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12. Krsnadevarāya

r. 1509–1529

The emblematic king of the Vijayanagara state at its peak, Krsnadevarāya was also a Telugu poet of the first order. His father, Narasā Nāyaka, founded the third, or Tuluva, dynasty at Vijayanagara; his mother was a Tulu woman, Nāgâmba, so there is reason to believe that Krsnadevarāya's first language was Tulu. Krsnadevarāya's ascension to the throne marks a moment of dramatic expansion in the state-system over which he ruled—a period of military conquests, social change (including the mobilization of a new elite bound in ties of personal loyalty to the king), vast public building, and literary and artistic innovation. In the eyes of the south Indian tradition, Krsnadevarāya has always remained the synoptic "great king," a symbol of elegant power, wealth, and love for his god: Venkateśvara at the Tirupati temple, which the king visited many times as a pilgrim.

He is the only Telugu poet whose physical portrait we can realistically reconstruct. Domingos Paes, a Portuguese visitor to the court, describes him as pock-marked, irascible, "of fair complexion and good figure, rather fat than thin."

[1] Cited by Robert Sewell, A Forgotten Empire (Vijayanagar): A Contribution to the History of India (London: S. Sonnenschein and Co., Ltd., 1900), 246–47.

This image is at odds with the idealized images of Krsnadevarāya that we see, for example, in bronze sculpture at Tirupati (together with his two wives), or on the north gateway at Cidambaram. Along with these visual images, we have a rich depiction of this king in the oral cātu tradition, which connects him to various women, to the court jester Těnāli Rāmalingadu, and to a series of eight great poets, the asta-dig-gajas. This retrospective cātu vision of the royal court, which seems to have crystallized in the mid–seventeenth century, gives a sense of constant poetic production

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and competition among poets, masterminded by the discriminating presence of the great poet-king.

His great work—the only one of many to have survived—is the āmuktamālyada, which tells the story of the Vaisnava poetess Godā/Antāl, from VilliputtŪr. Venkateśvara himself is said to have commissioned the poem by appearing to the king in a dream at śrīkākulam, in Krsna District (see the first selection below). This remarkable book is couched in a unique style, which jogs the listener's sensibility and prevents him or her from taking anything for granted. Language is radically deroutinized, both lexically and syntactically. Nearly every verse demands long attention if one is to absorb the new world that it reveals. Unprecedented combinations of words and images are powerfully compacted, and require unraveling. An enormous erudition in many branches of traditional science and learning is brought to bear upon scenes of ordinary life, of peasants and housewives, meticulously observed with all the care of a modern anthropologist. Both an extraordinary realism and a sweeping imagination come into play as the poet moves from the kitchen to the battlefield, from the courtesan quarters to the temple or the royal palace. This highly crafted style was beyond imitation; no later Telugu poets attempted anything like it.

Within this linguistic and poetic domain, we can also observe the attempt to lay down an entirely new basis for kingship and the political order. Like Krsnadevarāya himself (as the medieval tradition insists), the royal heroes of his poem are, in a sense, renouncer-kings, only reluctantly drafted into ruling, but, once incorporated in the political sphere, effective, empowered, and wise. This new understanding of politics, which encompasses the inherent conflicts and tensions of kingship within the total, unitary self of the king, is part of the more general innovative elaboration of the early sixteenth-century psychosocial world at the imperial capital, as we see, for example, in the works of Krsnadevarāya's contemporary poets, Pěddana and Timmana.

In addition to the preamble of the āmukta-mālyada, which describes the circumstances of the work's composition, we have translated some verses of naturalistic and socially realistic description as well as the opening to the story of Visnu-citta (Pěriyālvā), which provides the central frame for the entire book. Visnu-citta's daughter, Godā, will eventually go on to marry the god, Visnu as Ranganātha, at the great temple of śrīrangam. In the Tamil story of Godā/Antāl., this young girl is said to have been in the habit of garlanding herself with the flowers woven for the god; when her father discovered this by noticing a hair in the garland, he rejected the polluted garland and made another for the offering. Visnu came to him in a dream, however, and informed him that he wanted only the garland worn by Godā. This part of the story is missing from the Telugu text, although it is still named āmukta-mālyada,"the woman who gives a garland already worn."

