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A History of Sanskrit Literature c11.s9: 9. Kālidāsa's Style and Metre

A History of Sanskrit Literature c11.s9

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9. Kālidāsa's Style and Metre

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In Kālidāsa we have unquestionably the finest master of Indian poetic style, superior to Açvaghoṣa by the perfection and polish of his work,¹ and all but completely free from the extravagances which disfigure the later great writers of Kāvya. Daṇḍin ascribes to his favourite style, the Vaidarbha, qualities which we may fairly sum up as firmness and evenness of sound, avoiding harsh transitions and preferring gentle harmonies; the use of words in their ordinary sense and clearness of meaning; the power to convey sentiment; beauty, elevation, and the employment of metaphorical expressions. He assures longevity to a poem which, in addition to conforming to the rules for a Mahākāvya, is rich in ornaments (*alaṁkāra*), and Kālidāsa is not sparing in his use of these means of adding grace to his work. But he has the fundamental merit that he prefers suggestion to elaboration; his successors too often thought that they could only prove their capacity by showing all of what it was capable; he was content to produce a definite effect, and to leave well alone; his was the golden mean of Virgil between rustic simplicity and clumsiness and that over-refinement which is specially fatal.² Thus it results that his miniature-painting in its polished elegance often attains relative perfection.

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¹ The critics occasionally find fault, e. g. in the *Vyaktiviveka* (p. 66) *Raghuvaṁça* xvi. 33 is censured for the position of *tadīye*, but they cite him repeatedly as a master, first of Mahākavis; *Dhvanyāloka*, pp. 29, 207; *Kāvyaprakāça*, p. 2. Bhāmaha's assertion that a cloud is not suitable as a messenger must refer to the *Meghadūta* and may be put beside his attack on Bhāsa's *Pratijñāyaugandharāyaṇa*, proved by T. Gaṇapati Śāstrī; cf. Thomas, JRAS. 1925, p. 103, who (pp. 100 ff.) deals effectively with the attacks on the authenticity of Bhāsa's dramas. His verse (*Subhāṣitāvali*, 1353) is imitated in *Ragh.* viii. 66; GIL. iii. 159, n. 1.

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² His improvements on Açvaghoṣa are numerous and undeniable; cf. the passages in Nandargikar, *Raghuvaṁça* (ed. 3), pp. 161 ff.; Formichi, *Aśvaghoṣa*, p. 350; cf. also *Saund.* iv. 42 with *Kum.* v. 45. The parallel *Kum.* vii. 56 ff.; *Ragh.* vii. 5 ff. with *Buddh.* iii. 13 ff. is conclusive and Hillebrandt's doubts (pp. 102 f.) are hypercritical.

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The truth of his delineation is seen in the picture of the sorrowing bride in the *Meghadūta*:

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*utsāṅge vā malinavasane saumya nikṣipya vīṇāṁ*
*madgotrāṅkaṁ viracitapadaṁ geyaṁ udgātukāmā*

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*tantrīm ārdrāṁ nayanasalilaiḥ sārayitvā kathaṁcit*
*bhūyo bhūyaḥ svayam api kṛtām mūrcchanām vismarantī.*

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‘Or perhaps, placing her lute on her lap, whose dark garment proclaims her grief, she will seek to sing a song wherein she has worked my name, but, scarce able to move the string which her tears have bedewed, she will forget the air which she herself hath made.’ Or, again:

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*tvām ālikhya praṇayakupitāṁ dhāturāgaiḥ çilāyām*
*ātmānaṁ te caraṇapatitaṁ yāvad icchāmi kartum*
*asrais tāvan muhur upacitair dṛṣṭir ālupyate me*
*krūras tasminn api na sahate saṁgamaṁ nau kṛtāntaḥ.*

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‘When I have portrayed thee in love’s anger on the rock with my colours and seek to add myself lying at thy feet, my tears well up and ever blot out my sight; cruel the fate which even thus will not permit our union.’ There is a brilliant picture of Umā’s confusion and of her joy when Çiva reveals himself:

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*adya prabhṛty avanatāṅgi tavāsmi dāsaḥ*
*krītas tapobhir iti vādini candramaulau*
*ahnāya sā niyamajaṁ klamam utsasarja*
*kleçaḥ phalena hi punar navatāṁ vidhatte.*

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‘“From this moment, o drooping maiden, I am thy slave, bought by thy penance,” so spake he whose crest is the moon, and straightway all the fatigue of her self-torment vanished, so true is it that fruitful toil is as if it had never been.’ There is perfect simplicity of passionate longing in Rati’s address to the dead Kāma:

