ভর্তৃহরেঃ শতক ত্রিশতি - শৃঙ্গার শতকম্

Salutations to the adorable God of Love (Makaradhwaja), whose deeds are beyond the reach of speech, and who constantly turns even Shiva, Brahma, and Vishnu into mere household servants of doe-eyed women.

Women truly bind men through every expression: through their smiles, their amorous gestures, their shyness and feigned fear, their averted glances, their side-long looks, their speech, their jealous quarrels, and their playful ways.

The clever arching of the brows, the sidelong glances, the gentle speech, the laughter ending in modesty, and the graceful way they walk or stand—these are simultaneously the ornaments and the weapons of women.

With the playful movements of the eyes of maidens—sometimes knit in a frown, sometimes veiled in shyness, sometimes darting in alarm, and sometimes flickering with grace—it seems as if the heavens are scattered with clusters of blooming blue lotuses.

A face radiant as the moon, eyes that put the lotus to shame, a complexion that outshines gold, hair that surpasses the splendor of bees, breasts that rival the temples of an elephant, heavy hips, and speech that is captivatingly soft—these are the natural adornments of a young woman.

When a doe-eyed woman touches the threshold of youth, what is it about her that is not enchanting? Her smile is tenderly naive, her gaze is artlessly vibrant, her speech flows with novel and graceful charm, and her very movements are steeped in the playfulness of blossoming buds.

Among things to be seen, what is supreme? The face of a doe-eyed woman radiant with love. What is to be smelled? The breath of her mouth. What is to be heard? Her speech. What is to be tasted? The nectar of her lips. What is to be touched? Her body. What is to be contemplated by those with a refined heart in the prime of youth? Everywhere, her captivating playfulness.

Whose mind is not rendered helpless by young women, who outdo the royal swans with the jingling sounds of their bangles, waistbands, and anklets, and who pierce the heart with glances like those of a startled, innocent deer?

Who on earth is not brought under the spell of a beautiful woman, whose body is stained with sandalwood paste, whose heavy breasts cause her necklace to tremble, and whose lotus-like feet ring out with the sound of anklets?

Surely those great poets speak in contradiction when they call women "the weaker sex" (Abala). How can they be weak, when even Indra and the other gods have been conquered by the mere glance of their restless, dark-pupiled eyes?

Verily, the God of Love is but a servant to that fair-browed maiden, for he acts only according to the directions indicated by the movements of her eyes.

With hair restrained in a braid, eyes that have reached the furthest shore of wisdom, a mouth filled with naturally pure teeth, and bosom-jars ever beautiful with pearls, your body, O slender one, though appearing calm, surely awakens passion in us.

O innocent one, what strange archery is this that is seen in you, by which you pierce our hearts with your virtues alone, rather than with arrows?

Though there be lamps, fire, and the stars, sun, and moon, without my deer-eyed beloved, this entire world is but darkness to me.

Let the heavy burden of her breasts, her tremulous eyes, her moving brows, and her lips, red with passion, cause me distress if they must; but why does even her line of hair—that thin, dark streak resting upon her waist like a garland of auspicious letters written by the God of Love himself—cause me such intense fever?

With a face like a moonstone, locks of hair deep blue like sapphires, and hands red like rubies, she shone as if she were made entirely of precious gems.

With the heavy burden of her breasts, her radiant moon-like face, and her feet moving slowly like the planet Saturn, she shone as if she were the embodiment of the celestial planets.

If her breasts are full, her hips enchanting, and her face beautiful, why, O my mind, are you so agitated? Perform virtuous deeds if you desire these things, for without merit, one's desired objects are never attained.

These youthful charms, fresh fragrances, the commencement of bold amorous play, the pledges of victory for the God of Love, these thieves of the heart, and the primary masters of new emotions—the playful activities of these deer-eyed women reign supreme.

Sweet with affection, bursting with love, brimming with sentiment, charming in their expression, simple yet full of delight, naturally graceful, tender with intimacy, and awakening the passion of love—the private conversations of these deer-eyed women captivate the heart in ways that are beyond description.

Resting repeatedly in the shadows of the forest trees, a slender woman walked along, shielding herself from the moonbeams with her upper garment held by her hand.

When not seen, one desires only to see; having seen, one desires only the bliss of an embrace; and when she, the long-eyed one, is embraced, I long for the merging of our two bodies into one.

