The Sound of the Kiss

by Pingali Suranna

  Kalabhashini bowed over and over, her hands folded on her head.

  “My ears have been rendered pure by your story of ultimate faithfulness to a husband. Even the most wayward of women will attain that virtue, if you bless her. Please bless me.”

  Sumukhasatti said, “You will be the most faithful of wives. Live happily with your husband in a wealthy kingdom, and take care of people like us.14 I hardly need to tell you not to be afraid, to stay calm, and so on—you look like a bride going to her wedding. You’re all aglow and full of joy. You’re more a goddess than an ordinary woman.”

  Kalabhashini took leave of Sumukhasatti and looked at the Siddha. “You’ve already said goodbye. Now give me the sword.” She took the sword from him and handed it to Manikandhara. Then she decorated herself with garlands of flowers and sandalpaste, as is fit for such an occasion. She sat in the lotus posture, facing the goddess. Her face was bright, her heart strong.

  She was ready. To Manikandhara she said, “Have no qualms. Don’t be afraid. Sacrifice me to the goddess. Swing the sword without doubt. Let me see if that right hand of yours, that knows how to behead aggressive foes, is still as strong as it used to be. It is in your nature to slay enemies that dare to oppose you in battle. You need no less courage now. Don’t be confused.”

  Amazed at her lucidity, he took a moment to steady his mind and then somehow did as she asked.

  The Lion-Rider Goddess spoke. “Manikandhara! You delayed a fraction of a second out of compassion. Therefore, you’ll enjoy the kingdom you’ve won only in your next birth. Then you’ll be born as a fully-grown man. As for Kalabhashini, since she was totally focused on pleasing me and showed absolutely no fear of death, by my order she will have her head reattached and will go home to her friends and relatives.”

  At that very moment, Kalabhashini opened her eyes. She looked around her and saw that she was in Dvaraka, in the courtesans’ quarter, in the garden of her own house. She knew this was the blessing of the goddess. She praised her and entertained her friends with the story of how she had left and come back and all that happened in between.

  [ Manistambha Tours the World with His Wife ]

  Manikandhara and the others were surprised that the pieces of Kalabhashini’s body had completely disappeared. They praised the power of the Lion-Rider’s words. Manikandhara bowed to the goddess many times and took leave of Sumukhasatti and Manistambha. Anticipating his early death because of the curse, he handed over his jeweled necklace to Alaghuvrata, who was performing his chants and prayers, and hid his vina in a secret alcove in the temple, where no one could find it. Driven by Nalakubara’s curse, he went to Srisailam, where he intended to throw himself off the mountain.

  Manistambha went into the temple and gave himself over to Yogic exercises, controlling his senses, with Sumukhasatti nearby to serve him. With his permission, she also continued her own practices, as before. Finding no space in their busy schedule, Desire went away.

  Still, Manistambha had an inner urge to see new things around the world. He summoned his lion and, mounting it with his wife, took off into the sky. From high up he looked down at the ocean—

  its waters restless, sleepless,

  moaning, as fearsome

  crocodiles and whales moved

  in the depths.

  He pointed it out to his wife:

  “Its water foaming and glistening

  like a liquid sun, the ocean displays

  on the surface its inner nature,

  a secret cache of gems.

  “The ocean is spraying Ganga,

  his wife in the sky, from his arsenal

  of water cannon. Whales spout

  columns from the opening

  in their head.

  “Or these geysers spouted by whales

  could be the coiled snake that is the ocean

  hissing as it lifts its hood.

  The tall waves are the ocean’s long arms

  stretched to the limit

  to embrace the godly river flowing

  from the sky, for he can bear no longer

  the fiery heat of separation

  which we call the Mare burning

  in his heart.15

  “Don’t the black clouds above, stooping to drink the water,

  look like the hair of the goddess falling loose

  as she makes love on top of Vishnu?

  Aren’t the streaks of lightning

  like the glistening of her body, enveloped by her hair?

  And the dark blue ocean lying beneath

  is God himself.

  Sumukhasatti smiled shyly at these suggestions and bent her head. He found this even more arousing. Desire possessed him.

  He let her know. She said, “I’m always ready to do whatever pleases you. I don’t want the freedom to do anything else.” He was delighted and began to make love to her with great passion in forests and groves filled with vines and flowers all over the world. As for Alaghuvrata, the Malayali Brahmin, he sat in the temple counting his beads for two full years.