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*kṛtavān asi vipriyaṁ na me: pratikūlaṁ na ca te mayā kṛtam*
*kim akāraṇam eva darçanaṁ: vilapantyai rataye na dīyate?*

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‘Thou hast never displeased me; thee I never have wronged; why then, without cause, dost thou hide thyself from thy weeping Rati?’ The timid shyness of the new-made bride and her lover’s ruses are delicately drawn:

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*vyāhṛtā prativaco na saṁdadhe: gantum aicchad avalambitāṁçukā*
*sevate sma çayanam parāṅmukhī: sā tathāpi rataye pinākinaḥ.*

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‘Addressed she could not answer; when he touched her gown she sought to leave him; with head averted she clung to her couch; yet none the less did she delight the lord of the trident.’

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*ātmānam ālokya ca çobhamānam: ādarçabimbe stimitāyatākṣī*
*Haropayāne tvaritā babhūva: strīṇām priyālokaphalo hi veçaḥ.*

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‘When with her long eyes fixed on her mirror she saw the reflection of her radiant loveliness, swift she hastened to seek Çiva, for the fruit of woman’s raiment is the light in the lover’s eyes.’ Equally complete in its own effectiveness is the description of the tragic shock received by Rati:

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*tīvrābhiṣaṅgaprabhaveṇa vṛttim: mohena saṁstambhayatendriyāṇām*
*ajñātabhartṛvyasanā muhūrtaṁ: kṛtopakāreva Ratir babhūva.*

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‘The bitterness of the blow cast Rati into a faint which dulled her senses and for the moment with true kindness robbed her of memory of her husband’s ruin.’

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Aja’s tears have their excuse in nature itself:

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*vilalāpa sabāṣpagadgadaṁ: sahajām apy apahāya dhīratām*
*abhitaptam ayo ’pi mārdavam: bhajate kaiva kathā çarīriṣu?*

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‘He wailed aloud, his voice broken by sobs, forgetting the high courage that was his; iron in the fire yieldeth its strength; how much more feeble mortals?’ He feels that his wife has doubted his love:

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*dhruvam asmi çaṭhaḥ çucismite: viditaḥ kaitavavatsalas tava*
*paralokam asaṁnivṛttaye: yad anāpṛcchya gatāsi mām itaḥ.*

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‘Surely, sweet smiling one, thou hast judged me traitor whose love was feigned that thou hast gone from me to the world whence there is no return and hast not bidden me even a word of farewell.’ No woman could desire a more perfect eulogy:

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*gṛhiṇī sacivaḥ sakhī mithaḥ: priyaçiṣyā lalite kalāvidhau*
*karuṇāvimukhena mṛtyunā: haratā tvāṁ vada kiṁ na me hṛtam?*

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‘Wife, counsellor, companion, dearest disciple in every loving art; in taking thee tell me what of me hath not pitiless Death taken.’ The fatal blow is depicted:

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*kṣaṇamātrasakhīṁ sujātayoḥ: stanayos tām avalokya vihvalā*
*nimimīla narottamapriyā: hṛtacandrā tamaseva kaumudī.*

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‘For a moment she gazed on the garland as it lay on her rounded breasts, then closed her eyes in unconsciousness, like the moonlight when the darkness obscures the moon.’ There is humour, on the contrary, in Indumatī’s rejection of the Aṅga prince:

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*athāṅgarājād avatārya cakṣur: yāhīti janyām avadat kumārī*
*nāsau na kāmyo na ca veda samyag: draṣṭuṁ na sā bhinnarucir hi lokaḥ.*

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‘But the princess turned away from Aṅga’s lord her gaze, and bade her maiden proceed; it was not that he had not beauty nor that she could not see it, but folk have different tastes.’ This has the same graceful ease as often in the *Ṛtusaṁhāra*:

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*vivasvatā tīkṣṇatarāṁçumālinā: sapaṅkatoyāt saraso ’bhitāpitaḥ*
*utplutya bhekas tṛṣitasya bhoginaḥ: phaṇātapatrasya tale niṣīdati.*

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‘As the sun’s garland of rays grows ever hotter, the frog sore tormented leaps up from the muddy water of the lake only to fall into the mouth of the thirsty snake, who spreads his hood to shade him from the glare.’ There is a pretty picture of girlish haste:

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*ālokamārgaṁ sahasā vrajantyā: kayācid udveṣṭanavāntamālyaḥ*
*baddhuṁ na sambhāvita eva tāvat: kareṇa ruddho ’pi ca keçapāçaḥ.*

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‘As she rushed to the window, her garlands fell from their place, and she did not even trouble to knot the abundant hair which she caught together in her hand.’

