‘Karaikal Ammayar, “the old lady of Karaikal”, is the earliest woman saint I can think of. Her real name was Punitavati. She lived in the port city of Karaikal in the sixth century, in the old Chola country. She’s one of the sixty-three ancient Tamil Shaiva saints, collectively called the Nayanmar. You’ll find their statues in every major Shiva temple out there. She was a young woman devotee of Shiva and received a magic mango from him one day as a mark of his favour. Her husband, the merchant Paramadattan, refused to believe it and so she begged for another mango from Mahadev to convince her husband that she spoke the truth. When the second magic mango appeared, her husband could no longer think of Punitavati as his wife for now she seemed like a goddess to him. He moved to another town and married another woman.’
‘Punitavati was devastated. She begged Mahadev to turn her at once into an ugly old woman. She then went all the way north to the Himalayas, God knows how, and climbed Mount Kailash upside down on her head and hands, for she did not want to disrespectfully put her feet on holy Kailash.’
‘I found her story in English translation at the Sahitya Akademi library. It’s in the book of Tamil Shaiva saints called Periya Puranam. The world must have seemed upside down to her, poor lady, that she had been deserted for being good.’
‘What an extraordinary story to tell little girls, “Be good but just good enough”,’ said the mother, with a shiver.
‘Sounds grim, does it? But the positive interpretation is very Shaiva. She was liberated from a lifetime of worldly ties and went off to God sooner rather than later. And what a blessing fell on her on Kailash!’
‘Shiva asked her if she had another wish, and Punitavati asked for the most wonderful boon. She wanted to see Shiva and Parvati dance the Ananda Tandav together. Touched by her wish, the divine couple appeared to her in utmost beauty as Gauri-Shankar and actually danced for her on Kailash. What a darshan, what a darshan of darshans. How kind of them, our beautiful, dancing gods. If I am “jealous” of any devotee, it is of this Ammaji. What a blissful sight it must have been to see the father and the mother of the universe dance in joy for her! Punitavati was absorbed into their light at the end of the dance. The very sight of it gave her mukti. Here on earth, even though they respectfully show her as the old hag that she asked to become, they nevertheless save their finest silks for her statue in the long line-up of the sixty-three Nayanmar statues in big temples. It’s their way of showing love even today to this person from 1400 years ago who loved Mahadev.’
‘After that, I can think of Akka Mahadevi of Karnataka in the twelfth century and Lal Ded or Lalleshwari of Kashmir in the mid-fourteenth century. They became “women saints” after they were severely ill-treated by their in-laws. They left their families and actually wandered about naked in utter rejection of everything their societies stood for.’
‘Going by their poetry, Akka and Lalla sound like gentle, affectionate young girls, who dreamed like any girl, of love and kindness. Akka was ten when she was married and Lalla was twelve. I’m told that the Kashmiri language is full of Lalla’s sayings. Lalla had to eat last, alone in the kitchen, after everybody else. Her mother-in-law used to put a big stone on her plate and cover it with a layer of rice to make it look like a large helping. Her husband offered no support at all. Why was the mother-in-law so mean to a little girl? We don’t know. Maybe she was mean because she had the power to be mean. But it’s too easy to sneer that “women are women’s worst enemies”. If that is so, isn’t it because their softer natures have been perverted over a long time by the social pressure to produce sons and quietly put up with bad behaviour as their duty?’
‘Like Tandavan, both Akka and Lalla transferred all their love to Shiva. They wrote poems to Mahadev that people still recite.’
‘And then, in the sixteenth century, we have the most famous woman saint of north India, Mira Bai, who suffered so much because of her unswerving love for Krishna. Mira left home, too, although she was a royal Rajput widow of only thirty-eight years.’
‘Medieval Marathi women saints like Jana Bai, who loved Krishna as Vitthala Pandurang at Pandharpur, did not have an easy time, either. Jana Bai was left as a child at the temple by her starving parents. Sant Namdev rescued her and took her home. She spent her whole life as a servant to his family, although she became a much-loved poet herself.’
‘Then there was Mukta Bai, the younger sister of Sant Jnaneshwar. She and her three brothers were orphaned and faced a lot of social persecution. It could seem at first like a long tale of sorrow in which these women saints sublimated their suffering into God-love.’
‘Yet, when I hear a Marathi abhang like “Namdev kirtan kari, premabhara naatse Panduranga”, all doubts and questions vanish. All I can sense is Krishna dancing in joy when Namdev sings to him. How do you explain that?’
‘When I show up at Banke Bihariji’s temple in Mathura, I feel Surdas and Swami Vallabhacharya by my side. I go to a corner to sit looking at Krishna and find myself humming Vallabhacharya’s song, “Madhuram, madhuram, Mathuradipatey akhilam madhuram—sweet, sweet, everything is sweet about the Lord of Mathura”.’
