Listen, Nandyala Krishna, king of all the earth, loved equally by the goddess Fame and the goddess of empire . . .
[ Kalapurna Conquers the World ]
Kalapurna listened with satisfaction to his minister’s words about strategy. He agreed that it was right to make an alliance with the king of Magadha. He despatched one of his best emissaries, a man endowed with dignity, self-discipline, loyalty, diplomatic eloquence, courage, and a gift for winning the heart of a foreign people. He knew exactly when to display pomp and when to be humble. He sent an advance party to make friends with the Magadha king’s advisors and ministers by conciliatory words and proper gifts. When he arrived at the court, he was admitted with great honor, and, wisely answering the king’s questions and in full awareness of his place in space and time, he spoke of Kalapurna’s greatness without in any way compromising his host’s self-importance. With diplomatic finesse, he worked out a treaty of friendship between the latter and his king.
Meanwhile, Kalapurna, in his foresight, strengthened the fortifications of his capital and of the surrounding fortresses, also stocking them with provisions, cash, troops, and war machines. He made certain they were well protected and that there were no shortages. He gave marching orders to his commanders, and they, in turn, announced them in the areas under their command.
As evening fell, the sun slowly sank into the western sea, turning red like a mass of coral carried by the waves and gradually giving up its heat. In the west, the sky was heavy with reddish gold, as if Time were a peasant who had harvested a golden crop of rice and were carrying it in huge bundles on his shoulders. Or you could say the sun was like solid gold melted in red flames by the goldsmith who is Time, blowing at it with his torch; and when the gold was fully ready, the goldsmith dipped it in the water of the ocean to cool it. As if the whole world had become the Dark God Vishnu in his endless form, or as if Siva had dressed all his eight bodies in the elephant’s skin,1 or as if space itself had been swallowed up by the black demon Vritra,2 a subtle darkness enveloped the universe.
The sky was still tinged with red, and the first stars became visible like cotton ripening in the field when farmers offer blood sacrifice to the crop. People looked up at the stars in amazement and thought to themselves, “The world above is all light, you can see for yourself, since the ancient ceiling of the sky is clearly riddled with holes. They just look to us like stars.”
Imagine a weaver setting up his loom inside his house, weaving brilliant white threads of silk, and from outside you can only see the window, dense with light: night came on, the moon rose, casting its silky rays. Like a white sari spread wide, like a stream of milk or a dusting of white flour, moonlight flooded the world.
As night deepened, flower girls began to sell their wares to young men, who stopped to banter.
“These flowers are just right for you,” they would say, and the young men would reply, “Why do we need to buy them? What’s right is the one I’m looking at.”
“You think you can get it just by words?”
“We don’t want it for free. Here’s the money.”
“So which one do you want?”
“The bunch you’re hiding.”
“We won’t sell those until these are sold.”
“As if we didn’t know.”
And still laughing, the young men reach for the flowers hidden under wet cloths, in the back of the shop.
Meanwhile, the commanders of the army were getting ready to march. Kalapurna went to Abhinavakaumudi’s palace and said to her, “My dear, in order to fetch the vina I promised you, I have to go conquer the world. I’ll be away for a few days. I’m off at dawn.” Then he went to Madhuralalasa and said, “Tomorrow is the lucky moment for me to embark on my conquest of the world, in order to fetch the jewels for your anklets.” This pleased her.
The soldiers were waiting impatiently for the dawn, eager to set forth—so eager that they showed no interest in embracing their wives. Their attention was riveted on the eastern sky. Night passed.
When an alchemist makes a pill out of mercury, he steeps it in milk to test it—to see if it turns what it touches into gold. Just so did the magical moment of dawn bathe the morning star in fading moonlight, turning the east a radiant red and gold. The city awoke. People rose early, afraid they might miss the hour of the army’s departure. The charioteers busied themselves with the horses and flags and all the rest of their equipment; the elephant drivers began covering their elephants with brilliant banners and bells; the cavalry started saddling their horses and fussing with the bridles and reins. Soldiers, relishing their breakfast, were bantering with women hawking buttermilk, curds, and pickles. There were palankeen-bearers fixing up their palankeens and guards of the harem padding these conveyances with pillows, so the ladies could ride comfortably. Officers were maneuvering their own troops into conspicuous positions along the road. Officials of the treasury were getting golden boxes of cash packed onto wagons drawn by camels, mares, and bullocks. The whole scene was alive with commotion and energy, like the ocean at moonrise.
