The Sound of the Kiss

From the moment Kalapurna, that celebrated king whose stories are always music to the ear, caught sight of Madhuralalasa in the forest, he could think of nothing except her amazing beauty, which had robbed him of his strength. He was unable to attend to any business, for his mind was filled only with her. He sat alone in his private palace.

One day he invited his intimate friend, the aged Brahmin astrologer, and said to him after a while, “Dear friend, I’ve been thinking of asking you something, but every time you came, I hesitated. Now I have to ask.

“You know the jewel-studded palace of Madasaya to the east of our city and, just beyond its golden walls, the luxuriant forest set aside for play, which is always in bloom. I went there the other day, following my falcon. As I was calling to it, I saw a woman. She was playing with her friends. One life is not enough to study her beauty. One tongue is not enough to talk about her loveliness. One pair of eyes is not enough to take in the joy of seeing her. What more can I say? She’s breathtaking. A total beauty. You can use all your metaphors, your hyperboles, all your powers of description, but no poetry can match her charm.

“She cut right through me with her exquisite braid of hair, which could have been a double-edged sword, slightly curved at the end, with an ivory handle—the white flowers she gracefully ties at the top. I can’t stop thinking about that rich, black braid and the black curls; the fine line of her eyebrows; her soft, wide eyes; her smiling cheeks; in fact, her entire face; and then there’s the perfect curve of her breasts; there’s her tiny waist, to say nothing of the way she pulled me toward her with a shy but somehow inviting look. From the moment I saw her, the Love-God has been working his vengeance on me.

To my eyes, she looked unmarried. Do you know her? Tell me if you do. If you don’t, go find out as much as you can.”

The Brahmin thought, “This king’s in love. Let’s tease him a little.” He said, “Never mind if she’s unmarried or not; God bless her. She deserves to be queen of ten thousand countries. I’m thrilled you’re in love and that she’s torturing your mind. You want to know why? You’re always busy with your pandits and their eternal arguments. With your bards² and their meaningless stories. With your poets and their screeching, like a Saturday rain.³ With your political advisors, who are a pain in the stomach. And when you disappear into the women’s quarters, finding you is like searching for Mercury at dawn. Do you ever take a moment even to say, ‘How are you?’ Now you finally found time to talk to me.”

“Enough,” said Kalapurna. “I know you like to scold me. Just find out what I need to know. Who is she? What’s her name? Her family? What does she do?”

“My friend, I hesitate to tell you who she is. What’s the idea? You may need some extra income to pay for refrigerants. If that’s the case, we can collect it from all the towns and villages. We’ll call it a “love tax.” These people don’t pay enough respect to the king. Actually, I’m only joking. You don’t need such extra income. All the kings of the world are sending you whatever you need for free. The king of Kerala has sent a huge supply of sandalwood trees. The Pandya king sent bushels of pearls. The king of Kamarupa sent cartloads of rose water. The lord of Kashmir sent tons of moonstones. The Turk sent bags of camphor. Just listen. You can hear your servants announcing out loud the arrival of all these gifts. You may or may not be joined to your beloved, but those kings are definitely being separated from their riches. In fact, they don’t have to spend all this money to keep you cool. Half would be enough—to bribe that girl to marry you.”

“You old windbag—you top the list. You can’t be trusted. But if you could bring this off, I would bribe you myself.”

This made the old Brahmin really mad. “You call me a windbag just because I don’t put on airs like those Brahmins who are always bathing and fussing with the darbha grass⁴ and sitting tight, doing nothing.” He marched off in a huff. Kalapurna rushed after him. “You’re a real Brahmin, gentle as a cow. No one should call you a windbag. I won’t do it again. Please come back.”

Turning back, the Brahmin said, “It’s true what you said. I can’t be trusted. I’m one of your men. As people say, ‘Like king, like subject.’ I’m true to the proverb. But tell me, what happened to your promise to Rupanubhuti and Madasaya? Did you not say, ‘From now on, you are my mother-in-law and father-in-law’? You’re now paying for forgetting this. And because you forgot her, Rupanubhuti’s daughter is suffering, and you’re suffering, too.”

“You mean that girl in the forest is Madasaya’s daughter? Why didn’t you tell me? How quickly she’s grown into a young woman! It’s amazing.”

