Finding Radha

by Namita Gokhale

  One of the sadhus shouted at the women, ‘Get out! Get out, you demons! Do you think there is no one to help her?’

  Immediately all the old hags disappeared inside the pigeon holes.

  The sadhu rebuked Saudamini, ‘Did I not tell you that you should not venture alone to these places? These old women can devour people. Come, I will see you on your way. And let me tell you another thing. These women are very unfortunate. I am told that you have come with the intention of making Braj your permanent home. Give some thought to the welfare of these women whenever you have the opportunity.’

  Saudamini wiped the perspiration off her neck and face as soon as she stepped on to the main road of Gopinath Bazaar. The bhajan ashram here had not yet closed its doors and an old widow was standing in the middle of a group singing bhajans to the accompaniment of small cymbals. A sentry sitting at the doorway, whose function it was to keep the accounts, was silently chanting the Lord’s name with prayer beads. Ever so often he would open his eyes and observe the radheshyamis, to see whether they were all really singing. These women were compelled to sing even if they were starving. They had to sing the Lord’s praises as loud as they could, even if they were on the verge of choking. Saudamini noticed that, although they sang without stopping, very often their eyes would turn to the line of vegetable vendors. She noticed that the only buyers of the rotting, dried-up vegetables that were heaped on one side were the poor radheshyamis.

  Saudamini returned home and entered her dark room again. She was trying her best to forget her loneliness, but it was not easy. Sometimes she would scrutinize her own body. She had a lovely, soft, young body. Even the mental imbalance and torture of the past seven years had not been able to leave any permanent mark on this lovely body. Try as she might, she could not come to terms with the condition of her life or her situation. Was there anyone else, she wondered, who had suffered as she had, who had been compelled to face a situation like hers?

  14

  KRISHNA: THE PLAYFUL DIVINE

  PAVAN K. VARMA

  IN POPULAR PSYCHE, Krishna and Radha became the universal symbol for the lover and the beloved. Krishna was the ideal nayaka (hero) and Radha the ideal nayika (heroine). The use of the word ideal should not be interpreted to mean a monotone image. On the contrary, they were the ideal precisely because their shringara-leela could accommodate a thousand variations. All lovers could not but reflect in their own personality some part (ansh) of the divine love between the two; conversely, the two incorporated in themselves the personality of all lovers. The canvas of their love was seamless, a painting which amplified and mutated itself in a myriad of reflections. For this reason, but also as a facade for the expression of human prurience, an invocation for their name became a password to sanction the description of all contact between the sexes.

  Keshav Das (1555–1617) in his celebrated work Rasikapriya does precisely this. He was the court poet of Raja Madhukar Shah of Orchha, in present-day Madhya Pradesh. Rai Parbin, the accomplished courtesan of Orchha, was his mistress. The Rasikapriya, written in Hindi, was a treatise on erotics. Using traditional tools—rhetoric and verse—Keshav Das systematically analysed the kinds of heroes and heroines, their moods and emotions, their meeting places and their personality dispositions. In basic content, his work was not entirely original. Bharata’s Natyashastra, a seminal treatise on dramaturgy dating back to perhaps as early as 100 BC, had classified nayikas into eight categories and dealt with the essential bhavas (emotions) and specific emotions of women (havas). Bharata had also discussed the ten stages of a woman’s love, the meeting places of lovers and the functions of female messengers. Keshav Das elaborated on this framework. But the real originality of his contribution lay in the fact that he made Krishna and Radha the all-purpose models to illustrate the content of his work. The structure of the Rasikapriya essays a nayika, or a situation, or an emotion through a doha (verse) remarkable for its lyrical brevity, and then follows this with an illustrative example. In these instances, almost without exception, it is Krishna and Radha who are the nayaka and nayika.

