The festival of letters was spread over three pavilions in the inner section of the palace where poets recited their latest kavyas, drama ensembles presented scenes from works in progress, and learned teachers discussed the finer points of aesthetic theories. The competition for young poets was to take place in a larger hall that was used for dances, concerts and theatrical performances. The site selected for the event testified to its importance.
Mihirsen had inaugurated the festival in the morning in the same hall by reading some of his own poetry that was closely scrutinised by the assembled literati even though protocol obliged them to applaud the king enthusiastically at its end. After all, since ages, literary competence in a king has been considered as important as his military prowess. When the king’s grammar is faultless, then so will be his rule, which will be as just as the eloquence of his words. A king who did not command the language of gods will be no better than a drunkard at steering the ship of his state.
The rumour I heard later was that in contrast to the crown prince who loved poetry and was a reasonably competent practitioner of the art himself, Mihirsen was indifferent to the language and its wondrous creations. As with his verses, his annual address at the festival of letters was said to be composed wholly or in large part by the court poet of Avanti, Somdatta.
The poetry competition was the concluding event of the day, allowing me to spend the morning in bed while I recovered from the excesses of the previous night.
The judge was Somdatta. Now an old man in his mid-fifties, once celebrated for his long kavya on the love of Rama and Sita, his poetic powers were obviously in decline. In the last five years, he had written no more than three poems, their technical virtuosity failing to hide their lack of inspiration.
He was said to be writing a longer dramatic kavya but many had begun to doubt whether this was indeed the case or a rumour spread by his friends to hide the fact that the field had become fallow, its soil sandy where no fresh shoot took root.
Somdatta was a forbidding figure as he sat in the front row: bent and balding, brow furrowed, face crunched in a perennial scowl as if he had it on good authority that smiling and breaking out in laughter barred the way to heaven. He was surprisingly spry in rising to his feet to receive the king and the crown prince who accompanied his father.
From Vikramsen’s red-rimmed eyes and futile efforts to suppress unbidden yawns, I could see that he, too, was recovering from Kama’s onslaughts of the previous night. Straightaway, I felt a feeling of kinship with the young prince who was to be my sovereign. How wrong I was! How often do we take the immediacy of our sentiment as proof of its truth!
After saluting the king and the crown prince, and welcoming the citizens who had turned up to watch the competition, Somdatta turned to the twenty aspiring poets, who sat cross-legged in two rows at the back of the stage.
‘The competition will proceed in two parts. The first consists of two tasks. In each task you will have to meet the challenge of samasyapurana, wherein you will have to compose a verse by constructing a stanza to contain a phrase which I will give you. The best three from this part of the competition will progress to the second stage where they will be asked to compose a verse on a subject. I will be the sole judge on the first task. Our monarch will judge the second. Remember, I do not look for your facility with words. To please me with words is like trying to spray the ocean with water. What I look for is the rasa of a poem, its scent, its taste, even if nowadays you young poets learn to revere other masters of poetics and think the teachings of the venerable Bharata are relevant only for the performing arts, not for poets. And then I look for speed in completion of the task, a sign of goddess Saraswati’s special favour. Are you ready?’
He looked at us and then at the king who nodded, giving Somdatta the permission to begin the competition. ‘Complete a verse whose last line is, “A hundred moons were in the sky.’’’
Somdatta had barely sat down when I raised my hand.
He looked surprised and signalled me to step up to the front of the stage and recite my verse.
The hall erupted in loud applause. I returned to my place. I had entered another zone of consciousness where other verses with the last line came cascading from an invisible waterfall of images and words, demanding to be written down or spoken. My ears were deaf to the verses that were being recited by my competitors. I awakened from this state of outward stupor only when Somdatta stood up again and mounted the stage with careful steps.
‘You are young and will like this last line. It is, “I swear I can’t remember what occurred.’’’
Again, my hand was the first one to be raised.
There was laughter from the audience and appreciative exclamations of ‘Sadhu! Sadhu!’ The verse had again come to me from somewhere outside myself, in the voice of a woman, perhaps from heaven in the voice of Saraswati herself, the goddess who is the embodiment of the spirit of poetry.
The torrent of inspiration had now become a calm stream – the cool flow of moonlight rather than the leaping flames of the sun. No longer deaf to what was going on around me, my ears had begun to register a cacophony of broken sounds. Somdatta had again come up to the stage and I gathered that I was the first among the three who had qualified for the final round.
‘The subject of your poem has been suggested by the crown prince himself. It is a difficult one: poetry. You don’t have to rush to be the first one on stage.’ Here he looked at me. ‘I will call on you, one by one. As the winner of the first round of tasks, Bhartrihari will be the last contestant in this round.’
I remember neither the names of the other two poets who took the stage before me nor their poems.
A sign of arrogance, my enemies would say. My absorption in creations of my own imagination, I would retort. I was too preoccupied with polishing my lines to pay them attention. And the lines?
As I declaimed the last line, I looked at the crown prince. Our eyes locked. His were alive, shining, with no trace of the earlier dullness. I sensed that it was not the king but the prince who was going to be the final judge.
I did not have to wait for his nod to Somdatta and for the applause to break out to know that I had won.
Excerpted with permission from The Devil Take Love, Sudhir Kakar, Penguin Books India.
