Pradip Bhattacharya

Indologist, Mahabharata scholar

Mahabharata

He holds him with his glittering eye

By

RETURN OF THE RHAPSODE

Pradip Bhattacharya*

3rd November 2010 was a sad day for Mahabharata aficionados. That night saw the passing of Padma Shri Professor Purushottam Lal, 81, poet, publisher, teacher and transcreator of Vyasa’s greatest creation. Just a fortnight later his brother-in-law and classmate, Professor N. Viswanathan—thespian (stage and film), teacher, debater par excellance—also passed away. Both spent a lifetime teaching English in St.Xavier’s College, Calcutta. Those interested in the different facets of P. Lal’s personality will find much in the 70th birthday festschrift volume, Be vocal in times of beauty (Writers Workshop). Here let us share his contribution to Vyasa.

The attempts at translating in full the longest epic in the world began with H. Fauche’s French translation in 1863. He died in 1870 after finishing the 10th book (Karna Parva). L. Ballin took this forward till Book 12, when he too died. A new French translation by Guy Vincent and Gilles Schaufelbergerhas seen so far four volumes arranged thematically, not chronologically. The Russian translation started in 1941 by V. Kalyanov has completed 12 of the 18 books. In the USA, J.A.B. van Buitenen of Chicago University based his translation on the critical edition and died after finishing the first five books. A team of seven scholars is tackling the remaining parvas. The other American project of the Clay Sanskrit Library to translate the vulgate with Neelakantha’s commentary in diglot format has run out of sponsors after publishing eight parvas and parts of the rest in 15 volumes.

We have to revert to the 19th century for an almost complete English translation by Kisari Mohan Ganguli published by P.C. Roy (1883-1896). Another effort was undertaken a decade later by the Rector of Serampore College, M.N. Dutt (1895-1905). Both either omit or Latinise passages “for obvious reasons” in the Victorian ambience. In 1968 Professor P. Lal took up the first verse-by-verse transcreation of Vyasa’s monumental composition, revising it comprehensively in 2005. He had planned to finish it in 20 years, but 16 of the 18 books and half of the Shanti Parva have been published, leaving the Mokshadharma and Anushasana Parvas to be completed. In addition a Mahabharata-Katha series was published with introductions bringing out the significance of key episodes (eight have come out so far). Ganguli had P.C. Ray to sponsor him. Lal transcreated and published single-handed—a unique achivement. His is the only English version of Vyasa that shifts sensitively from verse to prose and vice-versa, following the complete vulgate text shloka-by-shloka.

No one, however, dreamt of recreating the epic as an oral-aural experience. Yet, that is what the Mahabharata is. The itinerant rhapsode Ugrashrava Sauti, son of the suta Lomaharshana (whose recitation horripilated the audience with a hair-raising experience), recites it to the hermits participating in sage Shaunaka’s great sacrificial ritual in the forest of Naimisha. Sauti reproduces what he had heard Vaishampayana recite to King Janamejaya in the presence of the composer during the intervals of the Naga-holocaust. It was in October 1999, near the turn of the millennium, that Padma Shri Prof. P.Lal, D.Litt., Jawaharlal Nehru Fellow, began to read his transcreation to a live audience. A twenty-first century Sauti had arrived in the Sanskriti Sagar library. Dictated to Ganesha, taught to Vaishampayana who recited it to King Janamejaya, that oral and aural experience was sought to be conveyed to an English-knowing audience, keeping the Indian flavour intact. Ratikanta Basu, CEO of TARA TV, realizing the signal contribution this was making in turning the world’s largest epic into a live experience, began to telecast the reading in segments. On the Writers Workshop completing fifty years of publication, the Governor of West Bengal, Shri Gopal Krishna Gandhi, released in early 2009 the first instalment of ten DVDs of the telecasts with the text in a companion volume in a gorgeously produced presentation box. Aficionados of Vyasa will be grateful to Tara TV.

Those who have read the professor’s earlier editions (beginning with monthly fascicules in 1968), or his riveting valedictory address to the Sahitya Akademi’s national seminar on the epic in 1987, will be mistaken if they give this recording a miss. The introductory talk is a completely new and brilliant overview of the key issues in the Mahabharata, unique as much for its insights as for its style. The Professor is, after all, at his best delivering a lecture. It is spiced with inimitable touches of punning sarcasm (“This is the mother of all epics; in fact, the grandmother of all epics”; “The battle of Kurukshetra—call it genocide, parricide, gurucide, suicide—whatever; such brotherly butchery!” Or, “The fathering of Yudhishthira by Vidura is one of the best kept open secrets”).

Prof. Lal begins with a question: “When, how why did a mini-Bharata, a katha of 20,000 shlokas (sic.  the figure is 24000) become a Mahabharata a kavya of more than one lakh shlokas?” Sauti tells us that it took three years for Vyasa, composing daily, to complete his kavya (1.62.55, 66). Perhaps the most famous shloka of the epic, the most quoted, says Prof. Lal, is the one that says, “What is in this epic on Dharma, Artha, Kama, Moksha may be elsewhere. What is not in this epic is nowhere else” (1.62.67). Is Vyasa, then, suggesting that the kavya has an answer to every problem in life, provide a cure-all for ills of world, a universal panacea? Strangely enough, that is what he is claiming. All scriptures and shastras were weighed against it and the Mahabharata tipped the scale, “heavier than all those other respected heavies. And as it was heavier, had more “bhaara” it was known as Bhaarata. The perfect panacea.” But there is another meaning of the word that Prof. Lal overlooks: “war” (cf. Bhasa’s Karnabhaara). Emperor Akbar knew this. That is why, when he commissioned the Persian adaptation in 1582, he named it Razm Nama, the Book of War.

“What, in medical jargon, is the Rx?” queries the Professor. This is what worries Arjuna on Kurukshetra, having the deepest conscientious objection to war. Krishna gives him options: various yogas, the bloody end of the Dvapara Yuga, the extinction of the Kshatriyas. Krishna will not fight for him—that is his business. “You decide what is right for you. You are free to choose—yatha icchasi tatha kuru”, he says. Arjuna responds, “You are confusing me with bewildering choices—this isn’t fair. Tell me that one truth by which I may know you.” The point, Prof. Lal asks, is there a one truth, a single magic formula, presented by Vyasa in this epic tale?

