In Dhānyakaṭakam, there were numerous royal officials, all of whom were kinsmen of the King. Some belonged to distant branches of the royal lineage, while others were closely related. Surrounding Dhānyakaṭakam, there were small villages where various individuals holding royal authority resided in small forts built here and there. Although these settlements were distinct, all these villages together were treated as a single great metropolis (Mahānagaram). This cluster of many hamlets, stretching from Indrakīlādri to Vēdādri[1], was known collectively by the name Dhānyakaṭakam. While the residents referred to the hamlets by their individual names among themselves, outsiders called the entire expanse Dhānyakaṭakam. Whenever the inhabitants traveled abroad or visited other places, they identified themselves solely as residents of Dhānyakaṭakam. Together, this constituted the capital; though it consisted of scattered hamlets, they were often referred to as sectors (Pēṭas). It was a single city with distinct, separated sectors. This unique urban birth allowed for vast open spaces in between, providing excellent ventilation, reducing overcrowding in any single area, and ensuring cleanliness—offering many such benefits.
Furthermore, these hamlets stretched for six krōśas (approximately 12 miles) along the length of the Kṛṣṇā river. The width of this great metropolis was narrow, spanning less than two krōśas. Running along the banks of the Kṛṣṇā, there were two grand stone highways—one in the north and one in the south. These highways were wide enough for two chariots to be driven side-by-side. Many stone roads also intersected across the width of the city. Channels were constructed to bring water from the Kṛṣṇā daily, ensuring a constant abundance of water throughout the metropolis. While each hamlet appeared as a distinct village, in reality, they formed a grand city. There was a certain brilliance in this architectural style; everything looked like a village. In every hamlet, cottages were the majority, with no more than two or three palatial buildings. There was an abundance of cattle. The vines, trees, and green meadows were a feast for the eyes. The villages at the boundaries of this metropolis—to the east and west—were constantly guarded by the army. To the south, spanning six krōśas, stood twelve forts. These twelve also appeared like simple villages rather than massive fortresses. Within them resided the elite royal soldiers and generals, the "warriors among warriors" (Gaṇḍaragaṇḍas). If enemies were to invade the capital, the entire northern front was protected by the Kṛṣṇā river, and the southern front by these twelve forts. At the slightest hint of trouble, this massive army would stand ready across those six krōśas like a living fortress wall.
Within this metropolis of eight square krōśas, movement, social exchanges, and trade continued incessantly. Under certain circumstances, it functioned as a single great city; at other times, its affairs resembled those of small, individual villages. In ordinary times, the village near Vēdādri was considered a distant hamlet. However, during festivals, auspicious occasions, and celebrations, the distance between these villages vanished among the members of the royal lineage. Members of the royal family would travel back and forth in their chariots throughout the day. They would depart in the morning, return by noon, or set out in the afternoon and return by nightfall. A wedding might take place in one sector, an initiation ceremony (Upanayanam) in another, or a birth and the first-feeding ceremony (Annaprāśanam) in another branch of the royal house. On such days, this expanse—two krōśas wide and twelve krōśas long—felt like a single, unified metropolis. Chariots, elephants, and horses moved in a constant stream, and the flow of people was boundless. Such occasions occurred many times throughout the year. For several months, a succession of festivals would give the metropolis a unified form, while in other months, each small village seemed to exist for itself. Among these, the bustle of the villages upstream from Dhānyakaṭakam on the Kṛṣṇā was distinct from that of the eastern villages. The activity in the eastern villages was less intense. Below the eastern villages, all the way to the sea, lay Āndhradeśam, consisting of rural hamlets. If enemy pressure were to come, it would arise from the west or the south. Therefore, the defense and the nature of the western villages were entirely different. This was the architectural character of the great metropolis.
