The Voice of the Indian Mona Lisa: Gender and Culture in Eighteenth-Century Rajasthan [1 ed.] 9781009201650, 9781009201698, 9781009201681

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The Voice of the Indian Mona Lisa

The “Indian Mona Lisa” is an eighteenth-century portrait of the Goddess Radha from the Kishangarh school of Rajput Painting. It was purportedly modeled after a young enslaved woman and court-performer, Banī-thanī, who _ Savant became a concubine of the patron of the painting, Crown-Prince Singh. Tracing her career, Heidi Pauwels recovers Banī-thanī’s role as a _ composer of devotional songs in multiple registers of Classical Hindi and shows how she was a conduit for trendsetting styles from Delhi, including the new vogue of Urdu poetry. Through a combination of literary, historical, and art-historical analysis, Pauwels brings to life the vibrant cultural production center of Kishangarh in the eighteenth century by reconstructing how Banīthanī came to be acclaimed as “India’s Mona Lisa.” This major new study _conveys important new insights into the history of Hindi literature and devotion, the author-couple, palace women, and the social mobility of the enslaved. Heidi Rika Maria Pauwels is Professor at the University of Washington, Seattle.

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The Voice of the Indian Mona Lisa Gender and Culture in Eighteenth-Century Rajasthan Heidi Rika Maria Pauwels University of Washington, Seattle

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Shaftesbury Road, Cambridge CB2 8EA, United Kingdom One Liberty Plaza, 20th Floor, New York, NY 10006, USA 477 Williamstown Road, Port Melbourne, VIC 3207, Australia 314–321, 3rd Floor, Plot 3, Splendor Forum, Jasola District Centre, New Delhi – 110025, India 103 Penang Road, #05-06/07, Visioncrest Commercial, Singapore 238467 Cambridge University Press is part of Cambridge University Press & Assessment, a department of the University of Cambridge. We share the University’s mission to contribute to society through the pursuit of education, learning and research at the highest international levels of excellence. www.cambridge.org Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9781009201650 DOI: 10.1017/9781009201698 © Heidi Rika Maria Pauwels 2023 This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to the provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Cambridge University Press & Assessment. First published 2023 A catalogue record for this publication is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Rika Maria Pauwels, Heidi, 1963- author. Title: The voice of the Indian Mona Lisa : gender and culture in eighteenth-century Rajasthan / Heidi Rika Maria Pauwels, University of Washington. Description: Cambridge ; New York : Cambridge University Press, 2023. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2022058984 (print) | LCCN 2022058985 (ebook) | ISBN 9781009201650 (hardback) | ISBN 9781009201681 (paperback) | ISBN 9781009201698 (epub) Subjects: LCSH: Bani Thani, active 1750. | Courtesan–India–Kishangarh–Biography. | Kishangarh (India)–Intellectual life–18th century. | Kishangarh (Princely State)– Intellectual life–18th century. | Rajasthan (India)–Intellectual life–18th century. Classification: LCC DS461.9.B36 R55 2023 (print) | LCC DS461.9.B36 (ebook) | DDC 954/.4029–dc23/eng/20230113 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022058984 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022058985 ISBN 978-1-009-20165-0 Hardback Cambridge University Press & Assessment has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party internet websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

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Contents

List of Figures Acknowledgments Note on the Text List of Abbreviations Introduction

page vi viii xii xv 1

1

The Making of the “Indian Mona Lisa”

21

2

The Queen and the Slave Girl

65

3

Becoming the Prince’s Concubine

99

4

Synergies of the Literary Couple

139

5

Legacy: Self-Fashioning and Its Limits

191

Conclusions

234

Appendix: Sources References Index

251 258 274

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Figures

1.1 Bani Thani by Gopal Swami Khetanchi. 2006. Jaipur, Rajasthan page 20 1.2 Indian postal stamp Radha–Kishangarh. Issued in 1973. Based on Portrait of Radha attributed to Nihālcand. Ca. 1740 20 1.3 Portrait of Lal Kunwar. Eighteenth century. Mughal, India 30 1.4 Idealized Portrait of the Mughal Empress Nu Jahan (1577–1645). Ca. 1725–50. Kishangarh, Rajasthan 31 1.5 A Lady Singing. Ca. 1740–5. Kishangarh, Rajasthan 33 2.1 Queen Listening to Music attributed to Bhavānīdās. Ca. 1730–40. Kishangarh, Rajasthan 64 2.2 A Lady Playing the Tanpura. Ca. 1735. Kishangarh, Rajasthan 73 2.3 Śukadeva Muni Comes to Kishangarh and Is Received by All Inhabitants. Eighteenth century. Kishangarh, Rajasthan 83 3.1 Sawant Singh and Bani Thani in a Mango Grove attributed partly to Nihālcand. Ca. 1735–50. Kishangarh, Rajasthan 98 3.2 Queen Udham Bai Entertained by a Troupe by Mīr Miran. 1742. Mughal, India 103 3.3 Bani Thani. Ca. 1775. Kishangarh, Rajasthan 104 3.4 A Woman Holds the Edge of Her Orhani. Ca. 1765. Kishangarh, Rajasthan 106 3.5 Prince Resting after a Hunt (Mahārājā Rāj Singhjī). Ca. 1740. Kishangarh, Rajasthan 110 3.6 Savant Singh (Reigned 1748–1757) and Bani Thani in the Guise of Krishna and Radha Cruising on Lake Gundalao. Ca. 1750–75. Kishangarh, Rajasthan 119 4.1 Detail from Śukadeva Reciting the Bhāgavata-purāna _ Singh. (Ancient Stories of the Lord) to King Parīksit/Sāvant _ Ca. 1750–75. Kishangarh, Rajasthan 138 4.2 Manuscript Kh (from Bābā Ranchordās) 162 _ _ 4.3 Manuscript Kh (from Bābā Rancho rdās), wedding invitation 170 _ _

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List of Figures

4.4 Manuscript Kh (from Bābā Ranchordās), obverse of _ _ wedding invitation 5.1 Krishna Holding Radha’s Scarf attributed to Sitaram. Ca. 1760. Kishangarh, Rajasthan 5.2a Radha and Krishna’s Siesta in the Arbor attributed to Nihālcand. Ca. 1745–50. Kishangarh, Rajasthan 5.2b Inscription on the reverse of Radha and Krishna’s Siesta in the Arbor attributed to Nihālcand. Ca. 1745–50. Kishangarh, Rajasthan 5.3 Manuscript Kh (from Bābā Ranchordās) _ _ Singh alias Nāgarīdās. 5.4 Lithograph image of Mahārāj Sāvant Nāgara-samuccayah _ page. Nāgara-samuccayah 5.5 Lithograph dedication _

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171 190 198

199 202 224 225

Acknowledgments

In Krishna’s holy land of Braj, along the Yamuna River in the sacred town of Vrindaban, stands a once-elegant mansion known as Nāgarī Kuñj. Opposite, in a fenced enclosure, several cenotaphs or chatrīs memorialize former occupants of the mansion, among them Nāgarīdās, after whom the dwelling was named. A pious retired king of a small Rajasthani principality of Kishangarh, he composed under that pen name songs in praise of Krishna, but his real name was Sāvant Singh, as per the memorial’s epitaph. One of the adjacent chatrīs is said to commemorate one of his concubines, though its inscription can no longer be read. I came across these intriguing, twinned monuments in the late 1980s during one of my explorations of the pilgrimage town. I was at the time a student at the Vrindaban Research Institute, staying at a nearby ashram at the former subedar’s quarters, Jai Singh Ghera, thanks to the hospitality of Shri Shrivatsa Gosvami and Sandhya Goswami. Those excursions were made all the more enjoyable in the company of Sandhyaji’s sisters, Dr. Swapna and Saumya Sharma, who generously shared their knowledge of local literature and culture with me. The only obstacles were the fierce monkeys that consider the town their own and deter lingering in open places, even if for such lofty purposes as reading epitaphs about the holy men who lived there. But the seed of curiosity was sown. I had other projects at the time but kept coming across the poetry of Nāgarīdās time and again, so Swapnaji (now at Yale University) and I started reading Nāgarīdās’ poetry, including his report of his own pilgrimage to Braj and residence in Vrindaban. I am grateful for to Swapnaji her vivid and learned explanations, but most of all for her contagious enthusiasm for her homeland’s devotional poetry and song. In order to learn more of the intriguing works of the poet-prince, I traveled to Kishangarh along the busy Jaipur–Ajmer road. Walking through the little lanes of the old town, in the shadow of its impressive fort, one can easily imagine time-traveling to the eighteenth century. This is greatly facilitated because the former royal family now runs the summer palace at the shore of beautiful Lake Gundalao as a luxury hotel, decorated with gorgeous murals based on the paintings of the Kisahangarhi school’s heyday. His Highness viii

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Maharaja Brajraj Singh and Her Highness Maharani Minakshi Devi are both wonderful sources of information about the rich past of their family and of this charming place. One of the iconic Kishangarhi paintings is the famous Portrait of Radha (ca. 1740, opaque watercolor and gold on paper, 48.2  35.2 cm, kept in the Royal Collection). I was intrigued to learn that informally people would refer to it as “Banī-thanī,” the name of the very concubine who was _ commemorated by the monument next to Sāvant Singh’s in Vrindaban.1 His Highness kindly read out for me the entry on her in an early twentieth-century chronicle, and Her Highness showed me the transcription she had made of the concubine’s epitaph when it was still legible, which revealed that her pen name was Rasikbihārī. They provided access to the manuscripts of Kishangarhi poetry in the royal library, and while I was not permitted to take photographs, the experience was made pleasant through taking notes on the spot, reading through these pages in the company of the Mukhiyā of the temple where the poetry is still sung to this day for worship of the deity. Shri Madan Mohan Ācārya became interested and spontaneously sang out the passages as we read, elucidating when they were sung and what they meant. In this happy satsaṅg experience, we went through many volumes of Nāgarīdās’ poetry before coming across a manuscript that looked a bit more sloppily written than the rest, in many different hands, without a nice border or ornamental letters. It contained mostly poetry signed with the concubine’s pen name, Rasikbihārī, intermingled with that of the prince and others. Noting that some of her poems had been corrected in the margins, not in the way scribes do when they miswrite but in the way poets improve on their creative work, it started to dawn on me that this must be a performance diary the concubine wrote down herself or dictated to her assistants. Intrigued, I set out to find out more about her. The results of this journey of discovery are presented in this book, which is a sequel to my earlier ones on Nāgarīdās (2015 and 2017). I want to start by thanking everyone in India whose kind welcome and assistance made possible gathering the material for this book. I have already mentioned several whose hospitality and knowledge-sharing I was privileged to enjoy. In addition, in Kishangarh, I thank especially the Mahant of the Kacharīya Nimbārka Temple, Dr. Jaykrishna Sharma, and Shahzād Citrakār ‘Alī, son of Dr. Faiyāz ’Alī Khān. There were so many others along this path who generously shared their knowledge and thoughts, and most of all I have felt privileged for all the moments of shared bhakti.

1

The image was first published in Dickinson 1950: 35, more accessibly in Dickinson and Khandalavala 1959: plate 4, and reproduced as a print distributed by Lalit Kala Akademi. It is widely reproduced in print and on the internet, accessible via Wikipedia, online: https://en .wikipedia.org/wiki/Bani_Thani#/media/File:4_Radha, last accessed November 30, 2020.

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Acknowledgments

I should thank the librarians and staff of the libraries where I consulted manuscripts: in Braj, especially the Mathura Janmabhūmi Library; in Rajasthan, the Rajasthan Oriental Research Institute branches in Jaipur and Bharatpur, the Sanjay Sharma Sangrahālay, and the Jaipur City Palace Museum Collection, which was facilitated greatly by Professor Giles Tillotson. I am grateful to Dr. Vijay Kumar Mathur, at the time curator at the National Museum in New Delhi, and to Kavita Singh of Jawaharlal Nehru University of Delhi for advising me about the National Museum Collection. My travel to India was made possible through a senior research fellowship of the American Institute for Indian Studies (AIIS). Writing up my findings was made possible thanks to a fellowship of the National Endowment of the Humanities (NEH) combined with a sabbatical leave and a grant toward the publication costs from the Simpson Center for the Humanities at the University of Washington. In the United States, I want to start by expressing my gratitude to Dr. Navina Haidar, curator at the Metropolitan Museum in New York, who wrote her dissertation on the Kishangarhi school of painting, for her support of this project, for generously sharing her immense art-historical expertise on Kishangarh, and for commenting on drafts of several chapters even in the midst of juggling so many tasks of her own. I am especially grateful to my colleagues at the University of Washington: Professor Purnima Dhavan in the history department for enlightening discussions that alerted me to several historical issues as well as very enjoyable readings of eighteenth-century poetry that provided perspective; and Professor Sonal Khullar in art history (now moved to University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia) for letting me sit in on her stimulating art history course on “Art and Empire in South Asia” during spring quarter 2020, her last quarter at the University of Washington (UW), as I was writing up my project. During these difficult pandemic times, I doubly appreciated the help of Dr. Deepa Banerjee of UW Libraries for going the extra mile to ensure I received the materials I needed. I thank Dr. Gursharan and Elvira Sidhu, also in Seattle, for the many stimulating conversations and shared enthusiasm as they graciously invited me to enjoy the paintings in their collection with them. I am also grateful to Professor J.S. Hawley of Columbia University for inspiration and support; to Dr. Lalita du Perron of Stanford University for e-discussions on the musical and performative aspects of Rasikbihārī’s poetry; to Dr. Kristy Phillips for elaborating on her dissertation written at the University of Minnesota; and to Professor Dalpat Rajpurohit of the University of Texas at Austin for our fruitful exchanges. In the United Kingdom, I am most obliged to Professor Imre Bangha of Oxford University for simulating discussions and for generously sharing the photos he took of an important manuscript at the Jodhpur RORI collection. I am also grateful for the chance to “workshop” some of my Rasikbihārī

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translations at the online “Kavi (C)Kovid” gathering organized on early IndoAryan literature in summer 2020, and I want to thank the participants for their much cherished satsaṅg. As always, Monika Horstmann, Professor Emerita of Heidelberg University, has been a great source of inspiration, and I am grateful for her encouragement and comments on early chapter drafts. For the reproduction of the images, I thank the organizations and individual collectors as detailed on the credit lines that go with each image. Last but not least, I gratefully acknowledge the staff of Cambridge University Press, in particular Lucy Rhymer and Emily Plater, and the anonymous reviewers who provided stimulating comments, and I hope they will be pleased to recognize their helpful suggestions incorporated in the work. All mistakes and shortcomings of this book remain my own responsibility, and any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this publication do not necessarily reflect those of the sponsors like the National Endowment for the Humanities.

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Note on the Text

Conventions and Caveats Throughout the book I refer to the paintings as belonging to the Kishangarhi school of Rajput paintings, and consequently, I also use “Kishangarh” as shorthand for the Rajput principality. Strictly speaking though, during most of the period discussed, the twin-city Rupnagar (or Roopangarh, approximately 25 km north of Kishangarh) was the capital. This lasted for exactly a hundred years: from the time of the twin-city’s foundation by Rūp Singh (after whom it was named) in 1648 until the throne of the state was usurped by Bahādur Singh in 1748, who moved the capital back to Kishangarh. When referring to the paintings, it is customary to give a date, even if only an approximation. This practice glosses over substantial problems in dating. Few of the Kishangarhi paintings are dated on the canvas; many do not even mention the name of the artist. Research on the issue is severely hampered by lack of access to the archives. In this book, my policy is to give the commonly accepted dates, but even specialists do not always agree and do not always make explicit the reasons for their dates and attribution to artists. Notable exceptions are Faiyāz ‘Alī Khān (1979–80), Navina Haidar’s work on Bhavānīdās and Nihālcand (1995, 2011a, 2011b) and McInerney’s on Dalcand (2011). Still much work needs to be done on the chronology; even the date of the famous Kishangarh Portrait of Radha (“The Indian Mona Lisa”) has not yet been established beyond doubt. The issue is complicated by the existence of later copies of the paintings. Ever since the art school of Kishangarh was first brought to international art audiences’ attention, demand soared and supply did not lag far behind. Karl Khandalavala (1971: 3) was quite amused by the number of “fakes” that had started to flood the art market in the wake of his publication that brought the school to international attention. Since I am not trained as an art historian, my assessments should not be taken as authoritative. They are based on those published in respected publications, in some cases with some skepticism on the xii

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Note on the Text

xiii

basis of my own research data, but this remains tentative, subject to forthcoming art-historical research findings. We await the publication of Navina Haidar’s authoritative monograph on the topic to get more definitive answers to the many puzzles presented by Kishangarhi art. All dates are CE, except where indicated otherwise. Conversion of dates from the Hindu calendar in Vikram Samvat (VS) to CE has been done by the _ admittedly imprecise method of subtracting fifty-seven from the VS date. In the list of references, the same procedure has been followed, except when the CE date is provided in the book itself. The VS date has been included between brackets in the bibliography, but not in the reference citations in the text. Edition and Translation The findings presented in this book are based on the scholarly edition and translation of Rasikbihārī’s work produced during my NEH grant period in 2020. The translation I provide here is the very first translation of these texts. In the absence of even Hindi paraphrases, my translations are still tentative, mainly intended to be functional. They are scholarly, with footnotes providing explicitation to facilitate access for a nonspecialist audience, prefering fidelity over literalness, trying to evoke some of that “memory of love” (as per the title of Columbia University’s Religious Studies Professor J.S. Hawley’s 2009 book on Sūrdās, which features the Kishangarhi Radha on the cover). The translation is based on the scholarly edition that I have made, in turn based on manuscripts of Rasikbihārī’s work collated in the course of research carried out in India during the summers of 2011 and 2012 on an AIIS senior research fellowship. Due to the pandemic, I have regretfully been unable to return as I had hoped. My editorial principles are the same as in my earlier work (Pauwels 1996: 93–5; 2002: 24–35): This is a scholarly edition that consistently provides the reading of the oldest manuscript available for each song with notes for meaningful variants from other sources. In this case, the oldest manuscript is either Rasikbihārī’s performance diary from the Kishangarh Royal Library, which I refer to in short as “Bayāz,” or the 1746 manuscript (with slightly later additions), now preserved in a private collection in Kishangarh, both of which go back to Rasikbihārī’s own lifetime (see Appendix for details). In this way, one avoids creating hybrid texts with linguistic features from different periods. When appropriate, I note her autograph corrections as well as meaningful variants in other manuscripts and editions to provide the reader with material for alternative interpretations. Only occasionally is a reading that is attested elsewhere warranted, in which case I explain why. I provide the text of the songs in transliteration to make stylistic features accessible in the original, and I use bolding and underlining to

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Note on the Text

mark such stylistic features where relevant; the caesura, or poetic pause in the line, is marked with a comma. For ease of reading for those familiar with modern Hindi, I have represented the manuscript graph -s- as -kh-, which _ better reflects its pronunciation, where etymologically warranted. At the outset, it needs to be clarified that the texts provided were intended for musical performance.1 This means that the words on the page would carry lesser importance than the realization in song, and often they would vary from performance to performance, even for the same singer, even when she was the composer. The main goal of performance was evocation of emotional moods through fragments in vernaculars, as has been perceptively noted for Thumrī and Khayāl by Stanford-based scholar Lalita du Perron (Magriel and du _Perron 2013: 99–104, example on 371–4). This affect is realized in performance through the technical accomplishments of the musical rendition in order to draw the listener into the inner world of attachment.2 Wherever possible, I give references to recorded performances, which the reader is encouraged to experience, keeping in mind that the text or the recordings represent always just one version among many possible ones. Transliteration This book follows scholarly conventions for the Hindi transliteration system of the standard Oxford Hindi–English Dictionary (OHED) by Stuart McGregor, with two exceptions. First, the neutral final vowel -a, which is silent in modern Hindi, is shown because the songs are in Classical Hindi, where it is pronounced and counts metrically. Second, for the nasals, which in manuscripts are marked by a superscript dot, not distinguishing between nasal consonants or vowels, I adapt to what will be easiest to recognize for the reader familiar with modern Hindi. In order not to visually overload the image of the text, I have refrained from giving diacritics for place names and commonly occurring words in the literature, such as occupational names (subedar, vazir, etc.) or caste names, such as Brahmin. Names of meters and musical genres have been given with full diacriticis and capitalized, such as Dohā, Pada, Kavitta, Khayāl, Dhrupad. For the names of authors and their Hindi works, I have generally followed the accepted model of R.S. McGregor’s standard encyclopedic work (1984).

1 2

On this issue, see also Schofield 2018c. The other main component for the mood is the Rāga in which the song is set, but here too there are complications. For one, it is not always specified. The same text may actually be sung in different Rāgas and Tālas in different contexts; even the genre can change from Khayāl to Dhrupad or to Thumri (Widdess 2013.1: xviii). Moreover, change has occurred over time, and _ there is no guarantee that modern renditions approximate what Rasikbihārī intended. (In that regard, about the lost monsoon Rāga Gaund, see Lunn and Schofield 2018: 219–54).

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Abbreviations

Abbreviations of Works BC BDBh BhPVP BS GG IC JSI NS PMĀ PPM SPBSS TĀ UM

Bihār-candrikā (by Nāgarīdās), see Gupta 1965 Brajdāsī-bhāgavat (by Brajdāsī), see Śarmā 1996 Bhāgavat-pārāyan-vidhi-prakāś (by Nāgarīdās), see Gupta 1965 _ Braj-sār (by Nāgarīdās), see Gupta 1965 Gītāmt-gaṅgā (by Vrindāvandev Ācārya) Ishq-caman (by Nāgarīdās), see Gupta 1965 Jalvā-ye-shāhanshāh-e-ishq (by Javān Singh), see Menariya 1974 Nāgara-samuccayah, see Gaud 1898 _ _ see Gupta 1965 Pad-muktāvalī (by Nāgarīdās), Pad-prasaṅg-mālā (by Nāgarīdās), see Gupta 1965 Sāñjhī-phūl-bīnani-samaĩ-samvād (by Nāgarīdās), see Gupta 1965 Tīrthānand (by Nāgarīdās), _see Gupta 1965 Utsav-mālā (by Nāgarīdās), see Gupta 1965 Abbreviations of Manuscript Libraries (for Manuscripts, see Appendix)

JCPM KRC NPS RORI

Jaipur City Palace Museum, Khās Mohor Collection Kishangarh Royal Collection Nāgarī Pracārinī Sabhā, Banaras _ Rajasthan Oriental Research Institute Abbreviations of Dictionaries

DoBh HŚS OHED

Callewaert, Winand M. with Swapna Sharma. 2009. Dictionary of Bhakti. New Delhi: D. K. Printworld. Dās, Śyāmsundar, et al., eds. 1965–75. Hindī śabdsāgar. 11 vols. Banaras: Kāśī Nāgarī Pracārinī Sabhā. _ McGregor, R. S. 1993. The Oxford Hindi–English Dictionary. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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List of Abbreviations

Platts RSK Steingass

Platts, John T. [1930] 1974. A Dictionary of Urdū, Classical Hindī, and English. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Lālas, Sītārām. 1962–78. Rājasthānī sabad kos. 4 vols. Jodhpur: Rājasthānī Śodh Sansthān, Caupāsnī. Steingass, Francis Joseph. 1892. A Comprehensive Persian– English Dictionary. London: Routledge and K. Paul.

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Introduction

The honor of being dubbed “Indian Mona Lisa” goes to an eighteenth-century Rajput style bust portrait featuring a lady with veil in profile. No one actually claims that this painting was modeled after Leonardo da Vinci’s famous sixteenth-century Italian one; it is rather meant as a mark of distinction for the striking painting officially known as Portrait of Radha, after a Goddess and unofficially known as “Banī-thanī,” after a prince’s concubine. What are the _ stories behind these labels? Neutrally refering to the portrait as “Lady with Veil,” this book explores what the names expose and what they conceal. Each chapter incrementally reveals the historical flesh-and-blood woman purportedly behind the canvas, unraveling the “Indian Mona Lisa” trope, probing into the mysteries of the Goddess portrait that came to stand for eternal Rajput spirituality, and presenting the debut of the voice of the concubine, Banī-thanī, as she simultaneously unveils and veils herself in poetry as in painting. _ The portrait’s official designation refers to the Goddess Rādhā, the young cowherdess or Gopī, beloved of Krishna, the handsome young cowherd-God who seduces with his alluring flute play in his pastoral homeland of Braj. Rādhā’s all-consuming longing for the ever-elusive Krishna is one of the mostportrayed themes in Indian art. Underneath this attractive surface lies divine passion and Hindu bridal mysticism: The Goddess Rādhā’s yearning for the God Krishna signifies the longing of the human soul for God. A book on India’s Mona Lisa then involves immersing oneself in the world of devotion (bhakti) for the divine pair Rādhā and Krishna. This particular portrayal of Rādhā belongs to the Rajput school of painting from Kishangarh, a small principality in Rajasthan on the well-traveled road between the trading town of Jaipur and the Sufi pilgrimage center of Ajmer. It is regarded as the archetype of the style of this school, representing its distinctive exaggerated profile with curvaceous eyes nearly meeting the end of the arcs of the perfect brows, with long nose, pronounced chin, and retreating forehead. Dating from the mid-eighteenth century, this portrait was likely commissioned by the then Crown-Prince Sāvant Singh (1699–1764) from his favorite painter Nihālcand. The prince’s collaboration with the artist to produce depictions of Krishna’s romance with Rādha is the high point of the 1

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2

Introduction

Kishangarhi school. Nihālcand often based his creations on the devotional poetry and songs that the prince composed himself under the pen name of Nāgarīdās, as is surmised to be the case for “Lady with Veil.” The intimate interchange between aural and visual arts, so distinctive of Kishangarhi cultural production, will be a fil rouge in this book. The label “Banī-thanī,” by which this portrait is known popularly, exposes _ another layer of meaning. This is the name of the real-life model on whose physiognomy the exquisite features of the Goddess are purportedly based. Who is this woman who everyone recognizes but hardly anyone knows? She proves to be as elusive as her name, which is actually a sobriquet: banī-thanī _ means “dressed up and fully adorned (lady)” and can be translated as “Miss Made-Up,” “Miss Decked Out,” “Miss All Dressed Up” – a proper stage name for a glamorous performer who became a concubine of Sāvant Singh. She shared his intense devotion for Rādhā and Krishna to the point that after he lost his throne, they moved together to Krishna’s homeland Braj, the pilgrimage center between Delhi and Agra.1 Together, they lived out their lives devoted to their belief and their art. Their memorials, close to one another in the sacred city of Vrindaban, still stand witness to their joined devotion that reaches beyond death. Or so goes the romantic story. Is there any truth to it? This book draws us into the world of palace slaves in Rajput harems, following the young talented singer who became a prince’s concubine, and eventually was memorialized as a devotee. Who was the woman behind the pretty face? Was there an actual “Miss Decked Out” who sat for the portrait, or was she more of a “Miss Made-Up” in the sense of invented?2 And if made up, by whom? If not, did she manage to get her say about how she was represented in painting? This book will examine the life of a performer nicknamed Banī-thanī, employed by the Kishangarh _ concubines (pāsbān). It unpacks court, who became one of Sāvant Singh’s how she came to be seen as the model of the painting. However, the focus is on her own literary accomplishments, as not only did she perform, but she also composed her own devotional Rādhā–Krishna poetry under the pen name Rasikbihārī. Sāvant Singh included some songs with that signature in his hymnals for festival occasions and the colophons confirm that Banī-thanī was _ the poet in question.3 An accidental discovery of her performer’s notebook, 1

2 3

The political events of this tumultuous phase in Sāvant Singh’s life are the topic of my previous book. For a quick overview of Sāvant Singh’s life, in particular after his exile, see Pauwels 2017: 13–28 (table with dates on 24–5). I owe the pun to my colleague Purnima Dhavan who first suggested it. Among others, an 1887 manuscript of Nāgarīdās’ Utsav-mālā, preserved in the Kishangarh royal collection (Petī 6B), includes several songs with signature “Rasikbihārī” that are introduced as _ “by another poet” (anya kavi krita). The colophon states explicitly “when marked here as ‘by

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Fields of Inquiry

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which registers the texts of many more songs she herself composed toward the latter period of her life, provides the opportunity to peek behind the purdah of the iconic painting’s canvas. The case of the Indian Mona Lisa, then, leads to the Goddess Rādhā, but also to a flesh-and-blood woman: the concubine Banī-thanī. She was the lover of the prince, but also a lover of divine love, composing_ in praise of Rādhā and Krishna’s romance under the devotional name Rasikbihārī. This book analyzes discourses about her by others, but it foregrounds her own songs and how she availed herself of opportunities for self-fashioning. Beyond the artwork, it points to zanānā or women’s quarters politics, women’s contributions to literature and religious performance, as well as intertextuality of a literary couple’s shared experiences of divine romance. Fields of Inquiry The explorations that went into this book have provided opportunities to draw from and provide food for thought for several scholarly fields of inquiry. Building on recent scholarship in terms of art history, this is a case study for thinking about mimesis, portraits, and idealizations of women in Indian art, testing these against what we know about the actual historical woman. In terms of the history of Hindi and Urdu literature, the book introduces a long-silent woman author with the pen name “Rasikbihārī” who contributed to both. It features her previously unknown compositions on the basis of newly discovered manuscript material. The study of her poetic interaction with her patron makes this a first-time study of an early-modern Indian literary couple While not autobiographical, Banī-thanī’s oeuvre can be read for hints of self_ fashioning and autobiographical pose. It reveals a Rajput palace woman who climbed the ladder from slave to concubine, enriching the history of domestic slavery and that of nonconventional households. In terms of performance studies, her case illuminates that of the paradigmatic courtesan performing devotional as well as secular music. Listening carefully to her rediscovered voice allows us to push beyond the courtesan’s erotic repertoire, to explore the possibility that sexual power was not the only thing at stake in her relationships with her audience.4 Without romanticizing from the hindsight of contemporary notions of companionate love, the case of Sāvant Singh and Banī-thanī shows _ that there was more to the patron–concubine relationship than consumption/ provision of erotic commodities. They reveled together in exploring the new trends in music and literary idiom at the time, including the vogue of Urdu

4

another poet,’ that means it is the work of Mahārājā Nāgarīdās’ female poetess Banī-thanī” (ismẽ anya kavi kā saṅketa hai so mahārāja nāgarīdāsa jī ke kavī banī-thanī jī chā ty kī_ kritī chai). _ _ _ I owe this point to Monika Horstmann.

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Introduction

poetry, then called Rekhtā. As indicated by their Vaishnava names Nāgarīdāsī and Rasikbihārī, they also engaged with one another on the devotional plane as equal companions, as female assistants or sakhīs to the divine pair. In terms of religious studies, the book deepens our knowledge of devotion (bhakti) for Rādhā and Krishna and documents women’s contributions to the eighteenthcentury religious shifts that went into the making of modern Hinduism. Focusing on the women’s quarters in the palace, rather than the male public space of temple and court, it presents a previously neglected perspective on devotional songs. Thus, beyond the purported painter’s model, we meet a woman performer who expressed in her songs a love that crossed mundane and spiritual realms. From the Italian to the Indian Mona Lisa in Art History Much has been written on the Italian Mona Lisa, but there is hardly anything on her Indian counterpart. This book will start by tracing the journey of “Lady with Veil,” to Portrait of Radha, “Banī-thanī,” and “Indian Mona Lisa,” not _ Donald Sassoon has done for the unlike what University of London historian legend of the Italian Mona Lisa (2001). This book’s main purpose, though, is not the biography of a work of art (such as Bohm-Duchen, 2001: 38–67), but rather an archival and historical contextualization for Banī-thanī herself, _ the historical woman supposedly portrayed. Like the recent coauthored book by da Vinci expert Martin Kemp and Italian archivist Giuseppe Pallanti, it seeks to “capture a whiff of reality for the participants in the story of the portrait” and aspires to give a taste of the “complex texture” of their lives (2017: 1). Unlike the book on da Vinci, this one will not focus on the painter himself, who has been studied by the specialist on the topic, curator at the Metropolitan Museum, Navina Haidar (especially 2011b), but rather on the model, whose tale of upward social mobility in the midst of turbulent times is not unlike Mona Lisa’s, touching similarly upon the history of slavery and contemporaneous monasteries. At the heart of a book on an Indian Mona Lisa lies the issue of mimesis or re-presentation. I am building on recent work of art historians such as City College of New York’s Molly Aitken (2010) and Jawaharlal Nehru University of Delhi’s Kavita Singh (2013), who have pushed beyond the reductionist interpretation of Rajput art as simulation of its Mughal counterpart.5 A sharp

5

For colonial exchange and mimesis as struggle between colonizer and colonized around colonial-era “artworks and networks in India,” see the theoretically sophisticated analysis of University College London’s art historian Natasha Eaton (2013).

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distinction between the two styles in any case essentializes unhelpfully and overlooks multiple exchanges and mobility, in particular among artists.6 Interrelated is the vexed issue of portraiture in India, which was long deemed to be irrelevant due to the purported lack of realism in Indian art. Here again, Rajput is often opposed to Persian- and occidental-influenced Mughal art.7 This essentializing view of Indian portraiture has long been nuanced by art historians though it survives in popularizing articles about the Indian Mona Lisa. Already in his classical essay on Indian portraiture, India’s foremost art historian B.N. Goswamy specified that Rajput painters were interested in portraiture but “to capture an inner reality, the essence of a person rather than the accident of his appearance” (1987: 193).8 The inclination to deny physical resemblance of portraits is all the stronger with regard to elite women whose seclusion supposedly precluded artist observation. That notion has been challenged by nuanced studies of women’s patronage of art and self-fashioning in portraits that have problematized the assumed lack of agency of the women portrayed (e.g., Aitken 2002; Hingorani 2002/3). Through newly discovered primary evidence of the poetry that the Indian Mona Lisa purportedly portrayed, this book provides a unique test case for thinking on women’s agency in art. Yet, while engaging with issues of gender in Indian art, it strives to avoid all-too-easy preconceived notions inherited from Western art history and its feminist readjustment (informed by Dehejia 1997b: 1–21). As a point of departure for each chapter, the book uses an image, usually a Kishangarhi painting. This is intended to help visualize the texture of Banīthanī’s life with the caveat that these paintings are not straightforward _documentation. What they represented at the time is illuminated by identification of interocular references to other contemporaneous paintings, as well as 6

7

8

For a recent articulation of this argument, building on the path-breaking archival work of Indian art historians B.N. Goswamy, Naval Krishna, and others, see also Gulbransen 2017: 133, 136–8, 177–82. Colgate University’s art historian Padma Kaimal gives an excellent overview of the secondary literature (1999: 59–60); a thoughtful monograph on the topic of portraiture in early India is by then curator at the Louvre Abu Dhabi Project Vicent Lefèvre (2011); School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London (SOAS) art historian Crispin Branfoot recently edited a volume on the topic (2018: 5–22). For Mughal portraiture and the debate about verisimilitude, see George Washington University’s art historian Mika Natif’s work (2018: 222–42). See also Bautze 1995: 125–30. Similarly, more recently, Crispin Branfoot with regard to life-size sculpted portraitures in the Tamil region in the last five centuries has put it as follows, “These portraits do not usually attempt to represent the physical appearance of their subjects, though . . . some . . . approach this, but were instead actively involved in the construction of the subject’s public royal identity” (2018: 191). A case study illustrating as much has just been published on portraiture of the nineteenth-century Jhala rulers at Jhalawar by art historian Isabella Nardi (2020). See also Sachdev and Tillotson 2008 on Jaipur portraiture; for a related visual treat, see the online catalogues from the Anil Relia collection in Ahmedabad. Online: www.theindianportrait .com/, last accessed December 16, 2020.

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Introduction

interrelations with texts. The latter in particular bring to life the interchanges of the poet and visual artist, their interplay of prompt and response (savāl-javāb). One source of inspiration here is Columbia University’s art historian Vishakha Desai, who provides excellent analytical tools to study those interactions (1995; 2000). Another is the Ashmolean’s Andrew Topsfield’s masterly analysis of the Mewar painter Sāhibdīn’s pictorial compositions after the sixteenth-seventeenth-century poetic work, Keśavdās’ Rasik-priyā, which he compares with musical exchanges (1986: 31). Each of the introductory images in itself opens a door to further art-historical exploration. From Banī-thanī to Rasikbihārī: “A Woman Writing in India” _ The book’s main project is to recover the voice of a forgotten woman author. In doing so, it adds a new entry for the path-breaking, and since publication three decades ago ever-expanding, encyclopedic Women Writing in India volumes edited by Susie Tharu and K. Lalita (1991). The trail of Banī-thanī _ alias Rasikbihārī leads to a whole zanānā full of ladies producing poetry, 9 including the presiding queen, whose pen name was Brajdāsī. Banī-thanī is _ also one of the few poetesses/performers whose woman patron’s work has been preserved (the rarity of which is noted in Schofield 2012: 151). Yet hers is not to be dismissed as elite “harem” literature. Rasikbihārī’s is the voice of a slave girl who managed to develop her talents to climb the social ladder. The intent in recovering her voice is not just to “put her on the map,” but to commit to a deeper methodological engagement, grappling with how to hear non-elite voices. To listen for the concerns beyond the clichés of the genres performed in elite contexts requires careful thinking about what persona is adapted, and to whom, with whom, and against whom her poetry speaks. In that sense, it follows the spirit of Tharu and Lalita’s project. Banī-thanī and some of her fellow inmates of the Kishangarh zanānā have _ been mentioned in regional literary histories in Hindi.10 Yet overall, her voice has remained unheard, notwithstanding the ubiquity of the portrait purportedly based on her facial features. This book attempts to restore the subjecthood and social networks of the woman who was reduced to an object of spectators’ pleasure. Over the centuries, her memory remained submerged, but it is possible to retrieve it, first thanks to Sāvant Singh’s incorporation of her poetry in his own anthologies, and now also independently because of the discovery of a remarkable document that I argue is her performance notebook, or Bayāz (see Appendix). Though the manuscript does not have a colophon, it dates 9 10

On whom see Horstmann 2018: 130–5, who also translates a sample of her work (159–65). See, for instance, an anthology of Rajasthani poets by Rāthaur (2002: [Banī-thanī] 88–93, [her _ _ _ mistress Brajdāsī] 125–36).

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from her lifetime and it was written for or by Rasikbihārī, noting her favorite poems as she heard them, her own poems as she performed them, and those of Nāgarīdās, likely as he recited them to her. This makes the manuscript very exciting as it affords a glimpse into the creative process that inspired the poetpair within their broader artistic networks. Introducing the First Early-Modern Indian Literary Couple The intertextuality this manuscript offers enables hypothetical reconstruction of actual exchanges. Rasikbihārī’s Bayāz is a document of literary sociability as it places her own songs in relation to those of others.11 These are mostly fellow bhaktas working in the same idiom, but also in Urdu (then called Rekhtā) and Persian. The poetry is not uniformly in the idiom of Classical Hindi that is associated with Krishna devotion and hence somewhat misleadingly termed Braj Bhāshā.12 It crosses current language boundaries, as is not uncommon for devotional songs, partaking in a wideranging North Indian bhakti idiom (Pauwels 2010d). It represents a vernacular multilingualism in that it incorporates elements of literary as well as colloquial Rajasthani (Marwārī and Ḍhdhādī), as well as Punjabi, and at times shades toward _ _ now call an Urdu register. Responses to other poets Rekhtā, what we would may be asynchronous, engaging in dialogue with masters from the past, or synchronous, with voices of the poet’s present. In both cases, the history of Hindi and Urdu is enriched by revealing networks, recovering affective relationships and moments of inspired and shared delight. In particular, Rasikbihārī’s Bayāz allows us to study the poetic interactions of Nāgarīdās and Rasikbihārī. This study is the first to foreground the dynamics at work between an early-modern literary couple from India. The phenomenon of the author-pair is often exclusively associated with Western modernity (as in Nick Laird and Zadie Smith), with roots in Romanticism (as in Percy Bysshe Shelley and Mary Godwin). While moving away from the eurocentrism of such assumptions, this book takes into account lessons learned from recent work on Literary Couplings in European literature.13 Methodologically, the approach is informed by the integration of historical studies with authorship theory. Aware of the need to balance a focus on the 11

12

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It complements what in the Urdu poetic context are imaginary poetic symposia (mushā‘irah) reports from biographical dictionaries (tażkirah) that foreground such literary exchanges (Tabor 2014: 55). Cambridge Hindi Professor R. Stuart McGregor has pointed out that the literary use of the idiom came to prominence in late fifteenth century Gwalior, before it flourished in the Braj region (2003: 913–4). The compound term Braj Bhāshā does not seem to be attested till the late seventeenth century, perhaps a more neutral term is Madhyadeśīya (see Busch 2011: 8–9). Quoting the title of Thompson and Stone 2006: 321 (summary).

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Introduction

couple’s lives with attention to their poetic output, care is taken not just to describe parallels but also to demonstrate entanglement in the mutual engagement of the literary works (Thompson and Stone 2006: 4). Conscious of the traditional, confining pattern of dominance versus passivity between the partners, instead reciprocal elements are highlighted (312). In foregrounding the literary partnership of Rasikbihārī and Nāgarīdās, this book challenges the “solitary genius” approach still prevalent in much writing on bhakti. In demonstrating how authorship of bhakti songs is socially constructed, in carefully reconstructing those networks, it places also other authors in a new light. Additionally, the book proposes a reassessment of the role of those who have been marginalized in writing partnerships, including editors and “conduits” for exposure to new trends by highlighting the collaborative nature of composition. From “Decked Out” Slave to “Made-Up” Concubine: Self-Fashioning in Autobiography and the History of Palace Women and Courtesans While this book seeks to recover Banī-thanī’s voice, it should be clear that _ her work is not straightforwardly autobiographical. Recently, sophisticated analyses have been published on life-writing and in particular how women “speak of the self” (e.g., Malhotra and Lambert-Hurley 2015). Among instances of women’s self-presentation that stand out for the late-eighteenth to early-nineteenth century are: the Deccani courtesan Māh Laqā Bāī “Cand,” studied by University of Delhi’s Shweta Sachdeva Jha (2015) and Emory University’s historian of religion Scott Kugle (2010; 2016); and for the nineteenth century, the Punjabi “converted courtesan-devotee” Pīro, by Santa Barbara historian of religion Anshu Malhotra (2017). Applying insights from these works to the slightly earlier case of Banī-thanī provides historical depth _ to these cases. Reading Rasikbihārī’s work involves reversing the process applied to modern autobiographers who set out to tell their life history within a Vaishnava frame of reference such as the Rajasthani Marwari merchant wife Banasā Lath (Horstmann 2003). In our case, the Vaishnava tenor is so central that it overwhelms any first-person narration. Relevant here is the trope of the “auto-biographical pose,” as coined by Claremont McKenna College’s Chloe Maritinez with reference to the sixteenth-century Rajasthani princessdevotee Mīrābāī (2018). The challenge here is to detect elements of selffashioning by carefully sifting for clues, as articulated by Malhotra (2017: 76–7). The case of Banī-thanī provides one step in constructing women’s _ subjectivities as evolving from the early-modern to the modern period, from Mīrā to contemporary times.

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Banī-thanī’s social mobility from domestic slave to prince’s concubine (pāsbān)_ is to be understood in the light of histories of palace women (Walthall 2008),14 of the household, domesticity and intimacy in “uncommon families” (Chatterjee 2004; Ghosh 2006; Roy 2015), and related to that, of slaves, especially domestic slaves (Chatterjee and Eaton 2006; Major 2012; Sinha et al. 2019). Whereas many of these studies focus on the better documented colonial period, Banī-thanī’s case adds a slightly earlier perspective.15 _ elite women could be powerful political and While we know that Mughal-era 16 cultural agents, we know little about those starting on the bottom. The vivid details of this particular case of social climbing bring to life a slave’s upward trajectory in all its historical nuance, carefully documented by thus-far unpublished materials, drawing links between the visual and newly discovered written records that have not been explored together previously. This helps nuance generalizations about female agency over time and over different social milieus. Banī-thanī is sometimes characterized as a “courtesan” (e.g., Srinivasan _ 2006: 175). While ill-fitting, it still is productive to look through this lens. First, it invites us to consider who is called a courtesan and why (Feldman and Gordon 2006: 7). The difficulty with the word is that it covers a wide range of different performers and obliterates a multiplicity of nomenclature in the sources, each of which expresses its own nuances.17 In this case, it is more precise to use the term “trained singer” or gāyan, contextualized in the hierarchies of power of its time and place. Further, integrating insights from courtesan studies alerts us to one of the pitfalls of courtesan studies, namely its susceptibility to moralizations whether from the point of view of bourgeois respectability, or that of the heirs to feudal patronage’s nostalgia (Qureshi 2006). In India, such tensions are apparent in controversies surrounding the anti-nautch movement, still traceable in subsequent efforts to separate the sexually available courtesan from the performer of devotional songs (Cassio 2005; du Perron 2007; for dance Walker 2014a; 2014b; 2014c). Studies on the

14

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16

17

Relevant specific pathbreaking studies are Ruby Lal’s book on Mughal palace women (2005) and on the exceptional case of Nūr Jahān (2018), Varsha Joshi’s (1995) and Priyanka Khanna’s work (2011; 2017) on Rajput women; for women of princely states during the colonial period, see Jhala 2008; 2011, on Maratha women, see Chatterjee and Guha 1999. For the transition from colonial to independent institutions in Jaipur, in particular from durbar gunījan-khānā “House of Virtuosos” to state department, see also the earlier study by anthropologist Joan Erdman (1985: 74–113). For Mughal elite women, see Lal 2005 and Schimmel 2004: 143–166; for Rajput elite women, see Joshi 1995 and Sreenivasan 2006; 2009; more broadly, see Chatterjee 2016. Relevant here is also the recent work by Priyanka Khanna (2017). The South- or East-Indian term devadāsī, or temple-dancer, does not apply here, nor the NorthIndian Anglicized “nautch girl” or tawā’if, the latter is in any case not used in this sense till circa 1800 (Schofield 2012, Walker 2010).

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Introduction

interplay of the sacred and profane performance are particularly relevant for Banī-thanī. One could see her songs “as trafficking in the immaterial aspects of _ as well as the material ones of the body” (Feldman and Gordon 2006: the spirit 20). Other insights from courtesan studies apply here too, including questions about the nature of her art and empowerment in her relationship with her male constituencies (Qureshi 2006: 320). In this case, the focus is on the patron, as there is as yet no information on musicians that may have accompanied her recitals. Here, studying the interrelation of Rasikbihārī’s work with that of Nāgarīdās adds significantly to courtesan studies in providing rare primary evidence for the interplay between performer and patron. The documentation to study the audience reaction is usually lacking, but this case allows us to draw a profile of one such performer–patron relationship. The View of the Devotional Movement (Bhakti) from the Women’s Quarters Historian Joan Kelly famously called for “restoring women to history and history to women” (1984: 1). Recovering Rasikbihārī’s mostly devotional songs opens as it were a new window into the history of bhakti, from the women’s quarters. This period, the first half of the eighteenth century was arguably a foundational moment of intellectual transformation in precolonial North India in constituting Hinduism as we know it now. The role of religion in governance was actively being rethought.18 Was there room for women’s agency or at least influence behind the scenes? Kishangarh’s influential neighbor king, the Kacchvāhā ruler Savāī Jai Singh II (1688–1743), founder of the city of Jaipur, was one of the main drivers behind the reforms. Like the Rāthaur Kishangarh rulers, the Kacchvāhās had been serving the Mughal emperors. While working to assert more autonomy, the main agenda of Jai Singh’s reforms was not anti-Islam. Rather, he was concerned to reconcile the demands of Hindu orthodoxy (smārta dharma) that were crucial to his leadership profile, with ecstatic bhakti, to which he was personally inclined. To that end, he promoted social and religious reforms for devotional sects within his orbit of influence, challenging them to conform to orthodox caste hierarchical rules and demands (varnāśrama dharma) and to align themselves with one of the four classical _ philosophical schools (catuh-sampradāya). He also forced a military reorganization of the militia (ākhā_dās) of warrior-ascetics that had been rather loosely organized thus far _ (see especially Horstmann). This comes across very much like a man’s world.

18

For an overview of the religious situation at the time, see Pauwels 2017: 29–70.

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The issues Jai Singh pressed for had far-reaching impact because he held from 1722 through 1737 and again in 1740 the subedari of Agra, in which the religious center of Braj was located. This gave him power to punish and excommunicate dissenters who settled in or traveled to that popular pilgrimage center and consequently, his influence was felt all over North India. Yet, not everyone agreed or submitted to Jai Singh’s agenda, and after his death, for instance, the Kishangarhi Crown Prince Sāvant Singh’s later works show evidence of a reaction against Jai Singh’s heavy-handedness (Pauwels 2017). Did the Kishangarh women play a role in this? Some of the main religious agents in the Jaipur king’s extensive project had close connections to Kishangarh, in particular the Nimbārkan abbots of the nearby monastery of Salemabad. While their role as public intellectuals is known (Clémentin-Ojha 1999: 87–8; Horstmann 2009: 159, 169), this study affords us a view of their connections with the zanānā, in particular with the palace ladies of the then capital Rupnagar. In doing so, it prepares the way for more nuanced studies of religious developments in this period, inclusive of women’s voices behind the scenes, and not just those of queens. This book opens the curtain to a world of interrelated songs that were composed at the end of and after Jai Singh II’s reign, from the 1740s to the 1760s. Celebrating the passion of Rādhā and Krishna, in Rajasthan and on pilgrimage to and in the Braj area, these compositions also voiced men and women’s concerns of their time. Restoring the women’s contributions in conversation with the men’s deepens our understanding of the dialogical processes that went into the formation of bhakti in the period. Along the way, it also enlightens contemporaneous images of the Kishangarh school that were inspired by the synaesthetics through which that devotion was experienced. Methodology: Receptivity and Intertextuality Trying to recover the doubly ephemeral oral regimes of female performance in early-modern India is a tall order and requires a carefully developed methodology. Based upon the generic approach of “intertextuality” – informed by twentieth-century theoretical thinkers, starting with Mikhail Bakhtin, Roland Barthes, and Julia Kristeva – this book’s approach further draws from the methodologies in the specific aforementioned fields it touches upon. This eclectic methodology revolves around what is germane to the topic of an “Indian Mona Lisa,” namely mimesis, mimicry, and receptivity. The two disciplines this book engages with most, literature and art history, have recently taken what could be termed a “mimetic turn” away from a Western overemphasis on originality that relegates Indian expressiveness to the realm of the traditional and defines modernity as derivative of the West. Instead, close attention is now paid to creativity within a given tradition and to

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Introduction

collaborative and dialogic modes of production. This is a more emic-oriented approach, as Indian artists themselves expected from their patrons a refined sense of appreciation of their “variations on a theme.” For painting, this is famously illustrated by the oral anecdote from the Punjab Hills where an artist, disappointed with his king’s generic reaction to one of his paintings, bestowed it instead upon a goldsmith who was able to discern the painter’s distinctive innovations (Goswamy and Fischer 1992: 9). Within the field of Rajput art, Molly Aitken’s 2010 influential prize-winning The Intelligence of the Tradition has explained the phenomenon of repeated composition on the same subject as making sense within a tradition of response painting. Her example elaborates on the many variants on the theme of the Arabic lovers Layla and Majnun. Rather than dismissing it as “stereotyped and sterile,” she has demonstrated the erudition underlying such repetition and responses (155–210). Kavita Singh has productively applied such a concept of the artists’ “knowing look” to Kishangarh paintings that echo Mughal sources (2013). Singh has astutely spelled out that there are two interrelated conditions for this approach to work: access and intent. First the artists’ access to the visual source of inspiration needs to be demonstrated, which presumes its circulation in some form. Second, in order to determine whether the variants were deliberate, there should be evidence of the artists’ determination to adapt it for their own purposes. The main question then becomes what work the artwork does. This book follows suit in taking seriously this dialogic process by tracing the interocular references of Kishangarh paintings to one another as well as to Mughal ones. This deepens our understanding of the intent behind artist–patron collaborations. This scholarly trend is also found in the field of literature, where a “knowing ear” is to be applied when assessing traditional poetry that functions within an elaborate set of conventions. The exemplar for Persian literature is Paul Losensky’s award-winning 1998 book, Welcoming Fighānī, subtitled as “Imitation and Poetic Individuality in the Safavid-Mughal Ghazal.” The tradition of istiqbāl, the “welcoming” of Losensky’s title, involved javābgo‘ī or “creative response” to a master’s exemplar. What looks at first sight like copycat work or a hackneyed plot can be more fruitfully analyzed as responses featuring creative variants.19 This practice is taken over in the Urdu poetic context where such differences are appreciated in performance, in the mushā‘irah or poetic symposium, whether humorously with reference to local gossip, sarcastically to rivalries, or romantically hinting at liaisons of the composer, performer, or audience members. Thus, apparently conventional 19

Recently, Wake Forest University’s Chanchal Dadlani has also explicitly situated her work on eighteenth-century Mughal architecture within this frame of interpretation; see especially her section on “architecture and istiqbāl” (2018: 27–45).

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poetry can be lighthearted, even flirtatious in its utterance setting (Tabor 2014: 396–8, see also Kugle 2016: 160–1). This response-to-a-model frame can be fruitfully applied to devotional poetry of the type studied here. Bhakti poetry is a highly conventional genre, where authorship is often fluid and admirers create “new” compositions in the master’s name, drawing on the latter’s authority, as classically articulated by Columbia professor J.S. Hawley (1988). The trick is to recognize the variations on a theme, by identifying allusions and singling out the subtle innovations to determine what the intention behind them may have been. Like their Persian and Urdu counterparts, Classical Hindi devotional songs frequently allude to and move beyond their models. Devotional scenarios may incorporate more personal messages, whether flirtatious or poignantly complaining. This has been noted for Thumri performances but can be applied beyond that genre (du Perron 2007:_ 36–50). Interestingly for gender studies, using traditional models can allow for dodging the articulation of a coherent gender identity (Jha 2015: 152–5). In Classical Hindi bhakti songs gender ambiguity prevails, as male poets can speak as Gopīs or as one of the ladies-inwaiting serving the divine pair. Thus, Nāgarīdās can pose as Nāgarīdāsī, a servant of Rādhā. Banī-thanī’s pen name, Rasikbihārī, actually refers to Krishna himself, so could _also involve gender bending. Playful cross-dressing or topsy-turvy Holi scenarios in poetry and painting allow for latitude in traditional gendered comportment. The culturally appropriate reaction to all this is undoubtedly to appreciate and cherish the delightful ambiguity. With respect to reading the response poetry too, we can apply Kavita Singh’s test for paintings by asking whether the artist had access to the original and deliberate intent to alter it. The interpretations I offer while studying sets of matching pairs in this book frequently take Rasikbihārī’s poems as responses to Nāgarīdās’ or vice versa. Determining access and intent is admittedly tentative and involves reading between the lines. By way of control, I deliberately delimit my speculations by contextualization, first from within the text, content-wise, and further from the manuscript it is first attested in, context-wise. Thus, I take into account the sequence of Rasikbihārī’s own songs in her performance diary or Bayāz, the relative placement of those by others, the occurrence within a series of songs on similar themes, the evidence of unfinished songs or corrections in the margins, the similarity of rhyme, meter, and theme, of Rāga (melodic pattern) and Tāla (rhythmic pattern), and the presence of key words and tropes that signal connections between songs. Wherever possible, I look for corroboration with reference to outside events as registered elsewhere in other media, such as inscriptions on memorials, documents from the archives, local chronicles, internal evidence from other local religious texts, and incorporation of Rasikbihārī’s songs in anthologies, in particular her patron’s. Each of these isolated instances is reinforced through

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Introduction

the cumulative evidence amassed throughout the book. At each step, one has to be vigilant not to be swayed by manipulation by interested parties that transmitted the poetry, whether courtly or religious, or indeed by personal anachronistic preferences. Still with these caveats in mind, intertextual analysis serves well to appreciate the multimedial interocular and interaural experiences in all the delightful gender ambiguity that the artwork studied in this book has to offer. The Book’s Journey: Uncovering the Veils The multiple names of our Indian Mona Lisa, like manifold masks, keep her shrouded in mystery. This book is structured as a gradual working through the several veils that have kept her hidden thus far. Briefly put, the first chapter starts with unpacking the “Indian Mona Lisa” trope itself, raising the question of whether she was or was not a “Miss Made-Up” of art-historical discourse; the second presents “Miss Decked Out” or “Banī-thanī,” the budding poetess in her local milieu as a zanānā performer; the third_ revolves around the steep path climbed by “Miss All Dressed Up” (and no nowhere to go), that is, the difficulties on the way to becoming the prince’s beloved concubine; the fourth reveals her full avatar as his “Miss Muse;” these last two chapters both foreground “Rasikbihārī,” the poetic persona she chose to hide behind, as “sophisticated and playful” as that pen name implies, evading being pinned down, even gender-wise; finally, the last chapter returns to “Miss Made-Up” once again, this time looking at how she “made up” herself and how later Kishangarhi generations shaped her legacy. The book then investigates what went into the making of the Indian Mona Lisa, from the poetess’ own selffashioning, her patron’s presenting her to his circle, the painter’s inspiration, her appeal for later generations, and the many conflicting art-historical discourses swirling around her since the twentieth century. Even if she often disappears in the shadow of others, her legacy endures. With the discovery of her notebook, we can do more justice to her own voice. Below follows a more detailed description of the issues raised chapter by chapter, each of which takes for its point of departure a visual image. Chapter 1 raises the question whether the “Indian Mona Lisa” is really a “Miss Made-Up.” It begins at the surface level, unpacking the trope, which looks like an orientalist colonial construct of an exotic harem performer. Visual starting point is an oil canvas by contemporary painter Gopal Swami Khetanchi from Jaipur that references simultaneously da Vinci’s portrait and the Kishangarhi tradition’s archetype, “Lady with Veil.” Why would a modern Indian painter use an orientalist trope? I argue that Khetanchi’s portrait actually returns the colonial gaze, with a cheeky smile at that. Opinions on Khetanchi’s hybrid painting expressed in the popular press congeal around an

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Indian victory in the “beauty contest” between Indian and Western ideals of womanhood, beauty, and art. How much of that applies also to the original “Lady with Veil”? Was it a portrait of a historical woman or rather a copy of an ideal model? Grappling with that question first requires situating it in its eighteenth-century context among European, Mughal, and Rajput portrayals of women circulating in the area at the time. Then, the contemporary discourses around Indian art as mimesis of the West are traced back to the 1940s when Lahore-based British Professor Eric Dickinson “discovered” the Kishangarh painting. What went into the process of his identification of “Lady with Veil” as Portrait of Radha and archetype of the spiritual essence of Rajput art? To what extent did his assessment conform to the art-historical discourse at the time as enunciated by A.K. Coomaraswamy? Who were the other agents involved? If Dickinson did not refer to her as the “Indian Mona Lisa,” who did so first? It was not until after independence that the first director of India’s new Fine Arts (Lalit Kalā) Academy, Karl Khandalavala, first ventured identification of the model for the portrait as Banī-thanī, concubine of the sponsor of the paintings, Sāvant Singh. What was the _reception of this theory? Why did the Kishangarh court and its spokesman, the erudite Dr. Faiyāz ‘Alī Khān, counter that there is a flesh-and-blood woman behind the Rādhā portrait? Notwithstanding those objections, Banī-thanī still became _ identified as the spiritual face of the new Indian nation’s “indigenous” Rajput Art, a trajectory tied up with that of the National Museum in Delhi, where Dickinson’s personal art collection had ended up. The process of assertion and contestation reached an apotheosis in 1973 with the issuing of the postage stamp based on the painting. What were the dynamics behind its official designation “Radha–Kishangarh”? The discourses around it reveal tensions between centralizing and regional political forces even as they converged on art. Yet the story of Banī-thanī’s “romance” with Sāvant Singh _ triumphed, and the “Mona Lisa” moniker became commonplace. It was popularized for the tourism sector, reemploying by now cyber-orientalist tropes of colonial discourse. In the course of these processes, what all commentators, no matter what direction they were pulling, had in common was neglect of Banī-thanī’s authorial voice. If this first chapter ends up with a void, _ revealing the artificiality of the construct of “India’s Mona Lisa,” and the evanescence of what we thought was Banī-thanī’s familiar face, it also frees _ life and recover her voice. If we space in the rest of the book to reconstruct her have to disavow how we thought we knew her, we can look forward to learning anew to know the woman associated with the image. Chapter 2 unveils the early career of the mysterious girl in the Kishangarhi harem, known by no given first name, but right from her first appearance in documents only her nickname as Banī-thanī or “Miss Decked Out.” This chapter reconstructs what can be known_ from the available sources of the

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Introduction

early life of the stylish young slave girl. It documents that Banī-thanī was _ at the purchased in 1727 and trained to provide musical entertainment Kishangarhi court. What did it mean to be a slave performer in Rajput women’s quarters at the time? The visual entrypoint of this chapter is a painting of the hierarchical world of the Kishangarhi zanānā. What were her experiences under the presiding Bāṅkāvatī queen? Stepmother of Sāvant Singh, and consort of the powerful Mughal ally Rāj Singh (r. 1706–48), the queen herself became an author under her pen name Brajdāsī. How did Banīthanī thrive in the rich cultural and devotional milieu of her zanānā? We _explore the queen’s strong links with the nearby Nimbārkan monastery of Salemabad, whose abbot Vrindāvandev Ācārya (r. 1697–1740) was a major player in the religious reforms that were sponsored by Sawāī Jai Singh II, founder of Jaipur. We learn of religious sermons and concerts that Banī-thanī attended and partook in. She accompanied the queen on pilgrimage to_ Jai Singh II’s subedārī headquarters, Vrindaban, as well as to Shāhjahānābad, the fancy part of Delhi at the time, where she was exposed to the latest Mughal musical fashions. Thus, the Kishangarhi zanānā was no provincial backwater. Analysis of specific poetic interchanges demonstrates how Rasikbihārī was influenced by and in turn contributed to this stimulating environment, even as her own distinctive profile started to take shape with devotional affiliations independent of the queen. Chapter 3 carefully unravels the clues as to how Banī-thanī, seemingly _ odds became “Miss All Dressed Up And Nowhere To Go,” against the Sāvant Singh’s concubine. Intriguingly, the record of their growing romance was kept under wraps, but an effort is mounted to retrieve it through intertextual analysis of paintings and poetry, both his and hers. First, clues can be gleaned from the Kishangarh paintings said to portray the prince and his concubine rather than Krishna and Rādhā. Some of these have not yet been discussed in relation to the couple’s mutual attachment, others have, but new material is brought to bear on the discussion. The visual that starts off this chapter is a 1730s or 1740s painting of the pair in a mango grove, spied upon by two ladies. Interocularity with related paintings reveals dialogic interchange that points to a transgressive romance, one that could not be openly expressed. Next, through analysis of Nāgarīdās’ poetic works, more intimations emerge of how he subtly conveyed to the young performer his incipient infatuation, which again is reflected in the visual record. Further confirmation of their clandestine relation is found in veiled responses in her poetry. What new evidence brings her diary-style Bayāz? Are the ups and downs of their romance reflected in the poetry that Banī-thanī selected and composed for _ performance over the period of the maturation of their relationship? Uncovering the artfully disguised romance involves a fair amount of detective work, but the data are carefully contextualized and their limitations are thought

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through. Does this confirm that the prince and the slave-girl encountered adversity by virtue of her position in Sāvant Singh’s father’s zanānā, as posited by Dr. Faiyāz ‘Alī Khān? Did they succeed in avoiding the conventional tragic ending of such slave-to-concubine scenarios? In this case, a happy resolution materialized from under the wraps of veiled allusions: Eventually, she did attain the official status of concubine or pāsbān. Chapter 4 shows Banī-thanī emerged from the shadow of her patroness on a _ par with her patron. Composing as Rasikbihārī, she has now fully developed into Nāgarīdās’ “Miss Muse.” This chapter resonates with her voice, as it squarely foregrounds her poetic output, documenting her contribution to Kishangarhi literary production. She appears closely entwined with Sāvant Singh, like Rādhā with Krishna, her songs preserved overwhelmingly in conjunction with Nāgarīdās’. This allows for studying up close the dynamics between the early-modern literary couple. The visual point of departure here is a painting related to the ritual recital of Bhāgavata-purāna. It was on one such occasion during the monsoon of 1742 that the prince organized a poetic symposium where she made her debut. Intertextual analysis of the poetic interchanges that took place there reveals that she was taken seriously as a poet in her own right, not just by him, but also by other courtier-poets present. The exchanges continued in recitals through the seasons, as can be traced in the intertextuality of the couple’s songs collected jointly in his liturgical anthology for temple festivals, Utsav-mālā, and thematically arranged celebrations of intimate moments, Pad-muktāvalī (in particular in its 1746 manuscript). The scope of poetic interchange extended also more broadly, as they both responded to earlier devotional songs, including those by the sixteenthcentury devotional poetess and fellow Rathor princess, Mīrābāī. Evidence of reciprocal inclusion of Nāgarīdās’ poetry in Rasikbihārī’s Bayāz reveals further the couple’s response to the new Urdu (then called Rekhtā) rage in Delhi, and their experiments with Punjabi and the musical genres of Khayāl and Kabitt. The Bayāz also provides a window into drafts of his poems that he later reworked. In poetic analysis surfaces the complex issue of their gendered personhood in performance, as he composed among others from the perspective of “Nāgarī” one of the sakhīs or female admirers of Krishna, and she took on the signature of “Rasikbihārī,” that is, of Krishna himself. Their genderbending in song chimes with the cross-dressing of Rādhā and Krishna in the paintings. Even as we may imagine we share their intimacy as a couple, it seems, personhood retreats again behind persona. Chapter 5 asks how “Miss Made Up” got “made up,” peeling away the many layers of her legacy. Starting with attempts at self-fashioning of the couple in their last years, it traces the reception of their poetry by posterity. How did the legacy of Banī-thanī’s contribution to Kishangarhi artistic and _ literary production become obscured over time? First, we explore whether her

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Introduction

vibrant creative output inspired Kishangarhi paintings, just like her patron’s did. The visual point of departure for the last chapter is one such painting that Dickinson and Khandalawala claimed was inspired by her poetry. Is the portrait of a heroine weakly resisting a hero pulling her shawl emblematic for Banī-thanī’s being caught without a choice but to submit to the feudalpatriarchal_ system, even if she saw through it? There are several correlations between her poems and matching paintings, even the famous “Lady with Veil” itself. If Banī-thanī was not the face behind the image, were her poems related to it? While the_ Krishna imagery never receded, in the midst of the upheaval of the personal and political setbacks that led to the exile of Sāvant Singh, he resorted in poetic expression to the paradigm of Krishna’s fellow avatāra Rāma. This choice seems existential as he too was exiled and hoped for triumphant return to his homeland. Did Banī-thanī join her patron in framing her songs within the Sītā-Rāma rather than_ the Rādhā-Krishna narrative becoming also the Kishangarhi Sītā’s face? Her “spiritual testament” reveals autobiographical posing, which is picked up by the inscription on her memorial or chatrī. The location of her cenotaph, close to his in Vrindaban, perpetuates the story of their love beyond death. How was Banī-thanī remembered/ forgotten over time? The literary exchange of the pair lived_ on in manuscripts as well as in liturgical singing. To this day, her songs are performed in Braj and beyond, though over time, the memory that she was the composer blurred. Chronicles document the court’s choice to remember the devout stepmother queen and the exiled prince, but not the concubine. Some of her songs made it in a court-sanctioned lithograph edition of the prince’s devotional output, but only as a coda to her patron’s works. By the end of the nineteenth century Kishangarh’s inspirational muse herself had practically fallen silent, her voice living on disembodied. The amnesia of her authorship endured, even as her features were immortalized. This book returns to history the journey of the beautiful talented slave-girl, who remained through all the ups and downs of her life a devotee of the Goddess whose portrait she is said to have inspired, even as she left a legacy of devotional songs.

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Figure 1.1 Bani Thani by Gopal Swami Khetanchi. 2006. Jaipur, India. Oil on canvas. 50.8  76.2 cm. Courtesy Gopal Swami Khetanchi.

Figure 1.2 Indian postal stamp Radha–Kishangarh. Issued in 1973. Based on Portrait of Radha attributed to Nihālcand. Ca. 1740. Ministry of Communications, Government of India, 1973 https://doi.org/10.1017/9781009201698.002 Published online by Cambridge University Press

1

The Making of the “Indian Mona Lisa”

The cover of the November–December 2014 issue of the Indian Embassy in France’s journal Nouvelles de l’Inde featured an image of an “Indian Mona Lisa” (Figure 1.1). This 2006 oil on canvas was painted by Gopal Swami Khetanchi (b. 1968), who studied art at the University of Rajasthan in Jaipur and worked as an illustrator of magazines and as an assistant art director for Bollywood cinema before returning to Jaipur as a full-time artist (Bahl and Puri 2011: 12). His painting certainly was a good choice to grab the attention of a French audience, based as it was on the instantly recognizable image of Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa, indisputably the most popular attraction of the Paris Louvre Museum. The famous image has of course been the butt of many similar transfigurations (documented in Maell 2015), most recently sporting masks in the midst of the COVID-19 crisis, sparking “le plaisir du déjà-vu” (Saint-Martin 2020). Khetanchi’s incarnation of “La Gioconda,” besides sporting an admirably slender waist, was dressed up richly in Indian style, with a diaphanous veil with golden pattern and border, red uppergarment (choli) with golden rim, several layers of pearl garlands interspersed with gold jewelry, and matching gold and pearl bracelet, earrings, arm, head, and nose ornaments. Clearly, she represented an Indianized version of Mona Lisa. What might have escaped the non-Indian observer is the specific model for the Indian elements: These were not random but based on a mid-eighteenthcentury painting of the Kishangarh school of Rajput painting. This “Lady with Veil” has been attributed to the master Nihālcand and is well-known in India as it was featured on a postage stamp issued in 1973 (Figure 1.2). Not only does the costume of Khetanchi’s Indian Mona Lisa match the lady’s, so does her delicate pose, with her hennaed right hand preciously pulling the veil, and the left one balancing two lotus stalks. While Khetanchi chose the three-quarter profile and frontal gaze of the famous portrait by the Italian master, he tilted the left eye somewhat upward to more closely approach the typical curve of the famed exaggerated Kishangarhi eye. Together with the nose ring, this created the effect of rendering Mona Lisa less melancholic as she meets the onlooker’s

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The Making of the “Indian Mona Lisa”

eyes slightly cynical, perhaps somewhat cheekily. This prompts the observer to wonder – the eternal Mona Lisa question – what lies behind this amused smile? The magazine did not offer an explanation for the choice of this image for its cover. Its contents constituted a special issue on contemporary Indian literature, but the possible link with the lady was left up to the reader to ponder. Perhaps the connection of the location of Khetanchi’s studio in Jaipur, the locale of the eponymous Jaipur Festival of Literature featured in the issue, was assumed to be obvious. Yet the “Lady with Veil” alluded to by Khetanchi’s painting does have a deep literary connection, even if few realize it. The key lies in the official title of Khetanchi’s portrait: Bani Thani. This is the nickname of the purported real-life model, whose facial traits are believed to have inspired the eighteenth-century painting. Banī-thanī was a concubine of prince _ patron of the portrait. The Sāvant Singh of Kishangarh (1699–1764), the prince is known to have commissioned many devotional paintings to match his own poetry in praise of Krishna and Rādhā (Pauwels 2015; 2017). This particular painting is often understood to be a portrait of the Goddess Rādhā as he described her in his poetry, based on his concubine’s striking features. “Banī-thanī” or “Miss Decked Out” is famous for her looks and elegant _ sense of style, and widely regarded as the Indian equivalent of La Gioconda, the wife of Francesco del Giocondo who commissioned the Italian Mona Lisa painting. Like her famous Italian counterpart, Banī-thanī is also shrouded in _ was the model for the mystery, and it has been questioned whether she really portrait. The most significant difference though is that Banī-thanī was herself _ an artist, a performer as well as an author of devotional songs, which she composed under the pseudonym Rasikbihārī. It is entirely fitting that she would be featured on the cover of a magazine dedicated to Indian literature. So far though, hardly any of her poems have been translated, or even edited. This book allows us to hear her voice, featuring many of her poems translated and edited from a newly discovered manuscript. The main pursuit of this book is the connection of the portrait with literature: It is the search for the poetess behind “Lady with Veil,” Khetanchi’s work’s eighteenth-century model. Before we meet Rasikbihārī the author afresh, we trace what we know of the “Indian Mona Lisa” and how we know it. This first chapter launches the book’s discovery project by first unpacking the implications of this trope, so compactly visually represented in Khetanchi’s painting. It seems to imply that the Indian master’s portrait is copycat work, but that is far from the truth. At first sight, this image may seem to partake in orientalism in its classical Saidian formulation: a projection of European fantasies onto the non-European “other,” rendering “the Orient” as a mirror image for the West (1978). The image can be interpreted as lacking realism in the stylization of the sitter’s individuality into a type, as reducing “the Orient” to the domain of luxury and wealth, symbolized in the lady’s rich adornments and of sensuality and

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eroticism, epitomized by the perceived model being a performer from the harem. Khetanchi’s Bani Thani seems to fit the prejudice to a T. But why would a contemporary twenty-first-century Indian artist employ an orientalist construct in his art? This chapter investigates what is behind the trope and why it is so powerful. What does the comparison with Mona Lisa mean for a contemporary Indian audience against the background of an emerging market for Indian art among the rising middle classes? A sample of the reception of Khetanchi’s painting is the starting point for exploring current perceptions about the painting and the purported real-life model (Section 1.1). Where do these discourses come from? First, the “Lady with Veil” referenced in Khetanchi’s work is placed in her own art-historical context, within an eighteenth-century portrait gallery, to sort out whether the labels now current for the portrait would have fit contemporaneous notions when it was made (Section 1.2). Then, we trace the twentiethcentury art-critical evaluation that produced the theory that Banī-thanī was the _ model. Who were the agents, colonial (Section 1.3) and postcolonial (Section 1.4), that promoted and opposed the Mona Lisa trope? How did “Lady with Veil” become known as Portrait of Radha? Why did she go on to become a nationally recognizable image symbolized by the stamp issued in 1973 and end up as a cyber-orientalist tourist icon promoting her beauty and romance with the prince, while neglecting her authorship (Section 1.5)? This first chapter unravels the orientalist trope to prepare the way for an exploration of the artist behind the pretty cover of Nouvelles de l’Inde’s special issue on Indian literature. This act of “unveiling” sets us up for the quest to discover the woman author implied in the painting in the rest of the book 1.1

Returning the Gaze: The Orientalist “Indian Mona Lisa” Trope Subverted

The reception in India of Khetanchi’s canvas brings to the fore some important questions at the heart of Indian cultural appreciation today. A short BBC Hindi article from 2012 featuring the painting posed in its title the question that was posed to several respondents: “What if the Mona Lisa were Indian?” (Agar Monā Lisā bhāratīya hotī to?)1 This counterfactual title implies Khetanchi’s painting throws a gauntlet, raises a challenge to the Western masterpiece in its reference to the eighteenth-century Indian one. All interviewees agreed that by fusing both, Khetanchi had forged the best of Western and Eastern beauty ideals. The move of dressing Mona Lisa up in Indian garb was read as challenging the notion that Western views of beauty are universal. Thus, the 1

This was published on October 17, 2012 in the BBC News Hindi version. Online: www.bbc.com/ hindi/india/2012/10/121017_monalisa_india_ss, last accessed June 8, 2020.

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The Making of the “Indian Mona Lisa”

artist Ekeshvar Hatvāl indicated that Khetanchi’s interpretation confers equal _ Lisas, and art critic Īshvar Māthur stressed that the status to both Mona Western and Indian beauty ideals each have their own place. This was confirmed by Khetanchi, the artist himself, who called his own work a samāgam or “confluence” of both types, contrasting Western voluptuousness (msaktā) and intoxication (mādaktā) with Indian subtlety (nazākat) and refinement (nafāsat), the latter expressed by Persianate words, evoking sophisticated Mughal culture. If the appeal of the image lies in the juxtaposition of competing perceptions of East and West, these are not just ideals of beauty, as in intoxicating fleshand-blood physicality versus more refined subtlety, but of womanhood itself. The interviewees confidently confirm India’s competing not just on equal footing in the East–West beauty contest, but with a sense of superiority. Perhaps originally da Vinci intended to portray the demure and loyal wife of his patron, as exemplified by the clasped hands and slight smile conform etiquette manuals of the time,2 yet to Khetanchi’s eye she becomes associated with voluptuousness and licentiousness. The lady in the Kishangarhi painting, on the other hand, is decorous and refined. La Gioconda has a delicate, hardly perceptible translucent head cover, but her gaze boldly looks back at the spectator, while her Indian counterpart coyly turns away, drawing the border of her veil presumably to cover her face. Khetanchi’s painting fuses this with a hint of cheekiness, which subtly undermines the stereotype of Indian women as demure. The sophisticated, yet decorous Indianized lady sports an ironic “last laugh.” In his other artwork, Khetanchi has followed a similar pattern of reworking classical Western portraits of women, often nudes, transforming them into elegantly dressed Rajasthani beauties. Several of those canvases were on view in his 2008 London show “A Tribute to the Masters.”3 Rather than dismissing this title as a form of flattery, a gimmick to break into an international art market, one could explore its appeal to middle-class NRI (Non Resident Indian) audiences. Similarly, the Indian interviewees for the BBC article praised Khetanchi’s Mona Lisa painting as an example of “fusion” art (using the English term in the Hindi), and saw it as astutely tapping into what is popular with a twenty-first century audience in India and beyond. The article signals an awareness of the rise of a new market for Indian art in an “India Shining” environment. University of Heidelberg popular culture professor

2

3

As per Bohm-Duchen 2001: 50–1. However, from early on, nude versions of Mona Lisa were in existence and the theory that she was a courtesan had been prevalent at least since the seventeenth century (51–2). “Exhibition: A Tribute to the Masters.” Art Rabbit. October 2008. Online: www.artrabbit.com/ events/a-tribute-to-the-masters, last accessed May 26, 2020.

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Christiane Brosius characterizes this audience as engaged in a sustained effort to “Indianise modernity and cosmopolitanise Indianness” (2010: 328), which the painting illustrates perfectly. This is not unlike what has been observed for the popular culture of Bollywood cinema that constantly strives to outdo the West at its own game, but with a twist confirming in the end: phir bhī dil hai hindustānī “at heart I remain Indian.” At the same time that popular culture is preoccupied with the glamorous cosmopolitanism of the Indian abroad, it makes it a point to affirm its basically Indian emotional core (Kaur 2005: e.g., 310–11). This hybrid identity is characterized by an ambivalent relationship between the pull of the cosmopolitan and the call of the (lost) homeland. Yet, compared to the other paintings in the London show, there is more to the “Indian Mona Lisa” than market appeal. How Bani Thani stands out amongst Khetanchi’s reworkings of Western “Masters’ classics” becomes clear in comparison with its twin, a slightly bigger canvas (61  91.4 cm) called Devashree, or Splendour of the Gods (Maell 2015: 89). This painting represented simply a Mona Lisa in an Indian outfit, whereas Bani Thani referenced at the same time a well-known Indian master’s classic. The instant recognition of the Western work of art is repurposed to draw attention to the internationally lesser-known Indian one with which the Italian renaissance painting is fused. The kind of mimesis that this artwork performs then, is not simply that of a copycat or plaisir du déjà-vu. It does not take the form of straightforward imitation, or appropriation. It is closer to subversions of high-culture classics, to what inspired Marcel Duchamp’s irreverent 1919 L.H.O.O.Q readymade,4 than to the self-advertising that treats her as a popular cultural icon, like Andy Warholl’s Thirty are Better than One (1963), or French street artist “Invader’s” Rubik Mona Lisa (Sassoon 2001: 251–6). The postcolonial context infuses Mona Lisa’s mimesis with an important dimension of contestation.5 As is clear from the reception of Khetanchi’s painting, this form of mimicry includes a mockery that allows the artist not just to challenge but to upend Western concepts of art, beauty, and womanhood. In contrast to other Mona Lisas in ethnic dress, such as Alyssa’s in Tunisian costume of 1967 (Sassoon 2001: 254), Khetanchi’s draws attention to an actual corresponding Indian masterpiece. In doing so, the Indian painter highlights the existence of a rich and in the West little-known art tradition that can rival the best of the Western canon itself. In the process, he shows up the smug obliviousness, the pretense of Western cosmopolitanism in the face of its own

4 5

Explained succinctly on Pasadena’s Norton Simon Museum’s website. Online: www .nortonsimon.org/art/detail/P.1969.094, last accessed November 24, 2020. There are different types of mimetic possibilities hinging on this divergence compared to colonial period art. For the latter, see Natasha Eaton 2013.