“Why are you so surprised? Who else could capture your heart? As to how fast she’s grown up, it only seems that way because you’re so busy all the time in your daily routine, taking care of the kingdom, exercising, riding horses, talking philosophy, eating, bathing, going to the theater, receiving ministers and guests and all your subjects. Meanwhile, the girl is miserable, tormented by love, as her friends keep telling me in the hope that I’ll report it to you. And you know what these rotten kings are like. Pride comes before life. Her parents will never come to tell you what’s happening with their daughter, even were she on the verge of dying. They think you should notice her yourself. Anyway, I’m only telling you this because you said you’d pay me a bribe.

“This is a good match. There’s nothing lacking on either side. Her father comes from the family of the famous Kartaviryarjuna; and he is a world-conqueror in his own right. And you must have heard the expression “as noble as Sugraha”—this has become a byword among people, because Sugraha nobly offered protection to any king who asked.⁵ Let me tell you that he is the brother of Madasaya’s wife, that is, Madhuralalasa’s uncle. Because his lineage was so noble, many kings offered him their daughters in marriage, but he disregarded these offers; they became angry with him, and he disappeared without a trace. It’s no small matter to offend the family pride of kings.⁶ Sugraha got his name, “Good Planets,” because he was a born at a moment when many planets came together in an auspicious constellation. I wonder what happened to that prediction.⁷ But don’t let that bother you. I just mention this by way of telling you that Madhuralalasa comes from a good family.

“If you want to make that girl happy, all you have to do is to marry her—fast.”

And with this, he opened the almanac and looked over the weeks and the dates. Counting on his fingers, he figured out the planetary positions. Suddenly, he brightened. “Tomorrow there is a beautiful moment suited to both your horoscopes. As a king, you don’t have to make any special effort to get things ready for a wedding. Your city is always festive in any case. It’s not for nothing that your city is named Beyond-the-Smooth-Neck Town, because the areca trees, bearing their golden-red fruit, stretch their smooth necks over the houses like a towering goddess of wealth. Therefore, the doorways always look like there’s a wedding going on. Still, we can decorate the city a bit more. All you have to do is get the bride. Dispatch the elders to your father-in-law’s house to ask for the hand of his daughter.”

Kalapurna was happy. First he summoned Satvadatma and informed him. Then he sent Agamas One through Four to his first wife, Abhinavakaumudi, to win her agreement to the new marriage. She agreed at once, saying, “Don’t they call me Abhinavakaumudi, ‘New Moonlight’? My family—the apsaras caste—is also moonlight.⁸ My whole nature is cooling joy. How could I make my husband unhappy? You don’t need my permission. I want whatever he wants.”

She sent them off, and they reported back to Kalapurna. He then sent them to Madasaya’s house to settle the details of the wedding and to seal the agreement with the exchange of betel. An announcement was made in the town.

The city was in a flurry of excitement day and night. Wherever you looked, you could see freshly polished golden pots. People were sprinkling the courtyards with cool water mixed with sandalpaste and smearing the walls with fragrant civet. Gem-studded porches were covered with musk, and threshold designs were drawn in camphor. They hung canopies with garlands of water lilies and built arches out of mango leaves. Old women went from house to house, with musicians beside them, to distribute yellow rice, betel leaves and betel nuts, saffron powder, oil and fruits as an invitation to the women of the household to attend the wedding. On every street in the city, men were mixing camphor, musk, and sandal in golden cauldrons; they heaped up jasmine, campaka, and vakula flowers and perfumed betelnut in the streets, along with mountains of betel leaves, tender and golden-green. They distributed betelnut and garlands to the entire population.

The next day, married women with many children gave Madhuralalasa a wedding bath as music played, at a lucky hour. One woman smeared the ground with musk; another drew designs on it with pearls; another set up the seat of gold; another spread a new cloth on it, making sure its border was turned to the north. Then an older woman and two of the bride’s girlfriends made her sit facing the east and soaked her hair in campaka oil. Lovingly, they mixed a paste of myrobalan in turmeric and applied it to her head, pouring water from golden pots. They dried her with fine cloths and dressed her in white with yellow borders. After drying her hair, they braided in flowers. They smeared her body with sandalpaste, then wiped it off, leaving behind the fragrance. They painted vermilion designs on her breasts and fixed the forehead mark out of musk. Delicately they outlined the edges of her eyes with kohl and drew patterns of red lac on her feet. They covered her in ornaments from head to foot,⁹ but she herself was the real ornament to everything that adorned her.

