The Loves of Krishna in Indian Painting and Poetry

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Ti­tle: The Loves of Kr­ish­na in In­di­an Paint­ing and Po­et­ry

Au­thor: W. G. Archer

Re­lease Date: April 6, 2004 [EBook #11924]

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[Il­lus­tra­tion: _Rad­ha and Kr­ish­na in the Grove_ Kan­gra (Pun­jab Hills), c. 1785]

THE LOVES OF KR­ISH­NA

IN IN­DI­AN PAINT­ING AND PO­ET­RY

By W. G. ARCHER

To MR. AND MRS. H. N. WITH LOVE AND AD­MI­RA­TION

AC­KNOWL­EDG­MENTS

I am deeply in­debt­ed to Dr. A.L. Basham for gen­er­ous guid­ance through­out the prepa­ra­tion of this book, to George Keyt for per­mit­ting me to quote ex­ten­sive­ly from his bril­liant trans­la­tion of the _Gi­ta Govin­da_, and to Deben Bhat­tacharya who sup­plied me with new trans­la­tions of lat­er po­ems and dis­cussed a num­ber of im­por­tant points. I must al­so ex­press my deep grat­itude to Mil­dred Archer and to Gopi Kr­ish­na Kano­ria for val­ued crit­icism and ad­vice, to Messrs. Faber and Faber, the Harvill Press, Messrs. Macmil­lan, the Ox­ford Uni­ver­si­ty Press, the Phoenix House and Messrs. Sidg­wick and Jack­son for per­mit­ting me to quote pas­sages from works still copy­right, to Pro­fes­sor J. Brough for an in­for­ma­tive note on Bhanu Dat­ta's _Rasaman­jari_ and to all those own­ers of col­lec­tions who have ei­ther al­lowed me to re­pro­duce pic­tures in their pos­ses­sion or have kind­ly sup­plied me with pho­tographs.

Part of the ma­te­ri­al for this book was de­liv­ered as lec­tures to the Roy­al Asi­at­ic So­ci­ety, the Roy­al In­dia, Pak­istan and Cey­lon So­ci­ety and at the Vic­to­ria and Al­bert Mu­se­um.

CON­TENTS

AC­KNOWL­EDG­MENTS

I IN­TRO­DUC­TION

II THE MA­HAB­HARA­TA: KR­ISH­NA THE HERO

III THE BHA­GA­VA­TA PU­RANA: THE COWHERD i Birth and Ear­ly Ad­ven­tures ii The Loves of the Cow­girls iii The Death of the Tyrant

IV THE BHA­GA­VA­TA PU­RANA: THE PRINCE i The Re­turn to Court ii Mar­riages and Off­spring iii Last Phas­es iv The _Pu­rana_ Re-​con­sid­ered

V THE KR­ISH­NA OF PO­ET­RY i The Tri­umph of Rad­ha ii The _Gi­ta Govin­da_ iii Lat­er Po­et­ry iv The _Rasi­ka Priya_

VI THE KR­ISH­NA OF PAINT­ING

NOTES

BIB­LI­OG­RA­PHY

IN­DEX

PLATES AND COM­MEN­TARY

SOURCES

I

IN­TRO­DUC­TION

Dur­ing the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry, a cer­tain type of In­di­an paint­ing be­gan to fas­ci­nate the West. Un­like Mughal art, it was a prod­uct of Hin­du courts in Ra­jasthan and the Pun­jab Hills and un­like Mughal paint­ing, its chief con­cern was with the var­ied phas­es of ro­mance. Ladies would be shown brood­ing in their cham­bers as storm clouds mount­ed in the sky. A girl might be por­trayed des­per­ate­ly fondling a plan­tain tree, grip­ping a pet fal­con, the sym­bol of her lover, or hur­ry­ing through the rainy dark­ness in­tent on­ly on reach­ing a longed-​for tryst. A prince would ap­pear ly­ing on a ter­race, his out­stretched arms striv­ing vain­ly to de­tain a calm beau­ty or wel­com­ing with de­light a bash­ful girl as she slow­ly ad­vanced. In all these pic­tures, ro­man­tic love was treat­ed as the high­est good and phys­ical pas­sion was in­ter­pret­ed with a fresh­ness and in­no­cence un­equalled in the world's art.

Such paint­ings were, at first sight, easy to ap­pre­ci­ate. Al­though they al­ter­nat­ed be­tween two meth­ods of ex­pres­sion--the first a style of sav­age dis­tor­tion, the sec­ond a style of the soft­est grace--each man­ner en­livened the com­mon sub­ject.[1] Yet in two re­spects elu­ci­da­tion was vi­tal­ly nec­es­sary. Just as in Japan, the lover might ex­press his long­ings by cryp­tic ref­er­ences to Na­ture, the In­di­an artist em­ployed po­et­ic sym­bols to charge his sub­jects with ro­man­tic ar­dour. Flow­ers were nev­er mere­ly flow­ers nor clouds clouds. The sym­bols of In­di­an po­et­ry--the lo­tus sway­ing in a stream, the flow­er­ing creep­er em­brac­ing a trunk--were in­tend­ed to sug­gest pas­sion-​haunt­ed ladies. The min­gling of clouds, rain and light­ning sym­bol­ized the em­braces of lovers, and com­mon­place ob­jects such as dish­es, vas­es, ew­ers and lamps were brought in­to sub­tle con­junc­tion to hint at 'the right true end of love.' What, in fact, might seem at first sight to be a sim­ple por­trait, proved on clos­er un­der­stand­ing to be a study in de­spair, a rev­ela­tion of de­light or a clue to rap­ture, each im­age with its sex­ual im­pli­ca­tions con­triv­ing to ex­press some nu­ance of long­ing. In these pic­tures, on­ly a part of the mean­ing was ap­par­ent and with­out a com­pre­hen­sion of the po­et­ry, much of its true sig­nif­icance was lost.

Such an ob­sta­cle to un­der­stand­ing was re­al enough but, as the eye ranged over this new kind of love-​paint­ing, a sec­ond dif­fi­cul­ty ap­peared. In many pic­tures, the lover had spe­cial char­ac­ter­is­tics. He was shown with a crown of pea­cock's feath­ers, clad in a gold­en _dhoti_ and in ev­ery case his skin was mauve or slate-​blue.[2] In cer­tain cas­es, the la­dy of his choice ap­peared bow­ing at his feet, her pose sug­gest­ing the deep­est ado­ra­tion; yet, in oth­er pic­tures, his role was quite dif­fer­ent. He was then a res­olute war­rior, fight­ing and de­stroy­ing demons. It was clear, in fact, that here was no or­di­nary lover but one who might al­so be a god. At the same time, oth­er per­plex­ing cir­cum­stances were present. The lover's ap­pear­ance was that of an aris­to­crat­ic youth and the ladies whom he loved had the bear­ing of el­egant princess­es. Yet of­ten the scene of their en­coun­ters was a for­est thick with flow­er­ing trees. His com­pan­ions were cowherds and the ob­jects of his love were not the ladies of a court but cow­girls. Oth­er ac­tiv­ities be­trayed the same low­ly sphere. In cer­tain pic­tures, he was shown eat­ing with cowherds, shar­ing in their sports, graz­ing the cat­tle and him­self milk­ing cows. That such a lover should dom­inate the paint­ings was per­plex­ing in the ex­treme and just as cul­tured In­di­ans would be baf­fled by Ital­ian and Flem­ish paint­ing un­less they al­ready knew the life of Christ, it was clear that part, even the ma­jor­ity, of these pic­tures would re­main ob­scure un­less the char­ac­ter of their cen­tral fig­ure was first ex­plained. One fur­ther point re­mained. In many cas­es, the pic­tures were not in­tend­ed to be viewed in iso­la­tion but were il­lus­tra­tions of a text. Many were in­scribed with San­skrit or Hin­di vers­es and in each case there was an in­ti­mate con­nec­tion be­tween the con­tent of the pic­ture and the po­em's sub­ject. To un­der­stand the pic­tures, there­fore, some ac­quain­tance with these texts was nec­es­sary for on­ly in this way could the iden­ti­ty and role of the blue-​skinned lover be ap­pre­ci­at­ed. He was, in fact, Kr­ish­na--an in­car­na­tion of God--and in his wor­ship some of the deep­est re­quire­ments of the In­di­an spir­it found ec­stat­ic re­lease.

The pur­pose of this book is to throw some light on In­di­an paint­ing by pre­sent­ing the sto­ry of Kr­ish­na in the clear­est pos­si­ble terms. It might be sup­posed that, of all In­di­an gods, Kr­ish­na was al­ready the one best known to the West and there­fore, per­haps, the one least re­quir­ing ex­pla­na­tion. Among mod­ern po­ets, Sacheverell Sitwell de­votes a whole po­em in _Canons of Gi­ant Art_ to de­scrib­ing Kr­ish­na's ef­fect.

Rain falls and ceas­es, all the for­est trem­bles: Mys­tery walks the woods once more, We hear a flute. It moves on earth, it is the god who plays With the flute to his lips and mu­sic in his breath: The god is Kr­ish­na in his love­ly youth.

Louis Mac­Ne­ice in _Ten Burnt Of­fer­ings_ de­scribes a much-​loved cat,

Flu­id as Kr­ish­na chas­ing the milk­maids.

And the same Kr­ish­na, flute play­er and lover of milk­maids, is fa­mil­iar to British au­di­ences from the danc­ing of Ram Gopal. Yet side by side with this mag­net­ic fig­ure, a sec­ond, strange­ly dif­fer­ent Kr­ish­na is al­so known. This sec­ond Kr­ish­na is the preach­er of the _Bha­gavad Gi­ta_, the great ser­mon de­liv­ered on the bat­tle-​field of Ku­ruk­shetra. It is a car­di­nal doc­ument of In­di­an ethics, and con­soled Ma­hat­ma Gand­hi dur­ing his work for In­di­an in­de­pen­dence. It has for many years been known in the West but has re­cent­ly at­tract­ed fresh at­ten­tion through a mod­ern trans­la­tion by Christo­pher Ish­er­wood and Swa­mi Prab­ha­vanan­da. This Kr­ish­na of the _Gi­ta_ is clear­ly quite dif­fer­ent in char­ac­ter from the Kr­ish­na of the milk­maids and, with­out some ef­fort at rec­on­cil­ia­tion, the two must ob­vi­ous­ly present a baf­fling enig­ma. In­deed so great is the con­trast that many En­glish­men, en­tranced by the lover, might be as­ton­ished to hear of a more di­dac­tic role, while those who val­ue the _Gi­ta_ might eas­ily be dis­turbed on find­ing its au­thor so dar­ing­ly iden­ti­fied with the the­ory and prac­tice of ro­man­tic love. The truth, if we are to ad­mit it, is that de­spite con­sid­er­able ac­quain­tance with Kr­ish­na as a name, few ed­ucat­ed peo­ple in the West have in­ti­mate knowl­edge of his sto­ry. In fact, we have on­ly to ask some ba­sic ques­tions to re­al­ize how slen­der is gen­er­al un­der­stand­ing. What, for ex­am­ple, were the cir­cum­stances in which Kr­ish­na was born and why did he en­ter the world? Of which In­di­an god is he an in­car­na­tion? Who were his par­ents and how did he come to live among cowherds? Who were Rad­ha and Ruk­mi­ni? In what ways did he love the milk­maids and why has this as­pect of his sto­ry as­sumed such big pro­por­tions in In­di­an re­li­gion? Why, in fact, is God a ro­man­tic lover? Just as few In­di­ans, even high­ly ed­ucat­ed In­di­ans, could sur­vive a friend­ly cross-​ex­am­ina­tion on de­tails of the New Tes­ta­ment, the ma­jor­ity of cul­tured En­glish­men would find it hard to an­swer even a few of these sim­ple ques­tions.

It is to rem­edy in part this sit­ua­tion that I have mar­shalled the ma­te­ri­al giv­en in this book. With cer­tain types of is­sue I have made no at­tempt to deal. I have not, for ex­am­ple, dis­cussed state­ments such as 'Kr­ish­na was not a god but a hero of a rough tribe of cowherds.' 'The Gi­ta is an in­ter­po­la­tion.' 'There is gen­er­al agree­ment on the his­toric­ity of Kr­ish­na.' 'Rad­ha ap­pears to be a late ad­di­tion.' High­er Crit­icism, whether ap­plied to the Bible or to the clas­sics of In­di­an re­li­gion must nec­es­sar­ily re­main a small schol­ars' pre­serve--of vi­tal im­por­tance to the few but of lit­tle ac­count to the main body of be­liev­ers or to artists il­lus­trat­ing adored themes. I have rather been con­cerned to present in­for­ma­tion about Kr­ish­na in the form in which it has ac­tu­al­ly reached In­di­an minds and has in­flu­enced be­lief and wor­ship. Dur­ing the last two thou­sand years, var­ious texts have dealt with Kr­ish­na, em­pha­siz­ing first one and then an­oth­er as­pect of his char­ac­ter and in the pro­cess as­sem­bling more and more de­tails. These texts are still revered by In­di­ans and al­though they are the prod­uct of wide­ly sep­arat­ed eras, all of them have still an air of con­tem­po­rary au­thor­ity. By con­sid­er­ing them in his­tor­ical se­quence, we can un­der­stand not on­ly the sub­ject-​mat­ter of ro­man­tic In­di­an paint­ing but re­al­ize why Kr­ish­na, the adored lover, should still en­chant re­li­gious In­dia.

[Foot­note 1: Note 1.]

[Foot­note 2: Note 2.]

II

THE _MA­HAB­HARA­TA_: KR­ISH­NA THE HERO

The first ref­er­ence to Kr­ish­na oc­curs in the _Chan­do­gya Up­an­ishad_ of per­haps the sixth cen­tu­ry B.C. _Up­an­ishads_ were 'for­est sit­tings' or 'ses­sions with teach­ers.' Sages and their dis­ci­ples dis­cussed the na­ture of life and strove to de­ter­mine the soul's ex­act re­la­tion­ship to God. The start­ing-​point was the the­ory of re-​in­car­na­tion. Death, it was be­lieved, did not end the soul. Death was mere­ly a step­ping-​stone to an­oth­er life, the soul mov­ing from ex­is­tence to ex­is­tence in one long ef­fort to es­cape re-​birth. From this cy­cle, on­ly one ex­pe­ri­ence could bring re­lease and that was con­scious­ness or ac­tu­al knowl­edge of the supreme Spir­it. When that state was achieved, the soul blend­ed with the God­head and the cy­cle end­ed. The prob­lem of prob­lems, there­fore, was how to at­tain such knowl­edge. The _Chan­do­gya Up­an­ishad_ does not of­fer any startling so­lu­tion to this mat­ter. The teach­er who con­ducts the ses­sion is a cer­tain Gho­ra of the An­gi­rasa fam­ily and it is the per­son of his dis­ci­ple rather than his ac­tu­al mes­sage which con­cerns us. The dis­ci­ple is called Kr­ish­na and his moth­er has the name De­va­ki. De­va­ki is the lat­er Kr­ish­na's moth­er and there is ac­cord­ing­ly ev­ery rea­son to sup­pose that the two Kr­ish­nas are the same. Noth­ing, how­ev­er, is stat­ed of this ear­ly Kr­ish­na's ca­reer and al­though parts of the sage's teach­ings have been com­pared to pas­sages in the _Gi­ta_,[3] Kr­ish­na him­self re­mains a vague and dim name.

For the next few cen­turies, knowl­edge of Kr­ish­na re­mains in this frag­men­tary state. Noth­ing fur­ther is record­ed and not un­til the great In­di­an epic, the _Ma­hab­hara­ta_, crys­tal­lizes out be­tween the fourth cen­tu­ry B.C. and the fourth cen­tu­ry A.D. does a more de­tailed Kr­ish­na make his ap­pear­ance.[4] By the end of this pe­ri­od, many vi­tal changes had tak­en place. The In­di­an world-​view had be­come much clear­er and it is pos­si­ble not on­ly to con­nect Kr­ish­na with a def­inite char­ac­ter but to see him in clear re­la­tion to cos­mic events. The supreme Spir­it was now en­vis­aged as a sin­gle all-​pow­er­ful God, known ac­cord­ing to his func­tions as Brah­ma, Vish­nu and Si­va. As Brah­ma, he brought in­to ex­is­tence three worlds--heav­en, earth and the nether re­gions--and al­so cre­at­ed gods or less­er di­vini­ties, earth and na­ture spir­its, demons, ogres and men them­selves. Si­va, for his part, was God the fi­nal dis­solver or de­stroy­er, the source of re­pro­duc­tive en­er­gy and the in­spir­er of as­ceti­cism. He was thought of in many forms--as a po­tent as­cetic, a butch­er wild for blood, a serene dancer--and in his char­ac­ter of re­gen­er­ator was rep­re­sent­ed by his sym­bol, the _lingam_ or phal­lus. The third as­pect, Vish­nu, was God in his char­ac­ter of lov­ing pro­tec­tor and pre­serv­er. This great Trin­ity was ul­ti­mate­ly supreme but un­der it were a num­ber of less­er pow­ers. Those that rep­re­sent­ed the forces of good were called _devas_ or gods. They were led by their king, In­dra, lord of clouds, and as­so­ci­at­ed with him were gods such as Ag­ni (fire), Varuna (wa­ter), Surya the sun and Ka­ma the god of pas­sion. These gods lived in In­dra's heav­en, a re­gion above the world but low­er than Vaikun­tha, the heav­en of Vish­nu. Danc­ing-​girls and mu­si­cians lived with them and the whole heav­en re­sem­bled a ma­jes­tic court on earth. From this heav­en the gods is­sued from time to time in­ter­ven­ing in hu­man af­fairs. Demons, on the oth­er hand, were their ex­act op­po­sites. They rep­re­sent­ed pow­ers of evil, were con­stant­ly at war with the gods and took vi­cious plea­sure in vex­ing or an­noy­ing the good. Be­low gods and demons were men them­selves.

In this three-​tiered uni­verse, trans­mi­gra­tion of souls was still the ba­sic fact but meth­ods of ob­tain­ing re­lease were now much clear­er. A man was born, died and then was born again. If he act­ed well, did his du­ty and worked cease­less­ly for good, he fol­lowed what was known as the path of _dhar­ma_ or righ­teous­ness. This en­sured that at each suc­ceed­ing birth he would start a stage more favourably off than in his pre­vi­ous ex­is­tence till, by sheer good­ness of char­ac­ter, he qual­ified for ad­mis­sion to In­dra's heav­en and might even be ac­count­ed a god. The achieve­ment of this sta­tus, how­ev­er, did not com­plete his cy­cle, for the ul­ti­mate goal still re­mained. This was the same as in ear­li­er cen­turies--re­lease from liv­ing by union with or ab­sorp­tion in­to the supreme Spir­it; and on­ly when the in­di­vid­ual soul had reached this stage was the cy­cle of birth and re-​birth com­plet­ed. The re­verse of this pro­cess was il­lus­trat­ed by the fate of demons. If a man lapsed from right liv­ing, his sec­ond state was al­ways worse than his first. He might then be born in hum­ble sur­round­ings or if his crimes were suf­fi­cient­ly great, he be­came a de­mon. As such, his ca­pac­ity for evil was great­ly in­creased and his chances of ul­ti­mate sal­va­tion cor­re­spond­ing­ly wors­ened. Yet even for demons, the ul­ti­mate goal was the same--re­lease from liv­ing and bliss­ful iden­ti­fi­ca­tion with the Supreme.

_Dhar­ma_ alone, how­ev­er, could not di­rect­ly achieve this end. This could be done by the path of _yo­ga_ or self-​dis­ci­pline--a path which in­volved penances, med­ita­tion and as­ceti­cism. By rid­ding his mind of all de­sires and at­tach­ments, by con­cen­trat­ing on pure ab­strac­tions, the as­cetic 'ob­tained in­sight which no words could ex­press. Grad­ual­ly plumb­ing the cos­mic mys­tery, his soul en­tered realms far be­yond the com­par­ative­ly tawdry heav­ens where the great gods dwelt in light and splen­dour. Go­ing “from dark­ness to dark­ness deep­er yet,” he solved the mys­tery be­yond all mys­ter­ies; he un­der­stood, ful­ly and fi­nal­ly, the na­ture of the uni­verse and of him­self and he reached a realm of truth and bliss, be­yond birth and death. And with this tran­scen­dent knowl­edge came an­oth­er re­al­iza­tion--he was com­plete­ly, ut­ter­ly, free. He had found ul­ti­mate sal­va­tion, the fi­nal tri­umph of the soul.'[5] Such a com­plete iden­ti­fi­ca­tion with the supreme Spir­it, how­ev­er, was not eas­ily come by and of­ten many ex­is­tences were re­quired be­fore the yo­gi could achieve this sub­lime end.

There re­mained a third way--the path of _bhak­ti_ or de­vo­tion to God. If a man loved God not as an ab­stract spir­it but as a lov­ing Per­son, if he loved with in­ten­si­ty and sin­gle­ness of heart, ado­ra­tion it­self might ob­tain for him the same re­ward as a suc­ces­sion of good lives. Vish­nu as pro­tec­tor might re­ward love with love and con­fer im­me­di­ate­ly the bless­ing of sal­va­tion.

The re­sult, then, was that three cours­es were now open to a man and whether he fol­lowed one or oth­er de­pend­ed on his own par­tic­ular cast of mind, the de­gree of his will-​pow­er, the strength of his pas­sions and fi­nal­ly, his ca­pac­ity for re­nun­ci­ation, righ­teous­ness and love. On these qual­ifi­ca­tions the up­shot would large­ly de­pend. But they were not the on­ly fac­tors. Since gods and demons were part of the world, a man could be aid­ed or frus­trat­ed ac­cord­ing as gods or demons chose to in­ter­vene. Life could, in fact, be viewed from two an­gles. On the one hand it was one long ef­fort to blend with the God­head--an ef­fort which on­ly the in­di­vid­ual could make. On the oth­er hand, it was a war be­tween good and evil, gods and demons; and to such a con­test, God as Vish­nu could not re­main in­dif­fer­ent. While the forces of evil might prop­er­ly be al­lowed to test or tax the good, they could nev­er be per­mit­ted com­plete­ly to win the day. When, there­fore, evil ap­peared to be in the as­cen­dant, Vish­nu in­ter­vened and cor­rect­ed the bal­ance. He took flesh and en­ter­ing the world, slew demons, heart­ened the righ­teous and from time to time con­ferred sal­va­tion by di­rect­ly ex­empt­ing in­di­vid­uals from fur­ther re-​births.

It is these be­liefs which gov­ern the _Ma­hab­hara­ta_ epic and pro­vide the clue to Kr­ish­na's role. Its prime sub­ject is a feud be­tween two fam­ilies, a feud which racks and fi­nal­ly de­stroys them. At the same time, it is very much more. Pri­or to the events nar­rat­ed in the text, Vish­nu has al­ready un­der­gone sev­en in­car­na­tions, tak­ing the forms of a fish, tor­toise, boar and man-​li­on and lat­er those of Va­mana the dwarf, Para­sur­ama ('Ra­ma with the Axe'), and fi­nal­ly, the prince­ly Ra­ma. In each of these in­car­na­tions he has in­ter­vened and, for the time be­ing, rec­ti­fied the bal­ance. Dur­ing the pe­ri­od cov­ered by the epic, he un­der­goes an eighth in­car­na­tion and it is in con­nec­tion with this supreme­ly vi­tal in­ter­ven­tion that Kr­ish­na ap­pears.

To un­der­stand the char­ac­ter which now un­folds, we must briefly con­sid­er the cen­tral sto­ry of the _Ma­hab­hara­ta_. This is nar­rat­ed in the most baf­fling and stu­pen­dous de­tail. Cum­brous names con­front us on ev­ery side while di­gres­sions and sub-​plots add to the gen­er­al at­mo­sphere of con­fu­sion and com­plex­ity. It is idle to hope that this vast panora­ma can arouse great in­ter­est in the West and even in In­dia it is un­like­ly that many would now ap­proach its gi­gan­tic recital with pre­mo­ni­tions of de­light. It is rather as a nec­es­sary back­ground that its main out­lines must be grasped, for with­out them Kr­ish­na's char­ac­ter and ca­reer can hard­ly be ex­plained.

The epic be­gins with two ri­val fam­ilies each pos­sessed of a com­mon an­ces­tor, Ku­ru, but stand­ing in bit­ter ri­val­ry to each oth­er. Ku­ru is suc­ceed­ed by his sec­ond son, Pan­du, and lat­er by Dhri­tarash­tra, his first son but blind. Pan­du has five sons, who are called Pan­davas af­ter him, while Dhri­tarash­tra has a hun­dred sons called Kau­ravas af­ter Ku­ru, their com­mon grand­fa­ther. As chil­dren the two fam­ilies grow up at the same court, but al­most im­me­di­ate­ly jeal­ousies arise which are to have a dead­ly out­come. Ha­tred be­gins when in boy­ish con­tests the Pan­davas out­do the Kau­ravas. The lat­ter re­sent their ar­ro­gance and present­ly their fa­ther, the blind king, is per­suad­ed to ap­prove a plot by which the five Pan­davas will be killed. They are to sleep in a house which dur­ing the night will be burnt down. The plot, how­ev­er, mis­car­ries. The house is burnt, but un­be­known to the Kau­ravas, the five broth­ers es­cape and tak­ing with them their moth­er, Kun­ti, go for safe­ty to the for­est. Here they wan­der for a while dis­guised as Brah­mans or priests but reach at last the king­dom of Pan­cha­la. The King of Pan­cha­la has a daugh­ter, Drau­pa­di, whose hus­band is to be cho­sen by a pub­lic archery com­pe­ti­tion. Ar­ju­na, one of the five broth­ers, wins the con­test and gains her as bride. The Pan­davas, how­ev­er, are polyan­drous and thus, on be­ing mar­ried to one broth­er, Drau­pa­di is al­so mar­ried to the oth­er four. At the wed­ding the Pan­davas dis­close their iden­ti­ties. The Kau­ravas learn that they are still alive and in due course are rec­on­ciled. They re­in­state the Pan­davas and give them half the king­dom. Be­fore Ar­ju­na, how­ev­er, can prof­it from the truce, he in­fringes by ac­ci­dent his el­der broth­er's pri­va­cy by stum­bling on him while he is with their com­mon wife. As a con­se­quence he vi­olates a stand­ing agree­ment and has no al­ter­na­tive but to go in­to ex­ile for twelve years. Ar­ju­na leaves the court, vis­its oth­er lands, ac­quires a new wife and makes a new al­liance. In oth­er re­spects, all is well and the two fam­ilies look for­ward to many years of peace­ful co-​ex­is­tence.

The fates, how­ev­er, seem de­ter­mined on their de­struc­tion. The lead­er of the Pan­davas is their el­dest broth­er, Yud­histhi­ra. He con­quers many oth­er lands and is en­cour­aged to claim the ti­tle, 'ruler of the world.' The claim is made at a great sac­ri­fice ac­com­pa­nied by a feast. The claim in­cens­es the Kau­ravas and once again the an­cient feud re­vives. Them­selves ex­pert gam­blers, they chal­lenge Yud­histhi­ra to a con­test by dice. Yud­histhi­ra stupid­ly agrees and wa­ger­ing first his king­dom, then his broth­ers and fi­nal­ly his wife, los­es all and goes again in­to ex­ile. With him go the oth­er Pan­davas, in­clud­ing Ar­ju­na who has since re­turned. For twelve years they roam the forests, brood­ing on their fate and plan­ning re­venge. When their ex­ile ends, they at once de­clare war. Both sides seek al­lies, ef­forts at peace­mak­ing are foiled and the two clash on the bat­tle-​field of Ku­ruk­shetra. For eigh­teen days the bat­tle rages till fi­nal­ly the Pan­davas are vic­to­ri­ous. Their suc­cess, how­ev­er, is at an ap­palling cost. Dur­ing the con­test all five Pan­davas lose their sons. The hun­dred sons of their ri­val, the blind king Dhri­tarash­tra, are dead and with a sense of trag­ic fu­til­ity, the epic ends.

It is as an ac­tor in this tan­gled dra­ma that Kr­ish­na ap­pears. Along­side the Pan­davas and the Kau­ravas in North­ern In­dia is a pow­er­ful peo­ple, the Ya­davas. They live by graz­ing cat­tle but pos­sess towns in­clud­ing a cap­ital, the city of Dwar­ka in West­ern In­dia. At this cap­ital re­sides their ruler or king and with him is a pow­er­ful prince, Kr­ish­na. This Kr­ish­na is re­lat­ed to the ri­val fam­ilies, for his fa­ther, Va­sude­va, is broth­er of Kun­ti, the Pan­davas' moth­er. From the out­set, there­fore, he is placed in in­ti­mate prox­im­ity to the chief pro­tag­onists. For the mo­ment, how­ev­er, he him­self is not in­volved and it is on­ly af­ter the Pan­davas have gone in­to ex­ile and reached the king­dom of Pan­cha­la that he makes his en­trance. The oc­ca­sion is the archery con­test for the hand of Drau­pa­di. Kr­ish­na is there as an hon­oured guest and when Ar­ju­na makes the win­ning shot, he im­me­di­ate­ly rec­og­nizes the five Pan­davas as his kins­men al­though as refugees they are still dis­guised as Brah­mans. When the as­sem­bled princes an­gri­ly protest at Drau­pa­di's union with a Brah­man, and seem about to fight, Kr­ish­na in­ter­venes and per­suades them to ac­cept the de­ci­sion. Lat­er he se­cret­ly meets the Pan­davas and sends them wed­ding presents. Al­ready, there­fore, he is ful­fill­ing a sig­nif­icant role. He is a pow­er­ful lead­er, a rel­ative of the cen­tral fig­ures and if on­ly be­cause the feud is not his own, he is above the con­flict and to some ex­tent ca­pa­ble of in­flu­enc­ing its out­come.

His next ap­pear­ance brings him clos­er still to the Pan­davas. When Ar­ju­na is ex­iled for his breach of mar­riage eti­quette, he vis­its Kr­ish­na in his city of Dwar­ka. A great fes­ti­val is held and in the course of it Ar­ju­na falls in love with Kr­ish­na's sis­ter, Sub­hadra. Kr­ish­na favours the mar­riage but ad­vis­es Ar­ju­na to mar­ry her by cap­ture. Ar­ju­na does so and by be­com­ing Kr­ish­na's broth­er-​in-​law ce­ments still fur­ther their re­la­tion­ship.

This friend­ship has one fur­ther con­se­quence, for, af­ter Ar­ju­na has com­plet­ed his ex­ile and re­turned to the Pan­da­va court, Kr­ish­na vis­its him and the two go in­to the coun­try for a pic­nic. 'Af­ter a few days, Ar­ju­na said to Kr­ish­na, “The sum­mer days have come. Let us go to the Riv­er Jum­na, amuse our­selves with some friends and come back in the evening.” Kr­ish­na replied, “I would like that very much. Let us go for a bathe.” So Ar­ju­na and Kr­ish­na set out with their friends. Reach­ing a fine spot fit for plea­sure and over­grown with trees, where sev­er­al tall hous­es had been built, the par­ty went in­side. Food and wine, wreaths of flow­ers and fra­grant per­fumes were laid out and at once they be­gan to frol­ic at their will. The girls in the par­ty with de­light­ful round­ed haunch­es, large breasts and hand­some eyes be­gan to flirt as Ar­ju­na and Kr­ish­na com­mand­ed. Some played about in the woods, some in the wa­ter, some in­side the hous­es. And Drau­pa­di and Sub­hadra who were al­so in the par­ty gave the girls and wom­en cost­ly dress­es and gar­ments. Then some of them be­gan to dance, some to sing, some laughed and joked, some drank wine. And the hous­es and woods, filled with the noise of flutes and drums, be­came the very seat of plea­sure.'[6]

A lit­tle lat­er, Kr­ish­na is ac­cord­ed spe­cial sta­tus. At the sac­ri­fice per­formed by Yud­histhi­ra as 'ruler of the world,' gifts of hon­our are dis­tribut­ed. Kr­ish­na is among the as­sem­bled guests and is pro­posed as first re­cip­ient. On­ly one per­son ob­jects, a cer­tain king Sisu­pala, who nurs­es a stand­ing grievance against him. A quar­rel en­sues and dur­ing it Kr­ish­na kills him. Kr­ish­na's pri­or­ity is then ac­claimed but the in­ci­dent serves al­so to demon­strate his abil­ity as a fight­er.

One oth­er as­pect of Kr­ish­na's char­ac­ter re­mains to be not­ed. Be­sides be­ing a bold war­rior, he is above all an as­tute and able al­ly. Dur­ing the Pan­davas' fi­nal ex­ile in the for­est, he urges them to re­pu­di­ate their ban­ish­ment and make war. When the ex­ile is over and war is near, he acts as peace-​mak­er, urg­ing the Kau­ravas to make con­ces­sions. When he is foiled by Dury­od­hana, the blind king's son, he at­tempts to have him kid­napped. Fi­nal­ly, once the great bat­tle is joined, he of­fers both sides a choice. Each may have the help ei­ther of him­self alone or of his im­me­di­ate kins­men, the Vr­ish­nis. The Vr­ish­nis will fight in the bat­tle, while Kr­ish­na him­self will mere­ly ad­vise from a dis­tance. The Kau­ravas choose the fight­ers, the Pan­davas Kr­ish­na. Kr­ish­na ac­cord­ing­ly aids the Pan­davas with coun­sel. He ac­com­pa­nies Ar­ju­na as his char­io­teer and dur­ing the bat­tle is a con­stant ad­vo­cate of treach­ery. As Ka­ma, a lead­ing Kau­ra­va, fights Ar­ju­na, his char­iot gets stuck and he dis­mounts to see to it. The rules of war de­mand that Ar­ju­na should now break off but Kr­ish­na urges him to con­tin­ue and Ka­ma is killed un­re­sist­ing. Sim­ilar­ly when Bhi­ma, one of the five Pan­da­va broth­ers, is fight­ing Dury­od­hana with his club, Kr­ish­na eggs him on to deal a foul blow. Bhi­ma does so and Dury­od­hana dies from a bro­ken thigh. In all these en­coun­ters, Kr­ish­na shows him­self com­plete­ly amoral, achiev­ing his ends by the very au­dac­ity of his means.

So far, Kr­ish­na's char­ac­ter is mere­ly that of a feu­dal mag­nate, and there is noth­ing in his views or con­duct to sug­gest that he is Vish­nu or God. Two in­ci­dents in the epic, how­ev­er, sud­den­ly re­veal his true role. The first is when Yud­histhi­ra has gam­bled away Drau­pa­di and the Kau­ravas are in­tent on her dis­hon­our. They at­tempt to make her naked. As one of them tries to re­move her clothes, Drau­pa­di be­seech­es Kr­ish­na as Vish­nu to in­ter­vene and save her. Kr­ish­na does so and by his help she re­mains clothed; how­ev­er many times her dress is re­moved. The sec­ond oc­ca­sion is on the fi­nal bat­tle-​field of Ku­ruk­shetra. Ar­ju­na, see­ing so many broth­ers, un­cles and cousins ranged on ei­ther side is moved to pity at the sense­less na­ture of the strife and con­fides his an­guished doubts in Kr­ish­na. Kr­ish­na seems, at first, to be on­ly his friend, his broth­er-​in-​law and ad­vis­er. He points out that to a war­rior noth­ing is no­bler than a righ­teous war and de­clares, 'Do your du­ty al­ways but with­out at­tach­ment.' He then ad­vo­cates the two paths of _yo­ga_(knowl­edge) and _dhar­ma_ (righ­teous­ness). 'Even if a man falls away from the prac­tice of _yo­ga_, he will still win the heav­en of the do­ers of good deeds and dwell there many long years. Af­ter that, he will be re­born in­to the home of pure and pros­per­ous par­ents. He will then re­gain that spir­itu­al dis­cern­ment which he ac­quired in his for­mer body; and so he will strive hard­er than ev­er for per­fec­tion. Be­cause of his prac­tices in the pre­vi­ous life, he will be driv­en on to­ward union with the Spir­it, even in spite of him­self. For the man who has once asked the way to the Spir­it goes far­ther than any mere ful­filler of the Vedic rit­uals. By strug­gling hard, that yo­gi will move grad­ual­ly to­wards per­fec­tion through many births and reach the high­est goal at last[7].

But it is the path of _bhak­ti_ or de­vo­tion to a per­son­al God which com­mands Kr­ish­na's strongest ap­proval and leads him to make his startling rev­ela­tion. 'Have your mind in Me, be de­vot­ed to Me. To Me shall you come. What is true I promise. Dear are you to Me. They who make Me their supreme ob­ject, they to Me are dear. Though I am the un­born, the change­less Self, I con­di­tion my na­ture and am born by my pow­er. To save the good and de­stroy evil­do­ers, to es­tab­lish the right, I am born from age to age. He who knows this when he comes to die is not re­born but comes to Me.' He speaks, in fact, as Vish­nu him­self.

This dec­la­ra­tion is to prove the vi­tal clue to Kr­ish­na's char­ac­ter. It is to be ex­pand­ed in lat­er texts and is to ac­count for the fer­vour with which he is soon to be adored. For the present, how­ev­er, his claim is in the na­ture of an aside. Af­ter the bat­tle, he re­sumes his life as a prince and it is more for his shrewd­ness as a coun­cil­lor than his teach­ing as God that he is hon­oured and revered. Yet spe­cial majesty sur­rounds him and when, thir­ty-​six years af­ter the con­flict, a hunter mis­takes him for a deer and kills him by shoot­ing him in the right foot[8], the Pan­davas are in­con­solable. They re­treat to the Hi­malayas, die one by one and are trans­lat­ed to In­dra's heav­en[9].

Such an ac­count is ob­vi­ous­ly a great ad­vance on the _Chan­do­gya Up­an­ishad_. Yet, as we pon­der its in­tri­cate dra­ma, we are faced with sev­er­al in­tractable is­sues. It is true that a de­tailed char­ac­ter has emerged, a fig­ure who is iden­ti­fied with def­inite ac­tions and cer­tain clear-​cut prin­ci­ples. It is true al­so that his char­ac­ter as Vish­nu has been as­sert­ed. But it is Kr­ish­na the feu­dal hero who through­out the sto­ry takes, by far, the lead­ing part. Be­tween this hero and Kr­ish­na the God, there is no very clear con­nec­tion. The cir­cum­stances in which Vish­nu has tak­en form as Kr­ish­na are nowhere made plain. Ex­cept on the two oc­ca­sions men­tioned, Kr­ish­na is ap­par­ent­ly not rec­og­nized as God by oth­ers and does not him­self claim this sta­tus. In­deed it is vir­tu­al­ly on­ly as an af­terthought that the epic is used to trans­mit his great ser­mon, and al­most by ac­ci­dent that he be­comes the most sig­nif­icant fig­ure in the sto­ry. Even the ser­mon at first sight seems at vari­ance with his ac­tions as a coun­cil­lor--his re­peat­ed re­course to treach­ery ill con­sort­ing with the paramount­cy of du­ty. In point of fact, such a con­flict can be eas­ily rec­on­ciled for if God is supreme, he is above and be­yond morals. He can act in any way he pleas­es and yet, as God, can ex­pect and re­ceive the high­est rev­er­ence. God, in fact, is su­pe­ri­or to ethics. And this view­point is, in fact, to prove a ba­sic as­sump­tion in lat­er ver­sions of the sto­ry. Here it is suf­fi­cient to note that while the _Ma­hab­hara­ta_ de­scribes these two con­trast­ing modes of be­haviour, no at­tempt is made to face the ex­act is­sue. Kr­ish­na as God has been in­tro­duced rather than ex­plained and we are left with the feel­ing that much more than has been record­ed re­mains to be said.

This feel­ing may well have dogged the writ­ers who put the _Ma­hab­hara­ta_ in­to its present shape for, a lit­tle lat­er, pos­si­bly dur­ing the sixth cen­tu­ry A.D., an ap­pendix was added. This ap­pendix was called the _Hari­vansa_ or Ge­neal­ogy of Kr­ish­na[10] and in it were pro­vid­ed all those de­tails so man­ifest­ly want­ing in the epic it­self. The ex­act na­ture of Kr­ish­na is ex­plained--the cir­cum­stances of his birth, his youth and child­hood, the whole be­ing weld­ed in­to a co­her­ent scheme. In this sto­ry Kr­ish­na the feu­dal mag­nate takes a nat­ural place but there is no longer any con­tra­dic­tion be­tween his char­ac­ter as a prince and his char­ac­ter as God. He is, above all, an in­car­na­tion of Vish­nu and his im­me­di­ate pur­pose is to van­quish a par­tic­ular tyrant and heart­en the righ­teous. This view­point is main­tained in the _Vish­nu Pu­rana_, an­oth­er text of about the sixth cen­tu­ry and is de­vel­oped and il­lus­trat­ed in the tenth and eleventh books of the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_. It is this lat­ter text--a vast com­pendi­um of per­haps the ninth or tenth cen­tu­ry--which af­fords the fullest ac­count in lit­er­ature of Kr­ish­na's sto­ry.

[Foot­note 3: Note 3.]

[Foot­note 4: Note 4.]

[Foot­note 5: A.L. Basham, _The Won­der that was In­dia_, 245.]

[Foot­note 6: _Ma­hab­hara­ta, Adi Par­va_, Sec­tion 224 (Roy, I, 615-16).]

[Foot­note 7: C. Ish­er­wood and S. Prab­ha­vanan­da, _The Song of God, Bha­gavad-​Gi­ta_, 86-7.]

[Foot­note 8: Plate 2.]

[Foot­note 9: Note 5.]

[Foot­note 10: Note 6.]

III

THE _BHA­GA­VA­TA PU­RANA_: THE COWHERD

(i) Birth and Ear­ly Ad­ven­tures

The _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_ is couched in the form of a di­alogue be­tween a sage and a king. The king is the suc­ces­sor of the Pan­davas but is doomed to die with­in a week for hav­ing by ac­ci­dent in­sult­ed a holy as­cetic. To en­sure his sal­va­tion, he spends the week lis­ten­ing to the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_ and con­cen­trat­ing his mind on Kr­ish­na whom he de­clares to be his helper.[11]

Book Ten be­gins by de­scrib­ing the par­tic­ular sit­ua­tion which leads to Kr­ish­na's birth. The scene is Mathu­ra, a town in north­ern In­dia, ad­join­ing the king­dom of the Kau­ravas. The sur­round­ing coun­try is known as Braj and its rul­ing fam­ilies are the Ya­davas. Just out­side Mathu­ra is the dis­trict of Goku­la which is in­hab­it­ed by cowherds. These are on friend­ly terms with the Ya­davas, but are in­fe­ri­or to them in caste and sta­tus. The time is some fifty years or more be­fore the bat­tle of Ku­ruk­shetra and the rul­ing king is Ugrase­na. Ugrase­na's queen is Pa­vanarekha and a mishap to her sets in train a se­ries of mo­men­tous events.

One day she is tak­ing the air in a park, when she miss­es her way and finds her­self alone. A de­mon, Dru­ma­li­ka, is pass­ing and, en­tranced by her grace, de­cides to rav­ish her. He takes the form of her hus­band, Ugrase­na, and de­spite Pa­vanarekha's protests pro­ceeds to en­joy her. Af­ter­wards he as­sumes his true shape. Pa­vanarekha is dis­mayed but the de­mon tells her that he has giv­en her a son who will 'van­quish the nine di­vi­sions of the earth, rule supreme and fight Kr­ish­na.' Pa­vanarekha tells her maids that a mon­key has been trou­bling her. Ten months lat­er a son is born. He is named Kansa and the court re­joic­es.

As Kansa grows up he re­veals his de­mon's na­ture. He ig­nores his fa­ther's words, mur­ders chil­dren and de­feats in bat­tle King Jarasand­ha of Ma­ga­dha.[12] The lat­ter gives him two daugh­ters in mar­riage. He then de­pos­es his fa­ther, throws him in­to prison, as­sumes his pow­ers and bans the wor­ship of Vish­nu. As his crimes in­crease, he ex­tends his con­quests. At last Earth can bear the bur­den no longer and ap­peals to the gods to ap­proach the supreme De­ity, Brah­ma, to rid her of the load. Brah­ma as Cre­ator can hard­ly do this, but Vish­nu as Pre­serv­er agrees to in­ter­vene and plans are laid. Among the Ya­da­va no­bil­ity are two up­right per­sons. The first is De­va­ka, the younger broth­er of King Ugrase­na and thus an un­cle to the tyrant. The sec­ond is a cer­tain Va­sude­va. De­va­ka has six daugh­ters, all of whom he mar­ries to Va­sude­va. The sev­enth is called De­va­ki. Vish­nu an­nounces that De­va­ki will al­so be mar­ried to Va­sude­va, and pluck­ing out two of his hairs--one black and one white--he de­clares that these will be the means by which he will ease Earth's bur­den. The white hair is part of Se­sha, the great ser­pent, which is it­self a part of Vish­nu and this will be im­per­son­at­ed as De­va­ki's sev­enth child. The black hair is Vish­nu's own self which will be im­per­son­at­ed as De­va­ki's eighth child. The child from the white hair will be known as Balara­ma and the child from the black hair as Kr­ish­na. As Kr­ish­na, Vish­nu will then kill Kansa. Earth is grat­ified and re­tires and the stage is set for Kr­ish­na's com­ing.

De­va­ki, with Kansa's ap­proval, is now mar­ried to Va­sude­va. The wed­ding is be­ing cel­ebrat­ed in the grand­est man­ner when a voice from heav­en is heard say­ing, 'Kansa, the eighth son of her whom you are now es­cort­ing will cause your de­struc­tion. You shall die at his hand.' Kansa is great­ly alarmed and is about to slay De­va­ki when Va­sude­va agrees to yield him all their sons. Kansa ac­cord­ing­ly spares her. Each of De­va­ki's first six sons, how­ev­er, is de­liv­ered up at birth and each is slaugh­tered.

As the time for ful­fill­ing the prophe­cy ap­proach­es, Kansa grows fear­ful. He learns that gods and god­dess­es are be­ing born as cowherds and cow­girls and, in­ter­pret­ing this as a sign that Kr­ish­na's birth is near, he com­mands his men to slaugh­ter ev­ery cowherd in the city. A great round-​up en­sues and many cowherds are killed. The lead­ing cowherd is a wealthy herds­man named Nan­da, who lives with his wife Ya­so­da in the coun­try dis­trict of Goku­la. Al­though of low­er caste, he is Va­sude­va's chief friend and in view of the im­mi­nent dan­gers con­fronting his fam­ily, it is to Nan­da that Va­sude­va now sends one of his oth­er wives, Ro­hi­ni. De­va­ki has mean­while con­ceived her sev­enth son, the white hair of Vish­nu, and soon to be rec­og­nized as Kr­ish­na's broth­er. To avoid his mur­der by Kansa, Vish­nu has the foe­tus trans­ferred from De­va­ki's womb to that of Ro­hi­ni, and the child, named Balara­ma, is born to Ro­hi­ni, Kansa be­ing in­formed that De­va­ki has mis­car­ried. The eighth preg­nan­cy now oc­curs. Kansa in­creas­es his pre­cau­tions. De­va­ki and Va­sude­va are hand­cuffed and man­acled. Guards are mount­ed and be­sides these, ele­phants, li­ons and dogs are placed out­side. The un­born child, how­ev­er, tells them not to fear and De­va­ki and Va­sude­va com­pose their minds.

Kr­ish­na is now born, dark as a cloud and with eyes like lo­tus­es. He is clad in a yel­low vest and wears a crown. He takes the form of Vish­nu and com­mands Va­sude­va to bear him to Nan­da's house in Goku­la and sub­sti­tute him for the in­fant daugh­ter who has just been born to Ya­so­da, Nan­da's wife. De­va­ki and Va­sude­va wor­ship him. The vi­sion then fades and they dis­cov­er the new-​born child cry­ing at their side. They de­bate what to do--De­va­ki urg­ing Va­sude­va to take the ba­by to Nan­da's house where Ro­hi­ni, his oth­er wife, is still liv­ing and where Ya­so­da will re­ceive it. Va­sude­va is won­der­ing how to es­cape when his hand­cuffs and chains fall off, the doors open and the guards are seen to be asleep. Plac­ing Kr­ish­na in a bas­ket, he puts it on his head and sets out for Goku­la. As he goes, li­ons roar, the rain pours down and the riv­er Jum­na faces him. There is no help but to ford it and Va­sude­va ac­cord­ing­ly en­ters the stream. The wa­ter gets high­er and high­er un­til it reach­es his nose. When he can go no far­ther, the in­fant Kr­ish­na stretch­es out a foot, calms the riv­er and the wa­ter sub­sides. Va­sude­va now ar­rives at Nan­da's house where he finds that Ya­so­da has borne a girl and is in a trance. Va­sude­va puts Kr­ish­na be­side her, takes up the ba­by girl, re­cross­es the riv­er and joins De­va­ki in her prison. The doors shut, the hand­cuffs and fet­ters close on them again and as the ba­by starts to cry, the guards awake. A sen­try then car­ries Kansa the news. Kansa hur­ries to the spot, seizes the child and tries to dash it on a stone. As he does so the child be­comes the god­dess De­vi and ex­claim­ing that Kansa's en­emy is born else­where and noth­ing can save him, van­ish­es in­to heav­en.[13] Kansa is great­ly shak­en and or­ders all male chil­dren to be killed,[14] but re­leas­es Va­sude­va and De­va­ki.

Mean­while Nan­da, the rich herds­man, is cel­ebrat­ing the birth. Pan­dits and as­trologers are sent for, the child's horo­scope is cast and his des­tiny fore­told. He will be a sec­ond de­ity like Brah­ma him­self. He will de­stroy demons, re­lieve the land of Braj of all its cares, be called the lord of the cow­girls and be praised the whole world over. Nan­da promis­es to ded­icate cows, loads the Brah­mans with presents, and sum­mons all the mu­si­cians and singers of the city. Singing, danc­ing and mu­sic break forth, the court­yards throng with peo­ple, and the cowherds of Goku­la come in with their wives. On their heads are pitch­ers full of curd and as a mag­ical means of en­sur­ing pros­per­ity, they pro­ceed to throw it over the gath­er­ing. Nan­da presents them with cloth and be­tel and they de­part elat­ed at the news.

Some days lat­er Nan­da learns of Kansa's or­der to seize all male chil­dren and, deem­ing it pru­dent to of­fer presents, he col­lects the cowherds in a body and goes to Mathu­ra to pay trib­ute. Kansa re­ceives him and on his way back Va­sude­va meets him at the riv­er. He dare not dis­close his se­cret that Kr­ish­na is not Nan­da's son but his own. At the same time he can­not sup­press his anx­iety as a fa­ther. He con­tents him­self by telling Nan­da that demons and evil spir­its are abroad seek­ing to de­stroy young chil­dren and urges him to re­turn to Goku­la as quick­ly as pos­si­ble.