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Mihirsen had inaugurated the festival in the morning in the same hall by reading some of his own poetry that was closely scrutinised by the assembled literati even though protocol obliged them to applaud the king enthusiastically at its end. After all, since ages, literary competence in a king has been considered as important as his military prowess. When the king’s grammar is faultless, then so will be his rule, which will be as just as the eloquence of his words. A king who did not command the language of gods will be no better than a drunkard at steering the ship of his state.
The rumour I heard later was that in contrast to the crown prince who loved poetry and was a reasonably competent practitioner of the art himself, Mihirsen was indifferent to the language and its wondrous creations. As with his verses, his annual address at the festival of letters was said to be composed wholly or in large part by the court poet of Avanti, Somdatta.
The poetry competition was the concluding event of the day, allowing me to spend the morning in bed while I recovered from the excesses of the previous night.
The judge was Somdatta. Now an old man in his mid-fifties, once celebrated for his long kavya on the love of Rama and Sita, his poetic powers were obviously in decline. In the last five years, he had written no more than three poems, their technical virtuosity failing to hide their lack of inspiration.
He was said to be writing a longer dramatic kavya but many had begun to doubt whether this was indeed the case or a rumour spread by his friends to hide the fact that the field had become fallow, its soil sandy where no fresh shoot took root.
Somdatta was a forbidding figure as he sat in the front row: bent and balding, brow furrowed, face crunched in a perennial scowl as if he had it on good authority that smiling and breaking out in laughter barred the way to heaven. He was surprisingly spry in rising to his feet to receive the king and the crown prince who accompanied his father.
From Vikramsen’s red-rimmed eyes and futile efforts to suppress unbidden yawns, I could see that he, too, was recovering from Kama’s onslaughts of the previous night. Straightaway, I felt a feeling of kinship with the young prince who was to be my sovereign. How wrong I was! How often do we take the immediacy of our sentiment as proof of its truth!
After saluting the king and the crown prince, and welcoming the citizens who had turned up to watch the competition, Somdatta turned to the twenty aspiring poets, who sat cross-legged in two rows at the back of the stage.
‘The competition will proceed in two parts. The first consists of two tasks. In each task you will have to meet the challenge of samasyapurana, wherein you will have to compose a verse by constructing a stanza to contain a phrase which I will give you. The best three from this part of the competition will progress to the second stage where they will be asked to compose a verse on a subject. I will be the sole judge on the first task. Our monarch will judge the second. Remember, I do not look for your facility with words. To please me with words is like trying to spray the ocean with water. What I look for is the rasa of a poem, its scent, its taste, even if nowadays you young poets learn to revere other masters of poetics and think the teachings of the venerable Bharata are relevant only for the performing arts, not for poets. And then I look for speed in completion of the task, a sign of goddess Saraswati’s special favour. Are you ready?’
He looked at us and then at the king who nodded, giving Somdatta the permission to begin the competition. ‘Complete a verse whose last line is, “A hundred moons were in the sky.’’’
Somdatta had barely sat down when I raised my hand.
He looked surprised and signalled me to step up to the front of the stage and recite my verse.
Ah, if the moon would cease to shine so fair
when we are far apart, my love and I!
If he would only come, I should not care
although a hundred moons were in the sky.
The hall erupted in loud applause. I returned to my place. I had entered another zone of consciousness where other verses with the last line came cascading from an invisible waterfall of images and words, demanding to be written down or spoken. My ears were deaf to the verses that were being recited by my competitors. I awakened from this state of outward stupor only when Somdatta stood up again and mounted the stage with careful steps.
‘You are young and will like this last line. It is, “I swear I can’t remember what occurred.’’’
Again, my hand was the first one to be raised.
Well, really there is nothing I can tell
of what men do in love; no, not a word:
He started to undo my dress, and –
well, I swear I can’t remember what occurred.
There was laughter from the audience and appreciative exclamations of ‘Sadhu! Sadhu!’ The verse had again come to me from somewhere outside myself, in the voice of a woman, perhaps from heaven in the voice of Saraswati herself, the goddess who is the embodiment of the spirit of poetry.
The torrent of inspiration had now become a calm stream – the cool flow of moonlight rather than the leaping flames of the sun. No longer deaf to what was going on around me, my ears had begun to register a cacophony of broken sounds. Somdatta had again come up to the stage and I gathered that I was the first among the three who had qualified for the final round.
‘The subject of your poem has been suggested by the crown prince himself. It is a difficult one: poetry. You don’t have to rush to be the first one on stage.’ Here he looked at me. ‘I will call on you, one by one. As the winner of the first round of tasks, Bhartrihari will be the last contestant in this round.’
I remember neither the names of the other two poets who took the stage before me nor their poems.
A sign of arrogance, my enemies would say. My absorption in creations of my own imagination, I would retort. I was too preoccupied with polishing my lines to pay them attention. And the lines?
Only a fool, waiting to be told, suspends judgement.
A poem like an arrow has met its mark
only when the listener’s senses reel
as the poem sticks quivering in the heart.
As I declaimed the last line, I looked at the crown prince. Our eyes locked. His were alive, shining, with no trace of the earlier dullness. I sensed that it was not the king but the prince who was going to be the final judge.
I did not have to wait for his nod to Somdatta and for the applause to break out to know that I had won.
Excerpted with permission from The Devil Take Love, Sudhir Kakar, Penguin Books India.