As a kid, I loved reading about mythology: Greek, Egyptian, Hindu, you name it. I grew up reading the Percy Jackson books alongside Amar Chitra Katha comics. What I enjoyed (and continue to enjoy) most about mythology was the richness, diversity, and depth of its characters, and the ways in which modern authors were able to flesh out and humanize these gods and heroes in so many different ways. Rick Riordan (author of the Percy Jackson series) had a very different take on the Greek pantheon than Kate McMullan (the Myth-o-Mania books). Similarly, Indian authors today have been exploring the literary possibilities in Hindu mythology and epics; I’ve particularly enjoyed reading Amish’s Shiva Trilogy and Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni’s women-centric retellings, like Palace of Illusions.

However, the more I learn about South Asian history and literature, the more I’ve come to realize that this isn’t just a modern phenomenon. People have been playing with mythology and sacred narratives, emphasizing different aspects, changing up the settings, and adding totally new details and characters, for as long as these narratives have existed! This may seem obvious to everyone else, but it’s been quite a revelation to me. I want to share a wonderful passage from classical Telugu poetry, written around nine hundred years ago, that illustrates this exact phenomenon. But first, some background…

Nanne Choda, a forgotten poet

The poet whose work I want to feature in this post is Nanne Choda; I came across his writing in an anthology of classical Telugu poetry spanning a thousand years, translated by David Shulman (whom I interviewed earlier this summer) and Velcheru Narayana Rao.

Very little is known about Nanne Choda; in fact, his poetry had been lost to history until one of his works was discovered and re-published in the early 1900s by the scholar Manavalli Ramakrishna Kavi (1866-1957). Ramakrishna Kavi claimed that Nanne Choda actually lived before Nannaya, who is generally believed to be the first Telugu poet. While Shulman and Rao acknowledge that “there is an archaic quality to his verses,” they tentatively place Nanne Choda in the twelfth century AD, a century after Nannaya.

He seems to have been the ruler of a small kingdom called Orayuru, which some people associate with the city of Tiruchirappalli in the center of Tamil Nadu. Modern Telugu poets have given Nanne Choda the title of Kavi-raja Shikha-mani (“Crest-Jewel of the King of Poets”), but Shulman and Rao write that “his book seems to have disappeared from the horizon of literary discourse already in medieval times; later poets never mention him.”

The Birth of Kumara

The only surviving work of Nanne Choda is his epic poem Kumara-sambhava, “The Birth of Kumara.” Kumara (also called Skanda, Murugan, Kartikeya, Subramanya) is the son of Shiva and Parvati, and younger brother to Ganesha; he is the god in the Hindu pantheon who symbolizes courage and valor. “The Birth of Kumara” is about the intricate sequence of events that led to Kumara’s birth.

In composing his Telugu narrative of Kumara’s birth, Nanne Choda seems to have taken inspiration from the much more well-known Sanskrit Kumara-sambhava that was composed by the legendary poet Kalidasa (fifth century AD) around seven hundred years prior. Kalidasa’s Kumara-sambhava is considered by some to be “the greatest long poem in classical Sanskrit, by the greatest poet of the language.” Although I don’t think Nanne Choda’s work has been given such hyperbolic praise, hopefully the following selection will surprise you in a number of ways.

Manmatha and Rati

This selection from Nanne Choda’s Kumara-sambhava is a conversation between a husband and wife: Desire and Delight.

Manmatha (meaning “one who churns the mind” in Sanskrit), also called Kamadeva, is the Hindu god of (sexual) desire and romantic attraction. He’s actually quite similar in some ways to Cupid in Greek mythology; a good-looking young man who uses a bow made of sugarcane to shoot arrows made of flowers, which cause people to fall in love. He’s a minor deity today, but he seems to have been much more popular in ancient India, and poets like Kalidasa mention annual spring festivals being held in his honor. Some scholars have speculated that these festivals to Manmatha were the predecessors to the modern festival of Holi, which is associated much more with Krishna than Manmatha.

