Sri Aurobindo
Early Cultural Writings
(1890 — 1910)
Part Two. On Literature
The Poetry of Kalidasa
The Seasons
I. Its Authenticity
The “Seasons” of Kalidasa is one of those early works of a great poet which are even more interesting to a student of his evolution than his later masterpieces.
We see his characteristic gift even in the immature workmanship and uncertain touch and can distinguish the persistent personality in spite of the defective self-expression.
Where external record is scanty, this interest is often disturbed by the question of authenticity, and where there is any excuse for the doubt, it has first to be removed.
The impulse which leads us to deny authenticity to early and immature work, is natural and almost inevitable.
When we turn from the great harmonies and victorious imaginations of the master to the raw and perhaps faltering workmanship of these uncertain beginnings, we are irresistibly impelled to cry out, “This is not by the same hand.”
But the impulse, however natural, is not always reasonable.
The maxim that a poet is born and not made is only true in the sense that great poetical powers are there in the mind of the child, and in this sense the same remark might be applied with no less truth to every species of human genius; philosophers, sculptors, painters, critics, orators, statesmen are all born and not made.
But because poetical genius is rarer or at any rate wider and more lasting in its appeal than any other, the popular mind with its ready gift for seizing one aspect of truth out of many and crystallizing1 error into the form of a proverb, has exalted the poet into a splendid freak of Nature exempt from the general law.
If a man without the inborn oratorical fire may be trained into a good speaker or another without the master’s inspiration of form and colour 
work out for himself a blameless technique, so too may a meagre talent become by diligence a machine for producing elegant verse.
But poetic genius needs experience and self-discipline as much as any other, and by its very complexity more than most.
This is eminently true of great poets with a varied gift.
A narrow though a high faculty works best on a single line and may show perfection at an early stage; but powerful and complex minds like Shakespeare or Kalidasa seldom find themselves before a more advanced period.
Their previous work is certain to be full of power, promise and genius, but it will also be flawed, unequal and often imitative.
This imperfection arises naturally from the greater difficulty in imposing the law of harmony of their various gifts on the bodily case which is the instrument of the spirit’s self-expression.
To arrive at this harmony requires time and effort, and meanwhile the work will often be halting and unequal, varying between inspiration expressed and the failure of vision or expression.
There is no more many-sided, rich and flexible genius in literature than Kalidasa’s, and in his case especially we must be on our guard against basing denial of authenticity on imperfection and minor differences.
We have to judge, first, by the presence or absence of the essential and indefinable self of Kalidasa which we find apparent in all his indubitable work, however various the form or subject, and after that on those nameable characteristics which are the grain and fibre of his genius and least imitable by others.
In the absence of external evidence, which is in itself of little value unless received from definite and contemporary or almost contemporary sources, the test of personality is all-important.
Accidents and details are only useful as corroborative evidence, for these are liable to variation and imitation; but personality is a distinguishable and permanent presence as fugitive to imitation as to analysis.
Even a slight fineness of literary palate can perceive the difference between the Nalodaya and Kalidasa’s genuine work.
Not only does it belong to an age or school in which poetic taste was debased and artificial, — for it is a poetical counterpart of those prose works for whose existence the display of scholarship seems to be the chief justification, — but it presents in this matter of personality and persistent characteristics no sufficient point of contact either with the Shakuntala2 or the Kumarasambhava3 or even with the House of Raghu.
But in the Seasons, Kalidasa’s personality is distinctly perceived as well as his main characteristics, his force of vision, his architecture of style, his pervading sensuousness, the peculiar temperament of his similes, his characteristic strokes of thought and imagination, his individual and inimitable cast of description.
Much of it is as yet in a half-developed state, crude consistence not yet fashioned with the masterly touch he soon manifested, but Kalidasa is there quite as evidently as Shakespeare in his earlier work, the Venus and Adonis or Lucrece.
Defects which the riper Kalidasa avoids, are not uncommon in this poem, — repetition of ideas, use of more words than are absolutely required, haphazard recurrence of words and phrases, not to produce a designed effect but from carelessness, haste or an insufficient vocabulary; there is moreover a constant sense of uncertainty in the touch and a frequent lack of finished design.
The poet has been in too much haste to vent his sense of poetic power and not sufficiently careful that the expression should be the best he could compass.
