So That It Might Become Clear: The Methods and Purposes of Narrative Abridgement in Early Modern Jain Purāṇic Composition
2. Jinadāsa, Raviṣeṇa, and the History of Jain Rāma Literature
3. Jinadāsa’s Literary Project
Jinadāsa’s wholesale adoption of Raviṣeṇa’s opening verses, I argue, serves as a subtle nod to the fact that he wants people to understand his composition in relation to that of his predecessor.I bow to Mahāvīra, the auspiciousness of the three worlds; who is the ultimate cause of accomplishment; who is himself accomplished; who has fulfilled the most auspicious goal of life; who teaches proper conduct, knowledge, and viewpoint; and whose lustrous feet, the rays of light emanating from which resemble radiant lotus filaments, are touched by the crown of Indra.
Tubb (1985, p. 142) goes on to cite Abhinavagupta’s eleventh-century Locana (commentary) to Ānandavardhana’s Dhvanyāloka (“The Splendor of Suggestion”), which states that:A śāstra, or prescriptive work, is of interest because of the authority of its pronouncements; in such a work the word itself is of primary importance. In an ākhyāna, or story, what holds our interest is the plot being presented; in such a work it is therefore the sense rather than the word that is predominant. Finally, in a kāvya, or work of belles lettres, the predominance lies not in the words alone, nor in their ultimate meaning, but in the special operation (vyāpāra) through which the words are linked to our apprehension of that meaning; in such a work what holds our attention is the beauty of the poetic act of expression.
One aspect of Abhinavagupta’s extended metaphor is especially worthy of note, the fact that only in kāvya is edification explicitly linked to pleasure. Kāvya, tradition holds, cannot but delight its consumer, and while prescriptive works and story literature are also didactic, they do not—and in fact oftentimes should not—fundamentally delight in the same way that kāvya does.Scripture…teaches after the fashion of a master, by giving direct commands. The story literature edifies us more gently, after the fashion of a helpful friend, by presenting interesting examples of what fruits befell the actions of others in the past. And poetry instructs us in the most effective way, after the fashion of a beloved woman, by so delighting us that we are scarcely aware of an underlying purpose.
4. Methods of Narrative Condensation and the Concept of Clarity in Jinadāsa’s Padmapurāṇa
Though merely a small excerpt of Raviṣeṇa’s account of Anantabala’s discourse, the language that Raviṣeṇa employs here is paradigmatic of Anantabala’s entire sermon. The sage begins with a diagnosis of the condition of most souls: they are weighed down by the negative karma that has accrued over innumerable lifetimes. Such souls wander from birth to birth in myriad bodies in different levels of the universe; they are ignorant of the amazing opportunity that is human birth and squander it through acts of self-serving violence. Anantabala describes the myriad ways in which one’s karmic history can manifest in a human birth; whether a jīva is born into a rich or poor family, or why someone born a pauper might also be physically beautiful while a rich person may be physically abhorrent are all the intricate workings of karma. Anantabala then goes on to discuss how one can take advantage of a human birth, focusing on the auspicious life of a householder and one’s duty to support renunciates. He explains that a proper recipient of support can be identified by one’s action, noting particularly that wicked people oftentimes endorse the consumption of meat.24The soul wanders, its own power bound by the fetters that are the masses of the eight types of karma, beginningless and eternal. It perpetually takes birth in innumerable hundreds of thousands of wombs, experiencing pain and pleasure caused by the many sense organs. Sometimes beloved, other times hated, sometimes foolish, it spins around in the four-fold possibilities of existence, as if on a potter’s wheel, because of the ripening of different karmas. On account of knowledge-occluding karma it does not understand what is beneficial for itself. This is true even when it attains human birth, which is incredibly difficult to attain. Creatures burdened with heavy loads of sin on account of past actions, overcome by the sense organs and the grasping out by means of touch and taste, having performed all sorts of despicable acts, fall into hell, which in turn delivers various methods of great suffering to beings. Indeed, such creatures fall [into hell] like stones fall into water. Some men, whose minds are completely wicked and overcome with the desire for the riches of others, kill their own mothers, fathers, brothers, children, wives, and friends! They kill those that are still in the womb, the young and the old, and women. Some who are extremely cruel kill men, birds, and deer. All of those people of small intellect, whose minds have deviated from dharma, having killed both terrestrial and aquatic beings, fall into the extremely frightful hell.
