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13. Nandi Timmana

Early sixteenth century

Later tradition imagines Nandi Timmana as one of the so-called asta-dig-gajas, the eight elephants of the cardinal directions, who supposedly graced the court of Krsnadevarāya at the apogee of the Vijayanagara period. Although this set of eight is probably a later (seventeenth-century) invention, Timmana's presence at Krsnadevarāya's court is historically verified. The poet dedicated his work, Pārijātâpaharanamu, to this king. The tradition asserts that the poet arrived in the court as a gift from the family of Tirumaladevi, Krsnadevarāya's senior wife.

The poet has another name: Mukku Timmana, "Timmana of the Nose." The title is associated with a verse supposedly composed by Timmana and then purchased by BhattumŪrti, in whose Vasu-caritramu it now appears. Here is the verse, based on the convention that bees avoid the campaka flower and on the standard comparison of the woman's nose to that flower (note the preponderance of nasal sounds in the Telugu original):

	nānā-sŪna-vitāna-vāsanalan ānandiñcu sārangam' e-
	lā nann' ôllad' atañcu gandhaphali bal kānan tapamb' andi yo-
	sā-nāsâkrti dālci sarva-sumanas-saurabhya-samvāsiy ai
	pŪněn preksana-mālikā-madhukarī-puñjambul īr-vankalan

	In agony, the campaka blossom wondered
	why bees enjoy the honey of so many flowers
	but never come to her.
	She fled to the forest to do penance.
	As a reward, she achieved the shape of a woman's nose.
	Now she takes in the perfumes
	of all the flowers, and on both sides
	she is honored by eyes
	black as bees.

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Timmana's famous poem, Pārijātâpaharanamu, describing Krsna's attempt to appease his wife Satyabhāma by prostrating himself at her feet and by bringing her the gods' pārijāta tree, is said to have been composed under specific circumstances. One day Krsnadevarāya awoke to find Tirumaladevi asleep with her feet touching his face. The king was deeply upset at the queen's lack of respect. The poet—a protégé of this queen's, as we have said—composed his work in order to help her win back Krsnadevarāya's favor by educating the king in elementary matters of love.

SATYABHāMA KICKS KRSNA

[1] Nandi Timmana, Pārijātâpaharanamu (Madras: Vavilla Ramas Vamisastrulu and Sons, 1968), 1.37–55, 57–63, 65–78, 80–90, 92–99, 102–11, 114–16, 118–37.

	[Vaiśampāyana narrates to King Janamejaya:]
	After Krsna had defeated Narakâsura,
	he married, at Nārada's suggestion,
	sixteen thousand apsaras women, who were still youthful,
	who had been imprisoned by that demon,
	and who wanted god as their husband.

	Even before this, he had eight wives—
	Rukmini, Satyabhāma, Jāmbavati, Mitravinda,
	Bhadra, Sudanta, Kālindi, and Laksana—
	all equally proud.

	He played with all of them in gardens on the outskirts of Dvarāvati,
	on make-believe mountains, in arbors near the seashore, and in palaces
	paved with moonstones on the banks of rivers made for pleasure.

	He would take whatever form any one of them wanted him to have
	at any time, and play with her as she desired. He was everywhere
	you looked, swimming in a sea of joy, in a thousand forms
	that flowed from his magic.

	Though he paid equal attention to all these women,
	there were two of them whom he loved more—
	Rukmini, daughter of King Bhoja,
	and Satyabhāma, daughter of Satrājit.

	Each one of them was sure that she had beauty, high birth,
	and her husband's exclusive love. In their minds, they were rivals.
― 180 ―
	One day Krsna came to Rukmini's rooms and,
	seated on a slab of moonstone, with maidservants nearby,
	he was playing dice with her alone, for fun

[when Nārada arrived from heaven on a surprise visit.]

	Husband and wife met him and welcomed him with attention. Rukmini
	signaled with her eyes, and her servants brought him a lion-seat. Krsna,
	given permission, sat comfortably with folded hands and said:

	"Great sage, you have graced me by your visit.
	You always show me affection, for no particular reason."

