You've probably done a little Sanskrit in school, learnt a few prayers at home, or at least heard them somewhere. What do you think of Sanskrit? The fusty-musty language of hymns, priests and godmen? Here's a surprise for you: love has been the overwhelming obsession of Sanskrit poets for over two thousand years. Fling a mean barb in a lover's quarrel? Brew a love potion? Turn someone crimson with a compliment? You're in luck. They've done all the hard work for you grace, sophistication and wit included. We know of high Victorian romance with its strict etiquette, romantic letters and ballroom dances, brought to life in so many period dramas and novels. Love in Urdu with its intoxication, melancholy and madness is only too popular in the subcontinent. But what is it like to love in Sanskrit?
Love in Sanskrit is when you first laid eyes on him and it felt like an arrow struck you right in the heart. Had you lived till that moment? You weren't sure. Would you live again? You weren't sure. Your heart secretly bubbled and simmered on the inside, like a wet log on the hearth. A friend spilled the beans to him. You met by the lonely thickets on the riverbank. Sometimes you had entire conversations with your eyes because your parents were around. When he had to go away, the one little choked sob you gave while saying goodbye sliced right through his heart. You couldn't stop missing him. You wrote him a letter. The words weren't important; the smudge of the kohl that flowed with your tears spoke more eloquently. He was alone in his agony too. When the doe in the woods gave him a shy glance, he thought of your eyes. The rumble of the rain clouds felt like a weight in his chest. He thought it would drive him to insanity when the air turned dense with the fragrance of the ketaka blossoms, so dense that he could cup his palms and drink it in. You tossed and turned, praying for cursed sleep so you could at least dream of him in peace. When he finally returned, you kept it a secret so you could have him all to yourself for a day. Once you fought and resolutely refused to look at each other, but your eyes met, and you both burst into laughter. When you felt his goosebumps as you held his hand at your wedding. When he reached for your blouse and found it unhooked already as you pulled him close.
Our first gratitude is to the authors of these and other wonderful verses, and centuries of hawk-eyed commentators, editors and scribes who kept them alive and gifted them to us. Many thanks to our incredible editor Rahul Soni, for seeing the promise in the book, as well as for his ideas, advice and edits. We have been lucky to have readers whom we hold in high esteem. Our gratitude to all our initial readers for their scholarly rigour, astute comments, and endless encouragement: Gratius Avitus, Shashi Kiran B.N., Raj Balkaran, Janani Comar, Bibek Debroy, Elisa Freschi, Anupama Kuttikat, Suma Nagaraj, Srilata Raman, Sandhya Ranganathan, Ajay Rao, Arundhathi Subramaniam, and René Verma. Our special thanks to Naresh Keerthi, Andrew Ollett, Shreevatsa R., and Nidhi Surendranath for their careful comments on every line of the translation the book is all the richer with your help. We thank Mihir Arjunwadkar (son of Krishna S. Arjunawadkar), Shatavadhani Ganesh, G.S.S. Murthy and Balram Shukla for graciously allowing us to use their verses. Thanks also to Harunaga Isaacson for kindly sending over a copy of Rasikajivana.
We are grateful to Vanamala Viswanatha, who not only helped us find a home for this book at HarperCollins India, but also suggested some very pertinent edits. We thank our families for their love and support, and kindly request them to skip chapter VI.
For privacy concerns, please view our Privacy Policy
Send as free online greeting card
Email a Friend
Manage Wishlist