic focal point. Instead, they are eclipsed by the powerful, macabre imagery, in which the enemy is depicted as a choreographer and stage director, orchestrating the carnage, and by the tantalizing alliteration that accompanies the imagery, such as  the dental stops that pervade the depiction of Death’s teeth

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(krtāntadantāntaram). Ślesa’s role here is merely supportive, allowing the amazing portrayal of the enemy to apply to both sets of subject matter at once. This is also true elsewhere in the poem. The bulk of the work consists of a uniform narrative—heroes are born, grow up, go into exile, hold consultations, undergo trials, march to battle, and fight—and descriptions of beautiful cities, charming water sports, the rising of the sun and moon, and horses and elephants in battle that apply to both at once. Ślesa is absolutely necessary to maintain the poem’s dual frame, but it is often peripheral to the dominant imagery. It may sometimes steal the show by juxtaposing the two plots in meaningful and unexpected ways, but more typically it is allotted the role of a tremendously skilled set designer, constantly rearranging the stage by adding items that belong to one story and removing those more fitting to the other, thus enabling the incessant rotation of two stories and two casts of characters. These roles of ślesa in the Dvisandhānakāvya are surprisingly reminiscent of the artistic techniques found in the Mahabalipuram relief with which this chapter began. Both Dhanañjaya’s vast poem and the giant monolith frieze as read by Rabe employ clever puns, particularly on names and epithets, to portray their dual objects in granite and language. Both works of art may also occasionally be interpreted as contrasting their dual story targets: in the relief the purificatory purpose of Bhagīratha’s asceticism is contrasted with the destructive goal of Arjuna’s penance, and in the poem Rāma’s graceful handling of the crisis of succession is juxtaposed with Yudhisthira’s disgraceful act of self-destruction. Ultimately, though, the main source of aesthetic delight in both works is neither the clever puns nor the fascinating contrast between the two sets of subject matter, but rather their simultaneity. At the center of both artistic creations is a single image, whether material or verbal, of a hero’s triumph over a trial, consisting of an act of penance in the Mahabalipuram relief and mountain lifting in Dhanañjaya’s poem. In each case this single image is made to apply to two sets of heroes at once. Indeed, the surrounding images concurrently ornament their doubled central characters as well. Think, for instance, of the elephants that dominate the view to the right in the relief (figure 4.1) and feature prominently in Dhanañjaya’s battle scenes. Ślesa supplies the frame connecting these animals to the carved Arjuna and Bhagīratha, as to the Vāsudevas portrayed in the poem. But in the end it is those beautiful elephants, rather than the ślesa, that captivate viewers and readers alike.

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4.7 why conarrate the epics? Coming on the heels of the sixth- and seventh-century pioneers who had made ślesa the main descriptive mode of their prose, and the seventh- and early eighth-century playwrights and poets who turned ślesa into a major event in their plots, writers working in the eighth and early ninth centuries continued to test and expand the capacities of this device. There is little doubt that the three artists whose work we have discussed in this chapter (the anonymous architect of the Mahabalipuram relief, Dandin, and Dhanañjaya) were all well versed in the canon of authors such as Subandhu, Bāna, Nītivarman, and Māgha, not to mention Bhāravi, whose Kirātārjunya is often mentioned as a direct source of inspiration for the artist of the frieze. Indeed, later observers such as Bhoja certainly saw a direct line connecting Dandin and Dhanañjaya to Nītivarman and Māgha. Moreover, it seems likely that the three inspired one another. Dandin lived in the same court as the relief ’s lead sculptor and personally knew his son or successor at the Pallava atelier. There are indications that Dhanañjaya was familiar with the work of his famous predecessor and fellow southerner Dandin, even if the authenticity of his verse that mentions Dandin by name remains uncertain. All three, if we are to accept the interpretation of the relief as a ślesa, embodied a new and bold aesthetic ideal, according to which merely telling a single story was no longer the highest goal for a work of narrative art. If one wanted to push one’s medium to its limits, bitextuality was the way to go. As Dhanañjaya himself indicated, it is bitextual poetry that crowns its author as the king of all gifted poets. But what explains this unusual poetic ideal? What makes the poetry of two targets so prized? These questions cannot be considered in isolation from the consistently chosen narrative targets, the Rāmāyana and the Mahābhārata. One possible motivation for such a venture is that these artists knew the two great South Asian epics as a pair, complete with parallel plots and episodes that echo one another. The most obvious example is the structuring of both narratives around a similar crisis of succession that results in the exile of one faction of brothers.61 But our artists are aware of parallels on a more minute level as well. Think, for instance, how the Mahabalipuram relief seems to have been inspired by repeated incidents of penance in the epics, in which kings strove to win the gods’ approval and promote the cause of their respective lineages. Of course, the South Asian mytheme of austerity (tapas) is pervasive and not limited to the monarchs of these two

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epics. Still, the exploits of the kings from the solar and lunar dynasties may mirror one another in more specific and systematic ways. Indeed, it may be useful to recall A. K. Ramanujan’s notion of how epics grew through a process of generative repetition resembling the growth of a crystal as also true of the way these epics evolved in relation to each other.62 A case in point is the mountain-lifting episode discussed in this chapter. Although Visnu is associated with mountains in a variety of South Asian myths (most notably in his tortoise incarnation, when Mount Mandara is placed on the back of his shell and used to churn the milky ocean), there is far greater specificity in a similar episode associated with his Krsna avatar. In an incident that is retold in a variety of epic versions, such as in the Harivamśa section of the Mahābhārata, Krsna uses his fingers to raise up Mount Govardhana, thus shielding the cowherds from Indra’s storm. In Jinasenasūri’s Jain Mahābhārata, the Harivamśapurāna, we find Krsna lifting up with his fingertips the sacred Mount Kotiśīla. Although this repetition occurs in the context of the same character in different versions of the same epic story, we have seen that the Paümacariya replicates the episode by placing Mount Kotiśīla on the fingertips of Laksmana, a different character in the different narrative context of the Rāmāyana. But are Krsna and Laksmana different characters? What allows Dhanañjaya to pair the epic narratives, in addition to their similar plot structure and parallel episodes, is the way tradition itself has handed him a framework for linking them. The Jain pantheon of eminent persons is one such framework. Laksmana, according to this categorization, is a Vāsudeva, a personal type named after Krsna. The two are aspects or incarnations of the same identity whose role in the world, and hence in the story, is ultimately the same. In the Brahminical Purānas we find a similar framework of Visnu’s incarnations, enabling the conception of Krsna and Rāma as manifestations of the same god. In fact, the ultimate divine identity of a variety of characters (e.g., Bhīma and Hanumān, both sons of the wind god) allows a far more detailed frame for pairing the epics. Such frames also provide, as we shall see in the next chapter, a way of explaining the differences between the plots. For instance, the Hindu tradition places the Rāmāyana’s events in the golden age (krtayuga) and those of the Mahābhārata at the beginning of the current dark age (kaliyuga). We have only scratched the surface of this odd parity, a unique intertextual relationship between the epics, of which we will have more to say in the next chapter. Nevertheless, we can begin to see why a poet like Dhanañjaya believed that while he was telling the story of the Rāmāyana, he was

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also already narrating the Mahābhārata, thus making the uniformity of two different epics both the medium and the message of his poem. But Dhanañjaya’s Dvisandhānakāvya still does not provide adequate scope for a full theorization of the project of epic conarration. His work represents a relatively early stage in this poetic experiment and is burdened by the multiple targets of both Jain and Brahminical narratives. This added complexity can be sensed in particular in his Mahābhārata, a tale that begins with the Pāndavas’ upbringing and ends with Krsna’s defeat of Jarāsandha, with many hiatuses to allow for events modeled after the Rāmāyana and a variety of descriptions of nature. It is telling that Dhanañjaya does not make good on his initial promise to have Karna slain in the Mahābhārata register of his poem.63 Thus, although Dhanañjaya is empowered with an impressive arsenal of ślesa tools, his occasionally opportunistic and haphazard manner of uniting the two epics does not yet allow us to realize the full potential that can be achieved when the two are combined through ślesa. For this we will have to look at the more polished and methodologically conscious works of the following centuries.

[  ] BRINGING THE GANGES TO THE OCEAN kavirja and the apex of bitextuality

T

he early poems of two targets discussed in chapter 4 were not by any means the only ślesa experiments of their era. By the ninth century ślesa was used widely in all genres of kāvya, including independent stanzas, collections of verses, major narrative poems, religious hymns, plays, and royal eulogies. In addition, poets were exploring the potential of ślesa for a variety of specialized poetic forms. Consider, for instance, the work of Ratnākara, Dhanañjaya’s contemporary, who lived in Kashmir, far to the north. In addition to resorting to ślesas frequently in his vast narrative poem the Haravijaya (Victory of Śiva), Ratnākara also inserted into this work several bilingual and even multilingual ślesas— verses conveying meaning in two or more languages—a fact he proudly highlights in his introduction.1 He also composed an independent short  poem consisting of a dialogue between Śiva and Pārvatī, the Vakroktipañcāśikā (The Fifty Verbal Perversions). In this poem, which is fifty verses long, Śiva and Pārvatī use ślesa to misinterpret one another constantly and intentionally.2 These explorations did not go unnoticed. The theorist Rudrata, a contemporary and compatriot of Ratnākara, discusses them in his treatise on poetics, the Kāvyālamkāra, and several poets sought to imitate Ratnākara’s example: we know of a few instances of bitextual and multilingual ślesas in later literature, as well as of the existence of several poems of “distortive talk” (vakrokti).3 Still, none of Ratnākara’s innovations inspired a major literary phenomenon. The dual-targeted poetry of Dandin and Dhanañjaya, by contrast, evolved as the main branch of ślesa poetry in Sanskrit and as one of kāvya’s more productive genres. Starting at the outset of the eleventh century, we observe a great efflorescence of such poems in sheer

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numbers, geographical spread, narrative targets, and ślesa techniques. This chapter is dedicated to an investigation of this bitextual boom. I begin by charting this era of great bitextual activity and examining the factors that may have contributed to its endurance throughout the second millennium. I then study closely one representative work, the twelfthcentury Rāghavapāndavya by Kavirāja, in an attempt to understand further why Sanskrit poets were so attracted to the possibility of narrating the two epics at once.

5.1 the boom of a les.a movement My survey of bitextual literature yielded thirty-one works of dual or multiple narrative targets, listed in appendix 1. As can be seen in table 5.1, at least eight of these are dateable to the first two and one-half centuries of the second millennium CE, and the number was probably higher, given the incomplete nature of the data. These compositions were written at many of the royal courts of medieval South Asia, including those of the Pālas, on the eastern coast of present-day Bengal, Bhoja’s court in Malwa, far to the west, and those of the Chalukyas and Kadambas in the central Deccan, an area in which such compositions seem to have been particularly popular. At least thirteen more works were composed between 1550 and 1800, during a second wave of bitextual productivity, this time confined to the southern peninsula primarily to places like Tanjore and Madurai in the Tamil country, as well as several sites in the eastern Deccan. This is certainly an underestimate because some of the eight undated works in table 5.1 appear to have been written in this late period. 4 Although before the year 1000 we find only two fully bitextual compositions, the following centuries clearly witnessed a rapid proliferation of the genre. The data in appendix 1 also reveal a great expansion in the stock of narratives bitextual poets drew on, narratives that go beyond the two great epics. We have already seen that Dhanañjaya was heavily influenced by a table 5.1 Bitextual and Multitextual Sanskrit Works by Period

Number of works

Before 1000 CE

1000–1250

1550–1800

Unknown date

2

8

13

8

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variety of Jain sources, although these were still within the growing pools of Rāmāyana and Mahābhārata versions. A line of later Jain authors, beginning perhaps with Sūrācārya (c. 1033), turned to conarrating the lives of Nemi, Rsabha, and other Jain saintly figures. In the Brahminical world, too, Rāma and Yudhisthira ceased to be the only heroes selected for bitextual works. Vidyāmādhava’s Pārvatrukminya (c. 1200), for instance, simultaneously depicts the love life of two celestial couples: Pārvatī and Śiva, and Rukminī and Krsna. Somewhat later the stories of Krsna, Nala, and, to a lesser extent, Hariścandra emerge as particularly popular and are often narrated concurrently with those of Rāma or Yudhisthira in a variety of combinations. There are also poems that combine the lives of historical kings with the story of Rāma. The first of these is probably Sandhyākaranandin’s Rāmacaritam (c. 1100), which simultaneously relates the exploits of Bengal’s King Rāmapāla with his namesake from the epic. The explosion in narrative targets is related to the appearance at this time of multitargeted poems that conarrate three, five, or even seven stories. The first to attempt such an amazing tour de force may have been the famous Jain writer Hemacandra (c. 1150), whose Saptasandhānakāvya (Poem of Seven Targets) told of Rāma, Yudhisthira, and five Jain saints concurrently. This work is now lost, but a similar poem composed as a tribute to Hemacandra by Meghavijayagani (1628–1708) is extant. There is also a five-target poem by the Jain writer Śāntirāja, probably another admirer of Hemacandra’s septet. In addition, I counted at least five tritextual poems consisting of various combinations of the Rāmāyana, the Mahābhārata, and the Nala and Krsna stories. The arsenal of poetic techniques increased over the centuries and came to include dazzling literary devices next to which ślesa seems almost easy. For instance, in the lost Rāghavapāndavya of Śrutakīrti Traividya (c. 1100), each verse is reported to have been a palindrome in addition to being ślesa. This technique, known as gatapratyāgata, is to be differentiated from viloma, wherein one story is understood when the verse is read in the normal direction, from left to right, and another when it is read backward, right to left. Christopher Minkowski has argued that despite the existence of such occasional verses in the works of early poets, the subgenre of poems that are entirely bidirectional was invented by the poet and scholar Sūryadāsa (c. 1580). Minkowski believes that this innovation was inspired by the author’s familiarity with the Persian language and script, which was written from right to left. Sūryadāsa’s bidirectional

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poem conarrates the lives of Rāma and Krsna, as does a later such work by Ve]katādhvarin (c. 1650).5 While Dandin and Dhanañjaya experimented with bitextuality in mahākāvyas (long narrative poems divided into cantos), in the later period bitextuality appears in a variety of literary forms, such as short narrative poems, works that combine prose and verse (campūs), such as Cidambarakavi’s (c. 1600) Pañcakalyānacampū, and even stage plays. Three such undated dramas from the collection of the Mysore Oriental Research Institute are listed in appendix 1. Two are anonymous, and the third, copresenting the stories of Rāma and Krsna, is by Naraharikavi. If such plays were indeed staged, this would have necessitated an additional medium of dual representation. Actors and actresses in such productions would have had to become embodied ślesas in order to enact both Rāma and Yudhisthira, or Sītā and Draupadī, at the same time. Unimaginable as this may be, a remark by the theorist Abhinavagupta indicates that acting ślesa was a skill that actors and actresses were indeed expected to master. Abhinavagupta comments on a verse in Harsa’s Ratnāval, a play discussed in section 3.4, in which King Udayana depicts a blooming vine in his garden in a way that also pertains, by means of ślesa, to his beloved Ratnāvalī. After discussing the semantic operations involved in this verse, Abhinavagupta briefly remarks that an actor playing the part ought to express the more apparent register of the vine by using body language and the subtler register of the beloved by means of facial gestures.6 It should be clear from this discussion that starting in the early centuries of the second millennium CE, poetry that was entirely bitextual became a major literary phenomenon. But it is crucial to understand that this impressive bitextual boom was not a historical accident. The poets mentioned in appendix 1 form a thick web of direct and conscious borrowings across time, space, and literary form. Consider, for example, their consistent naming patterns. Most titles mentioned in appendix 1 follow a similar pattern in that they consist of the names of the dual (or plural) protagonists, such as Rāghavapāndavya (On Rāghava [Rāma] and the Pāndavas), Rāghavanaisadhya (On Rāma and Nala), Yādavarāghavya (On Krsna and Rāma), and Nalahariścandrya (On Nala and Hariścandra). The one major exception to this rule is the subgroup of Jain poems, which follow their own naming pattern. Jain poets named their works after the number of narrative targets sought in titles such as Pañcasandhānakāvya

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(Poem of Five Targets) and Saptasandhānakāvya (Poem of Seven Targets), clearly following the example of the first such Jain work, Dhanañjaya’s Dvisandhānakāvya (Poem of Two Targets).7 Moreover, bitextual poets often explicitly acknowledged their inspiration with lines of accreditation extending for centuries. For instance, despite a gap of 500 years, Meghavijayagani explicitly presents his Saptasandhānamahākāvya as a tribute to a similar lost work by his Jain predecessor Hemacandra.8 More prominently, the twelfth-century poet Kavirāja, whose work I examine later, emerged as a central figure in the bitextual movement. Kavirāja himself identifies his influences in the early ślesa pioneers, consciously ignoring the precedent of Dhanañjaya, with whom, I believe, he was familiar: Subandhu, Bāna, and Kavirāja are a triumvirate, masters of the path of crooked speech. Could there ever be a fourth?9

A few decades after Kavirāja’s Rāghavapāndavya, Vidyāmādhava prefaced his work Pārvatrukminya (On Pārvatī and Rukminī) with the following words: Bāna, Subandhu, the poet called the “king of poets” (Kavirāja), and myself, the learned scholar Vidyāmādhava, are the four masters of crooked speech in this world. There will never be a fifth.10

In chapter 4 I cited a verse presenting a trio of poets: Vālmīki, Vyāsa, and Dandin. This was followed by a later verse that placed Dhanañjaya as the last in this line. Here too bitextual poets are seen to position themselves as sealing a selective group of previous masters of “crooked speech.”11 But despite their exclusivity, or perhaps precisely because of it, these lists tend to be quite open ended. Centuries after Vidyāmādhava, poets continued to vie with the precedent set by Kavirāja. Take, for instance, Sūryadāsa’s work, which, composed some 400 years later, clearly echoes a verse from Kāvirāja’s preface. Kavirāja, as I show later, compared his act of blending the epics with the sage Bhagīratha’s leading the Ganges to the ocean. As Minkowski has pointed out, Sūryadāsa boasted a more impressive achievement for his bidirectional poem. In an attempt to outdo another legendary figure, the sage who made the river Godāvarī flow from the

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mountains to the ocean, he reversed its current, as it were, and made it flow uphill.12 Such statements betray more than just the collective awareness of the bitextual poets. They also reveal a pervasive sentiment that the efforts of this group represent a unique endeavor—the avant-garde of kāvya. These poets see themselves as the true masters of the crooked poetic tongue. Sagelike figures, they alone make the river of poetry flow in the direction they desire. Countering the absurd notion that ślesa is somehow natural to Sanskrit, bitextual poets repeatedly celebrate their extraordinary victories over their medium. We have already seen examples of this widespread, triumphant voice. Recall, for instance, Subandhu’s celebration of his achievement in composing a work that “consists of ślesa in letter after letter.” Six hundred years later Kavirāja echoes and expands on Subandhu’s sense of accomplishment: To utter even a single ślesa word is quite a feat. But what could conceivably top my ser vice to my king: two whole epic stories told concurrently?13

The notion that the bitextual poet is unsurpassable is repeated again and again. Take one more example from a work composed about half a millennium after Kavirāja, which conarrates the deeds of Tanjore’s King Śāhaji with those of Rāma. Its author, Śesācalapati, reports his patron’s commission of the work: “Just to compose is difficult, and all the more so—poetry. Even greater is the challenge of speaking in metaphors, and still more challenging—suggestion. But suggestion based on ślesa— the very soul of articulate speech— is at the far end of this spectrum. So, honorable Minister Śesācalapati, Pānini of the Telugu language, you certainly have your work cut out for you: you are to sing of my victorious life, while also evoking the Rāmāyana.” These were the words of King Śāha.14

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At least from their own vantage point, then, bitextual poets were the cutting edge of Sanskrit poetry. It is no wonder that several of them, such as Cidambarakavi, Śesācalapati’s contemporary in Śāhaji’s court, devoted the better part of their careers to bitextuality. In the following chapters I will discuss the testimonies of readers and critics who shared the view of ślesa poetry as the apex of kāvya. Later in this chapter I will also try to define more precisely what made the achievements of the bitextual authors so precious. For now, let me turn to an examination of another sector of writers who formed an integral part of the flourishing ślesa movement from the outset of the second millennium. For without the concurrent contribution of Sanskrit lexicographers, the poets’ victory over their medium could not have been possible.

5.2 the bitextual movement and the lexicographical boom It is no mere coincidence that bitextual poetry blossomed during what Claus Vogel identified as “a veritable lexicographical boom” that “set in at the turn of the 12th century.”15 During this time a burgeoning industry emerged that produced thesauri, wordbooks, and handbooks, many of which served the various needs of the growing ślesa community. Perhaps the most obvious examples are the popular lexicons of homonyms (anekārthakosas), which are extremely useful for ślesa making. Each and every one of the eleventh- and twelfth-century lexicographers mentioned by Vogel composed at least one such lexicon or lexicon section.16 Other specialized lexicons included lists of homonymic monosyllabic words (ekāksarakosas), which were crucial for the creation of resegmented ślesas. Such compilations, again, became prevalent in the early centuries of the second millennium, either as sections of larger dictionaries or as independent works.17 There were also works listing words with alternative spellings (dvirūpakosas). Several leading twelfth-century lexicographers such as Purusottamadeva and Hemacandra composed such resource books, which ślesa poets no doubt found useful.18 Finally, there are lengthy manuals that focus primarily on ślesa composition, such as the Kāvyakalpalatā by the thirteenth-century Arisimha. This guidebook for poets contains all kinds of poetic know-how, from metrics to the crafting of various literary ornaments. About a quarter of this book consists of enormous lists of puns and ready-made passages that can be resegmented.19

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Of course, many of these lexicons appealed to educated people of various interests and tastes, but they were closely tied to the literary community in general and the ślesa movement in particular. Several ślesa poets themselves felt a need to compose such specialized lexicographical treatises. We have already seen that Dhanañjaya compiled a whole set of such works, including a thesaurus, a lexicon of homonyms, and a dictionary of monosyllabic words. Another prominent example is Hemacandra, one of the most prolific lexicographers of premodern India and himself the author of a seven-target poem. Indeed, as Vogel has noted, tradition tended to ascribe such lexicons, even mistakenly, to poets known for their ślesa inclinations, such as Bāna and Śrīharsa. For instance, a wordbook is attributed to the latter with the title Ślesārthapadasamgraha (A Compendium of Ślesa-FriendlyW ords).20 The connection between ślesa production and lexicography was also made explicit by voices within the tradition. Take, for instance, the theorist Rudrata, who, in the ninth century, had already decreed that the mastery of the entire range of lexicographical literature was an essential prerequisite for the making of a ślesa poet: Only once he has attained a complete and perfect command of grammar, read the corpus of poetic practice, learned the vernacular languages, and taken great pains to master the vast variety of wordbooks, should the gifted, great poet attempt to compose in ślesa.21 Finally, ślesa readers were themselves dependent on such wordbooks, especially the commentators, who have left a record of their readings. It was a standard commentarial practice to quote at least one lexicon entry for each ślesa meaning under discussion, and such a quote was often backed up with quotes from additional thesauri. When ślesa-related commentarial production itself flourished (as discussed in chapter 6), commentators became heavy consumers of the lexicographical industry. One commentator on Subandhu’s Vāsavadattā, for instance, proudly announces in the preface to his commentary that he has consulted no less than twenty such wordbooks.22 When poets too began to supply their poems with commentaries they themselves had written, they acknowledged their lexicographical resources as well. An example is Haradatta Sūri, a poet who probably lived in the eighteenth century, and who wrote a poem conarrating the stories of Rāma and Nala. Haradatta Sūri cites a wide variety of wordbooks in his commentary on his own work.23

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These examples suffice to show that lexicography was closely tied to the writing and reading of ślesa. But what exactly was its role in the ślesa enterprise? If we are to answer this question, it is important to reexamine the common view that compilers of lexicons and handbooks are mere recorders of an existing lexical reality. Consider, for example, the comments of the linguist Purusottamadeva, who in the twelfth century authored a variety of lexicons. His thesaurus, the Trikāndaśesa, is explicitly presented as an addendum to Amara’s famous dictionary. In his introduction the author states that the work’s raison d’être is to list words that Amara had failed to include because of their rarity or obsoleteness (alaukikatva).24 Clearly, then, Purusottamadeva was consciously striving to expand Sanskrit’s expressive horizons beyond what Amara had had to offer. However, in his conclusion to the lexicon he adds: For the most part ( prāyas), I listed words whose use is documented. I ignored vocables included in lexicons such as the Utpalin though never seen in practice.25 The Utpalin is now lost, but using quotes from it found in other works, Vogel has deduced that it was indeed a thesaurus of “considerable dimensions.” The work’s extant fragments, Vogel adds, speak “at great length” of “the moon’s horses . . . the increase and decrease of sunbeams in different seasons . . . and other such lexical non-essentials.”26 These items are nonessential only from the perspective of modern linguists; for Sanskrit poets, however, they are indispensable. Sanskrit lexicographers, it would seem, had two potentially conflicting goals: to record actual usage and to supply poets with an ever-expanding lexicon. Purusottamadeva presents his approach as a compromise between these two trajectories: he positions himself between Amara’s exclusion of rare items and the Utpalin’s inclusion of unattested words, which he, “for the most part,” avoids. But there are reasons to believe that other lexicographers allowed themselves more freedom than Purusottamadeva took or claims to have taken. For one thing, it is clear that the expressive possibilities of Sanskrit dramatically expanded during Purusottamadeva’s time and the centuries that followed. M. K. Ghatage, coauthor of the Dictionary of Sanskrit on Historical Principles, speaks of a vast “growth of synonyms” and a “parallel growth of meanings attributed to a given word” in extant lexicons. In fact, he seems highly apologetic about the massive presence of what he calls “ghost words” and “ghost meanings” in the “later

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and decadent period.” It is clear from Ghatage’s account that the credit (or discredit) for these lexical ghosts goes largely to the lexicographers who compiled words by a variety of creative means.27 Consider, again, the subset of lexicons dedicated to the semantic fields of syllables, clearly the most useful resource for the creation and decipherment of resegmented ślesas. The historical dictionary of Ghatage and his colleagues sheds some light on the evolution of items such as the syllable a. Toward the end of their entry on a, the authors add forty-four extra meanings.28 They explain that this added list is based entirely on “late kośas [lexicons]” and add that “only the meanings Visnu, Śiva, and a couple of others are found in literature, mostly for the purpose of ślesa.”29 It is possible that the number of meanings of a actually attested in ślesa works is somewhat higher. But the data of Ghatage and his colleagues allows us to realize that the amazing expansion in this letter’s signifying capacities was largely the result of the ingeniousness of lexicographers, who not only recorded lexical usage but also anticipated it. Moreover, once a new item made its way into one compilation, lexicographers would pick it up for inclusion in others. Indeed, Ghatage maintains that “the most important source of both ghost words and ghost meanings in the later Kośas is the bad and corrupt reading of earlier Kośas.”30 The implication is that the mere existence of a word or a meaning in one wordbook often sufficed to authorize its inclusion in another. Indeed, many thesauri and collections of monosyllabic words begin by listing their lexicographical sources.31 Thus despite the reservations of Purusottamadeva cited earlier, Sanskrit lexicographers did not limit themselves to vocables attested in practice and used the work of their predecessors to mine new words and meanings in an attempt to enrich their lexicons. The number of analytical studies dedicated to premodern Sanskrit lexicography and its goals is minimal. Far more research is needed if we are to understand the mechanisms that generated the amazing lexical and semantic growth of the language. But it seems safe to say that lexicographers joined forces with poets and played a crucial role in the process of pushing Sanskrit’s expressivity to its limits. It is worth stressing again the remarkable temporal correlation between Sanskrit’s bitextual poetry and its lexicographical production: the sixth century, which marks the appearance of Subandhu’s Vāsavadattā (containing ślesa “in letter after letter”) is also the supposed era of the first extant lexicon by Amara;32 the eighth and ninth centuries, when Dandin and Dhanañjaya composed the first poems

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of two targets, also saw a steady trickle of wordbooks catering for the needs of bitextual writers (if not composed by them); and the bitextual efflorescence of the eleventh and twelfth centuries coincided with a commensurate lexicographical boom.

5.3 sanskrit bitextuality in a vernacular world The centuries surrounding the turn of the first millennium CE saw dramatic changes in the literary practices of South Asia. In a series of groundbreaking publications that culminate with his monumental monograph The Language of the Gods in the World of Men: Sanskrit, Culture, and Power in Premodern India, Sheldon Pollock has labeled these changes a “vernacular revolution.” By this he refers to a process in which regional tongues, the Languages of the Place (deśa), began to challenge the literary monopoly previously held by Sanskrit, the Language of the Way (mārga). Pollock details a sea change in what earlier was a relatively homogeneous literary universe that shared a translocal set of textual practices and ideologies and was unified by cosmopolitan Sanskrit. He demonstrates a consistent pattern from Kashmir in the north to the Tamil country in the south and from the Gujarat Peninsula in the west to the Indonesian archipelago in the east. Throughout this vast world local languages were initially absent from public records and works of literature, which were the sole monopoly of Sanskrit and, to a lesser extent, its sister cosmopolitan languages, Prakrit and Apabhramsha. When vernacular languages first appeared in the public arena, it was typically in inscriptions recording deeds or grants, thus performing what Pollock calls a documenting or worldly role. Only later, and usually after a considerable time gap, did these languages also enter the expressive or workly arena, in genres such as epic poetry, drama, and the royal panegyric. Although the actual dates for this revolution differ from region to region, the overall time frame Pollock outlines coincides with the bitextual boom: many vernacular languages made their first public appearance during the period just before the year 1000 and gained great momentum in the first centuries of the second millennium.33 This temporal correlation is intriguing and prompts us to consider the possibility that the unprecedented investment of Sanskrit poets, lexicographers, and critics in bitextuality was in some way related to the all-

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important vernacular revolution. In fact, the bitextual movement may offer a corrective to Pollock’s otherwise-powerful narrative. Pollock has famously maintained that Sanskrit “died” as a vital literary medium following the vernacular revolution, “at dates that vary in different regions and cultural formations.” He believes that the “truly vital literary energies” of the medieval Deccan, for instance, were “channeled into regional languages,” and that “if vernacular writing everywhere at first complemented Sanskrit, in most places it eventually replaced it.”34 David Shulman and I have elsewhere criticized this portion of Pollock’s argument. We argue that the vernacular revolution resulted in a new literary environment in which Sanskrit production was not only not “moribund” or simply repetitive, as Pollock has maintained, but a viable and accessible option in many linguistic regions. We have also argued that Sanskrit, with its unparalleled literary assets, enabled poets to tap unique intertextual depths.35 Here I wish to expand this argument by suggesting that the poetry of dual and multiple targets was a specialized niche that Sanskrit carved for itself partly in response to the rise of regional literary languages. Although vernacular languages entered a variety of expressive domains that had previously been the prerogative of Sanskrit, bitextuality was one area of literature where Sanskrit retained its monopoly for many centuries. Note that Sanskrit bitextual works of the second millennium were all composed in a highly vernacularized context. Sandhyākaranandin’s bitextual poem from Bengal, for instance, was written in a “period in which [literature in Bengali] flourished exuberantly.”36 Kavirāja’s Rāghavapāndavya and Vidyāmādhava’s Pārvatrukminya were likewise composed at the Kadamba and Chalukya courts, where support was channeled to the thriving Kannada literature.37 Even in the context of competing transregional languages, Sanskrit alone was used for poems of two targets. Jain poets, beginning with Dhanañjaya, drew on epics written in Prakrit, as well as in Sanskrit, but used Sanskrit alone to conarrate them. Indeed, the polyglot poet Hemacandra used Prakrit as a medium for several of his works but chose to compose his amazing seven-target poem in Sanskrit.38 In short, between 700 CE and the late 1500s, and particularly in the first half of the second millennium, when South Asia was being thoroughly vernacularized, bitextuality flourished in Sanskrit and Sanskrit alone. The only regional language that eventually produced a corpus of bitextual and multitextual works is Telugu. This is perhaps not too surprising, given that Sanskrit words, and even lengthy compounds, can be imported

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into Telugu with little change except for the final case ending. The extent to which some Telugu poems are Sanskritized can be seen in the story of Śrīnāthudu’s Telugu adaptation of Śrīharsa’s Naisadhacarita. Sanskrit pandits, it is said, “laughed at [Śrīnāthudu] and said, ‘Take your du, mu, vu, and lu [Telugu nominative case endings] and give our Sanskrit text back to us.’ ”39 But despite its openness to sizable Sanskrit extracts, Telugu was slow in turning to bitextuality. The first serious explorations of ślesa in this language are traced to the fourteenth century, in works such as Śrīnāthudu’s. An interesting case here is Śrīnāthudu’s response to the challenge posed by Śrīharsa’s Pañcanalya (Five Nalas) section (discussed in section 3.7), in which Sarasvatī portrays Nala and his four impostors using the verbal disguise of ślesa. Śrīnāthudu successfully retains much of Sarasvatī’s ślesa in the Telugu but does not attempt to reproduce her final tour de force, a simultaneous, multitextual depiction of all five Nalas.40 It is only in the later part of the sixteenth century, when “dense intralinguistic playfulness becomes one major vector” in Telugu poetry, that we find the earliest double-narrative poems.41 Probably the first such work is Pi]gali Sūranna’s Rāghavapāndavya, where the poet quotes his patron as commissioning the work with the following words: To compose even a single verse with two meanings is hardly possible. If one creates a whole such poem, the literary community is all applause. But you have the learning it takes to produce a true miracle: pairing the Rāmāyana and the Mahābhārata in the vernacular (bhāsā).42

We are by now accustomed to ślesa poets declaring their victory over their medium. Indeed, Pi]gali Sūranna unmistakably echoes the previously quoted verse from Kavirāja, in which the same distinction is made between an isolated instance of ślesa and a work of two simultaneous narratives.43 But there is also something new in Pi]gali Sūranna’s proclamation. By the late sixteenth century bitextuality in Sanskrit had become commonplace. Sanskrit poets had at their disposal the sophisticated theoretical analyses of ślesa in Sanskrit poetics, a whole library of special lexicons and handbooks, and many literary precedents from a variety of genres. Composing a dual-targeted Sanskrit poem was, of course, still an impressive feat. But what was truly remarkable was to pioneer such a work in Telugu in the absence of any prior tradition. It took about 850 years from Dandin’s first known fusion of the epics to the first such

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attempt in a language other than Sanskrit, and Pi]gali Sūranna’s triumphant tone is evident. Pi]gali Sūranna seems to have started a trend. Roughly coinciding with the appearance of his Rāghavapāndavya, the Vijayanagara-based Rāmarājabhūsanudu, traditionally seen as Pi]gali Sūranna’s rival, composed his Hariścandranalopākhyānamu (The Tales of Nala and Hariścandra). A third bitextual work, the Rāmakrsnacaritra, narrating the deeds of Rāma and Krsna, is reported to have been written in the same period by the poet Asūri Mari]ganti Si]garācāryulu, who was a court poet for Ibrahim Qutb Shah of Golconda (r. 1550–1580).44 This trickle of ślesa texts in the late 1500s turned into a steady flow in the centuries that followed. Appendix 2 lists no less than twenty-three additional bitextual and multitextual Telugu works composed from the seventeenth century onward, an output that is commensurate with the contemporaneous yield in Sanskrit (compare tables 5.1 and 5.2). This information is primarily based on a recent University of Hyderabad M.A. thesis written (in Telugu) by Konda Reddy Chagam, which focuses on Rāmarājabhūsanudu’s Hariścandranalopākhyānamu. Chapter 2 of the thesis consists of a preliminary survey of other such works in Telugu, based primarily on secondary literature.45 The likely partial nature of Chagam’s data makes it difficult to estimate the true dimensions of ślesa poetry in Telugu, but we can nonetheless point out certain visible trends in Telugu’s adoption of this type of poetry. First, as indicated by table 5.2, once Telugu writers turned to poems of two (or more) simultaneous narratives, composition of such works continued uninterrupted well into the twentieth century, which, at least judging by the data available in Chagam’s study, was actually the peak of bitextual writing in Telugu.46 Second, the data in appendix 2 suggest that the first impulse of some Telugu ślesa poets was to emulate the Sanskrit repertoire. I have already noted, for instance, the obvious infl uence of table 5.2 Bitextual and Multitextual Telugu Works by Century (Based on Chagam 2007)

Number of works

16th century

17th century

18th century

19th century

20th century

Unknown date

4

2

7

6

8

1

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Kavirāja’s Rāghavapāndavya on Pi]gali Sūranna’s poem of the same name. This is not to say, however, that Telugu poets of Pi]gali Sūranna’s time were merely translating or adapting Sanskrit ślesa works, and indeed, there is good reason to believe that some of this genre’s narrative combinations were introduced by Telugu writers. Rāmarājabhūsanudu’s Hariścandranalopākhyānamu, for example, seems to have been the first to match bitextually the tales of Hariścandra and Nala. This is also true of Krottala]ka Mrtyuñjayakavi’s Dharātmajāparinayamu, one of at least two Telugu works from the eighteenth century that conarrate the marriage stories of Sītā and Pārvatī.47 Thus a third noticeable trend is that although Telugu writers were consciously appropriating a genre that flourished first in Sanskrit, they were constantly experimenting with it and expanding its possibilities and boundaries. These experiments grew bolder from the later decades of the eighteenth century onward, when we begin to find radically new combinations based primarily on Telugu precedents and sensibilities. Consider, for example, the La]kāvijayam by Pindiprōlu Laksmanakavi (composed in 1797). This is the first of at least two known works that use bitextuality to vilify a historical character, thus fitting the mold of Telugu’s genre of tittukāvya (disparaging poetry).48 In his La]kāvijayam the poet tells of the grabbing of his own land by a local chief, one Dharmārāyadu (also known as Dammārāyadu or simply Damma), while also narrating the story of Sītā’s abduction by Rāvana in the epic. It is clear that the work’s raison d’être was to demonstrate the striking similarities between its two villains, Rāvana and Damma, and it appropriately ends in a verse depicting Rāvana’s death from Rāma’s arrow and Damma’s death as a result of the poet’s curse. Indeed, the work is often called the Rāvanadammyamu (Of Rāvana and Damma), a name that indicates the derisive goal ślesa is used to serve.49 No such works are known to exist in Sanskrit. Other Telugu poets used the format and tools of conarration to combine specific works from the nascent canon of Telugu classics. Thus the Krsnārjunacartiramu of Mantri Pregada Sūryaprakāśakavi (1808–1873) claims to render simultaneously two well-known Telugu poems: Mukku Timmanas’s Pārijātāpaharanamu and Chēmakūra Ve]katakavi’s Vijayavilāsamu. Likewise, the Vasusvārocisōpākhyānamu of Krotapalli Sundararāmaya (composed in 1941) sets out to juxtapose two quintessential Telugu works: the Vasucaritramu and the Manucaritramu.50 Beyond this, Telugu poets of the twentieth century appropriated bitextuality to nar-

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rate modern topics and themes, such as Gandhi’s fight for independence in Mānūri Krsna Rao’s Rājyalaksm (1952) or the life of Christ, juxtaposed with that of Krsna, in Gadēpalli Kukkutēśvara Rao’s 1980 Yēsukrsnyamu (Of Jesus and Ksrna)—written mostly in free verse and inspired, according to the author’s own admission, by a cinematic rendering of the gospel.51 It is thus clear that following the groundbreaking poems of Pi]gali Sūranna and Rāmarājabhūsanudu, bitextuality became a fixture in Telugu. Although such works are often highly Sanskritized and fit the basic Sanskrit format of double-narrative poems, many of the themes are specific to Andhra’s history and culture, and many of the ślesas are based on phonetic and grammatical phenomena that are specific to Telugu and could not have been achieved in Sanskrit, as explicitly noted already by Pi]gali Sūranna himself.52 The very existence of such a rich body of bitextual literature in Telugu refutes the essentialist argument that ślesa is inherent to Sanskrit, and that the corpus of bitextual poetry in Sanskrit could be explained by this language’s “natural” features. Indeed, although only Telugu developed a genre of poems that tell two or more stories simultaneously, other regional languages willingly embraced ślesa. Most conspicuously, ślesa was a major compositional mode in Tamil between 1600 CE and the early twentieth century. In addition to numerous independent punned verses, both written and oral, Tamil poets made ślesa the dominant literary vehicle in several Tamil-specific forms, primarily the cilētai venpā, a genre consisting of 100 short poems addressed to a deity or a patron in the Tamil venpā meter. Tamil-āci mentions no less than fifty-eight ślesa works in Tamil, the vast majority of which belong to this genre.53 Other ślesa-dominated genres in Tamil include the vilācam, collections of stanzas about the beloved that are addressed to the moon or the ocean. An example is Muttuppulavar’s eighteenth-century Camuttiravilācam. As with the Telugu examples, and perhaps even more so, Tamil authors such as Muttuppulavar often constructed their ślesas in a manner that is specific to the features of the Tamil language and could not have worked in Sanskrit.54 As in the case of Telugu, the composition of ślesa in Tamil literature was a major cultural phenomenon that was carried on with full force well into the colonial era, if not beyond, and was used for depicting entirely novel themes. In a recent essay, for instance, the cultural historian A. R. Venkatachalapathy has noted that when tobacco became popular in the Tamil-speaking region during the late seventeenth, eighteenth, and early

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nineteenth centuries, ślesa was used in verses that simultaneously praised this new, hot commodity and a variety of gods belonging to the Tamil pantheon.55 We also know from the memoirs of several nineteenthcentury Tamil poets and intellectuals that practicing the compositional techniques of ślesa was a significant component in the training of aspiring Tamil poets. Particularly revealing here are the accounts on Mīnātcicuntaram Pillai (1815–1876) and Vēmpattūr Piccuvaiyar (1850– ¯ 1910), also known by his alias cilētaippuli, “the tiger of ślesa.”56 Similar titles and aliases are known from the Telugu-speaking regions.57 Ślesa, it would seem, was a prominent, highly esteemed, and readily available literary mode in both Telugu and Tamil: although it was initially mediated through Sanskrit precedents, it was soon appropriated for a variety of literary forms typical to these languages and was used not only to deal with the epics and classics of the past but also with new and modern phenomena, such as tobacco and Christianity. Far more research needs to be undertaken to help us understand language relations in late medieval and early modern India. The Telugu works listed in appendix 2, for instance, have been altogether ignored by scholars, as has the vast corpus of Tamil ślesa poems. The intriguing difference in the adaptation of ślesa in these languages—the fact that Telugu appropriated (and then reinvented) the Sanskrit genre of extended poems of two (or more) simultaneous narratives, whereas Tamil never turned in that direction and instead employed ślesa massively in existing Tamil genres—has never before been noted, let alone explained. Finally, the corpus of Sanskrit works that were written in the Tamil- and Telugu-speaking regions just before and during British rule has not been studied either, to say nothing of the prolific field of Sanskrit literary production in the present-day state of Kerala and its relationship to Malayalam literature. What can be said with certainty is that at least in the south of the Indian subcontinent, the “vernacular millennium” was characterized by a plurality of literary languages. In many areas several literary languages existed in dialogue and even in competition with one another.58 Moreover, Sanskrit was a vital and important participant in these arenas, even when the decision to compose in Sanskrit was informed by various cultural and institutional factors in different linguistic regions and periods. Indeed, it seems that the data in appendix 2 shed important light on those provided in appendix 1, with its two apparent surges of bitextual productivity in Sanskrit, the first of which was spread throughout the subcontinent and the second

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limited to the south. When vernacular languages became literary at the turn of the second millennium, some Sanskrit poets responded by using this language to perform tasks that other languages were deemed incapable of performing. It is in this context that we can begin to understand the great investment of the Sanskrit literary culture in bitextuality during the height of the vernacular revolution, because clearly it was believed for many centuries that conarrating the epics (and other stories) required the use of Sanskrit. When Telugu and Tamil finally entered the sphere of ślesa, each in its own way, Sanskrit poets may have responded by trying to outdo them. This may explain the seemingly sudden surge of bitextuality in Sanskrit in the south after an apparent lull between 1300 and 1600 CE.59 Think, for instance, of bidirectional bitextual poetry, invented in the late sixteenth century, exactly when Telugu poets were starting to compose bitextually. As noted earlier, Minkowski has argued that the first entirely bidirectional work was written by the poet and scholar Sūryadāsa (c. 1580). He also proposes, as already pointed out, that this innovation was inspired by the author’s familiarity with the Persian language and script, written from right to left.60 This is entirely plausible, but Sūryadāsa’s inspiration may also be sought in other linguistic contexts. For instance, it may not be a coincidence that Sūryadāsa, who lived in Parthapura along the upper Godāvarī River, created his amazing tour de force exactly at the time when Telugu poets downstream were composing their first bitextual poems. Indeed, it is tempting to think of a later anonymous Sanskrit work titled the Nalahariścandrya (On Nala and Hariścandra) as a response to Rāmarājabhūsanudu’s Telugu work of a similar title, for if the Telugu work is “merely” bitextual, the Sanskrit recounts the Nala story when read forward and the Hariścandra legend when read backward.61 All this, of course, is quite speculative. But at the least it seems obvious that the late premodern surges of ślesa and ślesa-related poetic devices in Sanskrit, Telugu, and Tamil, all composed at the same time and in the same region, should be considered in relation to one another. Such historical and interlinguistic speculations, however, cannot in themselves explain the popularity of bitextuality in South Asia. What were the aesthetic goals of Sanskrit and later Telugu poets in conarrating the epics? Why were they so attracted to telling two stories, primarily the Rāmāyana and the Mahābhārata, at once? Such queries cannot be answered unless we also examine the literature in question.

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5.4 kavirja’s matching of the sanskrit epics Obviously we cannot discuss all the works listed in the appendixes, but if we are to settle on one representative poem, Kavirāja’s Rāghavapāndavya (On Rāghava and the Pāndavas) is an obvious choice. Composed under the patronage of the Kadamba monarch Kāmadeva (r. 1181–1197) in Vanavāsi (also known as Jayantīpura), this work was read well beyond its immediate Deccani locale.62 It also elicited an impressive commentarial response—in a genre where most works had one commentary at the most, the Rāghavapāndavya attracted the efforts of at least a dozen commentators.63 As already noted, Kavirāja influenced many of the later writers of the genre in Sanskrit and in Telugu. Despite its popularity, not a single analytical study of the Rāghavapāndavya exists,64 because most scholars continue to believe that Kavirāja’s work is “a brilliant example of a bad kind.”65 Approached from an unbiased and historically conscious point of view, however, the work immediately reveals some of the reasons for its widespread renown. One is the author’s methodological self-awareness and command of an impressive arsenal of bitextual tools. In his introduction Kavirāja supplies readers with a brief inventory of the methods he intends to use in his work: By and large, this is how I intend to compose a poem that simultaneously narrates the Rāmāyana and the Mahābhārata: I will occasionally use one and the same passage to serve both narratives. At times, the modifier of one register will serve as the head noun of the other and vice versa, or the subject of comparison of one narrative will become the standard in the other. In some places, simultaneity will result from the employment of homonyms, and in others from oblique language.66 This admittedly partial list is remarkable in that most of the methods mentioned in it are not found in the contemporary theoretical discourse on ślesa, even though ślesa was a major topic of discussion during the centuries leading up to Kavirāja’s time (as shown in section 7.2). No earlier theoretician noted the use of a single passage for both narratives, although, as we have seen, this is a staple of Dhanañjaya’s style. Kavirāja uses this technique far more sparingly than Dhanañjaya, but he is the first to note it, and it tops his list. The two methods that follow—using the

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modifier of one narrative as the modified of the other, and turning one register’s subject of comparison into another’s standard—are also not accounted for in contemporary treatises, and Kavirāja uses them masterfully in his work. Take, for example, the opening of his sixth canto. On the Rāmāyana side Hanumān prepares to leap over the ocean en route to La]kā in hopes of finding Sītā there. With its surging waves and terrifying sharks, the sea is compared with an unassailable, hostile army. In the simultaneous Mahābhārata register, however, an army is being depicted. Arjuna is facing Duryodhana’s massive forces before the Virāta war can begin. In this register the army, with its endless troops and terrifying weaponry, is compared with an impassable ocean. Although both narratives employ the same words and the verse evokes a single comparison between the marine and military worlds, the switch between the subject and the standard of this comparison suits the narrative needs of each epic.67 Only toward the end of his list does Kavirāja mention the well-known and theorized tool of homonymy, by which he possibly also refers to resegmentation. Although he does not explicitly cite the lexicons and wordbooks he has consulted, his use of such literature is evident throughout the work, well beyond what we see in Dhanañjaya. The word hari, to give one simple example, has as many as twenty meanings in the thesauri, including “sun,” “moon,” “monkey,” “horse,” “Indra,” “Visnu,” “wind,” and “fire.” Dhanañjaya uses it primarily to denote the two Vāsudevas, Krsna and Laksmana. Kavirāja, however, takes full advantage of the word’s semantic versatility. Its meanings “sun” and “moon” are used to refer to the solar and lunar dynasties of Rāma and Yudhisthira, respectively, and its referents “monkey” and “horse” when depicting the simian troops of the former and the latter’s cavalry. Likewise, he applies the compound hari-tanaya (son of Hari) to the following Rāmāyana-Mahābhārata pairs: Hanumān and Bhīma (sons of Wind), Sugrīva and Karna (offspring of the sun), Arjuna and Vālin (Indra’s children), or any combination thereof. This example only scratches the surface of Kavirāja’s elaborate use of this and similar words in his poem. Amazingly, Kavirāja’s masterful bitextuality is not too difficult to follow, and the trained reader can grasp its two meanings quite rapidly. Even more important than the poet’s mastery of bitextual techniques is his manner of pairing his target plots. By the end of the twelfth century Sanskrit literati were well versed in the vast narrative pools of the epics and probably were also familiar with the effort to conarrate them. The suspense in a work like Kavirāja’s would not have been built around the

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familiar events of any single plotline, or even the poet’s ability to narrate them simultaneously, but rather around his choices in matching their episodes. One of the keys to Kavirāja’s popularity is his success in impressing his audience with numerous surprising narrative links. The poem begins with a simultaneous description of the two epic patriarchs: Daśaratha, Rāma’s father, and Pāndu, ancestor of the Pāndavas. Both are paradigmatic kings (1.49–54) who set out on hunting expeditions (1.55) that result in tragedies. A single verse reports how the Rāmāyana’s Daśaratha shot an ascetic, mistaking him for a deer, and how the Mahābhārata’s Pāndu inadvertently felled a sage who took the form of a deer (1.59). The next verse tells the story of two curses, each called down on one of the kings. The blind father whose son Daśaratha has killed realizes that his own demise is imminent and curses Daśaratha to die of the pain of separation from his own son; the gravely wounded sage-turneddeer, who had been mating with his doe at the time he was shot, curses Pāndu to die likewise while making love to his own wife: Sick at heart, the father of the ascetic—

The ascetic, source of great agony—

whose hidden body Daśaratha didn’t see

whose disguised body Pāndu cut

when he shot his fatal arrow— cursed

with a fatal arrow—retaliated by cursing

this well-meaning king to die as a result

the skillful king to die at the time

of a tragedy involving his own son.

of lovemaking. 68

Note that this verse displays nearly all the techniques listed in the poem’s introduction. The phrase śarena vibhinnamūrter—cut by a “fatal arrow”—works identically for the victims of both stories. There is also a switch between a head noun and one of its modifiers: the agent of the curse in the Rāmāyana register is the father ( janaka) of the ascetic (tapasvinah). On the Mahābhārata side, however, it is the ascetic himself, characterized as the “source” ( janaka) of great agony, who utters the curse.69 The verse uses homonyms, or words with elastic semantic fields (e.g., channa, “hidden,” “disguised”; janaka, “father,” “source”; priyānuvrtti, “well-meaning,” “lovemaking”). Finally, resegmentation is

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also employed: the compound sutāpāya can be divided into suta-apāya (tragedy involving his own son) and su-tāpāya (retaliated, literally, in order to torment). Topping Kavirāja’s accomplished use of these bitextual techniques is the verse’s intertextual effect—the way it highlights the striking structural similarities between the two stories. At the heart of the narrative frame of each epic is a hunting-related tragedy that involves the ancestor of its heroes and determines his premature death under circumstances that mirror those of his victims. Note that Kavirāja’s ślesa does not mask the differences between the two incidents and prophecies. Indeed, he later describes in the very same verse how Pāndu, unmindful of the curse, makes love to his wife and perishes, while Daśaratha, although equally forgetful, continues to lead a pious life (his tragic death follows Rāma’s exile).70 Yet ultimately it is the profound similarity of the two epic narratives on both micro and macro levels that the bitextual telling underscores. Kavirāja continues to present his readers with surprising epic parallels. Consider, for instance, Śūrpanakhā’s advances to Rāma and Laksmana in the Rāmāyana. In section 4.4, we saw how Dhanañjaya matches this episode with the Mahābhārata’s story of Kīcaka’s harassment of Draupadī. Kavirāja impresses his readers—who were perhaps familiar with Dhanañjaya’s poem—with a different parallel for the Śūrpanakhā incident, the Mahābhārata episode of Urvaśī’s infatuation with Arjuna.71 The remarkable parity of the two stories is again realized through Kavirāja’s narration. In both, a male protagonist (Rāma, Arjuna) attracts a female who is not human: Śūrpanakhā is a demoness, Urvaśī a dancing-girl from heaven. Women of both races occasionally fall in love with humans, but these are unsustainable and even dangerous aff airs. As Kavirāja elegantly puts it, “an imbalanced union of a man and a woman is how Death makes his living.”72 Moreover, both men are unavailable: Rāma is wedded to Sītā, and Arjuna, whose relationship with Draupadī is not strictly monogamous, is occupied by his quest for divine weapons and is not free for romance. Still, the famously beautiful Urvaśī and Śūrpanakhā, assuming an attractive form, are blinded by passion and approach Arjuna and Rāma, respectively (4.7). Arjuna refuses Urvaśī, thereby humiliating her, and Rāma physically mutilates Śūrpanakhā (4.9). The two incidents also lead to similar repercussions for the heroes. Spurned, both Śūrpanakhā and Urvaśī retaliate in a way that similarly propels the epic plot to which they belong:

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The entire world thought her invincible,

The entire world thought her irresistible,

and yet Rāma humiliated Śūrpanakhā,

and yet Arjuna rejected Urvaśī’s advances.

as she deserved. She left muttering,

She deserved better. She left cursing,

denouncing his manliness.

damning his manliness.73

The mutilated Śūrpanakhā flees to her brothers, Khara and Dūsana, and incites them to fight Rāma. This eventually puts Rāma in conflict with another of her brothers, Rāvana, the enemy he was born to kill. Urvaśī curses Arjuna to lose his virility for a whole year. This curse, in fact, is a blessing, for it allows Arjuna to disguise himself for a year—the required term of the Pāndavas’ incognito exile—as a eunuch in the harem of Virāta. It is under Virāta’s flag that he too will face his enemies in battle. The verse alludes to these parallel developments: it narrates Urvaśī’s curse and hints at Śūrpanakhā’s reporting of the matter to her brothers.74 Again, the ślesa reveals meaningful differences between the two incidents. The author clearly prefers the divine dancing-girl, who “deserved better,” to the invincible demoness, who is duly punished. Ultimately, though, it is the striking similarities between the two episodes that Kavirāja’s verse underscores. In doing so, Kavirāja also puts a positive spin on Rāma’s actions in the Śūrpanakhā episode, which many have found troubling.75 He edits out Rāma’s toying with the demoness, portrays her as a direct threat to the world, and presents Rāma as demonstrating self-control, just like Arjuna. The reader concludes that both characters acted appropriately in rejecting the women, even if Urvaśī was momentarily hurt. One could argue that these examples pertain to events that frame the epic narratives but are incidental to their main plotlines. But Kavirāja consistently matches the central episodes of the Rāmāyana and the Mahābhārata, even those that may initially seem unique to one epic or the other. Think, for example, of Sītā’s abduction by Rāvana, a defining Rāmāyana event for which Dhanañjaya found no Mahābhārata parallel.76 Kavirāja, by contrast, narrates it with the kidnapping of Draupadī by Jayadratha, king of Sindh, one of the Pāndavas’ sworn enemies. Both abductions take place when the epic protagonists are spending their exile in the forest, and both occur when the wives have been left behind while the

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men go hunting: Rāma and Laksmana pursue a golden deer (Mārīca in disguise), and the Pāndavas chase monkeys (5.7–8). Rāvana and Jayadratha immediately arrive and are captivated by the beauty of the unaccompanied Sītā and Draupadī, respectively (5.9–22). Each abductor-to-be then tries to seduce the female object of his desire (5.23–35). Both Sītā and Draupadī unambiguously demand that the intruders stop wasting their time and leave them alone, a plea that leads to their being taken by force (5.36–38). The two episodes end quite differently: on the Rāmāyana side the vulture Jatāyus fails to prevent Rāvana from carrying Sītā away, while in the Mahābhārata Bhīma succeeds in stopping Jayadratha and rescues Draupadī (5.40–43). But the reader is primarily impressed with the fact that the female protagonists of both epics undergo a strikingly similar experience.77 There is, in fact, a long tradition of explicitly linking the two abductions, beginning with Vyāsa’s Mahābhārata itself, when, after Jayadratha’s snatching of Draupadī, the deeply troubled Yudhisthira asks, “Is there indeed a man more unfortunate than I?”78 In response to his question, the Mahābhārata’s protagonist is given a synopsis of the Rāmāyana, with its parallel kidnapping of Sītā. We can begin to see why Kavirāja’s readers would have been impressed by his carefully chosen and wellexecuted matching of the two narratives. Consider also the events that follow Sītā’s abduction in the Rāmāyana. A small group of apes happen to witness Rāvana as he carries Sītā away. They offer to help Rāma locate his lost wife, but only after he promises to help their leader, the exiled monkey king Sugrīva, regain his throne, which is now occupied by his brother, Vālin. Rāma agrees and cements his crucial alliance with the simians by killing Vālin. This is another example of a key Rāmāyana episode that has no apparent parallel in the Mahābhārata, or at least not until one reads the Rāghavapāndavya. Kavirāja ingeniously narrates Rāma’s involvement in the political affairs of Kiskindhā, the jungle capital of the monkeys, alongside the Pāndavas’ early adventures in the court of Virāta, discussed in section 3.1. The parallels that Kavirāja invites his audience to contemplate are fascinating. This is a moment when the heroes of both epics come out of a long period in the forest to spend a final year of exile in demeaning circumstances: in the company of monkeys (Rāma) and in humiliating disguises (the Pāndavas). Indeed, as seen through one of Kavirāja’s masterful displays of resegmentation, both groups of former kings now find themselves temporarily serving the cause of their inferiors:

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Monkey-land is sure to prosper as a result of his [Rāma’s] actions.

Dice, cooking, dance, horses, cattle were now their [the Pāndavas’] business.

The Sun’s son [Sugrīva] considered himself safe and lucky.

The Sun’s son [Virāta] considered himself lucky.79

Sugrīva and Virāta, who both trace their ancestry back to the sun, have good reasons to feel lucky: when Rāma kills his powerful brother Vālin, Sugrīva is transformed from a political pariah, constantly on the run, to a powerful and affluent king; and with such fine men as the disguised Pāndavas taking care of all of his court’s affairs, Virāta’s kingdom is sure to be prosperous. Moreover, in both stories an epic protagonist kills a character who has approached the wife of another: [Rāma] crushed [Vālin], Demon Dundubhi’s slayer— who set out to fight his own brother and offended his brother’s wife, entrusted to his care—as if crushing a bamboo bush, an act that brought him great fame.

[Bhīma] crushed Kīcaka— that warmonger who offended and molested his [Bhīma’s] wife— along with his brothers, as if crushing a bamboo bush. This act made the drum of his fame beat loud.80

Rāma punishes Vālin for stealing the wife of the exiled Sugrīva. Bhīma kills Kīcaka, the last in a list of molesters of Bhīma’s own beloved wife, the exiled queen Draupadī. Both killings are crucial events in their respective plots, placing the protagonists en route to redemption: Rāma’s slaying of Vālin wins him the help of Sugrīva, who enables him to locate his wife, Sītā, and defeat Rāvana; Bhīma’s crushing of Kīcaka leads the Pāndavas to battle to defeat the Kauravas, their cousins and nemeses. Note that this verse omits important narrative material on both sides. In the Rāmāyana it is unclear that the monkey queen Tārā was in fact abducted by Vālin, and it seems plausible that Rāma, whose own Sītā is being held hostage by Rāvana, is guided more by self-interest than by a sense of justice. Moreover, in the epic Rāma interferes in the duel between

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Vālin and Sugrīva by shooting Vālin from behind, an act denounced by the dying Vālin and many later critics. In the Mahābhārata, too, Bhīma does not kill Kīcaka in the most chivalrous manner—he comes in the dead of night, disguised as a woman, and strangles the unsuspecting Kīcaka when the latter begins to caress him.81 Kavirāja edits out these murky points entirely. His Rāma seems bravely to face Vālin, the mighty slayer of the demon Dundubhi, and his Bhīma single-handedly and heroically crushes Kīcaka and his clan. Both actions thus win their actors great fame. Of course, the intended reader is well aware of the fuller events of each narrative and can immediately appreciate the effect of their relegation to the respective intertexts. As we have seen earlier, in the case of the rejection of Śūrpanakhā and Urvaśī, the two registers of Kavirāja’s poem reflect one another in a way that refines both. Bhīma’s revenge against the despicable Kīcaka transfers to Rāma’s killing of Vālin; Rāma’s necessary disciplining of the offender of the wife of his own brother colors Bhīma’s action. Both protagonists are valorized and both antagonists demonized. Conarration is not meant merely to highlight similarities between the epics but also to show that the heroes of both are equally exemplary. Indeed, Kavirāja states this goal explicitly in his introduction when he attributes the impetus of his work to a particular curiosity on the part of his patron-king: About the nobility of Rāma and Yudhisthira, the good brotherhood of their brothers, and the total devotion of their wives, Sītā and Draupadī, about the oceanlike Rāmāyana and Mahābhārata and the pearls of their plots, the best of kings, Kāmadeva, is now curious.82

The oceans of epic narrative material are vast and include large patches of troubled water. When the bitextual poet approaches episodes in which the heroes and heroines behave less than perfectly, he should navigate with great care. His role is that of both the pearl diver and the master jeweler. He delves into the deep narrative seas, carefully selects the perfect, matching gems, and then strings them together to create a single shining necklace of episodes.

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5.5 amplifying epic echoes The sea-pearl image neatly summarizes what we have seen so far. Kavirāja’s poem has the twin purposes of highlighting similarities between the Rāmāyana and the Mahābhārata and refining both epics. In this he calls to mind Nītivarman, who, with Kcakavadha, achieved the same two goals while working with different sections of the same epic. Kavirāja crafts an amazingly rich necklace with countless gem-studded episodes, only a few of which I have examined here. His refinement of his sources is achieved partly through his selectivity with regard to imperfect narrative elements and partly through his matching scheme itself, with registers that reflect and highlight the charms of each other. The overall effect is simply breathtaking. The reader realizes that the epics not only share similar narrative patterns, such as the framing prophecies of the hunting accidents, but also mirror each other in episode after episode. The contests in which grooms are chosen (2.1–34), the events leading to both exiles (3.27–31), the kidnapping of the female protagonists, the demeaning instances of servitude in exile, the redemptive battles against demons or demonlike enemies (13.8–16), the support offered by other demons (e.g, Vibhīsana in the Rāmāyana and Ghatotkaca in the Mahābhārata, 7.6), and the regaining of the throne (13.41–59) are only a handful of the analogous incidents from each epic that Kavirāja narrates simultaneously. Reading his poem from beginning to end, one cannot but view the two epics as inseparably and beautifully intertwined. What allows Kavirāja to present the Rāmāyana and the Mahābhārata in this way is their long history of interrelationship. Th e Sanskrit poetic tradition had conceived of the two works as constituting a set long before Kavirāja. Their respective authors, Vālmīki and Vyāsa, were seen as the two founding fathers of kāvya in “praises of poets” (kavipraśamsā). In such eulogies it is rare to find one author without the other.83 Poetic theorists, too, paired the two poems. The seminal thinker Ānandavardhana (c. 850), for instance, used both to exemplify his newly conceived theory that a work of poetry must be dominated by a single aestheticized emotion (rasa). He found the Rāmāyana, whose author, Vālmīki, “transformed grief into poetry,” to be dominated by compassion (karunarasa), and the Mahābhārata, whose author, Vyāsa, saw the death of his kin/characters, by serenity (śāntarasa).84 Another traditional pairing has the Mahābhārata and the Rāmāyana as the archetypes of the antithetical but inseparable genres of history and

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literature. The Mahābhārata is viewed— following its own selfdefinition—as reporting “things as they were” (itihāsa) and is seen as Sanskrit’s opus primum of world history; the Rāmāyana is considered its first work of poetry (ādikāvya). As shown by David Shulman, these generic distinctions directly correspond to the narratives and worldviews of both texts. The Mahābhārata is riddled with insoluble moral dilemmas and ends in an apocalyptic war; it does not claim to be better than or, indeed, different from the world it represents. Its author, Vyāsa, is also the direct ancestor of its protagonists and antagonists, both of whom he survives. Thus the boundaries between the encyclopedic text and the world are denied, and “the text is absorptive to the point where the world itself is seen as held within [its] frame.” The Rāmāyana, by contrast, presents itself as an ideal account of an ideal person, Rāma, even though he too is not without his flaws. It ends not in an apocalypse but in a golden age. It views itself as clearly marked off from the world, indeed, as “more powerful than any ordinary reality.” Its author, Vālmīki, is a poet who stands outside the events of his poem and composes through a meditative trance. Thus Shulman distinguishes between what he calls the Mahābhārata’s “poetics of dilemma” and the Rāmāyana’s “poetics of perfection” and concludes that “the Indian tradition is . . . clearly right to class the two epics separately, in different genres reflecting different visions—even if for us both are surely epics.”85 Sheldon Pollock has addressed these distinct poetic visions from a historical perspective. Pollock views the Rāmāyana as a response to a set of political and moral dilemmas that the Mahābhārata embodies. In the Mahābhārata two groups of brothers resolve their competing claims to the throne through an intrafamilial massacre,86 but in the Rāmāyana violence is strictly banned from the royal family. Against expectations that characters in this epic repeatedly voice, Rāma and his potential competitor and half brother Bharata resolve their differences peacefully; they have no desire to unseat or fight each other.87 Indeed, unlike in the Mahābhārata, Rāma’s exile is not presented as the result of a competition between the two factions but rather is attributed to an alien source: the plan to banish Rāma literally springs from the crooked hump on the back of Mantharā, a hideous hunchback servant of Bharata’s mother.88 Thus, as pointed out by Pollock, violence in the Rāmāyana is permitted only in the remote regions of the forest, where the exiled Rāma defends dharma against monsters such as the ten-headed Rāvana. What the Mahābhārata “brothers,” says Pollock, the Rāmāyana “others.”89

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With the view that the Rāmāyana responds to the unresolved questions of the Mahābhārata, Pollock situates a significant layer of Vālmīki’s text in the late first millennium BCE and contextualizes Rāma’s dharma in the statements of Emperor Aśoka (r. 273–232 BCE).90 But this does not imply that the Rāmāyana as a whole followed the Mahābhārata in a simple chronological succession. South Asian tradition, for its part, suggests a reversed sequence, according to which Rāma’s story preceded that of the Pāndavas. Thus within the cosmic time frame of the four eons (yugas), the events of the Rāmāyana belong in the second, golden era (tretā), while those of the Mahābhārata mark the end of the third and the beginning of the current, dark age (kali). Likewise, in the cycle of Visnu’s ten incarnations, Rāma precedes the Mahābhārata’s Krsna. This traditional chronology conforms to the pattern of references between the Sanskrit epics: Vyāsa’s text often refers to Rāma’s story, as with the allusion to Sītā’s captivity in the context of Draupadī’s abduction, while Vālmīki makes no mention of the Mahābhārata. Yet the emic ordering of the Rāmāyana and the Mahābhārata, too, obscures a more complex relationship. Placing the Rāma story in the ancient golden age is more a comment about its “poetics of perfection” than about its chronological priority. And although the Rāmāyana does not explicitly refer to the Mahābhārata, Pollock has convincingly shown that it is audibly silent about it.91 A similar complexity is hinted at by the Jain notion of successive trios of protagonists and antagonists, as discussed in section 4.3. Jains, too, believe that the Rāmāyana’s trio of Baladeva, Vāsudeva, and Prativāsudeva (Rāma, Laksmana, and Rāvana) preceded that of the Mahābhārata (Balarāma, Vāsudeva Krsna, and Jarāsandha). But it is the latter group of three that lent its name to the whole cast of character types before the first extant Jain Rāmāyana. Thus Jain versions of the Rāmāyana cast Rāma in a mold modeled after the supposedly later exploits of the Mahābhārata’s Balarāma. We begin to realize, then, that the two great works of South Asia did not follow each other in any simple order. Rather, they grew together and were partly constituted by one another. What I propose here, then, is a highly complex process of intra-, inter-, and extraepic textual evolution by which the Rāmāyana and the Mahābhārata were shaped during centuries, if not millennia. Consider, for instance, the aesthetic and moral refinement both texts have undergone. Although Pollock is surely right in arguing that the Rāmāyana presents a consciously refined answer to the knotty dilemmas of the

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Mahābhārata, similar processes of embellishment took place also within both epics. Pollock himself provides a telling example of this in the Rāmāyana when he discusses the sudden, flashback reference to a pair of boons granted to Bharata’s mother, Kaikeyī, and then claimed by her in order to exile Rāma and crown Bharata instead. As Pollock shows, the boon-granting episode serves, among other things, to ameliorate the behavior of Daśaratha, who in an older layer of the text personally pledges kingship to Kaikeyī’s offspring in order to cement a wedding alliance with her. This older layer of the Rāmāyana mirrors the Mahābhārata, in which an identical promise to a future bride eventually leads to the central contest for power in the epic.92 The Rāmāyana’s introduction of the boon story can thus be seen as an act of embellishment taking place in one epic with an eye to the events of the other. Later poeticized versions of both epics continued this trend, possibly influencing their continuously evolving root texts.93 It is only in the context of these complex processes between the two epics that we can begin to understand Kavirāja’s work. An illuminating example is his narration of the later part of the Virāta episode from the Mahābhārata with Hanumān’s mission to La]kā in the Rāmāyana. I intend to argue elsewhere that the relevant epic sections, namely, the Mahābhārata’s Virātaparvan (Book of Virāta) and the Rāmāyana’s Sundarakānda (Beautiful Book), share important structural aspects.94 Both, for instance, feature the abuse of the epic heroine (Draupadī at the hands of Kīcaka, Sītā by Rāvana), and both culminate in a redemptive and fiery revelation of their initially submissive male associates: Bhīma and Arjuna, both disguised in women’s clothing, violently redress Draupadī’s humiliations in the Mahābhārata, and in the Rāmāyana Hanumān, captured and ridiculed by Rāvana’s soldiers, who have set his tail on fire, burns La]kā to ashes. Moreover, each book foreshadows the climactic battles of its own epic by presenting an idealized fantasy version of its later combat action: in the Virāta episode Arjuna single-handedly defeats the Kaurava army with his fiery arrows, an aesthetically and morally superior variant of the messy Mahābhārata war, while in the Sundarakānda Hanumān burns La]kā using only the tip of his tail, although Rāma’s victory over Rāvana will necessitate considerably greater efforts. It should not come as a surprise to us that these commonalities may have evolved mutually and even consciously. First, both the Sundarakānda and the Virātaparvan have been singled out as openers in recitations, performances, and, more recently, publications of their respective epics,

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and both are viewed as efficacious when recited independently.95 Second, the Virātaparvan explicitly calls attention to its similarity with the Sundarakānda: when Draupadī approaches Bhīma and demands that he kill Kīcaka, Bhīma first counsels patience, citing, among other precedents, Sītā’s behavior in Rāvana’s captivity.96 Finally, consider the guest appearance of Hanumān, the hero of the Rāmāyana’s Sundarakānda, in the Mahābhārata’s Virātaparvan. Arjuna closes his revelation to the Kauravas by hoisting his flag with its simian ensign. The ape on the flag then takes an active role in the fighting: it petrifies the enemy with its roars and is even hurt in the action. The editors of the Mahābhārata’s critical edition see the attribution of this stunt to Hanumān as a later addition to the text.97 But such an interpolation, if this is what it was, supplies further proof of the evolving isomorphism of the Sundarakānda and the Virātaparvan. It cannot be a coincidence that the hero of one book comes to the aid of the hero of the other at precisely the same moment of dramatic revelation to their foes. This interepic mutuality is cemented by external sources: later versions of the Mahābhārata leave no question about the identity of Hanumān as the monkey on the banner.98 Consciously exploiting these complex interrelations, Kavirāja pairs Hanumān’s burning of La]kā in the Rāmāyana with Arjuna’s attack on the Kauravas, with the help of his flag-monkey, in the Mahābhārata: Then Hanumān sounded his terrifying

Then Hanumān sounded his terrifying

roar of victory and burned down La]kā

roar from Arjuna’s ensign and scorched

with Fire riding his tail, as if he was

the hearts of his enemies, as once he

scorching his enemies’ hearts.

burned down La]kā with Fire riding his tail.99

On the Rāmāyana side Hanumān, using his tail as a torch, razes the entire city of La]kā. Literally larger than life, he is an extreme example of the Rāmāyana’s tendency to be “more powerful than any ordinary reality.” His actions also foreshadow Rāma’s ultimate victory as he burns a clear message into his enemies’ hearts. But who is this familiar figure on Arjuna’s flag on the Mahābhārata side? A strong sense of déjà vu (or déjà lu) fills us in this register when the same Hanumān uses his special skill for producing petrifying bellows as he aids Arjuna as well. This verse is an in-

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stance of Kavirāja’s trademark rotation of the subject (burning La]kā) and the standard (burning hearts) of the comparison, only this time the result is an explicit and dizzying comparison (or flashback) to the nearby text as Hanumān’s terrifying roar resounds on both sides of the bitextual divide. One cannot but appreciate Kavirāja’s masterful crafting of this gem, obtained from the ocean of textual intricacies. The constituent elements of this seemingly simple ślesa verse project forward and backward in time, as well as between the epic texts and within each epic. One finds here and elsewhere in Kavirāja’s poetry a complexity not seen in Dhanañjaya’s work. In his Dvisandhānakāvya Dhanañjaya primarily targets episodes that are identical in both epics, such as the lifting of the same mountain by the two Vāsudevas. His aesthetics are centered on simultaneity and the uniformity underlying multifaceted reality. Kavirāja, by contrast, is attuned precisely to the numerous, never-perfect reflections in the hall of mirrors that is the epics. Unlike Dhanañjaya, Kavirāja never gives one of his narratives a rest or transplants an episode from one into the other only to make the two stories compatible. Rather, he is constantly attuned to their details, whether they are different or strikingly similar. He fully appreciates the complex dialogue between the two epics and allows his poem to amplify that dialogue. Even when the same Hanumān appears in both registers and performs what seems to be the same stunt, Kavirāja consciously and explicitly indicates the process of textual reverberation by noting that one of his roars actually echoes the other.