	The sage replied, "You're talking like an ordinary man,
	and it isn't right. I know who you are—a blessing to all people.

	You are the fish that entered the dark netherworld
	and killed the thief of the ancient words. [2] Visnu's fish avatar, in which the god killed Somaka, the demon who had stolen the Vedas and hid them at the bottom of the ocean.
	You are the tortoise who held the Mountain on his back
	when the gods churned the ocean, and who gave them their food.
	You are the boar who lifted the Earth on the edge of his tusk.
	You are the lion that emerged from a pillar to save your servant at dusk.
	You are the dwarf who stepped on the demon. [3] Bali.
	You are the great hero [4] Paraśurāma. who suppressed all kings on earth.
	You are the warrior [5] Ráma. who threatened the ocean with an arrow.
	And you are also you, living here in Dvāraka.

	You seduce demon women. [6] A reference to the Buddha avatar.
	You stamp out evil. [7] As Kalkin, the last avatar.
	What more can I say in praise?

	Dvāraka is heaven. Your Rukmini
	is the goddess Laksmi I come here often
	just because you are here, Mukunda, [8] A name of Visnu. killer of Kamsa

With a full heart, the sage gave Krsna a fresh pārijāta flower, folded in a golden lotus leaf; buzzing with bees, who seemed to be singing the

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praises of its fragrance; dripping with honey, as if it were shedding tears of joy at being offered for use; dense with the brilliant promise of fulfilling all desires.

Krsna took it with respect and amazement, and looked at Rukmini, though in his mind he was thinking of Satyabhāma.

	"If I give it to Rukmini," he thought, "Satyabhāma will be angry.
	If I send it to Satyabhāma as a gift, Rukmini will feel humiliated.
	But since I'm here, it's not right to send it elsewhere."

	So, with a little smile, and supported by the sage
	with a wink, he gave it to Rukmini. She took it,
	bowed to Nārada, and slipped it into her hair,
	so she looked like Pārvatī crowned by the crescent moon,
	entirely beautiful.

	She was like a pearl newly washed.
	Now Nārada, smiling mischievously,
	eager to excite a quarrel, said:

	"Lady, this is a pārijāta flower.
	Human beings can't get it.
	śaci, [9] Indra's wife. Pārvati, and Sarasvati wear it every day.
	You need to know this, since he gave it you,
	and since you are his life itself, outside his body.
	No one can equal you among all his sixteen thousand wives.
	And the flower is lucky to be worn by you.
	When used correctly, it satisfies desire.
	Let me tell you of its power.

	It never wilts or loses fragrance.
	It's always fresh, and full
	of pollen. It's a queen of flowers.

	When you are alone with your husband,
	when you do that secret thing,
	this flower inflames. It brings new vigor
	to those games. It also dries the drops of sweat
	on your bodies like a fan when you are done.
	You can use it either way.

	It even brings you tasty food: it won't let you be hungry or tired.
	It brings good luck. There's nothing like it in all the worlds.
― 182 ―
	Put it on, and you'll be the most powerful and splendid
	of all the women around here.

	When you have it in your hair, your co-wives will bow at your feet,
	and your husband won't dare to disobey a single word you say.
	Your pleasures and pride will be unbroken.

	When it's hot outside, it makes you cool,
	and it gives heat in the cold season.
	It does something new all the time.

	For a long time I've been hearing that Krsna is Satyabhāma's slave:
	she has only to wink, and he'll jump. But I haven't noticed
	that he loves anyone as much as you. If he did, wouldn't he have given
	this priceless flower to someone else?

	Satya [10] Satyabhāma thinks she's the most beautiful, the most youthful,
	the most famous. She thinks her husband wants
	only her. She's too proud to care
	for any other woman. Now, when she sees you
	or hears about you from others, she'll be cut down to size.

	If you put this flower in your hair, it will stay there
	for one whole year. After that, it goes back
	to the tree where it grew."

	No sooner did Nārada conclude
	than all the maids, who had heard it all,
	ran to their mistresses, the seven other queens,
	and told the story.

