Introduction, Part I: Th e tragic middle Th e legacy of looking I now see that sorrow, being the supreme emotion of which man is capable, is at once the type and test of all great art. … Behind joy and laughter there may be a temperament, coarse, hard and callous. But behind sorrow there is always sorrow. Pain, unlike pleasure, wears no mask. Truth in art is not any correspondence between the essential idea and the accidental existence; it is not the resemblance of shape to shadow, or of the form mirrored in the crystal to the form itself: it is no echo coming from a hollow hill, any more than it is a silver well of water in the valley that shows the moon to the moon, and Narcissus to Narcissus. Truth in art is the unity of a thing with itself; the outward rendered expressive of the inward: the soul made incarnate … Th ere are times when sorrow seems to me to be the only truth. Other things may be illusions of the eye or the appetite, made to blind the one and cloy the other, but out of sorrow have the worlds been built, and at the birth of a child or a star there is pain . ( De Profundis , pp. 109–10) Th us wrote Oscar Wilde in the D e Profundis , shortly aft er his imprisonment in Reading Gaol, understanding grief in his fi nal years to be the very essence of life and art, their truth. Western culture has been dominated by the central place of calamity and grief in artistic expression ever since the Greeks. And yet if such be the ‘supreme emotion of man’ and the ‘type and test of all great art’ in the West, then classical Sanskrit poetry and drama (k āvya ) can in this respect only disappoint the modern reader. It is said to be barren of confrontation with truth, for, if, as Wilde felt, ‘sorrow seems to be the only truth’, then most modern critics have looked for it in vain in kāvya : there is no fi nal spectacle of death because death is inauspicious in Indian beliefs. As a typical example of tragedy, a lay-auteur would usually think of Hamlet or K ing Lear . Were one to use Shakespearean tragedy as a measure for the preoccupation with the tragic in classical Sanskrit literature as a whole, one 99778811778888331111111133__ppii--220000..iinndddd 11 2200--OOcctt--2200 1122::3322::4433 2 Classical Sanskrit Tragedy would inevitably be led to the conclusion, through the sheer paucity of that genre, that death, confl ict and downfall – all the elements of tragedy – are inessential to kāvya . Apart from a few works that fi t the European description – to wit a princely two (the V ibudhānanda and the Ūrubha ṅ ga ) – there are no tragedies in the repertoire. Closest to Western tragedy is a dramatic type mentioned in Indian poetics called uts ṛ ṣ ṭ ikāṅ ka or a ṅ ka , a one act cathartic play predominated by the pitiful sentiment (k aru ṇ arasa ), ordinary men rather than gods, the lamentations of women, speeches that cause aversion (n irveda ) to the world, and violence, 1 but it is hardly exemplifi ed in the extant literature. And so, k āvya is viewed as a spiritually impoverished frippery stepsister to tragedy, its serious and sad Western counterpart. Literary critics of kāvya in the past two centuries – largely classically trained readers of Greek and Latin – have persistently remarked on the absence of tragic endings as a stand-out feature, generalizing the overall atmosphere of all kāvya to be that of an optimistic fairy tale: gentle, graceful, fantastic – in a word, unproblematic. Th us, for example, the Sanskritist T. Holme in his introduction to an edition of several early poetic translations including William Jones’s Sakontalá; or, the Fatal Ring (‘the most outstanding feature in the dramatic literature is the entire absence of tragedy’); 2 or a hundred years later in similar vein M. Coulson, arguably one of the most insightful readers of Sanskrit poetry (‘the atmosphere of the Sanskrit drama is of the fairy story’). 