Kalapurna learned from the Kerala king where to find the Lion-Rider’s temple. He went there, worshiped the goddess, and searched through all the temple alcoves until he found the vina he had left there in his previous life. He took it, more than satisfied.
Now he headed north. All the kings en route gave him the jewels he wanted and paid homage. He marched against the king of Ghurjara, about whose pride and power he had heard. The latter came to fight with a huge army that turned the skies to dust. The armies clashed to the beat of the drums, and soon all space was filled with sounds—thang thing khang khing. Kalapurna saw that the enemy forces were no less mighty than his. His eyes blazing red with anger, he swiftly drove his chariot into the front, his arrows swirling like a blinding storm. The Ghurjara met his arrows with equal force, but soon he found himself without his charioteer, without his flag, without his strength, without his courage. He had no choice but to give the king the jewels of his queens.
Kalapurna moved on, preceded by news of his great victories. The kings of Kuru and Kasi came to serve him and to say to him, “Ever since Krishna died, who else is there, except you, to care for the world?” Kalapurna had already heard that Krishna’s city of Dvaraka had been drowned in the ocean. He asked the people there to tell him more about what happened. He was grieved—for now he could no longer see his old music teacher from his former life. Still, longing for him, he went near the spot where Krishna’s palace had been and bowed deep in respect.
He went on to defeat the Malava and Barbara kings in a brilliant military campaign. The Huna warlords, hearing at a great distance of Kalapurna’s victories, promptly sent him all their queens’ jewels and other fine items with a humble note. Now Kalapurna turned east, toward the Himalayas. The King of Pragjyotisha, who had a very inflated view of his own strength, thought that at last he had found a worthy match; so fearlessly, eagerly, he went to battle against him. Space turned gold from the light reflected off the spears and jeweled banners of his vast army. The two armies smashed into one another; conches blared, drums pounded, trumpets sounded war calls, but all these blasts were drowned out by the twang of Kalapurna’s bow. Dense volleys of arrows, flowering like fireworks, sapped the enemy’s resistance. It was like breaking a dam.
In the Pragjyotisha army chariots came apart. Flags were torn in tatters. The archers were thrown helter-skelter. The drivers were killed. Elephants were hacked to pieces. The mahouts fell to the ground. Horses died. The cavalry bit the dust. Saddles were pulverized. The infantry were shattered. Shields, swords, and spears were smashed. Jewels were hurled to a distance. Blood flowed freely, with flesh and broken bones floating on it. Everyone watching experienced terror, amazement, and revulsion. Kalapurna’s army roared in victory, seeing the enemy destroyed. But the Pragjyotisha king rallied the forces he had left and hurled them into the battle, while he maneuvered his own chariot toward Kalapurna. His close friend, Candabahu, moved ahead of him to engage the king. Arrows followed so fast on one another that they seemed to be one continuous shaft in the hands of the two warriors. As the fight went on, Kalapurna, becoming weary, called to mind his guru for archery, Svabhava the Siddha, who had given him his weapons. “How can I defeat this tireless foe?” he wondered as he addressed his bow and arrows: “Can you tolerate this unending struggle with a rather ordinary bow and arrows? This is the time for you to show your special power.” With a loud “hum,” he shot an arrow, skillfully aimed, at Candabahu, who fell dead to the ground as his army scattered in terror.
Seeing Candabahu fall, the Pragjyotisha king surrendered to Kalapurna and handed over the jewels of his queens. The kings of Kosala and Magadha, terrified by this news, arrived of their own accord to give the son of Manistambha whatever he wanted.
[ Homecoming ]
So now Kalapurna had conquered the world and all its kings. With jewels from the crowns of all their wives, he returned, happy and triumphant with no rivals left, to his city. Bards and court genealogists sang his heroic feats.
The soldiers became more and more excited as they neared home. “If we walk just a little faster, soon we’ll be resting in our own houses. Move it!” cried some.
