हिन्दी
Hey daughter of the ice mountain,
He who chooses to describe,
Your crown, bedecked with shining jewels,
Which are but the transformed form,
And arranged very close to one another,
Of the twelve holy suns,
Will see the crescent in your crown.
In the dazzling light of those jewels,
And think them as a rainbow,
Which is but the bow of Indra.
Oh, Goddess, who is the consort of Shiva,
Let the darkness of our mind be destroyed,
By the crowning glory on your head,
Which is of like the forest of opened blue lotus flowers,
And which is soft, dense and shines with lustre.
I believe my mother,
That the pretty flowers of Indra’s Garden,
Are all forever there,
To get the natural scent of thine hair.
Oh mother, let the line parting thine hairs,
Which looks like a canal,
Through which the rushing waves of your beauty ebbs,
And which on both sides imprisons,
Your Vermillion*, which is like a rising sun,
By using your hair which is dark like,
The platoon of soldiers of the enemy,
Protect us and give us peace.
By nature, slightly curled,
And shining like the young honeybees,
Your golden thread like hairs,
Surround your golden face.
Your face makes fun of the beauty of the lotus.
And adorned with slightly parted smile,
Showing the tiers of your teeth,
Which are like the white tendrils,
And which are sweetly scented.
Bewitches the eyes of God,
Who burnt the god of love (Shiva that only with a look incinerated Kama).
I suspect, Oh Mother,
That your forehead,
Which shines with the beauty of the moon,
Is but an imprisoned half-moon,
By your glorious crown,
For If joined opposite
To the inverted half moon in your crown,
It would give out the nectar like luster,
Of the moon on a full moon day.
Oh Goddess Uma,
She who removes fear from the world,
The slightly bent eyebrows of yours,
Tied by a hoard of honeybees forming the string,
I feel resembles the bow of the god of love,
Held by his left hand.
And having hidden middle part (The nose jutting in between the eyebrows),
Hid by the wrist, and folded fingers.
Right eye of yours is like the sun,
And makes the day,
Left eye of yours is like the moon,
And creates the night,
Your middle eye,
Which is like the golden lotus bud,
Slightly opened into a flower,
Makes the dawn and the dusk.
The look from your eyes, Oh goddess
Is all pervasive,
Does good to everyone,
Sparkles everywhere,
Is a beauty that can never be challenged,
Even by blue lily flowers,
Is the source of rain of mercy,
Is sweetness personified,
Is long and pretty,
Is capable of saving devotees,
Is in the several cities as its victory.
And can be called by several names,
According to which aspect one sees.
Thine two long eyes, Oh goddess,
Are like the two little bees which want to drink the honey,
And extend to the ends,
With a pretence of side glances,
To thine two ears,
Which are bent upon drinking the honey,
From the flower bunch of poems,
Presented by your devotees,
And make thine third eye light purple,
With jealousy and envy.
Mother of the entire universe,
The look from your eyes,
Is kind and filled with love, when looking at your Lord,
Is filled with hatred at all other men,
Is filled with anger when looking at Ganga,
The other wife of your Lord,
Is filled with wonder, when hearing the stories of your Lord,
Is filled with fear, when seeing the snakes worn by your Lord,
Is filled with red colour of valour of the pretty lotus fine,
Is filled with jollity, when seeing your friends,
And filled with mercy, when seeing me.
Oh, flower bud,
Who is the head gear,
Of the king of mountains,
Wearing black eyebrows above,
Resembling the feathers of eagle,
And determined to destroy peace,
From the mind of he who destroyed the three cities (Shiva),
Your two eyes elongated up to thine ears,
Enact the arrows of the God of love.
Oh, Darling of God Shiva,
Those three eyes of thine,
Coloured in three shades,
By the eye shades you wear,
To enhance thine beauty,
Wear the three qualities,
Of satvam, rajas and thamas,
As if to recreate the holy trinity,
Of Vishnu, Brahma and Rudra,
After they become one with you,
During the final deluge.
