Classical Telugu Poetry "ss1.29"

― 158 ―

THE BRAHMIN MEETS THE COURTESAN
[1] Pěddana Manu-caritramu (Hyderabad: Andhra Pradesh Sahitya Akademi, 1966), 2.24–35, 38–54, 62.

[The passage translated below describes what is perhaps the most famous erotic counter in Telugu literature, contextualized by the anthropogonic theme at the heart of Pěddana's great text. Manu, the first man, is born after a convoluted prehistory beginning with Pravara, an innocent Brahmin who suffers from wanderlust. Given a magic ointment for his feet that allows him to fly to the Himâlayas, Pravara soon finds himself stranded there: the ointment has washed off in the snows, and he has no idea how to return home, to his wife and family. In this unhappy predicament, Pravara encounters the divine dancing girl VarŪthini, who promptly falls in love with him and seeks to seduce him. The attempt ends in frustration: Pravara, clearly cognizant of VarŪthini's charms, rejects her advances (and eventually makes his way home with the help of the god of fire, Agni); for her part, the hapless woman of love is driven to ever more explicit statements culminating in the dramatic ideology of passion in the final verse of our selection.

We will follow Pravara through the initial stages of this meeting, from the moment the apparition of perfect female beauty invades his consciousness to the point where, unsettled, close to panic, he makes his decision; we then turn briefly to VarŪthini's despairing response. Pravara is first made aware that he is not alone in the remote mountain landscape by a characteristic fragrance, which he innocently mistakes:]

	One part musk enhanced by two parts camphor:
	densely packed betel [2] Women chewed betel nut compounded with musk and camphor in these proportions. sent its fragrance,
	masking all others, to announce
	the presence of a woman.

	He followed the fragrance
	carried by the breeze, wave after wave,
	thinking, "There are people here."
	Then he saw her,

	a body gleaming like lightning,
	eyes unfolding like a flower,
	long hair black as bees,
	a face lit up with beauty,
	proudly curved breasts,
	a deep navel—

	a woman, but from another world.
― 159 ―
	She was sitting on a raised platform
	at the foot of a young mango tree
	in the courtyard of her house, which was built
	of precious gems.
	And, as a cool wind blew against her face,

	the red skirt inside the white half-sari
	that veiled her thighs
	turned the gleaming moonstone beneath her
	red, and the gourds of the vina
	rubbed against her firm breasts
	as her delicate fingers seemed to caress
	sweet music from the strings,
	and she was languid with longing,
	her eyes half-closed as if,
	flowing with the song, she was slowly
	making love with expert skill,
	beyond herself with pleasure,
	while the bracelets on her hands
	chimed the rhythm of the song
	and there was joy, brilliant joy,
	as she played on.

	Amazed, she opened her eyes wide,
	and, as light poured in,
	the pupils seemed to blossom
	like opening flowers,
	and her round breasts came alive
	as she thrilled to the sight
	of that Brahmin, a god on earth,
	handsome as a young god, [3] Specifically, NalakŪbara, Kubera's son, one of the exemplars of male beauty.
	while thought went wild
	in her mind.

	She saw him. Stood up
	and walked toward him, the music
	of her anklets marking the rhythm,
	her breasts, her hair, her delicate waist
	trembling. Stood by a smooth areca tree
	as waves of light from her eyes
	flooded the path that he was walking.

― 160 ―

	First there was doubt,
	a certain hesitation,
	then a widening joy
	as desires raced within her:
	her mind was crying "Yes!"
	her eyelids blinking,
	for she was close to him now
	and nearly paralyzed,
	as her eyes, wide as the open lotus,
	enfolded him in burning moonbeams.

	She stared at him.
	Like tiny bursts of smoke
	that proved she was burning
	with love,
	the hairs on her body
	stood on end.

	Musk trickled in thin lines of sweat
	from her forehead to her cheeks,
	as if the God of Desire were marking a limit
	for her still-widening eyes,
	lest they shake off their lids entirely
	and take over
	her face.

	Fluttering glances healed
	her inability to blink,
	and for the first time
	she was sweating;
	even her surpassing understanding
	was healed by the new
	confusion of desire. [4] As a goddess, VarŪthini does not blink; nor is she capable of sweating. Note that she is here transformed, in a movement seen as positive, from this divine state to a human mode of being.
	Like the beetle that, from concentrating
	on the bee, becomes a bee, [5] This is a proverbial statement of transformation through mental obsession (the bhramara-kīta-nyāya).
	by taking in that human being
	she achieved humanity
	with her own body.

― 161 ―

Drunk on his beauty and movements, she was thinking:

	"Where did he come from, this man
	more lovely than Spring or the Moon? [6] Spring is another examplar of male beauty. The poet adds a comparison to Jayanta, Indra's son, and to NalakŪbara.
	There's no one to compare to him.
	Can a Brahmin be so handsome? If only
	he would take me, Love himself
	would be my slave."

