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A STUDENT'S HANDBOOK OF INDIAN AESTHETICS NEERJA A CONTENTS

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A STUDENT’S
HANDBOOK

OF

INDIAN

AESTHETICS

NEERJA A
 CONTENTS

Preface ...........................................................................................................

Chapter 1 .......................................................................................................
Concept of Indian Aesthetics

Chapter 2 .......................................................................................................
Nāṭyaśāstra: Origin and Concept

Chapter 3 .......................................................................................................
Nāṭyaśāstra: Structure and Design

Chapter 4 .......................................................................................................
Basics of Bhāva and Rasa

Chapter 5 .......................................................................................................
Dhvani Theory: An Introduction

Chapter 6 .......................................................................................................
Dhvani: A Simple Analysis

Chapter 7 .......................................................................................................
Abhinavagupta and His Contribution to Aesthetics

Appendix 1 ....................................................................................................
Between Srinagar and Benares
Sunthar Visuvalingam

Appendix 2 ....................................................................................................
The Relevance of Sanskrit Poetics to Contemporary Practical Criticism
Umashankar Joshi

Appendix 3 ....................................................................................................
Does the Rasa Theory Have Modern Relevance?
R. B. Patankar
Appendix 4
The Relevance of Rasa Theory to Modern Literature
K. Krishnamoorthy

Appendix 5 ....................................................................................................
Catharsis and Rasa
C. N. Patel

Glossary .........................................................................................................

Bibliography ..................................................................................................

Index ..............................................................................................................
 PREFACE

Indian aesthetics has provided a huge range of human experiences,

thoughts, lasting values, beliefs, and pleasures. The tradition of Indian
aesthetics is the oldest and vastest of any, with commentaries emanating
from the far north in Kashmir to the deep south in Tamil Nadu. Over time,
Indian aesthetic theories have crossed the disciplines and have become
useful to almost all researchers and scholars of the different arts and of
literature. Of primary importance, it is considered the prototype of
Sanskrit, which in due course made it relevant not only to literature and
the humanities but also to the performing arts, comparative studies, and
social sciences. This book is an attempt to understand the basics of
aesthetics in Indian poetics. Indian aesthetics is a vast and diverse subject
that warrants a keen interest from practitioners of aesthetics. The aim of
this book is to present key scholarly works, thereby creating greater
general interest, and relate this to the various fields of Indian aesthetics.
This book is based on various sources, including Bharata-Muni’s
Nāṭyaśāstra, Ānandavardhana’s Dhvanyāloka, Abhinavagupta’s
Abhinavabhāratī and Locana, and other relevant texts. It sets out to
address issues related to Indian aesthetics and Indian poetics from both
technical and philosophical perspectives and aims systematically to
examine key problems in Indian aesthetics. It assimilates and documents
the different manuscripts, texts, commentaries, and sources available in
Sanskrit, Hindi, English, and Gujarati, gathering these materials into a
single book. The book’s appendices include prestigious scholars’ thoughts
on the subject to widen readers’ understanding of the available
perspectives. Finally, many Sanskrit words are explained in English in the
text itself to support the flow of the thought, and a comprehensive glossary
is given at the end of the book to help non-readers of Sanskrit.
A number of scholarly writings illuminated the paths of thoughts
toward this book. The publisher is to be thanked for including this work in
an important series. A number of libraries, booksellers, and publications
provided much needed support in bringing out this edition. I also owe my
gratitude to the eminent scholars, researchers, and critics whose comments
and commentaries I’ve followed constantly.
The author hopes to stimulate and promote interest in research in
Indian aesthetics with this indefatigable attempt.
4
 Neerja A.
Ahmedabad
24 March 2016

5
 CHAPTER 1

CONCEPT OF INDIAN AESTHETICS

The word “aesthetics” belongs to the field of the science and philosophy
of fine art. Fine art has the capacity to present the “Absolute” in sensuous
garb and aesthetic relation. Indian aesthetics is primarily concerned with
three arts—poetry, music, and architecture—however, sculpture and
painting are also studied under aesthetic theories.
Poetry is the highest form of literature. Indian art is the art of sign and
symbols. This can be seen in the art practice of the eleven participating
artists in “From the Tree to the Seed.” The “adequacy” and “inadequacy”
of symbols are directly related to their “truth” and “frailty.” This adequacy
or inadequacy of the symbol is determined by the degree to which it
symbolises its referent symbol of art, because by being its likeness its
“truth” is iconic and becomes the projection of its intended referent.
Consequently, it communicates super-sensuous truths or forms. Hence,
when symbols of art lack the attribute of likeness, it leads to frailty.
Alternatively, these symbols raise poetry to the mount of aesthetic
pleasure.

Introduction
The first seekers of aesthetic pleasure were the ardent followers of
Vedantic principles. Vendantism seeks pleasures in both attainment and
renouncement, yielding it a unique attribute. “We can assume that there
are two kinds of men in Hindu India, those that live in the world and those
that have renounced it, and begin by considering things at the level of life
in the world.”1
Unfortunately, the whole idea of Hinduism has been disseminated
primarily through one channel of the Veda-Upaniṣad philosophy, in

1
Louis Dumont, Homo Hierarchicus: The Caste System and Its Implications,
trans. Mark Sainsbury, Louis Dumont, and Basia M. Gulati (Chicago: University
of Chicago Press, 1980), p. 270.
6
particular, through Śaṅkara’s monistic-monolithic idea of Advaita-
Vedānta. For the Indian aesthetic tradition also, this idea supplied the
primary motifs through which to interpret aesthetic experiences, which
itself presents the impossibility of an aesthetics environment in this
environment. And why, instead of going against the Veda-Upaniṣad
tradition, major early schools of Indian philosophy (except Lokayata) were
anti-aesthetic and there was pessimism towards life behind all their claims
of moral and ethical beauty.
Vijay Mishra in his interesting study of Indian aesthetics sees two
principles at work: the first is the principle of “non-differentiation and
absolute non-representation,” the second—its complete opposite—is
“excessive representation and differentiation.” He further emphasises that
at first the conception of non-differentiation and absolute representation
led to the mystical tradition in which the relationship between the one and
many is kept intact through an essentially mystical logic.

A critical overview
It has been said that the Upaniṣads tried to find the philosophical
conceptions of religions and gods through deep speculations and the sheer
idea of consciousness. But, as is articulated by Ananda K.
Coomaraswamy, in general the Upaniṣads were too preoccupied with
deeper speculations to exhibit a conscious art, or to discuss why the art of
their times lacked “explicit aesthetics.”2 On that given freedom, neither
free thought nor free sense could have been developed. Coomaraswamy is
right to deny the existence of “explicit aesthetics” in the Upaniṣadic
period. However, he was only considering aesthetics in the context of art;
indeed, in his thought the non-exhibition of art accompanied the non-
existence of aesthetics as a whole.
In terms of their intrinsic nature, Indian philosophical schools can be
divided into two broad categories, āstika (orthodox schools) and nāstika
(heterodox schools); the first believes in the authority of the Vedas (as a
whole), the second does not accept the authority of the Vedas—in this
category are Jainism, Buddhism, and Lokayata (although the categories
overlap). The division has also been understood as a division between the
Indian non-atheist school (āstika) and the atheist school (nāstika)—here,
mainly Lokayata.
Contemporary debates in Indian aesthetics are a result of dominant
views of the Indian aesthetics tradition and its cross-cultural interactions,

2
Ananda K.Coomaraswamy, The Dance of Shiva: Fourteen Indian Essay, p.23.
7
which came about via oriental exigencies and through nationalist
discourses—full of idealisation, sometimes as a total negation of the
spiritual aspect, and sometimes negating material aspects. Both views
reflect only an incomplete idea of the aesthetic conception. Despite these
dichotomies, one thing is very obvious in the context of the Indian
aesthetic tradition: that it has developed its unsystematic and abstract
aesthetics in a quite systematic and scientific way. These approaches have
given it a basis with which to claim that it is a philosophy of art, logic, and
science of art with all its metaphysical abstractness. According to K. C.
Pandey, “From the Indian points of view aesthetics is the science and
philosophy of the independent arts—the arts which present the Absolute in
sensuous garb in such a way that their products serve as the effective
mediums for the getting of the experience of the Absolute for such
connoisseurs as possess the necessary subjective conditions.”3
From these arguments it can be established that Indian aesthetics is not
limited only to sensuous and spiritual experiences but equally invites
vibrant debates on its material aspects, the different types of self, and
Brahman; it even goes so far as to reject Brahman in aesthetic
experiences, and so on. It never was and is not now a monolithic
conception of aesthetics. What should be noted in the Indian context is that
the development of aesthetics was not driven by philosophy; it was not
philosophy that shaped this particular idea of aesthetics, rather it was the
emergence of a vibrant aesthetic tradition and its popularity among Indian
people that forced philosophy to move and change accordingly. Art and
life in India have been inextricably intertwined from the ancient to the
contemporary. Art as a way of life, art as ritual, art as decoration, and art
as unity with Godhead bore testament to the socio-cultural milieu; the high
level of sophistication that developed in ancient India was reflected in the
arts by their holistic study of these subjects. The arts thus strived to home
man’s intellectual sensibilities, thus raising him to the level of the
transcendental, which in India was Brahman or ultimate reality.
The origin of drama is closely connected with the Hindu religious
trinity: (i) Brahma, (ii) Viṣṇu, and (iii) Mahesvara. Emerging from
consciousness, artistic representation may be traced back to Vedantic and
pre-Vedantic philosophy where “thoughts” preceded “form.” From the
abstract to the figurative, and from the figurative to the abstract, the core
of Indian aesthetics developed in highly structured and original fashion in
the Nāṭyaśāstra. The Indian conception of natya is considered one of the

3
K. C. Pandey, “A Bird’s-Eye View of Indian Aesthetics,” Journal of Aesthetics
and Art Criticism 24, no. 2 (1965), 59–73.
8
best ways to understand the Indian conception of art and aesthetics due to
its inter-genre artistic and aesthetic characteristics. At its simplest, natya
as a part of the Indian poetical tradition is considered as visible poetry
with prayoga (practice)4 and praised as the best among all poetry due to its
effectiveness and wider approaches and significance. In other traditional
performances it is lila or attam (Kṛṣṇalīlā, Rāmlīlā, Kuddiattam,
Mohiniattam, etc.)—the term also stands for “play.” Moreover, since in
these performances, the performer is at the centre—or one can say that
traditional Indian performances are performer-centric—from this
perspective whatever is performed (presented) by nata (performer) is
natya (performance). From the viewpoint of presentation, it is an imitation
of that world in which we live (lokavritinukarnam nāṭyametanmayakrita)
or the representation of the states of three worlds (trailokashyashay
sharvashya nāṭyam bhāvanukirtanam). In the words of Brahma, “I have
devised this natya as the mimicry of the ways of the world, endowed with
various emotions and consisting of various situations.” Therefore, it is
very clear that, although it is an imitation, it is not the imitation of the real
but the ways of the real that is in fact very suggestive (based on
natyadahrmi), rather than realistic acting based on lokadharmi.5
The Nāṭyaśāstra also discusses the performative and major
psychological aspects of natya and emphasises the moral and religious
aspect of art with its typical elite and feudal concerns based on Veda-
Upaniṣad philosophy. The purposive definition of natya in the Indian
aesthetic tradition locates art from the purpose of religion and morality,
rather than in its actual aim of aesthetics, which rests in the free realm of
art. In fact, the differences among different schools of the Indian aesthetic
tradition lies in how they have treated that free realm or ideal condition of
art. This moral and religious aspect of nāṭya has been well established by
D. C. Mathur. Citing Abhinavagupta’s conception of art, he says:

for Abhinavagupta the immediate aim of dramatic presentation was

enjoyment of Rasa but its ultimate goal was to promote the four traditional
values of Dharma (Virtue), artha (economic prosperity), Kama (pleasure),
and moksha (liberation) in their proper relationship. . . . while maintaining
the autonomy of the aesthetic category of Rasa, he maintained the
supremacy of the moral and religious over the purely aesthetic.6

4 G.H. Tarlekar, Studies in the Natyashastra (Delhi: Motilal Banarasidas, 1975), 2.

5Ibid., 1.
6
Dinesh C. Mathur, “Abhinavagupta and Dewey on Art and Its Relation to
Morality: Comparisons and Evaluations,” Philosophy and Phenomenological
Research 42, no. 2 (1981): 224–35.
9
 Besides, it says nāṭya as an art provides:

religion (duty) for religious people, pleasure for pleasure seekers

Restraints for the ill behaved, tolerance for the well behaved
Courage to the cowards and energy to the braves
Knowledge for the unknowing and wisdom for the wise
Enjoyment for the rich and solace for the worried
Money for the needy and stability for the disturbed.7

More significantly, in the reflection of the moralistic aspect of nāṭya,

we can find the very origin of nāṭya itself. Asked about the reason behind
the creation of nāṭya, Bharata says:

Long, long ago people of this world of pain and pleasure, goaded by greed
and avarice, and jealousy and anger, took to uncivilised ways of life. It [the
world] was then inhabited by gods, demons, yakshas, rakshas, nagas, and
gandharva Shudras. Various lords were ruling. It was the gods among
them who, led by Mahendra, approached God [Brahma] and requested him
[thus]: “Please give us something which would not only teach us but be
pleasing both to eyes and ears. [True] the Vedas are there but [some like]
the Shudras are prohibited from listening to them. Why not create for us a
fifth Veda which would be accessible to all castes?”8

Therefore it can explicitly be stated that natya as an art evolved from

its own moral and religious philosophy. From its very aesthetic sense, it
can be said that natya is meant to evoke rasa, which is the aim of natya
and its end too.
This metaphorical definition of rasa has been defined differently in
different schools of thought. According to the Vedantic tradition, the role
of art was a step towards experiencing a state of being that was more or
less akin to the experience of bliss—brahmanandasahodra—which arises
from the knowledge and contemplation of the Ultimate Truth. The
ultimate pleasure that natya provides can be judged the same as the one
attainable from the communion of God. This supreme blissful state is the
means to experience brahmanandasahodra.
Ānanda (aesthetic delight) achieved through nāṭya should not be
understood as merely rejoicing in our daily activities. It is more similar to

7 For the original text, see Nāṭyaśāstra of Bharata-Muni, Chapter 1, Verses 109–
111.
8
For the original text, see Nāṭyaśāstra of Bharata-Muni, Chapter 1, Verses 8–12.
Translation quoted from Adya Rangacharya, The Nāṭyaśāstra, 1.
10
aesthetic activities in which both pleasure and pain are contemplated as an
aesthetic experience. “When the nature of the world, possessing both
pleasure and pain is depicted by means of representation through gestures
and the like (i.e., speech, dress, and make-up and temperament)” it is
called nāṭya.9 Nāṭya is said to provide the ultimate happiness (Ānanda),
which recommends both pleasure and pain in the same intensity.

9
For original texts see Nāṭyaśāstra of Bharata-Muni, Chapter 1, Verse 121.
11
 CHAPTER 2

NĀTYAŚĀSTRA: ORIGIN AND CONCEPT

Drama or nāṭya is considered the most beautiful part of Indo-Sanskrit

literature. The earliest forms of dramatic literature in India are represented
by Samvada—Suktas (hymns that contain dialogues) of the Rigveda.
Bharata-Muni is the founder of the science of music and dramaturgy. His
Nāṭyaśāstra, with its encyclopaedic character, is the earliest known book
on Sanskrit dramaturgy. The first chapter of the Nāṭyaśāstra relates to the
origin of drama. The gods, under the leadership of Indra, expressed their
desire for something that was drishya (enjoyable to the eye), shravya
(delightful to the ear), and kridanaka (entertainment to fulfil desire).
Brahma created a fifth Veda—the Nāṭyaveda, taking elements from four
other Vedas—pathya (dialogue or text) from the Rigveda, gīta (music)
from the Sāmaveda, abhinaya (acting) from the Yajurveda, and rasa
(emotions) from the Atharvaveda. Amritamanthan and Tripurdaha were
the first two plays, which were staged on the occasion of the flag
ceremony of Indra.
Bharata-Muni and his disciples brought this art from heaven to the
earth. Rupaka is the general term in Sanskrit for all dramatic compositions.
Nāṭya is another wider term for drama. Sanskrit dramaturgy has classified
dramas into two types: major and minor (uparupaka). The rupaka is
divided into ten classes—Natak, Prakarana, Bhana, Prahasana, Dima,
Vyayoga, Samavakara, Vithi, Anka, and Ihamriga. There are eighteen
classes of uparupaka, the most important of which are Natika, Sattaka,
and Trotaka.
Vastu (the plot), neta (the hero), and rasa (the sentiments) are the
essential constituents of a drama or rupaka. The plot of a rupaka may be
borrowed from history or tradition, or it may be fictitious or mixed. The
characteristic features of Sanskrit drama are as follows:
(1) Absence of tragedy—Sanskrit dramas never have sad endings.
They are mixed compositions, in which joy is mingled with sorrow.
Love is the main theme of most of the dramas and vidushaka is the
constant companion of the hero in his love affairs.
12
 (2) The interchange of lyrical stanzas with prose dialogue.
(3) The use of Sanskrit and Prākrit languages. Sanskrit is employed by
the heroes, kings, Brahmanas, and men of high rank, Prākrit by all
women and men of the lower classes.
(4) Every Sanskrit play begins with a prologue or introduction, which
opens with a prayer (nandi) and ends with Bharatavakya.
Bharata, at the very beginning of his Nāṭyaśāstra, pays obeisance to
Brahma and Mahesvara for no other reason than that he recognises the
former to be the originator of drama and the latter to be the originator of
dance. Bharata mentions Prajapati, the originator of drama, first because
he recognises that dance is simply an embellishment of drama. There is
another piece of evidence that also supports the view that Mahesvara was
the originator of dance. Hindu religious tradition recognises him to be the
greatest dancer. He is called Nataraja.
Drama is the product of the essentially cultured condition of national
history. It presupposes the existence of an all-important art. The
foundation of Indian aesthetic theory can be traced to Bharata’s
Nāṭyaśāstra, in which he gave the theory of beauty. In ancient India the
very essence of appreciating the art lay in the concept of the “sap” or juice
of expression. Written in the sixth century at the height of the golden age
of Indian art, the Nāṭyaśāstra is the most inventive of all texts to have
survived. “Bharata,” its author, conceded his indebtedness to earlier
scholars who had theorised on the arts. Often celebrated as the fifth Veda,
the Nāṭyaśāstra is the only source through which to understand Indian
aesthetics.
Bharata-Muni (fifth–second century BC) wrote the theoretical treatise
on Indian performing arts, including theatre, dance, acting, and music. It
was known to Bharata that the very beginning of Indian culture and
philosophy coincided with the designing of Indian literary criticism. The
foundation was perhaps laid when the Taitriya Upaniṣad set down the
aphorism “raso vaii sahaRasa” (verily is he [absolute Brahman]).
Brahma—and for that matter Bharata—borrowed various aspects of
the Nāṭyaśāstra from different Vedas and their subsidiary branches. This
pancham Veda-Nāṭya-Veda is explicated in Bharata’s Nāṭyaśāstra, which
is intended as a guide to the science of the stage for poets and play-goes
alike. The thirty-six chapters deal with the art of histrionics and other
ancillary arts. The Nāṭyaśāstra tells us not only what is to be portrayed in
a drama but also how the portrayal is to be done. Drama, as Bharata says,
is the imitation of man and his doings (loka-vritti). As man and his doings
have to be respected on the stage, so drama in Sanskrit is also known by
the form roopaka, which means portrayal.

13
The literal translation of nāṭya is “drama” or “nataks,” which today does
not include dance; but nataks, a Sanskrit word, derives from the word
meaning “dance” (root: nāt). Hence, in traditional Indian dramas, music
and dancing are integral parts of acting.
Bharata has attempted to answer the following questions in the
Nāṭyaśāstra:
(1) What were the circumstances that led to the creation of the fifth
Veda, and for whom was it created?
(2) Into how many parts is the Nāṭyaveda divided? Are there so many
parts that it can’t be fully grasped?
(3) What are the various arts that are necessary for the presentation of
drama? Of how many parts is drama made? Is it an organic whole
or merely a jumble?
(4) What are the various means of knowledge that are necessary in
order to know the different parts of drama? And, if drama is an
organic whole and not a mere jumble, “is there any special means
of knowing the interconnection of part”? And, if so, “what is it”?
(5) How are the different parts of drama to be presented?
The answers to the first three questions are given in the very first
chapter. The answer to the first question may be stated as follows: The
circumstances that led to the creation of dramaturgy were the product of
time. During Treta yuga, when Vaivasavats Mamvantara was running, the
gods who headed India approached Brahma with a request for him to
create a play thing that would be pleasing to both the eye and the ear and
lead people automatically to follow the path of duty, without the need for
any external compulsion, such as the order of a king.
Such a diversion was necessary for humanity. For humanity, being
under the influence of Rajas, was deviating from the right path, pointed
out by the Vedas, and was ignoring the rites due to the gods. The gods
therefore wanted an instrument of instruction that could be utilised for
instructing all, irrespective of caste, and which would not merely be a
command but instead would be a delightful instruction made palatable by
mixing the bitter tones of command with the sweetness of aesthetics.
These were the circumstances that led to the creation of the fifth Veda.
The second question, into how many parts is the Nāṭyaveda divided?,
is answered as follows: primarily there are four parts, which deal with the
following topics: (1) art for effective speech or recitation (vacikabhinaya),
(2) the art of music, (3) the art of acting, and (4) rāgas.
The answer to the third question, how are the various parts connected?,
is that drama, with the science or theory of which the Nāṭyaveda is

14
concerned, primarily presents rāga, and that the three arts are the means of
its effective presentation. Thus, it is an organic whole.
The answer to the fourth question is that it is apprehended directly
through the eyes and ears. The reply to the fifth question takes up the
whole of the rest of the work.
The Indian dramatic art is the “nāṭya” in Nāṭyaśāstra. In Indian
tradition, śāstra refers to holy writing dedicated to a particular field of
knowledge. The Nāṭyaśāstra is a compilation of work by various sages but
the tradition assigns its authorship to the sage Bharata. Thus, it came to be
called Bharata-Muni’s Nāṭyaśāstra. Its date is not definitely known: it is
taken be from 200 B.C. to 200 A.D. Its present form must have been
reached sometime during this period. The Nāṭyaśāstra is an encyclopaedic
work in thirty-seven chapters; it deals with various topics that are
necessary for the production and presentation of drama before spectators.
With a basic postulation that aesthetics is a study of the state of
fundamental human capacity, a state of the non-alienated condition of the
senses, nāṭya stands for a broader meaning of art, aesthetics, and
philosophy and envisions the idea of artistic life. For instance, the
Nāṭyaśāstra claims that there is no art, no knowledge, no yoga, and no
actions that are not found in nāṭya.
The four Vedas were created by Brahma, but lower-caste people and
women were not allowed to study them. So, the myth says, Brahma
created the fifth Veda, called Nāṭyaveda—that is, the art of drama, which
can be studied and practised by everyone. While creating this Nāṭyaveda,
Brahma adopted its constituents from four other Vedas. Recitation was
adopted from Rigveda, music and song from Sāmaveda, histrionics from
Yajurveda, and sentiments from Atharvaveda. Subordinate Vedas, called
Upavedas, were also connected with Nāṭyaveda—for example, Ayurveda
was used to show expressions of diseases, their symptoms, and certain
mental moods, and so on, as explained by Charaka and Sushruta.
Dhanurveda (archery) was made use of in the representation of fights on
the stage. Gandharvaveda was used in the preliminaries and in the actual
performance of drama. Sthapatyaveda (architectural science) was
necessary for construction of the theatre. Bharata assures us that we cannot
think of any piece of knowledge or lore, art or craft, design or activity that
will not enter into the composition and stage presentation of drama.
The story goes that this Nāṭyaveda was handed over to Indra and Indra
handed it over to Bharata, who supposedly had one hundred sons. This
probably means that Bharata made use of all kinds of people in society,
people who came from all different parts of the country or who had
deformities like squinting eyes, stammering speech, or were very tall, very

15
short, bald, hunchbacked—just about anybody—in the presentation of the
drama. To play the role of women, Brahma created Apsaras (celestial
maidens), who were experts in dramatic art.
Ancient dramas were danced and presented. The dance form was
attributed to Śiva. He requested one of his disciples named Tandu to teach
the dance, hence it was called the Tandava. The feminine form of dance,
called Lasya, was taught by Pārvatī. The drama was performed on the
slopes of the mountains or in the open. Later it was found that it needed
protection from natural calamities and from bad elements in society,
especially when protests from some groups of people take a violent form.
This can be seen even today. Thus, theatres were constructed. Bharata
gives details of the construction of a theatre, including the selection of
land and its preparation, construction materials, building plans, pillars,
measurements, and so on and so forth.
There are rituals it is essential to practise before the presentation of
drama: The principle deities of drama—viz. Brahma, Viṣṇu and Śiva—are
worshipped. Śiva is in the form of Nataraja. Even today, Nataraja is
offered a puja before any stage performance. Then the well-being of the
spectators is wished for.
The Vedic traditions can be considered intrinsic constituents of the
Vedas and their further substitutes in the form of Upaniṣad and Arnayaka.
The Vedas are divided into four parts, Rig-Veda, Sama-Veda, Yajur-Veda,
and Atharva-Veda, which are further divided into Samhita, Brahmana,
Arnayka, and Upaniṣads. (Due to its complexities and gradual
development, Veda can be divided into four parts: Samhita (a collection of
abstract ritualistic mantras), Brahmana (little developed religious texts),
Aranyaka (wilderness texts), and Upaniṣads (philosophical texts). The
early Samhita of the Rig-Veda shows its ritualistic and sacrificial
composition by a primitive society; it is believed to be greatly important
for ceremonial rites that can definitely be considered an art but not
necessarily one with a concept of aesthetics. Because the concept of
aesthetics does not depend on philosophy, it cannot be understood without
philosophy; second, directly or indirectly, aesthetics is a conscious effort
to search for beauty. Therefore, the early development of the Rig-Vedic
period cannot be considered to fall under the scope of aesthetics. In its
gradual development, the Vedic poet exclaimed: “I do not know what kind
of thing I am; mysterious, bound, my mind wonders.” If the same poem
could have been uttered now, it would have been provided with a sense of
aesthetics; however, the truly unaware self cannot perceive the aesthetic.
Thus, it can be explicitly stated that Nāṭya as an art can be evaluated
from its moral and religious philosophy. Here we cannot say that religion

16
was an aesthetic choice in that society; rather, it applies vice versa that
aesthetics was a religious choice.
In the first chapter of the Nāṭyaśāstra, Bharata gives a mythical
account of the creation of nāṭya. Nāṭya was created by Brahma, the god of
creation, to meet a demand for a plaything—a source of pleasure to minds
made weary by the strife, wants, and miseries of daily existence. An art
form such as drama fulfils this demand very ably because it has a visual
and aural appeal. Any piece of advice communicated through a visual-
aural form has more of an impact on the human mind than any other form.
A drama, besides offering entertainment, can also influence and uplift the
minds of spectators. Further, there is a chapter discussing the aesthetic
theories, definitions, characteristics, and so forth in detail.

Abhinaya in the Nāṭyaśāstra

Bharata describes histrionics, which is called Abhinaya in the Nāṭyaśāstra.
The drama according to him is communicated to the spectators in four
ways:
(1) Communication through body movements, called Angika abhinaya,
where the movements of major limbs (like the head, chest, hands,
and feet) as well as movements of minor limbs (like the eyes, nose,
lips, cheeks, chin, etc.) are involved. The glances, gestures, and
gaits are also part of angika abhinaya.
(2) Communication by speech is called Vachika abhinaya. In this, the
vowels, consonants, and their places of origin in the mouth,
intonation, modes of address, and so forth are discussed. While
giving the literary aspect of drama, Bharata describes ten types of
dramas that are known as Dasharupaka. One of them is Veethi—
that is, roadshows. At present, a lot of them are seen at election
time.
(3) Extraneous representation is called Aaharya Abhinaya and is done
by means of costumes, make-up, ornaments, stage properties, and
so forth.
(4) Representation of temperament of the characters is called Sattvika
Abhinaya. It is the highest quality of abhinaya, expressing the inner
feelings of the character through subtle movements of the lips,
trembling of the body, redness of the face, tears rolling down, and
so forth.
Bharata further describes how to represent abstract phenomena—such
as sunrise, sunset, different times of the day, rains, and so forth—which is

17
called Chitrabhinaya. He also mentions in detail how to show animals
onstage: how to create them artificially and with what material.
Bharata goes so far as to propound notes of dramatic competitions in
one of the chapters: how to conduct them, the qualification for judges, and
gifts to be given to the actors.