Perhaps because of the multiple layers of meaning Vyasa insisted that his stenographer, lekhaka, Ganesha understand each word before taking it down. “For what is the point of listening without understanding and assimilating? The language enshrines ideas and values; the style is only the tool. What matters is the meaning.” Take the four purusharthas, for instance, the fourfold goal of human life. What is Vyasa recommending: should we chase after money or the meaning of money (Artha); lust or love (Kama) and at the root of both is sex and you cannot do without sex; ritual or spirituality (Dharma); run away from life or transcend it (Moksha)? For Prof. Lal, Vyasa’s one message is: transform yourself— do not deny, do not denounce, do not blame. Transform money into the meaning of money; lust into love; ritual into spiritual; escape into liberation. But, as Krishna-Narayana (divinity in humanity), tells Arjuna-Nara (humanity in divinity), “You are free to choose.” Our problem is: why does pacifist Arjuna turn militarist? Why does Yudhishthira not refuse to lie? Why does Bhima hit below the belt? Why does Arjuna kill Bhishma and Karna unfairly? Why does Nara take the ignoble way to victory, which, each time, is suggested by Narayana? Questions that tease us out of thought into eternity.

So many characters; such a bewildering Cecil B. DeMilleian cast! Who is the hero to focus our attention upon? The benediction gives some hints— though not very satisfactory.

narayanam namaskritya, naramchaiva narottamam /

devim sarasvatim chaiva tato jaya udirayet //

“We namaskara Narayana, Nara and Narottama

We namaskara goddess Sarasvati and utter “jaya”, “victory”.

Prof. Lal chooses a different version occurring in the Bhagavata Purana where “Sarasvatim chaiva” is replaced by “Sarasvatim Vyasam”, a modification added by the Suta reciting the received epic, praising the composer who, by then, is seen as a part-avatara of Vishnu. Jaimini, one of the disciples to whom Vyasa taught the epic, also uses this benediction in his version of the Ashvamedha Parva, understandably paying tribute to his guru.

The clue, Prof. Lal says, lies right before us, as in the best detective stories, and we fail to see it. He points to the first word in the opening invocation, “Narayana”, who is Krishna, the crux of the Mahabharata, without whom it is Shakespeare’s Hamlet without the prince of Denmark. It is all about “wonder-working war” in which Krishna, the omniscient hero, is present but will not fight. Nara will get no direct physical help. Narayana knows the best route to travel, but will not take us until we, Nara, tell him where we want him to take us.

“He is the conscience that clarifies the confusion. If we still remain confused that is our problem, our karma, our tragedy, our hell. You can’t blame Krishna. It is Gandiva wielding Arjuna’s decision to fight even after he is convinced that killing gurus, relatives, friends is a heinous crime.”

The startling fact is that he is given a vishvarupa darshana of Krishna’s divinity on the battlefield, yet not one of the 18 akshauhinis of soldiers sees or hears a word of the dialogue. Only Arjuna sees and hears. “It is a private struggle between his good and anti-good gunas, an inspiring conflict of conscience.” Why does he decide to fight and choose war despite Krishna’s warning that it will lead to their clans’ extinction? Krishna is the omniscient hero who advises Yudhishthira how to get Drona to lay down arms. Yudhishthira could have refused to tell the half lie. Why did he not? Bhima cannot defeat Duryodhana in fair fight unless he follows Krishna’s hint to hit below the belt. Why does he take that hint? Unarmed Karna and Bhishma are slain by Arjuna also on his advice. Why does Nara take the expedient, selfish way and reject the noble?

Yet, we find that the first Arabic summary of the epic by Abu-Saleh in 1026 AD is astonishingly innocent of this overwhelming presence. Is Krishna’s role in the war a later interpolation?

After the war Vidura, having tried to console Dhritarashtra with the story of the man in the well (that travelled to Europe to become the biblical “Barlaam and Josaphat”), teaches Yudhishthira a lesson when he wishes to commit suicide after the war finding a devastated kingdom, all kith and kin dead, by suggesting that he first find out what is common to river, tree, earth and woman. Yudhishthira turns back from suicide because he finds this out: slice a river and it flows on, fertilising the land; cut a branch and new shoots sprout; pollute the land and it produces food; exploit a woman and she gives progeny and ensures the continuity of civilization—all without casting blame or taking revenge. Physical suffering is transformed into fruitful creativity. Yudhishthira will blame no one, neither himself nor Krishna, but rule nobly, creatively.

 “Learn! Vyasa urges. Learn from my life how to live as human beings should. For if you don’t, calamity awaits you and all around you. Utthishtha, stand up, wake up, learn and… charaiveti, keep moving. No regrets, no blame, no accusation; only transformation of pain and suffering into creativity and progress. That is the lesson of the Mahabharata.”

Yet, at the very end, in verses renowned as the “Bharata Savitri” why does Vyasa exclaim

urdhvabahur viraumyeṣa naca kashchich chhriṇoti me /

dharmad arthash ca kamash ca sa kimarthaṁ na sevyate //

“I raise my arms and I shout

but no one listens!

From Dharma come wealth and pleasure—

why is Dharma not practised?”

Prof. Lal provides a brief background before beginning the recitation. He gives the time of the war roughly at 3000 BC, the exact year being a matter of dispute. It is a pyrrhic victory. The kingdom is handed over to Parikshit, the grandson of Arjuna, but entrusted to Yuyutsu, Dhritarashtra’s youngest son by a Vaisya woman, to supervise. Indraprastha with its wondrous hall of illusions is left to the Yadava Vajra, Krishna’s great grandson. So who finally was the victor in this fratricidal holocaust? Duryodhana or Yudhishthira? In heaven Yudhishthira is shocked to find Duryodhana and his brothers ensconced on golden thrones, with no sign of his brothers and Draupadi! “This is not svarga!” he exclaims.

Parikshit rules for 60 yrs. His son Janamejaya organises a massive snake sacrifice to annihilate all snakes because one—Takshaka, a terrorist who plays a very important role in the entire Mahabharata—fatally bit his father. By this time a century has passed since the war ended. Janamejaya is very curious to know exactly what happened. He has heard conflicting reports about his ancestors; varying and worrying accounts about how, why and when the gruesome carnage began that ended the Dvapara Yuga, wiping out both armies.

“The entire epic is a flashback a century since the war. Janamejaya wants to know about his family tree, its roots, shoots and fruits—mula, sthula,and phula—whether sweet or bitter… The starting point of the greatest epic in the world is all about family roots, which one human being wants to know. For, how else can he know himself—for isn’t he the latest leaf on that tree?”