Whenever an occasion arose in the home of any member of the royal lineage, the royal family would flock to their house like flowing streams. Many auspicious ceremonies took place. During these times, everyone was united. If the King, the Queens, the Crown Prince, and the other Princes with their wives attended an event, the household of that kinsman was considered blessed. It wasn't that they avoided going; they went frequently. Everyone attended. The only ones who often failed to appear were Nīlā and Nāgārjuna. For a while, other members of the royal lineage whispered among themselves about why they didn't come. After two or three years of this, it became a habit, and they assumed Nāgārjuna had stopped coming after Nīlā arrived. If ceremonies occurred in ten places, Nāgārjuna might attend only one or two alone, and Nīlā would go only occasionally. Nīlā was not the Chief Queen (Paṭṭamahiṣī), nor was she the wife of the Crown Prince. Being the wife of the King's third son, other royal women did not feel the need to hesitate or be formal with her. On the rare occasions Nīlā did attend, other women of the royal family would mock her with sarcasm: "Where have you been, O Queen!" (meaning she wasn't one). "You are the daughter of a grand house!" (though everyone knew she came from a poor family). "You are a master of statecraft!" (mocking her childhood management of ten villages). "Your husband is a great warrior!" (insinuating that Vijayasiṃha was the true expert in swordsmanship, not her husband). "You are one who never sees the sun!" (meaning she had actually roamed the fields). They would hurl such taunts, asking if she ever even stepped outside.
Had it been anyone else but Nīlā, they would have taken offense. Conflicts and jealousies would have flared up among the royal maidens. But Nīlā provided her own interpretations of their sarcasm. She would say she didn't come out of sheer laziness. She would claim her nature was simply like that, and it made no difference whether she came or not. Furthermore, she would state that she had no affection for the jeweled ornaments, expensive sarees, or the displays of grandeur expected of a Queen; she claimed she couldn't "act" the part. She would explain that if she went to their houses without the appropriate attire, they wouldn't respect her, and since she had a natural aversion to such things, she didn't visit often. She would conclude that since staying away entirely would violate the decorum of kinship, she had come this time. They all began to think that Nīlā had no temper, no persistence, and no sense of dignity—that she was just a simple, naive girl. Some royal women looked down on her, feeling that these common traits were beneath the dignity of the royal lineage. Some wouldn't even speak to her. But she was the King's daughter-in-law! One had to acknowledge her. They didn't even need to speak first; Nīlā herself would go and strike up a conversation. Regardless of how much they disdained her, when she approached them to talk, they were moved. They would instinctively adopt a posture of humility.
Behind these situations, within the mansion of Nāgārjuna, whenever invitations to such auspicious events arrived, a specific dialogue would unfold between the husband and wife...
An Akṣarābhyāsam (initiation into the alphabet) was to take place in a family of the royal lineage. The invitation had been received. They were to set out early the next morning.
Nāgārjuna: Nīlā! Shall we go tomorrow?
Nīlā: Where to?
Nāgārjuna: They came and invited us, did they not?
Nīlā: And who are "they"?
Nāgārjuna: You are always like this. If I do not go, the king will summon me and reprimand me. I will be forced to give some lame excuse—either that I have a headache or that I am not feeling energetic.
Nīlā: Do you think I am unaware? Following that, for four days, royal physicians will circle our mansion. Royal guards will come to escort you to the training halls for martial practice. Delicate delicacies will be sent to our mansion from the palace.
Nāgārjuna: Nīlā! What is the harm in attending an Akṣarābhyāsam?
Nīlā: Why an Akṣarābhyāsam? Children of the royalty must learn to wield a sword. There is meaning in ceremonies held when they first grip a blade. Women need not go to those; you men go anyway, do you not? Occasionally, they invite women to the sword-initiation ceremony as well; on those occasions, I certainly attend. In royal lineages, Akṣarābhyāsam is a meaningless concept. They make them write letters; there is no work more useless than this. Which royal man can actually write? They make them write letters, and then?, that is the end of it. There are scribes in the country for such things; they are all Brahmins. In some poor royal families, there are those who can write, but they have no such pretensions. Can you write your own name? If you ask me, you cannot even read. All knowledge is imparted orally; it resides in the mouth. When even the scholars of the Vedas and Śāstras do not know how to read or write, why perform Akṣarābhyāsam for children of the royalty?
