The Ajanta Valley

(Rendered from the Telugu story ‘BHOGIRA-LOYA’
by Y. S. R. Chandran, B. A., L. L. B.)

I

I ran into the valley like a vengeful cobra sweeping along its trail. The scenic display of nature filled me with the aesthetic experience of reading an exquisite poem. Hardly had I taken four semi-circular turns–each of three hundred bow-lengths, fancying I had reached the end of the valley–before I came upon an opening, leading to a sprawling chain of sinewy windings. The river Vyagrah cuts across, helping the rocks to grow on each side of the valley like smooth, upright and towering walls. The hill above these tabular cuts culminates, sloping away towards high peaks laden with emerald-green verdure interspersed with sweet-smelling and variegated flower-laden creepers. The faint violet of the distant peaks merges in the blue vault of the heavens. The river flows on, taking many a swift turn across, around and over the huge boulders, leaving them still in all its tumult and confusion, still and stolid as frozen rhinos.

The babbling river makes the whole canyon of a thirty bowlengths’ width resonant with its festoon of tunes.

A thick growth of trees and wild jasmines greeted my eyes wherever they turned. The sounds of far-off bells, the chirpings of numerous birds in the forest, and the hymns of the monks chanted in unison with the gentle hum of bees struck our ears as we ran along the narrow path dug along the mountain-side.

A gazelle amidst that sylvan atmosphere, I ran as swift as my legs could carry me, little heeding the cries behind: ‘Little Princess, slow down, keep pace with the rest of the party.’ At last I came to the final turn. A flash–a vision of glory, greeted my eyes. There rose, wizard-like, a city–in the farthest range of the canyon on the right where Vyagrah flowed northward–with a row of caves known as Chaitya and Vihara, decorated with painted and well-carved pillars and fine pieces of chiselled sculpture. I saw a grand mosaic, a pageant of people, in various attires: the monks in orange-coloured robes, the novices in white garments and the visitors from far and near in multi-coloured clothes. My heart went out in joy to the monastic university of Vyagrahashrama, and closing my eyes I prayed silently to the Enlightened One.

Down a flight of steps people went to bathe in the river. Amongst the visitors there were beautiful ladies, some of the royal household. Porters were busy carrying supplies along the winding path to the settlement. We climbed up to the caves and stepped on to the street that ran from the first to the last cave.

I was unconscious of the questioning looks of the visitors there, but I stood still, overwhelmed by a sense of wonder. My party joined me.

I had revelled in colours and lines even from my childhood. My father, Anandavasu, the ablest Prime Minister of Malwa, had sent me along with my grandmother and other attendants to this famous monastery to learn and, became an adept at the art of painting. My father intended to present the Chaitya cave he got excavated to this order of monks. The porch mantapa, the frontal windows, the inner sanctuary, the curved wooden ceiling, the carved stone pillars supporting it, the Buddha on the stupa-like throne, the dharma-chakra and the seven symbols of divine glory–these were all finished. They were painting the walls and the pillars when we visited the shrine. My father intended to hold a presentation ceremony after its completion.

We were taken respectfully to a small cave at the northern end ofthe monastery. A man of few words and of deep learning, and as solemn in appearance as a mountain-peak–that was the description they gave of the master-painter, my future Guru.

They told us a student would make a sketch with a piece of charcoal. The Master would correct the faults, suggesting the appropriate colours. The Master himself would paint with the finest touches of the brush and exquisite sweeps of the lines at another place. Thus there slowly took shape in the mists of the cave a beatific splendour of art. I was not allowed to see him at work. I snatched an opportunity when he and his pupils were away for their siestas or prayers. When I looked at those paintings, my eyelids drooped and my heart sang within me. I cast behind my seventeen years of childhood, and attained that mystic bliss of a maiden’s age. My fingers quivered in dance poses of creative tapasi mudras.

A week after my arrival, my old nurse accompanying me, I went to my master’s chamber and entreated him to take me as his pupil.

II

I heard the jingling of the anklet-bells in the passage. I suspected the coming of a woman. A girl-form prostrated itself at my feet even before I closed my eyes. Unprepared for this, I demanded with my eyes shut, ‘Who is this?’

