topics: |  poetry | india | sanskrit | anthology

frontispiece: radha-krishna, c. 1740
(my 2nd hand copy is missing the jacket)

On the whole, I found the quality of these translations uninspiring as English poetry. Schelling's fault, as I see it, is a tendency to verbosity, which can kill poetry faster than cyanate.

Amarushataka

The Amarushataka is a collection of a hundred poems by the 7th c. poet Amaru, and has been a classic in Indian literature at least since the aesthetician Anandavardhana (820-890 AD), in his dhvanyAloka, which deals with the art of suggestion in poetry, praised his poetry: "a single verse can provide a taste of love equal to whole volumes."

A 14th c. hagiography of Shankara links the poems to his debate with Ubhaya Bharati, wife of Madana Mishra, in which she challenges him with sexually coded questions. To answer her, he then identifies the Kashmiri king Amaru, who has just died, but he enters his body and enjoys his harem for 100 days, thereby learning about sexuality. Each day he composes one of the poems, before returning to his own body and vanquishing Ubhayabharati in her own art.

There are Four different recansions of Amarushataka exist, some with upto 115 stanzas. Whether the entire collection is the work of one author or not is itself disputed, though the Indian tradition has always treated Amaru as a single person. This translation uses the c.1420 version with commentry by Vemabupala.

Quite a few other English translations also exist, of which the one by
Daniel Ingalls is the most well known.  Schellings poetry works as English, but
without the originals it is hard to see how faithful they might be.
Recently I found this cipherjournal page which gives the sanskrit
versions against Schelling's translations for a dozen poems, but the
sanskrit text appears to be suffering from some glyph inversions, due to
which it is not decipherable.

Excerpts

3
Front curls tossed in disorder 
earrings scattered 
beads of sweat smearing the sandal 
paste on her brow— 
now her eyes droop as astride her 
companion she finishes. 
May the face of this lady protect you. 
Vishnu, Shiva, Brahma, 
the gods
mean nothing. 

4
Tender lip bitten she 
shakes her fingers alarmed— 
hisses a fierce 
don't you dare and her 
eyebrows leap like a vine. 
Who steals a kiss from a 
proud woman flashing her eyes 
drinks amrita. 
The gods -- fools --
churned the ocean for
nothing. 

5
Trembling with awakened love 
they dart off, 
then contract into two moist buds. 
An instant they shamelessly stare, 
a moment glisten with shy indirection. 
Dear girl so artless— 
who is it you look at 
as though the feverish spell lodged
in your heart
had rushed to your eyes? 

Comparing Translations: Schelling and Ingalls

Neither Schelling and Ingalls were poets, in the sense that they didn't
write English poetry.  However, on the whole, Ingalls may be the more
direct and hence slightly preferred.  Also, surely he is the greater
master of the language.  For English versions of Sanskrit poetry which
need not be too faithful to the originals, one can look at Rexroth. 

Here is an image of the messenger betraying the message is one of the many common
themes in Sanskrit poetry.

Amarushataka poem 61

    Schelling:
	The sandal paste
	is rubbed from your lifted
	breasts,
	your lip rouge is smeared,
	the kohl’s gone from your eyes.
	Deceitful messenger,
	your soft skin’s aroused
	and you can’t see your own
	sister’s despair!
	Tell me you went to the
	bathing tank
	not back
	to that scoundrel.

    Ingalls:
	The slope of your breast has wholly lost
	its sandal paste,
	your lower lip has lost its rouge;
	your eyes are quiet without collyrium
	while your body runs with drops of moisture.
	Destroyer of my hopes!
	Messenger, oblivious of the pain you bring a friend!
	You went in bathing at the tank
	and never saw the wretch.

Amarushataka poem 93

    Schelling:
	Sweat on your face?
	  —the piercing sunshine.
	Your eyes look red and excited-
	   —his tone made me furious.
	Your black hair scattered-
	   —the wind.
	What about the saffron designs on your breasts?
	   —My blouse rubbed them off.
	And so winded-
	   —from running back and forth.
	Of course.
	But what’s this curious
	wound to your lip?

Ingalls:

“Why such breathing?” From running fast.
“The bristling cheek?” From joy at having won him over.
“Your braid loose.” From falling at his feet.
“And why so wan?” From so much talking.
“Your face is wet with sweat.” Because the sun is hot.
“The knot has fallen loose upon your dress.” From coming and from going.
“Oh messenger, what will you say about your lip, the color of faded lotus?”