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A History of Sanskrit Literature c16.s1: 1. Secular Poetry

A History of Sanskrit Literature c16.s1

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English

1. Secular Poetry

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NONE of the other secular lyrics which have come down to us is necessarily older than Bhartṛhari, certainly none need be as old as Kālidāsa. Of the many poems which must have existed in the time of Patañjali we have the merest hints, although from the *Theragāthās* and *Therīgāthās* of the Pāli canon, which may be about the same period as Patañjali, we can conclude that poetic art was steadily developing in refinement from the earlier stage of which hints are preserved in the *Ṛgveda* itself and in the *Atharvaveda* on the one hand, and in fragments of ballads, and even of a drinking song, found incidentally in Pāli texts.¹ But these earlier efforts doubtless in many cases deservedly have passed into oblivion, though we may suspect that our taste would have found pleasure in poems whose simplicity would have seemed to us rather a commendation than a cause of censure.

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¹ *Dīghanikāya*, 21 (*GIL.* ii. 32); *Jātaka* 512.

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To Kālidāsa are ascribed, with no adequate ground, a number of poems, of which the *Çṛṅgāratilaka*² has some claim to be deemed worthy of the honour, though it is quite illegitimate to accord it to Kālidāsa. Its twenty-three stanzas are attractive pictures of love, but they lack special distinction. The poet neatly condemns, while praising, his hard-hearted beloved:

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² Ed. Gildemeister, Bonn, 1841. Cf. Pischel, *Çṛṅgāratilaka*, p. 27. The last stanza occurs in Amaru, and v. 3 is cited in Dhanika's *Daçarūpāvaloka* (11th cent.), at least in some MSS. In Haeberlin, 14 ff. it has twenty-one stanzas. The *Çṛṅgāra-rasāṣṭaka* is also ascribed to Kālidāsa; v. 7 is, v. 4 may be, his.

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*indīvareṇa nayanaṁ mukham ambujena: kundena dantam adh-
> araṁ navapallavena*
*aṅgāni campakadalaiḥ sa vidhāya vedhāḥ: kānte kathaṁ gha-
> ṭitavān upalena cetaḥ?*

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‘Thine eyes are blue lotuses, thy face a Nymphaea, thy teeth jasmine, thy lower lip a tender shoot, thy limbs leaves of the Campaka; tell me then, beloved, how the creator formed thy heart of stone.’ Pretty, if trite, is the maiden as a hunter:

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*iyaṁ vyādhāyate bālā: bhrūr asyāḥ karmukāyate* *kaṭākṣāç ca çarāyante mano me hariṇāyate.*

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‘This maid is a huntress, her brows the bow, her sidelong glances the arrows, and my heart the deer.’ But most effective is a note of bitterness and pain:

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*kim me vaktram upetya cumbasi balān nirlajja lajjākṛte* *vastrāntaṁ çaṭha muñca muñca çapathaiḥ kiṁ dhūrta nirvañcase?* *kṣīṇāhaṁ tava rātrijāgaravaçāt tām eva yāhi priyām* *nirmālyojjhitapuṣpadāmanikare kā ṣaṭpadānāṁ ratiḥ?*

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‘Why dost come and kiss my lips against my will, thou shameless one in thy pretence of shame? Let go, let go, I say, the hem of my robe. Why seek with thine oaths to deceive me? I am worn through a sleepless vigil for thee; go back to her with whom thou wert then. What care the bees for the garland of flowers that hath been cast away as outworn?’ This is good poetry but it is not in the manner of Kālidāsa. On the other hand, we have from an anthology a brilliant verse that can hardly but be his:

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*payodharākāradharo hi kandukaḥ: kareṇa roṣād iva tāḍyate muhuḥ* *itīva netrākṛtibhītam utpalaṁ: tasyāḥ prasādāya papāta pādayoḥ.*

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‘The ball whose roundness matched her breasts she beat ever and anon in anger; hence, I ween, the lotus afraid of the anger in her eyes fell at her feet to implore her pardon.’