She who has a heart owned by Pasupathi,
Your eyes which are the companions of mercy,
Coloured red, white and black,
Resemble the holy rivers,
Sonabhadra , which is red,
Ganga, which is white,
Yamuna, the daughter of Sun, which is black,
And is the confluence of these holy rivers,
Which remove all sins of the world.
We are certain and sure,
That you made this meet and join,
To make us, who see you, as holy.
The learned sages tell,
Oh, daughter of the king of mountain,
That this world of us,
Is created and destroyed,
When you open and shut,
Your soulful eyes.
I believe my mother,
That you never shut your eyes,
So that this world created by you,
Never, ever faces deluge.
Oh, she who is begotten to none,
It is for sure,
That the black female fish in the stream,
Are afraid to close their eyes.
Fearing that thine long eyes,
Resembling them all,
Would murmur bad about them,
In your ears to which they are close by.
It is also for sure,
That the Goddess Lakshmi,
Enters the blooming blue Lily flowers,
Before your eyes close at night,
And re-enter in the morn when they open.
She who is the consort of Lord Shiva,
Please bathe me with your merciful look,
From your eyes which are very long,
And have the glitter of slightly opened,
Blue lotus flower divine.
By this look I will become rich with all that is known,
And you do not loose anything whatsoever,
For does not the moon shine alike,
In the forest and palaces great.
Oh Goddess, who is the daughter of king of mountains,
Who will not but believe,
That the two arched ridges between your eyes and ears,
Are the flower bow of the God of Love,
Side glances of your eyes,
Piercing through these spaces,
Makes one wonder as if the arrows have been ,
Sent through thine ears.
I feel that thine face,
With the pair of ear studs,
Reflected in thine two mirror like cheeks.
Is the four wheeled Chariot,
Of the God of love.
Perhaps he thought he can win Lord Shiva,
Who was riding in the chariot of earth,
With Sun and moon as wheels,
Because he was riding in this chariot.
Oh Goddess, who is the consort of Lord Shiva,
Your sweet voice which resembles,
The continuous waves of nectar,
Fills the ear vessels of Sarasvati,
Without break,
And she shakes her head hither and thither,
And the sound made by her ear studs,
Appear as if they applaud your words.
Oh Goddess, who is the flag of the clan of Himalayas,
Let your nose which is like a thin bamboo,
Give us the blessings which are apt and near.
I feel mother,
That you are wearing a rare pearl,
Brought out by your breath,
Through your left nostril,
For your nose is a storehouse,
Of rarest pearls divine.
Oh, goddess who has beautiful rows of teeth,
I tried to find a simile to your blood red lips,
And can only imagine the fruit of the coral vine! (Antigonon leptopus)
The fruits of the red cucurbit,
Hangs its head in shame,
On being compared to your lips,
As it has tried to imitate its colour from you,
And knows that it has failed miserably.
The Chakora birds (Mythical birds supposed to drink the moon light),
Feel that their tongues have been numbed,
By forever drinking,
The sweet nectar like light emanating,
From your moon like face,
And for a change wanted to taste,
The sour rice gruel during the night,
And have started drinking,
The white rays of the full moon in the sky.
Mother mine,
The well-known tongue of yours,
Which without rest chants and repeats,
The many goods of your Consort, Shiva,
Is red like the hibiscus flower.
The Goddess of learning Sarasvati,
Sitting at the tip of your tongue,
Though white and sparkling like a crystal,
Turns red like the ruby,
Because of the colour of your tongue.
Oh, mother of the world,
The Lords Subrahmanya, Vishnu and Indra,
Returning and resting after the war with Asuras.
Have removed their head gear,
And wearing the iron jackets,
Are not interested in the left over,
After the worship of Shiva,
Which belongs to Chandikeshvara,
And are swallowing with zest,
The half chewed betel,
From your holy mouth,
Which has the camphor as white as the moon.
Oh, mother of all,
When you start nodding your head,
Muttering sweetly, “good, good”,
To the Goddess Sarasvati,
When she sings the great stories to you,
Of Pashupati our lord,
With the accompaniment of her Veena,
She mutes the Veena by the covering cloth,
So that the strings throwing sweetest music,
Are not put to shame,
By your voice full of sweetness.