  O king of cooling words, terror to your enemies, wiser than the teachers of the gods and the antigods, constant support of scholars and poets, son of Narasimha!

  This is the fourth 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. Manigriva and his elder brother Nalakubara (!) were cursed by Narada to become trees because they failed to cover their nakedness when Narada happened upon them, while they were playing with apsaras women in the river. The baby Krishna pulled a heavy stone mortar between these two trees and thus liberated them from their curse. See Bhāgavatapurāṇa 10.9.22–23, 10.10.1–43, and discussion in the “Invitation to a Second reading.”

  2. See 2.48, p. 23.

  3. Apparently, Manikandhara cut off his tongue at the shrine and received the gift of poetry.

  4. Om namo nārāyaṇāya.

  5. Vishnu.

  6. śeṣa-śeṣitvamulu. In South Indian Srivaishnavism, the god is conceived of as the ultimate residue of fullness, while living creatures are the excesses left over from this essential core.

  7. The names of this couple are significant. Sugātri = “Pretty Body,” Śālīna = “Shy.”

  8. The offering of betel is a frequent euphemism for sexual contact.

  9. A wife adorns herself as an auspicious guarantee of her husband’s longevity.

  10. Another name for the goddess Sarada.

  11. Obviously in the form of a palm-leaf book, with covers on either end bound with string.

  12. The Telugu is deliberately ambiguous and, as always in this book, carefully worded: nādu saṅgambunana nīku nandanuṇḍu galuku varamu, literally “a wish that a son will be born by my uniting with you / your making love to me.”

  13. See end of chapter 3. Rambha had posed a clinching test of identity: “When did the topic of someone called Kalapurna come up?”

  14. The Vavilla edition, alone among the printed texts, indicates that some text has been lost here.

  15. A mare’s head breathing fire is hidden in the depths of the ocean.

  CHaPTer 5

  Listen, King Krishna, of unbroken glory. Your wealth, which nourishes all scholars, outshines the richest in the world. Your greatest joy is in comforting those who come to you in need.

  [ The Baby Who Talks ]

  For two full years Alaghuvrata chanted the mantra of the World Goddess. The Lion-Rider spoke to him: “Brahmin! Your desire will be fulfilled elsewhere.” Instantly he was hurled by a great wind into a royal court in the middle of a city in a faraway country. Because of the violent disturbance, he sat there for a short time with his eyes closed. When he opened them, he looked around and saw a group of courtiers, rather surprised at the way he had dropped in. Right in front of him was an impressive king, radiant as the king of the gods. Before the king a sweet baby girl lay in her baby clothes, in a golden cradle. The Brahmin was
still for a moment, overcome by surprise. Then he quickly got up, blessed the king, and presented him with the jeweled necklace that he had received from Manikandhara. The king received the gift with respect and asked the Brahmin to sit near him. He asked him only his name and that of his family. “Your arrival here is quite unusual,” he said, “but you can tell us about it later. For now, just rest yourself quietly. Any gifts I receive today go to this girl.” So he had the necklace put on the baby’s neck.

  The baby moved her head to get a look at the necklace, with her chin pressing down against her neck. With light playing on her soft cheeks, she smiled, as if there were something she knew. Suddenly, she began to speak. “After two long years, I now see this necklace again. My luck has come to fruition.”

  What can I, a mere poet, say? Everybody there was stunned and stood like pictures painted on a wall.

  The king thought to himself, “These words are amazing. The child must be a goddess, born for some special reason. Let’s get her to talk some more.” He asked her, “Wonder girl—you were born only two months ago, and you’re already talking. Where did you see this necklace two years ago?”

  “In my previous life. I remember it very well. That’s why I said this.”

  The king looked at the baby. “You’re no ordinary human child. My heart is eager to learn all about you. What were your previous lives? Why were you born now?”

  She thought through her previous life and the one before that and all the memories related to them. They were all fresh in her mind. She spoke, as they listened in total silence.

  “In two lives before this one, I was a pet parrot of the goddess of speech. Because of a curse, I had to be reborn. I’ll tell you all about it. The story is a new one, utterly unlike anything told before, and compelling in its beauty; if you listen to it, you will live long in health and wealth. At last I can tell it.

