Reverence to Hari’s two sets of claws, those claws that Sudarshana looked upon with anger, flecked with chips of bone from Hiranyakashipu’s terrifying chest.¹

Reverence to him! At the moment he measured out the three worlds with his third footstep, his embodied self came to rest within his unembodied self.²

Once again, to the foot of that same Hari, reverence! Unable to cross the threshold, it stopped halfway, and for this Balarama secretly laughed at him.³

Victory to him*

Krishna.

whose huge arm fell, dark as a cloud, on the throat of the demon Rishta, like the Noose of Death stretched out for the apocalypse.

May they protect you, the luminous jewels on the hoods of Shesha, on Hari’s ocean bed: they look like shoots budding from the Kaustubha gem, covered by the breasts of Shri.⁴

[Hari, tossing in his sleep, squeezed the serpent Shesha, who let out a hiss that filled the conch-shell with air and then woke him up—victory to him!]

Reverence to the arms of Hari—uprooting the pair of arjuna trees, strangling Rishta, breaking apart Keshin, dragging Kamsa, and lifting up the Govardhana mountain.⁵

He plunged his steely arm, elbow-deep, into the maw of the colt-demon Keshin, then expanded his firm hand and, lifting it up, tortured him—victory to the Slayer of Madhu!*

Krishna.

Victory to him! Just before he begins to devour the three worlds, he drinks up the seven oceans, held in his cupped palms, like water before a meal.⁶

Reverence to the foot of Gauri, rising up to smash the skull-bones of the buffalo-demon who was overcome by its massive weight, its anklets polished by the bowing heads of gods and demons.

Soaked with sweat from the exertion of drawing her stiff bow-staff, and exuding trickles of safflower—may the bodice of Chandi protect you always!

Intermixed with moon-rays and sparkling white as the broad smile of Rudra—may the rushing waters of the divine river destroy your sin!⁷

Victory to him who created good people as well as wicked people in this world: without darkness, the moon’s rays would prevail over nothing.

[Constant reverence to the good and the wicked! Their minds are always set on what others do: the ones are given to hounding out flaws, the other to looking past them.]

[Victory forever to good people. They are suns: theyare thoughtful ⁝shoot through the sky. In their presence, stories blossom like a bed of day lilies, with lots of beautiful syllables ⁝leaves, and whichare free of faults ⁝never see the night.]

Even if they associate with good people, the wicked’s impurity does not abate: though located in the middle of the moon’s orb, the spot remains black.

[Even if he associates with wicked people, the good man’s conduct is not ruined: as lovely ⁝ salty as a woman’s face is, her lips still flow with sweet nectar.]

Let’s say, rather, that everyone is a good person. In the whole world, no fault can be descried. So listen to what I have to say.⁸

Enough with getting caught up in irrelevant banter! I tend toward the kind of meaningless blathering that children amuse themselves with.

There was once a man who delighted the thirty gods through his devotion to the three holy Vedas and the three sacred fires. He achieved the three aims of life. His name was Bahuladitya.⁹ The wafting plumes of smoke from his sacrificial fires left a sooty mark on the surface of the moon—the deer-shaped spot that it bears to this day. This man, an ocean of jewel-like virtues, had one son. Bhushanabhatta was his name, and he was the moon in his family’s sky. The Vedas, which first came from Brahma’s four mouths, took their place in his single lotus-mouth, and honored him like a kinsman. Listen to this jewel of a story, called Lilavati, that his son Kautuhala composed, slow-witted as he is.

It goes like this. In the twilight of an autumn night, when the lion that is the moon had with its rays¹⁰ split the temples of the elephant that is the darkness, lit up by the stars that are its scattered pearls of rut,¹¹ my beloved was relaxing on the terrace of our house. She said to me:

“Look, my dear!

“The autumn makes the moon all the more beautiful, the moon the night, the night this bed of lotuses, this bed of lotuses the bank, and the bank these geese. Listen to the geese: with their voices softened by the bitter stalks of young lotuses, their calls are like the jingling bangles around the ankles of the goddess of Autumn. A breeze is blowing past, carrying mist from waves of cool water, and thick with the fragrance of fresh jasmine buds mid-blossom. And there on the riverbank is an arcade of trees, swaying in restless waves—henna decorations, as it were, on the cheeks of the girls of the ten directions.¹³ Do you see these cakravāka birds? Their hearts set on welcoming the day, they are trying to come together in the waters to free themselves from the pain of separation.¹⁴ Look at how these bees are captivated by the smell of the blossoming saptaparṇa tree, and wander off without even a thought for the fragrance of other flowers. It’s as if the moon was kissing the night, lotuses tied into her hair, the scent of water lilies hanging in the air, her eyes bright like the stars.