Comparing Jinadāsa’s and Raviṣeṇa’s accounts of Anantabala’s sermon sheds light on how Jinadāsa condenses his predecessor’s narrative. The overall tenor of both versions of the sermon is the same, but Jinadāsa oftentimes abridges Raviṣeṇa’s descriptions, omitting comparisons that in Raviṣeṇa’s text add emphasis to the point being made. For example, Raviṣeṇa includes a line in his version of the story that compares a wicked person’s fall into hellish realms with a stone falling into water; the action is quick, nearly instantaneous, and unavoidable. The image of the plummeting stone also highlights the heaviness of negative karma, which drags the soul downward into hellish rebirth. Jinadāsa omits this comparison in his version of the sermon, though he does make the same overall point as Raviṣeṇa, that jīvas burdened by the karma accrued through wicked actions indeed fall into the hell realms. Most noticeably, though, Jinadāsa also omits Raviṣeṇa’s entire discussion of the murderous man, a discussion that acts as a markedly negative diagnosis of how most people waste their human births. Raviṣeṇa dwells on describing how people act wickedly, providing a litany of victims—mothers, fathers, brothers, children, wives, and friends—whom people delight in tormenting on account of their own greed. Jinadāsa does not provide any sort of similar discussion, giving instead a more subdued description of the common human condition. It is true, Jinadāsa acknowledges, that people who are controlled by their senses and sensual desire are likely to end up in hell, but he also quickly moves on from this discussion. Jinadāsa instead simply states that positive repercussions and delightful rebirth stem from the performance of auspicious actions and that negative rebirth stems from the performance of wicked acts. Returning to the larger question, though, of why it is Anantabala’s discourse on dharma that Jinadāsa so drastically abridges, I argue that, to Jinadāsa, such lengthy discussions retard the steady progress of the narrative, and it is in that progress and the narrative’s eventual conclusion that the importance of the story lies. Anantabala’s discourse on dharma is not essential to the plot of the narrative and thus can be abridged.Then the Lord Anantavīrya,25 an abode of tender compassion and dear to all, himself spoke this beneficial speech, imbued with truth. Because of the eight-fold types of karma, the body, wandering through the forest of existence, perpetually finds sorrow in many hundreds-of-thousands births. Such foolish ones, covered by an obstruction to knowledge on account of his bewildered mind, spinning around like a potter’s wheel, do not know what is beneficial for them. Even having attained human birth, which is very difficult, those who have been conquered by the sense organs fall into a narrow, crowded pit, according to one’s wicked acts. With auspicious, good acts, one attains happiness, and with inauspicious, wicked acts, one attains sorrow. But the soul that has entirely abandoned both the auspicious and the inauspicious goes to the abode of bliss. Because, like a true friend, it instantly rescues a soul that has fallen into a bad rebirth, the wise thus call it “dharma”. They, on account of dharma, go to the heavens, such as the Saudharma heaven, which are abodes of happiness, entirely covered with various chariots and palaces, and happily attended to by divine women! And anything that is thought to be delightful in the upper, lower, and middle worlds, which is held in high esteem and is desired by all, that is so only because of dharma. It cannot be otherwise, o king! He who is born as a king or something similar, a glorious provider and enjoyer of fine things, who is perpetually protected by servants, that is indeed the fruit born from the tree of dharma. Indra indeed enjoys happiness that is born from the mind, together with his wife Śacī, served by the forces of the gods. That indeed is the fruit born from the tree of dharma. Those who destroy the wrestler who is delusion (moha) via the glorious weapons of the three jewels attain mokṣa, which is the great fruit of pure dharma. Having achieved human birth and then having done appropriate dharma, one gains all the fruit that is born from heaven, etc., with living beings.
The level of specificity here is important; it is not enough for Raviṣeṇa to say that Kaikeyī was proficient at different sports and games. Instead, the author catalogues the subgroups of the larger order of “sport”. And what is more, he does the same for every order of “art” that he describes, in the process creating an exhaustive list of courtly arts and their subgroups. This fact is highlighted when one compares Raviṣeṇa’s account of Kaikeyī’s artistic proficiency with Jinadāsa’s account, which, given below in its entirety, constitutes a mere five verses:Sport is of four types: “With Gesture” (ceṣṭā), “With Paraphernalia,” (upakaraṇa), “With Speech,” (vānī), and “With Profit,” (kalāvyatyasana). That sport which is born from the body is called ceṣṭā. And that which involves a wooden ball and the like is commonly known as upakaraṇa. Furthermore, that which involves various forms of elegant speaking is the play of speech. That which is played with various types of dice games and gambling is known as kalāvyatyasana. Thus [Kaikeyī] was exceedingly skilled in the many divisions of sport.