With a Malati flower in her hair, a radiant smile on her face, her body anointed with sandalwood paste mixed with saffron, and a beloved languid with passion pressed to one's chest—this is heaven, and everything else is merely scriptural hearsay.

The love-making of a virtuous woman proceeds through stages: first approaching with slight hesitation, then with awakened desire, followed by shyness, then a slowing of effort, then the collapse of composure, then becoming tender with love and bold in the intimate pleasures of seclusion, and finally, becoming delightful beyond measure in the unrestrained merging of bodies.

The fortunate ones drink the nectar of the lips of women who are fallen upon the chest, whose hair has come undone, whose eyes are closed or slightly opened, and whose cheeks are glistening with the sweet fatigue of love.

The flavor of love that is felt deep within by those with closed eyes, known truly only by the couple in union—this alone is the supreme destroyer of desire.

It is indeed improper and out of order for men to experience the agitations of desire even in old age; yet, for women, life and pleasure are intended to last only until their breasts begin to sag.

No one in this world has ever reached the shore of the ocean of thirst for worldly objects. What is the use of vast wealth when one's own body and youth are fading? Let us therefore go to the homes of our beloveds, whose eyes are like blooming blue lotuses, before their beauty is suddenly ravaged by old age.

In this world, there is nothing more than youth—the very abode of desire, the cause of attaining the great suffering of a hundred hells, the seed of delusion, a thick cloud covering the moon of wisdom, the sole friend of the god of love, and the source of various manifest faults.

Only a rare, fortunate soul remains untroubled when new youth arrives—youth, which is the raincloud for the tree of desire, the flowing stream of playful pleasure, the dear kinsman of the god of love, the ocean of pearls of clever speech, the purifier of the Chakora-like eyes of slender women, and the treasure-house of the goddess of beauty.

In this essence-less world, how could the pure-minded maintain their composure, when it is constantly shaken by the disgrace of waiting at the doors of petty kings? If it were not for these youthful women—whose faces shine like the rising moon, whose eyes are like lotus petals, whose waists are curved under the weight of their breasts, and who are adorned with tinkling golden girdles—the mind would surely find its peace elsewhere.

If women, with their eyes as timid as those of a young deer, were not the arrows of Love, what noble person would ever bow their head in shame or humiliation? Indeed, one might remain in the blessed heights of the Himalayas—where sages dwell in mountain caves, where the trees are broken by the shoulders of Shiva's bull, and where the stone slabs are washed by the waters of the Ganges—without ever feeling the need to prostrate oneself before the world.

O World, the path to your end would not be so far away, were it not for the irresistible obstacles posed by women with intoxicating eyes.

Give the bundles of Kusha grass, cut at the roots and having the color of bamboo stalks, to the forest deer. Or, give the Betel leaves—as pale as the cheeks of young women—torn by the edges of their crimson nails, to the maidens.

One may argue that all sensual pleasures are worthless, bitter at the end, and sources of sin, and thus worthy of contempt. Yet, in this world, there is no merit greater than acting for the welfare of others, and there is nothing more delightful than a woman with lotus-like eyes.

The true fruit of love in this world is the union of two hearts; love without mutual affection is like the union of two corpses. O noble ones, cast aside bias, deliberate carefully, and tell me: is it more worthy to dwell upon the slopes of mountains, or to seek the company of smiling, playful women?

In this world, which is as fleeting as a dream and as unstable as the changing seasons, there are only two paths for the wise: either spend one's time with a mind purified by the nectar of philosophical truth, or spend it in the company of beautiful women, whose heavy breasts and hips are centers of delight, and whose hands are ever busy with the erotic play of physical intimacy.

Choose your dwelling: either in the sin-destroying waters of the holy Ganges, or in the heart-stealing, necklace-adorned bosom of a youthful maiden.

Why waste time with many meaningless words? For men, there are only two things worth pursuing in this life: either the youth of beautiful women, ever eager for fresh erotic play and heavy with the burden of their breasts, or the solitude of the forest.

I speak the truth to you, not out of partiality, but as an absolute fact across all seven worlds: there is nothing more captivating than a beautiful woman, and there is no greater cause of sorrow than she.

Even a learned man, upon seeing a woman—who is but a container of impurities—becomes deluded, feeling joy, attraction, and fascination, praising her as "beloved," "lotus-eyed," "heavy-hipped," "large-breasted," "lotus-faced," and "beautiful-browed." Alas, how powerful and strange is the working of delusion!

How can a woman be called a "beloved" when the mere thought of her brings suffering, the sight of her drives one to madness, and the touch of her leads to infatuation?