When she was ready, the women called her mother. “Take a good look at your daughter,” they said. “Our idea of beauty may be different from yours. Your very name, Rupanubhuti, means Love of Beauty, and it also means Experience of Beauty; so nobody knows better than you what beauty is.” The mother smiled and took a step backward, regarding her daughter up and down from the corners of her eyes. “It’s perfect,” she said.

At the auspicious moment, with the elders of both families sitting on either side, Agama One sang the chants for the bride and groom—Madasaya’s daughter and Manistambha’s son. The King of Anga tied the marriage thread around his bride’s neck, while women sang wedding songs and barbers played their sweet instruments.

Afterward the bride and groom poured rice on each other’s head. Her girlfriends cheered her on, standing on either side, as she lifted her head for the first time, shedding a little of her shyness with a smile. She raised her hands high toward the groom’s head, so her full breasts came into view as she stretched, while her tiny waist started to tremble. Married women placed her hands in the rice on a golden plate and filled them again and again, not letting the groom go any faster. Her graceful movements as she poured the rice offered everyone who was watching a new vision of beauty, never seen before.¹⁰

It was time for the mother to say goodbye to her daughter. “Some wives make their husbands happy by their beauty; some by their goodness. You have both, like fragrant flowers given by the god. Don’t be too proud of your youthful beauty or of your husband’s love. Never forget your modest ways. Be kind to your husband, his friends and relatives, and to your co-wife.” Her voice was choking, and she held back her tears as she sent off her daughter, hardly able to let go. And the daughter, too, could hardly take her leave. Even great love for a husband doesn’t make it easy to separate from a mother.

Kalapurna paid all the usual courtesies to the kings who had come from many countries to honor him at his wedding; then he gave them leave to depart. The bride, meanwhile, heard her girlfriends whispering among themselves that she would be with her husband that night for the first time. It excited her; she started moving back and forth in an absentminded way in the palace. They combed her hair and covered her with decorations, which, out of shyness, she tried to shake off.

When they had got her ready, they held up a mirror so she could see herself; but she was too shy to look. Only when they left did she study herself, adjusting her curls with her fingernails. When her friends came back, she said, “What a mirror—you can see everything,” as if she were merely testing its quality. She was hoping her husband would see her before everything got creased.

She sat down, quite alone, on a bed made of flowers, her cheek resting on her hand. Even if the Love-God had his own mirror, it could still not capture all her beauty. She was thinking. She wanted her husband that very minute, in her arms; but he wasn’t there.

“When I went to see her and bowed to her, she embraced me as if she really liked me. She even blessed me and said, ‘Live long and happily with your husband.’ So it seems that she wanted this. But can I really believe her?

“What’s more, a woman who has had the unbelievable good fortune of making love to this man, handsome beyond anyone in all three worlds, wouldn’t want him to leave her even for a single second. She’d be planning and scheming all the time to find a way to keep him for herself. People constantly compare my man to Kama, the god of love. It’s nothing more than a habit, as the Sanskrit proverb goes: gatânugatiko lokaḥ, “People follow people.” If Kama were really that handsome, the whole world would be flooded with happiness. Siva would have had no reason to burn him up.”¹¹

She was adrift in these thoughts, imagining her husband in all his parts, in her arms, when it suddenly occurred to her that her friends might be looking all over for her. As she was about to get up, they appeared, giggling and excited.

One of them, somewhat more experienced, touched up her hair and fixed the mark on her forehead. “It’s time for you to go to your husband,” she said. “Come with me.” She stood there, waiting for a moment for Madhuralalasa. “Now,” she said. “Your husband is waiting. You know what you’re supposed to do.”

Madhuralalasa stood motionless, her head bent, eyes focused on her breasts. Her friends coaxed her forward. “What’s going on? Is this any way for a girl to behave? Come on.” Somehow she managed to move just a little, until shyness paralyzed her again. An older and bolder woman appeared and pressed her, “Are you coming or not? I can tell you: even women who have bunches of children still feel a little embarrassed when they have to go to their husbands. You think you’re the only one?” She pulled her by the hand.

