Śrīmukha, Vijayasiṃha, and Nāgārjuna—all three were married. Śrīmukha was the Crown Prince (Yuvarāja), the one destined to become King. Therefore, a reigning King would give his daughter to him in marriage. However, Vijayasiṃha and Nāgārjuna were not future Kings. Reigning Kings would not offer their daughters to them. Nevertheless, being princes (Rājakumāras), those close to the reigning King would give their daughters to them in marriage. Vijayasiṃha received such an alliance. Nāgārjuna's marriage, however, happened in a different manner.
From childhood, Nāgārjuna had grown up with a certain degree of freedom. To the right of the Kṛṣṇā river, below the capital, a member of the royal lineage served as the ruler of several combined villages. He resided in a small fort he had built. His name was Vikrama. In earlier days, he frequented the capital often. He and Romapāda's wife were distantly related—perhaps Vikrama's mother and Romapāda's mother-in-law were cousins, or some such kinship. Because of this, Vikrama visited the capital regularly in the past. Since Nāgārjuna spent much of his childhood near his mother, a bond of affection and familiarity developed between him and Vikrama. Nāgārjuna would often visit Vikrama's home and stay there for many days.
Vikrama had no children of his own. He raised the daughter of a distant Kṣatriya relative in his house. That Kṣatriya was very poor, but the girl was exceptionally beautiful and wise. Everyone who saw her predicted she would one day become a Paṭṭamahiṣī[1](crowned queen). Vikrama had her tutored in music and literature. Her name was Nīlā. Her wisdom was of a peculiar sort—whatever was said, she would state the opposite, turning the conversation into a display of wit and satire. No matter how deeply or sincerely you believed in something, she would dissect the statement and prove it was merely a product of vain pride. To the listeners, it was humorous; to the speaker, it was infuriating. She made it impossible for the audience to respect the speaker's original intent.
Though she was a Kṣatriya by varna, she was not the child of a wealthy man, and since she was not Vikrama's biological child, she was not raised in the strict seclusion (Asūryampaśyā) of an inner palace. Her father was a professional swordsman who owned a small plot of land. Her parents worked in the fields like ordinary farmers. How then could such a girl remain confined? As she came of age, Vikrama intended to make her behave according to royal etiquette, but it proved impossible. In that house, whatever she said was law! Her foster mother had an unspeakable obsession with her. Had those twenty-five villages been a kingdom, she would have managed all its affairs. Vikrama did exactly as she suggested—not out of mere blind affection, but because her wisdom was evident in those suggestions. After several such instances, she naturally became the minister (Mantriṇī) of that household.
While things stood thus, Nāgārjuna's visits to the house became frequent, and the intimacy between them grew. This acquaintance became a source of peculiar joy for Nāgārjuna. There were none of the rigid constraints of royal households—no "if seen, then seen; if not, then not" distance. Theirs was a companionship of constant proximity: shoulders brushing as they walked, playful glances, sweet smiles, the repeated delicate touch of fingertips, the fluttering of eyes moved by the gentle breeze from the edge of a garment, hands reaching out and being playfully blocked, sudden turns and evasions, the competitive enthusiasm to prove superiority during a shared task, and the incidental physical contact of the moment. Through the tolerance of hand-touches while wiping each other's sweat, their mutual romantic feelings were solidified. Gradually, this became known in the capital and became gossip within the inner palace. Nāgārjuna declared he would marry no one but her. Romapāda eventually agreed. Some scholars even validated this marriage by citing the example of Bhagavān Kṛṣṇa, who had a wife named Nīlā among his eight wives; she was a girl from the cowherd community. They said Nāgārjuna was like Śrī Kṛṣṇa himself. Such words reached Romapāda's ears; the King simply smiled and remained silent.