The _Pu­rana_ now con­cen­trates on two main themes: on Kr­ish­na's in­fan­cy in Goku­la, di­lat­ing on his ba­by pranks, his ca­pac­ity for mis­chief, the love he arous­es in the hearts of his fos­ter-​moth­er, Ya­so­da, and of all the mar­ried cow­girls and, sec­ond­ly, on his su­per­nat­ural pow­ers and skill in rid­ding the coun­try of trou­ble­some demons. These are at first shown as hos­tile to Kr­ish­na on­ly, but as the sto­ry un­folds, his role grad­ual­ly widens and we see him act­ing as the cowherds' al­ly, pro­tect­ing them from harm, at­tack­ing the forces of evil and thus ful­fill­ing the supreme pur­pose for which he has been born. From time to time the cowherds re­al­ize that Kr­ish­na is Vish­nu and adore him as God. Then am­ne­sia in­ter­venes. They re­tain no rec­ol­lec­tion of the vi­sion and see him sim­ply as a youth­ful cowherd, charm­ing in man­ner, whose skill in slay­ing demons arous­es their love. In this way Kr­ish­na lives among them--in fact, God, but in the eyes of the peo­ple, a young boy.[15]

The first de­mon to threat­en Kr­ish­na's life is a huge ogress named Putana. Her role is that of child-​killer--any child who is suck­led in the night by Putana in­stant­ly dy­ing. Putana as­sumes the form of a sweet and charm­ing girl, dabs her breasts with poi­son and while Nan­da is still at Mathu­ra, comes gai­ly to his house. En­tranced by her ap­pear­ance, Ya­so­da al­lows her to hold the ba­by Kr­ish­na and then to suck­le him. Kr­ish­na, how­ev­er, is im­per­vi­ous to the poi­son, and fas­ten­ing his mouth to her breast, he be­gins to suck her life out with the milk. Putana, feel­ing her life go­ing, rush­es wild­ly from the vil­lage, but to no avail. Kr­ish­na con­tin­ues suck­ing and the ogress dies. When Ya­so­da and Ro­hi­ni catch up with her, they find her huge car­cass ly­ing on the ground with Kr­ish­na still suck­ing her breast. 'Tak­ing him up quick­ly and kiss­ing him, they pressed him to their bo­soms and hur­ried home.'

Nan­da now ar­rives from Mathu­ra and con­grat­ulates the cowherds on their es­cape--so great was Putana's size that her body might have crushed and over­whelmed the whole colony. He then ar­ranges for her burn­ing but as her flesh is be­ing con­sumed, a strange per­fume is no­ticed for Kr­ish­na, when killing her, had grant­ed her sal­va­tion.

A sec­ond de­mon now in­ter­venes. It is twen­ty-​sev­en days since Kr­ish­na's birth. Brah­mans and cowherds have been sum­moned to a feast, the cow­girls are singing songs and ev­ery­one is laugh­ing and eat­ing. Kr­ish­na for the time be­ing is out of their minds, hav­ing been put to sleep be­neath a heavy cart load­ed with pitch­ers. A lit­tle lat­er he wakes up, be­gins to cry for the breast and find­ing no one there wrig­gles about and starts to suck a toe. At this mo­ment the de­mon, Sak­ta­sura, is fly­ing through the sky. He no­tices the child and alights on the cart. His weight cracks it but be­fore the cart can col­lapse, Kr­ish­na kicks out so sharply that the de­mon dies and the cart falls to pieces. Hear­ing a great crash, the cow­girls dash to the spot, mar­vel­ling that al­though the cart is in splin­ters and all the pots bro­ken, Kr­ish­na has sur­vived.

The third at­tack oc­curs when Kr­ish­na is five months old. Ya­so­da is sit­ting with him in her lap when she no­tices that he has sud­den­ly be­come very heavy. At the same time, the whirl­wind de­mon, Tri­navar­ta, rais­es a great storm. The sky dark­ens, trees are up­root­ed and thatch dis­lodged. As Ya­so­da sets Kr­ish­na down, Tri­navar­ta seizes him and whirls him in­to the air. Ya­so­da finds him sud­den­ly gone and calls out, 'Kr­ish­na, Kr­ish­na.' The cow­girls and cowherds join her in the search, peer­ing for him in the gusty gloom of the dark storm. Full of mis­ery, they search the for­est and can find him nowhere. Kr­ish­na, rid­ing through the air, how­ev­er, can see their dis­tress. He twists Tri­navar­ta round, forces him down and dash­es him to death against a stone. As he does so, the storm light­ens, the wind drops and the cowherds and cow­girls re­gain their homes. There they dis­cov­er a de­mon ly­ing dead with Kr­ish­na play­ing on its chest. Filled with re­lief, Ya­so­da picks him up and hugs him to her breast.

Va­sude­va now in­structs his fam­ily priest, Gar­ga the sage, to go to Goku­la, meet Nan­da and give Kr­ish­na and Balara­ma prop­er names. Ro­hi­ni, he points out, has had a son, Balara­ma, and Nan­da has al­so had a son, Kr­ish­na. It is time that each should be for­mal­ly named. The sage is de­light­ed to re­ceive the com­mis­sion and on ar­riv­ing is warm­ly wel­comed. He de­clines, how­ev­er, to an­nounce the chil­dren's names in pub­lic, fear­ing that his con­nec­tion with Va­sude­va will cause Ra­ja Kansa to con­nect Kr­ish­na with the eighth child--his fat­ed en­emy. Nan­da ac­cord­ing­ly takes him in­side his house and there the sage names the two chil­dren. Balara­ma is giv­en sev­en names, but Kr­ish­na's names, he de­clares, are num­ber­less. Since, how­ev­er, Kr­ish­na was once born in Va­sude­va's house, he is called Va­sude­va. As to their qual­ities, the sage goes on, both are gods. It is im­pos­si­ble to un­der­stand their state, but hav­ing killed Kansa, they will re­move the bur­dens of the world. He then goes silent­ly away. This is the first time that Nan­da and Ya­so­da are told the true facts of Kr­ish­na's birth. They do not, how­ev­er, make any com­ment and for the time be­ing it is as if they are still quite ig­no­rant of Kr­ish­na's des­tiny. They con­tin­ue to treat him as their son and no hint es­capes them of his true iden­ti­ty.

Mean­while Kr­ish­na, along with Ro­hi­ni's son, Balara­ma, is grow­ing up as a ba­by. He crawls about the court­yard, lisps his words, plays with toys and pulls the calves' tails, Ya­so­da and Ro­hi­ni all the time show­er­ing up­on him their dot­ing love. When he can walk, Kr­ish­na starts to go about with oth­er chil­dren and there then en­sues a se­ries of naughty pranks. His favourite pas­time is to raid the hous­es of the cow­girls, pil­fer their cream and curds, steal but­ter and up­set milk pails. When, as some­times hap­pens, the but­ter is hung from the roof, they pile up some of the house­hold fur­ni­ture. One of the boys then mounts up­on it, an­oth­er climbs on his shoul­ders, and in this way gets the but­ter down.[16] As the pil­fer­ing in­creas­es, the mar­ried cow­girls learn that Kr­ish­na is the ringlead­er and con­trive one day to catch him in the act. 'You lit­tle thief,' they say, 'At last we've caught you. So it's you who took our but­ter and curds. You won't es­cape us now.' And tak­ing him by the hand they march him to Ya­so­da. Kr­ish­na, how­ev­er, is not to be out­wit­ted. Em­ploy­ing his su­per­nat­ural pow­ers, he sub­sti­tutes the cow­girls' own sons for him­self and while they go to Ya­so­da, him­self slips off and joins his play­mates in the fields. When the cow­girls reach Ya­so­da, they com­plain of Kr­ish­na's thefts and tell her that at last they have caught him and here he is. Ya­so­da an­swers, 'But this is not Kr­ish­na. These are your own sons.' The cow­girls look at the chil­dren, dis­cov­er the trick, are cov­ered in con­fu­sion and burst out laugh­ing. Ya­so­da then sends for Kr­ish­na and for­bids him to steal from oth­er peo­ple's hous­es. Kr­ish­na pre­tends to be high­ly in­dig­nant. He calls the cow­girls liars and ac­cus­es them of al­ways mak­ing him do their work. If he is not hav­ing to hold a milk pail or a calf, he says, he is do­ing a house­hold chore or even keep­ing watch for them while they ne­glect their work and gos­sip. The cow­girls lis­ten in as­ton­ish­ment and go away.

An­oth­er day Kr­ish­na is play­ing in a court­yard and takes it in­to his head to eat some dirt. Ya­so­da is told of it and in a fit of anger runs to­wards him with a stick. 'Why are you eat­ing mud?' she cries. 'What mud?' says Kr­ish­na. 'The mud one of your friends has just told me you have eat­en. If you haven't eat­en it, open your mouth.' Kr­ish­na opens it and look­ing in­side, Ya­so­da sees the three worlds. In a mo­ment of per­cep­tion, she re­al­izes that Kr­ish­na is God. 'What am I do­ing in look­ing up­on the Lord of the three worlds as my son?' she cries. Then the vi­sion fades and she picks up Kr­ish­na and kiss­es him.

An­oth­er day, Ya­so­da asks the mar­ried cow­girls to as­sist her in churn­ing milk. They clean the house, set up a large ves­sel, pre­pare the churn­ing staff and string, and start to churn. Kr­ish­na is awak­ened by the noise and find­ing no one about comes cry­ing to Ya­so­da. 'I am hun­gry, moth­er,' he says. 'Why have you not giv­en me any­thing to eat?' And in a fit of petu­lance he starts to throw the but­ter about and kick over the pitch­ers. Ya­so­da tells him not to be so naughty, sits him on her lap and gives him some milk. While she is do­ing this, a cow­girl tells her that the milk has boiled over and Ya­so­da jumps up leav­ing Kr­ish­na alone. While she is away he breaks the pots, scat­ters the curds, makes a mess of all the rooms and, tak­ing a pot full of but­ter, runs away with it in­to the fields. There he seats him­self on an up­turned mor­tar, as­sem­bles the oth­er boys and vast­ly pleased with him­self, laugh­ing­ly shares the but­ter out. When Ya­so­da re­turns and sees the mess, she seizes a stick and goes to look for Kr­ish­na. She can­not find it in her heart, how­ev­er, to be an­gry for long and when Kr­ish­na says, 'Moth­er, let me go. I did not do it,' she laughs and throws the stick away. Then pre­tend­ing to be still very an­gry, she takes him home and ties him to a mor­tar. A lit­tle lat­er a great crash is heard. Two huge trees have fall­en and when the cowherds hur­ry to the spot, they find that Kr­ish­na has dragged the mor­tar be­tween the trunks, pulled them down and is qui­et­ly sit­ting be­tween them.[17] Two youths--by name Nala and Ku­vara--have been im­pris­oned in the trees and Kr­ish­na's ac­tion has re­leased them. When she sees that Kr­ish­na is safe, Ya­so­da un­ties him from the mor­tar and hugs him to her.

This in­ci­dent of the trees now forces Nan­da to make a de­ci­sion. The var­ious hap­pen­ings have been pro­found­ly un­nerv­ing and he feels that it is no longer safe to stay in Goku­la. He de­cides there­fore to move a day's march far­ther on, to cross the riv­er and set­tle in the forests of Brind­aban. The cowherds ac­cord­ing­ly load up their pos­ses­sions on carts and the move en­sues.[18]

The sto­ry now en­ters its sec­ond phase. Kr­ish­na is no longer a mis­chievous ba­by, in­dulging in tantrums yet wring­ing the heart with his child­ish an­tics. He is now five years old and of an age to make him­self use­ful. He asks to be al­lowed to graze the calves. At first Ya­so­da is un­will­ing. 'We have got so many ser­vants,' she says. 'It is their job to take the calves out. Why go your­self? You are the pro­tec­tion of my eye-​lids and dear­er to me than my eyes.' Kr­ish­na, how­ev­er, in­sists and in the end she en­trusts him and Balara­ma to the oth­er young cowherds, telling them on no ac­count to leave them alone in the for­est, but to bring them safe­ly home. Her words are, in fact, on­ly too nec­es­sary, for Kansa, the tyrant king, is still in quest of the child who is to kill him. His de­mon min­ions are still on the alert, at­tack­ing any like­ly boy, and as Kr­ish­na plays with the cowherds and tends the calves, he suf­fers a fur­ther se­ries of at­tacks.

A cow de­mon, Vat­sasura, tries to min­gle with the herd. The calves sense its pres­ence and as it si­dles up, Kr­ish­na seizes it by the hind leg, whirls it round his head and dash­es it to death. A crane de­mon, Baka­sura, then ap­proach­es. The cowherds rec­og­nize it, but while they are won­der­ing how to es­cape, the crane opens its beak and en­gulfs Kr­ish­na. Kr­ish­na, how­ev­er, be­comes so hot that the crane can­not re­tain him. It lets him go. Kr­ish­na then tears its beak in two, rounds up the calves and tak­ing the cowherd boys with him, re­turns home.

An­oth­er day Kr­ish­na is out in the for­est with the cowherds and the calves, when a snake de­mon, Ugra­sura, sucks them in­to its mouth. Kr­ish­na ex­pands his body to such an ex­tent that the snake bursts. The calves and cowherd chil­dren come tum­bling out and all praise Kr­ish­na for sav­ing them. On the way back, Kr­ish­na sug­gests that they should have a pic­nic and choos­ing a great _kadam_ tree, they sweep the place clean, set out their food and pro­ceed to en­joy it. As they eat, the gods look down, not­ing how hand­some the young Kr­ish­na has grown. Among the gods is Brah­ma, who de­cides to tease Kr­ish­na by hid­ing the calves while the cowherd chil­dren are eat­ing.[19] He takes them to a cave and when Kr­ish­na goes in search of them, hides the cowherd chil­dren as well. Kr­ish­na, how­ev­er, is not to be de­terred. Cre­at­ing du­pli­cates of ev­ery calf and boy he brings them home. No one de­tects that any­thing is wrong and for a year they live as if noth­ing has hap­pened. Brah­ma has mean­while sunk him­self in med­ita­tion, but sud­den­ly re­calls his prank and hur­ries out to set mat­ters right. He is as­ton­ished to find the orig­inal calves and chil­dren still sleep­ing in the cave, while their coun­ter­parts roam the for­est. He humbly wor­ships Kr­ish­na, re­stores the orig­inal calves and chil­dren and re­turns to his abode. When the cowherd chil­dren awake, Kr­ish­na shows them the calves. No one re­al­izes what has hap­pened. The pic­nic con­tin­ues and laugh­ing and play­ing they go home.

We now en­ter the third phase of Kr­ish­na's child­hood. He is eight years old and is there­fore com­pe­tent to graze not mere­ly the calves but the cows as well.[20] Nan­da ac­cord­ing­ly per­forms the nec­es­sary rit­ual and Kr­ish­na goes with the cowherds to the for­est.

An idyl­lic phase in Kr­ish­na's life now starts. 'At this time Kr­ish­na and Balara­ma, ac­com­pa­nied by the cow-​boys, tra­versed the forests, that echoed with the hum of bees and the pea­cock's cry. Some­times they sang in cho­rus or danced to­geth­er; some­times they sought shel­ter from the cold be­neath the trees; some­times they dec­orat­ed them­selves with flow­ery gar­lands, some­times with pea­cocks' feath­ers; some­times they stained them­selves of var­ious hues with the min­er­als of the moun­tain; some­times weary they re­posed on beds of leaves, and some­times im­itat­ed in mirth the mut­ter­ing of the thun­der­cloud; some­times they ex­cit­ed their ju­ve­nile as­so­ciates to sing, and some­times they mim­icked the cry of the pea­cock with their pipes. In this man­ner par­tic­ipat­ing in var­ious feel­ings and emo­tions, and af­fec­tion­ate­ly at­tached to each oth­er, they wan­dered, sport­ing and hap­py, through the wood. At eveningtide came Kr­ish­na and Balara­ma, like to cow­boys, along with the cows and the cowherds. At eveningtide the two im­mor­tals, hav­ing come to the cow-​pens, joined hearti­ly in what­ev­er sports amused the sons of the herds­men.'[21]

One day as they are graz­ing the cows, they play a game. Kr­ish­na di­vides the cows and cowherds in­to two sides and col­lect­ing flow­ers and fruits pre­tends that they are weapons. They then stage a mock bat­tle, pelt­ing each oth­er with the fruits. A lit­tle lat­er Balara­ma takes them to a grove of palm trees. The ass de­mon, Dhenu­ka, guards it. Balara­ma, how­ev­er, seizes it by its hind legs, twists it round and hurls it in­to a high tree. From the tree the de­mon falls down dead. When Dhenu­ka's com­pan­ion ass­es has­ten to the spot, Kr­ish­na kills them al­so. The cowherds then pick the co­conuts to their hearts' con­tent, fill a quan­ti­ty of bas­kets and hav­ing grazed the cows, go strolling home.

The next morn­ing Kr­ish­na ris­es ear­ly, calls the cowherds and takes the cows to the for­est. As they are graz­ing them by the Jum­na, they reach a dan­ger­ous whirlpool. In this whirlpool lives the gi­ant snake, Kaliya, whose poi­son has be­fouled the wa­ter, cur­dling it in­to a great froth. The cowherds and the cat­tle drink some of it, are tak­en ill, but re­vive at Kr­ish­na's glance. They then play ball. A soli­tary _kadam_ tree is on the bank. Kr­ish­na climbs it and a cowherd throws the ball up to him. The ball goes in­to the wa­ter and Kr­ish­na, think­ing this the mo­ment for quelling the great snake, plunges in af­ter it. Kaliya de­tects that an in­trud­er has en­tered the pool, be­gins to spout poi­son and fire and en­cir­cles Kr­ish­na in its coils. In their alarm the cowherds send word to Nan­da and along with Ya­so­da, Ro­hi­ni and the oth­er cow­girls, he has­tens to the scene. Kr­ish­na can no longer be seen and in her ag­ita­tion Ya­so­da is about to throw her­self in. Kr­ish­na, how­ev­er, is mere­ly play­ing with the snake. In a mo­ment he ex­pands his body, jumps from the coils and be­gins to dance on the snake's heads. 'Hav­ing the weight of three worlds,' the _Pu­rana_ says, 'Kr­ish­na was very heavy.' The snake fails to sus­tain this danc­ing bur­den, its heads droop and blood flows from its tongues. It is about to die when the snake-​queens bow at Kr­ish­na's feet and im­plore his mer­cy. Kr­ish­na re­lents, spares the snake's life but ban­ish­es it to a dis­tant is­land.[22] He then leaves the riv­er, but the ex­haus­tion of the cowherds and cow­girls is so great that they de­cide to stay in the for­est for the night and re­turn to Brind­aban next morn­ing. Their tri­als, how­ev­er, are far from over. At mid­night there is a heavy storm and a huge con­fla­gra­tion. Scar­let flames leap up, dense smoke en­gulfs the for­est and many cat­tle are burnt alive. Find­ing them­selves in great dan­ger, Nan­da, Ya­so­da and the cowherds call on Kr­ish­na to save them. Kr­ish­na qui­et­ly ris­es up, sucks the fire in­to his mouth and ends the blaze.

The hot weath­er now comes. Trees are heavy with blos­som, pea­cocks strut in the glades and a gen­er­al lethar­gy seizes the cowherds. One day Kr­ish­na and his friends are out with the cat­tle when Pralam­ba, a de­mon in hu­man form, comes to join them. Kr­ish­na warns Balara­ma of the de­mon's pres­ence and tells him to await an op­por­tu­ni­ty to kill him. He then di­vides the cowherds in­to two groups and starts them on the game of guess­ing fruits and flow­ers. Kr­ish­na's side los­es and as a penal­ty they have to run a cer­tain dis­tance car­ry­ing Balara­ma's side on their shoul­ders. Pralam­ba car­ries Balara­ma. He runs so fast that he quick­ly out­strips the oth­ers. As he reach­es the for­est, he changes size, be­com­ing 'large as a black hill.' He is about to kill Balara­ma when Balara­ma him­self rains blows up­on him and kills him in­stead.[23] While this is hap­pen­ing, the cows get lost, an­oth­er for­est fire en­sues and Kr­ish­na has once again to in­ter­vene. He ex­tin­guish­es the fire, re­gains the cat­tle and es­corts the cowherds to their homes.[24] When the oth­ers hear what has hap­pened, they are filled with won­der 'but ob­tain no clue to the ac­tions of Kr­ish­na.'

Dur­ing all this time, Kr­ish­na as 'son' of the wealth­iest and most in­flu­en­tial cowherd, Nan­da, has been read­ily ac­cept­ed by the cowherd chil­dren as their nat­ural lead­er. His lack of fear, his brav­ery in cop­ing with demons, his re­source­ful­ness in ex­tri­cat­ing the cowherds from awk­ward sit­ua­tions, his com­plete self-​con­fi­dence and fi­nal­ly his prince­ly bear­ing have re­vealed him as some­one al­to­geth­er above the or­di­nary. From time to time he has dis­closed his true na­ture as Vish­nu but al­most im­me­di­ate­ly has ex­er­cised his 'il­lu­so­ry' pow­er and pre­vent­ed the cowherds from re­mem­ber­ing it. He has con­se­quent­ly lived among them as God but their love and ad­mi­ra­tion are still for him as a boy. It is at this point that the _Pu­rana_ now moves to what is per­haps its most sig­nif­icant phase--a de­scrip­tion of Kr­ish­na's ef­fects on the cow­girls.

[Foot­note 11: Note 7.]

[Foot­note 12: Ma­ga­dha--a re­gion cor­re­spond­ing to present-​day South Bi­har.]

[Foot­note 13: Plate 3.]

[Foot­note 14: Note 8.]

[Foot­note 15: Note 9.]

[Foot­note 16: Plate 4.]

[Foot­note 17: Plate 5.]

[Foot­note 18: Plate 6. In the _Hari­vansa_, the cause of the mi­gra­tion is giv­en as a dan­ger­ous in­flux of wolves.]

[Foot­note 19: Note 10.]

[Foot­note 20: Plate 7.]

[Foot­note 21: Note 7.]

[Foot­note 22: Plate 8.]

[Foot­note 23: Plate 9.]

[Foot­note 24: Plate 10.]

(ii) The Loves of the Cow­girls

We have seen how dur­ing his in­fan­cy Kr­ish­na's pranks have al­ready made him the dar­ling of the wom­en. As he grows up, he ac­quires a more adult charm. In years he is still a boy but we are sud­den­ly con­front­ed with what is to prove the very heart of the sto­ry--his ro­mances with the cow­girls. Al­though all of them are mar­ried, the cow­girls find his pres­ence ir­re­sistible and de­spite the warn­ings of moral­ity and the ex­is­tence of their hus­bands, each falls ut­ter­ly in love with him. As Kr­ish­na wan­ders in the for­est, the cow­girls can talk of noth­ing but his charms. They do their work but their thoughts are on him. They stay at home but all the time each is filled with des­per­ate long­ing. One day Kr­ish­na plays on his flute in the for­est. Play­ing the flute is the cowherds' spe­cial art and Kr­ish­na has, there­fore, learnt it in his child­hood. But, as in ev­ery­thing else, his skill is quite ex­cep­tion­al and Kr­ish­na's play­ing has thus a beau­ty all its own. From where they are work­ing the cow­girls hear it and at once are plunged in ag­ita­tion. They gath­er on the road and say to each oth­er, 'Kr­ish­na is danc­ing and singing in the for­est and will not be home till evening. On­ly then shall we see him and be hap­py.'

One cow­girl says, 'That hap­py flute to be played on by Kr­ish­na! Lit­tle won­der that hav­ing drunk the nec­tar of his lips the flute should trill like the clouds. Alas! Kr­ish­na's flute is dear­er to him than we are for he keeps it with him night and day. The flute is our ri­val. Nev­er is Kr­ish­na part­ed from it.' A sec­ond cow­girl speaks. 'It is be­cause the flute con­tin­ual­ly thought of Kr­ish­na that it gained this bliss.' And a third says, 'Oh! why has Kr­ish­na not made us in­to flutes that we might stay with him day and night?' The sit­ua­tion in fact has changed overnight for far from mere­ly ap­peal­ing to the cow­girls' ma­ter­nal in­stincts, Kr­ish­na is now the dar­ling ob­ject of their most in­tense pas­sion.

Faced with this sit­ua­tion, the cow­girls dis­cuss how best to gain Kr­ish­na as their lover. They re­call that bathing in the ear­ly win­ter is be­lieved to wipe out sin and ful­fil the heart's de­sires. They ac­cord­ing­ly go to the riv­er Jum­na, bathe in its wa­ters and af­ter mak­ing clay im­ages of Par­vati, Si­va's con­sort, pray to her to make Kr­ish­na theirs. They go on do­ing this for many days.

One day they choose a part of the riv­er where there is a steep bank. Tak­ing off their clothes they leave them on the grass verge, en­ter the wa­ter and swim around call­ing out their love for Kr­ish­na. Un­known to them, Kr­ish­na is in the vicin­ity and is graz­ing the cows. He steals qui­et­ly up, sees them in the riv­er, makes their clothes in­to a bun­dle and then climbs up with it in­to a tree. When the cow­girls come out of the wa­ter, they can­not find their clothes un­til at last one of them spies Kr­ish­na sit­ting in the tree. The cow­girls hur­ried­ly squat down in the wa­ter en­treat­ing Kr­ish­na to re­turn their clothes. Kr­ish­na, how­ev­er, tells them to come up out of the wa­ter and ask him one by one. The cow­girls say, 'But this will make us naked. You are mak­ing an end of our friend­ship.' Kr­ish­na says, 'Then you shall not have your clothes back.' The cow­girls an­swer, 'Why do you treat us so? It is on­ly for you that we have bathed all these days.' Kr­ish­na an­swers, 'If that is re­al­ly so, then do not be bash­ful or de­ceive me. Come and take your clothes.' Find­ing no al­ter­na­tive, the cow­girls ar­gue amongst them­selves that since Kr­ish­na al­ready knows the se­crets of their minds and bod­ies, there is no point in be­ing ashamed be­fore him, and they come up out of the wa­ter shield­ing their naked­ness with their hands.[25] Kr­ish­na tells them to raise their hands and then he will re­turn their clothes. The cow­girls do so beg­ging him not to make fun of them and to give them at least some­thing in re­turn. Kr­ish­na now hands the clothes back giv­ing as ex­cuse for his con­duct the fol­low­ing some­what specious rea­son. 'I was on­ly giv­ing you a les­son,' he says. 'The god Varuna lives in wa­ter, so if any­one goes naked in­to it he los­es his char­ac­ter. This was a se­cret, but now you know it.' Then he re­lents. 'I have told you this be­cause of your love. Go home now but come back in the ear­ly au­tumn and we will dance to­geth­er.' Hear­ing this the cow­girls put on their clothes and wild with love re­turn to their vil­lage.

At this point the cow­girls' love for Kr­ish­na is clear­ly phys­ical. Al­though pre­co­cious in his han­dling of the sit­ua­tion, Kr­ish­na is still the rich herds­man's hand­some son and it is as this rather than as God that they re­gard him. Yet the po­si­tion is nev­er whol­ly free from doubt for in lov­ing Kr­ish­na as a youth, it is as if they are from time to time aware of ador­ing him as God. No pre­cise iden­ti­fi­ca­tions are made and yet so strong are their pas­sions that seem­ing­ly on­ly God him­self could evoke them. And al­though no def­inite ex­pla­na­tion is of­fered, it is per­haps this same idea which un­der­lies the fol­low­ing in­ci­dent.

One day Kr­ish­na is in the for­est when his cowherd com­pan­ions com­plain of feel­ing hun­gry. Kr­ish­na ob­serves smoke ris­ing from the di­rec­tion of Mathu­ra and in­fers that the Brah­mans are cook­ing food prepara­to­ry to mak­ing sac­ri­fice. He asks the cowherds to tell them that Kr­ish­na is hun­gry and would like some of this food. The Brah­mans of Mathu­ra an­gri­ly spurn the re­quest, say­ing 'Who but a low cowherd would ask for food in the midst of a sac­ri­fice?' 'Go and ask their wives,' Kr­ish­na says, 'for be­ing kind and vir­tu­ous they will sure­ly give you some.' Kr­ish­na's pow­er with wom­en is then demon­strat­ed once more. His fame as a steal­er of hearts has pre­ced­ed him and the cowherds have on­ly to men­tion his name for the wives of the Brah­mans to run to serve him. They bring out gold dish­es, load them with food, brush their hus­bands aside and hur­ry to the for­est. One hus­band stops his wife, but rather than be left be­hind the wom­an leaves her body and reach­es Kr­ish­na be­fore the oth­ers. When the wom­en ar­rive they mar­vel at Kr­ish­na's beau­ty. 'He is Nan­da's son,' they say. 'We heard his name and ev­ery­thing else was driv­en from our minds. Let us gaze on this dar­ling ob­ject of our lives. O Kr­ish­na, it is due to you that we have seen you and thus got rid of all our sins. Those stupid Brah­mans, our hus­bands, mis­took you for a mere man. But you are God. As God they of­fer to you prayers, penance, sac­ri­fice and love. How then can they de­ny you food?' Kr­ish­na replies that they should not wor­ship him for he is on­ly the child of the cowherd, Nan­da. He was hun­gry and they took pity on him, and he on­ly re­grets that be­ing far from home he can­not re­turn their hos­pi­tal­ity. They must now go home as their pres­ence is need­ed for the sac­ri­fices and their hus­bands must still be wait­ing. So cool an an­swer dis­mays the wom­en and they say, 'Great king, we loved your lo­tus-​like face. We came to you de­spite our fam­ilies. They tried to stop us but we ig­nored them. If they do not take us back, where shall we go? And one of us, pre­vent­ed by her hus­band, gave her life rather than not see you.' At this Kr­ish­na smiles, re­veals the wom­an and says, 'Who­ev­er loves God nev­er dies. She was here be­fore you.' Kr­ish­na then eats the food and as­sur­ing them that their hus­bands will say noth­ing, sends them back to Mathu­ra. When they ar­rive, they find the Brah­mans chas­tened and con­trite--curs­ing their fol­ly in hav­ing failed to rec­og­nize Kr­ish­na as God and en­vi­ous of their wives for hav­ing seen him and giv­en him food.

Hav­ing hum­bled the Brah­mans, Kr­ish­na now turns to the gods, choos­ing In­dra, their chief, for at­tack. The mo­ment is his an­nu­al wor­ship when the cowherds of­fer sweets, rice, saf­fron, san­dal and in­cense. See­ing them busy, Kr­ish­na asks Nan­da what is the point of all their prepa­ra­tions. What good can In­dra re­al­ly do? he asks. He is on­ly a god, not God him­self. He is of­ten worsted by demons and ab­ject­ly put to flight. In fact he has no pow­er at all. Men pros­per be­cause of their virtues or their fates, not be­cause of In­dra. As cowherds, their busi­ness is to car­ry on agri­cul­ture and trade and to tend cows and Brah­mans. Their ear­li­est books, the Vedas, re­quire them not to aban­don their fam­ily cus­toms and Kr­ish­na then cites as an an­cient prac­tice the cus­tom of pla­cat­ing the spir­its of the forests and hills. This cus­tom, he says, they have wrong­ly su­per­seded in favour of In­dra and they must now re­vive it. Nan­da sees the force of Kr­ish­na's re­marks and holds a meet­ing. 'Do not brush aside his words as those of a mere boy,' he says. 'If we face the facts, we have re­al­ly noth­ing to do with the ruler of the gods. It is on the forests, rivers and the great hill, Go­vard­hana, that we re­al­ly de­pend.' The cowherds ap­plaud this ad­vice, re­solve to aban­don the gods and in their place to wor­ship the moun­tain, Go­vard­hana. The wor­ship of the hill is then per­formed. Kr­ish­na ad­vis­es the cowherds to shut their eyes and the spir­it of the hill will then show it­self. He then as­sumes the spir­it's form him­self, telling Nan­da and the cowherds that in re­sponse to their wor­ship the moun­tain spir­it has ap­peared. The cowherds' eyes are eas­ily de­ceived. Be­hold­ing, as they think, Go­vard­hana him­self, they make of­fer­ings and go re­joic­ing home.

Such an act of de­fi­ance great­ly en­rages In­dra and he as­sem­bles all the gods. He for­gets that ear­li­er in the sto­ry it was the gods them­selves who begged Vish­nu to be born on earth and that many of their num­ber have even tak­en birth as cowherds and cow­girls in or­der to de­light in Kr­ish­na as his in­car­na­tion. In­stead he sees Kr­ish­na as 'a great talk­er, a sil­ly un­in­tel­li­gent child and very proud.' He scoffs at the cowherds for re­gard­ing Kr­ish­na as a god, and in or­der to re­in­state him­self he or­ders the clouds to rain down tor­rents. The cowherds, faced with floods on ev­ery side, ap­peal to Kr­ish­na. Kr­ish­na, how­ev­er, is ful­ly alive to the po­si­tion. He calms their fears and rais­ing the hill Go­vard­hana, sup­ports it on his lit­tle fin­ger.[26] The cowherds and cat­tle take shel­ter un­der it and al­though In­dra him­self comes and pours down rain for sev­en days, Braj and its in­hab­itants stay dry. In­dra is com­pelled to ad­mit that Vish­nu has in­deed de­scend­ed in the form of Kr­ish­na and re­tires to his abode. Kr­ish­na then sets the hill down in its for­mer place. Fol­low­ing this dis­com­fi­ture, In­dra comes down from the sky ac­com­pa­nied by his white ele­phant and by Surab­hi, the cow of plen­ty. He of­fers his sub­mis­sion to Kr­ish­na, is par­doned and re­turns.

All these events bring to a head the prob­lem which has been ex­er­cis­ing the cowherds for long--who and what is Kr­ish­na? Ob­vi­ous­ly no sim­ple boy could lift the moun­tain on his fin­ger. He must clear­ly be some­one much greater and they con­clude that Kr­ish­na can on­ly be Vish­nu him­self. They ac­cord­ing­ly be­seech him to show them the par­adise of Vish­nu. Kr­ish­na agrees, cre­ates a par­adise and shows it to them. The cowherds see it and praise his name. Yet it is part of the sto­ry that these flash­es of in­sight should be evanes­cent--that hav­ing re­al­ized one in­stant that Kr­ish­na is God, the cowherds should re­gard him the next in­stant as one of them­selves. Hav­ing re­vealed his true na­ture, there­fore, Kr­ish­na be­comes a cowherd once again and is ac­cept­ed by the cowherds as be­ing on­ly that.

One fur­ther in­ci­dent must be record­ed. In com­pli­ance with a vow, Nan­da as­sem­bles the cowherds and cow­girls and goes to the shrine of De­vi, the Earth Moth­er, to cel­ebrate Kr­ish­na's twelfth birth­day. There they make lav­ish of­fer­ings of milk, curds and but­ter and thank the god­dess for pro­tect­ing Kr­ish­na for so long. Night comes on and they camp near the shrine. As Nan­da is sleep­ing, a huge python be­gins to swal­low his foot.[27] Nan­da calls to Kr­ish­na, who has­tens to his res­cue. Logs are tak­en from a fire, but as soon as the snake is touched by Kr­ish­na, a hand­some young man emerges and stands be­fore him with fold­ed hands. He ex­plains that he was once the ce­les­tial dancer, Su­darsana who in ex­cess of pride drove his char­iot back­wards and for­wards a hun­dred times over the place where a holy man was med­itat­ing. As a con­se­quence he was cursed and told to be­come a python un­til Kr­ish­na came and re­leased him. To at­tract Kr­ish­na's at­ten­tion he has seized the foot of Nan­da. Kr­ish­na bids him go and, as­cend­ing his char­iot, Su­darsana re­turns to the gods.

The _Pu­rana_ now re­turns to Kr­ish­na's en­coun­ters with the cow­girls, their pas­sion­ate long­ings and ar­dent de­sire to have him as their lover. Since the in­ci­dent at the riv­er, they have been wait­ing for him to keep his promise. Kr­ish­na, how­ev­er, has ap­peared bland­ly in­dif­fer­ent--go­ing to the for­est, play­ing with the cowherds but cold­ly ig­nor­ing the cow­girls them­selves. When au­tumn comes, how­ev­er, the beau­ty of the nights stirs his feel­ings. Be­lat­ed­ly he re­calls his promise and de­cides to ful­fil it. That night his flute sounds in the for­est, its notes reach­ing the ears of the cow­girls and thrilling them to the core. Like girls in trib­al In­dia to­day, they know it is a call to love. They put on new clothes, brush aside their hus­bands, ig­nore the oth­er mem­bers of their fam­ilies and hur­ry to the for­est. As they ar­rive, Kr­ish­na stands su­perbly be­fore them. He wears a crown of pea­cocks' feath­ers and a yel­low dhoti and his blue-​black skin shines in the moon­light. As the cow­girls throng to see him, he twits them on their con­duct. Are they not fright­ened at com­ing in­to the dark for­est? What are they do­ing aban­don­ing their fam­ilies? Is not such wild be­haviour quite un­be­fit­ting mar­ried girls? Should not a mar­ried girl obey her hus­band in all things and nev­er for a mo­ment leave him? Hav­ing en­joyed the deep for­est and the moon­light, let them re­turn at once and soothe their in­jured spous­es. The cow­girls are stunned to hear such words, hang their heads, sigh and dig their toes in­to the ground. They be­gin to weep and at last turn on Kr­ish­na, say­ing 'Oh! why have you de­ceived us so? It was your flute that made us come. We have left our hus­bands for you. We live for your love. Where are we to go?' 'If you re­al­ly love me,' Kr­ish­na an­swers 'Dance and sing with me.' His words fill the cow­girls with de­light and sur­round­ing Kr­ish­na 'like gold­en creep­ers grow­ing on a dark-​coloured hill,' they go with him to the banks of the Jum­na. Here Kr­ish­na has con­jured up a gold­en cir­cu­lar ter­race or­na­ment­ed with pearls and di­amonds and cooled by sprout­ing plan­tains. The moon pours down, sat­urat­ing the for­est. The cow­girls' joy in­creas­es. They beau­ti­fy their bod­ies and then, wild with love, join with Kr­ish­na in singing and danc­ing. Mod­esty deserts them and they do what­ev­er pleas­es them, re­gard­ing Kr­ish­na as their lover. As the night goes on, Kr­ish­na 'ap­pears as beau­ti­ful as the moon amidst the stars.'

As the cow­girls' ec­stasies pro­ceed, Kr­ish­na feels that they are fast ex­ceed­ing them­selves. They think that he is in their pow­er and are al­ready swelling with pride. He de­cides there­fore to leave them sud­den­ly, and tak­ing a sin­gle girl with him van­ish­es from the dance.[28] When they find him gone, the cow­girls are at a loss to know what to do. 'On­ly a mo­ment ago,' one of them says, 'Kr­ish­na's arms were about my neck, and now he has gone.' They be­gin to comb the for­est, anx­ious­ly ask­ing the trees, birds and an­imals, for news. As they go, they re­call Kr­ish­na's many win­ning ways, his sweet­ness­es of char­ac­ter, his heart-​pro­vok­ing charms and be­gin to mim­ic his acts--the slay­ing of Putana, the quelling of Kaliya, the lift­ing of the hill Go­vard­hana. One girl im­itates Kr­ish­na danc­ing and an­oth­er Kr­ish­na play­ing. In all these ways they strive to evoke his pas­sion­ate­ly-​de­sired pres­ence. At length they dis­cov­er Kr­ish­na's foot­prints and a lit­tle far­ther on those of a wom­an be­side them. They fol­low the trail which leads them to a bed of leaves and on the leaves they find a look­ing-​glass. 'What was Kr­ish­na do­ing with this?' they ask. 'He must have tak­en it with him,' a cow­girl an­swers, 'so that while he braid­ed his dar­ling's hair, she could still per­ceive his love­ly form.' And burn­ing with love, they con­tin­ue look­ing.

While they are search­ing, the par­tic­ular cow­girl who has gone with Kr­ish­na is tempt­ed to take lib­er­ties. Think­ing Kr­ish­na is her slave, she com­plains of feel­ing tired and asks him to car­ry her on his shoul­ders. Kr­ish­na smiles, sits down and asks her to mount. But as she puts out her hands, he van­ish­es and she re­mains stand­ing with hands out­stretched.[29] Tears stream from her eyes. She is filled with bit­ter grief and cries 'O Kr­ish­na! best of lovers, where have you gone? Take pity.'

As she is be­moan­ing her fate, her com­pan­ions ar­rive.[30] They put their arms around her, com­fort her as best they can, and then, tak­ing her with them, con­tin­ue through the moon­light their vain and an­guished search. Kr­ish­na still evades them and they re­turn to the ter­race where the night's danc­ing had be­gun. There they once again im­plore Kr­ish­na to have pity, declar­ing that there is none like him in charm, that he is end­less­ly fas­ci­nat­ing and that in all of them he has aroused ex­trem­ities of pas­sion­ate love. But the night is emp­ty, their cries go unan­swered, and moan­ing for the Kr­ish­na they adore, they toss and writhe on the ground.

At last, Kr­ish­na re­lents. He stands among them and see­ing him, their cares van­ish 'as creep­ers re­vive when sprin­kled with the wa­ter of life.' Some of the cow­girls hard­ly dare to be an­gry but oth­ers up­braid him for so brusque­ly de­sert­ing them. To all, Kr­ish­na gives the same an­swer. He is not to be judged by or­di­nary stan­dards. He is a con­stant ful­filler of de­sire. It was to test the strength of their love that he left them in the for­est. They have sur­vived this strin­gent test and con­vinced him of their love. The girls are in no mood to query his ex­pla­na­tion and 'unit­ing with him' they over­whelm him with fran­tic ca­ress­es.

Kr­ish­na now us­es his 'delu­sive pow­er' in or­der to pro­vide each girl with a sem­blance of him­self. He asks them to dance and then projects a whole se­ries of Kr­ish­nas. 'The cow­girls in pairs joined hands and Kr­ish­na was in their midst. Each thought he was at her side and did not rec­og­nize him near any­one else. They put their fin­gers in his fin­gers and whirled about with rap­tur­ous de­light. Kr­ish­na in their midst was like a love­ly cloud sur­round­ed by light­ning. Singing, danc­ing, em­brac­ing and lov­ing, they passed the hours in ex­trem­ities of bliss. They took off their clothes, their or­na­ments and jew­els and of­fered them to Kr­ish­na. The gods in heav­en gazed on the scene and all the god­dess­es longed to join. The singing mount­ed in the night air. The winds were stilled and the streams ceased to flow. The stars were en­tranced and the wa­ter of life poured down from the great moon. So the night went on--on and on--and on­ly when six months were over did the dancers end their joy.'

As, at last, the dance con­cludes, Kr­ish­na takes the cow­girls to the Jum­na, bathes with them in the wa­ter, rids him­self of fa­tigue and then af­ter once again grat­ify­ing their pas­sions, bids them go home. When they reach their hous­es, no one is aware that they have not been there all the time.

[Foot­note 25: Plate 11.]

[Foot­note 26: Plate 12.]

[Foot­note 27: Note 11.]

[Foot­note 28: Plate 13.]

[Foot­note 29: Plate 14.]

[Foot­note 30: Plate 15.]

(iii) The Death of the Tyrant

This scene with its crescen­dos of ex­cite­ment, its de­light in phys­ical pas­sion and ec­stat­ic ex­plo­ration of sex­ual de­sire is, in many ways, the cli­max of Kr­ish­na's pas­toral ca­reer. It ex­press­es the de­vo­tion felt for him by the cow­girls. It stress­es his lov­ing de­light in their com­pa­ny. It sug­gests the bliss­ful char­ac­ter of the ul­ti­mate union. No fur­ther rev­ela­tion, in fact, is nec­es­sary for this is the crux of Kr­ish­na's life. None the less the os­ten­si­ble rea­son for his birth re­mains--to rid the earth of the vi­cious tyrant Kansa--and to this the _Pu­rana_ now re­turns.

We have seen how in his anx­ious quest for the child who is to kill him, Kansa has dis­patched his de­mon war­riors on rov­ing com­mis­sions, au­tho­riz­ing them to at­tack and kill all like­ly chil­dren. Many chil­dren have in this way been slaugh­tered but Kansa is still un­cer­tain whether his prime pur­pose has been ful­filled. He has no cer­tain knowl­edge that among the dead chil­dren is his dread­ed en­emy. He is still un­aware that Kr­ish­na is des­tined to be his foe and he there­fore con­tin­ues the hunt, his de­mon emis­saries pounc­ing like com­man­dos on youth­ful strag­glers and hound­ing them to their deaths. Among such youths Kr­ish­na is still an ob­vi­ous tar­get and al­though un­aware that this is the true ob­ject of their quest, demons con­tin­ue to har­ry him.

One night Kr­ish­na and Balara­ma are in the for­est with the cow­girls when a yak­sha de­mon, Sankha­sura, a jew­el flash­ing in his head, comes among them. He drives the cow­girls off but hear­ing their cries, Kr­ish­na fol­lows af­ter. Balara­ma stays with the girls while Kr­ish­na catch­es and be­heads the de­mon.

On an­oth­er oc­ca­sion, Kr­ish­na and Balara­ma are re­turn­ing at evening with the cows when a bull de­mon ca­reers amongst them. He runs amok scat­ter­ing the cat­tle in all di­rec­tions. Kr­ish­na, how­ev­er, is not at all daunt­ed and af­ter wrestling with the bull, catch­es its horns and breaks its neck.

To such blind at­tacks there is no im­me­di­ate end. One day, how­ev­er, a sage dis­clos­es to Kansa the true iden­ti­ty of his en­emy. He tells him in what man­ner Balara­ma and Kr­ish­na were born, how Balara­ma was trans­ferred from De­va­ki's womb to that of Ro­hi­ni, and how Kr­ish­na was trans­port­ed to Nan­da's house in Goku­la. Kansa is now con­front­ed with the ghast­ly truth--how Va­sude­va's will­ing­ness to sur­ren­der his first six sons has lulled his sus­pi­cions, how his con­fi­dence in Va­sude­va has been en­tire­ly mis­placed, and how com­plete­ly he has been de­ceived. He sends for Va­sude­va and is on the point of killing him when the sage in­ter­pos­es, ad­vis­ing Kansa to im­prison Va­sude­va for the present and mean­while make an all-​out at­tempt to kill or cap­ture Balara­ma and Kr­ish­na. Kansa sees the force of his re­marks, spares Va­sude­va for the mo­ment, throws him and De­va­ki in­to jail and dis­patch­es a spe­cial de­mon, the horse Ke­si, on a mur­der­ous er­rand.

As the horse speeds on its way, Kansa as­sem­bles his de­mon coun­cil­lors, ex­plains the sit­ua­tion to them and asks for their ad­vice. If Kr­ish­na should not be killed in the for­est, the on­ly al­ter­na­tive, the demons sug­gest, is to de­coy him to Mathu­ra. Let a hand­some the­atre be built, a sac­ri­fice to Si­va held and a spe­cial fes­ti­val of arms pro­claimed. All the cowherds will nat­ural­ly come to see it. Nan­da, the rich herds­man, will bring presents, Kr­ish­na and Balara­ma will come with oth­er cowherds. When they have ar­rived the wrestler Cha­nu­ra can throw them down and kill them. Kansa is de­light­ed at the sug­ges­tion, adding on­ly that a sav­age ele­phant should be sta­tioned at the gate ready to tear Kr­ish­na and Balara­ma to pieces im­me­di­ate­ly they en­ter. He then dis­miss­es his de­mon ad­vis­ers and sends for Akru­ra, the chief of the Ya­davas and a lead­ing mem­ber of his court. Akru­ra, he judges, will be the best per­son to de­coy Kr­ish­na to Mathu­ra. He ac­cord­ing­ly briefs him as to his in­ten­tions and in­structs him to await or­ders. Akru­ra deems it politic to ex­press com­pli­ance but se­cret­ly is over­joyed that he will thus ob­tain ac­cess to the Kr­ish­na he adores.

The first stage of Kansa's mas­ter plan is now brought in­to ef­fect. The horse de­mon, Ke­si, reach­es Brind­aban and be­gins to paw the ground and kick up its heels. The cowherds are fright­ened but Kr­ish­na dares it to at­tack. The horse tries to bite him but Kr­ish­na plunges his hand down its throat and ex­pands it to a vast size un­til the de­mon bursts. Its re­mains lit­ter the ground but Kr­ish­na is so un­moved that he mere­ly sum­mons the cowherd chil­dren to play a game. Squat­ting with them un­der a fig tree, he names one of them a gen­er­al, an­oth­er a min­is­ter, a third a coun­cil­lor and him­self pre­tend­ing to be a ra­ja plays with them at be­ing king. A lit­tle lat­er they join him in a game of blind man's bluff.

This un­ex­pect­ed _dé­noue­ment_ en­rages Kansa but in­stead of de­sist­ing from the at­tempt and bring­ing in­to force the sec­ond part of his plan, he de­cides to make one fur­ther ef­fort to mur­der his hat­ed foe. He ac­cord­ing­ly sum­mons the wolf de­mon, Vya­ma­sura, gives him de­tailed in­struc­tions and dis­patch­es him to Brind­aban. The de­mon hies to the for­est, ar­riv­ing while Kr­ish­na and the chil­dren are still at blind man's buff. He has dressed him­self as a beg­gar and go­ing humbly up to Kr­ish­na asks if he may join in. Kr­ish­na tells him to choose what­ev­er game he likes and the de­mon says, 'What about the game of wolf and rams?' 'Very well,' Kr­ish­na an­swers, 'You be the wolf and the cowherd boys the rams.' They start to play and the de­mon rounds up all the chil­dren and keeps them in a cave. Then, as­sum­ing true wolf's form he pounces on Kr­ish­na. Kr­ish­na, how­ev­er, is quite pre­pared and seiz­ing the wolf by the throat, stran­gles it to death.