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The Making of the “Indian Mona Lisa”

ignorance of global alternatives. Simply put, what appears to the undiscerning glance as mimicry, admiration, and imitation, has a deep bottom of critique and reverse mockery rooted in pride in its own heritage. The interviewees’ interpretations of Khetanchi’s work demonstrate how the perceived orientalist trope rather signifies the reverse: The Western imperialist gaze is cheekily returned. There remains one more aspect of Khetanchi’s painting to unpack, again something less readable to the Western viewer, but brought out by the BBC article referenced here. Khetanchi gave his painting the title Bani Thani. Widely interpreted as the name of a real-life model, the woman whose features ended up defining the Kishangarhi type, this actually exposed Khetanchi to criticism. It was foremost in the mind of the writer and at least one of the interviewees of the BBC article. The Jaipur-based sculptor and Padmashrī award winner, Arjun Prajapati, critically suggested that Khetanchi would have done better to leave the famous Kishangarh portrait alone, as the original was the result of a unique collaboration between the artist and his patron, Prince Sāvant Singh of Kishangarh. Prajapati felt it was based on the prince’s loving descriptions of the features of his ladylove, which the painter then went on to capture on the canvas. Implying the lady in question was in purdah, he saw Khetanchi’s endeavor as disrespectful, and since the original depicted a Goddess, as an irreverent secularizing move.6 The author of the BBC article chimed in, keeping the historical Banī-thanī behind purdah by imagining her not as a flesh-and-blood woman, but as_ the heroine of Sāvant Singh’s dream that took form on canvas. Such discomfort with worldly women out of purdah spoke through Khetanchi’s own word choice, as his attribution of voluptuousness (msaktā) to the Western Mona Lisa. An old orientalist discourse on art surfaces here, a colonial view that contrasts Western realism foregrounding materiality (read hedonism) with Eastern idealism stressing spirituality (restraint). Traditional Indian art is essentialized as symbolic and religious, without a direct link with observed reality (Guha-Thakurta 2004). All this lays bare some discomfort with the term “Indian Mona Lisa,” which seems to be a contradiction in terms: a real-life naturalistic model for an Indian spiritual ideal type. Whence came these persistent romantic mystifications? Why does the identification of Banī-thanī as the Indian Mona Lisa seemingly compulsively return to the orientalist _construct? Why do none of the commentators refer to her contributions to literature? There seems to be a strong discourse at work that

6

Notwithstanding rejecting Khetanchi’s fusion for its secularizing impact, Prajapati himself had created a sculpture named “Banī-thanī.” He explained this apparent contradiction by asserting _ as secular. She stands not for the model of the Kishangarhi that his own Banī-thanī was intended _ Rādhā, nor the woman after whom she was purportedly modeled, but generically for any beautiful, elegant, and bejeweled woman, or banī-thanī written in lower case. _

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keeps hijacking the conversation. Could this be because the portrait, and for that matter the Kishangarhi school of Rajput painting, was discovered by a British colonial agent who started writing about her in a certain vein? To grapple with those isssues, at this point let us telescope the Khetanchi image into its source of inspiration, the Kishangarh “Lady with Veil.” Before reconstructing the history of the art-historical perceptions that came to be projected onto it in twentieth-century discourse, let us first address its place in eighteenth-century portraiture. 1.2

“Lady with Veil” in the Portrait Gallery of Mughal and Rajput Women

What about the Indian Mona Lisa portrait, “Lady with Veil,” itself? The painting is not inscribed, so we do not actually know whether it was intended to portray the Goddess Rādhā, even less whether it has the features of the Kishangarhi concubine Banī-thanī. Before tracing how it came to be associated _ with both these identifiers, situating the painting in its historical context helps determine whether either designation would have been likely at the time. We can build on the pioneering archival work of Dr. Faiyāz ‘Alī Khān of Kishangarh in the middle of the previous century and more recently on the art-historical work by Dr. Navina Haidar, Curator at the Metropolitan Museum and Oxford-trained specialist on Kishangarh art, who has written on this very portrait (Haidar 2004). At the outset, it is important to note that the Kishangarh school of painting from early in the eighteenth century developed in close exchange with the Mughal atelier, with artists trained in Delhi moving to the small Rajasthani principality (Haidar 2004; 2011a; 2011b). “Lady with Veil” itself has mimetic elements of Mughal and European portraits, though no direct connection with the Italian Mona Lisa has been made.7 It definitely is not a copycat work, but in many ways, it conforms to the type of the single, nonnarrative bust portrayals of idealized beauties designed to be admired in albums that were popular by the eighteenth century both in Mughal and Rajput painting. While actual inscribed portraits of palace women were rare, bust portraits of this type were relatively common. In Mughal art, the seventeenth century had seen a marked increase in portraiture of women,8 Abu’l Hasan’s full-length portrait of Nūr Jahān in male 7

8

European-style miniature portraits, first of men, later of women, were introduced via the Thomas Roe embassy to Jahāngīr in the seventeenth century (Losty and Roy 2012: 142). It has not yet been traced when images of Mona Lisa started to circulate. There were precedents, including perhaps the circa 1587 wedding portrait of Prince Murād and his bride, attributed to Bhora (Seyller 2010a: 36–7). Definitely around that time, Akbar had portraits made of all palace servants, including women (Brand and Lowry 1985: 79–83). Illustrations from the Akbar Nāmah done around 1600 also show portraits of Akbar’s mother,

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outfit with a gun being perhaps the most remarkable. Attributed to the same painter was a bust portrait of a Mughal lady, meant to be worn as a jewel, possibly also Nūr Jahān’s.9 The first dated (1628) oval bust portrait of an imperial lady was actually the empress’ niece, Mumtāz Mahal. Painted on a mirror case by the Mughal atelier’s master painter ‘Abīd, it was likely inspired by a European allegorical model (Seyller 2010b: 145–53).10 This portrait was intended for her husband Shāh Jahān, for private hands only, as was the 1630–3 album that Dara Shikoh gifted to his wife Nadira Banu Begum with its full-length portrayals of women from the imperial zanānā. This proved trend-setting and an explosion of portraits of ladies occurred in its wake.11Window or jharokhā-style profile portraits of palace ladies became popular after 1668, when Aurangzeb abandoned the practice of imperial appearance to his subjects at the palace window (jharokhā), thereby renouncing the previous reservation that only the emperor could be thus portrayed (Losty and Roy 2012: 141–3). A few such bust portraits have been demonstrably modeled after European originals.12 The vogue of unidentified women’s bust portraits (often with revealed breast) spread to the provinces and became particularly popular in the eighteenth century. The features of the women in these Mughal portraits often strike viewers as generic and stylized, so it has been suggested that these eighteenth-century paintings were essentially ornamental and not intended as portraits at all.13 The idealizing nature of the portraits is often explained by the painters’ lack of access to ladies in purdah, though it has been established that women painters

9

10 11

12

13

in one case specifying the portraits of the faces were done by Nar Singh (Losty and Roy 2012: 59, 66–7). See also Natif 2018: 205–60. The full-length portrait is in the Rampur Raza Library, the bust in Harvard Art Museums. Both are easily viewed at the website of Ruby Lal, author of the monograph on the empress (2018). Online: https://rubylal.com/empress-photo-gallery/, last accessed on September 25, 2021. Other contemporaneous images of the empress include her feasting Jahāngīr and his son, the later Shāh Jahān after a victory in the Deccan in 1617, in the Smithsonian, see Pal et al. 1989: 25, fig. 16. For a seventeenthcentury inscribed portrait of her toilette, see Pal et al. 1989: 40, fig. 30. This is now in the Freer Gallery; see online: www.si.edu/object/fsg_F2005.4, last accessed August 16, 2021. Losty and Roy 2012: 122–4, 128–34; For a seventeenth-century stylized portrait with veil purported to be Mumtāz Mahal who may have become a model, see Pal et al. 1989: 38, fig. 28. See also Falk and Archer 1981: 75–7, 382–9, for portraits of ladies holding cups of wine, pān, and so on, as well as the inscribed portrait of Gul Safa, beloved of Dara Shikoh (Falk and Archer 1981: 83, 402). Several such depictions of women are collected in the Johnson Album (preserved formerly in the India Office Library, see Falk and Archer 1981: 112–3, 423–4). For an insightful short study on a copy of a European portrait by one of Jinah Kim’s students at Harvard, see Vogel 2017. Examples in Losty and Roy 2012: 182–4; Cohen et al. 1986: 108–9; Seyller 2010a: 82–3 (from Oudh). Some acquired titles identifying the sitter as queens or princesses after they were sold to the British as representing historical subjects (Leach 1986: 134).

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were active in zanānās.14 Still, art historians often designate the more life-like looking depictions as portraits of more accessible “courtesans” or “harem attendants,” especially when holding a wine cup with hennaed hands.15 Less ambiguously, other portraits depict musicians with their instruments, or clapping their hands, making clear their status as performers.16 A few such paintings are inscribed, sometimes identifying the lady by ethnicity, such as Muhammad Afzal’s circa 1740 Gujarātī Woman (chahrā-e Gujarātin; Losty and Roy 2012: 183, fig. 124). It has been suggested that in the case of palace women behind purdah, the real identity of the ladies was purposely hidden under generic ascriptions to powerful queens who did appear in public, such as Sultānā Chand Bībī, Bijapur regent for her minor son and enemy of Akbar, and most famously Nūr Jahān, Jahāngīr’s consort.17 Notwithstanding the above-mentioned contemporaneous portraits of the powerful empress, it is the posthumous idealized depictions from the eighteenth century that became popular.18 Both courtesan and queen are combined in the case of Lālkumvar, the performer-turned-empress married to the emperor Jahandar Shāh _ who was deposed in 1713 (Figure 1.3). For many portraits, whether idealized or real-life, a common characteristic is that the ladies are depicted with one hand delicately raised towards the face, often holding a flower or a cup. Our “Lady with Veil,” with her hand raised toward the face, preciously holding her veil, certainly does not look out of place in the gallery of such Mughal lady portraits. Since Rajput portraiture generally developed in close interaction with its Mughal counterpart (Desai 1994: 313), it is to be expected that depictions of Rajput ladies partake in the same characteristics. Some Rajput jharokhā-style lady portraits are clearly copies of Mughal examples, such as a Kishangarhi mid-eighteenth-century idealized copy of the famous Nūr Jahān portrait, which 14

15

16 17

18

The image of such a woman painter is preserved in Bhārat Kalā Bhavan in Banares, as was first noted by Gangoly 1928: 13. Online: https://rubylal.com/empress-photo-gallery/, last accessed on September 25, 2021. See Pal 1997: 146; Galloway and Losty 2021 cat. 9. Yet, even Mumtāz Mahal is portrayed that way in the aforementioned 1628 miniature portrait, and moreover her breasts are exposed too. The revealed bossom initially seems to have connoted perfection in beauty, perhaps based on European allegorical models, rather than being intended to stir erotic titillation (Seyller 2010b: 152). Examples in Losty and Roy 2012: 184, fig. 126, attributed to Kalyāndās; see also Wade 1998. According to Goetz 1957: 128, n. 2, who however elsewhere in the article makes some poorly justified identifications. For a portrait that was designated as depicting the powerful empress by Jean-Baptist Gentil, its European owner, see Cohen et al. 1986: 107. For the empress’ story, see Lal 2018. A drawing used for pouncing (stenciling) with several eminent Mughal grandees that includes her famous profile with cap is at the Art Institute of Chicago (Pal et al. 1989: 226, fig. 241). One posthumous eighteenth-century portrait identified in its inscription as Nūr Jahān is at the Victoria and Albert Museum, IM.37-1912, see https://collections.vam.ac.uk/item/O405552/ nur-jahan-painting-unknown/, last accessed August 16, 2021.

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Figure 1.3 Portrait of Lal Kunwar. Eighteenth century. Mughal, India. Colorwash drawing. 32.6  21.5 cm. The Walters Art Museum, Baltimore (Walters manuscript leaf W.712).

seems a likely candidate of being intermediary towards “Lady with Veil” (Figure 1.4).19 Like their Mughal counterparts, Rajput portraits of women also rarely identify the model (Aitken 2002: 449–50).20 A few portraits were inscribed with a generic noble woman’s name, for instance “Jodhabāī.”21 The absence of 19 20

21

For a contemporaneous Pahari portrait, see Boner et al. 1994: 118 n. 380. The earliest Rajput women portraits from around 1680 come from Bikaner and the distinctive type there was developed by ‘Alī Razā and his son Hasan Razā. See Desai 1985: 78, for a lady in profile; Chandra, Chandra, and Khandalavala 1960: 50–51, fig. 70, for a near frontal view. Perhaps the 1680 Bikaner Lady Writing to Her Lover (at the Victoria and Albert Museum, IS.224-1955) may be a copy of a Mughal portrait, since she is writing in the Arabic script (Cimino 1985: 58). Online: https://collections.vam.ac.uk/item/O433219/painting-unknown/, last accessed August 16, 2021. A careful art historian like Joachim Bautze conservatively titled one such portrait, though inscribed as “Jodhabāī,” as “a woman holding a pet bird” (1987: 40–1). This case exemplifies the ambiguities involved in determining whether a “real” or stereotypical portrait was intended.

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Figure 1.4 Idealized Portrait of the Mughal Empress Nur Jahan (1577–1645). Ca. 1725–50. Kishangarh, Rajasthan. Opaque watercolor and gold on paper. 29.52  21.59 cm. Los Angeles County Museum of Art, Gift of Diandra and Michael Douglas (M.81.271.7). Photo courtesy LACMA.

identifications of the sitter can be understood with reference to the maleexclusive spheres of power within which portraits circulated, namely the genealogical record and gift-giving to ensure allegiance (Aitken 2002: 254–6).22 Here, the question whether painters had access to palace women to sketch a portrait based on observation looms large. It seems self-evident that 22

Still, one wonders about exchange of portraits of purdah-observing princesses in connection with marriage match making, parallel to those of princes and kings. The existence of such portraits is evident from stories, for example, that of the two rival suitors of the famous Krishna Kumari of Udaipur in the early nineteenth century, who proclaimed to have fallen in love upon seeing her portrait (Bautze 2004–5: 187). The intended audience for these images may initially have been conceived as strictly family-related, and the identity of the sitter may well have been obscured when they were more widely circulated, not unlike what later happened with photography (Weinstein 2010: 9).

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women in the Rajput zanānā could not be observed, so it is not surprising that popular press articles on Banī-thanī, like the BBC piece quoted above (Agar Mona Lisa Bhāratiya hoti to?)_ take for granted the impossibility of direct observation for the Rajput harem portraits. One respondent assumed that Sāvant Singh himself either described in words or actually sketched a portrait of his mistress for his favorite painter Nihālcand to work with. Possibly, he had in mind an existing sketch “portrait of a yogini” that was drawn by the crown prince himself (Pauwels 2015: 201–3). However, that drawing was not inscribed with reference to Banī-thanī, nor actually do the features of this _ “yogini” show the extraordinary profile the singer is famous for. The point is rather that there may actually not have been any need for such intermediation by the prince. As a court singer, Banī-thanī was not behind strict purdah. _ of musicians are plentiful.23 A few As in the Mughal case, Rajput portraits such Rajput portraits of performers carry identifications, often with the epithet of bhagtan or “courtesan,” which confirms that they were sometimes based on living models.24 All this indicates that the assumption that individual women were not depicted needs to be nuanced. Rather, as Aitken perceptively suggests, portraits existed but were often not inscribed with the women’s names and thus the contextual information of who was the model was lost over time (Aitken 2002: 256, 273–4).25 In the case of Kishangarh, there are examples both in full and three-quarter profile (see Figures 1.5 and 2.2 in this book). While not inscribed, one of them certainly shows the characteristics associated with Banī-thanī, in particular the elongated eye and brow, and the prominent _ 1.5). However, does that make the image a portrait of Banī-thanī? nose (Figure _ and It does not take much to see it as a forerunner of the more stylized exaggerated features of “Lady with Veil,” where she holds a lotus instead of a musical instrument. However, the conundrum is whether Banī-thanī was the _ model for or modeled after the distinctive Kishangarh style, an issue to which we will return (Section 3.1). Scholars have posited that “most depictions of women of the Rajput courts were generic and not portraits of actual people. In place of specific character traits, artists highlighted the feminine sophistication, beauty and mesmeric

23 24

25

See Tillotson and Venkateswaran 2016: 46, for an early-nineteenth-century sketch of unidentified female musician in the style of Sahibram of Jaipur. These are not busts, but full-size portraits of seated ladies: Bautze and Angelroth 2013: 82–3, for a 1720–30 Kota-style coquettish portrait; Tillotson and Venkateswaran 2016: 48, for a circa 1800 Jaipur style more sober portrait by Ramji Das of Jaipur. For sketches from the hills, there is also the 1762 one attributed to Nainsukh of Balwant Singh watching a dance performance by “Zafar” (Desai 1985: 111). An intriguing example from the hills was owned by “K. Ishwari Singh of Sermoor” (Bautze 1987: 123–4).

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Figure 1.5 A Lady Singing. Ca. 1740–5. Kishangarh, Rajasthan. Painting on paper. 48.2  35.2 cm. Collection of Howard Hodgkin, loan to Ashmolean Museum, Oxford (LI118.31).

behavior of the women” (Mishra 2018: 137).26 Molly Aitken has sought to nuance this common assumption, citing examples that show it was at least not inconceivable painters had access to palace women (2002: 149–51), though she hastens to specify that the women were portrayed not individually but conventionally, with the stylistic face of the local school of painting (272–5).27 26

27

More generically about portraits, Padma Kaimal similarly has pointed out that “individuation was not perceived to function in opposition to information about the subject’s group affiliation” (1999: 80). This matches with Lefèvre’s distinction between faithful physiognomic resemblance and individualization for functionality (2011: 14). A related relevant insightful comment by Harvard art historian Jinah Kim speaks of portraits that are not verisimilar, but rather “abstract portraits, representing the persons portrayed in abstraction” (Kim 2020: 8). Perhaps also Molly Aitken’s earlier argument about the Kangra heroine applies here, namely that the paintings in their construction of frames within frames ultimately draw attention more to

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Columbia University art historian Vidya Dehejia has plausibly suggested that this development of formulaic portrayal was used “in a manner akin to the use of a flag or insignia, as a feature that individualized and distinguished them from adjoining princely courts. . . most prominently the female form became the hallmark of a state” (1997a: 362). This applies well to Kishangarh, which is the example Dehejia cites. In that light, the Kishangarh court’s insistence that “Lady with Veil” is not a portrait after a real-life woman is well-justified. Ignoring the model’s actual physiognomy is all the more pertinent for women portrayed within more elaborate court or harem scenes where their husbands or patrons are central. The aesthetic preference for uniformity and generically stylized features for everyone but the king sidelines specifics of individual appearance, not just for the ladies, but for courtiers and attendants in general. However, within strongly hierarchical Rajput society, one suspects that the participants in the activities portrayed would have been very sensitive to who was represented where in the hierarchy, and which ladies were singled out for attention, even if the names were not recorded. This would seem obvious in particular for hunting scenes that depict ladies’ shooting exploits. (For an example from Bundi ca. 1760, see Bautze and Angelroth 2013: 116–7.) In the Kishangarhi context, there are several portraits that inscribe courtiers by name just above their depiction or have keys on the back (examples in Pauwels 2015: 70–71, plates 2 and 3). Awareness of the identity of the portrayed then seems to have been keen, even when the portrayal was not individualized. The conundrum of verisimilitude is tied up with the determination of intention, that is, whether specific individuals are intended to be portrayed in a historical location, or conventional scenes with generic characters. In the case of both Mughal and Rajput painting, some “portraits” actually depict idealtype heroines, rāgamāla series, scenes from Krishna’s life, or generic conventional harem scenes, like ladies bathing, holding birds, making music, or carrying water pots (panihārin). A Kishangarhi example is a well-executed full-length portrait of a charming water carrier by the lake with her pot put down, waiting for her beloved, presumably the horseman in the background. This has been attributed to Bhavānīdās, the painter who moved to Kishangarh from the Mughal atelier.28 Strikingly, like the Mughal jharokhā portraits, she too has one hand raised delicately to the height of her face. This portrait, dated around 1725, can be related to a similar image that is attributed to Bhavānīdās’ son Dalcand and slightly later, ascribed to his maturity phase, 1730–40 by McInerney (2011: 574–7, fig. 13). In this case the lady is holding a flower in her hand raised to shoulder height, like the portrait of Lālkumvar (Figure 1.3). _

28

the craft of painting, in particular the idiosyncracies of a specific style, rather than to the nāyikā per se (1997: 99–100). The painting is preserved in an Ajmer private collection (Haidar 2004: 125–6).

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Perhaps the garland that the lady is holding in her other hand hints at her intent to garland her “groom” upon arrival. Here, too, there is a horseman in the background; clearly it is intended to echo the father’s painting. One suspects there is more going on here than generic depictions of ideal types, but the meaning behind that is now obscure. Both full-length portraits may well be taken to foreshadow the more stylized later bust portrait “Lady with Veil.” Set portrayals sometimes illustrate so-called Rīti or mannerist poetry, which features a catalogue of hero (nāyaka) and heroine (nāyikā) types. This genre is found in classical Hindi literature; most famous perhaps are Keśavdās’ Rasikpriyā (The Connoisseur’s Darling) and Bihārī’s Satsaī (Seven-Hundred Poems), two of the most-illustrated classics of Hindi literature. The nāyakanāyikā genre has long antecedents in Sanskrit literary categorizations but is also discussed in Persianate-inspired Hindavi literature, following the exposé by Abū’l Fazl in ‘Ain-i Akbari.29 Thus, what looks like a portrait may be an illustration of a nāyikā subtype, for instance, of the virahinī, the lady pining in the absence of the lover. “Lady with Veil” has been identified by some as an example of a nāyikā of the type vāsaka-sajjā, “All dressed up (sajjā), awaiting her lover in her room (vāsaka)” (Dickinson 1950: 35). This category of heroine is typically portrayed in painting as eagerly awaiting her lover with the decorated but empty bed ready nearby (vāsaka-śayyā; Coomaraswamy 1916: 51–2). The heroine depicted in the “Lady with Veil” painting certainly is beautifully dressed up, but there is no hint of the waiting bed that is the usual giveaway in pictures of this type of heroine. Neither is her demeanor expressive of the mood of anxious anticipation due to the lover’s delayed arrival. The coquettish smile and flirtatious gesture of adjusting her veil to reveal her beauty rather suggest that the lover has arrived, and we witness the play of seduction. So perhaps she does not fully conform to the traditional trope, but there may be another classical Hindi poem underlying the illustration. More on this will follow, as we discuss the art-historical journey of the portrait (Section 1.4). To complicate matters, there is evidence that some of the seemingly abstract and conventional Rīti literature itself was in fact more or less obliquely directed to specific “courtesans” or palace ladies. One famous example from the late-sixteenth, early-seventeenth century is the aforementioned poet Keśavdās, who in his Kavi-priyā’s The Poet’s Darling frequently references his “disciple,” Pravīnrāy, the courtesan (pātur) at the Orchha court (Dehejia 2013: 10–11). Distinctions between depictions of ideal-type and of real-life woman could become blurred, as when generic harem scenes are inscribed 29

Phukan 2000; Schofield 2015: 410–11; Ernst 2016: 38, in the context of his elaborate discussion of set nāyikā types in the 1764 Arabic work by Āzād Bilgrāmī. See also Ras-prabodh, the 1740 work of his compatriot from Bilgram, Saiyid Gulām Nabī “Raslīn.”

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with the names of pāsbān or dancers from Mewar and Marwar, and when a Rāginī personified is identified on the painting as a Jaisalmer princess (Aitken 2002: 272–3).30 Such would have enhanced the piquancy of the poems and paintings for the insiders, while remaining largely unrevealed to outsiders. This is not limited to the ladies. Court panegyrics, composed for specific rulers, depicted them, too, as ideal “heroes” or nāyakas.31 This ambiguity and conflation is further deepened, as standardized depictions in apparent Rīti style are often identified as the Goddess Rādhā, thus imbuing the poetry with a devotional (bhakti) aspect.32 That explains why “Lady with Veil” is deemed not just an ordinary portrait but reckoned to fall in the category of the idealized portrait of a deity, Portrait of Radha. Parallel depictions of Krishna with the features of rulers are well documented. Vidya Dehejia sees such conflation of God and “hero” or nāyaka (2009: 159–99) as a logical outcome in a cultural universe that has “routinely blurred the boundaries between sacred and profane,” and that sees gods as “the prototype for all human lovers” (161). Yet she also notices how the portrayal of women as “heroines” or nāyikā (and as consorts of the divine) is different from that of the rulers. The features of the heroines tend not to be differentiated from those of other women members of the court but identified only by contextual placements with their divinized partners. The “Lady with Veil” case is exceptional as, at least here, the nāyikā stands on her own. How likely is it that an artist would depict the Goddess based on an individual woman’s features? There is evidence of portraits of historical royal women idealized as deities in Indian art. In sculpture, most famous is the example of the tenth-century Chola Queen Sembiyan Mahādevī portrayed as Pārvatī (Dehejia 1998; bronze in the Freer Gallery of Art, Smithsonian Institution). Dehejia provides the ritual context when the image was carried in procession on the occasion of festival celebrations. She perceptively connects this with images of Tamil saints-devotees, who are carried in processions that elicit narratives about their devotion (1998: 43–5). Similarly, the case of Sāvant Singh and Banī-thanī is seen “to allude to their alleged special relation_ ship” with Rādhā and Krishna (Crill 2010: 37–8). In other words, the godportrait might be intended to highlight the sitter’s devotion.

30

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Perhaps a reverse case is that of an early nineteenth-century letter sent by a concubine to the Jodhpur king Mān Singh, illustrated with a surprisingly generic image of the writer herself (Aitken 2002: 272). New York University’s Institute of Fine Arts’ art historian Dipti Khera has discussed the performative aspect of kingship as documented in paintings and related panegyrics, for instance for Amar Singh II of Mewar (r. 1698–1710) and in Nandrām’s Jagvilās composed with Jagat Singh II (r. 1734–51) as nāyaka (2020: 92–95, esp. fig. 3.6). For the artificiality of the distinction between Rīti and Bhakti poetry, particularly with regard to Keśavdās, see Busch 2006: 44–46.

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This can also be understood as an extension of portrayals of rulers partaking in the realm of the divine, as was popular at the time in the small principalities of Bundi and Kota. Possibly there is a link with the Vallabhan school of nearby Nathdwara that came into its own with depictions of the deity of Śrī Nātha Jī worshiped by his priests and visiting royalty. Those were called manoratha or “vow” as they commemorated the pilgrim’s visit often undertaken in the context of a special vow.33 Next to the patron might be portrayed his family, including the ladies (Ambalal 1987: 80). This is not limited to the Vallabhan sectarian milieus; kings are often shown with their own favorite or state deities, who are sometimes pictured in an anthropomorphic way, making it hard to distinguish between them and human personalities, conflating king and God.34 Not much work has been done on non Vallabhan traditions as of yet, but notable is a drawing of Savāī Jai Singh II and the Caitanya Sampradāya image of Govindadeva Jī that he installed in his new capital Jaipur (Tillotson and Venkateswaran 2016: 68). This image also features a woman fanning the deity, perhaps intended to represent a palace lady. However, it might be just as well a mythological figure, as she resembles the Goddess Rādhā and sakhī Lalitā in the painting next to the deity itself. On the basis of this confusing evidence, at least it is fair to say that Rajput paintings routinely show several levels of conflation of divine and royal realms. Rulers often project themselves into the divine world, conforming to the common devotional technique of participation in dramatized performances of the deities’ lives. Mewar ruler Jagat Singh II (r. 1734–51) famously had himself portrayed assisting in such musical plays (e.g., Tillotson 1987: 6–7, fig. 4; Khera 2020: 90, fig. 3.1). We know that Sāvant Singh took part in Rāslīlās, or Krishna devotional plays (Pauwels 2017: 91–105). There is evidence from Kishangarh paintings from the time of Sāvant Singh’s father, Rāj Singh, where the royal family is portrayed as attendants participating in celebrating Krishna’s marriage ceremonies (Haidar 2011a: 543–4; Pauwels 2015: 152–6). Nihālcand goes a significant step further in the identification of the devoteeprince with Krishna himself but it is not unparalleled; other kings also had themselves pictured as God incarnate.35 In the case of Sāvant Singh, perhaps the male devotee’s promotion can be understood in the light of his devotional 33

34

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Ambalal 1987: 63–4; illustrations from the mid-eighteenth century onwards from 96ff. These paintings are still popular today, the audience now being extended to a broader section of the population, in particular the middle class (Nardi 2019). Dipti Khera also documents depictions of Jagat Singh II of Mewar and his brother-in-law Thakur Sirdar Singh of Mewar worshiping, in some cases with the divinity portrayed anthropomorphically (2020: 104–10, esp. fig. 3.25). With regard to the overlapping portrayals of king and God in some Pahari schools, B.N. Goswamy discussed the case of Siddh Sen of Mandi who had himself portrayed embodying Shiva (1987: 198–200), and there is also a painting of him as Vāsudeva carrying the baby Krishna across the Yamunā (now at LACMA, acc. no. M 81.271.13). Online: www.asianart

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name “Nāgarīdās,” or “Servant of Rādhā.” Isn’t Krishna himself Rādhā’s greatest servant? Still, portraying a concubine as Rādhā? We should be careful not to introduce unwarranted Western art-historical tropes of Madonnas modeled after real women, including mistresses of painters and their patrons.36 To sum up, after weighing all the pros and cons, our conclusion has to be nuanced. According to contemporaneous practice, we can reasonably assume that “Lady with Veil” illustrates a description of a heroine according to classical poetic conventions, and such nāyikās would frequently be identified as Rādhā. The interpretation of “Lady with Veil” as Portrait of Radha then seems quite apt. The unofficial title “Banī-thanī” though is more dubitable, and whether the portrait was _ beautiful concubine’s features remains up in the air. The actually inspired by the identification is not impossible: There are examples of Rajput portraits of performers at court and stylized images may be intended to portray actual court ladies. At the same time, this case is not established as fact, as is sometimes assumed. What we can say with confidence is that the portrait was conceived within a realm of beauty ideals, imagery, and poetics that set Mughal and Rajput, classical Hindavi and Hindi literature into rich dialogue. In literature, as in painting, there is a generic conflation between portrait, depiction of the ideal, and of the divine. 1.3

Colonial Construct? An Aesthete’s Discovery of Portrait of Radha

How has “Lady with Veil” been interpreted subsequently over time? Khetanchi’s “Indian Mona Lisa” painting accomplishes visually the identification of Banī-thanī as Rādhā with that of La Gioconda as Mona Lisa. This is the apotheosis of_ a development that has been in the making for about eight decades, forged in the crucible of colonial and nationalist discourses since the “discovery” of Kishangarhi art by the international art world. The Kishangarh school of painting was brought to the attention of the Western and Indian art connnoisseurs by Eric Charles Dickinson (1893–1951), a poet and short story writer who had been professor of English at Government

36

.com/exhibitions/hollywood/douglas9.html, last accessed July 2020. On similar portrayals of Rājā Mān and Dhayā Dhatā of Nurpur, see Glynn 2018: 139–40. One famous example is Raphael’s Sistine Madonna (ca. 1513–14; now at the Gemäldegalerie Alte Meister, Dresden), said to have been inspired by Raphael’s mistress (Margherita Luti, La Fornarina). An earlier case is that of the circa 1450 Madonna Surrounded by Seraphim and Cherubim by the French artist Jean Fouquet (in the Koninklijk Museum voor Schone Kunsten, Antwerp). She is part of the Melun diptych commissioned by Étienne Chevalier, ambassador and later treasurer to King Charles VII, who is portrayed in the left wing. The Madonna in the right wing was modeled after the French king’s mistress Agnès Sorel, at whose passing the portrait was commissioned as per the (no longer visible) inscription on the back (Snyder et al. 2005: 220–1). This case has remarkable parallels with that of “Lady with Veil.” Madame Sorel was also known by the sobriquet “Dame de beauté.” Her nose too (in addition to the dimple in her chin) is a crucial feature for identification, but in her case, there is a funerary effigy to compare with (Schaefer 1972: 80–1, 91–7).

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College in Lahore since 1928 (Singh 1952). In 1943, on an educational delegation to Mayo College in Ajmer, Dickinson’s party made a side trip to Kishangarh, where the young Rājā Sumer Singh (r. 1939–71), himself a student at the college, still reigned under a Council of Regency. Seven years later, Dickinson himself described the incident with dramatical flair in an article published in the prestigious Indian art Journal Mārg: When on a September afternoon of 1943, a party of visitors entered through the high arched gateway leading into the ancient fort and palace of the Rathor chieftains of Kishangarh towering high above the lake of Gandaloo [sic] and took the salute of the sentry, not one of us had the least premonition that we were on the eve of a remarkable discovery. . .. The extraordinary. . . suddenly obtruded when the present writer grown a trifle weary of an over surfeit of wazirs, omrahs, princes, and badshahs inquired if any paintings existed dealing with a Krishnaite theme . . .. A peon . . . returned shortly carrying a portfolio which opened to disclose paintings of an unusual magnitude each contained in a tracing linen envelope. The first glimpse was sufficient to assure us that there was something quite unusual if not unique. (Dickinson 1950: 29)

The orientalist trope of the thrill of discovery has been a mainstay in popularizing Kishangarhi painting ever since. In his insistence on seeing the Rajput artworks, which he preferred above the “tedious” Mughal ones, Dickinson undoubtedly was inspired by the influential art historian Anand Kent Coomaraswamy (1877–1947), who in his path-breaking book Rajput Painting published in 1916, had raved about the Rajput paintings’ exceptional emotional depth in comparison to Mughal ones: If Rajput art at first sight appears to lack the material charm of Persian pastorals, or the historic significance of Mughal portraiture, it more than compensates in tenderness and depth of feeling, in gravity and reverence. Rajput art creates a magic world where all men are heroic, all women are beautiful, passionate and shy, beasts both wild and tame are the friends of man, and trees and flowers are conscious of the footsteps of the Bridegroom as he passes by. This magic world is not unreal or fanciful, but a world of imagination and eternity, visible to all who do not refuse to see with the transfiguring eyes of love. (Coomaraswamy 1916: 7)

Dickinson felt the discovery of his own “magic world” was cemented through establishing a connection between the images and the texts that were written on the reverse: It was not long before I was convinced that so lyrical a content, as our paintings revealed, could be justified by only one factor: a text. Once this was determined upon, the implementation of discovery became long and arduous. One clue and only one was concrete. Upon the reverse of one of the miniatures it was noticed were several lines of writing in Hindi script. (Dickinson 1950: 30)

He returned to Kishangarh with the express purpose to explore further the link of the paintings with texts, and found out about the collaboration of Sāvant

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Singh, alias Nāgarīdās, the poet-patron, and the painter Nihālcand.37 He describes his reaction in rhapsodic terms: And then suddenly on to the enchanted air down the forest aisles is wafted fragments of whispered colloquies of love, the words ever seeming to evade the strained ear of the devotee, since if he won the secret he would go mad with joy. (Dickinson and Khandalavala 1959: 3)

In stressing the interface between paintings and vernacular literature, Dickinson again took his cue from Coomaraswamy. As Keeper of Indian Art at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, the latter would frequently assess newly acquired Rajput paintings: This is anything but a primitive art: it is an art of saturated experience, and its simplicity is only apparent. In these respects it closely parallels the language of the contemporary vernaculars, such as the Hindi of the text, where by loss of the inflections characteristic of the older Prakrits, words have been reduced to their bare roots, and the meaning of a sentence must be grasped intuitively more than by logical analysis. The longer one studies this literature and painting, the deeper and fuller one finds its content. (Coomaraswamy 1931: 16)

For Coomaraswamy, the link between painting and literature was directly related to the idealism and spirituality of Indian art.38 Similarly, Dickinson was prone to see Rajput art at its finest as religiously inspired “Hindu art.” Granting that the paintings were stylistically aware “of Moghul technical innovation and linear purity they yet, in inspiration, remain faithful to the Rajput ethos.” He even spoke of a “Hindu art renaissance flourishing . . . following the decline of the Moghul pre-eminence” (1950: 37). Coomaraswamy had devoted a full chapter of his landmark study, Rājput Painting, to Krishna Līlā, with a special appendix on the cult of Śrī Nātha Jī (1916: 2:26–41). Dickinson learned about the Kishangarh court’s view that the religious significance of Nāgarīdās’ poetry was connected with this same influential Krishna devotional movement, whose main temple was that of Śrī Nātha Jī. The Vallabha Sampradāya, named after the sixteenth-century philosopher Vallabhācārya, had a non-ascetic approach to the divine that made it attractive for wealthy householders, including rich Gujarati merchants as well as Rajput rulers. This system became known as Pusti-mārga or “The Path of _ _ to have understood as (God’s) Sustaining Grace,” which Dickinson seems 37 38

He credits the help of Pandit Bala Sahai Shastri of Punjab University in deciphering the text and finding out about the author (Dickinson and Khandalavala 1959: 4). The perceived stark ideological contrast between Mughal realism and Rajput idealism has insightfully been nuanced by Molly Aitken, who draws attention to the “dissimilar ‘psychomotor realities’ of habits of the hand that underlie the two approaches to representation” (2016: 89). Broader on this topic, see Jawaharlal Nehru University art historian Kavita Singh’s essay (2015: 110–11).

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1.3 An Aesthete’s Discovery of Portrait of Radha

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“The Way of Pleasure,” the title he gave to his 1950 article. Hence, he felt there was a religious justification behind the “frankly hedonistic appeal of the paintings” (1950: 34). Dickinson provided the caption Portrait of Radha for the painting that later would become the basis for the Radha–Kishangarh stamp, and eventually Khetanchi’s fusion canvas (1950: 35). He was the first to cast it as the archetype for the Kishangarhi facial traits and attribute it to Nihālcand. He reckoned it was: the assured masterpiece of his inventive formula for the lady with the tilted eye. In this eye and eyebrow sharply thrusting upwards Nihal Chand in one clear moment of divination has achieved a stylistic distinction for the Kishangarh ateliers over the rival school of Jaipur. An enigmatic quality is imparted to that splendid gash of the half closed eye sweep conveying the maximum of eroticism to the emotional moment of the time when Radha is at last confronted by the Divine Bridegroom. (Dickinson 1950: 35)

To support his point, he cited a lush poem in English, presumably a translation of a Hindi work by Nāgarīdās, but he did not indicate the original source.39 Dickinson’s was an aesthete’s perspective,40 and he classified the image according to Indian aesthetics: What an astonishing feast is here before us in this seductive study of a Rajput maiden . . .. Those well versed in the sringa rasa [sic] will have no hesitation in judging the rasa of the painting to be that of the vasakasaya nayika, or the tender maiden who has made ready for the long awaited arrival of the beloved. (Dickinson 1950: 35)

This analysis employed the terminology of Indian aesthetics. Again following Coomaraswamy (1916: 2:42–54), he classified according to theories of Śṅgāra rasa or the “erotic sentiment” and the typology of heroines (nāyikā). This is sophisticated, even if one might quibble with his choice of the particular type of the vāsaka-sajjā “all dressed up and awaiting her lover on the bed” (as discussed in Section 1.2). Dickinson spoke of the Rādhā in the portrait as a “tender maiden,” a coy virgin on her wedding night.41 These musings evoke bridal mysticism, which made sense in the context of the preoccupations in contemporaneous arthistorical writing about India. Again one can compare with Coomaraswamy’s views that glorified the purity of the Indian bride in “rhetorical pamphlets on 39 40 41

The poem does not seem to be written on the reverse of the painting; had that been the case, he would have mentioned that as he did for Diwali Night (31). The obituary written by one of his students, Iqbal Singh, was replete with words like “cyrenaic” and “sybarite’s enjoyment” (1952). Dickinson’s assessment here was somewhat incongruous, since the vāsaka-sajjā is typically readying the bedroom for a rendez-vous with her lover, in anticipation of a night of sensual delights, which implies she is not inexperienced. Neither is Rādhā usually interpreted as a virgin bride.

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The Making of the “Indian Mona Lisa”

The Oriental View of Woman (1910) and Sati: A Vindication of the Hindu Woman (1913), where the act of Sati (also spelled suttee) was glorified as ‘Eternal Love,’ representing the most sacrosanct image of Indian womanhood” (Chattopadhyay and Thakurta 1995: 164). The famous art historians, Mohinder Singh and Doris Schreier Randhawa, writing in 1980, deemed Dickinson’s evaluation of Kishangarhi art as subscribing to “the romantic cult of innocent womanhood” (1980: ix). There was a palpable tension in his attempt at framing the image within Indian aesthetic categories that presumed a sexually experienced heroine, and at the same time the urge to represent the essence of Rajput art as pure spiritual love, foregrounding an innocent one. Was Dickinson the one who came up with the Mona Lisa trope? Certainly, comparison with European art was typical for the art-historical discourse of the time. It made sense in a context where scholars of non-Western art felt the need to advocate for their subject in terms familiar and appealing to a largely Western audience. This had become even more pertinent against the background of political assertion of the struggle for independence, when the need arose of “acknowledging South Asia’s arts as fine arts, worthy to rival the European canon” (Aitken 2016: 10). Dickinson, too, invoked Western parallels in his writings. He did not mention da Vinci, though he compared “Lady with Veil” with the celebrated profile portraits by fifteenth-century Italian masters (1950: 35).42 He also brought up other profile-oriented painting styles, such as the Minoan cupbearers of Knossos and the art revolution under the 14th-century BCE Egyptian pharaoh, Akhetaton. Perhaps the latter betrays that Dickinson saw himself as tracing the footsteps of Egyptian archeologists, such as the German Egyptologist Ludwig Borchardt, who in 1912 discovered in Amarna the bust of Akhetaton’s Queen Nefertiti. Akhetaton’s love for art, the “realism” of the bust modeled after the queen’s features, and the pair’s shared religious inspiration would parallel the Kishangarhi case. It must be said though that Dickinson did not mention Nefertiti at all in his published writings on Rādhā’s Kishangarhi portrait. In his efforts to promote Kishangarh to the top of world art, Dickinson kept racking his brain for Western parallels. Here he parted company with Coomaraswamy who, in his enthusiasm for the religious aspect of Rajput painting drew mainly parallels with medieval European art (Mitter 1977: 279). Instead, Dickinson eventually settled on Jean-Antoine Watteau’s roughly contemporaneous (1717) Embarkation for Cythera (the island where Venus

42

Dickinson here singled out explicitly Domenico Ghirlandaijo (perhaps he had in mind the 1488 portrait of Giovanna Tornabuoni), Alesso Baldovinetti (perhaps the ca. 1465 portrait Lady in Yellow), and Pisanello (perhaps the ca. 1435 Portrait of a Princess).

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was born) (L’Embarquement pour Cythère) (Dickinson 1950: 33).43 This painting, submitted to the Académie Royale in Painting and Sculpture had inaugurated a new genre, that of the Fête galante or “arcadic revelry.” While he did not elaborate, Dickinson here brought up an interesting comparison. The nostalgia for the pastoral innocence of mythic Arcadia during this postLouis XIV Régence period of decadence had a lot in common with that for the Krishnaite pastoral of Sāvant Singh’s time. The late Indologist Alan Entwistle identified several parallels between French arcadian and Kishangarh’s Vaishnava paintings, at the heart of which was the celebration of unencumbered love in bucolic scenes through dramatic staging. Addressing interpretations of such fantasies as escapism, Entwistle perceptively pointed out the tensions at work when sophisticated courtiers fetishize the countryside’s charms, sometimes as idealized childhood experiences (1991). While Dickinson did not spell it out as elaborately, he too was on to something more profound than the shared theme of savvy courtiers frolicking in the countryside. In sum, the British teacher at Lahore college, Eric Dickinson, was instrumental in bringing Kishangarh paintings to the attention of the Western (and Indian) art world. He enthusiastically described them in the style of contemporaneous art-historical treatment of Indian art, for which Coomaraswamy had set the tone.44 This discourse partook in colonial practices of comparisons with European art and orientalist tropes, including fascination with the timeless spirituality of the Orient. Following Coomaraswamy’s spiritualization of the feminine in Rajput paintings, Dickinson characterized “Lady with Veil” as Portrait of Radha, and attributed the Kishangarhi “Hindu renaissance” to sectarian religious inspiration. In relating Kishangarh’s art to the best of the West, Dickinson went beyond Coomaraswamy’s parallels with classical or medieval art, comparing with the “arcadic revelry” paintings of Watteau for the Versailles nobility. Departing from “Coomaraswamian anonymity” (Ehnbohm 2002: 181), Dickinson attributed the prototype of the Kishangarhi facial type to the master painter Nihālcand who worked with the patron-poet Nāgarīdās. Introducing historical concerns, he ascribed the development of this distinctive style to rivalry with nearby ateliers of Jaipur and Jodhpur.45 This 43 44

45

Dickinson compared also with The Fête champêtre (Pastoral Symphony), attributed to Giorgione, a Venetian painter from ca 1500 (Dickinson 1950: 33). In another sense though, the two men were each other’s reverse: Coomaraswamy was of mixed Sri Lankan and English descent, but lived most of his life in the West, while Dickinson was English, but lived most of his adult life in India. Dickinson formulated the argument most clearly, providing also dates for Nihālcand, in a short section on Kishangarhi painting that appeared posthumously in Mārg’s 1958 special on Rajasthani painting (11, no. 2: 60–1), where it kept good company with entries on Mewar, Marwar, Bikaner, and Jaipur by Hermann Goetz; on Kota by W.G. Archer; and on Bundi by Moti Chandra.

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concern with historicity too differed from Coomaraswamy’s orientalist notions that tended to be essentialist and idealist (as evaluated by Mitter 1977: 279–86; see also Singh 2013: 257–60). If Dickinson’s surmise is right, it is ironic that what started as a symbol of regional pride of Kishangarh over Jaipur, became in the twenty-first century a symbol of national Indian pride asserting superiority over Western ideals of beauty, art, and womanhood in the hands of the Jaipur painter Khetanchi. Nowhere in his single-authored articles though, does Dickinson make explicitly a parallel with the Mona Lisa, thus he was not the originator of that “colonial construct.” 1.4

The Search for the Model behind “Lady with Veil”

If the “Indian Mona Lisa” trope did not strictly speaking come from the pen of the colonial discoverer of the art, whence came the now common association apotheosized in Khetanchi’s contemporary double-portrait? Two further steps were taken: first, the identification of Banī-thanī’s features as the basis for the _ Kishangarh type, and second, the comparison of this Kishangarhi model, concubine of Sāvant Singh who was the patron of the painting, with La Gioconda, the wife of Francesco del Giocondo who commisssioned da Vinci’s Mona Lisa. Dickinson’s probing questions about the possibility of a real-life model for the striking features of the Kishangarhi face functioned as a catalyst for the crystallization of the identification, but there were other agents who played a definitive role in creating the myth. First comes to mind the man who saw Dickinson’s work posthumously through to publication and added his own insights, the lawyer and art connoisseur, Karl Jamshed Khandalavala, about whom more below. But there were other important players who paved the way. Several early Indian contributors to the construction of this trope have been neglected while attention was focused on Dickinson’s discovery. Dickinson himself ignored an article on Nāgarīdās that was published as early as 1897 in the Journal of the Asiatic Society of Bengal.46 The author was Pandit Mohanlāl Vishnulāl Pandia, formerly the minister of the state of Pratapgarh in Rajasthan. He had already mentioned Banī-thanī in connection _ her poetry under with Nāgarīdās (1897: 66–7). He even provided a sample of the pen name Rasikbihārī, correcting the common perception at that time that the poet by that name was a man. Few commentators mention this article, even though it appeared in English in a prestigious journal. Even fewer mention Pandia’s acknowledged source: the Hindi work of Bābū Rādhākrishnadās, the first director of the organization for the promotion of the Devanāgarī script or 46

Even prior to that, Grierson had listed as Hindi poets Nāgarī Dās (1889: 33 no. 95) and Rasik Bihārī (1889: 101 no. 405), giving for his source for the latter the 1843 Rāg-kalpadrum by Krishnānand Vyās Dev (rev. ed. by Vasu 1916).

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Nāgarī Pracārinī Sabhā of Varanasi (NPS, established in 1893).47 He had given a presentation _ on Nāgarīdās in 1894, which was published by the Khadag _ Vilās Press, but subsequently rewritten with input of the Kishangarh court’s chronicler Kavi Jaylāl for the foreword of the first lithograph edition of Nāgarīdās’s works published in 1898 (Gaud 1898: 1–30; see Section 5.4). _ These publications focused on Kishangarhi literature and perhaps that is the reason they did not make it onto the art historians’ radar. While the focus here is on the paintings, we will have occasion to return to the work of the Hindi scholars (especially in Chapter 5). The giant on whose shoulders Dickinson was standing (and all of us writing on Kishangarh are indebted to), was another savant-courtier, this one at Kishangarh itself, by the name of Faiyāz ‘Alī Khān (1911–2001). By virtue of his position at court, Khān had been studying its archives and collecting materials on the topic of Kishangarhi paintings and the patron Sāvant Singh. When Dickinson visited, he was in the process of writing a dissertation in Hindi on Nāgarīdās at the University of Rajasthan, Jaipur.48 Later he penned another dissertation at the same University, but this time for the English Department, on “The Kishangarh School of Painting” (1986).49 The unassuming yet erudite Khān was close to the Kishangarh ruler Sumer Singh and, while a Muslim, served in many ways as the court’s spokesperson for its Vallabhan sectarian interpretation. Dr. Faiyāz ‘Alī Khān also advised the scholar Kiśorīlāl Gupta, who edited the works of Nāgarīdās for the prestigious Nāgarī Pracārinī Sabhā of Varanasi, _ had been working which came out in two volumes in 1965. Gupta reports he on Nāgarīdās for over a decade, mainly based on the 1898 lithograph published by the Kishangarh court.50 He had remained unaware that its Vallabhan discourse had been challenged by a rival Nimbārkan claim on Nāgarīdās till his book was already in press; still he made a hurried trip to Kishangarh to seek clarity about Nāgarīdās’ sectarian allegiance. Unable to make it to the Nimbārkan monastery in nearby Salemabad, he visited the temple in the Kishangarh fort and met briefly with Dr. Khān, who confirmed the Vallabhan 47

48 49

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He was the cousin on father’s side (phupherā bhāī) of Bhāratendu Harischandra; see the Sabhā’s archived website’s short introduction (sanksipt paricay). Online: _ https://web.archive.org/web/20090410093559/http://tempweb34.nic.in/xnagari/html/ parichay.php, last accessed June 12, 2020. Khān was conferred the Ph.D. in 1952; the text has been belatedly published by his son in 2015, see Khān 2015: 10. It has just come to my attention that Khān’s English dissertation The Kishangarh School of Indian Art has now been made available thanks to the efforts of Shri Shyam Manohar Goswamy and a devotee, Bhavesh Bhagat. I am grateful to Dr. Khān’s son, Shahzad Ali of Kishangarh, for sending me notification about this happy new development. He received a formal request to edit Nāgarīdās’ works through Viśvanāth Prasād Miśra from NPS in 1955.

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claim. Khān himself had already finished the manuscript of his own edition, but it was not yet typed up (Gupta 1965: 1.1–4). Consequently, Gupta did not modify the Vallabhan interpretation of his own edition, which was immediately challenged by the scholar Vrajvallabh Śaraṇ of Vrindaban’s Śrī Sarveśvar Press, who had been publishing articles propagating his own Nimbārkan sectarian viewpoint. Śaraṇ’s rival edition was published the following year, in 1966. In turn, Khān responded with a defense of the court’s Vallabhan stance in his own long delayed edition published from New Delhi by Kendrīya Hindī Nideśālay in 1974.51 All this careful work on the Hindi literature has been neglected to a large extent in the art-historical publications in English, which ended up foregrounding Dickinson’s pioneering role and largely ignored the challenge to the court’s Vallabhan stance.52 Given his academic degree in English, it is not surprising that Khān made comparisons with Western art movements, just as Dickinson had done. He too characterized Indian art as essentially spiritual, foregrounding Rajput art’s “mysticism” (rahasyavād) based on bhakti literature (2015: 288–93). Khān described Nāgarīdās’ literary output and the matching paintings as part of an Indian version of Romanticism (2015: 310). He worked hard in his Hindi thesis to connect Nāgarīdās’ nature descriptions with the “subjectivity” of the Romantic movement, all the while taking care to distinguish them from the stylistic Rīti-like nature descriptions that he deemed more “classicist” (especially 2015: 334–5). Instead of Coomraswamy, he preferred to quote the British Principal of the Government School of Arts in Calcutta E.B. Havell. In a 1975 article, Khān brought up the Mona Lisa comparison that had been left unarticulated by Dickinson. Khān reminisced that back in 1943. Dickinson would send him queries regarding the real model for the Kishangarhi school’s distinctive facial features. One of the English teacher’s suggestions was that she might have been the dancing girl portrayed in a painting Moonlit Music Concert of Sardar Singh by Amarcand (see Pauwels 2015: plate 2) but it became clear that the painting was too late to have been formative in the school’s development. Khān commented, “The idea of tracing the original of Radha, however, obsessed Professor Dickinson” (1975: 84). In July 1944, Dickinson sent Khān a questionnaire that was further probing as to the

51

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Khān’s thesis, as published in 2015 by his son, contains some elements that would point to Nāgarīdās’ Nimbārkan sympathies. An example is plate 8 and the corresponding poem (311). This seems, however, to be based on a loose paper that had become interleaved with the original thesis, as it does not coherently fit with the rest of the book. Elsewhere though he acknowledged that Nāgarīdās was inspired by the work of the Nimbārkan guru Śrī Bhatt (2015: 315–6). In his __ published work, Khān refuted the Nimbārkan stance in 1974. A notable exception is Navina Haidar, who in her dissertation acknowledges Hindi scholarship throughout and does justice in particular to Khān’s pioneering work, including the unpublished theses.

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model for the Rādhā portrait, so Khān stated, “It is just possible that he [Dickinson] wished to establish a Mona Lisa parallel in the field of Rajput painting” (1975: 84).53 Dickinson did not live to publish his findings in book format. It was left to the new director of the Lalit Kalā Akademi (established in 1954), the prolific Parsi art connoisseur Karl Jamshed Khandalavala, to publish and elaborate on Dickinson’s draft. In his capacity as editor of the prestigious Lalit Kalā Series, he edited and expanded Dickinson’s work and published it as a posthumously, coauthored volume on Kishangarh paintings in 1959.54 Khandalavala went further than Dickinson had in the earlier paper of 1950. He reverently put the God Krishna down as Sāvant Singh’s first love but posited also a more mundane love in the prince’s life (1959: 8). Khandalavala was the one who identified the model for the Kishangarhi Rādhā as one of Sāvant Singh’s concubines, known as Bani-thani. He believed _ volume as The she was the woman shown in a painting published in the 1959 55 Poet-Prince and Bani-Thani (plate 2, p. 23). Khandalavala actually attributed this identification to a suggestion by Khān, though the latter would later change his position.56 Connecting the identification of the lady in the painting as Banī-thanī with Dickinson’s theory of the real-life model for the Kishangarh _ type, Khandalavala speculated, “If Nāgarīdās was the creator of this type, then who was the model who inspired him? Surely, it would not require much imagination to conclude that it was Bani Thani” (1959: 9). He was careful to qualify in a footnote, “The truth in all probability is that the Kishangarh type is an inspired idealization, based on a living model, skillfully employed to alter the existing female types already in vogue” (9–10). In the writeup of the “Lady with Veil” (published as plate 4 in the volume), adding to Dickinson’s comparison with the quatro-cento artists, Khandalavala brings in the comparison with the Mona Lisa, “What a triumph of profile treatment is here! In European art surely one would have to go to the achievements of the quatrocento for any parallel to equal it, or to the great Leonardo himself and his famous Mona Lisa” (26). 53

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If Dickinson indeed was thinking that way, it did not catch on till later. Thus, Archer in his 1957 book on Rajput painting does not mention a model nor the Mona Lisa comparison when he describes a Kishangarhi image “Krishna with Radha on a Terrace at Night” in the Victoria and Albert Museum in London (plates 11, 14, 20). Lalit Kalā Akademī had just before, in 1957, also published a portfolio (no. 9) on the Mewar school, and Khandalavala would see to the publication of a portfolio with Kishangarh paintings (as no. 12, reissued in 1971). Also published in Banerji 1954: fig. 6; Khān 1975: 83; Sumahendra 1995: 47; Goyal 2005: pl. 42; Khān 2015: pl. 9. Khān’s original position, as expressed in his 1952 dissertation, has been published only recently (2015: 30, pl. 9). His revised view on the issue appeared in the article in Roopa-Lekha (1975: 84–8).

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Khandalavala’s “inspired idealization” represented a compromise between the eternal ideal type and the realistic influence of a particular individual woman. The characterization of the artistic intervention is tied up with the idealized interpretation of the love relation between the prince and his concubine, as described in rhapsodic words: Theirs was a love like that of which the bards had sung in tales of long ago. And in the consummation of this love, Nagari Das merged into Krishna and Bani-Thani into Radha. It was a consummation that had no hint of heresy for their way of pleasure was in truth the way of the grace of God – the Pushtimarga of the Vallabhacharya sect. It is not always easy to understand this erotic-cum-spiritual complex, and in fact it is often misunderstood. (Dickinson and Khandalavala 1959: 12)

Dickinson’s aesthetic preoccupations come through underneath the somewhat apologetical reworking by Khandalavala. He sets straight Dickinson’s misunderstanding of “the way of pleasure” There is a defensiveness about the erotic aspect of spiritual love. Later in the book, Khandalavala asserted: Thus the great period of his [Nihal Chand’s] finest work under the influence of Nagari Das appears to be between 1735 to 1757. . . it was during this span of time that masterpieces . . . were produced. It is not surprising that this very period synchronizes with the passionate attachment of Savant Singh for Bani Thani . . .. It is fairly evident that neither the patron nor the artist was content with the prevailing pictorial treatment of the Krishna theme. They both sought to transcend the norm for such paintings and achieve what was beyond the pale of mere competence . . .. In this endeavor the highsouled, exquisite Bani-Thani became their greatest inspiration. In her image they fashioned the divine Radha and everything beautiful in womanhood. It seemed as if the distilled essence of all that the sringara poets had sung lay in this lovely creation. Thus, not only was a new female type created, which became characteristic of all Kishangarh painting even during the 19th century, but a new approach to composition and colouring was also envisaged by Savant Singh and his atelier. (Dickinson and Khandalavala 1959: 15)

In this formulation, art and appreciation for real-life beauty are intrinsically intertwined. What is remarkable is how little room was made for Banī-thanī’s _ agency, notwithstanding Khandalavala being aware of her own authorship. While she was acknowledged as an inspiration, it was the patron and the painter who “fashioned the divine Radha and everything beautiful in womanhood.” No sooner had the role of Banī-thanī been identified that she was _ rendered passive, inspiring, yes, but ultimately merely because she embodied the image of beauty in womanhood. To support his thesis, Khandalavala was keen on finding textual evidence. Again with the acknowledged help of Khān, he located a passage were Nāgarīdās would describe the traits of Rādhā in terms of Banī-thanī’s distinctive features (Dickinson and Khandalavala 1959: 4). As he_ put it in the brochure accompanying the folio album of Kishangarh painting published in

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1971, “In [Nāgarīdās’] poetic description of the milkmaiden who became the adored of the Blue God he has in truth described the loveliness of his own mistress” (1971: 1). Navina Haidar, in her insightful discussion of the theory about Banī-thanī as model, has rightfully pointed out a flaw in this logic: Many _ poems by Nāgarīdās express formulaic traits of the Goddess, the earliest ones composed long before Banī-thanī came to Kishangarh (2004: 128, fn. 16). This _ weakens Khandalavala’s argument. The references to curved brows over drooping lotus-like eyelids, and elegantly curling hair locks are indeed standard fare, not just in Nāgarīdās’ poetry, but Krishna bhakti more generally. Yet the poem Khandalavala cites adds a more specific reference, namely to the long nose, compared to a cypress. That comparison is not formulaic, yet it is one of the further characteristics of the Kishangarhi facial type. Khandalavala translates: Her face is gleaming like the brightness of the sun. High-arched twin penciled eyebrows hover on her brow like black bees over a lily pond. And her dark tresses fall here and there like the curling tendrils of a creeper. Bejeweled is her nose, curved and sharp like the thrusting saru (cypress) plant, And her lips have formed a gracious bow parting into a queenly smile, Lips red as poppy flowers glowing in the scorching sun Of June’s long stagnant afternoon–what time the amorous dove complains. (Dickinson and Khandalavala 1959: 9)

What was the original poem underlying Khandalavala’s translation? The cypress-like nose is referenced only twice in Nāgarīdās’ collected works. One is from Braj-sār:57 sārī kī kinārī girda kañcana divāra mjha driga dvai sabhā sara praphulla kaula saũ bhare bhauhaĩ madhupāvalī siṅgāra latā alakani phabe karnaphūla phūle chabi saũ khare nāsikā sir ke dhiga lālā gula kyārī bālā _ nāgarī adhara raṅga cita bita kaũ hare rādhā mukha bāga bīca khañjana gupāla naina bhūla āja cañcalatā ika taka hvai pare _ (BS 33, Gupta 1965: 2.239) Wrapped in her sari border’s golden rims, her two eyes bloom like lotuses, filling the lake of the durbar. Swarms of bees, her eyebrows, garland hair-lock vines. Splendid with flowery earrings, her beauty seems to blossom. Her nose approaches the tall cypress. Tulip and rose beds underneath, red, Nāgarī says, such are the young girl’s lips, that rob me of money and mind. Gopāl’s wagtail-eyes roam in the garden of Rādhā’s face. Today they lost all friskiness: caught spell-bound. 57

This passage was previously identified by Romanian researcher Ileana Popescu (2006: 256).

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Like Khandalavala’s English version, this poem progresses from the eyes and brows compared to lilies and bees, to the distinctive nose likened to the cypress, ending with smiling flowerbed-like lips. The “dove” might be a free translation for khañjana or “wagtails” in the last line of the Hindi poem. Strikingly, in his translation, Khandalavala left out the first line of the poem with its reference to the veil, which actually would strengthen his argument as it fits the image of “Lady with Veil” so well. This is a passage from Nāgarīdās’ technical Rīti style work from his 1742, Braj-sār. This textbook of poetics has definitions in Dohā and examples in Kavitta meter. It illustrates all types of nāyikās, but this one comes under the heading bīrī daināntara priya badana ika taka rījha citaibo barnanã (description of unblinkingly staring enchantedly_ at the beloved’s face, right after providing betel). It seems to be an example of the hero, rather than the heroine. Still, the poem matches the “Lady with Veil” painting with its references to the veil at the outset, the curved brows and eyes, the lock of hair, and especially to her particular style of earring (also omitted in Khandalavala’s translation). In addition, the lotus imagery of the poem is made manifest in the painting through the lotuses in the heroine’s hand. Only the hero staring at her is absent, but possibly this was only the right wing of a diptych that included a portrait of Krishna on the left wing, similar to the later matching set in the National Museum (Mathur 2000: 114–17, figs. 30–40, acc. no. 63.813–4). It seems highly likely then that this is the poem Khandalavala had in mind. And one wonders whether it was inscribed on the back. Nāgarīdās’ Rīti work lends itself well to illustration; in fact, another of its verses (the preceding Kavitta 31) is actually inscribed on the back of a painting by Nihālcand on the theme of lovers exchanging betel, similarly showing the exaggerated profile associated with Banī-thanī (Pauwels 2015: 165–7). To clinch the argument, the poem _ to Rādhā; it is remarkable that Khandalavala missed that too in actually refers his translation. The other reference to the cypress-like nose is from a poem in Nāgarīdās’ collection of Festival Poems, or Utsav-mālā. Like the Braj-sār poem, this poem also uses the extended metaphor of the garden for the woman’s body: Śrī Rāga, Titāla sohaĩ mukha kamala paĩ bhaũhaĩ lata bhmga pti, _ _ naina alasauhaĩ kalagā kī janu pakhiy nāsikā sarū sī kyārī adhara dupairiyā kī, musakani manda makaranda sī mai lakhiy prīta sāñjhī kāja kīnī kāma kāchī chabi āchī, aura sāchī ko haĩ tākī sāchī saba sakhiy phūlī baya-sandhi sāñjha rādhā rūpa bāga mjha dolaĩ āja phūla bharī nāgara kī aṅkhiy _ (UM 50, Gupta 1965: 1.137)

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Her face is like a lotus, bees drawing garlands along her brows’ curvaceous lines. Her eyes droop drowsily like autumn-lilies’ rosy petals.58 Tall and handsome like the cypress rises her nose; crimson blossom her lips, like garden beds at noon;59 She smiles so tenderly, like pollen-laden lotus-Lakshmi. For love for tweens’ Goddess Sāñjhī, Cupid donned his best attire, What need for testimony? All young girls will bear witness: Tween Rādhā blooms like a twilight garden, In which roam freely Nāgar’s flowering eyes.

Crucial to understanding the initial intent of this poem is the ritual context of the Sāñjhī festival, the autumnal flower festival celebrated by young girls, “tweens,” in between child and young woman. There is a painting attributed to Nihālcand on the theme of Sañjhī that illustrates the features mentioned in the poem (Pauwels 2015: 181–3). Like the previous poem, it fits Khandalavala’s English version, in its description of the face from forehead to lips, so this is another candidate for what he translated, though he does not mention the autumnal fesival.60 In any case, Khandalavala was definitely onto something as he singled out the unusual reference to the cypress-like nose to make his point of the facial characteristics of Kishangarhi Rādhā being celebrated in Nāgarīdās’ work. Whatever one might think of its worth, Khandalavala’s argument that Banithani’s distinctive profile was the model for the paintings convinced many in _ art world. The conjecture took on a life of its own and became hardened the into “common wisdom.” The review of the Lalit Kalā Akademī book by noted art historian Stella Kramrisch for Artibus Asiae, lyrically summarized, “Nagaridas saw Bani Thani with the transforming eye of mystic; in ecstasy and, feeling one with her, his features echo hers . . .. He sees Bani Thani, as the essence of herself, aetherialized as Rādhā” (1961: 69). The connection with the Kishangarhi facial type was reiterated in subsequent influential generalizing works, each one contributing a bit more certainty to the original postulation. The keepers of Islamic and Oriental Antiquities at British Museum respectively, Douglas Barret and Basil Gray,61 went a step further than “inspiration,” as they wrote about the “small court” of Kishangarh that “produced by a minor miracle the most important school of eighteenth-century Rajasthan painting.” 58 59 60

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The kalagā is a plant that blossoms during the months of Kvār-Kārtik (when the Sāñjhī festival takes place) with red pistils, given the appearance of a rooster’s crest (HŚS). Etymologically, the word means related to noontime (dupaharī), and Gupta’s note (1965: 1.137) equates it with the bandhūk, a red-flowering shrub. The translation by Khandalavala may well be a conflation of both poems. It is puzzling why in translation the season became specified as summer, perhaps in association with the reference to “hot noon” (dupairiyā) and what is translated as “poppies” (kalagā, “autumnal lily”) in this second poem. Barret and Gray were also co-organizers of the “Exhibition of the Art of India and Pakistan” at the Royal Academy in London of 1947.

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They asserted that “There seems little doubt that Savant Singh’s identification of the two passions of his life [Krishna and Bani-thani] was responsible for the _ small but magnificent group of pictures painted at Kishangadh between the early years of his love affair and his abdication,” speculating that Nihālcand’s “new and very beautiful type for the divine lovers” was “perhaps based on the features of Bani-Thani herself; though idealized it has the feel of an individual experience” (1963: 155–9). Similarly, curator and art historian Philip Rawson in his popularizing volume on Indian art succinctly proclaimed, “There can be little doubt that the reality of the royal love-affair was a special stimulus to the artist to ‘realize’ in his work the divine prototype.” He is slightly more circumspect in the caption for the “Lady with Veil” image in declaring it, “perhaps an idealized image of Bani Thani” (Rawson 1972: 148; my italics). Thus, Khandalavala’s theories were enthusiastically promoted in subsequent secondary literature. All this was much to the dismay of the Kishangarh court, whose spokesperson Khān himself authored a rebuttal in 1975 in the journal Roopa-Lekha. While credited by Khandalavala for the identification of the lady in the painting of “Nāgarīdās doing pūjā” as Banī-thanī, he professed having promptly discouraged the theory of Banī-thanī _as model for Rādhā. These reservations were taken seriously, among _others, in the influential book on Kishangarh Painting by Mohinder Singh and Doris Schreier Randhawa. They were circumspect about the Banī-thanī theory: _ Bani Thani . . . was a beautiful girl who also professed interest in Hindi poetry. She became Sawant Singh’s mistress. It is conjectured that the bloom of her youth and beauty not only roused unholy thoughts in the hearts of men who saw her, but also provided inspiration to the Kishangarh artists, to whom credit is given for the invention of the Kishangarh facial formula . . .. Khandalavala was of the view that the Radha of the Kishangarh School was modelled after Bani Thani . . .. Bani Thani provided inspiration to artists by her beauty, but she was not the model for the figure of Radha. (Randhawa and Randhawa 1980: 9–10)

Banī-thanī is somewhat grudgingly acknowledged as an inspiration, but an _ one, and her influence on the Rādhā portrait is strongly denied. Her unholy authorship is reduced; she simply has “professed an interest in Hindi poetry.” The Randhawas also signaled some distance from the Mona Lisa comparison, stating “the portrait of Radha by Nihal Chand . . . represents the Rajput ideal of feminine beauty at its best. Those who delight in parallels with western art call her the Indian Mona Lisa” (Randhawa and Randhawa 1980: 9). Thus, the Randhawas qualified their statements, likely influenced by the stance of the Kishangarh Court.62 62

M.S. Randhawa as editor of Roopa-Lekha had published Khān’s article in his journal. He also had carried out several prospecting tours through Rajasthan to select images for this book, of which Kishangarh was an important stop, as revealed through his published correspondence

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The matter remained contested. About a decade later, the Jaipur-based painter Sumahendra tried to reconcile the court’s denial of the romance by acknowledging the relationship between the prince and the performer, while simultaneously rendering it more chaste: “we can leave aside the so-called fabricated stories but can not deny their nearness. They loved each other may be like intellectual friends or having sentiments other than lovers. Their love could have been respectable rather than illegal. Pious rather than erotic” (1995: 38). Many less careful secondary sources followed suit sanitizing the romance by turning Banī-thanī into a queen. Only a few noted the court’s and Khān’s _ model theory. reservations to the In conclusion, the concept of Banī-thanī as the La Gioconda-like model for _ Radha–Kishangarh appears to be a hybrid construct, resulting from a complex engagement of colonial and Indian scholars, just like the idea of the “bhakti movement” itself (Hawley 2015). It came about through multiple dialogical interactions between Western and non-Western agents, through mediations, collaborations, confirmations, and contestations. Dickinson’s curiosity may have been a catalyst, but the influential director of Lalit Kalā Akademī, Khandalavala, was the first to formulate the theory that Banī-thanī was the _ model for the Kishangarhi Rādhā. While Dickinson had compared it with among others Italian art, Khandalavala was the one who first brought up Mona Lisa. Faiyāz ‘Alī Khān may have been instrumental in setting these scholars on her track, but later did his best to refute their theories. Mostly, the relationship between the prince and his concubine continued being characterized as a love affair or passionate attachment, even as Khān issued a sharp denial of a romantic engagement as well as of Banī-thanī’s role as model. _ love remained, the While discomfort with the equation of erotic and spiritual consensus stressed how Sāvant Singh and Nihālcand together designed the new Kishangarhi type, inspired by, but with minimal agency of Banī-thanī. _ the Throughout all of this, very little attention was paid to the actual poetry of prince or his concubine. The interpreters of Khetanchi’s canvas discussed in Section 1.1 were following a well-trodden path. 1.5

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However one evaluates Dickinson’s contribution to the Indian Mona Lisa trope, he surely put Kishangarh on the art history map. He also bequeathed India a more material legacy; this took the form of a donation from his own collection. The new National Museum’s permanent collection was based on what had been displayed during the grand “Masterpieces of Indian Art” with Khandalavala (1986: 270–1). I am grateful to Dr. Gursharan Sidhu from Seattle for alerting me to this collection.

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exhibition held in 1948 in Government House (now Rashtrapati Bhavan) in Delhi to celebrate independence. This in turn had grown out of the assemblage of artefacts on their way back to diverse Indian institutions and collections from an exhibition at Burlington House in London that had been organized by the Royal Academy of Arts (November 1947–February 1948; Guha-Thakurta 2004: 176–7). The London show had included artefacts on loan from British museam and private collectors that did not travel to India (Codrington et al. 1949: 35–44). To fill the gaps, new loans were acquired for the Delhi occasion, among others a total of 241 items from Dickinson’s personal collection, second only to the Treasurywala collection (and later the Sarola collection; see Banerjee 1992: 29). A substantial part of Dickinson’s loans was made up of Gandharan sculptures from the North-West,63 though his main contribution to the museum collection consisted of paintings, mostly Krishna devotional scenes. While he contributed samples from practically all Rajput schools, the catalogue did not specify, simply classifying as “Rajasthani.” Only the first of the Rajasthani paintings in the catalogue, an illustration of a manuscript of Keśavdās’ Rasik-priyā, is explicitly said to have been acquired from Kishangarh (Agrawala 1948: 45, no. 386). Further included were illustrations of Bihārī’s famous Satsaī, as well as of the Rajasthani epic Ḍholā-Mārū, and a Rāga-mālā series. One painting is marked as Vāsaka-sajjā, but the dimensions do not match the Kishangarhi “Lady with Veil” (Agrawala 1948: 48, no. 414). These generous contributions by Dickinson bolstered the new nation’s pride, complicating further his perceived role as the promotor of orientalist tropes about Kishangarhi painting. The creation of the National Museum itself illustrates the complexity of even just material interchange between colonial and nationalist agents. As mentioned, this proud showcase of Indian art had grown out of the 1948 exhibition held in Delhi, which in turn had been conceived at the opportunity to 63

Dickinson was an avid collector of Gandharan art. See Agrawala’s catalogue of 1948: 15–6 no. 121–32, 45 no. 386, 389, 48–9 no. 414, 416–17, 429, 51–3 no. 443, 457, 464–5, 55–7 no. 486–7, 498, 59 no. 521, 62 no. 546, 74 no. 650. Gandharan art had been prominently on display in the London version of the exhibit, as there had been a lot of enthusiasm in Europe for what was sometimes called Graeco-Buddhist art, celebrated as the origin of Indian art by several colonial authors. Yet this view had already been challenged by Coomaraswamy in 1908, when the art historian was still based in London. Decrying Gandharan art as “un-Indian,” Coomaraswamy had foregrounded instead the “indigenous Mathura style” as the true origin of the Indian Buddha image (Khullar 2014). That was definitely the discourse of the catalogue of the Delhi exhibition, which did not even mention Gandharan art in the smooth chronological sequence of its introduction on sculpture (Agrawala 1948: x–xii). Still, the organizers managed to make up for the lack of the British and Pakistani Gandharan items (Gandharan artefacts that had come from the Central Museum in Lahore and the Peshawar Museum after Partition did not return via Delhi) by supplementing the loans from the Indian Museum in Calcutta and the Central Antiquities Museum in Delhi with items from Dickinson’s collection that were included in the Delhi exhibit only (13–17).

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assemble items on their way back to diverse Indian institutions and collections from the London exhibition of 1947–8. According to the Indologist V.S. Agrawala, who wrote the catalogue, the Indian version was conceived as “an instrument of prime importance for vitalizing the future cultural programme of the country” (1948: v). Elsewhere he went so far as to compare with a Vedic sacrifice, “A good Exhibition may be compared according to ancient Indian ideology to a public Yajna in which work of real value for the intellectual and aesthetic regeneration of society can be achieved” (Agrawala 1949: 27). Thus, discursively, continuity of an indigenous tradition was foregrounded. The Indian curators had worked hard so the “aestheticized object of Indian art had emerged as a main field for the self-representation of the nation” (GuhaThakurta 2004: 175). Again, in the words of the catalogue, “Indian art richly documenting the past culture of India has a unique position . . . as revealing the mind of the Indian people” (Agrawala 1948: v). One of the objectives in the new nation-building mode had been to come as close as possible to complete representation. To that goal contributions in addition to those on display in London had been solicited, which was where Dickinson’s loans had come in. The success of this endeavor led first to the extension of the public display through 1949. The next step was the inauguration of the National Museum on August 15, 1949, which had been achieved through negotiations that succeeded in converting many loans to the exhibit into donations to the permanent collection, before everything was moved to the location at the crossing of Rajpath and Janpath in 1960. This move from loan to donation meant “asserting the priority of the new national claims of the capital and its central command over all existing holdings” (Guha-Thakurta 2004: 201). In the process, the central administration “volunteered” the local museum directors who had been involved in exhibition organization to serve on the Art Purchase Commission, which in turn was to put pressure on other local museum administrators and collectors to secure objects for the permanent collection (Phillips 2006: 59–60).The National Museum’s history then, does not just embody the tension of nationalism with imperial discourses, but also one between the centralizing nation building project and provincial pulls. Assertion of nationalism came at the expense of local interests and regional pride. This tension is particularly felt in the case of the Kishangarhi paintings. It is not entirely clear how the National Museum’s Kishangarh collection was built.64 The catalogue of the 1947–8 London exhibition makes reference to Kishangarhi painting in the introduction, but it only lists explicitly one on display, a temple background hanging (pichvāī) on loan from the State 64

Notwithstanding several attempts, it proved impossible to gain access to the Acquisition Register Records of the National Museum under pandemic conditions. I am grateful to colleagues in India and the United States for sharing their expertise on the topic.

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Museum of Baroda.65 As we have seen, the Delhi exhibition catalogue is very vague, designating most paintings generically as “Rajasthani” and identifies only one as obtained from Kishangarh. In 2000, then curator Dr. Vijay Mathur published a magnificent selection of the collection in his book Marvels of Kishangarh Painting. The accession numbers provide a clue as to the dates of acquisition (Kavita Singh, personal communication, August 2020). Only one painting has an accession number prefaced with 48, indicating it was acquired in 1948: the famous painting of Svāmī Haridās with Tānsen and the emperor Akbar.66 In his 1950 Mārg article, Dickinson discussed several paintings that were exhibited at the National Museum in Delhi, but it is not clear when (Khandalavala 1959: 4). Curator of paintings Adris Banerji indicated that twenty-two of those paintings “were brought to the National Museum, Delhi, by Dr. N. P. Chakravarty” (1954: 13). Chakravarty, as Director of the Archeological Survey of India, had been a major player in the “Masterpieces of Indian Art” exhibition of 1948: he was listed in the catalogue as secretary and member of the Executive committee (Agrawala 1948: vi–vii).67 Upon retirement in 1950, he still served in the capacity of advisor to the Department of Archeology of the Government of India. Possibly, he was instrumental in the incorporation of Dickinson’s collection into the National Museum. In addition, the General Accession Register mentions that V.S. Agrawala, author of the Delhi exhibition catalogue, helped secure the Dickinson collection’s “‘waslis,’ manuscripts, ‘stuccos’ and sculptures” (Phillips 2006: 62). One suspects that Karl Khandalavala too played an important role in acquiring Kishangarh paintings through his presence at the deliberations of the Art Purchase Committee (Phillips 2006). In 1963, a generous donation of no less than forty-six items, “masterly specimens of the Kishangarhi school,” was made by Sumer Singh, Maharaja of Kishangarh, whom we have already encountered as patron of Dr. Faiyāz ‘Alī Khān (Banerjee 1992: 29; see also Mathur 2000: vii). This included some of the most famous and spectacular paintings that will be discussed in the following chapters, such as Boat of Love, Bani Thani, Sawant Singh and Bani Thani in a Mango Grove, and Krishna Holding Radha’s Odhani, besides Tambul Seva, and many others.68 Thanks to this donation, the National 65 66

67 68

See Codrington et al. 1949: 101, 125 no, 499; image in Dickinson and Khandalavala 1959: 17. Mathur 2000: 98–9, pl. 31, acc. no. 48.14/61; discussed in Pauwels 2017: 139–40, fig. 4.2. Three more paintings were acquired in 1949, none of which were listed in the exhibition catalogue. They were not mentioned by Dickinson in his articles either. One depicts Rādhā and Krishna on a swing (112–3, pl. 38, acc. no. 49.19/214) and two, Krishna with cows (96–7 pl. 30, acc. no. 49.19/236 and a drawing 64–5 pl. 14, acc. no. 49.19/265). On the role of the Archaeological Survey of India (ASI) in building the National Museum Collection, see Phillips 2006: 70–80. In this book, Chapter 3 has a discussion on Boat of Love (see Mathur 2000: 44–5, pl. 4, acc. no. 63.793), Chapter 2 on Bani Thani (see Mathur 2000: 102–3, pl. 33, acc. no. 63.812),

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Museum has its own matching archetypical Kishangarhi Radha and Krishna set, which represents a turn-of-the-century 1800 specimen.69 The original “Lady with Veil” though is not at the National Museum.70 Yet that did not impede it from becoming “the spiritual face of the nation,” instantly recognizable throughout the country. Two decisive steps in that direction again involved the agency of Khandalavala. First was the issuing of what was by now known as Portrait of Radha as a separate mounted color plate (Khandalavala 1971: 1, n. 3), at the occasion of the publication by Lalit Kalā Akademī of a portfolio with Kishangarh paintings (Lalit Kalā Series no. 12, 1971). That may well have played a role similar to what the gravure of Luigi Kalamatta did for the recognition of the Italian Mona Lisa in Paris in 1837 (Sassoon 2001: 92). Khandalavala commented dryly on the raft of imitations that followed his publications: collectors avidly sought to acquire examples of this style as were available in the art markets of India. This demand also led to quite a spade of fakes . . . some are quite skillful imitations. Most of these fakes have found their way into private collections whose owners are quite emphatic as to their genuineness! It was somewhat amusing to observe how, after the Akademi’s original publication on Kishangarh painting, scores of Kishangarh school miniatures suddenly came into the art markets of Delhi, Jaipur and Bombay. (1971: 2)

All this contributed to the ubiquity of the “Lady with Veil” and its instant recognition. The next phase in the portrait’s apotheosis was literally the nationalist stamp of approval. Out of a pool of more than 5,000 miniature paintings, the “Lady with Veil” was one of four selected to be the basis for a new stamp issued in 1973 by the India Post and Telegraphs Department. This was part of India’s first multicolor series printed from the Security Press in Nasik on the newly installed multicolor photogravure machine. The commemorative series of “Indian Miniature Paintings” was issued on May 5th of that year and was promoted vigorously, even by sales abroad at the Munich International Exhibition.71 “The first-day sales alone brought in a revenue of Rs. 3 lakh,”

69 70 71

Chapter 3 on Sawant Singh and Bani Thani in a Mango Grove (see Mathur 2000: 52–3, pl. 8, acc. no. 63.798), Chapter 5 on Krishna Holding Radha’s Odhani (see Mathur 2000: 82–3, pl. 23, acc. no. 63.797) and Tambul Seva (see Mathur 2000: 46–7, pl. 5, acc. no. 63.794). See Mathur 2000: 114–17, pl. 39–40, acc. no. 63.813–4. Contrary to what is stated on the Wikipedia page mentioned in note 1 of the acknowledgments of this book. It involved besides the 20-paise Radha–Kishangarh stamp also a Dance Duet of “Kathak Dancers” by Nasir ud-Dīn (50 paise; from the Canoria collection in Patna), Lovers on a Camel illustrating Mārū Rāginī (1 Rs.; from the collection of Lady Cowasji Jehangir), and a Mughal painting Chained Elephant (2 Rs.; from the East Berlin Museum) (Mehta 1973b:

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according to the Annual Report of the Indian Posts and Telegraphs Department for 1973–4. The editorial of the July 1973 issue of the Philatelic Journal mentioned the extensive press coverage of the new series in philatelic journals in the United Kingdom, as well as in the Indian Press, where the Kishangarh stamp was singled out in particular (Mehta 1973a: 1). Clearly, this was a hit. As is the case elsewhere with issuing national prints, the selection of the postal stamp miniature series was “more ad hoc and serendipitous than presumptions about their centrality to nation-building might suggest” (Penrose 2011, speaking about banknotes, but applicable here too). Practical considerations prevailed: All four miniatures were selected based on boldness of color scheme and adaptability after reduction to fit the stamp format (Mehta 1973b: 183–4). Still, the discursive context of articulating India’s art history as an elaboration of its spiritual aesthetic essence (Guha-Thakurta 2004: 184–5) may well have played a role in identifying the Rādhā image as representative of Indian art. Earlier, in 1952, another Kishangarh painting had been adapted to produce a postage stamp of the Rajasthani poetess Mīrā. This was part of the series “Saints-Poets and Poets,” which also included Kabīr, Tulsīdās, and Sūrdās, showing pride in India’s “mystic” Hindu tradition. However, one should not too hastily paint everything with the broad brush of Hindu chauvinism. The series also included the Indo-Muslim poet Ghālib (as well as Tagore). In connection with exhibitions of Indian art, Cambridge-affiliated art historian Devika Singh has pointed out that besides Hindu chauvinists, the voices of progressive educationalists also figured importantly (2013: 1063–4). In the case of the choice of Radha–Kishangarh for the stamp, one suspects the influential Karl Khandalavala once again played a role, since he chaired the selection committee for the stamps. Out of the 1973 miniature stamp series, the Kishangarh one was the only one with an inscription that geographically located it within one of the Rajput schools. This confirms the prestige the Kishangarh school had acquired by this time and its pride of place in the nation’s national art heritage. The writeup by Dhiru Bhai Mehta for the Indian Philatelic Journal specified that “the painting depicts perfect expression of the Kishengarh ideal of feminine charm and loveliness, added by the ornaments with which the Radha is adorned.” Voicing the more progressive stance, Mehta recognized the influence of Mughal painting, but stressed that the painter Nihālcand “imbued late Mughal Painting with serenity of rhythm and idyllic charm” (1973b: 184). We recognize some of the orientalist art-historical discourse appropriated for nationalist purposes discussed above. Besides the imperialist–nationalist antagonism, one may detect again tension between the centralizing discourse 183–4). See under 1973 at http://postagestamps.gov.in/Stamps_List.aspx, scrolling down to May, last accessed November 30, 2020.

