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A History of Sanskrit Literature c21.s8: 8. The Kādambarī

A History of Sanskrit Literature c21.s8

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8. The Kādambarī

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The *Harṣacarita* ranks as an Ākhyāyikā, and in fact it has been adopted as the model of that form by later writers on poetics such as Rājaçekhara. It is divided into Ucchvāsas, contains occasional verses, and if not narrated by the hero, Harṣa, is at least narrated by the sub-hero, Bāṇa himself, whose history takes up the first two and a half chapters. The *Kādambarī*, on the other hand, is a Kathā, and it lacks the distinctive marks of the Ākhyāyikā. In point of fact it has a complex structure of its own, for it consists of a long narrative in which are interwoven other narratives given by characters of the work. In a sense, therefore, if it were worth while seeking to fix terminology in a manner which was unknown to Indian writers, a Kathā might be deemed² a complex Ākhyāyikā, one in which a main narrative was the mode in which sub-narratives came to be set forth in due place. The essence of the form of the *Kādambarī* is the use of these sub-narratives to explain matters which the main narrator could not himself know; he does not gather all his information into a whole and set it out in an ordered fashion, but he allows us to have it as the matters came to the knowledge of his hero during the course of his actual experience. This is a definite and marked plan which makes the *Kādambarī* in point of structure very different from the *Daçakumāracarita* or a text like the *Pañcatantra*, in which sub-narratives are included.

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It may originally have been the plan of the *Bṛhatkathā* as Guṇāḍhya conceived it, though that characteristic is lost in the versions which have come down to us, and in any case it is very dubious if the same plan were ever systematically carried out in that work. But it is interesting to note how, in the *Kādambarī* and probably in the *Bṛhatkathā* tale whence the story is largely derived, we find the highest perfection of a manner beloved in India, the inclusion of one tale within another. In the logically simplest form we have it in the Jātaka style where a tale of old is led up to by a tale of to-day, and the story ends with the application to to-day of the legend of the past. In such works as the *Vetālapañcaviṃçatikā* there is a closer approach to the *Kādambarī* inasmuch as the tales of the Vampire are all connected with the main purpose of the king, and thus, though distinct in themselves, serve to help on one main purpose. In the *Pañcatantra* we reach a further improvement, for the stories, in themselves unconnected and many told to illustrate principles, are put in the mouths of the characters of the frame story, or in the case of narratives included in subordinate stories in the mouths of the persons of the latter.

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Yet a closer approach is achieved in the *Daçakumāracarita* in so far as the princes each narrate their own experiences, thus introducing a degree of life which is wanting in the other forms, for in the Jātakas, though the Bodhisattva tells a tale of what was really his past experience, it is not narrated in the first person. As the idea of the *Daçakumāracarita* is doubtless borrowed from the *Bṛhatkathā*, we have an additional proof of the free use there of this device of first-hand narrative which is still further developed in the *Kādambarī*,¹ because the whole of the tales told are essentially part of one complex action, unlike those of the princes of the romance of Daṇḍin. But in one respect there is more semblance of realism in the *Daçakumāracarita*; the *Kādambarī* places its main narrative in effect in the mouth of the sage Jābāli, who knows by his great insight the tale he relates; he places himself largely at the point of view of the hero Candrāpīḍa, but that prince is not actually the narrator. The adoption of this device had already taken place in the *Bṛhatkathā*, where we find a close parallel in substance and form to the *Kādambarī* in the tale of king Sumanas. Doubtless both Somadeva and Kṣemendra may have been influenced by Bāṇa's work, and the latter certainly was, but there is no ground whatever to suspect that the Kashmirian compilers borrowed the tale from Bāṇa.

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In every respect the relation between what we can reconstruct as the original and Bāṇa is that of development and elaboration in the romance.

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² F. Lacôte, *Mélanges Lévi*, pp. 250 ff. For comments on the valueless distinctions in Indian writers, see Nobel, *Indian Poetry*, pp. 156 ff.; S. K. Dé, BSOS. iii. 507 ff., who themselves differ on one vital point, the content of the Kathā.