Brahmins sang mantras to bless the expedition, and bards called out the cries of victory. Tributary kings came forward and bowed as their names were announced by the heralds. The royal elephant and golden palankeen and the palace horse were brought forward to the deafening beat of drums. At this auspicious moment, the king emerged from his palace. He mounted his elephant, and trumpets sounded the victory march. Surrounded by his great chariots, with flags waving, his elephants moving like huge mountains, his horses, swifter than wind, and the infantry, he moved out of the royal city.
Like the vast radiance of the cosmos that would filter through if a crack opened up between earth and sky, the sun rose in the east, bringing joy to the town. As the huge army passed through the city gate, people felt lucky if they escaped the crush unhurt.
The royal force left Beyond-the-Smooth-Neck Town behind them. Always just a little way ahead of them, enterprising merchants set up small tents by the road to sell food and whatever other supplies the army might need. As a result, the wealthier among the army, who were also travelling with their wives in palankeens covered with thick curtains, had everything they could possibly want; for them and their women, the royal campaign was like living at home.
Kings of the surrounding region heard that Kalapurna was coming with this ferocious army; some fled their kingdoms, and others sent gifts as tribute or came in person to attend on him. Satvadatma had sent letters to all the local rulers, informing them as follows:
His Majesty the King has promised his beloved wife, the magnificent Madhuralalasa who was born with all the marks of good fortune, the wife of the only true warrior in the world, to make her new anklets from the jewels in the crowns borne by queens of all the world’s kings. For this purpose he has set out with a large army to conquer the world. Take heed. Save your wealth and your lives by presenting him with what he wants. Signed, His Majesty’s Chief Minister.
Many obeyed. Kalapurna accepted their gifts and went on. The stubborn Gauda king tried to contest him. Engaged by the fierce Gauda army, Kalapurna’s soldiers at first fled the field in fear, right up to the king’s tent. He rallied them: “Don’t give way!” He was surprised by the attack, for he had assumed the Gauda king was coming to bring him gifts; but perceiving his true intention, Kalapurna called to his attendants to saddle his horse and unsheathed his sword. “Does he think he can get away with his life? Does he have any idea of my strength?” He left his tent and moved directly toward the foe. His horseman brought the mighty horse, fully equipped for battle and richly caparisoned, neighing so loudly that the enemy army became terrified. The king mounted, and, seeing him there so courageous and determined, his four-fold army took heart. As the king encouraged them, they counterattacked. Wielding swords, spears, and long knives, they hacked the enemy to pieces—so thoroughly you could no longer identify the bodies. The Gauda rallied his men, who rushed at Kalapurna; the latter pretended for a moment to leave himself open to attack, but as an enemy cavalryman came close and was about to strike, the king, rapidly shifting his sword from right to left, sliced right through the attacker’s sword, body, horse, and saddle, leaving eight severed pieces on the ground. This was unheard of: until then, great swordsmen had only managed six pieces. Even the gods watching in the sky were amazed at Kalapurna’s tremendous heroic feat. “It’s normal for a warrior to defend himself when an enemy lifts his sword against him, but this king is different. He must have perfect confidence in his own skill. He cut right through the sword raised against him and cut the enemy into eight whole pieces.”
The Gauda king and his army gave up and rushed back into the town, trampling the bushes in their rout and paying no heed to the thorns. Kalapurna and his soldiers chased after them to the gates of the fort with a roar like a thousand drums. The Gauda guards closed the gates of the fortress and got ready to defend themselves with muskets, cannons, catapults, and other weapons. At this moment, Satvadatma, scorn in his eyes, ordered scaling ladders to be placed against the walls. The people inside panicked, and the Gauda king saw there was no way out. With gifts in his hands, he emerged from his fort and surrendered to Kalapurna, and the latter pardoned him.