The marriage took place, and the bride arrived at Dhānyakaṭakam. After her arrival, her situation became like that of a fish out of water. In her foster father's house, she used to roam the entire village. She would visit every town under his rule, deliver judgments, and console or scold the people. There, her word was law. But in the capital, there was no possibility of going out; she became a parrot in a cage. As this continued for two or three years, her mind—as if rebelling against the loss of its accustomed freedom—adopted a hidden sense of resentment. Nāgārjuna no longer experienced the same early joy with her. She would often dismiss him. Because the friendship of the past—which was based on equal feeling, shared wandering, and free conversation—had now become unequal, she could not tolerate Nāgārjuna's superior status. She turned against him. This resistance was natural. Initially, it seemed like mere teasing, but for a year or two, it could be described as a conflict between their respective geniuses. Would Nāgārjuna, through his superior intellect, subdue Nīlā and make her adapt to these new circumstances? Or would Nīlā, through her own brilliance, make him subservient to her? In this two-year conflict, Nīlā gained the upper hand.
Yet, Nīlā remained within the bounds of palace decorum. When she first arrived, her behavior among the palace women and attendants was considered bizarre. As time passed, she changed somewhat. The palace residents also stopped minding her occasional breaches of etiquette, feeling "that is just how she is; what can we do?" Nāgārjuna was effectively bound by the lines she drew. Occasionally, in extreme circumstances, he would admonish her; sometimes she would remain silent, and at other times, she would defy him.
Nāgārjuna harbored a secret hope regarding Nīlā. He had heard many times in Vikrama's house that she would become very wealthy and the wife of a King. He knew how she had ruled Vikrama's villages. He believed her to be a master of statecraft (Rājanīti) and skilled in governance—someone worthy of being the wife of a man greater than himself. He felt that if she were the wife of a Mahārāja, she had the talent to run the kingdom from behind the throne. Because of this, he held immense respect for her.
Furthermore, there was a hidden, unvoiced hope—one that was unthinkable even to himself. When his brother Śrīmukha becomes King, Vijayasiṃha would become the General (Senāpati). How then could he become a King? How could she become a Queen? He would occasionally imagine: Vijayasiṃha is a great warrior; he might invade and conquer foreign lands. Śrīmukha might then appoint Nāgārjuna as the King of those territories. Then, Nīlā would undoubtedly become a Queen.
Occasionally, Nīlā would leave the inner palace and visit the homes of other royal officials. She was well-acquainted with those officers. During festivals in the inner palace, the wives of all the high-ranking officials of the capital would come to the fort. In this way, the palace women were acquainted with the Kṣatriya women of the city. However, a woman from the inner palace visiting their homes was unheard of. In the beginning, Nīlā went. The Queen sent a maid to admonish her. For a year, Nīlā did not go again. Later, she resumed her visits. This time, the Queen remained silent. Nīlā did not go frequently, but when she did, there were only whispers in the palace; no further attempts were made to scold or control her. Furthermore, strange and varied individuals would visit Nīlā's quarters. One could not even ask why they came. It was enough for the palace authorities that she herself did not go out to see them.
Dussalafrequently visited Nīlā's mansion. Dussala was the mother of Jayadratha. It was Nīlā who had initially sent word to her. During her first visit, Nīlā consoled her deeply, saying, "My father-in-law has done a great injustice. He dismissed you as if dismissing some weary travelers from a rest house. Should he not grant your son a position? I hear he is exceptional in sword-craft! My husband mentions it often. Apparently, there is a friendship between my husband and your son! However, your son supposedly told my husband that their friendship must remain strictly secret. I do not know why. He said it might provoke envy among other royal officials. That is true. I told my husband, 'Why don't you go to the Great King and ask him to give him a job?' But my husband doesn't seem to care."
With such words, Dussala felt no hesitation in visiting Nīlā's mansion. Every day at sunset, Nāgārjuna would go out somewhere and return quite late at night. During those hours, Dussala would stay at Nīlā's mansion. The two of them would converse on various subjects. Nīlā realized that Dussala was a profound scholar; there was nothing she did not know. Statecraft, religion, society, ethics, and the affairs of many kingdoms across Bhāratavarṣa[2]were as clear as a mirror to Dussala. Nīlā, who until then had considered herself the most intelligent, felt insignificant before Dussala. Gradually, Dussala gained a sense of authority over Nīlā. If Dussala suggested something, Nīlā would do it; if she forbade it, Nīlā would refrain. When Nīlā and Dussala were in conversation, even the maidservants were not permitted to enter.
