quisnam nostrum non suam Utopiam habet?

aut ubi tandem a turba quotidianarum rerum

requiescere possumus nisi in illa aetherea regione ubi Etymologia dominatur?
(Christian August Lobeck [1781-1860 CE], Prefatio,
Rēmatikon sive Verborum Graecorum et Nominum
Verbalium Technologia, Lobeck 1846:x)

“Who amongst us doesn’t have his own Utopia? And where else can we find respite from the
rush of pedestrian concerns if not in the ethereal realm where Etymology prevails?” I’ll beg
to substitute “Philologia” for “Etymologia”.

Además (y esto es acaso lo esencial de mis reflexiones), el tiempo, que despoja los
alcázares, enriquece los versos. El de Zuhair, cuando éste lo compuso en Arabia, sirvió para
confrontar dos imágenes, la del viejo camello y la del destino; repetido ahora, sirve para
memoria de Zuhair y para confundir nuestros pesares con los de aquel árabe muerto. Dos
términos tenía la figura y hoy tiene cuatro. El tiempo agranda el ámbito de los versos y sé de
algunos que a la par de la música, son todo para todos los hombres.
(Jorge Luis Borges, La busca de Averroes, Borges 1993:139)

Furthermore, (and this is perhaps the essential point of my reflections), time, which ravages
fortresses and great cities, only enriches poetry. At the time it was composed by him in
Arabia, Zuhayr’s poetry served to bring togther two images-that of the old camel and that of
destiny; repeated today, it serves to recall Zuhayr and to conflate our own tribulations with
those of the dead Arab. The figure had two terms; today, it has four. Time widens the circle
of the verses, and I myself know some verses that are, like music, all things to all men…
(Borges, Averröes’ Search, Hurley 1998:240, my ellipses; italics in the original)

He reflexionado que es lícito ver en el Quijote “final” una especie de palimpsesto, en el que
deben traslucirse los rastros-Tenues pero no indescifrables- de la “previa” escritura de
nuestro amigo. Desgraciadamente, sólo un segundo Pierre Menard, invirtiendo el trabajo del
anterior, podría exhumar y resucitar esas Troyas...

Pensar, analizar, inventar (me escribió también) no son actos anómalos, son la
normal respiración de la inteligencia. Glorificar el ocasional cumplimiento de esa función,
atesorar antiguos y ajenos pensamientos, recordar con incrédulo estupor que el doctor
universalis pensó, es confesar nuestra languidez o nuestra barbarie. Todo hombre debe ser
capaz de todas las ideas y entiendo que en el porvenir lo será.

Menard (acaso sin quererlo) ha enriquecido mediante una técnica nueva el arte
detenido y rudimentario de la lectura: la técnica del anacronismo deliberado y de las
atribuciones erróneas. Esa técnica de aplicación infinita nos insta a recorrer la Odisea como
si fuera posterior a la Eneida y el libro Le jardin du Centaure de madame Henri Bachelier
como si fuera de madame Henri Bachelier. Esa técnica puebla de aventura los libros más
calmosos. Atribuir a Louis Ferdinand Céline o a James Joyce la Imitación de Cristo¿no es una
suficiente renovación de esos tenues avisos espirituales?
(Jorge Luis Borges, Pierre Menard, autor del Quijote , Borges 1993:22)

I have reflected that it is legitimate to see the “final” Quixote a kind of palimpsest, in which
the traces-faint but not indecipherable-of our friend’s “previous” text must shine through.
Unfortunately, only a second Pierre Menard, reversing the labors of the first, would be able
to exhume and revive those Troys ….

“Thinking, meditating, imagining,” he also wrote me, “are not anomalous acts-they
are the normal respiration of the intelligence. To glorify the occasional exercise of that
function, to treasure beyond price ancient and foreign thoughts, to recall with incredulous
awe what some doctor univeralis thought, is to confess our own languor, our own barbarie.
Every man should be capable of all ideas, and I believe that in the future he shall be.”
 2

Menard has (perhaps unwittingly) enriched, the slow and rudimentary art of reading
by means of a new technique-the technique of deliberate anachronism and fallacious
attribution. That technique, requiring infinite patience and concentration, encourages us to
read the Odyssey as though it came after the Æneid, to read Mme. Henri Bachelier’s Le
jardin du Centaure as though it were written by Mme. Henri Bachelier. This technique fills the
calmest books with adventure. Attributing the Imitatio Christi to Louis Ferdinand Céline or
James Joyce- is that not sufficient renovation of those faint spiritual admonitions?
(Borges, Pierre Menard, Author of the Quixote; Hurley 1999:95; cf. inventar [from
Latin inventum] with Abhinavagupta on Kalpanā [Nagar & Joshi 2003:1:284-5],
Gaṃgādhara’s commentary on Gāhāsattasaī 5.95, “sahṛidayaiḥ svayam ūhanīyaḥ” [Weber
1881:221] and Peirce on the “Pure Play” of musement [Peirce 1998:2:436; CP 6.458-9,
1908] and Non nova, sed vetera noviter dicta, “Not the new, but the old spoken anew”
[attributed to St. Vincent of Lérins; died 445 CE])

A host of scholars, litterateurs, critics and poets have commented on the Urdu Dīwān and I
too, though an illiterate idiota, From the Greek ἰδιώτης, “an
uneducated, ignorant, inexperienced,common person” have presumed to follow suit- forsitan
et nostrum nomen miscebitur istis ; “perhaps my name too will be linked with theirs”; Ovid,
Ars amatoria 3.1.339, fully cognizant that me vel propria, vel aliena dicturum : et ipsos
Commentarios, tam veterum scriptorum esse, quam nostros “… my remarks will be partly my
own, partly those of other commentators, and that hence, the commentary is the joint work
of the ancient writers and myself.” St.Jerome, Commentariorum In Jeremiam Prophetam,
prologus, Patrologia Latina 24, col. 707, addressed to Eusebius of Cremona.

Despite a century and two decades-old interpretative tradition on the Mirza sahib’s Urdu
Dīwān, verse 39.1 is still an “ungrammatical” Riffaterre 1978:3 and passim, “impertinent”
The production and reception of discourse…obey a very general rule of pertinence, according
to which if a discourse exists, there must be a reason for it. (Todorov 1982:28, my ellipsis);
see also Ricoeur 2004:2, 154, 179-80 et passim “open” text, contra the venerable
commentators, who I submit treat 39.1 as a closed text. Here’s professor Umberto Eco on
closed texts:

In the process of communication, a text is frequently interpreted against the

background of codes different from those intended by the author. Some authors do
not take into account such a possibility. They have in mind an average addressee
referred to a given social context. Nobody can say what happens when the actual
reader is different from an ‘average’ one. Those texts that obsessively aim at arousing
a precise response on the part of more or less precise empirical readers…. are in fact
open to any possible ‘aberrant’ decoding. A text so immoderately ‘open’ to every
possible interpretation will be called a closed one.
(Eco 1984:8)

See Eco ibid.:22 on the concept of surgically “opening” “even the most closed texts”. I’ve
proposed to treat 39.1 as an open text, of which Eco says:

An author can forsee an ‘ideal reader affected by an ideal insomnia’ (as happens with
Finnegans Wake), [Joyce’s ideal insomniac, “as were it sentenced to be nuzzled over a
full trillion times for ever and a night till his noddle sink or swim by that ideal reader
suffering from an ideal insomnia”. Joyce, Finnegans Wake 120.12-14, Joyce 1999:120]
able to master different codes and eager to deal with the text as with a maze of many
issues. But in the last analysis what matters is not the various issues in themselves
but the maze-like structure of the text. You cannot use the text as you want, but only
as the text wants you to use it. An open text, however ‘open’ it be, cannot afford
whatever interpretation.
(Eco 1984:9)

a philological “puzzle” that “authorizes” interpretation. If it is relatively easy to agree on what

is not pertinent (and consequently calls for interpretation), it is on the other hand almost
impossible to establish with certainty that a given utterance is sufficiently pertinent, and that
 3

it therefore does not authorize interpretation . The field of the interpretable is always
threatening to grow larger.(Todorov 1982:29, my emphasis)

1.1. The Text

1.2. The Status Quaestionis

I’ll present now the “reading formation”, the (meta) commentatorial tradition on this verse,
the inescapable, inevitable “always-already-read” “prior text” (Becker 2003:43 et passim):
(By a reading formation, I mean a set of discursive and inter-textual determinations which
organise and animate the practice of reading, connecting texts and readers in specific
relations to one another in constituting readers as reading subjects of particular types and
texts as objects-to-be-read in particular ways . This entails arguing that texts have and can
have no existence independently of such reading formations, that there is no place
independent of, anterior to or above the varying reading formations …neither [text nor
reader] can be granted a virtual identity that is separable from the determinate ways in
which they are gridded onto one another within different reading formations.
(Bennett 1987:70f, my emphases)

(We never really confront a text immediately [im-mediately!], in all its freshness as a thing-
in-itself. Rather, texts come before us as the always-already-read ; we apprehend them
through the sedimented layers of previous interpretations, or - if the text is brand-new -
through the sedimented reading habits and categories developed by those inherited
interpretive traditions. This presupposition then dictates the use of a method (which I have
elsewhere termed the “metacommentary”) according to which our object of study is less the
text itself than the interpretations through which we attempt to confront and to appropriate
it. Interpretation is here construed as an essentially allegorical act, which consists in
rewriting a given text in terms of a particular interpretive master code .
(Jameson 2002:ix-x; my emphases. cf. Gadamer 2004:268-85 on prejudice, Barthes
1981a:155, 157 on the déjà-lu, the “already-read”; “re-écriture”; all writing is re-reading, all
reading is re-writing)

To comment on a hyper-commented “traditionary” text like the Mirza sahib’s Urdu Dīwān is
to actively “belong” (in the sense of Gadamer 2004:454-459 and passim) to an ongoing
conversation. Even though I’ve joined this “conversation” quite late, If you join at eleven
o’clock a conversation which began at eight you will often not see the real bearing of what is
said. Remarks which seem to you very ordinary will produce laughter or irritation and you will
not see why-the reason, of course, being that the earlier stages of the conversation have
given them a special point. In the same way sentences in a modern book which look quite
ordinary may be directed at some other book; in this way you may be led to accept what you
would have indignantly rejected if you knew its real significance…[…]. Every age has its own
outlook. It is specially good at seeing certain truths and specially liable to make certain
mistakes. We all, therefore, need the books that will correct the characteristic mistakes of
our own period. And that means the old books…[…] None of us can fully escape this
blindness, but we shall certainly increase it, and weaken our guard against it, if we read only
modern books. Where they are true they will give us truths which we half knew already.
Where they are false they will aggravate the error with which we are already dangerously ill.
The only palliative is to keep the clean sea breeze of the centuries blowing through our
minds, and this can be done only by reading old books. Not, of course, that there is any
magic about the past. People were no cleverer then than they are now; they made as many
mistakes as we. But not the same mistakes. They will not flatter us in the errors we are
already committing; and their own errors, being now open and palpable, will not endanger
us. Two heads are better than one, not because either is infallible, but because they are
unlikely to go wrong in the same direction. To be sure, the books of the future would be just
as good a corrective as the books of the past, but unfortunately we cannot get at them.
(Lewis 1993:4-5, italics in the original, my ellipses)

1.2. Motifemes, Actants and Acts

 4

This text’s primary, “dominant” motifeme (cf. matrix, Riffaterre 1978:19 et passim; cf. BASIC
FORMULA, Watkins 1995:10) is Agitated Candle and the secondary motifeme is Agitated
Lantern, predicating an Act [agitation, analyzed as either embarrassment or envy] to an
Actant [candle or lantern].

Motif, motifeme (Dundes 1962:101, Doležel 1972:59) mytheme, narreme, minimal narrative
(Labov and Waletzky 1967, Dorfman 1969) minimal story, kernel story (Prince 1973; 1982)
are all concepts proposed in the search for a minimal constituent of the narrative (cf. köngäs
and Maranda 1971:21). Traditional motif research, like that of Stith Thompson (Thompson
1955-8; cf. Dundes 1962:97) considers actors, items (objects) and incidents as minimal units
of narrative analysis. Propp 2003(1968) rejects such an approach as too superficial. His
minimal unit (termed Function) is one of action which “cannot be defined apart from its place
in the course of narration” (Propp 2003[1968]:21); Functions of characters “serve as stable,
constant elements in a tale, independent of how and by whom they are fulfilled” ( ibid.).
Functions as units of action are narrative invariants, while the agents performing those
actions are textual variables; from his corpus of one hundred fairy tales, Propp identified
thirteen invariant Functions. Dundes (1962) reinterpreted Propp’s distinction between
invariable/variable elements in terms of the categories of motif and motifeme. Lubomír
Doležel, expressing the monadic view of the narreme defines a motifeme in the following
logical form: a motifeme (M) is a proposition predicating an act (Act) to an actant (Ant) .
Hence, M=Ant+Act (Doležel 1972:59). Motifemes are entities of an abstract, deep level of
analysis, corresponding to Propp’s Functions. At a more abstract level, motifemes correspond
to motifs (m) defined as propositions predicating an action (a) to a character (c).

An actant is someone or something who or which accomplishes or undergoes an act. It may

be a person, anthropomorphic or zoomorphic agent, a thing or an abstract entity. Situated
on the level of narrative syntax, the term describes a narrative function such as that of
subject or object.
(Martin & Ringham 2000:18)

the “literal” (lughwī) meaning, the more salient meaning (cf. the Graded Salience
Hypothesis), (Giora 1997, 1999, 2002, 2003; Giora and Fein 1999) being processed by the
auditor/lector faster (the m‘anī-e qarīb; the lectio facilior, the “easier” reading) as compared
to majlis, the “metaphorical” (majāzī) meaning (the m‘anī-e b‘aīd, the lectio difficilior, the
“difficult” reading). The Solar Beloved commentators therefore seem to implement a
semantic disclosure of this compound by “blowing up” (Eco 1984:23) farôz and “narcotizing”
majlis [ibid.].

(śrutimātreṇa yatrāsya tādarthayamavasīyate

tam mukhyamartham manyante gauṇam yatropapāditam
(Bhartṛhari, Vākyapadīya, Vākyakāṃḍa 2.278):

That meaning is the primary meaning which is instantly understood on being

heard
And That meaning which is understood after effort is the secondary meaning

śrutimātreṇa yatrāsya tādarthayamavasīyate

mukhyam tamartham manyante gauṇam yatropapāditam

When on merely listening, one understands the word as having a (certain) meaning,
that meaning is considered to be principal, and the meaning is secondary where it has
to be explained.
(Pillai 1971: 100)
When faced with a lexeme, the reader does not know which of its virtual properties (or
semes, or semantic markers) has to be actualized so as to allow further amalgamations.

Should every virtual property be taken into account in the further course of the text,
the reader would be obliged to outline, as in a sort of vivid mental picture, the whole
network of interrelated properties that the encyclopedia assigns to the corresponding
 5

sememe. Nevertheless (and fortunately), we do not proceed like that, except in rare cases of
eidetic imagination. All these properties are not to be actually present to the mind of the
reader. They are virtually present in the encyclopedia, that is, they are socially stored, and
the reader picks them up from the semantic store only when required by the text. In doing
so the reader implements semantic disclosures or, in other words, actualizes nonmanifested
properties (as well as merely suggested sememes).

Semantic disclosures have a double role: they blow up certain properties (making
them textually relevant or pertinent) and narcotize some others […]

However, to remain narcotized does not mean to be abolished. Virtual properties can
always be actualized by the course of the text. In any case they remain perhaps unessential,
but by no means obliterated.
(Eco 1984:23, my ellipsis; see also ibid.:228, 258, 260)

Other co-textual lexemes belonging to the same semantic field as farôz, namely śam‘a
(allusive of śam‘a-rū) and fānūs, to my mind, also paradigmatically “nudge” the salience of
farôz. For these commentators, therefore, farôz seems to be the semantic property that’s
“strictly necessary” as compared to majlis.

In order to go with the notion of possible worlds in textual analysis, one must face the
problem of the properties assigned to a given individual: Are there some properties more
resistant than others to narcotization ? Is there a sort of logical or semantic hierarchy
subdividing semantic properties as strictly necessary, sloppily necessary, and merely
accidental?
(Eco 1984:224, my emphasis; cf. the graded salience hypothesis)

Wājid implements a semantic disclosure of this compound by blowing up farôz and

narcotizing majlis. He thus abducts/retroducts the pre-supposed “aboutness” of this text (Eco
1984:23), the textual topic (ibid:26-7; cf Maẓmūn) as the Beloved’s Radiance. I’ll submit that
he probably conjectures this text’s isotopy as the Jalwah-e Meḥbūb (which I’ll translate as
the Solar Beloved, a topos of considerable antiquity in the Perso-Urdu poetical Universe of
Discourse) presumably as a result of taking an “inferential walk” (Eco 1984:215-216; cf.
ākāṃksā) resorting to the ideologically overcoded (Eco 1984:22) intertextual frame (Eco
1984:21) of the Judaeo-Christian-Islamic-ṣūfic Ur-topos of Moses at Sinai/Ṭūr, Tajallī
(Hierophany; on which see Eliade 1987:11. Wājid (1902:114-5) thus inaugurates the ḥaqīqī,
anagogic isotopy of the Solar Beloved and in fact even cites an Urdu distich by Barq on
tajallī. Many of the later Solar Beloved commentators (Nāṭiq 1968:107, Mihr 1967:149-50,
Ciśtī 2009:360 and Faruqi sahib 2006:71) interpretatively gloss majlis farôz with the
theologically-charged term jalwah (from whence tajallī).

When we find an ambiguous sentence or a small textual portion isolated from any co-text or
circumstance of utterance, we cannot disambiguate it without resorting to a presupposed
‘aboutness’ of the co-text, usually labeled as the textual topic…It is usually detected by
formulating a question.
(Eco 1984:24, my ellipsis)

“Abduction” or “abductive” reasoning is “inference to the best explanation” and has the
logical form of an inverse/backward modus ponens (modus ponendo ponens “the way that
affirms by affirming”; also called affirming the antecedent; “MP”), reasoning “backward” from
consequent to antecedent. Therefore, Peirce calls it also “retroductive reasoning.” Peirce
claims that abduction is logical inference because it can be represented in “a perfect definite
logical form”:

The surprising fact, C, is observed;

But if A were true, C would be a matter of course.
Hence, there is reason to suspect that A is true.
 6

Thus, A cannot be abductively inferred, or if you prefer the expression, cannot

be abductively conjectured until its entire content is already present in the premiss, “If A
were true, C would be a matter of course.”
(Charles Peirce, “Harvard Lectures on Pragmatism”, CP 5.188-189, 1903)
For a detailed examination of Peirce’s theory of abduction, see Fann (1970). The term
“Inference to the Best Explanation” seems to have originated with Harman (1965).

… the topic directs the right amalgamations and the organization of a single level of sense,
or isotopy. Griemas …calls isotopy “a redundant set of semantic categories which make
possible the uniform reading of the story”…. There is a strong relation between topic and
isotopy (as denounced by the same etymological root); nevertheless, there is a difference
between the two concepts for at least two reasons. The topic as question governs the
semantic disclosures, that is, the selection of the semantic properties that can or must be
taken into account during the reading of a given text; as such, topics are means to produce
isotopies. Since the relevant semantic categories (upon which to establish an isotopy) are
not necessarily manifested, the topic as question is an abductive schema that helps the
reader to decide which semantic properties have to be actualized, whereas isotopies are the
actual textual verification of that tentative hypothesis .

Thus the abduction of the textual topic helps the reader to select the right frames, to
reduce them to a manageable format, to blow up and to narcotize given semantic properties
of the lexemes to be amalgamated, and to establish the isotopy according to which he
decides to interpret the linear text manifestation so as to actualize the discoursive structure
of a text.
(Eco 1984:26-27, my emphasis and ellipses)

The whole universe of intertextuality, from Boccaccio to Shakespeare and further on, is ready
to offer us a lot of hints as to satisfactory inferential walks […] An inferential walk has much
to do with a rhetorical entymeme. As such, it starts from a probable premise picked up in the
repertory of common opinions, or endoxa, as Aristotle said. The endoxa represent the store
of intertextual information, and some of them are already mutually correlated in possible
general schemas of entymematic chains. Aristotelian topoi are nothing but this: overcoded,
ready-made paths for inferential walks […] Inferential walks are possible when they are
verisimilar: according to Poetics (1451b) what has previously happened is more verisimilar
than what happens for the first time, since the fact that it happened proves that it was
possible. Inferential walks are supported by the repertory of similar events recorded by the
intertextual encyclopedia.
(Eco 1984:215-216, my ellipses and emphasis; cf. Faruqi 1994:4:84; 2004:292-3)

1.7. The Solar Beloved and Khalwat-e Nāmūs

There are two diametrically opposed arche-topoi in the Perso-Urdu poetic concerning love.
One topos deals with a “private” beloved, love for whom is a great secret, to be hidden
(kitmān al-sirr) at all costs, the punishment for revealing which ( ifśā al-sirr) is nothing less
than death, the archetypical poetic exemplar of which is the martyr-mystic Ḥussain bin
Manṣūr Hallāj:
ān rāz kih dar sīnah nihān’st nah w‘aẓ’ast
bar dār tuwān guft wa bah mīṃbar natuwān guft
(Ghalib, Diwān-e Fārsī 83.8, ‘Ābidī 2008:1:303)

The secret hidden in the heart

isn’t a sermon
It can be divulged
only from the gallows
and not the pulpit
For alternative English translations, see Rahbar 1987:x, Schimmel 1992:126 and Russel
2003:439.
 7

The other topos deals with a “public” beloved, love for whom is a spectacle, either to be
openly displayed, “performed” and “advertised” (the archetypical poetic exemplar of which is
the Love-crazed Majnūñ) or to be fiercely “competed for” amidst contesting rivals (the poetic
exemplar of which is the image of the Excluded Lover, the Graeco-Roman exclusus amator,
the proverbial “moth” thronging around an incandescent Candle-beloved. cf. S‘adī’s śam‘a-e
jam‘am distich cited supra, §1.3). Each of these topoi can be semiotically read as
anagogic/mystic (the earthly pardahnaśīn “veiled” beloved or the Divine “Veiled” Beloved) or
profane/erotic (the assembly of the earthly, promiscuous ṭawā’if “courtesan” beloved or the
Sempiternal Assembly of the Divine Beloved) isotopies, depending on the lector’s ideological
intentio. On the courtesan beloved in Urdu poetry, see especially Vanita 2012:224-250.

The topic of Radiance and the isotopy of the Solar Beloved presuppose an ultra-prominent,
hyper-manifest “public” Beloved and are thus irreconciliably “impertinent” (Todorov 1982:28;
cf. the Mīmaṃsā ānarthakya) with this text’s intensely “private”, cloistered beloved,
described as khalwat-e nāmūs. khalwat is blatantly allotopic Groupé μ 1976, 1977a, 1992 to
the isotopy of the Solar Beloved and flagrantly disrupts it.

khalwat gazīdah rā bah tamāśā ceh ḥājat ast

cūñ kū-e dost hast bah ṣeḥrā ceh ḥājat ast
(Ḥāfiẓ, Khānlarī 1980:1:84, no.34.1)
For those in seclusion
what’s the need for spectacle
When there’s
the Beloved’s alley
what’s the need for the desert

khalwat in Arabic (khalwah) is “privacy, solitude; seclusion, isolation, retirement; place of

retirement or seclusion, retreat, recess; secluded room etc.” (Wehr 1980:260). khalwah and
it’s corollary ‘uzlah (“retreat and seclusion”; see Landolt 1978:990-991) are amongst the ṣūfī
maqāmāt (“stations”) expounded by al-Quśayrī (d. 1072) in his Risālah (al-Risālah al-
Quśayriyyah, (see Schlegell 2004:19-24). Dihkhudā (1970:8:803) glosses one of the
meanings of khalwat as tañhā bā m‘aśūq wa khālī az aghyār. aksar bah tañhāī bā khudā iṭlāq
mīśawad kih m‘aśūq-e azalī ast, “solitude/privacy with the beloved and devoid of
strangers/others. Frequently used in the sense of solitude with God, in that God is the
Eternal Beloved”.

Mo‘īn (1992:4:4629) inter alia glosses nāmūs as “sirr, rāz”. sirr, interestingly, in addition to
meaning “A secret” “a mystery” also means “pudenda; coition; marriage; fornication”
(Steingass 1996:667). Mo‘īn then gives the idiom nāmūs śakistah śudan and glosses it as
āśkār śudan-e rāz (“revealing a secret”). Khalwah is from the same semantic field as ‘ awrah,
“the pudendum, or pudenda, of a human being of a man and of a woman, so called because
it is abominable to uncover, and to look at, what is thus termed” (Lane 1968:5:2194; see el
Fadl 2006:143, 185-188, 233-247, 255-60, 299 for a critique of the orthodox jural position on
‘awrah). The classical juristic concept is that every part of a woman’s body except the hands
and the eyes is an ‘awrah, an area of the body that must be covered in the presence of
others and that is prohibited from being seen and that ḥijāb is whatever covers the private
parts: mā yastūr al-‘awrah. A majority of the classical jurists held that ‘ awrah includes even
(!!!) a woman’s voice (for a critique, see Ghazali 1992:164-5 and el Fadl supra). The socio-
cultural locus classicus is the Qur’ān 24.30-31:

Say to the believing men

That they should lower their gaze and guard
Their modesty: that will make
For greater purity for them:
And Allah is well acquainted
with all that they do.

And say to the believing women

That they should lower
 8

Their gaze and guard

Their modesty; that they
Should not display their
Beauty and ornaments except
What (must ordinarily) appear
Thereof; that they should
Draw their veils over
Their bosoms and not display
Their beauty except
To their husbands, their fathers,
Their husband’s fathers, their
sons,
Their husbands’ sons,
Their brothers or their brothers’ sons,
Or their sisters’ sons,
Or their women, or the slaves
Whom their right hands possess, or male servants
Free of physical needs,
Or small children who
Have no sense of the shame
Of sex; and that they
Should not strike their feet
In order to draw attention
To their hidden ornaments.
And O ye Believers!
Turn ye all together
Towards Allah, that ye
May attain Bliss.
(Qur’ān 24.30-31, ‘Ali n.d:873-4)

In the injunction to “lower the gaze and guard their modesty” (Qur’ān 24.30-31), yaghużżūna
min abṣārihim wayaḥfaẓū furūjahum as well as yaghżużnamin abṣārihinna
wayaḥfaẓnafurūjahunna; (cf. the Naqśbandiyyah ṣūfī principle of naẓar bar qadam), what ‘Ali
(modestly) translates as “modesty” (furūj in the original; “broken” plural of faraj), signifies
“opening, aperture, gap, breach; pudendum of the female, vulva” (Wehr 1980:702).

The Solar Beloved isotopy therefore renders both khalwat and nāmūs irrecuperably
impertinent.There’s thus an allotopy, a patent (and blatant) contradiction, an unresolved
“ungrammaticality” (Riffaterre 1978:3 and passim) a “place of indeterminacy” (Ingarden
1973a:251) a “blank” (Iser 1978:167, 182 and passim) a “syntagmatic index based on lack”,
(Todorov 1982:30-31; cf. “anupapatti/incongruity” and Culler’s [1987:242-5] discussion of
Paul de Man’s concept of “paraphrase”; cf. paraphrase as arthāpatti), which has seemingly
gone unnoticed and uncommented by the venerable commentators, leading to a “deep
disquiet” (Geertz 1973:100).

This reading, though lexically coherent, is paradigmatically incoherent with the major topos
of the militia amoris and the “cruel beloved” of the dominant Persian-Urdu ṣūfī Poetic. Here’s
Faruqi Sahib’s succint profile of the “standard” Persian-Urdu “cruel” Beloved:

The beloved seems mindlessly given to bloodshed, kills countless people at one
stroke, lets rivers of blood flow in the streets, cuts the lover up into pieces, is
deliberately and sadistically cruel , and so forth. The lover is apparently the most
wretched of persons, partly or wholly mad, reveling in being denigrated, often
groveling in the dust or mud in the beloved’s street , and so on.
(Faruqi 2002:128; my emphases. cf. Faruqi 1981a. See also Schimmel 1971:185-
186. For an excellent extended discussion on the “cruel beloved”, see Ritter 2003:402-414)

Cf. the Graeco-Roman domina/dura puella and the servitium amoris (“servitude to love”).
Servitium is one of the key elements of elegy as delineated by Propertius (many identify
 9

Propertius as the “inventor” of this topos), in the first poem itself (Elegies 1.1.21) he
addresses the beloved as domina, “mistress” (domina “originally defines a woman slave-
owner; the elegists use it metaphorically to describe a woman as having similar power over
her lovers” [James 2003a:277]. Propertius imagines the torture that the domina will inflict on
him -fortiter et ferrum saeuos patiemur ignes: “I’ll boldly suffer iron and blazing fire”.
Catullus uses only the synonym era; (Carmina 68.136, Lyne 2007:89). Domina, thereafter
(antonomastically along with the more neutral puella, “girl”) comes to denote the beloved in
Latin love elegy (cf. Wyke 1989:42 who points out contra that elegiac texts are “more
generally concerned with male servitude, not female mastery”. Murgatroyd 1975:77-79 (cf.
Wyke, 2002) points out that Ovid fuses militia amoris with servitium amoris and that these
topoi are closely related in Roman elegy. Murgatroyd (ibid.:6-67) traces the militia amoris
topos from Sappho to it’s development by the Hellenistic poets.

The topos of militia amoris is particularly pronounced in Propertius and Ovid. Propertius,
Elegies 1.1.4: et caput impostis pressit Amor pedibus , “Love stamped on my head and
pressed it down”; (cf. Meleager, AP 12.101). Propertius’ narrator especially delights in a
mistress who attacks him physically, verbally and emotionally, and who haunts him with her
accusations even after she’s dead! For the topos of militia amoris in general, see Spies 1930.
Ovid develops this topos very thoroughly and throughout the three books of the Amores, the
amator is described as either conquering the beloved, or being conquered, taken captive and
enslaved by the beloved. Ovid lays down at Amores 1.9 the dictum militat omnis amans;
“every lover is a soldier”; see Mckeown 1995:295-304; see also Mckeown 1989:2:257-80 for
a commentary on Amores 1.9; See also Amores 1.2, 1.7, 1.9.1, 2.9, 2.12; Ars Amatoria
1.475-85, 2.169-76, 2.233-42, 2.559, 565-6, 674; 2.725-732; 3.565-575. militia species
amor est, “love’s a species of war” says Ovid at Ars amatoria 2.233. and at Ars 2.533-34, he
says Nec maledicta puta, nec verbera ferre puellae/Turpe, nec ad teneros oscula ferre
pedes-“And don’t think it demeaning /To endure a girl’s blows or curses, to kiss her feet”
(Green 1982:207, cf. praṇati). For militia amoris in Ovid, see Thomas 1964:151-65,
Murgatroyd 1975:59-79 and Cahoon 1998:293-307. cf. Tibullus, Elegies 1.10, lines 61-66 on
“wars of venus” (cf. Propertius 2.6.9-14. cf the Sanskrit ratikalaha and prahanana). For biting
in elegiac lovemaking (cf. dantāghāta), see Tibullus 1.6.13-14 and Propertius 3.8.21-22;
Catullus 6.7-11; 66.13-14. Catullus 32 cleverly reverses the role of the amator in the militia
amoris.

He therefore abducts/retroducts the textual topic as the Beloved’s Absence and conjectures
this text’s isotopy as the absentis carus, the Absent Beloved, a major topos of Persian-Urdu
poetics. cf. Pritchett 1979:70, 2004:178 cited supra § 1.7.

suratapradīpapakśa (paramārthika/verum/mens operis):

(A)(i) Candle can’t see the lovemaking couple (σύνίστωρ λύχνος/suratapradīpa ) since the
lantern “obstructs/veils” the candle’s “Male Gaze” and hence the “agitated” candle “pricks”
the lantern in irritation(cf. śalabha nyāya; Jacob 2004:131):
(ii) the “witness” candle is “excited/curious” at the sight of the lovemaking couple
(Sanskrit suratapradīpa);
(iii) the “witness” candle is “agitated” at the vigorous sight and sounds of the lovemaking
couple (hallaphala; Prakrit suratapradīpa);
(iv) the “witness” candle is “agitated” at the sight of the au naturel bashful beloved, since
the Mugdhā Nāyikā is going to quench it;
(v) the “witness” candle “pricks” the lantern in anger since it will be quenched by the
Mugdhā, though it’s a “silent confidante”, but the “slanderer” lantern will get away scot-free;

(i) the “slanderer” candle is struck dumb in the presence of the au naturel Beloved
(Dard) and is therefore uncomfortable as if it’s own wick’s a thorn in it’s clothing since it’s
wick’s it’s “tongue”;
(iii) the “slanderer” candle is “agitated/restless” since it can’t wait to “testify/slander” what
it’s seen and heard (Ḥāfiẓ; Lucian, Kataplous ē Tyrannos 27) and hence, it’s “tongue” (the
wick) pricks it’s body;
 10

(iv) the “slanderer” candle is “agitated” in jealousy at the sight of the lovemaking couple
since it’s the Nāyaka’s love-rival/raqīb (Ḥāfiẓ);

What’s this text’s genre- Majāzī (Erotic) or Ḥaqīqī (Anagogic)?

pehlī bāt to yeh hai kih tamām adabī matn, aṣnāf awr zailī aṣnāf ke zail meñ rakhey jā saktey
haiñ. maslan ham matn ko fikśan (=nāval, afsānah, dāstān) ḍrāmā śā‘irī waghairah awr phir
śā‘iri key matūn ko ghazal, naẓm, qaṣīdah, marsiyah awr phir naẓm ko āzād naẓm, m‘oarrā
naẓm, pābañd naẓm, maużū‘ātī naẓm, jadīd naẓm, waghairah kī anwa’ meñ rakh saktey haiñ.
adab kī aṣnāf key bārey meñ mu‘abbar ko jitnā zyādā ‘ilm ho, us key ḥaq meñ utnā hī acchā
hai. t‘abīr key bohot sey masā‘il usī waqt ḥal ho jāte haiñ jab ham kisī matn ko uskī ṣinf, phir
zailī ṣinf, phir zailī zailī ṣinf meñ rakh letey haiñ y‘ānī ham mumkin ḥad tak usey pehcān letey
haiñ. b‘aż adabī matūn kī baṛāī ya m‘anwīyat is bāt meñ bhī ho saktī hai kih jis ṣinf meñ woh
banāye gaye haiñ us kī ḥudūd ko wo kahāñ awr kis ṭaraḥ majrūḥ kartey haiñ awr kahāñ awr
kis ṭaraḥ uñ ḥudūd kī taws‘ī kartey haiñ. dūsrī bāt (awr wo aṣnāf kī śinākht sey bhī t‘alluq
rakhtī hai) yeh hai kih mu‘abbar ko kitney matūn key bārey meñ āgāhī hai? y‘anī uskā
tanāẓur kitnā was‘ī awr kaisā hai?.....jadīd meñ qadīm key nuqūś hotey haiñ awr yeh kih kisī
naẓm par behtarīn rāe zanī śaraḥ koī awr naẓm hī ho saktī hai… […] t‘abīr kī kalīd inhīñ do
bātoñ meñ hai kih kisī matn ko kis ṣinf meñ awr kahāñ rakkhā jāe, awr yeh kih dūsrey matūn
hameñ kisī matn key bārey men kyā batā saktey haiñ? dūsrey matūn kā ‘ilm hamārey liye kul
Whole key ‘ilm kā kām kartā hai ham is ‘ilm sey musallaḥ ho kar juz (kisī ek muqarrarah
matn) kī t‘abīr śur‘u karte haiñ…
(Faruqi 2004:292-3; my ellipsis; Eco 1984:215-216)

The first thing is that all literary texts can be classified into genres and sub-genres. For
example, we can classify texts into fiction (=novel, story, dāstān), drama, poetry etc., and
then sub-classify poetic texts into ghazal, naẓm, encomium, elegy and then naẓm into free
naẓm, blank naẓm, metered naẓm, thematic naẓm, modern naẓm, etc. The more knowledge
an interpreter has about literary genres, the better. Many problems of interpretation are
solved the moment we classify a text into its genre, sub-genre and then sub-sub genre, that
is, when we recognize it, as far as is possible cf. Rhetoric 1357b Genōrimōteron, from
gnōrimos, “well-known”, “familiar”; gignōskō, “perceiving”, “recognizing”. The greatness and
value of certain literary texts can also lie in the extent that they transgress, transcend and
widen the boundaries of their genre. Another thing (which also relates to the recognition of
genres) is this: how many texts is the interpreter aware of ? Of what kind and how broad is
his horizon? Cf. Allusionskompetenz (Schmid 1983:154); also cf. Riffaterre who states that
intertextuality “refers to an operation of the reader’s mind ” (Riffaterre 1984:142, my
emphasis); also cf. his definition of the intertext as “the corpus of texts the reader may
legitimately connect with the one before his eyes” (Riffaterre 1980:626, my emphasis) cf. the
concept of the “full-knowing reader’’ (Pucci 1998:43-44) as autonomous maker of allusions.
[...] the new contains traces of the old and the best interpretative commentary on a poem
can only be another poem …[…] The key to interpretation is in these two things: where and
in which genre is a text placed and what can other texts tell us about a text ? cf. Rhetoric
1357b, the “invented” type of paradeigma (“example”) called parabolē (“comparison,
juxtaposition, analogy” cf. upamāna); also Rhetoric 1393a; induction (epagōgē) as the
starting-point and first principle/beginning ( archē) of knowledge; cf. Mahimabhaṭṭa on
anumāna; cf. anumāna with deduction (Aristotle’s synagōgē or anagōgē) as well as inverse
modus ponens; and conversio ad phantasmata/reflexio super phantasmata (Summa
Theologiae 1.86.1). The knowledge of other texts functions as knowledge of the whole for us
and armed with this knowledge, we begin interpreting the part (a particular text) …

Eine Relation, bei der Gegebenes auf Abwesendes verweist, ist in allgemeiner Hinsicht eine
semiotische Relation. In diesem Sinne ist die Intertextualitätsrelation eine komplexe
semiotische Relation insofern, als in ihr ein sprachlich organisierter Zeichenzusammenhang
auf einen anderen sprachlich organisierten Zeichenzusammenhang verweist, aber so daß
diese Verweisung selbst nicht sprachlicher Art ist.
(Stierle 1983:13-14)
 11

A relation in which what is present refers to what is absent is, in the most general respect, a
semiotic one. In this sense, the intertextual relation is a complex semiotic relation insofar as
therein a linguistically organized sign context refers to another linguistically organized sign
context but in such a way that this reference is not itself of a linguistic kind.
(Edmunds 2001:154-155)

Khalwat is also khwābgāh (bed-chamber)…soney kā karmā (bedroom)...pośīdgī (secrecy).

Khalwat-e ṣaḥīḥ, Khalwat-e ṣaḥīḥā-…tañhā honā (to be alone). khāwiñd jorū kā hambistarī
key liye aisī jagah ikaṭṭhā honā. jahān koī awr nah ho (a husband and wife’s meeting for
lovemaking at a private place devoid of others) . khalwat karnā-…hum soḥbat honā. khalwat-
e ṣaḥīḥā karney se murād hotī hai (to make love, connected to marital lovemaking, Naiyyar
1998:2:613, my ellipses). Dihkhudā glosses khalwat inter alia as mujām‘at kardan (Dihkhudā
1970:8:804) “lying with; carnal commerce, copulation” (Steingass 1996:1174) and śabistān
“A bed, a bed-chamber, a closet where one says nightly prayers; the circuit of the Ka’bah (as
a place where prayers are said)”(Steingass 1996:731); khwābgāh (Dihkhudā 1970:8:804); he
also glosses (ibid.) it as jāäy kih juz maḥārim śakhṣ-e dīgaray dar āñjā nabāśad-a place
where there’s no other person except intimates/confidants. Mo‘īn (1924:1:1437) inter alia
glosses khalwat as śabistān, khwābgāh (bed-chamber, bedroom). One of the meanings
entered for khalwat in ‘Abdul Haq’s dictionary is “sexual intercourse” (Haq 1996:298); he also
gives [x] se khalwat karnā-“have sexual intercourse with (woman)” (ibid.) Khalwati ṣaḥīḥ in
Persian is “Complete retirement, where there is no legal or natural impediment to the
commission of the carnal act of marriage ” (Steingass 1996:472; my emphasis).

Also relevant is the socio-cultural semiotic connotations of Khalwat in the major Ḥadīth
collections as well as in Islamic jurisprudence and responsa. Juristically, khalwah is privacy
and seclusion between a man and a woman who isn’t his “own”. Khalwat in this reading,
therefore, has strong erotic connotations and by kināyah/ majāz-e mursal, is a metonym for
(illicit/para-marital) fornication.There’s a tradition recorded in Ṣaḥīḥ al-Bukhārī (no. 1763) on
the authority of ‘Abd Allāh ibn al-‘Abbās attributed to Muḥammad which says that: “A woman
must not travel except with a maḥram (any male relative such as a father, brother, son or
uncle whom a woman is forbidden from marrying due to a relationship either through
kinship, marriage, or the sharing of a foster milk mother; the opposite of maḥram is ajnabī, a
man who cannot serve as the legal guardian of a woman; a potentially marriageable man;
Sūrah 4.22-23 gives a comprehensive list of the women with whom males may not contract
marriage) and [such an ajnabī] man must not visit [such] a woman except in the presence of
her maḥram.” Also in this vein is another tradition ( Ṣaḥīḥ al-Bukhārī no. 2488) again on the
authority of ‘Abd Allāh ibn al-‘Abbās attributed to Muḥammad which says: “A man must not
remain alone in the company of a woman, and a woman must not travel without being
accompanied by her maḥram.” (See also Ṣaḥīḥ al-Bukhārī 2.20.192-4; 7.62.160; 4.52.250).
There’s also a tradition recorded in al-Tirmidhī (no. 930) on the authority of ‘Umar ibn al-
Khaṭṭāb that Muḥammad said: “A man and woman do not remain alone in seclusion
(khalwah) except that the third amongst them is Satan.” The Dhamm al-Hawā (“Censure of
Passion”) of Abū al-Faraj ‘Abd al-Raḥmān ibn ‘Alī al-Baghdādī, known as Ibn al-Jawzī (d.
597/1200) cites several Ḥadīths on Satan being the “third” when a man and a woman are
secluded in privacy (Jawzī 1962:147-8). When the Prophet is queried whether khalwah
applies even if the man and woman so secluded are good, pious people, he reportedly
responds that it applies even if the parties involved are the Virgin Mary and John the Baptist
himself (ibid.,!!!). The (purported) juristic “logic” is that certain acts, like seclusion and
privacy between a woman and a (potentially marriageable) man are inherently dangerous
and immoral since they’re conducive to fitnah which might tempt and arouse the woman into
seducing the man into having illicit sex (!) fitnah, (from the Arabic trilateral root “FA-TA-NA”)
is “temptation, trial; charm, charmingness, attractiveness; enchantment, captivation,
fascination, enticement, temptation; infatuation; intrigue; sedition, riot, discord, dissension,
civil strife” (Wehr 1980:696; the semantic field of fitnah thus extends from sexual
promiscuity to social disorder/disruption) and here, “seduction or seductive acts” (el Fadl
2006:232); fitnah is thus sexual temptation (for an enlightening critique of the juristic
concept of fitnah, see el Fadl 2006:232-247 and passim). Therefore, on the jurisprudential
principle of sadd al-dharī‘ah (prevention of harm before it occurs), khalwah is strongly
censured and prohibted. Even today, in many Islamic countries, unmarried (unrelated,
 12

marriageable) couples being found in seclusion or alone together in privacy constitutes the
penal offence of khalwah which if proved, carries a penalty of imprisonment as well as a fine.
Khalwat, strangely, has been very thinly commented upon by the traditional commentators
and I submit that a “thicker” description (Geertz 1973:6-10) is called for. Amongst the Urdu
commentators, only Ciśtī (2009:360) glosses khalwat with śabistān. Jāfrī (1992:199) glosses
khalwat with both ekāñta (“solitude”) as well as śayanāgār, (“bedroom”) as does Pāṭhak
(2003:104; probably following Jāfrī) śayanāgāraikāñte “privacy of the bedroom”. The
overwhelming majority of the venerable traditional commentators seem to have glossed
khalwat in the ṣūfī, ḥaqīqī mode, rather than the erotic, majāzī mode. Khalwat, then, is
paronomastic and polyvalent and it’s semantic field (range of dissemination?) covers both
erotic and anagogic/ascetic meanings, but the anagogic/ascetic meaning seems to be
ideologically more salient as compared to the erotic. In fine, I can’t help submitting that the
erotic, juristic-cultural connotation (marital/illicit lovemaking, coupling, fornication) of
khalwat through kināyah/majāz-e mursal/īhām/viparīta lakśaṇā is the very antithesis of the
“ascetic” lexical denotation glossed (“semantically disclosed”; cf. Eco 1979:23) by the
commentators (solitude; being alone)!

In this sense, khalwat is metonymic of fitnah. The topos of fitnah is extremely widespread in
Arab culture (Shamy 1995 [a classification of motifs current in Arab popular culture]; Lyons
1995[an excellent synopsis of most of the Arabian epics with a narrative index to the
synopses]), but there’s of course nothing “inherently” Islamic(ate) about khalwah; the topos
of Woman as Wanton Seductress (the asatī) is a part of the world-view of almost all ancient
(patriarchal, paternal and misogynistic) cultures. So far as the ancient Indian ethos and
worldview (Geertz 1973:126-141) is concerned, the śāstraic locus classicus is undoubtedly
the Manusmṛiti (2nd century B.C.E/C.E.):

svabhāva eṣa nārīṇām narāṇāmiha dūṣaṇam

ato’rthāñña pramādyañti pramadāsu vipaścitaḥ
avidvāṃsamalam loke vidvāṃsamapi vā punaḥ
pramadā hyutpatham netum kāmakrodhavaśānugam
mātṛā svastṛā duhitṛā vā na viviktāsano bhavet
balavāniñdriyagrāmo vidvāṃsamapi karṣati
(Manusmṛiti 2.213-15, Dutt 2003:89-90)

It is the very nature of women to corrupt men here on earth ; for that reason,
circumspect men do not get careless and wanton among wanton women.
It is not just an ignorant man, but even a learned man of the world, too, that a
wanton woman can lead astray when he is in the control of lust and anger.
No one should sit in a deserted place with his mother, sister, or daughter; for the
strong cluster of the sensory powers drags away even a learned man.
(Manusmṛiti 2.213-15, Doniger and Smith 1991:38-9)

It is the innate nature of women to seduce men;

the wise never succumb to the wantonness of wanton women.
For women seduce not only a fool, but even a learned man;
and enslave him to lust and anger.
One should not sit in a lonely place with one’s mother, sister or daughter, for the senses
are powerful, and master even a learned man.

naitā rupam parīkśañte nāsām vayasi saṃsthitiḥ

sarupam vā virupam vā pumānityeva bhuñjate
(Manusmṛiti 9.14, Dutt 2003:393)
Good looks do not matter to them, nor do they care about youth; ‘A man!’ they say, and
enjoy sex with him, whether he is good-looking or ugly.
(Manusmṛiti 9.14, Doniger and Smith 1991:198)
pramadā is “A young handsome woman”; “A wife or woman in general” (Apte
1998:1100). pramada is inter alia “Wanton; dissolute” (Apte 1998:1100); pramadaka is
“licentious, sensual”, pramadanam is “Amorous desire” (ibid.) and pramādikā is inter alia
 13

“A deflowered girl” (ibid.:1101). Vivikta in viviktāsano means “lonely, solitary, retired,

sequestered”, and also “single, alone” (Apte 1998:1468).

The classic image to express this topos is woman as fire and man as (clarified) butter:
nañvagniḥ pramadā nāma ghṛtakumbhasamaḥ pumān
sutāmapi raho jahyādañyadā yāvadarthakṛt
(Bhāgavatapurāṇa 7.12.9, Goswāmi-Śāstri 2009:1:710)

It is a truism indeed that a young woman is (like) fire and a man is (akin to) a jarful of
ghee (clarified butter). One should avoid (the presence of) even one’s daughter when
(she is) all by herself; (nay, ) at other times (too) one should remain with her (only)
so long as it is (absolutely) necessary.
(Bhāgavatapurāṇa 7.12.9, the locutor is the celestial sage Nārada; Goswāmi-Śāstri
2009:1:711)
Certainly woman is wanton fire,
and man like a pot of clarified butter.
Therefore avoid associating
even with your own daughter in seclusion
and even otherwise associate
only as much as required.

If a butter pot and fire are kept together, the butter within the pot will certainly melt.
Woman is compared to fire, and man is compared to a butter pot. However advanced
one may be in restraining the senses, it is almost impossible for a man to keep himself
controlled in the presence of a woman, even if she is his own daughter, mother or
sister. Indeed, his mind is agitated even if one is in the renounced order of life.
Therefore, Vedic civilization carefully restricts mingling between men and women. If
one cannot understand the basic principle of restraining association between man and
woman, he is to be considered an animal. That is the purport of this verse.
(A.C. Bhaktivedānta “Śrīla” Prabhūpāda’s commentary on Bhāgavatapurāṇa 7.12.9)

There’s a subtle paronomasia in Bhāgavatapurāṇa 7.12.9.2, since rahaḥ (from rahas) in

addition to meaning “solitude, privacy, loneliness, retirement secrecy” and “A deserted or
lonely place” also means, very significantly, “copulation, coition” (Apte 1998:1333; cf.
khalwah). There seems to be a cross-cultural metonymy/semantic affinity ( ākāṃkśā;
rabṭ)between khalwah-fitnah and vivikta/rahas-pramadā!

agnikuñḍasamā nārī ghṛtakumbhasamo naraḥ

sañgame parastrīṇām kasya no calate manaḥ
(Subhāṣitārṇava 228; Sternbach 1974:1:32)

The woman resembles a jar with glowing coal; a man resembles a pot with butter;
whose heart does not become agitated when meeting a strange woman?
(Sternbach 1974:1:32)
agnikumbhasamā nārī ghṛtakumbhasamo naraḥ
ubhayorapi saṃyogaḥ kasya viśvāsakārakaḥ
(attributed to Cāṇakya as well as Pratyaya-Śataka; Sternbach 1974:1:32)

The woman resembles a jar with a glowing coal; a man resembles a pot with butter,
who trusts the union of these two elements?
(Sternbach 1974:1:32)
aṃgārasadṛśī nārī ghṛtakumbhasamaḥ pumān
ye prasaktā vilīnāste ye sthitāste pade sthitāḥ
(Old Javanese Sārasamuccaya; Sternbach 1974:1:51)

A woman is like burning charcoal. A man is like a pot of ghee. When the man comes
near, he melts. If he stays away, he remains solid and firm.
(Sternbach 1974:1:51)
aṃgārasadṛśī yoṣit sarpiḥkumbhasamaḥ pumān
 14

tasyāḥ parisare bṛahman sthātavyam na kadācana

(Padmapurāṇa Braḥmakhañḍa 18.18, Sternbach 1974:1:51)

A woman is like blazing coal and man like a pot of ghee. Oh Brāhmaṇa, one should
not remain at any time in her proximity [in privacy].
(Sternbach 1974:1:51)
This topos also appears with the imagery reversed:

ghṛtakumbhasamā nārī taptāṃgārasamaḥ pumān

tasmādghṛtam ca vaḥnim ca naikatra sthāpayedbudhaḥ
(Nārāyaṇa, Hitopadeśa 6.120, Ainapure 1908:28; Subhāṣitratnabhānḍāgāra
[samanyanitiḥ] Acharya 2007:162.408, Kavibhaṭṭa, Padyasaṃgraha 54)

A woman’s like a butter-filled jar,

a man’s like burning coal
The wise therefore
don’t keep butter and fire
together

A woman (is) like a jar of butter, a man (is) like glowing charcoal; therefore the wise
should not place both butter and fire in one place
(Pincott 1880:21)

Again, A woman resembles a pot of ghee, while a man is like live charcoal:a wise
man should not, therefore, keep together the two
(Kale 2005:59)
Woman is a ghee-filled jar,
And man is as a burning brand.
Fuel and fire never are
Together kept, please understand
(Haksar 1998:47)
A woman is like a jar of ghee,
A man is like a hot charcoal;
So a wiseman should not keep
the two together
(Chandiramani 2005:62)

lihāzā tarjumah bhī t‘abīr kā ek ṭarīqah awr t‘abīrī kārguzārī hai awr yeh sirf ghair zabān yā
kisī awr zabān meñ tarjumah karney par meḥdūd nahīñ. hum Khwud apnī zabān se har waqt
tarjumah karte rehtey haiñ tākih matn ko samajh sakeñ. kisī bhī zabān se tarjumey kī nākāmi
ghalat taśrīḥ yā t‘abīr ko rāh detī hai awr agar matn ṭanziyah yā mizāḥiyah ho to Khwud apnī
zabān meñ bhī tarjumey kī nākāmī waq‘e ho saktī hai.yā agar matn kī rasūmiyāt se waqfiyat
nah ho, yā matn ke mużmirāt kī ṭaraf se caśm pośī ho jāey to bhī apnī zabān se tarjumah
nākām ho saktā hai. yā kabhī kabhī matn kī ṣūrat koḍ Code jaisī hotī hai awr use Decode
kiye baghair us ke mafhūm tak rasāī nahīñ ho saktī. agar koḍ śiknī kā ghalat ṭarīqah akhtiyār
kareñ to goyā yeh tarjume kī ghalatī awr t‘abīr kī nākamī hai.
(Faruqi 2004:268)

Hence, translation too is a type of interpretation and a part thereof and isn’t limited merely
to translation from an unknown or other language. We keep translating even from our own
language in order to understand a text. Translation failure leads to wrong commentary or
interpretation in any language. And if the text is based on irony or satire, it’s possible that a
translation error might occur even in one’s own language. Lack of familiarity with textual
conventions, or ignorance of a text’s potentialities also cause failure of translation from one’s
own language. Sometimes a text is in the form of a code and must be decoded in order to be
understood. If a code is improperly broken, it’s like a wrong translation and a failure of
interpretation.
 15

Eco (2001:69) echoes Peirce “that meaning, in its primary sense, is a ‘translation of a sign
into another system of signs (Peirce, CP 4.127)’”. Peirce, says Eco, “uses translation in a
figurative sense: not like a metaphor, but pars pro toto (in the sense that he assumes
‘translation’ as a synecdoche for ‘interpretation’)” (ibid.); “A translation is an actual and
manifested interpretation…” (Eco 1984:35, my ellipsis)… “translation is a species of the
genus interpretation, governed by certain principles proper to translation” (Eco 2001:80, cf.
Eco 2001:65-129 on “Translation and Interpretation” and Eco 2003:123-74). Eco says:

“If in order to translate one must make a series of hypotheses about the deep sense
and the purposes of a text, then translation is certainly a form of interpretation -at
least as insofar as it depends on a series of previous interpretations . However, to say
that translation is a form of interpretation does not imply that interpretation is a form
of translation. No logically educated mind would say so.
(Eco 2003:123, my emphasis).

Since, as we shall see, the category rewording covers an immense variety of types
of interpretation, at this point it would be easy to succumb to the temptation to
identify the totality of semiosis with a continuous process of translation- in other
words, to assert that every interpretation is a form of translation .

Such an idea has been at times supported by various hermeneutical philosophers.

Heidegger, during a university course of Heraclitus in 1943, proclaimed the identity
between translation and interpretation […] Gadamer states that every translator is an
interpreter, and I agree, but this does not mean that every interpreter is a translator .
In another place he says that the task of the translator is not qualitatively different
from the one of an interpreter, but differes only in the degree of intensity. Such a
difference in degrees of intensity seem to me fundamental…
(Eco 2003:124-5, my emphasis and ellipse)

The ancient Graeco-Roman authors used “interpreter” for “translator” (Horace Ars poetica
133-34; Cicero De finibus 3.4.15; Preface to Eusebius; Quintillian Instituto oratoria 9.2;
Augustine De civitate dei 14.17). Inter-prĕs:“An agent between two parties, a
broker, factor, negotiator”; “An explainer, expounder, translator, interpreter (nec converti, ut
interpres, sed ut orator, Cicero, De optimo genere oratorum 5.14; Jerome Epistula 57, Ad
Pammachium Optimo genere interpretandi quotes this fragment). For the ancients, to
interpret was to act as an agent between two languages, two parties, two texts, two
cultures; to be a broker, a negotiator, explainer, expounder- a translator:

In light of all this, one can understand the increasing importance of the concept of
interpretation. “Interpretation” is a word that originally arose in reference to the
mediating relationship, the function of the intermediary between speakers of different
languages; that is, it originally concerned the translator and was then used to refer to
the deciphering of texts that are difficult to understand.
(Gadamer 2007:167).