The daughter named Kaikeyī was extremely beautiful, with splendid and auspicious features. She had perfected all of the arts. [She was] skilled in song, dance, etc.; practiced in the distinctions of figure drawing and verse composition; and was well versed in the manifold kinds of reasoning. She had knowledge of the nine rasas and in the assessment of valuable things. O king, she was skilled in measurement as well as in the medical sciences. She was knowledgeable of the sciences of magic, medicinal herbs and mantra. Thus, she who was knowledgeable of proper behavior possessed knowledge of fine arts. Her fame, born from her virtue, beauty, and proficiency in fine arts, shined throughout the world, and her beauty surpassed even that of the goddess Śrī!
These are stock descriptions of queens; the women are beautiful and virtuous, but there is no detail in their characterization. The description coincides with their relative importance in shaping the narrative as a whole as it moves forward; that is to say, Daśaratha’s other three queens do little to influence the course of the narrative. Thus, the first reason for Raviṣeṇa’s detailed account of Kaikeyī’s artistic skills is to mark her as an important character.Daśaratha gained a body that was decorated with delightful youthfulness. He was tall like a mountain peak decorated with various lotus flowers. Then he married the daughter of King Sukośala of Darbhasthala. A woman of alluring charm, she was born of his beautiful queen Amṛtaprabhā and her name was Aparājitā. In the case of womanly virtue, she was unsurpassed even by Ratī. There is also a delightful city named Kamalasaṁkula, the king of which was named Subandhutilaka. His wife was named Mitrā. Those two had a daughter named Kekayā who was endowed with virtue. It was as if her head was crowned by a garland of blue lotuses, though they were actually her beautiful blue eyes. Because that beautiful one with lovely limbs was born from Mitrā, therefore in the world she was known as Sumitrā. Daśaratha married her, as well as another daughter of a great king, named Suprabhā, who with her beauty was the shame even of Śrī.
This part of Raviṣeṇa’s description of Kailāśa, though a mere two verses, is important to our discussion for two reasons. First, the verses are poetically complex; Raviṣeṇa’s literary hypotaxis is certainly on display. Each compound is a śleṣa (pun or double entendre) that when read one way describes the mountain and read another way describes Sanskrit grammar. For example, take the first compound in the first verse: nānādhātusamākīrṇaṃ. The meanings of the first and last words in the compound remain the same for both readings; nānā means “various” or “manifold” and samākīrṇa means “strewn with”, “covered with”, or “overspread with”. It is upon the middle word in the compound, dhātu, that the śleṣa depends. Read with an eye towards the grammatical, dhatu refers to verbal roots, from which verbs are conjugated. Read with an eye towards a mountain’s topography, though, dhātu refers to the various mineral deposits that are common in descriptions of mountains in Sanskrit literature. So, the entire compound taken together reads both as “[that thing which] is strewn with various verbal roots”, and “[that thing which] is strewn with various minerals”. What is even more though, is that Raviṣeṇa does not tip his hand that this is a comparison that the reader should be making until the very end of this set of verses, when he finally explains that Kailāśa has “acquired a resemblance to grammar” (labdhavyākaraṇopama). Because the mechanism of comparison consists of the compound śleṣas themselves, and therefore not marked by common comparative signifiers like iva, Raviṣeṇa is able to mask the comparison until the end of the verses, thus forcing the reader to go back and rework the compounds to understand the comparison itself. It is a sly poetic maneuver, but it also highlights Raviṣeṇa’s interest in producing good kāvya, poetry that simultaneously challenges and delights the qualified reader.[Mount Kailāśa] acquired a resemblance to grammar, for as grammar is comprised of various verbal roots, mountains are strewn with various minerals, and as grammar is furnished with words that follow the same rules for derivation, the mountain was made up of thousands of troops demi-gods. Whereas grammar is filled with good letters and sounds, so too the mountain is full of gold. And whereas grammar is loaded with different metrical constructions, so too the mountain is loaded with footsteps. Both grammar and the mountain possess natural, crude states, and both undergo consistent transformation. As grammar consists of different vowels, so too does the mountain consist of various noises.