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of the nation and assertion of diversity and local cultural pride. By this time, the historical context had evolved, and regional royal houses had become incorporated in the Indian Union. This tension is reminiscent of that at work earlier on in the establishment of the collection of the National Museum which had involved pressurizing lenders for their loans to the independence celebration exhibition to be made permanent (see Phillips 2006: 67–70). The insistence on the regional label for the Rādhā stamp may well have come from the Royal House of Kishangarh, whose permission was sought for the publication of the stamp.72 Its influence is evident in the inscription on the stamp simply as Radha–Kishangarh, which avoids reference to the purported model, the concubine Banī-thanī, which as we have seen the court was _ uncomfortable with. The association with the latter though, lives on in the popular identification of the eighteenth-century painting as well as of the stamp, as we know from the discourses around Khetanchi’s oil canvas. In that light, it does not seem coincidental that the strong rejection of the Banī-thanī as model trope would be articulated and published just a couple of years _later by Faiyāz ‘Alī Khān in 1975. The issuing of the stamp causing a renewed interest in Banī-thanī’s role as model for Kishangarhi Rādhā’s features, may well have _ that sharp rebuttal. prompted Whatever its name, the image of Radha–Kishangarh is widely recognized as part of India’s national heritage; it figures, for instance, in the Masters Institute for Civil Services IAS exam multiple choice questions.73 Still, it became never as popular in currency iconography as the image of Bhārat Mātā or “Mother India,” the Goddess projected on a map, that became ubiquitous in stationary, calendar art, posters and the like (Ramaswamy 2010: 15–7).74 This may be a more interesting comparison to make than with Mona Lisa, since both images carry a spiritual message that was appropriated for the new nation.75 Whereas the cartographically inflected Bhārat Mātā could be seen as representing “hot nationalism,” the Kishangarh image perhaps partakes in a local more “banal nationalism,” the material and cultural construction of routine regional identity (terms from Billig 1995). While Radha– Kishangarh never acquired a logo status, it functions as an everyday element of visual culture, reifying the state and perpetuating the imagined local and regional community through art. The image is popularly used in schools in 72 73 74

75

Personal communication, H. H. Maharaja Brajraj Singh of Kishangarh, May 22, 2020. As displayed online: www.micsias.in/2018/06/10/bani-thani-painting/, last accessed September 21, 2020. It appears that to date “Mother India” has not been memorialized with a stamp by the Indian state, nor has the famous watercolor of 1904–5 by the painter Abanindranath Tagore that was hailed as inaugurating a new nationalist aesthetics of Indian painting. Remarkably, the Mona Lisa herself did not receive philatelic distinction till 1952 in a West German version, and in 1999 in France (Sassoon 2001: 264).

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Kishangarh as a model for art work for the students and subsequently the best imitations are gifted to visiting dignitaries.76 In that sense, it can be seen to reproduce the social relations of local “stateness” (see Penrose 2011, in connection with banknotes). The Radha–Kishangarh stamp was published amidst strong tensions between the royal courts and the Indian nation. The aforementioned Mahārāja Sumer Singh of Kishangarh had been active politically after the merger of Kishangarh into the Indian Union in 1948 and became representative of Kishangarh in the Rajasthan State Assembly (Member of the Legislative Assembly from 1967).77 After he passed away tragically in a car crash, the young Brajraj Singh was the last prince officially recognized by the president of the Indian Republic upon his accession in February 1971. Later that year, the derecognition of existing titles of royalty and the abolishment of the Princely Privy Purses was enacted as per the 26th amendment to the Indian constitution (Taft 2003: 128–9). The historical context was one of local (now ex-)rulers contesting vigorously in the Lok Sabhā elections of 1971. The dire financial consequences of the abolishment of the Privy Purses for the royal houses also brought a flood of artefacts from royal collections on the art market, including miniatures for which the issuing of the stamp series of 1973 would bring publicity. They also accelerated the speed by which royal palaces were converted into “Heritage Hotels,” following the earlier example of Jaipur’s Rambagh Palace, which originally accommodated royal guests, but was turned into a hotel as early as 1958 (Taft 2003: 128). Similarly, Phoolmahal, the garden palace at the foot of the Kishangarh fort, built up and expanded over a period from 1870–1907, was turned into a hotel, but not until later.78 The tourist industry more generally led to the “packaging” of cultural heritage with concomitant emergence of visual images as icons, emphasizing the “romance and glories of the princely states” (Ramusack 1994: 236, 242). Our Indian Mona Lisa would fall into that category. Under the influence of what some have called “cyber-orientalism” (Henderson 2007: 61–81), Rajasthani images have become couched in the language of the “timeless, spiritual, colourful and exotic” (Henderson and Weisgrau 2007: 225). This brings to mind the 1935 canvas of Rajput ladies dancing at the Gangaur festival in Udaipur under the camera lens of Western observers. In the words of Molly Aitken, such reveals the oriental trope of “quaintness as a cropped, postcard-thin projection” (Aitken 2017: 52–4).

76 77 78

Personal communication, Anjali Yadav of Kishangarh, July 2020. This information is provided online: www.royalark.net/India/kishang5.htm, last accessed November 30, 2020. The fort in Rupnagar, too, was converted into Hotel “Roopangarh Fort,” listed under the Heritage Hotels in Taft 2003: 147.

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Banī-thanī has undergone this fate, reduced to a two-dimensional cardboard _ infinitely reproduceable, her quaint and exotic beauty fit for global cut-out, tourist consumption, her romance with the prince now a Cinderella story ripe for an Indian Disneyland. And yet, the fairy tale remains contested, even by the very royals whose erstwhile palaces are now open for tour groups attracted by the myth. The purpose of the rest of this book is to find out who was the living, breathing woman behind the cyber-orientalist icon, and make audible what has been elided in the simplified promotional narrative. *** The “Indian Mona Lisa” trope, as embodied in the 2006 oil canvas Bani Thani by Gopal Swami Khetanchi reproduced at the beginning of the chapter (Figure 1.1), turned out to be a subversion of the orientalist gaze. In referencing the eighteenth-century “Lady with Veil” from the Kishangarh school, it actually showed up the limits of eurocentrism, revealing western ignorance of other artistic traditions. The reception of Khetanchi’s painting’s in the popular press elicited discourses that challenged western ideals of womanhood, beauty, and art. To be sure, the original portrait “Lady with Veil” in its eighteenth-century context had some mimetic elements. It was part of contemporaneous serial production of Mughal and Rajput portraits of women, which sometimes had links with European models, especially the bust portraits. Mostly the ladies portrayed had idealized features marked by regional styles, though they were at times based on individual traits of historical women, including some who were performers. This phenomenon in painting can be understood within a poetic imagery in both Hindi and Hindavi literature, where observed, ideal, and divine realities are telescoped onto one another. Discourses around the “Lady with Veil” were popularized in the 1940s by Lahore-based British teacher Eric Dickinson. He described his “discovery” of Kishangarh painting as conforming to the art-historical discourse at the time, which was dominated by A.K. Coomaraswamy. Dickinson aptly dubbed “Lady with Veil” as Portrait of Radha, a title that has stuck. He deemed it the Kishangarhi tradition’s archetype, face of spiritual Rajput Art, yet he also postulated a historical intervention of painter Nihālcand and sponsor Sāvant Singh, to rival the neighboring schools. While Dickinson recognized the poetic inspiration behind the canvases, he ignored the research from the Hindi world on the topic, though his informant and the Kishangarh Court’s spokesperson Dr. Faiyāz ‘Alī Khān was part of it. The unofficial title of the painting, “Banī-thanī,” is courtesy of the director of the newly established national Lalit Kalā _Academy, Karl Khandalavala, who identified its real-life model with Banī-thanī, concubine of Prince Sāvant _

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Singh, the patron of the paintings. He was also the first to compare with Lisa Gherardini, the model for the Mona Lisa. The portrait came to stand for the ideal spiritual essence of the new Indian nation’s Rajput Art. The devotional inspiration of the Kishangarhi school was foregrounded by all, but the theory that Banī-thanī’s features would underlie those of the _ caused some unease, possibly because she archetype and the Goddess Rādhā was a concubine and a slave. The Kishangarh Court opposed the theory and also defended the Kishangarhi school’s specific Vallabhan sectarian origin opposing the rival Nimbārkan challenge. While this resulted in competing editions of Sāvant Singh’s work (under the pen name Nāgarīdās), such subtleties did not rise beyond Hindi academic circles to make it onto the arthistorical radar. Meanwhile, the Kishangarhi school gained prominence thanks to Khandalavala’s publications. As its collection in the National Museum grew, the development climaxed when the school gained the “stamp” of nationalist approval in 1973. The postage stamp featuring “Lady with Veil” was issued among tensions between centralizing and regional political forces, in the wake of the derecognition of titles of regional royalty and the abolition of the Privy Purses in 1971. The name of the stamp, Radha–Kishangarh, affirmed the court’s insistence on its regional identity and its resistance to the theory that Banī-thanī was the model for the portrait of the Goddess. Still, even though _ vigorously contested, the story of Banī-thanī’s “romance” with Sāvant Singh _ gained steady ground and became popularized for the tourism sector under the “Indian Mona Lisa” banner. In the course of these processes, the erotic relationship with the prince was still felt to be problematic and sublimated in popular versions of the story. Eventually, Portrait of Radha, conflated with “Bani Thani,” developed into a cyber-orientalist icon. Along the way, what remained neglected was Banī-thanī’s authorial voice as Rasikbihārī. The following chapters look_ beyond the Indian Mona Lisa trope, setting out to recover what can be known of the real Banī-thanī, alias the poetess Rasikbihārī. Starting with her origins as a slave, they_ restore the rich texture of a woman’s life, of an author-couple’s shared creative delight, but most of all, her voice and its legacy as it has survived over the centuries, even if detached from her image. By the end of the book, the full relevance of her being featured on the cover of Nouvelles de l’Inde’s special issue on Indian literature will become clear.

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Figure 2.1 Queen Listening to Music attributed to Bhavānīdās. Ca. 1730–40. Kishangarh, India. Gouache on paper. 26.3  36.5 cm. National Museum, New Delhi Collection (51.226).

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2

The Queen and the Slave Girl

Who was the woman believed to be behind les belles images from Kishangarh, Khandalavala’s “Miss Decked Out” who proved so popular? This chapter delves into her past, examining what has often been quickly glossed over in secondary literature: that she was originally a slave girl. Would that have been a reason for the discomfort with the story of Banī-thanī’s features underlying _ the “Portrait of Radha”? What did being a slave entail at the time? To avoid applying anachronistically twenty-first-century notions of slavery, this chapter reconstructs what it meant in the eighteenth century to be a slave girl in the retinue of a Rajput queen (Section 2.1). Our entry point is a painting providing a glimpse into the idealized world of the Kishangarh zanānā (Figure 2.1). The chapter unpacks the polygynous household Banī-thanī was part of by looking _ 2.3). At the same time, it at the hierarchies and power behind purdah (Section explores avenues out into the wider world: through access to poetry, both secular and religious (Section 2.2), contacts with influential gurus (Section 2.4), and travel – pilgrimage (Section 2.5) as well as trips to cosmopolitan centers (Section 2.6). All of this helped shape the young girl into a poetess in her own right. 2.1

The Eighteenth-Century Hierarchical World of a Rajput Zanānā

The Kishangarhi painting at the outset of this chapter depicts a musical concert in the zanānā or women’s quarters, which provides a visual entry into the life world of the young Banī-thanī (Figure 2.1). While “harem scenes” became a _ stock topic in European orientalist art, they were also popular in eighteenthcentury Indian painting. Depictions of harem performances like this one were quite fashionable at the time, in Rajasthani ateliers,1 as well as in Mughal workshops (kārkhānah) in Delhi, where the painter Govardhan (fl. 1720–45) 1

See for instance an Udaipur example from ca. 1710 now in the National Gallery of Victoria in Melbourne (AS80–1980), online: www.ngv.vic.gov.au/explore/collection/work/53440/, last accessed September 23, 2020. Published in Mishra 2018: 141. For some earlier samples, see Seyller 2010a: 26–7, 54–5.

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specialized in the topic.2 The Kishangarhi image reproduced here is part of what appears to be a series of at least three published paintings featuring entertainment in the zanānā, estimated to date from around 1730 and attributed to the star of the Kishangarh atelier, Bhavānīdās.3 This Mughal-trained master had moved to Kishangarh in 1719, a period of great political turmoil in Delhi.4 All three paintings portray the timeless world of a queen being entertained by a group of all-female attendants.5 The musical assembly is seated on a white terrace on a striking red flower-patterned carpet, with in the background a marble pavilion with niches inlaid with jewelry in flower designs and a door with a suspended carpet.6 The terrace looks out over a water body with red canoes (in all but one of the paintings), typical for Kishangarh style. This would have been the milieu in which the young slave girl, also from Delhi, spent her formative years. Central in all three paintings is a richly adorned lady with remarkably long hair, seated on a platform, fanned by an attendant with a caurī or flywhisk, while other servants line up with various accoutrements. The attire of the ladies consists of choli, pajama, and transparent jama and veil, according to the Mughal fashion at the time (Mathur 2000: 22). In one of paintings, the queen is lighting fireworks during a moonless night (amāvasya), probably for Diwali, 2 3

4 5

6

The largish Mughal paintings measured generally around 35  25cm, similarly to this Kishangarhi image. See McInerney 2002: 19–20. Two of these paintings are in the National Museum in Delhi (acc. nos. 51.205, 51.226; pls. 1, 2 respectively in Mathur 2000: 38–41); the third one, Ladies Mahfil, is in Bhārat Kalā Bhavan (BKB no. 4299), published in Set 41, Bharat Kala Bhavan IV: Rajasthani Paintings and can be accessed via Artstor, last accessed July 3, 2022. A fourth one is estimated to be a little later, dated 1750–60, also in the National Museum in Delhi (acc. nos. 51.218, 51.231; pl. 15 in Mathur 2000: 66–7). These paintings are quite distinct in tone from the intriguing riotous zanānā scene also ascribed to Bhavānīdās, By the Light of the Moon and Fireworks studied by Navina Haidar 2000: 85–7 and Kavita Singh 2013: 267–8. One suspects the latter may be related to gossip about the Mughal harem, perhaps Muhammad Shāh’s impotence following a medical intervention, and the rumored affair of one of his consorts, Udham Bāī, later known as Qudsia Begum, with the eunuch Javed Khān; more on this in Chapter 3. On the painter, see Haidar 2011a, who it should be noted does not count these images under the works credibly attributed to him. On the circumstances, see Pauwels 2015: 143–5. There are some strikingly similar Mughal scenes, one is by Muhammad Afzal A Princess Rewards Musical Performers (ca. 1735), see Seyller 2010a: 73–5. See also Galloway and Losty 2021: cat. 5. One of the paintings in the series lacks the carpet. Two of them, but not the one pictured here, also feature in the foreground Mughal-inspired flower beds and a fountain. It is possible that the painting series was inspired by a very similar miniature painting from the Deccan (Karnool) currently in the San Diego Museum of Art collection (acc. no. 1990.748; published in Binney 1973: 174, fig. 149). In this image, which matches very closely the later one from the National Museum, the queen has turned away from a smaller group of four musicians toward her attendants who are offering delicacies (or perfumes) while the musicians behind her are looking on. This slightly smaller image (29.8 17 cm) has been dated somewhat earlier (estimated 1720). It can be viewed online: http://collection.sdmart.org/Obj5823?sid=8291&x=92952, last accessed December 17, 2020.

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while smoking a hookah.7 In the image reproduced here, she is enjoying her hookah as she is entertained by a large group of musicians and singers (totaling ten) seated facing her. She is wearing a luxurious jama with thick golden stripes, matching the pattern of the masnad or pillow against which she is reclining. On her head is a specific type of “princess” turban (Goetz 1924: 96, table 45), also seen in a Ladies Mahfil image from Bhārat Kalā Bhavan, where the central lady is seated on a high throne with female musicians and singers standing, while one dancer has moved out right in front of her. In all paintings, the noble lady is portrayed with a halo, indicating her high status. She must have been a queen indeed. Who was she meant to portray? The answer is tied up with the question who commissioned the paintings. The patron for whom Bhavānīdās created the paintings must have been Rāj Singh of Kishangarh (r. 1706–48), a powerful noble in the Mughal empire. After Aurangzeb’s death in 1707, he had supported the case of his relative by marriage, Mu‘azzam Shāh ‘Ālam, who became the next emperor, Bahādur Shāh (r. 1707–12).8 This earned the Kishangarh king the title Rāj Bahādur (Celer 1971: 301; v. 355). The interventions of Rāj Singh in the eventual Mughal emperor’s career is cast as a Mahābhārata scenario by his court poet, Vrind in his Satya-sarūp-rūpak or Allegory of the Archetype of the Golden Age (Celer 1971: 263–303). A turbulent period followed that saw several Mughal puppet rulers in quick succession, until the emperor Muhammad Shāh managed to establish himself on the throne and became renowned for his culturally accomplished court culture (r. 1719–48). Rāj Singh succeeded in cultivating close connections with him as well, as documented in Mughal court chronicles.9 This is also commemorated in a painting attributed to Bhavānīdās’ son Dalcand that depicts Muhammad Shāh on the Mughal throne, facing Rāj Singh and two high-ranking Mughal nobles, and behind the emperor stands the Kacchvāhā ruler Savāī Jai Singh II, founder of the city of Jaipur.10 The portrait boasts of the close relationship of Rāj Singh with the new emperor Muhammad Shāh as well as an enduring one with Jai Singh II.11 Kishangarh 7

8 9

10

11

This scene is evocative of similar Mughal paintings of a harem scene on the eve of Muharram, insightfully compared with another Kishangarh painting consciously modeled after it by Kavita Singh (2013: 263–5). See, for example, his role in the conflict with Ajit Singh of Mewar (Bhatnagar 1974: 106–7). Shivdās Lakhnavī’s Shāhnāmah Munavvar Kalām (perhaps 1724) testifies of the presence of Rāj Singh Bahādur of Kishangarh at court, registering gifts presented at festive occasions by and to him (Askari 1980: 119, 120, 123, 194, 188). All these entries are from the beginning of the year AH 1133 in the third regnal year. The painting from a private collection is attributed to Bhavānīdās’ son Dalcand and dated by McInerney, based on the fact that the emperor appears with a beard, which he removed in the 1720s (2011: 573–5). See also the extensive discussion on the artist in Haidar 1995: 64–6, and on the captions and historical context in Pauwels 2015: 65–8. This is not unlike what other Rajput rulers did at the time, for instance Gopāl Singh of Karauli (r. 1724–60), who commissioned murals for the palace of Karauli’s gates toward the Dīwān-e

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and Amer had been military allies in Mughal service.12 Jai Singh II was, in this period, subedar of Agra, the province where the religious center of Krishna devotion, Braj, was located.13 He was very concerned with orthodoxy and sought to align the devotional sects headquartered in that area accordingly. His reform-minded administration had far-reaching religious impact, and led to a Vaishnava synthesis that is at the root of “Hinduism” as we know it today.14 His military reorganization of independent warrior bands of sectarian ascetics into a “Vaishnava army” underlies still today the frame within which Vaishnava ascetics march in parades at the important Kumbh Melā festivals (Entwistle 1987: 193–4). In short, through his connections Rāj Singh was part of where the action was in the eighteenth century on many fronts, certainly in terms of cultural and religious new trends. Who then was the noble lady portrayed in the painting? Rāj Singh of Kishangarh had married twice. His first queen, Caturkumvarī, a Kacchvāhā princess of Kaman, was a distant relative of Jai Singh II.15 _She was the mother of Rāj Singh’s sons Sāvant Singh (1699–1765) and Bahādur Singh (1711–81). As customary in Rajput households, she was known by her paternal clan name, Kācchvāhī. Upon falling ill, she was taken for healing to the pilgrimage center of Vrindaban in Braj, where she passed away in 1718 (1775 VS; Śaran 1966: _ 12, 21). Rāj Singh married his second wife, Brajkumvarī of Lavan, a Thikānā _ in Amer territory, in 1719 (1776 VS). She was known by her patronymicon Bāṅkāvatī.16 The new queen was just a little younger than her famous stepson Sāvant Singh, which was not uncommon in polygynous households of the time. Her only son, Vīr Singh, was not born till 1738 (1795 VS; Śaran 1966: _ Rāj 17). It seems likely that it was to celebrate this young Bāṅkāvatī queen that Singh had Bhavānīdās paint several scenes of leisure in the Kishangarh zanānā. Whoever the queen portrayed, this type of musical soirée in the women’s quarters was exactly where young Banī-thanī was engaged as a singer shortly after her arrival at the Kishangarh court._ Several contemporary writers show

12 13 14 15

16

Ām that included sets of other Rajput rulers, as well as Mughal ones. Paralleling Rāj Singh’s miniature, there is a portrait identified as Muhammad Shāh with Qamar ud-Dīn and Khān-e Daurān (but not including Gopāl Singh himself; Bautze 2005: 368). For instance during the (first unsuccessful) siege of the Jat fortress of Thun in 1716 (Śaran 1966: _ 12; Chandra 2002: 215). He served in that capacity from 1722–37 (Entwistle 1987: 188–91). For an extensive view of Jai Singh II’s religious policies, see Horstmann 2009, and for a summary, see 2011. She was the granddaughter of Mirzā Jai Singh’s younger son Kīrat Singh who had been assigned the principality of Kaman. Her father was his son, Umed Singh (Jaylāl in Gaud _ 1898: 45 fn). Her father was a Kūrmavanshī Baṅkāvat Sardār by the name of Anad Rāy Singh (Śaran 1966: _ _ 13; Śarmā 1996: 1.12, based on internal evidence from Brajdāsī-bhāgavat 13.44).

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embarrassment, to the point of denial that she was a slave girl (especially Śarmā 1996), but this was nothing unusual at the time. There was a brisk slave trade throughout the Mughal period, especially for domestic servants. The practice of purchasing young girls to be trained as musicians for royal households continued well into the nineteenth century. These artist-slaves were seen as an investment enhancing the prestige of the family they were attached to.17 We do not know anything about Banī-thanī’s life before she arrived in _ captured in a raid or as a result Kishangarh as a slave girl. She may have been of one of the many armed conflicts at the time. Or she may have been transferred due to a debt, or sold by her parents, perhaps during the famine that created hardship in areas around Delhi in 1726–27.18 All we know is that Banī-Thanī was purchased in 1727 (1784 VS) from the market at Chandni _ in Shahjahanabad.19 This was a renowned bazar, catering to elites, Chowk which suggests she was prized as a quality “commodity” and it is possible that she had received some training in music before she was sold.20 An entry in the record of the Kishangarh treasury payments reveals: VS 1784 on the 8th day of the dark half of Kārtik: the singers Capalrāy and Banī-thanī were newly bought. They started employment on the 25th of the month Ḍhūl-Qa’da,_ VS 1784 on the 12th day of the dark half of Āsādha. As endorsed [mu. for muvāfiq] by the _ nā Hīrācand, to the office of singing parvāna of the kothārī, to the name of _Surā _ _ [instruction] where they obtained: 3 Rs for Capalrāy, 3 Rs for Banī-thanī. (Entry from _ Ittilāqof 1785–88.)21

This documents that Banī-thanī was brought to Kishangarh together with another slave girl, Capalrāy._ The two young girls were employed as apprentices in the music department, and each received an allowance of 3 rupees.22 Counter to what is reported in some secondary literature, her name was from the very beginning already recorded as Banī-thanī. It was customary for _ incoming slaves to receive a new name, most commonly one like that of her cohort ending on -rāy (“royal”) or -sukh (“delight”). Hers is a bit unusual,

17

18

19 20 21

22

See Chatterjee and Eaton 2006; Jha 2015: 147, 161 n 27. For documented examples from Jaipur, see Ksīrsāgar 1992: 2–3. This is in no way meant to confirm the colonial attitude _ condoning domestic slavery (Chatterjee 1999; Major 2012). Bano 2001, Bajekal 1990: 80. On how the argumentation around such famine sales functioned in the rhetoric of EIC officials in the context of the evolving political situation, see Major 2012: 54–74. The location is given in the entry in the Tavārīḳh, fol. 77. On this source, see the appendix under “chronicles.” I am grateful to Purnima Dhavan for this suggestion. Thanks to the archival research of Dr. Faiyāz ‘Alī Khān, we have the entry from the Ittilāq (quoted by Khān 2015: 377 in the note). In translation, I have corrected obvious misprints (the first date VS 1786 is a typo for 1784; Capalrām instead of Capalrāy upon second mention). I am grateful to Monika Horstmann for helping me understand the entry. A century later in Jaipur such trainees received ten times as much, Ksīrsāgar 1992: 2–3. _

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clearly a nickname, literally meaning “Miss Decked Out.” It is striking that she was already perceived as elegantly fashionable, as she was then estimated to be not quite 10 years old (as documented in the Ittilāq, see Khān 2015: 377). Possibly she had already received some training in comportment prior to the transfer to Kishangarh, or perhaps it was a marketing ploy by her seller or buyer.23 Unfortunately, the records that might shed light on the sale, or by whom she was trained subsequently, and who were the musicians who supported her are currently not accessible. Even Capalrāy, with whom she shared her first music lessons in Kishangarh, drops out of the picture without a trace. The late-nineteenth-century court history, Tavārīḳh, only briefly mentions Banī-thanī’s arrival retrospectively under the rubrique of “the pāsbāns of _ Singh.” It confirms that she was a slave, purchased from Chandni Sāvant Chowk, and once in Kishangarh, trained in the department of music (gāyanõ mẽ niyat kiyā gayā . . . abhyās kiyā gayā).24 She must have been quite talented as within a few years, in 1731 (1788 VS), she was appointed to the service of the Bāṅkāvatī queen (Khān 2015: 378). What did the exclusive world that the talented young slave girl entered look like? As readily apparent from the image at the beginning of the chapter (Figure 2.1), the women’s quarters in Rajput courts in the eighteenth century were governed by strict hierarchy.25 At the top of the pyramid were the queens, who were from elite Rajput lineages. They were known by their patronymicon, which accorded them more clout according to the prestige of their paternal affiliation.26 The mother (rājmātā) and stepmothers (vimātā) of the reigning king commanded the most respect. At the time of Rāj Singh’s second marriage, that must have been one of his father’s queens from Śekhāvat, hence known as Śekhāvatī, who was still alive (Śaran 1972: 242). After the senior ladies, the _ whom the main queen (patarānī) was reigning king’s queens prevailed, among _ the most the one he had married first, who would usually be the one of prestigious family. By the time Banī-thanī entered service in the Kishangarh _ been the reigning patarānī since Rāj zanānā, the Bāṅkāvatī queen would have Singh’s first wife had passed away. Likewise. among the _purdah-keeping

23

24 25

26

While the naming situation is different for slaves than for the “native” bībīs from the colonial period discussed by Cornell historian Durba Ghosh, for Banī-thanī her situations and transitions, geographically, socially, and religiously are irretrievable _(2006: 133–6, contrasting with Begum Samru and Helene Bennett 147–51). H.H. Maharaja Brajraj Singh, personal communication July 25, 2011, based on Tavārīḳh section Sardār Sāvant Singh, under “His concubines” (un ke pāsbān), fol. 77. This has been studied for Jodhpur in the nineteenth century by Priyanka Khanna (2017) and for the Jaipur music department by Ksīrsāgar (1992). For the broader historical perspective, see Varsha Joshi (1995) and Ramya _ Sreenivasan (2006). While these examples allow for a comparative perspective, one should not assume homogeneity over time and place. Sreenivasan 2004: 58. For a nuanced critique of these lineages, and the historical changes from the sixteenth to eighteenth century, see Sreenivasan 2006: 152–5, and the following pages for effects of colonial interferences.

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women were their daughters, the princesses, as well as other female relatives (Joshi 1995: 114–8). The Bāṅkāvatī queen’s little daughter, Sundarkumvarī, _ born in 1734 (1791 VS), would also be growing up there.27 The zanānā also housed concubines who were hierarchically distinguished from the queens and had their independent living quarters.28 Concubines were recruited only from middle-status castes: Women from “suspect” performer castes, such as bhagtans, were not approved by the ruler’s entourage for official admission to the zanānā.29 Not all women providing sexual services were honored with official titles, and those who did were hierarchically distinguished among themselves. The lowest were the “special companions” (khavāsin), whereas the highest were the “intimates” (pāsbān or pāsvān), titles that paralleled those of the ruler’s male attendants. In the women’s quarters, the distinctions were marked by (lack of ) ceremonial initiation into concubinage and by the right to wear ivory bangles (cūrā), silver or gold anklets, and precious stones. While living behind purdah in the zanānā, concubines also could attend the ruler’s public durbar.30 This has implications for understanding whose likeness could be portrayed by male painters. Concubine’s daughters would also live in the zanānā and were typically married off, or given in “palanquin” (dolo), without the prestige of a marriage, to politically _ natural fathers or half brothers saw fit (Sreenivasan opportune parties as their 2006: 152–3). The palace ladies had a whole army of ladies-in-waiting serving them, as apparent from the image (Figure 2.1). Several of those had accompanied them from their marital homes to their in-laws as part of their dowry (Sreenivasan 2006: 146). Typically, different queens and their retinues would come from different geographical locations, which would set them up for competition with one another. Again, these attendants were hierarchically organized. Generically, they were referred to as cākar, a term that characterizes the close relationship with their mistresses involving gift giving on the part of the latter to their inferiors on special ritual occasions such as lifecycle events and festivals (Khanna 2017: 208–9). Domestic slaves at the bottom of the scale were called dāvrī. They were overseen by slave retainers, called badāran (Sreenivasan _2006: 142-3). The privacy of the women’s quarters was ensured 27

28 29

30

Due to the succession conflict that broke out between her half brothers when Sundarkumvarī _ of was fourteen, she would not be married till 1755 (1822 VS) to Khīñcī Rājā Balvant Singh Raghoghar (Śaran 1983: 11). While the zanānā_ in Rajput palaces was typically designed for privacy, the individual rooms’ functions were versatile (Tillotson 1987: 4–8). Joshi 1995: 175–7; Khanna 2017: 100 n7. An example of a concubine whose entry into the zanānā was blocked on account of her being perceived to be low-caste is Jodhpur’s Jasvant Singh II’s concubine Nainī (Khanna 2017: 102). The “pure” castes from which the women were recruited claimed Rajput status for themselves (Khanna 2011: 338). Khanna 2017: 101; 2011: 339–41 on the ceremonies and Joshi 1995: 118–22 on access to public spaces.

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by guards and watchmen (nāzir). Rajput paintings might present an idyllic picture of luxurious leisure, yet, occasionally, a more complex reality comes to the surface. Thus, the unconventional mid-eighteenth-century Mewar painter Gangārām’s painting of a scene of maids whipped by mistresses, to the curiosity and mirth of the ladies looking on from behind the purdah shows the cruelty zanānā women were capable of toward one another (Chandra et al. 1960: 61, fig. 110, Aitken 2002: 276). While it is not entirely clear what is going on in this particular scene, it alerts us to a less pleasant side than typically depicted. In short, the zanānā was by no means a homogeneous unit; it was a hierarchical world where different, sometimes competing, social, cultural, and regional traditions vied for power. Even with the little documentation available, it is clear that Banī-thanī was _ of the not brought along in the dowry of the queen. Rather, she was part important musical entertainment group of zanānā inmates, which included musicians, dancers, and singers (gāyan(ī) or goinī). As we have seen illustrated in the document quoted above, they received _an allowance for expenses. In addition, they too received special gifts for ritual occasions, as well as jewelry.31 Ethnomusicologist Bonnie Wade has drawn attention to the importance of music in Mughal harem quarters, in particular for celebrations and feasts (1998: 72–101). Similarly, Rajasthani courts sponsored a whole array of festivals and life-cycle ritual occasions where the presence of musicians, singers, and dancers was crucial. Programmes ran all through the year, with highlights ranging from pirouette-spinning dances or ghūmar for Tīj in the busy rainy season to the raucous festival of Holi when the kairava dance was performed (Ksīrsāgar 1992: 22–4, 267–9). _ As documented in the case of nineteenth-century Jodhpur, the young recruits served first as apprentices with minor roles for in-house performances, such as tālīvālī in the rhythmic section, or as khelīvālī on drone instruments, before being transferred full-time to the performance space or akhādā (Khanna 2017: 203–5). There are several paintings that single out elegant_ musicians from Kishangarh from the time, such as that of the singer who accompanies herself, preserved in the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford (Figure 1.5 in the previous chapter), and of the tanpura player in the Metropolitan Museum in New York (Figure 2.2). Here too there was strict hierarchy – at the bottom the women called bhagat and pātur, who also performed publicly in nonexclusive women settings, including as part of festival processions. These lower-class performers had to remain standing and cover their heads (Ksīrsāgar 1992: 17–22). Banī-t _ gāyan singers who could_ hanī would have been among the more high-class perform seated, as depicted in the image at the outset of the chapter (Figure 2.1).

31

Detailed documentation for nineteenth-century Jaipur is provided by Ksīrsāgar (1992: 3–4). _

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Figure 2.2 A Lady Playing the Tanpura. Ca. 1735. Kishangarh, Rajasthan. Ink, opaque and transparent watercolor and gold on paper. 47  33.7 cm. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Fletcher Fund (1996.100.1).

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Poetry behind Purdah

While secluded, the harem area was not closed off from the world outside.32 For one thing, the women received an education.33 The learned Jaipur palace 32

33

Several recent studies have documented this: For the Mughal harem there is Lal 2005; for Rajputs during the colonial period, see Jhala 2008: 186–7; for Muslim harems, see LambertHurley 2006. One wonders what precisely was taught and how their education took place, practically speaking. If a 1675 painting of the education of Mughal princesses by an elderly teacher can

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archivist, Gopal Narayan Bahura, reports that in the seventeenth century the famous author Bihārī, as well as his nephew Kulpati Miśra, were appointed to teach the queens of Mirzā Jai Singh I (Bahura 1976: 45–6). The ladies would be honored by their poet-teachers. For instance, a manuscript of Bihārī’s Satsaī includes a verse in praise of the Cauhāni Rānī, Ānandkumvarī, whose son later became Rām Singh I of Amer (Bahura 1976: 42–3)._ Some palace ladies created poetry of their own that has been preserved, such as in the next generation, a concubine of Rām Singh I, Mohanrāī pātur, who wrote Kīdā_ vinod “The Joy of Play” (catalogued as no. 1959, Bahura 1976: 46). Erotic texts might be expected from the performers, intended perhaps to heighten the mood of śriṅgāra. Would the same hold good for the wives and daughters of the rulers? Indeed, we know of works, such as Vrind’s 1691 Śṅgār-śiksā “Instruction in Erotic Aesthetics”, that were commissioned for young ladies _of the elite (Busch 2011: 160–2). The teachers of the palace ladies could also be religious authorities, who inspired them to compose religious poetry, including of the more erotic Rādhā-Krishna type. This raises all kinds of interesting possibilities of exchange to which we will come back shortly. Banī-thanī’s mistress, the Bāṅkāvatī queen, was a prime example of a _ poetess-queen. Her religious (Hari-sambandhī) name, Brajdāsī, devotional functioned also as her pen name. This conformed to the belief that Krishna poetry consisted of eyewitness accounts of the divine pastimes, experienced by the religious alter ego, or rather true spiritual self, of the devotee in their role in Krishna’s eternal play. Similarly, Sāvant Singh composed under the religious name Nāgarīdās. The queen is best-known for her vernacular version of Bhāgavata-purāna, known as Brajdāsī-bhāgavat (BDBh).34 This transcreation appears to be in _a mixture of more standardized Braj with the local Rajasthani idiom, sometimes referred to as Ḍhdhādī.35 One typical Ḍhdhādī shibboleth _ hai, _ a feature we also see _ frequently _ is the substantive verb chai rather than in poetry of Rasikbihārī. Was the young slave singer then influenced by her mistress’ compositions, even if just in terms of what idiom to use? It seems indeed likely that the prevalent language for the Kishangarh zanānā would be some form of Rajasthani, the queen’s mother tongue.

34

35

be relied on to represent actual practice, the ladies did not necessarily remain veiled (Pal et al. 1989: 17, fig. 7). The text has been edited in two volumes by Śarmā (1996), based on a manuscript from 1777 CE (1834 VS), preserved in the Nimbārkan monastery at Salemabad (henceforth BDBh). This is discussed by Horstmann (2018: 130–5) who also provides an extract with translation (159–65). Or “Jaipuri.” Together with Kishangarhi, it falls under “Central Eastern Rajasthani,” whereas Marwari is “Western Rajasthani.” Definitions of local languages/dialects differ according to author and period. For varying definitions of Ḍhdhādī, see Nehra 2012: 31–3, with extensive _ _for boundaries and dialects of Rajasthani description of pronouns, 84–188, and Grierson 1908, 1–3, handy overview tables 5–15, and extensive description of Marwari 16–30 and Central Eastern 31–42.

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The Bāṅkāvatī queen’s literary output actually dates from later in her life: She started her translation endeavor in 1749 (1806 VS), shortly after she had been widowed. She herself stated that it was with the express purpose to gain merit to bring an end to the family strife regarding the succession of her deceased husband.36 Brajdāsī-bhāgavat was finished in 1755 (1812 VS Āśvin śukla), which coincides with the end of the fraternal war, when the kingdom was divided between her two stepsons, Bahādur Singh in Kishangarh and in Rupnagar Sāvant Singh, who delegated the throne to his son Sardār Singh. The queen marked the occasion at the nearby Pushkar Lake, which suggests she took a pilgrimage there in thanksgiving (BDBh 12.13.43). Though her power to mediate between her stepsons in the interest of the kingdom was limited, she managed to carve out for herself a niche through this socially acceptable activity. At the least, it was a therapeutic form of working through scripture that afforded her some agency and ability to cope with what must have been very difficult circumstances for her personally. The prestige derived from this religious activity may also have served more practically to negotiate her own position at the court of her stepson. Notwithstanding this family related purpose, Brajdāsī-bhāgavat did enjoy some wider distribution: Besides in the Kishangarh royal library, manuscripts were kept in the nearby Nimbārka monastery at Salemabad, as well as in other Nimbārkan centers, and there even is one in the prestigious Khās Mohar collection in Jaipur City Palace.37 She followed up with a Bhāgavatamāhātmya “Praise of the Bhāgavata” in 1758. Later works attributed to her are Byāh-bihār “Wedding Escapades” and a Khyāl-sangrah “Collection of Khayāl compositions,” both in 1770.38 It may surprise that the queen’s output included what is usually considered a more “secular” genre, that of Khayāl,39 associated with the court of the emperor Muhammad Shāh, nicknamed “the frivolous” or Raṅgīle (see du Perron 2010: 181–3). The queen may well have 36 37 38

39

Ghī kalaha uddhāra hitahũ, Maṅgalācaran Chappaya of 2nd skandha; Śarmā 1996: 1.84. _ formed the basis for the edition by Śarmā 1996. The one in Salemabad, dated 1777 (VS 1834), The one in Jaipur is dated 1793 (VS 1850; Śarmā 1996: 1.9–11). Manuscripts are in the Khās Mohar collection. The first may be the same as the Vyāh-vilās described by Rāthaur (2002: 128–32), which may include the other work attributed to her, Āśis_ wedding _ _ saṅgrah describing congratulations conveyed by members of different castes, including painters (Rāthaur 2002: 128). Attributed to her is also a fragment of the Mahābhārata _ _(perhaps about Ambā’s fiancé, a prince of Śalva; Rāthaur 2002: 127). entitled Sālav-yuddh _ with _ Sufi Qawwālī Compared to dhrupad, it is regarded as more secular; however, it has links (as discussed in Brown 2010). There appears to have been already a regional genre of Marwari Khayāl by the end of the seventeenth century (Brown 2010: 179; see also Sharma 2020 about musical changes in the course of the eighteenth century). There may have been “periodic waves of religious orthodoxy. This was in reaction against the romantic licentiousness of the courtly milieus and against the often decidedly Hindu flavour of the majority of khayal bandiśes, or conversely and ironically as veiled expressions of Sufi sentiments in reaction to religious orthodoxy” (Magriel and du Perron 2013: 14).

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been exposed to Khayāl during her sojourns to Delhi, about which more below. Yet, the Bāṅkāvatī queen is mainly remembered for her devotion. The introductory material to the 1898 edition of Nāgarīdās’ works respectfully lists her under the section “Description of the royal lineage as pervaded by praise of their virtuous devotion to God” (Haribhakti gunapraśamś garbhita npavamśa _ _ varnanã): bāṅkāvata sī rāni kaũ, vyāhī rāja nareśa; ati brata dhārī kulavatī, bhaktivatī ativeśa bāṅkāvata mahārāni jū, pāyo hari sambandha; tīkā kī bhāgota kī, bhāsā chanda _ _ prabandha bhāgyavāna gunavāna aru, rasika su umaradharāja; rāja simha mahārāja bho, kula _ maryādā jihāja (Jaylāl in Gaud 1898: 38 v. 10–12) _

The king married a queen like the Bānkāvat one, who was loyal, noble, devoted, well-attired. The Bānkāvat queen was an initiated devotee. She wrote a vernacular commentary on Bhāgavata-purāna arranged in verse. _ She was a beacon of family decorum, both fortunate and virtuous. Rāj Singh, her connoisseur husband, was blessed with a long life.

That impression has endured. The elegant young queen, possibly depicted in the harem paintings that her husband Rāj Singh commissioned, became remembered over time as a respected religious doyenne. Several histories of Hindi and Rajasthani literature mention the queen’s oeuvre (overview in Śarmā 1996: 1.3), and some also mention Banī-thanī in that context. Thus, it is thanks to her mistress’ fame that Banī-thanī is _remem_ bered. Also mentioned in such local histories of Hindi literature is the Bāṅkāvatī queen’s daughter, Sundarkumvarī. She too was an author in her _ own right. Perhaps for her too literary activity helped relieve the tension of the family feud, rendered even more difficult due to her prolonged stay in the zanānā in her paternal home before marriage. Her work “Treasure of Affection” (Neh-nidhi) is dated 1760 (1817 VS; Śaran 1983: 11), but she _ composed also several Padas, the date of which may be earlier (edited in Śaran 1983: 91–3). She continued composing even as a married woman and was_ quite prolific.40 Thus, young Banī-thanī came of age in an environment that was suffused with Rādhā–Krishna_ devotional lyrics that inspired even the queen and her daughter to compose, though as far as we can currently tell, only after Rasikbihārī herself led the way. It seems then that the inspiration actually may have gone the other way around. In any case, we have uncovered here a network of women authors of devotional poetry.

40

A list of her works appears in Gupta 1965: 1.30–31; her oeuvre has been edited in Śaran 1983. _

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It was not only women’s voices that were heard in the Kishangarhi zanānā. In Brajdāsī-bhāgavat, the queen repeatedly mentioned her inspiration for her translation project from her by then deceased teacher, the abbot of the monastery in nearby Salemabad, Vrindāvandev Ācārya.41 He belonged to the Nimbārka Sampradāya, one of the oldest Rādhā–Krishna devotional sects favored by the aforementioned orthodoxy-promoting ruler of nearby Jaipur, Jai Singh II. The Nimbārkan sect is one of the rasika or erotically oriented devotional movements. It is then not surprising that the queen’s translation is replete with romantic sentiments, notwithstanding the rather martial circumstances of fraternal war inspiring the work. Conforming with her pen name, she pictured herself in the role as one of Krishna’s cowherdesses, a Gopī named Brajdāsī and infused her own voice in the work. For instance, in the description of Krishna’s divine Round-dance (Rāsa-līlā) she signed a personalized verse (chanda) as “Bjadāsi” “with Gopī-bhāva in her heart.”42 This chanda’s metrical form of short stanzas with frequent rhyme in Sanskritic ending -am is reminiscent of the famous Madhurāstakam, a Sanskrit poem by _ _ founded the rival sect, the sixteenth-century philosopher Vallabhācārya, who the Vallabha Sampradāya. This may not be coincidence because she mentions also that she studied Bhāgavata-purāna with a Vallabhan, Vrajnāth Bhatt, _ __ whom she regarded as her vidyā guru.43 This other advisor, Vrajnāth Bhatt, was himself a prominent Vallabhan __ in Jai Singh II’s orthodoxy projects.44 whose family, too, was deeply involved Bhatt seems to have moved to Kishangarh due to party politics related to Jai __ II’s succession. He did not return to Jaipur till after the eldest prince, Singh Īshvarī Singh’s tragic death in 1750, when his half brother by the Mewar queen, Mādho Singh, had come to power. Bhatt likely was behind the distri__ also composed in Braj, he bution of Brajdāsī’s work to Jaipur. He himself authored a Sāhitya-sār (Bangha 1998: 93–4, 2007: 346). He discovered and admired the controversial nonreligious poems of the famous Kishangarhrelated classical Hindi poet Ānandghan and preserved them for posterity by 41 42 43 44

Such as in the Dohā following the aforementioned Chappaya; see also intro, p. 12. In the final colophon, she says Vrindāvandev Ācārya was her guru (v. 48; Śarmā 1996: 2:1265). See Śarmā 1996: 2.806–8; BDBh 10.33.12–47. In the last colophon, BDBh 12.13.51, Śarmā 1996: 2.1265. A manuscript preserved in the Jaipur collection confirms the information on the two gurus (Bahura 1976: 481–2). This is the case whether he was the philosopher who authored a Brahmasūtra-vtti (Bhatta __ 1905), whose father was Bālkrishna (the father’s treatises are discussed in Horstmann 2011: 188–9), or the author of the Prabhūr-vaidikī-pūjā-paddhati, a treatise synthesizing Vaishnava ritual worship (Bahura 1979: 113–4), or, as Imre Bangha (1998: 123–30 quoting from Īśvaravilāsa-mahākāvyam) has convincingly argued, the son of Prabhākar Bhatt of the Mahāshabde family, whose uncle was one of of Jai Singh’s rājgurus, who performed__ a Vedic sacrifice (also described in Viśvanātha’s Rāmavilāsa-kāvyam, see Bahura 1978: 83; family tree in Appendix 2). He would later author a didactic text on nīti for Mādho Singh (Horstmann 2013: 27).

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editing them with a fore- and afterword of his own hand (Bangha 1998: 46–7, 2005: 22–3). He was present at what perhaps was Rasikbihārī’s debut recital during the monsoon of 1742, as one of his Kavittas is included in Nāgarīdās’ proceedings of the occasion, Śrīmad-bhāgavat-parāyan-vidhi-prakāś (about _ to Rasikbihārī: which more in Chapter 4).45 He seems to have been important the very first poem recorded in her poetic diary or Bayāz carries the chāp “Vjanātha” (fol. 1r).46 From all this, it is abundantly clear that the Kishangarh zanānā was not a place outside of time, as the pictures might portray it. Even behind purdah, Rasikbihārī could benefit from exposure not just to the women’s religious poetry, as is commonly assumed, but also to that of famous male poets. The queen’s gurus were powerful religious advisors, “godfathers,” who were some of the mightiest men of the times. They were deeply implicated in the questions regarding the orthodoxy of devotional practices, in particular of the Krishna bhakti that was prevalent in the zanānā. 2.3

Power behind Purdah

The women in the zanānā were not devoid of worldly power. For their personal expenses Rajput queens and official concubines were provided with landgrants (hāth kharc kī jāgīr), which they administered via their own attendants who were maintained by the state (Joshi 1995: 113–5). Allowances for their support could also include taxation of transit on certain goods, an important example being salt.47 It has been documented that close connections with mobile holy men involved in pilgrimage and trade networks could bring substantial commercial opportunities for noble ladies, who could even function as loan providers (Chatterjee 2016). This would allow palace women to sponsor projects on their own, including patronizing temples, or importantly in the drought-striken Rajasthan, digging wells. Unfortunately, due to lack of access to the records, there is no such documentation for the Kishangarhi queens or concubines, though it has been asserted that the

45

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Gupta 1965: 2.419, no. 27. The poem is not signed, but it is introduced as composed by “Bhatt __ Vrajnāth.” He may be the Kavīśvar Vrajnāth who is recorded to have received 12 Rs. a month according to the Mahārājā Rāj Singh jī kā itihās register (on p. 139; according to Śaran 1972: _ 255–6, fn. 2). This is marked as Kavitta in the Bayāz, after the musical genre that included both Savaiyās and Kavittas. Rupnagar was a trade transit center of the salt produced at nearby Lake Sambhar, while the production was mainly divided between Marwar and Amer (Anon. Gazetteer 1908: 279). However, given the unavailability of the Kishangarhi documents, it is difficult to say whether indeed the palace women were involved similarly to what has been documented for the East by Indrani Chatterjee (2016).

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Bāṅkāvatī queen sponsored a temple (Gopāl Dvārā) in Kishangarh.48 One suspects also sponsorship of edifices in Salemabad and Braj, given the high profile of the Kishangarh house there too.49 Once widowed though, Rajput queens and concubines would see their entitlements in land and revenue reduced or revoked. While the queens could retain their jewelry and cash, the concubines had to return it all. Unless they were respected queen-mothers, they even might have to face leaving the zanānā to make room for the next king’s women (Sreenivasan 2006: 149–50). In the case of the Bāṅkāvatī queen, we know that after her husband’s passing, she was provided for by two jāgīrs, Ralāvatā and Pāladī, as confirmed in the agreement her stepsons signed in 1756 (Śaran 1966: 20). _Not all widows _ submitted to the norms, and some remained powerful, even feared. Visually this is made clear in a satirical image of A Formidable Lady, attributed also to Bhavānīdās, dated ca. 1735. It features a corpulent white-clad widow, in front of whom several courtiers retreat in awe (published and discussed in Haidar 2000: 80–2). Even if exaggerated, the type of the formidable widow must have held enough basis in reality to appeal. Not at least as insurance for widowhood, it was important for palace women alongside their material capital, to build up social capital through networks of kin, adopted kin, and client relationships. The historians Indrani Chatterjee and Sumit Guha in their study of Maratha palace women foreground the “emotional regimes” thus built up (1999: 186). They give the striking example of the famous queen Tārābāī, the widow of Shivājī’s younger brother Rājārām, who ruled as regent for her infant son and after having been temporarily sidelined, made a comeback as regent for her infant grandson. She was even eulogized as the Goddess Bhadrakālī (Chatterjee and Guha 1999: 171–5). In Kishangarh, during the early days of the reign of Rāj Singh’s father, Mān Singh, who ascended the throne as a minor in 1658, his grandmother “Kācchvāhā jī” and mother “Cauhān bahū jī” functioned as regents taking care of state affairs (Śaran 1966: 10). Emotional bonds between harem women _ and aspiring kings involved not just sons by birth, but also complex foster relationships. In the Kishangarh case, the Bāṅkāvatī queen played a role in brokering an adoption deal that ensured the kingdom’s reunion after the succession struggle had split it between her two stepsons. Sāvant Singh had delegated ruling Rupnagar to his son Sardār Singh, who had no sons by his

48

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Śarmā 1996: 1.57. Later, Sāvant Singh’s granddaughter, Sardār Singh’s daughter, Chatrakumvarī, _ in who also was a poet authoring Prem-vinod, sponsored the Bāī jī kā mandir in Sadar Bazar Kishangarh, named after her title “Bāī jī Sarkār Sirtājkumvar.” She was married in 1774 to _ Gopāldās Khīchī of Kotra (Śāstrī 1972: 293). Again, confirmation will have to await access to the relevant archives.

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queens.50 The Bāṅkāvatī queen was involved in the arrangement that he formally adopt Bahādur Singh’s son and successor of Kishangarh. Consequently, upon Sardār Singh’s death in 1767 (1824 VS), the divided kingdom was brought together again under Birad Singh.51 The queen’s intervention then became crucial for the kingdom’s future. Remarkably, she did not push her own son, Vīr Singh, for the throne. There are records of female slaves in Rajput zanānās becoming powerful via their mistresses. Typically, this was possible once the mistresses became queen-mothers reigning in lieu of their minor sons. Thus, after Ari Singh of Mewar’s death in 1773, his Jhālā queen became the regent for her minor son, which led to her confidante of Gujar descent, Rām Pyārī, gaining a position of great munificence and influence (Sreenivasan 2006: 148). Similarly, in Jaipur, after the death of Jagat Singh in 1818, the Bhattiyānī queen-mother during her __ son’s minority communicated via her badāran, Rūpā, who became very powerful. Rūpā was remarkable as she continued to wield influence under the subsequent Candrāvatī queen-mother of the next minor heir and even organized opposition to British influence in the kingdom (Sreenivasan 2006: 148–9). While for the queens their natal ties with prestigious clans were an important factor, for these talented and skillful slave women, whose native ties were cut off or unknown, their ticket to power was their unmitigated loyalty to their mistresses (149). This situation did not apply to Banī-thanī, as she instead _ became the queen’s stepson’s concubine, as will be detailed in the next chapter. Concubines, too, could negotiate strong positions of power, including through adopted kin networks. Here the striking Maratha example is Virubāī (d. 1740), the “slave consort” of Shahuji, Shivaji’s successor’s grandson, who had stood in for his legal wife when the pair was ceremonially blessed by Aurangzeb. Subsequently, she managed to manoeuvre her adopted son, Fateh Singh, into the position of heir apparent, though after her death he was sidelined (Chatterjee and Guha 1999: 172–4). Similarly, in Jodhpur concubines held positions of high esteem when their protégés became kings, such as Harbolan, upon the accession to the throne of her adoptive son Suraj Singh in 1595, and Anara upon that of Jasvant Singh in 1638 (Sreenivasan 2006: 145). In short, queens as well as concubines could “play politics” not just through their indirect influence on reigning kings, but also through forging alliances with young males with potential to become power brokers. Adopting a full50 51

It appears he had one son by a pāsbān from Sursurā village, named Sahajkumār (Śāstrī 1972: 293). Śarmā 1996: 1.21; Śāstrī 1972: 286; Jaylāl in Gaud 1898: 44. The later history of Kishangarh also had some important cases of adoption to secure_ succession; this is documented in particular in the colonial period, where the British Resident in the area took a major interest in the outcome of these successions.

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blood prince seems to have been a safer bet than promoting their own offspring. While the sons of concubines became pāsvāns of their fathers themselves (Khanna 2017: 102), if they tried to claim the throne, they were often ousted by the stakeholder clans who favored Rajput queen-born contenders, as in documented cases from Banswada, Mewar, and Bikaner (Sreenivasan 2006: 153–4). It should be said though that while slaves could become very powerful as concubines, this sometimes backfired and they faced intrigue that caused their fall from favor, as in the case of Raskapur of Jagat Singh in Jaipur in the early nineteenth century (Sreenivasan 2006: 147), and Gulābrāī of Jodhpur, who was murdered (Khanna 2017). There is currently no evidence that Banī-thanī was involved in any such power politics. She seems not to have given birth_ herself or to have fostered a special relationship with any of the young princes at court. Only her loyalty to her patron was unwavering. The Tavārīḳh makes it a point to mention that she went along when Sāvant Singh retired to Vrindaban (jab se mahārājā brindāban rahe tab se ye bhī sāth hī thī brindāban nivās karte the (fol. 79). Unlike other pāsbāns though, she did not choose to die alongside her patron. Even if concubines chose to do so, as they frequently did, they were not considered satī; that honor was reserved only for the queens, so the class distinctions persisted beyond death.52 Nevertheless, Banī-thanī’s loyalty to Sāvant Singh in exile bought her a chatrī or _ near his opposite Nāgarī Kuñj in Vrindaban (photo in memorial monument Pauwels 2017: 27, fig. 1.6; further explored in Chapter 5). 2.4

Religious Sermons and Recitals in the Zanānā

One more common socially acceptable way in which ladies of the zanānā could carve out some agency was in the realm of religious affairs. There are several instances of queens said to have influenced the favored faith of their husbands, such as famously the fifteenth-century queen of Amer, Bālān Bāī, a devotee of Rāma, who is believed to have persuaded King Prithvīrāj to favor the Rāma devotee Krishnadās Payohārī over Shaiva yogis (Bahura 1976: 25). Concubines too are documented to have influenced their patrons in religious matters. In Jodhpur, Vijay Singh’s aforementioned ill-fated concubine Gulābrāī was a factor behind the king’s initiation in the Vallabha Sampradāya, which influenced his rule (Khanna 2017: 103–4). Such shared religious affiliations could create a deep bond that transcended gender and caste boundaries, as historian Priyanka Khanna has recently argued (2017: 104–6). 52

The concubines simply performed cremation (beli) (Joshi 1995: 149–50). Sreenivasan, though, has complicated this perhaps too static notion with examples of changing historiography of similar immolations (2006: 140). Chatrī memorials of Rathor and Sisodiyā kings likewise do not seem to make that distinction (Bose 2015: 225–6, 270).

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In the eighteenth century, palace ladies from Jaipur were heavily involved with the aforementioned Nimbārka Sampradāya, and the same held true for those from Kishangarh. This view from the women’s quarters complements the public face of the influential abbot Vrindāvandev Ācārya, who is known for his martial role in the integration of Nimbārkan independent warrior ascetic bands with the Rāmānandī orders into an organized Vaishnava army under Jai Singh II (Entwistle 1987: 193–4; Horstmann forthcoming: 15; Clémentin-Ojha forthcoming). The connection of the Kishangarh royal house with the Salemabad Nimbārkan monastery dates back to its establishment, and the abbot had a residence in Rupnagar, where he was close to the aforementioned regent-rānīs for Mān Singh from the mid-seventeenth century (Śaran 1966: _ _ 10). Rāj Singh and his first wife, Nāgarīdās’ mother, Caturkumvarī Kācchvāhī of _ Kaman, traveled as newlyweds to the Nimbārkan seat at Salemabad to seek the blessings of the then abbot, Nārāyandev Ācārya. Subsequently, Caturkumvarī had ceremonies for all the young_ princes born to her performed by_ the Salemabad abbots. On these occasions she made land grants to the abbots, as documented in the Ittilāq records.53 As we have seen, the second queen too shared a strong bond with the nearby Nimbārka pīth. This may have been because her wedding to Rāj Singh was brokered by _Nārāyandev Ācārya’s successor, Vrindāvandev Ācārya, who had been the abbot of the_ monastery from 1697 and would remain so till his death in 1740. This ascetic was influential as a counselor of the aforementioned Savāī Jai Singh II, whom he assisted in his religious reform projects to promote orthodoxy. According to the Bāṅkāvatī queen’s own testimony, her wedding took place in Vrindaban on Cīr Ghāt, probably in Jai Singh II’s headquarters.54 Once ensconsed in Kishangarh, the_ new queen maintained close links with Vrindāvandev Ācārya, whom she herself professed to be her guru in her later translation of Bhāgavata-purāna.55 _ 53

54

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Śaran 1966: 11; Śaran 1972: 241. The Kācchvāhī Queen may also have had links with the _ _ dīya Sampradāya via her natal town. Kaman is where the deity Rādhāvallabha or Gau _ Rādhāvallabha stayed from 1682 till 1785 (Entwistle 1987: 185) and the Gaudīya deity Govindadeva had been temporarily housed from 1671 till 1675, before Jai Singh II _had made it the chief presiding over his state in Jaipur’s new palace (Nath 1996: 168–9). It seems to have been also the center of activity of Krishnadeva Bhattācārya, an influential Gaudīya theologian who worked with Jai Singh II on the reform projects__ (Horstmann 2011: 188). _ Śarmā 1996: 1.12, 1.14–15. Also Clémentin-Ojha 1999: 86–8; Pauwels 2017: 30–2, 44–5. The area now called Jai Singh Gherā is adjacent to the Yamunā at Cīr Ghāt. There was a garden by 1705 (Habib 1996: 156), and it is said to have been built in 1707. A _map indicating the sites built by Jai Singh is provided in Case 2000: 13–14. This is close to Bihār Ghāt and Śrī Jī Ghāt, _ which was already associated with the Nimbārkīs as the site of the samādhi _of the important guru Harivyāsdev Ācārya, even if the now prominent Nimbārkī residence of Śrī Jī Kuñj was built much later in 1827 (Entwistle 1987: 404–5). Śarmā 1996: 1. 31–2; BDBh 1.1.1–6, 12.13.48–50.

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Figure 2.3 Śukadeva Muni Comes to Kishangarh and Is Received by All Inhabitants. Eighteenth century. Kishangarh, Rajasthan. Gouache on Paper. 40  55 cm. Museum für Asiatische Kunst, Berlin (SMB 47.113).

The Bāṅkāvatī queen was instrumental in inviting Vrindāvandev Ācārya to Rupnagar for an extended stay in 1725, an event documented with full details of expense.56 On this occasion, he brought along for worship the powerful Salemabad śāligrāma image, Sarveśvar Prabhu (on which, see ClémentinOjha 2000). He was received by the king and the women outside the city gates. Such important religious occasions were often commemorated in paintings; perhaps this one is referenced in a Kishangarhi image preserved in the Berlin Museum für Asiatische Kunst.57 It depicts in the upper half the arrival in town of a naked, long-haired, blue-skinned holy man, being greeted outside the city gate at the banks of the lake by the palace women as well as a separate delegation of the king and his courtiers (Figure 2.3). In the lower half of the 56

57

This visit is described with precise dates (from 1782 VS the 4th day of the dark half of Māgh till the last day of the dark half of Cait), registration of gifts, and full calculation of expenses in a historical document preserved in the Kishangarh archives, dated 1725 (1782 VS Ittilāq bahī), cited by Śaran 1966: 14 n.1. The image is _not dated. The Museum estimates that it dates from ca. 1780. If so, it may be a later copy of an earlier commemorative original. The image can be viewed via Artstor: https:// library-artstor-org/#/asset/BERLIN_DB_10313802805, last accessed July 3, 2022.

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painting, the same holy man figures again, here instructing in a sermon the king, his courtiers and a group of holy men. There are many different versions of the lower scene (among others, Figure 4.1), often interpreted as a mythical Bhāgavata recitation by the composer Śukadeva Muni, but likewise possibly intended to commemorate an actual such recitation ceremony, where the reciter was hailed as a Śukadeva (more on this in Section 4.1). The prominent presence of the ladies and the queen in the welcoming party suggests the Bāṅkāvatī queen’s influence in inviting her guru to town. Possibly it was the queen who commissioned the painting to commemorate the event. Vrindāvandev Ācārya is reported to have been a teacher of Nāgarīdās (Śaran 1966: 37–8). There is a painting on the wall in the abbot of _ Salemabad’s living quarters that shows him teaching music (as per the inscription: saṅgīt kī śiksā dete hue) to the young prince, as well as two other _ disciples, one of which is designated by an inscription to be none else than the controversial Ānandghan (image in Pauwels 2017: 46, fig. 2.3). While the painting is modern, it is based on an older, but uninscribed work preserved in Śrī Jī Kuñj in Vrindaban.58 Vrindāvandev Ācārya in the modern picture is reading from his collected works, Gītāmt-gaṅgā (GG). The work in its current edition includes at the very end, as the fourteenth chapter (ghāt), a musical instructional piece, that is however unsigned (1998: 189–92). It_ is a sort of reader’s digest, an abbreviated generic description of the basics of Hindustani music, probably intended for being learned by heart by young students. While neither the modern nor the older picture depict any women, one may suspect that as guru of Brajdāsī he also taught the same musicological text to the women in the zanānā. No one claims that Vrindāvandev Ācārya was also Banī-thanī’s guru. Yet, _ meeting of the he undoubtedly knew her. One of his poems describing the divine pair with rhyme on -ani seems to allude to her: Rāga Kānharau Darbārī dhani dhani āju kī gharī pyārī, padhārī piya paĩ bani thani _ badhī chavi dūna rī cūnarī pahirai, cūni aṅgiyā kasi bāndhī tani tani _ nakha sikha rūpa bharī vidhi āpa, karī kara ati kamanī mani vndāvana prabhu āi dhāi aṅka bharī, līnī kīnī rasabhīnī surata raṅgani

(GG 7.18, Ācārya 1998: 86)

Blessed is today’s moment, as the sweet girl, all dressed up (Banī-thanī), _ joined her lover. 58

Śaran (1966) provides a sketch of it facing page 38. Gupta also reports an old picture preserved _ by Bābū Rādhākrishnadās, but indicates that its whereabouts were already unclear in the 1960s (Gupta 1965: 1.34–5). It has also been claimed that Nāgarīdās himself made a miniature portrait of Vrindāvandev Ācārya, as well as of other disciples, which Śaran reports seeing in Kishangarh _ in 1946. He speculates that they were part of a pūjā collection (1972: 259).

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Her beauty is magnified by the shawl she wears, which matches her tightly tied bodice. From top to toe she has decked out herself beautifully, fixing on her arms a gorgeous jewel. Vrindāban’s Lord came running to embrace her and held her tight in passionate love play.

One suspects the bani thani of the refrain is a double entendre for Banī-thanī, a pun intended perhaps _teasingly, conceivably at some occasion when he_ found the prince and the performer together in what may have been a secret rendezvous. This impression is reinforced by the subsequent references to her fashionable outfit that shows off her beauty, the jewelry, and the fact that she has competently decked herself out.59 In fact, this very poem would fit well with the famous Portrait of Radha and if Karl Khandalavala had known of it, he might have used it to strengthen his argument it is based on the likeness of Banī-thanī. One wonders whether this possibly was a response elicited as the _ “portrait” was revealed at court? Incidentally, there is a Savaiyā with the same rhyme by one of the disciples of Vrindāvandev Ācārya, Ānandghan (whose name is sometimes reversed as Ghanānand): ura bhauna mẽ mauna ko ghūṅghata kai duri baithī birājati bāta banī _ lasai hulasai_ rasa rūpa manī mdu mãju padāratha bhūsana sõ su _ rasanā alī kāna galī madhi hvai padharāvati lai cita seja thanī ghana ānanda būjhani aṅka basai bilasai rijhavāra sujāna_ dhanī (Sujān-hit 191; Miśra 1950: 57)

In the heart’s quarters, hidden, silent behind her veil, thrones Lady Poesy, the bride. Sound and meaning, her ornaments sweet and charming, enchant the jewel of rasa personified. By Lady Speech,60 he’s led: through the aisles of the ears to Contemplation’s bridal bed. Ghanānand settles the mystery: the connoisseur (Sujān), her Lord, revels in her tight embrace.61

59

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Śarmā interprets this poem, together with many others by the Nimbārkan gurus Śrī Bhatt jī and __ Harivyāsdev Ācārya that include the words “bani thani” as an esoteric reference to a mañjarī sakhī of Rādhā, with whom he suggests Banī-thanī_ identified, as she was encouraged to do by _ a reference to banī in the queen’s Brajdāsīthe Bāṅkāvatī queen (1996: 1.88). He even finds bhāgavat. This occurs in the description of the seductive demoness Pūtanā, in a negative light, which Śarmā explains as an expression of the queen’s bitterness after her plans for her ward backfired, blaming her for the difficulties after the death of Rāj Singh (1.90–1). Literally, “the friend who is the tongue.” The pun is hard to translate: “the cloud of bliss (poet/Krishna) settles in riddle-solving/her lap.” To understand this poem, I have much benefited from Ghanshyam Sharma’s interpretation (2000: 540–1).

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The form and tone of this poem are quite different from Vrindāvandev Ācārya’s. It would be characterized as a Rīti poem with its clever reflection on the poetic process. In a sustained metaphor, the components of poetic speech are compared to the jewelry of the bride (banī), the meaning hidden behind the veil of silence (mauna kau ghūṅghata), and the groom as the true _ connoisseur who alone can understand her by “settling in her lap, equated with understanding” (būjhani aṅka basai). Ānandghan ends by challenging the listener, indicating that there is a “riddle” hidden in his poem. One might surmise it came about in response to the guru’s poem. Banī-thanī knew Ānandghan, as she quoted three of his songs in her Bayāz, two of _which were on the theme of Krishna’s flute (fol. 7r, 35v, 87v). It is tempting to see in this particular poem by Ānandghan a reference to the portrait “Lady with Veil” in the invocation of the “veil” or ghūṅghata, and the bridal imagery that would be _ However, this turns out to be one of fitting in a description of the painting. Ānandghan’s early works; it is already included in the manuscript written in Rupnagar in 1727, which is only the year Banī-thanī arrived in Kishangarh and too early for the portrait.62 Still, some of his other_ poems may well be in creative interaction with Vrindāvandev Ācārya (see Bangha 1998: 110–13, 144). There is further documentation of Vrindāvandev Ācārya’s literary connection with Rasikbihārī. While most of the Nimbārkan guru’s collected songs are in a more standardized Braj, some display features of the Rajasthani idiom that both Brajdāsī and Rasikbihārī had in common as noted earlier. This “zanānā” idiom fittingly is used by the guru for articulating Rādhā’s speech. Such songs employ Rajasthani verbal forms and pronouns, frequently associated with Ḍhdhādī (e.g., Gītāmt-gaṅgā 8.33, p. 101). One of those marked _ edition _ “Marvādī” in the represents a charming exchange between Krishna and _ Rādhā (Rajasthani elements underlined):63 pyārā lāgo cho jī pyārā the to mhnaĩ64 mhkī cālai to thnẽ chātī saũ, kade kar nah nyārā sūrati thharī kāmanagārī . . .65 thharī ch jī araja _kar ch, darasana dejyau dhūtār śrī vndāvana prabhu dar lāg saũ, _nahĩ to cāl thākī lār _ (GG 13.26, Ācārya 1998: 161)

62 63 64

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Bangha 1998: 88, confirmed in personal communication, July 27, 2022. Still, there are Ḍhdhādī features in the mix, especially the substantive verb ch/cho and the genitive pronoun on_ -kī._ Several poems in this edition have the refrain reversed: The rhyming word pyārā here should be at the end. This may be a feature of the songs having been recorded straight from oral performance. This seems to be the missing half line to fill out the refrain.

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You look so sweet, you’re so dear to me. If I had my way, I would never let you leave my chest. Your face is bewitching . . . I am yours, I beg you to give me a rendezvous, you cheat.66 Vrindāban’s Lord, I’m afraid of [what people say],67 otherwise, I would have joined68 you.

The guru speaks in the voice of Rādhā, mentioning Krishna’s bewitching qualities. The keyword kāmanagārī, or “bewitching,” is found in several of Rasikbihārī’s songs in more _Rajasthani idiom, one of which in her Bayāz resembles that of the guru’s: saĩna raṅgīlā sāmvalā, ho mana mohana pīva _  āgaĩ hī rahau, _ ākhiy pala pala vāraũ jīva mhārau jiya thmaĩ basaĩ, prītama parama anūpa rasika bihārī mana thagyo, kmanagārau rūpa _ _

(RB 9, fol. 2v)

Your secret signs signal passion, Dark One. You stole my heart, my dear. Remain within my sight. For every blink of the eye, I give up my life. My heart belongs with you, my dearest, beyond all compare. Rasika Bihārī, my heart was waylaid by your bewitching beauty.

Was this song inspired by the Nimbārkan guru’s? One could imagine he gave a religious discourse in the zanānā during which he mentioned the bewitching power of Krishna, and used that very word, kāmanagārau, which is rare _ enough to warrant a gloss in a footnote by the editor Kiśorīlāl Gupta.69 Possibly, this sermon was intended for the palace ladies, but the gathering may have been broader, and Nāgarīdās himself may also have been present for that occasion, as the word occurs in one of his poems too, and this one too employs the first person Rajasthani pronoun and repeats the Marwari genitive postposition for rhyme: re sāmvaliyau sājana mhrau _ rūpa thagārau kāmanagārau, mohai mana sagal rau _ _ hiya maĩ basiyau rasiyau lobhī, madana mantra bain rau nāgarīdāsa huvau mana cedo, matavālā nain rau _ _ (PMĀ 529, Gupta 1965: 1.424) _

66 67

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Dhūtārā is synonymous with dhūrta (HŚS). I’m following here the suggestion of Dr. Swapna Sharma of Yale University. Alternatively: “I’m afraid of your spell” as lāg [cf. H. lāg-, lagnā], can mean “trick, sleight of hand (as of a conjurer); a charm, spell” (OHED). Lār [*lārā-], f. can mean “continuous line, row; string, succession” and as an adverb “in the company (of, kī); following” (OHED). Gupta 1965: 1.424 and 414 fn. The word is not to be confused with the Persian kamān-gar “bow maker” or kamān-gīr “bow drawer” (Steingass), though perhaps a pun might be intended.

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The Queen and the Slave Girl O my dark handsome lover. Your bewitching beauty has waylaid me, enchanting my heart wholesale. Dwell in my heart, you eager lover, with the maddening spell of your words. Nāgarīdās [says]: “my heart has become the slave of your intoxicating eyes.”

This forms a nice duet with Rasikbihārī’s. Besides the key term kāmanagārau, both songs share the reference to Krishna as sāmvalā/-au. She uses a_ form of _ the verb “to trick” thagyo, whereas he uses the adjective derived from the same _ verb: thagārau “enchanting,” which forms an internal rhyme with _ kāmanagārau, and its ending - rau is echoed throughout in the end rhyme. _ It is a nice example of intertextuality, probably stemming from a shared performance, perhaps a type of samasyāpūrti or “filling out the blanks” of a riddle, embroidering on a given theme. This literary couple is known to have taken part in mushā‘irah-like settings, where a certain basic theme is given, and the participants are asked to improvise around it (see Section 4.1). Given what is commonly assumed about Rasikbihārī’s physical traits, in particular her eyes that supposedly became the model for Rādhā’s in the paintings, it seems natural to read a compliment into his last line. The prince may have intended this not just as Krishna’s flattery to Rādhā, but also his own for the attractive young singer. If we read first his poem, followed by hers, it is tempting to conclude that he paid her a compliment under cover of the song, and she responded in kind, acknowledging right at the beginning of her response that she understood his “secret hints” (saina). Did the guru catch on to what was going on between the young singer and the prince and compose his poem as a teasing reply, or perhaps hinting she should care about possible gossip? As worldly demonstrations of love mix fluidly with the expressed love for Krishna, it seems love knows no gender boundaries. In Nāgarīdās’ poem, there may be some gender-bending going on: On one level, in the first three lines the subject position can be that of male devotee assuming a feminine voice toward Krishna. In the last line, as he takes the masculine pen name Nāgarīdās, he seems to shift to Krishna’s response, declaring himself subordinate (cedo) to _ for Rādhā. Simultaneously, as a male author, he is expressing appreciation physique of the pretty singer. The literary exchange may have another gendered dimension yet, if we consider the idiom used: Like Vrindāvandev Ācārya, Nāgarīdās too uses Rajasthani (the first-person pronoun mhrau in the refrain). If this idiom is associated with the zanānā as “women’s language,” one wonders whether we see here turned upside down the norms of “influence” that usually are seen to flow from holy man, or patron(ess), to woman devotee/ servant. It is impossible now to reconstruct the circumstances of the composition of these songs, but it seems fair to say that their intertextuality was enjoyed by all composers, allowing at least for a momentary overturning of hierarchies.

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A crisis came in 1740 when Vrindāvandev Ācārya passed away. Jai Singh II immediately intervened. In line with his orthodox interests, he sought to ensure that abbots of major religious centers settled down in regular matrimony. Given the opportunity of an open position, he wished to install a householder as the next abbot, even if the sect had a long tradition of ascetic abbots. Jai Singh backed a householder-devotee of Vrindāvandev Ācārya to become the new head of the monastery and even arranged for the investiture that was witnessed by several Rajput kings to confirm his choice (Clémentin-Ojha forthcoming: 17–18). This met with strong opposition from the inmates of the monastery, who had put forth an ascetic like themselves. This incident seems to have precipitated a rift between the brothers Sāvant Singh and Bahādur Singh who were on opposite sides of the issue. It must have been very uncomfortable for the Bāṅkāvatī queen and we can now appreciate why she diplomatically chose to keep referring to her deceased guru Vrindāvandev Ācārya in her aforementioned Brajdāsī-bhāgavat. Naming either of his proposed successors was bound to irk one of her stepsons. 2.5

Pilgrimages to the Holy Land of Braj

Did the queen influence the spiritual development of the young singer in her retinue and take her on pilgrimage to the holy land of Braj? The Nimbārka Sampradāya claims she did and that Rasikbihārī was initiated in a branch of the Haridāsa Sampradāya affiliated with their own sect (Śaran 1972; Śarmā 1996). _ The Haridāsa Sampradāya is named for the sixteenth-century guru Svāmī Haridās of Vrindaban. It is often nicknamed Sakhī Sampradāya because they encourage emulation of the sakhīs or “handmaidens” of Rādhā and Krishna. Male devotees engage in cross-dressing to express this type of devotion for the divine pair, which has caused some criticism from orthodox quarters. Haridās himself was uninterested in philosophy, but later, under Jai Singh II, his followers were pressured into aligning with orthodox sects that had a strong philosophical basis. The ascetic branch of the sect chose to affiliate with the Nimbārkans around the 1750s.70 As we shall see, that was exactly the time Rasikbihārī was present in Vrindaban (Section 5.2). One recent publication spins the story that the Nimbārkan queen foresightedly spotted the young girl, specified to be an orphan of the Gurjar or Ahīr caste, begging in Vrindaban. She took the beggar under her wing, baptized her Visnupriyā or “Dear to Vishnu” and helped her in her spiritual development. _ young lady matured, the queen renamed her Banī-thanī, raising her to As_ the _ stepson Sāvant be a good partner-in-worship for her devotionally inclined 70

The householders by contrast chose an affiliation with the Visnusvāmī Sampradāya (Entwistle __ 1987: 194).

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Singh (Śarmā 1996: 1.18, 1.90–1). The custom that slaves are renamed by their new owner to mark the new relationship is here transformed into religious conversion (Sreenivasan 2006: 143). This twentieth-century story bespeaks unease about Banī-thanī’s origins as a slave and contradicts the evidence quoted above (Section 2.1)_ that she already had the nickname Banī-thanī when she was _ service. purchased in Delhi and was only later appointed in the queen’s The name Visnupriyā is often mentioned as Banī-thanī’s birth name in _ _ that cite the inscription on the slave _ secondary sources girl’s memorial (samādhi) to that effect. Unfortunately, the inscription is no longer legible. It has to be reconstructed from earlier transcriptions and an old photo on which some parts are still legible. The name occurs at the beginning of the third last line, with only the first letters visible. It was reconstructed by some as Visnu __ (priyāhi) (Śarmā 1996: 1.20), but this is hypermetrical; others give Visnu(hi), _ _ which is congruent with what is visible on the photo and is metrically correct.71 The same inscription is also cited for the name of Banī-thanī’s guru, _ Rasikdās, and the latter’s guru, Narhari of Vrindaban. Unfortunately, these names are in the part that was already illegible in the old photograph, but according to Faiyāz ‘Alī Khān, this evidence is corroborated in the Ittilāq, but he neglects to quote the exact words (2015: 390). Secondary literature identifies this Rasikdās with Rasikdev of the ascetic branch of the Haridāsī sect (Śaran 1972: 291). He was a controversial character who tried to broaden the _ sakhī-oriented approach of the Haridāsīs. He was indeed a disciple of Narharidev but had fallen out with his guru and was expelled from Haridās’ original site of Nidhi Ban, even forced to leave Vrindaban for a while. Upon return, he founded the first independent seat of ascetic Haridāsīs. Rasikdev set up an image for worship called Rasika Bihārī, and he himself used the chāp Rasikbihārī in his poetry.72 Perhaps the association of Banī-thanī with this _ guru came about because of the shared chāp, Rasikbihārī. Alternatively, Banī-thanī’s pen name could also be taken as a reference to her personal preferred_ deity (istadevatā), presumably Rasikdev’s image, _ _ signatures often refer to a deity, though Rasika Bihārī. Women devotees’ they usually add their own name: famously Mīrā would sign off with Mīrā ke prabhu Giridhara Nāgara “Mīrā’s Lord is the clever Mountain lifter.” 71

72

The picture is published in Śarmā 1996 facing page 1.24. Most transcriptions rely on that by Śaran, who had a sectarian interest in confirming Rasikbihārī as a Haridāsī-Nimbārkan. All _ versions include minor differences, due to diverging interpretations of the characters. More on the inscription below (Section 5.2). Mītal 1968: 470–2; Śaran 1972: 119–20. He seems to have brought this image from Dungarpur, though some say it was_ discovered in Nidhi Ban. The history of the temple and its image is described in Gopāl Kavi’s Vrindāban-dhāmānurāgāvalī, in the chapter (no. 18): Śrī Rasikbihārī jī ke mandir kā prasaṅg. The poetry of the Ācāryas of the Haridāsīs is not easy to access due to the secrecy of the Sampradāya. One example of Rasikdās’ work with chāp Rasikbihārī is presented and translated in Haynes 1974: 114. Other extracts are in Gosvāmī 2000: 284–5.