Carving of Kamadeva and Rati on the Chennakeshava temple in Belur, Karnataka Painting of Manmatha from south India; date unknown. 18th-19th century painting of Manmatha

Looking at traditional paintings of Manmatha, I don’t understand how our ancestors thought those depictions were attractive in any way… but that’s besides the point. Manmatha’s wife is Rati, the goddess who personifies sexual delight and pleasure, who sometimes also shoots arrows of love along with her husband.

Painting of Rati from Tirucchirappalli, Tamil Nadu. 1820-1825. Sculpture of Rati (right) on a pillar in the Meenakshi Amman temple in Madurai, Tamil Nadu.

Manmatha plays a crucial role in the plot of “The Birth of Kumara.” The premise of the story is that the gods in heaven are being defeated by their enemies (and cousins), the antigods. They need a leader to direct them in war against their enemies, and for a number of reasons that leader needs to be the son of Shiva and Parvati.

However, Shiva is a yogi who spends most of his time meditating up in the Himalayas. In order for Shiva and Parvati (also called Uma) to have a son, Shiva first needs to be roused out of his meditation. Indra, the king of the gods, asks Manmatha to go shoot Shiva with one of his arrows, so he’ll wake up from his meditation and fall in love with Uma.

The only problem is that Shiva has a famously short temper. Even though he spends all his time meditating, he’s still the destroyer of the universe. Manmatha’s assignment to disturb Shiva is basically a suicide mission, and in this passage Rati tries to dissuade him from going.

A fresh perspective and a funny conversation

With all that background information out of the way, we can finally get to what makes this particular passage so great! This conversation between Manmatha and Rati doesn’t take place in Kalidasa’s poem, and is one of Nanne Choda’s unique additions to the narrative.

In their introduction, Shulman and Rao write that Nanne Choda’s poetry contains “a freshness of perception or understanding,” and this passage makes that very apparent. Nanne Choda brilliantly animates the characters of Manmatha and Rati, illuminating “the human dimension of the classical story and … the characters’ inner feelings.” This lively, emotional, funny conversation is conveyed in entertaining, crystal-clear language; at some points, it reads almost like a sitcom! Even with the understanding that the modern translators may have taken some creative licenses, it’s pretty incredible to me that this was written around nine hundred years ago.

Throughout the passage, there are so many charming and funny moments, but I just want to point out a few of my favorites.

When Rati first asks Manmatha what he and Indra were talking about, Manmatha’s nonchalant response is almost straight out of a sitcom, with a husband coming back home from work:

“How was your meeting, honey? What did you and Indra talk about?”

“Oh, nothing… I mean, Indra just asked me to shoot Shiva, but honestly, it’s no big deal.”

Rati is understandably shocked by this news, and tries a variety of rhetorical tactics to get her husband to change his mind. First, she reminds Manmatha of Shiva’s fearsome reputation. He cut off Brahma’s fifth head! He overpowered Yama, god of death, in order to save his devotee Markandeya! Why would Indra want to pick a fight with “the Lord of all the worlds … the Doomsday fire”?

Next, she tries flattering her husband, saying that Indra is simply jealous that all the women in heaven are in love with Manmatha. “Those women don’t look at him the way they look at you. So Indra hates you and wants you to die. Should you make it easy?”

She even uses the classic line, “What would your parents think?” Vishnu and Lakshmi are Manmatha’s parents (something that’s alluded to in many Carnatic songs), and Rati reminds him that, “Vishnu and Lakshmi would hardly approve of your arrogant talk.” Finally, in comparing Manmatha to Shiva, Rati makes some pretty grand comparisons: “Fighting with Rudra [Shiva] for no reason is like a locust fighting fire.” “However you look at it, you’re as close to him as a mosquito to an elephant.”

These statements and arguments humanize Rati as a woman who deeply cares about her husband and is worried about his safety. Yet, Nanne Choda also takes care to develop the human side of Manmatha as well. In response to Rati’s initial shock, he says, “When I shoot my flower arrows, the hearts of both Shiva and Uma will simply melt and unite. Do you have any doubt? I want to achieve this goal, never attempted before in any world. Skilled archer that I am, I will make their bodies one.”