The Sanskritic vyākhyāna (“commentary”) is tatsamānārthakapadāñtareṇa vistareṇa

tadarthakathanam-stating the meaning by paraphrasing with synonymous words; i.e.,
“translating”; ṭīkā, (“commentary”) is tatkartur abhipretasya śabdāñtareṇa vivarṇam-
explaining the purport by equivalent words; i.e., “translating”. Indeed padārthokti, “stating
the meaning of the words of the text” is one of the five defining features of vyākhyāna,
“commentary”. I therefore see at least one genre of interpretation, i.e., commentary as a
form of translation (data maxima venia to Eco 2003:123; see Iser 2000:5-12 for a position
contra to Eco), viz. “translating” the topos of the text being commented upon. In terms of
Peircean semiotics, commentary/interpretation is the interpretant between the sign (the text)
and it’s signified (i.e., the text’s topos); hence, the commentator/interpreter is himself an
interpretant between the text and it’s topos/meaning.
Compagnon interprets citation (which term includes intertextuality) in terms of Peirce’s triadic
structure of the sign (sign, object, interpretant) and in so doing, he theorizes Peirce’s
 16

concept of the interpretant as the mental concept linking sign and object in terms of a
reader:

Le pouvoir de représenter l’objet est dévolu au signe par un interprétant, c’est à-dire
aussi par quelqu’un: auteur, lecteur, etc. L’objet lui-même n’est jamais saisi sans
l’entremise de l’élément tiers qu’est l’interprétant. Or l’interprétant n’est jamais
singulier, il est sériel: le sens d’une citation est infini, il est ouvert à la succession des
interprétants.
(Compagnon 1979:61)

The power of representing an object is a sign reserved for an interpreter, that is by

someone like an author, a lecturer, etc. The object by itself never exists without the
intervention of a third person who’s the interpreter. An interpreter’s never singular,
but plural: a citation’s meaning is infinite, open to a succession of interpreters.

If “translation is certainly a form of interpretation” (for a “stronger” version of this

hypothesis, see Faruqi 2004:267-68) then the traditional commentators seem to have
(ideologically and ethnocentrically) mistranslated and therefore misinterpreted khalwat,
nāmūs and khār-e kiswat-e fānūs and (especially!) majlis-farôz (the scriptural eisegesis,
reading into a text that which isn’t there, the German hineininterpretierung, Eco on
“overinterpretation”, [Eco 1990, 1992] confirmation bias). The “position” (Penrod 1993:39)
taken by the traditional commentators is limited to (constricted by!) the “local knowledge”
(Geertz 1973:57) and the “small world” (Eco 1990:64-82) of the Islamicate/Arabo-Persian
universe of discourse. Schliermacher (1813) enunciated a philosophical distinction between
domesticating and foreignizing strategies of translation-the domesticating strategy is
ethnocentric, experience-near (Geertz 1983:58), emic (and also topoemic, after Lévi-Strauss
1961:386), what I like to dub the “Averroës Effect” (after Borges 1998:235-241), whereas
the foreignizing strategy is xenocentric, experience-distant, etic and topopophagic, illustrative
of the “Algazel Effect” (after Davids 1911:200-01). The traditional commentators seem to
have “domesticated” their translation (and consequently their interpretation) of this text,
whereas my “translation” (interpretation) seems to have “foreignized” it. Katan (1999:140)
states that “the very act of translating involves skilful manipulation” and that

distortion in itself is neither good nor bad. It is a way of directing the addressee to
what the speaker or writer considers important. Distortion does not give us an
objective picture of reality, but functions like a zoom lens allowing the reader to focus
on certain aspects, leaving other aspects in the background .
(Katan 1999:38; my emphasis, cf. nayavāda and the añdhagajanyāya)

This “distortion” seems to have led them to ideologically “focus on” [“blow up”; Eco 1979:23]
certain aspects [the Islamicate/Arabo-Persian], leaving other aspects [the Indic-Sanskritic]
“in the background” [“narcotize”; Eco 1979:23, cf. the andhagajanyāya). De Michiel (1999:
695) says that a “translation text is a place where a dialogue takes place: between texts and
practices, between empirical practice and theoretical practice, between science and ideology.
It is a dia-logic place, for at least two different logics meet in it: those of two different
languages” [and, I’ll add, two different cultures as well]. Toury’s “translation law of growing
standardisation” states that “in translation, textual relations obtaining in the original are often
modified, sometimes to the point of being totally ignored, in favour of [more] habitual
options offered by a target repertoire (Toury 1995:268, my emphasis; cf. Simons 1956:129
on “satisficing”). Venuti (1996:93) says translation is characterized by “asymmetrical
relations. Translation can never simply be communication between equals because it is
fundamentally ethnocentric (my emphasis)” and that “translating is always ideological
because it releases a domestic remainder, an inscription of valies, beliefs, and
representations linked to historical moments and social positions in the domestic culture
(2000:485, my emphasis). While translation needn’t be always ideological, in this specific
instance, I suppose it most definitely is; it’s also perhaps colonial. Lefevere (1992:9) says
that translation “is the most obvious recognizable type of rewriting” (cf. re writing-the “pen”
unconsciously “slipping” into palimpsestual “grooves”, Freud’s wunderblock; cryptomnesia).
He also says that “rewriters always have some kind of agenda, hidden or not (1995:10);
 17

Translators “have to be traitors, but most of the time they do not know it, and nearly all of
the time they have no other choice” (1992:13). Hermans (1999:95) writes that “translation is
of interest because it offers first-hand evidence of the prejudice of perception and of the
pervasiveness of local concerns”; translators not only create a slanted or manipulated image
of the original, they actually “invent” “construct or produce their originals”. Arrojo (1994:158)
claims that infidelity to the source-text “is every translator’s and every reader’s inevitable
fate, it is precisely that which cannot be avoided.

These strident opinions, from the manipulation/distortion school of Translation Studies

squarely apply to the traditional commentators’ (mis) translation and thus (mis)
interpretation of this text. The majority of the commentatorial community has (habitually)
mis-translated/commented/interpreted this text’s topos as that of the Jalwah-e Meḥbūb (The
Beloved’s Hierophany) from the Judaeo-Christian-Islamic- ṣūfī Ur-Topos of Tajallī (which is
therefore the contextual meaning; the vyavahārika/certum, Pollock:2009:954-6; cf. the
Viśvarūpa darśana of the Gītā), majorly mistranslating majlis-farôz by interpreting it in its
literal meaning, though they’ve glossed it in it’s metaphorical meaning. The lone
commentator who explicitly notes the metaphorical meaning (Wājid 1902:116) still
nevertheless “mistranslates” this text’s topos (cf. Eco 2000:57-8 on Marco Polo and the
rhinoceros).

dil gumāñ dārad kih pośīdah ast rāz-e ‘iśq rā

śam‘a rā fānūs piñdārad kih pinhāñ kardah ast
(Kalīm Kāśānī, Partaw-Bayza’i 1336:154)

The heart thinks

it can conceal
love’s secret
The proud lantern
thinks
it hides the candle

ham yeh bāt jāñte haiñ kih siyāq-o sibāq key baghair m‘anī kā wajūd nahīñ. kisī bhī fan
pārey kā siyāq-o sibāq to woh ṣiñf hai jis kā woh fan pārā ek rukn hai (masla n ghazal,
qaṣīdah, afsānah, nāval waghairah) phir us kā siyāq-o sibāq wo uṣūl-o żawābiṭ (rusūmiyāt-o
s‘eriyāt) haiñ jo us ṣiñf kī pehcān mut‘ayyin kartey haiñ jis meñ ham kisī fan pārey ko rakhte
haiñ. akhrī mañzil meñ fan pārey kā siyāq-o sibāq us kī ṭarḥ key dūsrey fan pārey haiñ. …kisī
naẓm pārey par behtarīn rāe zanī karney wāli śai ek awr naẓm pārā hai. y‘anī ek fan pārey kī
rawśnī men dusrey key m‘anī awr qadr-o qīmat kā t‘aiyyun hotā hai. ghazal kī ḥad tak is uṣūl
key m‘anī yeh haiñ kih jis ś‘er par ham guftagū kar rahey haiñ, us kā mażmūn awr kisī ś‘er
meñ kis ṭaraḥ naẓm huwā hai? maslan Ghālib key zer-e behes ś‘er par guftagū us waqt
zyādah gehrāī awr bārīkī se mumkin hogī jab ham Ghālib key peś rūöñ, mu‘āṣiroñ awr b‘ad
meñ āney wāloñ key kalām se āgāh hoñ, awr Ghālib kā ś‘er jis mażmūn par hai, us mażmūn
par aś‘ār ham dūsroñ key yahāñ bhī talāś kar sakeñ.
(Faruqi 1994:4:84-5; my ellipsis; cf Eco 1984:215-216, cf. Bloom 1997:95)

We know that meaning is impossible without context. The context of any text is the genre
which it’s a part of (for example, ghazal, encomium, story, novel etc.), and then the rules
and regulations (conventions and poetics) that determine the identity of the genre in which
it’s placed. Finally, a text’s context is other similar texts…the best commentary on any poetic
text is another poetic text, i.e., the meaning and valuation of a particular text is determined
in comparison with another text. As far as the ghazal is concerned, this principle is: how has
the topos of the particular distich under consideration been used in some other distich?[cf.
Rhetoric 1357b, the “invented” type of paradeigma [“example”] called parabolē
[“comparison, juxtaposition, analogy”]; also Rhetoric 1939a; induction (epagōgē) as the
starting-point and first principle ( archē) of knowledge; cf. also upamāna). For example, the
discussion on Ghalib’s distich under consideration becomes deeper and sharper when we’re
aware of the poetry of his precursors, contemporaries and successors, and when we can look
for the topos of Ghalib’s distich in other poets as well.
 18

…the meaning of a poem can only be another poem (Bloom 1997:95)

...we never read a poet as poet, but only read one poet in another poet, or even into another
poet (Bloom 1997:94)

The Islamicate poets (pseudo) “forget/misremember” after reading [“forget” incompletely;

forget-and-don’t-forget/remember not to forget]; cause without effect, viśeṣokti; the
traditional commentators read the image of an Agitated Candle because of the genetic
“false” memory-trace of the Prakrit “hallaphala” and the Sanskrit “agitated Mugdhā”/Sanskrit
Suratapradīpa; they “forget/misremember” without reading [“remember” incompletely;
remember-and-don’t-remember; forget not to remember; saptabhañgi]; effect without
cause, vibhāvanā.

I’ll begin (archē, Rhetoric 1393a) by comparing this text (epagogē=paradeigma, Rhetoric
1356b) by analogy (parabolē, Rhetoric 1357b) to all other similar texts (Faruqi 1994:4:84-5;
or at least as many that I’m aware of, Faruqi 2004:292-3) so as to try to assign species (the
part, the token, i.e., this text) to a genus (the whole, the type, i.e., “all” other similar texts;
cf. De doctrina Christiana 2-3; Eco 2000:181) in order to attempt to identify and recognize
(genōrimōteron, Rhetoric 1357b) it’s topos. However, in order to arraign other texts for
comparison, I’ve projected by conjecture (arthāpatti, Abhinava, abduction, Eco 1990, 1992) a
general meaning as a whole for this particular text as soon as some initial meaning emerged
in it; which initial meaning emerged only because I read this text with particular expectations
in regard to a general meaning (Gadamer 2004:269); my reading’s therefore “prejudiced”
(from the Latin præjudicium “prior judgment,” from præ- “before” + judicium “judgment,”
from judex [gen. judicis] “judge”; Gadamer 2004: 268-85); I’ve read this text with fore-
having, fore-sight and fore-conception (Vorhabe, Vorsicht and Vorgriff; Heidegger 1962:191)
by placing this text in the genre (Faruqi 2004:293) of Śṛñgāra Kāvya (erotic poetry), the sub-
genre of sambhoga Śṛñgāra (“Love-in-Union”) and the sub-sub-genre of Nāyikābhedā (a
major Braj-Persian/ Mughal “multimedia” genre, cf. Busch 2009:15) in light of the synistor
lychnos/ratipradīpa texts; I’ve decided to “see” (Eco 1990:58) these texts as a Model Reader
(Eco 1984:7; 1990; 1992 passim) to recognize the “semiotic strategy” of the intentio operis
(Eco 1992:64-5) by focusing my gaze on the Linear Text Manifestation (“the text such as it
appears verbally with its lexematic surface”, Eco 1984:15, cf. the abhidhārtha/mukhyārtha),
“on the things themselves” (Gadamer 2004:269) i.e., the padārtha of this text namely
Embarrassment, Lovemaking and a Candle (Oil-Lamp) as the “narrative strategy/set of
instructions” of the Model Author (Eco 1998c:15). I’ve made a conjecture by figuring out a
Law/Rule that can “explain” the Result, i.e., this text (Eco 1990:59; modus ponendo ponens
[P, and if P, then Q, therefore Q]; Aristotle’s synagōgē/anagōgē; conversio ad
phantasmata/reflexio super phantasmata; Summa Theologiae 1.86.1): Whenever
Lovemaking, Embarassment and a Candle (Oil-Lamp) are present, the topos is almost always
of the Lajjāprāyā Mugdhā Nāyikā (Rule/Major Premise); this Text also mentions/suggests
Lovemaking, Embarassment and a Candle (Minor Premise), hence, (Conclusion) it’s Topos
must be that of the Lajjāprāyā Mugdhā Nāyikā (cf. Peirce on the argument from analogy, CP
2.787). My strategy’s therefore one of assimilation, “adapting the new phenomenon to old
schemas” (Todorov 1982:27). This text exhibits the (semiotic) narrative strategy of dhvani
(“Suggestion”; the variety called avivakṣitavācya arthāṃtarasaṃkramitadhvani (also called
lakśaṇamūlādhvani; see Dhvanyāloka 1.13 and 2.1 and the Locana commentary thereon; cf.
Todorov [1982:104] on semantic motivation based on propositional symbolism “by adding a
second statement to the first” [ibid.] cf. Eco (1979:23) on semantic disclosures implemented
by the [Model] reader): avivakṣita (see Dhvanyāloka 3.33 on vivakṣā) since the mens operis
is the topos of the Lajjāprāyāmugdhā which isn’t lexically signifiable from the Text Linear
Manifestation; arthāṃtarasaṃkramita since the literal meanings of khalwat-e nāmūs and
khār-e kiswat-e fānūs aren’t completely discarded and lead (through the three conditions for
lakśaṇā) to the “meaning” of the Lajjāprāyāmugdhā.

In “heretically” (cf. Bourdieu 2003:170-171 on orthodoxy and heterodoxy) choosing to

identify the mens operis/topos of this patently Islamicate, Perso-Urdu text as that of the
Brahmanic-Sanskritic (Busch 2010:85) Lajjāprāyā Mugdhā Nāyikā and it’s mens auctoris as
that of Nāyikābheda and it’s narrative strategy as avivakṣitavācya
 19

arthāṃtarasaṃkramitadhvani, I’m afraid that I’ve surgically “opened” via an “aberrant” code
a “closed text” (Eco 1984:22). I’ve thereby indulged in “overinterpretation” (Eco 1990, 1992;
cf. Davis 2010:ix on overreading; Davis discusses Eco at ibid.:ix-xii, 167-171) and in the
process violated the “privileged intersubjective cultural community meaning” (Eco 1990:40)
as well as the “responsible and consensual judgement of a community of readers-or of a
culture” (Eco 1992:143). I’ve also repudiated the “cultural encyclopedia comprehending a
given language and the series of the previous interpretations of the same text” (ibid) built up
by a tradition of over a century and two decades of traditional commentary on the Mirza
sahib’s Urdu Dīwān thereby violating the habitus and the Urdu literary field (Bourdieu
1993:161 and passim) of Ghalib studies.

Rather than community and intersubjective cultural consensus, I think the better strategy
here is dissensus and paralogy (Lyotard 1979). Eco’s (and Peirce’s) notion of community (cf.
Gadamer’s [2004] notion of tradition) seems to me to be too monolithic and homogenous,
too dominant and hegemonic, too “striated” (Deluze and Guattari 2005:385-86), too
“sedentary” (Deluze and Guattari 2005:380) and (if I might say so), too censorious. How
does one define “community”? The notion of “community” inevitably implies the dominance,
hegemony and suppression (ideological, cultural, linguistic, aesthetic) of one group over
others. What if the text under question is the locus of contestation between multiple,
heterogenous communities? What if the dominant community’s voice stifles, suppresses,
muzzles or censors that of the “subaltern” community? What if the dominant community
ideologically “terrorizes” the subaltern into silence or consent by threatening exclusion from
the language-game (Lyotard 1979:63-4)? What if the dominant community is deviant (as in
dictatorial and fascist regimes)? The century-long tradition of commentators on the Mirza
sahib’s Urdu Dīwān certainly constitutes a “dominant” community as well as a clearly defined,
well-demarcated “reading-position” (cf. “literary conventions of a specific period” (Vodička
1982:110; 1976:197–208); “reading formations”; Bennett 1987:70f; “interpretative
communities”, Fish 1980:167-73). This dominant community, by and large, seems to have
ethnocentrically/ideologically (colonially?) adhered to the Islamicate Perso-Arabic ṣūfic poetic
episteme as the sole aesthetic paradigm in so far as the interpretation of the Mirza sahib’s
Urdu ghazal poetry is concerned, “framing” the Mirza sahib in an “ethnic ghetto” (Hoskote
2006).

When we fail to find innovation in the serial, it is perhaps a result less of the structures of the
text than of our “horizon of expectations” and our cultural habits. We know very well that in
certain examples of non-Western art, where we always see the same thing, the natives
recognize infinitesimal variations and they feel the shiver of innovation . Where we see
innovation, at least in the serial forms of the Western past, the original addressees were not
at all interested in that aspect and conversely enjoyed the recurrences of the scheme.
(Eco 1990:93, my emphasis)

Mīr Sayyid Manjhan Rājagirī Śattārī (16th century, Madhumālatī 449.4, Awadhī/Eastern
Hindawī); ‘Abd al-Raḥīm Khān-e Khānāñ (Barvai Nāyikābheda, Awadhī, Bhati 1995:221-250,
Mishra-Rajnish 1999:135-144); Abū al-Faẓl (‘Āin-e Akbarī, Persian, section on Sāhitya; for
Faẓl, Nāyikābheda is synecdochic of Sanskrit literature itself); ‘Abd al-Wāḥid Bilgrāmī’s ṣūfī
treatise (Ḥaqāiq-e Hiñdī, Persian); Jahāñgīr (Jahāñgīrnāmah, Persian, on Tānsen Kalāwant’s
Braj Bhāṣā bandiś, Rogers-Beveridge 1909:413; Thackston 1999:239); Keśavadāsa
(Jahāñgīrajascañdrikā verse 34, Braj; extols Jahāñgīr’s knowledge of Nāyikābheda in this
praśasti verse).

Nawāb Saif Khān alias Faqīrullāh (17th century) in his musicological treatise Risālah-e
Rāgdarpan delineates Nāyaka-Nāyikā bheda in the fifth chapter (bāb-e pañjum, dar
dānistan-e Sāz-hā wa Nāyak wa Nāykah-hā wa sakhī , “Understanding about Instruments and
about the Hero, Heroines and the Go-Between”; Sarmadee 1996:133-149), which the
translator feels is “unusal” (ibid.:1xiii), perhaps influenced by Bhānudatta’s Rasamañjarī.
Faqīrullāh mentions three types of Mugdhā: Agyātajobanā, Gyātajobanā and Bih Sarabdha
Nivoḍhā (ibid.:136-7); cf. Rasamañjarī 5, 6 and 8 on Ajñyātayauvanā Mugdhā,
 20

Jñyātayauvanā Mugdhā and Viśrabdhānavoḍhā; he omits Ativiśrabdhānavoḍhā (Rasamañjarī

9).

Madihyā: āñkih śarmgīnī wa khwāhiś-e śawhar har do barābar dāśtah bāśad

(Faqīrullāh, risālah-e rāgdarpan; bāb-e pañjum, “dar dānistan-e nāyak, nāykah wa Sakhī ”,
Sarmadee 1996:136)
The Madhyā has desire for her husband and bashfulness in equal measure

Dīpak: …wa ān rāg’īst kih az caśm-e āftāb bar āmadah wa jāt-e ān sanpūraṇ buwad wa
tarkīb wa tartīb-e sur-hā-e haft-gānah-e ān sargam padhan bāśad wa sur kharaj kriya-e ost
wa ān rā dar grikham rut dar awsat-e rôz khwānañd wa ṣūrataś dar rāg mālā marday buwad
surkh rang gulgūñ libās wa mālā-e mawārīd-e kalān dar gardan andākhtah wa bar fīl-e mast
sawār gaśtah wa zanān-e bisyār hamrāh dāśtah wa ba‘żay goyañd az śarm charāgh rā
kuśtah wa khānah rā tārīk sākhtah bā azān dar mubāśarat wa mu‘āśarat buwad.
(Mirzā Khān Ibn Fakhr al-Dīn Muḥammad on Dīpak Rāga, Tuḥfat-al Hiñd, Manuscript number
34, page 184 in Berlin’s Staatsbibliothek in Wilhelm Pertsch’s Catalogue [Berlin, A. Asher &
Co., 1888]. I’m extremely grateful to Dr. Prashant Keshavmurthy who kindly transcribed this
passage for me)

Dīpak Rāga: “that is a rāga that sprang from the sun’s eye. Its Jāt is Sampūraṇ. The
arrangement of its seven notes is Sargam Padhan and its Kriyā is Sur Kharaj. It is sung in the
Grikham Rut in the middle of the day. Its form [ ṣūrat] in the rāga-mālā is a red man in
roseate clothes, wearing a large-pearled necklace, seated on a drunken elephant,
accompanied by a throng of women. Some say that out of shyness he puts out the lamp,
darkens the house and makes love to the women.
(Translated by Dr. Prashant Keshavmurthy, e-mail communication, 28 th February 2012)

Dīpak Rāga: “and that’s a rāga that came forth from the sun’s eye and its Jāt is Sampūraṇ
and the arrangement of its seven notes is Sargam Padhan and its Kriyā is Sur Kharaj. It’s to
be rendered in the Grikham Rut at mid-day. Its representation in the rāgamālā is that of a
red man in crimson clothes, with a large-pearl necklace hanging around his neck, astride a
rutting elephant, accompanied by a retinue of women. And some say that out of modesty, he
douts the lamp, darkens the house and makes love to the women.

Mirzā Khān Ibn Fakhr al-Dīn Muḥammad (17th century), Tuḥfat-al Hiñd 4.1.2, Foll.163b-177b,
Persian (composed during the reign of Awrañgazeb for Prince Muiz al-Dīn Muḥammad
Jahāñdār Śāh at the request of Kukultaś Khān); see Ansari 1975 (this edition is truncated,
having only five books); for a detailed summary on the contents of this work, see Ziauddin
1935:13-33. The Nāyikābheda section (book 6) is entitled Siñgār Ras (Ansari 1975:1:297-
321); “Ḥassān al-Hiñd” Mīr al-Sayyid Ghulām ‘Alī “Āzād” Bilgrāmī (1116 A.H./1704 CE-1200
A.H./1786 CE). Bilgrāmī composed several Arabic panegyrics in praise of the Prophet and
was hence awarded this sobriquet, after the Arab poet Ḥassān Ibn Thābit (d. 674) who
composed a famous praise-poem in euology of Muḥammad. For a biography, see Ansari
1960:1:808a-b; Storey 1972:1:855-867 and Toorwa 2009:91-98); Ghizlān-al Hiñd; Persian
(the title of Sīrūs Śamīsā’s 2004 edition Ghazālān-al Hiñd ought to read Ghizlān-al Hiñd, a
chronogram that yields the date of composition of this work, 1178 A.H./1764-5. I’m
immensely grateful to Dr. Prashant Keshavmurthy who, on my petition, kindly scanned the
entire text of the published edition for me). This is an extremely obscure and “homeless text”
(Tavkoli-Targhi 2001:x and passim; in fact so “homeless” that even Tavkoli-Targhi seems to
have “forgotten” it). I’ve seen very little mention of it save and except a short notice in
Storey 1927:1:859 and Toorwa 2009:94-95. Sharma 2009 is the only discussion that I’ve
seen of this most fascinating text. The Ghizlān is a “translation” (or more properly, a
“retelling”) of the third and fourth part Bilgrāmī’s own Arabic text Subḥat al-Marjāñ fī Āthār
Hiñdustān (composed 1763-4). The Nāyikābheda section (dar bayān-e Nāykābhed, Bilgrāmī
2003:115-144) is a retelling of the fourth part of the Subḥat where Bilgrāmī uses as
udāharaṇas Arabic verses from classical poets as well as his own compositions (Bilgrāmī
was an accomplished poet in both Arabic and Persian) to illustrate the concepts of
Nāyikābheda. The Subḥat is even more obscure than the Ghizlān and Ernst 2011 and 2012
are the only discussions that I’ve seen on it. Interestingly, the Ghizlān is a comparatively
 21

“experience-near” text insofar as the Indic ethos and worldview are concerned, as compared
to the Subḥat, which is comparatively “experience-distant”. The Nāykābhed section of the
Subḥat/Ghizlān are Arabic/Persian “rītigrañthas” comprising of both laksaṇas as well as
udāharaṇas. It’s difficult to ascertain their Indic hypotext(s), but it’s most likely to have been
Braj rather than Sanskrit rītigrañthas. Ernst sahib speculates about Bilgrāmī that “as with
most Indian Muslims, his mother tongue was one of the regional languages that have
become the modern languages of South Asia, doubtless a form of what today is called
Hindi”(Ernst 2011:258). I’ll submit that it must most likely have been a Brajbhāṣā dialect.

An experience-near concept “is, roughly, one that someone-a patient, subject, in our case an
informant-might himself naturally and effortlessly use to define what he or his fellows see,
feel, think, imagine, and so on, and which he would readily understand when similarly
applied to others.” (Geertz 1983:57); an experience-distant concept, in contrast, “is one that
specialists of one sort or another-an analyst, an experimenter, an ethnographer, even a
priest or an ideologist-employ to forward their scientific, philosophical, or practical aims”
(ibid.)

Geertz says that “To grasp concepts that, for another people, are experience-near, and to do
so well enough to place them in illuminating connection with experience-distant concepts
theorists have fashioned to capture the general features of social life, is clearly a task as
delicate, if a bit less magical, as putting oneself into someone else’s skin” (Geertz 1983:58;
Geertz probably borrowed the term “experience-near” from the psychologist Heinz Kohut)

Geertz argues that the local knowledge of participants should be combined with that of the
social scientist
So as to produce an interpretation of the way a people lives which is neither
imprisoned within their mental horizons, an ethnography of a witchcraft as written by
a witch, nor systematically deaf to the distinctive tonalities of their existence, an
anthropology of a witchcraft as written by a geometer.
(Geertz 1973:57)

Bilgrāmī in the Ghizlān translates Nāyikābheda (2003:116) as asrār-al niswāñ, mistranslating

bheda as “secret” rather than “classification” or “typology” ( bayān-e nisā īn kih ḥaq t‘ālā
ahānid rā ‘ilmay ilhām kard kih nāmaś bah zabān-e hiñdī nāykābhed ast wa ma‘nī-e āñ asrār-
al niswāñ- As regards the description of women, God most High revealed to the Hindus a
science, the name of which in the Indic language is nāyikābheda, which means “secrets of
women”).

wa ahl-e hiñd dar taghazzulāt-e khwud iẓhār-e ‘iśq az jānib-e zan mī kuniñd nisbat bah mard
bar khilāf-e ‘arab…
(Bilgrāmī 2003:116)

wa ‘iśq-e zan bar mard jā-e istibi‘ād nīst kih dar Qur’ān-e majīd ‘iśq-e Zulaikhā bā Yūsuf ‘alaih
al-salām wāq‘e śudah..
(Bilgrāmī 2003:116)

…taghazzulāt-e ś‘orā-e ‘arabī wa hīñdī bā nisā ast khilāf-e ś‘orā-e fārsī wa turkī kih īnhā binā-
e taghazzul rā bar amārad guzaśtah’añd […] agarchih ś‘orā-e ‘arab ham bah ikhtilāṭ-e ‘ajam
sabīl-e taghazzul bā amārad paimūdah’añd lekin aṣl taghazzul ānhā bā nisāst.
(Bilgrāmī 2003:116, my ellipsis)

wa ahl-e hiñd dar zabān-e khwud śawhar rā nāyak wa zan rā nāykah goyañd wa az ittifāqāt-e
‘ajībah īn kih m‘anī-e ān bah zabān-e ‘arabī ham ṣaḥīḥ ast kih nayk b’il fatḥa dar ‘arabī jimā‘a
rā goyañd wa aś‘ār-e fārsī kih dar nāykābhed āwardah mī śawad dar ān hā taghayyur-e
mu‘āmilah żarūr y‘anī maqawlah-e ‘āsiq kih bā amrad ast gāhay az zabān-e nāyak nisbat bah
nāykah farż bāyad kard wa cūñ ṣīgh-o żamāir-e tazkīr-o tānīs dar fārsī yakay ast īn farż rāst
mī āyad […] wa gāhay az zabān-e nāykah nisbat bah nāyak a‘etibār bāyad namūd wa cūñ
dar hiñdī iẓhār-e ‘iśq az jānib-e nāykah ast īn a‘etibār ṣaḥīḥ mī uftād…
(Bilgrāmī 2003:116-117, my ellipsis)
 22

ṣāliḥah-ān kih iltifāt nakunad magar bah zawj-e khwud wa az lawāzim-e ô ast ḥayā wa
istiriżā-e zawj wa ān “sukyā” goyañd.
(Bilgrāmī 2003:118)
ṣaghīrah-ān kih ẓāhir śudah bāśad dar way asar-e jawānī wa ān rā “mugdahā” goyañd …wa
ṣaghīrah bar do qism ast: qism-e awwal ghāfilah: ān kih ẓāhir śudah bāśad dar way asar-e
jawānī wa hanoz khabar nah dārad wa ān rā “aggiyāt jobanā” goyañd…
(Bilgrāmī 2003:124)

wa ghafilah rā cañd qism guftah’añd:mutaraqiyyah fī al-ḥusn, [the “exceedingly beautiful”]

ān kih ḥusn-e ô roz afzūñ bāśad (Bilgrāmī 2003:126); ghair mutazaiyyinah, [the
“unadorned”] ān kih bah iqtiżā-e ṭiflī az taz’īn bezār bāśad (Bilgrāmī 2003:127); bākirah [the
“virgin”] kih hanoz bah taṣarruf-e mard nayāmadah bāśad (Bilgrāmī 2003:127); sayyibah
[the “sexually experienced”] … ān kih izālah-e bakārat-e ô śudah bāśad (Bilgrāmī 2003:127);
nāfirah ‘an al-jimā‘a (Bilgrāmī 2003:128): nāfir, (from nafara), “fleeing, fugitive, shy, fearful,
timid; having an aversion” (Wehr 1980:984). Bilgrāmī neither defines this sub-type any
further nor gives the Sanskrit/Braj name for it. I’ve chosen to translate this term “bashful in
lovemaking” cf. the Lajjāprāyaratiḥ (Rudraṭa, Śṛñgāratilaka 1.48); ratau vāmā (Dhanañjaya,
Daśarūpaka 2.26; Viśvanātha, Sāhityadarpaṇa 3.58); Lajjāprāya Mugdhā (Keśavadāsa,
Rasikapriyā 3.17). Bilgrāmī cites only two exempla from Śāhid Qamī and Mīr Ṣaidī Ṭehrānī
(ibid.) in this sub-category.

Bilgrāmī’s rhetorical strategy is an extremely rare instance of accommodation (adapting old

schemas to the new object, Todorov 1982:27) rather than assimilation (adapting the new
phenomenon to old schemas, ibid.), a poetic of “make things strange” (ostranenie veshchej)
(Shklovsky 1969:14), of defamiliarization (Shklovsky 1965:13). Bilgrāmī semiotically
“detaches” the syntagma of Perso-Arabic poetic texts inserted in the Islamicate “chain” and
“grafts/re-inscribes/inserts/superimposes” (Culler 1987:135; 1988b:ix; 2009:91-2; Derrida
1988a:9) these texts onto the Sanskritic-Braḥmānic (Busch 2010:85) “chain” of the Nāyaka-
Nāyikābheda amatory typology in an “iterative” strategy, reminiscent of Aristotle’s fourth
type of analogical/proportional metaphor ( Poetics 1457b7-18). The four related terms are
Persian/Arabic poetry:ghazal:Sanskrit poetry:Nāyikābheda. Hence, analogically inter-
transposing the second and the fourth, ghazal: Nāyikābheda. Bilgrāmī’s reading position of
semiotically “re-inscribing/grafting” Islamicate Perso-Arabic texts on the Indic-Braḥmānic
amatory typology of the Nāyikābheda or of “framing” (Culler 1988b:ix) the Islamicate, Perso-
Arabic “sign” in the Sanskritic-Braḥmānic Nāyikābheda signifying chain constitutes a radical
“code-switching”, an aberrant decoding (Eco 2004 [1972]:238; 1979:150; 1984:8, 22, 40) or
(depending on the ideological point of view) overinterpretation (Eco 1990, 1992) of these
texts’ dominant, “primary code” (Riffaterre 1983:120) or it’s “master code” (Jameson 2002:x)
whereby closed texts are “surgically” opened (Eco 1984:22) by a paradigmatic leap (Ekegren
1998:169).

Thus the message as source constitutes a sort of network of constraints which allow certain
optional results. Some of these can be considered as fertile inferences which enrich the
original messages, others are mere ‘aberrations’, but the term ‘aberration’ must be
understood only as a betrayal of the sender’s intentions; insofar as a network of messages
acquires a sort of autonomous textual status, it is doubtful whether, from the point of view
of the text itself (as related to the contradictory format of the Semantic space), such a
‘betrayal’ should be viewed negatively.

Sometimes the addressee’s entire system of cultural units (as well as the concrete
circumstances in which he lives) legitimate an interpretation that the sender would have
never forseen…[…]

Because of such unpredictable decoding, the text may be ‘consumed’ at only one of
its content levels, while the other (equally legitimate) levels remain in the background .
Griemas….calls these parallel and autonomous levels of sense the text’s ‘ isotopies’. But
usually, however ‘aberrant’ the interpretation may be, the various isotopies differently
interact with one another…When the addressee does not succeed in isolating the sender’s
 23

codes or in substituting his own idiosyncratic or group subcodes for them, the message is
received as pure noise.
(Eco 1979:141-42, my ellipses and emphasis)

…both the orienting and the deviating circumstances represent the uncoded complex of
biological factors, economic occurrences, events and external interferences which appear as
the unavoidable framework of every communicative relationship. They are almost like the
presence of ‘reality’ (if so ambiguous an expression is permissible’) which flexes and
modulates the processes of communication. When Alice asks: “The question is whether you
can make words mean so many different thing,” Humpty Dumpty’s answer is” “The question
is who is to be the master”. Once this point of view is accepted, one might well ask whether
the communicative process is capable of subduing the circumstances in which it takes place .

Communicative experience enables us to answer positively, if only insofar as

circumstance, understood as the ‘real’ basis of communication, is also translated constantly
into a universe of coding while for its own part communication, in its pragmatic dimension,
produces behavioural habits which contribute to the changing of the circumstances.

But there is one aspect which is more interesting from the semiotic point of view,
according to which the circumstances can become an intentional element of communication.
If the circumstances help one to single out the subcodes by means of which the messages
are disambiguated this means that, rather than change messages or control their production,
one can change their contents by acting on the circumstances in which the message will be
received. This is a ‘revolutionary’ aspect of a semiotic endeavor. In an era in which mass
communication often appears as the manifestation of a domination which makes sure of
social control by planning the sending of messages, it remains possible (as in an ideal
semiotic ‘guerilla warfare’) to change the circumstances in the light of which the addressees
will choose their own ways of interpretation. In opposition to a strategy of coding, which
strives to render messages redundant in order to secure interpretation according to pre-
established plans, one can trace a tactic of decoding where the message as expression form
does not change but the addressee rediscovers his freedom of decoding.
(Eco 1979:150, footnote no. 27; my emphasis. Only “closed texts” can be aberrantly decoded
or “surgically” opened; aberrant decoding is a “narrowcast” as opposed to a “broadcast”. Cf.
Borges Borges 1998:95, originally composed in 1939)

Naturally, a text can also be read as an uncommitted stimulus for a personal hallucinatory
experience, cutting out levels of meaning, placing upon the expression ‘aberrant codes’. As
Borges once suggested, why not read the Odyssey as written after the Aeneid or the
Imitation of Christ as written by Céline?
(Eco 1984:40)

Borges (à propos his character Pierre Menard) suggested that it would be exciting to read
the Imitation of Christ as if it were written by Céline. The game is amusing and could be
intellectually fruitful. I tried; I discovered sentences that could have been written by Céline
(‘Grace loves low things and is not disgusted by thorny ones, and likes filthy clothes’). But
this kind of reading offers a suitable ‘grid’ for very few sentences of the Imitatio. All the rest,
most of the book, resists this reading . If on the contrary I read the book according to the
Christian medieval encyclopedia, it appears textually coherent in each of its parts. I realize
that, in this dialectics between the intention of the reader and the intention of the text, the
intention of the empirical author has been totally disregarded. Are we entitled to ask what
was the ‘real’ intention of Wordsworth when writing his ‘Lucy’ poems? My idea of textual
interpretation as the discovery of a strategy intended to produce a model reader conceived
as the ideal counterpart of a model author (which appears only as a textual strategy), makes
the notion of an empirical author’s intention radically useless. We have to respect the text,
not the author as person so-and-so.
(Eco 1992:65-66, my emphasis)

Fabulae are narrative isotopies.

(Eco 1984:28)
 24

But ideological biases can also work as code-switchers, leading one to read a given text in
the light of ‘aberrant’ codes (where ‘aberrant’ means only different from the ones envisages
by the sender..[…] In both cases the code-switching took place in spite of the explicit
ideological commitment of the author… an ideological bias can lead a critical reader to make
a given text say more than it apparently says, that is, to find out what in that text is
ideologically presupposed, untold. In this movement from the ideological subcodes of the
interpreter to the ideological subcodes tentatively attributed to the author (the encyclopedia
of his social group or historical period being verified in singling out the ideological structures
of the text), even the most closed texts are surgically ‘opened’’…
(Eco 1984:22, my ellipses and emphasis)

The characteristics of a rhizomatic structure are the following: (a) every point of the Rhizome can and
must be connected with every other point (b) there are no points or positions in a rhizome; there are
only lines (this feature is doubtful: intersecting lines make points) (c) A rhizome can be broken off at
any point and reconnected following one of its own lines (d) The rhizome is anti genealogical (e) The
rhizome has its own outside which makes it another rhizome; therefore a rhizomatic whole has
neither outside nor inside. (f) A rhizome is not a calque but an open chart which can be connected
with something else in all of its dimensions; it is dismountable, reversible and susceptible to continual
modifications (g) A network of trees which open in every direction can create a rhizome (which
seems to us equivalent to saying that a network of partial trees can be cut out artificially in every
rhizome) (h) No one can provide a global description of the whole rhizome; not only because the
rhizome is multi dimensionally complicated, but also because its structure changes through the time;
more over, in a structure in which every node can be connected with every other node, there is also
the possibility of contradictory inferences : if p, then any possible consequence of p is possible,
including the one that, instead of leading to new consequences, leads again to p, so that it is true at
the same time both that if p, then q and that if p, then non-q (i) A structure that cannot be
described globally can only be described as a potential sum of local descriptions (j) In a structure
without outside, the describers can look at it only by the inside, as Rosenstiehl (1971, 1980)
suggests, a labyrinth of this kind is a myopic algorithm; at every node of it no one can have the
global vision of all it’s possibilities but only the local vision of the closest ones: every local description
of the net is a hypothesis, subject to falsification, about its further course; in a rhizome blindness is
the only way of seeing (locally) and thinking means to grope one’s way.
(ibid: 81-82, my italics)

Eco then continues:

D’ Alembert says with great clarity that what an encyclopedia represents has no center. The
encyclopedia is a pseudo tree, which assumes the aspect of a local map, in order to represent,
always transitorily and locally, what in fact is not representable because it is a rhizome – an
inconceivable globality.

The universe of semiosis, that is, the universe of human culture must be conceived as
structured like a labyrinth of the third type: (a) It is structured according to a network of
interpretants (b) It is virtually infinite because it takes into account multiple interpretations
realized by different cultures; a given expression can be interpreted in a given cultural
framework; it is infinite because every discourse about the encyclopedia casts in doubt the
previous structure of the encyclopedia itself (c) It does not register only ‘truths’ but, rather,
what has been said about the truth or what has been believed to be true as well as what has
been believed to be false or imaginary or legendary, provided that a given culture had
elaborated some discourse about some subject matter; the encyclopedia does not register
only the ‘historical’ truth that Napoleon died on Saint Helena but also the ‘literary’ truth that
Juliet died in Verona. (d) Such a semantic encyclopedia is never accomplished and exists only
as a regulative idea; it is only on the basis of such a regulative idea that one is able actually
to isolate a given portion of the social encyclopedia so far as it appears useful in order to
interpret certain portions of actual discourses (and texts) (e) such a notion of encyclopedia
does not deny the existence of structural knowledge, it only suggests that such a knowledge
cannot be recognized and organized as a global system; it provides only ‘local’ and transitory
systems of knowledge, which can be contradicted by alternative and equally ‘local’ cultural
organizations, every attempt to recognize those local organizations as unique and ‘global’
ignoring their partiality – produces an ideological bias.
(ibid: 83-84, my emphasis)
 25

Hypertext, as the term is used in this work, denotes text composed of blocks of text-what
Barthes terms a lexia- and the electronic links that join them.
(Landow 2006:3)

Hypertext is about connection- promiscuous, pervasive, and polymorphously perverse

connection. It is a writing practice ideally suited to the irregular, the transgressive, and the
carnivalesque…Culturally speaking, the promiscuity of the hyperlink (in the root sense of (“a
tendency to seek relations”) knows no bounds of form, format, or cultural level.
(Moulthrop 1991:699, my emphasis and ellipsis; cf. “Hypertext as Rhizome”, Landow
2006:58-62 )

By permitting one to make connections between texts and text and images so easily, the
electronic link encourages one thus to think in terms of connections. To state the obvious:
one cannot make connections without having things to connect. Those linkable items must
not only have some qualities that make the writer want to connect them, they must also
exist in separation, apart, divided . As Terrence Harpold has pointed out in “Threnody,” most
writers on hypertext concentrate on the link, but all links simultaneously both bridge and
maintain separation... This double effect of linking appears in the way it inevitably produces
juxtaposition, concatenation, and assemblage . If part of the pleasure of linking arises in the
act of joining two different things, then this aesthetic of juxtaposition inevitably tends
towards catachresis and difference for their own ends and for the effect of surprise,
sometimes surprised pleasure, that they produce.

On this level, then, all hypertext webs, no matter how simple, how limited, inevitably take
the form of textual collage, for they inevitably work by juxtaposing different texts and often
appropriating them as well.
(Landow 2006:192, my ellipsis and emphasis)

Juxtaposing two apparently unconnected and unconnectable texts produces the pleasure of
recognition.

Such combinations of literary homage to a predecessor text and claims to rival it have been a
part of literature in the west at least since the ancient Greeks. But the physical separation
between texts characteristic of earlier nonelectronic information technologies required that
their forms of linking-allusion and contextualization- employ indicators within the text, such as
verbal echoing or the elaborate use of parallel structural patterns (such as invocations or
catalogues). Hypertext, which permits authors to use traditional methods, also allows them
to create these effects simply by connecting texts with links .
(Landow 2006:193, my emphasis; “allusive markers” (Gale 2000:6); cf. Mahimabhaṭṭa on
nibandhana, the explicit verbal cue that leads to cognizing bisemy in śabdaśaktimūlādhvani
and the Arabic-Persian-Urdu qarīnah)

Catachresis is the yoking together of disparate things, an “extravagant, unexpected, far-

fetched metaphor” (Lanham 1991:31). Hypertext links don’t always produce juxtaposition,
which might be just be an abrupt placing together with no connection or transition. A link
can be banally explicit about the connection it makes and can join one lexia to another
mechanically, without necessarily or “inevitably” involving any catachresis, or any element of
unconnectedness or unconnectability. The hyperlinked lexias must therefore be
juxtaposed/superimposed/grafted/ “palimpsested”/“wunderbloked” by the Lector.

Texts always speak to each other: in every work it is possible to detect what Harold Bloom
called the anxiety of influence (Eco 2004:114); …this most important point is that books talk
to each other(Eco 2006:121, my ellipsis and italic). This point, repeatedly stressed by Eco, of
texts/books talking, or rather, conversing with one each other is undoubtedly most
important, but of even greater importance, if I might so submit, is the fact that they also
bitch, gossip, slander, whisper and even indulge in coquetry. This “conversation” often
passes sub silentio unless there’s a human evasdropper present to “overhear” it. Texts/books
 26

indeed converse, not just amongst themselves but also with the auditor/lector and often in
an almost inaudible hushed whisper.

Within the parameters of this broad interpretative strategy, Virgil’s relationship with earlier
poets and their work can be understood in a number of different ways: Wilkinson sees
Lucretius as a formative influence on Virgil’s philosophical outlook and poetic technique;
Thomas, on the other hand, reads the Georgics essentially as a response to Callimachean
poetic ideals and to the contemporary political situation, while Lucretian echoes are self-
consciously exploited to provide a generic framework; alternatively, Virgil might be seen as
attempting to rival Lucretius (aemulatio), or as reacting against Lucretian ideas ( oppositio in
imitando). This kind of approach is problematic for a number of reasons, not least of which is
the difficulty of distinguishing ‘genuine’ allusions from casual similarities of expression,
structure or technique which might be attributable merely to the authors’ common cultural
context or to generic propriety rather than to ‘significant’ influence by one author on another.

One way of avoiding-or at least redefining-this problem is to regard allusion not as an

indicator of the author’s intention, but as something perceived and even, in a sense, created
by the reader. On this view, anything perceived by a reader as an allusion would count as
such. This is not to say that any text can mean absolutely anything at all, but it does entail
the admission that a plurality of meanings will exist for any one text, and that there is no
interpretation which will hold good for all readers at all times . On the other hand, it does
seem to me that a fair degree of consensus can be reached amongst a readership which
shares a common culture-that is, a readership familiar with the same range of potential
intertexts and strategies of reading and interpretation .

As a general term to describe this process, I prefer ‘intertextuality’ to the more

traditional ‘allusion’ or ‘reference’ for a number of reasons. First, both ‘allusion’ and
‘reference’ presuppose the notion of authorial control of the text and its meaning;
‘intertextuality’ is a more neutral term, which avoids prejudging the question of agency.
Secondly, ‘intertextuality’ suggests a broader phenomenon than the alternative terms. Where
an allusion might be interpreted as something incidental to the meaning of a text (as-say-an
acknowledgement of an earlier author’s influence, or a display of erudition), intertextuality
suggests something more fundamental. The meaning of a text, on this view, is constituted
by its relationship with earlier and contemporary texts; close resemblances of phrasing,
structure, prosody etc. (‘allusions’ in the traditional sense) act as markers which draw the
reader’s attention to such relationships . In this sense, the identification of allusions is part of
a broader process of intertextual interpretation, whereby the reader interacts with the text to
produce meaning: while allusions can be meaningfully described as present in the text
(whether or not consciously put there by the author), it is up to the reader to activate these
allusions by identifying and interpreting intertextual resemblances . We may, indeed, find it
useful to conceptualize such resemblances in terms of an author’s hypothetical intentions
(‘Virgil is accepting/challenging/subverting Lucretius’ worldview’); but it should always be
borne in mind that this is a kind of shorthand, and that the alluding author is ultimately a
figure (re)constructed from the text by the reader.

How, then, do we identify such allusive markers? How do we decide what is or is not an
intertext for any particular text? On one level, this is not a meaningful question, since from
the reader’s point of view all texts are, so to speak, potentially mutual intertexts. On the
other hand, though all texts are potentially interrelated, certain features (such as genre,
contemporaneity and common themes) will tend to encourage us to compare some texts
more readily than others. It is here that the identification of allusive markers [dhvani-bearing
word/s; agrammaticality; anupapatti]comes into play.
(Gale 2000:4-6, my emphases)

tvāmagne samidhānaṃ yaviṣṭhya devā dūtaṃ cakrire havyavāhanam|

urujráyasaṃ ghṛtayonimāhutaṃ tveṣáṃ cákṣurdadhire codayánmati ||

It is you, O Agni most youthful, whom, once enkindled,

the Gods have chosen as messenger, conveyer of oblations.
 27

You, O God of vast range, situated in oil

and nourished by offerings, the Gods have made their bright Eye
the inspirer of thought and fancy
(Ṛg veda 5.8.6, Panikkar 1997:842; jagatī chhanda)

The Gods, Most Youthful Agni, have made thee, inflamed, the bearer of oblations and the
messenger.
Thee, widely-reaching, homed in sacred oil, invoked, effulgent, have they made the Eye that
stirs the thought.

In Hellenistic erotic epigrammatic poetry the lamp, λύχνος (lychnos) is almost an “objective
correlative” (“a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of
that particular emotion such that when the external facts, which must terminate in sensory
experience, are given, the emotion is immediately evoked”; Eliot 1951:144-5) of lovemaking
(for the lamp as both witness and god of lovemaking, the most comprehensive collection of
refrences and bibliography is still Kost 1971:126-32; see also Cameron 1981:283 and n. 36
and Marcovich 1988:1-8; Cairns 1998: 171-8; Gutzwiller 2007:319-20; for lamps in general in
the Palatine Anthology, see Mariotti 1966:93-112, 121-134). This topos is remarkable inter
alia for its antiquity and longevity, from Asclepiades to Byzantine times. In Hellenistic
amatory epigram, the lamp is conventionally called a “witness”/“confidant” to lovers’ amatory
trysts and also serves as a witness to oaths by one or the other lover. Lamps, though
inanimate (cf Aeschylus, Agamemnon 1090, στέγην σύνίστορα) are conventionally εμπνους
(empnous; pronounced “embnous”) “with the breath in one,” “alive”. Lamps are confidants
[συνίστωρ (synistōr), “know together”, “to be conscious of a thing”; “privy to a crime or
other secret”] of “things that may not be spoken of”, things “unutterable”, “unspeakable”,
“ineffable”, “secret”, άλαλήτως (alalētōs): σύνίστορα των άλαλήτων λύχνον (synistora tōn
alaletōn lychnon) Philodemus, AP 5.4. Sider (1997:196-7) mentions that “The word σύνίστωρ
is relatively uncommon in early literature: once each in Aischylos, Euripides, and Thucydides,
and twice in Sophocles”. Martial in Epigrammata 14.39 uses conscia, from conscius,
“knowing in common”; “conscious with”; “privy”; “participant”; “accessory”; “witnessing”.
The mażmūnof the synistor lychnos, the “witness lamp” is a time (and multi-culturally)
honoured kavisamayā. Since the lamp is a “witness”, μάρτυς (cf. martys with the
nirvāṇadīpa), it can be Janus faced-it can be both a silent accomplice as well as a babbling
witness. On one hand, the lamp is an accomplice and can be counted upon not to give
evidence/testimony μαρτυρεω/μαρτυρια (martyreō/martyria) and never reveal or betray to
the world the “unspeakable” things it’s learnt: Ekklesiazousai (Women in Parliament) 16: kai
taūta syndrōn ou laleīs toīs plēsion -you never blab our secrets to the neighbors (Halliwell
2009:156), and on the other hand, it can be a judicial, testifying “witness”-in Lucian of
Samosata’s Journey Down to Hades, Or The Tyrant (Kataplous ē Tyrannos) 27, a lamp
(λύχνος) and a bed (κλίνη) klinē are summoned as main witnesses to Hades to give evidence
against their owner, the wealthy tyrant Megapenthes before Rhadamanthus, the judge of the
underworld. The bed, ashamed, refuses to divulge details, but the oil-lamp “testifies” in some
detail. Here’s the lamp’s ‘testimony’ (martyrei):

Egō ta meth’ hēmeran men ouk eīdon. ou gar parēn. ha de tōn nyktōn epoiei kai
epaschen, oknō legein. plēn alla etheasamēn ge polla kai arrrēta kai pāsan hybrin
hyperepaikota. kai toi pollakis hekōn toulaion ouk epinon aposbēnai thelōn. ho de kai
prosēge me toīs drōmenois kai to phōs mou panta tropon kataemiainen.
(Harmon 1960:2:54)

I did not see what happened by day, for I was not there, and what went on at night I
am loth to say; I witnessed many things, however, that were unspeakable and
overleaped the bounds of all outrageousness. In fact, I often tried of my own accord
to keep my wick from drinking the oil, for I wanted to go out; but he for his part even
put me closer to the scene and polluted my light in every way.
(Harmon 1960:2:55)

I didn’t see what happened during the day. I wasn’t there. And I hesitate to tell you
what he did and had done to him at night. But I saw many unspeakable things which
 28

exceeded every imaginable type of unwarranted abuse. There were many times when
I voluntarily stopped drawing up oil because I wanted to go out. But he always
brought me up close to the action and totally defiled the light I gave.
(Sidwell 2004:108)

Plutarch (Lucius Mestrius Plutarchus c. 46-120 CE) in Moralia: De garrulitate 513 mentions as
a commonplace lovers’ address to the “blessed lamp divine” (eudaimon lychne). On the lamp
in erotic literature, see Kost 1971:126; for the lamp as the deity of lovemaking, see Kost
1971:126-132; Cameron 1981:282 and note 36; Miroslav 1989:1-8. On lovemaking as
metaphorically “contaminating” the purity of the hearth-fire, see Parker 1983:77 (cf.
Anañgarañga on fire [vaḥni] being one of the tyājyasthānāni for lovemaking and Hesiod
[750-650 B.C.E.], Works and Days 732 “Do not lie down beside the fire when you have just
made love, and show your naked parts”) and on lamps and lovemaking, see Parisinou 2000a:
7-11. Parisinou (2000a: 27) mentions “As will be seen in the epigrams cited below, mainly
from Hellenistic times, the females that are primarily associated with lamps in literature do
not seem to be of the respectable kind”. On Λύχνος as the schutzgott (patron-god) of
Hetaerae, see Marcovich1987: 4-6. On the basis of Musaeus, Statylicus Flaccus Ap 5.5.6,
Paulus Silentiarius AP 5.279, Meleager AP 12.82 and 12.83, Giangrande (1968:50-58) holds
lamps to be metaphors for the lover’s burning heart (cf. Paulus Silentiarius AP 5.279, Paton
1916:1:275). The eye for the Greeks was conventionally the seat of love and a symbol of the
penis (see Devereux 1973:42-5 and Deonna 1965:68-70; Aristophanes, Lysistrata 1003
(haiper lychnophoriontes epikekyphames [hypokekyphames]) where lamp=penis;
lamp=lover’s eye=penis, active looking=erection, see Devereux 17:407; Fenichel 1945:347
links voyeurism to the castration complex; Mulvey 1989:14 says that “the representation of
the female form…in the last resort…speaks castration and nothing else”; my italics). On lamp
as penis see Vorberg 1932 plates 176, 177, 178, 499 and 500). Many lamps depicted erotic
scenes or were shaped like phalloi and often the lamp represents the rejected lover as a
voyeur (exclusus amator? cf. the mañjiribhāva) of his mistress’s new (or different) amours
(Maxwell-Stuart 1981:33-4). Clay/bronze lamps from the late Hellenistic period carry erotic
motifs, either as a part of the lamp (handle as phallus or vagina) or, more commonly in relief
on the central disc. Erotic lamp imagery includes phalloi, the vagina (rare), reclining couples,
kissing couples and Erotes/amorini. Sexual images include lovemaking (“a tergo”, equestrian,
facing), fellatio/cunnilingus and rarely masturbation or orgies. Bestiality is a frequent motif.
Aside from Leda and the Swan, several feature Negro pygmies and crocodiles and horses (or
mules) having intercourse with women (Clarke 2001). Clarke 2001:225, figure 93, from the
Cyprus Museum shows a male-female couple in soixante-neuf. Clarke 2001:221, figure 92, a
terracotta lamp from the Naples Archaeological Museum shows a scene of fellatio from
Pompeii. On lamps with erotic scenes, see Vorberg 1932 plates 100, 104-6, 108, 113, 147,
149, 177, 184-6, 330, 335, 410, 412, 426, 455, 459, 498, 570, 572, 594, 597-8, 600-1, 766-
7. Also see Marcadé 1962 plates 58-63. For an insightful interpretation of the apotropaic and
religious function of sexual imagery in the art of the classical cultures of Greece and Rome,
see Johns 1999. In a brief episode in Lucian’s satirical “science fiction novel” Vera Historiae
(True Histories), Lucian visits Lychnopolis, the City of the Lamps (1.29). The city is located in
the skies, lower (tapeinotera) than the Zodiac between the Pleiades and the Hyades.
Personified, speaking lamps populate the city, travelling from their homes on earth and
maintaining the social institutions and hierarchies thereof. Lamps are the spectators, silent
observers of human lives by night. At the close of this episode, Lucian finds his own lamp
and enquires about news from home. It has been argued that lamps are metaphors for
domestic slaves, who are constant, silent witnesses to the private lives of their masters;
moreover, the fear experienced by Lucian in this “low” city represents a real anxiety that
slaves would not only speak but congregate and betray the secrets of their households.

