Mahadev

by Renuka Narayan

  ‘My father let me go to school and college only because of Hindu reform,’ said the grandmother.

  ‘And I can go to work because of that,’ said the mother. ‘If so many other people like us had not moved on, I’m not sure what it would have been like.’

  ‘But who was the hero of Madurai who fought with Shiva?’ put in the child plaintively.

  The grown-ups had a hearty laugh at the timely question, and the guru got on with the story with an apologetic dip of his head at the child.

  ‘It was during the reign of the Pandya king Shenbaga Pandyan that Nakkeeran spectacularly took on Lord Shiva himself and that too in a very civilized way. There was no thumping and yelling, not even one “Ha,ha,ha, ha!” like in religious movies and serials.’

  ‘Nakkeeran was born to a family of conch-cutters. Their craft was dedicated to Parvati, the Supreme Goddess who ruled over Madurai. Her throat was famously praised for being “smooth as a conch”, and the people of Madurai, a set of persons addicted to sweet sounds, smells and sights, greatly valued smooth, silky skin in one another.’

  ‘They were a sturdy, clever race, with spears blunted in many territorial battles, and brilliant traders, too, with big, rich markets. The people of Madurai were also spoilt and sensitive because of leading a very good life in their rich, green land nourished by the Vaigai. They constantly celebrated something, as families, as groups of friends and as a city. They took packed lunches wrapped in banana leaves to the riverside for daylong picnics during the festival of Pongal. They watched, heart-in-mouth, as their young men hurled themselves at charging bulls in the sport of “bull-tying” called jallikattu, each prized bull weighing close to half a tonne. They cherished their singers, dancers and poets and celebrated every vizha or festival with a flourish of grand processions.’

  ‘Drummers and dancers took the lead in proud Madurai’s processions. There were marchers carrying flowered arches, and silken banners on long poles; and tumblers and conjurers and winsome troupes of transgender acrobats and beautiful women whom the whole region came to see as living works of art.’

  ‘The countryfolk drove to town for these processions on bright, jingling carts drawn by sharp-horned cattle. The carpenters, leather-workers, potters, stone-masons and weavers walked proudly past in guilds as did the traders, merchants and soldiers who threw out their chests on parade, and everywhere along the way the people cheered and cheered and flung jasmine buds and golden champaka flowers at them celebrating the blissful life of Madurai before they went home to great feasts of spiced mutton, rice, vegetables, fruits and sweets.’

  ‘Madurai was especially famous as the epicentre of Tamil poetry, and Nakkeeran found a place at the Pandiyan court as a poet of eminence. Over time, he became the leader of the Sangam or Literary Academy. Anybody who could compose well had a claim on the court and on the Academy that set the standard for language and literature.’

  ‘Being deeply in love with his queen, King Shenbaga Pandyan decided one day to hold a poetry competition on the eternally pleasing theme of “Woman” with the prize of a thousand gold coins for the winner. The town-crier made the announcement and Madurai began to hum as contenders set to work scribbling on palm-leaves or strode up and down on the banks of the Vaigai hoping for inspiration. Nobody could talk of anything else. The prestige and the prize attached to it awoke the competitive spirit in every poet and would-be poet.’

  ‘In this hubbub, on the day before the poets’ assembly, a poor and not particularly bright poet called Dharmi or “Tharumi” in the graceful Madurai accent, wandered into the great temple in which Shiva was worshipped as Kaal Adinath, the Lord of Time.’

  ‘The temple was closed for the afternoon but Tharumi wanted a private word with Mahadev and slipped in quietly. He sat down facing the main inner shrine, his back to a carved granite thoon or pillar.’

  ‘“You’re a fine one,” he told the Great God who lurked at ease behind the shut doors of his shrine, sure of being offered camphor, water, milk, bilva leaves and quantities of fruit and flowers several times a day. “You’re the Father of the World but you don’t seem to care that I’m so poor and hopelessly inadequate as a poet. Nor have I the skill to apply myself to another trade. You know that this city expects everyone to be very good at what they do, particularly poetry, and looks down on untalented people like me. And it’s your fault for setting such high standards for Madurai. Did you have to hold the first ever Sangam of antiquity here in my city?”’

  ‘The discouraging silence that followed this rant did not deter Tharumi. “Isn’t it time you took a hand in improving my fortune?” he said piteously and stared at Shiva’s shrine with equal love and despair.’

