Madhubani painting: ‘Solitude’ by Bharti Dayal
Click on image for enlarged view.

Willst du die Blüthe des frühen, die Früchte des späteren Jahres,
Willst du, was reizt und entzückt, willst du was sättigt und nährt,
Willst du den Himmel, die Erde, mit Einem Namen begreifen;
Nenn’ ich, Sakuntala, Dich, and so ist Alles gesagt.
         — Goethe

Wouldst thou the young year’s blossoms and the fruits of its decline
And all by which the soul is charmed, enraptured, feasted, fed,
Wouldst thou the earth and heaven itself in one sole name combine?
I name thee, O Sakuntala! and all at once is said.

         — translation by E.B. Eastwick¹


The four lines capture, in a nutshell, the West’s admiring reception of Kālidāsa’s Abhijñānaśakuntalam, which first emerged in English translation in 1789, by Sir William Jones. Jones’ translation created a greater impact in larger Europe rather than in England. One of the first Sanskrit literary texts, which found a way to English translation, the play has received much critical attention as a representation of how the colonising culture viewed an example of the ancient glories of a colonised culture. Abhijñānaśakuntalam has been translated several times in English, and each translation brings about some new problems to approach the text, from different perspectives. It is a matter of exhaustive research to explore how different versions, in colonial and post-colonial times, by translators from both cultural backgrounds (Western and Indian) reflect the changing ideology that goes behind the translation of an Indian classic. This paper does hint at such issues, but its main focus is on the act of translation itself. With reference to six English translations of Abhijñānaśakuntalam, the present author ventures to find out how far these translations can provide a close ‘recognition’ of the original.  The translated versions to be discussed here can be arranged chronologically:  Sir William Jones’s translation appeared in 1789, Monier-Williams’ in 1855, M. R. Kale’s in 1898, Arthur W. Ryder’s in 1912, Chandra Rajan’s in 1989, and Vinay Dharwadker’s in 2015.
 
Before going into a comparative study of different translations, we should consider the fact that Kālidāsa’s text itself can be read as a translation and transcreation of the source-story in the Mahābhārata. There śakuntalā is a bold, sharp-tongued woman who with her son walks into Duṣyanta’s court and chides him for refusing her. Duṣyanta is represented as a pretender who does not actually forget his secret marriage with śakuntalā, but conceals everything out of a fear of the codes of rectitude, until the divine oracle defends her right as a wife and asks the king to accept her. Kālidāsa has turned this story into a complex and artistically woven human drama, by introducing the curse of sage Durvāsa which becomes the cause of Duṣyanta’s delusion. The curse itself remains an interesting hermeneutic exercise: some scholars understand it as a device of poetic licence only to the make the hero’s character more agreeable, others interpret it as a social warning against a private love-relationship, which, however self-absorbing and wonderful, should not carry the individual so far away from his/her public duties and responsibilities. While discussing the different English translations, we may look into the curse in further details.
 
Sir William Jones’ translation was published during the early colonial period, when the East India Company was in charge of the Indian empire. In that period of early contact between two cultures, European scholars had a somewhat patronising interest in an exotic culture and its literary resources. They even took the help of some native Pundits or Moulavis to learn the Indian languages. Sir William Jones was a British intellectual under the government service.  During his study of Indian texts as part of his professional interest in the law-scriptures and educational tracts (like Manusmriti and Hitopadesha in Sanskrit, and other Persian texts), he got introduced, by one of his native advisers, to Kālidāsa’s Abhijñānashakuntalam.  Kālidāsa’s play has four regional recensions or versions (all in Sanskrit and Prakrit) – Eastern or Bengali, Southern, Kashmiri and Devanāgari.  Jones read the Bengali recension and found it exquisite. He undertook the task of translating the text, first word by word, into Latin, because both Latin and Sanskrit share close resemblance in their classical linguistic structure. Then he prepared an English translation from the Latin. His purpose in translating the text was twofold, as Romila Thapar puts it, “one, translating it [Abhijñānaśakuntalam] into a foreign idiom although the translation was not the most felicitous; and second, his wish to convince readers of the greatness of Indian civilisation”(199).
 
Jones’s Preface to the translation explains his views as a translator. He is all praise for the tradition of Sanskrit drama and Kālidāsa whom he describes as “the Shakespeare of India”. It is notable that behind this praise, however well-meaning, it is possible to recognise a glimpse of Orientalist bias. Jones resorts to Shakespeare to find a cultural parameter to judge a ‘native’ classic. Besides, he does not approve of the structure of the play; he also seems to have problems with those parts in the play which contain much of erotic sentiments and comical dialogues.