Akru­ra is now sent for and in­struct­ed to go to Brind­aban and re­turn with Kr­ish­na to Mathu­ra. He sets out and as he jour­neys al­lows his thoughts to dwell on the ap­proach­ing meet­ing. 'Now,' he mus­es 'has my life borne fruit; my night is fol­lowed by the dawn of day; since I shall see the coun­te­nance of Vish­nu, whose eyes are like the ex­pand­ed leaf of the lo­tus. I shall be­hold that lo­tus-​eyed as­pect of Vish­nu, which, when seen on­ly in imag­ina­tion, takes away the sins of men. I shall to­day be­hold that glo­ry of glo­ries, the mouth of Vish­nu, whence pro­ceed­ed the Vedas, and all their de­pen­dent sci­ences. I shall see the sovereign of the world, by whom the world is sus­tained; who is wor­shipped as the best of males, as the male sac­ri­fice in sac­ri­fi­cial rites. I shall see Vish­nu, who is with­out be­gin­ning or end; by wor­ship­ping whom with a hun­dred sac­ri­fices, In­dra ob­tained the sovereign­ty over the gods. The soul of all, the know­er of all, he who is all and is present in all, he who is per­ma­nent, un­de­cay­ing, all-​per­vad­ing will con­verse with me. He, the un­born, who has pre­served the world in the var­ious forms of a fish, tor­toise, a boar, a horse, a li­on will this day speak to me. Now the lord of the earth, who as­sumes shapes at will, has tak­en up­on him the con­di­tion of hu­man­ity, to ac­com­plish some ob­ject cher­ished in his heart. Glo­ry to that be­ing whose de­cep­tive adop­tion of fa­ther, son, broth­er, friend, moth­er, and rel­ative, the world is un­able to pen­etrate. May he in whom cause and ef­fect, and the world it­self, is com­pre­hend­ed, be pro­pi­tious to me, through his truth; for al­ways do I put my trust in that un­born, eter­nal Vish­nu; by med­ita­tion on whom man be­comes the repos­ito­ry of all good things.'[31]

He goes on to think of how he will kneel be­fore Kr­ish­na with fold­ed hands and af­ter­wards put on his head the dust of Kr­ish­na's feet--the same feet which 'have come to de­stroy crime, which fell on the snake Kaliya's head and which have danced with the cow­girls in the for­est.' Kr­ish­na, he be­lieves, will know at once that he is not Kansa's en­voy and will re­ceive him with kind­ness. And this is what ac­tu­al­ly en­sues. Meet­ing Kr­ish­na out­side Brind­aban, he falls at his feet, Kr­ish­na lifts him up, em­braces him and brings him in­to Nan­da's house. Akru­ra tells Nan­da and Kr­ish­na how Kansa has op­pressed the peo­ple of Mathu­ra, im­pris­oned Va­sude­va and De­va­ki and has now sent him to in­vite them to at­tend the fes­ti­val of arms. Kr­ish­na lis­tens and at once agrees to go, while Nan­da sends out a town-​crier to an­nounce by beat of drum that all the cowherds should get ready to leave the next day. When morn­ing comes, Kr­ish­na leaves in a char­iot, ac­com­pa­nied by the cowherds and their chil­dren.

The news of his sud­den de­par­ture dev­as­tates the cow­girls. Since the cir­cu­lar dance in which their love was con­sum­mat­ed, they have been meet­ing Kr­ish­na ev­ery evening and de­light­ing in his com­pa­ny. And dur­ing the day­time their pas­sion­ate long­ings have cen­tred sole­ly on him. That he should leave them so abrupt­ly caus­es them com­plete dis­may and they are on­ly com­fort­ed when Kr­ish­na as­sures them that he will re­turn af­ter a few days.

On the way to Mathu­ra Akru­ra bathes in the Jum­na and is grant­ed a vi­sion of Kr­ish­na as Vish­nu him­self.

Reach­ing Mathu­ra, Nan­da and the cowherds pitch their tents out­side the city walls[32] while Kr­ish­na with Balara­ma and the cowherd chil­dren go in­side the city for a walk. As they wan­der through the streets, the news of their ar­rival pre­cedes them and wom­en, ex­cit­ed by Kr­ish­na's name, throng the rooftops, bal­conies and win­dows. 'Some ran off in the mid­dle of their din­ner: oth­ers while bathing and oth­ers while en­gaged in plait­ing their hair. They for­got all dal­liance with their hus­bands and went to look at Kr­ish­na.' As Kr­ish­na pro­ceeds, he meets some of Kansa's wash­er­men car­ry­ing with them bun­dles of clothes. He asks them to give him some and when they refuse, he at­tacks one of them and strikes off his head. The oth­ers drop their bun­dles and run for their lives. The cowherd chil­dren try to dress them­selves up but not know­ing how to wear the clothes, some of them put their arms in­to trousers and their legs in­to coats. Kr­ish­na laughs at their mis­takes un­til a tai­lor, a ser­vant of Kansa, re­pu­di­ates his mas­ter, glo­ri­fies Kr­ish­na and sets the clothes right. A lit­tle lat­er, a gar­den­er takes them to his house and places gar­lands round their necks. As they are leav­ing, they meet a young wom­an, a hunch­back, car­ry­ing a pot of scent­ed oint­ment. Kr­ish­na can­not re­sist flirt­ing with her and asks her for whom she is car­ry­ing the oint­ment. The girl, Kub­ja, sees the amorous look in his eyes and be­ing great­ly tak­en by his beau­ty an­swers 'Dear one, do you not know that I am a ser­vant of Ra­ja Kansa and though a hunch­back am en­trust­ed with mak­ing his per­fumes?' 'Love­ly one,' Kr­ish­na an­swers, 'Give us a lit­tle of this oint­ment, just enough to rub on our bod­ies.' 'Take some,' says Kub­ja, and giv­ing it to Kr­ish­na and Balara­ma, she al­lows them to rub it on their bod­ies. When they have fin­ished, Kr­ish­na takes her un­der the chin, lifts her head and at the same time, press­es her feet down with his toes. In this way he straight­ens her back, there­by chang­ing her in­to the loveli­est of girls. Filled with love and grat­itude, Kub­ja catch­es Kr­ish­na by the dress and begs him to come and vis­it her. Kr­ish­na promis­es to go lat­er and smil­ing­ly dis­miss­es her.

Kr­ish­na now reach­es the gate where the bow of Si­va 'as long as three palm trees' and very heavy, is be­ing guard­ed by sol­diers. He picks it up, bends it to the full and breaks it in pieces. When the guards at­tack him, he kills them and present­ly slaugh­ters all the re­in­force­ments which Kansa sends. When the bat­tle is over, he strolls calm­ly back to the cowherds' tents.[33]

Next day, Kr­ish­na and the cowherds en­ter Mathu­ra to at­tend the sports. Kr­ish­na is ob­struct­ed by a gi­ant ele­phant, at­tacks it and af­ter a great fight kills it. He and Balara­ma then ex­tract the tusks and pa­rade with them in the are­na. It is now the turn of Kansa's wrestlers. Their lead­er, Cha­nu­ra, dares Kr­ish­na to give Kansa a lit­tle amuse­ment by wrestling with him. Kr­ish­na takes him at his word and again af­ter a fierce com­bat leaves the wrestler dead on the ground.[34] At the same time, Balara­ma at­tacks and kills a sec­ond wrestler, Mus­ta­ka. When oth­er wrestlers strive to kill Kr­ish­na and Balara­ma, they al­so are dis­patched. See­ing first one and then an­oth­er plan go astray, Kansa or­ders his re­main­ing demons to fetch Va­sude­va, De­va­ki and Ugrase­na, declar­ing that af­ter he has killed them he will put the two young men to death. This dec­la­ra­tion seals his fate. In a flash Kr­ish­na slays Kansa's demons and then, leap­ing on the dais where Kansa is sit­ting, he seizes him by the hair and hurls him to the ground. Kansa is killed and all Mathu­ra re­joic­es. Kansa's eight de­mon broth­ers are then slain and on­ly when Kr­ish­na has dragged Kansa's body to the riv­er Jum­na and is sure that not a sin­gle de­mon is left do he and Balara­ma de­sist from fight­ing.

[Foot­note 31: Note 7.]

[Foot­note 32: Plate 16.]

[Foot­note 33: Plate 16.]

[Foot­note 34: Plate 17.]

IV

THE _BHA­GA­VA­TA PU­RANA_: THE PRINCE

(i) The Re­turn to Court

The death of Kansa brings to a close the first phase of Kr­ish­na's ca­reer. His pri­ma­ry aim has now been ac­com­plished. The tyrant whose ex­cess­es have for so long vexed the righ­teous is dead. Earth's prayer has been grant­ed. Kr­ish­na has reached, in fact, a turn­ing-​point in his life and on what he now de­cides the rest of his ca­reer de­pends. If he holds that his earth­ly mis­sion is end­ed, he must quit his mor­tal body, re­sume his sub­lime ce­les­tial state and once again be­come the Vish­nu whose at­tributes have been praised by Akru­ra when jour­ney­ing to Brind­aban. If, on the oth­er hand, he re­gards his mis­sion as still un­ful­filled, is he to re­turn to Brind­aban or should he re­main in­stead at Mathu­ra? At Brind­aban, his fos­ter par­ents, Nan­da and Ya­so­da, his friends the cowherds and his loves the cow­girls long for his re­turn. He has spent idyl­lic days in their com­pa­ny. He has saved them from the dan­gers in­her­ent in for­est life. He has kept a host of de­mon ma­raud­ers at bay. At the same time, his mag­net­ic charms have aroused the most in­tense de­vo­tion. If he re­turns, it will be to dwell with peo­ple who have dot­ed on him as a child, adored him as a youth and who love him as a man. On the oth­er hand, Mathu­ra, it is clear, has al­so strong claims. Al­though reared and bred among the cowherds, Kr­ish­na is, in fact, a child of Mathu­ra. Al­though smug­gled from the prison im­me­di­ate­ly af­ter­wards, it was in Mathu­ra that he left his moth­er's womb. His true fa­ther is Va­sude­va, a lead­er of the Ya­da­va no­bil­ity and mem­ber of the Mathu­ra rul­ing caste. His true moth­er, De­va­ki, is re­lat­ed to the Mathu­ra roy­al fam­ily. If his youth and in­fan­cy have been passed among the cowherds, this was due to spe­cial rea­sons. His fa­ther's sub­sti­tu­tion of him at birth for Ya­so­da's ba­by daugh­ter was dic­tat­ed by the dire per­ils which would have con­front­ed him had he re­mained with his moth­er. It was, at most, a des­per­ate ex­pe­di­ent for sav­ing his life and al­though the tyrant's un­remit­ting search for the child who was to kill him pro­longed his stay in Brind­aban, his trans­porta­tion there was nev­er in­tend­ed as a per­ma­nent ar­range­ment. A de­cep­tion has been prac­tised. Nan­da and Ya­so­da re­gard and be­lieve Kr­ish­na to be their son. None the less there has been no for­mal adop­tion and it is Va­sude­va and De­va­ki who are his par­ents.

It is this which de­cides the is­sue. As one who by birth and blood be­longs to Mathu­ra, Kr­ish­na can hard­ly desert it now that the main ob­sta­cle to his re­turn--the tyrant Kansa--has been re­moved. His plain du­ty is to his par­ents and his caste­men. Painful there­fore as the sev­er­ance must be, he de­cides to aban­don the cowherds and see them no more. He is per­haps for­ti­fied in his de­ci­sion by the knowl­edge that even in his re­la­tions with the cow­girls a cli­max has been reached. A re­turn would mere­ly re­peat their night­ly ec­stasies, not achieve a fresh ex­pe­ri­ence. Fi­nal­ly al­though Kansa him­self has been killed, his de­mon al­lies are still at large. Mathu­ra and Kr­ish­na's kins­men, the Ya­davas, are far from safe. He can hard­ly desert them un­til their in­ter­ests have been per­ma­nent­ly safe­guard­ed and by then he will have be­come a feu­dal princeling, the very re­verse of the young cowherd who night af­ter night has thrilled the cow­girls with his flute.

Fol­low­ing the tyrant's death, then, a train of com­pli­cat­ed ad­just­ments are set in mo­tion. The first step is to re-​es­tab­lish Kr­ish­na with his true par­ents who are still in jail where the tyrant has con­fined them. Kr­ish­na ac­cord­ing­ly goes to vis­it them, frees them from their shack­les and stands be­fore them with fold­ed hands. For an in­stant Va­sude­va and De­va­ki know that Kr­ish­na is God and that in or­der to de­stroy demons he has come on earth. They are about to wor­ship him when Kr­ish­na dis­pels this knowl­edge and they look on him and Balara­ma as their sons. Then Kr­ish­na ad­dress­es them. For all these long years Va­sude­va and De­va­ki have known that Kr­ish­na and Balara­ma were their chil­dren and have suf­fered ac­cord­ing­ly. It was not Kr­ish­na's fault that he and Balara­ma were placed in Nan­da's charge. Yet al­though part­ed from their moth­er, they have nev­er for­got­ten her. It pains them to think that they have done so lit­tle to make her hap­py, that they have nev­er had her so­ci­ety and have wast­ed their time with strangers. And he re­minds them that in the world on­ly those who serve their fa­thers and moth­ers ob­tain pow­er. Va­sude­va and De­va­ki are great­ly touched by Kr­ish­na's words. Their for­mer woe van­ish­es and they em­brace Kr­ish­na and Balara­ma fond­ly.

Hav­ing ac­knowl­edged Va­sude­va and De­va­ki as his true par­ents, Kr­ish­na has now to ad­just his so­cial po­si­tion. Since Nan­da and the cowherds be­long to a low­er caste than that of Va­sude­va and the oth­er Ya­davas, Kr­ish­na and Balara­ma, who have eat­en and drunk with the cowherds and have been brought up with them, are not true mem­bers of the Ya­da­va com­mu­ni­ty. The fam­ily priest is ac­cord­ing­ly con­sult­ed and it is de­cid­ed that a cer­emo­ny for ad­mit­ting them in­to caste must be per­formed. This is done and Kr­ish­na and Balara­ma are giv­en the cus­tom­ary sa­cred threads. They are now no longer cowherds but true Ya­davas. At the same time they are giv­en a spir­itu­al pre­cep­tor who in­structs them in the sa­cred texts and man­uals of learn­ing. When they have fin­ished the course, they ex­press their grat­itude by restor­ing to him his dead son who has been drowned in the sea.

One fur­ther obli­ga­tion springs from their new po­si­tion. We have seen how in the epic, the _Ma­hab­hara­ta_, Kr­ish­na stands in a spe­cial re­la­tion to the Pan­davas, the fac­tion which emerges vic­to­ri­ous from the great feud. The moth­er of the Pan­davas is called Kun­ti and it is Kun­ti who is the sis­ter of Kr­ish­na's fa­ther, Va­sude­va. Since he is now with his true fa­ther, ru­mours con­cern­ing Kun­ti reach Kr­ish­na and he learns that along with her sons, the five Pan­davas, she is be­ing ha­rassed by the Kau­ra­va king, the blind Dhri­tarash­tra, egged on by his son, the evil Dury­od­hana. Be­ing now a part of his fa­ther's fam­ily, Kr­ish­na can hard­ly be in­dif­fer­ent to the fate of so in­ti­mate a rel­ative. Akru­ra, the lead­ing Ya­da­va diplo­mat, whom the tyrant had em­ployed to bring Kr­ish­na to Mathu­ra, is ac­cord­ing­ly despatched on yet an­oth­er mis­sion. He is to vis­it the Kau­ravas and Pan­davas, as­cer­tain the facts, con­sole Kr­ish­na's aunt, Kun­ti, and then re­turn and re­port. Akru­ra reach­es the Kau­ravas' cap­ital and dis­cov­ers that the ru­mours are on­ly too cor­rect. Re­la­tions be­tween the two fam­ilies are strained to break­ing point. The blind king is at the mer­cy of his son, Dury­od­hana, and it is the lat­ter who is cease­less­ly har­ry­ing Kun­ti and her sons. A lit­tle lat­er, as we have al­ready seen, a fi­nal at­tempt on their lives will be made, they will be in­duced to sleep in a new house, the house will be fired and on­ly by a for­tu­nate chance will the Pan­davas es­cape to the for­est and dwell in safe­ty. This, how­ev­er, is in the fu­ture and for the mo­ment Kun­ti and her sons are still at court. Akru­ra as­sures Kun­ti of Kr­ish­na's abid­ing con­cern and re­turns to Mathu­ra. Kr­ish­na and Balara­ma are per­turbed to hear his news, de­lib­er­ate on whether to in­ter­vene, but de­cide for the mo­ment to do noth­ing.

The sec­ond ad­just­ment which Kr­ish­na has now to make is to rec­on­cile the cowherds to his per­ma­nent de­par­ture from them and to wean them from their pas­sion­ate ad­her­ence to his pres­ence. This is much more dif­fi­cult. We have seen how on the jour­ney to Mathu­ra, Kr­ish­na has been ac­com­pa­nied by Nan­da and the cowherds and how dur­ing the clos­ing strug­gle with the tyrant they al­so have been present. When the fight is fi­nal­ly over, they pre­pare to de­part, tak­ing it for grant­ed that Kr­ish­na and Balara­ma will come with them. Kr­ish­na has there­fore to dis­il­lu­sion Nan­da. He breaks the news to him that it is not he and Ya­so­da who are ac­tu­al­ly his par­ents but Va­sude­va and De­va­ki. He loads Nan­da with jew­els and cost­ly dress­es and thanks him again and again for all his lov­ing care. He then ex­plains that he has now to stay in Mathu­ra for a time to meet his caste­men, the Ya­davas. Nan­da is great­ly sad­dened by the news. The cowherds strive to dis­suade him but Kr­ish­na is adamant. He re­tains a few cowherds with him, but the rest re­turn to Brind­aban, Kr­ish­na promis­ing that af­ter a time he will vis­it them. On ar­rival Nan­da strives in vain to con­sole Ya­so­da and is forced to tell her that Kr­ish­na has now ac­knowl­edged Va­sude­va as his true fa­ther, that he has prob­ably left Brind­aban for good and that his own ear­ly in­tu­ition that Kr­ish­na was God is cor­rect. Ya­so­da, as she thinks of her lost 'son,' is over­whelmed with grief, but re­cov­ers when she re­al­izes that ac­tu­al­ly he is God. As to the cow­girls, their grief is end­less as they re­call Kr­ish­na's heart-​en­snar­ing charms.

Such a step is ob­vi­ous­ly on­ly the first move in what must nec­es­sar­ily be a long and ar­du­ous op­er­ation. Find­ing it im­pos­si­ble to say out­right that he will nev­er see them again, Kr­ish­na has com­mit­ted him­self to pay­ing the cowherds a vis­it. Yet he re­al­izes that noth­ing can be gained by such a step since, if his fu­ture lies with the prince­ly Ya­davas, any min­gling with the cowherds will mere­ly dis­rupt this fi­nal role. Yet clear­ly he can­not just aban­don his for­mer as­so­ciates with­out any re­gard at all for their prop­er feel­ings. Wean­ing is nec­es­sary, and it must above all be grad­ual. He de­cides, there­fore, that since he him­self can­not go, some­one must be sent on his be­half. Ac­cord­ing­ly, he in­structs a friend, Ud­ho, to go to Brind­aban, meet the cowherds and make ex­cus­es for his ab­sence. At the same time, he must urge the cow­girls to give up re­gard­ing Kr­ish­na as their lover but wor­ship him as God. Ud­ho is ac­cord­ing­ly dressed in Kr­ish­na's clothes, there­by mak­ing him ap­pear a re­al sub­sti­tute and is despatched in Kr­ish­na's char­iot.

When Ud­ho ar­rives, he finds Nan­da and Ya­so­da still lament­ing Kr­ish­na's ab­sence and the cow­girls still long­ing for him as their lover. He begs them to re­gard Kr­ish­na as God--as some­one who is con­stant­ly near those who love him even if he can­not be seen. Kr­ish­na, he says, has for­bid­den them to hope for any fur­ther im­pas­sioned ec­stasies and now re­quires them to of­fer him their de­vo­tion on­ly. If they do penance and med­itate, Kr­ish­na will nev­er leave them. From the day they com­menced think­ing of him, none have been so much loved as they. 'As earth, wind, wa­ter, fire, rain dwell in the body, so Kr­ish­na dwells in you; but through the in­flu­ence of his delu­sive pow­er seems to be apart.' Ud­ho's plead­ing shocks and em­bit­ters the cow­girls. 'How can he talk to us like that?' they ask. 'It is Kr­ish­na's body that we adore, not some in­vis­ible idea high up in the sky. How has Kr­ish­na sud­den­ly be­come in­vis­ible and im­per­cep­ti­ble, a be­ing with­out qual­ities and form, when all along he has de­light­ed us with his phys­ical charms. As to penance and med­ita­tion, these con­cern wid­ows. What wom­an does penance while her hus­band is alive? It is all the do­ing of Kub­ja, the girl of Mathu­ra whose charms have cap­ti­vat­ed Kr­ish­na. Were it not for Kub­ja and oth­er beau­ties of Mathu­ra, Kr­ish­na would now be with us in Brind­aban. Had we known he would not re­turn, we would nev­er have let him go.' In such words they re­pu­di­ate Ud­ho's mes­sage, up­braid Kr­ish­na for his fick­le con­duct and demon­strate with what in­ten­si­ty they still adore him.

Ud­ho is re­duced to si­lence and can on­ly mar­vel at the cow­girls' bliss in aban­don­ing ev­ery­thing to think on­ly of Kr­ish­na. Fi­nal­ly they send Kr­ish­na the mes­sage--that if he re­al­ly de­sires them to aban­don lov­ing him with their bod­ies and re­sort to penance, he him­self must come and show them how to do it. Un­less he comes, they will die of ne­glect.

A few days lat­er, Ud­ho re­turns to Mathu­ra bring­ing with him milk and but­ter as presents to Kr­ish­na from Nan­da and Ya­so­da and es­cort­ing Ro­hi­ni, Va­sude­va's oth­er wife and Balara­ma's moth­er. He gives Kr­ish­na the cow­girls' mes­sage and re­ports how all Brind­aban longs for his re­turn. 'Great King,' he says, 'I can­not tell you how they love you. You are their life. Night and day they think of you. Their love for you is com­plete as per­fect wor­ship. I gave them your ad­vice con­cern­ing penance, but I have learnt from them per­fect ado­ra­tion. They will on­ly be con­tent when they see and touch you again.' Kr­ish­na lis­tens and is silent. It is clear that ef­forts at wean­ing the cow­girls from him have so far failed and some­thing fur­ther must be at­tempt­ed.

Yet his re­solve to sev­er all con­nec­tions with his for­mer life re­mains and it is per­haps sym­bol­ic of his pur­pose that he now re­calls the hunch-​back girl, Kub­ja, takes Ud­ho with him and in a sin­gle ec­stat­ic vis­it be­comes her lover. As he reach­es her house, the girl greets him with de­light, takes him in­side and seats him on a couch of flow­ers. Ud­ho stays out­side and then while Kr­ish­na waits, the girl quick­ly bathes, scents her­self, combs her hair and changes her dress. Then 'with gai­ety and en­dear­ment' she ap­proach­es Kr­ish­na. Kr­ish­na, how­ev­er, takes her by the hand and places her near him. Their pas­sions rise and the two achieve the ut­most bliss. Kr­ish­na then leaves her, re­joins Ud­ho and 'blush­ing and smil­ing' re­turns home.

The third step which Kr­ish­na must take is to deal with the po­lit­ical and mil­itary sit­ua­tion which has arisen from the slay­ing of the tyrant. We have seen how Kansa, al­though ac­tu­al­ly be­got­ten by a de­mon was of­fi­cial­ly a son of Ugrase­na, the king of Mathu­ra, and as one of his many de­mon acts, had de­throned his fa­ther and seized the king­dom for him­self. Ugrase­na is still alive and the ob­vi­ous course, there­fore, is to re­in­state him on the throne. Ugrase­na, how­ev­er, is un­will­ing to as­sume pow­er and he and the oth­er Ya­davas im­plore Kr­ish­na to ac­cept the ti­tle for him­self. Kr­ish­na, how­ev­er, has no de­sire to be­come king. He there­fore over­comes Ugrase­na's hes­ita­tions and in due course the lat­ter is en­throned.

This set­tles the suc­ces­sion prob­lem, but al­most im­me­di­ate­ly a graver is­sue aris­es. Dur­ing his reign of ter­ror, Kansa had made war on Jarasand­ha, king of Ma­ga­dha. He had de­feat­ed him but as part of the peace terms had tak­en two of his daugh­ters as queens. These have now been wid­owed by his death and re­pair­ing to their fa­ther's court, they rail bit­ter­ly against Kr­ish­na and beg their fa­ther to avenge their hus­band's death. Jarasand­ha, al­though a for­mer ri­val of Kansa, is al­so a de­mon and can there­fore sum­mon to his aid a num­ber of de­mon al­lies. Great armies are ac­cord­ing­ly mo­bi­lized. Mathu­ra is sur­round­ed and the Ya­davas are in dire per­il. Kr­ish­na and Balara­ma, how­ev­er, are undis­mayed. They at­tack the foes sin­gle-​hand­ed and by dint of their su­per­nat­ural pow­ers, ut­ter­ly rout them. Jarasand­ha is cap­tured but re­leased so that he may re­turn to the at­tack and even more demons may then be slaugh­tered. He re­turns in all sev­en­teen times, is van­quished on each oc­ca­sion but re­turns once more. This time he is aid­ed by an­oth­er de­mon, Kalaya­vana, and see­ing the con­stant strain of such at­tacks, Kr­ish­na de­cides to evac­uate the Ya­davas and set­tle them at a new base. He com­mis­sions the di­vine ar­chi­tect, Vis­vakar­ma, to build a new city in the sea. This is done in one night, the city is called Dwar­ka[35] and there the Ya­davas with all their goods are trans­port­ed. When this has been done, Kr­ish­na and Balara­ma trick the demons. They pre­tend to be ut­ter­ly de­feat­ed, re­treat from Mathu­ra and in de­spair as­cend a tall hill. The de­mon armies sur­round them and there ap­pears to be no pos­si­ble way of es­cape. Jarasand­ha or­ders wood to be brought from the sur­round­ing towns and vil­lages, piled up round the hill, sat­urat­ed with oil and then set fire to. A vast flame shoots up. The whole hill is ablaze but Kr­ish­na and Balara­ma slip out un­seen, take the road to Mathu­ra and fi­nal­ly reach Dwar­ka. When the hill is re­duced to ash­es, Jarasand­ha con­cludes that Kr­ish­na and Balara­ma have per­ished. He ad­vances to Mathu­ra, oc­cu­pies the emp­ty town, pro­claims his au­thor­ity and re­turns to Ma­ga­dha.

[Foot­note 35: Dwar­ka is sit­ed on the west­ern seaboard, 300 miles north-​west of Bom­bay.]

(ii) Mar­riages and Off­spring

The im­me­di­ate po­si­tion, then, is that Kr­ish­na has aban­doned his life among the cowherds, has been ac­cept­ed as a Ya­da­va, has coped with the dif­fi­cult and dan­ger­ous sit­ua­tion aris­ing from the tyrant king's death and fi­nal­ly has saved the Ya­davas from ex­tinc­tion by demons. This, how­ev­er, has meant the aban­don­ment of Mathu­ra and the move­ment of the Ya­davas to a new city, Dwar­ka. The same prob­lem, there­fore, which faced him ear­li­er, con­fronts him once again. Hav­ing ob­tained im­mu­ni­ty for the Ya­davas and brought them to a new land, can Kr­ish­na now re­gard his mis­sion as ac­com­plished? Or must he linger on earth still longer? The an­swer can hard­ly be in doubt; for al­though the Ya­davas ap­pear to be in­stalled in good sur­round­ings, de­mon hordes still range the world. The tyrant Kansa was on­ly the worst and most pow­er­ful mem­ber of the de­mon hosts. The war with Jarasand­ha has rid the world of many demons, but vast num­bers re­main and un­til their ranks have been ap­pre­cia­bly re­duced, Kr­ish­na's mis­sion will be un­ful­filled. On­ly one course of ac­tion, there­fore, is pos­si­ble. He must ac­cept a per­ma­nent po­si­tion in Ya­da­va so­ci­ety, live as an hon­oured no­ble, a prince of the blood roy­al and as oc­ca­sion war­rants con­tin­ue to in­ter­vene in the strug­gle be­tween the good and the bad.

Such a de­ci­sion is tak­en and Kr­ish­na in­stalls him­self at Dwar­ka. Be­fore he can ful­fil his du­ties as an adult mem­ber of the race, how­ev­er, cer­tain pre­lim­inar­ies are nec­es­sary and among them is the im­por­tant is­sue of his mar­riage. Both he and Balara­ma re­quire wives and the ques­tion is how are they to get them. Balara­ma's prob­lem is eas­ily set­tled by a mar­riage to Re­vati, a princess. Kr­ish­na's, on the oth­er hand, is less straight­for­ward and he is still un­de­cid­ed when news is brought that the Ra­ja of Kun­dulpur has a daugh­ter of match­less love­li­ness, her name Ruk­mi­ni. Her eyes, it was said, were like a doe's, her com­plex­ion like a flow­er, her face daz­zling as the moon. Ruk­mi­ni in turn has over­heard some beg­gars recit­ing Kr­ish­na's ex­ploits, has fall­en in love with his im­age and is at once de­light­ed and dis­turbed. In this way each is fas­ci­nat­ed by the oth­er. Al­most im­me­di­ate­ly, how­ev­er, a cri­sis oc­curs. Ruk­mi­ni's broth­er, Ruk­ma, urges her fa­ther to mar­ry her to a ri­val, Sisu­pala. Kr­ish­na's claims as Vish­nu in­car­nate are ad­vanced in vain and he is ridiculed as be­ing just a cowherd. Against his bet­ter judg­ment her fa­ther ac­qui­esces and ar­range­ments for a wed­ding with Sisu­pala go for­ward. Ruk­mi­ni now takes the dar­ing step of send­ing a mes­sage to Kr­ish­na, declar­ing her love and ask­ing him to save her. Kr­ish­na reads it with de­light. He at once leaves for Kun­dulpur, find­ing it gay with flags and ban­ners, gold­en spires and wreaths of flow­ers. Sisu­pala has ar­rived, but in ad­di­tion, there is Kr­ish­na's old en­emy, Jarasand­ha, en­camped with an army of demons. Ruk­mi­ni is in de­spair un­til she learns that Kr­ish­na al­so has ar­rived. A lit­tle lat­er Balara­ma reach­es the scene, bring­ing with him an army. Sisu­pala is dis­mayed at his ar­rival and both sides watch each oth­er's move­ments. The wed­ding day now dawns and Ruk­mi­ni, guard­ed by Sisu­pala's sol­diers, goes out­side the city to wor­ship at a shrine to De­vi.[36] As she nears the shrine, Kr­ish­na sud­den­ly ap­pears. Ruk­mi­ni gazes with ado­ra­tion at him. He springs among the sol­diers, lifts her in­to his char­iot and rush­es her away.

This sum­ma­ry ab­duc­tion is more than Sisu­pala can bear. Troops ca­reer af­ter Kr­ish­na. Armies en­gage. A vast bat­tle en­sues. As they fight, Ruk­mi­ni looks tim­orous­ly on. At last, Balara­ma van­quish­es the de­mon hosts, 'as a white ele­phant scat­ters lo­tus­es.' Sisu­pala and Jarasand­ha flee, but Ruk­mi­ni's evil broth­er, Ruk­ma, re­turns to the fray, strives fever­ish­ly to kill Kr­ish­na, fails and is tak­en cap­tive. His life is spared at Ruk­mi­ni's be­hest, but he is led away, his hands tied be­hind his back and his mous­tach­es shaven off. Balara­ma in­ter­cedes and ef­fects his re­lease and Ruk­ma goes away to brood on his dis­com­fi­ture and plot re­venge. Kr­ish­na now re­turns to Dwar­ka in tri­umph, is giv­en a rap­tur­ous wel­come and a lit­tle lat­er cel­ebrates his mar­riage with full rit­ual. 'Priests re­cit­ed the Vedas, Kr­ish­na cir­cled round with Ruk­mi­ni. Drums re­sound­ed. The de­light­ed gods rained down flow­ers; de­mi-​gods, saints, bards and ce­les­tial mu­si­cians were all spec­ta­tors from the sky.'

Hav­ing mar­ried Ruk­mi­ni, Kr­ish­na has now the full sta­tus of a grown prince. But he is noth­ing if not su­per­nor­mal; and just as ear­li­er in his ca­reer he has show­ered his af­fec­tion on a host of cow­girls, he now ac­quires a whole suc­ces­sion of fur­ther wives. The first is Jamb­ha­vati, the sec­ond Satyab­hama. Satyab­hama's fa­ther is a cer­tain Sat­tra­jit who has ob­tained from the sun the boon of a jew­el. The jew­el flash­es with light and Kr­ish­na ad­vis­es him to sur­ren­der it to King Ugrase­na. The man re­fus­es; where­upon his broth­er seizes it and goes away to the for­est. Here a li­on pounces up­on him, de­vours the man and his horse and hides the jew­el. The li­on is then killed by a bear who cen­turies ear­li­er had served with Vish­nu's ear­li­er in­car­na­tion, Ra­ma, dur­ing his cam­paign against the de­mon king of Lan­ka.[37] The bear car­ries away the jew­el and gives it to its mate. When Sat­tra­jit hears that his broth­er is miss­ing, he con­cludes that Kr­ish­na has caused his death and starts a whis­per­ing cam­paign, ac­cus­ing Kr­ish­na of mak­ing away with the jew­el. Kr­ish­na hears of the slan­der and at once de­cides to search for the miss­ing man, re­cov­er the jew­el and thus si­lence his ac­cus­er for ev­er. As he goes through the for­est, Kr­ish­na finds a cave where the dead li­on is ly­ing. He en­ters it, grap­ples with the bear but is quick­ly rec­og­nized by the bear as Kr­ish­na him­self. The bear bows be­fore him and begs him to ac­cept his daugh­ter Jamb­ha­vati in mar­riage. He in­cludes the jew­el as part of the dowry. Kr­ish­na mar­ries the girl and re­turns. Back at the court he up­braids Sat­tra­jit for false­ly ac­cus­ing him. 'I did not take the jew­el,' he says. 'The bear took it. Now he has giv­en the jew­el to me and al­so his daugh­ter. Take back your jew­el and be silent.' Sat­tra­jit is over­whelmed with shame and by way of amends gives Kr­ish­na his own daugh­ter, Satyab­hama. Kr­ish­na mar­ries her and Sat­tra­jit begs him to take the jew­el al­so. Kr­ish­na re­fus­es and the jew­el re­mains with its own­er. A lit­tle lat­er, Sat­tra­jit is mur­dered and the jew­el once again stolen. The mur­der­er thief is tracked down by Kr­ish­na and killed, but on­ly af­ter many de­lays is the jew­el at last re­cov­ered from Akru­ra--the lead­ing Ya­da­va who ear­li­er in the sto­ry has act­ed first as Ra­ja Kansa's en­voy to Kr­ish­na and lat­er as Kr­ish­na's en­voy to Kun­ti. Kr­ish­na or­ders him to re­turn it to its own­er, Sat­tra­jit's grand­son. Akru­ra places it at Kr­ish­na's feet and Kr­ish­na gives it to Satyab­hama. The up­shot, then, is that the slan­der is end­ed, the jew­el is re­gained and in the pro­cess Kr­ish­na ac­quires two fur­ther wives.

These ex­tra mar­riages, how­ev­er, by no means end the tal­ly of his con­sorts, for dur­ing a vis­it to his rel­atives, the Pan­davas, now re­turned from ex­ile and for the mo­ment safe­ly re­in­stalled in their king­dom, he sees a love­ly girl, Kalin­di, wan­der­ing in the for­est. She is the daugh­ter of the sun and has been sent to dwell by a riv­er un­til her ap­point­ed bride­groom, Kr­ish­na, ar­rives to claim her. Kr­ish­na is de­light­ed with her youth, places her in his char­iot and on his re­turn to Dwar­ka, cel­ebrates their wed­ding. A lit­tle lat­er oth­er girls are mar­ried to him, in many cas­es on­ly af­ter a fierce strug­gle with demons. In this way, he ob­tains eight queens, at the same time ad­vanc­ing his prime pur­pose of rid­ding the world of demons.

At this point, the _Pu­rana_ em­barks on an episode which, at first sight, ap­pears to have very lit­tle to do with its main sub­ject. In fact, how­ev­er, its rel­evance is great for, as a con­se­quence, Kr­ish­na the prince ac­quires as many fe­male com­pan­ions as he had en­joyed as a youth. The episode be­gins with Earth again ap­pear­ing in heav­en. Hav­ing suc­cess­ful­ly en­gi­neered Kr­ish­na's birth, she does spe­cial penance and again be­seech­es the supreme Trin­ity to grant her a boon. This boon is a son who will nev­er be equalled and who will nev­er die. Brah­ma, Vish­nu and Si­va agree to give her a son, Nara­ka, but on the fol­low­ing con­di­tions: he will con­quer all the kings of the earth, rout the gods in the sky, car­ry off the ear­rings of Adi­ti (the moth­er of the gods), wear them him­self, take the canopy of In­dra and place it over his own head and fi­nal­ly, col­lect to­geth­er but not mar­ry six­teen thou­sand one hun­dred vir­gin daugh­ters of dif­fer­ent kings. Kr­ish­na will then at­tack him and at Earth's own be­hest, will kill Nara­ka and take to Dwar­ka all the im­pris­oned girls. Earth says, 'Why should I ev­er tell any­one to kill my own son?' and is silent. None the less the boon is grant­ed, the con­di­tions are in due course ful­filled and af­ter a fu­ri­ous en­counter with Nara­ka at his city of Pragjy­otisha,[38] Kr­ish­na is once again vic­to­ri­ous. Dur­ing the bat­tle, Mu­ru or Mu­ra, the arch de­mon, aid­ed by sev­en sons, stren­uous­ly de­fends the city. Kr­ish­na kills him by cut­ting off his five heads but has then to re­sist whole armies of demons as­sem­bled by the sons. When these al­so have been de­stroyed, Kr­ish­na meets Nara­ka and af­ter a vi­cious con­test fi­nal­ly kills him, re­cov­er­ing in con­se­quence the ear­rings of Adi­ti and the canopy of In­dra. Nara­ka's palace is then opened and re­veals the bevy of im­pris­oned girls. As they gaze on Kr­ish­na, their re­ac­tions are rem­inis­cent of the cow­girls'. They im­plore Kr­ish­na to take them away and al­low them to lav­ish on him their im­pas­sioned love. Kr­ish­na agrees, char­iots are sent for and the vast con­course of pas­sion-​strick­en girls is trans­port­ed to Dwar­ka. Here Kr­ish­na mar­ries them, show­er­ing af­fec­tion on each of the six­teen thou­sand and one hun­dred 'and dis­play­ing un­ceas­ing love for his eight queens.'

Such an in­ci­dent re­vives an as­pect of Kr­ish­na's ear­ly char­ac­ter which up to the present has been some­what ob­scured by oth­er events. Be­sides slay­ing demons he has all along been sen­si­tive to fem­inine needs, arous­ing in wom­en pas­sion­ate ado­ra­tion and at the same time ful­fill­ing the most in­tense of their phys­ical de­sires. It is these qual­ities which char­ac­ter­ize his lat­er ca­reer.

Hav­ing on one oc­ca­sion giv­en Ruk­mi­ni, his first con­sort, a flow­er of the heav­en­ly wish­ing tree,[39] Kr­ish­na finds that he has aroused the jeal­ousy of his third con­sort, Satyab­hama. To please her, he ac­cord­ing­ly un­der­takes to get for her not mere­ly a flow­er or branch but the tree it­self. He there­fore goes to Vaikun­tha, the par­adise of Vish­nu, and takes the op­por­tu­ni­ty to re­turn the ear­rings of Adi­ti and place the canopy over the lord of the gods. He then sends a mes­sage to In­dra ask­ing for the tree. In­dra as the tree's cus­to­di­an re­calls his for­mer dis­com­fi­ture in Brind­aban when Kr­ish­na had abol­ished his wor­ship and ven­er­at­ed the hill Go­vard­hana in his place. De­spite his sub­se­quent sur­ren­der to Kr­ish­na, and ab­ject wor­ship of him, In­dra is still in­censed and blunt­ly re­fus­es. Kr­ish­na then goes to the tree, wounds its guardians and bears the tree away. In­dra is tempt­ed to do bat­tle but re­al­iz­ing Kr­ish­na's su­pe­ri­or pow­er calls off his hosts. Back in Dwar­ka, Kr­ish­na in­stals the tree in Satyab­hama's palace but re­turns it to In­dra a year lat­er.

On an­oth­er oc­ca­sion, Kr­ish­na and Ruk­mi­ni are mak­ing love on a gold­en bed in a palace be­decked with gems. The sheets are white as foam and are dec­orat­ed with flow­ers. Pic­tures have been paint­ed on the walls and ev­ery aid to plea­sure has been pro­vid­ed. Ruk­mi­ni is love­li­er than ev­er, while Kr­ish­na, 'the root of joy,' daz­zles her with a face love­ly as the moon, a skin the colour of clouds, a pea­cock crown, a long gar­land of flow­ers and a scarf of yel­low silk. As he lies, he is 'the sea of beau­ty, the light of the three worlds.' Af­ter mak­ing love, Kr­ish­na sud­den­ly asks Ruk­mi­ni why she pre­ferred him to Sisu­pala. He points out that he is not a king and is there­fore quite un­wor­thy of her, that since he has res­cued her from Sisu­pala, her wish has been ac­com­plished and it is best that she should now leave him and mar­ry a prince of the roy­al blood who will be wor­thy of her name. Ruk­mi­ni is stunned at the sug­ges­tion. She col­laps­es on the floor, her hair ob­scur­ing her love­ly face. Kr­ish­na rais­es her up, sits her on his knees, and strokes her cheeks. When at length Ruk­mi­ni re­vives, Kr­ish­na has­tens to ex­plain that he was on­ly jest­ing and that in view of her deep love he will nev­er aban­don her. Ruk­mi­ni as­sures him that nowhere in the world is there Kr­ish­na's equal. The beg­gars who re­cit­ed his prais­es and from whom she first heard his name, were in fact Brah­ma and Si­va. All the gods re­vere him. To adore him is the on­ly joy. Those who love Kr­ish­na alone are hap­py. If blind­ed by pride a man for­gets him, Kr­ish­na abas­es him. It was be­cause Ruk­mi­ni be­sought his com­pas­sion that Kr­ish­na has loved her. Hear­ing her sim­ple sin­cer­ity, Kr­ish­na is great­ly moved and says, 'Love of my heart, you know me through and through. You have giv­en your­self to me, adored me and known my love. I shall love you al­ways.' Ruk­mi­ni hears him with deep con­tent­ment and the two make love.

Such a dec­la­ra­tion how­ev­er is not in­tend­ed to im­ply a cold ne­glect of his oth­er wives for it is part of Kr­ish­na's role that he should please and sat­is­fy all. Ac­cord­ing­ly, when Nara­da, the sage, makes one of his re­cur­ring ap­pear­ances--this time in or­der to in­ves­ti­gate how Kr­ish­na con­trives to keep hap­py so vast a con­course of wom­en--he finds Kr­ish­na ev­ery­where. With Ruk­mi­ni he re­clines at ease, with Jamb­ha­vati he plays dice, at Satyab­hama's house, he is hav­ing his body rubbed with oil, at Kalin­di's, he is asleep. In this way, wher­ev­er Nara­da goes, he finds Kr­ish­na with one or oth­er of his queens. In fact, the same 'delu­sive' pow­ers which he had ear­li­er em­ployed when danc­ing with the cow­girls--mak­ing each be­lieve he was danc­ing with her and her alone--are now be­ing used to sat­is­fy his wives.

In this way Kr­ish­na con­tin­ues to live. Some­times his wives ca­ress his body, ply him with del­ica­cies or swathe him in per­fumed gar­ments. Some­times to ease their pas­sion they make lit­tle fig­ures of him or let them­selves be dressed by him. One night they go with him to a tank and there make love in the wa­ter. Ev­ery­thing in the scene re­minds them of their love and they ad­dress first a _chakai_ bird. 'O _chakai_ bird, when you are part­ed from your mate, you spend the whole night sad­ly call­ing and nev­er sleep­ing. Speak to us of your beloved. We are Kr­ish­na's slave-​girls.' They speak to the sea. 'O sea, you lie awake night and day, heav­ing sighs. Do you grieve for a loved one who is far away?' Then they see the moon. 'O moon, why do you grow thin? Are you al­so filled with long­ing? Are you fas­ci­nat­ed by Kr­ish­na?' In this way they ad­dress birds, hills and rivers, seek­ing from each some con­so­la­tion for their fren­zied love.

In due course, each of the six­teen thou­sand one hun­dred and eight bears Kr­ish­na ten sons and one daugh­ter and each is beau­ti­ful as him­self.

[Foot­note 36: Plate 18.]

[Foot­note 37: Lan­ka--mod­ern Cey­lon.]

[Foot­note 38: Note 12.]

[Foot­note 39: A sight of the heav­en­ly wish­ing-​tree, the _kalpa_ or _par­ija­ta_, which grew in In­dra's heav­en, was be­lieved to make the old young.]

(iii) Last Phas­es

This grad­ual ex­pan­sion of his mar­ital state takes Kr­ish­na even far­ther from the ador­ing loves of his youth, the cow­girls of Brind­aban. In­deed for months on end it is as if he has dis­missed them from his mind. One day he and Balara­ma are sit­ting to­geth­er when Balara­ma re­minds him of their promise that af­ter stay­ing for a time in Mathu­ra they will as­sured­ly vis­it them. Kr­ish­na, it is clear, can­not go him­self, but Balara­ma is less im­ped­ed and with Kr­ish­na's ap­proval, he takes a ploughshare and pes­tle, mounts a char­iot and speeds on his way.

As he nears Brind­aban, the fa­mil­iar scenes greet him. The cowherds and cow­girls come in­to view, but in­stead of joy there is gen­er­al de­spair. The cows low and pant, re­ject­ing the grass. The cowherds are still dis­cussing Kr­ish­na's deeds and the cow­girls can­not ex­pel him from their minds. As Balara­ma en­ters their house, Nan­da and Ya­so­da weep with joy. Balara­ma is plied with ques­tions about Kr­ish­na's wel­fare and when he an­swers that all is well, Ya­so­da de­scribes the dark­ness that has de­scend­ed on them since the joy of their hearts left. Balara­ma now meets the cow­girls. Their hair is dis­or­dered, they are no longer neat and smart. Their minds are not in their work and de­spite Kr­ish­na's ab­sence, they are filled with pas­sion­ate long­ings and fren­zied de­sires. Some of them mar­vel at Kr­ish­na's love and count it good even to have known him. Oth­ers bit­ter­ly up­braid Kr­ish­na for de­sert­ing them. Balara­ma ex­plains that his vis­it is to show them that Kr­ish­na has not en­tire­ly for­got­ten them and as proof he of­fers to re-​en­act the cir­cu­lar dance and him­self en­gage with them as lover.

In this way the cir­cu­lar dance is once again per­formed. The full moon pours down, the cow­girls deck them­selves and songs rise in the air. Flutes and drums play and in the midst of the throng Balara­ma sings and dances, clasp­ing the cow­girls to him, mak­ing love and rous­ing them to ec­sta­sy. Night af­ter night the dance is per­formed, while each day Balara­ma com­forts Nan­da and Ya­so­da with news of Kr­ish­na. One night as his vis­it is end­ing, he feels ex­haust­ed and com­mands the riv­er Jum­na to change its course and bathe him with its wa­ter. The Jum­na fails to com­ply, so Balara­ma draws the riv­er to­wards him with his plough and bathes in its stream. From that time on, the Jum­na's course is changed. His ex­haus­tion now leaves him and he grat­ifies the cow­girls with fresh pas­sion. With this in­ci­dent his vis­it ends. He bids farewell to Nan­da, Ya­so­da and the cow­girls and leav­ing the for­est re­turns to Dwar­ka.

Kr­ish­na's re­la­tions with the cow­girls are now com­plete­ly end­ed, but on one last oc­ca­sion he hap­pens to meet them. News has come that the sun will soon be eclipsed and ac­cord­ing­ly, Kr­ish­na and Balara­ma take the Ya­davas on pil­grim­age. They choose a cer­tain holy place, Ku­ruk­shetra, and as­sem­bling all their queens and wives, make the slow jour­ney to it. When they ar­rive, a fes­ti­val is in progress. They bathe and make of­fer­ings. While they are still en­camped, oth­er kings come in, in­clud­ing the Pan­davas and Kau­ravas. With them are their wives and fam­ilies and Kun­ti, the moth­er of the Pan­davas, is thus en­abled to meet once more her broth­er, Va­sude­va, the fa­ther of Kr­ish­na. A lit­tle lat­er, Nan­da and Ya­so­da along with the cowherds and cow­girls al­so ar­rive. They have come on the same pil­grim­age and find­ing Kr­ish­na there, at once throng to see him. Va­sude­va greets his old friend, Nan­da, and re­calls the now long-​dis­tant days when Kr­ish­na had lived with him in his house. Kr­ish­na and Balara­ma greet Nan­da and Ya­so­da with lov­ing re­spect, while the cow­girls are ex­cit­ed be­yond de­scrip­tion. Kr­ish­na how­ev­er re­fus­es to re­gard them and faced with their ar­dent looks and im­pas­sioned ado­ra­tion, ad­dress­es to them the fol­low­ing ser­mon. 'Who­ev­er be­lieves in me shall be fear­less­ly car­ried across the sea of life. You gave me your bod­ies, minds and wealth. You loved me with a love that knew no lim­it. No one has been so for­tu­nate as you--nei­ther Brah­ma nor In­dra, nei­ther any oth­er god nor any man. For all along I have been liv­ing in you, lov­ing you with a love that has nev­er fal­tered. I live in ev­ery­one. What I say to you can­not eas­ily be un­der­stood, but as light, wa­ter, fire, earth and air abide in the body, so does my glo­ry.' To the cow­girls such words strike chill. But there is noth­ing they can say and when the fes­ti­val is over, Kr­ish­na and the Ya­davas re­turn to Dwar­ka, while Nan­da with the cowherds and cow­girls go back to Brind­aban. This is the last time Kr­ish­na sees them.

This dis­missal re­veals how fi­nal is Kr­ish­na's sev­er­ance from his for­mer life, yet pro­vid­ed the cowherds are not in­volved, he is quick to hon­our ear­li­er re­la­tion­ships. One day in Dwar­ka his moth­er, De­va­ki, tells him that she has a pri­vate grief--grief at the loss of the six el­der broth­ers of Kr­ish­na slain by the tyrant Kansa. Kr­ish­na tells her not to mourn, de­scends to the third of the three worlds, in­ter­views its ruler, Ra­ja Bali, and ef­fects the re­lease of the six broth­ers. Re­turn­ing with them, he gives them to his moth­er and her joy is great.