3 Interestingly, the analogy is based on a misunderstanding about fairy tales, which are far more emotionally complicated 4 than either scholar chose to acknowledge. Implicitly, tragedy for these scholars was typifi ed by core elements of Greek tragedy (a tragic fl aw, confl ict) and premodern European and English inheritors. When they appraised k āvya , it appeared in stark opposition, and to be distinguished instead by the absence of these traits, especially by fi nal harmony and union. Th is opposition represented a disjunction in aesthetics and views on the purpose of art: while Western tragedy gives expression to existential anxiety, Indian poetry to an implicit trust in a wider order. Th us the learned scholar of kāvya Edwin Gerow: ‘Just as Western tragedy expresses a fear of disintegration, classical Indian drama [and by implication lyric] celebrates the ideal of union’. 5 For the author of the monumental A Glossary of Indian Figures of Speech (1971), confl ict, the trigger to disintegration, did not form the chief concern of Sanskrit drama, unlike in Western tragedy. 6 Gerow viewed what he saw as an absence in Indian drama of moral confl ict in the Greek sense ‘self-induced in terms of a tragic fl aw’ in the hero, to lead to unchanging characters. For him, the characters were without hamartia, the tragic fl aw which is the seed of personal 99778811778888331111111133__ppii--220000..iinndddd 22 2200--OOcctt--2200 1122::3322::4433 Th e Tragic Middle 3 tragedy. As a result, he saw Sanskrit characters more as universal types than as personalities adventitiously formed by changing external forces. Th is leads him to conclude that ‘the exploration of failure in the Indian view is a self-defeating task’, that, therefore, ‘the tragic perspective is an inappropriate way of viewing Sanskrit drama’ and, moreover, that ‘tragedy is fundamentally antithetical to the Indian notion that the ultimate good of the individual is bound up to a wider social good.’ 7 Such views stem from prior assumptions of literary genre, and, moreover, those who strictly adhere to them consider kāvya to be essentially disinterested in complicated human experience. Largely unchallenged, this perspective has in fact led to an all-consuming attitude in modern readership that connoisseurs of the pleasures of Sanskrit poetry and drama avoid totally the grim abyss of sorrow that is the wellspring of serious art; that they rebuff the shrieks and screams of woe turned to rapturous elegies in Western culture, from Greek poetry to opera to the blues. Classical Sanskrit literature, unlike its predecessors, the great Indian epics, which are fi lled with blood, gore and broken hearts, is only the apogee of the happy – and by implication silly – fairytale, where love is triumphant and heroic characters untarnished. No grief is expected to mar the perfections of this world that should ever delight, ever soothe, ever pour the unctuous balm of the erotic on the tired soul, much as in the life story of the Buddha, in which his father had tried to keep away all signs of the painful realities of life from his halcyon youth. And so, it becomes inevitable to ask, if sorrow is thought to constitute the gravest, the most philosophical expression of art (as Wilde held in the D e Profundis ), then would the (apparent) lack of it in kāvya mean that it is barren of matter truly essential for the understanding of the nature of existence? In what follows, I argue against such a conclusion. Th e works of Kālidāsa place singular value on inherent failure and its consequences on psychology, and in the greater part of this book we will map out the progress of consciousness processing tragic occurrence in fi ve of his compositions. How and with what words, actions, intentions and images are the range of tragic experience and the psychology of the anguished represented? How are they, like William James’s mystical states that are characterized by a ‘noetic quality’: ‘states of insight into depths of truth unplumbed by the discursive intellect … [they are] illuminations, revelations, full of signifi cance and importance’ that ‘as a rule … carry with them a curious sense of authority for aft er-time’? 8 What kinds of philosophical consolation are off ered in these representations? In fact can these passages of grieving and in some cases of derangement be read as philosophical confrontations? 