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Banī-thanī however does so only once: She signs with rasika bihārī nāha _ at the end of a series of Dohās that is included in Nāgarīdās’ Utsav(nātha) mālā (UM 123–6). Her discipleship would explain her poetic name with reference to this image, so it is natural to assume a connection. The direct link with Rasikdev may actually be an anachronism, as the dates of Rasikdev seem to belie the connection: He died in 1701, before Rasikbihārī was born.73 During Rasikbihārī’s lifetime, the guru of this branch, and pūjārī of the image would have been rather Rasikdev’s disciple Pītāmbardev. Significantly, he was involved in the alignment of this branch of the Haridāsīs with the Nimbārkans under pressure of Jai Singh II. One of his disciples, Kiśordās, authored the polemic hagiographical compendium Nij-mat-siddhānt that supported his group’s alignment with the Nimbārkans around 1750 (Pauwels 2002: 202–3). These debates were not purely academic; the period was characterized by bitter dispute between different branches within the Haridāsīs, as well as with other Sampradāyas. There was even a tussle by the ascetics to wrest control of the famous deity now known as Bāṅke Bihārī from the householder branch of the sect (Entwistle 1987: 179–80). In other words, it is unclear who was Rasikbihārī’s guru. It is possible that she aligned with the Haridāsīs only in the later part of her life, when she had settled with Nāgarīdās in Vrindaban, presumably in Nāgarī Kuñj, which was close to Nimbārkan sites (Section 5.2). Her Bayāz includes one citation of a poem by Haridās, but only toward the end of the manuscript (fol. 99a, poem 176; after the poems that signal her arrival in Braj on fol. 89v; see Appendix).74 What gives pause is that there are no other quotes of poems by Haridās or any of his followers in the Bayāz. On the other hand, there is a significant Haridāsī presence in Nāgarīdās’ Pad-muktāvalī, among the diverse group of poets he quotes, including seven songs by Haridās himself, and many of his followers.75 He even cites one by Narharidās, the guru of Banī-thanī’s _ this. purported guru (PMĀ 733). It is hard to know how much to make of

73

74 75

According to Gupta, the date is 1758 VS (1965: 1.47; also Mītal 1968: 472). Khān (2015: 391) gives 1741 or 1798 VS, which would make a connection possible. In support, he quotes a hagiographic fragment, but without attribution. It is probably from Nij-mat-siddhānta (avasāna khanda); unfortunately this volume is not available for verification. _ The_ song in question is Kelimāl 24, with refrain sughara bhaye hau bihārī yāhī chāmha taĩ _ “Bihārī became expert, but in her shadow/ under her tutelage” (Rosenstein 1997: 157, 287). PMĀ 176, 420, 583, 621, 638, 648–9. Significantly the very first poem quoted in this anthology is by the Haridāsī Bihārinidās (PMĀ 1; Kh fol. 1); this out of a total of seven of his songs quoted (PMĀ 14, 19, 100, 581, 644, 650). The invocation on the first folio of Kh though is Rādhāvallabho jayati. In addition, there are four songs by Vitthal Vipul (PMĀ 137, 462–3, __ and app. 6), and two by his 633), two by the ācārya who was Nāgarīdās’ namesake (PMĀ 580 pupil Naval Sakhī (PMĀ 422, 474).

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We cannot rule out that the samādhi inscription may be an attempt to claim her posthumously for the Haridāsī ascetics that were affiliated with the Nimbārka Sampradāya. There is some evidence though that a Vrindaban deity known as Bihārī Jī may have held some special attraction for our poetess. In his pilgrimage report, Tīrthānand or “The Pilgrim’s Bliss” from 1753, Nāgarīdās related how upon arrival in Vrindaban, she went to sing in front of the deity, “Bihārī”: Passionately, Bihārinī, fully adorned (banī), Approached her beloved Bihārī. With these very eyes, [I] drank in Their exquisite and incomparable loveliness. Thereupon we sang songs on the occasion of reunion (ausara samjoga) _ And in between, songs with Rasikbihārī’s signature (bhoga). (TĀ 33–4, Gupta 1965: 2.198)

The word banī in the first verse may well refer to Banī-thanī, especially _ because he mentions that songs with the bhog or chāp, Rasikbihārī, were sung. Yet, this passage raises more questions than it provides answers. First, is it a description of Banī-thanī approaching the deity in person, or should we _ read it as a mythic scenario? If the first, does the plural first person pronoun “we” refer to both of them, or is it a royal plural for Nāgarīdās alone? Another question regards the precise identity of the Bihārī image in front of which these songs were sung. With the hindsight of contemporary pilgrimage patterns in Vrindaban, it seems natural to assume it was the now famous Haridāsī image Bāṅke Bihārī. The late specialist of Braj, Alan Entwistle, though assumed that it was Rasika Bihārī, the image of Rasikdev (1987: 408). In that case, one wonders whether the songs with chāp Rasikbihārī that Nāgarīdās mentioned were perhaps by the seventeenthcentury Haridāsī guru rather than by our poetess. Another puzzling element is the remark that this was an “occasion of reunion.” Is the intended meaning the reunion of the divine lovers, or of Nāgarīdās and Rasikbihārī with the beloved deity in Vrindaban, or simply a more mundane one of the prince with his concubine? Perhaps she had been in Vrindaban all along, staying with her guru, waiting for Sāvant Singh to arrive. On the basis of current evidence, there is no way to tell, but this little piece in the puzzle, even if it does not fit perfectly, confirms that at least posthumously she was associated with the Haridāsīs, possibly with Rasikdev’s deity Rasika Bihārī. From the hindsight of the layout of modern Vrindaban, the concubine’s association with the ascetic branch of the Haridāsīs-Nimbārkīs may surprise, given that their modern heirs are conservative and notoriously averse to women visiting their establishments, in particular the famous one of Tattī-sthān. However, that encampment was founded actually by a different _ __

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follower of Rasikdev, not the custodian of Rasika Bihārī.76 It would be anachronistic, though, to situate that image in the current temple that houses the Rasika Bihārī image, which is known as Chatarpurvālī Kuñj. That was built later, financed by the Bundela king of Chatarpur.77 What seems highly likely is that toward the end of her life, Rasikbihārī stayed with Sāvant Singh in Vrindaban in the mansion now known as Nāgarī Kuñj. This was erected on the behest of the Bāṅkāvatī queen so the Kishangarh house would have its own pied-à-terre in the holy city. Begun in 1730 (1787 VS), the building is located right off Śrī Jī Ghāt, where there is a memorial to the Nimbārkan Harivyāsdev Ācārya, the guru of_ the founder of the Salemabad Pīth.78 Thanks to the devout queen, even after his exile, Sāvant Singh had a _ in the pilgrimage town in which to spend the rest of his life. But we are resort getting ahead of the story; these events are discussed in due time in Chapter 5. 2.6

Concerts in Cosmopolitan Shahjahanabad

At least since the time of Rāj Singh, the Kishangarh house also maintained a residence in Shahjahanabad near Daryaganj but on the Yamunā side.79 Rāj Singh frequently spent time in the capital, especially during Muhammad Shāh’s reign. The vibrant local cultural scene with its multiple festivals, literary gatherings, and musical soirées is well-known thanks to a contemporaneous Deccani visitor’s description popularly referred to as “Marvels of Delhi” or Muraqqa‘ -e Dehlī.80 This lively report of the Delhi entertainment scene was penned in Persian by the Deccani official Navāb Dargāh Qulī Ḳhān Bahādur Sālar Jang during his sojourn in the capital on a diplomatic mission that lasted from 1737 until 1741. One musical fashion of the time was that of Kabitt, which was practiced by court musicians as well as courtesans.81 Another genre, Khayāl, was performed at noblemen’s gatherings as well as at the “colorful” imperial court of Muhammad Shāh ‘Rangīle” by his famous

76 77 78 79

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Entwistle 1987: 416. A handy schematic overview of the branches is given by Haynes (1974: 92). Entwistle 1987: 408. Both Rasikdev and his guru hailed originally from Bundelkhand, which explains the Chatarpur connection. Śaran 1966: 15; Entwistle 1987: 404–5. H.H._ Mahārāj Brajrāj Singh, personal communication July 25, 2011. “Kishangarh Rāja’s House” is located on the lower right on the map of 1857 in Hearn 1906: facing p. 172. For a description of the main street leading to the Fort, with anecdotes from the tumultuous first half and middle of the eighteenth century, see Gole 1988:18–23. An (abbreviated) English translation was published by Shekhar and Chenoy 1989; for a summary, see Hasan 1995: 15–33. Muraqqa‘ -e Dehlī, Shekhar and Chenoy 1989: 78–9, 83–4, 93, 98, 102, 123; see also Trivedi 2012: 115–16; Brown 2006; 2010: 163.

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singers “Sadārang” and “Adārang.”82 One such popular soirée was regularly hosted by ‘Umdat ul-Mulk Amīr Ḳhān “Anjām,” portrayed on the aforementioned painting of Rāj Singh with the emperor and Jai Singh II. The Muraqqa‘ -e Dehlī reported that Anjām sponsored a Khayāl singer named Rahīm Ḳhān Jahānī (Shekhar and Chenoy 1989: 83; see also Brown 2010: 163). _ These cosmopolitan fashions did not fail to influence the visitors from Kishangarh. We have already seen that the queen composed works called “Khyāl” (Section 2.2), and so did Nāgarīdās and Ānandghan. Rasikbihārī’s Bayāz also marks certain compositions called thus.83 Mostly Nāgarīdās’ but also some of her own are marked with the musical beat of Ikatāla, which is characteristic for the musical genre Khayāl.84 Two verses in her Bayāz are designated “Kabitt.”85 There is a set of seven Kavittas and one Savaiyā that are unsigned in her manuscript (fols. 8v–9v.). They were modified to accommodate the chāp of Nāgarīdās and included in his oeuvre, under Chūtak-kavitt (51–8). As we will see, Rasikbihārī composed some Kavittas and _Savaiyās herself for a monsoon recital, also preserved in Nāgarīdās collected works. Most importantly, both she and Nāgarīdās composed also in the new genre de rigueur at the time, called Rekhtā, about all of which more below (Section 4.4). The Bāṅkāvatī queen seems to have sojourned in the capital regularly. It has been documented that in 1732 (1789 VS), she hosted there a special religious function (Arcā Samāroh) for her personal deity Bāṅke Brajalocana to which were invited singers and ascetics from Salemabad and Vrindaban (Śāstrī 1972: 281). Perhaps one similar earlier gathering occasioned the production of a manuscript that the Oxford scholar Imre Bangha has brought to scholarly attention, which was written down in Delhi in 1729, now preserved at the Rajasthan Oriental Research Institute in Jodhpur (J).86 It contains Bihārī’s Satsaī, followed by Savaiyā-Kavittas by the controversial Nimbārkan ascetic Ānandghan, as well as recently composed works by the young Nāgarīdās (Bangha 2011). As we learned from the Amer (Jaipur) examples above, Bihārī’s Satsaī was used for palace women’s instruction. It seems feasible that the manuscript was started as a study text for the Bāṅkāvatī queen on the 82 83

84 85 86

Du Perron 2010, Schofield 2018b. For a short history of Khayāl in Delhi, see Trivedi 2012: 112–15. Bayāz fol. 43r, 48r, fol. 78r, fol. 89r, and Khyāl Marwārī on fol. 101r. In terms of the flexibility of that genre, it is interesting to note that one of Ānandghan’s Khyāl compositions made it into Rāslīlā or music-theatrical performances of Krishna’s life, as described by a witness in Farrukhabad in 1757 (Bangha 1997: 236). Widdess 2013.1: xix; foreword to Magriel and du Perron 2013. Actually used for both the meters known as Kavitta and Savaiyā; fols. 1r, 3r. 1786 VS Śrāvan śukla 11. Jodhpur RORI no. 9431. For a published description of this manuscript Bangha 2011. I am grateful to Professor Bangha for sharing the images he took of this manuscript, as well as his written notes on the manuscript and speculation about how it was bound.

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occasion of a visit to Shahjahanabad. Would the family have hosted in Delhi a smaller scale satsaṅg like the one in 1732, here too with Nimbārkans present? Ānandghan is often associated with the court of Muhammad Shāh, and one wonders whether the Kishangarh connection was made in Delhi, and he subsequently joined the Salemabad ashram, or the other way around, whether he arrived as part of the Nimbārkan entourage joined the Bāṅkāvatī queen’s gatherings and accompanied the male family members to the imperial court. In any case, we can assume that he was closely associated with the same milieu in which Rasikbihārī moved. Ānandghan is famed as an innovator who composed according to a new aesthetics, which foregrounded love rather than the beloved, and focused on its expression rather than description. He is regarded as the first to bring a more personal experience to Hindi poetry (Bangha 2005). According to legend, this reflects an unlucky love affair with a Muslim courtesan named Sujān, which scandalized his contemporaries who attacked him viciously (Bangha 2000: 527–31). He may have given up this style of composition; in any case his poetry was redacted to conform to the devotional paradigm of the Nimbārkans. This is evident in the 1729 manuscript, which at least at some stage must have been preserved in a Nimbārkan milieu connected with the Kishangarh royal family.87 Interestingly, at some point his “secular” poetry was “restored,” and this was carried out by none else than the queen’s Vallabhan guru, Vrajnāth Bhatt (Bangha 2001; 2005; 2011). __ Again, we find that the Kishangarh zanānā world was far from provincial, as it maintained connections with the main center of cultural production at the time, Delhi. The young Kishangarhi singer could benefit in her formative years of the dense literary network built up by the queen and her guru. There seem to have been multiple trips to Delhi. The Tavārīḳh reports that in 1739, Banīthanī was in Shahjahanabad with the Bāṅkāvatī queen when the invader Nādir _ Shāh’s army approached. They managed to escape the ensuing massacre only in the nick of time. According to some, it was from the roof of the mosque of Raushan ud-Daula in Faiz Bazar, not far from the Kishangarh family’s Delhi residence, that Nādir Shāh witnessed the bloodbath he allowed his troops to indulge in (Gole 1988: 22–3). But the Kishangarhi palace women had managed to return home safely. By this time, Banī-thanī would have already been _ 87

In the pages at the beginning of the manuscript (Bangha speculates they were bound with the manuscript at a later stage), other poetry by Nāgarīdās was noted down in a less formal hand, as well as a section in praise of the Salemabad monastery, starting with: Śrī salembāda sarbopara subha sathna parmadhāma, “Holy Salemabad is the highest auspicious abode, the ultimate paradise” (on fol. 5r if we start counting from the first inscribed page; however the pages are bound in the wrong sequence). The verses of Ānandghan in the 1729 manuscript (J) themselves were probably copied from a 1727 one written in Rupnagar, now preserved in Jaipur, see Bangha 1998: 53–4.

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involved with Sāvant Singh, though she might not yet have had the official status of pāsbān. The next chapter sorts out the course of their romance on the basis of available evidence. *** Young Banī-thanī came of age in the entourage of Kishangarh’s Bāṅkāvatī _ a hierarchical environment where she entered at the bottom as queen. This was a slave. Yet, as an apprentice in the musical department, she could avail herself of the avenues of social mobility via performance. She would become wellacquainted with the classical so-called Rīti poetry of more mundane erotic character used in zanānā instruction, in particular Bihārī’s Satsaī. In addition, she was steeped in the world of Rādhā and Krishna literature Nimbārkan style, influenced by the queen’s venerable guru Vrindāvandev Ācārya, who possibly even instructed her in music. The queen sponsored many musical and religious events that ensured the young talented singer of maximal exposure to the poetic and musical fashions of the time. This was reinforced through pilgrimages to the holy land of Braj, where at this time of religious ferment, realignment of sectarian identities was in full swing, including that of a branch of the Haridāsīs that affiliated with the Nimbārka Sampradāya. Banī-thanī would have heard their devotional songs, which may have inspired her_ pen name Rasikbihārī, or possibly she took initiation from the custodian of the Haridāsī shrine of the deity Rasika Bihārī in Vrindaban. Besides the Braj idiom, she also used the distinctive Rajasthani one in which the queen herself composed. This more domestic register was also picked up by Vrindāvandev Ācārya and Nāgarīdās as they adopted the voice of women longing for Krishna themselves. Rasikbihārī’s poetic output may well predate that of the queen, but in any case, the Kishangarh zanānā was an important milieu for Classical Hindi-Rajasthani devotional poetry. Banī-thanī is known to have been able to hold her own in poetic exchanges _ with Nāgarīdās, but she also could do the same with her mistress’ influential “godfathers,” who were heavily involved in the reform projects of Jai Singh II of Jaipur. There is evidence that the queen’s Nimbārkan guru Vrindāvandev Ācārya took note of the young singer in his poetry. One of his poems may even bear on the famous portrait “Lady with Veil.” Banī-thanī was also in contact with the queen’s Vallabhan teacher, Vrajnāth Bhatt,_ whom she cites in her Bayāz. During this formative period, Rasikbihārī__ was exposed to a new aesthetic: the Kishangarh court hosted Ānandghan, who is famed for “modern” romantic expression of personal feelings of unreciprocated love. In addition, regular visits to cosmopolitan Shahjahanabad kept Rasikbihārī up-to-date with the latest poetic and musical trends in the capital, such as Khayāl and Kabitt. She enjoyed composition sessions in the new genres, in

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which again Vrindāvandev Ācārya, Ānandghan, as well as Nāgarīdās took part. A different image appears here of the Nimbārkan guru, complementing his better-known role in military reforms of the day. The view from the zanānā shows how he was also interested in poetic and musical experimentation, adopting a woman’s voice and idiom in his Krishna devotional poetry, and perhaps teasing his beautiful ward as she was romanced by the prince. In short, Rasikbihārī did not come of age in a provincial backwater, but in a dynamic multilingual, cosmopolitan environment, where, by all accounts she was in her element. She was surrounded by important players who noticed her rising star. It was clear early on that there was more to Banī-thanī than good looks and _ fashionable stylishness.

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Figure 3.1 Sawant Singh and Bani Thani in a Mango Grove attributed partly to Nihālcand. Ca. 1735–50. Kishangarh, Rajasthan. Painting on paper. 26  18.5 cm. National Museum, New Delhi Collection (63.798).

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Becoming the Prince’s Concubine

How did the talented young slave girl manage to become a concubine? The visual starting point of this chapter is a painting said to represent Banī-thanī _ and Sāvant Singh in a tender tête-à-tête, secretly observed by two women (Figure 3.1). Can we tap into the channels of eavesdropping in the harem to trace how she became his beloved? What was the route from slave to concubine like within the hierarchical harem structures just described? Was it easy sailing for the elegant harem performer, or did she encounter resistance? Was Banī-thanī by virtue of her slave status a kind of “Miss All Dressed Up” with _ to go? no place The tale of the love story between the prince and the concubine is readymade for the movies. In Bollywood, romance is overdetermined by music and camerawork. The signs of incipient love are made apparent through zooming in on meaningful glances, lingering looks, blushing, flustering, absentmindedness, the quickening of the pulse . . . all against the backdrop of a dramatic musical score. None of this is visible when all we have is words on the page of devotional poetry and idealized images. How can we document the blossoming romance of Sāvant Singh and the young Banī-thanī? Where do we find personal love in an environment already saturated_ with the tropes of the Rādhā–Krishna romance? Where are the lovers behind the singer-devotees? Before delving into the archives for the relationship between Sāvant Singh and Banī-thanī, one should consider the pitfalls of the enterprise. The problem is how to _ read romance in retrospect, back in time. How do we identify the subtle hints and deliberate clues in the hierarchical world of the zanānā, without privacy? Overinterpretation is a real danger. We have only paintings without captions and words on a page that were intended to be performed in singing with artistic gestures. We have no record at all of choreography, of musical composition, of interaction with musicians. We can only guess at the emotionally expressive performance style, abhinaya, on the basis of contemporary productions. In particular, we are in the dark about the facial expressions that may hint at the double entendre meaning of the texts. In interpreting the sources, there is a danger of anachronism, not just in projecting contemporary notions of performance, but also of love and passion 99

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in the past. What does love as we understand it have to do with it? Are domestic arrangements like concubinage determined by anything more than the underlying material economies? If trained slaves represent an investment in their patron’s prestige, can concubines, like courtesans, be considered anything else than simply “part of the ritualistic display of kingship for princely rulers” (Jha 2015: 145)? With those caveats in mind, thinking through the available clues in more detail for each set of sources, it is still worthwhile to comb through visual (Section 3.1) and poetic materials, both his (Section 3.2) and her poetry collections (Section 3.3). This raises questions bringing pressure on the received “cyber-orientalist” story of romance that is read anachronistically, backwards in time. 3.1

A Romance in Pictures: Simultaneously Revealed and under Wraps

Sometimes, the Kishangarhi images are treated as snapshots documenting the pair’s involvement. Leaving aside the Rādhā–Krishna paintings for a moment, let us focus on the ones that are purported to represent Banī-thanī in the _ portrayed company of Sāvant Singh. A question arises: How do we know they the prince and this concubine? Thus far, little support has been provided for the identifications made in publications. The hero portrayed may well have been intended to represent Sāvant Singh, and this is inscribed in some cases, but the claim for the heroine being Banī-thanī has not to my knowledge been substan_ tiated by captions on the paintings themselves or archival materials about them. The attributions seem to be based mainly on the assumption that the lady with the exaggerated profile, if not clearly representing the Goddess Rādhā, especially when lacking a halo, is the concubine Banī-thanī. We are _ back to relying on the art-historical discourse of the mid-twentieth century (Section 1.3–1.4). There is a logical conundrum, as the assumption that Banīthanī’s features underlie the depiction of Rādhā determines the identification of _ potential portraits, which in turn are seen to prove the model theory. her To be sure, Kishangarh painters were perfectly capable of successfully executing portraits based on observation. This is well-demonstrated in the humorous paintings that, even when inspired by Deccani examples, charicaturized real local people (Crill 2010: 38–9). Navina Haidar has convincingly argued that the patron for these was none other than Sāvant Singh (2000). There are several portraits of the prince, including some inscribed ones (one such in Pauwels 2015: plate 7). His likeness, with a little cosmetic touch-up, was clearly the model for the idealized hero in the images. But how can we know Banī-thanī was his heroine? The argument that she was behind purdah _ here: Whatever may be the case for Rajput women portraits does not apply generally (discussed in Section 1.2), as a performer, Banī-thanī’s likeness was _

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accessible to draw, certainly once she had become Sāvant Singh’s concubine (pāsbān), and at the latest when she joined him in exile. There is evidence for what looks like her public debut in 1742, when she crossed gender boundaries, transitioning from all-female zanānā entertainment to the male-dominated sphere of durbar performance (see Section 4.1). It is then quite likely that portraits of Banī-thanī were indeed made, based on observation, and some _ discussed below. To further our understanding of what likely candidates are was going on, we bring them into relation with one another, picking up on interocular connections. The image at the beginning of this chapter (Figure 3.1) makes for a good case study to begin with. Estimated to date from circa 1735–50,1 it depicts a gorgeously-attired young lady seated near an attractive young man in a mango grove, their toes gently touching. Both figures have halos, and the man’s skin color is slightly blueish, suggestive of the divine pair Krishna and Rādhā,2 yet Dickinson and Khandalavala identified them as Sāvant Singh and Banī-thanī _ and the (now retired) curator at the National Museum in Delhi, Vijay Mathur, 3 followed suit. Neither spelled out their thinking behind the identification, but possibly the hero was assumed to be Sāvant Singh because he is decked out regally, with sword and shield resting next to him.4 What about the heroine? The young lady’s profile in this image sports the prominent nose, arched brows, and elongated eyes, but so does Sāvant Singh’s: The lovers have come to ressemble one another. There certainly is a close connection of the young lady with “Lady with Veil”: The right hand is positioned similarly, as if the artist traced it with the same thin vellum used for copying (charba). Here though, she is not holding a veil, the hand nearly touches her chin and could also be a gesture of astonishment (āścarya), often expressed by a finger raised to the lip. Perhaps she is admiring the gorgeous prince or she may be intrigued with what the prince is holding out to her, perhaps a liquor cup.5 The rendezvous portrayed must be a secret one, as a lady with an old crone observing the pair are hidden in the bushes. It is not clear whether they are critical of the clandestine ongoings, or supportive. The old crone may have brought her young ward to the tryst, conforming to genre (visual and literary) stereotypes. Her 1 2 3

4 5

See Mathur 2000: 52–3; Dickinson and Khandalavala suggested that Nihālcand was the one responsible at least for the two principal figures (1959: 42–3, pl. 12). An earlier curator of the National Museum, Adris Banerji, saw it as a tryst of Rādhā and Krishna “with two women talking, possibly Jatila and Kutila” (1954: 16). Dickinson and Khandalavala put it as a rhetorical question “who can doubt?” and offer a lyrical poem, but do not say that it is based on any original one on the back, merely that they were inspired by the painting. The poem could be related vaguely to Litho 30, Utsav-mālā Dohā 145–8 (see Section 3.3). Mathur did not comment (2000: 52–3, pl. 8). For this identifyer, see Losty 2019: 54. Mathur 2000: 52, also Dickinson and Khandalavala 1959: 42, who refered to the bottle in his other hand as a perfume bottle.

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hand gesture echoes the heroine’s, presumably also in admiration for the prince’s splendor, or the pair’s intimacy. The expression of the other lady accompanying her is harder to read – perhaps skeptical, perhaps amused. On the whole this “audience” within the painting seems sympathetic rather than disapproving. The pair is seated on the banks of a waterbody, with two male attendants waiting in a red canoe with horse-headed prow. This is not the usual Kishangarhi vessel, though a similar one is depicted in the background of another roughly contemporaneous (attributed 1740) Kishangarhi painting where a harem lady and a prince, presumably again Sāvant Singh, listen to a yogini performance with (possibly) the walls of Shahjahanabad in the background.6 It also resembles a boat on the Yamunā in Shahjahanabad shown in Mīr Miran’s 1742 painting of Muhammad Shāh’s Qudsia Begum, Queen Udham Bai Entertained by a Troupe (Figure 3.2).7 Does this provide a clue to the location the artist intended to evoke? Dickinson and Khandalavala comment that the background is unusual for Kishangarh: The mango grove seems to be in a suburban environment, with white stucco houses visible behind the bowers. Perhaps the scene is Vrindaban in the eighteenth century? Or, comparing with the Queen Udham Bai painting, this could be one of the Delhi gardens along the offset of the Yamunā that used to border Shahjahanabad, such as the Qudsia Bāgh.8 If it indeed represents Sāvant Singh and Banī-thanī, was this painting meant to commemorate one of the _ pair’s boating outings, this one near the capital? There are other purported portraits of the pair, one of which does not mention Banī-thanī but is inscribed _ above the image as a portrait of Sāvant Singh, though that seems a later addition 9 glued on to the border. The royal male depicted here does appear loosely related to the one in the mango grove, sporting a similar turban and aigrette (sarpec), his shield and sword laying nearby. In this version, though, he is the only one portrayed with a halo, and the young lady opposite him seems rather servile: It is she who is holding the wine and cup, as would be fitting for an attendant. She is only partly kneeling on the carpet that he is comfortably seated on bolstered by a pillow, as if just catering to his needs. There is no boat waiting on the nearby waterbody, nor spies in the bushes; instead, the pair is meeting quite publicly. Female attendants, including a chauri bearer, are right behind the prince, and in the background another one with a plate is leaving a pavilion presumably to 6

7

8

9

Losty 2019: 54–5. A horse-headed prow also figures prominently in a Kishangarhi painting in the National Museum (cat. no. 63.1767), tentatively dated ca. 1750, where Krishna on a horse reaches out to Rādhā traveling on the prow, see Mathur 2000: 42–3. This painting is now in the San Diego Museum of Arts (Acc. 1990.383 Edward Binney 3rd collection), viewable online: http://collection.sdmart.org/Obj5150?sid=10654&x=43691, last accessed September 29, 2020. Perhaps the place of Majnūn Nānak Shāhī (Shekhar and Chenoy 1989: 31–2). It was not likely the Qudsia Bāgh itself, as Qudsia Begum did not start the layout of her pleasure garden till after she had been widowed and her son ascended the throne in 1748. It also gives the name of the painter as Surajdhuj Nihālcand. This painting, preserved in the Cleveland Museum in Ohio, is reproduced in Pauwels 2017: 4, fig. 1.2.

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Figure 3.2 Queen Udham Bai Entertained by a Troupe by Mīr Miran. 1742. Mughal, India. Opaque watercolor and gold on paper. 27.5  32.7 cm. San Diego Museum of Art, Edwin Binney 3rd Collection (1990.383).

bring more delicacies. In this image, all the servant ladies sport the exaggerated Kishangarh features, as if multiforms of the purported Banī-thanī. There is no _ but they definfirm evidence to determine which of these paintings came first, itely are interrelated. One suspects that the mango grove scene came first, where a more prominent position was accorded to the lady as intimate with the ruler, whereas the other one, which downgrades her, is the later one. This raises the suspicion whether there was some purposeful obfuscation of the issue. Our question remains though, is there support to identify the charming young girl in the mango grove with Banī-thanī? In his volume with Kishangarh Paintings from the National Museum_ collection, Mathur published a smallish full-length portrait that bears a striking resemblance to the lady in the mango grove (Figure 3.3). He identified it as Banī-thanī, but did not elaborate why (2000: 102–3). The reverse of the image _is not inscribed.10 10

As can be seen on the National Museum website (accession number NM 63.812, online: http://museumsofindia.gov.in/repository/record/nat_del-63-812-4917, last accessed September 25, 2020.

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Figure 3.3 Bani Thani. Ca. 1775. Kishangarh, Rajasthan. 18  13 cm. National Museum, New Delhi Collection (63.812).

Presumably it portrays a court attendant rather than Rādhā, because she has no halo. There is a strong case to be made that this image inspired “Lady with Veil”: The facial features of the younger girl in this portrait are less exaggerated and seem more life-like than the “Lady with Veil,” yet she shares the prominent nose.11 The jewelry with similar rich combination of pearls, emeralds, and rubies matches that in the stylized portrait, as do the hand gestures. In both cases the lady portrayed holds a lotus in her left hand, though in the fulllength portrait her arm hangs down along her body, while that is not the case in 11

This is in contrast with the earlier (ca. 1725) portrait of a lady in a private collection in Ajmer that is attributed to Bhavānīdās (Haidar 2004: 125–6). That lady, too, held her veil, but with the left hand, while her right hand was raised to her lip in a gesture of āścarya bhāva. See Section 1.2.

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the bust. Her right-hand gesture is very similar to that of “Lady with Veil.” In this case, she is holding what looks like betel leaf or pān, rather than her veil, again indicative of her being a court lady. It does seem though that the hands are overpainted; it is not impossible that the right hand originally also held up a veil, which was erased later. There is also something amiss with the left hand, which simultaneously is partly above yet also peeking out from under her wrap or orhanī. Perhaps it is because of this clumsy draughtsmanship that Mathur does_ not ascribe it to the master Nihālcand, but to a later painter, and estimates it to date from circa 1775, ten years after her death. If indeed created so late, that would mean it is a posthumous portrait, and also that it postdates “Lady with Veil” by several decades. Perhaps that is the reason Mathur does not speculate on the importance of the portrait. Still, it is possible that this later painting was based on an original “portrait” now lost, or that this is a reworked original that may have been purposely retouched at some point by a lesser skilled painter. Possibly an earlier model for this Banī-thanī image could be a yet smaller portrait, which is not officially identified _with Banī-thanī, estimated to date from 1765 (Figure 3.4). It is actually a sketch that has_ been accentuated with gold for the jewelry and outfit, and bluish gray watercolor for the skirt, white for the pearls, and dark black for the hair. The mouth has a touch of red. Its pursed, tutting shape is reminiscent of that in the drawing of a yogini by the hand of Sāvant Singh himself (Pauwels 2015: 203, pl. 19). This lady may indeed be later than the yogini, as she has more of the stylized Kishangarhi eye and brow, curl and retreating forehead. Markedly, she lacks the long nose. Her hands are drawn somewhat clumsily, perhaps betraying that this portrait study was executed by the prince rather than a professional painter. If we were looking for the image Sāvant Singh purportedly provided Nihālcand with to draw Bani-thani’s likeness, this would seem to fit the bill. The estimated date, however, is_ not conducive to such speculation, nor the different nose profile. The latter actually suggests it might have been another harem attendant who was portrayed. Her hand gesture, though, delicately holding on to the border of the veil, is again characteristic for “Lady with Veil.” One may well start to wonder how many real-life ladies lurk behind that portrait. One thing that all these portraits have in common is the elegant, rich attire of the young lady. In most of them, she wears the elaborate jewelry that indicates a high status, as would befit an acknowledged pāsbān. Her translucent upper garment seems made of the costly malmal, or diaphanous muslin cloth from Bengal, soft to the touch and cool to wear, which particularly in the solo portraits, shows off the lady’s breasts to maximum advantage.12 Certainly, this 12

Mishra gives a contemporary price equivalent of $2,000 a piece (2018: 154); see also Houghteling 2017: 94–5 and the Agrawala catalogue (1948: xxii–xxiii).

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Figure 3.4 A Woman Holds the Edge of Her Orhani. Ca. 1765. Kishangarh, Rajasthan. Opaque watercolor and gold on paper. 13  8.5 cm. San Diego Museum of Art, Edwin Binney 3rd collection (1990.758).

all lives up to the fame of Banī-thanī as “Miss All Dressed Up,” if indeed she is _ We cannot be sure. the one intended to be portrayed. These rich depictions are in contrast to the portrait of Banī-thanī and the _ prince that was the corner stone of Khandalavala’s theory of Banīthanī as _ model (Section 1.3). This much-discussed and republished image presents a much more modestly attired lady in the domestic setting of an enclosed courtyard. Dickinson and Khandalavala caption it The Poet-Prince and Banithani, with attribution to Nihālcand, dated as circa 1739. They provide the inscription on the reverse of the painting, which reads tasvīr mhārāj śrī Nāgarīdās jī kī kavar padā kī pūjā sevā karatā (Portrait of His Highness King Nāgarīdās as a Prince, While He Is Worshiping Devoutly) (1959: 22–3,

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pl. 2). Notably, this inscription also leaves out the name of the lady. The title “prince” indicates that the inscription was meant to represent him before his rushed coronation in 1748, but the reference mhārāj suggests it was inscribed afterwards.13 The setting is domestic. Behind the lady presumed to be Banī-t hanī, there are two attendants, and through the window with transparent_ hanging, another woman with braided hair is visible from the back. The scene is set in the early morning, with the sunrise colors behind the stone wall, and everyone looking fresh after the morning bath. The location is probably Braj, given that the type of monkeys in the background are atypical for Rajasthan (Khān 1975: 87). One suspects that this is the Kishangarh’s family’s pied-àterre in Vrindaban, now known as Nāgarī Kuñj. The lady inside could be Sāvant Singh’s stepmother, the Bāṅkāvatī queen, or his wife, Lālkumvarī.14 _ This image is less idealized than the one we began the chapter with, providing a glimpse in a domestic world, if a pietist one. The inscription’s use of the prince’s pen name, Nāgarīdās, stresses the sacrality of the activity he is engaged in. This is reinforced by the way he is depicted: Attired in saffron, his sandals behind him, he is seated on a carpet, mālā in hand, counting the beads, an activity known as japa. As Khān had pointed out, there is a discrepancy between the inscription and the activity portrayed. Pūjā sevā, usually connotes the image worship in Krishna devotional milieus (Khān 1975: 84). The prince is seated in front of a fountain, not an image. Perhaps he is worshiping the book in front of him, which is marked with vermillion for auspiciousness. The book is opened, though, its wrapping cloth and the rope that it was tied up with underneath it, so he rather is engaged in reciting sacred scripture or pāth. Yet, as Khān notes too, the prince is looking up, whether in trance, or _at the young lady approaching. Would the implication of the inscription be that he is worshiping her? Worshiping other devotees is part and parcel of bhakti, and the lady’s saffron attire definitely marks her as a devotee. Presumably she has just performed worship of the Tulsī plant in the courtyard with a garland, but that is more of a domestic activity, not necessarily making the lady herself worthy of pūjā.15 Influenced by Dickinson and Khandalavala’s caption, most commentators assume that the Tulsī-worshiping lady is Banī-thanī. If so, the identification of the concubine with the model for “Lady with_ Veil” is indeed convincing:

13 14 15

On the historical circumstances, see Pauwels 2017: 18. If the image is later, it could also be one of their daughters, respectively Sundarkumvarī _ or Gopālkumvarī. It would be_ worthwhile to trace the historical evolution of this type of depiction of Tulsī worship. A roughly contemporaneous image is from Bikaner (now in the National Gallery of Victoria AS38–1980). Online: www.ngv.vic.gov.au/explore/collection/work/53394/, last accessed September 23, 2020.

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The way she delicately holds her veil in her right hand is very similar.16 The main contrast is that she is not richly adorned. Juxtaposing the two images, one can see “Lady with Veil” as an artistic, stylized representation of the Tulsīworshiper, as per Khandalavala’s suggestion that in the prince’s eyes, Banī-t hanī is “looking like Radha herself,” echoed by Stella Kramrisch’s observation_ that his male gaze idealized her into the Kishangarhi Rādhā type (Section 1.3). He dressed her up, so to speak, as the camera zoomed in; that is, the canvas was enlarged (from 23.5  30 cm to 48.2  45.2 cm). As Kishangarh art history expert Navina Haidar has pointed out though, there are problems with that interpretation. For one, with the exception perhaps of the eyes, the features of the Tulsī worshiping lady do not correspond to the typical Kishangarh profile; notably the prominent nose is missing (2004: 128, n. 14). Moreover, if the estimated date of 1739 is correct, the painting is too late to be the origin of the Kishangarhi style. In short, this portrait should not be taken as proof that the outspoken features of “Lady with Veil” are derived from the profile of the real-life concubine, even if she were the one portrayed here. Dr. Faiyāz ‘Alī Khān articulated further reservations on the use of this image to support Khandalavala’s theory.17 He made an ethical judgement: “Certainly, a devotee does not require a beautiful woman before him for the sake of absorption in meditation and does not look at her in the way he is doing in the painting . . .. And it could be least expected from Ballabhkul Bhakta of the stamp of Nagaridas.” Thus, he concluded, “On the above counts it can be safely said that the painting in question is not authentic” (1975: 88). Elsewhere though, Faiyāz ‘Alī Khān used this very painting to establish the maturity of the relationship between the prince and Banī-thanī (2015: 394–5, with refer_ ence to plate 9), but that was in his Ph.D. thesis, which predated his 1975 article. He likely revised his view of the Nāgarīdās and Banī-thanī love story in _ conformity with the Kishangarh Royal House’s stance. Already in his 1952 dissertation, Khān had made another important point. He speculated that Sāvant Singh and his concubine did not become involved as lovers until after the death of his father, arguing that he could not have taken her as a pāsbān as long as his father was still alive (2015: 379). This makes sense against the cultural background of the time. It is not the case that the romance was frowned upon because the prince was married. Sāvant Singh had 16 17

As “Radha” published in the same volume by Dickinson and Khandalavala (1959: 27, pl. 4). Khān (1975) questioned the authenticity of Portrait of Nāgarīdās Worshiping Devoutly on grounds that the youthful depiction of the figures precludes that the painting portrayed the prince upon retirement in Braj. He considered the inscription on the back of the portrait that characterized the activities depicted as pūjā sevā suspicious, hence deemed the whole portrait untrustworthy. He even disputed its identification of the male worshiper as Sāvant Singh on the basis of comparison with another portrait. The latter point though seems unconvincing: This one looks like most other depictions of the prince.

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married Lālkumvarī, the daughter of Rājāvat Jasvant Singh of Ajabgarh_ (1777 VS). They had lost their firstborn son (Śaran 1966: Bhāngarh in 1720 13) and their only surviving son, Sāvant Singh’s eventual successor,_ Sardār Singh, was born in 1730 (1787 VS).18 Even when their wives provided heirs, it was common for Rajput princes to contract marriages with other princesses, and also to have concubines, so the presence of a wife would not have caused disapproval. The problem was rather that Banī-thanī was a slave in the _ household of the Bāṅkāvatī queen. As such she would have been already an inmate in the harem of Rāj Singh, and thus presumed to be sexually available to Sāvant Singh’s father. Such a potential father–son conflict over a harem slave brings to mind the case of the fabled Anarkalī, rendered famously by the actress Madhubala in the K. Asif-directed 1960 movie Mughal-e-Azam.19 Rāj Singh would simply not condone his son’s trespassing on the women over whom he had privileges and, one might add, in whose training he had invested.20 In that light, it is fruitful to relate the painting of the pair in the mango grove to one from circa 1740 from Rāj Singh’s atelier that shows the patron’s fondness of being portrayed as admired for his prowess by bevies of doeeyed ladies (Figure 3.5). This is an “after the hunt” type of portrait where the ruler is seated next to a buck he has shot. He is showing off his masculinity with much bravura, striking a strident pose, sporting his bow, apparently demonstrating with gusto how he hunted the buck. The father’s pose is similar but more domineering compared to that of Sāvant Singh’s in the image of the pair in the mango grove, and the ladies are relatively diminiutive. Is there a deliberate reference to the son’s painting? The prominent art historian Carey Welch pointed out that the ladies are subtly cast as Gopīs in admiration of Krishna, “evoking the popular Vastraharana episode,” referring to their clothes draped over tree branches to which one of the ladies points back (1997: 372). Is the father mocking his son’s predeliction for portraying himself as Krishna? One wonders whether this was Rāj Singh’s not so subtle way of asserting his own primacy over the women in his zanānā. Or it could be the other way around; perhaps the son commissioned his painting deliberately to convey to the father that he was interested in only one of the many ladies at his father’s 18

19 20

They also had two daughters, one of whom would marry the Bundi king Dīp Singh Hādā; the _ other, Gopālkumvari, was engaged to Jaipur’s Mādho Singh, but he died before the wedding _ and she never married (Bābū Rādhākrishnadās in Gaud 1898: 12–13). The late-nineteenthcentury writer rhapsodies about her virtue and exalts her _loyalty and chastity as an example for the youth of modern times. The small samādhi in between that of Nāgarīdās and Rasikbihārī is identified as hers. Sharma 2009: 769–70; for the legend and the 1922 play by Imtiāz ‘Alī Tāj on which the film is based, see Désoulières 2007. I am grateful to Indrani Chatterjee for pointing this out to me (personal communication, October 15, 2020).

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Figure 3.5 Prince Resting after a Hunt (Mahārājā Rāj Singhjī). Ca. 1740. Kishangarh, Rajasthan. Opaque watercolor on paper. 21  32.1 cm. Kanoria Collection, Patna (GK.100). Photo courtesy University of Michigan, Department History of Arts, Visual Resources Collection.

disposal. There is an interesting interocularity at work here, perhaps a father– son contest in paintings. In that regard, the similarities between Bhavānīdās’ portrait of the father with that of the son bespeaking a different religious approach are meaningful (Haidar 2011a: 540; Pauwels 2015: 144–5). In any case, as per eighteenth-century conventions, Sāvant Singh’s romance with Banī-thanī would be an affront to his father. As long as his father was alive, he could not take his stepmother’s singer officially as his concubine. Was an Anarkalī-like situation brewing? Dr. Faiyāz ‘Alī Khān took his suggestion in a different direction than the movie’s tragic-romantic denouement. He highlighted Rasikbihārī’s support for Sāvant Singh in time of need, stressing her loyalty, and their shared devotion (2015: 392–3). Khān goes as far as to compare the pair to Wordsworth and his sister Dorothy (394). This is telling in view of comparisons of author-couples East and West. Such an interpretation relegates the woman to a caretaker position conform with typical expectations of the woman of an author-couple; her role mainly that of supporter of the man, who is seen as the main artist (Thompson and Stone 2006: 319). To be sure, Khān mainly was intent on steering away from the romance interpretation. This reflected the position of the Kishangarh Court at the time: Mahārājā Sumer Singh (r. 1939–71) insisted that Banī-thanī was “a _

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gayana having respectable position in the state. Gayanas were considered like sister and mother.”21 Khān mustered further support for the maturity and chastity of the relationship between Nāgarīdās and Rasikbihārī by quoting a poem by the prince that mentions “Banī-thanī” by name. Khān took it to _ express the wish of the weary prince to merge with the divine, together with his loyal concubine (2015: 395): Tāla Capak ve dekhi druma gahabara bana ke nīraĩ, cali mili kahā jo paĩ rajanī junhāī bipuna andhyārau (bhārau) parama piyārau, tah kahaũ kahaũ kuñja kutī sukhadāī sunata bacana jiya maĩ ruci bādhī, hiya maĩ piya mūrati mandarāī _ __ nāgarīdāsa bihārani bani thani,_ gavana kiyau jita ravana kanhāī _ (PMĀ 408, Gupta 1965: 1.375; Kh fol. 113v) “‘Look at those trees, near the dense forest! Set off for the tryst,’ he said, ‘moreover, the night is lit by the moon.’ Dark are the clusters of trees, but you are his dearest beloved. In any pleasure pavilion along the way there, you can enjoy yourselves.” As she heard these words, her heart grew eager, her lover’s image hovering in her mind. Nāgarīdās: The playful lady, all dressed up (Banī-thanī), set off to sport with Kanhāī. _

Connoisseurs of aesthetics (rasika) will classify this poem as describing the heroine setting off on her way to the tryst at night (abhisārikā).22 In the first two lines of this song, the go-between entices Rādhā to join Krishna for a rendezvous in the forest. First, she reports Krishna’s words that allude to the erotic potential of the moonlit night. Then she adds a word of encouragement of her own. In the last two lines, Rādhā’s reaction is described: Her heart “grew eager” and she set off to meet with Krishna. Khān holds that this is poem was composed toward the end of Nāgarīdās’ life, when Sāvant Singh felt the end approaching, a type of “off into the sunset” vignette. Indeed, in the bhakti interpretation, the abhisārikā nāyikā stands for the soul. Just like Rādhā sets off courageously on the difficult journey through the dense forest aspiring to meet her beloved, the soul through death finds the ultimate union with her divine lover. Khān adds the English romantic mood, where the dark trees represent the shadow of death, and the pleasure pavilion signifies heaven.23 However ingenious, this interpretation runs into difficulty with the dating: The poem is found in the main text (not a later addition in the margin) of the 21 22

23

In a letter to the Jaipur-based artist Sumahendra, who cites it in his book (1992: 38). In Nāgarīdās’ anthology, Pad-muktāvalī or “String of Pearl-Songs,” this poem is somewhat out of place, under the rubric of top-to-toe description of the heroine, more specifically under the category “the musk forehead mark” or Mrigamad ād (45). _ He takes the first half of the last line as inclusive: “Nāgarīdās and his Bihārinī, all decked out, set off to where Kanhāī sports.”

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manuscript dated 1746 (1803 VS). This means it was composed even before Sāvant Singh’s exile in 1748 and several years before his “retirement” to Vrindaban. It is unlikely that Nāgarīdās saw this as a “sunset” scenario. Still, it is significant that the prince mentioned Banī-thanī by name in this poem, which confirms the extent to which he included_ her in his devotional world. With this poem, we have landed in the second set of testimonies for the relationship – the poems written by Nāgarīdās that allude to Banī-thanī. _ 3.2

He Said: Clues of Infatuation in Nāgarīdās’ Poetry

Leaving aside the question whether or not the images were intended to portray Banī-thanī, they are helpful in reconstructing the context for the developing _ relationship of the prince and his concubine. The paintings’ interocularity alerts us to the many messages they conveyed for their audience at the time. When related to the songs, they amplify the poetry’s affect into a multisensorial experience, as they evoke the buildup from languid to enraptured background music, the savoring of delicacies, the refined scents of perfumes wafting in the air, the cool sensation on one’s skin of being fanned, or the touch of a breeze on the terrace near the lake, the fresh smells of the garden near the river, the thrill of droplets of cool water from fountain or river when gliding along in a boat, the fond caresses and kisses and the more intimate touch afterward. While analyzing the literary pair’s poetry, we have to keep in mind that these were songs meant to be performed for an audience. Thus, they were hardly private pillow talk; they were always overheard. This means that we have to be prepared to pick up on clues that were intended to be transmitted to the partner without those nearby noticing. On the basis of Nāgarīdās’ works, we can follow the subtle innuendo for his incipient infatuation with Banī-thanī.24 The earliest clues come from his poem _ of the Silvery Moon,” dated in the colophon Bihār-candrikā or “By the Light as 1731 (1788 VS; text Gupta 1965: 2.244–53). What tips us off that this poem introduces his new love interest is its stress on “novelty.” This may well have been there in the title, which perhaps more correctly to be named as Nav-bihārcandrikā, as per the colophon.25 The “newness” is stressed from the first verse, which repeats the word navala (“new” or “young”): navala jugala sahacari navala śrī guru bana nava kuñja ina kī kpā manāi kahaũ navala keli rasa puñja (BC 1, Gupta 1965: 2.244)

24 25

I have started this exploration in an earlier article (Pauwels 2005: 66–78), but elaborate more fully here. The colophon reads: satarai saĩ athyāsiyā sambata sāmvana māsa; nava bihāra yah candrikā _ _ karī nāgarī dāsa (BC 61, Gupta 1965: 2.253)._

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A young pair, young ladies-in-waiting, a shiny new pleasure pavillion in the woods, all by the Guru’s grace, By His grace too, let me tell of the new passionate play we celebrated.

What I have translated as “young ladies-in-waiting,” sahacari navala, can also be interpreted as a singular: “a new lady-in-waiting.” As will become clear below, this may well be intended as a double entendre, that announces a nontraditional topic of description under the cover of the usual tropes of Rādhā–Krishna poetry (not unlike the concept of dhvani or “suggestion” in aesthetic theory). The poem starts in a deceptively conventional way with a description of the Rāsa-līlā: The autumnal full moon rises and Krishna invites the Gopīs with his flute play (BC 5–18). Together with Rādhā, the women assemble on Mount Govardhan, where they sing and dance in the bowers near the river (BC 19–23). When they then proceed to the river Yamunā, though, it is not to play in the water (jalakrīdā) as in Bhāgavata-purāna, but rather to undertake a _ the usual script (BC 24–43). _ boating trip. This represents a lengthy deviation of After the boating trip, the lovers alight and we witness the divine pair’s private lovemaking in an arbor, not the collective play with the Gopīs of Bhāgavatapurāna. When Rādhā dozes off, Krishna moves to a balcony upstairs (atā), _ where_ the ladies-in-waiting follow, bringing Rādhā along so they can make love again (BC 44–59). This retreat into increasingly private settings is along theological lines of the Rasika sects, such as the Nimbārka and Haridāsī Sampradāya, with their focus on Rādhā and Krishna’s love play in the arbors (nikuñja-līlā). At the same time, it contains an allusion to Banī-thanī in the innovative _ boating section, which sets us up to see the whole development into intimacy as a personal experience. This comes after the detailed description of the boat (BC 24–5): Once Rādhā and Krishna are seated, the ladies-in-waiting, Lalitā and so on, join them, entranced by the sight of the divine pair (BC 26–7). Before they start singing, accompanied by vīnā and drums and with the gods in heaven chiming in (BC 33–5), in another unusual move, the narrator’s attention shifts to one of the oarswomen, who is designated as a “new lady-inwaiting,” the one his introduction had set us up to expect: lapati rahī patavāra ika, navala sakhī sukavāra _ kadalī khambha prati, muktā beli bihāra mānaũ (BC 28, Gupta 1965: 2.248)

Clinging to the oar, was a delicate, new (navala) lady-in-waiting, Like a pearly vine strung around the stem of a banana tree.

The poet continues to devote several verses to the loving description of this “new lady-in-waiting”:

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Becoming the Prince’s Concubine navala malāhaĩ dekhi, dr̥gana kī chutita salāhaĩ _ calavati campā cāru, karana jagamagata chalā haĩ sohata sveta libāsa, tāsa ke lalita lapetā _ capetā sira kalaṅgī kī halani, calani manaũ maina _ (BC 29, Gupta 1965: 2.248) [My] eyes, lingering over the tender (navala) oarswoman, lost all sense. She moved the pretty jasmines, rings flashing on her hands. Looking splendid, draped elegantly in white brocade gown, The jewel on her head swung to and fro, each move beating Cupid down.

While the poem is not explicitly in the first person, it is hard to escape the suggestion that the poet here has moved into conveying his personal impressions, rather than a conventional description of Rādhā’s companions. The word navala, itself a repetition of the previous verse prominently placed at the beginning of this verse, reminds us of the announcement at the beginning of the poem that it is about a “new” pair, and a “new” girlfriend: halata navīnaĩ hāru, cāru jhīnaĩ tana jāmā ati sudesa vara besa, banī nava sundara bām camaki capala tātaṅka, baṅka alakaĩ jhuki jhūlata _ syma, kma dhuni suni sudhi bhūlata mukha gāvata gũna (BC 30, Gupta 1965: 2.248–9)

Her fresh flower garland swayed gently on her pretty body in diaphanous dress. Elegant, choice outfit, and nicely made up (banī), was this new (nava) pretty lass. Her restless earrings sparkled, her curly locks swayed as she bent. Her mouth sang the praise of the Dark One, her melody made Cupid lose all sense.

Nāgarīdās is always good at “sound play,” or śabdālaṅkāra, but these lines stand out. There is an abundance of alliteration (bolded in the text) and internal rhyme (underlined), highlighting the meter or rhythmical pattern. In several cases the last word before the pause or caesura rhymes with the first one after it.26 Such internal rhyme is not mandatory for this poetic form, but its striking reoccurrence adds to the beauty of these lines. This careful, loving attention indicates a special significance to the poet. The only case in this last Rolā where the cross-caesura rhyme is not observed is where “banī” comes right after the break. This draws extra attention to the word, which is of course also short for Banī-thanī. These hints are subtle and could easily remain undetected if the listeners _were not paying full attention to each and every nuance of the poem. However, it would not have slipped by the attention of the performer herself. 26

The meter is Rolā (mistakenly identified as Caupāī in the edition), which has a caesura after the eleventh mātrā (indicated in the text above with a comma).

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The date of composition of (Nav-)bihār-candrikā was 1731, when Banīthanī would have been about fourteen years old and she had just been _promoted to singer in the queen’s retinue. It is tempting to speculate that the splendidly attired lady in white in the mythological boat stands for the young “Miss All Dressed Up,” the queen’s new gāyan. Nāgrīdās may have been inspired to compose these lines as he first noticed her in his stepmother’s entourage, maybe even during a boating trip where she performed. It was composed during the monsoon season, when the rains would have filled Kishangarh’s Gundalao Lake. What better occasion for a boating excursion? In that light, the choice of words, in particular banī in the second line of BC 30, has a new meaning. One wonders whether he had slipped this song to BanīThanī to be performed by herself, or whether he sang it in her presence to communicate his infatuation with her. The theme of the autumnal Rāsa-līlā is out of season but could be taken as his invitation to join him in their own Rāsalīlā. If so, given their subsequent relationship, this work would hold special significance for the poet, as well as for the young girl herself. Far-fetched perhaps? Is there corraboration for such a view? One of Kishangarh’s most famous paintings signed by Nihālcand is Boat of Love.27 Verses from Bihār-candrikā are inscribed on the reverse, indicating that Nāgarīdās commissioned it to go with his new work. Generally, this is reckoned to be one of Nihālcand’s masterpieces, attributed to his glory period. Navina Haidar dates it circa 1731–5 (2011: 596–8). Structurally, it has the hallmarks of Nihālcand at his best, which includes composition in three planes, with a miniature divine pair in the distance, a larger one in the middle, and a third in the foreground at the bottom of the painting. In this case, a diminutive Rādhā and Krishna are seated on a hillock at the top; the pair is boating on the river in the middle, and the couple has stepped back ashore in the foreground. A further characteristic of Nihālcand’s Rādhā–Krishna paintings is that the central divine couple is distinguished by halos and accompanied by eight female attendants (sakhīs). The sakhīs play an important role in several of the Rādhā–Krishna sects that flourished from the sixteenth century in Braj. They are seen as models of devotion because they support the love relationship of the divine pair, selflessly foregoing their own pleasure for their sake (Garimella 1998: 92–3). While the Caitanya Sampradāya is best-known for its elaborate system of modeling devotees after Rādhā’s assistants (rāgānuga bhakti), it is by no means the only one promoting this mode of worship.

27

This painting is preserved in the National Museum in Delhi, acc. no. 63.793; see Mathur 2000: 44–5, pl. 4; Dickinson and Khandalavala 1959: 36. An image of the recto can be viewed in augmented reality on Google Arts and Culture. Online: https://artsandculture.google.com/asset/ radha-and-krishna-in-the-boat-of-love-nihal-chand/FgEEOnrrqsn9OA, last accessed September 24, 2021.

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The Vallabha Sampradāya is famous for its set of eight devotee composerssingers (asta-chāpa), who are believed to be eyewitnesses of Krishna’s divine _ _ as his cowherd friends (sakhā) by day and cowherdess friends play or līlā, (sakhī) by night. The Haridāsa Sampradāya similarly promoted an “eightgirlfriend” or asta-sakhī model, and had its own set of eight ācāryas in the first eight poets_ _and leaders of the sect (Entwistle 1987: 170–1). Nāgarīdās does not mention the number eight in his Bihār-candrikā but Nihālcand, here as elsewhere, adds this cultic visual element to guide the viewer’s eyes toward the central divine pair.28 If Banī-thanī was initiated in the Haridāsa Sampradāya (Section 2.5 above), she _might have shared Nihālcand’s preference for its cultic framework. Can we ascribe the success of the painting to the special inspiration of his patron’s new love interest? Did the painter pick up on the loving description of the beautifully “all dressed up” (banī) oarswoman, clad in diaphanous white? While neither of the ladies who row the boat in the painting is dressed in white, Rādhā herself is. Rādhā also has the distinctive features that are associated with Banī-thanī; in fact this may well be the first time they are surfacing in painting. If_ by the time of the painting Banī-thanī would already have become _ that the enchanting oarswoman Nāgrīdās’ mistress, Nihālcand may be hinting that caught the poet’s eye had ascended to Rādhā’s position. None of the elements are more than suggestive hints that could have slipped by the attention of the queen and her party. Yet taken together, the message would have been transmitted to the performer. This web of innuendo seems quite deliberately crafted to conceal. In itself this playful hide-and-seek is well in line with the alternation between āvirbhāva (manifestation) and tirobhāva (temporary disappearance) of Krishna’s līlā as it is conceived of in Vallabhan philosophy. Reading the painting together with the poem allows us to join the insider rasikas in decoding a delightful secret hidden behind the pretty image. Another painting, Night of Lamps, depicting Diwali celebrations, dates from the same period or slightly later (estimated ca. 1735–40) and prominently features a performer dressed in white.29 This painting is inscribed with a poem on the reverse, but it does not mention a special navala sakhī. Similar to Boat of Love, this image too is organized around three planes, with a miniature couple on top in the distance, the divine pair seated under an awning in the middle of the painting, and on the bottom in the foreground eight sakhīs holding musical instruments and fire sparklers. In the center of the lower half of the painting, a lady in an elegant, white diaphanous dress bordered with

28 29

Spelled out in Pauwels 2015: 165, 167, 170–1. From the Durbar collection, see Dickinson and Khandalavala 1959: 40–41, pl. xi; discussed in Pauwels 2015: 163–5, fig. 8.

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gold brocade answers the description of the “new oarsgirl” from Bihārcandrikā. One wonders whether the lady with the now familiar, exaggerated facial features is intended to represent Banī-thanī. If so, her dramatic pose, _ to entertain the divine pair in holding a sparkler on a balcony as if on a stage the middle of the painting, would mimic her real-life role as a performer, and it could be argued to be an earlier depiction than Boat of Love where she is portrayed as Rādhā.30 What song is the singer in the painting imagined to be performing? Likely the Nāgarīdās song inscribed on the back, but could it have been one by Rasikbihārī? Only one Diwali poem by Rasikbihārī survives, included by Nāgarīdās in his seasonal poetry collection Utsav-mālā under the relevant heading and also in the lithograph (Litho). It is not on the topic of the fireworks, though, but rather on the gambling that takes place during the night of Diwali: ho raṅgīlī bājī lāgi rahī chai nainā̃ mẽ _ dain mẽ jn kma katāch h kā dekhi dāva _ _ kāmpe aṅga anaṅga raṅga surabhaṅga _huvo bain maĩ rasika bihārī mana phūla badhī huī hāra jīta sain_  maĩ _ 508, Kh fol. 134r, Litho 12) _ (UM 110, PMĀ Flirtatiously, she starts a game of gambling with her eyes. She weighs the odds: would just sidelong glances do the job of tricking him? His body trembles with Bodiless Cupid’s passion. His voice breaks mid-sentence. Rasika Bihārī’s heart flowers in delight. Who won or lost is settled simply by exchange of glances.

It is not impossible that the painter of the Diwali scene was aware of this poem. The divine pair in the middle field is remarkably unengaged with their spectacular and noisy surroundings, but rather absorbed in their own dreamworld. They seem to studiously avoid looking at each other. Are they involved in this little play of casting and avoiding sidelong glances that Rasikbihārī describes?31 As we will see, Nāgarīdās also created a matching Kavitta on the same theme (Section 4.2). This all illustrates the rich interconnections that come to light when art and poetry, both Nāgarīdās’ and Rasikbihārī’s, are analyzed in tandem. Another painting dated around the same time (1735–50) and attributed also to Nihālcand combines the Diwali theme with that of boating, featuring red 30

31

The association of the white-robed performer with Diwali seems to have endured, as she is also foregrounded in a Diwali painting attributed to Sitārām of circa 1770 by Mathur (2000: 84–5, pl. 24, NM acc. no. 63810), discussed also by Kavita Singh (2013: 264–5). They are delicately holding lotus flowers in their hands, likely because Diwali is the festival of the Goddess Lakshmī, who is associated with the lotus. Monika Horstmann has suggested that these flowers may also reflect the “flowering” of the verb in the last line of Rasikbihārī’s poem (personal communication, August 2020).

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boats on the lake from which attendants light sparklers. Mathur categorizes it as līlā-hāva or “dramatic līlā,” usually featuring Krishna dressed up as Rādhā. Indeed, in the foreground, a blue-hued “lady” is approaching Rādhā, who is seated on a high throne (called sanghamanchi by Mathur 2000: 80) under a canopy on a white terrace overlooking the river. In this painting, Rādhā is dressed in white, which is remarkable, as usually in such cross-dressing images she is wearing Krishna’s yellow sash.32 Again, one may suspect here an identification with the white-clad oarslady, by this time upgraded to be the queen presiding over Nāgarīdās’ heart. The cross-dressing theme in itself is fascinating due to the multiple dimensions of gender-bending occuring in paintings and poems. Nāgarīdās’ pen name suggests he sees himself as a devotee of the sophisticated lady, Nāgarī or Rādhā; hence he can be identified with her greatest devotee, Krishna. Yet he often abbreviates to Nāgarī and writes from the perspective of a female servant of Rādhā. In this image, Krishna is quite literally embodying such a girlfriend. Banī-thanī on the other hand signs with “Rasikbihārī,” which is an epithet of _ She does not quite take on a male poetic identity though; her Krishna. perspective is consistently that of Krishna’s female admirers, sometimes Rādhā, sometimes one of her sakhīs. When the images are put alongside the poetry, they reveal a delightful fluidity, shifting in and out different imaginings of gendered identities. Further, the divine lovers often sport the same facial features, which begs the question whether it is he portrayed with her features, or she conform to his. In love, so the theology holds: All distinctions are obliterated in the union of the lover and his beloved. The theme of boating, or naukā vihāra, is definitely a favorite in Kishangarh painting. Another exquisite example, estimated to be slightly later, is interpreted by the cataloguer as Sāvant Singh and Banī-thanī boating on Lake Gundalao (Figure 3.6). Zooming in on the haloed pair_ at the right end of the boat, one can nearly see them falling in love. This painting has many more sakhīs than Nihālcand’s usual eight, but it does feature a single lady steering the boat. Though not dressed in white, this may reflect some awareness of Bihār-candrikā’s special oarslady. Usually, the prevalence of the boating theme is attributed to the natural environment of Kishangarh with its beautiful Gundalao Lake, though the capital until the mid-eighteenth century was actually Rupnagar. There is a case to be made that its prevalence may also be due

32

Mathur 2000: 48–9, pl. 8, NM acc. no. 63.1768. Other Kishangarhi depictions of cross-dressing Krishna are for instance, the already mentioned Sāñjhī scene attributed to Nihālcand (Dickinson and Khandalavala 1959: 33, pl. 7; Pauwels 2015: 181–3, pl. 14), and a painting attributed to Sītārām from circa 1765 where both Rādhā and Krishna are wearing matching yellow flowerpatterned skirts (Mathur 2000: 80–81, pl. 22); incidentally, this painting shows mosques in the background greenery.

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Figure 3.6 Savant Singh (Reigned 1748–1757) and Bani Thani in the Guise of Krishna and Radha Cruising on Lake Gundalao. Ca 1750-75. Kishangarh, Rajasthan. Watercolor and gold on paper. 36.83  55.88 cm. Los Angeles County Museum of Art, Gift of Paul F. Walter (AC1999.264.1). Photo courtesy LACMA.

to the sentimental value it held for Sāvant Singh, connected with his first creative profession of his infatuation with Banī-thanī. Generally, Krishna poetry about naukā vihāra_ tends to involve Krishna as ferryman charging his “tax of love.” That is not the case in Kishangarh painting and poetry. Instead, Nāgarīdās and Banī-thanī composed “matching” poems on the pleasures of Rādhā and Krishna’s_ boating outings, perhaps artfully disguised versions of their own experiences, fondly remembering the first pleasure boat trips they undertook themselves: Titāla (Rāga Sauhanī)33 dekhau sakhī rī dekhau doū baithe nāmva maĩ _ campā cāva maĩ _ gāvata āvata capala calāvata, sahacara syāmā syāma die gara bahiy, navakā bica rasa bhāva maĩ nāgara navala sakhini kī aṅkhiy, lagi lapat  lapatāva maĩ _ _ (PMĀ 509, Gupta 1965: 1.415; Kh fol. 134r in margin)

33

The Rāga is not mentioned explicitly for this poem, but it is part of a long series in Rāga Sauhanī. Incidentally, this is the Rāga of the sensuous song Prema jogana banake famously performed by Bade Ghulam Ali Khān in the movie Mughal-e Azam.

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Becoming the Prince’s Concubine Look, friend, look at the two of them, seated in the boat! They come along singing, as their attendants bright and nimble, row them among the lilies. Shyāmā and Shyām, wrap their arms around each other’s shoulders, immersed in passion mid-boat. Nāgar: young ladies-in-waiting embrace their embrace with their eyes.

In this poem, Nāgarīdās echoed his own Bihār-candrikā’s passage on the pretty oarswoman, especially in the second line with the verb (calāvata), and the reference to the lilies (campā). The last line mentions a navala sakhī. But his may be intended to be mildly teasing, as one imagines her position as his Rādhā was secure by now, that is, as secure as it ever gets with Krishna or a polygamous Rajput prince. Rasikbihārī joined him on his boat trip down memory lane with a song in the same rhythm: Titāla āja kī rāta āchī lāgai chaĩ ujyārī biharaĩ syāmā syma cāva saũ, sundara nāva siṅgārī jamunā bica jhilamila kī sobhā, kamvala kūla sukhakārī _ nāva dagamagaĩ dara lapatāvaĩ, rasika bihārī jī saũ pyārī _ _ (PMĀ 510,_ Gupta 1965: 1.416; Kh fol. 134r in margin; Litho 45) How pleasantly shines the silvery moon tonight! Shyāmā and Shyām enjoy a pleasure ride in a beautifully decorated boat. The Yamunā shimmers radiantly, lovely lotuses grace her banks. The boat rocks. Startled, the sweet girl flings her arms around Rasika Bihārī.

This lovely little vignette is also set on a moonlit night, just like the original scenario of Bihār-candrikā. If we take the sequence in his Padmuktāvalī as the one that was followed in performance, Rasikbihārī responded to Nāgarīdās, echoing in her second line his “Shyāmā and Shyām,” also using the word cāva (“pleasure”), and in the last line, his verb lapatā- (“to embrace”). The boat getting rocked is a coquettish _ explanation, dodging his rather bold depiction of their embrace in the boat. This sweet playful exchange of the poet-couple demonstrates well their synergy. The intertextuality encompasses not just those two “paired” poems, but also his earlier work (Nav-)bihār-candrikā. If she started composing under his influence, one may well wonder whether her pen name (Rasikbihārī) was related to the title of his long poem in which he may have first declared his infatuation for her (Bihār-candrikā). More examples of such synergy between the author-pair follow in the next chapter. In any case, it is time now to turn to the evidence of the poetry composed by Rasikbihārī as recorded in her newly discovered performance diary, her Bayāz.

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3.3 She Said: Rasikbihārī’s Diary of Songs

3.3

She Said: Rasikbihārī’s Diary of Songs

3.3.1

Possibilities and Limits of the Evidence

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The Bayāz provides new evidence that allows a glimpse of the perspective of Rasikbihārī’s take on the romance, but indirectly. Her poetry cannot be read as confessional, as the term “diary” might evoke; they are not straightforwardly autobiographical. Renowned Urdu critic Shamsur Rahman Faruqi has criticized reading Urdu poetry as an expression of a poet’s personality (1999; 2005: 173–91).34 Still, Faruqi holds that particular moments in time can create “true emotion,” what he calls dākhilī “heartfelt in the autobiographic sense” (2005: 175). Similarly, Emory University scholar, Scott Kugle, in connection with the late-eighteenth to early-nineteenth century Deccani courtesan Māh Laqā Bāī “Cand,” allows for the possibility of her expressing personal views in her poetry, while also projecting a persona (2010: 370–1). The same can be said for the conventional Classical Hindi songs. For bhakti poetry, Anshu Malhotra has recently discussed how its cultural imagery offers a vocabulary of selfrepresentation and even modes of agency (2017: 77, 123–32, 172–98). In order to identify individuality within traditional poetry, a crucial issue is how to distinguish between the bhakta and the lover (2017: 140–56; also Rao 2011). Most of Rasikbihārī’s poetry is immediately recognizable as devotional and can only be read on a secondary level with reference to her interpersonal relationships. There is perhaps only one song that expresses a more courtly type of relationship, articulating a concubine’s loyalty to her patron, but here too the Krishna theme lurks right below the surface (and the text has its difficulties, hampering clarity): Rāga Ṣãmācī Titāla mherāji35 rā cākara rahasy jī, kumvara36 kisorī jī phūla bichātā jāsy āgaĩ, liyā pīta _pata jhorī jī sūraja mukhī hātha liyā phirasy, chā_mha kiyā̃ mukha gorī jī _ rasika bihārī rahyā tahala maĩ, hosī raṅga bhari horī jī _ (UM 199; RB 174, fol. 90v; MJB fol 29v; Litho 23) I will remain servant of his/your Lordship, O young lady/prince.37 I’ll keep scattering flowers in welcome, holding on to his/your yellow sash.

34

35 36 37

See also Frances Pritchett’s critique of Ralph Russell’s interpretations of Ghazals as autobiographical and reflecting social circumstances (1995: 96–112). I am grateful to my colleague at University of Washington, Dr. Jameel Ahmad, for these references. Both Litho and Gupta version add at the beginning khāsā “close.” Both Litho and Gupta versions add rāja just before kumvara. _ Taking mahrā [perhaps related to mahārāja-], as “master” or “chief.” Alternatively, it could mean “a domestic servant,” rendering the meaning “servant of your servant.”

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Becoming the Prince’s Concubine As he/ you take my sunflower face in his/ your hands, it’ll turn along. He/ you shade my fair face. I remain in Rasika Bihārī’s service. It will be a colorful Holi.

Without seeing her perform it, it is hard to settle on the meaning of this poem. The main ambiguity revolves around who is the person addressed, which can be interpreted differently, partly depending on the variants in the text.38 Crucial though is that the term cākar is applied to the speaker, which indicates a feudal relationship of loyalty to one’s patron (Section 1.1). The addition in the variants (in the lithograph) of the term khāsā to cākara rendering “close servant” suggests the term khavāsī, used for a lower-status concubine, which suggests the address is intended for the prince, Sāvant Singh (though it could also be for Rāj Singh). The first lines of the song express the singer’s loyalty to the patron, who is imagined as Krishna, as identified by the saffron color of his sash (pīta pata). Together with the image of the flower offering, this evokes _ the Nāgarī Kuñj courtyard painting discussed above (Section 3.1). The last line, though, turns the poem upside down with its reference to Holi. The evocation of the festival’s masquerades and practical jokes casts an element of playfulness. Still, the line remains an expression of servitude. This is the most explicit case where Rasikbihārī expresses her subordinate position toward her patron, and even here it is to be read into a divine scenario. None of Rasikbihārī’s other poetry lends itself easily to a secularized interpretation. Its reception history accordingly privileges the religious reading: It has mostly survived in devotional singing contexts, whether so-called havelī sangīt as in contemporary Kishangarh and Mumbai, or samaj-gāyan as in Vrindaban (more in Section 5.3).39 Undoubtedly, much of what she composed was indeed intended for performances related to the worship of Rādhā and Krishna. Careful study of how her songs are preserved in the written record though allows us to qualify this. Many survive in the manuscripts of Nāgarīdās’ Pad-muktāvalī compilation. Here, each cycle of songs is preceded by Dohās, explicitly marked to be intended to be sung for the ālāp of a classical performance. This sets them apart from the devotional tradition, where typically the meaning of the songs is foregrounded and the ālāp is omitted (Gaston 1997: 126–7). Thus, the transmission of her songs in manuscripts of his collection betrays that they may well have been performed in a context where the musical aspect was more important, suggesting a more secular interpretation.

38

39

The refrain, as it stands in the Bayāz addressed actually “the young lady,” presumably Rādhā, who could be considered a rival for Krishna’s attention. However, the editions also add rāja just before kumvara, suggesting they understand the address is to a male patron. For these _genres and the differences, see Beck 2011a: 146–99.

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Since it is only in performance that we could fully experience the record that Rasikbihārī left, one should reflect on what that may have looked like. Some assume she was a dancer, performing something similar to what is now called Kathak.40 The absence of bols in her poetry, syllables to indicate the dance rhythmic phrases, may speak against that. The only poem that includes them is the very last one with her chāpa in her Bayāz: Vihāgarau praphulita druma belī jamunā̃ kaĩ tīra, rāsa racyo sarada raĩna ujiyārī sakhī saṅga raṅga saũ gāvata umaṅga bharī, bica bica muralī dhunĩ gati leta pyārī cali katāchi bhrakutī bhaṅga kahata, tattatheī theī ava na(i)nani sukha kārī _ bihāra dekhi _ canda utai thakita bhayau, itai rījhi bibasa bhaye rasika rāsa rasa bihārī (RB 197, fol. 102v.)

Vines blossom in trees on Yamunā’s banks as he stages the Rāsa on a bright autumn night. With her friends’ choir, she sings passionately, full of elation, in between, the darling girl takes dancing steps to the sound of the flute. Flirtatious glances under arched brows, Now she intones tatta thei thei, a joy to the eyes. Watching the passion of the Rāsa play, up there the moon grows weak, but down here Rasika Bihārī is overwhelmed and charmed.

The theme of this poem is the Rāsa dance of Rādhā and Krishna, a genre in which the inclusion of bols is very common across all categories of poets. The song may well have been intended for a Rāslīlā performance in the Braj area where Banī-thanī spent the last years of her life. Given the paucity of the occurrence of_ bols in her oeuvre otherwise, it seems unwarranted to single this out as proof that she performed the rhythmic interpretations in dance.41 We can be fairly sure that Banī-thanī adopted an emotionally expressive _ performance style, not unlike contemporary bol banāv Thumri. Her texts are _ mostly four lines long, which means they are neither those of contemporary Khayāl nor of Thumri, as those have only two lines, a sthāī and an antarā. _ Still, through contemporary reflective descriptions of performers’ experiences, such as those by classical singer Vidya Rao (2003; 2011) and by Swarthmore 40 41

For Kathak’s historical evolution, see Walker 2014a and b. This is not to distance her from actual dance performances. Kathak temple dancers' involvement in amorous relations with a patron is certainly not limited to the distant past. (For an early twentieth-century example, see Gaston 1997: 152–3.) It would be anachronistic, though, to apply to the eighteenth century the stigma that has, since the anti-Nautch movement of the late nineteenth century, been associated with dance as more openly erotic than singing with gestures and facial expression (du Perron 2007: 2–5, 54; Williams 2017: 591–6, 598). The sharp dichotomy between temple dance on the one hand and the courtesan milieu on the other is a relatively recent phenomenon.

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Becoming the Prince’s Concubine

College’s professor of dance, Pallabi Chakravorty, we can approach a sense of what Rasikbihārī’s performances must have been about. The latter points out: the expressive body of the kathak dancer is deeply embedded in the semiotics of anticipation and longing that are integral to the devotional landscape . . . the precise and repetitive movements woven around the raga-tala structures create these deep patterns of emotion within the dancer through long engagement or riaz/practice . . . the sensuous world of dancing and singing is constructed layer by layer by the kathak performer, gradually building and intensifying the themes of love, longing, desire and separation . . . it connects the dancer to memories of ritual and performance derived from Bhakti-Sufi practices (Chakravorty 2011: 211).

Chakravorty stresses the embodied nature of the performance, the emotions drilled into the performer’s body by years of physical rehearsal. They have become hers, even if they originate outside her. The question then arises, whose subjectivity is being expressed in song? Based on personal experience in singing Thumri songs within devotional _ contexts, Vidya Rao has articulated how the performer moves in and out of the Rādhā persona (2003). It becomes really complex if we take it seriously that these emotions are “inscribed in the body of the kathak dancer, sometimes imagined as Radha, and sometimes as Krishna” (Rao 2003: 211). At the same time, we can see the possibilities for a symbiosis of religious and secular aesthetics combined to mark “that one determining moment when everything comes together in the sam, the downbeat, the start of a new rhythmic cycle” (Chakravorty 2011: 210–11). One can appreciate the force of this emotional resonance with a patron who is in tune with the performance, a true rasika or sahr̥daya “one with his heart attuned.” Understanding this emotional performative context of the songs then helps to get at the heart of this complex relationship, where what is secular, what is religious, what is true, what is acted out, all blurs together in the climax of an overwhelming experience of bliss that the genre cultivates. To look for “the truth” of Banī-thanī’s personal experience behind the songs _ then is perhaps misguided. Her notebook, or Bayāz, is not a diary, but still, it reflects Rasikbihārī’s performance preparation. Some of the songs are her own; sometimes they show evidence of the composition process in the form of her own improvements and corrections in the margins. Others are by Nāgarīdās, and these too differ on occasion from the more polished versions appearing in the official anthologies. Yet others are by other poets, mostly composed in Braj, but also a few in what we now call Urdu. Still, all of the songs were selected by the singer herself. This performance scenario provides us with some clues as to her state of mind.42 By the time the notebook was written, 42

Contemporary performers frequently stress that the emotions expressed in their music must be “authentic expressions of the performer’s inner life” to be successful; see Alaghband-Zadeh 2015: 364–5.

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Nāgarīdās would presumably have been present at these recitals. In that light, it is not unreasonable to assume that to some degree the choice of songs reflects what was going on in their relationship. Without downplaying the religious sentiments expressed, the bhajans could function as a “cover,” or as as University of Florida Professor of Women’s Studies, Anita Anantharam put it in the context of modern Hindi poetesses: the “doubleness” of meaning that is embedded in any metaphor serves as a protective cover through which women could maintain an impeccable social standing and be critical at the same time. That the beloved of these poems can always signify the divine allows women to be regarded as respectable and faithful (in religious terms) and thus not a direct threat to Islamic or Hindu orthodoxy. (2011: 205)

On that assumption, let us read through the manuscript of her Bayāz in chronological order. 3.3.2

Forbidden Romance?

