Caurapañcāśikā

Bilhaṇa and the Kashmiri Princess

The Story Behind the Verses

Bilhaṇa was an 11th-century Sanskrit poet from Kashmir, gifted not merely with scholarship but with a lyrical heart. From a young age, he was steeped in Vyākaraṇa, Kāvyā, and Vedānta, and his fame as a learned man travelled faster than he did.

During his wanderings, Bilhaṇa arrived at the court of a Kashmiri king (often identified by tradition, though names vary in retellings). Impressed by his erudition, the king appointed him as the tutor to the princess—a role that demanded discipline, restraint, and distance.

But poetry is rarely obedient.

Love in the Guise of Learning

What began as lessons in śabda and artha slowly became exchanges of glances and silences. Bilhaṇa and the princess fell deeply in love—

a love that was secret, forbidden, and intensely alive.

Their meetings were hidden, their joy fragile. In many tellings, the princess herself becomes the muse who awakens Bilhaṇa’s most profound poetry. Love, here, is not indulgence—it is transformative fire.

Eventually, the secret was discovered.

Prison and the Birth of Immortal Verses

Enraged, the king ordered Bilhaṇa to be imprisoned, and in some versions, sentenced to death. As Bilhaṇa was led each day toward execution, he was asked to recite a verse—perhaps to test his composure, perhaps to mock his fate.

And it is here that poetry defeats death.

Each day, Bilhaṇa recited a verse remembering his beloved—

not her body alone, but moments, sensations, glances, shared silences.

Thus was born Caurapañcāśikā

(“Fifty Verses of a Thief”)—

the thief being the poet who had stolen love from the palace.

The Verses: Memory as Devotion

A famous refrain runs through the verses:

अद्यापि तां कनककान्तिमतीं स्मरामि

“Even today, I remember her, radiant like gold.”

Each verse begins with “adyāpi” — “even now”.

Even now I remember…

Even now her face…

Even now her laughter…

These verses are not erotic in a coarse sense. They are smaraṇa—remembrance so intense that it becomes sacred. In Indian aesthetics, this is śṛṅgāra refined by viraha (love matured through separation).

The Ending: Mercy or Loss

The endings differ across traditions:

In one version, the king, moved by Bilhaṇa’s dignity and poetry, pardons him.

In another, Bilhaṇa survives but loses the princess forever.

In yet another, the verses themselves become the only surviving union between lover and beloved.

History fades—but poetry remains.

Why Bilhaṇa Still Matters

Bilhaṇa’s story is remembered not merely as a romantic scandal, but as a profound truth:

Memory can be stronger than possession.

Love remembered becomes wisdom

Poetry can turn punishment into immortality

For a devotee’s heart, Bilhaṇa’s verses almost echo bhakti—

replace the beloved with the Lord, and the adyāpi becomes the devotee’s cry:

“Even now, I remember You.”

Bilhaṇa teaches us something subtle and deeply Indian:

What is remembered with purity does not bind—it liberates.

This is why these verses survived centuries, why they still move readers, and why they sit so close to the language of viraha-bhakti.

Here are five well-known verses from Bilhaṇa’s Caurapañcāśikā, each with a gentle explanation and the story-feel behind it. I’ll keep them contemplative, not academic.

1. Adyāpi… — The ache of first remembrance

अद्यापि तां कनककान्तिमतीं स्मरामि

अद्यापि तां मदनविह्वललोचनान्ताम् ।

अद्यापि तां सुरतकेलिनिमीलिताक्षीं

देवीं गुणैरनुरतां हृदि चिन्तयामि ॥

Meaning:

Even now I remember her—radiant like gold,

even now her eyes, trembling with love.

Even now I remember her closed eyes in moments of union,

that divine woman, full of grace, dwelling in my heart.

Behind the verse:

This is not a man clinging to the past—it is a man living inside memory. The repetition of adyāpi (“even now”) tells us that time has not healed love; it has sanctified it.

2. Love as lived detail, not imagination

अद्यापि तां मृदुलगात्रलतां स्मरामि

अद्यापि तां नवकुरङ्गविलोचनान्ताम् ।

अद्यापि तां सुललितस्मितभूषणाढ्यां

मत्तेभकुम्भविभवोरुयुगां स्मरामि ॥

Meaning:

Even now I remember her tender, vine-like form,

even now her eyes like a young deer’s.

Even now her gentle smile, her natural grace,

her majestic bearing that filled my world.

Behind the verse:

Bilhaṇa remembers specifics—not fantasy. Real love survives on detail. This is why the verses feel lived, not composed.

3. Separation sharpens love

अद्यापि तां प्रणयविह्वलवाक्यजालैः

संरम्भसौम्यवदनां स्मरामि देवīm ।

अद्यापि तां नयनपातनिमीलिताक्षीं

ह्रीलोलमीलितमुखीं हृदि भावयामि ॥

Meaning:

Even now I remember her gentle face,

softened by loving, faltering words.

Even now her eyes lowering in shy glances,

her face half-hidden by modesty, living in my heart.

Behind the verse:

Notice—there is no complaint, no anger. Prison has not embittered him. Love, when remembered purely, becomes quiet and luminous.

4. The beloved becomes inner presence

अद्यापि तां हृदयवर्त्मनि संस्थितां तु

त्यक्त्वा शरीरमपि नैव जहाति चेतः ।

यामेव चिन्तयति नित्यनवां कवीनां

सा मे मनःकुसुमसौरभमादधाति ॥

Meaning:

Even if the body perishes,

she will never leave the path of my heart.

The poets may imagine ever-new beauties,

but her fragrance alone fills the flower of my mind.

Behind the verse:

Here, the beloved has crossed from outer life to inner being. This is where śṛṅgāra almost becomes bhakti.

5. Love remembered becomes immortal

अद्यापि तां स्मरति चेतसि मे प्रवेश्य

कालः क्षणानिव गणानपि लङ्घयित्वा ।

नाशो न मे प्रणयिनोऽस्ति न चास्य दोषः

स्मृत्या हि जीवति जनो न तु देहयोगात् ॥

Meaning:

Time has leapt over countless moments,

yet she still enters my heart.

Love does not perish, nor is it at fault—

for one lives by remembrance, not by the body alone.

Behind the verse:

This is Bilhaṇa’s final victory. The king may command the body, but memory belongs to the soul.