And yet immature, greatly inferior in chastity and elegance to his best work, marred by serious faults of conception, bearing evidence of hurry and slovenliness in the execution, the Seasons is for all this not only suffused by a high though unchastened beauty, but marked with many of the distinctive signs of Kalidasa’s strong and exuberant genius.
The defects are those natural to the early work of a rich sensuous temperament, eagerly conscious of poetic power but not yet instructed and chastened.
II. The Substance of the Poem
Kalidasa’s Seasons is perhaps the first poem in any literature written with the express object of describing Nature.
It is precisely similar in its aim to a well-known eighteenth-century 
failure in the same direction — Thomson’s Seasons.
The names tally, the forms correspond, both poems adopting the plan of devoting a canto to each season, and the method so far agrees that the poets have attempted to depict each season in its principal peculiarities, scenes and characteristic incidents.
But here all parallel ends.
Wide as the gulf between the genius of one of the greatest world-poets and the talent of the eighteenth-century versifier is the difference between the gathered strength and compact force, the masterly harmonies and the living truth of the ancient Indian poem and the diffuse artificiality and rhetoric of the modern counterpart.
And the difference of spirit is not less.
A poet of the prosaic and artificial age when the Anglo-Saxon mind emerged in England and got itself Gallicised, Thomson was unable to grasp the first psychological laws of such descriptive poetry.
He fixed his eye on the object, but he could only see the outside of it.
Instead of creating he tried to photograph.
And he did not remember or did not know that Nature is nothing to poetry except in so far as it is either a frame, setting or ornament to life or else a living presence to the spirit.
Nature interpreted by Wordsworth as a part of his own and the universal consciousness, by Shakespeare as an accompaniment or note in the orchestral music of life, by more modern poets as an element of decoration in the living world-picture is possible in poetry; as an independent but dead existence it has no place either in the world itself or in the poet’s creation.
In his relations to the external, life and mind are the man, the senses being only instruments, and what he seeks outside himself is a response in kind to his own deeper reality.
What the eye gathers is only important in so far as it is related to this real man or helps this expectation to satisfy itself.
Kalidasa with his fine artistic feeling, his vitality and warm humanism and his profound sense of what true poetry must be, appears to have divined from the beginning the true place of Nature in the poet’s outlook.
He is always more emotional and intellectual than spiritual, like Shakespeare to whom he has so many striking resemblances.
We must not expect from him the magical insight of Valmiki, still less the spiritual discernment of Wordsworth.
He looks inside, but not 
too far inside.
But he realises always the supreme importance of life as the only abiding foundation of a poem’s immortality.
The first canto is surcharged with the life of men and animals and the life of trees and plants in summer.
It sets ringing a note of royal power and passion and promises a poem of unexampled vigour and interest.
But to play variations on this note through six cantos seems to have been beyond the young poet’s as yet limited experience and narrow imaginative mastery.
He fell back on the life of sensuous passion with images of which, no doubt, his ungoverned youth was most familiar.
But instead of working them into the main thought he turned to them for a prop and, when his imaginative memory failed him, multiplied them to make up the deficiency.
This lapse from artistic uprightness brought its own retribution, as all such lapses will.
From one error indeed Kalidasa’s vigorous4 and aspiring temperament saved him.
He never relaxed into the cloying and effeminate languor of sensuous description which offends us in Keats’ earlier work.
The men of the age with all their sensuousness, luxury and worship of outward beauty were a masculine and strenuous race, and their male and vigorous spirit is as prominent in Kalidasa as his laxer tendencies.
His sensuousness is not coupled with weak self-indulgence, but is rather a bold and royal spirit seizing the beauty and delight of earth to itself and compelling all the senses to minister to the enjoyment of the spirit rather than enslaving the spirit to do the will of the senses.
The difference perhaps amounts to no more than a lesser or greater force of vitality, but it is, for the purposes of poetry, a real and important difference.
The spirit of delightful weakness swooning with excessive beauty gives a peculiar charm of soft laxness to poems like the Endymion, but it is a weakening charm to which no virile temperament will trust itself.
The poetry of Kalidasa satisfies the sensuous imagination without enervating the virile chords of character; for virile energy is an unfailing characteristic of the best Sanskrit poetry, and Kalidasa is inferior to none in this respect.