And so the narration by Vyasa’s disciple Vaishampayana during the intervals of the sacrificial ritual of “this story, which is also a history, an itihasa, (so it is, so it happened), the autobiography of one man (Vyasa himself), a record of one family (the Kaurava-Pandava cousins), a chronicle of one country Bharata that is India, and a symbolic universal drama of mankind slowly evolving through dissension and war to self-knowledge and peace— hopefully. It is fundamentally an aural epic spoken by Vyasa to his stenographer Ganesha who is pledged to understand every word before he takes it down.

Prof. Lal’s is the only English translation that sensitively shifts from verse to prose and vice-versa as the original demands, following the complete vulgate version shloka-by-shloka. As he does not leave out passages as the critical edition does, it is possibly the most complete edition of Vyasa’s composition that is available. However, it does not have many passages occurring in the southern and eastern recensions (such as Arjuna’s wooing of Subhadra disguised as a hermit, Draupadi’s previous births as Nalayani, Mudgalani, Vedavati, Abhimanyu’s marriage to Balarama’s daughter Surekha etc.). The discs cover the introduction (memorable for Dhritarashtra’s plangent lament tada nashamse vijayeya Sanjaya, “Then I no longer hoped for victory, Sanjaya”), the list of contents, the chapters on Paushya, Puloma, Astika (including the archetypal churning of the ocean, the wondrous story of Garuda and the snake sacrifice), the partial incarnations (including Vyasa’s birth and the war summarised), cutting off abruptly at verse 21 of section 66 of the Sambhava sub-parva recounting the descendants of Brahma’s sons.

The reading is uniformly mellifluous in Professor Lal’s impeccable Indo-Oxonian accent, interspersed with his recitation of significant Sanskrit shlokas from the original. The accompanying background music of temple bells and blowing of conches is delicately muted so that nothing interferes with the camera’s concentration on the rhapsode. One might feel that the unaltered sameness of the studio palls, but that is the price we pay in modern times for having replaced seating under verdant shadows of swaying branches with the unchanging décor of airconditioned recording studios. 

Do not look, however, for colophons, chapter headings, annotations, glossaries, list of contents—the rhapsode does not need them!

Let us thrill to the evocative verses describing Creation transcreated with biblical resonance:

“At first, there was no light,

no radiance, only darkness;

then was born the egg of Brahma,

exhaustless and mighty seed of life…

from which flow being and non-being.”

Savour the riveting descrip­tion of Meru, evoking profound archetypal memories:

“There is a mountain called Meru,

a flaming heap

of splendour.

Sunlight falls on it

and scatters

at the summit.

It is golden: it glitters:

It cannot be measured:…

Mind cannot

conceive of it.”

Delight in the lovely description of what happens when Garuda lets fall the massive bough on a mountain:

            They fell on the ground,

                        these gold-bright trees,

            They were coloured with the gold

                        of mountain minerals,

            They looked like the long rays

                        of the flaming sun.

*****

* International HRD Fellow (Manchester), Ph.D. on the Mahabharata; IIM Calcutta Governing Board member; editorial board member of Journal of Human Values (IIMC) and MANUSHI. Retired as Additional Chief Secretary, Chairman State Planning Board, Chairman Uttaranchal Unnayan Parshat, Govt. of West Bengal.

The Modern Sauti

By

P. Lal: The Mahabharata of Vyasa, Adi Parva-1, transcreated from Sanskrit, Tara TV, 10 DVDs + printed volume.

The 50th anniversary of Writers Workshop was celebrated in Kolkata in early 2009 with the Governor Gopal Krishna Gandhi releasing the first instalment of Tara TV’s production of Padma Sri and Nehru Fellow Professor P. Lal’s recitation of his Mahabharata transcreation. These ten DVDs are unique. There are no other recordings of Vyasa’s monumental work in English, verse-by-verse. The packaging in a red box with the title embossed in gold in P. Lal’s signature calligraphy is a connoisseur’s delight. The discs carry an excellent photograph of the transcreator and are complemented by the printed text in a hardbound, gold-embossed edition.

Ratikanta Basu, P. Lal, Gopal Krishna Gandhi

The epic journey of the Lal transcreation began towards the end of 1968 taking the form of monthly fascicules. From 2005 he published extensively revised editions, each parva in a single volume. Now 16 ½ of the 18 parvas are in print, except for the Mokshadharma part of the Shanti and the Anushasana—the only modern English version to have gone that far.[i] Only K.M. Ganguli and M.N Dutt had complete prose translations in the late 1890s, but both omitted portions of the text. This is the only transcreation that incorporates what the Bhandarkar Critical Edition has omitted, and is also the only one to follow faithfully the original’s verse and prose formats (all others are only in prose). That is where Prof. Lal’s poetic genius lends a unique flavour to this version. Those who have read his monthly fascicules will be mistaken if they give this recording a miss. The spoken introduction is a new and brilliant overview of the key issues in the Mahabharata, unique as much for its insights as its style. The Professor is, after all, at his best delivering a lecture. It is spiced with inimitable touches of punning sarcasm (“The battle of Kurukshetra— call it genocide, parricide, gurucide, suicide— whatever; such brotherly butchery!” Or, “The fathering of Yudhishthira by Vidura is one of the best kept open secrets”). One turns to the accompanying volume to savour the rich feast of insights, only to find it missing.

Vyasa begins, Prof. Lal points out, with an amazingly pompous claim to have all the answers: “What is here may be elsewhere; what is not here is nowhere else.” All scriptures and shastras were weighed against it and Mahabharata tipped the scale, “heavier than all the respected heavies. As it had more “bhaara” it was known as Bhaarata.” But another meaning of the word the prince of transcreators overlooks is “war” (cf. Bhasa’s Karnabhara). Akbar knew this. When he commissioned the Persian adaptation in 1582, he named it Razm Nama, the Book of War.

Perhaps because of such multiple layers of meaning Vyasa insisted that Ganesha understand each word before writing it down. “For what is the point of listening without understanding and assimilating? The language enshrines ideas and values; the style is only the tool. What matters is the meaning.” Should we chase money or the meaning of money (artha); lust or love (kama); ritual or spirituality (dharma); escape from life or transcend it (moksha)? For Prof. Lal, Vyasa’s one message is: transform yourself—transform money into the meaning of money; lust into love; ritual into spiritual; escape into transcendence. But, as Krishna-Narayana (divinity in humanity), tells Arjuna-Nara (humanity in divinity), “You are free to choose.” Why does pacifist Arjuna turn militarist? Why does Yudhishthira not refuse to lie? Why does Bhima hit below the belt? Why does Arjuna kill Bhishma and Karna unfairly? Why does Nara take the ignoble way to victory?

