Sanskrit : a classical language that gets sweeter with age
Sanskrit is an ancient language and a melodious one that but unfortunately was misused by the ‘Brahmins’ to create division and misery, the reason why it couldn’t thrive or reach its rightful place in modern India. Rarely has a language suffered because of the misdeeds of few. Sanskrit does survive in other languages though, for instance Malayalam has a major share of Sanskrit in it. Indeed Malayalam is a confluence of Tamil (Dravidian) and Sanskrit (Aryan). You can easily imagine the beauty of Sanskrit poems by listening to recitation of Malayalam poems. I always loved listening to Malayalam poetry, did had cassettes of it sometime back, and have attended few programs while in Kerala. Malayalam poems are so very musical, a pleasure to listen. Rarely is a Malayalam poem frivolous, deep tenor, rendition one of the finest- an art in itself. It’s immensely satisfying to listen to Malayalam poetry recitation; there are also programs in TV channels. I also have strong liking for renditions of Tamil poems too, it brims with energy and passion.
The word Sanskrit means ‘refined’...i wouldn’t really agree to that, it would imply others have shortcomings and that’s unacceptable. And yes God had better things to do than creating languages, every language is deva vani. Considering the socio-cultural context i would even call it pretentious. Language is a language nothing more or less.
I need point out here that there are some who make audacious statements like Urdu being only language for poems...they get away with these dumb and rather chauvinist statements i guess under the guise of secularism. Everyone loves their mother tongue and finds it no less poetic. And yes I have listened to Urdu and haven’t really found anything special, irritatingly sinuous sometimes (i have a word for it- zamzamahat!). Though i have nothing against Urdu and do like some of the poets- in particular Faiz, but exaggeration by pretentious people is where the problem is. There is
Kalidasa: Bhaso hasah, Kalidaso vilasah (Bhasa is mirth, Kalidasa is grace)
The water lily closes, but
With wonderful reluctancy;
As if it troubled her to shut
Her door of welcome to the bee.
Undoubtedly Sanskrit has one of the richest collection of literature, some even elevated to the status of holy. Where Sanskrit really enchants is the poems, Kalidasa in particular, he writes (i found this fine English translation, difficult since Sanskrit poems followed strict metre and has complex sound patterns).
Is poetry always worthy when it’s old?
And is it worthless, then, because it’s new?
Reader, decide yourself if this is true:
Fools suspend judgment, waiting to be told.
Other Sanskrit poets of repute included Bhavabhuti, Bhartrhari, Varahamihira, Dandin, Sudraka and so on (by the way even King Harsha), but it is Kalidasa who stands out, he was a master poet. A genius of sort, he was one of the most read Indian poet for fifteen hundred years. Look at these insightful lines (again only half as charming in translation):
Who was artificer at her creation?
Was it the moon, bestowing its own charm?
Was it the graceful month of spring, itself
Compact with love, a garden full of flowers?
That ancient saint there, sitting in trance,
Bemused by prayers and dull theology,
Cares naught for beauty: how could he create
Such loveliness, the old religious fool
How charming!. This is where Sanskrit really belongs, not some ritual pit that it is being reduced to. How about this one
If a scholar thinks what matters most
is to have gained an academic post
Where he can earn a livelihood, and then
neglect research, let controversy rest,
He’s but a petty tradesman at the best,
selling retail the work of other men.
Kalidasa

Kalidasa is known for epic plays like Malavikagnimitra, Shakuntalam (i have listened to that story many times as also had a

Where find a soul that does not thrill
In Kalidasa's verse to meet
The smooth, inevitable lines
Like blossom-clusters, honey-sweet?
A minute observer of nature, Kalidasa describes mountains in detail, the trees, river, flowers (indeed he is the only Sanskrit poet who has described a certain flower that grows in Kashmir). I quote these lines from Shankuntalam.
Learn first, O cloud, the road that thou must go,
Then hear my message ere thou speed away;
Before thee mountains rise and rivers flow:
When thou art weary, on the mountains stay,
And when exhausted, drink the rivers' driven spray.
Though thou be pledged to ease my darling's pain,
Yet I foresee delay on every hill
Where jasmines blow, and where the peacock-train
Cries forth with joyful tears a welcome shrill;
Thy sacrifice is great, but haste thy journey still.
Drink where the golden lotus dots the lake;
Serve Indra's elephant as a veil to hide
His drinking; then the tree of wishing shake,
Whose branches like silk garments flutter wide:
With sports like these, O cloud, enjoy the mountain side
The ashoka-tree, with sweetly dancing lines,
The favourite bakul-tree, are near the bower
Of amaranth-engirdled jasmine-vines;
Like me, they wait to feel the winning power
Of her persuasion, ere they blossom into flower.
Small as the elephant cub thou must become
For easy entrance; rest where gems enhance
The glory of the hill beside my home,
And peep into the house with lightning-glance,
But make its brightness dim as fireflies' twinkling dance.
Himalaya's breeze blows gently from the north,
Unsheathing twigs upon the deodar
And sweet with sap that it entices forth—I embrace it lovingly; it came so far,
Perhaps it touched thee first, my life's unchanging star!
Kalidasa was an inspiration to generations of people throughout the centuries. The painting of course is by Raja Ravi Varma and happens to be one of my favourite, how beautifully he captures nuances of these lines by Kalidasa about 1400 years later!!. Spellbinding, art its best.
Although she does not speak to me,
She listen

Her eyes turn not to see my face,
But nothing else they seek.
When I was near, she could not look at me;
She smiled—but not to me—and half denied it;
She would not show her love for modesty,
Yet did not try so very hard to hide it.
When she had hardly left my side,
"I cannot walk," the maiden cried,
And turned her face, and feigned to free
The dress not caught upon the tree
Ravi Varma did his own modification, i guess since south indian women during those days didn't wear loose cloths that could get 'caught upon the tree', he makes it a thorn on the foot that she fakes!. I love everything about this painting. How charming.