	Her heart was caught in a storm
	of compelling passion.
	In haste, shaking off shyness,
	her anklets ringing,
	she stood directly in his path.
	He saw her, very close, and said,
	in some confusion:

	"Who are you, young woman
	with darting eyes,
	moving alone in this wild land?
	Aren't you afraid?
	I'm a Brahmin. My name is Pravara.
	I've lost my way. Like a fool
	I chose to come to this mountain.
	I want to go home. What's the way
	out? Show me, and god will bless you."

	As he told her his story, her eyes
	grew bright. Her earrings, breasts, and waist
	were quivering now, as she parted her lips
	and smiled:
	"You have such beautiful eyes—can't you see
	your way? You just want to strike up
	a conversation with a woman you found
	alone. Surely you know
	the way you came. You ask so boldly.
	Maybe you just want to play."

So she said, playfully hiding her meaning, and went on:

	"The goddess born from the ocean of milk [7] Laksmi, goddess of beauty and wealth.
	in the wake of the crescent moon
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	is our sister. Our gift is in making
	music to fan desire, with voice and lute,
	pure enough to melt a stone.
	The arts and sciences of making love
	are our birthright: smooth
	as butter. Men go through huge sacrifices—
	offering up horses, [8] The aśvamedha, the most complex and expensive of Vedic rituals. crowning kings [9] The rājasŪya, for anointing or renewing a king. —
	just to win our hand. We perform
	on stages set with emeralds,
	in the shade of wishing trees
	on the Golden Mountain,
	and the courts of the gods
	are where we get our exercise.

	My name, young man, is VarŪthini.
	You must have heard of Ghrtāci, Tilottama, Harini,
	Hema, Rambha, and śasirekha. [10] These are all famous names, divinely beautiful women familiar from the classical epic/purānic mythology.
	They're my friends.

	We spend our days in love,
	wandering through caves lit by jewels
	on this Snow Mountain.
	Cool winds rinsed in the spray of the heavenly Ganges
	play upon blossoms alive with bees
	in my private gardens.

	You say you're a Brahmin, but really
	you're the King of Love. You have come to me
	as a guest; allow me to welcome you
	to my jeweled home, where you can rest.

	The noon sun has burned your body, tender as gold;
	the wind has wilted your handsome face.
	Honor my house
	by your presence, refresh yourself here,
	and then go."

The Brahmin answered:

	"Your offer is very enticing,
	but I have to go.
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	Home. To my village. Now.
	Consider I have come.
	What counts is your affection.
	I have rituals to perform.
	I have to go. Fast.
	Forgive me, please.

	There must be some way
	I can reach my home. You have
	the power. You're a woman of the gods.
	There is nothing you cannot do.
	You're like my mother.
	Bring me to my people."

A little smile played on her lips.

	"Where is that village of yours? You say
	you won't even rest your feet, you only want
	to go home. What a shame!
	Are your village huts better than
	what is here, the jewel-lit caves,
	sandalwood gardens, sandbanks on the river,
	these beds of Moonlight Vines?

	Let me confess.
	My mind is stuck
	on you. Do you want to leave me
	to the torments of love, or hold me
	on beds of flowers where the bees sing,
	drunk on honey?"

	So she had said it—and Pravara replied,
	"Young woman, how can you say that
	to me, a Brahmin committed
	to the rites day after day? This love
	is not proper. Don't you know that?

	I haven't fed the fires, or the gods, or the Brahmins.
	It's long past supper time.
	My mother and father are very old; they must be waiting
	for me, no doubt uneasy, and faint with hunger.
	As for me, I am responsible
	for all the sacred fires: if I don't reach home
	today, young woman,
	all my world will be ravaged."

― 164 ―

Now her face showed disappointment, as she said:

	"Handsome man,
	if you let your youth go by
	in these dreadful rites,
	when will you enjoy your life?
	Isn't the point of all these rituals
	to go to heaven
	to make love to us?

	When the heart unfolds
	in love, when it finds release from within
	in undivided oneness, like a steady flame
	glowing in a pot, when the senses attain
	unwavering delight—

	only that joy
	is ultimately real.
	Think about the ancient words:
	ānando brahma, God
	is joyfulness.

THE BRAHMIN MEETS THE COURTESAN [1] Pěddana Manu-caritramu (Hyderabad: Andhra Pradesh Sahitya Akademi, 1966), 2.24–35, 38–54, 62.

THE BRAHMIN MEETS THE COURTESAN
[1] Pěddana Manu-caritramu (Hyderabad: Andhra Pradesh Sahitya Akademi, 1966), 2.24–35, 38–54, 62.