How many things Dussala knew! She was an elderly woman, perhaps ninety years of age. Though her hair had turned somewhat white, the strength of her teeth and the sturdiness of her body had not diminished. One day, Nīlā asked, "Mother[3]! I know of some men who remain robust even past a hundred and fifty years, but among women, I have never seen anyone with a body as strong as yours after reaching a hundred."
Dussala replied, "I have only one son; I have no other children. I did not give birth many times. He was born when I was forty. Seventeen years later, my husband passed away. I have lived a life of discipline in almost every aspect since I was born. I have dietary discipline and mental discipline. Moreover, we are poor. We do not have much to eat, so there is no chance of indigestion. Indigestion is the root of all diseases. Taking only as much food as needed for hunger at the right time and eating nothing else prevents all illness. Generally, people do not do this. They feast excessively during festivals and celebrations. Furthermore, in royal families, they consume liquor (Surāpāna). There is another ailment in royal houses: they believe that drinking liquor provides greater pleasure for youthful enjoyment and sexual union. Their lust grows, they become intoxicated by liquor, wake up late the next morning, eat excessively to overcome that lethargy, sleep during the day, and behave without restraint. Consequently, their lifespan is compromised."
"One who practices physical exercise must engage in sexual union sparingly. One who has engaged in union should not perform exercise, nor should they do so on the preceding or succeeding days. Among the seven days of the week, one should not engage in union on Saturday. Aṣṭamī[4], Ekādaśī[5], the Full Moon (Pūrṇimā), and the New Moon (Amāvāsya) are days that must be avoided. A royal official who does not exercise daily will not be fit for the affairs of the state. To wear such heavy chainmail and to wield the heavy iron swords required to sever an elephant's trunk, one must have immense strength in the body. For that, one must exercise extensively. On one hand, they exercise daily; on the other, they indulge in sexual union every night. Why wouldn't their lifespans dwindle? In this country, a long life is considered two hundred years. But does everyone live for two hundred years? Even the number of those crossing a hundred and fifty is small, though that is still considered great. Driven by malice and engaging in duels, many die at a young age. Sometimes they perish from severe diseases. Most who abandon these disciplines die before reaching a hundred. Those who live to two hundred reside in villages; they are rarely seen in capitals. One could say they are non-existent among Kṣatriyas. This is because they are all seekers of carnal pleasure, yet also practitioners of daily exercise and consumers of heavy food. Moreover, their minds are constantly entangled in state affairs, and the resulting anxiety further depletes their life force. I have no such worries. I live in someone's shelter, my stomach is full, and my health remains intact."
Stir but a single word, and Dussala would deliver such a lecture. That discourse reflected vast experience and worldly knowledge. Furthermore, when Dussala spoke, it was impossible to interrupt. While she spoke, a mark of authority shone in her voice and her facial features. One simply had to listen. Whether one agreed with her words or not, offering a counter-argument was out of the question. To Nīlā, all her words were acceptable. From her childhood, Nīlā knew nothing of religious matters. She grew up in her birth home during her uncomprehending years and came to Vikrama's house at the age of six. In Vikrama's home, there were only Vikrama and his wife. Vikrama was never home; he spent most of his time in the capital. His wife was lonely in the house. Though his fort was in the village, the village itself was very small. Even for a washerman, one had to go to the neighboring village. There were no Brahmins in that village; the Kṣatriya family was the only one of its kind. A degree of royal dignity and a difference in customs kept Vikrama's wife confined to her own home. One or two maidservants and an elderly woman of an avarṇa[6]community worked in their house. When Vikrama was in the village, an attendant and a sword-bearer—two additional men—would be in the house. That avarṇa woman did not belong to the system of varṇa and āśrama customs; they followed some different belief system.