The clue lies right in front, as in the best detective stories, and we fail to see it. Prof. Lal points to the first word in the opening invocation: “Narayana” who is Krishna, the crux of the Mahabharata, without whom it is Shakespeare’s Hamlet without the prince of Denmark. It is all about “wonder-working war” in which Krishna, the omniscient hero, is present but will not fight. Narayana knows the best route to travel, but will not drive until we, Nara, tell him where to take us. Yet, the first Arabic summary of the epic by Abu-Saleh in 1026 AD is astonishingly innocent of this presence. Is Krishna’s role in the war a later interpolation?

After the war Vidura, having tried to console Dhritarashtra with the story of the man in the well (that became the biblical “Barlaam and Josaphat”) teaches Yudhishthira a lesson when he wishes to commit suicide by suggesting that he first find out what is common to river, tree, earth and woman. Slice a river and it flows on, fertilising the land; cut a branch and new shoots sprout; plough the land and it produces food; exploit a woman and she gives progeny and ensures the continuity of civilization—all without blame or revenge. Physical suffering is transformed into fruitful creativity. “Learn! Vyasa urges. Learn from my life how to live as a human being should, otherwise calamity awaits you and all around you. Utthishtha, stand up, wake up, learn and charaiveti, keep moving. No regret, no blame, only transformation of pain and suffering into creativity and progress.” Yet, at the end why does Vyasa shout with arms uplifted, “From dharma come wealth and pleasure. Why, is dharma not practised?” Hastinapura is entrusted to Yuyutsu, begotten by Dhritarashtra on a maid, as the regent; Indraprastha is left to the Yadava Vajra, Krishna’s great grandson.

The entire epic is a flashback a century since the war. Janamejaya wants to know about his family tree, its roots, shoots and fruits, whether sweet or bitter. How else can he know himself—for he is the latest leaf on that tree. And so his ancestor Vyasa narrates his story which is also the history, itihasa, of a country, the chronicle of one family, a symbolic universal drama of mankind slowly evolving through dissension and war to self-knowledge and peace— hopefully.

Dictated to Ganesha and recited to Janamejaya, that oral and aural experience is sought to be conveyed to an English-knowing audience, keeping the Indian flavour intact. Aficionados of Vyasa will be grateful to Tara TV for this signal contribution. The advantage is that the ear catches what the eye has missed in print. In section 63, verse 102 the translation erroneously has Kunti emerging from a yajna-fire having misread” jajne” (“beget”; Surya and Kunti beget Karna) for “yajne” (“from yajna”). Prof. Lal’s is the only English version that sensitively shifts from verse to prose and vice-versa, following the complete “vulgate” shloka-by-shloka. The disks cover the introduction (memorable for Dhritarashtra’s plangent lament), the list of contents, the chapters on Paushya, Puloma, Astika (including the archetypal churning of the ocean, the wondrous story of Garuda and the snake sacrifice), the partial incarnations (including Vyasa’s birth and the war summarised). It cuts off abruptly at verse 21 of section 66 of the Sambhava parva. A bookmark would have been helpful to mark the page where a disk ends instead of having to hunt through the 264 pages every time. Do not look for colophons, chapter headings, annotations, glossaries, list of contents. The rhapsode does not need them.

We thrill to the evocative verses describing Creation transcreated with biblical resonance:

“At first, there was no light,

no radiance, only darkness;

then was born the egg of Brahma,

exhaustless and mighty seed of life…

from which flow being and non-being.”

Or savour the lovely descrip­tion of Meru, evoking profound archetypal memories within us:

“There is a mountain called Meru,

a flaming heap

of splendour.

Sunlight falls on it

and scatters

at the summit.

It is golden: it glitters:

It cannot be measured:…

Mind cannot

conceive of it.”

Pradip Bhattacharya, International HRD Fellow (Manchester), retired as Additional Chief Secretary, West Bengal. His PhD is on the Mahabharata.

[i] My translations of the Mokshadharma part of the Shanti Parva and the complete Anushasana Parva have been published by Writers Workshop.

A Malay Version of the Mahabharata

By

Fascinating variations of the Ramayana and the Mahabharata are found in South-East Asian countries. A compendious study of these is yet to be made. Most Ramayana variations were summarised by Fr. Camille Bulcke in his encyclopaedic study of the Rama story in Hindi (cf. English translation by Pradip Bhattacharya, The Rama Story—Origin and Growth, Sahitya Akademi, 2022). Nothing similar exists for the Mahabharata. Now Professor Harry Aveling  of Monash University has complemented his translation of Hikayat Seri Rama, the Malay Ramayana (2020) by rendering into English a Malay Pandava Chronicle (Hikayat Pandava Lima, Writers Workshop, Kolkata, 2024, pp. 309, hardback Rs.1200). This is but one of the many versions of the Mahabharata in South East Asia, drawing upon the old Javanese Bharatayuddha (1157-59 CE), Ghatokachasraya and Hariwangsa. Dated vaguely (1350-1700?), the anonymous Hikayat Pandava Lima (HPL) was meant for recitation in the royal court. HPL, Aveling suggests, is a collection of scripts for staging with actors or puppets. The heroic episodes are peppered with erotica and clowning, e.g. Rajuna (Arjuna) having fun at the expense of his attendants Semar and Chemura.

Claiming to relate in Malay the Javanese story of their ancestors, the Indian source is obvious. Mantras are in Javanese. The Islamic influence is apparent in Darmawangsa’s (Yudhishthira) infallible supreme-weapon named kalima sada (kalima shahadah, declaration of faith) and in scribal notes that resurrection and rebirth are false. Pandawas have talismanic weapons: Rajuna’s pasupati arrow (not the Gandiva bow) and Bima’s (Bhima) panchanaka, his long sharp nail that pierces fatally, besides a massive mace. The influence of Telegu, Tamil and Malayalam folk-tales is clear in several episodes. Replete with adventures and romance, the flavour is much like that of the Kathasaritsagara (c.11th century) and Dashakumaracharita (c.8th century). The publisher Ananda Lal’s list of original Sanskrit names of major characters is extremely helpful in navigating through the plethora of persona peopling the chronicle. Strangely enough, Dhritarashtra, Gandhari, Ulupi, Chitrangada do not feature.