“Why should I go on? It’s a beautiful autumn night, you have no work to do, and with our servants around, I’d say there’s nothing we’re missing. So let’s have some pleasant entertainment for the evening. Tell me a story, full of rasa and pleasing to women, in your charming voice.”

When I heard those words come from her lotus-mouth, I said:

“My lily-eyed love,¹⁵ poets have here distinguished three kinds of stories: ‘divine,’ ‘divine-human,’ and just ‘human.’ Earlier poets have laid down rules for each of them, or so I hear.¹⁶ And further, famous poets recite various kinds of stories in the beautiful sounds of Sanskrit, Prakrit, or a mixture of the two. I’m not so clever as them. The stories that I could tell would hardly meet with anyone’s approval. What is it, then? Are you trying to humiliate me, dear, for not learning the arts of language? I can hardly speak. Do you think I could tell a story that goes on and on?”

My beloved said:

“My love, who needs the ‘arts of language’? All they do is block the path to enjoyment for people like me. In the end, language is just what reveals a meaning clearly, without troubling the heart. Who needs rules? That’s why you should tell a story in the Prakrit language, one that can hold a girl’s interest—a story of the ‘divine-human’ type, with only a few regional words thrown in.”

On hearing this, I replied: “My dear, with your darting fawn-like eyes—if you insist, listen to this story. It has all of the right elements.”

There is on the blessed earth, /whose beautiful hips the four oceans encircle as a belt, whose realms rest stable on Shesha’s coils, who owed her solemnity to the bliss she attained when the boar raised her up from the ocean’s depths at the end of the world, and her weight to all of the gems that adorned her,¹⁷ a famous land called Ashmaka, where farmers rejoice all together in the spectacular wealth of their harvest, where the lowing of cows in villages of pleasant lodging carried to the horizons,¹⁸ where joyful people gathered to drink and to sing carcarī-songs¹⁹ that filled the open spaces, where all pleasures reside, a place which had not left the golden age,²⁰ which was like dharma in physical form, like the creator’s template,²¹ where good deeds are at home, like a lesson in religious merit, like the source of copious pleasures, like the reflection of good conduct, like an ever-fertile field for the seeds of virtue.

What’s more, it is a place where the cattle are well-fed on soft grass and their cowherds rejoice at the sight, where the sky is filled with the sound of singing mixed with that of so many lutes and pipes,²² where the clear ponds are pleasant to bathe in, where young trees grow dense in beautiful gardens, where every line of sight falls upon a lotus-pond, where at the feet of trees bent down with luscious fruit travellers sleep, where there is not even a suspicion of any trouble, where the four social orders are observed,²³ where joy overflows in constant celebration, where groves adorn every plot of land, where the fragrance of all kinds of flowers perfumes the whole sky, where the present age of wickedness²⁴ has yet to set in, where no sin is seen, where people do not abandon their duties, where people have never seen enemy forces, where beauty is undiminished, where the fear of thieves—and kings—has never arisen, where limitless virtues reside.

It is a place where the cloud-god rains whenever it’s wished for, where cows give milk whenever it’s wished for, where trees always bear fruit, where women are never barren.

There, the rivers—deep and coursing strong, flowing over the soft lotus-stalks, their waters always sweet—resemble the women, their breasts large and heavy, their arms soft as lotus-stalks, their voices always sweet.²⁵ Farmer’s wives enchant the deer with their captivating song and thus keep them away from not only their own fields, but their neighbors’ as well.

Within such a wonderful country, my love, there lies a beautiful city, the abode of all pleasures, named Pratishtana. It would take all night to just describe that excellent city, so listen and I’ll tell you something short.

It’s a place where royal geese drop the lotus-stalks from their mouths to call out in imitation of the sound of the bracelets around the ankles of beautiful women;

where pet peacocks dance on moonstone-paved²⁶ terraces craning to look at the smoke-blackened sky,²⁷

where women with midnight appointments take off their shining jewelry only to find their cover of darkness retreating from the bright rays of jewel-lamps;²⁸

where a dense canopy of flags atop temple-peaks blocking the sun’s rays renders useless the parasols of the singing girls,

where cuckoos are constantly playing the messenger for couples by stealing away the brooding anger of women at every new offense,

where the wafting fragrances of the garden are so thick with the sweat of women exhausted by merciless lovemaking that nostrils could drink them in,

where geese who crave lotus-fibers are drawn to the circles of moonlight projected on the cheeks of women asleep on the roof,

where the women of Maharashtra wash away their impurity in the Godavari river and dye its waters brown with the turmeric on their breasts.²⁹

There is nothing wrong with that place—except, perhaps, that the fragrance of jasmine on a summer denies women the pleasure of their lovers’ placations.³⁰ [or except, perhaps, that the houses’ crystal walls allow bystanders to see the evidence of lovemaking on the women inside,] or except, perhaps, that the wind blows the pollen of blossoming flowers onto the painted walls of the houses.