5.6 conclusion At the turn of the first millennium CE, when the vernacular languages began amassing their canons and reached the landmarks of owning their first epic versions, only Sanskrit, with many Rāmāyanas and Mahābhāratas in its bag, and with a set of polished ślesa tools in its pocket, seemed fit for the task of writing poetry about the relationship between the two epic poems. Benefiting from the precedents set by such first-millennium pioneers as Subandhu, Nītivarman, Dandin, and Dhanañjaya and served by the copious scholarship of lexicographers and theorists, Sanskrit poets used their ślesas to enrich the language’s long-standing heritage of exchanges between narratives. They tapped into depths that only they felt capable of reaching. Poets like Kavirāja and his followers overcame the limitations of the linguistic medium, took the process of refining the epics to new heights, and, accordingly, saw themselves as kāvya’s cutting edge.

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The once-narrow trickle of poetry that contained two epic narratives transformed into a flood: Jain biographies and subplots of the Mahābhārata were narrated in a variety of combinations in plays, campūs, multiple-register, and bidirectional poems. But at the heart of this vast phenomenon remain the Rāmāyana of Vālmīki and the Mahābhārata of Vyāsa, the combination of which finds a most mature form in the Rāghavapāndavya. Kavirāja takes the two epics, which tradition has handed to him as a set, and gives their interrelationship a new dimension and meaning. As I conclude this chapter, let me examine this poet’s own portrayal of his poetic endeavor. Among the many images he uses to describe bitextuality, his favorite is clearly that of thinking of the epics as different textual liquids that he blends together: Vālmīki is the second Creator. The Primal Poem (ādikāvya) is his pitcher. The story of Rāma is his Ganges water, with which he purifies the world. Vyāsa is yet another Creator. His creation is the Mahābhārata ocean. His verses are marine gems, adorning the world. The Rāmāyana is the splendid Ganges. The Mahābhārata story is the vast ocean. Kavirāja, who knows how to join the two, is Bhagīratha. Where the charming Rāmāyana-Ganges mingles with the Bhārata ocean, there, in the sacred pool of poetry that removes all stains, let the wise plunge with joy.100

Using the conventional praise of Vālmīki and Vyāsa, Kavirāja presents an unusual poetic plan. His textual sources, he informs his readers, are like different types of fluids. The story of Rāma is the Primal Poem, a pitcher of distilled Ganges water that is used to purify the world. The Mahābhārata, a huge repository of a wide variety of materials, is the ocean with its hidden gems. Kavirāja himself is Bhagīratha, the sage who brought these two bodies of water together. The result of this literary fusion is a “sacred pool of poetry that removes all stains,” inviting us to plunge and discover its unusual depths.

[  ] ŚLESA AS READING PRACTICE

H

ow do we know a ślesa when we see one? Who is responsible for the perception of a second register in a poem—the author or the reader? Are there instances in which some readers read a text doubly while others do not? In previous chapters I charted the deployment of ślesa from the perspective of the poets; here I examine the readers’ role in this unusual literary venture. In particular, I discuss a group of late medieval commentators who, empowered by ślesa, produced textual exegeses that seemed unforeseen or even unwelcome to some of their fellow readers. These commentators form an important branch of the ślesa movement, and a study of their expository strategies and agendas is a chronological and logical continuation of the attempt to historicize ślesa practices in South Asia. At the same time, this chapter also examines the central questions of authorial intention and hermeneutical freedom in connection with ślesa, a first step toward a more general theory of this literary form. These questions are not bound to a specific period, and there is no reason to assume that the late commentators—authors in their own right, with their own axes to grind—necessarily represent Sanskrit readership through the ages. Because I can claim to have no direct access to the experiences of literary patrons who were not also writers, I begin by briefly revisiting the poetic corpus discussed in chapters 2 through 5 for representations of successful apprehension, misapprehension, and unsolicited comprehension of a second text, as well as for ślesa-related instructions to readers. I then examine the views of Sanskrit critics and theorists, not so much on ślesa per se (which is the topic of chapter 7) as on the dangers of misinterpretation, underinterpretation, and overinterpretation. These two analyses provide

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insight into emic notions about the license to read a text twice, a license that the commentators discussed in the second half of this chapter availed themselves of freely.

6.1 the imagined les.a reader: repre sen tations and instructions Ślesa authors may have considered themselves kāvya’s avant-garde and presented their poetry as a unique achievement, but they also had high expectations of their readers. Both notions are hinted at in poems where ślesa is used for coded exchanges between characters. There is a tone that is clearly self-congratulatory when poets extol their characters, explicitly or implicitly, for producing bitextual speeches. For instance, Lava]gikā in Bhavabhūti’s Mālatmādhava and the messenger in Māgha’s Śiśupālavadha are both praised for the imagination and sophistication involved in their ślesa utterances, and Sarasvatī herself, Poetry embodied, is made the author of ślesa in the “Five Nalas” section of Śrīharsa’s Naisadhacarita. Readers are reflected in the listening characters, whose skills and sensibilities are clearly put to the test: Bhavabhūti’s Mādhava must get Lava]gikā’s message if he hopes to join his beloved Mālatī, Śiśupāla’s address is presented as a challenge to Krsna’s comprehension and judgment, and I have already discussed at some length Damayantī’s interpretive ordeal in Śrīharsa’s work.1 For readers less able than his exemplar Damayantī, Śrīharsa recommends getting the help of a teacher to untie the textual knots he deliberately ties into his work.2 Other authors also appear to anticipate an intermediary exposition, and many of the later ślesa writers supplied their works with their own annotation.3 Even in the absence of such built-in commentaries, explicating the dual purport of each and every passage, ślesa authors provided a host of subtle and not-so-subtle instructions for their readers. If titles like On Rāma and Nala or On Krsna and Rāma were not enough to alert the reader to the dual subject matter, we have seen how poets of bitextual works in Sanskrit and Telugu even took the trouble to describe their methods of conarration at some length.4 In works where ślesa is employed at specific plot junctures, there is always something to alert the reader to its introduction. Māgha prefaces the speech of Śiśupāla’s messenger by informing his readers that it will consist of two clear and distinct meanings (sphutabhinnārtham), and Nītivarman also forewarns his readers when Draupadī switches to speaking doubly.5

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In addition, an implied but clearly audible indication of the switch to ślesa in Nītivarman’s work is the immediate disappearance of the otherwiseconstant rhyming ( yamaka) as soon as ślesa takes over. Even in cases of isolated ślesa verses that constantly crop up in almost every work of Sanskrit poetry, there is often an indication of the existence of a second reading in particles such as iva (like) or api (although), which we have seen mark the punned sections already in Subandhu’s prose. The important eleventh-century theorist Mahimabhatta even wrote these linguistic cues (nibandhanas) into his definition of ślesa and insisted that they must be used if the second meaning was to be comprehended.6 Finally, even if not theorized, the use of certain homonyms prone to ślesa, such as kara (hand, ray, tax), hari (lion, Visnu, Indra, yellow), and the like, surely signaled its presence to the experienced reader and prompted him or her to read a passage twice. Such examples might suggest that there are simple formulae by which we can detect easily recognizable signposts pointing our way to ślesa in a text, but the scenario is actually much more complicated. If Michael Rabe is right in interpreting the Mahabalipuram relief as a sculpted double narrative (see section 4.1), then the fact that this visual text ceased to be read doubly reminds us of the potential for neglect and loss of authorial instructions and textual indicators over time. Nonverbal texts are, arguably, more prone to this kind of underinterpretation, but Sanskrit poets seemed well aware of this risk in the verbal domain. The entire plot of Nītivarman’s Kcakavadha hinges on Virāta’s failure to understand Draupadī’s coded communication, meant only for the ears of her disguised husbands. There is something unsettling about the fact that Virāta cannot possibly get a message that we, the readers, like the Pāndavas, are expected to comprehend fully. In this context the warnings that Nītivarman gives to us but withholds from Virāta seem particularly significant. Indeed, the growing body of instructions, annotation, and secondary literature, such as thesauri and lexicons (often written by the poets themselves), may signal a growing anxiety on the part of ślesa writers about being fully understood. Poets are often concerned about getting their message through, but ślesa writers, it seems, were twice as worried. At the same time, the poetry also indicates a realization on the part of poets that ślesa uniquely empowers the reader. We have seen how, in Māgha’s Śiśupālavadha, the listener’s understanding is privileged over the interpretation offered by the messenger, the author of the ślesa in question. We have also seen the powers allotted by Śrīharsa to his prototypical

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reader, Damayantī: only once she cracks the code of Sarasvatī’s ślesa and identifies Nala and his four impostors do these indistinguishable and confused characters become autonomous individuals. Indeed, there are literary characters who take too much interpretive freedom in the sense that they deliberately discover an unintended register in the speech of another. There is, in fact, a whole genre of poems based on “distortional talk” (vakrokti), which follow Ratnākara’s ninthcentury Vakroktipañcāśikā (The Fifty Verbal Perversions). This short poem narrates the attempt of the goddess Pārvatī to break up with her husband, the god Śiva. Śiva cleverly deflects her complaints and threats by intentionally misconstruing them and thereby drags her into an extended verbal contest that leads to their reunion. In their war of words the god and the goddess use ślesa methods such as resegmentation to twist one another’s utterances. Indeed, as Lawrence McCrea and I have argued elsewhere, this practice of distortion, not unlike the cases of ślesa discussed in chapter 3, serves to characterize the hero and heroine, as well as to advance the plot. We have shown, for instance, that while Śiva typically misconstrues Pārvatī’s words in order to evade her criticism and placate her, she, once drawn into his game, distorts his statements by taking them to prove her faultfinding agenda. We have also argued that Ratnākara’s Pārvatī is forced to submit to Śiva before the contest can end.7 What is worth stressing here is that when the verbal duel itself becomes an object of contestation, Śiva and Pārvatī misconstrue even the metastatements of each other. Utterances such as “I said nothing of the sort,” “I didn’t mean that,” and “I am talking about X and not about Y”—direct authorial instructions meant to prevent any miscomprehension—are also repeatedly distorted.8 This is most apparent when Pārvatī attempts to resign from the game, and Śiva ignores her pleas and continues to respond only to the inadvertent import he cleverly finds in them. Just as with Virāta’s failure to understand Draupadī’s ślesa in the absence of any cues or directions, there is something quite unsettling about Śiva’s and Pārvatī’s ability consistently to “overstand” each other, to borrow a term from Wayne Booth, despite constant instruction to the contrary.9 Ślesa, we may conclude from Ratnākara’s poem, is a uniquely powerful device for a reader with abusive intentions. I do not wish to overstate the point by arguing that Ratnākara’s poem encourages readers to read against the grain. For one thing, distorting another’s speech is the prerogative of Indian gods, who from the most an-

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cient times tricked their enemies by using their words against them.10 It is not a coincidence that the poems of the vakrokti genre, while set in domestic surroundings, invariably involve divine and sage actors and conclude in a benediction.11 Moreover, the very notion of vakrokti, an act of deliberate falsification, paradoxically proves that for Sanskrit poets, meaning, whether single or doubled, is determined by intention. Finally, distortional reading in the Vakroktipañcāśikā does not violate the plan of its author, Ratnākara, who constructed his characters’ speech in such a way as to allow the expression of an involuntary meaning. Nonetheless, my brief survey of literary models of readers reveals, at the very least, a tension inherent in the use of ślesa. On the one hand, poets realize that by using this device they appeal to a highly capable and sophisticated audience. They entrust imagined readers such as Śrīharsa’s Damayantī with a great responsibility and make them at least equal partners in the process of making their texts meaningful. On the other hand, poets betray a growing anxiety about the potential dangers involved in ślesa reading. They go out of their way to supply their readers with additional cues, instructions, explanations of their bitextual methods, selfcomposed annotations, and other secondary literature, all to ensure that those readers will understand exactly what is intended, not less (like Nītivarman’s Virāta) and certainly not more (like Ratnākara’s Śiva).

6.2. things that can go wrong with les. a: the theoreticians’ warning A similar tension is hinted at in some theoreticians’ praises of ślesa writers. Kuntaka, for example, opines that ślesa “should be relished when composed by true masters,” and we have already seen that for Rudrata it requires the highest degree of erudition and skill: “Only once he has attained a complete and perfect command of grammar, read the corpus of poetic practice, learned the vernacular languages, and taken great pains to master the vast variety of wordbooks, should the gifted, great poet attempt to compose in ślesa.”12 Such statements, again, confirm the selfimage of ślesa poets as the cutting edge of kāvya, but perhaps they also express a concern about the potential perils of this poetry if it is composed by someone other than the most talented and fully trained writer. What can go wrong with ślesa? To answer this question, we have to explore the passages where theorists deal with a wide variety of poetic

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faults (dosas). The analysis of faults is one of the three major topics of early Sanskrit literary theory, along with ornaments of speech (alamkāras) (under which category, as we shall see in section 7.2, ślesa finds an uneasy place) and poetic qualities (gunas), whose complex relationship with both faults and ornaments is beyond the scope of this book.13 Of these three topics, the discussion of faults is the least studied today, despite the fact that the fascinating examination of what hinders kāvya often yields profound insights into its vision and goals. This is definitely the case for the long shadow ślesa has cast on the discussion of faults, as is evident in a variety of flaws that pertain to the existence or absence of a second reading. Indeed, it is in the context of analyzing dangers and perils that are somehow related to ślesa that Sanskrit literary theorists constantly encounter the diffi cult and often-eluded questions of authorial intention, as well as those pertaining to the use and abuse of a text. Because the topic of faults has received great attention from many Sanskrit theorists, I will examine them primarily as they are studied in one representative text. An easy choice here is the twelfth-century Kāvyaprakāśa (Light on Poetry) of Mammata, the great synthesizer of the discipline, who also systematized the discussion of flaws. Mammata examines each of the literary faults identified by his predecessors, as well as many new ones, on a scale of growing poetic phenomena: everything from the level of the phoneme to the overall import of the text. He also discusses the conditions under which some of these defects cease to hinder aesthetic pleasure and become legitimate. Of Mammata’s extended list of faults, I will limit myself to four: the fault of failing to get one’s meaning through (nihatārtha), the fault of expressing an inadvertent meaning (viruddhamatikrt), the fault of a highly inappropriate meaning (anucitārtha), and, finally, obscenity (aślla). All four flaws, I shall argue, are shadowy ślesas, involving unwelcome appearances of a second text. Nihatārtha occurs when the intended meaning (artha) of a homonym is rare and is blocked (nihata) in the reader’s mind by its more familiar sense. For example: When her lover’s hair is red-stained by the varnish of her kicking foot, the callow girl is suddenly startled. Noticing this, he wastes no time to steal a kiss.14

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A man falls at the feet of his girl, begging forgiveness for his recent liaison. She abuses him verbally and even kicks him on his head, but their quarrel invariably leads to lovemaking. This routine scenario of Sanskrit erotic poetry hinges, in this case, on the momentary alarm of the naïve girl when she sees her man’s hair stained by the wet vermilion varnish of her feet. Sensing her sudden shift from anger to concern, the man shrewdly seizes the opportunity to grab and kiss her, at which point the foreplay begins. The problem is with the word śonita. Typically a noun signifying “blood,” it is here used adjectively to mean “red.” This rare sense of the word is inhibited by its more common meaning, so that instead of “redstained” we really understand “bloodstained.” Of course, the thought that her lover is bleeding is the reason for the girl’s alarm, and one could therefore assume that the poet chose śonita precisely for its red/blood ambiguity. But Mammata is certain that “blood” was not intended, perhaps because he considers it inappropriate to the erotic context. That the meaning “blood” has crept into the poem, suppressing its original purport, is an accident. It is not the reader’s fault but the result of the poet’s sloppy lexical choice, if not some kind of Freudian slip. The same problem can be found on the larger scale of a whole poem: The sword is a friend to your hand. Only the ocean can limit your land. King, your fame outshines even the beaming moon.

This run-of-the-mill panegyric is defective. It contains not one but a set of polysemic words, all of which are used in their obsolete senses. The word sāyaka does not normally mean “sword,” ksamā only infrequently signifies “land,” and makaradhvaja is very rarely used in the sense of “ocean.” Likewise, abja seldom means “moon,” and “fame” is not the most typical import of śloka. But the real problem is that the more common meanings of these homonyms—“arrows,” “calm,” “Love,” “verse,” and “lotus,” respectively—combine to create a consistent second reading that portrays the king as Love embodied: Arrows are friends to your hand. Love overpowers your calm. King, your verse outshines even the luster of lotuses.15

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Love famously shoots his flower arrows to incite passion, and there is a long history of poets portraying their heroes as Love embodied, arrows and all.16 The mention of “verse” and “lotuses” is highly suitable to the erotic ambience of the king in love. Thus for Mammata, this second, unintended reading, made of the more prevalent meanings of the words, is the only one we get; the originally intended eulogy is lost on its readers. Again, it is tempting to consider the possibility that the poet, rather than being consistently sloppy in his choice of words, actually intended an erotic overtone, if not a full-fledged ślesa identifying the king with Love. For Mammata, however, it seems that the poem is simply an extreme example of the infatuation of poets with far-fetched lexical entries. Of course, exploiting such words and meanings is the staple of ślesa poets, and so Mammata exempts them from his stipulation: in poetry that aims at two targets, he says, resorting to rare meanings is an accepted practice, not a fault. Mammata even supplies an example of a bitextual stanza extolling both Śiva and Visnu, where rare lexical items are legitimately used to allow the simultaneous portrayal of both divinities.17 Mammata’s position, then, is that when poets intend a second reading, they are welcome to take advantage of the full Sanskrit lexicon and delve deep into the ocean of rare meanings. Otherwise, they should use caution in their word choice lest an unintended meaning creep into their works and replace what they really meant to say. Authorial intention is the distinguishing criterion between the fault of nihatārtha and ślesa. But how can one know what the poet intended? Presumably the context and poetic pre ce dent provide the clues. Th e verse extolling Visnu and Śiva, for instance, may be from a bitextual work narrating the exploits of both gods, and the reader of such a ślesa work surely anticipates rare lexical entries. But in Mammata’s own illustrations, too, the unintended readings seem suitable to the context. We have seen that both senses of śonita are highly pertinent to the lovers’ quarrel in the first example, and we have noted, on the second, that praises of kings as Love embodied are quite common. At least when they appear in Mammata’s treatise, outside their original context with its explicit and implicit reading instructions, it is not easy to tell the faulted verses from legitimate ślesa poems. We seem to be dealing here with one of the side effects of ślesa. The massive use of words in their rare and even manufactured senses—the mainstay of this literary movement—has made poetry vulnerable to two

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different perils. On the one hand, as Mammata warns, poets taking their vocabulary from the same page as the ślesa writers may find themselves totally misunderstood. On the other hand, his discussion calls to mind the possibility of ślesas being comprehended despite the poet’s intention because the prevalence of what modern lexicographers such as Ghatage have called “ghost meanings” (see section 5.2) requires readers to rely more heavily on their knowledge and assumptions about the context and the author. Even worse than nihatārtha is the fault of viruddhamatikrt, when a poem ends up conveying a meaning that is not only unintended but also the very opposite of what the author had in mind. Take, for example, a verse praising peace-loving kings: Well liked in their countries and embraced by good fortune, those lenient kings who renounced war now enjoy a worry-free sleep.

Kings who choose peace are popular, prosperous, and tranquil. But, alas, the opposite position has somehow crept into this poem in the form of a sarcastic comment on its intended reading: Falling to the ground, bleeding, jackals feasting on their injured bodies, those kings now lie breathing their last.18

Kingship is not meant for the peaceable: those who shy away from war end up suffering a terrible death on the battlefield. This subversive reading comes about thanks to the poet’s employment of vocabulary that has been used for ślesa from the time of Subandhu (e.g., rakta, “liked,” “blood”) and the resegmentability of the verse’s final compound: gatâsukhāh (worryfree) can also be read as gatâsu-khāh (breathing their last). Given the fact that this second interpretation does not result from a single word or compound, as in some of Mammata’s other examples of this fault, we again face the possibility that the denouncement of cowardly behavior was, in fact, intentionally hidden in the praise of a peace-loving king. Sanskrit theorists have long recognized the disguise of censure by praise as a distinct figure of speech (vyājastuti). How, then, can we tell the involuntary

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example from similar, intended instances, recommended by Mammata himself?19 Similar problems keep coming up under different headings in Mammata’s discussion of faults. Even worse than a poem conveying an antithetical reading is one whose second meaning, here printed in parallel, is also improper or distasteful (anucitārtha): King of this land, you wisely fostered good conduct all around you. Everywhere you turn, lord, bards sing your fame, and shining, spotless, and pure in every respect like moonlight at the end of the rains, your good name roams the far ends of this world.

Weaver, you have woven together one fine mass of threads: Everywhere you turn, the naked sing your fame, and exposed in all her spotless, shining limbs like moonlight at the end of the rains, your Lady Reputation travels nude in this world.20

The parable of a weaver whose “fame” his naked clients spread is a harsh commentary on the hollow reputation of a king, praised in the first register. It is, in fact, possible to read the reference to the nude “Lady Reputation” as an allusion to illicit conduct on the part of the queen. As in the previous example, then, this is a case of a poem that concludes in a harsh denouncement of the monarch it sets out to extol. But here many of the lexical choices are simply unimaginable unless a ślesa message was actually intended. Indeed, the wording seems primarily oriented to the second, scathing statement. For instance, the word kuvinda easily and immediately denotes “weaver,” but to read ku-vinda as “king” on the basis of the entry “earth” for the monosyllabic ku and the verbal noun vinda (obtaining), thus yielding the epithet “earth-obtaining,” requires effort and guidance. Likewise, the normal dictionary meaning of the adjacent verb pat is “to weave.” To read patayasi in the sense of “to foster” (patum karosi) is a considerable stretch. Thus the impropriety of this verse seems partly rooted in its insinuations about the king’s harem and partly in the growing suspicion that these, like Śiśupāla’s hidden accusations of Krsna, were deliberately planted by the poet. Mammata leaves this point vague. He does not include impropriety (anucitārtha) as one of the faults that can somehow be legitimized, but we do not know whether he finds such allusions permanently distasteful

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regardless of the author’s intention or precisely because of the suspicion that they are intentional. Mammata’s discussion of faults, otherwise so systematic, suddenly seems to lose its rigor and blur the issue of authorial intent altogether. But perhaps it is precisely the blurring of intention that Mammata finds most worrisome, the worst of the ślesa hazards. To probe this question further, let us examine his discussion of one more fault, that of obscenity (aślla). Several features stand out in Mammata’s analysis of this topic. The first is its highly thorough nature: obscene examples have a long history in Sanskrit poetics, and Mammata sets out to systematize and harmonize the categories of his predecessors.21 Taking a cue from one of his forerunners, Vāmana, he organizes obscenity under three content-based rubrics: pornography, which causes shame; the mention of bodily wastes, which is disgusting; and graphic depictions of death, which are inauspicious. 22 Each of these is then examined on his linguistic matrix, extending from subword elements to a poem’s overall import. Thus a second feature marking his analysis is its breadth: Mammata cites fourteen instances of this fault alone, a minianthology of obscene poetry. Third, and most important, Mammata discusses obscenity only when it comes about through ślesa, that is, when a lewd message somehow manifests itself as the second register of a seemingly decent text. Note that this is not a choice dictated by the practice. As shown by R. C. Dwivedi, there is no scarcity of straightforward salacious verses in Sanskrit, and there are several genres, including the farce ( prahasana), that are particularly prone to the vulgar and even pornographic.23 Why does Mammata examine obscenity only in connection with ślesa? To answer this question, let us examine some of Mammata’s examples, limiting ourselves to the subcategory of pornography. According to Mammata, vulgar connotations can pop up unintended when poets carelessly overlook even small word parts. A seemingly harmless verse that warns us to suspect the feigned kindness of an evil person, for instance, cautions that his mean-spirited words may be “very gently” (atipelavam) spoken. But this adverb contains the word pela (testicle), an unwelcome meaning that echoes in the reader’s mind regardless of the context. To prevent this from happening, words like atipelava are better avoided.24 But this preventive act in itself will not suffice. Obscene references can also hide between words, depending on how we segment the utterance. Mammata gives an example where the Kashmiri words landā (penis) and

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ci]ku (vagina) can be carved out of the combinations calan dāmara and rucim kuru, respectively.25 Already in the seventh century Bhāmaha warned against such undesirable phantoms (kalpanā) and gave the example of the Sanskrit verb “to fuck” (yabh) as extractable from the fusion of two totally benign lexical items.26 Mammata’s example, however, is different. Not only do both the female and male sex organs appear in the same verse, but the context itself is suspicious. The verse consists of a communication sent by a man to his secret lover to fix the details of their rendezvous. Although there is nothing pornographic about the apparent meaning of the message, it is significant that the very line hiding the word “vagina” means, on the surface, “that is the place where you will find satisfaction” (tatraiva rucim kuru). Is it merely a coincidence that this invitation to lovemaking manifests the words for the female and male sex organs, both of which are loanwords from the very same language? Suspicion intensifies when we examine Mammata’s example of pornography on the level of a single word: No one else’s army is even remotely as big. When this savvy king only curves his brow, who can resist him?27

The frown of a wise and powerful monarch suffices to make his enemies yield. The problem with this poem is that the word for “army,” sādhana, is also slang for “sex organ,” both male and female. Reread this verse with the meaning “penis” instead of “army,” and the political power game is replaced by the depiction of a sexual come-on. Mammata, it would seem, is worried precisely by the fact that this second meaning of sādhana is perfectly consistent with the surrounding words. He does not seem to proscribe forever this word, with its many legitimate senses, but rather to prevent its deployment where it easily lends itself to an obscene interpretation, such as in the context of mentioning its unusual size.28 Indeed, some of Mammata’s commentators prefer to read the feminine construction (kânyā) over the masculine (ko ’nyah), making the last line to more readily mean “what woman can resist him?”29 If this reading is correct, then sādhana in the sense of “penis” becomes more context appropriate, further explaining Mammata’s concern.

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The same worry underlies Mammata’s example of obscenity on the level of the verse as a whole. Again, the hidden meaning, here printed in parallel, is related to a description of a king’s army: Eyeing the enemy, the king’s terrifying army is on the attack: striking with all its weapons, it stuns and overpowers its rival.

The doe-eyed one ecstatically makes love to the king: eagerly responding to his thigh movements with hers, she leads him to rapture.30

As we have seen in the previous discussion of other ślesa-related faults, the more elaborate the examples get, the harder it is to imagine that they are mere accidents. What worries the theoreticians, we begin to realize, is precisely the slippery slope between phantom obscenities that creep uninvited into the readers’ minds and pornographic messages that were intentionally disguised as decent. This brings us back to the question of why Mammata discusses obscenity only in the context of a punned meaning. Perhaps it is the linguistic disguise supplied by ślesa that is the heart of the problem. Outright pornography is immediately identified and easily condemned: authors cannot wash their hands of it, and readers cannot pretend that they did not know what they were getting. But when obscenity comes about through ślesa, responsibility is dangerously obscured: writers can always claim that readers are reading their works against the grain, while readers can pretend that they sought the apparent, decent meaning and can blame the author for embarrassing them. It is both pretences that Mammata tries to eradicate by proscribing the entire spectrum of obscene puns, from dirty overtones of word parts to consistently salacious readings of whole poems. Surprisingly, though, there are occasions when ślesa-conveyed obscenities cease to be a fault and are even recommended: With the force of elephant trunks the hero penetrates the thick of the enemy’s army. His flag, moving to and fro, shines victorious.

With the “elephant trunk” maneuver, a man penetrates the contracted vagina. His penis, moving in and out, scores victory.31

The similarity between this verse and the instances of obscenity cited earlier is striking. First, here too a sexual act is hidden as the second register of a decent-looking text. Second, the apparent meaning is again that of

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military maneuvers. Third, the very same words—sādhana and prasarana— repeatedly appear both in the faulted instances and in this permissible example. Indeed, the close affinity suggests that all the verses we have seen belong to a genre of ślesa-based pornographic poetry where sexual conquests are typically narrated together with military ones, and which censorship by anthology compilers, scribes, and, more recently, publishers has eliminated altogether; the only relics are now found in the theoretical discourse on faults. Mammata denounces the entire corpus with the exception of this last poem, which is legitimized by its value for newlywed couples. In order to impart the secrets of lovemaking to the inexperienced, says Mammata, the use of ślesa is not only permissible but actually prescribed by the treatises on sex.32 This verse, whose second register graphically describes a sexual act, is approved, then, not because it is intentional but because its intent is appropriate. There are situations where sex simply has to be discussed, preferably indirectly. In other words, the linguistic disguise of ślesa, otherwise potentially dangerous, sometimes comes in handy. Recall that Mammata defines pornography as the type of obscenity that causes shame, and we can certainly imagine how a dirty meaning hidden in a dignified-looking passage can mortify his unsuspecting ideal reader. But in this last case the ślesa guise, rather than embarrassing its addressee and its author, actually helps alleviate the embarrassment inherent in the situation and the topic. To summarize my discussion so far: Although barely mentioning it by name, Mammata’s discussion of faults clearly reflects the growing impact of ślesa in Sanskrit poetry. The rising popularity of this literary device made words with multiple meanings increasingly prevalent and gave currency to resegmentation and a whole host of other ślesa-related techniques. Mammata’s exposition betrays concern about a variety of undesirable side effects of this phenomenon. He warns that non-ślesa poets may be misunderstood if they do not show extreme care when they employ vocabulary prone to multiple interpretations or resegmentation. Indeed, he worries that improper and even offensive meanings will force themselves on unsuspecting readers and cause disgust or shame rather than pleasure. At the same time, Mammata also seems to caution against the habit of some writers to garb indecent poetry in an innocent guise. But a close reading of Mammata suggests that what worries him most is the possibility that under the influence of ślesa, literature will turn into a wild costume party in which the true poetic identity of verses or works

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will never be certain: Does this poem have one or two narrative targets? Is that poem a case of criticism disguised as praise (vyājastuti) or a faulty verse into which an inadvertent message has crept (viruddhamatikrt)? And is that stanza a standard eulogy of a king’s power or an obscene reference to his private parts? While acknowledging the potential usefulness of some masquerades, and while certainly not dismissing ślesa when put to good use, Mammata’s discussion reveals an anxiety about ślesa’s potential to blur authorial intention. As we shall see, this concern was not without grounds, for a large group of late medieval readers, empowered by ślesa reading practices, saw linguistic masks in unexpected places and took great liberties in highly creative exegeses, which they nonetheless presented as mere acts of unmasking.

6.3 seeing shapes in clouds: different readings of meghadta 1.14 In the remainder of this chapter I discuss several instances of “readerly ślesas,” namely, cases where an additional reading results from a commentator’s ingenious interpretation rather than from the pen of the poet. Of course, the very attempt to define this phenomenon raises a serious theoretical problem. In this postmodern era we can no longer pretend to have access to authorial intention and cannot, therefore, confidently single out some commentators simply because we feel that their ślesa readings are far fetched or uncalled for by the text. If we are to avoid the impressionistic tendencies and intentional fallacies typical of previous generations of scholars and still say something meaningful about the interpretive practices of ślesa readers, we need to be more precise in identifying the uniqueness of their reading methods and justifications and examine them in context, carefully weighing the precedents, as well as the reactions, they have elicited. Two basic features help us provisionally distinguish instances of readerly ślesas from the “writerly” sort. First, we will be looking at cases where readers identified additional narratives ( paksas) in texts that, on the face of it, include no clear indication of being ślesas. In other words, the passages or works in question contain no discussion of the ślesa methods used, offer no obvious verbal cues of the types mentioned earlier, and, in the case of whole works, are not headed by typical bitextual titles. Second, we will look at cases where readers identified a ślesa in a passage or a work that others read as involving no second narrative at all. Indeed, in some of

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the more elaborate readerly ślesas, commentators anticipated controversy and betrayed pride at being the first to unmask the true nature of a text. Although neither criterion can ensure the soundness of this distinction, in combination they allow me to set aside some cases of ślesa readings and examine them more closely. To begin with, consider a small example of a single verse from Kālidāsa’s Meghadūta (Cloud Messenger). In this famous work a certain yaksa, or demigod, who has been temporarily exiled from his mythic Himalayan hometown entrusts a cloud with a message for his faraway beloved. In the opening verses the yaksa pleads with the cloud to carry his message. Then he instructs it about its imminent departure: “Could it be that the mountain top is blown away by the wind?” The callow siddha girls 33 are suddenly startled, looking up at your impressive start. Lift off! Leave this place with its tender reeds and fly up north. But watch out for the elephants at the ends of the heavens, whose mighty trunks are cast to sniff you.34

Two cases of mistaken identity (bhrānitmat) are at the heart of this verse. The movement of a massive rain cloud away from the mountain misleads the naïve siddha women, looking from beneath, to believe that the summit itself has been blown away by the wind. For their part, the elephants of the heavenly guardians, stationed at each corner of the compass, mistake the dark cloud for one of their own. Both groups of beholders react accordingly: the siddha girls with momentary alarm and the heavenly elephants with a curious sniff. Their reactions to the ascending cloud set the tone for its numerous encounters with onlookers along the way, as narrated in the remainder of the poem. Note that there is nothing in the Meghadūta to lead us to suspect that the work is in any way bitextual, nor does this verse include any typical ślesa clue. Moreover, my translation is informed by the interpretation of the vast majority of the poem’s numerous commentators, beginning with the earliest extant exegesis of Vallabhadeva (tenth-century Kashmir). Nonetheless, there is a small but significant line of commentators who saw other shapes in the cloud. Daksināvartanātha (fourteenth-century South India) understood this as a kind of a ślesa-based vers à clef in which Kālidāsa praises a fellow poet, humorously refers to the criticism of a rival,

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and predicts the success of his poem. Here is a translation of the verse’s second half according to this reading: Soar up! Leave the territory of the sensitive Nicula and reach up for the top. But watch out for Mr. Di]nāga and his notorious hand waving.35

The cloud messenger addressed in this verse also seems to stand, according to Daksināvartanātha, for Kālidāsa’s poem itself, the Cloud Messenger. This Cloud is sent from the cozy environment of appreciative fellow poets such as Nicula, an author known today only from anthologies, to the zenith of the literary world. Being a remarkably innovative poem, it is expected also to elicit criticism.36 In particular, Di]nāga, the famous Buddhist philosopher and poet, has presumably already passed negative judgment on Kālidāsa’s earlier works, accompanying his faultfinding with dismissive hand gestures, and he is expected to do so again with respect to the Cloud. This second reading is based, first, on the ambiguity of two proper names. The nickname Nicula, as Daksināvartanātha explains, became the only known epithet of Kālidāsa’s colleague, following a famous couplet he composed on the nicula reed. Di]nāga is the name of a renowned Buddhist scholar, as well as the word denoting the elephants stationed at each of the cardinal directions.37 The words sarasa (tender, sensitive) and hasta (trunk, hand) are also polysemic and have been used in ślesas since the time of Subandhu.38 These and other ambiguities allow the punned reading of the second half of the verse. Daksināvartanātha is not alone. The celebrated Jain commentator Mallinātha, whose indebtedness to Daksināvartanātha on this and many other passages has already been noted by P. N. Unni,39 endorses the explanation of his predecessor and fellow southerner and elaborates on it. For instance, Mallinātha identifies the poet Nicula as Kālidāsa’s classmate, who defended him against the criticism of other colleagues.40 Moreover, exploiting additional lexical and morphological ambiguities, he rereads the entire verse, not just its second half: Could it be that the eminence of that giant [Di]nāga] is blown away by the wind? Men of letters and their lovely ladies are admiring your impressive start. Hold your head high! Reach up for the top! But leaving behind your sensitive friend Nicula, watch out for Mr. Di]nāga and his notorious hand waving.41

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On the authority of Amara’s lexicon, Mallinātha points out that śr]ga (summit) also means “eminence” (prādhānya). The “callow siddha girls” of the first register become literary experts and their ladies on the basis of the ambiguity of words like siddha (semidivine creatures, sages, experts) and mugdha (naïve, lovely) and the syntactic ambiguities inherent in such Sanskrit compounds. Both encounters of the cloud are transformed, in Mallinātha’s reading, to encounters of the Cloud Messenger (the name of the poem) or the poet himself with admirers and critics.42 Going further than his predecessor, then, Mallinātha finds that Kālidāsa’s verse contains a hidden and consistent metapoetic statement. Neither Daksināvartanātha nor Mallinātha mention the technical term ślesa in their interpretations of the verse; the former merely speaks of the second meaning as intended (vaksita) and the latter as suggested (arthāntaram dhvanayati).43 In practice, however, their techniques of reading are hardly distinguishable from those necessitated by Kavirāja’s Rāghavapāndavya or any other bitextual poem. The two commentators do not seem troubled by Kālidāsa’s indisposition to bitextuality of this sort, or by the fact that most other commentators did not notice a second register in this verse. They ground their claim for an intended hidden message by a tradition about the poet’s biography that was perhaps not widespread, and their interpretation fits well with Kālidāsa’s tendency explicitly to anticipate the critical reactions of future readers to his works.44 Thus although the majority of commentators did not adopt this exegesis, it did not stir a debate. Such cases of occasional readerly ślesas are, in fact, quite common, and they often go unnoticed. Three centuries after Mallinātha, however, we come across a far more radical reinterpretation of Kālidāsa’s Meghadūta by an author named Narahari (late eighteenth century, Orissa). His Brahmapradarśikā commentary, the subject of a recent M.A. thesis by Aya Tamal,45 sets out to show that the entire poem, which generations of readers have understood as narrating the journey of a cloud messenger, actually depicts the mission of Lord Jagannātha, Visnu’s manifestation in Orissa, to bring the message of the scriptures to the world. Narahari thus completely revises the work’s frame story: the lovesick yaksa and the cloud are replaced, respectively, by King Indradyumna, the Orissan exemplar devotee who is said to have established the cult of Jagannātha, and God Jagannātha, whose body has the hue of a dark rain cloud.46 Like Daksināvartanātha and Mallinātha before him, Narahari does not mention the word ślesa in his commentary, but here the reason is not the

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nomenclature of poetic devices, but his belief that the poem does not convey two meanings but one. In his comments on the first verse he justifies his innovative interpretation of Kālidāsa by referring to the thin and implausible story of the yaksa’s exile, the ridiculousness inherent in asking a cloud to carry one’s message, and the uselessness of writing a poem about such a trivial matter. The work, he concludes, can only be about Jagannātha, which also explains the rewards it offers to those who recite and hear it.47 Thus, unlike commentators glossing isolated ślesa verses or entirely bitextual works, Narahari does not provide a double exegesis of the verses of the Meghadūta. Totally ignoring the yaksa and the cloud, he proceeds to identify for the very first time the poem’s sole hero: God. Nonetheless, Narahari’s interpretation of the poem is nothing but a grand case of ślesa reading. He can afford to ignore the well-established interpretation of Kālidāsa’s Meghadūta only because his readers are thoroughly familiar with it. In that respect his commentary is not all that different from the vast corpus of poems that correspond with, offer sequels to, or incorporate the language of Kālidāsa’s Meghadūta.48 Whether he assumes that Kālidāsa has planted the cloud narrative as a kind of thin disguise of the poem’s actual purport, or he presumes that the poet was simply read against his intention for almost a millennium and a half, or he believes that Kālidāsa was not very careful in his lexical choices and hence is guilty of the fault of failing to get one’s meaning through (nihatārtha), the accepted interpretation of the Meghadūta is always in the background of Narahari’s commentary. In this sense his reading is, almost by definition, a second reading. Indeed, even more than Daksināvartanātha and Mallinātha, Narahari borrows his interpretive tools from commentators glossing ślesa works: he typically resorts to resegmentation and heavily depends not just on the regular thesauri but also on the special lexicons of monosyllabic words. Consider, for example, his solution to the problem posed by the word yaksa in the poem’s opening verse. Because this demigod is now seen as irrelevant to the poem, Narahari exploits the rules for resolving euphonic combinations (sandhi) in Sanskrit to depose the lovelorn character and read, in his place, y[]-aksa, or God. This epithet, he explains, means “he on whom Laksmī’s eyes (aksas) are fixed,” because one of the goddess’s names is the monosyllabic .49 Or take Narahari’s reading of verse 1.14 of the Meghadūta, which we have already seen reinterpreted by Daksināvartanātha and Mallinātha. According to Narahari, this verse narrates neither the takeoff of the cloud messenger nor the rise to fame of the poem by that

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name, but Lord Jagannātha’s departure on his famous chariot procession, when he is carried off from his temple by the priests and mounted on his massive festive vehicle en route to Gundicā. Here is a translation of the verse based on Narahari’s commentary: “Could it be that the mountain top is blown away by the wind?” Everyone from liberated souls to naïve women is suddenly startled, looking up to see your height.50 Climb up [to the chariot]! Go from this place [Blue Mountain], with its tender reeds, and travel north [to Gundicā]. But watch out for the porters who would walk to the end of the world, for they proudly wave their brawny hands.51

Narahari’s exegesis has several aspects in common with those of his two pre de cessors. For instance, like Mallinātha, he reads the compound mugdha-siddhâ]ganābhih as a pair (dvandva) of collective agents—the “women” and the “siddhas”—rather than as one head noun (“women”) and two modifiers (“callow” and “of the siddhas”). Unlike Mallinātha, however, Narahari understands siddha in its sense of “liberated devotees” (not “literary experts”) and takes the adjective mugdha (callow, naïve) as modifying both the saints and the women, as is more natural in such compounds. This creates a slight problem, for we may expect liberated souls not to mistake God for a mountain’s summit, let alone be startled. But Narahari finds this quite possible. The siddhas could be newcomers (abhinavāgataih), perhaps unaccustomed to the monumental size of Jagannātha’s festival chariot.52 Indeed, unlike both Daksināvartanātha and Mallinātha, he is comfortable with leaving the phrase “from this place with its tender reeds” untouched, for the ritual procession of Jagannātha takes place as the rains begin and the reeds are lush.53 This opportunistic interpretive approach, which adopts the established reading when it can somehow fit with the new one, is typical of ślesa readers. In the last line, however, Narahari goes beyond Daksināvartanātha and Mallinātha in his exegetic creativity. Neither the elephants from heaven nor the Buddhist philosopher are typical guests at Jagannātha’s festival. The simple compound word denoting both of them, di]-nāga, is therefore thoroughly resegmented by him to yield a four-word combination: di]na-a-ga, meaning something like “those who would not fail to go to the

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table 6.1 Different Readings of Meghadūta 1.14 Commentator Vallabhadeva

Daksināvartanātha

Mallinātha

Narahari

Interpretation Startling the siddha girls and anticipating being misidentified by the heavenly elephants, the cloud is to take off.

Appreciated by the poet’s friend Nicula and anticipating the criticism of his rival Di]nāga, the poem is bid farewell.

Appreciated by the poet’s friend Nicula and outshining his foe Di]nāga, whose criticism is anticipated, the poem is bid farewell.

Stunning the gathered crowd, God is carried by his muscular attendants at the outset of his chariot festival.

end of the world.” This, explains Narahari, refers to the attendants who carry the deity in his procession (devalakāh).54 Thus it is the waiving of their hands—naturally muscular, given their job—that the addressee has to avoid, rather than the trunks of elephants or the hand waving of a nasty critic. It is doubtful whether Narahari’s commentary ever circulated beyond a very small group of readers in and around the city of Puri, home to Jagannātha. Had it reached the hands of readers in other regions, it likely would not have been accepted with the same calm as the isolated ślesa interpretations of Daksināvartanātha and Mallinātha.55 Nonetheless, all three commentators used similar reading methods and called into question the established understanding of Meghadūta 1.14. As shown in table 6.1, where tradition saw the departing cloud, misidentified by earthly women and heavenly elephants, these commentators saw the ascending literary career of the poet, exchanging praises with his friends and verbal blows with his foes, or God Jagannātha in a procession, watched in awe by the crowd while being carried by the priests. Thus Daksināvartanātha and Mallinātha, on the one hand, and Narahari, on the other, represent the two ends of a large spectrum of ślesa readings, ranging from benign and isolated ślesas, spanning no more than half a verse (Daksināvartanātha), to far more radical reinterpretations of whole poems (Narahari). Between these two extremes we find the exegetic efforts of a large number of commentators, dating to the later centuries of the second millennium CE, when ślesa became a dominant literary mode.

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6.4 old texts, new reading methods: the commentaries on subandhu A case in point is the commentarial literature on Subandhu’s Vāsavadattā, a work whose ślesa nature was never in doubt. Although the Vāsavadattā was continuously copied and studied from the time of its composition in the sixth century CE, it seems to have become the object of heightened interest during the later centuries of the second millennium. P. K. Gode counted some twenty commentaries on Subandhu, and the actual number is probably even higher. Not one of these can be dated earlier than 1250 CE, and most of them were composed between the sixteenth and the eighteenth centuries; at least two additional commentaries (of Krishnamachariar and Srinivasachariar), which Gode does not mention, were written in the early twentieth century. These commentators come from almost all over the Indian subcontinent, with representatives from the Tamil-speaking region in the deep south, Bengal and Orissa in the east, and Varanasi and Delhi in the north. Some of the commentators were prominent intellectuals, including Jagaddhara, a well-known and oftquoted commentator on a variety of works and a poet in his own right (fourteenth-century Kashmir), and Siddhacandra (aka Siddhicandra), the learned Jain courtier of the Mughal emperor Akbar (r. 1565–1605).56 Even from Gode’s initial survey it appears quite clear that these commentaries on the Vāsavadattā form something of a genre unto themselves, with several distinguishing features. For instance, these are all highly erudite works, “rich in citations from previous works and authors.”57 In particular, they constantly refer to the vast library of wordbooks and lexicons: one commentator, Nārāyana Dīksita (date unknown), proudly informs his readers that he has consulted twenty thesauri and dictionaries.58 Many of the commentators seem to have been attracted to the Vāsavadattā precisely because of the challenge posed by the claim that it “consists of ślesa in letter after letter” and the name it had created for itself as a particularly difficult text to crack. For instance, Ra]ganātha (eighteenth century?) declares that he took the effort to comment on the Vāsavadattā in order “to clarify whatever is doubted, overly punned, difficult, or without any linguistic basis.”59 Likewise, Nārāyana Dīksita speaks of the uniqueness of Subandhu’s ślesa usages.60 It is important to remember, however, that much had changed in the literary world in the centuries that had passed between Subandhu’s pioneering work and the commentators of the late precolonial era. During

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this period ślesa escaped from the confines of the punned similes and apparent contradictions of Subandhu’s prose and came to embody dialogues in poems and plays, as well as the narrative portions of entire works. Punning techniques also developed, and ślesa-specific vocabulary expanded considerably. Thus the late medieval and modern commentators, familiar with these later literary precedents and armed with the vast secondary literature to which Subandhu’s immediate readers had no access, may have approached the most famous ślesa work in the canon while anticipating the sophisticated and thorough punning that came in its wake. There is perhaps some awareness of this tension in the commentaries. For instance, the sixteenth- or seventeenth-century Vāsudeva prefaces his gloss by noting: True, many good and extensive commentaries [on this work] exist, useful insofar as they supply numerous meanings . . . What, then, you may ask, distinguishes me as a commentator on this celebrated prose work? That while I add no extra meanings, I leave out none, however incredible.61 The implication is that there are commentators on Subandhu who overinterpret the text while also blunting the edge of some of his subversive ślesas. It would take an extensive study of this vast commentarial literature to determine whether what Vāsudeva criticizes here is the tendency of his colleagues to expand the scope and techniques of Subandhu’s ślesa anachronistically. We can, however, note that there are a few passages in the work whose ślesa nature is seriously debated. In particular, the structure and meaning of one passage, comprising the speech of love messengers to their addressees, is the subject of profound commentarial contention. Subandhu himself may have foreseen the potential difficulties in this long and complex passage, for unlike other cases of direct speech in the Vāsavadattā, here the utterances are not thrown at the reader without prior notice.62 Rather, they are prefaced by a brief explanation of their context and content. Th ey consist, Subandhu explains, of the speech of go-betweens, sent by women to the men they desire. He further characterizes the language of these messenger girls as “equivocal and elaborate, revealing jealousy as well as affection.”63 These modifications, possibly meant to clarify the section, only add to the confusion surrounding it. First, the precise meaning of “equivocal”

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(dvyartha) is unclear. Most commentators believe that it refers to the specific combination of praise and blame, reminiscent of the speech of Śiśupāla’s emissary. However, not all the ślesas in the section easily lend themselves to this reading. Second, and more important, it is not clear whether all these characterizations apply to each of the ensuing sentences or should be understood as operating sequentially. In other words, are the first few messages “equivocal” and the subsequent ones “elaborate” (with a similar movement from jealous to affectionate utterances), or are they all both “equivocal” and “elaborate” at the same time? This question is also related to a third obscurity that pertains to the precise meaning of the adjective “elaborate” (saprapañca). About a third of the way into the passage there is a conspicuous shift: up to this point the speech of the go-betweens involves no sound repetition, whereas after it their language is dominated by yamaka (twinning). Viewing this pattern as significant, one group of commentators took only the initial, nonalliterative messages as punned (“equivocal”) and the ensuing ones as “elaborate” insofar as they contain an intricate pattern of sounds.64 This interpretation is clearly in line with the strict separation between alliteration and ślesa elsewhere in the Vāsavadattā, as well as in works such as Nītivarman’s.65 But a second group of commentators did not attach much significance to the introduction of yamaka and took Subandhu’s adjective “equivocal” to apply to all the sentences in the passage, whether or not they contained a rhyme. Accordingly, they understood the adjective “elaborate” more generally, in a way that does not refer to the passage’s sound patterns. A prominent representative of this second group is the eighteenth-century commentator Śivarāma Tripāthin.66 In support of his understanding of the entire passage as punned, Śivarāma evokes Subandhu’s famous claim that his work consists of ślesa “in letter after letter.”67 This act of justification in itself is indicative of the hermeneutic problem at hand. Subandhu’s boast is famously exaggerated, and Śivarāma himself never sets out to demonstrate that the Vāsavadattā is entirely in ślesa. Indeed, Subandhu’s claim about his work, if taken literally, renders superfluous the specific instructions about the puns in this passage in the way Śivarāma understands them. Moreover, Śivarāma is required to undertake an immense effort in order to tease out additional meanings from the rhyming sentences. It is not a coincidence that modern scholars who read the Vāsavadattā with Śivarāma’s commentary, printed in Hall’s first and influential edition, dubbed this passage “the

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most difficult in the entire Vāsavadattā” and, indeed, “the most difficult passage of Sanskrit literary prose.”68 The difficulty lies in the need to thoroughly resegment the rhyming utterances in order to read them doubly. The complex rhyming further complicates matters. Yamaka is defined as a repetition of homophones, each in a different meaning. The different meanings of phonetic “twins” are often based on dividing them differently into words. But if the same utterance is also taken as punned, this means at least two rounds of resegmentation, and there are often additional attempts because the commentators, uncertain of their ślesa readings, tend to supply several alternatives. Consider a short and simple example that involves the first sentence in the passage: rājasenarahito rājasenarahito dhruvam.69 The sound repetition is clearly the most salient feature here because the first seven syllables are repeated verbatim before the final word dhruvam (surely). All the commentators agree that if we divide the first set of syllables into the words rājasena rahito (devoid of anger) and then divide its subsequent phonetic twin to read rājase nara-hito (compassionate you shine), the sentence means something like “Not prone to anger, you are surely at your best when kind to others.” According to this reading, the messenger is trying to cajole her addressee to drop his anger and reunite with her friend.70 This is where the agreement ends. Both Srinivasachariar and an earlier commentator anonymously cited by Krishnamachariar believe that with this cajoling the sentence has exhausted its meaning.71 For them the yamaka, wherein the same phonetic sequence is repeated twice, each time with a different word division and meaning, marks the beginning of utterances that contain elaborate sound patterns (saprapañcāh) but no ślesa. By contrast, Śivarāma and Krishnamachariar take the messenger’s message as punned (dvyartha) as well and set out to show that in addition to the carrot of its flattery, the rhyming utterance also contains a stick. Indeed, they suggest at least three alternative ways of generating scorn from the go-between’s words, based primarily on potential ambiguities of sandhi resolution and the vast possibilities offered by the Sanskrit lexicographers: (1) Dividing the first phonetic stretch into the words rājase ’narahito (when angry, you are not kind to others) and the second into rājase na rahito (deserted, you do not shine), they understand the sentence also to mean “It is because you are angry and unkind that you ended up lonely and miserable.” (2) If the following words are carved from the sentence:

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rājasa (angry, in the vocative) ina-rahito (deserted by your lord) and rājase na rahito (you do not shine alone), the utterance conveys the meaning “Oh angry one, being godless, you are surely lonely and miserable.” (3) If we read rājase na ’rahito rājase ’na-rahito, the sentence can also mean “When you are soulless [ana in the sense of prāna, or soul] and cannot help being angry, you are surely unattractive.” Both commentators offer additional alternatives as well.72 The four interpretations of this short utterance are summarized in table 6.2, in which the first column to the left stands for the understanding everyone agrees on, and the three columns that follow represent the additional readings and interpretations suggested by Śivarāma and his fellow commentators. The table allows us to realize the virtuosity of the late medieval commentators: a short stretch like rājasenarahito is shown in the top row to be divided into words in no less than seven different ways, and the sentence as a whole allows at least four very different meanings, represented in the second row. As already noted, this is only a tiny and simple example in comparison with the extremely elaborate readings of the longer utterances that follow in the passage. Krishnamachariar, who summarizes the work of earlier commentators, provides up to ten possible readings for some of the sentences. This is achieved through a variety of means, including carving out the monosyllabic vocables in the go-betweens’ utterances, such as  (Laksmī), ra (fire), ha (anger), and hā (hole).73 Such words, not seen elsewhere in Subandhu’s text and in works of his period, allow the commentators a great deal of freedom in taking an utterance apart and putting it together again. The resulting plethora of semantic interpretations is breathtaking.74

table 6.2 Different Readings and Interpretations of a Go-Between’s Message in Subandhu’s Vāsavadattā Reading

rājasena rahito rājasen ara-hito

rājase’ nara-hito rājase na rahito

rājasai na-rahito rājase na rahito

rājase na ’rahito rājase’ na-rahito

Meaning

Not prone to anger, you are surely at your best when kind to others.

Surely it is because you are angry and unkind that you ended up lonely and miserable.

Oh angry one, being godless, you are surely lonely and miserable.

When you are soulless and cannot help being angry, you are surely unattractive.

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6.5 les. a and allegory in the commentaries on the epic At the outset of my discussion I identified readerly ślesas by appealing to two negative criteria, namely, the absence of unambiguous instructions to read twice and the lack of consensus about the existence of a second reading. My sampling of the commentaries on the go-betweens’ speech in the Vāsavadattā allows me also to portray their reading strategies positively as generative. Exploiting the ambiguities of sandhi resolution and the availability of a vast specialized vocabulary, these commentators were able to re-create the text thoroughly. In other words, each new reading yields not so much a different meaning of a given text as a new parallel text with its own set of signifiers. This important aspect of ślesa as a strategy of reading allows us to distinguish it from other instances of overstanding that are more familiar in the West, particularly the allegory. Allegorical interpretations typically retain the original set of signifiers and their syntactic relations while explaining the main signifiers, especially the nouns, as encoding a second and symbolic level. A ślesa reading, by contrast, typically involves a metamorphosis of the entire utterance—nouns, verbs, and prepositions—in a way that creates a new sentence with a new vocabulary, a new syntax, and, obviously, a new meaning. Foucault famously observed that “to comment is to admit by definition an excess of the signified over the signifier.” But as Donald Lopez has noted in discussing the exegeses on the Heart Sūtra, commentators on Sanskrit texts use “another tool to manufacture allusion, one that is powered by the superabundance of the signifier.”75 Allegorical readings also began to gain popularity in Sanskrit commentaries of the late premodern era. Consider, for example, the Bhāratabhāvadpa, Nīlakantha’s popular commentary on the Mahābhārata written in the second half of the seventeenth century, which sets out, as Christopher Minkowski has put it, to “Vedānticize” the epic. For example, Nīlakantha reads the Mahābhārata’s deluge story as symbolic: Manu, the hero who survives the flood, stands for egotism (ahamkāra); the fish that tows his boat is the eternal spirit ( jva); tying the boat to the Himalayan peak is the ending of ignorance (avidyā); and the seeds Manu stores on his boat are his unseen past karmas.76 All this is clearly different from the ślesa readings I have been describing.77 I do not wish to overstate this distinction. The boundaries between allegorical and ślesa readings can be blurred, especially in the case of nouns

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for which the lexicons record various symbolic meanings. Moreover, many Sanskrit commentators tend to use both strategies eclectically. Consider, for example, Narahari’s aforementioned commentary on the Meghadūta. Narahari’s consistent identification of Kālidāsa’s cloud with Lord Jagannātha could be dubbed allegorical, but his resegmentation of the word di]nāga (elephants of the direction) to refer to the attendants carrying God is based purely on ślesa techniques. Thus in the very same verse we find an opportunistic combination of both reading methods. The same is true of Nīlakantha. The commentator who so innovatively allegorized sections of the Mahābhārata also resorted to the ślesa tool kit in reading other sections of the epic. As Robert Goldman has shown, Nīlakantha was troubled by the fact that Draupadī and her husbands present themselves at Virāta’s court “by means of detailed and intentionally misleading curricula vitae,” and he set out “to exculpate the Pāndavas of the sin of mendacity.”78 Nīlakantha identified in each of their false utterances a second, hidden register (paksa), faithful to their true identities. Yudhisthira, for example, presents himself as Ka]ka, a Brahmin dice master from the Vyāghrapād lineage. But Nīlakantha succeeds in finding in his words a hidden, candid description of his ancestry, based, among other things, on a rare lexical entry of ka]ka as meaning “death” (Yudhisthira is the son of Death).79 Likewise, when Nakula falsely reports his experience as a horse trainer, Nīlakantha regenerates this claim into a reference about his true, heroic identity.80 Similar techniques were also applied to India’s other major epic. “In the period when Nīlakantha was writing, it was especially the Rāmāyana that had attracted intense commentarial attention, primarily from Vaisnava religious intellectuals, for whom the text had become . . . a vehicle for the realization and articulation of theological understanding.”81 These Vaisnava commentators often understood the Rāma story as a whole as a religious allegory, but in discussing particular passages they heavily resorted to the ślesa apparatus. A prominent example is found in the exegesis of Vālmīki’s curse, uttered at a hunter who shot dead a crane while it was mating. This stanza is considered the first poetic utterance of the first poet, the emotional and poetic seed of the Rāmāyana as a whole. Therefore, some commentators sought to prove that it also contains the gist of the poem. As Goldman has noted, the commentator Nāgeśa Bhatta used the lexical resources and “a kind of underground vocabulary” of monosyllabic words to resegment this verse thoroughly and demonstrated “its immensely compacted polytextuality.” Goldman also mentions the com-

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mentator Śivasahāya, who “provides no fewer than seven independent interpretations which summarize respectively the central themes of the poem’s seven kāndas or Books.”82 These examples may help us further distinguish between allegory and ślesa. While Nāgeśa, Nīlakantha, and their contemporaries tend to approach the Rāmāyana and the Mahābhārata as texts with religious and philosophical lessons, often realized through allegory, their ślesa readings of certain verses and passages are informed by a heightened sensitivity to the poetic qualities of the epics. In other words, when these commentators resort to the specialized tool kit of ślesa, they are viewing the Rāmāyana and the Mahābhārata through a specific kāvya lens, if not with kāvya precedents in mind. Consider, again, Nīlakantha’s discovery of a truthful register in the false résumé the Pāndavas present to King Virāta. We have already seen that the Pāndavas use ślesa in Virāta’s presence. This was in Nītivarman’s Kcakavadha, where Draupadī and her husbands resorted to a coded speech—a verbal extension of their physical disguise. I cannot prove a direct influence between the once-famous poem and the much later commentary, but the fact that Nīlakantha finds a hidden register in the same epic episode where Nītivarman used ślesa is intriguing. The background of kāvya precedents is explicit in the case of the commentaries on Vālmīki’s curse in the Rāmāyana. Maheśvaratīrtha substantiates his elaborate reading of the stanza on the grounds that the Rāmāyana is a full-fledged poem, and as such, it must include an initial seminal verse (bja) that hints at all its main events.83 Nāgeśa likewise appeals to kāvya reading protocols: “According to the maxim ‘whether by the sound or the sense, there should be at least some suggestion of the poem’s narrative substance’ ” in the beginning.84 Clearly, then, these commentators follow the kāvya model of initially placed verses that hint at the ensuing plot, often by means of ślesa. Another related precedent, although it is not mentioned by the commentators on this verse, is a genre belonging to this period of independent polytextual stanzas that summarize the contents of the Rāmāyana.85

6.6 double- bodied poet, double- bodied poem: ravicandra’s reading of amaru Commentators in the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries applied the ślesa tool kit profusely to an impressive variety of genres, including verse (e.g., Kālidāsa’s Meghadūta), prose (e.g., Subandhu’s

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Vāsavadattā), and the epic.86 Their innovative and sophisticated commentarial methods allowed them to read at least portions of all these works in light of the newest poetic fashions, in effect turning them into cutting-edge kāvyas. A colossal example of this trend, which comes complete with its poetic notion and explicit rationale, is found in a radical reinterpretation of one of the most celebrated works of the Sanskrit canon, the Amaruśataka. Named after its putative author Amaru (or Amaruka), the Amaruśataka is a collection of roughly 100 vignettes of love. The poems depict set scenes such as the lovers’ playful quarrel, heartbreaking separations, and passionate unions. The characters are anonymous: he (nāyaka), she (nāyikā), her experienced friend (sakh), and her go-between (dūt). The Amaruśataka was extensively quoted in anthologies and also enjoyed a considerable amount of attention from a variety of intellectuals, including the prominent Kashmiri literary theorist Ānandavardhana (c. 850) and the authoritative thirteenth-century commentator Arjunavarmadeva. The former expressed the general admiration for Amaru by saying that even a single verse of his collection “may flow with a flavor of love (śr]gārarasa) equal to that of an entire volume.”87 But according to the commentator Ravicandra, who probably lived in the Bengal area and whose date is uncertain,88 each verse in Amaru’s collection also flows with the flavor of equanimity or peace (śāntarasa). In other words, what Ravicandra finds truly admirable in the Amaruśataka— the most salient and hitherto-unnoticed feature of the work—is its ability to evoke the two conflicting sentiments of passion and dispassion simultaneously. He states in the preface to his commentary: Austere detachment versus overindulgence in sex. What a pair of opposites! It takes a rare gift of a poet to depict them both in one strophe.89

Amaru’s real distinction is his ability to speak simultaneously of the ascetic and the erotic. Note that this kind of poetry has a long history in Sanskrit, beginning with occasional punned verses in the anthology ascribed to Bhartrhari (seventh century) and culminating in full-fledged passion-dispassion collections, such as the Śr]gāravairāgyatara]gin by

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the thirteenth-century Jain poet Somaprabhācārya or the Rasikarañjanam of Rāmacandra (c. 1524).90 These works use ślesa to examine the dialectic of eroticism and asceticism, and it is clear from Ravicandra’s comments that he views Amaru’s century of poems as belonging to this avant-gardeg enre. To appreciate Ravicandra’s remarkable reinterpretation of Amaru, let us briefly consider how this text is read traditionally. Take, for example, the work’s introduction. The versions of the Amaruśataka, which otherwise vary considerably, all open with the same three benedictory verses. The first describes the playful sidelong glances of the Goddess and invokes their protection of readers. The second invokes Śiva’s fire-arrow: its flames are said to embrace the women of the Triple City (which Śiva destroyed) like a man who tries to appease his betrayed lover, clinging to her even as she is trying to brush him off. The third verse is a description of lovemaking when a woman is on top. It is the woman’s face at the climax of her enjoyment that the poet invokes for protection, for, he says, “of what use are Visnu, Śiva, Brahma, and the other gods?”91 Rahul Bonner has argued convincingly that these famous opening verses form a unified sequence of metapoems, highlighting the erotic tone and presenting an argument for the rest of the work. Bonner summarizes this argument as follows: Women are more important in a sexual relation than men, female sexuality is assertive, attractive, vibrant and dangerous while male sexuality is potentially harmful to women, sex is a matter between human beings and does not concern the gods.92 For Ravicandra, however, these initial benedictory verses also set the tone for what he sees as the collection’s hidden message. His exposition of the verses’ quietistic register (śāntapaksa) introduces the central characters and themes of his novel exegesis. He reads the first verse as invoking Illusion (Māyā, Mahāmāyā, Visnumāyā): attractive yet dangerous, spreading light that is in fact darkness, and binding creatures to rebirth (samsāra) by inciting attachment to the objects of the senses.93 In the second verse the hero of the collection’s second register is introduced: the avadhūta. A seemingly benign adjective that in the first register means “shaken off ” (in reference to the fire burning the women of the Triple City) now refers to a specific type of ascetic who has shaken off all worldly impurities and seeks liberation.94 The avadhūta, according to Ravicandra’s

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reading of this verse, is a holy person who conceals his true nature, wanders around living on alms, wears only a loincloth, practices sexual restraint, possesses esoteric knowledge, controls his senses, and promotes the Veda.95 In the third verse Illusion tries to tempt the avadhūta, but the pure person defies and defeats her en route to full liberation. It is the face of Illusion at the moment she ceases to create illusions that this verse invokes for protection.96 Thus for Ravicandra, the first three verses also put forward the parallel argument of the collection, which could be summarized as follows: Temptations, most prominently of a female nature, are illusory. These temptations govern the senses, which in turn govern men. One has to become an avadhūta, shake off attachments, and overcome Illusion before he can attain full freedom. How does Ravicandra discover such a radical second text in Amaru’s poetry? Let us sample his interpretation of one of Amaru’s most quoted vignettes, first translated in accordance with its apparent, love-related meaning: “You’ll be back in the morning? At mid-day? In the afternoon? Don’t tell me, love, that an entire day will pass before we meet again?!” Thus wailing, choking in tears, a girl prevents her lover from departing on a journey that’s a hundred days long.