Proud of his achievement, Kalapurna moved on against the Utkala king3 who was next to attempt resistance. A great battle took place: the Utkala king had drawn up his troops for a frontal attack. They fought until blood settled in the dust; then they fought on because they were too proud to stop; and when they began to get tired, they still fought on because they were too angry to give up. Even when their anger was satisfied by killing enough enemies, they kept on fighting for the sake of their reputation. The Anga king, Kalapurna, mounted his elephant, which was like a mobile mountain, and, with his commanders on either side and behind him, fell upon the enemy. The Utkala ordered his elephants to meet the attack. No one had ever seen such a collision; the spectators were amazed. The elephants circled one another, showing off their strength; then, pacing backward, they rushed to attack each other, breaking their tusks. Hanging on, entangled in one another, they pushed and shoved and wouldn’t let go even when their drivers were killed and fell. The air was filled with the shattering of tusks, the ringing of bells, the wild trumpeting. Kalapurna’s elephant smashed into the enemy’s elephants, and these fell to the earth on their backs, crushing their drivers.
As Kalapurna pushed into the space that was opened up and the Utkala army gave way in despair, the Utkala king leapt on to his own fierce elephant and attacked. The two elephants circled each other, searching for position. Time after time, they crashed into one another, their trunks intertwining as they trumpeted furiously. But the moment came when Kalapurna could see the back of his foe’s elephant before him and, quickly jumping on to it from behind, he pounded the Utkala king’s back with his fists. He twisted the Utkala’s arms and pinned them behind his back, tying them with the ropes hanging from the elephant’s middle. Then he jumped back across the open space onto the back of his own elephant. Seated there, he stabbed at the Utkala’s still rampaging mount, cutting at its temples. In this way he captured and humiliated his foe. He left him with some good advice: “From now on, don’t fight with someone beyond your strength.” He took the jewels he was seeking.
The Kalinga, Dravida, Cola, and Pandya kings came of their own accord to submit and offer gifts. Kalapurna, heady with success, proceeded to the shore of the southern ocean, where he attacked the Kerala king. The two armies clashed like the northern and southern seas. Blood flowed like a pure flame newly fed, after the smoke rises to the sky.
One warrior had all his weapons
cut away by the enemy. With nothing but
bare male courage, he rushed at the foe with an arrow
pulled from his own body. He was determined to kill
the man who had wounded him; he targeted him,
not forgetting, and struck at him as he fell
while the women of heaven waiting to receive this hero
began to quarrel among themselves, each wanting him
for her own.
Another grabbed the trunk of an elephant, pulled it down,
and using it as a foothold, clambered up to the top.
With his left hand, he took hold of the elephant’s temple,
with his right he stabbed at the warrior
sitting above, who stabbed him back. Dying,
he found his left hand on the breast
of a woman from heaven, rushing
to embrace him. This alarmed him: “Did I hit a woman
by any chance?” he thought, a little ashamed.
The two armies were going at it with great gusto and great loss of life. The Kerala king sent an emissary to Kalapurna with a message: “Why cause the death of so many soldiers for no good reason? Let us fight it out between the two of us, alone.” Kalapurna agreed. So they stopped their armies from fighting.
The two tough men faced off, gilded swords in their hands. They glared at one another. They roared, their muscles taut, swords extended. “Take that!” they cried, or “Here! Watch out!” or “Hurrah!” Not for a moment did they let their eyes shift from the target. Then Kalapurna, with a quick flourish of his hand, made his opponent lose his balance and cut him lightly in many spots. The Kerala king was shocked at this show of skill, and also, to be honest, rather grateful to Kalapurna for not killing him, so he threw his sword away and fell humbly at his feet. He folded his hands in worship. “Great king—” he began, “but then you are no ordinary king—you’re something godlike. For a long time I practised the science of swordsmanship under the training of a great master from Andhra-desa. I defeated many well-known swordsmen. Proud and confident of my skill, I challenged you to this duel. It amazes me that you defeated me so easily.” He took Madhuralalasa’s husband together with his retainers into his palace and gave him all the jewels that had graced the heads of his wives. He sent him off with honor and affection.
Kalapurna learned from the Kerala king where to find the Lion-Rider’s temple. He went there, worshiped the goddess, and searched through all the temple alcoves until he found the vina he had left there in his previous life. He took it, more than satisfied.