	They were all downcast, but after a while
	Laksana thought, "Well, she is, after all,
	the senior queen, so it's only fitting that she
	have the flower." Kālindi put up with it.
	Bhadra calmed down. Sudanta let it go.
	Jāmbavati didn't want to bother.
	Mitravinda kept her cool.

	But Satya, the loveliest of all, and the most proud,
	was thinking, "It's already late, and my maid,
	who went to Krsna, hasn't yet come back."

	In her garden near the palace, where streams
	of honey were flowing through crafted canals,
― 183 ―
	the queen was sitting on a moonstone sprinkled with red pollen,
	talking to her friend about Krsna and his beauty. [11] This verse is clearly modeled after Potana's famous poem, "Far away in heaven," see p. 144.

	"The soft music of the bees, the rustling of leaves
	and the cuckoo's gentle song,
	the sweet breeze blowing off the lotus ponds—all these no longer
	hold my interest. I wonder why," she said to her friend.

	"I don't know what has happened, but my right shoulder, nipple, and eye
	are quivering, and that's not good. [12] For females, the quivering on the right side is inauspicious (for males, on the left). There is a certain sadness
	in my mind. I'm scared. Maybe my dear husband
	has found some other young woman, and is doing something
	I won't like."

	As she was speaking to her friend, suddenly
	the maid appeared, eyes red with anger.

	"My lady," she said, "what can I tell you?
	Your husband was comfortably resting in Rukmini's room
	when that sage suddenly turned up

	and gave him a special flower, which he described as flawless,
	fit only for the gods, very useful for bringing pleasure,
	and impossible for anyone to acquire.

	Krsna was wild with happiness. He took the flower,
	pressed it to his eyes, bowed, and respectfully
	presented it to Rukmini; and that woman put it in her hair.

	Suddenly she looked splendid, with an unexpected new glow
	that can't be described, like Love's own sword
	honed on a whetstone.

	And Nārada did still worse. He said, so Krsna could hear it,
	and Rukmini could hear, and I, too, heard:
	"This is the end of Satya. She won't boast any more
	that she's the best, most beloved, that there is no one like her.

	Anybody who saw that busybody
	and the airs Rukmini put on
	and the games Krsna was playing
	would be enraged."

---

	Like a wounded snake, or like fire fed by ghee,
	Satyabhāma stood up, eyes blazing, red
	as the saffron designs she had painted on her cheeks.
	Choked and stammering, she said:

	"So. That meddler who feeds on quarrels came there
	and talked like that. And that cowherd
	listened closely. What did Rukmini say?
	Don't hide anything from me. Tell me the truth,
	don't be shy.

	I don't care if Nārada made a big thing of that flower
	and gave it to Krsna to ingratiate himself with him.
	I don't even care that he gave it to the woman he likes.
	But why should that tricky mendicant bring me into it?

	It may be natural for him to wander around the worlds
	tying people into knots with words.
	But my husband—why did he let it happen?

	Why blame the sage, or Rukmini?
	It's the crafty cowherd who's at fault.
	If your husband treats you like this,
	you'll eat your heart.

	They don't look at their own doings, but they say
	women's love can't be trusted. The fact is,
	men's minds are fickle as an autumn cloud.
	No one should rely on them.

	For all these days, my husband has been so caring,
	the way the eyelids protect the eye. If my position
	among my co-wives is diminished, they'll start
	winking and whispering about me. I'll never live
	through that, unless dying is harder than I think.

	Just to keep me in good spirits, for all these days
	he's been playing games, and hiding his love
	for Rukmini He gave no hint of this, and made me
	very happy. I suppose I should thank him,
	that killer of the demon Mura.

	The sage brought a great flower to Krsna,
	and he gave it to that woman. I got the news,
	and I'm still alive. What next?

	He just happened to be in her house when the flower arrived,
	so naturally he gave it to her. Let's say it makes sense.
― 185 ―
	But why should all my co-wives sell their pride,
	their position, their self-respect, and their wisdom,
	and rush to fall at her feet?

	A woman needs luck, the fruit of many previous lives,
	to find a man who will move through her mind
	like a soft string through beads.