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THE KING'S DREAM

[2] Krsnadevarāya, āmukta-mālyada, ed. Vedamu Venkatarayasastri, 2nd ed. (Madras: Vedamu Venkatarayasastri and Brothers, 1964), 1.1, 11–18, 44.

	He can be seen on the goddess,
	in the sheen of her pendant.
	And she is there on the jewel he wears,

	as if their images of one another
	that had been held inside them
	had come out clearly, and were mirrored

	This is the lord of Venkatam,
	the god I love. [3] This invocation is followed by nine more introductory verses, which we have not translated here.

Some time ago, I was determined to conquer the Kalinga territory. On the way, I camped for a few days with my army in Vijayavāda. Then I went to visit.āndhra Visnu, who lives in śrīkākula.

[4] Today in Krsna District, not far from Vijayavāda (near KuchipŪdi). The god of śrīkākulam is known as āndhra Visnu and may have marked an ancient focus of Andhra cultural identity.

Observing the fast of Visnu's day,

[5] Ekādaśi, the eleventh day of the lunar cycle, sacred to Vaisnavas.

in the fourth and final watch of that god's night,

	āndhra Visnu came to me in my dream.
	His body was a radiant black, blacker than a rain cloud.
	His eyes, wide and sparkling, put the lotus to shame.
	He was clothed in the best golden silk, finer still
	than the down on his eagle's wings. [6] Visnu rides the great bird Garuda.
	The red of sunrise is pale compared to the ruby on his breast.
	The goddess who was with him held a lotus in one hand,
	and his hand in the other, and her gentle glance was enough
	to do away with every loss. He was smiling, spilling goodness
	as he spoke to me:

	"You told the Story of Madâlasa, exciting connoisseurs of poetry
	with skillful similes and metaphors and the trope of true description.
	You sang of Satyabhāma, a poem resonant with feeling.
	You made a collection of superb stories culled from all ancient books.
	You composed the Gem of Wisdom, an eloquent work
	that dispels residues of darkness in those who hear it.

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	You astounded us with honeyed poems in the language of the gods,
	The Pleasures of Poetry and other essays. [7] The verse offers the following names—probably only descriptive titles, despite our italics—for Krsnadevarāya's earlier works: Madâlasa-carita, SatyavadhŪ-prīnanambu, Sakala-kathā-sāra-sangrahambu, Jñāna-cintāmani, and Rasa-mañjari.
	Is Telugu beyond you? Make a book in Telugu
	now, for my delight.

	You might be wondering which ‘me' to describe. I'll tell you.
	You remember that wedding in śrīrangam, when I married
	the girl who had given me a garland she wore first?
	Tell that story. I'm a Telugu king,
	and you're the king of Kannada.
	Once I accepted, with no great liking,
	a garland given by a man. [8] Krsna was garlanded by Sudāma. You can make good
	that loss by singing of the special joy
	that comes from touching what a lover touched.

	‘Why Telugu?’ you might ask.
	This is the Telugu land.
	I am the lord of Telugu.
	There is nothing sweeter.
	Because you speak Telugu,
	many kings come to serve you.
	Among all the languages of the land,
	Telugu is best.

	Who should receive it?
	Give it to the god you chose as yours,
	the Lord of Venkatam, for I am he.
	We differ only in name.

	If you complete this book, you'll go
	from strength to strength." Then the god
	went away, and I woke up. I was moved
	and amazed. I bent my head
	toward the towers of his temple
	and, at the hour of dawn, said
	my morning prayers.

I held court in the presence of my army men and subordinate kings, but dismissed them early to their homes. Then I called the scholars learned in many old texts, of various traditions, honored them, and related my

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good dream. They were thrilled and astonished, and they said: "Lord, this dream where the lord of lords appeared promises a long series of happy events. Let us explain. First, the fact that the god became visible in your dream means that your love for him will grow. That he asked you to compose a book means you will achieve a far deeper understanding of literary art. That he came with his wife, goddess of wealth, shows that your treasury will be immensely enriched. She held a white lotus in her hand: you will therefore wield the one and only white parasol of royalty. He mentioned that you must know the respective languages spoken by the many kings who serve you; this says that still more kings will be pulled to you. That statement about the joy that comes from touching what a lover touched promises that you will be loved by many more women. He said you will go from strength to strength if you compose this book; certainly you will live a long life and be blessed with many sons. You were born in the line of King Turvasu, who sustained the world with no small strength, so there is nothing surprising in this series of happy events that will come to you.… So, powerful king, king of kings, brilliant with energy, defender of fortresses, sole sovereign in the fields of letters and war, Krsnarāya: do compose that book."

