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2. Nanněcoda

Twelfth century?

The discovery by Manavalli Ramakrishnakavi, at the turn of the century, of Nanněcoda's Kumāra-sambhavamu set off a literary storm. Ramakrishnakavi, who edited the manuscript and published the first seven cantos in 1909, made the shocking claim that Nanněcoda was earlier even than Nannaya. Unfortunately, there is no hard empirical evidence to determine this poet's date. He tells us in his preface that he was ruler of a small area called ôrayŪru (unidentified). That is all we know about one of the pioneers of Telugu poetic style. His book seems to have disappeared from the horizon of literary discourse already in medieval times; later poets never mention him.

One verse of his preface suggests indirectly that he knew Nannaya's work:

Earlier, there was poetry in Sanskrit, called mārga. The Chālukya kings and many others caused poetry to be born in Telugu and fixed it in place, as dési, in the Andhra land.

Although neither Nannaya nor Rājarājanarendra are named explicitly, it is not unlikely that Nanněcoda is referring to them, and to the birth of Telugu poetry connected to these names. He refers to no other Telugu poet, but he clearly has a conception of a regional dési tradition evolving in Telugu, in contrast with Sanskrit.

What can be said is that the texture of his composition points to an early date. There is an archaic quality to his verses, and also a freshness of perception or understanding—as if one were encountering a highly individual reworking of classical śaiva narrative, perhaps drawn from sources now lost to us (for example, Nanněcoda mentions in his preface a Sanskrit Kumārasambhava composed by Udbhata, which has not survived). This unusual vision is also apparent in the metapoetic statement he makes in his introduction, translated below. Much of this statement remains opaque to us, including

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the cryptic concepts of vastu-kavita and jānu-těnugu, but there is the sense of a highly original approach to the meaning and purpose of poetry.

The second selection describes the dialogue between Manmatha, god of desire, and his wife Rati, after Manmatha has accepted a suicide mission from Indra to attack the great god śiva with his arrows of love. This passage has no precedent in Kālidāsa's famous kāvya. (It may follow Udbhata's lost poem on this theme, since Nanněcoda praises Udbhata's in 1.21.) The selection reveals both the poet's pointed insight into the human dimension of the classical story and his deft formulation of the characters' inner feelings.

ON POETRY IN TELUGU

[1] Nanněcoda Kumāra-sambhavamu (Madras: Vavilla Ramasvamisastrulu and Sons, 1972), 1.17–33, 35–39, 41.

	When poets begin their works,
	they celebrate Vālmīki,
	father to all poets, a gold mine of poems,
	who first made poetry flower.

	They say about Vyāsa
	that it's not enough to praise him
	for composing Vedânta, Mahābhārata, and Purānas.
	He put the Vedas in order, something the Creator
	could not do.

	In a world that had lost Vālmīki and Vyāsa,
	Kālidāsa, radiant in mind, assumed the throne of poetry
	and made all other poets his slaves.

	Bhāravi was like the sun:
	he climbed Mount Indrakīla
	with his words
	just as the sun reaches up to the peak
	of the Morning Mountain
	with its rays.

	Udbhata composed a Kumāra-sambhava
	on the theme of śiva's play
	and pleased the god with this poem,
	which is the whole of figuration
	with kāvya deep inside. [2] This work has been lost.
― 69 ―
	Another great poet was Bāna whose arms were cut off. [3] Apparently a different Bāna from the author of Kādambarī and Harsa-carita.
	Poetry brought them back
	when he sang to śiva, giver of boons.

	Earlier, there was poetry in Sanskrit, called mārga. [4] See p. 24 in the Introduction for a discussion of this classical opposition: mārga, the "classical," and deśi, "regional."
	The Chālukya kings and many others caused poetry to be born
	in Telugu and fixed it in place, as deśi, in the Andhra land.

	As one who carries a lamp
	tilts it close to the objects
	he knows to be there,
	those who know truth
	turn their minds
	toward well-made poems.

I reject all bad poets, who only gather defects.

	For them, the mārga way [5] Mārga literally means "a path." is a bad way,
	and the deśi way is no way. Still, they can't give up.
	These other poets are all wrong.
	No need to mention them.

	A bad poet can only ruin something good,
	and he certainly can't turn a flaw to good effect
	in his poems. A dog can overturn
	a pile of pots, but can it stack them neatly?