On an­oth­er oc­ca­sion he is vis­it­ed by Su­dama, a Brah­man who had lived with him, when, af­ter slay­ing the tyrant, he and Balara­ma had gone for in­struc­tion to their spir­itu­al pre­cep­tor. Since then Su­dama has grown thin and poor. The thatch on his hut has tum­bled down. He has noth­ing to eat. His wife is alarmed at their ab­ject state and ad­vis­es him to seek out Kr­ish­na, his chief friend. 'If you go to him,' she says, 'our pover­ty will end be­cause it is he who grants wealth and virtue, ful­fils de­sires and be­stows fi­nal hap­pi­ness.' Su­dama replies that even Kr­ish­na does not give any­one any­thing with­out that per­son giv­ing him some­thing first. As he has not giv­en, how can he hope to re­ceive? His wife then ties up a lit­tle rice in an old white cloth and gives it to Su­dama as a present to Kr­ish­na. Su­dama sets out. On reach­ing Dwar­ka, he is ad­mit­ted to Kr­ish­na's pres­ence, is im­me­di­ate­ly rec­og­nized and is treat­ed with the ut­most kind­ness and re­spect. Kr­ish­na him­self wash­es his feet and reveres him as a Brah­man.[40] 'Broth­er,' he says, 'from the time you quit­ted our pre­cep­tor's house, I have heard noth­ing of you. Your com­ing has pu­ri­fied my house and made me hap­py.' Kr­ish­na then no­tices the rice and laugh­ing­ly asks Su­dama what present his wife has sent him and why it is hid­den un­der his arm. Su­dama is great­ly abashed but al­lows Kr­ish­na to take the bun­dle. On tak­ing it, Kr­ish­na eats the rice. He then con­ducts Su­dama with­in, feasts him on del­ica­cies and puts him to bed. Dur­ing the night he sends Vis­vakar­ma, the di­vine ar­chi­tect, to Su­dama's home, with in­struc­tions to turn it in­to a palace. The next morn­ing Su­dama takes leave of Kr­ish­na, con­grat­ulat­ing him­self on not hav­ing asked Kr­ish­na for any­thing. As he nears home, he is dis­mayed to find no trace of his hut, but in­stead a gold­en palace. He ap­proach­es the gate-​keep­er and is told it be­longs to Su­dama, the friend of Kr­ish­na. His wife comes out and he finds her dressed in fine clothes and jew­els and at­tend­ed by maid-​ser­vants. She takes him in and at first he is abashed at so much wealth. Kr­ish­na, he re­flects, can on­ly have giv­en it to him be­cause he doubt­ed his af­fec­tion. He did not ask Kr­ish­na for wealth and can­not fath­om why he has been giv­en it. His wife as­sures him that Kr­ish­na knows the thoughts of ev­ery­one. Su­dama did not ask for wealth, but she her­self de­sired it and that is why Kr­ish­na has giv­en it to them. Su­dama is con­vinced and says no more.

All these in­ci­dents pro­vide a clue to Kr­ish­na's na­ture. They il­lus­trate his at­ti­tudes, con­firm him in his role as pro­tec­tor and pre­serv­er and show him in a new light--that of a guardian and up­hold­er of moral­ity. He is still a fer­vent lover, but his love is sanc­tioned and for­mal­ized by le­gal mar­riage. More­over, a new re­spect char­ac­ter­izes his deal­ings with Brah­mans and his ap­proach to fes­ti­vals. In­stead of the young rev­olu­tion­ary, we now meet a sage con­ser­va­tive. These changes colour his fi­nal ca­reer.

As life at Dwar­ka runs its course, Kr­ish­na's ac­tiv­ities cen­tre more and more on wars with demons and his re­la­tions with the Pan­davas. De­spite his prowess and renown, demons trou­ble the Ya­davas from time to time, but all are killed ei­ther by Kr­ish­na wield­ing a mag­ic quoit or by Balara­ma ply­ing his plough or pes­tle. On one oc­ca­sion, a mon­key de­mon runs amok, ha­rass­ing the peo­ple and rav­aging the coun­try. He sur­pris­es Balara­ma bathing in a tank with his wives, de­spoils their clothes and de­files their pitch­ers. A great com­bat then en­sues, the mon­key hurl­ing trees and hills while Balara­ma coun­ters with his plough and pes­tle. But the out­come is hard­ly in doubt and at last the mon­key is killed.

On an­oth­er oc­ca­sion, Kr­ish­na is com­pelled to in­ter­vene in force. Fol­low­ing his mar­riage with his first queen, Ruk­mi­ni, a son, Pradyum­na has been born. He is no less a per­son than Ka­ma, the god of love, whom Si­va has burnt for dis­turb­ing his med­ita­tions. When grown up, Pradyum­na is mar­ried to a cousin, the daugh­ter of his un­cle, Ruk­ma. Ruk­ma has nev­er for­giv­en Kr­ish­na for ab­duct­ing and mar­ry­ing his sis­ter, Ruk­mi­ni, and de­spite their in­ti­mate al­liance is sworn to kill him. His plot is dis­cov­ered and in a fi­nal con­test, Balara­ma kills him. Mean­while, Pradyum­na has had a son, Anirud­dha, who grows up in­to a charm­ing youth, while at the same time Vana­sura, a de­mon with a thou­sand arms, has a love­ly daugh­ter, Usa. When Usa is twelve years old, she longs for a hus­band and in a dream sees and em­braces Anirud­dha. She does not know who he is, but de­scribes him to a con­fi­dante. The lat­ter draws pic­tures of all the lead­ing roy­al­ty, and among the Ya­davas, Usa rec­og­nizes her love, Anirud­dha. The con­fi­dante agrees to bring him to her and go­ing through the air to Dwar­ka, finds him sleep­ing, dream­ing of Usa. She trans­ports him to Usa's palace and on wak­ing. Anirud­dha finds him­self alone with his love. Usa con­ceals him, but the news reach­es her fa­ther and he sur­rounds the palace with his de­mon army. Anirud­dha routs the army but is caught by Vana­sura, who then im­pris­ons the two young lovers. News now reach­es Kr­ish­na who rush­es an army to the scene. A bat­tle en­sues dur­ing which Vana­sura los­es all his arms save four. He then wor­ships Kr­ish­na, and Anirud­dha and Usa are mar­ried.

Mean­while Kr­ish­na is care­ful­ly main­tain­ing re­la­tions with the Pan­davas. We have seen how im­me­di­ate­ly af­ter the slay­ing of the tyrant he sends an en­voy to in­quire af­ter his aunt Kun­ti, the sis­ter of his fa­ther, and moth­er of the five Pan­davas. We have al­so no­ticed how dur­ing a vis­it to the Pan­da­va court, he has ac­quired a new queen, Kalin­di. He now em­barks on sev­er­al cours­es of ac­tion, each of which is de­signed to ce­ment their re­la­tions. Dur­ing a vis­it to his court, Ar­ju­na, the broth­er whose lucky shot won Drau­pa­di for the Pan­davas, falls in love with Sub­hadra, Kr­ish­na's sis­ter. Kr­ish­na is de­light­ed to have him as a broth­er-​in-​law and as al­ready nar­rat­ed in the epic, he ad­vis­es Ar­ju­na to mar­ry her by cap­ture. A lit­tle lat­er Kr­ish­na learns that Yud­histhi­ra will short­ly pro­claim him­self a 'ruler of the world' and de­cides to vis­it the Pan­da­va court to as­sist at the sac­ri­fice. He takes a vast army with him and ad­vances on the court with mas­sive splen­dour. As he ar­rives, he learns that Jarasand­ha whose feud is un­abat­ed has now im­pris­oned twen­ty thou­sand ra­jas, all of whom cry to be re­leased. Kr­ish­na de­cides that Jarasand­ha's de­mon ac­tiv­ities must be end­ed once for all and tak­ing two of the Pan­davas with him, Bhi­ma and Ar­ju­na, he sets out to de­stroy him. Jarasand­ha elects to en­gage Bhi­ma in sin­gle-​hand­ed com­bat and for twen­ty-​sev­en days the fight pro­ceeds, each wield­ing a club and nei­ther se­cur­ing the ad­van­tage. Kr­ish­na now learns that Jarasand­ha can on­ly be killed if he is split in two. He di­rects Bhi­ma, there­fore, to throw him down, place a foot on one of his thighs and catch­ing the oth­er leg with his hand, tear him asun­der. Bhi­ma does so and in this way Jarasand­ha is de­stroyed. The cap­tive ra­jas are now re­leased and af­ter re­turn­ing home they fore­gath­er at the Pan­davas' court to as­sist at the sac­ri­fice.

As ar­range­ments pro­ceed an in­ci­dent oc­curs which il­lus­trates yet again the com­plex sit­ua­tion aris­ing from Kr­ish­na's du­al char­ac­ter. Kr­ish­na is God, yet he is al­so man. Be­ing a man, it is nor­mal­ly as a man that he is re­gard­ed. Yet from time to time par­tic­ular in­di­vid­uals sense his God­head and then he is no longer man but God him­self. Even those, how­ev­er, who view him as God do so on­ly for brief pe­ri­ods of time and hence the sit­ua­tion is con­stant­ly aris­ing in which Kr­ish­na is one mo­ment hon­oured as God and then a mo­ment lat­er is treat­ed as a man. And it is this sit­ua­tion which now re­curs.

As we have al­ready seen in the epic, part of the cus­tom at im­pe­ri­al sac­ri­fices was to of­fer presents to dis­tin­guished guests, and ac­cord­ing to the epic the per­son cho­sen to re­ceive the first present was Kr­ish­na him­self. The _Pu­rana_ changes this by sub­sti­tut­ing gods for guests. Yud­histhi­ra is un­cer­tain who should be wor­shipped first. 'Who is the great lord of the gods,' he asks, 'to whom we should bow our heads?' To this a Pan­da­va gives a clear an­swer. Kr­ish­na, he says, is god of gods. 'No one un­der­stands his na­ture. He is lord of Brah­ma, Si­va and In­dra. It is he who cre­ates, pre­serves and de­stroys. His work is end­less. He is the un­seen and im­per­ish­able. He de­scends up­on the earth con­tin­ual­ly for the sake of his wor­ship­pers and as­sum­ing mor­tal form ap­pears and acts like a mor­tal. He sits in our hous­es and calls us 'broth­ers.' We are de­lud­ed by his pow­er and con­sid­er him a broth­er. Yet nev­er have we seen one as great as him.' He speaks in fact as one who, know­ing Kr­ish­na, has seen, for the mo­ment, the god be­yond the man. His vi­sion is shared by the oth­ers present. Kr­ish­na is there­fore placed on a throne and be­fore the vast con­course of ra­jas, Yud­histhi­ra wor­ships him.

Among the guests, how­ev­er, is one ra­ja to whom the vi­sion is de­nied. He is Sisu­pala, Kr­ish­na's ri­val for the hand of Ruk­mi­ni, and since Ruk­mi­ni's ab­duc­tion, his dead­ly en­emy. Kr­ish­na's el­eva­tion as a god is more than he can stom­ach and he ut­ters an an­gry protest. Kr­ish­na, he says, is not god at all. He is a mere cowherd's son of low caste who has de­based him­self by eat­ing the leav­ings of the cowherds' chil­dren and has even been the lover of the cow­girls. As a child he was an ar­rant pil­fer­er, steal­ing milk and but­ter from ev­ery house, while as a youth he has tri­fled with oth­er men's wives. He has al­so slight­ed In­dra. Kr­ish­na qui­et­ly lis­tens to this out­burst. Then, deem­ing Sisu­pala's en­mi­ty to have reached its fur­thest lim­it, he al­lows his pa­tience to be ex­haust­ed. He reach­es for his quoit and hurl­ing it through the air, slays Sisu­pala on the spot. The cer­emonies are then com­plet­ed and Kr­ish­na leaves for Dwar­ka. As he nears the city, he dis­cov­ers the Ya­davas hard pressed by an army of demons. He and Balara­ma in­ter­vene. The demons are ei­ther killed or put to flight and the Ya­davas are res­cued. When a lit­tle lat­er Sisu­pala's two broth­ers bring an army against him, they too are van­quished.

Twelve years now in­ter­vene. Yud­histhi­ra in the mo­ment of tri­umph has gam­bled away his king­dom. The Pan­davas have once again been driv­en in­to ex­ile and the old feud has bro­ken out afresh. As the ex­ile ends, both sides pre­pare for war and Kr­ish­na al­so leaves for the bat­tle. Balara­ma is loath to in­ter­vene so goes away on pil­grim­age. Af­ter var­ious ad­ven­tures, how­ev­er, he al­so ar­rives on the scene. As he comes, a se­ries of sin­gle-​hand­ed com­bats is in progress with Kr­ish­na and oth­er Ra­jas look­ing on. Dury­od­hana, the son of blind Dhri­tarash­tra, the king of the Kau­ravas is fight­ing Bhi­ma, the pow­er­ful Pan­da­va and just as Balara­ma ar­rives he is dealt a foul blow and wound­ed in the thigh. Balara­ma is shocked to see so many un­cles and cousins in­volved in strife and begs them to de­sist. Dury­od­hana replies that it is Kr­ish­na who has willed the war and that they are as pup­pets in his hands. It is Kr­ish­na who is ac­tive­ly aid­ing the Pan­davas and the war is on­ly be­ing car­ried on be­cause of his ad­vice. It is Kr­ish­na al­so who has spon­sored foul play. Balara­ma is pained at such ac­cu­sa­tions and strong­ly crit­icizes Kr­ish­na. Kr­ish­na, how­ev­er, is ready with an an­swer. The Kau­ravas, he says, cheat­ed the Pan­davas of their king­dom by the game of dice. Dury­od­hana had told Drau­pa­di to sit on his thigh and so he de­served to have it bro­ken. So un­just and tyran­ni­cal are the Kau­ravas that any meth­ods used against them are fair. Balara­ma keeps silent and a lit­tle lat­er re­turns to Dwar­ka.

This in­ci­dent con­cludes the _Pu­rana's_ ref­er­ences to the war. Noth­ing is said of Kr­ish­na's ser­mon--the _Bha­gavad Gi­ta_. No men­tion is made of Kr­ish­na's role as char­io­teer to Ar­ju­na. Noth­ing fur­ther is said of its dead­ly out­come. Kr­ish­na's ca­reer as a war­rior, in fact, is end­ed and with this episode the _Pu­rana_ en­ters its fi­nal phase.

As Kr­ish­na lives at Dwar­ka, sur­round­ed by his wives and huge proge­ny, he wea­ries of his earth­ly ca­reer. By now his mis­sion has been ac­com­plished. Hordes of demons have been slain, cru­el monar­chs killed and much of Earth's bur­den lift­ed. There is no longer any press­ing need for him to stay and he de­cides to quit his body and 're-​en­ter with all his em­ana­tions the sphere of Vish­nu.' To do this, how­ev­er, the whole of the Ya­da­va race must first be end­ed.[41] One, day some Ya­da­va boys make fun of cer­tain Brah­mans. They dress up one of their com­pa­ny as a preg­nant girl, take him to the Brah­mans and in­no­cent­ly in­quire what kind of child the wom­an will bring forth. The Brah­mans im­me­di­ate­ly pen­etrate the dis­guise and an­gered at the youth's im­per­ti­nence, they re­ply, 'A club that will crush the whole Ya­da­va race.' The boys run to King Ugrase­na, re­late what has hap­pened and are even more alarmed when an iron club is brought forth from the boy's bel­ly. Ugrase­na has the club ground to dust and thrown in­to the sea, where its par­ti­cles be­come rush­es. One part of the club, how­ev­er, is like a lance and does not break. When thrown in­to the sea, it is swal­lowed by a fish. A hunter catch­es it and tak­ing the iron spike from its stom­ach lays it aside for fu­ture use. It is an ar­row made from this par­tic­ular spike which a lit­tle lat­er will bring about Kr­ish­na's death. Sim­ilar­ly it is the iron rush­es which will cause the death of the Ya­davas. Al­ready, there­fore, a chain of sin­is­ter hap­pen­ings has been start­ed and from now on­wards the ac­tion moves re­lent­less­ly to its grim and trag­ic close.

As the fi­nal scene un­folds, the gods, head­ed by Brah­ma and Si­va, ap­proach Kr­ish­na beg­ging him to re­turn. Kr­ish­na tells them that ev­ery­thing is now in train and with­in sev­en nights he will com­plete the de­struc­tion of the Ya­davas and re­turn to his ev­er­last­ing home.

Signs por­tend­ing the de­struc­tion of Dwar­ka now ap­pear. 'A dread­ful fig­ure, death per­son­ified, haunts ev­ery house, com­ing and go­ing no one knows how and be­ing in­vul­ner­able to weapons by which he is as­sailed. Strong hur­ri­canes blow; large rats mul­ti­ply and in­fest the roads and hous­es and at­tack per­sons in their sleep; star­lings scream in their cages, storks im­itate the hoot­ing of owls and goats the howl­ing of jack­als; cows bring forth foals and camels mules; food in the mo­ment of be­ing eat­en is filled with worms; fire burns with dis­coloured flames and at sun­set and sun­rise the air is tra­versed by head­less and hideous spir­its.'[42] Kr­ish­na draws the Ya­davas' at­ten­tion to these omens and ad­vis­es them to leave Dwar­ka and move to Prab­hasa, a site far­ther in­land.

Ud­ho, who ear­li­er in the sto­ry has act­ed as Kr­ish­na's en­voy to the cow­girls quick­ly re­al­izes that the end is near and ap­proach­es Kr­ish­na for ad­vice. 'Tell me, O Lord, what it is prop­er I should do. For it is clear that short­ly you will de­stroy the Ya­davas.' Kr­ish­na then tells him to go to a shrine high up in the moun­tains and by med­itat­ing on Kr­ish­na ob­tain re­lease. He adds minute in­struc­tions on the tech­nique of penance and ends with some def­ini­tions of the yo­ga of de­vo­tion. He con­cludes by telling Ud­ho that when all the Ya­davas have per­ished, he him­self will go to heav­en and Dwar­ka will be swal­lowed by the ocean. Ud­ho bows low and leaves for the moun­tains.

Kr­ish­na now as­sem­bles the lead­ing Ya­davas and leav­ing be­hind on­ly the el­ders, the wom­en and chil­dren, es­corts them to Prab­hasa, a town in­land, as­sur­ing them that by prop­er wor­ship they may yet avert their fate. At Prab­hasa the Ya­davas bathe and pu­ri­fy them­selves, anoint the gods' stat­ues and make of­fer­ings. They ap­pease the Brah­mans with cost­ly gifts--'there­by coun­ter­ing evil omens, gain­ing the road to hap­pi­ness and en­sur­ing re­birth at a high­er lev­el.'

Their wor­ship how­ev­er, is of no avail for al­most im­me­di­ate­ly they fall to drink­ing. 'As they drank, the de­struc­tive flame of dis­sen­sion was kin­dled amongst them by mu­tu­al col­li­sion, and fed with the fu­el of abuse. In­fu­ri­at­ed by the di­vine in­flu­ence, they fell up­on one an­oth­er with mis­sile weapons and when these were ex­pend­ed, they had re­course to the rush­es grow­ing high. The rush­es in their hands be­came like thun­der­bolts and they struck one an­oth­er with them fa­tal blows. Kr­ish­na in­ter­posed to pre­vent them but they thought that he was tak­ing part with each sev­er­al­ly, and con­tin­ued the con­flict. Kr­ish­na then, en­raged, took up a hand­ful of rush­es to de­stroy them, and the rush­es be­came a club of iron and with this he slew many of the mur­der­ous Ya­davas; whilst oth­ers, fight­ing fierce­ly, put an end to one an­oth­er. In a short time, there was not a sin­gle Ya­da­va left alive, ex­cept the mighty Kr­ish­na and Daru­ka, his char­io­teer.'[43]

With the slaugh­ter thus com­plet­ed, Kr­ish­na feels free to leave the earth. Such Ya­davas who have been left be­hind in Dwar­ka have been spared, but the greater part of the race is dead. He there­fore makes ready for his own de­par­ture. Balara­ma, who has helped Kr­ish­na in the brawl, goes to the sea-​shore, per­forms yo­ga and, leav­ing his body, joins the Supreme Spir­it. Se­sha, the white ser­pent of eter­ni­ty, is­sues from his mouth and hymned by snakes and oth­er ser­pents pro­ceeds to the ocean. 'Bring­ing an of­fer­ing of re­spect, Ocean came to meet him; and then the ma­jes­tic be­ing, adored by at­ten­dant snakes en­tered in­to the wa­ters of the deep.'[44]

Kr­ish­na then seats him­self by a fig tree, lays his left leg across his right thigh, turns the sole of his foot out­wards and as­sumes one of the pos­tures in which ab­strac­tion is prac­tised. As he med­itates he ap­pears love­li­er than ev­er. His eyes flash. The four arms of Vish­nu spring from his body. He wears his crown, his sa­cred thread and gar­land of flow­ers. As he sits, glo­ri­ous and beau­ti­ful, the same hunter, who ear­li­er had sal­vaged the iron spike from the fish, chances to pass by. His ar­row is tipped with a piece of the iron and mis­tak­ing Kr­ish­na's foot for part of a deer, he shoots his ar­row and hits it. Ap­proach­ing the mark, he sees Kr­ish­na's four arms and is hor­ri­fied to dis­cov­er whom he has wound­ed. As he begs for­give­ness, Kr­ish­na grants him lib­er­ation and dis­patch­es him to heav­en.

Daru­ka, Kr­ish­na's char­io­teer, now comes in search of his mas­ter. Find­ing him wound­ed, he is over­whelmed with grief. Kr­ish­na tells him to go to Dwar­ka and in­form the sur­viv­ing Ya­davas what has hap­pened. On re­ceiv­ing the news they must leave Dwar­ka im­me­di­ate­ly, for the sea will short­ly en­gulf it. They must al­so place them­selves un­der Ar­ju­na's pro­tec­tion and go to In­draprastha. 'Then the il­lus­tri­ous Kr­ish­na hav­ing unit­ed him­self with his own pure, spir­itu­al, in­ex­haustible and uni­ver­sal spir­it aban­doned his mor­tal body.'[45]

Daru­ka goes mourn­ful­ly to Dwar­ka where he breaks the news. Va­sude­va with his two wives, De­va­ki and Ro­hi­ni, die of grief. Ar­ju­na re­cov­ers the bod­ies of Kr­ish­na and Balara­ma and places them on a fu­ner­al pyre. Ruk­mi­ni along with Kr­ish­na's sev­en oth­er queens throw them­selves on the flames. Balara­ma's wives, as well as King Ugrase­na, al­so die. Ar­ju­na then ap­points Kr­ish­na's great grand­son, Parik­shit, to rule over the sur­vivors and, af­ter as­sem­bling the re­main­ing wom­en and chil­dren, re­moves them from Dwar­ka and trav­els slow­ly away. As they leave, the ocean comes up, swal­low­ing the city and en­gulf­ing ev­ery­thing ex­cept the tem­ple.

[Foot­note 40: Plate 19.]

[Foot­note 41: Note 13.]

[Foot­note 42: Note 14.]

[Foot­note 43: Note 7.]

[Foot­note 44: Plate 1 and Note 7.]

[Foot­note 45: Plate 2 and Note 7.]

(iv) The _Pu­rana_ Re-​con­sid­ered

Such an ac­count gives us what the _Ma­hab­hara­ta_ epic did not give--a de­tailed de­scrip­tion of Kr­ish­na's ca­reer. It con­firms the epic's view of Kr­ish­na as a hero and fills in many gaps con­cern­ing his life at Dwar­ka, his re­la­tions with the Pan­davas, his life as a feu­dal prince and fi­nal­ly, his death. It makes clear that through­out the sto­ry Kr­ish­na is an in­car­na­tion of Vish­nu and that his main rea­son for be­ing born is to aid the good and kill demons. At the same time, it shows him in two im­por­tant new lights--first­ly, as one whose youth was spent among cowherds, in cir­cum­stances al­to­geth­er dif­fer­ent from those of a prince and sec­ond­ly, as a de­light­ful lover of wom­en, who ex­plores to the full the joys of sex­ual love. The sec­ond role char­ac­ter­izes him both as cowherd and prince but with im­por­tant dif­fer­ences of at­ti­tude and be­haviour. As a prince, Kr­ish­na is wed­ded first to Ruk­mi­ni and then to sev­en oth­er wives, ob­serv­ing on each oc­ca­sion the req­ui­site for­mal­ities. Even the six­teen thou­sand one hun­dred girls whom he res­cues from im­pris­on­ment re­ceive this for­mal sta­tus. With all of them Kr­ish­na en­joys a va­ri­ety of sex­ual plea­sures and their love is moral, re­spectable and ap­proved. Kr­ish­na the prince, in fact, is Kr­ish­na the hus­band. Kr­ish­na the cowherd, on the oth­er hand, is es­sen­tial­ly a lover. The cow­girls whose im­pas­sioned love he in­spires are all mar­ried and in con­sort­ing with them he is break­ing one of the most solemn re­quire­ments of the moral code. The first re­la­tion­ship has the se­cure ba­sis of con­ju­gal du­ty, the sec­ond the dar­ing ad­ven­tur­ous­ness of ro­man­tic pas­sion.

The same abrupt con­trast ap­pears be­tween his char­ac­ter as a cowherd and his char­ac­ter as a prince. As a youth he mix­es freely with the cowherds, be­hav­ing with an easy nat­ural­ness of man­ner and ob­tain­ing from them an in­tense de­vo­tion. This de­vo­tion is ex­cit­ed by ev­ery­thing he does and whether as a ba­by cry­ing for the breast, a lit­tle boy pil­fer­ing but­ter or a young man teas­ing the mar­ried girls, he ex­erts a mag­net­ic charm. At no time does he ne­glect his prime du­ty of killing demons but this is sub­or­di­nat­ed to his in­no­cent de­light in liv­ing. He is shown as im­pa­tient with old and stereo­typed forms of wor­ship, as scorn­ing or­di­nary moral­ity and treat­ing love as paramount. Al­though he acts con­tin­ual­ly with prince­ly dig­ni­ty and is al­ways aware of his true char­ac­ter as Vish­nu, his im­pact on oth­ers is based more on the un­der­stand­ing of their needs than on their recog­ni­tion of him as God. When, at times, Kr­ish­na the cowherd is adored as God, he has al­ready been loved as a boy and a young man. In the lat­er sto­ry, this ear­ly charm is miss­ing. Kr­ish­na is fre­quent­ly rec­og­nized to be God and is con­tin­ual­ly revered and re­spect­ed as a man. His con­duct is in­vari­ably res­olute but there is a kind of states­man­like for­mal­ity about his ac­tions. He is re­spect­ful to­wards rit­ual, for­mal ob­ser­vances and Brah­mans while in com­par­ison with his en­coun­ters with the cow­girls his re­la­tions with wom­en have an air of slight­ly stag­nant lux­ury. His wives and con­sorts lav­ish on him their de­vo­tion but the very fact that they are mar­ried re­moves the ro­man­tic el­ement from their re­la­tion­ship.

Such vi­tal dif­fer­ences are on­ly par­tial­ly re­solved in the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_. Rep­re­sent­ing as they do two dif­fer­ent con­cep­tions of Kr­ish­na's char­ac­ter, it is in­evitable that the re­sult­ing ac­count should be slight­ly bi­ased in one di­rec­tion or the oth­er. The _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_ records both phas­es in care­ful de­tail blend­ing them in­to a sin­gle or­gan­ic whole. But there can be lit­tle doubt that its Brah­man au­thors were in the main more favourably in­clined to­wards the hero prince than to­wards the cowherd lover. There is a ten­den­cy for the old­er Kr­ish­na to dis­par­age the younger. Kr­ish­na the prince's sub­se­quent meet­ings with the cow­girls are shown as very dif­fer­ent from his rap­tur­ous en­coun­ters with them in the for­est and the fact that his lat­er ca­reer in­volves so sharp a sep­ara­tion from them in­di­cates that the whole episode was some­what frowned up­on. This is es­pe­cial­ly ev­ident from the man­ner in which Kr­ish­na ad­dress­es the cow­girls when they meet him dur­ing the eclipse of the sun. By this time he has be­come an ar­dent hus­band con­stant­ly sat­is­fy­ing his many wives. He is very far from hav­ing ab­jured the de­lights of the flesh. Yet for all his for­mer loves who long for him so pas­sion­ate­ly he has on­ly one mes­sage. They must med­itate up­on him in their minds. No dis­missal could be cold­er, no treat­ment more cal­cu­lat­ing­ly cal­lous. And even the ac­counts of Kr­ish­na's love-​mak­ing re­flects this bias. The phys­ical charms of the cow­girls are min­imized and it is on­ly the beau­ty of Ruk­mi­ni which is stressed. It is clear, in fact, that how­ev­er much the one tra­di­tion in­volved a break with morals, the sec­ond tra­di­tion shrank from coun­te­nanc­ing adul­tery and it was this lat­ter tra­di­tion which com­mand­ed the au­thors' ap­proval. Fi­nal­ly, on one im­por­tant is­sue, the _Pu­rana_ as a whole is in no doubt. Kr­ish­na's true con­sort is Ruk­mi­ni. That Kr­ish­na's na­ture should be com­ple­ment­ed by a cow­girl is not so much as even con­sid­ered. The cow­girls are shown as risk­ing all for Kr­ish­na, as lov­ing him above all else but none is sin­gled out for men­tion and none emerges as a ri­val. In this long ac­count of Kr­ish­na's life what is over­whelm­ing­ly sig­nif­icant is that the name of his supreme cow­girl love is al­to­geth­er omit­ted.

V

THE KR­ISH­NA OF PO­ET­RY

(i) The Tri­umph of Rad­ha

Dur­ing the next two hun­dred years, from the tenth to the twelfth cen­tu­ry, the Kr­ish­na sto­ry com­plete­ly al­ters. It is not that the facts as giv­en in the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_ are dis­put­ed. It is rather that the em­pha­sis and view-​point are changed. Kr­ish­na the prince and his con­sort Ruk­mi­ni are rel­egat­ed to the back­ground and Kr­ish­na the cowherd lover brought sharply to the fore. Kr­ish­na is no longer re­gard­ed as hav­ing been born sole­ly to kill a tyrant and rid the world of demons. His chief func­tion now is to vin­di­cate pas­sion as the sym­bol of fi­nal union with God. We have al­ready seen that to In­di­ans this fi­nal union was the sole pur­pose of life and on­ly one ex­pe­ri­ence was at all com­pa­ra­ble to it. It was the mu­tu­al ec­sta­sy of im­pas­sioned lovers. 'In the em­brace of his beloved, a man for­gets the whole world--ev­ery­thing both with­in and with­out; in the same way, he who em­braces the Self knows nei­ther with­in nor with­out.'[46] The func­tion of the new Kr­ish­na was to de­fend these two premis­es--that ro­man­tic love was the most ex­alt­ed ex­pe­ri­ence in life and sec­ond­ly, that of all the roads to sal­va­tion, the im­pas­sioned ado­ra­tion of God was the one most valid. God must be adored. Kr­ish­na him­self was God and since he had shown di­vine love in pas­sion­ate­ly pos­sess­ing the cow­girls, he was best adored by re­call­ing these very en­coun­ters. As a re­sult, Kr­ish­na's re­la­tions with the cow­girls were now enor­mous­ly mag­ni­fied and as part of this fresh ap­praisal, a par­tic­ular mar­ried cow­girl, Rad­ha, en­ters the sto­ry as the en­chant­ing ob­ject of his pas­sions. We have seen how on one oc­ca­sion in the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_, Kr­ish­na dis­ap­pears tak­ing with him a sin­gle girl, how they then make love to­geth­er in a for­est bow­er and how when the girl tires and begs Kr­ish­na to car­ry her, he abrupt­ly leaves her. The girl's name is not men­tioned but enough is said to sug­gest that she is Kr­ish­na's favourite. This hint is now de­vel­oped. Rad­ha, for this is the girl's name, is rec­og­nized as the loveli­est of all the cow­girls. She is the daugh­ter of the cowherd Vr­ishab­hanu and his wife, Ka­malavati, and is mar­ried to Ayana, a broth­er of Ya­so­da. Like oth­er cow­girls, her love for Kr­ish­na is all-​con­sum­ing and com­pels her to ig­nore her fam­ily hon­our and dis­re­gard her hus­band. Kr­ish­na, for his part, re­gards her as his first love. In place, there­fore, of court­ly ad­ven­tures and bat­tles with demons, Kr­ish­na's adul­ter­ous ro­mance is now pre­sent­ed as all in all.[47] It is the moods, feel­ings and emo­tions of a great love-​af­fair which are the essence of the sto­ry and this, in turn, is to serve as a sub­lime al­le­go­ry ex­press­ing and af­firm­ing the love of God for the soul. With this dra­mat­ic rev­olu­tion in the sto­ry, we be­gin to ap­proach the Kr­ish­na of In­di­an paint­ing.

Such a change can hard­ly have come about with­out his­tor­ical rea­sons and al­though the ex­act cir­cum­stances must per­haps re­main ob­scure, we can see in this sharp re­ver­sal of roles a clear re­sponse to cer­tain In­di­an needs. From ear­ly times, ro­man­tic love had been keen­ly val­ued, San­skrit po­ets such as Kali­dasa, Amaru and Bhar­tri­hari cel­ebrat­ing the charms of wom­an­ly physique and the rap­tures of sex. What, in fact, in oth­er cul­tures had been viewed with sus­pi­cion or dis­qui­et was here in­vest­ed with no­bil­ity and grandeur. Al­though fi­deli­ty had been de­mand­ed in mar­riage, ro­man­tic li­aisons had not been en­tire­ly ex­clud­ed and thus there was a sense in which the love-​po­et­ry of the ear­ly In­di­an mid­dle ages had been part­ly par­al­leled by ac­tu­al court­ly or vil­lage prac­tice. From the tenth cen­tu­ry on­wards, how­ev­er, a tight­en­ing of do­mes­tic morals had set in, a tight­en­ing which was fur­ther in­ten­si­fied by the Mus­lim in­va­sions of the twelfth and thir­teen cen­turies. Ro­mance as an ac­tu­al ex­pe­ri­ence be­came more dif­fi­cult of at­tain­ment and this was ex­ac­er­bat­ed by stan­dard views of mar­riage. In ear­ly In­dia, mar­riage had been re­gard­ed as a con­tract be­tween fam­ilies and ro­man­tic love be­tween hus­band and wife as an ac­ci­den­tal, even an un­ex­pect­ed prod­uct of what was ba­si­cal­ly a util­itar­ian agree­ment. With the seclu­sion of wom­en and the lay­ing of even greater stress on wife­ly chasti­ty, ro­man­tic love was in­creas­ing­ly de­nied. Yet the need for ro­mance re­mained and we can see in the preva­lence of love-​po­et­ry a sub­sti­tute for wish­es re­pressed in ac­tu­al life.[48] It is pre­cise­ly this role which the sto­ry of Kr­ish­na the cowherd lover now came to per­form. Kr­ish­na, be­ing God, had been be­yond morals and hence had prac­tised con­duct which, if in­dulged in by men, might well have been wrong. He had giv­en prac­ti­cal ex­pres­sion to ro­man­tic long­ings and had be­haved with all the pas­sion­ate free­dom nor­mal­ly sti­fled by so­cial du­ty, con­ju­gal ethics and fam­ily morals. From this point of view, Kr­ish­na the prince was a mere pil­lar of bor­ing re­spectabil­ity. Noth­ing in his con­duct could arouse de­light for ev­ery­thing he did was cor­rect and prop­er. Kr­ish­na the cowherd on the oth­er hand, was spon­ta­neous, ir­re­spon­si­ble and free. His love for the cow­girls had had a live­ly free­dom. The love be­tween them was noth­ing if not vol­un­tary. His whole life among the cowherds was sim­ple, nat­ural and pleas­ing and as their rap­tur­ous lover noth­ing was more ob­vi­ous than that the cow­girls should adore him. In dwelling, then, on Kr­ish­na, it was nat­ural that the wor­ship­per should tend to dis­re­gard the prince and should con­cen­trate in­stead on the cowherd. The prince had revered Brah­mans and sup­port­ed es­tab­lished in­sti­tu­tions. The cowherd had shamed the Brah­mans of Mathu­ra and dis­cred­it­ed cer­emonies and fes­ti­vals. He had loved and been loved and in his con­tem­pla­tion lay noth­ing but joy. The loves of Kr­ish­na, in fact, were an in­ti­mate ful­fil­ment of In­di­an de­sires, an ex­act sub­li­ma­tion of in­tense ro­man­tic needs and while oth­er fac­tors must cer­tain­ly have played their part, this is per­haps the chief rea­son why, at this junc­ture, they now en­chant­ed vil­lage and court­ly In­dia.

The re­sults of this new ap­proach are ap­par­ent in two dis­tinct ways. The _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_ con­tin­ues to be the chief chron­icle of Kr­ish­na's acts but the last half of Book Ten and all of Book Eleven fall in­to ne­glect.[49] In their place, the sto­ry of Kr­ish­na's re­la­tions with the cow­girls is giv­en new poignan­cy and pre­ci­sion. Rad­ha is con­stant­ly men­tioned and in all the in­ci­dents in the _Pu­rana_ in­volv­ing cow­girls, it is she who is giv­en pride of place. At the riv­er Jum­na, when Kr­ish­na re­moves the cow­girls' clothes, Rad­ha begs him to re­store them. At the cir­cu­lar dance in which he joins with all the cow­girls, Rad­ha re­ceives his first at­ten­tions, danc­ing with him in the cen­tre. When Kr­ish­na is about to leave for Mathu­ra, it is Rad­ha who heads the cow­girls and strives to de­tain him. She serves, in fact, as a sym­bol of all the cow­girls' love. At the same time, she is very far from be­ing mere­ly their spokesman or lead­er and while the lat­er texts dwell con­stant­ly on her rap­tur­ous love-​mak­ing with Kr­ish­na, they al­so de­scribe her jeal­ousy when Kr­ish­na makes love to oth­er girls. In­deed the essence of their ro­mance is that it in­cludes a tem­po­rary es­trange­ment and on­ly af­ter Kr­ish­na has ne­glect­ed Rad­ha, flirt­ed with oth­er cow­girls and then re­turned to her is their un­der­stand­ing com­plete.

The sec­ond re­sult is the al­le­gor­ical in­ter­pre­ta­tion which Kr­ish­na's ro­mances now re­ceived. In Chris­tian lit­er­ature, the long­ing of the soul for God was oc­ca­sion­al­ly ex­pressed in terms of sex­ual im­agery--the works of the Span­ish mys­tic, St. John of the Cross, in­clud­ing 'songs of the soul in rap­ture at hav­ing ar­rived at the height of per­fec­tion which is union with God.'

Oh night that was my guide! Oh dark­ness dear­er than the morn­ing's pride, Oh night that joined the lover To the beloved bride Trans­fig­ur­ing them each in­to the oth­er.

With­in my flow­er­ing breast Which on­ly for him­self en­tire I save He sank in­to his rest And all my gifts I gave Lulled by the airs with which the cedars wave.[50]

This same ap­proach was now to clar­ify Rad­ha's ro­mance with Kr­ish­na. Rad­ha, it was held, was the soul while Kr­ish­na was God. Rad­ha's sex­ual pas­sion for Kr­ish­na sym­bol­ized the soul's in­tense long­ing and her will­ing­ness to com­mit adul­tery ex­pressed the ut­ter pri­or­ity which must be ac­cord­ed to love for God. If ul­ti­mate union was sym­bol­ized by ro­man­tic love, then clear­ly noth­ing could ap­proach such love in ul­ti­mate sig­nif­icance. In de­sert­ing their hus­bands and homes and wil­ful­ly com­mit­ting adul­tery, Rad­ha and the cow­girls were there­fore il­lus­trat­ing a pro­found re­li­gious truth. Not on­ly was their adul­tery proof of Kr­ish­na's charm, it was vi­tal to the whole sto­ry. By world­ly stan­dards, they were com­mit­ting the gravest of of­fences but they were do­ing it for Kr­ish­na who was God him­self. They were there­fore set­ting God above home and du­ty, they were leav­ing ev­ery­thing for love of God and in sur­ren­der­ing their hon­our, were pro­vid­ing the most po­tent sym­bol of what de­vo­tion meant. This ap­proach ex­plained oth­er de­tails. Kr­ish­na's flute was the call of God which caused the souls of men, the cow­girls, to for­sake their world­ly at­tach­ments and rush to love him. In re­mov­ing the clothes of the cow­girls and re­quir­ing them to come be­fore him naked, he was demon­strat­ing the in­no­cent pu­ri­ty with which the soul should wait on God. In him­self ne­glect­ing Rad­ha and toy­ing with the cow­girls, he was prov­ing, on one lev­el, the pow­er of world­ly plea­sures to se­duce the soul but on an­oth­er lev­el, the pow­er of God to love ev­ery soul ir­re­spec­tive of its char­ac­ter and sta­tus. From this point of view, the cow­girls were as much the souls of men as Rad­ha her­self and to demon­strate God's all-​per­va­sive love, Kr­ish­na must there­fore love not on­ly Rad­ha but ev­ery cow­girl. Equal­ly, in the cir­cu­lar dance, by in­duc­ing ev­ery cow­girl to think that she and she alone was his part­ner, Kr­ish­na was prov­ing how God is avail­able to all. Fi­nal­ly it was re­al­ized that even those por­tions of the sto­ry which, at first sight, seemed cru­el and cal­lous were al­so sus­cep­ti­ble of re­li­gious in­ter­pre­ta­tion. When Rad­ha has been loved in the for­est and then is sud­den­ly de­sert­ed, the rea­son is her pride--pride that be­cause Kr­ish­na has loved her, she can as­sert her­self by ask­ing to be car­ried. Such as­sertive­ness is in­com­pat­ible with the kind of hum­ble ado­ra­tion nec­es­sary for com­mu­nion with God. To prove this, there­fore, Rad­ha's pride must be de­stroyed and Kr­ish­na re­sorts to this seem­ing­ly brusque de­ser­tion. Ac­tion, in fact, which by hu­man stan­dards would be rep­re­hen­si­ble is once again a means for im­part­ing spir­itu­al wis­dom. In a sim­ilar way, Kr­ish­na's de­par­ture for Mathu­ra and fi­nal aban­don­ment of the cow­girls was ac­cord­ed a re­li­gious in­ter­pre­ta­tion. At one lev­el, his de­par­ture sym­bol­ized 'the dark night of the soul,' the ex­pe­ri­ence which comes to ev­ery devo­tee when, de­spite the most ar­dent long­ing, the vi­sion fades. At an­oth­er lev­el, it il­lus­trat­ed how life must be lived when God or Vish­nu was no longer on earth. If Kr­ish­na's love-​mak­ing was in­tend­ed to sym­bol­ize the ul­ti­mate rap­ture, his phys­ical ab­sence cor­re­spond­ed to con­di­tions as they nor­mal­ly ex­ist­ed. In in­struct­ing the cow­girls to med­itate up­on him in their minds, Kr­ish­na was on­ly at­tun­ing them to life as it must nec­es­sar­ily ap­pear af­ter he has left the hu­man stage.

It was these con­cep­tions which gov­erned the cult of Kr­ish­na from the twelfth cen­tu­ry on­wards and, as we shall short­ly see, in­formed the po­ems which were now to cel­ebrate his love for Rad­ha.

[Foot­note 46: Note 15.]

[Foot­note 47: Note 16.]

[Foot­note 48: Note 17.]

[Foot­note 49: I.e. the whole of Kr­ish­na's ca­reer af­ter his de­struc­tion of the tyrant.]

[Foot­note 50: Roy Camp­bell, _The Po­ems of St. John of the Cross_ (Lon­don, 1951), 11-12.]

(ii) The Gi­ta Govin­da

The first po­em to ex­press this changed con­cep­tion is the _Gi­ta Govin­da_--the Song of the Cowherd--a San­skrit po­em writ­ten by the Ben­gali po­et, Jayade­va, to­wards the close of the twelfth cen­tu­ry. Its sub­ject is the es­trange­ment of Rad­ha and Kr­ish­na caused by Kr­ish­na's love for oth­er cow­girls, Rad­ha's an­guish at Kr­ish­na's ne­glect and last­ly the rap­ture which at­tends their fi­nal re­union. Jayade­va de­scribes Rad­ha's long­ing and Kr­ish­na's love-​mak­ing with glow­ing sen­su­al­ity yet the po­em re­verts con­tin­ual­ly to praise of Kr­ish­na as God.

If in re­call­ing Kr­ish­na to mind there is flavour Or if there is in­ter­est in love's art Then to this neck­lace of words--sweet­ness, ten­der­ness, bright­ness-- The words of Jayade­va, lis­ten.

He aims, in fact, at in­duc­ing 'rec­ol­lec­tion of Kr­ish­na in the minds of the good' and adds a de­scrip­tion of the for­est in spring­time sole­ly, he says, in or­der once again to re­call Kr­ish­na.[51] When, at last, the po­em has come tri­umphant­ly to its close, Jayade­va again ex­horts peo­ple to adore Kr­ish­na and 'place him for ev­er in their hearts, Kr­ish­na the source of all mer­it.'

The po­em be­gins with a pref­ace of four lines de­scrib­ing how Kr­ish­na's ro­mance with Rad­ha first be­gan. The sky, it says, was dark with clouds. All around lay the vast for­est. Night was com­ing up and Nan­da who had tak­en the youth­ful Kr­ish­na with him is alarmed lest in the gath­er­ing gloom the boy should get lost. Rad­ha, who is some­what old­er, is with them, so Nan­da de­sires her to take Kr­ish­na home. Rad­ha leads him away but as they wan­der by the riv­er, pas­sion mounts in their hearts. They for­get that Nan­da has told them to hur­ry home. Rad­ha ig­nores the moth­er­ly char­ac­ter of her mis­sion and loi­ter­ing in the trees, the two com­mence their dal­liance.[52] In this way the love of Rad­ha and Kr­ish­na aris­es--the love which is to dom­inate their hearts with ev­er-​grow­ing fer­vour.

The po­em then leaps a pe­ri­od of time and when the dra­ma opens, a cri­sis has oc­curred. Rad­ha, af­ter long en­joy­ing Kr­ish­na's pas­sion­ate em­braces, finds her­self abrupt­ly ne­glect­ed. Charm­ing but faith­less, Kr­ish­na is now pur­su­ing oth­er girls and the jilt­ed Rad­ha wan­ders alone. Mean­while spring has come to the for­est and the thought that oth­ers are en­joy­ing Kr­ish­na's love tor­tures her to the point of mad­ness. As she broods on her lost joys, a friend de­scribes to her what is hap­pen­ing.[53]

San­dal and gar­ment of yel­low and lo­tus gar­lands up­on his body of blue, In his dance the jew­els of his ears in move­ment dan­gling over his smil­ing cheeks, Kr­ish­na here dis­ports him­self with charm­ing wom­en giv­en to love.

He em­braces one wom­an, he kiss­es an­oth­er, and fon­dles an­oth­er beau­ti­ful one. He looks at an­oth­er one love­ly with smiles, and starts in pur­suit of an­oth­er wom­an. Kr­ish­na here dis­ports him­self with charm­ing wom­en giv­en to love.[54]

Sud­den­ly Rad­ha sees Kr­ish­na[55] and go­ing in­to the midst of the cow­girls, she kiss­es him vi­olent­ly and clasps him to her; but Kr­ish­na is so in­flamed by the oth­er girls that he aban­dons her in a thick­et.

As Rad­ha broods on his be­haviour, she is filled with bit­ter sad­ness.[56] Yet her love is still so strong that she can­not bring her­self to blame him and in­stead calls to mind his charm.

I re­mem­ber Kr­ish­na, the jests he made, who placed his sport in the pas­toral dance, The sweet of whose nec­tar of lips kept flow­ing with notes of his lur­ing melo­di­ous flute, With the play of whose eyes and the toss of whose head the ear­rings kept dan­gling up­on his cheeks.

I re­mem­ber Kr­ish­na, the jests he made, who placed his sport in the pas­toral dance, Whose brow had a per­fect san­dal spot, as among dark clouds the disc of the moon, Whose door-​like heart was with­out pity when crush­ing the bo­soms of swelling breasts.

De­sire even now in my fool­ish mind for Kr­ish­na, For Kr­ish­na--with­out me--lust­ing still for the herd-​girls. See­ing on­ly the good in his na­ture, what shall I do? Ag­itat­ed I feel no anger. Pleased with­out cause, I ac­quit him.

And she con­tin­ues:

O make him en­joy me, my friend, that Kr­ish­na so fick­le, I who am shy like a girl on her way to the first of her trysts of love, He who is charm­ing with flat­ter­ing words, I who am ten­der In speech and smil­ing, he on whose hip the gar­ment lies loose­ly worn.

O make him en­joy me, my friend, that Kr­ish­na so fick­le, Me who sweat­ed and moist­ened all over my body with love's ex­er­tion, That Kr­ish­na whose cheeks were love­ly with down all stand­ing on end as he thrilled, Whose half-​closed eyes were lan­guid, and rest­less with brim­ming de­sire.

O make him en­joy me, my friend, that Kr­ish­na so fick­le, Me whose mass­es of curls were like loose-​slip­ping flow­ers, whose amorous words Were vague as of doves, that Kr­ish­na whose bo­som is marked With scratch­es, sur­pass­ing all in his love that the sci­ence of love could teach.

O make him en­joy me, my friend, that Kr­ish­na so fick­le, To whose act of de­sire ac­com­plished the an­klets up­on my feet be­jew­elled Vi­brat­ed sound­ing, who gave his kiss­es seiz­ing the hair of the head, And to whom in his pas­sion­ate love my gir­dle sound­ed in elo­quence sweet.

As Rad­ha sits long­ing for him in lone­ly sad­ness, Kr­ish­na sud­den­ly re­pents, is filled with re­morse and abrupt­ly goes in quest of her. He does not know, how­ev­er, where to find her and as he wan­ders, he ex­press­es his sor­row.

Rad­ha so deeply wronged, trou­bled to see me sur­round­ed by wom­en, She went, and I, in fear of my guilt, made no at­tempt to stop her, Alas, alas, she is gone in anger, her love de­stroyed.

O my slen­der one, I imag­ine your heart is de­ject­ed, I can­not con­sole you kneel­ing in homage, I know not where to find you. If you par­don me now I shall nev­er re­peat this ne­glect of you ev­er-- O beau­ti­ful, give me your plea­sure again. I burn with de­sire.

As Kr­ish­na search­es un­avail­ing­ly, Rad­ha's friend lights up­on him and con­veys news of her love-​tor­ment­ed state.

Ar­mour she makes of ten­der lo­tus gar­lands to hide her bo­som from you, Large gar­lands, as if to pro­tect you from heavy show­ers of shafts from the god of love. She fears an at­tack of Love up­on you, and lies away hid­den; She wastes away, Kr­ish­na, part­ed from you.

As he hears this, Kr­ish­na is torn with long­ing. He does not, how­ev­er, go im­me­di­ate­ly to Rad­ha but in­stead asks the friend to bring Rad­ha to him. The girl de­parts, meets Rad­ha and gives her Kr­ish­na's mes­sage. She then de­scribes Kr­ish­na's love-​lorn state:

When he hears the noise of swarms of bees, he cov­ers his ears from their hum­ming; Pain he feels, night af­ter night, of a heart in love that is part­ed. He droops, sep­arat­ed from you, O friend, the wear­er of gar­lands.

The girl as­sures Rad­ha that Kr­ish­na is con­trite and urges her to de­lay no longer.

He has gone in­to the tryst­ing place, full of all de­sired bliss, O you with love­ly hips de­lay no more O go forth now and seek him out, him the mas­ter of your heart, him en­dowed with pas­sion's love­ly form.

On fall­en feath­ers of the birds, on leaves about the for­est floor, he lies ex­cit­ed mak­ing there his bed, And he gazes out up­on the path, looks about with trem­bling eyes, anx­ious, look­ing out for your ap­proach.

There on that bed of ten­der leaves, O lo­tus-​eyed, em­brace his hips, his naked hips from whence the gir­dle drops, Those hips from whence the gar­ment falls, those loins which are a trea­sure heap, the foun­tain and the source of all de­light.

Rad­ha would will­ing­ly go but she is now so sick with love that she can no longer move. The girl has, there­fore, to go once more to Kr­ish­na and de­scribe Rad­ha's state.