The description of Kailāśa here balances on the edge between beautiful and dangerous. On the one hand, the mountain is intoxicating. It is sweet smelling, both because of flowers and the sap of trees. The bees that reside on the mountain are intoxicated by jasmine-flower honey, and the mountain is verdant and luscious in all seasons. This is the pleasurable abode of the gods. On the other hand, beneath the sensual delights of the mountain lie dangers. The mountain is a wild place. Lions, serpents, and bears populate it, and though it lacks the medicinal herbs necessary to cure snakebites, the poisonous snakes themselves abide there. Part of the reason the mountain smells so good is because the trees have been stripped of their bark by rhinoceroses, and the faces of monkeys may be mistaken for lotuses. Even the weather is unpredictable, with dangerous lightning illuminating parts of the sky. This is the frightful mountain, the mountain that is inaccessible to the common man and appropriate only for asceticism.It appeared to be breaking through the sky with its clusters of sharp peaks. And it appeared to be laughing because of its waterfalls with their heavy mists. Cuckoo birds and black bees were drunk from the wine of the honey from the jasmine flowers; the mountain was dense with various types of trees, the tops of which filled the skies. [The mountain] was covered in heart-stealing flowers, etc., that grew in all seasons. In its valleys thousands of animals delightfully wandered. It was filled with net-like groups of snakes that were free from the fear of herbal medicine. With its heart-stealing fragrance it seemed to be forever youthful. The broad rocks were like its chest. The trees were like massive arms. The deep caves were like a mouth. [Thus] the mountain was fashioned as if it were an extraordinary man. Dense with groups of slopes shaped like autumnal clouds, it was as if the entire world was washed with milk. Over here, lions slept without fear in the mouths of caves. Over there, trees rustled with the breath from the hissing of sleeping serpents. Over here herds of antelope played on the edges [of the forest]. Over there the upper parts of the mountain resounded joyfully with herds of rutting elephants. Over here there were multitudes of flowers; it was like the mountain was thrilled with delight. Over there the landscape was made terrible by the heavy masses of bears’ matted hair. Over here the mountain was filled with the faces of monkeys that resembled groups of lotuses. Over there the mountain was made fragrant because of the oozing sap of the trees, injured by rhinoceroses. Over here the mountain was dense with clouds, entangles by forked lightning. Over there the sky was brilliantly lit, as if the mountain’s peak were the sun. In some forested areas, with trees densely spread out and laden with sweet-smelling flowers, it was as if the mountain was trying to outdo the Pāṇḍuka forest!
This is the extent to which Jinadāsa describes Mount Kailāśa; the next verses describe Rāṿana landing on the mountain and his confrontation with the ascetic living there, Vāli. Jinadāsa’s indebtedness to Raviṣeṇa is marked by his use of similar vocabulary; he takes vicitradhātu and svara directly from his predecessor’s text. Close examination of this verse highlights the two trends in Jinadāsa’s process of condensation discussed earlier: his tendency to remove content from Raviṣeṇa’s verses and his use of paratactic language. As to the first, Jinadāsa leaves out all of the natural imagery that Raviṣeṇa so meticulously constructs. His depiction of the mountain is not beautiful; rather, its primary characteristic is that it is inaccessible to man. Even this description, though, lacks the descriptive power of Raviṣeṇa’s. Jinadāsa provides, for example, no account of the many predators that roam the mountain. Further, his comparison between Kailāśa and Sanskrit grammar takes up only one-half of a verse, compared with the two verses in Raviṣeṇa’s text. Like Raviṣeṇa, Jinadāsa employs śleṣa here, and the double meanings function in the same way as they do in Raviṣeṇa’s text, though some of the meanings require a bit of a stretch of the imagination. Gahana, for instance, means “cave”, which works with the mountainous aspect of the description, but it has a less precise grammatical meaning. It is the name of a specific meter and can therefore be extrapolated to mean “meter” more broadly, but it is a clunky maneuver nonetheless. One way to remedy this is to think of gahana not as its own śleṣa, but rather as an adjective agreeing with both vicitradhātusaṃkīrṇa and svarasaṃyuta. In this case, gahana would simply mean “dense” or “thick”, which would mean Kailāśa is densely replete with mineral deposits and noises in the same way that grammar is densely replete with both verbal roots and letters. This trajectory of analysis makes sense because it also helps to connect the two halves of the verse itself. Gahana can further mean “difficult to grasp or understand”, which correlates nicely with duṣprekṣya in the second half of the verse, which means “difficult to see or look at”. In the end, gahana here is probably working in all three ways, as an imprecise śleṣa itself, correlating with Raviṣeṇa’s description of caves and derivative noun forms; as an adjective to both vicitradhātusaṃkīrṇa and svarasaṃyuta; and as a link between the two halves of the verse. This move is the second trend in Jinadāsa’s overall use of language: his willingness to sacrifice precision in an effort to condense Raviṣeṇa’s work. Similar to our discussion above regarding descriptions of Kaikeyī, Jinadāsa’s abridgement of Raviṣeṇa’s account works to quicken the pace of the narrative.[Mount Kailāśa] was filled with various minerals, caves, and sounds. For weak-minded men, the mountain was inaccessible, in the same way that grammar is, being filled with various verbal roots, meters, and letters.
