Vijayasimha's wife was named Bhāma. She was slender and of a dark, dusky complexion (śyāmala varṇam), with large, expressive eyes. No one possessed a greater love for fine clothing than she did. In those days, to the west of the Āndhra country lay a region called Vidarbha. There was no clear boundary between Vidarbha and the Telugu lands(Āndhra ). In the middle-ground, there were several villages that paid taxes neither to the King of Vidarbha nor to the Āndhra King. Once every ten years or so, one of these kings would send his officials. If a king's officials happened to arrive that year, the villagers would pay them. For the remaining nine or ten years, they paid no taxes at all. The village elders would gather and reason, "We haven't paid taxes in a decade; if we don't pay someone eventually, we are inviting trouble upon our heads," and so they would collect a tribute to offer. If they knew one side had collected, the other side would not come. In the last hundred years, it happened only once that both sent officials at the same time; on that occasion, both sets of officials politely insisted on leaving so as not to cause a conflict, and the villagers went another twenty years without paying a single coin.
There were about fifty such villages. It could be said there was a "King" over these fifty villages. He did not ask them for taxes, and they did not offer any. He was not a vassal to the Vidarbhas, nor to the Āndhras. He had neither the capacity nor the desire to collect revenue. He was his own master. He had no "Kingdom" in the formal sense—only these fifty villages. He possessed personal property and agricultural land in every village, which the villagers farmed for him. They would transport the grain to him. He owned a hundred cows in every village, protected by the local people. Tending these cows and transporting the grain was the only "tax" the people gave him. He believed they did it because they were "his people"; they did it out of respect and social obligation. Though he was a King who wasn't truly a King, in his dignity (ṭīvi) and grandeur, he considered himself an Emperor (Cakravarti). If foreign kings invaded, they targeted Vidarbha or the Āndhra villages; no one looked toward his fifty villages.
Everyone in the house of this "King" bore the pride and ego of an imperial household. They were wealthy householders with no lack of food or comfort. They had no fort, no army, no ministers, and no officials. A single Brahmin in that village kept their accounts on palm leaves; he was their "Minister." Even without financial power, the way they conducted themselves—the invitations, the protocols—was as if an Emperor were dealing with his Grand Minister. Naturally, his word was law in those fifty villages. Among his servants was a head official who always traveled on horseback with a broadsword hanging from his waist. He would inspect the cattle and bring in the harvested grain. He was the "General" of this King's army.
To describe or observe this might seem humorous, but the people of those fifty villages called that Kṣatriya their Cakravarti. He, too, believed himself an Emperor. This "Emperorship" rested entirely on the pride of his lineage. It was not a wicked pride, but a deep-seated familial ego. He was exceedingly generous. He could not keep a closed fist. Scholars and seekers would visit him and find greater satisfaction than they would in a royal fort. He didn't give much, but he gave what was precious to him. Everyone in that house was educated; music (saṅgītam) and literature (sāhityam) were their inheritance. There were ten scholars in his village who relied on him; he gave them no lands or stipends—they had their own—but they came to his house to pursue their studies and taught their arts to his children. The King himself was a fine scholar and had a deep taste for music.
He had four daughters, and Bhāma was the youngest. Her father's affection for her was inexpressible. He had her taught all the sciences (śāstras). There was no art unknown to her: she knew the Śruti (Vedas), grammar (vyākaraṇa), and logic (tarka). When she raised her voice to sing, even the animals would pause to listen. However, one could not call her a "beauty" in the conventional sense. Her family waited years, expecting some prince to be drawn by her learning and marry her. No prince came; indeed, no god descended from the heavens. Besides, the gods had stopped descending some 150 years ago. It is said they used to visit before the Mahābhārata war, but with the departure of Kṛṣṇa and Yudhiṣṭhira's ascent to heaven, they ceased to appear. Yudhiṣṭhira reached heaven thirty-six years after the war; shortly before that, Lord Kṛṣṇa left the earth. The day Kṛṣṇa departed was the day Kali (the dark age) entered. As the ancients say:
yasmin kṛṣṇō divaṃ yātaḥ tasminnēvahi vatsaram |
pratipannaṃ kaliyugamiti prāhuḥ purāvidaḥ ||
(The year Kṛṣṇa returned to heaven is the year the Kaliyuga began.)