In se­cret on ev­ery side she sees you Drink­ing the honied sweet of her lips. Where Rad­ha stays now she wilts away, She may live no longer with­out your skill, Again and again she keeps telling her friend, 'O why must Kr­ish­na de­lay to come?'

Of her jew­els abun­dant her limbs she adorns and spreads out her bed-- Imag­in­ing you on her flut­ter­ing couch of leaves-- And so to in­dulge, in a hun­dred ways, in the sport of love She is ful­ly re­solved, ar­rang­ing her bed with ev­ery adorn­ment; Not an­oth­er night may that beau­ti­ful girl en­dure with­out you. Why so much ap­athy, Kr­ish­na, be­side the fig tree? O broth­er, why not go to the pas­ture of eyes, the abode of bliss?

De­spite this mes­sage, how­ev­er, Kr­ish­na still de­lays and Rad­ha, who has half ex­pect­ed him, en­dures still greater an­guish.

My lover has failed to come to the tryst­ing place, It is per­haps that his mind is dazed, or per­haps that he went to an­oth­er wom­an Or lured per­haps by fes­tive folk, that he de­lays, Or per­haps along the dark fringe of the for­est he wan­ders lost.

She imag­ines him toy­ing with an­oth­er cow­girl.

A cer­tain girl, ex­celling in her charms un­ri­valled, dal­lies with the sportive Kr­ish­na Her face, a moon, is fon­dled by the flut­ter­ing petals in her hair, The ex­cit­ing mois­ture of his lips in­duces lan­gour in her limbs, Her ear­rings bruise her cheeks while danc­ing with the mo­tion of her head, Her gir­dle by the tremor of her mov­ing hips is made to tin­kle, She ut­ters sense­less sounds, through fever of her love, He dec­orates with crim­son flow­ers her curly tress­es, curls which are up­on her live­ly face a mass of clouds, Flow­ers with crim­son flash­ings love­ly in the for­est of her tress­es, haunt of that wild crea­ture love's de­sire.

And think­ing of her own hap­less state, Rad­ha con­trasts it bit­ter­ly with that of the for­tu­nate girl.

She who with the wear­er of the gar­land lies in dal­liance. With him whose love­ly mouth is like a lo­tus that is open­ing, With him whose words are nec­tar in their sweet­ness and their ten­der­ness, With him who wears a gar­ment streaked with gold, all white and beau­ti­ful Not made to sigh is she, my friend, de­rid­ed by her girls!

Next morn­ing Rad­ha is stand­ing with her girls when Kr­ish­na tries to ap­proach her. Now, how­ev­er, he has come too late. Rad­ha has suf­fered too great­ly. Her pa­tience is at an end and al­though Kr­ish­na im­plores her to for­give him, she rounds on him in anger, or­der­ing him to re­turn to the oth­er girl whom he has just left.[57]

Your mouth, O Kr­ish­na, dark­ened, en­hances the crim­son beau­ty of your love­ly body, En­hances with a, dark­ness, a black­ness that aris­es from the kiss­ing of eyes coloured with black unguent. Go, Kr­ish­na, go. De­sist from ut­ter­ing these de­ceit­ful words. Fol­low her, you lo­tus-​eyed, she who can dis­pel your trou­ble, go to her.

I who fol­low you de­vot­ed--how can you de­ceive me, so tor­tured by love's fever as I am? O Kr­ish­na, like the look of you, your body which ap­pears so black, that heart of yours a black­ness shall as­sume. Fol­low her, you lo­tus-​eyed, she who can dis­pel your trou­ble, go to her.

Faced with these re­proach­es, Kr­ish­na slinks away. Rad­ha's friend knows, how­ev­er, that de­spite her bit­ter anger, Rad­ha de­sires noth­ing more than his love. She at­tempts, there­fore, to in­stil in her a calmer frame of mind, urg­ing her to end her pride and take Kr­ish­na back. She goes to look for Kr­ish­na and while she is ab­sent, Kr­ish­na re­turns. Stand­ing be­fore Rad­ha, he im­plores her once again to end her anger.

If you speak but a lit­tle the moon-​like gleam of your teeth will de­stroy the dark­ness fright­ful, so very ter­ri­ble, come over me; Your moon of a face which glit­ters up­on my eye, the moon-​bird's eye, now makes me long for the sweet of your lips. O loved one, O beau­ti­ful, give up that base­less pride against me, My heart is burnt by the fire of long­ing; give me that drink so sweet of your lo­tus face. O you with beau­ti­ful teeth, if you are in anger against me, strike me then with your fin­ger nails, sharp and like ar­rows, Bind me, en­twin­ing, with the cords of your arms, and bite me then with your teeth, and feel hap­py pun­ish­ing. O loved one, O beau­ti­ful, give up that base­less pride against me.

At these words, Rad­ha's anger leaves her; and when Kr­ish­na with­draws, it is to go to the for­est and await her com­ing. Rad­ha's joy re­turns. She decks her­self in the loveli­est of her or­na­ments and then, ac­com­pa­nied by her maids, moves slow­ly to the tryst.[58] As they reach the bow­er which Kr­ish­na has con­struct­ed, her friend urges her to en­ter.

O you who bear on your face the smile that comes of the ar­dour of pas­sion Sport with him whose love-​abode is the floor of the beau­ti­ful bow­er.

Rad­ha ap­proach­es and their love strains to its height.

She looked at Kr­ish­na who de­sired on­ly her, on him who for long want­ed dal­liance, Whose face with his plea­sure was over­whelmed and who was pos­sessed with de­sire Af­ter em­brac­ing her long and ar­dent­ly, Kr­ish­na with his neck­lace of pearls Kr­ish­na like the Jum­na in a mighty flood with its neck­lace of specks of foam.[59]

The cow­girls go and Kr­ish­na speaks to Rad­ha.

O wom­an with de­sire, place on this patch of flow­er-​strewn floor your lo­tus foot, And let your foot through beau­ty win, To me who am the Lord of All, O be at­tached, now al­ways yours. O fol­low me, my lit­tle Rad­ha.

O love­ly wom­an, give me now the nec­tar of your lips, in­fuse new life in­to this slave of yours, so dead, This slave, whose heart is placed in you, whose body burned in sep­ara­tion, this slave de­nied the plea­sure of your love.

Rad­ha yields and as the night pass­es they achieve height up­on height of sex­ual bliss.

Their love play grown great was very de­light­ful, the love play where thrills were a hin­drance to firm em­braces, Where their help­less clos­ing of eyes was a hin­drance to long­ing looks at each oth­er, and their se­cret talk to their drink­ing of each the oth­er's nec­tar of lips, and where the skill of their love was hin­dered by bound­less de­light.

She loved as nev­er be­fore through­out the course of the con­flict of love, to win, ly­ing over his beau­ti­ful body, to tri­umph over her lover; And so through tak­ing the ac­tive part her thighs grew life­less, and lan­guid her vine-​like arms, and her heart beat fast, and her eyes grew heavy and closed.

In the morn­ing most won­drous, the heart of her lord was smit­ten with ar­rows of Love, ar­rows which went through his eyes, Ar­rows which were her nailed-​scratched bo­som, her red­dened sleep-​de­nied eyes, her crim­son lips from a bath of kiss­es, her hair dis­ar­ranged with the flow­ers awry, and her gir­dle all loose and slip­ping. With hair knot loos­ened and stray locks wav­ing, her cheeks per­spir­ing, her glit­ter of lips im­paired, And the neck­lace of pearls not ap­pear­ing fair be­cause of her jar-​shaped breast be­ing de­nud­ed, And her belt, her glit­ter­ing gir­dle, dimmed in beau­ty, The hap­py one drank of the face where the lips were washed with the juice of his mouth, His mouth half open ut­ter­ing amorous nois­es, vague and deliri­ous, the rows of teeth in the breath of an in­drawn sigh de­light­ed­ly chat­ter­ing. Drank of the face of that deer-​eyed wom­an whose body lay help­less, re­leased of ex­ces­sive de­light, the thrilling de­light of em­braces.

When their pas­sion is at last end­ed, Rad­ha begs Kr­ish­na to help her with her toi­let.

She said to the joy of her heart, Adorn the curl on my brow which puts the lo­tus to shame, my spot­less brow, Make a beau­ti­ful spot on my fore­head, a spot with the paste of the san­dal, O giv­er of pride, on my tress­es, un­tidy now on ac­count of de­sire, place flow­ers, Place on my hips the gir­dle, the clothes and the jew­els, Cov­er my beau­ti­ful loins, lus­cious and firm, the cav­ern of Love to be feared. Make a pat­tern up­on my breasts and a pic­ture on my cheeks and fas­ten over my loins a gir­dle, Bind my mass­es of hair with a beau­ti­ful gar­land and place many bracelets up­on my hands and jew­elled an­klets up­on my feet.

Kr­ish­na does so and with a fi­nal cel­ebra­tion of Kr­ish­na as God and of the song it­self--its words 'sweet­er than sug­ar, like love's own glo­ri­ous flavour'--the po­em ends.

[Foot­note 51: Note 18.]

[Foot­note 52: Plate 20.]

[Foot­note 53: Plates 21 and 22.]

[Foot­note 54: Note 19.]

[Foot­note 55: Plate 23.]

[Foot­note 56: Plate 24.]

[Foot­note 57: Plate 25.]

[Foot­note 58: Plate 26.]

[Foot­note 59: Plate 27.]

(iii) Lat­er Po­et­ry

Jayade­va's po­em quick­ly achieved renown in North­ern and West­ern In­dia and from the ear­ly thir­teenth cen­tu­ry be­came a lead­ing mod­el for all po­ets who were en­thralled by Kr­ish­na as God and lover. In West­ern In­dia, Bil­va­man­gala, a po­et of Mal­abar, com­posed a whole galaxy of Kr­ish­na songs, his po­em, the _Bal­agopala Stu­ti_ (The Child­hood of Kr­ish­na) earn­ing for him the ti­tle 'the Jayade­va of the South.' But it is dur­ing the fif­teenth and six­teenth cen­turies that the most im­por­tant de­vel­op­ments oc­curred. In Ben­gal, the po­ets Vidya­pati and Chan­di Das flour­ished in about the year 1420, while in West­ern In­dia, Mi­ra Bai, a lo­cal princess, be­gan a wide-​spread pop­ular move­ment. Mi­ra Bai was fol­lowed by Val­lab­hacharya (born 1478) who in turn in­spired four po­et dis­ci­ples--Kr­ish­na Das, Sur Das, Par­manand Das and Kumb­han Das. All these were at their height in the mid­dle of the six­teenth cen­tu­ry, writ­ing Hin­di po­ems in which Rad­ha's ad­ven­tures with Kr­ish­na and their rap­tur­ous love-​mak­ing were de­vot­ed­ly de­scribed.[60]

The work of Sur Das was of spe­cial im­por­tance for in one of his com­po­si­tions he took each of the thir­ty-​six tra­di­tion­al modes of In­di­an mu­sic-​the _Ra­gas_ and _Ragi­nis_--but in­stead of cel­ebrat­ing them as sep­arate 'mu­si­cal char­ac­ters,' ap­pend­ed to each a love-​po­em about Kr­ish­na. Sur Das was fol­lowed by Ke­shav Das of Or­ch­ha (fl. 1580), Govind Das (fl. 1590), Bi­hari Lai (fl. 1650) and Kali Das (fl. 1700)--all po­ets in whom re­li­gious ec­sta­sy was blend­ed with a feel­ing for pas­sion­ate ro­mance. Of these po­ets Bi­hari Lai is fa­mous for the _Sat Sai_ in which he cel­ebrat­ed Kr­ish­na's ro­mance in sev­en hun­dred vers­es.

All this lat­er po­et­ry dif­fered from the _Gi­ta Govin­da_ in one im­por­tant re­spect. In­stead of dwelling on the tem­po­rary rup­ture in Rad­ha and Kr­ish­na's re­la­tion­ship, it roved freely over the many phas­es of their love-​mak­ing, sub­ject­ing ev­ery in­ci­dent to de­light­ed anal­ysis. A po­et thought and felt him­self in­to Rad­ha's mind when as a young girl about to be­come a wom­an she dis­cov­ered for the first time the exquisite sen­sa­tions of awak­en­ing love. Or he imag­ined he was Kr­ish­na stum­bling on Rad­ha by ac­ci­dent and be­ing stirred to ec­sta­sy by his first glimpse of her glow­ing charms. Some­times he even be­came the un­seen view­er of their rap­tur­ous ex­changes, com­fort­ing Rad­ha with sage re­marks or egging her on to ap­pease her hun­gry lover. In this way many in­ci­dents not record­ed of any cow­girl in the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_, though pos­si­bly pre­served in oral tra­di­tion, came grad­ual­ly in­to promi­nence, there­by con­firm­ing Rad­ha as Kr­ish­na's great­est love.

The fol­low­ing in­ci­dents will il­lus­trate this pro­cess. Rad­ha would be de­scribed as one day tak­ing her curds and milk to a vil­lage the far­ther side of the riv­er Jum­ma. Kr­ish­na hears of her ex­pe­di­tion and along with oth­er cowherd boys way­lays Rad­ha and her friends and claims a toll. Rad­ha re­fus­es to pay but at last of­fers to make a to­ken gift pro­vid­ed he fer­ries them over. Mean­while a cowherd boy has hid­den the boat and night is com­ing on. It is now too late to re­turn so the girls have no al­ter­na­tive but to stay with Kr­ish­na. They lie down by the bank but in the dark­ness give Kr­ish­na not on­ly the toll but al­so their souls and bod­ies.

In an­oth­er po­em, Kr­ish­na is shown pes­ter­ing the cow­girls for curds. Rad­ha de­cides to stand this no longer and part­ly in jest dress­es her­self up as a con­sta­ble. When Kr­ish­na next teas­es the girls, she de­scends up­on him, catch­es him by the wrist and 'ar­rests' him as a thief.[61]

It is in the po­ems of Chan­di Das, how­ev­er, that Kr­ish­na's most dar­ing rus­es are de­scribed. Hav­ing once gained ad­mit­tance to Rad­ha's house by dress­ing him­self as a cow­girl, he is shown pre­tend­ing to be a flow­er-​sell­er. He strings some flow­ers in­to a bunch of gar­lands, dan­gles them on his arm and strolls bland­ly down the vil­lage street. When he reach­es Rad­ha's house, he goes bold­ly in and is tak­en by Rad­ha in­to a cor­ner where she starts to bar­gain. Kr­ish­na asks her to let him first adorn her with a gar­land and then she can pay him. Rad­ha agrees and as he slips a gar­land over her head, Kr­ish­na kiss­es her. Rad­ha sud­den­ly sees who it is and holds his hand.

On an­oth­er oc­ca­sion, Rad­ha is ill from love and is ly­ing at home on her bed. Kr­ish­na there­upon be­comes a doc­tor and goes from house to house cur­ing the sick. So suc­cess­ful are his cures that Rad­ha al­so is tempt­ed to con­sult the new doc­tor and sends a maid to call him, Kr­ish­na comes but be­fore en­ter­ing adopts a wild dis­guise--putting his clothes on in­side out, mat­ting his hair with mud, and sling­ing a bag of roots and plants over his shoul­der. As he en­ters, he sits on Rad­ha's bed, lifts her veil, gazes in­tent­ly at her face and de­clares that cer­tain­ly she is very ill in­deed. He then takes her pulse and says, 'it is the wa­ter of love that is rot­ting her heart like a poi­son.' Rad­ha is elat­ed at this di­ag­no­sis, rous­es her­self and stretch­es her limbs. 'You have un­der­stood my trou­ble,' she says. 'Now tell me what I am to do.' 'I feel some­what dif­fi­dent at ex­plain­ing my rem­edy,' replies the doc­tor, 'But if I had the time and place, I could ease your fever and cure you ut­ter­ly.' As he says this, Rad­ha knows that he is Kr­ish­na and this is on­ly an­oth­er of his reck­less wiles de­signed to bring him near her.

But it was less in the record­ing of new in­ci­dents than in lyri­cal de­scrip­tions of Rad­ha and Kr­ish­na, their phys­ical charms and ec­stat­ic meet­ings, that the po­ets ex­celled.

i

Kr­ish­na is danc­ing in a med­ley of moods and pos­es. His crown sways, his eye-​brows move, Dis­play­ing the arts of a clever dancer. The swing of his waist makes his gir­dle sing And the an­klets jin­gle. One fan­cies one is lis­ten­ing to the sweet voice of a pair of geese as they touch each oth­er in dal­liance. The ban­gles glit­ter and the rings and arm­lets shoot their rays. When with pas­sion he moves his arms, what grace the move­ments bless! Now he dances af­ter the gait of ladies and now in a man­ner of his own. The po­et's lord is the jew­el of the pas­sion­ate And builds his dance in the depths of ec­sta­sy.[62]

(Sur Das)

ii

With Kr­ish­na in their midst the cowherds come to their homes. The calves and cows are ahead, frisk­ing and play­ing as they go. All the pipes and horns go forth, each his own notes play­ing. The sound of the flute moves the cows to low as they raise a cloud of dust. The crown of pea­cocks' feath­ers glis­tens on the head like a young moon. The cowherd boys frol­ic on the path and Kr­ish­na in the cen­tre sings his song. Rav­ished by the sight, the cow­girls pour out their minds and bod­ies, Gaz­ing on Kr­ish­na, quench­ing their heart's de­sire.

(Sur Das)

iii

Rad­ha's glances dart from side to side. Her rest­less body and clothes are heavy with dust. Her glis­ten­ing smile shines again and again. Shy, she rais­es her skirt to her lips. Star­tled, she stirs and once again is calm, As now she en­ters the ways of love. Some­times she gazes at her blos­som­ing breasts Hid­ing them quick­ly, then for­get­ting they are there. Child­hood and girl­hood melt in one And young and old are both for­got­ten. Says Vidya­pati: O Lord of life, Do you not know the signs of youth?[63]

(Vidya­pati)

iv

Each day the breasts of Rad­ha swelled. Her hips grew shape­ly, her waist more slen­der. Love's se­crets stole up­on her eyes. Star­tled her child­hood sought es­cape. Her plum-​like breasts grew large, Hard­er and crisper, aching for love. Kr­ish­na soon saw her as she bathed Her filmy dress still cling­ing to her breasts, Her tan­gled tress­es falling on her heart, A gold­en im­age swathed in yak's tail plumes. Says Vidya­pati: O won­der of wom­en, On­ly a hand­some man can long for her.

(Vidya­pati)

v

There was a shud­der in her whis­per­ing voice. She was shy to frame her words. What has hap­pened tonight to love­ly Rad­ha? Now she con­sents, now she is scared. When asked for love, she clos­es up her eyes, Ea­ger to reach the ocean of de­sire. He begs her for a kiss. She turns her mouth away And then, like a night lily, the moon seized her. She felt his touch startling her gir­dle. She knew her love trea­sure was be­ing robbed. With her dress she cov­ered up her breasts. The trea­sure was left un­cov­ered. Vidya­pati won­ders at the ne­glect­ed bed. Lovers are busy in each oth­er's arms.

(Vidya­pati)

vi

Awake, Rad­ha, awake Calls the par­rot and its love For how long must you sleep, Clasped to the heart of your Dark-​stone? Lis­ten. The dawn has come And the red shafts of the sun Are mak­ing us shud­der.

(Vidya­pati)

vii

Star­tled, the par­rot calls. See those young lovers are still asleep. On a bed of ten­der leaves His dark fig­ure is ly­ing still. She, the fair one, Looks like a piece of jew­elled gold. They have emp­tied their quiv­ers. All their flow­er-​ar­rows are dis­charged, Drown­ing each oth­er in the joy of love. O love­ly Rad­ha, awake. Your friends are go­ing to the tem­ple. Asks Govind Das: Whose busi­ness is it To in­ter­rupt the ways of love?

(Govind Das)

In an­oth­er kind of po­em, Rad­ha and Kr­ish­na are them­selves made to speak--Kr­ish­na, for ex­am­ple, de­scrib­ing his first glimpses of Rad­ha and Rad­ha strug­gling to evoke in words the ec­stasies of their love.

vi­ii

Like stilled light­ning her fair face. I saw her by the riv­er, Her hair dressed with jas­mine, Plait­ed like a coiled snake. O friend, I will tell you The se­cret of my heart. With her dart­ing glances And gen­tle smiles She made me wild with love. Throw­ing and catch­ing a ball of flow­ers, She showed me to the full Her youth­ful form. Up­tilt­ed breasts Peeped from her dress. Her face was bright With taunt­ing smiles. With an­klet bells Her feet shone red. Says Chan­di Das: Will you see her again?

(Chan­di Das)

ix

Lis­ten, O love­ly dar­ling, Cease your anger. I promise by the gold­en pitch­ers of your breasts And by your neck­lace-​snake, Which now I gath­er in my hands, If ev­er I touch any­one but you May your neck­lace-​snake bite me; And if my words do not ring true, Pun­ish me as I de­serve. Bind me in your arms, hit me with your thighs, Choke my heart with your milk-​swollen breasts, Lock me day and night in the prison of your heart.

(Vidya­pati)

x

Nev­er have I seen such love nor heard of it. Even the eye­lids' flut­ter Holds eter­ni­ty. Clasped to my breasts, you are far from me. I would keep you as a veil close to my face. I shud­der with fright when you turn your eyes away, As one body, we spend the night, Sink­ing in the deeps of de­light. As dawn comes, we see with anx­ious hearts Life desert us. The very thought breaks my heart. Says Chan­di Das: O sweet girl, how I un­der­stand.

(Chan­di Das)

xi

O friend, I can­not tell you Whether he was near or far, re­al or a dream. Like a vine of light­ning, As I chained the dark one, felt a riv­er flood­ing in my heart. Like a shin­ing moon, I de­voured that liq­uid face. I felt stars shoot­ing around me. The sky fell with my dress Leav­ing my rav­ished breasts. I was rock­ing like the earth. In my storm­ing breath I could hear my an­kle-​bells, Sound­ing like bees. Drowned in the last-​wa­ters of dis­so­lu­tion I knew that this was not the end. Says Vidya­pati: How can I pos­si­bly be­lieve such non­sense?

(Vidya­pati)

[Foot­note 60: Plate 29.]

[Foot­note 61: Plate 35.]

[Foot­note 62: Note 20.]

[Foot­note 63: Note 20.]

(iv) The Rasi­ka Priya

It is a third de­vel­op­ment, how­ev­er, which re­veals the in­sis­tent at­trac­tions of Kr­ish­na the di­vine lover. From about the sev­enth cen­tu­ry on­wards In­di­an thinkers had been fas­ci­nat­ed by the great va­ri­ety of pos­si­ble ro­man­tic ex­pe­ri­ences. Writ­ers had clas­si­fied fem­inine beau­ty and cod­ified the dif­fer­ent sit­ua­tions which might arise in the course of a ro­mance. A wom­an, for ex­am­ple, would be cat­alogued ac­cord­ing as she was 'one's own, an­oth­er's or any­one's' and whether she was young, ado­les­cent or adult. Beau­ties with adult physiques were di­vid­ed in­to un­mar­ried and mar­ried, while cut­ting across such di­vi­sions was yet an­oth­er based on the par­tic­ular cir­cum­stances in which a wom­an might find her­self. Such cir­cum­stances were nor­mal­ly eight in num­ber--when her hus­band or lover was on the point of com­ing and she was ready to re­ceive him; when she was part­ed from him and was filled with long­ing; when he was con­stant and she was thus en­joy­ing the calm hap­pi­ness of sta­ble love; when, for the time be­ing, she was es­tranged due to some quar­rel or tiff; when she had been de­ceived; when she had gone to meet her lover but had wait­ed in vain, there­by be­ing jilt­ed; when her hus­band or lover had gone abroad and she was faced with days of lone­ly wait­ing; and fi­nal­ly, when she had left the house and gone to meet him. Ladies in sit­ua­tions such as these were known as _nayikas_ and the text em­body­ing the stan­dard clas­si­fi­ca­tion was the San­skrit trea­tise, the _Bharatiya Natya Sas­tra_. A sim­ilar anal­ysis was made of men--lovers or _nayakas_ be­ing some­times di­vid­ed in­to four­teen dif­fer­ent types.

Un­til the four­teenth cen­tu­ry, such writ­ings were stud­ies in erotics rather than in lit­er­ature--the ac­tu­al sit­ua­tions rather than their lit­er­ary treat­ment be­ing the au­thors' prime con­cern. Dur­ing the four­teenth cen­tu­ry, how­ev­er, ques­tions of lit­er­ary taste be­gan to be dis­cussed and there arose a new type of San­skrit trea­tise, show­ing how dif­fer­ent kinds of lover should be treat­ed in po­et­ry and il­lus­trat­ing the cor­rect at­ti­tudes by care­ful­ly cho­sen vers­es. In all these writ­ings the stan­dard of ref­er­ence was hu­man pas­sion. The lovers of po­et­ry might bear on­ly a slight re­la­tion to lovers in re­al life. Many of the sit­ua­tions en­vis­aged might rarely, if ev­er, oc­cur. It was suf­fi­cient that grant­ed some favourable ac­ci­dent, some chance sus­pen­sion of nor­mal cir­cum­stances, lovers could be imag­ined as act­ing in these spe­cial ways.

It is out of this crit­ical lit­er­ature that our new de­vel­op­ment springs. As ver­nac­ular lan­guages were used for po­et­ry, prob­lems of Hin­di com­po­si­tion be­gan to dwarf those of San­skrit. It was nec­es­sary to dis­cuss how best to treat each _nayi­ka_ and _naya­ka_ not on­ly in San­skrit but in Hin­di po­et­ry al­so, and to meet this sit­ua­tion Ke­shav Das, the po­et of Or­ch­ha in Bun­delk­hand, pro­duced in 1591 his _Rasi­ka Priya_. Here all the stan­dard sit­ua­tions were once again ex­am­ined, _nayikas_ and _nayakas_ were new­ly dis­tin­guished and vers­es il­lus­trat­ing their ap­pro­pri­ate treat­ments were sys­tem­at­ical­ly in­clud­ed. The book dif­fered, how­ev­er, in two im­por­tant ways from any of its pre­de­ces­sors. It was writ­ten in Hin­di, Ke­shav Das him­self sup­ply­ing both po­ems and com­men­tary and what was even more sig­nif­icant, the _naya­ka_ or lover was por­trayed not as any or­di­nary well-​bred young man but as Kr­ish­na him­self.[64] As a girl waits at the tryst it is not for an or­di­nary lover but for Kr­ish­na that Ke­shav Das de­picts her as long­ing.

'Is he de­tained by work? Is he loath to leave his friends? Has he had a quar­rel? Is his body un­easy? Is he afraid when he sees the rainy dark? O Kr­ish­na, Giv­er of Bliss, why do you not come?'[65]

As a girl waits by her bed look­ing out through her door, it is the prospect of Kr­ish­na's ar­rival--not of an or­di­nary lover's--that makes her hap­py.

'As she runs, her blue dress hides her limbs. She hears the wind ruf­fling the trees and the birds shift­ing in the night. She thinks it must be he. How she longs for love, watch­ing for Kr­ish­na like a bird in a cage.'

When the lover ar­rives at dawn, hav­ing failed to come in the night, the girl (an­oth­er _nayi­ka_, 'one who has been de­ceived') up­braids Kr­ish­na for wan­der­ing about like a crow, pick­ing up worth­less grains of rice, wast­ing his hours in bad com­pa­ny and ru­in­ing hous­es by squat­ting in them like an owl.

Sim­ilar­ly when a mar­ried girl sits long­ing for her hus­band's re­turn, her com­pan­ion com­ments not on an or­di­nary hus­band's con­duct but on that of Kr­ish­na. 'He said he would not be long. “I shall be back,” he said, “as soon as I have had my meal.” But now it is hours since he went. Why does he sit be­side them and no one urge him to go? Does he know that her eyes are wet with tears, that she is cry­ing her heart out be­cause he does not come?'

Kr­ish­na, in fact, is here re­gard­ed as re­sum­ing in him­self all pos­si­ble ro­man­tic ex­pe­ri­ences. He is no longer mere­ly the cowherd lover or the hero prince, the cen­tral fig­ure of a sa­cred nar­ra­tive. Nei­ther is he mere­ly or on­ly the lover of Rad­ha. He is deemed to know love from ev­ery an­gle and thus to sanc­ti­fy all modes of pas­sion­ate be­haviour. He is love it­self.

Such a de­vel­op­ment con­cludes the var­ied phas­es through which the char­ac­ter of Kr­ish­na has passed. The cowherd lover su­per­sedes the hero prince. Rad­ha be­comes all in all, yet touch­es of Kr­ish­na's prince­ly majesty re­main through­out. Even as a cowherd Kr­ish­na shows an el­egance and poise which be­trays his dif­fer­ent ori­gin. And in the _Rasi­ka Priya_ it is once again his court­ly au­ra which de­ter­mines his new role. A blend of prince and cowherd, Kr­ish­na ousts from po­et­ry the court­ly lovers who pre­vi­ous­ly had seemed the acme of ro­mance. Ado­ra­tion of God ac­quires the grace and charm of court­ly lov­ing, pas­sion­ate sen­su­al­ity all the re­fine­ment and no­bil­ity of a spir­itu­al re­li­gion. It is out of all these var­ied texts that the Kr­ish­na of In­di­an paint­ing now emerges.

[Foot­note 64: Plate 28.]

[Foot­note 65: Note 21.]

VI

THE KR­ISH­NA OF PAINT­ING

In­di­an pic­tures of Kr­ish­na con­front us with a se­ries of dif­fi­cult prob­lems. The most ex­alt­ed ex­pres­sions of the theme are main­ly from Kan­gra, a large Hin­du state with­in the Pun­jab Hills.[66] It was here that Kr­ish­na, the cowherd lover, was most ful­ly cel­ebrat­ed. Pic­tures were pro­duced in large num­bers and the Kan­gra style with its del­icate re­fine­ment ex­act­ly mir­rored the en­rap­tured po­et­ry of the lat­er cult. This paint­ing was due en­tire­ly to a par­tic­ular Kan­gra ruler, Ra­ja Sansar Chand (1775-1823)--his de­light in paint­ing caus­ing him to spare no cost in re-​cre­at­ing the Kr­ish­na idyll in exquisite terms. Else­where, how­ev­er, con­di­tions var­ied. At the end of the six­teenth cen­tu­ry, it was not a Hin­du but a Mus­lim ruler who com­mis­sioned the great­est il­lus­tra­tions of the sto­ry. In the sev­en­teenth and eigh­teenth cen­turies, Hin­du pa­trons were the rule but in cer­tain states it was ju­nior mem­bers of the rul­ing fam­ily rather than the Ra­ja him­self who wor­shipped Kr­ish­na. Some­times it was not the rul­ing fam­ily but mem­bers of the mer­chant com­mu­ni­ty who spon­sored the artists and, oc­ca­sion­al­ly, it was even a pi­ous la­dy or de­vout princess who served as pa­tron. Such dif­fer­ences of stim­ulus had vi­tal ef­fects and, as a con­se­quence, while the cult of Kr­ish­na came in­creas­ing­ly to en­thrall the north­ern half of In­dia, its ex­pres­sion in art was the re­verse of neat and or­der­ly. Where a pa­tron was so im­bued with love for Kr­ish­na that ado­ra­tion of the cowherd lover pre­ced­ed all, the in­ten­si­ty of his feel­ing it­self evoked a new style. There then re­sult­ed the In­di­an equiv­alent of pic­tures by El Gre­co, Grunewald or Alt­dor­fer--paint­ings in which the artist's own re­li­gious emo­tions were the di­rect oc­ca­sion of a new man­ner. In oth­er cas­es, the pa­tron might ad­here to Kr­ish­na, pay him nom­inal re­spect or take a mod­er­ate plea­sure in his sto­ry but not evince a burn­ing en­thu­si­asm. In such cas­es, paint­ings of Kr­ish­na would still be pro­duced but the style would mere­ly re­peat ex­ist­ing con­ven­tions. The pic­tures which re­sult­ed would then re­sem­ble Ger­man paint­ings of the Danube or Cologne schools--pic­tures in which the artist ap­plied an al­ready ma­ture style to a re­li­gious theme but did not orig­inate a fresh mode of ex­pres­sion. Whether the great­est art re­sult­ed from the first or sec­ond method was prob­lem­at­ical for the out­come de­pend­ed as much on the na­ture of the styles as on the artist's pow­ers. In con­sid­er­ing In­di­an pic­tures of Kr­ish­na, then, we must be pre­pared for sud­den fluc­tu­ations in ex­pres­sion and abrupt dif­fer­ences of style and qual­ity. Ado­ra­tion of Kr­ish­na was to prove one of the most vi­tal el­ements in vil­lage and court­ly life. It was to cap­ture the imag­ina­tion of Ra­jput princes and to lead to some of the most in­ti­mate rev­ela­tions of the In­di­an mind. Yet in art its ex­pres­sion was to hov­er be­tween the crude and the sen­si­tive, the sav­age and the exquisite. It was to stim­ulate some of the most del­icate In­di­an pic­tures ev­er paint­ed and, at the same time, some of the most force­ful.

The first pic­tures of Kr­ish­na to be paint­ed in In­dia fall with­in this sec­ond cat­ego­ry. In about 1450, one ver­sion of the _Gi­ta Govin­da_ and two of the _Bal­agopala Stu­ti_ were pro­duced in West­ern In­dia.[67] They were doubt­less made for mid­dle-​class pa­trons and were ex­ecut­ed in West­ern In­dia for one im­por­tant rea­son. Dwar­ka, the scene of Kr­ish­na's life as a prince, and Prab­hasa, the scene of the fi­nal slaugh­ter, were both in West­ern In­dia. Both had al­ready be­come cen­tres of pil­grim­age and al­though Jayade­va had writ­ten his great po­em far to the East, on the oth­er side of In­dia, pil­grims had brought copies with them while jour­ney­ing from Ben­gal on vis­its to the sites. The _Gi­ta Govin­da_ of Jayade­va had be­come in fact as much a West­ern In­di­an text as the _Bal­agopala Stu­ti_ of Bil­va­man­gala. With manuscript il­lus­tra­tions be­ing al­ready pro­duced in West­ern In­dia--but not, so far as we know, else­where--it was not un­nat­ural that the first il­lus­trat­ed ver­sions of these po­ems should be paint­ed here. And it is these cir­cum­stances which de­ter­mined their style. Un­til the fif­teenth cen­tu­ry the chief manuscripts il­lus­trat­ed in West­ern In­dia were Jain scrip­tures com­mis­sioned by mem­bers of the mer­chant com­mu­ni­ty. Jain­ism had orig­inat­ed in the sixth cen­tu­ry B.C. as a par­al­lel move­ment to Bud­dhism. It had proved more ac­com­mo­dat­ing to Hin­duism, and when Bud­dhism had col­lapsed in West­ern In­dia in the ninth cen­tu­ry A.D., Jain­ism had con­tin­ued as a lo­cal vari­ant of Hin­duism prop­er. Jain manuscripts had at first con­sist­ed of long rect­an­gu­lar strips made of palm-​leaves on which the scrip­tures were writ­ten in heavy black let­ters. Each slip was rough­ly three inch­es wide and ten long and in­to the text had been in­sert­ed lean di­agram­mat­ic paint­ings ei­ther por­tray­ing Ma­havi­ra, the founder of the cult, or il­lus­trat­ing episodes in his earth­ly ca­reer.

About 1400, palm-​leaf was su­per­seded by pa­per and from then on­wards manuscripts were giv­en slight­ly larg­er pages. Ow­ing part­ly to their as­so­ci­ation with the same re­li­gious or­der and part­ly to their con­stant du­pli­ca­tion, Jain manuscripts had ear­ly con­formed to a cer­tain rigid type. The paint­ing was marked by lean and wiry out­lines, bril­liant red and blue and above all by an air of sav­age fe­roc­ity ex­pressed through the id­iom of faces shown three-​quar­ter view with the far­ther eye de­tached and pro­ject­ing in­to space. This style was ex­er­cised al­most ex­clu­sive­ly on Jain sub­jects and in the year 1400 it was the main style of paint­ing in West­ern In­dia and Raj as than.

Dur­ing the fif­teenth cen­tu­ry, this ex­clu­sive char­ac­ter grad­ual­ly weak­ened. There arose the idea that be­sides Jain scrip­tures, sec­ular po­et­ry might al­so be il­lus­trat­ed and along with the grow­ing de­vo­tion to Kr­ish­na as God came the de­mand for il­lus­trat­ed ver­sions of Kr­ish­na texts. The three texts we have just men­tioned are due to this ten­den­cy. All three are il­lus­trat­ed in the pre­vail­ing Jain style with its spiky an­gu­lar id­ioms and all three have the same some­what sin­is­ter air of bar­barous fren­zy. At the same time, all dis­close a par­tial loos­en­ing of the rigid wiry con­ven­tion, a more bois­ter­ous rhythm and a slight­ly soft­er treat­ment of trees and an­imals; and, al­though no very close cor­re­la­tion is pos­si­ble, the theme it­self may well have helped to pre­cip­itate these im­por­tant changes.

Be­tween 1450 and 1575, West­ern In­di­an paint­ing con­tin­ued to fo­cus on Jain themes, adul­ter­at­ed to on­ly a very slight ex­tent by sub­jects drawn from po­et­ry. It is pos­si­ble that the Kr­ish­na sto­ry was al­so il­lus­trat­ed, but no ex­am­ples have sur­vived; and it is not un­til the very end of the six­teenth cen­tu­ry that the Kr­ish­na theme again ap­pears in paint­ing and then in two dis­tinct forms. The first is rep­re­sent­ed by a group of three manuscripts--two of them dat­ed re­spec­tive­ly 1598[68] and 1610[69] and con­sist­ing of the tenth book of the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_, the third be­ing yet an­oth­er il­lus­tra­tion of the _Gi­ta Govin­da[70]_. All three sets of il­lus­tra­tions are in a close­ly sim­ilar style--a style which, while pos­sess­ing roots in Jain paint­ing is now con­sid­er­ably lax­er and more sprawl­ing. The faces are no longer shown three-​quar­ter view, the de­tached ob­trud­ing eye has gone and in place of the ear­ly sharp­ness there is now a cer­tain sloven­ly cru­di­ty. We do not know for whom these manuscripts were made nor even in what par­tic­ular part of West­ern In­dia or Ra­jasthan they were ex­ecut­ed. They were clear­ly not pro­duced in any great cen­tre of paint­ing and can hard­ly have been com­mis­sioned by a prince or mer­chant of much aes­thet­ic sen­si­bil­ity. They prove, how­ev­er, that a de­mand for il­lus­trat­ed ver­sions of the Kr­ish­na sto­ry was per­sist­ing and sug­gest that even pros­per­ous traders may per­haps have act­ed as pa­trons.

The sec­ond type is ob­vi­ous­ly the prod­uct of far more so­phis­ti­cat­ed in­flu­ences. It is once again a copy of the _Gi­ta Govin­da_ and was prob­ably ex­ecut­ed in about 1590 in or near Jaun­pur in East­ern In­dia. As ear­ly as 1465, a manuscript of the lead­ing Jain scrip­ture, the _Kalpa­su­tra_, had been ex­ecut­ed at Jaun­pur for a wealthy mer­chant.[71] Its style was ba­si­cal­ly West­ern In­di­an, yet be­ing ex­ecut­ed in an area so far to the east, it al­so pos­sessed cer­tain nov­el­ties of man­ner. The heads were more square­ly shaped, the eyes larg­er in pro­por­tion to the face, the ladies' drap­ery fan­ning out in great an­gu­lar swirls. The bod­ies' con­tours were al­so de­lin­eat­ed with exquisite­ly sharp pre­ci­sion. The court at the time was that of Hus­sain Shah, a mem­ber of the ma­raud­ing Mus­lim dy­nas­ties which since the twelfth cen­tu­ry had en­veloped North­ern In­dia; and it is pos­si­bly due to per­sis­tent Mus­lim in­flu­ence that paint­ing re­vived in the last two decades of the six­teenth cen­tu­ry. Il­lus­trat­ed ver­sions of pas­sion­ate love po­et­ry were ex­ecut­ed[72] and as part of the same vogue for po­et­ic ro­mance, the _Gi­ta Govin­da_ may once again have been il­lus­trat­ed.[73] Be­tween the style of these lat­er pic­tures and that of the Jain text of 1465, there are such clear affini­ties that the same lo­cal tra­di­tion is ob­vi­ous­ly re­spon­si­ble. Yet the new group of paint­ings has a dis­tinc­tive el­egance all its own. As in the pre­vi­ous group, the de­tached pro­ject­ing eye has gone. Each sit­ua­tion is treat­ed with a slash­ing bold­ness. There is no longer a sense of cramp­ing de­tail and the flat red back­grounds of West­ern In­di­an paint­ing in­fuse the set­tings with hot pas­sion. But it is the treat­ment of the fem­inine form which charges the pic­tures with so­phis­ti­cat­ed charm. The large breasts, the sweep­ing dip in the back, the proud curve of the haunch­es, the ag­itat­ed jut­ting-​out of the skirts, all these con­vey an air of vivid sen­su­al charm. That Rad­ha and Kr­ish­na should be por­trayed in so civ­ilized a man­ner is ev­idence of the pow­er which the Kr­ish­na sto­ry had come to ex­er­cise on court­ly minds. Kr­ish­na is por­trayed not as God but as the most el­egant of lovers, Rad­ha and the cow­girls as the very em­bod­iment of fash­ion­able wom­en.

Jaun­pur paint­ing does not seem to have sur­vived the six­teenth cen­tu­ry and for our next il­lus­tra­tions of the theme, we must turn to the school of paint­ing fos­tered by the Mughals. Dur­ing the six­teenth cen­tu­ry at least three Mus­lim states oth­er than Jaun­pur it­self had pos­sessed schools of paint­ing--Mal­wa in Cen­tral In­dia and Bi­japur and Ah­mad­na­gar in the Dec­can. Their styles can best be re­gard­ed as In­di­an off­shoots of a Per­sian mode of paint­ing which was cur­rent in the Per­sian province of Shi­raz in about the year 1500. In this style, known as Turk­man, the flat fig­ures of pre­vi­ous Per­sian paint­ing were set in land­scapes of rich and glow­ing herbage, plants and trees be­ing ren­dered with wild and prim­itive vigour. In each case the style was prob­ably brought to In­dia by Per­sian artists who com­mu­ni­cat­ed it to In­di­an painters or them­selves ad­just­ed it to lo­cal con­di­tions. And it is this pro­cess which was re­peat­ed but on an al­to­geth­er grander scale by the Mus­lim dy­nasty of the Mughals. Un­der the em­per­or Ak­bar (1556-1605), the Mughals ab­sorbed the greater part of North­ern In­dia, con­cen­trat­ing in one im­pe­ri­al court more pow­er and wealth than had prob­ably been amassed at any pre­vi­ous time in In­dia. Among Ak­bar's cul­tur­al in­sti­tu­tions was a great im­pe­ri­al li­brary for which a colony of artists was em­ployed in il­lus­trat­ing manuscripts in Per­sian. The founders of this colony were Per­sian and it is once again a lo­cal style of Per­sian paint­ing which forms the start­ing point. This style is no longer the Turk­man style of Shi­raz but a lat­er style--a lo­cal ver­sion of Safavid paint­ing as cur­rent in Khurasan. With its live­ly and del­icate nat­ural­ism it not on­ly cor­re­spond­ed to cer­tain predilec­tions of the em­per­or Ak­bar him­self, but seems al­so to have ap­pealed to In­di­an artists re­cruit­ed to the colony. Its rep­re­sen­ta­tion­al fi­nesse made it an ide­al medi­um for tran­scrib­ing the In­di­an scene and the ap­pear­ance at the court of Eu­ro­pean minia­tures, them­selves high­ly nat­ural­is­tic, stim­ulat­ed this char­ac­ter still fur­ther. The re­sult was the sud­den rise in In­dia, be­tween 1570 and 1605, of a huge new school of paint­ing, exquisite­ly rep­re­sen­ta­tion­al in man­ner and com­mit­ted to a new kind of In­di­an nat­ural­ism. Such a school, the cre­ation of an alien Mus­lim dy­nasty, would at first sight seem un­like­ly to pro­duce il­lus­tra­tions of Hin­du re­li­gion. Its main func­tion was to il­lus­trate works of lit­er­ature, sci­ence and con­tem­po­rary his­to­ry--a func­tion which re­sult­ed in such grandiose pro­duc­tions as the _Ak­bar­na­ma_ or An­nals of Ak­bar, now pre­served in the Vic­to­ria and Al­bert Mu­se­um.[74] None the less there are two ways in which Mughal paint­ing, as de­vel­oped un­der Ak­bar, con­tribut­ed to the Kr­ish­na sto­ry. Ak­bar, al­though a Mus­lim by birth, was keen­ly in­ter­est­ed in all re­li­gions and in his deal­ings with the Ra­jputs had shown him­self marked­ly tol­er­ant. He de­sired to min­imise the ha­tred of Mus­lims for Hin­dus and be­liev­ing it to arise from mu­tu­al ig­no­rance, or­dained that cer­tain Hin­du texts should be trans­lat­ed in­to Per­sian and thus ren­dered more ac­ces­si­ble. The texts cho­sen were the two epics, the _Ra­mayana_ and the _Ma­hab­hara­ta_, and of these Per­sian abridge­ments were du­ly pre­pared. The abridge­ment of the _Ma­hab­hara­ta_, known as the _Razm­na­ma_, was prob­ably com­plet­ed in 1588 but il­lus­trat­ed copies, in­clud­ing the great fo­lios now in the palace li­brary at Jaipur, were prob­ably not com­plet­ed be­fore 1595. As part of the project, its ap­pendix, the _Hari­vansa_ was al­so sum­ma­rized and a sep­arate vol­ume with four­teen il­lus­tra­tions all con­cerned with Kr­ish­na is part of the great ver­sion now at Jaipur.[75] In these il­lus­tra­tions, it is Kr­ish­na the prince who is chiefly shown, all the pic­tures il­lus­trat­ing his ca­reer af­ter he has left the cowherds. There is no at­tempt to stress his ro­man­tic qual­ities or to present him as a lover. He ap­pears rather as the great fight­er, the slay­er of demons. Such a por­tray­al is what we might per­haps ex­pect from a Mughal edi­tion. None the less the paint­ings are re­mark­able in­ter­pre­ta­tions, in­vest­ing Kr­ish­na with an air of ef­fort­less com­po­sure, and ex­alt­ing his prince­ly grace. The style is no­table for its use of smooth­ly flow­ing out­lines and gen­tle shad­ing, and al­though there is no di­rect con­nec­tion, it is these char­ac­ter­is­tics which were lat­er to be em­bod­ied in the Hin­du art of the Pun­jab Hills.

Such in­ter­est by the Em­per­or may well have spurred Hin­du mem­bers of the court to have oth­er texts il­lus­trat­ed for, ten to fif­teen years lat­er, in per­haps 1615, a manuscript of the _Gi­ta Govin­da_ was pro­duced, its il­lus­tra­tions pos­sess­ing a cer­tain fairy-​like re­fine­ment.[76] Kr­ish­na in a flow­ing dhoti wan­ders in mead­ows gay with feath­ered trees while Rad­ha and her con­fi­dante ap­pear in Mughal garb. Ro­mance is hard­ly ev­ident for it is the scene it­self with its rus­tic pret­ti­ness which is chiefly stressed. Yet the pa­tron by whom this ver­sion was com­mis­sioned may well have felt that it was sen­si­tive­ly ren­dered and with­in its mi­nor com­pass ex­pressed to some ex­tent the mag­ical en­chant­ment dis­tilled by the vers­es. That the Em­per­or's stim­ulus sur­vived his death is plain; for in about the year 1620, two manuscripts of the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_ ap­peared--both in a style of awk­ward cru­di­ty in which the id­ioms of Ak­bar's school of artists were con­scious­ly aped.[77] The manuscripts in ques­tion are at Bikan­er and it is pos­si­ble that one or two in­fe­ri­or Mughal artists, de­prived of work at the cen­tral court, trav­elled out to this norther­ly Ra­jput state, dar­ing the desert, and there pro­duced these va­pid works. It is like­ly that in the ear­ly years of the sev­en­teenth cen­tu­ry, many ar­eas of In­dia pos­sessed no artists what­so­ev­er and if a Hin­du ruler was to copy Mughal fash­ion, the on­ly artists avail­able to him might be those of an in­fe­ri­or rank. And al­though ex­act da­ta are want­ing, such cir­cum­stances may well ex­plain an­oth­er doc­ument of Kr­ish­na, the first il­lus­trat­ed ver­sion of Ke­shav Das's _Rasi­ka Priya_.[78] As we have seen, this po­em was com­posed at Or­ch­ha in Bun­delk­hand in 1591, at a time when both po­et and court were in close as­so­ci­ation with Ak­bar. Yet the ver­sion in ques­tion shows the same pover­ty-​strick­en man­ner with its crude ap­ing of im­pe­ri­al id­ioms and ut­ter lack of sen­si­tive ex­pres­sion. There is no ev­idence that at this time Bun­delk­hand pos­sessed its own school of paint­ing and in con­se­quence the most like­ly ex­pla­na­tion is that yet an­oth­er in­fe­ri­or artist trained in the ear­ly Mughal man­ner, mi­grat­ed to the court and there pro­duced this crude pro­sa­ic ver­sion. In none of these provin­cial Mughal pic­tures is there any feel­ing for Kr­ish­na as God or even as a char­ac­ter. The fig­ures have a wood­en doll-​like stiff­ness, par­ody­ing by their ev­ident jerk­iness the exquisite emo­tions in­tend­ed by the po­et and we can on­ly as­sume that im­pressed by the im­pe­ri­al ex­am­ple mi­nor rulers or no­bles en­cour­aged strug­gling prac­ti­tion­ers but in an at­mo­sphere far re­moved from that of the great em­per­or.

Such paint­ings in a bro­ken-​down Ak­bari man­ner char­ac­ter­ize the pe­ri­od 1615 to 1630. From then on­wards Mughal paint­ing, as it de­vel­oped un­der the em­per­or Shah Ja­han, con­cen­trat­ed on more court­ly themes. The ear­ly in­ter­est in dra­mat­ic ac­tion dis­ap­peared and the de­mand for cost­ly manuscripts, sump­tu­ous­ly il­lus­trat­ed, with­ered up. Un­der Au­rangzeb, tol­er­ant un­der­stand­ing gave way to a vi­cious pros­elytism and it was on­ly in re­mote cen­tres such as Bikan­er that lat­er Mughal artists ex­er­cised their style on Kr­ish­na themes. It is sig­nif­icant that at Bikan­er their lead­er was a Mus­lim, Ruknud­din, and that his chief work was a se­ries of pic­tures il­lus­trat­ing the _Rasi­ka Priya_.[79] His fig­ures have a shal­low pret­ti­ness of man­ner, stamp­ing them once again as prod­ucts of a style which, in its ear­li­est phas­es, was ad­mirably suit­ed to record­ing dra­mat­ic ac­tion but which had lit­tle rel­evance to ei­ther re­li­gion or ro­mance. For these a more po­et­ic and sym­bol­ic man­ner was nec­es­sary and such a style ap­peared in the city of Udaipur in the Ra­jput State of Mewar.

