The Sound of the Kiss

by Pingali Suranna

  are not worth a billionth of the joy one gets

  by touching the feet of your servants’ servants.

  We cannot elude the net you cast

  except by saying your name, over and over,

  Lover of Lakshmi, God of Gods.

  Namas te, namas te, namas te.

  “And isn’t that necklace your disciple is wearing the one Krishna gave him in return for this daṇḍaka poem? Besides,

  “Putting words together like strings of pearls in a necklace,

  knowing the meaning—whether literal, figurative, or suggestive—

  and precisely how it should be used,

  weaving textures to evoke the inner movement,

  implanting life through syllable and style,

  structuring the poem with figures of sound and sense:

  this is what a good poet does.

  Then he gets everything he wants.

  “If cool moonlight could have fragrance,

  and crystals of camphor, which are cool and fragrant,

  could have tenderness, and the southern breeze

  which is fragrant, cool, and tender could have sweetness—

  then you could compare them all

  to this poet’s living words.

  “Just being in the presence of people like you is enough to fulfill all desires. For so long I have been wanting to carry this vina of yours, and to be with you. Many times in the past, I watched you go into the women’s quarters of Krishna’s palace, after leaving Manikandhara at the door; you always carried your own vina. I used to think I could carry it for you, but I hesitated to ask, since I didn’t know your mind. Could you possibly allow me this service?”

  She folded her hands as she begged him, and he said, “As you wish.”

  Kalabhashini was pleased, for now she could reach the end she desired. She was pondering the last sentence she had overheard from the conversation of Rambha and Nalakubara. Still, she was hesitating out of politeness, until opportunity opened up—Manikandhara went aside when he felt she needed to speak privately—and she could ask the sage: “While you were standing here on the ground, that couple, probably out of respect for you, did not take off too quickly into the sky; they kept their vehicle flying at ground level for a little ways. Out of sheer fancy, I followed along after it and heard a snatch of conversation. Let me repeat it for you. Nalakubara was saying, ‘Before Narada’s words interrupted us, we were talking about Kalapurna. What happened next?’ Rambha replied, ‘Didn’t I tell you already that I can’t tell more of that story, even though I know you’re dying to hear it?’ Now I’m curious. Who is that Kalapurna? What part of his story did she tell? And what’s the part she couldn’t tell?”

  Narada was amazed. “All this is utterly strange. Let me find out what’s going on.” For a moment he sat in stillness, scanning the universe with his mind, studying all past, future, and present events. When he had found what he was looking for, he turned to Kalabhashini. “That story that Rambha could not tell her lover is a very unusual one. I cannot tell it either.”

  “If that is so, then leave that part out. Just tell me what led to her mentioning the story.”

  Narada spoke. “Rambha and this man are totally engrossed in making love to one another. Every laugh, every look, every word or movement inflames their desire. There is a certain kind of love like that in this world. Today, just before they saw me, Rambha noticed the bright rim edging a mass of clouds as the new sun was about to emerge from behind; she compared this line to Sarasvati, goddess of language, in the presence of Brahma, the Creator. Nalakubara was so aroused by this that he hungrily bit her lips. As he did so, a marvellous and delicate mode of speech6 moved in her throat and, shattering, emerged as a sound never heard before. It provoked such delight in Nalakubara, and such intense wonder, that he cried, ‘Again! Do it again! Just one more time. This is utterly new.’ But as he begged her, she said, ‘I cannot repeat it, my love.’ He said, ‘I won’t let you go until you do.’ And they went on bantering like this for a while. Finally, in order to please him, she gave him another slight taste of it.

  “‘I’ve never heard anything like this,’ he said. ‘How did you learn to do it?’ He was pressing her, and she said, ‘It’s not from today. I knew it long ago. But for a particular reason I could not let it be known. Then today I forgot when I saw that white cloud coupled with the young sun, and though I held it in my heart, your stupid kiss excited me, and I let it out.’

  “‘But why have you hidden this so long?’

