Now, if bhava is the 'intention’ of all the kalas, in the traditional context, then in the terms of "structure" there are a number of elements all kalas share. A Bharatanatyam dancer I met pointed to tala (rhythm) as the core structural element common in all these forms. (Discussion with Dr. Malati Agniswaran, teacher and practitioner of Bharatnatyam dance.) It is true that when one refers to the tradition of gandharva gana, three things are highlighted, pada (verse), tala (rhythm) and swara (melody). Kavya also has rhythm or chhanda, and it is perhaps for this reason that different talas are bound to different textual compositions, especially in the dhrupad and bhajan traditions. Rhythm is important in nritya and in trying to capture movement in stasis it is thus, important both in chitra and vastu. It is perhaps now that one can recall the verse cited above from Visnudharmottara and see the logic underlying it.

             Elsewhere, I had pointed out that at the centre of the kala tradition lays the notion of narrative, of an oral or written text. This is another thing that holds the various kalas together. I need not mention kavya and nritya here which borrow heavily from puranas, Bhagabata or the mahakavyas. Even in musical compositions, fragments from old stories are taken up to create the emotional context, the base, on which the bhava can develop. The same is also true for chitra or vastu.²

             Another structural element, common to the various kalas is the notion of dosas (flaws) and gunas (good qualities). Whether one talks of kavya, gana or chitra, the flaws listed are to be avoided and the good qualities listed are to be encouraged. And finally, one must refer back to the Nātya Śastra, from where these forms flow – from one common source – and hence across the ages, none of these forms forgets its link to the other.

           Hence, it is not surprising to see the tradition of rāgamāla paintings evolve in the 16^th century from an amalgam of Sanskrit, vernacular, and Persian influences, for the essence underlying the tradition continues. Here, I shall only make a few observations.

           However, before that, I wish to question the notion of hierarchy that the quotation from Vishnudharmottara might have indicated. According to tradition, the silpi meditates on the deity he is to make until he sees it clearly, as if in front of his own eyes. Then he translates it into material form (Coomaraswamy 1997). This is a tradition common to both Hinduism and Buddhism. Sangitaratnākara also encourages the tradition of meditating on the notes until they take divine forms. Dhyānaslokas, in Indian musical traditions, are such verses that embody the music (image of the deity or the rāga or the rāgini) in words that weave images. Sangita yogis, meditating of the nāda brahma, making use of material, audible sounds, go into states of transcendence, where they are able to see the specific rāga embodied visually. They often put these down as words – dhyānaslokas. Thus, dhyānaslokas are texts that emerge in response to images, which emerge in response to sound. And, it is as if the dhyānaslokas have as much power to evoke the bhāva as the specified raga.

Two examples of Raga Hindol (The Swing) from rāgamāla paintings. The second one has a dhyānasloka inscribed at the top.³

The rāgamāla (garland of rāgas) paintings take their inspiration from such verses and try to evoke the same bhāva. They are the re-embodiment of the dhyānasloksa in lines and colours. And progression is achieved since it is not a single picture but a series of pictures that one sees, woven like a garland. And like a garland, the structure eludes hierarchy, being without beginning and end, like the diurnal cycles of night and day, and over days, of changing seasons. Thus, rāgamāla sung, is transformed (not translated) into rāgamāla seen. And the process is complete if both evoke the same bhāvas and culminate in the same rasas. Since the rāgamāla is supposed to evoke the seasons, it also transforms the world of their listener/viewer, evoking an entire cycle of year in a short span of time.

              ‘Translation,’ if at all such a word can be used, must be understood in such a context. Even when talking of translating from one language to another within our culture, some of the above points might be pertinent. I have not talked here about anuvāda or chaya, since I lack competence in the field, but I have a feeling that some of the points made here may apply to them as well. But our task is also to codify the basic tenets and underlying principles of such a translation in a post-colonial context, to point out how it differs significantly from (the meaning of) ‘translation’ within our post-coloniality (which includes the memory of our coloniality as well as the practices it imbibed), to look at one tradition coloured by the other.

              More importantly, one has to recognize the delicate nuances of the notion of translation in different cultures, respect their underlying philosophies, rather than using blanket terms sweepingly. In the context of inter-modal translation, the above illustrations suggest a methodology and also a totally different ideology as well as social contextualization of translation. For instance, when translating among Indian languages, should one look for consistency of style (riti), figures (alankara) and take note of the dosas and gunas, and in the final count, bhava and rasa? Is it possible that some of these tools can be used in the context of translating from an Indian language to English or from English to an Indian language?

            Another important question that comes to mind is how, in a post-colonial context, is the translation of ancient cultural texts to be done – especially in the background of a tradition of Indological scholars having translated in certain ways.  This is important, since even contemporary Indologists use a method that is still colonial in its techniques and habits.

              Similarly, at the level of the underlying socio-cultural ethos, ‘translation’ poses certain problems. For instance, can the Vedas be translated? On the other hand there is the tradition of the Bhāgabhata, which is the essence of the Vedas and the Upanisads for the common man (or so the tradition says). Would the process be called translation? Similarly, in regional traditions, many Rāmāyanas, Mahābhāratas and Purānas exist. Are they to be defined as translations? What underlying principles are used, say in Ramacharitamānasa? In a tradition of sublimation, how is the author treated? How does Ramacharitamānasa feel about Vālmiki Rāmāyana or Kambarāmāyanas? The notion of authorship and anonymity in the context of translation in our culture hold distinctive elements of problematization from a western perspective (within which we use ‘translation’) and need to be explored.

            Finally, at the level of actual “translations” in our tradition (if at all they can be called that), the traditions, techniques and principles used need investigation. Perhaps, my reflections above are some examples of that. However, a much more comprehensive and articulate exploration, especially in the context of post-colonial translation studies, is perhaps what is necessary

 Notes

1.      Angikabinaya (conveying meaning and emotions through gestures) includes repertoire of codified body movements, positions of the body (asana), expressions of the face (mukhaja), movement of the upper and lower limbs (cestas), hands and finger (mudra). This tradition begins in Natya Sastra, and is to be also found in Chitra and Silpa Saatras along with texts of Nritya.

 2.      In the western context, both music and painting broke away from the narrative tradition, music by the Renaissance, and painting, by the 18^th century. It is interesting to note that Western classical music broke away the tradition of combining music and words (except in Opera), which was considered very important in gandharva gana, and even today is of utmost importance in the Carnatic tradition.

 3.      The basic idea conveyed by such verses is something to this effect: "He is seated in a golden swing, while a number of nymphs by whom he is surrounded, amuse him with music and keep time with the rocking of the swing on which he sits, insolently gazing on their charms, enjoying the sweets spontaneously offered to his shrine”. Sourindra Mohan Tagore, Hindoo Music, p 82.

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