Kalapurna was waiting, listening to the bustle around him. He couldn’t wait to see his bride. He stood up and looked through the window. Amazed, he stared at her from top to toe, lingering at every spot. He lay down on the bed, waiting.

“Go in, you silly girl,” said one of the women. “Look—he’s watching you.” Covering her mouth with her hand, she pointed to the king. Madhuralalasa tried to hide behind her; her feet were shaky, but her skin was tingling as she looked back and caught a glimpse of him from the corner of her eye. Still, she tried to withdraw, but her friends physically caught her and dragged her into the room. One of them picked her up under her arms and forced her to sit on the bed, near Kalapurna’s feet. Then this friend left the room, saying, “Someone’s calling me. I have to go see. I’ll come back.” “Nobody has fed the parrot,” said another, on her way out. “I forgot the betel leaves,” said another. “Have to go get them.” “Where’s she going?” called another; “I’ll fetch her.”

“Wait for me,” cried Madhuralalasa. “Don’t leave me alone.” She tried to get up from the bed—but Kalapurna placed his foot on her thigh, pressing her down. She struggled to get up, bracelets and anklets clattering. “So much noise, my dear,” he whispered in her ear. “No one will believe you are so coy.” He held her.

“I can’t move without making a huge noise,” she said and started removing some of her jewelry, beginning with the anklets, drawing out the pins. “That’s a good beginning,” he said, touching her cheeks with his.

She didn’t turn away. She was listening to his words. He was able to touch her hand. This itself was the height of happiness for the king.

To calm the fear in her heart, he told her tales of love. Under one pretext or another, he managed to touch her breasts, bringing their bodies close. He made her smile by gently teasing her. First once, then again and again, he touched her secret places, so she had to hide her excitement. He prepared her for the highest teaching, the science of loving.

He was restoring the Love-God, who had been hiding inside her fear and shyness, to his full power. Soon the knot of her sari was untied. He kissed her, inflamed her, embraced her; they lost themselves in one another.

Days passed. Day by day her passion grew, and her timidity diminished. She had no time for anything else. At first she wouldn’t allow him to touch her breasts. She wouldn’t let him put his lips on hers. She wouldn’t let him touch her down below. But eventually the constant struggle wore her out, and she gave in, and gave him all of herself. It went on like this for some nights. After a while, though she still put on a show of resisting, she would let him kiss her—as if she lost attention for a moment. Or, pretending to be deep in thought about the bite he left on her lip, she would allow him to scratch her breasts with his fingernail. Or, as if busy examining her breasts, she would let him untie her sari. Then she would bend over to pick it up, meanwhile letting him reach between her thighs. So she managed to be at once both coy and intimate; she made it easy for the Love-God to steal past her defenses; easy for her husband, too.

Pretending to sleep, she would touch her lips to his lips and hug him; this went on for some nights, to her husband’s delight. After some time he knew she was pretending but didn’t let on—until he could contain it no longer and broke out in laughter. She laughed, too. Before long, she was beyond her self-imposed limits. She started laughing and chattering even while fending off his hands. Finally, she bit his lips and said, “That’s what you get for what you’ve done to my lips.”

Then he said, “Look what you’ve done to my lip. I’m going to show this to everyone—unless you do what I want you to. Don’t try to wriggle out of it.” As if frightened by this grave threat, she made love to him on top. He was lying back and enjoying the sight of her breasts, so, a little embarrassed, she lay close to his chest. He begged her to sit up and tried to prop her up with his hands; she tried to close his eyes with her hands. “Don’t worry, I won’t stare at them anymore,” he promised her. “Let me cover them myself.” He folded his hands around her nipples and played with them. This trick gave her a chance to be a little angry. Gallantly, he offered to help raise her heavy behind with his hands, and again she held him off. Suddenly, she realized she was completely open; desperately wanting to cover herself, she tried to dismount. All this was new to her. The beginning was slow, but once she began, she couldn’t stop.