“Just beyond that hill we’ll see the golden palaces of our city.”
“See how lovely these woods appear, where the rivers Ganga and Sarayu meet.”
“We’ve wandered over the entire earth, and nowhere did we see anything so beautiful.”
“Look! There’s the gate and the golden wall of the city.”
“Thank God we’re back in Beyond-the-Smooth-Neck Town, our hometown.”
Meanwhile, their friends and relatives were already coming out to greet them. As they caught sight of everything dear to them, one thing after another, the soldiers forgot the strain of the long march. They passed through the old part of town, where they marvelled at the still bright-as-new mansion that Romapada had built for his son-in-law, Rishyasringa. “It could have been built today!”
“And here’s the rivulet that Karna’s son, Vrishasena, jumped across on his horse. In those days, that was considered quite a feat. Today, any old horse in this city could do it.”4
“A couple of miles to the east is that rich place, Kasarapura. Remember how Satvadatma built it himself? Remember how he crowned Kalapurna king of that city and became his minister?”
In their joy at coming home, unmindful of the long road they were walking, they pointed to each familiar landmark and told its story. The townspeople stepped aside to watch them enter. Drums and conches and trumpets were thundering as the resplendent Kalapurna re-entered his palace. The women of the city watched him through the latticed windows of the high, white-plastered buildings, which looked like the tall white waves of the Ganges with its golden lotus flowers.
One woman with a long dark braid
rushed out of the house to get a glimpse
of him. In her haste, she tied her belt
around her neck and was trying to get her necklace
around her waist, but it wouldn’t reach.
Holding the two ends in her hands on either side,
close to her navel, she stood there stunned,
as if offering herself
to him.
Another one came, retying the knot of her sari
that had come undone as she was making love.
Her bodice was between her feet, and she was
covering her breasts with her husband’s dhoti,
the first thing she could find.
One had just finished her bath. She quickly threw on
a red silk sari and tied up her hair in a red-ochre towel.
From a distance, she looked like a Yogini
with matted hair. In her rush to see the king,
the pearl pendant between her breasts
danced and trembled, like the soft light of truth
pulsing from her heart.
That was how Kalapurna came home to Beyond-the-Smooth-Neck Town. It was the height of royal brilliance, a feast for the eyes of all who lived there. He gave the incomparable vina to Abhinavakaumudi and ordered his minister to have the anklets made for Madhuralalasa.
Happy, Madhuralalasa was dressing herself in the new ornaments when, in the course of conversation, she heard from her companions about the necklace that Kalapurna had given her when she was a baby. She wanted to put it on that day, because it was the very first gift she had received from her husband, so she ordered it to be brought to her. But it no longer fit her neck. She therefore had new gems added to the chain on either side of the central stone, so that the latter would rest upon her heart. Taking her fan, she went to see her husband.
Satvadatma also entered the court with the pair of anklets in his hand. The king gestured to him with his eyes, ordering him to place them before her. “Here,” said Satvadatma, “are the anklets made from the gems of all the queens in the world, whose husbands surrendered to you.” Turning to her, bowing low to her, he said, “Please place them on your feet.”
“
Don’t bow to me,” she said. “Stop. I should bow to you. You are my mother’s brother. Until today, we didn’t know this.” And she bowed to him.
His whole body shaking, he stepped back. “It’s the truth,” she said, rising to her feet. “Don’t back away.”
At that moment, Kalapurna smiled and looked at him. “Whatever this woman says must be true,” he said. “Ask her what she means. Remember you asked her before, when she was a baby, about your real name and family. Maybe today the answer has come to her. Ask her again. We’ll find out.” Looking at her gently, the king said, “Did that special knowledge you had as a child come back to you again? How can this man be your mother’s brother? And how is that you can tell us today when before you could not answer his question? I’ve always regretted that I didn’t ask you then, when you were a baby, how you had that kind of knowledge. So tell me now.”
“I’ll tell you all,” she said, fanning her husband with her fan.
