Poem – The Cloud Messenger – Part 01

A certain yaksha who had been negligent in the execution of his own duties,
on account of a curse from his master which was to be endured for a year and
which was onerous as it separated him from his beloved, made his residence
among the hermitages of Ramagiri, whose waters were blessed by the bathing
of the daughter of Janaka1 and whose shade trees grew in profusion.

That lover, separated from his beloved, whose gold armlet had slipped from
his bare forearm, having dwelt on that mountain for some months, on the first
day of the month of Asadha, saw a cloud embracing the summit, which
resembled a mature elephant playfully butting a bank.

Managing with difficulty to stand up in front of that cloud which was the
cause of the renewal of his enthusiasm, that attendant of the king of kings,
pondered while holding back his tears. Even the mind of a happy person is
excited at the sight of a cloud. How much more so, when the one who longs to
cling to his neck is far away?

As the month of Nabhas was close at hand, having as his goal the sustaining
of the life of his beloved and wishing to cause the tidings of his own welfare
to be carried by the cloud, the delighted being spoke kind words of welcome
to the cloud to which offerings of fresh kutaja flowers had been made.

Owing to his impatience, not considering the imcompatibility between a cloud
consisting of vapour, light, water and wind and the contents of his message
best delivered by a person of normal faculties, the yaksha made this request to
the cloud, for among sentient and non-sentient things, those afflicted by desire
are naturally miserable:

Without doubt, your path unimpeded, you will see your brother’s wife, intent
on counting the days, faithful and living on. The bond of hope generally
sustains the quickly sinking hearts of women who are alone, and which wilt
like flowers.

Just as the favourable wind drives you slowly onward, this cataka cuckoo,
your kinsman, calls sweetly on the left. Knowing the season for fertilisation,
cranes, like threaded garlands in the sky, lovely to the eye, will serve you.

Your steady passage observed by charming female siddhas who in trepidation
wonder ‘Has the summit been carried off the mountain by the wind?’, you
who are heading north, fly up into the sky from this place where the nicula
trees flourish, avoiding on the way the blows of the trunks of the elephants of
the four quarters of the sky.

This rainbow, resembling the intermingled sparkling of jewels, appears before
Mt Valmikagra, on account of which your dark body takes on a particular
loveliness, as did the body of Vishnu dressed as a cowherd with the peacock’s
feather of glistening lustre.

While being imbibed by the eyes of the country women who are ignorant of
the play of the eyebrows, who are tender in their affection, and who are
thinking ‘The result of the harvest depends on you’, having ascended to a
region whose fields are fragrant from recent ploughing, you should proceed a
little to the west. Your pace is swift. Go north once more.

Mt Amrakuta will carefully bear you upon its head—you whose showers
extinguished its forest fires and who are overcome by fatigue of the road.
Even a lowly being, remembering an earlier kind deed, does not turn its back
on a friend who has come for refuge; how much less, then, one so lofty?

When you, remembling a glossy braid of hair, have ascended its summit, the
mountain whose slopes are covered with forest mangoes, glowing with ripe
fruit, takes on the appearance of a breast of the earth, dark at the centre, the
rest pale, worthy to be beheld by a divine couple.

Having rested for a moment at a bower enjoyed by the forest-dwelling
women, then travelling more swiftly when your waters have been discharged,
the next stage thence is crossed. You will see the river Reva spread at the foot
of Mt Vandhya, made rough with rocks and resembling the pattern formed by
the broken wrinkles on the body of an elephant.

Your showers shed, having partaken of her waters that are scented with the
fragrant exudation of forest elephants and whose flow is impeded by thickets
of rose-apples, you should proceed. Filled with water, the wind will be unable
to lift you, O cloud, for all this is empty is light, while fullness results in
heaviness.

Seeing the yellow-brown nipa with their stamens half erect, eating the kankali
flowers whose first buds have appeared on every bank, and smelling the
highly fragrant scent of the forest earth, the deer will indicate the way to the
cloud.

Watching the cataka cuckoos that are skilled in catching raindrops, and
watching the herons flying in skeins as they count them, the siddhas will hold
you in high regard at the moment of your thundering, having received the
trembling, agitated embraced of their beloved female companions!

I perceive in an instant, friend, your delays on mountain after mountain
scented with kakubha flowers—you who should desire to proceed for the sake
of my beloved. Welcomed by peacocks with teary eyes who have turned their
cries into words of welcome, you should somehow resolve to proceed at once.

Reaching their capital by the name of Vidisha, renowned in all quarters, and
having won at once complete satisfaction of your desires, you will drink the
sweet, rippling water from the Vetravati River which roars pleasantly at the
edge of her banks, rippling as if her face bore a frown.

There, for the sake of rest, your should occupy the mountain known as Nicaih
which seems to thrill at your touch with its full-blown kadamba flowers, and
whose grottoes make known the unbridled youthful deeds of the townsmen by
emitting the scent of intercourse with bought women.

After resting, move on while watering with fresh raindrops the clusters of
jasmine buds that grow in gardens on the banks of the forest rivers—you who
have made a momentary acquaintance with the flower-picking girls by lending
shade to their faces, the lotuses at whose ears are withered and broken as they
wipe away the perspiration from their cheeks.

Even though the route would be circuitous for one who, like you, is
northward-bound, do not turn your back on the love on the palace roofs in
Ujjayini. If you do not enjoy the eyes with flickering eyelids of the women
startled by bolts of lightning there, then you have been deceived!

On the way, after you have ascended to the Nirvandhya River, whose girdles
are flocks of birds calling on account of the turbulence of her waves, whose
gliding motion is rendered delightful with stumbling steps, and whose
exposed navel is her eddies, fill yourself with water, for amorous distraction
is a woman’s first expression of love for their beloved.

When you have passed that, you should duly adopt the means by which the
Sindhu River may cast off her emaciation—she whose waters have become
like a single braid of hair, whose complexion is made pale by the old leaves
falling from the trees on her banks, and who shows you goodwill because she
has been separated from you, O fortunate one.

Having reached Avanti where the village elders are well-versed in the legend
of Udayana, make your way to the aforementioned city of Vishala, filled with
splendour, like a beautiful piece of heaven carried there by means of the
remaining merit of gods who had fallen to earth when the fruits of the good
actions had nearly expired;

Where, at daybreak, the breeze from the Shipra River, carrying abroad the
sweet, clear, impassioned cries of the geese, fragrant from contact with the
scent of full-blown lotuses and pleasing to the body, carries off the lassitude
of the women after their love-play, like a lover making entreaties for further
enjoyment.

And having see by the tens of millions the strings of pearls with shining gems
as their central stones, conches, pearl-shells, emeralds as green as fresh grass
with radiating brilliance and pieces of coral displayed in the market there, the
oceans appear to contain nothing but water;

And where the knowledgeable populace regale visiting relatives thus: ‘Here
the king of the Vatsa brought the precious daughter of Pradyota. Here was the
golden grove of tala-trees of that same monarch. Here, they say, roamed
Nalagiri (the elephant), having pulled out his tie-post in fury.’