His desire for her was continually increasing and his love grew deeper as they found ever new ways of making love. Spring turned to summer. They spent the hot days playing at love in ponds perfumed by the lotus and the blue water lily, in cool pavilions flowing with rose water, on terraces paved with moonstones and marble, or porches painted with camphor and draped with red water lilies. They dressed up in delicate cottons with necklaces of pearl and jasmine garlands, their bodies covered with sandal to heighten their passion.

Then the rains came. Madhuralalasa, as if startled by the lightning and thunder, hung on to her husband’s embrace; and he happily held her close to him and would not let go. After the monsoons, there was autumn, followed by the cold season. Under thick, hand-woven blankets, on warm beds enfolded by mosquito nets, with the brazier burning with coal and aloe, the king spent the cold months taking refuge in his new wife’s burning breasts. Season after season, he made love to her, his passion deepening as they enjoyed the bounty of each new day.

The king, being the perfect lover, showed equal passion for Abhinavakaumudi, his first wife. One day, when Abhinavakaumudi was singing for him and playing her vina, the king sent a messenger to bring Madhuralalasa. She came and listened for a while. Kalapurna then said to her, “My dear, I hear you are an expert at this. Why don’t you take the vina and sing for me?”

She was afraid to say either yes or no. She took the vina and started fiddling with the tuning pegs. “Is something wrong?” asked the king repeatedly.

“Actually,” she said, “I’m wondering, lord of all the world, if my voice is right for the pitch of this vina.”

“Just sing as you normally would,” he said. So she showed her proficiency. It soon became clear that the tone of the vina was not up to her mark. Still, the king was amazed at her voice, as was Abhinavakaumudi, who thought Madhuralalsa must be unique in the universe.

The king thought a moment and said, “Bring your own vina. Let’s see how good it is.” Eyes wide as an unfolding lotus, she modestly replied, “Normally, I accept what anyone says, but I can’t hide the truth from you. There is no vina in the world that matches my pitch. That’s why my singing doesn’t sound quite right. I had heard about this vina, before, and I wanted to test it. You have heard the results yourself. Now you know.”

Said the king, “At the moment, this is the best available vina. This is the one I know from the beginning, so I never thought of looking for a better one. Only now, listening to your singing, which establishes the true limit to all three pitches—low, middle, and high—have I understood that the tones of this instrument are not the best for you.” He turned to Abhinavakaumudi. “Do you think there is a vina suitable for her somewhere?”

She answered, “I already told you, when we were speaking about music, that this vina of mine is the best of them all. That’s why Tumburu used to play on it; and he gave it to me, since I was his most gifted disciple. Where can you find one better?” She thought a while and added, “I heard that Tumburu was recently defeated in a music competition by Narada. I wonder what could be the reason.”

These words brought back to the king’s mind the story that Madhuralalasa had told about Narada’s determination to beat Tumburu.¹² This then led him to memories of his previous life as Manikandhara. He also remembered that, as Manikandhara, he had left his vina in a secret place in the Lion-Riding Goddess’s temple. That, he decided, was the right vina for Madhuralalasa’s voice. In his mind, he decided to look for it and bring it to her. He turned to her and said, “There is another vina, and I know where it is. That might be the right one for you.”

As he was saying this, Abhinavakaumudi’s friends made a sign to her and took her away to a private place. “For a woman, you are very naïve. Not only are you supporting your husband in his love for your co-wife’s singing, but you are also helping him find a better vina for her. He knew from the beginning that her voice is better than your vina. He invited her here only to insult you. Believe us. For all external purposes, he was listening to your singing in your palace. So his mind wandered to her—that’s not too bad. But then why should he invite her here? And you want to know more? He’s wearing her little toe-ring on his finger. You don’t seem to notice. Why not pretend for a little while to turn your face away in pique? You don’t seem to be capable of getting angry with him. He takes you for granted and has just demonstrated that he’s in control. Have you ever listened to what we say? Just for our sake, somehow or other, take your life in your hands and stop talking to him—at least for a little while. If he really loves Madhuralalasa’s singing, he could listen to her in his own place any time. Why did he have to insult you, and why did you put up with it? He’ll make amends and restore your pride—if you just stop talking to him for a minute. Trust us. We know what love is all about.”

