Finding Radha Read online

  Literary evidence is far less specific about the physical existence of Radha. Devdutt Pattanaik says in his essay in this book, ‘The earliest tales of Krishna, found in the Mahabharata, compiled between 300 BC and 300 AD, only refer to, but do not describe, his [Krishna’s] early life in the village of cowherds. Later, around 400 AD, the Harivamsa was added as an appendix to the Mahabharata. This described in detail Krishna’s life in Gokul, including his dalliances with milkmaids. But there was no mention of Radha or any particular milkmaid [. . .] The women were a collective with whom Krishna danced and sported. The mood was joyful and carnival-like.’

  There was clearly a gap between the Radha of folk and classical imagination, but here, too, scholars may take different positions. According to Mandakranta Bose, ‘The Vayu, Matsya and Varaha Puranas mention Radha but it is in the Devi Bhagavata, Brahma Vaivarta and Padma Purana that she is described at length . . . Her elevation is complete when at one point she is identified with Lakshmi.’ Furthermore, Andrew Schelling has recovered the Sanskrit poems of Vidya, a hardly remembered woman poet, possibly of the 7th century, in which Radha is mentioned by name.

  Poised at the cusp of the human and the divine, Radha, this beauteous girl-woman is said to be an elder relative to whom the mischievous baby Krishna is entrusted. The games children play in innocence and whimsy turn gradually into a love game transcending the taboos of earthly rules. Was Radha a married woman breaking out of marital restrictions, or, like Meera, Andal and Lal Ded, was she a mystical seeker of a perfect relationship?

  RADHA THE LOVER

  As several of our authors in this book have pointed out, the dominant image of Radha derives from Jayadeva. According to Jawhar Sircar, ‘His immortal Gita Govinda, composed in the 12th century, set new trends like the ashtapadi, or “groups-of-eight lyrical couplets”. He could portray divine love with such finesse that he became the fountain of inspiration for countless generations of poets, singers and dancers since then. Though Jayadeva mixed his Sanskrit with Apabhramsa, an Eastern sublanguage, Brahmanical tradition not only accepted him and his Radha–Krishna, but several learned Sanskrit commentaries [. . .] were actually written on Jayadeva’s work.’

  Interestingly, so little is known about this magnificent writer that people from Odisha and Bengal continue to quarrel about Jayadeva’s birthplace, about whether it is Kenduli Sasan in Odisha, or the village Kenduli in Birbhum, West Bengal—the weightage being in favour of Odisha because its dance and music traditions replicate the classic text. Folklore is never far from classicism and it is believed that Jayadeva thought of his dancer wife, Padmavati, when he described the erotic rasas and the several moods of enjoyment and ecstasy. It is said that as he reached the end of the poem where Radha is first angry, then repentant about her peeve with Krishna, words failed him in ascribing any contrite action to Krishna. Jayadeva abandoned the script and went for a ritual bath, during which interregnum the Lord himself silently appeared and wrote the famous verse ‘dehi padapallavam udaram’ (Sri Krishna bows down his head at the feet of Sri Radha) into the manuscript.

  Every nuance in romantic love is mentioned in this remarkable, though brief, poem. Opening with a dedication to Saraswati and Lakshmi, Jayadeva sets forth on his journey through the mythical land of Radha–Krishna’s mutual, idealized love. The forest of Tamala trees offers refuge as well as challenge to the lovers’ trysts, for Radha is a parkiya—married to another—but she and the women of Braj are irresistibly drawn to the blue God and his flute. His attention flows to all, though especially to Radha, who shows a variety of emotions reflecting the rasas of Indian dramaturgy. Modesty and sexual desire turn to jealousy and anger when Radha finds out about Krishna’s dalliance with another gopi, peeve turns to repentance when she expresses unconditional surrender in her love towards her God.

  Responding to the enunciation of such rapture, Pavan K. Varma says, ‘All lovers could not but reflect in their own personality some part (ansh) of the divine love between the two; conversely, the two incorporated in themselves the personality of all lovers. The canvas of their love was seamless, a painting which amplified and mutated itself in a myriad of reflections.’ This leads to the further issue of whether Radha’s love is bounded by earthly conditions or whether it transcends them to reach another supernal realm. Literary texts provide several details about Radha’s married life—the husband, Ayan, could be caring, as in some versions; the mother-in-law and the community could be cursing her for her adultery, a situation imaginatively elaborated upon by Debotri Dhar in her short story ‘A Flute Called Radha’; or she could boldly abandon her home as in Ramakanta Rath’s Sri Radha:

  I have come out of my house,

  dressed for our night of love.