99778811778888331111111133__ppii--220000..iinndddd 33 2200--OOcctt--2200 1122::3322::4433 4 Classical Sanskrit Tragedy First, in order to begin to truly appreciate the centrality of the tragic in Sanskrit kāvya through the lens of Kālidāsa’s works, as the noetic, one would need to interrogate the identity of tragedy itself: what constitutes it? If there is almost nothing of Western tragedy in kāvya , then what is an Indian tragedy? Th e closest idea to tragedy from the Indian perspective may seem to be the rasa of grief k aru ṇ arasa a notion described in Indian aesthetics, but it too does not fully overlap with Western tragedy. Western tragedy is understood, by certain authors in terms of its design, necessarily nihilistic, but the rasa of grief is the aff ective experience of tragic design in poetry by the actor and/or by the spectator. In this sense the r asa of grief derives from tragic events in poetry as their psychological aff ect, rather than being strictly cognate with tragedy as a poetic mode; its understanding as aff ect is arguably more subtle and complex than conventional tragedy. We shall come to karu ṇ arasa later in this chapter. For the poet Kālidāsa, tragedy seems to be less about the event or action or poetic mode and more about its psychological perturbation and its alteration of the spirit (which in turn has or may have serious impact on the mode). In the following chapters, we shall fi nd that tragedy for Kālidāsa can have a broad inner spectrum, including frustration, crisis, failure, tension or confl ict, confrontation/recognition, grief and pathos. Th ese events and emotions can be imagined as centred implosions that cast a long and dark shadow over the remainder of the story, threatening to severely thwart narrative development. Th ese experiences may not include death in the physical sense though they may include a painful – for some characters traumatic – absence, estrangement and what is referred to later in this book as ‘alteritas’ (a state of disengagement and otherness produced by shock). Th ese may not terminate the plot, but they may appear prior to the end. In the Indian theory of narrative development, tragedy is registered in the idea of narrative plot behaving as the human heart matures, by having to confront internal failure or jeopardy in order for the fi nal motive to be achieved. My interpretations of these centred implosions in Kālidāsa’s poems attempt to understand and explain the fundamental structure to the process of grief experienced by the characters – because in its minute attentiveness to fi rst person subjectivity, Kālidāsa’s perspective makes it impossible for us not to. I approach ‘tragedy’ as an internal rather than an external/formal phenomenon: as the poetic representation of the various stages of consciousness as it confronts and explains to itself loss or failure. Th is is a phenomenological landscape that Kālidāsa, it seems, understood well. Th ere are certain recurrent patterns to this tragic process for the poet: a disturbance of temporality; an alienation 99778811778888331111111133__ppii--220000..iinndddd 44 2200--OOcctt--2200 1122::3322::4433 Th e Tragic Middle 5 and an impoverishment of the self; an alteration of the person; the persistent interpenetration of the past into the present, leading to the mourner living two lives as it were; a sense of circularity and entrapment; a frenzied urge to commit suicide; a sense of amputation through loss of a familiar past and a familiar body. In Kālidāsa, these subtle modalities of consciousness may be shown in a long monologue by the subject, or in a pause in the fl ow of events when the character may seem to the audience and to others in the narrative to go mad. Th us, in this book I use terms such as grief, melancholy, anguish and sorrow interchangeably with tragedy, for my concern is with the phenomenology of grief. Confl ict and change, elements of tragedy that the legacy of looking have insisted are absent from k āvya , do indeed appear in Kālidāsa: certain characters undergo profound internal confl ict and most in fact change as a consequence of failure in medias res. What makes Kālidāsa’s tragic middles truly tragic is less that a death or absence has occurred and more that such events precipitate a detailed depiction of the subject’s response to that event. In all cases the full kaleidoscopic experience by Kālidāsa’s subjects of a tragic breakage in the middle of things leads to a psychological resolution of some kind, which in turn leads, or may, proleptically, lead (as in the case of the M eghadūta ), to a structural resolution in the end. Th ere are deep resonances of this