  “One day while I was living in the palace of the goddess, her husband, Brahma, took her out to the lakeshore garden. Both dressed in gold, their bodies oiled and perfumed, radiating a new kind of brilliance, they sat to the east of the lake, with its golden steps leading down to the water. In the middle of the lake stood a crystal pillar inlaid with sculpted geese. Brahma lay down facing the lake on a bed of flowers in the shadow of the wishing trees. The goddess took his feet onto her lap to massage them. Desire flooded him, and he pulled her to the bed, each of his four faces trying at once to pull her face to itself, trying to kiss her.

  “Smiling at his games, she said, ‘Enough of your pranks. It isn’t fair. If all four of your faces want me at the same time, what am I supposed to do? I’m a one-faced woman. Cut it out. It’s too much.’ She stiffened her neck and pulled her face back. Guarding her lips with her hand, she curved her eyebrows and gave him a sharp look, in a pose of charming anger. This excited him even more.

  “Brahma bent her face forcibly to his, pushed her hand away from her lips, and bit her slightly. As pleasure awoke inside her, a soft moan of enchantment slipped from her throat.

  “The goddess of speech tried to cover up the moment of ecstasy that had overpowered her deep inside. She was a little embarrassed. Looking for a way to get through it quietly, she pretended her lower lip was hurting, and she turned around, as if angry, to prevent him from provoking her further. I, watching from my cage, understood her feelings from her body language. She was pressing her thighs tightly together and closing her eyes. It was a textbook case.

  “Brahma, thwarted, having lost the initiative, put on a show of anger. Not wanting to reveal his real feelings, he turned to me in my golden cage hanging from a nearby tree. ‘My little parrot,’ he said, ‘I’m bored. Won’t you tell me a story?’

  “‘How can I tell you a story? You’re God. I’ll listen if you tell one.’

  “‘In that case, listen,’ he said. ‘Once upon a time, there was a city called Kasarapura. A rich place, ruled by a king called Kalapurna. He conquered all other kings by virtue of his incomparable brilliance. When he had come of age, a certain Siddha called Svabhava gave him a unique gem, a splendid bow, and gleaming arrows. The gem was of a deep red color, the arrows inexhaustible, and the bow could win over the god of love himself. Because the giver was so noble, the king carried these gifts constantly. A certain king, called Madasaya, happened to enter the kingdom with his wife, Rupanubhuti, and his minister, Dhirabhava, to show off his strength. Skillfully using his bow, Kalapurna drove out Dhirabhava. Madasaya and his wife surrendered, and the king made them his slaves. They followed his command and performed menial tasks.’

  “Sarada, the goddess of art, was listening to the story with finely attuned ears, her eyebrows dancing over her darting eyes. She said to me, ‘Ask him what happened to this Kalapurna. Who were his father and mother?’ She taught me to say all this, and I asked these questions.

  “God said, ‘A woman called Abhinavakaumudi fell in love with him and married him. His father was a lady called Sumukhasatti and his mother was a gentleman called Manistambha.’

  “The goddess laughed and hugged him. ‘Relax. Your story is all upside down.’ She patted him on the back. ‘A male mother and a female father? That’s what their names imply.’1 She couldn’t stop laughing. ‘Tell me more, my dear husband.’

  “Brahma, overjoyed and encouraged, hugged her back. With his four faces, one by one, he kissed her, drinking at her lips, twisting his neck into position over and over and stroking her cheeks and neck. One of his faces bit her a little hard, and she showed anger. ‘You never know when to stop,’ she said. ‘Enough of this. Tell me what happened to the hero of your story.’ She wriggled out of his embrace and, raising her arms, took hold of all his faces in her two hands.

  “He could see her breasts clearly now, and also the curves of her waist. Getting excited, he kissed her again. ‘I know you’re good at this,’ she said, ‘but go on with your story. What happened to the king?’

  “So he continued. ‘What could have happened? He had a minister named Satvadatma, who crowned him ruler of the city Kramukakanthottara in Angadesa. He reigned happily there, rich in splendor. Madasaya built a golden wall around that city, and the king was pleased. While Madasaya and his wife, Rupanubhuti, were serving him without pause, they had a daughter named Madhuralalasa, born because they kept staring at the king’s special jewel. Four wise Brahmin advisors2 to Madasaya—Agama One, Agama Two, Agama Three, Agama Four—came there and, each in turn, held the jewel. Touching it brought them immense joy. The king allowed all this to happen, because they were all under his control and because he made the rules.