  “‘Because I was afraid that once this came out, it would lead to the stories of Kalapurna.’

  “‘Proud, aren’t you? So what if the stories come out?’

  “‘Just listen. Whoever tells those stories or hears them will have to have children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren and live with vast wealth and happiness on earth for a very long time. That’s the condition, from the beginning. If I tell you the story, I’ll have to be born on earth. That, my love, is why I was afraid. Do you think I want those things, when I have the joy of touching your body? And if you say to me that I’ve already heard the story anyway, let me tell you that this condition was attached by a certain person, whose words never fail to come true, after I had heard it. That’s why I can’t tell it, and you can’t hear it.’

  “That’s what she said,” Narada finished. “And since I have the exact same fear that Rambha has, I can’t tell you the story, either. Still, this story will be known to the world. There are ways it can happen. Just let it be. After Rambha and Nalakubara had had this conversation, their vehicle came close to me, and we talked about you and your swinging.” Then he called Manikandhara, who had gone away to admire the beauties of that garden. “It’s time to go to Krishna. He’s holding court.” And they set off. Kalabhashini left for home with her friends. She dressed and headed for the palace.

  There’s more to come, King of Nandyala. Your eloquence is equal to the thousand tongues of Adisesha, the snake who serves as Vishnu’s bed. You speak the truth, like Hariscandra. Great scholars debate in your court. With a blink of your eyes, you conquer all your inner enemies.

  This is the first chapter in the long poem called Kalapurnodayamu made by soft-spoken Suraya, son of Pingali Amaranarya, whose poetry all connoisseurs enjoy throughout the world.

  1. Vishnu sleeps upon the ocean, with his serpent Adisesha for his bed; the goddess of the city is compared to his wife, Lakshmi (pura-lakshmi).

  2. kāl sācu, literally “to stretch the foot” = to spoil for a fight. The literal and the idiomatic coincide.

  3. A genre of unlimited length made up of repeated feet of one long and two short syllables; usually used in prayer.

  4. Govardhana.

  5. Vishnu came as a Dwarf to ask Bali, king of the demons, for as much ground as he could cover in three steps. When Bali agreed, the god grew into his immense form: with one step, he reached the end of the earth; with the second, the end of the sky. For his third step, he placed his foot on Bali’s head and crushed him into the Nether World.

  6. vāg-vṛtti.

  CHaPTer 2

  Listen, Nandyala Krishna, son of Narasimha: Your victories are written by the hoofprints of your horses on the great mountains of Malaya in the south and Himalaya in the north. Now for the rest of the story . . .

  [ Narada Studies Music ]

  “My heart is a little lighter,” thought Narada after concluding his conversation with Kalabhashini. “I have sowed the seed of conflict between Rambha, who is so puffed up with her sense of youth and beauty, and a future rival. It’s a beginning. In fact, it’s as good as certain. This young woman will do it—and listening to her words, I can sense that she is jealous. It was a bit of a detour for me, but never mind. It was necessary to achieve my goal. I can’t get through a minute without making someone or other quarrel.”

  Lost in these thoughts, Narada and his disciple, Manikandhara, entered the city of Dvaraka. As they were moving through the streets, people ar
ound them began to wonder.

  “Today he landed on earth at some distance from the palace, and now he’s walking there. I wonder why.”

  “Maybe he’s hunting for some pretext to create a quarrel.”

  “Or else it’s his way of blessing people by sprinkling them with dust off his feet, carried by the wind.”

  “This land is lucky. The time is ripe and will bear fruit.”

  People who knew him stood on either side, their hands folded in salutation. Those closer to him stretched out on the street before him to show him honor. The road was packed with important people who were being carried in palankeens or sedans or riding horses or elephants, but who immediately got down, in all humility, a bit flustered, to pay their respects.

  Narada looked at some of them out of the corners

  of his eyes, but others he looked straight

  in the face. He smiled at some,

  said hello to others, held out his hand

  to help others up; sometimes he linked his arm

  to theirs. He received each one

  like someone special.