Some knowledge resides in the mouth, and some knowledge resides in the hands. The knowledge in the mouth is called "learning" (chaduvu). The knowledge in the hands is "skill" (vidya). A weaver weaving cloth, a potter molding pots, a goldsmith crafting jewelry—these are vidyas. To be able to fight with a sword, a bow, or a mace is vidya. Akṣarābhyāsam pertains to learning, not to vidya. I do not have as much respect for mere learning as I do for vidya. Learning is not ours; it belongs to the Brahmins. Ours is vidya. I have already told you that I do not hold the same regard for learning as I do for vidya, have I not?
Nāgārjuna: What is the harm in simply going and returning? If we do not, everything becomes a conflict. The King will grow suspicious. When I am seen elsewhere, the royal kinsmen look at me strangely; it is repulsive. If I were the Crown Prince, there would not be this much scrutiny regarding my absence.
Suppose Śrīmukha did not go! Depending on the relationship—as an elder brother or a brother-in-law—they would say, "He did not show us favor. We thought we would be blessed if you came to our house. Because you did not come, our ceremony lacked its luster."
If I do not go, they might pass me by with cold, sidelong glances. If the host is close enough to joke, they will mock me, saying, "Your wife has you tied to the corner of her saree." Therefore, what is the loss in simply going?
Nīlā: I will say one thing. We hold a conviction in our hearts. Even if kingdoms are lost, even if the sun rises in the west, practicing what one believes is the highest virtue. Noble men act upon what they believe. You are a noble man. I wish for you to act as such.
Nāgārjuna: Nīlā! I do not have disrespect for learning! I simply do not understand the distinction you have made. I have heard this theory from your mouth two or three times. I did not create this division, and I have no faith in it.
Nīlā: If you have no faith in it, then you may go. But before one can make a distinction, one must have the thought capable of making that distinction. You do not think. Many people simply accept the traditions that come down through generations without inquiry. There is a great difference between a life of thought and a life without thought. You say you have no faith in the distinction I made. How does faith arise? Does it arise just because our grandfather said so? Is that called faith? That is the characteristic of sheep. If one sheep jumps across a ditch, the rest follow blindly. We must think for ourselves. Give me an answer to my words if you have one. I am your beloved. You have love for me, and I for you. I will not lead you into a river to drown, nor will you lead me into the mire. We both must desire the same thing. Do you truly claim that vidya and learning(chaduvu) are one and the same?
Nāgārjuna: No, they are not the same.
Nīlā: Then we are patrons of vidya, not mere learning.
Nāgārjuna: Then we shall not go.
Nīlā: I knew it. You are the apple of my eye, the jeweled lamp within my heart. You are the light of youth that have captured the ultimate meaning of my life—the great man born to uplift me. Arjuna! If you had not come, what would have become of me? I was the child of a poor house. If my foster father had not taken me in, I would be someone gathering cow-dung cakes, weaving jute cots, or drawing water from the village well. It is by your grace that I reside in the royal palace, receiving the respect of many and being considered a woman of intellect.
Nāgārjuna embraced Nīlā tightly, their shared affection creating a momentary heaven for them both. He remained unaware that this entire philosophy had been instilled in Nīlā by Dussala.
Another wedding was to take place in the house of a royal kinsman. In royal families, some weddings were held within the fort itself. When lower-ranking officials or distant relatives held weddings in their small homes and invited the King and his family, the royals often did not attend. Without their presence, the event lacked luster, yet if the entire royal family attended, the small homes could not accommodate them. Each village was like a small sector; no matter how many marquees (pandiḷḷu) were erected, they were never enough, and the hosts could not afford the massive expense.