18
 CHAPTER 3

NĀTYAŚĀSTRA: STRUCTURE AND DESIGN

Bharata created the Nāṭyaśāstra as an analogue to the physical layout of

yajna. It is a religious ritual yielding spiritual results, to be performed and
prepared using a particular design. Just as vedis of different sizes and
shapes are built in a sala, there are both concurrent and multiple actions in
the Nāṭyaśāstra. They all replicate the cosmos and correct the cosmic time
and calendar. So nāṭya too represents the micro and macro environment of
Brahmmanda; the Nāṭyaśāstra and its chapters with divisions are the ritual
altars of this grand and complex design. The dramatic spectacle has a
moral and ethical purpose. The arts are thus an alternate if not a parallel
path for goals of life to which one aspires. It leads to three stages:
adhibhautika, adhyatmika, and adhidevika (respectively, the material,
individual, and metaphysical divine).
We can discuss Nāṭyaśāstra using three concepts: “system,”
“structure,” and “discourse.” A significant way to know these concepts
would be to understand Bharata’s enterprise as an interesting answer to
two related questions. First, what happens to structures that are parts of
different, distinct wholes—we could say systems—when these structures
are amalgamated to form quite another whole or system? And, second,
how can one formulate a śāstra, that is a theoretical scheme of discourse,
for this new resultant whole, given a context where the different structures
transposed into this new whole are already formulated into systems with
well-defined śāstras of their own?
The first chapter contains the following statement: “There is no field of
knowledge, no craft, no art, no application, and no activity which is not to
be found in nāṭya.” He voices the same idea towards the end of the work,
just before he begins to speak of music and the forms it takes in theatre.
He speaks here of nāṭya as vividhashraya (that which depends on many).
The whole verse in which this phrase occurs is pertinent to his notion
of theatre as a composite art. Bharata says that song, instrumental playing,
and nāṭya, which is vividhashraya, should be rendered like an alata-cakra
(a flaming torch so rotated as to appear like an unbroken circle of fire). He
19
further says, “nāṭya is a mixture of many district activities so distinct that
they need to be apprehended through different sense organs.” These have
to be carefully combined into a single whole so that to the mind of the
audience they appear as one single object. Similarly, a theatrical
performance consists of different activities that have to be skilfully
brought together into a single equilibrium (samyapadana).
Bharata was aware that the different activities he was combining into a
single cakra were each a world in themselves with distinct universes of
discourse. He begins talking about the nāṭya proper in the sixth chapter of
the Nāṭyaśāstra. Earlier chapters introduced both the subject matter and
the actual “nāṭya,” which began with a ritual like pūrvarānga (literally,
“that which precedes the staging”), described in chapters four and five.
The text of Nāṭyaśāstra moves in a circle with a definite design with a
real centre. Chapters 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5 make up one group, in which spatial
and temporal relations are outlined. Chapters 6 and 7 make up another
group, in which rasa, bhāva, and their variants are abstracted. Chapters 8,
9, 10, 11, 12, and 13 deal with all the aspects of body language. Chapter
13 also provides a pause where space is transformed into space onstage.
Chapters 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, and 19 deal with all aspects of verbal sounds
and speech. Chapters 20 and 21 present another pause, in which Bharata
discusses the structure of drama, types of plays, and different layered
movements of plots. This section also discusses time as an aspect.
Chapters 22, 23, 24, 25, and 26 consider how expression, costume, and
design become essential aspects. Chapters 27 as well as 26 concern
pictorial and mixed acts in drama called samanyabhinaya and
citrabhinaya. Chapters 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, and 33 are devoted to music.
Chapters 34 and 35 are devoted to the distribution of roles and
organisation. Finally, chapter 36 completes the cycle by returning to
drama and its descent from heaven.
Like a master craftsman, Bharata designs his work as an organic
whole. He assigns a role to each vital instrument relevant to drama. The
Nāṭyaśāstra is a symphony of moods, scripts, actors, sentiments, sounds,
and combinations constituting an organic whole of the art of dramaturgy.
The structural arrangement now needs a separate discussion to cover each
of its attributes.
Chapters 1 and 2 of the Nāṭyaśāstra lay down, in unambiguous though
veiled terms, the foundation of this structure. Bharata internalises the
world view of the Upaniṣads at a level that considers concepts and the
ultimate goal of the artistic experience; the structure he creates is
analogous to the Brahmanical ritual (yajna).
The Nāṭyaśāstra is explicitly divided into thirty-six chapters and has a

20
distinct sequence. The structure of the text can be restated in terms of the
concern of the author to present all levels of artistic experience and all
forms of expression, nature, and level of response.
The thirty-six chapters of the Nāṭyaśāstra can also be grouped from the
point of view of: (i) artistic experience; (ii) the artistic content or state of
being, the modes of expression through word, sound, gesture, dress,
decorations, and methods of establishing correspondences between
physical movement, speech, and physical states also as communication
and reception by audience and readers; and (iii) structure of the dramatic
form, popularly translated as plot. The ittivritta is, however, a more
comprehensive term for both structure and phrasing.
On this conceptual foundation, the physical structure of the theatre is
created. Chapter 2 deals with the actual construction of the stage and
theatre including different sizes and shapes of theatre. It is a micro model
of the cosmos. The physical place replicates the cosmic place. He deals at
various lengths with a great variety of subjects all of which together are
needed to build up nāṭya. He begins with architecture, in the sense that the
second chapter of the Nāṭyaśāstra contains an expert description of the
nāṭyagrha, the theatre hall. He describes a number of possible structures of
various sizes and shapes, recommending those with the best acoustics and
the best view of the stage for all viewers. More integral to the theatre itself
is the division of the stage space into separate sections, known as the
kaksya-vibhaga (described in chapter 13).
Nāṭya for Bharata was a representation of the triloka—the three worlds
of gods, men, and demons. The kaksya-vibhaga divisions symbolically
transform the stage into the cosmos, allotting separate space to separate
lokas; furthermore, since it is the world of men that is mostly to be
represented, the kaksya-vibhaga divides the stage into different geographic
categories, such as the city, the village, the forest, the mountain, the river,
and the like.
The chapters that follow, chapters 3, 4, and 5, are closely linked.
Bharata begins with conceptual, mythical, and physical space in chapters 1
and 2. Chapter 3 concerns the methodology for consecrating the physical
space that is created so that for the time and duration of the play the space
is cosmic.
The formal Śāstra of the nāṭya begins with chapter 6. Śāstras formally
begin with a catalogue of the major concepts and categories that together
describe and articulate the field to be surveyed. Such a catalogue, a
conceptual itinerary of what is to follow, was often termed uddesa (aim).
Bharata calls it sangraha (a collection).

21
 Introducing the sangraha, he says that it is difficult to say everything
about nāṭya in its entirety. Why? Because it consists of many fields of
knowledge (jnana) and an infinite variety of skills (silpa). Even a single
field of knowledge is like an ocean in itself: difficult to cover in all its
essentials (arthatattvatah). Not only was Bharata aware of different
“oceans of knowledge,” to use his own phrase, but he was also aware of
their theoretical formulations.
More interesting, however, are the transformations that were needed to
make the arts of performance, music, dance, and the arts of language,
speech, poetry, and narrative integral to nāṭya and how these
transformations have been conceptualised. It will take three of these to
illustrate three different ways in which Bharata orchestrates the given
material into “nāṭya” and the conceptual tools he uses for the purpose.
Music occupies an important place in the Nāṭyaśāstra in which about
nine chapters are dedicated to music. In vocal and instrumental music, he
describes svara (a musical note) and its use in expressing particular
aesthetic sense—that is, rasa.
Gāndhāra and niṣāda are used for expressing the pathetic sense (i.e.,
karuna rasa, ṣaḍja, and ṛṣabha), the heroic and marvellous senses (i.e.,
veera and adbhuta rasa, madhyama, and pañcama), and the erotic and
comic senses (i.e., shringara and hasya rasa); dhaivata is used for the
odious sense (i.e., beebhatsa rasa). Details of murcchana (a group of
svaras to be sung together) and its types are also given.
Music is derived from Sāmaveda. Seven notes were already established
in sama music. Gandharva music is also sama music. Svara, pada
(composition), and tāla (beats) are the three constituents of gandharva
music. The sama singers were connected with sacrifice; gandharvas were
professional singers or musicians. Bharata gives details about songs to be
used in drama. They are called Dhruvas.
Bharata also defines the instruments that are used in nāṭya. They are
divided into four groups:
1. Stringed instruments are called tata: stringed instruments such as the
vīṇā are of different types. Chitra, vipanchi are the major vīṇās;
ghosha and kacchapi are the subordinate vīṇās. The human body is
also called vīṇā: it is a musical instrument because it produces
musical notes through vocal cords. The stringed and wind-blown
instruments naturally produce pleasant notes so they are the most
highly regarded among musical instruments.
The chitra vīṇā has seven strings and is played with the fingers.
The vipanchi has nine strings and is played with a kona (plectrum).
These vīṇās can be seen in early sculptures of Sanchi, Barhat,

22
 Amaravati, Nagarjunkonda, and so on. In Buddhist literature,
mention is made of a seven stringed vīṇā. It describes there that
Buddha broke the seven strings one by one and still the notes
continued. It shows that the influence of music lasted even after the
actual music stopped. There are other types of vīṇās that have
fourteen strings for two saptakas (mahati) and twenty-one strings
for three saptakas (mattakokila).
2. Wind-blown instruments are called sushira: these wind blown
instruments include the flute. They are hollow and have holes to
control the airflow. The flute is the major instrument while the
conch and the tundakini are the subordinate ones. The shahanai is
also a wind-blown instrument. The flute is the key leading
instrument. The magic cast by Kṛṣṇa’s flute is well known. In
many dance panels in ancient Indian sculptures, the flute is seen
though the vīṇā is absent. In the Khajuraho temple structure, the
vīṇā is seen with the flute, drum, and cymbal.
3. Percussion instruments are called Avanaddha: the third group
encompasses percussion instruments such as drums. These
instruments are covered tightly with hide. The tightening or
loosening of the hide changes the pitch higher or lower. Mrudanga,
Panava, and Dardura are the major ones and Pataha and Zallary
are the minor ones. The face of the drum is called pushkara and is
covered by mud. A drum with three faces, tripushkara, is seen in
the Nataraja temple at Chidambaram. It is said that sage Swati
heard the raindrops falling on the petals of the lotus. The sound
thus produced appealed to him and he created this instrument. In
the detailed treatment we get mrudanga (two faces), panava (two
heads then thinning in the middle part and fastened with strings),
and dardura (a drum with one face shaped like a pitcher, i.e.,
ghata). Bharata also describes how to play these instruments.
4. The cymbals are called ghana: the fourth is group includes zanza
and manjira. They supplied rhythm—that is, taal. Taal is derived
from tāla—that is, stability—and is the foundation necessary for
music. It is indicated also by handclaps. Bharata describes various
taals. He says that music, whether vocal or instrumental, and dance
should be performed harmoniously to give a pleasant experience
like a fire band (alatachacra). A stick with fire at both ends, when
rotated fast enough in a circular movement, creates an impression
of a circle of fire. That is called alatachacra.
Having laid out the parameters, Bharata puts emphasis on the “core” of
his work. The famous chapters 6 and 7 on rasa and sthāyībhāva have

23
captured the imagination of theoreticians and practitioners alike. The
abstraction of life into primary moods, sentiments, and primary emotive
states is basic and universal to humans. The primary human emotions are
expressed in many ways. Rasa theory shall be dealt with separately.
From chapter 8 onwards, Bharata’s concern is with the formal values
of art, technique, and systems of communication and response. He begins
with the anatomy of the body—the motor and sensory system. His main
concern is joints rather than musculature. The angikabhinaya chapters
have to be understood as the study of body language and not merely as
gestures, poses, or positions. He divides the principal parts of the body
into the head, trunk, pelvis, and upper and lower limbs. He then explores
the possibility of these parts’ movements. He is precise anatomically and
physiologically. These he terms anga and upanga.
In chapter 9 he explores the direction and height of movements away
from and towards the body. His study of vertebrae, ball-and-socket joints,
and wrist and elbow joints are points of articulation. Then in chapter 10 he
moves to other parts, like the pelvis, trunk, and lower limbs. The
possibilities of each part of the body and its related activity with other
parts is then discussed. He adds comments to bring beauty, grace, and
meaning into bodily movements. He adopts the term viniyog from Vedic
ritual and applies it to angikabhinaya.
Bharata’s study of the body doesn’t stop there. He goes further,
providing a broad spectrum of movement techniques in chapter 11, in
which the whole body is employed. Training the body is essential. Without
vyayama (exercise) and proper nourishment, drama is not possible. He
combines the concepts of hathayoga on one hand and the modern concept
of martial arts on the other. Equilibrium and equivalence while holding the
spine with an equiweight is suggested by two terms, sama and saushthava.
These terms are later used in relation to music and language too. Foot
movements are described in chapter 12 and gati related to character types
in chapter 13. Bharata provides detailed notes covering postures of sitting
and gati to suit gender, character, occasion, mood, and dramatic situation.
Chapter 2 dealt with physical space. This is limited, defined space.
Bharata transforms this physical space into a grid to formulate space for
earth, water, and sky, diverse regions, and different locales of outside,
inside, proximity, and distance. Chapter 14 brings out Bharata’s entire
concept of space. It also touches the concept of style (vritti), regional
schools (pravritti), and two schools of delivery and movement—namely,
nāṭyadharmi and lokadharmi. To understand how nrtta (a term applicable
to both drama and dance) became nāṭya samagri, a part of the dramatic
whole, it is helpful to be acquainted with Bharata’s concept of the nāṭya

24
dharmi.
Nāṭya was an anukarana of the world, especially the human condition
(lokasvabhava); however, it did not attempt to replicate the world. What it
presented was a world transformed through imagination and the artistry
and devices that playwrights and directors of plays could command. This
transformed world and the means by which the transformation was made
were both called nāṭya dharma (“having traits peculiar to ‘nāṭya’”). Nāṭya
dharmi was based on loka dharma (“traits belonging to the world of
men”), yet it created a world of its own. It was an idealised world
presented in a stylised form. Ordinary gestures were heightened and
rendered with the grace of dance. This opened the door for nrtta to enter
the realm of abhinaya. Bharata counts nrtta as having entered the realm of
abhinaya.
Abhinaya has many aspects. Some are more strictly anukarana-based
than others. Projecting human feelings, emotions, and states of mind
through the exacting art of reproducing physical signs, facial expressions,
and the almost-involuntary bodily movements or gestures that normally
accompany them is a major part of abhinaya and is patently anukarana-
based. So also is mime the reproduction of a voluntary action. Apart from
these, abhinaya also includes that gamut of gestures, borrowed or
reproduced from loka, that like language are fixed conventional symbols
given a certain meaning—raising the thumb as an indication of victory, for
example. This is a conventional gesture, rooted in a particular culture; it is
symbolic of victory and thus means “victory.” In another culture it might
mean nothing, or it might convey quite another meaning. Thus, in many
parts of India, the same raised thumb, especially if also moved from left to
right, might mean “look how I have duped you.” Such gestures are,
obviously, very different from those that imitate an action or those that
imitate “signs” of mental states.
All types of abhinaya use the gestures that are available from loka,
Bharata’s abhinaya added to the available vocabulary of the language of
gestures by incorporating into it many nrtta gestures and assigning them
meanings. We are familiar with such usages from the Bharata-inspired
abhinaya of Bharata nāṭyam or Oddisi. In fact, in these styles of dance, we
may see the same gestures in a purely nrtta manner as well as in abhinaya,
where they are used to project the meanings of the words in a song.
To move on to Bharata’s next concern—words and speech—he
devotes four long chapters to vacika (chapters 15 to 19). For him vacika is
the body of drama; words are the course of everything in this world. The
articulated word he divides into two: Sanskrit and Prākrit. We start with
what Bharata calls the pathya. Pathya may be translated as “dramatic

25
speech.” Bharata includes it in his sangraha list as an essential element
and concept in theatre, which it obviously is. The literal meaning of
pathya is “that which is to be read out.” The reference is to the script, to be
spoken by the actors performing a play. The science of speech, that is,
phonetics as a discipline concerned with the articulation of the sounds
produced in uttering a language was already a sophisticated science in
India centuries before Bharata. He brings in a minute analysis according to
the principles of unit structure, nouns, verbs, particles, prepositions,
suffixes, compound words, euphonic combinations (sandhi), and case
ending. Chapter 15 ends before metrical arrangements. Chapter 16 is
devoted to the same. He cites many examples of metrical arrangements.
He brings forth how the characters of flora and fauna inspire the shape and
form of metres.
Chapter 17 is logically devoted to diction (lakṣaṇa) and its thirty-six
varieties. Lakṣaṇa itself has many layers of meanings and connotations.
Metre, rhyme, and diction are all related to the moods and sentiments
(rasa). This is followed by an analysis of figures of speech—in particular,
upma (simile), rupaka (metaphor), dipaka (condensed expression), and
yamaka. He also talks of gunā (attributes) and dosa (faults).
Chapter 18 deals essentially with languages, especially with recitation
in Prākrit and uses of different dialects. At the same time, Bharata never
dictates from a rigid perspective and adheres to simple exemplary rules.
He adopts an open attitude toward language and dress, realising their
limitless variety.
Chapter 19 speaks about intonation and modes of address. Bharata
identifies three voices, relating them to the sentiments and moods: these
registers are vras (breast), kantha (throat), and siras (head). He talks of
four accents, uddata, anudatta, svarita, and kampita (high, grave,
circumflex, and quivering, respectively).
Here Bharata takes another pause. Before we discuss the remaining
chapters, which actually deal with time and movement of drama, it is
important to deal critically with the aspects covered so far.
Having created a form of nāṭya, a samavakara called Amrtamanthana,
Bharata showed it to the gods and demons who enjoyed it greatly (partly
because it was an enactment of a great deed of their own doing). Satisfied,
Brahma proposed that a nāṭya should now be shown to Śiva, the great
critic. So Brahma and Bharata and his troupe all went to Śiva at his home
in the beautiful Himalayas. There they presented for him a dima, another
form of nāṭya called Tripuradaha (with a story from Śiva’s own deeds).
Śiva was pleased; but he made a suggestion. He created a dance that
should be incorporated into nāṭya as part of its prologue, called

26
pūrvarānga, where it could be associated with gitaka songs. This would,
he adds, lend colour to the proceedings and the meanings of the songs, too,
could thus be represented through abhinaya gestures and mime. He then
asks his disciple Tandu to describe this dance and explain it to Bharata. A
long manual on this dance, termed nrtta and also Tandava (since it was
taught by Tandu), follows.
In Bharata’s theatre, music was employed in the form of dhurva or
gana and vadya, terms Bharata uses in his sangraha. It was a large circle
of organically associated forms that together comprised the performance
aspect of a play—the total manner and style of stage presentation and its
overall weave and texture.
The detailed analysis was essential at this juncture, since Bharata now
elevates his plan through structural design. The movement of time in the
form of the plot of each of these structures is described. Appropriately
they are called dasrupalakshanam and itivritta in chapters 20 and 21.
Bharata, unlike Aristotle, considered performance, or prayoga as he called
it, essential to drama. Achieving the right vrtti was the soul of prayoga.
Bharata recognises four vrttis and relates each to its appropriate rasa.
Though clearly a mix, a vrtti had a character, a temper, a savour of its
own. Like all good aesthetic wholes, it was not just the sum of its parts but
something more, something magically more. No wonder Bharata has a
myth about how vrttis were created in divine action and play. Vrtti, like
the parts that constituted it, was anukarana oriented. It was an evocative
depiction of the human condition, lokasvabhāva vrtti, though it was also
inconceivable without a human story as it would then lack the proper
backbone of itivrtta. Itivrtta, literally, “this is what happened” was
Bharata’s name for the dramatic plot, which was to be enacted through one
or more vrttis. The final success of prayoga performance lay in the
achievement of an adequate vrtti, but prayoga was only one side of the
coin that was nāṭya. The other was itivrtta. An adequate itivrtta demanded
adequate action. It had to be plotted as a story of human effort directed
towards a desirable goal.
Consequently, a major part of Bharata’s effort in the Nāṭyaśāstra leads
to the making of vrttis: first, he describes its discrete building blocks, the
various arts with which it was built up; then he describes the principles for
putting them together into the composite whole that constituted a vrtti.
Indeed Bharata’s śāstra as a prayoga śāstra may be characterised as a
system for putting together different arts to form viable vrttis.
Bharata discusses the principles of structures once again. The
succeeding chapters, 22, 23, and 24, discuss typologies of style, heroes,
heroines, characters, regional characteristics, types of situations, and

27
decor. Chapter 24 also discusses mental comprehension of the senses,
including body, mind, feelings, emotions, relationships, personality types,
mannerisms, types of walk, gait, carriage, body language, and speech of
young and old, men and women. Bharata makes a clear distinction
between manas, bhāva, and cetna. Apparently Bharata is giving
instructions on representing techniques of sabda, sparsha, rupa, gandha,
and rasa (sound, touch, form, smell, and taste, respectively); however, at
the deeper level he is creating a more poignant relationship of senses,
body, mind, and soul.
At this juncture, Bharata brings in the concepts of kama, mokshakama,
arthakama, dharmakama, and so forth. In Chapter 25 he is concerned with
the types of men and women based upon the concept of kamatantra. He
puts the two genders in juxtaposition and judges them on the basis of
kamatantra. His classifications of consciousness, mind, and feeling are
reflected in deep arrangements. He uses highly technical aspects of
pratyaksa and paroksa, abhiyantara and bahya (explicit, implicit, inner,
and outer, respectively), bringing them into the layers of study.
Chapter 26 forms a conclusion to the matters of concept, structure, and
design. Bharata talks about citrabhinaya and samanyabhinaya. He talks
about universality, specificity, abstraction and generalisation, flexibility,
structured realities, and interpenetrating levels.
From Chapter 27 he returns to his concept of an organic whole.
Bharata defines two levels of communication: daivik and manusi (divine
and human, respectively). The artist, the creator-dramatist, can only
achieve both through inner control. For this purpose, he uses the word
sadhaka.
The next few chapters deal with music, both instrumental and vocal. In
chapters 28 to 33 Bharata outlines the principles of voice production,
notes, and gati and taal. Bharata merely enunciates the notion of kaku,
borrowing the musical concepts of svara and sthana to explicate it and to
talk of its various modes and types. Sthana, in this context, means the
various registers, low, medium, and high, over which the voice ranges in
affective speaking as much as in singing. Svara stands for musical notes or
tones; speech, inevitably, uses these too. Unlike song, svaras in speech
remain vague approximations of musical tones, unclear and subsidiary to
linguistic communication. Yet an actor should remain aware of sthana and
svara if he wants to command expressive speech and wield it as an art.
Music, too, was an integral part of theatre. The sastrically articulated
form of music in Bharata’s days was the form known as gandharva. It was
an ancient form, born from the still more ancient sama, and said to be the
progenitor of all other contemporary forms. Very thorough and

28
analytically rich, sastra, was the basic framework within which all later
forms were understood and analysed. Like the sastriya music of today,
gandharva was a very formal art. It was nonrepresentational while the soul
of drama is anukarana. To become an uparanjaka of drama, to lose its
own individual voice in the totality of forms that constituted drama (to
echo Abhinava once more, who uses in this context the phrase
nāṭyasamgrimadhyanimajjitanijasvara, it was necessary that gandharva
be changed in both its form and its conception). Phonetics became pathya
by the addition of an extra element, kaku. To turn gandharva into gana or
dhruva, terms in the Nāṭyaśāstra for theatrical songs, Bharata in a manner
of speaking stands it on its head, inverts it. Gandharva was defined as
svaratālapadatmakam, “consisting of patterns of svara, associated with
tāla, and sung to padas words.” In this group pada was a partner only in
name. It could be dispensed with, as in the instrumental playing of
gandharva, or become a string of nonsense syllables such as jhantum,
titijhala, or kucajhala, parallel to the modern nomtom. Even meaningful
words in gandharva were mere pegs upon which to hang the music.
Gandharva was, obviously, analogous to modern dhrupad or khyal. It
could not be used in nāṭya as such. This could only be done by letting
svara and tāla be dominated by pada—that is, the sung text. This, in fact,
is how Bharata defines dhruva: “A dhruva,” he says, “should be so
composed that its music has an affinity with the meaning [of the sung
text]; it should be able to project the meaning.”
In dhruva (as opposed to gandharva), svara and tāla were at the
service of pada, they were there to lend the power of melody and rhythm
to the sentiments expressed in the sung text. To change the independent
spirit of gandharva in this manner and make it an uparanjaka of nāṭya,
necessitated structural changes in gandharva; it called for a different
approach to form. Bharata has a lengthy section on how gandharva forms
are to be converted to dhruva. He gives us certain rules to be followed; let
us take up the more important ones that reveal his approach. It begins with
two important negative rules: (1) varnaprakarsa is to be avoided in
dhruva, (2) certain alaṇkāras should not be used. To explain further:
varnaprakarsa means “stretching a syllable.” This is common enough in
dhrupad and khayal and evidently was common in gandharva too. It is a
typically music-oriented approach to a sung text.
The last three chapters, 34 to 36, sum up the text of Nāṭyaśāstra.
Chapter 35 deals once again with types of characters as Bharata provides
the types with more specific terms in relation to heroes and heroines. He
brings out clearly the qualifications and equipment of all the characters of
the group and also includes poet, dramatist, script-writer, director, actors,

29
dancers, master musicians, orchestrator, costume designer, head-gear
expert, maker of ornaments, maker of garlands, theatre designer,
carpenter, painter, dyer, and other professionals who are in any way
associated with the art of natya. He covers the whole range of motivation,
creation, performance, and appreciation, involving everyone from behind
the stage to the prekshakagruh (audience hall) and beyond.
The concluding chapter, 36, introduces a change in tone, questioning
rsisis and quenching their thirst for knowledge. Bharata brings about an
apt culmination of the entire Nāṭyaśāstra, giving totality to the concept in
the last chapter.
Bharata presents an explicit as well as implicit design to Nāṭyaśāstra.
It is a multidimensional and multi-layered work covering all said and
unsaid aspects of the art of dramaturgy, leading it to the mysterious and
alaukik (celestial) level of pleasure.

30
 CHAPTER 4

BASICS OF BHĀVA AND RASA

Bhāva
Bhāva is a very common term used in poetic expression and a well-known
principle. Bhāvas are essentially connected with the emotions, in the same
way that the moon is connected with the mind and the sun with atma.
Emotions cause certain kinds of rasas to be created that are important for
creative activity. The basics of bhāvas and rasas are better explained in
the Nāṭyaśāstra. There is a verse in the Nāṭyaśāstra that explains the
context of bhāva and rasa as follows: “Yato hastastato dristi Yato
drististato mana: Yato manastato bhavo Yato bhāvastato Rasa” (the sight Commented [D1]: This one is corrected in some spellings. Please
resides with action, the mind resides with sight, the emotions reside with retain this
mind and the rasas reside with emotions). It will be difficult to get into the
concept of bhāva, mana, and rasa without going into the basics.

Basics of bhāva and rasa

Bhāvas are the meaning of a theme; this includes words, physical gestures,
and emotions. To be precise, that which conveys a person’s intended
meaning through words, physical gestures, and facial gestures is called a
bhāva.
A meaning conveyed by a stimulus is called a vibhāva and when the
same is made intelligible by words, physical gestures, and emotions it is
called an anubhāva.

Vibhāvas
Vibhāva is that which leads to a perception. So vibhāva is a cause. It is the
cause of words, gestures, and facial expressions. So, in ordinary parlance,
vibhaavita means “understood.”

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 Anubhāvas
Anubhāvas are accompanied (anu) by words, gestures, and facial
expressions. According to a traditional verse, an anubhāva is conveyed
with the help of words, gestures, and so forth. There are three categories of
bhavas—sthāyībhāvas, vyabhicāribhāvas, and sāttvikabhāvas. There are
eight sthāyībhāvas, thirty-three vyabhicāribhāvas, and eight
sāttvikabhāvas. Thus, forty-nine bhavas are the source of expression of the
rasas of creation. Rasas are produced when bhāvas encounter common
qualities.

Sthāyībhāvas
The eight sthāyībhāvas are the eight rasas. The one is the other’s
expression—both involuntary (anubhāvas) and voluntary
(vyabhicāribhāvas). The eight rasas or the sthayibhavas are śṛṅgāra,
hāsya, karuṇa, raudra, vīra, bhayānaka, bībhatsa, and adbhuta. These are
explained separately beneath the rasas.
The other vibhāvas are:
(1) Rati (love is a feeling of pleasure): performed sweetly and
gracefully.
(2) Hāsya (laughter): expressed by smile, gentle laughter, and a
guffaw.
(3) Soka (grief): expressed by collapsing on the ground and repeated
lamentations, uneasy body movement, sighs and shaking of the
head, knitted eyebrows, and such like.
(4) Krodh (anger): expressed by biting the lips, looking down and
wiping away perspiration, looking like an angry man, and such
like.
(5) Uts (energy or vigour): characteristic of an uttama (high) character.
It is used to express clarity, cleverness, and such like.
(6) Bhaya (fear): expressed by drooping limbs, hands and legs shaking,
fearful eyes, and such like.
(7) Ghrina (disgust): only displayed by females and low characters. It
is expressed by holding the nose, by covering, by looking doubtful,
and such like.
(8) Ashcharya (wonder): a job excellently done pleases one, and the
pleasure produces amazement at the fulfilment. This is expressed
by extreme joy.

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(9) Nirveda: the culmination of all emotions in one truth leading to the
highest peace (not included in Bharata-Muni’s Nāṭyaśāstra).

Vyabhicāribhāvas
(1) Nirveda: poverty, disease, insult, humiliation, abuse, censure,
anger, beating, separation from dear ones, detection of truth, and
such like are the stimulant causes. In the case of women and low
characters, its expression takes the form of crying, heavy sighs,
hesitation, and so on.
(2) Gtani: hurt, emptiness, illness, starvation due to vows and fasts,
anxiety, highly intoxicating drink, excessive exercise, and such like
are its vibhāvas. Its expressions are weak speech, dull eyes,
emaciated cheeks, trembling and drooping body, and so on.
(3) Shanka: associated with doubting, low, and female characters.
Robbing, offending authorities like the king, committing sinful
acts, and such like are its vibhāvas. Its anubhāvas are frequently
glancing to and fro, covering the face, pale face trembling, and so
on.
(4) Asuya: its vibhāvas are hatred of the good luck, riches, and
intelligence of others. Its anubhāvas are proclaiming faults and
obstructing good deeds, looking with a knitted brow, and contempt
and ridicule.
(5) Mada (intoxication): is of three kinds—lively, middling, and low.
Its cause is fivefold. It is said that one intoxicated person sings,
another cries, a third laughs, a fourth uses harsh words and the fifth
sleeps.
(6) Shrama (fatigue): its vibhāvas are walking, exercise, and so on and
its anubhavas are rubbing and shampooing the body, heavy sighs,
stern steps, making faces, and such like.
(7) Alasya: its vibhāvas are depression, satiety, and so on. Its
anubhāvas are aversion to all activities, stretching on a bed,
drowsiness, and such like. It is depicted by both men and women.
(8) Daivya: bad luck, worry, and so on are its vibhāvas. Its anubhāvas
are diffidence, bad headache, restlessness, and such like.
(9) Chinta (anxiety): its vibhāvas are loss of prosperity, poverty, and so
on. Its anubhāvas are sighing, heaving, worrying, and such like.
(10) Moha (fainting): its vibhāvas are bad luck, fear of illness,
calamity, excitement, and so on. Its anubhāvas are
unconsciousness, giddiness, falling, and such like.

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(11) Smrti (memory): the remembrance of happy and unhappy
experiences. Its vibhāvas are loss of peace of mind, insomnia,
constant worrying over memories of similar experiences, and such
like. Its anubhāvas are shaking the head, looking down, raising the
eyebrows, and such like.
(12) Dhrti (fortitude): its vibhāvas are bravery, knowledge, prosperity,
devotion to elders, and so on. Its anubhāvas are enjoying what is
achieved and not grieving over what is not achieved or is
destroyed.
(13) Vridha (bashfulness or sense of shame): its vibhāvas are
disobedience, confession of guilt, repentance, and so on. Its
anubhāvas are hiding the face, looking down, writing on the
ground with the toe, biting nails, and such like.
(14) Vyakulata (nervousness): Its vibhāvas are hatred, intolerance,
envy, and so on. Its anubhāvas are harsh words, beating, killing,
and such like.
(15) Harsha (joy): Its vibhāvas are achieving one’s desires, pleased
minds, the blessings of kings, gods, and elders, and such like. Its
anubhāvas are a pleased look, a cheerful face, embracing, feeling
thrilled, tears of joy, and such like.
(16) Aavega (agitation or excitement): Its vibhāvas are portents of
storms, rain, fire elephants running amok, natural calamities, and so
on. Its anubhāvas are physical collapse, uneasiness, amazement,
and such like.
(17) Jadataa (slothfulness): its vibhāvas are hearing and seeing things
one likes or dislikes, illness, and so on. Its anubhāvas are silence,
staring unblinkingly, and such like.
(18) Garva (pride or arrogance): its vibhāvas are prosperity, a
handsome figure, youth, and so on. Its anubhāvas are jealousy,
argumentativeness, looking at one’s self in the mirror,
contemptuous laughter, and such like.
(19) Visada (sorrow, regret, disappointment): its vibhāvas are
incompletion of work undertaken and calamity due to acts of gods.
Its anubhāvas are seeking help, thinking of a remedy, restlessness,
sighing, and such like.
(20) Autsukya (uneasiness): its vibhāvas are separation, repeated
remembrance of separation, and so on. Its anubhāvas are deep,
long sighs, downcast face, thoughtfulness, drowsiness, and such
like.
(21) Nidra (sleep): Its vibhāvas are weakness, fatigue, weariness,
intoxication, and so on. Its anubhāvas are puffed-up face, looking

34
 at the body, roving eyes, yawning, eyes closing, drooping body,
and such like.
(22) Apasmara (forgetfulness): its vibhāvas are being possessed by
gods, ghosts, and so on. Its anubhāvas are trembling, heaving,
jumping, running, falling, foaming at the mouth, and such like.
(23) Supta (being asleep, being overcome by sleep): its vibhāvas are
bewilderment, enjoying objects of the senses, and so on. Its
anubhāvas are drooping body, stretching as on awakening, closing
the eyes, the limbs of the body being stationery, and such like.
(24) Vibodha (awakening): hunger, the end of a dream, the touch of a
hard substance, and loud sounds are the vibhāvas. Yawning and
rubbing the eyes are the anubhāvas.
(25) Amarsa (intolerance, impatience): is produced in a man who is
insulted and ridiculed by others richer, stronger, and better
educated than himself. These are the vibhāva stimuli. The
anubhāvas are shaking of the head, sweating, looking downcast,
moodiness, determination, and such like.
(26) Avahittam (dissimulation): is in the nature of covering up real
things. Its vibhāvas are a sense of shame, fear, defeat, loss of
dignity, and so on. Its anubhāvas are appearing different,
distracting from or distorting facts, and such like.
(27) Ugrataa (fierceness): its vibhāva is offending a king. Its
anubhāvas are killing, binding, beating, condemnation, and such
like.
(28) Mati (understanding, judgement): its vibhāvas are studying
various śāstras, consideration of pros and cons, and so on. Its
anubhāvas are raising doubts, arguing, and removing doubts in the
interest of students.
(29) Vyaadhaii: the three humours are vaata (wind, gas), pitta (bile),
and kafa (phlegm). Combinations of any of these result in diseases
that are characterised by fever and such like. The anubhāvas of
these characteristics are trembling and quivering all over, folding
up the body, craving for warmth, tossing the body, hands, and feet,
and so on.
(30) Unmaada (insanity): separation, loss of wealth, natural calamities,
and disturbances of the three humours are the various vibhāvas. Its
anubhāvas are laughing or crying, moving in a chaotic manner, and
so on.
(31) Maranam (death caused by illness or violence): its vibhāvas or
causes are weapons, poison, animals, diseases, accidents, and so

35
 on. The anubhāvas are symptoms of illness and its consequent
effects, quivering, hiccup, drooping shoulders, and such like.
(32) Traasa (dread): the vibhāvas are lightning, meteors, rainstorms,
and so on. Its anubhāvas are covering the body, trembling, shaking,
and such like.
(33) Vitarka (argumentation): its vibhāvas are doubt, deliberation,
discrepancy, and so on. Its anubhāvas are reasoning, solving
questions, and such like.