Ramanujan 1997:1 illustrates the topos of the gossipping synistor lychnoi in the Kannada
folktale (Kannada original in Lingaṇṇa 1972), “A Story and a Song”: “All the lamp flames of
the town, once they were put out, used to come to the Monkey God’s temple and spend the
night there, gossiping”. Ramanujan passed on this tale to the playwright Girish Karnad who
used it (as the topos of both the ratipradīpa and the synistor lychnos) in the prologue to his
play Nāga-Manḍala (1990, preface; flame four’s Nāyikā is a Mugdhā, flame five’s Nāyikā is a
Madhyā or a prauḍhā):
 29

Flame 4: My master had an old, ailing mother. Her stomach was bloated, her back
covered with bed sores. The house stank of cough and phlegm, pus and urine. No one
got a wink of sleep at night. Naturally, I stayed back too. The old lady died this
morning, leaving behind my master and his young wife, young and juicy as a tender
cucumber. I was chased out fast.
(Giggles)
Flame 3: You are lucky. My master’s eyes have to feast on his wife limb by limb if the
rest of him is to react. So we lamps have to bear witness to what is better left to the
dark.
(Karnad 1990:3, my italics)
zhaḍīce divas
jaldī śezabāz karu
hāvryā jivālā
yete rātrac pāñgharu
tūhī asā kasā
nako oṭī poṭī dharu
pālṇyāt ḍoḷe
zarā divā tarī sāru
(Mahānor 1971:26)
illius ex oculis, cum uult exurere diuos,
accendit geminas lampadas acer Amor

Cruel love lights his twin torches from her eyes

When he would set fire to the gods themselves
(Tibullus [ca 54-19 BC] Elegies 3.8.5-6; addressed to Sulpicia)
The lamp is also the traditional companion both of lovers and of those who are still waiting
for the beloved to arrive (Philodemus A.P. 5.4; Asclepiades A.P.5.7, 150; Meleager
A.P.5.165, 166; Paulus Silentiarius A.P. 5.279; Marcus Argentarius A.P. 6.333)
♣
Stith Thompson (1955-8) arranged material into twenty-three alphabetical index categories
from A to Z (except I, O and Y) in six volumes. Category A:Mythological Motifs; category B:
Animal Motifs; category C: Motifs of Tabu; D: Magic; E: the Dead; F: Marvels; G: Ogres; H:
Tests; J:the Wise and the Foolish; K: Deceptions; L: Reversals of Fortune; M: Ordaining the
Future; N: Chance and Fate; P: Society; Q: Rewards and Punishments; R: Captives and
Fugitives; S: Unnatural Cruelty; T: Sex; U: the Nature of Life; V: Religion; W: Traits of
Character; X: Humor; and Z: Miscellaneous Groups of Motifs. Each index category is
subdivided, some much more so than others. For a detailed list of the categories and their
divisions, see the beginning of volume one: “General Synopsis of the Index,” ( ibid.:1.29–
35). I’ve been unable to locate a motif that exactly corresponds to the synistor
lychnos/ratipradīpa from over 46,600 motifs in the Thompson Motif-Index. I expected a
category under the entry “Lamp”; something like Lamp ogles couple making love . No such
motif. I then looked under categories T (Sex) and X (Humor, including sexual humour), but
no luck, which, given the ubiquity of this topos, was surprising. I can’t help recalling
Doniger (2000) who saucily remarks:

Stith Thompson’s lists are, like the old pregnancy tests, useful only for positive, not
negative, information: if he says the story exists in a particular culture, it usually
does; but the motifs, and examples of motifs, that he does not mention may also
very well exist (ibid.: 493).

There’s no single synistor lychnos/ratipradīpa-Mugdhā motif, but there are some motifs
that, if combined, would yield this topos. Category C (Tabu); C300–C399 is the tale type
“Looking tabu” and motif C312.1 is Man looking at nude woman .Irish myth: cross;
Icelandic: Boberg; Gaster Thespis 328, oldest stories 142 (Thompson 1955-8:1:511).
Category F (Marvels); under tale type F1010 “Other extraordinary events”, motif
F1041.1.13.1, Girl dies of shame at being seen naked . Irish myth:*cross (Thompson 1955-
 30

8:3:265).Category N (Chance and Fate); this motif is similar to motif N454.2 (and hence I’ll
designate it cN454.2), motif descriptor King overhears conversation of lamps , India:
Thompson-Balys 1958. This motif is a submotif of motif N454, Conversation of objects
overheard; under the tale type “Valuable secrets learned” (N440-N499, Thompson 1955-
8:5:107). Category W (Traits of Character); W111.2.9, Servant tells master to cover his
face: no need to put out lamp : India: *Thompson-Balys (Thompson 1955-8:5:486). There
are also motifs (under the tale type “Deception into humiliating position, miscellaneous”;
Category K (Deceptions) K1240) involving a couple and an observer: K1271.1.4. Man hidden
in roof sees girl and lover and falls:they flee and leave him in possession ; K1271.1.4.1.Man
having seen lover from roof threatens to tell about it: is paid to stop ; K1271.1.4.2.Man
hidden in roof (or elsewhere) sees girl and lover:blows horn; K1271.1.4.3.Observer of
intrigue insists on sharing it (Thompson 1955-8:4:380). A multicultural Topos-Index of
poetic topoi remains a desideratum.
♣
soi gar monōi dēloumen eikotōs, epei
kan toisi dōmatioisin Aphroditēs tropōn
peirōmenaisi plēsion parastateis,
lordoumenōn te sōmatōn epistatēn
ophthalmon oudeis ton son exeirgei domon
(Aristophanes, Ekklesiazousai 5-10; Henderson 2002:246)

Ophthalmon, from ophthalmos, “eye”; exeirgei, from exergō, “shut out”, “debar”, “drive
away”, “prevent, preclude”, “to be constrained (to do a thing)”. The personification
(utprekśā!) of the lamp as a topos is found earliest in Praxagora’s (“woman effective in
public”) monologue in Aristophanes (448-380 B.C.E.), Ekklesiazousai (“Assembly women”) 5-
10, her “hymn to Lychnos” (Marcovich 1988:6):

We’ll reveal all, rightly, to you alone,

who stand near us in our bedroom
when our bodies tangle and twist
in Aphrodite’s love-knots;
none ever shut out your watching eye.

Yes, you alone are privy to our deeds,

When in our bedrooms all we women move
In Aphrodite’s twists, and you stand near.
As bodies writhe and bend, your eye is there
To look on all; you never get removed.
(Halliwell 2009:156)
You alone we make privy to our plot, and rightly,
for also in our bedrooms you stand close by as we essay
aphrodite’s maneuvers; and when our bodies are flexed,
no one banishes from the room your supervisory eye.
(Henderson 2002:247)
It’s right that you should be the only one
To overhear our plans, for, after all,
You know so much about our private lives.
You watch while in the ecstasies of love
Our bodies twist and heave, and no one dreams
Of putting you outside;
(Barett 2003:222)
Anthologia Palatina, Book V, Epigrammata Erōtica

4-PHILODEMUS OF GADARA (110-40 B.C.E.)

PHILAENIS,make drunk with oil the lamp, the silent confidant of things we may not speak of,
and then go out: for Love alone loves no living witness; and, Philaenis, shut the door close.
And then, dear Xantho,- but thou, my bed, the lovers’ friend, learn now the rest of
Aphrodite’s secrets.
 31

(Paton vol.1, 1916:131)

Ton sigōnta, Philaini, synistora tōn alalētōn
lychnon elaiērēs ekmethysasa drosou,
exithi. martyrēin gar Erōs monos ouk ephilēsen
empnoun. kai pēktēn kleīe, Philaini, thyrēn.
kai sy, philē Xanthō, me.sy d’ ō philerastria koitē,
ēdē tēs Paphiēs isthi ta leipomena
(Paton vol.1, 1916:130)
The lamp, Philaenis, the silent confidant of our secrets,-make it drink deep of the dew of the
oil, and then go away. Love alone hates a living witness. And, Philaenis, shut the folding
door. As for you and me, beloved Xantho,-O lover-loving bed, now at once learn the rest of
the Paphian’s arts.
(Gow-Page 1968:1:351; “The happy lover”)

Philaenis, make drunk with liquid oil the lamp,

That silent witness of things unspoken of.
And then go; only Eros never wants a living
Witness; and, Philaenis, please shut the folding door.
As for you, darling Xantho, and me: o bed dear to lovers,
Learn now the rest of the Paphian Aphrodite’s secrets.
(Snyder 1973:348)
ton sigōnta, Philaini, synistora tōn alalētōn
lychnon elaiērēs ekmethysasa drosou
exithi. martyrēin gar Erōs monos ouk ephilēsen
empnoun. kai pyknēn kleīe, Philaini, thyrēn.
kai sy, philē Xanthō, me-sy d’ ō philerastri’ akoitis,
ēdē tēs Paphiēs isthi ta leipomena
(Sider 1997:85)
Philainis, soak with oily dew the lamp, the silent confidant of acts which are not to be spoken
of,
and then leave. For love alone does not desire living witness. And shut the door tight,
Philainis.
And you, dear Xantho, (to) me-but now, O lover-loving wife, learn what Aphrodite has left
for us.
(Sider 1997:85)
Philaenis, flood with oily dew the lamp,
silent witness of acts which musn’t be spoken of,
and then leave.
For Love alone loves no living witness;
and, Philaenis, close the door tightly.
And you, dear Xantho,-
But now, o bed, lovers’ friend,
learn what Aphrodite’s left behind.
(mine)
Outside witnesses are held to be undesirable:
Parcite luminibus, seu vir seu femina fiat
obvia: celari vult sua furta Venus.
(Tibullus, Elegies 1.2.35)
Avert your eyes, men and women who see me,
for Venus prefers to hide her thefts

celari-“to be hidden from sight/light”; luminibus in line 35 is from lumen, from the root “luc”,
which here means “eyes”, but which also means “torches” as in line 38 ( neu prope fulgenti
lumina ferte face-don’t bring a blazing torch near me). These lines also allude to the topos of
the furtivus amor, a situation far more common in the conventions of Latin elegy rather than
Greek epigram.

Sider 1997:88 sees in the fifth line “..another Hellenistic example of aposiopesis designed to
avoid the specific details of love-making: Meleager 72 ( AP 5.184.5), Antipater 52 GP (AP
 32

9.241.5), Theokr. 1.105, 5.149, Herodas 1.84; also Aristophanes, Vespae 1178 (Vespae,
‘Wasps”).

“Oily dew”-ελαιηρης δρόσου; elaiērēs drosou; “elaiērēs” from ελαιον; elaion “oil”; δρόσου,
“drosou”, from δρόσος, “dew”. Here’s Gow-Page’s succinct paraphrase of this epigram in
their commentary:

The poet tells the maid-servant, Philaenis, to feed the lamp, lock the door, and leave
the room. He then turns to his mistress Xantho.
This vivid epigram is conventional in motifs, distinctive in style.
(Gow-Page 1968:2:374, my emphasis)
Gow-Page, commenting on echmethysasa (ibid.) mention: “the compound elsewhere only in
Theophr. CP 5.15.3. There is no point in making the lamp ‘drunk’, so we understand simply
‘soak’ as in Homer Il. 17.390. In Babrius 114.1, μεθύων ἐλαίῳ λύχνος, the verb has its full
meaning” [CP-De causis plantarum]. At Il. 17.390, Homer uses methyousan aloiphēi -A. to
be drunken with wine, neustazōn kephalēi, methyonti eoikōs Od.18.240; methyōn, opp.
nēphōn, Thgn.478,627, cf. Alc. Supp.4.12, Pi.Fr. 128, Ar.Pl.1048, PHal.1.193 (iii B. C.), etc.;
m. hypo tou oinou X. Smp.2.26; to methuein drunkenness, Antiph.187.2, Alex.43; to m.
pēmonēs lytērion S.Fr.758. II. metaph., 1. of things, to be drenched, steeped in any liquid, c.
dat., e.g. boeiēn…methyousan aloiphēi Il.17.390 [noted by Sider 1997:87); methyōn elaiōi
lychnos Babr.114.1 ; [cheimarros] ombroisi m. AP 9.277 (Antiphil.). 2. of persons, to be
intoxicated with passion, pride, etc., hypo tēs Aphroditēs X. Smp.8.21 ; hypo tryphēs Pl.Criti.
121a; erōti Anacr.19; tōi megethei tōn pepragmenōn D.4.49; peri tas hēdonas
Philostr.VS1.22.1; ou m. tēn phronēsin Alex.301; m. to philēma AP5.304. b. to be stupefied,
stunned, plēgais methyōn Theoc.22.98 ; ex odynaōn Opp.H.5.228 , cf. Nonn.l.c.

Sider (1987:323) states that ‘The lamp, although a “witness,” has been rendered drunkenly
insensate’ (my italic). He’s reiterated this view: ‘but to translate it here as “make it drink
deep” (Gow-Page) vel sim. is to lose the point; if the lamp is to be present and, by the
conventions of erotic poetry, to be a witness…at least let its powers of observation be
impaired. Hence, “make it thoroughly drunk” (1997:87; my ellipsis and emphases). Sider
probably conjectures this “stoned” reading from the meaning “to be stupefied, stunned”.
Cracks on “drunken” lamps are common comic kavisamayā, Aristophanes, Nybes (Clouds)
57: oimoi: ti gar moi ton potēn hēptes lychnon: “Ah me! Why did you light the tippling
lamp?” (potēs lychnos, metaphorically a tippling lamp, i.e., one that consumes much oil
[Liddel-Scott 1968:1260]; see also Gow-Page [1968:1:303]:… “meager shining lamp’s flame
that drinks with half-tipsy mouth from a miserly oil-flask”). Sider ( ibid.) mentions that “Phil.
seems to have been imitated in turn by Babrios 114 init. μεθύων ἐλαίῳ λύχνος (so Mariotti
133 n.2).” Sider hasn’t mentioned “Aesop” (Chambry 232; Gibbs 211; Temple and Temple
232) Μεθύων λύχνος ἐλαίῳ. I’ll therefore submit contra Sider that it’s perhaps more likely
that Philodemus “imitated” “Aesop” in the tulyadeitulyarthaharaṇa mode; the point of
lychnon elaiērēs ekmethysasa drosou is possibly that since martyrēin gar Erōs monos ouk
ephilēsen empnoun, an “inanimate witness” (that is, the lamp; cf. Aeschylus, Agamemnon
1090, στέγην σύνίστορα) who’s therefore a “confidant”, namely the synistora tōn alaletōn
lychnon, is to be rendered hyper-sensate (as opposed to insensate) by drenching it with oil,
to ensure it’s continued burning and (perhaps) to make it flare up (“intoxicated”) in it’s
“drunkenness” so as to enable it to observe and illuminate all the better and brighter . Sider
paraphrases this epigram and mentions that “the maid Philainis is told to fill (a presumably
already lit) lamp and leave, locking the door behind her, before the lovemaking begins”
(Sider 1997:86, my emphasis). Sider’s presumption that Philainis is filling “a presumably
already lit lamp” is strange. An oil-lamp’s wick is normally soaked/drenched with oil before
lighting it, or if already lit, when it’s oil’s about to run out. Either action presupposes the
intention of keeping it aflame and bright. I’ll submit that Philaini is instructed to light a lamp
and fill it with oil before she leaves, to ensure it’s continued burning, since she’s commanded
to thereafter leave and shut the door behind her tightly. If this text’s persona loquens
intended that the lamp shouldn’t gaze upon their lovemaking, then he’d have simply
commanded Philaini to douse it and leave.

Marcovich (1988) while discussing Asclepiades AP 5.7 says:

 33

Of course, the patroness-goddess of the hetaera is Aphrodite, by whom they swear:

μα την Άφροδιτην (Aristoph. Plut. 1069; Eccl.999). ‘Ως πορνη την Άφροδιτην ομνυσιν,
says a scholiast ad locum. But in the Aphrodisia, Lychnos appears in the role of
manifestation of (Erscheinungstorm) or a substitute for (stellvertreter) Aphrodite, and
that is why our hetaera could swear by Lychnos, who is her patron-god (Schuzgott).

A burning lamp must be present in the boudoir of every hetaera . If the lamp is
extinguished the hetaera will remain without the necessary protection of her
Schuzgott. Then she may not have success with her clients (page 5), and eventually
go bankrupt.

…Lamps are the most common votive offering of the hetaera to their goddess.

…If the lamp of Aphrodite is entinguished in her boudoir the hetaera Heracleia may
have no success in bed. The same is true of Meleager’s rival, being overwhelmed by
deep sleep in the bed of Heliodora (Meleager’s Epigram LI Gow-Page=A.P. V.165.3-6)
(Marcovich 1988:4-5; my elipsis)
Augustine (De. civ. dei 21.6) speaks of (and argues against) a miraculous (“pagan”) lamp in
a shrine dedicated to Venus (Aphrodite) that no storm or rain could extinguish and which
was therefore christened lychnos asbestos or “inextinguishable lamp” (λύχνος ασβεστος,
lucerna inextinguibilis). There was an ancient custom (attested to by several authors:
Theocritus 21.36; Athenaeus 700D; Pausanius 1.26.7) of keeping a lamp burning day and
night in the Prytaneum (the public hall of an ancient city in Greece/Rome) or in the chief
temple of a Greek city.

Athenaeus of Naucratis (fl. around the end of the 2 nd and beginning of the 3rd century C.E.) in
Book 13, 583e of Deipnosophists (Banquet of the Learned, “collected entirely from Attic
comedy and Attic orators” [Cameron 1981:276]) has many fascinating things to say about
courtesans, the least being naming them:

Another group of names function either as terms of endearment or emphasize the

amorous activity of hetaeras: Glycera, Glycerion, Phila, Philinna, and Potheine. The
names formed from the stem lamp*, Lampas, Lampito, Lampyris, or related in
meaning, like Lychnos (the nickname of Synoris) and Thryallis (Wick), also allude to
the sexual activities of hetaeras, as lamps are frequently invoked in Greek and Latin
love poetry as the witnesses of love-making.
(McClure 2003:73-4)
Synoris was so named, apparently, due to her eternal thirst, which sucked up all sorts of
wine as a lamp-wick sucks up the oil (Licht 1932:363)

Paton (1916:1:130) reads the fifth line of this epigram as φιλεράστρια κοίτη (philerastria
koitē), as does Marcovich 1988:7 (“so does Philodemus in his Epigram I (=A.P.V.4.5: ου δ, ω
φιλερατρια χοιτη). Sider (1997:34-6; 86; 88-90) prefers to address Xanthippe, Philodemus’
“wife” as opposed to bed and reads φιλεράστρι’ ακοιτις (philerastri’ akoitis; for an exposition
of the “wifely” address, see Sider 1987:310-324 and 1997:34-36, 89-90).

Open expression of erotic feeling such as is found here of a husband for his wife is
extremely rare in Greek literature; erotic poetry deals largely with pursuit and
rejection. It was noteworthy that Kandaules fell in love (ήράσθη) with his own wife
(Hdt. 1.8.1). The Dios Apate alone, however provides a sufficient literary model for
Phil…the aposiopesis of his poem substituting for Homer’s concealing cloud…. The
situation in Latin literature is far more complex, where mistresses are often spoken of
as wives or at least with language more appropriate to wives than lovers; cf., e.g.,
Cat.109.6, Tib. 1.5, Hor. O. 2.12, Prop. 2.6.41 f.;
(Sider 1997:90)
Sider 1987:312, footnote 7 mentions that “It should be pointed out that ακοιτις always
signifies “wife” and never merely “bedmate” as its masculine equivalent ακοιτης often does”.
For an excellent discussion of the whole epigram see Sider 1997:85-90. Marcovich (1988:7)
 34

reads φιλεράστρια χοίτη (philerastria choitē) with χ (Chi) instead of κ (Kappa). Paton and
Marcovich prefer the address to the bed reading κοίτη/ χοίτη, “bed” instead of ακοιτις,
“wife”. Giangrande (1973:319-22) upholds the “assignation” theory, opposing Marcovich’s
(1987:4-6) suggested reading of λύχνος as Λύχνος. Hera (the goddess of marriage) swears
by her nuptial-bed (lechos) in Iliad 15.39: “...and your own sacred head and our bed, the
bed of our nuptial love-sē th’ hierē kephalē kai nōiteron lechos autōn; Asclepiades AP
5.181.12 uses bed-witness (κλίνη μάρτυς επεγραφετο, klinē martys epigrapheto); Lucian,
Kataplous ē Tyrannos 27 has a lamp and a bed give “evidence”. Martial, Epigrammata
10.38.7 and 14.39.1 mentions a witnessing lamp and bed as does Ovid in Ars Amatoria
2.703:“so the bed, as though consciously, has received its two lovers. And the door is shut.
Muse, wait outside”-conscius ecce duos accepit lectus amantes: ad thalami clausas, Musa,
resiste foras; Propertius 2.15.2: And O you bed made blessed by delights!- et O tu lectule
deliciis facte beate meis!; Juvenal Satires 9.77 has an address to a witness-bed: testis mihi
lectulus et tu, ad quem peruenit lecti sonus et dominae uox -“as witness the bed and you
yourself who heard its creaks, and your lady’s sudden climax” (Green 2004:73); the
subhāṣitaratnakoṣa 20.614, samāptanidhuvanacihnavrajyā has a lovely poem on the klinē
martys bearing “witness” to the amorous sports of women as does Bhāravi, Kirātārjunīyam
5.23; Subhāṣitaratnakoṣa no. 573 has a “grating” bed. Here’s “Sulpicia” on this topos:

Si me cadurci restitutes fasciis

nudam Caleno concubantem proferat

If, when the straps for the mattress have been restored, it might reveal me naked sleeping
with Calenus
Catullus 6.10.7-11 describes a similar scene:
ne quiquam tacitum cubile clamat
sertis ac Syrio fragrans oliuo
puluinusque peraeque et hic ille
tremulique quassa lecti
argutatio inambulatioque

your divan, reeking of Syrian unguents,

draped with bouquets & blossoms etc.
proclaims it,
the pillows & bedclothes indented in several places,
a ceaseless jolting & straining of the framework
the shaky accompaniment to your sex parade.
(Whigham 1996:56)
Ovid, Amores 3.14.33: cur pressus prior est interiorque torus?-Why has the couch of your
bedchamber been pressed down upon just before my arrival? Propertius Elegies 2.29.35-36
(apparent non ulla toro vestigial presso, Signa volutantis nec iacuisse duos -There are no
signs of impress on the couch, the marks of lovers taking their delight, no signs that two
have lain therein [Butler 1912:150-151]) and Tibullus Elegies 1.9.57 (Semper sint externa
tuo vestigia lecto-let there be signs of strangers around your bed) also have the klinē martys.

O me felicem! o nox mihi candida! et o tu

lectule deliciis facte beate meis!
quam multa apposita narramus verba lucerna,
quantaque sublato lumine rixa fuit!
(Propertius Elegies 2.15.1-4; Butler 1912:102)

How happy is my lot! O night that was not dark for me! And thou beloved couch blessed by
my delight! How many sweet words were interchanged while I was by, and how we strove
together when the light was gone!
(Propertius Elegies 2.15.1-4; Butler 1912:103)

O my happiness! O dazzling night! and O the bed of love my joys have sanctified!
How many words we murmured with the lamp drawn near; how often we tussled together
when it was doused!
 35

O happy me! O night that shines for me! And O you bed made blessed by delights! How
many words thrashed out when the light was near us, what striving together when light was
taken away!

‘What happiness for me! What a rapturous night I had!

And you, o little bed, become my paradise of pleasures!
How much we talked by lamp-light,
What a set-to, when the light was gone!

houtō kai tōīs erōtikoīs hē pleistē diatribē peri logous mnēmēn tina tōn erōmenōn
anadidontas. hoi ge kan mē pros anthrōpous, pros apsycha peri autōn dialegontai.
ō philtatē klinē
kai,
Bachchis theon s’ enomisen, eudaimon lychne.
kai tōn theōn megistos, ei tautēi dokeīs
(Plutarch, De garrulitate, fr. 513; Babbitt 1927:6:458-460)

So also with lovers, who chiefly occupy themselves with conversation that recalls
some memory of the objects of their love; and if they cannot talk to human beings,
they will speak of their passion to inanimate things:

O dearest bed!
and
O blessèd lamp, Bacchis thought you a god,
And greatest god you are if she thinks so.
(Babbitt 1927:6:459-461)
Sider 1997:85; 90 reads pyknēn in the fourth line instead of pēktēn after Stadtmüller’s
tentative suggestion in his apparatus criticus by comparison with the Dios Apate, “Zeus’
seduction”, Iliad 14.263-348 (Sider 1987:311 [see note 47, ibid. 323]gives ptyktēn following
Gow-Page who follow Planudes), the locus classicus for unobserved sex between husband
and wife:
‘Dread son of Cronus, what are you suggesting now! Suppose we do as you wish and
make love on the heights of Ida, everyone will see everything. What will happen if one
of the eternal gods saw us sleeping together and ran off to tell the rest? I certainly
wouldn’t relish the idea of rising straight from such a bed and going back to your
palace. Think of the scandal! No, if it really is your pleasure to do this, you have a
bedroom that your own son Hephaestus built for you, and the doors he made for it
are solid [pykinas de thyras stathmoīsin epērsen]. Let us go and lie down there, since
bed takes your fancy.’

Zeus who marshals the clouds replied and said:

‘Hera, don’t be afraid any god or man will see us. I’ll hide you in a golden cloud. Even
the sun, whose rays provide him with the keenest sight in all the world, will not be
able to see through it.’

The son of Cronus spoke and took his wife in his arms; and the divine earth sent up
spring flowers beneath them, dewy clover and crocuses and a soft and crowded bed
of hyacinths, to lift them off the ground. In this they lay, covered by a beautiful
golden cloud, from which a rain of glistening dewdrops fell.
(Iliad 14.330-350; Jones-Rieu 2003:248)
(Cf. Plato Republic 3.389d9; 390a4; In Republic 3.390b-c, Socrates objects to Homer’s
portrayal of Zeus’ randy behaviour in Iliad 14. Proclus in his commentary on the Republic
interprets this episode allegorically; Plutarch Aud. Poet. 19f-20b rejects Proclus’ allegorical
reading and finds the point to be a lesson against female seductiveness in the negative
upshot of Hera’s seduction of Zeus). Sider’s reading (1997:90) of the Dios Apate episode as
by itself being sufficient for providing a literary model for love between husband and wife is
prima facie difficult to accept. In the Dios Apate, Hera decides to stop Zeus from aiding the
Trojans by distracting (seducing) him with sex long enough for her agents to work behind his
 36

back. For help, she approaches Hypnos (sleep) and Aphrodite, who lends Hera her decorated
magic charm, which makes the wearer irresistibly attractive, wears it and thereafter seduces
Zeus, who’s lulled off to sleep after lovemaking.

houtos dē ōn ho Kandaulēs ērasthē tēs heōutou gynaikos, erastheis de enomize hoi einai
gynaika pollon paseōn kallistēn. hōste de tauta nomizōn, ēn gar hoi tōn aichmophorōn Gygēs
ho Daskylou areskomenos malista, toutōi tōi Gygēi kai ta spoudaiestera tōn prēgmatōn
hyperetitheto ho Kandaulēs kai dē kai to eidos tēs gynaikos hyperepaineōn (Herodotus,
Histories 1.8.1) Now Candaules conceived a passion for his own wife, and thought she was
the most beautiful woman on earth. So, having in his bodyguard a fellow he particularly liked
whose name was Gyges, son of Dascylus, Candaules not only discussed his most important
business with him, but even used to make him listen to eulogies of his wife’s beauty
(Herodotus, Histories 1.8.1; Sélincort/Marincola 2003:6; cf. Thompson-Motif T295 under
T280 « other aspects of married life », Thompson 1955-8:5:375)

hama de kithōni ekduomenōi synekdyetai kai tēn aidō gynē . “when she takes off her
clothing, she does away with her shame”-you know what they say of women.
(Herodotus, Histories 1.8.3; Sélincort/Marincola 2003:6).

Herodotus was not right in saying that a woman lays aside her modesty along with her
undergarment. On the contrary, a virtuous woman puts on modesty in its stead, and
husband and wife bring into their mutual relations the greatest modesty as a token of the
greatest love.
(Plutarch, Moralia, Conjugalia Praecepta 139c, Babbitt 1927:2:305)

Plato in Book 2 of the Republic (2.359a–2.360d) mentions about the ring of Gyges. It
granted its owner the power to become invisible at will. According to the legend, the
ancestor (in Book 10 Socrates refers to the ring as belonging to Gyges himself, not his
ancestor as Glaucon states in Book 2) of Gyges of Lydia was a shepherd in the service of
King Candaules of Lydia. An earthquake throws open a cave in a mountainside where Gyges
was tending his flock. Gyges enters the cave and discoveres that it is a tomb with a bronze
horse containing a corpse, larger than that of a man wearing a golden ring, which Gyges
pocketes and discovers that it confers invisibility on the wearer. Gyges then arranged to be
chosen as one of the messengers who reported to the king as to the status of the flocks.
Arriving at the palace, Gyges used his new power of invisibility to seduce the queen, and
with her help he murdered the king, and became king of Lydia himself.

5-STATYLLIUS FLACCUS (1st Century CE )

To faithless Nape Flaccus gave myself, this silver lamp, the faithful confidant of the loves of
the night; and now I droop at her bedside, looking on the lewdness of the forsworn girl. But
thou, Flaccus, liest awake, tormented by cruel care, and both of us are burning far away
from each other.
(Paton vol.1, 1916:131)
Argyreon nychiōn me synistora piston erōtōn
ou pistēi lychnon Phlakkos edōke Napēi,
hēs para nyn lecheessi mārainomai, eis epiorkou
pantopathē kourēs aischea derkomenos.
Phlakke, se d’ agrypnon chalepai teirousi merimnai,
amphō d’ allēlōn andicha kaiometha
(Paton vol.1, 1916:130)

A silver lamp, faithful accomplice of the night’s amours, to faithless Napê Flaccus gave me.
Now beside her bed I waste away, looking on the all-suffering shamelessness of that
perjured girl. And you, Flaccus, unsleeping, are oppressed by cruel cares; far from each
other, we are both aflame
(Gow-Page 1968:1:423)
Flaccus gave to faithless Napē,
me, a silver lamp,
faithful witness of nocturnal amours.
 37

Now I die out slowly by her bedside,

looking on that lying girl’s shamelessness,
while you, Flaccus,
lie sleepless, oppressed by cruel grief
and we both burn,
though far away
from each other.

(επιορκου [epiorkou] from επιορκεω [epiorkeō]; “forswear” [also

exomnumi/enepiorkeō/parorkeō); Gow-Page (1968:2:451) mention that “a silver lamp is a
rarity…a rich man’s gift”; my ellipsis).

7-ASCLEPIADES OF SAMOS (300-270 B.C.E.)

DEAR lamp, thrice Heraclea here present swore by thee to come and cometh not. Lamp, if
thou art a god, take vengeance on the deceitful girl. When she has a friend at home and is
sporting with him, go out, and give them no more light.
(Paton vol.1, 1916:131)
Lychne, se gar pareoūsa tris ōmosen Herakleia
hēxein, kouch hēkei. Lychne, sy d’ ei theos eī,
tēn doliēn apamynon. hotan philon endon echousa
paizēi, aposbestheis mēketi phōs pareche.
(Paton vol.1, 1916:130-2)
Lamp, three times Heracleia swore in your presence
to come, and comes not. Lamp, if you are a god,
assist her trickery. When she has a friend at home
and is sporting with him, go out and provide no more light.
(Cameron 1981:282)
Asclepiades AP 5.7 has attracted a great deal of scholarly attention, on which see
Cairns1998:171-8. For a discussion of this most notorious of epigrams, whose interpretation
“has challenged the ingenuity of critics and generated more debate than it’s modest number
of lines would seem to deserve” (Clack 1999:37), see Gow-Page 1968:2:123, Giangrande
1973:319-22, Galli 1976:192-205, Marcovich1987:1-7, Maxwell-Stuart 1981:2:33-4, Cameron
1981:282-4, Clack 1999:37-8 Gutzwiller 2009:138-9 and Kanellou (2010). Cameron observes:

‘Lovers keep the lamp alight’, comments Page, on a rather different poem by Meleager
[AP 5.165; Gow-Page 1968:2:635]. It is true that Greeks and Roman poets frequently
refer to lamps as witnesses of lovemaking, but that is because people normally make
love in private at night. So the bedroom lamp witnesses what others do not. The lamp
may be called the ‘guardian’ of the poet’s beloved; sometimes the poet will guess
from the light in her window that his girl is with another man; and, like everybody
else, lovers extinguish the lamp when they are ready for sleep. But none of these
variations on the motif is quite the same as saying that lovers prefer actually to make
love with the light on. This was surely a matter of taste. As one poet admitted, while
he liked ‘Ludere teste lucerna’, his modest wife preferred the light off (Martial,
xi.104.5-6). After all, the lamp will usually have ‘witnessed’ quite enough to
compromise the lovers even if they extinguish it before actually getting to bed.
(Cameron 1981: 283)
Lamp, Heracleia swore three times in your presence that she
would come, and she hasn’t come. Lamp, if you are a god,
punish her deceit. Whenever she’s playing, having a lover
within, extinguish yourself and give them no more light
(Gutzwiller 2009:138; discussion 138-9)

Lamp, here in your presence swore Heracleia three times that she would come to me. And
she did not. Now, lamp, if you are a god punish the perjurer: When she next time has a
friend at her home to entertain him, put yourself out and deny her your light.

Lamp,
Heracleia awore thrice before you that she’d come to me.
 38

But she didn’t.

Now, lamp, if you’re a god, punish that liar:
The next time that she entertains a friend at her house,
quench yourself
and deny them your light.

8-MELEAGER OF GADARA (First decade of the 1st Century B.C.E., flourished 110-90 B.C.E. )
O HOLY Night, and Lamp, we both chose no confidants but you of our oaths: and he swore to
love me and I never to leave him; and ye were joint witnesses. But now he says those oaths
were written in running water, and thou, O Lamp, seest him in the bosom of others.
(Paton vol.1, 1916:133)
Nyx hierē kai lychne, synistoras outinas allous
horkois, all’ hymeas, heilometh’ amphoteroi.
chō men eme sterxein, keīnon d’ egō ou pote leipsein
ōmosamen, koinēn d’ eichete martyriēn.
nyn d’ ho men horkia phēsin en hydati keīna pheresthai,
lychne, sy d’ en kolpois auton horāis heterōn.
(Paton vol.1, 1916:132)
Sacred night and oil-lamp, we two together chose no other witnesses for our oaths than you.
We swore: he that he would love me, I that I would never leave him.
You were witnesses to testimony sworn jointly.
But now he says that those oaths are carried on water,
And you, lamp, see him in the bosom of others.
(Sider 1997:196)
Sacred night and lamp,
we both chose no other witnesses for our oaths than you.
We swore:
He that he’d love me,
I that I’d never leave him.
You were witnesses to our joint testimony.
But now he says that those oaths are carried on water,
And you, lamp, see him in the bosom of others.

Planudes acscribes this epigram to Philodemus. The lamp image is almost always
heterosexual; the poem’s speaker is therefore female. This epigram blends and extends
images from Callimachus AP 5.6 and Asclepiades 5.7. Sider (1997:196) feels this poem to be
“unworthy of both Meleager and Phil(odemus)”. Gutzwiller (2007:119) opines differently.

128-MARCUS ARGENTARIUS (60 B.C.E.)

BREAST to breast supporting my bosom on hers, and pressing her sweet lips to mine I clasped
Antigone close with naught between us. Touching the rest, of which the lamp was entered as
witness, I am silent.
(Paton vol.1, 1916:189)
sterna peri sternois, mastōi d’ epi maston ereisas,
cheilea te glykeroīs cheilesi sympiesas
Antigonēs, kai chrōta labōn pros chrōta, ta loipa
sigō, martys eph’ oīs lychnos epegrapheto
(Paton vol.1, 1916:188)
Breast to breast with Antigone, bosom on bosom pressing,
lips on sweet lips fastening, flesh to flesh clasping,-the rest is silence; the lamp is registered
witness of it all
(Gow-Page 1968:1:155)
breast pressed to breast and nipple rubbing against nipple; pressing my lips firmly on the
sweet lips of Antigonē, I lay my body on
hers, of the rest I say nothing, only the lamp was witness.

Leaning chest to chest, breast to breast, pressing lips on sweet

lips, and taking Antigonē’s skin to my skin, I keep silent about
the other things, to which the lamp is registered as witness.
 39

Her breast against my breast,

Her skin on mine,
Her lips against my lips,
With nothing in between Antigonē and me, we lay.
I say no more.
The rest the lamp can say.

Her perfect naked breast

upon my breast,
her lips between my lips,

I lay in perfect bliss

with lovely Antigone,
nothing caught between us.

I will not tell the rest.

Only the lamp bore witness.
(Hamill 1999:24)
Antigonē and I:
chest to chest
breast to breast
lips to lips
skin to skin.
I’m silent about other things,
for which the lamp’s a witness.

Pressing Antigonē’s chest against my chest,

breast against my breast,
sweet lips to my lips,
and skin to my skin,
I’m silent about the other things,
for which the lamp is entered as witness.

A teasing poem, in the form of a praeteritio (παράλεψις, ἀντίφρασις), particularly the variety
called as ennoia or invitio. We wonder just how far he will go in the naming of parts. Is there
also a puzzle about what’s next. If he continues with specific names, he can hardly keep up
the polyptoton, since the male and female parts have different names. Does he stop talking
because his grammatical scheme no longer works? Or are we to imagine that the omitted
climax (no pun intended) would have been something along the lines of αἰδοίοις πρὸςαἰδοῖα?
In that case, the omission is tasteful. Marcus Argentarius is particularly fond of innovative
paronomasia.

Occultatio est cum dicimus nos praeterire aut non scire aut nolle dicere id quod nunc
maxime dicimus, hoc modo:“Nam de pueritia quidem tua, quam tu omnium intemperantiae
addixisti, dicerem, si hoc tempus idoneum putarem; nunc consulto relinquo. Et illud
praetereo, quod te tribuni rei militaris infrequentem tradiderunt. Deinde quod iniuriarum satis
fecisti L. Labeoni nihil ad hanc rem pertinere puto. Horum nihil dico; revertor ad illud de quo
iudicium est.” Item: “Non dico te ab sociis pecunias cepisse; non sum in eo occupatus quod
civitates, regna, domos omnium depeculatus es; furta, rapinas omnes tuas omitto.” Haec
utilis est exornatio si aut ad rem quam non pertineat aliis ostendere, quod occulte
admonuisse prodest, aut longum est aut ignobile, aut planum non potest fieri, aut facile
potest reprehendi; ut utilius sit occulte fecisse suspicionem quam eiusmodi intendisse
orationem quae redarguatur.
(Ad Herennium 4.27.37; Caplan 1954:320)
Paralipsis occurs when we say that we are passing by, or do not know, or refuse to say that
which precisely now we are saying, as follows: “Your boyhood, indeed, which you dedicated
to intemperance of all kinds, I would discuss, if I thought this the right time. But at present
I advisedly leave that aside. This too I pass by, that the tribunes have reported you as
irregular in military service. Also that you have given satisfaction to Lucius Labeo for injuries
 40

done him I regard as irrelevant to the present matter. Of these things I say nothing, but
return to the issue in this trial.” Again: “I do not mention that you have taken monies from
our allies; I do not concern myself with your having despoiled the cities, kingdoms, and
homes of them all. I pass by your thieveries and robberies, all of them.” This figure is useful
if employed in a matter which is not pertinent to call specifically to the attention of others,
because there is advantage in making only an indirect reference to it, or because the direct
reference would be tedious or undignified, or cannot be made clear, or can easily be refuted.
As a result, it is of greater advantage to create a suspicion by Paralipsis than to insist directly
on a statement that is refutable.
(Ad Herennium 4.27.37; Caplan 1954:321)
Quintillian IO 9.3.99 excludes praeteritio (which he terms παρασιώπησις; parasiōpēsis) from
the figures of thought.

165-MELEAGER.
MOTHER of all the gods, dear Night, one thing I beg, yea I pray to thee, holy Night,
companion of my revels. If some one lies cozy beneath Heliodōra’s mantle, warmed by her
body’s touch that cheateth sleep, let the lamp close its eyes and let him, cradled on her
bosom, lie there a second Endymiōn.
(Paton vol.1, 1916:207)
Hen tode, pammēteira theōn, litomai se, philē Nyx,
nai litomai, kōmōn symplane, potnia Nyx,
ei tis hypo chlainēi beblēmenos Heliodōras
thalpetai, hypnapatēi chrōti chliainomenos
koimasthō men lychnos. ho d’ en kolpoisin ekeinēs
rhiptastheis keisthō deuteros Endymiōn.
(Paton vol.1, 1916:206)
This paraclausithyric epigram combines images from two poems by Asclepiades- AP 5.7
(address to the lamp) and AP 5.164 (address to Night and the Endymion theme). The myth
goes that Selene, the Moon, enamoured of Endymion spent her nights in his company,
neglecting her duties. In the mornings, she would appear paler and more fatigued than usual
due to her nocturnal amours. Zeus, discovering her liaison with Endymion, offered Endymion
the choice of death in any manner of his choosing or eternal sleep and beauty. Endymion,
unsurprisingly, chose the latter. Apollonius of Rhodes in Argonautica 4.57 (compare Phaedo
72c) tells how Selene, the Titan Goddess of the moon, loved Endymion who was so beautiful
that she asked Zeus, Endymion’s father to grant him eternal youth so he would never leave
her. Alternatively, Selene loved the sleeping visage of Endymion in the cave on Mount
Latmos, near Miletus in Caria so much that she beseeched Zeus that he might remain that
way. Either way, Zeus blessed him by putting him into an eternal sleep. Every night, Selene
visited him where he slept. Selene and Endymion had fifty daughters called the Menae.
According to a passage in Deipnosophistae, the sophist and dithyrambic poet Licymnius of
Chios tells how Hypnos, the god of sleep, in awe of Endymion’s beauty, causes him to sleep
with his eyes open, so he can fully admire his face. The Bibliotheke 1.7.5 claims that Calyce
and Aethlius had a son Endymion who led Aeolians from Thessaly and founded Elis. But
some say that he was a son of Zeus. As he was of surpassing beauty, the Moon fell in love
with him, and Zeus allowed him to choose what he would, and he chose to sleep for ever,
remaining deathless and ageless. The elder Pliny in Naturalis Historia, 2.4.43 mentions
Endymion as the first human to observe the movements of the moon, which (according to
Pliny) accounts for Endymion’s love. Propertius in Elegies 2.25, Cicero in Book 1 of
Tusculanae Quaestiones and Theocritus discuss the Endymion myth to some length, but
reiterate the above to varying degrees.

166-MELEAGER.
O NIGHT, O longing for Heliodōra that keepest me awake, O tormenting visions of the dawn
full of tears and joy, is there any relic left of her love for me? Is the memory of my kiss still
warm in the cold ashes of fancy? Has she no bed-fellow but her tears and does she clasp to
her bosom and kiss the cheating dream of me? Or is there another new love, new dalliance ?
Mayst thou never look on this, dear lamp; but guard her well whom I committed to thy care.
(Paton vol.1, 1916:207)
Ō nyx, ō philagrypnos emoi pothos Heliodōras,
 41

kai skoliōn orthrōn knismata dakrycharē,

āra menei storgēs ema leipsana, kai to philēma
myēmosynon psychpāi thalpet’ en eikasia;
āra g’ echei sygkoita ta dakrya, kamon oneiron
psychapatēn sternois amphibaloūsa phileī;
e neos allos erōs, nea paignia; Mēpote, lychne,
taūt’ esidēis, eiēs d’ hēs paredōka phylax.
(Paton vol.1, 1916:206)
O night, O wakeful longing in me for Heliodōra, and eyes that sting
with tears in the creeping grey of dawn, do some remnants of affection
yet remain mine, and is her memorial kiss warm upon my cold picture?
has she tears for bedfellows, and does she clasp to her bosom and kiss
a deluding dream of me? or has she some other new love, a new
plaything? Never, O lamp, look thou on that, but be guardian of her
whom I gave to thy keeping.
(Mackail 1911:124)
O night, O insomniac longing in me for Heliodora, O gloomy dawns’ torments delighting in
tears, are there any relics left of her affection for me, does any kiss stay warm [as] a
reminder [of me] in the cold bed? Does she have tears for bed-partners, does she hug [ lit.
clasp round] to her breasts and kiss the soul-cheating dream of me [ almost=ghost of me-
Gow & Page]? Or is there some new love, new darling [or plaything]? Never, lamp, may you
look on this, but guard her whom I entrusted to you.

Cf. Rāmāyaṇa, Sundarakānḍa 5.7.64.

191-MELEAGER
Astra kai he philerōsi kalon phainousa Selēnē
kai Nyx chai kōmon symplanon organion
āra ge tēn philasōton et’ en koitaisin athrēsō
agrypnon lychnoi poll’ apoklaomenēn
ē tin’ echei sygkoiton; epi prothyroisi maranas
dachrysin ekdēsō tous hichetas stephanous
hen tod’ epigrapsas. “Kypri, soi Meleagros ho
mystēs
sōn kōmōn storgēs skyla tad’ echremasen”
(Paton vol.1, 1916:222)

O STARS, and moon, that lightest well Love’s friends on their way, and Night, and thou, my
little mandoline, companion of my serenades, shall I see her, the wanton one, yet lying
awake and crying much to her lamp; or has she some companion of the night ? Then will I
hang at her door my suppliant garlands, all wilted with my tears, and inscribe thereon but
these words, “Cypris, to thee doth Meleager, he to whom thou hast revealed the secrets of
thy revels, suspend these spoils of his love.”

(Paton vol.1, 1916:222)

This poem combines the topos of the paraclausithyron/kōmos (on which see the excellent
discussion in Cummmings 1996:7-36) with the dedicatory epigram (lines 9-10).

192-MELEAGER
Astra chai he philerōsi chalon phainousa Selēnē
chai Nyx chai chōmon symplanon organion
āra ge tēn philasōton et’ en choitaisin athrēsō
agrypnon lychnoi poll’ apodaomenēn
ē tin’ echei sygchoiton; epi prothyroisi maranas
dachrysin echdēsō tous hichetas stephanous
hen tod’ epigrapsas. Kypri, soi Meleagros ho mystēs
sōn chōmōn storgās schyla tad’ echremase
(Tarán 1997:92)
O stars and moon, who shine beautifully for lovers,
 42

and night and you, little lute, companion of my revels,

shall I still see the wanton one in bed, awake
very … by her lamp?
or has she some bed fellow?
I shall hang at her portals the suppliant garlands,
withered by my tears, and write only this: “Cypris,
for you Meleager, the initiate of your revels, hung up these spoils of love”.
(Tarán 1997:92-3)

O Stars and Moon, that light well love’s friends on their way,
And Night, and you, my little mandoline,
Companion of my serenades, shall I see her, the wanton one,
Yet lying awake and crying much to her lamp
Or has she some companion of the night?
(Parisinou 2000a: 27-8)
197-MELEAGER
YEA ! by Timo’s fair-curling love-loving ringlets, by Demo’s fragrant skin that cheateth sleep,
by the dear dalliance of Ilias, and my wakeful lamp, that looked often on the mysteries of my
love-revels, I swear to thee, Love (Cupid), I have but a little breath left on my lips, and if
thou wouldst have this too, speak but the word and I will spit it forth.
(Paton vol.1, 1916:225-27)
Nai ma ton euplokamon Timoūs philerōta kikinnon,
nai myropnoun Dēmoūs chrōta ton hypnapatēn,
nai palin Iliados phila paignia, nai philagrypnon
lychnon, emōn kōmōn poll’ epidonta telē,
baion echō to ge leiphthen Erōs epi cheilesi
pneūma.
ei d’ etheleis kai toūt’ eipe, kai ekptysomai
(Paton vol.1, 1916:224-6)
I swear by Timo’s beautiful sportive curls, by Demo’s perfumed sleep-beguiling skin, and by
the love-play of Ilias, by the wakeful (philagrypnon; from philagrypnos; “wakeful”) lamp that
has witnessed the mysteries of my many revels-I have little breath left, Cupid, on my lips.
But if you want that too, speak the word and I will give it out.

By Timo’s beautiful love-loving curls,

By Demo’s fragrant sleep-cheating skin,
By Ilias’ love-play,
By the wakeful lamp, witness to the mysteries of my many love-revels-
I swear that I’ve but little breath left on my lips, Cupid,
But if you want that too,
Speak the word
and I’ll spit it out.

hē to kalon kai pasin epasmion anthesasa,

hē mounē charitōn leiria drepsamenē,
ouketi chrysochalinon hopāi dromon nelioio
Lais, ekoimēthē d’ hypnon opheilpmenon,
kōmous kai ta neōn zelōmata kai ta potheuntōn
knismata kai mystēn lychnon apeipamenē
(Pompeius the younger Anthologia Palatina 7.219, Gow-Page 1968:1:440; Paton 1919:2:124)

She whose flowering was so beautiful and to all men desirable, she who alone gathered the
lilies of the Graces, Laïs no longer looks on the sun’s gold-bridled course, but is laid to rest
in her appointed sleep, having said farewell to revels and young men’s jealousies and lovers’
chafings and the bedroom-lamp her confidant.
(Pompeius the younger, Anthologia Palatina 7.219, Gow-Page 1968:1:441)

Lais, whose bloom was so lovely and delightful in the eyes of all, she who alone culled the
lilies of the Graces, no longer looks on the course of the Sun’s golden-bitted steeds, but
 43

sleeps the appointed sleep, javing bid farewell to reveling and young men’s rivalries and
lovers’ torments and the lamp her confidant.
(Pompeius the younger, Anthologia Palatina 7.219, Paton 1919:2:125)

Marcus Valerius Martialis (born between C.E. 38-41)

Uxor, vade foras aut moribus utere nostris:
non sum ego nec Curius nec Numa nec Tatius.
me jucunda juvant tractae per pocula noctes:
tu properas pota surgere tristis aqua.
tu tenebris gaudes: me ludere teste lucerna (5)
et iuvat admissa rumpere luce latus.
fascia te tunicaeque obscuraque pallia celant:
at mihi nulla satis nuda puella jacet.
basia me capiunt blandas imitata columbas:
tu mihi das aviae qualia mane soles.(10)
nec motu dignaris opus nec voce iuvare
nec digitis, tamquam tura merumque pares:
masturbabantur Phrygii post ostia servi,
Hectoreo quotiens sederat uxor equo,
et quamvis Ithaco stertente pudica solebat (15)
illic Penelope semper habere manum.
pedicare negas: dabat hoc Cornelia Graccho,
Julia Pompeio, Porcia, Brute, tibi;
dulcia Dardanio nondum miscente ministro
pocula Juno fuit pro Ganymede Iovi.(20)
si te delectat gravitas, Lucretia toto
sis licet usque die; Laida nocte volo.
(Martial, Epigrammata 11.104, Ker 1920:2:310)

Either conform to my habits, wife, or get lost! I’m no fossil!