Jones probably failed to understand that the seven-act structure is rather suitable for a Sanskrit drama. His suggestion to mould Abhijñānaśakuntalam into the typical five-act Elizabethan play-structure seems to arise from a sense of cultural imposition. He felt that Duṣyanta’s conversation with Mādhavya, his friend and jester (whom Jones calls ‘buffoon’) can be omitted, without understanding that this would take away much of the revelation of the hero’s character. Mādhavya also offers an ironic and earthly counterpoint to the king’s royal and romantic ideas, without which the play would have been less dynamic.
 
Another aspect of Jones’ misunderstanding of the text lies in his ‘civilised’ notion of decorum and propriety, which were much evident in the 18^th century European aesthetics. He seemed to be uncomfortable with Kālidāsa’s representation of ‘sringāra rasa’ (which is sacred and of primal importance in Sanskrit aesthetics, often called ‘Ādi rasa’ as well). A passage from Duṣyanta-śakuntalā’s romantic scene will be illustrative of Jones’ translation strategies:

In Kālidāsa, there is a beautiful word, ‘karabhoru’ (karabha +uru) used by Duṣyanta to address Śakuntalā, suggesting the semblance of śakuntalā’s  elegant thighs with the tapering forearm, or in a different sense, with the trunk of an elephant. In Indian aesthetics, it is of high value to compare the grace and beauty of human form and limbs with creatures and natural objects from the world of flora and fauna, thus establishing humankind’s existential harmony with prakriti (nature). Jones has deliberately omitted the significant word karabhoru , perhaps considering it too erotic and not appropriate to the taste of his European readers. Monier-Williams, a representative of ‘Victorian morality’ goes one step further ; he deletes even the whole line expressing Duṣyanta’s desire to take śakuntalā’s feet on his lap. He makes it simply as follows:

Indeed, much is ‘lost’ in such a selective translation, where the British translator deliberately omits words and phrases so typical of  Sanskrit poetics. On the other hand, in M. R. Kale’s translation this part of Duṣyanta’s speech is faithfully rendered as: “O you with thighs beautifully tapering like the forearm, shall I, placing your lotus-red feet in my lap, shampoo them so as to soothe you?” (113)   Chandra Rajan has translated this portion as:

It is clear that both Jones and Monier-Williams attempt to remove or delete the ‘erotic’ portions to represent the love-scene differently to the receptor culture. This attitude points out their kind of problem with those aspects which, under their western eyes, appeared to be ‘primitive’ in a ‘native’ classic, otherwise so brilliant.  According to Romila Thapar, “Thus the colonised are viewed as civilised, but their civilisation may take some unpalatable forms, and these can be corrected or deleted ”(201).
 
After Sir William Jones, when in 1855, Monier-Williams translated the text, the nature of the British administration had changed. The process of the transfer of governance from the East India Company to Queen Victoria was soon to be executed, and the early Indologists’ delightful wonder at the ancient glory of the native culture, by then, gave way to a kind of biased intolerance. As a Victorian translator translating a native classic, Monier-Williams also showed respect to the original, but his attitude was more ‘corrective’ and rather condescending, especially towards the representation of gender-relation and sexuality. His emphasis was on the ethical imperative of the text, as he sought to elaborate the portions dealing with Kanva’s advice about family life, the sections dealing with kingship and welfare of the body politic, and Durvāsā’s curse. He even adds some lines to Durvāsā’s curse to make the text more appealing in terms of  the social and political perspectives of  the Victorian times. A comparison may be helpful, placing side by side Monier-Williams’ translation of the curse and that of M.R. Kale.
 
Here is Monier-Williams:

And this is Kale’s translation, a plain, prosaic yet exact rendition of the original passage in elegant verse :

Kale, being a Sanskrit scholar with English education, living in late nineteenth century India, offers a scholarly, faithful translation (with annotations and critical comments) of the classic with an idealistic zeal to serve the ancient heritage, highlighting  its purity and authenticity. His translation strategy can be seen as a conscious effort to offer a more authentic, indigenous alternative to the works of the British translators, often ‘misrepresenting’ a celebrated Indian classic.
 
Arthur Ryder’s early 20th century translation of  sakuntala (published in 1912) is one of the popular and easily available versions.   Kālidāsa’s original text is a drama charged with poetic flavour, and Ryder tries his best to convey the poetic feeling, rather than aiming at complete fidelity to the text.  Sanskrit is a highly inflected language and therefore, very different from English –it is very difficult to translate into English the lengthy nominal compounds, images and figurative devices of Sanskrit.  Maintaining literal accuracy in such cases tends to make the translation complicated and hard to comprehend. Given this problem, Ryder’s attempt appears to be more convenient an approach, ideal for a common English reader who has no idea of Sanskrit. Doing this, of course he loses much of the Indian and Sanskritic elements essential to a deeper understanding of the play, but makes the text more easily approachable on the part of the receptor culture.
           