Sāttvikabhāvas
Sāttva means “emotions” or “genuineness,” which are qualities of the
mind. Things like feeling thrill, tears, pallor, and such like can be achieved
only when the mind is composed. Pain and pleasure can be shown or
expressed only when being emotionally correct.
There are eight sāttvikabhāvas. They are as follows:
(1) Stamba (stupefaction): acted by standing still, with the body
unmoving, the eyes unseeing, and the limbs lifeless.
(2) Sveda (sweating): depicted by using a fan, wiping away perspiration,
and such like.
(3) Romaancha (feeling thrilled): depicted by frequent actions as if the
hair is on end, by plucking movements, and by touching the limbs.
(4) Svarabedha (break in the voice): shown by stuttering in different
voices.
(5) Vepathu (trembling): depicted by quivering and shaky movements.
(6) Vaivarnya (pallor): shown by pressure on the pulse and changing the
colour of the face.
(7) Asru (tears): shown by wiping the eyes.
(8) Pralaya (swoon, death): shown by collapsing to the floor or the
ground.

Rasa
Rasa is a cumulative result of vibhāva (stimuli), anubhāva (involuntary
states), and vyabhicāribhāva (voluntary states).
Origin and colour of the rasas. The basic rasas are four: the erotic
(śṛṅgāra), the heroic (vīra), terror (raudra), and disgust (bībhatsa).
Further, hāsya (horror, laughter) is derived from raudra, adbhuta (wonder,
magic) from vīra, and bhayānaka (dread) from bībhatsa.
(1) Śṛṅgāra: based on love (rati), it results in the case of men and women
in healthy youth. It is of two kinds: (a) sambhoga (fulfilment); (b)
36
 viprabalambha. The śṛṅgāra rasa must be expressed by loving looks,
lifting or raising the eyebrows, sideward glances, and graceful steps
and gestures. The vipralaambha śṛṅgāra are dejection, fatigue,
suspiciousness, jealousy, patience, sleepiness, dreaminess, and such
like.
(2) Hāsya: stimulated by disfigurement of dress, impudence, and so on. It
is expressed by expansion of the lips, nose, and cheeks; hard staring
and so on are its anubhāvas. The vyabhicāribhāvas are dissimulation,
laziness, sleepiness, and such like.
Hāsyam is of two types:
(a) When one laughs oneself.
(b) When one makes others laugh.
Six types of laughing are:
(a) smitha (gentle laughter)
(b) hasitha (laughter)
(c) vihasitha (loud laughter)
(d) upaliasifha (satirical laughter)
(e) apahasita (silly laughter)
(f) athi hasitha (loud laughter)
(3) Raudra: this rasa is associated with evil spirits and people of
ferocious or short-tempered nature. The stimulus for this rasa is
anger, boldness, abuses, insults, lies, and so on. Its
vyabhicāribhāvas are cold-bloodedness, excitement, intolerance,
sweating, and such like.
(4) Karuṇa: karuṇa or pathos is the sthāyībhāva of grief. It is
stimulated by curses, pain, calamity, separation from near and dear
ones, and so on. Its anubhāvas are shedding tears, pallor, drooping
limbs, and such like. Its vyabhicāribhāvas are disgust, exhaustion,
fear, confusion, and such like.
(5) Vīra: produced by an energetic, determined, unrelenting nature that
is taken neither by surprise nor by confusion. It comprises
challenging words and deeds showing courage, boldness, bravery,
and self-confidence.
(6) Adbhuta: stimulated by the sight of a divine person, by achieving
the desired, by going to interesting places such as temples, and so
on. Its anubhāvas are distended eyes, unthinking and steady
glances, thrill, joy, words of appreciation, twisting the body, and
such like. Its vyabhicāribhāvas are being stunned, shedding tears,
stammering, excitement, joy, restlessness, and such like.
(7) Bībhatsa: stimulated by seeing or hearing undesirable, ugly, and
evil things. It is acted by withdrawing the body, leering, spitting,

37
 and agitation. Its vyabhicāribhāvas are loss of memory, agitation,
excitement, confusion, sickness, death, and such like.
(8) Bhayānaka: stimulated by seeing or hearing words, sounds, and
objects, or by fear of jackals and owls, or by going into empty
houses or lonely forests, or by seeing or listening to stories of
people a person knows being killed or imprisoned, and so on. It
comprises trembling legs and hands, eyes flitting to and fro, hair
standing on end, face losing colour, and loss of voice. Its
vyabhicāribhāvas are being stupefied, sweating, stammering,
confusion, fear, loss of memory, death, and such like.
(9) Śānta: śānta is serenity and peace. It represents the state of calm
and unruffled repose that is marked simply by the lack of all other
rasas. Since all emotions are absent in śānta, there is controversy
over whether it is a rasa at all. According to Bharata, the other
eight rasas were those proposed originally by Brahma, and the
ninth, śānta, was his own contribution. Śānta represents complete
harmony between the mind, the body, and the universe. Śānta is
untroubled steadiness. Śānta is the key to eternity.
Essentially, there are eight rasas, which are called ashta rasa, and the
ninth one is the śānta rasa, which is nothing but the combination of all the
rasas. As we find in the colour white, there is a combination of each
colour.
Emotions have their logic:
(1) Emotions are manifested in poetry through a combination of
situational factors. In drama, this can include things such as events,
characters, language, lighting, costume, gesture, and music.
(2) There are a specific number of emotions.
(3) Some emotions are permanent, irreducible mental states, while
others are fugitive and dependent.
(4) A poetic composition is an organisation of various tones of feeling,
but it invariably subordinates the weaker tones to a dominant
expression.
(5) Tones of feeling are not brought together in a poem
indiscriminately, but according to a logic of congruity and
propriety. Emotions are caused by their objects, manifested by their
expressions, and nourished by other ancillary feelings.
There have always been controversies about the definition of rasa.
Even today, there are people who confuse rasa with bhāva and mistake
one for the other. On a literal level, rasa means something that is being
tasted or enjoyed. Hence, the word rasika is employed to denote
connoisseurs. Now, the question might be asked whether rasa comes from

38
bhava or bhava from rasa. Bhāva means “that which becomes,” so bhāva
becomes rasa. But rasa does not become bhāva.
Certain colours have been specified for the artistic representation of
these rasas—codified, so to speak, for use in the performing arts. Green is
used for śṛṅgāra, red for raudra, golden yellow for vīra, blue for bībhatsa,
white for hāsya, grey for karuṇa, black for bhayānaka, yellow for
adbhuta. For every one of these rasas, there is a sthāyībhāva (permanent
state of mind), lakṣaṇa (definition), and vibhāva (fundamental
determinant) and uddeepanavibhava (excitant determinant). Then follow
anubhāvas (consequences), sāttvikabhāvas (involuntary states) which
springs from the involvement of the mind, and vyabhicāribhāvas or
sancharibhāvas (transitory or passing state of mind).

The rasa theory in the Nāṭyaśāstra

Bharata says that rasa is called rasa because it is capable of being relished
(asvadya), and then he gives an illustration to show how rasa is relished.
He says that rasa is relished by cultured and sensitive spectators in the
same way that dainty dishes are relished by connoisseurs of food and that
this relishing of rasa gives them joy and satisfaction. Here Bharata uses
the word bhunjanah in the case of connoisseurs alone. But it is clear that
he intends it to be understood in the case of sensitive and cultured
spectators also.
Drama differs from poetry because of its four-fold abhinaya. Among
several matters pertaining to dramaturgy, the Nāṭyaśāstra of Bharata deals
with the fourfold properties of abhinaya: (1) angika, (2) vacika, (3)
sattvika, and (4) aharya. In poetry there is no scope for any abhinaya if it
is recited silently by a reader to himself. If, however, it is recited publicly
before an audience, there is a good deal of scope for vacika and angika
abhinaya. Vacika abhinaya in a dramatic representation on the stage is
concerned with the proper recitation and intonation of the speeches
assigned to different characters, these speeches being marked by literary
qualities such as excellence (gunā), tropes (alaṇkāra), and other
miscellaneous traits (lakṣaṇa). According to Bharata all four kinds of
abhinaya are intended to convey to the audience the thoughts and feelings
of the characters. Bharata explains this basic concept of abhinaya in
Nāṭyaśāstra 8.7–10 and in the prose passage preceding these stanzas.10
From these four kinds of abhinaya, angika, vicika, and sattvika are located
exclusively in the actors (nata) representing the different characters, while

10
Baroda edn, 2:1–2.
39
aharya abhinaya, in its aspect of scenic arrangements on the stage and the
employment of various items of stage-apparatus, is located outside the
actors and constitutes the scenic background.
Bharata’s treatment of abhinaya is intimately connected with
conveying the thoughts and emotions of the characters in a drama to the
audience, and the treatment of the rasa doctrine in the Nāṭyaśāstra is
intended to explain the purpose served by abhinaya in a dramatic
representation. Bharata deals with the rasa doctrine in the context of
drama in chapter 6 (Rasadhyaya) and chapter 7 (Bhavadhyaya) of the
Nāṭyaśāstra. Bharata’s treatment of the rasa doctrine contains a good
many hints of the developments to rasa theory propounded by later writers
on Sanskrit poetics beginning with Ānandavardhana in the Dhvanyāloka.
In the prose passage immediately following stanza 31 of chapter 6 (p.
272), Bharata brings out the paramount importance of rasa (emotion) in a
dramatic work. He says that there cannot be any theme worthy of being
handled in a drama apart from human emotion. According to Bharata,
portrayal of the emotions of various characters is the main business of a
play. A drama necessarily deals with the emotional ups and downs of and
emotional conflict in the minds of various characters. For many thoughts
and most of the actions of human beings are prompted directly and
indirectly by some emotion or other in their minds. This is as apt for
poetry as for the portrayal of rasa in drama; as propounded by Bharata this
theory has been accepted in toto by all writers on poetics and the portrayal
of human emotions has been regarded by them as the essence of poetry
and drama.
While dealing with vagabhinaya (i.e., vacika abhinaya), Bharata says
that the utmost care must be taken by an actor in the matter of the
recitation of speeches assigned to the character he represents (and by
implication, also by a playwright in regard to the composition of those
speeches), because these speeches are the corpus (tanu) of a drama and
since a drama is predominantly a vocal performance. This statement of
Bharata, coupled with his earlier statement about the paramount
importance of rasa in a drama, clearly shows that he foreshadows the idea
set forth by later writers on poetics, that rasa is the soul of poetry
(including drama) and that words (and their literal senses) are the body of
poetry.
Later writers on poetics, such as Ānandavardhana, while stressing the
importance of rasa as the soul of poetry, say that rasa (emotion) is always
to be suggested in poetry through the description of its causes (vibhāvas)
and its effects (anubhāvas) and is never to be mentioned by its name. In
this connection, they have propounded the doctrine of vyanjana or dhvani

40
(suggestion). The very first karika of the Dhvanyāloka says that
suggestion is the soul of poetry. The Dhvanyāloka is the first work on
Sanskrit poetics dealing with the theory and practice of poetic suggestion
in all its aspects. A superficial reader of the Nāṭyaśāstra may gain the
impression that, although he recognised and propounded the supreme
importance of rasa in drama, Bharata did not say that rasa is to be
suggested rather than identified by its name. Nevertheless, it is a fact that
Bharata was acquainted with the concept of suggestion in the context of
rasa.
In Nāṭyaśāstra, Bharata uses the phrase samanyagunāyogena in
connection with the experience of rasa arising from the portrayal of the
forty-nine bhavas through their appropriate vibhāvas and anubhāvas. This
phrase used by Bharata in the context of the experience of rasa anticipates
the doctrine of sadharanikarana, which together with abhidha
(denotation) and bhogikarna (or bhogakrttva or bhojakatva) (gestation)
forms the basic trilogy of Bhatta Nayaka’s hypothesis about rasa
experience. The idea of sadharanikarana (generalisation or
universalisation) of the vibhāvas, anubhāvas, vyabhicāribhāvas, and
sthāyībhāvas, which is already found in Bharata’s work, was adopted by
Bhatta Nayaka, Abhinavagupta, and other later writers on poetics.
Abhinavagupta, however, enlarged the scope or sadharanikarana in two
directions: (1) Mental identification (tanmayibhavana or hrdayasamvada
or sensitive, cultured readers, and spectators [sahrdāya]) with the
characters and other emotions as depicted in poetry and drama, through
the employment of appropriate style marked by suitable literary
excellences (gunā) and figures of speech (alaṇkāra). (2) A reader or
spectator sharing his aesthetic experience with several other fellow readers
or spectators. The knowledge that several other people are having the
same aesthetic experience heightens the intensity of that experience.
The implicit use of the word bhunjanah by Bharata in the context of
rasa experience must have inspired Bhatta Nayaka to regard bhojakatva
(or bhogkarana) as a function of poetic expression, along with abhidha
and sadharanikarana (bhavana). Abhinavagupta also accepts the idea
underlying bhogikarana, not as a function of poetic expression but as the
result of the revelation (or suggestion) of aesthetic experience due to the
suggestive power of poetic expression. His contention is that bhoga
(relishing of rasa) is not the direct outcome of poetic expression and that it
consequently cannot be regarded as a function belonging to poetic
expression. According to him, bhoga is a synonym of asvada (delectation)
and consists in the revelation of the essentially delightful nature of the soul

41
immediately after the removal of the shroud of the dense infatuation
(enveloping the soul) by a poet’s portrayal of an emotional situation.
While speaking of vacika abhinaya, which is concerned with the
recitation of speeches assigned to various characters in a drama with
appropriate intonation and modulation of the voice, in chapter 16 Bharata
deals with three important topics in poetics that have a vital bearing on
rasa. These topics are: (1) the ten literary qualities or excellences (gunās),
(2) the ten blemishes (dosas), and (3) the four stylistic figures
(alaṇkāras)—namely, upama (simile), dipaka (zeugma), rupaka
(metaphor), and yamaka (rhyme). The gunās, dosas, and alaṇkāras belong
in the first instance to the words used in a drama and to the senses
conveyed by them. Nevertheless, in the last instance, they have the effect
of augmenting or spoiling the beauty of the portrayal of emotions in a
drama. Though the number and nature of the gunās, dosas, and alaṇkāras
have undergone considerable modifications in their treatment by later
writers on poetics, still their vital bearing on the portrayal of emotional
situations in poetry and drama is unanimously recognised by all. The
connection between poetry and drama on the one hand and the presence of
gunās and absence of dosas on the other is invariable and vital.
The connection between poetry and alaṇkāras is, however, invariable
rather than vital. Nevertheless, as Mammata says, poetry is largely
adorned with figures of style and only occasionally marked by their
absence. Even Ānandavardhana and Abhinavagupta—the chief exponents
of the rasa-dhvani doctrine—recognise the importance of figures of style
in poetry, as is clear from their express statements in this matter and from
the pains they take to lay down rules for the judicious employment of
figures of style in a way congenial to the portrayal of the emotional
situation. It is clear that Bharata anticipated later writers in the matter of
literary excellence because he precisely stated the relationship between
rasa, on the one hand, and the gunās, dosas, and alaṇkāras, on the other.
Vamana was the first writer on poetics who tried to define the nature
and role of the gunās and alankarra in poetry and said that riti (style),
which consists in the presence of literary excellence, is the soul of poetry;
that the gunās are intrinsic, invariable, and indispensable attributes (nitya-
dhrama) of poetry; and that the alaṇkāras are extrinsic and dispensable
properties (anitya dharma) of poetry. Dandin also said that the ten gunās
are the life-breath (prāṇa) of the vaidarbha marga (i.e., vaidarbhi riti). It
was Ānandavardhana and Abhinavagupta who first defined the relation
between the gunās and alaṇkāras and the suggested emotional content
(rasa) of poetry and formulated a philosophy of literary excellence,

42
blemishes, and adornments. Bharata’s Nāṭyaśāstra does not contain any
hints of this subsequently developed philosophy.

The basic modes of poetic expression

According to the early tradition of Indian poetics alaṇkāra
(embellishment) was the principal source of poetic beauty; further, it
distinguished poetic expression from non-poetic expression. In this
tradition, svabhavokti (natural description) seems to have caused
considerable difficulty. It involved an unresolved paradox. If alaṇkāra was
the sine qua non of poetry, svabhavokti cannot claim to be poetry, because
the relationship of embellishment and that which is embellished was
inherent in the former, but the latter was by definition unembellished
expression (kuntaka). On the other hand, it could not be denied that poems
having just svabhavokti and no other figure were felt to be beautiful
(mahima-bhatta). Even before Bhamaha, the opinion in this matter was
sharply divided: some rejected and others somehow accepted svabhavokti.
It was not merely a technical issue or theoretical matter of marginal value.
In the works of the few chosen poets, numerous passages graphically
describe objects and situations without using figurative expressions; and
there were hundreds of short lyrics, muktakas, where the main source of
poetic charm was svabhavokti.
It was therefore inevitable that two distinct basic sources of poetic
beauty would be recognised. Accordingly, the whole domain of literature
was classified into svabhavokti, which uses the natural mode of
expression, and Vakrokti, which uses the figurative mode (dandin).
In the Dhvani tradition, however, the basis of poetic beauty was
thought to be quite different. The special manner in which poetic meaning
was conveyed, vyanjana (suggestion), was accepted as the principal
ground of poetic beauty. The suggested sense may be an emotion (rasa), a
figure (alaṇkāra) or an idea (vastu). Of these, the suggestion of emotion
(rasadhvani) was considered poetically the most excellent (by
Ānandavardhana and Abhinavagupta). Even though alaṇkāra was said to
be another ground of poetic beauty, this was said purely for the sake of
form, for it was categorically stated that poetry that was bereft of rasa and
had only alaṇkāra was an imitation of poetry, hardly worthy of the name.
Obviously, svabhavokti has an insignificant place in this scheme of things.
A serious consequence of accepting such a position is that many
Sanskrit and Prākrit poems would be assigned a very inferior status.
Svabhavoktis either would be evaluated as specimens of weak poetic
exercise or, alternatively, would be accepted as second-rate poems by

43
associating them with a shade of emotion on the basis of some supposed
context (jagannatha). Possibly, there were historical reasons for this
downright devaluation of poetic beauty deriving exclusively from
alaṇkāra and svabhava-varnana.

Later criticism of rasa theory

Bhoja recognised three types of poetic beauty, based on three distinct
modes of expression: svabhavokti (natural description), Vakrokti
(figurative description), and Rasokti (delineation of emotion). When poetic
beauty derives primarily from guna we have svabhavokti; when it derives
from alaṇkāra, we have vakrokti; when it derives from the delineation of
rasa, we have rasokti.
The credit, however, goes to Kuntaka for working out basic principles
for categorising poetic expression. His treatment of the problem is marked
by perception, lucidity, and logical rigour. The introduction to his
treatment of alaṇkāras in the Vakroktijivita (III.1.16) establishes that
poetic beauty deriving primarily from non-figurative description of objects
(as in svabhavokti) and delineation of emotions (as in rasavat) inheres in
the poetic subject matter or content (vastu), while that deriving primarily
from embellishment (alaṇkāra) of poetic content inheres in verbal
expression. In Kuntaka’s words, in the former case the saundarya is
svabhavika while in the latter case it is racana-vaicitrya-yukta.
Dhvanivada and rasavada cannot account for the whole range of the
experience of beauty in poetry. Some types of experiences have a quite
different basis. The aesthetic experience produced by natural description
of objects remains unaccounted for by the dhvani theory, and that
produced by rhetorical description remains unaccounted for by the rasa
theory.
Ruyyaka and Jayaratha have pointed out the psychological basis for
svabhavokti and rasavat alaṇkāra (which closely corresponds to rasokti).
In poetry the sahrdaya experiences hrdaya-samavada, the correspondence
or identification of the reader’s consciousness with that of the poet as
expressed in the poetic work. In the case of svbhavokti, it is vastu-
samvada, objective matching or correspondence (i.e., the feeling that the
expressed idea is exactly as we thought it was), while in the case of rasokti
it is citta-vrtti-samvada (emotional matching or correspondence) (i.e.,
identification of the reader’s emotion with the emotion expressed in the
poem). The following remarks by Raghavan on this subject, even though
made in reference to Bhoja, apply more aptly to Kuntaka.

44
 “In the realm of ideas or artha, there are only two classes, namely, the
mere nature of things (vastu-svabhava) and emotions. In the description of
these two, we have vastu-samvada and citta-samvada, respectively, and
the corresponding cases of expressions are called svabhavokti and rasa-
delineation, or rasa-ukti, according to bhoja. These two are bare
descriptions, vastu-svabhava or rasa-svabhava being the object of
description. When both of these are figuratively described, we have the
third kind of ukti: vakrokti.” In other words, different types of beauty
experienced from poetry in both cases can be natural or vivid or
heightened and embellished. Such a categorisation of literary beauty can
be matched with the types of aesthetic experience experienced in life.
Things and expressions of emotions are felt to be beautiful, whether by
themselves or when tinged with psychological associations.

45
 CHAPTER 5

DHVANI THEORY: AN INTRODUCTION

1. Dhvani: a historical overview

The term dhvani (sound) is derived from the root dhvan (to make sound).
Dhvani is an older term dating back to Atharva-Veda, where it was used in
the sense of sound, tune, noise, and so on.11 In the Veda and Upaniṣad,
there are many mythical and magical speculations regarding speech and
sound. The Brahmana texts have also given some focus to analysing the
words into their elements in the context of meaning.12 The problem in the
relation between sound and meaning is fully discussed by the ancient
Indian thinkers. Thinkers like Audumbaraayana and Vaarttaaksa
(Vaakyakaanda, 344) were the pioneers in this field. Even Yaaska, in his
Nirukta, records the view of Audumbaraayana regarding the eternal
character of the sound (indriyanityaM vacanamaudumbaraayaNa, Nirukta
1.1).
The expression directly conveys the idea of a situation to the reader.
As the expression itself constitutes the method of communicating the
intended content, namely the situation, the beauty of a poem with regard to
its method consists in the beauty of the expression. They therefore set
themselves the task of studying the ingredients of beauty in poetic
expression.
Expression has two aspects—the word (sabda) and its explicit meaning
(vacyartha). With reference to each of these, three fundamental
concepts—gunā (excellence), dosa (defect), and alaṇkāra
(embellishment)—are discussed. Whatever charming quality word and
meaning lend to an expression, it is regarded by writers as an excellence
(gunā) and whatever mars the beauty of the expression, either in word or
in meaning, is regarded as a blemish (dosa). The presence of gunā and the
absence of dosa in the word (sabda) make for correction of language, and

11
Sanskrit–English Dictionary, Monier-Williams, 522.
12
A. Hota, Sphota Dhvani and Pratibhaa, thesis, University of Pune, 78.
46
in the meaning (artha) tends to promote coherence of thought. Language,
according to the later aestheticians, has the power to convey a meaning by
suggestion, or indication, except for the power of communication by overt
expression. The meaning suggested by the words is called vyangyartha; it
is different from and beyond the meaning explicitly and directly conveyed
by the words (vacyartha). When the content of a poem is emotion (bhāva),
the method necessarily consists in suggested meaning, or vyangyartha,
which is also called dhvani. Dhvani is the real core of the poetic method—
its ātman (kavyasyatma dhvani). The expression, consisting of words
(sabda) and explicit meaning (vacyartha), constitutes only the seat of
dhvani, its vesture, or embodiment—its sarira.
The concept of dhvani arose from the demand to explain how the
emotional content of a poem is transmitted to a reader to produce rasa in
him. We owe this concept to the author of the Dhvanyāloka,
Ānandavardhana, who lived about the middle of the ninth century A.D.
The concept was not entirely unknown to poeticians before
Ānandavardhana: traces of the idea are found in their writings. But these
writers did not accord any independent status to dhvani. To explain the
concept of an expression that was sufficient in itself, they dealt mainly
with poetry that had a predominantly imaginative content. Unlike the early
poeticians, the early dramaturgists recognised that emotion is the essential
content of their art. In fact, Bharata (second or first century B.C.) was the
first to write a treatise—the Nāṭyaśāstra—that deals extensively with the
concept of rasa. In it, he analysed the constituents of rasa experience.
About the time of Ānandavardhana, the Nāṭyaśāstra had been
commented upon by Bhatta Lollata (800–840 A.D.) and Sri Sankuka (a
younger contemporary of Bhatta Lollata). And yet, neither Bharata nor his
early commentators had said anything about dhvani as the method with
which to communicate the emotional content of drama to the spectator.
Bharata took the communication of the emotion for granted and discussed
only the necessary relation of the content, bhāva, to the experience called
rasa. Even though Bhatta Lollata and Sri Sankuka turned their attention to
the problem of the method by which the emotional content of a drama is
communicated to the spectator, they did not acknowledge that the method
involved is dhvani. They had other explanations to offer. The credit for
formulating the theory of dhvani goes entirely to the author of the
Dhvanyāloka. The title means “the lusture [aloka] of suggested meaning
[dhvani].”
The Navina school of Alankarikas beginning with Ānandavardhana
recognised that emotion (bhāva) is the best theme for poetry. With this
recognition they had to explain how the emotional content of a poem is

47
communicated to the reader. It was in answering this problem that they
discovered the concept of dhvani. Before dhvani was recognised as a type
of meaning, three types of meanings were usually ascribed to language:
the primary (mukhya), the secondary (laksya), and the syntactical
(tatparya). The primary and the secondary meanings are ascribed to
individual words.

Two types of sounds: the primary and the secondary

Bhartrihari makes a new distinction within manifesting sounds: primary
sound (praakruta dhvani) and secondary sound (vaikruta dhvani)
(shabdasya grahaNe hetuH praakrto dhvaniriSyate |
sthitibhedanimittatvam vaikrtaH pratipadyate || Bk 78).

Primary sound
Primary sounds are those, without which the form of sphoṭa would remain
unmanifested and therefore unperceived (tatra praakrto naama yena vinaa
sphotarUpamanabhivyaktamna paricchidyate | Vrtti on Book 77 ||).
Primary sounds are considered the root cause of sphoṭa, because, as soon
as we hear the primary sounds, sphoṭa is perceived. Due to this close
relationship between the two, the features of primary sounds are often
attributed to the sphoṭa.
Another character of primary sounds is that they determine the exact
nature of the sphoṭa, as short, long, or prolonged, for example a1, a2 and
a3. The length of the vowel as short, long, or prolonged is considered the
primary feature of sounds because, in the case of length, we find some
significant differences in the concerned articulating position of the vocal
organ.
Duration seems to be the basis for this distinction. According to this
distinction, primary sounds are classified into three: apacita, pracita, and
pracitatara. When a primary sound is apacita (brief in duration), it
manifests a short vowel; when it is pracita (long in duration), it manifests
a long vowel; when it is pracitatara (longer in duration), it manifests a
prolated (extended or elongated) vowel:

kaanicidapacitarUpaavrttigraahyaaNi |
tathaa svabhaavabhedaadapacitadhvanidyotyo hrasvaH |
taavataa’bhivyaktinimittena svarUpasya
graahikaa buddhistatrotpadyate |
pracitadhvanidyotyastu dIrghaH |
48
pracitataradhvanipratipaadyastu plutaH |
sa ca praakrtadhvanikaalo
vyatirekaagrahaNaadadhyaaropyamaaNaH
sphoTe sphotakaala ityupacaryate shaastre ||
Vrtti on Book 77 ||

Secondary sound
The second type of sound is called vaikrta dhvani (vaikrtastu
yenaabhivyaktam sphotarUpam punaH | punaravicchedena pracitataram
kaalamupalabhyate || Vrtti on Book 77). It arises out of the primary sounds
after the manifestation of sphoṭa, and therefore does not affect the quality
of sphoṭa. It can be perceived repeatedly and uninterruptedly for a long
time. The duration of the period depends upon the tempo (vrtti of the
speaker). Drtatva (rapidity) and Vilambita (sthitibhede nimittatvam
vaikrtaH pratipadyate [Book 78]) (slowness) are the properties of
secondary sound. These qualities depend on the movements of the vocal
organ from one position to another at a slower or faster rate.
These properties of secondary sounds are not superimposed on the
sphoṭa (tasmaadupalakSitavyatirekeNa vaikrtena dhvaninaa
samsrjyamaano’pi sphotaatmaa taadrUpyasyaanadhyaaropaat shaastre
hrasvaadivat kaalabhedavyavahaaram naavatarati || vrtti on Brahmakanda,
verse 79 ||). The length of time of continued cognition of sphoṭa fully
depends on the tempo with which the secondary sound is associated.
The term never refers to a single phonemic unit taken by itself; instead,
it refers to the relation of sounds within a series.
The words of the poem have undoubtedly their own explicit or primary
meaning (vacyaratha, mukhyartha). It is the meaning directly conveyed by
the words. But the primary meaning does not stand for the emotion
because emotion cannot be expressed, or described in words (vacya). It
cannot be directly communicated. What the primary meaning stands for is
only the situation, consisting of the causes and effects of the emotion,
which are partly human. It is from the description of the situation that the
reader catches the underlying emotion. On reading the poem, one
understands in the first instance its primary meaning, which represents the
situation. The primary meaning then suggests, indicates, or hints to the
mind of the reader the presence of the emotion. Thus the meaning
representing the emotion, called vyangyartha or “suggested meaning”
(from the verb vyanj which means “to suggest,” “to indicate”), is arrived at
indirectly from the words through the medium of the primary meaning.
The power in language by which vyangyartha is said to be conveyed is

49
called vyanjana-vrtti. The vyangayartha is called dhvani.
Being indirectly conveyed, the suggested meaning (vyangyartha) may
vaguely resemble the secondary meaning of words (laksyartha). The
secondary meaning is also indirectly conveyed. It is the meaning, which
the word implies rather than states. And we resort to it when the primary
meaning of one word does not agree with the primary meaning of another
word. But the secondary and suggested meanings are arrived at through
the primary meaning. And the primary meaning, having been led either to
the secondary or to the suggested meaning, ceases to apply. This
constitutes the common ground between laksyartha and vyangyartha. But
there is a fundamental difference between the two. The secondary meaning
of a word is necessarily connected with its primary meaning and operates
only in the wake of the primary meaning, without going outside the
context set by the primary meaning. We resort to the secondary meaning
only because the primary meaning does not do full justice to the context.
For example, in the phrase “the hamlet on the Gangā” the term “on the
Gangā” is to be taken in the secondary sense of “on the banks of the
Gangā.” The word Gangā is common to both primary and secondary
signification.
In contrast, there is no necessary relation between the primary meaning
of the word used and the meaning suggested by it. In the expression
“hamlet on the Gangā” there is more meaning than is conveyed by the
secondary signification. This additional meaning relates to the intention of
the speaker. It is evident that the speaker has an intention in using the
expression “on the Gangā.” He probably desires to convey the idea that the
hamlet is cool and holy. We find no connection between this suggested
meaning and the primary meaning of the term “on the Gangā” as we find
between the secondary and the primary meanings of that term. While the
primary meaning (“on the river”) serves as a passage to the secondary
meaning (namely “on the bank”), it serves only as a distant hint, or
pointer, to the still deeper meaning (“cool and holy”). While the transition
from the primary to the secondary meaning is continuous, that from the
primary to the suggested is discontinuous. A sense is suggested even when
the word used has no correspondence to it. Only a sympathetic person’s
insight can make it out.