literary conception of tragedy as an inner process with a purpose in classical Indian religions. Since the body is subject to age, blindness, lameness, being maimed, evils, sorrows and ultimately death, the condition of being human is naturally tragic ( Chāndogyopaniṣ ad VIII, iii–iv; 9 VIII, ix; 10 and VIII, xii 1 1 ) . Th e tragic condition is subject to endless continuity through rebirth. On the other hand, embodied experience makes and tests the soul, provided it is ready to understand and purify itself (ibid., V, x 1 2 ) , preparing it for a state free of the binding eff ects of temporality. Upani ṣ adic thought sees this state to be one in which all dualities, including that between grief and not- grief, dissolve (B ṛ hadāra ṇ yakopaniṣ ad II, iv; 1 3 and IV, iii 1 4 ) . It is a state in which the fundamental self is exempt from evil, age, death, sorrow, and hunger or thirst ( Chāndogyopaniṣ ad VIII, vii 15 ) . As such the condition of sorrow leads to the two highest goals in the gnostic path, greater awareness and thereby freedom from suff ering. It is preparatory and purifi catory for the cessation of embodiment with which it is one and the same – this especially so in Buddhist traditions, in which dukkha (Pāli: suff ering) is one of the three marks of existence. When we permit ourselves to widen our conceptual map of the identity and nature of tragedy, we begin to think of it less as something structural (defi ned by an ending) and more as something experiential – as consciousness encountering and being readied by the world. Th e history of tragic identity shaped by the 99778811778888331111111133__ppii--220000..iinndddd 55 2200--OOcctt--2200 1122::3322::4433 6 Classical Sanskrit Tragedy Western genre has imposed upon us a formal view. Here suff ering is determined by a ‘trope’, the death of the body in outward representation, while inward action, or the content of experience, while richly depicted, is shown to invariably lead to that trope, as a kind of artistic design. Hence European plays that end without the spectacle of death but contain tragic content are called ‘tragicomedies’ not tragedies, even though the inherent crisis might be profound. To put it another way, the European conception of ‘tragedy’ suggests that something is tragic not by virtue of how the character feels, however signifi cant and altering, and how he or she may choose to learn from this feeling but by delimitation of the contextual structure that leaves them with no choice to respond but gives only one negative consequence: destruction. Th e cry of the K rauñca Within the history of poetic utterance in Sanskrit, tragic experience is fi rst given importance as an experience in the author, and, second, this inward experience has a primary creative place in external eventuality. Th e composition of the Rāmāya ṇ a , which Indian tradition regards as the fi rst poem (ā dikāvya ) and whose author, Vālmīki, it regards as the fi rst poet (ā dikavi ), has its origin in sorrow felt by the poet. Moreover, the very fi rst verse of poetry composed by the fi rst poet is not, as one would expect, a pleasantry but a curse – ś āpa . It is said in the fi rst book of the R āmāya ṇ a , the Bālakā ṇ ḍ a , that Vālmīki witnessed the sundering of the lovemaking of two k rauñca birds through the slaughter of the male bird by a hunter, and that he witnessed the consequent pain and mourning of its wife. Grief-stricken and enraged at the cruelty of their idyll irreparably broken, Vālmīki cursed the hunter. Later, refl ecting on the fi nesse and even rhythms of the curse he had spontaneously uttered in passion, he called it ś loka , which is a type of metre in Sanskrit, a verse of a poem and by extension poetry in general. Nearby, that holy man saw an inseparable pair of sweet-voiced k rauñcha birds wandering about. But even as he watched, a Nisháda hunter, fi lled with malice and intent on mischief, struck down the male of the pair. Seeing him struck down and writhing on the ground, his body covered with blood, his mate uttered a piteous cry. And the pious seer, seeing the bird struck down in this fashion by the Nisháda, was fi lled with pity. 99778811778888331111111133__ppii--220000..iinndddd 66 2200--OOcctt--2200 1122::3322::4433 Th e Tragic Middle 7 Th en, in the intensity of this feeling of compassion, the brahman thought, ‘Th is is wrong.’ Hearing the k rauñcha hen wailing, he uttered these words: [I switch now to the Sanskrit original] mā niṣ āda prati ṣ ṭ hā ṃ tvam agamaḥ 16 śāśvatī ḥ samā ḥ | yat krauñcamithunād ekam avadhīḥ kāmamohitam || Rāmāyaṇ a I.2.14 ‘Never, for all time, O Hunter, may you fi nd peace, since you slew one among the pair of k rauñca s while they were entranced in lovemaking!’ [translation in this instance mine 1 7 ] And even as he stood watching and spoke in this way, this thought arose in his heart, ‘Stricken with grief for this bird, what is this I have uttered?’ But upon refl ection, that wise and thoughtful man came to a conclusion. Th en that bull among sages spoke these words to his disciple: ‘Fixed in metrical quarters, each with a like number of syllables, and fi t for the accompaniment of stringed and percussion instruments, the utterance that I produced in this access of shoka , grief, shall be called shloka , poetry, and nothing else.’ But the delighted disciple had memorized that unsurpassed sutterance even as the sage was making it, so that his guru was pleased with him. (R āmāyā ṇ a I.2.9–19, pp. 45–7, Goldman translation) Vālmīki is commissioned by Brahmā to compose the great history of Rāma in this brand new form arisen as a spontaneous overfl ow from his grief: Th en the mighty four-faced lord Brahma himself, the maker of the worlds, came to see the bull among sages. … Once the holy lord was seated in a place of honor, he motioned the great seer Valmíki also to a seat. But even though the grandfather of the worlds himself sat there before him, Valmíki, his mind once more harking back to what had happened, lapsed again into profound thought: ‘Th at wicked man, his mind possessed by malice, did a terrible thing in killing such a sweet-voiced krauñcha bird for no reason.’ Grieving once more for the k rauñcha hen, given over wholly to his grief and lost in his inner thought, he sang the verse again right there before the god. With a smile, Brahma spoke to the bull among sages, ‘Th is is a s hloka that you have composed. You needn’t be perplexed about this. Brahman, it was by my will alone that you produced this elegant speech. Greatest of seers, you must now compose the entire history of Rama … fashioned into shloka s to delight the heart. As long as the mountains and rivers shall endure upon the earth, so long will the story of the Ramáyana be told among men. …’ When the holy lord Brahma had spoken in this fashion, he vanished on the spot, and the sage Valmíki and his disciples were fi lled with wonder. 99778811778888331111111133__ppii--220000..iinndddd 77 2200--OOcctt--2200 1122::3322::4444 8 Classical Sanskrit Tragedy Th en all his disciples chanted that shloka again. Delighted and fi lled with wonder, they said over and over again: ‘Th e s hoka , grief, that the great seer sang out in four metrical quarters, all equal in syllables, has, by virtue of its being repeated aft er him, become s hloka , poetry.’ Th en the contemplative Valmíki conceived this idea: ‘Let me compose an entire poem, called the Ramáyana , in verses such as these.’ And thus did the renowned sage with enormous insight compose this poem that adds to the glory of the glorious Rama, with hundreds of s hloka s equal in syllables, their words noble in sound and meaning, delighting the heart. ( Rāmāyā ṇ a I.2.22–41, pp. 47–51) From the throes of Vālmīki’s sorrow was born the fi rst masterpiece and with it the fi rst verse in the metre that would predominate Sanskrit composition from the religious to the belletristic. Poetic speech and poetic history, according to Indian tradition, were the children of tragedy, and the correlation is further evoked in the phonetic correspondence between ś loka and śoka . 