The first seven folios of Rasikbihārī’s “diary of songs” represent an interestingly coherent cluster of poems around the theme of longing under difficult circumstances.43 Would they be indicative of the obstacles that impeded her romance with the prince? The first poem that is written more neatly and formally than the rest is a composition in the Rekhtā idiom (written in Devanāgarī script) on secular love, a complaint of being rejected by a lover: isa saṅga sakhata dila kaũ pīyā tuka narama karau _ karau hama se atīma jni milana kā karama sumarana kīyā hai nma terā hara jubna para ye miharav sāhiba ke kucha tau rahama karau usa bakhata kahā thā ki maĩ kabahī judā na hau aba kyõ bisārate hau kahe kī sarama karaũ rahtā haũ bekarāra tihāre milāpa bina tuma bhī sāhība ku mānakaĩ hama pai karama karau tuma tau nipata bepīra iska pīra n janau aba yaũ kahai_ calī bigāne mana kaũ kyõ haraũ44 (RB 3, fol. 1v; 104, fol. 60v–61r)

“Your heart is so harsh with me! Beloved, just soften it a bit. Take it that I’m orphaned. Favor me with a tryst. I have called your name, it is on everyone’s tongue, 43

44

These come after the aforementioned Savaiyā by Brajnāth Bhatt (discussed in Section 2.4) and a _ monsoon seasonal poem for Rādhā’s birth festival, written in a _sloppier hand. They are followed by a hiatus of some blank pages. The last two lines apparently constitute the maqt̤ a’ with the signature. They are given on folio 1v, but left out when it is repeated on folio 61r.

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Becoming the Prince’s Concubine So, for the grace of God, show me some mercy! At that time, you said, ‘I will never part from you.’ Now why do you want me to forget? Why should I be ashamed? I am left restless without a chance of seeing you. You too respect God, so take pity on me. Are you completely shorn of feeling? Don’t you realize that love hurts?” With these words, she left: “Bigānā/stranger,45 why do you rob my heart?”

The song voices a woman’s attempt to coax her lover back after he has been estranged. This same poem reoccurs later in the collection,46 and such a repetition may indicate it was a favorite or held a special significance for Banī-thanī. She undoubtedly had to content with rivals vying for the prince’s _ attentions. As recorded in the Tavārīḳh, he had multiple pāsbāns. On the other hand, such scenarios of a woman expressing her longing while patiently waiting for an unfaithful lover, were staple of courtesan performances and became later typical for the light-classical Thumri genre. A personalized _ itself very well to performinterpretation may be misguided. This poem lends ance in song with mime (abhinaya), something she reputedly was adept at. Still, it may have appealed to Rasikbihārī because of the mood she found herself in at the time. Several of the following poems she composed reference the illicit nature of Rādhā’s relationship with Krishna: Rāga Sāvata Sāraṅga hari bansī bajāī jamun tata, śravana sonata byākula bhaī bisarī sudhi kma dhma, _hvai rahī rūpamaī nikasa na deta bhavana kai bahira, gura jana roki laī rasika bihārī prītama saũ milī, prema pantha kai gaī (RB 5, fol. 2r) ]

Hari plays his flute on Yamunā’s banks! I became all ears once I picked up the strain. Absorbed in its beauty, [I] lost any sense of home and hearth. [My] elders stopped [me], forbade [me] to slip out of the house. Following the path of love, [I] met with [my] beloved Rasika Bihārī.

It is ambiguous whether the song is in the third or the first person, but in performance, the singer anyways embodies the character whose sentiments are portrayed. On the one hand, the theme of the irresistible attraction of Krishna’s flute, luring the Gopīs away from their housework and their homes, is conventional. On the other hand, it could also be coded to signal that the singer 45

46

This may be a pun of bigānā for begānā, meaning “other” (OHED) and at the same time the name of the poet, perhaps the late seventeenth-century Persian poet of that name, Mīrzā Abū’l Ḥasan Bigānā (Sachau and Ethé 1889: 323, no. 367 under 395). Right after a quote from Valī Deccani, which I have discussed elsewhere (2015: 94–8)

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is temporarily impeded from meeting her lover, but keen on the tryst nevertheless. On the verso of the folio, there is a group of Rajasthani Dohās (and Sorathās) that have no signature, as is not uncommon for this terse genre of _ distichs. They are not featured in any of Nāgarīdās’ anthologies; likely they were new compositions by Rasikbihārī. She may just have been trying out, since the first one is actually not finished: Soratha [rasa_ rā lobhī chau, nandalāla mana rau mohyo]47 chaijī raja ubhā sa bata maĩ ābau kāja _ ghatā nirakhā nai_ na bhara mana āvai lāja _ Dohā mana rī kyo chabi nirakhi kai, sundara rūpa apāra pyārā lāgau bhamvatā, kari rākhaũ ura hāra _ cubhī, mīthā lāgai baĩna sūrata mhārai cita yeka gharī bisar nah, thsu_ lāgyā naĩna _ _ (RB 8 Dohā-Sorathā series, fol. 2v) _

[Lecherous for love, Nandalāl, you have conquered my heart] Worn out with dust, I’m standing on the path for him to come. Realizing his deceit, my eyes filled with tears and my heart with shame O heart, why behold his beauty? His physical beauty is peerless. I hold him dear [even] when he strays. If only I could keep him like a garland, close to my chest. [The memory of your] face pierces my heart, your words are sweet. I cannot forget you for a moment, ever since my eyes met yours.

Those lines may have been intended to be sung in ālāp. While depicting aestheticized emotional vignettes, they simultaneously may express her feelings of longing for a forbidden love. The personal element is likely, given that these seem to be experimental Dohās she was trying her hand at. The very next song in the Bayāz is the one around the concept of enchantment (kāmanagārau), already discussed (Section 2.4), which formed a duet _ with Nāgarīdās’ song with that keyword. That clear case of interaction between the lovers confirms the validity of reading this poetry as part of the emotional spectrum of their growing relationship. Perhaps these songs were performed during a rare meeting that could take place in front of the guru, yet needed to be under cover. In the poems she jotted down after that one, she continued on the same theme, speaking of the opposition to the liaison by elders:

47

This unfinished line is added in the margin. If it was meant to be a Soratha, the rhyme should be _ before the caesura.

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Becoming the Prince’s Concubine Rāga Sāraṅga helī ina naĩnani lagana lagāī syāma manohara mūrati lõnī, tihĩ cita layau curāī kahā karaũ gurujana mohi barajata, bina dekhaĩ na suhāī rasika bihārī thagīyā thagi, mohi aba nahi deta dikhāī _ _

(RB 10, fol. 2v)

O my, I’ve become fixated on these eyes. Dark Manohar’s seductive beauty has stolen my heart. What can I do? My elders chide me, but if I don’t see him, I find no peace. Rasika Bihārī, the thug, has robbed me and now I can’t find him anywhere.

On the next folio, she noted down several Dohās composed by Nāgarīdās in a Rekhtā style: nigāha ke milataĩ hai,48 casmaũ paigāma kīyā risavata musakāya dīyā, dila kaũ lubhāya līyā pukāratī thī yāra kī, mijagã ke bīyā suragai nah iska najara, urajhā muja bīca hīyā sāvalā sāhiba jamāla, chaila chala na vāla tīyā nāgara kahvo pāüsa,49 bĩna nah jāya jiyā (RB 12, fol. 3r; PMĀ 756, Gupta 1965: 1.502)

As soon as [our] glances met, [our] eyes exchanged messages, [I] gave a smile as bribe, [you] robbed [my] heart. The beloved’s eyelashes cried out: “come”50 It was not love smouldering [in that] glance, still my heart got entangled. Dark Lord, [you are] a handsome playboy, [I] a young lady without guile. Nāgar: the saying goes: One cannot live without the rain.

Is it coincidence that Nāgarīdās began with a reference to the meeting of eyes, as if he started where she left off with her Dohās quoted earlier? Not just the vocabulary, but also the rhythm of these lines is Rekhtā in character, like shers in a Ghazal. There even is a Persian imperative, as direct speech, where the beloved’s eyelashes are depicted as speaking Persian. The ambiguity of gender allowed for his message to sound like a secular love message to the stonyhearted beloved of the Persian conventions. It is not untill the penultimate line that he shed this ambiguity and marked his speech as the voice of a woman who is declaring her love for Krishna, the Dark Lord. Would this again be the cover for a secret message to Rasikbihārī? Anyhow, he shows a remarkable ability to sympathize with the plight she expressed earlier in her Dohās.

48 49 50

Gupta has hī. Gupta reads kah ū piyā usa bina “Where is that beloved? Without him. . ..” This makes more sense, though it could be a lectio facilior. This is the Persian biyā, the imperative of the verb āmadan “to come.”

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Whatever may be the case, it is clear that in this period in her life, Rasikbihārī chose songs that expressed despondency. She may have sought solace in religion, as expressed in a poem she noted down right after: hari terau bhajana nāhi kari sakaũ māyā moha lobha mana bāndhyo, ksna nāma bina bthā bakaũ _ aru nindā suni suni thakaũ51 _ _ stuti naĩnani dhyna na kathā nahī śravanani, rasika bihārī karau kr̥pā, nija sarana carana nita kaũ (RB 8, fol. 3v)

Hari I’m unable to sing your praise. My heart is tied up with illusion, delusion, and greed. I babble on in vain, neglect to take God’s name. My eyes can’t focus, my ears don’t hear your stories. I’ve grown weary hearing praise and slander. Rasika Bihārī, show me your favor: shelter me forever at your feet.

This stands out as the only poem in her entire oeuvre that is in nirguna style, _ addressed not to Krishna, but to a God without attributes, similar to poets like the Sants or saints Kabīr and Dādū. As is clear from the multiple corrections in the text of the Bayāz, she worked on it somewhat laboriously. Still, she wasn’t happy with it, and it never was “published”: it did not make the cut for any of Nāgarīdās’ anthologies. It is not till the following folio that Rasikbihārī noted down a Persian poem in the Devanāgarī script, which can be seen as a response to Nāgarīdās’ shers. In the next chapter, we will come back to the issue of how this in turn became an inspiration to Nāgarīdās, but for now, it will do to mention that it expressed the difficulty of breaking with one’s love, including the line: Hāl-e khud bah har kasī izhār kardan mushkil ast (RB fol. 4v)

To reveal one’s inner state in front of everyone is difficult.

As we shall see in the next chapter, she composed a Punjabi-like poem with a similar refrain dila hāla kain kahū̃vai “Whom to tell about the pain in my heart” (RB 132, fol. 78r), which corresponded closely to one in the same idiom by Nāgarīdās. Can this count as evidence of her struggling with adversity? Was she perhaps forced to break romantic ties with Nāgarīdās due to the objections of Rāj Singh and perhaps the queen? Without reading too much of her personal life story into these poems, we can see that she certainly planned her performance around themes that fit such a scenario. 51

After this, another line with a Punjabi flavor – kasai kpā dayā dī nidhi kpā dīna para rasika vihārī caranani japaũ – is erased, but still legible. She corrected it in the next line.

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Some of the following poems also allude to restricted freedom, such as this song of the “woman waylaid at the well”: paniyā maĩ kaisaĩ jāũ, thāthaũ jamunā tīra syma sundarī kuvara _am_ nau, hai bhaïyā bala bīra ika taka cāha rahata hai mo mukha, sāsa nannada saṅga bhīra _ bihārī dekhaĩ bina, nãhi rahai dhīra rasika (RB17, fol. 5r)

How can I go to the place to draw water? He stands posted on Yamunā’s banks Shyām grants pretty ladies safe passage: His brother is Balbīr. He keeps staring at my face unblinkingly in the midst of the crowd with my mother- and sister-in-law. Without seeing Rasika Bihārī, [I/he] lose[s] balance/ patience.

This song represents the voice of a woman of Braj, complaining about Krishna’s waylaying her on her way to the well. His bold behavior is an embarrassment in front of her in-laws. The last line is ambiguous. It undermines the complaint, as the Gopī’s veiled communication could be interpreted to mean that she too is actually keen to meet with Krishna. This poem seems tailor-made for a gorgeous Kishangarhi painting Flirtation on the Riverbank, also attributed to Nihālcand (now in the Walter Arts Museum in Baltimore, see Pauwels 2015: fig. 13). Similarly: Lalita merau mana hari līnaũ sāmvaraĩ ahīra kahā karaũ kita jā kā saũ_ kahauã bīra nikasi na sakau gurajana jiya trāsa naĩnani rahai nita darasana pyāsa nava kisora sundara raṅga bhnau kahā jnaũ mohi kahā una kīnaũ rasika bihārī vah sukhadna bin milaĩ talaphata ye prna (RB 20, fol. 7r)

My heart is conquered by the dark cowherd. What to do? Where to go? In whom to confide my sorrow? I cannot slip away for fear of my elders. My eyes are always thirsting for his sight, That handsome young man, drenched in passion. What do I know? What has he done to me? Rasika Bihārī, he [alone] brings me joy, When I can’t meet him, my heart writhes in pain.

This last song is a more straightforward cris de coeur. Again, it is possible to read into the poetry a coded message and imagine Rasikbihārī under cover of the myth intimating what she could not express openly.

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What may be behind these songs? As suggested above (Section 3.1), likely the Bāṅkāvatī queen disapproved of her ward discarding the zanānā walls to pursue intimacy with her stepson. At the very least, it was a breach of decorum. Given that the zanānā was strictly speaking his father’s, Sāvant Singh would be trespassing. This is not exceptional: There is evidence for such scenarios in Jodhpur from the early seventeenth century onwards. (Under Sūr Singh, see Sreenivasan 2006: 144.) It seems quite plausible that Rasikbihārī had been asked to keep her distance, yet endeavored to signal her positive response to his continued advances nevertheless. 3.3.3

Official Recognition as Concubine

So far, what little can be gleaned from the evidence fits the story of forbidden love. It follows the narrative compulsions of the “tale of the courtesan,” of the Anarkalī trope. The prince is infatuated with the forbidden woman, and she with him, but the romance faces his family’s opposition since it transgresses societal norms. Yet the emotional bond grows stronger in the face of adversity. Will the lovers prevail against the odds, with everything stacked against them? Typically, such tales end in tragedy, whether his ruin, or hers, or both of them. As outlined by King’s College of London’s historian of music Katherine Schofield, in the Mughal context the preoccupation in such cases is with the patron’s transgression of boundaries of decorum and fear of his losing control (2012). Historian Indrani Chatterjee also has stressed that slaves desired by masters represented a threat to Mughal society because of the potential reversal of real social power relationships (2002: 61, 65–7). Such is especially true with performers, in particular the courtesan’s seductive use of music that heightens the affective effect. The influential sixteenth-century story of Bāz Bahādur and Rūpmatī is one example. Closer to Banī-thanī’s own time, in 1713, there had been the dreadful end of the emperor _Jahandar Shāh who had made the dancing girl Lālkumvar, a descendant of the famous Tānsen, his concubine and was under her_ sway (depicted in Figure 1.3; see Malik 2006: 8–9).52 During her own lifetime, Banī-thanī must have heard the gossip about Udham _ managed to climb the ladder and became Bāī, another dancing girl, who concubine of Muhammad Shāh (Section 3.1, depicted in Figure 3.2). The notorious “Qudsia Begum” would come to a miserable end. Banī-thanī then might rightfully have been worried about her own fate, and that _of Sāvant Singh. Spoiler alert: Her story was to have a happy ending. We know from the Tavārīḳh that Banī-thanī actually did become one of Sāvant Singh’s pāsbāns (Section 2.1). Are_ there any hints in her devotional

52

See also Kaicker (2020: 188, 193) and his evaluation of gossipy sources (183–4).

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poetry to that effect? After all, the mythological blueprint of Rādhā and Krishna’s love story allowed for love-marriage, at least according to the Vrindaban Rasika-oriented Sampradāyas. The svakīyā or “belonging to her husband” status of Rādhā was a controversial issue, and hotly debated in the eighteenth century, when Jai Singh II tried to reinforce dharma conformity over the Braj sects. Some factions begged to differ and asserted her status as parakīyā or paramour (Pauwels 2017: 50–1). The Rasika group that Rasikbihārī was reportedly affiliated with saw Rādhā and Krishna as married, which would explain Rasikbihārī’s many songs on the theme. Here we translate three of a special set of four “wedding poems” included in her Bayāz:53 mhānaĩ banaũ pyāraũ lāgai halī motina māla marāla cāla gati, dekhau dekhau nanda dulārau sāmvarī sūrata raṅga bharī mūrati, hai āṅkhina kau tārau _ bihārī para haũ vārī, braja jīvana ujīyārau rasika (RB 135, fol. 78v)

Hey friend, I really love the groom. Pearl necklace swaying with his elegant gait. I can’t help staring at Nanda’s darling son. Dark face, passionate pose, he’s the apple of my eye. I devote my life to Rasika Bihārī; he lights up life in Braj. lādilau van hiya hariyālau ban _ sundara sīsa saharā sohai, motī lāla pan raṅga bharī āṅkhiyā ratanārī, pyārī kai rūpa sanā rasika vihārī kī chavi ūpara, vraũ prna man (RB 136, fol. 78v)

My darling attired as a groom makes my heart bloom. On his head, a gorgeous bridegroom crown glitters with emeralds, pearls, and rubies. Eyes shine red with passion, engrossed in his sweetheart’s beauty. To Rasika Bihārī’s splendor I surrender, body and soul. vana rau raṅga bhmau pyārau lāgai motina māla lāla ke ura para, sõhaĩ sūhai bāgai neha bharī āṅkhaĩ cāhata mukha, dulahani saũ anurāgai rasika bihārī bhna nandanī vara pāyau vada bhāgai _

(RB 137, fol. 78v)

I love the groom’s tender passion. A necklace of pearls shimmers on my darling’s chest; he looks splendid in his wedding outfit. His eyes brim with love, irresistibly drawn to his bride’s face. So lucky is Vrisabhānu’s daughter! She got Rasika Bihārī for a groom!

53

We will return to the fourth one (RB 134, fol. 78v) in Section 5.1.

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All three poems dwell lovingly on the description of the handsome groom, which matches the way Prince Sāvant Singh, alias Krishna, is portrayed in the Kishangarh paintings discussed above. But she could have been referring to her own attraction for the prince as well. These poems are exclusively found in her Bayāz, and all in one place. Right after this set follows a closely matching poem by him, this one also exclusively found in the Bayāz. That suggests these songs were meant only for private consumption: sāmvarau salaũnaũ banā raṅga bhīnaũ he bhvatau _ vāgai kaiso nīkau lāgai vatau sūhai seharā hai sīsa chavi sarasvatau nāgarī samāja saṅga sohai gvatau (RB 138, fol 79r)

I like the tender passion of the dark, attractive groom. I like the way he makes an entrance in grand attire. The bridal crown on his head is splendid. Nāgarī: he looks terrific as he sings in the middle of his party.

Strikingly, Nāgarīdās does not describe the bride, but true to his devotional persona instead takes the view of Rādhā herself or a girl friend admiring Rādhā’s groom. This suggests to what extent even poetry that may possibly celebrate their personal engagement would be cast in bhakti mode and involve gender-bending. Shortly after this song by Nāgarīdās, Rasikbihārī sings again of Rādhā’s luck in being married to the prince of her dreams, but this time in the first person: Rāga Sāraṅga Titāla vaha mana basiyau rasiyau rī, mauhana lāla nagīnau braja kau bhūsana ratana amaulaka, ati sundara raṅga bhīnau _ badabhāgani, sira bidhan likha dīnaũ maĩ pāyau mere _ rasika bihārī piya sukha kārī, kantha lagāya mai līnaũ _ fol. 79r; PMĀ 536; Kh fol. 140b; Litho 46) (RB _140, Give your heart to him who appreciates you, friend: Mohan, the true Prince Charming. He is the catch of Braj, a priceless jewel, so handsome and tender in passion. Lucky am I that the creator wrote this fate in my stars! Rasika Bihārī is my love’s delight, I tightly wrap my arms around his neck.

The point where these songs occur in the manuscript is about three quarters into the text, before the references to their arrival and finding shelter in Barsana in 1752 (more in Section 5.2). This could plausibly be after 1748, when with the death of Rāj Singh the obstacle to their official union would have fallen away. The fact that these songs are only found in the Bayāz, and that only the last song by Rasikbihārī made it in the official anthologies, may indicate that

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they were meant for the lovers’ eyes only. Were they privately celebrating Rasikbihārī’s elevation to the status of pāsbān? Or were they just celebrating the festival of Rādhā and Krishna’s wedding? Other songs on the wedding theme are found in the anthologies, but not in the Bayāz. In all of these, the wedding is described as taking place during the rowdy, topsy-turvy festival of Holi, more elaborately discussed in the next chapter. One possible hint at a more personal interpretation of the wedding theme could be found in the introductory Dohās to be performed in the ālāp: urī gulāla dhdhari bhaī, tana rahyo lāl vitāna _ caũrī cāru nikuñja mẽ, vyāha phāga sukha dāna phūlana ke sira seharā, phāga ragamage vesa bhāvara hī mẽ calata doū, laĩ gati sulapa sudesa bhīje kesara raṅga saũ, lage aruna [para]54 pīta dolaĩ cācara cauka maĩ, gahi vāhiy doū mīta _ racyo raṅgīlī raĩna maĩ, horī ke vica vyāha vanī vihārana rasa sanī, rasika bihārī nāha (UM Dohā 123–6; Litho 15)

Red powder thrown up turned into whirling clouds, bodies strewed with red. On the beautiful stage of the pleasure pavilion a pleasing Phāga wedding takes place. A bridegroom crown of flowers on his head, his attire drenched in Phāga. The pair waltzes its sacred steps around the altar in beautiful pas-de-deux. Drenched in saffron color, his yellow sash imprinted red. They sway in the courtyard to the Cācara, both sweethearts, their arms around each other. During the night of passion, they celebrated their Holi marriage. Drenched in passion was the bride/ Banī Bihārinī, of Rasika Bihārī’s Lord.

The reference to Banī (vanī), which also means “bride” in the last line, could be self-referential, especially because it comes in the chāp line. But then again, it could be just the generic religious poem that those outside their intimate circle would undoubtedly have understood it to be. The relationship of the literary couple was determined for a large part by the shared religiosity. For Nāgarīdās, Rādhā was clearly svakīyā, or married to Krishna, and in his anthologies he included many poems on the theme of the wedding of Rādhā and Krishna. Many of these songs described the wedding rites during Holi. In his autobiographical pilgrimage account, Tīrthānand, he gave a vivid first-person description of his own partaking of the celebratory Holi rites after he had settled in Barsana. There, he described himself being involved in a mock wedding during the festival, much to the hilarity of the women taking part in the staging of the Holi rites (Pauwels 2018: 96, 104–5).

54

UM 126 has pata. _

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While he does not mention Banī-thanī there, she actually has a song that _ he had related: chimes very much with the experience Titāla kuñja mahala maĩ āju raṅga horī ho phāga khela maĩ ban banī kī, hvai rahī pata gatha jorī ho mudita hvai nāri gulāla udāvaĩ, gāvaĩ gāri _duhũ_orī ho _ dūlaha rasika bihārī sundara, dulahani navala kisorī ho (UM 135, Gupta 1965: 1.173; Litho 16)

In the pleasure bower today Holi’s passion reigns, Ho! As they play Phāg, the bride and groom have tied the knot, tying their clothes together, Ho! Overjoyed the women throw red powder; both sides exchange mock-taunts, Ho! The groom is handsome Rasika Bihārī and the bride is the tender princess, Ho!

The word for bride in the second line again is banī, but a reference to Banīthanī seems far-fetched since it is part of the compound ban-banī “bride and _groom.” Still, the poem is worth quoting here as it had wide currency. It surfaced even in the 1897 aforementioned article by Pandia in the Journal of the Asiatic Society of Bengal, based on a manuscript kept at Pratapgarh, where he formerly was a minister (Section 1.3). Given the lack of clear clues that would link other Rādhā–Krishna wedding poems with their personal experience, discussion of the ones they composed in response to one another is postponed to the next chapter (Section 4.3.3). That will focus on this poetic synergy of the author-couple and the power dynamics of their relationship. *** Reading symbiotically the evidence of the painting and the poetry, both Nāgarīdās’ and Rasikbihārī’s, we have discovered many clues that betray something about their evolving relationship behind the formulaic Rādhā– Krishna romance they sang about. The paintings cannot be taken as straightforward corroboration for their romance, as there is little evidence that they actually portray the prince and his concubine. Yet, several contain interocular references to other contemporaneous images and to poetry, subtly alluding to the pair’s growing relationship and its obstacles. Sāvant Singh and Banīthanī’s seems to have been initially a clandestine romance. Given that the _slave girl actually belonged to Sāvant Singh’s father’s zanānā, it was improper for her to formally become the son’s pāsbān until after his father’s death. This led the pair to conduct their rendezvous discretely, often in veiled references. Sāvant Singh may well have first noticed Banī-thanī, the talented young _ singer in his stepmother’s retinue, during a boating trip. I have argued that he subtly conveyed his infatuation to the beautiful performer in loving mythic

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descriptions. Detailed analysis of the stylistics of his 1731 (Nav-)bihārcandrikā reveals that the new (navala) oarslady of Rādhā’s boat dressed in diaphanous white muslin was singled out suggestively. By the time the poem was rendered in painting by Nihālcand as Boat of Love, Banī-thanī had evolved from new sakhī to Rādhā herself. The special fascination_ with boating is supported by fond allusions to such trips in the couple’s later poems and in paintings. These personal romantic associations may well be a factor in the popularity of the boating theme in Kishangarh painting. Still, there were other paintings that portray prominently a “lady in white,” including as a performer in a Diwali painting that perhaps is the earliest in the series with the features associated with Banī-thanī. This visual record flamboyantly celebrates _ it at the same time as hiding it under cover of their romance, revealing Rādhā–Krishna imagery. The ups and downs of the relationship can be traced in Rasikbihārī’s Bayāz through a progression of poems about longing in separation under difficult circumstances to a happy union. If read as a “diary of songs,” as a stage for performativity of love, it reflects her moods and creativity in interplay with his, eventually climaxing in a celebration of their official union through the trope of Rādhā and Krishna’s marital bliss. Whereas dire tales of infamous historical concubines punished for their exordinate influence over their patron were rife at the time, even playing out in real time at the imperial court in Delhi with the courtesan Udham Bāī holding sway over the emperor Muhammad Shāh, by contrast the Banī-thanī romance had a happy ending. Whatever way one interprets the clues_to a personal relationship, and this remains tentative, there is abundant evidence of Banī-thanī joining Sāvant Singh in moments of _ religious ecstasy. A more elaborate reading of the literary interchange and power dynamics of the pair’s songs is presented in the next chapter.

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Figure 4.1 From Śukadeva Reciting the Bhāgavata-purāna (Ancient Stories of the Lord) to King Parīksit/Sāvant Singh. Ca. 1750–75. Kishangarh, Rajasthan. Opaque watercolor,_ gold, and silver on paper. 25.71 x 45.72 cm._ Los Angeles County Museum of Arts. Gift of the Michael J. Connell Foundation (M.71.49.2). Photo courtesy LACMA.

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Synergies of the Literary Couple

Like queens, concubines could wield a fair amount of power. One avenue was through male children or protégés (mentioned in Section 2.3). However, recent research has sought to correct for an overemphasis on palace women’s reproductive roles, instead highlighting their productivity, including in the arts, literature, and entertainment (Watson 2008: 3, 18–20). Rasikbihārī’s is a case in point. Leaving aside the disputed issue of her physical traits inspiring the Kishangarhi profile, there is firm evidence that she played an important role in the production of Kishangarhi music and literature. The investment made in her education and training clearly paid off handsomely for the royal house. This chapter will reveal Rasikbihārī’s productive role as a catalyst and muse, foregrounding her poetic exchange with the prince. Typically, concubines and mistresses are perceived to exert power through their beauty and sexual attraction. If also courtesans/performers, their art is often treated as secondary, in function of their capacity to seduce (Qureshi 2006: 320). The musical recital (mujrā) constitutes a power field, an unequal conversation where the performer nevertheless can inhabit roles of superiority as the beloved, as well as inferiority as the lover in pain, occupying a complex alteration of control and subservience. Katherine Schofield has astutely observed the anxieties regarding “controlling the erotic power of the beloved, which was thought to be enhanced to the point of irresistibility by the affective power of music” (Schofield 2012: 158). This is articulated in stories prevalent in the Mughal sphere that warn nobles against courtesans right from the sixteenth century at Akbar’s court, as in the case of the famous courtesan (lūlī) Arām Jān.1 Such moral lessons continued into the early eighteenth century with the violent overthrow of Jahandar Shāh, whose undoing is often 1

The story is commented on by several historians (Badaoni in his Muntaḳhab 2.14–5 and Abul Fazl in his Akbar Nāmah 2:128, as well as Khwājā Nizām ud-din Ahmad in his Tabaqāt-i Akbarī and Shāh Nawāz Khān in his Ma’āsir al umarā). They mention Akbar’s anger when he learned that Khān Zamān (‘Alī Quli Khān) had first lawfully wedded in nikāh the courtesan (lūlī) Arām Jān, who performed in the Majlis-e Khāss, but subsequently passed her on to Shāhim Beg, a qurchi or horse-guard of the palace, who in turn passed her on to someone else. When the latter then refused to return her, Shāhim was killed in the shuffle (Wade 1998: 84–8; Schofield 2012:

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linked with his infatuation with the aforementioned courtesan Lālkumvar _ (Sharma 2020: 222–3). The performative power of courtesans or concubines then was often evaluated as negative. With the emergence of new musical genres, notably Khayāl, in the eighteenth century, Jawharlal Nehru University’s performance studies scholar Vibhuti Sharma has argued that a “changing economy of pleasure” came about, which “upsets existing relations of power among artists, patrons, music connoisseurs and common listeners” (2020: 232). Perhaps one can read some of the trajectory to power of the later Deccani courtesan Māh Laqā Bāī “Cand” in the light of such power reversals between artists and patrons (cf. the brilliant reading of one of her Ghazals by Kugle 2010: 384–5). In the same light one can perhaps understand the legend of the infamous Hindi poet Ānandghan’s unrequited love for the courtesan Sujān at Muhammad Shāh’s court in the first half of the eighteenth century. The tale of his professions of love for a woman who belonged to the emperor contests the latter’s central position, but Sujān’s rejection of the lovelorn poet still reconfirms it (Bangha 2000: 523–4). Do we see evidence in the Kishangarhi case of similarly changing structures of dominance in a Rajput court environment? This chapter explores the power dynamics in the relationship of the Kishangarh romantic author-pair Nāgarīdās and Rasikbihārī. What stands out here is that the patron valued the concubine’s poetic productivity to the point that he included her verse in his collections on a par with his own. Strikingly, the “courtesan’s” performance here seems to have had a strong dialogic character, as we can demonstrate through matching her songs with his, following the way he pairs their songs as he records them. His inclusiveness is not “on the page” only. One could speak of a full-throated endorsement of the courtesan by the prince. The Kishangarhi painting that is the visual starting point of this chapter (Figure 4.1) depicts a mythological scene of the sage Śukadeva, accompanied by a group of ascetics, reciting the sacred scripture of Bhāgavata-purāna to the survivor of the Mahābhārata, King Parīksit, and his courtiers. The _scene is _ reminiscent of the depiction of the commemoration of Vrindāvandev Ācārya’s visit to Rupnagar sponsored by the Bāṅkāvatī queen (Figure 2.3). Would this painting also be a commemoration of an actual event, of a particular occasion of Bhāgavata-purāna recitation at court? The vivid detail of the lifelike faces _ of the participants seems to suggest that this was a sort of inside joke, where

160). There may be more going on there, though. Chatterjee specifies that Shāhim Beg was son of the camel driver and bodyguard of Akbar whom Khān Zamān desired to the point that he had prostrated himself to him, calling him “my emperor” (2002: 66). This reveals that the issue may have had more to do with loyalty to the emperor, or with upholding social standing, rather than sexual mores per se. On the prestige of transfer of skilled slaves, see also Sreenivasan 2006: 158.

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the courtiers of Kishangarh at the time would have been able to identify themselves among the party behind King Parīksit. Perhaps they would have _ have recognized some of the ascetics of Śuka’s party as regular visitors at the Kishangarh court. The fact that there are many other such depictions with slight variations, especially in faces of the participants might strengthen that surmise.2 One version is even inscribed with the names of the mythical characters, which may have been piquant as the courtiers figured out who was portrayed as whom.3 In contrast to these other depictions, the detail of the image selected here shows two women attending, neither of whom is in purdah. One of them is seated along with the holy men behind the sage Śuka. She holds a rosary in her hand and her arm is supported by an ascetic’s crutch. Her profile shows the exaggerated “Kishangarhi Rādhā” features. Might this proud ascetic lady in transparent white muslin garb be intended to allude to Rasikbihārī? If so, she is reckoned here among the devotees, rather than the courtiers. A badge of honor, one imagines. Is there evidence that Rasikbihārī participated as a devotee in such public rituals? This chapter starts by documenting how Nāgarīdās included her in his male-dominated durbar world, even during religious recitation. This differs from the Mughal etiquette associated with gender-boundary crossing: “female performers who were legitimately sexually involved with their male patrons, whether inside or outside the haram, were prevented from crossing between male and female space” (Schofield 2012: 158). In Chapter 2, we have already seen examples of Rasikbihārī’s poetic exchange with Guru Vrindāvandev Ācārya, perhaps in the zanānā, but also with Ānandghan in Sāvant Singh’s majlis. This chapter provides further substantiation on the basis of a transcript of one such recital that may have been her official debut, her first documented public performance on the occasion of a ritual recitation of Bhāgavata-purāna _ in 1742 (Section 4.1). In addition, Nāgarīdās gathered Rasikbihārī’s songs both in his hymnals, where she is the only author besides himself (Section 4.2), and in the more encompassing anthology that includes many other authors besides, such as the Mewar princess Mīrābāī (Section 4.3). This had a major impact as not only did Rasikbihārī’s poetry survive in writing, but her compositions continue to be performed to this day. Another effect is that by registering her songs matched with his own, he took her work seriously, in some cases even recording how others responded to her output. Thus, he affords us a glimpse of the reception of 2 3

An early one is preserved in the National Museum (Mathur 2000: 50–1, pl. 7). This one is preserved in the Victoria and Albert Museum, catalogue number IS.556-1952, estimated by some as circa 1757. It even has small inscriptions on the details in the background, such as the hut of Rishi Shringa and King Parīksit hunting, as can be viewed when enlarging the _ image online: https://collections.vam.ac.uk/item/O73811/sukhdev-and-king-parikshit-paintingunknown, last accessed September 9, 2021.

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her work by its contemporaneous audience, something that typically is lacking in courtesan studies, where sexual desire is foregrounded, the courtesan reduced to the role of sexual commodity, and the patron as consumer. This serious engagement with her work allows us to speak of something beyond the usual concubinage, closer to a partnership, in any case mutual literary and musical inspiration. This chapter allows us a glimpse of this intense process through matching pairs, “duets,” of his and her poems. We have already had occasion to analyze some such cases of intertextuality of Rasikbihārī’s poems not just with Nāgarīdās’ (the boating songs at the end of Section 3.2) but also with Guru Vrindāvandev Ācārya’s (toward the end of Section 2.4). This chapter features systematically selected sets of poems of the author-pair responding to one another. The songs work within their own universe of themes and tropes, with shared keywords and aesthetic techniques. Each composer creates their own variation on a theme in friendly competition. Collecting matching pairs is easiest done on the basis of Nāgarīdās’ anthologies that are organized by theme, but Rasikbihārī too included Nāgarīdās’ poetry in her performance notebook (Section 4.4). This illustrates the reciprocity of the relationship and provides an unusual record of responses, rare in courtesan studies. It also provides documentation that she played an important role in his compositions in the genre of Rekhtā, which was a new vogue in Delhi at the time. Read together, Rasikbihārī’s Bayāz and Nāgarīdās’ anthologies allow us to discover the joy of creativity that lies in a joined exploration of the old and the new: bhakti poetry in Classical Hindi but also in Rekhtā. Throughout this chapter, we have the opportunity to reconstruct some lovely shared moments of literary engagement between the author-couple. As far as I know, this is the first such study of an author-pair for Indian literature. 4.1

Invitation to a Monsoon Recital

When did it all start? It is possible that the painting we started the chapter with (Figure 4.1) was intended to commemorate Rasikbihārī’s debut. The earliest dated evidence of her songs’ inclusion in Nāgarīdās’ anthologies is from around 1742 in his Śrīmad-bhāgavat-pārāyan-vidhi-prakāś (Spotlight on the Ceremonies for a Full Recitation of the Holy Bhāgavata-purāna). This work documented a religious festival that consisted of a full recitation_of the Sanskrit scripture, which Sāvant Singh organized in the monsoon season of the year 1742 (1799 VS). While the title might lead us to expect technical particulars of recitation and ritual, the work really is a transcript of the Classical Hindi poetry in the form of Kavittas and Savaiyās composed by courtiers for the occasion and recited at the outset and at the conclusion of the rites. The work includes the invitation model sent out to the guests as well as their responses (javāb)

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recited at the event. This ressembles a mushā‘irah or poetry recitation with a fixed pattern, as was the rage for Rekhtā in Delhi at the time (as argued in Pauwels 2018). The special importance of this particular occasion is evident from Sāvant Singh publishing the “proceedings” as Śrīmad-bhāgavat-pārāyan-vidhi-prakāś. Rasikbihārī was invited to the religious ceremony and contributed to the symposium. Not only that, her poems were included in a prominent place, right after those of the host. If this reflects the order they were recited during the actual ceremony, it indicates that she held a high position in this religious gathering, notwithstanding her origins as a slave girl and the objection of the family to her becoming the prince’s concubine. While the sequence may have been adjusted when it was recorded, there is internal evidence showing that at the very least her poetry was taken seriously by the participants. Recently, a draft has come to light with Nāgarīdās’ and Rasikbihārī’s contributions to this poetic symposium, jotted down sloppily on what seem to have been originally loose folios, later tied together with a manuscript that was written in Shahjahanabad in 1729.4 This may be a draft version prepared for the event itself.5 The individual poems lack standardization of, for instance, long and short vowels, as would be expected in a more formally ornamental written manuscript. Let us see what transpired at the recital. A comparison of Nāgarīdās’ and Rasikbihārī’s compositions at this first documented ritual occasion gives a taste of the synergy between them. His introductory verse sets the tone: kaisaĩ nanda bhauna natanāgara pragata bhae _ kīnhe sukhadāiyaĩ _ bālaka binoda kaisaĩ kaisaĩ gopa gana mjha phirikaĩ carāī gāya kaisaĩ bana dhākana kī chāmha chāka khāiyaĩ _ kaisaĩ _ aru muralī bajāī kaisaĩ giri dhāryau racī rāsa keli nisa sarada suhāiyaĩ vmdāvana jamunā śrī nandagāmva gokula maĩ _ jah kīnh hari līlā so sunāiyaĩ _ (BhPVP 5, Gupta 1965: 2.412–3)

4

5

The manuscript, J, which includes Bihārī’s Satsaī, Kavittas by Ānandghan, and Nāgarīdās’ early works (as discussed in Section 2.6), is preserved in Jodhpur (RORI no. 9431). The relevant poems are on folios 12v–13r, if counted consecutively from the first written folio in the volume. However, as Imre Bangha has pointed out, the pages are not in sequence. The section with her poems occurs before any of the nicely copied passages start, on pages that are sloppily written and seem to have been jotted down in a hurry and tied together with the manuscript that was written in 1729 (J). Bangha has published a description of this manuscript (2011). I am grateful to Professor Bangha for sharing the photos he took of this manuscript as well as his written notes on the manuscript and speculation about how it was bound. Rasikbihārī’s verses are quoted after some other verses by Nāgarīdās, including some from his Kali-vairāgya of 1738 (1795 VS) and Śrīmad-bhāgavat-pārāyan-vidhi-prakāś of 1742. They do not appear in the sequence in which he eventually compiled them in these works, which would fit the surmise it was a rough draft for the occasion.

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Synergies of the Literary Couple How was Natanāgara (Krishna) born in Nanda’s house? _ did his childhood pranks bring us? What joys How did he set off among the cowherds to graze the cows? How did he snack in the shade of the forest trees? How did he lift the mountain and how play his flute, To dance the Round Dance on a splendid night in autumn? In Vrindavan, along the Yamunā, in Nandagaon and Gokul – Wherever Hari played – please recite [for us on] that [topic].

The patron, whose signature (Nāgara) doubles as an epithet for Krishna, invites the reciter (kathāvācak) to give his discourse on Krishna’s exploits as related in the sacred scripture. His poem is in the same meter and rhyme as the invitation and makes abundant use of alliteration and some internal rhyme (indicated by bolding and underlining respectively). The structure is repetitive, leading the storyteller by his questions. Rasikbihārī’s response follows his lead: yahī bjabhũmī yahī gīra grāma druma jāta rahe jhmī jhūmi bhare phula phala6 mora mẽ yahī bjavāsī santa parama catura śrotā hyī ke upāsī ye pare haĩ prema rora mẽ mañjula pulani yahī yahī jamun ke kūla mile desa kāla pātra7 kahā kahũ aura mẽ yahī haĩ rasika kai bihārī yaī śrī bndābana kathā yāhī thaura k sunāvo yāhī thaura mẽ _ (BhPVP 9,_ Gupta 1965: 2.413; J fol. 12v–13r) This very land of Braj! This very hill! These villages! Tree branches Gently swinging, full of fruit and flowers in the bud! These residents of Braj! These holy men! What an audience, so well-attuned! These worshipers here given to proclamations of love! These tender islands! These Yamunā’s banks! We have found The right place, the right time, the right heroes.8 What else for me to talk about? This Rasika Bihārī, here in holy Vrindaban! The story of this place, one should hear9 on this very spot.

6 7 8 9

Gupta reads gala, perhaps reading together with following maur as gulmohar, but Litho adds the superior reading phala, which alliterates with preceding phūla. The manuscript reads patra, but this can be corrected on the basis of Gupta to pātra, which makes more sense as part of the formula. Literally: “characters.” The point is that the three ingredients of literature – time, place, and characters – are best represented by those of Bhāgavata-purāna. _ Sunāvo looks like an imperative, “tell,” but could also be interpreted as a perfective, sunāyo, “told.”

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This poem, too, is rhetorically structured around a series of repetitions of the same word: As if in answer to Nāgarīdās’ question words “how?” (kaisaĩ) at the beginning of each line (except the last), Rasikbihārī uses the emphatic demonstrative pronoun of near reference “this/these” (yahī) at the beginning of the first two. In the third line, she postpones it playfully till the caesura, which is where he had also an extra repetition of the question word. Further, like his, her poem too makes abundant use of alliteration (kūla, kāla and kahā kahaũ in the penultimate line) and employs internal rhyme (bhūmi and jhmi jhmi in the first line). To top it off, she too uses her pen name as an epithet for Krishna. Finally, she followed the Urdu mushā‘irah pattern closer than he did by ending each line with both a rhyme or qāfiya, here -ora, and a repeated word or radīf, here mẽ. She certainly kicked off the proceedings in exemplary manner, arguably even upstaging him. Once the ceremonies were over, Nāgarīdās offered a few poems to thank the reciter. In one of them, he used a culinary metaphor: nyaũti kaĩ bulāya āche āya mana bhāya loga santa o mahanta ācāraja kula no-gunī aurahu savādī haĩ barana tīna sõ pravīna jinakī rahī haĩ mithi gati mati augunī _ nāgara udāra vaktā vividhi tyaũ nā(ga)rina saũ daīhaĩ rasoī [nī]kī sudhā sanī hau gunī paṅgati na bheda kīnaũ paṅ[ga]ti baithāya jathā _ pherhyo kathā pārasa barhāī bhūkha sogunī _ (BhPVP 22, Gupta 1965: 2.418; J fol. 11v)10 Upon invitation, many wonderful people came, to my delight: Many saints, priests, and preceptors (ācārya) with nine qualities endowed. And others who are amateurs and are smart, from all three classes. Those who stayed [to listen] found the dullness of their minds destroyed. Nāgar: the generous speaker provided variation, like women do When they skillfully bake delicacies with nectar oblation blended in.11 No one complained of seating: [they sat] as seated in the row. When the plate of exegesis made the rounds, it fueled hunger hundred-fold

This poem is poetically accomplished with an abundance of internal rhyme (bulāye . . . āye . . . bhāye in the first line, and tīna and pravīna in the second line) and alliteration (paṅgati . . . pherhyo . . . pārasa in the last line) as well as

10

11

Round brackets indicate letters in the manuscript that are incorrect; the square brackets supply the correct reading on the basis of the Gupta edition. The emendations make sense for both meaning and meter. The manuscript reads sunī, but Gupta gives sanī, which makes more sense here: “mixed in.” The following hau stands for hava, meaning “oblation” or could also mean “invitation” (Platts).

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repetition of paṅgati “line in communal feasts where people of the same caste are seated together.” This repetition underlines the importance, content-wise, of the statement Sāvant Singh was making: He stressed informality and lack of adherence to strict rules of dharma, according to which one should eat only with members of one’s own caste. That was not just a rhetorical move. Stressing disregard for such commensuality rules was directly contrary to Jai Singh II’s reforms that sought to foster orthopraxis in the devotional communities. These lines betray a political agenda of the feast. What looked perhaps like a routine ritual occasion took on a subversive meaning in its historical context. Just two years before, Jai Singh II had attempted to interfere in the succession of the deceased Salemabad abbot Vrindāvandev Ācārya. He had nominated his own candidate who was a householder, and even organized support among several Rajputs for the man of his choice. The ascetics at the monastery however saw things differently and supported a candidate of their own, Govinddev Ācārya. This new guru was probably present at the symposium, since one of his songs was included in the proceedings (Pauwels 2018: 52–3). Clearly, there was much going on behind the scenes of this festival. Our focus here though is on Rasikbihārī, and again she followed next in sequence; she must have been aware of the politics behind the occasion but did not let on. She responded with the following Savaiyā: kīnau (haĩ) ucārya jīhī chīna te, bhajanānda āna(mda) chayo su chayo haĩ _ dayo su dayo haĩ śrī rasikendra bihārī ju kī kathā, ras(a)āsava pyāya je hẽ abhāvakī tehī gay(a)[e] chakī, bhāvaka raṅga thayo su thayo haĩ loyana bhīja rahe su rahe, mana hātha tẽ rījha gayo_ su gayo _haĩ (BhPVP 24, Gupta 1965: 2.418; J fol. 13r)

The moment he started to recite, the joy of bhajan spread all around, so it did. The nectar of the story of Rasikendra Bihārī, he gave to all to drink, so he did. Even those uninitiated left satisfied,12 but ecstasy overtook those truly tuned in, so it did. Eyes brimming with tears, our heart flew from our grip, drawn straight to Him, so it’s gone.

Immediately apparent is the repetition of the rhyme word in a phrase at the end of the line, which is something we see also elsewhere in her oeuvre (RB 184, fol. 101r, with rhyme -āva tau). Again, it seems purposely intended for the

12

I’ve translated chaknā “to be satiated,” but it could also be intended ironically as “to get as one’s portion; to be tricked.” It seems to be less likely that it would be intended in the secondary meaning of “to be astonished.”

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audience to chime in and repeat with her, akin to what is done in mushā‘irahs for the radīf. In terms of theme, Rasikbihārī picked up on Sāvant Singh’s metaphor of the recitation as a banquet with her reference to nectar being served. She also echoed his sentiment that some may have benefited more from the ritual than others, but all came away with something. Right after this song, she got to recite a Kavitta that she had composed: gāī so purānana maĩ pāī nidhi anāyāsa ya[ha] bhūmi chādī hama kitahu na jāvẽgai jamunā jala pna ru_ sanāna śrī jamunā kau raja kõ parasa prema pulaka sihāvaĩge bmdābana mhĩ sadā santana ke bāmha bala _ _ dampati caritra cāru sunege sunvaĩge 13 rasika bihāri pyāri kpā kara ānanda maĩ aisehi bitāya samẽ asẽhĩ bitāvẽgai (BhPVP 25, Gupta 1965: 2.418–9; J fol 13r–v)

The treasures praised in texts of yore fell into our laps just like that. We won’t leave this land to go elsewhere! Yamunā’s waters to drink and Yamunā’s waters to bathe in, Refreshed, we touch this dust, our skin bristling with love. Vrindaban’s devotees always sustain us, as we hear and recite the divine pair’s enchanting escapades. By the grace of Rasika Bihārī and his darling, blissfully, That’s how we’ve passed our time and continue ever more.

From these words, and those of her first Savaiyā, it appears that she had composed these poems in Vrindaban itself, perhaps during a pilgrimage earlier that year. Yet it fits here too, in the context of the Krishna līlā, where each festive commemoration is intended as an occasion to participate effectively in the eternal divine play. Rasikbihārī’s outpouring of enthusiastic compositions was not ignored. Following her, a courtier named Purohit Brajlāl recited a Savaiyā with wording evocative of hers: bhīja rahe dga, rījha gayo mana (BhPVP 26, Gupta 1965: 2.419)

Eyes brimmed with tears, hearts were drawn and lost.

Purohit Brajlāl directly acknowledged her Savaiyā’s final line. It is all the more remarkable because the Purohit might be surmised to be a conservative figure. Yet, he did not hesitate to take his cue from the slave-girl. 13

Gupta’s edition gives the variant ksna kathā “Telling the story divine of Rasika Bihārī’s __ darling and Krishna’s bliss.”

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Another Brahmin courtier, Hīrālāl Sanādhya,14 likewise picked up on _ Rasikbihārī’s first song, in particular her device of repetition. In her case it was consistently employed at the end of each line, in his, it came at the beginning of the last line, but had similar assonance of āya: Chāya rahyo chāyā so uchāha tah sabana ko (BhPVP 30, Gupta 1965: 2.420)

Fervor shared by all extends like cool shade, so it does.

This clever wordplay took off from Rasikbihārī’s rhyme word chayo, and the repetition in her last line of rahe. She must have been delighted to see her poem thus recognized. And there was more to come, yet another courtier, Vinaicand “Carandās,” in his Kavitta echoed the rhyme pattern of her first verse, and even employed three times the same rhyme word as she had. One of his lines packed in several references to her and others’ poems: śrotā rasa bhare aru parama uchāha bhare bhare naina nīra prema pīra thāta haĩ thayo _ _ _ (BhPVP 32, Gupta 1965: 2.421) Listeners overcome by rasa, overcome by highest fervor, Eyes overcome by tears, impressed by the marvel of love’s pain.

In combination with the reference to the “eyes brimming with tears,” he also echoed Hīrālāl’s internal rhyme with uchāha. In other lines he quoted from Nāgarīdās’ poems. These dense intertextual references are sure to have elicited some “bravos” from the audience. And one can imagine Rasikbihārī beaming. She was the star of the event. Whether this was her debut or not, the transcript shows that at least since 1742 Rasikbihārī partook in the court’s public religious ceremonies and poetic gatherings. It is possible she may have been behind purdah, contrary to the depiction of the proud ascetic woman in the painting (Figure 4.1). If indeed the visual reference is to her, her inclusion among ascetics rather than courtiers suggests that she was taken seriously as a devotee. In any case, the written proceedings show unambiguously that her contributions were celebrated and she was recognized as a devotee-poetess in her own right. Notwithstanding the complications of the relationship with the crown prince, her status at court was already high at this point, allowing her recitation pride of place, right after the

14

He is mentioned as earning seven Rs. monthly in Mahārājā Rāj Singh jī kā Itihās (p. 139), according to Śaran 1972: 255–6, fn. 2. _

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host, so subsequent reciters could work in references to her tonesetting creations. Rasikbihārī’s performances also shed a new light on the status of Rajput courtesans. It helps to qualify the view that emerges in colonial accounts, where elite courtesans famous for their nautches are largely subservient, their performances showcasing the patron’s investment at diplomatic occasions to entertain allies and guests (Jha 2015: 150). Perhaps because many such witnesses did not understand the language, they are more likely to assess these performances as “background noise.” As mentioned in the previous chapter, it does not seem to be the case that Banī-thanī performed as a dancer and there is _ no evidence either that she ever engaged in mediating diplomatic relations. Rather, she occupied the position of a performer of her own compositions, which were appreciated and taken seriously, not just by the prince but also by the other guests. 4.2

Celebrating the Seasons Together: Nāgarīdās’ Hymnals

The inclusion of Rasikbihārī in durbar recitation proceedings was not just a one-off exceptional case. Nāgarīdās continued to integrate her verse in his collections on a par with that of others. In the liturgical collection of Utsav-mālā, she was actually the only other poet he quoted. He incorporated her songs so they would be performed in the temple for festival occasions. This had far-reaching consequences, as even today her songs are performed in the temple of Shri Kalyāna Rāya Jī in the fort as per the calendrical festival schedule.15 There are_ manuscripts to back this up, such as one in the Kishangarh Royal Durbar collection in which Banī-thanī is singled out in the _ Vallabhan rites, but her colophon.16 The Fort temple functions according to the poems are also performed in Nimbārkan shrines, as evidenced by the fact that several of Rasikbihārī’s songs are included in the Nimbārkan manuscript of the Utsav-mālā now preserved in the Library of Krishna’s Birthplace (Janmabhūmi) in Mathura (MJB, see Appendix). There are many other manuscripts of specific seasonal selections that include both his and her songs, which confirms that they were performed widely.17 Of the songs by her 15 16

17

Mukhiyā jī, Madan Mohan Ācārya, personal communication, Summer 2012. The manuscript with Sānjhī ke pad/ Uchav mālā dated 1887 (1944 VS bhādon Janmāstamī), _ _ hai written by Mathurādās in Kishangarh specifies in the colophon: ismẽ anya kavi kā saṅketa so mahārāja nāgarīdāsa jī ke kavī banī-thanī jī chā ty kī kritī chai (Peti 6B). _ _ _Museum has several entries for manuscripts that The catalogue of Jaipur’s Sanjay Sharma include poetry by both Rasikbihārī and Nāgarīdās: Phūtkar-kavitt, dated 1796 (1853 VS), _ written by Mohanot Bhairu Singh (Śarmā 2001: 158 serial no. 1085/781/4); a nineteenthcentury Krishna-janmotsav (Śarmā 2001: 43); an eighteenth and a nineteenth-century Padsangrah (129 serial no. 898/765, 133); Vasant Padāvalī, Hori Padāvalī of 1866 (238); and nineteenth-century Śayan ke pad (268), and Hindore ke pad (320).

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collected at the end of the lithograph of 1897 under the heading Rasikabihārī jī kta pada (pp. 601–10), over half were excerpted from Nāgarīdās’ Utsav-mālā. Rasikbihārī’s songs are found on the liturgical calendar for practically all seasons, from monsoon through spring (Braj calendrical overview in Entwistle 1987: 482–91). Utsav-mālā starts with the monsoon celebrations of Krishna’s and Rādhā’s birthdays, or Janmāstamī in the dark and bright half resp of the _ _ festivals include the flower festival of month of Bhādon.18 The autumnal 19 Sāñjhī during Āshvin. The winter celebrations include Diwali during Kārtik,20 but the favorite is the spring celebration of the festival of colors, Holi, during Phālgun.21 The subsequent flower festival of Phūlracnā also includes Rasikbihārī’s poems.22 No songs for festivals of the hot season are recorded. The cycle ends with the return of the rains and the festival of the swings, Jhūlanā during Shrāvan. As for the performance context, one imagines that Rasikbihārī’s earliest songs were originally performed in the zanānā, but they may well have been (over)heard on occasion by the Nimbārkan guru. She likely sang in the temple in Rupnagar and, as they went on pilgrimage to Vrindaban, partook in samājgāyan there, both of which were more public occasions. In his compilation, Nāgarīdās inserted most of her songs right after or before matching songs of his own. This affords the opportunity to get a taste of how the literary couple enjoyed composing together for the festival occasions, inspired by each other’s creations for the season. One detects a playful spirit of competition as they often composed in the same rhyme scheme, picking up on particular vocabulary the other had used with slight permutations. Following the sequence of the seasons through the year, below are selected samples of those response poems that were circulated most widely. 18 19

20 21

22

This is followed by the songs of the tax (Dān), but those do not include any by Rasikbihārī, notwithstanding the fact that she composed quite a few on that theme. This is followed by the songs of the full moon night (Śārad-pūrnimā) when the Rāsa-līlā is _ celebrated, subdivided by the headings Venu Gīt, Rāsotsav, and Nikuñj-rāsotsav, but those do _ has one song on the theme of the flute, but not include any by Rasikbihārī either. She proclaiming her jealousy of it (PMĀ 501, in the Bayāz on fol. 89r, RB 171). As we have seen, the very last poem by Rasikbihārī in the Bayāz is a Rāsa-līlā poem, but though she quotes one by Nāgarīdās, one by Nanddās, and one by Hit Harivamś (fols. 38r–v, fol. 58r), there are no _ others by herself. This is preceeded by the celebration of Mount Govardhan, but none of Rasikbihārī’s songs are included. This is preceeded in the Vulgate edition by the songs for the birthday festival of “Gusāī jī,” Vallabha’s son Vitthalnāth, which contains only a few songs by Nāgarīdās and those are not in __ instance, the manuscript preserved in the Krishna Janmabhūmi Library in all manuscripts, for Mathura (MJB), which was a gift of the Mahant of Salemabad. In any case, even in the Vulgate this section does not include songs by Rasikbihārī. Next follows the celebration of Vasant, but none of Rasikbihārī’s songs are included here either. This is followed by Rām-navamī and the birthday festival of Vallabha, which contains only few songs by Nāgarīdās, again omitted in MJB.

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151

Songs for Monsoon Festivals

The major festival of the year, Krishna’s birthday festival, or Janmāstamī, falls on the eighth day of the dark half of the lunar month of Bhādon_ _(August– September). It is observed with a vigil during which joyous songs are sung, just like celebratory folk songs of Sohar for the birth of any ordinary son. This is understood as an enactment of the rites that took place in the house of Krishna’s parents on the occasion of the birth of their male child. This reliving of the original divine experience (in illo tempore) of the birth of the wondrous child transports the singers to the divine realm by heightening the emotional fervor of the moment. Such playacting and role playing is an integral part of Krishna (and Rāma) worship in all sects and is central for understanding the conflation between divine and human worlds. One of Rasikbihārī’s songs from her Bayāz is also included in Nāgarīdās’ Utsav-mālā: [Rāga Kāphī]23 bājai āja nanda bhavana badhāīy gahamaha nanda raṅga ralī ati, gopī saba mili āīy mahari jasumati kau bhayau suta phūlī aṅga na maīy rasika bihārī prna jīvana lakhi, deta asīsa suhāīy (RB 46, fol. 23r; UM 14, Gupta 1965: 1.121; Litho 3)

Today, sweet congratulations abound in Nanda’s mansion. Bustling with joy and merriment, all cowherdesses have gathered. “Mother Yashodā has given birth to a son!” They cannot contain their joy. Gazing at Rasika Bihārī, their heart’s dearest, they impart sweet blessings.

This poem has the same rhyme as Nāgarīdās’ that immediately preceeds it in Utsav-mālā (13) with very similar refrain: ho ghara nanda ke bājata āja badhāiy (Hey, today, sweet congratulations resound in Nanda’s house). But there is actually more overlap with his song just before that one: nanda jū ke bājata badhāī āja dvāraĩ gahamaha maṅgala mahāgāna dhuni, chāya rahī bja sāraĩ ati ānanda bhayo suni sajanī, banata na kachū uchāraĩ nāgariyā jasumati suta jāgo, calo rī badana nihāraĩ (UM 12, Gupta 1965: 1.121)

Today, congratulations abound at Nanda’s house, Bustling with melodies, auspicious songs keep echoing all over Braj.

23

Rāga provided in Litho and Gupta’s edition. In this and following matching sets, it is the words they have in common that are underlined.

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The genre is fairly conventional, so it is not suprising that there is some overlap in wording between his and her songs (underlined), such as a refrain with a permutation of āja bājata badhāī, and reference to both Nanda and Yashodā. What betrays a more special connection, though, is that both include the keyword gahamaha “bustling,” and in both cases in the first position of the second line. He assumes the identity of one of the women and his poem is in the first-person, hers is a bit duller as a third-person description of the Gopīs. On the other hand, her rhyme in the diminutive, renders a built-in sweet flavor that evokes domesticity and cuteness (which he may have borrowed in his other poem). In the human world, singing songs at the birth of a son, Sohar, is quite common, but not for that of a daughter. In the divine world, though, there is also a counterpart festival for Rādhā’s birth, Rādhā Janmāstamī, which occurs a _ _ lunar month. This fortnight later, on the eighth day of the bright half of the same occasion inspired Rasikbihārī most: Nāgarīdās’ liturgical calendar contains seven songs by her. Most of them share one characteristic: They are in a distinctly more Rajasthani idiom (underlined): hochaĩ vsabhāna raĩ ghara lākh rī badhāī āja _ dilī janama liyo chaĩ, mohana rẽ sukha kāja kumvari lā _ _ dularāvai maṅgala gāvaĩ dhādhani līy sughara samāja _ huvo _ pragatī nija siratāja rasika bihārī mana ānanda _ (UM 20, Gupta 1965: 1.123; Litho 6) Today thousands throng Vsabhānu’s mansion with congratulations. A darling princess has been_ born, to render Mohana happy. Rocking the cradle, singing auspicious songs, bards gather in noble congregation. Rasika Bihārī’s heart brims with joy: born is the jewel in the crown.

The Rajasthani idiom is clear from the distinctive genitive pronoun (rī etc.) and the verbal forms, hochaĩ, chaĩ, and huvo. This represents an appropriation of the scenario of Krishna’s birth according to local rites and customs, not unlike the visual equivalent with paintings of Christ’s birth against North-European landscapes and with the divine family in fitting costume. At the same time, it renders a domestic feel, as appropriate for the theme, evoking village women’s folksongs. One of the poems from Rasikbihārī’s Bayāz that made it into his Utsav-mālā is in a more generic Braj register: [Titāla]24 āja vsabhna kai badhāī _ 24

Tāla provided in Litho 4 and UM18.

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gahamaha bhīra bhaī rāvala maĩ, gvata alī suhāī hasi hasi gopī milata parasapara, ānanda ura na samāī uta pragate haĩ rasika bihārī, ita pyārī nidha āī _ (RB 41, fol. 22r; UM 18, Gupta 1965: 1.123; Litho 4) Today Vrishabhānu receives congratulations. Rawal, Kīrti’s village,25 is bustling with big crowds and her friends’ sweet songs. The cowherdesses keep laughing and hugging, their hearts overflowing with joy. Over there, Rasika Bihārī was born, and here his precious beloved one has followed.

The conventions for this genre are derived from those of Krishna’s festival, just substituting with the names of Rādhā’s parents and her birthplace. Still Rasikbihārī’s song surpasses the ordinary formulaic overlap, and is closer than normal to one by Nāgarīdās: helī āja kī gharī china bhaliy ghana ānanda sakala bja barasata, kīrata veli suphaliy _ ānanda kalamaliy ita pragatī gorī uta syāmahĩ, hiya _ nāgariyā jorī ati laũnī, haũnī hai raṅga-raliy (UM 17, Gupta 1965: 1.123)

Hey, today every moment, every minute is wonderful. A cloud of joy revives the whole of Braj. Kīrti’s branch has blossomed. A fair girl was born here, a dark boy there. The heart flounders for joy. Nāgariyā, what a smashing couple! This promises a future of celebration!

While in translation the songs may seem quite different, and there is little overlap in wording, the structure of the penultimate line in Nāgarīdās’ song is parallel to the last one in Rasikbihārī’s: contrasting the birth “here” of the baby girl, with the birth “there” of the baby boy. This looks like a deliberate echo of each other. There is a “war of the sexes” going on in these birthsongs, a competition between Krishna’s and Rādhā’s villages. Rasikbihārī celebrates the birth of the baby girl, reporting so to speak, from the crowds of women hugging. In response, signing as Nāgariyā, the prince lives up to his name, posing as one of the women going to celebrate the birth of Nāgarī, or Rādhā. As fellow-devotees of the Goddess, both come together in a sphere were gender-distinctions do not matter: Ultimately, they hold the same position towards the divine. 4.2.2

Songs for Autumn Festivals

The Krishna temples adopted an autumnal folk festival called Sāñjhī, that falls in the dark half of Āshvin. Little girls make cow-dung designs decorated with

25

According to some, Rādhā was born in her mother’s village, following the custom for women to return to their māykā or maternal home to give birth to their firstborn.

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flowers and worship them in order to obtain a good husband (Entwistle 1984; Dasa 1996). Nāgarīdās himself has been closely associated with this festival as celebrated in Vrindaban,26 and composed several long works on the topic. One that is still performed for the occasion in the Rādhāvallabha temple in Vrindaban is Sāñjhī-phūl-bīnani-samaĩ-samvād or “Dialogue for the Occasion of Flower _ a theatrical production in which Krishna Gathering for Sāñjhī.”27 This features cross-dresses as a girl to gain proximity to Rādhā (referred to sometimes as līlāhāva). We have already quoted one of the Sāñjhī poems in connection with descriptions of the long nose, “like a cypress,” of the Kishangarhi Rādhā profile (Section 3.1). Nāgarīdās also composed a whole cycle of Kavittas Sāñjhī ke kavitta (Gupta 1965: 2.853–4). Small wonder then that this section in the Utsavmālā has many entries of his poetry. Rasikbihārī responded to one of his shorter poems. Below follows first his, then hers: Rāga Pūrvī Ikatāla rahe dou badana nihāri nihāri phūlana bīnata syāma sakhī uta, ita śyāmā sukuvāri latā karani me rahi gaï ita, uta sakaĩ kauna niravāri nāgariyā mili naina dhuhuni ke, bade thagani thagavāri _ _ _ (UM 54, Gupta 1965: 1.139) Enthralled, both of them stare at each other’s face. One is a dark ‘girl-friend’, picking flowers, the other is young Śyāmā. One has frozen, garland in hand, the other wondering how to release her.28 Nāgariyā: as their eyes met, the trickster was tricked! Ikatāla khelaĩ sāñjhī sāñjha pyārī gopa kumvāri sāthani liy sāthe, cāva so catura siṅgārī _ phiraĩ phūla _ phūla bharī lena jyaũ, phūla rahī phulavārī _ prītama rasika bihārī rahy thagyā lakhi rūpa lālacī, _ (UM 55, Gupta 1965: 1.139; Litho 11)

26

27

28

Nāgarīdās started a fair at Brahmakund in Vrindaban, during which his own and others’ Sāñjhī poems were recited in front of Rādhā-Krishna images according to the early nineteenth-century poet Gopālkavi (Haidar 1995: 121; Entwistle 1987: 412–13). SPBSS; Gupta 1965: 2.85–8. In total, about half a dozen of his verses are included in singer’s manuals of the repertoire at the Rādhāvallabha temple in Vrindaban, such as Śrī Rādhāvallabhvarsotsav (Dasa 1996: 15, 27–8, 49). _ In translating thus, I’m following the suggestion of Dr. Swapna Sharma (Yale University), to whom I am grateful, and Gupta’s notes, taking niravāri as synonymous with sulajhā. However, there are other possibilities; one could also translate as “puzzled who ‘she’ may be.” Alternatively, one could also take niravāri as derived from the verb nivār- [nivārayati], v.t. Brbh. Av. “to ward off” (OHED). In that case, it could be translated as “who could ward off (the evil eye),” meaning that he stared at her such that one might start fearing the evil eye would fall on her.

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The darling girl plays Sāñjhī at dusk. She gathers the young milkmaids around her, decked out smartly. Arms full of flowers, they wander to pick yet more: flowerbeds seem to keep blooming. Spying, a lecher for beauty was tricked himself: dearest Rasika Bihārī.

Both poems share the rhyme (on -ārī) and the theme of flower picking for Sāñjhī. Nāgarīdās has a cross-dressing Krishna show up to infiltrate Rādhā’s party, comparing him to a masquerading Thug. Rasikbihārī foregrounds the image of the group of girls, adorned with flowers and their arms full of flowers, making the garden bloom. She uses the verb derived from the noun Thug, stressing that Krishna, the lecher, became “thugged” himself. So, she too ends up with the theme of the arouser aroused. This exchange features mythological teasing scenes where the sexes are trying to outwit one another, but it has itself become a sparring contest for the best poem between the literary couple. The vignette portrayed in her song comes close to describing a painting that Nihālcand did for Nāgarīdās: “Sāñjhī līlā.” Depicted is a garden at twilight, with girls picking flowers, merging with the flower beds.29 In the center of the painting are Rādhā and the “dark girlfriend” beholding one another, just as described in his poem, which could be seen as zooming in on the two protagonists in the painting. The dark one is arrested in the action of offering a garland in a basket. Rādhā is attended by a group of ladies-in-waiting, each individually smartly dressed, just as Rasikbihārī described them, taking a broader view of the painting, so to speak. The painting is not inscribed in the back but could be linked with one of Nāgarīdās’ Kavittas, where he ends with a gesture of surrender, as portrayed by the sakhī dressed in green in the painting. One wonders, was Nihālcand responding to more than one of these Sāñjhī poems at the time? Or perhaps the set of two poems quoted above registers the couple’s responses to the finished painting. Nāgarīdās’ Krishna arrested in the act of offering Rādhā a garland also shows up in the final denouement of the short dialogue of his aforementioned dramatic work (SPBSS 8, Gupta 1965: 2.87). Krishna is also frequently depicted offering Rādhā a garland in Kishangarhi painting, whether or not in disguise as a ladyin-waiting.30 It is apparent that the Sāñjhī festival was celebrated in multiple intermedial ways. For Diwali, Nāgarīdās offers many songs on fireworks, which was a favorite spectacle at the time, also in Mughal court circles, and frequently illustrated with paintings (Singh 2013: 263–6). The section on the ritual gambling is much less rich. Rasikbihārī composed only one song on the topic of gambling, which we have already translated (Section 3.2). We will have occasion below 29 30

Plate 14; Dickinson and Khandalavala 1959: 32–3, pl. 7. Description in Pauwels 2015: 181–3. Mathur 2000: 70–71, pl. 17, 80–81, pl. 22 respectively, the latter by Sītārām.

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(in Section 4.4) to discuss a matching Kavitta by Nāgarīdās from the Bayāz on the topic. 4.2.3

Songs for Spring Festivals

The spring festival of Holi was a favorite of Nāgarīdās’s as is clear from his autobiographical pilgrimage account Tīrthānand (196–200): He described getting caught in the middle of the war of the sexes between Rādhā’s party of Barsana and Krishna’s of Nandgaon. Outnumbered by the ladies, he is at their mercy and with much mirth a mock wedding is staged between him and a lady of Barsana. This reverse experience of what we would now call “harassment” made a huge impression on the prince, and he characterizes the moment as that of his acceptance by the women of Braj, symbolized in the “tying of the knot” as his true ticket of entry into the divine play or līlā of Braj. While he did not mention Rasikbihārī in that pilgrimage account, in the hymnal he included her songs on the topic. We have already encountered the theme of the Holi wedding and tasted some samples (in Section 3.3). Other Holi poems by Rasikbihārī form part of duets, even if they are separated from Nāgarīdās’ in the anthologies, still the links are quite clear. Below is a selected set on the theme of sexual harassment. The songs actually combine two important such interrelated scenarios: liberties men take with women during the licentious Holi festival and the scenario of men waylaying women on their way to the well or the Panaghata _ (on which, see Pauwels 2010c). What are the differences between the male and female perspectives? Here is Nāgarīdās’ song: Rāga Sāraṅga Ikatāla horī yā bagara maĩ maci rahī hai, paniy bharana kaisaĩ jāũ lāja liyẽ merī ghūṅghata pata sau, kihi bidha nibahana pāũ _ _ dauri dauri raṅga bharata parasapara, tina sau kahā basāũ nāgari kānha chuvo mohi to phiri, nāmva dharai saba gāũ _ (UM 126, Gupta 1965: 1.171) All along the river they rowdily play Holi! How can I go fetch water? I’ve drawn my veil to signal modesty, but still, how to manage? They’re chasing and daubing each other in color. How to get them to settle down? If that smart aleck (Nāgar) Kānha tries to touch me again, I’ll blame the whole village.31

Fascinatingly, Nāgarīdās here appropriates the view of a woman, presumably Rādhā, complaining about how Holi has gotten out of hand and impairs her in her daily chore of fetching water. He signs with “Nāgari,” ending on a short -i, which can be either masculine or feminine, here it is used as an adjective, 31

Or, it could alternatively be rendered as “I’ll blame [him in front of] the whole village.”

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refering to Krishna. The speaker anticipates Krishna’s assaulting her, which she lets slip would be a repeat offense (phiri). In the last line, in blaming the village for any harm that would come to her, the speaker raises the issue of the bystander responsibility in the case of public sexual harassment. Might this reflect some of his personal experience, which made it easier to identify with the plight of harassed women during Holi? How does Rasikbihārī respond from the lived perspective of a woman herself? Like Nāgarīdās, she too takes the first-person voice of a Gopī, probably Rādhā, complaining about Krishna’s rowdiness: Rāga Kāphī kaisaĩ jala jāũ maĩ panaghata jā horī khelata nanda lādilo rī,_ kyaũ kara nibahana pā _ ve tau nilaja phāga madamāte, hau kula badhū kahā jo chuvaĩ añcara rasika bihārī, to hũ dharatī phāra samā (UM 203, Gupta 1965: 1.200; Litho 27)

How can I go for water to the river? Nanda’s darling boy is playing Holi, how could I manage? He’s shameless and drunk on Phāg, I’m known to be a daughter-in-law of a good family. If Rasika Bihārī touches my veil, may the earth open up and take me in.

Both his and her poem have the rhyme in common (just with difference of lengthening of the vowel, but that may be a matter of transcription). We see actually the same set of rhyme words in the refrain and the first line. The combination of the two themes of Holi and the Panaghata was immediately _ was very close to apparent in his song, as his refrain refered to both. Her refrain the second part of his, seemingly announcing a Panaghata song, but she _ mentioned Holi in the next line. Certainly, the theme of sexual harassment sets up the sexes against one another, and this is evident in the literary pair’s poetic exchange. His reference insisting on her “modesty” or “shame” (lāja), is playfully reversed in her second line, where she blames him/Krishna as the one who is “shameless” (nilaja). Then she brings in an interesting caste dimension: She impersonates Rādhā’s high-caste position and pride of being of good family, which is ironical given her actual position as a slave. The last line in both poems anticipates the outcome of the man’s unwanted touch. In Nāgarīdās’ song, the speaker swears repercussion, threatening to take the matter to the village council. Perhaps that is what comes to the mind of a privileged male who is only trying to impersonate a woman. Rasikbihārī’s oath does not show any such confidence in justice by the council. She calls for Mother Earth to swallow her. This resonates with Sītā imagery, the famous scene in the last book of Rāmāyana, where the exiled Sītā, asked to prove her chastity once again, calls upon her mother, Bhūdevī, or Mother Earth, to take

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her in if she has remained pure. In taking on this persona, ever so subtly, Rasikbihārī casts herself in a role of the chaste woman, defiant in her resistance to the sexual liberties Krishna wants to take with her. There is a lot of interesting posturing going on in this set of poems. Nāgrīdās might be taking the woman’s point of view, but perhaps the complaint comes over as a bit prim and stiff. After all, it’s Holi, which grants collective license for rowdy play. As implied in the last line, the whole community is involved. Rasikbihārī, on the other hand, brings in the caste issue, priding herself on her respectibility, contrasting with licentious Krishna as a good-for-nothing drunk. Consistent with that image, the last line threatens suicide, lending her complaint more poignancy, even if within the expectations of Krishna devotion, it will still be taken as a mock objection. While both poems have to be taken with a grain of salt on the topsy-turvy occasion of Holi, one wonders whether she intended to slip in a more serious message under cover of Holi teasing? In the calendrical cycle, the following festival is that of Phūlracnā, when the images in the temples are dressed up in a floral outfit. Under this heading, Nāgarīdās included songs by Rasikbihārī, even though they did not immediately relate to that festival. One of them is a “wedding night” poem that is one of her “greatest hits,” to be discussed shortly (in Section 4.3.3, the song with refrain nikuñja padhārau). Perhaps the association with the festival originates with the wedding night being metonymically referred to as “flower bed” or phūl-sej. 4.2.4

Songs for the Swing Festival

When the rainy season starts, swings are suspended on tree branches everywhere for the festival of Hindorā, which is celebrated by young women and girls. Married women return to their parental homes and enjoy some time off from the scrutiny of their in-laws. As might be expected for this womenoriented festival, Rasikbihārī composed several songs for the occasion: Rāga Kāphī dhīr jhūlo jī rādhā pyārī jī macaka raṅgīlī thārī mānaĩvālī lāgaĩ, jhulāvata haĩ sakhī sārī jī pharaharāta añcala cala cañcala, lāja na jāta sambhārī jī kuñjana ota dure lakhi dekhata, prītama rasika bihārī jī _ (UM 252, Gupta 1965: 1.218; Litho 34 [mistakenly marked as 31]) “Swing softly, dear Rādhā! Creaking noises cause your friends great hilarity, as they tend to you, jointly pushing the swing. It makes your shawl flutter as you bend along, modesty can’t keep it in place.” At some distance, beloved Rasika Bihārī is caught spying from the latticework.

While that song is not included in Pad-muktāvalī, that collection contains one of Nāgarīdās’ songs that seems to be composed in response:

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e ho lāla jhūliye naĩka dhīraĩ dhīraĩ kāhe kaũ itanī ramaka badhāvata, druma urajhata cīraĩ cīraĩ _ ke misa, āvata hau nīraĩ nīraĩ kyaũ tuma jhuki jhuki jhotā _ ye barajata tyaũ tyaũ ve nāgara, leta bhujana bica bhīraĩ bhīraĩ

(PMĀ 685, Gupta 1965: 1.477)32

“Hey darling, swing a bit gentler, gentler! Why do you push each time higher? My clothes keep getting caught in branch after branch. Why do you keep bending under the pretext of pushing? You’re coming closer and closer!” As she scolds him, Nāgar takes her in his arms, crushing her, tighter and tighter.33

Nāgarīdās’ song’s refrain echoes Rasikbihārī’s. Both songs feature fluttering shawls and share words on -ot-, his in the predictable jhotā or “push,” she as _ presents a picture of a women-only _ ota or “latticework.” Rasikbihārī scene, all _ girls engaged in Rādhā’s carefree swinging, but unbeknownst to them, they are spied upon by Krishna. Nāgarīdās, on the other hand, integrates Krishna in the central action; he is the one pushing the swing, while we hear Rādhā giddily chiding her lover for coming too close under the pretext of doing so. The lovely device of the repetition of the rhyme word in each line expresses well her dizzy excitement. He boldly ends with a close embrace. With this poem, it seems, the prince managed to upstage Rasikbihārī. All these duets were less about who outsmarted whom in composing the liveliest song, but about the shared delight of devotion and imaginative creation. Within the conventions of Krishna līlā and its standard scripted role play, there was scope for trying out new scenarios as the spirit might move the actors, which included experimentation with different gendered and caste voices. What looks like coquettish flirting might well provide opportunities for trying out new identities. From all these examples appears vividly the author-pair’s shared moments of exquisite joy throughout the year, in goodnatured teasing competition, as they composed together for seasonal festival occasions. Through including Rasikbihārī’s songs in his liturgical anthology, Nāgarīdās not only preserved the exquisite literary exchange they had going on between themselves, but also ensured that her devotional work had an afterlife in service of the deity in many temples, whether of Vallabhan or Nimbārkan sectarian orientation.

32

33

A fragmentary recording of this song performed in Rāga Adana by Havelī-sangīt artist Pandit Chandra Prakash of Ajmer during a private concert in Delhi in 2009 is available on Youtube: www.youtube.com/watch?v=sxVF8Qr77GU, last accessed September 26, 2021. Taking the rhyme word as from bhirnā, v.i. “to come close; to meet, to join,” in slang also “to _ have sex” (OHED).

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4.3

Moments of Intimacy: Nāgarīdās’ Thematic Anthology

Besides the ritual recital restricted by invitation described in the first section, and the seasonal temple celebrations in the second, there were many other occasions for Rasikbihārī to perform her own songs. These were characterized by varying degrees of privacy; outside the zanānā, some would have been within the male-dominated sphere of the durbar, others, more intimate, intended for her patron only, especially after she became officially his concubine. The poems are not marked with regard to the performance context, but we can guess on the basis of the themes. Nāgarīdās’ other and more monumental anthology, Pad-muktāvalī, is thematically organized and includes besides his own songs and Rasikbihārī’s, those of many other poets. It is very much a potpourri, not carefully planned, but with loosely associative connections between the poems. In the later edition, headings were added, which cover a variety of topics. Some return more than once, indicating that the compilation took place over a long period of time. The anthology combines songs from the daily temple cycle with more Rīti style set topics, including typology of heroines, description from head to toe, stages of love, and so on. As such, it represents an interesting spectrum from more technical “erotica,” to more explicitly religiously oriented themes. The latter often overlap with the hymnal studied in the previous section. Indeed, several songs are found in both anthologies, showing how poems could migrate over different milieus, from more sacred to profane and vice versa. Characteristic for Pad-muktāvalī is that each topic is introduced with Dohās meant for ālāp, or the introductory exploration of the Rāga in concert. This renders musically a classical appeal, as ālāp is associated with styles like Khayāl rather than Thumrī.34 These Dohās function as a musical warm-up _ and set the mood in terms of the theme, providing a programmatic introduction for each section. This is the case already in the earliest manuscript, where no thematic headings are specified. Very often the set includes some Dohās by the famous classical Rīti poet Bihārīlāl, Jai Singh I’s court poet, who instructed his patron’s ladies in the zanānā.35 Since Bihārī’s famous collection Satsaī was also included in a 1729 Kishangarh manuscript along with early poetic works by Nāgarīdās and his friend Ānandghan,36 it is fair to postulate an intense familiarity with Bihārī’s oeuvre at the Kishangarh court at the time. 34 35

36

For a brief introduction of Khayāl and Thumrī, see Magriel and du Perron 2013: 11–2 and du _ Perron 2007: 4–6, respectively. Being very concise, Dohās do not necessarily carry a signature, but the editor of the Padmuktāvalī, the impressive scholar Kiśorīlāl Gupta, has helpfully identified them in his notes and correlated them with Bihārīlāl’s edited work. This was tied together with the folios of Rasikbihārī’s Savaiyā and Kavittas from the monsoon mushā‘irah in draft, as discussed above (Sections 1.6, 4.1).