An old quivering voice answered, ‘Master, this child is the daughter of Anandavasu, the great Prime Minister of Malwa’s king. She has been inclined from her childhood towards the art of painting. She has learnt much indeed. Yet she requires a great master’s teaching. And oh! lord, your fame, even as the great faith of Buddha, has spread far and wide, over regions known and unknown, and I pray you on behalf of our minister to accept her as your disciple.’

Beside myself with anger, I shouted in a loud voice, ‘Who is there, hullo! Who has let loose these ghouls on me?...Who is it that commits the sin of betraying his master!’

The old voice exclaimed, ‘Let us be gone.’

Scarcely had she finished uttering these words when I jumped over the prostrate form, uttering indignant curses, and flew away to the presence of the holy Satyasilacharya, the Kulapati of our monastery.

I felt ashamed of my anger before this old man, a centenarian, delicate but strong, and bright as the great star in the heavens. Bidding me sit on the grass-mat by his side, he said calmly, ‘Ah! my son, what means this anger and haste?’

I rose up, touched his feet and answered, ‘Father, an outrage has been committed against me. I laid before you an my cherished principles when I entered your Ashram. They obtained your ready assent. Since then I have been carrying on my duties, dedicating my humble capacities at the shrine of Lord Buddha and His flock.’

‘Yes, yes. And what violation has happened to them, my son?’

‘It seems I have to teach the art of painting to a girl.’

‘Anandavasu prays the Lord to melt your heart and see your way to teach his innocent daughter.’

‘Is it not contrary to my vows, Father?’

‘I never tried to enquire why you have taken such vows. What can a woman do, my son, to become man’s bitterest enemy? Woman brings out the latent powers of man, and man helps the purity of woman to shine forth unto the heavens. Acharya Nagarjuna taught us that, and Lord Tathagatha held the same view!’

‘Then where is the need for this order of monks?’

‘Oh! my innocent boy. None can attain Nirvana without taking to the Order. In this search for the path that leads you to that state, you must stand aloof from life and its allurements. You must seek and cultivate a non worldly nature. In this yoga, woman should not distract man from his pursuit and man should behave likewise unto woman. Both should keep away from love for each other; and so the Enlightened One has ordained the two orders-monks and nuns. But one should follow the worldly Dharma till one has attained that state of absolute renunciation.’
‘Gurudev, the holy ashram of Sriparvata is in Vijayapura on the banks of the Krishna, the capital of Ikshvakus!’

‘Yes. It is above Dhanyakataka, where the great Satavahanas once ruled.’

‘There was an artist in that town–a brahmin boy of Sankhyayanasa Gotra. He was the court painter of the Ikshvaku Emperor.’

‘Did he join the Order?’

‘No. He believed Buddha to have been an avatar of Vishnu and he wanted to attain moksha through art. He was a great aesthete.’

‘Buddha is the Reality and Vishnu may be His incarnation.’

‘The fragrance of the vernal flowers, the blue depths of the heavens, the coloured edges of the clouds, the moon-beams playing on the ripples of the lake, the waterfalls reflecting the prismatic colours in their spray, the tender mouths of the jumping does, the glances of beautiful damsels–these caught his fancy and made him a worshipper at the altar of White Tara, the Goddess of Art.’

‘Did he seek only that fitful, transient kind of beauty?’

‘Master, he and his students had adorned the various monasteries and the palaces of the princess with rare monuments of art: with paintings and sculptures.’

‘A rare devotee of the divine sage indeed!’

‘Yes. But he loved the princess of the Ikshvaku family. She appeared to respect and return his love.’

‘Did she not love him?’

‘Father, she was an empty-hearted damsel. She was like a handsome but hollow cloud on the sky. The artist’s love was pure and great, and hers all the greater only in pretence.’

‘What is this girl’s madness?’

‘Who can divine the heart of a woman? The artist sincerely approached the father for the hand of the girl. But the flint-hearted girl, feigning surprise, exclaimed to him,  ‘What! I to love thee!’ and laughed mockingly. Fearful darkness enveloped his heart. Storm clouds gathered thick over his life. His faculty of reason was like the picture of smoke shooting up from an incandescent forest. There was no God, no Dharma, no Buddha, no love for him any longer.’

