by Kalidasa
Tradition Redefined
In his opening verse, Kalidasa lays out the narrative premise of his poem, as well as his primary subject of love in separation. From a strictly thematic perspective, the notion of a messenger carrying tidings between distant lovers was a trope surely known to the erudite poet. In the old story of Nala and Damayanti, for example, a goose acts as a messenger between the parted couple, while in the Ramayana, the loyal Hanuman carries news from Rama to his beloved Sita. By invoking the divine couple in his first poem, and by describing the sanctified ground where they once trod in exile, Kalidasa evokes the collective memory of Rama and Sita’s poignant separation. In the same breath, the maha--kavi is paying homage to the a-di-kavi; the great poet Kalidasa is honouring the first poet Valmiki. No groundbreaking work of art or science emerges from a vacuum, and Kalidasa’s lasting innovations in literature reflect both his creative genius and his reverence for tradition. This dynamic between originality and conformity is neither strained nor irreconcilable; and in the mind of a truly imaginative poet, these seemingly oppositional forces harmoniously coalesce to generate something new, and something that endures because it is born from within the tradition. And even when innovations are regarded as radical or revolutionary, in the hands of an iconic poet like Kalidasa, tradition is not defied, it is redefined.
In many ways the art of translation is the reconciliation of a similar dialectic, manifesting in the form of letter vs spirit, or more specifically fidelity vs expressivity. In this context, a translator is bound by the language and tradition of the root text but set free by the creative potential inherent in every act of translation. Unlike my previous translations of classical Indian literature, the present text contains no diacritical marks or explanatory notes. The many reasons for this change relate to a larger shift in my approach to translating classical literature, a move that attempts to internalize the literal and foreground the literary. From a historical perspective, the translation of Sanskrit literature into English has almost exclusively remained in the realm of academia. And while this long engagement has produced some superb scholarship, the fact that we are dealing with literature, with poetry of the highest order, has been deplorably neglected. Literality and accuracy have remained the twin foci of most such translations, while literariness and emotive depth have fallen by the wayside, leaving us with a poetically impoverished body of translations from one of the richest canons of world literature. These texts were rarely approached as works of literary beauty; instead, they were read as objects of knowing, source materials for the newly invigorated disciplines of philology, grammar and linguistics. Ironically, all three of these fields within the Western academe were greatly inspired and transformed by the sustained engagement with India’s highly developed systems of knowledge in these very domains. And although these disciplines are essential to any accurate translation, they are the foundation rather than the edifice of a sound literary translation.
In the fourteenth century when Vedantadesika took up Kalidasa’s text, he localized themes, images and landscapes. He could refashion and relocate his story to south India because he and his contemporaries were ensconced in a much larger cultural sphere dominated by a Sanskritic worldview. His audience, though they might have spoken Tamil at home, would have easily appreciated his cultural references and thematic devices. It seems that today we cannot, or rather do not, translate in the same way. Would this translation work if it had roses blooming instead of lotuses? Maybe we are too removed in time, space and cultural context, and perhaps this distance is what compels us to approach the translation of classical texts from an objective scholastic perspective rather than a more subjective literary one.
To this day Meghadūtam is not viewed as a poem to be savoured in translation; rather, it remains a text to be parsed, deconstructed and analysed. The extensive philological research conducted on South Asian literature during the last three centuries was driven by a voracious desire to know, understand and, ultimately, define a foreign culture. But as the postcolonial world shrinks, as nation states become less isolated and more globally connected, the instinct to objectify and essentialize literary cultures appears to be reducing and, hopefully, the desire to feel, empathize and even identify with one’s neighbours will increase. Today the expedient colonial acquaintances of the past are giving way to genuine friendships of mutual respect, and I believe translation to be a critical component of such transformations. By remembering and celebrating the humanity of the texts we study, and by striving to translate that vital force that breathes through all great literature, we may narrow the hollow divide between the literal and the literary, between art and academics, and perhaps even between self and other.
MEGHADUTAM
1
JOURNEY
1
A servant of Lord Kubera, stripped of his power
for failing in his duty,
Was cursed by his master to endure a hard year
apart from his beloved,
Banished to roam the dark and shady groves of
holy forest ashrams
On Rama’s Mountain, where Sita once bathed
and blessed the waters.