While the Lord was on this earth, Kali could not touch it.
In those days, kings held Svayaṃvarams (marriage ceremonies of choice) for their daughters. But now princes did not go out on horseback searching for brides. Bhāma's father did not announce a Svayaṃvaram. Eventually, a great scholar went to Dhānyakaṭakam and told Rōmapāda about this "Emperor" and Bhāma's wisdom. Rōmapāda agreed to the match for his second son, Vijayasimha. But a problem arose: Bhāma's father considered himself a Cakravarti, while Rōmapāda was a mere King (Rāju). Would an Emperor go to a mere King to offer his daughter? Would a King go to such a seemingly ordinary house for a daughter-in-law?
The Brahmin mediated the protocol: That year, Vijayasimha was sent as the official to collect the taxes from those fifty villages. He visited the "Emperor's" town. The Emperor met him with all honors and said, "Sir! You are a great prince visiting our fort on business. We admire your virtues. It is our duty to honor a guest. We honor you by giving our daughter in marriage." To this, Vijayasimha had to reply, "Sir! You are an Emperor. We consider it a great honor that you give your daughter to us. She is said to be a master of all arts. You do this out of grace toward us." The wedding took place, and Vijayasimha stayed there for three days. Then he sent word to his father. Rōmapāda sent a return message: "We accept your marriage to the Emperor's daughter, even though it was done without our prior knowledge. We are sending elephants, horses, and a small army. You must bring your wife home with the dignity befitting an Emperor's daughter."
Through this delicate dance of ego and etiquette, the marriage was finalized. Truly, Vijayasimha should have refused, but he didn't. His nature was different; he found the whole affair exciting. He had heard much of this "Emperor"—that he was a generous scholar and that the Goddesses of Music and Literature danced in his home. Vijayasimha was charmed. He went, the rituals were performed, and he stayed at his father-in-law's house.
Bhāma had four elder sisters, all married to ordinary Kṣatriyas. They came for the wedding and then returned to their farms. Those four were very beautiful, while Bhāma was the only one who was not. However, she was the only scholar among them. They were "Emperor's daughters" in word, but not in luxury or palace protocol. Their house was large but lacked the scale of a true royal harem [1](Rāṇīvāsam). Everything was modest. Vijayasimha's needs were attended to not by servants, but by his sisters-in-law. After three days, a hundred infantrymen with two elephants and ten horses arrived to escort them back. Vijayasimha didn't want to leave. He told the officials, "We'll go tomorrow, we'll go tomorrow." One sister-in-law would bring water for his face; another would draw water for his bath; another would serve him food; one would fix his bed; another would flirt with him while fanning him. There were four, but to his mind, they seemed like forty.
Somewhere, in a black cloud, there is a white flash of lightning. Here, in a white cloud, a black lightning bolt appeared: that was Bhāma. It was a mystery how such deep learning coexisted with such profound shyness (lajja). Vijayasimha hovered between two heavens. One was the Day-Heaven: filled with soft sunlight, the chirping of birds, gentle breezes, and the fragrance of flowers—a feast for the senses. Then there was the Night-Heaven, which had its own unique quality. A sweet sound of the Vīṇā would be heard. There was no end to the brilliance of her speech. Her display of shyness was sweeter than sweet. She would be within reach, only to slip away. If caught, she would pour out streams of nectar. It was like sitting under the shade of a Kalpavṛkṣam (wish-fulfilling tree). It was not purely heaven, nor was it earth. Bhāma was a master of the Kāmaśāstra. Every night was a new heaven for him. The first half of the night was a pursuit; in the latter half, she was won. He never grew weary of the effort; every moment spent in that pursuit was like milking nectar. There was no sleep until dawn. With eyes reddened by wakefulness and a body weary from exertion, he felt as if he were wandering in a world of beautiful imagination, even while his sisters-in-law served him during the day.