Your bulk increased by the incense that is used for perfuming the hair that
issues from the lattices, and honoured with gifts of dance by the domestic
peacocks out of their love for their friend, lay aside the weariness of the
travel while admiring the splendour of its palaces which are scented with
flowers and marked by the hennaed feet of the lovely women.

Observed respectfully by divine retinues who are reminded of the colour of
their master’s throat, you should proceed to the holy abode of the lord of the
three worlds, husband of Chandi, whose gardens are caressed by the winds
from the Gandhavati River, scented with the pollen of the blue lotuses and
perfumed by the bath-oils used by young women who delight in water-play.

Even if you arrive at Mahakala at some other time, O cloud, you should wait
until the sun passes from the range of the eye. Playing the honourable role of
drum at the evening offering to Shiva, you will receive the full reward for
your deep thunder.

There, their girdles jingling to their footsteps, and their hands tired from the
pretty waving of fly-whisks whose handles are brilliant with the sparkle of
jewels, having received from you raindrops at the onset of the rainy season
that soothe the scratches made by fingernails, the courtesans cast you
lingering sidelong glances that resemble rows of honey-bees.

Then, settled above the forests whose trees are like uplifted arms, being round
in shape, producing an evening light, red as a fresh China-rose, at the start of
Shiva’s dance, remove his desire for a fresh elephant skin—you whose
devotion is beheld by Parvati, her agitation stilled and her gaze transfixed.

Reveal the ground with a bolt of lightning that shines like a streak of gold
on a touchstone to the young women in that vicinity going by night to the homes of
their lovers along the royal highroad which has been robbed of light by a
darkness that could be pricked with a needle. Withhold your showers of rain
and rumbling thunder: they would be frightened!

Passing that night above the roof-top of a certain house where pigeons sleep,
you, whose consort the lightning is tired by prolonged sport, should complete
the rest of your journey when the sun reappears. Indeed, those who have
promised to accomplish a task for a friend do not tarry.

At that time, the tears of the wronged wives are to be soothed away by their
husbands. Therefore abandon at once the path of the sun. He too has returned
to remove the tears of dew from the lotus-faces of the lilies. If you obstruct
his rays, he may become greatly incensed.

Poem – The Birth of the War God 

The Address to Brahma 

While impious Tárak in resistless might 

Was troubling heaven and earth with wild affright,

To Brahmá’s high abode, by Indra led,

The mournful deities for refuge fled.

As when the Day-God’s loving beams awake

The lotus slumbering on the silver lake,

So Brahmá deigned his glorious face to show,

And poured sweet comfort on their looks of woe.

Then nearer came the suppliant Gods to pay

Honour to him whose face turns every way.

They bowed them low before the Lord of Speech,

And sought with truthful words his heart to reach:

‘Glory to Thee! before the world was made,

One single form thy Majesty displayed.

Next Thou, to body forth the mystic Three,

Didst fill three Persons: Glory, Lord, to Thee!

Unborn and unbegotten! from thy hand

The fruitful seed rained down; at thy command

From that small germ o’er quickening waters thrown

All things that move not, all that move have grown.

Before thy triple form in awe they bow:

Maker, preserver, and destroyer, Thou!

Thou, when a longing urged thee to create,

Thy single form in twain didst separate.

The Sire, the Mother that made all things be

By their first union were but parts of Thee.

From them the life that fills this earthly frame,

And fruitful Nature, self-renewing, came.

Thou countest not thy time by mortals’ light;

With Thee there is but one vast day and night.

When Brahmá slumbers fainting Nature dies,

When Brahmá wakens all again arise.

Creator of the world, and uncreate!

Endless! all things from Thee their end await.

Before the world wast Thou! each Lord shall fall

Before Thee, mightiest, highest, Lord of all.

Thy self-taught soul thine own deep spirit knows;

Made by thyself thy mighty form arose;

Into the same, when all things have their end,

Shall thy great self, absorbed in Thee, descend.

Lord, who may hope thy essence to declare?

Firm, yet as subtile as the yielding air:

Fixt, all-pervading; ponderous, yet light,

Patent to all, yet hidden from the sight.

Thine are the sacred hymns which mortals raise,

Commencing ever with the word of praise,

With three-toned chant the sacrifice to grace,

And win at last in heaven a blissful place.

They hail Thee Nature labouring to free

The Immortal Soul from low humanity;

Hail Thee the stranger Spirit, unimpressed,

Gazing on Nature from thy lofty rest.

Father of fathers, God of gods art thou,

Creator, highest, hearer of the vow!

Thou art the sacrifice, and Thou the priest,

Thou, he that eateth; Thou, the holy feast.

Thou art the knowledge which by Thee is taught,

The mighty thinker, and the highest thought!’

Pleased with their truthful praise, his favouring eye

He turned upon the dwellers in the sky,

While from four mouths his words in gentle flow

Come welling softly to assuage their woe:

‘Welcome! glad welcome, Princes! ye who hold

Your lofty sovereignties ordained of old.

But why so mournful? what has dimmed your light?

Why shine your faces less divinely bright?

Like stars that pour forth weaker, paler gleams,

When the fair moon with brighter radiance beams.

O say, in vain doth mighty Indra bear

The thunderbolt of heaven, unused to spare?

Vritra, the furious fiend, ’twas strong to slay:

Why dull and blunted is that might to-day?

See, Varun’s noose hangs idly on his arm,

Like some fell serpent quelled by magic charm.

Weak is Kuvera’s hand, his arm no more

Wields the dread mace it once so proudly bore;

But like a tree whose boughs are lopped away,

It tells of piercing woe, and dire dismay.

In days of yore how Yama’s sceptre shone!

Fled are its glories, all its terrors gone;

Despised and useless as a quenched brand,

All idly now it marks the yielding sand.

Fallen are the Lords of Light, ere now the gaze

Shrank from the coming of their fearful blaze;

So changed are they, the undazzled eye may see

Like pictured forms, each rayless deity.

Some baffling power has curbed the breezes’ swell:

Vainly they chafe against the secret spell.

We know some barrier checks their wonted course,

When refluent waters seek again their source.

The Rudras too—fierce demigods who bear

The curved moon hanging from their twisted hair—

Tell by their looks of fear, and shame, and woe,

Of threats now silenced, of a mightier foe.

Glory and power, ye Gods, were yours of right:

Have ye now yielded to some stronger might,

Even as on earth a general law may be

Made powerless by a special text’s decree?

Then say, my sons, why seek ye Brahmá’s throne?

‘Tis mine to frame the worlds, and yours to guard your own.’