18 Th us the clinching statement of the legend: ś oka ḥ ślokatvam āgata ḥ ( Rāmāyā ṇ a I.2.39d), ‘grief became poetry’. True poetry, primordial poetry, according to the Indians, arises from the tragic. Although much of the B ālakā ṇ ḍ a of the R āmāya ṇ a , in which this episode is to be found, is considered by scholars in the fi eld 19 to be apocryphal, there has emerged speculation in scholarship about its independent provenance. Vaudeville argued that this episode is ‘an ancient tale or popular belief concerning the origin of lyrical poetry’, 20 far older than the epic. Originally centring on two waterbirds symbolically representing a nobleman and his lady, the tale was about the female bird’s curse upon the death of her mate by a hunter, which was representative of the fi rst lyric. Th is symbolic ur-tale was modifi ed so that Vālmīki was included as an observer and as the utterer of the curse, and then added to the B ālakā ṇ ḍ a to explain the composition of the Rāmāya ṇ a , fi ttingly so, given the status of the latter as the fi rst poem. Th e idea that ‘grief became poetry’ and its association with a legend about the killing of the krauñca , whose mate served as a metaphor for bereaved women and who was associated with mournful music, could have far deeper roots in the conception of Indic poetry, anteceding the Rāmāya ṇ a . 21 Th ough possibly apocryphal, by the fourth century the death scene had come to be seen by composers of classical Sanskrit literature as integral to the Rāmāya ṇ a . Th e episode of the krauñca ’s death was revisited by three luminaries of k āvya between the fourth and the twelft h centuries ce : Kālidāsa in Raghuva ṃ śa 14.70, Bhavabhūti in Uttararāmacarita II.5 and Kṣ emendra in R āmāya ṇ amañjarī 99778811778888331111111133__ppii--220000..iinndddd 88 2200--OOcctt--2200 1122::3322::4444 Th e Tragic Middle 9 I.19. 2 2 For each of these authors, the imagery of the birth of poetry is invested with diff erent quasi-mystical and mystical associations. What they are equally interested in is how Vālmīki’s inward response to tragic occurrence generates an outward, creative eff ect. For Kālidāsa, the female krauñca ’s cries are evoked in Sītā’s lamentation in the woods, aft er Rāma had banished her: when Vālmīki, gathering grass and fi rewood nearby, hears her wails, he responds with pity. 23 Kālidāsa introduces him, using the Rāmāyana’s words, as ‘he whose grief had become poetry’ (ś lokatvam āpadyata yasya śokaḥ , R āmāya ṇ a 1.2.39d) which, he adds, had ‘arisen from the vision of the bird pierced by the hunter’ ( ni ṣ ādaviddhā ṇ ḍ ajadarśanottha ḥ ): an allusion to the R āmāya ṇ a , the latter compound qualifying ‘grief’ reminds of what is quintessential about Vālmīki for Kālidāsa, that the birth of poetry is the outcome of his inner anguish. Th is reminder is evoked at the moment most symbolic to Kālidāsa of the bereavement of the female krauñca bird – the abandonment by Rāma of Sītā. A parallel between the female k rauñca and Sītā (and implicitly also the diff erence between Rāma and Vālmīki) is illuminated. For Bhavabhūti ( c. eighth century ce ) too, tragedy is a process resulting in a creative eff ect, the curse, the fi rst poem, and it is the exalted quality of this eff ect that is of interest to him. Th e moment of the curse becomes a philosophical epiphany: the manifestation in the poet of śabdabrahman , ultimate reality in the form of the sacred word. 24 K ṣ emendra (fl . c . eleventh century ce ) revises the episode the most faithfully to the ur-text of the R āmāya ṇ a . However, he interprets the moment as the source of one of the key philosophical concepts regarding tragedy, karu ṇ arasa , the aesthetic experience – or distillation – of grief. He too repeats the ādiśloka , the fi rst verse of poetry (though amending m ā … agamaḥ , which must have seemed to him problematic, to mālabdhā ḥ ). 25 As it was for Bhavabhūti, for him too the fi rst verse is a mystical revelation of something otherworldly: the luminous fl ash of the goddess of speech Sarasvatī in her conduit, the poet. 2 6 In the tradition of the Rāmāyaṇa , all three poets interpret tragedy to involve a physical loss, a phase of inward emotional response to the loss leading to inner, spiritual change, and the external outcome of that change, which could even be ultimate reality or the goddess Sarasvatī. But how does that change occur? Long before K ṣ emendra, the psychological- aesthetic process underlying how ‘grief became poetry’ had become a rich topic of discussion among Ānandavardhana and Abhinavagupta, Kashmiri literary critics from the ninth and tenth centuries. 2 7 Intensely preoccupied in particular with the culminating statement of the krauñca death scene, ś oka ḥ ślokatvam 99778811778888331111111133__ppii--220000..iinndddd 99 2200--OOcctt--2200 1122::3322::4444