	Small minds cannot enjoy a good poem,
	full of flavor. They run to cheap poetry,
	like flies that pass by whole sugarcane
	and swarm around the chewed-up pulp.

	You can only learn about poetry
	from one who knows. There's nothing to be gained
	from one who doesn't. You need a touchstone,
	not a limestone, to test gold.

	But when ideas come together smoothly in good Tenugu
	without any slack, and description achieves a style,
	and there are layers of meaning, and the syllables
	are soft and alive with sweetness, and the words
― 70 ―
	sing to the ear and gently delight the mind,
	and what is finest brings joy, and certain flashes
	dazzle the eye while the poem glows like moonlight,
	and the images are the very image of perfection,
	and there is a brilliant flow of flavor,
	and both mārga and deśi become the native idiom,
	and figures truly transfigure, so that people of taste
	love to listen and are enriched
	by the fullness of meaning—
	that is how poetry works, when crafted
	by all real poets.

	Good color, build, apparent softness:
	they're all there in a poor image, but if you look inside
	it's dead. That's what a bad poet makes.
	Good color, build, softness,
	inside and out: you find them
	in a living woman, [6] Ratna-putrika is a crux: A gem of a woman? A sculpted jewel? The compound is unique to Nanněcoda. But the opposition seems to be between a lifeless image and a real, living person. and in good poems.

	If you look for good lines in a real poem,
	they're everywhere, in dense profusion.
	That is poetry. [7] Reading (pace the modern commentators) sat-krtiya kŪrp' agu: kŪrpu as composition, poetry. But if one goes on chattering
	and, by chance, a few lines
	come out well, like a blind man
	stepping on a quail,
	would you call that a poem? [8] Andha-lāvuka-nyāya: a blind man catches a quail by chance.

	Skilled words, charming movements,
	ornaments, luminous feelings, elevated thoughts,
	the taste of life—connoisseurs find all these
	in poetry, as in women.

	An arrow shot by an archer
	or a poem made by a poet
	should cut through your heart,
	jolting the head.
	If it doesn't, it's no arrow,
	it's no poem.

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HOW TO MAKE GOD FALL IN LOVE

[9] Nanněcoda, 4.54–76, 78–82.

[Indra, king of the gods, has commissioned Manmatha, "Desire," to disturb śiva in his meditation and make him fall in love with the divine Uma, so that śiva will produce through Uma a son to lead the gods in war against their enemies. Manmatha has accepted this dangerous mission.]

"This job is just right for me," Manmatha said to Indra. "I accept. Give me the betel."

[10] The gift of betel nut and leaf seals a contract.

Thus honored by the king of the gods, Manmatha took his leave and headed home, together with his friend, Spring. Meanwhile, at home,

	Rati, his wife, [11] The name means "delight," especially sexual delight. was ill at ease,
	waiting for her husband to return.
	Surprising evil omens were appearing.
	Tremors shook her body, as if the antigods
	had possessed her. She was sad and terrified.
	Then she saw her husband's flag in the sky,
	with a crocodile painted on it.

	Bees buzzing, cuckoos cooing sweetly,
	parrots singing joyful chants:
	with a great flourish, Manmatha arrived,
	eager to see his wife.

	She looked at him and hid her inner sadness
	with a smile. After the usual greetings,
	she asked: "Indra summoned you for some
	special purpose—what was that?"

She pressed him. He saw her feelings on her face. A little irritated, he replied, with a smile:

	"You seem scared, though you're trying to hide it.
	I can see in your movement
	that you're masking fear.
	Your lips are quivering. What is it that is
	disturbing you? Tell me."

So she told him about the mysterious omens, some from the gods, some from the sky, some from the earth, and some from her own body. "Tell

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me what happened at Indra's court," she asked, looking very miserable. "Nothing special," he said. "He just asked me to disturb śiva and Uma, and I said I would do it." When she heard this, Rati was shocked, her heart shaking, and she said:

	"Maybe Indra doesn't care that śiva is our family god,
	but doesn't he know that the whole universe worships him?
	It means nothing to him that śiva is a great Yogi,
	but what about the fact that he is the Lord of all the worlds?
	Indra may not fear a god who cut off Brahmā's head,
	but isn't he afraid of someone who put an end to Death?
	His three eyes may not be frightening,
	but still he is Rudra, the Doomsday fire.
	Indra is sending you against that terrible god.
	Will helping Indra do us any good? If you take on
	the strongest, death is certain. Doesn't Indra
	know this?