Eveling seeks to convey the Malayan syntax by replacing the word maka, which acts as a bridge between sentences, by the double forward slash (//) hoping “to show the self-contained lines of prose that the word marks off…allow the reader the progress of the text in a slow and aesthetic manner.” Otherwise, it would become a series of staccato sentences.

Eveling splits HPL into three parts: (1) Games of Love and Chance; (2) The Great War and (3) After the War. Beginning in media res with the dice game (as Satyajit Ray had planned to begin his film on the Mahabharata), the chronicle’s last part is the most novel, dealing with Rajuna’s (Arjuna) obsession with Duryudana’s (Duryodhana) widow Banuwati (Bhanumati) and his duel with his thousand-handed namesake Rajuna Sarabahu. Part One draws heavily upon the highly popular Telegu tale of Abhimanyu’s (Bimanyu) love for Sasirekha (Satya Sundari) depicted in shadow puppetry (Tholu bommalata), Yakshagana and Kuchipudi.

There are significant departures from the Mahabharata. Rajuna has two wives: Draupadi and Serikandi (Shikhandi) who swears to fight for the Pandavas. Rajuna turns into an inveterate philanderer. On Duryudana’s command Sangkuni (Shakuni) transforms into dice and Arya Manggala becomes the gambling table. After losing the dice-game, Darmawangsa sends Draupadi back to Inderpasta (Indraprastha) where she remains till the Pandavas return from exile. Darmawangsa has to groom horses. Bima is the gatekeeper who never opens the gate so that people unable to access the river relieve themselves inside filling Duryudana’s palace with stink. Rajuna is the gardener seducing all Duryudana’s concubines and his wife Banuwati. Duryudana, furious, turns to Drona who advises that the Pandavas be ordered to dive into the river to recover an arrow. A dragon living there swallows them but Bima rips open its belly and they proceed to the city of Merchunegara ruled by Wurgadewa. The entire forest-exile is omitted. Draupadi and Kichaka are absent. The Pandavas are disguised as the king’s priest, chief butcher, female dress-maker and grooms. The cross-dressing Rajuna seduces the queens as well as wives and daughters of all ministers, ignoring Darmawangsa’s disapproval. None of the queens are willing to be with Wurgadewa thereafter! The sharing of betel quid is a major step in seduction. Elaborate descriptions of beautiful heroines compared to a variety of flowers abound.

Bimanyu’s love-sickness for Krishna’s daughter Satya Sundari is an elaborate episode filled with romantic descriptions of nature and of both protagonists. While following the Telegu tale, it introduces a horrific gigantic goddess Durga seated on a golden throne surrounded by goblins, skulls and blood, recalling the Bheel Bharata. She who appoints Gatotkacha to fulfil Bimanyu’s desire. Later, Bimanyu falls madly in love with Dewi Utari (Uttara) daughter of Maharaja Mangaspati of Wirata, enraging Satya Sundari, which reminds us of Draupadi’s anger when Subhadra arrives as Arjuna’s new bride. She gets reconciled after Bimanyu recites an obscene spell taught by Rajuna. Krishna has no objection, as he himself has twenty wives!

After thirteen years, ordered by Indera (Indra) to return to Inderapasta, the Pandavas arrive and find Karna has taken Kunti to Astinapura (Hastinapura). Setyaki (Satyaki) is Kunti’s brother. The Korawas are 107 brothers. Kunti bids Duryudana give Astinapura to the Pandavas as it is their inheritance, but he refuses.

The Great War is preceded by another that is unique to this chronicle. Wurgadeva demands that Darmawangsa hand over Utari and Satya Sundari to him as they are reincarnations of his late wife. A battle occurs in which Krishna, Baladewa and Gatotkacha join the Pandavas. Rajuna kills Wurgadeva. Commanded by Betara Guru (the supreme deity), the Pandavas agree to the slain being resurrected by the sprinkling of Sempayang Merta Jiwa water (mritasanjivani). Similar innovations occur in the apocryphal Dandi Parva  where Pandavas and Kauravas jointly fight Krishna over Urvashi transformed into a mare; in Kavi Sanjay’s 15th century Bengali Mahabharata  in which Draupadi and the Yadava women rout the Kauravas after the killing of Abhimanyu; and in Tamil tales of Arjuna’s philandering helped by Krishna.

The Kurukshetra war mostly follows the Mahabharata, omitting the Gita and Krishna’s cosmic form. That occurs only when Duryudana tries to capture him during his peace embassy. On the battlefield when Rajuna does not wish to fight, Krishna is amazed. Thereupon Darmawangsa goes afoot to Bisma (Bhishma) and obtains his blessings for victory. The fallen Bisma bids Rajuna provide a mat, rejecting Duryudana’s golden five-layered mat. Rajuna spreads out arrows on which Bisma gladly lies. When Bahgadata (Bhagadatta) kills Rajuna, Krishna resurrects him with his wijaya kusama (victory flower). Karna breaks Bimanyu’s bow and weeps over his corpse. After Gatotkacha’s death his mother Arimbi (Hidimba) weeps with Kunti and Draupadi and then plunges into his pyre.

Moving romantic interludes are introduced featuring Karna and his wife Sinta Kunti, Salya and his queen Satyavati before their deaths. Karna’s chariot is destroyed instead of getting bogged down. Salya tells Sakula (Nakula) how Darmawangsa can kill him. Battle-descriptions are formulaic and become tedious, with elaborate accounts of chariots, horses, flags, weapons, blood and gore and heroes running amok. Those victorious are invariably presented a full set of clothes and ornaments by the king. The mass-mourning of the Stri Parva is replaced by Satyavati’s lament. She commits suicide over Salya’s corpse, followed by her maid Skanda. Unable to bear the pain of his shattered thighs, Duryudana begs the Pandavas to kill him but Bima’s club-blows fail because the deities decree that death will come only after the Pandavas have been beheaded. This occurs after Bambang Sutomo (Ashvatthama) brings him the head of Panji Kumara, son of Darmawangsa. Bima skins Sutomo alive.

Sangkuni (Shakuni) resurrects after Bima kills him by virtue of his magical panji suata. With the remaining Korawa troops he builds a fortress in Inderaguna forest. Krishna bids his son Parjaman to kill Sangkuni but he is afraid, whereupon the Pandawas give him their talismans. Sangkuni transforms into a second Mount Imaguna, is attacked by the Pandawas and mortally wounds Darmawangsa by piercing his shadow (in a Malayalam tale Duryodhana does this to the Pandavas). Sadewa kills Sangkuni and drops his ashes into the sea so that he cannot resurrect.