  ‘A little cough suddenly sounded behind him and Tharumi looked around in the deep afternoon shade to see who else was there in the temple. He saw an old man standing between the carved granite pillars, holding out a palm leaf.’

  ‘“A verse for you, then,” said the old man cordially with the faintest wink, handing it over to the surprised Tharumi. “I’m sure you’ll win the king’s prize.” And as per the norm in these matters, he vanished suddenly. Tharumi ran home, his heart pounding with excitement. He managed to find a clean set of clothes to wear the next day, and ironed them with the heated base of a round brass waterpot.’

  ‘On Poets’ Assembly Day, almost all of Madurai was gathered in the big forecourt of the great temple near its poonkulam or flower pond, meaning the temple tank. The king sat on a decorated stone platform, surrounded by leading members of the Academy. A spot was marked onstage in front of them for each competitor to come and declaim his verse by turn. All too soon, it was Tharumi’s chance, which came at the end. He read aloud from the verse etched on the palm leaf that the mysterious old man had given him and blinked in amazement when roars of applause greeted his recitation, the king applauding the loudest of all.’

  ‘“What wonderful words! The prize must go to you!” said the king graciously while the Academy members nodded in accord.’

  ‘But Nakkeeran got up and said, “No, Your Majesty.”’

  ‘“Why not, noble poet?” asked the king.’

  ‘“There is a fault in his verse. He speaks of ‘the natural fragrance of a woman’s hair’, which, as you know, simply does not exist. The fragrance comes from the flowers she wears in her hair, from perfumed hair oil, from the scented soap-nut powder used as a shampoo—or from the smoke of the sambrani resin that is burnt on live coals to dry her hair with.”’

  ‘“While the Academy grants a due measure of poetic licence in such earth-bound themes, it is not our custom to mislead the public with incorrect information. For instance, in a poem about the Kurinji or mountain region, we speak of the flower that blooms naturally there, of the dazzling blue kurinji flower that blooms once in twelve years. To serve a rhyme, we do not forcibly transplant the water lily of the Neydhal or coast, to the mountains, or the other way around. So I submit that this man’s poem does not qualify for the prize—or even as a poem.”’

  ‘Tharumi looked wildly at the faces around him that had beamed in approval a moment ago and were now curling with scorn.’

  ‘“This is not my poem!” he stuttered. “Please wait, I’ll fetch the man who gave it to me”, and bolted from the stage before anyone could stop him. The king shrugged and the scholars of the Academy began to review the other poems that they had shortlisted.’

  ‘Meanwhile Tharumi ran into the Shiva temple and began to pound on the pillars with his fists, wailing to Mahadev to rescue him from certain death. The old man obligingly appeared on cue and led the way back to the assembly, telling Tharumi to calm down.’

  ‘Striding up to the platform, the old man, with Tharumi stumbling behind, made his way boldly to the king, bowed low and coolly asked what the problem was.’

  ‘Nakkeeran, at a nod from King Shenbaga Pandyan, repeated his objection.’

  ‘“Very well,” said the old man smoothly. “Perhaps not in the case of an ordinary wo
man. But surely the queen of our fair land may be said to have a natural fragrance to her hair?”’

  ‘The crowd gasped at the impertinence while the king frowned and regretted that he had chosen such a double-edged sword of a theme.’

  ‘“Now let the old curmudgeon get out of that,” thought Nakkeeran’s jealous rivals in the Academy, almost purring aloud in malice.’

  ‘But, “No”, said Nakkeeran with icy politeness. “I’m afraid not. Our noble queen, though the queen, is nevertheless a mortal woman.”’

  ‘“What about the celestial maidens then, the apsaras?” said the old man, smiling faintly in appreciation of this irrefutable snub.’

  ‘“We have no means of verifying that possibility,” said Nakkeeran, annoyingly to the point again. The king laughed suddenly and so did a few members of the Academy while the crowd chuckled openly at this comprehensive put-down.’

  ‘Tharumi stole a look at the old man and suddenly cried out in fear.’

  ‘The old man stood very straight and tall now and his limbs shone with unearthly lustre. He looked furious and a terrifying vertical crease glowed fiery red in the middle of his forehead.’