	Even in dreams, even for a joke,
	he was afraid to cross my word.
	He never gave anything to anybody
	before offering it first to me.
	He used to bribe my maids
	lest they turn my mind away from him.
	He wouldn't let any other woman
	claim to be my equal.
	We were twined in affection
	that knew no reserve, our desire for each other
	unsated, always together
	in honest affection. And now he does this
	to me!

	We used to play hide-and-seek in our make-believe caves.
	We would play at marrying the tree and the vine.
	When one of us would beat the other at a game of dice
	and demand payment, we used to pull at each other's clothes.
	At nightfall, we would watch together, very moved,
	the poignant separation of the birds. [13] The cakravāka is separated each night from his mate, and the two birds spend the night crying piteously in sorrow and longing.
	And there were all those games in the moonlight,
	and the hours spent resting on moonstones,
	and painting each other's pictures on wooden boards.
	Has he forgotten all of this, under Rukmini's spell?

	A husband is kin to the heart.
	A husband is god, seven times a protector. [14] The husband is guru, father, mother, man, education, god, and patron for his wife.
	If the husband crosses limits,
	a good woman has nowhere to go.

	If a husband gives away money,
	that can be forgiven. But if he gives love
	to another woman, can your heart survive?"
― 186 ―
	She was hurt and fuming, so she went
	to the Sulking Room, like a snake
	to the sandalwood tree.

	She put on a soiled sari, threw off her jewels,
	all in silence. She tied a cloth around her head
	over a layer of musk. [15] Musk is supposed to cure headache. Then she started tossing and turning
	on a cot in the dark room, in an agony of hurt love,
	like the moon hidden by black clouds.

	She gave herself entirely to suffering,
	concentrated on being angry,
	and stopped all other activities.

	Meanwhile Krsna was thinking: "That maid of Satya's
	who happened to be here, and who came to know
	about the flower I gave to Rukmini, is probably
	making up stories about me." A little worried,

	he mounted his chariot, his thoughts unstable
	as the flag that was waving above him,
	and spurred his horses on. His mind was spinning
	like an axle as he approached the golden palace
	where Satya lived.

	He got off, leaving Dāruka, his charioteer,
	at the door. He walked through several courtyards,
	noticing the silent space.

	"Why is nobody feeding sugar to the parrots
	in their golden cages and teaching to them to talk?
	Why aren't they making the peacocks dance to their clapping?
	Where is the music of the vina, plucked by sharp fingernails?
	Why aren't they teaching the baby geese to walk?
	Things are not as usual. The palace has lost its luster.
	I wonder if somebody has told her the story
	of the pārijāta flower."

	Thinking to himself, he went straight to the Sulking Room,
	where he found Satya lying down, covered by a veil.
	Quietly he slipped in, but everybody could see his trick.

	He sent the servants away—some by whispered advice,
	some by an angry look, some by gesturing with his hand—
― 187 ―
	and drew near. He saw the woman, like a vine wilted
	by the harsh rays of the noonday sun. He was surprised.

	"Let's see what's going on," thought the Tricky Cowherd to himself
	as he quietly stood behind her bed and picked up the fan
	that a maid was using to cool her. He fanned her himself,
	as if to ignite the desire hidden in her body.

	The perfume of pārijāta was wafted from his body, and she could
	sense
	that something had changed. Surprised, she lifted the veil and looked
	all around the room, until at last she saw her husband
	with a fan in his hands. Tears welled up in her eyes,

	and she bent her head and put back the veil. The tears
	were flowing down her cheeks like drops of honey
	spilling out of flowers onto the leaves.

	Her feelings hurt, she was wholly gripped
	by anger. He spoke to her from his heart:

	"My sweet, where are your jewels?
	You always like those light-rose saris—
	why are you wearing white?
	Where is the betel that should brighten
	the redness of your lips? Something
	must be wrong. Tell me what happened.

	Is this a way of testing me, to make sure
	I love you? Or is this a joke meant to scare me?
	Did I do something really wrong? I'm not your enemy,
	am I? Why are you treating me like this?
	If you don't look at me with love
	even for a moment, I can't go on living.

	In thought, word, and deed, I give no love
	to any other woman. It's only for the sake of appearances
	that I show them some respect. My real passion is only
	for you. All my pride is in obeying your command.
	Surely you know this is true.

