Silent: Sound

THE SOUND
OF SILENT
GUNS
and other essaus
EDWARD C. DIMOCK, ]r.

The Sound of Silent Guns is a collection
of fourteen short essays on various aspects
of the Bengali literary and religious
traditions, selected from papers written by
Edward Dimock over a period of more than
thirty years. Some of them are new, in that
they have never before been printed, others
have been revised from previous publications.
Taken together they represent the author's
various interests: several essays touch on the
literature or doctrine of the Vaisnavas, on
literary criticism, on the more modern poetry
of Jibanananda Das, and on one aspect or
another of the sakta tradition as manifested
in the Mangal-Kavyas.
Edward C. Dimock, Jr., is Distinguished Service

Professor in the Department of South Asian
Languages and Civilizations at the University
of Chicago. He took his doctorate from the
Department of Sanskrit and India Studies
at Harvard. His association with India, and
particularly with Bengal, began in 1955, with
teaching and research in linguistics at the
Deccan College, Poona, and subsequently at
the University of Calcutta. Among his books
are translations of medieval Bengali literature
(The Thief of Love) and of Vaisnava lyric poetry
{In Praise of Krishna; with Denise Levertov).
BOSTON
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THE SOUND OF SILENT GUNS
AND OTHER ESSAYS
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THE SOUND OF SILENT
GUNS AND OTHER ESSAYS
EDWARD C. DIMOCK, Jr.
DELHI
OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS
BOMBAY CALCUTTA MADRAS
1989
Oxford University Press, Walton Street, Oxford 0X2 6DP
New York Toronto
Delhi Bombay Calcutta Madras Karachi
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and associates in
Berlin Ibadan
© Oxford University Press 1989
SBN 019 562308 8
Printed by Rekha Printers Pvt. Ltd. ,

New Delhi 1 10020
and published by S. K. Mookerjee, Oxford University Press
YMCA Library Building, Jai Singh Road, New Delhi 110001
For MOLLY and RAMAN
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Contents
Introduction ix
On the Translatability of Poetry 1
On Religious and Esthetic Experience 1
Belief and Love in Vaisnava Poetry 21
Reflections of Two Poems by Jibanananda Das 33

1 .The Poet as Mouse and owl
2. The Sound of Silent Guns
Symbolic Forms in Bengali 52
Karma and the Vaisnavism of Bengal 62
Rabindranath Tagore: “The Greatest

of the Bauls of Bengal” 70
The Bauls and the Islamic Tradition 93
On Impersonality and Religious Biography:

The ‘Nectar of the Acts of Caitanya’ 102
The City in Pre-British Bengal

(with Ronald B. Inden) 113
A Theology of the Repulsive:

The Myth of the Goddess Sitala 130
The Goddess of Snakes in Medieval

Bengali Literature, Part 1 150

Bengali Literature, Part 2 (with A. K. Ramanujan) 166
Index 191
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Introduction
There once was a time when I thought I had occasion, in a review,

to take a writer to task for the ‘self-aware arrogance’ that led him
to write an autobiography at the age of twenty-seven, noting, with
not a little arrogance of my own, that it was the writer’s irony,
‘seemingly inborn in some Calcutta intellectuals,’ that saved the
book. Yet here am
doing the same thing for indeed this
I —
collection turns out to be something of an academic
—
autobiography and with a straight face, or at most only the hint
of an embarrassed grin. And that I must confess to something
more than twenty-seven years, far from constituting an excuse,
only compounds the offence.
It would perhaps have been more civilized to hope that within a
decent period after what I trust will be my timely demise, a friend
might see enough in my papers, or at least in past friendship, to
spend some time collecting and editing them. I will save that friend
a troublesome chore, or, far worse, a pang of conscience.
In any case, here I am with fourteen essays. Of the first five,
four are new, in the sense that they have not been published
before in printed form. Two of them have however been given in
one form or another as public lectures: “The Translatability of
Poetry” has benefited from the responses of audiences at the
University of Illinois at Champaign-Urbana and at Cornell
University, and ‘On Religions and Esthetic Experience’ first saw
the light of day in a very rudimentary form in a seminar at the
School of Oriental and African Studies of the University of
London in 1971. The essay that is called ‘Belief and Love in
Vaisnava Poetry’ has little relation, except in its title, to a paper
given before the American Society for the Study of Religion in the
early seventies; it is somewhat more akin one presented to the
to
Association for Asian Studies in 1981, but the family resemblance
is more in general appearance than in specific feature. The fourth
one, ‘The Sound of Silent Guns’, has no such dignified reason for
being as presentation to an august scholarly body. My friend A. K.
Ramanujan did in fact read the paper for me at the November
X Introduction
1984 Conference on South Asia at the University of Wisconsin,

but dalliance, and not necessity, was its mother. My friends
Clinton Seely and Aditi nath Sarkar will have to share with me the
responsibility for its paternity, for the poem around which it
revolves is one of considerable interest to all three of us, and our

discussions of it led to my putting some of the emerging thoughts
on paper merely for the sake of doing so. When the paper evolved
into a semblance of maturity I, like many fathers, am not entirely
sure. But, as it turns out, it is rather an appropriate companion
piece to ‘The Poet as Mouse and Owl’, which has been published
—
before in The Journal of Asian Studies for August of 1974. The
remaining essays have in fact all been published before, in places
which will be noted, though most have undergone extensive
revision.
In the last-mentioned two essays on Jibanananda, and in fact
throughout many of the essays, one of the pervasive themes is the
view of time as simultaneity, a notion that I find very useful in
thinking about some Bengali thought and writing. That may in fact
be the very spirit that prompts me to juxtapose the oldest essay to
the newest one, for the ‘Symbolic Forms’ paper first saw the light
of day in 1958. I have included that paper rather than other
possible ones in linguistic history from about the same time for two
reasons. The first is that after all these years I still like it, as is
borne out by the fact that I have updated it slightly with new data
from Emeneau and Zimmerman. The second is that in my mind it
is associated, more than are the others, with warm memories of my
first sojourn in India, when I was associated with the Rockefeller
—
Foundation Deccan College project in linguistics. It was a period
of intensely satisfying discovery for me, in Calcutta working on the
Bengali language, and teaching at the Deccan College in Poona (as
it was then spelled) and the D.A.V. College in Dehra Dun, and
the paper awakens echos of a time when both India and serious
research were relatively new to me. No one else will notice, but
hidden in that paper are twilight conversations with old friends
such as Bill Bright and Gordon Fairbanks of an evening on a
Deccan College veranda, which revealed to me whole worlds of
arcane things about language. And those twilights and verandas
expand to include others, in Dehra Dun for instance, and Gerry
Kelley and Norman Zide and other colleagues and students as we
all once were. The style of structural linguistics that spawned the
Introduction XI
paper is now long passe, having been overtaken and trampled by

such rampaging esoterica as generative grammar. But there is a
quaintness about and the fact that such as R. S. Tribedi and
it,
Rabindranath Tagore worried about the phenomenon of echo-

words long before I came along is a point to be noted.
My favorite among all of T. S. Eliot’s poems is the fourth in the
Ariel series, the poem called Marina. I like it because about
it is
boats and about Cape Ann in Massachusetts; it is also about that

curious and little-read play of Shakespeare’s called Pericles^ in
which individuality collapses; and it is about the crumbling of the
edifice of time:
The rigging weak and the canvas rotten
Between one June and another September,
Made this unknowing, half-conscious, unknown, my own.
Memory is raised, if that is the term I want, to the status and
effectiveness of immediate reality; what was, then, is now, for
nothing is everchange occurs, but each moment of that
lost;
changing time is itself eternal and unchanging. It is an insight of
Eliot’s that appeals so much, perhaps, because it is so peculiarly
Indian.
In this September, then, the twilights of other Junes weigh as
substantially as living things. There is another veranda, this one in
Ballygunge in south Calcutta. Karl Potter and Wendy is there,
Doniger (as she was known then), and Jyoti and Meenaskhi Datta,
and Naresh Guha, and Len Gordon, and Ron Inden, and among
us all is a blind Baul who has been singing in the street below. We
have asked him to our veranda and have given him something to
eat, and he is singing. T am blind,’ he sings,
I can see no one.
You who are on the path,

move aside a little.
Because of my past faults

God has taken away my eyes.
Because of the sins of some former birth
God has taken my eyes.
The Baul is left with insight. We, on our part, are left only with a
less traumatic awareness of what subtle understanding spoke to
Rabindranath through the mouths of these Bauls. There are two
papers on the Bauls that try to understand the understanding.
I wonder if the twilight is really a magical time, or if it just that
Xll Introduction
in the hot weather the coolness of it brings an almost festive relief.

My old friend Sudhih Datta felt it as a magical time, a liminal time
when things blend with one another to make new and different
shapes and forms. And indeed there seems nothing jarring either
‘
in memory or, I believe, in the reality of my making my way

through the crowds on the Esplanade and along the gaslit
Chowringhee, through the cacophony of taxi horns and hawkers
and the labyrinthine never-never land of the New Market, back to
my flat in Chowringhee Lane, after an afternoon spent in peaceful
discussion of Vaisnavism and in absorbing the wisdom so
bountifully dispensed by Sukumar Sen or S. K. De, at home in
north Calcutta or at the University. And there is, somehow, a
harmony in stepping gingerly through muddy lanes, shouldered
aside by preoccupied and self-indulgent cows, to Sundaysit of a
evening with Jamini Roy, surrounded and eased by the forms and
colors of Krishnas and of Gopis, and by the warmth and intensity
of the old man’s passion and his humanity. And two centuries of
time have stopped, for Prasanta and Rani Mahalanobis, as they sit
on their darkening and gracious veranda overlooking the tank and
talk of Rabindranath, and Abanindranath’s paintings look down
from the wall.
The twilight is magical because it blurs distinctions, and blends
seeming opposities, and accentuates ambiguities. Still, it might
seem less than congruous to the reader to be asked to move, with
only the little essay on the city as transition, from the world of the
loving pastoral idyll of the Vaisnavas to one in which the deity is
no longer playful and amorous, but at once fecund, powerful, and
devouring. The female is no longer etherially erotic, but is the
Mother who both creates and destroys. Not all the twilights are
serene. The Kali Temple is lurid, of an evening. And on another
evening, Calcutta burns, as Hindu and Muslim communities
unleash their fury on one another; I stand on my Ballygunge
veranda and look toward Park Circus, where my gentle teacher of
Persian lives (he is here too, in the paper on the Bauls and Islam).
But it is all of a piece. The Vaisnavas sacrifice fruits and gourds at
the Durga puja: the forked stick is situated in the ground, the knife
honed, the headsman ready, the chant reaching a crescendo, the
1. Sudhindranath Datta, The World of Twilight. New Delhi: Oxford University

Press, 1970), Introduction by Edward Shils. The title of the book is also that of
Datta’s incomplete autobiography, of which the extant parts are included.
Introduction Xlll
knife falling, and the gourd falls neatly to the ground,

tip of the
dripping juice. The Sakti wants the blood of goats, though, and
she gets it. One wonders if her thirst can ever be quenched.
The goddess is another side of the same reality, and she is
represented here by two papers on her form as patroness of snakes
and one as instructress in the proper forms of the religious life.
There was to be a fourth essay in this sakta group, based on the
image common to some of the mahgala poems of the lady who sits
on the lotus eating and vomiting elephants. It was to be called ‘The
Ravening Maw’. Perhaps Aditinath and I will finish it, one day.
Acknowledgement: I would like to thank Mrs. Kushla Sar of the

American Institute of Indian studies staff in New Delhi, for the
preparation of the Index and Prof. Tony K. Stewart of North
Carolina State University, for preparation of the press copy of the
book.
7
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On the Translatability
of Poetry
One unwise enough choose to write on the question of the

to
translatability of poetry is immediately faced with a series of
choices, for it is obvious that the matter can be approached in rather
a wide variety of ways. The first choice, in my case, was easy, for it
was dictated by fear: I had to treat the subject from a theoretical, or
at least a general, point of view, for although morphological,
syntactic, and semantic questions have a decided charm, my doubt
about my knowledge in these technical areas is serious. By being
general, or vague, one can be somewhat confident in uncertainty.
On the other hand, I believe in the opinion of my friend A. K.
Ramanujan that it is always well to move from the general to the par-
ticular. This is good, for it means that I can attempt to deal with
poetry in the Bengali language, which is in any case the only Indie
language I know well enough to write about at all.
The third choice was also easy, for the poet, the kavi^ is the
Bengali par excellence. He —
and I use the term here and through-
—
out generically is more than a person who can string words to-
gether in prosodically defensible sentences. He is, rather, a seer, in
the literal sense of the term: he can see through the delusive and
opaque clouds that hide the truths of the universe from us. He is
inspired, in the etymological sense of that word: he breathes in

the truths of the divine, and when he exhales his utterance is also
truth, a characteristic of truth in this context being perfect prosody.
The question, thus transformed, becomes how — or whether or
not it is possible — to make Bengali poetry comprehensible to
speakers of English, a language only distantly related and of a
culture grown in time and space so far apart as no longer to have
awareness of a common source. But probing even this more simple
question causes numerous irritated and perplexed problems to
come swarming out: what kind of Bengali poetry are we talking
about? Far from the humanistic, ad hominem point of view, there
The basis of this essay is a lecture given at the University of Illinois, Spring 1981,
and at Cornell University in the Fall of the same year.
2 The Sound of Silent Guns and Other Essays
are as many types of poems as there are poets, or even as there are
poems; for good poetry, at least, resists all kinds of typology except
the purely formal one. Or, to what extent is a poem a Bengali poem
because it is written in that language? To what extent does a Bengali
poet, or any poet, see consciously beyond his cultural boundaries?
Or, to what extent can he inform an audience separated perhaps by
millennia of time multiplied by thousands of miles of space? Or, to
what extent does a Bengali poem participate in the human exercise
of perception called poetry, as opposed to the extent to which it
participates genetically in the particular pool so lavishly and gener-
ously filled by its Sanskrit ancestor?
When beset by amorphous and difficult questions such as these it
has long seemed to me prudent immediately to establish straw men

in the trenches and to retreat behind available binary oppositions,
that for example of classical vs. romantic. This might possibly be
helpful if one could define “classical” as that which is shared and
common, as opposed to “romantic” as that which is particular and
personal. The “classical” then would be the ground of experience
and comprehension upon which all participants in a given culture
can firmly plant their feet. The “romantic” would be particular
experience of a given individual which might or might not overlap
that of any other individual. But Ramanujan makes a far more
subtle distinction as he gazes out over his Interior Landscape. He
speaks of Classical Tamil poetry, which
is classified by theme into two kinds: poems of akam (the “inner part” or
the Interior) andpoems of puram (the “outer part” or the Exterior).
Akam poems are love poems; puram poems are all other kinds of poems,
usually about good and evil, action, community, kingdom; it is the public
poetry of the ancient Tamils. *
In another place he writes that
the akamipuram distinction is not to be mistaken for the English public/

private distinction. Akam may include the notion of privacy, but not
individual privacy. It is better translated here by terms like “familial” or
“domestic.”^
To all of this we shall return shortly.
A. K. Ramanujan, trans., The Interior Landscape: Love Poems from a Classical

*
Tamil Anthology {^\oom\ngXon: University of Indiana Press), p. 101.

Relevance of Folklore to South Asian Studies,” a pap)er prepared for the
conference “Models and Metaphors in South Asian Folklore,” held under the
auspices of the Joint Committee on South Asia,
Berkeley, California. 1980.
On the Translatahility of Poetry 3
Another opposition might be construed “poet”and “audi- as

ence,” for it is clear that unless the poet is his own, exclusive
audience, there are bound to be ambiguities between the expression
and the interpretation. The opposition is further enhanced by the
fact that when the question is translation, the ambiguities are not
only psychological but linguistic and cultural as well.
Finally, there is another, somewhat different perspective from
which all of this can be viewed, and that is perhaps most easily seen in
the theory of bhdva and rasa advanced by some classical Sanskrit
poetics. There is no need
go into the intricacies of the theory.
to
Most simply, it is describable in this way: The scene being enacted
on the stage is the abduction of Sita, in the Rdmdyana story. The
lady, much against her will and in the absence of her protectors, is
being forcibly dragged into his chariot by the demon king. It is,
obviously, a scene filled with much distress, and yet, if it is well
done, the audience will say, “I enjoyed that.” Assuming that there
is something more than sadism involved, it must be that the
audience is in some way removed from the actual experience of Sita.

In fact, it is postulated, the audience is twice removed. The audi-
ence is not Sita, but neither is the actor Sita. Contrary to
Stanislavski, it is felt that the actor cannot experience Sita ’s actual
emotions; the best he can do is convey, through gestures and other
symbols conventionalized and commonly accepted as standing for
certain emotions, a simulation of those emotions. Thus abstracted,
those emotions can be enjoyed, and that abstract enjoyment is rasa.
Where does this rasa reside? It is not in the actor, for he is merely
the conduit, though he can enhance or increase the intensity of the
experience through his skill. Nor does it reside in the individual
members enjoy the scene, while in fact
of the audience, for they all
their personal and particular experiences, if they were to be allowed

to predominate, might arouse emotions quite the opposite of enjoy-
ment. Rasa is a condition definable only in terms of itself. And yet,
itcannot be considered to be unrelated to personal and particular
experience, for if it were there would simply be no comprehension
of what is happening on the stage. A representation of sorrow or
horror would have no meaning for one who had never felt these
emotions in his own life.
Still, it is perceived that within the range of a given category of

experience there is the possibility of significant variation. Those
who have had experiences similar to those being portrayed may
have had reactions ranging from horror tinged with enjoyment to
hatred touched with pity. These varied, subtle, personal emotions

are of course the bhdvas. The point is that despite the variations
there an element of common experience. The assumption is that
is
everyone has known fear, or love, in one form or another. These

categories, then, are abstracted, and are known as the sthdyi-bhd-
vas, the “permanent emotions,” which can be raised, by the skill of
the actor or the poet to the level of impersonal enjoyment and
esthetic delight which is the rasa.
This kind of taxonomic approach to the psychology of esthetics
can also be applied to an analysis of linguistic communication.
There is a highly particular level on which one can speak to an
intimate with whom one has shared a picnic under an old oak tree as
“the tree,” and there will be no ambiguity. On a somewhat lesser
level of particularity, or greater level of abstraction, one can speak
with carpenters about the fact that some trees are more useful than
others for their craft. Or one can speak at a very high level of
abstraction, as has Joyce Kilmer, of trees being made only by God.
It is of course the common denominator “tree,” meaning all kinds
of tall, barked, needled or leafy plants, that allows us to communi-
cate with that vast proportion of the human race who have seen
trees but who are neither carpenters nor intimate picnickers.
Elder Olson, in his little book called The Poetry of Dylan
Thomas,^ sees in Thomas something of this tripartite levelling. He
says that in the works of the poet there are three types of symbols,
which he chooses to call natural, conventional, and personal. To his
way of thinking, natural symbols are such as darkness for death,
water for life or fertility, and so on. The term “natural,” assuming
as it must an overlap of human experience, requires for its accept-
ance a certain Jungian predisposition, or at least a willingness to
explain in other ways those cultures in which, for example, white is
the color of mourning. In any case, Olson goes on to say that

“conventional” symbols are those which are drawn from purely
culturally defined activities. In Thomas, these are such as games
and sports, cartography, and mythology. These, in other words, will
be more or less familiar to all people within certain cultural bound-
aries, and unfamiliar to those outside those boundaries. Yet, since
they are in some sense objective, they can be learned, and thus,
intellectually at least, understood even by those outside the culture.
The third type, according to Olson, comprises those symbols which
^ (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1954), passim.

are personal to Thomas, and appear only once or twice in the whole
corpus of his work. An example he gives is that of knife or scissors as
dead or mortal flesh. Presumably, if a symbol appears only once in a
corpus, assuming that the poet has not said elsewhere precisely
what it is to mean, it is totally ambiguous. As in a non-objective
painting, the interpretation is entirely up to the audience. There is
also a question of whether or not it is communication, in the usual
sense of that term.
Olson’s analysis is not entirely satisfying, for as I have tried to
suggest, although everyone knows what water
and has one reac- is
tion or another to it' the attitude of the Bedouin or the farmer is

probably quite different from that of the North Atlantic fisherman.
But if we assume for the sake of argument that water is generally
accepted as meaning life and fertility, the analysis does have a
certain usefulness. Let us look at three short poems. The first is
from the Sanskrit anthology Subhasitaratnakosa, The poet is
Yogesvara, the translator Daniel H. H. Ingalls.**
After the rain a gentle breeze springs up

while the sky is overlaid with clouds;
one sees the horizon suddenly in a flash of lightning;
moon and and planets are asleep;
stars
a heady scent is borne from kadambas wet with rain
and the sound of frogs spreads out in utter darkness.
How can the lonely lover spend these nights?
In Olson’s terms, there are two levels of symbolism at work. The
first what he calls natural: rain, water, fertility. The
is sterile
chastity imposed by the separation of the lovers is jarring to this
natural order of things. The second level of symbolism is conven-
tional, for as Charlotte Vaudeville points out it is traditional in
Indian society that men, be they merchants or soldiers, who are
away on their various businesses throughout much of the year, be at
home during the rainy season. Thus, that the lover is apart is not
only contrary to nature, it is contrary to custom as well; something
serious has happened, to keep him from his beloved’s side. But that
is not described, or any way particularized. To do so would be to
in
disturb the rasa, which is felt as poignancy but not real pain.
In Ramanujan’s terms, the poem is akam, “familial, domestic.”
It is a love poem. It is not highly personalized, in the western sense
An Anthology of Sanskrit Court Poetry, Harvard Oriental Series, No. 44

(Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1965), section 10, p.220.
of that term. The emotion of the poem is private, but the point of
expressing it is that it is an emotion which can be shared. As the
kirihci flower of the mountain landscape of classical Tamil not only
sets a mood but evokes a whole emotional complex, so the symbols
of the sounding frogs and the scent of kadarnba trees wet with rain
bring with them all the overtones of the joy of loving union, only to
be turned by the last line into their opposites.
The average speaker of English will not from his experience be
familiar with the idea that lovers should be together during the
rainy season, but once he is told, he will get the point. It is true that
without personal background he will not be able to feel the full
emotional force. For a whole chain of emotions can be aroused, in a
Bengali reader, by the mention in a Bengali poem of a blue cloud:
the beauty of the oncoming monsoon with the relief that it brings,
the union of lovers, and perhaps, in some, a whole different series of
associations connected with the traditional likening of that blue
cloud to the god Krsna. A skilful Bengali poet can arouse complex
chains of reactions without ever being obvious or descriptive. Or, to
the Tamil reader, the mention of the kirihci flower will bring with it
not only the mountain landscape, but night in the cool season, filled
with parrots and peacocks and monkeys and elephants, and of the
tribal people of the hills among the jackfruit and bamboo and
waterfalls, guarding the millet harvest or gathering honey. Any of
these motifs will trigger all the others, and each has its subsidiary
sets of associations. All of this can be explained to the average
English reader, but it will not have the emotional power. It is called
a footnote, and footnotes are distracting to the reader of poetry.
Even though the reader of an English translation from the Ben-
gali will not get from the poem what the Bengali reader of the
original would, if the translation is good, and if the original poem is
a good poem, he will get what his human understanding allows. But
it must be understood that the translation is not the Bengali poem.
The task of the translator is to create a new poem, based on the

same sthdyi-bhdva as the original, but using the means available to
the new linguistic medium and directed to a different audience.
MacLeish, it seems to me, once wrote that translation is the most
severe discipline a poet can undergo.
The second poem is from the Maithili of a poet who signed
.
On the Translatahility of Poetry 1
himself “Vidyapati.” The translation is by Denise Levertov and

myself.^
O my friend, my sorrow is unending.

It is the rainy season, my house is empty,
the sky is filled with seething clouds,
the earth sodden with rain,
my love far away.
and
Cruel Kama pierces me with his arrows:
lightning flashes, peacocks dance,
and waterbirds, drunk with delight,
frogs
call incessantly —
and my heart is heavy.
Darkness on earth,
the sky intermittently lit with a sullen glare...
Vidyapati says.
How will you pass this night without your lord?
The poem —a song, really — is very like that of Yogesvara. The
sorrow of the lovers in separation is made more obvious by the
stated delight of the frogs and waterbirds and peacocks. But the
conventional level of symbolism is perhaps complex. For although it
might not be immediately obvious, the poem is a religious poem.

Like the Song of Songs, it occurs in a religious context, and there-
fore must, on one level at least, be interpreted in terms of that fact.
The poem then speaks not only of the separation of the lovers in the
rainy season and the poignancy associated with that, but specifically
of the separation of Radha and Krsna meaning the separation of ,
the soul from God, a basic tenet of Bengali Vaisnava theology.

While these theological overtones might not be entirely evident to
anyone not himself a Vaisnava most Indians would understand the
poem as one on the Radha-Krsna theme.
In Ramanujan’s terms, this too is an akam poem, though tending
towards puram. It lies somewhere between the two, dealing as it
does with both personal love and public doctrine. In the terms given
us by the classical Sanskrit theory, its rasa is the same as that of the
Yogesvara poem. But in terms of the convention this too is some-
what more complicated, for to the Vaisnava the rasa is dual: it is
both pure esthetic enjoyment and pure devotion. It is here that the
Bengali poet is the spokesman of truth. For devotion is also rasa,
and the expresJ>ion and the appreciation of it are ultimate in both
religious and esthetic experience.
* Probe of Krbhna: Songs from

In the Bengali, 2nd edn (Chicago: The University
of Chicago Press, 967), p.6
1 1
What then of what Olson calls the “personal” level of symbolism?
For assume he means by that that the “personal” is retrievable
I
only by an individual, or at most by a limited number of individuals.

First of all, probably fair to say that if a poet uses too many
it is
highly particularistic images, he is not a good poet and does not

deserve translation. For poetry is after all public expression. If a
poet chooses to communicate, and he makes that choice as soon as
he puts pen to paper or recites the poem to someone else, he must
also choose for his imagery that which is sufficiently abstract to be
comprehensible. A poem about the picnickers’ oak tree will not be
comprehended by any but the picnickers themselves. An entirely
personal poem will not be understood by the vast majority even of
the speakers of the poet’s own language. And in the case of transla-
tion the problem is multiplied by a different language and by
cultural distance.
The third poem by the recently deceased Buddhadeva Bose. It
is
is called “A Parting,” and the translation is the poet’s own. I quote

only the first stanza:^
After the first thousand nights we had to part.

Rain on the river, the water rose in flood.
fell
Between the bamboos, like a hidden hope.

One or two fireflies fitfully gleamed.
The sky was closed in cloud, but not quite.
For the wound throbbed sometimes, as lightning flicked.
And a long low moaning perished in the pain
Of trying to utter the inexpressible.
Uncertain, urgent, ruthless, full of violence.
The water foamed and spread and disappeared
Into the final silence of the Fates
When I left my love in the hand of God.
Again the and the parting of the lovers. But what is new here is
rain,
a kind of symbol that borders on the personal personal not so —
much to the poet but to all speakers of Bengali and only to them.
For the second line of the poem, “rain fell on the river, the water
rose in flood” is a line from a Bengali nursery rhyme, pade
tdpur tupur nadi elo ban. Only to the Bengali reader, then, does the
line increase the poignancy of the poem by infusing it with the hope
that is inherent in childhood and suggesting the ultimate revelation
of the falsity of that hope by inevitable change and decay.
From Humayan Kabir, ed.. Green and Gold:

^ Stories and Poems from Bengal
(New York: New Directuxis, 1958), p. 126.
We seem to be left with something like the following: what Olson

calls“natural symbols” is perhaps better defined by the concept of
sthayi-hhava, the common element in types of human experience
which allows for a wide range of individual variation within it, but
which is still definable when contrasted with other types of experi-
ence. Love may range from mild attraction to self-immolating pas-
sion, but it is different from fear, which in its turn may range from
apprehension to heart-stopping terror. There is a mood of sadness
which comes across in the three poems, even in translation, presum-
ably because speakers of Bengali and speakers of English, and
probably speakers of anything else, know something of the emo-
tions involved in separation from a loved one. This is mitigated in
the case of the culturally or personally bound symbology of which
Buddhadeva’s nursery rhyme is an example. The line can obviously
be rendered into English, but to the English reader its meaning will
be incomplete.
Translatability, then, seems to be on the level of the sthayi-
bhava. Cultural conventions can be put into another language and_
be understood but never entirely appreciated, and strictly personal
associations can be shared by few. There is yet another aspect of the
question, and that whether or not the rasa can be transmitted
is
across cultural and linguistic boundaries at all. Edwin Gerow, in his

discussion of certain modem Bengali novels, believes that it can."^
But there are other levels of poetic intricacy involved, which contri-
bute to the rasa but which are linguistically and culturally more
tightly bound.
Dhvani is the view that says that the more fully packed an image
is, the more it contributes to the complex of emotional response,
and the more it enhances rasa. It is thus the skill of the poet in his
linguistic and psychological manipulation of his audience’s feelings
that is crucial to the attainment of the ultimate esthetic enjoyment.
Buddhadeva’s nursery rhyme is an example of this, as is, in English,
the image of the lamb in Blake (or, for that matter, in Vachel
Lindsay: “Booth led boldly with the big bass dmm/ Are you washed
in the blood of the Lamb?”). I can say to you, “There is a lamb,”
meaning that there is a small wooly creature in the field eating grass.
Or I can say to you, “You are a lamb,” which, unless I happen to be
talking to such a small wooly creature, means that in my opinion you
p)ossess the gentle qualities of it. But when Blake speaks of the
Lamb, he arouses in the minds of those familiar with the Christian
’ In The Literatures of India: An Introduction, edited by E. C. Dimock et al.
(Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1974), pp.227-38.

tradition, images not only of the gentle qualities of the creature, but
of its sacrifical nature. The problem once again, of course, is the
translation of such culturally specific images. Such images require
the use of the mind as well as the emotions to unpack. As with
Olson’s conventional symbols, dhvani is not in a strict sense trans-
latable, though to some extent it is a rational process of association,
and to that extent can be learned. The intellectual quality of the
poet’s skill can be appreciated.
Having said all this, I end with a cry of some despair, mostly
against whatever logic has brought this brief essay to the verge of
concluding that translation is impossible. That conclusion may be
mitigated by the notion that though true understanding may be
illusory, the illusion of understanding is important, between
cultures as it is between people. It is that tenuous and abstract
commonness of experience which helps us realise the fact of a
shared humanity. When we read a good translation of a Bengali
poem, we are reading a good English poem. But what we under-
stand of the Bengali poet who wrote the original is that he too is
human. Perhaps that is enough. It is certainly more than we had
before.
So we are left with the somewhat platitudinous conclusion that
what is, linguistically speaking, available on a relatively high level of
abstraction, or, to use Jungian terms, of an archetypal nature, can
be transmitted. There is a somewhat more encouraging way of
looking at the matter. When I was a student, I heard another
student ask T. S. Eliot, who was visiting our university at the time,
what he meant by a certain image in The Wasteland: Does it mean
this, or does it mean that? “Maybe both,’’ replied Mr Eliot simply.
“Whatever you get out of it, I put into it.” From this point of view,
all poetry is non-objective, and even poetry in one’s native language
is bound to be ambiguous; that is its nature. If it were objective, or
denotative, it would indeed be translatable. It would also not be
poetry.
On Religious and Esthetic
Experience
In the previous essay I remarked that
to the Vaisnavas the rasa is dual; both pure esthetic enjoyment and
it is
pure devotion. It is in his evocation of rasa that the Bengali poet becomes
the spokesman of truth.
It is interesting to compare the person sitting in a theatre, engrossed

in a drama, or in an easy chair reading a poem, with the yogin upon
his mountain top absorbed in contemplation, totally oblivi-
totally
ous to everything that is going on around him. Rupa Gosvamin,
the sixteenth century Vaisnava scholar, did a fair amount of think-
ing about such matters.
Rupa was a scholar who demonstrated what S. K. De has caUed
“a zest for formal definitions, nice and hair-splitting distinctions,
elaborate classifications, and industrious collection of suitable
poetical illustrations.”' His two main works on the subject of
religious rasa, the Bhaktirasamrtasindhu and Ujjvalanildmani,
the first one available in translation only in part^ and the transla-
second not yet in print, are detailed analyses of the
tion of the
theme of love between Krsna and the gopis in terms of the
poetic theory. Despite his scholasticism, Rupa was himself a man
of great sensibility, and considerable creativity: the categories were
This essay was presented, though in a very different form, to the Association for
Asian Studies San Francisco meeting in 1970, and to a seminar at the School of
at its
Oriental and Africcm Studies, University of London, in 1971. It has not been
previously published.
’ Sushil Kumar De, An Early History of the Vai^va Faithand Movement, 2nd
edn (Calcutta: Firma K.L. Mukhopadhyay, 1%1), p. 200. Rupa was one of the six
primary specialists in theologydeputed by Caitanya to go to
specifically
Vmdavana, there to establish a Vaisnava “School” in the medieval European sense

of the word. Its purpose was to tie the devotionalism engendered by Caitanya in
Bengal and Orissa, and vigorously adopted by the inhabitants of those places, back
into the philosophical mainstream of the Indian tradition.
^ Bhakti Hrdaya Bon Maharaja (Vmdavana: Institute of Oriental
Philosophy; 1965). Two recent dissertations at the University of Chicago deal with
these texts. The first, by David Haberman, includes material on Bhaktirasdmrtasin-
dhu; the second is by Neal Delmonico, and will include a translation of Ujjvalanila-
mani.
rearranged and in the course of his analysis the man of sensibility, the
sahrdaya, that man who alone can truly appreciate the finer points
of poetry and the arts, becomes the bhakta, tasting the ultimate
experience of joy that the worship of Krsna brings. And for the
bhakta, Krsna becomes the incarnate poem, the object of all the
senses, through which the experience of rasa comes. The sound of
his flute enchants his ears, the grace and color of his body delight the
eye, the perfume of his body thrills the sense of smell.
Krena is the means of knowing rasa, and he is the rasa itself. That
he is also the seeker after rasa, the rasika, and thus himself the
bhakta (or sahrdaya), is a matter for another paper. The point at the
moment is that by setting up all these equivalences Rupa has taken
the whole rasa theory out of its literary context and put it into the
religious one. The lines of the ancient controversy over the distinc-
tion between the two types of experience are wiped away. For the
classical contention had been that the esthetic experience of rasa
lasts only while one is witnessing the drama or reading the poem it ;
could not, therefore, be the same as brahmasvada, “the tasting of

brahma.”^ Rupa’s interpretation suggests that the two not only
can be but must be the same, for the Vaisnava context is of sacred
time, in which the moment
Rupa’s position on the
is eternity.
equivalence of the two types of experience was carried so far by a
later writer, Visvanatha Cakravartin, that to him rasa exists only
in poetry or drama about Krsna.
The question indeed becomes one of time and its interdepend-
ence with art in relationship to rasa. And there are two ways of
looking at was Abhinavagupta who held that rasa lasts only as
it. It
long as concentration on the work of art lasts, i.e., the time it takes
to read a poem, watch a play, peruse a painting, or listen to a
concert. It can however be argued that if the poem is a religious
poem, the experience of reading it imparts a knowledge of both
truth and beauty that are common to the “poetic world,” to use
Honeywell’s term, which is also the world of the divine; and of that
world timelessness is the prime characteristic.
^ S.K. De, Sanskrit Poetics, 2nd edn, 2 vols (Calcutta: K.L. Mukhopadhyay,
1960),vol.2, p. 136.
^
This extreme position is presented in Visvanatha’s commentary on the
Alamkara Kaustubha (5.16) of KaviKarrapura. Neal Delmonico called the
passage to my attention. For a good summary of the whole matter, see Edwin
Gerow, Indian Poetics, being vol. 5, fasc. 3 of Jan Gonda, ed., A History of Indian
/./reramre (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz. 1977), p. 285.
Extrapolating from Rupa, one might also argue that if the poem
is a true work of art, it has the power to reach beyond the particular
to the universal. From this point of view, the actual experience of
the poem may be within particular time, but the effect of the
experience goes beyond that. The reader’s, or listener’s, perception
of and relation to the universal has been altered by his understand-
ing of the poem. This is the change that takes place in the bhakta
when, by dint of he transforms himself into one or
his devotion,
another of the characters of the Bhdgavata story in order to know
intimately and directly the full intensity of their love for Krsna.
All of this is much
keeping with the basic Vaisnava
very in
doctrine of bheddbheda, simultaneous immanence and transcend-
ence. According to this doctrine, the Krena Ilia that occurred
within earthly time and is described to us in the Bhdgavata-
purdna is not a metaphor for, but actually is, the eternal Vila
that goes on in the infinite Vmdavana. Similarly, Caitanya is
simultaneously Krsna himself and a bhakta of Krsna, and at the

same time is Radha. Krsna is rasa, the means of rasa, and the
seeker after rasa ail at once; he is the god, and the devotee of the
god. And to the classical theorists who say that the poem itself is not
rasa, the Vaisnavas say that the poem and its rasa are not separable.
The flame and the fire are not the same, but they are not not the
same.
There is a passage in Caitanya-caritdmrta which the (III: 5) in
following interesting situation takes place. A poet has brought a

verse-drama to be read by Caitanya. Following custom, Svarupa
Damodar, one of Caitanya’s intimate companions, first read the
offering. Svarupa always read first what was to be presented to the
Master, for “if there was any artificial rasa, or any opposition to the
truths, Caitanya could not bear it, and became angry.” Some poetry
did not appeal to Svarupa, and he set the stage for the reading in
the following way:
... in the words of seeming rasa (rasdbh-
indifferent poets there is
dsa), and it gives me no joy to listen to opposition to the truths. Those

who cannot discriminate between rasa and that which seems like rasa can
never gain the shore of the sea of the perfection of devotion. They do not
know grammar, they do not know the art of poetic ornamentation, nor
the technicalities of drama —such worthless people do not know how to
describe the Krsna-//7fl, and especially this Caitanya part of it, which is
difficult to grasp.
Thus having made the poet comfortable, Svarupa requested him

to read. And the poet recited the introductory verse:
Making conscious the endless worlds, which are naturally inert, he who is
as bright as gold, the soul of Jagannatha, has appeared in this world;
may that Krena-Caitanya be gracious to you.®
The people standing around were delighted by the poetry and by the
sentiment, but Svarupa sternly asked the poet to explicate it. And
the poet said:
Jagannatha is the body, which is beautiful, and Caitanya is the most

serene essence in it. By his nature he brings consciousness to the inert
world, and Mahaprabhu [i.e., Caitanya] has appeared at Puri.
Everybody was pleased except Svarupa, who said:
You are a fool, and have ruined yourself completely! . . . Jagannatha is
fully bliss, and his true form is consciousness; yet you have made him
inert, transitory,and material in body. Caitanya is himself god, full of the
six divine qualities, and you have made him a mere creature, like a spark
to fire ....
Svarupa was of course using the two normal categories of

analysis to dismember the unsuspecting poet: artha, “meaning,”
and sabda, “word, form, prosody.” The meaning of the poem is
faulty because the poet has said that Caitanya is the spirit and
Jagannatha the body of God. The truth is that both are both.^
And in the context of the critical universe that Svarupa has
described, the form of the poem is also faulty because, due to his
theological mistake, the poet cannot use alliteration and the other
ornamental devices properly. To Svarupa Damodar, the poet
did not have true devotion and did not therefore have truth. He
could only create rasdbhdsa, not true rasa. If he were truly
devoted his words would be perfect, his ornamentation without
flaw.
Edwin Gerow has written that in the context of classical Sanskrit
poetry, a devotional lyric should be created “a perfect, finished
offering to the God, which alone suffices.”^ In this later medieval
® The Vaismva on the religious name ‘Caitanya,’

texts are full of endless plays
derived as it is from cit, ‘consciousness.’ The name Jagannatha is not here the general
epithet ‘Lxird of the World,’ but refers sp)ecifically to the image in the main temple of
Puri, adopted by the Vai^vas as an image of Kiw and one of the two focal points
of the movement.
^ Rasa the text as well as the meaning of the
is text. Cf., Delmonico’s dissertation,
supra, note 2.
^ E. C. Dimock et al., eds. The Literatures of India: An Introduction (Chicago: The

University of Chicago Press, 1974), p. 150.
theological context there no longer a question of creating perfec-

is
tion, or in fact of creating at all. If one is truly devoted, expression

follows naturally, and that expression is by its nature perfect.
So only the bhakta is the true poet. It is a corrolary that only the
bhakta can fully appreciate poetry. In the classical theory the
sahrdaya, “the man with heart,” is considered to be almost a
participant in the poem’s composition, the man who can get out of
the poem what the poet put in. The sahrdaya is not only a man of
innate sensibility, but one who has trained himself in the subtleties
and techniques of the craft. So acutely sensitive is he, by nature and

by training, that no nuance of the poet’s skill will go undetected, nor
will any flaw in the poem. The bhakta, then, as sahrdaya, is ap-
preciator of poetry as well as poet. Or, to put it in other terms, he is
the author of the poetry-drama, actor in it, and audience for it, and
all of these are inseparable one from another.
Vaisnava thought has here departed radically from the traditional
view of rasa, in which the actor merely conveys to the audience
through conventionally established signs and gestures the emotions
of the character he is portraying. In the true bhakta the actor and the
character are the same: what had been a conventional situation has
become a natural one. As will be pointed out again in a later essay,
when devotion to Krsna as expressed in ritual passes beyond
ritual —when, in other words, the devotee is transformed, more
often than not into a gopl —
the actions performed are those
natural to the new persona. What had been active participation has
become passive reflex.
Almost any poem in the Vaisnava corpus will show this. And, too,
from this point of view it becomes clear that the bhanitd, the
poet’s so-called “signature line,” is far more than a literary conven-
tion. Through it the poet demonstrates the ways in which he is
participating in the dramatic action of his poem:
When they had made love

she lay in his arms in the grove.
Suddenly she called his name
—
and wept as if she burned in the fire of
separation
The gold was in her anchal

but she looked afar for it!
— Where has he gone? Where has my love gone?

O why has he left me alone?
And she writhed on the ground in despair,
only her pain kept her from fainting.
Krsna was astonished
and could not speak.
Taking her beloved friend by the hand,
Govinda-dasa led her softly away.®
The possessive “her” of the bhanita is ambiguous, but it seems

likely that the poet is referring to himself, i.e. ,
his own friend. If this
is the case, he speaks as a mahjafi, a friend of one of the

intimate gopl companions of Radha: taking her by the hand
he leads that gopi away from the copse where they have been
awaiting, fruitlessly, the lovers’ tryst.
It would not seem that the stem Counter-reformation would be a
likely place to find parallels to all this, but indeed there is much in
the poetry of that movement that is reminiscent. In his excellent
book The Poetry of Meditation, Louis Martz discusses the uses of
the Spiritual Exercises of Saint Ignatius:
the first prelude is the famous “composition of place, seeing the spot” —
practice of enormous importance for religious poetry. For here, says St.
Ignatius, “in contemplation or meditation on visible matters, such as the

contemplation of Christ our Lord, Who is visible, the composition will be
to see with the eyes of the imagination the corporeal place where the thing
I wish to contemplate is found.”
And he goes on to quote the English Jesuit Robert Gibbons:
the places where the things we meditate on were wrought, by imagining

ourselves to be really present at those places ... it will help us much to
behould before-hande some image wherin that mistery is well rep-
resented, and to have read or heard what good Authors write of those
places, and to have noted well the height of the hills, and the situation of
the townes and villages. And the diligence we employ herein is not lost;
for on the well-making of this Preludium depends both the under-
standing of the mistery, and attention in our meditation.’
By disciplined meditation these poets too put themselves into the

state in which they participated in the drama: only when one felt
one’s self able to reach out and touch the foot of the Cross was one
able to create poetry.
When one becomes thus transformed, or transported, by proper
E.C. Dimock and Denise Levertov, trans.. In Praise of Krishna, Phoenix edn
®
(Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 198 J), p.23.

’ (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1954), p.27.
meditation, the resulting speech, says St. Ignatius, is “as one friend
speaks to another, or as a servant to his master.” Ignatius’ follower
Luis de la Puenta adds two other categories.
Wee are to speake unto him as a sonne speaketh unto his Father
And, if confidence and love shall so farre embolden us, as the Bride
speaketh to her Spouse in several Colloquyes, wherewith the book of
Canticles is replenished.
The Vaisnava bhdvas are demonstrated: dasya, the condition

and exp>erience of Krsna as master and the self as servant; vdt-
salya, the condition and experience of filial love; sdkhya, the
condition and experience of Krena as friend; and madhura, the
condition and experience of Krsna as lover, lire fifth, santa-
bhdva, the experience that results when Krsna is viewed as trans-
cendent God, is not prominent in Vaisnava thought, nor for that
matter is transcendance prominent in the devotional traditions of
Christianity: there is very little personal passion possible in it.
If one accepts this idea that there is a direct and immediate
relationship between the truth of a poem’s message and that poem’s
form, the problem that vexes so many critics of both Vaisnava and
Metaphysical poetry is alleviated. For the presence of the formal
consciousness in the context of intense devotionalism and pscholog-
ical pressure is in no way inappropriate. Donne’s comparison of his
beloved “to a perfect equilateral triangle or to the solar system,” as

Rupert Brooke suggested would be in keeping with Donne’s con-
cern for form, would not seem at all strange to a Vaisnava, for in the
context of religious transformation one’s speech is both packed with
emotion and impeccable in prosody: it is poetry. The expression is
complete, in intellect and in heart. Beauty is indeed truth, and art
not only reflects but is the divine pattern.
The true poet, who is the true bhakta, therefore cannot employ
poetry for anything other than the expression of that truth. His
world is the world of truth, and that world and his poem are
inseparable. If he seems to employ hyperbole, if all things in his
world are described in terms too vast for the “real” world, it is
because that is the way his world is. Hyperbole merely suggests that
neither words nor the imagination can ever comprehend the infinite
nature of the world of truth. To put it into T.S. Eliot’s words, the
IX)et is “he who perceives and distinguishes vibrations beyond the
Ibid.,p.37.
range of ordinary men.”'' To the Vaisnavas too the poet is a seer in
the literal sense of the word: one who sees through the mists that
hide the Real.
J.A. Honeywell, in a discussion of Visvanatha’s Sdhityadar-
pana, describes the process:'^
As long as the reader, in abstraction from his own physical limitations and
those of the natural world, can imagine as intelligible possibilities in
general the supernatural objects and powers represented, he will have no
hesitation in accepting such objects and powers as parts of the poetic
world. Such parts will become fully acceptable, however, only if the
self-contained poetic world is presented as itself a world in which such
objects and powers are intelligible possibilities. Thus the emphasis on the
structural unity of the self-contained poetic world, a world which by its
nature is different from the natural world, makes it possible to justify and
even require as the norm, representations of the supernatural and the
extraordinary. Thus the poetic world recommended by Visvanatha is two
steps removed from the natural world of particular objects. First, it is a
world in which natural objects are represented in their generality rather
than in their particularity; second, and only possible because of the first
step, it is a world in which supernatural objects are accepted as natural
objects.
This poetic world, to the Vaisnavas, is the Vmdavana described

in the Bhdgavata-purdria, which is a microcosm of the heavenly
and eternal Vmdavana; one is not, in some Platonic sense, a
reflection of the other, for both are real. And it is possible — it is
even inevitable — for the bhakta to participate in both. By disci-

pline, meditation, chanting, and the rest of the devotional acts, he
becomes transformed into one or another of the characters in the
Bhdgavata story in intimate relationship to Krsna. And when he is
so transformed, he moves in the poetic world in which the
supernatural is natural. In that state, the bhakta s delight in love is
infinitely expanded and generalized. It is, in other words, rasa. His
love for God and his joy in it are no longer personal to him. It cannot
be, for he is someone else.
Somewhere —
cannot remember where I once read a remark
I —
to the effect that to understand India one must understand rasa.
This remark was the cause of some unease then, and it is now, for I
" T.S. Eliot, ‘What Dante Means to Me’ in To Criticize the Critic (New York:
Farrar, Strauss, 1
965), p. 34.
1
Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, \969.

,
find the concept somewhat elusive. This is perhaps because its

definition lies more in the area of intuition than that of denotation.
S. K. De, in his Sanskrit Poetics, is almost mystical about it when he
says of rasa, “its perception is inseparable from its existence, it is
knowledge of itself.” Given that rasa is a suspen-

identical with the
sion of personal consciousness and beyond the realms of secular
time, defining it precludes the use of ordinary processes of cogni-
tion. Perhaps the best one can do is define rasa, like God, according
to what it is not. It is not, according to the classical definition, the
actor or the poet who evoke it, though their skills exhibit situations
of time, place, mood, and so on, which provide the means for the
establishment of rasa.^^ (To the Vaisnavas it is not a matter of
evocation, for the true poet writes the Truth, and speaks from inside
the realities expressed in the Bhdgavata-purana.) Nor is it en-
tirely a function of the reader’s or the spectator’s comprehension, for
if it were, different feelings would be aroused in different indi-

viduals.^'* (The bhakta is the sahrdaya, and knows the truth when
he hears it; another modification is made by looking at the point
from the other direction: it is partially a function of the bhakta,
because in fact the love aroused by the presence of Krsna does
differ slightly from bhakta to bhakta, yielding sdkhya, madhura
and other bhdvas.) It is not normal, for normal everyday experi-
ence is “profane” in its ties to particulars and to the physical world;
it is not the “real” world, for the world of esthetic experience is a
world of universals. (And yet there is a critically important relation-

ship between the two, as has been seen: the joy of the bhakta is
related in kind tc' the joy of love between people, but is far beyond.
To show just how far beyond, the Vaisnavas say that in pure love,
the prema-rasa, even the pain of separation from Krsna is pleasure
for the gopis or pure love is centered in the satisfaction of the
beloved one. Krena left the gopis to go to Mathura in order to
purify their love, and despite their pain in this separation, they took
pleasure in the realization that he satisfied himself by going. But this
ismatter for the next essay.)
Dr Johnson would not have thought much of any of this. He
wrote in his Life of Waller that “contemplative piety, or the in-
tercourse between God and the human soul, cannot be poetical.”
He could not have tolerated a way of looking at things that con-
De, Sanskrit Poetics, vol. 2, p. 37.