Their words set off a change of heart in her. She thought to herself, “I never really thought about the way my husband treats me. I was too much in love. What my friends say is true, if you think about it. I shouldn’t be so friendly to him. People who hear about this will laugh at me if, out of passion, I blind myself to my husband’s shortcomings.”

She gave some temporary answer to her friends and went on behaving calmly, with her usual confidence. Later that night when the king came to her house, she showed him all the usual courtesies, but she did not put on her jewelry; she poured the water on his feet without saying a word, as if welcoming an ascetic sage. She didn’t smile or joke or flutter her eyelashes or give any hint of desire. She made their bed, smoothing all the wrinkles and spreading a soft comforter; she fluffed up his pillow. He lay down, and she sat nearby rolling betel leaves on a golden seat.

He noticed. “Usually all I need to do is to stand here and her face lights up with a gentle smile of desire; her eyes shoot arrows of love, volley after volley; her voice turns to honey, and her words are full of hidden meaning; her breasts bristle with goosebumps, like a thick bed of rice shoots. Today it didn’t work. Nothing is happening. She’s just acting the part of the dutiful wife—without feeling. She’s up to something.” Upon reflection, he concluded, “Today’s singing must have set off something. Let’s find out.”

“Is something wrong?” he asked her. “You seem a little off. I’ve never seen you like this.”

Wearily, she said, “Go talk to women who are good at singing. Why talk to someone like me? I always lose. Don’t try to be nice to me. Your love is elsewhere. I don’t want to whine. Anyway, what can I do? You were kind enough to come here, and I’m delighted to see you. This is all that I’m good for. I don’t expect anything more. To tell the truth, this would be the right moment to die, while I still have your respect, your love and closeness. Unfortunately, I can’t die; I’m stuck with this cursed life.¹⁴ But I can’t blame you. You’re perfect. There’s nothing wrong when a man exchanges one woman for another just because the new girl entices him with her singing.”

He listened. “You accuse me of so many things. What did I do to make you feel so hurt? You excite me, arouse me; you’re about to overwhelm me with your love—and then some bad luck of mine takes hold of you and plants doubt in your mind. But truly, I never did anything that should cause you hurt. I swear it.” He got up from the bed and fell at her feet, holding them with his hands.

“Don’t touch me,” she said, moving away from him. “Go grab the feet of the woman you really love. Why put the blame on me, great king?” She pried his hands away with hers.

“There’s no one I love more than you, my beautiful wife.” He stood up, raised her toward him, and embraced her tightly, chest to chest.

With tears in her eyes, her voice choking, she said, “I don’t doubt your love, your affection, or your kindness. But for some reason, today my mind is troubled. I feel humiliated, hurt, angry. It doesn’t go away.”

“I know why you’re feeling bad,” said the king. “Until today, your vina was incomparable. Suddenly, because of another woman’s singing, it has been found to be inferior. That’s what troubles you. I know a special vina that is far better than yours. I used to carry it myself in my former life—so I’m told. I am going to find it and bring it to you, whatever it takes. I’ll teach you to play it so that you’ll be the best in the world, better than anybody you can imagine. Trust me.”

Now she knew very well that he had once been Manikandhara,¹⁵ so she easily accepted that he might well have had such a vina. This made her happy. Kalapurna, once he had eased the pain in her heart, happily made love to her.

The next day all this spread, from mouth to mouth, from Abhinavakaumudi’s girlfriends in the palace to Madhuralalasa’s friends, and from them to Madhuralalasa herself. She started to think. “Some women, like me, have to win their husbands’ love by their singing. Other, luckier women don’t have to do anything like that. Even if they can’t sing very well, the husband takes it upon himself to make them happy. She made him promise to give her the vina he was going to bring for me. She set a trap for my husband’s love. That’s what I call a woman.”

She went on musing in this vein. That night Kalapurna found her a little different. When it was time to make love, he cheered her up by falling at her feet and promising to bring her, very soon, new anklets made out of the jewels from the crowns of the queens whose husbands rule the eight directions of space.