  ‘“The Lord God!” whimpered Tharumi and fell to his knees.’

  ‘“Shiva-Shiva!” exclaimed the king, his courtiers and the citizens in shock and awe and sank to their knees, too.’

  ‘Only Nakkeeran was left standing and bowed composedly to the old man who bore the unmistakable sign of being Lord Shiva himself.’

  ‘“Tell me, Nakkeeran,” said the old man sternly into the silence with a look at cowed, kneeling Madurai, “you worship Parvati, don’t you, as Poon Kodai, the goddess with flowers in her hair, in this very city? And you worship Shiva, as Kaal Adinath the Lord of Time. They are your personal deities. You dedicate your words and deeds to them every single day. Would you go so far as to say that even Parvati has no natural fragrance to her hair?”’

  ‘Nakkeeran stood very still, thinking fast. Shiva was clearly playing one of his mystifying games and he, Nakkeeran, must find his lines and play along, risking all.’

  ‘Drawing a breath, Nakkeeran looked his beloved god straight in the eye. Politely, firmly and slowly, he said, “Even if it’s the Lord with the eye in his forehead, a fault is a fault”.’

  ‘Nakkeeran had very properly refused to be drawn into an unseemly debate about the Goddess, in whose praise no words and no flights of worshipful fancy were good enough, and thrown the ball right back at Shiva. The crowd sighed to hear him and closed its eyes, unable to look.’

  ‘It’s said that Nakkeeran then took a flying leap into the temple tank to escape the blaze from Shiva’s third eye, that annihilating look that had incinerated Kama, the god of love; that fiery blaze from which Kumar, the War Lord, was born.’

  ‘But he came to no harm for Shiva liked it very much that Nakkeeran, though a puny mortal, had stood up to him with such polite conviction. Nakkeeran had even indirectly scolded Shiva for having brought Parvati’s name into the argument. He had stopped the matter right there by refusing to take Parvati’s name and firmly saying, “A fault is a fault” to Shiva himself.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, Shiva went away greatly pleased by this lila that a lesson had been imparted to the public to think things through, to respond appropriately and not take even God’s word for it.’

  ‘The king gave the bag of gold to Nakkeeran for his immense courage and for having enabled them all to get a glimpse of the Great God.’

  ‘In thanksgiving to Mahadev for having spared him, Nakkeeran begged the king to spare Tharumi and gave half the gold to the lying poet although it was not his poem at all and remained as faulty as ever.’

  10

  Nagchampa

  ‘I’m reading a very interesting book on the sacred trees and plants of India,’ said the guru on his next visit, which was ‘unofficial’. He had taken to dropping by regularly for a cup of tea and a cosy chat with the grandfather. Their bond went back a good forty years and the family story sessions were making it stronger.

  ‘And we couldn’t stop talking about Nakkeeran,’ said the grandfather. ‘We’ve all been fantasizing about what we’d do if Shiva suddenly stood before us. I said that my heart would burst or I’d fall down in joy. But I don’t think I could say a word.’

  ‘Mahadev is capable of anything,’ said the guru. ‘He’s a master actor, a baazigar. Knowing that he likes to dress up and play-act in our midst, I take good care to be polite to every single person I meet. What if it’s Mahadev in disguise? It may sound silly but I actually think that. I suppose he is my inner moral compass. Of course, we should be polite to everybody anyway. But it’s easier somehow to play along with the notion of the lila. It’s more fun that way, and it pleases me to think that people I meet or pass by could be Mahadev himself, on his way to doing something extraordinary.’

  ‘I like the idea very much. The child will love it,’ said the grandfather.

  ‘Our story sessions have made me realize just how much the concept of sacred geography has been thought through to the last detail,’ said the guru. ‘For instance, this book on our sacred trees and plants by two Indian authors is a real eye-opener. We know of course that durba grass, tulsi, parijat, pipal and bel are holy. Not only are trees in general considered “Brahma’s hair” but also, as I may have told you, every temple has a particular tree, its own sthala vriksha. But I didn’t know much about sacred trees like the kadamba and the nagchampa or flowers like the golden champaka, except where they’re listed in the epics.’

  ‘Do tell me more,’ said the grandfather.