From this passage, the reader gets a sense of eagerness, almost bordering on arrogance. Manmatha is definitely confident in his abilities as a “skilled archer” whose arrows will unfailingly unite Shiva and Uma. Yet, we can also sense some excitement in his voice, a desire to accomplish something that has “never [been] attempted before in any world.” It’s almost as if Manmatha is trying to prove himself… but to whom? To Indra? To Rati? To the world? It’s up to the reader to decide.

Rati doesn’t buy this, though. In one last effort to dissuade him, she meticulously compares every aspect of her husband to Shiva, and this is where things get funny. These are some of my favorite lines of this passage. Nanne Choda’s language here reminds me of ninda stuti (“Abuse-Praise”), the age-old tradition of Hindu devotees making fun of God, which I’ve written about here.

When a mere angry look from Rati makes Manmatha shiver, how is he going to deal with Shiva’s anger? Manmatha’s bow is made of sugarcane, which even children are capable of chewing up; Shiva’s bow is made from a mountain of gold! Manmatha’s soldiers are bees and parrots, which anyone can shoo away. Rati asks: “Armed like this, with such splendid troops, you hope to move against the Fierce God?”

However, even this doesn’t change Manmatha’s mind. As it turns out, he has a trump card up his sleeve. He reminds Rati that in this universe, nobody — not even Shiva — is free from the power of kama (desire). Even though he’s only armed with a sugarcane bow and flower arrows, because he is the god of kama, this truth gives Manmatha’s immense power. And with that, he sets off on his mission.

How to Make God Fall in Love

Verses 4.54-76, 78-82 of Kumara-sambhava (“The Birth of Kumara”) by Nanne Choda. Translated from Telugu by David Shulman and Velcheru Narayana Rao.

“This job is just right for me,” Manmatha said to Indra. “I accept. Give me the betel.” [The gift of betel nut and leaf seals a contract.] Thus honored by the king of the gods, Manmatha took his leave and headed home, together with his friend, Spring. Meanwhile, at home,

Rati, his wife, was ill at ease,

waiting for her husband to return.

Surprising evil omens were appearing.

Tremors shook her body, as if the antigods

had possessed her. She was sad and terrified.

Then she saw her husband’s flag in the sky,

with a crocodile painted on it.

Bees buzzing, cuckoos cooing sweetly,

parrots singing joyful chants:

with a great flourish, Manmatha arrived,

eager to see his wife.

She looked at him and hid her inner sadness

with a smile. After the usual greetings,

she asked: “Indra summoned you for some

special purpose—what was that?”

She pressed him. He saw her feelings on her face. A little irritated, he replied,

with a smile:

“You seem scared, though you’re trying to hide it.

I can see in your movement

that you’re masking fear.

Your lips are quivering. What is it that is

disturbing you? Tell me.”

So she told him about the mysterious omens, some from the gods, some from the sky, some from the earth, and some from her own body. “Tell me what happened at Indra’s court,” she asked, looking very miserable. “Nothing special,” he said. “He just asked me to disturb Shiva and Uma, and I said I would do it.” When she heard this, Rati was shocked, her heart shaking, and she said:

“Maybe Indra doesn’t care that Shiva is our family god,

but doesn’t he know that the whole universe worships him?

It means nothing to him that Shiva is a great Yogi,

but what about the fact that he is the Lord of all the worlds?

Indra may not fear a god who cut off Brahma’s head,

but isn’t he afraid of someone who put an end to Death?

His three eyes may not be frightening,

but still he is Rudra, the Doomsday fire.

Indra is sending you against that terrible god.

Will helping Indra do us any good? If you take on

the strongest, death is certain. Doesn’t Indra

know this?

Indra has sent you off without further thought.

He’s a king, after all. You are going

as his lieutenant. But are you a warrior?

Will Siva be a pushover? You’re hunting

a lion, and it will be a miracle if either you

or Indra survive.

All the women in heaven are in love with you.

Indra can’t stand it. That’s why he’s sending you

to your death, on this pretext.

Those women don’t look at him the way

they look at you. So Indra hates you

and wants you to die. Should you make it easy

for him by volunteering?

When the gods invited you for this mission,

you took it as an honor. They told you Shiva

would be an easy target, so you quickly

got ready to go. But you’re risking your life.