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The structure of each of these cameos is simple; throughout it is normal to have each verse complete in itself, a single verb serving to support a number of adjectives and appositions, though relative clauses with verb expressed or implied are not rare. The compounds are normally restricted in length, but this is less closely observed in the Mandākrāntā metre, though even then clearness is aimed at and normally achieved. The order of words is very free, partly no doubt by reason of metrical necessity. Of the figures those of sound are employed not rarely but usually with skill. Beside the ordinary forms of alliteration as in *nirmame nirmamo ’rtheṣu*, we find the more important Yamaka, in which the same syllables are repeated, in the same or inverted order,¹ but with different sense. There is a certain liberality in the process; thus Kālidāsa is able to match *bhuja-latām* with *jaḍatām*, for *l* and *ḍ*, like *r* and *l*, *b* and *v*, are admitted as similar, and the same principle is clearly to be seen in

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¹ As distinct from alliteration the repetition should be in corresponding parts of the verse (Jacobi, ZDMG. lxii. 303, n. 1).

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*cakāra sā mattacakoranetrā: lajjāvatī lājavisargam agnau.*

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‘She with the eyes of the intoxicated Cakora, in modesty (*lajjā*) made offering of fried rice (*lāja*) in the fire.’ In Canto ix of the *Raghuvaṁça* Kālidāsa deliberately shows his skill in Yamakas; there is no doubt that this offends the sound rule of Ānandavardhana that to seek deliberately such a result destroys the function of poetry which is to suggest—or express—not merely to exhibit form, and we can only conjecture that in this canto, which also is marked out by the amazing number of metres employed, Kālidāsa was seeking to prove that he could vie with any rival in these niceties. In Canto xviii also, Yamakas are superabundant. Throughout, however, we feel Kālidāsa seeking for the matching of sound and sense, to which the Indian ear was clearly more susceptible than our own.

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Of figures of sense Kālidāsa excels in Indian opinion in the simile, and the praise is just. The Indian love of simile appears freely in the *Ṛgveda*, and is attested by the elaborate subdivisions of Indian poetics. The width of Kālidāsa’s knowledge and the depth of his observation of nature and life are here shown to the highest advantage. But his world is not ours, and doubtless at times his figures¹ seem grotesque to our taste, as when the king comes from his bath and plays with his harem like an elephant on whose shoulder still clings a shoot of the lotus sporting with the females of his herd. But often there can be only admiration; the chariot of the prince is so covered by the arrows of his foes that only by the point of its standard can it be discerned, as the morning wrapped in mist by the feeble rays of the sun; the wound torn by the arrow is the door of death; with joyful eyes the women of the city follow the prince as the nights with the clear stars of autumn the polar star. Characteristic is the love of elaboration of a comparison; the reader is not to be contented with a mere hint, the comparison must be drawn out in full. The Pāṇḍya king is peer of the lord of mountains, for the necklaces which hang over his shoulders are its foaming cascades, and the sandal that reddens his limbs the young sun which colours its peaks. Or again, the princes who hide their jealousy under the semblance of joy are compared to the pool in whose calm depths lurk deadly crocodiles. Or again, the ruined city, with towers broken, terraces laid down and houses destroyed, is like the evening when the sun sets behind the mountains and a mighty wind scatters the clouds.

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¹ Cf. Hillebrandt, *Kālidāsa*, pp. 112–20. For the Çakuntalā, cf. P. K. Gode, POCP. 1919, ii. 205 ff. A very interesting comparison is afforded by Lucan's similes (Heitland in Haskins' *Lucan*, pp. lxxxiv ff.).