  “But one of the advisors mischievously pressed too hard on the jewel, and this made Kalapurna angry. He threw out all four of them, and because of their fault, he also had the golden wall built by their lord, Madasaya, dismantled. Madasaya said to himself, ‘What difference does it make? I’m still his man. I’ll live somewhere else in his country.’ He took his family and traveled south from Kramukakanthottara City. Immediately he came upon two golden pots of surpassing beauty; admiring them, he went to the Middle Country, where he stayed for some time. He hardly noticed that his young daughter, Madhuralalasa, had grown thin from the stress of the journey. People who are intent upon higher comforts they will attain in the future often don’t even notice the pain that others in their family may be feeling in the present.

  “Still, something in him made him go back to the city. Maybe it was the girl’s good fortune. As soon as she caught sight of Kalapurna, she recovered her vigor, her weakness gone. Her body glowed. Madasaya brought her to Kalapurna and told him the secret of her recovery. ‘Only you have this kind of power,’ he said to the king. They lived happily, praising him. The four advisors also returned, and this time the king favored them.

  “From then on, my dear, Madhuralalasa grew into a fine young girl and enjoyed the full fruits of her youth in the company of the king.”

  [ Sarasvati Decodes Brahma’s Story ]

  “The goddess listened. She knit her brows in feigned disp
leasure that barely concealed the gentle smile arising from her endless love. ‘Wait a minute,’ she said. ‘You’re really something, aren’t you? I know you can put together entire worlds, but do you have to practise the craft of words on me?’

  “Brahma smiled. ‘What did I say? What do you mean by craft?’

  “‘I’ve known you for a long time. You think I can’t see through your story? After all, I taught you to speak with hidden meanings and moods. This story you told is about us. I listened quietly because I wondered how you would end it. I’ll tell you what it means. Just listen. Kasarapura is the lake. Kāsāra means “lake.” Because my face reflected in the water looks like a full moon, you spoke of King Kalapurna, whose name means “full moon.” When you said he conquered all other kings by virtue of his incomparable brilliance, what you meant is that the reflection of my face outshines every other face. As usual, you were exaggerating. It’s what they call “hyperbole.” That’s all very clear. Then there is that Siddha, Svabhava, who gave him a bow and arrows and a red jewel. Since svabhāva means “one’s own nature,” anybody can see that you were referring to my eyebrows, my sharp looks, and my naturally red lips. Then you mentioned a Madasaya, his wife, Rupanubhuti, and his minister, Dhirabhava—that is, My Heart, Love of Beauty, and Sense of Pride. And you said that Kalapurna, the Full Moon, defeated Dhirabhava, your Sense of Pride, with his bow and made Madasaya, My Heart, that is, your heart, and Rupanubhuti, your Love of Beauty, into slaves. In other words, when you looked at the reflection of my face in the lake, you lost your sense of pride, and your heart and your love of beauty were totally drawn to me.

  “‘That was when I smiled. My smile was reflected in the water, and to you it looked like a thin layer of moonlight. So you made the identification explicit and named it Abhinavakaumudi, New Moonlight. Since this is a noun in the feminine gender, you gave it to a woman for her name and married her off to Kalapurna. And when you said that Kalapurna’s mother was a gentleman called Manistambha and his father was a lady named Sumukhasatti, what you meant was that the reflection off the crystal pillar, maṇistambha (a masculine noun), was caused by the proximity, āsatti (a feminine noun), of my lovely face, sumukha, to that pillar. For some reason you slipped and inverted the genders of the father and the mother, and this made me laugh so hard that I turned back to face you. I was also curious to hear more. So the reflection disappeared from the lake, and my face was in front of you. My face happens to be on top of my neck, so you had to say that Kalapurna, the Full Moon, was crowned in Kramukakanthottara City, that is, Beyond-the-Smooth-Neck Town, in Angadesa, Body Land. Since I’m the owner of that country, you had Kalapurna crowned there by a minister named Satvadatma, Close to Yourself, that is, Myself. The name means someone closely connected to “you,” that is, me.