Paint­ing at Udaipur is in­sep­ara­bly as­so­ci­at­ed with the in­flu­ence of two great rulers--Rana Ja­gat Singh (1628-1652) and Rana Raj Singh (1652-1681) As ear­ly as 1605 pic­tures had been pro­duced at the State's for­mer cap­ital, Chawand--the artist be­ing a Muham­madan named Nasirud­din. His style was ob­vi­ous­ly quite in­de­pen­dent of any Mughal in­flu­ence and it is rather to the sep­arate tra­di­tion of paint­ing which had grown up in Mal­wa that we must look for its salient qual­ities--a tense­ly rhyth­mi­cal line, a flam­boy­ant use of strong em­phat­ic colours, vig­or­ous sim­pli­fi­ca­tions and bold­ly prim­itive id­ioms for plants and trees. It is this style which thir­ty or forty years lat­er comes to lux­uri­ant ma­tu­ri­ty in a se­ries of il­lus­tra­tions ex­ecut­ed at Udaipur.[80] Al­though the artists re­spon­si­ble in­clud­ed a Mus­lim, Sha­habaddin, and a Hin­du, Manohar, it is the Kr­ish­na theme it­self which seems to have evoked this mar­vel­lous ef­flo­res­cence. Rana Ja­gat Singh was clear­ly a de­vout wor­ship­per whose faith­ful ad­he­sion to Ra­jput stan­dards found ex­hil­arat­ing com­pen­sa­tions in Kr­ish­na's role as lover. Ke­shav Das's _Rasi­ka Priya_ achieved the great­est pop­ular­ity at his court--its blend of rev­er­ent de­vo­tion and ec­stat­ic pas­sion ful­fill­ing some of the deep­est Ra­jput needs. Be­tween the years 1645 and 1660 there ac­cord­ing­ly oc­curred a sys­tem­at­ic pro­duc­tion not on­ly of pic­tures il­lus­trat­ing this great po­et­ic text but of the var­ious books in the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_ most close­ly con­nect­ed with Kr­ish­na's ca­reer. Kr­ish­na is shown as a Ra­jput princeling dressed in fash­ion­able garb, thread­ing his way among the cow­girls, pur­su­ing his amorous in­cli­na­tions and prac­tis­ing with art­less guile the se­duc­tive graces of a court­ly lover. Each pic­ture has a pas­sion­ate in­ten­si­ty--its rich browns and reds, greens and blues en­dow­ing its char­ac­ters with glow­ing fer­vour, while Kr­ish­na and the cow­girls, with their sharp ro­bust forms and great in­tent eyes, dis­play a brusque vi­tal­ity and an ea­ger rap­tur­ous vigour. A cer­tain sim­pli­fi­ca­tion of struc­ture--each pic­ture pos­sess­ing one or more rect­an­gu­lar com­part­ments--en­hances this ef­fect while the ad­di­tion of swirling trees stud­ded with flow­ers im­bues each wild en­counter with a surg­ing veg­eta­tive rhythm. Kr­ish­na is no longer the tepid well-​groomed youth of Mughal tra­di­tion, but a vig­or­ous Ra­jput no­ble ex­press­ing with deco­rous ve­he­mence all the vi­olent long­ings de­nied ex­pres­sion by the Ra­jput moral code. Such pic­tures have a lyri­cal splen­dour, a cer­tain wild ela­tion quite dis­tinct from pre­vi­ous In­di­an paint­ing and we can on­ly ex­plain these new stylis­tic qual­ities by ref­er­ence to the cult of Kr­ish­na him­self. The re­al­iza­tion that Kr­ish­na was adorable, that his prac­tice of ro­man­tic love was a sub­lime rev­ela­tion of God­head and that in his wor­ship lay re­lease is the mo­tive force be­hind these pic­tures and the re­sult is a new style tran­scend­ing in its rhyth­mi­cal as­sur­ance and glow­ing ar­dour all pre­vi­ous achieve­ments.

Such an out­burst of paint­ing could hard­ly leave oth­er ar­eas un­af­fect­ed and in the clos­ing quar­ter of the sev­en­teenth cen­tu­ry, not on­ly Bun­di, the Ra­jput State im­me­di­ate­ly ad­join­ing Udaipur to the east, but Mal­wa, the wild hilly area far­ther south east, wit­nessed a re­nais­sance of paint­ing. At Bun­di, the style was ob­vi­ous­ly a di­rect de­vel­op­ment from that of Udaipur it­self--the id­ioms for hu­man fig­ures and faces as well as the glow­ing colours be­ing clear­ly based on Udaipur orig­inals. At the same time, a kind of sump­tu­ous lux­uri­ance, a predilec­tion for greens and or­anges in bril­liant jux­ta­po­si­tion, a de­light in nat­ural pro­fu­sion and the use of re­ces­sions, shad­ing and round vol­umes give each pic­ture a dis­tinc­tive au­ra.[81] In Mal­wa, on the oth­er hand, the ear­li­er tra­di­tion seems to have un­der­gone a new re­sus­ci­ta­tion. Fol­low­ing var­ious wars in Mid­dle In­dia, the for­mer Mus­lim king­dom had been di­vid­ed in­to fiefs--some be­ing award­ed to Ra­jput no­bles of loy­al­ty and val­our. The re­sult was yet an­oth­er style of paint­ing--com­pa­ra­ble in cer­tain ways to that of Bun­di and Udaipur yet marked­ly orig­inal in its to­tal ef­fect. In place of tight­ly ge­omet­ri­cal com­po­si­tions, Mal­wa artists pre­ferred a more flu­id group­ing, their strain­ing lux­uri­ant trees blend­ing with sway­ing creep­ers to cre­ate a soft me­an­der­ing rhythm and on­ly the hu­man fig­ures, with their sharply cut veils and taut in­tense faces, ex­press­ing the pre­vail­ing cult of fren­zied pas­sion.[82] Such schools of paint­ing re­flect­ed the Ra­jput need for pas­sion­ate ro­mance rather than any spe­cial­ly strong ad­he­sion to Kr­ish­na, the di­vine lover. Al­though one copy of the _Rasi­ka Priya_ and one of the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_ were ex­ecut­ed at both these cen­tres, their chief sub­jects were the _ra­gas_ and _ragi­nis_ (the thir­ty-​six modes of In­di­an mu­sic) _nayakas_ and _nayikas_ (the ide­al lovers) and _barah­masas_ (the twelve months) while in the case of Mal­wa, there was the added theme of San­skrit love-​po­et­ry. Kr­ish­na the god was rarely cel­ebrat­ed and it was rather as 'the best of lovers' that he was some­times in­tro­duced in­to pic­tures. In a Bun­di se­ries de­pict­ing the twelve months, court­ly lovers are shown sit­ting in a bal­cony watch­ing a se­ries of rus­tic in­ci­dents pro­ceed­ing be­low. The lover, how­ev­er, is not an or­di­nary prince but Kr­ish­na him­self, his blue skin and roy­al ha­lo leav­ing no pos­si­ble doubt as to his re­al iden­ti­ty.[83] Sim­ilar­ly in paint­ings il­lus­trat­ing the char­ac­ter and per­son­al­ity of mu­si­cal modes, Kr­ish­na was of­ten in­tro­duced as the per­fect em­bod­iment of pas­sion­ate lov­ing. None of the po­ems ac­com­pa­ny­ing the modes make any al­lu­sion to him. In­deed, their prime pur­pose is to woo the pre­sid­ing ge­nius of the melody and sug­gest the vi­su­al scene most like­ly to evoke its spir­it. The mu­si­cal mode, _Bhaira­va Ra­ga_, for ex­am­ple, was ac­tu­al­ly as­so­ci­at­ed with Si­va, yet be­cause the char­ac­ter of the mu­sic sug­gest­ed fu­ri­ous pas­sion the cen­tral fig­ure of the lover dal­ly­ing with a la­dy was de­pict­ed as Kr­ish­na.[84] In _Hin­dola Ra­ga_, a mode con­nect­ed with swing­ing, a sim­ilar re­sult en­sued. Swing­ing in In­di­an sen­ti­ment was nor­mal­ly as­so­ci­at­ed with the rains and these in turn evoked 'mem­ory and de­sire.' The char­ac­ter of the mu­sic was there­fore vi­su­al­ized as that of a young prince swing­ing in the rain--his very move­ments sym­bol­iz­ing the act of love. Since Kr­ish­na, how­ev­er, was the per­fect lover, noth­ing was eas­ier than to por­tray _Hin­dola Ra­ga_ as Kr­ish­na him­self. _Hin­dola_ might be in­voked in the po­em, but it was Kr­ish­na who ap­peared seat­ed on the swing.[85] An ex­act­ly sim­ilar pro­cess oc­curred in the case of _Megh Mal­lar Ra­ga_. This was con­nect­ed with the rainy sea­son, yet be­cause rain and storm were sym­bol­ic of sex, _Megh Mal­lar_ was por­trayed not as a sep­arate fig­ure, but as Kr­ish­na once again danc­ing in the rain with ladies ac­com­pa­ny­ing him. Even fem­inine modes of mu­sic suf­fered the same kind of trans­for­ma­tion. _Vas­an­ta Ragi­ni_, 'the mu­sic of spring­time,' was nor­mal­ly apos­tro­phized as a love­ly la­dy, yet be­cause spring­time sug­gest­ed lovers, she was shown in paint­ing as if she were Kr­ish­na danc­ing with a vase of flow­ers, hold­ing a wand in his hand or cel­ebrat­ing the spring fer­til­ity fes­ti­val. The mode, _Pan­cham Ragi­ni_, was al­so fem­inine in char­ac­ter and was con­ceived of as a beau­ty en­joy­ing her lover's ad­vances. The la­dy her­self was por­trayed, yet once again Kr­ish­na was in­tro­duced, this time as her lover. In all these cas­es the cel­ebra­tion of Kr­ish­na was in­ci­den­tal to the main theme and on­ly in one in­stance--a Mal­wa _Rasi­ka Priya_--is there a trace of undis­guised ado­ra­tion. In this love­ly se­ries,[86] Kr­ish­na's en­chant­ment is per­fect­ly sug­gest­ed by the flow­er­ing trees which wave above him, the style ac­quir­ing an even more in­tense lyri­cism on ac­count of its di­vine sub­ject.

Dur­ing the eigh­teenth cen­tu­ry, paint­ing in Ra­jasthan be­came in­creas­ing­ly sec­ular, even artists of Udaipur de­vot­ing them­selves al­most ex­clu­sive­ly to scenes of court life. The Ranas and the Mewar no­bil­ity were de­pict­ed hunt­ing in the lo­cal land­scape, watch­ing ele­phant fights or mov­ing in pro­ces­sion. Sim­ilar fash­ions pre­vailed in Jodh­pur, Jaisalmer, Bikan­er, Bun­di and Ko­tah. On­ly, in fact, in two Ra­jasthan States and then for on­ly brief pe­ri­ods was there any ma­jor cel­ebra­tion of the Kr­ish­na theme. At Kis­hangarh, a small State mid­way be­tween Ajmer and Jaipur, a se­ries of in­tense­ly po­et­ic paint­ings were pro­duced be­tween the years 1750 and 1760--the prime stim­ulus be­ing the de­light of Ra­ja Sawant Singh in Kr­ish­na's ro­mance.[87] Born in 1699, Sawant Singh had as­cend­ed the throne in 1748 and giv­en all his time to three ac­tiv­ities, the rap­tur­ous re-​liv­ing of Kr­ish­na's ro­mance with Rad­ha, the com­po­si­tion of ec­stat­ic po­ems and the dai­ly wor­ship of Kr­ish­na as lover god. So great was his de­vo­tion that in 1757 he aban­doned the throne and tak­ing with him his favourite maid of hon­our, the beau­ti­ful po­et­ess, Bani Thani, re­tired to Brind­aban where he died in 1764. Sawant Singh's de­light seems to have been shared by a lo­cal artist, Ni­hal Chand, for un­der the Ra­ja's di­rec­tion he pro­duced a num­ber of pic­tures in which Rad­ha and Kr­ish­na sus­tained the lead­ing roles. The pic­tures were main­ly il­lus­tra­tions of Sawant Singh's own po­ems--the lovers be­ing por­trayed at mo­ments of bliss­ful won­der, drift­ing on a lake in a scar­let boat, watch­ing fire­works cas­cad­ing down the sky or gen­tly dal­ly­ing in a mar­ble pavil­ion.

Here is Love's en­chant­ed zone Here Time and the Fir­ma­ment stand still Here the Bride and Bride­groom Nev­er can grow old. Here the foun­tains nev­er cease to play And the night is ev­er young.[88]

Ni­hal Chand's style was em­inent­ly fit­ted to ex­press this mood of sen­si­tive ado­ra­tion. Orig­inal­ly trained in the lat­er Mughal style, he was able to ren­der ap­pear­ances with exquisite del­ica­cy but was al­so acute­ly aware of rhyth­mi­cal el­egance. And it is this which con­stant­ly char­ac­ter­ized his work, his great­est achieve­ment be­ing the cre­ation of a lo­cal man­ner for por­tray­ing Rad­ha and Kr­ish­na.[89] Rad­ha was en­dowed with great arched eye­brows and long eyes--the end of the eye be­ing tilt­ed so as to join the down­ward sweep­ing line of the eye­brow while Kr­ish­na was giv­en a slen­der re­ced­ing fore­head and nar­row waist. Each was made to seem the acme of el­egance and the re­sult was a con­cep­tion of Kr­ish­na and his love as the very em­bod­iment of aris­to­crat­ic breed­ing.

The same sense of aris­to­crat­ic love­li­ness is con­veyed by a scene of danc­ing fig­ures al­most life size in the palace li­brary at Jaipur.[90] Paint­ed un­der Ra­ja Prat­ap Singh (1779-1803) the pic­ture shows ladies of the palace im­per­son­at­ing Rad­ha and Kr­ish­na danc­ing to­geth­er at­tend­ed by girl mu­si­cians.[91] Against a pale green back­ground, the fig­ures, dressed in green­ish yel­low, pale grey­ish blue and the purest white, pos­ture with calm as­sured grace, while the pure tones and exquisite line-​work in­vest the scene with gay and lu­mi­nous clar­ity. We do not know the cir­cum­stances in which this great pic­ture was paint­ed but the ex­is­tence of an­oth­er large-​scale pic­ture por­tray­ing the cir­cu­lar dance--the lines of cow­girls re­volv­ing like flow­ers, with Rad­ha and Kr­ish­na sway­ing in their midst--sug­gests that the Kr­ish­na theme had once again in­flamed a Ra­jput ruler's imag­ina­tion.[92]

Such groups of paint­ings are, at most, exquisite ex­cep­tions and it is rather in the Ra­jput states of the Pun­jab Hills--an area re­mote and quite dis­tinct from Ra­jasthan--that the theme of Kr­ish­na the di­vine lover re­ceived its most en­rap­tured ex­pres­sion in the eigh­teenth cen­tu­ry. Un­til the sec­ond half of the sev­en­teenth cen­tu­ry this stretch of coun­try bor­der­ing the West­ern Hi­malayas seems to have had no kind of paint­ing what­so­ev­er. In 1678, how­ev­er, Ra­ja Kir­pal Pal in­her­it­ed the tiny state of Ba­sohli and al­most im­me­di­ate­ly a new artis­tic urge be­came ap­par­ent. Pic­tures were pro­duced on a scale com­pa­ra­ble to that of Udaipur thir­ty years ear­li­er and at the same time a lo­cal style of great emo­tion­al in­ten­si­ty makes its sud­den ap­pear­ance.[93] This new Ba­sohli style, with its flat planes of bril­liant green, brown, red, blue and or­ange, its sav­age pro­files and great in­tense eyes has ob­vi­ous con­nec­tions with Udaipur paint­ings of the 1650-60 pe­ri­od. And al­though ex­act his­tor­ical proof is still want­ing, the most like­ly ex­pla­na­tion is that un­der Rana Raj Singh some Udaipur artists were per­suad­ed to mi­grate to Ba­sohli. We know that Ra­jput rulers in the Pun­jab Hills were of­ten con­nect­ed by mar­riage with Ra­jput fam­ilies in Ra­jasthan and it is there­fore pos­si­ble that dur­ing a vis­it to Udaipur, Ra­ja Kir­pal Pal re­cruit­ed his ate­lier. Udaipur paint­ing, how­ev­er, can hard­ly have been the on­ly source for even in its ear­li­est ex­am­ples Ba­sohli paint­ing has a smooth pol­ish, a sav­age so­phis­ti­ca­tion and a com­mand of shad­ing which sug­gests the in­flu­ence of the Mughal style of Del­hi. We must as­sume, in fact, a se­ries of in­flu­ences de­ter­mined to a great ex­tent by Ra­ja Kir­pal Pal's po­lit­ical con­tacts, his pri­vate jour­neys and in­di­vid­ual taste, but per­haps above all by an urge to ex­press his feel­ings for Kr­ish­na in a nov­el and per­son­al man­ner. The re­sult is not on­ly a new style but a spe­cial choice of sub­ject-​mat­ter. The _Rasi­ka Priya_ and the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_, the texts so great­ly favoured at Udaipur, were dis­card­ed and in their place Ba­sohli artists pro­duced a se­ries of iso­lat­ed scenes from Kr­ish­na's life--the child Kr­ish­na steal­ing but­ter,[94] Kr­ish­na the gal­lant rob­bing the cow­girls or ex­act­ing toll, Kr­ish­na ex­tin­guish­ing the for­est-​fire,[95] Kr­ish­na the vi­olent lover de­vour­ing Rad­ha with hun­gry eyes. Their great­est achieve­ments, how­ev­er, were two ver­sions of Bhanu Dat­ta's _Rasaman­jari_, one of them com­plet­ed in 1695,[96] short­ly af­ter Ra­ja Kir­pal Pal's death, the oth­er al­most cer­tain­ly fif­teen years ear­li­er.[97] The text in ques­tion is a trea­tise on po­et­ics il­lus­trat­ing how ro­man­tic sit­ua­tions should best be treat­ed in San­skrit po­et­ry--the con­duct of ma­ture mis­tress­es, ex­pe­ri­enced lovers, sly go-​be­tweens, clowns or jok­ers be­ing all sub­ject­ed to anal­ysis.[98] The sub­ject of the text is sec­ular ro­man­tic po­et­ry and Kr­ish­na him­self is nev­er men­tioned. None the less, in pro­duc­ing their il­lus­tra­tions, the artists made Kr­ish­na the cen­tral fig­ure and we can on­ly con­clude that es­chew­ing the ob­vi­ous _Rasi­ka Priya_, Ra­ja Kir­pal Pal had di­rect­ed his artists to do for San­skrit what Ke­shav Das had done for Hin­di po­et­ry--to cel­ebrate Kr­ish­na as the most var­ied and skilled of lovers and as a corol­lary show him in a whole va­ri­ety of ro­man­tic and po­et­ic sit­ua­tions. As a re­sult Kr­ish­na was por­trayed in a num­ber of high­ly con­flict­ing roles--as hus­band, rake, se­duc­er, paramour and gal­lant.

In one pic­ture he is 'a gal­lant whose word can­not be trust­ed' and we see him in the act of del­icate­ly dis­en­gag­ing a la­dy's dress and gaz­ing at her with pas­sion-​haunt­ed eyes. The po­em on the re­verse runs as fol­lows:

Show­ing her a beau­ti­ful gir­dle Draw­ing on a fair pan­el with red chalk Putting a bracelet on her wrists And lay­ing a neck­lace on her breasts Win­ning the con­fi­dence of the fawn-​eyed la­dy of fair brows He sly­ly loosens the knot of her skirt Be­low the gir­dle-​stead, with naughty hand.[99]

In an­oth­er pic­ture, he ap­pears as 'a gal­lant well versed in the ways of cour­te­sans,' the dread­ed se­duc­er of in­ex­pe­ri­enced girls. He is now shown ap­proach­ing a for­mal pavil­ion, set in a lone­ly field. In­side the pavil­ion is the love­ly ob­ject of his at­tack, sit­ting with a com­pan­ion, know­ing that willy-​nil­ly she must short­ly yield yet timid­ly mak­ing show of maid­en­ly re­serve.

His swollen heart Knows nei­ther shame nor pity Nor any fear of anger How can such a ten­der bud as I Be cast in­to his hands to­day?[100]

In yet a third pic­ture, he is por­trayed stand­ing out­side a house while the la­dy, the sub­ject of his pas­sions, sits with­in. He is once again 'a false gal­lant,' his amorous in­ten­tions be­ing shown by the or­ange, a con­ven­tion­al sym­bol for the breasts, poised light­ly in his hand. As the la­dy turns to greet him, she puts a dot in the cir­cle which she has just drawn on the wall--a ges­ture which once again con­tains a hint of sex. On the pic­ture's re­verse the po­em records a _con­ver­sa­tion galante_.

'Beloved, what are you do­ing With a gold­en or­ange in your hand?' So said the moon-​faced one Plac­ing a dot On the bright cir­cles Paint­ed in the house. [101]

In oth­er pic­tures, a clown or jester ap­pears, in­tro­duc­ing a wit­ty jok­ing el­ement in­to the scene and thus pre­sent­ing Kr­ish­na's at­ti­tude to love as all-​in­clu­sive.

From 1693, the year of Ra­ja Kir­pal's death, paint­ing at Ba­sohli con­cen­trat­ed main­ly on por­tray­ing rulers and on il­lus­trat­ing _ra­gas_ and _ragi­nis_--the po­ems which in­ter­pret­ed the moods and spir­it of mu­sic. The style main­tained its fierce in­ten­si­ty but there was now a grad­ual round­ing of faces and fig­ures, lead­ing to a slight soft­en­ing of the for­mer brusque vigour. De­vo­tion to Kr­ish­na does not seem to have bulked quite so large­ly in the minds of lat­er Ba­sohli rulers, al­though the cult it­self may well have con­tin­ued to ex­ert a strong emo­tion­al ap­peal. In 1730, a Ba­sohli princess, the la­dy Man­aku, com­mis­sioned a set of il­lus­tra­tions to the _Gi­ta Govin­da_ and Kr­ish­na's pow­er to en­chant not on­ly the male but al­so the fe­male mind was once again demon­strat­ed.[102]

This se­ries of il­lus­tra­tions is in some ways a turn­ing point in In­di­an paint­ing for not on­ly was it to serve as a mod­el and in­spi­ra­tion to lat­er artists but its pro­duc­tion brings to a close the most cre­ative phase in Ba­sohli art. Af­ter 1730, paint­ing con­tin­ued to be prac­tised there but no longer with the same fer­vour. Ba­sohli artists seem to have car­ried the style to oth­er states--to Guler, Jam­mu, Cham­ba, Ku­lu, Nur­pur and Bi­laspur--but it is not un­til 1770 that the Kr­ish­na theme again comes in­to promi­nence. In about this year, artists from Guler mi­grat­ed to the dis­tant Garhw­al, a large and strag­gling state at the far south of the Pun­jab Hills, tak­ing with them a style of exquisite nat­ural­ism which had grad­ual­ly reached ma­tu­ri­ty un­der the Guler ruler, Ra­ja Go­vard­han Singh.[103] Dur­ing his reign, a fam­ily of Kash­miri Brah­mans skilled in the Mughal tech­nique had joined his court and had there ab­sorbed a new ro­man­tic out­look. On at least three oc­ca­sions they had il­lus­trat­ed scenes from the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_--Nan­da cel­ebrat­ing Kr­ish­na's birth,[104] Kr­ish­na res­cu­ing Nan­da from the python which had start­ed to de­vour his foot,[105] and fi­nal­ly the game of blind man's bluff[106]--but their chief sub­ject had been the ten­der en­chant­ments of court­ly love. Ladies were por­trayed long­ing for their lovers. The great­est em­pha­sis was placed on el­egance of pose. Fierce dis­tor­tions were grad­ual­ly dis­card­ed and the whole pur­pose of paint­ing was to dwell on exquisite fig­ures and to sug­gest a rapt de­vo­tion to the needs of love.

It is this suave­ly del­icate art which now ap­pears in Garhw­al. Among the Guler painters was a mas­ter-​artist and al­though his first Garhw­al pic­tures are con­cerned with pas­sion­ate ro­mance, de­vo­tion to Kr­ish­na quick­ly be­comes ap­par­ent.[107] The great Alak­nan­da Riv­er which roared through Sri­na­gar, the cap­ital, had a spe­cial fas­ci­na­tion for him and just as Leonar­do da Vin­ci evinced at one time a pas­sion­ate in­ter­est in spring­ing curls, the Guler artist found a spe­cial ex­cite­ment in wind­ing ed­dies and dash­ing wa­ter. The re­sult was a sud­den new in­ter­pre­ta­tion of the Kr­ish­na theme. In two pic­tures where Kr­ish­na is shown quelling the snake Kaliya,[108] all the Guler qual­ities of el­egant nat­ural­ism are abun­dant­ly present. Each fig­ure has a smooth suavi­ty and in ev­ery face there ap­pears a look of calm ado­ra­tion. It is the swirling, curl­ing wa­ter, how­ev­er, which gives the pic­tures their spe­cial Garhw­al qual­ity. The play of wa­ter evokes a melody of line and the re­sult is a sense of up­surg­ing joy. A sim­ilar re­li­gious ex­al­ta­tion marks oth­er pic­tures by this mas­ter. At some time he ap­pears to have been com­mis­sioned to il­lus­trate the tale of Su­dama the poor Brah­man whose tat­tered hov­el is changed by Kr­ish­na in­to a gold­en palace. He was ev­ident­ly as­sist­ed by a weak­er painter but in the pic­tures which are clear­ly his own work, the same qual­ity of lyri­cal in­can­ta­tion ap­pears. As Su­dama jour­neys to Dwar­ka Kr­ish­na's gold­en city, his heart swoons with ado­ra­tion, the hills, trees and ocean ap­pear to dance about him and once again, the lin­ear mu­sic of the com­po­si­tion en­gen­ders a feel­ing of supreme ec­sta­sy.[109] We do not know which mem­ber of the Garhw­al court act­ed as his pa­tron--it is even pos­si­ble that it was not the ruler him­self but his con­sort, the Guler princess whom he had mar­ried in about the year 1770. What, at any rate, is clear is that at least one live­ly ador­er of Kr­ish­na ex­ist­ed at the Garhw­al court and that un­til the Gurkha in­va­sions of 1803, there were oth­er painters, be­sides the mas­ter-​artist, who were sim­ilar­ly en­cour­aged to in­ter­pret the Kr­ish­na theme.[110] Their style was clear­ly in­flu­enced by that of the mas­ter but in their use of slen­der leaf­less branch­es and tow­er­ing spikes of blos­som, they de­vel­oped a spe­cial Garhw­al im­agery de­signed to sug­gest the slen­der beau­ty of love-​en­chant­ed girls. Af­ter the ex­pul­sion of the Gurkhas in 1816, a new Ra­ja re­vived Garhw­al paint­ing. Kr­ish­na the lover was once again por­trayed and un­til the mid­dle of the nine­teenth cen­tu­ry, pic­tures con­tin­ued to be pro­duced blend­ing the de­lights of court­ly pas­sion with ado­ra­tion of God.

It was in the state of Kan­gra, how­ev­er, that the great­est de­vel­op­ments oc­curred. In 1775, the young Sansar Chand be­came Ra­ja, and de­spite his ex­treme youth, quick­ly ac­quired mas­tery of the Kan­gra court. It is un­like­ly that artists were im­me­di­ate­ly sum­moned, but cer­tain­ly by 1780 a flour­ish­ing school of painters had come in­to ex­is­tence.[111] As at Garhw­al, the artists of Kan­gra came orig­inal­ly from Guler and thus a sim­ilar phe­nomenon aris­es--the Guler man­ner pro­vid­ing the ba­sis for yet a sec­ond great style. Sansar Chand was ob­vi­ous­ly quite ex­cep­tion­al, for not on­ly was he suc­cess­ful in pol­itics and war, but from his ear­ly man­hood was de­vot­ed to Kr­ish­na as lover god. And it is this all-​ab­sorb­ing in­ter­est which ex­plains the vast ex­pan­sion of paint­ing which now oc­curred. Un­der Sansar Chand's stim­ulus artists be­gan to por­tray ev­ery sit­ua­tion in­volv­ing Kr­ish­na, the cowherd. He was shown as a ba­by cry­ing for the moon, be­ing washed by his fos­ter-​moth­er, Ya­so­da, or mis­chievous­ly break­ing pitch­ers full of curds. He would be paint­ed strolling with the cowherds, play­ing on his flute, or bring­ing the cat­tle home at evening. But the main theme to which the artists con­stant­ly re­turned was his main cow­girl love. Rad­ha would be shown stand­ing with Kr­ish­na in the for­est, gaz­ing trust­ful­ly in­to his eyes, seek­ing shel­ter with him from the rain or sit­ting with him by a stream.[112] Some­times she and the cow­girls were shown cel­ebrat­ing the spring fes­ti­val of Holi, Kr­ish­na sy­ring­ing them with tint­ed wa­ter while they them­selves strove to re­turn his on­slaughts by throw­ing red pow­der.[113] Of­ten the scene would shift from the for­est to the vil­lage, and Kr­ish­na would then be shown gaz­ing at Rad­ha as she dried her­self af­ter bathing or squat­ted in a court­yard cook­ing food. At oth­er times he ap­peared as­sist­ing her at her toi­let, help­ing her to dress her hair or ap­ply­ing a beau­ty mark to her fore­head. If the scene was night it­self, Rad­ha would be shown sit­ting in her cham­ber, while far away across the court­yards and gar­dens would loom the small fig­ure of Kr­ish­na wait­ing lone­ly on a bed. Oc­ca­sion­al­ly the lovers would be por­trayed ex­press­ing their rap­ture by means of sim­ple ges­tures. Kr­ish­na's arm would be shown placed lov­ing­ly around Rad­ha's shoul­ders, or Rad­ha her­self would be por­trayed hid­ing her head on Kr­ish­na's breast.[114] In all these pic­tures, the style had an in­no­cent and exquisite clar­ity, sug­gest­ing by its sim­ple un­af­fect­ed nat­ural­ism the artists' de­light in Kr­ish­na's char­ac­ter, their ap­pre­ci­ation of the fem­inine mind, their sense of sex as in­her­ent­ly no­ble and their as­so­ci­ation of ro­mance with God him­self.

It is in a se­ries of il­lus­tra­tions to cer­tain texts, how­ev­er, that Kan­gra paint­ing reach­es its great­est heights. Among the many artists em­ployed by Sansar Chand, a cer­tain Purkhu was no­table for his 're­mark­able clear­ness of tone and del­ica­cy of han­dling,'[115] and though none of his pic­tures are signed it is these qual­ities which char­ac­ter­ize one of the two most fa­mous sets of il­lus­tra­tions ex­ecut­ed in Kan­gra. The sub­ject was the tenth book of the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_ and the scenes il­lus­trat­ed ranged from Kr­ish­na's birth and ad­ven­tures with demons to his frol­ics with the cow­girls and fi­nal slaugh­ter of Kansa. Purkhu's style--if Purkhu is in­deed the mas­ter re­spon­si­ble--is re­mark­able for its lu­mi­nous clar­ity, its faint sug­ges­tions of mod­elling, and above all for its nat­ural use of rhythm. In ev­ery scene,[116] cowherds ap­pear en­gaged in dif­fer­ent tasks, yet through­out there is a sense of one­ness with Kr­ish­na him­self. Kr­ish­na is shown de­light­ing all by his sim­ple friend­li­ness and dig­ni­fied charm and the style it­self en­dows each scene with gen­tle har­mo­ny.

Purkhu was clear­ly one of the great­est artists ev­er to prac­tise in the Pun­jab Hills, but it is a cer­tain Kusha­la who is sup­posed to have been Sansar Chand's spe­cial favourite. We do not know which pic­tures are by his hand but there ex­ist two se­ries of il­lus­tra­tions of such dis­tinc­tive qual­ity that Kusha­la may well have been re­spon­si­ble.[117] One is a se­ries of paint­ings il­lus­trat­ing part of Bi­hari's _Sat Sai_--the sev­en-​hun­dred po­ems in which he ex­tolled Kr­ish­na's love-​mak­ing.[118] The oth­er is yet an­oth­er ver­sion of the _Gi­ta Govin­da_ where Kr­ish­na is shown con­sort­ing with the cow­girls in bliss­ful aban­don.[119] In both these se­ries, the in­her­ent love­li­ness of Rad­ha and the cow­girls is ex­pressed by sup­ple flow­ing line, a flair for nat­ural pos­ture and the in­clu­sion of po­et­ic im­ages. The scar­let of a cow­girl's skirt is echoed by the red­ness of a gath­er­ing storm, the in­ser­tion of Kr­ish­na in­to the back­ground sug­gest­ing the pas­sion­ate na­ture of their im­mi­nent em­braces.[120] In a sim­ilar way, the for­est it­self is 'thread­ed with phas­es of pas­sion' and slen­der trees in flow­er par­al­lel the slim ro­man­tic girls who long for Kr­ish­na's love.

One oth­er Kan­gra mas­ter re­mains to be men­tioned. Be­sides the pic­tures al­ready not­ed, there ex­ists a fur­ther se­ries il­lus­trat­ing the tenth book of the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_. The artist's iden­ti­ty is once again un­cer­tain, but just as the Garhw­al mas­ter was fas­ci­nat­ed by the swirl of curl­ing wa­ter, the Kan­gra artist in ques­tion de­light­ed in the blonde pal­lor of the In­di­an moon.[121] Each in­ci­dent in the text is ren­dered as if in moon­light--a full moon rid­ing in the sky, its pale re­flec­tion shin­ing in wa­ter, the coun­try­side it­self bathed through­out in frosty white­ness. As a re­sult the fig­ures of Rad­ha and the cow­girls seem im­bued with pal­lid glam­our, their love for Kr­ish­na with an al­most un­earth­ly ra­di­ance.

Kan­gra paint­ing con­tin­ued through­out the nine­teenth cen­tu­ry but it was on­ly dur­ing Sansar Chand's own reign (1775-1823) that the style achieved great lyri­cal glo­ry. Sim­ilar­ly it was on­ly to­wards the end of the eigh­teenth cen­tu­ry that oth­er states in the Pun­jab Hills de­vel­oped their own in­ter­pre­ta­tions of the great im­pas­sioned theme. At Nur­pur, Cham­ba, Ku­lu and Bi­laspur[122] pic­tures of Kr­ish­na had tem­po­rary vogues and at all these places artists cre­at­ed new modes of ex­pres­sion. None of the lo­cal styles, how­ev­er, pos­sessed the same pres­tige as that of Kan­gra and all were sub­se­quent­ly oblit­er­at­ed by the gen­er­al Kan­gra man­ner. By the mid-​nine­teenth cen­tu­ry, the Ra­jput or­der in the Pun­jab Hills foundered be­fore the British and while less­er no­bles and mer­chants con­tin­ued to pur­chase pic­tures of Kr­ish­na the cult as a whole de­clined in prince­ly favour. On­ly in East­ern In­dia and then main­ly in the vil­lages did de­light in Kr­ish­na con­tin­ue to evoke new paint­ing. From the twelfth cen­tu­ry on­wards Ben­gal had con­stant­ly cel­ebrat­ed the loves of Kr­ish­na--the po­ets Jayade­va, Chan­di Das and Vidya­pati be­ing all na­tives of this part of In­dia. Hymns to Kr­ish­na were sung in the vil­lages and as part of this fer­vid ad­he­sion, lo­cal manuscripts of the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_ and the _Gi­ta Govin­da_ were of­ten pro­duced. Such manuscripts were nor­mal­ly not il­lus­trat­ed but were pre­served be­tween wood­en cov­ers, on which scenes of Kr­ish­na danc­ing with the cow­girls or with male devo­tees were paint­ed.[123] Book cov­ers of this kind were pro­duced in the sev­en­teenth and eigh­teenth cen­turies and the re­sult­ing pic­tures have some­thing of the sav­age ela­tion as­so­ci­at­ed with the Ba­sohli style and its deriva­tives. Dur­ing the nine­teenth cen­tu­ry, paint­ed book-​cov­ers ceased to be pro­duced but three oth­er kinds of paint­ing con­tin­ued to cel­ebrate the Kr­ish­na theme. Fres­coes of Hin­du gods and god­dess­es in­clud­ing Kr­ish­na were of­ten ex­ecut­ed on the mud walls of vil­lage hous­es in Mithi­la, the birth­place of the po­et Vidya­pati, and the style of paint­ing with its bril­liant colours and brusque dis­tor­tions tes­ti­fied to the great ex­cite­ment still en­gen­dered by Kr­ish­na's name.[124] At Ka­lighat near Cal­cut­ta, a spe­cial type of wa­ter-​colour pic­ture was mass-​pro­duced for sale to pil­grims and al­though the stock sub­jects in­clud­ed al­most ev­ery Hin­du god, many in­ci­dents from Kr­ish­na's life were bold­ly por­trayed.[125] The style with its curv­ing sump­tu­ous forms is more a clue to gen­er­al Ben­gali in­ter­ests than to any spe­cial at­ti­tudes to Kr­ish­na, but the pic­tures, strange­ly par­al­lel in style to the work of the mod­ern artist Fer­nand Léger, have a ro­bust gai­ety and bound­ing vigour, not in­ap­pro­pri­ate to the Kr­ish­na theme. The third type of paint­ing is the work of pro­fes­sion­al vil­lage min­strels known as _jadu­pat­uas_. As a means of liveli­hood, _jadu­pat­uas_ trav­el from vil­lage to vil­lage in West Ben­gal, en­ter­tain­ing the peo­ple by singing bal­lads and il­lus­trat­ing their songs with long paint­ed scrolls. As each bal­lad pro­ceeds, the scroll is slow­ly un­wound, one scene lead­ing to an­oth­er un­til the whole is con­clud­ed. Among the bal­lads thus in­toned, the ro­mance of Kr­ish­na is among the most com­mon and the style of paint­ing with its crude ex­uber­ance sug­gests the strength of pop­ular de­vo­tion.[126]

There re­mains one last form of paint­ing. Dur­ing the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry, the mod­ern move­ment in In­di­an art has pro­duced at least four ma­jor artists--Ra­bindranath Tagore, Am­ri­ta Sher-​Gil, Jami­ni Roy and George Keyt. Of these four, the first two did not il­lus­trate the Kr­ish­na theme. Jami­ni Roy, on the oth­er hand, has of­ten paint­ed Kr­ish­na as flute-​play­er and dancer.[127] It would be un­re­al­is­tic to sug­gest that these pic­tures spring from a live­ly sense of Kr­ish­na as God--Jami­ni Roy has, in fact, re­sort­ed to themes of Christ with equal, if not greater, fre­quen­cy but has shown no signs of be­com­ing a Chris­tian. It is rather that in paint­ing these pic­tures, he has treat­ed Kr­ish­na as a sym­bol of ru­ral vi­tal­ity, a fig­ure whose bois­ter­ous ca­reer among the cowherds is an ex­act re­flec­tion of his own at­ti­tudes and en­thu­si­asms. To Jami­ni Roy, the Ben­gali vil­lage with its sense of rude health is in­finite­ly to be pre­ferred to a city such as Cal­cut­ta with its ar­ti­fi­cial­ity and dis­ease and in a style of bold sim­pli­fi­ca­tions, he has con­stant­ly cel­ebrat­ed the nat­ural vigour and in­her­ent dig­ni­ty of sim­ple un­so­phis­ti­cat­ed men.

Such pic­tures stress a com­par­ative­ly unim­por­tant side of Kr­ish­na's char­ac­ter and it is rather in the paint­ings of George Keyt that Kr­ish­na the lover is proud­ly por­trayed. Born in Cey­lon of mixed an­ces­try, Keyt has, for many years, been acute­ly re­spon­sive to In­di­an po­et­ry. In 1947, he pub­lished the trans­la­tion of the _Gi­ta Govin­da,_ ex­cerpts from which have been quot­ed in the text, and through­out his ca­reer his work has been dis­tin­guished by a po­et's de­light in fem­inine form and sen­su­ous rap­ture. To Keyt such a de­light is a vi­tal com­po­nent of adult minds and in the ro­mance of Rad­ha and Kr­ish­na he found a sub­ject sub­tly ex­pres­sive of his own most in­ti­mate be­liefs. His paint­ings and line-​draw­ings of Rad­ha, Kr­ish­na and the cow­girls--at once mod­ern yet vi­tal­ly In­di­an in spir­it--have the same qual­ities as those in the _Gi­ta Govin­da_.[128] Rad­ha and Kr­ish­na are shown lux­uri­at­ing in each oth­er's el­egance, a cer­tain in­ef­fa­ble ten­der­ness char­ac­ter­iz­ing their ges­tures and move­ments. Their love is gen­tle rather than brusque, an air of glam­orous won­der broods above them and we meet once more that blend of ro­man­tic sen­su­al­ity and lov­ing in­no­cence which is per­haps the chief In­di­an con­tri­bu­tion to cul­tured liv­ing. It is this qual­ity which gives to In­di­an paint­ings of Kr­ish­na and his loves their in­com­pa­ra­ble fer­vour, and makes them en­dur­ing ex­pres­sions of In­di­an re­li­gion.

[Foot­note 66: Plates 3, 5, 6, 8, 9, 11, 13-17, 21 and 36.]

[Foot­note 67: M.R. Mazum­dar, 'The Gu­jarati School of Paint­ing,' _Jour­nal of the In­di­an So­ci­ety of Ori­en­tal Art_, 1942, Vol. X, plates 3 and 4.]

[Foot­note 68: Col­lec­tion Ma­hara­ja of Jaipur, Pothikhana, Jaipur.]

[Foot­note 69: Col­lec­tion Ma­hara­ja of Jodh­pur, Pus­takaprakash, Jodh­pur Fort.]

[Foot­note 70: Plate 22. Col­lec­tion N.C. Mehta, Bom­bay. For re­pro­duc­tions of 2 and 3, see Karl Khan­dalavala, 'Leaves from Ra­jasthan,' _Marg_, Vol. IV, No. 3. Figs. 8 and 10.]

[Foot­note 71: Moti Chan­dra, _Jain Minia­ture Paint­ings from West­ern In­dia_ (Ahmed­abad, 1949), Figs. 99-105.]

[Foot­note 72: Khan­dalavala, op. cit., Fig. 14; _The Art of In­dia and Pak­istan_, Pls. 81 and 82.]

[Foot­note 73: Plates 23 and 24.]

[Foot­note 74: For re­pro­duc­tions, see E. Wellesz, _Ak­bar's Re­li­gious Thought re­flect­ed in Mogul Paint­ing_ (Lon­don, 1952), Pls. 1-37.]

[Foot­note 75: Re­pro­duced Hend­ley, _Memo­ri­als, The Razm Namah_; see al­so Plates 1 and 2 be­low.]

[Foot­note 76: _The Art of In­dia and Pak­istan_, Plate 88.]

[Foot­note 77: H. Goetz, _The Art and Ar­chi­tec­ture of Bikan­er State_ (Ox­ford, 1950), Fig. 91.]

[Foot­note 78: Coomaraswamy, _Boston Cat­alogue, VI, Mughal Paint­ing_, Plates 8-19.]

[Foot­note 79: Goetz, op. cit., Figs. 78 and 93.]

[Foot­note 80: Plate 29. See al­so B. Gray, _Trea­sures of In­di­an Minia­tures from the Bikan­er Palace Col­lec­tion_ (Ox­ford, 1951), Plate 6.]

[Foot­note 81: Plates 28 and 32. See al­so Archer, _In­di­an Paint­ing_, Plate 7.]

[Foot­note 82: _The Art of In­dia and Pak­istan_, Plate 85.]

[Foot­note 83: Plate 32.]

[Foot­note 84: Plate 34.]

[Foot­note 85: Plate 33.]

[Foot­note 86: Bharat Kala Bhawan, Ba­naras.]

[Foot­note 87: Er­ic Dick­in­son, 'The Way of Plea­sure: the Kis­hangarh Paint­ings', 2 _Marg_, Vol. III, No. 4, 29-35.]

[Foot­note 88: Ibid., 31.]

[Foot­note 89: Plate 39.]

[Foot­note 90: For car­toons of this pic­ture, see A.K. Coomaraswamy, _In­di­an Draw­ings_ (Lon­don, 1912), Vol. II, Plate 2 and _Ra­jput Paint­ing_, Vol. II, Plates 9 and 10.]

[Foot­note 91: Note 22.]

[Foot­note 92: Gan­goly, _Mas­ter­pieces of Ra­jput Paint­ing_, Plate 10.]

[Foot­note 93: Plates 4, 10, 26, 27, 30 and 31. _The Art of In­dia and Pak­istan_, Plates 100-102.]

[Foot­note 94: Plate 4.]

[Foot­note 95: Plate 10.]

[Foot­note 96: Archer, _In­di­an Paint­ing in the Pun­jab Hills_, Fig. 6.]

[Foot­note 97: Plate 30. Coomaraswamy, _Boston Cat­alogue, V, Ra­jput Paint­ing_, Plates 92-95.]

[Foot­note 98: Note 23.]

[Foot­note 99: Coomaraswamy, _Boston Cat­alogue, V, Ra­jput Paint­ing, 171_.]

[Foot­note 100: Ibid., 172.]

[Foot­note 101: Ibid., 173.]

[Foot­note 102: Plates 26 and 27. _The Art of In­dia and Pak­istan_, Plate 102.]

[Foot­note 103: Archer, _Garhw­al Paint­ing_, 1-4.]

[Foot­note 104: Gan­goly, op. cit., Plate 35.]

[Foot­note 105: Archer, _In­di­an Paint­ing in the Pun­jab Hills_, Fig. 23.]

[Foot­note 106: Mehta, _Stud­ies in In­di­an Paint­ing_, Plate 21.]

[Foot­note 107: Plates 19, 20 and 35.]

[Foot­note 108: Coomaraswamy, _Ra­jput Paint­ing_, Plates 53 and 54.]

[Foot­note 109: Archer, _Garhw­al Paint­ing_, Plate 1.]

[Foot­note 110: Plates 7, 12 and 25.]

[Foot­note 111: Archer, _Kan­gra Paint­ing_, 2-5.]

[Foot­note 112: Ibid., Plate 2.]

[Foot­note 113: Ibid., Plate 1.]

[Foot­note 114: Ibid., Plate 2.]

[Foot­note 115: B.H. Baden Pow­ell, _Hand­book of the Man­ufac­tures and Arts of the Pun­jab_ (La­hore, 1872), 355. Purkhu must now, most prob­ably, be con­nect­ed with the first of the two Kan­gra mas­ters de­scribed in _Kan­gra Paint­ing_ (p. 4)--Plates 3 and 4 be­ing ex­am­ples of his work.]

[Foot­note 116: Plates 3, 5, 6, 8, 9, 11 and 16.]

[Foot­note 117: Archer, _Kan­gra Paint­ing_, Plates 1 and 2; al­so p. 4 where the sec­ond of the two Kan­gra mas­ters is de­scribed.]

[Foot­note 118: Plate 36; Mehta, op. cit., Plates 25 and 26.]

[Foot­note 119: Plate 21.]

[Foot­note 120: Mehta, op. cit., Plate 22.]

[Foot­note 121: Plates 13-15.]

[Foot­note 122: Plate 18.]

[Foot­note 123: _The Art of In­dia and Pak­istan_, Plate 79]

[Foot­note 124: W.G. Archer, 'Maithil Paint­ing,' _Marg_, Vol. III, No. 2.]

[Foot­note 125: W.G. Archer, _Bazaar Paint­ings of Cal­cut­ta_ (Lon­don, 1953), Plates 8, 9, 14, 19, 30, 31 and 41.]

[Foot­note 126: Ajit Mook­er­jee, _Art of In­dia_, (Cal­cut­ta, 1952) Fig. 94.]

[Foot­note 127: B. Dey and J. Ir­win, 'Jami­ni Roy,' _Jour­nal of the In­di­an So­ci­ety of Ori­en­tal Art_ (1944), Vol. XII, Plate 6.]

[Foot­note 128: For re­pro­duc­tions of Keyt's work, see Mar­tin Rus­sell, _George Keyt_ (Bom­bay, 1950), Plates 1-101.]

NOTES

Note 1, p. 13.

For a fur­ther dis­cus­sion of these two main kinds of In­di­an ex­pres­sion, see my _In­di­an Paint­ing_ (Iris, Bats­ford, Lon­don, 1956).

Note 2, p. 14.

In In­di­an paint­ing, Kr­ish­na is nor­mal­ly blue or mauve in colour, though cas­es oc­cur in which he is black, green or dark brown. Black would seem to fol­low from Kr­ish­na's name--the word 'Kr­ish­na' mean­ing 'black'--and may have been ap­plied ei­ther be­cause he sprang from a black hair of Vish­nu or be­cause he was born at mid­night, 'black as a thun­der­cloud.' It has been sug­gest­ed that his dark com­plex­ion proves a Dra­vid­ian or even an abo­rig­inal ori­gin since both the Dra­vid­ian races and the abo­rig­inal tribes are dark brown in colour in con­trast to the paler Aryans. None of the texts, how­ev­er, ap­pears to cor­rob­orate this the­ory. So far as 'blue' and 'mauve' are con­cerned, 'blue' is the colour of Vish­nu and char­ac­ter­izes most of his in­car­na­tions. As the colour of the sky, it is ap­pro­pri­ate to a de­ity who was orig­inal­ly as­so­ci­at­ed with the sun--the sun with its life-​giv­ing rays ac­cord­ing well with Vish­nu's role as lov­ing pro­tec­tor. 'Blue' is al­so sup­posed to be the colour of the ocean on which Vish­nu is said to re­cline at the com­mence­ment of each age. In view of the vari­ations in colour in the pic­tures, it is per­haps sig­nif­icant that 'blue,' 'mauve' and 'green' are com­mon­ly re­gard­ed in vil­lage In­dia as vari­ants of 'black'--many In­di­ans mak­ing no dis­tinc­tion be­tween them. In In­di­an paint­ing, the fact that Kr­ish­na is blue makes it easy to iden­ti­fy him, his on­ly se­ri­ous ri­val be­ing an­oth­er and ear­li­er in­car­na­tion of Vish­nu, the prince­ly Ra­ma. The lat­ter can usu­al­ly be dis­tin­guished from Kr­ish­na by the fact that he car­ries a bow (nev­er a cowherd's stick) and is of­ten ac­com­pa­nied by Hanu­man, the mon­key lead­er.

Note 3, p. 17.

For a com­par­ison of Gho­ra An­gi­rasa's teach­ing in the _Chan­do­gya Up­an­ishad_ with Kr­ish­na's pre­cepts in the _Gi­ta_, see Mazum­dar, _The Age of Im­pe­ri­al Uni­ty_ (432-4) and Basham, _The Won­der that was In­dia_ (242-7, 304-5)

Note 4, p. 17.