Then Indra turned his thousand glorious eyes,

Glancing like lilies when the soft wind sighs,

And in the Gods’ behalf, their mighty chief

Urged the Most Eloquent to tell their grief.

Then rose the heavenly Teacher, by whose side

Dim seemed the glories of the Thousand-eyed,

And with his hands outspread, to Brahmá spake,

Couched on his own dear flower, the daughter of the lake:

‘O mighty Being! surely thou dost know

The unceasing fury of our ruthless foe;

For thou canst see the secret thoughts that lie

Deep in the heart, yet open to thine eye.

The vengeful Tárak, in resistless might,

Like some dire Comet, gleaming wild affright,

O’er all the worlds an evil influence sheds,

And, in thy favour strong, destruction spreads.

All bow before him: on his palace wall

The sun’s first ray and parting splendour fall;

Ne’er could he waken with a lovelier glance

His own dear lotus from her nightly trance.

For him, proud fiend, the moon no waning knows,

But with unminished full-orbed lustre glows.

Too faint for him the crescent glory set

Amid the blaze of Śiva’s coronet.

How fair his garden, where the obedient breeze

Dares steal no blossom from the slumbering trees!

The wild wind checks his blustering pinions there,

And gently whispering fans the balmy air;

While through the inverted year the seasons pour,

To win the demon’s grace, their flowery store.

For him, the River-god beneath the stream,

Marks the young pearl increase its silver gleam,

Until, its beauty and its growth complete,

He bears the offering to his master’s feet.

The Serpents, led by Vásuki, their king,

Across his nightly path their lustre fling;

Bright as a torch their flashing jewels blaze,

Nor wind, nor rain, can dim their dazzling rays.

E’en Indra, sovereign of the blissful skies,

To gain his love by flattering homage tries,

And sends him oft those flowers of wondrous hue

That on the heavenly tree in beauty grew.

Yet all these offerings brought from day to day,

This flattery, fail his ruthless hand to stay.

Earth, hell, and heaven, beneath his rage must groan,

Till force can hurl him from his evil throne.

Alas! where glowed the bright celestial bowers,

And gentle fair ones nursed the opening flowers,

Where heavenly trees a heavenly odour shed,

O’er a sad desert ruin reigns instead.

He roots up Meru’s sacred peaks, where stray

The fiery coursers of the God of Day,

To form bright slopes, and glittering mounds of ease,

In the broad gardens of his palaces.

There, on his couch, the mighty lord is fanned

To sweetest slumber by a heavenly band;

Poor captive nymphs, who stand in anguish by,

dropp the big tear, and heave the ceaseless sigh.

And now have Indra’s elephants defiled

The sparkling stream where heavenly Gangá smiled,

And her gold lotuses the fiend has taken

To deck his pools, and left her all forsaken.

The Gods of heaven no more delight to roam

O’er all the world, far from their glorious home.

They dread the demon’s impious might, nor dare

Speed their bright chariots through the fields of air.

And when our worshippers in duty bring

The appointed victims for the offering,

He tears them from the flame with magic art,

While we all powerless watch with drooping heart.

He too has stolen from his master’s side

The steed of heavenly race, great Indra’s pride.

No more our hosts, so glorious once, withstand

The fierce dominion of the demon’s hand,

As herbs of healing virtue fail to tame

The sickness raging through the infected frame.

Idly the discus hangs on Vishṇu’s neck,

And our last hope is vain, that it would check

The haughty Tárak’s might, and flash afar

Ruin and death—the thunderbolt of war.

E’en Indra’s elephant has felt the might

Of his fierce monsters in the deadly fight,

Which spurn the dust in fury, and defy

The threatening clouds that sail along the sky.

Therefore, O Lord, we seek a chief, that he

May lead the hosts of heaven to victory,

Even as holy men who long to sever

The immortal spirit from its shell for ever,

Seek lovely Virtue’s aid to free the soul

From earthly ties and action’s base control.

Thus shall he save us: proudly will we go

Under his escort ‘gainst the furious foe;

And Indra, conqueror in turn, shall bring

Fortune, dear captive, home with joy and triumphing.’

Sweet as the rains—the fresh’ning rains—that pour

On the parched earth when thunders cease to roar,

Were Brahmá’s words: ‘Gods, I have heard your grief;

Wait ye in patience: time will bring relief.

‘Tis not for me, my children, to create

A chief to save you from your mournful fate.

Not by my hand the fiend must be destroyed,

For my kind favour has he once enjoyed;

And well ye know that e’en a poisonous tree

By him who planted it unharmed should be.

He sought it eagerly, and long ago

I gave my favour to your demon-foe,

And stayed his awful penance, that had hurled

Flames, death, and ruin o’er the subject world.

When that great warrior battles for his life,

O, who may conquer in the deadly strife,

Save one of Śiva’s seed? He is the light,

Reigning supreme beyond the depths of night.

Nor I, nor Vishṇu, his full power may share,

Lo, where he dwells in solitude and prayer!

Go, seek the Hermit in the grove alone,

And to the God be Umá’s beauty shown.

Perchance, the Mountain-child, with magnet’s force,

May turn the iron from its steadfast course,

Bride of the mighty God; for only she

Can bear to Him as water bears to me.

Then from their love a mighty Child shall rise,

And lead to war the armies of the skies.

Freed by his hand, no more the heavenly maids

Shall twine their glittering hair in mournful braids.’

He spake, and vanished from their wondering sight;

And they sped homeward to their world of light.

But Indra, still on Brahmá’s words intent,

To Káma’s dwelling-place his footsteps bent.

Swiftly he came: the yearning of his will

Made Indra’s lightning course more speedy still.

The Love-God, armed with flowers divinely sweet,

In lowly homage bowed before his feet.

Around his neck, where bright love-tokens clung,

Arched like a maiden’s brow, his bow was hung,

And blooming Spring, his constant follower, bore

The mango twig, his weapon famed of yore.    