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Much less attractive is the *Ghaṭakarpara*¹ in twenty-two stanzas, which describes how a young wife at the beginning of the rains sends a message by the cloud to her absent husband, a situation the reverse of that described in the *Meghadūta*. The poem owes its title to the fact that the author at the close offers to carry water in a broken jar for any one who can surpass him in Yamakas, alliterations consisting of repetitions in corresponding places of groups of the same letters. Hence perhaps there has been evolved the poet Ghaṭakarpara who would thus have perpetuated his name by this word-play. That the work is earlier than Kālidāsa is deduced by Jacobi¹ from the fact of this boast, which later was not justified; if, however, the poem when first written set a model in this form of composition, then it might be preserved when it had ceased to be pre-eminent on the score of its originality. This conjecture seems wholly implausible; no example of a text being preserved as a literary curiosity is known, and Ghaṭakarpara evidently was ranked higher by Indian taste than by modern opinion, for he was made one of the nine jewels of Vikramāditya’s court as contemporary of Kālidāsa. The fact that a *Nītisāra*² in twenty-one stanzas is ascribed to him does not strengthen the case for his identity, as there is nothing distinctive in the verses.

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¹ Ed. Haeberlin, 120 f.

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¹ *Rāmāyaṇa*, p. 126.

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² Haeberlin, 504 ff.

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We come to more definite chronological grounds with the name of Mayūra,³ who flourished at Harṣavardhana’s court in the seventh century and who was reputed the father-in-law⁴ of Bāṇa, while Mātaṅga Divākara won fame comparable to both of them. The legend tells that he described so minutely the beauties of his daughter that she cursed him in anger, and he became a leper, from which unhappy state he was rescued through the aid of the sun god whom he celebrated in his *Sūryaçataka*. It seems probable enough that the legend is due to a verse of the *Mayūrāṣṭaka* which describes the appearance of a maiden who has secretly visited her lover and is returning from his side:

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³ Quackenbos, *The Sanskrit Poems of Mayūra* (1917).

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⁴ Or brother-in-law; the legends vary; there seems no truth in the relationship. But their rivalry is attested by Padmagupta, *Navasāhasāṅkacarita*, ii. 18; Zachariae, *B. Beitr.*, xiii. 100.

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*eṣā kā stanapīnabhārakaṭhinā madhye daridrāvatī*
*vibhrāntā hariṇī vilolanayanā saṁtrastayūthodgatā*
*antaḥsvedagajendragaṇḍagalitā saṁlīlayā gacchati*
*dṛṣṭvā rūpam idaṁ priyāṁgagahanaṁ vṛddho ’pi kāmāyate.*

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‘Who is this timid gazelle, burdened with firm swelling breasts, slender-waisted and wild-eyed, who hath left the startled herd?

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She goeth in sport as if fallen from the temples of an elephant in rut. Seeing her beauty even an old man turns to thoughts of love.' The heavy and tedious style, added to the number of *double entendres* implied, marks the poetry as of second-rate order, but it confirms the view that he was a contemporary of Bāṇa, for that author's style is saved only by his real brilliance from equal demerit.

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So scanty are our records that the next important lyric poet of whom we have more than the name and stanzas in the anthologies is a contemporary of Jayadeva, Govardhana, whom he extols as incomparable in effective erotic descriptions. Jayadeva, however, was neither reticent about himself nor his friends, and we cannot subscribe to his eulogy. The aim of Govardhana, as he himself insists, was to raise the Yamunā in the air in the shape of elevating the simple love songs extant in Prākrit to the level of Sanskrit. His chosen medium is the Āryā verse, and he has composed in this metre, which is unquestionably borrowed by Sanskrit from Prākrit, seven hundred erotic stanzas, without inner connexion and arranged alphabetically. The poetry, however, lacks the popular flavour which marks the *Sattasaī* of Hāla, who, of course, was the model for the *Āryāsaptaçatī*, and perhaps the most interesting thing about the poem is the fact that on it was based the *Sat'saī* (1662) in Hindī of Bihārī Lāl, who has won high rank among Hindī poets, and whose work again was copied by a late Sanskrit writer, Paramānanda, in his *Çr̥ṅgārasaptaçatikā*. The imitation of a Prākrit model is carried to the extent of styling the sections Vrajyās; within them there is no order observed and the effort to produce 700 verses necessarily leads to repetition and many weak lines. His brothers Udayana and Balabhadra corrected and brought out his work, but the text is difficult even when free from suspicion from corruption, for the poet is fond of suggestion in lieu of expression. A more favourable idea of him is given in a verse cited by Rūpagosvāmin:

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*pāntha Dvāravatīm prayāsi yadi he tad Devakīnandano*
*vaktavyaḥ smaramohamantravivaçā gopyo 'pi nāmojjhitāḥ*
*etāḥ kelikadambadhūlipaṭalair ālokaçūnyādiçaḥ*
*Kālindītaṭabhūmayo 'pi tava bho nāyānti cittāspadam.*

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'O stranger, if thou art going to Dvāravatī, pray say to Devakī's son: "Dost thou never think of the cowherdesses, whom thou hast left powerless through love's bewildering spell, or of Kālindī's glades, where the sky is covered by the masses of blossom dust of the Kadamba flowers with which thou wert wont to play?"'