A woman is like nectar only as long as she is within the reach of one's sight; once she passes beyond the range of the eyes, she becomes even more toxic than poison itself.

There is neither nectar nor poison in this world other than the woman. When she is affectionate, she is a vine of nectar; when she is indifferent, she is a creeper of poison.

Who created this woman-machine, which is a vortex of doubts, a city of arrogance, a hub of recklessness, a repository of faults, a field of treachery and distrust, an obstruction to the gateway of heaven, the front door to hell, a casket of all illusions, a poison appearing as nectar, and a snare for the living beings of this world?

The moon has not truly become her face, nor have blue lotuses become her eyes, nor has gold created her slender frame. Yet, the foolish man, though knowing the truth, allows his mind to be deceived by poets and serves the body of a woman, which is composed only of skin, flesh, and bone.

The natural charms of playful women merely dance in the mind of the deluded man. Just as the attraction to the lotus is inherent in the bee, so the bee wanders around it in vain; similarly, the man is lured by his own mental projections.

What do these beautiful-eyed women not do once they enter the soft heart of men? They bewilder them, intoxicate them, mock them, reproach them, delight them, and plunge them into despair. This lotus-like face of the slender-bodied woman, which steals the luster of the full moon and holds the nectar of her lips—is it a fruit of the tree of virtue? Once this time passes, it will become as unpleasant and poisonous as gall.

This river in the form of a beloved woman—having the waves of the three folds on her abdomen, the pair of large, firm breasts as the rising chakravaka birds, and the lotus-like face as its blooming beauty—is cruel and does not care for those who drown in it. If you wish to avoid drowning in the ocean of worldly existence, then forsake her from afar.

Women talk with one person, look at another with playful glances, and keep a third person in their hearts. Who, then, can truly be called the beloved of such women?

Honey dwells on the lips of women, but only deadly poison resides in their hearts. That is why one kisses their lips, while one’s own heart is struck by blows of despair.

O friend, move far away from this fire of a woman’s sidelong glance, which is like a serpent of crooked nature adorned with a hood of playfulness. One bitten by an ordinary snake can be cured by medicine, incantations, and mantras, but there is no remedy for one who has been devoured by the serpent of a woman.

In the ocean of worldly existence, the fisherman Cupid has cast a hook in the form of a woman. With it, he swiftly drags out human fish, greedy for the bait of the lips, and cooks them in the fire of worldly attachment.

O traveler Mind, do not wander into the dense forest of a woman’s body, where the mountains of her breasts are treacherous; for there lurks the highwayman known as desire.

I would rather be bitten by a long, restless, crooked, venomous, and dark-blue snake than by the glance of a woman. For those bitten by a snake, there are healers in every direction seeking wealth, but for me, bitten by the glance of doe-eyed women, there is neither healer nor medicine.

"Here is sweet music, there is dancing; this is the flavor, that is the fragrance; here is the touch of breasts." Deluded by these senses—which have abandoned the ultimate truth and are experts at sabotaging my own well-being—I am being cheated by these five.

This epilepsy of lust is neither reachable by mantras nor curable by medicine; it does not vanish through hundreds of rituals. By repeatedly causing a breakdown of the body through its delusory influence, this passion makes my vision reel and my mind spin.

Who would feel affection for courtesans—who act as axes to the creeper of discernment—even as they offer their beautiful forms to those who are blind, ugly, decrepit, rustic, of low birth, or suffering from leprosy?

The courtesan is the flame of desire, fueled by the wood of physical beauty, into which the lustful sacrifice both their youth and their wealth.

What man of noble birth would kiss the attractive lips of a courtesan, which serve as a spittoon for spies, soldiers, thieves, servants, actors, and lechers?

Blessed are those individuals who, upon beholding the forms of women—with their bright, wide eyes, firm and full breasts swollen with the pride of youth, and the play of the three folds of skin upon their slender waists—remain entirely unmoved, their minds unaffected by any agitation.

O young maiden, why do you cast those languid, playful glances at me? Desist, desist! Your efforts are in vain. We are not who we once were; our youth has faded, our reliance is now on the forest-dwelling life, our delusions have withered, and we now perceive this whole web of the world as nothing more than a blade of grass.

Why does this maiden constantly cast at me her eyes, which steal the luster of blue lotus petals? What does she desire? My delusion has departed, and the fever caused by the arrows of the forest-dwelling hunter, Cupid, has been extinguished—yet, alas, the poor girl will not stop.