His artistic error has nevertheless had disastrous effects on the substance of his poem.
It is written in six cantos answering to the six Indian seasons, 
Summer, Rain, Autumn, Winter, Dew and Spring.
Nothing can exceed the splendour and power of the opening.
We see the poet revelling in the yet virgin boldness, newness and strength of his genius and confident of winning the kingdom of poetry by violence.
For a time the brilliance of his work seems to justify his ardour.
In the poem on Summer we are at once seized by the marvellous force of imagination, by the unsurpassed closeness and clear strenuousness of his gaze on the object; in the expression there is a grand and concentrated precision which is our first example of the great Kalidasian manner, and an imperial power, stateliness and brevity of speech which is our first instance of the high classical diction.
But this canto stands on a higher level than the rest of the poem.
It is as if the poet had spent the best part of his force in his first enthusiasm and kept back an insufficient reserve for the sustained power proper to a long poem.
The decline in energy does not disappoint at first.
The poem on the Rains gives us a number of fine pictures with a less vigorous touch but a more dignified restraint and a graver and nobler harmony, and even in the Autumn, where the falling off of vigour becomes very noticeable, there is compensation in a more harmonious finish of style, management and imagery.
We are led to believe that the poet is finding himself and will rise to a finale of flawless beauty.
Then comes disappointment.
In the next two cantos Kalidasa seems to lose hold of the subject; the touches of natural description cease or are, with a few exceptions, perfunctory and even conventional, and the full force of his genius is thrown into a series of extraordinary pictures, as vivid as if actually executed in line and colour, of feminine beauty and sensuous passion.
The two elements, never properly fused, cease even to stand side by side.
For all description of Winter we have a few stanzas describing the cold and the appearance of fields, plants, waters in the wintry days, by no means devoid of beauty but wanting in vigour, closeness of vision and eagerness.
In the poem on Dew-tide the original purpose is even fainter.
Perhaps the quietness of these seasons, the absence in them of the most brilliant pictorial effects and grandest distinctive features, made them a subject uninspiring to the unripeness and love of violence natural to a richly-endowed temperament in its unschooled youth.
But the Spring is the royal season of the Indian year and should have lent itself peculiarly to Kalidasa’s inborn passion for colour, sweetness and harmony.
The closing canto should have been the crown of the poem.
But the poet’s sin pursues him and, though we see a distinct effort to recover the old pure fervour, it is an effort that fails to sustain itself.
There is no falling off in harmonious splendour of sound and language, but the soul of inspired poetic observation ceases to inform this beautiful mould and the close fails and languishes.
It is noticeable that there is a double close to the Spring, the two versions having been left, after the manner of the old editions, side by side.
Kalidasa’s strong artistic perception must have suffered acutely from the sense of failure in inspiration and he has accordingly attempted to replace the weak close by an improved and fuller cadence.
What is we may presume, the rejected version, is undoubtedly the weaker of the two but neither of them satisfies.
The poem on Spring which should have been the finest, is the most disappointing in the whole series
III. Its Poetic Value
Nevertheless the Seasons is not only an interesting document in the evolution of a poetic genius of the first rank, but in itself a work of extraordinary force and immense promise.
Many of the most characteristic Kalidasian gifts and tendencies are here, some of them in crude and unformed vigour, but characteristic and unmistakable, giving the poem a striking resemblance of spirit and to some extent of form to the House of Raghu, with a far-off prophecy of the mature manner of Kalidasa in the four great masterpieces.
There is his power of felicitous and vivid simile; there is the individual turn of his conceits and the single-minded force with which he drives them home; there is his mastering accuracy and lifelikeness in description conspicuous 
especially in the choice and building of the circumstantial epithets.
That characteristic of the poet, not the most fundamental and important, which most struck the ancient critics, upamāsu kālidāsaḥ, Kalidasa for similes, is everywhere present even in such early and immature work, and already they have the sharp clear Kalidasian ring, true coin of his mint though not yet possessed of the later high values.
The deep blue midsummer sky is like a rich purple mass of ground collyrium; girls with their smiling faces and lovelit eyes are like “evenings beautifully jewelled with the moon”; the fires burning in the forest look far-off like clear drops of vermilion; the new blades of grass are like pieces of split emerald; rivers embracing and tearing down the trees on their banks are like evil women distracted with passion slaying their lovers.
