एषा विभावरी सितकिरणकलारजतसूचिघटितेन।

सीव्यति सरसिरुहस्य ज्योत्स्नासूत्रेण पत्राणि॥

Eṣā vibhāvarī sita-kiraṇa-kalā-rajata-sūci-ghaṭitena

Sīvyati sarasiruhasya jyotsnā-sūtreṇa patrāṇi

This night sews up the petals of the lotus with the thread of moonlight tied to the silver needle formed by the slither of moon.

Dr Shankar Rajaraman

Bangalore

क्रमेण धारामुसलप्रहारैः

प्रावृण् मयूरध्वनिबद्धगीतिः।

वियोगिहृत्तण्डुलखण्डनाय

प्रवर्तते लोलतडिद्भुजश्रीः॥

Krameṇa dhārā-musala-prahāraiḥ

Prāvṛṇ mayūra-dhvani-baddha-gītiḥ

Viyogi-hṛt-taṇḍula-khaṇḍanāya

Pravartate lola-taḍid-bhuja-śrīḥ

The rainy season begins by degrees to grind the hearts of separated lovers with the blows of the downpours that form her pestle, as though they were grains of rice.  The song she sings is the call of the peacocks and her glistening arms the flickering lightning.

Dr Shankar Rajaraman

Bangalore

When he attained enlightenment the Buddha set off for the city of learning, Varanasi, keen to share his newfound knowledge.  Just outside the city he preached his first sermon at Sarnath and Buddhism was born.  Along with the Buddhist temple and stupas that mark this spot, it is thus appropriate that Sarnath is also home to a Tibetan institute which aims to return to India its Buddhist heritage – thousands of Sanskrit texts detailing the teachings of the Buddha. 

The Central Institute of Higher Tibetan Studies, or CIHTS, was set up as by Nehru and the Dalai Lama a few years after China took control of Tibet in 1959, primarily to provide a centre for students of the Himalayan region – who had previously come to Tibet – to study Buddhism.  In 1981 it started a restoration programme designed to reconstruct the original Sanskrit texts which had travelled to Tibet from the 7^th century AD onwards. 

While Buddhism flourished in its adopted home in Tibet – as well as elsewhere in Asia – it declined in India and many of these Sanskrit texts were subsequently lost.  In many cases, the only extant versions are the Tibetan translations which came out of a large and well organised translation programme in Tibet, sponsored by its kings.  Indian scholars such as Shantaraksita and his disciple Kamalashila, and Atisha – who revived Buddhism in Tibet after in faltered in the 10^th century – travelled to Tibet and took with them the teachings of the Buddha, the canon known as Kagyur, as well as their commentaries on the canon, called Tangyur.  In the 9^th century the Tibetan king created a Tibetan-Sanskrit dictionary, the Mahavyutpatti, to standardise the translation of these many texts by prescribing the particular Tibetan term for each Sanskrit word.  He also set rules which determined which texts should be translated and appointed an editorial board to vet each translation. 

As Dr Pempa, an editor in the restoration department, explains, these efforts to control and standardise the translation into Tibetan greatly help the Institute’s programme to reconstruct the originals.  Tibetan scholars work with Indian Sanskritists; the Tibetans explain the meaning of each text, in Hindi or Sanskrit, to the Indian scholars who then render it in Sanskrit.  The Sanskritists use the metre to ensure that the reconstructed text matches the original exactly, or as closely as possible.  Where a fragmentary Sanskrit manuscript is available, as is the case with some tantra texts where fragments have been found in Nepal, this is also used to rebuild the original.   The Institute’s translation department then works to translate these texts into Hindi, and occasionally English, to make them as widely accessible as possible in India.  As Dr Pempa puts it, “We want to return the generosity of the Indian scholars who first brought these texts to Tibet by bringing them back to India.”

The Institute’s library houses an extensive collection of Tibetan and Indian manuscripts, all beautifully wrapped in yellow cloth. These manuscripts are quite different from the palm-leaf manuscripts found in India. Tibet set up four main printing presses which allowed for the mass production of these manuscripts.  The blocks might take several years to create but once ready they could be used to print many copies.  The Tibetan ones are simply decorated with a Buddha at either end; the ones from Bengal have elaborate paintings of various gods on the wooden boards that hold the folios together and include a series of delicately drawn mandalas.  Tibetan manuscripts were printed on a handmade paper which is remarkably durable – some in the library are over 200 years old.  The librarian, Mr Sunaam, explains that many of these manuscripts were brought to India by Tibetan exiles fleeing the Chinese occupation in the 1960s thus providing the material needed for this restoration programme.  It is thanks to them that the teachings of the Buddha have returned to their original birthplace and can once again make themselves heard in India.   

For more about the CIHTS see their website here

The Foundation for the Revitalisation of Local Health Traditions, or rather more manageably the FRLHT, has a grand vision: “to revitalise Indian medical heritage”.  A large and well-equipped campus spread over 15 acres in North Bangalore and a 100-plus team of medical and horticultural experts suggests that realising this goal is well within the FRLHT’s grasp.

The Foundation is active in promoting the use of traditional medicine systems – including siddha medicine, a system similar to ayurveda but based on mercury (rasa-aushadi), as well as ayurveda – and in re-establishing the traditional methods of transmitting this knowledge.  The executive chairman, Mr Darshan Shankar, distinguishes between the very sophisticated Sanskrit oral tradition and that of other cultures and languages, Indian and otherwise, which focus more on practical knowledge.  “There are tribes in India that are totally illiterate who can set a broken bone, whether of a man or an animal, pretty well; but the Sanskrit tradition is much more than that.”  He stresses the importance of sound for the oral tradition and likens reading a Sanskrit manuscript to reading sheet music – much of the meaning of the notation cannot be brought out without sound.  It is the sound of the words which, he says, engage with the mind.

A large part of the organisation’s work involves conserving the plants used in Indian medicine for thousands of years and the campus is dotted with all manner of trees and flowers each with a particular medicinal quality.  The team has endeavoured to identify and catalogue each plant in several Indian languages, including Tamil, Marathi and Hindi, as well as Sanskrit.  There are perhaps 400 plants on campus out of the 2,000 they have positively identified; another 3,000 estimated species are said to be known to various local traditions.  

