O single-tusked destroyer of incompleteness, we pay homage to you and start our play.
At the start of the play, before there is any explanation of plot, or introduction of characters, Bhagavata, the narrator, offers a prayer to Ganesha, the god seen to be the exemplar of perfection and success. The fact that they are thanking him for ridding the world of the incomplete suggests that he is seen as complete himself. This is a paradox, because he is not complete at all; he is the head of an elephant on the body of a man, neither creature being complete. He is also the opposite of the characters in that he is considered perfect and complete, while they, hybrids like him, feel that they are anything but.
Bhagavata: Hayavadana, what's written on our foreheads cannot be altered.
Hayavadana: But what a forehead! What a forehead! If it was a forehead like yours, I would have accepted anything. But this!
Bhagavata contends that it is foolish of Hayavadana to try to become a man because his fate was written long ago and it is something that cannot be changed. In response, Hayavadana makes a joke out of what Bhagavata has told him. He plays on words to make the point that if he already had the forehead of a man, he would take whatever the fates held in store for him; he cannot do that because he does not feel that he did anything in his life to warrant being rendered equine, and so he feels that it is not really his correct fate at all. He feels incomplete and knows that this is something he is not going to be able to accept, hence his desire to do something about it.
...I've tried them all. Magicians, mendicants, maharshis, fakirs, saints and sadhus...
Hayavadana lists the people he's visited in order to find a solution to his problem as an oblique way of questioning the power of the gods. This is a contemporary play, after all, and even though Hindu gods and goddesses are addressed and/or appear in a brief cameo, Hayavadana's words suggest that so-called holy men and spiritual advisers do not have the ability to enact real change or ameliorate suffering. On the other hand, it's Kali who changes him into a complete horse, so perhaps the adjustment should be that the humans who claim to represent the will and teachings and power of the gods are as enfeebled as all the rest of humanity, and we ought to be more suspicious of their putative chicanery.
I swear, Kapila, with you as my witness I swear, if I ever get her as my wife, I'll sacrifice my two arms to the goddess Kali, I'll sacrifice my head to Lord Rudra...
When Devadatta utters these words in his rhapsodic account of Padmini's beauty and his overwhelming desire to possess her, it's likely that most members of the audience/readers will see them as mere hyperbole and a source of amusement, not as an indication of what is actually to come. But while Devadatta doesn't lose his arms to Kali, he certainly does lose his head, and remembrance of this assertion adds a bit of irony and humor to what is, in some respects, a tragic response to Devadatta's perceived loss of Padmini to his best friend.
You spoke the truth because you're selfish—that's all.
Kali appears to Padmini and allows her to "fix" her problem by letting her replace the men's heads, and says she does this, as the quote indicates, because she is amused by Padmini's selfishness. While we normally wouldn't see selfishness as a positive thing, it is here an example of Padmini's honesty and authenticity. Sure, she isn't a good wife to Devadatta, but she's open with what she wants. She does not tamp down her sharp tongue or her desire, and this is refreshing to Kali, who expresses in her languid, dull tone and expression that she's seen and heard everything under the sun and Padmini is at least something different.
Who ever looks hard at a person he sees every day?
For not being the most clever man, Kapila here offers a succinct and significant statement of humans' tendency to take for granted what is always right before them. The people we see every day are ones who are, theoretically, the most important people in our lives, but at some point we seem to look at them less closely, listen to them less acutely, regard them less seriously. Familiarity breeds, if not contempt, at least complacency. This acknowledgment of this very human trait helps explain why Kapila and Devadatta can return to their household and society (though Kapila chooses not to) without people noticing they've changed much.
Of all human limbs the topmost—in position as well as importance—is the head.
Devadatta makes this argument in order to explain why he should be with Padmini, and it's one that is echoed in other characters' comments and references in the text. Clearly, the head exercises a large degree of control over the body, as will be made abundantly clear when Devadatta and Kapila's bodies return to the shape that matches the head to which they're attached. However, the head's powers do not obviate those of the body, which exercise their will over the head in indefinable, fleeting ways (such as Kapila "remembering" touching Padmini), nor do they take supremacy over the "witnessing consciousness" of the lived experience that derives from both head and body. Thus, fragmentation of head and body and claims of the former's supremacy are not entirely accurate.
Six months—and not a soul has come near us.
Six months—and not a hand has touched us.
The dolls are amusing characters in their viciousness and selfishness, but they are not merely present for comic relief. Karnad brings them in as ways to demonstrate the passage of time. Here in this quote we see the dolls mention that six months have passed since they were last played with, meaning that the child was born six months ago. Karnad will also use the dolls to comment on what is happening to Devadatta—his body is losing its strength and returning to its slender, flabby scholar form—and Padmini—her attraction to Devadatta is waning and she is dreaming more and more of Kapila. Using non-traditional forms of narration via non-human characters is a folk theatre technique, which strips away a level of realism from the play and thus fosters the audience's ability to distance themselves from the characters and the action and hopefully ruminate more on the overall message of the play.
I have become a complete horse—but not a complete being! This cursed human voice—it's still there! How can I call myself complete? If only I could!
What this quote articulates is that Hayavadana would rather be complete even as an animal rather than be incomplete as a half-animal, half-man. And it is easier for an animal to be "complete" because the distinction between head and body is almost irrelevant. Yet for humans, this is a much more difficult prospect, and one that Devadatta and Kapila find impossible.
Why should love stick to the sap of a single body...why should it be tied down to the relation of a single flower?
The Female Chorus asks as the "mask" for Padmini. It gives voice to her longings, articulates the difficulties with her societal position, and offers sympathy for her plight as a woman in a patriarchal society. It does not speak often but when it does it says this same basic message as quoted above, which uses metaphor to question why a woman cannot love two men, and why she should be content to bind herself to one. It is a subversive message, yes, but the usage of the Female Chorus tempers this subversiveness a bit, perhaps making it more palatable to a wider audience.