In that city there is a king who perfectly embodies every virtue, whose fame spreads across the earth, named Satavahana.³¹

He is handsome, beautiful in every last detail, although formless; he brings joy to the people’s eyes, although terrible to look upon.³² He is the favorite of his wives, although a bad husband; he is forceful, although his enemies had submitted; he delights in acts of heroism, although he fears the world beyond.³³ He is the sun without his seven horses—a fearless man of courage; the moon without his spot—a spotless man of celebrity; a serpent without a split tongue—an honest man of wealth; a lofty tree with low-hanging fruit—a noble man, beneficent to those around him.³⁴

As the moon becomes wretchedly thin in its first phase, its full disc enveloped in darkness, so he made his enemies wretchedly weak, cut off from their spheres of power. Like the moon, its disc lit up with light, and never passed by the earth, no-one on earth has ever seen his back: for he has conquered the whole world, and his own realms are illuminated by his power.³⁵ His enemies retreated to caves, where they spent their nights in the red luminescence of mountain-plants, as if they had been consumed by the fiery brilliance of his might.³⁶ With their fingers reddened by rays from their fingernails, his favorite wives paint him on the walls of his palace in the guise of the god of love. Without him, the works of even the best poets, thoughtfully composed over time, would waste away in their hearts like the desires of the poor.³⁷ When this man, the lord of the earth, was at the height of his power, springtime arrived like a messenger of the god of love.

The forests seem to herald the march of spring, already suggested by the first appearance of the southern breeze, with the loud sound of cuckoos on the wing. [With a cluster of mango-blossoms, the wandering parrot seems like a herald: run off, king of winter, for spring now holds the earth.] In a single step, spring’s beauty came to all the flowers of the forest—those that were budding and those that had already budded, those that had blossomed and those that were just now budding. The god of love has so many arrows—what for? Won’t a single shoot of mango do the job?³⁸ Spring takes the karṇikāra fields and seems to wear them like a golden ornament on his forehead, augmenting their beauty.³⁹ If the wafting scent of jasmine can make the tall trees of the arcades burst into bloom, is there anything it can’t do? The pāṭala first softens lovers’ hearts with its fragrance, then its flower-arrows enter with ease.

Clusters of fragrant blossoming mango-flowers cover the trees so completely that travellers can hardly spot the leaves behind them. The bees force upon the petals of the jasmine flowers before their season, and they fall, pale, from their tendrils, succumbing to the grief of separation from the winter. As tiny clusters of berries form and its calyx starts to weaken, the sinduvāra’s flowers fall away in the gentle breeze. When spring comes into view, and the layer of frost has melted away, the lotus seems to smile as its flower-mouth opens slightly. The branches, with new shoots for hands, dance with delight on the arrival of the southern breeze, and seem to beckon at the Beauty of Spring. In the rows of palāśa trees, the full-blossomed flowers seem to clothe Spring in red garments like a groom on his wedding-day.⁴⁰ As he fills the mango groves, enters bowers of new mādhavī shoots, and rolls around on leaves of aśoka trees, Spring seems truly delighted.

The breeze, carrying the fragrance of all kinds of plants, touches the delicate shoot of the mango-tree, and she turns away, as if crying flower-tears.⁴¹ The forest is in full bloom, and in its midst stands the god of love, bringing lovers under his power by raining flower-arrows down on them.

When Love’s arrows had thus conquered the whole world of living beings, the king came to the place where Springtime Beauty arranges her trysts—his court.⁴² Accompanied by the victory-songs of bards, he seated himself on the lion-throne, which was lit up by rays of light from the jewels on the crowns of hundreds of vassals who had come there to serve him. He was surrounded by his consorts, whose faces always blossomed with smiles, like Indra by celestial women and like the golden mountain by the girls of the directions.⁴³

Then, with a broad smile, the lord of men spoke these charming words to one of them, named Chandralekha.

“Here, Chandralekha. Don’t you see? The whole sky is filled with pollen carried by the southern breezes, as if the god of love has turned it into his bedroom.⁴⁴ So why is it that today someone thought himself equal to the love-god’s arrows and carefully decorated you from head to toe?⁴⁵ Who painted on your face this lifelike bee, which seems to press its own face into a fresh campaka flower, eager to drink its nectar? Who used costly musk-paste to paint these designs on your cheeks, which seem like the paths of the love-god’s arrows?⁴⁶ When did he create this cluster of mango buds at the edge of your cheek, which seems to bring forth flowers at the touch of your hand? Who is it, beautiful girl, who had the privilege of drawing this design on your breasts, which have the color of solid gold?⁴⁷ Who painted on your feet these two pairs of geese, who are craning their necks to place lotus-stalks in each other’s beaks? Who was it? Someone, surely, who only had the intention of showing off his own skill, without considering whether it is right or wrong—the king of person who would try to feed milk to a snake.”