Now he headed north. All the kings en route gave him the jewels he wanted and paid homage. He marched against the king of Ghurjara, about whose pride and power he had heard. The latter came to fight with a huge army that turned the skies to dust. The armies clashed to the beat of the drums, and soon all space was filled with sounds—thang thing khang khing. Kalapurna saw that the enemy forces were no less mighty than his. His eyes blazing red with anger, he swiftly drove his chariot into the front, his arrows swirling like a blinding storm. The Ghurjara met his arrows with equal force, but soon he found himself without his charioteer, without his flag, without his strength, without his courage. He had no choice but to give the king the jewels of his queens.
Kalapurna moved on, preceded by news of his great victories. The kings of Kuru and Kasi came to serve him and to say to him, “Ever since Krishna died, who else is there, except you, to care for the world?” Kalapurna had already heard that Krishna’s city of Dvaraka had been drowned in the ocean. He asked the people there to tell him more about what happened. He was grieved—for now he could no longer see his old music teacher from his former life. Still, longing for him, he went near the spot where Krishna’s palace had been and bowed deep in respect.
He went on to defeat the Malava and Barbara kings in a brilliant military campaign. The Huna warlords, hearing at a great distance of Kalapurna’s victories, promptly sent him all their queens’ jewels and other fine items with a humble note. Now Kalapurna turned east, toward the Himalayas. The King of Pragjyotisha, who had a very inflated view of his own strength, thought that at last he had found a worthy match; so fearlessly, eagerly, he went to battle against him. Space turned gold from the light reflected off the spears and jeweled banners of his vast army. The two armies smashed into one another; conches blared, drums pounded, trumpets sounded war calls, but all these blasts were drowned out by the twang of Kalapurna’s bow. Dense volleys of arrows, flowering like fireworks, sapped the enemy’s resistance. It was like breaking a dam.
In the Pragjyotisha army chariots came apart. Flags were torn in tatters. The archers were thrown helter-skelter. The drivers were killed. Elephants were hacked to pieces. The mahouts fell to the ground. Horses died. The cavalry bit the dust. Saddles were pulverized. The infantry were shattered. Shields, swords, and spears were smashed. Jewels were hurled to a distance. Blood flowed freely, with flesh and broken bones floating on it. Everyone watching experienced terror, amazement, and revulsion. Kalapurna’s army roared in victory, seeing the enemy destroyed. But the Pragjyotisha king rallied the forces he had left and hurled them into the battle, while he maneuvered his own chariot toward Kalapurna. His close friend, Candabahu, moved ahead of him to engage the king. Arrows followed so fast on one another that they seemed to be one continuous shaft in the hands of the two warriors. As the fight went on, Kalapurna, becoming weary, called to mind his guru for archery, Svabhava the Siddha, who had given him his weapons. “How can I defeat this tireless foe?” he wondered as he addressed his bow and arrows: “Can you tolerate this unending struggle with a rather ordinary bow and arrows? This is the time for you to show your special power.” With a loud “hum,” he shot an arrow, skillfully aimed, at Candabahu, who fell dead to the ground as his army scattered in terror.
Seeing Candabahu fall, the Pragjyotisha king surrendered to Kalapurna and handed over the jewels of his queens. The kings of Kosala and Magadha, terrified by this news, arrived of their own accord to give the son of Manistambha whatever he wanted.
So now Kalapurna had conquered the world and all its kings. With jewels from the crowns of all their wives, he returned, happy and triumphant with no rivals left, to his city. Bards and court genealogists sang his heroic feats.
The soldiers became more and more excited as they neared home. “If we walk just a little faster, soon we’ll be resting in our own houses. Move it!” cried some.
“Just beyond that hill we’ll see the golden palaces of our city.”
“See how lovely these woods appear, where the rivers Ganga and Sarayu meet.”
“We’ve wandered over the entire earth, and nowhere did we see anything so beautiful.”
“Look! There’s the gate and the golden wall of the city.”
“Thank God we’re back in Beyond-the-Smooth-Neck Town, our hometown.”
Meanwhile, their friends and relatives were already coming out to greet them. As they caught sight of everything dear to them, one thing after another, the soldiers forgot the strain of the long march. They passed through the old part of town, where they marvelled at the still bright-as-new mansion that Romapada had built for his son-in-law, Rishyasringa. “It could have been built today!”