Oh daughter of the mountain,
How can we describe the beauty of your chin,
Which was with affection caressed,
By the tip of his fingers by your father Himavan:
Which was oft lifted by the Lord of the mountain, Shiva,
In a hurry to drink deeply from your lips,
Which was so fit to be touched by his fingers,
Which did not have anything comparable,
And which is the handle of the mirror of your face.
Your neck appears full of thorns always,
Due to the hairs standing out,
By the frequent embrace of thy Lord,
Who destroyed the three cities.
And looks like the beauty of the stalk,
Of your lotus like face.
The chain of white pearls worn below,
Is dulled by the incense and myrrh,
And the paste of sandal applied there,
And is like the tender stalk,
Dirtied by the bed of mud.
She who is an expert in Gati, Gamaka and Gita
(The three major parts of Karnatic Classical music: procedure, undulations and song),
The three lucky lines on your neck,
Perhaps remind one,
Of the number of the well tied manifold thread,
Tied during your marriage,
And also remind of the place,
In your pretty neck,
Where originates the three musical notes,
Of Shadja, Madhyama and Gandhara.
Brahma, the God born out of Lotus,
Afraid of the nails of Shiva,
Who killed the Asura called Andhaka,
Which has clipped of one of his heads,
Praises with his four faces,
Your four pretty, tender hands,
Resembling the lotus flower stalk,
So that he can ask for protection for his remaining four heads,
By use of your four merciful hands at the same time.
Oh Goddess Uma,
You only tell us, how,
How we can describe,
The shining of your hands,
By the light of your nails,
Which tease the redness of freshly opened lotus?
Perhaps if the red lotus mixes,
With the liquid lac adorning,
The feet of Lakshmi,
Some resemblance can be seen.
Our Goddess Devi,
Let your two cool breasts,
Which have faced that always,
Give out milk,
And are simultaneously drunk deeply.
By Skanda and the elephant faced Ganesha,
Destroy all our sorrows.
Seeing them and getting confused,
The Heramba (Ganesha) feels for his two frontal globes,
To see whether they are there,
Making you both laugh.
Oh, Victory flag of the king of mountains,
We never have any doubt in our mind,
That your two breasts divine,
Are the nectar filled pot made of rubies,
For The elephant faced one,
And he who killed Kraunchasura, (Ganesha and Kartikeya)
Even today do not know the pleasure of women,
And remain as young children.
Oh, mother mine,
The centre place of your holy breasts,
Wear the glittering chain,
Made out of the pearls,
Recovered from inside the head of Gajasura,
And reflect the redness of your lips,
Resembling the Bimba fruits,
And are coloured red inside.
You wear the chain with fame,
Like you wear the fame of our Lord,
Who destroyed the three cities.
Oh, daughter of the king of mountains,
I feel in my mind,
That the milk that flows from your breast,
Is really the goddess of learning, Sarasvati,
In the form of a tidal wave of nectar.
For, milk given by you, who is full of mercy,
Made the child of Dravida (The Tamil poet Thirujñana Sambandar who preceded Shankara),
The king among those great poets,
Whose works stole one’s mind.
Oh daughter of the mountain,
The God of love who is the king of the mind,
Being lit by the flame of anger of Shiva,
Immersed himself in the deep pond of thine navel.
The tendril like smoke emanated from there,
And mother, people think,
That this is the line of hair,
That climbs from your navel upwards.
The mother of universe who is Shiva and Shakti,
In the narrow part of the middle of your body,
The learned men seem to see a line,
Which is in the shape of a small wave of the river Yamuna,
And which shines and glitters, and appears like the sky,
Made very thin by thine dense colliding breasts,
Entering your cave like navel.
Oh daughter of the mountain,
Is your navel a whirlpool in river Ganga,
Which looks very stable!
Or is it the root of the climber,
Of the stream of your hair line,
Which has two breasts of yours as buds,
Or is it the Homa fire,
Where the fire is the light from cupid,
Or is it the playhouse of Rathi, the wife of God of love,
Or is it the opening to the cave,
In which Shiva’s tapas gets fulfilled,
I am not able to make up my mind!