The days passed. The sisters-in-law were called back by their husbands. The Day-Heaven vanished; only the Night-Heaven remained. Whether here or in Dhānyakaṭakam, that heaven was the same. In those fifteen days, the "Emperor's" work was done. An Emperor who lacked the wealth to feed elephants and a hundred soldiers! Yet an Emperor who would give his life for protocol. The soldiers and officials didn't feel they had come to an ordinary house; they believed their prince had truly married an Emperor's daughter. They didn't stay in palaces but in cattle sheds, yet the honor they received and the quality of their food made them forget where they were. They didn't even want to leave the village.
Vijayasimha forgot he was a prince and a master of sword-craft. He forgot his status in Dhānyakaṭakam. During those fifteen days, he was invisible to his servants. His sisters-in-law had churned his mind and extracted the butter; Bhāma melted it into ghee. By the time they returned to the capital, Vijayasimha was a total slave to Bhāma. Her word was law. She was the Empress of the Empire of Eros—a Great Queen illuminated by the dark glow of a moon-lit island. Vijayasimha didn't know if she was "beautiful" or not; he only knew she was the embodiment of the Śṛṅgāra rasa (the sentiment of love). To him, all the beauty of her sisters was contained within her. This illusion did not fade for a long time after returning home. Even a year later, Bhāma remained Bhāma—not conventionally beautiful, but the sovereign of his heart.
She would look at him with anger, and he would look back with pleading. She wouldn't melt. He would grab the hem of her garment; she would fling it away. He would embrace her forcefully; she would slip out of his arms. The way she disentangled herself was indescribably delicate—it contained both absolute rejection and inexpressible affection. It was like a mother lying next to a sleeping child, trying to get out of bed without waking the babe; that was how Bhāma would loosen his embrace. If the "child" stirred, the "mother" would hush him back to sleep; if Vijayasimha showed any sign of anger during her withdrawal, she would yield, then slowly loosen the grip again. Vijayasimha could not free himself from these beautiful chains of love in this life, nor in ten lives to come.
As years passed, his love for his wife and the richness of their shared intimacy did not thin. However, a separate desire began to manifest in his mind—a longing born from the sight of beautiful lines in a woman's face. Four or five years had passed since the marriage. He never saw those sisters-in-law again. His wife didn't visit her home; for her to do so was considered a breach of the Dhānyakaṭakam royal dignity. Even among equal royal houses, daughters didn't often visit home; here, it was viewed as a loss of status. And her father, being an "Emperor," would never visit them.
Vijayasimha's longing for beauty became a separate compartment in his mind—unrelated to his domestic life, exceeding his desire for Bhāma, yet hidden within his affection for her. It was a secret thought that could not be revealed, fueled from within by the pride and ego of his mastery of the sword. In those days, a certain dejection also began to haunt him. He didn't lack royal dignity, but royal women were invisible to him. What he saw were women of other varnas. Here and there, he would see a woman whose entire face was illuminated by the unique beauty of her nose. In another, the sidelong glance from flashing eyes felt like the sound of Manmatha's [2]bowstring. One woman's gait was graceful—like a cobra gliding slowly, then raising its hood to look sideways at a sound. Another woman, startled by him, would look at him with fear—like a deer grazing in a meadow that looks up to find a tiger sitting before it.
Gradually, Vijayasimha wondered: Why do these women look at him like that? Perhaps a hidden lustful trait was visible in his eyes, in the way he looked at them, or in his very posture. Those women were not lustful; they were virtuous. Whatever intuition they possessed, they immediately recognized the lustful quality in him. This recognition seemed independent of common human knowledge. It was enough to be born a human; no prior study was needed. The intuition seemed to dance before his eyes, chasing him from somewhere.
For a year, Vijayasimha gathered these new, swelling emotions born from observing this "recognition." Eventually, it became his natural state. He would spot a line of beauty somewhere; the woman would be flustered, but he felt no shame. Another year passed. Meanwhile, Bhāma developed a deep devotion to him. She believed her husband was devoted only to her and had no thoughts of other women. Their romantic play had not diminished; his deep friendship for her was untainted. He didn't visit her quarters every single day as before, but she understood. When Śrīmukha became King, Vijayasimha would be the General of the Armies. Usually, princes were sent to distant parts of the kingdom as viceroys; eventually, such a prince would become the "King" of that region. The true King and this King were brothers or close relatives; the area would be under his command. He was the King for all internal matters, and only when dealing with foreign kingdoms was the elder brother considered the Supreme King. It was an independence—an independence without the full weight of responsibility.