The post-war portion is filled with unique tales. Bima kills Dursana, Bahgadatta and Karna’s widows but Rajuna saves Banumati and marries her. The Pandavas return to Mertawangsa while Rajuna settles in Astinapura with Banumati. Here Duryudana’s spirit possesses him and he fights against his brothers. Darmawangsa exorcises the spirit whereupon reconciliation occurs, but he curses Rajuna with leprosy. With Banumati he lives in a hut in Inderaguna forest. Krishna seeks him out but Rajuna refuses to return as he is grieving for his wife Serikandi. Krishna advises him to take Ratnawati, wife of hundred-headed Rajuna Sasrabahu (Arjuna Sahasrabahu), who is like Serikandi. In an elaborate battle Sasrabahu is killed only when Rajuna severs a tiny head hidden behind his left ear. This has a parallel in the folk tradition of one of Ravana’s heads being a donkey’s. Ratnawati kills Rajuna but Krishna resurrects him with a wijayamala flower. To stop the fleeing Ratnawati, Rajuna shoots off her garments and captures her. Sasrabahu is resurrected by Narada on orders of Begawan Guru so that he can complete worshipping him. Krishna takes Rajuna and Banumati back to Mertawangsa where Darmawangsa forgives and cures him.

The massacre of Yadavas is changed into a celebration on the sea-beach by them and the Pandawas during which Krishna and Rajuna dry up the sea-bed to provide a playfield for wives. Enraged, Singabiraja, king of ghosts and rakshasas living in mid-ocean, kidnaps Parkasti (Parikshit). Rajuna beheads him and rescues his grandson. After crowning Parikasti, the Pandawas are told by Narada that Begawan Guru and Indera have summoned them to heaven. So, Darmawangsa stabs himself with the weapon bajrima. Bima tells Narada to kill him by hitting under his ear. Instead, he breaks Bima limbs with his club as punishment because he had caused pain to so many and only then kills him. Rajuna is stabbed by the pasupati; Sakula and Sadewa stab themselves. Draupadi, Subadra, Banuwati and Ratnawati plunge into the pyre. Parikasti places the urns containing the ashes in a temple.

The chronicle concludes with the exhortation to omit whatever offends and expand whatever pleases. “I have done what I could” says the chronicler.

FOUR PARABLES

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The parable of the Kalpataru, the wish-fulfilling tree, narrated by Sri Ramakrishna.[1]

আয়ে মন বেড়াতে যাবি

কালী কল্পতরুতলে গিয়া

চারি ফল কুড়ায়ে খাবি—রামপ্রসাদ সেন

“Come my mind to go a-roaming.

Going to Kālī the Wish-Fulfilling-Tree

Pick up and eat four fruits.”—Ramaprasad Sen (mid-18th century, West Bengal)

The Spiritual Meaning of the Upside Down Tree

Into a room full of children at play walks the proverbial uncle, back from the city, who, of course, knows better. Laughing at their preoccupation with make-believe games, he asks them to lift up their eyes and go out to the massive banyan tree, which will grant them whatever they wish—the real stuff! The children do not believe him and remain busy with their toys. The uncle shrugs and leaves. And then they rush out, stand under the branches of this huge tree that cover the sky and ask for what all children crave: toys and sweets. In a flash they get what they want, but along with an unexpected bonus: the built-in opposite of what they wished for. With toys they get boredom; with sweets tummy-ache. Sure that something has gone wrong with their wishing, the children ask for bigger toys and sweeter sweets. The tree grants them their wishes and along with them bigger boredom and bigger tummy-ache. Time passes. They are now young men and women and their wishes change, for they know more. They ask for wealth, power, fame, sexual pleasure—and they get these, but also cupidity, insomnia, anxiety, and frustration/disease. Time passes. The wishers are now old and gather in three groups under the all-encompassing branches. The first group exclaims, “All this is an illusion!” Fools, they have learnt nothing. The second group says, “We are wiser and will wish better next time.” Greater fools, they have learnt less than nothing. The third group, disgusted with everything, decides to cop out and asks for death. They are the most foolish of all. The tree grants them their desire and, with it, its opposite: rebirth, under the same tree. For, where can one be born, or reborn, but within this cosmos!

All this while one child has been unable to move out of the room. Being lame, he was pushed down in the scramble and when he dragged himself to the window, he was transfixed watching his friends make their wishes, get them with their built-in opposites and suffer, yet compulsively continue to make more wishes. Riveted by this utterly engrossing lila of desire and its fruits, a profound swell of compassion welled up in the heart of this lame child, reaching out to his companions. In that process, he forgot to wish for anything for himself. In that moment of spontaneous compassion for others, he sliced through the roots of the cosmic tree with the sword of non-attachment, of nishkama karma. He is the liberated one, the mukta purusha.

In Anti-Memoirs Andre Malraux writes that in Varanasi an Indian suddenly came up to him and said, “Mr. Malraux Sahib, would you like to listen to a story?” Taken aback, Malraux muttered that he was going to an official meeting. “But this is a very good story,” was the insistent reply. Malraux, perforce, agreed and here is the story he heard:

Narada, the itinerant divine sage roaming the three worlds, sowing seeds of discord and inveterate experimenter, goes up to Vishnu and demands that Maya be explained to him. Vishnu is silent. Narada is not one to be denied. He insists so persistently that the god has to answer him. “Maya cannot be explained, it has to be experienced,” he says. “If you can’t explain what you create, then I won’t believe in you,” retorts the never-say-die sage. Quickly deserting his serpent couch—for the fate of gods in whom humans do not believe is shrouded in uncertainty–Vishnu beckons him to follow. Walking together, they reach a desert where Vishnu sits down under a tree and exclaims, “I am so tired, Narada! Take this lota and get me some water from that oasis. When you return I will explain Maya to you.” Eager to plumb the mystery, Narada speeds off to the oasis and finds a well there beside a hut. He calls out, and a lovely girl opens the door. Looking into her eyes, Narada is reminded of the compelling eyes of Vishnu. She invites him in and disappears indoors. Her parents come out and greet the guest, requesting him to rest and eat after his journey through the burning sands before he returns with the lota of water. Thinking of the lovely girl, Narada agrees. Night falls, and they urge him to leave in the cool morning. Awakening in the morning, Narada looks out and sees the girl bathing beside the well. He forgets about the lota of water. He stays on. The parents offer him their daughter’s hand in marriage. Narada accepts, and settles down here. Children arrive; the parents-in-law die; Narada inherits the property. 12 years go by. Suddenly the floods arrive–floods in the desert! —His house is washed away. His wife is swept away. Reaching out to clutch her, he loses hold of his children who disappear in the waters. Narada is submerged in the floods and loses consciousness. Narada awakens, his head pillowed in someone’s lap. Opening his eyes he gazes into the eyes of Vishnu, seated at the desert’s edge under that same tree, those eyes that remind him of his wife’s. “Narada,” asks Vishnu, “where is the lota of water?” Narada asked, “You mean, all that happened to me did not happen to me?” Vishnu smiled his enigmatic smile. [2]