I like to pleasantly prolong the nights with wine; you quickly gulp water and glumly retire;
you like the dark; I enjoy a lamp witnessing my pleasures, and to tire my loins in dawn’s
light.
You’re swathed and covered from top to toe; but for no girl can be naked enough in bed.
I love girls who seize by the neck and kiss like doves; you kiss me like you peck
your granny in the morning.
You don’t participate in lovemaking by movements or voice or fingers; you act as if you’re
observing a vow of chastity!
The Phrygian slaves masturbated outside the door whenever Hector’s wife came on top; and,
however much Ulysses snored, the chaste Penelope always had her hand on his pubes.
You don’t let me bugger you-Cornelia gave this to Gracchus; Julia to Pompey, Porcia to
Brutus;
Juno was Jupiter’s Ganymede before the Dardan boy mixed the sweet cup.
If you must insist on being so damn prim and proper,
be a pious wife to your heart’s content all day-
but I want a slut at night.
(Martial Epigrams 11.104)
Sweet heart begon: Or use our wayes with us,
I am no Curius, Numa, Tatius.
Nights spent in pleasant Cups best please my sense,
Thou to drink water cann’st rise and dispence.
Thou joy’st in darkness, I by light to sport,
Or else by day to loose my Breeches for’t.
Swathes or Coats cover thee, or obscure stuff,
No Wench to me can lye displayd enough.
Such kisses please like Doves that are a billing,
Thou smackst me like thy Grandam so unwilling,
Nor towards the work dost voyce or motion bring,
Nor hand: But makest it as some Offering.
 44

The Phrygian Boyes in secret spent their Seed

As oft as Hector's wife rid on his Steed,
Whiles her Sire slept, Penelope though chast
Was wont to play her hand below her wast.
Thou’lt not be buggerd: Although Gracchus wife
Pompey’s and others did it without strife.
And when the Boy not present was tis said
To fill Wine: Juno was Jove’s Ganimede,
If gravity by day doth thee delight,
Lucretia be: I’le have thee Lais by night.
(Fletcher1656:111-2]
Wife, get out of my house or conform to my ways. I
am no Curius or Numa or Tatius. I like nights
drawn out by cups that cheer: you drink water and
hasten sour-faced from the table. You love the dark:
I prefer to sport with a lamp for witness and to
admit the daylight when I’m bursting my loins. You
hide yourself with a brassiere and a tunic and an
obscuring robe: but no girl lies naked enough for me.
I am captivated by kisses that copy blandishing
doves: you give me such as you give your grandmother
of a morning. You don’t deign to help the
business along by movement or voice or fingers, as
though you were preparing incense and wine. The
Phrygian slaves used to masturbate behind the door
whenever Hector’s wife sat her horse, and although
the Ithacan was snoring, chaste Penelope always
used to keep her hand there. You won’t let me
sodomize: Cornelia used to do that favor for
Gracchus, and Julia for Pompey, and Porcia,
Brutus, for you. Before the Dardanian page mixed
their sweet cups, Juno was Jupiter's Ganymede. If
grave manners please you, you may be Lucretia all
day: at night I want Lais.
(Bailey1993:3:85)
Either get out of the house or conform to my tastes, woman.
I’m no strait-laced old Roman.
I like prolonging the nights agreeably with wine: you, after one
glass of water,
Rise and retire with an air of hauteur.
You prefer darkness: I enjoy love-making
With a witness-a lamp shining or the dawn breaking.
You wear bed-jackets, tunics, thick woollen stuff,
Whereas I think no woman on her back can ever be naked enough.
I love girls who kiss like doves and hang round my neck:
You give me the sort of peck
Due to our grandmother as a morning salute.
In bed, you’re motionless, mute-
Not a wriggle,
Not a giggle-
As solemn as a priestess at a shrine
Proferring incense and pure wine.
Yet every time Andromache went for a ride
In Hector’s room, the household slaves used to masturbate outside,
Even modest Penolope, when Ulysses snored,
Kept her hand on the sceptre of her lord.
You refuse to be buggered; but it’s a known fact
That Gracchus’, Pompey’s and Brutus’ wives were willing partners
in the act,
 45

And that before Ganymede mixed Jupiter his tasty bowl

Juno filled the dear boy’s role.
If you want to be uptight-all right,
By all means play Lucretia by day. But I need a Lais at night.
(Michie 2002:157)
Unlike the mistress, stock addressee of Augustan love elegy, this epigram addresses Martial’s
“wife”. There are other epigrams that address a “wife”; all ribald and “obscene”
(Epigrammata 2.92; 3.92; 4.24). I’ve translated non sum ego nec Curius nec Numa nec
Tatius (literally, “I’m not Curius, Numa or Tatius”) as “I’m no fossil”. cf. 11.104.5 with Ovid
(it’s difficult to fully understand Martial without Ovid and vice-versa), Ars amatoria 3.807-8:
Nec lucem in thalamos totis admitte fenestris :/Aptius in vestro corpore multa latent- “Nor let
light into the bedroom, through the fully-opened bedroom shutters: it’s better for many
things on your body/much of your body to stay hidden”; cf also Plutarch, Moralia,
Quaestiones Romanae, 279f. Also cf. 11.104.13 with Ovid, Ars amatoria 2.703-4: ad thalami
clausa, Musa, resiste fores: halt, Muse, at the closed doors of the bedroom. Martial, in his
intertextual jawāb to the praeceptor’s erotodidaxis (seemingly) employs the mode of
oppositio in imitando/parapurapraveśa tadvirodhinī arthaharaṇa, which Richlin 1992:158-60,
commenting on epigram 11.104.13-14 evocatively terms “staining of the [Ovidian]tradition”.
See also Hinds 1998:134-5 and 2007:113-154. cf. 11.104.13 with Dioscorides, Anthlogia
Palatina 5.56.2 and also with the paraclausithyric exclusus amator in Horace Epode 11.22;
(see Clarke 2001:88 on voyeur figures in Roman erotic art). Adams 1982:123 cites 11.104.17
that the object of pedico is “usually male, but sometimes female” (ibid).The conjugal
affection of doves is a proverbial topos: Ovid Amores 2.6.56; Propertius Elegies 2.15.27;
Martial Epigrams 1.109.2; 12.65.8. Observing chastity on the previous night (sometimes for
ten days, Propertius Elegies 3.22.62) was essential for the rites of Ceres (Ovid Amores
3.10.2) and Isis (Ovid Amores 1.8.74; Tibullus Elegies 1.3.25). There’s a false etymology
between pocula (11.104.20) from poculus, “a drinking-vessel, a cup, goblet, bowl, beaker”
and cūlus, “anus” (cf. the Greek κοῖλος “of a curving form”) and hence, 11.104.20 is
suggestive of anal sex. On Martial’s “embodied poetics”, see Lavigne 2008:275-311. There
have been various sanitized translations of this epigram; Sullivan-Whigman give two such
“englished” versions: that of Sir John Davies (Sullivan-Whigman 1987:565-7) and Tom Brown
(ibid.: 567-9). Ker (1920:2:310) translates 11.104.13-20 into Italian, whereas Bohn
(1860:542-3) cites 11.104 entirely in Giuspanio Graglia’s (1782, 1791) Italian translation! The
oldest English rhymed translation is Fletcher 1656:111-2. Recent translations in English are
Michie 2002:157 (rhymed); there’s a partial prose translation of 11.104.13-22 at Richlin
1992:159.
The ancients regarded bashfulness more erotic than boldness in lovemaking and resistance
more erotic than submission (Lier 1914:36-38, § 20; cf. Martial epigram 5.46.1 -Basia dum
nolo nisi quae luctantia carpsi-I enjoy only those kisses which I wrest forcefully). The topos
of the Mugdhā Nāyikā appears in extenso in Martial only in epigram 4.22 (perhaps because
his audience was uninterested in the uxore):

Primos passa toros et adhuc placanda marito

merserat in nitidos se Cleopatra lacus,
dum fugit amplexus. sed prodidit unda latentem;
lucebat, totis cum tegeretur aquis.
condita sic puro numerantur lilia vitro,
sic prohibet tenues gemma latere rosas.
insilui mersusque vadis luctantia carpsi
basia: perspicuae plus vetuistis aquae.
(Martial, Epigrammata 4.22, Ker 1919:1:244; cf. Ovid, Metamorphoses 4.352-5; 358)
New to love-making;
unreconciled to her husband,
Cleopatra plunged into the
glittering pool, fleeing his vigorous embraces.
But the stream revealed her hiding-place;
she dazzled forth though cloaked in water.
Lillies can be counted in transparent glass,
roses can’t hide in translucent crystal.
 46

I dove in
and wrested reluctant kisses:
you, pellucid waters,
prohibited anything more!
(me)
New to the marriage-bed, and yet unreconciled
to her husband, Cleopatra had plunged into the
gleaming pool, seeking to escape embrace. But the
wave betrayed the lurking dame; brightly she
showed, though covered by the o’erlapping water.
So, shut in pellucid glass, lilies may be counted, so
crystal forbids tender roses to lurk hidden. I leapt
in, and, plunged in the waters, plucked reluctant
kisses : ye, O transparent waters, forbad aught
beyond!
(Martial Epigrammata 4.22, Ker 1919:1:245)

After her wedding-night, the nymph,

avoiding what she seeks (her husband’s touch),
runs to the bright concealments
Of her pool. But water (like glass) betrays
The hidden woman. Cleopatra
Glitters through her cloak of water. So
Ornamental flowers in glass
or crystal, shroud themselves in the
same cheating clearness.
I joined
her there. I
tore up water-kisses. Transparent
Crystal robbed us of the rest.
(Sullivan-Whigham 1987:161)

After tasting the bridal bed, and yet to be appeased by her husband,
Cleopatra had plunged into a gleaming lake,
fleeing from his embrace, but the stream betrayed her hiding-place:
she was shining, although totally covered by the waters.
Thus one can reckon some lilies enclosed beneath a clear glass,
thus a delicate precious stone never lets the roses hide.
I jumped in, and diving in the depths I stole struggling
kisses: ye, translucent waters, forbade me more!
(Soldevila 2003:149-50)
Cleopatra, new to the marriage bed and not yet
reconciled to her husband, had plunged into a gleaming
pool, fleeing embraces. But the water betrayed her
hiding place; covered by all of it, she still shone. So
lilies enclosed in clear glass are counted, so thin crystal
does not let roses hide. In I leapt and plunged in the
pond snatched reluctant kisses. The pellucid waters
forbade more.
(Bailey 1993:2:295)

Cleopatra, after having submitted to the first embrace of love; and requiring to be soothed
by her husband; plunged into a glittering pool, flying from his embrace; but the wave
betrayed her in her hiding-place; and she shone through the water though wholly covered by
it. Thus lilies are distinctly seen through pure glass, and clear crystal does hot allow roses to
be hidden. I leaped in, and, plunging beneath the waves, snatched struggling kisses; more
was forbidden by the transparent flood.
(Bohn 1890:187)
 47

The use of gemma to designate the “glass” that protects but at the same time reveals
(perspicua) is extremely rare in Martial’s corpus (only in epigram 8.68) and is an extension of
the word from precious stones to ordinary glass (Martial Epigrams 14.94; Pliny Natural
History 35.48). This is a “botanical” metaphor, from the glass which in greenhouse
cultivations (specularia; Pliny Natural History 19.64) protects the enclosed delicate
flora/fauna from the ravages of winter (cf. Martial Epigrams 8.68.4-6). Since a vine’s offshoot
is technically termed gemma (hoc uocatur in uite gemma, cum ibi caespitem fecit -in the case
of a vine, when this swelling makes a knob at the knot, it’s termed a ‘gem’; Pliny Natural
History 17.153), there’s a lovely īhām-e tanāsub between gemma and rosas. Perspicuae is
subtly paronomastic-it means both “transparent” (perspicuus) as well as “to look, look at”
(perspicio).
Lucerna Cubicularis
dulcis conscia lectuli lucerna
quidquid vis facias licet, tacebo
(Martial, Epigrammata 14.39, Ker 1920:2:454; a candle [cicendela] is a poor man’s light as
compared to a rich man’s lamp [lucerna] and is hence termed a handmaid/maidservant
[“ancillam”, from “ancilla”] in Martial epigram 14.40; cf. Juvenal, Satires 3.287)

A Bedroom Lamp
I AM a lamp, privy to the pleasures of your couch:
you may do what you will, I shall be silent.
(Ker 1920:2:455)
To me are bedroom joys revealed;
Enjoy at will, my lips are sealed
(Sullivan-Whigham 1987:505)
I arn a lamp, confidante of your sweet bed. You may
do whatever you will, I shall be silent.
(Bailey 1993:3:243)
I, a lamp, witness to the sweet bed
Will keep silent even if you do whatever you want

I am a night-lamp, privy to the pleasures of the couch;

do whatever you please, I shall be silent.

I, an oil-lamp, a confidant of the delightful couch, will keep quiet;

you can do whatever you want.

Whatever you wish to do is permitted; I, the lamp,

accomplice of the sweet bed will be silent.

LIBER X.XXXVIII

O molles tibi quindecim, Calene,

Quos cum Sulpicia tua iugales
Indulsit deus et peregit annos!
O nox omnis et hora, quae notata est
Caris litoris Indici lapillis!

O quae proelia, quas utrimque pugnas

Felix lectulus et lucerna vidit
Nimbis ebria Nicerotianis!
Vixisti tribus, o Calene, lustris:
Aetas haec tibi tota conputatur
Et solos numeras dies mariti.
Ex illis tibi si diu rogatam
Lucem redderet Atropos vel unam,
Malles, quam Pyliam quater senectam.

(Martial, Epigrammata 10.38)

 48

(Proelia, from “proeliāris”, “of or belonging to a battle”, pugnas, from “pūgna”, “a hand-to
hand fight”, “fight at close quarters”, “combat”.)

XXXVIII. TO CALENUS.

Oh how delicious have been the fifteen years of married bliss, Calenus, which the deities
have lavished, in full measure, on you and your Sulpicia! Oh happy nights and hours, how
joyfully has each been marked with the precious pearls of the Indian shore! Oh what
contests, what voluptuous strife between you, has the happy couch, and the lamp dripping
with Nicerotian perfume, witnessed! You have lived, Calenus, three lustra, and the whole
term is placed to your account, but you count only your days of married life. Were Atropos,
at your urgent request, to bring back to you just one of those days, you would prefer it to
the long life of Nestor quadrupled.

Sweet for you, Calenus, are the fifteen

wedded years which, with your Sulpicia,
the god bestowed and accomplished!
Every night and every hour were ones marked
with darling little pearls of the Indian shoreline!
What ‘battles’, what ‘struggles’ for each of you
did the lucky little bed and the lamp gaze upon
drunk with Nicerotian outpourings!
You have lived, Calenus, through three lustrations:
this is the totality of life by your calculations
as you count only the days when you have been a husband.
were Atropos to restore to you a single one
of these days, just one much longed for,
you would opt for it rather than four spans of Pylian old age
(Marguerite and Ryan 2005:86)

ἐκεῖνος ἦν ὁ λύχνος ὁ καιόμενος καὶ φαίνων, ὑμεῖς δὲ ἠθελήσατε ἀγαλλιαθῆναι πρὸς ὥραν ἐν
τῷ φωτὶ αὐτοῦ/ille erat lucerna ardens et lucens vos autem voluistis exultare ad horam in
luce eius/He was the lamp that was burning and was shining and you were willing to rejoice
for a while in his light (John 5.35)

He began: “Do you bring in a lamp to put it under a bowl or a bed? Instead, don’t you put it
on its stand?” (Kai elegen autois hoti mēti erchetai hi lychnos hina hypo ton modion tethēi ē
hypo tēn klinēn)(Mark 4:21). Psalm 118:105, “Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light for
my path”; nun lucerna pedibus meis verbum tuum et lumen semitis meis ). The “lamp” in
Jewish tradition also stood for God (“You are my lamp, o Lord; the Lord turns my darkness
into light,” quia tu lucerna mea Domine et Domine inluminabis tenebras meas , 2 Samuel
22:29) and the coming of the Messiah (Zechariah 4:1-7). Jesus may have been referring to
his own word, for logos (word) and lychnos are similar in the Greek. Or Jesus may have been
referring to himself as the “light of the world”; “While I am in the world, I am the light of the
wold” hotan en tōi kosmōi ō, phōs eimi tou kosmou (John 9:5; cf. John 1:1-5)

Ὁ λύχνος τοῦ σώματός ἐστιν ὁ ὀφθαλμός. ἐὰν ᾖ ὁ ὀφθαλμός σου ἁπλοῦς, ὅλον τὸ σῶμά σου
φωτεινὸν ἔσται/ lucerna corporis est oculus si fuerit oculus tuus simplex totum corpus tuum
lucidum erit/The lamp of the body is the eye. If therefore your eye is sound, your whole
body will be full of light. (Matthew 6.22)

lucerna corporis tui est oculus tuus si oculus tuus fuerit simplex totum corpus tuum lucidum
erit si autem nequam fuerit etiam corpus tuum tenebrosum erit/ὁ λύχνος τοῦ σώματός ἐστιν
ὁ ὀφθαλμός σου. ὅταν ὁ ὀφθαλμός σου ἁπλοῦς ᾖ, καὶ ὅλον τὸ σῶμά σου φωτεινόν ἐστιν·
ἐπὰν δὲ πονηρὸς ᾖ, καὶ τὸ σῶμά σου σκοτεινόν/The eye is the lamp of your body; when your
eye is clear, your whole body also is full of light; but when it is bad, your body also is full of
darkness (Luke 11.34).
 49

o lychnos tou sōmatos estin o ophthalmos ean oun o ophthalmos sou aplous ē olon to sōma
sou phōteinon estai/lucerna corporis est oculus si fuerit oculus tuus simplex totum corpus
tuum lucidum erit/ The lamp of the body is the eye. If therefore your eye is sound, your
whole body will be full of light (Matthew 6.22)

o lychnos tou sōmatos estin o ophthalmos otan oun o ophthalmos sou aplous ē kai olon to
sōma sou phōteinon estin epan de ponēros ē kai to sōma sou skoteinon/
lucerna corporis tui est oculus tuus si oculus tuus fuerit simplex totum corpus tuum lucidum
erit si autem nequam fuerit etiam corpus tuum tenebrosum erit/ The lamp of the body is the
eye. Therefore when your eye is good, your whole body is also full of light; but when it is
evil, your body also is full of darkness (Luke 11.34)

The spirit of man is the lamp of the Lord, searching all the innermost parts of his being.
(Proverbs 20.27)

lucerna Domini spiraculum hominis quae investigat omnia secreta ventris

(Proverbs 20.27)
♣
rāvaṇe sukhasaṃviṣṭe tāḥ striyo vividhaprabhāḥ
jvalaṃtaḥ kāṃcanā dīpāḥ prekśaṃtānimiṣā iva
(Rāmāyaṇa, Sundarakānḍa 5.7.64; Jhala 1966:92)

Only because Rāvaṇa was sound asleep did those blazing golden lamps unblinkingly
gaze upon those women of manifold splendor.
(Rāmāyaṇa, Sundarakānḍa 5.7.64; Goldman and Goldman 2007:V:134, my italics)

Here’s their footnote to this verse:

We are inclined to agree with Cg, Cm in taking the verse as embodying an utprekṣā,
or fanciful construction in which an attribute is posited of an object that cannot in
reality sustain it-in this case the intentionality and voyeurism on the part of the lamps.
Ct, Cr, on the other hand, understand the subject of the verse to be actually animate.
Ct takes the agnipuruṣa, “personified fire”, as the subject of the gaze, while Cr
identifies the subjects as the presiding divinities of the lamps
(tadabhimānidevaviśeṣāḥ). According to them, the point of the verse is to show that
Rāvaṇa is so fearsome that even the gods dare not look upon his women while he is
awake…
(Foot note 64 to Sundarakānḍa 5.7.64; Goldman and Goldman 2007:V:365; my emphasis)
Here’s the critical note to this verse:

The meaning is: The golden lamps could observe the lovely ladies with steadfast eyes,
as it were, because Rāvaṇa was fast asleep!
(Critical note to Rāmāyaṇa, Sundarakānḍa 5.7.64; Jhala 1966:479; my emphasis)

...For as women are commodified in the “purdah” culture of traditional South Asian elites, the
visual consumption of them by males other than their husbands and close relatives is heavily
tabooed.
(Goldman and Goldman 2007:5:51)
…The impropriety of gazing upon Rāvaṇa’s women and the danger of being caught doing so
are strikingly represented at 5.7.64, where the poet remarks that even the lamps in the
women’s quarters dare gaze upon the women only because Rāvaṇa is fast asleep…
(Introduction, foot note 173 Goldman and Goldman 2007:5:51; my emphasis)

It was as if these golden burning lamps were looking after (and keeping check on) these
ladies who are of different complexion, without blinking, as it were, even while Raavana was
sleeping comfortably.
(Rāmāyaṇa, Sundarakānḍa 5.9.67; Swaminathan 2001:6:74)

With Rāvaṇa peacefully asleep, it seemed as if the golden lamps watched over those
splendid women with fixed, unblinking eyes.
 50

(Sattar 2000[1996]:420)
It looked as if the burning golden lamps there were gazing with unwinking eyes at these
women of different complexions, taking the opportunity of Ravana’s absorption in sleep
(Rāmāyaṇa, Sundarakānḍa 5.9.69; Tapasyananda 2009:53)

Rāvaṇa asleep,
the flaming golden lamps
ogled his women
of manifold radiance
as if
with unblinking eyes

Rāvaṇa asleep,
the flaming golden lamps
kept a watch
on his women
of manifold radiance
as if
with unblinking eyes
♣
āyāte dayite manorathaśatairnītvā kathaṃciddinaṃ
vaidagdhyāpagamājjaḍe parijane dīrghām kathām kurvati
daṣṭāsmītyabhidhāya satvarapadaṃ vyādhūya cīnāṃśukaṃ
tanvañgyā ratikātareṇa manasā nītaḥ pradīpaḥ śamaṃ
(Amaruśatakam 77[Arjunavarmadeva]; Pandeya 2000:102)

Her lover had returned.

Somehow she passed the day with her hundred wishes.
Lacking any awareness
Her obtuse retinue extends their chatter.
“I have been bitten,” she says,
Rapidly shaking her sari’s edge,
And, desperate for love, the slender woman
Extinguished the lamp.
(Bailey 2005:257)
Somehow she
got through the day
anticipating
the hundred pleasures of night.
Her dear one’s returned!
But now it’s time to enter the bedchamber
and relatives
won’t stop their dull conversation.
Mad with desire the girl finally cries
something bit me
shakes her skirt fiercely
and knocks over
the lamp-
(Schelling 2004:86)
āyāte dayite manorathaśatairnītvā kathaṃciddinaṃ
gatvā vāsagṛhaṃ jaḍe parijane dīrghām kathām kurvati
daṣṭāsmītyabhidhāya satvarapadaṃ vyādhūya cīnāṃśukaṃ
tanvañgyā ratikātareṇa manasā nītaḥ pradīpaḥ śamaṃ
(Amaruśatakam 88[Vemabhūpāla]; Devadhar 1959:102)

When the lover had returned, she passed the day

With difficulty filling her mind with hundreds of
Daydreams; and then entering the pleasure-house,
 51

She saw that her obtuse attendants lacking all

Sagacity carried on a long conversation; the slender-
Bodied one, whose heart grew impatient for
Enjoyment of love cried out, “O, something has bitten me!” and hurriedly tossing her silken
scarf she extinguished the lamp
(Amaruśatakam 88[Vemabhūpāla]; Devadhar 1959:102)

prathamāvatīrṇayauvanamadanavikārā ratau vāmā

kathitā mṛduśca māne samadhikalajjāvatī
(Viśvanātha, Sāhityadarpaṇa 3.58, Śāstri 2000:72)

She is called the ‘youthful’-or ‘artless’…-who, on the arrival of the period of youth,-being
altered by love then first felt, shrinks from caresses, is gentle amid her indignation, and
extremely bashful.
(Ballantyne-Dasa 1994:67, my ellipsis)
ratau vāmā yathā
drsṭā dṛṣṭimadho dadāti, kurute nālāpamābhāṣitā
śayyāyām parivṛtya tiṣṭhati, balādāliñgitā vepate
niryāñtīṣu sakhīṣu vāsabhavanāñnirgañtumevehate
jātā vāmatyaiva samprati mama prītyai navoḍhā priyā
(Viśvanātha, exemplum under Sāhityadarpaṇa 3.58, Śāstri 2000:73)

‘who shrinks from caresses’

“when looked at, she casts down her eyes; she speaks not when spoken to; she stands
turning away from the couch; when clasped perforce, she trembles; when her female friends
who have conducted her to the bridegroom’s house are about to retire, she too wishes to
depart from the dwelling. By this very coyness my beloved bride has become now more than
ever dear to me.”
(Ballantyne-Dasa 1994:68)
dipāloke vigāḍhayauvanāyāh pūrvasaṃstutāyāḥ.bālāyā apūrvāyāścāṃdhakāre
(Kāmasūtra, kanyāvisrambhaṇaprakarṇam , 2.3.10; Śāstri 1964:411)
He does this by the light of a lamp, if she has reached the prime of her youth and has
already become familiar with him, or in the dark, if she is still a child and has no previous
experience.
(Doniger and Kakkar 2002:79)
Yaśodhara in his commentary in the Jayamañgalā injuncts that young, inexperienced brides
must be embraced in the dark on account of their being excessively bashful and timid.
bhayalajjābhāvātbālāpūrvāyoraṃdhakārelajjādhikyāt
(Yaśodhara on Kāmasūtra 2.3.10; Śāstri 1964:411)
All the erotic treatises are unanimous that a bālā is a girl in the age range of eleven to
sixteen years.
bālānūtanasaṃgame rati karī sāṃdrāñdhakāre bhavet
āloke mudamātanoti taruṇī sambhogalīlāvidhau
āloke tu sukhāyate sarabhasaṃ prauḍhā tamisre’aṃganā
vṛddhā jīvitahāriṇī na kurute kutrāpi
(Jyotirīśa, Pañcasāyaka, strījātisvarupabhāvasamuddeśaprakarṇam 2.3.18,
Dhuṇḍhirājaśāstri 2003:12)
bālā navīnasurate muditā tamisre, sajjāyate’atha taruṇī mahati prakāśe
prauḍhā prakāśatamasoḥ samupaiti saukhyaṃ, vṛddhā tu na kvacana jīvitahāriṇī sā
(Kalyāṇamalla, Anaṃgaraṃga 4.2; Prasad 1983:17)

In darkness bālā gets pleasure in courtship (because she is shy by nature) and taruṇī
gets pleasure in the courtship done by light (because now she starts getting full pleasure of
courtship and she is not shy). Prauḍhā gets equal
Pleasure in dark and light both. One should not indulge in courtship with a lady above
fifty five because union with her is injurious to health
(Kalyanamalla, Anaṃgaraṃga 4.2; Prasad 1983:21)
♣
 52

Weber, in his critical edition of the Sattasaī, based on seventeen manuscripts distinguished
six different recensions (Weber, Vorwort [“foreword”]1881: xxvii). Weber found only about
430 gāthās common from 964 gāthās (keeping in mind the incomplete nature [only 104
gāthās] of his sixth recension W, the ‘second Teliñga’ recension; ibid: xlviii). Weber also
distinguished a Vulgate section (“Vulgata”) comprising of 698 gāthās (Weber 1881: 1-355)
and a second section comprising of a number of interpolated recensions ( ibid: 372-513).
Gāthās occurring at nos. 699-705 ( ibid: 372-375) are from the recensions of Kulanātha and
Haritāmrapītāmbara; gāthās no. 706-99 (ibid: 376-432) are from various manuscripts of the
gāthāsaptaśati; gāthās no. 800-814 are (ibid: 434-449) from the Muktāvali of
Sādhāraṇadeva; gāthās no. 815 to 953 (ibid: 451-501) and gāthās no. 954 to 965 (ibid: 503-
508) are from the first and second Teliñga recensions respectively and gāthās no. 966 to
1000 (ibid: 510-513) are taken from various works of the Alaṃkāraśāstra where they occur
as exempla. Weber’s edition has an extensive foreword, variant readings, German prose
translations of several hundred gāthās (which are, unfortunately, often incorrect), quotations
from various Sanskrit tīīkās, copious notes, a first line index of all gāthās, a word-index, and
concordances showing comparative numbering of the gāthās in various recensions. Though
Weber hasn’t given the Sanskrit chhāyā of any of the gāthās, his work is still the best place
to go for the Prakrit text of the gāthās. A verse is presumably more likely to be “authentic” if
found in the Vulgate and in all the other recensions (for details, see Weber 1881: xlv-l).
Gāthā no.3 names Hāla as the compiler of the Anthology: satta saāiṃ kaïvachhaleṇa kodīa
majjhaārammi//Hāleṇa viraïāiṃ sālaṃkarānaṃ gāhāṇaṃ// (Weber 1881:3) “From crores (of
gāthās), Hāla, patron of poets, compiled seven hundred gāthās replete with poetic
embellishments”. Hāla’s anthology probably served as a model for later septacenta like the
Vajjālaggaṃ of Jayavallabha (Mahārāśṭrī Prakrit), the Āryāsaptaśatī of Govardhanācārya
(Sanskrit) and the Satasaī of Bihārīdāsa (Brajbhāṣā).

Weber (1881:256) has a colophon for this gāthā: “Why I was gone so long” (Warum ich so
lánge fort geblieben bin?). Jogalekar (1956:358) titles this gāthā “svayamprakāśa/Self-
Illumination”. This gāthā occurs in Weber’s recensions G, γ, ψ, π, χ, S and T (Weber 1881:
256), but is absent in Bhuvanapāla’s (Weber 1883; Patwardhan 1980) and
Haritāmrapītāmbara’s recensions (Śāstri 1942).

daṭṭtt hûṇa taruṇasuraaṃ

vivihavilâsehi karaṇasohillaṃ
dîvo vi taggaamaṇo
gaaṃ pi tellaṃ ṇa lakkhei
(Gāthāsaptaśati 6.47, Weber no.548; 1881:256; for a Sanskrit commentary, see Śāstri
1933:278-9)
daṭṭtt hūṇa taruṇasuraäṃ vivihavilāséhiṃ karaṇasohillaṃ
dīo vi taggaämaṇo gaäṃ pi tellaṃ ṇa lakkhéï
(Gāthāsaptaśati 6.47; Śāstri 1933:278, Pathak 1969:287)

The lamp-oil finished,

The wick still burns,
Engrossed in the young couple’s
Copulation
(Mehrotra 1991:44)
That fortunate lamp and the mirror
are witness to all their fine loveplay.
So the lamp will never go out
And the mirror will always be watching
(Ray 1983:167)
Having seen the dalliance of the young (couple) consisting of various kinds of (amorous)
gestures and looking splendid on account of postures (or modes of sexual enjoyment), even
the lamp, with its attention fixed therein, does not mark the oil (exhaustively) burnt out.
(Basak 1971:120-1)
The lamp was so absorbed
In looking at the young couple
Playfully making love
 53

In all sorts of different positions

That it did not notice that the oil had run out.
(Khoroche-Tieken 2009:80)
The lamp,
lost in ogling
the varied modes
of lovemaking
of the young couple
doesn’t even notice
that it’s oil’s
finished

datṭḥūṇa taruṇasurayaṃ vivihapalotṭtạṃtakaraṇasohillaṃ

dīvo vi taggayamaṇo gayaṃ pi tellaṃ na lakkhéï
(Vajjālaggaṃ, surayavajjā/suratapaddhati 35.1/319)
(Patwardhan 1969:85)
drsṭva taruṇasurataṃ vividhapravartamānakaraṇaśhobhāyuktaṃ
dīpo’api tadgatamanā gatamapi tailaṃ na lakśayati
(Patwardhan 1969:85)
On witnessing the coitus of the young couple, graceful (charming) on account of the
diverse poses (modes or postures in sexual intercourse), transpiring in succession, even
the lamp, with its mind absorbed (in beholding the coitus) does not notice the
consumption of its oil (does not know when its oil was consumed or burnt out).
(Patwardhan 1969:315)
muhavijjhaviäpaïvam ṇiruddhasāsam sasaṃkiollāvaṃ
savahasaärakhioṭṭhaṃ coriäramiaṃ suhāvéï
(Gāthāsaptaśati 4.33, Śāstri 1933:170, Weber no.333; 1881:123; cf. Rasamañjarī 105
on the upapati and cauryarata)
Stealthy dalliance, in which the lamp is extinguished by a blow of the mouth-wind, the
breath is suppressed, conversation is carried on with dread, and the lip is protected (from
biting) with hundreds of oaths, gives pleasure.
(Basak 1971:73-74)
Promises
Not to bite
The underlip,

The lamp
Puffed out,
The speech
A whisper,
And the breath
Confined

Make forbidden love

Felicitous
(Mehrotra 1991:28)
Somehow it gave them more pleasure,
In the dark, with the lamp out,
Their breath half-suppressed, lips
Bitten, whispering.
(Ray 1983:167)
The lamp blown out,
Stifled sighs,
Fearful whispers,
Lips sealed by hundreds of vows:
Oh! the joys of stolen love.
 54

(Khoroche-Tieken 2009:69)
The lamp blown out,
sighs stifled,
whispers hushed
a hundred vows
not to bite the lips-
The delights of illicit love!

This gāthā splendidly illustrates the topos of furtivus amor (amor furtivus “clandestine love,
in the sense of “forbidden love”; amor secretus/ abditus “hidden, concealed love”;
amor absconditus/occultus “obscure, not apparent love”. Tibullus, Elegies 1.2.35:Parcite
luminibus, seu vir seu femina fiat/obvia: celari vult sua furta Venus - Avert your eyes, men
and women who see me,/for Venus prefers to hide her thefts, cf. “Plato”, AP 7.100,
Disokorides, AP 5.56, Paulus Silentiarius, AP 5.252. Casanus, De visione dei, 17.75:9-14: est
enim amor secretus suus et thesaurus absconditus , qui inventus manet absconditus- “For it is
his secret love and hidden treasure, which remains hidden when it is found.” Cf. melior est
manifesta correptio quam amor absconditus/ occultus (Proverbs 27:5): “Open rebuke is
better than secret love”). Jogalekar (1956:228) comments that though the lamp could have
been doused by hand, to avoid the sound of clinking bangles in a house full of people, by
way of abundant precaution, it’s puffed out, despite śāstra forbidding such an act
(Manusmṛiti 4.53.1: nāgni mukhenopadhamennagnām nekśet ca striyaṃ-He should not blow
on fire with his mouth, nor look at a naked woman [Doniger and Smith 1991:79]. Śāstri
(1933:170) mentions two reasons, one, the (potential) sound caused and second, the longer
time taken.

marumarumāra tti bhaṇañtiyāi surayammi kelisañgāme

pāsaṭṭhio vi dīvo sahasā hallapphalo jāo
(Vajjālaggam, surayavajjā/suratapaddhati 35.2/320)
(Patwardhan 1969:86)
marumarumāra iti bhaṇañtayāḥ surate kelisañgrāme
pārśvasthito’api dīpaḥ sahasā kaṃpanaśīlo jātaḥ
(Patwardhan 1969:86)
As the damsel was uttering the sounds “maru maru mara” during the sexual
intercourse-a veritable battle of amorous dalliance-even the lamp nearby (by the bedside)
was thrown into trepidation all of a sudden (i.e. was frightened and began to tremble).
(Patwardhan 1969:315)
Hearing her shrieks
during lovemaking’s battle
even the nearby lamp
was suddenly agitated

Hearing her shrieks

during lovemaking’s battle
even the nearby lamp
suddenly shivered/quivered

Hearing her shrieks

during lovemaking’s tumult,
the nearby lamp too
is suddenly curious
The lamp here is both écouter as well as voyeur. Halla, from halliäṃ (Hemacandra,
Deśīnāmamālā 8.62; caliäsayaṇahesu halliähalūrā; (Pischel 1938:339); Ramanujaswami
(ibid. 91) in his appendix glosses halliäṃ as calitaṃ and translates it as “shaken, moved”;
Cf. Marāṭhī halṇe, ḍhaḷṇe, haḷ haḷ, haḷ halṇe and Hindi hilnā; halhalnā (Weber 1881:10), to
“tremble or flutter under excitement”, ibid. Ratnadeva in his chhāyā and Sanskrit
commentary on this gathā glosses hallapphalo jāo as kaṃpanaśīlo jātaḥ-“thrown into
tremor or flutter”, “trepidation”; “trembling with fear”. Hemacandra in his vṛtti on
Śabdānuśāsana 8.2.174 merely mentions hallaphala as a bhāṣāśabda without explaining
 55

it’s meaning. Hallapphala also occurs in Gāthāsaptaśati 1.79 (Weber 1881:27-28) where
the commentators gloss it as autsukya, utsāhatāralya and utsāharabhasa (Jogalekar
1956:61, Sastri 1965: 326, Pathak 1969: 61 and Basak 1971:19 all gloss hallapphala as
utsāhatarala in the Sanskrit chhāyā on Gāthāsaptaśati 1.79; Śāstrī 2000:45 in his chhāyā
gives utsāhatarala as well as utsāharabhasa; utsāha-inclination, desire; tarala-trembling,
shaking, waving, tremulous; rabhasaḥ-ardent, eager, impetuosity, haste, speed, hurry)-
unsteadiness/impatience/haste/eagerness due to over-enthusiasm in doing a thing). Here
are the meanings cited for hallapphalla in the Pāiasaddamahaṇṇavo (Sheth 1986:943):
halphal, haḍbaḍi, autsukya, tvarā, śīghratā (on the authority of
Hemacandraprākṛtavyākaraṇa 2.174, the Samarāicakkhā and Hemacandra’s
Kumārapālacaritā 5.74); ākulatā (on the authority of supāsanāhacariä); kampanaśīla,
kāṃptā, cañcala (citing as an exemplum pāsaṭṭhiovi dīvo sahasā hallapphalo jāo ). Here’s
the entry for hallapphala in Hemacandra’s Deśīnāmamālā 8.59.2: hatthaṃ hallaphaliäṃ
huliäṃ sigghammi; Hemacandra’s Sanskrit gloss reads as follows: hatthaṃ hallaphaliäṃ
huliäṃ trayo’pyete śīghrārthāh. hallaphaliäṃ ākulatvamityañye (Pischel 1938:338)-
hatthaṃ hallaphaliäṃ huliäṃ all three mean “haste”. hallaphaliäṃ is agitation.
Ramanujaswami (ibid.: 91) in his appendix glosses sigghammi as śīghraṃ and translates it
as “soon” and ākulatvamityañye as “agitation”. Hallaphala is semantically related to
halhala (Gāthāsaptaśati 1.21 [Weber 1881:10], Weber 780, Weber 1881:424).
Hemacandra at Deśīnāmamālā 8.74.1 has the following entry for halhala: tumulammi
kouäy halhalaṃ (halhala is tumult caused due to curiosity) and comments halhalaṃ
tumulaḥ kautukaṃ ca (Pischel 1938:344); Ramanujaswami (ibid. 91) glosses tumulam as
“a tumult” and kautukam as “curiosity”. Halhala is also listed in Dhanapāla’s Prakrit lexicon,
the Pāialacchīṇāmamālā 827: halhaö tarā (Doshi 1960:33; halhala is haste). Doshi glosses
tarā as tvarā in the Sanskrit chhāyā (ibid) and gives “hurry” as it’s meaning (ibid.:111).
The Pāiasaddamahaṇṇavo (Sheth 1986:943) cites inter alia the following meanings for
halhala/halhalaä (many of which overlap with Hallaphala): tvarā, haḍbaḍi, halphal,
śīghratā; autsukya, utkaṇṭhā and mentions Gāthāsaptaśati 1.21 and 780 as exempla. The
various commentators gloss halhala as vyatikrāṃtakutūhalātiśayasya kāmautsukyasya ;
kāmautsukyam; vyatikrāṃtautsukyasya; vyatikrāṃtahalahalakasya kāmautsukyasya (ibid.).
The ratipradīpa exhibits the sāttvika bhāva vepatthu (trembling; DR 4.7) and the
sthāyibhāva bhaya (DR 4.44), “fear”. It also exhibits the vyabhicāribhāvas śañkā
(apprehension, DR 4.12; causes inter alia kampaśoṣa “trembling” and abhivīkṣā “anxious
looks”), cintā (anxiety, DR 4.19; “meditation due to non-attainment of a desired object”;
Cf. exclusus amator), trāsa (fright, DR 4.20, is agitation of mind “ manaḥkṣobha” and
causes trembling “utkampa”), amarṣa (indignation DR 4.22; causes inter alia śiraḥkampa
“shaking the head”), āvega (agitation DR 4.35; causes inter alia bhaya “fear” and kampa
“trembling” and apasārāḥ “attempts to escape”) vrīḍā [DR 4.30] and autsukya (impatience
DR 4.41 due to inter alia, arati, sambhramaḥ, “lack of love-pleasure”, “confusion” causes
inter alia tvarā “hastiness”; sveda “sweating”[sveda is also a sāttvika bhāva, an
“involuntary state”] and vibhramaḥ “confusion”).
datṭhuṇa rayaṇimajjhe bahuvihakaraṇehi nibbharaṃ surayaṃ
o dhuṇai dīvaö viṃbhio vva pavaṇāhaö sīsaṃ
(surayavajjā/suratapaddhati 35.4/322)
(Patwardhan 1969:86)
drsṭvā rajanimadhye bahuvidhakaraṇairnirbharaṃ surataṃ
aho dhunoti dīpo vismita iva pavanāhataḥ śīrṣaṃ
(Patwardhan 1969:86)
Oh wonder! On beholding at night the sexual union, vehement (violent) in its diverse
poses (or modes), the lamp struck by the wind, shakes its head (i.e. flame) as if
overwhelmed with astonishment.
(Patwardhan 1969:315)
Oh wonder!
Seeing at midnight
the various positions
 56

of vigorous lovemaking,
the lamp,
struck by the breeze,
shakes it’s head
as if
astonished.
♣
ruddhe vāyau niṣiddhe tamasi śubhavaśonmīlitalokaśaktiḥ
kasmannirvāṇalābhī na bhavatu parambrahmavadvīkśya dīpaḥ
nidrāṇastrīnitambāmbaraharaṇaraṇanmekhalārāvadhāvat-
kañdarpāndhabāṇavyatikarataralaṃ kāminaṃ yāminīṣu
(Subhāṣitaratnakoṣā, Pradīpavrajyā No. 854; Kosambi and Gokhale 1957:156-7)

How should a lamp not become extinguished (or, not attain nirvana), the wind being
still (or, the breath being suspended), darkness (or, the principle of ignorance) being denied,
and its power of illumination developed by its cleanliness (or, by its good karma), when at
night-time it sees a lover excited by the workings of the arrows shot by Kama, who has come
running at the sound of the girdle as the garment is removed from the buttocks of a sleeping
woman?
(Subhāṣitaratnakoṣā no. 854; Ingalls 1965: 527; The Lamp)
The sense is that such a sight is enough to propel a lamp to paradise or to put it out (Ingalls
1965:528).
♣
atipītāṃ tamorājīṃ tanīyāñsoḍhumakśamaḥ
vamatīva śanaireṣa pradīpaḥ kajjalachhalāt
(Subhāṣitaratnakoṣā, Pradīpavrajyā no. 855;
Kosambi and Gokhale 1957:157)
The lamp, too thin to swallow
so much darkness,
slowly throws it back
in the guise of soot
(Ingalls 1965:267)
Ingalls (1965:262) states that all the verses of the pradīpavrajyā section “except perhaps
855, describe the lamp of the bed-chamber” (ibid, my italic.)

Too frail/pale to drink in

so much darkness,
the lamp slowly emits it
as soot

dīpo bhakśayate dhvāñtam kajjalam ca prasūyate

yadaññam bhakśayeññityam jāyate tādṛśī prajā
(Cāṇakyanīti 8.3; Bist 2001:109)

The lamp consumes darkness and produces soot

Offspring are born according to the food regularly eaten

Ingalls translates “throws” for the sanskrit vamati, “he vomits”, possibly because vamati is
too grāmya for the erotic rasā (Sheldon Pollock, email communication) or because it’s
suggestive of the odious rasā, bībhatsa, theoretically incompatible with śṛñgāra. Kālidāsa
uses it at Abhijñyānaśākuntalam 2.7.2 (sūryakāñtāstadañyatejo’ bhibhavādvamañti, Kale
1994:66, where vamañti is translated variously, “manifest” [Kale 1994:67], “emit” [Devdhar-
Suru 2002:49] “reflect” [Miller 1999:105]. Rāghavabhaṭṭa, in the Arthadyotanikā commentary
mentions that it would be erroneous to interpret vamañti here as being obscene, since it
would be a poetic fault only if used in it’s literal sense- atra vamañtītyaślīlaśañkā na kāryā.
yatra svavācye vāñtaśabdaḥ prayujyate tatra doṣaḥ, Kale 1994:68). Incidentally, vomit, “act
of expelling contents of the stomach through the mouth,” from Latin vomitare “to vomit
often,” frequentative of vomere “spew forth, discharge,” from PIE base * wem- “to spit,
 57

vomit” is related to Greek emein “to vomit,” emetikos “provoking sickness” as well as
Sanskrit vamati “he vomits” Avestan vam- “to spit” Lithuanian vemiu “to vomit,” and O.N.
væma “seasickness”. Cf. Persius, Satires 5.181: Dispositae, pinguem nebulam vomuēre
lucernae; “The lamps disposed, vomit a fat cloud of smoke”; Virgil; Aeneid 5.682: Stuppa
vomens tardum fumum; “The tow vomitting tardy, languid smoke” (West 2003:108
translates vomens tardum fumum as “oozing slow smoke”; thereby changing the nuance of
vomens).
atipītaṃ tamorājīṃ tanīyāñvoḍhumakśamaḥ
vamatīva śanaireṣa pradīpaḥ kajjalachhalāt
(Saduktikarṇāmrata, Śṛñgārapravāhavīci 2.148.5 in Tripathi 2007:402)
♣
nirvāṇagocaragato’pi muhuḥ pradīpaḥ kiṃ vṛttakkaṃ taruṇayoh suratāvasāne
ityevamākalayituṃ sakalaṃkalajjodgrīvikāmiva dadāti ratipradīpaḥ
(Subhāṣitaratnakoṣā, [11th century CE],Pradīpavrajyā no. 856;
Kosambi and Gokhale 1957:157)
(I’ve emended the reading sakalaṃkalajjadudgrīvikāmiva in Kosambi and Gokhale 1957:157
to sakalaṃkalajjodgrīvikāmiva)

The lamp of love has almost reached nirvana

but, wondering what the two will do
when they come to intercourse, it stretches up its neck
and seeing, by its lampblack shows embarrassment
(Subhāṣitaratnakoṣā no. 856; Ingalls 1965: 267; The Lamp)

Just before expiring the flame of an oil lamp rises for a moment. The verse gives a fanciful
explanation of the phenomena.
(Ingalls 1965:528; my emphasis)

Nearly extinguished,
but curious
about the young couple
making love,
the Love-Lamp
ganders its
neck
and seeing them,
abashed, gives out
smoke

One of the tirelessly repeated motifs of the Palatine Anthology is that of the flickering lamp
that illuminates the lovers’ bedroom. The same motif appears in Sanskrit poetry. I
particularly like this ingenious variation that combines the religious notion of nirvāna, which
is extinction, with the quenching of the bright and blushing light:

The lamp of love had almost reached nirvāna

but it wanted to see what those two would do
when they were doing it: curious, it stretched its neck
and, seeing what it saw, let out a puff of smoke.
(Paz [Weinberger] 2006:155; my italics)
A markedly physical and realistic, even materialistic, poetry-the irony of the blushing lamp
whose flicker is inextricable from a sacred concept like nirvāna –becomes, at certain
moments, a sober pessimism.
(Paz [Weinberger] 2006:155)
nirvāṇagocaragatopi muhurniśāyāṃ kiṃ ceṣtītaṃ taruṇayoh suratāvasāne
ityevamākalayituṃ sakalaṃ kalāviduddgrīvikāmiva dadāti ratipradīpaḥ
(Saduktikarṇāṃrata [13th century CE], Śṛñgārapravāhavīci 2.148.2 in Tripathi
2007:402)
 58

Nearly extinguished,
but curious
to see what
the young couple will do
at the height of lovemaking,
the aesthete Love-Lamp
ganders its neck
at night
to ogle
♣
patiteṃ’śuke stanārpitahastāṃ tāṃ nibiḍajaghanapihitoruṃ
radapadavikalitaphūtkṛtiśatadhutadīpām manaḥ smarati
(Govardhana [12th century CE], Aryāsaptaśati 368, Parab et al 1988:155)

Anañtapañḍita in his ṭīka entitled Vyañgārthadīpanā comments extremely thinly on this verse,
even omitting to identify the topos of the ratipradīpa/suratapradīpa .

My mind remembers how she covered her breasts with her hands when the blouse
had come off; how she concealed her loins under the thighs closely pressed together; and
how she blew through her pouted lips a hundred times at the lamp-to make it merely flicker.
(Hardy 2009:149)
I recall
hands covering her breasts
when the bodice slipped off;
closely-pressed thighs
hiding her pubes;
Pursed lips
blowing a hundred times
on the lamp -
to make it but flicker
♣
daśā hī te nimāliya|yeṇeṃ je uvāyā
teṃ kevaḷa nāśāvayā|dīpāce parī
(Amrutānubhava 4.7, Anubhavananda 1997:236)

The increase in the knowledge before its destruction is similar to that of the extra-
brightness of the flame just before its extinction

This phenomenon of the increase in knowledge and its self-obliteration, after having
consumed ignorance grows to such an extent that as it reaches its highest point it is
destroyed by itself, just as a flame becomes suddenly extra bright before it gets
estinguished.

So also the flame of jñāna vṛitti grows by consuming the oil of ignorance and as the
last drop in the wick is consumed, the knowledge (flame) becomes suddenly brilliant before it
dies away.
(Commentary on Amrutānubhava 4.7, Anubhavananda 1997:236)

An oil-wick at its very end

Causes the flame of a light to brighten
But that is only the last flicker
Before the light goes out:
(Chitre 1996:66)
♣
vadanavidhusudhābhiṣekaśītānrasaparibhāvanayeva lolamauliḥ
tvadadharamaruto nipīya hāsyatyapi sahajakśaṇabhañgitāṃ pradīpaḥ
(Tailpāṭīyagāṃgokasya, Saduktikarṇāmrata [13th century CE], Śṛñgārapravāhavīci
2.148.1 in Tripathi 2007:402; Hindi translation in Tripathi 2007:403)
 59

The mere thought

of the cool nectar
dripping
from your moon-like face
makes its head sway-
Imbibing your lip’s breath,
the lamp will give up
its innate
impermanence!

♣
dīpo vātabhayāttañvayāḥ vastrāñcalatirohitaḥ
vilokya kucasauñdaryaṃ makaraḥ kaṃpate śiraḥ
(Ananta [15th century]Kāmasamūha 154; Pathak 2008:80)

The flame of the lamp which was covered under the end of dress (Anchal) of the
beautiful maiden to protect it from wind, seeing the beauty of the breasts shakes its head (in
appreciation)
(Pathak 2008:80)
The lamp, covered by the hem of the slender maid’s garment
for fear of the wind,
Seeing her lovely breasts, shakes its head appreciatively

dīpak hiye chipāy, navala badhū ghar lai calī

kara bihīna pachitāy kuca lakhi nija sīsai dhunai
(Raḥīm [1556-1627 C.E.], Śṛñgāra-soraṭh 3; Bhāṭī 1995:272)

The new bride took a lamp to her house hugging it close to her chest
The lamp, seeing her breasts, regrets it’s handlessness and shakes its head
(Mishra-Rajnish 1999:147 give lakhi jina sīsai dhunai)
♣
bālāṃ kṛśāñgīṃ suratānabhijñyāṃ gāḍhaṃ navoḍhāmupagūḍhavañtaṃ
vilokya jāmātarameṣa dīpo vātāyane kaṃpamupaiti bhītaḥ
(Subhāṣitaratnakoṣā, Pradīpavrajyā no. 857;
[11th century CE], Kosambi and Gokhale 1957:157;
Saduktikarṇāmrata, Śṛñgārapravāhavīci 2.148.3 in Tripathi 2007:402)

The lamp, seeing the son-in-law

urgently embracing his new bride
so young and slender and so innocent of love,
trembles frightened in the window
(No. 857; Ingalls 1965:267)
Seeing the son-in-law
impatiently hug his new bride
frail, young,
utterly innocent about love-making,
the frightened lamp
in the window
shivers
♣
hanūmāniva dīpoyaṃ dūramullāsitāñjanaḥ
kiṃ ca rāma ivābhāti vinirdhūtadaśānanaḥ
(Saduktikarṇāmrata, Śṛñgārapravāhavīci 2.148.4, Tripathi 2007:402)
♣
vanecarāṇām vanitāsakhānām darigṛhotsañganiṣaktabhāsaḥ
bhavañti yatrauṣadhayo rajañyāmatailapūrāh suratapradīpāḥ
(Kālidāsa, Kumārasambhavam 1.10; Kale 2004:5)
 60

Where the (phosphorescent) herbs with their luster shed into the interior of caves,
serve, at night, as lights requiring no feeding of oil, at the time of the amorous sports of the
forest-dwellers accompanied by fair females.
(Kale 2004:167)
Men and women of the mountain forests
live in caves that are spread with glowing herbs
lighting their nights of love without ever
any need to rise and fill such lamps with oil

(Kālidāsa, Kumārasambhavam 1.10; Heifetz 1990:22)

While herbs that glow luminous at night
light up the interiors of cave-dwellings
and serve as oil-lamps for the love-play
of forest dwellers and their loving women
(Kālidāsa, Kumārasambhavam 1.10, Rajan vol. 1, 1997:110)

Luminiscent nocturnal herbs

illuminate
cave-interiors
serving as oil-less Love-Lamps
for the amours
of forest couples

saralāsaktamātaṃgagraiveyasphuritatviṣaḥ
āsannoṣadhayo neturnaktaṃasnehadīpakāḥ
(Kālidāsa, Raghuvaṃśa 4.75; Devadhar 2005:74)

The herbs near about served to the commander as oil less lamps at night, their
brilliance flashed back from the chains of elephants fastened to the Sarala trees.
(Kālidāsa, Raghuvaṃśa 4.75; Devadhar 2005:74)

The lustrous herbs with their light reflected from the iron neck-chains of the elephants tied to
the Sarala trees, served, at night, as lamps (that burnt) without oil to him, the leader of the
forces.
(Kālidāsa, Raghuvaṃśa 4.75)
Kālidāsa’s used the image of luminous herbs/plants also in Kumārasambhava 6.43
(yatrauṣadhiprakāśena, where abhisārikās in the city of Alakā find their way on dark cloudy
nights by the light of herbs); Bharavi uses it in Kirātārjunīya 5.28 (oṣadhayaḥ pradīpāḥ).
♣
surapatiripavaḥ priyānirastaśravaṇasaroruhanirvṛte’pi dīpe
ratiṣu dadṛuśureva kāṃcīratnadyutiparibhinnatamisramūrumūlaṃ
(Kumāradāsa [6th century CE], Jānakīharaṇa 16.32; Swaminathan-Raghavan 1977:6)

Even when the lamp was put out by the decorative flower on the ear, flung by the
beloveds, the Rākṣasa lovers in their love-sports, did see the region of the waist whose
girdle, by the luster of its gems, dispelled the darkness.
(Swaminathan 1977:57)
Though, during love-making,
they flung their ear-lotus ornament at the lamp
and quenched it,
the dazzle of their bejeweled girdles
dispelled the darkness
exposing their pubes
to the gaze of their lovers,
Indra’s enemies

pūrvāvasthānuvṛttiśca vikṛte sati vastuni

dīpe nirvāpite’apyāsītkāṃcīratnairmahañmahaḥ
 61

(Appaya Dīkśita, Kuvalayānañda 76, second type of pūrvarūpālaṃkāra, Sarmā 1903:120; cf.
Jānakīharaṇa 16.32; Naiṣadhīyacaritaṃ 18.85, Bihārī Satsaī Ratnākar no. 69; 463)

The continuity of the original condition, notwithstanding the disappearance of an object-the

cause of such continuance, by the operation of another agency, is called the second kind of
the Original.

Although the lamp was put out (by a lady in the bed chamber), still there was ample light
issuing from the jems of the girdle (of that lady).

Here, a pretty young maiden but an artless one ( Mugdhā) put out the lamp of the bed
chamber through bashfulness; still the light continued as before by the lustre of the jems
inlaid in the girdle of that maiden.
(Appaya Dīkśita, Kuvalayānañda 76, Sarmā 1903:120; there’s also dravya virodha as well as
dūrakārya hetu here, on which see Gerow 1971:267-8 and 330 respectively)

bāñdhiyo Inshā nah dhyān āg dhū’eñ kā

phūlī huwī haiñ palās khawf nahiñ kuchh
(Askari-Deoband 1952:429, Ghazal 72.5; Argali 2006:225)

There’s no one around, don’t be afraid

Why are you [feminine] breathless? There’s nothing to fear.

This isn’t the perfume of a woman spying, don’t be afraid

It’s the scent of flowers, nothing to fear.

That’s not a watchman, don’t be embarassed.

It’s a grassy mound, nothing to fear.

Come along with me, be alert,

Don’t worry at all, there’s nothing to fear.

Don’t think that’s smoke from a fire, ‘Inshā’,

That’s the blossoming palās, don’t be afraid
(Vanita 2012:56; see also Vanita 2005:118)

palāśa (Butea frondosa, family Fabaceae) in Sanskrit literally means “that which looks like
flesh or blood”. It has several synonyms in Āyurvedic texts, like kiṃśuka–flowers resembling
a parrot’s beak; triparṇa–trifoliate leaves; bīja sneha–oily seeds etc. There are also names
associated with its usefulness for yajña i.e. rituals performed in front of a ritual fire viz.
yajñiya, samidvara, brahmapādapa, samiduttama etc. It’s orange and scarlet flowers come in
such profusion from February to March (i.e., spring) that this tree’s aptly named the Flame-
of-the- Forest.
♣
Blow out the lamp.
My mind can’t hold you in the light.

I want the garden totally dark.

I want to see your eyes shine.

Blow out the lamp.

My mind can’t hold you in the light.

I will think of your beauty over and over

peering until I see all of you.

Blow out the lamp.

My mind can’t hold you in the light.
 62

We’ll stop looking and forget form

and fall asleep unaware of each other.

Blow out the lamp.

My mind can’t hold you in the light.
(Nanduri Subbarao, “Blow Out the Lamp”, Rao 2003:41)

Oh! Put off the light, “Enki”, put it off!

Can’t fix my eyes on you
When so sharp, aloft,
Pray! put it off.

Let the garden too turn dark,

Everything except you,
Only I should see your eyes twinkle,
Can’t stand anything tickle, tinkle,
Even a sprinkle.

Put off! “Enki”, Put it off!

I should imagine only your grace
Not even conjure up your face.
Look only into your eyes,
Eyes chasing the eyes
Till yours and mine become one, divine.