Poems – Seasonal Cycle – Spring – Kalidasa 

Chapter – 6 

“Oh, dear, with the just unfolded tender leaflets of Mango trees as his incisive arrows, and with shining strings of honeybees as his bowstring, the assailant named Vasanta came very nigh, to afflict the hearts of those that are fully engaged in affairs of lovemaking… 
“Oh, dear, in Vasanta, Spring, trees are with flowers and waters are with lotuses, hence the breezes are agreeably fragrant with the fragrance of those flowers, thereby the eventides are comfortable and even the daytimes are pleasant with those fragrant breezes, thereby the women are with concupiscence, thus everything is highly pleasing… 

“This Spring season endows prosperity to waters of swimming pools, and to moonshine, for their water or shine is pleasurable, and even to mango trees, as their flowers are just flowered, more so, to the bejewelled girdle strings of women, for their wearing is neither cumbersome nor irksome in this season, thus it endows prosperity to womenfolk of age, as they enjoy in wearing them, thus they too, become enjoyable, these days… 

“These days the flirtatious women are adorning their roundish behinds with silk cloths that are dyed with Kusumbha flower’s reddish dye, and their bosomy busts with thin silks that are dyed with ocherish and reddish colours, for thinness and silkiness are agreeable in this thinnish ambience… 

“The womenfolk of age are now decorating their temples with just unfolded new whitish flowers of Karnikara, and with new and reddish Ashoka flowers and with whitish jasmines flowers in their blackish hair-locks that are swaying, thus unfolded is the beauty of these women, with the flourishing resplendence of these newly unfolded flowers… 

“The bosoms of women with burly rumps, whose hearts are now flurried by the Love-god, are now sharing pearly pendants that are wetted with white sandal-paste that is bedaubed on their busts, and their biceps with circlets of bicep-lets, and their hiplines with the strings of cinctures, that are till recently unbearably coldish to touch… thus, the touch of season is romantic… 

“The golden lotuses like faces of flirtatious women are tattooed with erasable foliage tattoos with black Kasturi lines, and in those designs sweat-drops are now percolating, with them those faces are delightfully beautified as gem-studded jewellery, interspersed with pearls… 

“Now the limbs of womenfolk are flustered by the Love-god, thus they are panting for their need-fulfilment, hence they are now loosening the fastenings of their undergarments, since spring fever makes them sultrily fervent, thus they are enamoured of their lovers, who are tarrying at their nearby… 

“The Love-god is making the limbs of sybaritic women as thinnish, palish and lethargic, and tending to yawn time and again, and with these syndromes the bodies of women are becoming restless in the spring fever, with an air of enchantment… 

“Now the Love-god is diversely apparent in women, who are jaded out by hard drinks, for their eyes are fluttery, their cheeks are whitely, their bosoms are stony, their waists are slimly, and their behinds are sturdy… thus these features are the evidences for their seasonal infatuation with Him… 

“Advent to spring Love-god makes the limbs of womenfolk sluggishly dizzy with sleepiness, He makes their speech a little teeter-tottering with sensualities, and He also makes their looks aslant with the knitting and unknitting of their eyebrows, seeking vehement sensual pleasures… 

“The frolicsome and lustful women that are with faineance are bedaubing their whitish bosoms with sandal-paste, in which well kneaded are the fragrant seeds of Priyangu, yellowish turmeric, saffron and musk, to relieve themselves of spring fever… 

“These days the people, whose limbs are wearied down with their desire induced ebullience, are wearing thinnish cloths, that are fumigated with fragrant aloe vera resin and dyed in the colour of reddish lac resin, quickly discarding their coarse clothing, for this season is neither coarse nor crude… 

“The passionate male koel, black singing bird, on savouring the invigorative essence of just grown flowers of Mango trees, is gladdened and passionately kissing his love, so also this honeybee, abiding in lotuses, and savouring their nectar, this too is passionately mating with his love to her complaisance, sequestered in the petals of lotuses… 

“Delightful are the branches of mango trees that are laden with bunches of coppery tender leaves, and with just flowered flowers, and with their heads a little bent down, for they simile with the bashful women, whose heads are with flowery hairdos and coppery half-veils, and a little bent down and swaying in lustiness, like mango treetops that are gently swaying, swayed by the gentle breezes of this season, and on identifying themselves with those mango trees, the womenfolk is rendered muchly overenthusiastic for love, in this spring time… 

“All-over adorned are those Ashoka trees with bunches of reddish folioles, and reddish flowers that resemble the hue of red corals, and when the new entrants to adulthood are observing those unfolded red flowers, those Ashoka trees are making them agonised, for unfulfilled is their new longing for a newish love… 

“The charming flowers of mango trees are with delightful thickish buds, and they are overly swilled by tipsy honeybees, and slow breezes are flurrying and tilting their delicate leaflets, thus when lovelorn youngsters observe them, their hearts are quickly ecstasized by those mango trees… 

“Oh, dear, the mien of this season is akin to the facial resplendence of ladyloves, with the utmost beauty of the clusters of flowers of Kuravaka plants that are uprisen in this season, and if this is observed by any good-hearted person, won’t his heart be agonised, indeed, struck by the arrow of Love-god? 

“The ruddy flowers in springtime are sprung by the winds simile with the reddy flames that are just now set to flame, and everywhere the earth is overspread with such brakes of Kimshuka trees, and presently when their treetops are bent under the weight of those red flowers, whole of this earth similes with a new bride, shining forth in her new bridal redly costume, and her head a little bent under the half-veil of that costume… 

“Aren’t the youthful hearts of youthful lovers that are hidden in the hearts of their pretty faced ladyloves unsplit by these Kimshuka flowers, that are in shine with the reddish bills of parrots… aren’t they already and definitely burnt by the flame-like redly Karnikaara flowers… then why for this Kokila, the black singing bird, is again gnawing away those hearts, with its gnawingly melodious singing… 

“Passion is surging out in male Kokila-s, singing birds, as they obtained jollity in this springtime on chewing mango flowers, thus they are singing inexplicably, and the honeybees, when they are drunk with the flowery nectar of those flowers, they are also droning hums murmuringly as their drinking song, and with these hums and drones the hearts of new brides are flustered in a trice, even if they are in the service of their in-laws, where certain docility and prudishness are in demand…

“On the departure of mist-fall in springtime, the propitious breeze is breezing pleasantly to undulate the flowered branches of Mango trees, and to transmit the singings of Kokila-s in all directions, thereby to steal the hearts of humans, who can neither be blatant nor silent, of their longings… 

“These days the pleasure gardens are brightened up with whitely jasmines, thus they simile with the toothy grins of sprightly brides, and hence they are heart-stealing, and these gardens are now stealing the hearts of saints or sages that have neutralised their materialistic indulgences long back, as such, these gardens must have stolen the hearts of youths, which are already tainted with seasonal sensualities… 

“This Madhu month, Chaitra, nectarean month at the end of springtime, is forcefully stealing away the hearts of people, for the womenfolk, whose bodies are slenderised by the pride of Love-god, is eyeful with their golden strings of girdle that are pensile onto their hiplines, and their bosoms are clung by pendulous pearly pendants, besides, earful are the singings of Kokila-s and the humming of honeybees… 

“These interiors of visible horizon are comprised of mountains that are adorned with divers and delightful flowery trees, and the areas of those mountainsides are hurly-burly with the singings of Kokila-s, and the masses of their rock faces are hemmed in and enwrapped with fragrant mountainy moss, that comes out now when those rocks were fissured during last summer, to see such an environ, all the people are rejoiced… 

“On seeing a flowered mango tree, the frame of mind of any itinerant is overly woebegone, for he is dissociated with his ladylove, thus he shuts his eyes unable to behold that ladylike mango tree with her hairdo overlaid with flowers, and obstructs his nose, for the fragrance of this ladylike mango tree is akin to his ladylove, thus he goes into a state of woefulness, and even he bewails and shrieks loudly… thus pitiless is this season, Vasanta, Spring for singletons… 