1
Ibid.,pp.l 18-20.
sidered the simultaneous functioning of seeming opposites as possi-
ble. The Vaisnavas themselves, not without a certain satisfaction at
their own understanding of ambiguities, observe that such
simultaneity is possible, but is also acintya — incomprehensible to
the human mind.
Belief and Love in Vaisnava Poetry
Although I should have learned long ago that it is unwise for an

amateur to do so, I am still unable occasionally to resist following
interesting words along the dark byways of etymological specula-
tion. Blundering along where more sober professionals have good
cause not to venture, I not infrequently bark my shins upon unseen
outcroppings of historical permutation; and although I skip as nim-
bly as my aging reflexes will allow me to do, I do not always manage
to avoid bumping into some true philologian who is making his way
in deep concentration along the same shadowed path. All I can do is
ask his forgiveness.
In just such a way I was recently stumbling along, in a somewhat
enchanted or befuddled state, the sinuous trail of the word “love.”
With a certain mild pleasure I found that it led not only to the
German which it was possible to suspect, but to the Sanskrit
//eb,
lubh- as well. Lubh-, Sir Monier Monier-Williams tells us, means
“to be greedy for, to long for greatly, to be perplexed or disor-
dered.” That seems to me to make a certain amount of sense. But
things begin to be slightly confused when one notes that lieb, while
clearly lying at the root of “love,” also lies at the root of “believe.” I
can readily understand, as can most of us, that the statement “I love
you” can mean “I am greedy for you” or “I am disordered by you.”
But when the word “belief’ comes up in the context, the verbs fido
and peitho, “to have faith in,” “to rely upon,” come hurtling out of
their respective Latinate and Hellenic pasts to disorient me and
make me lose my
way. They force me to make distinctions that
under most circumstances I would not care to make.
For when I am forced to think about it, it occurs to me that while
“love” may include faith in or reliance on the loved one, faith and
reliance seem to imply an act of will and thus to that extent an
assertion or imposition of the ego. For from this vantage the phrase
“I love you” may imply either “I am dependent upvon you, for you
There was an essay called “Faith and Love in Bengali Poetry,” first given as a
paper at a meeting of the American Academy for the Study of Religion and later
published under the same title in Edwin Gerow and Margery Lang, eds.. Studies in
the Language and Culture of South Asia (Seattle: University of Washington Press,
1973), pp. 63-74. The present offering shows little or no resemblance to that
publication.
are powerful,” or “I have judged the matter, and found that I can
rely upon you 'without fear of disappointment.” These are both
rather aggressive statements, for they add tremendously, though in
slightly different ways, to the already great burden placed upon the
loved one by the fact of love.
It is a bit soothing to realize that one can add Paul Tillich to the list
of those of us who have always thought that love is a condition, “a

state of being grasped by the ultimate,”^ in a psychological as well
as theological sense. Tillich seems to be happier with the theological
and negative aspects of the idea, viz., that “unfaith, unbelief, and
unlove” are equivalent to estrangement from God. Its positive
aspect, that the Christian goal is the convergence of self-love and
love of God “in the divine Center,”^ is congenial enough but seems
on the whole less interesting. And as I have hinted previously, the
Bengali Vaisnavas look to go one step further and say that exercise
of the individual will and of cognition lead to that very estrangement
that Tillich terms “unlove.” To Tillich the flaunting of the ego, the
putting of one’s own desires before those of God, and the resultant
estrangement from the divine Center is called “sin,” which seems to
be both an action and a condition. That very putting of the desire for
the satisfaction of self before that of others, and especially that of
the deity, the Vaisnavas call kdma.
This is all very intriguing and possibly productive, and would lead
the Vaisnavas, and possibly Tillich too, to ask whether lieb, which
seems to contribute a notion of the exercise of the ego to the concept
of love, really belongs here at all. The imposition of one’s own will
upon someone else is certainly a divisive act.
The Vaisnavas of course prefer to state these things in terms of
mythical-social intercourse, which is also in their terms theological
intercourse. The verse Bhdgavata 10.31.7, a very popular one,
reads:
Place your lotus-feet upon the breasts of us who are prostrate before you,
that destroy the sins of living things . .
.
[those feet which] because of
valor, you have placed upon the head of the serpent Kaliya, and
thereby split the tree of kdma.
On this verse the commentator Visvanatha Cakravartin, in his

Sdrdrthadarsini, remarks:
* Paul Tillich, Systematic Theology (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1 957),

vol. 2, p. 47.
^ Ibid., p. 62.
.
Belief and Love in Vaisnavas Poetry 23

The gopis . . are free from the awareness of seeking their own happi-
ness; their bodily, verbal, and mental concerns are centered wholly on the
happiness of Krsna. The gopis, to arouse Krsna’s delight, manifest the
idea that they are afflicted with kama in their own beauty. By doing so
they do not mock thatprema that is the highest delight, but they keep
their love within. With their mouths they speak words of kama, but in
so doing they destroy the importance of kama.
Visvanatha, in as neat a piece of theological exegesis of a charm-

ingly simple poetic sentiment as one would hope to find, seems to be
making three complex and interesting points. The first is that the
gopis, “to arouse Krsna’s delight,” flaunt their charms, thereby
suggesting that they are “afflicted with kama,'" or self-love and
pride. This however no way a manifestation of their true
is in
feelings, as Visvanatha goes on to say. The second point he makes
is that because the gopis speak openly of physical love, either the
appeal or the necessity, or both, of that act have been wiped away.
The doctrine “speaking openly of kama devalues kama" has all
sorts of reverberations, not the least of which is the set of Tantric
equivalences: verbalization = realization = satiation, which wipes
away all obstacles to spiritual progress. But another set of equiva-
lences perhaps even more important. The gopis talk openly of
is
kama, an act that would ordinarily be socially unacceptable, but

they do not speak at all of prema, i.e., of their true love for Krena.
Why? Because to do so would be to make light of and destroy the
efficacy of that emotion, for themselves and for him. There are, it
seems to me, two ways of reading this. The first, and more obvious,
is in the light of the dhvani theory of poetics, across which we have
come before, which says that the implied is more meaningful than
the explicit. A second possible interpretation is even more loaded,
and bear some scrutiny.
will
One implication, for example, might be that physical passion,
kama, can be freely expressed verbally simply because it can be
controlled by the individual, because it is not a condition of being
grasped by the ultimate. Conversely, prema cannot be freely expres-
sed because it cannot be controlled. And of even more interest is
the further implication that it cannot be expressed because that act
would put too much of a burden on the loved one. The perception,
not unfamiliar to modem psychological thought, is that love implies
obligation, and to the Vaisnavas love and obligation are mutually
exclusive categories. To speak of prema, therefore, would be to put
pressure on the loved one, and that in itself would be proof that
what is expressed is not in fact love, not prema; because it is coercive
it is disguised kdma.
There is an interesting paradigm here, social as well as theologi-

cal. A later commentator offers us a parable:
A certain man, f)erceiving a friend who loves food to be hungry, carefully

prepares various kinds of delicious dishes. Being questioned by his friend
as to why he has prepared them, he hides the true condition of his heart
and answers: “I have prepared all these good things for myself, not for
you; I wanted them, and now it is by chance that you have
particularly
come ...” By such words he shows that he is serious in his love, for if, on
the other hand, he had kept his true emotion hidden and said honestly, “I
have prepared all these things carefully for your pleasure, not for mine”
[i.e., there is no importance to my desires or wishes], his love would have
been shown not to be serious.^
This will have problems for some western readers, for such a
response might well seem forced and unnatural. There seems to be
no allowance made for the possibility that the friend of our selfless
chef will recognize the generosity and say: How good of you to have
prepared all this for me; you must love me a great deal to have done
so. Yet that is the very point, for such an allowance would also place
a burden upon the friend. And, perhaps most subtly, it would insult
him by suggesting that he has not the wit to understand what is going
on in social relationship, and in theology, as well as in the theory of
:
esthetics, the burden of understanding is shared by the creator, the

creation, and the appreciator. There can be no room for the possi-
bility of a forced response, an expression that would stem from
gratitude, for gratitude is an inappropriate burden where there is
true love. Nor, finally, can there be any hint of allowing self-esteem
or self-doubt to hinge on a judgment as to whether a response is
genuine or forced; that too would be an obstruction to love.
Such questions, convoluted as they may sometimes seem, must I
think be asked of Vaisnava poetry and indeed if one is to under-
stand some Vaisnava doctrine. When one comes as an outsider, for
example, to some of the Vaisnava mythology, one is almost forced
to ask: What kind of god is this Krsna? Why should the gopTs, who
are the bhaktas, have faith in him? It was Krsna who urged Bhima
to cripple Duryodhana by deceit in the Mahabhdrata war; it was
Krsna who urged Arjuna to the slaughter of his own kinsmen. In the
^ Kunjavihari Dasa, Mattjarl-svarupa-nirupana, 2nd end (Radha-kunda;

Krsnacaitanya sastra mandira at Vrajanandaghera, 489-90 Gaurabda), pp. 32-33.
:

Bhdgavata and all the stories that its Tenth book spawned, Krsna
the lover had little regard for the marital status or other feelings of
the objects of his erotic interest. It would not be a great digression to
look at an aspect of this.
Although many would contest the place of the Sri-krsna-
kirtana of Baru-candidasa in the orthodox Vaisnava textual
scheme of things, m
book Krsna, who calls himself the god,
that
plays all kinds of tricks to have his way with the adolescent but
proud and righteous Radha. In this poem, for example, Krsna
plots with the old woman who is his and Radha’s common
great-aunt, and who by some incredible miscalculation has been
given charge of Radha’s welfare. The aunt acts as a go-between;
here Radha has slapped and thus angered the old woman for
conveying Krsna’s indecent proposal, and Krsna plots with her
Radha’s seduction
O aunt,
sitting beneath the kadamba tree on Yamuna’s bank,
I shall stop Radha, pretending to collect a tax.
0 aunt,
1 shall plunder her goods and eat her curd
and shall take and break her seven-stranded necklace.
0 aunt,
1 shall set up a toll-station on the road and humiliate her.
I shall restore your honor and mine.
O aunt,
keep my plan secret; stay close to Radha
on the road to Mathura.
With angry words towards me put Radha’s mind at rest

when I stop her on the road.
She shall surrender her curd then I shall rip her bodice
and put my hand on her breast.
With your consent I shall hold Radha by force
and take her into the forest of Vrnda.
Afterwards when her heart has been pierced by Cupid’s arrows

1 shall don the guise of an ascetic.
And sitting beside her you will smile,
sings Badu Candidasa.'*
Badu Candidasa Srikrsna-kirtana, edited by Vasanta-ranjana Ray (Calcutta:

Bangiya Sahitya Parisad, 1323 b.s. [1917]), p. 11.
The plan succeeds. Radha’s naivity leads her to trust Krsna and
her virtue is must be admitted, are often
compromised. His ruses, it
clever. In this poem Radha is on her way, in the company of her

friends, to sell their curd and other milk products at Mathura.
Krsna is in the guise of a ferryman:
Krsna said, when his boat touched the bank:

Come, allyou cowherd girls, and board my boat.
When she saw the Yamuna, Radha’s heart was terrified,
and she said: First take all my friends across.
Krena said: My boat is solidly constructed of five planks;
I will take your friends across one by one.
Radha said, I will take my milk and curd to Mathura city;
carefully take all my friends across.
When he heard Radha’s words, Krsna’s heart was delighted,
and he took all her friends quickly across.
The cowherd girl said: I will take my great-aunt with me;
come quickly, aunt, the water is very rough.
[Krsna said:] My boat will not hold three people;
if we take the old lady, you will not safely cross.
When she heard these words, Radha composed her mind;
she said to the ferryman: Then first take the old woman.
And the old woman boarded the boat alone
and Krsna took her across, delight in his mind.
And Radha was greatly afraid to cross,
sings Candidasa, by the grace of Vasuli.^
So Radha is left to be ferried alone across the river, and Krsna,

in control of the situation, says to her:
My boat is made of five planks

and I myself shall hold the helm.
With a cargo of curds and other things
you want to cross the Yamuna.
Now hear my words:
without payment I will not take you across.
Itwas you who told me to ferry all your friends
most carefully.
So when I take you over
you must give me your seven-stranded necklace, as pay.
I see your moon-like face
and spread my net upon the Yamuna.
Now speak sweet words
and I will take you over.
^ Ibid., p. 57.
My mind is entranced by you;

enfold me in your embrace.
I long for that
sings Badu Can(^dasa.^.
It might be argued, of course, that the conniving Krsna of these

poems is not the Krsna of theology or devotion, and that even if he is
there are few gods of any religion who act, when the crunch comes,
any better. Though it may be piously called a test of worthiness, the
fact is that good people suffer and evil people prosper; the paradox
has tormented believers and would-be believers from the beginning
of time. One Vaisnava answer is at least up front: Krsna is
adharmika. He is not indifferent to Arjuna's moral dilemma, in the
Gitd\ it is that he does not comprehend it, for the discourse is on
two entirely separate levels at once. His actions in the
Mahdbhdrata and for that matter in the pastoral poems neither
reflect human values nor do they relate to the human condition at
all, except as lila — as manifestation of his incomprehensible
personality."^
To must be confessed that from
return to the question of love, it
any rational point of view it would seem to be difficult to love

someone whose responses have no relation to the stimuli. The
question however is not one of rationality, in the Vaisnava context,
for it will be remembered that one of the key words in that way of
looking at things is acintya, “beyond cognition.” And at this point we
have again come close to Tillich’s definition of love as “being
grasped by the ultimate.” Krsna’s nature may be adharmika, but is
also such that he must be loved, and if we are to be true to our own
natures, we must respond to that love.
For the gopi, for the bhakta, this love is a self-contained condi-
tion, an ultimately satisfying situation in which there is no desire for
change, no need of response from the deity, or from the beloved
(which however does not necessarily mean that the response does
not come), and above all no tortured reflection upon the possibility,
or probability, of one’s own inadequacy. It is a misinterpretation to
look upon which one simply waits for
this as a passive condition, in
the dispensation of God’s grace (or, in our other terms, for the
random compliment or casual word of endearment from the lips of
^ Ibid.,p. 58.
The difficult term Cila will be discussed further on in the essay entitled “A
TTieology of the Repulsive The Myth of the Goddess Sitala.”
:
the beloved one). It is, rather, a recognition that whatever satisfac-
tion there might be in love comes from within the self. It is a
conscious surrender to the condition, to be sure. If love is requited,
so much the better; but that is a different theological statement.
From the true lover’s point of view it is the act of loving, not of being
loved, that yields true satisfaction.
To love in this way, of course, implies loss of identity. It means
that the question of whether or not one is worthy of being loved in
return is and that in its turn suggests the neat psychologi-

irrelevant;
cal question of whether or not one can love if one’s center is not in
one’s self. The point is however that the poet, because of this very
loss, can enter his poem, as we have in fact seen him do. His
personae, both religious and poetic, become those of one of the
characters in the Bhdgavata stories of the love between Krsna and
the gopls —
those gopls whose nature was to love so completely
that they were prepared to sacrifice everything for the sake of their
lover, or their God.
It is along about here, however, that other kinds of problems
begin to arise. For while on one level the search for reconciliation at
the divine center of things goes on, and religious folk joyously seek
ways in which to express their love and sense of selflessness, on
another level those types of rents in the fabric of theology usually
caused by time begin to appear. The problems take this form:
In later texts and thought Radha took on an extraordinary
importance in her own right, so intercessionary that one is almost
tempted to think of her as a Marian figure. That, both because it
implies process and because it brings up another whole range of
matters not entirely at home here, is a whole other paper. The point
at the moment is that the more theologized she appeared, the more
itbordered on sacrilege to seek identity with her. She was, in later
theology, inseparable from Krsna, and the bheda aspect of the basic
doctrine, at least, posits that Krsna is separate from man.
I would, with unseemly want of humility, argue that such a
condition of separation had not always been an assumption.
Though most examples are, I must admit, not clear cut, there seem
to be enough ambiguous ones to allow me to disagree with my late
friend and mentor Sashibhusan Dasgupta, who contended flatly
that the Radha-bhdva was not considered possible for a poet.®
This might be a case in point:
^ Obscure Relifîous Cults, 1st edn (Calcutta: Calcutta University, 1946), p. 146.
The marks of fingernails are on your breast

and my heart bums.
Kohl of someone’s eyes upon your lips
darkens my face.
I am awake all night;
your eyes are red.
So why do you entreat me, Kan,
saying that you and I have but one heart?
You come with choking voice
while 1 want to weep.
Only our bodies are apart.
But mine is light
and yours is dark.
Go home, then,
says Govindadasa.^
It is true that the signature line, the bhanita, is ambiguous. It is
possible to imagine that when the poet says “Go home, then,” he is
speaking as a third party to both Radha and Krena, irritated, as

he might well be, with the whole affair. I prefer to think, though,
that the poet is the light-skinned Radha, who has had enough, at
least for the time being, of Krsna dallying with other gopis.
In any case, it does seem that identification of the bhakta with
Radha became a more and more remote possibility as time went
on. And as Radha withdrew and became more aloof, her
friends, her sakhis, those eight gopis of ancient tradition who
were closest to Radha and who were her intimate companions at
her trysts with Krsna, began to play her intermediary role. With that
stunning ease of translation of myth to history so typical of the
Vaisnavas, it was observed that each of the eight sakhis had her
counterpart in one of the most intimate companions of Caitanya.
The doctrine of the sakhis is crucial, for it restores the intimacy
and immediacy which was the life blood of the faith and which
’Taken from In Praise of Krishna: Songs from the Bengali, translated by Edward
C. Dimock, Jr. and Denise Levertov, 2nd edn (Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 1967), p. 45. Sheldon Pollock of the University of Iowa calls my attention to
the similarity of the verse to Bhanudaita's Rasamahjari 13: You stayed
awake all night, and yet my lotus eyes are red and burning; you drank all that wine,
and yet my head is spinning round; and in the bower sounding with bees it was you
look beauty’s flower, yet the god of love is piercing me with his arrows sharp as fire.
Pollock also points out that the source of the topos may be in Dharmakirti, trans.
Ingalls, Suhhasitaratnakosa 481 (which has further echo in Dimock and Levertov,
p. 7), though it is in fact a standard alafnkara.
theology was diluting. The poets, of course, had not waited for the
doctrine to be developed:
As water to sea-creature
moon-nectar to cakora-birds,
companionable dark to the stars
my love is to Krena.
My body hungers for his
as mirror-image hungers
for twin of flesh.
His life cuts into my life

moon’s rabbit
as the stain of the
engraves the moon.
As if a day when no sun came up

and no color came to the earth
that’s how it is in my heart when he goes away.
Vidyapati says. Cherish such love
and keep it young, fortunate girl.^®
The poem again seems to be spoken by Radha. The theological

paraphernalia are all there: the necessity of love for Krsna as
necessary as water to fish for life, or nectar to nourish the cakoras,
who on moon-beams; the ancient image of the relationship
live
between the metaphysicial and physical as the sky reflected in an
earthen pot of water; the belief that that which is non-physical has
neither image nor shadow. The speaker says that Krsna is the true
reality,and she herself but a reflection of that. And she is saying
—
and this is most important that because she loves, and whether
Krsna feels it or not, she is one with him. The entity and its image are
in some sense inseparable from one another and that would seem to
reflect the doctrine.
As often happens, however, the bhanitd makes one rethink the
matter, for Vidyapati speaks not as Radha but to Radha.
He is a sakhi, so close Radha’s own
to Radha as to feel
emotions; or perhaps the emotions are the sakhVs own, so selfless
and thus pure that she will express them only to herself. So with one
Radha, eight sakhis and eight counterpart sakhis, it was
more than a little awkward to know how to place theologically the
thousands, or quite possibly, tens of thousands of bhaktas who were
quite legitimately seeking identification with one or another of the
Dimock and Levertov, p. 17.

—
gopis. There were two p>ossible solutions. The first would have
been to inflate the personalities of each of the eight sakhis to allow
for almost infinite psychological expansion. The second was not
only easier on the imagination but scripturally attested: the gopis
who were the attendants of the eight sakhis who were the im-
mediate attendants of the divine pair Radha and Krsna, were
various in kind and myriad in number. As servants of servants, as
participants yet not quite participants in the divine love-making, all
devotees can be accommodated. The following two poems in trans-

lation by Tony K. Stewart, are very different from what we have
been seeing. They are both by the poet Narottamadasa, who quite
possibly lived as early as the late sixteenth century, suggesting that
the above accommodations were seen as necessary quite early on. It
should be mentioned, for an understanding of both poems, that

SrirupamahjarT is companion of Caitanya
Rupa Gosvamin, the
and the personification of the sakhl also named Rupa:
In and in death shall I serve Radha and Kiw;

life
Day and night shall I recall their place and their play.
Wherever the youthful pair might meet,
there shall I be completely absorbed, as a sakhi’s companion.
Without cease shall I serve SrirupamahjarT
her lotus my mantra and my medicine.
feet,
0 SrirupamahjarT, O sakhi, show me compassion:
grant me for all time the shelter of your lotus feet.
Care for me, SrirupamahjarT Devi,
for always upon your lotus feet do I dwell.
The divine couple ever plays in Vmdavana
those two Narottama-dasa ever begs to serve.”
The choice of personal pronouns is obviously a problem for the

translator. Here again:
How long before that auspicious moment comes
when SriRupa will look and call: The new servant girl!
She will command the new maid: Come here!

Prepare the items needed to serve, be quick!
Heart overjoyed at these, her directing words,
1 shall discharge my duties, right then, with mind pure,
arranging the required items on a jeweled tray,
filling the lamps, sweet-scented, from a golden ewer,
Narottama-dasa o tahar racanabali, edited by Niradaprasad Nath

(Calcutta: Calcutta University, 1975), no. 40, p. 338; courtesy of Tony K. Stewart.
smartly taking these to be placed directly before the pair

Oh when will Narottama reach this state?
In the course of things we seem have lost track of “faith” and
to
“belief’ entirely, and that is probably as it should be. For the
bhaktas final state is inevitable. He becomes a part of the myth and
everyone knows how the myth ends, or perhaps better, does not
end. This is not the same as saying that the game, the tild if
you over before it starts. There is style in the accomplish-
will, is
ment. That everyone knows how Kalidasa’s dramas will come

out does not lessen the enjoyment of their performance.
Ibid., no. 32, p. 332.

” .
Reflections on Two Poems by

Jibanananda Das:
1. The Poet as Mouse and Owl*
2. The Sound of Silent Guns
1. THE POET AS MOUSE AND OWL^

One day eight years ago
it was heard had taken him
that they
to the dissecting room;
yesterday evening it was, in the darkness of the Phalgun night
when the fifth moon sank
his desire was to die.
His wife lay beside him, his child, too;

he had love, and hope — in the moonlight — and then he saw
what spirit? Why did he wake from sleep?
Or pierhaps sleep was a long time coming— and now he lies
in sleep, in the dissecting room.
Perhaps he wanted this sleep.
Like a plague rat, face smeared with bloody foam,
neck twisted, he sleeps now in a lightless hole;
he will awake no more.
“He awake no more

will
the thick pain of awakening
incessantly— the constant burden
he will bear no more
—
*The essay was previously published in the Journal of Asian Studies, vol. XXXIII,
no. 4, August 974, pp. 603-1
1 I
At bachar dger ekdin, from Mahdprthibi {CalcuttSL: Signet Press, 1376 B.s ). The
‘
poem was read and discussed in a seminar at the University of Chicago, led by Clin-
ton Seely and myself. As I will say again in the second of these essays, Mr Seely’s
excellent dissertation on Jibanananda has not yet been published, and hope he 1
will not find these little efforts of mine in any way an instrusion. 1 am in any case
greatly in his debt, as 1 am to the students who participated in that seminar; David
Curley, Ephraim Miller, Ruta Pempe, Aditinath Sarkar, Pabitra Sarkar, and John
Sokolow: to them I owe some of the thoughts to follow, and in fact the title of the
essay.
they told him this
when moonsank down
the — into unprecedented darkness
as if beside his window
a few silences were come
like a camel’s neck.
Still the owl is awake;

a rotting old frog begs a few moments
at the hint of still —
another dawn in passion knowable and hot.
In the thick aimlessness of gregarious darkness
is the unpardonable opposition of the mosquito net all round;
mosquitos love the stream of life, awakening in delight
of swarming darkness.
Flies rise back into sunlight from blood and filth;

I have seen so often flying insects play in waves of golden sunlight.
It is as if the sky were very near, as if some life diffused

possessed the minds of these;
in the hands of wicked children a sudden startling of locusts
have fought with death;
after the moon had sunk, in the primary darkness you went near the
peepul tree,
a length of rope in hand, still alone,
knowing this:
that life of moth or sparrow can never meet with that of man.
Did not the peepul branch

protest? Crowds of fireflies came —
did they not mass together in
pleasing swarms of golden flowers?
Did not the old blind she-owl
come and say: “The old hag moon has foundered in the flood?
Wonderful!
Now let us catch a mouse or two.”
Did not the she-owl come and make this fierce thick pronouncement?
This hint of life, the smell of ripening wheat in afternoons of

— perhaps you could not bear
winter it.
In the morgue, your heart now relieved

is
in the morgue — in the mouldy heat

like a flattened rat with blood-smeared lips.
Listen then
to the tale of this dead one;
the love of a certain woman was not in vain,
the joys of marriage nowhere alloyed.
Of time’s convulsions there arose a wife;
—
Reflections on Two Poems by Jibanananda Das: 35
sweet things and the honey of the mind

she had given him to know;
he had never shivered, in this life, in the exhaustion of complete
despair, in a winter of pain.
Still
in the dissecting room

he lies stiff upon the table.
I know — still I know

a woman’s neart — love — child — home — this is not everything;
nor wealth, or fame, or power
another ominous wonder
plays
in our inmost blood;
it exhausts us, and exhausts us.
There is no such exhaustion in the dissecting room so

in the dissecting room
he lies stiff upon a table.
Yet every night I watch
the blind old she -owl sitting on the branch of the peepul tree,
rolling her eyes and hissing: “The old hag moon has foundered in
the flood?
Wonderful!
Now let us catch a mouse or two!’’
Ah, wise ancestress, is it wonderful still today?
I too, grown old like you, shall drown the old hag moon in floods of
darkness,
and together we will empty out the vast storehouse of life.
Jibanananda Das is among the first of the modem Bengali poets,

as Rabindranath is among the last of the classical ones at least
insofar as his ties with the mainstream of Indian philosophical
thought are concerned.^ And there is much, in history and in the
writings of the two men themselves, to support this argument.
Jibanananda was a member of the “Kallol group,” a school of
Bengali writers in the middle and late twenties of which some
members set themselves up in deliberate opposition to Tagore. The
^ From the point of view of the literary historian, the statement is perhaps
debatable. As one of the commentators on the paper pointed out, not only does
Rabindranath exhibit “strong affinities with the English Romantic poets,” but in
various ways establishes himself as “one of the pioneers of modem Bengali poetry.”
As will be clear, however, I intend to deal with only one aspect of this versatile man,
and the term “classical” is meant to apply to his attitude rather than to his often
iconoclastic means of communication.
later reflections of one of the group suggest that their view of the
Master was somewhat more ambiguous:
Adolescent rebels, we derided Rabindranath’s peace and swooned in
ecstasy of his lines, reciting them in chorus in hot streets and cheap
restaurants and murmuring them alone in bed at night . . ?
But indeed there is much in the poem above which is in striking
contrast to “Rabindranath’s peace,” as that peace is expressed in

the poems and clear images and
to follow, in serene, dignified,
lines. Jibanananda’s strange, personal imprecision in his images of
the camel’s neck, of fireflies as swarms of golden flowers, of wicked
children tearing the wings from flying creatures, of the brooding
presence of the owl herself, watching blind and dangerous the
poet’s progress —
these images I think would not have been wholly
congenial to Rabindranath, though he might have been pleased
with their “pictorial quality. And there is Jibanananda’s treatment
of death.
The poet’s deep concern was with the paradox of life in death and
death in life, and one is reminded of the curious passage in
Taittiriya-upanidsadl(3: 10:6):
I am food, I am food, I am am an eater of food, I am an eater of

food. I
food, I am an eater of food .... I who am food eat the eater of food. I have
overcome the whole world.
On the passage R. C. Zaehner remarks, rightly, I think, that
Eating and being eaten represent life in death and death in life, the
abolition of the individuality in the unending life of the Primeval Man in

the Puruûkta, who though sacrified continues to live as the All.
It is very like Paul Tillich’s paradox of the conquering of existence

through the conditions of existence. And it puts Jibanananda in that
stream of Indian thought which has concerned itself with the
paradox. It also puts him in opposition to‘ Tagore, who saw the
problem differently.
If one were to analyze, myth of the goddess
for example, the
Manasa using Levi-Straussian methodology, one could find in the
result life and death on one side of a binary opposition, with zero
^ Buddhadeva Bose, An Acre of Green Grass (Calcutta: Orient Longmans, 1

948),
p. 71 /Ruta Pempe called my attention to the passage.
^ Ibid.,p. 70
^ R. C. Zaehner, Hindu and Muslim Mysticism (London: University of London,
1960),p. 30.
(i.e. mukti) on the other, whereas western mythology would prob-

,
ably show life and death as opposites.^ Jibanananda also seems to

be telling us this: that life and death are categories of existence, as
opposed to extinction. The owl is the poet; the owl is also irhplac-
able death, who feeds on life, the mouse; mosquitoes seek to drink
the blood of life and swarm with life; the suicide of the poem has his
immortality in providing food for death, and is in a positive state of
rest.
A man has killed himself, despite the fact, or because of the fact,
that he has all that life can offer. His body, its neck broken and
twisted like that of a rat sundered by the talons of the owl, lies in
wait, perhaps for the scalpels of medical students. What drove him
to hang himself? He is prey, as the old frog is prey, waiting in terror
for dawn to thwart the owl, as the curtain thwarts the mosquitoes.
But flies seek the sunlight, even after drawing sustenance from
blood in darkness. The suicide itself teems with life: the tree from
—
which the body hangs is live the Buddha sat beneath the peepul
tree in meditation;^ the darkness makes the fireflies swarm with
golden lights; and in the darkness when the moon has set, the old
owl, herself death, seeks sustenance. Life is inescapable, even in the
darkness. But perhaps the suicide, and the poet too, have escaped
the individuality and exhaustion of everyday existence. And now,
on some other level of existence, the poet can join his own an-
cestress, and drown the light, and be the slayer and the slain.
It is a difficult and tormented poem, written by a tormented man.
Yet the imagery is not basically inconsistent: life is decay which is

death which is life. This is not strange, in the classical Indian view.
What is different here is that these are not sequential, for all are
latent all the time. Darkness is death. Yet the owl sees in darkness
the prey that sustains and the darkness teems with living things.
life,
Darkness has no color. Yet it is the darkness that allows the fireflies
to be seen. They are transitory, like life itself, like the watermelon
wine in crystal goblets of the poet’s other vision. Yet they are vivid,
and they give meaning to the darkness. Jibanananda’s concern is
with the paradox of death in life: how is it that in our bloodstream,
Perhaps the best introduction to, and illustration of, the method is in Claude
^
Levi-Strauss, “The Structural Study of Myth”, in his Structural Anthropology (New

York Basic Books, %3), pp. 206-3 The myth of Manasa can be found outlined
: 1 1 .
later in this volume.

^ And received enlightenment. The tree is asvatha gdch, figus religiosa, also
called the bodhi tree. This was called to my attention by Neal Delmonico.
in the very thing that gives us life, death lurks like malaria? The
problem is the simultaneity, and it is in Jibanananda’s view of time
that his solution to the paradox can be found.
In another, somewhat less remarkable poem called Rdtri, the
poet describes a particular quarter of Calcutta at night:
I stopped in Bentinck Street, in Tiriti Bazaar,

in wind dry as peanuts.
The commerce are there. Yet a

smells and lights of the day’s busy
rickshaw passes beneath the halo of the last gas lamp and disappears
as if by magic. From a window above
a Jewish girl drowsily sings a song,

infinitely personal.
Snappily dressed young foreigners saunter jauntily along, and
an old negro leans against a post

and cleans a briar pipe
and smiles.
This quarter of the great city of Bengal is very much alive by night.
Only the Bengalis themselves are missing. It is as if Calcutta is in
fact two cities, one imposed upon the other, each taking turns
becoming manifest. Bengali businessmen by day give way to foreign
sailors and whores by night, as if by magic. The city does not
change; it has two separate lives, latent one in the other.®
If this is extended, the notion appears that there are two sets of
gunas, of “qualities,” superimposed one upon the other. One of the

sets is material and other immaterial. Both sets vary in quantity and
balance from one individual to the next, yielding distinguishing
form. And the immaterial gunas retain this form, even when the
material gunas have disappeared and one has gained release. This
is the fivan-mukta who, though released from material ties, walks
around and is recognized and interacts, and is a social being. But he
is in fact no longer subject to the laws of the flesh, or of space, or of
time. So in Jibanananda’s poem, the precision and particularity of

the title line “one day eight years ago” are dissipated as the poem
progresses, and we are made to know that every moment of all time
is pregnant with both life and death. As Calcutta can be two cities
equally real, so can the eater and the eaten, the slayer and the slain,
* The poem appears in Jibanananda ddser srestha kabita (Calcutta: Nabhan

Press, >956), p. 94.
— —

be the same. They look different, but when individualities are
abolished, then peace, or rasa^, or the sleep of the poem can be
attained.
Tagore’s view of time, or death, is not the same. This treatment of
the theme is not, I think, atypical:
Ah, my queen, is this how you listen to my goodbye?

I see the smile tremble in the comer of your eye.
I’ve taken false leave of you before,
so you think to yourself:
This man will never go.
He gets to the door and turns;
he’ll come back again.
Then you ask me

if
I’ll tell you the truth
the doubt is there with me too.

I shall come back.
The days of spring come back again,
the night of the full moon smiles again,
vakula flowers bloom again on bare branches
these do not go away.
A thousand times they take their leaves
and return again.
But doubt a little;
do not give immediate answer to the lie.
For a moment of illusion

bring tears to your eye
when I say, sobbing,
“It’s time for me to go.”
You can laugh
when I return.^
Tagore wrote this poem when he was about thirty -nine

(Jibanananda wrote “One day eight years ago” when he was also in
his thirties), and he sees death as gentle, ordered, even humorous.
He questions a little, it is true. But he sees a cycle of natural things,
and himself as a natural thing, and that he too will return. It is not
that he welcomes death. But death is nature, and nature is order,
and he is prepared for the cycle of rebirth.
Henever lost this sense of the order of things, even in his last
poems, though the humor of the confident young may no longer be
Biday-riti, from Ksanika in Rabindra-racandbali, 26 vols (Visvabharati, 1961),

7:264.
there. In one of his last collections, Arogya, he writes like this:^®
Evening comes gently; one by one the many knots have slipped
in action’s net, in the watch of the day. The day gives
offerings of dew,
unlocking the lion-gate of the west,
its majesty golden
in confluence of light and darkness,
bowed in silent obeisance toward distant morning.
Eyes closed like flowers, the time has come
to immerse
beneath deep meditation,
external self.
Peaceful field of constellations, where infinite sky

keeps hidden the unformed essence of the day;
there truth, to find itself, embarks
toward the other shore of night.
The key word of the poem is, I think, santiksetra, “the field of
peace,” as opposed to the field of war of the Mahdbharata: the
divine Bhlsma will not die but by his own wish, and he dies at the
twilight of the year.^' The place where light and darkness flow
together is the sagarasahgama, where the river meets the sea, where
the individual, the particular, merge with the whole, the place
where pilgrims go. And when one reaches the other shore of night,
beyond the pull of the current of life’s river, then there is peace.
To Tagore, time moves in slow, majestic waves, rising up and
sinking down again into the sea. Once in a while a passion is
crystallized and placed beyond time. The first stanza of his Shah
Jdhdn goes like this:
This you used to know, lord of India, Shah Jahan:
and youth, wealth and honor,
life floating in the current of time.
Only then inner pain
lives long — let it be. Was this the path along which empire led?
Power of a king, harsh thunderbolt
like evening’s bloody passion; let it be absorbed at the feet of lassitude.
Only a deep sigh
swells eternally; let the sky be merciful:
this was the hope in your heart.
Built of gems, diamonds and pearls
like the magic shimmering of rainbows in empty horizons
let it be hidden.
The p)oem is no. 30, dated 1941 ,

the year he died.
Anusasana-parva, 166.
1

Only one tear-drop
let this
glisten pure upon the cheek of time,

this Taj Mahal.
All the rest tremble for their moment on the crest, and then merge
once more with the sea. Nonetheless, for Tagore time is real. For
Jibanananda, neither momentary time nor historical time seems to
have meaning. In his poems he wanders through thousands of years,
past and future. The moment, past and future, and eternity are the
same; they merely have different forms and names. Like the mouse
and owl, they are of a single essence.
it is of course impossible to escape one’s cultural heritage, though
one might select, or be selected by, different strands within it. In

one sense it is true that Jibanananda is concerned with the particu-
larity and pain of the moment, while Rabindranath seeks the more
abstract and impersonal levels of rasa. But in another, if rasa is,
among other things, the suspension of ordinary time, the abolition
of particular consciousness, then this iswhat Jibanananda in his own
way also seeks. And he finds that life and death are the same; they
have the same value, or lack of it. He finds the pain too great,
otherwise.
2 . THE SOUND OF SILENT GUNS*

In Camp
I pitched camp here near the forest;
all night, in the southern breeze

in the light of the moon
I listen to the cry of the doe in heat;
she calls someone.

Somewhere tonight the stag is prey;
the hunters have entered the forest,
and I too get their scent;
I lie here on my cot.
From Balaka in Bicitra (Visâbharati, 1368 b.s.), p. 604.
new one for this volume, developed from the reading and
essay is a
discussion of the poem in a seminar conducted by Aditinath Sarkar and myself.
Other regular members of the seminar were Neal Delmonico, Sucarita Guha,
and Mark Tinghino. I owe much to all of these, but especially to Mr Sarkar for
his sensitivity to Jibanananda’s work, and for calling the attention of the
seminar to the story of King Pandu.
The Sound of Silent Guns and Other Essays
and sleep does not come
on this spring night.
The forest’s mystery all around
and Caitra’s wind
brings tastes of moonlight’s very body.
The doe in heat calls all night;
somewhere, in deep forests, where there is no moonlight,

the stags hear her call;
they get her scent

and come towards her.
In this night of such wonder
their love’s time is come;
their hearts’ sister
summons them, in the moonlight, from the shelter of the forest
for the slaking of their thirst for the scent for the taste.
It is as if the tiger is not near tonight,
as if no terror in the hearts of deer,
there is
no phantoms in the shadows;

there is only thirst
and eagerness.
Perhaps the beauty of the doe makes the cheetah’s heart too
swell with wonder.
Dreams of love and longing, eagerness and desire
seem to be arising all around
tonight in spring;
this is my nocturne
one by one the deer are coming, leaving the trails of the deep
forest,
leaving the sound of streams, searching in another hope;
and teeth they come to their sister
forgetful of claws
beautiful beneath the Tree of Beauty, in the moonlight;
as a man comes, sensing his moist and salty woman,
the stags are coming.
— I get their scent.

The sound of many feet is heard,
and the doe in heat is calling in the moonlight.
I can sleep no more.
Lying here I listen to the sound of rifles.

Again the sound of rifles, and
in the light of the moon she calls again.
I lie here fallen and alone,

a weariness congealing in my heart.
—
Reflections on Two Poems by Jibanananda Das:

listening to the sound of rifles,
hearing the call of the doe.
She’ll come back again tomorrow.

She’llappear in the morning’s sunlight
and around her all her lovers will lie dead.
Men have taught her this.
I’ll smell the venison on my dinner plate.
. , . Are we finished with the meat course?
. How can we be finished?
, .
Why should be pained, thinking about those deer?

I
Am I not like them?

On a certain spring night,
on a certain night of life’s wonder
has not someone called me, in the moonlight, in the southern
breeze,
like this doe in heat?
My heart’s the stag,

the world’s ferocities forgotten,
fear of the cheetah’s eyes forgotten,
thought of his deadly swiftness left behind.
He wants to embrace you, does he not?
My heart’s love is like these dead deer,
their blood mixed with dust;
and like this doe you live
in the night of life’s wonder,
in the night of a certain spring,
is it not so?
Who has taught you?

We too lie here fallen, our flesh that of dead beasts.
Everything falls before the blasts of separation, disunion, death,
like thesedead deer.
From dreams of gallantry, longing, and of love
we know pain, and death, and bitterness,
do we not know?
I hear a shotgun’s roar,
The doe cries out.
My heart does not rest.
I lie here alone.
I must forget the sound of silent guns.
The night tells me a different story,
here, on my cot,
camp: in the
those before the muzzles of whose guns the deer died tonight,
who will taste with satisfaction the deer’s flesh and bone.
[ [ The Sound of Silent Guns and Other Essays
they are like you
lying on cots in camp their hearts too are drying up
as they reflect.
This pain, this love, is all around;

it is within the worm and locust, and the breast of man,
in all our lives.
In the springtime moonlight we are all these dead deer.
I find this a highly disturbing poem, as I find all of Jibanananda’s

poems disturbing. The reasons are very basic ones: the juxataposi-
tion of instinctual drives towards both love and death; the sugges-
tion of an equation between the eating of venison and the taste of
woman’s flesh; the poet’s perception of the basic paradox that
because we are all subject to life and circumstance, we are dead. It is
as much as in “One day eight years ago”: the poet is again the
hunter and the hunted. He is the slain stag, and his blood mingles
with theirs in the dust. He eats, but he is also eaten. We are all like
that.
There are various ways to analyze the poem. The most straight-
forward, perhaps, is to look at its structure. After the introductory
lines, which set the stage, the first part of the poem gives a descrip-
tive statement of the movements of the doe, the stags, and the
hunters. The pronouns used are “she” and “they.” The poet lies on
assumedly surrounded by his mosquito-net, and listens as
his cot,
the drama develops in a clearing in the nearby forest, passively
allowing the sensations of the night to overwhelm his thoughts.
The changed, at the end of the poet’s nocturne, and the
register is
change is introduced by the line “as a man comes, sensing his moist
and salty woman:” the doe and the stags become not only an-
thropomorphized but personalized. The poem is focused now both
on the “I” of the poet and the “she” of the doe, who has now
become “you” of the woman who has drawn him to his
also the
destruction as the doe has drawn the stags. His heart’s love has been
slain as surely as the stags in the dust.
Another change in register begins with the bitter line “Who has
taught you?” for suddenly all men are drawn into the des-
peration :“we too lie here fallen. .
.” It is our common fate, whether
stags or does, or hunters or lovers: our flesh is enemy to us all.
If one were one would assume that the poet has

to leave it at this,
simply seen in a deer hunt a metaphor for the woman using her
desirable flesh to lure him to the death of his heart’s love an agony —
all men suffer.
And indeed, he is saying this. But the ambiguous and incongru-

ous line “Men have taught her this” suggests that he is saying other
things as well. Insofar as “she” is the woman who has killed his love,
it is possible that she has been driven by bitter experience to seek
revenge. But insofar as she is the doe, men have of course not
“taught” her to lead her lovers to their destruction. Men have used
her nature —
and this is the poet’s outcry against civilization and —
brought her instincts under their control, for their own ends. She is,
ultimately, as helpless as her brothers. She cries out because she
must, and draws them to their death.
And the stags must come. Driven by a fiercer instinct than that of
survival, indifferent to the teeth and claws of tigers and to the
hunters’ guns, drawn by consuming desire, they go forward into the
light of love where the darkness of death awaits. But perhaps, in the
end, the doe’s fate is worse, for she will be there in the bright
morning to see her lovers lying dead, and live her unwitting
betrayal. Or perhaps the shotgun’s blast relieves her of that particu-
lar pain, once her job is done.
TTie structure of the poem also reveals a curious stasis on the
poet’s part. He moves only once, and that in his imagination, when
he anticipates the venison on his plate at dinner. Though he never
rises from his cot, he participates in the hunt. Yet he does not
participate. Like the old Vaisnava pada-kartas in their roles as
sakhis, he both observes and acts.
There is a difference, though, for the Vaisuavas felt that much
personal effort must be added to God’s grace before one can pass
beyond the condition inand self-discipline are neces-
which ritual
sary, to the point of simple, direct, and immediate relationship with

him. In “In Camp” the poet arises from his cot only in his mind, to
participate in the cannibalistic feast of his own flesh. And the
suicide of “One day eight years ago” also moves only once, to seek
his own death. In both poems, the subjects are driven from the
safety of the darkness beneath the mosquito-net into the deadly
moonlight, to lie in the brightness of the morning, or the brightness
of the lights of the morgue, dead of their own desires. Motionless-
ness is safety, the mosquito-net a thin, womb-like, permeable
membrane that separates one from the necessity of action that leads
to love, that leads to death.
It would seem that, to Jibanananda, the condition of grace is
stillness, or death, or the contemplation of it. He lies on the cot,
beneath the mosquito-net, arising only to participate in a feast of

death or to hang himself. He is the suicide, hanging from the sacred
asvattha tree; he is the mouse, paralyzed by fear of the owl above; it
ishe who sees, as he leans against the lamp-post in Bentinck Street,

the two faces of Calcutta super-imposed one upon the other.
There are various other ways of looking at the poem its idiosync- :
racy, for example, and the cultural context in which it must be

placed.
That Jibanananda’s work contains much of what Elder Olson has
called in the case of Dylan Thomas “personal symbolism” there is
little doubt. One need only think of the oddly haunting image of the
camel’s neck in the previous poem. And although, as Olson says, it

is difficult to interpret clearly the meaning of such personal
symbols, it may be that his use of the term “heart’s sister,” which
has bothered critics, suggests his pervasive concern with simplicity
and purity, such as animals have, and that by this he is defining the
context of his poem as a world apart from cultural taboos, apart
from social regulation and restriction. To this we shall have occa-
sion to return.
Equally ambiguous, though of a different order of ambiguity, is
the image central to “In Camp” itself. The term ghaiharini,
“doe in heat,” and the once-used ghdimrgl, meaning, as-
sumedly the same thing (though one must wonder if Jibananda was
,
not making some personal distinction between the two), are obs-
cure. The translation is in fact that of my friend and colleague
Clinton Seely, the one westerner and perhaps the one anything who
has made a thorough study of Jibanananda. Seely thinks it is
derived from an Assamese term familiar to professional hunters:
The specificity of the term gha-i, if it is indeed an Assamese word

meaning a live bird used as a decoy for the purpose of hunting, implies
that Jibanananda has some contact . . . with hunters. . . . Barisal is on the
northern edge of the Sundarban jungles. ... It was there that deer-
hunting or even tiger-hunting took place. Jibanananda and his brother
knew a local brick-mason by the name of Muniruddin whose other
occupation was that of a hunter.
His still unpublished dissertation is for the University of Chicago, Doe in Heat:
A Biography of the Bengali Poet Jibanananda Das (1899-1954), with
Critical
Relevant Literary History from the Mid-I920s to the Mid-1950s, 2 vols (University of
Chicago, 1976). This truly excellent dissertation is also the source for much of the
factual material to follow.
Seely, Doe in Heat, vol. I Wendy O’Flaherty points out to me the very
,
p. 195.
old use of the term vrd to mean a seductive woman or a female animal used as a lure
by hunters. See her article “The Case of the Stallion’s Wife’’ in the Journal of the
American Oriental Society 105.3 (1985), p. 487.
Another possible, though linguistically more oblique, meaning is

“wounded doe,” which would add a certain poignancy to the poem,
for then it becomes desire tempered with pity that draws the stags
from the shelter of the forest; the doe’s cries become cries of
warning as well as the voice of her own need.
But the historical and contextual analysis is even more interest-
ing. There are many passages in the caryd-padas, those ancient
Buddhist Tantric songs that may be dated as early as the tenth
century but which are in any case the oldest texts in the Bengali
language, in which the symbols of the deer and doe are used. The
sixth song of the collection has a line that is charged with power:
The deer is the enemy of its own flesh . . .
As with most verses in the caryd-padas there are at least two levels
of meaning here. The first is that the deer, through no fault of its
own, cursed with succulent flesh; its nature, therefore, is to be
is
hunted. But Munidatta, the Sanskrit commentator on the text, tells

us that the deer is also citta^ the mind. Per Kvaeme describes citta in
this way:
The vital breath is considered to be the vehicle of the psychic life of man,
the citta\ and as long as the vital breath is unchecked, the citta remains
restless, discursive, and tied to the plane of relative truth.
The stags, troubled by the oestrous doe, driven by sexual desire and
the urge to procreate, are indeed restless and discursive. Their lust
and thirst are real, but relative; they make them heedless, and drive
them to seize the moment, and they die.
Caryd 23 is a somewhat more convoluted piece. Verses two and
three read as follows:
The deer was by day, and dead by night. Having spread the net of
living
delusion, the doe of delusion was bound.
Munidatta comments on these verses again that the deer is the vital
breath, and that life by day and death by night are inhalations and
exhalations. But then, more to the present point, he goes on to say
that the net of delusion is the physical woman, and that the doe of
delusion {mdd-harini) is the body of the seeker after truth, the
sddhaka. The poet has not only been betrayed by the unknown
Per Kvaeme, An Anthology of Buddhist Tantric Songs: A Study of the

“Caryagiti” (Oslo-Bergen-Tromso; Universitetsforlaget, 1944), p. 32. Bengali, Apa-
bhramsa, Til>etan, and Sanskrit texts are given in this fine book, together with
translation and explication in English.
woman, as the stags by the doe, but by himself. His flesh is indeed
hisenemy.
I would not go so far as to claim that Jibanananda had these
caryd verses in mind when he wrote “In Camp” (though what

follows may well suggest that he was familiar with texts bearing on
the matter). But he is certainly saying the same thing.
There is another powerful theme that runs through the poem: the
stags, to slake another thirst, leave behind the running streams of
the deep forest; they leave behind the vital, familiar, fertile waters
for the barrenness of death. There is a direct connection between
the killing of deer, especially rutting deer, and and death. In
sterility
Mahabharata (1:109) there is a story about King Pandu who,

while hunting in the forest, killed a buck, the leader of its herd,
while it was mating with a doe. The buck was in fact the powerful
ascetic Kimdama who, as he lay bleeding on the ground, re-
proached the king. Pandu argued in response that it was the way of
kings to hunt and slay deer. To which the sage replied:
I do not blame you for killing deer, king, because of myself. But out of
kindness you should have waited until I was done mating. For what man
of sense would kill a buck that is mating in the woods, at a time beneficent
to all creatures and wanted by all creatures? Therefore, since you have
. . .
injured me, you yourself will fall victim to love; when you are helplessly
overcome by love, your love will unfailingly kill you, who outraged a
mating couple . . . . W
hen you are lying with a woman you love blinded by ,
your passion, you too in that very same state will depart for the world of
the dead. .Just as you brought me to grief when I moved in bliss, so
. .
shall grief come to you when you have found bliss.
In killing the deer, the hunters, and the unnamed woman, too, have
taken their own psychic lives. They have used a noble, natural thing
to bait their trap, and they too are dying: their hearts dry up as they
lie on their cots in the camp, reflecting. The doe, the stags, and the
hunters have all done what they must do, and they have all been
betrayed. No one forgets the sound of the now silent guns.
And by that another echo is aroused. The great Vaisnava pada-
kartd Govinda-dasa wrote as follows:
0 Madhava, how shall I tellyou of my terror?

1 could not describe my coming here
if I had a million tongues.
Translation by J.A.B. Van Buitenen, The Mahabharata, vol. 1 ,

The Book of
the Beginning (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1973).
—

When I left my room and saw the darkness
I trembled;
I could not see the path,
there were snakes that writhed around my ankles!
I was alone, a woman; the night was so dark,
the forest so dense and gloomy,
and I had so far to go.
The rain was pouring down
which path should I take?
My feet were muddy
and burning where thorns had scratched them.
But I had the hope of seeing you, none of it mattered,
and now my terror seems far away . . .
When the sound of your flute reaches my ears

it compels me to leave my home, my friends,
it draws me into the dark towards you.
I no longer count the pain of coming here,

says Govinda-dasa.
It seems, at first, more than a little grotesque to juxtapose the

pretty, etherial world of the Vaisnava idyll to that of Jibanananda’s
poetic world, where corpses float in the lotus ponds. Yet it is
impossible to ignore entirely the similarity between the hopeful

expectations of Radhika passing through the monsoon-
drenched, snake-infested forest into the light of Krsna’s love and
the desire of the stags who drive onward, caring nothing for the
tiger’s fangs and claws. To be sure, the conclusions are somewhat
different; Radha is united with her Krsna (though as a stage on
the way to an ultimate separation), while the stags emerge from the
safety of the darkness to become targets for the hunters’ guns. But
deeper than that lies a similar instinctuality, for both are driven to
flout laws, in Radha’s case those of social regulation, in the case
of the stags that of self-preservation, to follow a more compelling
law, that of love.
This comparison will be offensive to some, perhaps even being
seen as sacrilege. But it seems that to Jibanananda, and to many of
Bengal’s creative geniuses, the natural law, and the natural way of
things, is pure. The deeply troubling ambiguity, to Jibanananda, is
that it is the very purity of the natural act that leads to the ultimate
Translation by Denise Levertov and myself, in In Praise of Krishna: Songs

from the Bengali, Phoenix reprint (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1981), p. 2 1.
impurity, to death. The two are simultaneous, and we are helpless,
for there is no way out.
It is I suspect not insignificant or unwitting that Jibanananda has
the suicide of “One day eight years ago” hang himself from the
asvattha tree, the bo-tree, the axis mundi of Indian mythology, the
tree beneath which the Buddha also found his enlightenment in the
form of the death of the world, after he too had left his wife and the
pleasures of material things. This verges on the same kind of sac-
rilege, and my friend and colleague Aditinath Sarkar feels that a
great part of Jibanananda’s power lies in it: a suicide on the sacred
tree, a reversal of traditional Vaisnava imagery so that a holy love
becomes undeniable lust and the deer which grace the forests of
Vrndavana lie slaughtered on the ground.
In the pages of Sanibdrer cithi in )93), Sajanikanta Das, inar-
ticulately offended by what he felt to be obscenity and possibly
sensing this sacrilege, castigated both “In Camp” and its author. To
express his rage he zeroed in on what now seems to be a relatively
mild offence, Jibanananda’s use of the term bon, “sister,” in the
poem and its possibly incestuous implications:
It is quite touching that the poet, through the guise of a poem, has uttered
the personal feelings of that doe in heat separated from her lovers and
also the innermost thoughts of her heart-brothers.
The reader, perhaps, doesn’t understand what a heart-brother is. The

poet was saying that the “sister of their hearts” is calling to all the brother
deer of the forest to “quench that thirst” of theirs “by smelling” and “by
tasting.”
. . . All right, the brothers came to their sisters — I accept that — there’s no
way to prevent that — all right, even the trees become sundari [the name
of the tree, also literally “a beautiful woman”] in the poet’s rapture, I
understand that — the poet is entranced — but how in the world did the
“woman” become “salty”? I’ve eaten salted hilsa fish, of course, but
where the poet comes from are women prepared in brine also?^®
For all his unnecessary venom, Sajanikanta has a certain point, for
bon is an unambiguous term of family relationship. Jibanananda
certainly had other concepts, and therefore other terms, at his
disposal, and we cannot but assume that a poet means what he says.
But we also have options other than deducing that Jibanananda’s
purpose in writing the poem was to promote, or even to describe.
Translation by Seely, Doe in Heat, vol. I

,
p. 199.
1
for its own sake, the flouting of a cultural taboo. His concerns were
more profound than that.
Jibanananda was a poet who knew fully well the darkness that is
in us and around us. He seemed to take some comfort from that
darkness, feeling, like the natural things, secure against the painful
necessities of light.
There is, in the Ashutosh Museum in Calcutta, a tiny wooden
image of Siva. His face is placid and unconcerned, though he is
dancing his cosmic dance of destruction. He is also in an obvious
state of sexual excitement. He is suggesting that what Jibanananda
says is true —
that the urge toward love and the urge toward destruc-
tion are intimately bound together, and that in the throes of this
paradox we humans can only watch helplessly as gallantry leads to
bitterness, longing to pain, love to death; that death and the urge
toward life, as manifested in the worm, are the same.
Symbolic Forms in Bengali
I . Leonard Bloomfield which “have

called “symbolic” those terms
a connotation of somehow illustrating the meaning more im-
mediately than do ordinary speech forms examples are flip, flap, . . .
flutter, snip-snap, zig-zag ...” etc.^ Other writers, such as

. . .
Murray Emeneau, have chosen to preserve the more classical term

“onomatopoeia.”^ Others prefer “ideophones,” and most re-
cently Gerard Diffloth has opted for the term “expressives,” for the
following reasons:
. .onomatopoeic forms are those displaying acoustic symbolism and

.
having syntactic and morphological properties totally different from

those of verbs or nouns. Ideophones are words displaying phonological
symbolism of any kind (acoustic, articulatory, structural) and having
distinct morpho-syntactic properties; ideophones include onomatopoeic
forms as a sub-class. Expressives have the same morpho-syntactic proper-

ties as ideophones, but their symbolism, if such exists, is not necessarily
phonological; expressives contain ideophones as a sub-class.^
Whatever they are called, there is in Bengali a very large number

of them. There is such a number, in fact, that Ramendra Sundar
Tribedi has said that “if these words
onomatopoetic
(dhvanydtmaka) were left out of the language, speakers of Ben-
The essay was published, in a somewhat different form, in the Taraporewala

Memorial Volume of the Bulletin of the Deccan College Research Institute 18
(January' 1957). At that time I thanked William O Bright, Sukumar Sen, P. B.
Pandit, H. A. Gleason, and William McCormack, all of whom read the paper before
its publication, and offered suggestions. I have here an opportunity to reiterate my
thanks and express my sorrow at the death of Prabodh Pandit, who was a brilliant
linguist and a dear friend.
^ Leonard Bloomfield, Language (New York: Henry Holt,
1933), p. 156.
^ See for example his article, which I will draw upon freely below, entitled
“Onomatopoetics in the Indian Lirigyistic Area,” Language 45, pt. 2 (1969); pp.
274-99.
^
“Expressives in Semai” in Austroasiatic Studies, Oceanic Linguistics, Special
Publication no. 13 ( Zimmerman, Expressives in
1976); pp. 263-4, quoted in Ellen K.
Telegu: Iconicity as a Linguistic Mode of Meaning (unpublished M. A. Thesis,
Department of Linguistics, University of Chicago, 1980).
.
gali would be Tagore did not go that far, but simply

tongue-tied.”"^
said that “descriptive speech would be difficult” without them.^
That a good deal of attention has been paid this class of forms by
writers on Bengali in Bengali might indicate the relative importance
of it in the language; it might also indicate, perhaps, that it is a class
more obvious and more readily definable than its equivalent, say, in
English. It is, in Bengali, formally distinct, for example; it is largely
(but not entirely), made up of forms of the “echo-word” type:
forms having the structure CV-, VC-, or CVC(V) (C) with, but
more often without, phonemic variation in the initial consonant of
the reduplicated portion.
The concept of India as a linguistic area has been given a fair
amount of print lately, notably by Murray B. Emeneau and Colin P.
Masica.^ In the course of “symbolic forms” or “expressives”
it,
have been paid their share of attention; other data, such as those
gathered for the Munda languages by Diffloth and by Ellen K.
Zimmerman for Telugu, have been added, and many of the gaps I
noted when this paper was first published in 1957 are now filled.”^
It was clear even then that there were relationships, albeit vague,
of etymology within the class among some of the Indo-Aryan
languages: Hindi has /patpst/, “a beating sound,” Bengali “the
sound of a gentle cracking, or of a weaver’s loom;” Hindi /jhum-
jhum/, “steady rain falling,” Bengali “the sound of a dancer’s
anklet bells;” Marathi has /katkst/, “a tiring, annoying noise,”
Bengali “a feeling of slight irritation;” Marathi /kilkil/, “the chirp-
ing of birds at dawn,” Bengali “the sound of indistinct laughter.” To
such have now been added for Dravidian the data gathered by
Emeneau, Zimmerman, and Bright.® In fact, Emeneau concludes,
^ “Sabda-katha” in
The essay entitled “Dhvani-vicara” of the collection
Ramendra-racanavari, vol. 3 (Calcutta: Baii^ya sahitya paria^d, B. S.
1356), p. 8.
* TTie essay entitled “Sabda-tattva” in Rabindra-racandavaVi, vol. 12
(Visvabhâti, B. S. 1349).
* See for example Emeneau’s essay cited above, and his “The Indian Linguistic
Area Revisited, International Journal of Dravidian Linguistics 3, no. 1 (1974).
Masica’s book-length study is called Defining a Linguistic Area: South Asia

(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1976).
^ When Emeneau published his “Onomatopoetics” article in 1%9, he filled in the
Dravidian data but noted the lack of Munda data. Diffloth’s work since that time has
gap also.
filled in this
® Emeneau, “Onomatopoetics,” and Zimmerman, Expressives. Bright has as far
as I know never published his Kannada material, but he sent me much by fjersonal
correspondence, and the Kannada citations in this paper are all due to his generosity
the historical pattern was one of diffusion from Dravidian, though

once it was established in Indo- Aryan a rapid proliferation probably
took place (one argument against Indo- Aryan having inherited the
pattern from Indo-European is that it is notably lacking in Old
Iranian):
If several contiguous, related languages, with phonological structures

much alike, have both an onomatopoetic system and many onomatopoet-
ics in common, the assumption of genetic inheritance or of diffusion or
both is in order .... Likewise, if several contiguous languages of different

families have an onomatopoetic system and a fairly large number of
onomatopoetics in common, diffusion rather than independent develop-
ment would seem the probable explanation. The former is the case of
modem Indo- Aryan languages, the latter of Indo- Aryan and Dravidian.^
Tribedi, writing much
and without the Dravidian data at
earlier
his disposal, also feels that the class is non-Sanskritic, but he consid-
ers it indigenous (desaja) to Bengali.^® Reduplicative forms do
occur occasionally in Sanskrit, even in Vedic, and the force of
reduplication here —
continuation, repetition, change in intensity
is paralleled in at least one class of reduplicatives in modem
Bengali. On the other hand, later Apabhramsa texts are full of

such forms, reduplicated and triplicated, which are paralleled in
three of the four sub-classes in modem Bengali, to be discussed
below. This would seem to lend weight to the diffusion and
proliferation theory.
’ Emeneau, “Onomatopoetics,” pp. 285-6.
“Dhvani-vicara,” p. 9.
Emeneau, “Onomatopoetics,” p. 283, notices their occurrence in Vedic and

Sanskrit. See also S. M. Katre, “Reduplicatives in Indo-Aryan,” Bulletin of the
Deccan College Research Institute (December 1939), and Jules Bloch, L’ Indo-Aryan
du Veda aux temps modemes (Paris: Libraire d’Amerique et d’Orient, 1934), who,
on pp. 162-4, describes the occurrence in this way: “Un type de formation dont il
n’existe que des traces en Sanskrit est le redoublement des mots, la forme, redoublee
etant d’ailleurs susceptible d’altemation arbitrarie. Le Sanskrit exprime par la repeti-
tion le renouvellement ou la repartition: divedive —
tous les jours, sadah-sadah
chacun sur un siege; cf., Pali pabbampabbam (noeud par noeud), Prakrit ke^kesi
(cheveu par cheveu). elle est susceptible de foumir des noms et des verbs. Elle
. . .
s’annonce en Sanskrit classique et en moyen indien par quelques mots exprimant des
bruits —
skt. (Patanjali) jhalajhala (egoutement). [he goes on to give examples
. . .
from Bengali and other modem lA languages]. Dans ’Inde elles tiennent
. . . 1
probablement aux circonstances locales.”

