Text (compiled from over a hundred different sources)
and translation by Marin Angel Lazarov (2012–2022).
Many years ago, I began studying the poetic movement known as Chhayavad.
Chhayavad and its great poets, initially met with hostility by Indian critics, are now considered part of the ‘golden fund’ of Indian literature. The Chhayavad movement represents meditative lyric poetry, whose poetic world is constructed on the basic categories and philosophies of the Advaita Vedanta school, interpreted in the spirit of 19th-20th century Hindu philosophy. Elements of the traditional canon, whether images, poetic or aesthetic categories, abound in the poetry of this movement, creating a new ‘neo-Hindu’ context in Chhayavaad. For the first time in the history of Indian literature, poets were freed from the strict dictates of the medieval canon, which had been unquestioned until then, and expressed their inner world, thereby bringing about a fundamental shift in the history of poetic thought from the Middle Ages to the Modern era. From then on, poets wrote personally about how they perceived and felt the world, albeit using the language of traditional images and concepts.
Jaisankar Prasad (1889–1937), a leading Chhayavad scholar and essentially the founder of Chhayavaad, was a staunch Advaita; the theme of the unity of being, which he examined at all levels — philosophical, everyday, aesthetic — was his main theme. However, Buddhism, especially the figure of Emperor Ashoka (3rd century BC), the times when Brahmanism and Buddhism ‘swapped places,’ undoubtedly attracted his attention, and in particular the concepts of nirvana, shunyata, and samsara.
Prasad devoted several works to the fate of Buddhism in India. First and foremost among these is the historical novel Iravati, set in the ‘troubled’ times of the reign of the last emperor of the Maurya dynasty — the lustful and fanatical (as Prasad saw him) Buddhist Brihaspati Mitra, who, unlike his great and tolerant ancestor Ashoka, banned Hindu worship and exiled the famous temple dancer Iravati to a poverty-stricken Buddhist monastery, forbidding her to dance. Prasad was preoccupied with the fate of ordinary people during years of great turmoil and historical upheaval.
Two of Prasad’s short stories are dedicated to Ashoka: ‘Ashoka’ (Asoka, from the collection “Shadow” — Chaya) and ‘The Emperor’s Column’ (CakravartI ka stambh, from the collection ‘Echo’ — Pratidhwani), a translation of which I offer to the reader at the end of this article.
Of particular interest is Prasad’s short poem ‘Asoka’s Reflections’ (or ‘Asoka’s Doubts’ — Asoka kl cinta), in the note to which it is said: ‘Seeing the cruel murder that accompanied the victory over Kalinga, the emperor’s soul was wounded.’ The poem presents the reflections of Emperor Asoka after his crushing and bloody victory over the province of Kalinga. It is known that it was after the brutal war with this province that Asoka adopted Buddhism, giving it the status of a state religion.
Here is a translation of the poem (1):
The moth of life burns,
How many of them
Are there those fleeting sparks, those moths?
Greed reared its fiery crest —
Youth revealed its crimson splendour to the world!
But its burning brought no delight. Why?
The proud head of Magadha Pala at the feet of the victor.
Why, then, can we hear again The echo of sobs that pierces the soul?
It disgraces the victory.
Greedy swords,
Their sharp blades,
Crushing blows,
Piercing cries
Have today cast down the crown of Kalinga.
What power brought this victory?
Oh! It is the power of man!
It lifted a heavy mountain like a blade of grass,
Whose shadow hid the earth for two days.
But again the sun and moon shone (2).
That is the great deception of evil power:
When you drink the wine of the Formless (3),
A dangerous excitement arises.
It seems to man that happiness blossoms in his soul,
And he cannot distinguish victory from defeat.
Who gave the sign
To thoughtlessly tear down crowns,
To trample on victorious garlands,
To listen to the song of transience
And not move forward like a horseman?
That madhushala (4) of glory Awakened madness,
Falling, then rising,
Pouring wine into the cup.
This momentary feast moves!
In black curls,
In drunken, humble eyes, languor,
But suddenly diamonds flash Passionate, hungry desires for happiness
On the crest of a fleeting, uncertain wave.
But now, in the deserted hut of glory
The bells of broken anklets fall silent,
The beautiful child falls asleep,
Spilling the cup of happiness,
The wine falls silent, but the drum…
In this sky of blue sorrow
Happiness is like lightning.
It flashes at times in a sea of misfortune —
The long separation before a new meeting.
In this forest of desert mirages
It flashes like a frisky doe of the soul.
Drop by drop,
Filling the eyes of the river,
Tears flow.
But moisture can dry up in an instant.
Only the quiver of death remains full.
Pain is a weak soul,
A spectacle of the body’s suffering.
This is how Existence pulsates:
These are just changes in the spectacle.
How long has this evil performance been going on!
Karuna (5) sings her sad song,
The wind carries it,
Dawn grows sad,
Her face turns yellow,
And twilight melts into beautiful honey-yellow tones.
A beautiful ray of sunshine appears,
Stretching out a silken thread, —
And the eye comes to life,
Doubts subside.