Al­though the ac­tu­al date of the _Ma­hab­hara­ta_ war has been var­ious­ly as­sessed--'be­tween 1400 and 1000 B.C.' (M.A. Mehen­dale in _The Age of Im­pe­ri­al Uni­ty_, 251) 'the be­gin­ning of the ninth cen­tu­ry B.C. (Basham, op. cit., 39)--the epic it­self is gen­er­al­ly rec­og­nized as be­ing a prod­uct of many cen­turies of com­pi­la­tion. The por­tions re­lat­ing to Kr­ish­na the hero may well date from the third cen­tu­ry B.C. The _Gi­ta_, on the oth­er hand, was pos­si­bly com­posed in the sec­ond cen­tu­ry B.C. 'but as­sumed the form in which it ap­pears in the _Ma­hab­hara­ta_ to­day in the ear­ly cen­turies A.D.' (Mehen­dale, op. cit., 249).

Note 5, p. 24.

The im­pli­ca­tion is that the Pan­davas have not been grant­ed ul­ti­mate sal­va­tion i.e. fi­nal re­lease from liv­ing but have reached the im­por­tant tran­si­tion­al lev­el of 'the heav­en of the do­ers of good deeds.' They have al­so been grant­ed the lim­it­ed sta­tus of pet­ty gods.

Note 6, p. 25.

_Hari­vansa_, 'the Ge­neal­ogy of Kr­ish­na' but more lit­er­al­ly, 'the Ge­neal­ogy of Hari,' a syn­onym for Vish­nu. For the sake of clear­ness and to avoid bur­den­ing the text with too much pe­riphra­sis, I have through­out re­ferred to Kr­ish­na as such. In the texts them­selves, how­ev­er, he is con­stant­ly in­voked un­der oth­er names--Hari (or Vish­nu), Govin­da (the cowherd), Ke­sha­va (the hairy or ra­di­ant one), Ja­nard­dana (the most wor­ship­ful), Damodara ('bound with a rope,' re­fer­ring to the in­ci­dent (p. 32) when hav­ing been tied by Ya­so­da to a mor­tar, Kr­ish­na up­roots the two trees), Mu­rari ('foe of Mu­ra, the arch de­mon' p. 58) or in phras­es such as 'queller of Kaliya the snake,' 'de­stroy­er of Ke­si, the de­mon horse,' 'slay­er of Mad­hu--the de­mon who sprang from the ear of Vish­nu and was killed by him.' A sim­ilar use of pe­riphra­sis oc­curs in An­glo-​Sax­on ken­nings ('world-​can­dle' for sun, 'bat­tle-​adders' for ar­rows). In the same way, Ab­ul Fa­zl's chron­icle, the _Ak­bar­na­ma_, nev­er names the em­per­or Ak­bar but refers to him in terms such as 'His Majesty,' 'the holy soul,' 'lord of the age,' 'foun­tain of gen­eros­ity,' 'the sa­cred heart,' 'the world-​adorn­ing mind,' 'the dec­orat­ed man­sion of sports.'

Note 7, p. 26, 34, 46, 68, 69.

In Chap­ters 3 and 4 I have, in the main, strict­ly fol­lowed the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana,_ in­cor­po­rat­ing, how­ev­er, a few im­por­tant de­tails and pas­sages ei­ther not giv­en in this text but in­clud­ed in the _Vish­nu Pu­rana_ or if giv­en, not so vivid­ly ex­pressed. The de­tails and pas­sages in ques­tion are page 27 con­cern­ing the white and black hairs of Vish­nu, page 34--the lyri­cal de­scrip­tion of Kr­ish­na's life in the for­est, page 46--Akru­ra's med­ita­tion as he goes to vis­it Kr­ish­na, page 68--the drunk­en brawl and page 69 the deaths of Balara­ma and Kr­ish­na. All ex­tracts are from H.H. Wil­son, _The Vish­nu Pu­rana_ (pages 498, 511, 541-2, 609-612).

Note 8, p. 28.

The re­sem­blance be­tween Kansa's or­der to kill all male in­fants and Herod's slaugh­ter of the in­no­cents has of­ten been re­marked.

Note 9, p. 29.

Kr­ish­na's con­stant al­ter­ations of role, ap­pear­ing some­times as God but more of­ten as boy or man, have been com­ment­ed on by Ish­er­wood and Prab­ha­vanan­da in con­nec­tion with Ar­ju­na's dilem­ma in the _Ma­hab­hara­ta_. 'Kr­ish­na is the di­vine in­car­na­tion of Vish­nu, Ar­ju­na's cho­sen de­ity. Ar­ju­na knows this--yet, by a mer­ci­ful ig­no­rance, he some­times for­gets. In­deed, it is Kr­ish­na who makes him for­get, since no or­di­nary man could bear the strain of con­stant com­pan­ion­ship with God. Af­ter the vi­sion of Kr­ish­na's di­vine as­pect, Ar­ju­na is ap­palled by the re­al­iza­tion that he has been treat­ing the Lord of the uni­verse as 'friend and fel­low-​mor­tal.' He humbly begs Kr­ish­na's par­don, but his awe soon leaves him. Again, he has for­got­ten. We may in­fer the same re­la­tion­ship be­tween Je­sus and his dis­ci­ples af­ter the vi­sion of the trans­fig­ura­tion.' _(The Song of God, Bha­gavad-​Gi­ta,_ 29-30).

Note 10, p. 33.

Al­though part of the supreme Trin­ity, Brah­ma was of­ten treat­ed in lit­er­ature as an or­di­nary god who am­bled gen­tly about the world, was of­ten rather ab­sent-​mind­ed, some­times be­haved as if he were a priest, and was prone, as on the present oc­ca­sion, to act a tri­fle mis­guid­ed­ly.

Note 12, p. 40.

The scene is il­lus­trat­ed in two Kan­gra and Guler paint­ings (Archer, _In­di­an Paint­ing in the Pun­jab Hills_, Figs. 10 and 23).

Note 12, p. 58.

Pragjy­otisha--a city sit­uat­ed in the east, in Ka­maru­pa on the bor­ders of As­sam. Ac­cord­ing to the _Vish­nu Pu­rana_ (Wil­son, 582), its en­vi­rons were de­fend­ed by 'noos­es, con­struct­ed by the de­mon Mu­ra (Nara­ka's al­ly), the edges of which were as sharp as ra­zors.' Mu­ra had sev­en thou­sand sons (not sev­en, as stat­ed in the _Bha­ga­va­ta_). All, how­ev­er, were 'burnt like moths with the flame of the edge of Kr­ish­na's dis­cus.'

Note 13, p. 67.

Basham (op. cit., 305) points out that el­ements in the Kr­ish­na sto­ry such as the de­struc­tion of the Ya­davas and the death of the god are 'quite un-​In­di­an in their trag­ic char­ac­ter. The themes of the drunk­en brawl lead­ing to a gen­er­al slaugh­ter, of the hero slain by an ar­row pierc­ing his one vul­ner­able spot, and of the great city en­gulfed by the sea, are well-​known in Eu­ro­pean epic lit­er­ature, but do not oc­cur else­where in that of In­dia and are not hint­ed at in the Vedas. The con­cept of the dy­ing god, so widespread in the an­cient Near East, is found nowhere else in In­di­an mythol­ogy.'

It is un­for­tu­nate that Kr­ish­na's rea­sons for de­stroy­ing the Ya­da­va race are nowhere made very clear. The af­front to the Brah­mans is the im­me­di­ate oc­ca­sion for the slaugh­ter but hard­ly its ac­tu­al cause; and, if it is ar­gued that the Ya­davas must first be de­stroyed in or­der to ren­der Kr­ish­na's with­draw­al from the world com­plete, we must then as­sume that the Ya­davas are in some mys­te­ri­ous way es­sen­tial parts of Kr­ish­na him­self. Such a sta­tus, how­ev­er, does not seem to be claimed for them and none of the texts sug­gest that this is so. The slaugh­ter, there­fore, re­mains an enig­ma.

Note 14, p. 68.

Wil­son (op. cit., 608) sum­ma­riz­ing the por­tents list­ed in the _Ma­hab­hara­ta_ but not in­clud­ed in the _Vish­nu_ or _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­ranas_.

Note 15, p. 72.

From the _Bri­hadaranya­ka_, quot­ed A. Danielou, 'An Ap­proach to Hin­du Erot­ic Sculp­ture,' _Marg_, Vol. II, No. i, 88. For a West­ern ex­pres­sion of this point of view, com­pare Er­ic Gill, 'Art and Love,' _Ru­pam_ (Cal­cut­ta, 1925), No. 21, 5.

'If the trees and rocks, the thun­der and the sea, the fright­ful avid­ity of an­imal life and the love­li­ness of flow­ers are so many hints of the God who made them, how much more ob­vi­ous­ly are the things of hu­man­ity ana­logues of the things of God? And among all such things, the union of man and wom­an takes the high­est place and is the most po­tent sym­bol. There­fore it is that out­side the com­mer­cial civ­iliza­tions of the west­ern world, love and mar­riage take their place as types of di­vine union and ev­ery­where love and mar­riage are the sub­ject mat­ter, the theme of re­li­gious writ­ers, singers, painters and sculp­tors. It is true that love is the theme of west­ern writ­ers al­so but with them the idea of love is en­tire­ly free from di­vine sig­ni­fi­ca­tion. (As a corol­lary), the more the di­vine back­ground dis­ap­pears, the more the prud­ish­ness of the po­lice be­comes the stan­dard of ethics and aes­thet­ics alike. Un­der such an aegis the arts are nec­es­sar­ily de­grad­ed to the lev­el of the mere­ly sen­ti­men­tal or the mere­ly sen­su­al and while the sen­ti­men­tal is ev­ery­where ap­plaud­ed, the sen­su­al is a source of pan­ic.'

Note 16, p. 73.

In lat­er po­et­ry as well as in pop­ular wor­ship, Rad­ha's po­si­tion is al­ways that of an adored mis­tress--nev­er that of a beloved wife. And it is out­side or rather in the teeth of mar­riage that her ro­mance with Kr­ish­na is pros­ecut­ed. Such a po­si­tion clear­ly in­volved a sharp con­flict with con­ven­tion­al morals and in the four­teenth cen­tu­ry, an at­tempt was made, in the _Brah­ma Vaivar­ta Pu­rana_, to re-​write the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_, mag­ni­fy­ing Rad­ha as lead­er of the cow-​girls, dis­guis­ing or rather deny­ing her adul­tery and fi­nal­ly pre­sent­ing her as Kr­ish­na's eter­nal con­sort. For this pur­pose, three hy­pothe­ses were adopt­ed. Rad­ha was through­out as­sumed to be Kr­ish­na's spouse and it is on­ly on ac­count of a curse that she takes hu­man form as a cow­girl and comes to live in Brind­aban. Rad­ha her­self does not mar­ry Ayana the cowherd--his wed­ding be­ing on­ly with her shad­ow. Third­ly, Kr­ish­na comes to Brind­aban and goes through a se­cret mar­riage with her. Their love-​mak­ing is, there­fore, no longer adul­ter­ous but strict­ly con­ju­gal. It is not per­haps sur­pris­ing that the _Brah­ma Vaivar­ta Pu­rana_ failed to cap­ture the In­di­an imag­ina­tion and in­deed is nowa­days hard­ly ev­er heard of. It is of in­ter­est main­ly on ac­count of the pro­lif­ic in­for­ma­tion giv­en about Rad­ha, the fact that it sets her firm­ly in the cen­tre, de­thron­ing the hap­less Ruk­mi­ni, and its baroque de­scrip­tions of sex­ual union.

Note 17, p. 73.

Dur­ing the eleventh and twelfth cen­turies, a par­al­lel sit­ua­tion seems to have arisen in feu­dal France and Ger­many where lo­cal love-​po­et­ry al­so treat­ed adul­tery as a _sine qua non_ of ro­mance.

'Two things pre­vent­ed the men of that age from con­nect­ing their ide­al of ro­man­tic and pas­sion­ate love with mar­riage. The first is, of course, the ac­tu­al prac­tice of feu­dal so­ci­ety. Mar­riages had noth­ing to do with love and no 'non­sense' about mar­riage was tol­er­at­ed. All mar­riages were match­es of in­ter­est and, worse still, of an in­ter­est that was con­tin­ual­ly chang­ing. When the al­liance which had an­swered would an­swer no longer, the hus­band's ob­ject was to get rid of the la­dy as quick­ly as pos­si­ble. Mar­riages were fre­quent­ly dis­solved. The same wom­an who was the la­dy and 'the dear­est dread' of her vas­sals was of­ten lit­tle bet­ter than a piece of prop­er­ty to her hus­band. He was mas­ter in his own house. So far from be­ing a nat­ural chan­nel for the new kind of love, mar­riage was rather the drab back­ground against which that love stood out in all the con­trast of its new ten­der­ness and del­ica­cy. The sit­ua­tion is in­deed a very sim­ple one, and not pe­cu­liar to the Mid­dle Ages. Any ide­al­iza­tion of sex­ual love, in a so­ci­ety where mar­riage is pure­ly util­itar­ian, must be­gin by be­ing an ide­al­iza­tion of adul­tery.' (C.S. Lewis, _The Al­le­go­ry of Love_ (Lon­don, 1936), 13.)

Note 18, p. 77.

Much of the _Gi­ta Govin­da's_ pow­er aris­es from the en­dow­ment of Na­ture with ro­man­tic ar­dour, the for­est it­self be­ing pre­sent­ed as a high­ly sen­si­tive and sym­bol­ic set­ting for the be­haviour of lovers. The fol­low­ing pas­sage from _Tess of the D'Urbervilles_ is per­haps the near­est ap­proach in En­glish to this kind of treat­ment.

'Amid the ooz­ing fat­ness and warm fer­ments of the Var Vale, at a sea­son when the rush of juices could al­most be heard be­low the hiss of fer­til­iza­tion, it was im­pos­si­ble that the most fan­ci­ful love should not grow pas­sion­ate. The ready bo­soms ex­ist­ing there were im­preg­nat­ed by their sur­round­ings. Ju­ly passed over their heads and the weath­er which came in its wake seemed an ef­fort on the part of Na­ture to match the state of hearts at Tal­both­ays Dairy. The air of the place, so fresh in the spring and ear­ly sum­mer, was stag­nant and en­er­vat­ing now. Its heavy scents weighed up­on them, and at mid-​day the land­scape seemed ly­ing in a swoon. Ethiopic scorch­ings browned the up­per slopes of the pas­tures, but there was still bright herbage here where the wa­ter cours­es purled. And as Clare was op­pressed by the out­ward heats, so was he bur­dened in­ward­ly by wax­ing fer­vour of pas­sion for the soft and silent Tess.'

Note 19, p. 77.

The _Gi­ta Govin­da_ was one of the first San­skrit po­ems to be ren­dered in­to En­glish--Sir William Jones pub­lish­ing a mel­liflu­ous ver­sion in _Asi­at­ick Re­search­es_ in 1792. Lat­er in the nine­teenth cen­tu­ry it was trans­lat­ed in­to Vic­to­ri­an verse by Sir Ed­win Arnold. The present trans­la­tion from which all the ex­tracts are tak­en is by George Keyt, the fore­most mod­ern artist of Cey­lon. It is great­ly to be hoped that the en­tire trans­la­tion, hith­er­to avail­able on­ly in an In­di­an edi­tion, will one day be pub­lished in Eng­land.

Note 20, p. 86.

Po­ems 1 and 2 are based on ver­sions by O.C. Gan­goly (_Mas­ter­pieces of Ra­jput Paint­ing_, 29, 58); po­ems 3-11 are from new trans­la­tions by Deben Bhat­tacharya.

Note 21, p. 91.

For the orig­inals of cer­tain po­ems in the _Rasi­ka Priya_ and their lit­er­al trans­la­tion, see Coomaraswamy, 'The Eight Nayikas.'

Note 22, p. 104.

The first schol­ar to draw at­ten­tion to this fact, i.e. that the sub­jects are not Rad­ha and Kr­ish­na but palace ladies im­per­son­at­ing them, is Dr. Joan van Lo­huizen de Leeuw, whose pa­per on this and kin­dred prob­lems is un­der prepa­ra­tion.

Note 23, p. 105.

For a de­tailed dis­cus­sion of Bhanu Dat­ta's _Rasaman­jari_ and of sim­ilar trea­tis­es by oth­er San­skrit au­thors, see V. Ragha­van, _Srn­gara­man­jari of Saint Ak­bar Shah_ (Hy­der­abad, 1951).

BIB­LI­OG­RA­PHY

AGRAWALA, V.S.: 'The Ro­mance of Hi­machal Paint­ings,' _Roopa-​Lekha_ XX, 2, (1948-9), 87-93.

ARCHER, W.G.: _In­di­an Paint­ing in the Pun­jab Hills_ (Lon­don, 1952). _Kan­gra Paint­ing_ (Lon­don, 1952). _Garhw­al Paint­ing_ (Lon­don, 1954). _In­di­an Paint­ing_ (Lon­don, 1956).

BASHAM, A.L.: _The Won­der that was In­dia_ (Lon­don, 1954).

BURNOUF, E. (trans.): _Le Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_ (Paris, 1840-98).

COOMARASWAMY, A.C.: 'The Eight Nayikas,' _Jour­nal of In­di­an Art and In­dus­try_, XVI (New Se­ries), No. 128 (1914), 99-116. _Ra­jput Paint­ing_ (Ox­ford, 1916). _Cat­alogue of the In­di­an Col­lec­tions in the Mu­se­um of Fine Arts, Boston: Part V, Ra­jput Paint­ing; Part VI, Mughal Paint­ing_ (Cam­bridge, Mass. 1926, 1930). (trans.) _The Tak­ing of Toll_ (Lon­don, 1915).

GAN­GOLY, O.C.: _Mas­ter­pieces of Ra­jput Paint­ing_ (Cal­cut­ta, 1926). _Ra­gas and Ragi­nis_ (Cal­cut­ta, 1934).

GRAY, B.: _Ra­jput Paint­ing_ (Lon­don, 1948). 'Paint­ing,' _The Art of In­dia and Pak­istan_, ed. L. Ash­ton (Lon­don, 1950).

GRI­ER­SON, G.A.: _The Mod­ern Ver­nac­ular Lit­er­ature of Hin­dus­tan_ (Cal­cut­ta, 1889).

HEND­LEY, T.H.: _Memo­ri­als of the Jey­pore Ex­hi­bi­tion. IV, the Razm Namah_ (Lon­don, 1883).

HOLLINGS, W. (trans.): _The Prem Sagar_ (Luc­know, 1880).

ISH­ER­WOOD, C. and PRAB­HA­VANAN­DA, S. (trans.): _The Song of God, Bha­gavad-​Gi­ta_ (Lon­don, 1947).

JONES, W. (trans.): 'Gitagovin­da or Songs of Jayade­va,' _Asi­at­ick Re­search­es_ (Cal­cut­ta, 1792).

KEYT, G. (trans.): _Sri Jayade­va's Gi­ta Govin­da_ (Bom­bay, 1947).

MATH­ERS, E. POWYS (trans.): _East­ern Love_ (Lon­don, 1927-30). (trans.) _Love Songs of Asia_ (Lon­don, 1944).

MAZUM­DAR, R.C. (ed.): _The His­to­ry and Cul­ture of the In­di­an Peo­ple, I, The Vedic Age_ (Lon­don, 1951); II, _The Age of Im­pe­ri­al Uni­ty_ (Bom­bay, 1951).

MEHTA, N.C.: _Stud­ies in In­di­an Paint­ing_ (Bom­bay, 1926). _Gu­jarati Paint­ing in the Fif­teenth Cen­tu­ry_ (Lon­don, 1931).

RAND­HAWA, M.S.: _Kan­gra Val­ley Paint­ing_ (New Del­hi, 1954). _The Kr­ish­na Leg­end in Pa­hari Paint­ing_ (New Del­hi, 1956).

ROY, P.C. (trans.): _The Ma­hab­hara­ta_ (Cal­cut­ta, 1883).

SEN, D.C.: _His­to­ry of Ben­gali Lan­guage and Lit­er­ature_ (Cal­cut­ta, 1911).

SEN, R.N. (trans.): _The Brah­ma Vaivar­ta Pu­rana_ (Al­la­habad, 1920).

STCHOUKINE, I.: _La Pein­ture In­di­enne_ (Paris, 1929).

WIN­TER­NITZ, M.: _A His­to­ry of In­di­an Lit­er­ature_ (Cal­cut­ta, I, 1927; II, 1933).

WIL­SON, H.H. (trans.): _The Vish­nu Pu­rana_ (Lon­don, 1840).

IN­DEX

Ab­ul Fa­zl, 116, pl. 1 (com­ment) Adi­ti, moth­er of the gods, 58, 59 _Age of Im­pe­ri­al Uni­ty, The_, 115, 121 Ag­ni, god of fire, 18 Agrawala, V.S., 121 Ah­mad­na­gar, Dec­can, 97 Ajmer, Ra­jasthan, 103 Ak­bar, Mughal Em­per­or, 97-99, 116, pl. 1 (com­ment) _Ak­bar­na­ma_, 98, 116 Akru­ra, chief of the Ya­davas, 45-47, 49, 51, 57, 116 _Al­le­go­ry of Love, The_, 119 Alt­dor­fer, 93 Amaru, San­skrit po­et, 73 Anirud­dha, son of Pradyum­na and grand­son of Kr­ish­na, 64 Archer, Mil­dred, 4, 9 Archer, W.G., 4, 101, 105, 107-112, 115, 117, 121 Ar­ju­na, lead­ing Pan­da­va, hus­band of Drau­pa­di, hus­band of Kr­ish­na's sis­ter, Sub­hadra, 20-22, 64, 65, 67, 69, 116, 117 Arnold, Sir Ed­win, 119 _Art of In­dia and Pak­istan, The_, 96, 98, 101, 104, 107, 111, 121 _Asi­at­ick Re­search­es_, 119 As­sam, 117 Au­rangzeb, Mughal Em­per­or, 99 Ayana, hus­band of Rad­ha, broth­er of Ya­so­da, 72, 118

Baden Pow­ell, B.H., 110 Baka­sura, crane de­mon, 33 _Bal­agopala Stu­ti_, po­em by Bil­va­man­gala, 84, 94 Balara­ma, broth­er of Kr­ish­na, 27, 30, 31, 34-36, 44-48, 50-56, 61-64, 66, 67, 69, 116, pls. 1, 5, 6, 9, 12, 16, 17 Bali, ruler of the un­der­world, 62 Bani Thani, po­et­ess of Kis­hangarh, 103 _Barah­masa_, po­ems of the twelve months, 102, pl. 32 Ba­sawan, Mughal artist, pls. 1, 2 (com­ment), 3 (com­ment) Basham, A.L., 9, 19, 115, 117, 121 Ba­sohli, Pun­jab Hills, 104, 105, 107, 111, pls. 18 (com­ment), 26 (com­ment), 30 (com­ment) Beat­ty, Sir Chester, pls. 17, 19 _Bha­gavad Gi­ta_, 15-17, 24, 67, 115, 117 _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_, 11, 25-71, 72, 74, 85, 85, 99, 101, 105, 107, 110, 111, 116-18, 121, pls. 3-19 _Bhak­ti_, de­vo­tion to God, 19, 24 Bhanu Dat­ta, au­thor of _Rasaman­jari_, 9, 105, 120, pls. 30, 31 Bharat Kala Bhawan, Ba­naras, 103, pl. 37 _Bharatiya Natya Sas­tra_, San­skrit trea­tise, 90 Bhar­tri­hari, San­skrit po­et, 73 Bhat­tacharya, Deben, 9, 87-90, 119 Bhi­ma, strongest of the five Pan­davas, 24, 65, 66 Bi­hari Lai, po­et, 84, 110, pl. 36 Bi­japur, Dec­can, 97 Bikan­er, Ra­jasthan, 99, 100, 103 Bi­laspur, Pun­jab Hills, 107, 111, pl. 18 Bil­va­man­gala, po­et, 84, 94 Blue, colour of Kr­ish­na, 14, 115 Book cov­ers, Ben­gali, 111 Brah­ma, 17, 27, 28, 33, 34, 58, 59, 65, 67, 117, pl. 2 _Brah­ma Vaivar­ta Pu­rana_, 118, 121 Brah­mans, 22, 28, 30, 38, 39, 62, 63, 67, 68, 71, 74, 107, 108, 117 Wives of, 38, 39 Braj, coun­try around Mathu­ra, 26, 28, 40 _Bri­hadaranya­ka_, 117 Brind­aban, for­est near Goku­la, 33, 35, 45, 46, 49, 52, 53, 59-62, 103, pl. 6 British Mu­se­um, pl. 18 Brough, J., 9 Bud­dhism, 94 Bull de­mon, 44 Bun­delk­hand, 91, 99 Bun­di, Ra­jasthan, 101-103 Burnouf, E., 121

Cal­cut­ta, 111, 112 Camp­bell, Roy, 75 Cey­lon, 57, 112 Cham­ba, Pun­jab Hills, 107, 111 Chan­di Das, Ben­gali po­et, 84, 85, 89, 111 Chandi­garh Art Gallery, East Pun­jab, pl. 27 _Chan­do­gya Up­an­ishad_, 17, 24, 115 Cha­nu­ra, wrestler, 45, 48 Chawand, Mewar, 100 Christ, 14, 112, 117 Clothes, steal­ing of cow­girls', 37, 38, 74, 75, pl. 11 Coomaraswamy, A.K., 99, 104-6, 108, 120, 121, pl. 8 (com­ment) Cow­girls, loves of the, 29, 36-38, 41-44, 46, 49, 50, 52, 53, 58, 60-62, 66, 70-82, 85, 86, 109, 110, 113, pls. 11, 13-15, 20-23. Cowherds, aban­don­ment of, by Kr­ish­na, Kr­ish­na's life with, 49-53, 61, 62

Damodara, pseudonym for Kr­ish­na, 116 Dance, cir­cu­lar, 38, 41, 43, 46, 74, 75, p. 13 (com­ment) Danielou, A., 117 Daru­ka, char­io­teer to Kr­ish­na, 68, 69 Demons, com­bats with, 29, 30, 33-36, 44, 45, 54, 55, 58, 64, 116, 117, pl. 9 role of, 18, 19 De­va­ka, younger broth­er of King Ugrase­na, 27 De­va­ki, moth­er of Kr­ish­na, 17, 27, 28, 44, 46, 48-50, 52, 63, 69, pl. 3 De­vi, god­dess, Earth Moth­er, 28, 40, 56, pls. 3, 18 Dey, B., 112 _Dhar­ma_, 18, 23 Dhenu­ka, ass de­mon, 34 Dhri­tarash­tra, blind son of Ku­ru, fa­ther of Kau­ravas, 20, 21, 51, 66 Dice, con­test by, 21 Dick­in­son, Er­ic, 103 Drau­pa­di, daugh­ter of King of Pan­chal, com­mon wife of the five Pan­davas, 20-23, 64, 67 Dru­ma­li­ka, de­mon, 26 Dury­od­hana, lead­ing Kau­ra­va and son of Dhri­tarash­tra, 23, 51, 66, 67 Dwar­ka, Kr­ish­na's cap­ital in West­ern In­dia, 21, 22, 54-59, 61-64, 66-70, 94, 108, pls. 2 (com­ment), 19

Earth, 27, 49, 58, 67 _East­ern Love_, 121 El Gre­co, 93

Flute play­ing, 15, 36, 37, 41, 61, 78, 86, 109, 112, pl. 21 For­est fires, 35, 36, pl. 10 France, feu­dal, 118

Games with cowherds, Kr­ish­na's, 31-35, 45, pls. 4-9 Gand­hi, Ma­hat­ma, 15 Gan­goly, O.C., 104, 119, 121 Gar­ga, sage, 30, 31 Garhw­al, Pun­jab Hills, 107-110, pl. 38 _Garhw­al Paint­ing_, 107, 108, 121 Ger­many, feu­dal, 118 Gho­ra An­gi­rasa, 17, 115 Gill, Er­ic, 118 _Gi­ta Govin­da_, San­skrit po­em by Jayade­va, 9, 11, 76-84, 94-96, 98, 110, 111, 113, 119, 121, pls. 20-27 Gods, role of, 18, 19 Goetz, H., 99, 100 Goku­la, dis­trict near Mathu­ra, 26, 30, 33, 44 Go­vard­han Singh, Ra­ja of Guler, 107 Go­vard­hana, great­est of the hills, 39, 40, 42, 59, pl. 12 Govind Das, po­et, 84, 88 Govin­da, pseudonym for Kr­ish­na, 116 Gray, Basil, 100, 121 Gri­er­son, Sir G.A., 121 Grunewald, 93 _Gu­jarati Paint­ing in the Fif­teenth Cen­tu­ry_, 121 Guler, Pun­jab Hills, 107-109, pl. 18 (com­ment)

Hari, pseudonym for Kr­ish­na, 116 _Hari­vansa_, ap­pendix to _Ma­hab­hara­ta_ epic, 25, 32, 98, 116 Hend­ley, T.H., 98, 121 Herod, 116 Holi fes­ti­val, 109 Hollings, W., 121 Hunter, slay­er of Kr­ish­na, see Jara. Hus­sain Shah, ruler of Jaun­pur, 96

In­dia Of­fice Li­brary, Lon­don, pl. 34 (com­ment) In­di­an Mu­se­um, Cal­cut­ta, pl. 35 _In­di­an Paint­ing_, 115, 121 _In­di­an Paint­ing in the Pun­jab Hills_, 105, 107 In­dra, king of the gods, lord of the clouds, 18, 24, 39, 40, 46, 58, 59, 65, 66, pls. 2, 12 Ir­win, J., 112 Ish­er­wood, Christo­pher, 15, 24, 116

Jadu­pat­uas, min­strel artists of Ben­gal, 112 Jaipur, Ra­jasthan, 95, 98, 103, 104, pls. 1 (com­ment), 2 (com­ment) Jaisalmer, Ra­jasthan, 103 Jamb­ha­vati, a queen of Kr­ish­na, 56, 57, 60 Jam­mu, Pun­jab Hills, 107 Ja­nard­dana, pseudonym for Kr­ish­na, 116 Japan, 13 Jara, Bhil hunter, slay­er of Kr­ish­na, 24, 67, 69, pl. 2 Jarasand­ha, de­mon king of Ma­ga­dha, 26, 54-56, 65 Jaun­pur, East­ern In­dia, 96, 97 Jayade­va, San­skrit po­et, 76, 77, 84, 94, 111, 121 Jodh­pur, Ra­jasthan, 95, 103 Jones, Sir William, 119, 121 Jum­na, riv­er, 22, 28, 35, 37, 41, 43, 47, 48, 61, 74, 82, 85, pls. 8, 13-15

Kali­dasa, San­skrit po­et, 73 Kalin­di, a queen of Kr­ish­na, 57, 60, 64 Kaliya, gi­ant hy­dra-​head­ed snake, 35, 42, 46, 108, 116, pls. 8, 10 (com­ment) Kaliya­vana, 54 _Kalpa­su­tra_, Jain Scrip­ture, 96 Ka­ma, god of pas­sion, 18, 64 Ka­malavati, moth­er of Rad­ha, 72 Kan­gra, Pun­jab Hills, 93, 108-11, pl. 3 (com­ment) _Kan­gra Paint­ing_, 109, 110, 121 _Kan­gra Val­ley Paint­ing_, 121 Kano­ria, Gopi Kr­ish­na, 9, pls. 7, 29, 39 Kansa, tyrant king of Mathu­ra, son of Pa­vanarekha by the de­mon Dru­ma­li­ka, 26-9, 31, 33, 43-50, 54, 55, 57, 62, 110, 116, pls. 3, 9 (com­ment), 16 (com­ment), 17, 35 (com­ment) Kar­na, lead­ing Kau­ra­va killed by Ar­ju­na at Ku­ruk­shetra, 23 Kau­ravas, the 100 sons of Dhri­tarash­tra, ri­vals of the Pan­davas (vide _Ma­hab­hara­ta_) 20, 21, 23, 26, 51, 62, 66, 67 Ken­nings, An­glo-​Sax­on, 116 Ke­shav Das, po­et, 84, 91, 99, 100, 105, pls. 28, 30 (com­ment) Ke­sha­va, pseudonym for Kr­ish­na, 116 Ke­si, horse de­mon, 44, 45, 115 Keyt, George, artist and trans­la­tor of the _Gi­ta Govin­da_, 9, 76-83, 112, 113, 119, 121, pls. 21-27 (com­ments) Khan­dalawala, Karl, 95, 96, pls. 10, 23 (com­ment) Khurasan, 97, pl. 1 (com­ment) Kir­pal Pal, Ra­ja of Ba­sohli, 104, 105, 107, pl. 10 (com­ment) Kis­hangarh, Ra­jasthan, 103, pl. 39 Ko­tah, Ra­jasthan, 103 Kr­ish­na Das, po­et, 84 Ku­bera, yak­sha king, pl. 5 (com­ment) Kub­ja, hunch­back girl, 47, 53, 54 Ku­lu, Pun­jab Hills, 107, 111 Kumb­han Das, po­et, 84 Kun­dulpur, 56 Ra­ja of, fa­ther of Ruk­mi­ni, 55 Kun­ti, wife of Pan­du, moth­er of the Pan­davas, sis­ter of Va­sude­va (Kr­ish­na's fa­ther), 20, 21, 51, 57, 62, 64 Ku­ru, com­mon an­ces­tor of the Pan­davas and Kau­ravas, 20 Ku­ruk­shetra, bat­tle-​field of, 15, 21, 26, 61 Kusha­la, Kan­gra artist, 110, pls. 3, 21, 36 Ku­vara, broth­er of Nala, 32, pl. 5.

La­hore, State Mu­se­um, pl. 26 Lan­ka, mod­ern Cey­lon, 57 Léger, F., 112 Lewis, C.S., 119 Lo­huizen, Dr. Joan van, de Leeuw, 120 _Love Songs of Asia_, 121 Luc­know, State Mu­se­um, pl. 5

Mac­Ne­ice, Louis, 15 Mad­hu, de­mon, 116 Ma­ga­dha, 26, 54, 55 _Ma­hab­hara­ta_, 11, 17, 19-25, 51, 70, 98, 115 Ma­havi­ra, founder of Jain­ism, 94 Mal­abar, 84 Mal­wa, Cen­tral In­dia, 97, 100-2 Man­aku, Ba­sohli princess, pa­tron of paint­ing, 107, pl. 26 (com­ment) Manohar, Mewar artist, 100 _Marg_, In­di­an art jour­nal, 95, 103, 111, 117 _Mas­ter­pieces of Ra­jput Paint­ing_, 104, 119, 121 Math­ers, E. Powys, 121 Mathu­ra, town in North­ern In­dia, 26, 29, 30, 38, 39, 44-55, 61, 74, 76, pls. 16 (com­ment), 17 (com­ment) Mazum­dar, M.R., 94 R.C., 115, 121 Mehen­dale, M.A., 115, 116 Mehta, N.C., 95, 107, 110, 121, pls. 4, 21, 22, 36 Mewar, Ra­jasthan, 100, 103 Mi­ra Bai, po­et­ess, 84 Mithi­la, 111 _Mod­ern Ver­nac­ular Lit­er­ature of Hin­dus­tan, The_, 121 Mody, J.K., pls. 3, 8, 11, 13, 15, 16 Mon­key de­mon, 64 Mook­er­jee, A., 112 Moon­light, mas­ter of the, pls. 13-5 Moti Chan­dra, 96 Mukund, Mughal artist, pl. 2 Mu­rari, pseudonym for Kr­ish­na, 116 Mu­ru (or Mu­ra), arch de­mon, 58, 117 Mus­lim artists, 99, 100 in­va­sions, 73 rulers, 93, 96, 98 states, 97, 101 Mus­ta­ka, wrestler, 48

Nain­sukh, Guler artist, pls. 3 (com­ment), 21 (com­ment) Nala, broth­er of Ku­vara, 32, pl. 5 Nan­da, wealthy herds­man, fos­ter-​fa­ther of Kr­ish­na, 27-32, 35-41, 44-53, 61, 62, 77, 107, pls. 5, 10, 12, 20 Nara­da, sage, 60 Nara­ka, de­mon son of Earth, 58, 117 Nasirud­din, Mewar artist, 100 _Nayikas_ and _Nayakas_, 90, 91, 102, pl. 28 New Del­hi, Na­tion­al Mu­se­um, pls. 5, 9, 12, 14, 20, 28 New Tes­ta­ment, 15 Ni­hal Chand, Kis­hangarh artist, 103 Nude, the, pl. 11 Nur­pur, Pun­jab Hills, 107, 111

Ocean, 69 Or­ch­ha, Cen­tral In­dia, 84, 91, 99

Paint­ing, Ba­sohli, 104-7, pls. 4, 10, 18 (com­ment), 26 (com­ment), 27, 30, 31 Ben­gali, 111, 112 Bikan­er, 99, 100 Bi­laspur, 107, 111, pl. 18 Bun­di, 101, 102, pls. 28, 32 Dec­ca­ni, 97, pl. 34 Eu­ro­pean, pl. 1 (com­ment) Flem­ish, 14 Garhw­al, 107, 108, pls. 3 (com­ment), 7, 8 (com­ment), 12, 19, 20, 25, 35, 38 (com­ment) Ger­man, 93 Gu­jarati, 94, 121 Guler, 107, 108, 117, 121, pls. 3 (com­ment), 21 (com­ment), 37 Ital­ian, 14 Jain, 94-96, pl. 22 (com­ment) Jaipur, 104, 120 Jaun­pur, 96, pls. 23-24 Ka­lighat, 111, 112 Kan­gra, 93, 103-111, 117, 121, pls. 3, 5, 6, 8, 9, 11, 13-17, 21, 36 Kis­hangarh, 103, 104, pl. 39 Maithil, 111 Mal­wa, 97, 101, 102, pl. 33 Mughal, 13, 97-99, 103, 105, 107, 121, pls. 1, 2, 3 (com­ment) Na­han, pl. 38 Per­sian, 97 Udaipur, Mewar, 100, 101, 103-105, pl. 28 (com­ment), 29 West­ern In­di­an, 94-96, pl. 22 (com­ment) West­ern Ra­jasthani, pl. 22 Pan­cha­la, king­dom of, 20, 21 Pan­davas, five sons of Pan­du, ri­vals of the Kau­ravas (vide _Ma­hab­hara­ta_), 20-26, 51, 57, 62-66, 70, 116 Pan­du, sec­ond son of Ku­ru, fa­ther of the Pan­davas, 20 Para­sur­ama, 'Ra­ma with the Axe,' in­car­na­tion of Vish­nu, 20 Parik­shit, great-​grand­son of Kr­ish­na, 69 Par­manand Das, po­et, 84 Par­vati, con­sort of Si­va, 37 Pa­vanarekha, wife of King Ugrase­na, 26 Prab­hasa, town near Dwar­ka, 68, 94, pl. 1 (com­ment) Prab­ha­vanan­da, Swa­mi, 15, 24, 116, 121 Pradyum­na, Kr­ish­na's son by Ruk­mi­ni, 64 Pragjy­otisha, city of the de­mon, Nara­ka, 58, 117 Pralam­ba, de­mon in hu­man form, 35, pls. 9, 10 (com­ment) Prat­ap Singh, Ra­ja of Jaipur, 104 Prince of Wales Mu­se­um, Bom­bay, pls. 23, 24, 32 Pun­jab Hills, 4, 13, 93, 98, 104, 105, 107, 111 Purkhu, Kan­gra artist, 109, 110, pls. 3, 5, 6, 8, 9, 11, 16 Putana, ogress, 29, 42

Rad­ha, Kr­ish­na's chief cow­girl love, 15, 16, 72-90, 96, 98, 103-105, 109-111, 113, 117, pls. 13 (com­ment). 20-29, 31-39 _Ra­gas_ and _Ragi­nis_, modes of In­di­an mu­sic, 84, 101, 102, 107, pls. 33, 34 _Ra­gas and Ragi­nis_, 121 Ragha­van, V., 120 Ra­jasthan, 13, 95, 96, 99-105 _Ra­jput Paint­ing_ (Coomaraswamy), 104, 108, 121, pl. 8 (com­ment) (Gray), 121 Ram Gopal, 15 Ra­ma, in­car­na­tion of Vish­nu, 20, 57, 115 _Ra­mayana_, 98 Rana Ja­gat Singh, ruler of Mewar, 100 Rana Raj Singh, ruler of Mewar, 100, 105 Rand­hawa, M.S., 121 _Rasaman­jari_, San­skrit trea­tise by Bhanu Dat­ta, 9, 105, 106, 120, pls. 30, 31 _Rasi­ka Priya_, Hin­di trea­tise by Ke­shav Das (com­ment), 11, 90-92, 99-102, 105, 120, pls. 28, 30 (com­ment) _Razm­na­ma_, Per­sian abridge­ment of the _Ma­hab­hara­ta_, 98, Pls. 1, 2 Re-​birth, the­ory of, 17-19 Re­vati, wife of Balara­ma, 55 Ro­hi­ni, a wife of Va­sude­va, moth­er of Balara­ma, 27-31, 35, 44, 53, 99 _Roopa-​lekha_, In­di­an art jour­nal, 121 Roy, Jami­ni, 112 Roy, P.C., 121 Ruk­ma, broth­er of Ruk­mi­ni, 56, 64 Ruk­mi­ni, Kr­ish­na's first queen, 15, 55, 56, 59, 60, 64, 66, 69-72, 118, pl. 18 Ruknud­din, Bikan­er artist, 99 _Ru­pam_, In­di­an art jour­nal, 118 Rus­sell, M., 113

Sak­ta­sura, de­mon, 30 Sankha­sura, yak­sha de­mon, 44 Sansar Chand, Ra­ja of Kan­gra, 13, 108-111 _Sat Sat_, po­ems by Bi­hari Lal, 110, pl. 36 Sat­tra­jit, fa­ther of Satyab­hama, 56, 57 Satyab­hama, a queen of Kr­ish­na, 56, 57, 59, 60 Sawant Singh, Ra­ja of Kis­hangarh, 103 Scroll paint­ings, 112 Sen, D.C., 121 Sen, R.N., 121 Se­sha, ser­pent of eter­ni­ty, a part of Vish­nu, 27, 69, pl. 1 Shah Ja­han, Mughal em­per­or, 99 Sha­habaddin, Mewar artist, 100 Sher-​Gil, Am­ri­ta, 112 Shi­raz, 97 Sir­mur, Pun­jab Hills, pl. 38 (com­ment) Sisu­pala, claimant to Ruk­mi­ni, ri­val of Kr­ish­na, 22, 56, 59, 66, pl. 18 (com­ment) Sitwell, Sacheverell, 14 Si­va, 17, 18, 37, 44, 58, 59, 64, 65, 67, pl. 2 Sri­na­gar, Garhw­al, 108 St. John of the Cross, 74, 75 Stchoukine, I, 121 _Stud­ies in In­di­an Paint­ing_, 121 Sub­hadra, sis­ter of Kr­ish­na, 22, 64, 65 Su­dama, brah­man, ear­ly friend of Kr­ish­na, 62, 63, 108, pl. 19 Su­darsana, Ce­les­tial dancer, 40, 41 Sur Das, po­et, 84, 86, pl. 29 Surab­hi, cow of plen­ty, 40 Sur­sagar, Hin­di po­em, pl. 29 Surya, sun god, 18

Tagore, Ra­bindranath, 112 _Tak­ing of Toll, The_, 121 _Ten Burnt Of­fer­ings_, 15 _Tess of the D'Urbervilles,_ 119 Tri­navar­ta, whirl­wind de­mon, 30

Udaipur, chief city, Mewar, 100, 101, 103-105, pl. 29 (com­ment) Ud­ho, friend of Kr­ish­na, 52-54, 68 Ugrase­na, king of Mathu­ra, 26, 48, 54, 57, 67, 69 Ugra­sura, snake de­mon, 33 _Up­an­ishads_, 17 Usa, daugh­ter of de­mon Vana­sura, 64

Vaikun­tha, heav­en of Vish­nu, 18, 59 Val­lab­hacharya, po­et, 84 Va­mana, dwarf in­car­na­tion of Vish­nu, 20 Vana­sura, de­mon with a thou­sand arms, 64 Varuna, god of wa­ter, 18, 38, pl. 1 Va­sude­va, Ya­da­va prince, fa­ther of Kr­ish­na, hus­band of De­va­ki, broth­er of Kun­ti, 21, 27-31, 44, 46, 48-53, 62, 69, pl. 3 Vat­sasura, cow de­mon, 33 Vedas, 39, 46, 56, 117 _Vedic Age, The_, 121 Vic­to­ria and Al­bert Mu­se­um, 98, pls. 30, 33, 34 Vidya­pati, po­et, 84, 87, 90, 111 Vish­nu, 17-20, 26-29, 36, 39, 40, 45-47, 49, 56-58, 67, 69, 70, 76, 115, 116, pl. 2 (com­ment) _Vish­nu Pu­rana_, 25, 116, 117, pl. 8 (com­ment) Vis­vakar­ma, di­vine ar­chi­tect, 54, 63 Vr­ishab­hanu, fa­ther of Rad­ha, 72 Vr­ish­nis, kins­men of Kr­ish­na, 23 Vya­ma­sura, wolf de­mon, 45

Wellesz, E., 98 Williams, R.H.B., pl. 30 (com­ment) Wil­son, H.H., 116, 117 Win­ter­nitz, M., 121 _Won­der that was In­dia, The_, 19, 115, 117, 121 Wrestlers, Kr­ish­na's con­flict with, 44, 45, 48, pl. 17

Ya­davas, pas­toral caste, Kr­ish­na's caste­men, 21, 26, 27, 45, 49-57, 61, 62, 54, 66-69, 117, pls. 1 (com­ment), 2 (com­ment) Ya­so­da, wife of Nan­da, fos­ter-​moth­er of Kr­ish­na, 27-33, 35, 49, 51-53, 61, 62, 72, 109 Yo­ga, 19, 23 Yud­histhi­ra, lead­er of the Pan­davas, hus­band of Drau­pa­di, 21-23, 65, 66

THE PLATES

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 1

_The Death of Balara­ma_

Il­lus­tra­tion to the Per­sian abridge­ment of the _Ma­hab­hara­ta_, the _Razm­na­ma_ (or Book of the Wars) By Ba­sawan Mughal (Ak­bar pe­ri­od), c. 1595 Col­lec­tion H.H. the Ma­hara­ja of Jaipur, Jaipur

Al­though il­lus­tra­tions of the Hin­du epic, the _Ma­hab­hara­ta_, were rarely com­mis­sioned by Hin­du pa­trons, the gi­gan­tic text pos­sessed a unique ap­peal to In­di­an minds and for this rea­son the Mughal em­per­or, Ak­bar, chose it for trans­la­tion in­to Per­sian. 'Hav­ing ob­served the fa­nat­ical ha­tred pre­vail­ing be­tween Hin­dus and Mus­lims,' writes his bi­og­ra­pher, Ab­ul Fa­zl, 'and con­vinced that it arose on­ly from their mu­tu­al ig­no­rance, the en­light­ened monarch wished to dis­pel the same by ren­der­ing the books of the for­mer ac­ces­si­ble to the lat­ter.' The work of trans­la­tion was be­gun in 1582 and was prob­ably con­clud­ed in 1588 when Ab­ul Fa­zl wrote the pref­ace. It is un­like­ly, how­ev­er, that the il­lus­tra­tions were com­plet­ed be­fore 1595.

The present pic­ture by one of Ak­bar's great­est Hin­du artists il­lus­trates the sen­si­tive nat­ural­ism which from an­tecedents in Khurasan came to el­egant ma­tu­ri­ty in Mughal In­dia be­tween 1585 and 1600. Cer­tain de­tails--the drap­ery with its shad­ed folds, the steeples ris­ing in the dis­tance--are mod­elled on the Eu­ro­pean Re­nais­sance pic­tures which by 1580 had al­ready reached the court. Oth­er de­tails such as the lithe squir­rels gam­bolling in the tree, the rear­ing snakes and dense lux­uri­ant fo­liage can on­ly have been paint­ed by an artist de­vot­ed to the In­di­an scene.

In sub­ject, the pic­ture rep­re­sents what Kr­ish­na saw on his re­turn from de­stroy­ing the Ya­davas at Prab­hasa. Balara­ma, his half-​broth­er, has gone down to the sea and has there yield­ed up his spir­it. Se­sha, the great ser­pent, who is part of Vish­nu him­self, is now is­su­ing from the body Balara­ma hav­ing been his in­car­na­tion. Snakes come to greet him while Varuna, the god of wa­ter, stands as 'an old man of the sea' ready to es­cort him to his long home.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 2

_The Death of Kr­ish­na_

Il­lus­tra­tion to the Per­sian abridge­ment of the _Ma­hab­hara­ta_, the _Raz­mua­ma_ (or Book of the Wars) By Mukund Mughal (Ak­bar pe­ri­od), c. 1595 Col­lec­tion H.H. the Ma­hara­ja of Jaipur, Jaipur

Fol­low­ing the death of Balara­ma, Kr­ish­na pre­pares to leave the world. He sits in med­ita­tion and is shot in the sole of his right foot by Jara, a Bhil hunter--the ar­row which kills him be­ing tipped with part of the iron which has caused the de­struc­tion of the Ya­davas.

The pic­ture shows Kr­ish­na re­clin­ing on a plat­form of the kind still con­struct­ed in In­dia at the base of sa­cred trees. An ar­row trans­fix­es his right foot while the hunter, dressed as a courtier in Mughal dress, is shown re­leas­ing the bow. In front of Kr­ish­na stand four awe-​struck fig­ures, rep­re­sent­ing the ce­les­tial sages and devo­tees of Vish­nu who have come to at­tend his pass­ing. In the sky four gods look down. To the right is Si­va. Then, a lit­tle to the left, is four-​head­ed Brah­ma, be­low him, In­dra, his body spot­ted with a thou­sand eyes and fi­nal­ly a fourth god of un­cer­tain iden­ti­ty. Around the plat­form surges the snarling sea as if im­pa­tient­ly await­ing Kr­ish­na's death be­fore en­gulf­ing the doomed Dwar­ka.

The paint­ing is by a col­league of Ba­sawan (Plate 1) and il­lus­trates the same great text.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 3

_The Slaugh­ter of an In­no­cent_

Il­lus­tra­tion to the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_ Kan­gra, Pun­jab Hills, c. 1790 J.K. Mody col­lec­tion, Bom­bay

Fol­low­ing the ex­pan­sion of In­di­an minia­ture paint­ing in the ear­ly sev­en­teenth cen­tu­ry, il­lus­trat­ed ver­sions of the tenth book of the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_ be­gan to be pro­duced in parts of Hin­du In­dia. It was in the Pun­jab Hills, at the end of the eigh­teenth cen­tu­ry, how­ev­er, that ro­mance and re­li­gion achieved their most del­icate ex­pres­sion. The artist chiefly re­spon­si­ble was a cer­tain Nain­sukh who had ar­rived at the State of Guler in about 1740. His way of paint­ing had marked affini­ties with that of Ba­sawan (Plate 1) and rep­re­sents a blend of ear­ly Mughal nat­ural­ism with lat­er Hin­du sen­ti­ment. The style found­ed by him in­flu­enced mem­bers of his own fam­ily, in­clud­ing his nephew Kusha­la and ul­ti­mate­ly spread to Kan­gra and Garhw­al where it reached its great­est heights. The present pic­ture, to­geth­er with Plates 5, 6, 8, 9, 11 and 16, is pos­si­bly by the Kan­gra artist Purkhu and with oth­ers of the se­ries il­lus­trates per­haps the great­est in­ter­pre­ta­tion of the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_ ev­er pro­duced in In­di­an paint­ing.

