The beginning of Kannada poetry is intertwined with the art of translation and rewriting. Pampa articulates the challenges inherent in this poetic pursuit, stating, “Kate Piridadodam Kateya Maigidaliyade Samastabharata manapoorvavagi pelda kabbigarilla” (“The story of the Mahabharata is huge; no poet has been able to retell this story concisely without harming its basic structure”). His perspective underscores the difficulty of preserving the structural integrity while transposing a narrative into another language. Whether a lengthy tale should be condensed or a concise one expanded, is not just a deliberate process, but one imbued with significance. For the poetic tradition to endure and accommodate new layers of meaning, the size of poems must undergo alteration. The deliberate elimination of unnecessary and irrelevant elements, when condensing a larger narrative, or the addition of fresh perspectives and meanings when expanding a shorter one, becomes integral to this evolutionary process.
This intentional transformation is not confined to the realm of written poetry alone; it echoes through the oral tradition, where stories continuously contract or expand based on the storytellers’ discernment. In the folk context, the adaptability of stories is contingent upon the audience, who infuse their creativity to enhance the narrative’s presentation.
Kannada poets were attentive to the Sanskrit Abhijat Kavya (classical Sanskrit poetry). In ancient times, poetry went beyond being a mere manifestation of rasa-bhava; it served as a medium for expressing knowledge. The knowledge of the age of Abhijata Kavya is evident not only in refined scientific treatises but also in poetic works. Varahamihira, for instance, incorporated Kalidasa’s poetic style into his scientific writings, while Kalidasa drew on knowledge from Varahamihira’s scientific works in his poetry. Essentially, the domains of religion, politics, literature and arts during this period were fashioned by kings for their education. A profound disparity exists between the knowledge systems of the age of the Abhijata Kavya and the knowledge systems of the Brahmans. The latter, drawn to the truths of Vedanta philosophy, developed theories of Karmasiddhanta and Karmamimanse, recognising the possibility of rebirth for humans. In this context, the poetry of the age of Abhijata Kavya was secular, though not anti-religious. Notably, the language employed was Sanskrit.
However, as the influence of Buddhist and Jain heritage began to permeate diverse poetic forms in various languages, the continuity of Abhijat Kavya likely faced challenges. During Chandragupta’s time, the intersection of south and north India spurred cultural divergence. By the era of Pampa and Ranna, figures like Kalidasa and Bana had likely demonstrated the feasibility of embracing ideals beyond religious ones. In the realm of Kannada Champu Kavya, a significant endeavour was to unlock the chests of ancient knowledge and claim the treasure within. The Kannada poets did not shy away from elements of Abhijat Kavya that diverged from their religious beliefs. Nonetheless, the technical significance of the rewriting, and translations initiated by these Kannada poets, warrants examination.
In the act of rewriting, old perspectives intertwine with new ones, paving the way for fresh meanings. A concise illustration of this phenomenon can be found in a particular episode of Bhasa’s play Dutavakya. In this scene, upon learning of Krishna’s impending negotiation visit, Duryodhana schemes to keep him at bay. He summons Kanchuki and instructs her to procure the painting depicting Draupadi’s disrobing. Upon its arrival, he meticulously examines the painting, offering his assessment in the end: “Aho asya varnadyata. Aho bhavopapannatha. Aho Yuktalekhata. Suvyaktamalikhitoyam Chitrapatah” (“Such rich colours! Such fine expressions! What a perfect composition! It really is a picture well done”). This painting serves multiple purposes. Duryodhana’s fury intensifies upon encountering the Pandavas in the image, triggering the audience’s recollection of the Mahabharata episode and arousing curiosity about the unfolding future.
But what does Duryodhana’s analysis of the picture signify? To him, terms like “varnadhyate”, “bhavopapannate” and “yuktalekha” are technical expressions. Duryodhana assumes the role of an art expert, an aspect seemingly unnecessary in the Mahabharata narrative. However, in Bhasa’s rendition, Duryodhana transforms into an art connoisseur – a cunning individual who transforms art into a political weapon. This introduces a novel dimension to his character, even though the underlying story is age-old. It is not the tale itself that is new, but rather the fresh understanding that Bhasa injects into it. This verse from the thirteenth chapter of Pampa’s Bharata may be considered:
Just as a painter shows the higher and the lower, the thin and the tender, the thick and the delicate regions on the flat surface of a picture, so do those who know politics will make the falsehood of their actions the absolute truth.