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This story takes place five thousand years ago—a century after the commencement of the Kaliyuga[7]. It was the year of Krodhi[8], during the season of Śarad (Autumn). It was on the day of the Āśvayuja Full Moon that Niraṅkuśa learned the Kālañjarīmantra from Gaṅgu. Some context must be provided regarding how the people of Bhāratavarṣa[9]lived five thousand years ago, what their customs were, and how the Mleccha varṇas, who did not belong to the Varṇāśrama system, existed within the land.
The wisdom of those who claim that "Creation occurred three or four thousand years ago" is worth examining. There was once a King who was a miser. Scholars would visit him, hoping he would appreciate their erudition and grant them rewards. One was an expert in Grammar (Vyākaraṇa), another a master of Logic (Tarka), and another a scholar of Mīmāṃsā. To avoid paying them, the King devised a plan. When they boasted of their mastery of the Śāstras, the King would say, "What do I need with those? Rāma is our God, isn't he? What was his father's name?" The scholars would reply, "Daśaratha Mahārāja." Then the King would ask, "And Daśaratha's father?" They would say, "Aja." "And before him?" "Raghu." "And before him?" "Dilīpa." The King would keep asking until he reached a point where the scholars, being experts in Śāstras (technical sciences) but not in ancient lore (Purāṇas), would admit they did not know. The King would then dismiss them, mocking the extent of their "scholarship."
Eventually, a shrewd man—who was no scholar at all—approached the King claiming to be a pundit. He declared, "King Dilīpa's father was Prabhava Mahārāja, and his father was Vibhava Mahārāja," and so on. What could the King do? Neither of them knew the truth, so the King could not deny it. He wove in the names of years, stars, Yogas, Karaṇas, zodiac signs, and planets. The point of this story is that the past can be written however one pleases; a bold person writes what they wish, and the ignorant—who do not understand the vastness of time—believe it. Most people are idle and accept whatever others tell them.
There is another meaning here. The Śāstras are distinct from the Purāṇas. A Purāṇa is defined by five characteristics (Pañca-lakṣaṇam):
Sarga: The initial creation.
Pratisarga: The recurring cycles of creation and dissolution.
Vaṃśa: The lineages of the first royal families.
Manvantara: The cosmic eras of different Manus.
Vaṃśānucarita: The history of those royal dynasties.
Thus, Purāṇas explain creation, eternal time, and royal lineages. This combined knowledge is what we call Purāṇa. What we call "history" today is a part of the Purāṇas. To say "our ancestors knew no history" is to speak of a people who have no history of their own. Over 1.96 billion years have passed since this creation began. Over vast spans of time, oceans surge, earthquakes occur, and new lands emerge. No one can stop this process over eternity. It is said that the entire modern Indian Ocean was once land, as was the area around Africa. There is proof that great civilizations once existed in the Americas. Today, people cannot live at the North Pole. Two or three thousand years ago, Europe did not exist; a thousand years ago, England did not exist. As the sea receded, those lands emerged. Europe was once a sheet of ice, and as the ice shifted toward the poles, the land was revealed and people began to settle there. Who were these people?
In the beginning, there was only Bhāratavarṣa[10]. Human creation occurred here. In the Bhagavad Gītā, the Lord states that the four varṇas (Cāturvarṇya) were created by Him. Today, some think our Purāṇas, Vedas, and Śāstras are false, while the words of those who only "opened their eyes yesterday" are true. This is known as "Enmity toward the Purāṇas" (Purāṇa-vairam).
The second moral of the story is that reading the Śāstras alone is of no use; one must study the Purāṇas. Over time, the study of Purāṇas declined in our country, and an obsession with technical scholarship grew, which betrayed the nation. Many ancient poets, like Nannaya Bhaṭṭu[11], prided themselves on being well-versed in the Brahmāṇḍa[12]and other Purāṇas. Purāṇa means history. History should always be a part of education, and our Purāṇas serve that purpose.
God first created life in Bhāratavarṣa[13], and as the population grew, humans occupied the entire land. In the lineage of King Yayāti, King Bali had six sons. One was named Āndhra. Because Bali gave this portion of the land to his son Āndhra, it came to be known as Āndhradeśam.