Three Ayurvedic doctors, a horticultural expert from Kerala and a Sanskrit poet-cum-psychiatrist reveal just there is to learn from each plant: the different types of medicinal usages, the parts you can eat and how to prepare them, the varieties of the plant and which part of India it comes from, and how to reconcile this reality with the at times fantastical descriptions of flora found in Sanskrit poetry.  Dr Suparna explains how the ishvari, a plant with bizarre purple flowers that resemble a brain (above), cures snakebites; while the nirgundi is used for arthritis.  Dr Shankar, who leads the team responsible for translating Sanskrit texts into English, notes that the names match the plants’ morphology, so the asti-shrnkhala (literarly ‘chains of bones’) is a shrub with small green tubular leaves separated into several joints (below). 

Some take their name from other characteristics, the ugra-gandha for instance is a type of kasturi, or musk, so called because of its fierce (ugra) smell (gandha).  The parijata, one of the five divine trees which were produced at the churning of the ocean and which was later brought to earth by Krishna, is happily found to be alive and well – on the FRLHT campus at least.  Its tiny white flowers have a bright almost fluorescent orange stem, justifying its alias as the coral tree. 

The lotus pond though brings a disappointment as the botanist, Mr Ram, explains that lotuses and water lilies grow only in still water.  The golden lotuses that Kalidasa has growing in the divine river, Ganga, may owe more to poetic licence than botany but nature here reveals so many weird and wonderful that it is easy to forgive the poets their overactive imaginations.

For more about the FRLHT click here

Stones hang from electricity pylons to ensure a ready supply of siphoned off power in Vaderahalli, a village in between Bangalore and Kanakapura.   A cluster of five or six pale green houses on each side of a narrow street form the village.  Each low tiled roof juts out above a verandah filled with fodder upon which cows are grazing.  The verandah of the second house on the right though houses not cows but a makeshift theatre for this evening’s   Togalu Gombeyaata performance.

Togalu Gombeyaata is a the particular type of shadow puppetry - an ancient art form which originated in India but is now most famous in South East Asia – practised in Karnataka.  It is used most often to narrate episodes from the epics, and tonight’s performance is taken from one of the many sub plots of the Mahabharata, that of the duel between Arjuna and his son, Babhruvahana.

Four puppeteers  – two men and two women – from Kollegal, another village in Karnataka not far away, enact the violent confrontation between Arjuna and the son he disowns.   The play opens with Ganapati, the god for all beginnings, flanked by two troll-like creatures and two elaborately decorated trees.  Behind the white cloth that forms the screen for the shadow play the artists break into a wild-sounding Kannada song, accompanied by a harmonium and a dhol, as one of the women sweeps the invocatory god and his foliage offstage to be replaced by a narrator with a maniacal dance.  Next come the epic characters, each beautifully crafted on fine almost paper thin leather and painted in colours brought out to vivid effect by the back lighting – a single, pendulous bulb.  Recognisable characteristics identify each character: Bhima has his club, Krishna is an electric blue. 

Babhruvahana challenges his father’s ashvamedha – a sacrificial rite involving a horse by which rulers assert their sovereignty – by stealing the horse.  Despite the intercession of various tiny women – all the male characters are at least twice the size of the females – the father and son eventually proceed to a duel.  The ‘sarpa-bana’ – ‘snake arrow’ – warrants a wonderful display of the puppeteers’ skill as the snake slithers up and down before shooting across the screen.  Each puppet is controlled by one or more bamboo sticks that are used to push the flat leather shape across the screen – the humans all have stick-controlled arms so Arjuna can touch Krishna’s feet, the two warriors can fight with sword and bow and the women can indulge in almost perpetual frantic gesticulation.  Undoubtedly the best scene involved the mass decapitation of certain evil characters that would appear in hideous splendour before a shooting arrow separated their heads from their bodies. 

In between the singing, the puppeteers share the dialogue between the characters on the screen.  They sit opposite one another shouting with a very convincing agression as they act out the father and son dispute.  The stories, like the puppets and the techniques, are passed on from one generation to the next.  This performance was only an hour long, but the team could use the same puppets to entertain a village for a whole night or longer.

In addition to the 15-odd city types with large cameras and an unusual interest in local traditions, many villagers crowded round to watch the performance.  The children watched in delight, favouring this novel type of entertainment to the television in the house behind the stage.  Two old men came up at the end of the show to congratulate and thank the artists and the woman who had organised it, a software engineer who runs a quirky travel company.  They explained how they used to do Yakshagana theatre as well as ‘bayalu’ in their village many years ago, with real people running up and down ropes rather than just puppets.  ‘Santosh ayata’, announced one with a large grin, “I am happy”. 

The puppet show was organised by Vasanti Panchakshari who runs the travel company Tazad – click here for more details.

यत्रांशुकाक्षेपविलज्जितानां यदृच्छया किंपुरुषाङ्गनानाम्।

दरीगृहद्वारविलम्बिबिम्बास्तिरस्करिण्यो जलदा भवन्ति॥

Yatra ‘ṃśuka-ākṣepa-vilajjitānāṃ yad-ṛcchayā kiṃpuruṣa-añganānām |

Darī-gṛha-dvāra-vilambi-bimbās tiraskariṇyo jaladā bhavanti ||

There on the Himalaya mountain where clouds, by chance hanging in cotton wool balls across the entrances of the cave houses, serve as screens for kinnara women blushing furiously as their clothes are snatched away.

Verse 14, first sarga, Kumārasaṃbhavam – Kālidāsa

Edward Ernest, an American art student, has started a series of Ramayana sketches inspired by his love of the story.  This first one is of Rama and Hanuman, just after they first meet in Kishkinda, as told in Kishkinda Kanda (Book 4) chapters 3 and 4:

Here’s a (very dated I’m afraid – from the 1870s) translation of their meeting, by Ralph T.H. Griffith.  Below this is a transliterated version taken from the Gretil site.

Chapter 3

The envoy in his faithful breast
Pondered Sugrivá’s high behest.
From Rishyamúka’s peak he hied
And placed him by the princes’ side.
The Wind-God’s son with cautious art
Had laid his Vánar form apart,
And wore, to cheat the strangers eyes,
A wandering mendicant’s disguise. 