  For Keshav Das it was not enough to treat shringara as a general category. He sought to desegregate its elements. In doing this he used the scientist’s tool of clinical observation, and apparently seemed to rather enjoy the very process of classification and the giving of labels to each constituent so identified. Shringara, according to him, was of two types: samyoga (love-in-union) and viyoga (love-in-separation). Both samyoga and viyoga could be either secret (prachchanna) or manifested (prakasa). A nayaka was defined as a young and handsome man, proud but sensitive and refined, and accomplished in the art of lovemaking. He could be any of four types: anukula (sincere and devoted), dakshina (one who distributes his affection equally among his lady loves), satha (cruel and unreliable) and dhrishta (shameless). Women were of four basic types: padmini (lotus-like), chitrini (variegated), sankhini (conch-like) and hastini (elephant-like). The padmini woman exuded the fragrance of the lotus from her body, had a golden complexion and was slim and beautiful. She was intelligent but bashful, cheerful but not wanton. Needless to say, for Keshav Das, the best illustration for the padmini nayika was Radha. Nayikas were also classified according to age: up to sixteen (bala), from sixteen to thirty (taruni), from thirty to fifty-five (praudha) and over fifty-five (vriddha). Depending on their relation to the nayaka, nayikas could be svakiya (one’s own), parakiya (another’s) and samanya (anybody’s). In terms of her experience in love, she could be innocent (mugdha), experienced (pragaltha) or average (madhya). All these categories then had many further sub-classifications.

  Keshav Das’s most delightful chapter is on the places and situations in which lovers could have occasion to meet. The house of a female servant, friend or foster mother, an empty house and the forest were places where lovers had their first meetings. A rendezvous could also take place in a situation of fear, on the pretext of an invitation to a meal, in sickness, at a festival or during water sports. He illustrates each of these scenarios, excerpts of which follow:

  Meeting at a female servant’s house (Dasi Ghar Milan)

  Disguised as a girl, Krishna fearlessly joined the Vraja maidens in their sports at night. Cleverly he managed to play with Radha . . . and threw his arms around her back. Running around and hiding with her in the game of hide-and-seek, he satisfied his heart’s desire and played innumerable tricks of love. Thus in the courtyard of Dasi’s house did Krishna convert the game of hide-and-seek into the game of love.

  Meeting in a situation of fear (Atibhaya Milan)

  The house of Vrishabhanu, Radha’s father, caught fire. People of Vraja ran to the scene and climbed on to the walls all round. There was noise and confusion everywhere. Taking advantage of such a situation, Krishna went into the house, put the mynah and the parrot out and roused the women of the household, who rushed out. Radha he roused last of all, and kissed her eyes, chin and cheeks. Her body, resembling a garland of champak, clung to his bosom.

  Meeting at a festival (Utsava Milan)

  To celebrate the birthday of Balarama, the beauties of Vraja, with limbs of gold, gathered in the house of Nanda to keep vigil for the night. There was such a crowd that not a corner of the house was left unoccupied. The women sang and danced and played on musical instruments . . . In this situation, Radha slept in the bed of Krishna: he came and laid himself there, as if it was the night of his honeymoon.

  Meeting on an excuse of illness (Vyadhi Miss Milan)

  Having diagnosed the cause of the disease, offerings of gifts were made to placate the evil stars. Medicines were given but the disease showed no signs of abatement. ‘Hurry up, O Krishna! You have been called, the condition of Radha is precarious. The pain of which you cured her last time has recurred.’

  Meeting on the pretext of an invitation (Nimantrana Miss Milan)

  Yashoda invited Radha to supper at her house . . . After the meal, chewing a betel, Radha went upstairs to see the house and encountered Krishna. Seeing the hand
some Krishna, she ran back, but he, taking courage, caught her by her snake-like tresses. Taking her into his lap, he caressed her and did what he liked. And then, having taken off her nose ring, he rubbed her face with saffron to conceal the marks of his passionate love and let her go.

