Land of Lime

Some months ago, I wrote about the friendship between Bhoja and Kalidasa. Here is another similar episode from medieval South India involving Krishnadevaraya and Allasani Peddana. A catu verse couched as a lament by Peddana offers a vision of the esteem that Krishnadevaraya had towards his favorite poet:

When he would see me on the street, he would halt his elephant
and help me up with his own hand.
For the mere asking, he gave me villages like Kokata, in any region.
On the day I dedicated my Story of Manu to him,
he himself carried the palanquin where i was seated.
He told me I alone was worthy to wear the anklet
of a triumphant poet, and it was he who tied it on my foot.
He called me Master of Telugu Poetry, Allasani Peddana, King of Poets.
Now Krsnaraya has died, and I couldn’t go with him
to heaven. I stay on,
like the living dead. [Translated by Narayanarao and David Shulman, Classical Telugu Poetry, p. 157]

Of course, this isn’t as dramatic the Kalidasa-Bhoja encounter but as we read the Classical Telugu Poetry in my graduate seminar, I thought more about how the tradition seeks to honor and remember its cultural heroes. We will leave the analysis aside for another occasion but here is another excerpt from Appakavi, a seventeenth century poet and grammarian. Notice the self confident tone of the poet as he speaks of poety:

The wise say that poetry is the only form of knowledge.
Is there any doubt? Poetry is the ultimate
learning. To know it is to know the world.
A king is honored in his own kingdom. If he crosses the border,
he’s not worth a cowry shell. A scholar, though, is respected
everywhere. A pot is better still. As the saying goes,
“If you have poetry, who needs a kingdom?” This is true.
That’s why poets write.
It’s a joy when a woman or a poem
comes naturally to you.
If you force them, they bring you grief.
All the labor you invest in learning metrics and poetics
is a waste-if you are not driven to create
well-wrought poems in pleasing words.
The learning of a man with no ability to compose
never comes to life, like the shape of things at night
in a house without lamps. [Translated by Narayanarao and David Shulman, Classical Telugu Poetry, p. 238]

In a lighter vein, here is another amusing verse by Tenali Ramakrishna on an ideal householder’s life. Here is Lord Siva himself responding to a question by Narada:

If the wife you married doesn’t nag
and your son doesn’t talk back,
and your brothers get along well with you,
and your daughter-in-law doesn’t grumble,
and your daughter doesn’t compromise her character,
and you are not burdened by debts,
and you don’t lose pride by serving others,
and you don’t suffer scandal,
and you can get rich honestly,
and you are gracious to guests,
and there is respect for the gods in your home,
there’s nothing better than a householder’s life. [Translated by Narayanarao and David Shulman, Classical Telugu Poetry, p. 202]

Prof. Narayanarao was in the Bay area earlier this week and gave a delightful talk at Berkeley. His presence was one more reminder of what a stupendous achievement this anthology of Telugu poetry is. There is nothing comparable for any other South Asian language.