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¹ Ed. P. Peterson, BSS. 1883; P. V. Kane, Bombay, 1920; trans. C. M. Ridding, 1906. V. 2 of the introduction is copied in a Pallava inscr. of Amarāvatī, *South Ind. Inscr.*, i. 26; Kielhorn, GN. 1903, pp. 310 f.

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The poet opens his work with some stanzas in which he suggests that his Kathā is seeking favour by its novel subject and phraseology, its brilliant vivid descriptions, its resplendent similes and Dīpakas, figures where one word serves as predicate to series of clauses. We learn then of Çūdraka of Vidiçā on the Vetravatī river; to him a Caṇḍāla maiden of wondrous beauty brings a parrot, and after persuasion it tells the following narrative. In its youth it lost its mother and was tenderly reared, like Bāṇa, by its father, who was killed by a Çabara; the young parrot was taken by Hārīta to the hermitage of his father, Jābāli, who looks kindly at the bird and says that it is reaping the fruit of past misconduct. On entreaty Jābāli tells the tale which the parrot repeats. We hear of Tārāpīḍa of Ujjain and his minister Çukanāsa; the moon seems in a vision to enter the queen who bears a glorious son, Candrāpīḍa, while Çukanāsa is blessed with Vaiçampāyana, born of a lotus placed in his wife's bosom. The two grow up in loving amity; at sixteen, when both have been fully trained, they are brought home from the place in which they have spent their time, and Candrāpīḍa receives the gift of a wondrous horse, Indrāyudha, and from the queen a maiden Pattralekhā, a captive daughter of the king of Kulūta. With his steed to aid him and the sage counsel of Çukanāsa to guide him, he enters on a campaign of world conquest lasting three years.

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But one day, seeing a pair of Kinnaras¹, quaint semihuman animals, he pursues them so far that he is lost and arrives at a lovely lake graced by the presence of a lovelorn maiden, Mahāçvetā. On his persuasion she tells her tale in the first person. She is daughter of a Gandharva and an Apsaras; she had seen a beautiful ascetic boy, Puṇḍarīka, and his friend, Kapiñjala, learned that the former was the mind-born son of Lakṣmī, goddess of beauty, and the ascetic Çvetaketu, had loved him, but too late to prevent his death from unfulfilled longing. At this point she faints but, revived by Candrāpīḍa, proceeds to the end. She had decided to die, but, as she was about to ascend the pyre a majestic figure descended from the sky, took up Puṇḍarīka’s body and promised her reunion if she lived; hence her decision to live at lake Acchoda awaiting her beloved. We are then told how Candrāpīḍa learns of her friend Kādambarī of like descent, who will not wed because her friend remains a maiden; Mahāçvetā takes the prince with her to visit her friend, of whom Candrāpīḍa becomes deeply enamoured, while she shares his love. But, before the two have plighted troth, Candrāpīḍa is compelled by a summons from his father to return, and, leaving Pattralekhā with Kādambarī for a few days, he hurries on, bidding Vaiçampāyana bring back his forces. He is received with joy at Ujjain, but is tormented by love, and gladly hears of his dear one from Pattralekhā;

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at this point Bāṇa’s work ends and his son’s continuation begins. Further news comes from Keyūraka, increasing Candrāpīḍa’s desire to return to Kādambarī, but he must await Vaiçampāyana and the host. The latter comes, but the officers tell the sad tale of the fact that Vaiçampāyana had insisted on staying at the lake as one distraught; the king suggests that Candrāpīḍa has done him some wrong, but Çukanāsa hotly defends the prince and blames his son, while Candrāpīḍa is convinced that Vaiçampāyana is blameless. Permitted to seek him, he proceeds to the lake, and finds Mahāçvetā in even more profound grief than before. She narrates her tale: Vaiçampāyana had fallen in love with her, she, true to Puṇḍarīka, had repulsed him, and, wearied with his parrot repetitions of love, had cursed him to become a parrot, whereupon he had forthwith died. This is too much for Candrāpīḍa who dies straightway. Mahāçvetā mourns him, when Kādambarī with Pattralekhā enters, resolves on death, prepares the pyre, when a light breaks forth from the bed and a voice from heaven tells Mahāçvetā that Puṇḍarīka’s body is incorruptible in heaven, while Kādambarī is to guard Candrāpīḍa’s body until the curse which slew him is over. Pattralekhā, who had fainted, awakes, springs on Indrāyudha who is among the mourners, dashes into the lake whence emerges Kapiñjala. He now takes up the tale;