Before the heroes’ feet he bent
And did obeisance reverent,
And spoke, the gloirious pair to praise,
His words of truth in courteous phrase,
High honour duly paid, the best
Of all the Vánar kind addressed,
With free accord and gentle grace,
Those glories of their warrior race:
   ‘O hermits, blest in vows, who shine
Like royal saints or Gods divine,
O best of young ascetics, say
How to this spot you found your way,
Scaring the troops of wandering deer
And silvan things that harbour here
Searching amid the trees that grow
Where Pampá’s gentle waters flow.
And lending from your brows a gleam
Of glory to the lovely stream.
Who are you, say, so brave and fair.
Clad in the bark which hermits wear?
I see you have the frequent sigh,
I see the deer before you fly.
While you, for strength and valour dread,
The earth, like lordly lions, tread,
Each bearing in his hand a bow,
Like Indra’s own, to slay the foe,
With the grand paces of bull,
So bright and young and beautiful
The mighty arms you raise appear
Like trunks which elephants uprear,
And as you move this mountain-king 
Is glorious with the light you bring.
How have you reached, like Gods in face,
Best lords of earth, this lonely place,

With tresses coiled in hermit guise, 
And splendours of those lotus eyes?
As God’s who leave their heavenly sphere,
Alike your beauteous forms appear.
Tne Lords of Day and Night might thus
Stray from the skies to visit us.
Heroic youth, so broad of chest,
Fair with the beauty of the Blest,
With lion shoulders, tall and strong,
Like bulls who lead the lowing throng.
Your arms, unmatched for grace and length,
With massive clubs may vie in strength.
Why do no gauds those limbs adorn
Where priceless gems were meetly worn?
Each noble youth is fit, I deem,
To guard this earth, as lord supreme,
With all her woods and seas, to reign
From Meru’s peak to Vindhya’s chain.
Your smooth bows decked with dyes and gold
Are glorious in their masters’ hold,
And with the arms of Indra  3 vie
Which diamond splendours beautify.
Your quivers glow with golden sheen,
Well stored with arrows fleet and keen,
Each gleaming like a flery snake
That joys the foeman’s life to take.
As serpents cast their sloughs away
And all their new born sheen display,
So flash your mighty swords inlaid
With burning gold on hilt and blade.
Why are you silent, heroes? Why
My questions hear nor deign reply?
Sugríva, lord of virtuous mind.
The foremost of the Vánar kind.
An exile from his royal state,
Roams through the land disconsolate.
I Hanumán, of Vánar race,
Sent by the king have sought this place,
For he, the pious, just, and true.
In friendly league would join with you.
Know, godlike youths, that I am one
Of his chief lords, the Wind-God’s son.
With course unchecked I roam will,
And now from Rishyamúka’s hill.
To please his heart, his hope to speed,
I came disguised in beggar’s weed.’
   Thus Hanumán, well trained in lore
Of language spoke, and said no more.
The son of Raghu joyed to hear
The envoy’s speech, and bright of cheer
He turned to Lakshman by his side,
And thus in words of transport cried:
   ‘The counselor we now behold
Of King Sugríva righteous souled. 

His face I long have yearned to see,
And now his envoy comes to me
With sweetest words in courteous phrase
Answer this mighty lord who slays
His foemen, by Sugríva sent.
This Vánar chief most eloquent.
For one whose words so sweetly flow
The whole Rig-veda needs must know,
And in his well-trained memory store
The Yajush and the Sáman’s lore.
He must have bent his faithful ear
All grammar’s varied rules to hear.
For his long speech how well he spoke!
In all its length no rule he broke.
In eye, on brow, in all his face
The keenest look no guile could trace.
No change of hue, no pose of limb
Gave sign that aught was false in him.
Concise, unfaltering, sweet and clear,
Without a word to pain the ear.
From chest to throat, nor high nor low,
His accents came in measured flow.
How well he spoke with perfect art
That wondrous speech that charmed the heart,
With finest skill and order graced
In words that knew nor pause nor haste!
That speech, with consonants that spring
From the three seats of uttering, 
Would charm the spirit of a foe
Whose sword is raised for mortal blow.
How may a ruler’s plan succeed
Who lacks such envoy good at need?
How fail, if one whose mind is stored
With gifts so rare assist his lord?
What plans can fail, with wisest speech
Of envoy’s lips to further each?’
   Thus Ráma spoke: and Lakshman, taught
In all the art that utters thought,
To King Súgríva’s learned spy
Thus made his eloquent reply:
‘Full well we know the gifts that grace
Sugríva, lord of Vánar race,
And hither turn our wandering feet
That we that high-souled king may meet
So now our pleasant task shall be
To do the words he speaks by thee.’