These verses are not grammatically complicated, each line being essentially a string of either nominative or accusative plural nouns with a single governing verb in the present, ghnanti, from the Sanskrit root han, meaning “to kill”. But the construction of the verses, the placement of each component, is intentionally intricate. In the first verse, the halves switch between describing objects of the verb and its subject; the first half is a list of objects (mothers, fathers, brothers, children, wives, and friends), whereas the second half provides only adjectival descriptions of an as-yet undisclosed subject (those who minds are wicked and who are overcome with desire for others’ riches). The beginning of the second verse, though, switches back to listing objects of the verb (those in the womb, the young and old, and women), which, of course, the reader still does not know. Finally, in the last line of this two-verse unit, the reader is provided with both the concrete subject of the verse and the verb: “men” (narāḥ) and “kill” (ghnanti). By switching between objects and adjectival nominatives, Raviṣeṇa purposefully retards the natural progress of the thought, fostering a heightened tension in the reader, the resolution of which is simultaneously mundane and shocking because of Raviṣeṇa’s use of the common Sanskrit term “man” (nara), followed immediately by the as-yet undisclosed verb “to kill”. What, then, does man do? According to Raviṣeṇa, man kills. The verse is not over, though; it continues to explain that some men are particularly cruel and kill not only other humans, but birds and deer as well. The qualifier “some” (kecid) does not delineate between men who kill and men who do not, but rather the objects that each group kills. Some men kill their families and friends; others kill strangers and animals. The verses are powerful because of their construction, because the hypotaxic language keeps the reader on edge before driving home the ultimately discomforting point: men squander away their privileged human birth by committing wanton acts of violence.Some men, whose minds are completely wicked and overcome with the desire for the riches of others, kill their own mothers, fathers, brothers, children, wives, and friends. They kill those that are still in the womb, the young and the old, and women. Some who are extremely cruel kill men, birds, and deer.
The first quarter of the verse establishes the paradigm for everything that follows. Happiness (saukhyam) comes from auspicious karma (śubhena karmaṇā). The second quarter of the verse is even simpler: And sorrow (duḥkham) comes from inauspicious karma (aśubhakarmaṇā). The relationship between the condition and its cause is the same as in the first quarter, but its expression is simplified by compounding aśubha and karmaṇā. The second half of the verse is perhaps the simplest, because the reader is for the first time given a subject with a finite verb and direct object. The soul (jīva) goes (yāti, from the root yā) to the abode of bliss (śivālaya). The compound śubhāśubhavihīnaḥ (that which has entirely abandoned both auspicious and inauspicious) is clearly marked as nominative singular, meaning it agrees with jīva. In one verse, then, Jinadāsa communicates three related ideas, each of which both conceptually and grammatically builds off of what preceded it.Through auspicious, good acts, one attains happiness, and through inauspicious, wicked acts, one attains sorrow. But the soul that has entirely abandoned both auspicious and inauspicious goes to the abode of bliss.
Here, Jinadāsa’s parataxis centers on the repetition of the phrase “taddharmadrumajam phalam”, which translates to, “That is the fruit that is born from the tree of dharma”. The repetition of the phrase in the same place in both verses signals that it functions in the same way, which clues the reader into how to read verse 119. It also emphasizes the omnipotent universality of dharma: it applies exactly the same to both terrestrial kings and the king of the gods, Indra.He who is born as a king or something similar, a glorious provider and enjoyer of fine things, who is perpetually protected by servants, that is indeed the fruit born from the tree of dharma. Indra indeed enjoys happiness that is born from the mind, together with his wife Śacī, served by the forces of the gods. That indeed is the fruit born from the tree of dharma.
Conflicts of Interest
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The work is sometimes titled Rāmcaritra (“The Deeds of Rām”).
As none of Jinadāsa’s works have been edited and published, including his Padmapurāṇa, this paper is based on three manuscripts (two complete, one incomplete) of the Padmapurāṇa housed in the Āmer Śāstra Bhaṇḍār in Jaipur and scanned during the summer of 2015.
The major exception to this trend is the famous twelfth-century Śvetāmbara polymath Hemacandra. See below for more details.
There is evidence that this trend in literary condensation was not limited to Jain authors. Bangha (2014, pp. 367–68) points out that the fifteenth-century poet Viṣṇudās from Gwalior composed a vernacular (bhāṣā) Rāmāyan that simultaneously “invoked Valmiki’s Sanskrit Rāmāyaṇa as a model,” and “reproduce[d] the techniques of condensation and omission that are typical of oral performances and composition”. It is important to note, however, that the mechanisms for and impetuses behind condensing a narrative may differ according to the language of composition: cosmopolitan (Sanskrit, Prakrit, and Apabhramsha) or vernacular bhāṣā.