Let me look at you dear,

Till I forget my self, my all
Small too and the tall,
Till I get lost, a speck in them.
Let us sink into each other
Each other in each other shrink
Like a wink in a wink.
(Nanduri Subbarao, “Yenki pāṭalū”, Rao:2009,
http://www.museindia.com/showcurrent17.asp?id=1487)

Nanduri Venkata Subbaro’s (1895-1957) fame rests on his collection of thirty-five Telugu
lyrics entitled Yĕñki pāṭalū (The Songs of Yĕñki, 1925). Subbarao used the language of the
common folk (the Godāvari dialect and the Viśakhā inflexions, derided as “vulgar” by pundits
and the upper-caste) to describe the passionate and rustic love between the eponymous
washerwoman Yĕñki and her young peasant lover Nāyuḍu (her bāva; her mother’s brother’s
son or cross-cousin), who gained iconic status in modern Telugu literature. This seemingly
simple poem subverts the entire classical Sanskrit tradition of the ratipradīpa topos in the
mode of oppositio in imitando.
mālvūna ṭāka dīpa cetavūna añga añga
rājasā kiti disāṃta lābhalā nivāñta sañga
(Composed by Suresh Bhat, rendered by Lata Mangeshkar in rāga Mañgala Bhairava, set to
music by Pandit Hridayanath Mangeshkar)
Quench the lamp by kindling my every limb
We’ve found solitude, my love, after many days

śūlinaḥ karataladvayena sā sannirudhya nayane hṛtāṃśukā

tasya paśyati lalāṭalocane moghayatnavidhurā rahasyabhūta
(Kumārasambhava 8.7; Kale 2004:144)

In private, with her garment taken off, she closed Śiva’s (two) eyes with her two
palms; but, as his (third) eye on the forehead continued looking, she had her efforts foiled
and became helpless.
(Kale 2004:214)
 63

Alone together, before she would let her robe fall,

she would cover Siva’s eyes with both her palms,
but she was left troubled then by that useless effort
as the third eye in his forehead looked down at her
(Heifetz 1990:117)
In privacy,
disrobed,
she covers Śiva’s eyes with her two palms
but the third eye on his forehead
ogles her,
twitting her efforts!
raïkelihiaṇiaṃsaṇakarakisalaaruddhaṇaaṇajulassa|
ruddassa taïaṇaaṇaṃ pavvaïpariuṃviaṃ jaaï||
(Weber 1881:192, no. 455; Gathāsaptasati 5.55, Kāvyaprakāśa 4.97 as an exemplum of
padaikadeśaracanāvarṇa dhvani; “suggestion by the root of a word”; Kuntaka,
Vakroktijīvitam 1.58 as an exemplum of kriyā vaicitra “wonderful action”)

Victorious is Rudra’s third eye which is kissed by Pārvatī when the pair of the former’s two
eyes was covered by the sprout-like (soft) hands of the latter at the time of his removing her
under-garment during amorous sports.
(Basak 1971:100)
Victorious is the third eye of Rudra (i.e. Śiva), which was sealed with a kiss by Gaurī (i.e.
Pārvatī), while his remaining two eyes were covered by her with her sprout-like (delicate)
hands, when her garment (clothing) was stripped off (by Rudra) in the course of amorous
dalliance.
(Patwardhan 1988:58)
“When Śiva divests her of her garment during amorous sport, Pārvatī (instinctively) closes
Śiva’s pair of eyes with her two tender palms (and simultaneously) kisses his third eye (on
the forehead) which really triumphs”
(Kulkarni 1983b:146)
parihāsavāsachhoḍaṇakarakisalayaruddhaṇayaṇajuyalassa|
Ruddassa taïyaṇayaṇaṃ pavvaïparicuṃbiaṃ jayaï||
(Vajjālaggam 607, Patwardhan 1969:166)

Victorious is the third eye of Rudra (Śiva), which, when his two eyes were closed by Pārvatī
with her leaf-like tender hands, as he had, in amorous jocularity, removed her garment, was
kissed by Pārvatī (and thus prevented from looking at her naked form)!
(Patwardhan 1969:360)
Long live Śiva’s third eye
Which Pārvatī covered with kisses
While covering his other two eyes with her hands
When her skirt slipped off in the heat of love play.
(Khoroche-Tieken 2009:176)
Victorious is
Rudrā’s third eye,
which Pārvatī,
disrobed
during lovemaking,
kisses,
covering his two eyes
with her slender hands

Weber (1881:193) quotes Sādhāraṇadevā’s commentary on this gāthā: na paçyati striyaṃ

nagnâm…iti Lakshmî-vacanaṃ (Jogalekar 1956:304 ascribes this to Haritāmrapītāmbara).
Mahābhārata (12.193.17)/12.186.16 (Mokśadharmaparvan of Śāñtiparvan- nekśetādityaṃ
udayantaṃ na ca nagnāṃ parastriyaṃ/maithunaṃ samaye dharmyaṃ guhyaṃ caiva
samācaret-Never look at the rising sun; nor look upon another’s naked wife/upon an
unknown naked woman. It is incumbent to make love to one’s wife in her season, but always
in secret)Viṣṇupurāṇa, 3.12.12.1 (nagnāṃ parastriyaṃ caiva sūryaṃ cāstamodaye-Don’t look
 64

upon an unknown naked woman or upon the setting or rising sun) Mārkāñḍeyapurāṇa 34.23
(nagnāṃ parastriyaṃ nekśenna-don’t look at an unknown naked woman) Manusmṛiti 4.53.1
(nāgni mukhenopadhamennagnām nekśet ca striyaṃ-He should not blow on fire with his
mouth, nor look at a naked woman [Doniger and Smith 1991:79]; Dutt [2003:173] translates
“let him not blow a fire with his mouth nor look at his naked wife”; Medhātiti in the
manubhāṣya comments-anyatra maithunāditi-other than during lovemaking); Viṣṇusmṛiti
71.26 (na striyaṃ nagnāṃ-don’t look at a naked woman); Yājñāvalkyasmṛiti 1.135.1
(nekśetārkaṃ na nagnāṃ strīṃ na ca saṃsṛṣṭamaithunāṃ-Don’t look at the sun or upon a
naked woman or a woman immediately after lovemaking; cf. Amaruśatakam 90
[Arjunavarmadeva]) Gautama 9.48 (na nagnāṃ parayoṣitamīkśet-Don’t look upon an
another’s woman while she is naked; some authorities mention na nagnāṃ svastriyamīkśet
anyatra maithunāt-don’t look at your naked wife, except while lovemaking). I can’t help
remark on the allusion to prabhā/kāñti/tajallī in the injunction against looking at the sun!

One might simplify this by saying: men act and women appear. Men look at women. Women
watch themselves being looked at. This determines not only most relations between men and
women but also the relation of women to themselves. The surveyor of woman in herself is
male: the surveyed female. Thus she turns herself into an object-and most particularly an
object of vision: a sight.
(Berger 1990:47)
The nymph Urvasî loved Purûravas, the son of Idâ. When she wedded him, she said, ‘Thrice
a day shalt thou embrace me; but do not lie with me against my will, and let me not see
thee naked, for such is the way to behave to us women.’
(Śatapatha Brāḥamaṇa 11.5.1.1; Eggeling 1900:69-70, my emphasis. Cf Motif C31.1.3,
“Tabu:Looking at Supernatural Wife Naked”.)

That same Sadas they enclose on all sides with a view to that generation, thinking, ‘Quite
secretly shall be carried on that generation!’ for improper, indeed, is the generation which
another sees: hence even when a husband and wife are seen, while carrying on intercourse,
they run away from each other, for they give offence. Therefore to any one looking into the
Sadas, except through the door, let him say, ‘Look not!’ for it is as if he were seeing
intercourse being carried on. Freely (one may look) through the door, for the door is made
by the gods.
(Śatapatha Brāḥamaṇa 4.6.7.9; Eggeling 1885:437, my emphasis)

In like manner they enclose the Havirdhâna on all sides with a view to that generation,
thinking, ‘Quite secretly this generation shall be carried on!’ for improper, indeed, is the
generation which another sees: hence even when a husband and wife are seen, while
carrying on intercourse, they run away from each other, for they give offence . Therefore to
any one looking into the Havirdhâna, except through the door, let him say, ‘Look not!’ for it
is as if he were seeing intercourse being carried on. Freely (one may look) through the door,
for the door is made by the gods.
(Śatapatha Brāḥamaṇa 4.6.7.10; Eggeling 1885:438, my emphasis)

It is enclosed on all sides; for at that time the gods were afraid, thinking, ‘We hope the
Rakshas, the fiends, will not smite here this (Agni) of ours!’ They enclosed him with this
stronghold; and in like manner does this one now enclose him with this stronghold. And,
again, this is a womb; and this (clay) is seed; and in secret, as it were, the seed is infused
into the womb: it is thus made of the form of the womb; and hence it is only in secret that
one would have intercourse even with his own wife.
(Śatapatha Brāḥamaṇa 6.4.4.19 Eggeling 1894:228-9, my emphasis)

[XVII] Merito huius libidinis maxime pudet, merito et ipsa membra, quae suo quodam, ut ita
dixerim, iure, non omni modo ad arbitrium nostrum mouet aut non mouet, pudenda
dicuntur, quod ante peccatum hominis non fuerunt. Nam sicut scriptum est: Nudi erant, et
non confundebantur, non quod eis sua nuditas esset incognita, sed turpis nuditas nondum
erat, quia nondum libido membra illa praeter arbitrium commouebat, nondum ad hominis
inoboedientiam redarguendam sua inoboedientia caro quodam modo testimonium
perhibebat. Neque enim caeci creati erant, ut inperitum uulgus opinatur; quando quidem et
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ille uidit animalia, quibus nomina inposuit, et de illa legitur: Vidit mulier quia bonum lignum
in escam et quia placet oculis ad uidendum. Patebant ergo oculi eorum, sed ad hoc non
erant aperti, hoc est non adtenti, ut cognoscerent quid eis indumento gratiae praestaretur,
quando membra eorum uoluntati repugnare nesciebant. Qua gratia remota, ut poena
reciproca inoboedientia plecteretur, extitit in motu corporis quaedam inpudens nouitas, unde
esset indecens nuditas, et fecit adtentos reddiditque confusos. Hinc est quod, postea quam
mandatum Dei aperta transgressione uiolarunt, scriptum est de illis: Et aperti sunt oculi
amborum et agnouerunt quia nudi erant, et consuerunt folia fici et fecerunt sibi campestria.
Aperti sunt, inquit, oculi amborum, non ad uidendum, nam et antea uidebant, sed ad
discernendum inter bonum quod amiserant et malum quo ceciderant. Vnde et ipsum lignum,
eo quod istam faceret dinoscentiam, si ad uescendum contra uetitum tangeretur, ex ea re
nomen accepit, ut appellaretur lignum sciendi boni et mali. Experta enim morbi molestia
euidentior fit etiam iucunditas sanitatis. Cognouerunt ergo quia nudi erant, nudati scilicet ea
gratia, qua fiebat ut nuditas corporis nulla eos lege peccati menti eorum repugnante
confunderet. Hoc itaque cognouerunt, quod felicius ignorarent, si Deo credentes et
oboedientes non committerent, quod eos cogeret experiri infidelitas et inoboedientia quid
nocet. Proinde confusi inoboedientia carnis suae, tamquam teste poena inoboedientiae suae,
consuerunt folia fici et fecerunt sibi campestria, id est succinctoria genitalium. Nam quidam
interpretes “succinctoria” posuerunt. Porro autem “campestria” Latinum quidem uerbum est,
sed ex eo dictum, quod iuuenes, qui nudi exercebantur in campo, pudenda operiebant; unde
qui ita succincti sunt, campestratos uulgus appellat. Quod itaque aduersus damnatam culpa
inoboedientiae uoluntatem libido inoboedienter mouebat, uerecundia pudenter tegebat. Ex
hoc omnes gentes, quoniam ab illa stirpe procreatae sunt, usque adeo tenent insitum
pudenda uelare, ut quidam barbari illas corporis partes nec in balneis nudas habeant, sed
cum earum tegimentis lauent. Per opacas quoque Indiae solitudines, cum quidam nudi
philosophentur, unde gymnosophistae nominantur, adhibent tamen genitalibus tegmina,
quibus per cetera membrorum carent.
(Augustine, De Civitate Dei 14.17)

Justly is shame very specially connected with this lust; justly, too, these members
themselves being moved and restrained not at our will, but by a certain independent
autocracy, so to speak, are called “shameful”. Their condition was different before sin. For as
it is written, “They were naked and were not ashamed”-not that their nakedness was
unknown to them, but because nakedness was not yet shameful, because not yet did lust
move those members without the will’s consent; not yet did the flesh by its disobedience
testify against the disobedience of man. For they were not created blind, as the
unenlightened vulgar fancy; for Adam saw the animals to whom he gave names, and of Eve
we read, “The woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was pleasant to the
eyes.” Their eyes, therefore, were open, but were not open to this, that is to say, were not
observant so as to recognise what was conferred upon them by the garment of grace, for
they had no consciousness of their members warring against their will. But when they were
stripped of this grace, that their disobedience might be punished by fit retribution, there
began in the movement of their bodily members a shameless novelty which made nakedness
indecent: it at once made them observant and made then ashamed. And therefore, after
they violated God’s command by open transgression, it is written: “And the eyes of them
both were opened, and they knew that they were naked; and they sewed fig leaves
together, and made themselves aprons.” “The eyes of them both were opened,” not to see,
for already they saw, but to discern between the good they had lost and the evil into which
they had fallen. And therefore also the tree itself which they were forbidden to touch was
called the tree of the knowledge of good and evil from this circumstance, that if they ate of it
it would impart to them this knowledge. For the discomfort of sickness reveals the pleasure
of health. “They knew,” therefore, “that they were naked”-naked of that grace which
prevented them from being ashamed of bodily nakedness while the law of sin offered no
resistance to their mind. And thus they obtained a knowledge which they would have lived in
blissful innorance of, had they, in trustful obedience to God, declined to commit that offence
which involved them in the experience of the hurtful effects of unfaithfulness and
disobedience. And therefore, being ashamed of the disobedience of their own flesh, which
witnessed to their disobedience while it punished it, “they sewed fig leaves together, and
made themselves aprons,” that is, cinctures for their privy parts; for some interpreters have
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rendered the word by succinctoria. Campetsria is, indeed, a Latin word, but it is used of the
drawers or aprons used for a similar purpose by young men who stripped for exercise in the
campus; hence those who were so girt were commonly called campestrati. Shame modestly
covered that which lust disobediently moved in opposition to the will which was thus
punished for its own disobedience. Consequently all nations, being propogated from that one
stock, have so strong an instinct to cover the shameful parts, that some barbarians do not
uncover them even in the bath, but wash with their drawers on. In the dark solitudes of
India also, though some philosophers go naked, and are therefore called gymnosophists, yet
they make an exception in the case of these members, and cover them.
(Dodds 2000:465-6)

[XVIII] Opus uero ipsum, quod libidine tali peragitur, non solum in quibusque stupris, ubi
latebrae ad subterfugienda humana iudicia requiruntur, uerum etiam in usu scortorum, quam
terrena ciuitas licitam turpitudinem fecit, quamuis id agatur, quod eius ciuitatis nulla lex
uindicat, deuitat tamen publicum etiam permissa atque inpunita libido conspectum, et
uerecundia naturali habent prouisum lupanaria ipsa secretum faciliusque potuit inpudicitia
non habere uincla prohibitionis, quam inpudentia remouere latibula illius foeditatis. Sed hanc
etiam ipsi turpes turpitudinem uocant, cuius licet sint amatores, ostentatores esse non
audent. Quid? concubitus coniugalis, qui secundum matrimonialium praescripta tabularum
procreandorum fit causa liberorum, nonne et ipse quamquam sit licitus et honestus,
remotum ab arbitris cubile conquirit? Nonne omnes famulos atque ipsos etiam paranymphos
et quoscumque ingredi quaelibet necessitudo permiserat, ante mittit foras, quam uel blandiri
coniux coniugi incipiat? Et quoniam, sicut ait etiam quidam Romani maximus auctor eloquii,
“omnia recte facta in luce se conlocari uolunt,”id est appetunt sciri: hoc recte factum sic
appetit sciri, ut tamen erubescat uideri. Quis enim nescit, ut filii procreentur, quid inter se
coniuges agant? quando quidem ut id agatur, tanta celebritate ducuntur uxores; et tamen
cum agitur, unde filii nascantur, nec ipsi filii, si qui inde iam nati sunt, testes fieri
permittuntur. Sic enim hoc recte factum ad sui notitiam lucem appetit animorum, ut tamen
refugiat oculorum. Vnde hoc, nisi quia sic geritur quod deceat ex natura, ut etiam quod
pudeat comitetur ex poena?
(Augustine, De Civitate Dei 14.18)

Lust requires for its consummation darkness and secrecy; and this not only when unlawful
intercourse is desired, but even such fornication as the earthly city has legalized. Where
there is no fear of punishment, these permitted pleasures still shrink from the public eye.
Even where provision is made for this lust, secrecy is also provided; and while lust found it
easy to remove the prohibitions of law, shamelessness found it impossible to lay aside the
veil of retirement. For even shameless men call this shameful; and though they love the
pleasure, dare not display it. What! does not even conjugal intercourse, sanctioned as it is by
law for the propagation of children, legitimate and honourable though it be, does it not seek
retirement from every eye? Before the bridegroom fondles his bride, does he not exclude the
attendants, and even the paranymphs, and such friends as the closest ties have admitted to
the bridal chamber? The greatest master of Roman eloquence says, that all right actions
wish to be set in the light, i.e. desire to be known. This right action, however, has such a
desire to be known, that yet it blushes to be seen. Who does not know what passes between
husband and wife that children may be born? Is it not for this purpose that wives are married
with such ceremony? And yet, when this well-understood act is gone about for the
procreation of children, not even the children themselves, who may already have been born
to them, are suffered to be witnesses. This right action seeks the light, in so far as it seeks to
be known, but yet dreads being seen. And why so, if not because that which is by nature
fitting and decent is so done as to be accompanied with a shame-begetting penalty of sin?
(Dodds 2000:466-7)

LXV. a-why does the bridegroom approach the bride for the first time in the dark without any
light?
A.(a) Is it from respect for her, not considering her to be his own before he knows her
carnally? (b) Or to accustom him to be modest in his relations even with his own wife?(c) Or
may we compare that law of Solon which bids the bride eat a quince before entering the
nuptial chamber, that her first greeting may not be uninviting or unpleasing? So perhaps the
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Roman legislator hid any deformity or bodily unpleasantness of the bride. (d) Or is it a
condemnation of unlawful amours, when even the lawful pleasures have something
shamefaced about them?
(Rose 1974:147)
65. Why does the husband approach his bride for the first time, not with a light, but in
darkness?

Is it because he has a feeling of modest respect, since he regards her as not his own before
his union with her? Or is he accustoming himself to approach even his own wife with
modesty?

Or, as Solon has given directions that the bride shall nibble a quince before entering the
bridal chamber, in order that the first greeting may not be disagreeable nor unpleasant, even
so did the Roman legislator, if there was anything abnormal or disagreeable connected with
the body, keep it concealed?

Or is this that is done a manner of casting infamy upon unlawful amours, since even lawful
love has a certain opprobrium connected with it?
(Plutarch, Moralia, Quaestiones Romanae, 279f; Babbitt1936:4:103)

‘Abd al-Raḥmān, the son of Abū Sa‘īd al-Khudri, reported from his father: The Messenger of
Allah (may peace be upon him) said: A man should not see the private parts of another man,
and a woman should not see the private parts of another woman, and a man should not lie
with another man under one covering, and a woman should not lie with another woman
under one covering.
(ṣaḥiḥ Muslim 3.667)
♣
karakisalayaṃ dhūtvā dhūtvā vilambitamekhalā
kśipati sumanomālāśeṣam pradīpaśikhāṃ prati
sthagayati muhuḥ patyurnetre vihasya samākulā,
surataviratau ramyaṃ tañvī punaḥ punarīkśyate
(Amaruśatakam 89 [Vemabhūpāla] Devadhar 1959:105)

Tossing about her sprout-like arms now and again, with the girdle slipping down, she
dashes on to the lamp-flame what remained of her flower-garland; smiling and bewildered
she closes the eyes of her husband again and again; at the end of their love-dalliance the girl
is looked at (by her husband) repeatedly
(Devadhar 1959:105)
pradīpaśikhāṃ prati mālāśeṣam kśipatītyanena patyurnetre sthagayatītyanena ca
priyanirīkśaṇena lajjāvyākuleti sūcyate|atra vrīḍā nāma sañcārī bhāvaḥ|nāyikā svīyā madhyā
ca|nāyako’nukūlaḥ|saṃbhogaśṛñgāraḥ|ceṣṭākṛtaṃ sahāsyaṃ śṛñgāri narma|jātiralaṃkāra|
(Vemabhūpāla’s commentary on Amaruśatakam 89; Devadhar 1959:106)

Tossing the remnants of the garland at the lamp-flame and covering her husband’s eyes
signifiy shame and befuddlement at the beloved’s gaze. There’s the sañcārī bhāva called
vrīḍā, the nāyikā’s a married madhyā, the nāyaka an anukūla nāyaka [Rasamañjarī 101], the
śṛñgāra is love-in-union, the narma is of the erotic-jocular-action variety [ Daśarūpaka 2.79]
and the rhetorical device is jāti.

karakisalayaṃ dhūtvā dhūtvā vimārgati vāsasī,

kśipati sumanomālāśeṣam pradīpaśikhāṃ prati
sthagayati karaiḥ patyurnetre, vihasya samākulā,
surataviratau ramyā tañvī muhurmuhurīkśituṃ
(Subhāṣitaratnakoṣā no. 593;
Kosambi and Gokhale 1957:108)

With fluttering hand she searches for her clothes,

she casts the flowers of her garland at the lamp flame
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and, laughing with embarrassment, covers her husband’s eyes.

Thus ever and again the slender bride presents a charming
sight when the act of love is done.
(Ingalls 1965:206)
Camisole shed to the floor,
she shakes-shakes-
a leaf-soft hand and casts her crushed
string of jasmine at the
lamp flame.
Disheveled but smiling
she covers his eyes.
Now that they’ve made love, again
and again his enraptured
eyes find her.
(Schelling 2004:89)
karakisalayaṃ dhūtvā dhūtvā vimārgati vāsasī,
kśipati sumanomālāśeṣam pradīpaśikhāṃ prati
sthagayati karaiḥ patyurnetre, vihasya samākulā
surataviratau ramyā tañvī muhurmuhurīkśate
(Saduktikarṇāmrata 2.136.2; ratāṃta, “kasyācit”, Tripathi 2007:384)

karakisalayaṃ dhūtvā dhūtvā vimārgati vāsasī,

kśipati sumanomālāśeṣam pradīpaśikhāṃ prati
sthagayati muhuḥ patyurnetre, vihasya samākulā
surataviratau ramyā nārī punaḥ patiṃāśritā
(Subhāsītāvali 2105, suratakeliḥ, ete keṣāmapi, Karmarkar 1961:362)

At love’s end, that charming girl,

gropes for her garments everywhere,
at the flaming lamp a flower flings,
and confused, with a little laugh,
tries to close her husband’s eyes,
then at last, to his arms returns
(Subhāsītāvali 2105, “Love in Union” Haksar 2007:92)

karakisalayaṃ dhūtvā dhūtvā vimārgati vāsasī,

kśipati sumanomālāśeṣam pradīpaśikhāṃ prati
sthagayati muhuḥ patyurnetre, vihasya samākulā
surataviratau ramyā tañvī muhurmuhurīkśate
(Subhāṣitratnabhānḍāgāra [suratanivṛittiḥ]; Acharya 2007:321.17, Śārañgadharapaddhati
3706, Sūktimuktāvali 80.3, Ślokasaṃgraha 705, Kāvyālaṃkārasūtravṛitti of Vāmana 5.2.8,
Kāvyanuśāsana of Hemacandra 735, Śṛñgārālāpa 1.95)
karakisalayaṃ
dhūtvā dhūtvā vimārgati vāsasi,
kśipati sumano
mālāseṣam pradīpaśikhām prati
sthagayati muhuḥ
patyur netre, vihasya samākulā,
surata viratā
ramyā tañvī muhur muhur īkśate
(Amarūka [7th-8th century CE],Amaruśatakam 90 [Arjunavarmadeva]Bailey 2005:266;
Śrīdharadāsa in the Saduktikarṇāmṛata 136.2 classifies this poem under ratāñta)

Moving her bud-like hand all about

she seeks her clothes,
Throws the rest of the flowers
Onto the lamp’s flame.
Repeatedly concealing her husband’s eyes,
laughing, if flushed.
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Lovemaking finished,
This lovely slender woman gazes constantly
(Bailey 2005:267)
Lovemaking done,
that charming, slender girl
looks at her husband again and again-
flustered,
with a ruddy, tiny laugh,
she repeatedly covers his eyes-
her delicate hands
flail frantically for her clothes-
finally,

she tosses the remnants

of her garland at the lamp-flame

This verse indites the topos of ratyāñta, the “End of Lovemaking”. In “reverse-translating”
the order of the Nāyikā’s actions, I’ve followed Arjunavarmadeva’s commentary
rasikasañjīvinī:
…priyanayanasthaganaṃ ca ghaṭṭitakacuṃbane’pyuktamasti
Mugdhāyāḥ|‘īṣatparigṛhya mīlitākśi jihvāgreṇa ghaṭṭayaṃti kareṇa tasya nayane
chhādayatīti ghaṭṭitakaṃ’|‘mañmathāpyāyitā chhāyā saiva kāṃtiritismṛtā’ ityanena
kāṃtirnāṭyālaṃkāraḥ|yathā bhaṭṭanārāyaṇasya-‘uttiṣṭhaṃtyā ratāṃte
bharamuragapatau pāṇinaikena kṛtvā dhṛtvā cāñyena vāso vigalitakabarībhāramaṃse
vahaṃtyā|bhūyastatkālakāṃtidviguṇitasurataprītinā śauriṇā vaḥ śayyāmāliṃgya nītam
vapuralasalasadbāhu lakśmyāḥ punātu’|
(Arjunavarmadeva on Amaruśatakam 90; Pandeya 2000:115-6; my ellipsis)

The ghaṭṭitaka kiss is useful for an ingénue to cover the eyes of her lover. “ ghaṭṭitaka
is when she grasps him softly, closes her eyes, brushes him with the tip of her tongue
and cover his eyes with her hands”. “Love-enhanced radiance is lustre”. Thus
Bhaṭṭanārāyaṇa: “After lovemaking, supporting herself with one hand on the serpent-
lord, holding her dress with the other; heavy, disheveled tresses on her shoulder, her
charming lustre doubling Viṣṇu’s desire as he pulls her down again on the bed in his
embrace-may that Lakśmī’s body, of limp, gleaming arms, protect you”.

īṣatparigṛhya vinimīlitanayanā kareṇa ca tasya nayane avachhādayantī jihvāgreṇa ghaṭṭayati

iti ghaṭṭitakaṃ
(kāmasūtra 2.3.10, Śāstri 2007:250)
When she grasps him gently, closes her eyes, covers his eyes with her hand, and brushes
him with the tip of her tongue, that is the ‘brushing’ kiss,
(Doniger and Kakkar 2002:43)
rūpopabhogatāruṇyaiḥ śobhā’ngānāṃ vibhūṣaṇam.
(Daśarūpaka 2.53; Haas 1962:61)
‘Beauty (śobhā) is bodily adornment due to handsome form, passionateness, and
youthfulness.’
(ibid.)
mañmathāvāpitacchāyā saiva kāntir iti smṛtā
(Daśarūpaka 2.54; Haas 1962:61)

‘Loveliness (kānti) is the name given to the touch of beauty imparted by love.’
(ibid.)
dīptiḥ kāñtes tu vistaraḥ.
(Daśarūpaka 2.56; Haas 1962:61)
‘Radiance (dīpti) is a higher degree of loveliness.’

In fact, most of the Sanskrit words which refer to beauty belong to the semantic field of
light. Thus words connoting different types of brightness serve to differentiate masculine and
feminine beauty. For instance, the hero’s brilliance is said to be aujjvalya, a word which
 70

describes a blazing fire, whereas the heroine’s beauty is lāvaṇya, a term normally used to
describe the shining of a pearl etc.
(Filliozat 1996:289, my emphasis)

The eye is a structural homologue of fire. Empedocles (493 B.C.E.-433 B.C.E.) used the
evocative metaphor of a lamp and a lantern for the eye in his peri physeos (“On Nature”,
mid-fifth century B.C.E.):
As when someone planning a journey prepares a lamp,
the gleam of blazing fire through the wintery night,
and fastened linen screens against all kinds of breezes,
which scatter the wind of the blowing breezes
but the light leapt outwards, as much of it as was finer,
and shone with its tireless beams across the threshold;
in this way [Aphrodite] gave birth to the rounded pupil,
primeval fire crowded in the membranes and in the fine linens.
And they covered over the depths of the circumfluent water
and sent forth fire, as much of it as was finer.
(Empedocles, fragment 84b, Inwood 2001:136)

Plato probably followed Empedocles in his extromissive theory of vision:

First of the organs they fabricated the eyes to bring us light, and fastened them
there for the reason which I will now describe. Such fire has the property, not of
burning, but of yielding a gentle light, they contrived should become the proper
body of each day. For the pure fire within us is akin to this; and they caused it to
flow through the eyes, making the whole fabric of the eye-ball, and especially the
central part (the pupil), smooth and close in texture, so as to let nothing pass that is
of coarser stuff, but only fire of this description to filter through pure by itself.
(Timaeus 45B-C, Cornford 1937:152-3)
Next we must observe that there are several varieties of fire: flame; that effluence
from flame which does not burn but gives light to the eyes; and what is left of fire in glowing
embers when flame is quenched.
(ibid. 58C, Cornford 1937:256)
See also Aristotle’s De sensu et sensato 2.437b9-14 on the fire in the eye (Aristotle relies on
Empedocles’ attribution of sight to a fire sent out from the eye). The Latin luc, which means
“eyes” also means “torches”. The Indian epistemologists probably “read” Plato:

tejastvasāmānyavattejaḥ|cakśuśarīrasavitṛsuvarṇavidyudādiprabhedam|…
anudbhūtarupasparśam yathā cakśurindriyam|udbhūtarupamanudbhūtasparśam yathā
pradīpaprabhāmanḍalam|
(Keśava Miśra, Tarkabhāṣā chapter 2, Paranjape 2005:70-1; my ellipsis)

Light is that which has the generic property of brightness. It exists in the forms of the eyes,
[celestial] bodies, the Sun, gold, fire, lightning etc….Light having unmanifested colour and
touch is in the form of the sensory organ of the eyes. Light with manifested colour and
unmanifested touch is in the form of a lamp’s nimbus.

tāvadeva kṛitināmapi sphuratyeṣa nirmalavivekadīpakah,

yāvadeva na kurañgacakśuṣām tāḍyate caṭulalocanāñcalaiḥ.
(Bhartṛhari, Śṛñgāraśatakam Kosambi no. 77; Kosambi 1948:31)

Discrimination’s lucid light

Continues to shine for learned men
Only while it is not eclipsed
By the tremulous lashes of woman’s eyes
(Miller 1967:61)
Tāvad eva kṛitinām api sphuraty
eṣa nirmalavivekadīpakaḥ,
yāvad eva na kurangacakṣuṣāṃ
 71

tāḍyate caṭulalocan’âñcalaiḥ.
(Bhartṛhari, Śṛñgāraśatakam 70; Bailey 2005:120)

This clear light of discrimination of the highly skilled

Shines diffusely for just as long as
It is not struck by the tremulous glances
Of the eyes of doe-eyed women.
(Bhartṛhari, Śṛñgāraśatakam 70; Bailey 2005:121)

tāvadeva kṛitinām hṛdi, sphuratyeṣa nirmalavivekadīpakaḥ,

yāvadeva na kurañgacakśuṣām tāḍyate capala locanāñcalaiḥ.
(Bhartṛhari, Śṛñgāraśatakam 55; Gopinath-Singh 2002[1896]:169)

The lamp of clear sighted judgment and knowledge in the hearts of good and virtuous
persons can burn only so long as it is not blown out by the clever and flickering glances of
antelope-eyed women.
(Bhartṛhari, Śṛñgāraśatakam 55; Gopinath-Singh 2002[1896]:169)

Allāhu nūru alssamāwātiwa al-arżi masalu nūrihi kamiśkātin fīhā miṣbāhun almiṣbāhu fī
zujājatin alzzujājatu kānnahā kawkabun durriyyunyūqadu min śajaratin mubārakatin zaytoonatin
lāśarqiyyatin walā gharbiyyatin yakādu zaytuhāyużī-o walaw lam tamsas-hu nārun nūrun ‘alā
nūrin yahdī Allāhu linūrihi man yaśāo wayażribuAllāhu al-amsāla lilnnāsi wa Allāhu bi kulli śay-
in ‘alīmun
(Sūrah al-Nūr, Qu’rān 24.35 ‘Alī n.d.:876-7)

Allah is the Light

Of the heavens and the earth. The Parable of His Light
Is as if there were a Niche
And within it a Lamp:
The Lamp enclosed in Glass;
The glass as it were
A brilliant star:
Lit from a blessed Tree,
An Olive, neither of the East
Nor of the West,
Whose oil is well-nigh
Luminous,
Though fire scarce touched it:
Light upon Light! [nūrun ‘alā nūrin]
[Allah doth guide whom He will to His Light]
Allah doth set forth Parables
For men: and Allah
Doth know all things.
(Sūrah al-Nūr, Qu’rān 24.35 ‘Alī n.d.:876-7)

God is the Light of the heavens and the earth;

the likeness of His Light is as a niche
wherein a lamp
(the lamp in a glass,
the glass as it were a glittering star)
kindled from a Blessed Tree,
an olive that is neither of the East nor of the West
whose oil wellnigh would shine, even if no fire touched it;
Light upon Light;
(God guides to his light whom He will.)
(And God strikes similitudes for men,
and God has knowledge of everything.)
(Arberry 1982:356-57)
 72

Allah is the Light of the heavens and the earth. The example of His light is that of a niche in
which there is a lamp; the lamp is in a glass-the glass looks like a brilliant star-it is lit by (the
oil of) a blessed tree, the olive, which is neither eastern, nor western. Its oil is about to emit
light even if fire has not touched it-(it is) light upon light. Allah guides to His light
whomsoever He wills. And Allah describes examples for the people, and Allah knows
everything well.
(Shafi, Husain 1995:6:431)
Mugdhā Nayika (young and artless)
Ordained by Kamadeva, the king, to reside for a long time in the body of the doe-eyed
nayika, her youth has resolved to worship her Lord at an auspicious moment with all the
rituals of love. For this purpose, her eyes have invited the tremulousness of the Khanjana
bird, her face the radiance of the moon, and her speech the sweetness of the waves of the
nectarous sea.
(Bhānudatta, Rasamañjarī 4, Randhawa-Bhambri 1992:12)

Womanhood, ordered by the monarch himself,

the God of love, to take up its dwelling
in a young girl’s body, performs the housewarming
rite
at the auspicious hour: her glancing eye
is directed to start to dance like the wagtail bird,
her complexion to shed a glow like the full moon’s
light,
her speech to sound like waves on the nectar ocean.
(Pollock 2009:7)

Λύχνος
Μεθύων λύχνος ἐλαίῳ καὶ φέγγων ἐκαυχᾶτο ὡς ὑπὲρ ἥλιον πλέον λάμπει. Ἀνέμου δὲ πνοῆς
συρισάσης, εὐθὺς ἐσβέσθη. Ἐκ δευτέρου δὲ ἅπτων τις εἶπεν αὐτῷ· Φαῖνει, λύχνε, καὶ σίγα·
τῶν ἀστέρων τὸ φέγγος οὔποτε ἐκλείπει.
Ὅτι οὐ δεῖ τινα ἐν ταῖς δόξαις καὶ τοῖς λαμπροῖς τοῦ βίου τυφοῦσθαι· ὅσα γὰρ ἂν κτήσηταί
τις, ξένα τυγχάνει.
(Chambry 232)
The Lamp
Intoxicated with oil, a lamp threw out a vivid light, boasting that it was more brilliant than
the sun. But a gust of wind blew up and it was extinguished instantly. Someone relit it and
said:
‘Light up, lamp, and be assured that the light of the stars is never eclipsed’.
(Aesop 232; Temple and Temple 1998:172)

The Boastful Lamp

There was a lamp drunk on his own oil who boasted one evening to everyone present that
he was brighter than the Morning Star and that his splendour shone more conspicuously
than anything else in the world. A sudden puff of wind blew in the lamp’s direction, and its
breath extinguished his light. A man lit the lamp once again and said to him, ‘Shine, lamp,
and be silent! The splendour of the stars is not ever extinguished.’
(Aesop 211 [Babrius 114]; Gibbs 2008:106 under “Fables About Boasting”)

Μεθύων ἐλαίῳ λύχνος ἐσπέρης ηὔχει

πρὸς τοὺς παρόντας, ὡς Ἑωσφόρου κρείσσων,
ἅπασι φέγγος ἐκπρεπέστατον λάμπει.
ἀνέμου δὲ συρίσαντος εὐθὺς ἐσβέσθη
πνοιῇ ῥαπισθείς. ἐκ δὲ δευτέρης ἅπτων
εἶπέν τις αὐτῷ “φαῖνε, λύχνε, καὶ σίγα·
τῶν ἀστέρων τὸ φέγγος οὐκ ἀποθνῄσκει.”
(Babrius 114; Rutherford 1883:110-11)

Methyōn elaiōi lychnos esperēs mychei

pros tous parontas, hōs Heosphorou kreissōn,
 73

hapasi, pheggos ekprepestaton lampei.

anemou de syrisantos euthys esbesthē
pnoiēi rhapistheis. ek de deuterēs haptōn
eīpen tis autōi “phaine, lychne, kai siga.
tōn asterōn to pheggos ouk apothnēiskei”.
(Babrius 114)
Category L (Reversals of Fortune) L475, Oil lamp blown out: had thought it outshone stars .
Wienert FF CLVI 75 (ET 409), 93 (ST 64); Holm Aesop No. 285 (Thompson 1955-8:5:26).
F574.1, Resplendent beauty-India Stokes 158, Bengal McCulloch 179f; Chatterji 100
(Thompson-Balys 1958:187); F574.1, Resplendent beauty: Woman’s face lights up the dark.
*Fb “prins og prinsesse”; Irish myth:* Cross; Jewish:*Newman; India:*Thompson-Balys;
*Penzer VI 1 n.1, II 43 n.2, VII 189 n.2; Buddhist myth: Malalasekara II 1339; Loryak:
*Jochelson JE VI 363; Phillipine (Tinguian): Cole 35 n.1,62,68,106,154. (Thompson 1955-
8:3:172) F574.1.1. Woman’s beauty burns onlooker. N.A. Indian (Chuckche; Bogoras AA n.s.
IV 666 (Thompson 1955-8:3:172) under tale type F570, “Other extraordinary human beings”.
F574.1.4, Man’s beauty eclipses splendour of Sun -Punjab Temple Legends II 3 (Thompson-
Balys 1958:187).
♣
atiprauḍhā rātṛirbahalaśikhadīpaḥ prabhavati priyaḥ premārabdhasmaravidhirasajnyaḥ
paramasau
Sakhī svairaṃ svairaṃ suratamakarodvrīḍitavapur
yataḥ paryamko’yaṃ ripuriva kaḍatkāramukharaḥ
(Subhāṣitaratnakoṣā no. 573;
Kosambi and Gokhale 1957:105)
The night was deep,
the lamps shone forth with heavy flame,
and that darling is an expert
in the rite which passion prompts;
but, my dear, he made love slowly,
slowly and with limbs constrained,
for the bed kept up a creaking
like an enemy with gnashing teeth
(Subhāṣitaratnakoṣā no. 573; Saṃbhogavrajyā; Ingalls 1965:203)

Friend,
the lamp flame was flaring
into night’s darkest
corners. My lover,
an adept in the flavours
of love,
made slow
very slow love
because the bed
grates like a talkative
neighbor.
(Schelling 1999:8)
♣
na bata vidhṛtaḥ kāñcīsthāne karaḥ ślathavāsasi
prahitamasakṛddīpe cakśurghanasthiratejasi
kucakalaśayorūḍhaḥ kampastayā mama sannidhau
manasijarujo bhāvairuktā vacobhirapaḥnutāḥ
(Abhinanda; Subhāṣitaratnakoṣā [11th century CE]no. 593;
Kosambi and Gokhale 1957:108)
She held not her hand to her girdle when the dress fell open,
ever and again she glanced at the thick and steady-flaming
lamp;
When close to me an agitation seized her breast:
Such evidence bespoke her love although her words denied it.
 74

(Abhinañda; Ingalls 1965:207)

Her hand didn’t clutch her girdle

when her dress fell undone,
her eyes repeatedly glanced
at the bright lamp’s steady, intense flames;
her jar-like breasts
quivered when close to me-
her actions proclaimed the love
her words denied.
♣
añgākṛṣṭadukūlayā sarabhasaṃ gūḍhau bhujābhyām stanāv
ākṛṣṭe jaghanāṃśuke kṛtamadhaḥsaṃsaktamūrudvayaṃ
nābhīmulanibaddhacakśuṣi mayi vrīḍānatāñgayā tayā
dīpaḥ sphūtkṛtvātavepitaśikhaḥ karṇotpalenāhataḥ
(Subhāṣitaratnakoṣā no. 570; Karṇotpala
Kosambi and Gokhale 1957:104)
When I drew off her upper silk
she hid her breasts beneath her arms,
and when I drew the lower
she pressed her thighs together.
Then, as my eyes fell to the root of bliss
she shrank together with embarrassment
and tossing at the lamp the lotus from her ear,
puffed out its shaken flame
(Ingalls 1965:203)
aṃsākṛṣṭadukūlayā sarabhasaṃ gūḍhau bhujābhyām stanāv
āḳrṣṭe jaghanāṃśuke kṛtamadhaḥsaṃsaktamūrudvayaṃ
nābhīmulanibaddhacakśuṣi tayā vrīḍānatāñgayā priye
dīpaḥ phūtkṛtivātavepitaśikhaḥ karṇotpalenāhataḥ
(Saduktikarṇāmrata [13th century CE] 2.130.1 [under vastrākarṣaḥ]
Subhāṣitaratnabhānḍāgāra 6.15, navavadhūsangamaḥ; Acharya 2007:318.15
Sūktimuktāvali 77.9, Śārañgadharapaddhati 3674)

I pulled off her upper robe,

she hid her breasts under her arms,
I pulled off the lower,
she bent, pressing her thighs together.
When my gaze fell on her pubes
eyes downcast, embarassed,
she blew on the lamp-
it’s flame quivered
but didn’t extinguish;
so she flung her ear-lotus at the lamp,
quenching it

(10) prathamasaṃgatā cetsaṃhatorvoraṃtare ghaṭṭanam (11) kanyāyāśca (12) tathā

stanayoḥ saṃhatayorhastayoḥ kakśayoraṃsayorgrīvāyāmiti ca…(14) tatretarasyā vrīḍā
nimīlanam ca | prathamasamāgame kanyāyāśca.
(Kāmasūtra, sāmprayogika adhikaraṇa 2.8.10-12, 14; Śāstri 1964:342, 343)

If it is the first time that they have been together, he caresses her between her tightly closed
thighs. And if she is a virgin, he caresses her breasts, which she has tightly pressed together,
and her hands, armpits, shoulders, and neck….This embarrasses his partner and makes her
close her eyes if it is the first time they have been together, or if she is a virgin.
(Kāmasūtra 2.8.10-12, 14, Doniger and Kakkar 2002:61-2)
 75

♣
yugalamagalattarṣotkarṣe tarutpalagaurayoḥ
patụvighaṭanadūrvoḥ pūrvam priye paripaśyati
śrutikuvalayaṃ dipocchittyai nirāsa yadañganā
jvalati rasanārocirdīpe tadāpa nirarthatāṃ
(Subhāṣitaratnakoṣā no. 609; [11th century CE]
Kosambi and Gokhale 1957:111
Kapphiṇābhyudaya 14.24)
Desire increasing, her garments fell undone
and through the open petticoat her lover’s gaze
rose from the lily thighs to that which lies above,
whereat she took the lotus from her ear
and cast it at the lamp; in vain,
for still the lamplight of her girdle blazed
(Ingalls 1965:209)
Desire advancing,
robes fell undone
through her open inner garment
her lover’s gaze rose
from aureal thighs
to her pubes.
She therefore tossed her ear-lotus
at the lamp;
but to no avail,
since her girdle blazed
like a lamp!

SLOWLY SHE UNDRESSED

Slowly she undressed.

He looked up, flushed with desire,
from her fragrant thighs to her breast.

As his gaze rose higher,

she took the lotus from her ear,
flung it at the lamp, quenching its fire.

In vain was her fear:

Her girdle’s jewels shone, and showed her clear.
-BHAṬṬA ŚRĪ ŚIVASVĀMIN
Court poet of Avantivarman,
Ruler of Ksahmir (855-884 A.D.)

(Lal 1971:169)
♣
samākṛṣtṭam vāsaḥ kathamapi haṭhātpaśyati mayi
kramādūrudvandvaṃ jaraṭhaśaragauraṃ mrgadṛśaḥ
tayā dṛṣṭiṃ dattvā mahati maṇidīpe nipuṇayā
niruddhaṃ hastābhyāṃ jhagiti mama netrotpalayugaṃ
(Subhāṣitaratnakoṣā no. 579;
Kosambi and Gokhale 1957:106
Śārañgadharapaddhati 3677
Sūktimuktāvali 77.5
Sabhyālaṃkaraṇa 4.124)
By force I managed to draw off her dress;
then; as I gazed upon her thighs as white as ripened cane,
the damsel cast a glance toward the jeweled lamp
and quickly-clever put her hands across my eyes
 76

(Ingalls 1965:204)
I somehow managed
to forcibly disrobe her;
and as I stared
at each sugarcane-ripe
white thigh,
she slyly glanced
at the bright jewel-lamp
and quickly covered
my lotus-like eyes with her hands

samākṛṣtṭam vāsaḥ kathamapi haṭhātpaśyati tadā

kramādūrudvandvaṃ jaraṭhaśaragauraṃ mṛgadṛśaḥ
tayā dṛṣṭiṃ dattvā mahati maṇidīpe nipuṇayā
niruddhaṃ hastābhyāṃ jhagiti nijanetrotpalayugaṃ
(Saduktikarṇāmrata 2.130.2[under vastrākarṣaḥ])

I somehow managed
to forcibly disrobe her;
and as I stared
at each sugarcane-ripe
white thigh,
she slyly glanced
at the bright jewel-lamp
and quickly covered
her lotus-like eyes with her hands

samākṛṣtṭam vāsaḥ kathamapi haṭhātpaśyati tadā

kramādūrudvandvaṃ jaraṭhaśaragauraṃ mrgadṛśaḥ
tayā dṛṣṭiṃ dattvā mahati maṇidīpe nipuṇayā
niruddhaṃ hastābhyāṃ jhaṭiti nijanetrotpalayugaṃ
(Subhāṣitaratnabhānḍāgāram,
Navavadhūsaṃgamaḥ; Acharya 2007:318.10)

The Kāmasūtra (3.3.26) injuncts the Nāyikā against gazing at the Nāyaka face to face
and if so gazed at, prescribes a social “script”: to act embarassed: sammukham tam tu na
vīkśate‫ ׀‬vīkśitā vṛīḍām darśayati (Śāstri 2007:437)
♣
ayī sutanu suśīle talpamāruhya tūrṇaṃ
viracaya mama kaṇṭhe bandhanaṃ bāhuvalayā
iti nigaditanāthe dīpamālokayantī
hari hari hariṇākśī hṛī samudre mamajja
(Anantakavi [17th century CE],Kāmasamūha 603; Pathak 2008:185)
O beautiful bodied decent maid come to the bed quickly and put the bond on my neck
with your arms! Thus spoken to by her lover she looked at the lamp and then my! my! the
doe-eyed one sunk into the ocean of bashfulness
(Pathak 2008:185)
“O lovely, chaste one, come quickly to bed;
encircle my neck with your delicate arms!”
Oh my!
On hearing her lover’s words,
that doe-eyed beauty glanced at the lamp-
and sank in a sea of shame!
♣
nīvībañdhochhvasitaśithilaṃ
t yatra bimbādharāṇāṃ
kśaumaṃ rāgādanibhratakareṣvākśiptsu priyeṣu
arcistuñgānabhimukhamapi prāpya ratnapradīpāñ
hrīmūḍhānām bhavati viphalaprerṇā cūrṇamuṣṭiḥ
 77

(Kālidāsa, Uttaramegha verse 70; Karmarkar 2001:42)

Where the handful of powder of (that is, hurled by) women possessed of bimba-like lower
lips and at a loss to know what to do through a sense of shame, while (their) lovers
through passion, (their) silken garments loosened owing to the untying of the knot of the
garment, has (its) throw rendered fruitless, although reaching the powerful jewel-lamps
with prominent flames
(Karmarkar 2001:42)
Where the handful of powder flung by women having bimba-like lips and confused with
shame when their garments loosened by the untying of their knots, are snatched away by
their husbands through passion with their quick-moving hands, is flung in vain although it
reaches the jewel-lamps powerfully blazing with their flames.
(Kale 2005:116)
Where lovers, passion-trembling fingers cling
To silken robes whose sashes flutter wide,
The knots undone; and red-lipped women fling
Silly with shame, their rouge from side to side,
Hoping in vain the flash of jeweled lamps to hide
(Meghadūtam; Ryder 1914:199)
Where the fine garment of women, with bimba-like lips, loosened by the untying of the knot,
being carried away through love by lovers with quick hands, the handful of powder thrown
by the women overpowered by shame, though it reaches the lamp-like jewels with high rays,
becomes fruitless.
(Pathak 1997:63-64)
Where lovers undoing the knot at the waist,
hands trembling with passion,
toss aside silken garments loosening,
yaksa women with lips like bimba fruit,
overcome by shy confusion
aim handfuls of aromatic powder
at glittering gems serving as lamps
Ah! What fruitless throws even though they hit their mark
(Meghadūtam, Uttara Megha, Verse 70; Rajan vol. 1,1997:309)

(Alaka) where the attempts of the women, with lips like bimba fruits, are unsuccessful
in throwing red powder on the jeweled lamps, which are in front of them but beyond their
reach because of their height, when, overcome with shame because their garments, already
loose at the waist by their breathing, are thrown (further) aside by the encircling hands of
their passionate lovers.
(Ranganathan 1999:65)
nīvībañdhochhasitaśithilaṃt yatra yakshāñganānāṃ
vāsaḥ kāmādanibhṛatakareṣvākśiptsu priyeṣu
arcistuñgānabhimukhamapi prāpya ratnapradīpāñ
hrīmūḍhānām bhavati viphalaprerṇā cūrṇamuṣṭiḥ
(Uttaramegha verse 69; De-Raghavan 1982[1957]:22)

Where impassioned, nimble-fingered beaux

pull off the silk robes, already loosened
by the untying of their knotted cords,
of yaksha girls, who,
befuddled by embarrassment,
vainly fling fistfuls of powder
at tall-flamed lamps lit by jewels.
(Meghadūtam, Uttara Megha, Verse 69, Mallinson 2006:69)

Where the handfuls of powder flung by those red-lipped women flustered

with shame when their lovers passionately pull away their silken garments, the
 78

ties of which have been loosened and undone by restless hands, although they
reach the long-rayed jewel lamps, they fail to extinguish them

Where
lovers’ impasioned fingers
pry open silken robes
loosened by undoing the
waist-knot
of embarrassed ruby-lipped women
whose flustered fistfuls of hastily-flung rouge
reach the tall, dazzling jewel-lamps,
but in vain

nīvī-a cloth worn round a woman’s waist, or more properly the ends of the cloth tied into a
knot in front, the knot of the wearing garment (Apte 1998:986; cf. raghuvamśa 7.9,
kumārasambhavam 1,38; 7.60, siśupālavadham 10.64, mālatīmādhava 2.5) Mallinātha
(Kālidāsa’s fourteenth-century Ur-commentator) Kalidacomments cūrṇasya
kuṃkumādermuṣṭiḥ (Pathak 1997:64). He further says: atrāṃganānām
ratnapradīpanirvāṇapravṛttayā maugdhyaṃ vyajyate (ibid.)- the damsels’ desire to quench
jewel-lamps suggests their naive innocence.

Kālidāsa’s oldest commentator, Vallabhadeva comments ataśca lajjāvyākulatvāttāsāṃ

cūrṇadibhirmaṇidīpapraśamanechhā (Hultzsch 1911:38)-due to shame and befuddlement,
the damsels tried to dout the jewel-lamps with rouge . In the “fruitless” throw (and blowing
on jewel-lamps) of the Mugdhā many commentators see the rhetorical device viśeṣokti.
Mammaṭa defines it as follows: viśeṣoktirkhanḍeṣu kāraṇeṣu phalāvacaḥ-Peculiar Allegation
consists in the omission to affirm the effects, even when its causes are present in full force
(Jha 1928:404). Jagannātha defines it as prasiddhakāraṇakalāpasāmānādhikaraṇyena
varṇyamānā kāryānutpattirviśeṣoktiḥ (Goswami 1986:223)-In viśeṣokti an effect doesn’t
occur despite the presence of a well-known cause for such an effect. See Gerow 1971:270-4
and Goswami 1986:223-5 for a discussion on viśeṣokti. I suppose that since the “lamps”
aren’t real lamps but resplendent jewels, there really isn’t any “well-known cause” for an
“effect to be present”. Vallabhadeva comments: kśepastu vahnidīpabhrāṃtayā-the Mugdhā’s
throw rouge mistaking the jewels to be flame-lamps (Hultzsch 1911:38). I’ll submt that the
rhetorical device here is perhaps better identified as bhrāṃtimān (“confusion”). Mammaṭa
defines it as follows: bhrāṃtimānanañyasaṃvittattulyadarśane –when there is cognition of
another thing, at the sight of a thing similar to it, -it is illusion ( Kāvyaprakāśa 10.132; Jha
1967:450). Jagannātha’s definition is better: Sadṛśe dharmiṇi tādātmyena
dharmyantaraprakārako’nāhāryo niścayaḥ sādrśyaprayojyaścamatkāri prakṛte bhrāntiḥ /Śā ca
paśupakṣyādigatā yasmin vākyasandarbhe’nūdyate sa bhrāntimān /-He means that a
“bhrānti” or mistake is said to happen when the certain knowledge of the identity of one
object occurs due to similarity, without deliberate force or will, in another object, and the
false knowledge of identity is pleasing to the appreciative reader. If such a mistake is used in
a sentence where living and animate (being commit that mistake, the poetic description of
that mistake) constitutes the figure Bhrāntimān (Goswami 1986:95). See Gerow (1971:220-
1) and Goswami (1986:95-100) for a discussion of this device.

puruṣaḥ śayanasthāyā yoṣitastadvacanavyākśiptacittāyā iva nīvīṃ viśleṣayet

(Kāmasūtra, puruṣāyitaprakarṇam, 2.8.8; Śāstri 1964:341)
♣
pecchaṃti jāö calaṇe campaä-kaliövaāramujjhaṃte
kaṇṇuppala-pahara-bhayā gahié vva paīva-mālāhiṃ
(Vakpatirājā [8th century CE], Gaüḍavaho 760, Suru 1975:113)

Who look at their feet which were being confused (mujjhaṃte), (mistaken) by a fancied
identification (uvaāra) with Campaka buds, thus appearing as if they (feet) have been
clasped by rows of lamps, (falling down for protection) through the fear of (extinguishing)
blows from their ear-lotuses,
 79

(Vakpatirājā, Gaüḍavaho 760, Suru 1975:85)

Who gaze at their feet
that resemble golden campaka blossoms,
appearing as if rows of lamps
have clasped them
seeking refuge from the onslaught
of ear-lotuses
The feet of beautiful ladies, fair, soft and delicate, are often fancied to be the yellowish
Campaka buds. The ladies often put out the lamps burning by their bedside, out of
bashfulness, when they find their lovers removing even their lower garments in the frenzied
excitement of love. This they do by means of lotuses which they have as decoration on their
ears. The rows of lamps, imagined as animate things with feelings are fancied by the poet to
be clinging to the Campaka-like feet of these ladies for mercy, out of fear of being blown out
by them with their ear-lotuses (kaṇṇuppala)…
(footnote to Gaüḍavaho 760, Suru 1975:223)
♣
jātyāñdhām surateṣu dīnavadanāmañtarmukhābhāṣiṇīṃ
hṛṣṭasyāpi janasya śokajananīm lajjāpaṭenāvṛtāṃ
nirvyājaṃ svayamapyadrṣṭajaghanām strīrūpabaddhām paśum
karttavyaṃ khalu naiva bhoḥ kulavadhūkārāṃ praveṣṭuṃ manaḥ
(Īśwaradatta, Dhūrtaviṭasaṃvāda 13, Motīcandra-Agrawāla 1959:74; Ghosh 1975:2:22)

Congenitally blind in lovemaking;

pathetic face, mumbled speech;
mother of sorrows; saddens the happiest person,
swathed and veiled in bashfulness from top to toe;
so artless, even she’s never seen her own pubes;
a bound animal in female guise-
Indeed, never ever engage your mind
in “worshipping” such a respectable housewife!