The greatest merit of Ryder’s version is the simple factor that it offers an easy reading. He imposes a rhyming, melodious verse form upon everything, which, although sounding well in the scenes representing romantic passion or natural beauty, seems to spoil the serious sections. For instance: this is how he translates a passage describing Duṣyanta’s love for śakuntalā, when he considers himself fortunate to come near her rather unexpectedly:

In the present context, the rhyming verse pattern works well. But when Ryder uses such a verse form in translating a grave, complex and significant passage concerning Durvāsā’s curse, it becomes a disaster in translation:

However, it cannot be denied that the rhymes, and the familiar English expression (rather than forced circumlocutions found so often in translations from the Sanskrit), make Ryder’s translation a smooth and readable one, despite its limitations.
 
Chandra Rajan’s translation of Abhijñānashakuntalam is included in the volume titled Kalidasa: The Loom of Time -A Selection of His Plays and Poems.  A scholar well-versed in both English and Sanskrit, at present teaching in Canada -- Chandra Rajan is a good representative of the post-colonial Indian who serves both masters at a time. Translation, as it is said, is like serving two masters simultaneously. Rajan in her ‘Introduction’ hopes that English translation of Sanskrit classics should make the West appreciate them, overcoming the barrier of language and culture-- just as Greek, Russian and German literatures have been made available to a larger readership who does not know the source-languages but can read them in English. Published by Penguin (1989), its target readership covers both worlds and cultural locations - outside and inside India, Westerners as well as modern Indians who are not familiar with Sanskrit and the Sanskritic tradition. She has opted for a sense-conveying mode of translation rather than a literal one.
 
Vinay Dharwadker’s translation, based on the Devanagari recension, has come out in 2015, and this offers the twenty-first century readers a new version of Abhijñānaśakuntalam, which balances “multilingual scholarly access to Sanskrit-Prakrit text and its discursive experience with literary representation”, as the translator himself tells us in his Preface. (n.pag.). Unlike previous translations, Dharwadker’s rendition ventures to reproduce Kālidāsa’s intricate and elegant poetic devices, images, his famous analogies and capture the liveliness of dialogues alongside the three-dimensional quality of the characters. This version, as claimed by the translator, also provides new interpretations of the larger and finer thematic concerns of the play, resolving long-standing issues of syntax and semantics, and offers fresh solutions to persistent problems of interlingual and aesthetic representations. For instance, a passage describing Śakuntalā’s extraordinary shape and beauty, clad in bark of trees( the dress for the hermits and ascetics) , goes as follows in Dharwadker’s translation:

Sir Monier Monier-Williams translated this part very well, in blank verse which almost sounds Shakespearean, but he could not find a term for ‘Saivala’ ( which Dharwadker translates as “roots and rhizomes”, Kale translates as simply “moss”, and Ryder, as “water-plants” )and left it as it was in the original. M. R. Kale kept the translation close to the original, in his accurate prose-rendition:

In Ryder’s translation, the original Sanskrit syntax was much twisted and many intricate expressions got omitted or changed into a simpler verse-form :

A comparison among these three versions clearly shows how Dharwadker has been able to retain the aesthetic feel of  Kalidasa’s unmatchable verse, without taking too much liberty, nor being too rigid. He achieves a fine balance between the two languages – Sanskrit and English.
 
Such examples furnished for the sake of comparative analysis can be numerous. Let us, therefore, concentrate on a scene of great importance – the scene of reunion between the separated lovers – where the burden of guilt, misunderstanding, repentance, suffering and anxiety gets assuaged by a new light of true love and reconciliation. Different translators have captured the moment in different ways. When in Act VII, Sarvadamana, the child of Duṣyanta and Śakuntala asks his mother about the identity of Duṣyanta, śakuntalā, in her tears, can merely say, “Batsa te bhāgadheyani priccha”³ (Kale 275). So much is said in these four words, revealing at the same time śakuntala’s pain and joy, faith and distrust ( in her fate), satisfaction and anxiety . Sir William Jones translates this with an addition of his own explanatory words: “Sweet child, ask the divinity, who presides over the fortunes of us both”(n.pag.). Sir Monier Monier-Williams does a similar thing: “Child, ask the deity that presides over thy destiny” (148). However, none of these goes well with the character and situation. In a moment of fleeting hope, when she sees her husband again but still cannot believe in her good fortune (and her son’s), having suffered so much already, the overwhelmed śakuntalā (while weeping) is not in the position to make such a well-knit comment about fatality. Moreover, she is a mother now, and all her concerns revolve around the fortunes of her son. She wishes with all her heart that Duṣyanta at least recognises their son, no matter what happens to her. Her inability to speak much at this point, rather than her words, would be appropriate just as Kālidāsa had kept it.