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What follows allows us a glimpse of the more intimate songs, starting with a note on the manuscript where they were first included (Section 4.3.1), then content-wise, how they respond to other poets, in particular Mīrābāī (Section 4.3.2), and how they dwell on the divine wedding, perhaps conflating with her official initiation in concubinage (Section 4.3.3). 4.3.1

Manuscript Matters

When did Rasikbihārī’s songs find their way into Nāgarīdās’collections? An important manuscript of Pad-muktāvalī dated 1746 (VS 1803) was acquired by Dr. Faiyāz ‘Alī Khān from Bābā Ranchordās, one of the temple priests, which means it was used in the liturgy of_ Śrī_ Kalyāna Rāya Jī. This manuscript, _ in contrast to those of other referred to as Kh, includes Rasikbihārī’s poems, but poets, hers are all entered in margins and on open spots on the folios in a different hand. Khān speculates that Nāgarīdās added them himself, at some point after 1746 when the writing was finished. He suggests this was after she was recognized officially as his pāsbān, that is, after Rāj Singh’s death in 1748 (Khān 2015: 379). It would make sense that Sāvant Singh added on to this manuscript while in exile, when he would have had less resources available and been compelled to recycle existing manuscripts. Good paper was expensive in this period (Tabor 2014: 309–10). This would explain why he also squeezed in his own poetry, composed at a later date (see Appendix). Some folios look like they had been damaged, perhaps on the road, and were replaced by inserting an extra folio. A clear-cut case of one such restoration is on the inserted folio 126, on the verso of which in sloppier script and thinner ink the beginning of one of Nāgarīdās’ poems (PMĀ 469) is squeezed in, so the manuscript can continue in nice ornamental script on the top of the next folio (see Figure 4.2). In both manuscript and edition, Pad-muktāvalī starts with the “Morning Mood” or Prāt Ras. The first set of Rasikbihārī poems is found under what in the edition is a subsection Prāt Ras Mañjarī or “Bouquet of Morning Mood.”37 Rasikbihārī’s poems are actually not strictly speaking on waking up in the morning, but rather on the theme of staying awake making love all night. The impending breaking of dawn reminds Rādhā of her reputation and the need to separate before the village awakens: Titāla jī naĩn nīda ghūlai chai, āya rahī chai thodī rāti _ mhro gāta kī ke_dai lāgyā chau nandalāla, ati alasāyau _ 37

In the manuscript, it is found on folio 11r. It is written in a less careful ornamental style, perhaps even by more than one hand. The third poem, the first one by Rasikbihārī, is written by a scribe betraying a Rajasthani preference for the retroflex n. The next poem is in a yet different hand, or _ so, it did not fit within the red frame. The perhaps just smaller writing to squeeze it in, and even last poem, by Nāgarīdās, was continued in the margin.

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Figure 4.2 Manuscript Kh (from Bābā Ranchordās), folios 126v, 127r. _ _

ghara ghara cāra cavāva calai, lau nipata burī chai yā bāta _ rasika bihārī the rasa lūdhā, hvai āsī parabhāta (PMĀ 30, Gupta 1965: 1.233–4; Kh fol 11r; Litho 35)

“Sleep overwhelms my eyes. The night is nearly over. Why have you started to play38 again, Nandalāl? My body is numb with sleep. In every house they’re gossiping.39 This affair has gotten completely out of hand.” Rasika Bihārī is keen on passion, but morning is about to break.40

There is an associative link with the preceding song by Nāgarīdās (PMĀ 29), which also uses the word for “gossip” (cabāva), but no other overlap. In fact, her poem seems rather tangential, which is understandable if it was a later addition. As with the seasonal poems, the song represents a gendered tug-ofwar, where the man wants to continue the love-play, whereas the woman is mindful of her reputation. The second song is more intimately connected with the rest of the section in the manuscript. It reveals the telltale detail of the confusion of the flustered pair 38 39 40

Taking ked- as a related to keli, though it could also mean kerā [*keda], m. “a sapling” or “a _ _ _ youth” (OHED). Cabānā [cf. carvati], v.t. “to chew” (OHED). Taking āsī as asi, which is attested in this meaning (RSK).

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as they find the end of the night nearing: Her toe ring had become stuck in his hair locks. Such takes the poem in a different direction, implying for the connoisseurs some vigorous love making: Titāla ho kānha jī rāta rā unīndā raṅga rātā nisa rai dhyna e mu_mdī palaka āvaĩ, lalaka madana mada mātā _ rau, lyāyā the ulajhātā alaka māhi anavata pyārī _ _ rasika bihārī lāgau chau pyārā musakyātā alasātā (PMĀ 31, Gupta 1965: 1.234; Kh fol 11r; Litho 36)

“Ho Kānhajī, suffused with passion is the sleepless night. Heavy with nocturnal musings, eyelids are drooping, till sensuous Cupid resurges.41 A hair lock is caught in the darling girl’s toe ring.42 You’re completely entangled!” Rasika Bihārī looks so sweet as he gives her a languid smile.

Perhaps Rasikbihārī took a cue here from the entanglement trope in one of the Bihārī Dohās quoted at the beginning of the section:43 Ārasa sau urajhī palaka, alaka ju besari mhi Arujhyau bainā dekhikai, piya mana surajhyau nāhi (PMĀ Dohā 4, Gupta 1965: 1.231; Kh fol. 10r)

His hair lock stuck in her nose ring, their eyes stuck on the mirror, Peering, their faces draw together, and so do their hearts . . . don’t pry them apart.

The entanglement in the Dohā is far more chaste: The pair’s faces get stuck together, implying they kiss as they intently look in the mirror, trying to disentangle her nose ring from his hairlock. Rasikbihārī instead came up with a more erotic image. If the heroine’s toes were close to Krishna’s face, advanced positions in intercourse must have been going on. It suggests a reversal of normal hierarchies: the woman’s feet touching the men’s face! This type of clue would be much savored by the devotees of the connoisseur type or Rasiks, including Rasikbihārī’s patron.44 4.3.2

Mīrā Moments

Added on an open page in the Bābā Ranchordās manuscript (fol. 46r), written _ One of these is by Rasikbihārī: rather sloppily, is an interesting group of _poems. [Rāga Sāraṅga Titāla]45 maĩ apanau mana bhāmvana līnaũ _ 41 42 43 44 45

Lalak [cf. H. lalaknā], f. “eager desire” or colloquially “sudden gush (of any liquid)” (OHED). Anvat [*anuvarta-], m. Av. “a toe-ring (esp. one having little bells attached)” (OHED). _ Dohā of the series is one attributed to Bihārī (Gupta 1965: 1.231 fn.) The first More examples of shared intimate moments are collected by Dr. Faiyāz ‘Alī Khān (2015: 383–9). Based on Litho; Gupta does not specify the Rāga.

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I’ve done what I like! Did I spoil anything for these people? Trading my heart, o friend, I bought myself a priceless jewel, Nanda’s dear boy. I’m drenched in the color of my tender darling. So what, if now I should save face! I’ve obtained a superb lover. Rasika Bihārī is my dearest darling. [Talk about] good fortune, written on my forehead!

This is a fascinatingly defiant song. In the devotional context it could be Rādhā speaking, but there is a directness, that begs to be read also in the context of Rasikbihārī’s life story. Could “these people” (ina logana) who are upset with the speaker refer to the adversity Banī-thanī’s liaison with the _ prince encountered? Does she mean her disapproving mistress, the Bāṅkāvatī queen, and the king Rāj Singh himself? Or gossip by her enemies in the zanānā? To those versed in bhakti literature, this poem brings to mind the rebellious poetry of Mīrābāī, the sixteenth-century princess-devotee, who hailed from Merta, not far from Kishangarh, just across the border with Marwar. In particular “colored in his color” (lāla raṅga bhīnaũ) evokes Mīrā’s famous refrain haũ to sāvare ke raṅga rācyau, “I am drenched in the color of the dark one.” The reference to “buying the priceless jewel” (ratana amolika) evokes maĩ to liyau govinda mola, or “I have bought Govinda.” Mīrā’s legend might have resonated with Rasikbihārī: the disapproval of the palace, the king as well as the zanānā, the preoccupation with devotional singing and composing, and of course the forbidden love, especially in light of the conflation of lover and Krishna in Rasikbihārī’s poetic perception. Is she glamorizing her own experience by relating it to princess Mīrā’s? Yet, the shift in the last line announces proudly a happy outcome sanctioned by the Fates. This renders a radically different mood compared to Mīrā’s typical sharp viraha or suffering in separation. Rasikbihārī foreshadows the nineteenth-century reformed courtesan Pīro, who similarly would quote Mīrā with a happier twist, as she too was lucky to have found her guru-partner, in her case, the founder of a Sant sect, named Gulābdās (Malhotra 2017: 141–2).

46

Litho and Kh read vidhanā, which if taken as synonymous with vidhinā “creator” makes more sense.

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The Mīrā-connection can be confirmed with reference to the context in the manuscript. Rasikbihārī wrote this song down just a couple of folios after one with Mīrā’s signature in her Bayāz: Rāga Adānaũ _ hvai sautina maĩ, kanta yaha bāta sunjyau hāmsī na _ prītama pyāre nanda dulāre durajana dāva takata hai, bāmha gahẽ kī lāj kījyau merī ora jina dekhiyau sājana_ apanī ora dekha lījyau mīrā prabhu ina carana kamvala taĩ nyārī mata kari dījyau _ (RB 113, fol. 71) Darling, please listen to what I say, so my rivals won’t laugh at me. My dearest love, darling son of Nanda, Villains lie in wait.47 Since you’ve embraced me, please protect my honor. Don’t look at me, my love, look at yourself. Mīrā’s Lord, don’t separate me from your lotus feet.

This song does not overlap with Rasikbihārī’s own with regard to theme and vocabulary, except for the reference to enemies. The tone is markedly different. Counter to what one might expect given her popular persona, Mīrā is here rather submissively seeking Krishna’s protection against these enemies, whom she specifies to be her cowives or sautina. Mīrā fans might evince some doubts about the “authenticity” of this previously unknown song with Mīrā signature.48 Rather than defiantly proclaiming “devil may care,” as Rasikbihārī does in her song, Mīrā in this quote does seem to be perturbed by the persecution and the ridicule she is suffering. She challenges Krishna to “look at himself” implying he needs to live up to his promise to protect those who seek his support. Do we see here the appropriation of the Mīrā persona at work in performance? Is this a self-serving variant of a Mīrā-like song? If we read the songs as code for what Rasikbihārī wanted to convey in her performances, we could draw a straight line from a distress signal to the prince by way of Mīrā’s voice, to a moment of triumph after he apparently came through, this time articulated in her own words. This reveals something of how bhakti songs come to be composed with the original referent’s stamp, but tailored to the needs of the singer. In her exploration of songs attributed to Mīrā, Chloe Martinez points out that for only very few of songs stamped with Mīrā’s name do we know “when or where or by whom they were initially composed.” That allows for “ambiguity in the tradition for those who sing Mira’s songs and tell her story to also take on her identity, performatively posing as Mira while telling their own autobiographical stories” (Martinez 47 48

Dāṁv tāk- “to lie in wait” (OHED). I have not found this song attested elsewhere; it is not in Mīrā Bhat-padāvalī.

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2018: 6, 12). As Kumkum Sangari has noted insightfully about the songs circulating under Mīrā’s name, “the songs are inscribed in an extended rather than a discreet moment of production. They represent intentionalities, beliefs, desires which stretch beyond the individual and may be designated as a definable mode of social perception inhabited by Mīrā and nameless others” (2006: 231). In our case on the other hand, we have some sense of the poem being if not composed at least “inhabited” by a historical woman who sought to convey a plea for protection. Is there a matching song in Nāgarīdās’ oeuvre?49 On the folio following Mīrā’s song, Rasikbihārī had noted down one by Nāgarīdās: Śrī gopāla jī [sāvare tere kājai naĩnanā mere]50 mohan terai hita nain, ye jogītā bhaye seta basana taji daī setatā, bhagavā aruna thaye āsu phataka phirāvata mālā, palaka kapāta_ daye _ dhyna matavāre, saba udhi bisara _ gaye nāgarīdāsa _

(RB 114, fol. 72r)

[Dark one, because of you my eyes] Enchanter, for your sake my eyes became yogis. They left their white garb amidst whiteness, wrapping themselves in ochrered (ascetic garb) instead. Shedding tears, praying the rosary, they shut the doors of the eyelids. Nāgarīdās, they went mad in ecstasy, all [sorrow] forgotten, flown away.

This song signed Nāgarīdās is not found anywhere in his oeuvre, so this is a case where she has preserved one of his poems in draft form in her Bayāz. Perhaps he was unhappy with it, even after reworking the first line, a draft of which was erased in the Bayāz. While this song does not directly respond to Mīrā’s, he too seems to have been in a “Mīrā-mood,” taking on a conventional Mīrā persona with the trope of exchanging the white of widowhood for the ochre of the ascetic. The comparison of the wayward eyes with the wayfaring ascetics looks very much inspired by another song with chāp Mīrā that he quotes in his Pad-muktāvalī: Suni nī amnī aṅkhiy ni mnī Mana maũhana de rūpa lubhnī, sādhī gala naĩkahū na mānī lok de dara chipi kaĩ chipāv, bhari_ bhari āvata pnī _ giradhara gala sādhī, dhampī chipī saba jnī mīr prabhu _ _(PMĀ 571, Gupta 1965: 1.441; Kh fol. 148r)

49 50

Nāgarīdās includes in his Pad-muktāvalī three different songs by Mīrā, see Pauwels 2010b. This line is erased, but still legible in the manuscript of the Bayāz.

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Listen, my, these willfull eyes don’t obey me. Crazed for the beauty of my heart’s enchanter, they refused to listen as I told them off. For fear of people, I try hide and bury them. But they keep popping up, all tears. Mīrā’s Lord is the Mountainlifter. I’d try hide and cover, censure, but it’s all out in the open.

Mīrā, the Rajasthani devotee, here has been credited with a song in the same Punjabi-style idiom that was fashionable in Nāgarīdās’ circles (see Section 4.4).51 The link with his own creation lies in the imagery of the eyes going their own way. The ecstatic ending of Nāgarīdās’ poem, with the term matavāre, or “crazy,” is evocative again of the voice associated with Mīrā, in her flagrant disregard for societal norms. That is exactly the theme picked up by Rasikbihārī as she was flaunting her love in the face of worldly opprobrium. We can reconstruct then a complex iteration, of shared “Mīrā-moments” among the literary pair, or in Chloe Martinez’ words, their taking on the “Mīrā autobiographical pose” (2018), perhaps prompted by Rasikbihārī’s performing a song with Mīrā’s signature. One song evoked in turn a host of others that inspired them both. Further engagement with Mīrā comes in a later section of the manuscript (fols. 133–4r), where several more poems by Rasikbihārī and a few by Nāgarīdās are squeezed in at the bottom and in the margin. The common theme is the attraction of the lover’s eyes.52 They include one of Rasikbihārī’s greatest hits, describing the lover’s red eyes: Rāga Khambhāvatī Titāla ratanālī ho thārī āṅkhariy prema chakī rasa basa _alasnī, jni kamvala rī pāmkhariy _ ho _gī jo _madhu mkha _ riy_  sundara rūpa lubhāī gati mati, rasika bihārī vārī pyārī, kauna basī nisa kaṅkhariy _ _ (RB 76, fol. 47v; PMĀ _ 498; Kh fol. 133r; Litho 39) Shining red are your eyes: Savoring love, languid in passion’s power, [drooping eyelids] like lotus petals. Attracted by exquisite beauty, [pupils] turned into honeybees, hovering around intoxicated.

51

52

It is not uncommon for Mīrā’s devotional songs to take on the characteristics of the linguistic environment in which they are transmitted (see for instance Shukla-Bhatt 2007), but this case is different as it involves a Mīrā song not attested elsewhere. In the edition, these are under the heading of “Pedicure,” that is, “the application of red lac on the feet” (Mahāvarā), but after the first few on that theme, the poems become generic, and revert back to the theme of attraction between the lovers in which the color “red” often synonymous with “passion” or raṅga features importantly.

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Synergies of the Literary Couple Rasika Bihārī, the dear Lady has surrendered. Who was it that spent the night at your side?53

This song is enigmatic, which is part of its appeal. It grows slowly on the listener what is going on.54 At first, it is not clear whose sleepy eyes are being described in the refrain. Everything is in the diminuitive, and since eyes are grammatically feminine, all verbs and adjectives are too, which renders the impression of a woman being described in endearing terms with a lullaby-like effect. As the song unfolds, the drooping eyelids open and the pupils are identified with greedy honey bees. At this point, the image of the male lover overlays the languid feminine evoked earlier. Many possible interpretations occur to the listener, are the first two lines spoken by Krishna, lovingly describing Rādhā’s drooping eyes late at night? And is there a switch of speaker in the third, where she compares his to eager bees? Or is this all the confidante speaking, depicting perhaps first Rādhā’s, then Krishna’s eyes, in any case pointing to the tell-tale signs of the couple having spent the night awake in lovemaking intermittently dozing off? At the beginning of the last line, languid Rādhā is yielding to his desire. Just then, in an unexpected twist the blissful scene we had imagined is disturbed. Like Rādhā perhaps, we are caught unawares when suddenly the question is raised who got to spend the night at Krishna’s side. So far, we had imagined the couple happily united. Here intrudes a different scenario, that of the khanditā, the heroine who points out the evidence of her lover’s unfaithfulness._ _She is the one fully alert, reading the clues of her sleepy lover’s appearance: His red eyes give away his having spent the night elsewhere. This shift of mood in the short song artfully prompts the listener to rethink the poem and adjust retrospectively. It casts a shadow over the happy scenario we imagined. Are the ladies-in-waiting gently teasing with the final rhetorical question? Or was it Rādhā speaking all along after all, pretending to sweetly compliment Krishna only to draw back last moment? What interests us is what Rasikbihārī intended to convey by performing this song. Was she seductively misleading Sāvant Singh only to pop the question about his “unfaithfulness” once he was in her thrall? Here again there is a tangential link with Mīrā. The association with the “red-eye” effect of a sleepless night is continued on the other side of this folio in the Bābā Ranchordās manuscript (fol. 133v.) that records a poem by Mīrā, _ this one firmly _ascribed to her:

53 54

The rhyme word is derived from kāṁkh [kaksā-], f. “armpit” (OHED). _ in a rich performance recorded by Ustad Ram The languor of the song is teased out lovingly Gopal Dhang in a Kota collection on the album Mehala The Palace: Romantic Music of Rajasthan, Vol. 3. Online: www.youtube.com/watch?v=SNgkHYAsPAo, last accessed December 31, 2020.

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ho sakhī merī nīnda nasānī piya ko pantha nihārataĩ, saba raina bihnī sakhiyani milikaĩ sīkha daī, mana yeka na mnī bina dekhaĩ kala nā parai, jiya aisī thnī _ piya bnī aṅga chīna byākula bhaī, mukha piya antara bedani biraha kī, vahi pīra na jānī jyaũ cātaka ghana kaũ ratai, macharī bina pānī _ budhi bisarānī mīr byākula birahanī, sudhi (PPM 18; Kh fol. 133v; Caturvedī 1983: 126, no. 78)

O friend, my rest is ruined. I’ve spent the whole night waiting for my lover. My friends lined up to scold me, but my heart wouldn’t listen. Without seeing him, I don’t find solace. That’s all my heart is set on. My body is exhausted. I’m restless. My lips sigh “my love, my love.” Pangs of separation inside me, such torment no one knows. Like a cātak bird crying out for its cloud. Like a fish without water. Mīrā, desperate in separation, has lost all sense and sensibility.

The theme here is in stark contrast with Rasikbihārī’s songs: Foregrounded is not samyoga (love in union), but viyoga, expressive of Rādhā’s longing for _ who does not appear at the tryst. Is this unreliability of Krishna what Krishna, inspired the sudden shift in mood in Rasikbihārī’s last line? This Mīrā song was apparently one of the couple’s favorites. Nāgarīdās also quoted it in his hagiographic anthology, Pad-prasaṅg-mālā, “Garland of Vignettes around Songs,” where he contextualized it with reference to Mīrā’s life story (Pauwels 2017: 141–6). In his telling, these are the words of Mīrā confiding in a sakhī, who was actually the king’s spy, sent to substantiate the suspicion of Mīrā’s adultery. After hearing Mīrā’s sincere expression of devotion though, the girl became convinced of Mīrā’s innocence. This is a good example how the same song can be imbued with multiple meanings and understood/ employed differently in different circumstances, even by the same listener. In all these examples, we see our author-couple engaged with both the famous songs as well as the persona of their fellow Rathor princess and devotee, Mīrā. This shows that not only were Mīrā’s songs performed at the Kishangarh court, in the process they might be tweaked a bit, or even completely reinvented. We can experience nearly first hand how meaning-making in performance and poetry-making proceeded hand in hand. 4.3.3

Wedding Night Invite

Nāgarīdās had creatively arranged some of his works in the design of a “wedding invitation” in the middle of the Bābā Ranchordās manuscript (Figure 4.3). _ _The central song provides an It consists of a central song, surrounded by Dohās. impression of the divine pair’s wedding night (keywords underlined):

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Figure 4.3 Manuscript Kh (from Bābā Ranchordās), wedding invitation, folio 131r. _ _ Rāga Khambhāycī Titāla navala raṅga bhīnī rāti, dekhi dekhi maṅgala kuñja sihāti rādhā mohana vyāha cāha juta, sukha sobhā uphanāta dekhi thakī nisa samaĩ manohara, bhayau na cāhata prāta nāgarīdāsa kusama druma phūle, manahu jaunha musakyāta (PMĀ 479, Gupta 1965: 1.406, Kh fol. 131r)

Darkness drenched with young passion, the arbor shivers, witness to marital bliss. Rādhā and Mohana wed, entwined in desire, brimming with excitement, The enticing night’s witness wearies, morning refuses to dawn. Nāgarīdās: trees blossom with flowers, as if moonlight gently smiles.

Attractive as the design may be, the content is not quite what one would print on an official wedding invitation. True to his Rasika temperament, Nāgarīdās focused on the intimacy of the wedding night rather than the public celebration. The reverse of this “wedding invitation” in the same manuscript (see Figure 4.4) contains a set of Dohās and two songs by Rasikbihārī. The Dohās are intended to be used in the ālāp for singing the songs.55 This is one of the few sets of such distichs in Pad-muktāvalī that do not have Nāgarīdās’ signature or chāp, but rather Rasikbihārī’s (keywords again underlined): 55

The rubric in Gupta is yā pada kī ālāpcārī mẽ dene e dohā. Kh reads: yā pada ke bīca bīca maĩ daĩne ye dohā.

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Figure 4.4 Manuscript Kh (from Bābā Ranchordās), obverse of wedding _ _ invitation, folio 131v.

gahagada sāja samāja juta, ati sobhā uphanāta _ cali bilasau mili seja sukha, maṅgala galatī rāta rahī mālatī mahaki tah, sevata kota anaṅga karau madana manuhāra mili, saba_ rajanī rasa raṅga cale doū mili rasamase, maĩna rasamase naĩna prema rasamasī lalita gati, raṅga rasamasī raĩna rasika bihārī sukha sadana, āye rasa sarasāta prema bahuta thorī nisā, hvaĩ āyau parabhāta (PMĀ Dohā 1–4, Gupta 1965: 1.407; UM Dohā 145–8; Kh fol. 131v; Litho 30)

“Instruments tuning announce the concert, brimming with excitement. Hurry to join him on the bridal bed. The blessed night is fleeting. The scent of jasmine lingers, animated by thousands of bodyless Cupids. Entice the handsome pair to unite. All night long passion will reign.” Both set off to unite in ecstasy, eyes colored in ecstasy, Ecstatic in love, swaying gently, the night grew heavy with ecstasy. Rasika Bihārī reached the pleasure pavillion, overcome by passion. Love was plentiful, the night was short, dawn had already broken.

The printed version of Nāgarīdās’ Pad-muktāvalī includes these Dohās under one of its several sections entitled pāni-grahana, or “the bridal ritual of joining _ in Gupta _ 1965: 1.407). Yet, again, they the hands of bride and groom” (no. 55

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defy the expectation of describing the public ritual and depict rather intimate scenes of the wedding night. It is as if Rasikbihārī responded to Nāgarīdās’ invitation in kind. These Dohās resonate clearly with Nāgarīdās’ poem inscribed in the middle of the “official” wedding card: Rasikbihārī picked up on his expression sobhā uphanāta, translated as “brimming with excitement” and included some key vocabulary, such as maṅgala, or “(marital) bliss” and manohara “attractive, enticing.” She also used the same rhyme scheme in the first and last Dohā, but varied the rhyme word in the last one from prāta to prabhāta. Yet, whereas in his wedding invitation, dawn did not wish to interrupt (bhayo na cāhata prāta), she announced morning had broken (hvaĩ āyo parabhāta). The Rasikbihārī songs quoted after the Dohās are all on the bridal theme. One of them is the “bridal bed” poem that is one of Rasikbihārī’s most famous songs, judging by its inclusion in anthologies.56 It is available on the internet in a devotional recording.57 It features another loving description of the passionate wedding night: Rāga Paraj Ṣamāycī (Tīntāla)58 nikuñja59 padhārau raṅga bharī raĩna raṅga bharī dulahani raṅga bhare piya, syma sundara sukha daĩna raṅga bharī saĩnīya raci jahā, raṅga bharyau ulahata maĩna rasika bihārī pyārī meli doū, karau raṅga sukha saĩna (RB 130, fol. 77v; PMĀ 480; UM 221; Kh fol. 131v; Litho 29)

Enter the pleasure pavillion, the night is sultry with passion. The bride is passionate, her beloved is passionate, handsome Shyāma is out to please. On the bed prepared for passion, Cupid is sprawling passionately. Rasika Bihārī and the darling girl, get both together and enjoy making love passionately.

Obviously, this song is “drenched in passion” with the frequent repetition of raṅga bharī, including in the refrain. In the Bābā Ranchordās manuscript, this _ _that he creatively fit song is found on the reverse of Nāgarīdās’ set of poems within the design of a wedding card. In the seasonal anthology it is printed right after a song by Nāgarīdās to which it may well have been a response:

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It is included among a set of poems by Nāgarīdās (with some oral variants) in the Rāgkalpadrum by the Mewar court Pandit Krishnānand Vyās Dev who originally collected the work in 1843 (rev. ed. 1906: 2.30). A recording is available online: www.youtube.com/watch?v=du97yw3baUc, last accessed September 30, 2021. The Tāla is specified in Kh, where the Rāga is simply Ṣambhāycī. In Rāg-kalpadrum it is under _ Paraj, Dhīmā Titālā. Gupta, Litho, Rāg-kalpadrum, and Kh read “kuñja.”

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phūla mahala kālindī kūla phūla bharī druma latā lalita jah, jala parasata jhuki jhūla phūlani maĩ phala mainani ke, dou dharaĩ grīva bhuja mūla nāgariyā nāgara rasa basa, sakhi nirakhi rahī sudhi bhūla (UM 220, Gupta 1965: 1.205; Kh fol. 131r)

On the banks of the Yamunā stands a flower pavilion: Gorgeously flowering vines, wound around trees, bent to touch the water as they swing. Cupid’s fruit’s among the blossoms. The pair’s arms wound around each other’s shoulders. Sophisticated lady and lover (Nāgar), lost in passion’s power. The spying ladies lose all sense.

Like Rasikbihārī’s, this song has a parallel structure, with frequent repetition, in this case of phūla, which occurs in the refrain and at the beginning of nearly every line. In a way he improves on her poetics by also echoing the rhyme word throughout. Apart from the question of whether this reflects actual personal moments of intimacy, the poetic interchange represents an ecstasy all its own, a playful one-upmanship as they respond to each other’s creations. Throughout the analysis, I have been describing her poems as a reaction to his, or sometimes his to hers. There is really no way to determine, though one may have one’s hunches. The sequence of the poems in the anthologies usually leads us to interpret him as having taken the initiative. But that may be a matter of editorial intervention, the scribe might well have been inclined to privilege the prince’s poems. If Nāgarīdās was the scribe himself, as Khān surmises for the inserted songs, it may represent his view of matters. She was hardly in a position to claim first-authorship. The most obvious hierarchical arrangement was the design around his “wedding invitations.” Hers were added on the verso of the inserted folio, without even the usual red frame that the officially written folios have. To make the marriage invitations truly mutual, her poems too should have been written in the same design as his. Still, not only did Nāgarīdās take care to include Rasikbihārī’s songs in his collections, he did so with little editorial intervention, as is clear upon comparison with their text in her Bayāz. He chose not to “clean up” her more colloquial poems in the local Rajasthani dialect. Rather, as we have seen also from other examples (Section 2.4), he himself composed in that idiom. Perhaps those songs are in response to hers, so we might in retrospect grant her the idea to use that idiom on the basis of that criterion. These close comparisons have afforded us a glimpse in the creative and editorial process that went into the making of their duets. The question is less who was the amanuensis and who directed the pen, which is typically gendered in the West. Rather, by now we have mustered enough evidence to speak of a form of co-authorship. Perhaps this even allows us to establish more broadly

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that this type of poetry is essentially social (Thompson and Stone 2006: 316–17). More evidence to that effect can be mustered from the “first generation of settlers” in Vrindaban, who figure in Nāgarīdās’ hagiographical anthology. The so-called Rasik-trayī, Triumvirate of Svāmī Haridās and his contemporaries Hit Harivamś and Harirām Vyās, shared similar moments of _ symbiotic composition (Pauwels 2010a). Engagement with poems of masters from the past, redacting them, even attributing compositions to them, comes across especially in the section above on “Mīrā moments.” This demonstrates vividly how bhakti songs would be redacted to serve the agenda of the performer. Performers then should be taken seriously as parties in the composition of bhakti poetry. To return to the dynamics between the author-couple, perhaps we can claim a similar evolution of what has been detected for the European seventeenth century: a displacement of homosocial patriarchal production with a more companiate form of heterosexual liaison (Thompson and Stone 2006: 323). The discovery of the Bayāz means that we have also access to Rasikbihārī’s voice more directly and can confirm this from her point of view. What does the Bayāz reveal for the power dynamics of this literary pair? 4.4

Rasikbihārī as Collector and Muse

So far, we have mainly listened to Rasikbihārī’s voice as mediated through her patron’s editorial interventions. That fits the usual case where the perspective of the enslaved could only be incorporated into literary discourse through mediation of an authorizing member of the privileged class (Thompson and Stone 2006: 325). It is not surprising then that Rasikbihārī’s perspective was not one of contestation. She hardly dwelled on experiences of servitude, let alone on efforts to reverse them. In her Bayāz on the other hand, Rasikbihārī curated her own collection of favorite poetry. This potentially could give her more latitude, even as she included, like Nāgarīdās in his Pad-muktāvalī, both her partner’s and others’ songs. Her manuscript, though, is rougher than his, written down by many different hands, some quite sloppy, without borders drawn in which to fit the text. There is no organization by theme, nor Rāga. It really feels more like a diary of favorite verses that she chose to jot down every so often, presumably as she heard them, or chose to perform as the occasion occurred. Can we glean any insights on the dynamics of the literary pair’s collaboration from this document? Here too, it is again difficult to say who inspired whom. Nāgarīdās certainly had been an experienced composer of devotional poetry before Rasikbihārī even started her career as a performer. Likely he mentored her, or at least delighted in nurturing her talent. For the festival and thematic poems, the “duets” discussed above could be the result of finger exercises he assigned her.

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Her responses to his songs fit the tradition of javābgo‘ī or “response to masterpoems” from the Persianate world. The new Rekhtā scene in Delhi saw women approaching ustāds or master-poets, seeking islāh or “correction” of their _ _ important to have at least work. For a female singer in the Urdu world, it was in name the prestige of tutelage by a male ustād, both for training, but also to enhance the currency of her performances (Jha 2015: 149–50). Rasikbihārī was not really a courtesan; she did not need engagements to perform elsewhere to make a living. Still, there is some evidence in the Bayāz of islāh: For some _ of her poems, the manuscript shows corrections that are not of_ scribal errors (see Appendix), so one could surmise that possibly Nāgarīdās entered them for her, or she did, perhaps following his experienced advice. In any case, the quality of her work shows evidence of long intense training in like-minded company, a type of satsaṅg that forms literary habits and molds emotional outlook conducive to devotional growth. Intriguingly, Rasikbihārī’s Bayāz contains some incomplete poems of his too, which showed signs of redaction (see also Section 4.2.3). Who made the corrections? Did the influence go the other way around too? In his dissertation from the University of Texas, Nathan Tabor draws attention to circulation in mushā‘irah milieus in Delhi of something like an “autograph Bayāz.” Organizers of mushā‘irahs asked their guests to note down the compositions they had performed on the occasion.60 Would Nāgarīdās’ entries in her Bayāz also be of that type? That might seem against the grain of reading the Bayāz as a performer’s planner notebook, but it is not impossible that both types coexisted within the same cover. The manuscript contains entries by many different hands, presumably her own and her assistants’. In addition, Rasikbihārī might well have asked Nāgarīdās to note down songs for her to perform that night. Or perhaps he wrote the poem down for her as he composed it. Or she could have written down one of his already existing compositions as she remembered it, adjusting it herself for performance. All this remains speculation at the moment and awaits a careful study of the different hands in the manuscript. There are two areas in which the Bayāz provides solid documentation of reciprocity, first the inclusion in Rasikbihārī’s Bayāz of some drafts of Nāgarīdās Kavitta-Savaiyās that would have been performed in the new musical genre of Kabitt. Second, we will look more in-depth at how Rasikbihārī was at least one of the sources of inspiration behind Nāgarīdās’ famous poetry in Rekhtā and explorations of the emotional world of the Persianate.

60

Tabor 2014: 162, n. 65, 215–17 with reference to Brindabandās Khushgū. Perhaps one could understand the aforementioned loose leaves bound in the 1729 Delhi manuscript J (preserved at RORI Jodhpur) as something similar.

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Among the works by Nāgarīdās preserved in an early draft version in Rasikbihārī’s Bayāz, there is a set of eight of his Kavitta-Savaiyās (RB 22–9, fol. 8v–9v). All of those have been included in Nāgarīdās’ collected works under the rubric “Other Poetry” or Chūtak-kavitt (51–58, Gupta 1965: 1.134–6). In _ Rasikbihārī’s Bayāz we found his signature or chāp in only one of them (RB 25, fol. 8v–9r), whereas in the edition, his signature has been worked into all of the poems. This entailed some adjustments. Just one example will do here, his Kavitta on lovers’ eyes playing a game of dare, which shows in the edition a variant with the chāp and accommodations for meter in the last line: sīkhe kulachana hvai lada bāvare, maĩ samujhāye jhuke jhijhakāre mūndi dīye pala bīca ka_mvārani, taū rahe na kitau paci hāre _ maĩ, hārata hai mana se dhana bhāre sundaratāī kaũ jītana jūpa (kabhū bhahaĩ) [nāgara khelaĩ] bin na rahaĩ, e driga rūpa juvārī hamāre (Chūt-kavitt 51, Gupta 1965: 1.134) _

Perfecting mischief, these fools got into a fight. I scolded them, till, taken aback, they finally bowed down. Eyelids closed, shut tight like doors, staunchly refusing to acknowledge defeat. To win the wager61 of beauty, they lost most of their heart’s cash, [Nāgar said,] they couldn’t stand to take a break from the game. These eyes of mine, they’re addicts to good looks!

The adjustment to work in the chāp is minimal, the new line actually improves the verse, making it less convoluted.62 This Kavitta is reminiscent of Rasikbihārī’s Diwali poem on the divine pair playing games of staring each other down, discussed above (Section 3.1). That poem is not in the Bayāz, but Nāgarīdās was well aware of it as he included it in his anthologies Utsav-mālā (110) as well as Pad-muktāvalī (508). How to take this reciprocation? Was this a conscious move on her part to include his unfinished poems in her collection? There is for sure a strong degree of mutuality between them and support for the preservation of each other’s work. The most important draft set of Nāgarīdās’ poems preserved in her Bayāz is a forerunner of the best-known and most admired of his multiple Rekhtā works, Ishq-caman “Garden of Love.” The finalized work circulated widely, especially in Rajasthan with other royalty, but also beyond.63 It seems to have

61 62 63

Taking jūpa as dyūta, as per the suggestion in the glossary provided by Gupta (1965: 2.134 note). Kabhū bhahaĩ is awkward, perhaps from the verb bham̐vnā, “to turn around:” “they never ceased roaming.” I have written on this elsewhere more elaborately (2015: text and translation 245–56, transmission 125–36, 257–66). According to Khān, there is even a manuscript with no less than seven commentaries on the work, called Tuhfat-ul ‘ārifīn, which was written in 1887 (1944 VS) by a _ Harihar Bābā of Kishangarh, who subsequently went to Vrindaban. Another manuscript in the

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been popular among a broad swath of the population too, as it is found in a manuscript with details of the kingdom’s elephants and horses, written by a mahout named Muhammad ‘Alī in 1826 (1883 VS).64 Rasikbihārī’s Bayāz provides crucial evidence for its composition history: It contains draft versions of several of the Dohās that Nāgarīdās subsequently rearranged, edited, and expanded, calling the resulting selection Ishq-caman.65 If we go by the sequence in her Bayāz, the first of his Rekhtā poems has the refrain musakala hai iskabājī or “The game of love is tough to play” (fol. 24v– 25r). This poem is often included in calligraphic verions of Ishq-caman, but not in his Pad-muktāvalī.66 Nāgarīdās seems to have composed it in response to a Persian poem with the radīf “(āshnā’ī) mushkil ast” “(love) is difficult,” which Rasikbihārī had performed earlier, if we follow the notational sequence in her Bayāz (on fol. 4v), before she started noting down his experimental verses of Ishq-caman. While not conclusive, this strongly suggests that it was her performance of the Persian poem that inspired him to compose at least this particular Rekhtā one. Was she then the conduit of the new Rekhtā style to the prince? At the very least, she was a catalyst for the creation of Ishq-caman. At the time, the poetry by Valī Deccani (circa 1665–1707) was all the rage in Delhi, where many responses were composed (javābgo‘ī) on the master’s model (Dhavan and Pauwels 2015). Rasikbihārī included in her Bayāz two Valī ghazals, intriguingly, under the heading “Rekhī.” If she intended to write “Rekhtī,” the name for Rekhtā when the speaker’s voice was feminine, hers might be the first attestation of the word, since currently the earliest occurrence is debated to be by the later poets Inshā or Rangīn (Vanita 2012: 29). Typically, Valī’s poetry is designated as Rekhtā, but it is possible to interpret the two Valī poems she quotes as spoken in a feminine voice about a male beloved (Yusuf in the first), which may explain the heading. Rasikbihārī ventured something akin to javābs on the next pages, which were all in the voice of Gopīs speaking to Krishna.67 If indeed she meant to write Rekhtī, in

64 65

66

67

Udaipur Royal Library (Sarasvatī Bhandār) has a picture of a nāyikā in the beginning (2015: __ 40–44). It was obtained from Vyās Nandlāl, a former tax collector of Kishangarh (ms. C, Khān 2015: 40–41). Bayāz folios 54r–55v. I have elaborated elsewhere (2015: 104–7). The main text is found in Kh, the 1746 manuscript, on framed but unnumbered folios (perhaps originally following fol. 190, just before the page with the date), written in the same handwriting as the rest of the manuscript. It is included in the calligraphy on the cover of Pauwels 2015. It is given separately as Padmuktāvalī 757 in Gupta’s edition (1965: 1.502–3). In the 1746 manuscript preserved at Faiyāz ‘Ali Khān’s house, it is found on a loose page, written in a sloppier hand and on a page not prepared with a red frame as the rest. It seems to have been added later but became incorporated in the main work by a later copyist. The ghazals by Valī Deccani are found in the Bayāz on fol. 60r–v, 102–3, and translated in Pauwels 2015: 95–100. On the genre terms and the gender ironies, see Petievich 2001; Kugle 2010: 361.

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the sense of spoken in a feminine voice that would mean that at least some at the time would understand the term not to denote a later genre, derivative of Rekhtā, but one that was conceived immediately from the start of the Valī craze in Delhi. Nāgarīdās in his Pad-muktāvalī similarly included two (different) poems by Valī with his own responses to the first one, which made it into the published version of Pad-muktāvalī.68 It is hard to say whether he or she was first to respond to Valī’s trendsetting poems, but both were aware of them and enjoyed composing together in the new idiom of Rekhtā/Rekhtī, all the while applying it to the bhakti context of admiration for Krishna as the beloved. This type of experimentation with different poetic idioms was not limited to the literary couple, but also involved wider networks, especially among Nimbārkans of Salemabad. It is important to see this in its musical context: The new genres of Khayāl and Kabitt that were de rigueur in the capital seem to have been performed in a more Punjabi idiom suffused with the Persianate style. Evidence for poetic exchange in the new styles can be mustered from Nāgarīdās’ Pad-muktāvalī, which reflects a session of devotional singing that included both Ānandghan and Nāgarīdās. The section (9) on “First Attraction,” or Pūrvarāga, starts with a series of Dohās for ālāp at the beginning of the vocal recital that includes several Dohās from Bihārī’s Satsaī. Right after the ālāp, the section proper begins with a song by Ānandghan. Another one by him follows a little bit later, right after one by Nāgarīdās. The latter set of songs are both in Punjabi; both are marked “Khyāl;”69 both are sung in Rāga Todī, and the rhythm is specified as Titāla, which is typical for _ share the theme of the ineffability of sorrow. Here is Khayāl. They also Ānandghan’s song: taĩde nāla lagī ho jinda nimnī _ sādī darada kahnī kita_ bali kūkā koī nah sunadā, _ jo mudi vekhai tosī jīv, māna na _kari begumānī _ ānanda ghana hũna n tarasv, vārī bārī o dilajyānī _ (PMĀ 80, Gupta 1965: 1.253)70 Since it’s become tied up with yours, my life has turned worthless. I shout at the top of my voice, but no one hears my story of woe.

68

69 70

Pad-muktāvalī 762, 764, see Gupta 1965: 1.504–5; for the translation and analysis, see Pauwels 2015: 82–92. Valī’s poems and the responses are found in the 1746 manuscript Kh on fols. 188–9. Clearly the original scribe had difficulty understanding, as a later hand had to make several corrections. One might have expected rather tappā, which was often composed in Punjabi (Trivedi 2000: _ 289–90; see also Brown 2010: 180). Similar refrain (but different rhyme) as Ānandghan Padāvalī 111, Miśra 1950: 217 in Rāga Āsāvarī Ikatāla.

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If you’d just turn your head and look at me, I could somehow survive. No point playing games of pride with the shameless. Ānandghan, even now you make me suffer, time and again, O love of my soul.

Ānandghan is famous for such heartfelt poems of unrequited love, understood as addressed to a courtesan named Sujān who allegedly spurned him (Bangha 2005). This song reads like one such secular love poem, but it is in the feminine voice, as is clear right from the refrain. The one by Nāgarīdās that preceded it could also be taken as a poem of worldly love; here the beloved is grammatically marked as masculine, but this does not become pronounced till the third line (with the verb āyā). Only in the last line does the poem take a marked Krishnaite twist: maidā darada na jānai ho āpa bedardī _ n kī khabara asārhe, gārhe iska asara dī sophī _ vaha _ cali āyā disa ghara dī maĩ nahĩ neha kiyā pahilaĩ, nāgarīdāsa nanda de nāgara mana lītā maradau maradī (PMĀ 79, Gupta 1965: 1.253)

You’re immune to pain, how could you feel mine? Mine, not even a Sufi would fathom. Love’s wound is deep. I didn’t truly know love, till he entered my house. Nāgarīdās: Nanda’s son took my heart by force.

One might be inclined to see Ānandghan as instrumental in Nāgarīdās’ turn towards Punjabi style poetry. Yet, there is again a matching song by Rasikbihārī. Though not recorded in the Pad-muktāvalī,71 she noted it down in her Bayāz (fol. 78r): dila hāla kain kahvai pīra asārhī koī nahī sunadā, bhari bhari naina rah[vai] _ kauna kahai kona batāvai apn āpa sahī iha dukha rasika bihārī beparavāhī, mana_ lagā jah72 (RB 132, fol. 78r)

Whom to tell the state of my heart? My eyes keep brimming with tears, but there’s no one to hear my woes. Who could tell such sorrow? Who could put it to words? One needs to experience first-hand. Rasika Bihārī’s carelessness doesn’t cease to affect my heart.

71

72

There are several other Punjabi songs by Rasikbihārī in Pad-muktāvalī, all of which are included in the early manuscript (many on fols. 150v–151r): PMĀ 588–9, 592 (also in RB as 89, 25, 27, respectively), and 596 (not in RB). The two last lines, but it is possible that they are written out of order and the original rhyme words in performance were batāvai in line 3, and lagā[vai] in the last one. _

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These poems have much in common. Most obviously they share Punjabi shibboleths, such as the pronoun asārhī, and postpositions: dī in his, n in _ hers. They also share the theme of ineffable pain of love, which affects the heart (mana in the last line). Both also complain about the lover’s insensitivity (bedardī in his, beparvāhī in hers). If one reads her poem right after his, one might even initially interpret pīra in initial position in her second line as a Sufi master, parallel with his sophī. In the second half of that line where she describes tear-filled eyes, that specifies one of the effects of love he had mentioned (iska asara dī). This makes for a strong case that the poems were composed in response to one another, and that Ānandghan was part of the session. In the light of the tradition that Nāgarīdās and Ānandghan were co-students of Vrindāvandev Ācārya, one wonders whether the Nimbārkan guru too was part of the gatherings inspired by the Delhi vogue. Sure enough, his oeuvre also contains poems in Punjabi-style. Notably the fourth chapter (ghāt “access”) of _ divine pair his Gītāmt-gaṅgā, “Nectar of songs’ Ganges,” which describes the in the bloom of youth (kiśor-avasthā), includes such songs on the sorrow of love.73 An example that shows tropes from Persianate imagery is: hāy main chodi gayā mahabūb bhaũha kamāna_ dga bāna amā, ghāyala kari gayā khūba ghūṅghara vālī julaphaĩ _main (maĩdā),74 vāndhi kulapha kītī kāma _ gayā bekāma vndāvana prabhu prema dī dorī, lāma _ (GG 4.60, Ācārya 1998: 49) Alas, my lover has left me. The bow of his brows, the arrow of his glances, o my,75 wounded me deeply. With his curly hair tresses, he tied me up, what need would he have for locks?76 Vrindāban’s Lord, with just a rope of love, halted the vanguard’s advance.77

The frequent internal rhyme and wordplay in the guru’s poem recalls the Rekhtā vogue for ihām or punning. We could detect_ a response to this in another poem by Rasikbihārī in a Punjabi idiom, this one is included in Pad-muktāvalī, though not in the same section as Ānandghan’s and Nāgarīdās’. It comes with a distinct emotional tenor employing the trope that casts the beloved as deliberately cruel and

73 74 75 76

77

Other Punjabi-style poems are Gītāmt-gaṅgā 4.18 (Ācārya 1998: 37), 4.60–1 (49), 13.23 (160), 13.88 (181). This seems a redundant repetition and is hypermetrical, so best edited out. Taking amā as am, which is equivalent to e miyān, a common vocative particle for Muslims (HŚS). Kulapha, m. can mean tālā (HŚS). This line has nice internal rhyme of zulapha and kulapha, which the translation tries to convey with a double entendre: lock for hair lock, as well as chain lock. Again, nice internal rhyme of lāma and bekāma.

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bloodthirsty and the lover as willing to undergo the painful abuse out of total devotion: Titāla tīkhe naĩna kanhāī taĩde, pala pale khūna karande _ , palakaĩ tīra parande bhaũhaĩ tau kamna tan kitte ghāyala pare karāhaĩ, dila nah dhīra dharande rasika bihārī nitti vāra karande, tāre nah tarande _ _ (PMĀ 596; Kh fol. 151r; Litho 51) Kanhāī, your sharp eyes draw blood over and over. Your brows are strung like bows, your eyelids strike like arrows. So many fall down, wounded, groaning. Their heart fails to keep up. Rasika Bihārī, you keep dealing blows, there’s no escape, even if we try.78

Both Rasikbihārī’s and Vrindāvandev Ācārya’s songs share the standard comparison of brow with bow, using the same vocabulary (bhaũha kamāna) and the keyword ghāyala.79 These words are typical for the distinctly Persianate imagery of the beloved whose gender is often ambiguous (as Persian does not mark gender grammatically), but who is typically characterized as not reciprocating the lover’s feelings, heartless, even cruel. Scott Kugle has perceptively pointed out how the male lover’s voice in Rekhtā is one that beseeches and berates the unattainable beloved, hence taking on a submissive posture, which contrasts with conventional masculine ethos, but easily slips into registers of spiritual love (2010: 361). This is quite distinct from the more domestic world of Braj. Central in Rekhtā is the urbanite majlis, where liaisons are made, hearts broken, and lovers are left bleeding on the floor. By contrast, Krishna may be accused of breaking hearts, but he does not typically plant daggers in his “victims’” chests; even when his passionate lovemaking is compared to violent battle, he tends not to leave his “conquests” wounded to suffer among the fallen on the battlefield. The tropes of Krishna’s world, where often the woman’s perspective on the beloved is voiced, come closer to the Rekhtī conventions where the female speaker takes on a more “ribald and aggressive” stance (Kugle 2010: 361). If Rasikbihārī’s heading of “Rekhtī” in her Bayāz to include Valī Deccani’s Ghazals was not a miswriting, it might indeed indicate on her part an awareness of such proximity between the idioms, thereby affirming that connection between Rekhtī and Braj early on. This would further substantiate University of Texas’ Urdu scholar Carla Petievich’s apt

78 79

Or: “Rasika Bihārī, they keep sacrificing themselves; even if you brush them aside, they don’t budge.” There are other occurences of this keyword in the oeuvre of Vrindāvandev Ācārya: for example, ghāyal kīnha GG 4.22 (Ācārya 1998: 38); GG 4.44 (Ācārya 1998: 45).

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view that the origins of Urdu poetry involved a more fluid gendered universe, closer to Deccani and Classical Hindi bhakti ways of expression than later deindianizing and de-feminizing reformist interpreters would allow for (2002). The issue is further complicated as each line of a devotional song or couplet of a Ghazal can be from a different gendered point of view (for Urdu, see Kugle 2010: 310). Performers are adept at signaling this by embodying different behavioral styles with minimal support from costumes or props. It is small wonder then that as a trained performer, Banī-thanī would have an edge over _ her nonperformer companions. One wonders about the channels of transmission. Undoubtedly music was involved. Was it the Nimbārkan music teacher who first demonstrated this new Punjabi-Persianate style? Or were Ānandghan, Nāgarīdās, and/or Rasikbihārī first exposed to this ambiance in Delhi, enthusiastically bringing the new rage back home to the guru? Or would Rasikbihārī as a young girl have been trained in Delhi to perform in the new style before she was even sold on Chandni Chowk? After all, she was deemed coquettish or “banī-thanī” already upon arrival in _ the femme fatale decked out Kishangarh, a sobriquet that carries an element of head to foot (sirāpā of the Urdu world). Her poem quoted above shows a deep engagement with the Rekhtā emotional universe, and among the set of poems from the males in her milieu, hers stands out as the one most naturally incorporating that aesthetic. Whoever was the conduit, the others were a quick study. Whether these poetic satsaṅgs took place in Shahjahanabad, in Rupnagar, or Salemabad, all four of them, guru Vrindāvandev, the innovative disciple Ānandghan, as well as Nāgarīdās and Rasikbihārī composed Punjabi-style songs in response to one another. If the scene was Delhi around 1730, it may well have been at one of the occasions organized by the queen (as described in Section 2.6). While Vrindāvandev and the literary couple tried their hand at Rekhtā compositions combined with Punjabi features, such poems resonated especially with Ānandghan, who put in more sustained efforts. To him is also attributed Ishq-latā, “Vine of Love,” which can be seen as a response poem to Nāgarīdās’s masterwork, Ishq-caman (IC). Several of its Dohās are reminiscent of Nāgarīdās, including ones with Nāgarīdās’ favorite rhyme words khūb and mahbūb (Miśra 1950: 176–83; Ishq-latā 4, cp. IC 14, 20, 34). Yet, it is original in that it is composed in many different meters, and also it includes more Punjabi shibboleths. How to denote this phenomenon? “Multilingualism in the vernaculars” sounds clumsy. “Linguistic variation” carries too much connotation of randomness, whereas the mobilization of different registers seems quite intentional. It also implies an anachronistic notion that there is one national language (whether Hindi or Urdu), by which variants are to be measured. Perhaps we can apply here elements of Michail Bakhtin’s “heteroglossia.” What works in particular for the phenomena under investigation is his

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foregrounding of aspirational intent within socio-ideological language stratification and his insistence on dramatical analysis (Hirschkop 2021). There seems to be an aspiration of sophistication underlying the use of these new genres from the capital, elegant Shahjahanabad, by this up-and-coming provincial court. And crucial to the enterprise was the dialogic performative situation, at least within this small circle. The purpose here is not to add to the extensive body of theoretical engagement with Bakhtin or claim early modern roots for the phenomenon usually associated with the novel.80 To wit, the analogy does not work perfectly, as the ironic aspect and democratic association with greater speech diversity Bakhtin sresses seem to be lacking. However, this Kishangarh poetry circle undoubtedly had fun in their poetry sessions. It looks like they had an in-joke as they repeated in their poetry the playful formulaic expression with internal rhyme: (mana)mohanā sohana (yār), literally meaning “Handsome81 (Mana-)Mohana (lover),” but difficult to convey in translation the somewhat incongruous combination of the intimate connotation of the word of Persian origin yār or “lover,” “intimate friend,” with the more expected Sanskritic epithets for Krishna. Rasikbihārī’s song with the formula in the refrain is not in the Bayāz, but comes just before the Ishq-caman in the Bābā Ranchordās manuscript: _ _ vo mohanā sohana yāra de naĩn dī jhok sīnaĩ de bicu lagī asādhe, vāra _pāra bhaī nok _ rukadī nahī roki maĩ hārī, lāja ghūṅghata dai rok rasika bihārī dā nāmva le le, karaĩ saba_ braja nok tok _ _ Kh fol. 152r; Litho 53) (PMĀ 602, Gupta 1965: 1.449;

That handsome lover Mohana has stiletto82 eyes. They hit the middle of my chest. The sharp point went right through. I couldn’t stop it, though I tried. My veil failed to guard my modesty. Blame Rasika Bihārī all you want, let the whole of Braj taunt and chide.

She also uses the formula elsewhere, anī vahi saũhan mohana yār (PMĀ 589; Gupta 1965: 1.446). Nāgarīdās has a _song with a similar start of the refrain, which was a response to the Valī poems he had cited in his Pad-muktāvalī: dekhā mana mõhan sõhan pyārā, phentā sira vā saja kajadāra _ tisa maĩ dhare banāya gula gulāba_ naubahāra (PMĀ 763, Gupta 1965: 1.506)

80

81 82

Bakhtin’s monologic claims for the lyric have already been qualified, most extensively, in the volume by Jacob Blevins 2008. I am grateful to my colleague Purnima Dhavan for fruitful exchange on the topic and for this reference. Sohana [śobhana-], can be an adjective and mean “beautiful; handsome; charming,” or a noun m., meaning “lover.” Literally, jhoṁkā, m. “a blow, shock; a hold (in wrestling)” (OHED).

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Synergies of the Literary Couple I have gazed at this heart-stealing handsome lover: a small turban on his head, its decoration like a fancy thing,83 On top of which he put a rose, with rose perfume of early spring.

Notably, here he has Sanskritized the formula by adding just one consonant at the beginning of the word: pyāra instead of yār. Perhaps it was Nāgarīdās who started this in-joke: He included the formulaic mana mõhan sõhana in a song that gives a long litany of epithets for Krishna in Chūtak-pad 147, with refrain _ braja sama aura koū nahĩ dhāma; yā braja saũ paramesurahū ke sudhare sundara nāma “There’s no place like Braj anywhere in the world: It trumps the magnificent names of the Lord,” a poem built on the contrast of Braj’s playful informality with God’s magnificence elsewhere.84 In her Bayāz, Rasikbihārī had included the simple core of the same formula, also in a more Braji context: ye rī merai mõhana sõhana padai paryo rī _ sīāma sundara kavala dala locana, odāyala rūpa bharo rī kahā karaũ kita jā sakhī rī, braja kaĩ_ loga cavāva karyo rī rasika vihārī dāri thagaurī, prema jīva ja kasyo rī _ _ (RB 144, fol. 80v–81r) This good-looking Mohana has made quite an impact. Handsome Shyām has lotus-petal eyes, outrageously charming. What to do? Where to go, my friend? The people of Braj are wont to chide me. Rasika Bihārī has cast a spell, his love has fettered my life.

Ānandghan seems to have shared this fondness for the formula. It occurs with further internal rhyme of johana in a brilliant Savaiyā that showcases well his poetic fireworks: bhora tẽ sāñjha laũ kānana ora nihārati bāvarī neku na hārati sāñjha tẽ bhora laũ tārani tākibo tārani sõ ikatāra na tārati _ [g]ārati85 jau kah bhāvato dīthi parai ghana ānanda suni ausara _ mohana sõhana johana kī lagiyai rahai āṅkhina ke ura ārati (Prakīrnak 6, Miśra 1950: 151–2; Bahadur 1977: 138, no. 64) _

From dawn to dusk, she doesn’t tire scanning trees in the forest, like she’s out of her mind! From dusk to dawn, she keeps counting the stars, her eyes skipping not a single one. 83 84 85

Kajadāra is glossed as terhā, and indeed kaja can mean “crooked” (OHED). _ _ tak-pad He further uses it in Chū 75, in Sadā kī mjhe 7, and in his Pad-muktāvalī 39, none of _ which are in Persianate idiom. Clearly the superior reading, provided by Bahadur: gārnā [gālayati or gādayati], v.t. (1) to _ squeeze or to wring out; to milk; to rub, to press, (2) to cause to drip out (as tears), (3) to cause to be wasted or destroyed (OHED),

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If ever she spots her lover,86 tears of joy form a cloud (Ghanānand) and fog out the sight. Engaged with all their might on catching charming Mohana’s sight, her eyes keep her heart’s desire alive.

He also employed it in a song that included Punjabi shibboleths: asn cetaka lāi gayā _ hora na sujhadā, sāmvalā sohana mohana gabharū ita bala āi gayā kī kar kucha _ cammara paī balāi viraha dī, kitthe hāi gayā muralī _tāna sunāi ānanda ghana, bāna calāī gayā _ (Padāvalī 44, Miśra 1950: 200) He put a spell on me. What to do? I can’t think of anything else. Dark charming Mohana brushed by me in full force of youth.87 Love sickness pierced my chest. All I could do was sigh. His fatal arrow reached its goal, Ānandghan, as he intoned his flute.

In this last case, the formula is clearly hypermetrical, which proves the point that it is used as a unit. The frequent combination with Punjabi linguistic markers seems to be part of a type of in-joke that this little group at SalemabadRupnagar was fond of. But the exact intent behind it remains obscure. This shifting in and out of multiple poetic universes, with bhakti acquiring Sufi connotations is typical for the musical genre of Khayāl and has been described with regard to other composers associated with the court of Muhammad Shāh (du Perron 2010). In summary, the author-pair Rasikbihārī and Nāgarīdās, were part of a creative circle of likeminded composers in Salemabad, which included Ānandghan and Vrindāvandev Ācārya. They loved to experiment with the new genres from the capital and even had their own in-jokes. Whoever started it, Rasikbihārī’s performances were an important source of inspiration, and one could even ascribe Nāgarīdās’ Ishq-caman to her literary midwifery. This circle was not geographically limited. Nāgarīdās’ Ishq-caman proved inspirational elsewhere in Rajasthan (Pauwels 2015: 125–36), but also Ānandghan’s work circulated widely, including Bharatpur, Jaipur, and Mewar (Bangha 2007: 333–5). While the genre of devotional songs and its tropes may seem stale and limited, it allows for a fascinating fluidity of emotional identification. Singers can shift in and out of different idioms. They can experiment with emotional identities accordingly, whether the more rustic Braj or the aggressive urbanity of Rekhtā. Devotional songs can be from different perspectives: that of the 86 87

Taking bhāvato as bhāvatā, m. prempātra (HŚS), which is also Miśra’s gloss. Gabharū is attested as gabarū [P. khūbrū] “ebullient youth” (HŚS).

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confidante (sakhī) promoting the divine protagonists’s cause, that of either gender of lover, longing for the ever-distant beloved, or engaged in the playful tug-of-war of lovemaking. In the end it does not matter: in the resulting happy union, lover and beloved actually become one. The perspective can be that of Rādhā or Krishna, or alternating within the same song. Even if the focus is on heterosexual encounters, this is not unlike the fluidity that has been associated with the “mixed-up” world of Rekhtī, as explored so engagingly by Ruth Vanita (2012). As songs are performed, the singer identifies with different voices, exploring the feelings of different characters. The duets where the composers respond to one another take this to great emotional depth, where each explores the other’s gendered perspective. This is not to be romanticized as some elusive gender balance, however, as the musical harmony of the sam, or rhythmic climax, is reached, it approaches something of a momentary transcendence of boundaries. Still, that did not entail an overthrow of power relations. In the divine realm, Krishna is the one who is suspected of unfaithfulness, not Rādhā. Krishna is the one harassing the women, whether or not they complain. In the world of the palace, it is the male patron who had the editing privilege even as he chose to incorporate his concubine’s songs in his collections for posterity. He is the one who invited her into the male-dominated durbar world. There is some mutuality, as she too incorporated his songs in draft form in her notebook, but in the end her Bayāz was never officially published. The anthologies that were formally written down were his not hers, and the poems extending “wedding invitations” inscribed with elaborate designs were his, not hers. While there are exquisite boundary-transcending moments, overall the gendered framework remained in place. **** Rasikbihārī’s poetic output contributed significantly to Kishangarh’s cultural production, where music, literature, and visual arts were interwined. The intertextuality of Nāgarīdās’ and Rasikbihārī’s songs has revealed sublime moments of their poetic synergy. Identifying matching songs and analyzing the duets provides a close experience of this early-modern author-pair in action. It is rare to to have testimony for such mutual enagement in courtesan studies. This allows us to get beyond the negative stereotype of the seductive singer that was rooted in Mughal anxieties about power reversal brought about by musical recitals. It also goes beyond the view that the performer mainly enhances the patron’s prestige, as common in colonial narratives of “nautch girls.” Possibly these differences stemmed from changed economic regimes of pleasure with the new genres of Kavitt and Khayāl gaining ground in this period. In any case, we experienced the mutual appreciation and shared devotional fervor of the author-couple.

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Rasikbihārī’s first documented contribution to the male-dominated durbar world, was facilitated by Sāvant Singh. On the occasion of a ritual recital of Bhāgavata-purāna during the monsoon of 1742, he organized a type of poetic _ symposium or mushā‘irah. To solicit literary input, he crafted an invitation that set the thematic and structural conventions for the poems expected to be performed before the scripture recitation as a word of welcome, and afterwards in farewell. The guests and courtiers responded in the same format. On the basis of the transcript of that occasion it can be established that Rasikbihārī held a prominent position and the courtiers responded creatively to her poetry. By all accounts, she shone as the star of the mushā‘irah, and possibly this was commemorated in painting with the image at the beginning of the chapter (Figure 4.1), that included a proud lady-devotee among the ascetics in “Śukadeva Reciting the Bhāgavata-purāna.” While this occasion afforded her great_ visibility, more importantly in terms of long-term consequences, Nāgarīdās also included her songs in a liturgical anthology for temple festivals (Utsav-mālā), thereby ensuring they would be performed by posterity. Analysis of matching songs shows a spirit of teasing competition as they sang of the rivalries between the parties of Rādhā and Krishna in celebrating the seasons. In sinc with Krishna’s own crossdressing to come closer to Rādhā, frequently depicted in the Kishangarhi paintings, Nāgarīdās often took on the role of a sakhī or girlfriend of the divine pair in his poetry. This brought him closer to the point of view expressed by Rasikbihārī, who also adopted the voice of a sakhī assisting in the divine love-play. A climax is experienced in the Holi scenarios, where Nāgarīdās, based perhaps on a transformative personal experience, shows an awareness of the harassment experienced by women on such occasions, and Rasikbihārī can, under cover of the licentiousness that the festival entails, experiment with gendered and caste identities. Yet, the boundaries of patriarchy and caste privilege are not really challenged, they remain in place throughout. A more intimate picture emerges in Nāgarīdās’ broader collection, Padmuktāvalī, to which her songs were added as marginalia in a manuscript originally prepared in 1746. Presumably, this was after she officially became Sāvant Singh’s concubine, which may have been celebrated privately in composing wedding invitations of Rādhā and Krishna’s nuptials. As recorded in this anthology, the scope of intertextuality expanded more broadly than the author-couple, as they both responded to earlier devotional songs, such as those by the famous Rathor princess-devotee Mīrā. Yet further afield was their joined engagement with Persianate themes and vocabulary, so central in the new Urdu (Rekhtā) rage in Delhi in the wake of the arrival of the dīvān of Valī Deccani. It is possible to read the evidence from the Bayāz to the effect that Rasikbihārī’s performances inspired Nāgarīdās to compose in this fashionable idiom. In her Bayāz, she included his Rekhtā poems, which gives us a window

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into his early drafts that he later reworked for what came to be known as Ishqcaman. It appears that she performed a kind of literary midwifery. The picture that emerges is that of a mutually inspiring companionship, perhaps we could even talk of co-authorship of some parts of their poetic oeuvre. The experimentation with the new genres, especially in Punjabi register, took place in the author-pair’s expanded circle, which included the abbot of the Salemabad monastery, Vrindāvandev Ācārya, and the controversial poet Ānandghan. Yet, the ease by which Rasikbihārī spoke in the emotional idiom of the Urdu-Punjabi perceptions of love, betrays the advantage of the trained performer, and perhaps indicates she took the lead in introducing the new experiments. This should alert us to the often neglected role of the female performer in determining the course of literary history, which too often has remained limited to by and large one of “great men” perceived as solitary geniuses. Throughout, the poetic analysis has highlighted the complexities of the diversely gendered, multilingual, and emotional identities the author-pair took on as they composed from multiple perspectives. Employing a feminine signature, “Nāgarī,” poses as a lady-in-waiting of Rādhā, while Rasikbihārī signs boldly with a masculine noun, an epithet of Krishna himself. Yet she does not adopt the male perspective and casts herself consistently as a woman. In their ultimate identity of sakhīs or female admirers of Krishna, their mutual relationship can be described “sisters,” a chaste characterization that is preferred by the Kishangarhi court. The author-pair’s deep engagement with one another becomes possible in a realm of imagery and poetics that brings Mughal and Rajput idioms, Rekhtā and Braj (and perhaps “Rekhtī”), into dialogue. Just as we start to appreciate the inside jokes and to enjoy the privilege of sharing the intimate moments of the prince and his concubine, they discreetly retire behind the Rādhā–Krishna imagery. Just as we think we get personal, their devotional persona takes over again. How was this exceptional author-pair remembered? Did some of the magical moments endure as their songs were transmitted over the generations? How did the “duets” get separated and the authorship of Rasikbihārī forgotten, even as her songs were sung? The last chapter on her legacy explores how her voice became severed from her image, even as the pretty portrait, said to be based on her features, was about to capture the art world’s attention.

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Figure 5.1 Krishna Holding Radha’s Scarf attributed to Sitaram. Ca. 1760. Kishangarh, Rajasthan. Gouache on paper. 42.5  25.4 cm. National Museum, New Delhi Collection (63.797). Photo Courtesy National Museum.

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Legacy: Self-Fashioning and Its Limits

One of the preoccupations of feminist scholarship, in art history as elsewhere, has been to restore representation as subjects with an agency of their own for women who have been treated as objects that are acted upon. That agency may not be spectacular, but nevertheless it is important to look for the ways women resisted being objectified and managed to assert themselves. One way to do so is by studying how they chose to represent themselves, even if existing paradigms were stacked against them, leaving little room for contestation or even visibility. Banī-thanī gained “visibility” of some sort, but it is unclear what degree of control_ she could exercise over the process. Was she really the creation of her patron and his painter, as the art-historical discourse we have traced seems to make her out to be? The visual starting point of this chapter (Figure 5.1), is a painting said to be modeled after one of her poems. Under a starry sky, Krishna, seated on a luxurious bed set up in the open air, makes none too subtle overtures, pulling an elegantly dressed lady near him by her shawl, beckoning her to join him. She shyly draws her veil while weakly holding back her shawl, but her slight smile betrays that she is at the same time attracted to him, even as she resists his persistent pull. One can nearly sense the weakness in her knees as she is about to surrender to him. Does this painting encapsulate the situation the poetess found herself in, playing a gentle tug-ofwar within a system that, while unequal, at least offered her opportunities for bettering her lot? How did Banī-thanī do in terms of self-fashioning? On the basis of the new evidence in her _Bayāz, we find out how she herself addressed the world through image-making in her poetry, even as she engaged in a gently teasing banter with her patron in poetry. The image at the beginning of the chapter raises the issue whether she perhaps even commissioned paintings to go with her poems. What can that tell us about her self-representation? University of Berkeley art historian Alka Hingorani has shown how the ability to constantly reinvent herself was important for a woman in a similar situation, nineteenthcentury Begum Samrū (1753–1836), whose life ran a trajectory superficially comparable to Banī-thanī’s. The Begum too started life as a low-caste performer, but ended up _comfortable via a strong liaison with a patron, in her case 191

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the European adventurer Walter Reinhardt “Sombre” after whom she was named Samrū. Her self-representation in images that she commissioned after his death, once installed as a powerful landowner in Sardhana near Meerut, involved finding space for maneuvering, as she appropriated, redefined, and subverted hegemonic paradigms. Hingorani astutely comments that Begum Samrū was successful by being subtle enough to come across unthreatening as an individual, and hence avoiding unwanted attention, yet determined to renegotiate her place within the system to serve her interests (2002/3: 55). Did Banī-thanī manage to pull off something similar via commissioning or _ inspiring paintings? If the image represents a heroine posing as shy, holding back against the patron, was there a sense of pushing back against the system, while working it? We have already learned of other performers earlier in the eighteenth century who climbed the ladder. Some made it as concubines of the emperor himself, but eventually did not fare well. Chroniclers ascribed this to the high visibility of their appropriation of symbols of social mobility. Much maligned was Lālkumvar (Figure 1.3), a high-class performer of the family of Tānsen, who made it_ to favorite concubine of Jahandar Shāh. She reportedly insisted on riding an elephant, moving around with a train of servants announced by naqqāra drums, and most of all, demanded expensive presents and favors for relatives and friends, which caused friction with ensconsed courtiers (Kaicker 2020: 283–4). Perhaps Banī-thanī had drawn lessons from such _ examples that she must have heard of early in her youth. There is no record that she was concerned with such status symbols. Rather, she remained loyal to her patron even in exile, in circumstances where his means were diminished. Did something change in her poetry at the point when he fell on hard times? How did it affect the power dynamics between the literary pair? Studies of author-pairs in comparative literature have surmised that collaborations tend to become more productive under disruptive conditions and at strategic junctures in literary history (Thompson and Stone 2006: 319). Does that apply here? In terms of poetic agency, the range of self-fashioning Rasikbihārī could engage in was limited. Like that of many other female poetesses, the publication of her poetry was largely mediated by men.1 One of the few exceptions in this regard was the later Deccani courtesan Māh Laqā Bāī “Cand,” who had her own dīvān collected and written out and circulated at different stages, from 1799–1824, at the end of her life.2 Yet, before even the editorial interventions

1 2

For similar restrictions on Urdu poetesses, see Williams 2017: 602. The first date refers to when a copy of the dīvān was gifted to a guest at a performance. He happened to be the British resident and consequently, her work ended up in the British Library (Kugle 2010: 366, 376–8).

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by anthologists and publishers, the women’s output was predetermined by the genres and tropes open to them, mostly framed in terms of religious symbols. In the case of Māh Laqā Bāī, her songs were determined by paradigms of Shi’a Islam. A similar case, of the nineteenth-century Punjabi Muslim courtesanturned-devotee Pīro, has been brilliantly analyzed by Anshu Malhotra (2017: xvii–xlviii, 123–98). She has shown that in her poetry, Pīro maximized the subversive potential of the bhakti images of redemption for sinners, including courtesans (127–32). How did Rasikbihārī manage to make the bhakti imaginaire work for her? Did she succeed in building a legacy with her devotional lyrics that could obliterate her origin as a slave? Rasikbihārī’s poetic output is not autobiographical in intent. Whereas Pīro had a life story to tell in her Ik Sau Sāth Kāfiyān, or “One Hundred and Sixty Songs,” Rasikbihārī did not weave her _songs into a self-narrative. Pīro’s poetry was interlocutory in intent, seeking to convince her audience of her rightful place at the side of her guru, using exemplary Sītā imagery. Did Rasikbihārī similarly mold her self-image in a defensive way to justify her position as concubine? While staying within the registers that determined the norms she functioned by, she still found tools for self-fashioning. Her intent was not subversion of the inequality of the situation she found herself in, there was no bid for autonomy. Yet she rose above the subordination she was subjected to. Did she work to convince her audience of the legitimacy of her position? Or perhaps she strove to leave a legacy for posterity in some concrete way? Whatever her intention was, we will follow the channels of transmission of her work to test what came true. How was she remembered and how was she forgotten over time? In this final chapter on Banī-thanī’s legacy and its limits, we look first for evidence of her writing herself_ into the world of Kishangarh painting. We know Nihālcand’s paintings were often based on Sāvant Singh’s poems; what about Rasikbihārī’s songs (Section 5.1)? Then we turn to how she presented herself in her poetic output, in particular her later poems culminating in her “spiritual testament.” This can be corroborated with the inscription on her memorial (chatrī), to set us on the path of reconstructing how she wanted to be and eventually was remembered in some circles (Section 5.2). We trace the survival of her songs, following their transmission both in manuscript and singers’ traditions (Section 5.3), culminating in the publication of (part of ) her collected poetry in a late-nineteenth-century lithograph of Nāgarīdās’ works, from which all other publications are derived (Section 5.4). Thus, Rasikbihārī’s own attempts at self-fashioning are presented against the power dynamics of the interactions with her patron and posthumously, the way his family subsequently reframed her. The results of the analysis of this genealogy of the Kishangarh house bring pressure on the received story of romance beyond death.

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5.1

A Legacy in Painting?

Given the importance of Rasikbihārī’s patron’s role in commissioning paintings to match his poetry, one wonders whether the same was done for hers. Did she actually have a say in the ways she was represented? Are there visual expressions of her work? There have indeed been speculations that some Kishangarhi paintings were related to her poetry. It was not unheard of for zanānā ladies to commission paintings, though usually this meant portraits of their husbands (Aitken 2002). Was Banī-thanī in a position to do so? If Sāvant _ (as argued in Section 3.1), could Singh celebrated their romance in painting she do the same? Given her flair for self-fashioning, as invoked in her nickname, one might expect “Miss All Made-Up” to have a knack for designing images too. Did the painter’s model change seats and become the producer, or at least did her work serve as inspiration for some paintings? The very first book on Kishangarhi paintings identified the one at the beginning of this chapter as based on Rasikbihārī’s rather than Nāgarīdās’ poetry (Figure 5.1).3 It has been estimated to date from circa 1760–70, the last phase of her life, which can presumably be narrowed to before Nāgarīdās’ death in 1764 because after her patron fell away, her access to resources would have dried up. Dickinson and Khandalavala attributed it to Sitaram, one of Nihālcand’s descendants.4 They do not explicitly say that anything was inscribed on the back but suggest that the painting was inspired by one of her songs from the lithograph collection Nāgara-samuccayah under the _ heading Rasikbihārījī ke Pad. They provide a translation: Oh Mahraji why is it that you persist in pestering me? Pray loosen your hold on my scarf and let me go home. I know your intentions all too well, I know you are on pleasure bent. Whither oh whither do your dark eyes roam! (Dickinson and Khandalavala 1959: 46)

It is surprisingly difficult to match this translation with any one of the sixty-one poems in the lithograph. The more formal address, “Oh Mahraji,” which one presumes to stand for “Mahārājā jī,” is actually uncommon in her oeuvre. I submit it was actually a misreading of a first-person pronoun, mhārai, and that the matching poem is this one: Rāga Paraja mõhana jī the mhārai kāī hatha lāgyā chau jī _ dau, the rasa bāt pāgyau chau jī jābā dyau ghara chodau chaiha _ _

3 4

Dickinson and Khandalavala 1959: 46–7, pl. 14. Also in Mathur 2000: 82–3, pl. 23. His dates have been estimated to be 1730–1814 by Khān (1979–80: 67).

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ākhy thdī hai ratanārī, sārī nisa rā jāgyā chau jī _ pyārā mh naĩ the, aurā sũ anurāgyā chau jī rasika bihārī (RB 157, fol. 84v; PMĀ 499; Kh fol. 133r; Litho 40)

Mohana jī, why have you become so stubborn with me? Let me go home, let me be! You tease me, buttering me up with your saucy compliments. Your eyes are shining red: obviously you’ve been up all night. Dear Rasik Bihārī, for me there’s only you, but you’re attracted to someone else.

This song starts out with a case of harassment that could belong to any scenario, whether Holi, Dānlīlā, Panaghata, or another. In the second half though, the type reverts to the khanditā, or_ heroine who detects clues of her __ lover’s unfaithfulness. This is reminiscent of another song with such a reversal of mood, the refrain of which is indeed echoed at the beginning of the third line: ratanālī ho thārī āṅkhariy, “Shining red are your eyes,” discussed _ before (Section 4.3.2). Rasikbihārī here seems to purposely evoke that famous 5 phūl-sej song. If so, the selection of this song for material for a painting may be telling. Was she amplifying a message she tried to convey to the prince by having it illustrated in painting? And what do we make of that? Is she resisting or capitulating to his terms? Yet, lest we get ahead of ourselves, let us consider the merits of Dickinson and Khandalavala’s hypothesis that this song underlies the painting. There are actually some problems in matching song with image, notably that nothing in the song warrants the prominent presence of the animal pairs in the painting. Literary inspiration surely is behind it, but rather from a poem that contained comparisons with the birds and deer pictured. The arch connoisseur of Indian paintings, B.N. Goswamy correlated this particular painting with a verse by Keśavdās (1986: 90, no. 55), and Harsha Dehejia matches it with the exact verse from Rasik-priyā (3.23). Indeed, that verse has the heroine chide her lover not to pull her sari border (añcala na aĩcau hātha). She says also that she has put to bed her pets, namely the starling (sārikā) and parrot (suka), and later on that she has to let out the fawn (mrigaja) and “swan” (marāla), which correspond more or less to the animals shown in this painting. In addition, the lady’s face is compared to the moon (canda-mukha), which is so prominently present in the image (Dehejia 2013: 150). This identification is convincing and weakens the match with Rasikbihārī’s poem. It would appear then that this painting is rather part of an illustrated Rasik-priyā series. That surmise is strengthened by the

5

The association is evident also in lithograph edition and manuscript: the phūl-sej song preceeds this one in Litho and is on the same folio in Kh.

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existence of another painting of the same size in a matching style that portrays Krishna visiting Rādhā’s house, where the women are engaged in churning butter, which could possibly illustrate Rasik-priyā 2.15 (Dickinson and Khandalavala 1959: 28–9, pl. 5). While it is possible that Banī-thanī was _ theory behind the commissioning of the series, it precludes unfortunately the it was based on her own poems. Disappointing as this may be in terms of determining Rasikbihārī’s legacy, still, Dickinson and Khandalavala’s approach inspires us to look further. Perhaps there are other such matching pairs of poems and paintings? If we grant the premise that Nāgarīdās would promote Rasikbihārī’s poetry by commissioning paintings to match it, or maybe she herself took the initiative, how to identify such pairs? Any such exercise needs to be guided by sound principles, such as defined by Columbia art historian Vishakha Desai, who has carefully thought through the relation between painting and textual source, in particular for Classical Hindi texts. She distinguishes three characteristic elements. The primary ones are descriptive, encompassing compositional and figural elements. The secondary involve subtler literary nuances, such as metaphoric connectives, portrayed with visual specificity. Together, these constitute the “what” of the text. The tertiary forms, the “why” of the texts, are the conventions at the time of painting (Desai 1995: 104). The primary elements are essential, but it is the secondary elements that are the telltale parts one looks for to clinch the identification. Their absence in the poetry purported to match it casts doubt. In the case described above, the animal imagery falls under that category, and their absence in Rasikbihārī’s poems leads to rejection of identification. The tertiary factor does not help identify specific paintings with specific texts but demonstrates changes in word-image equations over time and place. For instance, Goswamy compared the Kishangarh painting where Krishna pulls Rādhā’s shawl to another Pahari illustration of the same Rasik-priyā poem that he had discussed a few pages earlier (1986: 78, no. 45). Desai, studying Rasik-priyā illustrations over time, notes a progressive “secularization,” that is, a move away from Rādhā-Krishna identification (1995: 124–6). This would be a fruitful exercise for further research of the Kishangarhi images but is outside the scope of our study. Following Desai’s guidelines, poems from Raskbihārī’s oeuvre can be correlated with other Kishangarhi paintings, in fact even with the famous “Lady with Veil” attributed to Nihālcand (Figure 1.2). We have already discussed how scholars have tried to connect it with Nāgarīdās’ poems (Sections 1.3 and 3.1). We also have detected possible links with a poem by Ānandghan (Section 1.4). Here, I venture the hypothesis that it could be correlated just as well to one of Rasikbihārī’s. A good candidate is one of the wedding songs in her Bayāz:

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lādilī naĩ banarau basa knaũ _ mghata maĩ musakāya citai mukha, taũn saupahvi dīnaũ ghu _ mana rījhi rūpa maĩ, naĩnani _ ati ādhīnaũ vasa_ bhayau rasika vihārī pyārī jīvani, jaisaĩ jala basa mīnaũ (RB 134, fol. 78v)

The darling girl has captivated her groom. One glance at her smiling face behind the veil, and she cast a spell on him. His heart is overpowered, enchanted by her beauty, hooked on her eyes. Rasika Bihārī’s love is his lifeline, like water to a fish.