Building from the work of Granoff (1993), Chojnacki (2018a, pp. 1207–8) specifically argues that the emergence of paper as a mode of knowledge transmission, particularly as opposed to oral transmission from master to student, may at least in part account for the popularity of such narrative epitomes.
For an overview of the state of Digambara monastic communities in late-medieval and early modern north India, see Detige (forthcoming) and Joharāpurakara (1958). To those conversant in Hindi, the gaṇa’s name of “Balātkāra” is likely surprising, given its meaning of “using violence” or “employing force”. Padmanabh Jaini (2017) argues that the original name was balakāra, derived from the Sanskrit valayakāra, which refers to some who makes and sells bangles. There was a large community of Jain bangle-makers in Karntaka in the tenth century; munis from this community may have traveled north, retaining the title balakāra. The name later become balātkāra, Jaini argues, after a fourteenth-century debate between Digambaras and Śvetāmbaras, during which the Digambara monk Padmanandi used the powers (balātkāra) of mantra to make a stone statute of Sarasvatī speak. This, the group become known as the Balātkāra gaṇa and, at least in the north, the original bangle-related meaning of the name disappeared.
Kāstūrcand Kāslīvāl (1967, p. 23) dates Jinadāsa’s birth to 1388, based on the fact that the Sakalakīrtinu Rās places Sakalakīrti’s birth in 1386. Premcand Rāṃvkā (1980, p. 13) collates other scholars’ hypotheses as to Jinadāsa’s date of birth: Paṇḍit Hīrālāl Śāstrī places it in 1380 and Bihārī Lāl Jain places it in 1368.
His immediate teacher’s name was Lakṣmaṇasena, whose teacher was Arhanmuni, whose teacher was Divākara Yati, whose teacher was Indraguru. Raviṣeṇa 123, 167.
Uddyotanasūri wrote the Kuvalayamāla in Jalor, in southeast Rajasthan. Jinasena composed his Harivaṃśapurāṇa in Gujarat, not too far away from Jalor, but Jaṭāsiṃhanandi is thought to have composed the Varāṅgacaritra in Karnataka.
There may be some clues in the Padmapurāṇa itself; for instance, in the eighteenth parva he describes the Vindhya mountain range as being “completely devoid of water” (Raviṣeṇa 18, 39). This depiction of the mountains is similar to that found in other South Indian poetry, and it is something that Jinadāsa changes, instead saying the mountains are indeed replete with water (Jinadāsa 15, 41). We know that Jinadāsa is from north of the Vindhyas, so perhaps Raviṣeṇa’s description of the mountain range did not make sense to him.
Raviṣeṇa 1, 1–2. Jinadāsa 1, 1–2. siddhaṃ sampūrṇabhavyārthaṃ siddeḥ kāraṇamuttamaṃ | praśastadarṣanajñānacāritrapratipādinam || surendramukuṭāśliṣṭapādapadmāṁśukeśaram | praṇamāmi mahāvīraṃ lokatritayamaṅgalam ||.
Jinadāsa 1, 65. tadvākyaracanāṃ prāpya | mayātra kriyate sphuṭaṃ | granthaḥ kathāmukhenātra | vidanti manujā yathā ||.
In the verse I translate kathāmukhena as “with an introduction” because immediately following this verse Jinadāsa goes on to provide an overview of the major plot points of the story.
In many Jain versions of the Rāma story, including both Raviṣeṇa’s and Jinadāsa’s, Rāvaṇa is portrayed as a devout Jain who suffers from the singular flaw of unchecked passion.
More commonly known as Kumbhakarṇa.
Raviṣeṇa 14, 18–26. karmaṇāṣṭaprakāreṇa santatena nirādinā | baddhenāntarhitātmīyaśaktirbhrāmyati cetanaḥ || subhūrilakṣasaṃkhyāsu yoniṣvanubhavansadā | vedanīyaṃ yathopāttaṃ nānākaraṇasaṃbhavam || rakto diṣṭo ’thavā mūḍho mandamadhyavipākataḥ | kulālacakravatprāptacaturgativivartanaḥ || budhyate svahitaṃ nāsau jñānāvaraṇakarmaṇā | manuṣyatāmapi prāpto ‘tyantadurlabhasaṃgamām || rasasparśaparigrāhihṛṣīkavaśatāṃ gatāḥ | kṛtvātininditaṃ karma pāpabhāragurūkṛtāḥ || anekopāyasambhūtamahāduḥkhavidhāyini | patanti narake jīvā grāvāṇa iva vāriṇi || mātaraṃ pitaraṃ bhrātṝn sutāṃ patnīṃ suhṛjjanān | dhanādicoditāḥ kecid viśvaninditamānasāḥ || garbhastānarbhakān vṛddhāṃstaruṇān yoṣito narāḥ | ghnanti kecinmahākrūrā mānuṣān pakṣiṇo mṛgān || sthalajān jalajān dharmacyutacittāḥ kumedhasaḥ | mītvā patanti te sarve narake puruvedane ||.