M. R. Kale renders it simply as “Child, ask your luck” (253), but “luck” seems to fall short of capturing the notion of “bhāgadhyeani”. Moreover, Kālidāsa used the term in a plural sense, suggesting “Fortunes” or “the ways/ workings of fate”. In this regard, Chandra Rajan’s translation – “Ask your fortunes, my little one” (276), comes close to a proper representation, maintaining the very evocative compactness and economy of Sanskrit and Prakrit. Another beautiful passage comes soon, when Duṣyanta seeks to make an atonement for his former ill-behaviour, by wiping śakuntalā’s tears away. First, let us look at Sir William Jones’ translation of the passage:

Jones has thus done away with the distinction between the prose and verse-speech, and deleted much of the significant details, curtailing several evocative phrases and words.
 
 Sir Monier-Williams’ translation deviates from the original, yet conveys the sense considerably well, though his choice of words is not too good.

The key-word used by Kālidāsa is ‘moha’ ( to be translated as delusion or infatuation). Words like ‘moha’ and ‘sammoha’ come recurring in Duṣyanta’s self-reproach, since the moment he gets back the ring and recovers his memory, and becomes penitent. In Indian philosophy and dharmic understanding of life, the term is found as one of the six enemies or ‘ripus’ (faults) which deviate a man from the path of righteousness and a mindful, true perception. Such an important word has been turned into ‘delirium’ by Jones, and it is merely ‘madness’ in Monier-Williams’ translation. Whenever terms like ‘jñāna’ and ‘moha’ appear, Monier-Williams manages to translate them as ‘reason’ and ‘madness’, perhaps having in mind a Shakespearean framework. Kale’s translation, uncompromising in its loyalty to the original, translates the word as ‘infatuation’.

Moha can be similar to ‘infatuation’ when it is taken as part of a physical life and reality. Despite his honourable intention to marry Śakuntala and take her to the palace, Duṣyanta’s initial desire for śakuntalā was, in a way, some kind of infatuation – it is only later, through repentance and self-realisation, he feels the true worth of the beloved.  In this regard, Kale’s use of the term ‘infatuation’ is thematically significant. However, Rajan’s translation, arranged more poetically and dramatically than Kale’s, shows a conscious decision to use the word ‘delusion’ for moha–which denotes a spiritually bewildered or perplexed condition, without the ability to discriminate falsity from the truth. In her version, the sequence of reunion is presented like this --

śakuntalā, in the play, is ‘lost’ and ‘regained’ by Duṣyanta. So is the text ‘lost’ and ‘regained’ to the modern reader, in and out of every attempt of translation. It is true that English as a modern European language has obvious difficulties in rendering the true flavor of Kālidāsa’s masterpiece in his glorious, Vaidarbhi-style Sanskrit. Nor are they able to recreate the dramatic tension between the other-worldly, beatific world of Kanva’s tapovana and the materialistic, heated urban centre of power -- Duṣyanta’s  capital, which finally dissolves in the heavenly light of reconciliation in Māricha’s ashrama. Any reader of the original Sanskrit text will immediately recognize how Kālidāsa took the story out of the Mahābhārata and recreated it in light of his fascinating creative engagement with the other mahākāvya – the Rāmāyana. Kālidāsa’s poetic affinity with the ādikavi Vālmiki is too evident throughout his career – in Vikramorvashīyam King Pururavā’s  lament over the lost Urvaśi, reminds one of the dejected Rāma’s misery after the abduction of Sita;  Raghuvamśam is a secondary epic drawn chiefly on the Rāmāyana and related sources, and Abhijñānashakuntalam indeed offers so many wonderful glimpses of the Rāmāyana. The tapovana beside the river Mālinī resembles Panchavatī on the bank of Godavari, Sage Kanva shares his ascetic and fatherly virtues with Valmīki, śakuntalā at times seems to get merged with the image of Sītā, especially towards the end of Act v, when, being rejected by a forgetful Duṣyanta, she calls out, Bhagavati Vasudhe, dehi me vivaram. Sir William Jones renders it as “O earth! mild goddess, give me a place within thy bosom”(n.pag.). In Ryder’s translation, it becomes “O mother Earth, give me a grave” (61).M.R. Kale makes it “O venerable Earth, open a grave for me (lit. give me an opening)” (125).He has done well by providing both the sense and the literal meaning of the original. However, in doing so, he offers a good critical edition which is not so brilliant as a work of creative translation. Other translations, too, have hardly been able to capture the immediacy and economy of the original Sanskrit, so precisely and evocatively alluding to the moving account of Sita’s descent into the earth, in the Uttarakānda of the Rāmāyana. However, this cannot be denied that English translations, for all their strength and weaknesses, nevertheless bring the modern reader in close touch with the classic text and the world it belonged to. If language cannot suffice, there are exhaustive introductions and notes to help the readers’ understanding of the work and its cultural background. Among the more recent translations from within the culture and also having a larger outlook to reach both the Indian and Western audiences, Rajan’s translation, as well as Vinay Dharwadker’s, have achieved admirable success in this regard, and that is our ‘gain’.  
 