Three types of poetry

(1) Citra-kavya: This is poetry where there is no suggestion at all. It relies

entirely on description for the communication of its content. Obviously,
the content of this poetry is confined to what is describable, namely
50
objective phenomena, which are either aspects of nature or affairs of men
taken as ends in themselves. It is called citra-kavya because the method
involved resembles a picture (citra) for its objectiveness. The object,
whether natural or human, may be described in two ways. One way is to
treat the object just as it is, as a mere fact (vastu). This is the least poetic.
In the other case, the poet adds his fancy to the fact, idealises it, and makes
the imaginative thought (alaṇkāra) match the content of his composition.
The description then becomes ornate, or embellished. It involves the use of
figures of speech (alaṇkāras), which beautify the description. There is a
difference between the treatments of the object as a vastu (e.g., the Earth
on a moonlit night being “bright”) and its treatment as alaṇkāras (e.g., the
night being like it is “carved out of ivory”). The term citra-kavya or
descriptive poetry properly applies to poems involving ornate descriptions
of the idealised object. Citra-kavya is of two kinds. If the embellishment is
mainly of the words (sabda) used, the poem is called sabda-citra. If the
embellishment is mainly of the explicit meaning (vacyartha) of the words,
it is called artha-citra. The advocates of dhvani regard citra-kavya as of
the lowest order (adhama) because it is completely bereft of the method
par excellence, namely dhvani. Whatever beauty is present in this type of
poetry can be perceived only in the skill of description.
(2) Dhvani-kavya: This is the poetry that adopts suggestion (dhvani,
vyangyartha) as the principal method. The advocates of dhvani regard this
as the highest poetry (uttama). The method of dhvani was employed by
poets to communicate emotions arising in a situation, the direct method of
description being out of the question. Facts and images would be more
beautiful when suggested than when described. Thus, the scope of dhvani
comes to be widened. All poetry that resorts primarily to the method of
suggestion, whether its content is an emotion (bhāva), a fact (vastu), or an
image (alaṇkāras), comes to be called suggestive poetry: dhvani-kavya.
Suggestive poetry does not exclude description. In fact, without describing
a situation, the poet cannot suggest the content that he wishes to
communicate. The suggested meaning (vyangyartha) of words operates
only through their primary meaning (vacyartha). Thus, description is the
means to suggestion, and therefore is subordinate to suggestion. Hence, by
the term dhvani-kavya what is meant is that the suggestive element
predominates over the descriptive element.
(3) Gunibutha-vyangya-kavya: Between dhvani-kavya and citra-
kavya, in order of importance, is a type of poetry that the advocates of
dhvani call gunibutha-vyangya. The predominant element in the method of
this type is ornate description, which involves figures of speech
(alaṇkāras). In this respect, it resembles citra-kavya; however, unlike

51
citra-kavya, it is not absolutely devoid of suggestion. The words do have
an inner, suggested meaning (vyangyartha), which lends its own charm to
the content. Nevertheless, in this matter, it cannot be classed with dhvani-
kavya, for, unlike the latter, the suggestive element is not predominant.
Whatever suggestion exists is subordinate to the principal method adopted
here—namely, embellished description. Since the meaning suggested
(vyangya) is made a subordinate element (gunibhuta) of expression, this
type of poetry is called gunibhuta-vyangya-kavya, or poetry of subordinate
suggestion. The beauty of the suggested sense here is not more than the
beauty of the expressed sense. Hence, from the point of view of dhvani,
this class of poetry is rated as intermediate (madhayama). In view of its
unique attraction, even great poets have resorted to it.

Varieties of dhvani
(1) A suggested sense, or what is suggested (vyangya): When what is
suggested is a fact (vastu), whether a fact of nature or of human affairs, it
is called vastu-dhvani. When a fact that has been idealised and
transformed into an image (alaṇkāras) is suggested, it is called alaṇkāras-
dhvani. An emotion (bhāva) can only be suggested; it cannot be described.
When a transitory emotion (vyabhicāribhāva) is suggested, the suggested
sense is called bhāva-dhvani. When a permanent emotion (sthāyībhāva) is
suggested, the suggested sense is given the name rasa-dhvani, because the
sthāyībhāva culminates in rasa.
(2) The means to suggestion, or that which suggests (vyanjaaka):
(a) The indispensable means to suggestion (vyanjaka) is the primary
meaning of words (vacyartha). The suggested meaning (vyangyartha)
occurs only through the primary meaning. (b) In the laksanamula-dhvani,
the secondary meaning of words (laksyartha) serves as a means to
suggestion. (c) The primary and secondary meanings, if any, reside in a
word (sabda, pada). Hence, along with the primary meaning the word is
also spoken of as a means of suggestion (vyangyartha). (d) In the variety
of abidhamula-dhvani called asamlaksyakrama, parts and aspects of a
word, such as letters, prefixes, and suffixes, themselves act to suggest in
collaboration with the primary meaning. For example, harsh sounds such
as “rka” and “dha” are suitable for suggesting emotions like anger and
courage but unsuitable for suggesting an emotion like love. (e) Words in
combination appear as phrases, clauses, and sentences. To these
combinations belong syntactical meanings (tatparyartha). The syntactical
meaning may also serve as a means to a suggested sense. If we extend the
above argument, we may treat even the work as a whole as suggested.
52
 (3) The process of suggestion (vyanjana): The indispensable means to
suggestion is the primary meaning of words (vacyartha). There are two
ways in which the primary sense leads to the suggested sense. In some
cases the primary meaning itself gives rise to the suggested meaning. The
process of suggestion is then called abhidhamula-dhvani. In other cases
the words also have secondary meanings (laksyartha). In these cases the
primary meaning first leads to the secondary meaning, and this in turn
leads to the suggested meaning. Since the immediate means to suggestion
here is the laksyartha, the process is called laksanamula-dhvani.
Thus, in dhvani kavya, the essence or soul of the poetic method is
through the suggested meaning; the primary and secondary meanings also
have a place as the means to the suggested meaning. In fact, the suggested
meaning cannot be reached except through either the primary meaning
itself or the primary and secondary meanings.
The difference between these two broad types of dhvani indicates the
difference in the conditions of consciousness antecedent to the process. In
the abhidhamula type, the poet intends that the primary meaning should be
communicated to the reader since it is the direct means to suggestion.
Hence the abhidhamula dhvani is also called vivaksit-anyapara-vacya-
dhvani (where the literal is intended but is subordinated to a second
meaning). On the other hand, in the laksanamula type, the poet does not
intend the primary meaning to be communicated to the reader since its
function is only to present the secondary meaning, which becomes the
immediate means to suggestion. Hence the laksanamula-dhvani is also
called avivaksita-vacya-dhvani, which means the suggestion where the
primary meaning (vacya) is not intended to be conveyed (avivaksita).
The abhidhamula, or the vivaksitanyapara-vacya, is divided into two
sub-varieties: (1) Samlaksyakrama-dhvani (where the sequence is
apparent), where the stages of realising the suggested sense from the
expressed sense can be well perceived. (2) Asamlaksyakrama-dhvani
(where the suggested sense is produced without apparent sequence), where
the stages in the realisation of the suggested sense are imperceptible. The
latter is more important and is concerned with the suggestion of poetic
emotion.
The samlaksyakrama is further divided into three types: (1) Where the
transition is due to the power of the word (sabda-saktimula-dhvani); here
actual words are vital to suggestion and cannot be substituted by
synonyms. (2) Where the transition is due to the power of the primary
meaning (artha-saktimula-dhvani). (3) Where the transition is due to the
power of both (ubhaya-saktimula-dhvani).

53
 In the laksanamula, or avivaksita-vacya, the suggested sense arises
from the secondary meaning, and not directly from the primary meaning.
The function of the primary meaning is only to arouse the secondary
sense. Once this is fulfilled, the primary meaning either is amalgamated
with the suggested sense or is discarded completely. The two sub-varieties
of avivaksita-vacya are: (1) arthanthara-samkramita-vcya-dhvani (where
the literal meaning is shifted to another sense); (2) atyantatiraskrita-
vacya-dhvani (where the literal is entirely set aside). It is found that the
nature of the process of suggestion suits the sense to be suggested. For
suggesting emotions, both basic and transitory, the asamlaksya-krama-
dhvani is said to be the most appropriate.

54
55
56
57
 CHAPTER 6

DHVANI: A SIMPLE ANALYSIS

The origin and the different senses of the term dhvani

The concept of vyangyartha, or dhvani, is an original contribution to
Indian thought by the Alankarika. The term dhvani is used in more than
one sense in this context. It is stated that the inspiration for the use of the
term dhvani and in different senses in the realm of aesthetics came from
the science of grammar (vyankarana). The indebtedness of the Alankarika
to the grammarian is only for the term dhvani and the possibility of its
being used in more than one sense. The concept of dhvani in the field of
aesthetics is the independent discovery of the Alankarika.
The process of understanding a word is this. The letters, coming one
after another in a definite order manifest the sphoṭa of the word with
increasing clarity. Corresponding to each stage in the manifestation of the
sphoṭa, there is a revelation of the meaning by the sphoṭa, so that when we
reach the last letter, the meaning is fully revealed. While the letters are
non-eternal, the sphoṭa is the eternal essence of the word. The term sphoṭa
comes from the root sphut, which is used in the sense of manifestation.
The eternal essence of the word is called sphoṭa both because it is
manifested by the letters and because it manifests the meaning. The sphoṭa
is of the nature of sound because the word primarily occurs in speech,
writing being a subsequent expression. Hence, the sphoṭa is called sabda.
The grammarians use the term dhvani in connection with the sphoṭa
theory. Dhvani literally means “sound.” But it acquires special sense in
connection with the sphoṭa theory.
The first meaning in which the term dhvani came to be used is “that
which is manifest” or “a means to manifestation” (vyanjaka). According to
this view, sphoṭa is eternal and is only revealed by the letters, which have
an origin and an end. There is a rival view among the grammarians,
according to which sphoṭa is non-eternal and produced. The process of

58
interpretation is represented like this. The first sound produced by the
conjunction and disjunction of the speech organs is called “sphoṭa.” The
subsequent sounds, which are the letters of the word, are produced and
revealed to the hearer by the first sound called sphoṭa. This has been
compared to a stroke of a bell followed by a prolonged resonance. Thus,
according to this view, the letters, otherwise called dhvanis, instead of
manifesting sphoṭa, are manifested by sphoṭa. In other words, the term
dhvani is used in this view to stand for what is revealed.
The term dhvani is primarily applied to both that which reveals and
that which is revealed. The term is secondarily applied to the process of
manifestation (vyanjana), which is the passage of thought from the
revealer to the revealed. This is the third meaning of the term.
The Alankarikas have adopted the term dhvani from grammar and applied
it in the same three senses in poetry: (1) that which suggests (vyanjaka),
(2) that which is suggested (vyangya), and (3) the process of suggestion
(vyanjana). What these stand for in emotional poetry are: (1) That which
suggests (vyanjaka) is the poet’s description (vacana) of a situation; the
description consists of words (sabda) and their primary meaning
(vyancyartha). (2) That which is suggested (vyanjana) is an emotion
(bhāva) either permanent (sthāyībhāva) or transitory (vyabhicāribhāva).
(3) The process of suggestion (vyanjana) consists of how the words and
their primary meanings suggest the emotion. It connects that which
suggests and that which is suggested. (4) In addition, the Alankarika has a
fourth element, namely the whole work, or the poem, which is the
confluence of the suggesting means, the suggested sense, and the process
of suggestion.

Relation between dhvani and sphoṭa

Bhartrihari records three different views regarding the relation between
dhvani and sphoṭa.
sphotarUpaavibhaagenadhvanergrahaNamiSyate.
kaishcid dhvaniRasaMvedyaH
svatantro’nyaiH prakalpitaH ||
Book 83 ||

Sphoṭa cannot be divorced from sound

According to the first view, the sphoṭa perceived by the listener is not
different from the dhvani produced by the speaker. In this context, sphoṭa
means auditorily perceived sound, as there is no gap between the
59
perception of sphoṭa and dhvani. According to a more orthodox view, it is
the sphoṭa, which is perceived as one with dhvani, so that the properties of
the dhvani are wrongly attributed to sphoṭa.

Sphoṭa refers to the distinctive perception of sound

According to the second view, dhvani refers to the sounds emitted from
the speaker’s vocal organ, whereas the sounds reaching the ears of the
listener are called sphoṭa. Here, the relation between sphoṭa and dhvani is
that of manifester and manifested.

Sphoṭa represents the generic aspect

According to the third view, sphoṭa represents the constant distinctive
phonetic features revealed to the listener’s ear, whereas dhvani represents
the gross sound.
Thus, it is said:
anekavyaktyabhivyaNgyaa jaatiH sphota iti smrtaa | kaishcid vyaktaya
evaasyaa dhvanitvena prakalpitaaH || Book 96 ||

Naada and dhvani

As in ordinary language, Bhartrihari uses the terms naada and dhvani as
synonyms; even the adjectives praakrta and vaikrta are found added to
naada as they are to dhvani, without any apparent difference in meaning.
However, on another occasion, he has differentiated the dhvani and naada.
(naadairaahitabIjaayaamantyena dhvaninaa saha | Brahmakaanda verse 86
||). In a passage from vrtti, dhvani and naada are distinguished, as follows:
nityapakSe tu samyogavibhagajadhvanivyaNgyaH
sphotaH ekeSaaM
samyogavibhaagajadhvanisambhUtanaadaabhivyangyaH ||
Vrtti on Book 78 ||
According to this view, the word is eternal, and the sphoṭa is revealed
by the sound produced by the contact and separation of the vocal organs.
However, according to some, it is manifested by naada resulting from the
dhvani produced by the contact and separation.
Thus, according to this view, naada is the product of dhvani. In the
vrtti on Book 47, naada is looked upon as a gross form or an accumulation
of dhvani (tacca suksme vyaapini dhvanau
karaNavyaapaareNa pracIyamaane,
sthUlenaabhRasamghaatavadupalabhyena naadaatmanaa praaptavivartena
60
tadvivartaanukareNaatyantamavivartamaanaM vivartamaanmiva grhyate ||
Vrtti on BrahmakaaNDa, verse 48 ||).

Patañjali on dhvani and sphoṭa

Patañjali has presented a systematic discussion on dhvani by accumulating
various ideas from his predecessors. He makes an important statement
regarding the nature of dhvani and sphoṭa. He says that dhvani is heard by
the ear and sphoṭa is grasped by intellect. Therefore, both sphoṭa and
dhvani are essential for the knowledge of meaning (dhvanih sphotashca
shabdaanaaM dhvanistu khalu lakSyate, alpo mhaamshca
keSaaMcidubhayaM tatsvabhavataH || MahaabhaaSya, vol. 1, p. 181 ||).
Patañjali mentions that language (shabda) has two aspects, namely, sphoṭa
and dhvani. The former is the permanent unchanging element, whereas the
latter refers to the non-permanent element of the speech associated with
length, tempo, and various peculiarities of any individual speaker.
Therefore, dhvani is the actualised and ephemeral (lasting a very short
time, or transient) element and an attribute of the former (sphota shabdah
dhvanih shabdagunāh || Mahaabhaasya, vol. 1, p.181||).
Commenting upon the rule “krupo ro lah” (P. 8.2.18), Patañjali further
states that dhvani stands for ordinary sounds and sphoṭa represents class
sounds. To explain the above aspect, Patañjali gives the analogy of a
drumbeat: When a drum is struck, one drumbeat may travel twenty feet,
another thirty, another forty, but the sphoṭa is precise, the increase and
decrease in the steps being caused by the difference in the duration of
dhvani (tadyathaa bheryaaghaataH | bherImaahtya kashcidvimshati
padaani gacchati kashcitrmshatkshciccaatvaarimshat || MahabhaaSya, vol.
1, p. 181. ||).
Thus, the term sphoṭa stands for the initial sound of the drum while the
term dhvani stands for the reverberation of the initial sound. This
reverberation is called dhvani and it is responsible for the increase and
decrease in length.
The above discussion makes it clear that, for Patañjali, the sphoṭa is a
unit of sound as an isolated letter or a series of letters, which can be
analysed as a succession of sound units; it has a normal and fixed size. The
difference in the speed of utterance does not affect the sphoṭa, but it is felt
to be associated with it, due to the difference in the sounds that manifest
the sphoṭa.

Bhartrihari on dhvani

61
Bhartrihari in his Vaakyapadeeya and Mahaabhaasya Deepikaa
exhaustively discusses the dhvani theory. In this regard, he not only gives
his own views, but also records the views of others without mentioning
their names.
According to Bhartrihari, the physical, audible sound manifests the
sphoṭa, which is nothing but the mentally articulated image of the sound
through which the meaning is conveyed to the listener. Thus, dhvani is the
physical body of the word, whereas sphoṭa is the conceptual entity of
sound.

Nature of dhvani
An important feature of sound is its fixed capacity to express a
particular phoneme. For instance, a particular sound, produced by its
particular articulated efforts, reveals a particular phoneme
(grahanagraahyayoh siddhaa yogyataa niyataa yathaa |
vyaNgyavyaNjakabhaave’pi tathaiva sphotanaadayoH || Book 100 ||).
Dhvani is a divisible entity. It is produced and grasped in a particular
sequence and generally by mistake the same qualities of sound are
superimposed on sphoṭa (naadasya kramajaatatvaanna pUrvo na parashca
saH | akramaH kramarUpeNa bhedavaaniva jaayate || Book 49 ||).
The sound wave emanating from its origin is compared to a light wave
starting from the original flame. Once the first flame has been produced by
the fire-producing machinery, the light wave continues to spread in all
directions, even after the fire-producing machinery has stopped
(anavasthitakampe’pi karaNe dhvanayo’pare | sphotaadevopajaayante
jvaalaa jvaalaantaradiva || Book 109||).
The sound, which contains vibration in it, travels in all directions. The
range covered by the sound depends upon the loudness (intensity) of the
sound. The area covered by the sound may be smaller or larger, but that
does not change the duration of the sphoṭa (alpe mahati vaa shabde
sphotakaalo na bhidyate | parastu shabdasamtaanaH
prachayaapacayaatmakaH || Book 106||).
According to another view, sphoṭa is the first sound. It results from the
conjunction and disjunction of the vocal organs with points of
articulations. On the other hand, sounds, which originate from the first
sound and spread in all directions and travel over a certain range, are the
dhvanis. In short, the articulated sound is sphoṭa, and its continuation in
the form of sound waves is called dhvani (yah samyogavibhaagaabhyaam
karaNairupajanyate | sa sphotaH shabsajaaH shabdaa
dhvanayo’nairudaahrtaa || Book 105||).

62
 Summary
To sum up, dhvani (meaning sound) is a term of earlier origin. However,
thoughts about its nature can already be found in the works of scholars
such as AudumbaraayaNa and others; its role in ordinary verbal usage and
its relation with the abstract level of sphoṭa were defined only at the time
of Patañjali. Bhartrihari threw more light on this issue by expounding
ideas already met with in MahaabhaaSya and by providing an original
theory about the twofold primary and secondary nature of sound. He also
elucidated the relation between sphoṭa and dhvani by explaining it from
the standpoint of the speaker as well the listener. Another merit of his
work is that he also provided the viewpoints of other scholars on the same
issue.
Bhartrihari’s theories about the praakrta and vaikrta dhvani and the
explanation of the dhvani–sphoṭa relationship are very significant as they
provide the solution to some of the linguistic problems.

63
 CHAPTER 7

ABHINAVAGUPTA AND HIS CONTRIBUTION TO

AESTHETICS

Abhinavagupta advanced criticism on Indian aesthetics from philosophy to

art. His deliberations went beyond even Ānandavardhana and Bharata. His
two major works on poetics, Locana and Abhinavabhāratī, point to his
exploration of the nature of aesthetic experience. In both these works,
Abhinavagupta suggests that aesthetic experience is something beyond
worldly experience; he uses the word alaukika to distinguish the former
feeling from the mundane latter ones. For the first time, he ascribed the
precise part played by each aesthetic concept in a given poem or play.
Emotions in real life are largely within the sway of the laws of
psychological causation: certain events or the actions of others provoke a
specific emotional response.
Abhinavagupta’s approach to dhavni went beyond the general
acceptance of sound, the sabda. It is not mere sound—not even mere units
of spoken language such as syllable, base, affix, word, phrase, and
sentence. The sabda is a composite pattern of meaning that is essentially
an organised or patterned linguistic sound-symbol—“vacya-vacaka-
sammisra. Sabdatma kavyam iti vyapadesya. . . . dhvanir ityukta” as
Ānandavardhana would say.13
After sabda, what comes is artha—the meaning. Artha or “meaning”
does not mean the dictionary meanings of particular words or even the
direct import of individual sentences, paragraphs, or whole works. Neither
does it mean “sense” or “meaning,” as it is usually misunderstood. Instead,
it means “aesthetic value,” but only as Abhinavagupta rightly points out
“Koḥ kavater vā kavanīyaṁ kāvyam.Tatra ca padārtha-vākyārthau raseṣv
eva paryavasyataḥ ity asādhāraṇyāt prādhānyāc ca kāvyasyārthaḥ rasāḥ.

13
Dhvanyāloka, KSRI ed. (Madras), 244.
64
Arthyante prādhānyenety arthāḥ. Na tv artha-śabdo’ bhidheyavācī, kiṁ tu
prayojana-vācī.”14
In the two splendid commentaries, Locana on the Dhvanyāloka and
Abhinavabhāratī on the Nāṭyaśāstra, Abhinavagupta sets forth his theory
of rasa. It is rightly regarded as his major contribution not only to Sanskrit
literary criticism but also to Sanskrit aesthetics as a whole. M. Hiriyanna
observes in his foreword to Dr. V. Raghavan’s book The Number of
Rasa-s: “The conception of rasa though it is here dealt with chiefly in its
relation to poetry, is general and furnishes the criterion by which the worth
of all forms of fine art may be judged.” Elsewhere, too, he says: “Though
the theory applies equally to all the fine arts, it has been particularly well-
developed in relation to poetry and drama.”
In the chapter “Rasādhyāya” (Nāṭyaśāstra, chap. 6) Bharata declares:
“mu hi rasādṛte kaicid arthaḥ pravartate”—“every activity [on the stage] is
aimed at the creation or generation of rasa.” Immediately after this
statement he sets forth his famous rasa-sūtra: “Vibhāvānubhāva-
vyabhicāri—sa myogād rasa-nispattih”—that is, “out of the union or
combination of the vibhāvas [determinants], anubhāvas [consequents], and
the vyabhicāribhāvas [transitory feelings] rasa arises or is generated.”
Now, the ancient writers on dramaturgy, whom Bharata also follows,
invented an entirely new terminology to impress on our minds the basic
distinction between real life and life in the creative imagination—in the
realm of literature, between the real world and the world of drama. The
vibhāvas, anubhāvas, and vyabhicāribhāva belong only to art and not to
real life. They, however, correspond to the karanas, the karyas and the
sahakarikaranas. The rasas correspond to the sthayibhavas (the dominant
or permanent emotions.) The vibhavadis are therefore called alaukika
(nonworldly, extraworldly, or transcendental).
The four exponents of the rasasutra, Bhatta Lollata, Sankuka,
Bhattanayaka, and Abhinavagupta differ among themselves in their
interpretation of the two words, samyoga and nispatti. They take the word
nispatti to mean utpatti (production, generation), anumiti (inference),
bhuki (aesthetic enjoyment), and vyakti (manifestation, suggestion),
respectively. They understand by the word samyoga, it would seem,

14 Abhinavabhāratī, G.O.S. ed. (2nd ed.), 1:343. The term kāvya (poem) is derived
from the activity (kavanīyaṁ) detonated by the verbs -ku or -ko. Here, because the
word meanings and the sentence meanings culminate in the rasas only, the
meaning of the poem is (actually) the rasas, for the latter is both unique
(asādhāraṇya = “uncommon”) and primary. “Meaning” (artha) is that which is
“sought after” (arthyante) primarily. The word artha here does not refer to the
denotative meaning, but rather expresses the intended purpose (prayojana).
65
upadya-bhāva, jnapya-jnapaka-bhāva, bhoja-bhojaka-bhāva, and vyangya
vyanjakabhava between vibhāvadis and rasa, respectively. That is to say:
(1) the rasa is what is produced and the vibhāvadis are the cause that
produces rasa; (2) the rasa is what is inferred and the vibhāvadis are the
characteristic marks or signs; (3) the rasa is what is to be enjoyed
(aesthetically); and finally (4) the rasa is what is suggested and the
vibhāvadis are the factors that suggest the suggested meaning.
Abhinavagupta presents the views of Lollata, Sankuka, and
Bhattanayaka; each view is followed by criticism of it. Finally, he sets
forth his own view in great detail. Despite the criticism of the earlier
writers’ views, Abhinavagupta acknowledges his debt to them before
introducing his own position. He informs us that he has built his own
theories on the foundations they laid, and that he has not (completely)
refuted their views but only refined them: “tasmat satam atra na drisitani
matani tanyeva to sodhitani.”
Again, in the course of the exposition of his own siddhanta he accepts
the views of Lollata, Sankuka, and the Vijnanavadins in a modified form:
“esaiva copacayavasthastu desadyaniyantranat; anukaro’pyastu
bhavanugamitaya karanat; visayasamagryapi bhavatu
vijinavadavalambanat” (We may say equally well that it [Lollata’s
doctrine] consists of a state of intensification, using this to indicate that it
is not limited by space, etc; that it is a reproduction [using this word to
mean that it is a production which repeats the feelings—lit., “to mean that
it is an operation temporally following feelings”]. This is the view of
Sankuka, and it is a combination of different elements [this conception
being interpreted in the light of the doctrine of the Vijnanavadin]).15
Abhinavagupta in the two commentaries discussed a series of
questions relating to beauty and rasa: What is the nature of beauty? Is it
subjective or objective, or subjective-cum-objective or objective-cum-
subjective? Is the permanent emotion itself rasa-sthayyeva rasah or is
rasa altogether different from the “permanent emotion” (sthayivilaksano
rasah)? Is rasa sukha-duhkhatmaka—that is, are some rasas sukhatmaka
(pleasurable) and others duhkhatmaka (painful)? Or are all the rasas
ānandarupa (characterised by bliss, perfect happiness)? Is rasa laukika
(wordly) or alaukika (nonwordly, transcendental)? Then there is the
question of the sāttvikabhāvas (asru [tears], sveda [perspiration], etc; the
involuntary states). Are they physical manifestations (jada and acetana in
nature) or sentient (cetana) in their nature and internally? In other words,
are the sāttvikabhāvas like the bhāvas (rati [love], hāsya [laughter], etc.;

15
As translated by R. Gnoli.
66
and nirveda [world weariness], glani [physical weakness], etc.) or are they
like the anubhāvas (external manifestations of feeling [mental states] such
as sidelong glances, a smile, etc.), or are they of dual nature? Another
important question regarding rasa as discussed by Abhinavagupta
concerns the asraya (location or seat) of rasa. Could the location or seat
be the poet himself, the character (say, Rama, Dusyanta, etc.), or the actor
who plays the role of Rama, Dupyanta, and so on, or the spectator
himself? Further, are the rasas meant to provide sheer pleasure (priti) to
the spectators or are they also meant to give (moral) instruction in the four
ends of human life (purusarthas)?
Naiyayikas like Mahimabhatta vigorously oppose Ānandavardhana’s
newly invented sabdavrtti (power or function of word) called vyalijana,
which is readily accepted and defended by Abhinavagupta, and assert that
the purpose for which vyaiijana was invented is best served by the process
of inference (anumiti, anumana). With the sole intention of enabling
readers to judge for themselves how far the criticism of Mahimabhatta
directed against Abhinavagupta is fair and just, the views of Mahimabhatta
on how rasas arise and are enjoyed by sahrdāyas are presented at the end
of Abhinavagupta’s exposition.
Abhinavagupta, while commenting on kāvyārtha (Dhvanyaloka, I.7)
states “kāvyasya tattva-bhūto yo’rthaḥ” (The word artha, wherever it
occurs here, [artha] is that which is “sought after”). Rasa, then, becomes
an integral part of the poem. The sabda is used in kavya to generate rasa
and it takes the poem beyond the referential meaning.
Thus, the evocative power of a poem itself becomes dhvani to poetic
language as such. The poem thus takes an organic form that has sabda and
rasa as its unique soul.
Abhinavagupta’s choice of the title Abhinavabhāratī for his
stupendous commentary on the thirty-six chapters of Bharata’s treatise on
dramaturgy, the Nāṭyaśāstra, reflects his characteristic play upon (the
etymological resonances of Sanskrit) words. Bharata, its eponymous
author, is just the signature left by the generations of “bards” (bharata)
who recited the epics and eventually took over the theatrical traditions.
Though bharati is yet another term for speech, it is derived from bharata
the ancient Vedic tribe from whom the modern Indian nation has borrowed
its self appellation. At the same time, this comprehensive and creative
commentary gave an “entirely new” (abhinava) lease of life to the labour-
intensive edifice bequeathed by Bharata’s “offspring” (bharati), these
mostly anonymous architects of Indian theatre, this mirror of the life of the
people. This is what justifies the liberty I have taken, only in this

67
invocatory context, in “translating” (the significance of) his commentary
into “Abhinava’s Voice of India.”
After demolishing the views of his predecessors on the nature of rasa,
it is with these verses that Abhinavagupta introduces his own synthesis.
Rasa is aesthetic experience; the story, the characters, and style of a poem
all lead to it and contribute in their own way. Therefore, poetic content or
artha, even when considered objectively, can only be envisaged in relation
to rasa. Hence, Abhinavagupta rightly regards all objective content of
poetry as coming under the category of the objective configuration of
determinants that evoke rasa. The emotions described may be either
permanent (sthayi) or transitory (vyabhicāri). Both are bhāvas because
they are mental states described in poetry. The former alone are regarded
as rasas proper. In short, poetic content (kavyartha) is distinguished from
prosaic content (śāstrartha) only due to its vibhāvadi—artha converging
to a rasa or bhāva which evokes aesthetic experience immediately in the
sensitive reader. All this and much more is suggested by Abhinavagupta in
the initial verse of his Locana:

apurva. yad-vastu prathayati vina kara.a-kalam

jagad grava-prakhya. nijarasa-bharat sarayati ca
kramat prakhyopakhyaprasara-subhagam bhasayati yat
Sarasvatya. tattva. kavi-sah.dayakhya. vijayate.