VISNU-CITTA OF VILLIPUTTŪR

[9] Krsnadevrāya āmukta-mālyada, 1.54, 56, 59–90, 64–65, 74, 77–82, 84; 2.71–72 74–94.

	There were coconut trees, and their clusters of fruit
	were a brighter red than the breasts of the Pāndya women,
	daubed with vermilion, and there was a road
	paved with diamonds, for the Ocean that had been plundered
	of its gems when they built that city wanted to retain
	a few last stones, so he offered hostages
	for this privilege: a row of wishing trees, his sons
	from heaven, and the white Ganges, his first wife. [10] The Ganges is considered to be the wife of the ocean, and the celestial wishing trees are his sons.

	Dravida women walk through the inner paths of the gardens with
	lotus flowers they picked for worship, the stems
	held in their hands while the blossoms quiver in water
	they have drawn from lily ponds to pots they carry on their waists
	to bathe the god, and their bodies, bathed in turmeric,
― 171 ―
	bend beneath the merciless weight of their breasts,
	their anklets ringing as they sing the Tamil texts of prayer. [11] The poet refers by name to the Divya-prabandham, the Tamil śrīvaisnava corpus of devotional hymns.

	When they cast the dice with a flourish of bracelets,
	even a hermit's heart would miss a beat.
	So lost are they in play that Desire himself would be unmanned
	if he intruded: they would hardly lift their heads to see him.
	But if they catch sight of someone immersed in serving God,
	they rise and bow to him with such beauty
	that the king of gods is jealous.
	When they turn their eyes, straining to hear the conch blown in the temple,
	that sideways glance could cut right through you.
	Sitting on the front porches of their houses, they throw the dice-shells
	with so much energy that their hair comes loose, the other hand moves up
	to fix it, and from beneath the sari and silk blouse
	a full firm breast emerges clearly like the Love God's pillow:
	that is how courtesans play at dice.

	With one grain of unhusked rice they scrape away red betel stains
	from their teeth, until they gleam like moonlight.
	They make their bodies bright with turmeric, but with a touch so light
	it never yellows the towel. They finger their breasts
	all over with fragrant sandal, thin and liquid,
	slipping their hands inside their saris.
	When a necklace tears in the rush of loving, and pearls
	scatter everywhere, they pay no heed.
	They can know a man on sight—his caste and culture.
	And if a lover becomes poor, or loses power, they go on caring.
	They live in style: the king sees them as his queens outside.
	Gifted with language, they make poems.
	Rich is the life of women who delight.

	At the jeweled steps leading down to the pools hidden behind houses
	where Tamil women have rubbed sticks of turmeric for their bath,
	yellow seeps into the water and stains the edges
	of the wings of sleeping geese, so when they waddle through the village
	you might think they were a parade of geese with golden plumage
	just arrived from the gods' river in the sky.

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	Heads tucked between their wings, ducks sleep in ponds
	nestled in the fields. But the village watchmen think
	they must be towels squeezed dry and left behind
	by Brahmins after their morning bath.
	Seeking to retrieve them, the watchmen
	walk into the water, the ducks take off,
	the girls who guard the paddy fields laugh.

	And then, during the night, the cool breeze off southern hills
	rings the golden bells on the flagpole in the temple,
	and birds perched in the branches of champak trees in the courtyard are
	startled and flutter their wings, and couples who have quarreled
	think dawn has come so they hasten to make up and make love.

	There lived there a man named Visnu-citta,
	whose name means "God in mind,"
	and it was literally true: for he had bound the god
	with Yoga the way a chain holds back a elephant.
	His lips were always chanting the Visnu mantra,
	and he had gone beyond all opposites.
	Though he had never studied Veda
	or any metaphysics, the subtle but stable difference
	between God and living beings
	was firmly rooted in his mind.