You’re not even afraid of this impossible task.

Vishnu and Lakshmi [Manmatha’s parents] would hardly approve

of your arrogant talk.

If Shiva opens his third eye, for some reason or other,

the whole universe dies in an instant.

How can you attack someone so fierce?

Very well, go ahead: how big a fish

can a little fish eat?

Like somebody who chews up a brick

at the wink of an eye,

you’re so full of yourself

you want to take on the gods.

Fighting with Rudra for no reason

is like a locust fighting fire.”

While Rati was telling him about Shiva, and trying to discourage him, Manmatha looked at her and said:

“When I shoot my flower arrows, the hearts

of both Shiva and Uma will simply melt

and unite. Do you have any doubt?

I want to achieve this goal, never attempted before

in any world. Skilled archer that I am,

I will make their bodies one.

You know, by what you’ve seen and heard,

that nothing in all the worlds

can cross my command. Why are you

so afraid? Why make the god draped in snakes

into such a vicious enemy?”

Manmatha thought this should put an end to the argument, but Rati was still thinking about Shiva’s power, and she said:

“His bow is the Mountain of Gold; yours

is made of sugarcane. His arrow is the deadly

Pashupata. You shoot flowers that wilt at a touch.

He wrecks cities. And you—you wreak havoc

in the hearts of men stranded far from their lovers.

However you look at it, you’re as close to him

as a mosquito to an elephant.

Your soft arrows can’t even penetrate

the hearts of those who worship Shiva,

let alone the god himself. Is it wise

to think of vanquishing the invincible?

I’m a woman, I’m frail, but if I look at you

in anger, you start to shiver.

What makes you think you can withstand

the fire from Shiva’s deadly eye?

Children chew it up and spit it out,

but still you rely on sugarcane

to make your bow.

Flowers that die when pressed into women’s hair

you take for arrows.

The gentle breeze that can hardly move a tender bud

is your Chief Lieutenant,

and your elite units are manned by bees and parrots,

that any woman can shoo away.

Spring, burned up

at the touch of the mildest of summers,

is your ally. The spearhead in your attack

is a row of cuckoos, who are scared away by baby crows.

Armed like this, with such splendid troops,

you hope to move against the Fierce God?

Are you stronger than the Man-Lion, who got himself skinned [by Shiva as Sharabha-murti]?

Are you stronger than the Creator, who lost one of his heads?

Are you mightier than Death, who was burnt to cinders?

Why pick a quarrel, for no reason, with the god

who destroys all?”

He listened, and replied: “Strength, valor, magical spells, schemes, meditations, mind control, and other such superhuman powers, however marvelous they may be, become soft under the influence of passion, like the moonstone when touched by moonbeams. Everyone knows this by experience.

When men who can crush an elephant to death

tightly hold them in their embrace,

women more tender than a flower

beg for more. Don’t you know

the supreme power of passion?

If you want to know the reason:

So long as living beings are either male or female

and have minds that feel,

that is enough—all of them

are controlled by Desire.

That’s how the Creator made the world,

and He gave me this power.”

Then he explained to her the supremacy of desire—the prime cause of the first creation—and convinced her. He was ready, now, to advance against God.”

If you’re interested in what happened after this, here are the spoilers (from the version of the story I’m most familiar with):

Rati’s fears come true; when Manmatha attempts to disturb Shiva from his meditation, Shiva becomes so angry that he incinerates him. However, before Manmatha is burnt to ashes, he manages to prick Shiva with one of his flower arrows, and Shiva ends up falling in love with Uma. (In Kalidasa’s narrative, he devotes an entire chapter to describing the love-making of Shiva and Parvati, which lasts twenty-five years. This chapter was usually omitted by medieval scribes.) Shiva and Uma (with the assistance of many surrogate “mothers”) produce a child, Kumara, who ends up successfully leading the gods into battle against their enemies. And there’s a happy ending for Desire and Delight as well: in response to Rati’s distraught pleas, Shiva brings Manmatha back to life!

Image sources: Chennakeshava temple carving, Kamadeva painting 1, Kamadeva painting 2, Rati painting, Madurai sculpture of Rati, Manmatha and Rati Kalamkari painting