Apabhramsa texts from which the date below are taken are the Paumacariu of
Kaviraja Svayambhudeva, edited by Harivallabha Cunilal Bhayani (Bombay:
Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan, 1953), and the Mahapurana of Puspadanta, edited by
P. L. Vaidya.
The possibilities for speculation, on the basis of all this, about

India as a cultural as well as linguistic area, are highly interesting,
especially if one is able to consider the phonesthetic principle ad-
vanced by Firth as viable. By “phonesthetic,” Firth means that
phones in a language can be assigned emotional, symbolic values.
If there are etymological relationships that cross over language
barriers, and if the forms are in some way defined by the
phonesthetic principle, then the experience that gave rise to them
must also be common regardless of language. If the forms are, as
Firth puts it, “phonetic equivalents of the contexts of experience,”
we have at least a way of asking the question: to what further extent
do the sub-cultures of India overlap one another; to what further
extent is experience shared?
2. These symbolic forms seem to represent a kind of unstudied

poetry of the spoken language. To quote Emeneau again:
We are dealing only in the most marginal way with blatantly sound-
imitative forms (English choo-choo and the like) . . . the class denotes
varied types of sensations, the impingement of the material world, out-
side or within the p)erson, upon the senses.
They have, in common with conscious poetry, a “somehow” of

aptness of suggestion. They are not terms of clarity, specificity, or
directness; their aim is implication and subtlety of suggestion. They
give the hearer the pleasure of using his imagination. And like
conscious poetry, they are, for all practical purposes,

untranslatable.
Firth calls Swinburne a “phonetic poet,” and, therefore, the
most untranslatable of all English poets. Anyone who has tried to
translate poetry, particularly lyric poetry, from any language, will
know what he means. The emotion aroused by poetry— and, in
the present case, by symbolic or poetic forms — is in some way

inseparable from the background, linguistic and cultural, of the
hearer. A
Bengali friend tells me that when he hears
Rabindranath’s line belaje pode elo jalke cal, he hears the
Speech (London, 1930), pp. 50-2.

“Onomatopoetics,” p. 284.
Speech, p. 52.
From Badhu; a prosaic translation is “as the evening falls, she goes (to the tank)
for water.”
sound of water lapping against the sides of a pitcher being carried by
a woman from the village tank. Some of the greatness of
Rabindranath undoubtedly lies in this: that he speaks to something
deep within all Bengalis (and perhaps, though obviously to a lesser
extent, to all Indians). To me, who is neither, the line has music, but
it can never be more than that. The associations of a woman
carrying water from a village tank, and the memories, emotions,
sounds, and colors that go with them, are not parts of me.
So it is with these symbolic forms, /jhajha/ has for me pretty
much its meaning of “fierce heat of the sun.” To a
dictionary
Bengali friend it means “the town in the middle of day, when the
shutters of the houses are closed and the air simmering, when the
women behind the shutters are about their household tasks ...” etc.
The point is, as Rabindranath nicely puts it, “the delicacies of
distinction (of these forms) are impossible for a foreigner to
grasp.
But to return for a moment to the extent of understanding possible
for non-Bengali Indians. Biswanath Prasad also seems to propound
something of a diffusion theory, though he suggests that its source is
Sanskrit rather than Dravidian.^® He indicates that the rules laid

down by the Sanskrit rhetoricians are still taken into consideration in
traditional forms of music and poetry: that, for example, the retroflex
series is not considered appropriate for certain rasas. On the other
hand, Bengali friends tell me that the retroflex series, with the
possible exception of the flap, sound no them than any more harsh to
other series of sounds. This suggests a point on which Firth and
Bloomfield seem to be in agreement: that there is “no inherent
phonaesthetic value in any speech sound. The key word is of
course “inherent.” It allows the possibility, even the probability,
given Emeneau’s data, that Bengali would accept a symbolic form
from Oriya, which had accepted it from Telugu, because the experi-
ence conveyed by it would be similar or even identical among speak-
ers of all the languages.
3. Symbolic forms in Bengali fall roughly into four categories:
“Sabda-tattva,” p. 378.
“A Phonaesthetic Aspect of Retroflexion,” Indian Linguistics, Chatterjee
Jubilee Volume, 16 (November 1955).
Speech, on the other hand, holds that some sounds are intrinsi-
p. 54. Tribedi,
cally more pleasing than others— that the sound of the flute, for example, which is
represented by /phuphu/, is by its nature a soothing sound; “Dhvani-vicara,”
p. 10.
3. 1 Forms imitative of sounds other than speech sounds:^®
/khilkhil/ “laughter, particularly feminine”

(cf., Apabhrarhsa/kilkil/, Pc 32.3.9, “chuckling;” Kanna-
da /kilkil/, “giggling;” Marathi /kilkil/, “chirping of birds
dawn;” Telugu /kilakila/, “light,
at tinkling laughter of
women and girls”).
/gumgum, gungun /, “humming sound”
(cf., Apa /gumgumgum [anti]/ — Pc 40.16.6, 51.1.5,
“humming”).
/tog tog/, “sound of a bell or chime”
(cf., Apa /tantan [anti]/-Pc 46. 1.2.).
/sorsDr /, “sound of a sari rustling”
(cf., Telugu /sarasara/, “used of a girl walking briskly in a
sari”).
/khDlkhol/, “gurgling laughter, as of a baby”
(cf., Apa khalakhalakhal 4(anti] /-- Pc 3 1.3.6, “gurgling”),
/kockoc/, “rasping, cutting noise”

(cf., Marathi / kackac / ,
“screaming of crane”).
Long lists of this type can be made, with and without
Apabhramsa and other parallels. It should be noted, though, that
the number of such imitative forms is limited by the fact that the
same sound is open to rather widely varying interpretation, even
within a linguistic area: that the Kannada dog says / bhaw bhaw /
(and the American dog / baw waw / ) is altogether as unlikely as
the Bengali dog saying gheu gheu / or the Marathi dog / bu bu /.
/
The imitative forms have finer distinctions in Bengali. For exam-

ple, Bengali will often use the vowel phonemes /o/, /u /, and /i / in
the same phonemic environment to indicate a change of quality or
quantity of the sound indicated. Thus, while /thonthon/ is “ham-
mering on metal,” or a blacksmith’s heavy hammering, /thun-thun /
is “tapping on glass,” or a watchmaker’s hammering; while /jham-
jhom /is the sound of a dancer’s heavy anklet or the falling of heavy
rain, /jhimjhim /is drizzling rain or, in Tagore, the feeling of vertigo
Marathi forms are from Katre, op cit., p. 62: ‘In classical Sanskrit certain types
20
of compound expressions have come into existence, the forms being mostly
attested
by grammarians: thus keâkeski, hastahasti, “hair to hair, head to head,” and “hand
to hand, in close fight,” respectively. Similar indeclinable compounds are
.’
mustamusti, “fighting hand to hand” Apabhramsa forms seem also to fall largely
. .
within the area of description of combat: chindachindi, “fight involving mutual

piercing with weapons” (Pc 52.9.2), padapadi, “fight involving mutual
pulling
down” (Pc 52.9.8).

that slow, continuous rain establishes in one’s mind; while /khok-

khDk/is a heavy, dry, diseased cough, /khukkhuk/is a slight,
self-conscious cough, to attract attention, 2ind /khikkhik/is a gig-
gle; while /jhorjhor/is a stream of water falling from a height,
/jhirjhir/is the trickling of a brook; while /dhokdhok/is a thirsty
gulping of water, /dhukdhuk/is sipping; while /thopthop/is the

graceful, heavy stride of an elephant, /thupthup/is the painfully
careful step of an old man; while /dhakdhak/ is a fire burning
brightly and crackling, /dhikdhik /is a fire burning low. And so on.
In many cases, too, general meaning has developed from the
imitative meaning, and often both are in use. Thus, /dhondhan/,
the sound of knocking on something empty or hollow, has also come
to mean simply “empty,” as a pocket; /copcop/ or /cobcob/, the
sound of someone walking in wet clothes or through wet grass,
means, also, simply “wet;” / bobboo /, the sound of the horn of
an automobile going by at high speed, means also simply “fast;” and
we have seen above Tagore’s reinterpretation of /jhimhjim/ as
well.
3.2 Forms derived from stems of other classes:

This sub-class is parallel to forms found in Apabhram^, and its char-
acteristic is change in the intensity of the meaning of the stem form
by the usual method of making such change: reduplication. In some
cases the meaning is changed in quality as well as quantity, but
usually so slightly that the derivation remains clear.Thus we have
/bhoybhoy /, “a slight feeling of fear, apprehension,” from /bhoy /,
“fear;” /golgol/, “overcooked, soft,” from the verb stem /gola/,

“melt;” /joljol/, “glitter, bum brightly,” from the verb stem /jola /,
—
“bum” (cf., Apa /jalajalajal [anti] Pc 27.5.7); etc. There are
also cases in which general meaning has been derived from the
specific, e.g.,/chipchipe/, “slender,” from /chip/, “a long narrow
fishing boat, rod.”
3.3 Forms derived from stems of other classes (2)
These always have the shape CW-

or CVCV- reduplicated, with
the final vowel of the reduplicated portion replaced by -i. Further,
these forms always have the meaning “mutual action” or “extreme
quality,” There are parallels in both Sanskrit and Apabhramsa.
TTius, we have /dhoradhori/, “mutual holding or grasping” (cf.,
Apa /dharadhari/, “fight with mutual seizure” Pc 52.9.2); —
/karakari/, “mutual snatching;” /maramari/, “mutual striking;”
/daekhadekhi /,“mutual looking;” /hasahasi/, “mutual laughing;”

/taratari/, “quickly, immediately;” /korakori/, “extreme strict-
ness;” etc.
3.4 Residue:
Therea very large residue of forms, with no clear derivation, no

is
clear reference to more ordinary stems, and no clear imitative basis.

It is this fourth sub-class that seems to adapt itself most readily to
the term “symbolic forms.” And it is this fourth sub-class that is
intrinsically the most interesting because of its very indefinability.
Tribedi puts it this way: “That we laugh hihi or walk khatkat is
easily understandable, but how does one explain being gasgas in
anger? ... No real significance is able to be seen in such words, but
still they are wonderfully suggestive. And Tagore thus “Not all
words of this type are based on dhvani they are related —
not only to the sense of hearing, but to many senses. They have . . .
(only) a special long-distance relationship with sound: thin, slender

objects are described by phin phin, phur phur (etc.). These objects
do not necessarily make this sound, but somehow it is sug-
gested.”^^ And
he goes on to discuss the relationship between the
visual sense in, among other things, a fire burning brightly, and the
term /gongon/, which is suggestive of it.
Both Tagore and Tribedi have given long lists of forms of this type
in the places cited, and there is little need of doing it again. However,
both of them seem to assign the “phonesthetic nucleus” of the form

to the initial consonant. It seems to me that the nucleus can be
thought of as a basic vowel of the stem with as much, if not more,
profit.
“Dhvani-vicara,” p. 9.
“Sabda-tattva,” p. 337. The “somehow” of the suggestion is an interesting
matter for speculation. William Bright, in a personal letter, has expressed one way to
look at it :
“ [Bloomfield] seems to imply that flip, for example, has its psychologically
vivid effect just because of its membership in a class with flap and flop. So, in a
sentence where only flip occurs, you might say that its symbolic quality is covert.
Where the sequence flip-flop is found, the symbolic quality is overt, manifested not
just in a class membership, but in the CVC-CV’C pattern. . . . Can we say, then, that
a child learning English, or Bengali, learns to associate emotionally interesting
phenomena with these patterns, and that each thereby becomes a stimulus for the
other? So to a person so raised, the phenomena may elicit an utterance in one of
these patterns, and hearing such an utterance will give the feeling of the phenomena.
... I am suggesting that the psychological vividness involved in these symbolic forms
is a direct function of their formal characteristics: membership in the ablaut class,
reduplicative construction, special syntactic characteristics, etc.”
3.4. 1 b
with the highest percentage of total occurrences, is also
/,
not surprisingly, distributed over the widest range of symbolic

values. Of the total number of occurrences, three categories make
up the largest part:
3.4. 1.1. terms of quality or quanity. There is a very

Extremity, in
large number of these forms, as /koskol/, “extreme heat;” /

gongon /, “fire burning at the peak of its brightness;” /cotpot/,
“great hurry;” /jhokmok /, “shine very brightly, as a highly polished
floor;” /tocnoc / “breaking willy-nilly, bring about complete ruin;”
/ônpon /or lônbon /, “very rapid motion, as running;” etc.
3.4. Throbbing, shaking, glittering, or flickering motion or ap-

) .2
pearance, as 4)hDlbhDl “blood or water being pumped or flowing

/,
in spurts;” /dopdop /, “throbbing of blood or pain;” /tolmol /, “wav-

ering, unsteady walk, as of an old man or young child;” A^hok-
bhok “puffing, as of a steam engine or a boiling kettle;” etc.
/,
3.4. 1 .3. Rottenness or softness, as /pocpoc “feeling of an overripe

/,
fruit;” /bojbDj “a tank or pool which is stagnant or foul;”

/,
/thosthDS /, “soft feeling of dough;” etc.
3.4.2. As has been seen, /u/, indicates a lesser degree of the value of
/d/, in a large number of cases. There is also a number of forms in
/u which indicate extremity, particularly of color. We have, for
/
example, /tuktuk/, “extreme brightness of color, especially red;”
/kuckuc/, “extreme darkness or intense black color;” /ghutghut/,
“extreme darkness;” most of the other forms in /u/ seem to be
isolated cases: /kutkut/, “itchy feeling;” /guriguri/, “drizzling
rain;” etc.
3.4.3. /ae /is the best case in the series. All symbolic forms with /ae /
as the base vowel indicate something decidedly unpleasant, either

nature of the thing indicated or in its effect upon the speaker.
in the
Thus, /kaetkaet/ indicates a color or combination of colors that is
extremely harsh, or a shrewish, loud-voiced woman, /taektaek/
something annoying or vexing, /paecpaec/ thick, distasteful mud or
dirt, /paunpaen/ a child wheedling or crying for a long time, etc. The
effect of any of these forms can be heightened by nasalization.
3.4.4. /i / is, again, largely consistent; its value is lightness and.

sometimes, insubstantiality. Thus /khikkhik/is a baby’s laugh,

tigtir) something very tall and thin, /timtim / lamp guttering,
'
'jikmik 'the twinkling of stars, liklik /something slim and swift, as

the tongue of a snake, /minmin/a timid person, one who cannot
speak frankly, 'dhikdhik 'a fire burning low, etc.
3.4.5. The remaining three vowels, /a /, /o /, and /e /, occur infre-

quently, and not possible to draw conclusions on the strength of
it is
their few occurrences, ô /and /e when they do occur, are usually

/,
the result of stem-vowel alternation, phonologically conditioned,

eg., 'paecapeci in which the /e occurs because of the final H
I, / /.
When â 'occurs, it is usually nasalized, and refers to extremity of

an unpleasant type, as 'gaga /, “shouting at the top of one’s
lungs,” while 'jhajha '
and 'khakha / both indicate the
fierce heat of the sun.
Karma and the Vaisnavism of Bengal
Time present and time past

Are both perhaps present in time future.
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unreedemable.
T. S. Eliot, Burnt Norton
For a variety of reasons, it is difficult to discuss the concept of karma

in the context of Gaudiya Vaisnavism, the Vaisnavism of Bengal.
This is partially because in that context karma is a negative concept,

and therefore rarely explicitly discussed in the doctrinal literature:
“a birth bound by karma is never for a Vai^va,” says
Vrndavana-dasa in Caitanya-bhagavata (3. 9. 173). And it is
partially because when the term and concept are used, they are used
in the highly technical sense that will be the subject of most of this
paper. It seems that the latter, at least, is not a problem confined to
the Vaisriavism of Bengal. I must confess to no small relief when I
read Karl Potter’s remark that“ .[Indian philosophers] appear to
. .
assume the general truth of some sort of karma theory, and to

proceed to embed the theory in an even more general account of
some sort, thus providing an interpretation of it according to
metaphysical principles which differ from system to system.”' This
is certainly what the thinkers of the Bengal school have done,
though it might be argued that their account is not so general and

quite specific to their particular metaphysics. They did not assume
that twentieth century scholars would be sitting around worrying
about the matter. They rather assumed, reasonably enough, that
the general thrust of the concept of karma would be personally
familiar to their already convinced audience, and that they were
therefore free to treat its ramifications as they apply to highly
specific theological interests.
The essay was submitted to the conference on Karma and Bhakti, sponsored by the
Joint Committee on South Asia and held at Pendel Hill, Pennsylvania, in 1980. The
papers read at that conference, including this one, are to be published as a volume
under the title Karma and its Alternatives, edited by A. K. Ramanujan and Guy R.
Welbon.
‘
“Karma and Rebirth: Traditional Indian Arguments,” p. 11. The paper was
prepared for the same conference as that noted above.
A rare exception to this Baladeva
within the tradition is
Vidyabhusana, a rather late (i.e., eighteenth century) Oriya

writer of Sanskrit, whose best known works are the Govinda-
bhdsya on the Vedanta-sutra^ and the Premeya-
ratndvali.^ Baladeva, it should be hurriedly said, is not always
welcomed warmly by other Gaudiya Vaisnava thinkers, as he is a
Madhavite and therefore a strict dualist. But at least he is explicit on
the matter of karma. His statement is in the Govinda-hhasya.
He begins with several assumptions: that the fiva is in bondage,
that release from that bondage is the goal, that even when released
the jJva does not lose its individuality but remains always distinct
from God and conscious of that distinction (here stating only the
dualist half of the orthodox Vaisnava theory of bhedahheda), and
that this release can come about only after the affects of karma have
been exhausted through pleasure or through suffering. He seems to
be in the mainstream of Indian thought about the matter when he
describes the three types of karma: sahcita karma, the ac-
cumulated karma which has not yet begun to have its affect,
sahcJyamana karma, which is being accumulated in the pre-
sent life and will have its affect in a future one, and prarabdha
karma, past deeds which are affecting the present. Together with
others, Baladeva holds that true knowledge or wisdom wipe away
the sahcita karma and prevent the sahcJyamana karma from
having its affect, but that even by such wisdom what S. C.
Chakravarti calls the “momentum imparted by the prarabdha
karma"' cannot be stopped, for it is prarabdha karma that de-
termines the present life.** Though one may be a jivanmukta, the
body continues until the influence of prarabdha karma is ex-
hausted. It is at this point that Baladeva begins to deviate a little,
when he modifies that final statement.

For while he admits that in the case of an ordinary man
prarabdha karma must run its course, he claims that in the case of
one who has gained true wisdom the effects of prarabdha karma
are distributed to other persons the benefits of his merit are reaped
:
^ Vedanta-sutra, with the commentary Govinda-hhasya of Baladeva

Vidyabhusana, edited by Bhaktivedanta-sarasvati, 4 vols (Calcutta;
Sarisarasvat-Gaudiyasana-misan, 1970).
^ Premeya-ratnavah of Baladeva Vidyabhusana, edited with the com-
mentary Kantimala by Aksaya Kumar Sastri (Calcutta; Sanskrit Sahitya
Parisad, n. d.).
Sudhindra Chandra Chakravarti, Philosophical Foundation of Bengal Vai-
snavism (Calcutta; Academic Publishers, n. d.), p. 333.
by his friends, while the effects of his sins are suffered by his
enemies.^ (It should be noted that according to the doctrines of
Bengal Vaisnavism one of the sixty-four acts in the development of
hhakti is association with holy men, sadhusanga, and it is not hard to
see why. ) Thus, all of his karma is wiped away. If the law of karma,
as usually interpreted, says not only that the values of papa and
piinya are conserved, but that one suffers the consequences of one’s
own actions, Baladeva accepts only one part of it: he admits that
the effects of action are not lost. From the traditional point of view,
at least, it is difficult to see why one comes to suffer the consequ-
ences of actions that are not one’s own.
In the context of bhakti it is not so difficult, for in that context
everything, including karma, gets reinterpreted. What in the tradi-
tional context would probably be a non-action, let us say lack of

association with holy men, in the bhakti context becomes a negative
action. Because of that papa or aparadha the non-associator
inherits the negative prarabdha karma of the holy men with whom
he should have associated. Wise men, on the other hand, here of
course interpreted as bhaktas, follow the sixty-four types of proper
activity, including association with holy men but also including
singing the name of the deity, dressing and feeding the image,
listening to the stories of the Bhagavata-purana, and dwelling at
Mathura. By doing so they not only increase their own merit but
inherit the merit of those with whom they associate. It is a closed
circuit.
So it is not that the notion of karma does not exist in Gaudiya
Vaisnava bhakti. The thinkers of that school try very hard in this
and in all areas to be inclusive; they cannot find it in their hearts to
leave any significant and generally accepted concept out of their
system. But by and large the law is there to be broken. The
Caitanya-bhdgavata (3.9. 40) is typical of other texts in its clarity
1
on the subject:
All these lllas are the cause of salvation for flvas", the memory and
recitation of them break the bonds of karma.
The texts say that karma must be reinterpreted in the light of the
new revelation (i.e., the. Bhagavata-purana, the “fulfillment,”
as the etymology runs, of the Veda).
interesting And the
Bhdgavata says, for example in 11. 14. 20:
O Uddhava, only that very powerful bhakti towards me is able to compel
5 Govinda-hhasva 4. I. 17.
yoga, samkhya, dharma, vedic study, tapas, and renunciation. I, beloved
of the souls of holy men, am obedient only to hhakti with faith; bhakti
established towards me purifies even the nature of Svapacas.
Therefore, says the Caitanya-caritdmrta of Krsnadasa (1. 17.
32), commenting on “abandon karma and jhana and

the verse,
yoga. Krsna is controlled by bhakti, and by bhakti he should be
worshiped.”
Krsnadasa, though himself a student of the Gosvamins, the
six primary early theologians of the movement, is in this comment
somewhat more extreme than his gurus were wont to be. True to
their conservative natures, and the conservative nature of their
calling, they were reluctant to dismiss the widely accepted concept
quite so easily. Rupa, for example, rather mildly held that karma
is not itself an ahga or means of bhakti (Bhaktirasamrtasindhu,
purva lahari [sddhana-bhakti] 2. 246). Jiva, the greatest

thinker of the six, was somewhat more eloquent on the subject,
though his point is essentially the same. In his Bhakti-samdarbha^
(219-34), he says that karma consists of obedience to scriptural
directions and the dedication of all the fruits of that obedience to the
Bhagavat. This, he says, is productive of a proneness toward the
deity, but is not itself efficacious. It also cannot be entirely disin-
terested, for it enjoyment in this world and in
leads, he observes, to
heaven. The ultimate object of karma, says Jiva, is naiskarmya,
the total cessation of acts; but this too is in the last analysis useless
without bhakti, for as Bhdgavata (1.5.12) says:

naiskarmya, even when unattached and pure, when it is devoid of devo-
tion for God, does not gain the full glory. The less so karma which is
always bad, and even that karma which is selfless, if it is not offered to
is vara.
Upon which Krsnadasa comments (Caitanya-caritamrta, 2. 22.

14-15):
so bhakti to Krena is primary among those things to be signified. Karma,

yoga, and jhna — these look toward the face of bhakti [by which I take
him to mean that they can in their own ways be of help in the development
of that attitude, but not by themselves attain But all these means
it].
[sMhana] yield but worthless fruits, for without Krsm-bhakti they do

not have the power to give [the attainment of the goal].
^ Sribhaktisarndarbhah (Satsandarhhantargatah) of Jiva Gosvami, edited

by Radhararma Gosvami and Krsnagopala Gosvami (Calcutta; Calcutta
University, \962).
Furthermore, naiskarmya cannot even be a characteristic of bhakti,
for in bhakti acts remain. Though the true bhakta may be a jlvan-
mukta, he continues his devotions. The point however is that when
he has reached this stage of realization, the psychological basis of
those acts has changed: what was in a previous stage ritual has
become, in the new, enlightened state, a part of the nature of the
bhakta; what was the ritual act of the recitation of the Bhagavata
has become an act of participation; what used to be scripture has
become reality; what used to be an act of will has become natural
reflex; what was active has become passive. Through the ritual,
through vaidhi-bhakti, the devotee has passed into the pastoral idyll
of the eternal Vrndavana, in which he spends all time in the joy of
Krsna’s love, and of loving Krsna. In this context the meaning of
action has changed considerably, as has the meaning of time. And it
is perhaps the eccentric view of time held by the Bengali Vaisnavas
that best allows an explanation of their conception of karma.

That conception is that proper devotional actions in this life,
carried out with the appropriate attitude of devotion, will lead

directly to mukti. Mukti however does not mean identity with God,
for eternal worship is the goal, and worship of what you are is in the
context unthinkable. Mukti, rather, implies a condition in which
one participates eternally in the idyll while retaining one’s individu-
ality (the bheda part of the basic idea), which is what allows both the
bhakta and Krsna the experience of bliss; the coming together of
two parts. At the same time, one takes one’s place in the heavenly
Vrndavana, the totality of which is an extension of Krsna’s person
(the abheda aspect of the basic idea). Ritual activity is therefore
both in time and outside of time. On one level the formula is: I
perform this action and it will lead to that result, i.e., the transfor-
mation of the bhakta into the gopi in Vrndavana. But on the
other level, although the action seems like ritual, it is in fact the
performance of actuality although the bhakta may not at first know
:
it, what he is doing is what he will be doing for all eternity, in serving
God. His action is in a sense an imitation, as the Vrndavana

described in the Bhagavata is an imitation of what is taking place
eternally in the heavenly Vrndavana. But for the true bhakta, after a
certain point, it is no longer “imitation” in a conscious sense, for he
is a gopi, and he is doing what the gopis do. In fact, “imitation”
is too light a word to convey the notion of simultaneity which is at
work here. The term is, perhaps, loaded with too much of Platonic
thought and with Gnosticism, and with the idea of the imitatio
Christi.
The paradox bheddbheda, simultaneous immanence and trans-
cendence, will have been seen to be central to the school of thought.
It allows for the idea that the earthly Vmdavana, upon which
Krsna and the gopis walked, in the scriptural stories, is identical
with the heavenly Vrndavana, which is eternal and unchanging. It
allows for the idea that the avatdras of the godhead may differ in
form from one another, and seemingly differ in time and space,
while remaining fully godhead, existing eternally in a single divine
essence. It allows the saint Caitanya to say that what surrounds him
is not only sixteenth century Bengal but the Vrndavana of the
Bhdgavata and therefore the eternal Vrndavana as well."^ It
allows the followers of Ramakrishna in the nineteenth century to
observe that their master is Caitanya not an appearance of —
Caitanya at a later point in time, but actually Caitanya and there- —
fore Krsna as well. The pranava om is not a symbol of brahman, but
brahman itself. And it allows the bhakta to be both himself and one
of the gopis in Krsna’s dhdman (his environment, which is an
extension of himself); and thus he performs ritual activity which is
not ritual but the loving activity of the gopis in the service of
at all,
their lover and their God. Time and space have collapsed, and
karma, as it relates to present and future (if at this point we can use
those constructs at all) has no meaning.
As with karma itself, the thought of the Vaisnavas about time is
neither explicit nor systematically presented in their texts. Yet

aspects of the doctrine are comprehensible only in terms of their
view of the matter. There seems to be, first of all and as in many
systems, a distinction between what Eliade calls “sacred” or
“mythic” time and profane time.® Mythic time is of course eternal
''
The texts seem remarkably consistent in this. There is a passage in the Caitanya-
caritamrta, however, which gives one pause. In it Caitanya and his followers are
on the banks of the Ganga having a picnic. In the course of it Caitanya
sitting
“remembers” {smarana kare) the feast that he and the gopas had on the banks of the
Yamuna in the Bhagavata story. Memoiy of course implies differentiation in
time or space or both, and both would be irrelevant to Caitanya. It implies the
presence of the vasanas. Usually in such situations Caitanya “knows” x to be y, or
at least x: he leaps into the Ganga, knowing it to be the Kalindi. But perhaps
Ki^dasa is being sympathetic towards our feeble- understanding, which can
grasp only sequence. Simultaneity, we are informed with a certain relish, is beyond
cognition.
Mircea Eliade, “Time and Eternity in Indian Thought,” in Man and Time:
®
Papers from the “Eranos” Yearbooks, Bollingen Series 30, vol. 3 (Princeton: Prince-
ton University Press, 1957), passim.
Vrndavana. Profane time is that which yields pleasure and pain,

death and life, and all the other differentiations so seemingly integ-
ral to existence. These two types of time interpenetrate one
another, and it is at the point of interpenetration that the puranic

Vrndavana, and the bhakta, stand: they literally have one foot in
this world and one in the other. The Vaisnavas of course allow for
the traditional idea of cycles: the tiny ones of sun and moon, the
greater ones of life and death and rebirth and redeath, and the vast
ones of creation, destruction, and recreation. This is indeed the
very time from which they, and all their fellow Hindus, seek to
escape. And in bhakti, the fetters of this very time have fallen away.
Yet despite the obvious necessity to escape this world the
Vaisnavas, sure of themselves, do not express a loathing or revul-
sion for earthly life. Time in the ordinary sense has its place in the
process of realization. It is and through this life,
because of this life,
that bhakti^WX be known. The joys of life love, for example —

are —
experienced to an infinitely greater degree in the heavenly
Vrndavana than they are here; but it is the knowledge of them in
this life that points the way to ultimate joy. It is the personal
experience (bhdva) that suggests the ultimate experience (rasa).
The two are related in quality, but the joys of the heavenly
Vrndavana are beyond time and circumscription.
This is all very difficult for me as a westerner. Perhaps the closest
to it in western thought is in the speculations of the Gnostics and the
Timaeus of Plato. To both of these the material universe, including
time, is an imitation, a replica, of eternity. Says Timaeus:
Now the nature of the ideal being was everlasting. Wherefore [the
Creator] resolved to have a moving image of eternity, and when he set in
order the heaven, he made this image eternal but moving according to
number*, while eternity itself rests in unity; and this we call time.^
To Plato, then, the creation is a faithful replica of what is true,

time being the differentiating factor. The creation itself is not
painful or evil (the Vaisnavas also are not overly concerned with the
origins or even the nature of evil); these conditions come from what
is called a disease of the soul (which in Vaisnava terms is resistance
to the recognition of man’s capacity to become a bhakta).
The Gnostic view is somewhat more radical, and perhaps some-
^ B. Jowett, trans., The Dialogues of Plato, vol. 2 (New York; Random House,
1937), p. 19.
what closer to the more general Hindu attitude. Henri-Charles
Puech describes it this way:
[The Demiurge] is separated from the pleroma by a gap, a profound
caesura. Hence truth escapes him, and in the replica which he presumed
and infinity of the superior Ogdoad takes
to create, the eternity, stability,
the degraded form of a moving multiplicity, consisting of successive
moments, years, centuries, which compose and divide time the time . . .
which results from the work of the Demiurge is no longer the most perfect
—
image; it is no longer according to its own rank the most faithful —
imitation of eternity, but a pseudos, a lie —
an imposture and caricature
verging on illusion.
In that the source of the Gnostic revulsion, and of his yearning

lie is
for reunion with the stable and peaceful source of light. The
Vaisnavas, closer to the Platonic position, find in the moving image
of eternity a religiously necessary and not a hateful concept.
Through participation in it the bhakta participates in eternity itself.
To put another way, display of proper emotion and proper con-

it
duct in ritual and in social life creates an atemporal rasa, an im-

mediate, all-pervasive, blissful condition in which the bhakta ex-
periences both levels at once.
Krsna and his lild are simultaneously in time and beyond it,
as, according Brhadaranyaka upanisad (2.3.1), is the

to
Brahman: “corporeal and incorporeal, mortal and immortal.’’ The
poet Vidyapati wrote of Krsna:
I you Lord,
call
the infinite and finite,
my salvation.”.
The distinctions of course constitute a view from the temporal
world, which understanding is possible only by the making of
in
them. When one is a bhakta, though, and truly knows, he sees that
fluid time and stable time are one and the same. Caitanya and the
bhaktas around him look and see both sixteenth century Bengal and
—
what it really is the eternal Vmdavana. They themselves are
beyond time and change and what they see is beyond time and
change. Their minds are at rest, and as the writer of the Caryd-
pada says, “Time enters only the unsteady mind.’’^^
Henri-Charles Puech, “Gnosis and Time,” in Man and Time, 72.

Edward C. Dimock, Jr., and Denise Levertov, trans.. In Praise of Krishna:
Songs from the Bengali (New York: Doubleday Anchor, l%7), p. 69.
Nilratan Sen, Carydgltikosa (Simla: Indian Institute of Advanced
Study, 1977), song I ofLui-pa.
Rabindranath Tagore:
“The Greatest of the Bauls of Bengal”
When Rabindranath Tagore won the Nobel Prize for Literature in

1913 and was thereby rocketed into international prominence, the
literary and theological worlds were afflicted with a rash of specula-
^
tion as to whether or not his ideas were basically Christian :
The God no impersonal, imperturbable absolute of Hindu

of Gitanjali is
philosophy, but whether He be explicitly Christ or not, He is at least a

. . .
Christ-like God, and the experience of His suppliant and lover is one with
the deepest core of all Christian experience.^
The ideas of Rabindranath, like those of so many thinkers of modem

India, have often been quite wrongly assigned to Indian sources.^
In Rabindranath we get a glimpse of what the Christianity of India will be

like."*
Since this essay was first published in 1959, a great many

biographies and critical studies of Rabindranath have appeared.
This essay was first published in the Journal of Asian Studies 19, no. 1 (November
1959), and reprinted in John A. Harrison, ed.. Enduring Scholarship, vol. 3,
Selected from the Journal of Asian Studies: South and Southeast Asia (Tucson:
University of Arizona Press, 1972). It has however for present purposes been
considerably revised. The quotation in the title is from Shashibhusan Dasgupta,
Obscure Religious Cults and a Background to Bengali Literature (Calcutta: Uni-
versity of Calcutta, 1946), p. 2 15.
*
The early part of the twentieth century was a period during which one of the
controversies among was whether or not the whole devotional movement
Indianists
in Indian religion was the result of Christian influence some scholars went so far as to
;
attempt to relate etymologically the name “Krsna” to “Christ” (one Bengali form
of Krsna is “Kresto”). See the articles by Keith, Kennedy et al., in the Journal of
the Royal Asiatic Society between 1907 and 1910.
^Saunders The International Review of Missions, 1914, p. 149; quoted by

in
Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan, The Philosophy of Rabindranath Tagore (London:
Macmillan, 1918), p. 5.
^ Urquhart, “The Philosophical Inheritance of Rabindranath Tagore,” in The

International Journal of Ethics (April 1916), p. 398; quoted by Radhakrishnan,
Philosophy, pp. 5-6.
Edward J. Thompson, who should have known better, in The Quarterly Review
(October 19 14), p. 330; quoted by Radhakrishnan, Philosophy, p. 6.
1
Rabindranath Tagore: “The Greatest of the Bauls of Bengal' 7
most of which discuss in one way or another the extent of the

influence of Keats, Shelley, Kalidasa, the Brahmo Samaj, the
Vaisnava and so on.^ All of them represent considerably
lyrics,
more sophistication than does the curious Christian chauvinism
quoted above. We have come a goodly way beyond the idea that
anything great must be primarily western and that the sole meaning-
ful doctrine of Indian philosophy is the “impersonal, imperturbable
absolute” of the monistic systems.
any case now generally accepted practice to dig for the
It is in
roots of modern writing in indigenous tradition, and there is little

need to belabour the point here. This being so, it would not be
unreasonable to ask what the point is in reprinting this essay, the
original thrust of which was to urge the critic and historian away
from attempting to understand Rabindranath through Sanskrit on
the one hand and western literature on the other, and to try to
explicate a few of his poems entirely in terms of certain striking
aspects of the literature of his native Bengal. The answer is two-
fold. In the first place, the controversy about Rabindranath the poet
and Rabindranath the symbol surges on. To get an idea of its
intensity one need only look at the number of books published each
year in Bengali and in English and quite possibly in many other
languages as well. Under the circumstances, a reiteration of a
position I still feel is valid may not be entirely out of place. Sec-
ondly, I find that after all these years the paper still pleases me.
There is something profoundly appealing in the idea that
Rabindranath, a very sophisticated, wealthy man, highly educated,
though perhaps not in the usual way, had the insight and in some
way the humility to listen to these ragged Bauls, hearing something
in their songs other than the “quaint allegories and rustic
philosophy” that characterized them to the rest of the aristocratic
Bengali society of the time.^ It is assumed by the Bauls that only if
the mind is cleared of all intellectual paraphernalia can one see the
divine, and that it is child-like faith and trust that opens the way.
Rabindranath was very explicit about this, as he writes in Fruit
Gathering:
^ To name only three readily available in English: Krishna Kripalani,
Rabindranath Tagore (New York: Grove Press, 1962); Niharanjan Ray, An Artist in
Life (Trivandrum: University of Kerala, 1967); and Mary M. Lago, Rabindranath
Tagore (Boston: Twayne World Authors Series, 1976).
See the quotation, from which the above phrase is taken, from Bhattacharjee,
**
Hindu Castes and Sects, given in Melville Kennedy, The Chaitanya Movement
(Calcutta: The Association Press, 1925), p. 215.
They knew the way and went to seek you along the narrow
lane, but 1 wandered abroad into the night for I was
ignorant.
Iwas not schooled enough to be afraid of you in the

dark, therefore I came upon your doorstep unaware.^
In the “Sound of Silent Guns” I tried to suggest that among

Jibanananda’s visions was one of persons and a society on one
chronological side or the other of the exhausting demands of mod-
ern civilization of the great metropolis of Calcutta, of conformity to
,
the rules of sarmkrta, “culture,” artificially derived from the

prakrta, the “natural.” Rabindranath, among other poets and
painters of Bengal, including Jamini Roy, was also saying this.
I have recently been rereading Sudhindranath Datta’s essay “Ja-
mini Roy and the Tradition of Painting in Bengal.”® In the course of

that essay he writes:
... Our tradition did not forbid the entry of the objective world into art; it
merely demanded that fact and fiction should present themselves sepa-
rately and on their own merits. But who was to make the necessary
distinction between them? Not surely the civilized adult who, through
centuries of sophistication and seclusion from nature, had literally
lost his senses; but the cave man who painted in Altamira, the savage who
carves wood in New Guinea, the three year old child who sees the human
form as two unequal ovoids with four radiating lines. ... Of course, such
objectivity was unattainable by any modern man after perhaps his
seventh year.
His point, of course, is that ultimately, as it turns out, Jamini Roy

had n('>t and that he was able to attain that objectivity
lost his senses,
that lies beyond sophistication and seclusion from nature, or, at
least, to come close to attaining it. He was able to overcome an
orthodox, western-style training in portraiture and the moderate
living that resulted from it to come to the verge of what he called
purity. In 1956 I wrote an essay about Jamini Roy in which I told of
how, when was admiring a painting of his, he brought out a
I
painting which my three year old daughter had done at his house a
week previously, and said, “But I haven’t yet become as pure as
this.”
Jamini Roy was an exceedingly competent technician as well as
’’
(New York: Macmillan, 1916), song 16.
” Sudhindranath Datta, The World of Twilight: Essays and Poems (Delhi: Oxford
University Press, 1970).
:
Rabindranath Tagore: '‘The Greatest of the Bauls of Bengal"' 73
artist, and form was a conscious process,

his reduction of objects to
a forward move toward the clarity (the rasa, if you will) and com-
munication that lies beyond convention. He had a regret, perhaps,
that sophistication had to be a stage in the progression, for it is very
difficult to unlearn things. But he also knew that one does not
remain a child under seven, that one must deal with the necessities
of life in the metropolis, if that is one’s place in time and one’s
vocation.
Rabindranath too was an exceedingly competent technician and
artist, and as Jamini Roy sought to infuse his insights with the
simplicity of vision of the village painter, so Rabindranath sought to
incorporate in his own poetry the Baul’s understanding of the
relationship of man to God, uncluttered by metaphysics and formal
thought. It would be as absurd to call Rabindranath a folk poet as it
would be to call Jamini Roy a folk painter, yet both sensed the
power available to them, in person and in artistic experssion, by
reavailing themselves of the clarity that refinement of vision had
obscured.
The influence of the Bauls and their songs on Rabindranath,
therefore, was far from unconscious. In The Religion of Man he
wrote
One day I chanced to hear a song from a beggar belonging to the Baul sect
of Bengal. What struck me in this simple song was a religious
. . .
expression that was neither grossly concrete, full of crude details, nor
metaphysical in its rarified transcendentalism. At the same time it was
alive with an emotional sincerity. It spoke of an intense yearning of the
heart for the divine which is in man and not in the temple. . . . Since then I
have often tried ... to understand [these pedpU through their songs, ]
which are their only form of worship. One is often surprised to find in
many of their verses a striking originality of sentiment and diction; for, at
their best, they are spontaneously original in their expression.^
And again in the Foreword to Haramani:
1 have expressed my love toward the Baul songs in many of my writings.

When 1 was in Silaidaha 1 would frequently meet these Bauls, and I had
occasion to have discourse with them. I have fitted the tunes of the Bauls
to many of my songs, and in many other songs the tunes of the Bauls have
consciously or unconsciously been mixed up with other musical modes
and modifications. The tune as well as the message of the Bauls had
. . . at
one time absorbed my mind as if they were its very element.

^ (London; Macmillan, 1931), pp. 110-11.
Foreword to Haramani, quoted by Dasgupta, Obscure Religious Cults, p. 2 14.
Rabindranath also incorporated Baul songs into some of his

prose works. In Gora this snatch of a song is found, setting the mood
of the novel: “Within the cage, the unknown bird comes and goes.
If only I could catch him, would keep him fettered with the irons of
I
my mind. . . In many of his dramas there are characters

obviously typed on the Bauls. Often these characters are not
structural to the play, their only function apparently being to sing
appropriate Baul songs. For example, the character Pahcak in
Acalayatan at one point sings: “My mind wanders somewhere in
the far distance; in the far distance the wind weeps, in the flute. . . .
The road passes through many countries, and along that road goes a
beggar, wandering to an unknown city. . .
There are other external indications of the impression which the

Bauls made on Rabindranath. In 1915-16, he edited and published
in the literary journal Prabasi a number of Baul songs which he
had collected. And it has been discovered that he kept a notebook
in which were recorded large numbers of songs of the great Baul
guru Lalan Phakir, for whom he had high esteem. And even if
these external indications were not there, the internal evidence is
more than enough to demonstrate the depth of the relationship, as
will shortly be seen.
Who then are these people who had such a profound effect on
Rabindranath and some of his poetry? The term baul (its etymol-
ogy will be touched upon in the following paper, “The Bauls and the
Islamic Tradition”) means “mad,” and a variant of it with that
meaning occurs in the work of the fifteenth century poet Vid-
yapati. Whether or not at that time the terms was applied to a
specific group of people is unclear.^** Today it means a type of
mendicant religious singer who, dressed usually in tattered clothes
made up from garments of both Hindus and Muslims, wanders from
village to village celebrating God in song, existing on whatever his
choose to give him. Occasionally he may be a householder,
listeners
as was a Baul I met in Bankura District of West Bengal, but
Gora (Calcutta: Visvabharati granthalay, B. S. 1316), p. 1. The song, by

Lalan Phakir, is quoted in full by Sukumar Sen, Bangala sahityer itihasu
(hereafter cited as BSf), 1st edn. (Calcutta: Modern Book Agency, 1948), p. 993; Dr
Sen adds that this song “had the effect of a diksa-mantra on the mind of the young
Rabindranath.”
Rabindra-racanahati, vol. 1
1
(Calcutta: Visvabharati), p. 316.
See Sen, BSI, pp. 992-4, and Upendranath Bhatttacarya, Banglar
(Calcutta: Orient Book Co., B. S. 1364), part 2, pp. 1-13.
Sen, BSI, p. 396.
—
Rabindranath Tagore: “The Greatest of the Bauls of Bengal" 75
traditionally he has “only thewind as his home.” His hair and beard
are often long and matted, and as he sings he accompanies himself
on a one-stringed instrument called ektard, made from a gourd.
In his songs, as will be seen in the following essay, one can find
traces, and sometimes substantial doctrinal influences, of Sufi Is-
lam, of the Tantras, and of Caitanyite Vaisnavism, one of these
strands perhaps being more prominent than the others, depending
on the area from which he comes and perhaps on personal prefer-
ence. The Baul recognizes no divisions among men either social or
religious. He holds that all are but travelers on the road to God:
“Hindu, Muslim, there is no difference; nor does he see differences
in caste . “Whether he be disciple of Hindu or of Muslim,
.
know him and guide him as a traveller on the road . .
The Baul accepts as valid no form of conventional ritual:
The path is hidden by the temple and the mosque,

and though I hear your call, O God, I cannot find the way;
for against me stand my guru and murfid . . .
Your worship, when divided, dies,

and on your gate are many locks
purdnas, Quran, tasabi, mala —
this outward show makes Madana weep in sorrow.
Rabindranath said something of the same thing in his English

Gitanjali:
Leave this chanting and singing and telling of beads!

Whom dost thou worship in this lonely dark comer of a
temple with doors all shut? Open thine eyes and see
thy God is not before thee!
Come out of thy meditations and leave aside thy flowers

and incense! What harm is there if thy clothes become
tattered and stained?^®
While it is probably not entirely true that the Bauls have no ritual
Lalan Phakir; BhaUacarva, Baul gan, song 102.
Ibid.,song 63.
A song of Madana Baul, quoted in Rabindranath’s Bangla kdvya
paricaya (Calcutta, B. S. 1345), p. 70.
(New York: Macmillan, 1930), song 1 1 . The English G/tanya// was translated by
Rabindranath from several books including the Bengali Gitahjati, but also
including Gitali and Gitahitan.
other than their songs, as Rabindranath believed, the uncomp-
licated iconoclasm and simple humanity that they voice was what
Rabindranath was looking for, and what he found.
If the Hauls cannot be defined by doctrine, even less can they be
defined by history. As they follow no one else’s tradition, so they

propagate none of their own. It is individual realization that is
important, and that too appealed to Rabindranath. Ksitimohan Sen
tells this nice story:
Once, in Vikrampur, was seated on a river-bank by the side of a Haul.

I
‘Father,’ I asked, ‘why is it that you keep no historical record of

yourselves for the use of posterity?’ ‘We follow the simple way,’ he
replied, ‘and so leave no trace behind us.’ The
had then ebbed, and
tide
there was but little water in the river bed. Only a few boatmen were to be
seen pushing their boats along the mud. The Baul continued, ‘Do the
boats that sail over the flooded river leave any mark? The true . . .
endeavour is simply to keep one’s self afloat in the stream of devotion. . . .
There are many classes of men among the Hauls— they have no achieve-
ment or history. All the streams that fall into the Ganges become the
Ganges . .
And until quite recently, when Rabindranath and those following

him began to write down and preserve it, the Baul “tradition” was
it
entirely oral. There is no way of dating the songs. Their language is

the language of the village, and there are no texts by which to judge
its antiquity.
Despite all the doctrinal and historical vagueness, however,
everyone knows a Baul when he sees or hears one. There aie some
things that are common to them all. The types of melodies they use
for their songs, for example, are unmistakable. The imagery of
—
which they are fond that of the fields, of the rivers, of the storm
and wind, of the village market, of birds and trees and flowers is —
earthy, direct, and powerful. And, in whatever religious symbols it
might be expressed, there is the constant longing of the soul for
God.
All those who go by the name of Baul seem somehow to be
strangers in the world. They sense that God is near but hidden from
man by the delusion of the senses; man is trapped in the snare of the
The Religion of Man (London: Macmillan, 1931), p. 111. It has come to be

accepted that some Hauls, at least, follow a Tantric5flt//iana (see the following essay,
“The Hauls and the Islamic Tradition”).
Medieval Mysticism of India, trans. by Manomohan Ghosh (London: Luzac,
1929), p. 209.
Rabindranath Tagore: ‘‘The Greatest of the Bauls of Bengal' 77
body. The flesh is attracted by the world, and the attraction is
strong. The senses are sometimes six thieves, who rob man’s life of
its true meaning; or they are six lazy field hands who will not repair
the dike of the heart, though it is broken and the water of true desire
is running out, and the crop, sown with love, is being destroyed; or
they are six pirates on the river of life or they are drunken ferrymen
;
who cannot and are driving the boat of the body

steer the course
onto the rocks. Together with all men, the Baul follows many paths,
wandering near and far in search of the source of the music of the
flute of God, which echoes always in his ears. The Baul finally
realizes that the sound of the flute which is driving him mad comes
from within his own heart. Then his madness becomes the madness
of joy, of the realization that he contains the seeds of bliss within
himself. Or perhaps it is put like this the Baul is sitting lonely on the
:
ghat, on the landing-place on the river of life, afraid in the dark-

ness, with a storm rising on the river. He calls to the Boatman, who
steers him through the storm to safety on the farther shore. The
Helmsman of his sin-laden boat evades the rocks, and the Baul
dances with the joy of his salvation.
Rabindranath is frequently characterized as a poet of joy. As-
suming that “joy” means not “happiness,” but implies a realization
of the transcendant, this characterization is certainly not false,
particularly if one takes into account only those works which have
been written or translated in English. Even in his English writing,
however, and much more clearly in his Bengali, there is a deep
awareness of the tragic, a sense of melancholy and longing underly-
ing the joy. In Rabindranath, longing for fulfilment and joy in
fulfilment seem somehow to be one: each potentially contains the
other. The loneliness of Rabindranath, and the loneliness of the
Bauls, is the loneliness of man’s soul separated from God. The
Bauls sits on the shore of the river of life, lost and afraid in the
gathering darkness:
Iwas sitting, alone on the landing-place, and the sun

was setting in the west. I was alone without you, and
in the darkness there was danger. ... I was afraid,
for I could not see the way.^^
Rabindranath too is lost and alone:
I am weary of my journey, and the whole day long have I
Lalan Phakir; Bhauacarya, Baul ân, song 16.

thirsted. How can do not know where

I find the way? I
that is, which I seek. Tell me that you are with me,
^^
in the darkness hold out your hand to me.
. . . . . .
The Baul can hear the melody of the flute of God, and his footfalls
on the road. The beauty of the melody draws him, and distracts his
mind. He runs to find its source, abandoning the comforts and
possessions of the world:
And softly comes floating the flute-sound of gladness,

and softly comes sounding the sweet flute of God.
Mad, I leave everything and run to hear
I run from my house . . .
and flee away, abandoning my house and home.^^
Outside my house the flute is sounding;

it fills me with indifference to the world.
My garland is not yet woven;

I pick my way along the road, in shame.
I have come far; I shall go farther still . . .
and yet I hear that music.
Rabindranath also hears the song, the call:
Who is that, who goes along the road? He calls to me;

I cannot bear to stay within my house. What song is
that, playing in the wind of the road? It echoes in my
heart. . .
.^^
Alas, I cannot stay within the house, and home has

become no home to me, for the eternal Stranger calls,
he is going along the road.
The sound of his footfalls knocks at my breast; it
pains me.
The wind is moaning.
up, the sea is
I leave all my cares and doubts to follow the
homeless tide, for the Stranger calls me; he is going

along the road.^^
It is the melody of your song that drives me mad — I

Gitafijati (Bengali); Rabindra-racanahati, p. 1 1 : song 37.
A song of Padmalocana, Bangla kdvya paricaya, p. 72.
A song of Baul Gangaram, Bangla kdvya paricaya, p. 69.
Gitahitan 1:221, no. 561.
Fruit-gathering, no. 7
Rabindranath Tagore: '‘The Greatest of the Bauls of Bengal" 79
run, to what place I do not know. There is no return-

ing, no looking back.^^
I am restless, I am athirst for far-away things. . . .
O great Beyond! O the keen call of thy flute 1^®
The Baul wanders throughout the world, taking various paths,

following the sound of the eternal flute. The seems near, but
call
search as he might, he cannot find its source. Because of this, he

weeps:
0 when shall I find him, who is the man of my heart?