vaco vijñāya hanumān sugrīvasya mahātmanaḥ
parvatād ṛśyamūkāt tu pupluve yatra rāghavau
sa tatra gatvā hanumān balavān vānarottamaḥ
upacakrāma tau vāgbhir mṛdvībhiḥ satyavikramaḥ
svakaṃ rūpaṃ parityajya bhikṣurūpeṇa vānaraḥ
ābabhāṣe ca tau vīrau yathāvat praśaśaṃsa ca
rājarṣidevapratimau tāpasau saṃśitavratau
deśaṃ katham imaṃ prāptau bhavantau varavarṇinau
trāsayantau mṛgagaṇān anyāṃś ca vanacāriṇaḥ
pampātīraruhān vṛkṣān vīkṣamāṇau samantataḥ
imāṃ nadīṃ śubhajalāṃ śobhayantau tarasvinau
dhairyavantau suvarṇābhau kau yuvāṃ cīravāsasau
siṃhaviprekṣitau vīrau siṃhātibalavikramau
śakracāpanibhe cāpe pragṛhya vipulair bhujaiḥ
śrīmantau rūpasaṃpannau vṛṣabhaśreṣṭhavikramau
hastihastopamabhujau dyutimantau nararṣabhau
prabhayā parvatendro ‘yaṃ yuvayor avabhāsitaḥ
rājyārhāv amaraprakhyau kathaṃ deśam ihāgatau
padmapatrekṣaṇau vīrau jaṭāmaṇḍaladhāriṇau
anyonyasadṛśau vīrau devalokād ivāgatau
yadṛcchayeva saṃprāptau candrasūryau vasuṃdharām
viśālavakṣasau vīrau mānuṣau devarūpiṇau
siṃhaskandhau mahāsattvau samadāv iva govṛṣau
āyatāś ca suvṛttāś ca bāhavaḥ parighottamāḥ
sarvabhūṣaṇabhūṣārhāḥ kim arthaṃ na vibhūṣitaḥ
ubhau yogyāv ahaṃ manye rakṣituṃ pṛthivīm imām
sasāgaravanāṃ kṛtsnāṃ vindhyameruvibhūṣitām
ime ca dhanuṣī citre ślakṣṇe citrānulepane
prakāśete yathendrasya vajre hemavibhūṣite
saṃpūrṇā niśitair bāṇair tūṇāś ca śubhadarśanāḥ
jīvitāntakarair ghorair jvaladbhir iva pannagaiḥ
mahāpramāṇau vipulau taptahāṭakabhūṣitau
khaḍgāv etau virājete nirmuktabhujagāv iva
evaṃ māṃ paribhāṣantaṃ kasmād vai nābhibhāṣathaḥ
sugrīvo nāma dharmātmā kaś cid vānarayūthapaḥ
vīro vinikṛto bhrātrā jagad bhramati duḥkhitaḥ
prāpto ‘haṃ preṣitas tena sugrīveṇa mahātmanā
rājñā vānaramukhyānāṃ hanumān nāma vānaraḥ
yuvābhyāṃ saha dharmātmā sugrīvaḥ sakhyam icchati
tasya māṃ sacivaṃ vittaṃ vānaraṃ pavanātmajam
bhikṣurūpapraticchannaṃ sugrīvapriyakāmyayā
ṛśyamūkād iha prāptaṃ kāmagaṃ kāmarūpiṇam
evam uktvā tu hanumāṃs tau vīrau rāmalakṣmaṇau
vākyajñau vākyakuśalaḥ punar novāca kiṃ cana
etac chrutvā vacas tasya rāmo lakṣmaṇam abravīt
prahṛṣṭavadanaḥ śrīmān bhrātaraṃ pārśvataḥ sthitam
sacivo ‘yaṃ kapīndrasya sugrīvasya mahātmanaḥ
tam eva kāṅkṣamāṇasya mamāntikam upāgataḥ
tam abhyabhāṣa saumitre sugrīvasacivaṃ kapim
vākyajñaṃ madhurair vākyaiḥ snehayuktam ariṃdamam

Chapter 4
His prudent speech the Vánar heard,
And all his heart with joy was stirred.
And hope that league with them would bring
Redress and triumph to his king.

Cheered by the words that Ráma spoke,
Joy in the Vánar’s breast awoke,
And, as his friendly mood he knew,
His thoughts to King Sugriva flew:
‘ Again,’ he mused,’my high-sou’ed lord
Shall rule, to kingly state restored;
Since one so mighty comes to save,
And freely gives the help we crave.”
Then joyous Hanumán, the best
Of all the Vánar kind, addressed
These words to Ráma, trained of yore
In all the arts of speakers’ lore:  
‘Why do your feet this forest tread
By silvan life inhabited,
This awful maze of tree and thorn
Which Pampá’s flowering groves adorn?
   He spoke: obedient to the eye
Of Ráma Lakshman made reply,
The name and fortune to unfold
Of Raghu’s son the lofty-souled:
‘True to the law, of fame unstained,
The glorious Das’aratha reigned.
And, steadfast in his duty, long
Kept the four castes from scathe and wrong.
Through his wide realm his will was done,
And, loved by all, he hated none.
Just to each creature great and small,
Like the Good Sire he cared for all.
The Agnishtom, as priests advised,

And various rites he solemnized.
Where ample largess ever paid
The Brahmans for their holy aid.
Here Ráma stands, his heir by birth,
Whose name is glorious in the earth:
Sure refuge he of all oppressed,
Most faithful to his sire’s behest.
He, Das’aratha’s eldest born
Whom gifts above the rest adorn,
Lord of each high imperial sign,  1b
The glory of his kingly line,
Reft of his right, expelled from home,
Came forth with me the woods to roam,
And Sitá too, his faithful dame,
Forth with her virtuous husband came,
Like the sweet light when day is done
Still cleaving to her lord the sun.
And me his sweet perfections drew
To follow as his servant true.
Named Lakshman, brother of my lord
Of grateful heart with knowledge stored
Most meet is he all bliss to share,
Who makes the good of all his care.
While, power and lordship caat away,
In the wild wood he chose to stay,
A giant came,–his name unknown,–
And stole the princess left alone.
Then Dití’s son  who, cursed of yore.
The semblance of a Rakshas wore,
To King Sugríva bade us turn
The robber’s name and home to learn.
For he, the Vánar chief, would know
The dwelling of our secret foe.
Such words of hope spake Dití’s son,
And sought the heaven his deeds had won.
Thou hast my tale. From first to last
Thine ears have heard whate’er has past.
Rama the mighty lord and I
For refuge to Sugríva fly.
The prince whose arm bright glory gained.
O’er the whole earth as monarch reigned,
And richest gifts to others gave,
Is come Sugríva’s help to crave;
Son of a king the surest friend
Of virtue, him who loved to lend
His succour to the suffering weak,
Is come Sugríva’s aid to seek.
Yes, Raghu’s son whose matchless hand
Protected all this sea-girt land,
The virtuous prince, my holy guide,
For refuge seeks Sugríva’s side.
His favour sent on great and small
Should ever save and prosper all.
He now to win Sugríva’s grace
Has sought his woodland dwelling-place.