So now he had promised something to each of them, and he had to plan his moves. Both promises were on his mind. He tried to think things through. “If I tell Abhinavakaumudi where that vina is, she can easily go there and fetch it by herself. After all, she’s a woman from heaven. But that would not be right. It would mean that I am not capable of getting it myself. So that won’t work. If I send someone who can do the job, I have to be sure they can handle anyone who could cause problems. If instead I ask the king of that country to get it for me, he might fancy it for himself. If instead of all of these, I invade the country myself, I’ll get not only the vina but also the riches of all the kings en route. Besides, there doesn’t seem to be any way to keep my promise to Madhuralalasa except by conquering the whole world.”

He summoned his minister, Satvadatma, for consultations in the secret strategy room, with guards posted outside to keep everyone else away. The king set out his idea in some detail. Satvadatma was pleased. “Didn’t I tell you so?” he asked the king. “What I said that day, after studying Madhuralalasa’s features, has now come true.”¹⁶

“That’s true,” said the king, smiling. “What do we do now? Tell me what the strategists say, step by step. Advice by a good minister, given in private to the king, is as effective as Vedic mantras chanted by an expert during the ritual. That’s what people say. But to my way of thinking, all these traditional strategies are for cowards and weaklings. What are they really good for? Victory comes out of courage. Whenever a courageous man decides to strike, with whatever weapon, against whatever enemy, he will win. The moment he strikes is the right time; the place he chooses is the right place; the weapon he wields is the right one. When he sees the enemy before him on the battlefield, a certain power energizes the hero. If Fire wants to burn down a forest, does he prepare his flames in advance? Elephants may be as big as a mountain, but they are slow in movement. That’s why they get killed. Lions are smaller, but they have the advantage of swift attack. They are the killers. Victory belongs to the brave. People supremely skilled end up serving a powerful king. No talent can equal sheer power. If you’re really strong, you won’t waste time thinking about whether a task is easy or difficult. Only small-scale operators think like that. Does a blazing fire stop to ask if the wood is wet or dry? Therefore, a brave man should attack when the spirit seizes him. I think this is the right time to move—right now.”

Satvadatma replied, very humbly, “Great king, your understanding of politics is far deeper than mine. Nevertheless, I’ll tell you what I think, with your permission, and without fear. Good friends don’t talk just to please. If you feel my mild advice is appropriate to your fierce mood, take it. It might work like water on a red-hot sword. A king who forsakes the science of strategy, like a swimmer who lets go of a float or a sick person who disobeys his doctor, may still survive; but if they don’t, they can’t escape the blame. On the other hand, if a king follows the rules of strategy and still fails, people won’t blame him; they’ll say it’s his bad luck. If an immoral man gets rich, people curse the goddess of wealth: How could she choose him? Look, elephants are much taller than humans, but we use strategy to climb on to them and ride them. The science of politics tells you how certain tasks can be accomplished. Such wisdom doesn’t automatically come with strength. If you want proof, remember how Siva used a whole, strong mountain as his bow in his war on the Triple City.¹⁷ If you shoot an arrow from a bow, it goes quite a distance. But if you just throw it with your bare hand—if even God tries just to throw it—will it go even half as far? The moral is, strategy is better than brute strength.

“Listen. There are six strategies: making peace, making enemies, invasion, staying put, creating dissension among your foes, and taking shelter with a more powerful king. The main thing is to act on them at the right time. If you use them at the wrong moment, it’s disaster. There are four means of success: conciliation, division, bribery, and sheer force. Everybody can name these four and define their characteristics, but it’s hard to find someone who can tell you when to adopt them and when not to. Some people use an axe when a fingernail would be enough; others try to use their fingernail when they really need an axe. If you can’t estimate the size of the problem accurately, it won’t help you to know about the four means of success. When your enemy is similar to you in status and power, try conciliation. If he’s stronger than you are and not easy to defeat, try to divide and conquer. If he has a lot of allies, try to buy them off. If you’re absolutely certain that he’s so weak that you can beat him, then, and only then, go to war.

“A king can suffer from fourteen weaknesses. He can be indiscrete about secrets. He can be indecisive or waste time fretting. He may be grumpy or unable to recognize intelligence when he sees it. He could act when it is not appropriate. He can be self-indulgent. He might tell lies. He can be lazy. He could be an atheist. He can fail to recognize what is good for him. He can take forever to make up his mind. He can be vindictive. He can procrastinate on routine matters. You should know these weaknesses and avoid them.