1have lost him, and in my search I have wandered far and near.
Because of him, that moon of my heart, my mind is distracted . . .
but when I find him, my mind will be filled with peace, and my
eyes with tears of joy. . . .
0 where is his hiding-place? I cannot search him out, my

cup of sorrow overflows.
1 look toward the distant hills ... I grope my way from

Dacca to Delhi,
I cannot find the path, in the twilight of my mind. ... If
my mind would but be still,
I could seek him out.^®
Ihave never seen him,

though he is my neighbor, dwelling in a mirrored city near my
house.
For around that moat, city is a
bottomless, endless, without a means to reach the farther shore.

My mind yearns to see him,
but I can never reach his city. . . .
That neighbor and his neighbor Lalan

live in a single place, yet are a thousand leagues apart.
Rabindranath also hears the call, as from some distant city:
Now he calls me from the distance, from a hidden city on

the other shore of the sea . .
.^^
Gitanjah (Bengali), no. 36.

77ie Gflrifener (New York: Macmillan, 1914), no. 5.
A song of Gagana Harakara, from Rabindranath’s collection, published in
Prahasi 15 (B. S. 1322), p. 154.
Lalan Phakir, in Sen, BSI, p. 993. Cf., Prahasi, p. 640.
Lalan Phakir, in Sen BSI, p. 994.
Gitabitan 1 : no. 47.
Who is he, who has made me wander, mad, from quarter to

quarter of the town? I have wandered through the forests and
through the mountains in my search for him. And now I am
lost, weeping in my sorrow,
You are playing hide and seek with me in the world. As much
as I wander from country to country, searching for you, you
hide from me.^'*
Rabindranath said that “He is a God who hides himself. He can

be felt in the dark, but not seen in the day. The vision of the . . .
Supreme One in our own soul is a direct and immediate intuition,

not based on any ratiocination or demonstration at all.’’^^ The Baul
has wandered the earth looking for God, trying means of attain- all
ing him. He has looked everywhere but within himself. “The reveal-
rnent of the infinite in the finite, which is the motive of all creation,
is not seen in the perfection of the starry heavens. ... It is in the soul
of man.”^^ God is the “man of the heart,’’ or the elusive bird which
dwells within the cage of the body. The Baul has wandered far, only
to find that the object of his search has been always within him
I do not know myself. But once I learn to know myself I
shall know that unknown one.^^
He comes and goes within his cage, that unknown bird.

If only I could catch him, I would keep him fettered with the
irons of my mind.
My whole life long have I nourished that bird, but still he
evades me
Ido not understand
I have given you bananas and the milk of my breast, O bird,
and still you ignore my coaxing.^®
O when shall I find him, who is the man of my heart?^’
The bird has flown away.

An evil wind has struck and smashed his cage.
Gitabitan 2:218, no. 555.

Gitanjati (Bengali), no. 23.
Sadhana (New York: Macmillan, 1913), p. 36.
Ibid., p. 41.
Lalan Phakir, in Sen, BSI, p. 993.
Ibid., p. 994.
Prabî, p. 154.
— — 1
Rabindranath Tagore: '‘The Greatest of the Bauls of Bengal" 8
His perch has and no more will be his rest.

fallen, . . .
The bird of my desire has flown away and left an empty cage,
and I have no friend more, and no companion.
Rabindranath also sings of the elusive bird:
Hie bird of the forest flies away, and with him my heart’s
joy.î
Today the wind of madness has caught its wings. Can the bird
remain on its branch?**^
But sometimes he has captured the bird; sometimes he knows the

divine within his heart:
The knock at every alien door to come

traveller has to
to his own, and one has to wander through all the outer worlds
to reach the innermost shrine at the end.
My eyes strayed far and wide before I shut them and said,
“Here art thou.’’^^
I knew not then was so near, that it was mine,

that it
and that this perfect sweetness had blossomed in the depth of

my own heart.
The man of my heart is in my heart; because of this I see

him everywhere. . . .
I wandered everywhere, in search of him

I would have listened to the words of his mouth, but
I did not hear — I could not hear
Today, I returned to my own country, and now I hear. I hear
his flute in my own songs.
Why then do you search, like beggars, from door to door? You
will not find him.
But come to me look into my — heart, look into my two eyes,
and you will see him there.
Man’s vision of the divine is blurred because of self. Man does not
realize the God within him because he is too concerned with ego,
with the material world, with sensual satisfaction. To know the God
Lalan Phakir, in Bhattacarya, Baulgan, no. 32.
Acalayatan, in Rabindra-racanavati :344. 1 1
^2 Ibid.,p. 358.
Gitanjali (English), no. 12.

Ibid., no. 20.
Gitabitdn 1:216.
within, one must first realize that the body is perishable and transit-
ory, like a house which crumbles with age and returns slowly to the
earth from which it is built, or like a garden, fading with the seasons.
The Baul sings:
0 false and cheating builder, what joke you is this, that

have built my house a frame of bones, and wrapped it in a
husk of skin?
This is no house — the watchman of my mind remains within, but
still the thieves break in and steal.
In my childhood, how I ran and laughed and played, and in my
youth, . . .
butnow my last days pass in dream and meditation.

My teeth fall out, my hair is turning white, my last youth
ebbs away.
The days go by, and my once gaily decorated house, built of
the earth,
returns slowly to the earth.
But the garden of flowers at my house still spreads its scent
1 shall pick those flowers, and I shall weave of them a
garland for my Friend.**^ •
And Rabindranath:
When I was blind, I passed my time in pleasure, but I gained
no joy.
Building the mud walls of my playhouse, I was delighted with
my fancy.
But then you came and broke the walls of my fantasy.
I have no more taste for play and pleasure, for I have found
true joy
on the other shore of the sea of pleasure and pain.'^^
The garden has yielded and in the weary hour of

its all,
evening the call comes from your house on the shore in the
sunset."*®
The thieves that break into the house of the body are the six senses.
They rob life of its meaning and the heart of its true desire. The Baul
sings:
I went to that bazaar that is the world;

six thieves were skulking there. They stole from me and
Anonymous, Prahasi, p. 154.
Gitabitan 1 :2 18, no. 554.
Fruit-gathering, no. 1
Rabindranath Tagore: ‘‘The Greatest of the Bauls of Bengal" 83
bound me; and by a trick they bound me up and fled away.**^
Rabindranath sings:
When it was day they came into my house and said, “We
shall take only the smallest room here.”
They said, “We shall help you in the worship of your God
and humbly accept only our own share of his grace;” and then
they took their seat in a corner and sat quiet and meek.
But in the darkness of the night I find that they break
into my sacred shrine, strong and turbulent, and snatch with
unholy greed the offerings from God’s altar.
For the world is and beautiful

a market-place, full of glittering
baubles. The senses are attracted and charmed; they do not realize
that what they take for gold is only gilt. Even when the bonds have
been cut and the debts paid, the mind and the senses are easily
deceived. The Baul sings:
My bonds are cut, but still the gentle eyes of Radha have
their charm.
0 foolish mind, can you not see the falseness of this world?
Though she wear fine clothes and ornaments, underneath she is
still a beggar-woman.^^
1 did not know the quality of gold,

and what I thought was gold was only gilt.
My mind has cheated me. My heart is broken, and it weeps.
When you deal market of the world,

in the
and think you buy rich rubies, diamonds, pearls
you only buy, my friend, brass beads.
If you can profit in such a bargain,
your skill will be famous throughout the world.
Rabindranath sings:
I pass away my days in the market of this world;

I dip and fill my hands with its wealth,
.A.nonymous, the writer’s collection.

Nilakantha Baul, from the writer’s collection.
Karigali Baul, Prahasi, p. 640.
Nilakantha Baul, Prahasi, p.64().
Lalan Phakfr, in Mansur Uddin, Haramani (Calcutta: Calcutta Uni-
versity, 1942), p. 2 1 , song 30.
but I have gained nothing.
My bonds are cut, my debts are paid, my door has been

opened, go everywhere.
I
They crouch in their comer and weave their web of pale

hours. They count their coins sitting in the dust and call
me back.^^
Vanity, pride, concern with self — these serve only to dull the
vision of God and truth. The dust of the earth dims the brilliance of
the sky. Pride of possession stands between man and God. The only
true wealth is the wealth of the soul. The Baul sings:
“My house . . . my property . . .myself. .

.”
— your days
go echoing by like this.
You eat the poison of possession, and when your wealth is
you weep.
lost,
What good will weeping do when my brother? it is lost,
The wealth of God alone is always safe, my brother.

You were restless and you did not see, my mind.
Lalan says. Wherever you store your earthly wealth,
your hands will be empty at the end, my brother.
And Rabindranath
He whom I enclose with my name is weeping in this dungeon.

Iam ever busy building this wall all around; and as this
wall goes up into the sky day by day I lose sight of my tme
being in its dark shadow.
I take pride in this great wall, and I plaster it with
dust and sand lest a least hole should be left in this name;
and for all the care I take I lose sight of my true being.
You hide your treasure in the palm of your hand, and we cry
that we are robbed.
But open and shut your palm as you will, the gain and loss
are the same.
At the game you play with your own self you lose and win at
once.^’
Gitanjati (Bengali), no. 24

Fruit-gathering, no. 74.
Lalan Phakir; Bhattacarya, Baul gan, no. 63.
. — .
Rabindranath Tagore: “The Greatest of the Sauls of Bengal' 85

Inyour great store there is much wealth. O, let me fill my
hands with it, let me fill my mind.^®
Do not keep your heart in that house with crumbling walls . . .
Do not remain where you have fallen in the dust, O helpless

one, O madman,
Plant your feet upon the dust of the earth, but do not smear
iton your body . . .
Bum the lamp no longer now, for the dawn has come; dream no
more.
The morning sun is risen now. The road outside is empty.
Do not cloud the sky with the dust of deception.
Passion and concern with satisfaction of self are as fire; they are
latent in all things as fire and tinder. Fire is latent in flint, steel,
scorches the fertile field. It devours the limbs of dead trees. But
though it can destroy a wooden house, it cannot harm a house built
of brick. The Baul sings:
“My house . . . my home . .

.” — such talk is folly.
One day, and in the twinkling of an eye, it all will be

destroyed.
I have a brick-built house; in great happiness I live
there — it is my mind
But, my forgetful mind, I too shall take the journey to the
burning ghat.^^
There is yet fire in the ashes,

and it will bum again, if the ashes are stirred.
They say that burning is a quality of wood,
that in the flint and steel the fire dwells.
But fire does not bum a brick-built house,
nor does the wall of earth around the fire bum.^^
O cruel self, would you fry in fire these tender blossoms of

the mind?
You will burst the flower and waste its delicate perfume, if
you be not patient.^
O my wild mind, when the field’s unplowed and the harrow not
fallen,
GJtahitan 1 : no. 4 1
Gitati 'xn Rabindra-racanahatil: no. 40.

Anonymous; Sen, BSI, p. 994.
Madana Baul; Bdhgla kavya paricaya, p. 7 1
when the land lies fallow — then the seed is shrivelled in the
fire of evil.
But when it gets the water of devotion, then does the seed
grow, day by day.^^
Rabindranath sings:
And now again my mind begins to wander in all directions;

and now again the fire begins to rise and spread;
and now again I have lost your feet.^^
See the dance on the branches of dead trees,

fire
raising its hands toward someone, toward the sky.

The stars of the darkness are muted,
and the wind blows soft from some strange and distant land.
On the breast of the midnight, the fire lies brilliant. . .
Pride, vanity, self-concern — these are sin.They are a cargo too

heavy for a tiny boat. Unless a man cast them over, he is dragged
drowning into the depths. The Baul sings:
What I have done, I have done, and my boat is laden deep with
sin,
and, Lalan says, the wave ahead is high and heavy.
I do not understand, and I am sinking, gasping, into this

stagnant sea;
in my hour my cry goes out to you
final . . .
Why have you forsaken me? How long more shall I drift ufx)n
this sea of sorrow?
The wave is deep and dark, and I am dying, filled with fear.
Where are you, O Boatman of this inifinite sea?^^
There was, once, happiness in this land, but it is gone.
My boat is leaky, and my life is passed in bailing water . . .
How much longer shall I pass my days rowing this boat of sin?"^®
And Rabindranath:
I cannot throw off my vanity and pride, and I am drifting;

I am dying, and the burden of them is strapped to my head
Bhaba Baul, from the writer’s collection.

Gitahjati (Bengali), no. 33.
Gltamalya, in Sen BSl, p. 995.
Ibid., no. 2.
Ibid., no. 1 1.
Rabindranath Tagore: ''The Greatest of the Bauls of Bengal" 87
if only I could cast it off, perhaps I could survive . . .
But you will pull me out, and with your own hand you will
save me;
I shall cast my burden off, and then I shall gain your feet.^*
Life is the river or the sea. The current in this river is strong, often
sweeping the boat onto the rocks and reefs. Man’s heart is like a tiny
lamp adrift upon the broad and massive stream. The Baul sings:
My heart is a lamp, floating in the current,
what landing-place I do not know.
drifting to
Darkness moves before me, on the river, and moves again
behind.
The deep still darkness flows,
and in the flowing darkness only ripples’ sounds are heard,
for underneath the ripples moves the current of the quiet
night.
My lamp, as if to seek a friend, goes drifting
by the shore; both day and night the drifting lamp
moves searching by the shore.
My Friend is ocean, to this river.
My Friend is the shore to this shoreless river.
The current bends again; at one such bending he will call to me,
and I shall look upon his face,
and he will catch me up in his embrace,
and then my flame, my pain, will be extinguished.
And on his breast will be extinguished, in my joy, my flame.
Rabindranath sings:
“I have come to the river,” she said, ‘‘to float my lamp

on the stream when the daylight wanes in the west.” I stood alone
among the tall grasses and watched the timid flame of her lamp
uselessly drifting in the tide.^^
Man’s body is be crossed. The

the boat on which the river is to
boat is often leaky, often laden too deep for safety. The Baul sings:
My self is the boat; it is sinking, and I drown.
My boat is leaky, and my life is passed in bailing water . . .
Gitahjati (Bengali), no. 9.

Baul Gaiigaram; Bangla kavya paricaya, p. 68. The image ot the
river of life or time is not unfamiliar to the English tradition. See for example
Matthew Arnold’s The Future.
Lalan Phakir, Prabasi, p. 193.
How much longer shall I pass my days rowing the boat of sin?^*
Rabindranath is even more explicit:
I cling to this living raft, my body, in the narrow

stream of my earthly years. I leave it when the crossing is
over.^^
must launch out my boat. The languid hours pass by on

I
the shore —
alas for me!
The spring has done its flowering and taken leave. And
now with the burden of faded futile flowers I wait and linger.
The waves have become clamorous, and upon the bank in
the shady lane the yellow leaves flutter and fall.^^
And now, end of your days, will your boat gently

at the
touch the landing-place; and will you see, in the darkening
of the evening, the row of lights upon the farther shore?
The sweet and gentle wind touches the sail of my mind
and I hear, in the darkness, someone’s laughter from the
distant shore.
The river is relentless, and it can be stormy and wild and fierce.
Man needs the sure and steady hand of the master Boatman on the
helm of his frail craft. And if the storm has smashed his boat, only
the master Boatman can save him, can pull him out and take him
to the farther shore. The Baul sings:
An unknown one is calling, at the river’s bend,

I hear his call.
But let me stand upon the bank and rest, a little time,
for once I start across that shoreless stream
1 shall not rest again.
The river rolls, resistless and profound.
It swirls and pulls
my boat adrift
my mind awhirl
the call growing near and loud

is
O Boatman! Hold fast to the helm!

Gltahjati (Bengali), no. 140.
Rabindranath Tagore: ‘'The Greatest of the Bauls of Bengal' 89
The river rolls, and waits in moving darkness
for Jaga.^^
Forgiveme my transgression, O Lord of the poor and wretched.

Take me by the hair, and pull me to the farther shore.
Whatever you will, you can do; and if it be not you, who
will be my deliverer?
I do not understand, and I am sinking, gasping, into this
stagnant sea,
and in my final hour I call to you.
For if you take me not across, O Lord,
the name of your mercy will be stained, to all the world.
They say that you are the father, and that I am your foolish
son,
I have wandered on the path of evil, forgetful of your
worship. Remind me of the path of righteousness, O Lord.
You save the fallen, and your name is Savior of the Fallen,
and so I call to you, O treasure-house of goodness.
Why have you forsaken me? How long more shall I drift upon
this sea of sorrow?
The wave is deep, the night is dark, and I am dying, filled
with fear.
Where are you, O Boatman of this infinite sea?
Your slave Lalan calls. Take me to the farther shore, O
Boatman, and I shall proclaim the glory of your name in all
the world.®®
Come, O merciful one, and take me from this worldly ghat

across to the other shore.
1 see the storms on the river of life, and my heart cries out
in fear . . .
For you are his helmsman, who flees in terror from the world,
and those who are steadfast in your worship will gain the
other shore.
To him whose mind is fixed upon his guru’s feet

the world will go, and he will gather boundless riches in his
hands.
Of him whose boat you are the helmsman, steering steady,
there is no terror in the storm, and dancing, singing, will
he cross unto the other shore.
Jaga Kaibarta; Bangla Kavya paricaya, p. 68. The image is a common

one; see for example Dadu, sahda 81.
Lalan Phakfr; Bhattacarya, Bdiil gan, no. 2.
Ibid., no. 20.

Ibid., no. 70.
And Rabindranath:
O Helmsman of this boat of my human life, can hear now I in
the distance the flute, softly playing upon the other shore.
0 Boatman, now that we have reached the other shore,

leave the helm, and take by the hand me . . .
Let me sit awhile upon the grass, in this your forest; let
us sit here side by side, a little while, for
1 have passed the night upon the water, rocked in the rhythm
of the waves.
0 Boatman, my home is not far off. I can hear the flute
playing the melody of dawn.
That guided me along the road, to the foot of the
flute has
tree by the wayside. Now play for the last time in my heart
your tune of tears.
The Boatman is out crossing the wild sea at night.

The mast is aching because of its full sails filled with the
violent wind. . . .
The waves dash their heads against the dark unseen, and the
Boatman is out crossing the wild sea.®^
1 wind of the violent

shall cross that deadly sea in the
storm, for in this boat my fear is wiped away.
—
O, have no fear take courage from this word
Take courage, though the sail is ripped to shreds,
for you will reach the other shore. .
When he has reached the other shore, when the veil which has
hidden the inward God from his eyes has been pierced, when man
has given himself completely up to God, then the madness of sorrow
and longing becomes the madness of joy. Life is then the divine
song; man is then the flute of Krsna on which the song of life is
played. The Baul sings:
Iam forever blessed! For I am his own breath within his flute.
And if that breath is used up in one song,
I shall not mourn.
The joy of all the worlds is in his flute,
and I his breath!

Let my song be good or evil,
Gitanjan (Bengali), no. 140.
C/iUiti, no. 66.

Fruit-gathering, no. 4 1
(iitahitan I : no. 199.

— 1
Rabindranath Tagore: '‘The Greatest of the Baals of Bengal" 9

that I play in joy or sadness
I shall sound it in the morning, and in the evening it will
sound,
and I shall play it softly muffled in the night.
I shall play it in the spring, I shall play it in the fall,
and when his breath is used up, in his song,
I shall not mourn.
My song will be the loveliest of songs.
What more, then, could I want?®^
And Rabindranath:
This little flute of a reed thou has carried over hills
and dales, and hast breathed through it melodies eternally

new.®®
It was my part at this feast to play upon my instrument,
®^
and I have done all I could.
There running through the Baul songs, a curious Man-

is,
ichaean type of theological position in which the ideal, original, and

true state of being is the unity of man and God, a state which can
be gained again through realization. Man is the microcosm, con-
taining the divine and all the elements of truth within himself.
Realization of the divine means realization of the one’s own true
nature. And this state is a state of unity in which neither blow nor
blessing, neither emotion nor non-emotion, neither sin nor righte-
ousness, neither desire nor the abandonment of desire, makes the
slightest difference. The existential condition, however, is one of
separation, and the Baul songs rest heavily upon the longing of
man’s soul for what Tillich calls “reconciliation,” and upon the pain
attendant to the assertiveness of the lower self, the senses, in
hindering it.
Rabindranath’s position is in some ways closer to that of the

Vaisnavas, in that to him worship is the true end of man; and in that
position there is a strong dualism, for worship is impossible if
human and divine are, even ultimately, the same. One of the
observations of the Caitanyite Vaisnavas was that Krsna, in order
fully to taste a relationship of love, had two
to separate himself into
parts, Radha and Krsna. This is reflected by Rabindranath
when he writes:
Isan Yugf; Ban^la kavya paricaya, p. 66.

Gitanjali (English), no. I.
Ibid., no. 16.

P. C. Bagchi, Baiiler dhanna, quoted in Uddin, Haramani, p. 10.
Thou settest a barrier in thine own being and then
callest thy severed self in myriad notes. This thy
self-separation has taken body in me.^^
In one sense, then, he is like the Bauls, feeling that man’s earthy
nature keeps him from knowledge of the truth. But this feeling
could not repress his delight in the beauty of the world, and in the
body, and in his sense of the unity of man and nature. One knows
the world through the body, and the world is a place of transcendant
joy:
He it is who puts his enchantment upon these eyes and

joyfully plays on the chords of my heart in varied cadence of
pleasure and pain.^^
No, I will never shut the doors of my senses. The delights

of sight and hearing and touch will be thy delight.
Yes, all my illusions will bum into illumination of joy, and

all my desires ripen into fmits of love.^^
I do not find this inconsistency worrisome. A poet need not be a
logician. A poet interprets the world as he feels it, and
Rabindranath felt it in many different ways at different times.

Ibid., no. 72.
Ibid., no. 73.
.
The Bauls and the Islamic Tradition
A mild kind of controversy has lately risen again around those

curious mendicant singers and folk poets of Bengal called Bauls.
Some time ago there was a good deal of speculation about the origin
of their name. Some was derived from the Arabic “aw-
felt that it
liyd'\ “friend” of God; others, whose view became more widely

accepted, felt that the derivation of the name was a normal one from
the Sanskrit vatula, “affected by the wind disease,” i.e., mad.
And cultivatedly mad they do seem to be; their way of life is
deliberately ulto, “contrary” to the current of accepted custom.
And the etymology would be regular; the intervocalic consonant
would be Middle Bengali, the final vowel dropped, and
lost in
the /v/ going to /b/ in Bengali and eastern Hindi. But a recent
article called “Baul-tattver purbabhasa” in Sdhitya-patrika^ by
Harendra Candra Pal, seems again to want to argue that the
proper etymology is Arabic, and that Baul doctrine, if indeed one
can use such a term, must be interpreted through the Islamic, and
specifically through the Sufi, tradition.
It seemed for a long time too that Rabindranath Tagore’s view of
the Bauls and of their songs would be the accepted one. Tagore
found not only their peculiar musical forms appealing, but found a
strong echo of his own humanistic impulses in theirs. Tlieir some-
times mournful, always poignant, longing for the “man of the
heart,” the God within man who is at the same time unknown and
the object of a long, anguished, and pointless search through religi-
ous forms and rituals, spoke not only to his own iconoclasm but to
his sense of separation. So pure a chord did this poignancy strike in
the heart of Tagore, say some later writers, that he either missed or
was too embarrassed to notice publicly the strong element of
sexual and tantric symbolism in the songs. Upendra-
The essay was originally prepared for a conference on Islam in the Indian environ-
ment, held at the University of Minnesota in 1976. It was also read later to a conference
on the poetry of the sant tradition, and will be published in a volume to be called The
Sants: Studies in the Devotional Traditions of India, edited by Karine Schomer and W
H. McLeod (Berkeley: Religious Studies Series, and New Delhi: Matilal Banarsidas.
*
The Journal of the Bengali Department, Dacca Univeristy (Winter, B.S. 1374
[l%9j); the title of the article means “hints about the doctrine of the Bauls.”
nath Bhatlacarya, Banglar haul o haul gan, an exten-

in his
sive collection of songs with a long, erudite, and persuasive
introduction, put forward this position, which has been more re-
cently taken up by younger American scholars.^ This position says
that one must read and hear the songs with tantric symbolism clearly
in mind: that the rasa so often spoken of is semen; that the river so
prominent in many of the songs is not only the river of life, but is the
menstrual flux which is important for the esoteric ritual of the
Bauls; and that far from the view held by Tagore and others, that
Bauls scorn all ritual activity, at the very base of their religious way
of life is the yogic practice of control of breath and sphincters.*^ This
position would also claim that Sufi interpretation is in error.
The tantric arguments, it must be confessed, are persuasive, and
for this reason, plus two others, seem to be gaining currency. The
first and most obvious reason might be the growing interest in
tantrism generally, perhaps because of its esoteric quality, or

perhaps because it is a system in which the individual is at the
center, controlling his own destiny. Maybe too this growing interest
has a more mundane element, in the fact that not many years ago a
few of these mendicant and usually village singers were brought to
the United States to give concerts in concert halls and to appear on the
covers of Bob Dylan albums. This visit had its effect in a variety of
ways, for not only did these Bauls become known to already in-
terested Americans, and interest other Americans, but they be-
came sought after informants when American scholars visited
Bengal. The Bauls in this network are indeed tantric, as has been
shown in a recent paper by Carol Salomon.^
It would be exceedingly foolish to try to deny a strong tantric
- (Calcutta: Orient Book B. S. 1364 [

1959 1.
^ R.g. , Charles Capvvell in his article “TTie Esoteric Belief of the Bauls of Bengal,
Journal of Asian ,S7u^//V.v ( February 1974), pp. 255-64.
Mbid.,p. 259.
Muhammad Mansur Uddin, in his Hariunatu (Calcutta: Calcutta University,
1942), p. 12, makes a statement difficult to dispute: “S('>me say that the Bauls are
Vaisnava. That is an error. Among the Bauls there is a group which could certainly be
called Vaisnava, but because that is so they are not all Vaisnava . And in the same way
that they are not Vaisruiva, they are not Muslim Sufis. They are called Bauls.”
*'
".\ Sahajiya interpretation of the Bilvamangala-Cinamani Legend as Sung by
Sanatan Iâ;” an excellent paper given t(^ the Bengal Conference, .Ann Arbor, Mi
( April 1976) and published in Paiterns of Change in Modern Henf>al, edited by Richard
1.. Park (East Lansing: .Asian Studies Center, Michigan State University, 1979), pp.
97-110.
element in the Baul tradition. A Baul, essentially, is one who says
he is a Baul, and who has taken initiation from a guru, or murshid,
recognized by other Bauls. It would be equally foolish to suggest
that any Baul does not have the right to sing the songs, and to
interpret them, as he chooses. But the problems in trying to
identify, much less generalize about, the doctrines of a group of
people on the basis of a collection of short songs, are many. One
would have to have the complete, or nearly complete, corpus of
each poet, for only a small part of any doctrinal system will be
treated in a short song. And one would have to have many such
corpi, for the beliefs of one individual may differ sometimes widely
from those of the next. And even then, the Bauls pose the problem
of being unabashedly heterodox. Not only do they draw from, and
to that extent participate in, three religious traditions, Islam,
tantrism, and Vaisnavism, but they consciously deviate from the
orthodoxy of all three; theirs is a doctrinal heterodoxy, if one might
be allowed that. And finally, there is the perpetual anthropologists’
problem of distinctions between text and ritual practice: these are
not always consistent with one another, and are sometimes not at all
so.
The following is an excerpt from a song by a Baul called Lalan
Shah or Lalan Fakir, who lived in the late eighteenth and early
nineteenth centuries:^
Whether the Lord God has form or is formless:

if one distinguishes between these, ahad and ahamad,
knowledge is lost.
I see that in the name dhamad

[the name of] the Prophet is written by the letter tmm.
Ifone takes away the tnirn, dhdd remains,
and the name dhamad is no more.®
The text is reasonably dense, and is based partly on a problem in
Islamic theology, and partly on a play with the Persian language,

though the language of the song is Bengali. The problem of the form
of the formless God has long been of great interest to Bengali
Muslim, and, it might be added, Vaisnava writers. The much
^ 1890 is usually accepted as the date of his death, his age being at that time I 16; see
example Ldlan-gJtikd, edited by Matilal Das and Plyuskanti

for
Mahapatra (Calcutta: Calcutta University, 1958), p. 3. I would like to be somewhat
more conservative.
® Pal, “Baul-tattver purbabhasa,” p. 13.

earlier Saiyid Sultan,^ perhaps not himself a Baul, finds God
“ever concealed as the formless in the form {rupeta nirupa
rupa), like heat in the fire, hardness in clay, drops in water, and
rays in the sun and moon.” The Vaisnavas add “like the scent in the
flower, and the music in the flute:” the music is real, though one
might not see the flute-player.
But even more interesting is the word-play. Another older writer,
Hayat Mahmud, says:^® “Allah is the supreme one, ahM,
without a second ... he made ahammad [a name of the Prophet]
from dhdd you should know both ahad, and ahammad
. . .
as one.”^^ The mere mlm distinguishes God the One, ahM,

the Creator, and his creation ahamad (or, with the addition of
another mlm, Muhammad). Mlm is the principle of incarnation,
and the relationship it states is that God is within man, ahdd
within ahamad. God is both formed and formless. To this we shall
return.
That God is within man is of course a proposition perfectly
acceptable to Bauls of all varieties. It is an important, even neces-
sary proposition for the tantrics, for whom recognition and experi-
ence of divine bliss, the restoration of the primal unity within the
microcosm of the body, is all. It is so, though less clearly so, for the
Vaisnavas, whose doctrine of bhedabheda, separation and non-
separation, the simultaneous imminence and transcendance of
God, allows them to have it both ways. And it is of course familiar to
the Sufis. The Bauls in fact make much of the an-al-haq^^ dictum of
Al-Hallaj, who is in fact a kind of ddi-guru for them. There is for
example this portion of a song by a Baul called Duddu, one of
Lalan’s pupils:
If one knows the self, he knows Him who fosters;

the Sai, formless, plays eternally, and the play has form.
God is not distinct from God;
He is on His throne in the throne-room of the heart.
’ A
poet of the mid-sixteenth century; Abdul Karim, A Social History of the
Muslims in Bengal (Dacca: The Asiatic Society of Pakistan, 1959), 150 n. For this
passage, see Asim Roy, Islam in the Environment of Medieval Bengal, an exceptional
doctoral dissertation for the Australian National University ( 1970), p. 189. The latter
has since been published as The Islamic Syncretistic Tradition in Bengal (Princeton:
Princeton University Press, 1983).
Roy, Islam, p. 268.
“a/wJ: the One; ahamad or dhmad, “most laudable,” one of the names of
the Prophet.
“I am the truth;” he was executed in 922 Ap;
That palace is surrounded by ten walls;
you will gain sight of it, by the power of fate.
The language is interesting: “God is on His throne in the room of

the heart,” arse khoda deler ghare, is almost pure Persian. And
the other term used here, and usually, for “God” is sai, derived
from svdmi, which is analysed as sva + ami, “I am the self, I am
the truth.”
Bauls often love to play with language, and especially with Per-
sian. As mJm is the principle of incarnation, so the first letter of
the alphabet, alif, is the principle of breath or of life. The term for
breath used in the following excerpt is not the Sanskrit or Bengali
prana, but the Persian dam, and the basic play is clear: a 4- dam
is the primal man, into whom God breathed life. The lines are from
a song by a Baul called Naran or perhaps Narayan:

He summons Dam-madar by breath, O mind, believe in that.
Before dam mankind arises, and goes forth on the wind.
If you would sieze the fugitive moon, try the touch-stone
breath,
perform the sadhana of the breath.
What have translated “fugitive” is a rather complicated Bengali
I
pun. The term isa + dhara, “uncaught,” suggestive of the God for
whom the Baul searches fruitlessly until he realizes that He is
within. “The uncaught moon” also suggests the Bengali proverb for
ultimate futility: the dwarf standing on tip-toes to catch the moon.
Adhara also means “lower lip,” suggestive in another context. And
the moon is often a symbol of the mind. But even more interesting is
the mention of the name of Dam-madar, a plr or saint to whom,
according to Bengali and perhaps other traditions, Muhammad
gave the gift of long life. Madar, the more usual name of the saint,
is a curiously frequent character in Middle Bengali texts. And
''bre'dih-sadhana'' is the yogic, and Sufi, practice of breath-
control as one of the means of realization.
Pal, “Baul-tattver purbabhasa,” p. 9.

14 Ibid., p. 20.
For example in the Sunya-puram, attributed to Ramai-pandit, a text
dated variously between the tenth and the fifteenth centuries (Calcutta: Bangjya
sahitya parisad, B. S. 1314 [1908]), the following passage appears on p. 141. “The
formless Nirafijana became incarnated in heaven [the word is bhest — behist], and
from his mouth spoke Dambadar [? — mukheto boleto dambadar], all the gods
there were agreed, and in delight donned trousers, Brahma became Muhammad,
Visnu the Paigambar, Siva Adampha ...”
In any case, God breathes His breath, and man arises, and goes
forth upon the wind— the wind which, traditionally, is the only
home and shelter of the Baul. The breath is the wind of heaven, and
the breath in man is the cosmic wind. But it is not only the divine
breath which is in man, not only ruh or ruhu'llah, but other parts
of the physical and spiritual universe are within him as well
The primal Mecca is in this human body;

don’t you see it, O my mind?
Why do you run now from land to alien land
and die, gasping for breath?
He has made a most wonderful city,
the Sai has built that human Mecca

with his most wonderful creative light.
At its four gates are four prophets of light,
and among them sits the Sai.
The human Mecca is a most wonderful thing.
The Baul runs frantically about the world in search of the God
within and dies, gasping, his breath out of control, a mere reflex of
the lungs after exertion. This breath has only a tenuous relationship
to the serene, supreme, breath of God, which man must realize. The
contrast is also to the hvQ^Xh-sddhana of the other verse. For by
control of the breath man, being in some sense God, realizes by
emulation the divine element and divine gift, the truth, and life.
Asim Roy gives the following summary of a text called Cari

mukdm bheda, “the four divisions of the muqams, or stages of
Sufi spiritual progress”, by ‘Abd ul-Hakim:
The zikr [i.e. , name of Allah] are followed by the sound

repetitions of the
hu hu. [The sMhaka] assumes an âna [i.e., yogjc posture] and
performs kumbhakd [i.e., the yogic practice of the retention of the
inhaled drawn from the lower region of the navel towards the
air]; air is
heart. The ukr goes on incessantly in the heart. This is happening in the
first muqdm of sharVat [i.e., formal prescribed practice; the writer
uses the term muqdm and the practices associated
for both the stages
with those stages]. In the second of the four stages, tariqdt, wind blows
incessantly [the term is pabana, which is literally wind]; the wind is the
vehicle of the dtmd. The wind blows through the body, out of the
nostrils, either to the right, which is the abode of the sun, or to the left,
which contains the moon [c.f., the tantric notion that in hdtha-yoga,
hd is candra, tha is surya]. Kumbhakd is practiced, and while
ddi makka.
Bhattacarya, song43 of Lalan Phakfr.
retaining the inhaled air, la ilaha is repeated, and illMah when the
air is exhaled. Longevity is increased as long as the air is retained. All of
this brings, among other things, luster to the body and the power of true
speech (vakya-siddhi).^^
The themes running through this passage — the breath as cosmic

—
wind and the body as microcosm have clear relationship to the
tantric teachings. But equally clear is the Sufi idea that what was the
gift of God to Adam, the gift of Muhammad to Madar, is now
attainable by man himself. It is not usual to hear the Bauls speak of

eternal corporeal life, as the Natha yogins dp. But they do speak
of jiydnta-mora, being dead while yet alive, which is the jivan-
mukti of other thought. The bxQdXh-sadhana is one means of
attaining it.
There are other interesting things about the last poem cited. For
example, “the Sai has built that human Mecca/ with His most
wonderful creative light '” suggests yet another Baul view of the
relationship of man to God. There is a couplet in a song by a Baul
named Pahja which reads:
By the light of Allah the Prophet is bom;
by the light of the Prophet the world is complete.
Existence dwells in the body of Adam, and knows the light.
The term “light,” of course, is the Persian niir, not the Bengali
dlo or jyoti, and the theme is the creation of the universe directly
by the light of Muhammad. The concept of the
nur-i-muhammadi might be familiar to the Sufi tradition; the
thorough anthropomorphicization of it in Bengal might be less so.
Muhammad is produced from the light of God, and the rest of
creation is produced by the light of Muhammad, and in a very
interesting way: by exudations from his body in sweat, gham, or
simply in bindu, “drops. The light of Muhammad is spoken of
as the friend or the lover of God. God, unable to realize or enjoy
himself in the infinite void, brought Nur Muhammad into exis-
Roy, Islam, pp. 225-27. The interpolations are mine.

Bhattacarya, Baul gan, song 232.
Annemarie Schimmel, in her Mystical Dimensions of- Islam (Chap)el Hill: Uni-
versity of North Carolina Press, on pp. 2 14-16. On

1975), discusses this interesting idea
p. 215 she writes: “The idea of the ‘Muhammadan light’ seems to have been fully
—
developed about 900 Sahl at Tustari sp)eaks of the three lights of God, the first one
being Muhammad, his special friend: ‘When he wanted to create Muhammad He
’’
showed a light from His light which illumined the whole kingdom.’
Ibid.,p. 222.
tence.^^ The formulation is the three-stage gradual descent or

revelation of God familiar to Sufi thought, which is stated in
another way by the colorful theory of the introduction of mlm:
God, in perfect unity and stability, is agitated by the creative
impulse, and mlm brings form to the formless One. But the third
stage of creation, that of differentiation into the particulars of the
world, is the most curious. A
writer named Sayid Sultan puts forth
the following:
Seeing himself in the form of Muhammad, God contemplates his form as

the sadhaka The formless one [nirakdr] becomes immersed in
. . .
love. ... As he enters [prabesila] softly in love, slowly there arises

perspiration from love, and from the perspiration of Muhammad every-
thing comes into existence.
Or, according to Shaikh Paran, the Lord creates nur and gazes
steadfastly at it; they look at one another like two mirrors, and the
gaze of Nirahjana (sic) makes Nur Muhammad perspire all over
his body. Or there are other causes of the sweat: the Nur flees from
God, and perspiration breaks out all over his body because of the
exertion. Or, says a writer named Shaikh Cand, Muhammad is
unable to see God, and because of the separation his tears flow, and
cause the stream from which creation comes. And perhaps at this
point might be mentioned the commonness of the theme with
Hindu mahgal texts of the medieval period: in the Dharma-mahgal,
for example, the cosmic seat, source of creation, comes from the
sweat of isvara.
It isnot necessary to belabor the possibilities here, but it should
be at least noted that the concept of bindu is cardinal to the tantric
systems. Bindu is the point of origin. Bindu is also semen. But most
important, the supreme bindu, parabindu, is the essential unity of
universal forces, which is differentiated into multiple bindus by the
process called sadrsaparindma. In the process, the seeming
multiplicity of aspects of the created world, which constitutes the
imminence of the deity, comes about. But the multiplicity of forms
in no way affects the essential unity of the One. The thesis is also, it
might be added, congenial to the Vaisnavas.
So I have neither proven nor disproven that the Bauls are Sufis,
or that they are tantrics, or that they are Vaisnavas. And that is
perhaps the point that : it seems to me that they can be any, or all, or
See Roy, Islam, p. 264.

See ibid., p. 274.
even none of these things. It would of course be possible, and

maybe even instructive, to speculate at length about the sexual
aspects of all three traditions and the place of ritual sexual in-
tercourse in sddhana\ or about the possible relationships of Sufi
ideas of the muqdms with those of the tantrics about the cakras in
the body; or about such symbolisms as that of the moon, for when
the Bauls speak of the moon, or the four moons, as the mind, or of
the candra-bheda, one writer calls to mind the passage in Quran
54:1, when the moment of judgement draws near and the moon is
divided or of the nature and importance of the murshid

critical
to Sufis and the guru to tantrics and for the matter to Vaisnavas; or
about the idea of zikr, dhydna, mantra and the psychological as
well as ritual importance of these, and so on.
But perhaps enough has been said to bolster the simple-minded
suggestion that some Bauls drew heavily on the Islamic tradition,
and that it is difficult, or perhaps impossible, to interpret them apart
from that tradition. One could find Baul songs, I expect, which
draw almost exclusively on the tantric and Vaisnava traditions,
about which the same could be said. The most, I think that can be
safely inferred is that the various traditions flowed into a pool,
bringing with them ideas that the human self, even the human body,
is the repository of truth. What is common to them is this deha-
tattva. The pool that was formed, and colored by the soil of Bengal,
was, and is, available to all.
He feels that the Baul interpretation is that when the moment of the true
perception of the self is approaching, the moon-mind is destroyed.
On Impersonality and Religious
Biography The “Nectar of the Acts of
:
Caitanya”
In commenting on the lack of individual personality in Sanskrit

poetry, Daniel H. H. Ingalls has written that
impersonality appears in its extreme form in India only in Sanskrit. ... As

to how poetry could exist in the absence of individualism the answer is
under the same circumst-

easier. It existed, just as Indian religion existed
ances, by making a virtue of its lack. To the Vedantin the advantage of
stripping off the personality was that only thus could he arrive at what he
considered to be real, at something p)ermanent, unchangeable, and unit-
ary. To the Sanskrit poet the advantage of abandoning personal idiosync-
racy and adventure was that the resultant character by being typical came
^
closer to being universal.
The thought has been very much with me in the course of thinking
about various Bengali religious figures of the Vaisnava persuasion,
partially because there is in that tradition such an intimate blending
of the poetic and religious, and partially because here too from the
literary point of view at least the absence of individualism is strik-
ing. The bhakta strives to transcend his individual personality and,
as I have tried to show, to transmute his everyday environment
into that of the eternal and universal Vrndavana.
The biography of the Vaisnava revivalist Caitanya (1486-1533)
presents in this context something of a paradox: the biographies are
The essay is a combination of two previously published short pap>ers.

The first,
entitled “Religious Biography The ‘Nectar of the Acts of Caitanya’,” was
in India:
published in Frank E. Reynolds and Donald Capps, eds, The Biographical Process
(The Hague: Mouton, 1976). The second, entitled “On Imp)ersonality and Bengali
Religious Biography,” was published in M. Nagatomi et al., eds, Sanskrit and Indian
Studies, Essays in Honour of Daniel H. H. Ingalls (Dordrecht: Reidel, 1980). Since
this pap)er was published, Tony K. Stewart has finished an exceptionally fine disser-
tationon the subject: The Biographical Images of Krsna-Caitanya: A Study in the
Perception of Divinity (Department of South Asian Languages and Civilization,
University of Chicago, 1985).
‘
Daniel H. H. Ingalls, An Anthology of Sanskrit Court Poetry, Harvard Oriental
Series, 44 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1%5), pp. 24-25.
.
On Impersonality and Religious Biography 103
poetry and thus, like all poetry of the tradition, place their subject in
the poetic world of the idyll of Krsna and Radha; yet in some
sense they are dealing with the life of an actual historical man.
In 1965, a Bengal scholar by the name of Amulyacandra Sen
made a Schweitzerian effort, in a book called Itihaser
srlcaitanya (“The Sricaitanya of History”) to extricate the man
who walked the soil of India from the web of myth, fancy, and
profound religious belief that has surrounded him since his death.
What Dr Sen was trying to do for Caitanya was rid him of the
“supernatural nimbus with which it was so easy to surround him,”
as Reimarus and Strauss had tried to do for Jesus so that, as
Schweitzer says, “the supramundane Christ and Jesus of Nazareth . .
be brought together into a single personality at once historical

and raised above time.”^ The book, as its author predicted in his
Preface that it would be, was singularly unsuccessful. Bengali
Vaisnavas, showing themselves to be still a dominant force in the
community, were completely uninterested in historical personality,
and were, in fact, rather offended by the thought of it in connection
with Caitanya.
In much the same way, Christians were for many centuries indif-
ferent to the historical Jesus. The Gospel of John was enough. In
time, of course, people took late nineteenth and early twentieth
century German scholarship seriously, and the grounds of con-
troversy moved from abstract relationships within the Godhead to
the meaning of the God-man who had walked the earth, and from
there to eschatology; for there could be found, and
in the life
sayings of Jesus and in the theology that preceded and surrounded

him, a linear sequence culminating in the once-and-for-all resurrec-
tion and the once-and-for-all salvation of the community of believ-
ers. Whether or not, several centuries hence, there will be equal
attention paid to the historical Caitanya, I cannot say. I can say that
there is frustration in the search for him, for his biographies are
religious poems, and as with all religious poems of the tradition, the
writing of them was the reflex of the perfected bhakta, the true
devotee. Biography in their hands therefore was for the most part
not the recording of historical fact and personality, but revelation of
the inner truth of the Caitanya-/i/tf, and the truth is that
Caitanya was Krsna .
This being the case, the historians among us who are constantly
^ Albert Schweitzer, The Quest for the Historical JesiLs (London: Adam and
Charles Black, 1910), pp. 3-4.
1 04 The Sound of Silent Guns and Other Essays
pointing out that in the biographies Caitanya deputes people to go
to Vrndavana meet people who themselves had not yet been de-
to
puted are correct but dreary. Chronology has no meaning for the
Vaisnava writers; time itself has no meaning. Caitanya was not im-
itating Krsna as Christian saints imitate Christ; he was merely fol-
lowing his true nature, which was Krsna’s. If, in this atemporal
context, people are bothered by lack of “proper” time sequence,
they have not understood the revelation. The biographies present
no process, but only existential fact.
A good deal can be said about the effect of Indian attitudes
toward time on written history as well as literature. If, for example,
rasa is depersonalized esthetic pleasure in which all secular con-
sciousness is have tried to argue earlier in this book,
suspended, as I
the western notion of the linear development of plot is meaning-

less.^ Or if it is true that the classical Indian idea is that time is
cyclical, certain categories of literature are not possible, among

them historical biography. Human personality is irrelevant in the
working out of the repeated patterns of the cosmic order. This is not .
to say that there has been no concern with the lives of great individu-
als. Asvaghosa wrote his life of the Buddha, the Buddacanta, in
perhaps the first century b.c., and there has been a steady stream of
writings on the lives of such individuals —
one is reluctant to call
—
them “men” in this context ever since. But the paradigm has been
divinely established, and is reenacted, as Krsna says in
Bhagavadgita (4.8), “in age after age.” So the question itself is
circular: if the life of an individual has cosmic significance,
its particularities are unimportant, and if the particularities are
important, the life is not worth writing.