“Delightful is this flowery month with the racketing of lusty honeybees and Kokila-s around, and with flowered mango trees that fruit sweet mangos, and with Karniakra flowers, and each of these is becoming as though an acute of arrow of Love-god, that ecstasies and even cleaves the hearts of self-respectful women, who cannot explicitly explain their pangs for love, nor can suffer them, implicitly… 

“Whose best arrow is the delightful cluster of mango flowers, whose bow is the Kimshuka flower, whose bowstring is the beeline, whose silvery parasol is the immaculate silvern moon, whose ruttish elephant for ride is the rutted breeze from Mt. Malaya, that waft the scent of sandalwood, which will be rutting, and whose panegyrists are the singing birds, namely Kokila-s, and such as he is, he that vanquisher of worlds, that formless Love-god, pairing up with his friend, namely Vasanta, the Spring season, that Love-god lavishes serendipities on you all, generously…

 

Poems – The Cloud Messenger – Part  4 – Kalidasa 

The slender young woman who is there would be the premier creation by the 
Creator in the sphere of women, with fine teeth, lips like a ripe bimba fruit, a 

slim waist, eyes like a startled gazelle’s, a deep navel, a gait slow on account 

of the weight of her hips, and who is somewhat bowed down by her breasts. 

You should know that she whose words are few, my second life, is like a 

solitary female cakravaka duck when I, her mate, am far away. While these 

weary days are passing, I think the girl whose longing is deep has taken on an 

altered appearance, like a lotus blighted by frost. 

Surely the face of my beloved, her eyes swollen from violent weeping, the 

colour of her lower lip changed by the heat of her sighs, resting upon her 

hand, partially hidden by the hanging locks of her hair, bears the miserable 

appearance of the moon with its brightness obscured when pursued by you. 

She will come at once into your sight, either engaged in pouring oblations, or 

drawing from memory my portrait, but grown thin on account of separation, 

or asking the sweet-voiced sarika bird in its cage, ‘I hope you remember the 

master, O elegant one, for you are his favourite’; 

Or having placed a lute on a dirty cloth on her lap, friend, wanting to sing a 

song whose words are contrived to contain my name, and somehow plucking 

the strings wet with tears, again and again she forgets the melody, even though she composed it herself; 

Or engaged in counting the remaining months set from the day of our 

separation until the end by placing flowers on the ground at the threshold, or 

enjoying acts of union that are preserved in her mind. These generally are the 

diversions of women when separated from their husbands. 

During the day, when she has distractions, separation will not torment her so 

much. I fear that your friend will have greater suffering at night without 

distraction. You who carry my message, positioned above the palace roof-top, 

see the good woman at midnight, lying on the ground, sleepless, and cheer her thoroughly. 

Grown thin with anxiety, lying on one side on a bed of separation, resembling 

the body of the moon on the eastern horizon when only one sixteenth part 

remains, shedding hot tears, passing that night, lengthened by separation, 

which spent in desired enjoyments in company with me would have passed in an instant. 

Covering with eyelashes heavy with tears on account of her sorrow, her eyes 

which were raised to face the rays of the moon, which were cool with nectar 

and which entered by way of the lattice, fall again on account of her previous 

love, like a bed of land-lotuses on an overcast day, neither open nor closed. 

She whose sighs that trouble her bud-like lower lip will surely be scattering 

the locks of her hair hanging at her cheek, dishevelled after a simple bath, 

thinking how enjoyment with me might arise even if only in a dream, yearning 

for sleep, the opportunity for which is prevented by the affliction of tears; 

She who is repeatedly pushing from the curve of her cheek with her hand 

whose nails are unkempt, the single braid, plaited by me, stripped of its 

garland, on the first day of our separation, which will be loosened by me when 

I am free from sorrow at the expiry of the curse, and which is rough to the touch, stiff, and hard. 

That frail woman, supporting her tender body which he has laid repeatedly in 

great suffering on a couch, will certainly cause even you to shed tears in the 

form of fresh rain. Generally all tender-hearted beaing have a compassionate disposition. 

I know that the mind of your friend is filled with accumulated love for me. On 

account of that I imagine her condition thus at our first separation. Even the 

thought of my good fortune does not make me feel like talking. All that I have 

said, brother, will be before your eyes before long. 

I think of the eyes of that deer-eyed one, the sideways movements of which 

are concealed by her hair, which are devoid of the glistening of collyrium, 

which have forgotten the play of their eyebrows on account of abstinence 

from sweet liqour, and whose upper eyelids tremble when you are near: these 

eyes take on the semblance of the beauty of a blue lotus that is trembling with the movement of a fish. 

And her lovely thigh will tremble, being without the impressions of my 

fingernails, caused to abandon it long-accustomed string of pearls by the 

course of fate, used to the caresses of my hand at the end of our enjoyment, 

and as pale as the stem of a beautiful plantain palm. 

At that time, O cloud, if she is enjoying the sleep she has found, remaining 

behind her, your thunder restrained, wait during the night-watch. Let not the 

knot of her creeper-like arms in close embrace with me her beloved, somehow 

found in a dream, fall from my neck at once. 

Having woken her with a breeze cooled by your own water droplets, she will 

be refreshed like the fresh clusters of buds of the malati. Your lightning held 

within, being firm, begin to address her with words of thunder; she, the proud 

on whose eyes are fixed on the window occupied by you: 

‘O you who are not a widow, know me to be a cloud who is a dear friend of 

your husband. With messages stored in my heart I have arrived at your side, 

and with slow and friendly rumblings I urge along the road a multitude of 

weary travellers who are eager to loosen the braids of their womenfolk.’ 

When this has been said, like Sita looking up at Hanuman, having beheld you 

with her heart swollen with longing and having honoured you, she will listen 

attentively to you further, O friend. For women, news of their beloved that 

brought by a friend is little short of union. 

O long-lived one, following my instructions and to bring credit to yourself, 

address her thus: ‘Your partner who resides at the ashram on Ramagiri, who is 

still alive though separated from you, inquires after your news, madam. This 

is the very thing that is first asked by beings who may easily fall into misfortune. 

He whose path is blocked by an invidious command and is at a distance, by 

means of these intentions, unites his body with yours, the emaciated with the 

emaciated, the afflicted with the deeply afflicted, that which is wet with tears 

with that which is tearful, that whose longing is ceaseless with that which is 

longed for, that whose sighs are hot with that whose sighs are even more numerous. 

He who has become eager to say what is to be said in words in your ear, in the 

presence of your female friends, with a desire to touch your face, he who is 

beyond the range of your ears, unseen by your eyes, addresses these words 

composed on account of his desire, through the agency of my mouth: 

“I perceive your body in the priyangu vines, your glances in the eyes of the 

startled deer, the beauty of your face in the moon, your hair in the peacock’s 

feathers and the play of your eyebrows in the delicate ripples on the river, but 

alas, your whole likeness is not to be found in a single thing, O passionate one. 