Through the compassion of his teacher, whom he found as the result of the good actions he had done in many previous lives, he was led to certain knowledge, as a hidden gift in one life always leads one to a treasure in the next: he knew that he was separate from the elements, and that God was separate from him, and that the relation between his Self and the Supreme Self, between part and whole, had no beginning. He believed: "If a Yogi has achieved the unfragmented joy that comes with this knowledge, what use to him are all the troublesome forms of learning? Without insight, Logic is empty magic, Analysis is paralysis, the Kapila system is a poor copy, Exegesis is facetious, Grammar is a stammer. Moreover, if a person does begin to study, time is never enough, and obstacles always intervene; resources are scant, but as soon as he acquires partial knowledge, his pride takes over. On the other hand, if he studies to the end and achieves real wisdom, he will want to reject anything qualified or conditioned, just as someone who has been given paddy rejects the dry stalks, or someone enriched with honey rejects the empty comb. So what use is there in mastering these texts only to give them up afterward, if one

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has already made peace inside and out, as I have, self-fulfilled as I am? Of course it might be useful to people who enjoy winning an argument or flattering a king, who are not yet tired of being born and reborn. But for anyone like me, that kind of fame is famine, such gain is pain, and honors are simply horrors." Visnu-citta knew that the ultimate goals for God's servants were to win unimaginable wisdom on earth;—like that Brahmin Bharata

[12] A simpleton, jada-bharata, who was asked to join the palanquin-bearers for King RahŪgana, but stumbled under the burden; when the king became angry, this simple man enlightened him with words of ultimate wisdom.

who long ago instructed the Sauvīra king and led him to release—and, in the other world, to assume extraordinary and enduring forms to worship God. With this awareness he happily took on the work of making garlands for Visnu in that town.

	With whatever he earned from his work,
	this great Yogi used to feed all the worshipers of God
	who came and went on the road
	between the Snow Mountain in the north
	and the Sandal Hills of the South.

	On days soaked through with showers,
	when the very sky turned to water,
	his wife would add shavings of dry coconut shells
	to the smoldering logs, to keep the smoke
	from her eyes, and quickly she would serve the meal
	with a coconut-wood ladle—rice, peeled lentils,
	a few stir-fried curries, [13] Pôgapina kŪralu are vegetables rapidly fried in spices—a dish that requires only minutes of cooking on the fire. dried vegetables saved
	for the rainy season, [14] Vadiyamulu and varugu are vegetables pre-dried in the hot season and stored for the rains, when they can be rapidly fried and served. together with curds
	and plenty of ghee.

	The summer menu included lukewarm white rice,
	sweet soup, cool jelly, [15] Timmanamu. sorghum gruel, sugarcane juice,
	coconut milk, various juices, fruit, fragrant cold water,
	pickled baby mangoes, [16] Vada pindě. suspended in brine,
	and buttermilk—preceded by sandalpaste
	for your body.

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	Fresh rice fragrant with civet, several curries with black pepper
	still simmering in the pan, chutneys so sharp with mustard
	they clear the nose, milk pudding, mango pickles,
	fresh ghee that almost burns your fingers, and thickened milk
	in abundance—he served in winter.

	This is what you would hear in the middle of the night
	if you passed by the house of that disciplined man:
	stories about the god who sleeps on a snake, [17] Visnu who rests on the great serpent Ananta, on the cosmic ocean.
	chanting of the Tamil texts of prayer,
	and humble words in Sanskrit—"There's no great variety
	in the vegetables we can serve," "They're probably
	not hot enough," "What we have is not much,
	even the rice is less than fine, but please do us the favor
	of eating."

	Once when the boat festival for the god of Vrsagiri [18] Alakarmalai, a major pilgrimage site to Visnu/Tirumāl in the Maturai region.
	near Madhura [19] Maturai, to the north of VilliputtŪr. fell in the hot season,
	a Brahmin came from another land
	on pilgrimage. He wanted to see the splendors
	of Madhura City, so he went there, bathed
	in the Vaigha River at twilight, and was resting
	that night in the house of the king's Brahmin priest.

	With their travel bags as pillows,
	a group of Brahmins was lying on a porch by the roadside:
	to pass the time, under the full moon,
	one would sing an ārya verse, another would answer
	with a gīta, and the foreign Brahmin would cite
	wise sayings. [20] ārya is a set of meters. "Wise sayings" are subhāsitas, gnomic or witty verses.