Congenitally blind in lovemaking;

pathetic face, mumbled speech;
mother of sorrows; saddens the happiest person,
swathed and veiled in bashfulness from top to toe;
so artless, even she’s never seen her own pubes;
a bound animal in female guise-
Indeed, never ever engage your mind
in such a respectable housewife, who’s a pain!

Blind to love-making, having depressed miserable countenance, speech hardly audible,

capable of making even happiest man miserable, covered by shame, simpleton, not seeing
even her own thighs, looking like an animal tied down to a post,-no, never love such person
called wife (kulavadhu). You should never entertain a woman like that.
(Varadpande 2005:3:195)
One should not think indeed of entering into the prison of a married wife who is, as it were,
a beast in a woman’s form and who behaves during the intercourse like one born blind , looks
miserable, and speaks within her teeth, creates sorrow even for a happy person, and being
covered with the garment of bashfulness, she would never look to her (own) private parts on
any pretext whatsoever.
(Ghosh 1975:1:33; my emphasis; Kaul quotes Ghosh’s translation at 2009:278, footnote 137)
Motīcandra-Agrawāla (1959:74) translate 13.9.4 “never engage your mind in ‘worshipping’
such an artless housewife” (bholī kulavadhū kī sevā-pūjā meñ kabhī bhī man nahīṃ lagānā
cāhiye; praviṣṭa also means “Engaged in, occupied with”, Apte 1998:1110; Ghosh refers in
the footnote no. 20 (1975:22) of his translation to Motīcandra-Agrawāla’s translation by way
of comparison. They also mention (ibid) that kārā (in kulavadhūkārā) here means “offering
worship/prayer” (sevā pūjā) according to “Buddhist” Sanskrit usage (Edgerton 2004:2:178)
as opposed to it’s usual Sanskrit meaning of “A prison house, a jail”, (Apte 1998:562;
 80

Radhakantadeva 1967:2:100). They therefore gloss the phrase kulavadhūkārā (ibid) as

suggesting that a kulavadhū is fit only for obeisance and not love-sport ( vyañjanā yeh hai ki
kulavadhū pūjā kī vastu hai, krīḍā kī nahīṃ ). Kārā, however, even in “standard” Sanskrit is
paronomastic, one of it’s meanings cited in the Śabdakalpadruma (not noted either by
Motīcandra-Agrawāla or Ghosh) is “pain”; “agony” (Radhakantadeva 1967:2:100 glosses
kārā as pīḍā); Apte (1998:562) too records this meaning: “Pain, affiction”.

They also (ibid) gloss jātyāñdhām as “one blind from birth” “one who keeps her eyes closed
due to extreme bashfulness while making love” ( jañma ki añdhī, ati lajjā ke kāraṇa surata
meñ āñkha bañda rakhne vālī, ibid); but the same can also be a (pejorative) oppositio of the
MugdhāNāyikā and the ratipradīpa in the mode of parapūrapraveśasādṛśa tadvirodhinī
arthaharaṇa. Cf. jātyāñdhām surateṣu and lajjāpaṭenāvṛatām with Martial, Epigrammata
11.104.
♣
namrayāṃśukavikarṣiṇi priye vaktravātahatadīptadīpayā
bhartṛumaulimaṇidīpitastayā vismayena kakubho nibhālitāḥ
(Śrīharṣa [12th century CE], Naiṣadhīyacaritaṃ 18.85; Acarya 1952:780)

Bending herself, she blew out the burning light with the breath of her mouth, when her
beloved pulled her scarf. But, with wonder she saw the regions around her lit up by her
consort’s crown gem
(Śrīharṣa, Naiṣadhīyacaritaṃ 18.85; Handiqui 1956:276)

Disrobed by her lover,

she bent down
and blew out the bright blazing lamp;
but she was astonished
when his crest-jewel
lit up the regions around her
♣
ākśipteṣu priyatamakarairaṃśukeṣu pramohā
dantarlīlātaralitadṛśo yatra nā’laṃ navoḍhāḥ
śayyotthāyaṃ vadanamarutā’pāsituṃ dhāvamānā
arcistuñgānabhimukhamapi prāpya ratnapradīpāñ
(Jinasena [8th century CE], Pārśvābhyudayam 2.115; Kothari 1965:268)

Where, the newly married ones (i.e. brides), with their eyes turning inside sportively
when their garments are snatched away by their lovers with their
hands through excessive passion, running after having got up from their beds,
(and) having even reached near jewel-lamps, possessing height owing to the rays
(emanating from them),
are unable to extinguish them with the wind breathed out of their mouths
(Kothari 1965:269)
Where new brides,
eyes downcast
as their passionate lovers
pull off their robes,
jump out of their beds,
and run towards the tall, dazzling jewel-lamps,
trying to quench them
by blowing on them
♣
vastrāpāye jaghanamabhito dṛstipātam niroddhum
yūnām klṛptā surabhiracitā yatra Mugdhāñganānām
kampāyattātkarakisalayādañtarāle nipatya
hrīmūḍhānām bhavati viphalaprerṇā cūrṇamuṣtiḥ
(Jinasena, Pārśvābhyudayam 2.116; Kothari 1965:269)
 81

Where the handfuls of powder, consisting of the ingredients of perfumes, scattered for
obstructing the glances of the youths cast on all sides of the buttocks of the beautiful
women, bewildered on account of their being flushed with shame, have their hurls rendered
futile, on account of their having fallen from their tremulous sprout-like hands in the
intermediate region
(Pārśvābhyudayam 2.116; Kothari 1965:270)
Where flustered fistfuls of rouge, hastily thrown
by embarrassed new brides
to obstruct the gaze of their lovers ogling their pubes
fall down futilely
from their frail, trembling hands
♣
ratau hriyā yatra niśaṃya dīpāñjālāgatābhyo’dhigṛham gṛhiṇyaḥ
bibhyurbiḍālekśaṇabhīṣaṇābhyo vaidūryakuḍyeṣu śaśidyutibhyaḥ
(Śiśupālavadhaṃ 3.45; Musalgāonkara 2006:178)
Where, in the houses, the ladies, having out of bashfulness extinguished their lamps at the
time of coition, were frightened by the rays of the moon which streamed through lattice-
windows and looked, being reflected in the walls of Vaidurya, frightful like the eyes of the cat
(Māgha [7th-8th century CE], Śiśupālavadham 3.45; Bhandare 1918:36)

Where, in houses, shy damsels

quenching lamps during love-making
are startled by moonbeams
streaming in through lattice-windows,
which, reflected off lapis lazuli walls,
are frightening like cat’s eyes

Viṣamālaṃkāra; (Rudraṭa, Kāvyālaṃkāra 7.54; Mammaṭa, Kāvyaprakāśa 10.126). Mallinātha

(14th Century) in his commentary sarvañkṣā (Śāstri 2003:150) comments that there’s a type
of viṣama here since the embarassed damsels not only failed in their objective of quenching
the lamps, but were also, on the other hand, frightened, thus producing an undesirable
result. He then gives a definition of viṣama: viruddhakāryasyotpattiryatrānarthasya vā bhavet
virūpaghaṭanā yā syādviṣamālaṃkṛtirmatā (ibid.)-where, due to the production of an
opposite result a calamity occurs, there’s the device “incongruous”. This is the third type of
viṣama as per Kuvalayānañda 38-anisṭasyāpyāvāptiśca tadisṭārthasamudyamāt: where
something undesirable results from a desirable act and the second type as per Jagañnātha.
For a discussion of this device, see Gerow 1971:275-6, Sarmā 1903:79-80 and Goswami
1986:230-1). There’s a Sañkara (admixture of tropes) since there’s also the figure
bhrāṃtimān (“confusion”; Kāvyaprakāśa 10.132), since the damsels mistake the reflected
moon-beams for cat’s eyes. Mallinātha (ibid.) remarks that the ladies’ being thus frightened
by moon-beams signifies their being ingénues: śaśidyutibhyo bibhyurbhītāḥ maugdhyāditi
bhāvaḥ
♣
adyāpi tāṃ prathamasaṃgamajātalajjāṃ
nīvīṃ spṛśatyāpi kare mama mañdamañdaṃ|
phūtkārakampitaśikhātaralaṃ pradīpaṃ
karṇotpalena vijighāṃsumahaṃ smarāmi||
(Bilhaṇa [11th century CE], Caurapañcāśikā, Tadpatrikar 1946:42; appendix 4)

Even now
I remember
her bashfulness
when we first made love:
my hands gently grazing
her waist-knot-
her blowing on the lamp
 82

and quenching it’s quivering flame

with her ear-lotus

Sternbach 1974:1:155 cites a variant of this verse at Mahāsubhāṣitasaṃgraha 914 with A.A.
Ramanathan’s translation, which unfortunately seems incorrect, conveying the exact opposite
meaning:

adyāpi tāṃ prathamasaṃgamajātalajjāṃ bālāṃ rasena patite mayi mañdapīṭhe|

phūtkārakampitaśikhātaralapradīpaṃ karṇotpalena vinivārayatīṃ smarāmi||
(Sternbach 1974:1:155)

Shy in her first meeting with me in love sports the young one attempted to prevent the
putting out of the lamp with the lily taken off her ear when the flame was quivering by the
gust of my breath as I had reclined on the couch.
(ibid., my emphasis)
Even now
I remember
her bashfulness
when we first made love:
my forcefully laying
that tender girl
on the bed-
her blowing on the lamp
and quenching it’s quivering flame
with her ear-lotus

adyāpi tāṃ prathamasaṃgamajātalajjāṃ

nīvyāṃ prahiṇvati karaṃ mayi mandamandam|
phūtkārakampitaśikhātaralapradīpaṃ
karṇotpalena nijighāṃsum ahaṃ smarāmi||
(Bilhaṇa [11th century], Caurapañcāśikā Western-southern recension no. 41; Miller 1971:74)

Even now,
I remember her,
shy at our first meeting
when I gently urged my hand
at the knot of her skirt-
with a lotus flower from her ear
she tried again to darken
the glimmering light of a flame
already shaken.
(Miller 1971:75, variant readings ibid.: 168-9)

adyāpi tāṃ dhavalaveśmani ratnadīpamālāmayūkhapaṭalair dalitāṃdhakāre|

praptodyame rahasi sammukhadarśanārthe lajjābhayārttanayanām anucintayāmi||
(Bilhaṇa, Caurapañcāśikā N 18; Miller 1971:24)

Even now,
I brood on her-
when streaks of light from jeweled lamps
broke the darkness in her white pavilion,
I seized the chance to stare at her face in secret-
her eyes were painted with shame and fear.
(Miller 1971:25)

adyāpi tāṃ dhavalaveśmani ratnadīpamālāmayūkhapaṭalairdalitāṃdhakāre|

praptodyame rahasi sammukhadarśanārthaṃ lajjābhayārttanayanāmanuciñtayāmi||
(Bilhaṇa, Caurapañcāśikā 18; Shiveshwarkar 1967:18)
 83

And then I still think of her (sad plight), when, in the white house, the darkness was
dispelled by a flood of light from rows of diamond lamps when I was eager to see her face to
face, while she turned away her eyes in bashfulness and fear.
(Shiveshwarkar 1967:18)
Shiveshwarkar (ibid.:18) has a discussion of the illustration ( ibid.:19) to this verse. Gombrich
(2005:294-5) gives a slightly different text and translation of this verse.
♣
sāṃte piyata rupa cakhu duhūṃ|rabi sasi duwau ekai bhai kihūṃ
mukha mukha sana nahiṃ sauṃh karāhīṃ|prathama samāgama mana thaharāhīṃ
kuṃwara adhara adharanhi seuṃ jorai|kuṃwari bimukha bhai bhai mukha morai
dīpa bharama mukha phūṃki phūṃki bālā|adhikau karai ratana ujiyālā
duhuṃ kara lai lājanha mukha jhāṃpai|adhara dasana khaṃḍata ḍara kāṃpai
eka pirīti jiya piya kai ou bhe parathama saṃga|
tisareṃ lāja biyāpita upaja na duhuṃ rati raṃga||
(Manjhan [16th century CE], Madhumālatī 449.4, Gupta 1961:394)

Their eyes drank in beauty till sated.

Somehow this sun and moon became one.
Still they could not turn face to face,
their hearts trembling before their first union.
The prince sought to kiss her lips
but Mādhumalatī averted her mouth
and turned her face away from him.
Mistaking them for lamps, she blew on jewels
only to make their light even brighter.
She covered her face with both her hands.
When the Prince bit her lips she trembled in fear.
First, their hearts were madly in love; moreover, this
was their very first time.
Thirdly, modesty overcame them, so the desire to make love was not aroused.
(Behl & Weightman 2000:189)

They drank in each other’s beauty till sated; somehow this sun and moon united.
They still could’t see face to face, their hearts tremblied at their first union.
The prince tried to kiss her lips, but Mādhumalatī turned her face away in fear.
That ingénue mistook jewels for lamps and blew on them again and again, only to make
them shine even brighter.
She covered her face with both hands in embarrassment, when he bit her lips she trembled
in trepidation.

Firstly, intense love in their hearts; then too, first union.

Modesty overwhelmed their desire to make love.
Mistaking jewels for lamps, that maiden
tried to quench them by blowing on them again and again,
only to make them glow even brighter

I so very much expected Jayasi to use some variant of the synistor lychnos/Mugdhā Nāyikā
motifeme, but he hasn’t! Of the four “name” Awadhi premākhyānās, (Cāndāyan, Mirgāvatī,
Padmāvat and Madhumalatī) I could locate this motifeme only in Manjhan. The Cāndāyan is
the first of these (presumably following Khusraw’s pioneering example in Khusraw-Śīrīn, who
presumably followed the injunctions laid down in Sanskrit rhetorical manuals for
mahākāvyās) to graphically describe the sambhoga Śṛñgāra/ratikalaḥ of the lead pair in
vigorous metaphors drawn from (not the birds but the) bees, flowers and gardens and
elephants (!): jāṃgi jori tas kai lai lāye|jānu gaja meṃmaṃata bar kahaṃ āye: “he joined
and brought together his thighs so vigorously, it seemed as if two rutting elephants were
dueling” (Cāndāyan, kaḍvak 218.3, Gupt 1967:211-2; Madhu-Manohar’s lovemaking in
kaḍvak 451 of Madhumalatī [Gupta 1961:396-7) lacks floral imagery), but sans the
 84

Mugdhā/Ratipradīpa motif. Faiẓī in the Masnavī Nal Daman “imitated” this arboreal, floral
sexual imagery, but without the Ratipradīpa motif (for an English translation, see Alam and
Subrahmanyam 2007:129); Faiẓī was “translated” and “imitated” by Rāḥat Kākorwī in Nal
Daman Hindī or Dāstān-e Rāḥat Afzā (Alam and Subrahmanyam 2007:140) but with this
motif. Achilles Tatius (2nd century AD), in his Ta kata Leuklippēn kai Kleitophōnta (“The
adventures of Leucippe and Clitophon”; the least-studied of the five surviving ancient Greek
romances), describes (Leuc.Clit. 1.15.2) an “erotic” garden in suggestive floral sexual
metaphors-flowers entwining, leaves embracing, fruits love-making ( ai tōn petalōn
periplokai, tōn phyllōn peribolai, tōn karpōn symplokai ; there’s another more vivid description
of “floral-arboreal” love-making, a “vegetable marriage” [gamos phytōn] at 1.17.3-5; the
Greek-Persian connection is best exemplified by ‘Unṣurī’s eleventh-century Persian epic poem
Wāmiq and ‘Azrā (available in fragments) which builds its plot on the model of the
fragementary (first century B.C.E.?) Greek novel Mētiokhos and Parthenopē; for an excellent
study, see Hägg and Utas 2003, for Wāmiq and ‘Azrā as an indexical translation
(Ramanujan1999c:156-7), see Hägg and Utas 2009:153-186). Tatius found “imitators” not
only in Mullā Dāud, Quṭban (Mirgāvatī 17.238, kaṃcanpur āgaman tathā punarmilan khaṃḍ ),
Faiẓī and Rāḥat but also in innumerable “Hindi” film scriptwriters; for several years the stock
visual motif for the hero-heroine kissing was two red roses tapping each other).

mugdhā navavadhūstatra navayauvana bhūṣitā

navānaṃgarahasyā ca lajjāprāyaratiryathā
(Rudraṭa, Śṛñgāratilaka 1.48, Pischel 1886:12)

The types of the ingénue are

the newly-wed,
the one adorned by adolescence
the one new to love’s secrets
and the one bashful in lovemaking

atha mugdhāyā lajjāprāyaratyudāharaṇam

virama nātha vimuñca mamāñcalaṃ

śamaya dīpamimaṃ samayā sakhīṃ
iti navoḍhavadhūvacasā yuvā
mudamagādadhikāṃ suratādapi
(Rudraṭa [9th century CE], Śṛñgāratilaka 1.51, Pischel 1886:12-13)

Now an exemplum of the ingénue’s bashfulness in lovemaking:

“Stop, lord! Let go my garment’s hem!
quench this lamp,
my Sakhī’s right in front of us!”
These words of his new bride
delighted the youth
far more than lovemaking

virama nātha vimuñca mamāñcalam śamaya dīpamiyaṃ samayā sakhī

iti navoḍhavadhūvacasā yuvā mudamagādadhikāṃ suratādapi
(Saduktikarṇāmrata 2.6.1, exemplum under Madhyā)

“he nātha! rukiye, mere āñcal ko chhoḍ dījiye aur sakhī ke nikaṭ [sthita] is dīpaka ko bujhā
dījiye.” yuvā nāyak navoḍha vadhū kī is prakar kī vāṇī se kām vyāpār se bhī adhika
prasannatā ko prāpta huā
(Pandeya 1968:103)
virama nātha vimuñca mamāñcalaṃ śamaya dīpamimaṃ samayā Sakhīṃ
iti navoḍhavadhūvacanairyuvā mudamagādadhikāṃ suratādapi
(Subhāṣitratnabhānḍāgāra , Navavadhūsañgamaḥ; Acharya 2007:318.7)

kaṃcitkśaṇaṃ nanu sahasva vimuñca vāso

jāgtyaryaṃ parijano dhigpatrapo’si
 85

eṣo’ñjaliḥ śamaya dīpamiti priyāyā

vāco ratādapi parāṃ mudamāvahaṃti
(Rājaputra Parpaṭeh, Subhāṣitāvali [15th century CE]2053, suratāraṃbhaḥ; Karmarkar
1961:352)
‘Wait a bit! Let go my skirt!
Others will wake! O you are shameless!
At least put out the light, I beg you!’
These words of my beloved
enthral me more
than even the act of love.
(Rājaputra Parpaṭi, Subhāṣitāvali 2053; Haksar 2007:88)

“Wait a second; let go my dress!

Someone might wake up! Shame on you!
I beg of you, quench the lamp!”
My darling’s words
delight me
far more than lovemaking

The original meaning of Mugdha is “confused”, later coming to mean “foolish”, “silly”,
“young”, “charming”, “charmingly innocent” etc. (see Ingalls 1962:95). Mugdhātā/maugdhya
(naïveté) is one of the sixteen hāvās (Naṭyaśāstra 13.31-32; Mugdhā is also the eight
hundred and sixty-eighth name/appellation of Lalitā in the Lalitāsāhastranāma. This term
later became the technical name for the “naïve”/“artless”/ “sexually inexperienced” ingénue,
the Mugdhā Nāyikā. The Śabdakalpadruma (Radhakantadeva 1967:3:741) defines Mugdha
as mūḍhaḥ (“perplexed”; “bewildered”; “confounded”), citing ṛgveda 5.40.5 as an exemplum:
yattavā sūrya svarabhānustamasāvidhyadāsuraḥ|akśetravidyathā mugdho
bhuvanāñyadīdhayuḥ-O Sūrya, when the asurā’s descendant Svarabhānu pierced you
through and through with darkness/All creatures looked like one bewildered, who knows not
the place where he stands.
kabitta
cañcala na hūjai nātha, añcala na aiñco(khenco) hāth
sovain neka sārikāhū suka tau suvāyau jū.
māñd karau dīpa-duti cañda-mukha dekhiyat,
daurikai durāi āūn dvār tyaun dikhāyau jū.
mṛgaja-marāl-bāl bāhire biḍāri dehun,
bhāyau tumheñ kesav su mohū mana bhāyau jū.
chhal ke nivāsa aise bacan-bilās suni,
cauguno (sauguno) suratihūn tain syāma sukha pāyau jū.
(Keśavdās [16th century CE], Rasikapriyā tṛtīya prabhāv 3.22, Miśra 1959:30; cf. 3.22.2 with
Govardhana, Āryāsaptaśati no. 285; there’s a contaminatio of the motifemes of the Mugdhā
Ratipradīpa and the Śukoktivṛīḍā)

Keśavadāsa, describing the four sub-types of the Mugdhā at Rasikapriyā 3.17 seems to have
“translated” with a slight modification Rudraṭa’s Śṛñgāratilaka 1.48 (for the Śṛñgāratilaka as
the “precursor-text”/“prior text” of the Rasikapriyā, see Schokker 1983, Busch 2011:32, 103,
109-111). His kabitta exemplum too seems to be an expanded translation of Śṛñgāratilaka
1.51 (in the Ālekhaprakhya Navanepathyam artharaṇa mode) which Rudraṭa cites as an
exemplum for the Lajjāprāya Mugdhā (which Śrīdharadāsa cites at Saduktikarṇāmrata 2.6.1
for the Madhyā; cf. Āryāsaptaśati no. 285, where the Nāyikā is a pragalbhā). Keśavadāsa’s
exemplum for the navalaänañgā Mugdhā seems inaccurate, fitting the definition of the
lajjāprāya more than the navalaänañgā.

“Lord, don’t be hasty-

don’t pull my hem with your hands-
the parrot’s already asleep; please let the grackle sleep too.
Quench the bright lamp; you can still see my moon-like face-
Let me quickly run and shut that door you see in front.
Let me turn the fawns and the signets out of the room,
 86

I too love the love-making that you love”.

When Śyāma, the expert gallant heard these pleasure-inducing words,
He experienced delight a hundred-fold greater than lovemaking
“OH my darling, desist from excessive haste and eagerness. Pray don’t tug at the hem of
my cloak. Look, the parrot has gone to sleep in its cage but its mate has not. The lamp
burns and sees us furtively-put it out, for you shall see my face even without it. Run up and
bolt the door you see in front. My eagerness for what you desire is no less, but first do my
bidding and give me solitude.” The Nāyikā’s shy suggestion and her dalliance thus enhances
his pleasure a hundredfold.
(Randhawa 1962:12)
Example of a Mugdhā unused to lovemaking
‘Do not pull at my clothes, my love!
Be not so restless! Slumbering deep
The parrot is already, thus
Let starling also fall asleep.
Turn low the lamp, my moonlike face
You may still see, the deer and geese
From this bedchamber let me take,
What you desire, me too does please!’
Thus, when that maiden’s timid prayer
The nāyaka, Shyāma, heard, he did feel
A hundred times more charmed with her,
Than if to make love she did yield.
(Bahadur 1972:27)
See Rahi (2008:68) for an English paraphrase of this kabitta. Appaya Dīkśita classifies
Praharṣanā into three types; the second type is when the attainment is more than what is
expected (vāñchitādadhikārthasya saṃsiddhasca praharṣanam, Kuvalayānañda 130).
sakhyo’tha pakśamaladṛśām tadvekśya tañtram
smerānanārpitakaram śanakairnirīyuḥ
tatkarpaṭāñcalasamīravidhūyamāno
dīpo’pi nirjigamiṣutvamivālalaṃbe
(Mañkhaka [12 century CE], Śrīkañṭhacarita 15.15, Durgaprasad-Parab 1900:211)
th

tāsāṃ sakhīnāṃ karpaṭāñcalasya samīreṇa vidhūyamānaḥ kampyamāno dīpo’api

nirgañtukāmatvamivāśrayat. tathā tābhiḥ krīḍārabdhā yathā niścetanānāmapi lajjā jāyata iti
bhāvaḥ. apiśabdāñna kevalam sakhyaḥ, yāvcchṛñgāroddīpanopayogyo dīpôapi.
(Jonarāja, commentary on Śrīkañṭhacarita 15.15, Durgaprasad-Parab 1900:211)

Her companions,
getting the hint that the two wanted to make love,
quickly exited,
smothering their giggles with their hands.
The lamp, hit by the breeze
whipped up by their garments’ hems,
quivered,
as if it too wanted to exit the room
along with them!

The lamp, hit by the breeze whipped up by her girl-friends’ garments’ hems, trembled, as
though it too wanted to exit along with them. The purport is that when lovemaking is about
to begin, even the insentient objects present become embarrassed. The word “too/even”
signifies that not only the girl-friends, but even the lamp, which intensifies lovemaking’s
pleasure, wished to leave.

In the Krṣṇacarita (Exploits of Kṛṣna) there is the following passage: ‘When her companions
saw this (i.e. signs that the two wanted to make love), they started going out one by one,
 87

hand on mouth to conceal their smiles. The flame of the earthen oil lamp also began to
quiver with the breeze raised by their sari ends, as though it too was about to close its eyes
and depart!’
(Bahadur 1990:341, n. 193, misattributing and misnaming Śrīkañṭhacarita 15.15)

biyā bar khāk-e man gar khwud gul afśānī rawā nabūd
babād-e dāmaney śam‘a-e mazāram mītawān kuśtan
(Ghalib, Dīwān-e Fārsī; ‘Ābidī 2008:1:517)

The gesturing/glancing of the Mughdhā Nāyikā at the lamp (Subhāṣitaratnakoṣā no. 579,
593; Kāmasamūha 603; Bihārī, Satsaī, Ratnākar no. 130) is vihṛta, “Want of
response/Reticence/Bashfulness”, which the Naṭyaśāstra defines thus:

prāptānāmapi vacasām kriyate yadbhāṣaṇaṃ hriyā strībhiḥ

vyājātsvabhāvato vāpyetatsamudāhṛtam vihṛtam
(Naṭyaśāstra 22.25, Nagar & Joshi 2004:3:156)

That due to bashfulness, presence (sic, read pretense) and nature, women do not make any
reply [to her lover] even when they have heard his word is called Want of Response ( vihṛta)
(Ghosh 2003:1:172)
Vihṛta is when due to bashfulness, pretense or nature
Women don’t reply even when spoken to

The Daśarūpaka describes vihṛta as prāptakālaṃ na yad brūyād vrīḍayā vihṛtaṃ hi

tat-‘Bashfulness (vihṛta) is not speaking, because of modesty, [even] when there is an
opportunity.’ (Haas 1962:65). Viśvanātha at Sāhityadarpaṇa 3.105.2 lists vihṛta as one of the
twenty-eight Nāyikā alaṃkārās-vaktavyakāle’pyavaco vrīḍayā vihṛtaṃ mataṃ (Śāstri
2000:88)-“Through modesty, not to speak even when one ought to speak, is what we mean
by ‘Bashfulness’” (Ballantyne-Dasa 1994:89; some manuscripts read vikṛtam instead of
vihṛtam).Vrīḍā, “shame” is one of the thirty-three classical vyabhicāribhāvās, the “transitory
states”. Kuto’api dayitasyāgre cakitaṃ bhayasambhramaḥ (Sāhityadarpaṇa 3.110.1; Śāstri
2000:90); “‘Trepidation,’ is agitation from fear, before a lover, from whatever cause”,
Ballantyne-Dasa 1994:90). Bhoja in the Sarasvatīkañṭhābharaṇa 5.159 defines vihṛta
differently: vaktavyasamaye’pi vacasānabhibhāṣya kriyānuṣṭhānaṃ vihṛtaṃ-Even on an
occasion demanding words, taking recourse to action rather than speech is vihṛtaṃ
(Siddhartha-Ramanathan 2009:3:1023; Bhoja’s exemplum is Kumārasambhava 7.11).
Bhānudatta at Rasatarañgiṇī 6.40 defines vihṛta thus: priyasannidhāv abhilāp’āparipūrtir
vihṛtam. tatra vyājalajjā’dayo vibhāvāḥ. anubhāvā anyathāceṣṭitānyathāvyavahārādyaḥ.
vyājād yathā:
abhilaṣati kapole candracūḍe vidhātuṃ
tilakam, udayadantaḥkopabhājā Bhavānyā
phaṇipatibhayakūṭād angam utkampayantyā
pracalavasanavātair vighnitāḥ kelidīpāḥ
(Bhānudatta, Rasatarañgiṇī 6.14, Pollock 2009:272)

Breaking off talking in the presence of the lover is reticence. Its factors are pretense or
shame. The reactions are acting or behaving in some distracting way. An example of
pretense:
As the moon-crested god sought to draw on
her cheek
an ornament, Bhavani grew angry and with limbs
trembling, pretending to recoil in fear
from the snake,
she snuffed the lamp with the breeze from her
rustling dress.
(Pollock 2009:273)
When the moon-crested one desired
to draw an ornament on her cheek,
Bhavāni, indignant,
 88

limbs tremulant
in mock-fear of the serpent-lord
douses the pleasure-lamp
with the breeze
whipped up by her
swishing robes

vighnita- Impeded, obstructed, opposed; obscured, blinded (Apte 1998:1430).

Viśeṣakachhedya (“cutting leaves into shapes”) is the fifth of the traditional sixty-four arts
(Kāmasūtra 1.3.15). Yaśodhara in his Jayamañgalā (Śāstrī 2007:87) comments
viśeṣakastilako yo lalāṭe dīyate, tasya bhūrjādipatramasyānekaprakāraṃ chhedanameva
chhedyaṃ-“Various shapes are cut from the leaves of trees like birches to decorate the
forehead”.
bhittau bhittau pratiphalagataṃ
bhālasindūrabinduṃ
dṛṣṭvā dṛṣṭvā kamalanayanā
kelidīpabhrameṇa
kānte cailaṃ harati haritaṃ
lolam ālokayantī
gātraṃ pracchādayati
sahasā pāṇipañkeruheṇa
(Bhānudatta [15 century CE], Rasatarañgiṇī 5.14, exemplum to the vyabhicārī bhāva vrīḍā,
th

Pollock 2009:216)
Her bright vermilion forehead dot
was reflected on each bedroom wall
and every time the woman looked
she thought it was the bedroom lamp.
So when she saw her lover begin
to gently remove her dark blue bodice,
she suddenly stretched out her lotus hand
to cover her body as best as she could.
(Pollock 2009:217)
That doe-eyed beauty,
mistaking
her red forehead-mark
reflected on the walls
for the Love-Lamp,
seeing her lover
remove her verdant garment,
hastily tries to cover her limbs
with her delicate hands

Keśavadāsā’s literary precursor Bhānudatta (in the Rasamañjarī) classifies the Mugdhā as
follows: ajñyātayauvanā Mugdhā (naïve Nāyikā unconscious of her youth; Rasamañjarī 5),
jñyātayauvanā Mugdhā (naïve Nāyikā conscious of her youth; Rasamañjarī 6),
Mugdhānavoḍhā (Newly-wed naïve Nāyikā; Rasamañjarī 7), viśrabdhānavoḍhā (naïve Nāyikā
who has just begun to trust; Rasamañjarī 8) and ativiśrabdhānavoḍhā (naïve Nāyikā who is
very trusting; Rasamañjarī 9).

A similar situation is described by another Hindi poet. After the wedding night one of the
handmaids of the new bride notices the palm of her hand slightly burnt, and curious to know
the reason thereof, asks another maid, who is closest to the bride, the cause of it. The
second maid answers thus:

‘Not knowing the meaning of love, the new lady,

To climb her lover’s bed was afeared;
When the words of love were spoken she smiled,
Seeing which he boldly caught her hands:
In the struggle when her waist-knot was loosened
 89

The bashful lady extinguished the lamp

With the palm of her hand-and so, my friend,
In the battle of love her palm was burnt.’
(Bahadur 1972:48, footnote 15)
Here’s this pada/kabitta (in the ghanākśarī chhañda):

kehī kāraṇa suñdara hātha jale

naī abalā rasa bheda na jāne
seja gaye jiyā māhi ḍare
kacchu bāta na kī jaba cauñka bhayī
tab dhāye lallana jo bāha gayī
tab donoñ ke jhakajhorana meñ
kaṭi pīta pītāṃbara chhuṭa gayo
kara dāmini dīpaka chāpa liye
yahaī kāraṇa suñdara hātha jale

How did that beautiful hand get burnt?

The new bride knows nothing of loves’ secrets-
she’s scared as she approaches the marriage-bed
startled, wordless as her husband grabs her arm
in their grasping and pushing
the sandal-yellow robe around her waist’s undone
lightning-fast, her palm smites the lamp-
which is how that beautiful hand got burnt!

Smt. Rajshree Shirke, Kathak Guru, from whom I got this cīz (personal communication dated
30th November 2009) also very kindly informed me that Lacchū Mahārāja (1901-1978, uncle
of the present-day Kathak maestro Guru Brajmohananātha Miśra alias Paṇḍita Birjū
Mahārāja), Guru of the famous Kathak exponent Smt. Rohiṇī Bhāṭe (alias Babytāī)
transmitted this bañdiś to her. On my petition, Rajshree dīdī requested Smt. Shamā Bhāṭe,
Babytāī’s daughter for the text of this bañdiś and Shamātāī kindly consented.

There’s an interesting samasyā-pūrti type anecdote connected with the “palm-burnt” Mugdhā
gata and the bañdiśa/chhañda/kabitta kehi kāraṇa sundara hātha jale involving Nawāb Wājid
‘Alī Shah (1822-1887) and Vṛñdāvanaprasāda alias Bindādīn Mahārāja (1830-1918, Paṇḍita
Birjū Mahārāja’s grand-uncle), one of the legendary founding fathers of the Lakhnau gharānā
of Kathak:

Wajid Ali Shah was holding court to a gathering of poets. One common diversion was for the
King to suggest a particular scenario to which the poets would supply the reason it had come
about. On this occasion, Wajid Ali Shah’s tale was of a young woman who was found the day
after her wedding to have the palm of her hand severely burnt. One poet suggested that,
inexperienced, she had burnt her hand while preparing a light meal for her husband. Another
said that she had burnt herself while lighting an oil lamp. All the other suggestions focused on
the woman’s practical inexperience in some way or other.

The young Bindadin Maharaj was then called upon for his interpretation, and he began to
improvise a verse and to dance it.... The young woman is sitting expectantly on her bed
awaiting her husband. She is prepared for a night of love, and yet she is experiencing the
mixed emotions of joy, fear, and curiosity. At one and the same time her body experiences
both desire and shame. The husband arrives: he begins to undress her, and out of a sense of
modesty she quickly extinguishes the oil lamp by pressing her palm over the flame.
(Kippen and Bel 1996: http://www.pathcom.com/~ericp/kathak.html)

The attribution of this poem, and even this event, to Bindadin Maharaj is challenged by many
dancers who cite other sources and point to the fact that Bindadin’s pen-name [“bindā’] does
not appear in the poem.
(Footnote 4, Kippen and Bel 1996, http://www.pathcom.com/~ericp/kathak.html)

This poem doesn’t appear in Maharaj 1994.

 90

bar ahl-e bazm rawśan gaśt dard az dāgh-e dast-e man

cū fānūsam guwāh-e ‘āśiqī dar āstīñ bāśad
(Khān-e Ārzū, Dīwān-e Ārzū dar jawāb-e Dīwān-e Śafiā-e Asar; tadwīn ba muqaddimah Dr.
Sayyid Muhammad Asghar, unpublished dissertation from AMU; page 141; I thank Dr.
Prashant Keshavmurthy of McGill University for this splendid reference)

By the brand on my hand did my pain come to light

in the assembly
Like the lamp is the witness to my love-making
up my sleeve.

By the brand on my hand did my pain come to light

in the assembly
I’m like the lamp - on my sleeve is proof of my love-making.
(Translated by Dr. Prashant Keshavmurthy, 24th September 2010)

My burnt hand
exposed my pain
in the assembly
Like a tattle-tale
I proclaim
My love-making

♣
jakhana lela hari kaṃcuä achoṛi | kata parajugati käéla aṃga moṛi |
takhanuka kahinī kahala na jāya | lājé sumukhi dhani rahal lajāy|
kara na mijhāé dūra jara dīpa | lājé na maräé nāri kaṭhajība |
aṃkama kaṭhina sahäé ke pāra | komala hṛdaya ukhali gela hāra |
bhanai vidyāpati takhanuka bhāna | kaöna kahala Sakhī hoéta bihāna|
(Vidyāpati [14th century CE], Padāvali, “Milana” pada 80, Vidyalankar 1954:143)

When Hari snatched her bodice,

nothing she did could stop his ogling-
Her utter embarassment then, her fluster-
indescribable!
Her hands couldn’t quench the out-of reach lamp;
Her brazenness didn’t let her die of shame.
Her delicacy couldn’t bear such a vigorous embrace;
Her soft bosom was imprinted by his necklace.

Vidyāpati feels that she must be fretting

“When will someone say ‘My dear, its dawn!’’’

The last couplet (which, interestingly, reverses the Aubade/Alba topos) is usually (Mathur
1952:129; Kapoor 1968:130) translated “Vidyāpati says that the time passed so fast in
dalliance, the lovers didn’t at all realize about day break till someone informed them”. This
translation goes against the grain of all the preceeding lines of this pada, where Rādhā,
portrayed as a Mugdhā navalaänañgā Nāyikā, is completely naïve about and in fact opposed
(“ratau vāmā”-Daśarūpaka 2.26) to love-making. I’ve therefore preferred Vidyalankar’s
(1954:144) interpretation in my translation. Bhati (1970:143) in a similar vein comments that
Rādhā so very desperately wants the night to end, that she waits eagerly for some sakhī to
bring news of day break, so as to be finally rid of Kṛṣṇa. Bhati identifies Rādhā here as a
Navoṛhā Nāyikā; I’ll submit that Rādhā, here being a virgin can’t be a Navoṛhā, she’s a
Parakīyā Kañyakā (Daśarūpaka 2.32, Śṛñgāratilaka 1.87 [termed Anyadīyā], Kāvyālaṃkāra
12.30, Sarasvatīkaṇṭhābharaṇa 5.111, Vagbhaṭālaṃkāra 5.14, Alaṃkāraśekhara 20.4,
Rasamañjarī 31) and is perhaps better identified as a Mugdhā Navalaänañgā (Rudraṭa,
Śṛñgāratilaka 1.48.2; Keśavadāsa, Rasikapriyā 3.17.1, 22). The image of quenching a lamp is
 91

used as an exemplum of the Mugdhā lajjāprāya at Śṛñgāratilaka 1.51, though Keśavadāsa

uses it (inaccurately, I submit) as an exemplum of the Mugdhā navalaänañgā (Rasikapriyā,
kabitta 3.22). The Śṛñgāramañjari’s revised definition of the Mugdhā as
puruṣaviśeṣānabhijñā-“one ignorant about a man’s love” (Raghavan 1951:3) seems
especially relevant here. Mathur (1950:130) opines that this pada’s sixth verse is very
“strange” (is pad ka chaṭvāñ caraṇa baṛā vicitra hai) and quotes in Hindi translation the
cūrṇamuṣṭiḥ verse from the Meghadūta (Uttarmegha 70; Karmarkar 2001:42) which
Benipuri (1975:164) repeats in his ṭippaṇi. Vidyalankar (1954:144) quotes the Sanskrit
original of the cūrṇamuṣṭiḥ verse from the Meghadūta.

Coomaraswamy and Sen translate the (quite different) Bangla recension of this pada from
the Bangīya padābali:
Rādhā: I was alone, and weaving garlands,
My skirt and bodice were unloosed,
And then came Kanu with quite smiles!
(How shall I hide my bosom and my girdlestead?)

My darling clasped me with a merry laugh,

Modesty and shame departed to the underworld-
(How may I dout the lamp, that’s out of reach of hands?)
And yet my brazen life dies not of shame!

This is the very work of love, says Vidhyāpati:

Wherefore this shame to whom your
life is dedicate?
(Coomaraswamy-Sen 1915:106)
♣
paṃjarasâriṃ attâ!
ṇa ṇesi kiṃ ettha raïharâhiṃto?
vîsambhajampiâiṃ
esâ loâṇam paaḍei
(Weber no. 553, weber 1881:260; Jogalekar 1956:362 titles this gāthā “Infamous Bird” )

O mother-in-law! why do you not remove this caged parrot from this our pleasure-house?
(For,) the bird discloses before people our confidential talks.
(Basak 1971:122)
Take that damned parrot away.
He repeats all our love talk
to everyone in the village,
has them gathered around him.
(Ray 1983:168)
pañjarasāriṃ ṇa ṇesi kiṃ eyttha raiharāhiñtô
vīsambhajampiāiṃ eysā loāṇam paäḍeï
(Gāthāsaptaśati 6.52, Śāstri 1933:280)

pañjarasāriyaṃ māūyā avaṇeha raiharāhiñtô

vīsambhajampiyāiṃ eysā loyammi payaḍeï
(Gāhākosa 579/6.79, Patwardhan 1980:1:251)

Embarassing revelation:
Oh mother, (please) take away the Sārikā in the cage out of the bed-chamber. It divulges to
the world the confidential remarks (uttered in the privacy of the bed-chamber, during
amorous enjoyment).
(Patwardhan 1988:2:73)
ṇihuaṇasippaṃ taha sâriâi ullâviaṃ mha gurupurao
jaha taṃ velaṃ mâe!
ṇa âṇimo kattha vaccâmo
(Weber no. 590, weber 1881:283-284; Jogalekar 1956:387 titles this gāthā “Myna” )
 92

O mother! the parrot has disclosed the work of our dalliance in such a way before our elders,
that I do not know where I should go to at that moment.
(Basak 1971:129)
The parrot gave us away,
gossip and teller of tales.
When I warned you, you just laughed
and refused to cover his cage.
(Ray 1983:175)
The mynah bird has prattled
In front of the elders
About what we get up to in bed
So that, for the moment,
I don’t know which way to turn
(Khoroche-Tieken 2009:168)
ṇihuaṇasippam taha sāriāi ullāviam mha gurupuräô
jaha taṃ velaṃ māey ṇa āṇimo kattha vaccāmo
(Gāthāsaptaśati 6.89, Śāstri 1933:297)

nihuyaṇasippam taha sāriyāäy ullāviam mha gurupuräô

jaha taṃ velaṃ māey na yāṇimo kattha vaccāmo
(Gāhākosa 578/6.78, Patwardhan 1980:1:250)

Embarassing revelation:
The Sārikā (starling or female parrot) blurted out in the presence of my elders my adroitness
in carnal enjoyment in such a manner, that at that moment, oh mother, I did not know
where I should go (and hide myself) (because of Shame).
(Patwardhan 1988:2:73)

The Jaina commentator Bhuvanapāla, after a semantico-grammatical gloss paraphrases this

gāthā’s meaning thus (Patwardhan 1980:1:251): sañjāta lajjatayā tatra sthātum
nāśakyatetyarthaḥ-the meaning is that due to extreme embarrassment, it was impossible to
stay there.
ṇihuaṇasippam taha sāriāi ullāviam mha gurupuräô
jaha taṃ velaṃ māey ṇa āṇimo kattha vaccāmo
(Haritāmrapītāmbara, Gāthāsaptaśatiprakāśikā 6.591, Śāstri 1942:75)

kāpi kalābhijñyā strī rātrau suratasamaye suratavyutpattīṃ darśayantī tasmin

gṛhasārikayollpitam tasyāḥ śvaśrūṇāmagre lajjāmānā’ñyatra gatvā sakhyāh kathayantī
vadati. ṇihuaṇasippam.nidhuvana suratam. śilpaṃ vyutpattiṃ. ulapitam prakāśitam. yoṣitām
satīnam lajjaiva bhūsaṇamiti dharmaḥ. gurornikaṭe dhāṣṭartham na vidheyamiti nītih.
saṃsāre lajjādiravadheyo nityamiti taddhānāya yatanīyamiti yuktiḥ. tasyaiva.
(Śāstri 1942:75)

dampatyorniśi jalpatorgṛhaśukenākarṇitam yadvacastatprātargurusannidhau

nigadataḥ śrutvaiva tāraṃ vadhūḥ
karṇālaṃbitapadmarāgaśakalaṃ vinyasya cañcvāḥ purā
vrīḍārtā prakaroti dāḍimaphalavyājena vāgbañdhanam
(Amaruśatakam, Arjunavarmadeva, Rasikasañjīvinī 16, Mishra 2000:31)

Of two lovers chattering in the night

A house parrot heard the conversation,
Which, morning come, it utters too shrilly near the young
bride’s parents.
Hearing this,
She placed a piece of ruby-a semblance of a pomegranate-
fruit-
from her ear before his beak.
For sick with shame
 93

She contrives to block his speech.

(Bailey 2005:217)
dampatyorniśi jalpitaṃ gṛhaśukenākarṇitam yadvacastatprātastadgurusannidhau
nigadatastasyātimātraṃ vadhūḥ
karṇālaṃbitapadmarāgaśakalaṃ vinyasya cañcūpuṭe
vrīḍārtā prakaroti dāḍimaphalavyājena vāgbañdhanam
(Amaruśatakam, Vemabhūpāla, Śṛñgāradīpikā 15, Devadhar 1959:23)

When the house-parrot, which had heard the words exchanged during the night between the
married couple, repeats them beyond measure in the presence of the elders, the young
bride, afflicted by shame, hinders its speech as she sticks a small ruby from her ear-
ornament into its beak under the pretext of a pomegranate seed.
(Devadhar 1959:23)
All night the two of them
exchanged
intimate words-
now dawn
the household parrot
chatters it out to the in-laws.
She slips a ruby
from her ear, horrified,
into the parrot’s beak-
it could be a pomegranate seed-
and stifles the
unconstrained cries.
(Schelling 2004:15)
When the pet parrot of the house,
Which heard at night the couple’s love-talk,
Began repeating it in front
Of the elders in the morning,
The bride, embarrassed and aghast,
Took a ruby from her eardrop
And, pretending to the bird,
That it was a pomegranate seed,
Stuffed the gem inside its beak
To stop it prattling any more.
(Haksar 2007:96)
dampatyorniśi jalpitaṃ gṛhaśukenākarṇitam yadvacaḥ
prātastadgurusannidhau nigadatastasyaiva tāraṃ vadhūḥ
hārākarṣitapadmarāgaśakalaṃ vinyasya cañcoh puro
vrīḍārtā prakaroti dāḍimaphalavyājena vāgbañdhanam
(Subhāṣitaratnakoṣa 621, Kosambi 1957:113)

The pet parrot, having heard the words

of last night’s love between the bride and groom,
begins to tell them shrilly on the morrow
before the elders.
The bride, quite overcome with shame,
offers before his beak a ruby,
like a pomegranate seed, drawn from her necklace,
to stop his chatter.
(Ingalls 1965:213)

This is a “paradigmatic” verse, found in most verse-anthologies: Saduktikarṇāṃrata 2.141.5,

Subhāsītāvali 2214, Śāraṃgadharapaddhati 3743, Kuvalayānañda 89, exemplum to
Yuktyālaṃkāra; Subhāṣitaratnabhāñḍāgāra 328.19.

uṣasi gurusamakśam lajjamānā mṛgākśi ratirutamanukartum rājakire pṛavṛtte

tirayati śiśulīlānartanachhadmatālapracalavalayamālāsphālkolāhalena
 94

(Subhāṣitaratnakoṣa 616, Kosambi 1957:112; Saduktikarṇāṃrata 2.141.4)

In the morning before the elders

When the parrot begins to imitate the sound
of last night’s love, the wife, embarrassed,
claps her hands as if to make the children dance,
thus drowning out the telltale bird
with the jingling of her bracelets.
(Ingalls 1965:212)
Next morning
when a damnfool parrot-
right before her parents-
starts to mimic
last night’s cries of love,
the girl leaps up,
blushing,
claps her hands to
start the children dancing-
jangle of her bracelets
drowning out
the parrot’s calls.
(Schelling 1999:7)
At daybreak,
when the parrot
was bent on mimicking
her cries of passion
in front of the elders,
the doe-eyed girl,
embarrassed,
drowned it out
by jangling
her stacks of bangles,
clapping
as if to make
the children dance in play.
(Selby 2000:18)
prayacchāhāraṃ me yadi tava rahovṛttamakhilaṃ
mayā vācyaṃ noccairiti gṛhaśuke jalpati śanaiḥ
vadhūvaktraṃ vṛīḍābharanamitamañtarvihasitaṃ
haratyardhoñmīlannalinamalināvarjitamiva
(Subhāṣitaratnakoṣa 622, Kosambi 1957:113; Saduktikarṇāṃrata 2.141.1)

The pet parrot chatters,

“Give me to eat or I shall tell aloud
all you have done in secret”;
at which the young wife’s face,
lowered in shame but with an inward smile,
is charming as a half-blown lotus
bent down beneath a bee.
(Ingalls 1965:213)
prayacchāhāraṃ me yadi tava rahovṛttamakhilaṃ
mayā vācyaṃ voccairiti gṛhaśuke jalpati śanaiḥ
vadhūvaktraṃ vṛīḍābharanamitamañtarvihasitaṃ
haratyardhoñmīlannalinamanilāvarjitamiva
(Amaruśatakam, Rudramdevakumāra no. 117, Mishra 2000:139)

kācan nāyikā gṛhaśuke śanairmañdamiti vadati sati mukhaṃ vakraṃ karoti. kathaṃ jalpati-
he nāyike,! mahyamāhāraṃ dehi! yadi na dāsyasi tadā tavaikāñtavrttāntaṃ samastaṃ
 95

mayoccaiḥ kathanīyam. kīdrśam mukhaṃ? lajjātiśayanamraṃ. guptahasitaṃ.

idanīmutprekśate-ardhavikasitapadmaṃ vāyuvakrīkrtamiva.
(Mishra 2000:140)
pratyūṣe gurusaññidhau gṛhaśuke tattadrahojalpitaṃ
prastotum parihāsakāriṇi padairardheditairudyate
kṛīḍāśārikayā nilīya nibhṛtaṃ trātum trapārtām vadhūm
prārabdhaḥ sahasaiva sambhramakaro mārjāragarjāravaḥ
(Subhāṣitaratnakoṣa 631, Kosambi 1957:115; Saduktikarṇāṃrata 2.141.2)

In the morning the pet parrot had begun to tell

the bride’s endearments as a jest before the elders;
but with his words half said, the myna bird,
who hid nearby, to save the shamefaced bride,
frightened the parrot suddenly by mewing like a cat.
(Ingalls 1965:214)
durvārāṃ kusumaśara vyathāṃ vahañtyā kāmiñyā yadabhihitaṃ puraḥ sakhīnāṃ
tadbhūyaḥ śiśuśukasārikābhiruktaṃ dhañyānām śravaṇapathātithitvameti
(Śrīharṣadeva, Ratnāvalī 2.8, Kale 2002:43-44)

That which is said before her friends by a love-stricken maiden, suffering irresistible love-
torment, the same,
repeated by children, parrots and starlings, (unexpectedly) comes within the hearing of
fortunate persons only.
(Kale 2002:138)
Only the fortunate
chance to hear
children, parrots and grackles
repeat
the words confided by
a lovestruck maiden
to her girlfriends

rati bilāsa suka sārikani, kahai guruni meñ prāta

lāja lalita guna gauri kay duray gāt meñ gāt
(Matirām Satsaī 582, Miśra 1925:503)
Morning-
the parrots and Grackles
prattled
before the elders
about the night’s lovemaking
Embarrassed
ruddy
that dusky damsel
hid
within herself

kinciñña bālayoktaṃ na saprasāda niveśitā dṛṣṭiḥ

mayi padapatite kevalamakāri śukapañjaro vimukhaḥ
(Govardhana, Āryāsaptaśati 154, Pandurang-Parab 1988:83; cf. Bihārī, Satsaī Ratnākar No.
130)

evaṃ ca śukapañjaravaimukhyasampādanarūparahaḥsampādanena ratyanumatireva datteti

vyajyate-In this manner, by gaining privacy through turning around the cage with the parrot,
granting consent to lovemaking is suggested.
(Anañtapañḍita’s commentary on Āryāsaptaśati 154, Pandurang-Parab 1988:83)

The young woman did not say a word, nor did she cast a forgiving glance, when I was
prostrate at her feet, all she did was to turn around the cage with the parrot.
(Hardy 2009:77)
 96

dvāre guravaḥ koṇe śukaḥsakāśeśiśurgṛhesakhyaḥ

kālāsah kśamasya priya prasīda prayātamaḥ
(Govardhana, Āryāsaptaśati 285, Pandurang-Parab 1998:128)

Dear husband who cannot wait for the right time! Do have compassion with me and forgive
me: the elders are by the door, the parrot is in the corner, the child is nearby, and my
female companions are in the house-the day is almost over!
(Hardy 2009:121)
pratibhūḥ śuko vipakśe dañḍah śṛṇgārasaṃkathā guruṣu
puruṣāyitaṃ paṇastadbāle paribhāvyatām dāyaḥ
(Govardhana, Āryāsaptaśati 354, Pandurang-Parab 1998:149)

The parrot is the bondsman, and our love-making it repeats in front of the elders is the
punishment for our wrong moves; the stake is making love in the inverse position. That,
young girl, you ought to realize, is the game!
(Hardy 2009:145)
śuka suratasamaranārada hṛdayarahasyaikasāra sarvajñya
gurujanasamakśa mūka prasīda jambūkaphala dalaya
(Govardhana, Āryāsaptaśati 580, Pandurang-Parab 1998:229)

Parrot! You Nárada in the battle of making love! You singular essence of my heart’s secrets!
You know everything! Please, be numb in front of the elders! Here, bite into this rose-apple
fruit!
(Hardy 2009:223)
“numb” is probably a typographical error for “dumb”.
sadanādapaiti dayito hasati sakhī viśati dhariṇimiva bālā
jvalati sapatnī kīre jalpati mugdhe prasīdeti
(Govardhana, Āryāsaptaśati 653, Pandurang-Parab 1998:258)

Her husband sneaked out of the house, her friend laughed, the young woman felt like
sinking into the ground, and her co-wife flared up with rage, when the parrot prattled “Sweet
girl! Be kind to me!”
(Hardy 2009:247)
The psittacus is first mentioned in Ctesias’ Indica (Ctesias, Greek physician at the court of the
Persian king Artaxerxes II Mnemon from 404 to 398/397 authored books about Persia and
India, now lost, except for fragmentary excerpts quoted by ancient authors like the
Byzantine scholar Photius (c.815-897): peri toū ornéou tou bittákou, hoti glōssan
anthrōpinēn echei kai phōnēn; Indica, Fragment 45§8, Thompson 1936:198), Aristotle,
Historia Animalium 8.5976.25-30 (“In general all the crook-taloned birds are short-necked
and flat tongued and given to mimicry [ mimētiká]. For such too is the Indian bird, the parrot
[Indikon orneon hē psittakē; Thompson 1936:198], that is said to be human tongued
[legómenon anthrōpóglōtton, ibid.]and it becomes even more loquacious after drinking
wine”), Pausanius 2.28, Arrian Indica 1.15.8, Solinus 53, Pliny, Historia Naturalis 10.58.117
(“Above all else, birds mimic the human voice and parrots can even converse. India sends us
this bird, which the Indians call “siptaces”…It salutes its masters and repeats the words it
hears, becoming especially lewd in its speech when drunk with wine [ Super omnia humanas
voces reddunt, psittaci quidem etiam sermocinantes. India hanc avem mittit, siptacen
vocat... imperatores salutat et quae accipit verba pronuntiat, in vino praecipue lasciva ”,
Rackham 1967:3:366], my ellipsis), Porphyry, De Abstinentia 3.4, Apuleius(C.E. 165), Florida
12.1-4, Aelion, On the Characteristics of Animals (C.E. 200) 13.18, Macrobius 3.30,
Crinagoras, Anthologia Palatina 9.562, Ovid Amores 2.6 (“The parrot, avian imitator from
India in the East” [Psittacus, Eois imitatrix ales ab Indis] is “loquacious” [loquax] and is “an
echo of the human voice”[ humanae vocis imago]), Statius (C.E. 40-96) Silvae 2.4 (the
parrot, says Statius, is “a skilled imitator of human speech” [ humanae sollers imitator…
linguae]). See Thompson (1936:198). Isidore, Etymologiae 12.7.24 says that the parrot
“utters distinct words so that if you don’t see it, you’ll think a man is speaking” ( unde et
articulate verba exprimit, ita ut si eam non videris, hominem loqui putares ) and quotes
Martial, Epigrammatica 14.73: Psittacus a vobis aliorum nomina discam/hoc didici per me
dicere:‘Caesar ave’ (I, the parrot, shall learn others’ names from you/I’ve learnt on my own
 97

to say this: “Hail Caesar”; Bailey 1993:3:254; cf. Macrobius, Saturnalia 2,4.29-30, who
reports of a raven that cried “Ave Caesar”).
♣
The Solar Beloved is the isotopy implemented by the majority of the traditional
commentators to interpret the Linear Text Manifestation of riśtah-e har śam‘a khār-e kiswat-
e fānūs thā. This isotopy legitimizes constructing this text’s fabula as the Candle/Lantern
agitated by the Solar Beloved (“holding a candle to the sun”: Rūmī, Mathnawī 3.3671; S‘adī,
Gulistān, bāb-e pañjum, ḥikāyat-e śaśam; Gulāoṭhwī 1968:107).