The tearful speech of a girl who cannot imagine even a separation of twenty-four hours from her lover touches him and prevents his departure on a much longer journey. Ravicandra quickly explains this surface meaning before explicating the poem’s hidden layer. Here the avadhūta preaches about the route to spiritual liberation: “First, get rid of any analytical knowledge. Then [go through three spiritual stages]: nonattachment, the middle one [i.e., nonattachment to the Vedic sacrifice],

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and the absolute [complete dispassion]. Finally, you become dear to the day [i.e., pure light].” Thus the soft-spoken and compassionate killer of passion offers a friend who is eager for gnosis a path to his destination in a hundred days.97

The avadhūta’s sermon is elliptical, and to comprehend it, we must depend heavily on the commentary. Nonetheless, once understood, the enigmatic message, with its metaphor of the spiritual journey and its goal of becoming “dear to the day,” is not without charm. Indeed, one also marvels at the linguistic wizardry of ślesa, which Ravicandra attributes to Amaru’s genius. More than in any other example discussed in this chapter, Ravicandra thoroughly regenerates the original stanza. The subject of the first register—the young girl (bālā) crying at the door—never makes it to the second. Through the ambiguities of sandhi resolution, the feminine noun bālā becomes a masculine adjective, bāla (tender or soft), modifying the speech of the avadhūta. For his part, this subject of the second register is rescued ingeniously from the seemingly benign adverb iha (back) in the first. Iha is transformed into the subject of the second register by exploiting both the ambiguities of sandhi and what Goldman has called the “underground vocabulary” of monosyllabic words—Ravicandra rereads iha as a compound made of i (passion) and the enclitic adjective han (killer), of which hā is the nominative case. These exegetic moves supply the second register not only with a fresh morphology and vocabulary but also with a new syntax into which all the other signifiers, whether regenerated or reinterpreted, are made to fit.98 With all the attention to the fine details of linguistic metamorphosis, we should not lose sight of the big picture. Ravicandra claims to have discovered that the Amaruśataka, one of the most cherished works ever written in Sanskrit, consistently denounces what it seems to idealize. One can imagine that this kind of oppositional interpretation would not have fared well with most readers, and the harsh denouncement of his reading by Durgāprasāda Dvivedī and Kāśīnātha Pāndura]ga Parab in the late nineteenth century may indicate a more widespread sentiment against it.99 Indeed, Ravicandra himself anticipates criticism, and one of the fascinating aspects of his commentary is his explicit attempt to offset this. Thus

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before expounding the hidden message of the very first verse, Ravicandra raises and rejects the following objection: Objection: It is established that this is the century [of poems] about love. How, then, can you argue that it also contains the flavor of dispassion? To that we reply with this account: “The blessed Śa]karācārya once went to Kashmir as part of his ‘conquest of the world.’ There the courtiers asked him to evoke love, for ‘if a poet writes about love, then the world born in his poem assumes its flavor.’100 Upon [hearing] these words, he [Śa]kara] used his power to enter another man’s body, and entered that of a king named Amaru, who had [just] passed away. Once in that king’s body, he had sex with his hundred consorts, and in the morning he did so [i.e., composed a poem about love]. The wicked [courtiers] ridiculed him, saying: ‘He’s a fraud. He’s supposed to be celibate from birth.’ He replied by expounding the dispassionate flavor in this work.” Hence we will expound the dispassionate flavor in it, because of the fact that dispassion is the means for full freedom.101 This is a rich passage that requires some unpacking. Let us begin by noting that Ravicandra is fully conscious of his position as a dissenter who is running up against an established tradition of understanding the Amaruśataka. Indeed, he himself calls attention to the stark opposition between the accepted wisdom about the work—that it is meant to generate a whole world of passion—and his reading of it as a text that liberates the reader from the world of desires. Second, Ravicandra justifies his radically oppositional reading of the Amaruśataka by telling a traditional tale about its author and composition. It was the great ascetic philosopher Śa]kara who composed the work while in Amaru’s body, and like all other texts composed by Śa]kara, the Aamaruśataka too is all about overcoming illusion and attaining liberation. Third, the story of Śa]kara in Kashmir helps explain why the work’s most salient feature eluded generations of readers. Even when the poem first appeared, the audience was misled by its apparent idealization of erotic desires and failed to recognize its hidden spiritual message. To understand that hidden message, the story goes, guidance is required. Thus Ravicandra consciously sets out to repeat Śa]kara’s own original act of exposition, performed in Kashmir.102 The intriguing story of Śa]kara’s exploits in Amaru’s body has to be understood in the context of the vast array of hagiographic traditions about Śa]kara. As Jonathan Bader’s extensive study shows, hagiographic

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accounts of Śa]kara’s life are all framed around the saint’s mission to defeat leaders of opposing sects, schools, and religions in order to rid the earth of their influence and win for his nondualistic (advaita) school a “conquest of the world” (digvijaya). The hagiographies are thus structured around a series of polemical debates, set at different sites throughout the Indian subcontinent, in which Śa]kara defeats his rivals. His victories always stem from his ability to demonstrate his full mastery of all systems of knowledge, to the amazement of his rivals.103 Ravicandra’s account of Śa]kara’s sexual adventures is related to one of the focal debates in which he takes part in the hagiographies, the importance of which is attested by that debate’s participants. In this instance Śa]kara’s rival is the seminal thinker Mandana Miśra, in many ways his exact opposite: Mandana Miśra is the ideal householder, whereas Śa]kara is the ideal hermit; the former represents the old school of Mīmāmsā, whereas the latter is the champion of the rival school of Vedānta, the “new Mīmāmsā.”104 Even more crucial to the story is the adjudicator of the contest. She is Sarasvatī, the goddess of arts and sciences. Her stamp of approval sets the stage for a decisive battle between the two rivals; once Sarasvatī has rendered her judgment, no appeals for reconsideration can be made. Indeed, the stakes are particularly high, for in the hagiographies Sarasvatī is Mandana Miśra’s wife. If she crowns Śa]kara, this will signal the end of her marital life because both husband and wife will be required to take ascetic vows and join Śa]kara’s order. Perhaps this is why, when Śa]kara overcomes Mandana Miśra, the hagiographies allow one final round, in which Sarasvatī herself debates Śa]kara. At the height of this final ordeal, after Śa]kara has demonstrated his mastery in every possible area, Sarasvatī turns to interrogate Śa]kara, the strict ascetic, on the science of love (Kāmaśāstra), the one possible lacuna in his otherwiseimpeccable knowledge. In order to buy time, Śa]kara enters the body of the dying King Amaru, studies the practical and theoretical aspects of love, and returns to win the debate.105 It is important to note that the story of this debate as reported by Ravicandra differs significantly from the version found in the hagiographies. First, for Ravicandra, Śa]kara’s challenge is not so much to gain experiential and intellectual command of love as it is to compose powerful poetry about it, and the result of Śa]kara’s adventure is, in fact, the Amaruśataka. Second, the structure of Śa]kara’s ordeal is different. Whereas in the hagiographies, once he emerges from Amaru’s body experienced and knowledgeable, Śa]kara is basically victorious, in Ravicandra’s version he undergoes a further trial

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where he has to prove that his stint as Amaru and his composition of a collection of erotic verses did not compromise his celibacy.106 To answer this challenge, he demonstrates that his is anything but an ordinary poem, with one set of signifiers and one signified. Rather, it is one of those cutting-edge works of poetry in which an entire second text lies hidden, one that deals with renunciation. The philosopher-saint’s unexpected encounter with the lover-king is perhaps best understood as a conjunction between two separate preexisting narratives, the story of the life of Śa]kara and that of Amaru, each of which first grew independently from the corpora attributed to its author. The famous anthology of 100 erotic poems led to the composition of a sketchy biography for its putative author Amaru, according to which he was an Indian Casanova whose harem was populated by 100 of the most beautiful and experienced women. Śa]kara’s works, as well as the sectarian institutions attributed to him, led to a far more elaborate textual tradition that featured him as the greatest ascetic (yativara), who had fought and defeated his rivals. But despite its elaborateness, there was perhaps a sense that something was missing from the Śa]kara story, whether a lacuna in the hero’s omniscience or a deficiency in his human experience. It was perhaps this sense of lacuna, or simply the principle that sex “sells,” that initially brought the two narratives of Amaru and Śa]kara in touch. It is possible that Śa]kara’s guest appearance in a sequel to Amaru’s life story initially left little mark on the poetry and story of its then-dead hero. After all, Śa]kara entered Amaru’s still-warm corpse precisely because of the reputation the latter’s poetry had already won him. Hence the ascription of this poetic corpus to Śa]kara in the hagiographies is marginal at best. Although all of them report that Śa]kara composed a text on erotica while inhabiting Amaru’s body, most take it to be an independent treatise on love or a commentary on the Kāmasūtra.107 Only one hagiography identifies the composition as the Amaruśataka, and in that case the identification is made only in passing, in half of one verse out of the dozens dedicated to the episode of Śa]kara’s erotic adventure.108 Be that as it may, sources written after the medieval hagiographies credit Śa]kara with composing the collection, and Ravicandra certainly takes this for granted. Obviously the story of Śa]kara gains much prestige from adding Amaru’s cherished verse to the growing list of texts ascribed to the great ascetic, but ultimately the whole episode in general, and the composition of the Amaruśataka in particular, became an embarrassment for the saint’s followers.109 Indeed, there is a clear sense of anxiety built into the story of

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Śa]kara’s exploits in Amaru’s body, as narrated already in the hagiographies. We are told, for example, that some women in the harem, suspecting the identity of the king, discovered Śa]kara’s real body hidden in a cave and set out to burn it in order to trap him forever in Amaru’s flesh. Śa]kara, completely absorbed in lovemaking, was totally unaware of the danger. Some of his students rushed to remind him of his true identity, and thanks to them he barely reentered his scorched body in time.110 Moreover, Śa]kara’s sexual and literary adventures in Amaru’s body were a boon to rival sects. This can be seen in the hagiographies of Śa]kara’s opponents, which blame him for hypocrisy and sexual misconduct,111 as well as in Ravicandra’s own account, in which Śa]kara comes under direct attack for being a fraudulent celibate. Indeed, Ravicandra presents his commentary as “putting an end to vile slander.”112 Thus the final twist in this fascinating tale of two narratives is Ravicandra’s discovery that “Śa]kara” not only composed “Amaru’s” poetry but also wrote himself into the text. Seeing the Amaruśataka as a ślesa poem is, in many ways, the ideal solution to the dilemma of Śa]kara’s followers. Bitextuality allows both the Amaru and Śa]kara narratives to coexist, each keeping its own integrity. The apparent text of the work, idealizing sensual love, is faithful to the erotic tendencies of the Casanova-type king, while its hidden layer retains his identity as a pure celibate who never loses his presence of mind and constantly warns his adherents to beware of objects of desire. Moreover, Ravicandra’s commentary implicitly alludes to a specific set of ślesa precedents for this kind of scenario. As we have seen in chapter 3, poets used ślesa to depict doubled characters, turning the apparent, surface register into a verbal extension of a physical disguise and using the hidden register to reveal their true nature. Śa]kara, as the hagiographies depict him, is acting undercover in Amaru’s harem, where he has to learn lovemaking while pretending to be the best lover ever. Indeed, as noted earlier, some of his female partners come to suspect him as an impostor, and there is even the question of his getting too attached to his cover story before he returns to himself. Likewise, both Ravicandra’s account of the Amaru episode and his readerly ślesa extend and refine the examination of Śa]kara’s selfing through disguise.113 Recall that in Ravicandra’s version of the story the ascetic again has to pose, this time as a sensual poet whose verse, with its impenetrable ślesa, proves highly convincing. Then comes his moment of final epiphany, when he discloses to the no-doubt-stunned courtiers the work’s hidden ascetic text.

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Ravicandra, it should be noted, is not alone. In 1835 Acyutarāya Modaka produced a commentary on the Amaruśataka, exhuming the supposed “dispassionate flavor” of the collection and justifying it with a similar line of argumentation. He too claims to be the first to discover the hidden meaning of the text, and for all we know, he may not have been the last.114 For some of Śa]kara’s followers, it would seem, this poet of two bodies could have produced only a double-bodied poem.

6.7 the les. a paradox The Sanskrit literary tradition privileges the intentions of the author over the interpretation of the reader in the process of making sense of a text. Because meaning, in this tradition, is always presented as the recovery of the author’s original intent, deliberate readings against the grain are seen as distortions and are limited to confrontational settings in the realm of the gods, as we have seen in Ratnākara’s Vakroktipañcāśikā. The exegetic manipulations of Śiva and Pārvatī in Ratnākara’s poem are not recommended for serious readers or commentators. Poets, then, are seen as occupying the hermeneutic driver’s seat, mobilizing their readers in the direction they desire: a miscalculated interpretive turn is thus typically classed as a poetic fault (dosa), attributed to the author, just as he or she is credited with a successful literary journey. Ślesa, it would seem, empowers the poets even further. The ability to produce two-way poetry—to mobilize readers in two different directions— entails unique control over literary traffic, which partly explains why ślesa poets were so highly regarded. But herein lies a paradox. In order to ensure a smooth two-way movement, readers must be supplied with the very technology that allows bidirectionality to occur in the first place. Thus appreciating ślesa requires familiarity with the entire vocabulary of homonyms and monosyllabic words, proficiency in resegmentation practices, and acquaintance with the exploitation of euphonic and syntactic ambiguities. Once equipped with these and other tools and precedents, ślesa readers were empowered, perhaps more than any other group of readers in human history, to regenerate and mold a text at will. This is not to downplay the creativity that has allowed readers in other cultures to reinterpret their received texts. Indeed, many of the commentarial tendencies discussed in this chapter have striking parallels in other parts of the world. The efforts of the Mahābhārata’s commentators to exculpate Yudhisthira and his brothers from lying to Virāta, to give but

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one example, closely resemble the attempts of biblical commentators to make Abraham’s lie to Abimelech true.115 My point, though, is that Sanskrit commentators had singularly powerful tools at their disposal that enabled them to multiply the signs in a text, thus allowing for a vast “superabundance of the signifier.” To realize the immense technological advantage of Sanskrit readers, it may be useful to look at Umberto Eco’s critique of European instances of “overinterpretation.” Eco discusses the work of Gabriele Rossetti (1783– 1854), an Anglo-Italian Rosicrucian who tried to read Dante from a Masonic perspective. Rossetti, for instance, “discovered” in Dante the central Masonic symbol of a blue rose, a cross, and a pelican by pointing to the mention of the word “blue” on one page, “ros” (as part of the word “rosary”) on another, “cross” in a third location, and a bird (even if not exactly a pelican) in a fourth. Eco decries this hermeneutic method, which, he says, allows us to find “any statement we wish in any text whatsoever.”116 But Rossetti’s reading methods appear strikingly primitive in comparison with Ravicandra’s generation of a complete and consistent parallel text from the Amaruśataka. Although the drive to appropriate an author or work to one’s fold is not dissimilar, the methods of doing so are worlds apart. I therefore readily concur with Jonathan Culler’s dismissal of the Rossetti example as a case of “underinterpretation.”117 The unique empowerment of Sanskrit readers did not appear out of the blue. Ślesa readerly practices began to appear in the first centuries of the second millennium CE, in the wake of the bitextual and lexicographical booms described in the previous chapter, and reached their zenith between the sixteenth and the eighteenth centuries, when ślesa literary production was also at its height. During this period a plethora of readers applied ślesa reading methods to a large variety of texts and genres. Commentaries on Subandhu discovered new puns in his prose; learned readers exhumed hidden registers from epic passages; and several patrons completely reread some of the greatest classics of their tradition, the Meghadūta and the Amaruśataka. Although the last, radical readings of Ravicandra, Acyutarāya, and Narahari are rare, small-scale readerly ślesa practices are far more common, indeed, almost omnipresent: they pop up in exegeses of all types, including commentaries on the scriptures and scientific treatises, both of which are beyond the scope of this book. As we have seen, this amazing empowerment of readers was met with some anxiety, as were other ślesa by-products. Poets of the late period seem increasingly aware of twin dangers—that of being under-understood

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and that of being overinterpreted. They took care to supply their readers with precise and detailed instructions or even with running annotation. Theorists too warned against the dangerous side effects of ślesa, a literary practice that cast a uniquely long shadow over their discourses on poetic faults. As I have argued, what most worried Mammata in this connection was the slippery slope between writerly and readerly ślesas, particularly in the case of improper or obscene topics. But these cautions and warnings did not prevent the spread of ślesa readings. Armed with their well-honed exegetic tools, Sanskrit patrons of literature began to find additional signifiers and signifieds wherever they looked. This practice was never presented as creative: without exception, all the commentators discussed here claimed to have discovered for the very first time what their authors had originally meant. Whether reinterpreting half of a verse from the Meghadūta, as in the case of Daksināvartanātha, or the work as a whole, like Narahari, these inventive readers claimed to follow the path shown by Kālidāsa. Again, this in itself is by no means unique to Sanskrit literary culture. As Foucault has noted, commentators always set out “to say for the first time what has already been said, and repeat tirelessly what was, nevertheless, never said.”118 What is unique, however, in addition to the hermeneutic method itself, is that ślesa readings consistently demonstrate many of the salient features of the ślesa movement, as discussed in previous chapters. Readerly ślesas are used to portray disguised or doubled characters, as we have seen in the commentaries on the Mahābhārata’s Virāta episode, the Amaruśataka, and even on the speech of Subandhu’s go-betweens—skilled messengers who always speak in two tongues. Readers also found ślesas to create or enhance an intertextual relationship between two or more narratives, be they the plots of the seven books of the Rāmāyana or the life stories of Amaru and Śa]kara, as well as to refine a story’s earlier version, as in the case of Śa]kara’s behavior in Amaru’s harem or Yudhisthira’s in Virāta’s court. Finally, the commentator’s discovery of a second register is immediately seen, just as with any other bitextual work, as an indication of the rare gift of the poet. That such compliments are actually a tribute to the ingenuity of Ravicandra and his fellow commentators is the ultimate manifestation of the ślesa paradox because these readers have now become the poets.

[  ] THEORIES OF ŚLESA IN

SANSKRIT POETICS

T

heoretical treatises accompanied literature from a relatively early date in the Sanskrit world and figured prominently in the education of Sanskrit literati. Such discourses formed part of the cultural package that traveled to the farthest corners of the Sanskrit cosmopolis. Theorists were active and influential members of the literary community: they often trained aspiring poets, helped shape the poetic taste of patrons, and passed judgment on the literature of their predecessors and contemporaries. A few of them were even famous poets in their own right. In more than a millennium of unbroken succession, these thinkers sustained a profound and highly complex discourse on kāvya and many of its aspects, in which ślesa was always a major topic. Indeed, Sanskrit poeticians played a key role in the ślesa literary movement insofar as they expanded on the catalog of bitextual methods and supplied the practice with a theoretical basis that lent it prestige. Without a close examination of the views of these thinkers, who recognized, named, and theorized ślesa with great subtlety, this book cannot be complete. So vast and complex is the emic discourse on ślesa that it would take a separate book to chart its history. What I attempt here is no more than a brief sketch of this discussion that points to some of the reasons that ślesa became the object of so much theoretical attention. Then I examine more closely the observations of one thinker, Dandin, an important ślesa poet in his own right, whose profound insights may be particularly useful for my theorization of this phenomenon. First, however, let me briefly introduce the discipline of Sanskrit poetics and its various concerns and phases.

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7.1 theorizing ornaments: an overview of alam. krastra As Sheldon Pollock has put it, a basic premise of Sanskrit literary theory is that “what makes kāvya different from everything else has essentially to do with language itself,” which leads to a theoretical focus on exploring how “kāvya works as a specific language system.”1 Sanskrit poetics thus functions as a kind of literary grammar. But in addition to the tools and terminology of Pānini’s grammar, Sanskrit poetics is indebted to several other language-oriented systems of knowledge. These include Mīmāmsā, or Vedic hermeneutics, which developed a sophisticated philosophy of language for the purpose of clarifying Vedic dicta and countering the Buddhist critique of the Veda, and Nyāya, or logic, which produced a comprehensive theory of inference, oral testimony, and verbal debate with the aim of examining the validity of Vedic utterances. In addition to these authoritative, Veda-related philosophies, Sanskrit poetics was also influenced by practical and artistic discourses that had some linguistic dimension.2 Particularly important in this connection is Nātyaśāstra, or dramaturgy, where various aspects of stage plays, including plot construction, character types, and certain poetic qualities of the script, were theorized. Finally, although Sanskrit did not develop an independent discipline of rhetoric, practical knowledge regarding eloquent and persuasive speech, which accumulated in South Asian courts and chanceries, may have also influenced poetic discourse.3 These varied disciplinary influences were already apparent in the tradition’s early phase, when theoreticians were busy documenting kāvya’s many charming elements, whether euphonic, formal, or semantic, in an approach reminiscent of Pānini’s description of all elements of the language from the level of phonemes on. The key category in this investigation of kāvya was alamkāra (ornament; to the body of a poem), a highly flexible heading allowing for a wide variety of aesthetic effects and types of analysis. It was under this heading that the quintessential literary devices of simile (upamā) and metaphorical identification (rūpaka) were defined and analyzed according to their propositional structure (A is like B, A is B) and the logical relationship they entailed (semblance, identity). The method of analysis of such figures of speech was initially borrowed from conventional grammar.4 A second group of alamkāras, such as “doubt” (samśaya, e.g., “is this a lotus . . . or is it your face?”) and “conclusion” (nirnaya, e.g., “this is not a lotus, it is your face indeed”), are modeled after steps in the logicians’

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syllogism.5 A third group of ornaments, defined by their emotional content (rasavat, preyas, ūrjasvin, samāhita), reflected the insights of drama theorists, who analyzed a play’s ability to evoke certain emotional flavors, or rasas.6 Other ornaments mimicked courtly speech behaviors, such as elegant pretexts, veiled criticism, and subtle praise (e.g., paryāyokta, leśa, vyājastuti, aprastutapraśamsā), and still others involved rhymes and sound effects, such as twinning (yamaka) and alliteration (anuprāsa). Indeed, ślesa too was analyzed, however uneasily, as another ornamental device—an alamkāra. The importance gained by the catchall category of alamkāra, which was used to analyze all these different effects and devices, is reflected in the fact that the discipline came to be known as Alamkāraśāstra—the science of ornaments. Alamkāraśāstra seems to have evolved late relative to the literary output.7 The first extant works of this discipline, Bhāmaha’s Kāvyālamkāra (Ornaments of Poetry) and Dandin’s Kāvyādarśa (The Mirror of Poetry), are dated to the seventh century CE, some 500 years after the first surviving narrative poem by Aśvaghosa. Bhāmaha and Dandin do mention predecessors, and the existence of a prior discussion is evident from passages on poetics available in works on other topics. These include an alamkāra chapter in the encyclopedic Visnudharmottara Purāna8 and a chapter in the poem Rāvanavadha by Bhatti, which was probably meant to illustrate a nascent list of alamkāras.9 Early kāvya also shows clear awareness of a recognized inventory of ornaments, as seen, for example, in Subandhu’s mention in the Vāsavadattā of ślesa as a term already established.10 Nonetheless, nothing has survived of this earlier discourse. Th e works by Bhāmaha and Dandin became the cornerstone of a long tradition of treatises on alamkāra. These two authors came to be seen as the discipline’s founding fathers, although each gained prominence in different geographical regions. Bhāmaha’s work served as the departure point for later discussion of poetics in the northern vale of Kashmir, which in the eighth and ninth centuries asserted itself as a major literary center. Dandin’s work was almost entirely ignored in Kashmir but had a profound impact in the southern peninsula of the subcontinent, where it became a foundational text for the vernacular literatures of Kannada and Tamil, as well as offshore, in La]kā, where it was adapted into Sinhalese and Pāli. Dandin’s treatise also traveled to Tibet, where it was translated and adapted.11 Bhāmaha and Dandin composed manuals for poets-to-be and did not attempt anything like a rigorous aesthetic theory. Bhāmaha, in particular, was the first to admit a profound and lingering doubt about the nature of

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and relationship between “body” and “ornaments,” the two basic elements constituting his discipline’s root metaphor. Some thinkers, he reported, viewed metaphorical identification (rūpaka) and other such ornaments as poetry’s essential beautifying elements, while others considered them ephemeral and deemed the very arrangement of nouns and verbs— ostensibly the body of a poem—its only source of charm. Bhāmaha’s inclusive solution to this either-or question seems purposely vague, allowing him to collect and analyze as many poetic devices possible, each seen as aesthetically pleasing in and of itself.12 This descriptive approach to literary language, as Edwin Gerow has already noted, requires no universal theory of poetics.13 Nonetheless, the method favored by Bhāmaha and Dandin was not entirely particularistic, in the sense that both authors were interested in the criteria distinguishing the alamkāras from one another, as well as in the aspects that allowed them to be arranged in larger groups, and thereby laid the foundations for later efforts of systematization. Moreover, as I hope to demonstrate later, Dandin’s treatise betrays a more holistic and rather complex notion of figurative language, perhaps in response to Bhāmaha’s vagueness. It was in Kashmir, however, that Bhāmaha’s work served as the basis for a far more thoroughgoing effort of theorization by a new generation of thinkers, who in the eighth and ninth centuries strove explicitly and decisively to turn the discourse on poetic ornamentation, with its numerous and often-isolated insights, into a coherent and respectable discipline. Thus the subsequent history of the tradition in Kashmir, as Gerow has already noted, is the history of a search for a system.14 This search took different paths. Vāmana, who worked at the court of King Jayāpīda (r. 779–813), analyzed the entire range of tropes and figures of speech as variations on one formal structure, that of the simile. Udbhata, Vāmana’s contemporary at the same court, composed a commentary on Bhāmaha’s manual and an independent treatise on alamkāras. In both of these he grounded those very literary ornaments in the semantic capacities of direct denotation (abhidhā) and indirect or metaphorical usage (laksanā), as defined in Mīmāmsā’s analysis of Vedic passages.15 Udbhata also wrote a commentary on the Nātyaśāstra, the core treatise on drama, an act that signaled an “erosion of the distinction between poetic and dramaturgical theory.”16 Both the massive importation of Mīmāmsā theories into poetics and the attempt to integrate dramaturgy into the discipline of Alamkāraśāstra culminated in Ānandavardhana’s seminal Dhvanyāloka (Light on Dhvani), produced

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only a few decades after Udbhata at the court of King Avantivarman of Kashmir (r. 855–883). As Lawrence McCrea’s monograph on the Dhvanyāloka convincingly shows, Ānandavardhana merged Mīmāmsā’s teleological hermeneutic model, according to which all the elements of a text are seen as subordinate to the production of a single overriding import (a dictum, in the case of the Veda), with the aesthetic theory of drama, which highlights the evocation of emotional flavors, or rasas. According to Ānandavardhana, the overriding telos of poetry was to induce rasa. In poetry this goal is not achieved by means of artistic performance, as it is on stage, but rather through suggestion, or dhvani, a hitherto-untheorized capacity of language. All the other elements in a poem, including the many ornaments identified by Bhāmaha and his followers, were subordinated by Ānandavardhana to dhvani, which he identified as poetry’s “soul.” Ānandavardhana thus cleverly exploited his discipline’s old root metaphor to support his new ideas: literary ornaments, he said, just like bracelets, earrings, and necklaces, can certainly embellish an already-pretty body, but they cannot explain its intrinsic charm.17 Consider an example from Kālidāsa’s Kumārasambhava, describing Śiva’s reaction to the beauty of his future wife, Umā (Pārvatī): Śiva, his composure somewhat disturbed, like the ocean when the moon begins to rise, cast his eyes on Umā’s face with its bimba fruit of a lower lip.18

This verse contains several figures of speech: Umā’s lip is identified with the red bimba fruit, and Śiva’s disturbed composure is likened to the ocean’s turbulence during moonrise, which further implies that Umā’s face is the moon. Earlier theorists would have analyzed this imagery under the categories and subcategories of simile and metaphorical identification. But according to Ānandavardhana and his commentator Abhinavagupta, the poetic effect of this verse does not result from such ornamental devices. Rather, its soul is its main suggestive content, namely, Śiva’s love for Umā, which the ornaments only serve to enhance. Because the verse does not state explicitly that Śiva began to fall in love with Umā, this rasa, or emotional flavor, is not expressed directly through denotation. Nor is it evoked, according to Ānandavardhana, through a process of secondary or metaphorical usage, as is, for example, the notion of the lip’s

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redness, which is cognized indirectly, through its association with the bimba fruit. Rather, love is suggested by the poet’s depiction of Śiva’s loss of composure, his casting of his gaze, and Umā’s beautiful face and lip. Actors on stage evoke rasa through gestures indicating their loss of calm or by actually casting their eyes, but poets, according to Ānandavardhana, can achieve a similar emotional evocation through the semantic capacity of suggestion.19 Although it initially stirred a heated debate,20 Ānandavardhana’s thesis was eventually adopted by all Kashmiri theorists from the eleventh century onward and was widely circulated outside Kashmir. With dhvani as its centerpiece, Sanskrit poetics was transformed for the first time into a unified and highly sophisticated aesthetic theory that was also capable of producing serious literary criticism.21 At the same time, this theory featured several unresolved tensions. One tension pertains to the constant borrowing of tools and ideas from older and more prestigious knowledge systems for the purpose of poetic analysis while attempting to assert the independence and respectability of the discipline in its own right. One clear manifestation of this tension in the Dhvanyāloka is in Ānandavardhana’s crowning of the hierarchical semantic model, which he borrowed from Mīmāmsā, with dhvani, a new linguistic capacity not recognized in Mīmāmsā or, for that matter, in any philosophical school.22 A second, related tension existed between the new theoretical framework and the conceptual baggage of earlier writers, in particular the analysis of the various alamkāras. Note that despite the rather marginal role Ānandavardhana assigned these ornaments, and despite his reluctance to indulge in their taxonomy, he was not willing to dispose of them altogether. At the same time, his theory, for all its universality, did not really explain the aesthetic effects of individual alamkāras, especially in poetry that involved little or no suggestion.23 The friction between the overall dhvani framework and the analysis of specific speech ornaments is related to yet a third tension, between an emphasis on the holistic experience of poetry’s emotional flavors, which does not hinge on complex figuration or intricate verbal arrangements, and the long-standing appreciation of the careful wording and detailed construction of verses that typify some of Sanskrit’s more exquisite ornaments.24 These tensions drove much of the subsequent, post-Ānandavardhana discourse on Alamkāraśāstra. An impressive variety of semantic and cognitive theories became a central topic of analysis, in which the existence of

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suggestion and the criteria for distinguishing it from the linguistic capacities already recognized by other schools were debated at great length.25 Later theorists also resumed the analysis of the various alamkāras in a way that took into account Ānandavardhana’s aesthetic and semantic principles. Both tendencies are prominent in Mammata’s (c. 1100) highly influential Kāvyaprakāśa (Light on Poetry). This vast treatise is a major synthesis of the varied concepts of Sanskrit literary theory. Mammata builds his integrated poetics on the foundations of the discipline’s new semantics, in which the different capacities of language—denotation, secondary usage, and suggestion—explain the existence of different grades of poetry: dhvani, the best type of poetry, where suggestion is the main goal; gunbhūtavya]gya, where suggestion exists but is secondary to the other capacities; and, finally, citra, where we find no suggestion whatever, only denotation and secondary usage. It is within this scheme of the different types of poetry that the different analytical categories become meaningful: rasa is crucial for the analysis of dhvani, while the charm of citra requires resorting to the alamkāra tool kit, which Mammata then revisits at length.26 But the integration of alamkāras into a dhvani-centered theory was never perfectly smooth, as can be seen in the work of Mammata’s near successor, Ruyyaka (c. 1150). Ruyyaka signals a return to an analysis focused solely on the formal and semantic intricacies of individual alamkāras, as well as their systematization in larger groups. Ruyyaka takes dhvani for granted but, for the most part, leaves it out of his discussion, which is nonetheless highly informed by the new awareness of semantic capacities and the various processes by which they are cognized. Mammata and Ruyyaka arguably represent the last phase of Sanskrit poetics in Kashmir, but in the following centuries a lively discussion, driven by similar tendencies and tensions, spilled over to the rest of the subcontinent. This discussion continued well into the Mughal and colonial eras, featuring additional questions and tensions. One such question pertains to Kashmir’s hegemony and the authoritative status of its seminal thinkers, in particular Ānandavardhana, whose dhvani theory was by now widely accepted, and Mammata, whose treatise became the object of a vast commentarial literature. Authority has always been an unresolved issue in a tradition that has repeatedly reinvented itself and has never possessed an unquestioned root text (sūtra).27 The great Kashmiri writers helped Alamkāraśāstra become a more prestigious discipline, and many of their

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ideas became highly consensual within the tradition. But did this mean that their works were now canonical, or was it still legitimate to criticize them? This question is also related to the old tension between Kashmir and the rest of the subcontinent. On top of this regional tension, a wide variety of new regional literary cultures had asserted themselves by the middle of the second millennium CE. Literary theorists of the later period were working in cultural spheres that were highly vernacularized, while others were exposed to the influence of the competing cosmopolitan formation of Persian. These later theorists seem to have been faced with the questions posed by the competing literary models they came to draw on.28 These questions and tensions are apparent in the works of the tradition’s last prominent figures, Appayya Dīksita and Jagannātha Panditarāja. The former (1520–1592), who lived in the southern Tamilspeaking region, was a great innovator. He reintroduced the work of Dandin, another southerner, into the mainstream Alamkāraśāstra that had emerged from Kashmir. He also attempted to undermine the dominance of dhvani theory by presenting a subversive model of suggestion based on deduction, and by arguing that much of what his predecessors viewed as instances of suggestion should nonetheless be analyzed within an alamkāra framework. These moves enraged Jagannātha Panditarāja, “King of Pundits,” at the Mughal court of Shah Jahan, who tried to defend the dhvani theory from this critique and reestablish the authority of the great Kashmiri teachers whom Appayya Dīksita sought subtly to undermine. Despite their many differences, however, both writers had much in common, and together they represent a new trend, or school, in Sanskrit poetics that should be seen in the context of an overall intellectual innovation in the Sanskrit world during early modernity.29 In the work of the new poeticians we find heightened attentiveness to intellectual developments in other disciplines (in particular, a sophisticated knowledge of theories of semantics and a growing tendency to use the new terminology emerging from Nyāya, or logic), an attempt to deal more consistently and openly with the role of subjective experience of poetry, and a historical awareness of the way the alamkāra discipline had evolved. Indeed, these writers continued to discuss—in highly innovative and complex ways—the nature and aesthetic effects of the various alamkāras, which, despite all the revolutions their discipline underwent, remained its trademark and major topic of inquiry.30

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7.2 les. a as a theoretical problem Bhāmaha and Dandin, in their foundational works on poetics, gave special attention to ślesa relative to other alamkāras, and many subsequent thinkers analyzed it at great length. For example, two out of eight chapters dedicated to ornaments in the work of the Kashmiri theoretician Rudrata (c. 825) deal exclusively with ślesa. The eminent Indologist V. Raghavan has gone so far as to dub ślesa the discipline’s “most discussed alamkāra.”31 What, we may ask, accounts for this remarkable salience of ślesa in Alamkāraśāstra? One ready explanation for ślesa’s prominence in theory is its conspicuousness in practice. Bhāmaha and Dandin composed their works only a century or so after Subandhu created a new style of prose with ślesa as its cornerstone, and the two authors evince an acute awareness of the vast possibilities of ślesa that Subandhu had opened.32 A few later writers indicate their familiarity with specific ślesa genres. As we have noted, Bhoja, the eleventh-century theoretician and king, charted the wide spectrum of dual- targeted verse in his Śr]gāraprakāśa, citing Nītivarman’s Kcakavadha, Dhanañjaya’s Dvisandhānakāvya, and other instances of bitextuality.33 Even before Bhoja, Rudrata noted the emergence of multilingual ślesas and the nascent genre of “distortional talk,” where characters use ślesa-like techniques to distort one another’s utterances intentionally.34 Moreover, Sanskrit poeticians seem to have been well aware of ślesa as a large literary movement. At the height of bitextual production in the seventeenth century, the eminent scholar Jagannātha Panditarāja summarized his discussion of ślesa by praising its ability to “provide Sarasvatī [Poetry embodied] with a new charm, in a wide variety of genres.”35 Others, as we have seen, were concerned with the movement’s negative side effects, including the possible use of ślesa for conveying disguised pornographic content.36 But despite informing the theoretical discussion, many specialized bitextual practices were never really mentioned by poeticians, let alone analyzed. In particular, the flagship ślesa genre of works narrating the two great epics was, with the exception of Bhoja, barely even brought up. Rather than being focused on the poetic uses and purposes of ślesa, the theorists’ debate was primarily driven by a series of challenges that this device posed to their conceptual frameworks. From the very outset ślesa did not easily lend itself to analysis as an alamkāra, despite the impressive elasticity of the latter category. Ślesa also complicated later attempts to

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systematize Alamkāraśāstra and make it a coherent aesthetic-semantic theory. In this section I focus on three closely related internal questions that propelled and sustained the debate on ślesa in Sanskrit poetics. One basic ślesa-related difficulty stems from the need to account for the seemingly endless figurative possibilities of simultaneity within a single analytical framework. We have seen that in the work of Subandhu punning normally appears in conjunction with a variety of literary devices, such as similes, metaphorical identifications, and apparent contradictions. Having defined each of these literary devices as a distinct ornament, Bhāmaha, Dandin, and their followers were faced with the dilemma of delimiting punning itself, a phenomenon with no typical propositional structure (A is like B; A is B; although like it, A is unlike B) or inherent logical relationship (similarity, identity, contradiction). There are several possible solutions to this problem, but none of them proved entirely satisfactory or stable. One option is to argue that although simultaneous expression may appear in conjunction with a variety of other ornaments and propositional structures, it also has its own, separate domain, to be called ślesa. The problem with this claim is that it requires one to demonstrate instances of ślesa where the two registers are not tied by any of the relationships typical of other ornaments, such as similitude in similes or identity in metaphorical identifications. But, as one thinker has put it, only a madman would utter a statement consisting of two totally unrelated imports.37 Thus it seems only reasonable to assume that even in cases where there is nothing to tie the two texts together explicitly, some relationship is implied. Think, for example, of Kavirāja’s Rāghavapāndavya, where similarity between the epic plots and characters is often intimated, and where the interrelations between the two narratives are at the heart of the poetic enterprise. Nonetheless, some thinkers felt pressed to posit the existence of “pure” ślesas. The classical example, cited for the first time by Ānandavardhana, is of a verse invoking Śiva and Visnu simultaneously, relating their respective exploits in a way that is clearly reminiscent of other poems of two targets. Ānandavardhana argued that such bitextual poems simply consist of two concurrent narratives without suggesting any further alamkāra, such as a simile.38 Several later theorists contested his interpretation, arguing that the verse does in fact suggest similarity between the divinities.39 Indeed, even before Ānandavardhana, Udbhata implied that ślesa has no independent figurative structure by arguing that it can only mimic those of other alamkāras.40 Pratīhāra Indurāja, in his commentary on

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Udbhata’s work, claimed that as a result, all instances of similes and other ornaments that are based on punning must be classified as ślesa and ślesa alone. Otherwise, he warned, ślesa will become an endangered alamkāra, with no domain to claim for itself.41 These comments imply a different solution to the theorists’ problem, namely, to accept the fact that ślesa is a poetic phenomenon of a different order—not an isolated alamkāra defined by its distinct propositional structure but a broad-ranging linguistic-poetic mode that is capable of replicating the whole gamut of ornaments. But this solution, too, proved theoretically untidy and threatening to the system’s equilibrium. Indeed, some theoreticians warned that it would lead to a similarly troubling scenario, only in reverse. Mammata, for instance, argued that such a broadly conceived ślesa would become predatory and would make the simile and other species of ornaments extinct.42 Sanskrit poeticians, we begin to realize, had a serious difficulty with containing simultaneity and allotting it a place in their system of ornaments. The magnitude of the dilemma can be gauged by its starkly opposing solutions. On one end of the spectrum we find thinkers who did their best to encapsulate and marginalize ślesa: an extreme example is Vāmana, for whom it was no more than a footnote to metaphorical identification (rūpaka).43 At the other extreme are thinkers who were willing to set ślesa free from the confines of this or that alamkāra and view it as a general aesthetic principle, responsible for a whole parallel universe of ornamentation. An example is Vāmana’s near contemporary Rudrata, for whom ślesa was one of four supercategories of ornamental speech.44 The treatment of no other alamkāra oscillated so dramatically. There is a tendency among modern scholars to view this as merely a classificatory dilemma with few substantial implications.45 But the difficulty in defining a simile vis-à-vis its ślesa variety teases out the basic aesthetic principles of Sanskrit poetics. In order to mark off an “ordinary” simile from one that is based on ślesa, one would have to argue, like Rudrata, that in the former, the proposition rests on some palpable similarity between two entities, whereas in the latter, semblance is manufactured—it is not in the entities themselves but in the language used to describe them (śabdamātram sāmānyam).46 Consider, for example, the standard comparison of a woman’s face with the full moon, based on shared features such as a round shape and radiance. This simile, some would argue, is quite different from likening the crowded bazaar to the same moon, based on a bizarre accident of language: the adjective sakalakala may denote

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both the bazaar’s “hustle and bustle” (sa-kalakala) and the moon’s full form, with all its phases (sakala-kalā).47 Obviously the bazaar and the moon are not “really” alike. But as we shall see later, this commonsensical conclusion is at odds with a basic premise of Sanskrit poetics, namely, that literary language is defined precisely by its distinction from factual communication (svabhāvokti). Differentiating a simile from ślesa on the grounds of the simile’s facticity is thus a highly uncomfortable stance for some theoreticians, who would be quick to point out that just as the bazaar is different from the earth’s satellite, so is the face, which is not really round or radiant the way the moon is.48 Hence the apparent classificatory problem actually pertains to the crucial aesthetic questions of what an ornament like a simile does, and how, if at all, its effect differs from that of punned analogy. A second and related theoretical problem that drove the debate on ślesa pertains to its classification as an ornament either of “sound” (śabda) or of “sense” (artha). Already in the earliest works of Alamkāraśāstra there is awareness that literary devices based on sound patterns (e.g., rhymes, alliteration) belong in a separate category from those based on their semantic burden (e.g., simile, metaphor). This distinction was later spelled out and became a hallmark of the tradition. The problem with ślesa is that it fits both categories. On the one hand, it depends on the choice of specific lexical items or on unique phonetic combinations that allow for multiple segmentations. In this, ślesa is closer to twinning ( yamaka), which is also based on word choice and word arrangement, than to ornaments that depend on their thrust. On the other hand, we have seen that ślesa typically hinges on a meaningful relationship between its registers and is intimately connected to similes and other semantic devices. Where, then, should it be placed? Again, it is important to understand that this is not merely a problem of classification, and that broad aesthetic and conceptual questions are at stake. A basic premise of Sanskrit poetics is that unlike Vedic mantras, which consist of reality-changing phonemes, and unlike discursive literature, where the emphasis is purely on the contents, kāvya is defined by its unique combination of sound and sense. In practice, however, theorists typically analyzed the semantic and acoustic effects separately, without comparing them or tying them together. The special case of ślesa, however, forced them to gauge or even quantify these two aesthetic aspects. The question underlying their classificatory dilemma, then, is how to account for the charm of a bitextual poem: do readers cherish the linguistic

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hocus-pocus that enables simultaneity or the meaningful relationship between two entities or stories? There are many indications that this question, too, proved to be a thorny one.49 One is again faced with a wide field of answers: opinions range all the way from classifying the vast majority of ślesas as ornaments of sound, in agreement with Mammata, to placing them exclusively among the semantic ornaments, as Appayya Dīksita suggested.50 Another indication is that it was under the heading of ślesa that the very distinction between “sound” and “sense” was revisited and retheorized. For instance, it was while discussing ślesa that Mammata proposed his famous “synonym test” to judge the question. Mammata suggested that we replace the words of a poem with a complete set of synonyms and check whether it still works: if it does, its aesthetic effect has to do with its semantic burden; otherwise, it rests in its pattern of sounds.51 A further indication is the preference of most thinkers to grasp the dilemma by the horns and posit ślesa as an ornament of both varieties, a status no other alamkāra was allowed.52 Thus most theoreticians classed ślesas based on different meanings of the same words, or homonyms, as “sense” ornaments and placed those based on homophones, as well as resegmentation (oronyms), among ornaments of “sound.” This compromise solution mutes the underlying aesthetic question because in practice both varieties are always combined: it is virtually impossible to find a ślesa based purely on homonyms or solely on resegmentation. At the same time, the need to distinguish between homonymy and homophony brings to the surface a whole set of different problems that bear on major questions in the philosophy of language. To realize this, consider the fuzziness inherent in the English terminology in question. Homophones are words that sound alike, whether or not they differ in spelling. Both pear/pare and bear/bear are homophonous, although the former duo is more typically thought of as involving homophony, whereas the latter appears to be in the domain of homonymy, in the strict sense of the word. But “homonym” may also be used as a synonym for “homograph,” when two words are spelled alike but pronounced differently (e.g., row/row). This terminological haziness is the result of different approaches to one of language’s most fundamental building blocks—the word. Terming “row” in the sense of “line” and “row” in the sense of “fight” homonyms implies a view according to which spelling is the key factor in defining a word. The two words, after all, differ in both meaning and sound, and it is only on the basis of their shared orthographic representation

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that they are seen as identical, or homonyms. Calling “row” and “row” homographs, however, may suggest that spelling is an ephemeral aspect of the lexicon when compared with phonology, for the term stresses that the semblance is merely orthographic. Finally, terming “pear” and “pare” homophones similarly emphasizes a similarity that is merely phonetic, thereby betraying a view that privileges meaning as the defining lexical factor. The Sanskrit case is even more complicated and confusing. First, although Sanskrit orthography is devised to eschew pure phonetic ambiguity, thereby excluding homographs of the row/row type and keeping homophones of the pear/pare variety at a minimum, ślesa methods for manufacturing homophony between utterances go well beyond typical English puns. These methods include, as we have seen throughout this book, the exploitation of the different resolutions of phonetic assimilation between words (sandhi), the potential ambiguities of case and verbal endings, and various syntactic ambiguities in order to allow two (or more) sets of words to be carved out of a single utterance. Second, Sanskrit philosophies all discussed the linguistic questions underlying these issues and offered a dizzying plethora of definitions for homonymy and homophony, to say nothing of the basic unit of a word, and many of these views informed the discourse on ślesa in poetics. To simplify matters, we can speak of two broad camps of poeticians that were divided by the question whether to define a word by its phonetic form or by its meaning. On the one hand, there were those who believed that if two words are formally identical, they are really one and the same (homonymy): kara in the sense of “ray” and kara in the sense of “tax,” to use Dandin’s famous example, are the same word (abhinnapada).53 Theorists who held this view, such as Rudrata, Kuntaka, and Ruyyaka, in addition to Dandin himself, used this distinction to solve the dilemma of “sound” versus ”sense” mentioned earlier. They tended to classify ślesas based on homonymy, as they defined it, as ornaments of “sense” and ślesas based on homophony, including resegmentation, as ornaments of “sound.” As Rudrata eloquently put it, a “sound” ślesa is the coalescence of two different sets of signifiers, each with its own signified, whereas a “sense” ślesa consists of a single set of signifiers, each possessing more than one meaning (homonyms).54 This view, it should be noted, counters the important Mīmāmsā dictum that one word can convey only one meaning.55 Most thinkers in this first group chose to gloss over this

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inconsistency. Ruyyaka, however, explained that even if in theory (aupapattikatvāt) words are defined by their sense, in reality, readers experience two formally identical lexical entities as a single word with two meanings.56 A second group of poeticians held to the Mīmāmsā dictum and argued, hence, that no such thing as homonymy exists. These thinkers, still invested in distinguishing between ślesas of “sound” and of “sense,” were thus faced with the loss of their best potential criterion: if homonymy does not exist, is it still possible, let alone desirable, to divide what they viewed as a vast spectrum of homophony and to differentiate between simpler cases (e.g., kara/kara) and more complicated ones, where resegmentation is involved (e.g., sa-kalakala/sakala-kalā)? One solution was Udbhata’s innovative distinction between “true” and “artificial” homophones. True homophones, he claimed, are identical even outside the context of ślesa. But when a poem’s unique verbal arrangement allows for words that otherwise differ in anything from their stress to their constituting letters to achieve a momentary identity within the context of a line of poetry, that line should be considered a case of manufactured homophony. In such ślesas only one set of signs can actually be uttered, while the other is activated in the mind through its similarity to the former despite not being uttered.57 Udbhata classified cases of true homophony as “sense” ślesas and manufactured homophony as a ślesa based on “sound,” thereby maintaining his tradition’s distinction between the two categories while adhering to the theorem of “one word, one meaning.” This means, however, that “sense” ślesas too were now defined as based on homophony, an aspect of sound. It was partly to solve this further complication that Mammata proposed a more rigorous solution: if no such thing as homonymy exists, then all cases of homophonous utterances, whether “real” or “manufactured,” can be lumped together in one large group of sound-based ślesas. It is only in those rare instances when a ślesa is based on exploiting the semantic richness of a single word—think, for example, of the spatial and moral connotations of a noun such as “loftiness” (unnati)—that it can be classified as a sense-based ornament.58 This unresolved discussion leads us to the third major question that drove the debate on ślesa in Sanskrit poetics, namely, how bitextuality is mentally processed. The previously discussed disagreement among Udbhata, Mammata, Ruyyaka, and their colleagues exemplifies the challenges

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that ślesa posed to Sanskrit’s established semantic-cognitive theories, such as the theorem of “one word, one meaning.” As Jonathan Culler has shown, puns present a very similar threat to Saussure’s notion of signification, as is perhaps hinted at in Saussure’s unpublished theory concerning anagrams of proper names in Latin poetry.59 In the Sanskrit world, to be sure, this challenge was met by a variety of thinkers before the debate in Sanskrit poetics had even begun. The famous philosopher Bhartrhari, for instance, provided a long set of criteria involved in the process of determining a single meaning for words with multiple senses.60 But as we shall see, this extrapoetic discussion of language cognition was later subsumed by and further developed in Alamkāraśāstra when the latter became increasingly interested in the aesthetic effects of various linguistic capacities and the cognitive processes these entail. Consider, for example, the question of sequence in understanding a ślesa. A bitextual verse typically consists of three layers of meaning: two correspond to the two messages conveyed, entities depicted, or narratives told, and a third consists of the relationship they entail, whether implied or expressed. A question in the mind of early ninth-century Kashmiri poeticians was what of all this is grasped at once, and whether different types of ślesa involve different cognitive scenarios. For example, Rudrata seems to have believed that the semantic charm of ślesa is rooted in the way a second meaning reflects on the one grasped first. A second meaning can enhance the first, complement it with a proverb or a general truth, expand its emotional range by adding another rasa, or even cleverly contradict it, as in cases when praise in the first register leads to censure in the second. Rudrata thus implied a tripartite cognitive sequence in which one notion (meaning 1) leads ( gamayati) to the grasping of another (meaning 2), which in turn leads to a cognition informed by their relationship (meaning 3).61 Rudrata discusses this only with regard to his “sense” ślesa, which he defines as a ślesa based on homonyms, suggesting, perhaps, that the cognitive sequence entailed by homophones is different.62 Udbhata, his senior contemporary, seems to have believed that different ślesas indeed necessitate different cognitive progressions. In the case of what he considered “true” homophones, that is, words that are formally identical even outside the context of ślesa, Udbhata believed that both sets of signifiers are uttered simultaneously, and hence both senses (meaning 1 and meaning 2) can be grasped concurrently. But in the case of “manufactured” homophony, where formal identity is the result of a poem’s special word

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arrangement, only one set of signifiers is uttered and initially grasped (meaning 1), leading to a later activation of a second set of signifi eds (meaning 2) whose signifiers are not pronounced. In both cases the link between the two first meanings such as similarity (meaning 3) seems to be a further reflection.63 Initially these formulations of ślesa’s sequential cognition were either terse or implied. But shortly after Udbhata and Rudrata, following Ānandavardhana’s groundbreaking theory of dhvani, questions of cognition came to be discussed explicitly and thoroughly in Alamkāraśāstra, first in Kashmir and then elsewhere. Ślesa figured prominently in these discussions. It was Ānandavardhana’s claim that the linguistic capacity of suggestion is something altogether new, rather than a different name for phenomena already analyzed through existing categories, that first ignited this debate.64 Ānandavardhana attempted to differentiate suggestion from a select group of alamkāras that involved additional semantic import, in which context ślesa, with its wide formal range and built-in excess of meaning, received much attention. Indeed, a comparison of Ānandavardhana’s notion of dhvani with the ślesa of his immediate predecessors reveals their parallels and allows us to realize the challenge ślesa posed to his new theory. Consider, for example, Ānandavardhana’s tripartite division of dhvani according to the suggested content: a poem may suggest a further message or narrative element (vastu), an ornament (alamkāra) such as a simile, or an emotional flavor (rasa). All these types of additional meanings, however, had been demonstrated by Rudrata to exist in the domain of ślesa only a few years earlier.65 A second division of dhvani, based on the semantic-cognitive processes it entails, is also reminiscent of the earlier discussion of bitextuality. As with Rudrata’s ślesa, Ānandavardhana’s dhvani entailed various semantic relationships (primarily supplementation and replacement) between the literal sense (meaning 1) and the suggested sense (meaning 2), and as with Udbhata’s ślesa, it allowed for several cognitive scenarios— simultaneity as well as succession. Moreover, Ānandavardhana posited two subcategories of suggestion that are unmistakably based on ślesa: arthaśaktimūladhvani, where suggestion is based on homonyms (or what Udbhata called true homophones), and śabdaśaktimūladhvani, where it is based on homophones (or, to use Udbhata’s terminology, manufactured homophones).66 Thus in effect, much against his proclaimed intention of positing dhvani as an entirely novel concept, not merely new in name, Ānandavardhana

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tacitly appropriated at least some cases that his predecessors identified as ślesas into his newly discovered linguistic capacity of suggestion. Betraying his awareness of this problem, Ānandavardhana himself addressed the worry that his concept of dhvani would annul ślesa altogether, and he reassured his readers that ślesa would retain an independent dominion, however small.67 His critic Pratīhāra Indurāja, however, was not convinced and argued conversely that the good old category of ślesa rendered Ānandavadhana’s dhvani based on homonyms and homophones redundant.68 Again we see that ślesa and other major concepts threatened to cancel one another out, a clear indication of the persistent difficulty ślesa posed to the theory. Indeed, the aforementioned discussion of the potential conflict between ślesa and other alamkāras (e.g., simile) is related to this heated debate over the alarming similarity between ślesa and dhvani, as is clear from Ānandavardhana’s own discussion. For it was in order to substantiate his point that ślesa would not become extinct because of dhvani that Ānandavardhana invoked the idea of a “pure” ślesa, that is, a case in which two narratives are simply conarrated without any intended linkage (see the previously mentioned simultaneous invocation of Visnu and Śiva). In other words, Ānandavardhana argued that although cases of bitextuality with only two semantic targets (meanings 1 and 2) might occasionally fall in the domain of ślesa, a further implied relationship between them (meaning 3) must be the result of suggestion and suggestion alone.69 From this point on, the debate grew more complicated, and there is no need for me to map it in detail. Suffice it to say that the discussion not only remained unresolved but also expanded considerably, both in sheer volume and in the plethora of positions that were staked out. With respect to the dimensions of this debate, we should note that just as questions of cognition came to dominate the ślesa discussion, the question of ślesa came to figure prominently in the nascent general discussion of semantic processes and cognition in Sanskrit poetics. Thus after Ānandavardhana’s Dhvanyāloka the debate on bitextuality was no longer limited to its traditional location (under the heading of ślesa in alamkāra manuals) and was waged in a variety of new contexts, including a new subgenre of Alamkāraśāstra dealing exclusively with different semantic capacities.70 As for the opinions raised in the debate, I should mention that every known semantic capacity was posited as a potential candidate responsible for at least one semantic layer from meanings 1 through 3 in different instances of ślesa and suggestion, and that a vast variety of cognitive scenarios were theorized on the basis of factors

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such as the context relatedness of different meanings of same words or their frequency in the reader’s mind.71 Let us conclude by noting that the career of ślesa in Alamkāraśāstra was a rocky one. Again and again we see the recurrence of ślesa as a stumbling block whenever Sanskrit poeticians were formulating some conceptual framework or positing a new organizing principle for their system. Time after time ślesa proved to be a spoiler: it disturbed basic analytical distinctions (between ornaments of sound and those of sense, or between factual and imaginative modes of depiction), threatened to annul categories of utmost theoretical importance (e.g., simile, suggestion), and forced thinkers to deal with aesthetic, semantic, and cognitive questions of profound consequence and great complexity. Ślesa was always at the eye of some theoretical storm: it was tossed back and forth over the sound-sense divide, was dramatically minimized or vastly expanded within the domain of sense-based alamkāras, and was a major source of contention in the debate over dhvani. Even after this debate subsided, there never emerged a stable consensus on what made bitextuality and suggestion different and the exact role of the former in a theory dominated by the latter. In all of this, ślesa demonstrated a degree of theoretical instability that is simply unparalleled. If there is any consensus that we can draw from this turbulent history, it is that ślesa remained an unresolved problem for Sanskrit theoreticians. The conundrum posed by ślesa to so many conceptual frameworks in Sanskrit poetics cannot be mere coincidence. When one framework fails to explain this or that phenomenon, we can always explain this away by saying that every theory has its limitations and exceptions. But when a phenomenon stands in the way of repeated rounds of theorization, we begin to suspect that it must be of central importance to the world being theorized. Indeed, the fact that for centuries dominant thinkers such as Bhāmaha, Ānandavardhana, and Mammata went out of their way to contain ślesa, each for his own reasons, paradoxically affirms its prominence in kāvya’s poetic project. Think, likewise, of the heated dispute between Udbhata and Mammata, two highly influential Kashmiri thinkers who disagreed on virtually every aspect of bitextuality. Their dispute stemmed from a deeprooted but tacit agreement that ślesa posed major theoretical problems to their discipline; their controversies were limited only to the solutions. Further support for ślesa’s centrality comes from less hegemonic voices from within the tradition, thinkers who were willing to recognize its

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preeminence and organize their conceptual systems in such a way as to explicitly allow ślesa a central role in them. Here I think not only of Rudrata, the Kashmiri theorist who posited ślesa as one of his four overall principles of poetic ornamentation, but also, and perhaps primarily, of Dandin. The ideas of this original thinker were typically met with audible silence in Kashmir, the most important center of Alamkāraśāstra between the ninth and the twelfth centuries, and they have not received sufficient attention from modern scholars. But a close reading of his text, which traveled throughout much of South Asia and beyond, reveals that Dandin, the first author to use ślesa for the task of conarrating the Sanskrit epics, allowed this literary device to hold a central position in his conceptualization of poetry’s “crooked” language.

7.3 speaking crookedly and speaking in puns: les.a’s role in dan. d.in’s poetics Literary ornaments, which Dandin defines as “the factors that make poetry pretty,” naturally occupy the most prominent place in his Kāvyādarśa (The Mirror of Poetry).72 The first alamkāra on Dandin’s long list is svabhāvokti, literally, speaking of things the way they are. The aesthetic value of such detailed observations of the true nature of entities is, as far as Sanskrit poetics is concerned, questionable. Indeed, Bhāmaha, who was probably Dandin’s predecessor or senior contemporary, and whose position often seems to be in the back of Dandin’s mind, does not fully endorse svabhāvokti as an ornament. Rather, he treats this descriptive device noncommittally, in an addendum to the first of his two chapters dedicated to alamkāras, by noting that “there are those who call it an ornament.”73 Thus it is noteworthy that Dandin begins his discussion with svabhāvokti, explicitly highlighting its status as an ornament by dubbing it the first alamkāra (ādyā sālamkrtih) and by supplying four different examples for it. A close reading of Dandin’s definition and examples may explain his move. Dandin seems to place svabhāvokti at the very beginning in order to remind poets of a fundamental truth, namely, that poetry can be good only if it depicts worthy objects: what makes an accurate description (sāksāt vivrnvat) a literary device, he is quick to note, is the fact that the described topic ( padārtha) is rich and beautiful (nānāvastham rūpam) in and of itself. The examples drive the point home: colorful parrots, the courting dance of a dove, the feel of a lover’s touch, and Śiva’s beloved

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appearance—his dark throat, crescent moon, matted hair, and begging bowl—all make excellent poetic subject matter; just to depict them as they are is pleasing.74 But an intrinsically good topic, while necessary, is not quite sufficient. Indeed, svabhāvokti is a kind of basic first step that paves the way to the demonstration of the really imaginative things a poet can do once he or she has identified the right topic. Thus despite allowing it to top his list, Dandin allots svabhāvokti a minor place in the terrain of literary devices because it is really more at home in nonbelletristic types of writing. “Such factual depictions of genera and individuals, actions and attributes,” he concludes, “have science as their kingdom, even though they are welcome in literature as well.”75 Thus while highlighting the admission of svabhāvokti to his list of alamkāras, Dandin quickly sets it aside and moves on to what he views as the mainstays of poetic ornamentalism—devices that rule the kingdom of literature. This move is subtle and unmarked, as is typical in a treatise that constantly demands close reading (or resorting to its commentaries). Thus no heading or general framework for these devices is initially given. Dandin turns straightaway from svabhāvokti to simile (upamā), where an entity is described not so much as it is as through its similarity to another. Dandin dedicates more attention to the simile than to any other alamkāra, indicating the paradigmatic status of this literary device.76 Then he discusses a large catalog of other ornaments and their subtypes and ends by briefly mentioning the possibility of a coexistence, or mixture (samsrsti), of two or more ornaments in one stanza. It is only then, at the end of this lengthy discussion of alamkāras, some 350 verses long, that Dandin supplies his readers with a heading for all the preceding ornaments, beginning with the simile. This is vakrokti, an all-important category that includes all literary devices with the exception of the initially mentioned svabhāvokti. Significantly, Dandin introduces the distinction between vakrokti and svabhāvokti in the context of mentioning ślesa, which, like the simile, is of great importance to him: Ślesa greatly augments all instances of vakrokti. Literature is divided into two: svabhāvokti and vakrokti.77

In this terse verse the crucial supercategory of vakrokti is thrown at us almost as an afterthought, without anything like a proper definition. Dandin has again left it to his readers to decipher what exactly he intended by his division of literature into these two kinds. However, the text does supply

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several important clues. First, there is the word vakrokti itself, which means speaking indirectly (vakra) or even crookedly. Second, vakrokti is placed in opposition to svabhāvokti in such a way that we can perceive Dandin’s implied definition of the term: if svabhāvokti consists of “factual depictions of genera and individuals, actions and attributes,” vakrokti is counterfactual and imaginative, the speaking of things the way they are not. Consider, again, Dandin’s subtle but important move from svabhāvokti to the simile. If the former signals the importance of choosing an intrinsically good topic, the latter demonstrates how this topic can be intensified by imagining its complex, indirect ties to other worthy subject matter. Indeed, even before Dandin, Bhāmaha had defined vakrokti as a process of poetic intensification (atiśaya), in which a worthy worldly object is described as if it were “out of this world” (lokātikrāntagocara).78 Bhāmaha’s famous example concerns the beautiful saptacchada tree: so white is its blossom that it is said to become entirely invisible in moonlight, when its presence can be inferred only by the humming of bees.79 This is not an accurate, realistic description, but it is precisely the exaggeration involved in depicting the tree’s ties with other beautiful entities—moonlight, which bears the hue of its flowers (svapuspacchavihārinyā), and the melodious bees, whose mention indicates the fragrance of its blossom—that allows the poet to capture its true, unworldly beauty. For Bhāmaha, it is this kind of intensification, or vakrokti, rather than any realistic observation (svabhāvokti), that accounts for poetic charm. Dandin seems to believe, like Bhāmaha, that vakrokti is a form of intensification, typically achieved through the association of two poetic topoi, as in a simile.80 Where the two writers clearly differ, however, is in the role that ślesa plays in all of this. For Bhāmaha, ślesa occupies a relatively minor place in the realm of vakrokti. Bhāmaha notes that ślesa can replicate the propositional structure of rūpaka, or metaphorical identification, which for him is the first and perhaps the paradigmatic ornament, although he goes out of his way to note that ślesa is altogether different from rūpaka. This is because a real metaphorical identification, he says, necessitates a perception of actual identity in attributes ( gunānām samatām drstvā) between the entities involved, whereas the identity in the ślesa variety is contrived, or manufactured (sādhyate), by employing adjectives, verbs, and nouns that are punned. Likewise, notes Bhāmaha, ślesa can replicate the proposition of the simile and two of its variations (sahokti and hetu), although again the similarity evoked in such cases is not in the

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entities themselves but in the language used to describe them.81 Thus, on the whole, ślesa as defined by Bhāmaha is confined to a limited and small set of poetic propositions where it can create “as-if ” effects—feigned identifications and apparent analogies.82 Dandin, by contrast, explicitly insists that ślesa pervades the whole gamut of vakrokti, as we have seen in the previous quote. Moreover—and this is perhaps the most important clue Dandin provides for his readers—ślesa is the only criterion he cites to differentiate between svabhāvokti and vakrokti. It is as if Dandin wanted to insinuate, counter to Bhāmaha, that ślesa not only permeates vakrokti but is central to the very idea of crooked expressivity. Note, moreover, that Dandin’s statement that “ślesa greatly augments all instances of vakrokti” comes as little surprise to those who have gone through the large repertory of alamkāras and their subtypes that precedes this assertion. This is because unlike Bhāmaha, Dandin has exemplified a ślesa variety for every major alamkāra along the way, in addition to discussing ślesa as a separate ornament. Indeed, earlier in the work, after properly introducing ślesa for the first time, Dandin calls the attention of his readers to the fact that he has “already illustrated ślesa when discussing upamā, rūpaka, āksepa, vyatireka, and so forth.” At this point he also gives readers notice of the fact that other instances of ślesa “will continue to come up” in his discussion of the remaining ornaments.83 We must conclude, then, that despite his reluctance actually to define vakrokti, Dandin repeatedly and explicitly notes ślesa’s prominence in it. Why is this so? To better understand Dandin’s vakrokti and the place ślesa occupies in it, let us first examine his discussion of the simile, the first and prototypical instance of “crooked speech.”84 Dandin begins his discussion of this ornament by formulating an intentionally vague definition: “a simile is a passage in which some palpable similitude is understood in whichever manner.” This is more an introduction to the topic at hand than a conclusive statement, and Dandin is quick to declare his intention to “demonstrate the simile’s vast variety.”85 He then names and exemplifies no less than thirty-two simile types. It is worth noting that all his illustrations are highly uniform in their subject matter: most compare female body parts, faces in particular, with a small set of natural objects, primarily lotuses and moons. Dandin says nothing about this choice (why female faces, lotuses, and moons are appropriate poetic topics) nor about the convention of juxtaposing them (why beautiful faces should be likened to water flowers

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or to the earth’s satellite). Later in the discussion he does explicitly prohibit several other pairings, such as the comparison of a devoted servant with a dog or of a firefly with the sun, but even then he is reluctant to supply his criteria for his prescriptions and proscriptions, insisting that readers “figure them out for themselves.”86 Indeed, Dandin seems relatively uninterested in the convention in its generic, bare form, of the sort found in his initial example: “your palm, pretty girl, is red like a [scarlet] lotus.”87 This elementary formula of analogy is quickly eclipsed in his analysis by numerous varieties that are more interesting. These varieties either play with the structure of the basic proposition of similarity or imply similitude through a host of suggestive methods of growing complexity. Consider, for example, the following pair of illustrations: Is this a lotus inhabited by a pair of restless bees? Or is it your face, containing a pair of playful eyes? My mind constantly wavers. The luster of the lotus simply cannot shame the moon. For, after all, the moon has it soundly defeated. This therefore must be nothing but your face.88

These stanzas are quite dense and need unpacking. Note, to begin with, that although both of them are subtypes of the simile, neither is a straightforward statement of resemblance. Rather, they mimic the respective propositions of “doubt” (samśaya) and its “resolution” (nirnaya). It is only through conjecture, mediated by cultural and literary expectations, that we realize their intent to express the basic comparison of a lady’s face with a lotus. Note also that in the fi rst example the original analogy is expanded to include, beyond the shared hue or luster of the two objects, a further parallel: just as the fair face of the beloved contains a pair of dark playful eyes, so too the white lotus attracts a pair of humming black bees. Moreover, the notion of similitude is greatly intensified by the conceit of doubt. So strong is the resemblance between the two that the poet, looking at his lover’s face, is no longer sure what he sees. Further elaboration and intensification are found in the next example, where the moon is brought in as well. Th is stanza imitates, not without a hint of humor, the logician’s deductive process. The object whose nature is undecided, the poet notes, puts the moon to

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shame with its beautiful luster. He further realizes that a lotus does not have this capacity, because the moon is more powerful than it. Therefore, he concludes that he must be looking at the face of his beloved. Note the growing complexity of these two short verses—the parallelism of wholes and their parts in the former and the introduction of a third party, the moon, in the latter. Moreover, the second illustration offers the first instance of a pun. The moon overpowers the flower with the superior quality of its luster but also causes it to contract (both these meanings are conveyed by the verbal root nigrah), because it is a known fact that the lotus closes at moonrise. Thus within the span of only half of a short stanza (na padmasyendunigrāhyasyendulajjākar dyutih) the poet delineates an intricate three-way competition in which the moon puts the lotus to shame—the flower’s contraction during moonrise, it is implied, is the result of its sense of humiliation—and the moon is, in turn, shamed by the beauty of a woman’s face. Our initial sampling of Dandin’s discussion of the simile allows us tentatively to spell out some of the modes of intensification involved in his notion of vakrokti. These include enrichment of detail (e.g., eyes, bees, and the moon in addition to the lotus and the face), structural complexity (a relationship between convoluted wholes, for example, or an elaborate, three-way hierarchy), attribution of human motives (e.g., competitiveness, shame) to natural entities, and, finally, punning. All these work together with the primary means of intensification in the examples, namely, the postulation of an epistemological doubt and its resolution by a process of elimination. Obviously there is nothing inherently pretty in an expression of uncertainty or in a syllogism, which is what the two examples jointly produce. Otherwise, the discourse on logic would be considered aesthetically pleasing, something nobody wishes to claim. Likewise, there is no particular aesthetic pleasure in recognizing an object for what it is (tattvākhyāna), as in one of Dandin’s later examples: This is no lotus; it is a face indeed. These two are not bees but eyes.89

Such direct, factual communications, we have seen that Dandin argues, are incidental to the main poetic project of describing things crookedly, the way they are not. What makes this an instance of vakrokti, however, is that it is really a statement of simile in disguise. Just like the case of the deductive stanza, this accurate identification makes sense only if it is

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mediated by an earlier doubt stemming from a compelling similarity (vispastasādrsyāt) between a face and a lotus.90 Indeed, it is possible to think of all three examples as a set of interlinked guises that hide and reveal the original, generic similarity: to assert that “this is no lotus; it is a face indeed” is to assume some prior process of reasoning, quite possibly the logical procedure of elimination supplied by the nirnaya example (“The luster of the lotus simply cannot shame the moon . . .”). This reasoning, in turn, clearly presupposes a doubt, as in the samśaya example (“Is this a lotus . . . or is it your face . . . ? My mind constantly wavers”). It is only this doubt that, in turn, masks and reveals the conventional formula, “your face is like a lotus.” Let us take stock of what we have seen so far. Good poetry necessitates topics that are intrinsically beautiful. Beauty alone, however, is rarely sufficient to make poetry good. In order for the essence of beauty to be captured, it has to be intensified by the poet, for example, by juxtaposing it with other worthy entities, as in the comparison of a beloved’s face with a lotus. But such formulations too often seem overused or dull and call for additional rounds of intensification. There are no hard-and-fast rules for determining the unfolding of this process, which can be achieved through innumerable means. But it seems necessarily to involve dressing up the original convention in some new or strange garb from whence it is revealed, often through a series of intermediary guises or masks. This process could also be described as the relegation of Sanskrit poetic convention to a presupposed intertext. Jonathan Culler has postulated a very similar notion in his attempts to illustrate the analytic uses of intertextuality beyond the traditional and positivistic study of sources, or genealogies of the sort Harold Bloom has sought to chart.91 Rather, Culler proposes that we chart the processes by which texts relegate well-known facts of the narrative, general cultural knowledge, and literary conventions, as well as things that were actually never said, to an assumed—but not necessarily identifiable—prior discourse. By doing so, Culler notes, texts “create presuppositions and hence pre-texts for themselves,” with a variety of rhetorical effects.92 Think, for example, of the opening lines of Baudelaire’s “Bénédiction”: Lorsque, par un décret des puissances suprêmes, Le Poète apparaît en ce monde ennuyé, [When, by an edict of the powers supreme, The Poet in this bored world comes to be,]93

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Had Baudelaire begun his poem by stating that “powers supreme” had once decreed the birth of “the poet,” this would have been claiming to “discover something new about the world,” in which case “we might expect explanation, justification, a narrative which located this fact in an experiential context.” Instead, he chose to treat this fact in question as already given, a strategy that has an immediate effect on our reading of the poem: By presupposing this fact about the poet he takes up a different relationship to it: treating it as prior discourse, part of the intertext, a myth of the poet which he can cite, he opens up the question of the mode in which his poem will treat this prior discourse. Presupposition opens an intertextual space which can easily become ironic.94 Culler goes on to highlight the pragmatic and rhetorical richness of intertextual negations. He cites another line from Baudelaire (“ce n’était pas un temple aux ombres bocagères”), where the negation “it was not a temple”—just as in Dandin’s “this is no lotus”—“presupposes that someone would have expected it to be [one] or had claimed that it was,” a fact that clearly energizes both Baudelaire’s poem and Dandin’s example, even if with different energies and to different effects. Culler suggests that literary theory should “describe rhetorical or literary presupposition,” an enterprise “related to the program which linguistics must develop to deal with . . . pragmatic presupposition.”95 What we have in Dandin’s catalog of vakrokti types and their subtypes, however, is precisely this kind of description of the Sanskrit literary world, only far more detailed and interlaced. In effect, Dandin’s Kāvyādarśa offers a vast repertory of strategies for multilayered presuppositions, an intertextual grammar of literary speech acts. Simile varieties such as samśaya (doubt), nirnaya (resolution), and tattvākhyāna (reality talk) each make sense only insofar as they presuppose each other—“reality talk” presupposes “resolution,” and “resolution” presupposes “doubt”—and together they all presuppose the basic convention of similitude (e.g., “your face is like a lotus”). Indeed, it is tempting to translate the term vakrokti (crooked speech) itself as pertaining not only to the truth value of the reference— making it distinct from the accurate, scientific mode of svabhāvokti (speaking of things the way they are)—but also to its indirect and reflexive mode of reference, allowing utterances to express conventions or ideas indirectly, or “crookedly,” through a detour to one or more presupposed texts.