  They proceeded into the city via the moat where the raucous cries of waterbirds fused with the moaning and splashing of the waves, sputtering with white foam, as if to mock the very ocean just beyond. Through the spray cast up by the breakers, you could see rainbow-like flashes snaking through the sky.

  Before them stood the tall, gilded palace of Krishna, its emerald walls crowned by carved cornices inlaid with precious gems so luminous that the edges of space itself seemed to quiver with brilliant flowers, while the sky, reflecting the white gleam of the walls and the polished pearls on the spires, looked like a parasol held aloft on a golden rod to shelter the goddess of that city.

  Immense red-and-black beads and rubies covered the walls like vines enlivened with leaves of emerald and sapphire and with flowers skillfully crafted from flawless pearls, with sapphire-blue bees hovering over them: Krishna’s palace, with its golden cupolas, towered high enough to prop up the wishing trees in heaven and to ensure their fruitfulness. Narada looked at it and said to Manikandhara, “I see it all the time, but every time it’s like the first time. It’s like seeing into Vishnu’s city in the sky. And the brilliance of the audience hall, in particular, floods my heart with joy. This is Dvaraka—the best place in the world.”

  As they drew near, the women at the gate saw Narada and rushed to inform Krishna. He was lying on a swinging cot made of ivory, with golden chains, finely chiseled coral legs, and newly fashioned knobs. It was inlaid with geese and parrots made from gems; golden flowers were painted all over it, along with various other designs. The frame was woven from fine, crisscrossing ribbons of silk; several little pillows of different shapes rested on the mattress colored in a red saffron-flower motif. When Krishna heard what the women told him, he jumped up: “What? The Creator’s own son has arrived! Really? He walked through the main entrance? He always comes flying right into this chamber. This is something new. I wonder why.”

  And he walked quickly to the main entrance without straightening his hair, which had been slightly disturbed by the swinging. He was still holding the betel leaf that the betel-lady had folded and handed him. He had hastily put on his gem-studded slippers, but they kept falling off his feet. The women from the queen’s palace who were fanning him followed him for a short distance before turning back. He forgot to release the woman who had hooked her arm through his as soon as he got up, so she walked along with him. Everyone who saw him withdrew a little ways, leaving room.

  He received the sage with a bow. Taking his hand in affection, Krishna led him to a hall near the women’s quarters, where the women were waiting, as instructed. There the Lord of the World honored this sage with great attention, as if he had arrived for the first time that day. When worthy people visit again and again, good minds become ever more attuned.

  There were, as usual, many waiting outside for an audience with Krishna; they sent word. Krishna, however, hesitated to say to them, “I’ll be with you as soon as I send off this guest of mine,” so he paid no heed to the messages and kept on talking with the sage. Narada observed this and said, “If you make such a fuss over me and suspend all your business for my sake, the best thing you can do is to send me away right now. If, however, you treat me as one of your people, please ask the others in.”

  Friends, relatives, generals, scholars, poets, advisers, leading citizens of the town—Krishna graciously invited all of them to enter. As they came in, each was announced by the ushers, holding staffs, in a clear, loud voice. The god quickly concluded the day’s business, left the court, and took the sage with him into his inner quarters. As usual, Narada asked his disciple, Manikandhara, to remain outside, as he reached for his own vina.

  But Kalabhashini stepped forward to carry the vina for him. Krishna observed this and said, “What’s this? Do you want to become his disciple?”

  “No, nothing like that” she said, humbly, withdrawing slightly.

  “Don’t be afraid, young lady. It’s a very good idea. Such great people only rarely consent to be served. I don’t have to elaborate. You’ll do well. Serve this worthy man always. Every time I’ve seen you, I’ve noticed your intelligence, your skill at singing, your sweet, melodious voice. I used to say to myself, ‘This woman would reach the heights if she only had the chance of being trained by Narada.’”

  With these words, Krishna took her together with the sage to his wife Jambavati’s house. “I’ve brought you a student. Take her and train her,” he said with a smile.