Oh daughter of the mountain,
You who is the greatest among women,
Long live your pretty hips,
Which look fragile,
Which are by nature tiny,
Which are strained by your heavy breasts,
And hence slightly bent,
And which look like the tree,
In the eroded banks of a rushing river.
Oh Goddess mine,
Placed just below your shoulders,
By Cupid, the God of love,
Tearing your blouse which is attached,
To your body by the sweat,
When you think of the greatness of your Lord,
And resembling pots of Gold,
Your breasts appear to be tied by him,
Securely three times,
By the three creeper like folds (The three folds on the belly).
Oh, daughter of the mountain,
Perhaps Himavan, the King of mountains,
Gave readily as dowry to you,
The density and breadth from his bottom,
So that your behinds are broad and dense.
And therefore, they both hide all the world,
And make the world light.
Oh daughter of the mountain,
Who knows the rules of the Vedas,
Using your two thighs,
You have achieved victory over,
The trunks of the elephant,
And the Golden pseudo stem of group of Banana plants,
And achieved victory over frontal globes,
Of Iravatha the divine elephant (The elephant on which Indra rides),
By your holy round knees,
Which have become hard,
By repeated prostrations to your lord.
Oh daughter of the mountain,
The five arrowed cupid,
To win, Rudra your lord,
Has made your legs,
Into an arrow case,
With ten arrows.
In the end of the case,
Are your two feet,
Studded with ten of your so-called nails,
Which are the ten steel tipped arrows,
Sharpened on the crowns of Devas.
Oh mother mine,
Be pleased to place your two feet,
Which are the ornaments of the head of Upanishads,
The water which washes them is the river Ganges,
Flowing from Shiva’s head,
And the lac paint adorning which,
Have the red lustre of the crown of Vishnu,
On my head with mercy.
We tell our salutations,
To thine two sparkling feet.
Which are most beautiful to the eyes,
And painted by the juice of red cotton.
We also know well,
That God of all animals, your consort,
Is very jealous of the Ashoka trees in the garden,
Which yearn for kick by your feet.
In a playful mood, after teasing you,
About you and your family,
And at a loss to control your love tiff,
When your consort does prostrations,
Your lotus like feet touches his forehead,
And the God of love, the enemy of your Lord, who was burnt,
By the fire from his third eye,
And was keeping the enmity with your lord,
Like the ever-hurting arrow,
Makes sounds like Kili Kili,
From your belled anklets on the legs.
Oh mother mine,
The lotus flower rots in snow,
But your feet are aces in being in snow,
The lotus flower sleeps at night,
But your feet are wakeful night and after night,
The lotus makes the goddess of wealth Lakshmi live in it,
But your feet give Lakshmi to its devotees,
And so, your two feet always wins over the lotus,
What is so surprising in this?
Oh, Goddess Devi,
How did the poets compare,
The foreside of your merciful feet,
Which is the source of fame to your devotees,
And which are not the source of danger to them,
To the hard shell of tortoise,
I do not understand.
How did he who destroyed the three cities,
Take them in his hand,
And place them on hard rock (A rite in Hindu marriage called Asmarohanam),
During your marriage?
Your moon like nails,
Oh mother who killed Chanda,
Which makes the celestial maidens,
Fold their hands in shame,
Forever tease your two feet,
Which unlike the holy trees in heaven,
(Which by their leaf bud like hands,
Give all they wish to the Gods,)
Give the poor people wealth and happiness,
Always and fast.
My soul with six organs,
Is similar to the six-legged honeybees,
Which dip at your holy feet,
Which are as pretty,
As the flower bunch,
Of the Celestial tree,
Which always grant wealth to the poor,
Whenever they wish,
And which without break showers floral honey.
She who has a holy life,
The swans in your house,
Follow you without break,
As if to learn,
Your gait which is like a celestial play.
So, your lotus like feet,
Taking recourse to the musical sound,
Produced by gems in your anklets,
Appears to teach them what they want.