2
Eight long months passed there on the mountain,
and weak from longing
For his distant lover, his golden bracelet slipped
from his naked forearm.
But then, on the first day of the month of Ashadha
he saw a cloud embracing
The mountaintop, like an elephant bent down low,
playfully butting his brow.
3
Lost deep in thought, Lord Kubera’s loyal servant
locked his tears within
And struggled to stand before the looming source
of his mounting desire.
The mere sight of a cloud can stir a man’s heart
even when he’s content.
What then for one so desperate to caress the neck
of his distant beloved?
4
As the rains drew near, he longed to send new life
to his beloved wife,
And imagining that great cloud might bring her word
of his own well-being,
He rejoiced, and after raising up a humble offering
of fresh kutaja flowers,
He spoke to the cloud with soft and solemn words
that said welcome.
5
Kubera’s servant was impulsive, he made his plea
without even thinking,
‘This is but a cloud—a being made of mist, light,
water and air—not a man
With the fine senses and faculties needed to carry
the heart of my message.’
For those struck by love so often blur the fine line
between nature and humanity.
6
‘I know you, born into the line of mighty Storm Clouds
revered throughout the world,
You’re Indra’s agent, with the power to transform yourself
into any shape at will,
And so I need you, for the will of destiny has driven me
far away from my friend.
Is it not better that a request be rejected by the virtuous
than fulfilled by the weak?
7
O great cloud, as the giver of water you are like a balm
for those burning with love.
Carry a message to my beloved, separated from me
by the Lord of Wealth’s anger,
And go to the city of Alaka where servants of the gods
dwell in mansions that glow
With moonlight cast from Shiva’s crown as he roams
the gardens beyond the city.
8
Seeing you soar higher into the highway of the wind,
the lonely wives of travellers
Will breathe new hope as they groom the loose ends
of their flowing hair,
>
For in the fullness of your season, no man would allow
his wife to suffer alone,
Save for one like me whose very being rests with
the will of another.
9
And with your way unhindered, you are most
sure to find
Your brother’s faithful wife alive, absorbed
in counting days,
For in times of separation, the quickly sinking
hearts of lovers,
Like drooping flowers, are held up solely
by threads of hope.
10
Gently, gently nudged on by a fair wind,
a playful chataka
Will sing sweetly by your left side, while
female cranes,
Filled from within after the rapture of union,
will honour you
By flying through the sky in perfect formation
for all to see.
11
On hearing the welcome sound of your
mighty thunder,
Whose power carpets the earth in a bloom
of wild mushrooms,
Imperial cranes eager to reach Lake Manasa
will join you in the sky,
Carrying lotus stalks to nourish themselves
on their way to Kailasa.
12
Say goodbye to your dear friend, that lofty peak
you now embrace,
Where Lord Rama left his footprints upon slopes
still praised by men.
You join her in this union, season after season,
and express
Your deep affection by shedding warm tears
born of longing.
13
Giver of water, your ears will flow with nectar
when you hear my message,
But listen now as I describe your journey’s
perfect path, on which
Whenever tired, whenever weak, you will rest
your feet on mountaintops,
And refresh yourself with the pristine waters
of gentle mountain streams.
14
When you fly to the northern sky, away from this place
moist with nichula reeds,
Dodging the thick trunks of the Guardian Elephants
as they sway in the sky,
The innocent wives of elder sages will look to you
in awe, trembling,
Thinking to themselves, “The wind, it’s carrying away
that mountaintop!”
15
And from the east, coming into view over the crest
of a towering anthill,
A fading rainbow glows like multicoloured light cast
from precious gems,
Filling your dark body with brilliant radiance, as if
you were Vishnu
When he became Krishna, the cowherd with shimmering
feathers of peacocks.
16
Women from the countryside, dependent on you
for a good harvest,
Will look to you with hopeful eyes, unaware
of their raised brows,
As you veer westwards, above the fields of Mala,
just ploughed and fragrant,
And return once again to your northerly course
with your pace quickened.