The primary elements in the painting perfectly fit the poem as they reference her coy smile behind the veil. This basically constitutes the first half of the second line, which is virtually the same in another poem that is noted down very early in the Bayāz.6 This repurposing of an expression confirms it held strong emotional significance to her. While by the eighteenth century, many formulaic expressions had been coined in Braj Bhāshā, she may have been one of the first to come up with this one. In addition, Desai’s secondary element, illustrating figures of speech, is present here in the reference to the fish in the last line. This refers back to the previous line with the heroine’s eyes, which are often compared to a fish. Rasikbihārī’s own poem then underlines the ocular characteristics typical for the Kishangarhi profile, which again would fit the painting considered to be the archetype for that style. Finally, we should consider the setting of the poem: It is part of the wedding ceremony where the bridal pair exchanges its first glances after the ritual lifting of the veil. This fits well with the lady’s being decked out in all her finery in the painting. Dickinson had brought up bridal imagery upon discovering this Kishangarh archetype. If indeed this is the poem that “Lady with Veil” was based on, regardless of whether Rasikbihārī’s traits provided the model, her work potentially was the inspiration for the painting. If granted all that, one wonders whether she may have been even behind the commissioning. As tantalizing as that possibility appears, it has to be said that the date for the painting itself is late: It has been estimated to date from circa 1740 by Haidar on the basis of comparison with other works by Nihālcand (2011b: 596, 602). That means that it likely predates the poem, so possible inspiration would have gone the other way around.7 The most plausible scenario still remains that Sāvant Singh had commissioned the painting for one of his poems, as is commonly assumed (Section 3.1). While due to chronology

6 7

RB 14 on folio 3v, where it was employed in a different context, namely the jealousy of cowives. If we continue the line of reasoning from the third chapter that the bridal imagery in her poetry reflects her elevation to the status of pāsbān, this poem would have to be dated after 1748.

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Figure 5.2a Radha and Krishna’s Siesta in the Arbor attributed to Nihālcand. Ca. 1745–50. Kishangarh, Rajasthan. Ink, opaque watercolor, and gold on paper. 32  21.3 cm. Private collection, courtesy Eberhard Rist.

it is unlikely that this poem of hers inspired the painting, still there remains a strong connection. One would certainly be justified in reading the beautiful, purported portrait of Banī-thanī together with this particular sample of _ her own pen! There are other possible connections to draw between Kishangarhi paintings and Rasikbihārī’s poems. The famous painting The Bower of Quiet Passion (now in the San Diego Museum of Art), depicting Rādhā and Krishna in an arbor in the early morning, had one of Nāgarīdās’ poems from Bhor-līlā, or “The Morning After,” inscribed on the back. It had a mark, “number 3,” which indicates that it was part of a series of paintings made to accompany Nāgarīdās’ work. A painting from the same series from a private collection in Switzerland depicted Krishna dressing Rādhā’s hair, and was numbered 7.8 Recently a painting has surfaced in a private collection that is practically the mirror image of the first one (Figure 5.2a). This one is inscribed on the back and numbered 17. On the reverse is an inscription (Figure 5.2b) comprising two more verses from Nāgarīdās’ Bhor-līlā:

8

Pauwels 2015: 167–9, pl. 10, 169–70, 172, pl. 11 respectively.

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Figure 5.2b Inscription on the reverse of Radha and Krishna’s Siesta in the Arbor attributed to Nihālcand. Ca. 1745–50. Kishangarh, Rajasthan. Ink. 32  21.3 cm. Private collection, courtesy Eberhard Rist. sumana seja uthi soye, bhoye rati rasa ghātana _ naĩna, karata hita ura kī bātana arujhe tana mana baithī bāhira thaura sakhī, lalitādi sughara muni _ duparahī_ bera bajata, bīn sāraṅga dhuni thīka _ _ (Bhor-līlā Rolā 24; Rūpmālā 25; Gupta 1965: 2.257) Immersed in love’s passion, they retire on a chaise longue decked with flowers. Bodies and souls entwined, the pair’s eyes speak their hearts’ love. Outside, the ladies-in-waiting, led by Lalitā, perform like maestros taking turns. When noontime comes, their veena reverberates with mid-day’s Rāga Sāraṅga.

This scene comes after the description of the morning meal (18–20), which is followed by a moment of consecration or āratī (21–23), said to take place in the mirror-hall (darpana-mandira). Yet again, if we mine Rasikbihārī’s work, we can find other relevant poems. Thanks to our access to the Bayāz, we can correlate this painting with a poem by Rasikbihārī, even if it is not included in any of Nāgarīdās’ anthologies: pātina kī parch sukha nīnda, soye haĩ piya pyārī kuñja mahala ke āṅgana, chita rah ujiyārī _

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“In the leafy shade, the darling and his lover slumber, Sprinkled with bright spots, deep in the arbor. Their eyes languidly closing, a faint smile hovering on their lips. They’ve lost all sense, but I don’t have the heart to chide them.” Thus comment the ladies-in-waiting, as they spy Rasika Bihārī and Bihārinī from afar.

The atmosphere is that of a siesta on a hot day, the bright-and-shady light of the painting is well rendered here in words. The vignette is presented as comments by the ladies-in-waiting looking on from a short distance. In the poem, though, they lack the musical instruments of the painting. In this case, too, because of the firm evidence of the correlation of the painting with Nāgarīdās’ poem, hers must have come later. Likely it was inspired by both his song and the painting itself. Perhaps it is not coincidental that earlier on in his Bhor-līlā poem, Nāgarīdās had used the expression bani-thani as he described the divine pair “dressed up,” posing for the admiration _of the ladies-in-waiting: pata bhūsana saba sāji, syāma paharāī sārī _ thani _ thāre sarasa, parasapara prītama pyārī bani_ _ (Bhor-līlā 15; Gupta 1965: 2.256) He decked her out with garments and jewelry. Then Shyāma put on her sari. All decked out they stood there, overcome with passion, each other’s dearest darling.

Was this another crypto reference to the pretty singer in his stepmother’s retinue? Khān considered Bhor-līlā to have been written before 1723 (1780 VS), as he sees it as an early work by Nāgarīdās. He deems it immature, considering Braj-sār the epitome of Rīti maturity with definitions of categories followed by illustrative poems. Much as Khān’s intuitions are generally to be trusted, this seems an unwarranted value judgement, as Bhor-līlā can be read rather as devotional, so there would not be any need to add “mature” Rīti-style definitions. Khān surprisingly also takes the couple’s being awakened by musical Rāgas as influenced by Mughal-like display of splendor. He thought Sāvant Singh was influenced early in his youth by contact with Muhammad Shāh’s court (1974: 90–1). However, this practice is in line with temple ritual, in particular that of awakening the deities with appropriate Rāga, and indeed the elaborate āratī scene described in the poem would support that point. Given this weakness in the arguments to date the poem early, one could propose instead a date around the time of Bihār-candrikā (1731), which also contained hints to Banī-thanī (Section 3.2). Whatever date one might find _

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most plausible, the newly discovered song from Rasikbihārī’s Bayāz can convincingly be linked with the “siesta” painting, and very likely was inspired by it. Yet another image that finds a wonderful match in words in a poem by Rasikbihārī is that of the elegant Krishna as the mountain lifter preserved in Bhārat Kalā Bhavan in Banaras.9 This poem likewise is attested only in the Bayāz: Rāga Sāraṅga sāmvarā mūrati laũ nīkai sai kara gira dharyo _ kahaũ sobhā aṅga aṅga kī, kavala naĩna ati rūpa bharyo kahā sundara sīsa kesarī phaitā mora candrikā mana ju haryo rasika bihārī braja jana _rākhe surapati pāya[na] paryo (RB 185, fol. 101r)

He’s silhouetted darkly, as he lifts the mountain, effortlessly, with just one hand. There are no words for his beauty! Scanning his body bit by bit: his lotus eyes are so exquisite! Handsome headgear, saffron waistband, a peacock feather, a moon ornament . . .. He has carried my heart away. Rasika Bihārī shelters the people of Braj, the king of the gods (Indra) contritely at his feet.

The theme of the mountainlifter was a Kishangarhi visual art favorite, and any of such depictions may have inspired Rasikbihārī to sing about it. The Bhārat Kalā Bhavan painting is just one, though it certainly captures the ease of the divine feat as expressed in the poem. It also portrays Krishna’s exquisite lotus eyes, and depicts his headgear, waistband, and peacock feather, lacking only the poem’s moon ornament (candrikā). Notably absent though is the king of the gods in submission to Krishna’s feat at his feet,10 but then, as we have seen, convergence between painting and poem is often not complete. Similarly, some of the seasonal songs that Rasikbihārī composed also fit well with Kishangarhi paintings as remarked upon in the previous chapter, (Section 4.2), but no definite correspondence can be established.

9

10

The image (BKB #9956) is published in Set 41, Bharat Kala Bhavan IV: Rajasthani Paintings, and can also be viewed via Artstor. Online: https://library-artstor-org.offcampus.lib.washington .edu/asset/ACSAA_MICHIGAN_1039427088./fpx/acsaa/michigan/acsaa_04132_post_8srgb .fpx.jpg, last accessed on July 3, 2022. Indra is present in other such scenes; see online: www.asianart.com/kapoor/large/003a.jpg, last accessed September 9, 2021. Another similar Kishangarhi mountainlifter, estimated to be from 1750, is in the Victoria and Albert Museum, London (IS40-1980). Online: https://collections .vam.ac.uk/item/O81853/krishna-painting-unknown/, last accessed September 9, 2021.

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More examples could be brought on but the above sufficiently establishes the wonderful mutual engagement of Kishangarhi music, poetry, and painting, and the enthusiastic participation of the concubine in this multimedial cultural production. While it is impossible to determine which came first, the painting, his poem, her poem, or her performance of his, perhaps that does not matter as much. It is her active engagement with the painter and prince’s synaesthetic enjoyment of experiencing these interconnections that counts. For the performance of songs in front of Kishangarhi paintings, we have concrete evidence in the Bābā Ranchordās manuscript (Kh). Two folios have _ The _ recto of the first is blank but the top been bound with the rest (Figure 5.3). of the verso starts with some instructions for a performance: mna ke citrapat nusāra krama likhyate. Prathama citra ke darasana hota pahlaĩ _ _ kāphī rāga kī alāpacāranaĩ pāñca dohā . . . ādi. prathama pada gāvanau (yah): . . . tathā . . . yā pada ko bhona dayai pīchai citra pata kau darasana hoya, taba e dai pada gāvanai . . . so yā dutiya pada maĩ dainai ye . . ._ (Kh fol.165v)_ Here is written the sequence for canvases with images that depict “pique” (māna). Before observing the first image, come five Dohās for ālāp of Rāga Kāfī . . . [quotes the first line of a Dohā] and so on. First song to sing is this: . . . [quotes the first line of a

Figure 5.3 Manuscript Kh (from Bābā Ranchordās), multi-media script _ _ folio 165v, 166r.

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song] and also . . . [quotes the first line of another song]. After presenting his song, there is a viewing of the canvas with picture. Then intone this song for singing . . . [quotes the first line of another song] and the second song to present is . . . [quotes fully yet another song].

This continues on the next folio recto, about mid-page: ye do(hā) dayaĩ pīchai dūsarā citra pata kau darasana hoya, taba pada tau vahī gãyai _ jāvanau . . . tā mai phiri daine ye dohā_ . . . (Kh fol. 166r) After giving these Dohās, there is viewing of a second canvas with an image. Then this song is to be sung [quotes the first line of a song], and then again these Dohās to be given . . .

From these instructions, it is evident that Nāgarīdās organized soirées where paintings were shown and compositions were sung to match the images. He even scripted the sequence. The first song quoted here in abbreviation (with refrain starting with manuhāri jā rī, “I am completely enchanted,” PMĀ 607) is actually not by Nāgarīdās, but by the otherwise unknown Krishnajīvan Lachīrām (of whom a total of six songs are included in PMĀ), the second (merau kahyau māni mānanī, “Take my word for it, if you are angry, my Lady,” PMĀ 608) is by the equally obscure Pātīrām (only this song in PM̄Ā).11 This indicates that other poets’ songs were featured in these multimedial events. While the images that went with these poems are not immediately available, both represent the words of a go-between (dūtikā) who is trying to persuade Rādhā to join her lover, a common theme in painting. In any case, this demonstrates that images were not exclusively correlated to poems by Nāgarīdās. While that does not definitely prove that paintings were shown in conjunction with performances of Rasikbihārī’s songs, it seems fair to assume so. 5.2

The Last Years, Testament, and Memorial

After his throne was usurped, Nāgrīdās’ poems increasingly showed evidence of his world-weariness and earnest desire to focus on religion and settle in Braj. This is the theme of his two-part “Song Arrangement upon the Wish for Vrindaban Come True,” or Vrindāban-abhilās-pūran-pad-prabandh, the first part of which expressed his longing, while the _second part his elation at having been able to settle in Braj in the monsoon of 1752.12 That year, while residing

11 12

Incidentally, Gupta reports that this is the only song that is included in the lithograph edition that was composed by a poet other than the royal family (1965: 1.109). Between the hot summer month of Asārh and the end of the monsoon Bhādon in 1809 VS, see Khān 1974: 340; Pauwels 2017: 186–9._

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in Rādhā’s hometown Barsana, the birthday celebrations of Rādhāstamī took __ on a special joy. Nāgarīdās described participating in several devotional activities in his autobiographical pilgrimage account “The Pilgrim’s Joy” or Tīrthānand. Throughout the work, he had interwoven the divine and worldly, so it is not surprising that he expressed his retirement in Barsana as authorized by invitation of Rādhā herself (Pauwels 2017: 85–7, 96). Rasikbihārī was on the same wavelength, as is clear from songs in her Bayāz. One intriguing poem shows she wholeheartedly shared his desire to settle in Braj: ahau lāla govardhanadhārī jamun brindābana kau dījai, darasa parasa sukha kārī rāsa bilāsa gna guna tere, bitavo āyu hamārī aba tau yaha puravo abhilāsā, nāgara rasika bihārī _

(RB 155, fol. 84v)

O my darling, Lifter of the Mountain, Grant us a glimpse of the Yamunā in Vrindaban, let us enjoy her refreshing touch. Let us spend the rest of our life singing the praises of your Rāsa’s bliss. Now just fulfill this aspiration of ours, Clever (Nāgar) Rasika Bihārī

On the surface, this poem seems just a generic expression of longing for the holy land of Krishna. However, upon closer inspection, the last line has a double entendre: it can be read as an address to Krishna as Nāgara Rasika Bihārī, the “Clever Connoisseur-Playboy,” but in effect it also constitutes a joined signature by Nāgarīdās and Rasikbihārī. It is as if they jointly submitted this petition. Just five folios later, Rasikbihārī, greatly relieved, announces her acceptance by Rādhā in Barsana, just like Nāgrīdās had done in his above-mentioned work. Interestingly, she used her Rajasthani idiom (underlined): rāja mhs mhrī bāī jī kī mayā le bulāya barasnaĩ rākhī, kī chai badī dayā _ kuñja saila sara dekhī manauhara, sauha dukha dūra gayā rasika bihārī pyārī kā sukha, lesy nayā nayā (RB 168, fol. 89v)

King, my Lady has showered affection13 on me. She invited me to Barsana and kept me here. What a great favor that is! At the sight of the pretty arbors, hills, and lakes, the sorrows I faced14 have retreated. Rasika Bihārī’s darling’s joys have lit up15 anew all over.

13 14 15

One of the meanings of mayā is “bond of love” (HŚS). Taking sauha as sammukha “in front.” Taking lesyā as derived from the verb lesnā “to light (a lamp)” (OHED).

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The address to the “king” in the refrain likely refers to Nāgarīdās, though this stands out as unusual in her work. One wonders whether it was a musical message she sent to him, conveying that she had been able to find shelter in Barsana, so he could join her there. It is possible that while he was preoccupied with his perigrinations in search of alliances to regain his throne, she had taken a pilgrimage to Braj and found residence in Barsana via her Nimbārkan networks.16 The next poem in the Bayāz effectively conveys the jubilant mode of their new living arrangements, again expressed in mythological imagery. One wonders whether this was composed after Nāgarīdās joined her, it does read very much like a honeymoon: nandakumvara bharatāra barasnaĩ_ mahal jhilai, mhārī bāī jī s pyāra chodai nahī china sāsa rau, sukha dekh dina raĩna _  karai, kahy na āvai baina _ _ upabana sail bana _ rasika bihārī basa huvā (nandakumvara bharatāra) _

(RB 169, fol. 89v)

Nanda’s son is her husband. The palace in Barasana is resplendent with his love for my Lady. He doesn’t leave her for a moment, to mother-in-law’s joy, who watches over them day and night. Wandering through orchards and groves, [this joy] is beyond words. Rasika Bihārī was completely taken in. (Nanda’s son is her husband.)

The song seems incomplete, though completing the last line with the refrain (as done above) was perhaps what Rasikbihārī had had in mind. When reading the Bayāz diary-style, one can sense a marked shift in tone compared to the earlier complaints about restricting in-laws (Section 3.3). It is not hard to extrapolate that the relationship of Rasikbihārī with Nāgarīdās too had finally become socially acceptable, thanks to the official recognition of her as a pāsbān after Rāj Singh’s passing. Rasikbihārī adds yet another song in her Bayāz in which, parallel with his poetry, myth and reality converge as she shares the joys of being a guest lodged in Barsana:

16

There are several Nimbārkan temples around Barsana, like Caturbhuja near Bhanokhar Tank, Gopāl Garh in the area of Gahvarban, and there is also a Haridāsī one at Mor Kuti (Entwistle 1987: 371–5). One has to keep in mind though that current sectarian connections may not date back very far; thus the Nimbārkan Jaipurwala Temple at Dān Garh was built by Madho Singh II of Jaipur in 1914, and the Haridāsī modern Lariliji Temple was founded by Seth Hargulal in the 1940s.

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Legacy: Self-Fashioning and Its Limits Soratha Ikatāla17 _ para parama kpā darasāī mh18 śrī brisabhna kīrata rnī, mh naĩ mana kari mayā bulāī jaga j_ n sarbopara jy _rī, barasānai thakurāī _ s_ bāsa basāī _ bāha chāmha āpan, sukha nirabhai _ _ samadhn kī cahala pahala jathai, rahai sadā sukhadāī _ rasika bihārī pyārī jī kī, mahala_ tahala phuramāī _ (RB 170, fol. 89v) Amazing grace was showered on me. His Highness Vrishabhānu and Queen Kīrti graciously made up their mind to invite me. Their Barsana estate is first-rate, the whole world recognizes their manor. They allow me to stay here happily, free of fear, sheltered by their strong arm. It’s always good to stay amidst the hustle and bustle of in-laws and kinsmen. Rasika Bihārī has assigned me to the retinue in the dear lady’s palace.

The third line’s very first word nirabhai “free of fear,” highlights relief at having found shelter. This is rhymthically underlined by the syncopation with internal rhyme of bāha chāmha, literally “in the shade of their strong arm.” _ more than is warranted by the usual mythic This expressive diction seems scenarios of the Rādhā Janmāstamī celebrations in Barsana of which we have __ had a taste in the previous chapter (Section 4.2.1). It may well make sense against the existential backdrop Rasikbihārī found herself in. The palpable sense of safety as she arrived in Barsana is understandable first in the context of the wider political situation. She was definitely not the only refugee: many had fled Delhi, which had been plundered by many parties in the chaos that ensued after the death of Muhammad Shāh in 1748. They sought refuge in smaller kingdoms and pilgrimage centers in the vicinity. These were times of turmoil. In addition, Rasikbihārī also must have found herself in an awkward position at Kishangarh after Bahādur Singh usurped the throne. A late-nineteenth-century source hints that there was some intrigue involving a half-brother, the son of a concubine (khavās) of Rāj Singh, by the name of Shiv Singh, who was appointed representative of Sāvant Singh in Rupnagar while the latter was in Delhi. Jaylāl’s chronicle says he “committed many oversights”: pīchaĩ saĩ npa rāja simha, gamana kiyo hari dhāma _ sāvantesa vari yāma dillī taĩ bhejyo su likhī, pratinidhi kari śiva simha kaũ, dīnaũ kāma tamāma _ ina kī rahi bahu gāphalī, tabaĩ bhayo yaha kāma

17 18

The Rāga and Tāla are added in a later hand than the poem itself. Originally followed by sū, which was later erased, this is one of Rasikbihārī’s own improvements on her poem.

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garha saha rūpanagara liyo, aiso avasara pāya _sāvanta simha ke anuja śrī bhūpa bahādura āya _ (Jaylāl in Gaud 1898: 43, Dohā 3–5) _

Back home, King Rāj Singh went to heaven. Sāvant, the new king, sent orders from Delhi, availing himself of the occasion. He delegated Shiv Singh [half-brother, cf. footnote by the editor] to do all the work. He committed many oversights, that is how the deed was done. Seeing the chance to take Rupnagar, fort and all, Sāvant Singh’s younger brother, Bahādur arrived [first].

When Bahādur Singh arrived to occupy Rupnagar, the position of the women in the zanānā would have been awkward, in particular Rasikbihārī’s, as a slave, whose owner was now deceased and whose patron’s rival now occupied the throne of Kishangarh.19 There would have been ensuing sweeping changes in the women’s quarters with the usurper’s queens and concubines now occupying positions of power. In that light, Rasikbihārī’s reference to inlaws and kinsmen in her song quoted above is another striking case where mythical elements resonated with her personal circumstances. Perhaps we can see here her efforts at work in creating a new kinship community among the “expats” gathered in Barsana. At the time, Braj was a flourishing center where many elite families had chosen to reside escaping the chaos and political uncertainties. Barsana surely was a happening place, the cosmopolitan crowd was sponsoring construction projects and culturalreligious activities, which would have appealed to the prince and his concubine in exile (see Pauwels 2017: 85–7). Nevertheless, eventually they moved to the Kishangarhi mansion in Vrindaban, which was known already as “Kuñja of Nāgarīdās” on a mid-eighteenth-century map of Vrindaban preserved in the Jaipur palace (Kapad Dwara collection, see Bahura and Singh 1990: 52, no. 352). What the new normal for the prince and his concubine may have looked like is purportedly portrayed in the image of Nāgarī Kuñj with Nāgarīdās doing his japa and Banī-thanī Tulsī pūjā (Section 3.1). One does not want to fall into _ the trap of reading backwards into the eighteenth-century modern notions of monogamous companionate love, as is so often done in secondary literature about the prince and his concubine. Perhaps it is more productive to draw attention to an emerging discourse of enduring loyalty to her patron that Rasikbihārī cultivated at this point. It would have been culturally appropriate to formulate this in terms of the paradigmatic loyal wife, Sītā. Is there evidence that the lady who is now seen to be the face of Krishna’s Rādhā, functioned at this time in an alternate devotional paradigm, that of Rāma’s Sītā? 19

I am grateful to Purnima Dhavan for suggesting this to me.

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Here again, she was attuned to her patron’s poetic journey. From his autobiographical pilgrimage account, Tīrthānand, we know that Sāvant Singh visited the Rāma-rasika monastery of Galta near Jaipur shortly after his throne was usurped. Perhaps he did so in pursuit of military allies, in an effort to enlist Rāmānandī warrior-ascetics to join his cause to regain the throne. Whatever the purpose, he described Galta as a refreshing stop on his pilgrimage trajectory and gratefully acknowledged the spiritual influence of its abbot, Hari Ācārya (Pauwels 2017: 59–60, 82–3). With the blessings of this abbot, Nāgarīdās collected an anthology, his only one on a Rāma-related theme: Rām-carit-mālā or “Garland of Rāma’s Romance.” Sequentially arranging his own and other devotees’ poetry, he retold the Rāma story, foregrounding the romance of Sītā and Rāma, conform with the abbot’s Rāma-rasika beliefs (discussed in Pauwels 2016). This is Nāgarīdās’ only substantial expression of Rāma devotion; previously, he had only composed a few songs for Rāma’s birthday, Rām-navamī, preserved in his Utsav-mālā. Rasikbihārī herself did not compose any Rāma poems; at least there are none extant with her signature. Her oeuvre is exclusively Krishna devotional. She did not include any of Nāgarīdās’ Rāma poems in the Bayāz either, but she quoted one poem on the theme of Rāma and Sītā’s wedding, which is celebrated also on the ninth day of the bright half of Caitra, the same occasion of Rāma’s birthday. This poem is along lines of the Rāma-rasika approach that her patron took. It was composed by none other than Agradās, regarded to be the founder of the Rāma-rasikas and closely associated with the Galta ashram:20 Rāga Mādu dasaratha_ suta dekhī janaka sutā mohī rī kathina dhanaka kou torau merai mati vohī rī _ kahaũ janaka saĩ dhanaka kau pana chādhai jāya jnakī bara sāmvarī mūrati āja tilaka kādhai _ _ sīt ke bacana _suni suni sabahī mukha mohyo tabahī tatakāla rma kathina dhanaka toryo jai jai kāra bhayau kahā_ kīnau bīlasītā āya pāya lāgī melī baramāla badadena mame dade jodhā pace bīsa bhujātāī _ _ lachamana _ _ke bhī21 sabhī kau mna māryo ghara ghara maṅgala cāra bhayau bājaĩ bahau bājā agrasvmi jīti āye ajodhyā ke rāja (RB 166, fol. 87v–8a)

20 21

On Agradās and his oeuvre, see Burchett 2019: especially 204–20. The impression conveyed by the poem Rasikbihārī quotes is quite different. There seems to be something omitted here; the rhyme does not work and the metrical line is incomplete.

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When she spotted Dasharatha’s son, Janaka’s daughter was enchanted “If someone can break the inflexible bow, I think he is the one, friend. I will claim his victory when he raises the bow, as per Janaka’s condition. Today Jānakī has dressed her image as a fiancé, an engagement tilak drawn on his forehead.” Hearing Sītā’s words, everyone was enchanted, their faces lit up. Right then, Rāma broke the inflexible bow. Loud cries of congratulations resounded. Delighted, she approached him to touch his feet. She put the garland around his neck, spiting warriors with twenty arms [like Rāvana] who bragged22 and attacked.23 Everyone holding a grudge was appeased, including Lakshmana. In every house erupted celebratory singing, accompanied on manifold musical instruments. Agra’s Lord, Ayodhyā’s King, made a victorious entry.

This poem builds up to the climax of the “breaking of the bow” episode from the point of view of Sītā and her friends in the women’s quarters. Rather than focusing on the contest-aspect, it highlights how Sītā had her heart set on Rāma, though traditionally the so-called self-choice (svayamvara), or “wed_ of the bride to ding by tournament” did not entail much “choice” on the part be. The candidates focused on winning the competion rather than the bride’s heart. This poem highlights Sītā’s anticipation and her friends’ support: Endearingly she enacts her hopes in dressing up her image (mūrti, presumably of Rāma) as a groom. The poem Rasikbihārī chose is not among the ones Nāgarīdās included in his Rām-carit-mālā, but her choice conforms to his work’s Rāma-rasika preference. It is possible that she was with him during his sojourn in the Galta ashram and heard this poem there. On the other hand, the poem by Agradās could just simply be one of the many circulating in the Kishangarh milieu she grew up in. Guru Vrindāvandev Ācārya had composed romantic songs about Rāma and Sītā’s wedding, one of which Nāgarīdās had included in his Rām-carit-mālā (Gītāmt-gaṅgā 13.93). This romantic focus contrasts with that of the nineteenth-century converted courtesan Pīro, introduced above. Pīro’s work provides an instance of self-refashioning through a life story cast as a Sītā scenario, involving an appeal for rescue by her guru from demonized “abductors” (Malhotra 2017: 84–91, 150). Banī-thanī’s life circumstances were different, and she did not weave a Sītāyana _ story around her unusual situation. Perhaps there was no need for her to issue a plea to be saved from her plight. Still, the emergence at this point in the Bayāz of a romantic Sītā poem 22 23

Bar, f. can mean “boasting; crazy talk” (OHED). Da_rerā [conn. *dadavada-: Pk. dadavada-], m. can mean “impetuosity, violent attack” _ _ _ _ _ _ (OHED).

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reflects her concurrence with her patron’s choices for self-fashioning via Rāmāyana tropes. We detect a subtle repositioning as Sītā who actively chose _ her spouse. At this very moment, when she joins her patron in exile, this evokes Sītā’s other choice, the one to follow her husband in exile. If Sāvant Singh was exiled, like Rāma, while his brother occupied the throne, Banīthanī, like Sītā, chose to accompany him in hardship. _ If the exiled Nāgarīdās turned in his poetry to the Rāma narrative, it is probably no coincidence that there are several Kishangarhi images of Rāmāyana scenes, dating from this period, into the second half of the eight_ eenth century. One such painting portrays the divine pair Rāma and Sītā “in the Dandaka forest.”24 This image fits the prince’s existential situation of exile, mythologized as an idyllic sojourn in the forest. The depiction of the divine pair is strikingly similar to the earlier discussed painting The Poet-Prince and Bani-thani, depicted in Nāgarī Kuñj (Section 3.1). It is my contention that this Rāma and Sītā “in the Dandaka forest” image was deliberately produced as a mirror-reverse of the Nāgarī Kuñj scene, not unlike the aforementioned siesta image mirroring the morning nikuñja-līlā (Section 5.1), but in a yet more creative transformation. The Tulsī plant and the Vrindaban forest contained behind the courtyard walls of Nāgarī Kuñj have here magically expanded to the enchanted wilderness of the Dandaka forest. The refreshing fountain in front of the meditating prince has turned into a lush waterfall. Clinching the argument is the portrayal of the protagonists themselves: the silhouette of Rāma is the mirror image of that of Nāgarīdās, perhaps even traced with the same carba or cutting model, inclusive of the way he holds his arms. The only difference is that Rāma is not counting beads of a rosary and has a bow and quiver nearby instead of an open book. Similarly, Sītā is of the same type as the lady in the Nāgarī Kuñj painting.25 She could be her multiform, similarly dressed in the ascetic’s saffron, just with a contrastive sash. The arms are slightly different, but the position of her feet is exactly the same, just that she is turned away from her husband, and is engaged in feeding peacocks rather than worshiping the Tulsī plant. But there is a peacock, too, in the Nāgarī Kuñj image, on the top right of the building, seemingly about to descend into the courtyard scene. It is as if the peacock’s arrival was about to magically transform Nāgarī Kuñj’s domestic setting into a mythical wilderness. In other words, there are so many echoes of the Nāgarī Kuñj scene in the Rāmāyana image that it is hard to ecape the impression that the latter was _ 24

25

Published in Okada, Biardeau and Porcher 2011: 1. 208–9; some others are discussed in Pauwels 2017: 191–3. The image appears around 30 seconds into the first promotional video on the webpage of the publisher, online: https://editionsdianedeselliers.com/livre/la-collection/ ramayana-de-valmiki/, last accessed June 2022. Her profile actually fits closer the traits presumed to belong to Banī-thanī _

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modeled after the former. I propose that the intention was to suggest a similarity between Nāgarīdās’ exile and that of Rāma, whose Rām-caritmālā he had just composed. After living the Krishna scenario, Nāgarīdās now was working through the Rāma narrative, again to the point of total identification. It followed naturally that Banī-thanī here too would become _ imagines Banī-thanī would the face of the divine consort, this time Sītā. One _ gladly endorse the added effect of foregrounding her steadfast devotion to him in a dharmic way. The image of Rāma and Sītā in exile when compared to the image purported to be Nāgarīdās and Rasikbihārī in Nāgarī Kuñj shows their relation being recast from a Braj romance to a Sītā-Rāma narrative more eloquently than any of their poems could. At this point, loyalty to her patron trumped the playful seductiveness of Rādhā. Whoever commissioned the Dandaka painting seems to have had such in mind. We assume it was the prince, but could it have been the concubine who fostered this self-narrative? Is there corraboration of Banī-thanī’s cooption of Rāmāyana mythology _ with regard to her own role as loyal consort? A clue may be_ found in her Bayāz, where a more directly personal voice comes through in a set of verses that express what seems to be her last wish (on folio 86v). She has taken care to put these down in nice handwriting, unlike the more sloppily jotted down notes characteristic of much of the Bayāz. The poetic medium she chose here is the Dohā, which also stands out as relatively rare in her oeuvre. It is as if she wanted to draw extra attention to and stress the seriousness of what she wrote down. I will call this her spiritual testament: rasika bihārī bhāmvato, brija nāgara sukhapuñja ina pada paṅkaja _madhukarī, karī baisnava kuñja __ hari darasana kījai yah, lījai mahā prasāda, kuñja baisnava āiyai, kathā kīrtana svāda __ hota hai kusama bahāra sī, apanī apanī bāra taba gura vaisnava seīyai, samaĩ samajhi nidhāra 3 __ ho prabhu jo ihi jagata pũni, racau baisnava aṅga _ tau mohi phiri phiri dījīyau, bhagati su _nāgara saṅga 4 barnāśrama maĩ jo badau, baisnava kī ju pratīti _ _ _ _ kai hiya [d]idha prīti 5 muralīdhar dhanudharana kī, jā _ mana kari tana kari karahu kachu, hari sambandha subha dāya kuñja baisnava āya hy, samai bthā nahi jāya 6 __ (RB 161, fol. 86v) Rasikbihārī is attracted26 to Braj’s sophisticated hero (Nāgar), her life’s joy: A bee to his lotus-feet, a bud27 in the arbor of Vaishnavas.

26 27

The half-line is ambiguous; it could also mean “Rasika Bihārī, that is, Krishna, is attractive.” Karī is attested as synonymous with kalī in Jāysī’s Padmāvat (DoBh)

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Legacy: Self-Fashioning and Its Limits She is to worship Hari’s image, and take a sacred repast here, She is to enter the arbor of Vaishnavas, [develop] a taste for congregational song and sermon. Then, like a flower in springtime, taking its turn to blossom, She is to serve the guru of the Vaishnavas, jumping at this opportunity. O Lord, if I were to be born again in this world, give me a Vaishnava body. Let me enjoy devotion together with Nāgar, over and over again. In my social position and stage of life, whatever faith in Vaishnavas I’ve cherished, It’s for the Bearer of Flute (Krishna) or of Bow (Rāma) that there is firm love in my heart. Whatever I do with heart and soul, it bodes well if connected with Hari. Upon entering here, in the arbor of the Vaishnavas, my lifetime won’t be wasted.

The last line suggests she felt the end of her life approaching. With the repeated reference to Nāgar, one gets the distinct impression that she is talking about her patron rather than Krishna, for whom she could have used many different epithets. Though she certainly plays with the conflation, she clearly expressed here the wish to participate with Nāgarīdās in a community of like-minded Vaishnava devotees and to fully dedicate herself to God. The term hari sambandha, “connection with God,” in the penultimate line is a term for initiation in the Krishna devotional sects. The reference in the last line to baisnava kuñja evokes also Nāgarī Kuñj, the Kishangarhi __ residence in Vrindaban and brings to mind once again the Nāgarī Kuñj painting, where the concubine was portrayed in ascetic dress. Banī-thanī _ “Miss All Decked Out” had finally fully transformed into a saffron clad devotee. Strikingly, the explicit equation of Rāma, bearer of bow, and Krishna, bearer of flute, signals something of a departure from the spirit of exclusive partiality to Krishna (ananya bhāva) that pervades her oeuvre. By working in that reference to Rāma, she ever so subtly projects a self-image of Sītā, which introduces a dharmic view of her devotion to her patron. Loyalty beyond the present birth comes through in the desire to taste that joy of shared devotion with Nāgar over and over again in future lives, another typical marker of exclusive Sītā-like attachment. There is another highly personal element as Rasikbihārī mentions her low social status by the norms of orthodox caste (varnāśrama) dharma. As a slave, _ she would fall outside the pale of respectable society. Her desire for rebirth in a Vaishnava body signifies not just devotional aspirations, but also socially upward mobility. The unique chance to devote one’s life towards spiritual cum social emancipation is strikingly expressed in the springtime image, when flowers blossom only to be dedicated to the service of the guru. There is a volitional element here, when she stresses that she takes the chance without hesitation (samaĩ samajhi nidhāra). Perhaps it even anticipates the Sītā theme

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of self-choice (svayamvara) evoked in the Agradās poem quoted on the very _ next folio.28 It is important to contextualize this “testament.” From where it is placed in the manuscript, one can derive that it was written after the couple had settled in Braj, that is after 1752. It is possible she wrote these words at the time that Kishangarh was experiencing a severe drought with famine in 1755–6 (Gazetteer 1908: 276), which would serve as a reminder of mortality. Perhaps she wrote this down upon her patron’s death in September 1764, when she lost her worldly protector. In the Rajput context one might see here also an intimation of “satī.” After all, as we have seen, Rajput kings frequently were accompanied in death by their wives and concubines, though the latter were not honored with the title satī (Section 2.4). The “testament” calls for devoting oneself to God before it is too late, in that sense it is a cliché of bhakti poetry. It is also a discourse that many widows may have subscribed to, or were encouraged to believe in, as they lived out their lives in places of pilgrimage, whether by choice or forced by abandonment. There is a hint of self-fashioning, a desire to establish respectability in retirement through total devotion to religion. In that, she joins the ranks of women who project respectability even while living independently through foregrounding a religious purpose in life. The sixteenth-century saint Mīrābāī often functions as the referent for such devotional lives to the present day. Religious Studies scholar Nancy Martin has described modern-day women embodying Mīrā’s example in order to carve out an independent way of living (1995). The 1920s autobiography of a Marwari housewife-turned-saint, Banāsā, also projected creatively a self-image as Mīrā (Horstmann 2003). As we have seen, Rasikbihārī quoted Mīrā poems in her Bayāz, and shared with her patron “Mīrā moments,” riffing off the Rathor woman saint’s famous devotional songs (Section 4.3.2). One may well see her then as a precursor to the contemporary Mīrās who find a socially acceptable way to live on their own, particularly in places of pilgrimage, by invoking the paradigm of the great woman saint. Rasikbihārī’s testament may well have hinted at Mīrā when she declared herself devoted to her love in every single life (tau mohi phiri phiri dījīyau, bhagati su nāgara saṅga). This resonates with the signature Mīrā employed in some of her famous songs Mīrā dāsī janama janama rī “Mīrā is your slave girl in birth after birth.”29 Already in the eighteenth century, women like Rasikbihārī could cast themselves as respectable via a Mīrā-type of autobiographical pose. 28 29

I am grateful to my colleague Purnima Dhavan for suggesting this intertextual echo. For example, in the Caturvedī 1983 edition, songs 101 and 104. Similarly, the frequent formulaic use of maĩ to dāsī thār janama janama kī (song 60) or janama janama kī celī (79–80) janama janama ro sāncā (37), and so on, permeat the ascribed oeuvre of Mīrā.

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Rasikbihārī’s testament was lost over time until the discovery of her Bayāz just now, but it had left its traces. It seems to have been familiar to those who engraved the inscription on her memorial, her chatrī, close to that of Nāgarīdās near Nāgarī Kuñj in Vrindaban. The epitaph is no longer legible due to years of whitewashing and has to be reconstructed from a now two and a half decadeold photo that preserves some legible parts (originally published in Śarmā 1996 facing p. 24), supplemented with transcriptions based on earlier readings when presumably the whole inscription was still legible.30 Below is the text of the letters that one can make out more or less on the photo, with between square brackets the illegible passages, based on general agreement of the earlier transcriptions, unless noted otherwise: [śrī bihārī jī śrī bihārini bihārī jī lalitādika haridāsa nara hara rasikani kī kp]ā, dīyo b[m]dābana bā[sa 1] _ satasaṅga śrī rasi[kadāsa gu]ru kī kpā, [lahi nāgara] 31 bichnu[pr]i[yāhi bndābana milyau, bhakta] bihāra anaṅga 2 dohā [rasika bihārī sāñ]carī,32 bja nāgara sukha kāja [ina pada paṅkaja] madhukarī, karī33 baichnu sa[māja 3] samvat 1822 mitī asāra su[di tithi pūrnamā]sī buddhavāra dou samādhi sampūrna _ _ _ [rākha]34 vachnu [banī thanī] _

30

31 32

33 34

The earliest transcription is by Dr. Faiyāz ‘Alī Khān in his 1952 thesis, but some mistakes may have crept in. In the course of the publication process, inadvertently a loose leaf from Khān’s thesis was inserted between the beginning and the latter part of the transcription (2015: 390–2). The second published reading is by Vrajvallabh Śaran (1972: 292), who consulted the original inscription. A third one, in the same book as the _photo was published in, contains some discrepancies from the legible text of its own photo; it appears the editor did not check with the original, but worked from Śaran’s published versions (Śarmā 1996: 20, 94). A fourth _ reading, based on Khān’s, was generously shown to me by Maharani Minakshi Devi, and is preserved in the Kishangarh Royal Collection. This one was particularly helpful as it was meticulous in giving the layout of the original inscription, noting the numbering, and identifying the verse as Dohā. Śaran (1972: 292) and Khān (2015: 392) give Visnuhi, which seems also the most likely reading _ _ sense. based_ on the photograph, but does not make much This is my own tentative reconstruction for meaning. Maharani gives sāmvarī, which is a good _ possibility. Śaran (1972: 292) gives sāmaro; Khān (2015: 392) gives sāmarī, as does Śarmā, _ who adds the possessive: kī sāmarī, but the photo does not bear that out. Śarmā provides an elaborate exegesis about darkness and beauty, but that seems forced (1996: 94–5). Śaran (1972: 292), Khān (2015: 392), and Śarmā (1996: 94) give sevata, which would be _ metrically superior, but is not supported by the photo (1996: 94–5). This is my own tentative reconstruction based on what I can make out on the photo and what might make sense. Maharani gives bhaī vaichnuva banī thanī, or “Banī-thanī became _ paraphrasis _ Vaishnava.” All other versions agree there is the name banī thanī, but revert to _ for meaning, surmising an expression meaning “death.”

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[Holy Bihārī Holy Bihārinī and Bihārī, servants of God (or: Haridās), (embodiments of ) Lalitā and others, Men and God (and/or Narhari),35 by the grace of Rasiks], provided lodging in Vrindaban. By the grace of the [Guru, devoted to the Rasiks, or: Rasikdās,36 she took to Nāgar’s] satsaṅg.37 Visnu[priyā found in Vrindaban a devotee of the] love play. __ Couplet: [Rasikbihārī, was a lady-in-waiting] in Braj for the sake of Nāgar’s joy:38 A bee [on his lotus feet,] she kept the company of Vaisnavas. _ the full moon,] a In the year 1765, in the month of Asārh, [on the lunar day_of Thursday, the two samādhis39 were_ completed. May Vishnu [keep Banī-thanī.] _

This inscription contains several echoes of her “testament,” the last Dohā of the former being close to the first one of the latter. Both stress the company of Nāgar and the satsaṅg of Vaishnava devotees. What is different on the samādhi inscription is a decidedly Haridāsī sectarian stamp. Since several crucial parts of the inscription are no longer legible, it is possible that this slant came in mostly in the process of the reconstruction of the text. One of the transcribers on whom others rely, Vrajvallabh Śaran, was keen to point out Nimbārkan influence on Nāgarīdās. The publisher _of the photo, Śarmā, is inclined to read it similarly, besides being preoccupied with the immaculate nature of Rasikbihārī’s love: In his exegesis, the word anaṅga, an epithet of Kāmadeva, is read literally as “bodyless,” to characterizes the prince’s and his concubine’s love as nonphysical. The inscription’s claim of intermediacy of a guru in reaching “Nāgar’s satsaṅg” is hyperbolic. The first to provide the Haridāsī sectarian reading though was Khān, and since he defended the Vallabhan thesis, his support for the authenticity of the Haridāsī interpretation is significant. The samādhi inscription is important for contemporary perception, as it is the first written testimony to the new conceptualization that was born in their death. In the words of Khandalavala:

A year after Savant Singh’s death the beautiful gāyanā joined her lord to be with him in that heaven of the devotees of Krishna where death could not part them. But the vision of their immortal romance lingers in the paintings which their love had inspired. (1971: 2) 35 36 37 38 39

As explained in Section 2.5, Narhari was the Haridāsī ascetic who was the guru of Rasikdev. As explained in Section 2.5, he is identified with Rasikdev, a Haridāsī ascetic who set up the image Rasika Bihārī in Vrindaban. The connection would explain her poetic name. This double entendre at the same time indicates Krishna as well as her patron Nāgarīdās. Again, a play on the double identity of Nāgar as Krishna. This probably refers to her samādhi and the adjacent one said to be of Gopālkumvarī, Sāvant Singh’s daughter who never married after her fiancé passed away. Nāgarīdās’ own samādhi has a separate inscription with also the name of the artisan who erected it.

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The fact that a memorial was erected for a mere concubine in itself is remarkable, let alone that it was as big as that of the prince. In the hierarchical world of the zanānā, even the cremation grounds of concubines were separate from that of the royalty (Khanna 2011: 343, 345, fn. 30). Only queens were thus remembered, for instance the Kacchvāhā queens, whose chatrīs were built by their sons, or by husbands if they predeceased the latter. Those who became satīs were generically worshiped at their husband’s chatrī (Bose 2015: 88–91). Strikingly, Sāvant Singh’s samādhi was built in the holy city of Vrindaban. We can interpret this along lines of what happened to his Jaipur ally, Īshvarī Singh, who had committed suicide. His rival half-brother and eventual successor, Mādho Singh, commissioned a memorial, but had it constructed pointedly not at the Gaitor necropolis of the Amber kings. Īshvarī Singh’s memory was further subjected to various “rites of degradation” devaluating his right to rule and of course legitimizing that of his half-brother who had the monument constructed (Bose 2015: 61–7). It is not clear who commissioned Sāvant Singh’s cenotaph, but it too was not erected in the necropolis of the Kishangarhi kings that is located on the banks of Gundalao Lake in Kishangarh. Since it was built in the holy center of Vrindaban, the memorial may have been sponsored rather by the local devotional community that admired his bhakti poetry and saw him as a saint, as the pious inscription seems to indicate (Pauwels 2017: 26–7). The same holds true for Banī-thanī’s chatrī, as we have seen that the inscription is a case of _ sectarian appropriation. She is memorialized here primarily not as a loyal concubine but as a Vaishnava, as a devotee. The adjacent chatrīs, but also her samādhi inscription, clinched the story of the happy pair united beyond death in their devotion to Rādhā-Krishna, even if it is not exactly what the average Western tourist may associate with “romance.” Since the inscription is partly based on her newly discovered testament, we can be confident that the story at least reflects to some extent Rasikbihārī’s own aspirations of how she wanted to be remembered. 5.3

Survivals in Manuscript and Performance

The satsaṅg Rasikbihārī and Nāgarīdās enjoyed did live on in their poetic output, as evidenced in manuscript and oral tradition. Another recently discovered manuscript offers us a further glimpse in how Rasikbihārī’s songs circulated together with Nāgarīdās’ and their poetic interchange was reenacted and transmitted to posterity.40 The colophon is missing (as are several other folios), but from internal evidence it can be derived that the manuscript was 40

This undated and incomplete manuscript that has been classified as Nitye ke Pad Veshnav Bhajan has been digitized by the Central Library of Rajasthan, Banasthali University through the Government of India’s Digital Library of India program (number 2015.553279). Available

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written in the context of samāj-gāyan in Rādhāvallabhī and Haridāsī-Nimbārkī circles.41 For each Rāga it introduces, it includes a set of Dohās for the ālāp, similar to Nāgarīdās’ own Pad-muktāvalī. In the last pages it offers a monsoon seasonal song by Nāgarīdās, with refrain and last line: iha ritu ausara āja samaĩ sukhadāī hai pyārī rī ghumadi ghatā ghaharāi kaĩ bja para āī hai. . . _ haĩ tah bilāsa kaũ yaũ dampati niti_ karata pyārī (rī) vmdābana dayau bāsa so nāgarīdāsa kaũ _ (PMĀ 618, Gupta 1965: 1.455; Nitya ke Pada pdf p. 51 ) On this occasion here, today the season is pleasant. O my darling, dense clouds rumble as they gather over Braj . . . In this way, the two lovers sport there forever more, O my darling, they granted Nāgarīdās refuge in Vrindaban.

This song takes on elements of women’s folk songs, in particular the repeated exclamation pyārī rī “O my darling.” Significantly, the chāp line adds a personal element: Nāgarīdās expresses gratitude to have found refuge in Vrindaban. Likely, it was composed shortly after he settled in Braj, which as we know was during the monsoon of 1752. Two separate response poems by Rasikbihārī are also recorded in the anthology. First a shorter, four-line song, which immediately follows Nāgarīdās’ (also in PMĀ): āyā bja para chāyā jī jala bādala jhari[yā]42 [hariyā taravara cūvaĩ pān, baho saravara bhariyā] _ dampati hiya dhariyā ina samaye sukha lena manoratha, _ _ miliyā rasika bihārī pyārī, [sa]hu kāraja sariyā (PMĀ 619, Gupta 1965: 1.455–6; Nitya ke Pada pdf p. 52; Litho 54)

A cool shade falls over Braj, clouds sprinkle raindrops. The trees turn green as drops drip down, everywhere lakes fill up. This is the time lovers take to heart their vow to enjoy themselves. Rasika Bihārī joined his beloved: all wishes have come true.

The overlap in words (dampati in the penultimate line) as well as the structural parallelism suggests that the songs were composed in response to one another.

41

42

on the Internet Archive at https://archive.org/details/in.ernet.dli.2015.553279, last accessed December 14, 2020. The manuscript mostly contains poetry by Dhruvdās and Vrindāban Hit Rūp from the former, and Haridās, Bihārīdās, Vithal Vipul, and Śrī Bhatt from the latter sects, besides poems by _ __ in an ornamental style and professionally Nāgarīdās, Ānandghan and Rasikbihārī. It was written produced with a “table of contents,” listing all songs in sequence (the last part of which is on what is page 49 in the pdf ). I’ve supplied the rhymes and lines missing in the manuscript on the basis of the edition by Gupta.

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After the announcement of the coming of the monsoon in the refrain, the first line describes a natural phenomenon. In the penultimate line, the divine lovers are enjoying themselves and then in the last line the divine couple jointly shares their bliss with the devotee-author making their “wishes come true.” Just like the prince, Rasikbihārī here adds the element of personal relief at having been granted refuge in Vrindaban. A second, slightly longer poem by Rasikbihārī follows immediately. This song of the monsoon season has a folksy feel, just like Nāgarīdās’s quoted above. It repeats an aural exclamation, he, and ends with pyārī he, similar to the pyārī rī in his poem: Lūra pāvasa ritu bmdābana kī duti, dina43[dina dūnī dara]saĩ haĩ, chabi sarasaimhe _ lma jh_ [ma sāvana] ghano ghana barasaĩ he hariyā taravara saravara bhari[yā, jamun nīra kalolaĩ he, ma]na molaĩ he pyārī jī ro bāga suhāvan[õ mora bolaĩ he _ ābhā ābhā bīja cimakaĩ, jaladhara gaharo gaharo gājaĩ he, ritu rājaĩ he syāmā sura muralī ralī bana bājaĩ he rasika bihārī jī ro bhījyo pitāmbara, pyārī jī rī cūnara sārī he, sukhakārī he kuñj kuñj jhilarayā piya pyārī he]44 (PMĀ appendix 35, Gupta 1965: 1.529; Nitya ke Pada pdf p. 52; Litho 57)

It’s monsoon season: Vrindaban’s splendor doubles day by day, its beauty is luxuriant, The dark clouds of Sāvan sail by, hovering low, raining down. Trees turn verdant, lakes fill to the brim, Yamunā’s waters churn waves, enchanting the heart. In the beloved lady’s pleasure garden, peacocks cry out. Swish, swish, lightning flashes, water-bearing clouds thunder, the season drowns it all. O Shyāmā, the riotous sound of the flute echoes in the woods. Rasika Bihārī Jī’s yellow sash is drenched, and so is his lover’s red-dyed sari, what bliss! In every bower the beloved and her lover sway about.

It is remarkable that even in transmission, the response effect of her and his songs is recognized and preserved. In performing this set of songs in samājgāyan, the singers reenact not just the love of Rādhā and Krishna and that of their devotees for them. In the process, they relive the unique shared experience of Nāgrīdās and Rasikbihārī. Over time, though, the awareness of the identity of the pair has faded, to the point that many contemporary singers do not even realize that Rasikbihārī is a woman, let alone the famous Banī-thanī. _ 43 44

The lines between square brackets are not legible in the manuscript, but have been supplied on the basis of Gupta’s edition. Rasikbihārī’s poem continues on the next page, which is unfortunately not included in the copy of the manuscript, but again the text has been supplied based on Gupta’s edition.

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This must have already been the case by the end of the nineteenth century, when Pandit Mohanlāl Vishnulāl Pandia wrote an article for the Journal of the Asiatic Society of Bengal (1897). As a former minister of the princely state of Pratapgarh in Rajasthan he was in the possession of a manuscript with Nāgarīdās’ and Rasikbihārī’s works. While he himself was aware of Rasikbihārī’s identity, he deplored that many of his contemporaries were not (1897: 66). Several of Rasikbihārī’s songs have been preserved in the oral tradition of singers. Mostly, they still are sung in temples, though some are also featured in Khayāl concerts. There are two styles of Krishna devotional singing prevalent, which both evolved from the austere classical style of Dhrupad. One is the Vallabha Sampradāya’s so-called Havelī-saṅgīt (more correctly kīrtan) and the other the Vrindaban Rasika sects’ Samāj-gāyan (Beck 2011a: 167–99). The former, more classical style tends to feature only one soloist, while in the latter participation of at least two response singers is crucial. It is difficult to say what style Banī-thanī herself performed. If we go by the painting that depicts the Kishangarh_ zanānā (Figure 2.1), it appears there that two women were engaged in singing at the same time, given that two have raised their arms, which would point to samāj-gāyan, which is more responsive. It is further characterized by gesturing and by frequent interjections of exclamation phrases, of the type erī, helī, and the like (Beck 2011a: 174–5). This again is found in many of the songs attributed to Rasikbihārī, notably in the monsoon song just quoted, though there it may be a feature of the purpose of the manuscript these songs were preserved in. Samāj-gāyan encompasses different styles according to sectarian affiliation. Some have surmised she followed the Nimbārkan style, as her songs ressemble those of Śrī Bhatt jī and Harivyāsdev Ācārya (Śaran 1972: 290–2). It would make sense that the__ Kishangarh zanānā _ was most comfortable with the Nimbārkan style, which tends to be characterized by slow and majestic singing with frequent verse filling by formulaic exclamations.45 Rasikbihārī herself probably performed according to what the occasion demanded, perhaps initially in the zanāna more in the communal samājgāyan style, and later in life when she sang for her patron, Sāvant Singh, in more classical Khayāl solo concerts. Some of her songs in the Bayāz are marked as Khayāl, which may indicate that at least those were performed in a more secular context. Almost all songs with her chāp are short, no more than four lines, and when they are included in Nāgarīdās’ Pad-muktāvalī, they are preceded by Dohās to sing in ālāp which is characteristic for the more classical style (Beck 2011a: 167–99). Based on contemporary performance practice,

45

For a description with reference to contemporary singing style, see Thielemann 2001: 1.216–82.

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one surmises that those might have involved mime and gestures. Her songs were still performed at Rajput courts into the twentieth century, for instance as part of the repertoire of the principality of Kota. This is perhaps not surprising given the marital connections of Kishangarh with Kota. A music loving Rajput associated with the Kota court, Jasvant Singh, compiled three volumes of songs performed at court to preserve the tradition. He included Rasikbihārī’s seasonal songs right after those by Nāgarīdās (Simh 1990: 3.125–80). When she settled in the Braj area toward the_ end of her life, again the devotional singing style may have made up the overwhelming bulk of her performances. If she was associated with the Haridāsīs, she may well have adopted their style of samāj-gāyan, which was very close to the Nimbārkan style, though it underwent changes exactly in this period, under a successor of Rasikdev, Lalit Kiśorīdev (1733–1823; Beck 2011a: 193, 195). It is difficult to assess whether Rasikbihārī would have played any role in that. Nowadays, following a rigid calendrical cycle, only male celibate members of the sect sing, accompanied by the pakhāvaj drum, displaying the emotion of Rādhā’s confidantes, or sakhī bhāva (Beck 2011a: 195). According to some researchers, no improvisation is allowed as they perform only songs by the gurus of the sect, and mostly during festivals for their birth celebrations (Thielemann 2001: 1.283ff.). From the manuscripts, it does not seem to be the case that such strict sectarian exclusivism prevailed in the milieu Rasikbihārī found herself in during the second and third quarter of the eighteenth century in Braj. If her style evolved over time and changed according to her environment, so did her heritage. One major group that performs her songs in Vrindaban today is the Rādhāvallabha Sampradāya, which gathered around the image Rādhāvallabha that was cherished by the sixteenth-century companion of Haridās, called Hit Harivamś. The ethnomusicologist Guy Beck has recorded _ and published the text of several popular songs based on the songbooks they use (2011b). This selection includes Rasikbihārī’s popular “wedding night” song (ni)kuñja padhāro raṅga bharī raina, which was paired with Nāgarīdās’ matching song above (Section 4.3.3).46 The Rādhāvallabha songbook indicates it is sung at the end of the day, when the pūjārīs prepare the deity for bed (śayana). Though Beck did not pick up on who she is, in the songbook’s sequential order, Rasikbihārī’s song followed two by Nāgarīdās, indicating that at least at some point, the Sampradāya was aware that there was a connection between them (2011b: 242–4). The most intensive continued living tradition of Rasikbihārī’s songs is in the temple in Kishangarh, which is Vallabhan, sung in the Kishangarhi style of 46

Evidence of the wide circulation of this song, also in more secular contexts, is the inclusion of its first two lines (with minor variants) in the collected poetry of the Jaipur king Pratāp Singh (r. 1778–1803), Brajnidhi-pad-saṅgrah 199 (Śarmā 1933: 238).

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havelī-saṅgīt (personal communication Mukhiyā, 2012). This is largely thanks to Nāgarīdās’ inclusion of her songs in his Utsav-mālā.47 Rasikbihārī’s songs are also performed in other Vallabhan temples. Since the songbooks are quite voluminous and the indices do not provide the composers, it is not easy to determine which ones include her songs, let alone in which temples they are sung. Anecdotal evidence shows that Rasikbihārī’s songs were beloved in temples as far afield as Mumbai. Karl Khandalavala reported to have interviewed Gosvami Dikshit of the Motā Mandir in what was then Bombay in _ March, 1958. Gosvami Dikshit reminisced very emotionally that his father had ordered one of Rasikbihārī’s songs to be sung in the Motā Mandir during the _ monsoon festival of the swings (jhūlan): Ikatāla hindoraĩ helī raṅga rahyo sarasāya _ _ to vārī jī vārī gaī dekhi, (hindoraĩ helī raṅga rahyo sarasāya)48 haũ _ _ pyārī jī ro rūpa lubhāya jhūlani maĩ jhuki jhūmi rahyā piya, bhījaĩ tana taravara cūvaĩ lāgā, gala bāmhī lapatāya _ khāya rasika bihārī jī ro jhūlabo, mhrā mana _maĩ jhotā _ (UM 248; PMĀ 684; MJB fol. 39v; Litho 33 (mistakenly marked as 30) Drenched in the passion of Hindora, Helī Look at me, I’ve completely surrendered, (drenched in the passion of Hindora, Helī). The lover keeps bending over, swinging in the swing, thirsting for the beauty of his beloved. Bodies drenched, touching treetops, arms around each other’s shoulders. This swinging of Rasika Bihārī has set in motion a swing in my heart.

When he found out it had not been sung that year, Gosvami Dikshit sang the song himself (Khān 2015: 391–2). The Motā Mandir is an important center of Vallabhan life in Mumbai.49 It was built in_ 1810, according to their website specifically for the deity Bālakrishna Rāya Jī, who was previously worshiped in Jatipura in Braj.50 Thus Rasikbihārī’s songs had traveled along and were lovingly appreciated even in the big city, as late as the 1950s. Finally, her compositions also have continued to circulate in more secular contexts. One of her songs in a more classical interpretation made it onto the 47

48 49 50

As described above (Section 4.2), Utsav-mālā starts with songs of the monsoon season, in particular the birthday celebrations of Krishna and Rādhā, as do many Vallabhan Songbooks (Rousseva-Sokolova 2000: 515; Thielemann 2001: 1.367). The songbooks of the Rasika Sampradāyas tend to start with spring or Vasant (Beck 2011b: 54). Nāgarīdās’ collections also include Dohās to be sung in ālāp, which is more typical for Vallabhan-style kīrtana (Thielemann 2001: 1.413). In Litho, as in UM 248, the second half line is missing, but was written as the refrain. Lyons 2004: 102–3, with drawings and paintings of the deities. As per the website online: www.motamandirtrust.org/about-temple.html, last accessed December 14, 2020.

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World Music stage. This is the song ratanālī ho thārī āṅkhariy “Shining Red Are Your Eyes” (discussed in Section 4.3.2.).51 Performed by_ Ustad Ram Gopal Dhangi, it was included as part of the third volume of the album Mehala: The Palace: Romantic Music of Rajasthan. This was released in 2010 by Navras Records, a London-based label founded in 1992 by the brothers Vibhaker and Kirit Baxi. Part of the transnational commercialized industry of Indian music that features overwhelmingly folk tunes, this album is more classical, as indicated by its title. According to the sleeve notes, the songs were selected from the aforementioned Kota-based Jaswant Singh’s voluminous collections by his USbased grandniece who promoted the album. Songs travel along interesting trajectories, something that warrants further ethnomusicological study. 5.4

Lithographed by the Court

After Bahādur Singh’s irregular occupation of the throne, it is not surprising for the court to refrain from commemorating in glowing letters the dethroned Sāvant Singh. Yet, his fame in the world of devotion and literature rendered nonnegligable cultural capital of its own. The Kishangarh court preserved not just the paintings, but also his substantial devotional output in manuscripts. As he was unable to return home from Delhi in 1748, manuscripts of his early poetry remained in Rupnagar.52 The so-called Sarasvatī Bhandār of _ _ work Kishangarh has among many others preserved a copy of his collected 53 started in 1745 but not completed till 1752 (1802–9 VS). Materials prepared for temple worship would have stayed in the shrine with the deity, and after Sāvant Singh’s death, his son in Rupnagar may well have added his father’s work in exile to the collection. The deity was moved from Rupnagar to the temple in the Kishangarh fort by Bahādur Singh in 1772 (1829 VS).54 Presumably those temple documents accompanied the move, which would explain why the 1746 manuscript (Kh), in which Nāgarīdās had added Rasikbihārī’s and his own later poems, was acquired from Bābā Ranchordās, _ _ use. temple priest of the Kalyāna Rāya Jī temple where it had been in liturgical _ 51 52

53 54

The record is available on YouTube for listening. Online: www.youtube.com/watch?v= SNgkHYAsPAo, last accessed March 11, 2021. One such manuscript was preserved by the family of the courtier Hīrālāl, who was a Sanārhya Brahmin and composed at the court of Sāvant Singh’s son in Rupnagar (manuscript K in Khān 2015: 33–4). The final colophon was written in Harisarū village; this is manuscript G in Khān 2015: 39–44. The story of the move is told in Kalyān-rāy-prabhū-nij-vārtā by Jaylāl (in Gaud 1898: 44–5, vv _ _ this had to do 8–12). The deity was subsequently referred to as Kalyāna Rāya Jī. Reportedly _ which had started after the quarrel with Bahādur Singh’s favoring the Vallabha Sampradāya, with his brother and an earlier confrontation with the Salemabad Nimbārkans (Pauwels 2017: 48).

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In short, notwithstanding all that had happened, the Kishangarh royal family, courtiers, and temple servants actively preserved the material memory of the devotee-prince. But what about his slave-born concubine? About a century and a quarter after Nāgarīdās’s death, just before the turn of the nineteenth century, the royal house sponsored the first edition of Nāgarīdās’ works (Gaud 1898).55 This is the lithograph already mentioned several times because it _contained also Rasikbihārī’s songs. It was printed in Mumbai by Pandit Śrīdhar Shivlāl of Jñān Sāgar (Dhyānsāgar) Press in 1898 (VS 1955 caitra Shukla 1), under the Sanskritized title Nāgara-samuccayah (hence NS) or “Nāgar’s Collection.”56 This publication is another important_ milestone in the history of the legacy of Rasikbihārī, but its ambiguous testimony shows several contradictory pulls at work simultaneously. After the detailed table of contents and the index (quite lengthy at seventynine pages), the Nāgara-samuccayah features the image of Nāgarīdās (Figure 5.4) that by now we can easily _recognize as a lithograph reproduction excerpted from The Poet-Prince and Bani-thani, the painting discussed earlier (Sections 1.4 and 3.1). It is a partial reproduction, featuring only the prince. As in the painting, he is portrayed with tilaka marks all over his arms,57 holding the rosary and, fittingly for an edition of his works, an open book placed in front of him. For good measure, a few more pūjā items were drawn in, presumably with the purpose of stressing his devotional identity. Accordingly, the inscription characterizes him as a devotee, tad-dvitīya hari-sambandhi nāma mahārāja śrī nāgarīdāsa jī, “his other, religious initiation name is ‘Revered Nāgarīdās.’” In that light, it is not surprising that Banī-thanī is _ literally cut out of the picture. Yet it is important to note that while visually reduced, she does figure in the text that provides in essence the first edition of part of her works. How to explain the tension between image and text? Nāgara-samuccayah is, as the name indicates, a somewhat motley collection of materials. It is a_ fascinatingly hybrid product, looking like a facsimile of a traditional Indian manuscript with its ornamental boundary, but containing several elements typical of Western conventions of print editions. It starts with a traditional looking “dedication” or arpan-patrikā (Figure 5.5), which firmly situates the enterprise within the camp of_ Sanātana Dharma or traditionalism 55 56

57

The book is available on Internet Archives online: https://archive.org/details/in.ernet.dli.2015 .539668/page/n1/mode/2up, last accessed July 5, 2022. The title of the lithograph edition probably came from another temple manuscript that contained practically all of Nāgarīdās’ works and was referred to in the colophon as sarva śāstra samuccaya bhakti sāgara, or “Ocean of devotion, collection of all textbooks” (manuscript Gh in Khān 2015: 38–9). There is some discussion about the sectarian identification of these marks in the image. In any case the U-shaped Ūrdhvapundra or Visnupada is clear, which both the Vallabhans and __ Nimbārkans have in common._ _The difference is in the material and consequently the color with which the marks are made, but in the black and white lithograph this issue becomes moot.

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Figure 5.4 Lithograph image of Mahārāj Sāvant Singh alias Nāgarīdās. Nāgara-samuccayah, 1898, p. 80. _

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Figure 5.5 Lithograph dedication page. Nāgara-samuccayah preceeding p. 1. _

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(as opposed to the reformist movements of this period). It does so by referring to the then ruler Shārdul Singh (1879–1900), as “protector of cows and brahmins,” even though he was a reform-minded favorite of the British.58 The publication also features an image of Shārdul Singh (right after the introduction, on p. 31), not unlike other royal-sponsored publications of classics by the great authors of Hindi literature of the period, such as the king of Banaras presiding over Tulsīdās’ and of Rewa over Kabīr’s editions. In the dedication, Shārdul Singh and his younger brother Javān Singh are both recognized and described as having for their ancestor (pūrvaja) Nagarīdās, thereby glossing over the actual disruption in the succession to convey a sense of seamless, timeless Hindu kingship. Throughout the lithograph, Nāgarīdās is referred to as “Mahārājādhirāj” and “Ksnagarhādhipati,” as if he had actually ruled. __ _ Notwithstanding this appearance of traditional timelessness, the lithograph also includes the hallmarks of colonial modernity, epitomized in its scholarly introduction. The author, Bābū Rādhākrishnadās, was a relative of the famous “father of Hindi” Bhāratendu Harishcandra, and a cofounder of the Nāgarī Pracārinī Sabhā (Dalmia 1997: 221). As a colonial-trained scholar, he conformed _ with modern publishing apparatus, giving footnotes, including one explaining the article’s own publication history. It had started with a presentation on Nāgarīdās for the newly founded Nāgarī Pracārinī Sabhā in 1894, which was printed, but revised subsequently,59 among others_ with reference to the article by Pandit Mohanlāl Vishnulāl Pandia in The Journal of the Asiatic Society (Section 1.3). Thus, the introduction is situated in the milieu of colonial and early nationalist knowledge-making centered in Banaras and Kolkata. Together with the dedication, this situates the lithograph within debates where royal elites, local intelligentsia, orientalists, colonial educators, and commercial printers forged the establishment of a long history for “Hindi” as it was newly conceived with an eye to declare it the national language. This involved some contradictory pulls, in this case, the Kishangarh-Mumbai publication allied with scholars in colonial Banaras, where the Nāgarī Pracārinī Sabhā had _ dissemingeared up to play a major role as a forum for debate, generating and ating knowledge (Dalmia 1997: 147–221). Banī-thanī is only briefly mentioned in the scholarly life history of _ that constitutes the general introduction to the edition, and her Nāgarīdās authorship is minimized. She makes her entry in the description of Nāgarīdās’ pilgrimage with a visit to the Vrindaban temple (specified to be 58 59

The British celebrated him for “valuable reforms in almost every department” (Gazetteer 1908: 272). He informs us that his lecture was subsequently printed by Bābū Rāmdīn Singh (another close friend of Harishcandra) at his Khadag Vilās Press near Patna. Since then, he had obtained more _ information from the Divān of Kishangarh, Rāv Bahādur Shyāmsundar Lāl and court poet Kavīshvar Jaylāl (fn. NS 1).

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Bāṅke Bihārī), as reported in his Tīrthānand (discussed in Section 2.5). Bābū Rādhākrishnadās indicates that Nāgarīdās’ pāsbān (he glosses as upastrī) was with him on that occasion and sang some of her songs with bhog Rasikbihārī. The author confesses that at first he was doubtful (sandeh thā) that this pāsbān herself would have composed songs on that occasion. He reluctantly reports though that such was confirmed by the official Kishangarh court channels. He speculates that she must not have kept purdah and conform the prejudice of what such women might be specialist in, quotes one of her Holi songs from Utsav-mālā. He admitted that a handful of other poems were in existence (NS 20–1), but apparently, he had not seen the section with her sixty-one poems that appears at the very end of the same volume. Interestingly, Bābū Rādhākrishnadās remarks that Banī-thanī’s devotion _ queen stayed was close to that of Harivamś and Haridās, and that she and the _ mostly in Vrindaban, not even visiting the Vallabhan center of Gokul (NS 21). Perhaps he was diplomatically hinting at the limits of the Vallabhan lens that informs the rest of the book. Mostly though, his reservations are to be understood in the context of his milieu of intelligentsia who had internalized via British education a reformist attitude that was uneasy with evidence from women literati, especially of the courtesan type, who were felt to be embarrassing. Such was the case not just for “Hindi,” but also for “Urdu” literature (Kugle 2010: 366). The only way such women poets could be acknowledged was as part of devotional literature of the Mīrābāī type. Only when sanitized of the more erotic elements could those women be harnassed to serve the nationalist cause. Thus, the Nāgarī Pracārinī Sabhā scholar’s somewhat grudging admission that _ Rasikbihārī composed songs, could coexist, even if uncomfortably, in the same volume that included her seasonal worship songs. He could bring himself only to quote her Holi songs, because those fit her function as a courtesan, even if called by the Sanskritized “upastrī.” Since the scholarly approach of the introduction had no place for this suspect woman, it comes as a surprise that the editors included her poetry nevertheless. True, it comes at the very end of Nāgara-samuccayah (before the pages with corrections) and looks like an afterthought, slipped_ in, nearly unnoticed in the synoptic view of the whole. In between, a lot of other material had made its way into the collection. Nāgarīdās’ works were preceded by a lengthy set of texts authored by Jaylāl, a descendant of the famous court poet Vrind, who was writing from a staunch Vallabhan sectarian vantage point. His introductory materials are collectively entitled “Mooncrest of the Feast of Fifty-Six Dishes” or Chappan-bhogcandrikā, referring to an elaborate Vallabhan feast that was celebrated in 1889 (1946 VS) for the state deity Kalyāna Rāya Jī. Notwithstanding the title, _ description of the feast itself was only a minor part of the work. Its “meat” so to speak was provided in the first part (Purvārddha), which provided the entire pre-history of the state. Jaylāl’s work itself was a blend of a variety of styles

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from different eras. It contained elements from the author’s ancestor Vrind’s Vacanikā, commissioned by Rāj Singh at the beginning of the eighteenth century in honor of his grandfather Rūp Singh, who had brought the deity, then known as Śrī Nātha Jī, to Rupnagar six decades earlier (Pauwels 2017: 34–7). Chappan-bhog-candrikā further cited Sardār-sujas, an epic about Sardār Singh of Rupnagar, which was authored by Hīrālāl, also a courtier in Rāj Singh’s time, but in the second quarter of the eighteenth century. (We have encountered him at the monsoon recital in Section 4.1.) Jaylāl also seamlessly blended in elements of Nāgarīdās’ own hagiographical Pad-prasaṅg-mālā from the middle of the century. In addition, he frequently refered to his own “history” of Kishangarh state, the aforementioned Tavārīḳh, a nineteenth-century chronicle, authored based on the court’s archival material.60 In the process of writing that text, he purportedly excised elements incongruent to his Vallabhan agenda, according to the Nimbārkan scholar Vrajvallabh Śaran (1972). _ The first part of Chappan-bhog-candrikā did not mention Rasikbihārī at all, as its preoccupation with the family history through a Vallabhan lens stressed the rulers’ devotion and temple building activities. Starting with the history of the state deity itself (Kalyānrāy-prabhū-nij-vartā), it dwelled on the image that was _ (Nrityagopāljī-nij-vartā), which included an elaborate worshiped by Nāgarīdās description of Nāgarīdās’ devotional praxis, cast as Vallabhan (Navadhā-bhaktivarnan). This was followed by histories of the other great treasures (ratna) of _ Kishangarh state: a portrait of Vallabhācārya (Mahāprabhū jī ko citra vārtā, NS 32) and a Vaishnava ammonite stone representing Krishna’s body (Śālīgrām kī vārtā; NS 35). The latter seems set up as a deliberate counterpart for the famous Nimbārkan śālīgrāma stone worshiped as Sarveśvara Prabhu (Section 2.4). Only after this spiritual setup followed an elaborate genealogy of the family (Nrip-vanś, NS 36), again spiritualized by linking all kings to Vallabhan gurus and their worship (sevā) to Vallabhan deities (referred to as Śrī Jī). Sāvant Singh here is said to have been initiated by a Vallabhan guru named Ranchor _ is_ Gosvāmī (NS 39). Bahādur Singh, whom we know to be the usurper, celebrated for having brought the Kalyāna Rāya Jī deity (called Śrījī) from _ Rupnagar to establish it in its current location in Kishangarh fort (NS 44–5). Jaylāl praised also his own patron, the contemporaneous ruler Shārdul Singh for donating silver doors to the Kalyāna Rāya Jī temple. The king’s younger _ Nritya Gopāla Jī deity, Nāgarīdās’s brother, Javān Singh, who acquired the own (NS 26), was honored for sponsoring the Chappan Bhog festival in 1889 and commissioning the Chappan-bhog-candrikā. The royal family then is shown to be Vallabhan to the core. 60

He defered to his Tavārīḳh wherever there was a problematic succession issue, as in the case of the rulers Pratāp Singh (1788–97, NS 46–7) and Prithvī Singh (1840–79, NS 49), not allowing the details to distract from the bhakti narrative.

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The Kishangarh kings were certainly great Krishna devotees, and as we have seen, the ladies were close to the Nimbārkan monastery at Salemabad. The link with the Vallabha Sampradāya specifically may well be anachronistic, as it seems that Bahādur Singh turned to that sect, likely to legitimize his rights to the throne. Supporting the Vallabhans with their ties to wealthy merchants might be seen as an attempt to forge alliances to maintain his position. This has shown to be part of a “social contract” between ruler and ruled in chaotic times when this relationship needed to be renegotiated. It has been argued such was the case for Marwar (in particular under Vijay Singh; Sahai 2006: 57–60), Mewar (under Rāj Singh; Talbot 2016: esp. 159–64), and Kota (under Bhīm Singh; Peabody 2003: esp. 42–45). While the Kishangarhi archival data for the period are not accessible, one may well postulate there was a parallel development. The continuity of this social contract in the early nineteenth century is confirmed by a series of Kishangarhi portraits of Vallabhan priests with nimbus (examples in Losty 2016: 38–9, 42–3). In the whole of Jaylāl’s work, Rasikbihārī is mentioned only once in a “by the way” fashion when it is noted that the deity that was hers (or possibly just a deity called Rasika Bihārī Prabhu) was at this point in the late-nineteenth century preserved in the harem quarters (antahpur) in Fatehgarh (south of Kishangarh), _ where Bahādur Singh’s second son Bāgh Singh’s descendants lived: bāgha siṅgha nripa ko lasaĩ, vamśa fategarha mhi _ _ ke māhi rasika bihārī prabhu jah, antahpura _ (Jaylāl in Gaud 1898: 46) _

King Bāgh Singh’s descendents hold court in Fatehgarh. Rasikbihārī’s Deity thrones there in the women’s quarters.

Fatehgarh was actually established by Bāgh Singh’s uncle, Fateh Singh. The line of Bāgh Singh’s descendants included some adoptions, but eventually ended in 1911 with the death of Raghunāth Singh, who had no male offspring.61 It is unclear now where the deity might have ended up. After the actual description of the Chappan Bhog, finally the work of Nāgarīdās was presented, followed at the very end by sixty-one of Rasikbihārī’s songs, collected here on their own for the first time. Nāgarīdās’ work was subdivided in three parts: “Ocean of Asceticism” Vairāgya-sāgar, “Ocean of Passion,” Śṅgār-sāgar, and “Ocean of songs,” Pad-sāgar, perhaps on the model of the Sanskrit poet Bharthari’s famous three “centuries” or śatakas, edited by the same press just a few years before in 1894. The Padsāgar ended with Nāgarīdās’ Utsav-mālā, of which the editors included only the prince’s own poems, Rasikbihārī’s poems were cut out. However, they 61

Online: www.royalark.net/India/kishang4.htm, last accessed November 19, 2020.

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were presented all together at the end. Though not made explicit, that sequencing makes sense as most of her poems here were drawn from the longer version of Utsav-mālā. Her poems appeared without any introduction, simply under the heading “Now written are the songs by Rasikbihārī” or atha rasika bihārī jī kta pada likhyate. It looks like while at first cut, last minute they were brought back in. Who might have been behind this? In the dedication at the beginning of the book, the editor had described himself as a humble rāj-bhakt (loyal subject) of his highness, by the name of Kishanlāl Gaud, son of Śrīdhar, and a resident of Salemabad (Salemabad-nivāsī). This was _ the son of the very Pandit Śrīdhar Shivlāl who owned the Dhyānsāgar Press, as well as a garden with a giant Hanuman image (Bālā Jī) near Salemabad, which he featured in all his publications (as stated in the introduction, NS 8). This Salemabad connection may well explain why in the end Rasikbihārī’s songs made it into the edition. After all, the Nimbārka Sampradāya of Salemabad claims her and still proudly preserves the memory of her mistress, Brajdāsī as well as Rasikbihārī. Thus, it came to pass that Rasikbihārī’s poems were first published in the staunch Vallabhan volume, intent on recasting Kishangarh kings as Vallabhan bhaktas, introduced by the colonial-era Hindi scholar who grudgingly admitted Nāgarīdās’ “upastrī” might have composed a handful of songs. Even as it literally cut Banī-thanī out of the picture, the lithograph ended up for the first time _ collecting Rasikbihārī’s poems all in one place. There is a coda to this lithographic recasting by Shārdul Singh’s court at the end of the nineteenth century. Prince Javān Singh, who sponsored Nāgarasamuccayah, seems to have had a special interest in Nāgarīdās, perhaps because he_ had inherited his ancestor’s deity, Nritya Gopāla Jī. Javān Singh authored a tribute to Nāgarīdās, called Jalvā-ye-shāhanshāh-e-ishq (henceforth JSI) or “Splendor of Emperor Love,” a eulogy of love in Dohā-Sorathās.62 _ the This work was closely modeled on Nāgarīdās’ Ishq-caman and breathed same spirit of ecumenism, equating devotion for Krishna with that for Allāh: ksna karaĩ jihĩ dhyāna, haĩ milāi mahabūba nita __ (JSI Sorathā; Menariya 1974: 181) _

Those who meditate on Krishna are for ever lovers of Allāh.

Thus, the work marks itself as devotional. Nowhere does it mention or even hint at Rasikbihārī, yet the author acknowledges that spiritual and worldly love are intertwined:

62

The text is available in Menariya 1974: 2:180–5, based on a manuscript preserved in Jodhpur RORI 2496/8736.

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iśka kaũ rājā kahata hai, yā vina phīkī bāta laukika loka alaukikī, yāhī saũ chabi pāta (JSI 4; Menariya 1974: 181)

They call Love King, without whom everything is tasteless. Worldly people thanks to love, attain unworldly splendor.

With love as the emperor, an extended metaphor follows. Each Dohā names an element of his kingdom and equates it with aspects of love. Thus, Attraction (lagana) is queen: lagana su rānī iska kī, yā vina prīta na hoya yā vina prema ju hoya to, aṅga hīna jaga joya (JSI 5; Menariya 1974: 181)

Attraction is Love’s Queen. Without her, there couldn’t be love. If there were love without her, the world would lose its limbs.

In this fictive kingdom, the minister is the arch lover of Persian imagery, Majnūn (JSI 6; Menariya 1974: 181). The capital is Vrindaban, and the heart is the fortified palace. Persianate imagery comes in again, with the beloved as the judge holding court, her glance, the executioner (jallād). Acknowledging Nāgarīdās’ inspiration directly, the author identifies him as the bard for Ishqshāhenshāh or ‘Emperor Love,’ who raised the ‘banner’ of Ishq-caman: bhāta nāgarīdāsa npa, iska śānśā heta saba_ jaga maya jāhira kiyā, iska cimana rasa keta (JSI 20; Menariya 1974: 183)

The bard is King Nāgarīdās, Love is his overlord,63 for whose cause He flew Ishq-caman – passion’s banner (rasa-ketu) – for the whole world to see.