The most widely accepted “biography” of Caitanya, the
Caitanyacaritcimrta, was written by Krsnadasa Kaviraja about
eighty years after Caitanya’s death. As its name states, it is not with
the acts {carita), but with the “nectar (or immortality) of the acts”
(caritanifla) that the book
concerned. Caitanya had walked the
is
earth, and had interacted with other people, but Krsnadasa was
less interested in this than he was consumed by its theological
importance. In Krsnadasa’s text, when Caitanya is asked why,
when he is himself the full godhead, he goes about patiently preach-
ing and converting people, he replies (for as the Krsna of the
Gita he has had the experience) that he must act in a social way,
^
See also the discussion of the matter by Edwin Gerow, in E. C. Dimock, et al..
The Literatures of India, pp. 219 ff.
for if he revealed his true form, people would be terrified and not
turn to him for the right reasons.
All of this being so, it is possible to be quite brief about the facts of
Caitanya’s life as Krsnadasa outlines them, despite the fact that
his fext covers 25,000 lines. Caitanya was born, auspiciously, on a
full-moon night, in the town of NavadvTpa in the district of Nadiya
in present-day West Bengal. True to the paradigm, the birth was
accompanied by the usual wonderful signs: his father had dreamt
that something luminous had entered his body and thence the body
of his wife. The child Visvambhara (Krsna-Caitanya was his religi-
ous name) had all the marks of Krsna on his body, and like the child
Krsna was mischievous. When he was about twenty-two he went to
Gaya to perform there the funeral obsequies for his father. What
happened there is a mystery. He returned to his native place God-
maddened, and proceeded to organize and lead the kJrtana —
ecstatic singing of devotional hymns and dancing in the courtyard —
of his friend and neighbor Srivasa. At the end of that time he
took an ascetic order. He wanted to go and live in
initiation in
Vmdavana, the place of his beloved Krsna, but gave in to his
mother’s pleas and went instead to live in Puri in Orissa, the place of
the great temple of Jagannatha and easier of access from Bengal.
He stayed in Puri only eighteen days on this first trip, and then left
on a two-year pilgrimage that was to take him to the southern tip of
India, up the west coast to Maharashtra, and across the sub-
continent back to Puri.
No details of this pilgrimage are known, but it seems that while
he was on it, a turning point in Caitanya’s life occurred. On the bank
of the Godavari River, in present-day Andhra Pradesh, he met
Ramananda Ray. Ramananda was a high official in the
court of the maharaja Prataparudra of Orissa; was a

he
learned man, a poet, and, it would seem, a Tantric Vaisnava.^ The
conversation between the two, at least as it is reported in the
Caitanyacaritdmrta, centered on the place of the love between
Radha and Krsna in the Vaisnava scheme. In the course of it,
*
There is a text called the Karaca of Govinda-dasa, edited by Dineshchandra
Sen and Banowarilal Goâmi (Calcutta University, 1926), which purports to be
the diary of Caitanya’s sole companion on this pilgrimage. It is a fascinating and
frequently moving text, but its authenticity, at least in its existing form, is called into
question by the fact that it includes loan-words from Portuguese and even one from
English.
^ E. C. Dimock, The Place of the Hidden Moon (Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 1966), pp. 52-54.
Ramananda pointed out to Caitanya the latter’s true nature as
Radha and Krsna in a single body: he saw Caitanya’s golden
complexion, that of Radha, as overlaying his blue-colored
form, that of Krsna Caitanya then
smiling, showed him his true form — Rasaraja fi.e., Krsna] and
Mahabhava [i.e., Radha], these two as one form; and seeing it
Ramananda fainted in pure joy. He could not hold his body upright,
and he fell to the earth. (2. 7. 233-34)
From this time on, Radha manifested herself more and more
in Caitanya’s person, until, in the pain of separation from Krsna,
she took him over completely, and he became irrevocably with-
drawn from the ordinary world of men — mad, or so it seemed to
human sight.
For he was certainly mad, whether this be interpreted as the
divine madness of the holy fool, or the random madness of the child,
or, as epilepsy.^ He was literally pulled apart by his passion for
Krsna, and perhaps by the tension of living in the world of ordinary
men when his true life was in Vrndavana:
His body was unconscious and there was no breath in his nostrils. His
arms and legs were each three hands long [a hand being the measurement
between the tip of the middle finger and the elbow] the joints of his bones
;
were separated, and over the joints there was only skin. (3. 14. 59-60)
Increasingly withdrawn, Caitanya remained in Puri for the rest of

his life, except for two other pilgrimages. The first, an attempt to
visit Vrndavana, was aborted in Bengal. On the second he did
succeed in reaching Vrndavana, but was so distracted by the sights

of the place of his beloved Krsna that his companions felt it impera-
tive to get him away before he did himself bodily harm. He returned
to Puri and remained there the last eighteen years of his life.
The manner of his death is also a mystery. The Caitanya-
caritdmrta does not comment on it. Other texts say that he was
absorbed into the image of Jagannatha, since he and that great
god were one. Still others say that he was drowned, or that he died
of an injury.
This is the meager frame on which Krsnadasa draped his long
* Amulyacandra Sen, Itihaser srlcaitanya (Calcutta: Sarasvat Library, 1965),
p. vayuvyMhi. Krsnadasa has Caitanya describe himself as
62, uses the term
mrgivyadhi, “afflicted with the deer disease, because of which I sometimes be-
come unconscious” (CC 2: 18; 174). See also Stewart’s dissertation The Biographical
Images oj Krsna-Caitanya, pp. 19-20. 1
text. Biographical fact, or at least detail, was not highly important

for him. True significance lies in meaning, which only devotees
can comprehend. He writes:
The rUa of Caitanya is sweet, and as profound as the sea. People do

not understand only steadfast devotees can understand. Have faith and
it;
listen to the nectar of the actions of Caitanya. Do not engage in argument,

for in such argument is adversity. (3. 2. 168-69)
All of this would be fully acceptable on its own terms, were it not
for the troublesome fact that there are smatterings of personal
detail. We are told for instance that Caitanya studied Sanskrit
grammar in the tol, the traditional Sanskrit school, of one
Gaiigadasa. We are told that he married young, but that his
bride died of snakebite (she was “bitten by the serpent of separa-
tion”) when he was on a trip to East Bengal. He married again, after
his return, and in order to support his mother and wife, opened a
Sanskrit tol of his own. But just when we seem able to grasp the
man, Krsnadasa him away from us again. He was no ordi-
pulls
nary student of Gahgadâ’s tol, but a brilliant scholar, poet,
rhetorician, and philosopher (there is little in fact to support this;
Caitanya left no writing except for eight Sanskrit verses, devotional
in nature and demonstrating no exceptional skill). He was no ordi-
nary teacher of Sanskrit grammar, but in all his examples he demon-
strated the Vaisnava way of devotion. And his madness, or what-
ever his withdrawal from the ordinary world might be called, was
not a human condition, but was a demonstration of Krsna’s trans-
cendance, for Krsna is uninvolved with the world except through his
incomprehensible play, his Hid. The burden is thus put on the
analyst, for his transformation in Gaya was not, as it might seem,
within the paradigm of enlightenment of the human saint, but his
choice to reveal his true nature to us.
Krsnadasa’s training was hands of the theologians who

at the
shaped the doctrine of the Vaisnava movement, the six Gosva-
mins of Vrndavana.^ The Gosvamins were perceptive as well as
learned men, and their teachings are sometimes original and some-
times adaptations of more traditional belief to Vaisnava teachings.
Thus they accept the doctrine of revelation, of sahda, “the word,”
and say that what the Bhdgqvata purdna, in its tenth book describes
as having happened at Vrndavana did literally happen, and furth-
ermore, that it is in capsule form what is happening eternally in
’’
See ante, “On Religous and Esthetic Experience,” note I.

the heavenly Vrndavana. What the Bhagavqta describes, then,
is simultaneously finite and infinite; the relationship is not one of
reality and reflection of reality, for both are fully real. This means of
course that Krsna appears in time, in the Bhdgqvata revelation,
but is also outside time. And as the persons and events of the
Bhdgqvata are outside time, they can occur again and again, not as
parallel events but as exact and complete duplications.
For the theory also says that as Krsna is the ultimate reality, all
that is around him in the Bhdgqvata idyll —
the cows and trees, the
cowherds and cowherd girls, the river and meadows is also ulti- —
mate reality. Thus, when Krsna reappears, he reappears with all
this paraphernalia which is part of him. When Caitanya is brought
to a picnic on the bank of the Ganges, he and his companions know
that the river is not the Ganges but the Yamuna of Vrndavana,
and that the picnic is that enjoyed by Krsna and his friends. When
Caitanya runs into a garden in Puri, he knows it to be a meadow of
Vrndavana. Others may see what is overt, but Caitanya’s nature
as Krsna allows him to operate at the level of truth, unconfused by
appearance.
Elements of overt reality are merely superimpositions that hide
the true reality from all but the devotees. One looks at an image of
the child Krsna holding the stolen butter; but if one has the eyes to
see, he sees through the imposed form, and that contained in it are
not only Krsna the child, but Krsna the lover, Krsna the high god,
and all his other aspects. Caitanya the man looks and acts like a
social being (at least when he is lucid), but his true nature is of an
order of reality unaffected by men or society. Caitanya is Krsna,
and all that surrounds him, therefore, is Vrndavana.
Caitanya, it seems, was subject to three states of consciousness.
Ramakrishna describes them:
While conscious of the outer world, Caitanya sang the name of God;
while in the state of partial consciousness he danced with the devotees;
and while in the inmost state of consciousness, he remained absorbed in
samadhi.®
Whereupon Manomohan, an acute disciple, significantly observed:

“Is the master hinting at the different states of his own mind? There
is much similarity between Chaitanya and the master.” The
biographies tell us that Caitanya played, as a child, in a self-willed
**
Nikhilananda Swami, trans., The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna (New York:
Ramakrishna-Vivekananda Center, 1942), p. 330.
manner. But this is not the self-will of all children, it is the very
definition of lild. They tell us too that his assumption of
samnydsa, devastating to his mother and his friends, is the de-
parture of Krsna for Mathura, leaving the gopls desolate. The
Caitanya who lived and breathed in Bengal is the Krsna of the
Bhdgavata purana. And as Manomohan suggests, the
Ramakrishna who walked the soil of Bengal three centuries later is
Caitanya, and therefore also Krsna, as well.
This is a non-view of time, or a view of non-time: time has
completely collapsed. For the historian or the biographer it poses
certain problems. For if there is no process, there is no biography. If
Ramakrishna = Caitanya = Krsna, spans of intervening human

years have no significance whatever.
This is not the usual view of time as cycles of manvantaras or days
of Brahma reckoned numbers, with final destruc-
in incredible
tions and recreations after which the whole vast thing begins all over
again. The Vaisnava view might be called “cyclical” in the some-
what casual sense mentioned by Krsna in Gita (4. 7-8), where
he suggests that he will appear “in age after age” whenever a job
needs doing. And in fact, that a job needed doing was the reason for
Caitanya’s appearance:
But seeing everyone with faces averted from Krsna, and seeing people
immersed in worldy matters. [Advaita] felt pained, and began to reflect
on how to save these people. “If Krsna makes an avatara, the spread of
hhakti will come about, and all the people will be saved.” So he shouted
exhortations to Krsna, and the son of Vrajendra was attracted by the
shouts(1.3.67-7l').
The term avatara is usually translated as “incarnation.” That

translation seems singularly inappropriate here, for “incarnation”
implies that what had no physical form, no “flesh,” takes on such a
form. The Vaisnavas never found the question of the form of God to
be a problem: as the Bhagavata is revelation, God’s form is that of
the dark-colored, two-armed cowherd of Vrndavana. Nor is
“flesh” a correct concept in the context: as we saw in the case of the
poet whose drama was read by Svarupa, flesh and spirit are the
same. The power of the godhead is infinite, and therefore nothing
can diminish it. Each time the godhead appears on earth, therefore,
it is with that infinite power, even while the godhead himself
remains fully powerful. Each avatara of Krsna, then, is fully Krsna

not a “part” of Krsna, nor an aspect of him. And further, such
1 1 0 The Sound of Silent Guns and Other Essays
avataras, being outside time and space, can appear in infinite

number at the same moment of earthly time, or singly, widely
spaced, in earthly time, or in any combination. None of the appear-
ances differ any way in essence, though they might differ in
in
form, from one another or from their source. Caitanya, then, is

Caitanya in overt form, Krsna and Radha in covert form, and
Krsna in essence.
It is on the question of the dual covert form that the Gosvamins
and their student Krsnadasa are truly athletic. The argument is

this. Since all of Vrndavana is an extension of Krsna himself, the
gopis are also parts of him. Yet the Bhagavata says that the
gopls were in love with Krsna, and such a love relationship, apart
from Freudian psychology, implies at least two parts. Thus the
gopls, and Radha, who is the gopJ par excellence, are both
the same and not the same as Krsna. Krsna, whose nature is to love
and be loved, separated Radha from himself in order that the
love relationship could take place. But in that separated condition
Krsna could not appreciate fully the and extent of
depth
Radha’s love and at the same time his own. So he recombined
the parts, both still fully individual but bound up in one, the person
and body of Caitanya.
This too would all be straightforward enough were it not for the
fact that in a few instances the biographers cannot, or choose not to,
make the theological fit. While we are told that Krsna sported
merrily and sensually with Radha and the gopls, Caitanya
became so angry with one of his devoted followers for accepting
food from a woman (though the food was begged as a special treat
for Caitanya himself) that he drove the poor man to suicide by
denying him his presence. The theologians try: when Caitanya is
asked why he persists in keeping the guise of an ascetic when in truth
he is the self-willed deity, he replies that the teachings of an ascetic
will be respected, and that if he revealed himself, as Krsna did in the
Gltd, people, like Arjuna, would be so awe-struck that they
would not listen.
So Caitanya was an and to that extent socially and
ascetic,
psychologically comprehensible. But in fact even as an ascetic he is
not that easy to define. On the one hand, when he was in what
Ramakrishna called his “outer state of consciousness,” he would
seem to remember his brahman heritage (itself peculiar for a
samnyasin), and take his food in the houses of brahmans. In his
inner state of consciousness he was oblivious to all that. One day he
— 1
On Impersonality and Religious Biography 1 1
went to the temple to have darsana of Jagannatha. A low-caste

woman was climbing on the temple wall, to improve her own view,
when she put her foot on his shoulder. His companions were hor-
rified, but Caitanya only said: Do not be angry with her; she only
wants to see the image, as we all do.
TTiough Krsnadasa is the most theology-minded of the lot, all of
the biographers present us with this ambiguous kind of picture.
Jayananda, whose Caitanya-mahgala is said by Nagendra Kumar
Ray in the introduction to his translation of the Caitanya-
caritdmrta to have “disfigured the life of the Lord,” and which is
anathema to the orthodox, rings perhaps truest in historical detail.

It isJayananda’s text that we find the story that Caitanya
in
injured his foot while dancing, and died six days later from an
infection of the wound. And
Jayananda who paints the
it is
interesting picture of a society that saw Caitanya as defiant and

threatening. It rings true, because his teaching was antinomian. As
Nirmal Kumar Bose once pointed out to me, the brahmans would
have seen a teaching that salvation stems from the presence of God
in the heart as rapidly putting things beyond social control. There
was a tradition that the people of Navadvip were skilled archers,
and Jayananda tells this story:
[The brahmans] went into the presence of the lord of Goura and gave this
false representation: The brahmans of Navadvip will create trouble for
you. A brahman will become king in Goura. So do not remain idle
trouble is near. A brahman of Goura will certainly become king, for it is
written by the Gandharvas that he will be one skilled with the bow. This
false information struck the mind of the king, and he gave the order:
Destroy Navadvip. (p. 10)
Which was not done, though the local qazi got instructions to
in fact
keep an eye on the place. And Jayananda suggests that not only
was Caitanya’s presence leading to religious chaos and perhaps
political insurrection as well, but the street processions that he led,
with their drums and cymbals and loud singing, were keeping the
citizenry awake at night:
They woke up angrily, their peaceful sleep broken . . . and some said,
what is all this madness? And some said: I cannot get to sleep at night.
And others said: He is making me angry, with all those drums, (p. 10)
Yet despite the relief that this text affords from theological preoccu-
pations, in no sense can Jayananda be called a heretic by any
fair-minded observer, and even he is constrained by the recognition
of Caitanya as the Krsna of Vrndavana.
We are presented with a Caitanya, then, who is both a part of and
not a part of ordinary reality. The problems posed by the
biographies, and especially by Krsnadasa, are not so different
from those posed by the Gospel of John: for the historian, it is like
trying to reconstruct the life of Jesus without the Synoptic Gospels.
We see Caitanya the ascetic, set apart from society yet acting within
it;we see Caitanya the half-man, half-god, seeking solitude; and we
see the Caitanya who is totally withdrawn, oblivious to the outside
world. There is indeed sequence, for people had watched Caitanya
grow up, and become a samnyasin, and disappear. But every-
thing is potential all the time, and this is what the final withdrawal
into the transcendance says. God’s body and God’s spirit are identi-
cal; the life of the body is the life of the spirit, and that is what is
important. Samkara melds with the lihgam of Siva. Kabir’s body
disappears, leaving in its place a pile of flowers to be divided among
his Hindu and Muslim disciples. It is a problem for the western
analyst that the spirit-flesh dichotomy does not exist, for we are
used to seeing a tension here. The biography reflects again the
doctrine of hhedahheda.
The City in Pre-British Bengal
(with Ronald B. Inden)
Part I. Introductory
The Vaisnava biographies, then, are useful for an understanding of

the social and religious history of sixteenth and seventeenth century
Bengal, but only if they are taken on their own terms. Fortunately,
for knowledge of the period we are not limited to these sources.
Ronald B. Inden has shown how useful caste and family histories
can be, and he has reconstructed a large part of a whole social
system from them.^ There are the chronicles of the Muslim courts
and, for a somewhat later period, the unique historical manuscript
Maharashtra puraruj.^ And there are the mahgala-kavyas
which, while according to Sukumar Sen containing elements of a
much earlier date, were written down during the period in
question.^
The term mahgala means “auspicious, beneficent” and the term
kdvya means “poetry,” though not in the technical sense it has in
Sanskrit poetics. The genre is one of narrative poetry which is
auspicious in its and which brings blessings from the deity
recitation
it eulogizes —
Siva, Manasa, Sitala, and Candl, among others.
The poems tell of the power and magnificence of a particular
divinity, how mankind prospers by the worship of that divinity and
suffers by denying it.
The poems would seem at first glance to be unlikely sources of
historical information. The fact is however that since they were not
This essay was first published in Richard L. Park, ed.. Urban Bengal (East
Lansing: Asian Studies Center, Michigan State University, 1%9), pp. 3-18. It has
b>een revised from that earlier version.
' Marriage and Rank in Bengali Culture: A History of Caste and Clan in Middle-
Period Bengal (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1976). (This and other
references to Inden’s work are my responsibility —E.C.D.)
^ Both this text and the Muslim court records are discussed in Edward C.
Dimock, Jr., and Pratul Chandra Gupta, The Mahdrashta Puram (Honolulu:
East-West Center Press, 1%5).
^ See his Introduction to Vipradasa’s Manasd-vijaya (Calcutta: The Asiatic
Society, 1953), p. vi. The Introduction is in English.
canonical poems,* their authors felt free to embellish the basic

themes with and in their
stories current at their various times
various places, and with often pithy observations of the world about
them. And while, as we shall see, they cannot really be called “folk
poems,” they do present, in the form of mythology, social and
cultural attitudes and problems in the light of which history must be
interpreted.
Historians, therefore, have used the mahgala-kavyas in various
ways. Because most of them eulogize one or another of the goddes-
ses, T.W. Clark interprets them in sweeping terms and feels that
they represent a period in history when the female deity in her
numerous forms was taking over the consciousness of the commun-
ity from the traditional agricultural patriarch Siva, with all that that
implies in social terms. Japan Raychaudhuri would prefer to use
the social observations they present in a reconstruction of the
period.^ And, more recently, an excellent dissertation by David L.
Curley entitled Rulers and Merchants in Late Eighteenth Century
Bengal uses the Candi-mahgala of Mukundarama as a paradigm
of Bengali attitudes toward trade and commerce and other social
relations, and understands later British-Indian trade relations in
those terms. While allowing that Mukundarama’s paradigm does
not exhaust the social and psychological possibilities, Curley writes
that
The bond of trapping and caging and the bond of kama (a manipulative,
exploitative relationship) are relevant not just to relations of trade, but
also to enduring relations generally, so far as they are characterized by
greed and the absence of well-being. That this is so derives from two
comprehensive analogies in Mukundarama’s poem. The first is that
merchants are related to rulers and to each other as subjects generally are
related to rulers and to other subjects. The second and more important
analogy is that the relations of a court and a country are like those of a
household. ... In South Asia the myths, legends, and tales of popular
culture probably are a good place to look for analyses of conflict, analyses
which, like that of Mukundarama’s poem, were occasioned by particu-
lar crises but which describe patterns rather than events.^
*
See for example his “Encounter and Growth in Bengali Literature,” in Edward
C. Dimock, Jr., ed., Bengal: Literature and History (East Lansing: Asian Studies
Center, Michigan State University, 1967), p. 13.
* See for example Bengal Under Akbar and Jahangir: An Introductory Study in
Social History (Calcutta: A. Mukherji, 1953). See also T. C. Das Gupta, Aspects of
Bengali Society from Old Bengali Literature (Calcutta: University of Calcutta, 1935).
^ Unpublished doctoral dissertation. Department of History, University of Chi-
cago, 1980, pp. 139-40.
The City in Pre-British Bengal (with Ronald B. Inden) 1 15
This paper will take a position somewhere between Curley and

Raychaudhuri, and will focus on how cities are thought about in
mahgala texts.
In the Vidyd-sundara section of the Annadd-mahgala of
Bharatcandra, the following passage is found:
The city of Burdwan lay before him, extending to the horizons, sur-
rounded by walls. And he passed through the seven gates of the seven
forts, and there within the seventh was the palace of the king. All around
were the people of the thirty-six castes, and people of all countries
involved in their particular businesses. There were markets, with pas-
sageways and alleys and bazaars, with people surging in and out,
thousands of people, and rut elephants, their trunks swinging, tied to
pillars, and horses and camels and asses and mules brought from Turkey,
Iraq, and Arabia. There were all the kinds of people and birds and beasts
that inhabit the earth.
. . . and another quarter, by a lake, he saw a lovely garden of flowers. In

in
this garden, the wind was gently wafting the sweet smell of sandalwood,
the nightingales were calling softly, and bees were humming. The water
of the lake was lapping quietly, and on the water graceful waterbirds
swam, and there were white and red and blue and yellow lotuses and lilies
of all kinds. Peacocks were dancing and calling in the garden, and cranes
and swans. In the forest of flowers the birds, awake both day and night,
sang sweetly. was the garden of the palace of the king. Surely this was
It
the earth’s finest city, a place where the god of love himself might come to
rest.”^
Despite the fact that palace gardens— now often hotel gardens— in
India are sometimes idylically beautiful, this is not the Burdwan
that many have come
know. TTie question is, was it this way in the
to
eighteenth century when Bharatcandra wrote? It would seem that
despite the fact that Bharatcandra, with his poet’s art, is able to
convey the bustle and hectic activity of the city, his description is
idealized and full of hyperbole. If the writers of mahgala poems are
accurate observers in other areas, why should the city be idealized?
A possible answer to the first of these questions is suggested by
Asutos Bhattacarya in his Bdhgld mahgala-kdvyer iti-
hdsa: that such descriptions may not be so much idealized as
conventionalized, that descriptions of cities in the poems may be
accurate descriptions of the great trading centers of Bengal during
the earlier Pala and Sena periods, or perhaps Tamralipti or the lost
^ Edward C. Dimock, Jr., The Thief of Love (Chicago: University of Chicago

Press, 1963), pp. 32-7.
Gange or Gangadvipa.® Bhattacarya of course bases his idea on
the archeological evidence that during these early times much com-
mercial activity was going on in the deltaic region: that ships were
going from the port cities of Bengal to South India, Southeast Asia
and perhaps beyond, and coming from as far away as Rome. What
he suggests is that elements of the mahgala poems date from these
times and that descriptions that were accurate then have over the
centuries become conventionalized.
It is the second of these questions that the present paper seeks to
address, and its stance will be opposed to that of Bhattacarya:
while the mahgala poems do contain observed information, de-
scriptions of them are idealized, and have less to do with
cities* in
historicity than they do with cultural attitudes which are as true

today as they were in the sixteenth century, when
Mukundarama’s Candi-mahgala was written. For it is the de-
scription of the city of Gujarata in that text that will be the
primary example. The term “description” is in fact not entirely
accurate, for Mukundarama details the planning and construction
of Gujarata, the capital city of a chiefdom, literally from scratch:
it is by definition an ideal
the settlement of unsettled land. It is
situation: Kalaketu, the hero of the episode, has the money, the
power, the people, and the land. It is reasonable therefore to
assume that the city he constructs represents Mukundarama’s
ideal and that of all the mahgala poets.
If, then, the descriptions of cities in the mahgala poems are
idealized rather than conventional, the questions that follow are:
what is the ideal being advanced, and why? The answer to the first is
suggested by Mukundarama himself when he says that
Gujarata, with its glorious halls for study and for dancing, for
worship and for trade, is a city “like Ayodhya,” Rama’s great city,
or “greater than the Dvaraka” of Krsna. It is a city built by
Visvakarma, the architect of the gods, with the assistance of
Hanuman the great craftsman. To build the finest city, divine
workmanship is necessary. The city is not taken out of the context of
the immediate by theological necessity, as are the places and people
of the Vaisnava texts, but by the demands of a literature which had to
be both edifying and entertaining. To describe their own city to its
inhabitants would be neither, for they could see the dirt in the alleys.
The city of the golden age of the epics and puranas, removed in time
and space, is the proper haunt of the imagination, and the gods.
*
See Satiscandra Mitra, Yasohar-khulnar itihasa, 3rd edn (Calcutta;
Dasgupta and Co., 1963).
)
The City in Pre- British Bengal ( with Ronald B. Inden 117
The mahgala poems, then, like the epics, both edify and enter-
tain. And like the epics, they encapsulate psychological and
sociological facts and aspirations. As in the relationship between
the abstract rasa and the immediate bhava, there is enough of the
familiar in these cities to make them believable. They are the worlds
of the gods, and like the gods themselves they are similar, but not
and its inhabitants. Gods, and people, move
identical to this world
back and forth between the two. Mukundarama’s Gujarata is of
this world, and yet not quite. It is rather an eerie feeling, for one
does not quite know in which world one is moving, or if one is not,
perhaps, in some misty world between.
In the Sitald-mahgala of Krsnarama-dasa, a poet who lived
in the last part of the eighteenth century, there is a passage which
describes a journey down a river, a theme common to many of the
mahgala-kdvyas:
On the was NavadvTp, and on the right Patorpur, and they quickly
left
came upon Santipur; they passed Abuwa, with Santipur on their left,
and left Guptipara behind. And then the merchants came to
. . .
Tribeni. How shall I describe their feelings? All seven sang praises day
and night. There were three streams coming from three directions,
. . .
with innumerable people bathing in them there. To the ghat, where

people bathed incessantly, in that most worthy village on the earth, they
brought their boat.^
The merchants disembarked, and went into the town to wander

about:
There were many and when they saw these they were
streets of shops,
delighted. All together, they bought many goods. First they bought husked
rice both fine and coarse; [and many other kinds of foodstuffs] ....
Fulfilling their hopes, they bought cloth, shawls of excellent velvet [de-
corated with] silk. TTiey bought seven galica-curpcts and satarahci-
carpets and the best chinz and Bhutanese cloth and kambal-bX^nkeis and
turbans .and Khorasani swords and keen blades from Majran
. . . . .
And the shopping spree went on and on. The point is that the places
mentioned are real. One finds them, in the order mentioned, up the
river from Calcutta today. The goods that are bought are also real.
They are rich and expensive stuffs, for the most part highly valued
still today. And it is not impossible that Tribeni, also a real place
and being at the confluence of three rivers both a holy place and
’ Satyanarayana Bhattacarya, ed., Kavikrsnardmadaser granthdvali (Calcutta:

Calcutta University Press, 1958), p.265.
market, could have imported things from as far away as Khorasan
and Bhutan. It is not impossible, but was it so? We can locate the
places and goods in space; can we also locate them in time, and
draw the tempting conclusions?
Part II. Gujardta in the Candl-mahgala of Mukundardma
Mukundarama Candi-mahgala in 1589,

Cakravartf wrote his
and in it he gives us a full description of how the town of Gujarata
was built. Gujarata then is not a real town, but the “realistic
ideal” of a town. To use the old image of the relationship of the
material and immaterial, it is the reflection of the sky in the earthen
pot of water. It is both physical and metaphysical, and sometimes it
is between the two.

difficult to tell the difference
Kalaketu, the hero of the first part of the Candl-mahgala, was
by caste and occupation a lowly hunter. After his marriage, he and
his wife Phullara fell on hard times. Poverty-stricken, they turned
to the worship of Candi, who promised to relieve their suffering
and bestow great riches upon them. She was true to her word, and
through her grace Kalaketu found a ring worth seven crores of
rupees (one crore = 0 million). What did he do with this windfall?
1
One would expect that he shared it with his fellow hunters, or that
he retired from his trade and spent the rest of his life in ease, eating
and drinking in his simple thatched hut, or that he left the village
and sought the bright lights of the capital, to enjoy all the luxury
such a city could afford.
But Kalaketu did none of these things. He wanted his own city.
He wanted to be a local raja or zamindar. So he converted his ring
into cash. And then, says Mukundarama,
taking his packet of money, the hero went to Golaha^, and behind
followed one hundred servants. While he sat in a palanquin they served
him, supplied him with pan, and waved a fly-whisk over him. The sons of
Kayasthas [traditionally the scribal caste] came with pens behind their
ears and inkpots in their hands and bowed their heads to the great hero.
"Fhose who bear sword and shield — the Rahutas, Mahutas, and Malas
also came when they heard about minds were filled with
the hero. Their
joy as they spent the wealth of Candi. They bought hundreds of items,
which were recorded. Some looked over the merchandise and decided
what to buy; the Kayasthas recorded this on paper, signed, and gave the
traders money for them. (p. 297)
The text used is that of Srikumar Bandyopadhyay and Visvapati

Caudhuri, eds, Kavikankana caruU (Calcutta; University of Calcutta, 1958).
; )
The City in Pre-British Bengal (with Ronald B. Inden 1 19
So, when he had converted part of his fortune into supplies and
followers, Kalaketu set out to establish his kingdom. He did this
in the jungle territory of another local chiefdom called Kalihga. To
do it, he had to clear away the jungle. For Mukundarama and the
hero this also proved to be no problem, for
when the day-laborers heard that the great hero was clearing the jungle,
they came from many countries, (p. 299)
Kalaketu was prepared for them. He had bought quantities of

axes and hatchets at the market “to give to all of them”, (p. 299)
And, “with great delight, the day-laborers cleared the jungle”,
(p 304)
After clearing the jungle, Kalaketu turned to the task of build-
ing the city.Visvakarma and Hanuman, the divine Mistri, were
sent by Candi to help. The heavenly builders built a city of clay,
and the buildings that they built can be seen today, in ruins in the
capitals of the old zamindaris.
The town was two instalments. Kalaketu’s compound,
built in
naturally, was constructed first, and then the rest of the buildings that
Mukundarama felt necessary for his ideal town were put up
around the royal compound.
First Bisai Visvakarma] made a boundary wall of four sides,
[i.e,,
using lintels of strong stone. The boundary wall was as high as a tal-palm
tree because the hero Hanuman used supports of stone. Inside the . . .
compound he constructed a house with a hip roof, and he used stone to

build the foundation-platform of the house. In the interior apartment he
built a tank, and made the four ghats [i.e., steps leading down to the
water] for it out of stone. He built a back gate facing north, a lion-gate
facing east, and an audience-platform made of stone on all four sides.
Holding a measuring-tape in fifty-seven different ways, Bisai studded
the floor with sapphires. He built a temple to Candi in seven sections,
and after carving many designs upon it was pleased. He placed many
jewels in the sacrificial platform, and set up a jeweled lion-throne and
water jar for Candi. When the son of a hunter [i.e., Kalaketu] saw
this, he became very pleased, and attentively performed the appropriate
puja to Candi. (pp. 310-11)
When he had finished the royal compound, Hanuman continued

his work and built the rest of the town
The goddess gave the command and Hanuman, having established the
various boundaries of the city, excavated a moat around it. With a saw he
cut stones and constructed a boundary wall that was equal to that of
Dvaraka.
The great hero Hanuman scooped stones, trees, and rocks into two
and son together built a foundation of
piles with his fingernails. Father
rock and erected a residence that was like a mountain. He made four
hip-roofed rooms whose floors and platforms were of fired brick. He built
a dance-area out of stone. There were so many beautiful things that the
compound was greater than Dvaraka. There were golden doors to the
throne-hall. To the east of the compound he constructed a beautiful
temple of Visn u with a cupola; he used bits of diamonds and sapphires on
the altar, so that it was like fire and lightning. And to the left of the
compound, he set up a place where people could gather for the Durga-
festivals, and behind it a place where the goddess and her worshipers
could be entertained. To the east of the lion-gate he excavated a tank, and
in front of the private back gate to the north he placed a tank which acted
as a common well for all the houses. In the middle of the courtyard in the
town he temple of Siva, a shelter for the unprotected, and a feeding
built a
establishment. He set up a long hall for travellers there and a gathering
place for guests. Bringing loads of wood, he had piles of bricks fired, and
built many markets. In their midst, using diamonds and sapphires, he
built a Holi platform; was near a grove of kadamba trees.
it
To the west he erected a Muslim prayer-hall, and a mosque, in various

shapes. He built a cooking-hall there which was prosperous and artful,
and in it Muslim serving-girls and women cooked, (pp. 212-13)
Mukundarama, like was fascinated by

certain other Bengalis,
market-places and shopping, and no good Bengali town can be
complete without elaborate bazaars.
After fixing his flagstaff in the ground, and tying to it a garland of

wildflowers, the hero brought market-men (hdtuya) and gave them
armbands. The day-laborers came and installed lamps. Many merchants
came when they heard about the market. Some sell oil, and some sell
portions of curds; they sell many kinds of foodstuffs, goods, and gift
items, (p. 362)
The structure of the city of Gujarata, then, reflects its various

functions. It is the political center of Kalaketu’s chiefdom. It is no
surprise, therefore, to learn that the chiefdom’s center of political
power and compound, is also the central core of
activity, the royal
the town. It is also a religious and economic center. It contains
temples of Visnu, Durga, and Siva, and a Muslim mosque. Market
places of course are integral. And there are places where guests may
rest and eat and places where the poor are sheltered. Artificial tanks
supply the town with its water. Yet it is clear that the structures that
—
accommodate these activities indeed, one might say the activities
themselves — are all conceived as adjuncts to the court.
The City in Pre- British Bengal (with Ronald B. Inden) 121
After constructing the town, Kalaketu, with the help of Candi

and a wily official by the name of Bhamru Datta, lures people
away from Kaliiiga and gets them to settle in Gujarata.
Mukundarama is elaborate in his description of the many groups
that come to settle the new city:
Leaving the town of Kalinga, he [Bhamru Datta] brought households of

subjects of many castes to the town of the hero. Many Muslims settled
there receiving the hero’s pan. He gave them the western quarter.
Saiyads, Maulanas and Kajis came riding horses. Out of charity the
hero gave them houses; they settled in the western neighborhood of the
town, called Hasanahad after leaving the country of Kalinga. They
rise at dawn, spread out their red-colored mats, and prostrate themselves
five times. With CholemanT garlands, they mutter prayers to the Pir
Pegambar and light evening lamps in the Pir’s hall. Kinsmen, sitting in
groups of ten to twenty, constantly deliberate on the Quran. Others,
sitting in the market, prepare sirani sweets for the Pir and play drums in
the evening. They are very religious men and do not know deceit or
trickery. Even if their lives should go, they would not abandon the roja
fast. When they see disciples with bare heads, they beat them. They. . .
wear Kamboja dress; they have no hair on their heads, but they do have
beards that cover their chests.
They do not abandon their ways; they wear tightly tied pajamas and on
their heads ten-striped caps. The headmen of Muslim villages, after they
eat with their own kinsmen, wipe their hands on cloths. Many jdts of
Pathans settle — Savani, Lohani, Lodani, and Surayani.
Many headmen settle with their own followers. Some marry according
to Islamic usage; others marry according to Hindu usage. The Maulana
[priest] performs Islamic marriage ceremonies and receives many rupees
in exchange. He blesses [those married] and recites a kalarnd prayer.
He sacrifices cocks with a sharp knife and receives a gift of forty cowries in
return. Whenever there is a sacrifice of a she-goat, they give the Molla
the head; in addition he receives a gift of twenty-four cowries. Many
young Muslims erect a sitting platform; there the Maulvi teaches them
to read.
Those who did not fast or make namaz became inferior Muslims
[gold]. Those among them who weave cloth are called Jola. Those
who carry loads on bullocks are called by the name Mukeri. Those who
sell pitha sweets are called Pithari. Those who sell fish are Kabari;
they always tell lies and do not have beards. Hindus who have become
Muslims are garsdl [converts]. Those who become blind only at night,
beg during the night. Those who card thread have the name
Sanakar. Those who perform circumcision are named Ha jam.
Some wear turbans and hawk their goods in the town. Those who make
arrows are Tirakars. Those who make paper are named Kagaji.
Those who wander from place to place are Kalandars. Groups of Darjis
cut and sew cloth. Those who weave the newars [large cords used in
making rope-cots] are named Benata. Those who dye cloth are called
Rahgarej. Those who work with spades are called Halan. Those who
sell the meat of cows are named Kasai; for this reason, they have no
place in Yamapura [heaven]. The Muslims, engaged in many occupa-

tions, settled in Gujarata. Now listen carefully to the story of the
Hindus.
Brahmans, pan from the hero, settle in many places of

after receiving
family purity in the town of Gujara^. Daily they bless the hero,
deliberate on the sastras, and receive ornaments and sandal-marks.
Catuti, MukhatT, Bandya, Kahjilala, Gahguli, and Ghosala
are not to be faulted in either family purity or conduct. . . .The Var-
endra Brahmans, having not only gmis [surnames] but gotras,
settled near them by the hundreds. In conduct they are very honest and
daily they recite the Yajur-veda-, Vedic knowledge is constantly on their
lips. The rows Brahmana dwellings look prosperous; and among
of
them here and there are Visnu temples. Flags of silk wave from the peaks
of the golden ornaments — a beautiful sight which illuminates the tops of
the temples. Some Brahmanas become sacrificers [?] while others tell
stories, and still others recite the Agama and Purana texts. Students
come from many countries in hope of learning, and the hero gives them
many gifts.
Unlearned Brahmanas settle in the town and learn how to execute

pujd ceremonies by p)erforming sacrifices in the town. Wearing
forehead-marks of sandal paste, they perform pujd to the gods in
house after house and tie the rice which they get in exchange in the folds
of their clothes. At the Mayara’s house they get pieces of sweetmeats, at
the Gopa’s house, vessels of milk, and at the Teli’s house, bottles full of
oil. Some give them uncooked rice or cowries, and others give them little
balls of lentils; the village priests swim with joy.
The perform the ritual for those who have settled in the
village priests
town of Gujara^ and have arranged marriages. When they have
finished, these Brahmanas say, “There will be a daksind fee of 1280
cowries.” With kusa grass in their hands, the fee is settled upon. The
genealogist-matchmakers [ghatakas] basing their decisions on the
genealogies, punish the Kulinas with abuse and reverse their order. [?]
In the caste council, they put those in distress who do not flatter them as
long as they do not receive their rewards.
The Astrologers [Graha-vipras] and heads of the low-caste priests

[Vama-vipras] settle in one section of Gujarata. They discuss the
sastras together with their commentaries and keep horoscopes of the

children bom.
Kapali sannyîs with reddish-brown matted hair on their heads

come and stay in a quarter where there are small houses. Mendicants with
the marks of many pilgrimages on their bodies beg every day; they live in
one part of Gujarat a. The Vaisnavas, who are always taking the name
of Hari, receive grants of land for homesteads and settle in Gujara^.
With rags, beggar’s bowl, and staff, and with tulsi beads around their
necks, they are always chanting, singing, and dancing,
Senagupta, Dasa, Datta, Kara, and so on, the best of the Baidyas, settle
in places of family purity. They are famed for their pills, have the pxjwer of
administering dmgs, and recite many Tantra texts [on medicine]. Rising
in the morning, they put sect-marks on their foreheads and turbans on
their heads, and wear red dhotis. They go about their business in
Gujarat a with wicker-boxed manuscripts under their arms. When they
see a simple fever or headache, they prepare medicine, stroke the chest
[of the patient], and promise a cure; but when they see an incurable
disease, they prepare to flee, begging leave under many pretexts. They
say, “If I cook some camphor, then I will be able to contain it; go search
for some camphor.’’ The patient answers with humility and goes to fetch
camphor. At that the Baidyas flee down the path.
The Funeral Priests [Agradani-vipras] settle next to the Baidyas.

Everyday they search for those who are diseased and about to die. They
pay no taxes, and receive gifts of gold, oil, and Baitaranl cows [in
exchange for their services].
Carrying large jars of ghl and presents of curds, and fish, the great men
of the Kayasthas arrive. Bowing before the hero, they make their own
request. At this, the hero becomes happy. All the Kayasthas say, “We
come to your country to settle in Gujara^. Make a decision to give us
houses and land and inform your subjects of this. Some of us are of
Siddha families, while others, the source of dharma, are of Sadhya
families; all of the Kayasthas are faultless. Our speech at court is bright,
and all of us know how to read and write; all of us long to follow the path
of auspicious dharma. Many Kayasthas gathered after hearing of your
adventures, and we have come to you. In our family purity and conduct
there is no fault. Some of us are the Ghosas of Mahesa, while others are
the chief men of the Basu and Mitra families. O hero, pay heed: mark
. . .
out our living quarters and give pan to us as subjects. You should give us
prosperous houses and money for buying bullocks; come to a decision
without delay. We shall leave Kalihga with a lakh of subjects and settle in
one place. After you consider this, you will give us houses and land.’’
After he heard this, the hero gave them assurances, “I will give you as
many rupees as you ask for; no one need have any apprehensions. You
may settle in the southern quarter. ...”
The Baniks and Gopas settle. They do not know deceit or anger. Many
kinds of produce grow in the fields. The store-houses are full of muga
lentils, oil, molasses . .

. ,
wheat, mustard seeds, and cotton. Telis settle by
the hundreds; some are cultivators while others work at oil-presses. Some
trade in oil. Kamaras establish their workshops; they make spades
and plows and axes and spears which are the holders of death.
Bringing their betel, T^buli folk settle. Everyday they give a packet
of pan to the hero. They put camphor in the packet with care and they
are never bothered by the raja. The Kumbhakaras in Gujarat a
fashion pots and other vessels. They make the mrdanga, dagari, and
hard drums.
Hundreds of Tantubayas settle there in one place. They weave together

silk dhotis.
Malls settle Gujara^. They constantly work in flower gardens.

in
They make garland crowns and flower houses. They tie together bundles
of flowers and with these on their shoulders, they [go to the] town and
give them to the temples of the gods and goddesses.
Baruis settle in the town. They set up betel plantations. Ever>' day
they give betel to the great hero. Whenever he tells them to, they fetch
some. They make entreaties to the hero, and he does not make unjust
regulations about this. Napitas [barbers] settle in the town. Every day
they look after the hero, holding up quicksilver mirrors. Month after
month they receive things, especially from the hero. They come to the
hero and massage him.
Aguris settle in the town. They perform their own work, always think-
ing of battle. They are learned in many kinds of weaponry. They support
their priestsand preceptors, and never do anything wrong. The chief
people of the Modakas set up a sugar factory. Tliey make pieces of
sweetmeats. They put their merchandise on their heads and travel from
town to town, supplying sweets regularly to the children.
Sarakas settle in Gujara^. They do not kill a living creature. Every-

wljere they are vegetarians. Receiving grants of houses, daily they weave
the royal robes. Seeing them, the hero is very happy.
The Gandhabenyas settle in the town. They sell perfumes, incense, and
resins. Loading up their bundles, they go to market. Sahkhabenyas cut
conch shells, none of which is ever crooked. Manikbeny^ [jewelers] also
settle in Gujarata. Kamsaris set up their workshops. They make
water pots, small pots, and metal dishes; cups, large stone vessles, pots,
and copper vessels. They also make small boxes, lime containers, jingling
anklets, cymbals, bells, lion thrones, and pancadipa lamps [for tem-
ple worship].
Subarnabaniks settle. They analyze gold and silver in ore form. They
clear up doubts by putting these in the fire and melting them. Some things
they buy, others they sell. Every day their wealth increases. TTiey live in
the middle of the town. The Pasyatoharas settle, making their homes in
Gujarat a. They make jewelry; even while people are watching their
wealth disappears. They know how to exchange goods as well. Palla
Gopas settle in the town. They travel with loads on their shoulders and
keep oxen in cowsheds. . . .
Subjects of many castes settle, receiving grants of land. They become

happy in the town of the hero. The hero gave them beautiful houses and
gifts, and showed them great respect. As a result, there was dancing and
singing in the houses of all. Two Dasa castes settle there: one sells fish,
[the other] cultivates. Kalus set up oil-presses in the town. Baitis
settle in the town; they play many kinds of instruments. Bunis sell mats
from house to house.
Bagdis town; holding many kinds of weapons, they form

settle in the
groups of ten or twenty foot soldiers. Machuyas settle in the town;
they weave nets and catch fish. The Kocas weave colored fish-creels.
Many Dhobas settle, brightening the town. Tliey dry quantities of
clothes on lines. Darjis sew clothes; receiving wages, they make a living.
TTiey settle in a quarter of Gujarata. Siulis cut into the date-palm tree
for the sap and make many kinds of molasses. Chutaras are in the town;
they split, cut, and chop wood. Some of them construct designed objects.
Patanis settle in the town; they are forever in the water. They ferry
people across in exchange for a fare. Jaga Bha^s come and settle in
Gujarata. TTiey go from house to house begging.
Caudulis, Korahgas, Majhis, CunarTs, Bauds, BajTs, and

Malas settle outside the town. Candalas settle in the town; they sell
salt and water-chestnuts by the load. Gayens sing songs. Kayalis
travel about daily. Kiratas and Kilas settle. They play drums in the
. . .
market place. Workmen who use their wives in making a living settle.
Haris who socialize in the courtyar 1 of the toddy-merchant, settle
outside the town. They cut grass in exchange for cowries. Camaras
settle in a quarter forever making sandals, slippers, and saddles. Tlie
—
Domas midwives, scavengers, and sweepers make headgear and um- —
brellas; they are absorbed in making a living. Prostitutes settle in search
oflasciviousmen, and become established in one place. (pp. 343-61) . .
.
It would seem, then, that to Mukundarama the ideal habitation
was the political capital of a local chiefdom. That capital was not
however merely a kind of medieval manor house together with its
out-buildings, complex urban center. In Mukundarama's
it was a
account, the population of the town and the chiefdom was divided
into more than twenty-five Muslim and sixty Hindu groups. Each of
these groups lived in a separate neighborhood and engaged in one
or more specialized occupations. The population of Gujarata was
also characterized by a high degree of stratification; all the groups in
it were arranged from high to low in either Muslim or Hindu
hierarchies. Each of the groups was engaged in one or more
specialized occupations, and each group depended on the others to
provide it with these specialized goods and services.
It is noteworthy that Mukundarama draws no sharp distinction
in his account between town and country: cultivators are mentioned
in the same breath as tradesmen whose livelihood depended en-

tirely on the urban bazaar. The two complement each other, and we
are not always quite sure whether a particular group is settled inside
the town, or its outskirts, or in the surrounding countryside. He
begins his account of the settlement with this statement: “I cannot
tell you in how many and neighborhoods people came to
villages
settle, there were so many; Gujarata was like Ayodhya” (p. 347).
Town and chiefdom are indistinguishable: Gujarata is the name
of both.
All of this leads to an interesting conclusion about
Mukundarama’s, and quite possibly the Bengali Hindu’s, concep-
tion of the ideal society. The ideal unit is not the Bengal region as a
whole, nor Bengal as represented by a simple rural village or by
is it
the regional capital alone. The ideal unit is a complex of all of these,
and the highest social position a man can attain is to be raja, and to
live at the pinnacle of the complex that is centered in the capital
town. This does not mean that the social horizons are narrow, for in
a very real sense the entire social structure of Bengal is encapsulated
here. Gujarata stands for a Bengal at once familiar — for the people
who inhabit it are those whom one see every day — and not familiar:
the projection is one
which urban and rural life blend together,
in
both supporting a central figure who everyone would like to be.
Part III: Certain Random Observations
It is often felt, by city-dwellers who do not participate in it, that the

simple rustic life of the villager, close to the earth, is the ideal. The
refrain of the city-dweller’s lament, heard in all cultures, is “to live
as man was meant to live, where the air is pure and people have
)
The City in Pre- British Bengal (with Ronald B. Inden 127
dignity.” There seem to betwo schools of thought on the matter in

Calcutta. The first is made up of those who are frankly horrified at
the thought of having to live outside the city; they feel that they
would be and they are probably right. The second,
utterly lost,
which is also represented by some contemporary Bengali fiction,
professes an admiration for the noble savage, an envy of the uncom-
plicated Santal, who drinks Mahuwa, makes love, and hunts when
the urge strikes him. Those who subscribe to this feel the lure of the
pastoral idyll strongly, though usually not strongly enough actually
to leave the city. A lesser-known sub-type of the second consists of
those who go to their ancestral villages at some time during the
year, usually during Durga-puja, and for the rest indulge in musing
on a lost dream.
The point is an obvious one. The poets of the mahgala-kavyas
recognize both. They sing ecstatically of vakula trees in blossom,
and cows grazing on river-banks and water-birds and peacocks and
lotuses and But when it comes down to cases, what dota
all.
Kalaketu, who by the grace of the goddess has the wherewithal for
anything, do? He takes his wealth and creates himself a city. He
hungers after wealth, power, prestige, and the control of resources
of both goods and people. The central city is where one finds it.
Bharatcandra says it all:
Thus was the king Virasirriha Ray sitting in his court, surrounded by
all and friends. His servants stood with his umbrella and his
his courtiers
fan. And there were scribes and minstrels, poets and pandits, teachers
and scholars, gurus and purohits. There were the king’s five sons and his
four brothers, his ten nephews and seven sons-in-law and sixteen nieces.
And there were sons-in-law of the queen’s paternal relatives, and her
maternal uncles, and their brothers-in-law, ... in short his friends and
kinsmen of all kinds, a crowd of people sitting in his retinue. And before
him stood his soldiers, drawn up rank on rank, with shields across their
chests and sharp swords in their hands. And on the great king’s either side
stood two tall gong-strikers, their hammers in their hands. And there
were lines and lines of mace-bearers, their golden-headed clubs clasped in
their hands. And before all these, clerks of the court with files and fat
petitions, and panegyrists singing of the glories of the king. And all
around sat parasites, whose yeas and nays came from their mouths at the
raja’s order. And many others: scribes and Muslims and officers and
merchants; physicians, judges, and collectors; sitars, vinas, and
tamburas; dancers, and singers singing songs, and jesters playing pranks,
and heralds shouting praises of their master. And there were huge
negroes dressed in black, and drummers, guards, and soldiers; and before
them were horse-trainers whipping their horses and making them
all
perform, and mahuts sitting on the shoulders of their elephants. And

amidst all this was the king himself, seated on his throne with all the
* ^
majesty of Ravana.
The problem is, of course, that apart from what can be deduced
from the Muslim records, it is difficult to find anything against
which to measure the descriptions given in the mahgalas. It is
interesting to speculate. For example, to what extent does Calcutta
conform to the ideal? That city certainly concentrates wealth and
power and political control. It provides the wide variety of roles and
functions described in the mahgalas. Consider this passage from the
Caitanya-mahgala of Jayananda:
People who were of all kinds, for many jatis lived there.
lived in the city
The temples and shrines were coated with lime, and covered with trees
and creepers of many colors ... on every house there were cupolas of
various sorts, with banners waving. There were places for study and
. . .
for entertainment, tanks and lotus-ponds, lakes and wells with steps
leading down, monasteries and places for worship, courtyards and sacrifi-
cial grounds, all of beautiful and auspicious construction. There were
groves of tulsi, with silver on the gateways worked in various ways.

Every family took delight in dancing and singing, and in every house the
Veda was read. ... At twilight, drums and cymbals and the sound of the
conch were heard in every house.
With allowance perhaps for the possibility that the Veda is not read
in every house in Calcutta, all the things mentioned can be found in
that city. Perhaps the eye needs to be selective, but the cities built by
Visvakarma can be seen. If the eye is not selective, the image is
apt to be like that of Keyes Beech, then a correspondent for The
Chicago Daily News, who wrote on February 20, 1967:
The stench of Calcutta is a many-splendored assault on the human
nostrils —a rich aromatic blend of sweat, garbage, human excrement,
cowdung, and unwashed bodies seasoned with pungent spice and sim-
mered in Calcutta’s blazing sun.
It isn’t much of an exaggeration to say that only the children smile in
Calcutta — and they only because they aren’t old enough to know how
miserable they are.
Calcutta’s overcrowding must be seen to be believed. Three times as
" Bharatcandra, Annada-mangala; this passage is taken from the “Vidya-

sundara” part of the text, which is translated in Edward C. Dimock, Jr., op. cit., pp.
117-18.
(Calcutta: Sahitya Parisad, 1906), Adi-tila 10.

)
The City in Pre- British Bengal (with Ronald B. Inden 129
many people are living in the same space as there were 40 years ago. At its
worst, the population density reckoned at 25,000 persons per square
is
mile. But figures are meaningless. A dozen people sleep in a single room.
—
And tens of thousands have no shelter at all they sleep in the streets.
Selectivity of vision is dictated by time as well as culture. For in
1802, the writer of the East Indian Chronologist, who signed himself
only “H”, was moved to lyricism by the same city. Things indeed
change, but as Jibanananda has told us, much too depends upon
which of the many layers of reality one wants to see.
When Peace was established between the Great Emperor Aurangzebe

and the English Company, Job Chamock, the Company’s Chief at
Hougley, twice removed the factory, and in the year 1689/90 finaly
formed an English settlement at Calcutta, which ere one century
terminated became a great city —
the Magazine of Trade the Arbitress —
of Kingdoms —
and the Seat of Empire. ... So pleasing is that Capital
now, that those who are absent sigh for the sprightly joys and gentle ease
of Calcutta. ... If we are to believe these speaking marbles [i.e., the
tombstones of Calcutta Cemetery], which have been hitherto faithful to
their truth, the inhabitants of Ancient Calcutta were a virtuous, industri-
ous, and honourable men; and pious and beautiful women, who en-
livened society in general and afforded every domestic and social comfort
to husbands far distant from the house of early consanguinity and the joys
of England . behold with mortal feelings this sublunary world, with
. .
what sensations would the father of Calcutta glow to look down this day
upon his city!
Chamock! May your name and your city be immortal! And may Calcutta,
the Sister of England, last till time itself expires! — such are my fond
wishes! But I breathe a manly sigh when I pensively sit down and in
imagination soar over the ruins of Gour —
of Kanouge, and the expiring
remains of Delhi!
13
See the previous essay, “The Poet as Mouse and Owl,” p. 38.
A Theology of the Repulsive: The Myth
of
the Goddess Sitala
When the sacrifice was completed, the sacrificial was extinguished,

fire
and in it was bom a girl most radiant; she emerged, holding a winnowing
fan on her head. When he saw her, Prajapati asked solicitously: “Who
are you, O beautiful girl? Whose daughter are you, and whose wife? For
what reason were you in the fire? Tell us that story.” And the goddess
said: “My birth was in the fire-pit. Where shall I go? What shall I do? My
heart is troubled.” And when he heard this, Brahma said,“Your birth
was at the time of the cooling of the sacrificial fire. Thus, your name is
Sitala.”
Hence the etymology of the name

Cool One,” as it is
Sitala, “the
given in the Sitala-mahgala of Dvija Nityananda (Cakravarti),
an eighteenth century text in Bengali.^ Sitala is the goddess of
pustular diseases in Bengal, and of malaria, and it is possible that
her name is euphemism, an attempt to w^d off the goddess’s fire as
she rages through the Bengali countryside with her virulent compa-
nion Jvarasura, “the Fever Demon” (as he is known to
Nityananda), or Basanta Ray, “Lord of Smallpox,” as the
writer of another her mahgala poems, Krsnarama-dasa, would
The essay was first published inDonna Wulff and John Hawley, eds, The Divine
Consort (Berkeley: The Berkeley Press, 1982). I owe much to my student,
friend,
and now colleague Aditinath Sarkar for having been instrumental in my expanding it
from a much shorter paper of the same title, and for many of the ideas now embedded
in it. The shorter paper was published in Marvin Davis, ed., Bengal: Studies in
Literature, Society and History (East Lansing: Asian Studies Center, Michigan State
University, 1 976).
The text has been translated, though the translation is not yet published, by
‘
Ralph W. Nicholas and Aditinath Sarkar under the title “The Great Sitala-
rnangal, or the Drama of Sitala for which the People Stay Awake All Night;” it was
discussed by the same authors in a paper entitled “The Fever Demon and the Census
Commissioner,” in Davis, Studies. As the authors point out, Nityananda was a
courtier of Raja Rajanarayana of Kasijora, who ruled from 1756 to
the
1770. The text has been printed by Taracand Das and Sons (Calcutta, n.d.). The
quotation is from the introductory section called Sitaler Janma.
A Theology of the Repulsive 131
have it.^ She is a fierce goddess of course, though she is called

“Karunamayi,” “she who is full of mercy,” and “Dayamayi,”
“she who is full of grace,” as in her Ula she sweeps through
villages and cities, like fire leaving one house unscathed to destroy
the next, searing with her fevers good people and bad without
distinction.
The etymology of the term lila presents a problem. In an
article entitled “Li/u,” A.K. Coomaraswamy makes a series of
interesting suggestions. He first presents the notion of /i/u, as
divine playing, the usual interpretation, citing occurrences in
Veda 9 and 10, and then he writes:
It obvious that Agni [the god of fire]

is is thought of as “playful,”
inasmuch as he “flares up and dies down” . . . and that the designation of
his tongues as “flickerers” (lelayamanah) Muruhka upani^d 1. 2. 4
in
corresponds to their designation as “The playful ones” in Rg Veda 10. 3.
5. At the same time Agni is constantly spoken of as “licking” {rih, lih)
whatever he loves or devours.^
Although the etymology not clear. Burrow also suggests^ that

is
the root lih has cognates that yield such modern English forms as
“lick,” which the Oxford Universal Dictionary defines as “to play
lightly over, as of waves or flames.” Another suggestive possibility
is the root //- “to hide in.” For the fire, especially the sacrificial fire,
consumes and does not consume.^ It flames up and subsides again.

The fire is endemic. As the Baul songs has it, it is latent in the wood,
and in the fint and steel:
There is yet fire in the ashes,

and it will bum again, if the ashes are stirred.
They say that burning is a quality of wood,
that in the flint and steel the fire dwells.
But fire does not bum a brick-built house,
nor does the wall of earth around the fire bum.*
Or, from time to time, the fire is epidemic, and then it flames; it
2 Krsnarama-dasa was a poet of the late seventeenth century; one of his

{X>enis shows the chronogram 1676. His Sitala-mangala, a short text, can be
found
Satyanarayan Bhattacarya, ed., Kavi krsnarama-daser granthdvali
in
(Calcutta: Calcutta University, 19.58), pp. 251-85.
3 Journal of the American Oriental Society 61 no. 2 ( 194 ) p. 99.
, 1 ,
The Sanskrit Language (London: Faber and Faber, 1955), p. 72.