Son of a king of glorious fame;–
Who knows not Das’aratha’s name?–
From whom all princes of the earth
Received each honour due to worth;–
Heir of that best of earthly kings,
Ráma the prince whose glory rings
Through realms below and earth and skies,
For refuge to Sugríva flies.
Nor should the Vánar king refuse
The boon for which the suppliant sues,
But with his forest legions speed
To save him in his utmost need.
   Sumitrá’s son, his eyes bedewed
With piteous tears, thus sighed and sued.
Then, trained in all the arts that guide
The speaker, Hanumán replied:
   ‘Yea, lords like you of wisest thought,
Whom happy fate has hither brought,
Who vanquish ire and rule each sense,
Must of our lord have audience.
Reft of his kingdom, sad, forlorn,
Once Báli’s hate now Báli’s scorn,
Defeated, severed from his spouse,
Wandering under forest boughs,
Child of the Sun, our lord and king
Sugríva will his succours bring,
And all our Vánar hosts combined
Will trace the dame you long to find.’
   With gentle tone and winning grace
Thus spake the chief of Vánar race,
And then to Raghu’s son he cried:
‘Come, haste we to Sugrivá’s side.’
   He spoke, and for his words so sweet
Good Lakshman’ paid all honour meet;
Then turned and cried to Raghu’s son:
‘Now deem thy task already done,
Because this chief of Vánar kind,
Son of the God who rules the wind,
Declares Sugríva’s self would be
Assisted in his need by thee.
Bright gleams of joy his cheek o’erspread
As each glad word of hope he said;
And ne’er will one so valiant deign
To cheer our hearts with hope in vain.’
   He spoke, and Hanúmán the wise
Cast off his mendicant disguise,
And took again his Vánar form,
Son of the God of wind and storm.
High on his ample back in haste
Baghu’s heroic sons he placed.
And turned with rapid steps to find
The sovereign of the Vánar kind.

tataḥ prahṛṣṭo hanumān kṛtyavān iti tad vacaḥ
śrutvā madhurasaṃbhāṣaṃ sugrīvaṃ manasā gataḥ
bhavyo rājyāgamas tasya sugrīvasya mahātmanaḥ
yad ayaṃ kṛtyavān prāptaḥ kṛtyaṃ caitad upāgatam
tataḥ paramasaṃhṛṣṭo hanūmān plavagarṣabhaḥ
pratyuvāca tato vākyaṃ rāmaṃ vākyaviśāradaḥ
kimarthaṃ tvaṃ vanaṃ ghoraṃ pampākānanamaṇḍitam
āgataḥ sānujo durgaṃ nānāvyālamṛgāyutam
tasya tadvacanaṃ śrutvā lakṣmaṇo rāmacoditaḥ
ācacakṣe mahātmānaṃ rāmaṃ daśarathātmajam
rājā daśaratho nāma dyutimān dharmavatsalaḥ
tasyāyaṃ pūrvajaḥ putro rāmo nāma janaiḥ śrutaḥ
śaraṇyaḥ sarvabhūtānāṃ pitur nirdeśapāragaḥ
vīro daśarathasyāyaṃ putrāṇāṃ guṇavattaraḥ
rājyād bhraṣṭo vane vastuṃ mayā sārdham ihāgataḥ
bhāryayā ca mahātejāḥ sītayānugato vaśī
dinakṣaye mahātejāḥ prabhayeva divākaraḥ
aham asyāvaro bhrātā guṇair dāsyam upāgataḥ
kṛtajñasya bahujñasya lakṣmaṇo nāma nāmataḥ
sukhārhasya mahārhasya sarvabhūtahitātmanaḥ
aiśvaryeṇa vihīnasya vanavāsāśritasya ca
rakṣasāpahṛtā bhāryā rahite kāmarūpiṇā
tac ca na jñāyate rakṣaḥ patnī yenāsya sā hṛtā
danur nāma śriyaḥ putraḥ śāpād rākṣasatāṃ gataḥ
ākhyātas tena sugrīvaḥ samartho vānarādhipaḥ
sa jñāsyati mahāvīryas tava bhāryāpahāriṇam
evam uktvā danuḥ svargaṃ bhrājamāno gataḥ sukham
etat te sarvam ākhyātaṃ yāthātathyena pṛcchataḥ
ahaṃ caiva hi rāmaś ca sugrīvaṃ śaraṇaṃ gatau
eṣa dattvā ca vittāni prāpya cānuttamaṃ yaśaḥ
lokanāthaḥ purā bhūtvā sugrīvaṃ nātham icchati
śokābhibhūte rāme tu śokārte śaraṇaṃ gate
kartum arhati sugrīvaḥ prasādaṃ saha yūthapaiḥ
evaṃ bruvāṇaṃ saumitriṃ karuṇaṃ sāśrupātanam
hanūmān pratyuvācedaṃ vākyaṃ vākyaviśāradaḥ
īdṛśā buddhisaṃpannā jitakrodhā jitendriyāḥ
draṣṭavyā vānarendreṇa diṣṭyā darśanam āgatāḥ
sa hi rājyāc ca vibhraṣṭaḥ kṛtavairaś ca vālinā
hṛtadāro vane trasto bhrātrā vinikṛto bhṛśam
kariṣyati sa sāhāyyaṃ yuvayor bhāskarātmajaḥ
sugrīvaḥ saha cāsmābhiḥ sītāyāḥ parimārgaṇe
ity evam uktvā hanumāñ ślakṣṇaṃ madhurayā girā
babhāṣe so ‘bhigacchāmaḥ sugrīvam iti rāghavam
evaṃ bruvāṇaṃ dharmātmā hanūmantaṃ sa lakṣmaṇaḥ
pratipūjya yathānyāyam idaṃ provāca rāghavam
kapiḥ kathayate hṛṣṭo yathāyaṃ mārutātmajaḥ
kṛtyavān so ‘pi saṃprāptaḥ kṛtakṛtyo ’si rāghava
prasannamukhavarṇaś ca vyaktaṃ hṛṣṭaś ca bhāṣate
nānṛtaṃ vakṣyate vīro hanūmān mārutātmajaḥ
tataḥ sa tu mahāprājño hanūmān mārutātmajaḥ
jagāmādāya tau vīrau harirājāya rāghavau
sa tu vipula yaśāḥ kapipravīraḥ; pavanasutaḥ kṛtakṛtyavat prahṛṣṭaḥ
girivaram uruvikramaḥ prayātaḥ; sa śubhamatiḥ saha rāmalakṣmaṇābhyām

 The Mahabharata on Twitter: the world’s longest epic poem, all 100,000 verses of it, condensed into a series of online posts of 140 characters, maximum.  Well not quite because Chindu Sreedharan, a lecturer at Bournemouth University in the UK, isn’t actually attempting a full rendition of the epic on Twitter but rather using the story as the basis for what he calls an experiment in social media.  Nevertheless, this is still a feat of compression that would have met the approval of Panini; it has certainly caught the attention of 1,472 followers to date as well as that of the international and Indian press.  In an email interview with Venetia Ansell, Chindu explains how he writes his ‘twiction’, epicretold, tweet by tweet. 