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To us, no doubt, both similes and metaphors sometimes seem far-fetched; those from grammar leave us cold, but there is wit in the assertion that the wearing by Rāma of the royal dress when the ascetic's garb revealed already his fairness is equivalent to the vice of repetition (*punarukta*). The bowmen whose arrows strike one another are like disputants whose words conflict. The king seeks to subdue the Persians as an ascetic his senses through the knowledge of truth. Kālidāsa is rich also in plays of fancy which present a vivid picture (*utprekṣā*); it is natural to him to think vividly, to attribute to the mountains, the winds, the streams the cares, sorrows, joys, and thoughts of men. He loves also the figure corroboration (*arthāntaranyāsa*); indeed, its careless use reveals the hand of the forger of the last cantos of the *Kumārasambhava*. But the *double entendre* is rare indeed; the instances of it are very few, and they lend no credit whatever to the suggestion that v. 14 of the *Meghadūta* is an attempt obliquely to praise Nicula and damn Dinnāga. Of the former we know nothing, and it was doubtless the later love for Çleṣas which bade men find them in Kālidāsa, where not one elaborate case even can be proved to exist.¹

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¹ In *Meghadūta* 10 *āçābandha* may have a double sense; 28 *rasa*; *Kumārasambhava*, viii. 22; *Raghuvaṁça*, xi. 20. But in v. 14 Nicula is to be a poet friend, elsewhere utterly unknown.

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Kālidāsa’s metrical skill is undoubted. In the *Ṛtusaṁhāra* he used normally the Indravajrā and Vaṁçasthā types, with Vasantatilaka and Mālinī; one stanza only in Çārdūlavikrīḍita occurs. The *Meghadūta* shows the more elaborate Mandākrāntā used without variation; a few slight roughnesses as regards caesura may be adduced as proof of the relatively early date of the poem, but the evidence is too slight to weigh seriously in itself. In the *Kumārasambhava* we find the normal rule that the canto is written in a single metre with change, as the writers on poetics require, at the close. Thus i, iii, and vii are written in the Indravajrā; ii and vi in the Çloka, iv in the Vaitālīya, and v in the Vaṁçasthā, while viii is in the Rathoddhatā. The closing changes are furnished by Puṣpitāgrā, Mālinī, and Vasantatilaka. The *Raghuvaṁça* follows on the whole this principle, but exhibits greater variety, suggesting later date. The Indravajrā type serves for ii, v–vii, xiii, xiv, xvi, and xviii; the Çloka for i, iv, x, xii, xv, and xvii; the Vaitālīya for viii, and the Rathoddhatā for xi and xix. Canto ix is orthodox up to v. 54, being in Drutavilambita, then it deliberately displays the poet’s skill in new metres, each with a verse or so, Aupacchandasika, Puṣpitāgrā, Praharṣiṇī, Mañjubhāṣiṇī, Mattamayūra, Vasantatilaka, which is also used for 11 verses in v, Vaitālīya, Çālinī, and Svāgatā. There occur also odd verses in Toṭaka, Mandākrāntā, Mahāmālikā, and iii is written in Vaṁçasthā, with a concluding verse in Hariṇī. There are thus nineteen metres in all to eight in the earlier epic. Detailed efforts to find some sign of development in any of the metres in respect of caesuras &c. have failed to yield any results worthy of credence.²

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² Huth, *Die Zeit des Kālidāsa* (1890), App.; Hillebrandt, *Kālidāsa*, p. 157. Cf. SIFI. VIII. ii. 40 ff.

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In the Çloka the rules had already been established by epic practice, and Kālidāsa observes them carefully. Of the four Vipulā forms he uses the last once only; the figures¹ for the other three out of 1410 half-stanzas in the epics are 46, 27, and 41, or 8·15 per cent., showing that the third Vipulā was Kālidāsa’s favourite. It is interesting to note that in the form of the syllables preceding the first Vipulā Kālidāsa shows special care to select that form (⏑ ⏑ – –) which is not allowed in the second Vipulā as against that (⏑ – ⏑ –) which is permitted in both. The *Kumārasambhava* has 11 cases of the first to 3 of the second form, the *Raghuvaṁça* 31 to 1; this doubtless indicates increasing care to secure elegance, and it accords with this that in the *Kumārasambhava* alone is the fourth Vipulā found.²

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¹ For the *Raghuvaṁça* they are 32, 18, 27 out of 1096; Jacobi’s figures (IS. xvii. 444 f.) are corrected from SIFI. *l. c.* The percentage in Bhāravi is 9·6; Māgha 27·15; Bilhaṇa 8·64; Çrīharṣa 0·53; Kumāradāsa 2·35.

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² *Raghuvaṁça*, xii. 71, should perhaps be read *dvitīyahemaprākāram*. In *Kumārasambhava*, vii. 11 on one reading position is neglected as in *Çiçupālavadha*, x. 60, both dubious (SIFI. VIII. ii. 7). For the schemes of the metres see chap. xx, § 4.

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