[ The Story of the Necklace ]
“This man was once the king of Maharastra. His name was Sugraha. My mother, Rupanubhuti, is his elder sister. Because of the nobility of his family, all kings wanted very much to give him their daughters in marriage and sent him letters to this effect. He, however, couldn’t make up his mind which to accept and which to reject, and for a long time he dithered. Eventually, these kings became offended and advanced against him with their armies on one pretext or another. He thought he would do better fighting them from outside the city, so he mounted his famous horse and left. When the kings found that he was no longer in the city, they went home. ‘What glory is there in attacking a kingdom that has no king?’ they thought.
“But Sugraha didn’t know they had left. He was wandering far away in a wilderness, wondering how to conquer his enemies. Guided by the way the future must unfold, he thought to himself, ‘I was disturbed by the sudden attack and left the city alone and in haste without even thinking of telling anybody. I wonder what happened to the city? I wonder what happened to my subjects? And what are my enemies up to? I wish I had a way of knowing. I was afraid of being followed, so I kept changing my route, over and over. Now even my own people can’t find me. And if I were to try to find my own way back, there’s the danger of being captured. It won’t work. How lucky it would be if I could only know everything while sitting in one place! Life is worth living only if I have that power. What use are other forms of power? They’re all a waste of effort.’
“So, determined to achieve omniscience, he rode north toward Brindavana, on the banks of the Yamuna River, where young Krishna is always present. He focused his thoughts on the god who lies on his back on the banyan leaf.5 And the god appeared in his infant form, pressing his two little feet to his face with his hands, sucking on his toe: the image Sugraha had in his mind had emerged into external form. ‘Ask whatever you want,’ said the god, but Sugraha was dumbfounded and could think of nothing. After a while, he pulled himself together, and, folding his hands in respect upon his forehead, he said, ‘I could not speak because of this overwhelming happiness. But what I want from you is the gift of omniscience.’
“The god pulled the tiny necklace from his neck and gave it to him. ‘A person who wears this necklace will have omniscience and eloquence as long as the central jewel touches the area of that person’s heart. However, this necklace will be lost if the person causes distress to a Brahmin.’ With this, the god disappeared.
“Carrying the necklace, Sugraha wandered into a temple in that wilderness. There he saw, near the entrance, a certain sculpture of a woman. Her breasts were full and voluptuous, her waist thin enough to be held between two fingers, her cheeks sleek as a mirror and alight with a smile, her face more beautiful than anything in the known world. He was admiring this image from close up when an ascetic turned up. This man, dressed in ochre, exhausted by his journey, seated himself in the same sculpted pavilion of the temple; he was murmuring to himself, ‘Hari, Hari.’ Then he saw the stunning image of the woman, sculpted from rock and plaster. ‘Oho. This sculptor did better than God himself could have done.’ Shaking his head, he wondered, ‘Are there any women in the world as beautiful as this? Hard to believe. But an ascetic like me shouldn’t look at her.’ He turned his head away.
“And back. He was already overtaken by passion . . .”
Madhuralalasa hesitated a little at this point. Satvadatma, seeing this, withdrew on some pretext or other, out of propriety. But the king looked at his wife’s face and said, “What happened next? I’m curious.”
Madhuralalasa continued. “What more is there to say? The ascetic, unable to control himself any longer, went and embraced the sculpture rapturously. He hadn’t noticed Sugraha, who was watching him nearby. At this point, Sugraha couldn’t hold back and giggled.
“The ascetic heard him but pretended he hadn’t heard. He wanted to cover up what he had done, as if it were only a certain idiosyncrasy of his, so, thinking quickly, he went and embraced each one of the sculpted images in the pavilion, beginning with those at the entrance. He bowed to them one by one and walked around them. But Sugraha knew this was all pretence. He said, laughing at him, ‘You can go on like this, but I know what you did in the beginning, and I’ll never forget it.’ The ascetic was highly distressed, so he cursed him: ‘Whatever you remember, from your birth up to this moment, will be lost to you.’