1. Do you have any idea how long the story will last, how long you’ll be tweeting for?

It is a question of months. Some of the readers do ask me, “Oh, so this is going to take decades?” Hold on, I am not narrating the original Mahabharata in its entirety. It is a version of a version of it. It is a series of selected incidents strung together to form a comprehensible narrative – to present the original plot from a limited perspective. So it is a question of months, not decades.

2.       So what is your base text? 

The fantastic characterisation of Bhima that M T Vasudevan Nair has achieved in Randamoozham is a foundational influence. I read the book first in Malayalam, when it was being published in a weekly. Then, later, I think I must have read Second Turn (the English translation) quite a few times. But my day-to-day source is Prem Panicker’s Bhimsen [a version of the Mahabharata from Bhima’s perspective – like the Randamoozham – which was written in a series of blog posts]. I use that as my main guide.

3. You’re writing this as you post and you only write three to four tweets day – how do you manage to make the narrative fit together so well and maintain an even pace? 

Thank you for saying that. Hemingway’s advice helps. I make sure I read the earlier bits, as many as I can, before I write. That helps (hopefully) with the continuity. Even then, it is quite easy to tap out something that will say what you mean to say, carry the story forward to the next juncture – but when I can, before I post, I take a second look. That helps too. Quite a few times, I have found that actually what I have got wouldn’t flow well, or I have used the same phrase, or the reader will get that bit without my really spelling it out – and accordingly made changes.

4. There’s a certain rhythm to Twitter posts because of the character limitation.  Do you think there are similarities between Twitter and poetry?

On Twitter not just every word, but every character counts – which forces you to write tight. There is rhythm to prose as well, of course, but that comes to the fore across more words, more sentences. Here, on the other hand, because of the character constraint, the writer packs in more sentences, more condensed communication in the same space. So the rhythm, the relation between every sentence/tweet, is more noticeable perhaps? Well, that’s my impressionistic take on it so far!

 5.    Do you have any idea who your followers are?  How do they like it?

The majority are Indians or people of Indian origin. There is a small but significant number of non-Indians as well – Portugese and Americans, mostly, very few from Britain so far as I can see. Most followers are here because it is the Mahabharata. It is the epic that brings them here, and they are quite interested in a contemporary retelling. A very small percentage follows the story because it is fiction on Twitter.

The reaction has been surprisingly positive. Sometimes they attribute a great deal of undeserving originality of interpretation to epicretold as well  – which, I must confess, I receive with only half-hearted protests. Very few criticisms, and none of what I would call harsh – a few people had written in, firm in their belief that Bhima was a vegetarian, so how come he’s eating meat here? And a couple of others felt that Yudhisthira was being portrayed as ‘casteist’. But apart from that, it has all been good. Possibly, the fragmented nature of storytelling has contributed to this happiness; I expect there will be more criticism coming my way when readers can read lengthy bits in one sitting.

6.       Does this episodic format mean that your readers shape the text in any way? 

I listen, and respond, intently to what readers say. Twitter provides for that very nicely. I doubt whether that changes the characterisation or the storyline in any significant way. But that has had some effects on my narration. For instance, followers wrote in to say the use of pronouns can be confusing as they are reading one tweet at a time. So I try to make sure that I use names where possible, or fairly frequently, so it is easier to understand who I am referring to. Indirectly, the interaction with readers allows me to get a feel of what they find attractive about the narration, and of course that does influence me when I write.

 7.       Sanskrit is famous for its brevity and concision – any thoughts on the potential for Sanskrit tweeting?

Could be very niche, given that the audience for the language – and this is only a guess, mind – is limited and only a small percentage of that audience would be comfortable on Twitter.

8.      And next, the Ramayana..?

Gosh, no. Not unless someone commissions me! This does become consuming, when you have other commitments to honour as well!

To read the first ‘chapter’ of Chindu’s epicretold, click here. 

To read and follow the story on Twitter, click here.

For more information on Chindu Sreedharan, see his website here.

Chindu Sreedharan, a lecturer at Bournemouth University in the UK, is writing a version of the Mahabharata post by post on Twitter.  Below are the first 94 tweets of his epicretold.

For more background on Chindu’s version of the epic, see the interview with him here. 

I can’t help staring at the lady with the black cloth over her eyes. I feel disturbed, scared — but I can’t look away.

Pale, beautiful face. Black strip wound tight. Beneath it, the eyes – the eyes with which she wouldn’t see. Gandhari. Our aunt. The queen.

She hugs Mother. Then us five children. Yudhistira first, then me, Arjuna, the twins, Nakula and Sahadeva. Why is she sobbing?

“Come,” Aunt Gandhari says. “The king is waiting.” She turns. I see the knot of blindfold black against her gray hair. I stare.

I follow with Yudhistira, Mother and the young ones behind. The palace doors close behind us. So it is all true? We are really princes?

We had all lived in the forest. Us five, Mother, father Pandu and aunt Madri. The rishis there called Father king. I didn’t understand that.

I didn’t understand many things. Yudhistira said I was slow and stupid. But if father was king, why were we living in a forest lodge?

I never got answers. Still, life was fun. Yudhistira sat with rishis, Arjuna played at archery; I wandered, hunted rabbits with my toy mace.

And I swam. Sometimes when Yudhistira joined me, I would hold him under water. Maybe I was slow and stupid, but I was strong. Very strong.

That day Father had wandered off with aunt Madri, laughing. Mother sat by the window, still, silent. Then I heard the wailing.