(Victorious is the Muse’s double heart

the poet and the relisher of art:
which has created brave new worlds from naught
and even stones to flowing sap has brought,
imparting beauty to all within its reach
by successive flow of genius and of speech.)

Abhinavagupta takes the creation further, comparing it with a skill

similar to that of an engineer who, interested in building a palace, starts by
levelling the ground and designing the layout, and goes on to raise walls,
with room for windows, and so on: likewise, a poet’s starting point in his
work is the selection of proper words and verse forms, alaṇkāras or
interesting aspects of plot constitute the walls, gunās and alaṇkāras serve
as paintings decorating the walls, and literary genres are like lovely
windows, and such like.16 He clearly mentions later on that the poetic
process itself is variously termed by different theorists and that synonyms
for it include bandha (unification), qumpha (embedding), vakrokti

16
Abhinavabhāratī, G.O.S. ed., 2:292.
68
(innuendo), and kavi-vyapara (poetic business). He propounds that riti
(systematic organisational tradition) is synonymous with bandha and
dhvani (sound) with kavi-vyapara. Thus, he presents aesthetics as a skilful
creation that involves much background preparation and the careful
handling of all aspects of aesthetic attributes.
Abhinavagupta spells out his philosophy in simple words: just as even
God might choose to play the role of man, conditioned by mental states
limited by the human body, without losing his illumined self-awareness,
so too an actor plays the role of characters without shedding his
individuality. Rasa for him means different revelations or pratiti. It can
create reality out of illusion. Acting or abhinaya in drama and description
or varnana in poetry are illusions. Nevertheless, they are capable of
producing such psychological effects that it becomes real by means of
sadharanikaran or commonality. He gives an example from Kālidāsa of
how the young deer is not a particular deer. It is a symbol of fear that is
universal, irrespective of time, place, and circumstance, man, bird and
beast. This is another kind of sadharanikara, which is neither idealisation
nor generalisation in a reasoned manner.
Abhinavagupta also gives for the first time the rationale behind the
dictum that the ruling rasa in a major work must be either śṛṅgāra or vīra.
He says that the best in women is represented by love, while the best in
men is represented by their heroic exploits for achieving goals of national
or universal importance.
Hridaya-samvada or empathy is the term popularised by
Abhinavagupta to explain aesthetic psychology, though it was already
found in Bharata’s text. The psychological state proceeding from the thing
that is congenial to the heart is the source of the sentiment and it pervades
the body just as fire spreads over dry wood. Further, it shows how in
Abhinavagupta’s integral aesthetics, hridayasamvada or tanmayibhavana
(sympathetic identification) is an essential constituent of the appreciation
of rasa (rasasvada). This patterned structure of poetry is called racana or
bandha.
Abhinavagupta explains the word Kavyartha as rasa, the making of
which can be attributed to none other than the actor. The evolution that is
contemplated is based on a journey from kriya to rasa, from the outer
reality as discussed in the text to the deeper interior level.

69
 APPENDIX 1

BETWEEN SRINAGAR AND BENARES:

KASHMIR’S CONTRIBUTION TOWARDS A
SYNTHESIS OF INDIAN CULTURE

SUNTHAR VISUVALINGAM

Introduction
(1) Benares is the socio-religious centre of Hinduism, yet these cultural
developments took place in the periphery (Kashmir), an itinerary relevant
to the questions underlying this book. Nepal reflects Hindu–Buddhist
relations in Kashmir just before the Muslim invasions. The role of
Bhairava in the Newar festivals provides a better insight into the status of
radical Tantrism in Kashmiri Shaiva philosophy in relation to Vedism and
aboriginal religion.
(2) Two conferences in 1981 (international) and 1982 (all-India) on
“Abhinavagupta’s Contribution to Indian Culture” held at Benares Hindu
University (Musicology Department). All-India seminar of September
1986 at Srinagar on the “Significance and Future of Kashmir Shaivism.”
(3) Controversy over the title “Abhinavagupta’s Synthesis of Hindu
Culture” (three objections) was transformed into a collective project on
“Abhinavagupta and the Synthesis of Indian Culture.”
(4) The relation between individual genius and tradition expressed
explicitly by Abhinava. The mediating role of the region (Kashmir): for
example, Buddhist logic Shaiva Siddhānta, Anandavardhana.
(5) Dialectical approach, where each thesis is reinforced only to be
subsequently undermined, corresponds to the historical process itself.

Philosophy: structure of Abhinavagupta’s pratyabhijñā

70
(1) Defence of the (Shaiva) Nyāya-Vaisheshika categories (padārtha:
substance, quality, action, etc., including Ishvara), as the basis of all
worldly transactions (loka-vyavahāra), against the critique of Buddhist
logic.
(2) Incorporation of the twenty-four Sānkhya-Yoga (Vaishnava)
categories into their cosmogony, but with the addition of twelve superior
categories culminating in Parama-Śiva.
(3) Inclusive non-dualism that, unlike the advaita of Śaṅkara and the
Vijñānavāda of Vasubandhu, affirms the reality of the world. (Ascending
and descending realisation.)
(4) Non-dualistic theism that justifies external worship of a personal
god (Ishvara) with the formula: “Become Śiva in order to worship Śiva.”
Other bhakti theologies are obliged to devalue moksha and/or the world
even while attempting to reconcile them.
(5) Sophisticated epistemological analysis wholly follows the methods
of Buddhist logic (Dharmakīrti) even while rejecting its results.
Acceptance of momentariness results in a dynamic conception of self.
Phenomenology (ābhāsavāda) rather than ontology.
(6) Action (kriyā) and knowledge (jñāna) treated as two modes or
powers of the same Ultimate Principle, thus overcoming the rift between
ritual and gnosis (Pūrva and Uttara Mīmāṃsā). Creativity of reflexive
(vimarsha) consciousness based on language.
(7) Bhartrihari’s notion of tradition (āgama) is raised to a fundamental
epistemological category (pramāna) and ultimately identified with (supra-
individual) intuition (pratibhā).

Basic theses about Indian philosophy

(1) Indian philosophy derives primarily from the Brahmanical–Buddhist
debate over the status of the world. Buddhists renounce the world by
underlining its suffering, unreality, impermanence, and non-Self (anattā),
whereas Brahmanism attempts to reconcile the transcendent principle with
life-in-the-world. The Buddhist critique of reality is first analytic
(vibhajya-vāda), then logical (Mādhyamika principle of non-contradiction)
and finally epistemological (Yogācārā-Sautrāntika attack on Nyānya
categories as mental constructs).
(2) Each school attempts to articulate conceptually and to legitimise its
own preoccupations, which are primarily practical and already given
(Vedic ritual, meditation, natural sciences, bhakti, gnostic realisation,
Tantric transgression, etc.); hence, the inevitable fragmentation of both

71
Buddhism and Brahmanism into a plurality of conceptually incompatible
schools. Vācaspati Misra’s commentary on all the Hindu systems implies
them to be mutually complementary.
(3) New conceptual advances feed the constant attempt to evolve a
framework that will harmoniously integrate sister disciplines as well. The
Self (ātman) serves such an ambivalent role in Hindu systems.
Vasubandhu’s Vijñānavāda provides the means of incorporating all the
psychological discoveries of the Abhidharmakosha as the contents of
consciousness, even while dialectically negating their reality. Irreversible
advances in the history of thought.
(4) Buddhism, which began as a relentless critique of the Vedic
tradition, begins to function as a counter-tradition with its own scriptural
authority in order to counter “protestant” fragmentation. Attempts to
reintroduce shabda-pramāna are paralleled by the constant danger of new
synthesising categories, like Vasubandhu’s ālaya-vijñāna, being
assimilated to the Vedāntic Self and Bhartrihari’s shabda-brahman.

Triangular relation between Bhartrihari, Dharmakīrti,

and Abhinava
(1) Vasubandhu defeats Bhartrihari’s teacher Vasurāt and all Hindu
opponents in debate. Bhartrihari’s response is to substitute language for
consciousness in the Vijñānavāda framework. Reality hence becomes
dependent on (the Vedic) logos of refined speech.
(2) Dignāga (480–540) rejects language altogether and accounts for the
hierarchy of universals through empirical inference (anumāna), hence
founding Indian logic. His undifferentiated thing-in-itself (svalakshana)
corresponds rather to yogic perception. All the Hindu (and even Jaina)
schools are obliged to rewrite their books: Prashastapāda’s
Padārthasangraha, Uddyotakara’s Nyāyāvārttika, Mallavādin’s
Dvādashāranayacakra, Siddhasenadivākara’s Nyāyāvatāra, Kumārila’s
Shlokavārttika, Candrakīrti’s Prasannapadā, Sthiramati’s commentaries
on the Trimshikā and Vimshikā, Sānkhya’s Yuktidīpkā. Bhartrihari himself
is discarded for having interiorised (and hence compromised) the Vedic
revelation.
(3) Dharmakīrti (600–660) responds to the evolving challenge by
reintroducing notions from Bhartrihari like beginningless ignorance
(anādivāsanā) and essential nature (svabhāva) that had been rejected by
Dignāga, whose work now sinks into oblivion as a defective
approximation of Dharmakīrti’s system (Herzberger).

72
 (4) Utpaladeva attacks Dharmottara’s elaboration of Buddhist Logic in
Kashmir by remodelling the Vijñānavāda along the lines laid down by
Bhartrihari. The crystal-model of consciousness is rejected and the
reflexive and referential power of language is now attributed to
consciousness itself as its real and active power (vimarsha). The principle
of contradiction is restricted to the objective world and is inoperative with
respect to the synthesising function of the subject (pramātr) who is
ultimately the supreme consciousness (Ishvara).
(5) Helarāja’s (eleventh century) Prakīrnaprakāsha commentary from
the Pratyabhijñā perspective on the Vākyapadīya bears the imprint of
Buddhist logic.

Aesthetics: brief historical background

(1) Bhāmaha and Dandin (eighth century) had catalogued figures of
speech (alaṇkāra) and included striking expressions of sentiment as just
another such figure of speech (rasavat, preyas, etc.).
(2) The poetic circle at the court of Jayāpīda (around 800 A.D.).
Udbhata’s Kāvyālankāra-sangraha deals with suggested meaning but
subsumes it within figures of speech. His commentary on the Nāṭyaśāstra
is the first to apply the rasa principle to the appreciation of poetry as such
(also in his Bhāmaha-vivarana).
(3) Ānandavardhana (mid-ninth century) raises suggestion (vyañjanā)
to an independent level and the supreme power of poetic language in his
Dhvanyāloka. The highest type is rasa-dhvani, which can only be
suggested (unlike vastu- or alankāra-dhvani). A strong influence on
Prākrit literature (Sattasai and Gaudavāho) on theories expounded about
Sanskrit aesthetic theory (his Vishama-bāna-līlā).
(4) Strong criticism of dhvani from diverse quarters prompts Kuntaka,
for example, to incorporate Ānandavardhana’s insights and categories into
his Vakroktijīvita, without insisting on suggestion as an independent
power. The general principle of indirect speech (vakrokti).
(5) The “Shaiva” Abhinava defends the “Vaishnava” Ānanda against
all critics but focuses rather on the (phenomenology of) the rasa
experience. Attempts to reconcile Bharata’s rasa scheme with the
purushārtha scheme in his Abhinavabhāratī: the formula rasābhāsa =
hāsya.

Development of Abhinava’s rasa theory

73
(1) Bharata’s dictum of “vibhāvānubhāva-vyabhicari-samyogād rasa-
nishpatti”: the problem of distinguishing the relish of rasa in theatre from
the mundane emotions (still relevant today).
(2) Lollata: rasa in actor/character is intensified by determinants,
consequents, ancillary emotions.
(3) Sankuka: (Nyāya): rasa in character is imitated by the actor and
inferred by the audience.
(4) Bhattanāyaka (Mīmāṃsā): production (bhāvakatava),
universalisation (sādhāranīkarana), and enjoyment (bhojakatava) of rasa
without sense of the self or the other.
(5) Abhinava (Pratyabhijñā): rasa, as relishable meaning of total
configuration, incorporates all above insights. Critique of Porcher’s
attempt to divorce dhvani from rasa.
(6) Jagannātha (Vedānta): emotion qualified by consciousness whose
ignorance is removed.

Abhinava’s connoisseurship (the synthesis of Indian

aesthetics); religion; brief history of “Kashmir Shaivism”
(1) Vijñāna-Bhairava Tantra reveals sophisticated psychological
techniques stripped of its ritual and theological mould. Shivānanda
(Oddiyāna) propagates the Krama school in the early ninth century
wherein radical worship (the 12 + 1 manifestations of) the Goddess is
correlated to the sequence of internal cognition (samvit-krama). Vasugupta
(c. 875–925) reveals his Śiva-Sūtras.
(2) Somānānanda (900–950) establishes the supremacy of Trika non-
dualism in his Śiva-Drshti against the Shāktas, grammarians, and other
schools using a high philosophical discourse.
(3) Kallata (Vasugupta’s disciple) formulates the “doctrine of
vibration” (spanda). Utpaladeva (Somānanda’s disciple) propagates the
Pratyabhijñā, after assimilating Buddhist logic and refining the doctrines
of Bhartrihari.
(4) Bhūtirāja teaches Krama (-Kāpālika) Tantrism and Spanda doctrine
to Abhinavagupta (c. 975–1025), who is also initiated into the Kaula by
Shambhunātha outside Kashmir (Jalandhara). His son Bhattendurāja
teaches Dhanyāloka and Bhagavad-Gītā to Abhinavagupta. He learns
dramaturgy (Nāṭyaśāstra) from Bhatta Tauta (commentary on
Kāvyakautuka).

Radical Tantrism, Brahmanism, and transgressive

74
 sacrality
(1) Tantric tradition as a supplementary, specialised revelation allowing
self-deification (pati) through rituals of initiation (dīkshā) to creatures
(pashu) imprisoned in the Veda-based order (karma) or in Buddhist
monastic discipline. Transgression (meat, alcohol, sex, impure castes).
(2) Domestication of radical Krama (-Kāpālika) currents (400–800
A.D.) into Kaula tradition for householders. Abhinava’s highest realisation
through the kula-yāga (incest instead of breaking caste barriers). Trika
exegesis is based on pan-Indian traditions.
(3) Aestheticisation of radical transgressions (and human sacrifice) of
Kāpālika Yoginī cults in the Kaula “original sacrifice” and hence
polyvalence of the term rasa. Kaulism develops into four main systems:
Kaula Trika (Pūrvāmnāya); Kāli cult of Mata, Krama and Guhyakālī
(Uttarāmnāya), and Kubjikā (Pashcimāmnāya); and Tripurasundarī
(Dakshināmnāya).
(4) Derived from Pāshupata and Kāpālika (Kālāmukha) currents
which are “celibate” (naishthika) liberationist prolongations (atimārga) of
the consecrated Vedic dīkshita. This must be seen as complementary to the
power-oriented (bhoga) practices of the mantra-mārga deriving from the
impure “shamanistic” fringes of the caste society. Development of
Tantrism from Vedic roots is especially discernible in the development of
Mantramārga out of Atimārga.
(5) The dualist Shaiva Siddhānta transposed the already purified Vedic
ritualism to the worship of the Śiva image (linga) as the sole means of
liberation for all; their theoreticians were often (brahmin) Mīmāmsakas.
Leaving the Vedic tradition intact, it is this socially dominant Āgamic
infrastructure that the Trika theoreticians seek to open up from above to
their Gnostic superstructure and radical Tantric practices. Hence, the
importance of the Mālinīvijayottara tantra, authoritative for the Siddhānta,
in Abhinava’s move to colonise the Shaiva and other religious traditions.
(6) Re-appropriation of Svacchanda Bhairava cult prevalent in
Kashmir (Pachali Bhairab in Katmandu) from the Shaiva-Siddhāntins.
Kshemarāja (1000–50) popularises the doctrine of recognition
(Prayabhijñā-Hrdaya, commentaries on Stavacintāmani and Stotrāvalī)
and non-dualistic exegesis of the Svacchanda and Netra tantras. No trace
of Shaiva Siddhānta developments (except in the Tamil south) after the
eleventh century and the surviving Kashmiri corpus of anonymous Shaiva
ritual literature is wholly non-dualistic.
(7) Pāncharātra (smārta) Tantrism is annexed as a lower truth through
the (southern) Narasimha face of Vaikuntha Caturmukha. Tantric
75
reworking and interiorisation of the Vedic paradigm is continued under
Shaiva auspices. Esoteric doctrines for intensifying the (fire of)
consciousness understood as an internalisation of the Agnihotra (Bhairava
of Patan, fire sacrifice to Pacali Bhairava). The “Song of Śiva”
(Viṣṇudharmottara Purāna, 52–56) teaches Bhārgava Rāma the supreme
five-part image worship of Vāsudeva (panca-kalā-vidhāna). Nārada and
Vishvaksena see Viṣṇu as Vishvarūpa and Narasimha. Bhāskara’s
bhedābheda interpretation of the Brahmsūtra incorporated in the
parādvaita of the Trika.
(8) The (Pratyabhijñā-based) Tripurasundarī is purged of its Kaula
heteropraxy to become the special cult of the renunciate Shankarāchāryas
and its Shrīcakra emblem is installed in major Shaiva temples of the
southern Ādishaivas. Gnostic soteriology of Abhinava’s Shaivism
pervades Kashmiri brahmin (smārta) society even independently of
special initiation and consequent performance of Tantric ritual.
Paradoxically, the process of “democratisation” and “individualisation” of
the “free power” (svātantrya) of consciousness, might—in the long term—
end up being furthered by the Islamic destruction of the institutional basis
(temple, festivals, pilgrimage) of public communal (Siddhānta) worship.

Culture: basic theses of an acculturation model of Indian

history
(1) In practice, Buddhism ends up accommodating life-in-the-world so
totally that, especially with the emergence of Vajrayāna Tantrism, the
differences with Trika Shaivism become purely doctrinal, a question of a
“language game.” On the other hand, Hinduism (e.g., Śaṅkara) ends up
largely interiorising the Buddhist ideal of (world-negating) renunciation.
(2) The Shaiva–Buddhist debate becomes increasingly “academic” as
the acculturation process achieves maturation: Buddhism ceases to play
the dynamic role of cultural catalyst within India and Hinduism is ripe for
fresh impulsions from without. What is “Hinduism”?
(3) Why in Kashmir? It became an imperial power with Lalitāditya
Muktāpīda (who brings Abhinava’s ancestor Atrigupta to Pravarapura
from rival Kanauj) and its hegemonic claims are expressed through a
Pāncarātra ideology (Ronald Inden). Lalitāditya builds Buddhist
monuments (stūpa, royal monastery, and gigantic Buddha images
[compare with Licchavi Nepal]) and appoints Cankuna, a Buddhist Turk,
as minister. Jayāpīda focuses on cultural glory by inviting brahmins,
scholars, philosophers (Dharmottara), poets, and artists.

76
 (4) But the process of (religious) acculturation proceeds also
independently of the imperial ambitions of the Vaishnava king, who is
(only) the sacrificer and devotee par excellence. The rapprochement
between the Brahmanical temple cult and transgressive Goddess cults of
aboriginal inspiration can also occur under Shaiva auspices, both in public
worship and among closed circles of practitioners. Moreover, imperial
formations are not specific to Kashmir.
(5) Ingredients: a strong Brahmanical (philosophical) culture (unlike
Nepal). Kashmir’s geographical isolation seems to have resulted in a
“retarded” history (e.g., late Muslim domination in 1349); could
significant elements of pre-Aryan civilisation have survived particularly in
the valley to re-emerge later through a Shaiva mould? Vedic religion is
itself problematic.
(6) Nīlamata-purāna is the primary textual source for tracing such
local and indigenous elements. Vaishnava redaction and Shaiva additions
had already been delivered by a brahmin, Brhadashva, to (the grandson of)
Gonanda, founder of the pre-Kārkota dynasty (compare with Orissa).

Dialectical process of Indian culture modified by Islam

(1) Whereas the Buddhist egalitarian (but extra-worldly) ideal was almost
completely absorbed into the Hindu caste hierarchy (compare Newar
Vajrayāna), Islam introduced the same ideal into the heart of Indian
society (cf. Ghāzī Miyan)—the problem of Buddhist patronage by
Licchavi kings and representation of horse-avatāra (Kalki) as a
“barbarian” (mleccha).
(2) Abhinava’s interiorisation of ritualistic image worship (linga =
perfected body as abode of all the gods) was brought to the popular level
through Kashmiri poetry by brahmin Lalla (fourteenth century), a disciple
of Siddha Kānta who belonged to the lineage of Vasugupta. Brahmin Lalla
had a legendary meeting with Sayyid Ali Hamadani of this forerunner of
bhakti reform movements elsewhere in North India and was easily
reconcilable with the tempering of Islamic iconoclasm in the Sufism of
those like Nūr-ud-Din (d.1438), her foremost disciple.
(3) Nūr ud-Din’s Rishi order preached monistic doctrine approachable
through non-violence, love, and asceticism, and received state honours
from Zayn al-Abidin himself. Shaikh Makhdūm Hamza (1494–1576),
though illiterate and self-initiated (in dream), influenced Persian scholars
and poets, seven of whom wrote books in his praise.
(4) The dialectical process within Islam was expressed through the
political opposition between Sikandar and Bādshāh (like Akbar and

77
Aurangzeb in the Mogul Empire), just as it had been through the earlier
philosophical polarisation of Śaṅkara and Abhinava within Hinduism.
(5) The constant Sunni–Shia conflict during the Shahmiri period spills
over into the founding of the short-lived Chak dynasty (1561–89), the
persecution of Sunnis; finally (the Shia) Bābā Dāū’d Khākī (chief disciple
of Hamza) and Sarfi invite Akbar to invade the Kashmir Valley. A
triangular relationship develops between the Sunni and Shia poles of Islam
and Hinduism: Sunni religious law (sharia) aligns itself with caste order
whereas Shia messianism feeds on the antinomian dimension of Indian
festivals (e.g., Muharram). The impact of Islam on Indian society is
paralleled by the impact of Hindu modes of “transgressive sacrality” on
the inner conflict within (Indian) Islam.
(6) Ali Hamādānī’s “700 Sayyids” survived in Kashmir from Timurid
persecution; Iranian scholars came to study with Kashmiri teachers like
Dāū’d Khākī; Moghul poets proclaimed their superiority over Persian
models: India is a storehouse of Islamic culture in Arabic, Persian, Urdu,
and other vernacular languages. Islam could well play a universalising
role, similar to that of Buddhism earlier, with regard to the Indian
subcontinent’s relations with the outside world, with the difference that
Mecca now provides an external religious centre for the Muslim
community (umma). Islam may end up interiorising the Buddhist ideal of
non-violence (ahimsā) in the process.
(7) The primacy of the Indian nation state is being called into question
simultaneously from below by the decentralised diversity of Hindu
communities and from above by the transnational character of pan-
Islamism. The “marriage” of “Hindu” and “Islamic” perspectives thus
reflects the two opposing yet complementary tendencies at work in today’s
world. (See my monograph Between Mecca and Banaras: the Marriage of
Lāt-Bhairava and Ghāzī Miyan [in collaboration with Elizabeth Chalier-
Visuvalingam]).

Relevance of the project for American students:

(1) Importance for a global understanding of traditional Indian culture and
contemporary South Asian politics
(2) Opening up of the Indian market to the West
(3) Growing wealth and importance of the Indian immigrant
community in North America
(4) Indian lessons for the integration of diverse ethnic communities and
(sub-)cultures within an increasingly cosmopolitan society
Kārkota Nāga and Utpala dynasties of Kashmir (626 to 1003 A.D.)

78
 Attribution of serpentine (nāga) origins to the founder of
the Nāga dynasty suggests an indigenous family:
(1) Durlabhavadana (c. 626/7–662/3) receives Rājyābhisheka (instead of
Rājasūya) and establishes an independent state on the periphery of
Harsha’s central empire at Kanauj. Vaishnava redaction of the Nīlamata.
(2) Durlabhaka (662/3–712/3) “Pratipāditya.” Tibetan threat to
Badrikāshrama and the middle of the country (653–78). Political centre
shifts to the Chalukyas of Badami in the South (Deccan).
(3) Candrapīda (c. 712/13–20) “Vajrāditya.” Arabs conquer Sind. His
royal preceptor, Mihiradatta, builds Viṣṇu temple.
(4) Muktāpīda (c. 725/6–75) “Lalitāditya” joins Yashovarman in
defeating the Tibetans, then allies himself with the T’ang emperor and
takes Kanauj. He builds imperial Sarvatobhadra temple (instead of
performing Ashvamedha) after his conquest of the quarters and shifts the
politico-religious centre of (northern) India (Āryavarta) from Kanauj-
Prayāg (Madhyadesha) to Parihāsapura.
(5) Jayāpīda (776–807): his court included Udbhata (sabhāpati),
Kshīra (commentator on the Amarakosha and Nirukta), Dāmodara (chief-
minister), Vāmana (minister), Manoratha (critic of dhvani), and the
Buddhist logician Dharmottara (Pramāna-viniscaya-tīkā).
Followed by collateral Utpala dynasty, with shift of patronage to
Shaivism.
(6) Avantivarman (c. 855–83) was a Shaiva. Court poets:
Ānandavardhana, Muktākana, Śivasvāmin (Buddhist Kapphinābhyudaya),
Ratnākara (Harivijaya, Vakrokti-pañcashikhā).
(7) Shankaravarman (c. 855–83) was a low-born Shaiva, ignorant of
Sanskrit, who spoke Apabhramsha dialect. He had to contend with Bhoja
and loss of court patronage.
(8) Diddā (a Khasa princess who killed off her grandsons) exercised
power from around 950. She ruled with the peasant Tunga from 980 to
1003.

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 APPENDIX 2

THE RELEVANCE OF SANSKRIT POETICS TO

CONTEMPORARY PRACTICAL CRITICISM

UMASHANKAR JOSJI

I am aware of the honour the authorities of the Asiatic Society of Bombay

have done me by inviting me to preside over this function, for the award of
medals to three outstanding scholars for their service in oriental research. I
did not hesitate to accept the invitation, even though, not qualified as an
oriental researcher, it was just with a view to paying my humble homage
to the Bombay Asiatic Society, which during the past 175 years of its
existence has become almost a legend in the academic life of our country.
While conveying that I could choose any date in April or May, the
invitation letter carried a postscript that in case 7 May was convenient to
me, my address would be termed the Kane Memorial Lecture as that date
coincided with the birth date of the great scholar.
The moment I agreed to speak on 7 May, to be able to honour the
memory of Mr. P. V. Kane the subject of my lecture almost suggested
itself. It should be one related to either of his two loves: Sanskrit poetics or
Dharma Śāstra. It seems you have only to be well meaning to find
yourself in deeper and deeper waters. I like to play with the idea that I
should rather have spoken on Dharma Śāstra, if only because it is always
far easier to speak on a subject the complexities of which one is not
sufficiently aware. Knowing full well, as I do, how the field of Sanskrit
poetics bristles with problems and even conundrums that require in-depth
philosophical, metaphysical, psychological, linguistic, and literary study, it
should have been the last thing for me to get involved in. Nevertheless, I
hazarded it, my purpose being a limited and specific one, that of
investigating how far those of us who are interested today in critical
activity in the various languages of India can benefit from the ideas and
tools made available by ancient Indian writers on poetics.
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 Perhaps it is more than a hazard in as much as I can hardly claim to be
a regular student of Sanskrit poetics or of philosophy, of which poetics
forms a legitimate part. Even though I might stray far, sometime perilously
far, into these fields, my main concern will be with the possible
enrichment of contemporary critical activity. And in that context, I feel,
lies the hope for Sanskrit poetics to survive. If it is not to be studied only
by a few specialists of a past cultural phase and is to form a part of
mankind’s living knowledge, it is can only be by proving that it is a rich
resource for practising critics in the various languages—that Sanskrit
poetics can flourish as a body of dynamic ideas. Even if those ideas are not
frequently invoked, it would be enough if they are at the back of the mind,
for that too is a use. If I put stress on the need for an awareness of the
seminal ideas of Sanskrit poetics, it is more with an eye on the sharpening
of aesthetic sensibility and equipping the mind with the capacity for
discerning beauty in whatsoever manner it manifests itself in a literary
work. It seems the study of Sanskrit poetics has reached a stage where we
can take stock of such things, define fresh needs in terms of the pursuit of
knowledge, and try to visualise how the ideas of the acaryas—great
writers of treatises on poetics—might be best availed of.
Our current critical endeavour has to keep pace with that in the
Western world, as our creative writing during the past hundred and fifty
years or so has been largely under the influence of the West. We have
freely borrowed genres, models, and techniques from Western literature.
While our critical writings mainly follow Western norms, the critical
terminology we employ is, as would be expected, more or less borrowed
from the works of the ancient acaryas. Terms like aucitya, vakrokti, riti,
upama, rupaka, sahrdāya, dhvani, and—most enigmatic of all—rasa,
along with Rasanubhāva and Rasasvada, are freely used, most of them not
always strictly in the sense in which the acaryas used them.
In fact, we are in a fortunate position. We have at our disposal the
whole critical usage of the West, which has relevance to our modern
creative writing, and we also have a rich critical tradition of our own from
which, at least, we pick up terms in howsoever a casual manner. It is open
to us to make a comparative study of the two traditions and forge a critical
apparatus and critical idiom that can meet our present need to enjoy and
evaluate literary works of any age or language.
Let me hasten to add at the very outset that such a comparative study is
beset with great difficulties. The ideas and the technical terms used are
rooted in different cultural milieus. One such term is “tragedy.” To make
Śakuntalā a tragedy, the bringing down of the curtain at the end of the fifth
act will not do. Tragedy is a concept that is interwoven with the fabric of

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Greek life yet is totally unknown to Indian culture. One should take care
not to be taken in by apparent or superficial similarities. Take the term
“metaphor” in Aristotle. Prof. D. R. Mankad argues that “metaphor” is
usually referred to in India as rupaka, but it might sometimes be called
samasokti, as in “unbridled rage.” It is said, a metaphor is an implied
simile. Aristotle considers it by far the best gift of the poet—his ability to
find similitude in dissimilar things. The acaryas look upon upama (simile)
as the greatest gift of a poet and Kālidāsa, the greatest poet, is accredited
with the best use of the simile, which is normally described as
sadharmyam (similitude, sharing of the same properties). Instead of
getting bogged down in details of nomenclature or semantic quibbling, it
would be worth looking rather for the informing aesthetic principle. The
sagacious Hemacandracarya calls the simile “hrdyam sadharmyam”
(pleasureable [heart-pleasing] similitude), and this should lead us to the
modern exploration of the link of analogy in feeling.
Even if the concept of tragedy is foreign to India, and the “tragic” is
not exactly karuṇa rasa, there is an aesthetic principle that is common to
both. Plato talked of “tragic pleasure” (Philebus, 47–48). Aristotle says
that tragedy does not depress one; instead, it raises the spirits. Sanskrit
writers (except Ramacandra and Gunacandra) have constantly maintained
that pathos (the karuṇa rasa) also pleases, that all rasas are dominated by
pleasure, that all art experience ends in beatitude.
Every critic who deals with a poem has to keep in mind the trinity of
(1) the poet, (2) the poem, and (3) the reader. From where does he actually
start? Perhaps he thinks he starts from the second—the poem itself. But,
what is a poem? Is it just a piece of paper with ink marks on it or a
videotape? Valery said, “It is the reading of the poem that is the poem”; in
other words, it is in somebody’s experience of poem that “the poem”
becomes itself. Thus, the critic, while dealing with a poem, has always to
start with the third—the reader, himself; that is, he has to start with his
own experience of the poem. The Sanskrit writers on poetics, especially
those who testify to rasa, could not be more right. One can speak about
the poem and even the poet only after one’s experience of the poem.
It is surprising that no less an expert on Sanskrit poetics than the late S.
K. De should chide the acaryas for their preoccupation with understanding
the nature of art experience. He says, “they consider the problem indirectly
and imperfectly from the standpoint of the readers and not directly and
completely from that of the poet,” and adds, “they are concerned mainly
with the question of the reader’s reproduction but not of the poet’s
production.” But, there is no way of dealing with the poet’s production
other than through the reader’s reproduction. Even if the poet himself

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chooses to say something about his production, he cannot be treated as a
final authority outside the production itself. His account would be one of
many such accounts available from discerning readers; the final authority
has to be the critic himself, engaged in the task of judging it aesthetically.
Nevertheless, it is not correct to say that the acaryas have neglected
the problem of poetic creation. In fact, their concern for it is
interconnected with their concern for the problem of poetic experience.
For, when the rasa-sūtra “vibhāvanubhāva-vyabhicari-samyogad Rasa-
nispattih” lays down that art experience is the result of the commingling
rather than compounding of the vibhāvas (the characters and the
environment), anubhāvas (the bodily manifestations of emotions), and
vyabhicāribhāvas (temporary states or emotions feeding the dominant
emotion); further, it has already hinted at the process of the poetic
creation. For example, the vibhāvas, the hero, the heroine, other characters
and the environment, and the situations and events that follow should all
be adequate if the work is to satisfy as a work of beauty.
If one looks at how a competent modern critic of the stature of T. S.
Eliot gropes neatly to articulate what is involved in the creative process,
one would feel grateful to the acaryas for having given a clear and
authentic description of it. Eliot has difficulty with Hamlet. He lays the
blame at the door of Shakespeare’s creative faculty and suggests that we
are let down by it. Somewhere it falters, he feels; he locates the fault in the
poet’s inability to discover, to use Indian terminology, an appropriate or
adequate vibhāva. Let us here him as he struggles to articulate it with the
help of the, by now, popular phrase “objective correlative,” which,
incidentally, was not his coinage but was first used in 1850 by Washington
Elston in his Lectures on Art—a fact later acknowledged also by Eliot.
Eliot says, “The only way of expressing emotion in the form of art is by
finding an ‘objective correlative,’ in other words, a set of objects, a
situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of that particular
emotion such that when the external facts, which must terminate in
sensory experience, are given, the emotion is immediately evoked.”
Eliot succeeds in formulating the need for finding vibhāvas
commensurate with the original emotion, which is to be expressed in the
form of art. Thus far, his account of the process of poetic creation is
correct and finds support in the words of the acaryas. But he is not on sure
ground if he means that the vibhāvas when presented will evoke the same
emotion in the mind of the reader or the spectator, for the emotion that is
being presented through the medium of the “objective correlative”—the
vibhāvas—has suffered a sea change. It is now no more the original
emotion. (This is one example of how a proper understanding of the

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creative process). Valery knew better. He alerts us, “We must contrast as
clearly as possible poetic emotion with ordinary emotion.”
Valery’s statement of the creative and reproductive processes (for it
aims possibly to cover both) comes very near to the truth of the matter. He
says that a sort of “sense of a universe” is characteristic of poetry and
adds:

I said: sense of a universe. I meant that the poetic state or emotion seems to
me to consist in a dawning perception, a tendency toward perceiving a
world, or complete system of relations, in which beings, things, events, and
acts, although they may resemble, each to each, those which fill and form
the tangible world—the immediate world from which they are borrowed—
stand, however, in an indefinable, but wonderfully accurate, relationship to
the modes and laws of our general sensibility. So, the value of those well-
known objects and beings is in some way altered. They respond to each
other and combine quite otherwise than in ordinary conditions.