Here in the fort, they didn't have total authority. No matter how many years passed, he remained the Crown Prince's younger brother. Being the General was a matter of honor; the King, the Minister, and the General were of equal rank. The General enjoyed royal luxuries but was not considered "The King" by the people, nor did they think he was fully independent, though he was. The wives of other princes hoped their husbands would be appointed kings of some distant land. Bhāma was different. she wanted her husband to be the General.
Before marrying Vijayasimha, she knew the nuances of scholarly debate, music, and art. She knew her father's generosity and love, her mother's affection. She knew the small joys of a large, joint family—playing with sisters, teasing, anger, being consoled, giving up things for a sister, or her brothers sacrificing their small desires for her. But coming as a daughter-in-law into a true royal lineage was different. Having no connection to others, staying in her own mansion, seeing only the faces of servants, performing rituals when the Queen or other royal women visited, and the lack of deep love behind those rituals—all this was new to her. She gradually grew accustomed to it and became a woman of the royal family. But the tenderness from her upbringing had not dried up in her heart; it just found no place to rest.
Her husband would listen to her music and be entranced. He didn't sing, but he was overcome by sweet music. This was a quality of his soul—the fundamental element of the aesthetic longing in his heart must have been the seat of Rasa. From that seat, a thin stream flowed, touching beauty wherever and whatever it was. In a consciousness purified by the impressions (saṃskāras) of many lives, perhaps there is a pool of lightning-streaks that can recognize beauty. From that pool, small channels flow; even without technical knowledge of an art, when that art is performed and reaches its pinnacle, these channels flow toward the waves of bliss and touch them. This quality existed in Vijayasimha.
Common people understand only the superficial forms of art and get bogged down in them like mud. But the ultimate goal of all arts is that "Spark of Bliss" (ānandakalā). Art has many subjects, but all culminate in that bliss. If Art is Sarasvatī[3], then that Spark of Bliss is her Soul, and everything else is her body. How much beauty is in the body? The feet, the nails, the calves, knees, thighs, hips, waist, breasts, shoulders, arms, hands, fingers, face, cheeks, chin, eyes, forehead, hair—each can be beautiful on its own. The combination of all these, forming a graceful line, can manifest as an indefinable beauty. But this is all just the body. One who knows every part of this body is called a scholar (paṇḍita). One who delights not just in the parts but in their qualities can be called an aesthete (bhāvuka). But how can the "lesser" ones be called aesthetes compared to the true aesthete who has seen the Spark of Bliss? This is the nature of consciousness.
The depth of an experience born from contemplating individual parts of beauty is equal to the depth of experiencing that Spark of Bliss itself. Ultimately, there is no difference between a scholar who knows that bliss and one who, through past-life impressions, merely touches it. Socially, there is a great difference—one is a scholar, the other is not. But for an artist, one who desires their art to be tasted by others, there is immense affection for the one who can experience that final spark of bliss. That person may or may not be a scholar. This is why Bhāma's love for Vijayasimha was boundless.
Her husband was more entranced by her music than by her person. Her life felt fulfilled. She was the Empress of the Empire of Eros; in the storehouse of Śṛṅgāra rasa, there was no emotion, no mood, no rejection or invitation she did not know. This was all part of her physical existence. But her playing of the Vīṇā was different—unrelated to her body, her royal blood, or her status as a wife; it was as if a divine light danced within her. This is why she took such pride in her art; it felt like the ultimate purpose of her existence. That quality did not exist in her romantic life. There, Vijayasimha was her friend, her disciple, her servant, her slave, and above all, the one she considered her guru. This is the ultimate form of learning. There is the performer and the taster (āsvādaka). The performance is for the taster. The taster has not even a fraction of the performer's skill, yet the taster is the performer's closest kin, even a guru-figure. One might defy a teacher, but never the one who truly tastes their art. In Bhāma's lonely state, in that isolated fort, during the specific hours when she poured out the tenderness of her heart, her husband Vijayasimha was her supreme deity. In her soul, Bhāma was Vijayasimha's servant; in the form of a wife, she was the sovereign of his romantic empire; and with her body, she was his lawful wife (dharmapatni).