5 Brahmana 2. 3. 3. 5; 3.
E.g., Satapatha 2. 4. 2-3.
Quoted by Sukumar Sen, Bahglar sdhityer itihasa, 1st edn (Calcutta:
Eastern Publishers, 1948), p. 994.

rages and consumes.^ Fire is a quality of wood and, as the Baul song
suggests, of the flesh, for that substance is innately lustful and prone
to disease and fever; and flame is the quality of fire.® Fire is the
persistent condition; flame is sporadic. Yet the connection between
the two is intrinsic: one cannot without the other. Fire is the
exist
source of flame; but fire is unmanifest, and thus ineffective and even
meaningless, without the flame. The analogy, of course, is that

disease of certain types endemic in Bengal a small pox or cholera
is :
outbreak is the manifestation of latent principle. Mother Sitala,

who is “full of grace,” is always present. From time to time she
manifests herself in her and mankind suffers. Or perhaps
tild,
there is a question as to whether or not such manifestations are

finally understood as suffering.
Lila, then, might describe the fiery and seemingly random
visitations of the goddess. But there is another way to interpret the
term, also suggested by Coomaraswamy in his “Ll/a” article.
He points out that the Prakrit word Ulha, referring to the
Buddha’s manifestation, is glossed in the lexicon of the Pali Text
Society as “grace.”
Again, etymology is suggestive, though hardly conclusive. For if
grace is charts, as defined by Thayer's Greek-English Lexicon of

it is
the New Testament, then the quality of grace, i.e., charisma in its
Pauline sense, is the investiture of certain individuals with particu-
lar authority from above, or, in Thayer’s words, with “extraordi-
nary powers, distinguishing certain Christians and enabling them to
serve the Church of Christ, the reception of which is due to the
power of divine grace.” Charisma, then, is the manifestation of
grace, and there would seem to be a parallel by which disease could
be called the charisma, or the grace, or the lild, of the goddess
Sitala. And those who are from one point of view “afflicted” by
her, from another become the recipients of her grace.
There are problems with this interpretation, in addition to those
attendant upon inter-language etymological speculation. One such
problem is pointed up by Thayer’s use of the term “certain Christ-
^ The terms “endemic” and “epidemic” are somewhat loosely used in the context,
though I think the metaphor is valid. According to the Oxford English Dictionary,
endemic disease is “habitually prevalent in a certain country and due to permanent
local causes,” whereas epidemic disease is “prevalent among a people or community
at a special time and produced by some special causes.” In any case, the terms are
used to mean “latent” and “manifest.”
* See for example Gaston Machelard, The
Psychoanalysis of Fire (Boston Beacon :
Press, 1964), esp. chapter 4.

ians.” In the Jewish, Christian, and Islamic traditions, with their

millenarian and messianic expectations, charisma which is that
invests an individual with particular authority. The charisma of
Sitala, on the other hand, is democratically distributed. Not only
is she always there, embedded and latent in human society and in
the substantial world, but her tila touches the better part of
Burdwan district, or Jessore, or all of Bengal. This is quite a
different attitude, it would seem, from the one encountered in
Judaeo-Christian thought, in which humanity is visited by disaster
as retribution, as in the case of the plague on Egypt, or testing, as in
the oppression of Job.
It might further be observed that the reception of the grace of
Sitala is in chronologically discrete events. It is through these

events, called epidemics, that people, who know little, wish to know
less, and tend much, are reminded of her constant pre-
to forget
sence. The event takes place in chronological time. But the meaning
of the event places it outside time the grace of the goddess invests
:
not only individual people in Burdwan district, but time itself. Time
becomes a series of changing forms of a single essence that of the —
goddess Sitala.
TIME AND THE ^/TALA-MANGAL

In their paper “The Fever Demon and the Census Commission-
er,”^ Ralph Nicholas and Aditinath Sarkar point out that in certain
specific cases the worship of Sitala and the writing of her poems
follow upon the outbreak of epidemics. They also note, however,
that there is more than a simple cause-and-effect relation at work
here. For although the epidemic is a diachronic event, the mahgala
{X)ems are meant to describe its synchronic source, the endemic
goddess herself. The epidemic is the !ila of the goddess, but it is
also information. The lila seems random, and thus without
meaning for human society, unless it is related to the synchronic
structure that underlies it. It is for this reason that mahgala poems
are written taken together, they constitute the synchronic structure
:
of truth. It is also why they are called mahgala, imparting “well-

being, beneficence.” They enable us mortals, with limited vision
and small from discrete experience, to fit that
intelligence, to learn
experience into the larger divine scheme of things. We are kept
’ In Davis, Studies.
aware of the presence of the goddess, and of her grace, and by

devotion to her we are blessed.
The Sitald-mahgala differs from most oXh^xmangalas in that it is
locatable in historical time. This is not to say that the others take
place in a world completely apart from the immediate one. To the
contrary, the river that such a prominent feature of most of the
is
mahgalas is, like the Gariga flowing from the head of Siva, a link
between immediate time and space and the realm of the divine. As
we have seen (ante, p. 117), as the protagonist sails down the river he
passes ghats that can be seen today. But as the ships move out of
the river and beyond the comforting sight of land, they begin to pass
mysterious, unworldly places with names like Mayapur, “the
place of transformations,” and Kîdaha, “the whirlpool of time.”
And in these places strange and grotesque things take place.
Crossing the grievous seas, the merchant arrived Mayadaha, and
at
happily cooked his meal and ate. When she heard of this from her
attendant, Si tala came there to deceive the merchant. A palace ap-
peared in themiddle of the sea. It was a place of wonderful delight.
Around a beautiful throne twelve divine women sang and danced, and
there were dancing girls. And behind them, men played with tigers.
Everything was ornamented with gems. The predator and prey roamed
together, and one did not attack the other, such was the enchantment of
maya. In front, there could be seen a hundred men in battle dress.
Crocodiles and lions were there together. Hooded serpents were in the
palace arbors, the gems on their heads flashing fire, playing with
peacocks. The many were adorned with mango and
sides of the palace
other trees, in untimely bloom. Birds flew in flocks, singing sweetly, and
played in delight. Inside the palace courtyard was a huge baici tree, with
coral blooming on it. Beneath it sat Sitala, with many maids in waiting
and many children. Who can understand this causing a baici to grow in
the middle of the sea by maya"l
And so the merchant goes to relate this marvelous vision to the

king:
Another that is possibly locatable in historical times is the Ray-mafigala, a

poem of the god of tigers. The central episode is a great battle between armies of
tigers and crocodiles, headed by a Hindu general named Daksin Ray, on the one
hand, and on the other by a Muslim general simply called Gazi. It is possible that
there is some basis in historical fact, for there was in the early sixteenth century a
Hindu ruler in Jessore District called Mukut Ray, who had a brahman general
called Daksin Ray, and who warred against the Muslims. See Satiscandra Mitra,
Yasohara-khulner itihas, 3rd edn, 2 vols. (Calcutta: Dasgupta and Co., 1963), 2, p.
433.
There is a heavenly palace there; it is a most wonderful tale! I saw a cat

and mouse together, and a snake and peacock at play. Before everyone,
horses and buffaloes, men and tigers played together. Coral blossomed
on a baici tree, and near it was a most lovely lady.
The king, understandably, does not believe him, and so he takes the
merchant and all his retinue Mayadaha.
and they embark for
When they reach the place, the king sees only water, and threatens
to kill the merchant. But the merchant replies:
Lxx)k! There is the jeweled palace. There is the beautiful lady seated
beneath the coral tree. If you do not see even when you see, what am I to
do?
The about to have the merchant beheaded. But the

king, furious, is
merchant prays to Sitala, who is ready to answer her devotee’s

prayer with her army of diseases. She is dissuaded from doing so by
Narada, who suggests that instead she appear to the king in a
dream and instruct him to release the merchant and worship her. So
the king dreams, and when he awakes he describes the dream to his
courtiers, who reply:
Who is this Sitala? You must have dreamed this because of gas on the
stomach.
A
So the king orders the merchant’s execution. And Sitala, her

patience exhausted, strikes with her army of diseases. The king
himself was afflicted.
with leprosy, and glaucoma in both eyes. “Ah,” he cried, “what has
happened? What can I say, that my fate has turned like this?” Then,
faintly, he saw the maya of Sitala. Upon it there were luminous
divine beings, attendants of the goddess, making the whole place glow as
they plucked red coral from the baici tree. The predator and prey
grazed together, numerous and wonderful to see. The glaucoma
. . .
cleared from the king’s eyes, and he said: “I will wed my daughter to the
merchant. Remove all of these afflictions from my land. I know you now
to be the goddess Sarada, full of mercy. I worship your lotus teei.”^’
In other mahgalas equally wonderous things occur, once one

clears the familiar shores. In the Cancfi-mahgala the goddess, in
the form of a beautiful, sexually exciting lady, sits on a lotus in the
middle of the sea swallowing and disgorging elephants:

II
Satyanarayan Bhattacarya, Kavi Krsnarama-daser granthavali, pp. 281-82.
Behold, O helmsman, the avatara of a beautiful lady on that lotus.
Holding a bull elephant in her left hand, she regurgitates it and again
consumes it. . She is slim-waisted, hea\7-hipped with firm buttocks.
. .
She parts her lips a little, and swallows and regurgitates an elephant.'^
Despite all this, the merchant and his helmsman remain human,
though they move now in worlds no longer known and comforting.
They meet the gods, and are taught by them, and with their help
they return again to the mortal world. The river is the continuum of
time and space; it links time and the timeless. It links the world that
follows comprehensible laws with that in which laws are suspended,
the place of the lild of the gods.
Mircea Eliade points out that such coincidentia oppositorum as in
the passage above, the lion lying down with the lamb, are often
features of Paradise, in fact features of divinity itself, “simultane-
ously benevolent and terrible, creative and destructive.” They re-
veal, he says, “the actual structure of divinity, which transcends all
attributes and reconciles all contraries,” thus showing how utterly
different divinity is from humanity. This is not to say that certain
types of people cannot gain the experience of the coincidence of
opposites. That very experience is the aim of the ascetic and the sage,
and transcends all attributes. “The consciousness of such a man
knows no more conflict, and such pairs of opposites as pleasure and
pain, desire and repulsion, cold and heat, the agreeable and disag-
reeable are expunged from his awareness, while something is taking
place within him which parallels the total realization of contraries
within the divinity. The merchant, and the king too when he has
become temporarily blind, see this reality of the integrated dual
nature of Sitala. They have known lions and they have known
lambs, but the playing of the two together is not in their ordinary
experience. They have known beneficence and they have known
virulence, but the consorting of the two together they have noi
known before. This is the mdyd, the illusion, of the goddess.
And if the word “illusion” can be derived from in ludere, it is indeed
her play that is revealed to them, her tild.
In the episode of the vision, the epidemic that ravages the king
and his kingdom has a pedagogic purpose. Sitala reveals herself to
those who have the eyes to see, as beautiful, benign, and the locus of
the coincidentia oppositorum. To the king, who does not, at least at
Sukumar Sen, ed., Kavikankan viracita cqndi-mangala (New Delhi: Sahitya

Akademi, 1975), p. 200.
Patterns in Comparative Religion (New York: Sheed and Ward, 1958), p. 419.
first,have the eyes to see, she is malevolent. Only when his eyes
become diseased, through the good offices of the goddess, does the
king see that she is the totality of things. It could be concluded that
only through what is deviant in ordinary experience can true nor-
mality be seen; only by what is “diseased” in human perception is
reality perceived.
There is a Haul song that says:
Iam blind. I can see no more.

You who are there on the path,
move aside a little.
Because of my past faults

God has taken away my eyes.
Because of the sins of some former birth
God has taken my eyes.
In fact, the Haul’s blindness is not a curse, but a blessing. The Baul
must look within, to find the Man of his Heart. He can do so only
when outward-looking eyes are sightless, no longer captivated
his
by the glittering bauble that is the world. And, too, looking with the
outer eyes of particular and ordinary experience, one sees either
one form or the other of the deity’s bivalent nature. That simultane-
ous vision is what is special to the one who has the eyes to see he :
sees at the same time what creates and what destroys, that creation
and destruction are not separated by time at all. And thus he sees
that time has no reality of its own. Life and death exist at the very
same moment, and the vision teaches the illusion of time, which is
the play of the goddess. This is also the force of some of Freud’s
thought: opposites such as love and hate exist simultaneously in the
unconscious, but cannot be expressed simultar/Cously. It is only in
dreams or in imaginative pictorial representation that logical

temporal sequence is not demanded.'^
One question, of course, is how all this relates back to particular
experience: does the ordinary person in Burdwan perceive fever
and pustules asmayer daya, “the mother’s mercy?” The ch-
ances are that he does not, that he takes the mother’s mercy as
freedom from those very afflictions. It is to teach that both are true
that the myth exists. The king is taught to see by his blindness.
The merchant, already a devotee, does not require such affliction to
Anonymous, recorded by me in Calcutta in 1963.

The Interpretation of Dreams, section 6; A. A. Brill, ed.. The Basic Writings of
Sigmund Freud (New York: The Modem Library, 1938), p. 342.
leam. an aspect of the grace of the goddess that she allows us to

It is
learn —
if we have the eyes to see —
through poetry and myth rather
than through her ignorance -destroying and otherwise edifying vis-
its. To assure the goddess of their enlightenment, the mahgala poets
invite her, at the beginning of the poems, to come down onto the
stage, witness the play, approve of the music, and be pleased by the
verse.
A myth puts events outside secular time. An
epidemic in 1877,
which, as Nicholas and Sarkar show, is immediately followed by the
production of Sitald-mahgala poems, has, when taken up
into myth, relevance to an epidemic that may have occurred in 0077
and to one that may take place in 2077.'^ The myth states the
endemic and perpetual presence of the goddess. The existence of a
Sitala text both places an event in time and removes it beyond
time. The text, the event, and the individual become the same. The
realm of the Sitala myth is the divine realm, which both collapses
time into simultaneity and expands it into infinity. Three separate
human events, which spawn three different texts, are three forms
of the goddess, placed perhaps differently according to human
conceptions of time and space, but not in essence different. This is a
view, as has been seen, not unfamiliar to Vaisnava theology: the
avatdras of Visnu differ in form, in time, and in space, but they are
godhead, existing eternally in one divine essence. There are
all fully
many forms (rupa), but only one true form (svarupa). It can be
observed that on the level of the real, Caitanya is Krsna, and that
which surrounds him is not sixteenth century Bengal but the eternal
Vrndavana. And it can be pointed out that in his turn
Ramakrishna is Caitanya and therefore also Krena. Time and space
have collapsed.
This is an interesting view of history. A text is written because of
an event. Yet by the act of being narrated, of being made specific,
the event is put beyond time. It is there forever, and in fact has
been, like the Veda, there for all time past. In the divine realm there
is no history. The goddess in her mercy, however, sees that we are
trapped our humanity and ignorance and cannot deal with this
in
reality. The view of history presented in the mahgala is therefore a
mediating one. It is a kind of cinematographic view: one frame
Nicholas and Sarkar, “The Fever Demon and the Census Commissioner.”
Nityananda, Sitala-mangala, the section called “Sitala’s Counselling
with Fever, the Three-headed One, and Pox About Establishing Her Worship on
Earth;” Nicholas and Sarkar, “The Great Sitala-manga/.”
: .
succeeds another in unending sequence. The former frame is re-

placed, but its image persists: the second frame does not make sense
without the first. The image of the first lingers and remains effec-
tive, and is to that extent simultaneous. The mahgala poem is a
frame, lingering a while upon the screen, leaving an image of pain
—
and destruction as it is seen by human eyes to be replaced by an —
image of prosperity and freedom from what
disease. Embedded in
we see as sequence, as history, is the divine pedagogy. If there were
no epidemic there would be no awareness of the presence of the
goddess. The human view is that affliction is replaced by prosperity,
and prosperity by affliction. The fact is that both are present all the
time. The opposite sides of existence are coincident in the uncon-
scious, and in Sitala.
Being people who take too much for granted, we need constant
reminders that prosperity is not a permanent condition, and that it
can easily be replaced by affliction. The kingdom of Virata is a
most idyllic place
[The king] Virata is very devoted to Siva. He is Vidura in politeness, an
inflamed Duryodhana in hau^tiness, a Kaifisasura in pride. He is swift
as the wind, like [Hanuman], whose refuge is Rama. He maintains his
kingdom like that of Râ, but is death to his foes. He is a Karna in
generosity, a Kuvera in wealth, an Arjuna in battle. The daily recitation
of his eulogy brings merit, for he is a Yudhisthira in truthfulness. He is like
Agni in ardor, like the ocean in his qualities, like Brhaspati in wisdom . .
There is no injustice or unrighteousness there. All speak the truth and

abjure falsehood. The policy of the king and the kingdom is devotion to
Siva. There is no mischief, nor peril, nor untimely death.
As happy and righteous as it is, Virata (the name of both king

and kingdom) can be devastated in a moment. Sitala, appearing in
the previously mentioned dream, points this out to the king.
In the last hours of the night, Sitala appeared in a dream. Seated at the
'
king’s head, she was in a most terrifying guise: naked, quelling all vanity,
huge and wide, with terrible eyes. Before her, in his deadly form, danced
Jvara — six eyes, six hands, three heads, and three feet.'® Holding aloft
arms severed at the shoulder, crying “Sitala” as she danced.
This curious creature was bom from the sweat of the forehead of the meditating
Siva, and was a threat to the gods. Visnu therefore comanded him
his discus to cut
into three pieces. Brahma revived him, but by that time each of the three parts had
grown head and limbs. Thus, Jvarasura comes to have three heads, three feet, and
the remarkable ability to move in all directions at once. See the section Jvarasurer
janma in Nityananda, îtala-mangala.
Raktavati roared like a lion. On all four sides the king saw beautiful
pulses — red, blue, white, and yellow. And suddenly he saw the royal
palace ablaze, and he saw freshly severed heads. One hundred and
twenty diseases were spread all over, and assuming terrible forms, these
devoured the king in his dream. There were uncountable shooting stars
and rivers flowing with blood, while the diseases sucked blood. Seeing all
this, the king shuddered with terror. Sitala seated at his head, said:
“Listen with a calm mind, O king. It is my mercy to extend this my
maya to you. I am the mistress of all diseases. I will give you the four
great goals of life. I will be your final deliverance, and I will prevent
untimely death. Rise in the morning, O king, and worship Sitala with
offerings of countless male goats and rams.”'’
The king, sad to say, did not heed this very clear warning, and
it is
Sitala reduced his kingdom to a shambles. The situation was so

serious that one does not know whether to translate virdta-
smasana as “the cremation ground of the city of Virata” or
“Virata, the cremation ground.” In the marketplace where there
had been fair and joyous commerce, Sitala established a rather
different trade:
In Virata, at the foot of a banyan tree, on an extensive piece of ground

eight miles in length and breadth, Sitala, in great good humor, attended
by her male and female servants, established a marketplace for ghouls. In
heaven, the sun, the moon. Death, and the gods of the ten directions
trembled when they observed her play. Demons sounded drums, a great
uproar arose, and with arms uplifted the diseases danced. Having
gathered all the corpses, male and female ghouls put them on abundant
display in shops, and bought and sold. Getting the stench, crows and kites
in hundreds of thousands came, and flies buzzed around. An old grand-
mother ghoul sold intestines of corpses, calling them jack-fruit, and . . .
human heads as coconuts and rotting heads of elephants as ripe palmyra

fruit. The ears of corpses were sold in the market as pan, and the pupils
of their eyes as sali-rice. Female ghouls bought bags of brains as lime, and
rotten melting corpses as perfume. Pairs of ears were sold as incense,
finger and toe nails as husked rice, and the penises of boys enticing dates.
Palates were sold as ripe cantaloupe and human heads as vegetables.
Vomited blood is the best-loved drink of ghouls; human blood is sugar-
cane juice for them. Demons bought and ate the breasts of dead women
as if they were custard-apples or pomegranates, with great delight. . . .
Female ghouls bought and wove garlands made of human heads and
fingers and toes and hands and feet. Blue and yellow ghouls sold brains
having broken open skulls and emptied them. Human ears were. . .
'’See Nicholas and Sarkar, “The Great Sitala the section called
“The Advent of Sitala in the Capital of Virata.”
1
A Theology of the Repulsive 1 4
hibiscus flowers, fly-whisks were made of skin with hair, and blood and
pus were sold as sandalwood paste.
In the same space where once flourished the rama-rajya of

Virata, ruled by a dharmic king, its fifty-two marketplaces brim-
ming with prosperity, the divine person “in a mood of supreme
playfulness” established this horrid scene, in which all that is usual
and attractive to mortals is and travestied.
substituted, parodied,
The problem, of course, is one of form. We have seen the
Vaisnava answer to the question: since the deity is infinite, he can
have all forms at all times, any form at any time, and various forms
at any or all times, without being in any way affected in his true
essence. A corollary is that the concept “totally manifest” includes
the concept “unmanifest.” The deity need not be manifest at all;
manifestation is a function of tila. If this logic does indeed apply,
it is clear that Sitala is present at all times in a variety of ways. The
epidemic is the obvious mark of the presence of the goddess. Yet
times in which disease is absent also signify her presence. The
mahgala poems teach us not to conclude that she is absent simply
because she does not at any given time show herself in epidemic
form.
Thus the mahgala poems are attempts to merge the diachronic
event with the synchronic structure. In these attempts, views of time
become quite complex. On the level of divine perception, as we
have seen, no such concept as time exists at all: But this is not
congenial, or even comprehensible, to human consciousness (that it
is inexpressibly present in the unconscious, Freud suggests, may be
a problem basic to the human condition). We perceive it dimly, and

sometimes express it artistically, as in the Orissi painting of the deer
with one head grazing and the other staring fearfully backwards; or
in a Picasso painting of a woman with two eyes on the same side of
her head. Two-headed deer and women with two eyes on the same
side of their heads are not in our experience. But our experience is
not complete, and does not define what is possible, to say nothing of
what is true. Time is a construct designed to make things com-
prehensible, say the mahgalas: beware of it.
The Bengali term andolan, “oscillation,” carries with it the idea
of a single but continuously varying form. For mankind, immersed
in this rotten Age of Kali, when ignorance is a constant condition
and memory and perception are limited, it may be that searing
Nityananda, Sitala-mahgala, pp. 43—4.

cataclysms are necessary for the divine pedagogy. But they are to be
understood as oscillation from the implicit to the epidemic forms of
grace: these are the avataras of the goddess in the Kali Age.
As allforms of the divine are possible, there is no differences,
except to limited human sight, between what is beautiful and what is
repulsive. In the divine realm of the goddess, in her avataras and
in the texts that describe them, these opposites do not exist. The
marketplace of the ghouls is merely another aspect, equally real, of
the marketplace of everyday consciousness and sight. The repul-
sive, horrifying form, as it seems to our eyes, is latent in good times;
or perhaps it would be better described as repressed, for, poor weak
creatures that we are, we cannot see that the distinction is false, and
could not stand it if we did. The tantric adept, who, presumably, has
the eyes to see, chooses for his place of meditation not the cool
shade on the edge of the stream, but the cremation ground. The lady
who sits on the lotus and eats elephants seems both beautiful and
grotesque in the extreme. But what is grotesque is what is exag-
gerated, and in the divine realm the concept “grotesque” cannot
exist. There can be no hyperbole, for in that realm the most extreme
concepts of which the human imagination is capable are simply and
utterly true.
It must be remembered that mahgala poetry shares with the
Vaisnava and other poetry of the middle period the two-fold
characteristic of pedagogy and revelation. The poet is literally the
mouthpiece of the deity, and what he says, therefore, is true. It
seems to be a problem that to the Vaisnavas beauty is truth and truth
is beauty, whereas in the Sitald-mahgala the truth is sometimes
repulsive: there is nothing beautiful in the marketplace of ghouls.

But again it is a matter of form, not of essence. In essence, the
distinctions pleasure and pain, beauty and ugliness, do not exist.
Sitala, in her mahgala, comes to the city and sees no pock-marks
on the faces of the children. “There are no signs of mdyer
— —
dayd the mercy of the mother in this place,” she says.
The mahgala texts are precisely that: blessings of the goddess. By
hearing of suffering, by realizing the extent of human frailty, one
with eyes to see may be spared the necessity of more particular pain.
Sitala allows us cognition of our position in the universe, and
recognition of herself as Mother. Her grace is that she allows us
restitution in return for the understandingof her constant presence,
for worship, above all for the realization by human beings of where
they stand, and where stand the gods.
A Theology of the Repulsive 14i
SITALA AND ESCHATOLOGY (with Aditinath Sarkar)

Another, very different, line of thought might be stimulated by
all this, and that has to do with the examination, and possible
modification, of the commonly expressed position that there is no

eschatology or millenialism in Hindu thought. The most recent and
lucid statement of that position is in the Nicholas and Sarkar paper
“The Fever Demon and the Census Commissioner:”^'
Many students of millenial movements have commented on their absence
from Hindu India. In situations of widespread distress, such as deadly
epidemics, and particularly where there is general social disorder, such as
existed in the latter half of the 18th and early 19th century Bengal, large
numbers of people have responded to the visions of millenial dreamers
with a kind of total enthusiasm unprecedented in their own experience.
Bengali Hindus (and Hindus in general) have not had millenial visions
nor the kind of sweeping enthusiasms characteristic of movements in
other parts of the world. There are many approaches to the explanation
of the absence of millenialism from India, but they all come down to a
single point integral to Hinduism is a non-eschatological conception of
:
the universe.
One might of course adduce as counter-evidence the doctrine put

forth in Gita 4. 7-8, where Krsna promises to come again when
he is needed, or Kalki the avatara-Xo-comQ\ or, by extending
Hinduism a one could cite the expectation of the Buddha-to-be.
bit,
And to be sure, these items do suggest that there is at least a strand
of what might be called eschatology in Hindu thought. But even so,
the Nicholas-Sarkar statement and others like it do have a general
ring of truth. There are indeed none of the enthusiasms or hysteria
one finds in some other cultures. Yet it is bothersome that there
seems to be an underlying suggestion that in all situations of “wide-
spread distress” in India, such as epidemics, a type of millenarian
response familiar to the West is to be expected. The conclusion is
that there is something missing in Hindu culture, rather than that
such situations are, perhaps, viewed and met in a different way.
There has been a spate of books written on millenialism lately and
if one looks through an anthology of essays such as Millenial
Dreams in Action one is struck by two contrasting approaches.

,
The first is sociological, and seeks to generalize such ideas, ritual

and organizational, as can be abstracted from cultural traditions.
In Davis, Studies, p. 35.

Sylvia Thrupp, ed. (New York: Shocken, 1970).
and seeks to construct typologies. Somewhat typical of it is the essay

by Howard Kaminsky called “The Problem of Explanation.”^^
After calling for a synthetic method for interpreting millenial move-
ments, he writes:
Another way, which I think would be more fruitful, could be termed

“analytic;” it would take the evidence of the movement itself as grounds
for inference about the relationship of the movement to society, and
about the psychology of the members. The movement always subscribes
to an ideology that empties the existing social order of all value; it also
invariably takes the form of a physical movement — a withdrawal from the
existing order. Thus on the one hand its ideology is arbitrary, extravag-
ant, and fantastic; on the other hand its social structure is all but non-
existent it is a perfectly plastic mass, without the solidity that comes from
:
a practical working relationship to reality.
Applications of these principles to the efflorescence of the wor-

ship of Sitala in eighteenth and nineteenth century Bengal would
probably have led Kaminsky to conclude, as Nicholas and Sarkar
have done, that it was not a millenial situation at all. Religious
response to the epidemics was not “arbitrary, extravagant, and
fantastic,” but was in fact the simple writing of texts, a response well
within the existing social order and one that might be expected from
Bengali culture. This is of course precisely the problem: if one
attempts typologies, in this case at least one separates the
from the characteristics of
characteristics of the response to disaster
the response to non-disaster, and one’s view of the culture involved
is fragmented.
The second approach is exemplified by Anthony Wallace, who

comes close to meeting this objection. He places great emphasis
on the notion of “stress,” stated in almost physiological terms.
Stress a condition that threatens a part or the whole of a social
is
organism with serious damage or even annihilation. When this

occurs, and the mechanisms that individuals and the society have
devised are no longer able to meet the threat, either what he calls a
“revitalization movement” occurs, or the society dies. He sees a
consecutive process of steady state— crisis— revitalization— steady
state, a pattern reminiscent of the oscillation implied by the term
dndolan. In the Bengali context, the mahgala*s reminders of
Sitala’s presence might be interpreted as revitalization.
“ Ibid., pp.215- 17.

See for example Revitalizatioii Movements” in American Anthropologist
* 58
(1956). -
The basic text of Christian millenarian movements is Revelation

20.4-6:
Then saw thrones, and seated on them were those to whom judgment
I
was committed. And I saw the souls of those who had been beheaded for
their testimony to Jesus and for the word of God, and who had not
worshiped the beast or its image and had not received its mark on their
foreheads or their hands. They came to life again and reigned with Christ
a thousand years. The rest of the dead did not come to life again until the
thousand years were ended. This is the first resurrection. Over such the
second death has no power, and they shall be priests of God and of Christ,
and they shall reign with him a thousand years.
There are two particularly striking things about the passage. The
first is that the Messianic kingdom is to be of limited duration. The
second is that it is to be shared only by the martyrs, those relatively
few who, presumably, drew the strength for martyrdom from
charisma or grace. Both ideas, says von Hamack, come from rela-
tively late Jewish apocalyptic literature, neither being mentioned
either in the discourses of Jesus or the apostolic epistles. The
earlier belief was kingdom would not be of fixed duration,
that the
and that all believers would be included in the first and only
resurrection.
The older belief is much closer to the situation with which we are
dealing in India, where a segment of linear time has no meaning
except as metaphor or as a way to comprehend particular experi-
ence. There is of course some question as to whether the older
Jewish forms of the Messianic hope can be called “millenialism” at
all, since the term itself refers to the thousand years. But it is also
true that the application of the term has been expanded, so that it is
now, as Norman Cohn points out, “simply a convenient label for a
particular type of salvationism.”^^
It is at this point that arguments regarding Buddhist soteriology,
the moksa or mukti offered by most Hindu deities (even Sitala)
and gurus, the future avataras of Visnu, and so forth, might be
advanced as examples of “messianic images” in Hindu culture. But
if we follow Cohn, it is not necessary to do so. Cohn characterizes
the ultimate state as envisioned by millenarian movements as: (1)

collective, to be enjoyed by the faithful as a group; (2) terrestrial, to
“ The Holy Bible, Revised Standard Version (New York: Nelson, 1946).
His article “Millenium,” in Encyclopedia Brittanica, 1%1 edition.
“Medieval Millenarism Its Bearing on the Comparative Study of Millenarian
:
Movements,” in Thrupp, ed., Millenial Dreams in Action, pp. 31-43.

be realized here and not in an other-worldly heaven; (3) imminent,
to come both soon and suddenly; (4) total, in the sense that the
transformation of life on earth will be no mere improvement of
present conditions, but rather perfection itself; and (5) “accomp-
lished by agencies which are consciously regarded as
supernatural.”^® What Sitala promises in return for recognition
and worship fulfills these conditions.
Yet the impression is strong that what Cohn is describing and
what the Sitala texts suggest are not really the same thing. One
simply does not, in Hindu India, have groups of white-robed people
standing around on mountain tops awaiting the cataclysm. It may be
that Michael Barkum brings us a step closer to the proper position
by pointing out that “virtually all cultures turn out on close exami-
nation to harbor motifs capable of a place in a new millenarian
synthesis. The white-robed cultists represent the flowering of a
seed planted by the Apocalypse, a seed of an even older species.
The seed nourished by the soil of India is of a different species,
though the genus may be the same.
But Barkum unfortunately does not follow this promising insight
through. To quote him again:
Yet relative deprivation, decremental or otherwise, fails to provide a full

explanation of millenarianism. As David Aberle notes,would seem
“It . .
that a knowledge of the severity and type of deprivation, and of the date
and place of its occurrence, would make it possible to predict when,
where, and with what ideology a social movement would arise. Such a
claim cannot be sustained.” Why do some depressed conditions produce
volatile political activity, while other circumstances, at least as bleak,
yield only political apathy? Why do millenarian movements occur at some
times of relative deprivation and not at others? What triggers them, and
why does their content depart so significantly from conventional
forms of political action? Finally, what explains the bizarre features so
often remarked upon in descriptions of millenarian discontent? . . .
Millenarian movements, while widespread, are by no means universal,

and it remains to separate those relative deprivations that induce mil-
lenarianism from those that engender apathy, reform, or unfocussed
rioting.
Deprivation, then, engenders either millenarianism or apathy, re-

form or rioting. But, as has been seen, it may also engender a
Ibid., p. 31.
Disaster and the Millenium (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1974), p. 36.
Ibid., pp. 36-7.

.
religious interpretation that says “This too is the mercy of the

goddess, and her nature.”
Barkum does not ignore religious interpretations of disaster. He
mentions five of them ( ) as the mark of an evil or angry deit
: 1 ,
who
has not been appeased; (2) as a situation where the universe is a
matter of competition between good and evil forces, in which
disaster is a sign of at least temporary victory ot evil; (3) as God’s
punishment on evil people; (4) as God’s will, even though the
victims are not especially evil; and (5) as a case in which “God is not
assessed clear responsibility, nor is man guilty of provoking him. . .
God is seen in a similar role as a physician. He does not assume

responsibility for the outbreak of the epidemic, but he deserves the
credit for mitigating its worst effect.”^' Although the last of these
points is not too far from describing the Bengali situation, none of
them recognizes what the Sitala texts say. She is not evil, though
like all mothers she may be occasionally angry; nor in fact is there in
her any distinction between the evil and the good. Her visitations
are not “willed,” but are manifestations of her Tila\ God’s
having a “will” is an anthropomorphism that makes divine action
more comprehensible, while if Ilia has a pattern or stmeture we
mortals are too limited to see it. And Sitala is certainly responsi-
ble both for epidemics and freedom from them. But Barkum goes
on:
We normally harbor assumptions concerning the general stability of the

true society, and the rate at which it can be expected to change. Cultures
differ in the matter of size and frequency of incremental change. When
changes occur within culturally defined limits, explanations for them come
readily to hand. It is a major function of the mazeway to provide these
explanations, and the internalized conception of the true society is pre-
dicated on the continued existence of limits on change. The disaster
syndrome occurs precisely because these limits have been abruptly
violated.
The “mazeway” referred to is Wallace’s ordering principle in an

individual, an individual’s “cognitive map,” made up of such ele-
ments as nature, culture, and society. A society is made up of
individuals whose cognitive maps are isomorphic or largely so.
When these mazeways overlap, there is inner consistency and cor-
respondence to reality to a high degree. When external threats
confront an individual or society, the mazeways become diffused,
Ibid.,pp. 79-80.
32 Ibid., p. 54.
and revitalization is necessary or the society dies. The texts of
Sitala, her worship, beliefs concerning her, and knowledge of her
presence, constitute mazeway. The vital distinction,
such a
however, is that an epidemic or the threat of one does not disrupt,
but strengthens it. Periodic epidemic flare-ups of disease are not
unexpected events, but are well within the known and accepted
limits of possible change. And an epidemic is in the last analysis
not a disaster at all.
The epidemic is thus not a threat to the culture. If anything, it is
an affirmation, in the same way

which what Mircea Eliade calls
in
“the periodic retrogression of the cosmos into chaos”^^ is an
affirmation: the chaos engendered by reversal enables the society
to emerge renewed and refreshed, but not changed. One is almost
forced to contrast the reactions of the mahgala poets and their
listeners to the unforgettable scenes in Ingmar Bergman’s The
Seventh Seal, in which penitents scourge themselves across Europe
presumably to cause the Almighty to relent and withdraw the
plague.
In a recent and perceptive article, Harold Gould has argued that
the Sepoy Mutiny was in fact a millenarian movement that failed
because of a lack of “institutional precedents for the kinds of social
structures needed to deal with the adversary at hand.”^"* The key
word is “institutional.” In the case presented by the Sitaldmahga-
las, the structures and institutions are there and the society is in
fact revitalized, though threat and response are enclosed entirely
within the system. The goddess is not really an adversary: rather,
an unpredictable acquaintance. She is not a threat to, but a part of,
the culture. A friend once told me that the proper attitude toward
her is best defined in terms of religious and social ritual: “As with
any guest, you invite her to your house, even though you hope she
does not come. If she does come, you treat her well, mindful of the
rules of hospitality and the consequences to those who do not
follow them. And she, like any good guest, will not stay too long,
nor come again too soon.”
Finally, if one considers that the mahgalas of Sitala are quaint
and fanciful, one needs only to read the final lines in Camus’ La
Peste to be brought back to chilling reality:
Hearing the cries of gaity which arose from the city. Dr. Rieux
The Sacred and the Profane (New York: Harper and Row, 1959), p. 79.
^ “The Utopian Side of the Indian Uprising,” in David W. Plath, cd.. Aware of
Utopia (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1971), p, 112.
reminded himself that this gaity had always been menaced. For the
knew that this madness in joy was ignorant, and that one could read in
the books that the bacillus of the plague did not die nor ever disappear,
and that it could remain dormant for dozens of years in furniture and
linen, that it would wait patiently in bedrooms and cellars, in suitcases
and handkerchiefs and waste paper, and that, perhaps, the day would
come when, for the misfortune and instruction of men, the plague
would awaken its rats and send them forth to die in a happy city.^^
Dr Rieux had the eyes to see.
Albert Camus, La Peste (Paris: Gallimard, 1947), p. 337.

Bengali Literature
Part 1
Mangala poems have been sung for many centuries as part of

the worship of the divinity they celebrate, and are so sung today.'
Authorities differ on whether or not they constitute an essential
part of the ritual. Asutos Bhattacarya, for example, says:
The mangala-kavya is not an intrinsic part of the ritual activity. On the

occasion of the puja of a particular divinity, even thou^ the deity’s
mahgalasong is sung, it is never integral to the conduct of puja proper . . .
even if the mangala song is not performed, the ritual is able to be carried
out.^
This article first appeared History of Religions (Winter, 1962), pp. 307-21 This
in .
is the first of two articles on the Manasa legend to appear in that journal; the next
essay written with A.K. Ramanujan was the second. My indebtedness to various
scholars will be noted in appropriate places in the body of the paper; I would,
however, like to make special reference there to two scholars whose work is basic and
pioneering in this area of the history of Indian religion. They are Professor Asutos
Bhattacarya, whose work Bangla man gala- kavyer itihas is a gold mine
of information, and Professor Sukumar Sen, whose high standards of scholarship and
vast knowledge have been applied to an edition of Vipradasa’s Manasa-vijay To
these two scholars especially my indebtedness is very great.
Sukumar Sen, Bahgala

^ sahityer itihas, 2nd edn. (Calcutta: Modem
Book Agency, 1948), pp. 476, 483: “in western Bengal, among the lower social
groupis, the pahcali-gan mangala poem] of K^mananda [i.e., the
[i.e., the
Manasa- mangala of Ksemananda or Ketakadasa] is revered and current . . .
even in the’ most distant villages.” The antiquity of parts of the songs will be
demonstrated in the body of the paper. Let it suffice for the moment to say that Sen
feels that a part of the story at least “existed in some form in the early centuries of the
Christian era.” See also Sukumar Sen, ed., Vipradasa’s Manasa-vijaya
(Calcutta: Asiatic Society, 1953), p. vi. This work will be referred to hereafter as
MV. The Introduction is in English.
2 Bangla man gala- kavyer itihas (Calcutta: A. Mukherji and Co., 1958),
p. 25, hereafter cited as MKl.

The Goddess of Snakes in Medieval Bengali Literature 151
On the other hand, Sukumar Sen points out that at least one poet of
the Manasd-mahgala calls his poem vrata-gita, or “ritual song.”^
Whatever the function of the mahgala poems, it is significaint for our
present purposes that they are simultaneously part of the oral and the
written traditions. They are recited as part of worship, they are
current among illiterate people, and they have internal characteristics
which identify them with the oral tradition. At the same time, we have
manuscripts of many of the mahgala songs. These manuscripts are not
old, but there is much in the poems themselves which is indicative of
great antiquity.'* It is likely that they were passed from mouth to mouth
over many centuries before ever being written down.
As oral and non-canonical literature, the mahgala songs are not of
fixed form. Over the centuries, they have been modified or expanded
according to currency of myth and legend, the concern of the individual
poet, and social forces and events. Not only has there been accretion of
detail to the central myth over the centuries, but there are many and
differing versions of the same mahgala poem from the pens of poets
^ MV, p. V. The term vrata is “vow,” but there is little

usually translated as
similarity between vrata and what are usually thought of in the West as religious
vows. The term vrata indicates a whole range of ritual activity to be performed at
different times of the year, for different purposes, and in worship of different gods.
For a description of some Vaisnava vratas, see S.K. De, Vaisnava Faith and Move-
ment (Calcutta: General Printers and Publishers, 1942), pp. 375-77. Vratas are now
practiced primarily by women (see Cultural Heritage of India, ed., Haridas Bhat-
tacarya, 4 vols [Calcutta: Ramakrishna Mission, 1956], vol. 4, pp. 516-18, and D.C.
Sen, Folk Literature of Bengal [Calcutta: University of Calcutta, 1920], p. 252. See
also D.R. Mitra-Majumdar, “Laksmi vrata-katha,” in I tdian Folklore, 1, no. 2
(1956),pp. 43-57.
Most of the manuscripts do not antedate the middle of the eighteenth century.
Manuscripts do not last long in the humid heat of Bengal. But the relative recentness
of the manuscripts tells us no more about the date of composition of the poems than
the date of composition tells us of the antiquity of the sagas themselves. Vipradasa
gives us an old, though perhaps not the oldest, version of the Manasa saga.
According to his own testimony, he wrote his work in 1495-% a.d. {saka 1417). In
his Manasa-vijaya, pdla, 1
,
part 4 (p. 3 of Sen’s text), he writes: “In the month of
Baisakh, on the 10th day of the light fortnight (sukla dasami), sitting at the
head of my bed Padma [i.e., Manasa] gave to me this order, that I should
compose her pdhcali [i.e., song] .... This was in the saka year measured
(parimdna) as the moon, the Vedas, the earth, and the seas [i.e., one, four, one,
seven], when the king Hosein Shah was reigning in Gaur.” Ketaka-dasa
(Ksemananda), another writer of the Manasa saga, lived later, p>erhaps in the
mid-seventeenth century (Sen, Bahgala sdhityer itihasa, 476); yet his version
seems to contain elements which are older than their parallels in Vipra-dasa
(T.W. Clark, “Evolution of Hinduism in Medieval Bengali Literature,” Bulletin of
the School of Oriental and African Studies, 17:5 14).
living at approximately the same time. Sukumar Sen describes in detail

some fifteen Manasd-mahgala and suggests the
versions of the
peculiarities of each of them.^ D.C. Sen lists fifty-eight writers of the
Manasd-mahgala “known up till now.”^ Each of these writers and
versions differs not only in style and language, in detail and technique,
but also in the form of the myth they record.^ Yet, despite such
variations, there is a basic story frame which remains constant.
Such variety of treatment, together with the layered structure of the
individual poem, makes attempts at analysis of the mahgalas both
vexing and challenging. Vexation comes with the attempt to separate
layer from layer of elements of myth. The chaUenge is in the sure
knowledge that within the mahgala px)ems lies a great store of informa-
tion about a little-known area of the history of Indian religion.
As literature, the mahgala poems are interesting for their form® and
especially for their characterizations. Though they cannot be con-
sidered folk literature in the strict sense, there is the flavor of folk
literature in their poetic conceptions. They are quite different from the
® MV, pp. ix-xxix.
History of Bengali Language and Literature (2nd edn; Calcutta: University of

**
Calcutta, 1954), pp. 249-63.
For example, in some versions of the story, particularly the later ones, the tale of
^
Behula and Lakhindar gains great currency and is treated in detail, at the expense
of other episodes. Like that of Sita, the devotion of Behula to her husband is an
ideal of Indian womanhood.
® My
remarks in this connection refer specifically to the Manasa-mangal of
Ketaka-dasa (K^mananda), ed. Jatindramohan Bhattacarya (Calcutta:
Calcutta University, 1949). For a full introduction to the imagery, language, and
meter see the Introduction to the text, pp. 40-53.
The Ketaka-dasa poem is quite long, the part which is extant running to about
eleven thousand lines (cf. MV, p. xxix and n.). As it is oral literature, the verse
structure of the mangal is simple, being for the most part rhymed verse of two basic
patterns. The first is the couplet, with rhyme scheme aa bb. The bulk of the sections
written in this couplet form are in the old Bengali meter called paydra, a line of
fourteen syllables with cesura after the first eight. A
certain amount of the couplet
verse is also in pdhcdli, which is not in the strict sense a metrical form since the
lines may vary in number of syllables. The second type of verse pattern is the tripadi,
of which one usual rhyme pattern aa b cc b. The tripadi has two basic varieties, the
is
laghutripadi, in which the three sections of the line have the syllabic 6-8, and the
dirghatripadi, which has the structure 8-8-1 0. The tripadi form is usually reserved
for the more lyric sections of the poem, the couplet for the narrative. These are
regular meters, simple and fit for oral recitation. The language of the mangal poems
is also simple andthough an abundance of obscure forms and textual corrupn
direct,
tions assure the poems of never being read for relaxation, at least by this Westerner.
The Goddess of Snakes in Medieval Bengali Literature \ 53
highly stylized and sophisticated court poetry in Bengali and Sanskrit.’

The concern of the writers of the mahgala poems was not so much with
imagery and beauty of language, not so much with the distillation of
poetry, as it was with the simple glorification of a god and the entertain-
ment of unsophisticated people. The imagery of the mahgala poems is
based upon the ordinary things of the world. Their language is blunt
and to the point. Their characters are not bodiless suggestions of reality
but the lusty and good-humored people of field and village. Even the
gods partake of this essential humanity. Siva in the mahgala poems is
not the lofty ascetic of the Purai^, sitting in austere solitude and
meditation. In some of the mahgala poems he is the simple farmer,
sweating in the fields; he is a bit of a rake, deceiving his wife and
chasing after young women; sometimes he is overly fond of country
liquor. The people who inhabit the Manasa poems in particular are
both weak and proud, as is Cando, who is afflicted like Job with aU the
misery the goddess can bring upon him, but who stands and defies her,
his fist in the air, shouting oaths and imprecations. In the end, he is
overwhelmed, but he goes down with dignity. He is never beaten; he is

merely overcome by superior forces. Such a view of humanity, such a
concept of man’s dignity and strength, is not usual, I think, in Indian
literature.
The richness and suggestiveness of the mahgala poems is indicated
by the type and variety of questions they have raised in the minds of
scholars who have examined them. T.W. Qark finds in them an
indigenous Bengali mythology overlaid by Brahmanism. In speak-
ing of the character of Siva in a mahgala poem, he says:
Such episodes and the authenticity of their setting are clear testimony . . .
that in [the mahgal poems], however much they may be overlaid with
Puranic accretions, lie the earliest records of Siva worship known in
Bengal, the worship by fanning people of a knak devata.
Other scholars, such as S.B. Dasgupta, feel that the poems repre-
sent just the opposite —
a struggle between an established Puranic
religion and the encroaching non-Brahmanical cults:
^ There are rnahgal poems, such as the trilogy Annada-mangal of

Bharatcandra, which are highly stylized and sophisticated and akin to the classical
kavya. The Annada-mangal fad court poetry: Bharatcandra was court
is in
poet to the Raja Krsnacandra of NavadvTp. I think it is fair to say, however,

that Bharatcandra uses the mahgal form as a tour de force. It is more a vehicle for
his urbane and sophisticated wit than a truly religious poem.
That is, a farmer-god. See “Evolution of Hinduism in Medieval Bengali
Literature,” op. cit., p. 506.
The human interest of the life-long struggle of Cand Sadagar of the

Manasa-mahgals has been minimized ... by the fact that it really
represents the struggle of decaying Saivism of Bengal against the growth

and spread of Saktism represented by the Manasa cult.
“
There is equal divergence of opinion on the origin of the goddess

Manasa BhaUacarya feels that she is an import from
herself.
South India, that she is non-Vedic and non-Aryan. Sen feels that
there is not enough evidence for a conclusion of that kind and that in
fact there is much in her makeup to connect her with the Vedic
tradition. All scholars agree on one thing: that the mahgala
poems are ancient, complex, and vital for an understanding of the
development of Hinduism in the medieval period.
I do not intend in this brief essay to contest or support any of the
interpretations of these broad and important historical problems.

My purpose in writing is merely to examine some of the
characteristics of the goddess Manasa in the hope that such an
examination will add a little to our understanding of the complex of
religious concepts and beliefs which is called the Devi, the God-
dess. If what I have to say suggests the potential richness of this
type of study in the mahgala texts, I shall be satisfied.
Manasa is the goddess of snakes. It is not surprising to find a
goddess of snakes in Bengal. Indeed, there is a long history of
serpent-worship and /i^ga-worship in India. What is somewhat
surprising is that though Manasa has control of snakes, and
though her actions are sometimes snakelike, she herself is a goddess
" Shashibhushan Dasgupta, Obscure Religious Cults as a Background to Bengali

Literature (Calcutta; University of Calcutta, 1 946), pp. xxxi-xxxii.
MKl, pp. 86-7. llus argument and

1 Sukumar Sen’s rebuttal will be presented
in the body of the paper.
See, e.g., MV, pp. 2% ff. The salient points of Sen’s argument will be given
below.
Clearly there no place in this paper for extensive discussion of serpent-

is
worship as a whole. I would refer those interested to two old but most worthwhile
books: J.Ph. Vogel, Indian Serpent Lore (London; Arthur Probsthian, 1926), and
William Crooke, Folklore of Northern India (Allahabad, 894). 1
,
who has a human form.^^ Her image does not, like those of nagas
or other serpent-divinities, retain any serpentine characteristics.^^
A godess of snakes in human form seems to have little basis in the
Brahmanical tradition. In the Rg Veda, though there are men-
tions of such serpents as the demon Vrtra slain by Indra, there are
no substantial indications that serpents were worshipped. In the
Atharva- and Yajur-vedas mentions of snakes are usually in con-
nection with methods of propitiating them, and in mantras for the
Bhat^carya gives descriptions of several Manasa images, one of which is

as follows: “The image is found in a village named Bhadlsvara, not far from the
Murarai railway station in Birbhum district. It is fully intact. Over the head of
the devi seven serpents are spreading their hoods, and in the fist of her left hand she
is holding another serpent. Her breast is covered by a bodice made of serpents
[sarpa-nirmita kdculite baksa acchadita]. On one side of her is the figure of a

female companion, on the other a male [possible Neta and the rsi Jaratkaru: see
below]. Tlie devi is seated on a full-blown lotus in an elegant posture {lalitasana
bhangite], and her body covered with ornaments. Below her seat is a pot for
is
worship [piija-ghat], and the devVs foot is placed over it” (MKI, p. 190). The
significance of much of this will be seen below. Bhattacarya feels that the
sculpture is of the eleventh Christian century. Sen describes a similar image from
Mandalgram, a village in Burdwan district, adding that the left eye of this image is
blind (MV, pp. 293-4). Many examples of Manasa images could be cited; one of
the striking features of all of them is that while the goddess is always depicted as
holding snakes and surrounded by them, she herself has nothing of the snake about
her person.
Vogel mentions a serpent-goddess from South India who is half-serpent:

“Finally, we must notice a type of snake-stone in which the serpent-deity appears as a
hybrid being, its upper half being human and the lower half serpentine. This hybrid is
a female and in all probability represents the serpent-goddess who in Southern India
is known by the name of Mudama. Over her head she wears the usual hood combined
of three, five, or seven snakes’ heads. She holds both hands joined in front of her
breast and in each arm she has a baby snake” (Indian Serpent Lore, p. 272). The
ndgas are a race of serpent demi-gods, especially prominent in the Mahabharata
and the Buddhist Jataka tales. Usually they are depicted as semi-human and
semi-serpentine. Sometimes, however, they are fully human in form, with a crest of
five or seven serpent hoods, though in such cases there are traces of the serpent along
the backbone of the figure. Female nagas have only one hood, even when they are
depicted as having fully human form; Manasa does not have less than seven (see
Vogel, ibid., pp. 39-42, and MV, PI. X).
There are female nagas must be remembered, however,

(see n. 16 above). It
that nagas are themselves serpents, or were so originally; though immortal and
possessing certain other divine characteristics, they do not have the power of full
divinitv.
’6 Rg-veda A. 18. I l,etc.

control snakes and the cure of snake bites.
of In the
Grhyasutras, however, there are indications that snakes are not
only to be revered and propitiated but to be worshiped: “Having
taken and filled vessels from the kalasa pot, he goes to the east and,
pouring water on a clean place, worships the snake-deities with the
formula: To the divine serpents, homage [svaha]."^^
It is neither pertinent nor possible to try to trace here the develop-
ment of snake-worship in India. It is pertinent to note, however,
that it is not until epic times that there seems to be any connection,
within the Brahmanical tradition at least, of snakes with special
divinity or with any female.^' A brief summary of the
A passage from the Yajur-veda (Maitrayani 2. 7. 15) reads: “Homage be to

those snakes which move upon the earth, and those which are in heaven ... in the
rays of the sun, and to those which dwell in the waters.” See Vogel, op. cit., p. 7
Atharva-veda texts are such as 4.6, 4.7, 5.13, and 6.1 2. Some of these will be quoted
in part below.
Bhattacarya feels that these more extensive references in the later Vedic texts
“indicate that in the meantime snake-worship had been established in the Aryan
society in India. In the age of the Brahmanas, sarpavidya and sarpaveda are . . .
mentioned as two types of knowledge worthy of attainment [duiti jnatavya

bisaya]. It was in this age that snake-worship became firmly established
[bidhibaddha] in Aryan society” {MKI, p. 169). Sen interprets this vidya as occult
knowledge of poison cure. This occult knowledge later became personified as
visahari vidya {Mahdbharata 1. 20. 16; cf. MV, p. xxxii). Poison cure is of
course an aspect of Manasa’s character, as will be seen below.
Asvalayana-grhyasutra 2. 1. 9. See also 4, 8. 28. The cult of the sacred
kalasa, or pot, is in the present day completely intertwined with that of Manasa. The
pot is the symbol of Manasa even in the Bengali saga (see, e.g., the Manasa-
mahgal of Ketaka-dasa, p. 205), and she is always depicted with the pot nearby
(MKI) pp. 190-1, MV, pi. opposite p. 12, “Manasa as Custodian of the Poison
Pot”). The pot is the pot of poison or perhaps Sen says: “The cult of the sacred
pot is connected with Dhanvantari and naga worship and goes back still further to
vedic soma-kalasa (cf. RV 9. 74. 8). In the early votive sculpture of the naga cult the
pot is the most important item” (MV, p. 301).