‘Alas! What madness possessed him!’

‘My Master, he was not merely mad. All knowledge of all things slipped away from him. It was a cruel blow, the suffering of which became a great poison besmearing the entire world. He wandered and wandered and came at last to you.’

‘My boy, is this your tragic past and why you hate woman!’

‘Not hatred, Father. It is rather a dread of woman. I regained my peace at your feet and with your blessing. I have since begun the yoga of art as an offering to the Teacher of the Universe. Thus did I seek the path of Nirvana. And now, my Guru, will you order me to become teacher to a girl and throw me from the path?’

‘Child, by the Lord’s grace I have come at last to this path of service of humanity. Therefore I know the truth of the human mind. Deep down your heart lies the love for one woman. And you who seek the path of Nirvana, must shed this fear of woman. Is not the Lord born of Maya, a woman? Are not all women her reflections? She is a Prajnaparamita and a White Tara. Your penance can attain its perfection only when you can understand a woman’s heart. Stand you up like a man and teach the girl your art.’

We sat there quiet and still after this conversation, like statues of Dhanyakataka in the temple Mahachaitya. My heart slowly shook off its numbness. My thoughts flowed on to a far-off shore, like a giant wave born in the distant depths of the ocean.

III

When Jyotsnapriya, our master artist, went away in anger stepping over me, I got up and retired to my cave, my old nurse accompanying me. My heart broke to pieces like half-burnt earthenware under a heavy stride. I lost my senses. I threw myself on my cot to the astonishment of all my maids, like a garland in the hands of the rejected Uma. When I woke up to their ministrations, the whole cave was dark for me in spite of the ghee lit lamps. Men and women of the painted world in the cave appeared to look on me with compassion. There was standing by my side Satyasilacharya, the very embodiment of love. His looks were kindness itself, and on his old lips was dancing a blessed smile.

My mind which was foggy soon cleared up. I got up suddenly. I trembledand wouldhave fallen but for the timely attention of my nurse. ‘Little mother,’ she said, ‘go to the sage.’ I knelt down with my head bent at his feet.

‘Child, I am glad for your yearning. But why do you love art so much?’

‘Father..................’

‘Calm thyself, my child,’ he said, seating himself on a stool brought by a maid.

Sitting at his feet I whispered ‘Art is the breath of life for me. It is unbearable for me to think of giving up painting.’

‘Is there none other to teach you painting, my poor child?’

I got up suddenly and with folded arms I exclaimed, ‘I toured our sacred land along with my father. I know the art of several masters. Learning from a bad master undermines the very foundations of art.’
‘Yes, yes, my child. Jyotsnapriya, the Master has consented to teach the art but on certain conditions. You must not appear before your Guru. You may observe him at work, though. You may also send your work and get it corrected.’
‘Father, whatever the conditions, I am blessed if he consents to teach me!’

The old teacher blessed me. He went away smiling. Me thought I saw a mysterious smile in the deep hollows of his eyes.

I received the blessing granted to me with the feeling of a lyre drinking in its stringed melodies. I asked myself, ‘Do I deserve this gift?’

IV

On an auspicious day the girl began to learn painting from me. They said her name was Kalharamala–‘a garland of lilies.’ Why these high-flown names to these thrice-cursed creatures–women? Is it for entrapping men? Why has the great Buddha brought forth the female principle at all into this world? These daughters of Mara (Cupid) tested him in the holy forty days penance. O! how long is the race of men to undergo the same virtual penance? Yet the girl showed grace and power in her delineations. She knew the soul of colour technique. Her lines were perfect. She committed faultshere and there. But how many boys learning for years past has at commit them! I was told she prepared her own brushes and colours. How could the weak fingers of a woman acquire such power in the realm of art? Perhaps this particular girl’s fingers were like a man’s. I had a fleeting glimpse of a graceful figure that day when she threw herself at my feet. Bhaw! Why should these thoughts of a woman enter my mind?