  I have left my last breath so far behind

  I can’t go back to it—

  Jayadeva’s poem influenced a lineage of writing about Radha’s unswerving love, sometimes earthly and sometimes transcendent, often reflecting the social conditions of the times. Makarand Paranjape’s essay tracks ‘the rise and fall of Radha’ in sacred literature showing that ‘from the 13th to the 17th centuries what the Radha–Krishna relationship represented was love that was simultaneously intensely erotic and devotional’. His extended argument takes the reader through the prime period of Chaitanya Mahaprabhu personally experiencing the exalted state of ‘Radha Bhava’ (becoming Radha), the tradition of the Bhakti poets who composed delicate verses on Radha’s ephemeral expressions of love, and the development of allegorical interpretations that sanitized the embodiment of sexuality. In fact, Paranjape creates a delightful hypothetical conversation between Radha and Mahatma Gandhi on the meaning of love, sexuality and desire.

  RADHA THE ECOLOGIST

  The twelve cantos of the Gita Govinda continue to be adapted into visual compositions and performative arts, gathering the local vocabulary. The eternal love of Radha–Krishna can be enacted only when Nature is in balance, as evident in the descriptions of Barsana, Mathura and Vrindavana.

  Dr Kapila Vatsyayan’s substantial corpus of writing traces four centuries of the pictorial journey of Gita Govinda. Of the eight monographs that present her incisive commentary, we are privileged to reprint her work on the Darbhanga Gita Govinda, which introduces the entire tradition of pictorial representation in Rajasthani miniatures and captures the ecological harmony that surrounds the evocations of Radha’s love. ‘The similes and metaphors of the poem are transformed into natural landscape—flora, fauna, birds and animals. On the surface all of this appears to be an aggregate of decorative stock motifs, underneath it is the transfiguration of the crucial similes and metaphors of the poem.’ In various sets of paintings, Dr Vatsyayan describes the significance of the customary ‘arched bower with dangling garlands’ used in the Rasikapriya and Rasamanjari portfolios and many others. She looks especially for the symbology surrounding the lovers: ‘The reference to the doe-eyed Radha also gives rise to the pictorial motif of the doe so frequently mentioned in the Gita Govinda. Cuckoos, bees and peacocks sing, hum and dance throughout the Gita Govinda. The Mewari artist provides the pictorial counterpart by painting them along with the chakora and the khanjan (wagtails) in most paintings of this phase . . .’

  The analogy between human and non-human life forms gives intriguing primacy to some neglected creatures such as the bhramar, or bees. Medieval literature on Radha carries references to the ‘bhramar geet’, or the ‘song of the bees’, especially in Nanda Das’s poem ‘Uddhav’s Message’, which recounts a very moving episode. Krishna left his leela sthall of Vrindavana abruptly, without ever giving a reason to his playmates. Radha and the gopis await his return, certain of their bond of passion, but years go by. The all-knowing Krishna understands their puzzlement and sends Uddhav with a message that He, Lord Krishna, is permanently united with each of them, and hence he resides in their souls. The gopis refuse to accept such a false consolation about Krishna’s absence and insist that Uddhav give them a better answer. When his repetitions anno
y them thoroughly the gopis call him a buzzing bee, a bhramar, that sings noisily, turning in endless circles. Finally, Uddhav realizes the infinite depth of their trust in Krishna and sees such supreme devotion from untutored village belles as superior to courtly knowledge.