2* Many of Manasa’s characteristics have possibly pre-epic sources: to the story
of her birth (conceived in a lotus by Siva’s spilled seed). Sen points as parallel RVl.
had incestuous relations with her father, 0. 6
33. 11; to the indiciations that she
1 1
6—7, which is elaborated in Satapatha Brahmana i . 7. 4. 1 —3; to the fact that she is
one-eyed, the demoness Arayi in But none of these parallels

10. 155. 1
., etc.
have to do with snakes. Even after epic times, the worship of a goddess of serpents
seems to be well attested in northern and eastern India only in Bengal, though there
(MKI, pp. 82 ff.).
have been suggestive fragments found in the Punjab and in Bihar
1
Vasuki, king of
For southern India, see above, n. 17. There is strong evidence that
(see MKI, pp. 181 ff., and
the nagas, was worshiped throughout northern India
MV, pp. 299-300).
The Goddess of Snakes in Medieval Bengali Literature 1 57
Mahdbhdrata story in question will have relevance to what

comes later.
The sage Kasyapa had two wives, Kadru and Vinata. To
Kadru was bom Vasuki, who came to be king of the nagas,
and a thousand naga sons. To Vinata were bom Gam^, the
divine bird, enemy of snakes, and Aruna, the charioteer of the sun
god. Vasuki also had a sister named Jaratkaru.
It happened that a muni, also named Jaratkam, was bom into
the family of a certain rsi. This muni was from birth free from all
desires and remained unmarried. Because of this, his ancestral
spirits were disturbed, and, finally, in deference to them, he agreed
to marry. He made, however, certain stipulations: that the girl he
married must be given to him as alms, that she must have the same
name as his, that he would not be responsible for her care and
protection, and that he could abandon her whenever he wished.
It also happened that the Maharaja Janamejaya^^ was pre-
paring to eradicate the naga race by a great snake-sacrifice.^'* As

the snakes, compelled by the powerful charm, were being de-
stroyed, Vasuki became greatly disturbed. It had been decreed
that the son of his sister Jaratkam would be able to put an end to
the sacrifice. So Vasuki presented her to the muni Jaratkam.
Shortly afterward, the muni was awakened too mdely from sleep by
advantage of his stated conditions of marriage,
his wife, and, taking
he abandoned her. But she had been impregnated by him. A son
was bom and named Astika. As predicted, he prevailed upon
Janamejaya to stop the sacrifice, and the naga race was saved.
There are several interesting aspects of this story. In it clearly the
nagas are themselves considered snakes. llie story could be
Mahabharata .38 and 45-8.

1
Mahabharata .40-43 and 49-58.

1
Because Pariksit had been bitten by the great naga Taksaka. Some mystery
surrounds this snake-sacrifice (sarpa-sattra). The snakes were compelled by the
p)Ower of the mantra to bum themselves up in the sacrificial fire. Sen {MV, p. 299)
feels that the snake-sacrifice appears as a retaliative measure against snakes in the
Mahabharata and in the Manasa saga. But originally it was probably a prop-
itiatory rite,an elaborate Vedic ritual of the naga worshipers for the well-being and
satisfaction of the nagas. This is how the sarpasattra is presented in Pahcavimia-
brahmana 25. 15. -4. 1
25 It was because of a snake bite that the sacrifice was performed, and the nagas
were fearful of a sacrifice which would affect snakes. Qearly, naga-worship is directly
related to a snake cult, though the nagas themselves most frequently

appear as at
least semi-human. Bhattacarya feels that this story represents a

turning point in
snakes and
the naga ailt, and that after this the nagas sometimes appear as
sometimes as completely different from them {MKI, p. 171).
interpreted as an attack by Brahmanism on the serpent cult, the cult

of ndgas. But even more interesting for our present purposes is
the connection of two females, Kadru the mother of ndgas, and
Jaratkaru the sister of Vasuki and the mother of Astika,
with the snakes or ndgas, though it should be noted that neither
has a special regnal role with respect to the ndgas in the story, nor
any special divinity.
In the Bengali mahgala poems Jaratkaru is identified with
Manasa. The identification is clear. Manasa is called
Jaratkaru Vipradasa version of the saga.^^ Further,
in the
there is in the Vipradasa version a story of the marriage of
Manasa to a sage named Jaratkaru and his abandonment of her,
and of her having a son named Astika. Clearly, the
Mahdbhdrata story has been incorporated into the Manasa
saga.^^ Though in the Manasa saga, the story is only an in-
terlude, in no way structural to the myth itself, it is clear that, at
least in the mind of one of its poets, Jaratkaru is related to
Manasa. Perhaps even more significant, however, is that in one
tradition Kadru, the mother of snakes, is considered to be one-
eyed, as is Manasa.^®
See MV, p. xxxii.

This is perhaps an argument in favor of Clark’s interpretation (see above, n.
19). There is a passage in the Vipra-dasa version of the saga which I cannot resist
translating here. occurs in pdla 3, sec. 15 (p. 43 of Sen’s text), The marriage of
It
Manasa and Jaratkaru has taken place, and they are about to retire on their
wedding night. Manasa (under the influence of Bad Thought, sent by Camli)
decks herself out in her best serpents; “So Padma [i.e., Manasa] decorated
herself with many kinds of snakes, and prepared herself in such beautiful dress to go
to the muni’s side. She combed her hair with. .],
put a ciraniya snake in her hair [or: .
and then presented herself in the bedroom. In delight [harise] she lay down beside
her lord. But fear had seized the rsi’s mind. For him there was no sleep; he lay
awake, in mortal terror [tarase] of the snakes.
“Just at that time Candika came creeping quietly, and from the doorway of the
room threw in a frog. When they saw the frog the snakes began to hiss and roar
[garjaye saghana]. The rsi sat bolt upright ii) the bed [uthila basiya], his mind
completely numbed. In terror he got up and crept quietly out, a water-pot in his
hand. Dhamai, the door keeper, stopped him [rahaila] at the door. The rsi
said;
“There is no deliverance from this fear of snakes. From this time, I am abandoning
Padmavati [i.e., Manasa].
“And so the timid rsi took to his heels [dilen eriya\ and hid himself deep in a
conch-shell in the sea.’’
See the Suparnddhyaya III:2, where she is addressed as kdne, “One-eyed
one” (Jarl Charpentier, Die Suparnasage [Uppsala, 1920], pp. 218-19. See above, n.
14, and below).
There are other aspects of Manasa’s complex and mysterious

ancestry. Bhaitecarya contends that there are Dra vidian ele-
ments on at least one side of her family. The name Manasa, he
says, occurs in neither of the great epic texts nor in any of the early
Puranas. Following Ksitimohan Sen, he feels the goddess and her
name Manasa come from the Kannada region of South India.
There is justification for this argument in the fact that a South
Indian divinity named Manchamma is associated with snakes,
being perhaps herself a snake, and that among the Nagakals at
Anekal are three which seem to represent a serpent goddess.^®
Neither this nor the argument of the derivation of the name Man-
asa from Manchamma is conclusive, however. Sen contends
that there is little reason to derive the name from the Dra vidian,
when the masculine noun manasa is found in the Rg Veda 5. 44.
Ksitimohan Sen, “Banglay manasa puja,” in Prabasi for

Asarh, 1329 B.S., pp. 391-2. Bhattacarya writes: “In one place in the
Kannada region the name Mane Mahc^ma is found. As a matter of fact.
Mane Mahcamma is not a god or goddess, but is the name of an invisible
[adrsya] snake. But the snake is fancied as a female, with divine characteristics
. . .
[deba~kalpa]. In some pronunciations, this term is mancdmmd ammd, or

. .
Manaca the Mother. In these also, c is pronounced like 5. From this Manasa-
amma, the Manasa-ma or Manasa-devi of Bengal arises’’ {MKI, pp. 185-
7). Mane Mahcamma is also mentioned in Henry Whitehead’s Village Gods of
South India (Calcutta: Association Press, 1922), pp. 82-3. Whitehead describes her
this way: “The Mane Manchi shrine contains a hole resembling an ant-hill, which
. . .
is said to be the abode of an unknown serpent, to which the name of Mane
Manchamma is given.’’ Bhattacarya seeks to establish another of the names of

the goddess (namely, “CengamurP’) from the Dravidian. He says (MKI, p. 174)
that the Telugu name for a plant associated with serpent worship is cehgmur. Sen
(MV, p. xxxiii) argues against this, probably rightly, saying that in the first place the
Telugu jemmudu does not signify the plant in question, and that in the second place
there is nothing in the Bengali texts which indicates that the epithet cehgamuri
signifies a plant at all. In the Ketaka-dasa version of the saga, the epithet
cehgamufi-kdni very frequent and very perjorative. Sen derives the word
is
from Indo- Aryan, assigning it the meaning either “repulsive as a dirty shroud” or
“destroyer of young men.” Bhattacarya’s derivation fits his general thesis.of the
development of the snake-cult through the association of living snakes with vegeta-
tion. This is not an unreasonable thesis; as we shall see, there is certainly a direct
connection of certain trees with the Manasa. However, some details of his
cult of
argument are tenuous. He says, e.g., that the Sena kings probably brought the South
Indian aspects of the Manasa cult when they came to Bengal from the Kannada
region.
30 Vogel, Indian Serpent Lore, PI. XXX. Unlike Manasa, however, the lower
parts of their bodies are serpentine.
10.^' He also says that the name Manasa, as the name of a
goddess, is found in other early texts.Assuming that there was
borrowing, it could as well have gone from Indo-Aryan to Dravi-
dian as the other way around.
A more profitable line isperhaps the following. There is in
Buddhist Tantric texts (e.g., the Sadhana-mala, a Vaj-
rayana text) a goddess named JahgulT.^^ From the SMhana-
mdld certain details of the worship of this goddess are known, as
well as her physical appearance. In one place, JahgulT is de-
scribed as white in color, with four arms, ornamented with serpents.
In one hand she holds a vJnd, in two of her hands are snakes, and
the other is raised in a gesture of safety and peace (abhaya-
mudra).^"^ She is a goddess of poison -cure. Bhattacarya feels
that as a goddess of poison-cure she traces her ancestry to the
Atharva-veda: “In the Atharva-veda there is mention of a Kirata-
girl who is adept at curing snake-bite. This Kirata-girl, the
. . .
conqueror of all poisons, is Jahguli-devi. This Kirata-girl is

she who digs up the [poison] remedy, with golden spade, on the
mountain’s back” {AV 10. 4. 14). The poison remedy is perhaps
soma, “which renders poison powerless” (AV 4. 6. 1).
Bhattacarya feels that this goddess of poison-cure was adopted
by the Mahayana Buddhists and worshiped under the name
JahgulT, her name being changed to Manasa after the disinteg-
MV, “The masculine name Manasa occurs in RV 5. 44. 10 (according

pp. xxx:
to Sayana), and Manasa-devi, the full name of the goddess, is cited by
Candragomin as an aphorism of his grammar (5.26, manaso namni, corresponding
to Panini’s manaso sarnjhayam).
For example, he says that Manasa occurs as the name of the poison-removing
deity in the’Vinayavastu Gilgit text, of which the manuscript copy is sixth century. He
feels that the derivation is from manas, “mind,” and sees the goddess .in this
connection as the terrible projection of Rudra’s mind (MV, pp. xxx ff.).
33 Sadhana-mala 106 (Jahguli tdryai namah), 122 {namo bhagavatyai

aryvajan-gulyai (Gaekwad’s Oriental Series, Vols. XXVI, XLI [Baroda,
1925-281. See MKl, pp. 176-7. Sen {MV, p. 293) lists Buddhist texts in
which mention of Jariguli and other goddesses who are possibly involved in the
Manasa tradition occurs. S.B. Dasgupta (Introduction to Tantric Buddhism
[Calcutta: University of Calcutta, 19501, p. 82), mentions that in the manuscript (pp.
6-7) of the Kriyd-sanigraha-ndma-pahjikd, Janguli. is one of “the ten
goddesses north facing the south, of themature of the ten Dharanis.”

in the
3^ MKI,
p. 177. In another place in the text, according to
Bhattacarya, she is
described as holding a trident and as mounted on a peacock, with snakes in her other
hands. The presence of the vind is, of course, an indication of connection with
Sarasvati, of which we shall see more below.
ration of Buddhism in Bengal. Whether or not the connection of

Jaiiguli with the Kirdta-kanyd of the Atharva-veda is direct,
the basic line of argument has some relevance. In various mantras
Jahguli is termed visahari, “destroyer of poisons,” an epithet
applied also to Manasa
mahgala poems Further, Man-
in the
asa is frequently described as mounted upon a swan, which is the
vehicle of Jahguli and, incidentally, of Sarasvati.^^ Finally,
one of the oldest of the Manasa poems, that of Vipradasa, refers
to Manasa as Jahguli.”^®
Her heredity has had an upon Manasa’s character. It
effect
accounts at least in part, for her two most obvious characteristics:
destruction and regeneration. As a goddess of snakes her power of
destruction needs She destroys mthlessly and
little explication.
wantonly, the innocent with the guilty, to demonstrate her might.
She is full of wrath and violence. But she also has a strange and
equally wanton compassion. She has the power to bring her victims
35 MKI, pp. 178-9.

3* BhaUacarya {MKI, pp. 179-80) gives two mantras, one to Jaiiguli and
one to Manasa. The relevant part of the Jaiiguli mantra is: “Glory to the
goddess, whose diadem is made of the hoods of serpents [krtasekharcun
phatumayim] daughter of Sarikara, conqueror of poisons [visaharim], the
. . .
lotus-bom Jaiiguli.” The full text of this mantra, in slightly different form, is
given in the Dharma-puja-bidhan of Ramai Pandit (ed. Nanigopal
Bandyopadhyaya, Calcutta: Baiigiya sahitya parisad, 1323 B.S.), pp. 97-8.
This text gives some variant readings, such as padmdsanatn, “Lotus-seated” for
BhaUacarya’s padmdnandm. The name of the goddess is given as
Jaiiguli in the Ramai Pandit text. It is of interest that in this mantra as in the
Bengali saga, Janguli/Manasa is the daughter of Siva (Sankara). Manasa
was conceived in a lotus by the spilled sperm of Siva; it is probably because of this that
one of her most common names is Padma {padma, “lotus”). The other mantra
given by BhaUacarya, the source of which I have not been able to find, applies
the following interesting epithets to Manasa, following the usual conventional
description (“whose face is the container of nectar, like the moon”): “who is
ornamented with and jewels and serpent- jewels [kana-kamariiganair

gold
ndgaratnair], mounted on a swam [harrsarudha], With the eight nagas
. .
(sdstandgam) ... to her I make obeisance.” It is interesting that the eight

nagas of the epic stories have come to be associated with Manasa.
3“^
See also Ketka-dasa’s Manasd-mangal, p. 235, 1. 9, where Manasa is
described as “mounted on a swan” (harnsa-bahane). Throughout the Atharva-
veda SarasvatT considered as a heavenly physician (e.g., AV 5. 23. 1). The
is
association of the goddess SarasvatT with rivers is well-known. Especially in view of

the connection between running water and the cure of poison, of which we shall see
more, it is not surprising that SarasvatT is associated with JangulT and thus with
Manasa.
3® MV, bisahari jaguti bikhydta tribhubana.
back to life, and this she often does once she has conquered them.
She herself is like a snake, now striking out randomly and angrily,
now spreading its hood over the face of a sleeping child.
Manasa’s constant companion in the saga is a girl called Neta.
This name is interesting. It is probably derived from netra, “eye.”"^®
In one version of the story, Neta was created by Siva from a
tear-drop, and this is one possible meaning of the name. The other
possible meaning is even more interesting. Manasa is called
Kanl, “one-eyed. Her other eye was put out by Can^ with
a hot coal or, as some versions have it, with a needle. It is in this
empty eye that her poison is stored. It is also from her eye that
she deals death. In this sense, Neta is an aspect of Manasa
herself; NetaManasa’s destructive power. It is Neta who
is
urges Manasa to impose her worship upon mankind by the de-

struction of her enemies.
Hear me, O merciful one. The snakes are your constant and powerful
companions. It is by your snakes that your worship will be established
. . .
on the earth. Hear me, O Jagati:'*^ you can defeat no one except by
showing him the consequences of your wrath. If he is not in trouble, no
Asutosh Bhattacharyya, “The Serpent in Folk Belief in Bengal,” Indian Folk-

lore, I, 2 n 956), p. 22. “It may be mentioned here that “several tribes of the Gonds
and Mundas have a legend that their earliest king was bom of poor parents, and that
his mother, having left the child under some tree while she went to work, returned to
”
find a cobra spreading its hood over the child to guard it from the heat of the sun.”
There is also the famous story of the serpent-king Muchilinda sheltering the Buddha
from the elements by his hood {Vinaya pitakam; Mahavagga 1.3). See Vogel,
Indian Serpent Lore, p. 102.
MV, p. 296.
See above, n. 27. Vogel relates a curious story from the'Kulu Valley in
northwestern India, the conclusion of which is: “On this occasion, it said, one of the
Nags had one eye burned, and is therefore known as Kana Nag” (Indian
Serpent Lore, p. 256). Vogel (ibid., p. 257) and Sen (MV, p. viii) both note the
curious parallel to this in the Pali Bhuridatta-jataka (6.543), in which a naga
loses an eye. It is unlikely that these isolated facts are indicative of any sort of
influence by, let us say, the jdtaka on the Kulu or Bengali stories, or between the
Kulu and Bengali stories. What is more likely is that all three are based on the
tradition that Kadru, the snake-mother, is one-eyed (Suparnddhyaya 3.2,
Charpentier, Die Suparnasage, pp. 218-1 9).
MV, 3. 10 (p. 40 of the text). She gave half the poison to the snakes, scorpions,
and poisonous insects, and put the other half into her eye (ardhabhaga manasa
purila eka cakse).
A common name for West Bengal versions of the saga. Sen
Manasa in the
(MV, pp. xxxiv-xxxv) derives it from the mot jagr, “to be awake or watchful.” He
says that “watchfulness is a characteristic activity of Manasa.”
man in all the three worlds will worship you. Therefore, O mother of
Show mercy only to those who worship
serpents, slaughter your enemies!
you. As many men as you destroy, so many more will worship you.'^
Because of her power of death will Manasa be worshipped. But it

is not this aspect of her power which is of greatest interest.
In one version of the Manasa saga it is said: “When a sage dies,

he goes to the sun but a victim of snakebite
. . . goes to the . .
.
domain of Manasa.”"*^ The climax, if such it can be called, of the

Manasa story comes when the corpse of Lakhindar, who had been
killedbecause of Manasa’s anger at his father, Cando, is not
burned but floated down the river on a raft. When the body reaches
Manasa’s domain, though it is badly decomposed, she washes it
and brings it back to life. There is a belief in Bengal, recorded by
Bhattacarya, that “due to the deadly venom which [pervades]
the whole body of a victim of snake-bite, fire fails to consume it . . .
A man who dies of snake-bite remains alive for at least a period of

seven days."^^
The regenerative power of Manasa is not separable from her
role as goddess of snakes. Nor is it wholly separable from the snakes
themselves. The snake simultaneously represents life and death. It
regenerates itself periodically in the shedding of its skin. It is im-
mortal,**^ and this immortality is attested in a Bengali legend. Once
when Garu^ was carrying nectar from heaven, a few drops fell to
The snakes licked the grass, in
the earth on a clump of kusa grass.
the hope of becoming immortal. They did become immortal but
split their tongues in the process."*®
Manasa-mangal of Ketaka-dasa, pp. 137 ff.
Manasa-vijaya Vipra-dasa, p. 204. The full passage reads: “A muni at his
death goes to the sun [tisampati or tvisampati]; [but] the husband of Behula
died because of a snake [sarpa-upastambhe]. Having gone to the place of snakes
[sarpavoni payya], he remains in the house of Manasa [manasa-sadane]."
“Tlie Serpent in Folk-Belief,” op. cit., p. 25. Interestingly, George W. Briggs
(The Chamars [Calcutta: Association Press, 1920], p. 179) records a similar belief
among the Chamars: ‘‘Those who die of snake-bite are buried. Since it is believed
that the person who is bitten lives on for six months, the body is not burned. The . . .
body of one dying of snake-poison is sometimes thrown into a stream, with the hope
that it will float along until, by some chance, it comes under the influence of one who
might restore the dead to life.” The other six sons of Cando, also killed by
Manasa, were also floated down the river. Cando’s argument against burning
them is that the smoke from the pyres would be like a banner of victory of Manasa.
See Mircea Eliade, Trade d'hisioire des religions (Paris: Payot. 1959), p. 150.
Bhattacharyya, ‘‘TTie Serpent in Folk-Belief,” op. cit., p. 32. The story is, of
course, a slightly changed version of the one in Mahdhhdrata 1.30-34.
The phallic character of the snake is a commonly accepted indica-
tion of its regenerative power. This is true in many cultures.'*^ In
Bengal, there is in most Manasa. This is
villages a place sacred to
usually a tree on the branches of which barren women hang pieces
of rag with stones tied to one end.^® Women in Bengal take extra-
ordinary care not to harm any snake. It is perhaps an extension of
this aspect of Manasa that she has become in some places
identified with the goddess SasthT, the goddess of childbearing and
children.®^ perhaps also relevant that in the Manasa saga
It is
itself, the women of Cando’s house, his wife and daughters-in-
law, were the first to worship Manasa.

This regenerative aspect of Manasa’s power accounts for other
peculiarities of the myth. For example, there is a constant associa-
tion of Manasa with trees, perhaps also fertility symbols,®^
particularly with the tree known as the sij or Manasa-tree (Sanskrit
snuhi-vrksa, Bhatecarya). This tree is also known for its qual-
ities antidotal to poison.
"*’566, e.g.. Die Bhil in Zentralindien by Wilhelm Koppers (Hom-Wien;

Ferdinand Berger, 1948), pp. 219 ff, for a discussion of the matter with respect to a
tribal group in India. See also Eliade, op. cit., pp. 150 ff.
Bhattacharyya, “The Serpent in Folk-Belief,” op. cit., p. 22. As Bhattacharyya
further points out, this is done not only by barren women but by women who want
male children (cf. Koppers, op. cit., p. 219: “Wenn der einer kinderlosen Frau ein
Stuck von einer Kobra nimmt^ es in ein Tuch wickelt und verbrennt, so wird ihm
demnachst von seiner Frau ein Sohn geboren werden”). Whitehead, in his Village
Gods of South India (p. 22), says: “The worship of serpents, especially the deadly
cobra, is common all over South India. ... Inmany towns and villages, large slabs of
stones with figures of cobras . . . are worshiped, especially by women who want
children.” See also O.R. Ehrenfels, Mother-Right in India (London: Oxford Uni-
versity Press, 1941), pp. %, 97.
Bhattacarya (MKI, p. 191), in speaking of certain images of Manasa
which include children, points out that in many West Bengal villages the places of
worship of the two goddesses are the same.
MKI, pp. 173-4. As above, the place in the village sacred to Manasa is
usually a tree. Bhattacarya, in the place indicated, gives long lists of trees which
have association with the Manasa cult. Mircea Eliade {Trade d’histoire des religion,
p. 244) says'. “La presence de la deesse a cote d’un symbole vegetal
confirme le sens
qu’s I’arbre dans I’iconographie et la mythologie archaiques: celui de source
inepuisable de la fertility cosmique.”
52 The sij tree has not been identified, according to Qark (op. cit., p. 507, n. 3);
Sen Euphorbia nivulia (MV, p. xiii). In almost all representations of Manasa
calls it
a sprig of sij is present, placed on top of the sacred pot. It is not clear what
Bhattacarya is referring to as snuhi-vrksa. Monier-Williams {Sanskrit Dictio-
nary) gives the form snuh, which he identifies as Euphorbia antiquorum, “The milky
juice of which is used as an emetic.”
4

Finally, there is the persistent presence of water in the parts of the
myth which deal with regeneration. The body is floated down the
river to be revivified. Water is such a familiar symbol of life-force
that it need not be detailed. The antidotal effect of running water is
recognized in the Atharva-veda (4. 7. 1; 10. 4. 3, 20, etc.). But it
might be of interest to note in passing that the relationship between
water and serpent is as common in Indian mythology as it is in that
of other cultures. The ndgas dwell beneath the waters;^^ the
serpent-demon Vrtra dams up the waters of life; and there is the
familiar Visnu Anantasayin, in repose on the serpent afloat on the
cosmic waters.
As Sen points out, the epithet ''visaharr offers two
etymologies.^^ It can come from ""visa-dhara,'' “holding poison.”
As Manasa, the wrath of Indra, and Neta, the poison-filled
glance of her eye, as Jaratkaru/Kadru, the snake-mother, she is
the power of destruction. The other etymolog>’ is from ""visa-hara,"'
“destroying poison.” As Jahgull she is the personification of
the occult knowledge of poison-cure. She is the guardian of soma,
the sacred liquid, which destroys the poison of snakes.^® Her power
in both aspects seems absolute. And in both her aspects, she is the
devi; her names are many, but the most persistent one is matd,
“Mother.”
^ See Eliade, op. cit., pp. 183-5, 245.

They are described in this way throughout the Mahabharata sections which
**
Lore, pp. 32 ff.
deal with them; for a summary statement, see Vogel, Indian Serpent
** Heinrich Zimmer,. Myths and Symbols in Indian Art and Civilization, ed.
Joseph Campbell (New York, 953), p. 3. )
MV, p. xxxii. I have used them to sum up the seeming paradox of Manasa as a
source of death and life. In connection with this seeming paradox, AV 5. \ 3. should
my eye do slay thy eye, with poison do I slay thy poison”

be noted: “With I
(Bloomfield’s translation).
58/tV4.6. 1.
Bengali Literature
Part 2
With A. K. Ramanujan
INTRODUCTION
Mircea Eliade has written
myth reveals a region of ontology inaccessible to superficial logical exist-

ence. . . . Heraclitus saw that “God is day and night, winter and summer,
war and peace, and hunger: all opposites are in him.”
satiety Tht . . .
Indian Great Goddesses (Kali and the rest), like all other Great
Goddesses, possess at once the attributes of gentleness and dread. They
are at once divinities of fertility and destruction, of birth and also of death
(and often also of war). Kali, for instance, is called “the gentle and
benevolent,” although the mythology and iconography connected with
her is terrifying (Kali is covered with blood, wears necklace of human
skulls, holds acup made out of a skull, and so on), and her cult is the
bloodiest anywhere in Asia. ^
The first essay in this set^ attempted to show that Manasa, the
goddess of snakes in Bengal, conforms to this pattern, and that over
the centuries the characteristics of a number of divinities accrued to
her, making her a goddess of “fertility and destruction, of birth emd
death;” she once Sarasvati and Janguli, goddesses of
is at
healing, and the one-eyed Kadru, mother of snakes, with poison
in her empty eye; she is at once the mythic visakanya, whose touch
is death, and the personification of the ancient idea of homeopathy:
With poison do I slay thy poison.^

In this essay we shall examine in more detail the myth of Man-
asa, with attention to the elements of folklore which are found in
it, the relationship of mythic elements to the myths of other gods
and goddesses, and the ways in which various characteristics have
This essay appeared in History of Religions 3, no, 2 (Winter 1964), pp. 300-22.
first
No major revisions have been made in this printing.

^ Patterns in Comparative Religion (New York,
1958), pp. 418-19.
^
“Goddess of Snakes in Medieval Bengali Literature,” I; hereafter cited as GS I.
^ Atharva-veda 5. 1 3. 4.
The Goddess of Snakes in Medieval Bengali Literature \ 67
accreted to the goddess. The paper will be divided into two parts:
1. The outline of the full myth of Manasa. The basic story is
compiled from the texts of Ketakadasa (Ksemananda), dating
from about the middle of the seventeenth century, and the
Manasd-vijaya (VD) of Vipradasa, a western Bengal text of the
late fifteenth century. Variants will be given in italics with the
following identifications:
VP: Manasd-mahâla of Visnupala, a western Bengal text of the

mid-eighteenth century.
ND: Manasd-marigala of Narayan Dev, an eastern Bengal text of
the seventeenth century.
V : Manasd-mangala of Vamsivadana Cakravarti (Varpsidasa) an
eastern Bengal text of eighteenth century.
VG: Manasd-mangala of Vijay Gupta, an eastern Bengal version of
uncertain date, but p>erhaps as early as the sixteenth century.
JG: the version by Jagatjivan Ghosal, a northern Bengal (Cooch-
behar) text of the mid-seventeenth century.
MD: The complementary fragments of a text by two writers, Manakar
and Durgavar, from western Assam, of uncertain date.
JM : the version of Jivankrena Maitra, an Assamese text dated 1744.
B : the Bihari version, anonymous and of uncertain date.
Since not of these versions have been available to us in

all full (many
of them are still in manuscript form), we have depended in part for
our information on the variants upon the notes in Sukumar Sen’s
excellent edition of the Manasd-vijaya of Vipradasa (Calcutta,
1953) and upon Bdhgald-mahgala-kdvyer . itihdsa of Asutos
Bhattacarya (Calcutta, 1958).
Also within our text will be code numbers (e.g., A 132.1): these
refer to the Motif-Index of Folk Literature hy Stith Thompson
(University of Indiana, 1955), where the reader will find citation of
other occurrences of the motif in question. While we also consulted
the misleadingly titled The Oral Tales of India, by Stith Thompson
and Jonas Babys (Bloomington, IN, which is really a motif-
1958),
index, we found the larger Motif-Index of Folk Literature more
useful for our purposes. We have not tried to “motif’ every item in
the mahgala our numbers indicate the general location of the
;
motif, but any attempt to place each item to the last decimal in the
Index seemed to us rather unnecessary at this point. In any case,
such attempts at precision are frustrated at the very outset by the
absence of any adequate definition of “motif space.” Something as
general as Pride or wealth of man brought low by action of the gods is
listed by the Index as a motif (L 473), as well as Bride-test: cooking

(H 383.4). So we have contented ourselves with an indication of
motif numbers wherever possible. We have also made up a new
number or two, and these are identified by an asterisk (e.g., K
255.5*). For many well-known, specifically Indian motifs (such as
Indra’s dancers being banished to earth for a missed step), we have
assigned numbers like V 236 {Fallen Angels), though proper assign-
ment has to wait for a full index of Indian motifs. All the same, we
feel that these numbers are useful to the general folklorist and
indicate the complex variety of motifs as well as their adaptation in a
tale like the one we present: for instance, the use of Compassionate
executioner (here, in Sections K and P, a snake), classed under K
512; or the Orpheus motif in Section R, though here Behula does
not go to the land of the dead. In certain cases, we have indicated
the lack of complete fit between the motif here and a classification
in the Index by a question mark. A final point on this matter: the
general type of Manasa tales seems to be close to Type 939 {The
—
offended deity cf.. Types of Indie Oral Tales, by Stith Thompson
and Warrent E. Roberts, FF Communications No. 180, Helsinki,
1 960), of which the Harischandra story"^ is a good example.
Clearly, we have not been able to cite all possible variants. Given
the purpose of this paper, we have not been able to take account, for
example, of the fact that an episode which might occur in version A
in section A, occurs in version B in section Z; we have chosen merely
to try to collate and present a narrative which seems representative
of most of the versions available to us.
2. Analysis of the myth with attention to the distribution of
characteristics of the chief figures,and conclusions. The analysis is
forthrightly speculative though we hope suggestive The matter of
, , ,
.
character diffusion, which is one of the major points of the analysis,

is a complex and difficult one, and one which for proper under-
standing requires many more data than Indianists currently have at

we can stimulate concern with the importance of
their disposal. If
gathering such data, we shall have gone a long way toward accomp-
lishing our purpose.
I. THE MANASA MYTH

A. The Birth of Manasa
A
One day, while sitting beside a lotus pond, Siva was overcome by
See The Thief of Love, edited and trans. by Edward C. Dimock, Jr. (Chicago:
University of Chicago Press, 1963), pp. 140-68.
.

the beauty of the place (B: Siva went to bathe in a lake called
Sonadaha). Thinking of his wife, he discharged his seed (T 54 10. 1 .
1 (B /ze shed five strands of hair). The seed fell on a lotus. (B the
: :
five strands of hair attached themselves to five lotuses). It fan down

through the lotus stalk to the nether regions, where it fell upon the
head of Vasuki, king of the Nagas.^ From the seed, Vasuki’s
mother Kadru^ fashioned a beautiful girl, who was named Man-
asa, and to whom Vasuki gave charge of snakes (A 132.1) and of
poison (B from the five lotuses were born five girls [T 543.2]®).
:
B. Manasa and Candf

Manasa and her snakes used to come up to Siva’s lotus pond to
play (JM in leaving, she omitted the proper courtesies to Vasuki,
:
who cursed her; because of the curse, one of her eyes was destroyed
[A 128.2]). Because of the snakes, Siva was no longer able to pick
lotuses there, and so he summoned Garuda to come and eat the
snakes.^® Manasa went to Siva to protest; when Siva saw her
^ In the VP version, there is a story that Varuna was doing penance one day; his
wife Maitra came to persuade him to come home. He spilled his seed, and from it
his own son Agastya was born.
^ Cf., Mahabharata 1.38, pp. 49-58, and GS I, p. 157.
^ Who was one-eyed; Manasa is also one-eyed: see GSI, ibid.
® The five girls jointly play the role of Manasa. Sen {MV, p. xxvi) has: “This has
been brought about by conceiving individuality for five of the usualnames of the
goddess, after the analogy of the five water nymphs {pahcapsaras). The five
sisters are Maina Visahari, Dotala Bhavani, Devi Visahari, Jaya
VisaharT, and Padma Kumari. . . . Maina (lit. “deadly”) is the leader of the
pentad.”
^ The role of CancE in the Manasa myth is a defensive one, thus suggesting the
possibility that it represents the encroachment of the Manasa upon her own.
cult
Whether or not this is true, there is a curious similarity between some aspects of the
Manasa myth and that of Candi herself. For example, in the Carup-mangala
poems, Can^ wants to have her worship established upon the earth. She decides
that this will have to be done through Nilambara, the son of Indra. So she goes to Siva
and “Put a curse on Nilambara and send him to the mortal world.” Siva replies
says,
that he cannot do this without cause; so Can^ takes the form of an insect and hides
in a flower which Nilambara is about to pick for offering in SWa-puja. During the
puja, Can^ as the insect comes out of the flower and bites Siva. The god,
burning with anger, curses Nilambara, who descended to earth and was bom as
Kalketu, in the house of Dharmaketu the hunter {MKI, 354, and Kabikahkan
candi, pp. 153-5).
Garuda, the divine bird, is son of Vinata and the mortal enemy of snakes
{Mahabharata .38, 45-8). 1
beauty, he lusted for her (A make love to

188.1)^' (ND: he tried to
her and was struck down by the deadly glance from Manasas eye
^
[D 206 1.2.1 ]). Manasa prevailed upon Siva to take her home with
him. Siva, aware that his wife Candi would be very jealous (A
164.7), did not agree at once. But eventually Manasa persuaded
him, and he took her home in a flower basket (A 137.4?; K
312.3*).'^ (VP: Manasa turned herself into a white spider [D
190],'^ and was brought home in the basket in that form; B: the five
girls were hiding in and Siva picked the lotuses and took them
lotuses,
home.) (ND: As Siva was taking Manasa home in the basket, she
asked some cowherds for milk. They refused, and she killed them. At
Siva*s request, she brought them back to life, and they worshipped
her. They also met the farmer Bachai, who Wanted Manasa for a
wife. Manasa killed him also, restoring him to life only after
Bachais mother had promised to worship her.y^ Candi dis-
covered Manasa in the basket (JG: by weighing each lotus, and, if
it seemed too heavy, throwing it into the fire, thus forcing Manasa
to reveal herself [J 1143.1**]). Despite Manasa’s pleas that Siva

was her father and Candi her stepmother, Candi accused her of
** Siva in many of these texts is a lustful person. As Bhattacarya {Bais kabir
manasa-mahgala, 2:90, n. 1) points out, in the Sivayan poem of Ramesvara,
he is involved in an affair with a Bagdi woman, in various folk rhymes he has affairs
with Koc women, and in the VG version of the Manasa myth he is involved with a
Dbm woman. This leads Bhat^carya to the conclusion that Siva was a god
adopted by the “lower social orders,” and identified, for example, with Muram
Buro of the Koc-Munda people, a terrible god pacified only by animal sacrifice
(MKI, p. 102). The naked Siva is depicted in other texts as seducing the wives of rsis
in an asram (Skanda purana, mahesvara-kand, keddrakhanda adhydya
6.18- 19); this may be a puranic assimilation of a tribal god. For Siva’s seduction of
sages’ wives, see also Dandin’s Dasakumdracarita (bhavdnipater munipatnis-
ahasra sandusanam): Sen MV, p. 294.
A rather curious story is told in the VP version of the myth. Durga (or
Can^) was angry Manasa home and started off for her
with Siva for bringing
father’s house. Siva turned himself into a Muslim soldier and stationed himself in
Durga’s path. He then caused a storm; to escape it, Durga ran into the sentry
house where Siva was. He raped her, and as a result she gave birth to two sons,
Hasan and Hosen, whom we shall meet below.
Note the ass(Kiation of Manasa with women-fertility-trees-flowers; to this
we shall return.
Later Ketakadasa version, Manasa turns herself into a white fly and
in the
from her vantage point on the wall hears the secret of Dhanvantari’s power (below.
Sec. J). The color white is associated with Sarasvatl, perhaps herself originally a
goddess of wpler and poison cure (MS, 31 6; 317, n. 39).
Here and in several places in the composite myth, it is a woman who first agrees
to worship Manasa. Note again the connection with women and fertility.
1
being Siva’s mistress. The argument grew more heated until

Candi, in a fit of rage, put out Manasa’s eye with a hot coal (F
512.1) (B: Candi threw a log and struck Maina Visahafi in the
eye). Manasa darted death from her poison eye, and Candi fell
down lifeless. (V: Manasa became a snake [D 191] and bit Candi
in the foot;^^ B: Main^ Visahari then caused Candi, in this
version called Pdrvafi, to be bitten by a snake; Manasa then
went to hide in a sij tree. Siva, returning, pleaded with Manasa
to restore Candi to life, and she did so.^' Siva and Manasa then
left the house.
C. The Creation ofNeto (or Neta)
After walking a long way, Manasa and Siva were very tired, and
sat down on top of a hill underneath a si] tree to rest. Manasa,
exhausted, sound asleep. Siva saw his chance to escape and
fell
sneaked away, but not without sorrow, and as he was leaving a tear
fell from his eye. From this tear drop he created a full-grown girl
whom he called Neto (T 541.3),'^ and whom he appointed the

companion of Manasa ? A 195). Siva then went away.^®
This is, to our knowledge, the only place in the myth in which Manasa herself
assumes the form of a snake. More usually, she sends her servants the snakes to do
such work.
A tree sacred to Manasa, And under which, in village Bengal, offerings to her
are placed. It is possible that the sap of the tree is considered to have medicinal value
(see GSl, p. 164).
The means of her restoration is not given, in the Bihari version a mantri (one
who possesses knowledge of the mantras or sacred formulas) called Ke^ was
summoned. He began his ministrations with the help of a water pot, but Visahari
caused the water to dry up. Then Siva interceded, and Can<£ was restored to life.
The VG version has an additional episode. Manasa has given birth to

eight Cand, being jealous,
sons. hated her for this. By Can^s com-
mand, Manasa became dry and could not nurse. Siva then commanded the ’divine
cow to fill the river with milk. But the serpents drank from the river and con-
taminated it. When Siva drank from it, he was slain by the poison (a clear variant of
the churning of the sea story in MBh 1. 15-17; see below, Sec. D). Manasa then
restored him to life.
The most obvious derivation of the name is from the Sanskrit netra, “eye.” Sen
(MV, p. xxxv), however, derives it in the following way: “The main function ofNeto
in the saga is to give advice to Manasa as to how some persons could be killed and
when that was done to take charge of the dead bodies. This reminds us of the Rgvedic
imagery of death Neto therefore represents the vedic Nirrti, and
at the lap of Nirrti,
the derivation of the Bengali name from the Vedic is linguistically probable.”
In JM, Manasa and Neto are both bom from the seed of Siva. In VP, Neto is
bom from the sweat of Brahma (A 14. L 1. 1). In MD, Neto is called the elder
1
sister of Manasa.
D. The Churning of the Sea}^
The sea was churned by Siva, with the great serpent as instrument.
Out of the sea came poison, compounded from the wrath of Siva
and the venom of the serpent. Siva drank the poison to prevent the
world from being destroyed by it, and when he had drunk it he fell
down dead. In grief, Candi sent for Manasa, informing her of
her father’s death and urging her to come and restore him to life.
Manasa replied that she could not come out into the world, as she
had no clothing but a tiger skin; however, she said that if Candi
would provide her with clothing, she would come. Candi gave her
some old rags, which led to another argument between the two.
Manasa shot death from her poison eye, and Candi fell lifeless.
Manasa then revived Siva by uttering certain mantras, and as
the poison began to come out of him she collected it, giving half to
the snakes, scorpions, and poisonous insects (A 2532), and storing
A
the other half in her empty eye. At Siva’s request, she revived
Candi once again.
E. The Marriage of Manasd^^
Siva was advised by the gods to find a husband for Manasa. He

The story is common to all versions, and is clearly drawn from MBh 1 . 1 5-17.
Asutos Bhattacarya, (“The Serpent in Folk Belief in Bengal,” in IF
\ : 26-27) discusses the method of snakebite cure, and gives the following exemplary
incantation:
O churning poison, in the water of the seven seas, by your

power the blue-necked one [i.e., Siva] fell swooning.
It bursts from the lower world [i.e., the abode of the nagas\
and penetrates, and makes blood water.
But to one who takes bhang [a variety of drug] even much
poison has no strength.
Go to him who has prepared you, O poison.
Eat creepers and leaves and frogs and seja [sij?].
Leave the head and body and depart, O poison.
By the order of Chandi.daughter of Hara, return
to your home.
O, poison, you are a slayer of living things.

Tlie strength of the poison of theMother [?] remains no more.
By the order of the angered Can^, whom all fear.
Go, poison, ineffective poison; there is no poison left in you.
By the order of Bisahari, go poison, go.
The story is parallel to that in MBh 1 . 38. )2, 16, and 45-8 and is accepted by all
versions. In some places in the VD version, however, Manasa is called a “virgin

goddess.”
discovered that a marriage between her and a sage (T 111) named
Jaratkani was predestined (T 22). The two were married (JM:
Jaratkdru getting Neto as part of the dowry) and Manasa had a
son named Astika (JM: Once, when Jaratkaru was away, the
sage Astdvakra fell in love with Manasa and wanted her. But
Manasa sent Neto toher place [K 191 1]. A 5 a result of their
him in
union, Neto gave birth to the sage Dhanahjaya. When Jaratkaru
returned, he saw Manasa nursing the infant, misunderstood the
situation, and abandoned her [S 41.1]).^'^
F. Manasa's Desire to be Worshipped^^
Manasa wanted to be worshipped in the world of men. She asked

^ A
Neto and Siva how this could come to be. Siva promised that it
would be arranged, but despite this, the establishment of her wor-
ship was not easy. (VG: First, she was worshipped by Ladka, a
Candala who had lost everything gambling.)^^ Manasa then
disguised herself as an old Brahman woman (D610.1;K 1811) and
went to a group of cowherd boys who were grazing a herd of sixteen
thousand cows on the bank of a river. (JG and ND: she begged
milk from them; they refused to give her any, and she killed them).
The boys taunted her and beat her, so she summoned her snakes to
frighten the boys into submission. When even this was not effective,
she demonstrated her divinity by milking a cow into a wicker basket
and drinking from it upside down (H 413.3; H 1023.2?). The boys
were still not convinced and rushed at her again. She disappeared,
taking with her all the cows. In order to get their cows back, the boys
agreed to worship her on the tenth day of the briglit fortnight of the
month of Jaistha.
G. FIcisan and Hosen
Near the place where the cowherd boys were tending cattle was the
See G5I, p. 157, for a somewhat different interpretation.
The motif is not uncommon in the mangala texts. Canifi also had to exert
herself considerably in order to have her worship accepted on the earth; see n. 9,
above.
Perhaps an argument for Bhattacarya’s position {MKI, pp. 160-71) that
the worship of Manasa began among non-caste and tribal groups.
The reference to the Krsna legend is clear: Krra and the other gopas herded
cows on the banks of the Yamuna; Krsra had 16,000 consorts. This is either an
historical statement (i.e., that some Vaisnavas were among the first to accept the
worship of the Devi), or it is a method of statement of the superiority of the Manasa
cult over the Vaisnava.
estate of the Muslim landlord Hasan and his brother Hosen (VP:
This estate was contiguous to that controlled by Manasd. One day
she went out in her chariot to survey her realms and saw that her
neighbor Hasan had become very powerful). One day, when the
cowherd boys were worshipping the sacred pots of Manasa, the
overseer of Hasan’s estate, Gora Mina by name,^^ saw them;
he became very angry and drove them off. Manasa became in her
turn very angry at this (VP: Brahmans complained to Manasd that
Hdsan was persecuting the Hindus, and Manasd became en-
raged). She sent one of her smallest and most deadly snakes, in the
form of a golden insect (D 4 18.4*), to hide within a pot. When Gora
Mina reached inside the pot to pick up the golden insect, he was
bitten and killed. Then the snakes, under orders from Manasa,
proceeded to kill all the Muslims in the area. When Hasan heard
of this, he prepared an army to combat Manasa and her snakes;
this was against the advice of his wife, who pleaded with him not to
contest the will of the goddess. Manasa’s serpent-army (D 2091.
2. 2*) surrounded that of Hasan and slaughtered everyone.
Snakes also began to infest the house of Hasan himself, and so
plagued him that at last he installed a sacred pot of Manasa in a
temple and began to worship it.
H. Manasd and the Fisherman

Continuing her campaign to have her worship established on earth,
Manasd appeared before two fishermen as an old Brahman wo-
man (K 1811.2) and asked them to carry her across the river.
Angered and afraid that it would delay their fishing, the fisherman
insulted her and refused to honor her- request. By her magical
power, then, Manasa prevented them from catching any more fish
(D 2085. 1). So they relented and carried her across the river; on
their next cast they found their nets full of fish (D 2 106. 1.1). Their
last catch was a pair of the pots sacred to Manasa, all made of gold
(D 2 102). Manasa blessed the fishermen, and a shower of gold fell
around them (D 2102). They worshipped the pots of Manasa, and
their whole family prospered greatly.
Hasan and Hosen are brothers, heroes and martyrs of Shi’a Islam; the refer-
ence may be to a historical conversion of Muslims to the Devi cult.
This may well be a reference to conflict with the Nath cult, the legendary
founders of which are Mlnanatha and his disciple Gorakâtha. The names
appear frequently in many mahgala poems, such as the eighteenth-century Dharma;
mangala of Sahadcva CakravartT.
) s
I. The Meeting of Manasa and Cando^^
The episode with the fishermen had occurred in the city of

Campakanagara, the home of Cando, a wealthy and powerful
merchant (or king), and a faithful worshiper of Siva and Candl.
One day, on her way to the river, Cando’s wife Sanaka passed
the place where the two fishermen lived. Hearing sounds of merri-
ment from within the house, Sanaka entered and heard from the
mother of the fishermen the story of the old Brahman woman and
the pots. Sanaka asked for pots, which were given to her. She took
them home and worshipped them, accompanied by her six
daughters-in-law.^^ Engraged, Cando seized his staff and
smashed the pots (C 937?).
(VP: After Hasan*s submission, Manasa came to Cando*
lands and perched on the branch of a white simul tree. Manasa was
very attracted by the wealth and order of the lands of Cando and
thought that she would kill all the inhabitants and transport the whole
place to her own domain. But as she was sitting in the tree, Cando
saw herandstruck her with his staff. She shot a fire arrow at him but
only singed his moustache and beard. He mocked her, saying that she
did barber*s work.)
(V: In a former birth, Cando was the hermit Pasusakha [“friend
of beasts**]. Once he rescued two birds from a swollen stream and
cared for them. But the birds were eaten by snakes, and ever after-
wards he was the mortal enemy of snakes.
(VG: The reason Manasa hated Cando, was that once the
that
snakes which covered her. person had fled from Cando, leaving
Manasa naked in his presence [C 3 12. ?1.) 1 . 1
Manasa then resolved to conquer Cando, on the advice of

Neto, who said that if Cando would worship Manasa, the whole
world would follow suit. Manasa then appeared to Cando in the
form of a beautiful young girl (K 181 J) (VP: his sister-in-law, VG: a
dancing girt). Cando met her in the forest. She told him that she
was doing penance there in order to take revenge on the snakes
which had killed her sister’s husband. When he saw her, Cando
lost his head completely over her. They arranged a meeting, and
Cando, witless with passion, revealed to Manasa the secret of
^ According to some texts, Cando is so called because he has caught the moon
{cand, “moon,” '"candradhara, “moon-holder”: cf., ND and Sitaradasa
versions).
Note again the prominence of women in the cult.
power (K 975).^^ (V: The beautiful girl told Cdndo

his great that
she would marry the man who possessed the mahajhana, the
‘'greatknowledge'' which was the source of power; to prove that he
possessed it, he told her his magic mantra. VG
The dancing girl said
:
that she was a poison-girl, a visa-kanya,^^ but that one who

survived his first contact with her would gain immunity from poison
forever. So Cdndo taught her the great knowledge, so that she could
restore him to life after his contact with her. When she had heard the
mantra, she disappeared.) Manasa then took advantage of her
possession of Cando’s power and razed his estates to the ground.
J. DhanvantarP^
After razing his estates, Manasa appeared to Cando in a dream,

commanding him to worship her. But in the morning Cando
summoned some of his friends and consulted them. They advised
him to employ the great ojha Dhanvantari to protect himself from
Manasa. Cando did so, and on his arrival in Campakanagara,
Dhanvantari by his magic restored all of Cando’s estates. Man-
asa again consulted Neto, who advised her first to destroy
Dhanvantari through his pupils, for “if you cut the branches of a
tree, it will not bloom again for many days, even though the root
remains.” So Manasa set out to kill the 126 pupils of the ojha.
Manasa first disguised herself as a flower-women (K 1811) and
wove 126 poison garlands. Dhanvantari bought these garlands for
In many places throughout most of the versions Cando is called ojha, which
means one with magical power, especially over snakes and in the cure of snakebite.
Some versions say that the secret of his power was a scarf given him by Can(fi, others
that it was his knowledge of an especially powerful mantra.
The notion of the femme fatale is of course familiar to the folklore of Europe, as
well as from Tobit of the Old Testament Apocrypha and the Alexander legends.
According to Penzer, however, {Ocean of Story, 2:275-3 13), the motif originated in
India.
Dhanvantari is a puranic figure, who, according to the legend, had emerged
form the churning of the sea holding a cup of nectar. Having been endowed by the
gods with marvellous powers of cure, especially powers over snakebite, he defeated a
rival magician named Sankha. Sen comments on pala 2. 14 of the Vipradasa
version: “In the middle Bengali saga the puranic Dhanvantari, the custodian of
ambrosia, had merged into the mythic naga prince Sankha. The position of
. . .
Dhanvantari-Sankha was prominent in the naga cult that was once prevalent
throughout northern India.” VD has this to say on the origins of Dhanvantari. He
was first bom from the churning of the ocean. He was then reborn in the royal family
of Kasi and became known as Sankha. One day he
caught an udaykal snake,
which, it happened, was the pet of a certain sage. The sage laid this curse upxjn him
that he would die by the bite of an udaykal snake.
his pupils (K and when they put them on they began to bum
1817.4),
with the poison. But Dhanvantari saved them with a mantra and a
prayer to Brahma.
Then Manasa disguised herself as a cowherd girl and manu-
factured poisoned curd (K 1817.4). She wandered through the city
hawking her wares, but her prices were so high that no one bought
from her (K 255.5*). Finally she came to the place where
Dhanvantari was teaching his pupils. She fell into conversation with
him, telling him that her name was Kamala; he replied that she
was then his sister, since his wife’s name was the same. But he did
not buy the curd. The pupils then got together and decided to steal
it. They scuffled around the woman, and each boy took a piece.
They ate the curd and began to die (A 1335.12?). But Dhanvantari,
seeing them writhing on the river bank, once again saved them from
the poison.
Manasa was then advised by Neto make friends with
to
Kamala, Dhanvantari’s wife. Dressing as a Brahman woman (K
1811), she went to Kamala, who was only too eager to make
friends. As the conversation went on, Manasa asked Kamala
what would happen if Dhanvantari were to die. Kamala was
tormented by the idea after Manasa had left and was weeping
when Dhanvantari came in. In response to her question,
Dhanvantari replied that he could not die unless the seven marks of
Brahma on his head were obliterated, and that this could be done
only if the udaykal snake were to enter his nostril. Manasa,
perched on the wall in the form of a white fly, heard all this (K
975).^^ She went immediately to Siva, in whose possession the
udaykal snake was, and persuaded him to give the snake to her.
The snake entered Dhanvantari’s nostril and struck.
Awakening and knowing that he was dying, Dhanvantari sum-
moned his two chief p 'pils, Dhana and Mana, and told them
that the only antidote for the poison was in the salya tree. The
pupils went at once to the mountainside and found the tree; but as
they were coming down the path with it, Manasa appeared before
them in the disguise of an old Brahman woman (K 1811), weeping.
When they asked her why she cried, she replied, “O children, what
is the use of medicine? Your guru just gave up his life because of the
enmity of Manasa. Tlie smoke you see is that of your guru being
In the Vipradasa version, Dhanvantari is infatuated with Manasa in disguise
and foolishly reveals the secret.

burned. Listen —^you can hear the sounds of wailing in the city.’
So the pupils dropped the tree and ran to the side of Dhanvantari,
who was alive. His last request to his pupils was that they cut his
body into four pieces and bury them in the four directions.
The boys then began to cut the body into four pieces, but before
they had had time to finish the task, Manasa appeared again in the
form of an old Brahman woman. She rebuked the boys, telling them
that they should have more respect for their gurus body. Ashamed,
they buried the body whole. (VP: The gods brought Dhanvantari <
back to life by pouring water on the remains. But Dhanvantari saw in

a mirror that his face had been badly disfigured; by his own choice he
became a snake (D 191) and “remained around the neck of the
mother. ” VD: Manasa as the old Brahman woman told the boys to
place the body on a raft and set it adrift on the river. The raft floated to
Manasa, who revived Dhanvantari, turned him into a ram (D 135),
and kept him by her side. VG: Dhanvantari's body was deposited
with the river goddess Gahga)
K. The Killing of Cdndo's Sons
Cando’s strength lay in his six sons, and Manasa’s first task was
to kill them.^® She first sent a snake called Dhora to do the job,
TTie KD text reads: “Cut my body into four pieces and bury the pieces in the
four directions, so that the snakes of Manasa will not be able to bite.”
The VD version is slightly different: “Cut [my bodyl into eight pieces and bury
them carefully from place to place in the eight directions; then the nagas will not be
able to move” (6.18, p. 13). 1
A person dead of snakebite is not burned (see G5I, p. 163. The ending of the
story is a little different in the VD version: Dhana and Mana decided to test the
powers which they had gained from Dhanvantari, and they succeeded in restoring to
life a banana tree which Manasa had killed. Seeing this, Cando appointed the
boys in Dhanvantari’s place. Their mother did not approve, being afraid of their
conflict with the goddess. So Manasa approached their mother as a friend, on the
grounds that their names (Kamala) were the same. Manasa put a tiny snake in the
dust, and as Dhana was returning from bathing in the river, it bit him in the foot.
Seeing his brother dying, Maria kicked the dust to kill the snake, and he too was
bitten. Manasa then made a bargain with the boy’s mother, saying that she would
restore them to life if they could be hers. Kamala agreed. Manasa restored the
boys to life and they became her personal attendants. Clearly this story is the
Dhanvantari story told over again.