  Meeting at water sports (Jala Vihara Milan)

  Every day in the summer month, cow-boys and cow-girls play in the water of the Yamuna. Cow-girls are on one side of the river, and Krishna with a crowd of cow-boys is on the other. The two groups of lovers dive into the water like fish, and having met each other underwater, they emerge on their own side of the river. In this manner they satisfy their longings with craft, apparently remaining away from each other.1

  Radha and Krishna were also the actors in Keshav Das’s explication of the ‘external indications of emotion’—havas—that are manifested in love-in-union. He enumerated thirteen havas produced by the love of Radha and Krishna. When the over-burgeoning of love made Radha and Krishna oblivious to those around them, they displayed heta-hava; when they sported, mimicking each other’s manners or exchanging their clothes, they were in the grip of Leela Hava; when they attracted each other through their speech of laughter or looks or gait, they evoked lalita-hava; when the love of one for the other produced arrogance in either, it was the prevalence of mada-hava; when in sheer delight of rushing to meet each other, they got muddled in their action, they manifested vibhrama-hava; when at the time of meeting, modesty overtook one or both, it was the play of vikrita-hava; sometimes one gesture or glance could indicate a silent invitation; this produced a flutter of delight—vilasa-hava; the arousal in love of several contrary emotions all at once—such as anger and joy, desire and pride—reproduced kilakinchita-hava; when indifference to each other was feigned, it was the influence of bibboka-hava; when they met in attire starkly simple, shorn of any ornamentation, they demonstrated vichchitti-hava; when erotic feelings enhanced by dalliance were suddenly required to be arrested or camouflaged, the outcome was mottayita-hava; resorting to simulated quarrels to enrich the texture of love-play created kuttamita-hava; finally, a secret love message from one to the other in the form of a symbol or a riddle, when understood, gave birth to bodhaka-hava.

  Keshav Das’s illustrations of each have shown a delightfully fertile imagination. For instance, the meaning of vibhrama-hava is brought out by the example of Radha wearing her necklace on her waist, her anklets on her wrist and collyrium on her cheeks when, on hearing of Krishna’s sudden arrival, she rushes out to meet him. Bibboka-hava—the affectation of indifference—is illustrated thus:

  Aware of Krishna’s approach, Radha lay down, feigning sleep. Not wanting to rouse her, Krishna sat silently by her side. Taking courage, he touched her leg, which caused the hair of her body to stand up on end. When he proceeded to unlace the cord of her ghaghra, Radha got up, startled and—though recognizing him—upbraided him in annoyance like this: ‘O ill-bred cow-boy, you graze the cows the whole day, how dare you approach another woman’s bed at night?’2

  Kuttamita-hava—the simulation of a quarrel—is brought out through a description by Radha’s sakhi:

  Simulating anger and with obstinacy she (Radha) walked away, having turned her back on him. He (Krishna) leapt and held her again, although she struggled hard to free herself from his hold. He now pricked her flesh with his nails and teeth, and fondled her bosom, treating her worse than an enemy and transgressing all limits.

  ‘Now he sits by her side, giving her betel leaves to eat.

  Perverse are the ways of love, O sakhi.’3

  It is obvious that the nayika rather than the nayaka was the real focus of the Rasikapriya. For this very reason, it was Radha more than Krishna who emerged as the central figure of the work. The Rasikapriya’s eightfold classification of nayikas (ashtanayika) on the basis of their emotional state in love appears to be but an attempt to sketch a multifaceted elaboration of Radha’s personality as profiled in the many moods of her love with Krishna. The eight nayikas described are: svadhinapatika (one whose lover is devoted to her), utkanthita (one who yearns for her lover), vasaksajja (one who waits in readiness with the bed made for the return of her lover), abhisandhita (one who allows a quarrel to stand between herself and her lover), khandita (one wronged by an unfaithful lover), proshitapatika (one whose lover is abroad and has not returned at the expected time), vipralabdha (one who waits the whole night for a prefixed rendezvous but whose lover does not turn up) and abhisarika (one who boldly sets out, braving all odds, to meet her lover).

  The defining characteristic of each of the above nayikas could be found in Radha. She could be any one in exclusion, but she could also be all. The motif here is of an eight-spoke wheel, revolving on a single pivot: Krishna. It was in relation to Krishna and as a consequence of her love for him that her personality underwent mutation: secure in his love she was the svadhinapatika-nayika; wronged by him she was the khandita-nayika; pining for his love she was the utkanthita-nayika; waiting for him she was the vasaksajja, or (depending on the circumstances) the vipralabdha or proshitapatika-nayika; angry with him, she was the abhisandhita woman; and, when, unable to bear the pangs of separation any more, she set out boldly to meet him, she was the abhisarika.