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The anthologies¹ are the source of our knowledge of the poet Pāṇini, whose identity with the grammarian has already been denied, despite the fact that it is in accord with Indian tradition. The verses ascribed to him are undeniably proof of no small skill as a poet of love:

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¹ Thomas, *Kavīndravacanasamuccaya*, pp. 51 ff. Cf. Peterson, *Subhāṣitāvali*, pp. 54 ff.; JRAS. 1891, pp. 311 ff.; Pischel, ZDMG. xxxix. 95 ff., 313 ff.; *Gramm. d. Prakrit-Sprachen*, p. 33.

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*tanvaṅgīnāṁ stanau dṛṣṭvā çiraḥ kampayate yuvā*

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*tayor antarasaṁlagnāṁ dṛṣṭim utpāṭayann iva.*

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'The youth, having seen the breasts of the fair ladies, shakes his head, as though he were seeking to rescue his gaze fast prisoned between them.'

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*kṣapāḥ kṣāmīkṛtya prasabham apahṛtyāmbu saritām*

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*pratāpyorvīṁ kṛtsnāṁ tarugahanam ucchoṣya sakalam* *kva sampraty uṣṇāṁçur gata iti tadanveṣaṇaparās* *taḍiddīpālokā diçi diçi carantīva jaladāḥ.*

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'"Where hath the sun gone, after making short the nights, stealing the water of the streams, parching all the earth, and scorching every thicket?" So saying the clouds wander hither and thither seeking his presence in every lightning flash.'

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*pāṇau çoṇatale tanūdari darakṣāmā kapolasthalī*

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*vinyastāñjanadigdhalocanajalaiḥ kim mlānim ānīyate?* *mugdhe cumbatu nāma cañcalatayā bhṛṅgaḥ kvacit kandalīm* *unmīlannavamālatīparimalaḥ kiṁ tena vismaryate?*

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'Why, slender maiden, dost bedew with tears stained by eye-salve the haggard cheek, that doth rest on that reddened palm? Foolish one, though the bee may in fickleness kiss the mango blossom, yet doth he ever forget the fragrance of the blooming of the young jasmine?'

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*vilokya saṁgame rāgam paçcimāyā vivasvatā*

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*kṛtaṁ kṛṣṇam mukham prācyā na hi nāryo vinerṣyayā.*

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‘Dark groweth the face of the East as she beholdeth the glow of the sun in union with the West. What woman is free from jealousy?’

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*gate ’rdharātre parimandawandaṁ: garjanti yat prāvṛṣi kālameghāḥ*
*apaçyatī vatsam ivendubimbaṁ: tac charvarī gaur iva huṅkaroti.*

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‘When at midnight in the rainy season the dark clouds thunder deeply, then Night, unable to see the disk of the moon, crieth aloud like a cow that seeketh her calf.’

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*asau gireḥ çītalakandarasthaḥ: pārāvato manmathacāṭudakṣaḥ*
*gharmālasāṅgīṁ madhurāṇi kūjan: saṁvījate pakṣapuṭena kāntām.*

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‘Yonder dove, which dwelleth in a cool hollow of the mountain, and is skilled in all loving dalliance, cooing sweetly doth fan with its wings the loved one, wearied by the heat.’

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As among the scanty remains of this poet we have the ungrammatical *apaçyatī* and *gṛhya*, narrative aorists, and as the construction of *gireḥ* in the last-cited verse is careless, we can hardly seriously suppose that the author was the grammarian, even apart from the style of the verses.¹

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¹ Bhandarkar, JBRAS. xvi. 200 ff., 343 ff.; Kielhorn, GN. 1885, pp. 185 f.