The human intellect is prone to deviation; it rebels against established principles. It is the nature of man to find the new fascinating and the old repulsive. Such people have been born throughout these 1.96 billion years. Some favor tradition, while others oppose it. There is constant conflict between them—this is the eternal Purāṇa-vairam.
Furthermore, they call each other demons (Rākṣasas). Those who left our country began to revile our rituals. They called the deities of Fire and Wind "demons" and acted contrary to local customs. Our people cast them out and called them Mlecchas. They traveled northwest from Bhāratavarṣa and gradually occupied other lands. They did not understand that time is eternal. They were of a dark nature (Tāmasa), people who would "cut flesh and drink blood." Regarding great concepts like God, the afterlife, social customs, and compassion—they adopted only fragments of the ideas found in Bhāratavarṣa, from where they had migrated, to build their societies. Our people called all of them Mlecchas. Some of these Mlecchas moved to other lands, while some stayed here. They lived alongside Indians but were naturally considered lower varnas. By the time of the Mahābhārata war, such Mlecchas were living in various parts of the land, from the bridge of Rāma[14] to the Himālayas, some even ruling small kingdoms.
Thus, people of these Mleccha varṇas, serving in various capacities, were found throughout Bhāratavarṣa, including Āndhradeśa. One such elderly woman was a servant in Vikrama's house. Half of Nīlā's education came from her. Her name was Rēlaṅgi. Rēlaṅgi's mind was a treasury of Mleccha tales. She knew many of their traditions, stories of Mleccha heroes passed down for hundreds of thousands of years, their gods, their customs, and their unique rituals. In those days, for both Indians and Mlecchas, the tales of the Purāṇas were passed from mouth to mouth across generations. Rēlaṅgi was Nīlā's mentor. While scrubbing pots, lighting lamps, or sweeping the house—and while Nīlā ate in the moonlight or lay on her cot before sleep—Rēlaṅgi told her these stories. Nīlā knew little of the traditional Purāṇas. There were temples to Rāma in the land then, including a great one in the capital Dhānyakaṭakam, but many villages had none. There were temples to Viṣṇu, but in the village where Vikrama's fort stood, there was not a single temple. It was a simple village where most lived by fishing in the Kṛṣṇā.
Nīlā's mind was filled with the tales of Mleccha heroes from lands such as Tuṣāra, Meruva, Lampāka, and Bāhlīka—stories of their daring exploits and their romantic legends. There was once a hero named Ārama. He was a great warrior. In that land, there were two powerful Kings who were bitter rivals. Ārama was the son of one King, and the daughter of the other was named Gīlā. Rēlaṅgi had told Nīlā the story of their love hundreds of times. They were Kings in name, but they possessed no grand luxuries. They lived in fortresses built upon the mountains. Gradually, even the people stopped paying taxes; a King would gather a few hundred men and raid the villages once every ten or twenty years to collect tribute. That was the extent of kingship. Because the fortresses of these two Kings were close to one another, they were in constant conflict over the villages from which they collected tribute. In those lands, a King's wife, daughter, or daughter-in-law roamed about freely.
One day, in the evening moonlight, Ārama sat upon a massive boulder on a mountain peak, playing a flute. In that twilight glow, through the layers of the sleeping air, that slender music floated upon the waves of the winter wind. At that same moment, on an adjacent peak, Gīlā was harvesting a large hive of mountain bees. She had covered her entire body with a woolen blanket. This was an act of great daring. Usually, one must light fires below such mountain hives and poke them with smoking sticks to drive the bees away before gathering the honey. Even then, the sting of the mountain bees is unavoidable.
Gīlā was both courageous and wise. She had carefully observed several hives and identified the exact section where the honey was stored. Wrapped in her blanket, she approached quietly and used slender leaves and stems to gently brush away the bees swarming over the honey-laden part. She pressed the honey out with thin twigs and collected it into a stone bowl she had brought. In her delicate attempt, the bees did not even realize someone was taking their honey. She stood as still as a stone statue; only the long twigs moved. Her movements caused no distress to any bee. Still, it was not as if some bees did not sting her. She had to endure the pain; if she flinched, a hundred more would sting. While the hive remained intact, she gathered some honey, bore the stings, and began to return. If mountain bees sting in large numbers, survival is impossible.