“Now Sugraha was alarmed. He fell at the ascetic’s feet and begged to be released from the curse. The Yogi said, ‘When this secret of mine comes out, somewhere or other, your memory will come back to you—for by that time, it won’t cause any displeasure.’ And he went away. From that moment on, because of the curse, Sugraha totally forgot everything that had been in his mind.
“He also forgot to pick up the necklace that he had put aside, in a clean spot, only a minute before. God had, after all, told him that the necklace would be lost if he caused distress to a Brahmin. But although he had heard this, he still caused pain to that Brahmin—and lost the necklace. No one can escape destiny. To mention another person’s failings is itself a failing. Even a good person may have the occasional fault, but it’s never right to talk about it.
“Driven by fate, Sugraha left that place and wandered from one lovely land to another. He had forgotten his name, his family, his entire past, like a person who has gone crazy, like a little child. Everything he saw amazed him. He lost the names of things, their qualities, and words for actions; he lacked even the slightest idea of how to use them. Little by little, in a new way, there arose in him, as for a child, the ability to distinguish things, actions, attributes, and abstract categories, through observing older people of different classes in their various activities. In the course of time, he became an expert at handling things. He knew everything except his family of birth and his name. He met with no one who knew of them—until today.
“Wandering around, he happened upon a forest area at the confluence of the Ganga and the Sarayu Rivers. At that time, Kasarapura had lost its king. The ministers, the nobility, and the citizens needed to choose a king, so they decorated an elephant and put a garland on its trunk; the person the elephant garlanded would become king. This was the pact they made before god. They set the elephant loose and followed it until it cast the garland around Sugraha’s neck. Even before the elephant’s choice, the ministers and others, who were quite helpless without a king, felt a certain strength and knowledge return when they saw Sugraha’s face. Reassured by both these signs—the elephant’s choice and their own intuition—they mounted him on the elephant and led him into the town, where they crowned him king. Since his mere appearance brought them strength (satva), they named him Satvadatma, ‘the one whose person (ātma) gives (da) strength (satva).’ Since no one knew his real name and family of birth, he became known in the world by this name. He enjoyed the pleasures of being king in Kasarapura, where he met with your parents, Highness, that is Sumukhasatti and Manistambha, and, while serving them, became your minister. I told you all those storie
s at length while I was a little baby,” said Madhuralalasa. “Remember?
“After he became minister, he conquered Angadesa and built this new city of Beyond-the-Smooth-Neck Town, where he crowned you king. You know all that. You asked me why I wasn’t able to tell him before about his name and story, and why today I am able to, and what the source was for all this knowledge. I’ll tell you. The necklace that Sugraha forgot in the temple was picked up by a certain Brahmin from Mathura who happened by. He brought it home and for many years worshiped it as a deity. Then he decided the necklace was the right gift for Krishna, so he took it to Dvaraka and presented it to God. Krishna graciously accepted the gift and offered him whatever he desired. Later, when Manikandhara composed a daṇḍaka poem in his honor, Krishna was pleased and gave him the necklace. Manikandhara took it as a great honor, but because the necklace belonged to the god in his form as a baby, it clung to Manikandhara’s neck and didn’t reach down to his chest—so the jewel that had the quality of imparting awareness never touched his heart. In the end, Manikandhara gave it to Alaghuvrata, who gave it to you, Kalapurna. You kindly gave it to me. When the jewel touched my heart, when I was but a baby, total knowledge came to me. Great king! In your previous life, you were Manikandhara, who received this necklace from Krishna. In this birth, you received it from the Brahmin Alaghuvrata and gave it to me. When I rolled over, as a child, the jewel shifted away from my heart, so my awareness was lost. That was when this minister of yours asked his question. That’s why I wasn’t able at that time to tell the name and family of Satvadatma.
The Sound of the Kiss Page 21