The Sound of the Kiss

by Pingali Suranna

  At that moment he saw me—Surana, the grandson of the famous poet Pingali Surana and, on the maternal side, of Annama; son of Amara and Ambama, brother to Amarana and Erranarya. He knew I was a poet capable of producing complex compositions, so he called me over, heaped gifts of fine clothes and ornaments upon me, and spoke to me in a sweet, respectful tone: “I have in my heart the wish to have you compose a book for me, one that is inventive enough that it won’t bore me. You have the power of using words to make beauty come alive. Do this for me, and men of taste will celebrate you. I have heard that you have written many books, including the Garuḍa-Saṃhitā. There is no need for me to praise them. But your Rāghava-pāṇḍavīyamu, which tells two stories in the same words, is incomparable; no one else could have produced such a book in Telugu.”

  That is how he commissioned me, and I accepted, without giving a second thought to my competence, trusting in the strength of his wish. I began work on the book, to the best of my ability. I wanted it to have the structure of a complex narrative no one had ever known, with rich evocations of erotic love, and also descriptions of gods and temples that would be a joy to listen to. I called it Kaḷāpūrṇodayamu.

  Would you like to know something of the family history of Nandyala Krishna, the master of this book?5 First came the Moon, the original king who rules over the entire world, husband of all the stars, born from the eye of the ancient sage Atri. In his line, Bukka of the Aravidu dynasty was born. His fame spread to the ends of the cosmos and touched the Cakravala mountains at the edge. Poets say he was as sharp in mind as the Creator, as handsome as the god of love, as astute in politics as Brhaspati, the gods’ own minister, and as generous as Karna, the epic hero. We tolerate such similes only because poets can do whatever they like;6 in fact, however, Bukka was beyond compare.

  King Naraya Narasimha7 was in the direct line of descent from Bukka—a man who gave away so much wealth that he made the Wishing Tree, the all-giving cow, and the wish-fulfilling gem look small. He put to shame the most handsome males in the universe—Nalakubara8 and Manmatha, the god of love. He could fight better than the Mahābhārata warriors; he bore the entire burden of the earth, so that the Snake, the Boar, and the great mountains, Earth’s usual supports, could have some rest. He married two women, Senior Kondamamba and Junior Kondamamba. The elder wife had two sons, Murtiraju and Timmaraju; the younger Kondamamba gave birth to Krishnamaraju, our hero, splendid as the sun, a new Bhoja in patronizing the arts,9 wholeheartedly devoted to god Vishnu, guardian of the Vedic ways. He is a true connoisseur of literature and music, a man of impeccable taste. His gifts are never small. A judicious king, he has never been false, not even in a dream. Not even the Snake Adishesa, with his thousand tongues, could exhaust his praises.

  It is for him—whose great passion is for poetry, and who is blessed by his guru, Srinivasa, the son of Sudarsanacarya in the line of Tirumala Tatacharya—that I am writing this book, wishing him an endless chain of good fortune, long life, and perfect health. Would you like to know how the story begins? Just listen.

  1. Ardhanārīśvara-Śiva is divided down the middle into a female half, on the left, and a male half, on the right.

  2. Author of the Rāmāyaṇa.

  3. Author of the Mahābhārata.

  4. The three poets of the Telugu Mahābhārata.

  5. The master of a book—kṛtik’ adhīśvaruṇḍu—is, first, the patron who sponsors the work and its first and chief listener, the internal audience of the work. On another level, the poem or book is always seen as a virgin married to its master (kṛti-nāyaka).

  6. Niraṅkuśāḥ kavayaḥ, a Sanskrit saying.

  7. We omit the detailed genealogy of verses 22–69, which take the Aravidu line from its founder Bukka down to the father of Nandyala Krishna. For a discussion of Aravidu family history, see Daniel D’Attilio, “The Last Vijayanagara Kings: Overlordship and Underlordship in South India, 1550–1650,” M.A. dissertation, University of Wisconsin, 1995.

  8. Son of Kubera, god of wealth.

  9. Bhoja, by (anachronistic) literary legend, was the patron of the great Sanskrit poets Kalidasa, Dandin, and Bhavabhuti.

  CHaPTer 1

  [ Dvaraka City, Where the Story Begins ]

  Treasure trove of fortune

  where knowledge grows to fullness,

  where Krishna plays at pleasure,

  Dvaraka, the city that has everything,

  sits like a fully grown daughter

  on the lap of the Ocean, caressed

  by his waves. When a father touches

  his daughter, no matter how old she may be, no one takes it amiss.

  Rays of light reflected from the golden palaces

  reached into the sky like hands pulling at the great

  city of the gods, and the vast bustle in the streets

  was a challenge hurled at this heavenly rival

  to come down and acknowledge

  that brilliant Dvaraka was best.

  In a riot of color, the walls of its fortresses were smeared with dark musk;

  its gardens were always in full bloom; gleaming doves nested

  on the cornices of tall palaces fashioned from sapphire and gold,

  their porches raised from emerald bordered by red coral.

