Land of Lime

I

King Bhoja has a simple desire. He wants his friend Kalidasa to sing Bhoja’s carama sloka, eulogy.

Bhoja knows that he is inviting death with his request. Overwhelming is that desire to hear how his dearest friend, the greatest poet to have ever lived, might express his sorrow. Naturally, Kalidasa refuses to oblige Bhoja, even at the risk of being exiled or worse killed. Kalidasa thinks that if he were to resist, the angry king might actually kill him. When his anger subsides, Bhoja would realize that he has killed his dearest friend; his subsequent sorrow might reach and envelope the sky, thus astonishing the entire world by their friendship. Both Kalidasa and Bhoja are eager to hear thier own eulogies.

At this first instance, Bhoja withdraws his request but their friendship is tested due to Kalidasa’s alleged relationship with a prostitute. Bhoja exiles an unrepentant Kalidasa from Dharanagari. A little later in the story, Kalidasa dies and his body is brought to the assembly. A grief stricken Bhoja prays to goddess Kali and begs her to revive Kalidasa, offering half of his own life to his friend.

Rudrakali Mahadevi kshamasvagam mayakrtam
Matpranam dehi me bhuyo,
Matpranam dehi me bhuyo
Bhadrakali tvameva hi Mataprasida kartavya
Satkrpamayi shanghavi
Satkripamayi shanghavi
Gatapranamca sanmitram
Punah pranayutam kuru
Punah pranayutam kuru

[Disclaimer: My sanskrit this morning seems to be too rusty to attempt to clean up this verse or the following ones. The audio in the VCD was barely adequate to make out a few specific words. So if any of the readers find errors, please point them out. We could post a revised version.]

The world thus gets to listen to Bhoja’s prayer and now it’s Kalidasa’s turn. As he wakes up, Bhoja forces all his courtiers to hide in the assembly hall and standing behind a pillar, he responds to Kalidasa’s questions as if he is a disembodied voice. He still has that intense desire to listen to Kalidasa’s eulogy and hence tells him that unable to bear the separation from Kalidasa, Bhoja in fact died. Reminded of Bhoja’s earlier insistence and overcome by grief, Kalidasa announces to the world Bhoja’s death.

Atyadhara niradhara niralambha saraswathi
Panditah khanditah sarve
Bhojaraje Bhojaraje Bhojaraje divangate

Hearing his own eulogy, Bhoja comes out from his hiding place, collapses and dies. Having learnt all that has happened, Kalidasa now sings to bring Bhoja back to life.

Atyadhara sadadhara sadalamba saraswathi
Panditah manditah sarve
Bhojaraje bhuvangate
Bhojaraje bhuvangate
Bhojaraje bhuvangate

II

Bhoja and Kalidasa weren’t contemporaries. They lived at least six centuries apart. But in Bhoja’s mythical learned assembly, Dandi, Bharavi and all the other great writers of the first millennium AD were contemporaries and enjoyed Bhoja’s patronage. Regardless of the historical veracity, Bhoja and Kalidasa present an extraordinarily interesting moment for us to contemplate. A couple of days ago, early in the morning as I watched the film Kaviratna Kalidasa, this idea and story took possession of me. All the poems and quotes are from the film.

How would Kalidasa experience the absence of his friend? How would any of us relate to the loss of a loved one? What is Bhoja being deprived of, if he can find a replacement for Kalidasa? How does grief find expression? Obviously, the script and the lamentation, including the Sanskrit verses, were all by a writer, surely much less talented than Kalidasa.

Could Kalidasa have moved with his words not only human beings, but goddess Kali herself? Is the Tansen musical legend true?

Does art have the capacity to cause cosmic changes?

Every writer wants to desperately believe that his words will have that power to touch the heart (human and divine) and affect a change. When one has that belief, words themselves or their power do not matter.

What matters is the belief in words. Belief in the ontological potency of words.

Which is why I didn’t want to translate the poems. What’s the effect if Kalidasa is merely saying Bhojaraja has passed away, even if that statement is slightly embellished.

But precious is the idea that words might bring back life, that words might change a person.

For many years now, I have been working on the outlines of a story in which a poet writes to a journalist, someone who has witnessed and been scarred by violence, natural and human; his poetry offers solace and brings back humanity into the soul of this journalist. Words, I realize, too are important, especially if they have to lead to transformation.

I still haven’t found those words. Without them, the story, even in its fully worked and written form, remains just an idea. Struggle continues, both for words and that elusive solace they promise to bring.