“Pay your servants on time. You need their love and support. You should keep people within their limits and rule them fairly. Make sure your country is free from thieves and other nuisances. It’s a mistake not to punish those who should be punished, and it’s just as bad to punish those who don’t deserve it. Both these defects will send a king straight to hell.

“I’m sorry if I’ve run on. Once I start talking about these things, I find it hard to stop. You know them all anyway, as everyone can see by your noble behavior. We knew when you conquered Madasaya, who had himself conquered the whole world, that your word is law everywhere. But peace, for kings, is unstable.

“So it is quite right for you to take action against any overly shrewd kings who, in recent days, may have become too strong and are planning to attack. Show your power. As you yourself said, the best time is now. If you ask me why, it’s for the following reason. You said you made a promise to Madhuralalasa to give her, very quickly, new anklets made out of the jewels from the crowns of the queens whose husbands rule the eight directions of space. She’s a lucky woman, and her good luck is what made you make that promise. The same good luck will give you certain victory. Moreover, needless to say, Abhinavakaumudi will also benefit. My advice to you is to proceed with the invasion of the world—bearing in mind all the excellent strategies I have outlined.

“There may be some casualties, and you may loose some money on the army’s expenses. Even then, victory is victory, and your wife will still be lucky. But if you follow scientific strategy, such losses will not be that heavy.

Lord, conquering the world should begin in the east and proceed via the south to the west. The powerful king of Magadha is likely to attack you from the rear. It would be a good idea to make peace with him first.”

Listen, grandson of King Narayya, praised by all men. Your ministers are equally expert in the science of military strategy and offer advice in a single voice. That is why all the world’s kings worship you.

This is the seventh chapter in the long poem called Kalapurnodayamu made by soft-spoken Suraya, son of Pingali Amaranarya, whose poetry all connoisseurs enjoy throughout the world.

1. Jambū-dvīpa, the vast continent within which India, Bharata-varsha, is situated in the medieval cosmological map.

2. Paurāṇikas, keepers of the ancient stories.

3. Astrologers say that if it starts raining on Saturday, it will go on for some days. Saturday is called sthira-vāsara, the day of Saturn, the slow and steady planet (Śanaiścara); so what happens on Saturday can be expected to keep on going.

4. Often used in rituals.

5. We thank K. V. S. Rama Rao and Kolavennu Malayavasini for insightful discussions of this difficult verse.

6. Reading alpamul’ ayya kulâbhimānamul, with Malladi Suryanarayanasastri.

7. See Madhuralalasa’s story of Sugraha, narrated toward the end of chapter 8.

8. Apsarases are said to be born from the moon.

9. The ornaments are listed by name: billāṇḍlu, babblilkāyalu, maṭṭiyalu, vīramuddĕlu, andiyalu, mŏlanūḷḷu, ŏḍḍāṇamulu, nevaḷambu, puṅjāladaṇḍa, pannasaramu, mŏgapu tīga, aṇimuttĕpu perlu, sandidaṇḍalu, sūḍigamulu, gauḍasaramulu, kaḍiyālu, ungaramulu, mungara, kolāṭampu kammajoḍu, cĕvulapūvulu, bavirālu, cerucukka, kŏppuvala.

10. This is the talabrālu ritual performed immediately after the tying of the marriage necklace.

11. Śiva burned the god of love to ashes when Kama disturbed his meditation.

12. In fact, we know this story from Manistambha, not from Madhuralalasa, who is not said to have spelled it out as the young baby in the court—unless she offered a condensed version of Manikandhara’s previous career in the course of narrating his encounter at Srisailam with Svabhava (chapter 5, pp. 101—4).

13. This verse is a dvyakshara-kandamu, using only two consonants—m and n—as if conjuring up the resonance of mana, “we,” reassuring her that they are together.

14. Abhinavakaumudi is an immortal apsaras.

15. Abhinavakaumudi, as the reader recalls, met and fell in love with Manikandhara, that is, Kalapurna in his previous life.

16. See 6.188 (p. 124), where Satvadatma says to Kalapurna: “If you study her features, you can see that she will wear anklets made from the gems of all the world’s queens.”

17. Śiva made Mount Meru into his bow when he attacked the flying three cities of the demons.