The motifeme of both the Graeco-Roman Synistor Lychnos and the Indic (Sanskrit-Prakrit)
Ratipradīpa texts is Lamp Looking at Lovemaking (cf. the mażmūn of Naẓar and the
Smaradaśā Cakśuprīti/Nayanasañgha). The Act is Looking at Lovemaking (I had initially
framed the Act as Lamp Watching/Ogling Lovemaking, but it seemed without pedigree or
precedent, which always makes me nervous, so I’ve followed Clarke (2001) by borrowing the
title of his delightful book) and the Actant (in the Graeco-Roman context) an Oil-Lamp, the
Synistor Lychnos: Ekklesiazousai 5-10, Anthologia Palatina 5.4; 5.5; 5.7; 5.8; 5.128; 5.197;
Martial 11.104.5-6, 14.39.1. The motifeme of the Graeco-Roman “witness-bed”, the Klinē
Martys is Bed Looking at Lovemaking and the Act again Looking at Lovemaking and the
Actant a bed: Iliad 15.39, Anthologia Palatina 181.12, Propertius Elegies 2.15.2; 2.29.35-36,
Catullus 6.10.7-11, Martial 10.38.7, Amores 3.14.33, Ars Amatoria 2.703, Juvenal, Satires
9.77. Kataplous ē Tyrannos 27, Plutarch, De Garrulitate fr. 513 and Martial 10.38.7 use both
Synistor Lychnos and Klinē Martys motifemes.

In the Indic (Sanskrit-Prakrit) Ratipradīpa context, the Act is uniformly Looking at

Lovemaking and the scopo-gymnophilic Actant-voyeur almost invariably is an oil-lamp (the
Ratipradīpa, the Love-Lamp): Gāthāsaptaśati 6.47, Vajjālaggam 35.2; 35.4, Rāmāyaṇa,
Suñdarakānḍa 5.7.64; Kumārasambhavam 1.10, Subhāṣitaratnakoṣā 856; 857,
Saduktikarṇāṃrata 2.148.2, Śrīkañṭhacarita 15.15. Other Sanskrit poems on this mażmūn
have variant Actant-voyeurs: household servants ( Subhāṣitaratnakoṣa 62, 132), Braḥmā
(Gāhāsattasaī Weber no.816) and the Klinē Martys, the “witness bed” (Subhāṣitaratnakoṣa
614; Kirātārjunīyam 5.23). The topos/mażmūn of these texts is the Furtivus Amor (with
furtivus in the sense of “secret, hidden, concealed”).

The motifeme of the Sanskrit/“Hindi” Lajjāprāyā Mugdhā texts is Mugdhā/Madhyā Quenching

the Lovelamp/Obstructing the Male Gaze . The Act is Quenching the Lovelamp/Obstructing
the Male Gaze and the scopo-gymnophobic Actant is a Mugdhā/Madhyā: Meghadūta
Uttaramegha 70, Jānakīharaṇa 16.32, Amaruśatakam 90, Pārśvābhyudayam 2.115,
Śiśupālavadhaṃ 3.45, Gaüḍavaho 760, Śṛñgāratilaka 1.51, Caurapañcāśikā Western-southern
recension no. 41, Subhāṣitaratnakoṣa 593; 609; Naiṣadhīyacaritaṃ 18.85, Saduktikarṇāṃrata
2.130.1; 2.130.2; 2.148.1; Āryāsaptaśati 368, Subhāṣitāvali 2053, Kāmasamūha 603,
Rasatarañgiṇī 5.14, 6.14, Madhumālatī 449.4, Rasikapriyā 3.22, Bihārī Satsaī Ratnākar No.
130, Vidyāpati Padāvali 80). Hence, Mugdhā/Madhyā Quenching the Lovelamp/Obstructing
the Male Gaze is the scriptio superior (“hypermotifeme” or “manifest motifeme”) and Lamp
Looking at Lovemaking the scriptio inferior (“hypomotifeme” or “latent motifeme”). The
Actant’s modus operandi for the Act, however, varies: blowing on the Love-Lamp
(Pārśvābhyudayam 2.115, a “diamond lamp”, Caurapañcāśikā Western-southern recension
no. 41, Naiṣadhīyacaritaṃ 18.85, Aryāsaptaśati 368, Saduktikarṇāṃrata 2.130.1; 2.148.1,
Madhumālatī 449.4, a “diamond lamp”); tossing body-rouge at it (Meghadūta Uttaramegha
70, a “diamond lamp”), tossing body-rouge at the lover’s eyes ( Pārśvābhyudayam 2.116);
tossing a lotus-earring at it ( Jānakīharaṇa 16.32, Amaruśatakam 90, Subhāṣitaratnakoṣa 609,
Saduktikarṇāṃrata 2.130.1), or casting “lotus-like” eyes on it ( Subhāṣitaratnakoṣā 593,
Saduktikarṇāṃrata 2.130.1; 2.130.2, Bihārī Satsaī Ratnākar No. 130); swishing robes to
douse it (Śrīkañṭhacarita 15.15, Rasatarañgiṇī 6.14); douting it by the hand (Vidyāpati
Padāvali 80, anonymous Braj chhañd). The other image is that of the ingénue being twitted
by the brilliance of her girdle or some other ornament, despite douting the lamp
(Jānakīharaṇa 16.32, Naiṣadhīyacaritaṃ 18.85, Kuvalayānañda 76).

Śukasārikāpralāpanam (“teaching parrots and grackles to talk” Kāmasūtra 1.3.15, Śāstrī

2007:84; “śārikā as a talking cage-bird is the Grackle, but as a bird of ill omen, or a noisy
 98

one, it is the common Myna”, Dave 2005:81-82) is the forty-third art in the Catuḥṣaṣṭhikalā,
the traditional Indic sixty-four arts. Yaśodhara, commenting on Kāmasūtra 1.3.15 in the
Jayamañgalā (Śāstrī 2007:91) says śukasārikā hi mānubhāṣayā pralāpitāḥ subhāṣitaṃ
paṭhañti sandeśam ca kathayañti-Human-voiced parrots and grackles can recite verses and
deliver messages. Kokkoka says that clever citizens use parrots and grackles as their love-
messengers: śukasārikādayo’pi pratimāprāyā vidagdhānām (Ratīrahasya 13.103a, Sarma
1994:220; Comfort 1997:127 translates this “Men of the world also use parrots and mynahs
as well as pictures, for purposes of seduction”). Bāṇabhaṭṭa’s Kādambari is narrated by a
parrot, Vaiśampāyana; a parrot narrates a story every night for seventy nights in the
Śukasaptati to prevent a wife from committing adultery while her husband is away; the
messenger in Lakśmīdāsa’s Śukasandeśa and Rāmagopāla’s Kīradūta (both belonging to the
DūtaKāvya “messenger-poems” genre) is a parrot. The grackle is called ropaṇakā (“causing a
cicatrix”) at ṛgveda 1.50.12; ropaṇakā is also “arrow” and a grackle is also called śalākā
(“arrow”) or madanaśalākā (“arrow of the love-god”, cf. kāmaśalyāmiṣum, Atharvaveda
3.25.2), madanasārikā (“grackle of the love-god”), duti (“messenger”), yāsā (“one exerting
for a lover”) since it was taught by professional trainers (see Ganguly 1962:144-146) to
repeat little “bons mots” and love-phrases to remind a busy aristocrat or king passing
through the antaḥpura (“inner-quarters”, harems) of the undying love for him of a particular
lady-patron or queen (Dave 2005:81).

The motifeme of the Prakrit/Sanskrit/“Hindi” Śukoktivṛīḍā texts is Grackle/Parrot Prattling

Amatory-Secrets. The Actant is a grackle/parrot (“great house-parrots or other talking birds”,
Kosambi [1957:xlvii]) and the Act Prattling Amatory Secrets. The grackle/parrot’s witnessing
the Uhrzene, the “Primal Scene” and prattling the details thereof vide it’s phōnēi anthrōpinē
(cf. sarasvatyai śāriḥ puruṣavāk at Vājapeyasaṃhitā 24.33, “the human-voiced grackle is to
be sacrificed to Sarasvati”) is an ancient motifeme (Thomas [2004], an extremely detailed,
meticulous and enycyclopedic study on the cultural history of parrots, fails to mention this
motifeme and surprisingly, even Dave [2005], a comprehensive, detailed work on birds in
Sanskrit literature omits to mention this motifeme): Gāhāsattasaī 6.52, 6.89/Gāhākosa 578,
579; Subhāṣitaratnakoṣa 616[Saduktikarṇāṃrata 2.141.4], 621(Saduktikarṇāṃrata 2.141.5),
622[Saduktikarṇāṃrata 2.141.1] 631 [Saduktikarṇāṃrata 2.141.2]. The Subhāṣitaratnakoṣa
cites these four poems under the heading Samāptinidhuvanacihnavrajyā, “The Indicatory
Signs of the End of Lovemaking” and the Saduktikarṇāṃrata groups these four poems along
with Subhāṣitaratnakoṣa 406[Saduktikarṇāṃrata 2.141.3] under the heading Śukoktivṛīḍā,
“Embarrassment at the Parrot’s Prattling”; Subhāṣitaratnabhāñḍāgāra 328.19 is cited under
the heading Sambhôgāviṣkaraṇaṃ “Lovemaking Discovered”; Āryāsaptaśatī 154, 285, 354,
580 and 653; Matirām Satsaī 582; cf. Ratnāvalī 2.8 (which dilutes this motifeme). See
Bloomfield 1914:353); Cf. Vātsyāyana’s injunction at Kāmasūtra 1.4.4 to hang cages of pet
parrots outside the outer bedroom:tasya bahiḥ krīḍāśakunipañjarāṇ (Śāstrī 2007:101; cf.
Govardhana, Āryāsaptaśati no. 285; also cf. the navalaänañgā Mugdhā at Rasikapriyā 3.22
who beseeches Kṛṣṇā to wait till the Grackle and parrot go to sleep). Kśetrayyā (mid-17th
century) reverses the Śukoktivṛīḍā motifeme, since his Nāyikā’s an experienced Sāmānyā, a
courtesan: “Listening to my moans as you touch certain spots,/the pet parrot mimics me,
and O how we laugh in bed!” (Kśetrayyā, padam 8, Ramanujan, Rao & Shulman 1994:33,
127). T.S. Eliot “reverses” the motifeme (oppositio in imitando/parapurapraveśa tadvirodhinī
artharaṇa) of the garrulous, prattling parrot; he also “transmutes” the squawking parrot of
the Śukoktivṛīḍā into the silent voyeur-lamp of the Synistor Lychnos/Ratipradīpa in the
concluding couplet of his little-known 1909 sonnet, “On a Portrait” describing Édouard
Manet’s 1866 portrait Woman with a Parrot: The parrot on the bar, a silent spy,/Regards her
with a patient curious eye (Scofield 1997:41, my italics). See also Erle Stanley Gardner’s
1939 Perry Mason story (Gardner 1987), The Case of the Perjured Parrot, where Mason
attempts to use a parrot (named Casanova!) as a legal witness at a murder trial (!). Kamāl
al-Dīn Khwājū Kīrmānī (689/1290-753/1352) in his Rawḍat al-Anwār narrates the story of an
Indian parrot who comes to be trapped and caged in Iran. One day, a mirror is placed in his
cage and an eloquent speaker converses with the parrot in Persian from behing the mirror,
leading the parrot to believe that it’s a fellow-parrot talking Persian. Gradually, the Indian
parrot comes to learn Persian. The topos/mażmūn of the Sanskrit/“Hindi” Lajjāprāyā Mugdhā
and Śukoktivṛīḍā texts is also that of the Furtivus Amor.
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The Indic Lajjāprāyā Mugdhā/Śukoktivṛīḍā hypermotifemes are in many ways the mirror-
image (almost a sort of “pseudo- jawāb”, so to speak, see Losensky 1994:231-32) of their
Hellenistic hypomotifeme, the Synistor Lychnos. The motifeme of the Graeco-Roman texts is
about displaying lovemaking, whereas that of the Indic Lajjāprāyā Mugdhā/Śukoktivṛīḍā texts
is hiding lovemaking. The basal Act, the basic formula of all the Indic Mugdhā Nāyikā texts is
their stark oppositio to ophthalmon oudeis ton son exeirgei domon (Aristophanes,
Ekklesiazousai 10). The central, defining feature of the Indic hypermotifemes is their
parapurapraveśasadṛśa tadvirodhinī arthaharaṇa/oppositio in imitando to their Hellenic
hypomotifemes: the συνίστωρ λύχνος is a trusted confidante and a silent witness (Martial
Epigrammata 14.39) and therefore isn’t turned out and is kept aflame and is indeed invoked,
the Ratipradīpa is an unwanted, unwelcome voyeur and hence must be quenched and turned
out; the Sārikā/Śuka is an embarrassing, unwanted prattler and hence must be silenced.
There are other oppositions as well-the Hellenistic hereira/Roman meretrix becomes the coy
Indic Svakīyā/Kulastrī, the ritually-married, sanctified matrona (tu tenebris gaudes: me
ludere teste lucerna, Martial, Epigrammata 11.104.5; Cleopatra in Martial Epigrammata 4.22
is a svakīya navoḍhā mugdhā); from the Indic Nāyikābheda perspective, the Hellenistic
Nāyikā is a Sāmānyā (the “public-woman”; one of the taxonomies of the Indic Heroine) and
the Sanskrit matrona is a Svakīyā Mugdhā (a married wife). The Synistor Lychnos has limited
agency and autonomy; the Ratipradīpa/Sārikā-Śuka has much more; the former is to be kept
“awake”; the latter are to be “put to sleep”/silenced; the former is “passive”; the latter are
“active”; the former’s feelings are mutedly portrayed; the latter’s are markedly etched (the
Ratipradīpa/Sārikā-Śuka “animate” the “lifeless” Synistor Lychnos!); the former is a silent
confidante, the latter (screechily!) vocal tattle-tales/slanderers.

The basal rhetorical device “animating” the Graeco-Roman Synistor Lychnos and the Indic
Ratipradīpa/ Nāyikābheda motifemes is utprekśālaṃkāra (see Gerow 1971:131-138 for an
excellent discussion). Synistor Lychnos (witnessing either as a silent confidante or a blabbler
[Kataplous ē Tyrannos 27]); the Ratipradīpa in the Prākṛit gāthās and the Sanskrit Subhāṣita
Anthologies (voyeur/auteur/scared/curious); Sundarakānḍa 5.7.64 (custos/raqīb);
Gaüḍavaho 760 (fearful for their “lives”, supplicating), Śrīkañṭhacarita 15.15 (embarrassed),
Kāmasamūha 154 (appreciative, amorous ogler), Śṛñgāra-soraṭh 3 (frustrated/regretful
ogler); Persian prose translation [scholia] of Satsaī Ratnākar no. 130 (voyeur becomes
babbler by impliculture, Nair 2002:179-88, 224-34); Ḥāfiẓ, Khānlarī no.87.2, Ẓafar 2005:3:75
(Jealous love-rival/opponent/slanderer). The “personification” of the ratipradīpa is
pronounced in the Indic Ratipradīpa/Nāyikābheda motifemes.

The Śukoktivṛīḍā is a Viṣayaparivartaḥ Tulyadehitulya Arthaharaṇa of the Ratipradīpa

motifeme. Kālidāsa (Meghadūtam verse 70) “appropriates” the “prior text” (Becker 2003:43
and passim] of the Śukoktivṛīḍā motifeme’s embarrassed Nāyika (Gāhāsattasaī 6.52; 6.89)
and “transmutes” the Śukoktivṛīḍā motifeme’s prattling parrot into the Suratapradīpa
(voyeur-)candle and has the Nāyikā (as flustered Mugdhā) dout (“blind-silence”) the
Suratapradīpa, thereby “silencing” the “prattling parrot”. The Islamicate motifemes are a
contaminatio of the Synistor Lychnos/Ratipradīpa, Śukoktivṛīḍā and Mugdhā Nāyikā
motifemes. They impliculturally, alchemically “transmute” the silent confidante, the “Voyeur-
Auter” of the Hellenic synistor lychnos/Indic ratipradīpa motifemes and the prattling parrot of
the Śukoktivṛīḍā motifeme into a Persianate locquacious, prattling “Rival Slanderer-Candle” in
Rājaśekhara’s Tulyadehitulya Arthaharaṇa mode, demonstrating a blend of Visaṃvādini/
Saṃvādini Cūlikā and Viṣayaparivartaḥ sub-varieties. The Ḥāfiẓean motifemes exhibit a
transformatio of the Hellenistic motifemes in theVisaṃvādini (Synistor Lychnos) and
saṃvādini (Lucian, Kataplous ē Tyrannos 27) Cūlikā Tulyadehitulya Arthaharaṇa modes and a
transformatio of the Indic motifemes (Śukoktivṛīḍā/ Mugdhā Nāyikā) in the Viṣayaparivartaḥ
Tulyadehitulya Arthaharaṇa mode, which is “self-quenching” and hence “self-silencing” in
87.2 (dar zabān girift) and “quenched” by Time/snuffers” in Qaṣīdah 3.17 (dar zabān gīrad)
and unquenched/unsilenced in 122.5*/8*, (band-e zabān nadārad).

The poet/reader/critic “a talking house-bird of higher rank” (Kosambi 1957:xlvii, cf. Ovid,
Amores 2.6) voyeuristically “watching/ogling/gazing” a lovemaking couple is the Ur-topos of
all Śṛñgārā/erotic poetry (for a classic study of the medieval poet as voyeur, see Spearing
2005; on the topos of the poet as voyeur-bird, see ibid.:26-30). I can’t resist “elongating”
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this utprekśā (“poetic fancy”; “ascription”) and submitting that the literary critic, like the
masturbabantur Phrygii of Martial (Epigram 11.104.13) and Horace (Epode 11.22) is a
paraclausithyric exclusus amator locked out at the door of the beloved (poetic text!) inter
alia wildly imagining (fantasizing!) what might be going on inside (regardless of what’s
“really” going on!).

The interesting thing is that while this topos/mażmūn/motifeme (and it’s variants) exist/s are
abundant in Greek, Latin, Prakrit, Sanskrit, Brajbhāṣā, Maithili, Awadhī and English, this
topos (as well as this motifeme) is a rara avis in Arabic, Persian and Urdu. I could locate this
topos in only three distichs in the Dīwān of Khwājah Śams al-Dīn Muḥammad “Ḥāfiẓ” Śīrāzī
(715-792/1315-1390 CE):

ifśā-e rāz-e khalwat-e mā khwāst kard śam‘a

śukr-e khudā kih sirr-e dilaś dar zabān girift
(Ḥāfiẓ, Dīwān 87.2, Khānlarī 1980:1:190; meter baḥr-e mużār‘e-e akhrab-e makfūf-e maqṣūr,
“the ear-pierced restrained apocopated eightfold similar meter” [Thiesen 1982:155], maf‘ūl
fā‘ilāt mafā‘īl fā‘ilān)
The candle wanted
to divulge
our lovemaking’s secrets
Thank God
it’s heart’s secret
seized it’s tongue!

The candle wanted

to divulge
lovers’ amatory secrets
Thank God
it’s heart’s secret
seized it’s tongue!

The candle wanted

to reveal
the mysteries of cloistered mystics
Thank God
it’s heart’s secret
seized it’s tongue!

It wanted to brightly reveal

the secrets of solitary lovers, the candle.
Thank god its tongue tripped
on its heart’s pith.

It wanted to brightly reveal

the secrets of secluded mystics, the candle.
Thank god its tongue tripped
on its heart’s pith.
(Translated by Dr. Prashant Keshavmurthy, email communication dated 27 th August 2011)

The revealing of the mysteries of the khilvatīs, the candle wished to make:
Thanks to God! that its tongue (the candle’s wick), the heart’s desire-kindled.
(Clarke 1891:1:164)
The envious taper would divulge The solitaries’ secret;
Thank God, the secret of its heart Hath on its tongue, see, taken.
(Payne 1901:1:84)

The fire of the candle’s heart hath taken hold upon its tongue, i. e. wick, and so prevented it
from speaking and revealing the secret of the recluses.
(Payne 1901:1:84, footnote no.1)
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Nīrū (1988:364) mentions two baits in the same zamīn (rhyme-scheme) as this ghazal:

sulṭān-e ‘iśq malk-e jahān rā rawān girift

jānam fidā-e ū kih tamām jahān girift
(Śāh N‘imatullāh Walī, founder of the N‘imatullāhī ṣūfī order)

zulf kamand afganat iqlīm-e jān girift

bāīn kamand rū-e zamīn mītawān girift
(Kamāl al-Dīn Khujandī)

He also opines (ibid) that this ghazal was composed to commemorate the victories of Śāh
Śujā’ Muẓaffarī (reg. 759/1358-786/1384): īn ghazal bah khāṭir-e futūḥāt-e Śāh Śujā’
sarwadah ast.

The concept of the secret, in combination with the candle, appears in the Dīvān three times.
In the following couplet (87/2), the candle is depicted as the one revealing the secret
through its light, but the poet-lover thanks God that the heart’s secret remains in its tongue,
i.e., the wick in the flame: “The candle wanted to reveal our private secret;/thank God that
the secret of its heart remained in its tongue.” Although Persian poets usually present the
candle’s tears and burning as a tattletale revealing the secret of love, here Ḥāfiẓ uses a
reversed image…. Ḥāfiẓ also uses the word sirr in the sense of ‘love’s mystery’ and ‘secret’ in
the next line (481/6) in combination with the tanāsub (pair of harmonious images) of ‘the
candle and the moth,’ stating that the moth has nothing to say about the secret, but the
candle reveals it through the tongue: “Perhaps the candle can express the secret of this
dictum with its tongue:/if not, the moth has no way with words.” In both these examples the
‘tongue’ is both the eloquent means to reveal love’s secret, and the burning wick.
(Seyed-Gohrab 2012:110, an excellent paper on “candle metaphors” in Ḥāfiẓ and his
precursor-poets. Note 70, my ellipse.)

sirr-e īñ nuktah magar śam‘a bar ārad bah zabān

warnah parwānah nadārad bah sukhan parwāay
(Khānlarī 1980:1:980, Ḥāfiẓ, Dīwān 481.6)

Perhaps the candle can bring

on it’s tongue
the secret of this point
Oterwise, the moth
isn’t bothered
to speak up

Although manuscripts of Ḥáfiẓ offer as many variants as is usually the case with Persian
texts, there exists of this poet’s works an established and generally accepted text which we
owe, I think, to the Turkish commentator Súdí…
(Browne 2002:2:302, my emphasis and ellipsis)

Though great philological progress has been made in the last century editing the Dīwān-e
Ḥāfiẓ, establishing the constitutio textus or textus receptus is still a quaestio vexata (see
Glassen 1991; Meisami 2002:http://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/hafez-v). Khānlarī
(1980:1:190) and Nīrū (1988:364) give the lectio of the first hemistich of this bait as rāz-e
khalwat-e mā, but the reading in most editions is rāz-e khalwatiyān (Qazwīnī-Ghanī 1941:55,
Sattārzādah 1983:1:536; Khurramśāhī 1993:1:420; Zū al-Nūr 1952:1:195; Husain n.d.:65),
which Khānlarī (1980:1:191) cites as a variant lectio found in four of his manuscripts. He also
gives (ibid.) rāz-e dilaś and sôz-e dilaś as variant lectiones for sirr-e dilaś in the second
hemistich, each found in single manuscripts. Thānwī (1976:197) gives bar zabān in the
second hemistich. I’ll invoke here Paul Zumthor’s concept of mouvance (Zumthor:1972).
Zumthor in his study of medieval French poetry mentions the contrast between the relatively
fixed texts found in manuscripts of the works of some named late-medieval French poets
(Charles d'Orléans, Guillaume de Machaut) and the more common medieval combination of
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auctorial anonymity and high textual variance, involving not only dialectal and lexical
modifications but more substantial rewriting and the loss, replacement, or rearrangement of
whole sections of a work. He used the term mouvance to describe this textual fluidity.
Zumthor’s thesis is that anonymity and textual variation are interconnected:medieval
vernacular works, not normally regarded as the intellectual property of a single, named
auctor are open to reformulations by others, passing through a series of varied “textual
states” (états du texte, ibid.:72). Hence, modern editorial emphasis on “textual authenticity”
(i.e. the attempt to reconstruct a “single authorial original” as the lone authentic version of a
text) is anachronistic, since it ignores the “essential mobility of the medieval text” ( mobilité
essentielle du texte medieval, ibid.:71). On the melismatic, perfomative context of ghazal-
texts (and mouvance), see Lewis 1995:99-103.

Heshmat Moayyad defined ambiguity as “one of the main characteristics of the Hafezian
style,” and one which differentiates Hāfiz’s style from that of his predecessor Sa‘dī, lending
Ḥāfiẓ’s style “a degree of sophistication…that is unparalleled in Persian poetry,” and which
makes him “somewhat aloof and unreachable, with an aura of mystery around him; he is a
fascinating challenge, as well as a source of aesthetic pleasure” (Moayyad 1988: 140).

īhām is a major rhetorical strategy in the Ḥāfiẓian corpus (see Murtazwī 2005:455-515) and
there’s an extremely intresting and subtle “translinguistic meta- ri‘āyat” (ri‘āyat is a species of
the genus īhām being it’s mirror-image, see Faruqi 2006a:21, 22) between rāz (inter alia “A
secret, a mystery”, Steingass 1996:561) and khalwat (in the sense of “fornication”) in as
much as rāz is etymologically a Persian tadbhava (ibid.) for the Sanskrit rahas which, in
addition to meaning “solitude, privacy, loneliness, retirement, secrecy” also means, very
significantly, “copulation, coition” (Apte 1998:1333). There’s also therefore another ri‘āyat
between rāz, khalwat and sirr (in the sense of “pudenda; coition; fornication”, Steingass
1996:667).

khwāst kardan y‘anī kardan khwāst. wa rāz-e khalwatiyāñ soz-o gudāz kih lāzimah-e
‘iśq ast wa śam‘a ‘āśiq wa girift giriftah śud kināyah az bañd śudan-e zabān. wa
laṭāfat-e ś‘eray darīñ ān’ast kih soziś-e śam‘a kih sirr-e dil-e ost dar zabān-e o kih
ṭaraf-e bālā-e ost mīrasad. tarjumah-e lafẓī yeh hai kih śam‘a ney cāhā thā kih rāz ahl-
e khalwat kā ẓāhir karey magar uskey rāz-e dil ney zabān tak pohoñc kar us ko
sokhtah kar diyā awr us ko iẓhār sey bañd kar diyā. maqṣūd yeh hai kih ‘iśq ek
kaifiyat-e wijdānī hai koī śakhṣ us key bayān-e kāfī par qudrat nahīñ rakhtā jo śakhṣ is
kā irādah karey us kī zabān is sey ‘ājiz ho jātī hai awr tamām umūr-e wijdānī kī yehī
kaifiyat hai kih zabān is kī t‘abīr sey ‘ājiz-o qāṣir hai pas agar koī mażmūn ‘āśiq kā
ghair mufaham ho ya khilāf-e ḥaq kā muwaham ho us par ṭ‘an mat karo.
(Thānwī 1976:197)

…secret of those in seclusion is burning and melting, which are corollaries of Love [the topos
of the incendium amoris, the “Fire of Love” in Persian poetry is at least as old as the
nineteen-verse nasīb/taśbīb (the erotic prelude) of Manūchehrī Dāmghānī’s famous “candle”
qaṣīdah, where the poem’s persona loquens compares himself with the candle [lines 1103-
1108, Dabīr-Siyāqī 1955:79-80]. cf. ‘Aṭṭār, Muṣībatnāmah: “In love sometimes there’s
tenderness, sometimes one’s melted in fire like a candle. Before you experience being
melted, it’s not possible to be treated with tenderness”, Ritter/O’Kane 2003:402; suffering
enlivens the heart; ‘Aṭṭār, Ilāhīnāmah:“Your heart is dead if it’s free from this suffering. For
only what is living feels pain. You’re still inexperienced, you don’t like this talk. But fire will
only fall on tinder. Burn like the candle day and night so that the fire gives off light!”,
Ritter/O’Kane 2003:257]. The image of Love as Fire recurs throughout ‘Aṭṭār’s works. Cf the
Turkish proverb: aşqin odu evvel düşer ma‘şūqa ondan ‘āşiqa. sem‘i gör kim yanmadan
yandirmadi pervāneyi (Ritter/O’Kane 2003:417)-“Love’s fire burns the beloved first and then
the lover. See the candle: Only if it itself burns does it then burn the moth!” candle is Lover
(isti‘ārah ba al-taṣrīḥ; the candle is the must‘ār miñhu, the object from which something is
borrowed, the Lover is the must‘ār lahu, the object for which something is borrowed, the
wajah-e jām‘e, i.e., the tertium comparationis, the point of comparison between candle and
Lover, the entity “borrowed” is burning and melting. In isti‘ārah ba al-taṣrīḥ, the must‘ār
minhu is mentioned and the must‘ār lahu is elided. See Qadiri 2003:13, Rāmpūrī
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2006:2:1149 for a discussion on isti‘ārah ba al-taṣrīḥ. Cf. Ḥāfiẓ 329.8, Khānlarī 1980:1:674
for the topos of the incendium amoris]; grip, to be captured, an allusion to/suggestion of a
sealed tongue. The subtlety of this distich is that the candle’s burning, which is it’s heart’s
secret (Ḥāfiẓ repeatedly identifies the Heart as the locus of the “Fire of Love”:18.1, Khānlarī
1980:1:52; 26.8, Khānlarī 1980:1:69; 87.3, Khānlarī 1980:1:190; 245.4, Khānlarī 1980:1:507
etc.) travels upwards towards it’s tongue. A verbal interpretation is that the candle desired to
divulge the secrets of those in seclusion, but it’s heart’s secret reached till it’s tongue and
burnt it, rendering it incapable of revealing anything. The intentio is that Love is an intuitive
experience and no one can verbalize it fully and he who tries to do so finds his tongue
rendered impotent and all intuitive experiences are similar in that the tongue is impotent and
incapable to express them (cf. Wittgenstein, Tractus 5.61: Was wir nicht denken können, das
können wir nicht denken; wir können also auch nicht sagen, was wir nicht denken
können:“We cannot think what we cannot think; so what we cannot think we cannot say
either” Wittgenstein 2001:68). Therefore, if a Lover’s experience is unintelligible or is
opposed to fact and imaginary, don’t cavil at him.

The topos of the Ineffability of Love is a variant of the Inexpressibility topos (Curtius
1990:159-62). Ḥāfiẓ:
sukhan-e ‘isq nah ān ast kih āyad bah zabān
sāqiyā mai dih wa kotāh kun īn guft-o śinuft
(Ḥāfiẓ, Dīwān 81.7, Khānlarī 1980:1:179)

Love’s words are not those which come (easily) to the tongue;
sāqī, bring wine, and cut short all this talk.
(Meisami 2003:97; cf. the translation at page 204)

Cf Nāradabhakti sūtrās 51-:anirvacanīyaṃ premasvarūpaṃ|mūkāsvādanavat -Love’s nature is

ineffable, like wordless gustation. Rūmī:

harcih goyam ‘iśq rā śarḥ-o bayāñ

cūñ ba‘iśq āyam khijal bāśam azāñ

garcih tafsīr-e zabāñ rawśañgarast

lek ‘iśq-e bezabān rawśañtarast

cūñ qalam añdar nawiśtan mī śitāft

cūñ ba‘iśq āmad qalam barkhwd śigāft

cūñ sukhan dar waṣf-e īñ ḥālat rasīd

ham qalam baśikast wa ham kāghaż darīd
(Rūmī, Masnawī, Ḥusain 1976:1:43; for a brief Urdu commentary, see Nazīr n.d.:1:75-76)

Whatever I explain and expound about Love

When Love comes, I’m ashamed of them

Though the tongue of commentary elucidates,

Tongueless love is the most lucid

Though my quill speedily versifies all themes,

When it comes to Love, it splits by itself

When words try to describe Love’s station

The quill shatters, the page tears

Whatsoever I say in exposition and explanation of Love, when I come to Love (itself) I am
ashamed of that (explanation).

Although the commentary of the tongue makes (all) clear, yet tongueless love is clearer
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Whilst the pen was making haste in writing, it split upon itself as soon as it came to love
(Nicholson 2003:1:10; for a verse translation, see Mojaddedi 2004:1:11)

Nicholson (2003:2:18), glossing ‘iśq-e bezabān states that “the signs of love, such as
agitation, pallor, and tears, speak for themselves [cf. the Sāttvikabhāvās]. Cf. the saying,
lisánu’l-ḥál anṭaqu min lisáni’l maqál , “the tongue of inward feeling is more eloquent than the
tongue of discourse”.

zabān-e nāṭiqah dar waṣf-e śawq-e mā lāl ast

cah jā-ay kilk-e burīdah zabān behudah gô’st
(Ḥāfiẓ, Dīwān 57.9, Khānlarī 1980:1:130. Khānlarī (ibid.:131) notes that nine manuscripts
from his corpus have the variant lectio dar waṣf-e śawq nālān ast, one manuscript has dar
waṣf-e ‘iśq-e mā and one has dar waṣf-e ḥusn-e ô in the first hemistich)

In the description of His Love, (even) the tongue of speech is dumb:

What room for the (feeble) reed, split of tongue, folly uttering ?
(Clarke 1891:1:77)

Since mute is the tongue of speech In the tale of desire for her,
Where, where is the place of the split Tongued, idle-spoken quill?
(Payne 1901:1:29)

qalam rā ān zabān nabuwad kih sirr-e ‘iśq goyad bāz

warā-e ḥadd-e taqrīr ast śarḥ-e ārzūmañdī
(Ḥāfiẓ, Dīwān 431.3, Khānlarī 1980:1:878 Khānlarī (ibid.:879 notes that one manuscript from
his corpus has the variant kih rāz-e ‘iśq in the first hemistich and another has ḥadd-o
taqrīrast in the second hemistich)

Not that tongue is the reed’s that love’s (great) mystery it may unfold,
Beyond the limit of narration, is the explanation -of longing.
(Clarke 1891:2:877)

This topos is also related to the topos of Keeping the Secret, kitmān-al sirr:

pamāñ pūñch duvaw kar gahī|kahu so bāt raini nirabahī|

aüri sakhīñ pūñchahiñ phusilāī| kahahu prītam kas giyañ tumhñ lāī|
lāj na karhu kahahu mukh kholī|kimi tumhñ piy bhaī prīti amolī|
kuñvari māñth tarhunḍ kai jovai|kahai na bāt lāji much govai|
teuñ teuñ sakhī karhiñ bahu ārī|kahai na bāt prem ras bārī|
bahut bhāñti phusilāvahiñ pūchhiñ kai kai ārī|
ham seuñ goi bāt ras kerī kahihahu kāhi ughāri||
(Manjhan, Madhumālatī 452; Gupta 1969:398)

tab bar nāri amiañ mukh kholī|sunahu kahiy kas bāt amolī|
bhed na dījiy āpan kāhū|bawrihu kahuñ khati lai dei lāhu|
dharai goi hiy pem kai pūrī| kaw dai bhed jagat caḍhai sūrī|
kahawñ bhed āpan tumhñ jahīñ|pai hauñ lahawñ bhedu dai kāhīñ|
phūṭe kumbh bhariyai jaw pānī|khinu khinu buñd buñd pai hānī|
likhanī lakarī ban kai dekhahu kā oiñ kīñh|
jaw lahi māñth rahā dhar ūpar bhed na kāhuñ dīñh||
(Manjhan, Madhumālatī 45; Gupta 1969:398)

The Secret of Love

Pemā took both her hands and asked,
‘Tell me, how did you pass the night?’
Her other friends joined in, pleading,
‘Tell us how your lover embraced you.
Don’t be shy,’ they insisted,
‘How did the precious love-making go
 105

between you and your darling?’

The princess bowed her head
and kept on looking at the ground.
Hiding her face in shame, she said nothing.
The handmaidens persisted in their demand,
but she told them nothing about love’s savour.
Then her friends continued to question her in every way.
They pleaded,
‘If you won’t reveal the secret of love to us, to whom
then will you tell it?’

Then the maiden opened her nectar-sweet mouth.

Hear what a priceless thing she said:
‘Never reveal your mystery to anyone.
It is madness to exchange profit for loss.
You should keep love hidden in your heart.
Who would mount the gallows like Manṣūr
for revealing his mystery to the world?
If I told you my secrets, what would I gain?
If you put water into a cracked pot
it drips out drop by drop and is lost.
Look at the pen carved of wood-what did it do when
it was a reed in the forest?
As long as its head was not cut open, it never revealed
its mystery to anyone.’
(Manjhan, Madhumālatī 452-453, Behl & Weightman 2000:190-191)

The Secret of Love: the following passage plays charmingly on the mystery to which the
seeker has to awaken, namely the identity of being lover and beloved and their coincidence
as subject and object of desire within the human being. At all costs, the mystic must not
disclose this secret publicly.
(Behl & Weightman 2000:276, note 190)

kilk-e zabān kaśīdah-e Ḥāfiẓ dar añjuman

bā kas naguft rāz-e tū tā tark-e sar nakard
(Ḥāfiẓ, Dīwān 139.7, Khānlarī 1980:1:294. Khānlarī (ibid.:295) notes that three manuscripts
from his corpus have the variant lectio zabān burīdah in the first hemistich)

In the assembly, the split tongue of Ḥāfiz’s reed

Uttered Thy mystery to none, so long as abandoning of his head (life), he
made not.
(Clarke 1891:1:270)

This tongue-slitten reed-pen of Hafiz, Until it had lost its head,

Thy mystery known in th’assembly, Whoever besought, made not.
(Payne 1901:1:156)

He is constantly burning, and it is remarkable how often the rhymes sūkhtan, sūz (“burn”) in
all their variations occur in classical and postclassical Persian poetry [...] For the mystical
poets knew that it is both impossible and illicit to express in plain words their experience of
burning and melting [cf. Bernard of Clairvaux, “a semetipsa liquescere”, De diligendo Deo
10.28], of transformation in suffering, and those who try to give a description of the Divine
Reality which they tasted in a moment of ecstasy are like the blind who touched an elephant
in a dark stable and could not describe anything but the part their hands had touched.
Maulana Rumi, who retells this Indian story, which was first used by Sana’i, expressed better
than any other poet the predicament of the lover who wants and yet does not want to sing
of his love. So, one of his verses in the beginning of the Mathnawī has become the standard
motto for all later writers:
 106

Khushtar ān bāshad ki sirr-i dilbarān

Gufta āyad hadīth-i dīgarān

It is better that the secret of the beloved ones

Should be expressed in the stories of others.

For the greatest sin of the lover is ifshā’ as-sirr, divulgence of the secret. This was at least
according to the poetical tradition, the reason for Hallaj’s execution.
(Schimmel 2001:72-73)

But Hallaj (sic) is also mentioned as a warning example to all who divulge the secret of love,
for the lover must never reveal the secret of loving union or the name of his beloved.

The secret that is in your heart is not a sermon-

You can say it on the gallows, but not on the pulpit!
(Schimmel 1992:126)

Ḥallāj was “a man who deeply influenced the development of Islamic mysticism and whose
name became, in the course of time, a symbol for both suffering love and unitive experience,
but also for a lover’s greatest sin: to divulge the secret of his love” (Schimmel 1975:64).

ḥāl-e-dil sunā nahīñ saktā

lafẓ m‘anī ko pā nahīñ saktā
(Akbar Ilāhābādī)
It can’t reveal the heart’s condition
Word can’t attain to meaning

The basic structure of secrecy is “triadic” in that it entails at least two persons who share a
secret and a third to keep the secret from (Kippenberg and Stroumsa 1995:xiv). Secrecy isn’t
synonymous with concealment (ibid:xiii) and a completely concealed secret is as good as
non-existent.

In the Ḥallājian corpus, “TheoErotic” imagery/symbolism is entirely eschewed. “The mystery

of loving union,” in Ḥallāj “is celebrated in verses free of any trace of the symbolism of
profane love.” (Schimmel 1975:65)

The three best-known Turkish commentaries are those of Surúrí, Shem‘í and Súdí, of which
the last is the most accessible and the most useful, since the author very wisely confines
himself to the elucidation of the literal meaning, and avoids all attempts at allegorical
interpretation and the search for the “inner meaning .” That many of the odes are to be
taken in a symbolic and mystical sense few will deny; that others mean what they say, and
celebrate a beauty not celestial and a wine not allegorical can hardly be questioned ; […].
The student of Ḥáfiẓ who cannot decide for himself which verses are to be taken literally and
which symbolically is hardly likely to gain much from a commentator who invariably repeats
that Wine means spiritual ecstasy, the Tavern the ṣúfí Monastery, the Magian elder the
Spiritual guide and so forth. To the English reader who desires to pursue this method of
study, however, Lieut.-Colonel H. Wilberforce Clarke’s complete prose translation of the
Díwán of Ḥáfiẓ “with copious notes and exhaustive commentary” may be recommended.
(Browne 2002:2:299-300, my emphases and ellipsis)

Likewise, the real meaning of Hafez’s verse has been a matter of dispute. Some
commentators have understood him to be a perfect Anacreontic, praising wine and love
without inhibition, and cursing the narrow-minded ascetics and theologians. The Turkish
commentator Sudi belongs to this group, which strongly influenced the early European
critics, especially those who became acquainted with Hafez through the Turkish tradition .
Here, Joseph von Hammer-Purgstall is the leading figure; he translated the entire divan of
Hafez, which appeared in two volumes in 1812-13 and inspired Goethe to compose his West-
ostlicher Divan of 1819. Following Hammer-Purgstall’s rather mundane interpretation of
Hafez, a considerable number of mediocre German poets of the nineteenth century adopted
 107

his name as a trade-mark for their drinking poems and love songs, and especially for their
attacks against the clergy.
(Schimmel 1988:221-2, my emphasis)

Attempts at finding a mystical interpretation for Hafez’s praise of wine and drunkenness are
not supported by his Divān. Many lovers of Hafez have sought to find clues in his poetry to
his mysticism or confirmation of his religious beliefs. As Sufi centers ( Kānqāhs) multiplied and
Sufi orders found more and more affiliates, a mystical view of life and the universe and the
attainment of Truth by love rather than reason became prevalent and profoundly influenced
the Persian world view. It was only natural that a Sufistic interpretation should be applied to
the poems of Hafez, ignoring in the process many indications to the contrary . Some
commentators and even some Western translators of Hafez, notably Wilberforce Clarke, a
translator of the Divān (London, 1974), satisfied themselves, to the point of utter absurdity,
that every single word written by Hafez had a mystical meaning and no line of Hafez actually
meant what it said. The reading of Hafez as codified poetry implying an esoteric meaning for
each line or word propounded the view that his ghazals can be read at two levels, one
apparent, the other hidden-the latter representing the intended meaning . Deciphering
Hafez’s underlying meaning grew into an esoteric art, not dissimilar to the explanations
offered by the addicts of ‘conspiracy theories’ (q.v.) in political affairs….
(Yarshater 2002:http://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/hafez-i, my emphases)

No poet of the medieval Persian tradition has been the subject of as much scholarship as
Khwaja Shams al-Din Muhammad Hafiz (1327-1390 CE). An enormous body of secondary
literature both in Persian and in European languages is devoted to the analysis of Hafiz‘s
verses and the establishment of a “canonical” version of his Divan. Other areas of inquiry,
however, such as the historical reception of Hafiz's poetry and illustrated versions of the
Divan, have received scant attention. Addressing these twin lacunae in Hafiz studies, this
paper focuses on the reception of Hafiz in the later Safavid period as understood through the
ways that seventeenth-century artists gave visual form to his ghazals. At least four
manuscripts of the Divan of Hafiz, each originally containing nearly 500 illustrations (or one
picture per ghazal) [Chester Beatty Library, Dublin, Pers. MS. 299, an illustrated Divan
containing approximately 500 illustrations attributed to two of four artists thought to have
worked in Mashhad], were produced in Mashhad ca. 1650. The extant manuscripts are
remarkable not only for their unusually high rate of illustration, but also for their stylistic and
thematic cohesion.The artists responsible for the manuscripts’ illustrations established a
particular interpretive framework of Hafiz’s ghazals that diverged from standard exegetical
readings developed in earlier periods. The first sources on the life and works of Hafiz, dating
to the opening decades of the fifteenth century, underscore the poet’s piety, religious
training, and knowledge of the Qur’an. Beginning in the mid-fifteenth century, Timurid
historians and biographers promulgated the perception of Hafiz as uniquely endowed with
profound mystical knowledge, corresponding to the epithets first assigned to him by the poet
Jami (d.1492), lisan al-ghayb (“tongue of the unseen”) and tarjuman al-asrar (“translator of
secrets”). Such beliefs allowed for the interpretation of Hafiz’s verses as vehicles of moral
authority. While writers of the early Safavid period espoused similar interpretations of Hafiz‘s
poetry, the artists who illustrated the seventeenth-century manuscripts focused instead on
the earthly pleasures described in his Divan. These artists intentionally selected specific
hemistiches (masari’, sing. Misra’) or distiches (abyat, sing. bayt) that address bacchic
themes as the inspiration for their compositions, largely neglecting more religiously or
mystically inflected passages. Their illustrations overwhelmingly adopt two or three figures
engaging in wine drinking, music making, and/or erotic activity as their subject matter. This
paper argues that the shift in the reception of Hafiz during the seventeenth century is
intimately connected to the increased popularity of shivah-yi tazah (the “fresh style” of
poetry) in Mashhad, and in particular to the proliferation of sixteenth-and seventeenth-
century texts that imitate Hafiz's Saqinama (“Book of the Winebearer”). By focusing on the
sensual delights normally enjoyed in private gatherings that Hafiz describes, the manuscripts‘
artists expanded the range of interpretations of the Divan, mirroring the ways that poets
writing in the shivah-yi tazah mode sought to renew canonical themes and forms. When
examined through the lens of contemporary developments in the literary sphere, the
illustrations of these seventeenth-century Divan manuscripts also provide a visual gloss and a
 108

precise poetic context for the repertoire of figural imagery presented in single-leaf works of
the period, which often give pictorial expression to similar themes.
(Michael Chagnon, “Picturing the Unseen: The Illustration and Reception of Hafiz in
Seventeenth-Century Iran”. Paper presented at the 7 th European Conference of Iranian
Studies, September 7-10, 2011, Jagiellonian University, Krakow, Poland; see also “Pictures
from a Shrine City: Illustrated Manuscript Production in Mashhad, 1620-1660,” working with
Priscilla Soucek.)

Which brings me to that quaestio vexata, that “nagging but pivotal question: what makes a
poem mystical? Is a poem spiritually transformed by context, by the listener’s position, or the
author’s aim? And does the poet point the way with words or with syntax, themes and
allusions?”
(Homerin 1994:190-191)
Ibn ‘Arabi employs what is apparently lover’s repartee to discuss how the divine presence
seeks passionate love from humanity; when a human becomes a perfect slave of God, then
God becomes the eye and ear of that person, who becomes all light and a perfect reflection
of God’s qualities”.
(Ernst 2000[1997]:155)

Perhaps the most remarkable example of how the same verse could serve both functions
was the Arabic wine verses of Abu Nuwas, composed in a secular context that mocked
religion, but so aesthetically entrancing that Persian Sufis took them over and reinterpreted
them in a mystical style. In other words, there was nothing intrinsically mystical about the
verses themselves; the mystical interpretation was authorized by a context external to the
contents of the poetry. One might go so far as to say that one can only define Sufi poetry as
poetry that is recited and appreciated by Sufis; the main requirement of Sufi poetry, then, is
that it be interpreted according to prescriptive mystical standards.
(Ernst 2000[1997]:161, my emphasis)

Elsewhere (Sharh-i Shathaiyyat p.177), Ruzbihan quotes two lines from Abu Nuwas’s famous
verse. “Pour me wine, and tell me it is wine; But don’t pour secretly what can be
public/permit it in my lover’s name, but leave out nicknames/for there’s no good in pleasures
if they’re veiled”.
(Ernst 2000[1997]:237, n.15 to Chapter 6)

Many of these verses use the same imagery of love and wine found in secular poetry, so the
only thing to distinguish them as mystical is their context and interpretation .
(Ernst 2000[1997]: 153, my emphasis)

As with Arabic Sufi poetry, a number of the subjects and themes of mystical poetry were
taken over wholesale into Persian from the profane literary tradition. Now these same
themes were subject to allegorical interpretation transformed according to rules outside the
text of the verses.
(Ernst 2000[1997]:157, my emphasis)

Clarke based his translation inter alia on Major H.S. Jarett’s edition of the Dīwān, which in
turn was based on the text (Clarke 1891:1:vi) of the Ottoman Turkish Ḥāfiẓian commentator
Aḥmad Sūdī (also known as Sūdī-e Busnawī and Aḥmad-e Busnawī, d. 1106/1598 CE.). Sūdī’s
bare-bones, markedly “sober” philological-grammatical commentary ( Śarḥ-e Dīwān-e Ḥāfiẓ)
was the basis for the majority of the European interpretations of Ḥāfiẓ (Browne 2002:2:302,
Schimmel 1986:939; 1988:221-2).

The most Salient meaning of khalwat is “retirement, solitude, privacy” (Steingass 1996:472)
and lexically, khalwatiyān is the plural of khalwatī “Solitary; a recluse” (ibid.). Clarke in his
footnote to this distich glosses khalwatiyān with the Khalwatiyāh ṣūfī Order:

Khilwatī from the word Khilwat, retirement, is the name of an order of Darvishes,
founded by 'Umar Khilwatī in 1397, who more than others live in retirement. They
observe Khilwat and a painful fast (arba’īn) of forty days...The exercise of Khilwat is
 109

the living on bread and water for twelve successive days in honour of the twelve
Imāms (of the race of ‘Alī); and the principle of Khilwat is- a cessation from seeking
the honour and respect of any one. The “crown of the perfect” is to have the esteem
of none.
(Clarke 1891:1:164, footnote no.2, my ellipsis)

Bihiśtī Sīrāzī (1992:1:622-27), glossing khalwatiyān discusses a range of predominantly

anagogical meanings citing many exempla from classical Persian poets as well as from the
Dīwān, but (singularly) doesn’t cite this distich. Khurramśāhī (1993:1:416) glosses
khalwatī/khalwatiyān as khalwatī y‘anī ahl-e khalwat, khalwat naśīñ, ‘uzlat guzīdah, “Recluse,
that is, the people of seclusion, those in seclusion, hermit”. Sūdī (Sattārzādah 1983:1:536)
glosses khalwatiyān as jam‘a-e khalwatī ast y‘anī mansūb bakhalwat, “plural of recluse, that
is, secluded”.

girift is polysemic: “He took or seized; capture, seizure, detention, sequestration, fine”; “a
handle, catch, clutch”; “a fault, sin, crime”; “blame, reproach, taunt”; “objection, criticism”;
“observation, watch”; “an eclipse of the sun or moon”; “a thrust with a spear”; “friction”;
“shaking with the fingers, or pressing upon the finger-board of a musical instrument, so as to
produce a tremulous sound”; “a small shrill trumpet” (Steingass 1996:1082). Sūdī glosses
dar zabān girift as “burnt” or “consigned to flames” (Clarke transposes Sūdī’s interpretative
gloss in his translation of the second hemistich):

dar zabān girift: girift īñjā bam‘anā-e ātiś girift wa yā sirāyat kard t‘abīr mīśawad.
maslan waqtay ātiś cīzay sirāyat kunad goyañd ātiś girift.
(Sattārzādah 1983:1:536)
dar zabān girift: “seized” here means “seized by fire” and will have to be interpreted
as “consigned to flames”. For instance, when consigning a thing to flames, it’s said
to be “seized” by fire.

He then paraphrases this distich’s meaning, glossing sirr-e dilaś as ātiś-e ḥasad (“envy’s
fire”):

meḥṣūl-e bait: śam‘a khwāst kih asrār ahl-e khalwat rā āśkār sāzad śukr-e khudā kih
sirr-e dilaś y‘anī ātiś-e ḥasad bazabān sirāyat kard wa zabānaś ātiś girift y‘anī
faṭīlah-aś ātiś girift wa qādir batakallum naśd, wa natawānast asrār rā fāś kunad,
murād az zabān. ān ātiś ast kih dar faṭīlah-e śam‘a mīsôzad.

kasay kih guftah’ast: śukr-e khudā kih sirr-e dilaś rā dar zubān nigahdāśt khaṭā
kardah ast.
(Sattārzādah 1983:1:537)
Paraphrase of this distich: the candle wanted to divulge the secrets of those in
seclusion; thank God it’s heart’s secret, that is, the fire of envy, passed on to it’s
tongue, and burnt it, that is, it’s wick, along with it’s power of speech and giving
information thereby rendering it unable to divulge secrets. By “tongue” is meant that
fire which burns the candle’s wick.

Some one said: Thank God that a mistake was committed by assigning the heart’s
secret to the tongue.