Thus, they held such weddings in the Great Temple within the fort—a vast Viṣṇu temple. Its front pavilion could easily seat a thousand people. Stone benches were arranged in rows for the royal kinsmen, adorned with mattresses and pillows. There was a small Kalyāṇa Maṇḍapam for the ceremony, after which special feasts were served in the dining halls. The royal trumpets, which usually sounded six times a day at the palace, would play incessantly on that day.
However, wealthy and prestigious royal kinsmen held weddings in their own mansions, which were spacious enough to accommodate the crowds. Weddings inside the fort felt like mere ceremonies, lacking a unique brilliance as they merged with the daily grandeur of the palace. True wedding splendor was found only in private celebrations. For fort weddings, royal men would attend out of protocol, stay for a few hours, and leave. But in the homes of wealthy kinsmen, the true bustle of a wedding was visible—guests arriving and departing, people demanding services in the lodgings, feasts being served, and servants carrying food baskets and water. In one corner, music would play; in another, scholarly debates occurred; elsewhere, martial skills were demonstrated. Women adorned in beautiful ornaments appeared like flashes of lightning. In one spot, a drinking circle gathered; in another, the affairs of foreign kingdoms were discussed. Such a wedding was not just a ritual; it was three days of revelry. Nāgārjuna and Nīlā were discussing such a wedding, which they were to attend the next day.
Nāgārjuna: Why are you still like this? You haven't packed the luggagr. You haven't decided which sarees to wear, which jewelry to don, or which maidservants to take. Tell me which of my tunics, dhotis, turbans, and ornaments I should have brought.
Nīlā remained silent. Nāgārjuna pressed her further: "Are we not going to the wedding?"
Nīlā: Why do you say "we"? You go. I cannot come. For some reason, I lack the enthusiasm.
Nāgārjuna: You are the very embodiment of enthusiasm. I don't believe you lack it. There must be another reason. There will be so much to see over those three days—the bride sitting on the pedestal, her shyness, the relatives teasing, the pouring of the talaṃbrālu[2]. It is a beautiful sight.
Nīlā: All of that happened at our wedding, didn't it? Has that craving not been satisfied?
Nāgārjuna: Oh Nīlā! Our marriage happened before those rituals. For some reason, you weren't enthusiastic during our formal wedding. The sweetness I saw in you before our marriage—the sweetness we experienced later under the moonlight on Kṛṣṇā-laṅka (the island in the Kṛṣṇā) when we rode our horses—I did not find that sweetness in the three days of the wedding ceremony. Perhaps that is why my desire for that entertainment remains.
Nīlā: True entertainment must exist in the spirit, not in the mere display of objects. Mountains, rivers, rain-bearing clouds, a line of ten elephants, a hundred chariots, a herd of cows—what is the entertainment in these? They are merely natural. Real entertainment is when a human displays their power.
She continued, "Imagine a prince and a princess, both skilled in swordsmanship, engaged in a duel. The prince, more skilled, disarms her, sending her sword flying. As she reaches for it, he places his left foot on the sword, takes her hand, and lifts her head. He looks at her with a smile of superiority, and she looks back with the shame of defeat. Then, the flutes play, the trumpets sound, and honey-drops and mountain flowers rain from above. That is how a wedding should be!"
"Or," she added, "a bride's brother challenges the suitor. The two fight. The bride stops the battle, declares her love for the suitor, and embraces him. A noble horse stands ready; he leaps onto it, pulls her into his arms, and gallops through the knee-deep waters of the Kṛṣṇā, swimming where it is deep, until they reach Kṛṣṇā-laṅkam. There, as if the gods had prepared everything, all provisions await. And yet, upon reaching there, the girl who followed him out of love starts a quarrel: 'You do not love me! If you did, would you fight my brother? How can I love you if you have harmed him?' A wedding is a love story built on such beautiful scenes. But sitting on a pedestal? Carrying the bride in a basket like a frail old woman? And why the shyness? She already knows him; the alliance was fixed, they have seen each other or at least exchanged portraits. The shyness is a mere habit, performed so people don't gossip. Arjuna! I do not like these weddings."