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Be that as it may, Dandin’s work does provide its readers with a holistic notion of literary ornaments, even if this notion is barely spelled out, and even if vakrokti as Dandin understood it—a system of masks and revelations—cannot be governed by any single overriding method of disguise.96 This brings me back to the question with which we began, namely, why Dandin privileges ślesa throughout his discourse on vakrokti, and why he concludes this discussion by singling out ślesa as the sole criterion setting vakrokti apart from svabhāvokti. The reason for this, I believe, is that Dandin sees punning on all levels of intensification, from statements such as “your palm, pretty girl, is red like a [scarlet] lotus,” his basic example of the simile, which would seem to involve no punning whatsoever, to the most elaborate form of masking, which hides the basic convention through a series of interrelated prior texts. To realize this, let us first consider Dandin’s earliest mention of the term ślesa in his listing of alamkāras, still within his discussion of the simile. One of the varieties of the simile is called ślesopamā, that is, a simile (upamā) based on or featuring ślesa. Dandin provides no definition for this category, so, as is often the case, we have to draw our own conclusions on the basis of his example: It is rival to the cool-rayed moon, possesses splendor, and has a fragrant scent— your face is like a lotus.97

The basic situation should be familiar by now: the stock comparison of the beloved’s face and a lotus is coupled again with the three-way competition between the face, the lotus, and the moon. Indeed, so familiar is the situation and the language that we may want to ask ourselves what distinguishes this as a simile based on ślesa. Here the commentator Ratnaśrījñāna comes to our aid and guides us through the verse’s subtleties. The face and the lotus, he explains, both “rival” the moon, although each in a different sense of the word. The face’s rivalry with the moon is nothing but a beauty contest, whereas that of the flower and the earth’s satellite consists, as we already know, of a natural enmity—the former shuts when the latter rises. The face and the lotus also differ in their possession of “splendor” (śr). In the case of the face this adjective has to be taken literally, whereas the lotus is also known as the seat of the goddess Śrī, Splendor embodied. Note, however, that Ratnaśrījñāna is willing to accept the ślesa even if Śrī, the deity, is not invoked, presumably because the splendor of the face and that

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of the lotus are not entirely identical. This is in keeping with his interpretation of the third modification, “has a fragrant scent,” which applies to both, although the sweet fragrance of a woman’s breath and the redolence of the lotus are not quite the same.98 Why did Dandin consider ślesa to be at the root of a simile based on modifications such as “has a fragrant scent” (surabhigandhi)—hardly a homonym, let alone a homophone? It is precisely the nondistinctiveness of the language that makes this example particularly interesting. By this point Dandin had introduced the simile’s basic propositional structure and building blocks and had demonstrated some of their possible combinations and permutations. With this example it seems as if Dandin wanted to clarify his noncommonsensical belief that punning is built into the very expression of sameness between entities that are not the same. There is really no difference between saying that a woman’s “palm . . . is red like a lotus” in his basic formula of the simile and saying that her face “has a fragrant scent . . . like a lotus” in the ślesa variety. As soon as the poet turns from describing things as they are, with their distinct hues and odors, to postulating an analogy with other entities, with their different colors and smells, he or she must manipulate language—beginning with adjectives such as “red” and “fragrant”—in a way that is not essentially different from more elaborate punning. This is precisely why Mammata warns, some 400 years later, that ślesa, if not very strictly defined, may render the simile redundant.99 Dandin, by contrast, sees no problem in implying that some sort of subtle pun is found in every statement of similarity. This is not to say, however, that ślesa is always so subtle or benign, as Dandin is quick to demonstrate with the next simile subtype, the “as-if simile” (samānopamā). Here a young girl is compared neither with a lotus nor with the moon but with parkland (udyānamālā) on the basis of differently segmenting the compound sālakānanaśobhin: the girl has a pretty face and hair (sâlakânana-śobhin), and the park is charming thanks to groves of sāla trees (sāla-kānana-śobhin).100 As Ratnaśrījñāna perceptively notes, what distinguishes this variety of comparison from the former is not so much its use of resegmentation as it is the surprising juxtaposition it presents. The likening of a face to a lotus is so conventional that the actual similarity does not have to be pronounced in order to be understood—the utterance “your face is like a lotus” is sufficient for the resemblance to be grasped. But there is no convention for comparing a lady with parkland, and the statement of “resemblance” would make no

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sense unless the ślesa, in the form of an adjective that is both about the girl’s hair and about the park’s trees, were provided.101 The text does not, in Culler’s terms, presuppose prior comparisons of girls and parks. Rather, it presupposes kāvya’s practice of and vocabulary for comparing different entities, both of which it powerfully estranges in a manner reminiscent of what we have seen in Subandhu’s Vāsavadattā. For, as in Subandhu’s work, this statement too ends up with a semantic residue that undermines its surface meaning. The girl and the parkland are said to be alike, but in fact the example stresses that they are quite different: the girl’s face is adorned by its curls and the park by its sāla trees. If the “punned simile” (ślesopamā) indicates that puns are inherent in statements of semblance, this example of “as-if simile” (samānopamā) playfully reflects on this very notion. These two varieties illustrate how ślesa pervades Dandin’s notion of crooked speech, at least in the case of simile: ślesa is responsible for the plainest expression of similitude and is capable of reworking it in a powerful and potentially subversive manner. Dandin demonstrates the impressive spectrum of what ślesa can accomplish not just under the title of simile but throughout his discussion of poetic ornaments. Consider, for example, his treatment of vyatireka, an alamkāra he defines as an explicit mention of difference between two entities once their similarity is established.102 Dandin examines this ornament with a set of illustrations that juxtapose another of kāvya’s conventional pairs, the king and the ocean. In these illustrations it is ślesa and ślesa alone that provides the basis for establishing the initial similarity between the king and the ocean. For example: You’re oceanlike. The two of you have much in common: durability, largeness, salinity/charm, the list goes on and on. There’s one difference, though: you have this stunning body.103

As we have come to expect, “similarity” for Dandin is based on subtle as well as not-so-subtle puns. For an example of the former, see dhairya, which refers to the immovability of the ocean and the reliability and courage of the king, as well as māhātmya, in the dual sense of largeness and largess. The latter is represented by the homonym lāvanya, which means both salinity and charm. All three nouns are within the range of Dandin’s

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ślesa, the only method that enables the comparison of the human body with a body of water. What separates this ornament from the realm of similitude, however, is its explicit highlighting of dissimilarity: its last line elevates the royal subject over its oceanic standard by playfully calling the bluff on the convention of comparing them. The verse is thus an example of vyatireka (distinction). For Dandin, however, this is not an example of a ślesa-based vyatireka, because here, after all, ślesa is used where it most naturally belongs, that is, in allowing the necessarily counterfactual comparison of a king with the ocean. Ślesa is not used, however, in the playful communication of the fact that the two are not really alike. Dandin further complicates the theme of vyatireka when he introduces a ślesa variety of this device (saślesa-vyatireka), where punning is used even when a distinction is being drawn between the two entities, that is, the king and the ocean: Both you and the ocean are irrepressible, large, and fiery. But the two of you differ to the extent that you’re so witty and it’s just wet.104

Again, similarity is based on puns. Here we find ślesa in the adjectives durvāra (irrepressible, which actually means “irresistible” for the king and “of rough water” in the case of the ocean), mahāsattva (which means “large” in reference to the king’s largess and “of large creatures” in the case of the sea), and satejas (fiery, which refers to the king’s charisma, as well as to the mythic fire burning deep under the ocean waves). All this is in line with what we have seen before, in the previous example, although in this case the last line also contains a ślesa. The king is said to be patu (sentient, aware, but also smart or witty), whereas the ocean is jalātman (consisting of water, but also senseless, frigid, and plain dumb). 105 Although the translation fails to convey this semantic richness, in the Sanskrit every adjective is doubled: adjectives supporting the resemblance of the two entities actually modify each differently, and those justifying the distinction each provide two differentiae. This last pair of examples supplies another illustration of Dandin’s tendency to create structures of growing intricacy that are intertextually tied. As can be seen in table 7.1, Dandin’s ślesa-vyatireka doubles and thereby intensifies the basic vyatireka, its presupposed text, making it a kind of a

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table 7.1

Dandin’s Simile, Vyatireka, and Ślesa-Vyatireka Simile portion of the Vyatireka Vyatireka

Ślesa-based vyatireka

Ornament structure A king is said to be oceanlike on the basis of a set of punned vocabulary.

A king is said to be oceanlike on the basis of ślesa. Then the obvious difference between the two is stated.

A king is said to be oceanlike on the basis of ślesa. Then the obvious difference between the two is stated. This statement itself is doubled (ślesa), allowing for further differentiae.

Presupposed intertext

The necessarily counterfactual basis of the conventional simile.

The vyatireka itself: the very act of stating the distinction between a king and the ocean.

The convention of comparing a rich and generous king to the ocean.

second-order vyatireka. The basic vyatireka, in turn, playfully points to the counterfactual basis of comparing a monarch with the sea. Finally, the simile portion itself, with its expanded punned vocabulary, intensifies this elementary, underlying convention.106 Moreover, table 7.1 demonstrates why ślesa is found throughout the multilayered domain of vakrokti. Ślesa is a necessary poetic tool if similarity between two different entities must be expressed, and it is highly recommended in further elaborations and reflections on it. Looking at table 7.1 and the different modes of intensification outlined there, we begin to realize what Dandin meant when he said that “ślesa greatly augments all instances of vakrokti.”

7.4 dan. d.in’s discovery in its context What makes an expression poetic? Is there something in the poet’s use of language that is different from other, nonbelletristic usages, and if so, how can it be identified? What allows writers to innovate time and again, even as literature appears to have exhausted itself and everything seems to have been said? These and similar questions were in the minds of Alamkāraśāstra specialists, just as they captivate the attention of literary theorists today.

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The tradition of Sanskrit poetics provided several models to answer these questions. The earliest of these, after which the tradition was permanently named, posited a set of ornamental usages or devices as the basic tool kit of poesy. Early theoreticians such as Bhāmaha and Dandin set out to catalog these ornaments, which, they believed, were the factors that accounted for poetry’s charm. In doing so, they provided a kind of generative grammar for kāvya: their treatises, not unlike Pānini’s grammar, were meant to enable poetic generation rather than to exhaust it, because the variation on the basic devices was seen as endless. This variation, they believed, enabled innovation in literature. As in grammar, the ornamental phenomena recorded by Bhāmaha and Dandin were not governed by any single organizing principle. This is not to say that the approach of these thinkers was entirely particularistic, and as we have argued, Dandin, at least, had a subtle but sophisticated notion of the “crookedness” involved in all the ornaments, or at least in those that are not purely acoustic. Nonetheless, it was left to later generations of thinkers to postulate more rigorous and systematic theories of ornamentation that were based on structural analyses of poetic propositions or semantic and cognitive processes underlying them. During this constant “search for a system” a second, powerful model emerged, according to which the linguistic capacity of suggestion was proposed as the ultimate goal of poetry. Suggestion, or dhvani, was posited as poetry’s very soul and the reason behind its miraculous ability constantly to reinvent itself.107 This model relegated alamkāras to a minor, supportive role: ornaments were seen as decorative only insofar as they facilitated suggestion, the object of decoration (alamkārya). This view, which originated in Kashmir in the middle of the ninth century, gradually gained near-universal approval. But the tension between it and the earlier alamkāra model, which it uneasily subsumed, was never really resolved. This tension can be seen not just in the treatises of dissenting writers, such as Kuntaka and Appayya Dīksita, who, each in his own way, emphasized the importance of other aesthetic elements in relation to dhvani, but also in the works of staunch dhvani proponents such as Jagannātha Panditarāja, who, despite his “affiliation,” dedicated the vast majority of his magnum opus on poetics, the encyclopedic Rasaga]gādhara, to the analysis of alamkāras. Throughout this lively discussion, extending well over a millennium, ślesa attracted massive attention, perhaps more than any other literary device. The reason for this conspicuousness cannot be as simple as the

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mere prominence of ślesa in the practice of poets, for, after all, the theorists very rarely addressed the most important bitextual genres. Rather, the theoretical discussion of ślesa seems, at least on the surface, internal to the poetic discipline and driven by its own concerns. Ślesa, we have seen, did not fit comfortably even within the early and highly elastic concept of the alamkāra, nor did it lend itself easily to later efforts at systematizing ornamental speech. Likewise, it straddled the basic disciplinary distinction between alamkāras of sense and of sound. And, with the launching of dhvani theory, ślesa found itself in the eye of a raging theoretical storm in which it and dhvani were argued to render each other redundant. Even after this larger storm had subsided, the debate over ślesa did not, and no consensus was ever reached on the distinction between suggestion involving punning and the domain of ślesa proper. The difficulties in placing ślesa within a succession of theoretical frameworks and the repeated attempts of some thinkers to minimize or restrict it may indicate a deeper relationship between the theoretical discourse on ślesa and the praxis than most theorists were willing to admit. Indeed, the persistent struggle to contain ślesa can be taken as a grudging acknowledgment of the fact that it was somehow crucial or pivotal to the project of kāvya. In order to realize how this may be, I have examined one of the earliest extant treatises, Dandin’s Kāvyādarśa, which makes a point of not treating ślesa as a minor or isolated phenomenon. On the contrary, Dandin unashamedly asserts that ślesa pervades the entire spectrum of vakrokti, or crooked speech. As we have seen, however, Dandin never elaborates on this all-important category of vakrokti, nor is he very forthcoming about the manner in which ślesa can “greatly augment” all its instances. Nonetheless, a careful reading of sample passages from Dandin’s work, aided by the insightful comments of Ratnaśrījñāna, reveals the presence of a holistic and sophisticated conception of ornamentation and sheds some light on ślesa’s role within it. Dandin’s alamkāras, I have argued, tend to create complex structures in which each layer reflects on the previous one. This dynamic takes poetry at least one step beyond the necessary choice of topics that are intrinsically beautiful, just to describe which accurately is sufficient in theory but rarely so in practice. Indeed, even an elementary first step, such as comparing one good topic with another (e.g., “your palm, pretty girl, is red like a lotus”), is often rather plain and can always undergo further rounds of intensification. These can take any number of forms and may be classified either as types of simile or as independent alamkāras with

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their own subtypes. This process of intensification—constantly repeated with increasing self-reflexivity—dominates Dandin’s presentation of crooked speech and seems to be the real engine of poetic inventiveness, despite kāvya’s relatively closed set of topics and conventions. Ślesa, we have seen, is demonstrable in each and every step of this process and seems necessary in establishing a kind of base-rate similarity between two different entities. The inherence of punning in a simile—if my reading of the Kāvyādarśa is correct—is perhaps one of Dandin’s greatest discoveries. The basic tendency of Alamkāraśāstra, not unlike some branches of rhetoric in the West, is to analyze tropes and figures of speech according to their logical or relational structure and view punned instances of these formulae as exceptional cases, a hostile takeover of proper literary devices by some subversive and not entirely controllable linguistic force. This, indeed, was the explicit approach of Bhāmaha and several of his successors. Dandin, by contrast, intentionally avoids limiting the simile to one basic structure and demonstrates that even propositions of epistemological doubt, deduction, and triumphant conclusion, to mention but a few, can convey similarity.108 Dandin is willing to posit the complex and often-subversive relations between signifiers as an essential component of the simile and other modes of vakrokti. If poetry is about using language to enhance reality—through likening, exaggerating, imagining one thing as another, and other techniques—it necessarily takes advantage of this structure of signification. The likening of a face to a park on the basis of some fluke of language stands at one end of a wide spectrum of poetic manipulation of language, and the comparison of a face and a lotus on the basis of their fragrance stands at the other. But it is the same spectrum nonetheless. For the fact that signs are interrelated in a variety of mysterious and meaningful ways is at the very foundation of what poets do with words in both cases. Ślesa, moreover, is by no means limited to this elementary, basic level. Vakrokti emerges from Dandin’s discussion as an intricate system of masks, each disguising at least one prior notion only to reintroduce it with a punch: strong affirmation, elaboration, self-reflection, estrangement, irony, satire, and, sometimes, all of these. Indeed, I have argued that this process could be described as a mechanism of intertextuality, not in the superficial sense of assuming identifiable sources for specific words or passages, but in a deeper sense, as a creative technique in which statements are relegated to presupposed—though not necessarily extant—prior texts, from

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which they are activated by a variety of poetic effects. Indeed, I have argued that Dandin’s repertory of ornaments is a grammar of such verbal masks or intertextual compositional strategies. Ślesa, in this context, has a particularly prominent role to play. Although it is certainly not the only poetic tool to disguise and reveal—or to refer to something as presupposed—it is one of the most powerful means of doing so, the ultimate device of language in disguise. It is in this sense, too, that we must understand Dandin’s concluding statement that ślesa can greatly augment all instances of vakrokti. This statement, I should again note, lends support to my hypothesis that ślesa’s prominence in Sanskrit poetics is not, at the end of the day, entirely unrelated to its centrality in kāvya. Indeed, it is not so much the popularity of certain double entendres, punned similes, or bitextual genres that makes ślesa so important to alamkāra specialists as it is the variety of ways in which ślesa enhances, or pushes to the extreme, some of kāvya’s primary objectives, for which Dandin’s notion of vakrokti is but one formulation. In the next and concluding chapter I propose a more inclusive catalog of these objectives and the ways in which they are susceptible to empowerment by ślesa.

[  ] TOWARD A THEORY OF ŚLESA

8.1 a concise history of the experiments with les. a Ś lesa was a latecomer to kāvya. The first five centuries of belletristic pro-

duction in Sanskrit (from around the beginning of the Common Era to the end of the fifth century CE) yielded relatively few instances of simultaneous expression, despite the fact that poets were already experimenting with yamaka, a rhyming method exploiting the same linguistic ambiguities as ślesa. While yamaka was initially associated with versified poetry, ślesa began to flourish in works that were primarily or entirely in prose, a later development in kāvya. It is, indeed, in Sanskrit’s earliest extant prose poem, Subandhu’s Vāsavadattā (dated to the sixth century), that we first come across the term ślesa and that punning first plays a major literary role. Subandhu invented a prose made of a complex blend of syntactic, figurative, and rhythmic units. At the heart of this rich texture he placed ślesa, which he used in combination with figures of speech such as the simile to examine kāvya’s poetic conventions and to remark, often humorously, on a large host of topics and texts. The same basic elements were later employed by Bāna, Subandhu’s direct successor in the field of prose, but for a different poetic effect. Shortly after this first colossal experiment with ślesa in the prose labs of Subandhu and Bāna, it emerged as a highly popular literary device, popping up everywhere, in royal eulogies inscribed on copper plates and stone in every corner of the Sanskrit cosmopolis, and in all other forms of kāvya: long narrative poems, shorter works in verse, stage plays, works that mix verse and prose (campūs), hymns, and prayers. Despite this vast

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body of work, ślesa demonstrated a clear tendency to specialization. During the seventh and early eighth centuries it figured prominently as a plot and dialogue device in works featuring conflicted or undercover characters. In poems such as Nītivarman’s Kcakavadha and Māgha’s Śiśupālavadha, and in plays such as Harsa’s Ratnāval and Priyadarśikā, as well as Bhavabhūti’s Mālatmādhava (all of which were probably composed between 600 and 750 CE), bitextual exchanges appear in the centermost plot junctures and are often seen and discussed as major events by the characters in these works. Starting at the beginning of the eighth century, ślesa was harnessed for a new and ambitious literary project, the concurrent narration of the two great Sanskrit epics, the Rāmāyana and the Mahābhārata. The first work known to attempt this feat was by Dandin (c. 700), a renowned poet and theorist hailing from the Tamil-speaking region. This poem is no longer extant, with the exception of a single verse cited in Bhoja’s treatise. A second work, the Dvisandhānakāvya, was composed around 800 CE by another southerner, the Jain author Dhanañjaya. This vast poem has been fully preserved and seems to have been well known in the Deccan and in Jain circles. The beginning of the ninth century also saw other types of specialized ślesa use. Far to the north of Dhanañjaya, his Kashmiri contemporary Ratnākara composed the Vakroktipañcāśikā, the first in a small genre of short poems that have Śiva and Pārvatī (or other pairs of divine and sage characters) bicker by “finding” inadvertent statements in each other’s words. Although these and other ślesa experiments had a following in the second millennium CE, it was the Rāmāyana-Mahābhārata genre that enjoyed a remarkable proliferation starting in the eleventh century. This bitextual boom is evident not just in the sheer numbers of works and their wide geographical spread but also in the vast expansion in the range of narratives told through ślesa, the literary forms used for this purpose, and the number of narratives possible in one work. Between 1033 and 1250 we know of at least eight bitextual and multitextual works, including the genre’s most famous composition, Kavirāja’s Rāghavapāndavya, a work written under the patronage of the Kadamba monarch Kāmadeva (r. 1181– 1197), but read and admired well beyond its immediate Deccani locale. It was during this period that Śrīharsa, one of kāvya’s greatest writers and a contemporary of Kavirāja, composed his masterful Naisadhacarita, a work employing ślesas for a variety of purposes and featuring the bitextual

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“Five Nalas” chapter at its center. This bitextual boom took place at a time when many local languages in and around South Asia were for the first time being used for literary purposes, a domain in which Sanskrit and its sister cosmopolitan languages had long held a monopoly. In the context of this vernacular revolution, the turn to ślesa can be seen as an attempt to exploit a niche where Sanskrit was believed to have a unique advantage. Thus while poets in the vernacular were busy composing their fi rst Rāmāyanas and Mahābhāratas, Sanskrit alone reigned in conarrating the epics for several more centuries. Ślesas of all sorts probably continued to be composed between the fourteenth and sixteenth centuries, although there are hardly any data on full-fledged bitextual works from this period. It is clear, however, that starting with the onset of the seventeenth century, there was another remarkable surge in bitextual productivity, at least as large as the initial boom, although this time it was confined to the south of the Indian subcontinent, primarily the Deccan and the Tamil country. This second surge in ślesa creativity included literary production in the vernacular, especially Telugu, which from the late 1500s developed its own rich genre of conarration, and Tamil, which at exactly the same time turned ślesa into a dominant literary device in a variety of Tamil-specific genres. Indeed, it is possible that the new surge of Sanskrit ślesas with their dazzling new techniques was partly a response to the challenge posed by these Tamil and Telugu writers. This later period also saw a great number of sophisticated ślesa readers from all over the subcontinent, who revisited the epics and the classics of their tradition and discovered in them puns and hidden narratives, hitherto unnoticed. Such reading practices continued well into the colonial period, and composing ślesas remained an integral part of Tamil and Telugu literary cultures as late as the nineteenth century and the first part of the twentieth. But with the internalization of colonial forms of knowledge and the spread of English and of the Romanticist approach to literature, ślesas of all types and languages gradually came to be seen as the epitome of everything that was decadent and distasteful about South Asian culture, the furthest possible point from its bygone “golden age.” This view, which only intensified with nationalism and independence, eventually brought ślesa production to a halt and led scholars in India and elsewhere to marginalize and even demonize the older bitextual corpus.

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8.2 les. a as a literary movement There are several problems with the necessarily schematic and linear synopsis provided in the preceding section. One is that it wrongly creates the impression that earlier forms of ślesa disappeared with the appearance of new ones. This is certainly not the case: ślesas maintained a presence in Sanskrit prose even after Subandhu and Bāna, and bitextual passages at important plot junctures of narrative poems persisted much later than the eighth century, as the works of Śrīharsa and Nārāyana Bhatta prove.1 Likewise, poets continued to use ślesa to embrace king and god in inscribed eulogies, as well as in longer poems. These and other threads of the larger ślesa fabric continued to evolve and develop in different shapes and patterns even as the focus of my chronological narrative shifted to the more dominant genre of Rāmāyana-Mahābhārata poems and other related bitextual and multitextual works. A second danger with such a chronological overview of the various ślesa manifestations is that it masks the important interrelationships among their authors, other intellectuals, and artists. Such synopses also ignore the close ties within and among several groups of historical agents—particularly the authors of various types of ślesa works in different periods and different languages, but also critics, theorists, lexicographers, commentators, and sculptors—all of whom were well aware of one another’s efforts and shared a view of ślesa as embodying a literary avantgarde. Ślesa was more than a popular literary device, and the experiments charted earlier were part of a conscious literary movement with identifiable characteristics. It is particularly important to remember that the poets discussed in this book were aware of the evolution of ślesa usages and often saw themselves as belonging to a lineage of ślesa poets. Bāna, who lived a century or so after Subandhu and who, like him, composed in ślesa-dominated prose, presented himself as Subandhu’s immediate heir and borrowed profusely from his predecessor. Likewise, Dhanañjaya, if the ”praise of poets” ascribed to him is authentic, viewed himself as continuing the line of Rāmāyana-Mahābhārata poems begun by Dandin, a fellow southerner who lived only a century earlier. Similarly, Vidyāmādhava, who worked in the Deccan just a few decades after Kavirāja and, like him, composed a poem of two concurrent narratives, presented himself as following in the footsteps of this senior contemporary and compatriot. No such proximity existed between Hemacandra and Meghavijayagani, separated by almost

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five full centuries, but the latter hailed the former as his predecessor because the two shared not only their Jain faith but also the amazing endeavor to narrate no less than seven concurrent stories.2 These lineages suffice to prove conscious ties and continuity within the different strands of the ślesa movement, spanning vast space and extending for many centuries. A host of more implicit tributes demonstrate the continuity of the ślesa movement as well: the nod of the Telugu poet Pi]gali Sūranna in the late 1500s to the Sanskrit author Kavirāja (c. 1180), who greatly influenced his work, Śrīharsa’s apparent gesture to Nītivarman (who preceded him by more than 500 years), and the fact that seventeenthcentury commentators on the Mahābhārata read ślesas into it at precisely the same juncture where Nītivarman had employed the device in his reworking of the epic a full millennium earlier, as well as the consistent naming pattern of bitextual works, which remained unaltered for even longer and carried over from Sanskrit to Telugu. Even more revealing, however, is the fact that Kavirāja, clearly the key figure in this thick and interlinguistic web of ślesa influences and references, conceived of himself as the direct successor of Subandhu and Bāna, even though these two remote predecessors composed in prose and harnessed ślesa for very different purposes than his Rāghavapāndavya. Kavirāja’s self-portrayal gives voice to a clear awareness that ślesa authors, regardless of their genre, place, and period, formed a single line and followed one another’s footsteps on the “path of crooked expressivity” (vakroktimārga).3 Moreover, the ślesa writers themselves, regardless of their subgenre and language of composition, spell out several important features of their collective journey. First, they celebrate their poetry as a unique victory over their respective media. From Subandhu’s heralding of ślesa “in letter after letter” to Pi]gali Sūranna proudly launching the practice of full-fledged bitextuality into Telugu 1,000 years later, a long line of writers appear to be thrilled to announce their incredible ślesa achievements. These need not necessarily be announcements of pervasive bitextuality—think, for example, of Ratnākara’s proudly calling attention in his introduction to stray multilingual verses in his Haravijaya—although the larger the scope of ślesa, the bigger the thrill. Indeed, ślesa authors proudly announce this method of composition as the highest poetic touchstone, “the very soul of articulate speech.”4 Second, there is the tendency of ślesa writers of all types to associate themselves closely with this literary device and to make it their signature or namesake. This tendency, too, begins already with Subandhu’s launching of ślesa in a verse that includes a pun on his name,

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continues with Dhanañjaya’s signature verses, which appear at the close of every chapter of his Dvisandhānakāvya and always involve some pun on his name, and is found as late as the nineteenth-century Tamil poet Vēmpattūr Piccuvaiyar, better known by the nickname cilētaippuli, “the tiger of ślesa.” Third, there is a sense of audacity and even risk involved in associating oneself with ślesa. This notion is occasionally made explicit, as when Nītivarman tells us that he was so bold as “to compose what other poets dare not create, in fear of incurring ill fame.” More often, however, the sense of danger is deduced from poets’ anxieties about being misunderstood, which are indicated by a combination of various instructions and disclaimers. Finally, there is a shared perception that, perhaps precisely because of their audacity, ślesa poets reap the highest reward and become the “crown jewel of all gifted poets,” a status that Dhanañjaya claimed, or “kings of poets,” the literal meaning of the name (or title?) Kavirāja. Such claims are often made indirectly, as when poets congratulate their characters for the unique skill they have shown in uttering ślesas that they have composed. A famous example is when Śrīharsa’s Damayantī cleverly uses bitextuality to reveal the fact that she loves Nala, and the goose hails her poetic achievements and declares her a “ślesa poet.”5 It is crucial to understand that other literati and theorists recognized and affirmed the identity of ślesa poets as a distinct group of writers. To begin with, although the discussion of ślesa in Sanskrit poetics was primarily driven by internal theoretical concerns, theorists did respond to or comment on new bitextual trends in practice. Dandin’s examples of ślesa are a tribute to Subandhu, Rudrata’s discussion highlights the first bilingual ślesas and the nascent genre of “distortive talk,” both of which were probably innovations of his contemporary Ratnākara, and Bhoja unambiguously refers to the ślesa sections of Nītivarman and Māgha, perhaps the first of their kind, and cites the first Rāmāyana-Mahābhārata works of Dandin and Dhanañjaya. Moreover, Bhoja views these different uses of ślesa as part of a single effort to extend the range of simultaneous expressivity (tantra) and the possibilities of aiming at two narrative targets (dvisandhāna). Bhoja thus validates the ślesa poets’ consciousness of historical continuity and lends support to their notion that the different ślesa experiments were part of a large collective effort.6 Equally important is the fact that several Sanskrit literary theorists shared the poets’ notion that ślesa is kāvya’s cutting edge. Thus some of them noted that to compose ślesa requires the highest degree of skill and

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erudition (Rudrata) or a unique power (Bhoja). Indeed, there are often close similarities and echoes between the praises of ślesa found in poems and those uttered by the theorists. Think, for example, of Jagannātha Panditarāja’s observation that the single device of ślesa provides Sarasvatī, Poetry embodied, with a “new charm” in a wide variety of genres and forms. Poets, for their part, were well aware of the poeticians’ discussions. Think, in this context, of Kavirāja’s aforementioned claim that Subandhu, Bāna, and Kavirāja himself—three authors who put ślesa to very different uses—are the skilled travelers on the path of vakrokti (crooked speech). This may be taken as a veiled reference to Dandin’s earlier decree that ślesa pervades and greatly enhances vakrokti as a whole. To return to the theorists, some of them betray an acute awareness of the riskier side of ślesa as well. A clear example here is Mammata, who was deeply concerned with problems of incomprehension and miscomprehension associated with bitextual verses, as well as with the exploitation of ślesa for improper and even pornographic purposes.7 Thus although Sanskrit poeticians primarily discussed ślesa’s status as an alamkāra, with its own unique figurative, semantic, and cognitive processes, they were certainly conscious of ślesa’s dimensions as a larger cultural phenomenon, knew of the constantly evolving experimentation with it, and shared the thrill and the anxieties associated with the use of this vastly popular device. Readers, too, betray very similar notions. They were attracted to works like Subandhu’s Vāsavadattā precisely because of their impressive ślesas, and their ingenious bitextual interpretations were unquestionably modeled after those used by the ślesa poets themselves. Moreover, readers gave voice to the same valorization of the ślesa author as the most brilliant writer, even when they did so in reference to ślesas they themselves had read into a work that may not have been intended ostensibly to be a ślesa. Think, for example, of Ravicandra’s praise of Śa]kara for the “rare gift” that had enabled him to conceal a message of dispassion in a poem apparently dealing with eroticism.8 It seems more difficult to demonstrate direct ties between literary and visual ślesas, but there are good reasons to believe that such ties did exist. Devangana Desai, for instance, has convincingly argued that a carving on the walls of a temple in Khajuraho echoes the genre of punned exchange between Śiva and Pārvatī and amounts to a ślesa in its own right, and I have discussed at some length Michael Rabe’s intriguing reading of the Mahabalipuram relief as the visual equivalent of a vast bitextual poem, conarrating the heroic penances of Arjuna and Bhagīratha. Although

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there is no way to confirm Rabe’s speculations, the attested ties between Dandin, the first known Rāmāyana-Mahābhārata poet, and the Pallava atelier, which produced the frieze, make it quite compelling. Finally, I have mentioned another form of visual ślesa clearly related to the literary, that of bitextual stage plays, and have noted that evidence points to the possibility that actors and actresses were trained in performing doubled roles.9 There is no way to ascertain whether sculptors and stage directors shared the notion of ślesa as a unique artistic form, but if Rabe’s interpretation of Mahabalipuram’s gigantic sculpted rock is correct, then the very dimensions and complexity of this extraordinary work of art in themselves amount to a bold claim about its achievements, not unlike those found in ślesa works. Finally, another integral component of the ślesa movement consisted of lexicographers and authors of a wide variety of special guidebooks. As I have shown, the major poetic and linguistic investment in bitextuality coincided with a dramatic proliferation of lexicons and thesauri, many of which, such as the collections of monosyllabic words, catered specifically to the needs of ślesa writers and readers, and some of which were even composed by or ascribed to well-known ślesa poets. The fact that bitextual poetry boomed at the same time lexicographers were expending great efforts on making the Sanskrit lexicon ślesa friendly is hardly a coincidence. Indeed, the close ties between the multifaceted lexicographical literature and the ślesa corpus were recognized by bitextual authors, typically in their commentaries on their own works; by ślesa readers, who boasted their mastery of the special lexicons; and by theoreticians, who prescribed mastery of wordbooks and thesauri as a necessary step for anyone wishing to compose in ślesa.10 Poets and lexicographers, it would seem, worked closely together to push the envelope on Sanskrit and expand its ability to express two or more meanings at the same time. These interrelations across time, place, language, and media and among writers, readers, critics, language specialists, and artists, all of whom shared a vision of ślesa as a unique endeavor, suffice to prove that the large-scale and long-lasting experiments with simultaneity in South Asia were not a set of isolated accidents. Ślesa does have a history. It is not the result of some “natural” propensity of the Sanskrit language, nor is it determined by a long period of medieval “decadence” in the history of India. Rather, it represents a hard-won victory over linguistic and artistic media by a long line of agents who together created a corpus unlike any other in

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human history. Moreover, this was by no means a marginal movement. It is not just the authors’ self-perception as being kāvya’s avant-garde, or the impressive dimensions of their output, that attests to ślesa’s centrality in this world, but also the pivotal role it played in Alamkāraśāstra, kāvya’s accompanying literary theory. Ślesa’s centrality to this theory, we have seen, is shown both by the difficulty most thinkers had in trying to fit it into consecutive analytical frameworks and by the willingness of a few, most notably Dandin and Rudrata, to posit ślesa as one of the foundations of their respective theoretical systems. At least for these thinkers, then, the continued experiments with ślesa stood at the very heart of kāvya’s poetic project and allowed it to reach new heights.

8.3 les. a and sheer virtuosity In what ways could the ślesa movement be seen as kāvya’s cutting edge? Why was ślesa such a source of pride and anxiety? Why did it figure so prominently in the multilingual and competitive literary ecosystems of late medieval and early modern South India, and what was at stake in these literary competitions? Let me begin with a feature of ślesa that has hovered in the background of my discussion without being brought to the fore, namely, the sheer virtuosity or artistry inherent in the composition and appreciation of ślesa. Cultural and linguistic virtuosity are central to kāvya’s worldview. The English word “virtuosity,” however, does not correspond to any single Sanskrit term, and what I mean by it is a combination of several capabilities of kāvya’s literati. These include, first, an almost unimaginable erudition: mastery of Sanskrit’s vast universe— grammars and lexicons, treatises on alamkāra and prosody, the epics and the Purānas, the canon of poems and dramas, and systematic discussions on everything from sex to logic to the astral sciences—as well as familiarity with the Prakrits, Sanskrit’s sister cosmopolitan languages, and perhaps also with the literary scene of one or more vernacular languages. Then there is the cultivated cultural sensibility: how the face of the beloved can be like or outshine the moon, why a patron resembles a fertile tree or the mighty ocean, when a man throws himself at the feet of his beloved, what the body language of a messenger of love reveals, and other conventions and scenarios. Finally, there is the gift—inborn, perhaps, but refined through practice and cultivation—to combine all these imaginatively so as to move and amaze readers, who are expected to share the same set of capabilities.

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Virtuosity, then, can be said to lie in the combination of kāvya’s three necessary conditions or factors (hetus) in Mammata’s classical definition: talent (śakti), cultivation (vyutpatti), and practice (abhyāsa).11 Actually, there are many ways in which these factors can combine, resulting in different strands of virtuosity. Here I would like to emphasize one dominant strand that prizes formal and conceptual complexity, dense and intricate structures, crafty wording, often with layers on layers of meaning, and a wealth of minute details on which the poem hinges. To read a Sanskrit poem that embodies this strand of virtuosity is almost like solving a complicated riddle or, to use Śrīharsa’s metaphor, untying a particularly tricky knot.12 There is clearly a certain pride associated with tying these knots in the first place, and a special aesthetic pleasure that comes with their successful untying—a feeling of expansion, admiration of the poem’s perfect structure once it is allowed to unfold in all its complexity in one’s mind, and satisfaction at having withstood a particularly difficult cultural challenge. This notion of virtuosity is also related to kāvya’s performative ethos, according to which poets compose intricate verse extemporaneously and listeners fathom them at once. Ślesa presents an extreme case of this sort of virtuosity. First, consider the complexity and sophistication necessitated by the concurrent telling of two narratives or the description of two entities. A poetic telling of just one epic requires great skill, cultivation, and practice. But to do so while both narrating the other epic and illuminating meaningful ties between the two narratives is surely more challenging. Second, the composition and comprehension of ślesa, as we have seen, require a special degree of erudition. Here I refer not only to the mastery of the thesauri and special lexicons but also to a perfect command of a vast textual realm. Think, for example, of Subandhu’s Vāsavadattā, where to get the punch of the ślesa one has to be familiar with Pānini’s aphorism pertaining to the word “red,” Vātsyāyana’s disclaimer in the introduction to his Kāmasūtra, a Mahābhārata battle scene where headless torsos dance, and a variety of stories from Gunādhya’s Brhatkathā, to mention but a few intertexts.13 Finally, the ability to compose ślesa impromptu, or to succeed in cracking the code when hearing it, was surely thought of as the highest sign of virtuosity. Indeed, we have noted the great pride poets took in composing ślesa and the tendency of some poets to expand its scope and turn to more complex compositional devices, including multitextuality, bidirectionality, and simultaneous bilingualism. But in addition to the sense of achievement that authors and readers of such works express, the tradition also

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voices a concern that the feat of ślesa might be just slightly over the top. Poets often promise that their ślesas are not impenetrable. This trend begins as early as Bāna, who probably wished to distance himself from Subandhu’s prose when he said, in the introduction to his Harsacarita, that ślesas should be employed provided that they are not overly difficult (aklista).14 Some four centuries later the poet Sandhyākaranandin echoed this when announcing, in the preface to his Rāmacaritam, that he sets out to narrate the life of his king with that of Rāma by means of ślesa verses that would not give readers too much trouble (ślokair akleśanaślesaih).15 The theorist Rudrata even inserted into his definition of sound-based ślesa the stipulation that it not be too hard (aklista), and commentators such as Ra]ganātha take it on themselves to explain passages in Subandhu’s Vāsavadattā that they see as “doubtful, overly punned, difficult, or without any linguistic basis” (samdigdham atiślistam klistam cāmūla-bhāsitam).16 There is a dissonance between the expressed uneasiness about the overly difficult nature of ślesa and the great value attached to this very aspect of the device. This dissonance is indicative of a deep and long-standing ambivalence within the tradition regarding the poetic value of difficult and highly intellectual literature. We see this ambivalence manifested in a series of theoretical disagreements, going back at least to Bhāmaha and Dandin. Take, for instance, the prahelikā, the versified riddles of a type found in every language and that typically involve puns and wordplays (e.g., “what is black and white and red all over?”). Bhāmaha flatly rejects the aesthetic quality of such verses and excludes them from his book. Dandin, however, is far more lenient. He acknowledges the value of the prahelikā as a pleasurable activity in gatherings of poets and scholars, sees them as legitimate poetic ornaments (alamkāras), and discusses them at considerable length.17 The same tension is still manifest in Sanskrit poetics 1,000 years later, when Appayya Dīksita and Jagannātha Panditarāja debate what makes the best type of poetry so great. As Gary Tubb and I have shown elsewhere, Appayya believes that poetry is at its best when the poet—through a sophisticated choice of words, ostensibly enabling multiple and even contradictory interpretations—leads canny readers through a complex deductive process by which they discover a carefully hidden and unequivocal message. Jagannātha, on the other hand, opines that the best type of poetry is when an emotional flavor (rasa) is evoked and immediately grasped by a sensitive reader, even in the absence of such craftiness.18 The same

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Jagannātha also opines that of the three classical causal conditions of kāvya, “practice” (abhyāsa) is nonessential, perhaps echoing the ethos of simplicity and spontaneity of some vernacular poets.19 One should be careful not to exaggerate this polarity. Jagannātha, for all his criticism of Appayya, does not shy away from extremely complex and erudite verses, and the vernacular literatures, despite their claim of natural flowing verse, rival those of Sanskrit in sophistication. Indeed, ślesa itself becomes a dominant literary mode, at least in Tamil and Telugu, from the late sixteenth century onward, and there is evidence that poets in these languages often demonstrated their virtuosity precisely by composing ślesa extempore.20 Nonetheless, the ambivalence about this type of artistry is real, both in Sanskrit and in other literatures of premodern India. The argument I wish to make here, then, is that according to the testimony of its writers, readers, and critics, ślesa is an extreme manifestation of one strand of literary and cultural virtuosity, and that both admiration and doubts about its being too difficult result from this extremity. Ślesa, it would seem, was created and consumed partly for the joy of sheer artistry. Most modern appraisals stop here and deliver a harsh condemnation of ślesa as “mere verbal jugglery.” But whatever value one attaches to this kind of juggling—and I will not deny my own acquired taste for untying bitextual knots and other complex riddles—the pleasure that comes with the appreciation of this strand of virtuosity does not, by any means, exhaust the aesthetics of ślesa. On the contrary, it is merely the starting point for a subtler analysis of its uses. We can and should analyze other goals of this literary device and characterize “complexity” or “depth” as applying also to the intersubjective tensions of kāvya’s literary characters, the unique intra- and intertextual relationships that this literature evokes, and the structure of its figurative expressivity, all of which have been at the center of the ślesa movement.

8.4 les. a and the registers of the self Earlier I argued that the rebecoming and reassertion of literary subjects is a major goal of kāvya, and that many of Sanskrit’s narrative poems and plays are concerned with the process through which subjects reemerge as integrated characters when they were previously not fully themselves in the sense that they had failed to realize their full capacities, had only par-

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tial access to their memories, and were prevented from experiencing the entire range of their emotions. I also argued, taking inspiration from the work of David Shulman,21 that this process of selfing normally goes through several regular stages and is recognized by a set of diagnostic features. Selfing typically begins with subjects who are “frozen” or out of sync with the standards against which they are usually compared and unfolds when they unite with the missing portions of their selves, often at a special temporal juncture that Shulman has dubbed “time out of time.” Almost invariably this rebecoming necessitates a disguise or even a double disguise because it is through disguises that fractured aspects or levels of the subject are superimposed on one another and thrust onto the surface. Moreover, this intrasubjective union of a person with the hitherto-unavailable portions of his or her self is regularly manifested intersubjectively, first in the private domain and then publicly, if not universally. A major argument of this book has been that ślesa, a heightened mode of language in disguise and a literary device whose very name means “embrace,” uniquely empowers a subject’s embrace with his or her self through disguise. This is because the poet can use the device’s different registers to portray simultaneously a disguise and a hidden or heretofore-inaccessible part of a subject—which are really two aspects of the same identity—and to exploit the gap between these two concurrent linguistic/subjective levels to depict the character’s development from his or her interior to the surface, or from a severed state of being to the point where he or she can experience a coalescence of the different self-registers. Moreover, depending on the level of transparency, ślesa allows the poet to move at any pace and in any manner from this intrasubjective process of selfing to the inevitable moment of intersubjective realization and fruition. This is partly because the ślesa may be transparent only to some, allowing for situations where different listeners are initially privy to different verbal levels and hence different aspects of a character’s self. All these potentials of ślesa are displayed masterfully in Nītivarman’s Kcakavadha, a once well-known narrative poem that this book has sought to resurrect. In its middle and central chapter Nītivarman’s poem significantly switches to ślesa from yamaka, the rhyming device that governs its opening two chapters, in order to allow for Draupadī’s gradual and fiery eruption. For this purpose, Nītivarman uses the overt register of Draupadī’s doubled speech, a verbal extension of her physical disguise that is addressed to King Virāta, to express her complaint as a wronged

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servant seeking justice. He uses the deeper register of the ślesa, which only her disguised husbands can understand, to allow Draupadī to reexperience and voice pain and rage, reignited by her current humiliation but stemming from a previous trauma that has so far remained repressed. The almost unbearable gap between the two registers, each with its own set of addressees, drives the plot by forcing her husbands to act and thus signals the beginning of the self-revealing of both her and her husbands. This occurs through second-order disguises, when Bhīma and Arjuna, dressed up as women and acting on Draupadī’s behest, embrace their true selves in front of a growing audience. These self-revelations also involve further ślesas (as in Bhīma’s response to Draupadī and, later, in the depiction of Arjuna by his Kaurava enemies, which, although in ślesa, is phrased in less and less ambiguous terms) until selfing is completed and celebrated in the grand arena of the battleground. For Nītivarman, then, ślesa enables and frames the process of selfing. This process starts, as Shulman anticipates, in the most embedded part of the plot22—the intimate debate among the Pāndavas, resembling the play-within-a-play of Sanskrit drama—and culminates in a victory that is predicted to resound even beyond the work’s outermost frame in the larger textual arena of the Mahābhārata, of which the events at Virāta’s court are but an episode. As we have seen, other poets and playwrights used ślesa to portray selfing, though in different intra- and intersubjective contexts, and to reveal notions of selfhood that are altogether different. Diverging in many respects from Nītivarman, poems such as Māgha’s Śiśupālavadha and plays such as Harsa’s Ratnāval and Priyadarśikā and Bhavabhūti’s Mālatmādhava all have their main characters go through one cycle of self-embracing and revelation. Indeed, all these works use ślesa dialogues not only to indicate, frame, and depict this process but also as major plot events in and of themselves. These ślesa events are typically found at the centermost plot juncture, where they are discussed and analyzed by the characters themselves. Think, for example, of Māgha’s poem. As McCrea’s analysis leads us to see,23 Māgha depicts the epiphany of a calm, cool, and unchanging Krsna, a divinity immediately distinct from Śiva, the hunter and wrestler in Bhāravi’s Kirātārjunya, or Nītivarman’s Draupadī, who resembles a fiery village goddess. More directly, Māgha’s Krsna is contrasted with his nemesis Śiśupāla, a character equally steady in his rash hotheadedness. It is this aspect of Śiśupāla, who cannot help but reveal his hostility to Krsna, that is powerfully manifested through a double dis-

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guise: an emissary whose message is ostensibly conciliatory. Once uttered, the messenger’s doubled speech with its two opposite registers of praise and reproach is discussed and analyzed by both speaker and addressees, wherein Krsna’s aides interpret his ślesa as the ultimate revelation of Śiśupāla’s inimical identity. Perhaps the best-known instance of using ślesa both to disguise and to reveal a character’s identity is found at the heart of Śrīharsa’s Naisadhacarita, in which Sarasvatī herself, Poetry embodied, resorts to bitextuality in order to intensify and also offer a solution to the visual enigma with which Damayantī is presented when five Nalas appear at her groomchoice ceremony. It would seem that Damayantī is presented here with a purely epistemological/hermeneutic challenge: spotting the real Nala. But her visual and verbal puzzlements have direct ontological implications for Nala and his four impostors because their own realization of themselves as distinct individuals is called into question by Sarasvatī’s ślesa and depends on Damayantī’s decipherment. I have thus interpreted the “Five Nalas” episode of Śrīharsa’s work, along with its analysis by the characters themselves, as a metapoetic statement about the process of reading and the role played by an ideal reader like Damayantī in allowing literary characters to assume their true actual or potential selves. This interpretation suggests that Śrīharsa used ślesa for portraying a type of selfing that is quite different from what we see in Nītivarman’s Kcakavadha. But this only exemplifies the versatility and sophistication with which Sanskrit poets exploited and expanded the possibilities of ślesa to allow their characters to unfold. By versatility and sophistication I refer, in part, to the growing complexities of the linguistic techniques, as exemplified by the masterful manner in which Śrīharsa concludes his “Five Nalas” section with a verse that simultaneously depicts all five finalists in Damayantī’s groom-choice ceremony. More generally, however, I refer to the manifold narrative situations in which ślesa could be employed to depict different characters with different problems of identity (and, in the case of divinities, with different underlying theologies) and distinct types of disguises. Selfing was an important concern for Sanskrit writers, even if they approached it from diverse psychological and metaphysical perspectives, and the highly versatile literary device of ślesa allowed different poets to investigate this concern further. It is not by coincidence that two of the six canonical mahākāvyas contain such ślesa episodes at their center.24

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8.5 les. a and the refinement of the epic The epics form the narrative backbone of South Asian literature. A major literary project of kāvya is to revisit and retell the epic narratives in a manner that befits not only a poet’s particular sociopolitical context but also the overall ethical and aesthetic high ground that Sanskrit literary culture claims for itself. Indeed, it is crucial to understand that this process begins already in the epics themselves, and in particular within the immense narrative pools of the Rāmāyana and the Mahābhārata, which have evolved and expanded with every telling. One important engine of growth in this massive corpus has always been the felt need to reexamine troubling parts of the stories. Thus new retellings contextualize inexplicable or knotty events by means of curses, boons, and other framing devices or cosmic blueprints. Some episodes are sublimated through the introduction of parallels, where the ethical dilemmas are resolved in ways that seem preferable. Sheldon Pollock’s analysis of the parallel explanations of Rāma’s exile in the Rāmāyana is an excellent example of such ongoing generative repetition, which A. K. Ramanujan, in discussing the Mahābhārata, has compared with the growth of crystals.25 Other examples lie in the Mahābhārata’s Virātaparvan and the Rāmāyana’s Sundarakānda (Beautiful Book), two books that are located at a central plot junction of their respective epics and provide a sublimated version of their narratives as a whole. It is also crucial to understand that the Mahābhārata and the Rāmāyana evolved in tandem, and that the overall narrative framework and countless episodes of one epic closely mirror those of the other. More specifically, Sheldon Pollock has convincingly argued that the Rāmāyana consciously attempts to rework and thereby resolve many of the Mahābhārata’s moral dilemmas. Pollock thus claims that Vālmīki’s banishment of violence from the familial/political realm to a demonic/exotic sphere heralds kāvya’s refined socioaesthetics, thereby confirming the traditional view of Vālmīki’s work as the “first poem” (ādikāvya).26 Moreover, the two epics continued to grow and develop in relation to each other in diverse and complex ways. Vyāsa’s Mahābhārata, for example, often mentions relevant events from its sister epic, whose story it also sums up during one significant plot juncture. The Mahābhārata also allows “guest appearances” by the Rāmāyana’s cast of characters. Vālmīki’s Rāmāyana, by contrast, tends to be audibly silent about the large number of Mahābhārata episodes it reworks. These are the different intertextual strategies of two

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texts that are constantly aware of each other and of their radically different aesthetics, what David Shulman has called the Mahābhārata’s “poetics of dilemma” and the Rāmāyana’s “poetics of perfection.”27 Later tradition was equally aware of these complementary poetic visions and viewed the two works as a set. Sanskrit poets played an important role in this later tradition. Th ey turned to both epics for narrative materials and, in doing so, continued the process of refinement and sublimation and expanded the repertoire of intra- and intertextual strategies that were used to reflect on the epics. Two methods that thinkers within the tradition have noted are worth mentioning here: the editing out of problematic Rāmāyana episodes in later kāvya retellings of the Rāma story, a procedure that Bhoja discusses with approval, and the sublimation of the Mahābhārata’s overall story line through some of its more heroic and less dilemma-filled episodes, as Kuntaka prescribes concerning Bhāravi’s Kirātārjunya.28 Such methods indicate the high degree of self-consciousness and attention to complexity experienced by the poets in reworking the epics. First, the Sanskrit literati were keenly aware of the fact that any epic-themed poem is, by definition, a retelling that makes sense only in relation to the epic intertext. Second, poets were keenly mindful of the crystal-like structure of the epics, with their numerous internal mirrors and parallels, and they exploited intratextual relations in selecting as subject matter episodes that mirrored the overall narrative. Finally, in setting out to refine the Sanskrit epics, poets placed themselves within a lineage that started with Vālmīki himself, and they were thus conscious participants in a conversation that had already begun between the epics themselves. A central argument of this book has been that ślesa’s popularity stemmed, to a large extent, from its unique potential to empower kāvya’s intra- and intertextual strategies of refining the epics. Consider, for instance, the spectacular manner in which Nītivarman harnesses ślesa to sublimate major events of the Mahābhārata through his telling of just one condensed episode, the Virātaparvan. In par ticular, Nītivarman uses Draupadī’s bitter complaint about her humiliation at the hands of Kīcaka to conarrate, or “embrace” into the text, her earlier assault by the Kauravas, and the description of Arjuna’s reclaiming of Virāta’s livestock from the Kauravas to foreshadow his redemptive battle with those very enemies, who also deprived him of his kingdom. Even more breathtaking, and certainly more popular, is the harnessing of ślesa to demonstrate and perfect interepic refinement in works such as Kavirāja’s Rāghavapāndavya.

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The bitextual poet, as Kavirāja himself eloquently put it, is the pearl diver and the master jeweler combined. He delves into the deep narrative seas of the epics, avoids turbulent waters and less-than-perfect sediments, and selects only matching pearls. Then he strings these together on a single necklace in a manner that allows each narrative gem to illuminate the other.29 It is important to spell out exactly how ślesa empowers kāvya’s refinement of the epic. First, note that bitextuality can achieve more than allusion. Bhāravi’s Kirātārjunya, as Kuntaka convincingly argues, uses one Mahābhārata episode as an idealized metonym for its far more problematic epic, primarily through alluding to other epic events. Most notably, Arjuna’s winning of Śiva’s weapon in this work hints at and thus foreshadows his later victory over his enemies. But Nītivarman’s bitextual telling of the Virāta episode allows him to achieve far more. Draupadī’s speech in Virāta’s presence is a flashback that narrates vivid and specific incidents from her past, and the depiction of Arjuna setting out to do battle is, concurrently, a detailed “flash-forward” that assimilates the future victory into the depiction of the poetic present. The strange cognitive experience of shifting from one set of signifiers to another, in a manner reminiscent of the visual transformations one experiences while viewing the prints of M. C. Escher or the bull-elephant sculpted motif (figure 4.4), certainly contributes to the sense of extreme textual interrelatedness. This is obviously true also of the Rāmāyana-Mahābhārata poems, where every verse belongs at once to both epic plots. Second, and perhaps more important, ślesa uniquely enables a metapoetic reflection on the relationship between texts. If every epic episode is a conscious reaction to at least one other episode, either in the same epic or in a sister epic, and if later kāvyas, such as Bhāravi’s Kirātārjunya or Māgha’s Śiśupālavadha, are retellings that are acutely aware of the interrelatedness of their significant intertexts, then ślesa empowers poets to go one step further and actually reflect on this thick intertextual web. In other words, the thriving bitextual and multitextual genre that began with Dandin at the onset of the eighth century and continued with full force for over a millennium in Sanskrit and then in Telugu amounts to a series of poetic essays on the complex and nuanced relationship between poems. Indeed, poets used ślesa to illuminate different kinds of textual relations, just as they used it to portray different notions of selfhood. Nītivarman demonstrated how episodes of the Virātaparvan are really other epic epi-

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sodes in disguise, while Dhanañjaya seems to have believed that episodes such as mountain lifting in the various Jain epics are actually identical in the sense that they happen at the same time and the same place, even if in different stories. Thus he concludes that multiform matter or subject matter (vastu) is really uniform.30 Kavirāja, by contrast, strongly believed that although the Mahābhārata and the Rāmāyana are essentially similar, they are not without their important differences at the macro and micro levels. He thus used his ślesa to amplify what he saw as a thick web of resonances and reverberations between the two epics, as we have seen, for example, in his masterful portrayal of Hanumān in the Mahābhārata’s Virāta episode as echoing the monkey’s own earlier bellow in the Rāmāyana’s Sundarakānda.31 Poets also used ślesa to express opposing views on the ethical lessons that epic interrelatedness has to offer. For Dhanañjaya, it is clear that the orthodox Rāmāyana and Mahābhārata offer a study in moral contrasts, when, for instance, Yudhisthira is said to have tainted his lineage by the actions that led to his exile, whereas Rāma is said to have ornamented his.32 For Kavirāja, on the other hand, the two entail a more nuanced relationship: while the Rāmāyana is seen as a ruby set in the Mahābhārata’s gold, or, to use his preferred metaphor, the celestial river Ganges running into the Mahābhārata’s ocean, ultimately each text highlights and thereby perfects the social aesthetics of the other.33 This book does not provide an exhaustive inventory of textual interrelations as expressed in the many later works belonging to this genre in Sanskrit and in Telugu. But one lesson the preceding chapters offer is that the conscious reflection on the relationship between texts, and in particular the tradition’s foundational epics, forms a major part of kāvya’s aesthetic project. This unique self-reflexivity, in itself a manifestation or function of intertextuality, finds an extreme expression through ślesa. Authors such as Dhanañjaya, Kavirāja, and their followers quite explicitly pointed out that their root texts cannot convey meaning outside their relationships to their significant intertexts. As demonstrated quite strikingly by one of Dhanañjaya’s introductory verses, a sentence speaking of just one epic is grammatically incomplete so long as the other epic is not apprehended through ślesa. And as Kavirāja’s river-ocean metaphor implies, the waters of both epics always flow only in relation to each other, and hence plunging into the one also means bathing in the other. The role of the ślesa poet, like that of Bhagīratha, is to facilitate and uniquely illuminate what is always already an inseparable fusion.34

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8.6 playing with the convention: les. a and deep intertextuality Another way in which Sanskrit literary culture could be characterized as uniquely intertextual concerns the special relationship between its repertoire of figures of speech and the conventions these tend to invoke. Scholars have noted that alamkāras have a propensity to proliferate ad infinitum. Others have observed that the basic set of kāvya’s poetic conventions (kavisamaya) is actually relatively small.35 But hardly any attention has been paid to the relations between the unusually rich modalities of kāvya’s expressivity and its rather fixed reservoir of aesthetic conventions, relations that constitute a “deep” intertextuality. Depth, in this context, refers to two aspects of the process through which figurative utterances become meaningful and potent. First, even a simple ornamental utterance such as “the face outshines the moon” presupposes a precedent, a prior text where the face is said to be “like the moon.” This text is typically not an identifiable source because no one work can claim to have inaugurated this omnipresent convention. But no new formulation of the face-lotus equation can be meaningful in its absence. This, after all, is what makes translating to a language that does not share the same prior texts as the original so difficult, as A. L. Becker has masterfully demonstrated.36 Here, then, is one aspect of depth: every new figurative utterance in kāvya necessitates an intertext that is deep beyond recognition. A second aspect of depth has to do with layering. As I argued in the previous chapter, Dandin’s discussion allows us to see kāvya’s figurative utterances as consisting of overlaid strata in which every utterance typically presupposes not just one but a series of statements, each serving as the prior text for the other. Indeed, I posited that Dandin’s goal in dividing and grouping varieties of ornaments was to chart typical movements from one layer to another in a dense textual geology. Dandin was certainly not alone. Several later thinkers were, in fact, far more explicit in positing a system of alamkāras as marked by growing complexity, wherein ornaments of higher order are necessarily informed by simpler formulations. Perhaps the author most invested in systematically charting the web of alamkāra interrelatedness was Ruyyaka (c. 1150), the last great Kashmiri poetician.37 More specifically, a considerable number of thinkers were quite outspoken about an important notion already implied by Dandin, namely, that located at the deepest layer of the structure on which all (or, at least, most)

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alamkāras hinge are the basic utterances of similitude, as in “your face is like the moon.” I have argued that according to Dandin, a poet’s first impulse, once he or she has identified a worthy subject matter, is to emphasize its worthiness by tying it to another entity, and that the quintessential device for performing this task is the simile. By the time of the sixteenthcentury intellectual Appayya Dīksita, however, there was nothing implicit about this notion: There is only one actress in the theater of poetry, pirouetting and assuming the entire spectrum of roles and parts. Her name is Simile, and she captivates the hearts of those who know her secret.38

Note that this verse confirms the notion of depth just postulated. Appayya Dīksita portrays the appeal of kāvya literature as stemming from a stark imbalance between an open-ended plurality on the surface, where we find the “entire spectrum of roles and parts,” and a singularity in its depths, where Simile alone is active. He also asserts that every literary act masks another, and the following discussion, where he illustrates how a statement such as “your face is like the moon” stands at the base of a vast plethora of different and more complicated figurative utterances, suggests that masking is often layered, with disguises on disguises.39 Moreover, this verse implies a profound observation: just to enjoy the pirouetting of the various characters in the literary drama is meaningless unless one realizes their interrelatedness. The spectacle in kāvya’s playhouse constantly coils back on itself and is, in that sense, also about itself and its depths, which is why, for Appayya, the ideal reader, whom Simile truly captivates, is a connoisseur of her secrets and guises (tadvid ).40 Another dimension of kāvya’s intertextual depth, then, is its intensely metapoetic quality: an inherents elf-reflexivity that is key to its aesthetic charm. Indira Peterson has invoked some of these themes in an important essay titled “Playing with Universes.” According to Peterson, a central feature of kāvya’s descriptive language is the constant tendency to connect an object from the poem’s “objective universe” (such as a woman’s face) with one belonging to a “figurative universe” (e.g., the moon). She too points out that the simile is the basic device for “paring down of the objective and figurative components,” a process that has a tendency to increase figurative complexity and scope. Peterson emphasizes the playfulness

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inherent in this union, to the point where the boundaries between the objective and the figurative can be intentionally blurred. Thus she cites Kālidāsa’s famous depiction of women sporting in a river, in which the poet remarks that all the objects serving as standards of comparison (upamānas) for beautiful women—whirlpools (for their navel), waves (for eyebrows), and ruddy geese (for breasts)—are “close by these graceful women as they bathe.”41 This verse is an example of kāvya’s self-reflexivity, the metapoetic trajectory that, I argue, is built into its figurative playfulness. It is important to realize, however, that such self-reflexivity does not always result in affirming the union between the “objective” and the “figurative.” Counter to Peterson’s belief that kāvya is informed by a metaphysics of nonduality and is thus constantly driven to validate unity between different universes, poets demonstrate interest in pairing only those items that they see as aesthetically promising, regardless of the putative unity between all entities and universes.42 Moreover, while playing with universes, poets often question or even sever their ties. The same Kālidāsa who knowingly blurred the distinction between his female subjects and their typical standards of comparison also doubted the validity of these very standards. Consider, for example, a famous verse from his Meghadūta, where the exiled hero runs through kāvya’s list of usual suspects—the moon, the eyes of does, vines, peacock feathers, and wavelets—in search of hints of his faraway beloved, only to conclude that none really resembles her.43 What we have here, then, is a different strand of kāvya’s playful, metapoetic tendency in which the value of the convention linking the two entities is challenged and even denied. This strand has been recognized by Sanskrit literary theorists, who identify a whole kit of figurative devices suited for it: from vyatireka, where the subject of comparison is said to excel its standard, to visama, where the two are said to be worlds apart, and to ananvaya, where the very notion that an object can have a parallel at all is effectively denied. I do not wish to overestimate the distinction between the embracing and the severing of universes, for the two are part and parcel of kāvya’s self-reflexive tendency and are often seen to operate in tandem. The various masks of the simile, to use Appayya’s image, have the ability both to invigorate the conventional notion of similitude and to call the bluff on it. One way of describing this playful poetic process is through what the Russian formalists have called “estrangement,” although what is being defamiliarized in kāvya is not just a habitualized reality, as Victor Shklovsky em-

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phasized in his reading of Tolstoy, but the basic set of poetic conventions used to describe them.44 Sanskrit figurative language, then, offers a second-order mode of estrangement by being self-estranging. This process, moreover, tends to unfold to the nth degree, particularly when theorists capture and define such movements as figures in their own right— guises or masks in Simile’s wardrobe that have a name and a definition and become, in turn, objects for further reflection. My analysis of Sanskrit theorists and poets alike suggests that this fundamental capacity of kāvya, too, is uniquely empowered by ślesa. I have argued that Dandin’s introduction of ślesa varieties to every major ornament, together with his overall assertion that “ślesa greatly augments all instances of vakrokti,” indicates that ślesa, for him, runs parallel to and energizes the entire figurative spectrum: from the simile itself to far more sophisticated utterances such as saślesavyatireka, where the playful defamiliarization of the simile is in itself punned and made strange.45 Ślesa, in my reading of Dandin, is perhaps the crucial factor explaining the success of kāvya’s carnivalesque theater because it brings the constant exploration of new masks to new heights. Dandin’s theoretical construct was, I believe, strongly informed by the literary experiment of Subandhu. As I have argued in chapter 2, Subandhu created an autonomous linguistic world in which the conventions of earlier poets were constantly revisited and reexamined. This was done in a manner that at times strengthened the earlier conventions but often had the result of ridiculing them by applying a whole set of highly appropriate standards to the “wrong” subject and a wide variety of other surprises and reversals.46 A rather different use of ślesa is found in Bāna’s depiction of Harsa as both sage and king. As we have seen, his ślesa-based depiction of Harsa’s vow as combining a universal military conquest with the highest feat of renouncing sex allows him to portray his patron as a sage-king “rightly so called” (avisamvādinam). Bāna’s ślesa, at least in this case, made the conventional title rājarsi appear strange by strikingly reinvigorating what he saw as an overused cliché.47 With its special capacities of embracing and severing concurrent sets of signifiers and their signified objects, ślesa, then, is at the heart of kāvya’s deeply intertextual and highly metapoetic project, what Peterson has called “playing with universes.” Ślesa, as the ultimate mode of linguistic disguise, always allows kāvya one more level of recursivity and playfulness, often to the point where ślesa itself becomes the subject of punning, as we have seen in the works of Subandhu, Dhanañjaya, and others.48 The

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result of this never-ending playfulness may be humorous, dizzying, affirmative of kāvya’s aesthetic values, derisive of them, or all of these.

