The Giver of the Worn Garland KRISHNADEVARAYA'S AMUKTAMALYADA
Page 6
germinating seeds in fallen fruits, making themselves appear
like moving mountains, rocking and teeming with life.
II.26
The thoroughbred stallions of Madhura are galloping,
bridled mouths jerking with foaming spittle at the bit.
And with the corner of their eyes they catch a glimpse
of a bow and quiver on the saddle’s side.
They shout, ‘Arrows! Like the Serpent Lords!
We lost our wings to Śālihotra’s wrath.
Though you have your own feathered tips,
come, ride with us now!’
II.27
But then the charging horses think—
‘The bow and quiver aren’t tied to the saddle,
so when we stop, the sharp-tipped arrows
will pierce the backs of the riders ahead!’
And so seized with worry, they slow their pace,
digging their hooves into the dirt.
II.28
Those mighty steeds leave the Wind behind,
outrunning him with the speed of their burning stride.
And in the morning, when shiny salt cakes
like crystal mirrors are fed to the waking horses
they neigh and let out the Samāna Breath,
turning white salt-rock to black, black from the Wind’s disgrace.
II.29
Soldiers need two stirrups to mount their tall stallions
but as the horses gallop and begin to crouch
their riders become scared as their feet graze the ground.
‘Which of these two is worse? And what becomes of us?’
think the proud warriors as they feign exhaustion,
humbled twice over by these mighty swift steeds
from Persia, Balkh, Herat and Khotan.
II.30
The alluring young courtesans of Madhura
are masters in the arts of love.
Is there any doubt
their long black hair falls to their lovely feet?
Is there any doubt
their mirror-like visage seduces the manliest man?
Is there any doubt
their slender waists support two cakravāka birds?
Is there any doubt
their charming glances are like shining scales?
Is there any doubt
their body is fragrant like a vine of flowers?
II.31
Fair-skinned Nārada, the mischievous sage
instigates fights between men and women.
His white robes, like a heap of camphor, like a mass of menthol
turn the saffron flowers in his hair to yellow.
The fragrant musk and the sweet sound of bees
from his black-stringed vīṇa
leave no respite for Love’s reprise.
II.32
‘Triśaṅku defiles the sky, so the heavens do not suit us,’
think the Sun, the Moon, the planets,
the stars and constellations
as they fall to earth in sparkling splendour
like heaps of colourful gems, displayed in Madhura’s markets.
II.33
The priests of Madhura are mountains made of Vedas,
masters of rites and recitation.
Constantly tending the sacred fires, and always offering burnt oblations
their dexterous hands are hidden in flames,
so when Indra, Kubera and others arrive,
with a flowing stream of gifts
the brahmans don’t extend their hands,
for fear of dousing their inner fire.
II.34
The princes of Madhura force the surrender of enemy kings
with their mighty arms like adamantine maces.
These pure-hearted lords never fight on foot
except when they spar in their training rooms,
they rush into battle with no need for armour
except when they incant their magic weapons,
and their powerful arms are always steady
except when they unite their hands in giving.
II.35
The merchants of Madhura are honest men
their heaps of gold are ever growing.
For each million they make, a flag is raised
and hidden in rain clouds above the market.
Day after day they follow their dharma and make donations,
their generosity flowing to the royal highway
where obelisks rise like well-watered trees.
II.36
The farmers of Madhura are noble servants
who heap their crops into a thousand hills.
‘The furrowed lines of our king’s feet
are there because of us,
for the row of ploughs that sustains the city
are borne upon our shoulders!’
II.37
Flowers and vines are plucked and pruned
by innocent girls in the city gardens.
‘Enjoy our beauty but let us be!’
plead flowering trees encircled by bees
as if Love, with his army of parrots and cuckoos
had arrived to besiege that city.
II.38
The fragrant Malaya wind
flows down from the Sandalwood Hills
as if Vāmana, Guardian Elephant of the South
was entering Madhura, attracted by the scent of the city’s elephants.
And as if desiring even more sweet fragrance,
the wind blows past the musk-filled navels
of black-skinned antelopes, and fearing the grasp of hostile snakes
the wind flies up to mansion cages
to caress the plumes of nestling peacocks,
and as if too shy to cool the bodies
of ladies exhausted from lovemaking
the wind sweeps by their tender foreheads
and wipes their sweat away.
But in order to see all the wonders of Madhura,
the rushing wind slows, to a gentle breeze
like the king atop the mighty Puṣpadanta elephant,
majestically moving, taking in, that glorious city.