O Cupid, why do you torment your hand with the twanging of your bow? O cuckoo, why do you waste your soft, sweet melodies? O charming maiden, enough with your affectionate, clever, beautiful, and restless sidelong glances; my mind is already immersed in the nectar of meditating upon the feet of the Lord who wears the moon on His crest.

Even in physical separation, there is truly union if the minds of two people are attuned to one another; however, if the heart is disunited, then even physical proximity only serves to accentuate the pain of separation.

"What is the use of returning home if she is no longer alive? And if she is still alive, what is the use of returning if I cannot be with her?"—thinking thus, the traveler gazes upon the new garland of clouds and cannot bring himself to journey to his own house.

O wise ones, cease your pursuit of the fleeting pleasures of association with women; instead, cultivate union with the virtues of compassion, friendliness, and wisdom. Surely, in the afterlife, neither necklaces adorning firm breasts nor hips swaying with jingling jeweled girdles will serve as your refuge.

When, for a fortunate soul, an unbroken bond of friendship awakens between the spirit and the mind, both made lean through the practice of Yoga, what use are they—the talk of beloveds, the nectar of their lips, their moon-like faces, the fragrance of their sighs, or the delights of embracing their pitcher-like breasts?

When there was ignorance born of the darkness of desire, the entire world appeared to be made of women. Now, as our eyes have been anointed with the potent collyrium of discrimination, our vision has become leveled, and we perceive the three worlds as nothing but Brahman.

The lamp of pure discrimination flickers in the hearts of even the wise only so long as it is not struck by the flickering sidelong glances of deer-eyed women.

Those who are merely scholars, loud with scriptural debate, speak incessantly of renouncing worldly attachments. Yet, who among them is truly capable of forsaking the sight of lotus-eyed women, adorned with girdles of red gems resting upon their hips?

The pseudo-scholar who disparages young women is merely deceiving himself and others; for even the fruit of the highest austerities is said to be heaven, and in heaven itself, the ultimate joy is the presence of celestial nymphs.

There are brave men on this earth who are capable of shattering the temples of wild elephants or slaying fierce lions. However, I declare before the strong that those who are able to crush the pride of Cupid are rare indeed.

A man remains on the path of virtue, retains control over his senses, holds onto modesty, and maintains his composure only as long as the arrow-like glances of beautiful women—drawn from the bows of their brows, reaching to their ears, and fringed with dark lashes—do not strike his heart to steal away his resolve.

When women are overcome by the intensity of passionate love, even Lord Brahma himself is hesitant and powerless to place any obstacle in their path.

Greatness, scholarship, noble birth, and wisdom endure only so long as the fire of Cupid does not burn within the limbs.

Even a man who is well-versed in the scriptures, famously modest, and possessed of self-knowledge is rarely found in this world to be truly destined for higher realms. For in this world, the curved brow of a woman acts like a key, opening for him the very gates of hell.

A dog may be thin, one-eyed, lame, earless, tailless, covered in sores, oozing pus, infested with hundreds of worms, emaciated by hunger, and dragging a broken pot around its neck; yet, it still pursues a female. Verily, Cupid strikes even the wretched.

Those foolish people of poor intellect who, in pursuit of false fruits, abandon the feminine form—which is the banner of Cupid and the source of all worldly treasures—are struck down mercilessly by him. Left naked and shorn, some are made into ascetics with five tufts of hair, others into matted-haired hermits, and others still into wandering skull-bearing mendicants.

Sages like Vishvamitra and Parashara, who sustained themselves only on air, water, and dried leaves, fell into delusion upon merely seeing the lovely lotus-faces of women. If ordinary men, who indulge in rice mixed with ghee, milk, and curd, claim to have conquered their senses, then one might as well expect the Vindhya mountains to float across the ocean.

When spring arrives, bringing with it fragrant breezes, budding branches, the sweet and longing cries of cuckoos, and the moon-like faces of women glistening with the faint perspiration of love—whose heart is not touched by these blossoming virtues?

Even when spring is sweet, the melodies of the cuckoo and the gentle breezes from the Malaya mountains become painful to those separated from their beloveds; alas, in times of distress, even nectar turns into poison.

For some, the heart is gladdened in the nights of the Chaitra month by the presence of a beloved amidst playful joys, the sweet song of the cuckoo reaching the ear, flowering bowers, gatherings of fine poets, and the soft, innocent rays of the moon.