8.7 les. a and kvya’s subversive edge One typically thinks of kāvya as founded on and conducive to the values of the society that created and consumed it. This notion stems partly from Sanskrit poetics, whose aesthetics is rooted in an elitist social ideology, and partly from kāvya’s origin in and continued association with royal courts.49 Indeed, the literary goals discussed in the preceding sections— the demonstration of cultural virtuosity, the refinement of the epics, or the successful epiphany of heroes and divinities—confirm the notion that kāvya played a constructive and normative role in elite and courtly circles. However, like other literary cultures, kāvya too had a potential not only to cement values and valorize kings but also to question the former and pose a threat to the latter. Indeed, Sanskrit poeticians comment on the dangers of poetry in sections dedicated to the proscription of dosas—those poetic passages that are considered faulty precisely because they subvert kāvya’s social and aesthetic values. The praxis of Sanskrit poets is not devoid of its own subversive edge. Think, for example, of the relationships between patron-kings and their poets, which stand at the heart of kāvya’s courtly culture. Such relations are ideally described as reciprocal and harmonious, but there are just as many references to them as mutually perilous. Consider, for instance, Bhamaha’s wry warning to future poets that “there is nothing wrong with not being a poet / there are no health hazards / no risks of incarceration,” and Bilhana’s advice to monarchs always to keep their bards happy, “since both the infamy of Rāvana, king of La]kā / and King Rāma’s lingering good name / are all the making / of the First Poet [Vālmīki].”50 In fact, traditional narratives about kāvya, whether written or oral, typically portray the alliance between poets and power as tense and tenuous.51 There is, of course, a long history of canonization and selectivity. These processes carry over to the present and are responsible for the marginalization and even the elimination of some of kāvya’s more subversive materials. Still, poetic praxis provides proof of its abundant existence. For one thing, many mainstream works allow characters such as the buffoon (vidūsaka) in Sanskrit drama or the antagonist in narrative poems to say things that parody and challenge the worldview of the main character (nāyaka).52 Then there is the popular but largely understudied genre of

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farce ( prahasana), which typically provides a powerful satire on key politi cal and religious institutions. 53 Or think of Ve]katādhvarin’s Viśvagunādarśacampū (The Mirror of All Qualities), composed during the seventeenth century in South India. This Sanskrit work consists of a conversation between two characters on a flying tour of the Tamil country: Krśānu, who finds fault in everyone (including poets, who, he says, prostitute their language by using it to praise petty kings), and Viśvāvasu, who always finds something in favor of those denounced by Krśānu (including poets).54 Although Viśvāvasu ends up being the more authoritative of the two, kāvya, like the Viśvagunādarśacampū, seems never entirely devoid of Krśānu‘s voice. It is easy to see why a device like ślesa can uniquely empower this voice of dissent. Puns are often seen as dangerous because of their capacity to undermine social and political stability and transgress the boundaries of moral propriety.55 But the sophisticated linguistic tool of ślesa goes well beyond the isolated pun in enabling authors to provide a whole counternarrative or reveal in great detail a character’s hidden side. Thus in addition to ślesas that refine the epics and allow characters to reemerge as their perfect selves, this book has also documented a line of darker, more disruptive ślesas. These ślesas, too, hark back to Subandhu’s laboratory. Subandhu often uses his ślesas to undermine the official records of epic heroes such as Rāma and Bharata, or of Indra, king of the gods, by juxtaposing their records with their more embarrassing deeds. As I have argued, the iconoclastic register of these ślesas is never fully explained away in the Vāsavadattā. After all, it is the shameful things that these heroes and gods have done (Rāma’s desertion of Sītā, Bharata’s alleged role in the plot against Rāma, and Indra’s drinking problems, illicit relationships, and total financial disarray, all of which are narrated through a parallel ślesa text) that validate their unfavorable comparison with Subandhu’s characters.56 Later writers certainly took notice of this capacity of Subandhu’s ślesas. As we have seen, some of his iconoclastic passages appear almost verbatim in Bāna’s Harsacarita, where the patron and subject matter of his political biography is also contrasted with a host of epic protagonists who are far from perfect. But unlike in the Vāsavadattā, such ślesas no longer appear in the narrator’s voice. Rather, they are put in the mouth of the author’s juvenile friend, addressing Bāna and met with his laughter. Ambivalence about the radical capacities of ślesa is also found in Māgha’s Śiśupālavadha. The ślesa section at the heart of this work juxtaposes

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Krsna’s claim to fame with an uncensored version of his life that includes a wide range of illicit activities. Māgha seems eager to explore the capacity of ślesa to contain a hidden sting, and in doing so he goes beyond even what we find in Subandhu. But he too relegates this speech to someone else. In this case the speaker is not a friend but a foe, Krsna’s nemesis Śiśupāla (speaking through his messenger), who pays with his life for this malicious speech.57 The more subversive the ślesa, the more mainstream authors try to distance themselves from it even as they include it in their poems. Authors feel on safer ground when they are using their ślesas to target a rival religion or sect. We have seen, for instance, Subandhu’s repeated digs at Buddhist tenets and Jain monks, even though he did not shy away from using his ślesa to poke fun at more orthodox figures, from yogis to logicians. It is interesting in this context to examine the impact of religious identity on the moral contrast Dhanañjaya draws between the heroes of the two epics he narrates. Whereas Rāma is one of Jainism’s sixty-three Eminent Persons (śalākāpurusas) and the main hero of the Jain tradition of the Rāmāyana, Yudhisthira does not belong in the Jain pantheon and is more associated with the Brahmin version of the Mahābhārata. Be that as it may, the bitextual genre was an available means for unflattering depictions of historical figures such as enemies of the poet or his patron, as is most evident in ślesa’s adoption into the fold of Telugu’s genre of tittukāvya (disparaging poetry). Recall, for example, Pindiprōlu’s La]kāvijayam, where the poet consciously sets out to simultaneously depict—and thereby compare—the deeds of his nemesis with those of the epic villain Rāvana.58 It may be useful to think of such usages of ślesa within the context of kāvya’s self-reflexive playfulness discussed earlier. I have argued that in playing with the subject and standard of their comparisons, poets very often pit the one against the other or disassociate them altogether. There is nothing inherently subversive in this practice, and the examples in the poeticians’ textbooks are typically normative and benign. The beauty of the beloved’s flawless face is enhanced when it is contrasted with the moon with the blemish of its dark spot, just as a patron-king is ever more praiseworthy when he is said to excel the bounteous ocean. But if Subandhu’s Vāsavadattā has taught us anything, it is that once poets begin to play with their conventions, there is no telling how this game may end. The possibilities seem endless, and ślesa has the capacity to facilitate them all. A poet may turn the subject’s advantage over the standard to a power-

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ful critique of the latter, as we have seen in the cases of gods or mythic heroes. Equally dangerous is to invert this asymmetry by stating that the subject fails to meet the standard, especially when the subject is one’s patron-king. Think, in this connection, of Draupadī’s scathing reproach of her brothers’ nonkingly behaviors in Nītivarman’s poem. Finally, an author may use ślesa to undo the conventional equation altogether and instead match unlikely and even purposefully shocking “bedmates,” as we have seen Subandhu do. Another potentially more subversive aspect of ślesa has to do with the paradox discussed in chapter 6. The ability to create bitextual poetry gave authors immense control over poetic “traffic,” allowing them to take their readers on two (or more) literary journeys simultaneously. But to ensure that readers rode along, the author’s ślesa technology had to be imparted to them. Once so empowered, readers were in a position to discover almost any kind of hidden narrative in any work whatsoever, if they so desired. The real danger, though, lay not in the ability of readers to revise the canonical texts. After all, extreme cases such as Narahari’s reading of the Meghadūta and Ravicandra’s revision of the Amaruśataka must have been few and have had little overall impact. The truly disruptive outcome of ślesa was that it modified the relationship between authors and readers and threatened to blur authorial responsibility altogether. This, at least, is what deeply worried Mammata when he proscribed what appears to have been a rich and lively genre of ślesa poems that depict both military and sexual conquests, the latter being described quite graphically. My interpretation of Mammata suggests that he was worried that writers could always wash their hands of the pornographic register as the invention of readers, while readers could pretend that they were only seeking the decent, apparent register. We can rephrase this concern using the notion of masking that has occupied much of this chapter: ślesa enriched kāvya’s costume party to the point that for some it became dangerously difficult to tell who was who and to keep out unwelcome guests.

8.8 extreme poetry and middle- ground theory: the challenges posed by les. a Can an understanding of ślesa contribute to a general discussion of language and literature? Or is ślesa too much of a special case, a monstrous aberration particular to Sanskrit with little bearing beyond its immediate context? A basic argument of this book has been that although literary

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cultures are obviously different, their differences cannot be simplistically seen as determined by the “natural” characteristics of this or that language. One lesson offered by the amazing story of ślesa experiments for over a millennium is that agents chose how to use, modify, and overcome their media, depending on the aesthetic standards they hoped to set and their historical and cultural contexts. Current literary theory should thus take notice of ślesa because there are many aspects of the ślesa movement that make it particularly promising for a general theoretical discussion. These include its sheer longevity, the self-conception among its practitioners that they were part of a poetic avant-garde, and the sophisticated emic theory that accompanied it from the outset. Although literary theorists may gain a great deal from examining the genius of even a single maverick, regardless of the recognition he or she has won, there is surely an added value to the lessons offered by such a continuous, conscious, and thoroughly thought-through attempt to push literature to its limits. If the bulk of this book has been taken up by the attempt to recover the history of ślesa and understand it in its context, the final pages are dedicated to considering the theoretical implications and challenges that it poses to ongoing discussions of language and literature. One theoretical notion often referred to in this book is intertextuality. I invoke this concept despite the fact that the discourse on textual interrelatedness in the West tends to offer rather minimal tools for dealing with the literature I have been describing, and in the hope that the theory may actually expand to contain and explain it. As I see it, the problem is one of finding some kind of middle ground between two theoretical extremes. On the one hand, as Jonathan Culler has noted, ever since Julia Kristeva’s powerful and provocative formulation that “each word (text) is an intersection of word (text) where at least one other word (text) can be read,” the discussion about intertextuality has all too often been reduced to hunting down a work (or set of works, or a significant author) that can be identified as a later text’s “source.” Once a source has been identified, the theory’s explanatory power is pretty much exhausted in demonstrating that the later text cites or alludes to it, whether consciously or unconsciously.59 On the other hand, as James Chandler has pointed out, some thinkers have used the notion of intertextuality to view texts as “echo chambers,” putting the reader in a position to hear in any one word the resonance of any other while bypassing (or, at least, pretending to bypass) the question of authorial intention altogether.60 There is nothing necessarily wrong with either position: texts do cite other texts in a variety of ways,

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and every word (text) indeed resonates with countless others. The problem, rather, is that between the hunt for specific sources and the claim that every work reverberates with endless echoes, the notion of intertextuality has had relatively little power to explain why texts behave the way they do. Indeed, I believe that the phenomena described in this book are indicative of this theoretical void and can point to ways of filling it. To begin with, consider the structure of the “library,” or the shape of the textual “pool” that informs the work of every author. The hunt for sources often portrays this structure as essentially dyadic: every word, text, author, generation, or literary movement is significantly tied to one other expression, work, writer, or group of writers. The library is thus reduced to sets of two books (or shelves, or bookcases), the pool to pairs of ripples. The “echo-chamber” model, for its part, tends to problematize the very ontology of structure: if each word/text contains endless echoes, the only meaningful intertextual structure is the reader’s hearing apparatus: his or her own stream of associations. The problem is that cultures and writers do posit specific intertextual structures that are both far more complex than the dyadic—in that they connect a great number of “shelves,” including some from “libraries” in other languages or media—and not entirely amorphous. Intertextual theory, in my opinion, cannot afford to ignore these emic theories of textual interrelatedness if it is to explain how different texts in different cultures and periods become meaningful in relation to their libraries or pools. Consider some of the examples discussed in this book: texts that rework the epic by narrating a portion of its plot, such as Nītivarman’s Kcakavadha, Māgha’s Śiśupālavadha, or Śrīharsa’s Naisadhacarita, and those that narrate the two great epics: Dhanañjaya’s Dvisandhānakāvya, Kavirāja’s Rāghavapāndavya, and Pi]gali Sūranna’s Telugu Rāghavapāndavya. Each of these poems positions itself in relation to an extremely complex textual web that includes relations across language and media but also within parts of a single text. This is not to say that this web does not also consist of crucial dyadic nexuses, for example, beween Bhāravi and Māgha, Dhanañjaya and Kavirāja, or Kavirāja and Pi]gali Sūranna. But these dyads by no means exhaust the ways in which these texts opt to produce meaning and impress readers familiar with the epic and postepic libraries. To study a work such as Kavirāja’s, one must study the dynamic and complex intertextual pool as he understood and posited it, paying close attention to the generative relationship between and within different parts of the epic and to the way later kāvya tradition has positioned itself vis-à-vis the intra- and interepic

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conversation. Surely the longevity of South Asian civilization, its constantly conscious multilingual nature, the unique status of Sanskrit, the position of the epics, and other peculiarities have led to a specific brand of intertextuality that does not necessarily apply to other literary cultures. But the extreme form of literature discussed in this book pushes us to think of the conscious strategies that texts belonging to different civilizations and using no ślesa employ to situate themselves in their textual universes. In this context I wish to mention two such strategies that have been discussed by theorists working with intertextuality in the West, and that seem particularly useful for analyzing ślesa. The first of these comes from Michael Riffaterre’s illuminating discussion of “connectives,” which he describes as textual stumbling blocks that force readers to search actively for an intertext and are hence “both the problem, when seen from the text, and the solution to that problem when that other, intertextual side is revealed.”61 Particularly significant is Riffaterre’s definition of one of these connectives, the syllepsis, which he views as the most powerful means of connecting a text to an “interpretant intertext.” The syllepsis, he says, is a word that has two mutually incompatible meanings, one acceptable in the context in which the word appears, and the other valid only in the intertext to which the word also belongs and that it represents at the surface of the text, as the tip of an iceberg. As a word, the syllepsis has two meanings, each of which generates its own derivation in its separate text; but as a connective, it has no meaning of its own. The connective is therefore empty, since it is a mere phonetic shape which can in turn be filled by two otherwise alien universes of representation. As such, it is vastly more powerful than the metaphor, which needs some semes common to both its tenor and its vehicle for the tropological substitution to work. The syllepsis, on the contrary, resting as it does on homophony, is a connective in the abstract, a mere sign of equivalency.62 Several aspects in this definition also apply to ślesa, which, at least according to some Sanskrit theoreticians such as Udbhata, always rests on homophony. Indeed, it is tempting to think of a work that narrates both the Rāmāyana and the Mahābhārata, such as Kavirāja’s Rāghavapāndavya, as an extreme case of intertextuality in the way Riffaterre understands it, in the sense that it consists almost entirely of connecting syllepses. This is

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because numerous signifiers on the Rāmāyana side seem peculiar unless we also take into consideration their multiple meanings—or, indeed, the different signifiers they hide—within the Mahābhārata narrative. The remaining signifiers pose a challenge to the Mahābhārata side of the narrative, which can only be explained once the reader comprehends the Rāmāyana register. Thus the conarrated plots consist almost entirely of homophonous connectives, riddles in one text that force the reader constantly to look for solutions in the other. But ślesa, in turn, may offer some crucial refinements to Riffaterre’s notion of syllepsis. It provides an example of a syllepsis-like tool that activates a far more complicated network of texts than the dyadic model found in Riffaterre’s examples, one that is clearly intentional (authorial intention is one aspect that Riffaterre’s analysis seems to gloss over)63 and, most important, is not necessarily “empty,” or devoid of meaning. The connectives in bitextual works do not set out to connect “alien universes of representation.” Rather, they envision and reflect on paired plot pearls, or on the confluence of the Rāmāyana’s Ga]gā with the Mahābhārata’s ocean (Kavirāja), or on the contrast between Rāma’s glorious actions and Yudhisthira’s shameful ones (Dhanañjaya). I should also mention with regard to Riffaterre’s discussion that ślesa is not the only connective device discussed in this book. Another important textual stumbling block I have been referring to is silence, or elision. When an author like Kavirāja does not mention that Rāma shot Vālin from behind, as is well known to his readers, this omission is in itself a puzzle that is explained in the context of the concurrent Mahābhārata episode, in which Bhīma fights Kīcaka face-to-face in what we may think of as a “horizontal” intertextual axis of the epics. This elision may also be read on a “vertical” axis, in the context of other poetic reworkings of the Rāmāyana, beginning with Vālmīki’s work itself and continuing in later kāvya versions. We have also come across a somewhat different use of silence in the case of Subandhu’s Vāsavadattā, in which Yudhisthira is singled out as the only epic hero whose negative actions are not portrayed with a face-saving ślesa. Here it is the absence of ślesa that amounts to a powerful comment about the Mahābhārata in the context of a large pool of other epic and mythical intertexts.64 Such loud silences may be just as conspicuous as some of the ślesas I have been discussing. I believe that any theory of intertextuality needs to deal extensively with a wide variety of such connectives and the complex and intentional ways in which they position a text vis-à-vis its library.

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A second relevant strategy from the discourse on intertextuality emerges from Jonathan Culler’s notion of presuppositioning, already discussed in section 7.3. Culler’s discussion starts with instances of logical presuppositions, as in “when did you stop beating your wife?” He then examines a host of similar linguistic techniques in an effort to find out “how texts create presuppositions and hence pre-texts for themselves and how the ways of producing these presuppositions relate to ways of treating them.” Finally, he calls for an investigation of rhetorical and pragmatic presuppositioning, leading to a poetics that is “less interested in the occupants of the intertextual space which makes a work intelligible than in the conventions that underlie that discursive activity or space.”65 As I have already noted, this last project seems particularly apt for the study of figurative expressivity in Sanskrit, although, again, the literary phenomena discussed in this book suggest that the analysis must expand to allow consideration of what is by now a familiar set of issues: the different conventions of different intertextual spaces in different literary cultures, the emic conceptualization of these conventions, and indeed the possibility that a discourse such as Alamkāraśāstra, where figures are seen as masking others and where interfigurative relations are charted, already engages in the kind of poetics Culler has called for, and the possibility that authors intentionally use devices such as ślesa to play with and reflect on these conventions. Indeed, a central contribution that ślesa may offer the discourse on intertextuality is to highlight the intentionally reflexive potentials of intertextual strategies, including Riffaterre’s syllepsis and Culler’s presuppositioning. In arguing this, I find support in James Chandler’s work on the Romantic poets in England. Demonstrating the consciously playful references of Coleridge and Wordsworth to Milton and of Keats to Shakespeare, Chandler concludes that their poetry contains more than just echoes and influences. It is, he argues, a “drama about, among other things, poetic influence itself,” a fact that sets it aside “from the more straightforward mode of Augustan allusion.”66 This conclusion allows us to begin to realize that intertextual analysis must be open to nuances such as the degree of reflexivity with which acts of connecting one’s text to an intertext (or to what Culler calls the discursive space) are invested. Chandler is quick to caution that “for the Romantics themselves the work and play of literary self-reference remains subsidiary to higher purposes, to the social activities properly associated with the idea of poetry: describing, evaluating, and exhorting; lamenting, consoling, and celebrating.”67 But through-

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out this book I have argued that the ślesa poets turned the play of literary self-reference into a major pursuit: that the Vāsavadattā of Subandhu is a self- willed meditation on Sanskrit figuration, and that Kavirāja’s Rāghavapāndavya is a poem about the relationship between his tradition’s foundational poems. What the study of ślesa teaches us, in other words, is not only that intertextuality shapes texts but also that texts are often, to paraphrase Chandler, dramas about intertextual relations themselves. In this connection it may be useful to invoke the theoretical discourse on puns. Ślesa is obviously a phenomenon distinct from and in many ways larger than the pun, but the two phenomena share similarities and perhaps belong in the same extended family. Indeed, one similarity is that literary criticism has until recently tended to view puns in the same manner as Indologists have viewed ślesa: with the disdain reserved for low and dangerous forms of art, if not with denial. Such denial is expressed in what Frederick Ahl aptly calls the “assumption of explicitness,” namely, the refusal of critics to recognize instances of multiple meanings in “classical” texts.68 In recent decades we have seen a change in the attitudes of literary theorists toward puns and a renewed interest in puns and punlike devices in the ancient literatures of the Near East, Greece, and Rome, as well as in Chaucer and Shakespeare and in modern authors such as Lewis Carroll and James Joyce, primarily in his Finnegans Wake. In these discussions, and particularly in some theoretical circles, puns have become the symbol and cornerstone of a variety of theories and practices that could be classified as postmodern. One scholar has noted, “Central to the ‘post’ paradigm is punceptual cognition,” for “if it seems intuitively possible (if not obvious) that puncepts work as well for organizing thought as concepts . . . then you are likely to possess a post-modernist sensibility.”69 Ironically, this renewed fascination with puns has often embraced these devices for the very reasons they were previously dreaded. As argued in a variety of essays collected in On Puns: The Foundation of Letters, edited by Jonathan Culler, puns are now seen by many as providing a positive challenge to a monistic, if not puritan, worldview. For R. A. Shoaf, the pun “replaces the notion that we are in charge with the notion that language is in charge,” and Derek Attridge lauds the fact that it “undermines the basis on which our assumptions about the communicative efficacy of language rest,” namely, the “monosemous reality” inherent in the Saussurian model of signification, according to which “the single unambiguous meaning is . . . [the] ‘kernel’ . . . while ambiguity is . . . the husk.”70 Thus Culler argues that

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puns reveal that “meaning is unstable and uncontrollable” and suggests that they ought to stand at the center of a new theory of literary language.71 Indeed, Gregory Ulmer suggests that one such theory, deconstruction, is a “double science” “structured by a ‘double mark.’ ”72 One theorist who was famously fascinated by puns is the late Jacques Derrida. It is interesting to quote here from his work on Joyce’s Finnegans Wake: [Joyce] repeats and mobilizes and babelizes the (asymptotic) totality of the equivocal, he makes this his theme and his operation, he tries to make outcrop, with the greatest possible synchrony, at great speed, the greatest power of meaning buried in each syllabic fragment, subjecting each atom of writing to fission in order to overload the unconscious with the whole memory of man: mythologies, religion, philosophies, sciences, psychoanalysis, literatures. This generalized equivocality of writing does not translate one language into another on the basis of common nuclei of meaning . . . ; it talks several languages at once, parasiting them as in the example He war.73 From the perspective of ślesa, what is particularly relevant in these lines is the powerful insight that for Joyce, language is both the medium and the message, the “theme,” as well as the “operation.” I believe that the literature discussed in this book, together with many of the works analyzed by deconstructionists and postmodernists, reveals an amazing reflexivity in the literary use of a variety of strange modes of signification that stray from the Saussurian model, from anagrams to onomatopoeia, portmanteau words, occasional puns, and full-blown ślesas. But with regard to the applicability of this insight to literary analysis, I find myself alarmed by the all-too-quick but all-important move from seeing that the author “mobilizes” to viewing the way in which he “babelizes.” For if the former refers to the manner in which an author can exploit the fascinating and bizarre accidents of language to force us to see something about his or her characters, plot, genre, literary language, intertextual space, himself or herself, and his or her work, the latter reduces everything to a “generalized equivocality of writing.” This reduction may perhaps be called for by Finnegans Wake, but it is not the theme and operation of the South Asian works featured in this book. As with the notion of intertextuality, then, the extreme experiment with ślesa throws light on the absence of a theoretical middle ground between dreading the pun and seeing it as the signifier of

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the ambivalent and the unconscious. If literature, as Roman Jakobson has argued, is always driven by the need to say something about itself, or about the complex relationship between its signifier and signified,74 then the amazing story of ślesa has a few lessons to teach us about the possibilities and modalities of reflexivity, the various two-way roads on which writers try to mobilize their readers. I thus conclude this book with the hope that the Western theoretical discourse on language and literature will indeed take note of the unique ślesa movement and its goals and its achievements.

APPENDIX : BITEXTUAL AND MULTITEXTUAL WORKS IN SANSKRIT

introductory remarks I have compiled this preliminary list of bitextual and multitextual works in Sanskrit by consulting a variety of Sanskrit sources, descriptive catalogs of manuscripts, and other secondary literature, as indicated in the notes. One important source is the New Catalogus Catalogorum (NCC), an ambitious project that sets out to integrate the information found in all the catalogs of Sanskrit manuscript collections. The NCC has been publishing its records since 1968, but the pace of publication came to a virtual halt during the 1990s and is only now picking up again. So far I have had access to volumes 1–13, which cover entries up to the letter b (roughly the middle of the Sanskrit alphabet). Thanks to the goodwill of Dr. E. R. Ramabai and Dr. M. Visalakshi at the Sanskrit Department of the University of Madras, I was given access to archives of the NCC in 1998. I could thus examine the paper slips that have already been compiled from all the relevant catalogs and form the basis for all of the NCC’s future publications. Thanks to this archival material I was able to identify a few additional works, and the notes thus occasionally refer to the still-unpublished records of the NCC. A word of explanation about the types of sources I consulted—in particular the NCC’s printed and archival records—and their bearing on the partial nature of this survey. The catalogs contain millions of records that are not available in digital form. They are organized alphabetically according to author or title, so that searching them for particular genres of works is like looking for a needle in a haystack. One can search for typical name patterns (e.g., names beginning with Rāghava- or Yādava-), but this method would not yield works bearing less predictable titles (such as, for

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example, the Pārvatīrukminīya). Another problem is the lack of crossreferences between various catalogs of manuscript collections, so that it is often impossible to verify whether one catalog’s anonymous Rāghavapāndavīya is identical to a text having the same name in another catalog where it is attributed to a known author (such as Kavirāja). I chose to be conservative and, in the absence of any information confirming that an anonymous work is indeed not identical to one I have already listed, I did not mention it in my survey. It is, however, entirely possible that some of these Rāghavapāndavīyas and other anonymous works represent the output of writers whose names are now forgotten. All this indicates the preliminary nature of this survey. My estimate, then, is that the number of bitextual and multitextual works in Sanskrit is larger than what I can account for at present. Finally, a word about periodization. Although the dates of eight of the works could not be ascertained, it seems clear to me that the production of this literature in the second millennium was by and large confined to two clearly defined spurts. As discussed in chapter 5, one took place in the first 250 years of the second millennium CE, while the other began in the late sixteenth century and continued in full force during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. A close scrutiny of the works whose dates are not yet known would lead, I believe, to the conclusion that most or all of them fall under one of these two periods, primarily the latter. Obviously, however, much more work needs to be done before the full picture of Sanskrit bitextual and multitextual production in the premodern and early modern periods emerges.

works composed before 1000 ce 1. Rāghavapāndavīya of Dandin (c. 700, Pallava court). This work is no longer extant, with the exception of a single verse quoted by Bhoja. See discussion in section 4.2. 2. Dvisandhāna Mahākāvya of Dhanañjaya (c. 800, probably in the Kannada-speaking region of the Deccan). See discussion in sections 4.3–4.6.

works composed 1000– 1250 1. Nemināthacarita of Sūrācārya (c. 1033, possibly at the court of Bhoja). This work narrates the stories of the Jain saints Nemi and Rsabha.

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There is a commentary by Tippanaka. The work is probably no longer extant.1 2. Rāmacaritam of Sandhyākaranandin (c. 1100, Pāla court, Bengal). This work narrates the story of the Pāla monarch Rāma along with that of his Rāmāyana namesake. There is an incomplete old commentary, possibly by the author himself. The work was edited by Haraprasad Sastri and printed in 1910 by the Bengal Asiatic Society. A revised edition by Radha Govinda Basak appeared in 1969. Basak also coedited another edition of the work with R. C. Majumdar and Nanigopal Banerji Kavyatirtha, published in 1939 by the Varendra Research Museum in Rajshahi. Both the 1939 and 1969 editions have detailed introductions and verse-by-verse Englishr enditions. 3. Rāghavapāndavīya of Śrutakīrti Traividya (c. 1100). This work is reported to have been a palindrome, as well as a ślesa. It is no longer extant. The information about the work and its nature is based on a mention in the Kannada work Rāmacandracaritrapurāna by Nāgacandra (also known as Abhinavapampa) and is confirmed by an inscription in Śravana Belgola.2 4. Nābheyanemikāvya of Hemacandrasūri (c. 1125). This work is another combination of the stories of Nemi and Rsabha. The author’s scholarly lineage is known from this text (his teacher was Ajitadeva, student of Municandra). We are also informed that the work was corrected by the poet Śrīpāla in Kumārapāla’s court. The work exists in manuscript form, and the author has also provided his own commentary.3 5. Saptasandhānakāvya of Hemacandra (c. 1150). This work, which narrates the stories of the Rāmāyana, the Mahābhārata, and five Jain saints, is no longer extant.4 6. Rāghavapāndavīya of Kavirāja (c. 1175, Kadamba court). This work was widely circulated, has quite a few premodern and modern commentaries, and was printed at least four times.5 For a discussion of the work, see sections 5.4–5.6. 7. Pārvatīrukminīya of Vidyāmādhava (c. 1200, Chalukya court). This work, which narrates the marriages of both Pārvatī to Śiva and Rukminī to Krsna, exists in a small number of copies in manuscript form.6 8. Rāghavapāndavīya of Krsnapandita (c. 1250, Andhra). This work exists in manuscript form with a commentary.7

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late sixteenth-, seventeenth-, and eighteenth- century works 1. Rāmakrsnavilomakāvya of Sūryadāsa Sūri (c. 1580, Parthapura). This is a bidirectional (viloma) narration of the Rāma and Krsna stories. It exists in print with several commentaries.8 2. Rāghavapāndavayādavīya of Cidambarakavi (c. 1600). Cidambarakavi was a particularly prolific ślesa author who received patronage from both Ve]kata I of Vijayanagara and Śāhajī of Tanjore. This work narrates the Rāmāyana, the Mahābhārata, and the Krsna stories. It comes with a commentary by the author’s own father, Ananta Nārāyana, and exists in print.9 3. Pañcakalyānacampū of Cidambarakavi. This is another poem by the same author narrating the five marriages of Rāma, Krsna, Visnu, Śiva, and Subrahmanya. The work exists in several manuscript copies in South India, some of which include the author’s own commentary.10 4. Śabdārthacintāmani of Cidambarakavi. This is yet another work of the same career ślesa author. As Minkowski has noted, it is unclear whether this work also involves the viloma technique or “simply” narrates the stories of Rāma and Krsna simultaneously. The work is extant in manuscript form with a commentary.11 5. Yādavarāghavīya of Ve]katādhvarin (c. 1650, Kāñcī). Another bidirectional work in the line of Sūryadāsa, this work has been published several times along with a commentary and was studied by Marie-Claude Porcher.12 6. Rāghavayādavapāndavīya of Rājacūdāmani Dīksita (seventeenth century). The author was the son of Ratnakheta Dīksita and was patronized by King Raghunātha of Tanjore. This work, like Cidambarakavi’s poem of the same title, narrates the three stories of Rāma, the Pāndavas, and Krsna.13 7. Naisadhapārijāta of Krsnakavi (seventeenth century, also at the court of Raghunātha of Tanjore). This work narrates the Nala and the Pārijātaharana stories. It is no longer extant.14 8. Kosalabhosalīya of Śesācalapati (c. 1700, Tanjore). This work tells the life story of the Maratha king Śāhajī along with that of Rāma.15 I was able to consult a paper copy of the only existing manuscript at the Sarasvati Mahal Library in Tanjore (Tanjore ms. 4233). 9. Rāghavanaisadhīya of Haradatta Sūri (c. 1700). This work narrates the stories of Rāma and Nala. It exists only in manuscript form.16

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10. Saptasandhānamahākāvya of Meghavijayagani (c. 1703). This work presents seven simultaneous stories narrating the lives of five Jain saints, as well as those of Rāma and the Pāndavas. It is presented as a tribute to Hemacandra’s lost work of this amazing type. The work exists in print and has been discussed by Satya Vrat Varma.17 11. Hariścandracampū of Ghanaśyāma (c. 1730). This is a work of three concurrent narratives, presumably of Nala, Krsna, and Hariścandra. The author was minister of King Tukkojī of Tanjore (r. 1728–1735). The work is mentioned as part of a long list of his works left by his wives.18 12. Nalahariścandrīya (eighteenth century). This work is an anonymous bidirectional (viloma) poem about Nala and Hariścandra. It exists in manuscript form along with a commentary.19 13. Rāghavayādavīya of Vasupraharāja (eighteenth century). This work has recently been published in Śatapathī 2001.20

works of unknown date 1. Hariścandrodaya of Anantasūri. This work exists in manuscript form and narrates the story of the mythical Hariścandra and the poet’s patron of the same name.21 2. Rāghavayādavapāndavīya of Anantakavi. This work is a threenarrative poem with the author’s own annotation.22 3. Pañcasandhānakāvya of Śāntirāja. This work is a five-narrative poem that tells the stories of five Jain saints. The work comes with a commentary and exists in manuscript form.23 4. Rāghavapāndavīya. An anonymous bitextual stage play that exists in manuscript form.24 5. Rāghavapāndavīya. Another anonymous ślesa drama in manuscript form.25 6. Yādavarāghavīya of Naraharikavi. Another ślesa drama, in which the two plots are of Krsna and Rāma. The work exists in manuscript form.26 7. Rāghavayādavīya of Viñjamūri Someśvara Kavi. This bitextual work that narrates the tales of Rāma and Krsna is extant in manuscript form.27 8. Nalayādavarāghavapāndavīya. This work is an anonymous poem with four narratives and is probably no longer extant.28

APPENDIX : BITEXTUAL AND MULTITEXTUAL WORKS IN TELUGU

introductory remarks This appendix provides a provisional list of Telugu ślesa works. My main source of information is a 2007 University of Hyderabad M.A. thesis by Konda Reddy Chagam.1 Written in Telugu, Chagam’s thesis is dedicated to the study of one of the language’s pioneering bitextual works, the Hariścandranalopākhyānamu of Rāmarājabhūsanudu. Chapter 2 of his thesis is the first survey of the genre to which this work belongs. Unless noted otherwise, the information listed here is based on Chagam’s thesis. As far as I can tell, Chagam’s survey is based primarily on literary histories in Telugu and, in that respect, seems quite extensive: neither I nor any of the Telugu scholars I consulted were able to locate a work that Chagam failed to list. At the same time, a more comprehensive study, based on an exhaustive survey of the archives and of the manuscripts themselves, is still a desideratum. I wish to thank several people who have helped me gather and corroborate the information in this appendix, a process that started well before I came across Chagam’s thesis and that continued thereafter. I am primarily indebted to Velcheru Narayana Rao and David Shulman for going over several drafts of this appendix and for helping me put the works in context. I am also grateful to Pammi Pavan Kumar from Hyderabad University and Malayavasini Kolavennu for useful conversations on this topic. Finally, I am extremely grateful to Vimala Katikaneni for helping me through Chagam’s thesis.

appendix 2 %273&

sixteenth- century works 1. Rāghavapāndavīya (also known as Rāghavapāndavīyamu) of Pi]gali Sūranna (late 1600s, Ākuvīdu and Nandyala courts). There is at least one commentary, by Citrakavi Ve]kataramanakavi. The work exists in print. It is, most probably, the earliest extant work of its kind in Telugu.2 2. Hariścandranalopākhyānamu of Rāmarājabhūsanudu, also known as Bhattumūrti (second half of the sixteenth century, perhaps under the patronage of Vijayanagara’s Rāmarāya). This work narrates the stories of Hariścandra and Nala. At least one commentary, by Citrakavi Anantakavi, is known to exist. The work was published in 1930 in Chennai by Vāvilla Rāmasvāmiśāstrulu and Sans, though I have not been able to consult it. 3. Rāmakrsnacaritra of Asūri Mari]ganti Si]garācāryulu (second half of the sixteenth century, Nalgonda district). This work narrates the stories of Rāma and Krsna. It is no longer extant. 4. Nalayādavarāghavapāndavīyamu of the same Asūri Mari]ganti Si]garācāryulu. This is the first four-narrative work in Telugu. It too is no longer extant. Compare with the last item in appendix 1 and the last (undated) work in this appendix.

seventeenth- century works 1. Naisadhapārijātīyamu of Krsnādhvari (court of Raghunāthanāyaka). This work, which narrates the marriages of Krsna and of Nala, exists only in manuscript form, but it was known to Telugu literati of the twentieth century such as Vētūri Prabhākara Śāstri and Callā Satyanārāyana. 2. Rāghavayādavapāndavīyamu of Elakūci Bālasarasvatī (1610–1670). This work narrates the Mahābhārata, Rāmāyana, and Nala stories and is unpublished.

eigh teenth- century works 1. Acalātmajāparinayamu of Śrī Tirumala Bukkapattanam Ve]katācāryulu (exact date unknown, Siripurasamsthānam). This is the first of several poems narrating the marriage stories of Sītā and Pārvatī, both of whom can be called Acalātmajā. The work as we have it is incomplete. The poet’s father’s title was Prabandhaparameśvaraślesayamakacakravartin, so apparently ślesa ran in the family.3 An edition of the work with a modern commentary by Sālva Krsnamūrti was published in 1985.4

%274& appendix 2

2. Yādavarāghavapāndavīyamu of Nellūri Vīrarāghavakavi (c. 1715). Another tritextual poem, published in 1886 by Amudritagranthacintāmani. 3. Dharātmajāparinayamu of Krottala]ka Mrtyuñjayakavi (Krottala]kā village, Amalāpuram Taluk). Another work narrating the marriage tales of the two goddesses. The author, like many other ślesa writers, mentions in his introduction that to compose a work of just one narrative thread is no big deal, and he promises to stun the literary community with his dualnarrative work. He is also the author of a work that avoids labial sounds. 4. Śivarāmābhyudayamu of Pōdūri Pedarāmāmātyudu (eighteenth century, Godavari district, commissioned by Gurajāla Pērāryudu). 5. Yādavabhāratīyamu of Chennakrsnakavi (dedicated to King Vallabharāyudu of Janumpalli, Telangana). This king is reported by the poet to have commended him for his knowledge of three different literary idioms (Sanskrit, Prakrit, Telugu) and his ability to combine two meanings. 6. La]kāvijayamu of Pindiprōlu Laksmanakavi (1770–1840, who began this work at the very end of the eighteenth century). This unusual poem tells of the grabbing of the poet’s own land by a local chief, one Dharmārāyadu (also known as Dammārāyadu or simply Damma), while also narrating the story of Sītā’s abduction by Rāvana in the epic. The work’s raison d’être was to demonstrate the striking similarities between its two villains, Rāvana and Damma, and it appropriately ends in a verse depicting Rāvana’s death from Rāma’s arrow and Damma’s death as a result of the poet’s curse. The work, which fits the mold of Telugu’s genre of tittukāvya, or disparaging poetry, is often called the Rāvanadammīyamu (Of Rāvana and Damma). 7. Rāghavavāsudēvīyamu of Krottapalli Si]garācāryudu (c. 1800; Nellūru, under the patronage of King Ba]gāra]ka Bhūpāludu). This work narrates the stories of Rāma and Krsna.

nineteenth- century works 1. Krsnārjunacartiramu of Mantri Pregada Sūryaprakāśakavi (1808– 1873, supported by Śrīkrsna Bhūpatidēva Mahārāju of Mādugula Samsthānam). This work is possibly the first to combine two earlier Telugu works: Mukku Timmanas’s Pārijātāpaharanamu and Chēmakūra Ve]katakavi’s Vijayavilāsamu. There is a commentary by Śrīvikramadēvavarma, the maharaja of Jayapuram. 2. Rāmakrsnōpākhyānamu of Śrīpādavē]katācalapati (first part of the nineteenth century, Vijayanagaram, under the patronage of Pūsapāti

appendix 2 %275&

Vijayarāma Gajapati). There is a report that the author also composed his own commentary. 3. Rāmakrsnārjunarūpanārāyanīyamu of Ōruganti Somaśēkharakavi (1822). Another tritextual poem. 4. Khilakarnavisāyanarāmāyanamu of Pannāla Brahmanna (1880). This is yet another tittukāvya in which the poet’s enemies are compared with Rāvana. The nonmythic register of the poetic present is set in the Palivela village in Godavari District, and the mythic in Ayodhyā. The work is unpublished and exists in fragmentary manuscript form, and the information Chagam has about it does not seem to be firsthand. 5. Rāghavapāndavayādavīyamu of Aiyyagāri Vīrabhadrakavi (1890). Another tritextual work. 6. Sāra]gadharīyamu of Pōkūri Kāśīpati (1892, Sāra]gadharudu). A tritextual work with an unusual choice of narrative triplets: Śiva, the moon, and King Rājarāja, all of whom can be referred to by the epithet Sāra]gadha.

twentieth- century works 1. Nirvacanabhāratagarbharāmāyanamu of Rāvipāti Laksmīnārāyana (1909–1970, Rāvipāti village, Guntur District). This work, written in 1931, combines the consistent conarration of the two epics with garbhakavitvā, a technique by which a verse yields a different text depending on the metrical position at which one starts reading. It won its poet the titles Citrakaviśekhara (crown-jewel of poets of “colorful” poetry) and Kavitākōvida (expert in poesy). 2. Āndhrarāghavapāndavīyamu of Rāvūri Dorasāmiśarma (d. 1986). This is not so much an independent work as a modern translation of Kavirāja’s Sanskrit bitextual poem. The author was a poet and scholar who authored, among other scholarly projects, the only extant study of tittukāvyas.5 He taught Telugu in Madras’s Vaisnavakalāśāla. This translation of Kavirāja’s poem apparently remained unpublished. 3. Rāghavanaisadhīyamu (1939). This is a translation of Haradatta Sūri’s Sanskrit work (see appendix 1) by the same Rāvūri Dorasāmiśarma. Th is work too remains unpublished. 4. Vasusvārocisōpākhyānamu of Krotapalli Sundararāmaya (1941). Another work that turns to the Telugu classics for its narrative choices: it combines the Vasucaritramu and the Manucaritramu. The work was

%276& appendix 2

edited by Gadēpalli Kukkutēśvara Rao and published in 2001 in Adda]ki by Gādēpalli Sītārāmamūrti, but I was not able to consult it. 5. Rājyalaksmī of Mānūri Krsna Rao (1952). This mid-twentieth-century work was composed in Nandivelugu village (Guntur District, Tenāli Taluk). In it the prolific author, whose day job was that of a postmaster, narrates the story of Gandhi and his struggle for national independence. I am not entirely clear on the identity of the other narrative. 6. Yēsukrsnīyamu of Gadēpalli Kukkutēśvara Rao (1980). The author, a graduate of Osmania University and a Telugu lecturer at Rājamahendravaram Government College, narrates here the life of Christ juxtaposed with that of Krsna. The work is written mostly in free verse and is inspired, according to the author’s own admission, by a cinematic rendering of the gospel (Karunāmayudu). He also authored novels and plays. 7. Ekavīrakumārīyamu of Gaurībhatla Rāmakrsnaśāstri (1984). This work narrates the lives of Visnu’s son Ekavīrudu and Śiva’s son Kumārasvāmi, the two kumāras, emphasizing, apparently, the oneness of the two divinities. 8. Ambujāmbakavilāsamu of Kaneganti Vīrabhadrācāryulu (b. 1912).

work of unknown date 1. Nalayādavarāghavapāndavīyamu of Gunugutūri Ve]katakrsnayya. Another four-narrative poem that is no longer available.

NOTES

1. introduction 1. To cite Peterson’s illustration in his introduction to Kādambarī of Bāna 2:36. 2. Ramanujan told this story as part of a talk titled “Is There an Indian Way of Thinking?” (Jerusalem, Israel, 1991). An essay with the same title in Ramanujan 1999 omits the story. The probable original version, “Vaijnanik Bhyabachaka,” is by the Bengali author Shibram Chakrabarti (Shibram Rachana Samagra of Shibram Chakrabarti 1985:48–54). I am indebted to Kunal Chakrabarti for this reference. 3. Kāvyādarśa of Dandin 2.309: asāv udayam ārūdhah kāntimān raktamandalah | rājā harati lokasya hrdayam mrdubhih karaih || 4. The difficulties in such an endeavor are clearly visible in the English rendition given here. For instance, the Sanskrit word rakta means “red” for the disc of the rising moon but “loyal” or “devoted” for a king’s ally. I used the verb “glow,” but obviously this is far from perfect. Puns, for the most part, are language specific. 5. Kāvyādarśa 2.310: dosākarena sambadhnan naksatrapathavartinā | rājñā pradoso mām ittham apriyam kim na bādhate || 6. Pinker1 994:160–161. 7. For a possible source for these examples, see section 2.6. For Dandin’s own ślesa work and his theoretical discussion of ślesa, see sections 4.2 and 7.3, respectively. 8. I will say more on this distinction in section 6.5. 9. On the emergence of Sanskrit as a literary language, see Pollock 2006:39–105. 10. On Sanskrit inscriptions in the Khmer country, see Pollock 2006:125–130, 141–142; for the role of ślesa in these, see D. Chandler 1983:38 and Pollock 2006:134–148. 11. Renou 1978; see also Viraraghavacharya 1934. 12. The most informative of these introductions is by Jain and Upadhye in the introduction to Dvisandhāna Mahākāvya of Dhanañjaya 5–18. 13. Krishnamachariar 1937: e.g., 189–195; Lienhard 1984:223–225. 14. See, e.g., Mirashi 1975:24–46; Mishra 1993. 15. Smith 1985:292–304; Shulman 1997; Minkowski 2004. 16. See Granoff 1984:293; Narayana Rao, Shulman, and Subrahmanyam 1992:191–202; Brocquet 1996.

%278& 1. introduction 17. Another example is the still-unpublished Kosalabhosalīya of Śesācalapati, which tells the life story of the Maratha king Śāhaji along with that of Rāma (P. P. S. Sastri 1930: ms. 4233). 18. Hahn 1990 discusses Śivasvāmin’s Kapphinābhyudaya (c. 850), the nineteenth canto of which, he believes, may have been designed to be read in both Sanskrit and in Prakrit. The surviving manuscripts, however, are too corrupt to substantiate this claim beyond doubt. 19. A recent University of Hyderabad M.A. thesis attempts a first survey of Telugu’s bitextual works (Chagam 2007). See also section 5.3. 20. Three such collections are simply listed in Lienhard 1984:225. 21. Gerow 1971:38–42, 288–306; Agrawal 1975; Porcher 1978:333–399; Roodbergen 1984. The quote is from Raghavan 1978:371. 22. See Meister 1979; Desai 1987; Rabe 1997, 2001; Kaimal 2003. 23. J. K. Balasubrahmaniyam, in his preface to Vāsavadattā of Subandhu, with commentary by R. V. Krishnamachariar iv. Th e introduction he refers to is by R. V. Krishnamachariar, the editor. 24. S. K. De, in his introduction to Kīcakavadha of Nītivarman vi–vii. 25. Dasgupta and De 1962:33. 26. Varma 2005:770. 27. Peter Peterson, a mid-nineteenth-century professor at Bombay’s Elphinstone College, proudly reported: “The University has of late years carefully excluded from its compulsory Sanskrit course, the monstrous growths of Sanskrit medieval literature: and it would only be a further step in the same right direction if our students were relieved of the thankless task of studying passages in Kādambarī like those to which reference has been made.” This passage, too, is taken from the introduction to the very work it discusses, Bāna’s Kādambarī, and concerns Peterson’s mention of its many puns and word plays (Kādambarī of Bāna 2:37 note). 28. For Urdu poetry, see Russell 1987; Pritchett 1994:155–168; and Faruqi 2003:856 note 114 (where īhām, or double meaning, is singled out for prejudice); for Indian visual art, see Mitter 1992. 29. Ahl 1988:19–20. Ahl has another explanation for the “assumption of explicitness,” namely, that poetry is used as a source for historical study of the classical period. “Classical literature,” he says, “is primarily the province of a discipline that has, traditionally, had an arguably larger investment in conveying information than in discussing the nuances of literary color and suggestion” (p.19). Ahl could not have described better the tradition of Indology and its treatment of Sanskrit poetry. 30. As noted by Pritchett 1994:167. 31. See Said 1978; Inden 1990; and Dharwadker 1993. 32. On the reactions to Kālidāsa in Europe, see Dharwadker 1993:178. 33. The quotes are from Albrecht Weber on Bāna’s Kādambarī (quoted in Hueckstedt 1985:12) and Fitzedward Hall in his introduction to his 1859 edition of Vāsavadattā of Subandhu, p. 28. On India imagined as a jungle, see Inden 1990:86. 34. On the adoption of Orientalist views by Indian nationalists, see, e.g., Chatterjee 1995 and Dalmia 1997:390–425. 35. The quote is from Hart 1975:279, where the Bhāgavatapurāna is singled out as the sole exception.

2. experimenting with les. a in subandhu’s prose l ab %279& 36. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu, v. 10, pp. 11–12 in Krishnamachariar’s edition. It should be noted, however, that evoking novelty as an ideal is at least as common. See Bronner, Shulman, and Tubb forthcoming. 37. Presumably, ślesa poetry falls under the “low” (adhama) category in Mammata’s influential tripartite division of literature (Kāvyaprakāśa of Mammata2 2–23). 38. Dasgupta and De 1962:339; Lienhard 1984:224. 39. Ahl 1985; Culler 1988b; and Noegel 2000. The point about Indology’s lagging behind was also made with respect to Urdu literature in Pritchett 1994:168. 40. See Gerow 1971:39 on Sanskrit’s vocabulary; Ingalls 1965:8, 18–20 on Sanskrit’s manifold ways of expressing the same idea; Jain and Upadhye 1970:5 on compound ambiguity; Hueckstedt 1985:19–20 on the writing system; De on phonemic strings (in his introduction to Kīcakavadha of Nītivarman vi); and Lienhard 1984:222 on Sanskrit’s flexibility. The contrasted quote on English is from Gerow 1971:39. 41. E.g., Keith 1920:137: “The feat, which at first sight appears incredible, is explained without special difficulty by the nature of Sanskrit.” 42. See Pinker 1994:159 on word boundaries in speech. Many preprint writing systems, including old Hebrew and Greek, did not represent word boundaries. 43. For an excellent discussion of ambiguities inherent in grammars of all languages, and of ways in which linguistic practices, patterns, and processes could be stretched and manipulated, see Sherzer 2002:12–25, 77–90. 44. See Attridge 1988b:188–238 for a discussion of punning in Finnegans Wake, and Tanaka 1992 for a discussion of puns in advertisements (in English, as well as in Japanese). The children’s rhyme is from Sanches and Kirshenblatt-Gimblett 1976:95. 45. For the Tamil and Telugu ślesas, see section 5.3. The situation is similar in other languages too. Thus for ślesas specific to Brāj, based on this language’s incorporation of Perso-Arabic words, see Busch 2005:48. On the centrality of īhām, or double meaning, to Indian-style (sabk-i Hindī ) Persian poetry, see Alam 2003:180–181. On the potential influence of Sanskrit and Brāj literatures on īhām in Urdu, see Faruqi 2003:842–843. 46. See section 5.3 and appendix 2. 47. The quote is from De’s introduction to Kīcakavadha of Nītivarman vi. 48. For a similar point on old Greek’s susceptibility to anagrams, see Attridge 1988b:29. 49. Ingalls 1965:20. 50. For the types of double entendres that can be created in English once authors avoid punctuation, for example, see Truss 2003:esp. 9–11. 51. William Wordsworth, quoted in Pritchett 1994:167.

2. experimenting with le s. a in subandhu’s prose l ab 1. “Although ślesa is a favorite figure of speech with Sanskrit poets, the practice of the ślesa-kāvya does not connect itself with any tradition earlier than the 11th century” (Dasgupta and De 1962:339; cf. Lienhard 1984:224). Others have argued that the poets’ use of ślesa is a direct continuation of Vedic scripture (e.g., Hegde 1982:22–24). This follows Louis Renou, who argued for continuity between the Veda and classical kāvya in general, and, more specifically, that ślesa finds its source in Vedic ambivalence and translates one of the constants of Indian speculation (“trouve ses sources

%280& 2. experimenting with les. a in subandhu’s prose l ab

2. 3.

4. 5. 6.

7. 8. 9. 10. 11.

12. 13.

14.

15.

dans l’ambivalence védique . . . Il traduit donc en définitive une des constantes de la spéculation indienne” [Renou 1978:34]). Renou’s argument has been recently championed by Stephanie Jamison, who has gone so far as to state that certain Vedic hymns should be read as extended ślesas, “rather like the Rāghavapāndavīya,” but has so far provided no evidence to substantiate this claim (Jamison 2007:118). Porcher 1996:446. For attempts to read ślesas into the Rāmāyana, see section 6.5. On Aśvaghosa, see Warder 1974:160–161, 174; on Kālidāsa’s supposed simplicity and lyricism, see, e.g., Warder 1977:123–125. For “readerly” ślesas in Kālidāsa’s poetry, see section 6.3. For a brief discussion of Bhāravi’s ślesas, see Peterson 2003:56, 66, 184. Bühler 1913:192; see also pp. 175–176, 243, and cf. Sharma 1968:8–12. On the importance of Rudradāman’s inscription, see Pollock 2006:67–70, 120, 151–152. Indeed, it is in this period that the praise portion of inscriptions is vastly increased and becomes linguistically autonomous (Brocquet 1996:486–487; see also Pollock 2006:134–148). On Aśvaghosa’s yamaka, see Warder 1974:174–175 and Johnston 1984:xc–xcii. See Ghatakarpara; Raghuvamśa of Kālidāsa 9.1–54. Tubb forthcoming. Rāmāyana of Vālmīki 1.2.17; cf. Pollock 2006:202. Yamaka is mentioned as one of the four basic literary devices in the Nātyaśāstra, an ancient treatise on dramaturgy often ascribed to the second century CE (Nātyaśāstra of Bharata 16.59–86). For extensive analyses of the early discussions of yamaka, see Sohnen 1995 and Hattori 1997. On the relation between versified poetry and yamaka, see Sohnen 1995:495. On the relative lateness of kāvya in prose, see Lienhard 1984:228. Ślesa’s namesake, the poetic quality ( guna) of harmony of sound and sense, is mentioned in the earlier treatises but seems entirely unrelated to the literary device of the same name (Nātyaśāstra of Bharata 16.97; cf. Gerow 1971:289; Raghavan 1978:263). Tieken 2006:100, however, views the two ślesas as one. Bāna, court poet of King Harsa (r. 608–645), praises the Vāsavadattā, “which broke the pride of all poets” (kavīnām agalad darpo nūnam vāsavadattayā; Harsacarita of Bāna, v. 11) (unless otherwise noted, all references to the Harsacarita are to the 1988 Chowkohamba edition of Pt. Jagannath Pathaka.). As several scholars have already observed, Bāna’s language and the context in which he praises the Vāsavadattā “make it almost certain that it is Subandhu’s novel which is meant” (Warder 1977:234; cf. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu, ed. Hall, 11–14). This was also the understanding of several of Subandhu’s commentators. Śivarāma Tripāthin, for instance, cites Bāna’s verse as praising Subandhu (Vāsavadattā of Subandhu, ed. Hall, 9). A succession of scholars who compared highly similar passages in the works of both authors also concluded, on the basis of a variety of textual criteria, that Bāna must have been the one to borrow from Subandhu (Cartellieri 1887; Thomas 1898; Singh 1979:426–447; Hueckstedt 1985:155–170). More recently, Maan Singh has convincingly argued that the Vāsavadattā could not have been written later than 608 CE. His placement of Subandhu in the fifth century, however, is more speculative (Singh 1993:5–15). For prose in early inscriptions, see Sharma 1968:8–12. For a discussion of Sanskrit works on Buddhist themes that involve prose passages, see Hahn 1977. The poetic

2. experimenting with les. a in subandhu’s prose l ab %281&

16. 17. 18.

19.

20.

21. 22. 23. 24. 25.

nature of the prose in the Lalitavistara is one of the topics of a University of Chicago dissertation currently being written by Xi He. For references to possibly earlier prose works, now lost, see Lienhard 1984:234. Gode 1953, 1954. See section 6.4 for a discussion of Subandhu’s commentators. Despite the vast appreciation of Bāna’s work in later tradition (on which see Warder 1983:46–50), only a single premodern commentary on his Harsacarita is extant, by Śa]kara (date unknown; see Kane’s notes in his 1918 edition of Harsacarita of Bāna xlix–l, although there are more written on his Kādambarī, as noted in Raghavan et al. 1968–:3:336–337). Indeed, in 1859 Hall reported that the work is “of very infrequent occurrence,” which led him to conclude wrongly that “it was never held in much esteem” (Hall 12). For the speculation that the Harsacarita as we have it is incomplete, see Winterniz 1920:367 and Hueckstedt 1985:8. It is difficult to tell whether any of the ten commentaries on Dandin’s Daśakumāracarita listed in Raghavan et al. 1968–:8:340–341 were written before the nineteenth century. For the sorry state of Dandin’s prose corpus, see section 4.2. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu, v. 13: sarasvatīdattavaraprasādaś cakre subandhuh sujanaikabandhuh | pratyaksaraślesamayaprabandhavinyāsavaidagdhanidhir nibandham || I am using R. V. Krishnamachariar’s 1906 edition as my primary source, although for each quote I also supply the location in Hall’s 1859 edition, as well as his variants, if deemed significant. Occasionally, as in the case of this verse, I will follow (or make notice) of the 1906 edition of T. V. Srinivasachariar. All references, unless otherwise specified, are to page numbers. As for this verse, it has been placed (misplaced?) by Hall at the very end of the introduction (p. 9). Krishnamachariar, who places the verse at the end of his work (p. 357), has a slightly different reading. My translation of sujana as “people of taste” is based on Vāsavadattā of Subandhu, v. 9, where Subandhu contrasts sujana with khala, his term for mean-spirited critics. Obviously the word has many other connotations. On Subandhu’s play on his own name, see also Cartellieri 1899:72. Lienhard 1984:244. Gray 1913:27; emphasis in the original. Hueckstedt 1985:9–11. For a good definition of the novel that surely excludes the Vāsavadattā, see Bakhtin 1981:10. Gray1 913:33–35. Bhāmaha’s definitions of both categories are vague and laconic. The Vāsavadattā contains several of the topics appropriate to Bhāmaha’s ākhyāyikā, and the colophons in Hall’s manuscripts A through H identify it as such (Hall 300 note 7). However, it fails to meet some of the other criteria and conforms to Bhāmaha’s definition of kathā in being told by the narrator rather than by the hero himself (Kāvyālamkāra of Bhāmaha 1.25–29; cf. Gray 1913:16). This is perhaps why the distinction is altogether dismissed by Bhāmaha’s close contemporary Dandin (Kāvyādarśa of Dandin 1.28). Another possible distinction, which is found outside the works of Sanskrit poetics as early as the dictionary of Amara (sixth century?), is based on the question whether the contents of the work are thought of as fiction (Nāmali]gānuśāsana of Amarasimha 1.6.5–6: ākhyāyikopalabdhārthā . . . prabandhakalpanā kathā). This happens to agree with the situation found in the two prose works of Subandhu’s successor, Bāna: his fictive Kādambarī is considered kathā, while his historical Harsacarita (Life of Harsa) is considered an ākhyāyikā. Labeling

%282& 2. experimenting with les. a in subandhu’s prose l ab

26.

27. 28. 29. 30. 31.

32.

33. 34. 35. 36.

37. 38. 39. 40. 41.

42. 43.

44.

45. 46. 47. 48. 49.

the Vāsavadattā a kathā therefore does little more than confirm its obvious fictitiousness. Prose is often defined by the absence of verses (e.g., Kāvyādarśa of Dandin 1.23) and only rarely by its positive attributes. Vāmana, for instance, divides prose into types according to the existence or absence of interspersed verse and the length of compounds (Kāvyālamkārasūtravrtti of Vāmana 1.3.22–25). Bhoja adds that topics such as forests are better described in prose than in verse (Raghavan 1978:348). Albrecht Weber, quoted in Hueckstedt 1985:12. Hueckstedt 1985:123. It consists of roughly 1,100 lines in Hall’s edition. Singh 1979:155; cf. Gray 1913:26; Dasgupta and De 1962:217; and Sharma 1968:219. Kalāvatī fills Kandarpaketu in on the indescribable suffering of Vāsavadattā and advises him that time is of essence: by dawn her father will marry her to another. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 306–308; Hall 238–240. In some versions Tamālikā is a mynah bird, perhaps the parrot’s lover. In others she is a human friend of Vāsavadattā. See Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 204; Hall 162; and Gray1 913:93–94. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 80–96, 189-201; Hall 67-82, 151–162. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 96–116, 308–324; Hall 82–104, 240–256. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 56–79; Hall 44–67. See Hueckstedt 1985:29, 54–70 for observations on similar aspects of sentence structuring in Bāna. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 301: ity anyonyam pranayapeśalāh pramadājanānām ālāpakathāh śrnvan kandarpaketur makarandena samam tadbhavanam prāviśat; Hall 233 (vismayam akarot). Hueckstedt 1985:157–159. See, for example, the descriptions of Vāsavadattā herself in Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 66–75, 302–305; Hall 54–61, 234–237. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 207, 313, 343; Hall 164, 243, 280. O’Flaherty 1984. See O’Flaherty 1984:65–71 for a summary of various versions of this story. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 50: yasya ca janitāniruddhalīlasya (on Kandarpaketu); 76: usām ivāniruddhadarśanasukhām (on Vāsavadattā); 195 (on Citralekhā); Hall 38, 62–63,1 57. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 350–351; Hall 292. We later learn that faced with an imminent arranged marriage, Vāsavadattā had resolved to mount a pyre if Kandarpaketu had not appeared by dawn. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 307–308; Hall 239–240. “This is no time for sermons” (nāyam upadeśakālah), he tells him, and he recounts the effects of the fire consuming him from within. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 95; Hall8 1–82. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 205; Hall 164. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 342–343; Hall 279–280. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 195: capale citralekhe citrapate vilikha cittacoram janam; Hall 157. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 122: atha tām eva priyatamām hrdayaphalake sa]kalpatūlikayā likhitām ivālokaya; Hall 107–108. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 192–193: hrdaye vilikhitam iva, utkīrnam iva, pratyuptam iva, kīlitam iva, nigalitam iva, vajralepaghatitam iva, asthipañjarapravistam iva, marmāntarasthitam iva, majjārasaśabalitam iva, prānaparītam iva, antarātmānam

2. experimenting with les. a in subandhu’s prose l ab %283&

50. 51. 52.

53. 54. 55.

56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63.

64. 65. 66. 67. 68. 69. 70.

71.

adhisthitam iva, rudhirāśaye dravībhutam iva, palalasamvibhaktam iva, kandarpaketum manyamānā; Hall 155–156. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 201: diksu vilikhitam iva, nabhasy utkīrnam iva, locane pratibimbitam iva, citrapate puro darśitam iva, tam itas tato vilokayantī; Hall 65. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 77–78: samsārabhitticitralekhām iva trailokyacittara]gasya; Hall 64–65 (trailokyasuandaryasa]ketabhūmim). Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 116: utkantho ’yam akāndacandimapatuh sphārasphuratkesarah krūrākārakarālavaktrakuharah stabdhordhvalā]gūlabhrt | citre cāpi na śakyate vilikhitum sarvā]gasamkocabhāk phītkurvadgirikuñjakuñjarabrhatkumbhasthalastho harih ||; Hall 103–104. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 1: karabadarasadrśam akhilam bhuvanatalam yatprasādatah kavayah | paśyanti sūksmamatayah sā jayati sarasvatī devī ||; Hall 2. Sharma1 968:1–13. Hueckstedt points out that Subandhu creates “contrast between long compounds without ślesa and short clauses of comparison based on ślesa” (Hueckstedt 1985:160). But it is my view that Subandhu does not mix ślesa with any sound-based device, be it alliteration or yamaka. The one possible exception to this rule is in the speech of the go-betweens (Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 250–279; Hall 194–214). But, like Srinivasachariar, I read only the nonalliterative portion of this passage as punned (Srinivasachariar 118–120). See more on this passage and its possible interpretations in section 6.4. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 167–170; Hall 138–140. Hueckstedt 1985:136–140, 144. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 109–110; Hall 95. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 153–154, 111, 213, 171, 214, 310–311; Hall 131, 98, 168, 141, 168, 242. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 63, 153, 116, 310–311; Hall 51, 131, 104, 242–243 (bhā]kāri, catacatan). Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 239; Hall 185 (omits samdoha, mukhara). This combination resonates with the alliterative depiction of the kukkutī (silkcotton tree) a few lines later (Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 328–329; Hall 264). “Its partridges, so competent in accompanying their companions, gain it fame.” Note again the echo word in the beginning of the compound. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 329; Hall 264 (a slightly different reading yields the same effect). Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 213; Hall 168. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 115, 284, 96–97; Hall 103, 218, 83 (sukha-supta). Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 327; Hall 260 (two separate compounds with some variant readings but with similar acoustic effects). I plan to discuss the more complex patterns of Subandhu’s alliterative compounds elsewhere. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 153–154; Hall 131. Layne 1979:xxv, said about Bāna’s Kādambarī. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 17–20: nrsimha iva darśitahiranyakaśipuksetradānavismayah, krsna iva krtavasudevatarpanah, nārāyana iva saukaryasamāsāditadharanīmandalah, kamsārātir iva janitayaśodānandasamrddhih, ānakadundubhir iva krtakāvyādarah, sāgaraśāyīvānantabhogicūdāmanimarīcirañjitapādah, varuna ivāśāntaraksanah, agastya iva daksināśāprasādhakah; Hall 11–13. Gray 1913:31; Singh 1979:451–452; Brocquet 1996:474–480, 485–490.

%284& 2. experimenting with les. a in subandhu’s prose l ab 72. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 22–24: vidyādharo ’pi sumanāh; dhrtarāstro ’pi gunapriyah; ksamānugato ’pi sudharmāśrayah; brhannalānubhāvo ’pi antassaralah; mahisīsambhavo ’pi vrsotpādī; ataralo ’pi mahānāyakah; Hall 14–17. 73. Salomon1 996:172–175. 74. Brocquet1 996:480–481. 75. Gerow 1971:205. 76. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 24–28; Hall 17–21. 77. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 29: rāghavah pariharann api janakabhuvam janakabhuvā saha vanam viveśa. bharato rāme darśitabhaktir api rājye virāmam akarot. nalasya damayantyā militasyāpi punarbhūparigraho jātah; Hall 21–22. 78. Pollock 1986:15–18. 79. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu, ed. Srinivasachariar, 12–13: ittham nāsti vāgavasarah pūrvataresu rājasu. api tu vacanīyatāyāh. sa punar anyo devo nyakkrtasarvorvīpaticakracaritah. Hall 22 and Krishnamachariar 30 omit api tu vacanīyatāyāh. 80. Technically these are examples of vyatireka; see Kāvyādarśa of Dandin 2.178–185 and section 7.3. 81. The picture is even more complicated, but I do not have the space here to detail fully the complex descriptive texture of the Vāsavadattā and the role it allots other units of figuration. See also Hueckstedt 1985:123–130 for Bāna’s structure. 82. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 251: dvyarthāh saprapañcā vikārabha]gurāh; Hall 195–196 (adds sersyāh). For the different interpretations of this passage, see section 6.4. 83. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 173–183; Hall 142–149. 84. The pun is repeated in the very next line as part of the parrot’s description of Kusumapura’s mansions (brhatkathālambair iva sālabhañjikopaśobhitaih) and again in the hilarious depiction of the princes in the svayamvara (kecit brhatkathānubandhina iva gunādhyāh). Vāsavadattā 123–124, 181–182; Hall 110, 147 (has only the last two). 85. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 238–239: uktair viśesanaih kavinā gadyakāvyam vivaksitam iti, svagranthaś cātra manasi krta iti ca pratīmah; Hall 184 (satkavivacanam). 86. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 108, 135, 302; Hall 94-95, (where the Chandoviciti is not mentioned by name), 119, 235. The Chandoviciti is a lost work on prosody or, as Gray 1913:7 suggested, a reference to a section of the Nātyaśāstra. 87. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 146–147; Hall 126. 88. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 113; Hall 101. Cartellieri 1899:64–65 long ago sought to identify a specific Mahābhārata verse as the reference of this ślesa. 89. The translation is by Doniger and Kakar 2002:171. 90. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 102: kāmasūtravinyāsa iva mallanāgaghatitakāntārasāmodah; Hall 89. 91. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 356; Hall 297. See also Vāsavadattā 240 for a similar jibe at Jain philosophy in the description of the night; Hall 187. 92. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 229: bauddhadarśanam iva pratyaksadravyam apahnuvānam; Hall 179. 93. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 23, 145, 139; Hall 17, 125 (omits the third pun on munis). 94. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 142–143: surānām pātāsau sa punar atipunyaikahrdayo grahas tasyāsthāne gurur ucitamārge sa niratah | karas tasyātyartham vahati śatakotipranayitām sa sarvasvam dātā trnam iva surendram vijayate ||; Hall 123. 95. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 339; Hall 275–276.