  “Is this the Kalabhashini you told me about?” she asked pleasantly while giving a proper welcome to Narada.

  “This sage has been coming here for years to train with you. What have you taught him? Of course he was already a master of music, but because he was jealous of Tumburu, he was determined to acquire what we know of this discipline. Nobody else has ever learned it. That’s why I brought him to you—so you would teach him all you know. That’s why I placed him in your care.”

  Jambavati said, “I always do what you tell me. But now it’s time for you to tell me if I’m on the right track. Listen for a little.” Playing the vina, she began to sing in tones clear and sustained as filaments of gold pulled through a goldsmith’s plate1 and as sweet as a fine rain of honey straight from flowers. She knew the precise gradations of tones and semitones, the niceties of the ragas (and which notes or phrases should be avoided), the pure forms of various rhythms; she distinguished the scales from one another with absolute clarity and showed mastery of the three pitches. When she sang the text, words and melody were perfectly blended. The love came through—she was singing about him, and Krishna listened, losing himself in the music.

  “It’s perfect. Keep teaching him.” And he left. For a full year after that, she skillfully went on training Narada. Following this, Satyabhama and Rukmini each taught him for one year. Then Krishna himself brought him to perfection in the course of another year.

  Meanwhile, Manikandhara, who was asked to remain outside the gate and thus did not have the benefit of being taught by Krishna’s wives, as Kalabhashini did, managed to learn all the secret arts of music through a certain special kindness of the gods’ and became no less proficient than Narada and Kalabhashini.

  Finally, the moment came when Krishna said to the three of them: “There’s no one who excels you in music any more.” And afterward, whenever Narada entered the inner chamber, the women remembered these events and said to the sage, “There’s no one comparable to you when it comes to music.”

  One day later, Narada, along with Manikandhara and Kalabhashini, took leave of Krishna and went to roam the world. As they were going, conversation turned to the topic of how the women in Krishna’s palace had admired Narada’s powerful mastery of music. Narada said, “It’s true. All three women—Jambavati, Satyabhama, and Rukmini—have said many times that my skill in music was of a novel order, and that no one else could approach me. But I couldn’t
tell if they really meant it or were just saying it to please me. Polite people are anxious to make others happy one way or another; you can’t take their compliments at face value. Only what they say to their own friends in private is true. Until there’s a chance to find that out, doubt will lurk in my heart.”

  Kalabhashini said, “I can find that out. I know them. I went there with you many times. They know me. I can listen to what they say in private to one another. But then, since they know I’m in your circle, they may hesitate to criticize you in my presence when the talk turns to your music. If only I could take the shape of whatever woman I wanted to, I could assume the form of one of those women’s friends and go there at the right moment in order to find out what they’re really thinking.”

  Narada thought to himself, “Some excuse! What she really wants is to become Rambha and make love to Nalakubara. But this fits my plan, too.” So he looked at her and said, “Fine. I give you that capability. Take the form of whatever woman you want and go find out what Krishna’s wives are really thinking.” And he went away.

  Kalabhashini went to see Krishna’s wives in the form of one of their maids, making sure, of course, that this maid was not present. She brought the conversation round to Narada’s competence in music and, by listening to them, satisfied herself that they sincerely believed him to be incomparable. She then went back to the sage and made him very happy by her report. He looked at her: “You’ve also cunningly acquired all those skills that I have, and from the same teachers—Jambavati, Satyabhama, Rukmini, and Krishna. You’re lucky. Now you will happily make love to the man you wanted, a man so beautiful that he could win Rambha’s heart. Trust me. Go home.”

  After sending her off, Narada went on chatting with Manikandhara for a while and then went his way. Manikandhara, at Narada’s instruction, set off on pilgrimage. Meanwhile, Kalabhashini, pleased with what she had got out of Narada, went home. Since there was no longer any occasion for her to go to the palace, now that the music lessons had ended, she had plenty of time to daydream about Nalakubara. She couldn’t think of any way to approach him.