Nāgārjuna: Nīlā! Śrī Kṛṣṇa brought Rukmiṇī Dēvi in exactly that way. Her wedding happened just as you described.
Nīlā: (Mockingly) Oh, what a thing to say! Did they fight with swords? And what of that Rukmiṇī? She was no better than a maidservant. she sold herself to Kṛṣṇa, sending a message for him to come and take her. Is she a bundle of jewelry? How shameless! And then Kṛṣṇa caught her brother Rukmi and shaved his head in humiliation. It would have been better to pierce his heart with a sword or behead him. Can a woman live with a husband who disgraced her brother so? What a bloodless woman! And you all think that is a grand wedding!
Nāgārjuna: Nīlā! They say a woman should be like that—offering herself entirely to her husband. As a devotee is to God, so a wife should be to her husband. That is the fulfillment of a woman's birth. A scholar named Vinayaśarma, who recites the Purāṇas and the Rāmāyaṇam in our fort temple, says this. You never come to the temple! I go occasionally to hear his discourses. Every member of the royal family should sit there at least once a fortnight. This is the dharma of an Ārya woman. He says Rukmiṇī merged herself into Kṛṣṇa, becoming a part of him. And a part has no separate identity, does it?
Nīlā: If she is a part, then Kṛṣṇa is the other part. That part too has no separate identity. Then that part could have come and offered itself to this part!
Nāgārjuna: Jayadratha asked Vinayaśarma this very same question!
Nīlā: Who is this Jayadratha?
Nāgārjuna: He is a strange man. He doesn't let anyone know his true identity. He is very friendly with me, but our friendship must remain a secret. I think many who attend the discourses know him, but they pretend not to. I gathered this from certain signs. He is a prince from some country who came to our fort five or six years ago. He asked father for a job, but they kept him in the shadows of the choultry. No one even looks at his face.
Nīlā: You have told me about him many times.
Why did i ask who he is? I asked because I wanted you to realize that you haven't been able to get him a job yet. Anyway, what did your Vinayaśarma answer?
Nāgārjuna: I tried hard to get him a job, but my 'younger brother[3]' (VijayaSimha) does not like it at all. Whenever his name comes up, Father looks at my brother, who frowns, and then Father stays silent. Whenever I go to see Father, I go with brother; I am afraid to go alone. I don't even go to my elder brother alone.
Nīlā: Indeed, you are the youngest brother, and you possess all the fear and devotion a younger brother should have. It is Vālmīki's[4]misfortune that you weren't alive in his time; he would have modeled Bharata or Śatrughna[5] after a brother like you!
Nāgārjuna: Nīlā! How do you know all these stories? You didn't have this knowledge when I married you. You know the story of Rukmiṇī Kalyāṇam so clearly, and the Rāmāyaṇam too. How do you know of their devotion? Have you been secretly going to the temple every day to hear Vinayaśarma? You know more than I do! Others hear the Rāmāyaṇam as a mere story, but you speak of it on a higher level. Who told you all this?
Nīlā: Never mind that. What was Vinayaśarma's answer to the question?
Nāgārjuna: He said Kṛṣṇa is God, and God is "Full" (Sampūrṇa). He recited a verse from the Vedas:
Pūrṇamadaḥ Pūrṇamidaṃ Pūrṇāt pūrṇamudacyate
Pūrṇasya pūrṇamādāya pūrṇamevāvaśiṣyate
(That is full, this is full. From fullness, fullness comes. Take fullness from fullness, and fullness remains.)
He said it is like zero. Add zero to zero, it is zero. Subtract zero from zero, it is still zero. Kṛṣṇa is the form of fullness. Rukmiṇī entered him. Thus, Kṛṣṇa neither diminishes nor increases.
Nīlā: But then Rukmiṇī is also another zero! That formula should apply to her too!
Nāgārjuna: You are right. Why did Jayadratha keep quiet then?