2. experimenting with les. a in subandhu’s prose l ab %285& 96. 97. 98. 99. 100.

101. 102. 103. 104. 105. 106. 107. 108. 109. 110. 111. 112.

113. 114. 115. 116. 117. 118. 119. 120. 121. 122. 123. 124.

125.

Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 340; Hall 276. Mahābhārata of Vyāsa 7.164.97ff. Becker 1995:286. Ratnaśrījñāna on Kāvyādarśa of Dandin 2.56; cf. Bronner 2007:95–98 and section 7.3. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 121: vedasyeva bhūriśākhālamkrtasya, gānikyasyevānekapallavojjvalasya; Hall omits this passage, although it is found in several manuscripts (Hall 106 note 4). Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 157–162; Hall 133–135 (minor variants). Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 232; omitted in Hall. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 84–85; Hall 72–73 (omits Śiva). Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 75–76 (Duryodhana), 152 (two comparisons with Rāvana); Hall 62, 130 (omits one of the comparisons with Rāvana). Astādhāyīsūtrapātha of Pānini 4.2.1: tena raktam rāgāt. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 302–303; Hall 234–236 (replaces satkavikāvyaracanām with bauddhasa]gatim; omits upanisadam). Rāghavapāndavīya of Kavirāja 1.41; see section 5.1. For Bāna’s place in “praise of poets,” a trope he may have pioneered, see Pollock 1995:448–451. See Dixit 1963:104 on both aspects. Hueckstedt 1985:161. This argument is often used in deciding the relative dating of the two. See Hueckstedt 1985:161–170 and note 14 above. Bāna declares, in the beginning of his Kādambarī, that the work is meant to surpass two compositions. The commentators Bhānucandra and Siddhacandra identify them with the Vāsavadattā and the Brhatkathā (Kādambarī of Bāna:v. 20, p. 7). Hueckstedt 1985:161: “The difference between Bāna and Subandhu is great.” Harsacarita of Bāna, v. 11. Harsacarita of Bāna, v. 7; cf. Karmarkar 1964:72. Harsacarita of Bāna, v. 8. For ślesas that are seen as too difficult, see section 8.3. Hueckstedt 1985:168. See Hueckstedt 1985:163–164, 179–183 for a comparison of the passages. Hueckstedt 1985:164. Hueckstedt 1 985:168. Harsacarita of Bāna 119: anicchantam api balād āropayitum iva simhāsanam sarvāvayavesu sarvalaksanair grhītam. Harsacarita of Bāna 119: grhītabrahmacaryam āli]gitam rājalaksmyā. The story is supplied by the commentator Śa]kara Kavi, Harsacarita of Bāna:119. Dandin’s examples, comparing the moon with both a good and an evil king, seem closely modeled after two passages in the Vāsavadattā: surājeva raktamandalah on the moon and kunrpatineva naksatrapathagāminā on dust rising from the battlefield (Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 245, 355; Hall 189, omits the second passage). Significantly, Srinivasachariar 115 also reads “mrdukarasahitaś ca” for the first example. For Dandin’s discussion of ślesa, see section 7.3. Singh 1979:352–353.

%286& 3. the disguise of l anguage

3. the disguise of l anguage 1. An example is Nārāyana Bhatta’s Pāñcālīsvayamvara, where Yudhisthira’s arrival at the “groom-choice” ceremony of Draupadī in the guise of a Brahmin is depicted in a single, bitextual verse (Pāñcālīsvayamvara of Nārāyana Bhatta 17). 2. Śr]gāraprakāśa of Bhoja 740. 3. Śr]gāraprakāśa of Bhoja 740. See his discussion of tantra, or speech of dual purpose (Śr]gāraprakāśa of Bhoja 492–494), which seems to include dvisandhāna. I address the higher end of Bhoja’s spectrum, namely, works that are entirely bitextual, in the following two chapters. 4. For the pattern of manuscript distribution, see De 1929:ii. 5. Kīcakavadha of Nītivarman 1.21. 6. Kīcakavadha of Nītivarman 1.7. For Lokavigraha’s grant, see Sircar 1958:331 no. 51; cf. Warder 1988:283. 7. Bronner 2000:333 note 32, contra De 1929:xii–xiv. 8. De1 929:xv–xvi. 9. De 1929:vii. 10. This, at least, is how one commentator interpreted the text (Kīcakavadha of Nītivarman 2.1): mayākrtam tat kriyate yat trasadbhir akīrtitah. Sarvānandanāga’s gloss is akīrtitah ayaśastah trasadbhir vidvadbhih pūrvapanditair yan na krtam tat punar mayā kriyate (Kīcakavadha of Nītivarman, p. 100). Other commentators chose to read mayā krtam, interpreting this, quite the contrary, as a statement of the author’s conservatism. 11. Three ślesa verses (3.1–2 and 4.39) seem to stand outside the clearly defined ślesa blocks, but they frame the process of the characters’ emergence from their disguise, as discussed later. The division of labor between yamaka and ślesa escaped De, and his misconception was replicated by later writers (e.g., Krishnamachariar 1937:370 and Lienhard 1984:223). 12. Kīcakavadha of Nītivarman 2.2–3: athāśritā matsyapatim channāh prākrtacestayā | krsnayā sahitāh pārthāh kīrtyā jagati cestayā || suśilpāny upajīvantah samprāptapratimānanāh | sukham ūsur avijñātās te śaśipratimānanāh || 13. Reading sam in samprāptapratimānanāh to mean “appropriately” or “due” (samyak), as the commentator does. I tried partly to reproduce the twinning in my translation. 14. For a discussion of the transparency of the disguises in the epic original, see Goldman 1995:90–91; cf. Biardeau 1978:187–200. 15. Kīcakavadha of Nītivarman 2.13, 24. 16. Indeed, as Hiltebeitel 1980a:194–195 points out, the position of a sairandhrī was not all that distant from that of a prostitute. 17. Hiltebeitel1 980a:186–187. 18. Hiltebeitel1 980a:181–186. 19. Kīcakavadha of Nītivarman 2.7: sā kīrtir iva pārthānām ākrāntamakarālayā | tulyādhvarānalarucā tanudhūmakarālayā || The commentator Sarvānandanāga, however, offers a different interpretation, according to which the smoke is the incense Draupadī used in her job as a hairdresser (Kīcakavadha of Nītivarman, p. 102). 20. Janārdanasena, in Kīcakavadha of Nītivarman ad 2.7: kurukulavināśapratijñānibaddhayā venyā apamānamalinayā karālatvam. 21. On the symbolism of disheveled versus braided hair, see Hiltebeitel 1980a.

3. the disguise of l anguage %287& 22. Kīcakavadha of Nītivarman 2.8: kuryād anutsukam krsnā venyā kam alinīlayā? 23. Kīcakavadha of Nītivarman 2.13. 24. Kīcakavadha of Nītivarman 2.22: katham nāgān upasthāya tesām kāmavaśā vaśā | bhajed anistaprakrtim rūksaromakharam kharam || 25. Kīcakavadha of Nītivarman 2.25, 21. 26. Kīcakavadha of Nītivarman 3.1: matsyabhaktyātinirbhrtaih ka]kādibhir upāsitām | karenur iva santaptā tām brhannalinīm yayau || 27. Kīcakavadha of Nītivarman 3.2: daivād apatram acchāyam phalārthibhir asevitam | sānujam śākhinam iva priyam vīksya ruroda sā || 28. See Mahābhārata of Vyāsa 4.15.15–22. Indeed, some commentators have noticed this aspect of Draupadī’s speech in the epic Mahābhārata: Virāta Parvan [with eight commentaries] 1915:55. 29. Kīcakavadha of Nītivarman 3.22: dandayogapravrttena cakrena krtasamsthitim | āśritā tvāyaśaskāmam pārthivam pātram āśrayam || 30. Kīcakavadha of Nītivarman 3.14: dhi] mām anātmanas te ’ham bhāryābhrātrāvamānitā | abhayam dāsyasītyuktvā sabhāyām na mrtāsmi yat || 31. Kīcakavadha of Nītivarman 3.27–29: raksopāyesu nipunah sthitāsuvyasanodaye | madvidhāsūpakāritvam tvādr] nādya katham bhajet || pātāśūro ’srjas tasya mada]gajavimardinah | simhasyeva mrgah ksudras tvam kila svayam īdrśah || madamvaradaśānto ’pi dadhyād aśivam īritah | durindriyai rajasvāms tu hrta eva tvayīdrśe || 32. Kīcakavadha of Nītivarman 4.14–16. In the epic Uttara hesitates to go on to battle. He boasts in the harem that had he only had a proper charioteer, he would have destroyed the entire enemy army. This is when Draupadī again intervenes to make one of her husbands act. She tells the prince that the eunuch Brhannala is an experienced charioteer who once drove the chariot of Arjuna himself (Mahābhārata of Vyāsa 4.34–35). 33. I return to these ślesa depictions of Arjuna in section 3.5. 34. Kīcakavadha of Nītivarman 4.39: sapatraphalayogena khagaiś citrair ala]krtah | sphuracchākhāmrgas tasya kalpavrkso ’bhavad rathah || 35. For an apologetic discussion of the so-called impersonality of Sanskrit poetry, see In galls 1965:23–27. 36. On Rāma’s lack of consciousness in Vālmīki’s poem, see Shulman 1991a:90–95. On the process of re-membering in the Abhijñānaśākuntala, see Shulman 1998; on the fluidity and change in that play’s plot, see also Gerow 1979. On the plot of Bhāravi’s Kirātārjunīya, see Peterson 2003 and Bronner 2005. 37. Shulman 1997. For another important discussion of the topic of the self in South Asian literature, see Shulman 1994. 38. Shulman 1997:73. 39. Shulman 1997:72. 40. Shulman 1997:76. 41. Shulman 1997:77–78. 42. Shulman 2006:23. 43. Shulman2 006:23–24. 44. Shulman2 006:27–28. 45. Abhijñānaśākuntala of Kālidāsa 6.4; cf. Kirātārjunīya of Bhāravi 1.46; Shulman 1998:315. 46. Think, for instance, of Rāma’s union with Sītā and his momentary realization of his true identity in the Rāmāyana. This rare moment of selfhood takes place in public:

%288& 3. the disguise of l anguage

47. 48. 49. 50.

51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58.

59. 60.

61. 62.

63.

present are his entire army, the gods descending from heaven, and even his deceased father, now residing among them. Shulman 1997:80–83, 2006:28–29. For further discussion of the role of disguise in Harsa’s plays, see Doniger 2005:29–35. On the latter episode, see Handelman and Shulman 1997:167–176. Indeed, in Shulman’s reading of Harsa’s plays, Udayana’s reembraced self is also an embodiment of Kāma, the god of love (Shulman 1997:75). Van Buitenen 1978:3–10. Some scholars have already noted the divine revelation of the Pāndavas in the Mahābhārata’s Virāta episode. Robert Goldman, for instance, pointed out that the Pāndavas “in both concealing and at the same time revealing their true identities are examples of the concept of the avatāra that underlies the work and the devotional Vaisnavism that infuses it” (Goldman 1995:96–97). Taking a cue from Madeleine Biardeau, Alf Hiltebeitel argued that the Virāta episode reveals the true divinity of the epic’s characters, in particular, Draupadī as the goddess and Arjuna as Śiva (Hiltebeitel 1980a, 1980b; cf. Biardeau 1976, 1978). He also noted that Bhīma, when clad as a woman in order to kill Kīcaka, “is acting as and for Draupadī” (Hiltebeitel 1980a:199). The same can be said of the braided Arjuna when he humiliates the Kauravas and strips them of their clothes. Thus we can think of the whole process as that of an epiphany of a bloodthirsty female divinity, resembling more a festival for a local goddess than Holī. A study of Tirupati’s Ga]gāmmā festival supports this notion. Ga]-gāmmā, like Draupadī, first manifests herself in the men of her town, who for a week impersonate her by dressing in drag. Then she is momentarily materialized in a fuller form—a red, frightening, massive image built for the occasion—before her image is taken apart, signaling the return to normal temporality (Handelman 1995). For instance, Daśaratha’s surrender to his wife’s intrigue of exiling Rāma (Śr]gāraprakāśa of Bhoja 710–711). On the difference between the moral visions of the epics, see section 5.5. Vakroktijīvita of Kuntaka 276–278. Goldman 1995:96. Dumézil 1968:93–94; van Buitenen 1978:16; Ramanujan 1991a:424–426; and Goldman1 995:92–96. Van Buitenen 1978:16; Goldman 1995:96. Goldman 1995:96. Think, for instance, of her bitextual reference to her low-birth molesters (sūtasuta, Kīcakavadha of Nītivarman 3.15) or her repeated references to the helplessness of her protectors. Kīcakavadha of Nītivarman 4.30: paroksahrtagodhanah. It also represents the duality in Bhīsma’s own position, as a general of Duryodhana who knows that the Pāndavas have been robbed of their rights. His sarcastic, hidden register thus, like Draupadī’s, reveals his true feelings. The poet ignores events that resist epicwide parallels, including the all-important marriage of Arjuna’s son to Virāta’s daughter, yielding the lineage’s successor. Like Mādhava, the garland is said to be uneven or incomplete (visama), and both are said to long for the neck of Mālatī. Note the allusion to Love (known as visamāyudha), with whom the flower garland is explicitly compared by the use of the punned kusumesu (Mālatīmādhava of Bhavabhūti ad 1.32, p. 35 in Kale’s 1967 edition). Śr]gāraprakāśa of Bhoja 740.

3. the disguise of l anguage %289& 64. 65. 66. 67. 68.

69.

70. 71. 72.

73. 74. 75. 76. 77. 78.

79. 80. 81.

82. 83.

Śr]gāraprakāśa of Bhoja 740. Śiśupālavadha of Māgha 16.1. Śiśupālavadha of Māgha 16.17, 19, 42. Śiśupālavadha of Māgha 16.8: krtagopavadhūrater ghnato vrsam ugre narake ’pi samprati | pratipattir adhahkrtainaso janatābhis tava sādhu varnyate || Śiśupālavadha of Māgha, with the commentaries of Mallinātha and Haragovinda Shastri, ad 16.2, p. 721: parahrdayaparīksāparānām dūtānām priyāpriye dve ’pi vaktavye camatkārāya tu ślesabha]gyabhidhīyete. No wonder, then, that our messenger is later referred to as “that spy” (spaśa; 17.20). Mallinātha’s primary concern, though, is to establish that technically speaking, it is ślesa alone that allows the two opposed meanings to be conveyed, and to rule out the linguistic operation of suggestion (dhvani) and the figure of speech of trick praise (vyājastuti). For the underlying theoretical difficulty of distinguishing between ślesa and related poetic devices, see section 7.2. Śiśupālavadha of Māgha 16.41–42: kuśalam khalu tubhyam eva tad vacanam krsna yad abhyadhām aham | upadeśaparāh paresv api svavināśābhimukhesu sādhavah || ubhayam yugapan mayoditam tvarayā sāntvam athetarac ca te | pravibhajya prtha] manīsayā svagunam yat kila tat karisyasi || Śiśupālavadha of Māgha, with the commentaries of Mallinātha and Haragovinda Shastri, ad 16.42, p. 744: hamsah kśīram ivāmbhasīti bhāvah. Śiśupālavadha of Māgha 16.17–19. Śiśupālavadha of Māgha 15.23–38; cf. Mahābhārata of Vyāsa 2.38.4–15, 2.42.18–20. It should be noted that there are two radically different versions of Māgha’s fifteenth chapter, in which Śiśupāla reproaches Krsna. In Mallinātha’s edition Śiśupāla sarcastically reproaches Yudhisthira and then Krsna himself (Śiśupālavadha of Māgha 15.14–38). In Vallabhadeva’s edition, however, Śiśupāla sets out to blame Krsna, but his words could be construed, on the basis of ślesa and twists of intonation, as praise indeed (Śiśupālavadha of Māgha, with the commentary of Vallabhadeva, 15.14–47). I intend to discuss this textual inconsistency elsewhere. At any rate, the criticism by Śiśupāla consists of ridiculing the official Krsna mythology in both editions. On vyājastuti, see Bronner forthcoming c. Śiśupālavadha of Māgha 16.21: sukumāram aho laghīyasām hrdayam tadgatam apriyam yatah | sahasaive samudgiranty amī . . . || Mahābhārata of Vyāsa 2.40.22. Śiśupālavadha of Māgha 16.37. McCrea forthcoming. More than fifty commentaries exist on this poem, which is widely quoted by anthologists and ālamkārikas (writers on Sanskrit poetics). For a recent study of the work and its reception, see Patel 2006. Patel 2006:20. The separate distribution of this chapter has not yet been studied. Naisadhamahākāvya of Śrīharsa 13.2: ūce yathā sa ca śacīpatir abhyadhāyi prākāśi tasya na ca naisadhakāyamāyā. Naisadhamahākāvya of Śrīharsa 13.4: śubhrāmśuhāraganahāripayodharā]kacumbīndracāpakhacitadyumaniprabhābhih | anvāsyate samiti cāmaravāhinībhir yātrāsu caisa bahulābharanārcitābhih || Malamoud forthcoming. Biardeau 1984:251.

%290& 3. the disguise of l anguage 84. Naisadhamahākāvya of Śrīharsa 13.1, 14.2; cf. Kīcakavadha of Nītivarman 3.2, 4.39, discussed earlier, in section 3.3. 85. Naisadhamahākāvya of Śrīharsa 13.25: śa]kālatātatim anekanalāvalambām vānī na vardhayatu tāvad abhedikeyam | bhīmodbhavām prati nale ca jaleśvare ca tulyam tathāpi yad avardhayad atra citram || 86. Naisadhacarita of Śrīharsa, with the commentary of Nārāyana, ad 16.26, p. 549. For a different understanding of the verse, as involving a pun on the verb vrdh (nurture/ cut), see Mallinātha’s comments on Naisadhamahākāvya of Śrīharsa 13.25. 87. Naisadhamahākāvya of Śrīharsa 13.53: itaranalatulābhāgesu śesah sudhābhih snapayati mama ceto naisadhah kasya hetoh | prathamacaramayor vā śabdayor varnasakhye vilasati carame ’nuprāsabhāsām vilāsah || 88. Bronner, Shulman, and Tubb forthcoming. 89. As in Śrīharsa’s reiteration of Nītivarman’s image of the hero as a tree (barren or wish granting), or in his image of ślesa as a word-made garland, which resonates with the garland that was the object of ślesa in Bhavabhūti’s play. 90. Śiśupālavadha of Māgha 1.69; cf. McCrea forthcoming. 91. Ramanujan1 991a:441–442.

4. aiming at t wo targets 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

8.

9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15.

16. 17.

E.g., Peterson, in the introduction to his 1889 edition of Kādambarī of Bāna, p. 36. Dasgupta and De 1962:339; see also Lienhard 1984:224. Keith 1920:138. Rāghavapāndavīya of Kavirāja 1.44; see also section 5.1. Śr]gāraprakāśa of Bhoja 492–494, 740. Śr]gāraprakāśa of Bhoja 494, 740. I discuss the dates of these authors later. Estimates range between the late sixth and the early eighth centuries. For a detailed argument for Narasimhavarman I (r. 630–c. 668) as the patron of the relief and a date after 642 for its construction, see Rabe 2001:9–58. Rabe 1997, 2001. Padma Kaimal was the first to argue in print for the relief ’s purposeful multivalence, an idea earlier entertained but rejected by Michael Lockwood (Kaimal 1994; cf. Lockwood 1982:6). Rabe2 001:62–71. Rāmāyana of Vālmīki 1.34–43; Mahābhārata of Vyāsa 3.107–109. Rabe2 001:71–74. Lockwood 1982:8; cf. Rabe 2001:74. The same is true of a similar but smaller adjacent relief, which may have served as a precursor to its colossal neighbor (Kaimal 1994:9–13; Rabe 2001:92–93). Rabe2 001:80–85. Arjuna is called Mahāhavamalla in Kirātārjunīya of Bhāravi 18.8. As Rabe notes, Pallava kings were repeatedly compared with Arjuna in panegyrics, in particular Narasimhavarman’s direct descendant, who also bore the title Mahāmalla (Rabe 2001:117–118). Rabe2 001:105–116. Rabe2 001:118–123,1 26–127.

4. aiming at t wo targets %291& 18. For the importance of alamkāra in architecture, see Desai 1975:110–111; 1996:157, 186. For music, see Shulman 2005:53–58. 19. For general discussions on visual puns, see Desai 1975:175–198; Meister 1979; Hegde 1982:181–198. For the relations between one such visual pun and verbalized ones, see Desai 1987. 20. For a generally positive assessment of Rabe’s argument, regardless of some of its particulars, see Dehejia 1997:186–191 (who does not mention Rabe but presents a similar thesis); Kaimal 2003; Peterson 2003:24; and, briefly, Schmid 2005:499 note 47. For a more skeptical review, see Garimella 2004. 21. Avantisundarī of Dandin 14–15; cf. Rabe 2001:32–50. 22. Rabe 2001:82, 115. 23. Compare Mahābhārata of Vyāsa 3.39.23 with Rāmāyana of Vālmīki 1.42.1; cf. Rabe 2001:73. 24. Avantisundarī of Dandin 9–13; cf. Gupta 1970:94–96; DeCaroli 1995:672; Onians 2005:24–25. The discussion of Dandin’s date has been linked to an ongoing debate among historians and art historians about the dating of the Ajanta caves. Walter Spink has been arguing for some years now that the Viśruta story in Dandin’s Daśakumāracarita is really a lightly disguised account of the political drama surrounding the reign of Harisena, the Vākātaka monarch who was the major patron of Ajanta (who reigned, according to Spink’s revised chronology, between c. 460 and c. 477), and that hence the Dandin who authored the Daśakumāracarita must have witnessed these events with his own eyes (Spink 2005:esp. 119–162). Th is would place this Dandin’s literary activity more than a century earlier than what we must conclude on the basis of the account of his presumably different namesake in the Avantisundarī. Whether or not the Daśakumāracarita has the historical referent that Spink argues for—a claim that some have found troubling (e.g., Heinrich von Stietencron and Hans Bakker, quoted in Spink 2005:22–26, 119)—the idea that Dandin had to witness history in order to allude to it in his fiction is strange, to say the least. The story of King Harisena was a famous one, and Dandin’s great-grandfather lived in the Vākātaka capital just around the time of his reign (DeCaroli 1995:674). I see no reason to believe that Dandin lived earlier than when he tells us he did, or, for that matter, that there were two Dandins. Indeed, some scholars believe not only that the same Dandin was the author of both the Daśakumāracarita and the Avantisundarī, but also that the two texts are in fact fragments of a single work (see the works cited in note 25 below). 25. See Raghavan 1978:821–824; Warder 1983:165–166; and Khoroche forthcoming. 26. Sūktimuktāvalī of Bhagadatta Jalhana 4.74: trayo ’gnayas trayo devās trayo vedās trayo gunāh | trayo dandiprabandhāś ca trisu lokesu viśrutāh || See Raghavan 1978:821–822 and Warder 1983:166–167 for a discussion of Dandin’s triad of works. 27. Sūktimuktāvalī of Bhagadatta Jalhana 4.75: jāte jagati vālmīkau śabdah kavir iti sthitah | vyāse jāte kavī ceti kavayaś ceti dandini || The verse is anachronistically ascribed to Kālidāsa. 28. Śr]gāraprakāśa of Bhoja 494. 29. Kāvyādarśa of Dandin 2.308–310; cf. section 7.3. 30. Dhanañjaya mentions the Jain logician Akala]ka (c. 720–780) and is quoted in Vīrasena’s commentary on the Satkhandāgama (c. 816). See Jain and Upadhye

%292& 4. aiming at t wo targets

31. 32.

33.

34.

35. 36. 37.

38. 39.

40.

41. 42. 43. 44.

45. 46.

47. 48.

1970:8–17; Mirashi 1975:4–32; Warder 1988:73; Bronner 2000:338 note 36; and Rustagi 2001:43–67, all of whom reject the earlier misidentification of Dhanañjaya by Pathak 1885. Dvisandhāna Mahākāvya of Dhanañjaya 8.45. The verse compares a longing lover with a poet of two targets and includes a pun on the word ślesa (embrace) itself. E.g., Rājaśekhara’s praise of Dhanañjaya’s skill in dual targeting (in Sūktimuktāvalī of Bhagadatta Jalhana 4.89), with a tribute to his signature pun, and Vādirājasūri’s similar remark (Śrīpārśvanāthacarita 1.26; cf. Jain and Upadhye 1970:8–9). Nāmamālā of Dhanañjaya 201–202: pramānam akala]kasya pūjyapādasya laksanam | dvisandhānakaveh kāvyam ratnatrayam apaścimam || kaver dhanañjayasyeyam satkavīnām śiromaneh pramānam nāmamāleti ślokānām hi śatadvayam || kavayah kavayaś ceti bahutvam dūram āgatam | vinivrttam cirād etat kalau jāte dhanañjaye || This verse is quoted as “Dhanañjaya’s Nighantu 2.49–50” in Viraraghavacharya 1927:182 and is repeated in Jain and Upadhye 1970:15. I have yet to locate an edition that contains it. On the popularity of Dandin in the Deccan in general and in the Kannada-speaking region in particular, see Pollock 2005a and 2006:343–344. Nāmamālā of Dhanañjaya, Anekārtha 1.2: kavīnām hitakāmyayā. On the relationship between lexicons and bitextual poetry, see section 5.2. “[Bhoja’s mention of Dhanañjaya] is a remarkable tribute from a critic and grammarian who rarely notices Jaina and Buddhist authors and might have been satisfied by mentioning Dandin here. Evidently, he was impressed by Dhanañjaya’s linguistic virtuosity and masterly style” (Warder 1988:77). See, e.g., Reich 1998. For a general discussion of Jain epics and Purānas, consult Cort 1993 and Jaini 1993. For a discussion of Jain Rāmāyanas, see Kulkarni 1990 and Ramanujan 1991b:33–35. For the Jain Mahābhārata, see Jaini 1984 and Sumitra Bai and Zydenbos 1991. As is seen in works beginning with the Harivamśapurāna of Jinasenasūri, a text completed in 783 CE and thus roughly contemporary with Dhanañjaya’s poem. On the Jain connection to the Krsna sect in Mathura and the rather ambivalent adoption of Krsna into Jain mythology, see Jaini 1984:109–110 and Cort 1993:191. Cort 1993:200. Cort1 993:195–202. Cort 1993:198. Cort 1993:199–200; Jaini 1993:211–214. Jain epics typically turn Balarāma into Krsna’s younger brother. The other seven triads of Baladevas, Vāsudevas, and Prativāsudevas did not inspire major narrative traditions. See Cort 1993:198–200 for a discussion of the moral hierarchy of the sixty-three men in general, and Sumitra Bai and Zydenbos 1991:260 for the Jain Mahābhārata. Dvisandhāna Mahākāvya of Dhanañjaya 1.5: kaver apārthāmadhurā na bhāratī katheva karnāntam upaiti bhāratī | tanoti sāla]krtilaksmanānvitā satām mudam dāśarather yathā tanuh || Pollock 1986:39–41 has noted many of these similarities and differences. Dvisandhāna Mahākāvya of Dhanañjaya 4.33–38: tam udīksya navodayasthitam paritāpo ’rkam ivābhavat tadā | bahulobharatasya bhūbhujo nijamātur dhrtarāstrajanmanah || na visāditayā yadāgamat phalasiddhim sulabhām asau tadā | pratipadya bhuvah patim varam krtakāksam ramanam tv ayācata || sakalatram upeksya satkulam kila kaikeyam akāryakāranā | nanu cety anirūpya kaitavam matim

5. bringing the ganges to the ocean %293&

49. 50. 51. 52.

53.

54. 55.

56.

57.

58. 59.

60. 61. 62. 63.

aksaikajaye ’karot prabhuh || sa parena tadājitām mahīm laghu muktvā sahasādarodaraih | svagurusthitibha]gabhīrukah prayayau bhrātrbalena kānanam || sa nivartya samanvitān nrpāms talavargān sacivān purodhasah | sthitavān pathi sītayācyuto gahanedraupadikānujānvitah || Paümacariya of Vimalasūri 31; cf. Kulkarni 1990:27–28. Rāmāyana of Vālmīki 3.16–17. This statement is a brilliant example of what Rudrata called gender ślesa (Kāvyālamkāra of Rudrata 4.9). Rāmāyana of Vālmīki 1.67; cf. Paümacariya of Vimalasūri 27 and Mahābhārata of Vyāsa 1.174–189. Dhanañjaya only briefly mentions that Rāma/Yudhisthira is wed to a beautiful wife (Dvisandhāna Mahākāvya of Dhanañjaya 3.27). The poet Kavirāja takes full advantage of such similarities (Rāghavapāndavīya of Kavirāja 2.1–34). For instance, it is Laksmana who is the object of Śūrpanakhā’s infatuation in Dhanañjaya’s poem, and hence there is no question of Rāma’s problematic toying with her. Likewise, it is Laksmana and not Rāma who eventually kills Śambu (who in Jain sources is Śūrpanakhā’s son). See Dvisandhāna Mahākāvya of Dhanañjaya 5.5–7. Dvisandhāna Mahākāvya of Dhanañjaya 13.1f.; cf. Harivamśapurāna of Jinasenasūri 2.50.32, where the messenger’s name is Ajitasena. See, for example, the descriptions of the autumn, the country girls, and the advent of summer, all of which come in lieu of the Mahābhārata narrative (Dvisandhāna Mahākāvya of Dhanañjaya 7.1–3, 7.65–72, 9.11–29). For an early instance of the Kotiśīla episode in the Jain Mahābhārata tradition, see Harivamśapurāna of Jinasenasūri 53.32–43. Here, however, the mountain lifting precedes the killing of Jarāsandha. For a Jain Rāmāyana source, see Paümacariya of Vimalasūri 48.99–125; cf. Chandra 1970:516. Dvisandhāna Mahākāvya of Dhanañjaya 12.43: dvisatām bhayena suhrdām pramudā dyunivāsinām atiśayena hareh | api sāhasair abhavat uddhrsitam nanu vastv anekavidham ekavidham || See Kuvalayānanda of Appayya Dīksita 22–23, where interestingly most of the examples concern Krsna. Dvisandhāna Mahākāvya of Dhanañjaya 11.38: ebhih śirobhir atipīditapādapīthah sa]grāmara]gaśavanarttanasūtradhārah | tam kamsamātula ihāriganam krtāntadantāntaram gamitavān na samandaśāsyah || Read samam daśāsyah for Rāvana and sa mandaśāsya for Jarāsandha. On the similar political crisis underlying the epics, see Pollock 1986:8–24 and section 5.5. Ramanujan 1991a:441–442; see also section 3.8. As far as I can see, the last mention of Karna in the poem is when, during the final battle, he is said to draw his bow and shoot an arrow. As if alarmed (bhīteva), the goddess of victory Jayaśrī leaves him (Dvisandhāna Mahākāvya of Dhanañjaya 16.14). Although this may hint at Karna’s change of fortunes, it falls short of the aforementioned “Karna-must-meet-his-end” promise in verse 1.5.

5. bringing the ganges to the ocean 1. Haravijaya of Ratnākara, granthakartuh praśasti 2, 4, 4.35; cf. Smith 1985:124. 2. For an analysis of this poem, see Bronner and McCrea 2001 and section 6.1.

%294& 5. bringing the ganges to the ocean 3. Rudrata considered simultaneous multilingualism a form of ślesa based on “sound,” and “distortive talk” an independent device called vakrokti (Kāvyālamkāra of Rudrata 4.10–23, 2.14–17). Bilingual and multilingual ślesas are of two basic kinds. One is when a poem is constructed in such a way that it appears to be in more than one language. The most famous and possibly earliest example of this is in canto 13 of Bhatti’s epic poem the Rāvanavadha (Bhattikāvya). The second kind is where two (or more) meanings are simultaneously uttered, each in a different language. Such examples are rare. Michael Hahn has argued that canto 19 of Śivasvāmin’s Kapphinābhyudaya (c. 850) is such a Sanskrit-Prakrit ślesa (Hahn 1990; cf. Kapphinābhyudaya of Śivasvāmin), but the text of this canto is too corrupt to support this claim conclusively. There is also an anonymous Sanskrit-Kannada ślesa poem from the Mysore court of the mid-eighteenth century. Excerpts of this published but rare work appear in Venkatacalashastri 1987, and I am indebted to the author for guiding me through some of these verses. 4. See appendix 1 for more detail and a discussion of the data. 5. Minkowski 2004. Instances of bidirectional verses are scattered, as Minkowski points out, in earlier kāvya works such as Māgha’s. For Ve]katādhvarin’s work, see Porcher Rāghavayādavīya 64–76. My student Ilanit Loewy Shacham has recently completed an M.A. thesis at Tel Aviv University on Ve]katādhvarin’s poem and similar works (Loewy Shacham 2007). 6. Dhvanyāloka of Ānandavardhana 226–227; cf. Ingalls, Masson, and Patwardhan 1990:278–279. 7. The only Jain work that does not follow this pattern is Sūrācārya’s Nemināthacarita, perhaps highlighting the fact that this poem is unique in also being an extended palindrome (See Jain and Upadhye 1970:10–11 for a brief but good discussion of the sources that mention this lost work). 8. Varma 2005:763. 9. Rāghavapāndavīya of Kavirāja 1.41: subandhur bānabhattaś ca kavirāja iti trayah | vakroktimārganipunāś caturtho vidyate na vā || Translated in Bronner, Shulman, and Tubb forthcoming. 10. Pārvatīrukminīya of Vidyāmādhava 1.15, third folio, ms. 11606, Madras Oriental Library: bānah subandhuh kavirājasamjño vidyāmahāmādhavapanditaś ca | vakroktidaksāh kavayah prthivyām catvāra ete na hi pañcamo ’sti || Translated in Bronner, Shulman, and Tubb forthcoming. 11. I discuss “crooked speech” (vakrokti) and ślesa’s role in it in section 7.3. For the triad including Dandin and the tetrad created by the addition of Dhanañjaya, see sections 4.2 and 4.3, respectively. 12. Minkowski 2004:328 note 17. 13. Rāghavapāndavīya of Kavirāja 1.39: padam ekam api ślistam vaktum bhūyān pariśramah | kathādvayaikyanirvodhuh kim dharāpatito ’dhikam || 14. Kosalabhosalīya of Śesācalapati, Sarasvati Mahal Library, Tanjore, Tanjore ms. 4233, v. 5: sāyāsam kavanam tato ’pi kathinam kāvyam tato rūpakam tasmād dhvanyam atah [dhanyamatah?] padadhvanir asau vāgvaikharījīvitam | tad rāmāyanabhāsimajjayakathām jalpāndhravākpānine [alternative reading: ślistārthe niyatām [kriyatām?] esa caritam daksendravākpānini] śrīśesācalapatyamātya kuśalo ’stīty āha śāhādhipah || This should be taken only as a provisional translation, given the many mistakes in the paper manuscripts (the palm leaf is in bad condition and could not be consulted). Still,

5. bringing the ganges to the ocean %295&

15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21.

22. 23.

24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37.

38.

the overall meaning of establishing ślesa as an extreme type of poetic composition is clear. One of the paper manuscripts even introduces the verse with the title kāvyatāratamyaviveka (an analysis of the relative importance of poetic types). Vogel 1979:325. Vogel1 979:325–348. Vogel 1979:325–348. The list of such works in the period is of similar length to that of the anekārthakosas. Vogel1 979:331–334. Kāvyakalpalatā of Arisimha48 –105. Vogel 1979:304 note 5; Viraraghavacharya 1934:369. Kāvyālamkāra of Rudrata 4.35: śabdānuśāsanam aśesam avetya samyag ālocya laksyam adhigamya ca deśabhāsāh | yatnād adhītya vividhān abhidhānakosāñ ślesam mahākavir imam nipuno vidadhyāt ||; emphasis added. The reference to the vernaculars is apropos of Rudrata’s category of bilingual ślesa. drstvā kośadaśadvayīm. The commentator’s name is Nārāyana, as quoted in Gode 1953:264–265. For more on the commentaries on the Vāsavadattā, see section 6.4. Only the first two chapters of this work are extant. See Rāghavanaisadhīya of Haradatta Sūri; cf. Krishnamachariar 1937:194. For a brief discussion of the phenomenon of self-commentaries, see section 6.1. Trikāndaśesa of Purusottamadeva 1.1.2 and p. 5, note 2, which explains the term alaukika in this context. Trikāndaśesa of Purusottamadeva 3.5.25: drstaprayogā ye śabdāh prāyas ta iha kīrtitāh | aprayuktās tūtpalinyādidrstā apy upeksitāh || Vogel 1979:308. Ghatage 1973:30–32. Ghatage, Mehendale, and Devasthali 1973:30. There are thirty-one meanings under entry 10 (ending with “etc.”) and another dozen in entry 13. Ghatage, Mehendale, and Devasthali 1973:30. Ghatage 1973:38. See, for example, Ekāksaranāmakosasamgraha 1964:80. For Amara’s assumed date, see Vogel 1979:309–310. Pollock’s relevant publications include Pollock 1998, 2001c, and 2003a:91–102. The most comprehensive argument is found in Pollock 2006:283–436. Pollock 2003a:100; 2001c:401; 2006:295. Bronner and Shulman 2006:27–29. See also Bronner and Shulman 2009:xix–lxviii. See Haraprasad Śāstri’s introduction to Rāmacaritam of Sandhyākaranandin 1969:xxvi. Vanavāsi, the Kadamba capital, was a major site of Kannada literary production in the late twelfth and early thirteenth centuries. The great Kannada poet Āmdayya, to give just one example, was Kavirāja’s contemporary and was supported by the same court as he was (Samagra Kannada Sahitya Caritre 1976:515). I am grateful to Sheldon Pollock for this reference. The seven-target poem is not to be confused with Hemacandra’s Dvyāśrayakāvya. This work narrates the lives of the author’s two patron-kings while at the same time illustrating the rules drawn from his Sanskrit and Prakrit grammars. Despite its simultaneous goals, this is not a ślesa work per se. For ślesas in Pali, however, see Collins2 003:670–671,6 76–677.

%296& 5. bringing the ganges to the ocean 39. Narayana Rao 2003:423–424. 40. See Narayana Rao and Shulman forthcoming. 41. Narayana Rao and Shulman 2006:xiii. Pi]gali Sūranna himself notes that tradition has it that Bhīmana Kavi also composed such a poem, which has been lost (Rāghavapāndavīya of Pi]gali Sūranna, Pīthika, v. 11). As V. Narayana Rao informed me in a personal communication, nothing remained from Bhīmana, who may well have been a construction of tradition in Pi]gali Sūranna’s time. 42. Rāghavapāndavīya of Pi]gali Sūranna, Pīthika, v. 10: rendarthambula padyam’ okkatiyu nirmimpamaga śakyambu gāk’ undun dadgati gāvyam’ ellan agunēn ōhōy anan jeyadē pandityambunan andunun denugu kabbamb adbhutamb andru da ksundevvād’ ila rāmabhāratakathal jōdimpa bhāsākrtin.

43. 44. 45. 46. 47.

48. 49.

50. 51. 52.

53.

54.

55.

I am deeply indebted to V. Naranaya Rao for his help with this and the remaining Telugu quotes in this section. See note 13 above. For another instance of resonance between the two poets, see note 52 below. Chagam 2007:13–15. This work seems to be no longer available. Chagam2 007:12–48. Table 5.2 does not include the work reportedly composed by Bhīmana, on which see note 41 above. For more information on these works, see appendix 2. The other work is the Acalātmajāparinayamu by Śrī Tirumala Bukkapattanam Ve]katācāryulu, written in the eighteenth century (see Chagam 2007:18–22 and appendix 2). Note that Vidyāmādhava’s thirteenth-century Sanskrit work the Pārvatīrukminīya narrates the stories of a different pair of goddesses, Pārvatī and Rukminī. This genre is the subject of Dorasāmiśarma 1968. Chagam 2007:23–24. Another work whose poet compared his opponent with Rāvana is the Khilakarnavisāyanarāmāyanamu by Pannāla Brahmanna, composed in 1880 (Chagam 2007:27–28). Chagam 2007:22, 34–35. Chagam2 007:31–34. Pi]gali Sūranna himself lists his bitextual techniques in the introduction to his poem. Although he clearly follows Kavirāja’s example discussed later (Rāghavapāndavīya of Kavirāja 1.37–38), he explicitly states that some of his ślesas are Sanskrit based and others Telugu made (Rāghavapāndavīya of Pi]gali Sūranna, Pīthika, v. 17). This statement is indeed accurate. Tami[āci 1980:151–154; cf. Nākarācan 1983:181–236. I am indebted to my colleague ¯ Sascha Ebeling for these references and for the conversations we had regarding the Tamil materials. Consider the Tamil word ca]kam. Muttuppulavar uses it to mean both “conch” in the ocean register and “legions” while addressing the beloved hero in Camuttiravilācam 3. Ca]kam is the Tamil fusion of two unrelated Sanskrit words, śa]kha and samgha. It is only in Tamil, given this language’s unique phonetics, that the two become homophones. Thus in creating ślesas, Muttuppulavar and his fellow poets exploit grammatical, syntactic, phonetic, and lexical features that are unique to Tamil. For more on Tamil’s potential for ślesas, see Ebeling forthcoming. Venkatachalapathy2 006:36–37.

5. bringing the ganges to the ocean %297& 56. See the detailed account of the poet’s training in Ebeling forthcoming. 57. For instance, in his Acalātmajāparinayamu, Śrī Tirumala Bukkapattanam Ve]katācāryulu proudly reports that his father was given the title Prabandhaparameśvaraślesayamakacakravarti (Chagam 2007:18–19). 58. For the particularly multilingual literary scene at the Maratha court, see Peterson forthcoming. 59. In fact, none of the works in appendix 1 can be placed between 1300 and 1600, although eight of the listed works are of unknown date, and the list itself is most probably partial. 60. Minkowski 2 004. 61. Krishnamachariar 1937:194. 62. For information on Kavirāja’s background, see Pathak 1905; Krishnamachariar 1937:187–188; and K. A. Nilakanta Sastri 1976. As for the distribution of his work, the archive of the New Catalogus Catalogorum (NCC) in Chennai holds records of at least fifty manuscripts from almost every part of South Asia. 63. Nine commentaries are listed in Aufrecht 1891–1903:1:499 and 2:107, the most popular of which seem to be the Prakāśa of Śaśadhara (or Śaśidhara), printed in the Kāvyamālā series in 1897, and Laksmana Pandita’s Sāracandrikā, printed in the rare Grantharatnamālā series (1887–1892). Two additional commentaries have entries in the archive of the NCC, one of which, the Kapātavipātīkā of Premacandra Tarkavāgīśa, was published in 1925 by the Sanskrit Press in Calcutta. To these we should add the modern commentary of Dāmodar Jhā, printed in 1965. The NCC archive records four additional commentaries on a Rāghavapāndavīya without specifying whether this is Kavirāja’s text. 64. Mishra 1993 provides a description of the work. 65. Dasgupta and De 1962:340–341; cf. Krishnamachariar 1937:189. 66. Rāghavapāndavīya of Kavirāja 1.37–38: prāyah prakaranaikyena viśesanaviśesyayoh | parivrttyā kvacit tadvad upamānopameyayoh || kvacit padaiś ca nānārthaih kvacid vakroktibha]gibhih | vidhāsyate mayā kāvyam śrīrāmāyanabhāratam || All quotes are based on Dāmodar Jhā’s 1965 edition. 67. Rāghavapāndavīya of Kavirāja 6.5–7. 68. Rāghavapāndavīya of Kavirāja 1.60: tapasvinaś channatanoh śarena vibhinnamūrter janakān mahādheh | śāpam sutāpāyanibaddhamrtyum priyānuvrttau kuśalo ’py avāpa || For a conarration of the same two incidents based entirely on Telugu morphology, see Rāghavapāndavīya of Pi]gali Sūranna 1.25. 69. This syntactic ambiguity is also morphological: tapasvinah could be both the genitive and the ablative case of the word “ascetic.” 70. Rāghavapāndavīya of Kavirāja 1.70. This is in contrast to Dhanañjaya’s poem, where the generic narrative dictates the extension of Janaka’s life well beyond the point of his death, at least when compared with the Hindu sources (Dvisandhāna Mahākāvya of Dhanañjaya 3.26). 71. For the Śūrpanakhā episode, see Rāmāyana of Vālmīki 3.16–17. The Urvaśī episode was relegated to an appendix by the editors of the Mahābhārata’s critical edition (Mahābhārata of Vyāsa 1933–1973:4:1047–1053). 72. Rāghavapāndavīya of Kavirāja 4.8: vaisamyena hi pumnāryor ghatanā mrtajīvikā. 73. Rāghavapāndavīya of Kavirāja 4.10: sā sarvalokair api duspradharsā vilaksyatām prāpya tadātadarhā | tatpaurusasya pratirodhakāni vyāhrtya vākyāni vinirjagāma ||

%298& 5. bringing the ganges to the ocean 74. This, at least, is Dāmodar Jhā’s understanding of the Rāmāyana register: vyāhrtya uktvā kharadūsanābhyām iti śesah (Rāghavapāndavīya of Kavirāja 116). 75. Erndl 1991. 76. See section 4.5. 77. Compare Rāmāyana of Vālmīki 3.45–46 with Mahābhārata of Vyāsa 3.252. 78. Mahābhārata of Vyāsa 3.257.10, translated in van Buitenen 1975:727. 79. Rāghavapāndavīya of Kavirāja 5.51: so ’ksarandhanasamgītaharigotrāvalambanaih | tatkarmabhih svam krtinam vibhāvasvanvayo ’smarat || Read aksaram separately for the first register and aksa-randhana-samgīta-hari-gotrâvalambanaih for the second. 80. Rāghavapāndavīya of Kavirāja 5.53: dāroparodhena krtāparādham ranodyatam bhrātrjanena sārdham | mūrchadyaśodundubhiśatrum enam sa kīcakam dāvam iva vyamathnāt || 81. For Vālin’s death, see Rāmāyana of Vālmīki 4.14–18; cf. Masson 1975; Shulman 1979:651–659. For Kīcaka’s, see Mahābhārata of Vyāsa 4.21 and section 3.3. 82. Rāghavapāndavīya of Kavirāja 1.33: audārye raghunāthadharmasutayos tatsodarānām punah saubhrātre patidevatāvratavidhau prthvīsutākrsnayoh | śrīrāmāyanabhāratārnavakrtesv ākhyānaratnesu ca śreyān samprati kāmadevanrpatih kautūhalī vartate || 83. Bāna is a notable exception; he praises Vyāsa but not Vālmīki (Harsacarita of Bāna 1.3; cf. Pollock 1995). 84. Dhvanyāloka of Ānandavardhana 529–530; cf. Tubb 1991; McCrea 2008a:110–111. 85. Shulman 1991b:12, 14, 17. 86. The Pāndavas and the Kauravas are technically cousins, but the Sanskrit kinship term bhrātr applies to brothers, half brothers, and cousins of the same generation. 87. Pollock1 986:9–19. 88. Rāmāyana of Vālmīki 2.9.34. On the hideousness of the hunchback and its relevance, see also Pollock 1986:28; 1991:72. 89. Pollock 1993:283. On “othering” as built into the humiliation of Vālmīki’s heroine, Sītā, see also Pollock 1991:68. 90. Pollock1 986:10–13,2 3–24. 91. See, for example, Pollock 1991:80–82, on the conscious construction of the Rāmāyana’s Śūrpanakhā episode against the Mahābhārata’s story of Hidimbā. 92. Pollock1 986:25–32. 93. The examples of later refinements of the Rāmāyana are numerous and even noted by theorists (e.g., Śr]gāraprakāśa of Bhoja 710–711), as discussed in section 3.5. For the effects of kāvya on the epic and the Purānas, see, for example, the case of the Kumārasambhava, as discussed by Winterniz 1920:58 note 1; Tubb 1979:205–206; and others. 94. See Bronner forthcoming a. 95. For the Sundarakānda, see Goldman and Sutherland 1996:79–83; for the Virātaparvan, see Goldman and Sutherland 1996:81–82 note 317. Volume 5 editor Raghu Vira calls the Virātaparvan “the ma]gala of the Mahābhārata recitation” (Mahābhārata of Vyāsa 1933–1973:5:xvii), and Shulman 1985:257 notes that Villiputtūrār’s Tamil Virāta is recited as a means of bringing down rain during drought. 96. Mahābhārata of Vyāsa 4.20.9–10. 97. Arjuna’s emblem, a golden monkey with a lion’s tail, is said to be the wizardry of Viśvakarman, to which the God of Fire adds a host of frightening creatures. Karna

6. les. a as reading pr actice %299& brags that he can reduce the monkey and these creatures to dust, but he fails to do so, and they roar, participate in the battle, and are even hurt by Bhīsma’s arrows (Mahābhārata of Vyāsa 4.41.3–4, 43.17–18, 48.4, 48.21–22, 59.7). There is no mention of the monkey’s name in the text of the critical edition, although verse 794* clearly identifies him as Hanumān and directly alludes to the Rāmāyana’s Sundara (la]keśavanāriketur). There is also a famous episode in the Āranyakaparvan, possibly also a later addition, where Hanumān tests Bhīma, who, like him, is Wind’s son. On parting, Hanumān promises to occupy Arjuna’s banner and scare his enemies with his roars (Mahābhārata of Vyāsa 3.150.15). 98. See, for example, Pāratam of Villiputtūrār 4.61; cf. Shulman 1985:274. 99. Rāghavapāndavīya of Kavirāja 6.20: tato hanūmān vijayā]kabhūtasvarena ghorena nadan paresām | lā]gūlalagnena hutāśanena dadāha la]kām iva cittavrttim || 100. Rāghavapāndavīya of Kavirāja 1.8–9, 40, 44: anyo vidhātā vālmīkir ādikāvyam kamandaluh | raghunāthakathā ga]gā tayā pūtā jagattrayī || dvaipāyano ’paro brahmā tatsrstir bhāratārnavah | sūktayo divyaratnāni trailokyam tair ala]krtam || śrīmadrāmāyanam ga]gā bhāratam sāgaro mahān | tatsamyojanakāryajñah kavirājo bhagīrathah || manojñarāmāyanabhāratākhyabhāgīrathīsāgarasamnipāte | santah prakurvantv avagāhalīlām asminn aghacchedini kāvyatīrthe || Translated in Bronner, Shulman, and Tubb forthcoming.

6. slesa as reading pr actice 1. For Lava]gikā’s praise (aho vaidagdhyam), see Mālatīmādhava of Bhavabhūti 35. For Śiśupāla’s artful ( pratibhānavān) messenger and his speech as a test to Krsna, see Śiśupālavadha of Māgha 16.2, 41–42. The works of Bhavabhūti and Māgha are discussed in section 3.6 and the “Five Nalas” section of Śrīharsa’s Naisadhacarita is discussed in section 3.7. 2. Naisadhamahākāvya [= Naisadhacarita] of Śrīharsa 22.152. 3. Ślesa authors who provided their texts with self-composed commentaries include Cidamabarakavi, the seventeenth-century author of the Pañcakalyānacampū (his father added the gloss to his Rāghavapāndavayādavīya); Haradatta Sūri, the eighteenth-century author of the Rāghavanaisadhīya; and Anantakavi, of unknown date, author of the Rāghavayādavapāndavīya (see appendix 1 for more information). The same is true of the sixteenth-century Rāmacandra, author of the eroticascetic Rasikarañjana. The latter work is, strickly speaking, not a poem of two narrative targets, and hence not listed in the appendix. 4. See, for example, Rāghavapāndavīya of Kavirāja 1.37–38 and Rāghavapāndavīya of Pi]gali Sūranna, Pīthika, v. 17, discussed in sections 5.4 and 5.3, respectively. 5. Śiśupālavadha of Māgha 16.1; Kīcakavadha of Nītivarman 3.6. 6. Vyaktiviveka of Mahimabhatta 425, 478–480; cf. McCrea 2008a:431–438. 7. Bronner and McCrea 2001:440–457. 8. Vakroktipañcāśikā of Ratnākara 8, 16, and 28, to give but a few examples. 9. Booth1 979:235–256. 10. Already in the Rgveda Indra turns Tvastr’s curse into a blessing by taking advantage of the latter’s inadvertent misplacement of the accent (Rig-Veda-Sanhitā 1.32.6; cf. Vyākaranamahābhāsya of Patañjali, vol. 1, p. 30). An example from the poetic realm is found in one of Bhavabhūti’s plays, where a goddess twists the prayers of those

%300& 6. les. a as reading pr actice

11. 12.

13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19.

20.

21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28.

29. 30. 31.

who intend to sacrifice a human (Mālatīmādhava of Bhavabhūti 5.23). This, at least, is how the commentator Pūrnasarasvatī (sometimes referred to as Pūrnasarasvati) understands the passage (Mālatīmādhava of Bhavabhūti, pp. 293–294 in the 1953 University of Travancore edition; cf. Warder 1983:292). For a preliminary discussion of this genre, see Bronner and McCrea 2001:436–440, 457. The quotes are from Vakroktijīvita of Kuntaka 220 and Kāvyālamkāra of Rudrata 4.35 (see chapter 5, note 21 for the text of the latter). For a similar statement, see Śr]gāraprakāśa of Bhoja 740. The most elaborate discussion is in Raghavan 1978:203–243. Kāvyaprakāśa of Mammata 272: yāvakarasārdrapādaprahāraśonitakacena dayitena | mugdhā sādhvasataralā vilokya paricumbitā sahasā || Kāvyaprakāśa of Mammata 298: sāyakasahāyabāhor makaradhvajaniyamitaksamādhipateh | abjarucibhāsvaras te bhātitarām avanipa ślokah || E.g., Ratnāvalī of Harsa 1.8 and other verses from Harsa’s plays discussed in section 3.4. Kāvyaprakāśa of Mammata 419: aprayuktanihatārthau ślesādāv adustau. See verse 302 on the same page. Kāvyaprakāśa of Mammata 318: śritaksamā raktabhuvah śivāli]gitamūrtayah | vigrahaksapanenādya śerate te gatāsukhāh || See Kāvyaprakāśa of Mammata 423 for a verse that, although marked by the fault of doubtful meaning (samdigdham), is nonetheless seen as a legitimate instance of “false praise” (vyājastuti). For more on vyājastuti, see Bronner forthcoming c. Kāvyaprakāśa of Mammata 299: kuvindas tvam tāvat patayasi gunagrāmam abhito yaśo gāyanty ete diśi diśi ca nagnās tava vibho | śarajjyotsnāgaurasphutavikatasarvā]gasubhagā tathāpi tvatkīrtir bhramati vigatācchādanam iha || For a good historical account of the discourse on obscenity, see Dwivedi 1981. Kāvyaprakāśa of Mammata 277; cf. Kāvyālamkārasūtravrtti of Vāmana 2.1–2. Dwivedi 1981:75. Kāvyaprakāśa of Mammata 324; cf. Kāvyālamkāra of Bhāmaha 1.49. Kāvyaprakāśa of Mammata 333. Kāvyālamkāra of Bhāmaha 1.52. Kāvyaprakāśa of Mammata 278: sādhanam sumahad yasya yan nānyasya vilokyate | tasya dhīśālinah ko ’nyah sahetārālitām bhruvam || The same is true for his example of vāyu (wind) as an obscene reference for passing gas. Mammata does not seem to prohibit the usage of this extremely common word. Rather, he is worried about its use in connection with the verb dā (to give). It is the conjuncture of these two words that brings to mind the sense of “passing wind,” rather than the word vāyu in itself (Kāvyaprakāśa of Mammata 278). See Jhalakikar’s discussion of Kāvyaprakāśa of Mammata 278. Kāvyaprakāśa of Mammata 300: bhūpater upasarpantī kampanā vāmalocanā | tattatpraharanotsāhavatī mohanam ādadhau || Kāvyaprakāśa of Mammata 421: karihastena sambādhe praviśyāntarvilodite | upasarpan dhvajah pumsah sādhanāntar virājate || As Jhalakikar explains, the “elephant trunk” maneuver is a technical term from the manuals of sex, “when a man employs his middle finger, conjoined with the index and ring fingers, in order to loosen up a stiff vagina” (karihasto nāma kathinayoniśaithilyāpādako bahiskrtamadhyamā]gulīkah samyuktatarjanyanāmikārūpah).

6. les. a as reading pr actice %301& 32. Kāvyaprakāśa of Mammata 420: aślīlam kvacid gunah. yathā suratārambhagosthyām “dvyarthaih padaih piśunayec ca rahasyavastu” iti kāmaśāstrasthitau. 33. Wives of semidivine beings who often haunt the earth. 34. Meghadūta of Kālidāsa, v. 14: adreh śr]gam harati pavanah kim svid ity unmukhībhir drstotsāhaś cakitacakitam mugdhasiddhā]ganābhih || sthānād asmāt sarasaniculād utpatoda]mukhah kham di]nāgānām pathi pariharan sthūlahastāvalehān || 35. Based on Daksināvartanātha’s comments on Meghasandeśa of Kālidāsa, v. 14. 36. As Daksināvartanātha puts it: svaprabandhasyāpūrvārthābhidhāyitvam (Meghasandeśa of Kālidāsa, p. 36). 37. The plural in the reference to the philosopher should be taken as respectful ( pūjāyām bahuvacanam), as explained later by Mallinātha (Meghadūta of Kālidāsa, p. 12 in the 1906 edition by Wâsudev Laxman Shâstrî Fansîkar). 38. E.g., Vāsavadattā of Subandhu, v. 10, offers a pun on sārasa, a derivation of sarasa. 39. See, for example, p. 50 of Unni’s introduction to Meghasandeśa of Kālidāsa. 40. Meghadūta of Kālidāsa, with commentary by Mallinātha 12: niculo nāma mahākavih kālidāsasya sahādhyāyah parāpāditānām kālidāsaprabandhadūsanānām parihartā. 41. Based on Mallinātha’s comments on Meghadūta of Kālidāsa, v. 14. 42. Meghadūta of Kālidāsa, with commentary by Mallinātha 12: svaprabandham ātmānam vā prati kaver uktih. 43. Mallinātha seems to think of this as suggestion based on the power of words (śabdaśaktimūladhvani). On the difficulty in telling this category from ślesa, see section 7.2. 44. For examples of this tendency, see Mālavikāgnimitra of Kālidāsa 1.2 and Meghadūta of Kālidāsa 5. 45. Tamal 2008. 46. Meghadūta of Kālidāsa, with commentary by Narahari 6: asmin granthe kecic chlokāh pratimāvākyam. kecid indradyumnavākyam. kecit kavivākyam. Cf. Tamal 2008:33–35. 47. Meghadūta of Kālidāsa, with commentary by Narahari 1: na tu megho yaksasya dūto bhavitum arhati. śāpe dātavye varsabhogyatve ca ko hetuh? ko vā tasyāparādhah? katham granthe na nibaddhah? tadvarnane vā kim prayojanam? mūlam ca nāsti. tasmāt tat sarvam ayuktataram. śrījagannāthopavarnanam hanti cāgham purusārtham śrotrśrāvakayoh. Cf. Tamal 2008:45. 48. For a brief discussion of this corpus, see Lienhard 1984:120–128. 49. Meghadūta of Kālidāsa, with commentary by Narahari 2; cf. Tamal 2008:22. 50. Reading ucchrāya (height), a common variant for utsāha (rise, effort) in the manuscripts. 51. Based on Narahari’s comments on Meghadūta 1.14 in Meghadūta of Kālidāsa, with commentary by Narahari 16–17. 52. Narahari offers other explanations too, none of which really exculpates the siddhas from the visual illusion and the ensuing fear. 53. Meghadūta of Kālidāsa, with commentary by Narahari 16: śrīnīlādrer adhityakāyā navāmbuvrstyā sarasaniculāt. 54. Meghadūta of Kālidāsa, with commentary by Narahari 17. 55. For the regional nature of Narahari’s commentary, see Tamal 2008:42–44. 56. The information here is based on Gode 1953, 1954. On Jagaddhara, see Krishnamachariar 1937:614 note 1 and Raghavan et al. 1968–:7:130–131.

%302& 6. les. a as reading pr actice 57. Gode 1954:184. This is said about the commentary of Vāsudeva, but it is true of all the other commentaries that Gode has looked at. 58. drstvā kośadaśadvayīm (Gode 1953:264, 265 note 1). 59. yat samdigdham atiślistam klistam cāmūlabhāsitam | tadbodhārtham asau yatnah . . . (Gode 1953:272 note 3). 60. ślistārthasya viśistatā (Gode 1953:264). 61. santah santi mahatyo vaśyo bahvarthasārthakās tīkāh | . . . vikhyātākhyāyikāvyākhyām ākhyātur mama ko gunah | nādhikārthapraveśaś cen nāsadarthasya ca ksayah || (Gode 1954:183). 62. Contrast this with the instructions of the lovelorn Vāsavadattā to her friends, as well as with the chatter of her attendants when Kandarpaketu enters her house; Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 194–196, 289–301; Hall 156–157, 223–233. For the latter passage, see section 2.2. 63. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 250– 251: atrāntare ’bhisārikāsārthapresitānām priyatamān prati dūtīnām dvyarthāh saprapañcā vikārabha]gurāh samvādā babhūvuh. Hall 194–196 adds sersyāh (revealing jealously). 64. Further research is needed to identify the commentators in this group and its extent. One anonymous member is quoted disapprovingly by Krishnamachariar (Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 251). Another is the twentieth-century commentator Srinivasachariar, who very clearly marks the distinction and says, just before the yamaka is introduced, athedānīm saprapañcāh (Srinivasachariar 120). 65. See sections 2.3 and 3.2 for the division of labor between rhyming devices and ślesa in Subandhu and Nītivarman, respectively. 66. His date is given in Gode 1953:272. 67. Hall 193. 68. Gray 1913:104 note 12; Hueckstedt 1985:132. 69. In the different editions there are slight variations in this sentence, but because these do not really bear on the interpretive problem at hand, I will ignore them and stick to Śivarāma’s reading as found in Hall 203. 70. As summarized by Krishnamachariar: visrjya kopam tvatpreyasīm matsakhīm yathāpuram bhajasveti bhāvah (Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 261). 71. Srinivasachariar 120; cf. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 251, where Krishnamachariar reports: rājasenetyārabhya saprapañcāh samvādāh . . . iti kaścit. 72. The first two options are given by Śivarāma (Hall 202); the third is Krishnamachariar’s and is possible only if we follow his word order: rājasena rājasena rahito rahito dhruvam (Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 261–262). 73. Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 259, 279–280. 74. The same phenomenon is seen also in the commentarial treatment of a few other isolated passages in the Vāsavadattā, in par ticular, verses 2 and 10 of the benediction. See Krishnamachariar’s discussion in Vāsavadattā of Subandhu 3–6, 11–15. 75. Foucault 1973:xvi; Lopez 1996:242. 76. Minkowski2 005:225–226. 77. It is worth noting that authorial allegories exist in Sanskrit poems, and that Sanskrit poetic theorists have discussed these as instances of figures of speech such as anyokti and aprastutapraśamsā. 78. Goldman 1992:102–103. For a discussion of the plot of the Virātaparvan (Book of Virāta) see section 3.1.

6. les. a as reading pr actice %303& 79. Mahābhārata: Virāta Parvan [with eight commentaries] of Vyāsa 4.7.12, p. 28; cf. Goldman 1992:102. 80. Mahābhārata: Virāta Parvan [with eight commentaries] of Vyāsa ad 4.3.6, p. 11: aśvesu nāsti śvo yesām te śūrāh samare trnīkrtaprānās tesv adhikrto mukhya iti gūdhāśayah. Cf. Goldman 1992:103. 81. Minkowski 2005:235. For similar techniques for finding Muslim symbolism in the Krsna story cycle, see Alam 2003:181. 82. Goldman1 992:100–101. 83. Rāmāyana of Vālmīki, with commentaries by Govindarāja, Rāmānuja and Maheśvaratīrtha: Maheśvaratīrtha ad 1.2.15. 84. The translation is by Goldman 1992:101, who also cites the text: tenārthatah śabdato vāpi manāk kāvyārthasūcanam ity ukteh śrīrāmakrtarāvanavadharūpakāvyārthah kāvyādāv avaśyakartavyāśīrvādaś ca sūcita iti. 85. On verses with 100 meanings, see Krishnamachariar 1937:193 and Jain and Upadhye 1970:5. 86. A longer and rather different version of this section is given in Bronner 1998. 87. Dhvanyāloka of Ānandavardhana 325; translation by Ingalls, Masson, and Patwardhan 1990:421. 88. Most of the manuscripts of Ravicandra’s commentary are in Bengali script and are found in the Bengal area. He could not have composed it later than 1808, when the first edition of the Amaruśataka was published in Calcutta with his commentary. 89. Amaruśataka of Amaruka, with commentary by Ravicandra 1, lines 8–9: kva cātikarkaśah śāntah kva cātilalitah śucih | ekatra vākye vyākhyātus tāv aho kauśalam kaveh || 90. For a very brief discussion of these works, see Bronner 1998:246–248. 91. Skanda is the third god in Arjunavarmadeva’s edition (Amaruśataka of Amaruka, with commentary by Arjunavarmadeva 6). 92. Bonner 1991:202. 93. Amaruśataka of Amaruka, with commentary by Ravicandra 2–3. 94. On avadhūtas in eastern India, see Dimock 1966:46–48. 95. Amaruśataka of Amaruka, with commentary by Ravicandra 4–5. 96. Amaruśataka of Amaruka, with commentary by Ravicandra 7. 97. Amaruśataka of Amaruka, with commentary by Ravicandra v. 9, p. 14: praharaviratau madhyevāhnas tato ’pi pare ’thavā kimuta sakale yāte vāhnipriyatvam ihaisyasi | iti dinaśataprāpyam deśam priyasya yiyāsato harati gamanam bālālāpaih sabāspagalajjalaih || 98. For a detailed analysis of Ravicandra’s reading of this verse, see Bronner 1998:238– 239, 255 note 23. For more examples, see Bronner 1998:236–242 and Radhakrishnan 1998. 99. Amaruśataka of Amaruka, with commentary by Arjunavarmadeva 1–4. 100. This is half of a verse cited from Ānandavardhana: “If the poet writes of love, the world assumes its flavor; if he becomes dispassionate, all things lose their savor.” Translation by Ingalls, Masson, and Patwardhan 1990:639. 101. Amaruśataka of Amaruka, with commentary by Ravicandra 2, lines 11–17: nanu śr]gāraśatam idam ity asya prasiddheh katham śāntiraso ’tra? tatrocyate: bhagavāñ śa]karācāryo digvijayacchalena kāśmīram agamat. tatra śr]gārarasavarnanārtham sabhyair abhyarthitah śr]gārī cet kavih kāvye jātam rasamayam jagad. iti vacanād amarunāmno rājño mrtasya paravapuhpraveśavidyayā śarīre praveśam krtvā

%304& 6. les. a as reading pr actice

102. 103. 104. 105. 106.

107.

108. 109. 110. 111. 112.

113. 114.

115.