Birds, sleeping until the time is right, awaken.
An instant encounter
Breaks through the long separation once again
And that one dawn will come
When a flower is born from the ashes.
How does it manage to be so beautiful?
O wounded feet of samsara,
Staggering as you wander!
O God, apply fragrant ointment to them!
Scatter delicate petals on her path!
Envelop her with the sweet breath of the spring wind!
The earth is burning, the universe is suffering,
Misfortune is everywhere.
Thorns are everywhere,
The sandy road is on fire.
A wave of sorrow flows.
The moth of life is burning.
Prasad’s poem ‘Reflections of Asoka’ (or ‘Doubts of Asoka’ — Asoka kl cinta) is written in the Chhayavad style: in Sanskritised language, using polysemous, abstract vocabulary, with a preference for unclear syntax and grammatical forms devoid of formal indicators. All this casts a kind of ‘haze of obscurity,’ contributing to the free interpretation of the text. The main thing here is the stream of consciousness, the stream of feelings, the embodiment of one of the basic ideas of Chhayavaad — the theme of the unity of existence as the indivisibility of grief and happiness, life and death, the eternity of this duality, and therefore the futility of achieving cloudless happiness and well-being on earth, its phantom nature, its illusory nature. Only ‘thoughtless, naive, ignorant youth, riding the clouds and pouring the wine of spring over the whole world,’ does not yet know that ‘spring is fraught with leaf fall.’ All these are clichéd images of Chhayavaad, which have found a certain place in the poem about Ashoka.
But Prasad could also write about Buddha in a different style, which is clearly evident in two poems from the cycle ‘The Wave’ (Lahar).
They are written simply, with no ambiguity whatsoever. One of these poems is about a real grove located on the ‘quiet marshy shore of Varuna,’ where streams flow and lotuses bloom. The word chhaya (‘shadow’), which in Chhayavad poetry usually appears in combinations such as ‘shadow of life,’ ‘shady path on which there is no rest,’ ‘shadow of maya,’ etc., here simply means ‘shadow from a tree’ (‘in the gentle shade of a tree, an intelligent conversation took place’). While in other verses the blush of dawn could ‘flow’ or ‘stream,’ here a gentle stream flows peacefully and simply. The word order is not disturbed, postpositions are rarely omitted, and impersonal verb forms are almost never used. The Chhayavada ‘play of shadows’ is replaced by specific events from the life of Buddha.
Here is a translation of the poem (6):
O quiet marshy shore of Varuna!
O love for the absence of desires in the ascetic!
Rest from eternal cares,
O grove — dwelling place of the rishis!
Brief salvation from the transience of the world,
dense grove of vines, trees and flowers!
In the silence of your huts, a pure deed is accomplished —
The pure union of heaven and earth, about which samsara sings.
O quiet, marshy shore of Varuna!
O love for the absence of desires in the ascetic!
In your groves, passionate philosophical conversations took place
About the birth of the gods, about the dreams of heaven.
In the gentle shade of the trees, intelligent conversations were held
About what part the mind will take, what the right of the heart is.
O quiet marshy shore of Varuna!
O love for the absence of desires in the ascetic!
Leaving behind earthly pleasures,
wealth and the elusive love of a beloved,
the tender heart of a father, the childish affection of a son,
determining the root cause of misfortune, liberating souls,
engaging in forest conversations,
Buddha himself came to your gates.
O quiet marshy shore of Varuna!
O love for the absence of desires in the ascetic!
The cool stream of water of liberation calmed the flames of the world.
To crush the burden of darkness
of misfortune, the swift Amitabha — an unearthly man,
Becoming a god, called out to the suffering, troubled souls:
“You yourselves can break the bonds of existence, you have every right to do so!
O quiet marshy shore of Varuna!
O love for the absence of desires in the ascetic!
Leave the straightness of life, choose the neutral path,
It will bring destruction to all misfortunes, and you will do it yourselves” —
Thus sounded the victorious cry of humanity of the universe,
In it, the voice of the Almighty could be heard!
O quiet marshy shore of Varuna!
O love for the absence of desires in the ascetic!
You are happy to bring this great word to the world,
You grow rich by giving it to the eternal earth.
And today, the echo of that word, spoken centuries ago, can be heard,
Responding to it, the universe rejoices.
In his poetry, Prasad is usually concerned with spiritual and emotional matters, while in his prose he deals with worldly life, but the deep theme of both his poetry and prose is always the same: the human personality, the meaning of existence, the great harmony of life and death.
I will quote a short story from the collection Pratidhvani, which is extremely characteristic in this sense. It is called ‘The Emperor’s Column’ (Cakravartl ka stambh) (7).
‘Who built it? How did they do it, old woman? What is written there?’ Sarliya pestered the old monk.
The old man looked thoughtfully at the grazing sheep. A sad veil of twilight covered the green hill rising on the riverbank, and it appeared to him in new colours. The sheep wandered leisurely along the slopes of the hill, as if drawing winding lines.