Brahma, Vishnu, Rudra and Ishvara,
Who are the gods who rule the world,
Become the four legs of your cot,
So that they are able to serve you always.
Sadashiva who is white in colour,
Becomes the bed spread on which you sleep,
And appears red, because he reflects your colour,
And to your eyes which are the personification,
Of the feelings of love,
He gives lot of happiness.
Her mercy which is beyond.
The mind and words of Our Lord Shiva,
Is forever victorious in the form of Aruna,
So as to save this world.
That spirit of mercy is in the form of,
Curves in her hairs,
In the form of natural sweetness in her smile.
In the form of pretty tenderness of a flower in her mind,
In the form of firmness of a ruby stone in her breasts,
In the form of thin seductiveness in her hips,
In the form of voluptuousness in her breasts and back.
Amber Mani means when the sun is near your feet,
it is giving the work of a mirror,
Out of fear of your face,
he has hidden his group of rays inside,
therefore, he is pure and,
the reflection of your face is ever-expanding,
like the lotus of his heart (because the lotus of your face is ever-expanding and it is its reflection),
and he has no fear of the moon. (Lotus blossoms after seeing the sun and withers at night as if it is afraid of the moon)
The moon that we know is thine jewel box,
Filled with water of incense,
The blackness we see in the moon,
The musk put for thy use in this box,
And the crescents we see of the moon,
Is thy canister of emerald,
Full of divine camphor.
And for sure,
Brahma the creator refills these daily,
After your use,
So that they are always full.
You are Leading light of the home of Lord Shiva,
Who destroyed the three cities,
And so, coming near you and worshipping at thine feet,
Are not for those with weak mind,
Who do not have control of their senses.
And that is why perhaps,
Indra and other Gods,
Stay outside your gates,
And attain your sweet self,
By practice of siddhis like Anima (become as small as an atom).
Many poets reach the Goddess of learning,
The wife of the creator,
By composing soulful poems.
Many who search and attain riches,
Are termed as the Lord of the Goddess of wealth.
Oh, first among chaste woman,
Except Lord Shiva your consort.
Your breasts have not even touched,
The holy Henna tree (Kuravaka).
Oh, Parashakti who is one with Parabrahma,
Though those who have learned Vedas,
Call you as Brahma’s wife Sarasvati,
Or call you as Vishnu’s wife Lakshmi,
Or call you as Shiva’s wife Parvati,
You are the fourth called Maha Maya,
Who gives life to the world,
And have attained all that is to attain.
Hey Ume! Uruḥsthala,
with the weight of the plump breasts raised above,
Kandarpa in beautiful laughter,
and sarcasm and the body,
with some beauty of the Kadamba tree,
all create confusion in everyone's mind,
by reminding them of Tari,
because in your pure devotees,
the culmination of your identity,
Because of that they look like you.
Oh, mother mine,
When shall I, who begs for knowledge?
Be able to drink, the nectar like water,
Flowing from your feet,
Mixed with reddish lac applied there?
When shall that water attain,
The goodness of saliva mixed with Thambola (Betel leaf),
From the mouth of goddess of learning,
Which made one born as mute,
Into the king of poets?
Those who worship you, Oh Mother,
Are so learned and so rich,
That even Brahma and Vishnu,
Are jealous of them,
They are so handsome,
That even the wife of Cupid, Rathi,
Yearns for them.
He unbound from the ties of this birth,
Always enjoys ecstatic happiness,
And lives for ever.
O ever-cheerful, infinitely virtuous, ethical, nirtishaygynavati,
rule-obsessed devotee who lives in the heart,
free from destiny,
that is, beyond destiny,
whose position is praised by all the scriptures,
Upanishads, such fearless, eternal eternal!
Accept this praise of mine,
and give me a place in your corporations.
Oh, Goddess who is the source of all words,
This poem, which is made of words,
That you only made,
Is like showing the camphor lamp to the Sun,
Is like offering as ablation to the moon,
The water got from the moon stone,
And is like offering water worship,
To the sea.
With this, Soundariya Lehri ends!