116. 117. 118.

strīśatena saha kelim vidhāya prātas tathā kārayām āsa. piśunaih kāpatiko ’yam ājanmabrahmacārīty upahasitah śāntirasam atra vyācāsta iti kimvadanty. atah śāntirasam atra [read: śāntiraso ’tra] vyācaksyate śāntasya moksasādhanatvāt. Note his use of the same verbal root for both acts: vyācāste, vyācaksyate. Bader 2000:93, 176–209. I am indebted to Jonathan Bader for sharing his insights with me and for sending me copies of selected hagiographic passages. Some versions replace Mandana Miśra with Viśvarūpa (Bader 2000:88 note 34). Bader2 000:88–97. There is, however, a hint of this in the hagiographies. As Bader reports, most of them “refer to a further testing by Sarasvatī, who questions him as to the purity of his conduct. He replies: ‘I have certainly not committed an offence (kilbisa) since birth, in this body, mother’ ” (Bader 2000:96–97 note 54). vātsyāyanarahasyārtham jñātvā . . . tadvyākhyānam ca krtvā (Śa]karācāryacarita of Govindanātha 9.12); nibandham ekam (Śa]karavijaya of Vyāsācala 12, 71; Śa]karadigvijaya of Vidyāranya 10.18). See also Bader 2000:96. Śa]karavijaya of Ānandagiri 58, p. 180: nrpas tada]ganāsa]gamahimā padyavarnanam akarot śāstram amarukam śatasa]khyāsamīritam. Bader2 000:95. Antarkar 1972:11–17; Bader 2000:96–97 note 54. Bader 2000:64–70; cf. Bronner 1998:251–252. Amaruśataka of Amaruka, with commentary by Ravicandra 1, lines 6–7: piśunām mātsaryatām utsrjan. Note his use of the adjective piśuna, which Ravicandra also employs to characterize Śa]kara’s critics in the story. For a modern literary representation of such “slander,” see Anantha Murthy 1978:6–7. For a discussion of selfing, see section 3.4. This voluminous commentary (Ānandāśrama ms. no. 7052), whose date is given in the colophon, is not published. I am grateful to Professor Saroja Bhate in Pune for helping me obtain the manuscript and to Dr. T. V. Vasudeva in Chennai for transcribing portions of it. In offering his rationale, Acyutarāya explains that although conventional wisdom has it that this poem evokes a worldly, mundane rasa, if one takes into consideration the magnanimity of its saintly author one must conclude that it is actually pervaded by a nonworldly, emancipatory rasa. To demonstrate the existence of this rasa, which somehow escaped all previous commentators, and out of devotion to Śa]kara, he sets out to comment on this text (leaf 3, lines 3–5): atra yady api yathāśrutarītyā laukikarasa eva parisphurati tathāpi vaktrpraudhimanaisargikatvena tatra nigadatvād alaukikah pāramārthikarasa eva sarvatra vartate. sa tu yady api na kaiścid api tīkākāraih sphūtīkrtas tathāpi śrīmadbhagavatpūjyapādapādāravindasuvāsitamānasena tadantevāsinaivātra yathāmati spastīkriyate. These attempts begin in a parallel version found already in the Hebrew Bible and continue in later literature (Fishbane 1985:11–12). I am indebted to Ronnie Goldstein for sharing his thoughts on this topic with me. Eco 1992:54–60; the quote is from 57. Culler1 992:111–112. Foucault1 972:221.

7. theories of les. a in sanskrit poetics %305&

7. theories of lesa in sanskrit poetics 1. Pollock2 003a:46–47. 2. On the intermediate position of Sanskrit poetics between the orthodox and the artistic disciplines, see Tubb and Bronner 2008:620–621. 3. See, e.g., Tieken 2006. 4. Analogies and metaphors were dealt with in Mīmāmsā and Nyāya as well, and these discussions gradually came to enjoy increasing prominence in Sanskrit poetics, as we shall see later. 5. For more on these alamkāras, see section 7.3. 6. McCrea2 008a:39–54. 7. Pollock2 006:89–90. 8. On the relative dating of the Visnudharmottara Purāna, see Tubb 1979:67. 9. A commentator by the name of Jayama]gala set out to demonstrate that the verses of this canto closely correspond with Bhāmaha’s list of ornaments. Some of Jayama]gala’s identifications seem strained. For instance, his attempt to identify an example of paryāyokta is forced and hence is rejected by the later commentator Mallinātha. See Bhattikāvya of Bhatti 10.50; cf. Hooykaas 1957:359–360. 10. See section 2.1. 11. Of the subsequent Kashmiri writers, Udbhata and Ānandavardhana never refer to Dandin, and Abhinavagupta mentions him only once. All three seminal thinkers frequently cite Bhāmaha. On Dandin’s dissemination and influence, see Pollock 2006:163, 343–345. I plan to discuss this geographical split in more detail elsewhere. 12. Kāvyālamkāra of Bhāmaha 1.13–15. 13. Gerow argues that “if the older alamkāra poetic is . . . a study of the capacities of poetic diction, little purpose would be served in expounding a universal theory” (Gerow 1977:235). See also the excellent discussion in McCrea 2008a:34–39. 14. Gerow1 971:22–50. 15. Udbhata’s commentary is preserved only in fragments (Gnoli 1962). I plan to dedicate a separate article to Udbhata’s semanticization of Sanskrit poetics. 16. McCrea 2008a:45. 17. McCrea2 008a:99–164. 18. Kumārasambhava of Kālidāsa 3.67: haras tu kimcitpariluptadhairyaś candrodayārambha ivāmburāśih | umāmukhe bimbaphalādharosthe vyāpārayām āsa vilocanāni || Cf. Dhvanyāloka of Ānandavardhana 249. Translation adapted from McCrea 2008a:108 with minor modifications. 19. Dhvanyāloka of Ānandavardhana 249; cf. McCrea 2008a:108–109. 20. For detailed documentation of this debate, see McCrea 2008a:260–440. 21. On the potential for literary criticism and the failure of later theory to fulfill it, see McCrea2 008a:220–232,4 41–442. 22. Bronner and Tubb 2008:81. 23. For the diminishing explanatory power of his theory when it is applied to the nondhvani varieties of poetry, namely, gunībhūtavya]gya and citra, see McCrea 2008a:232–257. 24. Bronner and Tubb 2008:81–86. 25. Indeed, most of Ānandavardhana’s critics pressed him primarily on his theory of suggestion, claiming that what he called dhvani could be explained within existing

%306& 7. theories of les. a in sanskrit poetics

26. 27. 28.

29. 30.

31. 32. 33. 34. 35.

36. 37.

38. 39.

40. 41.

categories of either Mīmāmsā, logic, or, in fact, Alamkāraśāstra. See McCrea 2008a:167–168,2 60–330,3 98–440. For a good discussion of the structure of Mammata’s work, see Mellins 2007:231– 234,2 36–238. Tubb and Bronner 2008:620–621. On the possibility of influences from the vernacular, see Bronner 2004:73–75 and Pollock 2005b:33–38. On the possible interaction with Persian culture, see Pollock 2003b:96–97 and Shulman 2008:502–503. On this general trend see Pollock 2001b, 2005b. For specific essays on the different disciplines, see http://www.columbia.edu/itc/mealac/pollock/sks/. On Appayya, Jagannātha, and the school of new poetics, see Bronner 2002, 2004; Bronner and Tubb 2008; and Tubb and Bronner 2008, as well as Bronner forthcoming b. Raghavan 1978:371. For example, Dandin’s illustrations of ślesa, I argued, seem closely modeled after passages from Subandhu (see chapter 2, note 124). Śr]gāraprakāśa of Bhoja 494, 740. See also sections 3.1 and 4.2. Kāvyālamkāra of Rudrata 4.10–23, 2.14–17. See also the introduction to chapter 5 and section 6.1. Rasaga]gādhara of Jagannātha 3:318: ayam copameva svatantro ’pi tatra tatra sakalālamkārānugrāhakatayā sthitah sarasvatyā navam saubhāgyam āvahan nānāvidhesu laksyesu sahrdayair vibhāvanīyah. See section 6.2. This is the opinion of the interlocutor invoked by Namisādhu, Rudrata’s commentator: nanu prakrtānupayogyarthāntaram unmattavākyavad asambaddham avagatam api kvopayujyate? His response is that this is precisely the source of aesthetic pleasure in such cases, as the practice of the great poets proves: satyam. etad evāsyālamkāratvam. evam hi sahrdayāvarjakatvam asya. atra ca mahākavaya eva pramānam (Kāvyālamkāra of Rudrata ad 10.3). The implied interlocutor may be Ānandavardhana himself, for he argued that when a second, noncontextual meaning appears, the reader must assume a relationship such as similitude to avoid the fault of incoherence: vākyasyāsambaddhārthābhidhāyitvam mā prasā]ksīt (Dhvanyāloka of Ānandavardhana 244). Dhvanyāloka of Ānandavardhana 235–236. Ruyyaka saw this as a case of “partial equivalence” or tulyayogitā (Alamkārasarvasva of Ruyyaka 126), whereas Kuntaka seems to have taken it as a case of plain similitude (Vakroktijīvita of Kuntaka 219). Even staunch supporters of Ānandavardhana had a hard time defending his position here. Jagannātha, for example, argues that no simile is implied because there is no convention for comparing the two gods (Rasaga]gādhara of Jagannātha 3:296–298). But even if this is true of Śiva and Visnu, a doubtful position given works such as Vidyāmādhava’s Pārvatīrukminīya, it is certainly not the case with respect to the plots of the two epics. Kāvyāla]kārasārasa]graha of Udbhata 4.10: alamkārāntaragatām pratibhām janayat padaih. Kāvyāla]kārasārasa]graha of Udbhata, p. 59, ad 4.10: ato ’nenānavakāśatvāt svavisaye alamkārāntarāny apodyante tesām visayāntare sāvakāśatvāt.

7. theories of les. a in sanskrit poetics %307& 42. Kāvyaprakāśa of Mammata 521–522, warning specifically against the elimination of pūrnopamā. See more on this point in section 7.3. 43. Kāvyālamkārasūtravrtti of Vāmana 4.3.6–7. 44. Kāvyālamkāra of Rudrata, chapters 4 and 10; cf. Gerow 1971:38–39. The three other supercategories are factual description (vāstava), analogy (aupamya), and hyperbole (atiśaya). 45. See, for example, Porcher 1978:367–369. 46. Kāvyālamkāra of Rudrata 4.32. 47. Kāvyaprakāśa of Mammata 521: sakalakalam puram etaj jātam samprati sudhāmśubimbam iva. 48. As Mammata famously said, a simile is a case of “similarity given difference” (sādharmyam upamā bhede). See Kāvyaprakāśa of Mammata 540. For more on the distinction between svabhāvokti and vakrokti, see section 7.3. 49. For an account of the later phases of the debate on this question, see Porcher 1978:348–359. 50. Appayya planned to elucidate his position in the Citramīmāmsā, a text he left incomplete (Kuvalayānanda of Appayya Dīksita 105). Others have discussed ślesa exclusively among the “sense” ornaments, but as far as I can see, no explicit argument for this practice has been made. 51. Kāvyaprakāśa of Mammata 516–520. This criterion leaves virtually all puns in the domain of “sound” ornaments. 52. The only exception is in the case of ornaments such as similes when they are based on ślesa. E.g., Kāvyālamkāra of Rudrata4 .31–32. 53. Kāvyādarśa of Dandin 2.308–309; see also section 1.1. 54. Kāvyālamkāra of Rudrata 4.1, 10.1: vaktum samartham artham suślistāklistavividhapadasamdhi | yugapad anekam vākyam yatra vidhīyeta sa ślesah || yatraikam anekārthair vākyam racitam padair anekasmin | arthe kurute niścayam arthaślesah sa vijñeyah || 55. On Sanskrit notions of the word, see Raja 1969:34–44. 56. Alamkārasarvasva of Ruyyaka 126–127: yady apy arthabhede śabdabheda iti darśane raktacchadatvam ity ādāv api śabdāśrito ’yam tathāpy aupapattikatvād atra śabdabhedasya pratītāv ekatāvasāyān nāsti śabdabhedah. 57. Kāvyāla]kārasārasa]graha of Udbhata 4.9–10: ekaprayatnoccāryānām tacchāyām caiva bibhratām | svaritādigunair bhinnair bandhah ślistam ihocyate || . . . dvividhair arthaśabdoktiviśistam tat pratīyatām || My interpretation of the cognitive process that Udhbata implies owes much to Indurāja’s comments on this definition. 58. Kāvyaprakāśa of Mammata 520, example 378. 59. Culler 1986:123–134; 1987:177; 1988a:12–13. 60. Vākyapadīya of Bhartrhari2 .314–318. 61. Kāvyālamkāra of Rudrata1 0.3–23. 62. Pace Gerow, who believes that the two categories “are not incompatible” (Gerow 1971:294). 63. This, at least, is how Mammata interprets Udbhata while refuting his point. On their disagreement, see Agrawal 1975 and Roodbergen 1984. 64. McCrea2 008a:102–117. 65. Substitute, for example, Rudrata’s aviśesaślesa for Ānandavardhana’s vastudhvani, and his vakraślesa for rasadhvani (Kāvyālamkāra of Rudrata 10.3–4, 9–10). For his

%308& 7. theories of les. a in sanskrit poetics

66. 67.

68.

69. 70.

71.

72. 73. 74. 75. 76.

77.

discussion of an ornament such as simile as brought about through ślesa, see Kāvyālamkāra of Rudrata 4.32. I plan to dedicate a separate article to Rudrata’s discussion of ślesa. For a more detailed discussion of the similarities and differences between ślesa and such dhvani types, see McCrea 2008a:141–147; cf. Porcher 1978:370–399. Dhvanyāloka of Ānandavardhana 235: nanu śabdaśaktyā yatrārthāntaram prakāśate sa yadi dhvaneh prakāra ucyate tad idānīm ślesasya visaya evāpahrtah syāt, nāpahrta ity āha. The diminished domain that Ānandavardhana allots ślesa appears to include two types: pure ślesas, namely, cases of conarration that entail no implication of resemblance (or other ornamental propositions) between the two narratives, as in a verse invoking both Śiva and Visnu simultaneously (Dhvanyāloka of Ānandavardhana 235–236); and ślesas where another alamkāra is manifested, but whose presence is indicated by an explicit “pointer” (yojakapada, vācaka). See Dhvanyāloka of Ānandavardhana 236–241, 411; cf. McCrea 2008a:142–145. This was said as part of Indurāja’s overall critique of Ānandavardhana’s dhvani theory. Indurāja argued that the ornament paryāyokta renders vastudhvani redundant, and that rasa-bearing alamkāras (such as rasavat) make rasadhvani superfluous. In this context he brought ślesa up to demonstrate the uselessness of positing the category of alamkāradhvani (suggested ornaments), because the passages that belong in this category can be classified either as instances of the respective ornaments that are suggested or as ślesas (Kāvyāla]kārasārasa]graha of Udbhata 87–88; cf. McCrea 2008a:311–329). Dhvanyāloka of Ānandavardhana 244–247; cf. McCrea 2008a:144–145. Works such as Mukulabhatta’s Abhidhāvrttamātrka, Mammata’s Śabdavyāpāravicāra, and Appayya Dīksita’s Vrttivārttikā give much attention to the question of simultaneity of expression and cognition and discuss at great length the difference between suggestion and ślesa. The last work in particular gives much attention to Bhartrhari’s aforementioned criteria (Vrttivārttika of Appayya [Appaya] Dīksita 54–57, 11–17). For a discussion of the emergence of this new genre, see McCrea 2008a:263–268. Ruyyaka distinguishes between three cases of ślesa, depending on the context relatedness of the entities being depicted: both may be pertinent to the context, or both may be equally noncontextual, although it is often the case that one is pertinent to the context while the other is not (Alamkārasarvasva of Ruyyaka 123–125). Appayya, while clearly sensitive to the question of context relatedness in the grasping of ślesa, also stressed the importance of frequency in determining which of several meanings is grasped first (Vrttivārttika Appayya [Appaya] Dīksita 58–61). Kāvyādarśa of Dandin 2.1: kāvyaśobhākarān dharmān ala]kārān pracaksate. Kāvyālamkāra of Bhāmaha 2.93: svabhāvoktir ala]kāra iti kecit pracaksate. Kāvyādarśa of Dandin2 .9–12. Kāvyādarśa of Dandin 2.13: jātikriyāgunadravyasvabhāvākhyānam īdrśam | śāstresv asyaiva sāmrājyam kāvyesv apy etad īpsitam || Fifty-one verses are dedicated to simile and its numerous subtypes. The average for the remaining ornaments is about ten verses each. The treatise as a whole is 657 verses long. Kāvyādarśa of Dandin 2.360: ślesah sarvāsu pusnāti prāyo vakroktisu śriyam | bhinnam dvidhā svabhāvoktir vakroktiś ceti vā]mayam || One could translate prāyas as meaning “generally,” or “for the most part.” Although I obviously have chosen a

7. theories of les. a in sanskrit poetics %309&

78. 79. 80. 81.

82.

83. 84. 85. 86. 87. 88.

89. 90. 91. 92. 93. 94. 95. 96. 97. 98.

99. 100. 101.

translation that fits my interpretation better, I believe that both readings of this word indicate ślesa’s centrality to Dandin’s vakrokti. Kāvyālamkāra of Bhāmaha 2.85, 81. Kāvyālamkāra of Bhāmaha 2.82: svapuspacchavihārinyā candrabhāsā tirohitāh | anvamīyanta bhr]gālivācā saptacchadadrumāh || Kāvyādarśa of Dandin 2.218. See Kāvyālamkāra of Bhāmaha 2.21–24, 2.30–65, and 3.14–20 for the discussions of rūpaka, upamā, and ślesa, respectively. I intend to discuss Bhāmaha’s notion of ślesa in greater detail elsewhere. Bhāmaha does, however, mention the possibility of ślesa in a mixture (samsrsti) of ornaments, thus allowing ślesa in through the “back door,” as I plan to argue elsewhere. See Kāvyālamkāra of Bhāmaha 3.50 and also 3.47–48, where a certain mixture involving ślesa is defined as a separate ornament, utpreksāvayava. Kāvyādarśa of Dandin 2.311: upamārūpakāksepavyatirekādigocarāh | prāg eva darśitāh ślesā darśyante kecanāpare || The following discussion of the simile is based on Bronner 2007. Kāvyādarśa of Dandin 2.14: yathākathañcit sādrśyam yatrodbhūtam pratīyate | upamā nāma sā tasyāh prapañco ’yam pradarśyate || Kāvyādarśa of Dandin 2.56: īdrśam varjyate sadbhih kāranam tatra cintyatām | gunadosavicārāya svayam eva manīsibhih || Kāvyādarśa of Dandin 2.15: ambhoruham ivātāmram mugdhe karatalam tava || Kāvyādarśa of Dandin 2.26–27: kim padmam antarbhrāntāli kim te loleksanam mukham | mama dolāyate cittam itīyam samśayopamā || na padmasyendunigrāhyasyendulajjākarī dyutih | atas tvanmukham evedam ity asau nirnayopamā || Kāvyādarśa of Dandin 2.36: na padmam mukham evedam na bhr]gau caksusī ime | iti vispastasādrśyāt tattvākhyānopamaiva sā || Ratnaśrījñāna ad Kāvyādarśa of Dandin 2.36: tasmād abhedaśa]kāpūrvakam evamvidham ucyate. Culler 1976:1385–1389; 1981:107–110, pace Bloom 1975. Culler 1981:118. Baudelaire 1993:9–11; translation by James McGowan. Culler 1976:1390. Culler 1976:1392–1393. For a more general call for a “linguistics of writing,” see Culler 1987. The examples I have given can easily be multiplied. See, for example, Kāvyādarśa of Dandin 2.33–35; cf. Bronner 2007:104–105. Kāvyādarśa of Dandin 2.28: śiśirāmśupratidvandvi śrīmat surabhigandhi ca | ambhojam iva te vaktram iti ślesopamā smrtā || Ratnaśrījñāna in Kāvyādarśa of Dandin ad 2.28: śrīmat kāntiyuktam mukham ambhojam ca śrīr devatā tatra vasatīti śruteh. ubhayor api kāntiyogād arthaśleso vā. surabhir isto gandho ’syeti surabhigandhi dvayam apīty arthaślesah. Kāvyaprakāśa of Mammata 521–522, speaking of pūrnopamā. See section 7.2. Kāvyādarśa of Dandin 2.29. Ratnaśrījñāna in Kāvyādarśa of Dandin ad 2.29: ko vā tayor bhedah? ucyate. pūrvam ślesāprayoge ’py upamā gamyate. ambhojam iva te vaktram iti ślesānuvedhād rte vyāpadiśyate [read: vyapadiśyate]. iha tu ślesānutpreksāyām upamaiva nāvasīyate. bālevodyānamāleti. ślesābhidhāna eva kevalam avagamyate sālakānanaśobhinīti. This despite the fact that, as Ratnaśrījñāna’s imagined interlocutor

%310& 7. theories of les. a in sanskrit poetics

102. 103. 104. 105. 106.

107. 108.

notes, the two examples fit Dandin’s two varieties of ślesa based on same words (abhinnapadas) and heteronyms (bhinnapadas), respectively. Kāvyādarśa of Dandin 2.178. Kāvyādarśa of Dandin 2.179: dhairyalāvanyamāhātmyapramukhais tvam udanvatah | gunais tulyo ’si bhedas tu vapusaivedrśena te || Kāvyādarśa of Dandin 2.183: tvam samudraś ca durvārau mahāsattvau satejasau | iyatā yuvayor bhedah sa jalātmā patur bhavān || Jala (water) and jada (frigid, motionless, senseless, dull) are considered homophones. Further complexity is also possible, as another of Dandin’s vyatireka examples indicates (Kāvyādarśa of Dandin 2.191). Here Dandin returns to the pair of face and lotus, and his statement regarding their distinction only seemingly calls the bluff on the convention for comparing them. Actually, it is a distinction in disguise that turns out to substantiate their parallelism further: bhramadbhramaram ambhojam loladrsti mukham tu te. Here, however, the “second-order” vyatireka does not involve ślesa. Dhvanyāloka of Ānandavardhana 4.4; cf. Bronner, Shulman, and Tubb forthcoming. On the difference between the two authors’ notions of the simile, see also Gerow 1971:144–145.

8. toward a theory of lesa 1. On Nārāyana Bhatta, see chapter 3, note 1. 2. For the relationships between Bāna and Subandhu, see section 2.6. For the verse ascribed to Dhanañjaya, see section 4.3. For the references to Vidyāmādhava, Meghavijayagani, and Kavirāja, see section 5.1. 3. For Pi]gali Sūranna, see section 5.3. For the possible ties between Śrīharsa and Nītivarman, see section 3.7, especially note 84. For Kavirāja’s verse, as well as the naming patterns of bitextual works, see section 5.1. 4. The quote is by Śesācalapati (section 5.1, note 14). For the launching of ślesa by Subandhu and Pi]gali Sūranna, see sections 2.1 and 5.3, respectively. 5. For Subandhu’s and Dhanañjaya’s signatures and Vēmpattūr Piccuvaiyar’s nickname, see sections 2.1, 4.3, and 5.3 (with note 56), respectively. Nītivarman’s statement on his audacity is given in section 3.1 (with note 10). For disclaimers about the difficulty of ślesa, see section 8.3. For Dhanañjaya’s claim to be the “crown jewel of all gifted poets,” see section 4.3. Examples of praises for characters’ ślesas and of authorial instructions for deciphering ślesa texts are found in section 6.1. For the goose’s praise for Damayantī, see Naisadhamahākāvya [= Naisadhacarita] of Śrīharsa 3.69. 6. For Dandin’s awareness of Subandhu, see section 2.6, note 124. For Rudrata’s recognition of bilingual ślesas and the genre of “distortional talk,” see chapter 5, note 3, and section 7.2. For Bhoja, see the introductions to chapters 3 and 4. 7. For Rudrata’s quote, see section 5.2 (with note 21); for Bhoja’s, consult Śr]gāraprakāśa of Bhoja 740; and for Jagannātha, see section 7.2 (with note 35). For Dandin’s notion of vakrokti and Mammata’s ślesa-related concerns, see sections 7.3 and 6.2, respectively.

8. toward a theory of les. a %311& 8. See section 6.4 for a brief discussion of the commentaries on Subandhu. Commentaries on the epic are discussed in section 6.5, and Ravicandra in section 6.6. 9. For the Khajuraho sculpture, see Desai 1987. The Mahabalipuram relief is discussed in section 4.1, and the ślesa plays are discussed in section 5.1, especially note 6. 10. See section 5.2. 11. Kāvyaprakāśa of Mammata 11–13; cf. Shulman 2008:498. 12. On the relationship between certain ślesas and riddles, see Salomon 1996:172–175 and section 2.4. For knots, see Naisadhamahākāvya [= Naisadhacarita] of Śrīharsa 22.152 and section 3.7. 13. The examples are all from section 2.5. 14. Harsacarita of Bāna, v. 8, and section 2.6. 15. Rāmacaritam of Sandhyākaranandin, p. 99. 16. Kāvyālamkāra of Rudrata 4.1; Gode 1953:272 note 3; and section 6.4. 17. Kāvyālamkāra of Bhāmaha 2.19–20; Kāvyādarśa of Dandin 3.96–124; and Gerow 1971:210. 18. Bronner and Tubb 2008:esp. 86. 19. Pollock2 005b:33–39. 20. Ebeling forthcoming. 21. Shulman 1997, 2006. 22. Shulman2 006:21–24. 23. McCrea forthcoming. 24. Any listing of the six includes Māgha’s Śiśupālavadha and Śrīharsa’s Naisadhacarita (Lienhard 1984:171). 25. Pollock 1986:25–32; Ramanujan 1991a:441–442. 26. Pollock 1986:9–19; 1991:68; 1993:283. 27. Shulman 1991b. 28. See Śr]gāraprakāśa of Bhoja 710–711; Vakroktijīvita of Kuntaka 276–278; and sections 3.5 and 5.5. 29. Rāghavapāndavīya of Kavirāja 1.33; cf. sections 5.4 and 5.5. 30. Dvisandhāna Mahākāvya of Dhanañjaya 12.43; cf. section 4.6. 31. Rāghavapāndavīya of Kavirāja 6.20; cf. section 5.5. 32. Dvisandhāna Mahākāvya of Dhanañjaya 4.51–52; cf. section 4.4. 33. Rāghavapāndavīya of Kavirāja 1.8, 9, 40, 44; cf. sections 5.4 and 5.6. 34. Dvisandhāna Mahākāvya of Dhanañjaya 1.5; Rāghavapāndavīya of Kavirāja 1.44; cf. sections 4.4 and 5.6. 35. See Gerow 1971:50–55 for a discussion of the first claim, also found in the tradition itself. As for the second, Kulkarni has noted that later ālamkārikas add little to Rājaśekhara’s foundational, tenth- century list of conventions (Kulkarni 1983:26). 36. Becker 1995:283–294. On intertexts that are not necessarily identifiable, see Culler 1976 and section 7.3. 37. As shown by McCrea 2008b. 38. Citramīmāmsā of Appayya [Appaya] Dīksita 33: upamaikā śailūsī samprāptā citrabhūmikābhedān | rañjayati kāvyara]ge nrtyantī tadvidām cetah || For a discussion of Appayya’s meditation on the simile, see Bronner 2002. 39. As in the set parināma (your moon-face quenches heat) and rūpaka (your face is the moon) or the pair bhrāntimat (error) and sandeha (doubt). Citramīmāmsā of

%312& 8. toward a theory of les. a

40.

41.

42. 43.

44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50.

51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65.

Appayya [Appaya] Dīksita 33. The whole passage is adopted from Vidyācakravartin in his commentary on Ruyyaka (Alamkārasarvasva of Ruyyaka 36). Another verse by Appayya compares the knowledge of the simile as the underlying secret of figurative speech with the realization that behind the multifaceted reality lies the ultimate unity of the Brahman (Citramīmāmsā of Appayya [Appaya] Dīksita 35). Peterson 1990:esp. 1.299; cf. Raghuvamśa of Kālidāsa 16.63: āvartaśobhā natanābhikānter bha]go bhruvām dvandvacarāh stanānām | jātāni rūpāvayavopamānāny adūravartīni vilāsinīnām || Peterson also cites a famous verse from Kālidāsa’s Kumārasambhava in which Pārvatī is said actually to be made from the standards of female beauty (Kumārasambhava of Kālidāsa 1.49). Peterson 1990:1.298. For Dandin’s discussion of what not to compare, see section 7.3 and Bronner 2007:95–98. Meghadūta of Kālidāsa 105: śyāmāsv a]gam cakitaharinīpreksane drstipātam vaktracchāyām śaśini śikhinām barhabhāresu keśān | utpaśyāmi pratanusu nadīvīcisu bhrūvilāsān hantaikasmin kvacid api na te candi sādrśyam asti || Shklovsky1 994:265–268. See table 7.1. See section 2.5 for more examples. See section 2.6. See sections 2.5 and 4.3, note 31. For the ethical aesthetics of Sanskrit poetics, see Pollock 2001a; for kāvya’s courtly nature, see Ali 2004:78–85 and Pollock 2006:162–188. Kāvyālamkāra of Bhāmaha 1.12: nākavitvam adharmāya vyādhaye dandanāya vā. The second half of the verse reads: kukavitvam punah sāksān mrtim āhur manīsinah. Vikramā]kadevacaritam Mahākāvyam of Bilhana 1.27: la]kāpateh sa]kucitam yaśo yad yat kīrtipātram raghurājaputrah | sa sarva evādikaveh prabhāvo na kopanīyāh kavayah ksitīndraih || See, for example, Shulman 1992; Granoff 1995; and Narayana Rao and Shulman 1998:168–183. For a discussion of the role of the vidūsaka, see Shulman 1985:152–293. For a recent translation and brief discussion of a famous work belonging to this genre, see Dezső 2005. Viśvagunādarśacampū of Ve]katādhvarin; cf. Narayana Rao, Shulman, and Subrahmanyam 1992:1–12 and Bronner and Shulman 2006:2–5. See, for example, Ahl 1988 and Culler 1988a. See sections 2.4 and 2.5. For a discussion of Bāna, see section 2.6; for Māgha’s ślesa, consult section 3.6. For Subandhu, see sections 2.4 and 2.5; for Dhanañjaya, see sections 4.3 and 4.4; and for Pindiprōlu, see section 5.3. Kristeva 1986:37 (originally published in 1969); Culler 1976:1380–1388. J. K. Chandler 1982. Riffaterre 1990:58. Riffaterre 1990:71. For a critique of Riffaterre’s earlier writing, where he postulates the notion of unconscious allusion, see J. K. Chandler 1982:464–465 note 11. For the conarration of the killing of Vālin and Kīcaka, see section 5.4; for Subandhu’s depiction of Yudhisthira’s lie using no ślesa, see section 2.5. Culler 1976:1395.

appendix 1 %313& 66. 67. 68. 69. 70. 71. 72. 73. 74.

J. K. Chandler 1982:484–485. J. K. Chandler 1982:487. Ahl 1988:19–20; see also section 1.4. Ulmer 1988:164. Shoaf 1988:45; Attridge 1988a:140–141. Culler 1988a:6. Ulmer 1988:185. Derrida 1984:149. Jakobson1 980:730–740.

appendix 1 1. Velankar 1944–:216; Jain and Upadhye 1970:6. The information seems to be based on a mention in Prabhāvakacarita of Prabhācandrācārya 18.254. 2. See Jain and Upadhye 1970:10–11 for a good discussion of these sources and their dates. 3. Raghavan et al. 1968–:10:41; Jain and Upadhye 1970:6. The information is based on Gandhi 1937:50. 4. Velankar 1944–:416. 5. See chapter 5, note 63. 6. M. Seshagiri Sastri et al. 1901–:20:7777; Raghavan et al. 1968–:12:59. 7. I found a note on this work in the unpublished NCC records. It is also mentioned under the author’s name in Raghavan et al. 1968–:4:328. 8. For a discussion of the author and the work, see Minkowski 2004, where a list of editions is given on p. 327 note 14. See also section 5.1. 9. Unpublished NCC records. See also Krishnamachariar 1937:191. This work is probably identical to the Kathātrayī (also known as Kāvyaratna) found under this author’s entry in Raghavan et al. 1968–:8:47. An edition in Telugu script was printed by V. Ramaswamy Sasthrulu at the Adi Sarasvati Nilaya Press, Madras, in 1874. 10. Raghavan et al. 1968–:11:9; cf. Krishnamachariar 1937:191. 11. Minkowski 2004:326 note 8; cf. Raghavan et al. 1968–:8:47. 12. For Porcher’s discussion, see Rāghavayādavīya of Ve]katādhvarin6 4–76. 13. Viraraghavacharya 1934:379; cf. Krishnamachariar 1937:152–153. 14. See Hariharan in his introduction to the Nalodaya (Nalodaya of Vāsudeva 26). 15. Krishnamachariar 1937:246. 16. Viraraghavacharya 1934:377; cf. Krishnamachariar 1937:194. The date is estimated from the fact that the author cites the work of Bhattojī Dīksita. 17. Varma 2005 (who gives the following publication details: Jaina Sāhitya Vardhaka Sabhā, Surat, 1942); cf. Krishnamachariar 1937:192 and Jain and Upadhye 1970:6. 18. Raghavan 1968–:6:274–275. This is probably identical to the Abodhākara ascribed to the same author by Krishnamachariar 1937:192 and Hariharan in his introduction to the Nalodaya (Nalodaya of Vāsudeva 26). 19. Krishnamachariar 1937:194, where a verse is quoted; cf. Raghavan et al. 1968–:9:376; Minkowski 2004:327. 20. For a study of this work and its author (in Sanskrit), see Śatapathī 2001. 21. Krishnamachariar 1937:194; cf. Raghavan et al. 1968–:1:184. 22. Unpublished NCC records. See also A Descriptive Catalogue of the Sanskrit Manuscripts in the Government Oriental Library, Mysore 1937–:8:138: ms. no. 26396, and

%314& appendix 1

23. 24.

25.

26.

27. 28.

also ms. nos. 26395 and 26397, item no. 234. One wonders whether this author is identical with Anantasūri, author of the preceding work. Raghavan et al. 1968–:11:59; cf. Jain and Upadhye 1970:6. Unpublished NCC records. See also A Descriptive Catalogue of the Sanskrit Manuscripts in the Government Oriental Library, Mysore 1937–:8:342: ms. no. 27757, item no. 570. Unpublished NCC records. See also A Descriptive Catalogue of the Sanskrit Manuscripts in the Government Oriental Library, Mysore 1937–:8:343: ms. no. 27760, item no. 571. Unpublished NCC records. The work is not mentioned under Narahari in the published NCC volumes. It is, however, mentioned in A Descriptive Catalogue of the Sanskrit Manuscripts in the Government Oriental Library, Mysore 1937–:8:343: ms. nos. 27760, 27758–27759, and I was able to examine a paper copy at the Government Oriental Institute in Mysore. Kuppuswami Sastri 1928:4:5489–5491. Viraraghavacharya 1934:380 lists it as a viloma work, but see Krishnamachariar 1937:191 and Minkowski 2004:327 note 11. Viraraghavacharya 1934:380, where the author notes: “Thank god, we know only a solitary instance of the kind.” Cf. Raghavan et al. 1968–:9:376.

appendix 2 1. Chagam 2007. 2. For a tradition about an earlier work by Bhīmana, see Rāghavapāndavīya of Pi]gali Sūranna, Pīthika, v. 11, and chapter 5, note 41. 3. Chagam2 007:18–20. 4. Acalātmajāparinayamu. I am grateful to Velcheru Narayana Rao for bringing this edition to my attention. 5. Dorasāmiśarma 1968.

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INDEX

Note: Page numbers in italics indicate figures and tables. “a,” signifying capacities of, 131 Abhijñānaśākuntala (Kālidāsa), 71, 74, 287n36 Abhinavagupta, 125, 199, 305n11 abhyāsa (practice), 240–42 Acalātmajāparinayamu (Ve]katācāryulu), 273, 296n47, 297n57 actors, 7, 72, 73, 74, 89, 125, 200, 238 Acyutarāya Mod.aka, 192, 193, 304n114 ādikāvya (first poem), 20, 89, 149, 154, 246 aesthetics, socio-, 48, 75, 150–51, 246, 249, 254 aesthetics of simultaneity, 115–18, 153 age (yuga), Rāmāyana vs. Mahābhārata, 120, 149, 150 Agrawal, Madan Mohan, 8, 307n63 Ajanta caves, 291n24 Akala]ka (Jain scholar), 103, 291n30 alam.kāra (ornamentation), 7–8, 160, 207, 305n9; approach of Bhāmaha vs. Dan.d.in, 197–98, 214–30, 241; body/ soul vs., 196, 198, 199; charm of, 226–27; Dan.d.in’s definition of, 214; dhvani (suggestion) and, 199–202, 204–5, 211, 227, 307n65, 308n67, 308n68; efforts to systematize, 196–97, 205–14, 227–28, 250, 305n13; groups of, 196–97, 201, 223–26, 250, 305n4, 311n39; intertextuality and, 211, 220–21, 223, 225–26, 229–30, 250–54,

257–65; mixture of (sam.sr.s.t.i), 215, 309n82; sense vs. sound, 34, 183, 206–9, 213, 228, 280n13, 307n50, 307n51; śles.a as, 197, 203–30, 237; supercategories of, 205, 214, 307n44; theories of, 196–202; upamā (simile) as basic to, 215, 250–51; vakrokti (“crookedness” of poetic language) as coterminous with, 215–17; in visual arts and music, 97, 291n18; vyatireka (distinction), 217, 224–26, 226, 252–53, 284n80, 310n106. See also Alam.kāraśāstra; figurative language; vakrokti (“crookedness” of poetic language); specific poetic devices Alam.kāraśāstra: Dan.d.in’s contribution to, 226–30; disciplinary influences on, 196–97; dos.as (faults) in, 159–69, 192, 254, 300n19; overview of, 196–202; śles.a discussed in, 203–30; śles.a’s prominence in, 203–4, 213–14, 227–30; sound vs. sense in, 34, 183, 206–9, 213, 228, 280n13, 307n50, 307n51; tensions in 200–202. See also alam.kāra; śles.a; specific writers on Sanskrit poetics allegory, 5–6, 181–83, 302n77 alliteration. See anuprāsa alliterative compounds, Subandhu’s, 23, 32, 33–38, 44, 283n55, 283n63

%332& index Amara, famous lexicon of, 130, 131, 172, 281n25 Amaru, Amaruśataka, Ravicandra’s reading of, 183–92, 193, 194, 257, 303n88, 303n91, 303n100, 304n112, 304n114 ambiguity: of emissaries, 57; of identity, 70, 77, 86–88, 244; in intertext, 48; phonetic/syntactic/grammatical, 1, 6, 13–14, 15, 101, 171, 179, 181, 187, 192, 208, 279n43, 297n69; Saussure’s theory of signification and, 210, 263–64; semantic/of specific words, 45, 47, 161, 171, 172 ambivalence, within tradition of ślesa, 12, 51, 241–42 Ambujāmbakavilāsamu (Vīrabhadrācāryulu), 276 Āmdayya, 295n37 Ānandavardhana: admiration for Amaru of, 184, 303n100; dhvani theory of, 198–201, 211–12, 305n23, 305n25, 306n37; on epics, 148; ignoring Dan.d.in, 305n11; śles.as composed by, 12; on śles.a vs. dhvani, 204, 211–12, 306n37, 306n39, 308n67, 308n68; tensions in his aftermath, 200–202; theoretical innovation of, 198–200. See also dhvani; Dhvanyāloka Anantakavi, 271, 299n3, 314n22 Anantasūri, 271, 314n22 Āndhrarāghavapāndavīyamu (Dorasāmiśarma), 275 Anekārthanāmamālā (Dhanañjaya), 102 anonymous works, 21, 22, 125, 139, 268, 271, 294n3 anucitārtha, ślesa-related fault, 164–65, 300n28 anuprāsa (alliteration), 197, 206; division of labor with śles.a, 44–45, 283n55; in Dvisandhānakāya, 117–18; in Pañcanalīya, 87; in Vāsavadattā, 33–38, 44, 45, 178, 283n62. See also alliterative compounds Apabhramsha, 132 Appayya Dīksita, 202, 207, 227, 241–42, 251, 252, 293n58, 307n50, 308n70, 308n71, 311n39, 312n40

architecture, 11; pun/śles.a in, 7, 9, 97; temple, śles.a in, 9, 118, 291n18 Arjuna, 41, 288n61, 298n97; disguise and selfing of, 59, 69–71, 74, 75, 77–78, 89, 144, 151, 244, 247; Draupadī and, 60, 64, 66, 69, 75, 122, 151, 287n32, 288n50; in Dvisandhānakāvya, 107, 112–13; emblem of, 298n97; epic refinement and, 69–70, 77–78, 151–52, 248, 288n61; in Kavirāja’s Rāghavapan.d.avīya, 141, 143–44, 151, 152; in Kīcakavadha, 60, 63–64, 66, 69–71, 74, 77–78, 89, 244, 287n32; in Kirātārjunīya, 71, 74, 76, 93, 248; in Mahabalipuram relief, 93, 95, 96, 98–99, 118, 237; as Mahāhavamalla, 290n15; marriage of Rāma compared to his, 112; as Śiva, 288n50; Uttara and, 69, 76, 244, 287n32 artha (sense), 8, 206–9, 210, 213, 228, 307n50, 307n51, 280n13 Āryaśūra, 22, 24 asceticism, eroticism in same verse as, 8, 184–85, 190, 278n20 Aśoka, 150 “assumption of explicitness,” 11, 263, 278n29 Aśvaghosa, 20, 21, 24, 197, 280n3, 280n7 atiśaya (poetic intensification, hyperbole), 216, 307n44 Attridge, Derek, 263, 279n44, 279n48 Aufrecht, Theodor, 297n63 authorial intention, 159–60, 163, 165, 167, 168, 169, 173, 192–94, 258, 261 authors. See poet(s) Avantisundarī (Dandin), 97, 99–100, 291n24 Bader, Jonathan, 188–89, 304n106 Baladevas, 105, 116, 292n44 Balarāma, 105, 106, 113, 116, 150, 292n44 Bālasarasvatī, Elakūci, 273 Bān.a, 6, 91, 234, 241, 253, 285n108; commentaries on, 22, 51, 281n18, 285n112; desire to outshine Vāsavadattā, 51, 285n112; Hars.acarita, 51, 52–55, 241, 255, 280n14, 281n18, 281n25, 285n123; Hueckstedt’s study of, 25, 34, 52–53, 281n18, 282n35, 284n81; Kādambarī, 51, 278n27, 281n18, 281n25,

index %333& 285n112; lexicon ascribed to, 129; literary borrowing by, 51, 52–53, 280n14; mentioned along with Subandhu, 91, 126, 237; popularity of, 50–51, 56, 281n18, 285n108; response to Subandhu by, 50–55, 234, 235, 241, 285n111, 285n112; sentence structuring of, 25, 51, 282n35; śles.a use by, 51–55, 253; Subandhu’s puns domesticated by, 52; Subandhu vs., 50–51, 231, 285n113; Vālmīki/Vyāsa and, 298n83; Vāsavadattā praised by, 51, 280n14 Baudelaire, Charles, 220–21 Becker, A. L., 48, 250 belles lettres, Sanskrit. See kāvya Bengal, literature from, 8, 51, 60, 123, 124, 133, 176, 184, 269, 277n2, 303n88 Bhagavadgītā, “The Book of Virāta,” intertext with, 76, 77–78, 288n61 Bhagīratha, 94–95, 98–99, 118, 126, 154, 237, 249 Bhāmaha, Kāvyālam.kāra, 166, 197–99, 213, 227, 229, 305n9, 305n11; Dan.d.in vs., 197–8, 214–18; on genres of prose, 281n25; on riddles (prahelikā), 241; on similes (upamā), 216–18; śles.a discussed by, 203–4, 213, 216–17, 309n82; on svabhāvokti, 214; on vakrokti (“crookedness” of poetic language), 216; warning poets, 254 Bharata (Rāma’s brother), 42, 43, 46, 101, 108, 109, 110, 149, 151, 255 Bhāravi, 20, 71, 290n15; Māgha responding to, 79, 259; Mahabalipuram relief inspired by, 93–94, 119; Mahābhārata episode chosen by, 74–75, 76, 247; Nītivarman inspired by, 76; Śiva portrayed by, 74, 76, 82, 244, 248 Bhartrhari, 184, 210, 308n70 Bhavabhūti, 78–79, 80, 88, 89, 156, 232, 244, 288n62, 290n89, 299n1, 299n10; date of, 232 Bhīma: Draupadī and, 59, 65–71, 145, 151–52, 244, 288n50; in Dvisandhānakāvya, 110, 111, 113, 115; Hanumān and, 120, 141, 298n97; Jayadratha and, 145; in Kīcakavadha, 65–71, 244; kills Kīcaka, 59, 69, 146–47,

261; in Rāghavapān.d.avīya, 145, 146–47, 261; speech to Virāt. a, 68–69; in Vāsavadattā, 40, 41; in Virāt. aparvan, 59, 151–52, 261, 288n50 Bhīmana Kavi, 296n41, 296n46 Bhīs.ma, 70, 77, 89, 288n60, 298n97 Bhoja: court of, 123, 268; Dan.d.in and, 100–101, 119, 232; Dhanañjaya mentioned by, 92, 104, 119, 236, 292n37; dual-target classification by, 57–58, 79, 88, 92, 203, 236; epic refinement and, 76, 247, 288n51; Māgha mentioned by, 92, 119, 232; Nītivarman mentioned by, 58, 79, 92; on prose, 282n26; śles.a’s power according to, 236–37 bidirectional poetry. See viloma bilingual śles.a, 7, 122, 240, 278n18, 294n3, 295n21 bitextuality/bitextual poetry: aesthetics of simultaneity in, 115–18, 153; Bhoja on, 57–58, 79, 88, 92, 203, 236; collective awareness of poets and, 125–28, 234–39, 290n89; commissions for, 1–2, 127, 134, 147; full-fledged works, 6, 91–121, 121–54; historical relocation of, 12, 91; plays, 7, 125, 238, 271; pride over/prestige associated with, 12, 102–3, 138, 236, 239–40, 253–54, 292n31, 292n37, 297n57; refinement of the epic and, 75–78, 147–54, 246–49; scholarship and, 3, 7–13; speeches, 64–71, 76–77, 78–82, 84–86, 287n28; in Telugu, 7, 8, 14, 133–37, 233, 235, 242, 272–76, 296n46; “vernacular revolution” and, 132–39, 135, 233. See also conarration; episodes paired; intertexts/ intertextuality; Sanskrit works, bitextual/multitextual; simultaneity; śles.a, boom of; Telugu bitextual/ multitextual works Bloom, Harold, 220 Bonner, Rahul, 185 “Book of the Assembly Hall” (Mahābhārata), Māgha’s narrative on, 79–82, 289n68, 289n72 “Book of Virāt. a, The.” See Virāt.aparvan Booth, Wayne, 158

%334& index borrowing. See literary borrowing Brahminical epics/Purān.as/tradition, 104, 120–21, 124, 256; Buddhist and, 46, 104; Jain and, 104, 121, 124, 256 Brāj, 279n45 Brhatkathā (Gunādhya), 24, 45, 48, 240, 285n12 British rule/colonial era/colonialism, 11–12, 137–38, 201, 233 Buddha, 22, 24 Buddhism/Buddhists, as target, 46, 171, 256 Buddhist works, 22, 24, 280n15, 292n37 buffoon (vidūsaka), 254, 312n52 bull-elephant image, 97, 98, 248 ca]kam (Tamil), 296n54 Carroll, Lewis, 263 Chagam, Konda Reddy, 135, 135, 272, 275 Chalukya dynasty/court, 96, 99, 123, 133, 269 Chandler, James, 258, 262–63, 312n63 Chandovicitti, 284n86 character(s): analysis of śles.a by, 78–79, 80–81, 87–88, 244; congratulated by poets, 236; disguised/undercover, 57–58, 194, 232; dual/double, 55, 57, 191, 194; identical between stories, 120–21; impersonality of, 71, 286n35; individuation of, 87, 158; readers reflected in listening, 156; self/evolution of, 71–75, 80–82, 82–90, 242–45, 255, 286n11. See also coalescence, of self; disguise; selfing/self-resumption chastity–sex appeal contrast, 54, 253 Chennakrsnakavi, 274 Christianity, 136–37, 138, 276 chronology, Rāmāyana-Mahābhārata: problems with, 234; Visnu and, 150 Cidambarakavi, 125, 128, 270 citra (“flashy”) poetry, 201, 305n23 Citralekhā, 29–31 classification: dual-targeted poetry, 57–58, 79, 88, 92, 203, 236; śles.a, problems with, 206–9, 307n52, 308n67; śles.a vs. dhvani, 211–12, 228, 289n68, 301n43, 307n65, 308n66, 308n67; sound vs. sense ornaments, 34, 183, 206–9, 213, 228, 280n13,

307n50, 307n51; Vāsavadattā genre, 24–25, 281n25 Cloud Messenger. See Meghadūta coalescence, of self (tādātmya), through masking, 72–74 cognition, of śles.a/bitextuality, 209–14, 248, 307n57, 308n70, 308n71 cognitive dissonance, 40 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 10, 262 collective awareness, of bitextual poets, 125–28, 234–39, 290n89 colonialism. See British rule/colonial era/ colonialism commentaries: Bān.a, 22, 51, 281n18, 285n112; dependence on, 187; Kāvyaprakāśa, 166; Kīcakavadha, 10, 286n10, 286n13, 286n19; Mahābhārata, 181–83, 192–94, 287n28; Meghadūta, 169–75, 192; Nais.adhacarita, 83, 289n78; poets’ self-composed, 45, 129, 156, 238, 269, 270, 275, 295n23, 299n3; Rāghavapān.d.avīya, 140, 297n63; Rāmāyan.a, 181–83, 194; śles.a, 18, 22, 129, 155–56, 169–194, 234–35, 287n28, 299n10, 302n64, 302n70, 302n71, 302n74, 304n114; Vāsavadattā, 22, 50, 129, 176–80, 180, 193, 194, 237, 241, 280n14, 302n57, 302n64, 302n74. See also commentators; readings, śles.a commentators, 12, 155, 176, 178–79, 268–69; Acyutarāya Mod.aka, 192, 193, 304n114; Arjunavarmadeva, 184, 303n91; Daks.in.āvartanātha, 170–75, 194, 301n36; Indurāja, Pratīhāra, 204–5, 212, 307n57, 308n68; Jagaddhara, 176; Janārdanasena, 62; Jayaman˙gala, 305n9; Jhā, Dāmodar, 297n63, 298n74; Krishnamachariar, R. V., 45, 176, 179, 180, 278n23, 281n19, 302n64, 302n74; lexicographical boom/lexicons and, 129, 176, 179–80, 181, 193, 295n22; Maheśvaratīrtha, 183; Mallinātha, 80–81, 171–75, 175, 289n68, 289n72, 290n86, 301n37, 301n43, 305n9; Nāgeśa Bhat. t. a, 182, 183; Namisādhu, 306n37; Narahari, 172–75, 182, 193, 194, 257, 301n52; Nārāyan.a, 86, 295n22; Nārāyan.a

index %335& Dīks.ita, 176; Nīlakan.t. ha, 181–83; Pūrn.asarasvati, 299n10; Ran˙ganātha, 176, 241; Ratnaśrījñāna, 222–23, 228, 309n101; Ravicandra, 183–92, 193, 194, 257, 303n88, 303n91, 303n100, 304n112, 304n114; “readerly” śles.a of, 169–94; Śan˙kara Kavi, 281n18, 285n123; Sarvānandanāga, 286n10, 286n19; Siddhacandra/Siddhicandra, 176, 285n112; Śivarāma Tripāt. hin, 178–80, 280n14, 302n69, 302n72; Śivasahāya, 183; śles.a movement and, 155–56, 194; Srinivasachariar, T. V., 176, 179, 281n19, 283n55, 285n124, 302n64; Vais.n.ava, 182–83; Vallabhadeva, 170, 175, 289n72; Vāsudeva, 177, 302n57; Vidyācakravartin, 311n39. See also commentaries commissions, bitextual poetry, 1–2, 127, 134, 147 competition: between languages, 133, 138; among poets, 126–27, 139, 202, 239 conarration: Dhanañjaya’s, 107–15; of epic and historical figures, 8, 92, 124, 127; of epics, 2, 91, 102, 107–115, 140–54; of Jain saints’ lives, 124; Kavirāja’s, 140–54; of king and deity, 6; of Telugu classics, 136; of three-seven narratives, 124, 125–26, 133. See also bitextuality/bitextual poetry; episodes paired; simultaneity; śles.a; specific texts connectives, 260, 261 context, Ruyyaka on semantic capacities and, 212–13, 308n71 contrasts: moral, 47, 54, 249, 256; śles.a capacities of, 46–47, 79–82, 106–12, 118, 249, 256, 261 court of Virāta. See Virāta criticism: of Ravicandra, 187–88; of śles.a, 9–13, 91, 241, 278n27; of Subandhu, 9–10, 26, 28. See also response; scholarship crooked speech. See vakrokti (“crookedness” of poetic language) Culler, Jonathan, 193, 210, 220, 221, 224, 258, 262–63; On Puns: The Foundation of Letters, 12, 263

Daks.in.āvartanātha, 170–75, 194, 301n36 Damayantī, 43, 236, 310n5; groom-choice ceremony of, 83–86, 245; as reader of text, 86–88, 156, 157–58 Dāmodara (great grandfather of Dandin), 99 Dan.d.in, 5, 285n124; alam.kāra definition by, 214; Alam.kāraśāstra contribution to by, 226–30; Ānandavardhana’s ignoring of, 305n11; Avantisundarī, 97, 99–100, 291n24; Bhāmaha vs., 197–98, 203–4, 214–30, 241, 281n25; Bhoja and, 100–101, 119, 232; date of, 99, 291n24; Daśakumāracarita, 100–102, 281n18, 291n24; Dhanañjaya and, 103, 119, 125, 131–32, 234; lost bitextual work by, 99–102, 110, 134, 232, 234, 248, 268; Mahabalipuram visit of, 97–98, 238; prose works by, 22, 55, 100; on śles.a, 203–4, 208, 214–30, 309n101; in Tamil adaptation, 197; territory of influence, 305n11; triangles and, 100, 103, 126, 291n26; on upamā, 215, 217–20, 221, 308n76, 309n10; on vakrokti (“crookedness” of poetic language), 219, 226–30, 308n77; on vyatireka (distinction), 217, 224–26, 252, 253, 284n80, 310n106 dark age (kaliyuga), 120, 149, 150 Daśakumāracarita (Dandin), 100–102, 281n18, 291n24 Daśaratha, 109, 151, 288n51; curse of, 47, 142; Pān.d.u and, 142; Rāma and, 48, 108, 142, 143; Yudhisthira paired with, 110 De, Sushil Kumar, 60, 279n1, 286n11 Death’s teeth, 117–18 delimitation (parisamkhyā), 42 derision, lesa used for, 42, 52, 136, 254, 296n49 Desai, Devangana, 9, 97, 237 description/descriptive language: advantages over painting, 30–33; Dhanañjaya’s dual-targeting and, 108; factual vs. literary, 206, 214–15, 222; naturalistic, 32; plot vs., 25–33, 108; ślesa as peripheral to, 117–18; Subandhu’s creation of new, 50; in Vāsavadattā, 25–33, 44, 284n81. See also svabhāvokti

%336& index Dhanañjaya, 102–18, 122, 140, 232, 256, 261, 292n32; aesthetics of simultaneity and, 115–18, 249; Bhoja’s mention of, 92, 104, 119, 236, 292n37; Dan.d.in and, 103, 119, 125, 131–32, 234; date of, 92, 102–3, 291n30; Dvisandhānakāvya, 102–21, 144, 259, 268, 292n40, 293n53, 293n54; epic conarration scheme of, 92, 107–15, 249, 256, 293n52, 293n53, 293n55, 297n70; Garland of Nouns/ Homonyms, 102–3; as Jain, 102–4, 107, 113, 122–23, 133, 291n30; Karn.a promise of, 107, 121, 293n63; Kavirāja and, 126, 140–41, 143, 144, 153, 259, 293n52, 297n70; lexicons of, 102–3, 129, 292n34; Nighan.t.u, 292n34; praise for, 104, 292n32, 292n37; Rāmāyan.a partiality of, 114–15; śles.a as trademark of/source of pride, 102–3, 119, 236, 253, 292n31 Dharātmajāparinayamu (Mrtyuñjayakavi), 136, 274 dhvani (suggestion), 198–201, 202, 213, 227, 305n23; alam.kāras and, 199–202, 227; Ānandavardhana’s theory of, 198–201, 211–12, 305n23, 305n25, 306n37; as best type of poetry, 201; as centerpiece of Sanskrit poetics, 200; as a linguistic capacity, 199, 200, 211–12; śles.a’s similarity to, 211–12, 228, 289n68, 301n43, 307n65, 308n66, 308n67, 308n68, 308n70; as “soul” of poetry, 199, 227 Dhvanyāloka (Ānandavardhana), 198, 199, 200, 212, 305n18, 308n67, 308n68 dialogue, ślesa in plot and, 57–90 Dictionary of Sanskrit on Historical Principles (Ghatage), 130–31 Di]nāga, 171, 175 disguise, 57–58, 60, 63–64, 88–90, 145, 173, 194, 232, 243; Arjuna’s, 59, 69–71, 74, 75, 77–78, 89, 144, 151, 244, 247; of ascetic shot by Pān.d.u, 142; of censure by praise, 81–82, 163–64, 169; decent, 167; Draupadī’s, 61, 243, 286n16; of episodes/epic wholes, 76–78, 248–49; of gods in Pañcanalīya, 82–88, 134, 245; of language, 57–90, 167–68, 183, 230, 243; Mārīca’s, 145; Pān.d.avas in, 59,

60, 61, 63–64, 69, 145, 157, 244, 286n14; of pornography, 167–68, 203; Śan˙kara’s, 191; second-order, 69, 74–75, 243, 244, 251, 253, 310n106; selfi ng/ self-resumption through, 71–75, 89, 243, 286n11, 288n49, 288n50; of simile, 219; Śiva’s, 74–75; vakrokti (“crookedness” of poetic language) and, 219, 222, 230, 251, 253, 310n106; Yudhis.t. hira’s in Pāñcalīsvayam.vara, 286n1. See also selfing/selfresumption; tādātmya disparaging poetry (tittukāvya), 136, 256, 274, 275 dispassion, 18, 184, 187, 188, 192, 237, 303n100 distinction. See vyatireka distortional talk. See vakrokti (intentional distortion) Doniger, Wendy, 28, 284n89, 288n47 Dorasāmiśarma, Rāvri, 275 dos.as (poetic faults) related to śles.a, 159–69, 192, 254, 300n19; anucitārtha (impropriety), 164–65, 300n28; aślīla (obscenity), 160, 165–68, 300n21; nihatārtha, 160–63, 173; viruddhamatikr.t, 160, 163–64, 169 doubt. See samśaya doubtful meaning (samdigdham), 241, 300n19 dramaturgy. See Nātyaśāstra Draupadī: Arjuna and, 60, 64, 66, 69, 75, 122, 151, 287n32, 288n50; Bhīma and, 59, 65–71, 145, 151–52, 244, 288n50; disguise of, 61, 243, 286n16; hair of, 58–62, 67, 68, 286n19; sexual degradation of, 59, 76; Sītā vs., 110, 112, 125, 143, 145, 147, 150, 151; śles.a of, 64–71, 76–77, 82, 89, 156–59, 243–44, 257, 287n32; Virāt. a’s failure to understand śles.a of, 157–59; Virāt. a’s indictment by, 65–68, 243–44; Yudhis.t. hira and, 64–67, 145 dual-targeting (dvisandhāna). See bitextuality/bitextual poetry; conarration; simultaneity; śles.a Duryodhana, 49, 58, 69, 77, 109, 141, 288n60; Kaikeyī paired with, 110 Dūsana, 111, 112, 113, 144

index %337& Dvārakā, 113 dvisandhāna. See Bhoja; bitextuality/ bitextual poetry Dvisandhānakāvya (Dhanañjaya), 102–18, 122, 140, 232, 256, 261, 292n32; aesthetics of simultaneity and, 115–18, 249; contrast in, 106–12, 115, 118, 249, 261; date of, 92, 102–3, 291n30; epic conarration scheme of, 92, 107–15, 249, 256, 293n52, 293n53, 293n55, 297n70; exile passage in, 108–10, 292n48; imagery in, 117–18; mountainlifting twin episode in, 115–17, 120, 153, 249, 293n56; verse-stating goal of work, 107. See also Dhanañjaya Dwivedi, R. C., 165 echo words/effects, 23, 32, 34–36, 38, 44, 283n63 Eco, Umberto, 193 Ekavīrakumārīyamu (Rāmakrsnaśāstri), 276 elephants, 32, 34, 35, 68, 182; Aśvatthāman, 48; bull-elephant image, 97, 98, 248; Din˙nāga, 170–71, 174, 175, 301n37; Draupadī as, 63–64; in Dvisandhānakāvya, 118; elephant trunk maneuver, 167–68, 300n31; in Mahabalipuram relief, 118 elision, bitextual works and, 261 Eminent Persons, in Jain pantheon (śalākāpurusas), 105–6, 106, 120, 156 English, as not supportive of ślesa, 13–14 epic(s): as pairs/interrelated, 119–21, 148–53, 246–49; religious competition context of, 104; śles.a/allegory in commentaries on, 181–83. See also epic refinement; episodes paired; Jain epics/traditions; Mahābhārata; Rāmāyan.a; Rāmāyan.a-Mahābhārata epic refi nement: Arjuna and, 69–70, 77–78, 151–52, 248, 288n61; Bhoja on, 76, 247, 288n51; Kīcakavadha and, 75–78, 247; Kirātārjunīya and, 75, 90, 247, 248; Kuntaka on, 76, 247, 248; Mahābhārata and, 75–78, 88–90, 146–47, 151–55, 246–49,

261; Nais.adhacarita and, 90; omissions and, 76, 144, 146, 261; Rāghavapān.d.avīya and, 144, 146–54, 247–48; Rāma’s killing of Vālin as example of, 145, 146–47, 261; Rāmāyan.a and, 151, 247–49, 298n93; river-ocean image for, 126, 147, 154; sea-pearl image for, 147–48, 248, 261; Śiśupālavadha and, 76, 82, 90; śles.a and, 75–78, 147–54, 246–69; sublimation of episodes for, 76, 246, 247 episodes paired, 75–78, 112–115, 140–47, 246–49; Arjuna’s/Bhagīratha’s penance, 95, 98–99, 119–20; Draupadī’s two humiliations, 66–68, 76–77; exile of epic heroes, 108–12, 148; Hanumān’s/Arjuna’s attack, 152–53; hunting expeditions, 142–43, 144–45, 148; killing Vālin/Kīcaka, 145–47; mountain-lifting, 115–17, 120, 153, 249, 293n56; Rāma’s/Pān.d.avas’ marriage, 112–13, 293n53; Sītā’s/ Draupadī’s abduction, 144–45; Śūrpan.akhā/Kīcaka, 111–12; Śūrpan.akhā/Urvaśī, 143–44, 147; Vibhīs.an.a/Ghatotkaca help epic heroes, 148; Virāt. a’s cattle war/ Mahābhārata’s fi nal war, 77–78 eros, 34 eroticism, 18, 33, 34, 37, 44, 161, 162, 191, 303n100; asceticism and, 8, 184–85, 188, 190, 192, 237, 299n3 Escher, M. C., 248 euphonic combinations. See sandhi exile of epic heroes, 47, 48, 58–59, 75–76, 83, 108–112, 118, 119, 143, 144, 145, 146, 148, 149, 151, 246, 249 face-lotus simile, 196, 217, 218–20, 221–23, 229, 250, 310n106 face-moon simile, 43, 48, 61, 199, 205, 206, 217, 218–20, 222–23, 239, 250, 251, 252, 256, 311n39 factual description. See svabhāvokti farce (prahasana), 165, 254–55 faults. See dosas Fifty Verbal Perversions, The (Ratnākara). See Vakroktipañcāśikā

%338& index figurative language, 196–97, 242, 250–54; Dan.d.in’s approach to, 198; śles.a debate/intertextuality relation to, 203–6, 262–63; suggestion (dhvani) and, 199–201. See also alam.kāra; Alam.kāraśāstra; dhvani; intertexts/ intertextuality; śles.a; upamā; specific figures Finnegans Wake (Joyce), 14, 16, 263, 264, 279n44 Five Nalas. See Pan˜canalīya flashbacks, 77, 151, 153, 248 flash-forwards, 77, 248 “Forest Book” of Mahābhārata, 83 Foucault, Michel, 181, 194 Gandhi, M. K., 136–37 Ga]gāmmā, Draupadī and, 288n50 Ganges River (Gan˙gā), 94–95, 96, 99, 117, 126, 154, 249, 261 garland: in Mālatīmādhava, 78, 288n62; in Nala story, 83, 88; word-, 88, 290n89 Garland of Homonyms, The (Dhanañjaya), 102 Garland of Nouns, The (Dhanañjaya), 102–3 gender lesa, 112, 293n51 Gerow, Edwin, 8, 198, 305n13, 307n62, 311n35 Ghanaśyāma, 271 Ghatage, M. K., 130–31, 163 Ghatakarpara, 21 ghost meanings, 130, 131, 163 go-betweens. See messenger(s) Godāvarī River, 126–27, 139 Gode, P. K., 176, 302n57 gods/goddesses: desiring Damayantī, 83–85, 87; incarnations of, 120; killing demon Bān.a, 29–30; kings and, 6, 38–42, 44, 48, 49, 85, 234; ridiculed by śles.a, 46–47, 255; selfi ng and, 74, 75, 116, 245, 288n46, 288n50; sex not concerning them, 185; village/local, 244, 288n50; word tricks against enemies by, 158–59, 192, 299n10. See also selfi ng/self-resumption; specific goddesses; specific gods; specific texts golden age (krtayuga), 120, 149, 150, 233

Goldman, Robert, 182–83, 187, 288n50, 303n84 grammar: ambiguities of in all languages, 279; Jain scholars of, 103, 291n30, 295n38; Pān.ini’s, 45, 49, 196, 227; of Sanskrit, 15–16, 159, 196, 239; Sanskrit poetics as, 196, 221, 227, 230; śles.a poets’ knowledge of, 1, 159, 239 grand poems. See mahākāvyas Gray, Louis, 24 groom-choice ceremony. See svayam.vara guidebooks, 128, 238 guna, 160, 280n13 Gunādhya, 24, 45, 240, 280n13 hagiographies, Śa]karācārya, 188–92, 304n106 Hahn, Michael, 8, 278n18, 280n15, 294n3 Hanumān, 114, 115, 120, 141, 151, 152–53, 249, 298n97 Haradatta Sūri, 129, 270, 299n3 Haravijaya (Ratnākara), 8, 122, 235 “hari,” twenty meanings of, 16, 141, 157 Hariścandra, 124, 125, 135, 136, 139, 271, 273 Hariścandracampū (Ghanaśyāma), 271 Hariścandranalopākhyānamu (Rāmarājabhūsanudu), 135, 271, 273 Hariścandrodaya (Anantasūri), 271 Harisena, King, 291n24 Haris.en.a, poet, 21 Harivamśa (Mahābhārata), 120 Hars.a (king, playwright, Bān.a’s character), 51–55, 71–72, 73, 74, 75, 78, 88–89, 125, 232, 244, 253, 280n14, 288n49; date of, 52 Hars.acarita (Bān.a), 51, 52–55, 241, 255, 280n14, 281n18, 281n25, 285n123 Hebrew, 279n42 Hemacandra: Dvyāśrayakāvya, 295n38; lexicon by, 127, 129; Prakrit works by, 133; seven-target poem by, 124, 125–26, 129, 133, 234, 269, 271 Hemacandrasūri, 269 Hiltebeitel, Alf, 61–62, 286n16, 288n50 history: of Sanskrit poetics, 195, 198, 213; denial of, 2–3, 91, 279n1; of Rāmāyan.a-Mahābhārata

index %339& relationship, 148–49; of śles.a/ bitextuality, 17–19, 20–22, 91–92, 231–34, 238, 258 homographs, 208 homonyms, 1, 4–5, 46, 102, 140, 141, 142–43, 157, 160, 192, 207–9, 210, 211–12, 223, 224; blocked meaning of, 160–63; garland of, 102; lexicons and, 128, 129; Sanskrit’s capacity to generate, 13, 208–10 homophones, 1, 21, 179, 207–9, 223, 260, 296n54, 310n105; repetition of in yamaka, 179; true vs. artificial, 209, 210–12. See also resegmentation; sandhi Hueckstedt, Robert, 25, 28, 34, 52, 279n40, 280n14, 281n18, 282n35, 283n55, 284n81, 285n112 iconoclasm, Subandhu and, 42–44, 46–47, 56, 80, 82, 255 īhām (double meaning), 10–11, 141, 278n28, 279n45 Iliad, 1, 2 impropriety. See anucitārtha incarnations (avatars) of Vis.n.u, 39, 43, 48, 89, 120, 150 Indology, 7–9, 13–16; attitude toward ornamentation (alamkāra), 10–11, 12, 278n28, 278n29, 279n39; Vāsavadattā, 24; visual ślesa embraced by, 97. See also scholarship Indra, 16, 46–47, 49, 83, 84, 85, 120, 141, 157, 255, 299n10 Indurāja, Pratīhāra (commentator), 204–5, 212, 307n57, 308n68 Ingalls, Daniel, 16, 287n35, 303n87, 303n100 inscriptions, 6, 8, 21, 22, 33, 40, 95, 132, 231, 234, 280n6 instructions, for śles.a readers, 156–59, 162, 177–78, 181, 194 intention, author, 155, 158–59, 160, 163, 165, 167, 168, 169, 173, 192–94, 203, 258, 261–62, 312n63 interpretations: allegorical, 5–6, 181–83; author intention vs. reader, 192–94, 258; Meghadūta radical, 172–75, 175;

oppositional, 187; over-, 177, 181, 193–94; radical re-, 183–92; “readerly” ślesa and, 169–75; under-, 193 intertexts/intertextuality: alam.kāra and, 211, 220–21, 223, 225–26, 229–30, 250–54, 257–65; Amaru/Śan˙kara stories, 194; amplifying Rāmāyan.aMahābhārata, 143, 147, 148–54, 247–49, 261; Becker and, 48, 250; Bhagavadgītā, 76; Br.hatkathā, 45, 48, 240; Chandler on, 258, 262–63; connectives and, 260, 261; Culler on uses of, 220–21, 258, 262–64; depth of, 133, 250–54; Hars.acarita, 53; history of Rāmāyan.a-Mahābhārata, 119–21, 148–51, 246–47; Kristeva on, 258; language and, 133–39; Riffaterre on, 260–61; self-reflexivity and, 249, 252, 256, 263–65; śles.a and, 45–46, 48, 51, 76, 143, 194, 220–21, 223, 225–26, 229–30, 242, 247–48, 249, 250–53, 257–65; Us.ā-Aniruddha story, 28–30, 45; vakrokti (“crookedness” of poetic language) and, 221–22; Vāsavadattā, 28–30, 45, 48, 51, 240; in visual art, 97; Western scholarship and, 220–21, 258–60. See also epic refinement; episodes paired; self-reflexivity; śles.a; vakrokti (“crookedness” of poetic language) intonation, 110–11, 289n72 Jagaddhara (commentator), 176 Jagannātha (god, Orissa), 172–75, 175, 182 Jagannātha Pan.d.itarāja, 202, 203, 227, 237, 241–42, 306n39 Jain epics/traditions: Balarāma in, 105, 106, 292n44; bitextual works on, 124–26, 133, 154, 234–35, 294n7; Brahminical epics/traditions and, 104, 121, 124, 256; Eminent Persons in, 105–6, 120, 150, 156, 292n44; grammarians/scholars, 103, 291n30, 295n38; Kr.s.n.a in, 104–5, 115–16, 292n40; Rāmāyan.a/Mahābhārata, 104–6, 110, 115–17, 120, 150, 292n44, 293n53, 293n56; as target of Subandhu’s jibes, 46, 256, 284n91.