“And here’s the rivulet that Karna’s son, Vrishasena, jumped across on his horse. In those days, that was considered quite a feat. Today, any old horse in this city could do it.”4
“A couple of miles to the east is that rich place, Kasarapura. Remember how Satvadatma built it himself? Remember how he crowned Kalapurna king of that city and became his minister?”
In their joy at coming home, unmindful of the long road they were walking, they pointed to each familiar landmark and told its story. The townspeople stepped aside to watch them enter. Drums and conches and trumpets were thundering as the resplendent Kalapurna re-entered his palace. The women of the city watched him through the latticed windows of the high, white-plastered buildings, which looked like the tall white waves of the Ganges with its golden lotus flowers.
One woman with a long dark braid
rushed out of the house to get a glimpse
of him. In her haste, she tied her belt
around her neck and was trying to get her necklace
around her waist, but it wouldn’t reach.
Holding the two ends in her hands on either side,
close to her navel, she stood there stunned,
as if offering herself
to him.
Another one came, retying the knot of her sari
that had come undone as she was making love.
Her bodice was between her feet, and she was
covering her breasts with her husband’s dhoti,
the first thing she could find.
One had just finished her bath. She quickly threw on
a red silk sari and tied up her hair in a red-ochre towel.
From a distance, she looked like a Yogini
with matted hair. In her rush to see the king,
the pearl pendant between her breasts
danced and trembled, like the soft light of truth
pulsing from her heart.
That was how Kalapurna came home to Beyond-the-Smooth-Neck Town. It was the height of royal brilliance, a feast for the eyes of all who lived there. He gave the incomparable vina to Abhinavakaumudi and ordered his minister to have the anklets made for Madhuralalasa.
Happy, Madhuralalasa was dressing herself in the new ornaments when, in the course of conversation, she heard from her companions about the necklace that Kalapurna had given her when she was a baby. She wanted to put it on that day, because it was the very first gift she had received from her husband, so she ordered it to be brought to her. But it no longer fit her neck. She therefore had new gems added to the chain on either side of the central stone, so that the latter would rest upon her heart. Taking her fan, she went to see her husband.
Satvadatma also entered the court with the pair of anklets in his hand. The king gestured to him with his eyes, ordering him to place them before her. “Here,” said Satvadatma, “are the anklets made from the gems of all the queens in the world, whose husbands surrendered to you.” Turning to her, bowing low to her, he said, “Please place them on your feet.”
“Don’t bow to me,” she said. “Stop. I should bow to you. You are my mother’s brother. Until today, we didn’t know this.” And she bowed to him.
His whole body shaking, he stepped back. “It’s the truth,” she said, rising to her feet. “Don’t back away.”
At that moment, Kalapurna smiled and looked at him. “Whatever this woman says must be true,” he said. “Ask her what she means. Remember you asked her before, when she was a baby, about your real name and family. Maybe today the answer has come to her. Ask her again. We’ll find out.” Looking at her gently, the king said, “Did that special knowledge you had as a child come back to you again? How can this man be your mother’s brother? And how is that you can tell us today when before you could not answer his question? I’ve always regretted that I didn’t ask you then, when you were a baby, how you had that kind of knowledge. So tell me now.”
“I’ll tell you all,” she said, fanning her husband with her fan.
“This man was once the king of Maharastra. His name was Sugraha. My mother, Rupanubhuti, is his elder sister. Because of the nobility of his family, all kings wanted very much to give him their daughters in marriage and sent him letters to this effect. He, however, couldn’t make up his mind which to accept and which to reject, and for a long time he dithered. Eventually, these kings became offended and advanced against him with their armies on one pretext or another. He thought he would do better fighting them from outside the city, so he mounted his famous horse and left. When the kings found that he was no longer in the city, they went home. ‘What glory is there in attacking a kingdom that has no king?’ they thought.
“But Sugraha didn’t know they had left. He was wandering far away in a wilderness, wondering how to conquer his enemies. Guided by the way the future must unfold, he thought to himself, ‘I was disturbed by the sudden attack and left the city alone and in haste without even thinking of telling anybody. I wonder what happened to the city? I wonder what happened to my subjects? And what are my enemies up to? I wish I had a way of knowing. I was afraid of being followed, so I kept changing my route, over and over. Now even my own people can’t find me. And if I were to try to find my own way back, there’s the danger of being captured. It won’t work. How lucky it would be if I could only know everything while sitting in one place! Life is worth living only if I have that power. What use are other forms of power? They’re all a waste of effort.’