Kuntaka, who flourished in the tenth century, refers to the real nature
of objects (samacchadita-svabhavah) being veiled when sudden
inspiration makes them appear in the poet’s imaginative world. He adds
that when this special predicament (tathavidha-visesa) finds a masterly
utterance in words, it becomes a thing of wondrous beauty to the mind.
A century before Kuntaka, Bhatta Nayaka enunciated the idea of
generalised emotion (sadharanikarana), which proved to be the greatest
aid in unlocking the meaning of the rasa theory. It showed how aesthetic
consciousness resulted when objects or beings were visualised not as
related to the immediate tangible world, but in a generalised (i.e.,
universal) manner.
Valery almost suggests this when he says that the poetic state or
emotion occurs when the values of the objects and beings of the world are
altered because of their relationship to the laws of our general
sensibility—that is, when they cease to have personal or individual interest
and appear in a generalised, universal way. Eliot also hints at the same
thing when he talks of an escape from personality.
Abhinavagupta and his guru Bhatta Tauta say that this poetic emotion
or aesthetic consciousness or rasa is primarily due to the poet. The actor
on the stage as well as the spectator or the reader of the work consequently
attains it. The generalised consciousness pertaining to each poet (kavi-
gata-sadharanibhuta-samvit) alone is in reality rasa (paramarthatah
Rasah).
So, those who appreciate the work of a poet need an equal measure of
genius. Rajasekhara calls the creative genius karayitri pratibha and the

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appreciative genius bhavayitri pratibha. One who experiences the work of
art has to relive the poetic emotion of the creator. He has to re-evoke the
aesthetic consciousness of the poet, reconstruct the aesthetic object.
The best connoisseur of aesthetic beauty is called a sahrdāya, one who
is of the same heart. Abhinavagupta describes such a person as one the
mirror of whose mind has become clear due to constant contact with
poetic works and who has the capacity to identify himself with what is
presented—that is, with the heart of the poet.
The art experience of such a sahrdāya is, indeed, subjective.
Abhinavagupta describes it as ending in prakasa—illumination and
ānanda (beatitude).
The poem, the word construct, has also received a fair amount of
attention. Some of the writings on poetics were of the nature of manuals
for prospective writers. The discussions on ālaṁkāras, gunās, riti,
vakrokti, and aucitya were meant to be a valuable help, though it was
maintained that when the creative spirit worked, all the embellishments
and graces and properties entered the composition in an onrush, vying
with one another (ahampurvikaya parapatanti), and that they did not
remain exterior (na tesam bahirangatvam) to the poem, which was an
organic whole. For the organic unity there is a happy expression,
ekavakyata, which literally means “one-sentenceness.” The ancients
considered even a long work, if it were a creative work, to be just one
sentence. Even the Mahabharata with its more than one hundred thousand
verses is just a one-sentence piece. The very term sahitya (togetherness) is
most fortunate and at once emphasises what is crucial about a poetic
composition, that the verbal correlative is commensurate with the poetic
emotion; it is this sahitya (togetherness) that the aesthetic object is.
There are three seminal ideas in Sanskrit poetics:
(1) Foremost is the rasa-sūtra, which has come to enjoy the status of a
kind of Einsteinian formula in the realm of poetic theorisation. It
seems to be the distillation of the aesthetic thinking of generations.
Though it occurs in the encyclopaedic Nāṭyaśāstra of Bharata, it
may as well have been picked up from an earlier work, for Bharata
refers to Druhina as an authority regarding even the names of the
eight rasas.
(2) The second important idea is that of dhvani (suggestion). Rasa
came to be associated with plays or other entire works and a need
was felt to account for the beauty of smaller compositions or even
single stanzas. The ālaṁkāra school came into existence, cutting
rasa to size by naming a rasavat an ālaṁkāra also. The gunās
(qualities) and riti (composite poetic diction) came to be

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 emphasised later. It was Ānandavardhana who, laying his hand on
dhvani, succeeded in explaining the presence of beauty in all kinds
of compositions, muktakas (single stanzas as well as prabandhas),
and entire works by referring to it as vastu-dhvani, ālaṁkāra
dhvani, or rasa-dhvani. It was also he who reconciled the claims of
rasa with other approaches, by yielding in no ambiguous terms that
even though varieties of dhvani were mentioned they were all to be
comprehended through the medium of rasa and bhāva, which were
preponderant.
Since the ālaṁkāra school started, the emphasis came to be laid
on stanzas rather than entire works. The wood was lost for the
trees. Ānandavardhana was the first to discuss an entire work, as a
practical critic. He raised the important question of what the rasa of
the Mahabharata was and answered by saying that it was śānta
rasa. Kuntaka, who followed him, was perhaps the greatest
practical critic among the Sanskrit writers on poetics and the fourth
chapter of his Vakroktijivita has a freshness about it and throws up
a number of hints for the artistic structuring of entire works.
(3) The third great idea is that of sadharanikarana (the generalised or
universal apprehension of the poetic feeling and the poet’s world).
These ideas have survived and contributed effectively to a clearer
understanding of the aesthetic object due to the astute and vigorous
presentation by a master synthesiser of the stature of ācārya
Abhinavagupta, who is the greatest single name in Sanskrit poetics. He
eagerly seized upon the reconciliatory approach of Ānandavardhana
bringing rasa again into focus. Instead of attempting a new work of his
own, he chose to write the commentaries Abhinavabhāratī on Bharata’s
Nāṭyaśāstra and Locana on Ānandavardhana’s Dhvanyāloka and used
both texts to highlight his own special predilection for rasa, whose secret
he unravelled with the help of Bhatta Nayaka’s ideal of saharanikarana.
Abhinavagupta is one of the greatest thinkers not only of India but also of
the world. His apt utterances on poetics have gone on ringing in the ears of
generations after generations. It is a pity that, even though during his
lifetime in the eleventh century a philosophical dialogue was possible
between him and the great West Asian Muslim thinker Avicenna (Ibn
Sina), a worthwhile dialogue is yet to start with Western thinkers of today.
(Incidentally, in early 1956 at Harvard I took the opportunity to draw Dr.
I. A. Richards’s attention to Abhinavagupta’s work and later wrote to him
about Dr. R. Gnoli’s translation of a portion of the Abhinavabhāratī that
had just been published.)

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 Once the texts are critically edited and annotated, they should leave the
hands of the Sanskritists and reach experts in the various disciplines. I hate
the idea of the Arthaśāstra being studied only by Sanskrit graduate
students and never forming a legitimate part of the curriculum for
advanced studies in political science. Furthermore, the more important
work in Sanskrit poetics might better be studied by advanced students of
philosophy, for problems of poetics theory form a legitimate part of
philosophy and not of one language or another, nor even of literature as
such.
I hope it is interesting to refer here to what a modern philosopher,
Roman Ingarden (picking one at random), has to say about “aesthetic
experience and aesthetic object” from (as it happens) a phenomenological
approach. It would remind one again and again of the observations of the
Sanskrit writers on Poetics. Prof. Ingarden carefully distinguishes between
ordinary perceptual experience and aesthetic experience. He shows how a
composite structure of aesthetic experience has three kinds of elements:
“(a) emotional (aesthetic excitement), (b) creative (active) constitution of
an aesthetic object, (c) passive-perception of the qualities already revealed
and harmonized.”
Prof. Ingarden says, “in the final phase of an aesthetic experience there
ensues an appeasement in the sense that, on the one hand, there is a rather
quiet gazing upon (contemplating) the qualitative harmony of the aesthetic
object already constituted and a ‘taking in’ of these qualities. On the other
hand, along with this, there proceeds what I have named the second form
of emotional response to a harmony of qualities. And namely, there arise
some feelings in which an acknowledgement of the value of the
constituted aesthetic object is taking place.” He says that in experiencing
feelings of admiration and rapture, while directly confronting an aesthetic
object, one pays, so to speak, homage to it. It is the sequence of prakasa
and ānanda for which he seems to vouchsafe.
I may be permitted to repeat what I have said earlier—that one can get
at the poem only by experiencing it. And it inevitably follows from this
that practical criticism presupposes such an experience of the aesthetic
object.
Prof. Ingarden states, “it is only in such direct intercourse with an
aesthetic object that a primary and vivid emotional response is possible”;
he further adds, “‘To evaluate’ without being moved, i.e., to form a
judgment of the aesthetic value of something, is possible, when using
proper technical criteria, even without the accomplishment of an aesthetic
process, and thus also without waiting for a harmony of qualities to be
constituted in an evident way.” Some persons, who have much to do with

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works of art, “are not easily enraptured by anything” and develop a
peculiar routine of dealing with subsidiary details.
Practical criticism that does not flow from the bhavana-a state of
bhāva (bhavayanti Rasan) is, to use a rather strong term, suspect. Prof.
Ingarden calls it an intellectual exercise, “an inferred judgment.” He
maintains that only those value judgements that result from a state of
feeling and are based on the aesthetic process of experiencing the art
object are valid and justified: “the experience which alone, and in an
essential way, makes this judgment valid . . . lies in the final phase of the
aesthetic process, and, in particular, in the acknowledgement of an
aesthetic object, an acknowledgement which a character of feeling and is
grounded in the ‘seeing’ of a harmony of qualities.” Therefore, strictly
speaking, it is only those judgements concerning value that are given on
the basis of an aesthetic process and, when such a process has been
accomplished, that are justified.
The discerning reader, the sahrdāya, the critic, reproduces/recreates
the art object created by the poet, the kavi, by passing through the aesthetic
process and while acknowledging the presence of the aesthetic object pays
joyful “homage” to it.
At this point the poet and critic, the kavi and the sahrdāya, meet and
the karayitri creative faculty in one and the matching reciprocating or
receiving (bhavayitri) faculty in the other partake of the nature of pratibha
(intuitional apprehension).
In fact, the two had symbolically met when the poem was originally
written—when the composer laid down his pen after writing the last word
and making his final touches, if any. Only at the final moment of the
composition can the poet realise what poem it was he was trying to write,
what the kavigatasadharanibhutasamvit (generalised consciousness of the
poet) actually was. It must have been the enjoyer, the critic, the sahrdāya
in him who bore out the creator in him and reassured him of the finality of
the outcome. Abhinavagupta seems to suggest as much when he says in
the opening stanza of Locana, “sarasvatyastattvam kavisahrdāyakhyam
vijayate”—victorious is the essence of speech called kavisahrdāya, for he
has so worded what he says that the compound kavisahrdāya also means
“the creator-enjoyer, the poet, who himself is the discerning reader,” over
and above referring to the inevitable pair involved in all aesthetic
activity—“the poet, the artist and the discerning enjoyer, the critic.”

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 APPENDIX 3

DOES THE RASA THEORY HAVE MODERN

RELEVANCE?

R. B. PATANKAR

In modern times, the rasa theory appears to have suffered at the hands of
two groups of critics. (1) Those who are totally ignorant of literary thought
in pre-British India do not feel the need to develop any acquaintance with
it. They find the Western critical framework adequate for their purposes.
In The Languages of Criticism and the Structure of Poetry, R. S. Crane
could argue convincingly for the readoption of the Aristotelian approach
to the problem of poetic structure on the ground that modern contrastive
and assimilative methods do not lead to the discovery of the particular
structuring principles underlying individual literary works as does the
Aristotelian method. Readoption of the rasa theory cannot be
recommended on similar grounds, although the moderns might find
something thought-provoking in it. It does not appear to satisfy an urgent
need of Westernised people, as perhaps does yoga. (2) It is not supposed to
be put to mundane uses like analysis and evaluation of modern literary
works, even of works produced in Indian languages.
However, a comparative study of Western and ancient Indian critical
traditions is worth attempting. It will show that there are significant points
of contact between the two, and this might lend support to the view that
there is a universal human mind that responds to similar situations in
similar ways, irrespective of age and country. The comparison might also
make an interaction between the two traditions possible. Modern Indian
thinkers would profit a great deal were this to take place. A bridge would
thereby be built, not only between India and the West but also between
ancient India and modern India.
When we study a conceptual structure like rasa theory across many
centuries, we find that it contains parts that are completely unintelligible to
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us, and others which possess only historical interest. Consider, for
example, the lists Bharata has given of sthāyībhāvas and
vyabhicāribhāvas. The first list includes mental occurrences like fear and
mental dispositions like love and sleep. If we take into account the all-
round intellectual achievement of the ancient Indians, we shall see why it
would be wrong to dismiss the preceding classification as patently absurd.
All that we shall be justified in saying is that we are unable to understand
the principles of classification that Bharata used. The problem regarding
the number of rasas is one of historical significance only. On one view,
Bharata studied the dramatic compositions that were available to him and
saw that most of them expressed eight (or nine) emotions/sentiments. On
another view, the number is based on psychological findings about what
constitutes the relatively permanent part of the structure of the human
mind. Much has happened in the fields of literature and psychology since
Bharata wrote; and perhaps he would have changed his views if he had
known all that later critics and psychologists know about dramatic works
and the human mind.
But the rasa theory also contains a part that is not likewise restricted to
a particular age. It consists of certain clusters of concepts that are very
basic to the theory. I propose to discuss two such clusters, one at some
length, and the other rather briefly at the end. I shall also try to show that
these clusters have their counterparts in the Western critical tradition, and
indicate the points where a fruitful interaction between the two traditions
can take place today.
The first cluster centres around the concept of sadharanikarana
(universalisation). On this concept is based Abhinavagupta’s triple claim
(1) that the rasa experience is alaukika (sui generic), (2) that it is
essentially pleasurable, and (3) that the spectator does not contemplate it
as something outside himself but undergoes it. Universalisation can be
interpreted as (1) a one way process, from a particular to the universal that
subsumes it, or as (2) a two-way process, from a particular to the
universal, and back again to a particular—the second particular not being
the same as the first particular. That Abhinavagupta most probably had the
second interpretation in mind is indicated by the example of Samba cited
by Hemacandra, who followed Abhinavagupta very closely. The three
stages in the process are as follows: (1) Samba worshipped the sun and his
good health was restored; (2) everyone who worships the sun is restored to
good health; (3) if I worship the sun, I too will be restored to good health.
Subsumption of particular human beings under a common universal
explains the possibility of communication between them. They have a
common meeting ground in their humanity. All that is human is, at least

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potentially, followable/shareable by all men. This explanation can be
extended to the act of watching a play. Although the characters on the
stage differ from the spectators in one important respect, they have in
common their human qualities. Spectators can understand and/or undergo
the experiences presented on the stage because they are universally
shareable/followable.
Sadharanikarana, as we see, can also be regarded as a one-way
process from a particular to the universal (interpretation 1). The best
example of this comes from the empirical sciences. Scientists are primarily
concerned with the discovery of universal laws, in the formulation of
which particulars as particulars have no place. If sadharanikarana is
interpreted as a one-way process, the characters in literary works will
become abstractions due to the sadharanikara that they undergo. It is true
that characters answering to this description do exist in literary works; it is
also true that some of these works are good. On the other hand, it would be
wrong to say that literary works cannot be good unless the characters are
abstractions. For, in a very large number of literary works the characters
are individualised. This is particularly true of literary works produced
during and after the Romantic age. In fact, the presence of individualised
characters is often regarded as a source of literary value.
So too is it true that the example of Samba suggests that
Abhinavagupta most probably had in mind the second interpretation of the
sadharanikara. And it is likely that there is something in the distinction
Sanskritists such as R. Gnoli have made between sadharanya and
samanya—that is, between the universal in literature and the universal in
logic. But these two facts do not constitute a sufficient reason to
completely reject the first interpretation of sadharanikarana. For, as we
shall see later in this article, some claims made about the nature of the
rasa experience cannot be sustained if the first interpretation is totally
rejected.
Let us now see how the concept of universalisation has fared in the
Western critical tradition. In the ninth chapter of his Poetics, Aristotle
said: “Poetry, therefore, is a more philosophical and a higher thing than
history: for poetry tends to express the universal, history the particular. By
the universal I mean how a person of a certain type will on occasion speak
or act, according to the law of probability or necessity.” That Aristotle is
taking a Universalist stand is clear. The question is whether he wants
particularity of characters to be completely transcended, and abstractions
to be presented on the stage. If it is found that particularity cannot be
completely transcended, to what degree of universalisation does he expect

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the poet to aim? Aristotle has not made any explicit statement about these
issues.
The problem of reconciling the claims of universality and particularity
has been exercising the minds of critics since before the Romantic age. For
example, S. H. Butcher, a post-Hegelian interpreter of Aristotle, writes:

But though it [poetry] has a philosophic character it is not philosophy: It

tends to express the universal. . . . Philosophy seeks to discover the
universal in the particular; its end is to know and to possess the truth, and
in that possession it reposes. The aim of poetry is to represent the universal
through the particular, to give a concrete and living embodiment of a
universal truth. The universal of poetry is not an abstract idea; it is
particularized to sense, it comes before the mind clothed in the form of the
concrete, presented under the appearance of a living organism. . . . The
meaning is not that a general idea is embodied in a particular example—
that is the method of allegory rather than of poetry—but the particular case
is generalized by artistic treatment.

The problem continued to exercise the minds of modern critics too. Dr.
Avner Zis, a Marxist critic writing in 1977, took a position similar to that
of Butcher:

the artistic image presents us with an indivisible unity of features of

cognition intrinsic both to immediate contemplation and abstract
thought. . . . Yet concepts do not enjoy an independent life of their own
in art. They cannot replace images. . . . The artist as it were “divests”
the phenomenon which interests him from random and particular
features that might obscure the essence of what he is seeking to portray.
He does not reproduce phenomena of life in their actual entirety, but
only those characteristic features which constitute their “living soul.”

The balance between the universal and the particular is not easy to
maintain; there is always the danger of slipping into either the universalist
position or the Crocean particularistic position that the function of art is to
reveal the individual physiognomy of things. Every individual combines
both, the universal and the particular. The dispute between universalists
like Aristotle and particularists like Croce may therefore be regarded as a
dispute about the relative importance of the two—the Aristotelians
subordinating the particular to the universal, the Croceans doing exactly
the opposite. This shows that universalisation, like particularisation, might
be obtainable in different degrees. What degree of universalisation do the
defenders of sadharanikarana expect? This is an important issue because

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it is not only the characters (vibhāvas), emotions, and such like that are
supposed to undergo sadharanikarana, the spectators (rasikas) are too.
That an excessive preoccupation with one’s own personal problems
disturbs the spectator’s aesthetic experience may be readily granted. It
would also hinder various other activities, like watching a cricket match,
solving a mathematical problem, or taking part in a discussion. Excessive
preoccupation with oneself is an obstacle because it makes concentration
on anything other than the self practically impossible. But this does not
mean that complete transcendence of the empirical self is a precondition of
literary experience. Careful observation will reveal that our empirical self
is actively involved in literary or poetic daydreaming. Freud has shown
that readers of one variety of literary works derive vicarious satisfaction
through the fantasy world the writers has created. Such literature is a
universalised and beautified version of the writer’s daydream owing to the
redacting of what is too personal in it: a daydream becomes universally
shareable if it is also dependent on the reader’s capacity for partial self-
transcendence. If he is excessively preoccupied with his own self, he may
find it impossible to slip into the role designed for him by the writer to
facilitate vicarious wish-fulfilment.
Of course, this cannot mean complete self-transcendence, for wish
fulfilment presupposes the presence of mundane wishes in the reader. It
might be objected that the Freudian theory covers only escapist literature,
and therefore literature of little value; what is true of it might not be true of
great literature. In reply, it may be pointed out that escapist literature does
not cease to be literature because it is escapist. Again, self-involvement
may be present even in the experience of great literature. At the conscious
level we remain detached spectators, hence we do not easily become
aware of this fact. We know that we are in the auditorium watching an
emotional drama in the life of characters enacted on the stage. But this
does not rule out the possibility that we are involved at a deeper level in
that emotional drama. Different parts of our personality might react in
strikingly different ways to such a complex object of experience as a
literary work. If we analyse our reaction to Satan’s character in Paradise
Lost we realise the truth of this. On the conscious level, we do not belong
to Satan’s party; indeed, as a religious man, Milton could not have
espoused Satan’s cause. Nevertheless, Satan’s character fascinates the
reader: we realise that a strong emotional force must have gone into the
making of the character. Perhaps in the depth of our psyche there is a
primitive, unsocialised element that resents restraint of any sort. It is this
element which derives satisfaction from Satan’s rebellion. This shows that
we might be detached on one level and deeply involved on another.

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 Abhinavagupta also could not have expected complete self-
transcendence on the part of rasikas. First, he does not want them to forget
they are watching a play. Second, he wants rasikas to bring with them
traces of past experiences (vasanarupa-samakaras). It is reasonable to
suppose that these include traces of past emotional experiences, enduring
dispositions, moral evaluating knowledge of the world and men,
ideological commitments, and worldviews. If spectators bring all these
structures to the theatre with them, how can they be said to transcend their
empirical egos completely, or even to an appreciable extent?
Defenders of Abhinavagupta point out that although past experiences
are expected to be activated, the experiences undergo a qualitative change
because of sadharanikarana. Our everyday experience, followers of
Abhinavagupta tell us, depends upon egocentric relations between
individuals; these individuals are related to our ego in three ways, and
these relations determine our attitudes to them: (1) they belong to us or to
our friends, (2) they belong to our enemies, (3) they are such that they do
not concern us. Our attitude to people and things in category (1) is
friendly; to those in category (2), it is hostile; and to those in (3) it is
completely indifferent. The rasa experience is said to be sui generic
because it is not based on these egocentric relations. The first objection to
this argument is that the threefold division of human relations is too
cynical to be acceptable. Although many human attitudes are egocentric,
there are many others that are not so. Only a cynic interprets altruism as
being egocentric. Again, if we analyse the presuppositions of our moral
life we will realise the importance of universalisation in our everyday life.
Universalisability of principles of human action is often regarded as the
very condition for the possibility of moral experience.
The preceding discussion shows that (1) universalisation in literature in
the sense in which we have taken the term to mean admits of degrees; (2)
it is not always the highest degree of universalisation that is expected
either of characters or of spectators, nor is it desirable to achieve this; (3)
universalisation is not peculiar to literary experience; (4) if
universalisation explains how the rasa experience becomes sharable, it
also explains how any experience is rendered shareable.
Two further claims are made on behalf of the rasa experience: it is said
to be (1) necessarily pleasurable, and (2) in a class by itself (alaukika).
Both these claims are, in Abhinavagupta’s system, ultimately based only
on sadharanikarana. We have examined the second claim and seen that it
cannot be maintained because sadharanikarana is not exclusive to the
rasa experience. We shall now briefly examine the first claim. If the
sadharanikarana of experience means rendering it universally shareable, it

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is thus obvious that sadharanikarana by itself cannot make an experience
pleasurable; this is particularly true of experiences that are indifferent in
their affective tone and those that are decidedly unpleasant. The following
example of the repulsive (bībhatsa) will make this amply clear. Bhartrihari
says in his Vairagya-sataka, “A woman’s breasts really are only
protuberances of flesh, but the poets have likened them to golden pitchers;
her face is filled with saliva and mucus, but the poets have compared it
with the moon; her hips and loins are made wet by urine, but the poets
have compared them with the frontal globe on the forehead of an elephant.
That which is repulsive in reality has been shown to be great by the poets.”
The descriptions can be universalised and made applicable to all women.
The feeling of disgust, thus universalised and transformed into the
bībhatsa rasa, cannot be said to have become in any way pleasurable. It is
thus doubtful whether the bībhatsa rasa can ever be pleasurable if
experienced by itself. It can become bearable, and perhaps even
pleasurable, only if it gives rise to the feeling of indifference to worldly
objects (nerved) and leads to the creation of śānta rasa. It therefore
appears that at least some rasas are not pleasurable by themselves; they
can, however, become pleasurable by being subordinated to other rasas or
to ends that are not peculiar to literature, for example, moral or religious
values.
Another way to make the rasa experience pleasurable is to raise it to a
qualitatively higher level, where it acquires a universal significance. Here
universalisation does take place, but not in the limited sense of making
something universally shareable. Some problems are universally shareable
but they are not called universal problems. Losing a job is an example of a
universally shareable problem. Nevertheless, the question, What is the
place of human goodness in the ultimate scheme of the world?, is a
universal problem, a problem with a universal significance. A universal
problem is not necessarily a problem that is actually raised by all men; it is
that which can be raised by all men, but is actually raised only by a few
mature men with a philosophical bent of mind when confronted with the
central mysteries of human life. The fear of the young deer described in
act one of Śakuntalā is often cited as an example of the bhayānaka rasa.
The experience is universal in the sense that it is universally
communicable; however, it does not have the universal significance of the
anguish of Oedipus. This discussion shows that in the context of literature
“universalisation” can be taken to mean: (1) “making something
universally followable, shareable/applicable,” or (2) “endowing something
with universal significance.” Butcher most probably wanted to emphasise
the second meaning when he wrote the following about the tragic hero:

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 So much human nature must there be in him that we are able in some sense
to identify ourselves above us in external degree and station. . . . There is a
gain in the hero being placed at an ideal distance from the spectator. We
are not confronted with outward conditions of life too like our own . . . [the
tragic emotions] are disengaged from the petty interests of self, and are on
the way to being universalised. . . . In the spectacle of another’s errors or
misfortunes, in the shocks and blows of circumstance, we read the
“doubtful doom of human kind.” . . . The spectator who is brought face to
face with grander sufferings than his own experiences a sympathetic
ecstasy, or lifting out himself. . . . The tragic catharsis requires that
suffering shall be exhibited in one of its comprehensive aspects; that the
deeds and fortunes of the actors shall attach themselves to larger issues,
and the spectator himself be lifted above the special case and brought face
to face with universal law and the divine plan of the world.