Raviṣeṇa 14, 71.
Another name for Anantabala.
Jinadāsa 12, 110–121. svāmī tato ‘nantavīryaḥ | karūṇākomalāśayaḥ | jagau tatvārthasanmiśraṃ | vacaḥ sarvapriyaṃ hitaṃ || karmaṇāṣṭavidhenāṃgī | bhrāmyamāṇo bhavāṭavīm | prāpnoti bhūrilakṣāsu | duḥkhaṃ yoniṣu saṃtataṃ || kulālacakravanmūḍho | bhramannātmahitaṃ kvacit | jñānāvaraṇasaṃvīto | na vetti matimohataḥ || manuṣyatvamapi prāpya | durlabhaṃ cākṣanirjitāḥ | pāpakarmavidhāyāṃ te | patanti śvabhrasaṃkaṭe || śubhena karmaṇā saukhyaṃ | duḥkhaṃ cāśubhakarmaṇā | śubhāśubhavihīnastu | jīvo yāti śivālayaṃ || pataṃtaṃ durgatau jīvaṃ | yato dhārayati kṣaṇāt | dharma ityucyate tasmāt | vibudhairbāṃdhavopamaḥ || saudharmādidivaṃ yānti dharmataḥ sukhamaṃdiraṃ | nānāvimānasaṃchannaṃ | divyanārīsukhānvitaṃ || sukhanāmāpi yannūnaṃ | śrūyate sarvavallabhaṃ | ūrdhvādhomadhyaloke ca dharmāttannānyathā nṛpa || dātā yaśasvān bhoktā ca yaḥ sadā bhṛtyarakṣitaḥ | nṛpatirjāyate vānyastaddharmadrumajaṃ phalam || bhanukti saukhyamindro ‘pi | surānīkaiśca sevitaḥ | śacyā saha manojātaṃ | taddharmadrumajaṃ phalaṃ || ye hatvā mohamallaṃ ca | ratnatrayasitāyudhaiḥ | prāpnuvantīha yanmokṣam | śuddhadharmaphalaṃ mahat || mānuṣyameva prāpyātra | dharmaṃ kṛtvā yathocitaṃ | phalaṃ svargādijaṃ sarvaṃ | labhyate prāṇadhāribhiḥ ||.
Raviṣeṇa 24, 67–69. ceṣṭopakaraṇaṃ vāṇī kalāvyatyasanaṃ tathā | krīḍā caturvidhā proktā tatra ceṣṭā śarīrajā || kandukādi tu vijñeyaṃ tatropakaraṇaṃ bahu | vākkrīḍanaṃ punarnānā subhāṣitasamudbhavam | nānādurodaranyāsaḥ kalāvyatyasanaṃ smṛtam | krīḍāyāṃ bahubhedāyāmasyāṃ sātyantakovidā ||.
Jinadāsa 19, 73–77. kanyā cābhūnmahāramyā | śubhalakṣaṇalakṣitā | kalānāṃ paramāpannā | sarvāsāṃ kekayābhidhā|| nṛtyagītādikuśalā citravyavahṛtau tathā | bhedānāṃbuddhimāptānāṃ | vividhānāṃ pravedinī || kovidā rasavatyāṃ ca | navāyāṃ parīkṣaṇe | vastūnāṃ mānakarme ca | cikitsitavidhau nṛpa || mantrauṣadhādīndrajālakriyāyāṃ śāstradakṣiṇā |ityādyāḥ sā satkalāṣca dadhāra nayakovidā || kalārūpaguṇodbhūtā | tasyāḥ kīrttirmahītale | śuśubhe svena rūpeṇa | jayanti śriyamapyaho ||.