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¹ Cf. Foucher, *L'Art Gréco-Bouddhique du Gandhāra*, ii. 21 f.

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when Puṇḍarīka's body was carried away, he had followed and the Moon had deigned to explain the happening; dying, Puṇḍarīka had cursed him, though blameless, to suffer himself on earth the pangs of that love which was destroying him. He in turn has vowed that Puṇḍarīka should share his misfortunes and had taken the body away to keep until the appointed time of his own descent to earth. Kapiñjala was returning with this news, when he was cursed by a semidivine being, over whom he ran, to become a horse; on entreaty the curse was modified to end this condition on his master's death, and he learned that the Moon and Puṇḍarīka were about to be incarnated as Candrāpīḍa and Vaiçampāyana, and he as the horse Indrāyudha. So saying, Kapiñjala goes out to seek Çvetaketu's advice to end the curse; of Pattralekhā he knows nothing. Mahāçvetā and Kādambarī decided to spend the time together beside the body of the prince which became lovelier every day, and Tārāpīḍa and Çukanāsa with their wives joined in the vigil. Here ended Jābāli's tale, and the parrot knew the truth, that it was Vaiçampāyana dreeing the weird appointed for him. The impatient parrot desires to know its future fate, but is rebuked for its haste, and told that it would have as brief a life in its new condition as when Puṇḍarīka. It is consoled by the advent of Kapiñjala, sent to it by Çvetaketu with the news that he and Lakṣmī, ashamed of past neglect, are now engaged in sacrifice to end the curse, and that it must stay peacefully in the hermitage until the due season. Impatient, however, it flies off, is caught by a Caṇḍāla for his princess, who has brought it to the king; this is all it knows and here ends its tale, which the poet resumes. The Caṇḍāla maiden reveals herself as Lakṣmī, mother of the parrot, who had captured it to save it from the consequences of filial disobedience; she bids the king now quit this life and both he and the parrot at once perish, thus completing the human lives in which they had to suffer. At this moment Candrāpīḍa comes to life in Kādambarī's eyes, Puṇḍarīka descends from the sky, all are reunited, Candrāpīḍa places Puṇḍarīka on the throne, and in devotion to his parents spends his time partly at Ujjain, partly at Hemakūṭa, Kādambarī's parental home, and partly in the moon, his own abode, while Pattralekhā is revealed as Rohiṇī, best beloved of the queens of the Moon.

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We can see from the *Kathāsaritsāgara*¹ that Bāṇa has followed in his part very faithfully the main outlines of the story, though the names in the two versions are quite different, and the Kashmirian version has the Himālaya and Vidyādharas for the more southern regions and Gandharvas and Apsarases of Bāṇa. Bāṇa, moreover, expands and duplicates; he creates the attractive character of Çukanāsa, wise and loyal, and brings Vaiçampāyana in as comrade of Candrāpīḍa; he has even two Kinnaras for the one of the tale, and develops the theme of his hero’s birth as he does that of the children in the *Harṣacarita*. All his own are his brilliant descriptions and his elaborations of the signs of love in his hero and heroine. In the tale, however, after the prince’s departure the princess, Makarandikā, annoys by her grief her parents so deeply that she is cursed to become a Niṣāda maiden, while her father it is who, ashamed of his action, dies and becomes the parrot, who repeats the tale of its own experiences and what it heard Pulastya recite to king Sumanas. At the court of that prince Somaprabha is reunited to the Niṣāda maiden, who resumes her true shape, and it is the king who is revealed as Raçmimant, mind-son of the sage Dīdhiti, and is united to Manorathaprabhā, while the parrot is released and reaps the fruit of its asceticism.