I never liked in those days the tiresome work of correcting figures. Not that they needed much correction. She understood any instruction sent about a principle of art or technique and made it her own. But I myself forgot my own ideas in the torture of having a lady student. No painting came to my fingers. I went on correcting the student’s work mechanically. I became weak like the victim ofslow malaria. I was only thirty-five. Yet I felt my vitality ebbing away. With vengeance I was attending to the work ofteaching the students. At other times I was lounging in the artist’s Vihar.

One day I went to the cave Vihar, where Kalharamala was practising. Of course she should not have been there when I went. I saw the picture of a woman by the side of the Bodhisatwa I had painted on the north wall. Who painted that girl? How dared they without my orders? What fool was it that broke the rule? The painted figure was looking at me. It appeared as ifitwere breathing. How incongruous to paint a straight figure by the side of a thrice-bent figure!

To my astonishment the figure moved. With bent head and folded arms it approached me. It was no painting but a reality! My heart thumped in great pain. I stood mute like a statue before her. She was beautiful as a fairy. An aura of peace surrounded her, and I gazed on enraptured. My vow of not looking at a woman’s face gave way. Exclaiming ‘Are you from the heavens?’ I approached her.

‘My Lord–I, Kalharamala–daughter–PrimeMinister–Malwa,’ she jerked out in broken sentences.

‘Ah–ha–ha! Thou art my student.’ I jeered at her. My face set. My eyes burned. I turned on my heels shivering as if attacked by ague. Dark clouds spread around my heart. The maelstrom of fearful happiness raged within and bore me down into the farthest depths of the forest.

I mused: The tender leaves of a poisonous tree–however well-shaped and exquisite they may appear–remain poisonous. So is woman among mankind. I escaped once but the same relentless fate is dragging me , to drink the same poison. Alas! This guarded art of mine! Has it to fall into vile hands and perish? I came to this Ashram, thinking it was remote from the haunts of women.’

But this girl appeared to be pure innocence itself. The clear blue depths of a lake shone through her eyes. She was like the transcendental painting reflecting fully the aesthetic glories of a divine beauty. Can there be poison in such beauty? Such beauty cannot be a mask. But that Ikshvaku princess was also beautiful, and what an ordeal I had to undergo to steady my shaken heart!

The rosy fingers of dawn soon came creeping into the sky. I retraced my steps to the Ashram. I could not desist from teaching the girl. The holy one bound me by his sacred charge. I remembered also his mystic utterances and their prophetic import. I threw myself at his merciful and holy feet.

Smiling, he bade me rise and said, ‘The time has come for the fulfillment of Dharma in you. Your service to man should purify itself.’

‘Is it Dharma, Father, that I should fall?’

‘Oh, You votary of Beauty! There lurks in your art a little disharmony. However perfect a painting or a sculptured piece may be, satisfying all the canons of art, yet a dryness soils it all, when it does not glow with that artistic sympathy–karuna–the Jewel of aesthetics, its very kernel. Your Bodhisatwa, for that matter, has a certain hardness in it. Buddha is the Lord of love and mercy. He is the perfect fulfillment of ahimsa. In your delineations of Him, the poses of His hand, the different postures of His looks, that glow of love is absent to a certain degree. Be not dejected, my son. The time has come for you when it will all come to you.’

I took leave of him and reached my own Vihar. I knelt before the Lord and prayed, ‘Why should there be a certain hardness in my art? How can I drive it away?’

Me thought I heard the Lord speak! ‘Surrender unto me your vows, believe in man’s righteousness, and go forward in your worship of Me through art.’

V

Before my Master scuttled off from me, he had enquired, ‘Are you a damsel from the heavens?’ These words filled me with over-flowing joy. Though not very beautiful, he beamed with a wonderful light. I would have readily pardoned him, had, he taken hold of my shoulders and shaken me remorselessly like a tempest for the sin I had committed in appearing before him. Alas, he vanished when he had recognised me. Should I prove to be a source of distraction for such yogis? Could there be absolution for me?