Having painted your likeness, with mineral colours on a rock, appearing angry 

because of love, as soon as I wish to paint myself fallen at your feet, my 

vision is clouded again and again with copious tears. Cruel fate does not 

permit our union, even in this picture. 

Watching me with my arms stretched up into the air for an ardent embrace 

when you have somhow been found by me in a vision or in a dream, the local 

deities repeatedly shed teardrops as big as pearls on the buds of the trees. 

Those winds from the snowy mountains which having broken open the sepals 

of the buds of the devadaru trees become fragrant with their milky sap and 

which blow southwards—they are embraced by me, O virtuous one, with the 

thought that your body might previously have been touched by them. 

How can the night with its long watches by compressed into a moment? How 

may a day become cooler in every season? Thus my mind, whose desires are 

difficult to satisfy, is rendered without refuge by the deep and burning pangs 

of separation from you, O one of trembling eyes. 

Indeed, ever brooding, I maintain myself by means of myself alone. 

Therefore, O beautiful one, you also should not fear. Whose happiness is 

endless or whose suffering is complete? The condition of life rises and falls like the felly of a wheel. 

The the holder of the bow called Sharnga rises from his serpent bed, the 

curse will end for me. Having closed your eyes, endure the remaining four 

months. After that, we two will indulge our own various desires, increased by 

separation, on nights lit by the full autumn moon.” 

And he said further, “In the past you embraced my neck as we lay on our bed, 

you called out something in your sleep and woke up. When I asked over and 

over, you said to me with an inward smile, ‘I saw you in my dream enjoying another girl, you cheat!’ 

Having ascertained from the telling of this account that I am well, do not be 

suspicious of me on account of any rumour, O dark-eyed one. They say that 

love somehow perishes during separation, but because there is no fulfilment, 

the love for that which is desired with increasing desire, becomes a even more ardent.”’ 

Having comforted her thus, your friens whose sorrow is great in her first 

separation, return at once from the mountain whose peaks were cast up by the 

bull of three-eyed one. Then you should prop up my life which flags like 

kunda flowers in the morning with her words about her welfare, and an account of her. 

I hope, friend, that you are firmly resolved upon this friendly service for me. I 

certainly do not regard your silences as indicating refusal. When requested 

you also apportion rain to the cataka cuckoos in silence, for the response of 

the virtuous to those who make a request is the performance of that which is desired. 

Having undertaken this favour for me who bears this request that is unworthy 

of you, with thoughts of compassion for me, either out of friendship or 

because you think that I am alone, proceed to your desired destination, O 

cloud, your splendour enhanced by rainy season, and may you never be 

separated like this even for a moment from your spouse, the lightning.

Poems – The Cloud Messenger – Part 3 – Kalidasa 

Where the palaces are worthy of comparison to you in these various aspects: 

you possess lightning, they have lovely women; you have a rainbow, they are 

furnished with pictures; they have music provided by resounding drums, you 

produce deep, gentle rumbling; you have water within, they have floors made 

of gemstones; you are lofty, their rooftops touch the sky; 

Where there are decorative lotuses in the hands of the young wives; fresh 

jasmine woven into their hair; where the beauty of their faces is made whiter 

by the pollen of lodhra flowers; in the thick locks on their crowns are fresh 

kurubaka flowers; on their ears charming shirisa flowers; and on the parting 

of their hair, nipa flowers that bloom on your arrival; 

Where the trees, humming with intoxicated bees, are always in flower; the lily 

pools, having rows of wild geese as waistbands, always produce lotuses; 

where the tails of the tame peacocks, their necks upstretched to cry out, are 

always resplendent; and where the evenings are perpetually moonlit and pleasant, and darkness has been banished; 

Where the tears of the lords of wealth are of utmost joy, having no other 

cause, there being no suffering other than that caused by the flower-arrowed 

god which is to be assuaged by union with the desired one; where there is 

separation other than that arising from lovers’ quarrels; and where there is indeed no age other than youth; 

Where yakshas, having assembled on the upper terraces of the palace, made of 

crystal, accompanied by their excellent womenfolk, enjoy ratiphalam wine 

produced by a wish-fulfilling tree, while drums whose sound resembles your deep thunder are beaten softly; 

Where the girls fanned by breezes cooled by the waters of the Mandakini 

river, the heat dispelled by the shade of the mandara trees that grow on its 

banks, are urges by the gods to play with jewels hidden by burying them with 

clenched fists in the golden sands and which are to be searched for; 

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

by shame when their lovers passionately pull away their linen garments, the 

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 ragged clouds, like yourself, brought to the upper stories of the palaces 

by the leader of the wind, having committed the misdeed of shedding 

raindrops on a painting, cleverly imitating puffs of smoke, flee immediately by way of the lattices as if filled with dread; 

Where at night the moonstones, hanging from a web of threads and shedding 

full drops of water under the influence of moonbeams bright since the removal 

of your obstruction, dispel the physical langour after sexual enjoyment on the 

part of the women who are freed from the embraces of their lovers’ arms; 

Where lovers, with inexhaustible treasure their residences, together with the 

kinnaras who sing with sweet voices of the glory of the lord of wealth, 

accompanied by celestial courtesans, engage in conversation and enjoy everyday the outer grove known as Vaibhraja; 

Where at sunrise the route taken by women the previous night is indicated by 

mandara flowers with torn petals that were shaken from their hair by the 

movement of their walking, by the golden lotuses that slipped from behind 

their ears, and by necklaces of strings of pearls the threads of which broke upon their breasts; 

Where a single wish-fulfilling tree produces every adornment for women: 

coloured garments, wine which is suitable for introducing an amorous 

playfulness to the eyes, flowers together with buds which are distinctive 

among ornaments, and red lac dye suitable for application to their lotus-like feet; 

Where horses, as dark as leaves, rival the steeds of the sun; where elephants, 

as tall as mountains, pour forth showers, like you, from the pores of their 

temples; and where the foremost warriors stood in battle against the ten-faced 

one, the splendour of their ornmanets surpassed by the scars of the wounds 

from Candrahasa; 

Where the god of love does not generally carry his bow strung with bees, 

knowing that the god who is the friend of the lord of wealth dwells there in 

person: his task is accomplished by the amorous play of talented women 

whose glances are cast by means of curved eyebrows and which are not in 

vain among the objects of their desire. 

There, to the north of the residence of the lord of wealth, our home is to be 

recognised from afar by an arched portal as lovely as a rainbow, near which a 

young mandara tree, caused to bow down by bunches of flowers that may be 

touched by the hand, is cherished by my beloved like an adopted son. 