Raviṣeṇa 22, 170–176. vapurdaśaratho lebhe navayauvanabhūṣitam | śailakūṭamivottuṅgaṃ nānākumu[d]abhūṣitam || athāmṛtaprabhāvāyāmutpannāṃ varayoṣiti | darbhasthalapureśasya cāruvibhramadhāriṇaḥ || rājñaḥ sukośalākhyasya tanayāmaparājitām | upayeme sa ratyāpi strīguṇairaparājitām || puramasti mahāramyaṃ nāmnā kamalasaṃkulam | subandhutilakastasya rājā mitrāsya bhāminī || duhitā kaikeyī nāma tayoḥ kanyā guṇānvitā | muṇḍamālā kṛtā yasyā netrendīvaramālayā || mitrāyā janitā yasmāt suceṣṭā rūpaśālinī | sumitreti tataḥ khyātiṃ bhuvane samupāgatā || mahārājasutāmanyāṃ prāpāsau suprabhāśrutim | lāvaṇyasaṃpadā bālāṃ janayantīṃ śriyastrapām ||.
Raviṣeṇa 9, 112–113. nānādhātusamākīrṇaṃ gaṇairyuktaṃ sahasraśaḥ | suvarṇaghaṭanāramyaṃ padapaṅktibhirācitam || prakṛtyanugatairyuktaṃ vikārairvilasaṃyutam | svarairbahuvidhaiḥ pūrṇaṃ labdhavyākaraṇopamam||.
Raviṣeṇa 9, 114–125. tīkṣṇaiḥ śikharasaṃghātaiḥ khaṇḍayantamivāmbaram | utsarpacchīkaraiḥ spaṣṭaṃ hasantamiva nirjharaiḥ || makarandasurāmattamadhuvrataparaidhitam | śālaughavitatākāśaṃ nānānokahasaṃkulam|| sarvartujamanohārikusumādimirācitam | caratpramodavatsattvasahasrasaduptyakam || auṣadhatrāsadūrasthavyālajālasamākulam | manohareṇa gandhena dadhataṃ yauvanaṃ sadā || śilāvistīrṇahṛdayaṃ sthūlavṛkṣamahābhujam | guhāgambhīravadanamapūrvapuruṣākṛtim || śaratpayodharākārataṭasaṃghātasaṃkaṭam | kṣīreṇeva jagatsarvaṃ kṣālayantaṃ karotkaraiḥ || kvacidviśrabdhasaṃsuptamṛgādhipadarīmukham | kvacitsuptaśayuśvāsavātāghūrṇitapādapam || kvacitparisarakrīḍatkuraṅgakakadambakam | kvacinmattadvipavrātakalitādhityakāvanam || kvacitpulakitākāraṃ prasūnaprakarācitam | kvacidṛikṣasaṭābhārairuddhatairbhīṣaṇākṛtim || kvacitpadmavaneneva yuktaṃ śākhāmṛgānanaiḥ | kvacitkhaḍgikṣatasyandisālādisurabhīkṛtam || kvacidvidyullatāśliṣṭasaṃbhavadghanasaṃtatim | kvaciddivākarākāraśikharoddyotitāmbaram || pāṇḍukasyeva kurvāṇaṃ vijigīṣāṃ kvacidvanaiḥ | surabhiprasavottuṅgavistīrṇaghanapādapaiḥ ||.
Jinadāsa 10, 95. vicitradhātusaṃkīrṇaṃ gahanaṃ svarasaṃyutaṃ | adhīrāṇāṃ ca duḥprekṣyaṃ yadvadvyākaraṇaṃ nṛṇām||.
Raviṣeṇa 14, 24–25. For the Sanskrit, see note 23 above.
Jinadāsa 12, 114. śubhena karmaṇā saukhyaṃ | duḥkhaṃ cāśubhakarmaṇā | śubhāśubhavihīnastu | jīvo yāti śivālayaṃ ||.
Jinadāsa 12, 118–119. dātā yaśasvān bhoktā | ca yaḥ sadā bhṛtyarakṣitaḥ | nṛpatirjāyate vānyaḥ | taddharmadrumajaṃ phalaṃ ||bhanukti saukhyamindro ‘pi | surānīkaiśca sevitaḥ | śacyā saha manojātaṃ | taddharmadrumajaṃ phalaṃ ||.
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Clines, G.M. So That It Might Become Clear: The Methods and Purposes of Narrative Abridgement in Early Modern Jain Purāṇic Composition. Religions 2019, 10, 355. https://doi.org/10.3390/rel10060355
Clines GM. So That It Might Become Clear: The Methods and Purposes of Narrative Abridgement in Early Modern Jain Purāṇic Composition. Religions. 2019; 10(6):355. https://doi.org/10.3390/rel10060355Chicago/Turabian Style
Clines, Gregory M. 2019. "So That It Might Become Clear: The Methods and Purposes of Narrative Abridgement in Early Modern Jain Purāṇic Composition" Religions 10, no. 6: 355. https://doi.org/10.3390/rel10060355