	[That night,]
	perfumed with musk and rosewater that proclaimed his royal presence,
	as the breeze blowing over waves of light-red pātala flowers
	shook the tassels on his turban and disturbed the bees drawn to the garlands he wore, while the light glancing off his pearl earrings, dancing as he walked, outshone the brilliance
― 175 ―
	of the strings of thick pearls around his neck,
	the king walked through the streets, a moving mountain of gold,
	holding in his hand the pleats of his flowing garment,
	bordered in red like the rising moon, and a honed sword as well,
	with golden hilt, while a serving girl carried betel leaves
	and his armed guard preceded him in wide formation,
	on his way to enjoy his favorite concubine in an inner palace
	in another part of town.

	He heard that Brahmin as he was reciting
	a verse that stuck in his mind,
	a warning for the future:
	"One must prepare oneself well
	in the eight dry months
	for the rains that come;
	during the daytime, for the dark night;
	while you are young, for old age;
	and right now,
	for the life after dying."

	The king heard the verse, thought deeply about its import,
	understood it, and was stunned.
	Then he became frightened at the danger
	arising from within.
	He went no farther; he stood still
	in grief.

	"What good are royal riches, luxuries,
	the flurries of arousal? I put my trust
	in this body, fragile as a bubble,
	and gave no thought at all
	to the path to freedom.
	Even the most ancient kings, Manu and others,
	though they lived to the end of the eon,
	were finally crushed by Death.

	You don't sense the movement,
	like passengers inside a boat
	that slowly brings them to the other shore:
	Time, unnoticed, steals your days
	and brings ruin.

	Sagara, Nala, PurŪravas,
	Hariścandra, Purukutsa and Kārtavīrya,
	Gaya, Prthu, Bhagīratha,
― 176 ―
	Suhotra, śibi, and Bharata,
	Dilīpa, Bhārgava, Māndhātr,
	śaśibindu, Ananga, and Ambarīsa,
	Yayāti, Ranti, Rāma, Maruttu:
	did Time spare even one of them?

	Fleeting as lightning
	are the joys of kingship.
	I won't give in to this addiction
	any more. My whole energy
	will be aimed at the joys
	of another world.

	If you just live a moral life,
	you end up running back and forth
	from heaven to earth, a tedious trail.
	I don't want that. I want to find that god
	who makes you free."

	He had his guard give the Brahmin
	a reward sealed in folded betel leaves, and went home.
	When the night had passed,
	he held court, gathered scholars of many views
	and said, "Look into your books and decide
	who best gives liberation."

	He hung a bag full of freshly minted coins,
	golden as bira flowers, in the court,
	for whoever could reveal the truth
	and defend it in cogent argument.
	With eyes on that bag, hanging down
	like a deadly snake, one proposed
	Hara, [21] śiva. another Uma, someone else suggested Hari, [22] Visnu.
	others spoke for Fire, the Sun,
	Ganapati, [23] Ganeśa, the elephant-headed god who removes obstacles. the Moon, and Brahmā,
	and they quarreled.

	Meanwhile, in VilliputtŪr, as Visnu-citta
	was putting on the tulasi garland
	and chanting the god's mantra,
	Mannanāru, the god himself,
	spoke to him in sweet and elevated tones.

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	"Mindful man, go today, quickly, to Madhura,
	to defeat the scholars blinded by pride
	who are boasting in the Pāndya court.
	Announce my power, and take the prize.
	The king has broken with this world.
	Be kind to him, make him love me."

	Visnu-citta shivered in fear, and fell
	before the god, his body thrilling.
	Tears of joy ran down his cheeks.
	Head humbly bent, he begged:

	"Swami, you want to send me?
	I have never studied the texts, and my eyes
	are unopened. My hands are callused and hardened
	from constant digging with a rough shovel
	in your garden. I am a mere servant in your house.
	If you send me as your advocate and I am defeated
	in the court, the discredit will be yours.

	Ask me to sweep your floor,
	bring water, carry your palanquin,
	weave garlands, bear your insignia,
	fan you and give you shade,
	light your lamps as evening falls—
	just don't send me to debate.
	There must be others you could favor
	with this role."

	The god smiled, basking in his love.
	He looked at the goddess and said,
	"I'll make him win the debate,
	you'll see." And he said to Visnu-citta,

	"Is it up to you?
	Just go there. I'll make them accept you
	in the court. Don't say anything more.
	I'll be there with you."

	The ālvā, afraid to speak,
	prepared to go.