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The anthologies give us invaluable testimony as to other poets now lost but of real merit. To Vākkūṭa is ascribed an elegant expression of the sad fate of the lover who, parted from his beloved, looks on all sides only to find some sign which speaks to him poignantly of lost joys:

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*ete cūtamahīruho py aviralair dhūmayitaiḥ ṣaṭpadair*
*ete prajvalitāḥ sphuṭatkisalayodbhedair açokadrumāḥ*
*ete kiñçukaçākhino ’pi malinair aṅgāritāḥ kuḍmalaiḥ*
*kaṣṭaṁ viçramayāmi kutra nayane sarvatra vāmo vidhiḥ.*

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‘The mango shoots here smoke with the hordes of bees, here the Açoka glows with bursting flower buds, here the branches of the Kiñçuka are coal-coloured with their dark shoots; alas, where can I rest my weary eyes? Everywhere is fate cruel to me.’ Laḍahacandra sends a pretty message from a maiden to her loved one:

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*gantāsi cet pathika he mama yatra kāntas: tat tvaṁ vaco hara çucau jagatām asahyaḥ*
*tāpaḥ sagarjaguruvārinipātabhītas: tyaktvā bhuvaṁ virahiṇīhṛdayaṁ viveça.*

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‘Wanderer, if thou shalt come to the place where is my beloved, then tell him from me that the flame of summer that none can endure, fearing the fall of heavy rain midst thunder, hath left the earth and entered the heart of the deserted maiden.’ To the poetess Çīlābhaṭṭārikā some pretty stanzas are attributed:

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*yaḥ kaumāraharaḥ sa eva hi varas tā eva caitrakṣapās*
*te conmīlitamālatīparimalāḥ prauḍhāḥ kadambānilāḥ*
*sā caivāsmi tathāpi cauryasuratavyāpāralīlāvidhau*
*Revārodhasi vetasītarutale cetaḥ samutkaṇṭhate.*

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‘This is the husband who stole my maidenhood, these are the same April nights, these the breezes whispering in the Kadamba, fragrant with the budding jasmines, I myself too am the same: yet my heart yearns for the dalliance and the secret love that was ours below the ratan tree on the bank of the Revā.’ She is accorded¹ with Bāṇa the merit of being a type of the Pañcāla style, in which sound and sense claim equal honour, and the claim is fully justified by her verses:

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¹ By Rājaçekhara, who mentions also Vikaṭanitambā, Vijayāṅkā of Karṇāṭa as peer of Kālidāsa in the Vaidarbha, Prabhudevī Lāṭī, and Vijjakā, as well as Subhadrā. His wife Avantisundarī figures with him as an authority on poetics. Kane (*Sāhityadarpaṇa*, p. xli) suggests equating Vijjakā with Vijayāṅkā, and Vijayabhaṭṭārikā, queen of Candrāditya (*c.* 660 A. D.).

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*dūti tvaṁ taruṇī yuvā sa capalaḥ çyāmas tamobhir diçaḥ*
*saṁdeças sarahasya eṣa vipine saṁketakāvāsakaḥ*
*bhūyo bhūya ime vasantamārutāç ceto nayanty anyathā*
*gaccha kṣemasamāgamāya nipuṇaṁ rakṣantu te devatāḥ.*

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‘My messenger, thou art but a tender maid, and the youth is fickle, darkness holds the sky, my commission is secret, the place of assignation is in the wood, these winds of spring entice more and more the heart; yet go and meet him in safety; may the gods guard thy skill.’

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Many poems are anonymous, while others are so variously ascribed by the anthologies that no weight can be placed on the names to which they are ascribed. Very simple but very pretty is:

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*aṅkurite pallavite korakite vikasite sahakāre*
*aṅkuritaḥ pallavitaḥ korakito vikasitaç ca madanaḥ.*

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‘Swollen and sprouted and budded and bloomed hath the mango, swollen and sprouted and budded and bloomed hath love.’ There is a certain humour in the consolation offered to the lover who has had to abandon a very sentimental maiden:

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*acchinnaṁ nayanāmbu bandhuṣu kṛtaṁ cintā gurubhyo ’rpitā*
*dattaṁ dainyaṁ açeṣataḥ parijane tāpaḥ sakhīṣv āhitaḥ*
*adya çvaḥ parinirvṛtiṁ vrajati sā çvāsaiḥ paraṁ khidyate*
*viçrabdho bhava viprayogajanitaṁ duḥkhaṁ vibhaktaṁ tayā.*