Pampa’s analysis of the painting surpasses Bhasa’s in both technical depth and insight, yet it is crucial to acknowledge their shared purpose. In Bhasa’s portrayal, when Duryodhana wields the painting as a political weapon, it transforms into an icon embodying both comprehension and critique. (It is worth noting that the term “image” [pratime] differs from “icon” [pratimana]. While abstract concepts can be conveyed through images, an icon serves as a tool for evaluation, standing on the rational capacity of humanity!) Pampa employs the same icon in his interpretation. Subsequently, a multitude of Jain poets also incorporate the icon of painting into their works. Nemichandra adeptly employs the icon of music in his Lilavati Prabandha. In a conversation between the clown and Kandarpa, the harlot sings the Hindol raga, described as an incarnation of spring. The clown remarks, “Ee ragamargam Hindola raganga sambhavamappa deshiya hindolamidu shringarayuktamappudarim…ninage keltakkudu” (“This raga that follows the path of Hindola, is Desi Hindola with its emphasis on Shringara”). This dialogue underscores the clear distinction between Marga and Desi, as well as between understanding and experience. It suggests that Marga is intellectual and theoretical, while Desi is experiential. This dichotomy between Marga and Desi, serving as an icon, defines the two primary types of art. Ponna, in describing the beauty of a garden in Videha, articulates, “Cheeraghattiye bareditta chitrada banakkeneyaytu banam videhadol” (“In Videha, the garden resembles a pretty picture drawn by a painter”). Whether it is feasible to find the beauty seen in the picture in nature is a separate question. However, the remarkable phenomenon of a picture evolving into an icon to portray the beauty of nature is truly astonishing.
Music, dance, painting, poetry and ethical sciences offer a distinct category of icons – tools of understanding. This ensures clarity and avoids misunderstanding regardless of the occasion. However, there are also mythological images that borrow icons, repurposing them in new contexts. Through the process of rewriting, these icons take on different meanings. Over time, the accumulated interpretations coalesce, unravelling and reconstructing the Puranic archetype – essentially dismantling it and giving rise to a new creation.
Consider the story of Sita’s abandonment in the Uttara Ramayana as an example. In the original Ramayana, the people of Ayodhya discuss Sita’s character openly, and the accusations gradually reach Rama’s court. Respecting the opinions of his subjects, Rama decides to leave Sita. Subsequently, Lakshmana takes Sita to the forests on the other side of the Ganges. The meaning of this episode is explicit in the Ramayana; it marks the initial step towards the dissolution of Rama’s incarnation. Following the loss of Lakshmana, Rama ascends to heaven as mandated by Time.
In the Ramayana, a moral dilemma arises for Rama when he must choose between satisfying either Sita or his subjects. This episode inherently presents a moral quandary. Subsequently, figures like Bhavabhuti in Sanskrit, as well as Lakshmisha and Muddana in Kannada, revisit the same incident but interpret it differently. Each provides a distinct rationale for Sita’s abandonment. Folklore elements, such as the story of the launderer, might have infiltrated the narrative, adding further complexity. Amid these diverse rewritings, a creative debate unfolds, centring on the conflicting themes of Rama’s love for Sita and his duty as a king. Deciding which takes precedence becomes a challenge, ultimately reflecting the spirit of the times. However, the consistent use of Puranic icons underscores a crucial point: their employment fosters community discussions. Furthermore, the Purana itself serves as a catalyst for intellectual development within the language.
Excerpted with permission from ‘Translation and Rewriting’ in Courtesy of Criticism: Selected Essays of Kirtinath Kurtkoti, edited and translated from the Kannada by Kamalakar Bhat, Penguin India/Ashoka Centre for Translation.