And within is a pool the steps of which are studded with emerald stone, filled 

with flowering golden lotuses whose stalks are of smooth chrysoberyl. On its 

waters the geese that have take up residence there do not think of Lake Manas 

close at hand, and are free from sorrow, having seen you. 

On its bank there is a pleasure hill whose summit is studded with fine 

sapphires, beautiful to behold with a hedge of golden plantain trees. Having 

seen you, O friend, with flashing lightning, near at hand, I recall that mountain 

with a despondent mind, thinking, ‘It is enjoyed by my spouse’. 

Here is a red ashoka with trembling buds and a charming kesara near a hedge 

of kurubaka and a bower of madhavi. One desires (as I do) the touch of your 

friend’s left foot. The other longs for a mouthful of wine from her, having as 

its pretext a craving. 

And between these is a golden perch with a crystal base, studded at its foot 

with gems that shine like half-grown bamboo, on which rests your friend the 

blue-necked one, who, at the day’s end, is caused to dance by my beloved 

with claps of her hands, made pleasant by the jingling of her bracelets. 

Having seen the figures of Shanka and Padma painted near the door, by 

these signs preserved in yout heart, O noble one, you may distinguish the 

residence, now reduced in beauty because of my absence. Indeed, at the 

setting of the sun, even the lotus does not display its own splendour.

Having shrunk at once to the size of a small elephant for the sake of a swift 

descent, resting on the pleasure mountain with lovely peaks that I have 

mentioned, please cast your gaze in the form of a flickering bolt of faint 

lightning upon the interior of the house, like the glow of a swarm of fire-flies.

Poems – The Cloud Messenger – Part 2 – Kalidasa 

Your naturally beautiful reflection will gain entry into the clear waters of the 
Gambhira River, as into a clear mind. Therefore it is not fitting that you, out 

of obstinancy, should render futile her glances which are the darting leaps of 

little fish, as white as night-lotus flowers. 

Removing her blue garment which is her water, exposing her hips which are 

her banks, it is clutched by cane-branches as if grasped by her hands. 

Departure will inevitably be difficult for you who tarries, O friend. Who, 

having experienced enjoyment, is able to forsake another whose loins are laid 

bare? 

A cool breeze, grown pleasant through contact with the scent of the earth 

refreshed by your showers, which is inhaled by elephants with a pleasing 

sound at their nostrils, and which is the ripener of wild figs in the forest, 

gently fans you who desire to proceed to Devagiri. 

There, you, taking the form of a cloud of flowers, should bathe Skanda, who 

always resides there, with a shower of flowers, wet with the water of the 

heavenly Ganges. For he is the energy surpassing the sun, that was born into 

the mouth of the fire by the bearer of the crescent moon6 for the purpose of 

protecting the forces of of the sons of Indra. 

Then, with claps of thunder, magnified by their own echoes, you should cause 

to dance the peacock of the son of Agni, the corners of whose eyes are bathed 

by the light of the crescent moon at the head of Shiva and whose discarded 

tail-feather, ringed by rays of light, Parvati placed behind her ear, next 

to the petal of the blue lotus, out of her love for her son.

Having worshipped that god born in a reedbed, after you have travelled 

further, your route abandoned by siddha-couples carrying lutes because they 

fear rain-drops, you should descend while paying homage to the glory of 

Randideva, born from the slaughter of the daughter of Surabhi, and who 

arose on earth in the form or a river. 

When you, the robber of the complexion of bearer of the bow Sharnga, stoop 

to drink the water of that river, which is broad but appears narrow from a 

distance, those who range the skies, when they look down, will certainly see 

that the stream resembles a single string of pearls on the earth, enlarged at 

its centre with a sapphire. 

Having crossed the river, go on, making yourself into a form worthy of the 

curiosity of the eyes of the women of Dashapura, adept in the amorous play of 

their tendril-like eyebrows, whose dark and variageted brilliance flashes up at 

the fluttering of their eyelashes, and whose splendour has been stolen from the 

bees attendant on tossing kunda flowers. 

Then, entering the district of Brahmavarta, accompanied by your shadow, you 

should proceed to the plain of the Kurus, evocative of the battle of the 

warriors, where the one whose bow is Gandiva brought down showers of 

hundreds of sharp arrows, just as you bring down showers of rain on the faces 

of the lotuses. 

Having partaken of the waters of the Sarasvati which were enjoyed by the 

bearer of the plough who was averse to war on account of his love for his 

kinsfolk, after he had forsaken the wine of agreeable flavour which was 

marked by the reflection of Revati’s eyes, you, friend, will be purified within: 

only your colour will be black. 

From there you should go to the daughter of Jahnu above the Kanakhula 

mountains, where she emerges from the Himalaya, who provided a flight of 

steps to heaven for the sons of Sagara, and who laughing with her foam at the 

frown on the face of Gauri, made a grab at the hair of Shambhu and clasped 

his crescent moon with her wave-hands. 

If you, like an elephant of the gods, your front partly inclining down from the 

sky to drink her waters which are pure as crystal, in an instrant, because of 

your reflection on her gliding current, she would become very lovely, as if 

united with the Yamuna in second location. 

Having reached the mountain which is the source of that very river, whose 

crags are made fragrant with the scent of the musk of the deer that recline 

there, white with snow, reposing on the summit which dispells the fatigue of 

travel, you will take on the splendour like that of the white soil cast up 

by the bull of the three-eyed one. 

If, when the wind is blowing, a forest fire were to afflict the mountain, 

ignited by the friction of branches of the sarala trees, burning with its 

flames the tailhairs of the yaks, it would befit you to extinguish it 

completely with thousands of torrents of water, for the resources of the 

great have as their fruit the alleviation of those who suffer misfortune. 

The sharabha there, intent on springing in anger at you who departs from 

their path, would lunge at you, only to break their own limbs. You should 

cover them with a tumultuous storm of hail and rain. Who, intent upon a 

fruitless endeavour, would not be the object of contempt? 

There, with your body bowed in devotion, you should circumambulate the 

foot-print of the one wears the half-moon diadem, which is continually 

heaped with offerings from ascetics, and at the sight of which, at their 

departure from the bodies, cleansed of their misdeeds, the faithful are able to 

achieve the immuteable state of membership of Shiva’s following. 

The bamboo canes filled with the wind sound sweetly. Victory over the three 

cities is celebrated in song by the Kinnari demi-gods. If your rumbling like a 

muraja drum resounds in the caves, the theme of a concert for Shiva will be 

complete. 

Having passed various features on the flanks of the Himalayas, proceed thence 

north to Krauncarandhra, gateway for wild geese, which was the route to glory 

for Bhrgupati—you whose beautiful form is flat and long, like the dark blue 

foot of Vishnu uplifted for the suppression of Bali. 