“So, determined to achieve omniscience, he rode north toward Brindavana, on the banks of the Yamuna River, where young Krishna is always present. He focused his thoughts on the god who lies on his back on the banyan leaf.5 And the god appeared in his infant form, pressing his two little feet to his face with his hands, sucking on his toe: the image Sugraha had in his mind had emerged into external form. ‘Ask whatever you want,’ said the god, but Sugraha was dumbfounded and could think of nothing. After a while, he pulled himself together, and, folding his hands in respect upon his forehead, he said, ‘I could not speak because of this overwhelming happiness. But what I want from you is the gift of omniscience.’
“The god pulled the tiny necklace from his neck and gave it to him. ‘A person who wears this necklace will have omniscience and eloquence as long as the central jewel touches the area of that person’s heart. However, this necklace will be lost if the person causes distress to a Brahmin.’ With this, the god disappeared.
“Carrying the necklace, Sugraha wandered into a temple in that wilderness. There he saw, near the entrance, a certain sculpture of a woman. Her breasts were full and voluptuous, her waist thin enough to be held between two fingers, her cheeks sleek as a mirror and alight with a smile, her face more beautiful than anything in the known world. He was admiring this image from close up when an ascetic turned up. This man, dressed in ochre, exhausted by his journey, seated himself in the same sculpted pavilion of the temple; he was murmuring to himself, ‘Hari, Hari.’ Then he saw the stunning image of the woman, sculpted from rock and plaster. ‘Oho. This sculptor did better than God himself could have done.’ Shaking his head, he wondered, ‘Are there any women in the world as beautiful as this? Hard to believe. But an ascetic like me shouldn’t look at her.’ He turned his head away.
“And back. He was already overtaken by passion . . .”
Madhuralalasa hesitated a little at this point. Satvadatma, seeing this, withdrew on some pretext or other, out of propriety. But the king looked at his wife’s face and said, “What happened next? I’m curious.”
Madhuralalasa continued. “What more is there to say? The ascetic, unable to control himself any longer, went and embraced the sculpture rapturously. He hadn’t noticed Sugraha, who was watching him nearby. At this point, Sugraha couldn’t hold back and giggled.
“The ascetic heard him but pretended he hadn’t heard. He wanted to cover up what he had done, as if it were only a certain idiosyncrasy of his, so, thinking quickly, he went and embraced each one of the sculpted images in the pavilion, beginning with those at the entrance. He bowed to them one by one and walked around them. But Sugraha knew this was all pretence. He said, laughing at him, ‘You can go on like this, but I know what you did in the beginning, and I’ll never forget it.’ The ascetic was highly distressed, so he cursed him: ‘Whatever you remember, from your birth up to this moment, will be lost to you.’
“Now Sugraha was alarmed. He fell at the ascetic’s feet and begged to be released from the curse. The Yogi said, ‘When this secret of mine comes out, somewhere or other, your memory will come back to you—for by that time, it won’t cause any displeasure.’ And he went away. From that moment on, because of the curse, Sugraha totally forgot everything that had been in his mind.
“He also forgot to pick up the necklace that he had put aside, in a clean spot, only a minute before. God had, after all, told him that the necklace would be lost if he caused distress to a Brahmin. But although he had heard this, he still caused pain to that Brahmin—and lost the necklace. No one can escape destiny. To mention another person’s failings is itself a failing. Even a good person may have the occasional fault, but it’s never right to talk about it.
“Driven by fate, Sugraha left that place and wandered from one lovely land to another. He had forgotten his name, his family, his entire past, like a person who has gone crazy, like a little child. Everything he saw amazed him. He lost the names of things, their qualities, and words for actions; he lacked even the slightest idea of how to use them. Little by little, in a new way, there arose in him, as for a child, the ability to distinguish things, actions, attributes, and abstract categories, through observing older people of different classes in their various activities. In the course of time, he became an expert at handling things. He knew everything except his family of birth and his name. He met with no one who knew of them—until today.