I rushed out, Mother behind me. Aunt Madri fell into her arms sobbing. Father had slipped, she said, hit his head on a rock. He was dead.

I ran along the forest path to where Father lay, under the trees. There was blood on his face. I hadn’t known him well; now I wouldn’t.

Later they built a pyre. As the flames sprang up I saw Aunt Madri come out in her best robes. She hugged us each tight, walked to the pyre.

She circled it three times, head bent, lips moving. Then she turned, looked at us once — and walked into the flames.

I wanted to look away, but could not. Aunt Madri — she didn’t make a sound as the flames engulfed her.

Next day, men came in chariots. Mother spoke to them at length. After they left, she said, “We are going to Hastinapur, our kingdom.”

And now we’re walking through the palace — our palace? — with Aunt Gandhari. She walks alone, ahead, her blindfold black against her gray.

I know the story of that blindfold. A balladeer sang about it on our last night in the forest, the first time she ever sang about our clan.

Our aunt had vowed to cover her eyes, not see again, when she learnt she was to wed Dhritarashtra, blind prince of Hastinapur. Years ago.

She leads us to a doorway where two giant warriors cross spear points. They step aside. We walk into a huge hall, lit by dozens of lamps.

My feet, used to rough forest ground, slip on the polished marble. At the far end, on a golden throne, sits King Dhritarashtra. Our uncle.

He is huge — huge head, enormous chest, bulging arms — but not as huge as some of the woodcutters I have seen in the forest.

Our uncle is stronger than a thousand mad elephants, the balladeer had sung, the strongest man in the world. Is he — really?

He rises. The sightless eyes stare straight at Mother as she says, voice breaking, “I, Kunti, widow of your brother, bow before you.”

He blesses her, hugs her tight. Yudhistira steps forward and prostrates. Then it is my turn. I hesitate; someone pushes me forward.

He bends to touch my face, my shoulders, hands surprisingly soft. “Bhima has grown,” he says. “Only six, but so tall! He’ll make a warrior!”

His eyes are frightening — flat, cold, dead. They devour me. “I am glad you came,” he says finally, to Mother. “Now I have five more sons.”

I know the king has many sons — a hundred, the songs said. Why aren’t they here to greet us? I look around. And I see him.

He is my age, swathed in yellow silk robes. A gold necklace of many strands covers his chest. He stares at me fixedly from behind a pillar.

I smile. He keeps staring. Then abruptly he turns and walks away. I stand there feeling foolish, angry at the boy, angrier at myself.

I do not see him the next day. Or the next. But late one evening the next week, I find myself facing him in one of the smaller courtyards.

I am returning from another wander. Yudhistira has taken well to palace life — to the silk robes, the maids, the sleeping chambers. Not me.

I miss the forests, my old carefree life; I spend much of my time outdoors. This time when I get back the boy is standing in the shadows.

I have guessed who he is. Duryodhana, uncle Dhritarashtra’s son, eldest of the Kaurava brothers. My cousin, who turned his back on my smile.

He steps forward. I stop. I do not smile. “So you are the one,” he says. “The Pandava born to destroy my clan!”

That is one of those things I have heard the maids whispering. That, and I was son of Vaayu, the God of Wind. I do not understand that.

I do not understand either why they say Yudhistira is the son of Lord Yama Dharma, Arjuna the son of Lord Indra. Was not Pandu our father?

Now I hear it, from the tongue of this haughty boy. “Nothing to say, fool?” he taunts. “They say you are stupid!” I feel my anger rising.

I step towards him. “Aside!” I say. Duryodhana’s eyes widen, the angry surprise of a palace prince unused to challenge. Then I see rage.

I do not wait. I push, my forehand against his gold-strung chest. I feel him resist, we strain for a split second. He stumbles sideways.

Duryodhana is taller, bigger. But I am stronger – born to the forest, not to palace maids. I leave him against the wall. I do not look back.

I wait for Mother to chastise me the next day. She has not heard. Even the maids, who hear everything about everyone, have not heard.

I am relieved — or am I? There is so much I want to ask Mother. Why do they say I am born to kill my own cousins? Why the tales about me?

The palace has changed our lives. Mother is rarely alone here; so it is days before I speak to her. She frowns at my questions. Sighs.

“Maids’ tales!” she says, sitting me down. “Do not pay heed. You are the son of Pandu, the second in line to the throne of Hastinapur.

“Someday your brother Yudhistira will be king. You are strong, very strong. It is your duty to support him, to protect him — always.

“It will not be easy… Pray to Vaayu, seek His blessings — be strong like the wind.”

That night standing by my window I close my eyes, I whisper: O, Vaayu, God of Wind, bless me, protect me from harm, make me strong like you.

And I feel the touch of a gentle breeze, a caress, an embrace, soothing me, wiping my fears away… my God is listening.

From then on every night I pray to Vaayu — and every night he responds, with the softest of touches, making me feel strong, protected.

The next weeks bring a sense of rhythm into my life. Mornings, I wake up early, to the sounds of conch and music from the palace courtyard.

The maids would be waiting, with hot water and fragrant oils for my bath. Then it is time for Vedic school, for which I am inevitably late.

The bath makes me hungry, and though forbidden to eat before school, I always stop to gulp down the meat dishes the maids smuggle to me.

Grandfather Bhishma and Uncle Vidura, the most revered of our relatives, say our studies have suffered and we need to make up quickly.

Grandfather has engaged a teacher, just for the five of us. Uncle Vidura’s sons were to join our class, but for some reason they never do.

Yudhistira is happy about that. Uncle Vidura, he says, is our father’s half-brother, born to a maid, his sons not of royal lineage.

“They are sudhras, lower caste,” he tells me. “They should not be allowed to sit with us kshatriyas anyway.”

That is the thing about my elder brother. So very conscious about who is inferior to him, who his peer, what is right, what wrong.

He loves the Vedic sessions. As for me, my favourite part of the day begins when we troop to Shukacharya to learn the crafts of war.

Our cousins are taught by Kripacharya. Grandfather says we have a lot to catch up. How good is Duryodhana then, I sometimes wonder.

Duryodhana pretends to ignore me, though I see him watching me at practice often. I love the sessions, but hate the way everyone treats me.