We witness here the birth of the legend that Sāvant Singh became a ‘LoverKing.’ In poetry, it is a small step from bard to king. The colophon gives the date of composition as 1888 and Jaykavi as the scribe (1945 VS; JSI 35; Menariya 1974: 185). Yet, this work did not make the “collection” of Nāgarasamuccayah. Perhaps the “Urdu” wave that Rasikbihārī had inspired did no _ court’s own self-fashioning by the time of the late-colonial longer fit the nationalist environment with the likes of Bābū Rādhākrishnadās, in which this tribute to Nāgarīdās was put together. ***

63

This is a double entendre: it could also mean “on account of being ‘Love’s emperor.’”

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What was Rasikbihārī’s legacy? It is unclear whether any Kishangarhi paintings were produced at her request or to match her poetry. The painting at the beginning of this chapter, which some have claimed illustrates one of her poems, actually more convincingly fits one from Keśavdās’ famous Rasikpriyā. Still, several other songs by Rasikbihārī can be linked to paintings, including the famous “Lady with Veil,” which puts her both in front as well as behind the canvas, so to speak. While anteriority of word or image cannot be determined, it is highly likely that selected paintings were displayed while her songs were sung, since there is manuscript evidence of scripts for soirées organized by Nāgarīdās where images were shown in coordination with performance of songs composed by poets other than himself. Her creative production was part of Kishangarh’s most vibrant cultural phase. Based on internal evidence, it is clear that Banī-thanī shared her patron’s _ by his brother and her wish to retreat to Braj after Rupnagar was taken over situation in the zanānā had become untenable. Touchingly, there is a prayerhymn testifying to their desire to do so, signed jointly by Nāgarīdās and Rasikbihārī. Like he did, she also expressed relief upon finding refuge in the Braj area. It is possible that she actually was the one who managed to find shelter in Barsana through her Nimbārkan networks. Sāvant Singh cast this phase in his life as a Rāmāyana scenario and there is some evidence in her Bayāz that Rasikbihārī shared_ this approach too. Kishangarhi Rāmāyana _ images from this period may well have been purposely designed to promote this view. A Rāma-devotional element also showed up in her “testament,” which expressed her desire to be reborn again and again as a Vaishnava devotee in Nāgarīdās’ company. This sentiment, which constitutes an instance of a slave girl’s social mobility, is echoed on her memorial (chatrī) inscription. Notwithstanding the samādhi’s Haridāsī redaction, this is what came to be read as testimony to the devotional pair’s love beyond death. The memory of the author-couple’s synergy was transmitted in manuscript and in musical performance with their “duet poems” being written down adjacently in song books and sung together even today, as attested in contemporary performance. This is the case especially for the samāj-gāyan at Rasika temples in Vrindaban, though her work is also performed in havelī-saṅgīt in Vallabhan shrines all the way to Mumbai. It circulates in more secular contexts too: One of her songs of intimacy has made it onto the World Music scene in a recent album of “palace songs.” Over time though, amnesia set in as to who was the author of the songs stamped with chāp Rasikbihārī. By the late nineteenth century, the Kishangarh court under Shārdul Singh sponsored the first lithograph edition of Nāgarīdās’ oeuvre. This was a hybrid work, with one foot in early-modern feudal court and sectarian manuscript culture, another in colonial modernity of print culture and scholarly apparatus. Rasikbihārī’s poems that Nāgarīdās had included in his anthologies were cut

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from his works. Yet, they were collected and tagged on at the very end of his oeuvre, which remains to date the collection of her works from which all others are derived. That her songs are present at all may have to do with the Nimbārkan midwifery of the owner of the printing press who was a Salemabad resident. However, the framing of the collection itself was in the hands of the Vallabhan faction at court that was preoccupied with its sectarian claims on Nāgarīdās, which left no room for his Haridāsī-Nimbārkan concubine. She was literally cut from the picture: The detail of the Nāgarī Kuñj painting reproduced at the beginning of the lithograph featured only Nāgarīdās engaged in religious activities, undistracted by the concubine. Likewise, the nationalist Hindi rhetoric of the author of the scholarly introduction, Bābū Rādhākrishnadās, did not allow for accommodating a concubine of slave origin. While he upgraded her with the Sanskritic term upastrī, at the same time, he expressed reluctance to believe she could possibly have composed worthwhile poetry. Still, the romanticizaton of Nāgarīdās’ worldly love (ishq-e majāzī) as a more spiritual one (ishq-e haqīqī) is not wholly a construct of twentieth-century colonial and postcolonial art critics. We can discern its roots in the tribute that Shārdul Singh’s brother, Javān Singh, made to Nāgarīdās’ Ishq-caman. Javān Singh’s Jalvā-ye-shāhanshāh-eishq, or Splendor of the Emperor Love, represents the Kishangarh court’s assessment of their ancestor around the turn of the twentieth century. There is an important difference: While Western art criticism stressed the romance with Banī-thanī, the indigenous assessment was part and parcel of an enthusi_ response to Nāgarīdās’ Urdu work that, as we know now, she astic Rajput played a role in birthing. The palpable unease with the role of the slave-concubine in the court’s cultural production is already apparent in the hybrid lithograph’s ambivalent inclusion of her poems. This anxiety only became more marked over time. It is perhaps best manifested in the former courtier Faiyāz ‘Alī Khān’s vehement rejection of the Khandalavala-Dickinson theory of Banī-thanī as the model of _ literature, though, the paintings (Section 1.3–4). In his dissertation about the Khān foregrounded the author-couple’s mutual inspiration in song. The power of that satsaṅg is vindicated in performance today, even if contemporary singers may no longer be aware who she was.

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Conclusions

This book’s journey has led to the recovery of the voice of an eighteenthcentury composer of Classical Hindi-Urdu songs, who started as a slave girl in the zanānā of a small principality in Rajasthan. Beyond the glorified quintessential Kishangarhi “Lady with Veil,” or Portrait of Radha, Banī-thanī was _ famous more than just a stylish concubine of the prince who commissioned the painting. We have encountered a talented young performer who managed to avail herself of trajectories for social mobility, celebrated for her creative accomplishments by courtiers and monks alike, contributing to the flourish of cultural output in mid-eighteenth century Kishangarh, yet struggling to carve out a place for herself within the hierarchies that framed her world. What broader conclusions has our exploration revealed? A brief overview is followed with more in-depth articulation of the contributions to each of the fields explored in turn. From the first image in Chapter 1, the question arose why a modern painting of India’s Mona Lisa, entitled Bani Thani by Gopal Swami Khetanchi was featured on the cover of Nouvelles de l’Inde’s special issue on literature. This set us on the track of Banī-thanī, alias Rasikbihārī, the little-known poetess _ purportedly behind the ubiquitous glamorous face of the Kishangarhi vision of the Goddess Rādhā. What Khetanchi referenced was the eighteenth-century Kishangarhi painting “Lady with Veil,” officially known as Portrait of Radha and unofficially “Banī-thanī.” This has turned out not really to be her portrait, _ but it has helped contextualize the songs at the heart of the book. Analyzing the purported portrait’s mimetic elements has proven to be a useful case study for thinking through the complex issues of realism and idealization in Indian art. Even with a comprehensive study of the chronology of the Kishangarhi atelier and its painting techniques still eagerly awaited, it has highlighted an important dialogic aspect that can be accessed via analysis of interocular elements. The book’s key finding about the “portrait” is its conception within a realm of imagery and poetics that set late Mughal and Rajput visual and classical Hindavi and Hindi literary conventions into rich dialogue with one another. Simultaneously, while unsettling the orientalist trope, this exploration has provided material to substantiate the comparison of the Italian and Indian 234

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Mona Lisa, particularly with regard to reception, laying bare layers of nationalist and post-colonial discourses. Contextualizing the debates, including those challenging the possible role of Banī-thanī as model, has served to dislodge the superficial cyber-orientalist accounts_ of love. While those foreground visual regimes, this book has worked to bring complementary literary evidence into the picture, including the purported model’s own songs. The latter is where the book’s most significant contribution lies, in the field of literature studies, first by restoring a low-born woman to her rightful place as a multi-lingual author, and further by presenting for the first time the poetic synergy of an early-modern South Asian literary couple. This case also demonstrates how the histories of Hindi and Urdu literature were intertwined. It has been little known how the – at the time new – Rekhtā idiom traveled beyond the urban centers of Delhi and Lucknow to provincial milieus where it sparked innovations that were not regarded as “alien” to local literary “Bhāshā” production. Along the way, the book contributes to understanding the dynamics of collective authorship in both Hindi and Urdu traditions within extensive networks, beyond the “solitary male genius” approach. As regards religious studies, the book has enriched our understanding of the development of Vaishnava Hinduism through shifting focus to the role of gurus in the zanānā. While much remains to be done, in terms of archival research in particular, the book has made a start by providing a vivid glimpse of creative religious circles that experimented with new ideas and styles, which ended up contributing to the making of Hinduism as we know it now. Thinking about the history of concubinage and domestic slavery, the book has shown avenues for social climbing for slaves within the limits imposed by a patriarchal feudal system. Banī-thanī’s social mobility was possible as she worked from within the prevailing_ religious paradigms, where she managed a limited amount of self-fashioning via a distinctive autobiographical pose. The aesthetics and somatic affect of Rasikbihārī’s songs found responses in Nāgarīdās’ poetry. An exchange-oriented approach to courtesan and performance studies is enriched by this exceptional case, where the patron’s reaction is recorded. It broadens our imagining of the relation between performer and audience, to move beyond erotic consumerism and break through to moments of shared aesthetic, even religious ecstasy. The Indian Mona Lisa Trope The Indian Mona Lisa trope keeps inspiring contemporary art, as exemplified by Jaipur’s Gopal Swami Khetanchi’s Bani Thani. Popular opinion regarding this modern art work seems to indicate the trope is perceived as a way of asserting Indian superiority in ideals of womanhood, beauty, and art over the West, thus actually subverting colonial discourse (Section 1.1). While

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seemingly an orientalist construct, tracing the history of the trope has shown a complex interplay of different agents. The British teacher Erik Dickinson promoted “Lady with Veil” as the “spiritual essence of Rajput art,” influenced by A.K. Coomaraswamy’s art-historical discourses. Yet the Indian Mona Lisa concept did not congeal fully till nationalist art historians from Karl Khandalavala to the Randhawas popularized the comparison, if somewhat reluctantly (Sections 1.3–4). It became closely tied up with the National Art Museum’s trajectory, which entailed a new anticolonial nationalist approach to art, but also tension with regional centers. An apotheosis was reached in the postage stamp issued in 1973, in the middle of the contentious relations between the Indian nation state and the former kingdoms. Official designation of the stamp as Radha–Kishangarh affirmed the regional connection without acknowledging the role of Banī-thanī as model. The Kishangarh court’s _ contestation of Khandalavala’s surmise was formulated most sharply by the courtier-scholar Faiyāz ‘Alī Khān. Yet, at a popular level, the story of Banī-t hanī’s “romance” with Sāvant Singh proved intractable as the tourist sector’s_ cyber-orientalist outlook kept it alive (Section 1.5). With this more nuanced understanding under our belt, we are in a position to identify the indeed substantial similarities that allow for the Italian Mona Lisa and the “Indian Mona Lisa” to be fruitfully compared. This can be done at several levels, in terms of who the purported models for the famous portraits were, who the patrons were, what their lives were like, and how that affected the idealized portrayals; as well as with regard to the technical aspects, the role of the portraits in the oeuvre of the master, and perhaps most of all, their reception. Recently much headway has been made on these interrelated questions about the Italian Mona Lisa by da Vinci expert Martin Kemp in collaboration with the Florentine archivist Giuseppe Pallanti, and for her popular reception by historian Donald Sassoon. This study has only made a beginning for her Indian counterpart, while much remains to be done, especially in terms of archival research. What preliminary points can we glean thus far? In both cases, the lives of the ladies portrayed spanned some of the most tumultuous years in the history of their hometowns, whether Mona Lisa’s Florence in the late-fifteenth to early-sixteenth or Banī-thanī’s Kishangarh in the mid-eighteenth century. Yet their portraits are part _of, arguably even the pinnacle of, an outpouring of high quality cultural production. It appears that the very rivalry with neighboring principalities factored into the sponsorship and promotion of the distinctive style of each of the masterworks (Kemp and Pallanti 2017: 13, 24–5, 43–4; Pauwels 2017: 13–28, respectively). Even the question marks are about the same issues: in both cases there are uncertainties about the identification of the model, whether indeed the sitter of Mona Lisa was Lisa Gherardini, “La Gioconda,” (summarized in Sassoon 2001: 21–8), and of Portrait of Radha was Banī-thanī (see our Chapter 1). _

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In any case both purported models were women of lesser financial means involved in relationships with wealthy men who had been married before and were their senior by some fifteen years (Kemp and Pallanti 2017: 27; our Chapter 3, respectively). In both cases, too, the men had issues with their brothers, which involved the inheritance of their father’s possessions, and deeded their sons with their possessions before their death (Kemp and Pallanti 2017: 41–2; Pauwels 2017: 13–28 respectively). Lisa was the wife of the merchant Francesco del Giocondo who likely was a slave-trader, rich enough to commission a da Vinci (Kemp and Pallanti 2017: 35), while Banīthanī was a slave herself, but became concubine of a crown prince of a small _principality with a superb painters’ atelier (our Chapter 2 and 3). Yet, La Gioconda, who undoubtedly possessed a fine wardrobe and jewelry, is portrayed in all simplicity without adornments and in simple attire with near imperceptible veil (Kemp and Pallanti 2017: 35), while “Banī-thanī,” true to _ that nickname, is all dressed up and decked out with the traditional jewelry, veiled, though perhaps coquettishly uncovering rather than covering up. The portraits in each case had a more metaphorical dimension. Technical analysis of the Mona Lisa has shown that “what began ostensibly as a functional portrait of a bourgeois woman was transformed into a kind of philosophical painting” (Kemp and Pallanti 2017: 223). La Gioconda is, after all, a double entendre for “the jocund one,” the portrait initially meant to celebrate her fertility and wealth, occasioned by the birth of her second son and the new house her family was moving into. The title “Mona,” a contraction for Madonna, may also evoke Christ’s Mother Mary, celebrated in many other da Vinci paintings (Sassoon 2001: 15–16). In Kishangarh, Banī-thanī never gave _ birth, and the portrait came to be seen as portraying the Goddess Rādhā, who while not a symbol of fertility, is identified with Krishna’s power of bliss (āhlādinī śakti), so “jocund” in a different way. In both cases, the painting, while relatively small, represented a landmark for its time and became regarded as a masterwork, a showcase of the painter’s technical innovations. Da Vinci’s became the model Renaissance portrait, with its innovative contrapposta and three-quarter profile of the model looming large and dominating the Flemish style landscape in the background (BohmDuchen 2001: 41–2). Nihālcand’s portrait of course remained in profile, and featured a solid colored background (though elsewhere he excels in backgrounds with miniature detail). His exemplary innovations, which became distinctive for Kishangarhi art, lay in the unique shape of the profile, with elongated nose, elegant hair curl, and exaggerated curvature of the eyes and brows (contrasting with the notable absence of Mona Lisa’s). These stylized characteristics that made Nihālcand a master are the opposite of what da Vinci was celebrated for: the life-like impression of the technique of sfumato and the illusion of depth (Bohm-Duchen 2001: 42–3).

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Both ladies in the portraits of course sport their much commented on enigmatic smile, Mona Lisa’s famously perceived to be conveying a stance of superiority vis à vis the viewer (Sassoon 2001: 11–15), Banī-thanī’s rather _ inspiring the rasa of delight as appropriate for the idealized category of the nāyikā (heroine), or indeed the Goddess Rādhā, the very embodiment of bliss. This brings us to the most important parallel, the portraits’ reception history. Both have been preserved under royal auspices, Mona Lisa by France’s royalty, ending up in the Paris museum, the Louvre, where she is treated as a celebrity by millions of visitors, while her Indian counterpart, preserved by the Kishangarh royal house, even if much copied, is not even on regular display. Still the road of fame she took is linked with that of India’s National Museum in New Delhi, and the publications of the new nation’s Lalit Kalā Academy. The path to celebrity for both went through romantic interpretations, respectively, the eternal feminine via the femme fatale of the nineteenth century for the Italian Mona Lisa (Sassoon 2001: 92–132) and Dickinson’s bridal imagery in the 1940s for her Indian counterpart (our Chapter 1). Both ended up embodying an intriguing mixture of high and popular culture by the end of the twentieth century (Sassoon 2001: 6–7; our Chapter 1 respectively). Most of all, both are said to encapsulate the physical beauty ideal of their tradition as well as the essence of its spirituality.1 In short, while it needs to be stressed again that no direct copying of da Vinci’s painting was involved, the trope that links the Italian with the “Indian Mona Lisa” does have some substance to it. Realistic Zanānā Portraits, Mythification, and Generational Conflicts Do we understand the “Lady with Veil” better now that we have explored the woman purported to be behind the veil? On a technical level, there is little hard and fast evidence to settle the debate whether Banī-thanī in some sense was the _ model for this particular portrait or the Kishangarhi style. One common objection can be rejected though: The impossibility of zanānā portraits does not apply since this is a case of a performer and concubine who partook in public functions. The related argument one still hears made, of the perceived lack of realism in Rajput art, is outdated. The Kishangarh school in any case represents an interesting “fusion style”; it is well-documented that Mughaltrained portrait painters like Bhavānīdās and his son Dalcand migrated there and amply demonstrated their talents through local portraits. There are even 1

For da Vinci’s painting, this is pithily summarized in the speech of Alain Peyrefitte, the French Minister of Culture at the opening of the Tokyo exhibition of Mona Lisa in 1974 (Sassoon 2001: 247). For Nihālcand’s, Dickinson’s lyrical descriptions are quoted in Section 1.3.

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several close ressemblances with Mughal and Rajput lady busts (and Kishangarhi full-length portraits) that could be seen as forerunners of “Lady with Veil.” Some of those are generic palace lady portraits, but others can be linked with historical ladies. The identification of the concubine as sitter then can neither be proven nor rejected out of hand (Section 1.2). We have had occasion to look at several portraits of Kishangarhi court ladies purported to be Banī-thanī, showing a similar pose as the “Lady with Veil,” which would make _for likely models. Unfortunately, none of them are inscribed or dated. While depictions of mythical scenes could have led to a freezing of the lifelike features into a standard exaggerated profile, one might also argue the other way around, that the portraits of the purported model were influenced by stylistic features already formalized in the school before the famous Portrait of Radha (Section 3.1). As regards the development of stylistics at the time, Sāvant Singh seems to have had a special interest in developing the Kishangarhi eye, and it was his stylized eye that became influential in other schools, in particular the art of the master Chokha of Mewar and Deogarh (Aitken 2010: 260–9). The centrality of the divine eye in bhakti religiosity generally, and in Nāgarīdās’ poetry in particular has been invoked as a central factor, which undoubtedly is correct. The assumption that this is related to Nāgarīdās’ attachment to the particular image of Krishna that the court still worships today, and that it bespeaks specifically Vallabhan influence is debatable, particularly in view of the complex religious affiliations of the prince (Pauwels 2017: 29–70). In any case, the distinctive Kishangarhi profile is not limited to the shape of eye and brow, it also includes the long nose, which is not a poetic cliché, yet mentioned in two of Nāgarīdās’ poems that have been correlated with “Lady with Veil” (Section 1.3). Clearly, there is more to the “Indian Mona Lisa” than meets the eye. I have suggested that, apart from the issue of her being a model, Rasikbihārī’s own poetry can be read in conjunction with “Lady with Veil,” but there are as yet no firm data to confirm the concubine’s patronage of any visual art, and if indeed her official entry into concubinage is late as surmised above, it seems unlikely (Section 5.1). What is clear is that Portrait of Radha is more of an apotheosis. An earlier painting, such as Boat of Love, features a Rādhā that is a better candidate for being based on Banī-thanī’s features, since this one illustrates one of Nāgarīdās’ longer poems that _references Banī-thanī _ (as shown in Section 3.2). While not unlikely then that Banī-thanī’s features _ indeed inspired some of the Kishangarhi Rādhās, by the time of the famous Portrait of Radha, a more stylized depiction had already taken over. Why the palpable embarrassment around Banī-thanī’s possible role as model for the Goddess? Could it have to do with her_ social status as a slavewoman? The very tension between the popular identification of the portrait as

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“Banī-thanī,” and the official name Portrait of Radha reflects reluctance to _ grant “personhood” to the slave-concubine. The name foregrounds the divine “subject,” denying the slave’s role even as a “sitter” (distinction and terms of Lefèvre 2011: 16). This seems confirmed by the concomitant upgrade of Banīthanī in tourist discourse, when acknowledged, but only after asserting she was _a queen. The move toward mythification of icono-spectacular femininity is prone to erase the specifics and obscure the real woman, putting her back in her place behind purdah. What has been perhaps more productive is our dialogical investigation at another level, where we traced the interocularity between different images commissioned by Rāj Singh and Sāvant Singh. Apparently set up to respond to one another, they reveal possibly intergenerational tension between father and son, reflecting a rift in views of kingship and the role of devotion, as well perhaps as a struggle about control of the slave women in the seraglio (Section 3.1). The father as sponsor remained content with projecting his role in Krishna’s world as an enabler of the divine scenarios, aestheticizing power by commissioning his portrayal in roles of masculinity and control. The son on the other hand entered Krishna’s world more fully, not shying away from being depicted in feminine roles, which expresses a confidence in his own masculinity unafraid to submit. While the “romantic” veneer of the Kishangarh paintings commissioned by Sāvant Singh may seem effeminate to the untrained eye, it bespeaks on a deeper level a masculinity unpreoccupied with defensively affirming its macho identity in the face of challenges. Art illustrates ideology, but at the same time also constitutes it. The complexities become more clearly demarcated once we see them in historical context and interrelate pictorial art with poetry. Similar to what has been noted for Kota, another Rajasthani principality, Kishangarh’s “picture practice” included performative use of paintings in combination with religious ritual, court ceremonial, singing of poetry, and recitation of political narratives to render a visual rhetoric to communicate political messages (Woodman 1997: 61). It reflected and articulated important changes defining discourses of power and devotion that were emerging at the time and would prove influential for the making of Hinduism as we know it, on which more below. On the basis of the evidence provided, readers can draw their own conclusions regarding the likelihood of Banī-thanī’s features underlying Portrait of _ been that she was so much more: Radha. This book’s main point rather has performer and muse for Nāgarīdās and his circle, author of her own poetry, and ardent devotee in her own right. It is not just coincidence that Kishangarh’s unusual originality in its visual arts was matched with intense religious devotion celebrated simultaneously in literature and music. This synaesthetic sensibility was not something that flourished locally in splendid isolation. Rather, plugged into cosmopolitan networks, it was well-informed by what

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was happening at the time in the center of Krishna devotion in Braj and the center of the empire in Delhi. Behind the Indian Mona Lisa’s enigmatic smile emerges a world of rivalries and political changes, as well as shifting religious attitudes. From behind the Purdah: Zanānā Literature Revealed The major purpose of the book has been to make a silenced woman author heard, bringing Rasikbihārī out of the purdah of art-historical discourse, out of a “waiting-room of history” of sorts, to use Dipesh Chakrabarty’s elegant phrase from a different context (2007: 8). In the process we have come across more palace ladies who were poets, starting with the queen Brajdāsī and her daughter Sundarkumvarī, all the way to Sāvant Singh’s granddaughter, Chatrakumvarī, who_ composed prolifically. This deserves more exploration _ that promises to reveal more women authors and previously unexplored milieus of literary production. As it turns out, their work was well-informed by the “classics” like the seventeenth-century court poet Bihārī’s Satsaī. Rasikbihārī’s songs were also created in close exchange with major poets and thinkers of her own time, besides Nāgarīdās himself, also the influential Nimbārkan guru Vrindāvandev Ācārya. This brings to light networks that have remained under the radar in current scholarship. The dynamics of these interchanges still need to be carefully studied, but it is already clear that the zanānā was not per definition a cultural backwater (Sections 2.3–5). The women’s work was multilingual in nature in the sense of a vernacular multilingualism. The denotation “Classical Hindi” obscures a mixture of several local idioms, in this case Braj predominated with classical and colloquial Rajasthani (Marwari and Ḍhdhādī), with hints of what we know call _ _ Urdu and Punjabi. It was also performed in an array of musical genres, overwhelmingly devotional, though some more secular. This fluidity between language and genre boundaries deserves more study by ethnomusicologists, but it is articulated in artist interviews related to their performance strategies.2 The choice of idiom is affect related: Different registers of language are accessed for different topics, each with their own specific emotional landscape. Thus, Rajasthani diminutives conjure up childhood worlds, or the domesticity of the women’s quarters. Urdu and Punjabi elements go hand in hand with daggers and swords, and the more violent imagery of the pain of love. In short, by foregrounding particular linguistic shibboleths, particular moods are 2

One example is Ashwini Bhide-Deshpande in concert-conversation with Ingrid Le Gargasson and Jeanne Miramon-Bonhoure at the University Library of Languages and Civilizations (BULAC) in Paris in December 2018, Online: www.youtube.com/watch?v=kumFdSe_c0Q (around 29 mins.), last accessed August 24, 2022.

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evoked as well as social identities. Perhaps this can be compared with Mikhail Bakhtin’s concept of heteroglossia developed in a different context. The multiple registers and genres illustrate well the permeability of the harem boundaries, its own multicultural atmosphere, and the range of poetic exchanges that we have evidence for, from behind purdah and from the durbar setting (Section 2.2). Rasikbihārī made her public debut likely at a recital during the monsoon of 1742 organized at the occasion of a ritual recital of Bhāgavata-purāna, which _ also had political significance and was commemorated in painting. Intertextual analysis of the poetic interchanges that took place on the basis of the transcript (and newly discovered manuscript evidence) has enabled reconstruction of her elevated position at court at this function, and the reception of her compositions by esteemed participants (Section 4.1). Here she recited a Kavitta and Savaiyās, besides a song, a genre she is better-known for. Her newly discovered Bayāz is comprised mostly of songs; it could be called a diary-insongs, as it reflects probably her performance planning (Section 4.4). In addition, it also includes her compositions in Dohā meter, both as introductory ālāp for performance of songs in a given Rāga and on its own in her “spiritual testament” (Section 5.2). Right from the start it was in any case clear that her compositions were taken seriously within the court’s poetic circles. Thanks to the evidence from the Bayāz, where she also noted down poetry by other poets that inspired her, it becomes apparent how Banī-thanī was _ plugged into broader literary networks. On the one hand, she composed in response to devotional Hindi (Braj) poets, both from earlier and her own generation, Nāgarīdās of course, but also others. It may not surprise that she was inspired by the famous princess-devotee, Mīrābāī, however, she also noted down poetry by many others, mostly Krishna but also Rāma devotees, among whom the important Rāmānandī poet Agradās. She was also exposed to the poetry of the inventive notorious Ānandghan, who was experimenting with more personally felt love poetry, though his poems excerpted in her Bayāz are rather of the devotional type. On the other hand, even more broadly, one of the registers in which she composed was the new wave of “Rekhtā” (as Urdu poetry was then called). She even quoted Ghazals by the pivotal poet Valī Deccani in her Bayāz and tried her hand at the new style. Ironically then, the discovery of Rasikbihārī’s devotional poems contributes also to rethinking the history of Urdu in the eighteenth century, moving beyond the much discussed major urban centers’ literary-musical salons, like Delhi, to provide a perspective from the mofussils. Rasikbihārī’s may be a provincial woman’s voice from a small principality in Rajasthan, but one that aspired to more. She partook in performing Delhi’s newly fashionable Urdu literature and was a conduit for its transmission, inspiring her patron, who in turn influenced others in Rajasthan

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(Section 4.4). Comparing their Rekhtā poetry with their other songs brings out the different emotional registers that went with the different idioms. This helps fill out our picture of the eighteenth-century milieu of cultural exchange, so far mostly limited to the male dominated spaces (Schofield 2012; Keshavmurthy 2016; Tabor 2019). Rasikbihārī’s case illustrates active maintenance of links of provincial outposts with the center and women’s prominent participation in such Urdu poetry networks, even earlier than the case of Māh Laqā Bāī “Cand” (Section 2.5). On the basis of manuscript research, we have also discovered that Rasikbihārī’s poetry was preserved over the centuries and sung, often in tandem with Nāgarīdās’ compositions, true to the original composition context. This is the case till this day, though contemporary singers are not always able to articulate the connection between the two or may not even be aware that Rasikbihārī was a woman. Yet, the emotional intensity of her compositions is still felt, in the Kishangarh temple as well as in other Havelīs of the Vallabha Sampradāya, even cosmopolitan Mumbai, as late as the middle of the twentieth century. We found it is also an integral part of Vrindaban’s devotional singing in several Rasika sects (Section 5.3). Crucial for this survival was Nāgarīdās’ broadminded inclusion of Rasikbihārī’s poetry in his own anthologies, especially seasonal calendrical ones used in temple liturgy, which ensured manuscript and even lithograph transmission (Sections 4.2–3; 5.4). The Synergies of the Literary Couple At the heart of the book have been the magical moments of duets, the matching poetic compositions of this early modern artistic pair (especially in Chapters 3 and 4). Pairs of poems celebrating the seasons, various ritual occasions, as well as intimate moments have been identified based on contextualization, both content-wise from within the text, and context-wise from their placement in manuscripts and editions documenting the poems, both in Nāgarīdās’ anthologies and in Rasikbihārī’s performance diary. We enjoyed several of the couple’s creative exchanges, where each provided their own take on “variants on a theme” around shared key words and tropes. The picture that emerged is one of playful competition, of tug-of-war where sometimes he, sometimes she, came out victorious, but the main goal remained shared delight. Recovering through intertextual analysis the connections between Nāgarīdās’ and Rasikbihārī’s oeuvre has first enabled a tentative tracing of the ups and downs of their transgressive relationship (Chapter 3). Beyond chronology, the dialogic relations of their poetry illustrate the growth of the pair as artists together through a long process of artistic development in congenial company (Sections 4.2 and 4.4 in particular). One could even speak of coauthorship; in at least one case there is a joined signature in the poem’s

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last line (Section 5.2, perhaps also in the abhisārikā poem toward the end of Section 3.1). Their shared devotion’s impact on the famous paintings that he commissioned is complemented by a full set of multisensorial interchanges that a manuscript of Nāgarīdās’ Pad-muktāvalī explicitly refers to as scripted display of paintings in conjunction with musical performance of specific songs. While fragmentary, still this provides a sense of the total environment of synaesthesia that permeated their song exchanges (Section 5.1). The intertextuality and poetic exchanges were not limited to the couple, they were well-embedded within a poetic milieu that perhaps had its core in the Kishangarh–Salemabad connection, with especially the guru Vrindāvandev Ācārya himself, but also an experimental poet like Ānandghan. Yet, it extended beyond, not just by the travels to the pilgrimage center of Braj, but also by sojourns in the sophisticated Mughal capital of Shahjahanabad, where the new Rekhtā wave and musical style of Kabitt with Punjabi shibboleths was prevalent. It seems that musical recitals were an integral part of the process, inspiring creative interchanges. Moreover, the exponents of this group went on and had their contacts at other local courts, including Jaipur, Bharatpur, and Mewar. The findings regarding synergies of the early modern partner-authors also bring out the playful inversions of normative positions (throughout Chapter 4). This complicates the reflexive assessment of the woman as the object of the male gaze in poetry and painting alike. Nāgarīdās’ frequent adoption of the voice of a lady-in-waiting in Rādhā’s retinue has him posing as a girlfriend on a par with Banī-thanī. She signs as “Rasikbihārī,” a “sophisticated playboy,” _ speaks in the voice of a female admirer of Krishna, never yet she consistently Krishna himself. In addition to their admiration for Krishna, both devoteepoets direct their gaze also towards Rādhā, similar to what Molly Aitken has observed for the function of the female companion in Kangra painting: the goal is to highlight the female heroine’s desirability (1997). As they drink in Rādhā and Krishna’s joined beauty, they convey this darshana to the reader/ spectator through song conjoined with paintings. It is the divine that is being gazed at in its own androgyny, or rather its reveling in love, the interplay between the parts of its gendered split. While this allowed for some women centered perspectives to be voiced, still we need to remember the context: Such reversals were only possible within engrained power structures, not just gendered ones, but also those of master and slave. We have documented that societal pressures prevailed in subsequent memory constructions. Over time, those very power relations that were challenged, have been successfully reaffirmed. Neglecting the reversals, later generations ended up covering Rasikbihārī’s voice with the “pretty picture” veneer (Section 5.5). Still, this book has recovered, however brittle and unrealized, the possibility – even within the structure of an imperfect, power-permeated

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world – of a fine balance, a subtle harmony to be savored and allowed to work its inspiring magic. Restoring the View from the Women’s Quarters to the Devotional Movement (Bhakti) What was this power structure, and what were the broader socioreligious and political dynamics at the time? This was the period during which, under the auspices of Sāvāī Jai Singh II of Jaipur, orthodox reforms were pushed through that would have long-lasting impacts on Hinduism as we know it now. Among the many agents involved in these processes were prominent Vallabhan Brahmins in Jaipur, as well as the Nimbārkan abbots of Salemabad near Kishangarh. This book has shown how these grandees had strong links with the ladies behind purdah, not just with the Jaipur zanānā, but also the Kishangarh one. In a previous book, insights from this complex world, and the role of Sāvant Singh’s religious counterreaction have already been spelled out (Pauwels 2017: 29–70). Sāvant Singh pushed back in particular against the pressure toward social orthodoxy: A persistent theme in his work asserted that devotion transcended caste and class boundaries. In this book, we have seen him proclaim this in his poetry at the conclusion of a recitation of Bhāgavatapurāna in 1742. That same occasion showed other signs of opposition to Jai Singh_ II’s agenda. One such factor was the inclusion of poetry by the controversial new abbot of Salemabad, Govinddev Ācārya. He was an ascetic, grounds for Jai Singh II to reject him, as the king held that only householders could be abbots (Section 4.1). That all appeared to be a world of men; yet, as we have seen, the 1742 event was also the occasion of Rasikbihārī’s debut. Rasikbihārī’s networks were not completely dominated by those of Sāvant Singh. She was in touch with the important religious leaders of the times via her position as gāyan in the zanānā of Kishangarh’s Bāṅkāvatī queen, who had links with influential godfathers. One of them was Vrajnāth Bhatt of an important Vallabhan Brahmin family from Jaipur, whom Rasikbihārī__ quoted at the outset of her Bayāz. He was involved in the queen’s translation project undertaken as a vow to bring peace back after the kingdom was contested between Nāgarīdās and his brother. Another of the queen’s godfathers was none other than Vrindāvandev Ācārya himself, who had been one of the major players in Jai Singh II’s reforms since the beginning of the eighteenth century (Section 2.3). The influential Ācārya knew Banī-thanī and interacted with her, _ though he was not her guru (Section 2.4). Her personal sectarian allegiance is not altogether clear. She has been associated with a faction of the Haridāsīs that chose to align with the Nimbārkans to conform to Jai Singh II’s edicts (Section 2.5). The evidence is not conclusive and might reflect manipulation, as that sect was behind the inscription on her memorial, which is not entirely

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congruous with the evidence of her Bayāz (Section 5.2). There is no doubt that Rasikbihārī’s songs were avidly transmitted in Nimbārkan circles, as well as via devotional singing in the Rasika Sampradāyas of Vrindaban, including the Haridāsīs, but they were also sung in Vallabhan Havelīs (Section 5.3). This book has shown a more domestic side of the famous gurus who were part of Jai Singh II’s reformist project. Vrindāvandev Ācārya in particular is famed for his mustering unruly ascetic martial bands into a disciplined Vaishnava army as part of Jai Singh II’s military reorganizations. Here, his martial persona has been complemented with that of a teacher involved in his zanānā wards’ poetic exchanges and experimentation with new musical genres that were the rage in the capital (Section 2.6). We saw him even composing in the domestic idiom of Rajasthani that was prevalent in the harem, assuming a feminine voice. It shows the cultural maecenas aspect of the military strongman behind the reform projects of his time. This view from the women’s quarters is often neglected in official histories and brings fresh insights. Whereas the histories of the men’s world are dominated by rivalries and splits, the zanānā seems to have maintained links with diverse, competing Sampradāyas. Self-Fashioning and the Autobiographical Pose As the Krishna devotional aspect of Rasikbihārī’s songs overwhelms any firstperson narration, it has been a challenge to recover autobiographical elements, especially with the paucity of archival documentation for corroboration (Chapter 3). One could even question whether the search for a person behind the persona of Banī-thanī, “Miss Made Up” after all, is even possible. For _ someone who was known only by a stage name and had spent her whole life cultivating her role and rehearsing for performance, is there even an “offstage” persona?3 Like in the Portrait of Radha, in her songs too, the “Rādhā (or friend of Rādhā) pose” tended to overshadow individual traits of Banī-thanī. Still, _ sifting for clues has been productive. Reading through the songs of the diary-organized Bayāz has allowed a tentative reconstruction of a chronology of Banī-thanī’s transgressive relationship with Sāvant Singh. The main obstacle was_ that his father Rāj Singh had invested in her training and she was an inmate in the zanānā of his queen. The relationship with the son then had to be kept under wraps and lovers’ messages to be conveyed under veiled allusions in devotional scenarios (Section 3.1). Eventually, Rādhā’s ultimate svakīyā status as Krishna’s bride according to the Rasika Sampradāyas found its 3

I am grateful to one of the anonymous reviewers of this book to have raised this important question.

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corollary in Banī-thanī’s official recognition as Sāvant Singh’s concubine or _ was not official until after 1748, after his father’s death. pāsvān. Likely this Her status as pāsvān at least is confirmed by the late-nineteenth-century Tavārīḳh. The discovery of Rasikbihārī’s “spiritual testament” in Dohās toward the end of the Bayāz, provides more clues, especially when read against the historical context of widow settlers in the Braj holy land. Rasikbihārī here casts herself as her patron’s loyal handmaiden. This statement of selffashioning takes a Mīrā-type of autobiographical pose. In addition, from the couple’s exile in the Braj area onwards, there are elements in Rasikbihārī’s Bayāz pointing to the same turn towards Rāmāyana-related mythology that her patron took. This is matched in the paintings_ of the time, some of the Rāmāyana-themed ones showing interocular resonances with the painting _ Nāgarīdās and purportedly also Banī-thanī in the Vrindaban manportraying sion of Nāgarī Kuñj. This Rāmāyana-like scenario_ stands out, notwithstanding _ the otherwise exclusive Krishna-oriented focus of her work. The success of her efforts to recast herself in those terms can be measured against the memorial built for her right next to her patron’s, with an inscription that picked up on selected parts of her own “testament.” While a degree of sectarian appropriation was at work here, it echoed her self-assessment as a devotee and loyal servant to her patron, confirming her desire for socially upward mobility beyond her birth as a slave (Section 5.2). This is a striking case of accessing devotion as a means of social climbing. This book’s purpose has not been to set up a place for Banī-thanī in the “ladies compartment of literature.” Rather, it has sought to follow _the spirit of Tharu and Lalita’s project, bringing “women writing in India” into the limelight and in doing so drawing attention to the decentered writer-subject in action, here in a case where a woman who is subjected to an oppressive system is simultaneously also working the system (Tharu 2017: 51). The slaveconcubine’s work cannot be claimed as protest writing, as it does not revolt against her own servile position, let alone the system as a whole. This is not unlike other “courtesans” such as the Punjabi Pīro and Deccani Māh Laqā Bāī “Cand.” They have been reckoned to fall short of contemporary feminist ideals of empowered women voices. Some even see them as traitors to their sex by accepting “golden chains”; their “femininity is just another performance to fulfill male desire” (Pakistani feminists like Kishwar Naheed as cited in Kugle 2010: 313–14). For such performers specializing within a gendered dynamic of seduction for a male elite audience, one can conclude that in the end gender was a performance, “a play of positions, of watcher and watched, of audience and performer, of desirer and desired” and that they “did not challenge that system but sought to find a dignified position and high status within it” (Kugle 2010: 384). For Banī-thanī, the situation was perhaps somewhat _

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different, as she moved from zanānā quarters to a more public position under the protection of her special patron, rather than the other way around. Still, she also worked within the given system of comportment in dependence, and she also mobilized religious symbolism for the goal of social mobility. History of Palace Women and Domestic Slaves, Concubines and Courtesans What are the broader implications of Banī-thanī’s case for social mobility of _ slaves on the eve of the colonial takeover? Tracing her trajectory has provided a vivid picture of domestic slavery, be it for the particular situation of the singer-performer or gāyan that entailed a relatively privileged position as she represented a status symbol for her patron. Rasikbihārī was able to follow pathways of social mobility available to zanānā women (Chapter 2), including tutoring of poetic production by Nāgarīdās (Chapters 3–4). She did so within a paradigm of Rādhā–Krishna devotion, with a hint of a Sītāesque recasting toward the end when stranded outside the palace in exile. Within the devotional episteme, loyalty to the patron, including a move to settle in a center of pilgrimage like Braj, could be made to work for a slave in the process of carving out a niche of social respectability for herself (Section 5.2). Rather than her reproductivity, it was her cultural productivity that was appreciated by the prince, and led to what is generally acknowledged as the most vibrant high point of Kishangarhi art, even if her role was minimized in later years. Banī-thanī’s case would confirm University of Arizona’s historian Richard Eaton’s _point that “resistance” is not an automatic corollary to slavery (2006: 1–2). This is one of the instances where a sharp dichotomy between contestation and subordination is less useful. Still, it complements the better studied cases where palace women reached a position from where they could challenge existing power equations, recuperating the speech of one who started at the bottom. Within a broader frame of “re-searching” women rendered currently invisible, to cite the title of Vijaya Ramaswamy’s 2003 edited volume on the topic, it makes visible, or rather audible, the slave girl behind the pretty image. In foregrounding her own voice, the book has striven to do so on her own terms. Her agency needs to be contextualized within its historical structure, even if we do not want to condone that structure’s oppressive nature (Malhotra 2017: 175–82). Banī-thanī’s voice comes to us from within changing webs of economic, _ social, sexual, cultural, and emotional relationships. That may lay bare some of the reasons behind the embarrassment and mixed feelings about her role in the development of the Kishangarh school of painting (Chapter 1). By the end of the nineteenth century, the Kishangarh court published a lithograph edition of

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Nāgarīdās’ oeuvre, keen to realize the asset of its devotional cultural capital. This took place within a hybrid context, on the one hand sectarian Vallabhan preoccupations with representing the dynasty as exemplary of Hindu kingship, on the other, colonial modernity of print culture that sought to establish a history for Hindi as a nascent national language. In these environs, there was little room for a concubine who was a conduit for Urdu poetry: She was literally cut out of the picture from which the detail of the pious poet-king was reproduced in the lithograph (Section 5.4). What was so disturbing about Banī-thanī? Her performances were not unlike _ with suspicion in the Mughal milieu those of courtesans, which were regarded of her time. They constituted an embodied praxis that served to cultivate emotional positions, regarded as valuable to emotional communities of patrons who were rasikas or connoisseurs. In her particular case, she was trained in articulating a well-defined set of emotions (rasa) in her repertoire that combined sacred and profane elements. The dramatic performance theory about these emotions (nātya-śāstra) had been refined and transmitted for centuries, _ on where the emotions were located: in the fictive with much reflection characters, in the performer, or in the audience.4 While performing like the courtesan, Banī-thanī would inhabit multiple characters, from the humble slave _ patron, all the way to the God or Goddess secure in their dependent on her position of power over their ardent lover and dedicated devotee. The whole piquancy – and at the same time threat – of performance was that it could obliterate boundaries of subject and object, of performer and listener, which carried potential of subverting social hierarchies. This was one of the preoccupations of the Mughal regime (Schofield 2012). The texts performed involved shifts of speaker, different from, but embodied by the performer, who in Banī-thanī’s case was also the author of the songs staged (Qureshi 2006: _ was a complex situation. Moments of dialogue in song recon320). This structed on the basis of the Bayāz and Nāgarīdās’ anthologies have made manifest how the performer would interact with her patron in teasing, playful competition, as among peers. Scenarios from the divine world would resonate with those in the mundane world. The personal could mix with the persona. The romance of Nāgarīdās and Rasikbihārī signals a challenge to established hierarchies, and not just because of the Anarkalī-like scenario of conflict with his father who considered her as one of his zanānā women. There was something else going on in performances. What are ostensibly divine rasas, come to be embodied by the performer, with the listener in “sympathetic vibration,” creating a complete blend, a shared web of love and pain, where the divide between patron and performer and between divine and human is

4

For a reader tracing the complex evolution of rasa theory over the centuries, see Pollock 2016.

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transcended. Nāgarīdās’ matching songs, whether prompts or responses, bear witness to this conflation that allows for role reversal. Possibly, this is due to changed regimes of pleasure from the second quarter of the eighteenth century onwards, with new musical and poetic genres gaining ground. Against this background it becomes further apparent why several sources, evincing embarrassment with the concubine’s importance, seek either to downplay such possibilities of a “true” relationship of the performer with her patron on equal terms, or to reconstitute the relationship as one of equals by turning her into a queen. It is rare to have evidence of the performer’s audience response. This case pushes us beyond the spectacular ones that foreground the sexual power of courtesans/ concubines over kings and emperors, tending to reduce either the patron’s or the performer’s agency to crass manipulation. Instead, savoring the way Nāgarīdās and Rasikbihārī engaged in poetic sparring contests has allowed us a sense of their quick repartee and mutual appreciation. He does not come across as a besotted old fool, nor she as a cold calculating power seeker. Reconstruction of performance contexts, also in relation to that of other poets, has afforded us the opportunity to discover how these engagements could be on an equal footing, even within the unbalanced social positions of performer and patron. Sure, the latter would still prevail, as the unequal transmission record in manuscript demonstrates, where tellingly the patron’s compositions would be carefully noted down with ornamental features, and the performer’s in a much more haphazard way. Still, it is apparent that courtesans could play important roles in “midwifery,” inspiring experimentation with new trends and genres. This is often neglected in literary studies of Hindi-Urdu that still tend to be oriented towards “great men” and “solitary genius.” The case of Nāgarīdās’ duets with Rasikbihārī is illuminating beyond courtesan studies. It allows us to push beyond the static perception of the performer defined as an object that triggers desire in her male counterpart and of the relationship as sexual commodity and consumer. It shows the real possibility of the author-couple’s joined exploration of aesthetic and devotional realms, as they shared a long-term process of development as artists and devotees. It affords us a way the opportunity to experience the creativity that was unleashed in experiments with new idioms and musical genres, embedded in deep ambiguities that were constitutive of the imagery in this late Mughal Vaishnava world.

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Appendix: Sources

Historical Sources Surprisingly little has been published on Kishangarh’s fascinating history in its own right. The main studies for this period remain the ones in Hindi. An overview history in Hindi by the historian Dr. Avināś Pārīk of the Institute of Advanced Studies in Education University (IASI) in Sardarshahr (Churu), published in 2014 by the Rājasthān Hindī Granth Academy in Jaipur, is largely based on secondary sources. For the period under review here, there are three main studies in Hindi. Dr. Faiyāz ‘Alī Khān’s path-breaking Hindi Ph.D. dissertation Bhaktavar Nāgarīdās, originally written in 1952, is now available thanks to the efforts of his son (2015). Parts of it were also published as the introduction to his 1974 edition of Nāgarīdās’ works by New Delhi’s Kendrīya Hindī Nideśālay (more below). Khān’s work reflects the strong Vallabhan inclination of the Kishangarh court. His polemical antagonist is a wellrespected Nimbārkan sectarian scholar, Vrajvallabh Śaran, who worked with _ published several both the royal archives and the ones in Salemabad. He articles in the Nimbārkan journal Sarveśvarī and summarized his work in his edition of Nāgarīdās’ Vānī (1966). For a well-documented overview of the _ has to turn to the unpublished Oxford dissertation history in English, one still (1995) by curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Dr. Navina Haidar. Archival Sources The Rajasthan State Archives in Bikaner have only documents from the nineteenth century onward for Kishangarh. The house of Kishangarh kept all its earlier materials private and restricts access. One has to rely on secondary literature that is based on archival work by those who enjoyed the privilege of access to these archives in the mid-twentieth century, in particular the aforementioned Hindi writers, Dr Faiyāz ‘Alī Khān and Vrajvallabh Śaran. Both quote _ Paraśurām documents from the Kishangarh State Archives and the archives of the Pīth in Salemabad, referring to Ittilāq or “loose leaves” in the Kishangarh “Itihās _ 251

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vibhāg” or “History Department.” These are entries done chronologically in diary style, contained in small notebooks (caupanyau) that were written for each ruler (Khān 2015: 31).The references of Khān and Śaran are particularly useful when _ raised the suspicion that the they quote the exact text of the documents. Śaran has _ documents have been tampered with to support a Vallabhan sectarian agenda, claiming that there was a substantial Vallabhan revision of court documents as well as of manuscripts of Nāgarīdās’ works (1966: 17–18). Since neither the royal nor the Salemabad collection is currently accessible for cross-checking, this remains unverified. Without access to archival documents, all conclusions based on these sources remain tentative. It is very much hoped that in the near future a study on the basis of the archival documents will be forthcoming to complement and improve on what can be gleaned here. Chronicles The main chronicle is Administrative History (Tavārīḳh Mahkamah), authored _ been published by Jaylāl Kavīshvar in 1913 (1970 VS). This work has never but is preserved in manuscript in the Kishangarh Royal Collection (henceforth KRC).1 It was prepared on the basis of the aforementioned historical documents. The work is subdivided into different sections organized by king or prince. Material cited in this book is from the History of Sāvant Singh (Tavārīḳh Sāvant Singh jī kī), which includes a section on his concubines (Un ke pāsbān), under which is an entry on Banī-thanī. Publication of this important resource is definitely a desideratum, as it_ will undoubtedly clarify many issues and allow for a fuller view of the history of Kishangarh in general. A second work is Chappan-bhog-candrikā, also authored by Jaylāl, printed after the introduction and before the edition of the lithograph Nāgara-samuccayah (Gaud 1898: pdf p. 122–71).The title refers to a huge feast of fifty-six delicacies_ _ (Chappan-bhog) for deities, which was organized by the work’s patron Javān Singh in 1889, yet it is actually a panegyric describing the state deities and rulers of Kishangarh (the latter under Nrip-vanś, “Genealogy of the Kings,” starting NS 36, pdf p. 157). Both these works can be seen as part of nineteenth-century Rajput chronicle production that redraws the patron’s history (Sreenivasan 2006: 138). Editions of Rasikbihārī’s Songs Nāgarīdās included Rasikbihārī’s songs in his anthologies Utsav-mālā and Pad-muktāvalī, but editions of his works often excise her songs. Such is the case in the edition by Gaud included in the aforementioned lithograph that was _ Sāgar (Dhyānsāgar) press in 1898, under the title printed in Mumbai from Jñān “Nāgar’s Collection” or Nāgar-samuccayah. Yet, in compensation at the very _ 1

See Śaran 1972: 251. I am grateful to H.H. Maharaja Brajraj Singh, who is himself very _ knowledgeable about his ancestors, for kindly showing me relevant sections in this work.

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end of the collection, sixty-one of Rasikbihārī’s poems (Rasika Bihārī jī kta pada) were collected in their own right (more details in Section 5.4). This edition in turn was based mainly on a manuscript in the Royal Library predating it by only about a decade and a half.2 Rasikbihārī’s songs appear in only one of the three extant twentieth-century editions of Nāgarīdās’ works: Kiśorīlāl Gupta’s edition, published in 1965 by the prestigious Nāgarī Pracārinī Sabhā (NPS) in Banaras. Gupta included all _ Rasikbihārī’s songs in both aforementioned anthologies in the first of his twovolume edition. He based his edition mainly on the aforementioned lithograph, but whereas the court had left out all authors except the kings and princes of Kishangarh, he foresightedly included the others (1965: 1.109). To do so he consulted a manuscript in the NPS that was originally from the collection of Mayāśaṅkar Yājñik of Lucknow (NPS 493/100), which was undated but written in Rupnagar (1965: 1.107–9). He also provided at the end a handy index of the songs, alphabetically organized by author, including those of Rasikbihārī. The texts of the songs come with notes that provide a Hindi paraphrase of some of the more obscure vocabulary, as well as variant readings. This valuable work of solid scholarship remains to date the Vulgate edition for Nāgarīdās’ works. Manuscript Sources Collated Throughout the book, songs are quoted on the basis of an edition of all of Rasikbihārī’s extant songs that I am preparing. More details will be provided in that publication. Here follows a preliminary description of the major manuscripts referred to in this book. I have kept the same sigla as in Khān’s 1974 edition (full description of the manuscripts is in Khān 2015: 34–8). J Provenance: Jodhpur RORI no. 9431.3 Written down in Delhi (Shahjahanabad) in 1729 (1786 VS Śrāvan śukla 11). The section with Rasikbihārī’s poems occurs on pages that are sloppily written and seem to have been jotted down in a hurry, on folios 12v–13r, if counted consecutively from the first written folio in the volume, before any of

2

3

It is dated 1883 (1940 VS), Śaran 1966: 26; this is probably KRC Petī 6B no. 67, a volume in red _ _ in 1884 (1941 VS), by a velvet that contains all of Nāgarīdās’ works, which was actually written Brahmin Mathurādās in Krishnanagar. KRC also contains an undated and unnumbered big red volume that looks to be from the same period. I am grateful to Oxford scholar Imre Bangha, who has photographed the manuscript and brought it to scholarly attention. For a published description, see Bangha 2011. I am grateful to Professor Bangha for sharing the images he took of this manuscript with me, as well as his written notes and speculation about how it was bound.

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the nicely copied passages start.4 These pages are tied together with the original manuscript of 1729, but were likely written later. The original manuscript contains Bihārī’s Satsaī, followed by SavaiyāKavittas by the controversial Nimbārkan ascetic Ānandghan, as well as works by the young Nāgarīdās and other poets (Bangha 2011; see also 1998: 53–5). Rasikbihārī’s verses are quoted after some other verses by Nāgarīdās, including some from his Kali-vairāgya of 1738 (1795 VS) and Śrīmadbhāgavat-pārāyan-vidhi-prakāś. They do not appear, though, in the sequence that they were eventually compiled by him in these works. Kh Provenance: Acquired by Khān from Bābā Ranchordās, one of the temple priests _ _ of Śrī Kalyāna Rāya Jī. 227 folios. Contains corrections in Nāgarīdās’ hand.5 _ Written down in 1746 (VS 1803), with undated later additions and restorations. Rasikbihārī’s poems are included in the Pad-muktāvalī, but in contrast to those of other poets, hers are all entered in margins and on open spots on the folios in a different hand. Khān speculates that Nāgarīdās added them himself after 1748, as he did for other poems including his own (Khān 2015: 379).6 It seems indeed quite likely that this happened while Sāvant Singh was in exile when he had to recycle existing manuscripts. Some folios look like they had been damaged and were replaced by inserting a new one (see Section 4.3.1). MJB Provenance: Mahurā Janmabhūmi Library: Krishna Śodhpīth Pustakālay _ 13254-365138. Undated, estimated late-eighteenth century. Colophon states it was a gift by the Salemabad Mahant (salemābada kā mahanta kī bhenta havo, fol. 40r). Rasikbihārī’s _poems are included similar to the editions of Śaran 1966: _ 256–324 and Gupta 1965: 1.117–218. RB (Bayāz: Rasikbihārī’s Performance Diary) Provenance: Kishangarh Royal Library Petī 6B no. 44. _ Undated, no colophon, estimated mid-eighteenth century. 4 5 6

However, as Imre Bangha has pointed out, the pages are not in sequence. Examples can be found in Khān 2015: 35ff, pl. 2 with marginal notes. Later additions of songs by Nāgarīdās himself are found throughout the manuscript, sometimes on a completely new page, but mostly just squeezed in at the bottom of the page or in the margin: on folios 18r, 20r, 22r, 26v, 28v, 63r, 64r, 70r, 73r–74v, 75–6r, 80v-81r, 84v–5r, 86r, 87v–88, 94v, 98v, 104v, 106r, 107r, 108r–v, 109v, 113v, 114v–6v, 119v, 120v, 121v, 126r–v, 140r, 142r, 143v, 144v, insert after fol. 153, 160v–161r, 175v–176r, 178r, 184v, 190v (in addition to the ones mixed with Rasikbihārī’s).

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From the way the manuscript is written, it seems to be a personal notebook. I submit it was a performance notebook written by or for Rasikbihārī, in which she noted down poems by others, as well as added her own compositions. This is not unlike the Bayāz in the Urdu tradition, which incorporated poets’ own as well as friends’ poems and those overheard by others (Tabor 2014: 37–8). As noted by Nathan Tabor, such Bayāz were documents of literary sociability, complementing the (often imaginary) mushā‘irah reports of the tażkirahs (Tabor 2014: 55). For that reason, I refer to this manuscript as Rasikbihārī’s Bayāz, but it is written in the Devanāgarī script. There are several elements that support the surmise this manuscript is Rasikbihārī’s performance notebook. Most manuscripts of Nāgarīdās’ works are formal, planned anthologies that have a border, are systematically arranged, and sometimes even include illustrations or poetic arrangements by design (on such features, see Williams 2014: 322). By contrast, in Rasikbihārī’s notebook, there are no borders and neither folios nor verses are numbered. (I give sequential numbers). After every few pages, the writing starts over, sometimes with a new invocation. The songs are not consistently written in the same way: They are in different hands; sometimes they are jotted down sloppily, as if written in a hurry, sometimes more carefully in ornamental letters. The manuscript is not organized, either by rubric (such as the Dādūpanthī Pañcvānīs studied by Callewaert and Lath 1989), nor according _ as many of the liturgical Pad-saṅgrahs studied by to the seasons (such Rousseva-Sokolova 2000). Even though it specifies Rāga and Tāla for several poems, it is not organized by Rāga either. Rather it is written in what seems to be a diary style, as the writer got to know new poems, or created new ones herself. The hands of writing vary, which may be due to variation over time, conditions of scribbling down, or variation in intent to more formally caring to spell out. It may also be that the poems were recorded by different ladies from Rasikbihārī’s entourage on different occasions. Occasionally whole poems are erased (fols. 31–2, fol. 75v); sometimes poems are started but not finished (fol. 43r, 54r). That the manuscript belonged to Rasikbihārī is clear from a few cases of corrections in the margin of Rasikbihārī poems that are non scribal, but creative improvements.7 It seems most likely that they were done by the artist herself, or by someone who wanted to help her improve her work (referred to as islāh in the Urdu _ _ tradition), perhaps Nāgarīdās. That the manuscript was noted down rather haphazardly means it was not intended as an anthology to be used by others. Rather it was dictated or written by Rasikbihārī for herself, presumably as an aide de mémoire. One suspects it 7

These occur, for example, RB 13, fol. 3v; 17, fol. 5r; 37, fol. 21v; 40, 42, fol. 22r; 133, fol. 78r; 162, fol. 87r; 180, fol. 100r.

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was intended by the artist for planning upcoming recitals, as some contemporary Thumri singers do (du Perron 2007: 56). That would constitute a more _ prescriptive use, in the sense of providing a script for performance. On the other hand, it might also have a descriptive aspect, in that it, represents notes taken after performances. In terms of similar cases within the history of the Devanāgarī book in North India, Rasikbihārī’s notebook comes closest to what Callewaert describes as “draft” vānīs, in contrast to the more formal Pañcvānī _ manuscripts (Callewaert and Lāth_1989). Tyler Williams, too, has noted such _ unofficial manuscripts or gutkās that differ from the more official ones in the _ 8 Rajasthan area (2014: 183–90). In either case, it is fair to assume that the Bayāz can be read as a “diary of songs.” A degree of conformity of the moods of the songs performed with the singer-composer’s personal emotions is anecdotally affirmed by contemporary performers as they discuss their art.9 Projecting back in time, it is plausible to read Rasikbihārī’s diary of songs as a window into her emotions, both devotional and personal. While challenging, such a carefully qualified interpretation is attempted in Section 3.3. Context then is key. It is a pity that for Rasikbihārī’s Bayāz there is no colophon and none of the poems are dated. There are some clues as to the dates though, based on the authors quoted and the content of the poems. The very first poem recorded in Rasikbihārī’s Bayāz is a Savaiyā (marked as Kavitta) that carries the signature or chāp Vrajnāth (fol. 1r). Likely it was by Vrajnāth Bhatt, a prominent Vallabhan philosopher from Jaipur (more in Section 2.2), who__moved to Kishangarh during the conflict for succession in Jaipur around the time of Jai Singh II’s death in 1743.10 He was acknowledged by the Bāṅkāvatī queen Brajdāsī as a major source of inspiration for her translation of Bhāgavata-purāna, which she started in 1748. Bhatt himself also composed __ of Nāgarīdās’ Śrīmadin Braj. One of his _Kavittas is included toward the end bhāgavat-parāyan-vidhi-prakāś, which was compiled after a ritual held during _ the monsoon of 1742 (Gupta 1965: 2.419, no. 27; discussed in Pauwels 2018: 60). Bhatt also added Kavittas as a fore- and afterword to his edition of __ non-religious poetry (Bangha 2005: 22–3; on the manuscripts, Ānandghan’s 8

9

10

This seems also akin to Bada as performance handbook in Maharashtra (Novetzke 2008: 100– 10), and the distinction between pantulipi vs punthi in Bengal (Orsini 2013: xiii n. 10, based on Subhadra Sanyal’s doctoral work). A good example is Ashwini Bhide-Deshpande in concert-conversation with Ingrid Le Gargasson and Jeanne Miramon-Bonhoure at the University Library of Languages and Civilizations (BULAC) in Paris in December 2018. Online: www.youtube.com/watch?v=kumFdSe_c0Q (17:30–34 mins), last accessed August 24, 2022; see also Le Gargasson 2022: 77–8. He may be the same as Kavīśvar Vrajnāth who is recorded to have earned 12 Rs, a month according to the Mahārājā Rāj Singh jī kā itihās register (on p. 139; according to Śaran 1972: _ 255–6, fn. 2). The entry does not provide a date, but presumably this was before Rāj Singh’s death in 1748.

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Appendix: Sources

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Bangha 2011: 19–20). It seems reasonable to speculate that Rasikbihārī started writing this notebook when Bhatt sojourned at the Kishangarhi court, some_ where around 1742 or 1743. The _very next poem she wrote down in her Bayāz is one celebrating Rādhā’s birth festival, which occurs in the monsoon season, on the eighth day of the bright half of Bhādon. This allows us to tentatively narrow down the date Rasikbihārī started the notebook to the monsoon season of 1743. About three-quarters into the notebook, on folio 89v, we find poems that articulate that Rasikbihārī had found refuge in Barsana (RB 168, 170, both translated in Section 5.2), which was probably in the company of Sāvant Singh, who settled there in 1752 (Pauwels 2017: 187–8). This indicates that the writing of the manuscript took place over an extended period of time; likely she started at the Rupnagar court, but kept the notebook with her as she moved to Braj and kept up writing her own and others’ poems over the decades, till in 1765 it was her turn to join Krishna’s world in the supramundane paradise of Braj.

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Index

abhisārikā nāyikā, 111 Agradās, 208, 213 Agrawala, V.S., 55, 56 āhlādinī śakti, 237 ālāp, 122, 127, 134, 160, 170, 178, 202, 217, 219, 221, 242 Ānandghan, 94, 95, 180, 182, 244, 257 and Banī-thanī, 86 and Sujān,_ 140 and Vrindāvandev Ācārya, 84 as innovator, 95 as redacted by Vrajnāth Bhatt, 77, 256 __ associated with Kishangarh court, 96 associated with Muhammad Shāh’s court, 95 in Kishangarh manuscript, 94, 160, 254 in Nāgarīdās’ Pad-muktāvalī, 178 intertextuality with Nāgarīdās and Rasikbihārī, 183–5 Khyāl compositions, 94 Savaiyā with rhyme banī, 85 Ānandghan, works Ishq-latā, 182 Ānandkumvarī, Cauhānī Queen of Jai _ I of Jaipur, 74 Singh Arām Jān, courtesan, 139 Ari Singh of Mewar, 80 auto-biographical pose, 8

deity, 92–3 desire for Vrindaban, 204 epitaph, 90, 214–16 guru, 90–2, 245 meaning of nickname, 2, 182 self-fashioning, 246–8 self-fashioning as Mīrā, 163–6 self-fashioning as Sītā, 207–10 settled in Braj, 204–7 testament, 211–14 Bāṅke Bihārī, Haridāsī deity, 91, 227 Bāṅke Brajalocana, deity of Bāṅkāvatī Queen, 94 Barsana, 133, 156, 204, 205, 207, 232 bhakti reform, 68, 245–6 Bhavānīdās, 34, 64, 66, 67, 68, 79, 104, 110, 238 Bihārī, 35, 74, 94 Bihārī Jī, Vrindaban deity, 92 Bihārīlāl, 160, 163, 241, 254 Birad Singh of Kishangarh, 80 Brajdāsī pen name of Bāṅkāvatī Queen, 6, 74 Brajdāsī, works Bhāgavata-māhātmya, 75 Brajdāsī-bhāgavat, 74, 75, 77, 85 Byāh-bihār, 75 Khyāl-saṅgrah, 75

Bahādur Shāh, Emperor, 67 Bahādur Singh of Kishangarh, 75, 89, 207, 222, 229 Bālakrishna Rāya Jī, deity, 221 Banī-thanī and_ Sāvant Singh. See Rasikbihārī and Nāgarīdās and Vrindāvandev Ācārya, 86–7 arrival in Kishangarh, 69 as courtesan, 9–10 as gāyan, 9, 70, 72 as pāsbān, 70, 81, 100, 108, 126, 134, 135, 161, 252 as Visnupriyā, 90 __

Caitanya Sampradāya, 37, 115 Chakravarty, N. P., 56 Chandni Chowk, 69, 70, 182 Chatrakumvarī, granddaughter of Sāvant _ Singh, 241 concubine power, 81, 139–40 concubine, in Rajput zanānā, 71 khavāsin, 71 pāsbān, 71 pātur, 35, 72, 74 Coomaraswamy, Anand Kent idealization Hindu woman, 41 painting and poetry, 40

274

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Index painting and spirituality, 40 Rajput Painting, 39 courtesan, 248–50 anxieties, 131 prestige, 149 cross-dressing, 13, 17, 89, 118, 154, 155 cyber-orientalism, 60 Dalcand, 34, 67, 238 Delhi sojourns, 93–5 Dhyānsāgar press, 223 Ḍhdhādī, 7, 74, 86, 241 _ _ Eric Charles Dickinson, attribution Kishangarh facial type, 43 discovery Kishangarh painting, 38–9 Kishangarh painting compared to Western art, 42–3 naming Portrait of Radha, 41–2 spirituality of Kishangarh painting, 39–41 Diwali, 116, 150, 155, 176 domestic slavery, 80 editors of Nāgarīdās’ works Faiyāz ‘Alī Khān, 251, See also Khān, Faiyāz ‘Alī Faiyāz ‘Alī Khān, advising Kiśorīlāl Gupta, 45 Kiśorīlāl Gupta, 45 Vrajvallabh Śaran, 46, 251 _ Fatehgarh, 229 Galta, 208, 209 gender ambiguity, 13, 14, 88, 118, 153, 244–5 Govinddev Ācārya, 146, 245 Haidar, Navina, 27, 197 harassment, 156, 157 harem scene paintings, 65–6 Hari Ācārya, abbot of Galta, 208 Haridāsa Sampradāya, 89, 90, 91, 92, 113, 116, 215, 245 Harivyāsdev Ācārya, 93, 219 Havelī-saṅgīt, 122, 219, 221, 232 heteroglossia, 182 Hindorā, 158, See also Jhūlanā Hīrālāl Sanādhya, 148, 228 _ 150, 174, 220 Hit Harivamś, Holi, 13, 72,_ 122, 134, 150, 156, 157, 158, 187, 195, 227 ihām, 180 _ Indian Mona Lisa compared with Italian, 4, 235–8 Indian portraiture, 238–40 conflation royalty and divinity, 36–8

275 interaurality, 243–4 intergenerational conflict, 108–10 interocularity, 20–1 Īshvarī Singh of Jaipur, 77, 216 islāh, 175, 255 _ _ 69, 82, 83, 90, 251 Ittilāq, Jahandar Shāh, Emperor, 139 Jai Singh I of Amer, 74 Jai Singh II of Jaipur, 67, 89, 91, 245, 246, 256 reforms, 132, 146 Janmāstamī (Krishna’s Birthday), 149, 150, 151 Janmās_ _tamī (Rādhā’s Birthday), 152, 204, 206 __ Javān Singh, works Jalvā-ye-shāhanshāh-e-ishq, 230, 233 Jaylāl Kavi, 76, 207, 227, 229 advising Bābū Rādhākrishnadās, 45 Jaylāl Kavi, works Chappan-bhog-candrikā, 227, 228, 252 Tavārīḳh, 70, 81, 95, 126, 131, 228, 247, 252 Jhūlanā festival, 150 Kabīr, 58, 129, 226 Kabitt (musical genre), 93, 175, 178, 186, 244 Kalyāna Rāya Jī, 149, 161, 222, 227, 228, 254 _ 123, 257 Kathak, Kavi-priyā, 35 Keśavdās, 6, 35, 36, 54, 195, 232 Khān, Faiyāz ‘Alī, 27 comparison Kishangarh painting with Western, 46 comparison with Mona Lisa, 47 dissertations, 45 late date of concubinage, 108 model for Lady with Veil, 46, 52 refutation model for Lady with Veil, 108 Khandalavala, Karl Jamshed, 44 comparison with Mona Lisa, 47 illustration attributed to Rasikbihārī poem, 194 poem for “Lady with Veil,” 49 Poet-Prince and Bani-thani, The, 47 publishing Dickinson’s work, 47 selection of Kishangarh painting for stamp, 58 spiritual love of Sāvant Singh and Banīthanī, 48 khanditā_ nāyikā, 168, 195 _ _ Khayāl (musical genre), 93, 140, 160, 178, 185, 186, 219 Khetanchi, Gopal Swami, 21, 234 Bani Thani, 23–6 Kishangarh paintings Banī-thanī, 103 _ Love, 115, 239 Boat of Bower of Quiet Passion, The, 198

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276

Index

Kishangarh paintings (cont.) Formidable Lady, A, 79 identifying Banī-thanī, 103–8 pitfalls, 100 _ Krishna as the Mountain Lifter, 201 Krishna Holding Radha’s Scarf, 191, 194 “Lady with Veil,” 1, 107, 240 as vāsaka-sajjā nāyikā, 35 matching poem, 48–50, 196 Mona Lisa comparison, 46, 47 purported model, 47–50 Night of Lamps, 116 Poet-Prince and Bani-thani, The, 47, 106, 210 portrait of a yogini, 32, 105 portrait of Nūr Jahān, 29 Portrait of Radha, 41, 57, 239 Prince Resting after a Hunt, 109 Queen Listening to Music, 65–7 Radha and Krishna’s Siesta in the Arbor, 198 Rāma and Sītā in the Dandaka forest, 210 Sāñjhī līlā, 155 Sāvant Singh and Banī-Thanī Cruising on _ Lake Gundalao, 118 Sawant Singh and Bani Thani in a Mango Grove, 99, 101 Śukadeva Reciting the Bhāgavata-purāna to King Parīksit/Sāvant Singh, 140 _ Kishangarh women_ authors, 74–6, 241–3 Kishangarh zanānā gurus, 76–8 queens, 70–1 Kiśordās, 91 lāja, 157 Lālkumvar, Mughal Empress, 29, 34, 131, 140, _ 192 Lālkumvarī, Sāvant Singh’s wife, 109 _ 118, 154 līlā-hāva, literary couple, 150, 159, 243–5 lithograph, 252 Rasikbihārī poems, 229–30 Mādho Singh of Jaipur, 77, 216 Madhurāstakam, 77 Māh Laqā_ _ Bāī “Cand”, 121, 140, 193, 247 Mān Singh of Kishangarh, 79 Marwārī, 7 Mīrā pose, 8, 165, 167, 213, 247 Mīrābāī, 8, 187 as part of canon, 227 as role model, 213 in Pad-prasaṅg-mālā, 168–9 intertextuality with Rasikbihārī and Nāgarīdās, 163–9

signature, 90 stamp, 58 Mīrābāī, poems attributed to, 166–7 Motā Mandir, Mumbai, 221 _ Muhammad Shāh, Emperor, 66, 67, 75, 93, 95, 102, 131, 140, 185, 200, 206 multilingualism, 7, 182, 241 multimedia events, 202–3 Muraqqa’-e Dehlī, 93 Nādir Shāh, 95 Nāgara-samuccayah, 223, 252 _ 91, 93, 107, 122, 207, Nāgarī Kuñj, viii, 81, 210, 212, 214, 233, 247 Nāgarī Pracārinī Sabhā, 45, 226, 253 _ Nāgarīdās pen name of Sāvant Singh, 2 Nāgarīdās, works Bhor-līlā, 198, 200 Bihār-candrikā, 112, 120 Braj-sār, 50 Chūtak-kavitt, 94, 176 _ Ishq-caman, 176 Kali-vairāgya, 254 Mīrā mood, 166 Pad-muktāvalī, 91, 122, 160, 174, 254 Pad-muktāvalī, manuscript, 161 Pad-prasaṅg-mālā, 169, 228 Rām-carit-mālā, 208 redaction of poems, 176 reference to banī-thanī, 111, 114, 200 Rekhtā, 128–9 _ Sāñjhī ke kavitt, 154 Sāñjhī-phūl-bīnani-samaĩ-samvād, 154 _ Śrīmad-bhāgavat-parāyan-vidhi-prakāś, 78, _ 256 Tīrthānand, 92, 134, 156, 204, 208 Utsav-mālā, 50, 91, 117, 149–60, 208, 229 Vrindāban-abhilās-pūran-pad-prabandh, 203 _ wedding night songs, 170 wedding songs, 133, 172–3 Nārāyandev Ācārya, 82 _ Narharidev, 90 National Museum, Delhi history, 53–5 Kishangarh collection, 57 naukā vihāra, 113, 118, 119 Nihālcand, 101, 102, 238 collaboration with Sāvant Singh, 1, 32, 40, 53 hallmarks style, 115 identification of patron with Krishna, 37 influenced by Mughal painting, 58 possibly inspired by Banī-thanī, 52, 116, 118 technique compared with _Da Vinci, 237

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Index Nihālcand, paintings Boat of Love, 115 Bower of Quiet Passion, The (attr.), 198 dating by Haidar, 197 Flirtation on the Riverbank (attr.), 130 hinting at romance, 116 “Lady with Veil” (attr.), 21, 41, 43 Līlā-Hāva (attr.), 117 matching with Nāgarīdās poems, 50, 115, 116, 198 Night of Lamps (attr.), 116 Poet-Prince and Bani-thani, The (attr.), 106 Radha and Krishna’s Siesta in the Arbor (attr.), 198 Sāñjhī līlā (attr.), 51, 155 Sawant Singh and Bani Thani in a Mango Grove (attr.), 99 Nij-mat-siddhānt, 91 nikuñja-līlā, 113, 210 Nimbārka Sampradāya, 45, 62, 77, 82, 89, 91, 92, 95, 96, 113, 205, 215, 219, 228, 229, 230, 245, 251 Nouvelles de l’Inde, 21, 23, 62, 234 Nritya Gopāla Jī, Kishangarhi deity, 228, 230 orientalism, 22 Panaghata, 130, 156, 157, 195 _ Pandia, Pandit Mohanlāl Vishnulāl, 44, 135, 219, 226 pāni-grahana, 171 _ _ parakīyā, 132 pastoral, 43 Phūlracnā festival, 150, 158 picture practice, 240 pilgrimage to Braj, 89–93 Pīro, courtesan, 164, 193, 209, 247 Pītāmbardev, 91 portraiture Mughal women, 27–9 Rajput women, 30–6 Punjabi, 7, 8, 17, 129, 167, 178, 179, 180, 182, 185, 188, 193, 241, 244, 247 Purohit Brajlāl, 147 Pūrvarāga, 178 Pushkar Lake, 75 Qudsia Begum, 66, 102, 131 Rādhākrishnadās, Bābū, 44, 226 on Rasikbihārī as author, 227 on Rasikbihārī’s sectarian affiliation, 227 Rādhāvallabha Sampradāya, 220 Rāga-mālā, 54

277 Rāj Singh of Kishangarh, 67, 93, 109 Bāṅkāvatī Queen (patroness of Rasikbihārī), 68 Kācchvāhī Queen (mother of Sāvant Singh), 68 Rajput zanānā, 81–4 gāyan, 72 gurus, 81–4 musicians, 72 poetry, 74 power, 78–81 religion, 245–6 widows, 79 Rām Singh I of Amer, 74 Rām-navamī, 208 Rāsa-līlā (Krishna’s Round-dance), 77, 113, 115, 150 Rasika Bihārī, deity, 229 Rasika Bihārī, Rasikdev’s deity, 90, 92 Rasikbihārī durbar performance, 142–9 inspiration for Rekhtā style, 177 pen name of Banī-thanī, 2 performative style,_122, 150, 219–20 public recognition, 147–9 Rasikbihārī and Nāgarīdās, duets boating, 119–20 Kavitta-Savaiyā, 145–7 Punjabi, 180 Rajasthani, 87–8 seasonal, 149–60 wedding songs, 169–73 Rasikbihārī and Nāgarīdās, joined chāp, 204 Rasikbihārī and Vrindāvandev Ācārya, duets Punjabi, 180–1 Rajasthani, 86–7 Rasikbihārī, works Bayāz, 78, 94, 175, 257 Persian poem, 129 Bayāz as diary, 121, 131–4 Bayāz, as performance preparation, 124, 255 Diwali song, 117 feudal songs, 125–6 khanditā, 167–8 __ lithograph, 150, 223 matching paintings, 117, 154, 194, 196, 199, 201 Mīrā mood, 164 morning mood, 161–3 Panaghata poems, 130 Rāsa-līlā_ poem, 123 redaction of poems, 175 Sant-style poem, 129 songs of deception, 127–8 songs of obstruction, 126, 130 wedding songs, 132–3, 135, 172, 220

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Index

Rasikdev, 90 Rasik-priyā, 6, 195 Rasik-trayī, 174 Rāslīlā, performance genre, 94, 123 reconstructing the romance concubinage, 131–5 loyalty, 110–11 obstacles, 108–12 painting, 115–19 pitfalls, 100–1 poetry, 121–2 Rekhtī, 177, 181, 186 Rupnagar, xii, 75, 79, 82, 86, 118, 150, 206, 207, 222, 228, 253 sakhī, 4, 89, 115, 116, 118, 155, 186 Salemabad, 11, 75, 77, 79, 82, 83, 84, 94, 178, 229, 230, 233, 245, 251 samādhi (memorial of Banī-thanī), _ 90, 92 Samāj-gāyan, 122, 150, 217, 218, 219, 232 Sāñjhī festival, 51, 150, 153 Sardār Singh, son of Sāvant Singh, 75, 79, 109 satī, 81, 213, 216 Satsaī, 35, 54, 74, 94, 96, 160, 178, 241, 254 Sāvant Singh and Banī-thanī, 2, See also Rasikbihārī and _ Nāgarīdās collaboration with Nihālcand, 1, 53 dates, 1 delegates Rupnagar to son, 80 loss of throne, 206–7 retirement to Braj, 204, 207 rivalry with father, 108–10, 240 visit to Galta, 208 Shārdul Singh of Kishangarh, 226, 228, 230 Shiv Singh, half-brother of Sāvant Singh, 206 Shivlāl, Pandit Śrīdhar, 223 Sītā imagery, 157, 193, 207 Sītārām, 118, 194 slavery, domestic, 248 Śrī Bhatt jī, 85, 219 __ 82, 84 Śrī Jī Kuñj, Śrī Nātha Jī, 37, 40, 228 stamp, Radha–Kishangarh, 57–60 Sujān, courtesan, 95, 140, 179 Sundarkumvarī (daughter of Bāṅkāvatī Queen), 71,_ 76, 107, 241

Sundarkumvarī, works _ 76 Neh-nidhi, Sūrdās, xiii, 58 svakīyā, 132, 134, 246 Svāmī Haridās, 56, 89, 174, 257 Thumri, xiv, 13, 123, 124, 126, 256 _ Tulsīdās, 58, 226 Valī Deccani, 177 Vallabha Sampradāya, 37, 40, 45, 62, 77, 81, 116, 219, 222, 227, 228, 230, 243, 245, 251 varnāśrama dharma, 212 _ vāsaka-sajjā nāyikā, 35, 41 Vinaicand “Carandās”, 148 Vīr Singh, half-brother of Sāvant Singh, 68, 80 virahinī nāyikā, 35 Visnupriyā, 89 __ Vrajnāth Bhatt, 77, 95, 96, 245, 256 Vrajnāth Bha_t_t, works Sāhitya-sār,__ 77 Vrind, 228 Vrind, works Satya-sarūp-rūpak, 67 Śriṅgār-śiksā, 74 _ 207, 216, 227 Vrindaban, 147, Vrindāvandev Ācārya, 241, 244 and Banī-thanī, 86–7, 96 _ as guru, 77 as music teacher, 84 as reformer, 82, 246 as wedding broker, 82 dates, 16 depicted as Śukadeva, 140 experiments, 185 guru of Kishangarh Queen, 245 in painting, 84 succession, 89, 146 visit to Rupnagar, 83 Vrindāvandev Ācārya, works Gītāmrit-gaṅgā, 84, 180 poems on Rāma and Sītā’s wedding, 209 Punjabi, 180 Rajasthani, 96 widow, 75, 166, 213, 247 women self-fashioning, 191–2

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