  Students joke about their teachers, who don’t practise

  what they preach. For example, they tell you never to make love

  at sunset. But every day at this hour, when the sun burns

  on the waves, you can see the goddess of the city

  reflected in the water, her arms wound tight

  around the god who lies upon the ocean1

  and who won’t let her go.

  Here there were Brahmins, gods on earth, who had taken in

  all four Vedas and reached the end of all six schools of thought,

  who lightly walked the paths of rituals for home and the world

  as they focused on the first light

  that is God, that only the inner eye can see.

  And there were soldiers, expert in all the arts of war,

  whose highest pleasure was the feeling that the goddess of victory

  was scratching their breasts with her fingernails every time

  they were hit by an enemy weapon. They were famed

  for their generosity, more lavish than wishing trees; deep and proud,

  they were masters of the land.

  Merchants in this city put Kubera, the gods’ banker,

  to shame. Besides all the wealth that their fathers

  had set aside, they earned vast riches

  on their own account and saved it all

  in secret caches underground, marked by

  a cobra’s hood above.

  Sudras lived happily in their homes

  with every form of wealth

  and served the Brahmins, as the books prescribe.

  They were all honest people.

  Women of pleasure happily plundered their customers.

  You could hold their waist between your fingers, but their breasts

  and buttocks were heavy and full, their hair long and voluptuous.

  Eyes radiant, they walked with an elephant’s measured grace,

  their faces beckoning with a smile.

  Men walking in the street by the courtesans’ tall palaces

  would stop to listen, thrilled, for the doves nesting in the eaves

  had learned to imitate the soft moans of the women making love

  with customers who came to them each night

  from heaven.

  Why say more? Krishna himself lived here with his 16,108 wives,

  all madly in love with him. Imagine how happy he must have been.

  Did he have anything as good in heaven?

  [ Kalabhashini on the Swing and Rambha in the Sky ]

  In that city lived a girl, in the full bloom of youthful grace. Her father was a famous actor. Her name was Kalabhashini, which means “sweet spoken,” but tha
t doesn’t quite express just how charming and subtle were her words. She was totally irresistible. With her refined musical talent, her gift for dancing, and her consummate skill in making love in inventive ways, she quickly began to steal both the hearts and the hard cash of her young lovers.

  One day this splendid woman went out with her girlfriends and servants to play in a garden at the edge of the city. She was wearing her finest, and it was springtime, a riot of blossoming flowers. The girls were bantering and teasing one another as they reached the garden that was exploding into lush color. At first they busied themselves picking flowers. “Look at that young ponna tree,” said one, when her girlfriend’s sari was caught by a branch. “That’s how a lover should be—direct, hands on.”

  “The breeze has broken apart the branches of the kuravaka tree, and now it looks like a lover spreading his arms to embrace you. He’s really trying hard. It’s not fair to turn away.”

  “That mango tree is like a man who won’t give up,” said another. “He’s pulling at your sari with his branches. And what you think are bees hovering around are actually his dark eyes, staring at your breasts. What are you waiting for? You can say yes to him by accepting the fruit and flowers he’s offering.”

  The sweet fragrance of their breath mixed with the fresh fragrance of the flowers hanging from their hair, already coming loose. They walked languorously, a little tired, and the heaviness of their breasts and buttocks slowed them down still more. Their belts, tied just below the soft folds of their waists, glistened with beads of sweat in the sunlight. Bracelets and anklets jingled in harmony as they walked, adjusting the saris that were slipping from their shoulders. They were giggling and aroused. When they had finished with the flowers, they moved on to play on the swings.

  At that time a gandharva named Manikandhara, who had devoted himself to Narada out of his love for music, came walking through the sky along with this great sage, on his way to serve Krishna in Dvaraka. Amazed by the exuberant freedom of the women, Manikandhara said to Narada:

  “Look at these startling young women.

  Their legs stretch straight up to the sky.

  They’re so sure of their looks, they’re making bets

  to see who can swing highest.

  It looks like they’re itching to fight2

  the famous beauties of heaven.”

  Narada answered:

  “Yes. You speak like a true poet. I’ve never seen

  such beauty. Your thoughtful description

  is just right. Pumping and stretching their legs

  on the swing, they might just kick the heads

  of women in the sky.

  “As he was speaking, Rambha heard him clearly as she was passing through the clouds with her handsome lover, Nalakubara, in a flying chariot. She listened; she began to burn a bit inside; her mood changed. She knew it was Narada, but she didn’t want to show her feelings. So, as if unperturbed, she turned to her lover and said, “Did you hear that? Judging by his words, he must be Narada, the sage who lives on quarrels. I’d like to greet him properly before we pass.”

  Narada looked in the direction of this voice. “Seems somebody’s coming,” he said. At that moment their vehicle emerged out of the clouds, like the morning sun rising over the eastern mountain. Rambha and Nalakubara navigated their chariot right under the sage’s feet. Very gently, they touched their heads, redolent of parijata blossoms, to his feet. They stood still for a little while. He blessed them: “Love one another, with a love that never goes away.”