17
And when you extinguish the wild forest fires blazing
on Mount Amrakuta
With a shower of your hard rain, she will invite you
to rest on her peak
And ease the toll of travel. Even a petty man recalls
past deeds of kindness
When an old friend comes for help. What more then
for one as noble as you?
18
With slopes covered in wild mango groves,
ripe with shiny fruit,
And you, like a black braid of oiled hair
resting atop her peak,
The mountain becomes a vision, seen only
by couples in heaven,
As a breast of the earth, dark in the centre
and pale all around.
19
After resting for a while where the wives of foresters
enjoy shady groves,
You shall cross distant paths, with your pace quickened
after a downpour of rain,
Until you see the River Reva, her currents shattering
on the jagged rocks
At the foot of the Vindhyas, like the freshly painted body
of a prized elephant.
20
Your rain now spent, drink from her scented streams,
flowing past orchards
Of rose-apple trees and picking up the pungent scent
of jungle elephants.
With your inner core fortified, move on, great cloud,
now that the wind is powerless
To shake you, for in all things, emptiness is weakness
and fullness is strength.
21
As you let your first raindrops fall, all of nature will conspire
to guide your way—
Bees will swarm to the pale auburn filaments of half-blown
kadamba flowers,
And deer will gather along marshy banks to eat the first buds
of banana tree blossoms,
And the elephants will march, smelling the intoxicating scent
of the moist forest floor.
22
The old Siddhas point to cranes flying in formation,
counting each one
As they watch graceful chataka birds catch raindrops
in the sky.
And when your frightful thunder strikes, the sages
will thank you
As they happily receive the trembling, tight embraces
of their timid wives.
23
Though I know you are fast, I picture you stopping
on mountain after mountain,
Fragrant with kutaja flowers, where peacocks with
tears of joy welling up
In the corners of their white eyes welcome you
with their cries.
Dear friend, for my beloved’s sake, I hope you find
a way to go quickly.
24
Over the edge of a forest of rose-apple trees,
dark with ripe fruit,
And past gardens glowing with the white tips
of pointed ketaka flowers,
You will enter Dasharna, where sparrows busy
themselves building nests
In sacred fig trees, and geese gather to rest and
linger for some days.
25
Reaching the capital city of Vidisha, famed
in every quarter,
You will savour all at once, the ripened fruit
of your intimacy
As you drink from the lips of the Vetravati,
whose sweet waters ripple
Like a tensed brow whenever you thunder
along her banks.
26
In need of rest, you might linger on Low Mountain,
where the full-blown filaments
Of kadamba flowers bristle, as if the whole peak were
tingling at your touch, and
Where the scent of perfume worn by courtesans
wafts from secret grottos,
Betraying the uninhibited passion of men who visit
from the nearby city.
27
After resting there, travel on, sprinkling raindrops
of fresh water over jasmine buds
Blooming in flower gardens that line the banks
of woodland streams.
Then offer a spot of shade to women hard at work
picking fresh flowers,
Who bruise the lotuses at their ears as they wipe
the sweat from their brows.
28
Though your road i
s long and winding, set out now
to the north, but do not turn
From the grand mansions of Ujjayini whose terraces
you shall caress in passing,
For if you find no pleasure in the way the brilliance
of your lightning reflects
In the bright eyes of city women, then your own eyes
will have deceived you.
29
You will join the curving course of the Nirvindhya
and taste her waters
Within yourself, while a row of geese splashes down
like a waistband
On her tossing waves, causing whirlpools to spiral
and expose her navel,
For the subtle movements of a woman’s body are her
first expressions of love.
30
Crossing a parched river where a thin stream trickles
like a single braid,
Streaked in white with brittle leaves fallen from trees
that line her banks,
You will witness her love for you in the way she waits
in solitude,
And so, my friend, replenish her waters so she might
end this longing.
31
Arriving in Avanti, where elders still recall
the stories of Prince Udayana,
Approach the place I spoke of once before,
that noble city of Ujjayini—
A hallowed piece of heaven borne down by
the last shares of merit
Of those returning to earth after the fruit of