  15

  RADHA IN NAZRUL GEETI

  REBA SOM

  Shyam! If only you were Radha

  Like me you would have chanted, day and night, the name of Shyam

  The burning anguish left by Krishna’s scandals

  Would then appear as malati garlands

  And yearning for Krishna’s love would

  Make you pray, life after life, for a return to Brajdham.

  How devoid of compassion is the music of your flute

  How cruel is your failure to understand the women of Braj!

  Like the tears you have reduced me to

  Could I but make you weep too!

  Only then would you realize

  The endless heartburn born of a guru’s neglect1

  THIS REMARKABLE SONG, replete with all the nuances of a lover’s quarrel, was penned by Kazi Nazrul Islam. Born in 1899 in Churulia, a village in the Burdwan district of West Bengal, Nazrul was the son of an imam of a mosque. Raised in poverty he was named ‘dukhumian’, the sorrowful one. Early in life he joined leto, a folk musical group, with whom he travelled to neighbouring villages composing musical skits and becoming conversant with Hindu mythology and the folk culture of Bengal.

  One of the most powerful cultural influences in Bengal was Shri Chaitanya (1485–1534) during the reign of the liberal Husain Shahi kings. The fair-complexioned Chaitanya, often called Gauranga, was also popularly called Nimai. Born in a Brahmin family that originally came from Odisha, Nimai’s father migrated to Nabadwip, a renowned centre of Sanskrit learning and pilgrimage. Chaitanya’s life and work signified a new direction in the history of Vaishnavism since Krishna, the Hindu divine god, came to be worshipped now as the embodiment of the universal creator, abandoning the plethora of rituals and caste rules which had been laid down by the religious orthodoxy. True to the bhakti tradition, Chaitanya’s Vaishnavism drew within its fold men and women across caste divide, who sought to communicate with God through chants, devotional songs and frenzied dance without the intermediation of Brahmin priests. Many Muslims came under his influence, among them, his favourite disciple, Haridas.2

  This revolutionary approach made its mark on Bengali language, literature and culture. Chaitanya’s Radha–Krishna cult was influenced by the romantic and devotional poems of Jayadeva and Vidyapati in Sanskrit and Chandidas in Bengali. Chaitanya, from all accounts, was not a theologian but a god-intoxicated person who saw Krishna and not Vishnu as the ultimate Godhead. Moreover, this was not the Krishna of the Gita but an androgyne, signifying the coming together of Radha and Krishna in one body—Radha externally and Krishna internally.3

  This unique formulation of the Bengal Vaishnava androgynous nature of Godhead entered the folklore tradition of Bengal so deeply that Kazi N
azrul Islam, writing five centuries later, could carry in his song ‘Tumi Jodi Radha Hotey Shyam’ a refrain of an age-old dearly held belief.

  There was in Nazrul both a mystical and a revolutionary streak. During a chequered school career he was able to learn both Sanskrit and Persian, both of which gave him the ability to comprehend Hindu and Islamic texts.4 Although he received some training in classical music in school, it was his inborn musical talent that made him a powerful singer and a prolific songwriter with over 3000 compositions. During the First World War the revolutionary streak in Nazrul made him sign up for a regiment of the British Indian Army. Though he never saw action in battle, his enforced stay in Nowshera and Karachi exposed him to Persian studies and ghazal music, which he introduced in Bengali for the first time using Arabic and Persian words liberally in his unique compositions.

  Nazrul is perhaps best known for his stirring patriotic songs such as ‘Kandari Hushiyar’, which inspired generations from Subhas Chandra Bose and the Azad Hind Fauj to the freedom fighters in the struggle for Bangladesh. However, it is perhaps in his kirtan songs, where the Radha lore is prominent, that we see best his compassionate, sensitive and romantic aspect. Drawn to communism from his early years of working as a journalist, which saw him bringing out several stirring news publications, Nazrul’s ideas revealed a refreshing acceptance of all religions. His Islamic songs were composed in tandem with his Kali sangeet. Though his marriage to a Hindu, Pramila Sengupta, was socially boycotted by many, his secular beliefs made him insist that his wife did not need to convert to Islam. Each of his sons was given a hyphenated Hindu–Muslim name.5