The Drop of Honey

After the Kurukshetra holocaust, when the blind Dhritarashtra bewails the unjustified misery thrust upon him and turns to Vidura for consolation, this son of Vyasa and a maidservant narrates a gripping parable that provides yet another clue to understanding our existential situation[3]:

Take a certain Brahmin who loses himself in a dense jungle filled with wild beasts. Lions and tigers, elephants and bears…Yelling and trumpeting and roaring…a dismal scene to frighten even the god of death, Yama. The Brahmin is terror-stricken. He horripilates. His mind is a bundle of fears. He begins to run, helter-skelter; he looks right and left, hoping to find someone who will save him. But the fierce beasts—they are everywhere—the jungle echoes with their weird roaring—wherever he goes, they are there, ahead of him.

Suddenly he notices that the fearful forest is swathed in a massive net. In front of him, with open arms, is a horrendous-looking female. Also, five-headed snakes hiss at him—tall snakes, their hill-huge bodies slithering up to the sky.

In the middle of the forest is a well covered with grass and intertwining creepers. He falls in that well and dangles there, clutched by a creeper, like a jackfruit ripe for plucking. He hangs there, feet up, head down.

Horror upon horror! In the bottom of the well he sees a monstrous snake. On the edge of the well is a huge black elephant with six heads and twelve feet hovering at the well’s mouth. And, buzzing in and out of the clutch of creepers, are giant, repulsive bees surrounding a honeycomb. They are trying to sip the deliciously sweet honey, the honey all creatures love, the honey whose real taste only children know.

The honey drips out of the comb, and the honey drops fall on the hanging Brahmin’s tongue. Helpless he dangles, relishing the honey drops. The more the drops fall, the greater his pleasure. But his thirst is not quenched. More! Still more! ‘I am alive!’ he says, ‘I am enjoying life!’

Even as he says this, black and white rats are gnawing the roots of the creeper. Fears encircle him. Fear of the carnivores, fear of the fierce female, fear of the monstrous snake, fear of the giant elephant, fear of the rat-devoured creeper about to snap, fear of the large buzzing bees…In that flux and flow of fear he dangles, hanging on to hope, craving the honey, surviving in the jungle of samsara.

The jungle is the universe; the dark area around the well is an individual life span. The wild beasts are diseases. The fierce female is decay. The well is the material world. The huge snake at the bottom of the well is Kala, all-consuming time, the ultimate and unquestioned annihilator. The clutch of the creeper from which the man dangles is the self-preserving life-instinct found in all creatures. The six-headed elephant trampling the tree at the well’s mouth is the Year—six faces, six seasons; twelve feet, twelve months. The rats nibbling at the creeper are day and night gnawing at the life span of all creatures. The bees are desires. The drops of honey are pleasures that come from desires indulged. They are the rasa of Kama, the juice of the senses in which all men drown.

This is the way the wise interpret the wheel of life; this is way they escape the chakra of life.

Dhritarashtra, of course, misses the point Vidura is making: man, literally hanging on to life by a thread and enveloped in multitudinous fears, is yet engrossed in the drops of honey, exclaiming, “More! Still more! I am alive! I am enjoying life!” And, like the blind king, we tend to miss the point too. Ignoring the law of karma, taking that other road, we fall into the pit and rale; but inveterately, compulsively, perversely, strain every sinew to lick the honey.

The Buddha figured it forth in a characteristically pungent image:

Craving is like a creeper,

it strangles the fool.

He bounds like a monkey, from one birth to another,

looking for fruit.[4]

If heeded, the doctrine of karma becomes a powerful instrument for building character, maintaining integrity and establishing a society that functions not on matsya nyaya [the big devouring the small] that celebrates individualism, but on dharma that upholds society and the world itself.

Determination & Free will

The whole point of comprehending this doctrine lies in perceiving that the much-vexed controversy over determination and free will is resolved if seen in perspective. Let us, once again, take recourse to a story to understand this complicated issue.[5]

Two friends, Shyam and Yadu, lived in a village. Shyam was an ambitious go-getter, and Yadu a happy-go-lucky, ne’er do well. Keen to know the future, they approached a hermit who lived apart in the forest. After much persuasion, he agreed to look into the future and tell them their fates. After a year, he said, Shyam would become a king, while Yadu would die. Returning to the village, the shocked Yadu turned to prayer and began leading an exemplary life. Shyam, immediately on reaching the village, started throwing his weight about, grabbing whatever he fancied from others, threatening anyone who dared to protest, vociferously announcing that soon he would be their king.

A year passed by. Shyam sought out his friend and asked him to help pick the site for his palace. As they walked along the river bank, Shyam stumbled over something and fell. Picking himself up, he found the mouth of a jar protruding from the sand. Digging it up, he found it full of golden coins. Hearing his shouts of celebration at finding such treasure, a robber ran up and tried to snatch the jar. Yadu rushed to Shyam’s help and clutched on desperately to the robber’s leg. Unable to tackle the joint resistance of both friends, the infuriated robber stabbed Yadu on his arm and ran off.

Days passed. Yadu did not die; Shyam found himself still no king. So, they went off to the forest and hunted out the hermit. Confronting him, they demanded an explanation for the failure of his prophecy. The hermit went into meditation and then explained: the conduct of each of them had altered what was fated. Yadu’s austerity and prayers had reduced the mortal blow into a stab injury. Shyam’s tyrannical conduct had reduced the king’s crown to a jar of gold coins.

Fate, therefore, is altered by the individual’s choice of the path. Those that have eyes can see; those that have ears can hear. To develop this intuitive sense one has to dive deep, beyond the superficial sensory perception to the manas and cultivate living in that peace within, that pearl beyond price.

[1] Pradip Bhattacharya: “Desire under the Kalpataru,” Jl. of South Asian Literature, XXVIII, 1 & 2, 1993, pp.315-35 & cf. P. Lal’s Introduction to Barbara Harrison’s Learning About India (1977).