	If I'm not fortunate enough to get a kiss from you,
	or an embrace, at least give me a glance
	from your long, shining eyes." And with this,
	he lifted up the veil, impatient.
	She tried to hit him with the lotus she was holding in her hand.
― 188 ―
	He saw there was no way to appease the anger in her heart.
	Nothing was working. So the lord of all the worlds,
	who pulls all the strings, bowed at her feet, their gentle redness
	enhancing the colors of all the jewels in his crown.

	She kicked him with her left foot,
	right on the head—the head of God, honored
	by all other gods. That's how it is.
	When the husband errs, the wife is usually too furious
	to be sensible.

	Kicked by this angry woman, Krsna felt a thrill
	and the rising flame of desire.
	He spoke to her, putting his love into words.

	"I am deeply honored to have been kicked
	by Your Highness, in loving anger. My only worry
	is that my bristling hairs might have hurt
	your ever-so-tender foot. Please don't be angry any more."

	She half rose from the bed. She kept straightening
	her loose hair, tucking it back into the knot,
	and replacing the sari on her breasts. There were beads
	of sweat on her face, and her lovely eyes looked a little
	threatening, and her lips were shaking.

	"These slick words are too much. It's all pretense.
	This is what I get for trusting you. You don't even see
	how everyone is mocking me. But how could a cowherd know
	anything of the niceties of love?

	I'll never trust you again. You don't have to keep poking at me.
	I've lost my taste for your graceless lies. Rukmini probably treasures them
	like life itself. You lover of cowherd girls: I've had more
	than enough. Don't make me any angrier.
	Stop pretending.

	Tricks and lies were born along with you.
	You sucked them in with your mother's milk.
	I know that, but still, like a fool, I loved you.
	Now I've lost all self-respect. What am I to do?

	The sage came and gave you a flower and also praised
	your dear wife. You were pleased to hear that, and now
	you have to listen to my insipid words. You come here
	reeking of pārijāta, just to belittle me.

---

	A woman's jewel is her pride,
	more precious than life. Pride
	is the basis of all honor. How can a woman live
	if she loses pride?

	Your mother Devaki has always treated me as the best
	of all her daughters-in-law—because you loved me.
	Now how can I see her again?

	I wonder which of them will inherit this syamantaka [16] Satayabhāma wears the famous jewel for which Krsna fought Jāmbavān. She is, of course, now threatening suicide and manipulatively portraying a world without her. gem,
	that I have worn on my head. Which one will get to make love to you
	in our caves on Raivataka Hill? Who gets the room in the Spring Palace
	with all the camphor bananas? Who will watch the waves with you
	from the windows of the palace of jewels? Those parrots and peacocks
	and mynahs that I raised—I guess they'll go to some other woman.
	Don't worry, I've sworn to make you happy
	even before they all start laughing at me.

	Who do you think I am?"
	Then she could speak no more, her head bent low,
	tears choked back, the words stuttered and blocked.

	With grief and anger from hurt pride in her heart,
	she started weeping, right in front of her husband,
	her splendid face hidden by the sari, her soft voice
	made still sweeter by her tears, like a cuckoo that has feasted
	on astringent leaves.

	She couldn't control her sobbing, and the pain was getting worse.
	He took her in his arms, consoled her, wiped away the tears
	with his fingers. He said in sweet and friendly words:

	"Why are you sad, my lovely bride (I love your hair,
	darker than blue diamonds)?
	All this just for a flower? I'm here for you.
	Listen. I will go to Indra's garden. I don't care
	if Indra himself tries to stop me. I'll bring
	the whole pārijāta tree just for you.

	You know where you like to play,
	near the pond with its cool lilies. Right there,
― 190 ―
	in the middle of those camphor bananas,
	I'll have it planted, in your own backyard."

	He said this in that deep, sweet voice of his,
	and Satya brightened up
	like a tree that flowers in spring,
	with peacocks dancing round.

[The remaining cantos narrate Krsna's war with Indra for the pārijāta tree, which he eventually brings to Dvāraka as promised—to Satyabhāma's satisfaction.]