As she walked slowly, the music of Ārama's song reached her ears. That melodic sweetness entered her heart and washed away the pain of the stings. It did more than just soothe; her heart instinctively knew a young man was singing. It felt as though the youth blossoming in her body was beginning to bear fruit in her soul. She took out her own flute and began to play along.
That area was the boundary between the two forts. The mountain where Ārama sat belonged to his father's domain. The two Kings had fought many battles over that spot. Gīlā's path required her to circle this mountain. She stood at the edge of a cliff and began to sing. He heard her song and stopped playing. She sang for a while and then paused. He played again, and she picked up the tune. Thus, a long time passed. While singing, they walked toward each other until they met face-to-face. She did not know he was the son of her father's enemy. This romance of the flute lasted ten days. Finally, they decided to marry. They never even mentioned their parents to each other.
There was a custom in those mountains involving a vine called 'Tilivēṇi' that grew there. The mountain tribes regarded it as a symbol of marriage. They would strip the leaves from the vine, weave it into a ring, and the groom would slide it onto the bride's hand, and she onto his. This was the primary rite of marriage. When parents gave their consent, other rituals were included, but for such sudden loves, this single act sufficed. This was their marriage. They made their vows. So intense was their passion that until the wedding was over, they did not speak of their families. Perhaps a subconscious fear lurked in their hearts—a fear that mentioning their lineage or parents might obstruct their union. After the marriage, when the truth came out, that fear proved a hundred times true.
The news of the marriage leaked. Ārama's father banished him from his home. Gīlā's father imprisoned her in the fort and tortured her cruelly. Ārama went to his father-in-law and demanded his wife. Gīlā's father would have killed him, but instead, they fought a duel. The King said that if Ārama won the duel, he would let his daughter go. Ārama wounded his father-in-law, who then conceded defeat and sent his daughter with Ārama as promised. The couple wandered through the forests for several months. Gīlā's father eventually died from his wounds, and Ārama became the lord of his father-in-law's fort. However, due to the torture she had suffered at her father's hands, Gīlā fell ill. Ārama tried everything to save her, but she eventually died. Ārama abandoned the fort. Driven mad by grief, he wandered the mountains. It is said that he would sit on the same mountain peak where they first met and play his flute on moonlit nights. No one knows what became of him, but people say his music can still be heard among those peaks on moonlit nights.
By telling this story and singing songs in between, Rēlaṅgi completely captivated Nīlā's mind. A poet had supposedly written this story in the Mleccha language. Rēlaṅgi would sing those songs, and Nīlā learned half of them by heart. That music was unique; the rhythm of those songs was different. They did not have equal quarters like a traditional verse (Vṛtta); the sentences would break in the middle. In many places, there were more sound imitations than words. Rēlaṅgi would make sounds with her mouth—like the clicking of large mountain lizards, the whistling of wind in mountain caves, the thud of galloping hooves on stone, the clashing of swords in battle, the buzzing of bees over grape clusters, or the sound of casting nets. All these sounds were part of the song. Rēlaṅgi's voice was like a lump of wax or wet clay; it could be molded and bent in any way. Nīlā was Rēlaṅgi's disciple—a servant to her mind.
Nīlā knew the customs of the Mlecchas, their gods, and their mental traits with total clarity. Through Rēlaṅgi's companionship, Nīlā's mind became saturated with Mleccha thought. If one finds delight in a particular literature, they develop a love for the social customs described within it. This is the secret of literature. In Nīlā's mind, a wedding should happen just as it did for Ārama and Gīlā: the husband makes a ring from a vine for the wife, and she for him. Then the bride must be a little shy, the husband must kiss and embrace her, and she must break free and run away. The groom must chase her. In the bends of the mountains and the beds of the streams, the bride must tire him out. Finally, in some secret place—a mountain cave, the shade of a bowing tree, or between boulders that look like a house—she must be "caught" by her husband. At that moment, youth should find its fulfillment. That was marriage; that was love. Nīlā was not born in the mountains, but it was her deepest desire to one day visit them.