Sarlia pulled the monk by the hand and pointed to the column again, trying to get his attention.
The old man sighed:
“Long, long ago, daughter, the great Emperor Ashoka ordered this column to be built. On his orders, the rules of faith and good behaviour were carved on it. The emperor, ‘Beloved of the Gods’ (8), did not think that people would revere them as the word of God. But that is what happened. Then fanatics came and desecrated the holy place. Now, only a wandering monk ventures here, and even then, rarely.
The old man fell silent sadly and began to watch the blue evening descend. Sarlia settled down next to him. The guardian of the law, the lion (9), sitting on top of the column, slowly melted into the evening twilight.
Suddenly, a pious family appeared. Lamps were lit at the dilapidated stupa. Garlands of lights, incense, sacred flowers — and in an instant, everything shone as before. Sarlia’s soul stirred. She kept turning her gaze to the old monk, whose eyes were filled with tears. With tenderness in their hearts, they both joined the pilgrims and honoured the god in that stupa.
Suddenly, the sound of hooves broke the peaceful silence. And fear spread its darkness over the worshippers. Horsemen! With torches and sabres drawn! The stars closed their eyes in horror. The clouds prayed with tears, but the cruel warriors did not listen to them — they destroyed the lamps, tied up the ‘idolaters’ and took them to court for disobeying orders. Sarlia was also captured.
‘O warriors!’ the monk addressed them. ‘Do you have faith?’
‘The best!’ Islam!
‘And does it not command you to be merciful?’
There was no answer.
‘You call that faith, which knows no mercy?’
‘Why not?’ said another warrior. ‘Our faith also teaches us to be merciful. So commanded the Prophet! You are old, you can be pitied. Let him go!’
The old man was released.
— Oh no! Better take me, but release them. The one who ordered the decree to be merciful to all living things to be carved on this column was the emperor of the country you conquered. He subjugated many peoples, but he saw the light. You probably dream of becoming an emperor too, so why don’t you have mercy like him?
‘What is this madman talking about?’ said the first warrior. ‘You’d better remember, old man, that your minaret, where you worship your idol, must be destroyed!’
‘Baba! They’re taking us away,’ said Sarlia.
‘I am powerless,’ replied the monk. ‘There is no strength in these old hands. Trust in God’s mercy, my child. He teaches us that a heavenly reunion awaits those who are separated.’
The procession of violence set off. The stone did not have the power to soften the souls of the cruel warriors with its cry. But the clouds wept, seeing their silent moans. Lightning flashed, thunder rumbled menacingly. The rapists rushed to seek shelter, but it was too late. The lightning flashed dazzlingly, and at that very moment a crushing blow of thunder struck.
The lightning split the column, and it collapsed, unable to bear the sight that opened up before it. There were no prisoners, no executioners…
Almost a hundred years ago, Jayasankar Prasad died. Since then, the world has changed beyond recognition, but the problems raised by the Indian writer have proved to be strikingly relevant in our ‘new world’. Fanatics of different faiths still wage war against each other, and ordinary people still suffer from hunger, wars and natural disasters. Salvation can be found in mercy, tolerance, kindness and mutual understanding. This is what Jayasankar taught.
Notes:
1 Prasad Jayasankar. Lahar. Ilahabad, 1965, pp. 46-50.
2 Here Prasad refers to a well-known episode from the myth of Krishna-Giridhara: saving the villagers from a deadly rainstorm, Krishna lifted a mountain and held it like an umbrella on his outstretched arm.
3 Formless is one of the epithets of Kama, the god of passion and love.
4 Madhusala literally means ‘honey house’ (madhu ‘honey,’ sala ‘house, room, hall’). In literature, especially in poetry, it is perceived as a kind of house of seduction, a house of pleasures.
5 Karuna — literally, ‘sympathy, sorrow.’ In poetry — the image of a beautiful woman who is the personification of compassion and sorrow.
6 Prasad Jayasankar. Lahar, pp. 12-13.
7 Prasad Jayasankar. Pratidhvani. Ilahabad, 1955, pp. 52-54. The story is about a column erected by Emperor Ashoka (3rd century BC). ‘Ashoka’s enlightenment,’ i.e., his acceptance of Buddhism and, as a consequence of this act, his renunciation of war, his preaching of moral duty and the principles of righteous living, is one of the most common themes in Indian literature. The famous ‘Edicts of Ashoka,’ containing Buddhist doctrines and historical events, were carved on his orders on rocks, in caves and on specially erected columns. Fragments of these columns are still found in various parts of India today.
8 ‘Beloved of the Gods’ — literally, ‘pleasant to the gods’ (Sanskrit devanampriya, in Prasad — devapriya); an honorary title given to Ashoka.
9 Not far from Benares, the so-called lion capital of one of Ashoka’s columns was discovered. The sculptural image of a three-faced lion sitting on a pedestal has become a symbol of Northern India. The image of the details of the lion capital has been incorporated into the iconography of the coat of arms and flag of India.
Marin
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chhayavad