%340& index Jain epics/traditions (continued) See also Dhanañjaya; specific authors; specific poets; specific saints; specific works Jakobson, Roman, 265 Jalakantheśvara Temple, bull-elephant image at, 97, 98 Jamison, Stephanie, 279n1 Jarāsandha, King, 104–5, 106, 113, 114, 116, 117, 150, 293n56, 293n60 Jātakamāla (Āryaśūra), 22 Jayadratha, 144–45 Jayama]gala (commentator), 305n9 Jesus, Telugu work on Krsna and, 136–37, 276 Jhā, Dāmodar, 297n63, 298n74 jibes, targets of Subandhu’s ślesa, 44–50, 284n91 Joyce, James, 14, 16, 263, 264 Kadamba court, 123, 133, 140, 232, 269, 295n37 Kādambarī (Bān.a), 51, 278n27, 281n18, 281n25, 285n112 Kaikeyī, Queen, 108–10, 151 Kaimal, Padma, 9, 290n8, 290n13 Kalāvatī, 26, 282n31 Kālidāsa, 11, 12, 24, 291n27; Abhijñānaśākuntala, 71, 74, 287n36; depiction of women playing in river by, 252, 302n41; double guise use by, 74–75; Kumārasambhava, 74–75, 199, 298n93, 305n18, 312n41; Meghadūta, 169–76, 183, 194, 252; Nicula as classmate of, 171; Raghuvam.śa, 21; śles.a use by, 20, 21; yamaka use by, 21 kaliyuga (current/dark age), 120, 149, 150 Kāma (Love, god of Love), 40, 63, 73, 78, 161–62, 288n49, 288n62 Kāmadeva (Kadamba king), 140, 147, 232 Kāmasūtra/Kāmaśāstra, 45–46, 48, 189, 190, 240, 300n31 Kandarpaketu, 23–32, 45–47, 49–50, 52, 53, 55, 282n31, 302n62 Kannada literature, 197, 269, 294n3; Kadamba court and, 133, 295n37 Kannada-speaking region of Deccan, 102–3, 268, 292n35

Karn.a, 66, 77, 107, 121, 141, 293n63, 298n97 Kashmir, 122, 132; in Amaru’s/Śan˙kara’s story, 188; authors/commentators from, 170, 176, 232; loanwords from, 165; poetics/poeticians and, 184, 197, 198, 199, 200–202, 203, 208, 209, 210, 211, 213, 214, 227, 250, 305n11 Kāśīpati, Pōkūri, 275 kathā literature, 24, 28, 45, 50, 55, 281n25 Kauravas, 58–59, 60, 61–62, 66, 69, 71, 76, 77, 104–5, 112, 113, 146, 149, 151, 152, 244, 247, 288n50. See also specific brothers kavipraśam.sā (praise of poets), 148, 234, 285n108 Kavirāja, 10, 12, 17, 50, 91, 126, 133, 143, 172, 204, 232, 234, 236, 247–48, 259, 260, 261, 263, 268, 269, 275, 297n62, 297n70; contemporary of, 295n37; Dhanañjaya and, 104, 126, 140–41, 143, 144, 153, 259, 293n52, 297n70; epic echoes amplified by, 148–154; lexicon use by, 140–41; matching scheme of, 140–47; Pin˙gal.i Sūranna and, 134, 135–36, 235, 296n52; Subandhu/Bān.a and, 91, 126, 127, 235, 237; Vālmīki/ Vyāsa and, 154. See also Rāghavapān.d.avīya kavisamaya (poetic conventions), 34, 44, 48, 55, 217–18, 220, 311n35; breaking of, 16; deep intertextuality and, 250–54, 262; masking of, 218–20, 221–22, 223–24, 226; playing with, 250–54; teasing of, 44–50, 55–56 kāvya (Sanskrit belles lettres), 6, 24; ādi-, 20, 89, 149, 154, 246; author intention privileged in, 192; canon of, 10, 12, 56, 119, 177, 184, 239, 245, 254; charm of, 251; conditions (hetus) for, 240, 242; cutting edge in, śles.a as, 156, 159, 236, 239–42; emergence of, 6, 21, 279n1; epic refi nement as central to, 246–47; impersonality of, 71, 286n35; mahākāvyas (grand poems), 20, 115, 125, 145; nine gems of, 12, 279n36; poetic conventions (kavisamaya) of, 34, 44, 48, 55, 217–18, 220, 250–54, 311n35; in prose, 21–25,

index %341& 55, 179, 231, 234, 281n25, 282n26; reading protocols of, 183; royal courts and, 254; self-reflexivity of, 249, 252, 256, 263–65; śles.a’s appearance in, 20–25, 231, 279n1; socioaesthetics of, 48, 75, 150–51, 246, 249, 254; subject evolution/selfi ng as major concern in, 71–75, 242–43; subversive aspect to, 254–57; virtuosity and, 236, 239–42. See also Alam.kāraśāstra; literature; poetics; Sanskrit Kāvyādarśa (Dandin), 99–100, 101, 103, 197, 214–26, 308n76, 309n101. See also Dandin Kāvyālam.kāra (Bhāmaha), 197, 281n25, 309n82, 312n50. See also Bhāmaha Kāvyālam.kāra (Rudrat. a), 122, 306n37, 307n44. See also Rudrat. a Kāvyaprakāśa (Mammata), 160–69, 201, 279n37, 300n19, 300n28. See also Mammata Khara, 111, 112, 113, 144 Khilakarnavisāyanarāmāyanamu (Pannāla Brahmanna), 275, 296n49 kīcaka, Śūrpanakhā episode paired with, 111–12, 293n51 Kīcakavadha (Nītivarman), 10; Bhagavadgītā and, 77–78, 288n61; Bhoja’s mention of, 58, 79, 92; commentaries on, 10, 286n10, 286n13, 286n19; dual-targeted speech in, 57–60, 286n10, 288n60; epic refinement and, 75–78, 247; Mahābhārata narrated through, 57–60, 77–78, 288n50; śles.a in 60–78, 86, 91–92, 101, 102, 157, 235, 243–44, 247–48, 286n11; yamaka in 60–64, 77, 157, 243, 286n13. See also epic refinement; episodes paired; Nītivarman; selfi ng/self-resumption; Virāt.aparvan; specific characters Killing Kīcaka. See Kīcakavadha Killing Śiśupāla. See Śiśupālavadha kings, 104–5, 117, 270; compared to moon, 4–5, 16, 61, 275, 277n4, 284n124; compared to trees, 64, 70, 74, 85–86, 239, 290n89; compared to Vis.n.u, 39–40, 49; gods and, 6, 38–42, 44, 48, 49, 85, 234; iconoclasm and, 46–47;

made fun of with śles.a, 43–44, 52, 163–64; oceans and, 40, 43, 49, 224–26, 226, 239, 256. See also specific dynasties; specific kings Kirātārjunīya (Bhāravi), 71, 74–75, 76, 290n15; epic refi nement and, 75, 90, 247, 248; Mahabalipuram relief and, 93, 94, 119 Kosalabhosalīya (Śesācalapati), 127–28, 270, 278n17, 294n14 kotiśīla rock, lifting of, 115–17, 120, 293n56 Krishnamachariar, M., 8, 313n18, 313n19, 314n27 Kristeva, Julia, 258 Kr.s.n.a, 29, 38, 39, 76, 77, 79, 150, 293n58, 303n81; in Dvisandhānakāvya, 107, 113, 114, 115, 116, 117, 120, 121; Hariścandra conarrated with, 271; in Jain epics/ traditions, 104–5, 115–16, 292n40, 292n44; Jesus conarrated with, 136–37, 276; Laks.man.a and, 106, 115–16, 120, 141, 150; Nala conarrated with, 124, 271, 273; Rāma conarrated with, 120, 125, 135, 269, 270, 271, 273, 274; Śiśupāla/messenger and, 79–82, 156, 157, 178, 244–45, 250, 255–56, 289n68, 289n72, 299n1; Śiva conarrated with, 124, 269 Krsnādhvari, 273 Krsnakavi, 270 Krsnapandita, 269 Kr.s.n.a Rao, Mānūri, 136–37, 276 Krsnārjunacartiramu (Sūryaprakāśakavi), 136, 274 krtayuga (golden age), 120 Kukkut. ēśvara Rao, Gadēpalli, 137, 276 Kulkarni, V. M., 292n39, 311n35 Kumārasambhava, 74–75, 199, 298n93, 302n41, 305n18 Kuntaka, 76, 159, 208, 227, 247, 248, 300n12, 306n39 Laks.man.a: in Jain epic/ Dvisandhānakāvya, 105, 106, 107, 110–11, 113, 114, 115, 120, 295n53; Kr.s.n.a and, 106, 115–16, 120, 141, 150; in Rāghavapān.d.avīya (Kavirāja), 143, 145; Śūrpan.akhā and, 111, 143, 293n53

%342& index Laksmanakavi, Pindiprōlu, 136, 256, 274 Laksmīnārāyana, Rāvipāti, 275 Lalitālaya (architect in Mahāmallapuram), 97 Lalitavistara, 22 language(s): bilingualism, 7, 122, 240, 278n18, 294n3, 295n21; competition between, 133, 138, 202, 239; disguise of, 57–90; iconic capability of, 31; Joyce and, 263; multilingualism, 138, 239, 260; puns and, 4–5, 13–16, 277n4, 279n43; Sanskritized, 134, 137; śles.a and, 13–16, 17, 127, 137, 238, 258, 279n43, 279n45, 296n54. See also description/descriptive language; figurative language; “vernacular revolution”; specific languages La]kāvijayamu (Laksmanakavi), 274 Lava]gikā, 78–79, 156 lexicographical boom, 16, 128–32, 157, 193, 234, 238, 295n21; commentators and, 129, 176, 179–80, 181, 193, 295n22; Sanskrit expansion and, 130–31. See also commentators lexicon(s): alleged naturalness of Sanskrit, 14–16; Amara’s famous, 130, 131, 172, 281n25; Dhanañjaya’s, 102–4, 129, 292n34; far-fetched items in, 162–63; Kavirāja and, 141 Lienhard, Siegfried, 8, 279, 280n12 Life of Naisadha. See Naisadhacarita Light on Poetry. See Kāvyaprakāśa lineage of ´slesa poets, 234–35, 247 linguistic cues (nibandhanas), 157 literary borrowing, 51–52, 125, 200, 234, 280n15. See also intertexts/ intertextuality; literary movement; śles.a literary language. See poetics literary movement, śles.a, 2–3, 7, 123–132, 133, 155, 195, 203, 234–39 literature: Kannada, 133, 197, 269, 294n3, 295n37; kathā, 24, 28, 45, 55, 281n25; multilingual atmosphere in, 138, 239, 260; self-reflexivity in, 249, 252, 256, 263–65; visual arts interactions with, 97–98. See also kāvya; Sanskrit, belles lettres of; specific literary concepts

Lopez, Donald, 181 lotus-face simile, 196, 217–24, 229, 250, 310n106 Love. See Kāma Lyly, John, 24 Mādhava: disguise of, 89; garland and, 78, 288n62; need to understand śles.a of, 156; selfing of, 78–79, 288n62 Māgha, 78–82, 91, 101, 102, 119, 156, 157, 232, 244, 294n5, 311n24; Bhāravi’s influence on, 79, 259; Bhoja’s mention of, 92, 119, 232; epic refi nement by, 89–90, 248, 259; Kr.s.n.a and messenger episode of, 79–82, 156, 157, 178, 244–45, 250, 255–56, 289n68, 289n72, 299n1; Rāmāyan.a’s influence on, 89; selfhood in works of Nītivarman/ Śrīhars.a and, 86–87, 244 Mahabalipuram relief, 94; aesthetics of simultaneity in Dvisandhānakāvya and, 116–18; Arjuna in, 93, 95, 96, 98–99, 118, 237; Bhāravi and, 93, 94, 119; Dan.d.in relation/visit to, 97–98, 238; date of, 290n7; elephants in, 118; inspiration for, 119; Narasimhavarman I and, 95; narrative interpretations of, 93–95; overview of, 93; penance and, 96, 116, 119–20; penance figure in center of, 96, 116; Śiva in, 93, 94, 95, 99, 116, 290n13; as visual śles.a, 7, 9, 92–99, 118, 237–38, 290n15, 291n20 Mahābhārata: age (yuga) of events in Rāmāyan.a vs., 120, 149, 150; allegorized, 182; Bhāravi’s choice of single episode of, 74–75, 76, 247; “Book of Virāt. a, The,” narration of through, 57–60, 77–78, 288n50; commentaries on, 181–83, 192–94, 287n28; Dhanañjaya’s modifications to plot of, 113, 114, 293n53; epic refinement and, 75–78, 88–90, 146–47, 151–55, 246–49, 261; evolution of Rāmāyan.a and, 148–49, 246; Harivam.śa of, 120; intertextuality of Rāmāyan.a and, 143, 147, 148–54, 247–49, 261; Jain versions of, 104–6, 110, 115–16, 120, 292n40, 292n44, 293n53, 293n54, 293n56; Māgha’s narrative on “Book of the

index %343& Assembly Hall” from, 79–82; as ocean, 126, 147–48, 154, 248, 261; Rāmāyan.a as response to, 149–51; Rāmāyan.a as superior to, 114–15; rasa associated with, 148; retelling of “Forest Book” Nala story from, 82–83; troubling episodes in, 76, 247–49; violence in Rāmāyan.a vs., 149. See also episodes paired; Rāmāyan.a-Mahābhārata; Rāmāyan.a-Mahābhārata conarration; Vyāsa; specific characters; specific sections Mahāhavamalla, Arjuna as, 290n15 mahākāvyas (grand poems), 20, 115, 125, 245 Malamoud, Charles, 85 Mālatīmādhava (Bhavabhūti), 78–79, 156, 232, 244, 288n62, 299n10 Mallinātha (commentator), 80–81, 289n68, 289n72, 290n86, 305n9; on Meghadūta, 171–75, 175, 301n37, 301n43 Māmallapuram. See Mahabalipuram relief Mammat. a, 297n37; concern with the blurring of authorial responsibility, 194, 237, 257; on dos.as, 160–69, 300n19, 300n28, 300n31; on grades of poetry, 201; on kāvya’s three conditions, 240; Ruyyaka and, 201; on śles.a, 207, 209, 213, 223; “synonym test” of, 207; synthesis of poetics by, 160, 201; on upamā vs. śles.a, 205, 223, 307n42 Mantharā, 108, 149, 298n88 mantras, Vedic, 206 Maratha court, 270, 278n17, 297n58 masks/masking: coalescence (tādātmya) and, 72–74; intertextuality and, 229, 251, 262; Māgha’s śles.a as, 81–82, 86; Shulman on, 72–74, 89; vakrokti (“crookedness” of poetic language) as system of, 220, 222, 229–30, 251, 252, 253, 257. See also disguise; selfi ng/ self-resumption McCrea, Lawrence, 82, 158, 199, 244, 306n25, 308n68, 308n70 meaning(s): Bhartr.hari on words with multiple, 210, 308n70; doubtful

(sam.digdham), 241, 300n19; ghost, 130, 131, 163; mutually incompatible, 260; ornaments of, 8, 206–9, 210, 213, 228, 280n13, 307n50, 307n51. See also ambiguity; lexicon(s); monosyllabic words; opposite meanings; specific faults (dos.as) Meghadūta (Kālidāsa), 252, 301n50; bitextuality not indicated in, 170; śles.a reading of, 169–76, 175, 183, 194 Meghavijayagani, 10, 124, 126, 234, 271 Meister, Michael, 9 messenger(s), 57, 184, 239; cloud-, 170–75, 175; geese as, 83; Hanumān, 114; Kr.s.n.a’s, 114, 293n54; Lavan˙gikā, 78, 156, 299n1; Nala, 83; Śiśupāla’s, 79–82, 156, 157, 178, 244–45, 289n68, 299n1; Tamālikā, 25; in Vāsavadattā, 26, 44–45, 176–80, 180, 181, 194, 283n55 metaphorical identification. See rūpaka meters: śārdūlavikrīd.ita (tiger’s play), 32; śloka, 21; vaktra, 45; ven.pā (Tamil), 137 middle-ground theory, 257–65 Mīmām.sā, 189, 196, 198, 199, 200, 208, 209, 305n4, 305n25 Minkowski, Christopher, 8, 124, 126, 139, 181, 270, 244n5, 313n8 Mirror of Poetry, The. See Kāvyādarśa mixture. See samsrsti modifier/head noun rotation, 140–42 monkey, on Arjuna’s flag, 70, 152–53, 298n97 monosyllabic words, 16, 128–29, 131, 164, 173, 180, 182, 238; resegmentation and, 128 moon: face compared to, 48, 61, 199, 205, 217–20, 222, 239, 250–52, 256, 311n39; kings compared to, 4–5, 16, 61, 275, 277n4, 284n124 mountain-lifting episode, 115–17, 120, 153, 249, 293n56 Mount Vindhya, 23, 25, 26, 32, 44, 45, 46, 133 Mrtyuñjayakavi, Krottala]kā, 136, 274 Mughal era, 176, 201, 202 multilingualism, 138, 239, 260; multilingual śles.as, 122, 203, 235, 294n3, 295n21, 297n58 Muttuppulavar, 137, 296n54

%344& index Nābheyanemikāvya (Hemacandrasūri), 269 Nāgacandra, 269 Naisadha. See Nala Nais.adhacarita (Śrīhars.a), 82–83, 156, 232–33, 259, 289n78, 290n86; commentaries on, 83, 289n78; date of, 232; knots in, 87–88, 156, 240; Sarasvatī’s śles.a in, 84–88, 245; Telugu adaptation of, 134. See also Pañcanalīya Naisadhapārijāta (Krsnakavi), 270 Naisadhapārijātīyamu (Krsnādhvari), 273 Nala (Nais.adha), 43, 46, 47, 83–87, 89–90, 124, 125, 130, 134, 135, 136, 139, 156, 158, 233, 236, 245, 270, 271, 273, 276 Nalahariścandrīya (anonymous), 271 Nalayādavarāghavapāndavīya (anonymous), 271 Nalayādavarāghavapāndavīyamu (Ve]katakrsnayya), 276 Nāmamālā (Dhanañjaya), 102, 292n36 naming patterns of bitextual/ multitextual works, 125 Narahari (commentator), 172–75, 182, 193, 194, 257, 301n52 Naraharikavi, 125, 271 Narasimhavarman I, 95, 96, 290n7, 290n15 Nārāyan.a Bhat. t. a, 234, 286n1, 305n9 naturalistic description. See svabhāvokti Nātyaśāstra (dramaturgy), 196, 198, 280n11, 280n13, 284n86 NCC. See New Catalogus Catalogorum Nemi, 106–7, 124, 268, 269 Nemināthacarita (Sūrācārya), 268–69, 294n7 New Catalogus Catalogorum (NCC), 267, 297n62, 297n63, 313n7, 314n26 nibandhanas (linguistic cues), 157 Nicula, 171, 175 Nighantu, 292n34 nihatārtha, ślesa-related fault, 160–63, 173 nine gems, 12, 279n36 nirn.aya (resolution of doubt), 196, 218, 220, 221 Nirvacanabhāratagarbharāmāyanamu (Laksmīnārāyana), 275

Nītivarman, 10, 57–60, 119, 148, 153, 156–57, 159, 178, 183, 232, 247, 257, 259, 286n3, 288n60, 290n89; Bhoja’s mention of, 58, 79, 92, 203, 236; claim of innovation by, 60, 236, 286n10; criticism of, 10; epic refi nement by, 75–78; influence of, 78–82; inspired by Bhāravi, 76; Māgha and, 86–87, 91; śles.a used by, 60–78, 86, 91–92, 101, 102, 157, 235, 243–44, 247–48, 286n11; Śrīhars.a and, 86–87, 235; yamaka used by, 60–64, 77, 157, 243, 286n13 obscenity (aślīla), śles.a-related fault, 160, 165–68, 300n21 oceans, kings and, 40, 43, 49, 224–26, 226, 239, 256 Odyssey, 1, 2 Of Jesus and Kr.s.n.a (Gadēpalli Kukkut. ēśvara Rao), 137, 276 O’Flaherty, Wendy Doniger. See Doniger, Wendy omissions, epic refi nement and, 76, 144, 146, 261 onomatopoeia: Saussurian model and, 264; in Vāsavadattā, 34–36 On Puns: The Foundation of Letters (ed. Culler), 12, 263 On Rāghava and the Pāndavas. See Rāghavapāndavīya opposite meanings: depicted through śles.a, 6, 49, 79–82, 184, 245; śles.arelated fault (viruddhamatikr.t), 160, 163–64, 169 Orientalism, 9–13 ornamentation, Indologists’ attitude toward, 10–11, 278n28. See also alam.kāra oronyms, 5, 14, 207. See also resegmentation “othering,” 149, 298n89 overstanding, 158, 181 painting, 37–38; with imagination, 25–33, 50 palindromes, 124, 269, 294n7 Pallava dynasty, 95, 290n15; Chalukya armies and, 96–97; Dandin and, 99–100; panegyrics (praśasti), 95,

index %345& 290n15; visual/written arts interactions in, 97–98 Pāñcālīsvayam.vara (Nārāyan.a Bhat. t. a), 286n1, 305n9 Pañcanalīya (Five Nalas), 83–88, 134, 156, 233, 246, 299n1 Pañcasandhānakāvya (Śāntirāja), 125, 271 Pān.d.avas, 58, 59, 93, 142, 150, 270, 271; disguise of, 59, 60, 61, 63–64, 69, 145, 157, 244, 286n14, 288n60; in Dvisandhānakāvya, 108, 109, 112, 113, 139; in Jain epic versions, 104–5, 107, 112; kinship with Kauravas, 149, 298n86; in Kirātārjunīya, 76; marriage of paired with Rāma’s, 112–13, 293n53; in Rāghavapān.d.avīya, 142, 144, 145, 146; secret exile of, 58–60, 75, 142; selfi ng of, 68, 69, 71, 75; in Virāt. a’s court, 60–64, 157, 182–83, 244, 288n50 panegyrics (praśasti), 8, 21, 40, 95, 161, 290n15 Pān.ini, 15, 45, 49, 127, 196, 227, 240 Pannāla Brahmanna, 275, 296n49 parisamkhyā (delimitation), in Vāsavadattā, 42 parody: Bān.a and, 52–53; Subandhu and, 50; vidūs.aka and, 254 parrot, 45, 49, 214; in Vāsavadattā, 23, 24, 25, 26, 30, 37, 45, 46, 49, 282n32, 284n84 “partial equivalence.” See tulyayogitā Pārvatī: made from the standards of beauty, 312n41; Sītā and, 136; Śiva and, 7, 122, 124, 158, 192, 199, 232, 237; Śiva’s disguise and epiphany to, 74–75 Pārvatīrukmin.īya (Vidyāmādhava), 126, 133, 234, 268–69, 294n10, 296n47, 306n39 paryāyokta, 197, 305n9, 308n68 Paümacariya (Vimalasūri), 104, 105, 110, 115–16, 120, 293n52, 293n56 Pedarāmāmātyudu, Pōdūri, 274 penance episodes, 95, 98–99, 116, 119–20 Persian language, 7, 124, 139, 202, 279n45, 306n28 Peterson, Indira Viswanathan, 251, 252, 253, 312n41 Peterson, Peter, 278n27

phonemes, 15, 34, 35, 36–37, 101, 196, 206, 208 Pin˙gal. i Sūranna, 14, 134–37, 235, 259, 273, 296n41, 296n42, 297n68; bitextual techniques listed by, 296n52 plays, bitextual, 7, 125, 238, 271 plot(s): as connectives, 261; description vs., 25–33, 55, 108; Dhanañjaya’s modifications to Mahābhārata, 113, 114, 293n53; in Hars.a’s works, 72; Kīcakavadha’s hinging on Virāt. a’s failure to understand, 157; neglect of, 9, 10; as pearls, 147–48, 248, 261; similarity/divergence of epic, 104, 108, 111–115, 116, 118, 119–20, 144–46; śles.a as device of, 57–90, 156–58, 232, 234, 244, 246; Subandhu’s innovative, 23–24; suspense in combination of, 141–43. See also episodes paired Poem of Seven Targets (Hemacandra), 124, 125–26, 128, 129, 133, 234, 269, 295n38 poems/poetry: bidirectional, 124–25, 126–27, 139, 154, 240, 270, 271, 294n5, 314n27; bilingual/multilingual, 7, 122, 203, 235, 240, 278n18, 294n3, 295n21, 297n58; disparaging (tit.t.ukāvya), 136, 256; extreme, 10, 19, 230, 240, 242, 248, 249, 257–65, 295n14; first/primal (ādikāvya), 20, 89, 149, 154, 246; grades of, 201; inscribed, 6, 8, 21, 22, 33, 40, 95, 132, 231, 234, 280n6; painting vs., 37–38; Sarasvatī as embodiment of, 84, 156, 203, 237, 245; “soul” of, 199, 227. See also intertexts/intertextuality; kāvya; mahākāvyas; śles.a; specific poems poet(s): anxiety of, 157, 159, 236; collective awareness of bitextual, 125–28, 234–39, 290n89; competition among, 51, 53, 126–27, 135, 139, 170–71; distinction/virtuosity of, 236, 239–42; Kannada, 103, 133, 295n37; lineage of, 103, 234–35, 247, 261; most celebrated śles.a, 10, 50–51, 285n108; pride/ prestige of, 12, 102, 119, 127, 138, 236, 239–40, 253–54, 292n31, 292n37, 297n57; readers as, 194; references/ tributes to other poets by, 51, 126, 148,

%346& index poet(s) (continued) 170–71, 234, 262, 285n108; role of, 249; self-composed commentaries by, 45, 129, 156, 238, 269, 270, 275, 295n23, 299n3; self-praise, 102, 126, 234, 285n108, 295n23, 299n3; subtle perception of, 33; titles given to, 138, 236, 273, 275, 297n57; of two targets, 102–6. See also authorial intention; specific poets poetic devices. See alamkāra; poetics poetic intensification (atiśaya), 216, 307n44 poetics, 196–202, 208, 209, 250; called for by Culler, 262; Dan.d.in’s view on, 226–30; of dilemma, 149, 247; kavisamaya, 34, 44, 48, 55, 217–18, 220, 311n35; of perfection, 149, 150, 247. See also alam.kāra; Alam.kāraśāstra; kavisamaya; śles.a Pollock, Sheldon, 6, 196, 246, 285n108, 292n35; death of Sanskrit view of, 133; on “othering” in epic parallel, 149, 298n89; on Rāmāyana/Mahābhārata, 148, 149–50, 151; on “vernacular revolution,” 132–33 Porcher, Marie-Claude, 8, 270, 294n5 pornography, 165–66, 167, 168, 203, 257 practice (abhyāsa), 240, 241–42 prahasana (farce), 165, 254–55 prahelikā (riddle), 241 praise: blame and in Subandhu’s go-betweens’ speech, 177–78; for Dan.d.in, 100; for Dhanañjaya, 104, 292n32, 292n37; for Draupadī, 63; in inscribed poetry, 21, 280n6; for kings/mythical heroes, 41, 46, 56, 255; lighthearted, 52; for Nicula, 170–71; for Nītivarman’s patron, 60; self-, 102, 126, 234; for śles. a/śles. a poets, 159, 237; for śles. a-using characters, 156, 299n1; for Subandhu, 51, 280n14; trick/false, 79–82, 163–64, 169, 197, 210, 245, 289n68, 289n72, 300n19. See also kavipraśam.sā; vyājastuti “praise of poets.” See kavipraśam.sā Prakrit, 7, 24, 104, 105, 132, 133, 274, 278n18, 294n3, 295n38

praśasti (panegyrics), 8, 21, 40, 95, 161, 290n15 Prativāsudevas, 105, 106, 115, 116, 292n44 presupposition, literary, 220–21, 224, 225, 226, 229, 230, 250, 262 Primal Poem. See ādikāvya Pritchett, Frances, 10–11, 279n39 Priyadarśikā (Harsa), 74, 232, 244 prose, 21–25, 55, 179, 231, 234, 281n25, 282n26; Bhoja on, 282n26; combining poetry with, 125; Dan.d.in’s works in, 22, 55, 100; fi rst stylized, 22; genres of, 281n25; śles.a’s history in, 231–32; three masters of, 18, 22, 55 prostitutes: Draupadī’s hairdresser disguise and, 61, 286n16; Subandhu’s comparison of Veda to, 49, 285n100 Pūjyapāda (Jain scholar), 103 Puns and Pundits, 12 puns/punning, 6, 7, 12, 39–40, 177, 204–5, 210; on authors’ names, 102, 107, 235–36, 292n32; commentators and, 177–79, 233; Dan.d.in on, 219–226; danger of, 210, 255; Derrida on, 264; language and, 4–5, 13–16, 277n4, 279n43, 279n44; meaning (in)stability and, 263–64; obscene, 167; postmodernism and, 263–64; prahelikā and, 241; renewed interest in, 12, 263; śles.a as subject of, 253, 292n31; śles.a larger than, 208, 255, 263; śles.a ornament vs., 228, 307n51; Subandhu’s, 38–40, 42–56, 82, 171, 193, 204, 231, 284n84, 301n38, 302n64; upamās (similes) containing, 205, 223–25, 228, 229, 253, 310n105; visual/ sculpted, 7, 97, 118, 237–38, 291n19. See also śles.a Purān.as, 24, 239, 298n93; Bhāgavata, 278n35; Brahminical, 120; Harivam.śa, 115, 120, 292n40, 293n56; Jain, 105; Rāmacandracaritra, 269; Vis.n.udharmottara, 197 queens. See specific queens Rabe, Michael, 9, 93, 95–99, 118, 157, 237–38, 290n7, 290n8, 290n15, 291n20 Raghavan, V., 203, 278n21, 281n18

index %347& Rāghavanais.adhīya (Haradatta Sūri), 129, 270, 275, 299n3 Rāghavanais.adhīyamu (tr. Dorasāmiśarma), 275 Rāghavapāndavayādavīyamu (Vīrabhadrakavi), 275 Rāghavapāndavīya (anonymous), 268, 271 Rāghavapāndavīya (Cidambarakavi), 270 Rāghavapān.d.avīya (Kavirāja), 17, 18, 126, 133, 135–36, 140–54, 172, 232, 235, 269, 279n1, 298n74; commentators on, 140, 297n63; date of, 232, 269; epic parallels in, 142–47, 151–53, 204, 297n70; epic refinement in, 144, 146–54, 247–48; intertextuality and, 259, 260, 263; lack of scholarship on, 140; list of bitextual devices in introduction of, 140–41, 142; suspense in, 141–43; syllepses in, 260–61. See also episodes paired; Kavirāja Rāghavapāndavīya (Krsnapandita), 269 Rāghavapāndavīya (Pi]gali Sūranna), 134, 135, 273, 296n41, 296n42, 296n52 Rāghavapān.d.avīya (Śrutakīrti Traividya), 124, 269 Rāghavavāsudēvīyamu (Si]garācāryudu), 274 Rāghavayādavapāndavīya (Anantakavi), 271, 299n3 Rāghavayādavapān.d.avīya (Rājacūd.āman.i Dīks.ita), 270 Rāghavayādavapāndavīyamu (Bālasarasvatī), 273 Rāghavayādavīya (Someśvara Kavi), 271 Rāghavayādavīya (Vasupraharāja), 271 Raghuvam.śa (Kālidāsa), 312n41; twinning (yamaka) in, 21 Rājacūd.āman.i Dīks.ita, 270 Rājaśekhara, 100, 104, 292n32, 292n37, 311n35 Rājyalaks.mī (Kr.s.n.a Rao), 136–37, 276 Rāma: conarrated with Kr.s.n.a, 120, 125, 135, 269, 270, 271, 273, 274; contrasted with Yudhis.t. hira in Dhanañjaya’s work, 108–12, 115, 118, 249, 261; Daśaratha and, 48, 108, 142, 143; marriage of compared to Arjuna’s, 112–13, 293n53; nobility of Yudhis.t. hira

and, 147; paired with Yudhisthira, 101–2, 113, 141, 293n52; selfi ng/ selfhood of, 71, 89, 288n46; Sītā abandoned by, 43, 255; Sītā abducted from, 113, 136, 144–45, 146, 150, 151, 274; Sītā regained by, 113, 288n46; Subandhu’s punned critique of, 42–43; toys with Śūrpan.akhā, 111, 144, 293n53; Vālin killed by, 145, 146–47, 261 Rāmacaritam (Sandhyākaranandin), 8, 124, 241, 295n36; date/story of, 269 Rāmakrsnacaritra (Si]garācāryulu), 135, 273 Rāmakrsnārjunarūpanārāyanīyamu (Somaśekharakavi), 275 Rāmakrsnaśāstri, 276 Rāmakrsnavilomakāvya (Sūryadāsa), 270 Rāmakrsnōpākhyānamu (Śripādavē]katācalapati), 274–75 Ramanujan, A. K.: crystal growth analogy of, 89–90, 120, 246; train story of, 3–4, 277n2 Rāmapāla (Pāla monarch), 8, 124, 269 Rāmarājabhūsanudu, 135, 136, 137, 139, 271, 272, 273 Rāmāyan.a: as ādikāvya (fi rst poem), 20, 89, 149, 154, 246; age (yuga) of Mahābhārata vs., 120, 149, 150; commentaries on, 181–83, 194; Dhanañjaya’s partiality to, 114–15; embarrassing episodes in, 76, 288n51; epic refi nement and, 76, 151, 247–49, 298n93; Gan˙gā’s descent story in, 95; influence on Māgha, 89; Jain counterparts of, 104–6, 115–16, 150, 293n52, 293n53, 293n56; older layer of, 150, 151; Pollock on “othering” and, 149, 298n89; Rāma’s selfi ng/selfhood in, 71, 89, 288n46; rasa associated with, 148; retellings of, 76, 247; Subandhu’s śles.a criticism of, 47–48; Vālin episode in and its refi nement, 145, 146–47, 261; Vālmīki’s curse in, 183. See also Rāmāyan.a-Mahābhārata; Rāmāyan.a-Mahābhārata conarration; specific characters

%348& index Rāmāyan.a-Mahābhārata: interrelated pair/set, 119–21, 148–53, 246–49; link between authors of, 148, 298n83; mutual evolution of, 246–47; poetics of dilemma vs. perfection, 149, 150, 247; Pollock on “othering” and, 149, 298n89; Rāmāyan.a as response to Mahābhārata, 149–51; rasa associated with each, 148. See also Rāmāyan.a-Mahābhārata conarration; specific epics Rāmāyan.a-Mahābhārata conarration: amplifying intertextuality of, 148–53; Dan.d.in’s lost work, 99–102; dates of experiments with, 232; Dvisandhānakāvya’s scheme of, 92, 107–15, 249, 256, 293n52, 293n53, 293n55, 297n70; of exile passage in, 108–12, 148; of hunting expeditions, 142–43, 144–45, 148; of killing Vālin/ Kīcaka, 145–47; Rāghavapān.d.avīya’s scheme of, 140–47, 249; of Rāma’s/ Pān.d.avas’ marriage, 112–13, 293n53; simultaneity and, 115–18, 249; of Sītā’s/ Draupadī’s abduction, 144–45; śles.a’s contrastive capacity and, 106–12, 118, 249, 256, 261; of Śūrpan.akhā/Kīcaka, 111–12; of Śūrpan.akhā/Urvaśī, 143–44, 147; of Vibhīs.an.a/Ghat. otkaca help epic heroes, 148; of wars, 114, 151. See also episodes paired; Rāmāyan.a-Mahābhārata; specific works rasa, 12, 37, 44, 148, 197, 199, 200, 201, 210, 211, 241, 304n114, 308n68 Ratnākara, 8, 122, 158, 159, 192, 232, 235, 236 Ratnaśrījñāna, 222, 223, 228, 309n101 Ratnāvalī (Harsa), 78, 125 Rāvan.a: in Dvisandhānakāvya/Jain tellings, 105, 106, 111, 112, 113, 114, 115, 117; infamy of, 254; paired with poet’s enemy, 136, 256, 274, 275, 296n49; in Rāghavapān.d.avīya, 144–45, 146, 149, 150, 151, 152; Śiśupāla and, 82, 89; Vāsavadattā compared to, 49 Ravicandra, Amaru reading by, 183–92, 193, 194, 257, 303n88, 303n91, 303n100, 304n112, 304n114

“readerly” ślesa, 169–75; “writerly” vs., 169, 181–82, 302n77 readers: author intention vs. interpretation by, 169–75, 181–82, 192–94; bitextual cognitive process of, 209–14; Damayantī as, 86–88, 156, 157–58; empowered, 157–58, 192; lexicons and, 129, 162, 172, 173, 176, 182; in listening characters, 156; as poets, 194; protection of, invocation for, 185; representations/instructions for, 156–59; virtuosity and, 240 readings, śles.a, 155–94; allegory and, 181–83, 302n77; of Amaru, 183–92; of epics, 181–83; of Meghadūta (Cloud Messenger), 170–75, 175; paradox of, 192–94; śles.a-related faults and, 159–69; of Vāsavadattā, 176–80. See also commentaries; commentators regional languages. See “vernacular revolution” relief. See Mahabalipuram relief religious competition, as context of South Asian epics, 104 Renou, Louis, 8, 279n1 repetition: generative, 89–90, 120, 246; of sounds, 33–37, 178, 179. See also anuprāsa resegmentation (oronyms), 5, 6, 13–14, 21, 192, 207, 208, 209, 223, 279n42; in Dan.d.in’s lost work, 101; in Dvisandhānakāvya, 117; monosyllabic lexicons/guidebooks and, 128, 131; in Rāghavapān.d.avīya, 141, 142–43, 145–46; śles.a-readers’ use of, 173–74, 179, 182; śles.a-related faults and, 163–64, 165–66, 168; in Vakroktipañcāśikā, 158 resolution of doubt. See nirn.aya response: Bān.a’s to Subandhu, 50–55, 235, 285n111, 285n112; to Nītivarman, 78–82; to Rāmarājabhūs.an.ud.u’s Nalahariścandrīya, 139; Rāmāyan.a’s to Mahābhārata, 149–50; Śrīnāthud.u’s to Śrīhars.a’s challenge, 134; to Subandhu, 50–55 reverberation, 23, 33, 34–37, 38, 44, 153 rhyming. See yamaka

index %349& riddles, 55–56, 97, 240, 242, 261; prahelikā and, 241; virodhābhāsa and, 40–42 Riffaterre, Michael, 260–61, 262, 312n63 rivers: bathing women’s standards of comparison and, 252; of blood, 77; comparison of war to bathing women and, 46; Godāvarī, 126–27, 139; of poetry, 127; Revā, 33, 46; Sarasvatī, 23; of tears, 64–65. See also Ganges River Romanticism, 9–13, 17, 233, 262 Roodbergen, A. F., 8, 307n63 Rossetti, Gabriele, 193 royal courts, 123, 133, 140, 254, 295n37; kāvya subversion and, 254; Virāta’s, 60–64, 244 royal-divine simultaneity, 6, 38–42, 85, 124 Rudrat. a: on bilingual/multilingual śles.a, 122, 235, 294n3, 295n21; on lexicographical mastery, 129, 159; on śles.a, 159, 203, 205, 208, 210, 211, 236–37, 239, 241, 293n51, 294n3, 306n37, 307n52, 307n65; on supercategories of ornamentation, 205, 214, 307n44; on vakrokti (intentional distortion), 122, 203, 236 Rukmin.ī, 124, 126, 269, 296n47 rūpaka (metaphorical identification), 196, 198, 199, 204, 205, 216, 217, 284n14, 305n4, 309n81, 311n39 Russell, Ralph, 10–11 Ruyyaka, 201, 204, 208, 209–10, 250, 306n39, 308n71, 311n39 śabda (sound), 206, 307n50. See also sound, devices of Śabdārthacintāmani (Cidambarakavi), 270 śabdaśaktimūladhvani (suggestion based on the power of the words), 211, 301n43 sādhana, second meaning of, 166, 168 Said, Edward, 11 sairandhrī, 286n16 śalākāpurus.as. See Eminent Persons Salomon, Richard, 40 samānopamā (as-if simile), 223–24 samdigdham (doubtful meaning), 241, 300n19 samśaya (doubt), 196–97, 218, 220, 221 samsrsti (mixture of ornaments), 215, 309n82

sandhi (euphonic combination) resolution, 6, 13, 15, 101, 173, 179, 181, 187, 206, 208 Sandhyākaranandin, 8, 124, 133, 241, 269 Śan˙kara (commentator), 281n18, 285n123 Śan˙kara (philosopher): Amaru and, 188–92, 304n112, 304n114; debate with Sarasvatī, 189–92, 304n106; hagiographies on, 189–92, 304n106 Sanskrit: belles lettres of, 6, 24, 231; canon, 10, 12, 56, 119, 177, 184, 239, 245, 254; compounds/compounding techniques, 13, 35, 36, 101, 172; cosmopolis, 6, 132–33, 231; culture/ literary culture/tradition, 9, 12, 13, 15, 19, 46, 139, 148, 192, 194, 246, 250, 254, 259–60; grammar, 15, 159, 196, 239; homonyms, and, 13, 208–10; inscriptions, 6, 8, 21, 22, 33, 40, 95, 132, 231, 234, 280n6; lexicographical boom in, 16, 128–32, 157, 193, 234, 238, 295n21; lexicon of, 14–15, 130–31, 162, 179, 238; monopoly of, 132, 133, 233; monosyllabic words in, 16, 128–29, 164, 173 180, 182, 238; orthography, 14, 15, 208; Pollock’s theory on death of, 133; prose, 21–25, 55, 179, 231, 234, 281n25, 282n26; sandhi (euphonic combination) resolution in, 6, 13, 15, 101, 173, 179, 181, 187, 206, 208; śles.a absence in early, 20; śles.a as inherent/ natural to, 13–16, 17, 127, 137, 238, 258, 279n41, 279n43; synonyms and, 14–15, 130; syntax/word order, 13, 27, 101, 172, 192, 208; “vernacular revolution” and, 132–39, 153, 233; virtuosity and, 236, 239–42. See also Alam.kāraśāstra; kāvya; poetics Sanskrit poetics. See Alam.kāraśāstra Sanskrit works, bitextual/multitextual, 123–28, 267–71; anonymous, 125, 139, 268, 271; before 1000 CE, 123, 268; late sixteenth-, seventeenth-, eighteenthcentury, 123, 125–28, 138–39, 270–71; 1000–1250 CE, 123–24, 268–69; of unknown date, 123, 271. See also specific works Śāntirāja, 124, 271

%350& index Saptasandhānakāvya (Hemacandra), 124, 125–26, 128, 129, 133, 234, 269, 295n38 Saptasandhānamahākāvya (Meghavijayagani), 126, 271 Sāra]gadharīyamu (Kāśīpati), 275 Sarasvatī: in Dhanañjaya’s Dvisandhānakāvya, 107; as poetry embodied, 84, 156, 203, 237, 245; Śan˙kara’s debate with, 189–92, 304n106; śles.a movement and, 203, 245; in Śrīhars.a’s Nais.adhacarita, 82–88, 89, 134, 157–58, 245; in Śrīnāthud.u’s Telugu response, 134; in Subandhu’s Vāsavadattā, 22–23 sarcasm, 65–66, 68, 163, 288n60 śārdūlavikrīdita (tiger’s play meter), 32 Sarvānandanāga (commentator), 286n10, 286n19 Sātyaki, 81, 82 Saussure, Ferdinand de, 210, 263, 264 scholarship: on ślesa, 7–16; Western, intertextuality and, 257–65. See also Indology sculpture, 7, 10–11, 97, 247, 311n9. See also Mahabalipuram relief; śles.a, visual sea-pearl image, 147, 148, 248, 261 selfi ng/self-resumption, 71–75, 78–79, 81–82, 86–88, 88–90, 116, 242–45, 286n11, 287n37, 288n46, 288n47, 288n49, 288n50, 288n62, 288n35 self-reflexivity, 50, 55, 221, 224, 228–29, 249, 251–53, 256, 262–65 sense. See artha sentence structuring: Bān.a’s, 25, 51, 282n35; Subandhu’s, 27–28, 31, 33, 38–44 Śesācalapati, 12, 127–28, 270, 278n17, 294n14 sex/sexual references: chastity contrast in, 54, 253; degradation of Draupadī, 59, 76; “elephant trunk” maneuver, 167–68, 300n31; encounter of Us.ā, 29; Śan˙kara’s/Amaru’s exploits, 184–92; a sexual/pornographic śles.a reading, 80, 166–68, 257. See also eroticism Shah Jahan, 202 Shklovsky, Victor, 252–53 Shoaf, R. A., 263

Shulman, David, 8, 87–88, 291n18; on character/selfhood evolution, 71–75, 78, 89, 243–44, 287n36, 287n37, 288n49; on the poetic ideals of the epics, 149, 247; on Sanskrit–vernacular language interactions, 133 siddha girls, 170, 172, 174, 301n33, 301n52 signifier-signified relationship, 68, 181, 190, 193, 194, 205, 208, 210–11, 248, 253, 260–61, 263–65 silence, as connective device, 261 simile. See upamā simultaneity: aesthetics of, 115–18, 153; mechanisms of, 3–6. See also śles.a Si]garācāryudu, Krottapalli, 274 Si]garācāryulu, Asūri Mari]ganti, 135, 273 Śiśupāla: deformation of, 81–82; trick praise of Kr.s.n.a by, 79–82, 156, 178, 250, 289n68, 289n72; true character of revealed, 82, 86, 88, 89, 244–45 Śiśupālavadha (Māgha), 79–82, 86, 88, 156, 157, 232, 244, 248, 255–56, 259, 289n68, 289n72 Sītā: abandoned by Rāma, 43, 255; abducted by Rāvan.a, 113, 136, 144–45, 146, 150, 151, 274; captured in Lan˙kā, 114, 141, 152; vs. Draupadī, 110, 112, 125, 143, 145, 147, 150, 151; “othering” and, 149, 298n89; Pārvatī and, 136, 273; in Śūrpan.akhā episode, 111, 112; union with Rāma, 113, 288n46 Śiva: in Amaruśataka, 185; Arjuna and, 248, 288n50; in bitextual/multitextual works, 124, 269, 270, 274, 275, 276; bow of, 112; disguise of, 74–75; Indra and, 84; in Kirātārjunīya, 74, 76, 82, 244, 248; in lexicons, 131; in Mahabalipuram relief, 93, 94, 95, 99, 116, 290n13; Pārvatī and, 7, 122, 124, 158–59, 192, 199, 200, 232, 237, 269; in svabhāvokti, 214–15; in Vāsavadattā, 40, 49; Vis.n.u and, 7, 16, 124, 131, 162, 204, 212, 270, 274, 306n39, 308n67 Śivarāmābhyudayamu (Pedarāmāmātyudu), 274 Śivarāma Tripāt. hin (commentator), 178–80, 280n14, 302n69, 302n72 Skanda, 303n91

index %351& śles.a (embrace), 4–5, 7, 40, 73–74, 75, 76, 78, 234, 244, 247, 292n31; acting, 125, 238; as alam.kāra, problems with, 203–5, 213; alam.kāra classification of, problems with, 206–9, 307n52, 308n67; anuprāsa’s division of labor with, 44–45, 283n55; as augmenting all vakrokti (“crookedness” of poetic language), 215, 217, 222, 226, 228–30, 237, 253; author alerting readers to, 156–57, 159, 177; Bān.a’s view/use of, 51–55; Bhāmaha’s notion of, 203–4, 213, 216–17, 309n82; Bhīs.ma’s speech to Duryodhana as, 70, 77, 89, 288n60; bilingual/multilingual, 7, 122, 203, 235, 240, 278n18, 294n3, 295n21, 297n58; birth of, 20–25, 279n1; boom of, 123, 123–28, 131–32, 132–39, 193, 232–33, 238; charm of, 206–7, 210, 237; cognition of, 209–14, 248, 307n57, 308n70, 308n71; commentators on, 18, 22, 129, 155–56, 169–194, 234–35, 287n28, 299n10, 302n64, 304n114; contrastive capacities of, 46–47, 79–82, 106–12, 118, 249, 256, 261; criticism of, 9–13, 91, 241, 278n27; Dan.d.in on, 203–4, 208, 214–30, 309n101; Dhanañjaya’s, 102–3, 106–12, 114, 118, 140, 141; dhvani’s similarity to, 211–12, 228, 289n68, 301n43, 307n65, 308n66, 308n67, 308n68, 308n70; difficulty of composing/comprehending, 2, 12, 127, 141, 176, 240–42; dos.as (poetic faults) related to, 159–69, 192, 254, 300n19; Draupadī’s, 64–71, 76–77, 82, 89, 156–59, 243–44, 257, 287n32; earliest record of term, 23; eighthcentury, 119, 232; gender-based, 112, 293n51; guidebooks for composing of, 128; homonymy-homophony and, 208–11; Indology on, 7–16; as inherent/natural to Sanskrit, 13–16, 17, 127, 137, 238, 258, 279n41, 279n43; intertextuality and, 45–46, 48, 51, 76, 143, 194, 220–21, 223, 225–26, 229–30, 242, 247–48, 249, 250–53, 257–65; in Kālidāsa, 21, 22; kings made fun of with, 43–44, 52,

163–64; lexicographical boom and, 16, 128–32, 157, 193, 234, 238, 295n21; as literary movement, 2–3, 7, 123–132, 133, 155, 195, 203, 234–39; marginalization of, 9–13, 91, 233, 278n27; mechanism, overview for, 3–6; most celebrated poet of, 10, 18; ninth-century, 119, 122, 131–32, 232; Nītivarman’s, 60–78, 86, 91–92, 101, 102, 157, 235, 243–44, 247–48, 286n11; occasional use in stray verse, 57, 231–32, 235, 286n1; in opening lines of Vāsavadattā, 38–44; paradox of authorial intention, 192–94, 257; as peripheral to description/imagery, 117–18; as plot device, 57–90, 156–58, 232, 234, 244, 246; popularity of, 82–83, 88, 168, 247–48; pride/prestige and, 12, 102, 119, 127, 138, 236, 239–40, 253–54, 292n31, 292n37, 297n57; “pure” cases of, 204–6, 212, 306n37, 306n39, 308n67; “readerly,” 169–75, 181, 192–94; reading, 155–94; refi nement of the epic and, 75–78, 147–54, 246–49; relevance to contemporary theories, 257–65; removal from curricula, 10, 278n27; Rudrat. a on, 159, 203, 205, 208, 210, 211, 236–37, 239, 241, 293n51, 294n3, 306n37, 307n52, 307n65; selfi ng and, 67–75, 78, 86–90, 191, 242–45, 286n11, 288n46, 288n50; seventh-century trends, 57–58, 88, 91–92, 119, 232; side effects of, 162–63, 168, 193–94; of Śiśupāla’s messenger, 79–82, 156, 157, 245, 256; sixth-century, 20–22, 40, 41, 55, 119, 131, 231–32; in Śrīhars.a’s Nais. adhacarita, 82–90, 134, 156, 157–58, 232–33, 234, 236, 245, 290n89; Subandhu’s targets of, 38–40, 44–50; tādātmya masking with, 72–74; in Tamil, 14, 137–39, 233, 236, 242, 296n54; in Telugu, 7, 8, 14, 135, 136, 233, 235, 242, 272–76, 296n41, 296n46, 296n52, 297n68; theoretical problem of in Sanskrit poetics, 203–14; upamā (simile) and, 204, 216–17, 222–26, 226, 253, 307n52; vakrokti (“crookedness” of poetic

%352& index śles.a (embrace) (continued) language) and, 215, 217, 222, 226, 228–30, 237, 253; Vedic scripture continuity with, 15, 279n1; visual, 7, 9, 92–99, 118, 237–38, 291n19, 291n20; yamaka’s division of labor with, 60, 63–64, 69, 77–78, 157, 178, 243, 273, 283n55, 286n11, 302n64 ślesopamā (simile subcategory), 222, 224 śloka meter, 21 Smith, David, 8 socioaesthetics, kāvya’s, 48, 75, 150–51, 246, 249, 254 Somaśēkharakavi, Ōruganti, 275 Someśvara Kavi, Viñjam˜uri, 271 sound: “bites,” 35; devices of, 206–9, 283n55, 283n63, 307n50, 307n51; effects, 32, 35, 197; repetition of, 33–36, 178, 179; sense devices vs. those of sound, 34, 183, 206–9, 213, 228, 280n13, 307n50, 307n51; śles.a based on, 241, 294n3; śles.a’s division of labor with, 44–45, 60, 63–64, 69, 77–78, 157, 178, 243, 273, 283n55, 286n11, 302n64. See also anuprāsa; onomatopoeia; yamaka South Asia, fi rst millennium CE in, 132–39 Spink, Walter, 291n24 split consciousness, 72–75 spring, contradictory comparisons of, 49 Śrīhars.a, 129, 134, 156, 234, 235, 236, 240, 259, 290n89; Māgha/Nītivarman compared to, 86–87; Pañcanalīya, 82–90, 134, 156–59, 233, 245. See also Nais.adhacarita Śrīnāthudu, response to Śrīharsa’s challenge, 134 Srinivasachariar, T. V., 176, 179, 281n19, 283n55, 285n124, 302n64 Śrīpādavē]katācalapati, 274–75 Śrutakīrti Traividya, 124, 269 stylized prose, fi rst, 22 Subandhu, 12, 20–56, 57, 85, 88, 91, 101, 102, 127, 197, 231, 234, 236, 253, 261, 263, 281n20; alliterative compounds of, 23, 32, 33–38, 44, 283n55, 283n63; Bān.a’s response to, 50–55, 235, 285n111, 285n112; Bān.a vs., 51, 285n113;

commentaries on, 22, 50, 129, 176–80, 180, 193, 194, 237, 241, 280n14, 302n57, 302n64, 302n74; criticism of, 9–10, 26; date of, 21–22, 280n14, 285n111; Hueckstedt on, 28, 34, 52, 283n55; iconoclasm of, 42–44, 46–47, 56, 80, 82, 255; innovative plot of, 23–24; Kavirāja and, 91, 126, 237; lack of scholarship on, 25; lexicographical knowledge of, 129; punning of, 22–23, 38–49, 52, 157, 163, 171, 204, 224, 240, 301n38; response to, 50–55; sentence structuring of, 27–28, 31, 33, 38–44; śles.a/anuprāsa, alternate use of, 44; śles.a pioneer, 21–23, 153, 203; śles.a targets of, 38–40, 44–50; subversion of convention by, 44, 56, 88, 177, 254–57; suspense in style of, 26–27, 32, 51; use of apparent contradictions (virodhābhāsas) by, 40–44, 51; use of similes (upamās) by, 9–10, 38–42, 48, 56, 204. See also Vāsavadattā subversion, through śles.a, 44, 56, 88, 104, 163, 177, 224, 229, 254–57 suggestion. See dhvani Sugrīva, 141, 145, 146, 147 Sundarakān.d.a, 50, 151–52, 246, 249, 299n97 Sundararāmaya, Krotapalli, 136, 275–76 Sūrācārya, 124, 268–69, 294n7 Sūranna, Pin˙gal. i. See Pin˙gal. i Sūranna Sūri, Haradatta. See Haradatta Sūri Śūrpanakhā, 113, 293n53, 316n91; Kīcaka episode paired with, 111–12, 293n51; Urvaśī-Arjuna paired with, 143–44, 147 Sūryadāsa, 124–25, 126–27, 139, 270 Sūryaprakāśakavi, Mantri Pregada, 136, 274 suspense: epic parallels and in Kavirāja’s poem, 141–43; śles.a in Śrīhars.a’s work and, 83; Subandhu’s style and, 26–27, 32, 51 Suvrata, 106–7 svabhāvokti (factual description), 32, 206, 214–17, 221–22 svayam.vara (groom-choice ceremony): Damayantī’s, 43, 83–87, 245; Draupadī’s, 286n1; of epics matched, 112, 148; Vāsavadattā’s, 25, 45, 284n84

index %353& Śyāmala, 52–53 syllables, pattern of long-short, 32. See also monosyllabic words syllepsis, 260–62 synonyms: proliferation of in Sanskrit, 13–15, 130; test, 207 tādātmya (coalescence of self), through masking, 72–74 Tamal, Aya, 172 Tamālikā, 25–26, 282n32 Tamil, 8, 14, 279n45, 296n54; adaptation of Dan.d.in in, 197; region, 123, 132, 176, 202, 232–33, 255; śles.a poetry in, 137–39, 233, 236, 242; śles.a specific to, 14, 137, 296n54; Virāt. a in, 298n95 tantra (speech of dual purpose), 92, 236, 286n3 targets: of Subandhu’s jibes, 44–50, 256; three-seven, 123–26, 129, 133, 295n38; two/dual, 57–58, 79, 91–121, 133, 162, 169, 203–4, 236, 292n31, 292n32 tattvākhyāna (reality talk), 219, 221 Telugu bitextual/multitextual works, 7, 8, 14, 135, 233, 235, 242, 272, 296n46; eighteenth-century, 135, 136, 273–74; nineteenth-century, 135, 274–75; seventeenth-century, 135, 273; sixteenth-century, 135, 242, 273; twentieth-century, 135, 136–37, 275–76; of unknown date, 276 Telugu poets/poetry, 91, 127, 133–36, 138, 140, 279n45, 296n52, 297n98; first bitextual poems, 135, 296n41; Sanskritized, 137; titles/prestige of śles.a-trained poets in, 138, 297n57; tit.t.ukāvya (disparaging poetry) genre of, 136, 256. See also Pi]gali Sūranna temple architecture, ślesa in, 7, 9 texts: Dandin’s lost, 99–102, 291n24; lost, 24, 99–102, 124, 126, 130, 268, 269, 270, 271, 273, 281n16, 284n86, 291n24, 294n7, 296n41. See also literature; readers theoreticians, warnings of, 159–69 thesauri, 16, 128–31, 173, 176, 238, 240. See also lexicographical boom; monosyllabic words

tiger’s play meter (śārdūlavikrīdita), 32 Tippanaka (commentator), 268–69 tittukāvya (disparaging poetry), 136, 256, 274, 275 tobacco, 137–38 Tolstoy, Leo, 253 train analogy, 3–4 Traividya, Śrutakīrti. See Śrutakīrti Traividya transformation. See selfi ng/ self-resumption translations, parallel, 5, 64, 100–101, 108–10, 164 trees: barren, 64, 70, 85; Sāla, 223–24; Saptacchada, 216; Veda and courtesans compared to, 49; vociferous, 36; wish-granting, 70, 85–86, 290n89 triads/triangles: Dan.d.in’s place in, 100, 103, 126, 291n26; Dhanañjaya’s place in, 103; of Eminent Persons in Jain epics, 105–6, 150, 292n44; Kavirāja’s place in, 126, 237; of prose writers, 22 tributes by śles.a poets to their predecessors, 51, 124–27, 235, 271 trick praise. See vyājastuti Tripāthin, Śivarāma. See Śivarāma Tripāthin Tubb, Gary, 21, 87–88, 241 tulyayogitā (partial equivalence), 306n39 twinning. See yamaka Udayana, 72, 74, 78, 89, 125, 288n49 Udbhat. a, 198–99, 204–5, 209–11, 213, 260, 305n11, 305n15, 307n63 ullekha, 116 underinterpretation, 155, 157, 193 Unni, P. N., 171 Upadhye, A. N., 277n12, 292n34, 294n7 upamā (simile): Appayya Dīks.ita on, 251, 311n39, 312n40; basic device for paring down objective and figurative, 251–53; Bhāmaha on, 216, 309n81; Dan.d.in on, 215, 217–20, 221, 308n76, 309n101; dhvani and, 211, 307n65; face-lotus, 196, 217–23, 229, 250, 310n106; face-moon, 48, 61, 199, 205, 217–20, 222, 239, 250–52, 256,

%354& index upamā (simile) (continued) 311n39; Indurāja on, 207–8; intensification (atiśaya) and, 216; king-ocean, 40, 43, 49, 224–26, 226, 239, 256; Mammat. a on, 205, 307n44; puns inherent in, 224–25, 229, 301n105; Rudrat. a on, 205–6; śles.a and, 204, 216–17, 222–26, 226, 253, 307n52; Subandhu’s use of, 9–10, 38–42, 48, 56, 204; subcategories of, 222–24, 309n101; vakrokti (“crookedness” of poetic language) and, 215–16, 222–24; Vāmana on, 198 Upanisad, comparison of lover to, 50 Urdu poetry: Indology lagging behind with respect to, 279n39; śles.a criticism and, 10–11, 278n28; śles.a in, 7, 279n45 Urvaśī-Arjuna episode, Śūrpanakhā episode paired with, 143–44, 147 Usā-Aniruddha story, Vāsavadattā as intertextuality with, 28–30, 45 Uttara, Arjuna and, 69, 76, 78, 287n32 Vaisnava commentators, 182 vakrokti (“crookedness” of poetic language): as all poetic devices, 215–16; Dan.d.in’s model of, 219, 226–30, 308n77; disguise and, 219, 222, 230, 251, 253, 310n106; intensification (atiśaya) and, 216; intertextuality and, 221–22; path of, 235, 237; simile (upamā) and, 215–16, 222–24; śles.a as pervasive of, 215, 217, 222, 226, 228–30, 237, 253; svabhāvokti vs., 215–17, 222 vakrokti (intentional distortion), 122, 158, 159, 203, 216, 236, 294n3 Vakroktipañcāśikā (Ratnākara), 122, 158, 159, 192, 232 vaktra meter, 45 Vālin, 141, 145, 146–47, 261, 298n81 Vālmīki: Bilhan.a on, 254; curse by, 182–83; date of, 150; lineage of poets started by, 247, 261; paired with Vyāsa, 148–50, 298n83; tetrad with Vyāsa, Dan.d.in, and Dhanañjaya, 103–4, 126; triad with Vyāsa and Dan.d.in, 100; triad with Vyāsa and Kavirāja, 154; violence banished by, 246 Vanavāsi, 140, 295n37

Vāsavadattā (Subandhu), 9–10, 282n35; anuprāsa (alliteration) in, 33–38, 178; Bāna influenced by, 52; Bāna’s desire to outshine, 51, 285n112; classification of, 24–25, 281n25; commentaries on, 22, 176–80, 280n14, 302n57, 302n62, 302n64, 302n69, 302n74; date composed, 22; descriptive language in, 25–33, 44, 284n81; editions of, 281n19; genre of, 24–25, 281n25; Kalāvatī in, 26, 282n31; longest sentence of, 27; lover’s internal vision in, 29–30, 282n44; messenger speech in, 176–80, 180, 302n62; modern critics on, 28; nine gems verse of, 12, 279n36; number of commentaries on, 22; onomatopoeias in, 34–36; opening lines of, 38–44; painting hypothesis, 30–31; parrot in, 23, 24, 25, 26, 30, 37, 45, 46, 49, 282n32, 284n84; plot/description in, 25–33; praise of, 51, 280n14; preface to, 129; scholarship on, 24; signature verse of, 22–23, 281n19; ślesa designation in, 21; story overview of, 25–26; suspense in, 27–28; syntax of long descriptive sentences in, 27; Tamālikā in, 26, 282n32; UsāAniruddha intertextuality with, 28–30 Vāsavadattā (Subandhu’s titular character): compared to Duryodhana and Rāvan.a, 49; compared to texts, 45, 49–50, 53 Vāsudeva (commentator), 177, 302n57 Vāsudevas, 105–6, 115–18, 120, 141, 150, 153, 292n44 Vasupraharāja, 271 Vasusvārocisōpākhyānamu (Sundararāmaya), 136, 275–76 vāyu (wind), Mammata on use of word, 300n28 Vedic scripture, 181, 206; grammar science and, 15; and Mīmām.sā and Nyāya, 196, 198–99; śles.a continuity with, 15, 279n1; tree analogy for 49; trilogy and, 100 Ve]katācāryulu, Śrī Tirumala Bukkapattanam, 273, 296n47, 297n57

index %355& Venkatachalapathy, A. R., 137–38 Ven˙kat. ādhvarin, 125, 255, 270, 294n5 Ve]katakrsnayya, Gunugutūri, 276 “vernacular revolution,” 132–39, 153, 233; Pollock and 132–33; Sanskrit at height of, 139; Tamil in, 137–39; Telugu and, 133–36, 138 versified poetry, yamaka (twinning) and, 21, 231, 280n12 vidūsaka (buffoon), 254, 312n52 Vidyāckravartin (commentator), 311n39 Vidyāmādhava, 124, 126, 133, 234, 269, 296n47, 306n39 viloma (bidirectional poetry), 124–25, 126–27, 139, 154, 240, 270, 271, 294n5, 314n27 Villiputtūrār, Tamil Pāratam of, 298n95, 299n98 Vimalasūri, 104–5, 115–16 violence, 105; Rāmāyan.a vs. Mahābhārata, 149, 246 Vīrabhadrācāryulu, Kaneganti, 276 Vīrabhadrakavi, Aiyyagāri, 275 Vīrarāghavakavi, Nellūri, 274 Virāt. a: Bhīma’s speech to, 68–69; cattle war of, 69–71, 77–78, 141, 144; court of, 59–64, 146, 244, 288n50; Draupadī’s indictment of, 65–68, 243–44; failure to understand Draupadī’s śles.a, 157–59; Sugrīva and 145–46; in Villiputtūrār’s Tamil version, 298n95 Virāt.aparvan (Book of Virāt. a), 58–59, 76–78, 151–52, 246–49, 288n50, 288n61, 295n95; Bhagavadgītā and, 76–78; śles.a reading of, 182–83, 192–93, 194 virodhābhāsa (apparent contradiction), 40–44, 51, 97 virtuosity, 239–42, 254, 292n37 viruddhamatikr.t, śles.a-related fault of unintended/opposite meaning, 160, 163–64, 169 Vis.n.u, 7, 38, 39, 40, 43–44, 97, 150, 172, 185; incarnations (avatars) of, 39, 43, 48, 89, 120, 150; kings compared with, 39–40, 49; mountains and, 115, 120; Śiva paired with in śles.a poetry, 7, 162, 204, 212, 276, 306n39, 308n67;

śles.a vocabulary for, 16, 115, 131, 141, 157 Viśruta story, Dandin in, 291n24 visual arts: contrasted with the literary, 28–33, 37–38, 50; interactions with literary, 97–98, 116; ornamentation (alam.kāra) found in poetry and, 97; śles.a in, 7, 92–99, 237–38, 291n19, 291n20; subject to same criticism as the literary, 7, 278n28 Viśvagunādarśacampū (Ve]katādhvarin), 255 Vogel, Claus, 128, 129, 130 vyājastuti (trick praise), 81–82, 163, 169, 197, 289n68, 289n72, 300n19 Vyāsa: paired with Vālmīki, 148–50, 298n83; tetrad with Vālmīki, Dan.d.in, and Dhanañjaya, 103–4, 126; triad with Vālmīki and Dan.d.in, 100; triad with Vālmīki and Kavirāja, 154 vyatireka (distinction), 217, 224–26, 226, 252–53, 284n80, 310n106 war: cattle-, 59, 76–77, 112; compared with beautiful women bathing in river, 46; compared with theater, 117; Rāmāyana vs. Mahābhārata, 114, 151 Warder, A. K., 8, 280n14, 281n18, 292n37 Western scholarship, intertextuality and, 257–65 wish-granting trees, 70, 85–86, 290n89 Wordsworth, William, 10, 11, 262 Yādavabhāratīyamu (Chennakrsnakavi), 274 Yādavarāghavapāndavīyamu (Vīrarāghavakavi), 274 Yādavarāghavīya (Naraharikavi), 125, 271 Yādavarāghavīya (Ve]katādhvarin), 270 yaks.a, 170, 172–73 yamaka (twinning), 21, 179, 197, 206, 231, 280n7, 280n11, 283n55; division of labor with ślesa, 60, 63–64, 69, 77–78, 157, 178, 243, 273, 283n55, 286n11, 302n64; in Kālidāsa, 21; in Kīcakavadha, 60–64, 77, 157, 243, 286n13; twin episodes and, 75–78; versified poetry and, 21, 231, 280n12

%356& index Yēsukr.s.n.īyamu (Gadēpalli Kukkutēśvara Rao), 137, 276 Yudhis.t.hira: in Bhoja’s citation of Dan.d.in’s lost work, 101–2; Daśaratha paired with, 110; disguised as Brahmin in Nārāyan.a Bhat.t.a’s Pāñcalīsvayam.vara, 286n1; Draupadī snatched away from, 145; Draupadī’s speech to, 64–67; Jain saints paired with, 124; Kan˙ka as his alias, 63, 182; leafless tree compared

with, 70, 74; Nīlakan.t.ha exculpates him from lying to Virāt.a, 182, 192, 194; outside Jain pantheon, 256; peace advocated by, 115; Rāma contrasted with in Dhanañjaya’s work, 108–12, 115, 118, 249, 261; Rāma paired with, 101–2, 113, 141, 293n52; Rāma’s nobility and, 147; in Śiśupālavadha episode, 79, 289n72; truth abandoned by, 48, 261; Virāt.aparvan’s plot and, 58–59