MD tells the story, peculiar to it, of the birth of the six. In this text Cando £md
Soneka had no children. One
[sic) day the ojha Dhanvantari came to the town in
which they were living and beat his drum at their door. Dhanvantari told Soneka
that if she worshiped his deity, who was represented by a pot of water, she would
become fertile. Soneka did so, at first without result. She was about to throw
herself into the river when the goddess Ganga appeared and promised her six sons,
)
but phora got caught in a fisherman’s net and failed. Manasa

then sent the snake called KaK. Kali went to» Cando’s
house and hid herself until the young men were asleep. As vicious
as she was, Kali could not bring herself to strike the sleeping
boys (K 512); she therefore went into the kitchen and discharged
her poison into the rice which the boys would eat in the morning.
When they arose, they ate the rice and dropped to the ground
writhing in agony. Their wives thought that they were playing and
laughed merrily. Sanaka knew however that they had been
poisoned, and tried various antidotes, but too late. (MD:
Dhanvantari, in this version not yet dead, was bringing medicine to
cure them, but Manasa in the guise of a kite swept down and stole it
from him.
Cando and Sanaka were deeply grieved; but Cando, know-
ing that it had been Manasa who had killed his sons, only cursed
and reviled her the more. He resolved to put his sons’ bodies on a
raft and float them down the river; but the priest advised against it,
saying that the boys should be cremated. Cando replied that the
pall of smoke from the pyres would be like a banner of triumph to
Manasa, and that he would not give her such satisfaction. The
bodies were set afloat on the river, and Manasa took them to her
domain. (V: Manasa took the bodies and put them in the charge of
a rdksasi, as she had done with Dhanvantari.)
L. The Voyage of Cando

Manasa, disguised as Siva, appeared to Cando in a dream, and
advised him to go on a trading voyage to Anupama Pat ana.
(B: the voyage was to Lanka. MD: Cando, about to embark,
needed a magur fish for the ceremony of embarkation. Soneka
[sic] went to the fisherwoman to get the fish and found her worship-
who were duly bom. Not the least interesting aspect of this little story is that it
presents in a cluster the motifs which are so prominent in the whole Manasa saga:
fertility-water pot-river-snake (Dhanvantari the ojha).
In modem Bengal, it is said that because of this failure Manasa took away
Dhora’s poison, and the snake is harmless to this day.
This is according to VD, who gives an elaborate description of the voyage itself.
According to him, Cando sailed down the Dharmakhana to the A jay River, into
the Ganges, and out into the open sea. He on the open sea,
sailed for several days
perhaps suggesting that their destination was on the coast of Burma or even further
down in southeast Asia (see MV
4.3-9). This text says that Cando’s cargo included
conch shells, gold, silk, animals, and jewels; Ketakadasa mentions textiles and
poppy seed.
ping the sacred pot of Manasa. Sonekd too, to insure Candors

safety, worshipped the pot. When Cando heard of this, he left his
A
ship and smashed the pot.) After worshipping Siva, Cando set out
up>on his journey, stopping at various places along the way to
worship Siva and When
he arrived at Kalidaha (B:
local deities.
TrivenT), a place sacred to Manasa, he frightened away Man-
asa’s serpents and then went ashore and smashed her pots and
destroyed her temple. But he and his ships were beset by a great
storm sent by the goddess (D 2091.5). The hero Hanuman,'^' at
Manasa’s command, crushed the seven ships. But Manasa
knew that she could not let Cando drown, or her worship would
never be established on the earth. So she caused the trunk of a
banana tree to float by him, and clinging to it, Cando reached the
shore. Exhausted, he lay naked on the beach, and was found thus by
Manasa, disguised as a Brahman woman. She gave him a winding-
cloth to cover his nakedness.
M. The Trials of Cando

Because of the hatred of Manasa, Cando wandered alone and
penniless in the forest, begging his food. No sooner had he ac-
cumulated a little grain by begging than Manasa sent a rat to
destroy his store. No sooner had be begun to earn his living by
cutting wood than Manasa sent Hanuman to climb upon the
load, which then became so heavy that Cando could not carry it.
And when at last Cando came to the house of an old friend, he
found that the friend had become a worshipper of Manasa; in
anger Cando tried to break the sacred pots but was restrained,
beaten, and expelled from his friend’s house. At last, after many
months of wandering, he arrived at his own home. Ashamed of the
condition to which he had been reduced, he approached the house
at night. Thinking him a thief, the servants beat him, knowing him
as Cando only after he shouted out (H 182).
Hanuman was the monkey-chief who assisted Rama in his conquest of the
raksasa Ravana in the epic Ramayana. He is associated with storms, and
one of his epithets is mariitaputra, “the son of the wind.” He is also indirectly
related to Manasa through $iva: Siva, at the plea of his wife Parvati, had
shaped the mamts (winds) from formless lumps of flesh. VD says that Cando
reached his destination, made a successful trade, and that it was not until he passed
Kalidaha again on his way home that the storm overtook him.
Some texts, including B, number the ships six.
From
this point on, the parallels to the trials of Odysseus are striking. The
winding sheet would be a most unclean gannent, indicating both the depths of
Cando’s degradation and one of Manasa’s supreme insults.
N. The Births of Behula and Lakhindar
After Cando had set sail, Manasa went to the court of Indra to
(A 166) Aniruddha and
enlist the services of Indra’s court dancers
Usas for her campaign against Cando. At first, Indra was not
willing to part with them. But as they were dancing, Manasa
caused Aniruddha to make a misstep. Indra, in a rage, banished the
dancers to mortal life (V 236). Aniruddha went into the womb of
Sanaka, and she gave birth to a boy of great beauty and intelli-
gence, whom she named Lakhindar. Usas went into the womb of
Amala, the wife of a great merchant named Saya in the city of
Ujani, and was bom as Behula.
O. The Marriage of Lakhindar
When Cando looked upon the face of his son,he was so happy
that he quickly forgot all the afflictions which he had suffered at
Manasa’s hands. The years passed, and it became time to arrange
for Lakhindar’s marriage. Cando summoned Janardana the
purohit and instructed him to search out the daughter of a merchant
family equal in wealth, power, and reputation to his own.
Janardana found Behula and, once it was determined that the
horoscopes were in order, the marriage was arranged. At the last
minute, however, C^do held back, saying, “If the girl is really
chaste and loyal, she will be able to cook beans of iron until they are
soft. Only such a girl will be married to my son. This has been the
practice of my family, down through (H 383.4).
the generations”
Manasa then appeared Behula as
to an old Brahman woman
sitting on the edge of a ghaL After an exchange between the two,
the old woman disappeared, leaving no doubt in Behula’s mind as
to who she really was. By her faith in Manasa, Behula was able
to cook the beans (H 971.1). Cando was satisfied, and the mar-
riage took place.
P. The Wedding Night of Behula and Lakhindar

The god of destiny had written on Lakhindar’s forehead that he
would be killed upon his wedding night (T 172). (JG and B:
Sanaka, knowing this, opposed the marriage. But Manasa, im-
patient with the delay, sent an apsari disguised as Lakhindar s
maternal aunt to arouse sexual passion in him and thus hasten the
proceedings.) Due to this prediction, Cando summoned
Visvakarma, the architect of the gods, and prevailed upon him to
build on a high mountain a house all of iron (F 77 .). Manasa got1 . 1
news of and threatened Visvakarma with the consequences

this,
of her wrath unless he left a chink in the iron in one comei of the
house. Visvakarma, terrified, complied.
The wedding took place, and immediately Cando took the
couple to the iron house. And around the house he placed as
sentries magicians with power over snakes, as well as mongooses
and peacocks (F 771.5.1); he himself also patrolled, his staff in
hand.
Meanwhile, Manasa had summoned her snakes, having pro-
cured from Siva the star that causes sleep, and having overcome the
guards (K 332?). She first chose one called Bahkaraj to go and kill
Lakhindar. The snake crept through the chink in the iron (T 172.2).
But Behula was awake, and, cajoling him with sweet words and
milk, Behula captured Bahkaraj with a pair of tongs and put
him in a snake-basket. When Bahkaraj did not return, Manasa
sent out two other snakes, who met the same fate. Finally, at the
end of the night, she sent the deadly snake called Kalinl. (B:
The five had gotten from Siva the python Maniyar, who was
massaged by them until he was thin enough to enter the house.)
Behula, exhausted, was dozing beside her husband, overcome at
Manasa’s command by the goddess Sleep. The couple looked so
charming that even Kalini could not bring herself to bite
Lakhindar (K 512); instead, she curled up at his feet.'^ But
Lakhindar, turning in his sleep, struck Kalinfs fangs with his
foot. Kalini fled,and Behula, awakening, hurled the tongs as
the snake was escaping through the hole and cut off its tail.'*^ But
Lakhindar was dead.
According to the belief noted by Asutos BhaUacarya, “The Serpent in

Folk Belief in Bengal” (/FI, no. 2:33), the snake climbed up on the bed by means of
Behula’s hair, which was undone; thus Bengali women do not let down their hair at
night.
According to BhaUacarya, and in an oral version of the one of
tale told to
the present writers, Behula’s missile was a box of vermilion; the red powder
splattered on the snake, which is the reason this particular snake has red spots on its
back.
Q. Behuld*s Faithfulness and her Journey on the River^
Cursed by her mother-in-law but confident that she could journey

to the domain of Manasa and have her husband restored to life,
Behula took Lakhindar’s corpse and began to drift down the river
on a raft (H 1289.4). Before she went, she told her mother-in-law
that if in six months’ time a cowrie’s worth of oil still burned and if a
sprout came forth from boiled rice, she would know that her son was
alive again (E 76 1).
Behula, the body of Lakhindar on her lap, drifted on the river.
She was beset by many dangers: men who wanted to seduce her,
animals which wanted to eat the corpse. Her narrowest escape was
from a school of bodalya fish,"*^ one of which tore a kneecap from
the body. At last she arrived at Triveni, the sacred place where the
three rivers meet.
R. The Resuscitation of Lakhindar
As Behula came saw Neto, who was also

to the Triveni, she
washerwoman of the gods, come down to the river bank to wash.
Behula’s faithfulness is proverbial in Bengal; she rivals Sita and Savitri
as a model of Indian womanhood— in fact, her story has clear echoes of that of
Savitri. The precise definition of Behula’s craft raises some interesting ques-
tions. As Sukumar Sen points out (“Folklore and Bengali Literature,” IF 1, no.
1:46), the word most frequently used to refer to this craft is
majasa, which is
probably derived from Sanskrit mahjusa, “box.” Two parallels then come im-
mediately to mind. One is recorded in the MD version: Siva recognizes the dead
body of his father Dharma as it floats by the place where he is seated in meditation
(cf., Dharma man gala of Ruprara, edited by Sukumar Sen and Pahcanan
Mandal [Calcutta, 1947], pp. 18-20), Siva revivifies Dharma by pouring water from a
conch shell into his mouth. Dharma then gives Siva charge of his two wives, Ganga
and Durga. Siva marries Ganga and puts Durga into an iron box and sets
her afloat on the river.
The other parallel, recorded by Sen (“Folklore and Bengali Literature”), is from a
fourteenth- or fifteenth-century Gujarati text. There was a rich merchant who had a
daughter named Rukmim. day, the priest of the merchant’s house, noticing
One
that Rukmini had become a grown won'an, wanted to possess her. He
told the
father that she would bring bad luck upon the house if she were to be married
girl’s
and advised the father to put the girl in a box and float her down the river. The priest,
meanwhile, had instructed his disciples to take the box from the river as it floated by
and to bring it to his room. As it happened, however, the box was intercepted first by
with an ape. The
the king’s servants, who opened it, found the girl, and replaced her
priest’s surprise when he opened the box was considerable, and,
badly wounded by
married to the
the ape and in general disgrace, he left the country. The girl was then
king.
Which the dictionaries identify as the sheat fish.
She had with her a little boy, whom she ordered repeatedly to return
home. The boy would not obey. FinaUy he was bitten by a snake.
Neto washed on, undisturbed. When she had finished her washing
she said a mantra over the boy’s body, and he was restored to life.
In joy, Behula went up to Neto, saying that she must be the
greatest of goddesses, and begging Neto to restore her husband to
life. Neto refused. Behula insisted on helping Neto wash the
clothes. She washed them so well that Neto agreed to take her to the
court of the gods (F 62).
In the court, Indra was so pleased with the cleanliness of the
clothes that he asked Neto to introduce the woman who had washed
them. Behula not only presented herself, but began to dance (A
166); her grace and perfect rhythm pleased the gods still more.
Finally, when she knew that she had enchanted them, she asked a
boon that her husband be restored to life (F 8 ?; T 2 2. 1).
: 1 1
The gods replied that since Manasa had killed him, Manasa
must restore him to life. Indra summoned Manasa to the court. At
she denied any knowledge of the affair. But then Behula
first
produced the snakes which she had captured in the iron house and
the seveted tail of KalinI, the servant of Manasa. Defeated
and insulted, Manasa agreed to restore Lakhindar’s life.
Manasa, with powerful mantras^ (E 75) began to exorcise the
poison. It came out of Lakhindar’s rotten flesh and bones. She
made him whole again, and with a final mantra brought him back to
life (E 2 1.2). But his body was missing the kneecap which the
1 1 .
fish had swallowed (E 33), so Manasa sent fishermen to catch the

boddlya fish. It was done. Manasa fitted the kneecap on
Lakhindar’s leg, and he rose up alive and whole. Behula grate-
fully promised Manasa that Cando would worship her. Pleased
with this, Manasa agreed to restore as well Lakhindar’s six
brothers, and the ships and all their crews. They all paid homage to
Manasa and set sail for Campakanagara.
S. Cando Concedes
Behula and Lakhindar pondered how they might make
A
few lines from the mostly incomprehensible mantra recorded by
Ketakadasa: “What do you do on the branch of the simul tree, O crow? O
powerful Yama crow, my son is bitten by the serpent. Seize the snake and eat it!
Make bones and flesh, O poison dwelling in these bones; O peacock, let the poison
be drawn out from the body. O black snake, the mongoose bites you; blue poison,
come to me. Let the poison be dissipated, let these bones be joined together once
again.’’
.

themselves known to Cando and Sanaka. Behula’s inspiration
was to ask Visvakarma to make a magnificent fan, on which were
to be painted pictures of the familiar scenes of Behula’s departure
on the and of Lakhindar and Sanaka themselves (H
raft, 1 1 . 1
21*). Then Behula and Lakhindar disguised themselves as

Dorns'*^ and went into the city.
In the city Behulamet the widows of the six brothers who had
been killed by Manasa; they were fascinated by the beauty of the
fan and asked the price Behula wanted for it. Behula named a
price that was exorbitant. But the six girls were so taken by the fan
that they went to Sanaka and pleaded with her to buy it. Sanaka
did not recognize Behula, although she seemed familiar. But
when she saw the scenes and figures painted on the fan Sanaka
became distraught. Then Behula confessed her true identity and
as proof showed Sanaka that the oil was still burning and that the
boiled rice had sprouted. Sanaka in joy embraced Behula.
Behula then told her mother-in-law that unless Cando
worshipped Manasa, the sons and ships and goods would all be
taken away again. But Cando, even in his joy at the restoration of
his sons and ships, was reluctant. First he said he would worship
Manasa only if the ships were to sail across dry land to his house.
So Manasa summoned her serpents, and they transported the
ships across the land. Finally Cando agreed to worship her, but
with a condition: “Hearing this, Candradhara began to say: With
my back turned, and with my left hand, I shall worship you. I do not
have it in my heart to worship you with that hand with which I
worship the Siva /rngum.”^® But Manasa accepted the condition,
imposing her own condition that Cando cast away the staff with
which he had smashed the sacred pots. Manasa granted Cando
and all his people “her highest blessing, and, descending to receive
their worship, forgave all their sins.”
II. ANALYSIS
The analysis which follows is necessarily tentative: the points that
The Etoms are members of a low-caste group, now often attendants at burning
grounds. Behula, however, says that she and her family are weavers of baskets and
winnowing fans.
The left hand is the one used for unclean bodily functions. The quotation is from
ND, given in Bhattacarya, BKMM, 258. This part of the story is glossed over in
many of the later texts, including Ketakadasa but is present in one way or another
in ail of them.
suggest themselves in terms of the internal structure of the myth

cannot be proven historically. But they are, we feel, nonetheless
suggestive.
In the first place, it may be instructive to examine in diagram-
matic form the characteristics and names of four of the chief
A
characters of the myth: Manasa, Cando, Siva, and

Dhanvantari. Let us first look at the characteristics of Cando, as
seen in the Manasa myth, listed in the left-hand column of Table
1. The letters placed against the name refer to the section of the
myth as we have given it and mean that the particular characteristic
is shared by Cando and Siva/ Dhanvantari. Pluses mark the fact
that the characteristic is testified outside the present text.
TABLE 1
Characteristics of Cando Siva Dhanvantari

Pasusakha (name) i*
Control over snakes +

Candradhara (name) i(n.3)):
Ojha (name) j
Scarf of Cantf i (n. 33)

§
Affair with girl, jealousy of
wife b, i
ill
mahajhana (great knowledge).
udayakala snake j j
Enemy of Manasa j
Manasa as a girl-relative. . . i
*The Pasupata sect worships Siva as Pasupati, “the lord of beasts” (see Daniel
H.H. “Cynics and Pasupatas: The Seeking of Dishonor,” Harvard
Ingalls,
Theological Review, LV, 4 ( 1962), for a discussion of the nature of the sect.
t ê n. 34, text; see also Sen, MV, pp. 258, 300.
X Siva is depicted as having the moon in his hair. See Jitendranath Banerjea, The
Development of Hindu Iconography (2d ed. Calcutta, 956), pp. 466-67.
;
1
§ This is a characteristic which has undergone a subtle but nonetheless transparent

transformation. The visakantha (poison throat) was “given” to Siva by Parvati
when he drank the poison of the churned ocean: she gripped him by the throat to
jêvent the poison from descending into his body, and the poison congealed there.
This is the scarf that Cando received from Canicfi and which gave him the power
over poison.
II See n. 35, text.
# The knowledge of the vitalising mantra.
A curious relationship emerges. Cando shares a number of

characteristics with Siva himself. Furthermore, can be seen from it
the myth that the Dhanvantari episode, far from being accidental, is
a reinforcement and restatement of the central Manasa-C^do
conflict. Thus the characters of C^do and Dhanvantari merge.
though not fuUy. And thus all the major male characters, with the
sole exception of Siva, seem to be victims of the wrath of Manasa.
And this omission of Siva, especially in view of his close resembl-
ance in many ways to Cando, is significant. In the Cando story,
Siva is nowhere a prc .agonist; had he been, he would plausibly
have interfered with the fate of his worshiper. In the story, despite
their similar characteristics, where Cando is, Siva is not: if one
may use an analogy from linguistics, there is “similarity in content”
but “complementarity in distribution.” The most obvious deduc-
tion is that Siva himself, as Cando, is breaking the sacred pots of
Manasa, in “the struggle of decaying Saivism in Bengal against
the growth and spread of Saktism,”^^ against the growing power
of the goddess.
perhaps no accident that nearly all the women in the story are
It is
worshipers of Manasa. One reason for such association of

women with local cult goddesses might be their exclusion from the
rituals of the deities of the great tradition. For Manasa herself
shares a number of characteristics with the Great Goddess of India.
Some of her names are given in Table 2. In the text itself, Manasa
seems to share the names of all three Great Goddesses, and most
persistently those of Laksmi and Parvati Candl. Her
characteristics are listed in Table 3.
TABLE 2
Sarasvati Laksmi Parvati+Cantfi
Jaguli +
Padma, etc +
Mata (Jagati, etc.).... -I-
It is important that the characteristics of regeneration, associa-

tion with water and the lotus, the swan and the color white, are also
those of the two goddesses worshipped primarily by women for
fertility, for husband-finding and the protection of husbands, such
as in the South Indian cults of Varamahalaksmivrata and

Marigala-gauri-vrata, apart from well-known cults like the
Nagara-pancami and Sasthi cult.^^
S.B. Dasgupta, Obscure Religious Cults as a Background to Bengali Literature

(Calcutta, 1946), pp. xxxi-xxxii.
**Those who are not actually worshipers are constrained to prevent their menfolk
from coming into conflict with her.
Folk myths are attached to all ritual days and goddess-worshiping practices, as
known to one of the authors, in South India. Few of these, unfortunately, have been
collected, much less translated into English.
TABLES
Parvati/
Can(£ Kadrut Siva Dhanvantari
Sarasvati * Laksm i
Destruction + +
Regeneration... -H + d j
Gold
One-eyed d
Lotus -h
Water q-|i k, (n. 38)
Vina, white
color, swan.... -1-
Pot +:
Eye of death d
Snakes + -I-
Desire for
worship... f
Hanuman as
minion 1, m
Insect
* The kirata-kanya of the Atharva-veda (see G5I, p. 160).

t The one-eyed mother of snakes (see G5I, p. 158).
+ See n. 38.
The most curious of all these mergers is that of Manasa and

Candi. Manasa and Candi, as the latter is described in the
Candi-mahgala poems, share not only terror and the desire for
worship, but small details such as metamorphosis into an insect.^'*
Such coincidence of detail, which is obviously umnotivated by any
general belief in regard to Hindu goddesses, is striking. Such coinci-
dence, neither general nor typical in Indian mythology, is strong
evidence for diffusion of characteristics, and equally strong evi-
dence against independent origination of motif. This diffusion
includes Kadru the “mother” of Manasa, from whom she gets
her attribute of a single eye.
Manasa, however, has a number of characteristics of her own
not shared by other goddesses. She has, for example, a number of
obscure folk names, such as Manasa and Cehgamuri;^^ there is
See above, n. 9.
This type of diffusion, which might be called “character diffusion,’’ has rarely
**
been sp)ecified. Such diffusion or merger of goddess-functions is balanced by another

process, namely that of character dispersal. Manasa in the B version is represented
by five goddesses; and in all versions, Manasa’s eye seems personified by Neto.
See G5I,p. 159, n. 29.
.
around her the complex of associations snake-gold-pot, and that of

death by bite or glance and revival by water fertility. The cluster of
motifs, which we shall call “trait,” which is the most interesting of
all those surrounding Manasa, is that of snakes. Some of the
sources of Manasa’s snake trait may be found in the Sanskritic

tradition; there warrant for it also in folklore. Beliefs
is sufficient
are attested for snakes guarding treasure, usually in pots, every-
where from South Indian family histories to phrases that occur in
Dravidian languages to mean “guard like that of snakes”
{sarpakdvat), to the Dragon of the Golden Fleece. The associa-
tion of snake and pot is perhaps a very immediate one: it seems
likely that snakes were caught and imprisoned in pots; there is a
Tamilian belief that snakes seek out pots in the summertime be-
cause they are cool.^^ One may then speculate about the possible
relationshipsbetween those facts and the very' ancient beliefs in the
pot of poison and the pot of soma, the panacea. There is no reason
to speak further about the well-attested relationship of snakes to
women-fertility-vegetation
Another interesting notion is suggested by the chart above. Apart
from Manasa as a composite female goddess and the character of
Cando as Siva-Dhanvantari, there is another striking aspect to the
diffusion of characteristics. Not only does Manasa share the
characteristics of other goddesses, but seems also to take over the
characteristics of her male opponents. Like Siva, she is the deity of
destruction and of snakes; Hanuman, who was created by Siva, is
her minion; she has Siva’s eye of death snakes, water, and pots,
characteristics of Dhanvantari, are also associated with her. Siva
and Dhanvantari are unquestionably earlier mythological figures;
the inescapable conclusion is that in her triumph over the Saivite
gods of Bengal, Manasa assumed their characteristics.
The myth is an interesting and instructive one and suggests a good
deal about the way in which Manasa, and perhaps by extension
Snake- worship is recorded chiefly for Bengal, in India; this, however, is prob-
ably a reflection of inequality of collection rather than of distribution. The fact that
there is a possible, though hotly contested, connection between one of Manasa’s
most common names, cengamuri-kanl, and a South Indian language is sugges-
tive (G5I, p. 159). In any case, the TTiompson-Babys motif index is full of snake
motifs for Bengal; this, of course, suggests the Manasa story as a base for the
accretion of other goddess cults.
Siva destroyed Kama, the god of love, with fire from his eye, when Kama
attempted to tempt him from his meditation. See Kalidasa’s Kumarasambhava
3.71.
any local god or goddess began to make her presence felt and
extend her power by epitomizing in her own character the
characteristics and realms of lesser or previous deities. The tale of
Manasa is no less interesting from the point of view of a simple
folk tale, and a final mention of this aspect of the story might be in
order.
The theme of the tale is that of killing and revival, repeated
basic
and varied from episode to episode. All the chief protagonists
except Lakhindar have the power to do both: Siva, Dhanvantari,
Cando, Manasa; and Behula is instrumental in both the death
and the revival of Lakhindar. All of Manasa’s antagonists are
killed and revived at least once; every act of the tale contains this
motif. Power is power for life as well as death.
There are other, more minor, repetitions which come to mind;
Manasa as a flower-seller, as a temptress, as an old Brahman
wom m, the high price of rice and curds and later of the fan (once for
2
death, the second for recognition); and the most artistic of these
repetitions seems to be the incident where Cando lies naked on
the seashore and Manasa gives him the winding-cloth this harks —
back to the time when the snakes that covered Manasa’s naked-
ness fled before Cando and thus originated the conflict. A very
plausible conclusion is that, like Manasa herself, her tale is a
composite thing, told, retold, the theme of destruction-
regeneration drawing to itself different folk tales and myths, be-
coming episodes in a single story of the triumph of the goddess
Manasa.
Index
Abduction of Sita, 3 Artha, 14

Abdul-Hakin, 98 Arse Khoda Deler Ghare, 97
Abhayamudra, 160 Ashutosh Museum, 51
Abhinavagupta, 12 Assertion, 21
Acalayatan, 74 Astika, 158
Acintya, 20 Asutos Bhattacarya, 150, 162
Adhara, 97 Asvaghosa, 104
Adharmika, 27 Asvatha gacj, 37
Ad hominem, I Asvalavana-Ghhyasutra, 156
Adi Guru, 96 Asvattha tree, 46, 50
Adi-Lila, 128 Atharva-Veda, 160
Aesthetics, 18 [AV 10.4.14]
AfOicted, 132 [AV 4.6.1]
Agastya, 169 [AV 4.7.1; 10.4.3, 20] 155, 156, 165
Agradani-Vipras, i23 [AV 5.23.1], 161
Aguris, 124 Auliya, 93
Ahammad, 96 Avataras, 67, 109
Akam, 7 Ayodhya, 116, 126
Akam poems, 2
Alamkara Kaustubha, 12 Bachai, 170
Alliteration, 14 Baici, 134
Ambiguites, 3 Bais Kabir Manasa Mangala, 2, 90
Amulyacandra Sen, 103 Banglar Baul O Baul Gan 94
An-AI-Haq, 96 Baru-Candidasa, 25, 27
Analysis, 185 Bauls, 74
Ananda-Mangala, 115, 128 Baul songs, 131
Anantasayin, 165 Baul Tattver, 93
Angry deity, 147 Baul-Tattver Purbabhasa, 95
Aniruddba, 181 Bedouin, 5
Anthropomorphized, 147 Behula, 182, 185
Antidotal to poison, 164 Behula's faithfulness, 183
Anusasana-Parva, 40 Behula & Lakhindar, 152
Anupama Patana, 179 Beyond cognition (Acintya), 27
Apabhramsa, 57, 58 Birth of behula Lakhinder, 180
Aparadha (papa). 64 Bengali businessmen, 30
Apocalypse, 146 Bengali language. 1
Apocalyptic literature, 145 Bengali Mangala. 158

Ardhabhaga manasa, purila eka cakse, Bengali poet, 2, 35
162 Bengali-Vaisnava, 7
Arogya, 40 Bhagavata 10.31.7, 13, 22, 28, 66, 108
Art criticism, 18 Bhagavata Idyll, 108
192 Index
Bhagavata Purana, 13, 18, 19, 64, 107 Caitanya Lila, 103
Bhakta, 12, 15, 17 Caitanya-Mangala of Jayananda, 128
Bhaktirasamrtasindu, 11 Caitanyite Vaisnavas, 75, 91
Bhakti-Samdarbha, 65 Camel's neck, 36
Bhaktivedanta Sarasvati, 63 Campakanagara, 184
Bhamru Datta, 121 Camus' la peste, 148, 149
Bhangite 155 Cand Sadagar, 154
Bhanita, 15, 16, 30 Candi, 170-172
Bharatcandra, 115, 127, 128 Candi Mangala, 135
Bhattacarya Asutos, 182 Cando, 164, 175, 184
Bhattacarya (MKI, 159, 161 179-80) Cando & Sanaka, 175, 185
Bhattacarya, Satyanarayana 117 Candra-Bhela, 101
Bhavas, 3, 4 Candradhara, 185
Bhedabheda, 3, 63, 112 Cannibalistic, 45
Biday Riti, 39 Canonical poems, 1 14
Biswanath Prasad, 56 Cartography, 4
Blake, 9 Caryapada, 47, 69
Bloodstream, 37 Cengamuri, 159, 189
Bloomfield's translation, 165 Chakravarti, S.C. 63
Bloomington, 2 Character diffusion, 188
Blue colored form, 106 Characterizations, 152
Bob Dylan Alabums, 94 Charlotte V'audevilic, 5
Bodalya Fish, 183, 184 Charpentier, 158
Bodhi tree, 37 Charisma, 132
Bose Nirmal Kumar, 111 Chiefdom, 125
Brahman woman [D 610.1; K 1811], Christ, 16
123 Christian millenarian, 145
Brahmanism, 153, 158 Charnock, 129
Brahmasvada 12 Churning of the sea, 172, 176
Breath-sadhana, 97 Cinematographic view, 138
Brhadaranyaka upanisad, 69 Ciraniya snake, 158
Brahmanical tradition, 155, 156 Classical ones, 2, 35
Briggs, George W. 163 Clark, T.W. 114
Bright William O., 52 Cognitive map, 147
Brstipade, 8 coincidentia oppositorum, 136
Buddha, 37 Compassionate executioner, 168
Buddacarita, 104 Complementary in distribution, 187
Buddhadeva Bose, 8, 9, 36 ('oomaraswamy. A.K. 131, 132
Buddhism, 161 Conscious surrender, 28
Buddhist Jataka Tales, 155 Contemplative piety, 19
Buddhist Soteriology, 145 C'onventional. 4. 5.116
Buitenen J.A.B. Van, 48 Copse, 16
Burrow, 131 ('orporeal, 16
Corollary, 141
Cakras, 101 Cosmic wind, 98
C'aitanya, 13, 29, 69, 138 Court of Gods, 184
Caitanya-Bhagavata, 62. 64 Cowrie's worth of oil, 183
('aitanya-C'aritamrta. 13, 104 Creation of NETO (neta), 171
Index 193
Creativity, 11 Dravidian, 56, 159, 160

Cremation ground, 140 Durga Puja, 127
Crooke, William, 154 Duryodhana, 24, 139
Crstallized, 40
Culturally, 9, 10 East Indian Chronologist, 129
Curious stasis, 45 Eater and the eaten, 38
Curley, David L. 33, 114 Ecoteric, 94
Edward J. Thompson, 70
Daksin Ray, 134 Edwin Gerow, 9, 12, 14, 21, 104
Dancing girl, 175 Ektara, 75
David curley, 33 Eliade, Mircea 67, 148, 166, 164
Dasgupta, Sashibhusan, 28, 70, 153, Eliot’s (T. S.) Words, 10, 17
160, 187 Elo ban, 8
Dasya, 17 Elusive bird, 80, 81
Dayamayi, 131 Encapsulate, 1 17
De, Sanscrit poetics, 19 Endemic, 132
DE, S.K. 19 Enduring scholarship, 70
Delmonico, Neal 37 Enlightenment, 37
Decaying saivism, 154 Epic, 117
Deer hunt, 44 Epidemic in 1877, 133, 138
Dehatattva, 101 Epithets, 161
Demi gods, 155 Epitomizing, 190
Denise Levertov, 29 Equilateral triangle, 17
Depersonalized esthetic, 104 Eschatology, 103, 143
Deprivation, 146 Etherial world, 49
Devi cult, 174 Esthetic enjoyment, 9, 11
Devi seven serpents. 155 Estrangement, 22
Dhanvantari, 176 Eulogizes, 113
Dhanvantari and Naga. 156, 170 Expression, 3
Dharanis, 160 Expressives in Semai, 52
Dharma mangala, 100 Extinction, 37
Dharma-puja-bidhan, 161 Extrapolating, 13
Dharmakhana, 177, 179 Exudations, 99
Dharma mangala of Sahadeva Cakra-
varti, 174 Fabric of theology, 28
Dharmaketu, 169 Faith & love in Bengal poetry, 21
Dhvani-vicara, 23, 53, 58 Fallen angels, 168
Dhvanyatmaka, 52 Familial domestic, 5
Dvaraka, 116 Fever demon, 143
Diachronic, 141 Flame and the fire, 13
Diadem, 161 Flower woman, 176
Diligence, 16 Flute of god, 77
Dimock, Edward, 9, 29 Folk lore of Northern India, 154
Dirghatripadi, 152 Forced response 24
Disorder me, 21 Form, 14, 17
Distraught, 185 Frail craft, 88
Divine madness, 106 Freud’s Thought, 137
Doe in heat. 46 Fruit gathering, 71
194 Index
Gandharvas, 111 Hermit Pasusakha, 175

Ganga, 134 Hindu and Muslim Mysticism, 36
Gangadasa’s toe, 107 Hinduism, 154
Gangadvipa, 116 Honeywell, J. A. 18
Garsal, 121 Hosein Shah, 151
Garuda, 163 Hrdaya bon Maharaja, 11
Gaudiya Vaisnava bhakti, 64 Human Saint, 107

Gaudiya Vaisnavism, 62 Humayan Kabir, 8
Genealogies, 122 Hyperbole, 17
Generality, 18
Generically, 1
Ideal society, 126
Gerard Diffloth, 52 Identification, 29
Ghaiharini, 46 Ideophones, 52
Ghosas of mahesa, 123 Idiosyncracy, 46
Ghouls, 140, 142 Ignogrance destroying, 138
Gnostics revulsion, 68, 69 Images, 10
Gibbons, Robert, 16 Imagination, 45
Gitanjali, 70, 78, 80, 84, 92
Imitatio Christi, 66
God Krsna, 6 Immaterial gunas, 38
Godavari river, 105
Imposition, 21
Goddess Manasa, 154 Imperturbable absolute 71
Goddess of Snakes, 165 Inden, Ronald B. 113
Goddess Sarada, 135 Indian mythology, 188
Goddess Sasthi, 164 Indo-Aryan, 160
Gosvamins, 65 Inexpressible, 8
Gour-of-Kanouge, 129 Ingalls, Daniel H. H. 17, 102, 186
5,
Gould Harold, 148 Ingmar Bergman’s 148
Govinda Bhasya, 63 Iron house, 182
Govindadasa, 29
Islamic, 133
Graha-Vipras, 122
Islam tantrism, 95
Grantharali, 131
Islamic Theology, 95
Grhyasutras, 156
Islamic Tradition, 74
Grot esque, 142 Inseparable, 17
Gujarata, 122
Instinctuality, 49
Gupta Pratul Chandra, 113
Institutional, 148
Inter-Language, 132
Interior landscape, 2
Hanuman, 180
Interpretation, 3
Haramani, 73
Harendra Candra Pal, 93
Haridas Bhattacarya, 151 Jaga Kaibarta, 89
Harischandra story, 168 Jagannatha, 14, 106
Harrison, John A. 70 Jamini Roy, 72, 73
Hasan & Hosen, 173 Janguli Taryai Namah, 160
Hasanahati, 121 Jaratkaru, 173
Heart’s love 44 Jaratkaruikadru 157, 165
Heinrich Zimmer, Myths & Symbols, Jatindramohan Bhattacarya, 152
165 Jeweled palace, 135
Index 195
Jibanananda, 33, 35, 38, 41, 44, 46, 72, Killing of Cando's sons, 178
129 Kimdama, 48
Jiva Gosvami, 65 King Pandu, 41
Jivan Mukta (Mukti), 38, 66, 99 Kirata-Girl, 160
Jivas, 64 Kirata-Kanya, 188
Jiyanta-Mora, 99 Kirinci flower, 6
Johnson, 19 Kriya-samgrahapnamapajika ,
1 60
Joyce Kilmer, 4 Krsna, 12
Judeo-Christian, 133 Krsna-Caitanya, 14, 102
Jungian predisposition, 4 Krsnadasa, 111
Jungian Terms, 10 Krsnadasa Kaviraja, 104
Jvarasurer, 130, 139 Krsnarama-Dasa, 131
Ksanika, 39
Kadamba trees, 120 Ksemananda (Ketakadasa), 150, 152
Kadamba, 6 Ksitmohan Sen, 76, 159
Kadru, 157, 158, 162, 169, 188 Kumbhaka, 98
Kalki (Avatara to come), 143 Kunjavihari dasa, 24
Kalaketu, 116, 118, 127, 169 Kusa grass, 163
Kalaketu’s Chiefdom, 120
Kalandars, 122 Laghutripadi, 152
Kalasa, 156 Lakhindar, 163, 182, 190
Kali age, 142 Lalan Fakir, 74, 75, 77, 79
Kalidaha, 134 Lalan Shah, see also Lalan Fakir, 95
Kalidaha (Triveni), 180 Language, 1
Kalidasa’s Dramas, 32 Latika, 173

Kalidasa's Kumarasambhava, 189 Lord of Goura, 111
Kalinga, 119 Lelayamanah, 131
Kalini, 182, 184 Leonard Bloomfield, 52
Kallol Group, 35 Levertov, Denise 49
Kalus, 125 Levi-Straussian methodology, 36
Kama, 22 Lieb, 21
Kaminsky, Howard 144 Life of Walier, 19
Kamaras, 124 Lila, 132, 147
Kana-Kamaniganair, Sastanagam 161 Lingam of siva, 112
Kana Nag, 162 Linguistic, 3
Kane, 158 Linguistic communication, 4
Kani ‘one eyed', 162 Literatures of India, 9
Kapali Sannyasis, 123 Lord of smallpox, 16, 130
Karma & bhakti, 62 Love & obligation, 23
karunamayi, 131 Ludere, 136
Kasyapa, 157
Kavi, 1 Maa-Harini, 47
Kavikrsnaramadaser Granthavali 117 Madar, 99
Ketakadasa (Ksemananda), 167, 184 Madhura, 17, 19
Kesakeshi Hastahasti, 57 Magur Fish, 179
Keika-Dasa's Manasamangal, 161 Mahabharata, 40, 27, 157, 48, 155, 156
Keyes Beech, 128 Mahaprabhu, 14
Khorasani Swords, 117 Maharashtra Purana, 113

196 Index
Maina Visahari, 169, 171 Mitra, Satiscandra, 134

Maithili, 6 Modakas, 124
Macleish, 6 Moon Holder, 175
Man of the heart, 80, 175 Morgue, 45
Manasa, 169, 175, 181 Morphological, 1
Manasa & Cando 175 Mosquito net, 44, 45

Manasa images, 155 Motif space, 167
Manasa’s nakedness, 190 Motif-index of folk literature, 167
Manasa Mangala of Motif (L. 473), 168
(1) Narayandev Mouse, 35, 37
(2) Vamsivadana cakravarti (vamsi- Mouse and owl, 33, 41
dasa) Vijay Gupta, 167 Mudama, 155
Manasa saga, 157, 158 Muhammad Mansur Uddin, 94
Manasa-vijaya of vipradasa, 167 Mukti, 37
Mandalgram, 155 Mukundarama, 118, 125
Manjari-svarupa-nirupana, 24 Munda Languages, 53
Mangal, 167 Mundaka Upanisad, 131
Mangala poems, 154 Muni, 157
Mangala-Gauri-varta, 187 Muni Jaratkaru, 157
Mangala-Kavya, 144, 150, 157 Muniruddin, 46
Manichaean, 91 Munidatta, 47
Manikbenyas, 124 Muqams, 98, 101
Manjari, 16 Murshid to sufis, 101
Manmohan Ghosh, 76 Mystical dimensions in islam, 99
Mansur Uddin Haramani, 83 Mythic, 67
Mantri, 171 Mythology, 4
Manvantaras, 109 Myth of the Goddess Sitala, 27
Margery Lang, 21
Marriage of Lakhindar, 181 Naga worship. 154
Marriage of Manasa, 172 Naiskarmya. 65
Martz, Louis 16 Namaz, 121
Mathura city, 26 Narottamma, 32
Mayadaha, 134 Narottama-dasa, 31
Mayer Daya, 137, 142 Nasalization, 60
Maze way, 147, 148 Natural symbols, 9
Meditation, 37 Natural world, 18
Melville Kennedy, 71 Navadvip, 111
Messianic images, 145 Nectar of the act of Caitanya, 102
Messianic kingdom, 145 NETO, 184
Metaphysical poetry, 17 Nicholas & Sarkar, 138, 143
Michael Baricum, 146 Niharanjan Ray, 71
Microcosm, 91, 96 Nikhilananda Swami, 108
Millenarian, 133, 146 Nilakantha Baul, 83
Millenialism, 143, 145 Niradaprasad Nath, 31
Millenial dreams in action, 143 Nityananda, 139, 171
Mircea Eliade, 136 Non aryan, 154
Mista, 18 Non-brahmanical cult, 153
Index 197
Non-canonical literature, 151 Periodic retrogression, 148

Non-vedic, 154 Permanent emotions, 4
Permeable membrane, 45
O. R. Ehrenfel's Mother-Right in India Permutation, 21
164 Personalized, 44
Oblivious, 110 Phallic, 164
Occult, 156 Philosophy, 11
Ocean of story (2:275-313), 176 Philologian, 21
Odysseus, 180 Phonetic poet, 55
Oestrous doe, 47 Phonesthetic nucleus, 59
Offended Deity, 168 Phonesthetic principle, 55
Ojha Dhanvantari, 178 Phonologically conditioned, 61
Old zamindaris, 119 Phullara, 118
Olson Elder, 4 Piyaskanti Mahapatra, 95
Olson's conventional symbols, 4, 5, 8, Plague rat, 33
9, 10 Platitudinous conclusion, 10
Onomatopoetics, 52, 53, 54 Platonic, 18
Oral tales of India, 167 Platonic position, 69
Origination of motif, 188 Platonic thought, 66
Ornamentation, 14 Poet, 44
Orpheus motif, 168 Poet as mouse & owl, 129
Oscillation, 141, 142, 144 Poetic ornamentation, 13
Outcroppings, 21 Poetic world, 12, 18
Outcry against civilization, 45 Poetry, 2
Overwhelm, 44 Poetry-drama, 15
Poetry of Dylam, 14
Pabitra Sarkar, 33 Poetry of meditation, 16
Padmusanam, 161 Poignancy, 5, 93
Padmavali, 158 Poison garlands, 176
Pala 3, sec. 15 (p.43 of Sen’s text), 158 Pot of poison, 189
Palace gardens, 115 Pot of soma, 189
Pali Rhuridatt-Jataka (6.543), 162 Potter Karl, 62
Palla gopas, 125 Prakrit, 132
Pancali, 151, 152 Praise of Krishna. 29
Pancapsaras, 169 Prajapati, 180
Pandu, 48 Pravana om, 67
Panegyrists, 127 Pregnant, 38
Parabindu, 100 Preludium, 16
Particularized, 5 Prema, 23
Parting, 8 Premeyaratnavali, 63
Particularity, 18, 41 Pride of possession, 84
Parting of the lovers, 8 Proliferation theory, 54
Passim, 4 Prosody, 14
Pastoral idyll, 66, 127 Psychologial, 17
Pasyatomaras, 125 Puja ghat, 155
Paul Tillich’s, 22, 36 Puram poems, 37
Pedagogy, 136, 139 Puranas, 159
Penzer, 176 Puranic accretions, 153
198 Index
Puranic religion, 153 Rg. veda, 5, 44-10-160, 159, 10.155-

Puri in Orissa, 105 1-156 7.33.1, 10.6
Purusasukta, 36 Richness suggestiveness, 153
Purva Lahari, 65 Rieux, 148, 149
Romantic, 2
Ruhu’llah, 98
Quaint Allegories, 71
Rupa, 12, 13
Quench that thirst, 50
Rupa Gosvamin, 11
Rupa (svarupa), 138

Rabindranath, 35, 39, 41, 82, 83, 86, Rupert Brooke, 17
87, 93 Ruta pempe, 33
Rabindranath’s peace, 36
Rabindra Racanabali, 39 Sabda, 14
Radha Bhava, 28 Sabda-tattva, 53
Radha and Krsna, 7 Sacred pot of Manasa, 179
Radhika, 49 Sacrilege, 49
Radhakrishnan, 70 Sacrificial fire, 130
Ragged hauls, 71 Sadhaka, 47
Raja Rajanarayana of Kasijora, 130 Sadhana, 65
Raja Krsnacandra of Navadvip, 153 Sadhana Bhakti, 65
Raktavati, 140 Sadhana-mala, 160
Ralph W. Nicholas, 130 Sadrsaparinama, 100
Ramai-pandit, 97 Sadhusanga, 64
Ramakrishna, 67, 108 Sagarasangama, 40
Ramanujan, 1, 2, 5, 62 Sage Dhanajaya, 173
Ramayana, 00 Sahitya patrika, 93
Ramendra Sundar, 52 Sahrdaya, 12, 15, 19
Rasa, 3, 9, 12, 15.8, 41, 11 Saiyid Sultan, 96, 100
Rasabhasa, 14 Sajanikanta Das, 50
Rasika, 12 Sakhis, 29, 45
Ravana, 128 Sakhya, 17
Ratri, 38 Saltos, 187
Ray, Nagendra Kumar, 111 Samadhi, 108
Ray Ramananda, 105 Samkara melds, 112
Raychaudhuri Tapan, 114 Samnyasa, 109, 110
Realization, 7, 77 Sanaka, 185
Realistic ideal, 118 SancitaKarma, 63
Reduplicatives, 54 Sanciyamana karma, 63
Regeneration, 161 Sanibarer Cithi, 50
Reiteration, 71 Sankha, 76
Religious biography in India, 102 Sankhabenyas, 124
Religious transfrmation, 17 Santa bhava, 17
Reminiscent, 16 Santiksetra, 40
Resurrection, 145 Sanskrit ancestor, 2
Resuscitation of Lakhindar, 183 Sanskrit netra (eye), 171
Restitution, 142 Sanskritic tradition, 189
Retroflexion, 56 Sarkar, Aditinath 33, 41
Revitalization movement, 144 Sarpa-sattra, 157
1
Index 199
Sarpayoni Payya, 163 Srirupamanjari Devi, 31

Sarathadarsini, 22 Stanislavski, 3
Satiety & hunger, 166 Stewart, Tony K. 31, 102
Satiscandra, 116 Sthayi-Bhavas, 4, 6, 9
Satapatha brahmana, 131, 156 Stith, Thompson. 167
Schweitzerian, 103 Subhasitaratnakosa, 5
Seely, Clinton 46 Sudhindranath Datta, 72
Self-willed deity, 1 10 Sufi, 94
Semantic, 1 Sunya purana, 97
Sen, Amulyacandra 106 Suparnadhyaya 3.2 158, 162
Sen, D.C. 152 Supernatural, 18
Sen, Sukumar 131, 150, 152 Sushil Kumar De, 1
Sepoy mutiny, 148 Svarupa, 14

Serpent-Army, 174 Svarupa Damodar, 13
Serpent Goddess, 155 Svaha, 156
Serpent King Muchilinda, 162 Sweat of Isvara, 100
Serpent worship, 154 Sylvia Thrupp, 143
Shah Jahan, 40 Symbols, 4, 5
Shaikh Paran, 1(X) Symbolic forms, 52, 56, 59
Sheat Fish, 183 Synoptic gospels, 112
Shrewish, 60 Syntactic, 1
Siddha Families, 123 Systematic theology, 22

Signature line, 15
Similarity in content, 187 Tail of Kalini, 184
Simultaneity, 138 Tables 1, 2, 3, 186, 187, 188
Sin-laden boat, 77 Tagore Rabindranath, 35, 39, 53
Sister C. Boars, 50 Taittiriya Upaniasad, 36
Sitala, 132 Taj Mahal, 41
Sitala Mangal, 117, 130, 138, 140 Tamaralipti, 115
Siva, 134 Tantric, 94
Siva Lingam, 185 Tantric adept, 142
Siva as Pasupati, 186 Tantric Buddhism, 160
Slaver and the slain, 37, 38 Tantric Sadhana, 76
sleeping child, 162 Tantric Vaisnava, 105
Snuhi-Vrksa, Monicr Williants, 164 Tapur Tupur Nadi, 8
Sokilow, John 33 Taracand Das & sons, 130
Solar system, 17 Tariqat, 98
Soma, 156 Theological fit, 110
Soneka, 179 Theological position, 91
Sonadaha, 169 Theological worlds, 70
Sound of silent guns, 41 Thief of Love by Edward Dimock, 168
Speakers of bengali, 8 Three Headed One, 138
Sphincters, 94 Throbbing of blood or pain, 60
Spiritual exercises, 16 Tiger skin, 172
Sporadic, 132 Timaeus of Plato, 68
Spread of saktism, 154 To hide in, 131
Sri-Krsna Kirtana, 25 Tormented poem, 37
Srikumar Bandyopadhyay, 118 Totally manifest, 141
200 Index
Totality of Things, 137 Vatsalya, 17

Townes, 16 Vedic, 54
Tradesmen, 126 Vedanta-sutra, 63
Trait, 189 Vexation, 152
Transcendant joy, 92 Vibrations, 17
Transcendance, 77, 96 Vidyapati, 7, 30, 69, 74
Transcendentalism, 73 Vidya-sundara, 115, 128
Transformed, 16 Vinata, 157, 169
Translatability, 1, 9 Vinayavastu digit text, 160
Transported, 16 Vipra-Dasa, 158, 161, 167
Trials of Candu, 180 Vipradasa’s Manasa Vijaya (MV), 150
Tripadi, 152 Virata smasana, 139, 140
Triveni, 183 Virgin goddess, 172
Tromso oslo-bergen, 47 Visahari, 156, 161, 165
True rasa, 14 Visakanya, 166
Tulsi, 128 Visvakarama, 116, 119, 181
Types of Indie Oral tales see Seith, Visvambhara, 145
Thompson, 168 Visvanatha cakravartin, 18, 22, 23
Visvapat Caudhuri, 118
Vogel Indian Serpent Lore, I. PH. 154,
Udaykal snake, 176, 177
155, 159, 162
Ujjvalanilamani, 11
Vowel phonemes, 57
Unlove, 22
Von Harnack, 145
Upendranath Bhattacarya, 94
Vrajendra, 109
Vrndavan, 18, 106
Vachel, 9
Vaidhi bhakti, 66 Wallace, Anthony 144
Vajrayana text, 160 Web of Myth, 103
Vakya-siddhi, 99 Welbon, Guy R. 62
Vaisnavas, 12, 17, 19, 45 Whirlpool of time, 134
Vaisnava Bhavas, 17 Williams, Sir Monier Monier, 21
Vaisnava faith movement, 151 Within the cage, 74
Vaisnava idyll, 49 Womb-like, 45
Vaisnavas mythology, 24 Wounded Doe, 47
Vaisnava persuasion, 102
Vaisnava theology, 138 Yajur-vedas, 155, < 56
Vaisnavism, 95 Yamuna, 26
Varamahalakshivrata, 187 Yamapura, 122
Varata-gita, 151 Yasohara-Khulner Itihas, 134
Varuna, 169 Yogesvara, 5, 7
Vasanta-Ranjana Ray, 25 Yogin, 4
Vasuki, King of the Nagas, 156
Vasuli, 26 Zeahner, R. C. 36
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THE SOUND

EDWARD C. DIMOCK, ]r.

Edward C. Dimock, Jr., is Distinguished Service

EDWARD C. DIMOCK, Jr.

© Oxford University Press 1989

SBN 019 562308 8

Printed by Rekha Printers Pvt. Ltd. ,

On the Translatability of Poetry 1

On Religious and Esthetic Experience 1

Belief and Love in Vaisnava Poetry 21

Reflections of Two Poems by Jibanananda Das 33

Karma and the Vaisnavism of Bengal 62

Rabindranath Tagore: “The Greatest

The Bauls and the Islamic Tradition 93

On Impersonality and Religious Biography:

The City in Pre-British Bengal

A Theology of the Repulsive:

The Goddess of Snakes in Medieval

The Goddess of Snakes in Medieval

There once was a time when I thought I had occasion, in a review,

1984 Conference on South Asia at the University of Wisconsin,

revolves is one of considerable interest to all three of us, and our

first sojourn in India, when I was associated with the Rockefeller

paper is now long passe, having been overtaken and trampled by

Rabindranath Tagore worried about the phenomenon of echo-

boats and about Cape Ann in Massachusetts; it is also about that

You who are on the path,

Because of my past faults

in the hot weather the coolness of it brings an almost festive relief.

in memory or, I believe, in the reality of my making my way

1. Sudhindranath Datta, The World of Twilight. New Delhi: Oxford University

knife falling, and the gourd falls neatly to the ground,

Acknowledgement: I would like to thank Mrs. Kushla Sar of the

One unwise enough choose to write on the question of the

inspired, in the etymological sense of that word: he breathes in

has long seemed to me prudent immediately to establish straw men

In another place he writes that

the akamipuram distinction is not to be mistaken for the English public/

To all of this we shall return shortly.

A. K. Ramanujan, trans., The Interior Landscape: Love Poems from a Classical

Tamil Anthology {^\oom\ngXon: University of Indiana Press), p. 101.

Another opposition might be construed “poet”and “audi- as

audience is in some way removed from the actual experience of Sita.

their personal and particular experiences, if they were to be allowed

Still, it is perceived that within the range of a given category of

hatred touched with pity. These varied, subtle, personal emotions

everyone has known fear, or love, in one form or another. These

the color of mourning. In any case, Olson goes on to say that

^ (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1954), passim.

tion or another to it' the attitude of the Bedouin or the farmer is

After the rain a gentle breeze springs up

An Anthology of Sanskrit Court Poetry, Harvard Oriental Series, No. 44

The task of the translator is to create a new poem, based on the

On the Translatahility of Poetry 1

himself “Vidyapati.” The translation is by Denise Levertov and

O my friend, my sorrow is unending.

might not be immediately obvious, the poem is a religious poem.

the soul from God, a basic tenet of Bengali Vaisnava theology.

* Probe of Krbhna: Songs from

only by an individual, or at most by a limited number of individuals.

highly particularistic images, he is not a good poet and does not

is called “A Parting,” and the translation is the poet’s own. I quote

After the first thousand nights we had to part.