  Rambha smiled. “Thanks for your blessing. Maybe now his love will last. But don’t you think he might just fall for the wiles of these, um, human women?” She couldn’t help showing she was miffed.

  Narada didn’t quite fathom her sarcasm. “What do you mean?” he asked, standing there in the air.

  “If you would step into our vehicle, we can talk as we go,” she said. “You needn’t interrupt your journey. How often do we get the chance to attend upon such great people?”

  They brought both Narada and his disciple into the chariot. Standing on either side, Rambha and Nalakubara gently fanned them. Then she said, “What was it you said a moment ago to your disciple about those women on the swings? Would you please say it again?”

  So Narada gave a little smile and said,

  “Yes. You speak like a true poet. I’ve never seen

  such beauty. Your thoughtful description

  is just right. Pumping and stretching their legs

  on the swing, they might just kick the heads

  of women in the sky.

  “That’s what I said. Anything wrong with that? Don’t hide whatever is weighing on your mind.”

  She answered, “You’re a great man, worshiped in all three worlds. You can say whatever you like. Who can say no to you? I asked, wondering what you knew when you said what you said. Poets imagine things, and they are allowed a certain leeway in hyperbole. That’s probably why you said it. After all, no other woman in the universe is my equal, and I have proof right here—because the most handsome man in the world, who happens to be the beloved son of the richest man in the world, is in love with me.”

  He smiled again. “You can say what you like when your lover is so full of love for you. Just don’t think that all days will be like this. You might have a rival someday. Can you read the future? You might meet a woman just like yourself, and he could encounter a man like him. It could be very disturbing. I wouldn’t bet too heavily on what you have.”

  “You may be joking, but those words might just come true. I can’t stand to hear them. Stop. Be kind to me.” She bowed to him.

  At Narada’s request, they set him down in the garden where Kalabhashini was playing. Respectfully, they took their leave. Bowing to the palace of Krishna directly in front of them, they set off to wherever they pleased. But as it happened, Kalabhashini had overheard something of their conversation, since they were so near. She saw the chariot flying close by, brilliantly illuminating all space. Amazed, she caught sight of Nalakubara standing in it and was overcome by his perfect beauty; she couldn’t stop staring at him. Hidden by the bushes and branches, she followed after them for a ways, still straining to hear, until the vehicle was out of sight. Then she turned back, wondering who that lucky woman was who had somehow managed to attract a man of such striking looks. “That’s how I would like to be,” she thought. “I heard her say that her lover is the beloved son of the richest man in the world. They say that Kubera’s son has a spellbinding woman called Rambha as his mistress. So that must be her. To make sure, I should ask this great sage, who must be Narada; from time to time he comes to see Krishna.”

  Alone, she approached the sage. Certain that he was, indeed, Narada, she bowed to him and asked, “Weren’t those two people in the flying vehicle Rambha and Nalakubara?”

  “Indeed they were,” he said. “How did you guess?”

  “I overheard as you were talking, and that’s how it seemed.”

  “So you heard what we said in the sky?”

  “I heard. That woman was bragging that because of her great beauty, she had her lover eating out of her hand. I could see by what you said that you weren’t too pleased.”

  “Nobody likes words spoken out of blind arrogance. It’s not right to be so proud of what you are. I sense some real rivalry about to happen. And we don’t have to scour the earth to find this rival. With a little luck, it could be you.”

  “Luck like that might come to a woman of remarkable power and beauty—never to people like me, however hard I try.”

  “That’s what you say. But in truth you are no less lovely than Rambha or any woman of her class. In fact, you’re even better. But let that be. Haven’t I seen you somewhere before? Do you ever come to Krishna’s court?”

  “I go there often, and I’ve seen you there.”

  “Yes, now I remember. Aren’t you the girl who heard my disciple, Manikandhara, praise Krishna in a long poem, a daṇḍaka,3 and who th
en recited it back after that single hearing? Your name is Kalabhashini, isn’t it? You have a great talent. It was amazing! Do you still remember it? Can you recite it?”

  “Of course I can,” said Kalabhashini, and began to sing in sweet, sonorous tones:

  “Your beauty beloved of the goddess,

  compassion flowing into form,

  mirror filled with many colors and rays of red,

  brilliant as spring buds,

  uniquely praised through the world—

  all this and more

  is you. Not even the great gods Siva and Brahma

  can know you to the end. We, unmindful

  of our limits, still hope to know you, so we make poems

  about you, showing off our futile skills.

  Forgive our faults. We can’t comprehend

  how you can be both in and beyond language.

  Masters of the Veda spend whole lives

  trying to reach you through harsh discipline,

  renouncing their desire, but we found your compassion

  without any effort on our part. Is it not strange?

  When every hair on your body holds a billion

  solar systems, how foolish it seems to talk about

  the avatars you have taken—how you lifted the Mountain4

  as Krishna, how you raised up the earth as the Boar,

  how you balanced Mount Mandara on your back as a Tortoise,

  how you covered the cosmos in three steps.5

  That’s why some people say that all rituals, all forms

  of knowledge, all kinds of Yoga, all silences and gifts