[2] P.Lal: Valedictory Address in Mahabharata Revisited (Sahitya Akademi, 1990, p.291-302–papers presented at the international seminar on the Mahabharata organized by the Sahitya Akademi in New Delhi in February 1987).

[3] P. Lal: The Mahabharata (condensed & transcreated, Vikas Publishing House, New Delhi, 1980, p. 286-7)

[4] P. Lal: The Dhammapada, op.cit. p.157.

[5] Related by Prof. Manoj Das in an address at Sri Aurobindo Bhavan, Calcutta, in 2000

Review of the Anushasana Parva

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Yudhishthira’s Questions and Bhishma’s Answers
Suganthy Krishnamachari
The Book Review, Feb. 2024

THE MAHABHARATA OF VYASA: THE ANUSĀSANA PARVA | (VOLUME 13) By Veda Vyasa.

Translated from the original Sanskrit by Pradip Bhattacharya. Writers Workshop, 2023, pp. 1256, Rs. 3000.00

The Mahabharata of Vyasa: The Anusāsana Parva, translated by Pradip Bhattacharya deals with Yudhishthira’s questions to Bhishma and the latter’s answers. It also has Uma’s questions to Shiva and his answers to her.

Bhishma is not perfect, is a flawed character himself. When Chitrangada, son of Shantanu by Satyavati died, his brother Vichitravirya ascends the throne. Bhishma does not want the family line to end. He could well have approached a royal family for a bride for the young king. But instead, he abducts three princesses as brides for his brother. It is ironic, therefore, that in the Anusāsana Parva, he tells Yudhishthira that swayamvara is an excellent form of marriage for Kshatriyas, and condemns marriage following abduction (rakshasa type of marriage) as adharma. And yet, he stopped the swayamvara of the three princesses and abducted them. In the Anusāsana Parva, he talks of the respect that we must show to wife, mother, elder sister and so on. How then does one explain his inaction when Draupadi was being disrobed? The Anusāsana Parva shows us what a bundle of contradictions Bhishma was.

These are among the many verses Bhattacharya quotes, before translating them. The reader will find this highlighting of important shlokas in Bhishma’s discourse useful. It makes the book a ready reckoner for those looking for specific topics in the Anusāsana Parva.

In Section 122, Verse 28, Bhishma says that if someone grants freedom from fear to all beings, then he is granted freedom from fear of all beings. Here Bhattacharya quotes the verse:
abhayam sarvabhutebhyo yo dadati dayapara
abhayam tasya bhutani dadatity anushushruma.
It was Bhattacharya’s reproduction of the original verse that caught this reviewer’s eye and helped make the connection to Vibhishana Saranagati. In Valmiki Ramayana, when Vibhishana arrives at Rama’s camp, Rama says:
sakrd eva prapannaya tavasmi iti ca yacate
abhayam sarva bhutebhyo dadami etad vratam mama
If a person surrenders to Rama just once, then he will ensure protection from all beings for that person, promises Rama. This Ramayana verse is often quoted in Visishtadvaita as proof of the efficacy of surrender. The idea is expanded
in the Anusāsana Parva, where all beings grant freedom from fear to a practitioner of ahimsa. The verbatim quoting of verses, even while providing translations, makes Bhattacharya’s book useful for researchers, looking for cross-references.
Bhishma has some practical advice for Yudhishthira about the need to care for tanks, which present-day rulers and administrators would do well to read, for in the modern world water bodies are being increasingly lost to urbanization.
Apart from Bhishma’s talk on dharmic practices, there is also some science in the Anusāsana Parva. In Section 110, verse 17, Bhishma warns against seeing the rising or setting sun or the midday sun directly. Never look at the sun in an eclipse or its reflection in water, he warns. Science tells us that looking at the sun directly harms the eyes. And even during an eclipse, one has to view the sun only through eclipse glasses or a telescope fitted with a special purpose solar filter. Seeing the sun’s reflection in water or snow can cause photokeratitis, when reflective UV rays result in
blindness.

Anusāsana Parva gives some interesting names of Vishnu, which one does not find in the Vishnu Sahasranamam. Here are a few: Yugantakaraa: Yuga-ender; Shiva pujya: adored by Shiva; Bhutabhavya bhavesha: past, present and future; Samkrta: piercer; Sambhava: source; Brihaduktha: loudly lauded; Jvaradipathi: lord of fever. The Anusāsana Parva also gives 1008 names of Shiva.

In Section 119 Bhishma lays down what we know as the golden rule: do unto others as you would want them to do unto you.

Bhattacharya’s translation is in verse form, and therein lies its appeal. As GK Chesterton said, ‘… The soul never speaks until it speaks in poetry…In our daily conversation, we do not speak; we only talk.’ Reading Bhattacharya’s translation is like listening to Vyasa speak to you through English verses, with Sanskrit verses interwoven into his narrative.
Bhattacharya often gives a Sanskrit name or epithet and then gives its meaning in English alongside. But the
flow of the translation is never impeded because of this bilingual presentation. This kind of presentation, in fact,
gives us an idea of the richness of Sanskrit. While agni means fire, it isn’t the only Sanskrit word for fire. And it helps when Bhattacharya writes—pavaka: bright agni; chitrabhanu: variedly radiant agni; vibhavasu: resplendent agni; hutashana: oblation eater agni. Had he just used fire instead, the translation would have been bland. In some cases, he retains original Sanskrit words like maha, for example, which finds a place in the Oxford dictionary. So, we have maha fortunate, maha energetic, maha souled, maha mighty (section 2, verse 9). No qualifying English adjective or modifying English adverb is used. And one must admit that ‘maha fortunate’ and ‘maha energetic’ read better than ‘very fortunate’ or ‘very energetic’. Sometimes the translator retains Sanskrit words and adds some suffixes as he does with puja, namaskar and pranam. In these cases he adds an ‘ed’ at the end of each word (example puja-ed, pranam-ed), and this sounds rather odd. And horribler than the horriblest (Section 148, Verse 49) can do with some rephrasing.

Bhattacharya’s is a monumental work, splendid and impressive, and would be a great addition to any library.

Suganthy Krishnamachari is a Chennai-based freelance journalist, and has written articles on history, temple architecture, literature, mathematics and music. Her English translation of RaKi Rangarajan’s Naan Krishnadevaraya, and Sujatha’s Nylon Kayiru were both published by Westland Publishers.