  ‘Take the kadamba. I’ve grown up knowing that Radha and Krishna are supposed to have met in its sweet shade. It appears a lot in the Srimad Bhagavatam. But I didn’t know for a long time that while the north associates it with Krishna, in the south it is categorically known as the “Parvati Tree”. Parvati is described in some Sanskrit verses as “Kadamba-vana nilaye” and “Kadamba-vana vasini”, the “Dweller of the Kadamba Forest”. The kadamba’s trade name in the lumber business is in fact the Parvati Tree.’

  ‘The epics, I realize, never stop naming and celebrating trees and flowers. For instance, in the Valmiki Ramayana 3:15, which is the Aranya Kandam, Sarga fifteen, we get to see the making of a very special woodland home. The Three have arrived in the flowering forest of Panchavati in a green valley by the Godavari with mountains around it.’

  ‘They’re looking for a place in which to build their little cottage, as safe as possible from the snakes and wild animals. Rama notes the ideal location of a forest glade full of flowering creepers and shrubs. It is conveniently by the banks of the Goda on which they see swans and chakravaka birds swimming about just as Rishi Agastya told them they would.’

  ‘The coppery mineral streaks in the mountains catch the light and gleam like the oval vents in the houses and buildings left behind at home in Ayodhya or like the painted hides of the elephants in the Ikshvaku stables. There’s a lake near the glade in which deep pink and pure white lotuses bloom. Thick kusa grass grows handily around for the daily personal prayers.’

  ‘Sita, who loves gardens and parks, finds the air sweet with the scent of golden champaka flowers. Rama is delighted to see many kinds of trees—sal, tamal, jackfruit, mango, date-palm, ashok, shami and kimshuk. He turns to strong, sturdy Lakshmana and says, “Will you make a parnashala for us, a thatched cottage in this pleasant place by the Godavari?”’

  ‘He doesn’t give Lakshmana a single order nor does Sita tell him “Do this! Do that!” In fact, the fond joke in religious discourses is that being a princess, Sita didn’t know the a-b-c of housekeeping and was even happier than Rama that Lakshmana came with them to cook dinner and do the dishes.’

  ‘Of course, there are also those who accusingly ask, “And what about Urmila?” Arre bhai, how do we know what she really thought of it all? What we do know is that Lakshmana was a short-tempered fellow, ready to fight everybody at once. Rama had to keep telli
ng him not to flare up and to please calm down. For all we know, Urmila was quite happy to stay back comfortably in the palace at Ayodhya and have a nice, long holiday from having to manage Lakshmana. She may have handed him over to Rama gladly enough, saying, “Please take charge of him”. If Valmiki does not elaborate on it, it shouldn’t worry us unduly. Maybe he was being discreetly silent, you know. But so many people want to poke about accusingly. It’s a compliment to Valmiki I suppose that everyone wants to be cleverer than he or catch him out in some way.’

  ‘The epics are irresistible like that. We tell and retell them, tell and retell them, and try to split one hair into seventy-six. It’s what we’ve done for millennia and their savour shows no sign of fading. Look at us, for instance, what a task we’ve begun, trying to gather interesting bits and pieces about Shiva, who is intertwined inextricably with Parvati, Vishnu, Ganapati, Kartikeya and his devotees, the whole pack of them. That Shiva who is infinite, without beginning and end! Are we likely to know or tell “everything”? Of course we can’t. We’ll never be done, for the topic is much bigger than us all.’

  ‘To get back to Project Parnashala, old-style commentators like to remind us here that because Lakshmana is the avatar of Adisesha, the cosmic serpent, he’s bound to serve Vishnu anyway in his avatar as Rama.’

  ‘But story-wise, in their earthly situation, it’s such a nice, modern gesture of trust and delicacy that Rama and Sita quietly leave the task to Lakshmana, who has never made a cottage before. It’s the kind of thing that Shiva and Parvati might do if they took an avatar.’

  ‘Lakshmana gets to work, raising a high clay floor, making strong pillars of bamboo for the clay walls, with rafters of shami branches and a snug thatch of “kusa” and “kaasa”, grass and leaves.’

  ‘He has independent charge of the project and makes an admirable cottage which is so tactfully and appropriately built that it thrills Rama and Sita. Rama is so moved that he hugs Lakshmana and says, “It’s like Father is back”. He means that Lakshmana has shown so much love and care in making the parnashala that Rama, grieving for Raja Dasharatha, feels comforted.’