In all these instances we have the Kalidasian simile, a little superficial as yet and self-conscious, but for all that Kalidasian.
When again he speaks of the moon towards dawn growing pale with shame at the lovelier brightness of a woman’s face, of the rains coming like the pomp of some great king all blazing with lights, huge clouds moving along like elephants, the lightning like a streaming banner and the thunder like a peal of drums, of the clouds like archers shooting their rains at the lover from the rainbow stringed with lightning, one recognises, in spite of the occasional extravagance of phrase and violent fancifulness, the Kalidasian form of conceit, not only in the substance which can be borrowed, but in the wording and most of all in the economy of phrase expressing a lavish and ingenious fancy.
Still more is this apparent in the sensuous and elaborate comparison of things in Nature to women in ornamental attire, — rivers, autumn, the night, the pale priyungou5 creeper.
Most decisive of all are the strokes of vivid description that give the poem its main greatness and fulfil its purpose.
The seasons live before our eyes as we read.
Summer is here with its sweltering heat, the sunbeams burning like fires of sacrifice and the earth swept with whirling gyres of dust driven by intolerable gusts.
Yonder lies the lion forgetting his impulse and his mighty leap; his tongue lolls and wearily from time to time he shakes 
his mane; the snake with lowered head panting and dragging his coils labours over the blazing dust of the road; the wild boars are digging in the dried mud with their long snouts as if they would burrow their way into the cool earth; the bisons wander everywhere dumbly desiring water.
The forests are grim and parched, brown and sere; and before long they are in the clutch of fire....
But the rains come, and what may be yonder writhing lines we see on the slopes?
It is the young water of the rains, a new-born rivulet, grey and full of insects and dust and weeds, coiling like a snake down the hillside.
We watch the beauty of the mountains streaked everywhere with waterfalls, their high rocks kissed by the stooping clouds and their sides a gorgeous chaos of peacocks: on the horizon the great clouds blue as lotus-petals climb hugely into the sky and move across it in slow procession before a sluggish breeze.
Or look at yonder covidara tree, its branches troubled softly with wind, swarming with honey-drunken bees and its leaves tender with little opening buds.
The moon at night gazes down at us like an unveiled face in the skies, the racing stream dashes its ripples in the wild-duck’s face, the wind comes trembling through the burdened rice-stalks, dancing with the crowding courboucs6, making one flowery ripple of the lotus-wooded lake.
Here there can be no longer any hesitation.
These descriptions which remain perpetually with the eye, visible and concrete as an actual painting, belong, in the force with which they are visualised and the magnificent architecture of phrase with which they are presented, to Kalidasa alone among Sanskrit poets.
Other poets, his successors or imitators, such as Bana or even Bhavabhuti, overload their description with words and details; they have often lavish colouring but never an equal power of form; their figures do not appear to stand out of the canvas and live.
And though we do not find here quite the marvellous harmonies of verse and diction we meet in the Raghu, yet we do come across plenty of preparation for them.
Here for instance is a verse whose rapidity and lightness restrained by a certain half-hidden gravity is distinctly Kalidasa’s:
ज्वलति पवनवृद्धः पर्वतानां दरीषु
स्फुटति पटुनिनादैः शुष्कवंशस्थलीषु ।
प्रसरति तृणमध्ये लब्धवृद्धिः क्षणेन
ग्लपयति मृगवर्गं प्रान्तलग्नो दवाग्निः ॥
jvalati pavanavṛddhaḥ parvatānāṃ darīṣu
sphuṭati paṭuninādaiḥ śuṣkavaṃśasthalīṣu
prasarati tṛṇamadhye labdhavṛddhiḥ kṣaṇena
glapayati mṛgavargaṃ prāntalagno davāgniḥ
“Clinging to the woodland edges the forest fire increases with the wind and burns in the glens of the mountains; it crackles with shrill shoutings in the dry bamboo reaches; it spreads in the grasses gathering hugeness in a moment and harasses the beasts of the wilderness.”
And again for honeyed sweetness and buoyancy what can be more Kalidasian than this?