Universalisation in the sense of investing an experience with universal

significance can plausibly be regarded as a way of making it pleasurable;
that which elevates us mentally is often a source of pleasure. That
satisfaction which attends a moral experience can be cited as an example.
(Incidentally, this shows that “universalisation” in Butcher’s sense also
does not make the literary experience sui generic.)
The Sanskritists do not appear to use sadharanikarana in Butcher’s
sense. However, if we take sadharanikarana as a process that
depersonalises an experience or renders it universally
shareable/followable, we shall not be able to prove that the rasa
experience is necessarily pleasurable, that it is sui generic, or that it is
superior to everyday experiences.
We shall now consider two other arguments put forward to prove that
the rasa experience is sui generic. The substance of the first argument is
that the means-to-an-end category has no application in the context of rasa
experience. Where this category has an application, the means can be
discarded after the end is achieved. But vibhāvas and so on are not the
means to achieve the end, namely, the rasa experience. For the rasa
experience is coterminous with the presence of the vibhāvas and so on
before us. It is vibhāvadijivitavadhi. It comes into existence with the
vibhāvas, and ends when the vibhāvas are removed from the stage. The
argument perhaps aims to distinguish between the sthāyībhāvas, which are
permanently there in the human mind in a dormant state, and the rasa
experience, which occurs only when the vibhāvas are present before us.
But then this distinction holds good even outside the literary context, for it
is the distinction between dispositions and occurrences: his disposition is
to get angry at the least provocation, and the anger, which is an occurrence
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and not a disposition, lasts only as long as the cause of the provocation
lasts. When we say, “X enjoys the music,” we are talking about a concert
that is in progress. But it would be logically odd to say, “X is enjoying a
concert that is not now in progress.” The same is true about enjoying a
particular performance of a play or a cricket match that is just not there.
According to the logic of the verb “to enjoy” when used in the context of
an episode, enjoyment and the thing that is enjoyed are coterminous.
Above it was shown that sadharanikarana is not peculiar to the rasa
experience, for universalisation is a precondition of the ethical experience
also. But the supporters of Abhinavagupta might say that despite this
similarity the two experiences are different because the ethical experience
issues into action but the rasa experience is an end in itself. It might be
readily conceded that the rasa experience does not give rise to immediate
overt action. But that is because the peculiar ontological status of vibhāvas
rules out the very possibility of any such action. Even if we wish to, it is
logically impossible for us to interfere in the lives of onstage “characters.”
The world in which the characters move is structured like the world in
which real men move; but there is no continuity between the worlds. That
we should be able to see the former and that it should be able to induce
emotional states in us creates peculiar epistemological and ontological
problems. Sri Sankuka’s theory of citraturagapratiti shows that the
Sanskritists were aware of these problems. We see a configuration of
pigments. In the same way, we see an actor as a character such as Rama.
Seeing one thing as another thing is not a variety of ordinary seeing. As
Sri Sankuka has shown, it does not belong to the four known categories of
perception: (1) veridical perception, (2) illusory perception, (3) perceiving
something as resembling something else, and (4) perception that leaves us
in doubt about the identity of what we perceive. What we see has a
peculiar ontological status; the status would not have been peculiar if we
had before us an actor merely as a man following a particular profession.
Again, there would have been no problem if Rama, whose role the actor is
supposed to play, were actually present before us. What we see on the
stage is sui generic; and our seeing it is also sui generic.
It should be evident that Sri Sankuka’s theory bears a striking
resemblance to the Kantian theory of “disinterestedness” and Aldrich’s
theory of “categorical aspection.” It is true that neither of these theories
has anything to do with watching a play onstage; nevertheless, they are
both concerned with the peculiar ontological status of the object of
aesthetic contemplation. And one cannot avoid facing this problem when
one tries to give a logical account of “watching a play.” Since Plato,
Western aestheticians have discussed the ontological status of the aesthetic

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object. Plato concluded that the aesthetic object is ontologically inferior to
things in the phenomenal world and is thus twice removed from the
ultimate reality. Kant removed the aesthetic object from the Platonic
ontological order by declaring that aesthetic delight is “disinterested” in
the sense that it does not depend upon the actual existence of the aesthetic
context—even if what we contemplate is not a physical object it still
exists. In the aesthetic context, we contemplate not a physical object but
an “aesthetic semblance.” That which is an “aesthetic semblance” in the
aesthetic context may turn out to be an actually existing physical object in
the cognitive or the practical context. While determining the ontological
status of the aesthetic object, we must see that the contexts are not
confused. The world of imagination is not an imaginary, false world to be
contrasted with the “real” world. It is one aspect of the same world whose
other aspect is the so-called real world. The knower, the practical agent,
and the aesthetic contemplator deal with the same world under different
aspects.
On the phenomenon of changing the aspects, Aldrich writes, “What I
am approaching is the phenomenon of categorical aspection. . . .
Categorical aspection involves a change of categorical aspects; the same
material thing is perceived now as a physical object, now as an aesthetic
object, neither of which involves seeing it as another thing. The difference
between category aspects has to do with modes of perception and the
kinds of space in which their objects are realized.” To see a configuration
of pigments only as a configuration of pigments is to see under one aspect;
to see it as a horse is to see it under a different aspect. This theory can be
extended to cover the act of “watching a play on the stage.” To see an
actor as an actual human being and to see him as a “character” are two
different varieties of seeing, although the same sense organs are involved
in both types of seeing; the difference between the two is based on
categorical aspection. Sri Sankuka was laying a foundation for an
autonomist theory of art when he propounded the theory of citraturaga-
pratiti. Of course, this by itself cannot prove the validity of the autonomist
stand. For that, we also need the deconceptualisation of the aesthetic
experience, as Kant has maintained.
The first step that Sri Sankuka took in the direction of autonomy was
retracted by Abhinavagupta. For once, the actor, the character, the
spectator, and the emotional experience are universalised, the concepts of
“playing a role” and “seeing” a real human “as a character” lose all
meaning. For if all share the same universalised emotion, who can be said
to imitate (play the role of) whom? Abhinavagupta really has no use for
the notion of imitation, which is central to the world of drama and to the

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representational aspect as a whole. Not only does Abhinavagupta retract
the step taken by Sri Sankuka, he actually takes a step in the opposite
direction. For through sadharanikarana we can go from the world of art
back to the world of “real” men and women. For although the “characters”
in a play do not inhabit the “real” world, “real” mean who resemble the
“characters” in many respects do live in the same “real” world in which
we live. “Characters” thus direct our attention to “real” men. That is why
we often exclaim “How true!” while watching a play. Further, if the rasa
experience is claimed to be an end in itself, why does the Abhinavagupta
school attach importance to the ultimate goals of human life (the
purusarthas) while deciding upon the number of rasas? If the rasas are
expected to be conducive to the basic goals of life, the long-term
cognitive-affective effects of the rasa experience should be taken into
account while discussing the intrinsic nature of that experience.
This position is different from A. C. Bradley’s stand in his well-known
article “Poetry for Poetry’s Sake.” Bradley admits that poetry may have
ulterior ends, like softening passions, in addition to its sole legitimate end,
that of being “a satisfying imaginative experience.” However, for Bradley
these ulterior ends of poetry are totally irrelevant in a discussion of poetry
as poetry. The case of Abhinavagupta is entirely different. For him the
rasas depend on sthāyībhāvas, and sthāyībhāvas are sthāyī—that is, they
are permanent and dominant sentiments/emotions because they promote
the basic goals of life. Some bhāvas are not given the status of sthāyīn,
and are not regarded as sources of rasa only because they are not
conducive to these goals. This connection between rasas and the basic
goals of life goes counter to the autonomist stand. To accept the theory of
sadharanikarana and to insist on the close connection between rasas and
the basic goals of life is to weaken the claim that the rasa experience is in
a class of its own (alaukika).
That there are points of close similarity between the Western and the
ancient Sanskrit tradition should be evident from the preceding discussion.
Topics of living interest today include watching a theatrical performance,
the emotionality of literature, the autonomy of the world of literature, the
degree of universalisation involved in literary experience, aesthetic
pleasure, and the nature of aesthetic perception On all these topics the
ancient Sanskritists have said something that the moderns will find
relevant and thought provoking, if not acceptable. Of course being
relevant is not essential for a theory; to be acceptable, the modern
Sanskritists can, and should, take part in the dialogue between India and
the West. They can contribute something to the modern theory of literature
if they stop being mere exponents of ancient critical thought. Let them

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continue to owe allegiance to Sri Sankuka and Abhinavagupta, but let
them also take on the task of restating and defending the ancient theories
in the context of contemporary literary thought. They will then be required
to meet new objections and give an adequate account of modern aesthetic
data. They might also realise that it is necessary to modify the ancient
theories. For example, a mere juxtaposition of the ways Abhinavagupta
and Butcher have treated the problem of universalisation in literature will
force them radically to rethink the whole issue. If modern Sanskritists
want to be part of the world critical tradition, they must assume a new
role: they must become moulders and not merely discoverers of critical
concepts. An active dialogue with Western aestheticians will bring them
close, as living minds to their own past. The past in its turn will return to
life if they approach it in this way.

Postscript
In the discussion during the Patan Seminar and elsewhere I have made the
following additional points about Sanskrit poetics:
(1) In modern times, particularly after the emergence of the novel as a
distinct and important form of literature, we often evaluate literary
works in terms of the insight they give into reality. We cannot do
this from within Sanskrit poetics. There is provision for this in
Aristotle’s Poetics (e.g., Poetics, chap. 9).
(2) A play like Sophocles’s Antigone is rated very highly for the moral
problem it presents with great force. Again, one cannot do this with
the critical tools ancient Sanskrit poetics has given us. It is not as if
there were no moral problems in ancient Sanskrit literature; nor is it
the case that moral problems were not dealt with in ancient literary
works. The Mahabharata is full of moral problems. And yet
Sanskrit poetics tells us neither how to discuss such problems nor
how to bring them out in poetic works that deal with them.
Aristotle must have given thought to the moral aspect of literature,
as can be seen from his theory of catharsis.
(3) When it is tried to apply rasa theory outside drama and poetry, care
should be taken to see whether this application involves any
metaphorical extension of the meaning of terms like vibhāva and
sthāyībhāva.
(4) While discussing the nature of literary experience we should regard
our own experience as of supreme importance. A prior reasoning
such as the following will not convince or deceive any modern

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reader: “Rasa is by definition pleasurable; karuṇa is a rasa; karuṇa
is therefore pleasurable.”

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 APPENDIX IV

THE RELEVANCE OF RASA THEORY TO

MODERN LITERATURE

K. KRISHNAMOORTHY

I
Criticism can never be a science: it is, in the first place, much too personal,
and in the second, it is concerned with values that science ignores. The
touchstone is emotion, not reason. We judge a work of art by its effect on
our sincere and vital emotion, and nothing else. All the critical twiddle-
twaddle about style and form, all this pseudo-scientific classifying and
analyzing of books in an imitation-botanical fashion, is mere impertinence
and mostly dull jargon. . . . A critic must be able to feel the impact of a
work of art in all its complexity and force. To do so, he must be a man of
force and complexity himself, which few critics are. The more
scholastically educated a man is, generally, the more he is an emotional
bore.
D. H. Lawrence

While reading this passage, one will be reminded of Ānandavardhana’s

dictum: it (i.e., the suggested meaning intended by the poet) is not
understood by those who are learned merely in grammar and lexicography.
It is understood only by those who have an insight into the true nature of
poetic meaning. They may also be reminded of Abhinavagupta’s
definition of a sahrdāya: responsive critics are those whose mirror-like
minds have become perfectly clear by dint of a constant and close perusal
of poetic works and as a result of which they acquire the ability to share
imaginatively what is described and to attain a heartfelt response within
themselves.
If great poets are rare, perceptive critics are rarer still. In the history of
the world’s literature on poetry two figures—Ānandavardhana and
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Abhinavagupta—stand out as twin peaks of Indian thought who combined
in themselves the all-too-rare endowments of creative poetry and
meticulous learning, sensitive taste and penetrating philosophy. Not all the
works in today’s library of criticism on poetry and drama include the
specialised advances made in the psychology of literature and aesthetics,
structural stylistics and semantics, and so on that can render their vital
findings out-dated or anachronistic, for they touch the vital mainspring of
all art creation and art appreciation. That mainspring or pivotal point is
rasa. That it is one of the most misunderstood and misinterpreted
concepts, both by medieval schoolman in India as well as modern
Sanskritists, would be an understatement, judging by the number of works
that have appeared on the subject over the years. Not a little of the
bewildering confusion is due to some mistranslations into English of
keywords in Sanskrit. A study of the theory in an exclusively historical-
critical perspective, in isolation from the total thought-complex of the
great theorists, cannot but lead to inconclusive and misleading results.
This chapter proposes to re-examine just one or two of the most crucial
constituents of rasa theory and indicate its implications in a way that will
substantiate its relevance to the study of all literature, modern literature
not excepted.

II
Frequently, English words like “instincts,” “drives,” “propensities,”
“emotions,” “moods,” “feelings,” “sentiments,” and so forth, borrowed
from modern psychology, have been used to translate the multiplicity of
meanings of the Sanskrit technical terms bhāva and rasa. We also find
words like “art experience,” “aesthetic experience,” “aesthetic
contemplation,” and such like used as descriptions of the trained reader’s
enjoyment of literature. While the former are common to life experiences,
the latter are prominent in the appreciation of the fine arts. But none is
sure how they differentiate life emotion from art emotion.
Allied to this confusion is the lack of clarity in our understanding of
vibhāvas and anubhāvas, sthāyībhāvas and vyabhicāribhāvas, and bhāva
in regard to rasa.
Consequently, the seminal explanation of the aesthetic process as
involving sadharanikarana becomes distorted and difficult to accept. I
might refer in this connection to the brilliant and closely argued paper by
Prof. R. B. Patankar entitled “Does the Rasa Theory Have Any Modern
Relevance?,” which was published in the prestigious journal Philosophy

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East and West. Rasa is a superstructure resting on one or two foundational
pillars; remove the pillars, and the whole structure goes to pieces.
Before I embark upon setting down the basic passages relevant to a
proper understanding of the rasa theory from the master Abhinvavagupta
himself—passages not only from his well-known alaṇkāra texts (Locana
and Abhinavabhāratī) but also from the ignored and almost unknown
philosophical texts—I shall quote one or two passages as being
representative of modern critical thought and practical criticism. These
two approaches appear to me to come closest to the ancient thought of
Abhinavagupta.
(1) The first is from Jacques Maritain’s Creative Intuition in Art and
Poetry where he discusses T. S. Eliot’s views regarding the nature of
emotions in poetic creation and criticism. Maritain agrees with Eliot that
“one who reads poets should not mistake for the poetry and emotional
state aroused in himself by the poetry, a state which may be merely an
indulgence of his own emotions,” and that “the end of the enjoyment of
poetry is a pure contemplation from which all the accidents of personal
emotion are removed.” Nevertheless, he calls these “brute emotions or
merely subjective feelings” and adds his proviso that “this pure
contemplation itself is steeped in the creative emotion or poetic intuition
conveyed by the poem.” T. S. Eliot goes on to say, “It is not in his
personal emotions, the emotions provoked by particular events in his life,
that the poet is in any way remarkable or interesting. . . . The business of
the poet is not to find new emotions, but to use the ordinary ones, and in
working them up into poetry, to express feelings which are not in actual
fact emotions at all . . . poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an
escape from emotion.” And Maritain observes, “The escape of which he
speaks cannot come about except through poetic knowledge and creative
emotion, and in the very act of creating.” At last, he is in full agreement
with Eliot when he concludes with the following observation: “Very few
know when there is expression of significant emotion, emotion which has
its life in the poem and not in the history of the poet.”
Before I cite the next passage, let me set beside this an aphorism by
Ānandavardhana: “If the poet be suffused with emotion, the entire world
of his creation will be pulsating with rasa; if he should be devoid of it, the
entire world of his creation too will be dry and insipid.”
Here is Abhinavagupata’s exegesis of srngari: “The poet should be
taken to be suffused with the delectation of the various ingredients of a
love situation as found in literature; one should not wrongly understand
that he must be a voluptuary running after women in life. Further, the
word śṛṅgāra here is really indicative of rasa in general.”

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 Ānandavardhana and Abhinavagupta thus are well aware of the
distinction between what Maritain would call “creative emotion” and T. S.
Eliot would call “significant emotion,” on the one hand, and the brute or
raw emotion of everyday life. The first is a singular feature underlying all
creative writing, while the last belongs to the private lives of people and
particularly includes their worldly love–hate complexities. I quote this
passage in particular to underscore the point that it has not been
particularly noticed by Sanskritists that Abhinavagupta regards kavi and
sahrdāya as two poles of the same creative power: Glorious indeed is the
truth singular (or attitude identical) of poetry, designated by two alternate
names: viz., the poet and the responsive critic. He identifies them because
of this vital affinity between them in the partaking of rasa. The world of
nature, which is hard as stone, is made instinctive in life by means of the
creative rasa within each of them—creative fully in the poet and re-
creative in the critic.
What apart from this creative–re-creative emotion is involved in
Valmiki’s soka instantly becoming a sloka? Lest we should confuse
sorrow as a life emotion of the pained sage, Abhinavagupta comments that
it is quite different from that emotion and from the nature of repose within
his creative spirit or soul, which melts his heart as it were and floods it
with an afflatus of self-delight. The adjuncts nija and sva governing rasa
in both these excerpts from Abhinavagupta deserve further notice. But we
shall take it up later. The creative afflatus called karuṇa rasa here
overflows spontaneously and takes the art form of a sloka. The creative
rasa then is existentially coterminous with the created art form itself. As a
citation in Pratiharenduraja states: “The poet’s creative soul which
delights in rasa shines bright when it finds a ready reflection in the clear
mirror of word and meaning, a mirror embellished elegantly by literary
qualities like perspicuity and power.”
The poet’s rasa is a lamp and his creation is a mirror that adequately
reflects the lamplight. It has nothing to do with the creator’s private
emotion that his dairy might record. Abhinavagupta emphatically asserts,
“One should not take it as the personal sorrow of the sage.”
Why? One might ask. Abhinavagupta’s answer is, “If it were personal
sorrow on his part, Ānandavardhana would have no reason to regard rasa
as the ātman or soul of literature. For no sorrow-stricken person turns
suddenly creative like this.”
I need not labour this point any more. Whatever the worldly emotion in
question—whether love or sorrow—the creative state of rasa is identical
in each case; that is why the poet and the critic can both share in that
“tragic pleasure” that is not at all a paradox. Only this common rasa state,

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which is creative through and through and underlies all worldly emotions,
pleasurable or otherwise, deserves the status of ātman or life essence of
literature. In the words of T. S. Eliot, it is “significant emotion,” and, in
the words of Jacques Maritain, it is “creative emotion.” Rasa is absolutely
impersonal and free from worldly associations, and is consummated only
with the creation of the art object. Rasa should not be mistaken for life
emotions that are raw or brute emotions, which have no place in literature.
To show rasa’s further relevance to modern literature, I shall now cite
a passage by W. H. Auden. He describes Wagner’s music almost in the
same language that Abhinavagupta uses to describe Valmiki’s expression
of karuṇa rasa: “in the expression of physical suffering (Amfortas), the
suffering of unrequited love (Hans Sachs), the suffering of self-love
(Tristan and Isolde), the suffering of betrayed love (Brünnehilde), the
sufferings, in short, of failure, Wagner is one of the greatest geniuses who
ever lived. But only in the expression, ‘the imitation,’ of suffering;
happiness, social life, mystical joy, and success were beyond him.”
But whether one should call art good or bad is another question and it
involves questions of response linked with the personal belief or unbelief
of the critic. Auden has explained this very penetratingly:

We have two kinds of experience: the first, objective experience of the

world outside consciousness, entering as sensory images or as memories
from our unconscious; this kind of experience is governed by causal
necessity, that is, it is presented to us independently of our will, and it is
either pleasant or unpleasant. The second, subjective, or consciousness of
our own conscious faults: this kind of experience is accessible to the will,
and is governed by whatever is our conception of logical and moral
necessity; it is here that ethical judgements are made, and conduct
decided—experience here is either good or evil. Similarly there are two
classes of events: those which we cannot alter or prevent by our own
actions, and those which we can. . . . If we call unpleasant events which are
unalterable tribulations, and evil events which are preventable temptations,
then science and art are both concerned primarily with tribulations, but in
different ways. The aim of science is to convert tribulations into
temptations, an insoluble problem of passive endurance into a soluble
problem of conduct, the unpleasant into the evil.

But there are always tribulations that science has not yet been able to
change into temptations and that it will never be able to change because
they have already happened; it is with these that art is concerned: the
muses are the daughters of memory. For if past events cannot be altered,
our attitude towards them can. They can be accepted. Their relation to

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each other and the present can be understood. The moralist’s attack on art
comes from his confusion of art with science.
The Romantic movement in the West advocates the autonomy of the
poetic art and raises it as a banner of revolt against conformity to any
external norms. It makes the poet the “unacknowledged legislator of the
world.” Ānandavardhana too asserts in the same strain:

In poesy’s unlimited estate,

The poet is the Creator sole!
As he pleases, so things mutate
In this universe whole!

His poet obeys no law that is not intrinsic to his inspired vision. This
law itself is the integral norm of propriety (aucitya) to rasa. It is at once
alogical and amoral. Any theme is grist to the poet’s mill. What makes it
aesthetically viable and valuable is only rasa-aucitya. That is why
according to Ānandavardhana and Abhinavagupta rasabhasa has an
honoured place alongside rasa in literature. The latter insists on the
condition that the sahrdāya should be free from inhibitions imposed by his
personal beliefs and unbeliefs in order to make his response genuinely
aesthetic. Against the background of Auden’s penetrating analysis of
experience, it will be easy to see how the Indian conception of thematic
rasadis, alongside the creative overall rasa, is both meaningful and
significant. The former are governed by the law of unity, symmetry,
harmony, and propriety, while the overall rasavesa or creative afflatus is a
law unto itself. The question of the poet’s belief is not brought into literary
criticism or value judgement. What is always insisted upon is the
commonality of interest between the poet and his reader, since art, by
definition, is a shared thing. This is a point Auden also admits. If it cannot
be shared, “poetry would be no more than a personal allegory of the
artist’s individual dementia, of interest primarily to the psychologist and
the historian.” Some ultramodernist trends in Western literature seem to be
experimenting with this extreme idea. But the other extreme would mean a
photographic copy of the accidental details of life. The rasa theory holds a
golden mean between the two, because its recognition of nava-rasas is
wide enough to do justice to all the major emotional experiences in man’s
life, with an underground connection involving one of the four
purusarthas or life values, though in an unobtrusive manner.
(2) Next I take up a view expressed by a famous French poet-critic,
Yves Bonnefoy in the Encounter: “Poetic creation, in short, is hieratic, it
makes an inviolable place, and while the rite of reading continues, it draws
its mind into this illusory communion.” Are we not reminded here of
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Kālidāsa’s description of drama as a “ritual feast for the eye of gods” that
is a singular source of satisfaction to all spectators whatever their tastes?
Among the theorists, both Bhatta Nayaka and Abhinavagupta bring in
their Kashmiri Saiva metaphysics to explain the experience of rasa, which
is nothing but a sudden flash of bliss, innate in the ātman, and which is
realised by the powerful impact of music and dance on the stage and
similar platforms while witnessing a drama or by responding to poetry.
This rasa is described as svarupannada, which is infinite subjectivity of
the soul, void of all objectivity, and which is of the same nature as the
bliss of yogins. Bhatta Nayaka, as retold by Mahimabhatta states:

When rasa is thus made to immerse [the playhouse] with recitations

from the drama text and melodious singing of dhruva songs [i.e.,
rhythmic musical sets] by the actors, the spectator concentrates
himself solely in its irresistible appeal and turns inward for a
moment. When the objective things outside thus disappear from his
field of attention, he attains the state of his inmost spiritual being.
Then the true bliss of his inner spirit is manifested, a bliss that only
yogins know! That Abhinava is only confirming this Vedantic view
of rasa, which is esoteric, is evident in his expressions already noted.
Viz. nijaRasabharti, and such like, this unique Indian context of
Yoga-cum-Vedanta cannot be forgotten while estimating the concept
of rasa in its final phase in Indian poetics. Bhatta Nayaka also states
unequivocally that rasa, essentially, is an in-depth response to poetry.

Rasa or the experience, which is one of perfect delectation and which

arises only in the wake of an overwhelming experience evoked by the
(represented) multi-feeling complex, comes to be termed the essence of
poetry.
Even direct perception of beauty in nature cannot yield the kind of
supreme rasa or aesthetic delight which only the representation of it by a
consummate poet can give by virtue of his creative or artistic power.
Now we have landed in the tangled web of tanmayi-bhāva, whose
consideration we have been postponing all along; because it is the master
key utilised by both Bhatta-Nayaka and Abhinavagupta in explaining the
apparently mysterious nature of Rasasvada. As we shall see presently, it is
a synonym of hrdaya-samvada as well as sadharanikarana. To take the
last in isolation from its Kashmir Saiva context and to attach it to modern
meanings like “universalisation” is not warranted by the texts.
Even in modern Western aesthetics, the traditional conception of the
“aesthetic object” as anything toward which a certain disinterested attitude
is adopted is in trouble, as Richard W. Lind demonstrates in “Attention
and the Aesthetic Object” in the Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism.
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He refers to several studies from the previous two decades before his
paper was written as coming to this conclusion. He concludes that the term
“aesthetic” is vacuous and that “aesthetic objects are not merely
illuminated by attitude; their very structure and texture are both
constituted and made intelligible by discriminating attention.”
Spontaneous elicitation of attention is its distinguishing feature. The crude
psychology of I. A. Richards was discarded long ago by philosophers like
Maritain. To Richards, there is no aesthetic emotion peculiar to art: “When
we look at a picture, or read a poem, or listen to music, we are not doing
something quite unlike what we were doing on our way to the Gallery or
when we dressed in the morning.” Even art critics like Roger Fry have
shown how transmutations of sensations of experience take place in art.
Our reaction to works of art is a reaction to a relation and not to sensations
as such, or even to objects or persons. I have been struggling continually
to highlight that rasa as explained by Bhatta Nayaka and Abhinavagupta
does not exist outside he who perceives. It is to be discovered or intuited
within through an inward directed process that is non-empirical and hence
called alaukika or lokottara; these terms should not be interpreted as
super-normal because intuitive apperception is quite a normal feature in all
aesthetic contemplation.
There now follows one further digression from Sanskrit texts bearing
on sadharanikarana, if I might be permitted, in order to build up the right
atmosphere for the understanding of the intended purport of the texts; this
concerns the modern idea of the symbol. Susanne Langer is the reputed
exponent of the theory that all art is essentially symbolic. She also drew
inspiration from the Indian rasa theory. According to her, all artistic
creation consists of only “forms of human feeling.” Art does not represent
actual things and events but ideas of them. It has import without
conventional reference. The symbol has a special sense of “significant
form,” where “significance” is a quality felt by the percipient while
“form” is that art object the outside of which expresses feeling. This
feeling is not communicated but revealed. The aesthetic emotion is not
expressed in the work; instead, it belongs to the percipient. The
correspondence of all this with the postulates of the dhvani theory is
obvious. When widely interpreted in the context of modern thought,
dhvani or abhivyakti is nothing but a sudden revelation; the sahrdāya’s
response is a fresh discovery of rasa. The poem is only a stimulus.
Nevertheless, there would then arise the philosophical problem of how
rasa is a valid experience in the absence of the subject–object relationship.
This is dismissed by Sankuka with a mere assertion: “Who can challenge
an experience which is validated by the testimony of being clearly felt?”

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But Anantadasa, son of Visvanatha, commenting on his father’s
Sahityadarpana quotes two verses that offer this svatah-pramanya-vada
(thesis of self-validity), the support of tadatmya or tanmayibhavana: “All
poetry, in our view, is exquisitely valid, since it comes forth only due to
the valid experiencing of rasa which is self-illumined. That rasa is of the
nature of a unique consciousness will be established in the sequel. Rasa-
consciousness or experience is not invalid like the illusion of silver in a
shell, because it is never subsequently sublated as a sin, as is the case with
the silver-shell illusion.”
It remains now to be stated that the movement toward
sadharanikarana is conspicuous by its absence in all Indian poetical
works until Bhatta Nayaka coined it. And he coined it as a synonym of
bhavakatva-vyapara of kavya in relation to rasa, as distinguished from
bhojakatva-vyapara in relation to the sahrdāya, and abhidha-vyapara in
relation to the rhetorical or aesthetic use of language in poetry (with gunās
and alaṇkāras). These two unique vyaparas or functions of poetic
language are postulated by him to serve as better explanations than the one
of dhvani proposed by Ānandavardhana. According to him, the dhvani
function or vyanjana-vyapara cannot adequately highlight the imaginative
and contemplative state that is exclusive to the realisation of rasa. The
new poetic function envisaged by him is called by names such as bhavana,
bhavakatva, and sadharani-karana; nevertheless, all three words refer to
the same phenomenon. The word sadharana in this context just means
“common” vibhāvas and so on delineated in a sadharana in a play or
poem, vibhāvas and so on that are common to two or more constituents in
the aesthetic situation. We have already seen the commonness of feeling
between the poet and the sahrdāya. The characters described in literature
are common to several readers or spectators. Rasa is thus a common or
shared experience. The etymology of the word saharanikarana (abhuta-
tadbhave cvih) is self-explanatory. What is uncommon is made to become
common. The imaginative experience of the plot, the experience of
characters as fashioned, and the experience of the actors who represent
these and of the spectators or readers are all strictly speaking uncommon
or different; however, they are made common, as it were, by the magic
power of art. This power inherent in art is, strictly speaking, one aspect
(amsa) only, like the other two aspects mentioned, viz. rhetoric (abhidha)
and delighting (bhojakatva) of a unitary kavya-vyapara.
“In poetry which involves a threefold functional aspect of language.
Viz., denotation, evocation and delectation . . .” is Abhinavagupta’s
citation. Just as Mīmāṃsā injunctions or prohibitions (i.e., dos and don’ts),
are the result of the power called bhavana inherent in scriptural

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statements, so too rasas like śṛṅgāra are the result of the bhavana-vyapara
indigenous to kavya. Since kavya is a conscious creation of a poet, the
kavya-vyapara of bhavana ultimately means kavi-vyapara only. The
sahrdāya-oriented vyapara has been separately called bhojakatva; hence
bhāva-katva cannot be the sahrdāya’s. By the same token, it cannot be
ascribed to the character (anukarya) created by the poet or the actor
(anukartr) who represents him. We are left only with the creative agent,
the poet and his pratibha-vyapara oriented to rasa; this alone comes to be
designated bhavakatva.
It is this bhavakatva, and none other, which is held to be synonymous
with sadharanikarana. The uncommon is made commonly shareable. By
whom? Obviously, by the poet’s imaginative and creative activity. The
love and suffering of Rama and Sita, when treated thematically, are
regarded as vibhāvas and so on of sthāyībhāvas, viz., rati, soka, and such
like. No one, not even the poet, has been the actual life emotion of these
legendary persons. He only imagines them and gives them a coherent from
in his work. In the former state (laukika), we have only causes, associates,
and so on of mental states. But in their imagined state (alaukika), they are
redesignated as vibhāvas, anubhvas, and such like of sthāyībhāvas. That
means once again that they come to have an existential status only when
they are imaginatively conceived and artistically objectified by a poet.
These can be shared now by any number of readers or spectators.
Vibhāvas and so on are thus sadharanikrta or rendered shareable by one
and all sahrdāyas, transcending the boundaries of even time and space:
“By the function called bhavakatva whose essence lies in making vibhāvas
and such like commonly shared.”
This is Abhinavagupta’s summary of Bhatta Nayaka’s position. In a
way, they might become archetypal or typical of human conditions with
arrested movement as in Keats’s Grecian urn in his Ode. But is this
exactly “universalisation” in the logical sense? I don’t think so. When the
poet has not seen even the particular, what can he universalise?
Dhananjaya’s explanation of Bhatta Nayaka is imprecise, leading to this
confusion among scholars: “Words like Sita denote only a woman in
general, divested of particular attributes like being the daughter of Janaka
and so on.”
The right interpretation is indicated by Simha-bhupala in his
Rasarnava-sudhakara: Particular attributes so divested are only the ones
that might obstruct the reader’s self-identification with the character (viz.,
Sita here), such as “being the daughter of Janaka,” “being the wife of
Rama,” and such like (and not the other ones, which are unobstructive).
Individual attributes such as “being endowed with grace, liveliness,

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chastity, winsomeness, and so on,” are indeed very much present in the
denotation of the word in question. A character stimulant such as Sita calls
forth to our mind only a particular woman endowed with such
unobstructive epithets, and not the genus of all women.