Vijayasimha was aware of all this—his wife's devotion and her spiritual surrender to his appreciation. Yet, his "thirst for beauty" (saundarya-pipāsa) pursued him like a ghost. Occasionally, during the great festivals held within the fort, there would be displays of wrestling, archery, ram-fights, and swordsmanship. Once or twice, at the request of the elders and with the King's permission, his wife had seen her husband—usually her gentle lover—engaged in a fierce sword duel.
In those moments of martial display, Vijayasimha appeared exactly as he did during their most intimate and sweet romantic hours. Since then, she had watched the sword-craft of others at such festivals, but nothing satisfied her. She longed to see her husband stand upon the arena floor (bari). She craved to witness the lightning-fast movements of his body, the swiftness, the grace of his footwork, and the playful beauty of his combat. It became a deep, driving desire within Bhāma.
A few times, in the privacy of their chambers and to please her, Vijayasimha performed his sword-drills at her repeated request. But this did not satisfy her. She had heard that great martial displays occurred during royal coronations, but the women of the harem never attended them. She heard that young men of royal blood would gather and compete among themselves.
When she asked her husband about it, he confirmed it.
"Could you not have invited me?" she asked. "Wonderful!" he teased. "Next, you'll ask me to carry you on my hip while I leap about in battle!"
In this way, they shared a profound mutual respect for each other's arts—his for her music, hers for his martial skill. It was like the golden pinnacle (kanaka-kalaśam) atop the palace of their love.
Time passed. Vijayasimha's love for her did not diminish, yet suspicion began to take root in Bhāma's mind. She overheard whispers among the maidservants. She cornered one or two of them, forcing them to speak, and they gave her vague, half-muffled accounts that were impossible to verify. She confronted her husband. He made a thousand oaths, pleading with her not to believe such rumors.
The oaths taken between a husband and wife are strange things. In the giving and hearing of them, the very mysteries of creation seem to manifest. In that moment, the body, the bodily desires, the strength of the mind and its various layers, the underlying soul (jīva), dharma, the craving for pleasure, deceit, truth, secrecy, performance, and self-delusion—all these infinite emotional materials are awake at once. He did not know if she believed him; he did not even know if he was telling the truth. Yet, there is one bond that blankets all of this: Dāmpatyam (the marital union). It is their familiar, daily desire for one another.
The situation intensified. Bhāma grew angry and remained silent for days. This did not seem to change his behavior, but when he eventually returned to her, the sheer desperation and humility in his pleas for her favor tripled, providing her with an even more intense pleasure. That pleasure deceived her. Ah, human nature! It is not just human nature, but the very characteristic of creation: a loss in one area is ignored because of a gain in another. Gradually, Bhāma grew accustomed to this cycle. It was truly hard to believe Vijayasimha was doing anything wrong. Only once in a million years did he leave the fort; he was almost always within its walls. And when he did leave, his reasons were always perfectly clear.
But one night—when her husband's pleading reached its peak, and she had granted him her grace and acceptance, matching his desperation with her own—as they lay in an inseparable embrace, their cheeks pressed together, she whispered into his ear:
"O, eternal light of my heart! My fragrant breeze! Do not leave me.
If the things people say are true, my life is over. I have no life left. I am one who would perform sahagamana[4]with you; I am not one who could remain behind and live.
No matter how great a prince you are, that path is terrifying. It may go smoothly for a few years, but like a tiger lurking behind a bush, danger can spring and tear your throat before you know it. You can slay any hero who faces you head-on, my lord, but who can withstand a calamity that strikes from behind? Even as I say these words, my heart is trembling."
Translation by Vishal Royal
[1] not like harem of chinese emperors
[2] God of desire/love
[3] Goddess of knowledge, arts, learning.....
[4] dying along with husband