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‘Her unceasing flow of tears has been distributed among her friends, her anxiety passed on to her elders, her depression has been transferred wholesale to her attendants, her fire of love deposited in her companions; to-day or to-morrow her calm will be complete, only sighs now vex her. Take heart; she has shared out the sorrow begotten of thy departure.’ A very different hand gives a picture of the moon:

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*udayagirisaudhaçikhare tārācayacitritāmbaravitāne*
*siṁhāsanam iva nihitaṁ candraḥ kandarpabhūpasya.*

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‘On the pinnacle of the palace of the mountain of dawn, under a canopy of sky bespangled with the host of the stars, the moon hath been set as a throne for Love the king.’ Circumstances alter cases, as the hapless lover finds:

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*prāg yāmini priyaviyogavipattikāle: tvayy eva vāsaraçatāni layaṁ gatāni*
*daivāt kathaṁ katham api priyasaṁgame ’dya: cāṇḍāli kiṁ tvam asi vāsara eva līnā.*

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‘When aforetime I suffered the sorrow of severance from my beloved, o night, in thee a hundred days passed away; now when fate but hardly gave me reunion, thou, shameless one, hast departed in the day itself.’ Even fanning kindles love:

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*viramata viramata sakhyo nalinīdalatālavṛntapavanena*
*hṛdayagato ’yaṁ vahnir jhaṭ iti kadācij jvalaty eva.*

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‘Stop, stop, my friends; through the wind of the fan of lotus leaves the fire that is in my heart hath in a moment rekindled.’ A sadder note but a true one is found in Halāyudha:

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*Bhīmenātra vijṛmbhitaṁ dhanur iha Droṇena muktaṁ çucā*
*Karṇasyātra hayā hṛtā rathapatir Bhīṣmo ’tra yoddhuṁ sthitaḥ*
*viçvaṁ rūpam ihārjunasya Hariṇā saṁdarçitaṁ kautukād*
*uddeçās ta ime na te sukṛtinaḥ kālo hi sarvaṁkaṣaḥ.*

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‘Here Bhīma’s valour was unfolded; here Droṇa in sorrow let fly his arrows; here were stolen the steeds of Karṇa; here stood Bhīṣma, lord of the car, to fight; here at Arjuna’s entreaty did Hari display his full majesty; still all the places remain, but not these great ones, for time destroyeth all.’

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An author to whom many stanzas are ascribed, which are found also in the collections of Amaru and Bhartṛhari,¹ is the Buddhist Dharmakīrti, of whom we know mainly as a logician of the seventh century a. d. One verse is a neat hit at the results of reputation in dimming the chance of fair judgement of poetry:

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¹ F. W. Thomas, *Kavīndravacanasamuccaya*, pp. 47 ff.

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*çailair bandhayati sma vānarahṛtair Vālmīkir ambhonidhiṁ*
*Vyāsaḥ Pārthaçarais tathāpi na tayor atyuktir udbhāvyate*
*vāgarthau ca tulādhṛtāv iva tathāpy asmatprabandhān ayaṁ*
*loko dūṣayitum prasāritamukhas tubhyaṁ pratiṣṭhe namaḥ.*

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‘Vālmīki has depicted the bridging of the ocean by monkeys carrying stones, Vyāsa by Pārtha’s arrows; none takes exception to their exaggeration. In my works sense and sound are, as it were, weighed in a balance, but the world eagerly aims at criticism. Ah, what a thing it is to have reputation.’ There is a touching picture of the beloved in separation:

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*vaktrendor na haranti bāṣpapayasāṁ dhārā manojñāṁ çriyaṁ*
*nihṣvāsā na kadarthayanti madhurāṁ bimbādharasya dyutim*
*tasyās tvadvirahe vipakvalavalīlāvaṇyasaṁvādinī*
*chāyā kāpi kapolayor anudinaṁ tanvyāḥ paraṁ çuṣyati.*

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‘In separation from thee the streams of her tears rob not her moon-like face of its charming beauty, nor do her sighs diminish the sweet loveliness of her Bimba-like lip; but the slender maiden’s cheeks show day by day a lessening of that bright colour which was wont to vie with the glory of the ripe Lavalī.’ Too great beauty is evil:

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*lāvaṇyadraviṇavyayo na gaṇitaḥ kleço mahān svīkṛtaḥ*
*svacchandasya sukhaṁ janasya vasataç cintājvaro nirmitaḥ*
*eṣāpi svayam eva tulyaramaṇābhāvād varākī hatā*
*ko ’rthaç cetasi vedhasā vinihitas tanvyās tanuṁ tanvatā?*

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‘He counted not the wealth of beauty which he spent nor the greatness of his effort; he made her a fever of sorrow for men that dwell in blissful ease; she herself is doomed to misery since she cannot find her peer; what, pray, was the purpose of the creator when he framed that slender maiden’s body?’ Kṣemendra, who gives us the verse, reprobates the jingle in *tanvyāḥ*, which seems captious.