पुंस्कोकिलश्चूतरसासवेन
मत्तः प्रियं चुम्बति रागहृष्टः ।
गुञ्जन् द्विरेफोऽप्ययमम्बुजस्थः
प्रियं प्रियायाः प्रकरोति चाटु ॥
puṃskokilaścūtarasāsavena
mattaḥ priyaṃ7 cumbati rāgahṛṣṭaḥ
guñjan dvirepho'pyayamambujasthaḥ
priyaṃ priyāyāḥ prakaroti cāṭu
“The male cuckoo, drunk with wine of the juice of the mango flower, kisses his beloved, glad of the sweet attraction, and here the bee murmuring in the lotus-blossom hums flattery’s sweetness to his sweet.”
There are other stanzas which anticipate something of the ripest Kalidasian movements by their gravity, suavity and strength.
आकम्पयन् कुसुमिताः सहकारशाखा
विस्तारयन् परभृतस्य वचांसि दिक्षु ।
वायुर्विवाति हृदयानि हरन्नराणां
नीहारपातविगमात् सुभगो वसन्ते ॥
ākampayan kusumitāḥ sahakāraśākhā
vistārayan parabhṛtasya vacāṃsi dikṣu
vāyurvivāti hṛdayāni harannarāṇāṃ
nīhārapātavigamāt subhago vasante
“Making to tremble the flowering branches of the mango trees, spreading the cry of the cuckoo in the regions the wind ranges ravishing the hearts of mortals, by the passing of the dewfalls gracious in the springtide.”
If we take Kalidasa anywhere in his lighter metres we shall 
at once perceive their essential kinship with the verse of the Seasons.
इदमसुलभवस्तुप्रार्थनादुर्निवारं
प्रथममपि मनो मे पञ्चबाणः क्षिणोति ।
किमुत मलयवातोन्मीलितापाण्डुवर्णमुपवनसहकारैर्दर्शितेष्वंकुरेषु ॥
idamasulabhavastuprārthanādurnivāraṃ
prathamamapi mano me pańcabāṇaḥ8 kṣiṇoti
kimuta malayavātonmīlitāpāṇḍuvarṇamupavanasahakārairdarśiteṣvaṃkureṣu
“Already Love torments my mind importunate in prayer for a thing unattainable; what shall it be when the woodland mango-trees display their buds, a pallid whiteness opening to the southern wind?”
It is the same suave and skilful management, the same exquisite and unobtrusive weaving of labial, dental and liquid assonances with a recurring sibilant note, the same soft and perfect footing of the syllables.
Only the language is richer and more developed.
We do not find this peculiar kind of perfection in any other master of classical verse.
Bhavabhuti’s manner is bold, strenuous, external; Jayadeva’s music is based palpably upon assonance and alliteration which he uses with extraordinary brilliance and builds into the most enchanting melodies, but without delicacy, restraint or disguise.
If there were any real cause for doubt of the authorship, the verse would clearly vindicate the Seasons for Kalidasa.
Such is this remarkable poem which some, led away by its undoubted splendours, have put in the first rank of Kalidasa’s work.
Its artistic defects and its comparative crudity forbid us to follow them.
It is uncertain in plan, ill-fused, sometimes raw in its imagery, unequal in its execution.
But for all that, it must have come upon its contemporaries like the dawning of a new sun in the skies.
Its splendid diction and versification, its vigour, fire and force, its sweetness of spirit and its general promise and to some extent actual presentation of a first-rate poetic genius must have made it a literary event of the first importance.
Especially is it9 significant in its daring gift of sensuousness.
The prophet of a hedonistic civilisation here seizes with no uncertain hand on the materials of his work.
A vivid and virile interpretation of sense-life in Nature, a similar interpretation of all elements of human life capable of greatness or10 beauty, seen under the light of the senses and expressed in the terms of an aesthetic appreciation, — this is the spirit of Kalidasa’s first work as it is of his last.
At present he is concerned only with the outward body of Nature, the physical aspects of things, the vital pleasures and emotions, the joy and beauty of the human body; but it is the first necessary step on the long road of sensuous and poetic experience and expression he has to travel before he reaches his goal in his crowning work, the Birth of the War-God, in which he takes up for treatment one of the supreme fables of the life of the Gods and the Cosmos and in its handling combines sublimity with grace, height of speech with fullness and beautiful harmony of sound, boldness of descriptive line with magnificence of sensuous colour in a degree of perfection never before or afterwards surpassed or even equalled in poetic literature.