  RADHA AND THE GENDER QUESTION

  When a woman’s sexual desire is transformed into eternal spiritual longing and submission, the gender question could be problematic. Can modern readings of Radha configure the story in ways that show power equilibrium without distorting mythical narratology? Alka Pande’s essay ‘Becoming Radha’ brings theoretical and visual information on Krishna and Radha’s ‘cross-dressing’, quite literally for reasons of play but also as a cultural signifier of gender parity. Pande says, ‘According to legend, the women of Gokul could not bear the mischievousness of Krishna and decided to take revenge by dressing him as a woman. The popular lyrics of the thumri “Nar Ko Nari Banao” (Make the Lad a Lass) illustrate this. To dress him up as a woman, they make Krishna wear ghaghra and choli. His hands are made red with alta, but instead of getting miffed with the gopis, Krishna goes with the flow and partakes in the pleasure. He eagerly demands jewellery and asks for shringara. In Indian literature the sixteen traditional adornments of a woman do not merely enhance her beauty—they are also an arpana (offering) for her beloved. This is an important aspect of shringara rasa. The retribution turns into a play, or leela, between the gopis and Krishna.’

  Radha in her turn:

  She wears his peacock feather;

  She sports his yellow garment,

  He wraps himself in her beautiful sari

  How charming the very sight of it . . .

  The daughter of Vrishabhanu [Radha] turns [into] Nanda’s son [Krishna], and Nanda’s son, Vrishabhanu’s girl.

  Alka Pande presents several examples of the exchange of attire, which visually conveys a strong message of sexual interplay but also of the psychological transference of attributes designated as masculine and feminine. Indic traditions contain the imaging of the Ardhanariswara (God as half woman and half man), generally picturized as Shiva and Parvati, the ideal marital pair. Modified into Radha–Krishna, the cross-dressing denotes empathy for the ‘other’, though Radha finally tells Krishna that he may dress as a woman but he will never experience viraha as a woman, which is the deep anguish of parting from the beloved.

  Another aspect of the gender question would dwell upon the abjection of Radha after Krishna leaves Vrindavana. We know very little of her childhood, we know nothing of her ageing; Radha enters the mythical imagination as a nubile woman and exits from the pages with the departure of Krishna for Dwarka. Contemporary writers enter this terrain with innovations that are thoughtful. Dharamvir Bharati’s Kanupriya (translated by Alok Bhalla) can sound cynical with regard to the meaninglessness of words, empty words; Tarashankar’s ‘Raikamal’ (translated by Aruna Chakravarti) might subvert conventional marriage; while Bulbul Sharma may devise Radha’s alluring subterfuges to escape a censorious society—all of this iterating the relevance of Radha in our times.

  RADHA IN MUSICAL RENDERINGS

  Under a canopy of dark clouds one lazy afternoon, the young Rabindranath Tagore wrote the alliterative lines, ‘Gahan kusum kunja majhe’ (in the dense flowering woods), the first lyric penned in Bhanusingher Padavali, songs about the passionate love of Radha and Krishna, in imitation of the immensely popular poets Vidyapati and Chandidas. The collection started as a prank, with Rabindranath publishing his series in 1877 in a Calcutta-based magazine named Bharati. He was delighted when word spread about the ‘discovery’ of a lost Vaishnava poet whose language was a mellifluous blend of Maithili and Bengali. Rabindranath, relishing the gag, wrote a fictional biography of Bhanusingh in 1884, nudging the critics in the direction of the invented language ‘Brajabuli’ and leaving clues for a comparison with Vidyapati. Though the prank was uncovered, bringing some embarrassment to the perpetrator and his admirers, the Padavali earned justifiable popularity for its lyrics and its easy adaptation to dance forms. Lalit Kumar’s commentary and translation of Bhanusingher Padavali brings attention to Tagore’s poetic persona who warns Radha of the pain of separation that awaits her; Bhanu remonstrates, ‘Go wait for him in the last shreds / of your innocence, crazy girl / until grief comes for you.’ Yet, Radha, though anticipating sorrow, revels in the ardour of her relationship and nature’s blessing of their union.

  Not far from Tagore, Kazi Nazrul Islam was born in 1899 in Churulia, a village in the Burdwan district of West Bengal, and received religious education. As a young man he was a muezzin at the local mosque. Nazrul was fascinated by the character of Radha and deeply empathized with a woman’s inner life of hesitantly expressed desire. His famous song ‘Tumi Jodi Radha Hotey Shyam’ (Shyam! If Only You Were Radha) speculates about exchanging the emotions typically attributed to men and women. Hence, as Reba Som discusses the oeuvre of Nazrul’s songs on Radha, ‘Many of the songs were unabashed expressions of earthly love, conveying love and longing, dejection and despair.’ Nazrul, a revolutionary in politics and an extraordinary composer of lyrics, went on to become the national poet of Bangladesh. Reba translates a selection of songs that illustrate ‘Nazrul’s sensitive handling of woman’s emotions through the idiom of the Radha–Krishna romance, lyrically composed in a woman’s voice’. Here is a sample:

  Who is he, that Beautiful One?