“Wandering around, he happened upon a forest area at the confluence of the Ganga and the Sarayu Rivers. At that time, Kasarapura had lost its king. The ministers, the nobility, and the citizens needed to choose a king, so they decorated an elephant and put a garland on its trunk; the person the elephant garlanded would become king. This was the pact they made before god. They set the elephant loose and followed it until it cast the garland around Sugraha’s neck. Even before the elephant’s choice, the ministers and others, who were quite helpless without a king, felt a certain strength and knowledge return when they saw Sugraha’s face. Reassured by both these signs—the elephant’s choice and their own intuition—they mounted him on the elephant and led him into the town, where they crowned him king. Since his mere appearance brought them strength (satva), they named him Satvadatma, ‘the one whose person (ātma) gives (da) strength (satva).’ Since no one knew his real name and family of birth, he became known in the world by this name. He enjoyed the pleasures of being king in Kasarapura, where he met with your parents, Highness, that is Sumukhasatti and Manistambha, and, while serving them, became your minister. I told you all those stories at length while I was a little baby,” said Madhuralalasa. “Remember?
“After he became minister, he conquered Angadesa and built this new city of Beyond-the-Smooth-Neck Town, where he crowned you king. You know all that. You asked me why I wasn’t able to tell him before about his name and story, and why today I am able to, and what the source was for all this knowledge. I’ll tell you. The necklace that Sugraha forgot in the temple was picked up by a certain Brahmin from Mathura who happened by. He brought it home and for many years worshiped it as a deity. Then he decided the necklace was the right gift for Krishna, so he took it to Dvaraka and presented it to God. Krishna graciously accepted the gift and offered him whatever he desired. Later, when Manikandhara composed a daṇḍaka poem in his honor, Krishna was pleased and gave him the necklace. Manikandhara took it as a great honor, but because the necklace belonged to the god in his form as a baby, it clung to Manikandhara’s neck and didn’t reach down to his chest—so the jewel that had the quality of imparting awareness never touched his heart. In the end, Manikandhara gave it to Alaghuvrata, who gave it to you, Kalapurna. You kindly gave it to me. When the jewel touched my heart, when I was but a baby, total knowledge came to me. Great king! In your previous life, you were Manikandhara, who received this necklace from Krishna. In this birth, you received it from the Brahmin Alaghuvrata and gave it to me. When I rolled over, as a child, the jewel shifted away from my heart, so my awareness was lost. That was when this minister of yours asked his question. That’s why I wasn’t able at that time to tell the name and family of Satvadatma.
“Since no one knew that the source of my knowledge and its loss was this necklace, they treated it as an ordinary ornament; they put it away and forgot all about it. I never wore it again until today. Because I was to receive the new anklet from you today, my girlfriends started talking about my jewelry, and they reminded me of this one and how I got it. I thought today would be the perfect opportunity to wear it again, since it was your first gift to me, given at a memorable moment. So I had it brought to me and put it on with the central jewel touching my heart. As Satvadatma came in carrying the anklet, I thought to myself, ‘What a lucky man he is to be allowed such intimate service in the inner palace!’ At that moment, everything about his name and past became clear to me.
“Here,” she said. “Wear it yourself. You will see anything you want to know in the past, present, or future, in all the world, as clearly as the back of your hand.” She pulled the necklace out from under her sari, where it was dancing between her lovely breasts like a dancer who appears from behind a curtain and then disappears.
“Don’t take it off,” he cried. “It’s not right for me to take back what I gave you. There is a better way of letting me feel its power—while you’re wearing it.”
She laughed. “You’re quite the expert.” She bent over him where he was sitting, so that the jewel touched his heart, and said: “See whatever you want to see.” As if pulled down by the weight of her breasts, she fell onto his lap.
“That’s what I wanted to see,” he said. He embraced Madhuralalasa with both arms.
But that wasn’t enough for him. He pressed further, and Madhuralalasa said, “This isn’t exactly what you asked for, is it? Still, neither of us can ever wait. God got it right. We’re a perfect match.”
So at last, now that the jewel hanging between her breasts was touching his own heart, the king saw that the entire world of the story she had told was right from beginning to end.
Satvadatma was released from the curse. By itself memory of all his experiences from childhood on returned to him. Everything he had heard from Madhuralalasa fit exactly. Amazed, he waited for the right moment to see Kalapurna. He told him that he had recovered his memory—and why. “It must be because the little girl, Madhuralalasa, told you all about that ascetic and his lust. That’s how I was freed from the curse.” He praised both the king and his wife. “I’m much happier now, with you, than I was as king of Maharastra. Let me stay with you forever.” The king sent him home with the honor due to a newfound relative.