And having gone further, become the guest of Mt Kailasa, the seams of whose 

peaks were rent by the arms of the ten-faced one and which is a mirror for 

the consorts of the Thirty Gods, and which, extending with lofty peaks like 

white lotuses, stands in the sky like the loud laughter of the three-eyed 

one accumulated day by day. 

I foresee that when you, resembling glossy powdered kohl, reach the foot of 

that mountain as white as a freshly cut piece of ivory, the imminent beauty 

will be fit to be gazed upon with an unerring eye, like the dark blue garment 

placed on the shoulder of the plough-carrier. 

And if Gauri should take a walk on the foot of that pleasure-hill, lent a hand 

by Shiva who has set aside his serpent-bracelet, your shape transformed into a 

flight of steps, your torrents of water withheld within yourself, become a 

stairway rising in front of her for the ascent of the jewel-slopes. 

There the young women of the gods will use you as a shower—you whose 

waters are brought forth by the striking together of the diamonds in their 

bracelets. If, friend, you were unable to release yourself from them, being 

encountered in the hot season, startle them who are intent on playing with 

you, with claps of thunder, harsh to the ear. 

Partaking of the waters of Manasa which bring forth golden lotuses, bringing 

at pleasure momentary delight like a cloth upon the face of Airavata, shaking 

with your winds the sprouts of wish-fulfilling trees like garments, enjoy the 

king of mountains with various playful actions, O cloud. 

Once you, who wander at will, have seen Alaka seated in the lap of the 

mountain like a lover, with the Ganges like a garment that has slipped, you 

will not fail to recognise her again with her lofty palaces and bearing hosts of 

clouds with showers of rain at the time of year when you are present, 

resembling a woman whose tresses are interwoven with strings of pearls.

Poems – Seasonal Cycle – Chapter 4 – Kalidasa 

 Pre Winter

“Delightful are trees and fields with the outgrowth of new tender-leaves and crops, Lodhra trees are with their blossomy flowers, crops of rice are completely ripened, but now lotuses are on their surcease by far, for the dewdrops are falling… hence, this is the time of pre-winter that drew nigh… 

“The busts of flirtatious women that are graced by bosomy bosoms are bedaubed and reddened with the redness of heart-stealing saffrony skincare, called Kashmir kumkum, on which embellished are the white pendants that are in shine with the whiteness of whitish dewdrops, white jasmines, and whitely moon… 

“Undecorated are the hiplines of kittenish women with gem-studded golden strings of girdle, nor their lotus like feet that have the brightness of lotuses with jingling anklets, whose jingling is correlative to the clucks of swans, for the cold touch of coldish metal gives cold quivers… 

“Unbearable is the touch of metallic circlets on wrists and bicep-lets on upper-arms of the couple of arms of vivacious women, or the touch of new silk cloths on the discoid of their waistline, or fine fabric on their robust breasts… 

“The womenfolk are rubbing fragrant wood-turmeric powder on their bodies, and their lotus-like faces are tattooed with erasable tattoos of foliage, and their head-hair is fumigated with the fumes of aloe vera resin, and they are doing all this for merrymaking in an enjoyable lovemaking… 

“Thoughgood fortune is bechanced in the happiness of lovemaking, the women of age are with sallowish and whitened faces owing to the strain of lovemaking, and though they want to laugh heartily, they desist from it, noticing very painful lower lips that are bitten with the edges of teeth of their lovers in lovemaking, lest the lip is lengthened, the pain is sharpened… 

“On reaching the valleys of bosomy busts of women of age, the winter breeze is attaining their coolant splendidness, but when those bosoms are pressingly hugged by their lovers it is incarcerated there with an unable pain, and that pain is expressed by the Hemanta season, as though it is bewailing for a release of that breeze at least at dawn time, with tear-like dewdrops clinging on to the spires of grass-blades… 

“Overspread with abundant rice crops and ornamented with herds of she-deer, and delightfully reverberated by the ruddy geese, with their calls and counter-calls, the complacent corridors of confines are captivating hearts… 

“Now the lakes are adorned with fully blossomed black-lotuses, and elaborated with swan-like waterfowls in their excitement, and sheeted with considerably coldish waters that are depurated, thus these lakes are stealing the hearts of men, for men look up to them as the visages of women that are with black-lotus-like hairdo, with swanlike eyes, and whose bodies are cold, wanting a warm hug… 

“Oh, dear, the Priyangu plants that give fragrant seeds are ripened by the snow caused coldness, and they are frequently wobbled by the snowy winds, and they now appear like the fragrant and frisky women gone into paleness and wobbliness by their dissociation from their lovers… 

“These days the mouths of people are fragranced with the fragrance of liquors made from the essential oils of flowers, and their bodies are fragrant with the same fragrancy by their puffs of suspires, and while lying on beds jointly with their bodies in tight embrace, they are slipping into sleep, entwined with the essence of passion… 

“The young and beautiful ladies that are new to their adulthood have bruises and marks of teeth notches on their lips, and even their bosoms are incised with nails of their lovers, thus these marks and incisions clearly indicate that they have enjoyed lovemaking consummately… 

“Some woman of age staying in the warmth of tender sun to warm up herself, is holding a mirror and applying cosmetics on her lotus-like face, and while doing so, she is pouting her lips and examining them that are dented with teeth bites of her lover, whose quintessence is guzzled down by her lover in last night… 

“One more woman whose body is fatigued by the strain of excessive lovemaking, and who is quiet sleepless last night, and whose eyes are palish like white lotuses, and whose bun is slithered and plaits of head-hair are loosened and hair tousling on her shoulders, bust, and on her bosoms, is tripping into sleep, warmed up by the rays of tender sun… 

“Bedraggled are the loose ends of cloudlike blackish head-hair onto the lofty busty bosoms of some other slender-bodied women of age, by which busty weight crouching are their bodies, as slim pearly pendants would crouch onto their bosoms, and they are taking away the circlets of flowers from their hairdos, as those flowers are already utilised and devoid of their heart-pleasing fragrance of yester night, and now they are grooming their hair, afresh… 

“On examining her body that is completely enjoyed by her lover, another woman is highly gladdened, and she remade her pleasant lips resplendently with lip-colouring, and on examining her bust with nail scratches, she embarrassedly wore her bodice, and while doing so the pain of friction of bodice with nail-scratches made her eyes to twitch, on which eyes dangling are her dark, delicate, and twitchy hair-curls… 

“By the exertion in their long-lasting games of lovemaking other women of age are wearied, and their slim bodies are thrilling at their flanks from bosoms to thighs, thereby those prettily pretty women are applying bodily oils and pastes to take an oil bath, that relieves these tingling sensations… 

“Pleasant with many an attribute, stealer of the hearts of women, and at which time the confines of villages are overspread with many an abundant rice-crop on earth, and overlaid is the sky with the garlanded flights of ruddy gees, that which is always with a heart-stealing environ, such as it is, let this season Hemanta, pre-winter, endow comfort to all of you passionate people…