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The art of building a stanza with a limited number of letters¹ leads, as we have seen both in Bhāravi and Māgha, to tasteless extravagance, but it can be used without any lack of effect, as in the following stanza ascribed to Çāçvata:

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¹ *Varṇaniyama*; cf. *Kāvyādarça*, iii. 83 ff.; Māgha, xix. 100, 102, 104, 106, 114.

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*sa me samāsamo māsaḥ sa me māsasamā samā*
*yo yātayā tayā yāti yā yāty āyātayā tayā.*

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‘That month seems to me a year which passes when she is gone; that year seems as a month which goes when she returns.’

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Epigrams are not rare:

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*vyākaraṇasiṁhabhītā apaçabdamṛgāḥ kva vicareyuḥ*
*gurunaṭadaivajñabhiṣakçrotriyamukhagahvarāṇi yadi na syuḥ?*

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‘In dread of the lions of grammar, where could the deer of barbarisms flee, were there not the caverns of the mouths of teachers, actors, astrologers, doctors, and priests?’ One lady finds fault with a perfect spouse:

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*anekair nāyakaguṇaiḥ sahitaḥ sakhi me patiḥ*
*sa eva yadi jāraḥ syāt saphalaṁ jīvitaṁ bhavet.*

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‘My husband, o friend, has all the virtues of a stage hero; now if only he were my lover, my happiness would be perfect.’ The doctor fares badly:

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*vaidyanātha namas tubhyaṁ kṣapitāçeṣamānava* *tvayi vinyastabhāro ’yaṁ kṛtāntaḥ sukham edhate.*

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‘Best of physicians, homage be thine for thy slaying of mankind; on thee Death lays all his burden and lives in happy ease.’ The note in the following is lighter:

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*dāhajvareṇa me māndyaṁ vada vaidya kim auṣadham* *piba madyaṁ çarāveṇa mamāpy ānaya karparam.*

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‘“I am outworn by heat and fever; tell me, doctor, what remedy is there.” “Drink wine by the bowl and bring me too a glass.”’

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Of the art of Samasyāpūraṇa we have an excellent example in the stanza ascribed by Kṣemendra to Kumāradāsa, which embodies the line mentioned in the *Mahābhāṣya*:¹

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¹ Peterson, JBRAS. xvi. 170; Nandargikar, *Kumāradāsa*, pp. xx ff.

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*ayi vijahīhi dṛḍhopagūhanaṁ; tyaja navasaṁgamabhīru vallabhe* *aruṇakarodgama eṣa vartate: varatanu saṁpravadanti kukkuṭāḥ.*

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‘Loved one, timid in our first joy of love, relax thy clinging grasp and let me go; do not the cocks, fair one, proclaim in unison the advent of ruddy dawn?’ It is characteristic that Haradatta in the *Padamañjarī*, a comment on the *Kāçikā Vṛtti*, gives an entirely different three lines, while Rāyamukuṭa makes Bhāravi the author of the stanza given as Kumāradāsa’s by Kṣemendra. In the curious tale of Kālidāsa’s death² we learn that king Kumāradāsa wrote on the wall of a hetaira’s house the half-verse:

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² Nandargikar, *op. cit.*, pp. iii ff. The verse needs amendment as above. Haradatta’s date is traditionally 878 A. D.; Çeshagiri, *Report*, 1893–4, pp. 13 ff.

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*kamale kamalotpattiḥ çrūyate na ca dṛçyate*

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offering a reward for a completion which Kālidāsa, to his undoing, provided in:

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*bāle tava mukhāmbhoje katham indīvaradvayam?*

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‘It is said, but never seen, that a lotus grows on a lotus. How then, damsel, is there seen on the lotus of thy face a pair of blue lotuses?’ To gain the reward the graceless woman slew the poet, but the king recognized the hand of his friend and forced from her the truth, burning himself in sorrow in the pyre which consumed Kālidāsa’s body.

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