Meanwhile, Kalapurna enjoyed making love to Madhuralalasa even more than before, because each time he learned something new and realized a new desire. And because the jewel touched each of their hearts at the same moment, each of them knew how much the other loved; so their delight was always strange and new.
Along with a vibrant imagination, Madhuralalasa was gifted with lucidity and elegance, because of the necklace. The king, whose past memories were brought back to life, trained her in music until she became an expert artist on the vina. When they embraced, she would tell the king about the good points and the weaknesses of his subordinates and rivals, for she had the good of all the citizens at heart.
One day, while he was discussing the peculiarities of the necklace with Madhuralalasa in private, he remembered that he had once composed a poem on a conversation between Lakshmi and Vishnu—the supreme goddess and god. This was in his former life, when he had visited the temple of Padmanabha sleeping on his snake, at Ananta-sayana.6 He wanted to hear Madhuralalasa sing that poem. So he said to her, “I’ve heard—from you, when you were a baby—that in a former life I composed a poem on Lakshmi and Vishnu in conversation. Have a look with the help of your jewel and sing it for me now. At the moment I embrace you, though I can see everything with total clarity, my love for you takes over.”
She said, “I love to do whatever you want me to do. I’ll sing the poem.” First she folded her hands in respect to the jewel of omniscience; then she called to mind the people through whom it came to her, starting from the end—Kalapurna, Alaghuvrata, Manikandhara, Krishna, the Brahmin, Sugraha, and the baby Krishna who sleeps on the banyan leaf. “May this line of my gurus bless me,” she prayed, and then sang the poem exactly as Manikandhara had composed it.7
There’s a world called Vaikuntha,
beyond the river of death,
where suffering stops.
In that world, there are no logicians,
no ritualists, no grammarians,
no arguments about what things mean.
All that is there is God,
Goddess, and their love.
On earth, people still suffer.
Even the goddess wonders why.
Is it because there are still gaps?
He’s always overflowing.
He’s always free.
There are places on earth
where God lives: Srirangam,
Tirupati, Ahobalam, Purushottama.
If you go there, you’ll find him.
“That,” said Madhuralalasa, “in short, is the poem you composed in that other life.”
Kalapurna was amazed at the power of God’s places and at the love that God has for his creatures. From that time on, he spent his life focused on Vishnu, ruling his kingdom in fairness. He had two sons, Suprasada, born to his first wife, and Sarasa, born to Madhuralalasa. He had no enemies capable of standing up to him in battle; or if there was one, he could cause no wound to Kalapurna’s soldiers; the worst he could do was to scratch with his fingernails on the breasts of the beautiful women who welcomed him into heaven after the king’s elephants had killed him.
Brahma promised that whoever hears or reads this story of Kalapurna, the perfect man, will live in wealth and happiness with his children and grandchildren. Keep this in mind. Read this story, all of you.
This story will become famous in all countries.
God, the dancing Krishna, has blessed it,
and so have all learned people who are addicted
to reading books.
O King Krishna of Nandyala from the line of Araviti Bukka: You are the grandson of Narayya and the son of Kondambika and Narasinga. You are true as the mountains. You heard it, too.
This is the eighth and final 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. Śiva is aṣṭa-mūrti, endowed with eight forms (the five elements plus the sacrificer, the sun, and the moon); he also slays Gajâsura, the elephant demon, and dances in his blood-soaked skin.
2. Vritra is the enemy of Indra, the king of the gods, in classical mythology and, as such, a dark force that blocks movement and swallows up space.
3. Also called Oḍḍīḍu, the king of Oḍhra-deśa = Orissa.
4. Note the shift from the far more usual glorification of the past in relation to the present. Here, as would suit the new sensibility of the period, the present and future are more interesting than the past.
5. Krishna, as a young infant, lies sucking his toe on a banyan leaf floating on the Ocean of Milk.
6. Trivandrum: see 4.37 (p. 67).
7. We have condensed this “conversation” considerably so that it can work in translation. The question at its center is Lakshmi’s thought addressed to Vishnu.