Nīlā: If he had asked that, everyone would have stared at him. He wants to remain a secret, so why would he push further? Vinayaśarma is protected by the King. If Jayadratha, who hopes for a job, had argued, he would have had to abandon that hope. Anyway, it's clear Rukmiṇī had a weak mind. That wasn't a wedding. A wedding requires equal status between man and woman. A spark of valor should shine in both. Only then will heroes be born; otherwise, the incompetent are born. Someone says something, and people cling to it as truth. This country has been like this forever. They say the Vedas came from God's mouth! We don't know where that God is or how big his mouth is. In this country, everyone is a Ṛṣi[6]. Just grow a beard, close your nose, and sit in a somewhat lonely place—you are a Ṛṣi!
Nāgārjuna: Why a "somewhat" lonely place?
Nīlā: If it's completely lonely, bears and tigers might come! And how would you eat? One or two people passing by must see you. The news must spread that a Ṛṣi is performing tapas there. Then people will bring bananas, coconuts, sugarcane, and betel nuts and leaves.
Nāgārjuna: Why betel nuts and leaves?
Nīlā: Because of the sugarcane! Those are pieces of Manmatha's (the God of Love) bow. When the bow is there, how can red lips be beautiful without betel juice[7]?[8]
They both burst into laughter. Nāgārjuna left, the idea of going to the wedding completely forgotten. But a fear took root in his mind. What if Nīlā spoke like this to others? It would spread through the fort and reach his parents. The King might order him to abandon her or exile her. He realized he couldn't live a moment without her. Where else could he find such a clever, wise, and sharp-witted woman? He used to think she was just a beauty, a creature of sweet freedom. Now he saw her as a master of the Śāstras, a treasury of wisdom, a jewel of logic. She was a woman who could redesign all of Bhāratadeśam if she wished, a genius who could dismantle ancient traditions.
He walked a little distance, but unable to suppress the fear in his heart, he returned to Nīlā. "Nīlā! My life-breath! The lamp that arrived to dispel my ignorance! Promise me one thing—that you will never speak to anyone else the way you spoke to me today. If you do, our heads will roll. We will be separated, and I cannot stand to be without you for a second. Give me your word."
Nīlā thought for a while and said, "Before I give you my word, you must give me yours. I do not like this country or its customs. I was meant to be born in the mountains. My guru Rēlaṅgi shaped my mind. I have no need for this kingdom or this world. If you, my beloved, share my thoughts, then my life is fulfilled."
They both exchanged their promises.
Translation by Vishal Royal
[1] hills
[2] The term "Talambralu" refers to a blend of rice and turmeric powder used in Telugu wedding ceremonies. It symbolizes prosperity and blessings, often used in rituals to shower the couple with good fortune.
[3] indeed, vijayasimha is the youngest, here he is referring to secong brother, he is not eldest right, so youger brother
[4] valmiki narrated Ramayanam
[5] Brothers of Sri Rama
[6] (spelled - Rushi) The term "Rishi" is of Sanskrit origin and means "sage" or "seer". It is often associated with individuals who possess deep spiritual knowledge and wisdom, particularly in Hinduism, where a Rishi is a revered figure who has attained a high level of enlightenment through meditation and self-realization. Additionally, the name conveys noble qualities of a sage, inspiring introspection and spiritual growth.
[7] it is a practise called - taamboolasevanamu, eating taamboolam (in a betal leaf, with betel nut and some other items added) it makes the mouth red and it also aids in digesion
[8] tbh, this particular line's translation seems ambiguous to me, it didn't fit correctly read for yourselves - నీల : ఇక్షుఖండము లున్నవి గదా! అవి మన్మథుని ధనుస్సులోని ముక్కలు, ఏ ముక్కలు గానో మన్మథుని ధనుస్సున్నప్పుడు తాంబూలసేవనము లేనిచో నెఱ్ఱని పెదవి యెట్లొప్పును?