3
Now let us turn to Abhinavagupta. He could take over Bhatta Nayaka’s
findings, lock, stock, and barrel, because both were Kashmiri Saivas. But
he does not accept the kavya-vyapara of bhavakatva or sadharanikarana,
since in his poetics vyanjana-vyapara is a better substitute for both
bhavakatva and bhojakatva. Abhinavagupta’s sadharanikarana is only an
implication contained in poetic suggestion or manifestation and not its
whole nature. All his accounts of saksatkara (intuitive actualisation),
camatkara (esoteric flash), bhogavesa (afflatus of enjoyment), eka-ghana-
samvit (consciousness absolute), and such like are couched in terms
common to Kashmiri Saivism and aesthetics, used repeatedly for the first
time by Abhinavagupta. The corrupt reading of the available
Abhinavabhāratī on sadharanikarana cannot permit any ready translation
unless the whole background is grasped. The passage in question can be
rendered as follows: Hence it is that commonness is not limited at all, but
quite unlimited. This is even like the relation of invariable concomitance
between the syllogistic probans, viz., smoke and the probandum, viz., fire.
Or it may be compared to the invariable relation between a stimulus like
fear and its response like a shiver. Towards this apparently “intuitive
actualisation,” the whole paraphernalia of actors and so on of the stage is
contributory. When, in a dramatic performance, all limiting factors such as
place, time and cogniser, both real and poetically conceived, become
completely annihilated because of their mutual opposition, the aforesaid
state of “commonness” alone will stand out. Hence, it is that the common
experience of all connoisseurs adds up to a perfect state of rasa.
The context is of fear becoming a rasa in the connoisseur while
witnessing the scene of the hunted deer in Śakuntalā and similar works, as
described by Kālidāsa.
It should be very clearly noted that the word used here is sadharanyam
and saharani-bhāva but not sadharanikarana. It is a state of unlimited
extension, perhaps like the relation of invariable concomitance between
the probans and the probandum. The actors on the stage and so on only
contribute to the spectacle taking the form of a self-actualisation. They do
not perceive an outside object, such as a deer; they realise within
themselves the very mental state of fear in all its depth. The conditioning

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elements of an object-consciousness like time, space, and subject are
totally annihilated by reason of their mutual cancellation (anyonya-
pratibandha); and the resultant, which is divested of all elements of
individuality, shines out in its general form only. That is why all the
spectator begets is a singularly unified identical awareness and this adds
exceedingly to the nourishment of rasa.
This is my translation of the passage in question. I have not found it
necessary to bring in “universalisation” of any kind. As the further
exposition of Abhinavagupta reveals, he is at pains to adduce a number of
reasons to establish that self-repose (samvid-visranti), the very core of
rasa, cannot be attained by stopping short of anything secondary
(apradhana). The only primal entity in his idealistic philosophy is the
undifferentiated Self or Absolute, and all sthayins are in essence aspects of
this inmost self. Again, they are practically conceded to assume
prominence for the time being by their serving as means to the recognised
purusarthas only. It is argued that nothing unimportant to the inner Self
can usher in rasa.
Finally, I shall now set forth the relevant passages from
Abhinvagupta’s philosophical works, which throw light on what he means
by sadharanibhava:

A taster of a sweet recipe or similar is rightly so designated only because

he enjoys chiefly the aspect of his own inmost self-delight while judging
the given recipe in the form, “this tastes exactly this way,” a form totally
other than that of a tasteless glutton.
Even in the case of plays, poems, and such like the separate identity [of
the perceiver and the perceived] is totally superseded and only pleasure is
tasted, because the joy of rasas like the erotic is very much unlike that of
sensual joy—all impediments incidental to the attainment of the latter in
mundane life being overcome in the former—and is nothing but self-
repose inherent in the very attitude of the percipient himself when he is
freed from the tentacles of all intruding impediments and is designated by
different names such as tasting, chewing, and supreme gratification.
Therefore, it is also called sahrdāyata [lit., common-heartedness] since
it is predominantly a function of the heart or repose in the experiential
aspect [paramarsa] of the perceiver qua perceiver. The objective aspect of
it, though present in the object perceived, is ignored for the while. Thus
such mental states as are entirely free from impediments and yield always
a very delectable taste—and that, too, only during the state of aesthetic
contemplation—are but nine. As this idea has been explained at length by
us in our Abhinavabhāratī a commentary on the Nāṭyaśāstra, inquisitive
readers might refer to it for further details.
. . . While one is tasting a sweet recipe or similar, there is the marginal
intrusion of the sense of touch (by the tongue); but while one tastes a poem
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 or a play, even that gross sense-intrusion disappears. Yet a subtle trace of it
in the form of mental impression is discernible even there. But there are
percipients that are capable of transcending the impeding aspect of even
that mental impression; they indeed experience supreme delight by acute
alertness in overcoming the subtlest impediments [in the way of rasa].

In this self-documented summary of his idea of rasa, Abhinavagupta

explains how a glutton’s eating of food differs from that of a gourmet
taster. The glutton is attentive to the outside food object, but the taster is
inattentive to it, though it is present (this is technically called
vyavadhana); nevertheless, the latter is most attentive to its taste within
himself. In poetry and drama, too, the feeling of separate identity
(anyathabhāva) is overshadowed and only the taste of joy remains. In
empirical life there is the inevitable pull of activities for securing desired
ends. This obstacle is transcended by becoming a spectator, and hence the
joy in seeing a drama is different from sensual joy. Here again, the joy is
nothing but self-repose. The word sahrdāya means etymologically one
who can find joy within himself. The seen objective entity is ignored by
him; he concentrates only on attending to spiritual joy.
In relishing the flavour of sweetness, the sense of touch is a marginal
intruder (vyavadhana), which is superseded to reach the relishing self
within. This gross intrusion of sense-object is absent in poetry and drama,
yet the mental impressions of these may remain as marginal intruders there
also. Only those who can ignore them and turn their full attention to the
relishing self within can attain supreme delight.
Although in Advaita Vedānta the self within is just passive (though
sva-prakasa in Śivadvaita of Kashmir), Vimarsa or paramarsa is as real as
Śiva’s inseparable sakti, and in Śaṅkara’s thought bhoga-viraga is a pre-
condition for self-realisation. But in Abhinavagupta, bhoga itself in its
intensity can be enjoyed in the spirit of a released soul—that is,
transmuted into moksa.
The words Anyathabhava, vyavadhana, anadara (their transcendence
or neglect), and avadhana (inward directed attention) are all technical
terms; nowhere is the implication of “universality” in the modern sense
present, as can easily be seen. True, sadharanya is mentioned in
connection with the vyavadhana-tirodhana or vighna-niRasa. This is a
corollary of the rule that private and personal attitudes in empirical life
must be shed consciously or unconsciously. Those who cannot shed them
are not sahrdāyas, and they cannot attain rasa, which is a spiritual
experience. Abhinavagupta’s classification of egocentric association in
empirical life, positive and negative, under just three headings—mine or
my friend’s, my enemy’s, and an unconcerned person’s—may be
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imperfect, but that cannot vitiate the main argument that the aesthetic
attitude ignores the empirical attitude, even if it be marginally present. Nor
does it substantiate “universalisation” of any kind.
Even Bhatta Gopala, an ancient commentator on Kavyaprakasa who
was aware of Abhinavagupta’s tradition, explains Abhinavagupta’s theory
by alluding to passages from Spanda-karika of Kallata (14–16) and
Isvara-pratyabhi-jna (I.V.15). A much later author, Vidyabhusana (c.
1550 A.D.) states in his Sahitya-kaumudi that the function in question
belongs to vibhāvadis and that its nature is to effect oneness of the
connoisseur with them.
I shall conclude this chapter by referring to two more passages from
the Abhinavabharati. One is his comment on the Nāṭyaśāstra: Since a play
is to be seen by someone in the company of (other members of his family,
such as) father, son, daughter-in-law, mother-in-law, and so on, effort
should be taken to avoid all obscenities. If obscene things were allowed,
says Abhinava, rasa would be destroyed. Why? The answer is, the vital
essence of rasa depends on a common shareability of experience, as
pointed out repeatedly by me.
Can this common shareability by any chance refer to
“universalisation”? This idea is repeated in the Tantraloka also. It is more
like “aesthetic distance,” which provides for both “involvement” and
“detachment.” One is psychologically involved, though practically
detached and impersonal.
For want of space, I cannot enter into details regarding the precise
implication of bhāva, and so on. Nevertheless, I wish to draw your
attention to one pithy comment. This is on Bharata’s text (XXV. 41):
One’s own experience is bhāva, while experience arising on seeing
another is vibhāva. Abhinavagupta comments: To those who are forgetful
by nature, the author indicates by way of a telling analogy the exact nature
of emotion (bhāva), stimulant (vibhāva) and that which ensues
(anybhāva). That experience that is personally lived through (e.g., pleasure
and pain) is bhāva. The word atma or “personal” here rules out
categorically from the province of bhāva the experiencing of things like a
pot.
And that is his last word on the subject.
The main thrust of this paper is to expose how Abhinavagupta has been
more often than not misunderstood by modern scholars. Sadharanikarana
is not a differentiation of rasa; it is only a halfway house leading to the
destination of rasa proper. Even if it be subjected to a critique and found
inadequate, it cannot affect the validity of the theory of rasa, which rests
on the unshakable foundation of the ever-blissful self, allowing us

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glimpses of its ecstasy in the state of deep poetic response. Rightly
understood, his philosophy is grounded on the bedrock of “spiritual pre-
conscious,” it transmutes a finite conscious being (parimita-pramatr) into
an infinite subject of all-consciousness (apari-mitapramatr), and, if I can
borrow a phrase from Maritain, it remains relevant to modern literature.

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 APPENDIX V

CATHARSIS AND RASA

C. N. PATEL

Catharsis and rasa are related concepts, in that they seek to explain the
central feature of all aesthetic experience—namely, that it is so different in
essence from ordinary experience that, whatever the subject or object that
stimulates it, it is always pleasurable. This feature of aesthetic experience
arrests attention with striking vividness in our response to tragedy in
which emotions that would be painful in real life are so transformed as to
excite a pleasurable thrill ending in a feeling akin to “the still sad music of
humanity” to which the beauty of nature opened Wordsworth’s ears.
Aristotle, the first systematic literary critic in the West, called this process
catharsis. He did not define the term and there has been a long discussion
among critics and students of poetry about what he may have meant.
Similarly, in the Indian tradition, too, Bharata, the first systematic writer
on poetics, merely mentions how rasa is generated without explaining
what he means by rasa and how it differs from the pleasurable emotions of
ordinary experience. Later writers took up the concept and made it the
subject of an absorbing speculation about the nature of aesthetic
experience.
Though Western and Indian writers on poetic experience thus deal with
the same problem, their treatments of the subject differ completely from
one another. The difference springs from a more fundamental difference
between the two philosophical attitudes: the transcendental and the
empirical. The former looks upon the waking state as an aspect of a larger
reality not accessible in full in that state. The latter, on the other hand,
confines itself to man’s experience in the waking state, and even when it
concerns itself with unconscious or subconscious levels of the human
psyche which reveal themselves in dream experiences, as it does in some
areas of modern psychology, it seeks to understand those experiences in

117
terms of standards and principles derived from the waking state. The
Western philosophical tradition oscillates between these two poles, Plato
being the typical representative of the transcendental pole and Aristotle of
the empirical. The Indian tradition remained anchored to the
transcendental framework and produced no thinker corresponding to the
figure of Aristotle in the West.
This difference in approach was reflected in the field of aesthetics. The
transcendental view regards the experience of beauty as the reflection of
the spiritual state on the human plane, whereas the empirical view regards
it as one expression of man’s emotional nature to be understood in terms
of its other expressions. Plato, however, did not extend this aesthetic
principle to the experience of poetry or the arts. On the contrary, he
regarded them as obstacles to the realisation of pure truth and spiritual
freedom. Western poetics, beginning with Aristotle, has developed in
reply to Plato’s view. The theory of catharsis is part of that reply. The
Indian theory of rasa also is a reply to the Platonic view, though not
intended as such, for no argument corresponding to Plato’s was advanced
by any writer in India. The two replies differ from each other in that the
Aristotelian reply shifts the argument from the transcendental to the
empirical normal human plane, whereas the Indian reply is on the purest
transcendental plane.
Plato indicted art on two grounds. First, art is an imitation of the
phenomenal world of appearances that, in turn, is an imperfect copy of
reality. Art therefore is twice removed from truth. Second, art strengthens
man’s emotional nature and thereby weakens the rational principle in the
human soul that alone can give true knowledge. In other words, in the
language of Indian philosophy, it strengthens man’s bondage to the world
of māyā both intellectually and emotionally. Aristotle’s reply seems to be
that poetry represents individual facts not in themselves but in their
general, universal significance and is therefore more philosophical than
history; furthermore, it purifies man’s emotional nature. Catharsis refers to
this process of emotional purification. There has been a long argument
among critics over whether Aristotle meant catharsis as a medical
metaphor, in the sense of purging excessive emotional impulses, or
whether he simply meant the psychological process of purifying the
emotions of pity and fear of their selfish elements. But the point is not
actually important. Probably Aristotle himself had no clear idea of what he
meant by the term “catharsis.” He uses it in an earlier treatise, Politics, to
describe the effect of certain kinds of music on persons overcome by
religious frenzy, saying that he will explain the term in another work. But
Aristotle gives no such explanation in Poetics. Whatever meaning

118
Aristotle attached to catharsis, it is clear that what he had in mind was not
poetry’s benefit to man’s spiritual quest but its effect on his conduct in
ordinary human affairs. In the language of the Indian tradition, Aristotle
was interested in the effect of poetry on man’s behaviour in the world of
vyavahara and not on his pursuit of paramartha. Even his stress on the
philosophical content of poetry refers to the general significance of
concrete individual facts grasped by the intellect and not the intuitive
perception of the eternal forms or ideas of Plato’s vision of divine truth.
The Indian theory of rasa is a more satisfying reply to the Platonic
position. It unequivocally asserts that art is a means of spiritual experience
and gives one a taste of the bliss of divine realisation. In the moments of
artistic enjoyment the consciousness of the individual transcends its sense
of separate identity, becomes sadharana or pure human consciousness, in
a state of being that watches the world of becoming without being
involved in it. In other words, jiva ceases to feel itself as a karta and has a
momentary glimpse of its true state as the ātman, the anumanta, upadrsta,
and bhokta of the Bhagavad-Gīta. The Upaniṣadic view of reality asserts
that all pain and sorrow are the consequences of self-forgetfulness, of the
individual consciousness feeling itself alienated from the universal
consciousness that is its source. In the enjoyment of art, this alienation is
overcome and the individual’s consciousness feels the bliss of its union
with its source. This bliss is the most ecstatic in our response to an artistic
representation of tragedy, whether in drama or any other literary genre,
because fear is the most basic emotion of the alienated consciousness and
tragedy helps us face that existential fact and rise above it.
Aristotle saw this truth, but only partially. According to him, tragedy
brings about the catharsis of the emotions of fear and pity, but by “fear” he
means only the fear aroused by events in the lives of certain types of
individuals. In giving this explanation of the cause of fear, Aristotle
ignores the religious background of Greek drama. The latter was a
collective experience in the form of an annual ritual representing certain
mythic events or legends embodying the fear of the whole race, namely,
the fear of invisible forces inflicting inexplicable calamities on man. All
Greek tragedies are pervaded by a sense of doom or inescapable fate. The
Greek mind seems to have been profoundly troubled by a sense of the
hostility or indifference of the gods to man, and Greek drama was a ritual
representation of this collective fear in order to overcome it. Indian
aestheticians also stress the special significance of karuṇa rasa and its
transformation into śānta rasa. The Indian mind, though not troubled by
the destructive aspect of the gods and goddesses, was profoundly
convinced that all life was sorrow and suffering. In dramatic art, sorrow

119
and suffering lost their painfulness and subsided into a sense of
pleasurable calm.
How did art perform this miracle? Neither Western nor Indian writers
answer this question directly, though they do indicate the lines along
which the solution may be sought. Aristotle stresses the importance of
unified structure in tragedy and of rhythm and harmony in its language;
Bharata says categorically that rasa is produced by the samyoga or
harmonious representation of the three types of bhāvas, vibhāvas,
vyabhicāribhāvas, and anubhāvas. Both, it seems, refer to the same
feature of the creative act—namely, apprehension and representation of
pattern and order in the flow of experience. Aristotle stresses the unity and
order of the whole material of the dramatic representation, while Bharata
refers to the unified perception of every component unit in the total series
of events constituting the drama. What is important in both is
apprehending unity in the diverse elements of representation. This
apprehension is an act of the imagination, through which both the artist
and the spectators participate in the divine power of creation. The basic
fact of the universe is the creation of order at all levels of reality, from the
microscopic world of discrete atoms formed by patterns of
electromagnetic waves, to the telescopic world of stars and galaxies, from
the unicellular world of germ-plasm to the infinitely complex structure of
the human body and the still greater miracle of the human mind. In artistic
creation, man, created, according to the Bible, in the image of his maker,
exercises for his pleasure through self-expression the same power that has
created the universe. The pratibha that creates ever-new artistic forms,
navanavollekhasalini prajana, is a manifestation in the individual
consciousness of the power of universal self that said “ekoham bahu
syam.” According to the English poet-critic Coleridge, the imagination
that creates art and poetry is a repetition in the finite mind of the infinite “I
am.” The Infinite “I am,” according to the Upaniṣad, is rasa, “raso vai
sah”; the kavi and the bhavaka, by imitating the creative act of that “I am,”
share in his rasa.
Confronted with this explanation of the pleasure of poetry and art,
Plato would probable have asked, How can we be sure that this rasa of
poetic enjoyment is the rasa of momentary participation in spiritual being
and not merely an abhasa of it? Judged by the conduct in life of men in
love with the pleasure of poetry and the arts, do the effects of poetic
enjoyment seem spiritually beneficial? It is a challenging question to
lovers of art, particularly to the advocates of the doctrine of “art for art’s
sake.”

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 GLOSSARY

aaloka lustre
aaharya abhinaya extraneous representations
abhasa to have an appearance, a reflection
abhinaya acting
abhiyantara implicit
adhama lowest order
adhibhautika materialistic
adhidevika metaphysical divine respectively
adhyatmika individual
advaita-Vedānta unique Vedantic philosophy
aharya to grasp
alaṇkāra imaginative thought
alaṇkāradhvani decorative meaning
alata-cakra a flaming torch so rotated as to look like an
unbroken circle of fire
alaukika celestial
amrtamanthana churning out nectar from the ocean
anga anatomically
angika bodily
angika abhinaya communicating through bodily movements
anka one of the classes that divides rupaka
anudatta grave
anumanta which is approved or consented to
apacita brief in duration
apsaras celestial maidens
arnayaka one of the substitute Vedas, wilderness text
artha economic prosperity
arthanthara-samkramita- the literal meaning shifted to another sense
vcya-dhvani
artha-saktimula power of primary meaning
arthatattvatah all its essentials
asamlaksyakrama the suggested sense is produced without
apparent sequence
āstika orthodox school
atharvaveda one of the four Vedas
atma soul, spirit
attam dance
atyantatiraskrita-vacya- the literal is entirely set aside
121
 dhvani
avanaddha percussion instruments
avivaksita not intended to be conveyed
ayurveda science of medicine

bahya outer
bhana one of the classes that divides rupaka
bharta-vakya a conclusive sentence
bhāva feelings
bhavaka one who shows feelings
bhokta one who enjoys pleasure
Brahma the creator god
Brahman one of the four castes in Manu’s system
Brahmana little developed religious texts
brahmanandasahodra aesthetic delight
ānanda
brahmmanda the universe

cetna conscience
charaka medical practitioner
chitra vīṇā instrument with seven strings played with
fingers
chitrabhinaya art to represent abstract phenomenon
citta-vrtti-samvada emotional matching

dardura drum with one face shaped like a pitcher

dasharupaka ten types of drama
dhaivata sixth musical note of Hindustani classical
music
dhanurveda science of archery
dharma virtue
dhruvas songs used in drama
dhvani-kavya suggestive poetry
dima one of the classes that divides rupaka
dosa faults
drishya enjoyable by the eye
drtatva rapidity

gāndhāra third musical note of Hindustani classical

music
gandharva heavenly princes

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gati foot movement
ghana cymbals
ghata pitcher
gīta music
gunā attributes
gunibutha-vyangya ornate description

ihamriga one of the classes that divides rupaka

ittivritta a comprehensive term for structure and
phrasing, occurrence

jnana knowledge

kaksya-vibhaga inner apartment

kama pleasure
kamatantra science of sensual desire
kampita quivering
karakasakti the power that causes the work done
kavi poet
kavyasyatma dhvani real core of the poetic method
kona plectrum
krdanta a cry of distress
kridanaka entertainment to fulfil the desire
Kṛṣṇalīlā performing the life of Kṛṣṇa in dance
kuntaka unembellished expression

lakṣaṇa diction
laksya secondary
lasya feminine form of dance taught by Pārvatī
līlā play
lokadharmi one of the schools of delivery and movement
lokas worlds
lokasvabhava human condition
loka-vritti imitation of men and their doings
lokayata a sect that doesn’t accept the authority of the
Vedas

madhayama intermediate
madhyama fourth musical note of Hindustani classical
music
Mahesvara lord Śiva

123
manas mind
manjira percussion instrument played with both hands
moksha liberation
mrudanga dual-headed rhythmic instrument
mukhya primary
mukhyartha primary meaning
muktakas short lyrics
murcchana group of svaras to be sung together

nandi prayer
nāstika heterodox schools
nata performer
natak drama
natika one of the eighteen classes of uprupaka
nāṭya dramatic whole
nāṭya samagri a part of a dramatic whole
nāṭyadahrmi one of the schools of delivery and movement
nāṭyagrha theatre
Nāṭyaveda the fifth Veda, takes elements from four
Vedas – pathya (dialogue or text) from Rig-
Veda, gīta (music) from Sāmaveda, abhinaya
(acting) from Yajurveda, and rasa (emotion)
from Atharvaveda
neta the hero
niṣāda seventh musical note of Hindustani classical
music

pada composition
panava dual-headed instrument that is thin in the
middle and fastened with strings
pancham fifth
pañcama fifth musical note of Hindustani classical
music
paramartha beneficial
Pārvatī wife of lord Śiva
pathya dialogue or text
praakruta dhvani primary sound
pracita long in duration
pracitatara longer in duration
prahasana one of the classes that divides rupaka
Prajapati lord Brahma

124
prakarana a type of dramatic composition of one act
Prākrit an old classical language similar to Sanskrit
pratibha talent
prayoga practice
proksha explicit
pūrvarānga that which precedes the staging

rakshas demons
Rāmlīlā performing the life of Rama in dance
rasa emotions
rasokti delineation of emotion
“raso vaii saharasa” “verily is he”
ṛṣabha second musical note of Hindustani classical
music
rupaka general term in Sanskrit for dramatic
compositions

sabda-saktimula power of word

sadharanikarana generalised emotion
sala place
sama equiweight is suggested by two terms
samanyabhinaya generalisation of acting
samavakara one of the classes that divides rupaka
samhita collection of abstract ritualistic mantra
samlaksyakrama-dhvani where the sequence is apparent
samvada-suktas hymns that contain dialogue
samyapadan a single equilibrium
sangraha a collection
śāstra theoretical science
sattaka one of the eighteen classes of uprupaka
sattvika representations of temperaments
sattvika abhinaya representations of temperaments of characters
saushthava body built
ṣaḍja first musical note of Hindustani classical
music
shahanai wind-blown instrument
Śiva one of the principal deities
shravya delightful to the ear
shudra lowest of the four castes assigned by Manu
silpa skills
sphoṭa primary sound

125
sthapatyaveda architectural science
sthāyībhāva permanent emotion
sushira wind blown instruments
sushruta surgeon
svabhavokt natural description
svara a musical note
svarita circular

tāla beats
Tandava dance form taught by Tandu
Tandu disciple of Śiva
tata stringed instruments
tatparya syntactical meaning
triloka three worlds of gods, men, and demons
tripurdaha a story from Śiva’s own deeds
trotaka one of the eighteen classes of uprupaka
tundakini conches are the subordinate ones

ubhaya-saktimula power of word and primary meaning

uddata high
uddesa aim
upadrsta one who sees
upanga physiologically
uparupakas minor dramatic composition
Upavedas subordinate Vedas
uttamakavya excellent poetry

vacika speech
vacikabhvaya effective speech or recitation
vacya primary meaning
vagabhinaya recitation of speeches assigned to the
character
vaikruta dhvani secondary sound
vakrokti figurative language
vastu the plot
vīṇā type of stringed instrument
veethi road shows
vibhaga apartment
vibhāvadijivitavadhi the rasa experience is coterminous with the
presence of the vibhāvas
vidushak constant companion of hero

126
vilambita slowness
viniyog combination of beauty, grace and meaning in
bodily movements
vipanchi instrument with nine strings
Viṣṇu the preserver god
vithi one of the classes that divides rupaka
vividhashraya that which depends on many
vritti style
vyabhicāribhāva transitory emotion
vyangya that which is suggested
vyangyartha the meaning suggested by the words
vyanjaka that which suggests
vyanjana that which suggests
vyapara business, commerce
vyayama exercise
vyayoga one of the classes that divides rupaka

yajna Brahmanical ritual yielding spiritual results

zanza percussion instrument

127
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 INDEX

Aaharya, 17 Bharata, 10, 12, 13, 15, 16, 17,

Aastika, 7 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25,
abhidhamula, 53 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 38, 39, 40,
Abhinavabhāratī, 66 41, 42, 47, 65, 68, 70, 74, 75,
Abhinava-Bhāratī, 68 86, 87, 91, 116, 118, 121,
Abhinavgupta, 2, 4, 9, 65, 69 130, 131, 132, 133, 134, 135
abhinaya, 12, 17, 25, 27, 39, 40, Bharatavakya, 13
42, 70 Bharatmuni, 4, 12
Abhinvagupta, 41 Bharatmuni’s, 4
Absolute’, 6 Bhartrihari, 48
Adbhuta, 22, 32, 37, 39 Bhatta, 41, 47, 75, 85, 87, 109,
Advaita, 7, 72 110, 111, 112, 113, 116
aesthetics, 2, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 14, Bhava, 31, 38
15, 16, 59, 70, 104, 110, 113, BHAVA, 2, 31
119 Bhayanaka, 32, 38
alankara, 39, 41, 46, 51 Bhrahma, 13
Alankara, 43, 44, 105 Brahman, 8, 13
Alankarika, 59, 60 Brahmanandasahodra, 10
Amritamanthan, 12 Charaka, 15
Ananda, 7, 11 Chitrabhinaya, 18
Anandarvardhana, 42 Citra, 51
Anandavardhana, 40, 42, 43, 47, citrabhinaya, 20, 28
65, 74, 87, 103, 104, 105, Coomaraswamy, 7, 129
108, 111, 131 Dandin, 42, 43, 74, 130
Angika, 17 Dhanurveda, 15
angikabhinaya, 24 Dharma, 9, 25, 42, 81
Anka, 12 Dhvani, 2, 43, 44, 46, 47, 51, 59,
Anubhavas, 31, 37 63, 134
anukarana, 24, 25, 27, 29 Dhvanivada, 44
Apsaras, 16 Dhvanyaloka, 4, 40, 47, 65, 87,
artha, 9, 47, 51, 54, 65, 66, 68, 131, 132
69 Dima, 12
Atharva, 16, 46 dipaka, 26, 42
Atharvaveda, 12, 15 dosas, 42
Ayurveda, 15 dramaturgy, 12, 14, 20, 30, 39,
Beebhatsa, 22 68, 75
Bhana, 12 drishya, 12
Gandharvaveda, 15
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Gunibutha, 51 Natya, 2, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14,
Haasa, 32 15, 17, 19, 21, 22, 24, 30, 31,
Hasya, 22, 32, 36, 39 115, 130, 132, 135
hathyoga, 24 Natyadahrmi, 9
Hinduism, 6, 71, 77, 79, 132 NatyaSastra, 4, 21, 27, 29, 39,
hrdayasamvada, 41 40, 41, 42, 47, 86, 87, 116
Ihamriga, 12 natyashastra, 15
Indra, 12, 15 Natyashastra, 2, 9, 10, 11, 12,
ittivritta, 21 13, 15, 19, 20, 21, 22, 29, 30,
Jayaratha, 44 31, 39, 135
Kama, 9 natyaveda, 15
Karuna, 22, 32, 37, 39 Natyaveda, 12, 15
Kridanaka, 12 Natyshastra, 20
Krishnamoorthy, 3, 103, 131 neta, 12
kuntaka, 43 Nirveda, 33
Kuntaka, 44, 74, 85, 87 pancham, 13
laksanamula, 52, 53 Patanjali, 62, 64
Lasya, 16 pathya, 25, 29
like, 7, 10, 11, 15, 17, 18, 19, Poetics, 2, 65, 81, 82, 83, 86, 87,
20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 88, 92, 101, 119, 130, 131,
32, 33, 34, 36, 46, 52, 59, 64, 134
69, 73, 78, 79, 81, 82, 90, 91, Prahasana, 12
93, 97, 98, 100, 101, 103, Prajapati, 13
104, 106, 109, 110, 111, 112, Prakarana, 12
113, 114, 116 Prakrit, 13, 25, 26, 43
Lila, 9 Racana-vaicitrya-yukta, 44
Locana, 4, 69, 87, 89, 105, 131 Rasa, 2, 3, 9, 10, 12, 20, 22, 23,
Lokadharmi, 9, 133, 135 26, 28, 31, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40,
loka-vritti, 13 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 47, 52, 68,
Lollata, 47, 75 69, 70, 74, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86,
madhyama, 22 87, 90, 91, 92, 95, 96, 97, 98,
Mahesvara, 8, 13 100, 101, 102, 104, 105, 106,
Mammata, 42 107, 108, 109, 110, 111, 112,
moksha, 9, 72 113, 114, 115, 116, 117, 118,
naada, 61 119, 120, 121, 130, 134
nandi, 13 RASA, 2, 3, 31, 39, 103
Nastika, 7 Rasavada, 44
Natak, 12, 135 raso vaii sahaRasa, 13
Nataraja, 13, 16, 23 Rasokti, 44
Natika, 12 Rati, 32, 36
Raudra, 32

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Rigveda, 12, 15 Svabhavokti, 43, 44, 45

Roudra, 37 Taitriya, 13
rupaka, 12, 26, 42, 82, 83 Tandava, 16
'Rupaka', 12 tanmayibhavana, 41, 70, 111
Ruyyaka, 44 tragedy, 12, 83, 118, 120, 121
sabda, 28, 46, 51, 52, 53, 59, 60, Tripurdaha, 12
65, 68 Trotaka, 12
sadharanikarana, 41, 85, 87, 91, upama, 42, 82, 83
92, 93, 95, 97, 98, 100, 104, Upanishad, 7, 9, 16
109, 110, 111, 112, 113 uparupaka, 12
Sahrdaya, 44 Upavedas, 15
Samavakara, 12 vacika, 25, 39, 40, 42
Samaveda, 12, 15, 22 Vacikabhinaya, 14
Samlaksyakrama, 53 vaikrta, 49, 61, 64
samyapadana, 20 Vakrokti, 43, 44, 45, 80
Sankuka, 47, 98, 99, 101, 111 Vastu, 12, 43, 44
Sanskrit, 2, 4, 12, 13, 14, 25, 40, Veda, 7, 9, 10, 12, 13, 14, 15,
41, 43, 46, 68, 74, 80, 81, 82, 16, 46, 76
83, 86, 87, 88, 100, 101, 104, Vedantic, 6, 10
110, 129, 130, 131, 132, 134, veena, 22, 23
135 Veera, 22, 39
Sattaka, 12 Vendanticism, 6
Sattvika, 17, 39 Vibhatsa, 32, 37, 39
Saundarya, 44 Vibhava, 31, 39
Shanta, 38 Vibhavas, 31, 84, 112
Shastra, 2, 12, 13, 14, 17 vidushaka, 12
Shravya, 12 Vithi, 12
shringara, 36 vividhashraya, 19
Shringara, 22, 36 vyangya, 51, 52, 60
Soka, 32 vyangyartha, 47, 49, 51, 52, 59
sphota, 48, 49, 59, 60, 61, 62, vyanjana, 40, 50, 53, 60, 111,
63, 64 113
Sthapatyaveda, 15 vyayama, 24
sthāyībhāva, 23, 52, 60, 101, Vyayoga, 12
112 Yajurveda, 12, 15
Sushruta, 15 yamaka, 26, 42
Svabhavika, 44

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