But to my surprise, the very next day, it was proclaimed that man or woman could go to and learn from him without any restrictions. That wasa red-letter day for me. In those days his whole aspect changed. He shone before me like a charming vision. With his silver voice, he unravelled for me the mystery of art. How everlasting and complete was my bliss then! I craved always to be with him. I longed to touch his feet, like a honey-bee touching the buds of a garden.

One day he asked, ‘Kalharamala, what do you intend doing after you finish these lessons in art?’

‘I want to cleanse myself, painting the life-stories of the Lord Buddha.’

‘But how can you continue in this mood of worship when you are married?’

‘I will never marry.’

‘I do not believe it. Your father will marry you to a king. When it is ordained in your destiny to be a queen, how can you escape it?’

‘I will be a student learning at your feet all my life.’
‘You deceitful girl,’ he laughed, ‘you have not given up the wiles natural to a woman.’

I could not understand his words. How could my replies be the wiles of a woman? Was I not ready to lay everything at his feet in a spirit of absolute self-surrender? In the cave my Guru painted Padmapani-bodhisatwa. It was a superb piece of work, bound to live forever. I painted Yasodhara by the side of the Divine figure. When my Master looked at my picture, he complimented me greatly, saying it was a gem of art. I was overpowered by shyness. There rang a paean of triumph from the lips of all the visitors to, and inmates of, the Ashram for those two paintings.

I was loth to leave my Master even for a minute. The few minutes, when I had to be inevitably away, were aeons to me. I was grateful to him when he permitted me to arrange his bed and look after his meals and meagre belongings such as his colours and brushes. Moon-rays shone through his eyes. I felt carried away in the rapids of a mystic joy caused by his accidental touch while teaching me. At such moments I had a strange feeling that we were absolutely alone and that I and my Master were the only beings in this world limited by spate and time.

VI

First I could not understand Kalharamala’s heart. I had never come upon a girl of her kind. How was she different from the rest? I could realise now that the beauty of the Ikshvaku princess was feline. But this girl’s beauty was the purest white of moon-light; there was not a single flaw in her beauty. Could such beauty be a mask? No. It was the reflection of the purity and the radiance of her heart’s innocence. Verily, she was a lily in the purest lake.

Why–she never left me in those days! When I was tired a little she brought for me delicious dishes, cooked with her own hand. She massaged my feet, not caring for my protests. Lightnings flashed through me in the wake of her touches. With great difficulty, I wrestled down the temptation of gathering her to my bosom.

Her lips were like the delicate crimson shoots of a tender plant. The reflected star-light of a pellucid lake danced in her eyes. She was beautiful like a white swan flying in the deep blue of the skies. If this divine beauty could not merge in my life, my existence would be dreary and purposeless.

One day she was painting in her cave. I stole on her, like a stealthy lizard stalking a butterfly dancing unawares on a flowery plant. She was standing before her picture like Prajnaparamita, when I enquired, ‘Have you been painting?’

‘I am painting,’ she answered simply, ‘the holy story of a woman offering a lost garment to her Lord.’

‘Let me look at it’, I said. The picture was very beautiful.

‘It is perfect, ‘and I continued, Oh! girl, your pupilage ends this day.’

She trembled like a bird pierced by an arrow.
‘Lord!’ she whispered. ‘Do you not love me? Was it for nothing that you gave up your vows?  And now do you cast me aside–a useless flower?

‘Innocent girl! You ask me simply, ‘Do you not love me? ‘I ask you in return, ‘Do you love me?’

‘Does the lily of the valley love the moon-light? Does the sun-flower love the orb of the sun? Without your love my life would be a drooping flame the strewn and stifled with ashes.’

‘Girl! I am an old man of thirty-five. You are a beautiful damsel of eighteen. Can there be love with such disparity?’

‘Can age be a consideration in love, my lord?’

‘Kalharamala! Marry me, Queen of my soul!  Is it for this moment that Lord Buddha has kept me safe?  O Lord! Your mercy is infinite! Come, goddess of my soul! Kneel before the Buddha you have created and He will bless us.’

We heard behind us the voice of the holy Satyasilacharya uttering the benediction, ‘I, the lowest servant of the Lord, bless you both on your union.’

We turned round and fell at his feet.