* * *
THE KING
II.39
Endowed with the six traits of a mighty monarch
and tactfully employing the four modes of governance
you are the wisest ruler, wiser than all your advisors.
Lord of the Hills! Mount Malaya is your playground!
You marked Golden Mountain with your fame
and controlled gathering rain clouds
like a herd of elephants bound in chains.
You crossed the sea like a present-day Rāma
and befriended the Lord of Laṅka
becoming royal friends, like loyal swans
playing in the clear waters of the Copper River.
The genuine blessings of Agastya are with you
and even Lord Indra fears your thousand arrows.
With sacred incantations
you control an army of ghosts
like Śiva himself in royal disguise.
Raising the fish emblem banner in your capital of Madhura
you are the perfect sovereign of the Pāṇḍya empire!
II.40
You never levy high taxes that might burden your people.
You never allow gossip to pierce your heart, or ruin your mood,
you never even punish the most slanderous offenders.
You never taunt your cowardly enemies
and always accept praise with humility.
Light of the Lunar Lineage! You never rule without justice,
your benevolent nature is unsurpassed.
II.41
Our king strolls through the forests of Malaya
dense with sandal trees wrapped in venomous snakes,
never fearing traitors who lie lurking at court.
He is a man of few words, never enjoying excessive prai
se
nor paying heed to enemy taunts.
With love he became the Lord of Tāmraparṇi
but never suffered the blackened disgrace of Añjana.
And though his power is ultimate, his judgment final,
he remains most kind and joyous.
Enemy armies attack like a stormy ocean
and giant waves surge like charging elephants
but our king rises, like a leviathan from the depths
smashing the tide with his sword-like tail.
And as the breakers crash upon the shore,
the splash of foam appears like a shower of pearls
falling from the foreheads of enemy elephants.
II.42
Our king’s fame is like a white-winged swan—
one wing soaked in a stream of giving,
the other dry in hidden support.
Most birds remain in the water when their feathers are wet
but the swan is unique, and quickly flies to the sky.
II.43
While the Pāṇḍya king rules, the land is prosperous
protected from each of the six deadly plagues—
Parrots chained with necklaces are kept in pet cages, while locusts are scorched by our king’s splendour.
Rats infest mansions deserted in conquered cities while droughts are relieved with the musth that flows from fallen elephants.
Rival kings rattle on our king’s anklet, and flooding is turned into royal giving, generously flowing from our king’s hand.
II.44
Like this the Pāṇḍya Lord spent his time,
enjoying the glories of his empire.
* * *
THE SUMMER
II.45
The intense summer heat comes suddenly to the land
bursting open the fruits of silk-cotton trees.
Trumpet flower trees are in their full bloom
while mirages on the horizon forecast the coming monsoon.
II.46
The mountain waterfalls have all dried up,
exposing river rocks once covered in moss
now splitting open with giant cracks.
The forest ponds have all dried up
but here and there, in the parched cracked earth
mountain hunters make puddles to catch thirsty doves.
Wildfires rage through forest trees
and hot winds scatter the ash-white leaves
that appear like pigeons to circling hawks.
Tired travellers rest under leafy trees
but as the sun moves down, so too does the shadow
and the travellers roll over to stay in the shade.
The land is bare, parched in every direction
as if Kāla Bhairava himself had laid out to dry
his washed white clothes.
The faces of the Guardian Directions
are burnt and blackened
but appear like white in distant mirages.
II.47
The hot sun dries the mud-caked bodies
of elephants, boars and buffaloes
as if Varuṇa was pouring molten metal into fiery crucibles
and cracking open the dry clay moulds.
For even if every creature were to perish in this heat wave he would have a perfect cast for the next cycle of creation.
II.48
Whirlwinds of spiralling dust whip into the atmosphere and scatter blades of grass,
as if big empty wells were flying into the sky, cursing the Sun whose fiery rays, concealed by the darkness of forest smoke, had stolen the gift of water.
II.49
The summer days grow long—
for the serpent reins of Sūrya’s chariot
are starved by the hot West Wind
and slacken from exhaustion in Anūru’s hands,
prolonging the sun’s journey across the sky.
II.50
Fiery sunrays scorch the world
and burning hot winds throw ashes to the sky
as if fibres from the fruits of silk-cotton trees
were spreading throughout the atmosphere.
II.51
Thirsty travellers move along dry riverbeds,
digging a row of pits as they search for fresh water.
The waterholes fill up and reflect the glittering sun
as if river maidens adorned with shiny pearl necklaces
were rising to ease the heat of longing
caused by separation from their lord the Sea.