  I find myself resounding in the rhythm of his anklet

  In the melody of his flute

  In the pain of parting on the Jamuna front

  I find myself as blossoms in his songs

  In the distant unseen

  Who is he, that Beautiful One?

  Time has only heightened the fascination with Radha’s unconditional, ‘illicit’ romance although Indian society has witnessed such vast changes in social and sexual mores. Some years after Tagore and Nazrul, the post-Independence generation in India has become increasingly moulded by the impact of television and cinema. In the past two decades the interest in mythology has surfaced and strengthened, perhaps as a counterpoint to colonial education, or by way of identity formation within a local milieu. As Namita and I had mentioned in our introductory chapters to In Search of Sita, India enjoys a living mythology where interpretations, innovations and interpolations are encouraged. In Finding Radha, a similar energy of interpretive ‘newness’ is tracked in Bollywood cinema in the essay by Alka Kurian, in which adaptations of Radha’s legend through plot and music are foregrounded. From Mughal-e-Azam’s haunting ‘Mohe Panghat Pe Nandlal Chhed Gayo Re’ to ‘Bol Radha Bol Sangam Hoga Ki Nahi’ in Sangam, to ‘Radha Kaise Na Jale’ in Lagaan, the enchanting list is fairly long but also presents an unveiling of societal values when these films were popular. Thus, Radha’s synchronicity with the times is established. However, when Sonakshi Sinha delivers an ‘item number’ for the song ‘Radha Nachegi’ in the 2015 film Tevar, the transformation of Radha is quite radical.

  RADHA’S LEGACY

  The inheritance from Radha takes several directions, as our book will show. To speak of Krishna is to evoke a rooted tradition of religious and cultural ethnography, to speak of Radha is to enter into the interstices of such narratives.

  For one, the religious devotion to Radha remains strong through temple practices and the sampradayas with large followings. Shri Shrivatsa Goswami, acharya of the Radha Raman Temple in Vrindavana, writes his essay from the viewpoint of the Chaitanya sampradaya, which sees the ascetic Chaitanya as ‘the complete avatar of both Radha and Krishna’. According to Acharyaji, ‘As “quintessence of all essences” Sri Radha is the ultimate answer to the human quest—philosophical, theological, existential.’ In his highly modern outlook, the love based on ‘equality coupled with intensity makes possible a level of rasa unknown elsewhere’. Visiting Vrindavana, as several of our contributors did, the sound of ‘Radhe Radhe’ brings resonances of what she stood for—dignity and devotion. Film-maker Madhureeta Anand looked for the legacy of Radha among
the widows of Vrindavana, many of whom now receive help from philanthropic organizations. Would the inmates here value Radha, would they be ‘celebrating the woman who was a wife, a mother and the lover of Krishna? A woman who clearly had it all and celebrated it with no attachment and no apologies?’ asks Anand. She was struck by the unswerving faith of the aged, abandoned widows who lived with the security of their daily routine of worship. ‘Radha bhava’ was their inheritance, and yet, to idealize this existence on charity is questionable. Some decades before Madhureeta, the late Indira Goswami, lovingly known as ‘Mamoni Baideo’ in Assam, spent two years amidst the widows of the Radhaswami sect in Vrindavana, entering their fold as a compassionate member but also as a researcher. The novel that ensued from this experience, Neel Kanthi Braja (excerpted here in a translation by Gayatri Bhattacharyya), is an amazing narrative combining fact and fiction, autobiography and reflection. Saudamini, the protagonist, is a thinly disguised mask of the author. Despite having a supportive community at most times, Saudamini anxiously probes into the implications of widowhood and takes dangerous risks. In such a context, the legacy of Radha questions the systems of a temple economy. The inquiry goes beyond India in Yudit Greenberg’s essay comparing the Gita Govinda and Shir Ha-Shirim (Song of Songs), comprising one of the Hebrew Bible’s twenty-four books portraying the sensuous love between a shepherdess and a shepherd in the land of Israel.