My teacher, my cousins, even my brothers, they all see me as fat, slow — and stupid. Kripacharya even says so, when he gets angry.

In his eyes Yudhistira excels with chariots, Arjuna with the bow and arrow. Me, I am good only to wrestle or fight with the mace.

Even there he sees Duryodhana as my better. He is wrong. They all are. Or maybe they just find it more amusing to laugh at the fat fool.

Let them laugh. Perhaps it is better they are blind to my strengths, blind to the extra hours I put in after lessons in quiet corners.

I am growing strong, powerful. And more agile, fast on my feet, swift of arm and eye — swift like Vaayu, the God I pray to every night.

In a chariot I am more fluid than Yudhistira. With the bow and arrow, though not blessed like Arjuna, I am more effective than most.

Where I am more deliberate, Arjuna finds the target with no conscious effort. He says he’ll be the greatest archer on earth. I believe him.

He believes the court singers’ tale that Indra, king of all gods, is his father. He prays to him constantly, practices relentlessly.

If Arjuna is not with me, I usually slip into the elephant paddock as I return. The mahouts indulge me; I am the only prince to visit them.

On one such occasion, as I finish grooming the little tusker the mahouts have ‘given’ me, I sense someone behind me. I turn around.

Duryodhana is watching me from the massive doorway silently. He is not alone. With him are two others I recognise. Dushasana and Karna.

Dushasana is the second eldest of my cousins, a sad shadow of Duryodhana. Karna, I know of as the son of Adhirtatha, the king’s charioteer.

From afar the son of the charioteer looks a bit like Yudhistira. But my brother would never have the scoff of scorn Karna is wearing now.

I do not want trouble. I step away from the elephant, move towards a side entrance. Footsteps rapidly close behind me. I stop.

“He is running away.” Duryodhana is laughing. “The fat fool is afraid!” Dushasana joins in, an unconvincing echo of his elder brother.

“Look at him shaking,” Karna says. “Is this the one they say will destroy your clan and drink your blood, Duryodhana? This fat fool?”

Fat fool. I am used to that. But somehow those words from Karna anger me more. What right does this charioteer’s son have to call me that?

I will pay him back — but not with words. Duryodhana has taken a fighting stance; I see Dushasana edging sideways. I take a deep breath.

I know what to expect. Duryodhana will lunge, try to grab me in a dueling lock as we have been taught. Dushasana will attack my flank.

I pretend to watch Dushasana, turning slightly. As I see Duryodhana tensing, preparing to rush me, I pivot, kicking out hard at his knees.

Duryodhana falls heavily, yowling in pain. I turn quickly, allowing Dushasana to run into my elbow at the end of his clumsy rush.

As he staggers, I shove him hard, sending him towards Duryodhana. He trips, falls over. I do not let them recover; I cannot afford to.

Slipping behind, I grab their hair. Their heads are slick with oil, but I get a good grip, tug hard. Their heads clash together. I repeat.

Again and again, I tug. They squirm, yell, but I do not stop. Karna has disappeared. Shouts. Running feet. Rough hands wrench me away.

The mahouts surround Duryodhana and Dushasana. There is blood on their heads, on Dushasana’s face. I walk away; I will pay Karna back later.

Much later I approach Mother’s chambers. Yudhistira is there. To my surprise, he embraces me. I embrace him, then touch Mother’s feet.

“Son, why did you attack your cousins?” she asks quietly. I didn’t, I say. She looks at me for a long moment, without a word.

“That charioteer’s son came to complain about you to Grandfather Bhishma,” Yudhistira says. “He said you jumped them from behind.”

They listen to me in silence. “I understand why you fought,” Mother says finally, “but did you have to hurt them so bad?” I have no answer.

Mother pulls me close. “Keep away from those boys, Bhima,” she tells me. “They will try to harm you — and people will always blame you.”

Yudhistira walks me to the door. “Child, Duryodhana will want revenge,” he says, embracing me again. “Be careful. Don’t go out after dark.”

I nod. Fat fool I may be, but I have already figured that out.

To follow the rest of the story on Twitter, click here.

Sanskrit poets dedicate much time to describing nature – often an idealised nature – in all her glory.  For many readers, even for those in India, it can be hard to picture the description of a luxuriant forest grove or a tree-lined seascape full of flora with beautiful but foreign names.  If you do not know that the malati jasmine is white and the ashoka tree’s flowers red (as in the picture above), you will find it difficult to appreciate their comparison to the pink lips and bright teeth of a woman’s smile.

Tomomi Sato, a student at Australian National University, has created an illustrated catalogue of the plants and trees of Kalidasa’s Meghaduta.  The online site presents Tomomi’s watercolour paintings of the 26 plants, from the japa (at bottom of page) to the yuthika (below), found in the poem, along with the verses in which they appear.  Tomomi referred to photos and descriptions in botanical catalogues to paint each as faithfully as possible.  The result is a series of colour-rich illustrations, simple and vibrant – perfect, in short, for Kalidasa’s elegant verse.

The site also has English and Japanese translation and an audio recording for each verse, all done by Tomomi.  Tomomi explains that her linguistics background helped her to master the pronounciation – by understanding the “logic behind the sounds” she was able to learn how to voice them – although she admits she did struggle with the aspirated consonants.   For her, the Japanese translation did of course come far more naturally but she doesn’t attribute this solely to the fact it is her mother tongue.  “As Japanese is a SOV [subject-object-verb as opposed to subject-verb-object – English is the latter; Sanskrit the former] language, which often drops the subject, I think it’s actually closer to Sanskrit, grammar-wise.”

Tomomi was only able to find one other translation of the Meghaduta into Japanese, published in 1962, and says that the poem is barely known in Japan where most Sanskrit interest revolves around Buddhism.  A kavya-enthusiast, she hopes to try a few more translations into Japanese in the future.

The only disappointment in this project is that the artist didn’t attempt a description of the legendary ‘kalpa-vrksha’ – the wish giving tree – which, as she quotes, “produces anything one would desire, and hence anything celestial beings need, such as clothes, ornaments, and foods, would spring out of the trees”.   This must be left to the reader’s imagination.

Venetia Ansell

Click here to go to the website