II.52
Earlier in the year, torrential rains had served
as a messenger of love between the rivers and the Sea.
Now just a few drooping lotuses remain—
stalks exposed and petals withered,
pistils glimmering in the sun like golden coins,
as if river maidens were extending their hands to the sky
offering a bribe to the God of Clouds.
II.53
A dried out pond filled with lotus stalks,
appears like a patch of taro root.
And from this spot, a heron moves,
settling on the rim of a water tank.
He swallows the withered waterweeds and smells the fish below then calmly leans over the water’s edge, and waits there perfectly still.
And as he steps down to the tank, to reach the other side he carefully avoids the hilsa fish as he snacks on tiny snails.
But suddenly, his leg is seized, by a clawing crab below and as he jerks to free himself, the crab is flung to the air—he pierces his prey with his sharp thin beak,
and swallows it right away.
This is how the herons endure the summer heat
wading knee-deep in man-made reservoirs
beneath the shade of thick cork trees.
During the night, alligators creep onto land
to feast on insects infesting animal dung.
And mistaking them for little iguanas, dogs begin to bark,
forcing the frightened alligators to dive into nearby wells.
In search of water the water-eel plunges
deep into his watery hole.
II.54
Flocks of herons fly to waterless lakes
and quickly gulp down all the flapping fish.
But as the heat grows stronger
the moist mud dries, and begins to crack.
The skewer-like roots of purple lilies
tunnel into the ground in search of water
just like long-beaked herons
who spear and feast on half-dead loach and bony fish.
II.55
Even in such an oppressive season
the summer mornings are cool and pleasant.
The wind sweeps trumpet flowers to the foot of pāṭala trees,
their fragrance doubled by the sweet smell of earth
carried by countless tiny canals
that stream through well-watered flower gardens.
At nearby wells, farmers crank a pulley
raising their water pails and dropping them down the well.
The splash becomes a cymbal crash
adding rhythm, adding swing, to a chorus of happy work songs.
II.56
Delicate round jasmine shrubs
wither away in the excessive noonday heat,
but clustered buds on drooping branches
grow bigger and bigger,
like boiling blisters in the sun.
II.57–59
In preparation for the coming summer heat
water-girls fill their earthen jars with fresh cool water
like farmers gathering seeds for the planting season.
Clay pots conceal their round full breasts
until they bend to fill their jugs
while their eyes are mirrored in the refreshing water
by blue lily petals that perfume the drink.
And at their roadside water stalls
they appear like smiling water-nymphs—
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a navel like a whirlpool, hair like moss,
eyes like water-born lotus flowers
and breasts like a pair of cakravka birds
hidden amongst the foam.
Their thick black braids are woven with white jasmine
as if Yamuna and Gaṅga had intertwined
in search of shelter from the heat.
And as tired travellers stagger to the stalls
humbly calling, ‘Dear mother, sister, please give us some water!’
the women pour water into their low cupped hands.
The thirsty young men are slowly quenched
but quickly forget their earlier words
as they start to look up, and then back down
peeking at thin arms, round breasts and glowing faces
whetting their minds as they pretend to keep drinking.
But when the girls start to notice the foolish game
they exchange knowing glances and stop their pouring,
melting the men’s hearts with their teasing laughter.
And as the men reveal the secrets of their heart,
they lovingly offer fresh tāmbūlam
as if they were paying a service tax
to the wealthy God of Love,
for love may be poor in other lands
but never amongst these sultry ladies.
II.60
The earth dries out from the sizzling heat
and hot steam rises as the water evaporates.
The cool night moonlight is absorbed into the ground
as if a group of white nightingales was pouring batter
on a steaming hot griddle for a round, flat pancake.
II.61
All day long, couples escape the heat and play in oval pools
splashing water at each other until they’re exhausted.
Their shivering arms are like wilted lotus stems
as they slip their hands around their lovers.
The lazy girls lounge in the warm day sun,
their wet hair still braided with jasmine buds
and their cool breasts still perfumed with paste,
a lingering fragrance like their clinging lovers
who embrace them before their cīras can dry.
Men rest their heads on their women’s breasts
and smell the coconut liquor that sweetens their breath.
The couples doze off in the clear open moonlight
and the men squeeze their thighs around their lovers
until the coming of dawn.
II.62
When couples meet in the burning summer
it’s as if two rivals were greeting each other,
their hearts ever hidden as they embrace without touching.
And though they have nothing nice to say
they exchange sweet words filled with meaningless pleasantries.