Finally, let us consider how the title, Abhijñānaśakuntalam, has been translated into English by several translators. Abhijñāna is a token of remembrance or recollection, and since ‘jñāna’ or cognition is associated with the prefix abhi – it is better to be understood as ‘a token or sign of mindful recollection’, i.e., recognition. Sir William Jones subtitles his version of Sacontala as ‘The Fatal Ring’, emphasising the object of remembrance, rather than going for a thematic explanation of the title. Monier-Williams follows a similar path, calling it ‘The Lost Ring’. Arthur Ryder represents it merely as Sakuntala. M. R. Kale keeps the original title, calling his critical edition The Abhijñānashakuntalam of Kālidasa. Both Chandra Rajan and Vinay Dharwadker use the phrase ‘The Recognition of Sakuntala’ which appears to offer a proper insight into the understanding of the play. Earlier in the play Duṣyanta ‘saw’ Śakuntalā and desired her. It was a carnal way of seeing and appreciating her youth and beauty, not an understanding of her true nature. Śakuntalā also saw Duṣyanta as a handsome and noble-born suitor, but could not ‘know’ him. Their separation, however caused by fatality in the form of the curse, was required to give them leave to suffer, to practice a penance of love and grow into more enduring and mature human beings. When it is time for their reunion —  not to occur in this world but in the golden realm of  the primal parents’ hermitage, Duṣyanta can ‘re-cognise’ śakuntalā as an ascetic, pale yet serene figure of mature love, dignity and motherhood ; and she also ‘knows’ him as a loving and caring husband grown out of repentance and suffering. Just as the nāyaka and the nāyika recognise each other, the text equally invites translators and readers to ‘recognise’ its true worth, time and again. So many attempts to translate it, bringing out new problems and new interpretations, are indeed a testimony to the timeless glory of Kālidāsa’s Abhijñānaśakuntalam.
 
Notes:
 

1. Quoted in ‘Goethe on Shakuntala’, no author mentioned, Ancient Classics, at
   <http://ancientgems.blogspot.in/2011/10/goethe-on-shakuntala.html>.
   
   
2. Exact page numbers cannot be given, because the version of Sir William Jones’s translation I am using here is an e-text, without pagination. This is also the problem with Dharwadker’s translation, which is from Googlebooks, not paginated (n.pag.)
   
   
3. A Sanskrit rendition of Śakuntalā’s speech in Prakrit, a dialect spoken by women and rustic characters according to the convention of Sanskrit drama. Kale’s edition contains both the original text and its English translation with annotations.

 
Works Cited:
 

Dharwadker, Vinay (trans.). Abhijñānashakuntalam: The Recognition of Shakuntala. UK: Penguin, 2015. Web. 29 Nov. 2017. Googlebooks.

Jones, Sir William. (trans.) Sacontala or The Fatal Ring. Web. 23 Nov. 2017.
<http://www.columbia.edu/itc/mealac/pritchett/00litlinks/shakuntala_jones/>

Kale, M. R. (trans). The Abhijñānashakuntalam of Kalidāsa. Tenth Edition, 1969. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass, 2000. Print.

Monier-Williams, Sir Monier. Sakoontala or The Lost Ring. New Delhi: Jodiac Publishing, 1958. Print.

Rajan, Chandra. Kalidasa: The Loom of Time. New Delhi: Penguin, 1989. Print.

Ryder, Arthur. W. Kalidasa: Sakuntala. Web. 28 Nov. 2017.
<http://www.yorku.ca/inpar/shakuntala_ryder.pdf>

Thapar, Romila. Sakuntala: Texts, Readings, Histories. London: Anthem, 2002. Print.