The female cuckoos now gaze with longing at the mango blossoms, which act as offerings to the fire of separation burning in the hearts of travelers, while the breezes from the sandalwood mountains, having stolen the heavy fragrance of fresh trumpet flowers, bring exhaustion and weariness.

Let the pride of loving women hold its place in the heart only so long as the fragrant breezes from the Malaya mountain do not blow across the sandalwood trees.

With the horizon intoxicated by the abundant fragrance of mango blossoms and the bees maddened by the sweetness of the season, who is there whose heart is not filled with longing during the spring?

During the summer, passion and the god of love are intensified by deer-eyed women anointed with cooling sandalwood paste, rain-houses, fresh flowers, moonlight, gentle breezes, fragrant blossoms, and the cool rooftops of mansions.

Delightful garlands, the fanning breeze, moonbeams, flower pollen, refreshing lakes, sandalwood powder, clear wine, the pristine terrace of a palace, and the thin garments of lotus-eyed women—all these things bring joy to the fortunate ones during the summer season.

The moon, shining with nectar-white rays; the lotus-like face of the beloved; highly fragrant sandalwood paste; and delightful, sweet-smelling garlands—all of these stir the hearts of the passionate, but they have no effect on one who is detached from worldly attachments.

Who is not delighted by the rainy season, which wears the appearance of a young woman, is fragrant with blooming jasmine, and carries the heavy burden of high, firm breasts?

The sky is thick with gathering clouds, the earth is sprouting with new life, and the breezes are fragrant with the scent of blooming Kutaja and Kadamba flowers. The edges of the forests are made enchanting by the collective, melodious cries of peacocks; all of this stirs a deep yearning in the hearts of everyone, whether they are happy or distressed.

Above, the sky is covered with a dense canopy of clouds; all around, the mountains are alive with dancing peacocks; and the earth itself is brightened by fresh sprouts. In such a season, where can the lonely traveler cast his weary gaze?

On one side, the lightning flashes like a vine; on another, the Ketaki tree spreads its fragrance; here resounds the thunder of rising clouds, and there echoes the playful call of the peacocks. How, then, will these monsoon days, so full of longing, ever pass for those whose eyes are heavy with the pain of separation?

In the darkness where not even a needle could pass, amidst the roar of heavy clouds and the falling of torrential rain, the golden flash of lightning brings both joy and sorrow to the hearts of beautiful women as they walk their paths.

Because of the heavy downpour, one cannot leave the palace; the trembling caused by the cold compels the doe-eyed beloved to embrace her lover tightly. The breezes, cooled by the mist, dispel all weariness; indeed, for the fortunate, a rainy, gloomy day turns into a bright and joyous one in the company of one's beloved.

Having slept only half the night, exhausted and languid from the intensity of passionate lovemaking, with an unbearable thirst born of that exertion, a man of little merit sits alone on the palace terrace. Instead of enjoying the embrace of his beloved, whose arms are slack with exhaustion, he drinks only ordinary water, clear and cooled by moonlight, through a filter, missing the true nectar of companionship.

In the winter season, the fortunate ones—who consume yogurt, milk, and clarified butter, who are dressed in madder-red garments, whose bodies are thickly anointed with saffron paste, who are fatigued by the delights of varied intimacy, who are held in the embrace of women with rounded, firm breasts within the comfort of their homes, and whose mouths are filled with betel leaves and areca nuts—rest in complete happiness.

During this season, when the Priyangu flowers are vibrant, the Kunda blossoms attract swarms of bees, and the Mandara trees sway in the cold breezes, the night passes like an age spent in the realm of Yama for those youths who, even for a moment, do not have a doe-eyed maiden clinging to their necks to shield them from the freezing frost.

The winter winds blow, behaving like an experienced lover toward women: they kiss their cheeks, cause their eyes to stir with soft gasps, create thrills upon their breasts beneath their bodices, shake their thighs, and playfully slide the garments from their broad hips.

The winter breeze acts like a lover toward women: it dishevels their hair, makes them close their eyes, pulls at their garments, causes their skin to thrill, reveals their trembling excitement, produces repeated soft gasps, and presses upon their lips.

Whatever is not to one's taste holds no appeal, even if it is inherently attractive. Just as the lotus flower, even when the moon is beautiful, feels no desire for it, one's mind only moves toward what it truly fancies.

On this earth, people’s natures are vastly different from one another: some wander the path of detachment, others involve themselves in the complexities of statecraft and ethics, while some take delight in the pleasures of love.