Zū al-Nūr (1952:1:196) glosses sirr-e dilaś dar zabān girift as rāz-e nāguftanī, ātiś bar
zabānaś zad tā natuwānad fāś kuniñdah-e asrār-e dīgarān bāśad, “an unspeakable secret, a
fire that burns the tongue so as to render it incapable of divulging secrets to others”. zabān
is bisemic, meaning both “The tongue; language, dialect, idiom, speech;” as well as “a
flame” (Steingass 1996:608). It’s thus interesting to contrast the general semantic field of
“fiery speech/tongue” (see especially Whiter 1800:187-191) with Sūdī’s gloss of dar zabān
girift as ātiś girift: ātiś-zabān, “Eloquent, rhetorical”; ātiś-nafas, “eloquent”; ātiśīñ-biyān,
“Eloquent” (Steingass 1996:14), ātiśīñ zabān “A fluent speaker”, ātiśīñ-sukhan, “Eloquent”
(ibid.15). The bisemy of zabān-e śam‘a as both silence as well as locution in the Perso-Urdu
poetic (Faruqi 2006:111-13; Schimmel 1979:80-83, 94[note 40], Schimmel 1992:279,
 110

440[notes 48, 53]) is perhaps a parapurapraveśasadṛśa tadvirodhinī arthaharaṇa of the

συνίστωρ λύχνος topos, since “the witness-lamps/candles” can either remain “silent” or
“testify” (cf. Lucian’s lamp in Kataplous ē Tyrannos 27 and the candle in Mughal-e ‘Āżam).
This bisemy seems to extend to zabān giriftan as well, whose semantic field includes both
locution as well as silence. Steingass (1996:609) glosses zabān giriftan as “To stammer; to
know the state of an adversary’s affairs” (ibid.), andar (dar) zabān giriftan as “To become
informed of another’s circumstances (by questioning a prisoner of the enemy); to stutter; to
speak evil of, to detract (ibid.), zabān giriftagī as “Impediment of speech; stuttering,
stammering” (ibid.) and zabān giriftah as “Dumb, tongue-tied” (ibid.). Mo‘īn (1992:2:1721)
gives luknat-e zabān (“stammering, stuttering, speech-impediment”) for zabān giriftagī.
Nafīsī (1924:3:1739) gives luknat-e zabān wa guñgī (“stammering and muteness”) for zabān
giriftagī and (ibid.) alkan wa guñg wa añkih dar zabān-e way luknat bāśad (stutterer,
stammerer and they who have a speech defect”) for zabān giriftah. Dihkhudā
(http://www.loghatnaameh.com/dehkhodaworddetail-
833b621ace554d6bbdbb66e9ee8583c7-fa.html) too glosses zabān giriftah as alkan wa guñg
wa añkih dar zabān-e way luknat bāśad; śikastah zabān; alsagh; abkam-“stutterer,
stammerer and they who have a speech defect; stammerer; dumb”. He glosses zabān
giriftan as luknat uftādan bar zabān; luknat-e zabān; giriftan-e zabān
(http://www.loghatnaameh.com/dehkhodaworddetail-21e8568eada1473ba4bfe20af5cdc364-
fa.html) “stammering of the tongue; stuttering; speech-impediment”. Dihkhudā also glosses
zabān giriftan (ibid.) as follows:zabān giriftan dar ‘aṣl āñ ast kih marday rā az fawj-e duśman
badast ārañd wa istifsār-e aḥwāl-e fawj-e way az āñ numāyañd; śakhṣay az laśkar-e ghanīm
giraftan barā-e teḥqīq-e aḥwāl; khabardār śudan az aḥwāl-e mukhalif-“to seize the tongue”
really means to procure a man from the enemy’s army to inquire from him his army’s
condition; to arrest a person from the adversary’s army for inquiring their condition; to be
informed [have intelligence] about an adversary’s condition”. He also glosses (ibid.) zabān
giriftan as barā-e murdah nawḥah guftan, risā’-e o kardan “to lament the dead, to weep and
wail over the dead”. Dihkhudā glosses bar zabān giriftan
(http://www.loghatnaameh.com/dehkhodaworddetail-97ca136fa1fb49aaa47cd91a2f9cacc6-
fa.html) as bar zabān afkandan-“to defame; to talk ignominiously about”. Dihkhudā also
glosses bar zabān giriftan/bazabān giriftan
(http://www.loghatnaameh.com/dehkhodaworddetail-d2b5ac02bffb44d190f53238a2a54015-
fa.html) as mukarrar guftan wa dar har jā-e guftan cīzay ra , “to repeat something and
spread it far and wide”. Dihkhudā (ibid.) glosses dar zabān giriftan as bahamah kas guftan,
“to tell one and all/spread a news far and wide”, fāś kardan, “revealing, divulging”, ‘aib
guftan,“to slander, to detract” (ibid.), bazabān giriftan “to repeat something and spread it far
and wide” and cites Ḥāfiẓ as a poetic exemplum: (Which is strange, I expected him to cite
Ḥāfiẓ 87.2 here)
cū śam‘a har kih bah ifśā-e rāz śud maśghūl
basaś zamānah cū miqrāż dar zabān gīrad
(Dihkhudā, http://www.loghatnaameh.com/dehkhodaworddetail-
d2b5ac02bffb44d190f53238a2a54015-fa.html, Qaṣīdah dar madaḥ-e Śāh Śaikh Abū Isḥāq 3.17,
Khānlarī 1980:2:1035)

zabān gīr is inter alia “A tongue-taker, i.e. taking a prisoner to gain information; a spy;
whatever bites the tongue” (Steingass 1996:609). Dihkhudā
(http://www.loghatnaameh.com/dehkhodaworddetail-
4378e5a19aa44e888b8eb816888a842a-fa.html) glosses zabān gīr as kināyah az jāsūs bāśad,
“an allusion/metonym for spy”, jāsūs, “spy”, jāsūs wa khabarpursān wa paik ast; “spy,
carrier/messenger”; śakhṣay kih az laśkar-e duśman bagīrad āmadah tā kammīyat-o kaifiyat-
e āñ laśkar az ū istifsār śawad, “to capture a person from the enemy’s army to inquire from
him the strength and condition of his army”. Dihkhudā
(http://www.loghatnaameh.com/dehkhodaworddetail-
95b48c9105b24295b971495171743905-fa.html) also glosses zabān gīr kardan as luknat
dāśtan-e zabān, “stammer/stutter of the tongue”, kuñd būdan-e zabān, “a dulled tongue”,
zabān giriftagī, “speech-impediment”.

Sūdī (Sattārzādah 1983:2:1452) cites the following text as his preferred lectio and states that
some manuscripts have a variant, that is, the exemplum cited by Dihkhudā. Khānlarī
 111

1980:2:1038 however gives only one variant lectio from a single manuscript, pasaś zabānah-
e miqrāż dar zabān gīrad:
cū śam‘a har kih ba’ifśā-e rāz śud maśghūl
śabaś zabānah-e miqrāż dar zabān gīrad
(Sattārzādah 1983:2:1451)

…meḥṣūl-e bait: har kas kih ifśā-e rāz numāyad, śab hañgam zabānah-e miqrāż zabānaś rā
cūn zabānah-e śam‘a mīgīrad. y‘anī zabānaś rā mīburd.

in bait-dar bāz nasakh bāīn śakl āmadah: basaś zamānah cū miqrāż dar zabān gīrad…

meḥṣūl-e m‘anā: y‘anī zamānah bacunīn śakhṣay rañj-o ‘azāb-e bisyār mīdihad. m‘anā-e
nasakh-hā-e mazkūr ẓāhiran īnṭawr ast ammā heckudām ṭab‘a-e khwānañdah rā rāzay
namīkunad. pas ghair az nasakh-hā-e mazkūr nuskhah-e dīgaray mīkhwāhad.
(Sattārzādah 1983:2:1452, my ellipses)

Paraphrase of this distich: The tongue of every person who divulges a secret is at night
caught between scissors’ tongues, like a candle’s wick. That is, the tongue’s cut.

This distich appears in some manuscripts in this form: Time, like a scissor, seizes his
tongue…

Praphrased meaning: This means that Time, in this manner, visits great afliction and torment
upon such a person. The apparent meaning of the aforementioned texts is that never reveal
any secrets to babblers. However, I prefer the other text to this aforementioned text.

In disclosing mystery, whoever became engaged, like the candle,

At night, his tongue, the scissor-blade-taketh.
(Clarke 1891:1:489)
man digar yārān-e kh ud rā āzmūdam khāṣ-o ‘ām
w

nay yakayśān rāzdār-o nay wafā añdar do tan

rāzdār-e man tūay, ay śam‘a yār-e man tūay

ghamgusār-e man tūay man zān-e tū, tū zān-e man
(Manūchehrī Dāmghānī, qaṣīdah 50.17-18, Dabīr-Siyāqī 1955:80)

I have tested all my other friends, the commoner and the noble:
Not one could keep a secret, no two are loyal.

O candle, you are the keeper of my secret, you are my friend;

You are my confidant; I am yours and you are mine.
(Seyed-Gohrab 2012:88-89)

I have tested all my other friends, noble and common: not one of them
can keep a secret, no two of them are loyal.
(Meisami 2003:339)

You are my confidant, continually my friend; we sympathize for each

other, you and I
(Meisami 2003:338)

The Ghaznavid court-poet Manūchehrī Dāmghānī (Abū al-Najm Aḥmad bin Qawṣ bin Aḥmad
al-Manūchehrī, died 1040 CE) composed a famous qaṣīdah (“dar lughz-e śam‘a wa madḥ-e
Ḥakīm ‘Unṣurī”, Dabīr-Siyāqī 1955:79-86, Clinton, 1972:31-43, Browne 2002:2:154-155 and
Seyed-Gohrab 2012:88-89. On the courtly, “riddling” aspect of this text, see Seyed-Gohrab
2010:53-64) dedicated to the poet laureate Ḥakīm ‘Unṣurī (Abū al-Qāsim Ḥasan).

The great Ḥāfiẓ scholar Bahā’al-Dīn Khurramśāhī’s commentary on this distich is especially
illuminating:
 112

m‘anā-e bait: śam‘a mī khwast rāz-e ‘āśiq (‘āśiqān)-e khalwat guzīdah wa garm-e rāz-o
niyāz rā fāś kunad wa dar īñjā īhāmay naẓar mīrasad:
(alif) mī khwahad bagoyad kih ‘āśiqī hamānā pākbāzī wa khwudsôzī ast: cunāñkih dar
jā-e dīgar goyad:
dar ‘āśiqī gurez nabāśad za sāz-o sôz
istādah’am cū śam‘a matarsān za ātiśam
[Khānlarī 1980:1:674, 329.8]

(be) rāz-e khalwat wa bazm-e āśiqāñ rā bar nāmaḥramān wa hamsāygān wa

muḥtasibān fāś kunad. cunāñkih S‘adī hamwārah az īñ bū al-fażūlay śam‘a wa
ruswāgaray-aś añdeśnāk ast:

śam‘a rā bāyad az īñ khānah birūn burdan wa kuśtan

tā bah hamsāyah nagôyad kih tū dar khanah-e mā-ay...

wa khudā rā śukr kih rāz-e nihuftah wa pur sôz-e dilaś waqtay kih bah zabānaś rasīd
zabānaś ś‘olah war śud wa natuwānast ifśāgaray khwud rā bah pāyāñ barasānad.dar
īñ mawrid-e śādrawāñ Ghanī mīgoyad: “y‘anī zabānaś ātiś girift wa faṭīlah-aś sôkht…”
qarīb bah mażmūn-e īñ bait dar jāhā-e dīgar gôyad :

cū śam‘a har kih bah ifśā-e rāz śud maśghūl

basaś zamānah cū miqrāż dar zabān gīrad

gar khwud raqīb śam‘ast asrār azū bapôśāñ

kāīñ śôkh-e sar burīdah bañd-e zabān nadārad

muqāysah kunīd bāīñ rubā‘ī az ‘Aṭṭār:

cūñ gul bah dil-e afrokhtah mībāyad buwad

cūñ ghuñcah bah lab-e dokhtah mībāyad buwad
cūñ hast wabāl-e mā sukhan guftan-e mā
cūñ śam‘a zabān-e sokhtah mībāyad buwad…
(Khurramśāhī 1993:1:420-421, my ellipses)

The word kāīñ in the second distich of gar khwud raqīb is a typo for kāñ, ibid.:410; Khānlarī
1980:1:261, Qazwīnī-Ghanī 1941:79, Husain n.d.:135, Sattārzādah 1983:2:787; Khurramśāhī
1993:1:416; Zū al-Nūr 1952:1:273). Khānlarī (1980:1:260) omits this bait from his edition
and gives only eight baits in this ghazal (no. 122) and mentions (ibid.:261) that is found as
the fifth bait in two manuscripts and the eighth in one manuscript with ḥarīf śam‘ast and
asrār-e khwud as variant lectiones in the first hemistich (ibid.:261) in two manuscripts.
Husain’s (n.d.:135) lectio is aḥwāl instead of asrār.

The meaning of the distich: the candle wanted to disclose the secrets of the lover (or lovers)
who were, in seclusion, consumed in their exchanges and supplications. There appears to be
an iham here:
a) He wants to say that love is apparently self-effacement and sacrifice. As he says
elsewhere:
No way out in love but to burn and bear it.
I stand like a candle, don’t scare me with fire.

b) It discloses the secrets of seclusion and the lovers’ assembly to non-confidantes (na-
mahraman), neighbors and the police. Thus, Sa’di perpetually fears the candle’s lazy prattling
and its tendency to disgraceful disclosures:

The candle must be borne out of this home and put out
So it doesn’t tell the neighbors that you’re at my home.
(Kulliyat, pp. 600)
 113

And thank god that when its heart’s veiled and burning secret reached its tongue, its tongue
burst into fire and so couldn’t complete its disclosure. On this the late Ghani says: “That is,
its tongue caught fire and its wick burnt” (Notes Ghani, pp. 118). In proximity to this distich’s
trope he says at other places:

Whoever, candle-like, busies himself with disclosing secrets

Will the age, scissor-like, seize him by the tongue/extract his secrets.

If the candle himself is your rival in love, cloak your secrets from him
For this brazen headless one can’t bridle his tongue/has no self-control.

Compare that with this ruba’i by Attar:

Like the flower must you bear a burning heart.

Like the bud must your lips stay sewn shut.
As we bring calamity upon ourselves by speaking
Candle-like must we bear charred tongues.
(Mukhtarnama, pp. 23)
(Translated by Dr. Prashant Keshavmurthy, e-mail communication dated 6 th October, 2011)

cheh māyah-e garm birūn āmaday za khalwat-e ghair

kih śikwah dar dil wa paighārah bar zabān sokht
(Ghalib, Diwān-e Fārsī 78.8, ‘Ābidī 2008:1:297; this text is a contaminatio [Terence, Andria
16]of the topoi of the exclusus amator, furtivus amor and the synistor lychnos)

Her sprightly exit

after
making love with my rival
Buries complaints in my heart
and
sears the slander on my tongue

If the companion himself be the candle, from him conceal mysteries:

For that bold one, head severed, ligature (bridle) on his tongue,-hath not.
(Clarke 1891:1:327)

Though thy spy be the candle, Look thou from it thy secrets hide;
For on its tongue a bridle That head-lopped scant-o’-grace hath not
(Payne 1901:1:201)
Vying with the candle? Hide your secrets from her:
that saucy cut-head, holds no bars at her tongue!
(Ordubadian 2006:39)
In being a lover (of god), is no escape from consuming and (yet) being content;
Like the candle, standing I am: me of the fire (of love) affright not
(Clarke 1891:2:712)
No escaping the burning and light when in love:
like a candle, I’m well versed; do not try to scare me!
(Ordubadian 2006:136)

sar burīdah is inter alia “Decapitated, beheaded; a criminal (worth beheading)” (Steingass
1996:670) and sar giriftah inter alia is “Suffering from head-ache; head-ache; reproached; a
reviler; pale” (Steingass 1996:677). Khurramśāhī (1993:1:520) glosses sar burīdah with sar
giriftah:

śam‘a-e sar giriftah: moḥtamil-e do m‘anāst: alif) śam‘ay kih hanôz rośanaś nakardah
bāśand, śam‘a-e naw wa tāzah wa sarbastah: be) śam‘ay kih barā-e bāz rawśan
kardan, ya bihtar rawśan kardan, faṭīlah-e ān rā-y‘anī qismat sokhtah-e faṭīlah rā-
cīdah bāśand. śāyad īñ hamāñ śam‘a sar burīdah bāśad kih dar jā-e dīgar gôyad:
 114

gar khwud raqīb śam‘ast asrār az ū bapôśāñ

kāñ śôkh-e sar burīdah bañd-e zabān nadārad
[…]
īñ m‘ānī, yā hêc śarḥ-o bayān-e dīgaray barā-e sar giriftan-e śam‘a yā śam‘a-e sar
giriftah dar lughat nāmah hā nayāmdah wa moḥtāj-e teḥqīq-e beśtaray ast.
(Khurramśāhī 1993:1:416, my ellipsis)

śam‘a-e sar giriftah bears two meanings:1) a candle that’s never been lighted, a new,
fresh candle, unused; b) a candle that’s rekindled, or one whose wick’s kindled more-
that is a well-lighted wick; pared/trimmed. Hence, perhaps all candles have been
called “beheaded”, as mentioned elsewhere:

If the candle itself’s your rival,

hide your secrets from it
For this brazen babbler
can’t hold it’s tongue

These meanings of sar giriftan-e śam‘a or śam‘a-e sar giriftah don’t appear in other
commentaries and lexicons and require more research.

Zū al-Nūr (1952:1:194), incidentally, glosses śam‘a-e sar giriftah (Khānlarī 1980:1:188, 86.2)
as śam‘a kih nôk-e fatīlah-aś giriftah śudah. (isti‘arah) maḥbūb. cirā meḥbūb rā ((śam‘a-e sar
giriftah)) taśbīh kardah? āyā ((śāhid))-e saraś rā tarāśīdah būdah ast? (a candle the tip of
whose wick is pared. Metaphorically, the Beloved. Why’s the Beloved given the similie of
“head-pared candle”? Is it because her “curls” are trimmed?). Zū al-Nūr (1952:1:275) glosses
śôkh-e sar burīdah as bey qarār, sar az tan judā (restless, beheaded) and adds that bey
qarār, dar īñ jā, munāsibtarīn m‘anī ast (here, “restless” is the most apt meaning), quoting
the source as the Farhañg-e Nafīsī which, however, doesn’t seem to list this gloss.
śam‘agīrāñ are “The lighters and extinguishers of the candles, &c. in the houses of the great
(Steingass 1996:760). gul-e cirāgh/gul-e śam‘a is “The snuff of a candle” (Steingass
1996:1092) and gul-tarāś and miqrāż-e śam‘a are “Snuffers” (Steingass1996:1094; 1292).
gul katarnā (-kā) is “To snuff (a candle); to trim (a lamp);-to calumniate” (Platts 1930
[1884]:911). Modern candle-wicks are woven so as to curl over into the flame as the wax
burns and lowers on the candle. The wick is thus automatically consumed and the candle
doesn’t become too smoky and stinky. Older candles, however, had non-curling wicks and as
the wax was consumed and the flame lowered on the candle, the wicks would begin to stick
to the top of the flame, resulting in a lot of smoke and odour-production. Hence, scissor-like
devices called “snuffers” (usually with a box near the front end of the blades) were used to
regularly trim or “snuff” the wick, i.e., to cut/pare/pinch off the charred portion of the wick.
Done skillfully, the wick’s charred end is cut and trapped in the box, the candle continues to
burn brightly and the excessive smoke stops. Done sloppily, the candle is extinguished or
“snuffed out”. Hence, Aṭṭār in the Ilāhīnāmah says that “When the candle separates from it’s
head (is trimmed with scissors), its light increases, and the darkness of the people gathered
around it becomes bright” (Ritter/O’Kane 2003:599-600). Nīrū (1988:218) glosses śam‘a-e
sar giriftah as waqtay śam‘a-e bad mī sôkht sar-e ū rā mī burīdand tā bihtar basôzad-
trimming the candle’s wick while kindling it so as to make it burn better.

Zū al-Nūr (1952:1:275) glosses gar khwud raqīb śam‘ast as ḥattā gar raqīb-e tū śam‘a ast (in
so far as the candle’s your adversary) and (ibid) bañd as qufl (lock) and bañd-e zabān
nadāśtan as akhtiyār-e zabān-e khwud rā nadāśtan “having no control over one’s tongue” and
rāz rā fāś kardan “to divulge a secret” (cf. jalpa in the Śukoktivṛīḍā texts, “Babble, prattling,
gossip” Apte 1998:731). zabān-bañd is “Fascination, as tying up the tongue” (Steingass
1996:609); zabān-bañdī is “Deposition of a witness” (Steingass 1996:609).

śam‘a ne gôśah naśīnoñ kā rāz ifśā’ karnā cāhā

khudā kā śukr hai, us ke dil ke rāz nay zabān pakaṛ lī
(Husain n.d.:65)
zabān pakaṛnā (-kī), lit. “To lay hold of the tongue” (of); to prevent (one) from speaking; to
interrupt; to seize on the utterances (of), to criticise, to cavil (at)” (Platts 1930 [1884]:614).
 115

agar śam‘a khwud raqīb hai us se aḥwāl pôśīdah rakh

is liye kih woh sarkaṭī, śarīr, zabān ko bañd nahīñ rakhtī hai
(Husain n.d.:135)
jo śam‘a kī ṭaraḥ rāz phailānay meñ maśghūl huwā
zamānah us ke hôñṭ ko qaiñcī kī ṭaraḥ pakaṛ letā hai
(Husain n.d.:463)
Hussain (ibid.) provides this footnote: śam‘a ko zabān darāz awr rāzôñ kā iẓhār karnewālī
mānā gayā hai. qaiñcī se śam‘a ke gul ko kāṭā jātā hai-a candle is believed to be a
blabbermouth and divulger of secrets. A candle’s snuff is trimmed/cut with scissors.

The candle (Divine refulgence on their faces) sought to expose the secrets of these (disciples
of yours) who had resorted to seclusion; thank God that the mystique of its heart (i.e. the
Divine impulse) held its tongue (i.e. kept it quiet and succeeded in keeping the secret of your
lover’s devotion to you).
(Gupta 1997:52)
If the candle (the charlatan who goes about preening like a cockalorum, bragging and
crowing, a self-important little man) is himself your master’s rival, keep your (Gnostic) secret
hidden from him, for this cheeky headless (witless) cannot hold its tongue (and will go about
telling tales, fanciful lies).
(Gupta 1997:161)
Anyone who becomes engrossed in diffusing the hidden (spiritual) secret in the wise of the
candle diffusing light all around it, Time seizes his lips as between two crossed pivotal blades
of scissors. (Time catches his words and does everything to disprove him, fix him in order to
get even with him, even by killing him.)
(Gupta 1997:622)
sāqī biyā kih yār za rukh-e pardah bar girift
kār-e carāgh-e khalwatiyāñ bāz dar girift
(Qazwīnī-Ghanī 1941:54)
Sāḳī (murshid)! come; for the true Beloved (God) hath taken up the veil,
The work of the lamp (love’s glory) of the Khilvatis again-kindled.
(Clarke 1891:1:167)
bāz giriftan is “To keep back; retain” (Steingass 1996:1083).

salīm: bahār śam‘a ke sīne meñ kyā hotā hai?

bahār:rāt kī khāmoś dāstāneñ awr kuchh rāz.
salīm: awr yeh hī sabab hai kih ṣubaḥ hote hī har śam‘a hameśah ke liye khāmôś kar dī jātī
hai.
(Mughal-e ‘Āżam, dialogues 313-315, Kabir-Akhtar 2007:101)

Salīm: Bahār, what does a candle’s heart contain?

Bahār: Silent stories of the night and some secrets.
Salīm: Which is the reason why every candle’s snuffed out forever at dawn.

nahīm śarm bah yak sūäy wa bā hum āwezīm

bah śokhī kih rukh-e akhtarāñ bagardānīm
(Ghalib, Diwān-e Fārsī, ‘Ābidī 2008:1:502)

Put shame aside; let us grapple in such a bold embrace

The stars above in the heavens will try to hide their face
(Russell 2003:499)
Leaving modesty aside, we should become so wantonly intimate that even the stars may turn
away their faces from us.
(Mahmud 1969:327)
Abandon shame!
Let’s embrace
so passionately
That
even the stars
 116

avert their faces

♣
mixis de toutōn ton Indōn tōn katalexa pantōn emphanes esti kata per tōn probatōn, kai to
chrōma phoreousi homoion pantes kai paraplēsion Aithiopsi. hē gonē de autōn, tēn apientai
es tas gynaikas, ou kata per ton allōn anthrōpōn esti leukē, alla melaina kata per to chrōma.
toi auten de kai Aithiopes apientai thorēn.
(Herodotus, Histories 3.101.1-2)

All the Indian tribes I have mentioned copulate in the open like cattle; their skins are all of
the same colour, much like the Ethiopians. Their semen is not white like other peoples, but
black like their own skins, the same is to be found in the Ethiopians.
(Herodotus, Histories 3.101.1-2; Sélincort/Marincola 2003:215)

Aristotle’s largest (and least-studied) work Historia animalium 3.22 attests that semen “is
white in all cases and Herodotus is under a misapprehension when he states that the
Aethopians (from Aithiops, “burnt-face; “red-brown” Meleager, AP 7.196) eject black sperm”;
Aristotle expresses a similar opinion at De generatione animalium 2.2 that semen “is thick
and white because it is mixed with spirit, for it is also an invariable rule that it is white, and
Herodotus does not report the truth when he says that the semen of the Aethopians is black,
as if everything must needs be black in those who have a black skin, and that too when he
saw their teeth were white”.

♣
Ancient cultures from the eastern Mediterranean to the Indian Ocean were shaped through a
continuous interplay with one another, an interplay only dimly seen, which is the hidden map
of ancient history. It is a map of caravan routes and sea voyages, of travels and commerce-
and of their consequences. For an island village in the Aegean Sea in the third millennium
B.C., the beginning of the Bronze Age meant the arrival of a single ship with newfangled
wares. The establishing of a new school of philosophy in Hellenistic Afghanistan meant the
arrival of a single teacher with his books in his pack. The records of caravan routes are like
the philological stemmata of history, the trails of oral discourses moving through
communities, of texts copied from texts, with accretions, scribal errors, and incorporated
glosses and scholia. What they reveal is not a structure of parallel straight lines-one labeled
“Greece”, another “Persia”, another “India”- but a tangled web in which an element in one
culture often leads to elements in others.
(McEvilley 2001:1; my emphasis)

McEwilley stresses philological analysis, archaeological grounding and historical context and
makes “a measured attempt to establish significant intrusions first from India to Greece in
the pre-Socratic period, then from Greece back to India in the Hellenistic period” (McEvilley
2001:xxxi). See the first chapter “Diffusion Channels in the Pre-Alexandrian Period” ( ibid: 1-
22) and the fourteenth chapter “Diffusion Channels in the Hellenistic and Roman Periods”
(ibid: 349-402). On the
“cultural triangle” between India, Greece and Iran see Arora 2004(2002):58-76.

“a drop of alien blood in Greek veins”

(Rohde 1969:338)

The Swedish Bishop Anders Nygren attempted to trace the history of the Christian doctrine of
love from the the dialogues of Plato, the New Testament and Martin Luther. He used the
method of motif research which he described as being “concerned less with the historical
connections and origins of motifs than with their characteristic content and manifestations.”
(Nygren 1982:35).

Originally, then, topoi are helps towards composing orations. They are, as Quintillian
(V, 10, 20) says, “storehouses of trains of thought” (“ argumentorum sedes”), and thus can
serve a practical purpose. But we have seen that the two most important oratorical genres,
the judicial and the political, disappeared from political reality with the extinction of the
 117

Greek city-states and the Roman Republic, and took refuge in the schools of rhetoric; that
euology became a technique of praise which could be applied to any subject; that poetry too
was rhetorized. This means that neither more nor less than that rhetoric lost its original
meaning and purpose. Hence it penetrated into all literary genres. Its elaborately developed
system became the common denominator of literature in general. This is the most influential
development in the history of antique rhetoric. By it the topoi too acquire a new function.
They become clichés, which can be used in any form of literature, they spread to all spheres
of life with which literature deals and to which it gives form. In late antiquity we see the new
ethos give birth to new topoi.
(Curtius 1953:70-1)
(Quintillian on communes loci in Institutio 2.4.22; 5.10.20; 5.12.6; 5.13.57; cf. rhetorical
imitation in Cicero, De oratore 2.87-97; on the various senses of topos, see Anderson
2000:117-121)

7... Ut igitur earum rerum quae absconditae sunt demonstrato et notato loco facilis inventio
est, sic, cum pervestigare argumentum aliquod volumus, locos nosse debemus; sic enim
appellatae ab Aristotele sunt eae quasi sedes, e quibus argumenta promuntur. 8 Itaque licet
definire locum esse argumenti sedem, argumentum autem rationem quae rei dubiae faciat
fidem.
(Cicero, Topica 2.7-8, Reinhardt 2003:118, my ellipsis; see also de Oratore 2.162, 173; 3.27;
one of the meanings of topos is “burial place” (Liddel-Scott 1968:1565)

Just as it is easy to find hidden things, once their hiding-place has been pointed out and
marked down, so we need to know the right Places if we wish to track down a certain
argument; ‘Places’ is the name Aristotle gave those locations, so to speak, from which we
can draw arguments.8 Therefore, we may define a Place as the location of an argument, and
an argument as a reasoning that lends belief to a doubtful issue.
(Cicero, Topica 2.7-8, Reinhardt 2003:119)
As therefore the discovery of those things which are hidden is easy, if the place where they
are hidden is pointed out and clearly marked; so, when we wish to examine any argument,
we ought to know the topics,-for so they are called by Aristotle, being, as it were, seats from
which arguments are derived. Therefore we may give as a definition, that a topic is the seat
of an argument, and that an argument is a reason which causes men to believe a thing
which would otherwise be doubtful.

If we wish to track down some argument, we ought to know the places: for that is the name
given by Aristotle to the “regions” (Latin sedes), as it were, from which arguments are
drawn. Accordingly, we may define a topic as the region of an argument (Cicero, De topica
2.7).

Aristotle distinguishes between “ready-made arguments” and “abstract patterns of

argument”. The former are termed idia (“specifics”), eide (“species”), or idiai protaseis
(“specific materials”) if they are tied to the individual genres of oratory ( Rhetorica 1.2.21-2,
4.1-13.7, 2.1.9); if they’re “common” to all genres, koina/communia eide (Rhetorica 2.18.2-
19, 27, 22.1-12, cf. 1.3.7-9, 7.1-41, 9.35-41, 14.1-7, 2.1.1-11.7). He terms “abstract patterns
of argument” (1.2.21-2, 2.22.13-23, 30, 3.1.1) topoi and since these are common to all
branches of learning, philosophy as well as rhetoric, koinoi topoi.

Excutiamus nunc argumentorum locos, quamquam quibusdam hi quoque de quibus supra

dixi videntur. Locos appello non, ut vulgo nunc intelleguntur, in luxuriem et adulterium et
similia, sed sedes argumentorum, in quibus latent, ex quibus sunt petenda.
(Quintilian, I.O. 5.10.20)

Let us now turn to consider the “places” of arguments, although some hold that they are
identical with the topics which I have already discussed above. But I do not use this term in
its usual acceptance, namely, commonplaces directed against luxury, adultery, and the like,
but in the sense of the secret places where arguments reside, and from which they must be
drawn forth.
(Butler 1920-22:213, vol.2)
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Let us now examine the places of arguments, although, indeed, the topics of which I have
previously spoken are regarded as places of argument by some rhetoricians. By places, I do
not mean commonplaces, in the sense in which the word is generally understood, in
reference to luxury, adultery, or such subjects, but the seats of arguments in which they lie
concealed and from which they must be drawn forth.
(Watson 1856)
A familienähnlichkeiten (“family resemblance”, Wittgenstein 2009:§67) between topoi;
literary criticism as a sprachspiel (“language-game”, Wittgenstein 2009:§2, §3).

For a topos/motif to be a literary universal, (Mueller 1993; Hogan 1996, 1997, 2004;
Quasthoff 1996; Arleo 1997; Richardson 2000; Carroll 2001; Jobling 2001; Sternberg 2003;
Gottschall 2004; Gottschall, Berkey, Drown et al., 2004; Gottschall, Martin, Rea, and Quish,
2004; Gottschall, Callanan, Casamento et al., 2004;) it’s not de riguer that it should appear in
every literary work or that it should appear in all the world’s literary traditions, unlike an
absolute universal, which appears across all literary works and traditions at the most abstract
level. A statistical universal is a topos/motif that recurs at significantly greater rates than
would be predicted by chance, which cannot be convincingly attributed solely to socio-
cultural/literary diffusion (see Hogan 1997, 2004. For instances of socio-literary cultural
diffusion, see Lewis 2010, 2012). The majority of literary scholars have viewed the concept
of universals with skepticism (Cook 1976; Jobling 2001), contra a long and prominent
universalist tradition that argues for recurrent regularities in literatures across geographical
locations, historical epochs, and levels of cultural complexity. There are ideological reasons
for this (Appiah 1992; Hogan 1997, 2004). Early universalist claims were based on
commonsense claims concerning “universal properties” of human psychology, as in this
passage from the nineteenth-century anthropologist Edward Tylor:

The treatment of similar myths from different regions, by arranging them in large compared
groups, makes it possible to trace in mythology the operation of imaginative processes
recurring with the evident regularity of mental law ; and thus stories of which a single instance
would have been a mere isolated curiosity, take their place among well-marked and
consistent structures of the human mind.
(Tylor 1871:281-282, my italics).

The dominant modern approach to investigate and explain these “mental law(s)” has been
that of psycho-analysis and in particular the archetypes of Jungian psychology (Curtius
1990:82; 122-3; Jung himself, incidentally, derived his ideas on the Archetype from classical
literature). E.R. Curtius, speculating on the ubiquity and longevity of the topos of the Church
as an Old Hag says “This is only comprehensible by the fact that it is rooted in the deeper
strata of the soul. It belongs to the stock of archaic proto-images in the collective
unconscious” (Curtius 1990:105; my italics). Here’s Curtius on the topos of the puer
senilis/senex:

The coincidence of testimony of such various origins indicates that we have here an
archetype, an image of the collective unconscious in the sense of C.G. Jung . We shall
encounter such primordial images on one or another occasion. The centuries of late
Roman antiquity and of early Christianity are filled with visions which can often be
understood only as projections of the unconscious.
(Curtius 1990:101, my emphasis)
The conception, then, of “archetopoi” as “literary psycho-biology” (after Curtius 1990:ix,
“literary biology”; ibid.:82, cf. “genetic intertextuality”, Watkins 1995:11) has attracted a
great deal of attention. If “culture” is semiotic, “behavior transmitted from one individual to
another by teaching and learning” (Bonner 1980:18), it’s usually defined in binary opposition
to nature and the innate instinctive forms of semiotics described in ethology and to all other
biological structures of an organism. The propogation of information by teaching and
learning (culture) seems radically opposed to the transmission of information by genes
(nature) (see, for example, Geertz 1973:92-3). Nevertheless, Richard Dawkins postulated an
equivalence between the evolution of culture and nature by conceiving of the meme, defined
as
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A unit of cultural transmission, or a unit of imitation. […] Examples of memes are tunes,
ideas, catch-phrases, clothes fashions, ways of making pots or of building arches. Just as
genes propogate themselves in the gene pool by leaping from body to body via sperms or
eggs, so memes propogate themselves in the meme pool by leaping from brain to brain via a
process which, in the broad sense, can be called imitation.
(Dawkins 1989[1976]:192; see further Dawkins1999[1982],2004, Dennett 1990, 1991,
1995, 1996, 2000, 2001, 2005).
Koch (1986:11) lists several analogies between genes and memes; information storage
(genes through aperiodic sequences of nucleotides, memes through protein synthesis in the
brain); self-replication (genes within and between individuals by growth and sexual
recombination, memes by thinking and communication); capacity for mutation (genes
through alteration of nucleotides, memes through error or misinterpretation) and transfer of
information. Per contra, Bonner (1980:19) lists differences between genes and cultural
evolution: genes can be passed only once from an individual to another, memes can be
taught by one to many; genetic evolution is much slower as compared to cultural evolution;
memes are utterly dependent on genes, but genes can exist and change independent of
memes. The idea of an analogy between genetic and cultural evolution has been proposed
by Lumsden and Wilson (1981:368, 372). Their concept (which garnered severe criticism) is
of the culturgen, the “basic units of culture” (ibid. 368), defined as being the result of a
process of “gene-culture coevolution”, in which “culturgen changes alter the gene
frequencies as well (ibid. 372)”. It is, therefore possible to conceive of topoi/images as
“evolving” (see Beealert 1988-89, 1995 for the “evolution” of the motif/image of “the
complaint of musical instruments” in classical Persian poetry; see also Zipoli 2004-5:155-72,
where he studies the development of images and metaphors based on the mirror from the
fourteenth to the seventeenth centuries focusing on Farrukhī, Ḥāfiẓ and Ṣā’ib and Seyed-
Gohrab 2007b:183-205, focusing on the metaphor of Polo and cognate imagery in classical
Persian poetry from the tenth to the beginning of the sixteenth century; see also Sarma 2004
for the motif of “broken string-scattered pearls” in Sanskrit poetry and mathematics). I can’t
resist quoting the British Neoroscientist Michael A. Arbib here:

In the beginning was the word

WORD
WORE
GORE
GONE
GENE
And by the mutations came the gene.
(Waddington 1969:2:323)

Most scholars of folktales (Propp 2003[1968]; Thompson 1946, 1955-8; Tatar 1987) opine
that folk-tale “universals” are not the result of mere cross-cultural diffusion and that “…their
persistence cannot be understood except on the hypothesis that these images have a special
congeniality for the human mind” (Kluckhohn 1959:160, my emphasis) and that “The mere
recurrence of certain motifs in varied areas separated geographically and historically tells us
something about the human psyche. It suggests that the interaction of a certain kind of
biological apparatus in a certain kind of physical world with some inevitables of the human
condition brings about some regularities in the formation of imaginative products, of
powerful images” (Kluckhohn 1959:160, my emphasis; cf. sau sayāne ekmat). Recent
research for the study of narrative universals has tended to lean in favour of evolutionary
psychology as opposed to theories of social constructivism. How does one theorize the
synistor lychnos/ratipradīpa topos which claims an antiquity of over two thousand years,
from Indo-European to Indo-Iranian?

Locus-A topic of discussion or thought; a matter, subject, point, head or division of a

subject… 2 Esp.: loci, the grounds of proof, the points on which proofs are founded or from
which they are deduced… 3 Esp.: loci communes, general arguments, which do not grow out
of the particular facts of a case, but are applicable to any class of cases… Quint. 2, 4, 30:
locus, for communis locus, id. 4, 2, 117; 5, 7, 32. -
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(Lewis and Short1879:1075, my ellipses)

Sēdes=In relation to inanimate subjects, that upon which any thing sits fast or rests, a seat,
place, spot, base, ground, foundation, bottom, etc.-…argumentorum, id. 5, 10, 20 (corresp.
to loci); 5, 12, 17.
(Lewis and Short1879:1659)

A comparative statistical inventory of such and similar key-words from different poets of
different areas and periods would be, I think, a rewarding, though a rather laborious
task….They are, however, only the first stratum of the different layers of which a ghazal is
composed. On a higher level we could recognize the conceptual ‘motifs’ whose basic
ingredients are those key-words. At this point, a second type of inventory is needed, that of
the motifs. Synchronical and diachronical comparisons among various of these inventories of
different poets will be the only basis of a serious investigation of Persian styles.
(Bausani 1997:92)

The use of conventions is the use of conventions; it implies nothing about either the
relevance or irrelevance of the social context in which the poets write . The relevant question
to ask is: What are the emotions that the poets express through these conventions? But
before coming to that, let us see what these conventions are and consider where they come
from. In her Nets of Awareness Pritchett tells us that ‘people of the old culture felt able to
invoke attraction to beautiful boys … illicit heterosexual love, intoxication, apostasy, and
other images of forbidden behavior’ … ‘as powerful, multivalent poetic images’… Why these
images? Why are beautiful boys, etc., etc., the images that the ‘people of the old culture’
invoked? And where do these images come from? Islam and I answer that where the Urdu
ghazal is concerned, they come from the social reality that the poets experienced, from the
experience, in fact or in fantasy, of love that was necessarily illicit love .The best that Pritchett
and Hanaway can do is to tell us that they come from the conventions of Persian, Turkish
and Arabic. Okay, they come from Persian, Turkish and Arabic. But where did the Persians,
Turks and Arabs get them from? What real experiences did they represent? Islam and I
didn’t need to talk about Persian, Turkish and Arabic, but we would maintain, that they were
the product of a Persian, etc. ‘social reality’ similar to the ‘social reality’ which produced them
in the Urdu ghazal. Pritchett and Hanaway should not content themselves with asserting ( not
arguing) that Islam and I are wrong; they should tell us where they think these things
ultimately come from.
(Russel 1999:55-6; my ellipsis and emphases)
♣
(Kanzu’l-Qáfiya). Then let him make a critical study of poetic ideas and phraseology,
plagiarisms, biographies, and all the sciences of this class, with such a Master as knows
these matters, so that he in turn may merit the title of Master, and his name may appear on
the page of Time like the names of those other Masters whom we have mentioned, that he
may thus be able to discharge his debt to his patron and lord for what he obtains from him
by immortalizing his name.
(Chahār Maqālah, Second Discourse, “The Poet’s Training”; Browne 1921:32, my italics)

[…] commemorate means to “relate to memory together” or “recollect in unity”.

Transmemoration, by contrast, signals a coming to terms (to language) with the ways in
which our identities and understandings are unevenly implicated in wider social and symbolic
formations structured on power and inequality. Transmemoration, as such, conveys the
trans-it between disparate experiences, knowings, languages, cultures, times, and
geographies.
(Maclear 1999:155)

The roots of Muslim self-expression-if such a generalization may be accepted for the sake of
convenience-lie in the three great literary traditions-the Arabic, the Persian, and the Greek.
(Grunebaum 1953:261)
To the Greeks are owed, aside from psychological and philosophical advances such as a
deepening of the love concept and a sharpening of the logical abilities, patterns of narration,
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patterns of rhetorical presentation, and a goodly number of commonplaces and human

paradigms that came to be of considerable assistance in the Arab writer’s struggle to express
ideas and experiences for the presentation of which his own literature would not yield a
precedent…The Greek spirit, on the wane after the tenth century, infiltrated everywhere. It
did not, however, create new genres of self-expression but only affected those that existed
by widening psychological experience and enriching the conceptual means of mastering it.
(Grunebaum 1953:262, my ellipsis and italics)
Language and local colour effectively obscure the foreign origin of the greater part of the
subject matter. The spirit of Islam has come to penetrate tales of Jewish, Buddhist, or
Hellenistic invention; and Muslim institutions, Muslim mores, and Muslim lore have quietly
replaced the cultural conventions of the source material and lent to the corpus that unity of
atmosphere which is so eminently characteristic of Islamic civilization and which will prevent
the observer from noticing at first sight the motely array of heterogenous elements of which
it is composed.
(Grunebaum 1953:294, my italics)
The Greek themes that once must have been current in the Near East did not fare well in
Muslim literatures, be they Arabic, Persian or Turkish. On the whole, it is rare to find
indisputable traces of Greek motifs in these literatures.
(Hägg and Utas 2003:10)

Metaphors take longer than a few centuries to fade if they fade at all , and Kālidāsa and the
classical Tamil poets of the Eight Anthologies drew on Prākrit conventions and relocated
them in their own literatures. Afterwards, works on aesthetics, poetics, and grammar would
quote the Gāthāsaptaśatī’s verses; its sitiations would be taken over by lesser writers who
were, in imitation, composing their own saptaśatī-s till as recently as the eighteenth century;
it attracted more than a dozen commentaries; and it was translated into the major Indian
languages, and into German and Persian.
(Mehrotra 1991:x; my emphasis)

It may not be out of place here to mention that neither Alexander’s conquest nor the
association with Bactrian kings, seems to have left any permanent impression on the Indian
mind. The Punjab or a considerable part of it with some of the adjoining regions remained
more or less under Greek rule for more than two centuries (190 B.C. to 20 A.D.), but except
the coins bearing Greek legends on the obverse, hardly any effect of Hellenisation can be
discovered. It is surprising that not a single Greek inscription is available. There is no
evidence of Greek architecture. The well-known sculptures of Gandhara, the region around
Peshawar, are much later indeed and are the offsprings of cosmopolitan Graeco-Roman art.
The invasions of Alexander, Antiochus the Great, Demetrios, Eukratides and Minander were
but military incursions which left no appreciable mark upon the institutions of India. The
people of India rejected Greek political institutions and architecture as well as language .
(Dasgupta-De 1947:ciii; my emphasis)

You find in the best poems from the Sanskrit a certain clarity of outline and directness of
emotion that recall only a few other poetic traditions. Perhaps the Greek Anthology, its
tender erotic themes treated with such gestural simplicity, comes closest to the poetry of
classical India. Sappho and Meleager, Vidya and Yogeshvara-they might have lived in
neighbouring villages. Certainly they would have recognized the impulse behind one
another’s verse. Yet fleet as the Sanskrit poems sound, fifteen centuries having lapsed to
dust since their composition, like their Greek counterparts, they are the deliberate result of a
carefully applied craft.
(Schelling 1999:xi; my emphasis)

This poem by Dharmakīrti could have been included in the Palatine Anthology; it has the
economy and perfection of an epigram by Meleagros or Philodemus.
(Paz [Weinberger] 2006:143)
Many of the surviving classical Sanskrit poems have a strange but undeniable similarity to
Alexandrine poetry and its Roman successors, like Catullus.
(Paz [Weinberger] 2006:143)
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I cite this example to point out what seems to me a pervasive and largely unexamined
assumption of monolingualism in the study of premodern Indian literature. By this I mean
more than just the assumption that medieval authors and readers functioned primarily in one
language. One significant corollary of the monolingual assumption is the facile equation we
draw between literary traditions and religious communities . Thus, Padmāvat comes to be
situated exclusively and neatly within the confines of Hindi written in Nagari script. But such
neat correspondences fail to explain the social world of such Mughals as Mukhliṣ and Shākir.
Where, for example, do we begin to locate the identity of Mukhliṣ-a Panjabi Hindu making a
pilgrimage to the tomb of a Sufi saint, enjoying a sophisticated narrative in Eastern Hindi and
retelling it in high Persian for the delectation of his Persian-and Urdu-speaking Muslim
colleagues?

To do justice to such a complex and adamantly heteroglot literary community one must, I
believe, redirect one’s gaze at the blurred peripheries of literary canons, for it is there that
we glimpse the intricate interdependencies and rivalries-in a word the ecology-of literary
communities. To thus excavate the ecology of Mughal literary communities means to begin
thinking in terms of not this or that text, nor yet in terms of Hindi or Urdu studies, but in
terms of an entire literary area with its multiple literary voices and how these interact with
each other. This is, admittedly, an ambitious task-one which South Asianists have scarcely
begun to tackle, and scholars of Hindi have, for political reasons, positively discouraged.
(Phukan 2000:7-8; my emphasis)

Vidyākara’s Treasury is composed of 1,728 poems, fewer than those in the Palatine
Anthology. The similarity between the two anthologies is extraordinary: brevity and
concision, irony and sensuality, the multiplicity of themes and the attention to the
characteristic detail, the presence of death and the humor or fear it provokes in us,
familiarity and artifice, the endless repetitions and the sudden surprises. Each poem is an
exquisite miniature, sharply drawn, amply modeled, a verbal cameo. A poetry that stays in
the memory, that makes us both laugh and reflect.
(Paz [Weinberger] 2006:150)

The classical Sanskrit short poem, like the Greek or Latin, is an epigram.
(Paz [Weinberger] 2006:150)

Muslim poets who wrote in Persian in India, sometimes turned to a colloquial Hindi dialect for
amusement.
(Ahmad 2000:241, my emphasis)

In the second half of the sixteenth century, which saw the height of Akbar’s eclectic tolerance,
the Muslim élite came to the closest point of the appreciation of, if not large scale
participation in Hindi poetry as a diversion from its main preoccupation with Persian poetry
which was also at this time passing through one of its great phases of creativity.
(Ahmad 2000:243, my emphasis)

Dilettante Muslim interest in Hindi poetry, as an escape from the intellectual rigours of Indo-
Persian, continued throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries sporadically, and was
confined more or less to rural centres of culture like Bilgram in the valley of Ganges. Among
the dilletanti Hindi poets of Bilgram, Āzād mentions Rahmat-Ullāh, an eighteenth-century poet
whose disciples included Hindus as well as Muslims, Dhawqī and ‘Ārif Bilgrāmī. Āzād himself
composed Hindi verses, though his fame rests entirely on his Persian tadhkiras (bibliographical
dictionaries).
(Ahmad 2000:243-4, my emphasis)

On the one hand, the riti corpus is literally defined by its adherence to Sanskrit literary
norms, and the largely brahmanical episteme they represent. The word rīti means ‘method’,
referring specifically to Sanskrit Method, and one of the most prevalent genres of riti
literature, the Rītigranth (Book of method), was designed at least in part to be a vehicle for
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disseminating classical literary ideas in a vernacular medium. On the other hand, from
virtually the moment of its inception the Braj Bhasha courtly style attracted both Mughal
patrons and poets-to the extent that the stunning transregional success of riti literary culture
from the seveneeenth century would be unthinkable without factoring in Indo-Muslim
communities. Whereas Sanskrit literature remained largely inaccessible except through
sporadic Persian translations, riti literature was a cultural repertory in which Indo-Muslims
could and did participate firsthand . Situated at a kind of intersection then, between Sanskrit
and Persianate courtly traditions, what might the writings of riti poets reveal to us moderns
about the ‘Hindi’ of its day-both as a linguistic phenomenon but also as an index of the larger
social and conceptual worlds its users inhabited?
(Busch 2010:85, my emphasis)

♣
Prejudice: late 13c., from O.Fr. prejudice (13c.), from M.L. prejudicium “injustice,” from L.
præjudicium “prior judgment,” from præ- “before” + judicium “judgment,” from judex (gen.
judicis) “judge.” The notion is of “preconceived opinion;” the verb meaning “to affect or fill
with prejudice” is from c.1610.
♣
There is an undercoded abduction when the rule must be selected among a series of
equiprobable alternatives…The decision as to whether certain properties (belonging to the
meaning of a term) must be blown up or narcotized represents a good case of undercoded
abduction. Thagard calls this type of reasoning an abduction stricto sensu: the rule selected
can be, in a certain co-text, the most plausible one, but it is not certain whether it is the most
correct or the only correct one. Thus the explanation is entertained, waiting for further tests…
(Eco 1986:42, my ellipses)

Abductive reasoning is “Inference to the Best Explanation.” (or perhaps Inference to the
most Beautiful Explanation; cf. Davis 2008:170 discussing Eco 1992:77 on the aspect of a
reading being “interesting” and “rewarding”. The locus classicus on IBE is still Lipton 2004).
It has the logical form of an Inverse Modus Ponens (modus ponendo ponens “the way that
affirms by affirming”; also called affirming the antecedent) and is reasoning “backward” from
consequent to antecedent. Therefore, Peirce calls it also “retroductive reasoning.” From the
point of view of formal logic, reasoning backward is an invalid form of inference, being
conjectural or presumptive, prompted by the reasoner’s “guessing instinct”; Copi and Cohen
(1998) term backward (Inverse) Modus Ponens as “the fallacy of affirming the consequent”
(post hoc ergo propter hoc, “after this, therefore because of this”). Inverse Modus Ponens is
one of the “four new fuzzy inference rules” (Sun et al. 2005:188-193) for Experience Based
Reasoning, “a reasoning paradigm using prior experience to solve problems” (ibid.:188).
Speaking of IMP, the learned authors further state that “It should be noted that IMP has
received attention from some researchers. However, they consider this inference rule as the
source of fallacies in the reasoning, while we argue that it is a basic inference rule for EBR ”
(ibid.: 188; my emphasis)

A technical term first introduced by Algirdas Julien Greimas (1966) to account for the
semantic consistency of a text, isotopy has been often redefined and discussed in the works
of Greimas, the Paris School, Umberto Eco, and Group μ. Coined from the
Greek isos (“equal,” “same”) and topos (“space,” “place”), isotopy can be translated literally
as “single level” or “same plane.” Greimas provides the following definitions with respect to
the reading of narratives: “A redundant set of semantic categories which make possible the
consistent interpretation [literally, “uniform reading”] of a story, as it results from the reading
of the successive segments of the text and the resolution of their ambiguities in view of the
quest for a coherent global understanding” (1970:188). A more technical definition is found
in Greimas and J. Courtés’ Analytical Dictionary: “As an operational concept, isotopy at first
designated iterativity along a syntagmatic chain of classemes which assure the homogeneity
of the utterance-discourse” (1982:163). (Classemes are semes that recur in a discourse and
enable the reader to establish semantic coherence.) Ambiguous and polysemic texts of lesser
or greater complexity can be described semiotically in the metalanguage generated by the
notion of isotopy. For example, two contrary terms, such as boys and girls or boys and men,
form the minimal context for establishing the isotopy of gender or the isotopy of age,
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respectively. From this point of view, the four terms of a semiotic square are isotopes since
they hold mutual relationships of contradiction and contrariness with respect to a particular
semantic category.The notion of recurring categories can apply to syntax (grammatical
isotopy), content (semantic isotopy), and narrative (actorial isotopy). The coherence of a
discourse on its figurative level is described in terms of figurative isotopy and on a deeper
level in terms of thematic isotopy. In the same vein, bi-isotopy, pluri-isotopy, and complex
isotopy are found in the metalanguage used by the Paris School to account for the semiotic
functioning of metaphors, jokes, ambiguous and symbolic texts, and, more generally, all
interpretive strategies in any modality. Eco points to the etymologic and conceptual
congruence of isotopy and topic. However, he notes that, technically, topics are means to
produce isotopies, since “the topic as question is an abductive schema that helps the reader
to decide which semantic properties [semes] have to be actualized, whereas isotopies are
the actual textual verification of that tentative hypothesis” (1979:27). For a discussion of the
various uses of the notion of isotopy, see Catherine Kerbrat-
Orecchioni (1976), Eco (1979:24-27) and François Rastier (1981, 1987, 1997). Groupé μ
coined the term allotopy, from the Greek allos (“other,” “different”), as an antonym
of isotopy in order to designate semiotic heterogeneity or lack of semantic redundancy in a
verbal or visual text (1977a,1992).

The notions of iso- and allotopy attempt to describe and explain the “natural” process
through which a global text is perceived intuitively as making sense or not. This process is
formalized as a series of operations (identification of classemes, selection, and cumulation of
relevant semes) whose mental or psychological status is uncertain. This raises the same
theoretical difficulty as the hermeneutic circle, since the selection of semes depends on the
identification of classemes, themselves produced by the iteration of selected semes. Another
criticism is formulated by Eco (1976:121), who denounces the infinite semantic recursivity of
this kind of model since “every semantic unit used in order to analyze a sememe is in its turn
a sememe to be analyzed”. However, as an explicit method for construing meaning out of
highly informative or enigmatic texts (i.e., those that lack sufficient redundancy), these
operations have a definite pragmatic value.Take, for instance, the often-quoted
“meaningless” utterance, “Colorless green ideas sleep furiously (Chomsky, 1965:15). It is
actually relatively easy to build an isotopy out of such an apparently self-contradictory string
of words. The most abstract term of the set (and the focus of the sentence) is ideas, which
denotes a vague notion rather commonly defined as the products of mind or the fruit of
thought. If ideas can be categorized metaphorically as fruit, they can be either ripe or not.
Ripeness or maturity is prototypically associated with redness; immaturity is similarly linked
with greenness. The quality green applied to a fruit might not only be chromatically
descriptive but also have the privative value “not yet ripe, not yet colored, colorless.” From
this point of view, green and colorless are not contradictory but redundant. Furthermore,
vegetal metaphors imply growth, and ideas are indeed conceived of as developing, maturing
over time, and sometimes even being unseasonably in advance to the point of being not
understood or appreciated because they are out of cultural synchrony; in spite of their
potential, they are kept unexploited, dormant, as if they were asleep. Sleep itself is a state
that can be qualified as light or deep with various degrees of intensity. Furiously is often
used as an intensive rather than with the denotative value of extreme anger, furor, and
madness. The construction of a textual isotopy thus makes possible the production of a
paraphrase or translation. In the present case, a semantically equivalent sentence could be,
“Absolutely nothing can activate an idea that has not come of age.”

The notion of isotopy and the metalanguage associated with it (including the ideas of seme,
classeme, sememe, semic categories, subsumation, presupposition, hypotactic construction,
reading grid, level, semiotic square, and others) provide analytic tools that can be applied
more generally than componential analysis can. Some researchers have even extended their
application from the semantic to the phonological and grammatical domains by defining
isotopy as the iterativeness (recurrence) of linguistic units (e.g., Rastier 1991:220–223). The
question remains whether this approach opens up an explanation of the processes of textual
production and understanding and their simulation in artificial intelligence research or
whether it merely offers an interesting interpretive strategy that is particularly useful for the
hermeneutics of poetry and the accurate translation of complex discourse.
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Greimas (1966) borrowed the term isotopy (Gr. ισoς “the same,” τοπος “place”) from nuclear
physics. In structural semantics, isotopy describes the coherence and homogeneity of texts
(cf. Rastier 1972b; 1981, Arrivé 1973, Klinkenberg 1973, Kerbrat-Orecchioni 1976, Greimas &
Courtés 1979: 163-65). The concept has been widely accepted as a principle of text
constitution within text semiotics (cf. Eco 1984b: 189-201).Greimas defines isotopy as “the
principle that allows the semantic concatenation of utterances” (1974a: 60; cf. 1970: 188).
In his first approach, Greimas develops the theory of textual coherence on the basis of his
concept of contextual semes: The “iterativity” (recurrence) of contextual semes, which
connect the semantic elements of discourse (sememes), assures its textual homogeneity and
coherence (1966: 69101). Greimas (cf. 1974a: 60) links this principle to Katz & Fodor’s
theory of semantic disambiguation. Within a text, a polysemous noun such as bark ('outer
covering on the trunk of a tree,' and 'sailing ship') is disambiguated by a contextual seme
such as 'ocean.' The minimal condition of discoursive isotopy is thus a syntagm of two
contextual semes. Later, Greimas & Courtés also interpret the semiotic square in terms of
discoursive isotopy (1979: 163). In its syntagmatic extension, an isotopy is constituted by all
those textual segments which are connected by one contextual seme. Since texts are usually
neither unilinear nor univocal, Greimas describes the overlapping of isotopies at various
isotopic strata (1966: 109-115). When a discourse has only one interpretation, its semantic
structure is a simple isotopy. The simultaneity of two readings, such as in ambiguities or
metaphors, is called bi-isotopy. The superimposition of several semantic levels in a text is
called pluri or poly-isotopy (cf. Arrivé 1973).

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