In the pic­ture, the tyrant ruler Kansa is sleep­ing on a bed as a courtier pre­pares to break the fate­ful news of Kr­ish­na's birth. To the right, De­va­ki, Kr­ish­na's moth­er, nurs­es the ba­by girl whom her hus­band, Va­sude­va, has sub­sti­tut­ed for the in­fant Kr­ish­na. Kansa is wrest­ing the ba­by from her in or­der to dash its head against a boul­der. As he does so, she eludes his grasp and as­cends to heav­en in a flash, be­ing, in fact, the eight-​armed god­dess De­vi.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 4

_Kr­ish­na steal­ing But­ter_

Il­lus­tra­tion to an in­ci­dent from the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_ Ba­sohli, Pun­jab Hills, c. 1700 N.C. Mehta col­lec­tion, Bom­bay

Be­sides il­lus­trat­ing the tenth book of the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_ as a whole, In­di­an artists some­times chose iso­lat­ed episodes and com­posed their pic­tures around them. The present pic­ture is an in­stance of this prac­tice, its sub­ject be­ing the ba­by Kr­ish­na pil­fer­ing but­ter. As Ya­so­da, Kr­ish­na's fos­ter-​moth­er, goes in­side the house, Kr­ish­na and the cowherd chil­dren stage an im­pu­dent raid. A cowherd boy mounts a wood­en mor­tar and then, bal­anced on his shoul­ders, the young Kr­ish­na helps him­self to the but­ter which is kept stored in a pot sus­pend­ed by strings from the roof. A sec­ond cowherd boy reach­es up to lift the but­ter down while edg­ing in from the right, a mon­key, em­blem­at­ic of mis­chievous thiev­ing, shares in the spoil.

The pic­ture il­lus­trates the wild and ve­he­ment­ly ex­pres­sive style of paint­ing which sud­den­ly ap­peared at Ba­sohli, a tiny State in the Pun­jab Hills, to­wards the end of the sev­en­teenth cen­tu­ry. The jagged form of Ya­so­da, cut in two by the lin­tel of the door­way, the stab­bing lines of the churn­ing pole, graz­ing sticks and cords, as well as the sharp an­gles of the house and its fur­ni­ture, all con­tribute to a state of taut ex­cite­ment.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 5

_The Felling of the Trees_

Il­lus­tra­tion to the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_ Kan­gra, Pun­jab Hills, c. 1790 State Mu­se­um, Luc­know

From the same great se­ries as Plate 3, here at­tribut­ed to the Kan­gra artist Purkhu.

The young Kr­ish­na, tied to a mor­tar to keep him out of mis­chief, has dragged it be­tween two trees and there­by up­root­ed them. The cowherds, led by the beard­ed Nan­da, Kr­ish­na's fos­ter-​fa­ther, have hur­ried to the scene and Balara­ma, Kr­ish­na's half-​broth­er, is ex­cit­ed­ly point­ing out that Kr­ish­na is safe. In the fore­ground, emerg­ing from the earth are two crowned fig­ures--Nala and Ku­vara, the sons of the yak­sha king, Ku­bera, who, as a con­se­quence of a curse had been turned in­to the two trees. Doomed to await Kr­ish­na's in­ter­ven­tion, they have now been re­leased. Re­clin­ing on the trunks, still tied to the mor­tar, the young Kr­ish­na sur­veys the scene with pert sat­is­fac­tion.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 6

_The Road to Brind­aban_

Il­lus­tra­tion to the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_ Kan­gra, Pun­jab Hills, c. 1790 Na­tion­al Mu­se­um, New Del­hi

With Plates 3 and 5, part of the se­ries at­tribut­ed to Purkhu.

Led by Nan­da, the ma­jes­tic fig­ure in the front bul­lock-​cart, the cowherds are mov­ing a day's march across the Riv­er Jum­na to en­joy the larg­er free­dom of Brind­aban. Their pos­ses­sions--bun­dles of clothes, spin­ning-​wheels, bas­kets of grain and pitch­ers--are be­ing tak­en with them and mount­ed with Ya­so­da on a sec­ond cart go the chil­dren, Balara­ma and Kr­ish­na. With its great va­ri­ety of stances, sim­ple nat­ural­ism and air of in­no­cent calm, the pic­ture ex­act­ly ex­press­es the terms of ten­der fa­mil­iar­ity on which the cowherds lived with Kr­ish­na.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 7

_Kr­ish­na milk­ing_

Il­lus­tra­tion to the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_ Garhw­al, Pun­jab Hills, c. 1800 G.K. Kano­ria col­lec­tion, Cal­cut­ta

Like Plate 4, an il­lus­tra­tion of an iso­lat­ed episode. Kr­ish­na, hav­ing grad­uat­ed from tend­ing the calves, is milk­ing a cow, his mind filled with brood­ing thoughts. A cow­girl re­strains the calf by tug­ging at its string while the cow licks its restive off­spring with ten­der care. Oth­er de­tails--the tree clasped by a flow­er­ing creep­er, the pea­cock perched in its branch­es--sug­gest the cow­girls' grow­ing love. The im­age of tree and creep­er was a com­mon sym­bol in po­et­ry for the lover em­braced by his beloved and pea­cocks, thirst­ing for rain, were evoca­tive of de­sire.

In style, the pic­ture rep­re­sents the end of the first great phase of Garhw­al paint­ing (c. 1770-1804) when ro­man­tic themes were treat­ed with glow­ing ar­dour.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 8

_The Quelling of the Snake Kaliya_

Il­lus­tra­tion to the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_ Kan­gra, Pun­jab Hills, c. 1790 J.K. Mody col­lec­tion, Bom­bay

With Plates 3, 5 and 6, an ex­am­ple of Kan­gra paint­ing in its most serene form.

Kr­ish­na, hav­ing de­fied the hy­dra-​head­ed snake whose poi­son has be­fouled the Riv­er Jum­na, is danc­ing in tri­umph on its sag­ging heads. The snake's con­sorts plead for mer­cy--one of them hold­ing out bunch­es of lo­tus flow­ers, the oth­ers fold­ing their hands or stretch­ing out their arms in mute en­treaty. The riv­er is once again de­pict­ed as a surg­ing flood but it is the mas­ter-​artist's com­mand of sin­uous line and pow­er of suf­fus­ing a scene of tur­moil with ma­jes­tic calm which gives the pic­ture great­ness.

Al­though the present study is true to the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_ where the snake is ex­plic­it­ly de­scribed as va­cat­ing the wa­ter and meet­ing its end on dry land, oth­er pic­tures, no­tably those from Garhw­al[129] fol­low the _Vish­nu Pu­rana_ and show the fi­nal strug­gle tak­ing place in the riv­er it­self.

[Foot­note 129: Re­pro­duced A.K. Coomaraswamy, _Ra­jput Paint­ing_ (Ox­ford, 1916), Vol. II, Plates 53 and 54.]

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 9

_Balara­ma killing the De­mon Pralam­ba_

Il­lus­tra­tion to the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_ Kan­gra, Pun­jab Hills, c. 1790 Na­tion­al Mu­se­um, New Del­hi

A fur­ther ex­am­ple from the Kan­gra se­ries, here at­tribut­ed to Purkhu.

As part of his war on Kr­ish­na and young boys, the tyrant Kansa sends var­ious demons to har­ry and kill them, the present pic­ture show­ing four stages in one such at­tack. To the right, the cowherd chil­dren, di­vid­ed in­to two par­ties, face each oth­er by an ant-​hill, Kr­ish­na with arms crossed head­ing the right-​hand group and Balara­ma the left. Con­cealed as a cowherd in Kr­ish­na's par­ty, the de­mon Pralam­ba awaits an op­por­tu­ni­ty of killing Balara­ma. The sec­ond stage, in the right-​hand bot­tom cor­ner, shows Balara­ma's par­ty giv­ing the oth­er side 'pick-​a-​backs,' af­ter hav­ing been van­quished in a game of guess­ing flow­ers and fruit. The third stage is reached in the top left-​hand cor­ner. Here Pralam­ba has re­gained his de­mon form and is hur­ry­ing off with Balara­ma. Balara­ma's left hand is tight­ly clutched but with his right he beats at the de­mon's head. The fourth and fi­nal stage is il­lus­trat­ed in the bot­tom left-​hand cor­ner where Balara­ma has sub­dued the de­mon and is about to slay him.

The pic­ture de­parts from the nor­mal ver­sion, as giv­en in the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana,_ by show­ing Balara­ma's side, in­stead of Kr­ish­na's, car­ry­ing out the for­feits. Ac­cord­ing to the _Pu­rana_, it was Kr­ish­na's side that lost and since Pralam­ba was among the de­feat­ed, he was in a po­si­tion to take Balara­ma for a ride. It is like­ly, how­ev­er, that in view of the oth­er episode in the _Pu­rana_ in which Kr­ish­na hum­bles his favourite cow­girl when she asks to be car­ried (Plate 14), the artist shrank from show­ing Kr­ish­na in this servile pos­ture so changed the two sides round.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 10

_The For­est Fire_

Il­lus­tra­tion to an in­ci­dent from the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_ Ba­sohli, Pun­jab Hills, c. 1680 Karl Khan­dalavala col­lec­tion, Bom­bay

Un­der Ra­ja Kir­pal Pal (c. 1680-1693), paint­ing at Ba­sohli at­tained a sav­age in­ten­si­ty of ex­pres­sion--the present pic­ture il­lus­trat­ing the style in its ear­li­est and great­est phase. Sur­round­ed by a ring of fire and with cowherd boys and cat­tle stu­pe­fied by smoke, Kr­ish­na is putting out the blaze by suck­ing the flames in­to his cheeks. Deer and pig are bound­ing to safe­ty while birds and wild bees hov­er dis­tract­ed­ly over­head.

Dur­ing his life among the cowherds, Kr­ish­na was on two oc­ca­sions con­front­ed with a for­est fire--the first, on the night fol­low­ing his strug­gle with Kaliya the snake when Nan­da, Ya­so­da and oth­er cowherds and cow­girls were al­so present and the sec­ond, fol­low­ing Balara­ma's en­counter with the de­mon Pralam­ba (Plate 10), when on­ly cowherd boys were with him. Since Nan­da and the cow­girls are ab­sent from the present pic­ture, it is prob­ably the sec­ond of these two oc­ca­sions which is il­lus­trat­ed.

For a re­pro­duc­tion in colour of this pas­sion­ate­ly glow­ing pic­ture, see Karl Khan­dalavala, _In­di­an Sculp­ture and Paint­ing_ (Bom­bay, 1938) (Plate 10).

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 11

_The Steal­ing of the Clothes_

Il­lus­tra­tion to the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_ Kan­gra, Pun­jab Hills, c. 1790 J.K. Mody col­lec­tion, Bom­bay

De­spite the In­di­an de­light in sen­su­ous charm, the nude was on­ly rarely de­pict­ed in In­di­an paint­ing--feel­ings of rev­er­ence and del­ica­cy for­bid­ding too un­abashed a por­tray­al of the fem­inine physique. The present pic­ture with its band of nude girls is there­fore an ex­cep­tion--the facts of the _Pu­rana_ ren­der­ing nec­es­sary their frank in­clu­sion.

The scene il­lus­trat­ed con­cerns the ef­forts of the cow­girls to win Kr­ish­na's love. Bathing naked in the riv­er at dawn in or­der to rid them­selves of sin, they are sur­prised by Kr­ish­na who takes their clothes up in­to a tree. When they beg him to re­turn them, he in­sists that each should freely ex­pose her­self be­fore him, ar­gu­ing that on­ly in this way can they con­vince him of their love. In the pic­ture, the girls are shy­ly ad­vanc­ing while Kr­ish­na looks down at them from the tree.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 12

_The Rais­ing of Mount Go­vard­hana_

Il­lus­tra­tion to an in­ci­dent from the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_ Garhw­al, Pun­jab Hills, c. 1790 Na­tion­al Mu­se­um, New Del­hi

With Plate 7, an ex­am­ple of Garhw­al paint­ing and its use of smooth­ly curv­ing line.

Kr­ish­na is lift­ing Mount Go­vard­hana on his lit­tle fin­ger and Nan­da, the cowherds and cow­girls are shel­ter­ing un­der­neath. The oc­ca­sion is Kr­ish­na's slight to In­dra, king of the gods and lord of the clouds, whose wor­ship he has per­suad­ed the cowherds to aban­don. In­censed at Kr­ish­na's ac­tion, In­dra has re­tal­iat­ed by send­ing storms of rain.

In the pic­ture, In­dra, a tiny fig­ure mount­ed on a white ele­phant ca­reers across the sky, goad­ing the clouds to fall in tor­rents. Light­ning flick­ers wild­ly and on Go­vard­hana it­self, the torn and shat­tered trees be­speak the gale's hav­oc. Be­low all is calm as the cowherds ac­claim Kr­ish­na's pow­er.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 13

_Kr­ish­na with his Favourite af­ter leav­ing the Dance_

Il­lus­tra­tion to the _Bha­gavala Pu­rana_ Kan­gra, Pun­jab Hills, c. 1790 J.K. Mody col­lec­tion, Bom­bay

Be­sides Purkhu, at least two oth­er mas­ter-​artists worked at Kan­gra to­wards the end of the eigh­teenth cen­tu­ry--one, re­spon­si­ble for the present pic­ture and Plates 14 and 15, be­ing still un­known. He is here re­ferred to as 'the mas­ter of the moon­light' on ac­count of his spe­cial pre­oc­cu­pa­tion with moon­light ef­fects.

The present pic­ture shows Kr­ish­na and a girl stand­ing by an in­let of the Riv­er Jum­na. The girl is lat­er to be iden­ti­fied as Rad­ha but in the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_ she is mere­ly re­ferred to as one who has been par­tic­ular­ly favoured, her ac­tu­al name be­ing sup­pressed. The mo­ment is some time af­ter they have left the cir­cu­lar dance and be­fore their sud­den sep­ara­tion. Kr­ish­na, whose hand rests on the girl's shoul­der, is urg­ing her for­ward but the girl is weary and begs him to car­ry her. The in­ci­dent il­lus­trates one of the vi­cis­si­tudes in Rad­ha and Kr­ish­na's ro­mance and was lat­er to be en­dowed with deep re­li­gious mean­ing.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 14

_Kr­ish­na's Favourite de­sert­ed_

Il­lus­tra­tion to the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_ Kan­gra, Pun­jab Hills, c. 1790 Na­tion­al Mu­se­um, New Del­hi

From the same se­ries as Plates 13 and 15 by 'the mas­ter of the moon­light.'

The girl's re­quest (Plate 13) that Kr­ish­na should car­ry her brings to a head the ques­tion of Kr­ish­na's prop­er sta­tus. To an ador­ing lover, the re­quest is not un­rea­son­able. Made to God, it im­plies an ex­cess of pride. De­spite their im­pas­sioned love-​mak­ing, there­fore, the girl must be hum­bled and as she puts out her arms and pre­pares to mount, Kr­ish­na van­ish­es.

In the pic­ture, the great woods over­hang­ing the rolling Jum­na are tilt­ing for­ward as if to join the girl in her ag­onized ad­vances while around her rise the bleak and emp­ty slopes, their eerie lone­li­ness in­ten­si­fied by frigid moon­light.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 15

_The Quest for Kr­ish­na_

Il­lus­tra­tion to the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_ Kan­gra, Pun­jab Hills, c. 1790 J.K. Mody col­lec­tion, Bom­bay

By the same 'mas­ter of the moon­light' as Plates 13 and 14.

Kr­ish­na's favourite, stunned by his brusque de­ser­tion, has now been met by a par­ty of cow­girls. Their plight is sim­ilar to her own, for, af­ter en­joy­ing his en­chant­ing love, they al­so have been de­sert­ed when Kr­ish­na left the dance tak­ing his favourite with him. In the pic­ture, Rad­ha holds her head in an­guish while to the right the cow­girls look at her in mute dis­tress. Droop­ing branch­es echo their strick­en love while a tree in the back­ground, its branch­es stretch­ing wan­ly against the sky, sug­gests their plain­tive yearn­ing.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 16

_The Eve of the fi­nal En­counter_

Il­lus­tra­tion to the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_ Kan­gra, Pun­jab Hills, c. 1790 J.K. Mody col­lec­tion, Bom­bay

From the same se­ries as Plates 3, 5, 6, 8, 9 and 11, here at­tribut­ed to the Kan­gra artist Purkhu.

In­vit­ed by Kansa, the tyrant king, to at­tend a fes­ti­val of arms, Nan­da and the cowherds have ar­rived at Mathu­ra and pitched their tents out­side the walls. Kr­ish­na and Balara­ma are eat­ing their evening meal by can­dle-​light, a cowherd, wear­ing a dark cloak to keep off the night air, is at­tend­ing to the bul­locks while three cowherd boys, worn out by the day's march, rest on string-​beds un­der the night sky. In the back­ground, Kr­ish­na and Balara­ma, hav­ing fin­ished their meal, are peace­ful­ly sleep­ing, serene­ly in­dif­fer­ent to the strug­gle which awaits them the next day. The moon wan­ing in the sky par­al­lels the tyrant's de­clin­ing for­tunes.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 17

_The End of the Tyrant_

Il­lus­tra­tion to the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_ Kan­gra, Pun­jab Hills, c. 1790 Chester Beat­ty Li­brary, Dublin

In the same style as Plate 16, but per­haps from a dif­fer­ent se­ries.

The fes­ti­val of arms is now in progress but has al­ready tak­en an un­ex­pect­ed turn. Set on by the sav­age ele­phant, Kr­ish­na and Balara­ma have killed it and tak­en out the tusks. They have then en­gaged two gi­ant wrestlers, Kr­ish­na killing his op­po­nent out­right. In the pic­ture Balara­ma is about to kill the oth­er wrestler and Kr­ish­na, hold­ing an ele­phant tusk un­der his arm, looks at the king with calm de­fi­ance. The king's end is now in sight for a lit­tle lat­er Kr­ish­na will spring on the plat­form and hurl him to his death. Gath­ered in the wide are­na, towns­peo­ple from Mathu­ra await the out­come, while cowherd boys de­light­ed­ly en­cour­age the two heroes.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 18

_The Rape of Ruk­mi­ni_

Il­lus­tra­tion to the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_ Bi­laspur, Pun­jab Hills, c. 1745 British Mu­se­um. Lon­don

Com­pared with Kr­ish­na's life among the cowherds, his ad­ven­tures as a prince were on­ly scant­ily il­lus­trat­ed in In­di­an paint­ing--his con­sort Ruk­mi­ni be­ing to­tal­ly eclipsed in court­ly favour by the adored cow­girl, Rad­ha. The present pic­ture--one of the very few to rep­re­sent the theme--shows Ruk­mi­ni and her maids wor­ship­ping at the shrine to De­vi, the earth moth­er, on the morn­ing of her wed­ding. Her pro­posed hus­band is Sisu­pala and al­ready he and his par­ty have ar­rived to claim her hand. In de­spair Ruk­mi­ni has ap­prised Kr­ish­na of her fate but does not know that he will in­ter­vene. As she wor­ships, Kr­ish­na sud­den­ly ap­pears, places her on his char­iot and, in the teeth of Sisu­pala's forces, car­ries her away. The pic­ture il­lus­trates the dra­mat­ic mo­ment when af­ter de­scend­ing on the shrine, Kr­ish­na ef­fects her res­cue.

The pic­ture is in an eigh­teenth-​cen­tu­ry style of paint­ing which, from an­tecedents in Kash­mir and the Pun­jab Plains, de­vel­oped at Bi­laspur. This small Ra­jput State ad­joined Guler in the Pun­jab Hills and shared in the gen­er­al re­vival of paint­ing caused by the dif­fu­sion of artists from Ba­sohli.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 19

_Kr­ish­na wel­com­ing the Brah­man Su­dama_

Il­lus­tra­tion to the Su­dama episode in the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_ Garhw­al, Pun­jab Hills, c. 1785 Chester Beat­ty Li­brary, Dublin

Su­dama is a poor Brah­man whose de­vo­tion leads him to go to Dwar­ka, and seek out Kr­ish­na. Kr­ish­na re­mem­bers the time when they had shared the same pre­cep­tor and warm­ly wel­comes him to his prince­ly palace. The pic­ture shows Su­dama in rags seat­ed on a stool while Kr­ish­na wash­es his feet and hails him as a Brah­man. In close at­ten­dance are var­ious ladies of the court, their grace­ful forms tran­scribed with sin­uous del­ica­cy and suave po­et­ic charm.

Al­though an episode in Kr­ish­na's lat­er ca­reer as a prince and one de­signed to but­tress the priest­ly caste of Brah­mans, the sto­ry--with its em­pha­sis on lov­ing de­vo­tion--is ac­tu­al­ly in close ac­cord with Kr­ish­na's life among the cowherds. For this rea­son, it prob­ably con­tin­ued to ex­cite in­ter­est long af­ter oth­er as­pects of his court­ly life had been ig­nored. In this re­spect. Su­dama's vis­it to Kr­ish­na is as much a para­ble of di­vine love as Kr­ish­na's dances with the cow­girls.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 20

_The Be­gin­nings of Ro­mance_

Il­lus­tra­tion to the _Gi­ta Govin­da_ Garhw­al. Pun­jab Hills, c. 1790 Na­tion­al Mu­se­um, New Del­hi

The first po­em to cel­ebrate Rad­ha as Kr­ish­na's supreme love is the _Gi­ta Govin­da_ of Jayade­va, writ­ten at the end of the twelfth cen­tu­ry. The po­em re­counts Rad­ha's an­guish at Kr­ish­na's fick­le­ness, his sub­se­quent re­pen­tance and fi­nal­ly their pas­sion­ate re-​union.

The present pic­ture with its glam­orous in­ter­pre­ta­tion of the for­est in spring il­lus­trates the po­em's open­ing verse and re-​cre­ates the set­ting in terms of which the dra­ma will pro­ceed. Nan­da, the tall fig­ure tow­er­ing above the cowherd chil­dren, is com­mand­ing Rad­ha to take Kr­ish­na home. The evening sky is dark with clouds, the wind has risen and al­ready the flow­er-​stud­ded branch­es are sway­ing and bend­ing in the breeze. Kr­ish­na is still a young boy and Rad­ha a girl a few years old­er. As Rad­ha takes him home, they loi­ter by the riv­er, pas­sion sud­den­ly flares and they fall in­to each oth­er's arms. In this way, the verse de­clares, the loves of Rad­ha and Kr­ish­na be­gan. The left-​hand side of the pic­ture shows the two lovers em­brac­ing--the change in their at­ti­tudes be­ing re­flect­ed in their al­tered heights. Kr­ish­na who orig­inal­ly was short­er than Rad­ha is now the taller of the two, the change sug­gest­ing the ma­ture char­ac­ter of their pas­sion­ate re­la­tions.

The pic­ture with its grace­ful fem­inine forms and twin­ing lines has the same qual­ity of rhyth­mi­cal ex­al­ta­tion as Plates 19 and 35, a qual­ity typ­ical of the Gar­whal mas­ter-​artist in his great­est phase.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 21

_Kr­ish­na play­ing on the Flute_

Il­lus­tra­tion to the _Gi­ta Govin­da_ Kan­gra, Pun­jab Hills, c. 1790 N.C. Mehta col­lec­tion, Bom­bay

As Rad­ha wilts in lone­ly an­guish, a friend de­scribes how Kr­ish­na is be­hav­ing.

'The wife of a cer­tain herds­man sings as Kr­ish­na sounds a tune of love Kr­ish­na here dis­ports him­self with charm­ing wom­en giv­en to love.'

In the pic­ture, Rad­ha sits be­neath a flow­er­ing tree, con­vers­ing with the friend while, to the right, Kr­ish­na plays the flute to a cir­cle of ador­ing girls.

The paint­ing is by a Kan­gra mas­ter, per­haps Kusha­la, the nephew of the Guler artist, Nain­sukh, and il­lus­trates the pow­er of Kan­gra painters to im­bue with in­no­cent del­ica­cy the most in­tense­ly emo­tion­al of sit­ua­tions. It was the in­vest­ment of pas­sion with dig­ni­ty which was one of the chief con­tri­bu­tions of Kan­gra paint­ing to In­di­an art.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 22

_Kr­ish­na danc­ing with the Cow­girls_

Il­lus­tra­tion to the _Gi­ta Govin­da_ West­ern Ra­jasthan, c. 1610 N.C. Mehta col­lec­tion, Bom­bay

Be­sides de­scrib­ing Kr­ish­na's flute-​play­ing, Rad­ha's friend gives her an ac­count of his love-​mak­ing.

'An art­less wom­an looks with ar­dour on Kr­ish­na's lo­tus face.' 'An­oth­er on the bank of the Jum­na, when Kr­ish­na goes to a bam­boo thick­et, Pulls at his gar­ment to draw him back, so ea­ger is she for amorous play.' 'Kr­ish­na prais­es an­oth­er wom­an, lost with him in the dance of love, The dance where the sweet low flute is heard in the clam­our of ban­gles on hands that clap. He em­braces one wom­an, he kiss­es an­oth­er, and fon­dles an­oth­er beau­ti­ful one.' 'Kr­ish­na here dis­ports him­self with charm­ing wom­en giv­en to love.'

The present pic­ture il­lus­trates phas­es of this glam­orous love-​mak­ing--Kr­ish­na em­brac­ing one wom­an, danc­ing with an­oth­er and con­vers­ing with a third. The back­ground is a di­agram of the for­est as it might ap­pear in spring--the slack loose­ness of treat­ment be­fit­ting the free­dom of con­duct ad­um­brat­ed by the verse. The large in­sects hov­er­ing in the branch­es are the black bees of In­di­an love-​po­et­ry whose quest for flow­ers was re­gard­ed as sym­bol­ic of ur­gent lovers pes­ter­ing their mis­tress­es. In style the pic­ture il­lus­trates the Jain paint­ing of West­ern In­dia af­ter its ear­ly an­gu­lar rigid­ity had been soft­ened by ap­pli­ca­tion to ten­der and more ro­man­tic themes.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 23

_Kr­ish­na seat­ed with the Cow­girls_

Il­lus­tra­tion to the _Gi­ta Govin­da_ Jaun­pur, East­ern In­dia, c. 1590 Prince of Wales Mu­se­um, Bom­bay

Af­ter flute-​play­ing and danc­ing (Plates 21 and 22), Kr­ish­na sits with the cow­girls.

'With his limbs, ten­der and dark like rows of clumps of blue lo­tus flow­ers. By herd girls sur­round­ed, who em­brace at plea­sure any part of his body, Friend, in spring, beau­ti­ful Kr­ish­na plays like Love's own self Con­duct­ing the love sport, with love for all, bring­ing de­light in­to be­ing.'

And it is here that Rad­ha finds him.

'May the smil­ing cap­ti­vat­ing Kr­ish­na pro­tect you, whom Rad­ha, blind­ed by love, Vi­olent­ly kissed as she made as if singing a song of wel­come say­ing, “Your face is nec­tar, ex­cel­lent,” ar­dent­ly clasp­ing his bo­som In the pres­ence of the fair-​browed herd­girls dazed in the sport of love.'

The pic­ture shows Kr­ish­na sur­round­ed by a group of cow­girls, one of whom is ca­ress­ing his leg. To the right, Rad­ha and the friend are ap­proach­ing through the trees. The style with its sharp curves and lux­uri­at­ing smart­ness il­lus­trates a vi­tal de­vel­op­ment of the Jain man­ner in the lat­er six­teenth cen­tu­ry.[130]

[Foot­note 130: For a first dis­cus­sion of this im­por­tant se­ries, see a con­tri­bu­tion by Karl Khan­dalavala, 'A _Gi­ta Govin­da_ Se­ries in the Prince of Wales Mu­se­um,' _Bul­letin of the Prince of Wales Mu­se­um. Bom­bay_ (1956), No. 4.]

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 24

_The ne­glect­ed Rad­ha_

Il­lus­tra­tion to the _Gi­ta Govin­da_ Jaun­pur, East­ern In­dia, c. 1590 Prince of Wales Mu­se­um, Bom­bay

Fol­low­ing his rev­els with the cow­girls, Kr­ish­na is smit­ten with re­morse. He roams the for­est, search­ing for the love­ly Rad­ha but find­ing her nowhere. As he pur­sues his quest, he en­coun­ters the friend and learns of Rad­ha's de­ject­ed state.

'Her body is whol­ly tor­ment­ed by the heat of the flame of de­sire; But on­ly of you, so loved, she thinks in her lan­gour, Your ex­tin­guish­ing body; se­clud­ed she waits, all wast­ed-- A short while, per­haps, sur­viv­ing she lives. For­mer­ly even a mo­ment when weary she closed her eyes. The mo­ment's part­ing she could not en­dure, from the sight of you; And now in this long sep­ara­tion, O how does she breathe Hav­ing seen the flow­ery branch of the man­go, the shaft of Love?'

In the pic­ture, Rad­ha is sit­ting in the for­est, lone­ly and ne­glect­ed. Trees sur­round her, sug­gest­ing by their rank lux­uri­ance the up­ward surge of spring while cranes, slow­ly wing­ing their way in pairs across the black­en­ing sky, poignant­ly re­mind her of her for­mer love.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 25

_Kr­ish­na re­pen­tant_

Il­lus­tra­tion to the _Gi­ta Govin­da_ Garhw­al, Pun­jab Hills, c. 1790

Learn­ing of Rad­ha's plight, Kr­ish­na longs to com­fort her. Be­fore ap­proach­ing her, how­ev­er, he spends a night pas­sion­ate­ly dal­ly­ing with an­oth­er cow­girl and on­ly in the morn­ing ten­ders his sub­mis­sion. By this time, Rad­ha's mood has turned to bit­ter anger and al­though Kr­ish­na begs to be for­giv­en, Rad­ha tells him to re­turn to his lat­est love.

'Go, Kr­ish­na, go. De­sist from ut­ter­ing these de­ceit­ful words. Fol­low her, you lo­tus-​eyed, she who can dis­pel your trou­ble, go to her.'

In the pic­ture, Kr­ish­na is striv­ing to calm her ruf­fled feel­ings while Rad­ha, 'cru­el to one who loves you, un­bend­ing to one who bows, an­gry with one who de­sires, avert­ing your face from this your lover,' has none of him.

Ac­cord­ing to the po­em, the scene of this tense en­counter is not a palace ter­race but the for­est--the Garhw­al artist deem­ing a court­ly set­ting more ap­pro­pri­ate for Rad­ha's exquisite physique. The suave­ly curv­ing lin­ear rhythm, char­ac­ter­is­tic of Garhw­al paint­ing at its best, is once again the means by which a mood of still ado­ra­tion is sen­si­tive­ly con­veyed.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 26

_The last Tryst_

Il­lus­tra­tion to the _Gi­ta Govin­da_ Ba­sohli. Pun­jab Hills, c. 1730 State Mu­se­um, La­hore

Hav­ing brusque­ly dis­missed Kr­ish­na, Rad­ha is over­come with long­ing and when he once again ap­proach­es her she show­ers on him her ador­ing love. The friend urges her to de­lay no longer.

'Your friends are all aware that you are ready for love's con­flict Go, your belt aloud with bells, shame­less, amorous, to the meet­ing.'

Rad­ha suc­cumbs to her ad­vice and slow­ly ap­proach­es Kr­ish­na's for­est bow­er.

In the pic­ture, Kr­ish­na is im­pa­tient­ly await­ing her while Rad­ha, urged on­ward by the friend, paus­es for a mo­ment to shed her shy­ness. The pic­ture is part of an il­lus­trat­ed edi­tion of the po­em ex­ecut­ed in Ba­sohli in 1730 for a lo­cal princess, the la­dy Man­aku. As in oth­er Ba­sohli paint­ings, trees are shown as small and sum­ma­ry sym­bols, the hori­zon is a streak of clouds and there is a de­lib­er­ate shrink­age from phys­ical re­fine­ment. The pur­pose of the pic­ture is rather to ex­press with the max­imum of pow­er the sav­agery of pas­sion and the stark na­ture of lovers' en­coun­ters.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 27

_The clos­ing Scene_

Il­lus­tra­tion to the _Gi­ta Govin­da_ Ba­sohli, Pun­jab Hills. c. 1730 Art Gallery, Chandi­garh, East Pun­jab

From the same se­ries as Plate 26.

Af­ter ag­onies of 'love un­sat­is­fied,' Rad­ha and Kr­ish­na are at last rec­on­ciled.

'She looked on Kr­ish­na who de­sired on­ly her, on him who for long want­ed dal­liance, Whose face with his plea­sure was over­whelmed and who was pos­sessed with De­sire, Who en­gen­dered pas­sion with his face made love­ly through trem­blings of glanc­ing eyes, Like a pond in au­tumn with a pair of wag­tails at play in a full­blown lo­tus. Like the gush­ing of the show­er of sweat in the ef­fort of her trav­el to come to his hear­ing, Rad­ha's eyes let fall a show­er of tears when she met her beloved, Tears of de­light which went to the ends of her eyes and fell on her flaw­less neck­lace. When she went near the couch and her friends left the bow­er, scratch­ing their faces to hide their smiles, And she looked on the mouth of her loved one, love­ly with long­ing, un­der the pow­er of love, The mod­est shame of that deer-​eyed one de­part­ed.'

In the pic­ture, Rad­ha and Kr­ish­na are again unit­ed. Kr­ish­na has drawn Rad­ha to him and is ca­ress­ing her cheek while friends of Rad­ha gos­sip in the court­yard. As in Plate 25, the artist has pre­ferred a house to the for­est--the sharp thrust of the an­gu­lar walls ex­act­ly ex­press­ing the fierce­ness of the lovers' de­sires.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 28

_Kr­ish­na await­ing Rad­ha_

Il­lus­tra­tion to the _Rasi­ka Priya_ of Ke­shav Das Bun­di (Ra­jasthan), c. 1700 Na­tion­al Mu­se­um, New Del­hi

Fol­low­ing the San­skrit prac­tice of dis­cussing po­et­ic taste, Ke­shav Das pro­duced in 1592 a Hin­di man­ual of po­et­ics. In this book, po­ems on love were anal­ysed with spe­cial ref­er­ence to Kr­ish­na--Kr­ish­na him­self sus­tain­ing the role of _naya­ka_ or ide­al lover. Dur­ing the sev­en­teenth cen­tu­ry, il­lus­trat­ed ver­sions of the man­ual were pro­duced--po­ems ap­pear­ing at the top of the pic­ture and the sub­jects be­ing il­lus­trat­ed be­neath. The present pic­ture treats Rad­ha as the _nayi­ka_ or ide­al mis­tress and shows her about to vis­it Kr­ish­na, She is, at first, seat­ed on a bed but a lit­tle lat­er, is lean­ing against a pil­lar as a maid or friend in­duces her to de­scend. In the left-​hand bot­tom cor­ner, Kr­ish­na sits qui­et­ly wait­ing. The bow­er is hung with gar­lands and floored with lo­tus petals while light­ning twist­ing in the sky and torch­es flick­er­ing in the court­yard sug­gest the storm of love. The fig­ures with their neat line and ea­ger faces are typ­ical of Bun­di paint­ing af­ter it had bro­ken free from the par­ent style of Udaipur.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 29

_Rad­ha and Kr­ish­na mak­ing Love_

Il­lus­tra­tion to the _Sur­sagar_ of Sur Das Udaipur, Ra­jasthan, c. 1650 G.K. Kano­ria col­lec­tion, Cal­cut­ta

Like Plate 28, an il­lus­tra­tion to a Hin­di po­em analysing Kr­ish­na's con­duct as ide­al lover.

Kr­ish­na is here em­brac­ing Rad­ha while out­side two of Rad­ha's friends await the out­come. Above them, two girls are watch­ing pea­cocks--the strained ad­vances of the birds and the ar­dent gazes of the girls hint­ing at the tense en­counter pro­ceed­ing in the room be­low.

The Udaipur style of paint­ing with its ve­he­ment fig­ures, ge­omet­ri­cal com­po­si­tions and bril­liant colour­ing was ad­mirably suit­ed to in­ter­pret­ing scenes of ro­man­tic vi­olence.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 30

_The Lover ap­proach­ing_

Il­lus­tra­tion to the _Rasaman­jari_ of Bhanu Dat­ta Ba­sohli, Pun­jab Hills, c. 1680 Vic­to­ria and Al­bert Mu­se­um, Lon­don (I.S. 52-1953)

Al­though the _Rasi­ka Priya_ of Ke­shav Das was the man­ual of po­et­ry most fre­quent­ly il­lus­trat­ed by In­di­an artists, an ear­li­er San­skrit trea­tise, the _Rasaman­jari_ of Bhanu Dat­ta, ex­cit­ed a par­tic­ular ra­ja's in­ter­est and re­sult­ed in the pro­duc­tion at Ba­sohli of a vivid­ly il­lus­trat­ed text. The orig­inal po­em dis­cuss­es the con­ven­tions of or­di­nary lovers. Un­der this Ba­sohli ruler's stim­ulus, how­ev­er, the lover was deemed to be Kr­ish­na and al­though the vers­es make no al­lu­sion to him, it is Kr­ish­na who mo­nop­olizes the il­lus­tra­tions.

In the present in­stance, Kr­ish­na the lover, car­ry­ing a lo­tus-​bud, is about to vis­it his mis­tress. The la­dy sits with­in, a pair of lo­tus-​leaves pro­tect­ing her nude bust, her hair falling in strands across her thighs. A maid ex­plains to Kr­ish­na that her mis­tress is still at her toi­let and chides him for ar­riv­ing so abrupt­ly.

The po­em ex­press­es the sen­ti­ments which a lover, de­nied ear­ly ac­cess, might fit­ting­ly ad­dress to his mis­tress.

'Long­ing to be­hold your path, my in­most heart--like a lo­tus-​leaf when a new rain-​cloud has ap­peared--mounts to your neck. My eye, too, takes wing, soar­ing in the guise of a lo­tus-​bird, to re­gard the moon of your face.'[131]

[Foot­note 131: Trans­la­tion R.H.B. Williams.]

In the pic­ture, the lo­tus im­agery is re­tained but is giv­en a sub­tle twist--the lo­tus-​leaves them­selves, rather than the lover's in­most heart, be­ing shown as mount­ing to the la­dy's neck.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 31

_Rad­ha ex­tin­guish­ing the Lamp_

Ba­sohli, Pun­jab Hills, c. 1690 Bharat Kala Bhawan, Benares

Al­though no in­scrip­tion has so far been pub­lished, it is like­ly that this pic­ture is an il­lus­tra­tion to the _Rasaman­jari_ of Bhanu Dat­ta. The lover is once again Kr­ish­na and the girl most prob­ably Rad­ha. Kr­ish­na is invit­ing her to ex­tin­guish the lamp so that they may bet­ter en­joy the ex­cite­ments of dark­ness.

With its air of vi­olent fren­zy, the pic­ture is typ­ical of Ba­sohli paint­ing at the end of the sev­en­teenth cen­tu­ry--the girl's wide-​flung legs and rush­ing move­ments sym­bol­iz­ing the fran­tic na­ture of pas­sion­ate de­sire.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 32

_The Month of Asarh (June-​Ju­ly)_

Il­lus­tra­tion to a _Barah­masa_ (or Cy­cle of the Months) Bun­di, Ra­jasthan, c. 1750 Prince of Wales Mu­se­um, Bom­bay

In Hin­di po­et­ry, lovers were some­times de­scribed against a back­ground of the twelve months--each month sug­gest­ing a dif­fer­ent kind of mood or be­haviour. Such po­ems known as _Barah­masa_ (barah, twelve; masa, month) were some­times il­lus­trat­ed--a prince­ly lover and his la­dy be­ing shown seat­ed on a ter­race with the sights and scenes ap­pro­pri­ate to the month go­ing on around. When this lover was iden­ti­fied with Kr­ish­na, any as­pect of love was re­gard­ed as, in some de­gree, ex­pres­sive of his char­ac­ter.

The present pic­ture por­trays the be­gin­ning of the Rains. The sky is black with clouds. On a lake lovers dal­ly in a tiny pavil­ion, while in the back­ground two princes con­sult a her­mit be­fore leav­ing on their trav­els. The rainy sea­son was as­so­ci­at­ed in po­et­ry with love in sep­ara­tion and for this rea­son a lone­ly girl is shown walk­ing in a wood. In a gar­den pavil­ion Kr­ish­na dal­lies with Rad­ha, the ap­proach­ing rain aug­ment­ing their de­sire.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 33

_Rad­ha and Kr­ish­na swing­ing_

Il­lus­tra­tion to the mu­si­cal mode. _Hin­dola Ra­ga_ ('the swing­ing mu­sic') Mal­wa, Mid­dle In­dia, c. 1750 Vic­to­ria and Al­bert Mu­se­um, Lon­don

A po­em cel­ebrat­ing one of the main modes of In­di­an mu­sic is here rep­re­sent­ed by Rad­ha and Kr­ish­na seat­ed on a swing. The mode it­self is called 'the swing­ing mu­sic' but since swing­ing was sym­bol­ical of love-​mak­ing and al­so took place dur­ing the rains, the sea­son of long­ing, its spir­it was some­times im­per­son­at­ed not by an or­di­nary prince but by Kr­ish­na him­self. In the pic­ture, pea­cocks, which were com­mon sym­bols for the lover, are shown against a storm-​tossed sky--the bat­tered clouds and writhing light­ning be­ing sym­bol­ic ref­er­ences to 'the strife of love.' At the foot, lo­tus plants, their flow­ers sym­bol­iz­ing the male, their leaves the fe­male, rise from a rain-​filled riv­er.

The pic­ture rep­re­sents one of the more po­et­ic tra­di­tions of In­di­an paint­ing but at a com­par­ative­ly late stage of its de­vel­op­ment. Dur­ing the six­teenth cen­tu­ry the Mal­wa style had played a de­ci­sive part in the evo­lu­tion of Ra­jput paint­ing, but by the eigh­teenth cen­tu­ry had shed some­thing of its ear­ly ar­dour.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 34

_Kr­ish­na at­tend­ed by Ladies_

Il­lus­tra­tion to the mu­si­cal mode, _Bhaira­va Ra­ga_ Hy­der­abad. Dec­can, c. 1750 Vic­to­ria and Al­bert Mu­se­um, Lon­don

Like Plate 33, an il­lus­tra­tion to a po­em ac­com­pa­ny­ing a lead­ing mode of In­di­an mu­sic. Kr­ish­na is sit­ting on a bed while Rad­ha is rub­bing his right arm with san­dal prepara­to­ry to mak­ing love. In the fore­ground a maid is grind­ing the san­dal­wood in­to a paste. Al­though the po­em it­self con­tains no men­tion of Kr­ish­na, it speaks of Bhaira­va--a form of Si­va--as a rag­ing lover, 'in­sen­sate in a whirl­wind of de­sire.' On this ac­count Kr­ish­na--iden­ti­fied by his blue skin--has been in­sert­ed in the pic­ture, his char­ac­ter as a lover ac­cord­ing with the fren­zied char­ac­ter of the po­em. In the back­ground a bul­lock is lift­ing wa­ter from a well and a gar­den­er is bend­ing over a bed of pop­pies. Ducks and fish­es sport in the wa­ter.

Il­lus­tra­tions to modes of mu­sic were com­mon fea­tures of the Mus­lim art of the Dec­can--the as­so­ci­ation of cer­tain modes with Kr­ish­na be­ing care­ful­ly pre­served. One of the finest se­ries of _ra­ga_ and _ragi­ni_ pic­tures ex­ecut­ed at Hy­der­abad and now in the In­dia Of­fice Li­brary, Lon­don, con­tains exquisite ver­sions with Kr­ish­na themes.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 35

_Rad­ha dis­guised as a Con­sta­ble ar­rest­ing Kr­ish­na as a Thief_

Garhw­al, Pun­jab Hills, c. 1785 In­di­an Mu­se­um, Cal­cut­ta

Tired of Kr­ish­na's at­tempts to way­lay the cow­girls, Rad­ha dons a tur­ban, bran­dish­es a con­sta­ble's heavy staff and seizes Kr­ish­na by the wrist. 'I am a po­lice­man of Ra­ja Kansa, come to take you to gaol,' she says. The pic­ture shows the cow­girls stand­ing with their pitch­ers of curd, while cowherd boys--Kr­ish­na's ac­com­plices--take to their heels. Kr­ish­na him­self stands limply by, as if un­cer­tain who the con­sta­ble is.

The in­ci­dent is un­record­ed in the _Bha­ga­va­ta Pu­rana_ but ap­pears in lat­er po­et­ry as an in­stance of Rad­ha and Kr­ish­na's mu­tu­al fun--teas­ing be­ing an es­sen­tial part of their love-​mak­ing.

The pic­ture is by the same mas­ter artist as Plate 19.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 36

_Kr­ish­na meet­ing Rad­ha_

Il­lus­tra­tion to a po­em from the _Sat Sai_ of Bi­hari Kan­gra, Pun­jab Hills, c. 1790 N.C. Mehta col­lec­tion. Bom­bay

An ex­am­ple of Kr­ish­na's meet­ings with Rad­ha. Ap­pear­ing as if by ac­ci­dent Kr­ish­na is lolling on his cowherd's stick while Rad­ha, en­cour­aged by a friend, has come to meet him. As she stands, there en­sues that idyl­lic 'meet­ing of eyes' which In­di­an sen­ti­ment re­gard­ed as one of the most elec­tri­fy­ing ex­pe­ri­ences in ro­mance. In the pic­ture, a tree push­es its flow­er­ing branch­es across open rolling slopes, sug­gest­ing by its fresh up­sur­gence the exquisite emo­tions stir­ring in Rad­ha's and Kr­ish­na's hearts.

The pic­ture is most prob­ably by the Kan­gra artist, Kusha­la, to whom Plate 21 may al­so be as­signed.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 37

_Rad­ha's Long­ing_

Guler, Pun­jab Hills, c. 1810 Bharat Kala Bhawan, Ba­naras

In In­di­an paint­ing and po­et­ry, it was wom­en driv­en to dis­trac­tion by un­ap­peased long­ing rather than men hun­gry with de­sire who formed the chief sub­ject of ro­man­tic art. Pic­tures fo­cussed on wom­an in all her var­ied moods and flat­tered the male mind by por­tray­ing her wilt­ing with sad­ness when de­prived of hus­band or lover.

The present pic­ture shows Rad­ha fren­zied­ly con­tem­plat­ing her lone­ly state. Or­na­ments grown too hot for wear­ing--from the pas­sion burn­ing in her heart--are strewn about the bed, while hands tight­ly clasped sug­gest her wild un­hap­py tor­ment. The vast and bar­ren hills, emp­ty an­gu­lar build­ings, tiny gut­ter­ing can­dles and lone­ly flow­er­ing tree pro­vide a sym­pa­thet­ic set­ting.

With its sin­uous line and in­no­cent de­light in fem­inine form, the pic­ture is typ­ical of Guler paint­ing at the start of the nine­teenth cen­tu­ry.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 38

_Rad­ha and Kr­ish­na re­turn­ing in the Rain_

Na­han, Pun­jab Hills, c. 1820 State Mu­se­um, La­hore.

A scene from Rad­ha and Kr­ish­na's idyl­lic life to­geth­er. Caught by a gale of wind and rain, the lovers are hur­ry­ing to shel­ter, Kr­ish­na car­ry­ing a leaf um­brel­la while cows and cowherds bend be­fore the storm. In the dis­tance, small fig­ures wear­ing hood­ed cloaks has­ten to­wards the vil­lage. Al­though keen­ly evoca­tive of ac­tu­al land­scapes in the Pun­jab Hills--where palaces were usu­al­ly set on rocky hill-​tops with near­by vil­lages clus­ter­ing at their feet--the pic­ture's main con­cern is to il­lus­trate and in­ter­pret the lovers' feel­ings. The black clouds lit by eerie light­ning and the trees toss­ing and sway­ing in the wind sym­bol­ize the pas­sion rag­ing in their hearts and sug­gest its ul­ti­mate out­come.

The pic­ture rep­re­sents a style of paint­ing which is thought to have grown up at Na­han, the cap­ital of Sir­mur, af­ter its neigh­bour, Garhw­al, had been over­run by Gurkhas in 1804. Garhw­al artists prob­ably sought asy­lum at the Sir­mur court and there de­vel­oped a dis­tinc­tive off­shoot of the Garhw­al man­ner.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

PLATE 39

_The Tri­umph of Rad­ha_

Kis­hangarh, Ra­jasthan, c. 1770 C.K. Kano­ria col­lec­tion, Cal­cut­ta

Dur­ing the eigh­teenth cen­tu­ry, Rad­ha was of­ten re­gard­ed as Kr­ish­na's per­ma­nent con­sort and was ac­cord­ed di­vine hon­ours--the present pic­ture il­lus­trat­ing her fi­nal apotheo­sis. Seat­ed to­geth­er, their heads sur­round­ed by haloes, the two lovers dis­play their court­ly charms. Kr­ish­na has now the man­nered lux­ury of a high-​born prince and Rad­ha, no longer the sim­ple cow­girl, is the very em­bod­iment of aris­to­crat­ic love­li­ness. As the lovers sit to­geth­er, their forms off­set by a car­pet of lo­tus petals, Kr­ish­na at­tempts to put be­tel-​nut in Rad­ha's mouth--the ges­ture sub­tly in­di­cat­ing their lov­ing in­ti­ma­cy.

SOURCES

Fron­tispiece. By cour­tesy of Vic­to­ria and Al­bert Mu­se­um, Lon­don, and of Messrs Faber and Faber.

1, 2. Hend­ley, _Memo­ri­als of the Jey­pore Ex­hi­bi­tion, IV, the Razm Namah_.

5. By cour­tesy of State Mu­se­um, Luc­know and of Mr. M.M. Na­gar.

6, 12, 20, 28. Arche­olog­ical Sur­vey of In­dia, New Del­hi.

10, 19, 30, 33, 34. Vic­to­ria and Al­bert Mu­se­um, Lon­don.

18. Stchoukine, _La Pein­ture In­di­enne_.

22, 26, 31, 38. Messrs. A.C. Coop­er Ltd, Lon­don.

23, 24. By cour­tesy of the Prince of Wales Mu­se­um, Bom­bay and of Dr. Moti Chan­dra.

25. _Jour­nal of In­di­an Art_, Vol. XVI, 116.

27. By cour­tesy of Mr. M.S. Rand­hawa, I.C.S.

39. By cour­tesy of Mr. Gopi Kr­ish­na Kano­ria.

3, 4, 7-9, 11, 13-17, 21, 29, 32, 35-37. Au­thor's pho­tographs.

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