	Indra has sent you off without further thought.
	He's a king, after all. You are going
	as his lieutenant. But are you a warrior?
	Will śiva be a pushover? You're hunting
	a lion, and it will be a miracle if either you
	or Indra survive.

	All the women in heaven are in love with you.
	Indra can't stand it. That's why he's sending you
	to your death, on this pretext.

	Those women don't look at him the way
	they look at you. So Indra hates you
	and wants you to die. Should you make it easy
	for him by volunteering?

	When the gods invited you for this mission,
	you took it as an honor. They told you śiva
	would be an easy target, so you quickly
	got ready to go. But you're risking your life.
	You're not even afraid of this impossible task.
	Visnu and Laksmi [12] Manmatha's parents. would hardly approve
	of your arrogant talk.

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	If śiva opens his third eye, for some reason or other,
	the whole universe dies in an instant.
	How can you attack someone so fierce?
	Very well, go ahead: how big a fish
	can a little fish eat?
	Like somebody who chews up a brick
	at the wink of an eye,
	you're so full of yourself
	you want to take on the gods.
	Fighting with Rudra for no reason
	is like a locust fighting fire."

While Rati was telling him about śiva, and trying to discourage him, Manmatha looked at her and said:

	"When I shoot my flower arrows, the hearts
	of both śiva and Uma will simply melt
	and unite. Do you have any doubt?
	I want to achieve this goal, never attempted before
	in any world. Skilled archer that I am,
	I will make their bodies one.

	You know, by what you've seen and heard,
	that nothing in all the worlds
	can cross my command. Why are you
	so afraid? Why make the god draped in snakes
	into such a vicious enemy?"

Manmatha thought this should put an end to the argument, but Rati was still thinking about śiva's power, and she said:

	"His bow is the Mountain of Gold; yours
	is made of sugarcane. His arrow is the deadly
	Pāśupata. You shoot flowers that wilt at a touch.
	He wrecks cities. [13] The reference is to the Triple City of the antigods. And you—you wreak havoc
	in the hearts of men stranded far from their lovers.
	However you look at it, you're as close to him
	as a mosquito to an elephant.

	Your soft arrows can't even penetrate
	the hearts of those who worship śiva,
	let alone the god himself. Is it wise
	to think of vanquishing the invincible?
― 74 ―
	I'm a woman, I'm frail, but if I look at you
	in anger, you start to shiver.
	What makes you think you can withstand
	the fire from śiva's deadly eye?

	Children chew it up and spit it out,
	but still you rely on sugarcane
	to make your bow.
	Flowers that die when pressed into women's hair
	you take for arrows.
	The gentle breeze that can hardly move a tender bud
	is your Chief Lieutenant,
	and your elite units are manned by bees and parrots,
	that any woman can shoo away.
	Spring, burned up
	at the touch of the mildest of summers,
	is your ally. The spearhead in your attack
	is a row of cuckoos, who are scared away by baby crows.
	Armed like this, with such splendid troops,
	you hope to move against the Fierce God?

	Are you stronger than the Man-Lion, who got himself skinned? [14] śiva, as śarabha-mŪrti, overcame Visnu as the Man-Lion.
	Are you stronger than the Creator, who lost one of his heads? [15] Brahmā was beheaded by śiva.
	Are you mightier than Death, who was burnt to cinders? [16] As Kālântaka, śiva destroyed Yama, the god of death.
	Why pick a quarrel, for no reason, with the god
	who destroys all?"

He listened, and replied: "Strength, valor, magical spells, schemes, meditations, mind control, and other such superhuman powers, however marvelous they may be, become soft under the influence of passion, like the moonstone when touched by moonbeams. Everyone knows this by experience.

	When men who can crush an elephant to death
	tightly hold them in their embrace,
	women more tender than a flower
	beg for more. Don't you know
	the supreme power of passion?

	If you want to know the reason:
― 75 ―
	So long as living beings are either male or female
	and have minds that feel,
	that is enough—all of them
	are controlled by Desire.
	That's how the Creator made the world,
	and He gave me this power."

Then he explained to her the supremacy of desire—the prime cause of the first creation—and convinced her. He was ready, now, to advance against God.