Nāgārjuna did not know this side of Nīlā's character; she never told her husband. To Dussala, Nīlā's temperament and thoughts seemed like the perfect soil for the seed she intended to plant. Both of them would sit together and criticize Vedic customs and royal habits in abundance. What were these weddings? What were these kingdoms? Why keep women imprisoned as if in a jail? What was this polite term, Asūryampaśyā (one who never sees the sun)? She couldn't even walk in the open air! She couldn't even visit her father's house! If she went anywhere, there were whispers and glares in the fort. She did not care for them. Everyone in the fort feared that she might rebel, and that was the only reason she could survive; otherwise, they would have crushed her like a sugarcane stalk.
Translation by Vishal Royal
[1] Paṭṭamahiṣī (पट्टमहिषी).—the principal queen. a crowned queen; chief queen
[2] Actually, Bhārata-varṣa is the name for the entire planet, but gradually Bhārata-varṣa has come to mean India. As India has recently been divided into Pakistan and Hindustan, similarly the earth was formerly called Ilāvṛta-varṣa, but gradually as time passed it was divided by national boundaries.
[3] generally,people refer respcted/elderly woman as mother or maa
[4] 8th day
[5] 11th day
[6] people outside 4 varnas - brahmana, kshatriya, vaishya, shudra. maybe it refer to mlechhas
[7] 4th and final yuga, that which we are in
[8] telugu year
[9] Bhāratavarṣa (भारतवर्ष) is one of the nine divisions of the earth as separated off by certain mountain ranges, the other eight divisions being Kuru, Hiraṇmaya, Ramyaka, Ilāvṛta, Hari, Ketumāla, Bhadrāśva and Kinnara. It is surrounded by oceans in the south west and east and by the Himālaya in the North. Skanda-purāṇa VII.1.11.13. Bharata who gave his name to this country was the descendant of Svāyambhuva Manu. He was a king of Agnīdhra’s family.According to the Śivapurāṇa 1.12, “if a man dies anywhere in the Bhāratavarṣa he shall be reborn again as a man if he has resided in a holy centre where there is a self-risen phallic emblem (liṅga) of Śiva” .
[10] Actually, Bhārata-varṣa is the name for the entire planet, but gradually Bhārata-varṣa has come to mean India. As India has recently been divided into Pakistan and Hindustan, similarly the earth was formerly called Ilāvṛta-varṣa, but gradually as time passed it was divided by national boundaries.
[11] Nannaya - 11th century - is the first of the three Telugu poets, called the Kavitrayam ("trinity of poets"), who wrote Andhra Mahabharatam. His work, which is rendered in the Champu style, is chaste and polished and of a high literary merit. The advanced and well-developed language used by Nannaya suggests that prior Telugu literature other than royal grants and decrees must have existed before him. However, these presumed works are now lost. Legends also credit him with writing the Sanskrit-language Andhra-shabda-chintamani, said to be the first work on Telugu grammar.
[12] The Brahmanda Purana is notable for including the Lalita Sahasranamam (a hymn praising Goddess as the supreme being in the universe), and being one of the early Hindu texts found in Bali, Indonesia, also called the Javanese-Brahmanda. The text is also notable for the Adhyatma-ramayana, the most important embedded set of chapters in the text, which philosophically attempts to reconcile Bhakti in god Rama and Shaktism with Advaita Vedanta, over 65 chapters and 4,500 verses.The Brahmanda Purana is one of the oldest Puranas, but estimates for the composition of its earliest core vary widely. The early 20th-century Indian scholar Dikshitar, known for his arguments in favor of more ancient dating of the Puranas, dated the Brahmanda to 4th-century BCE. Most later scholarship places this text to be from centuries later, in the 4th- to 6th-century of the common era. Wendy Doniger dates the Brahmanda Purana to have been composed between 4th to 10th century CE, but she adds that this is approxi
[13] already gave the meaning before, refer same word before
[14] southermost tip of bharata