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¹ lix. 22 ff.; *Bṛhatkathāmañjarī*, xvi. 183 ff.; Mańkowski, WZKM. xv. 213 ff.

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This is indeed a strange tale, and to those who have no belief in rebirth, or even in a reunion after this mortal life, its appeal must be gravely diminished, and the whole must seem rather a fantastic if not idle romance with uninteresting characters living in an unreal atmosphere. But from the point of view of Indian belief the case is far other, and the story may justly be deemed replete with the tenderness of human love, the beneficence of divine consolation, the pathos and sorrow of death, and the abiding hope of reunion after death as a result of unswerving fidelity to love. To Indian minds also there is a strong appeal in the element of the miraculous, nor to them is there anything save attraction in the wonderful history of the Moon and Puṇḍarīka, even the appearance of the latter in parrot form has nothing ludicrous when it is believed that human beings do pass from one body to another. Bāṇa’s treatment of love is refined and graceful, and shows itself at its best in the scenes between Kādambarī and the prince; in his account of the feelings of Kādambarī from the time when she mounted the terrace of her palace to gaze on the prince, Bāṇa achieves a wonderful insight into the currents of youthful passion and virgin modesty which sway a girl's mind when first she is moved to love.¹ All credit is also due to him for his effective characterization of so many minor characters; to Tārāpīḍa, Vilāsavatī his queen, and, above all, to Çukanāsa he has imparted both life and colour, while the devotion of Pattralekhā is touchingly portrayed.

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¹ Cf. Apollonius Rhodius' view of Medea.

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There is also no lack of movement, and Bāṇa is perfectly well aware of the advantage of contrast, as when he brings vividly before us the innocent life of the parrots under their Çalmali tree or the peaceful quiet of Jābāli's hermitage, on the one hand, and the pomp and display of the courts of Çūdraka and Tārāpīḍa on the other. His sense of drama is revealed by the introduction with its brilliant portraits of Çūdraka and the Caṇḍāla maiden, while his love for nature and his close observation reveal themselves in his descriptions of the Himālaya, of lake Acchoda, of Mahāçvetā's abode, and in minor touches throughout. As in the *Harṣacarita* he blends description of nature's own beauties with those of the cities and works of men's hands, so we can set his pictures of palaces and towns against those of hermitage and country. The political insight which reveals itself in the discourses of the *Harṣacarita* is again exhibited in Çukanāsa's admonitions to the young prince, and the advice of Kapiñjala to Puṇḍarīka. We seem, however, to find a more mature view and a deeper insight into the springs of human action in the *Kādambarī* than in the *Harṣacarita*, supporting the conclusion as to the later date of the *Kādambarī*.

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It would, however, be unfair to ignore the grave defects of Bāṇa, not merely in respect of style, but also of structure, for nothing will make the *Kādambarī* other than difficult to follow in its complex of past and present lives, and its lack of proportion; the descriptions are always overdone, especially in the case of Mahāçvetā and of the temple of Caṇḍikā; Bāṇa does not let his reader see the wood for the trees; in his devotion to the beauties of the evening or morning, or the rising of the moon, or the limbs of his heroine, he often loses sight of the plot itself.

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Of his son little need be said. He unquestionably is inferior to his father, even if we may excuse his hurried treatment of the remainder of the plot on the score of its inherent difficulties. He prolongs the description of Kādambarī's lovelorn condition out of reason, while he is deficient in his father's fertile imagination, and cannot draw on his wealth of mythological knowledge and observation of Indian flora and fauna. Moreover, he attempts no parallel to Çukanāsa's display of knowledge of life.

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