‘I find myself humming “Vanamali Vasudeva, Vanamohana Radharamana, Shashi-vadana Sarasija-nayana, Jaganmohana Radharamana”— Dark One, garlanded with wild flowers, with your face as bright as the moon, and eyes like lotus petals, enchanter of Radha . . . enchanter of all.’
‘I chant “Radhey-Radhey, Radhey-Radhey, Radhey-Govinda, Brindavana Chandra, Anathanatha Deenabandho, Radhey-Govinda”, and I feel an ecstasy possess me and my eyes overflow.’
‘If the gods call you, you have to go, you know. It’s such a strong tug at the heart that you just have to go, and you throw your arms up for refuge if you get to see them. Darshan is what the gods give you by their grace. It’s not something you “take”; it’s something you “receive” with gratitude.’
‘Then, when I see an audience of ten thousand people at Tirupati spontaneously getting up to dance during a bhajan evening by Vittaldas Maharaj—thousands of regular people, mind you, of all castes and classes, dancing joyfully together with the firm conviction that Krishna is dancing with them, what am I to make of it? There’s so much positive energy in the air that I want to be part of it. I get up and dance, too. God-love overpowers me, which fills me with affection for everyone around. My heart turns soft as butter.’
‘It sounds totally uplifting,’ said the mother rapturously, clasping her hands. ‘We must go, too, with the child. Now please tell us more about Akka Mahadevi.’
‘Wasn’t she a Veerashaiva?’ said the grandfather. ‘I’ve read her poems long ago, translated by A.K. Ramanujan.’
‘Yes, it’s a powerful tale. “Akka” means “elder sister” in Kannada, Marathi, Telugu and Tamil. She was called that later in life. The name she was given at birth was “Mahadevi”, meaning, of course, “Parvati”.’
‘Akka was born to a rich Hindu family in Udutadi village. It’s in present-day Shimoga district in Karnataka. She was married off at the age of ten to a man named Kausika, who was a Jain chieftan. The Jains, then as now, were a prosperous community and Akka was expected to live the life of a medieval “corporate wife”—to dress well, bear her husband sons and fulfil her traditional biological, domestic, social and ritual duties. Instead, Akka ran away. Moreover, she cast off her clothes, possibly influenced by the Digambara or “sky-clad” sect of naked Jain ascetics, and wore her long hair as her only covering.’
‘What made a young, gently bred girl reject her prescribed life and wander bravely alone into the aggressive, jeering world of men? We cannot begin to imagine what she must have endured, or the strength of mind and conviction she had to make and live by this terrifying choice. And in those days! We can understand why Punitavati wanted to be turned at once into an old woman.’
‘Akka loved Shiva as “Mallikarjuna”, her “Lord white as jasmine”, the way Andal and Mira loved Krishna. This love poured out in about 350 vachanas or sayings in Kannada. After wa
ndering around alone for some time, Akka wished to join a “soul family” of Shaivas.’
‘The Veerashaivas were a new and radically democratic group of Hindus in the region. She made her way to their camp at a place called Kalyana and asked to be one of them.’
‘Scandal had preceded her and she must have presented an unsettling sight; young, staunch and unclad. Allama Prabhu, the Veerashaiva leader, was caught between his heartfelt Shaiva empathy with all creatures and this severe test of his belief. Did “all creatures” include a woman who’d broken so many male rules? Despite his great saintliness and impeccable credentials as a spiritual democrat, this democracy did not automatically include single, independent women. Instead we see the overpowering need of the male mind to build a social context for Akka’s “wildness”, to fit her into society as “God’s wife” if not man’s. This is how tradition reports the encounter.’
‘Allama Prabhu asked Akka, “Who is your husband?”’
‘Akka answered, “I am married forever to Mallikarjuna.”’
‘Allama Prabhu said: “Why do you roam around naked as though illusion can be peeled off by mere gestures? And yet you wear a sari of hair? If the heart is free and pure, why do you need it?”’
‘Akka said, with absolute honesty: “Until the fruit is ripe inside, the skin will not fall off.” By “fruit” she meant that her mind was not ready yet.’
‘Melted by her sincerity, Allama Prabhu accepted Akka into the Veerashaiva fold. But after some years, while merely in her twenties, when Akka left to look for Mallikarjuna. Not one person supported her. The tale goes that she went to the holy peak of Srisailam. Did I tell you that it’s in Kurnool district in Andhra Pradesh? Adi Shankara meditated under an ancient banyan tree at Srisailam and composed the Shivananda Leheri there.’
‘It’s possible that Akka was eaten by a tiger in the jungle. Her body was never found. I can’t bear to think of it. Alas, there are many child brides in our land even today. Nine hundred years after her, in the twenty-first century, little girls are still being married off early all over India although it’s against the law.’
‘It’s an astounding story,’ said the mother, ‘and I take your point about the little girls.’
‘I often wonder at the behaviour of our ancestors—and some of our contemporaries,’ said the grandfather. ‘I want to like them more than I do but it’s not so easy. Sometimes I feel no connection with them for the cruel things they do, although they are my own people. It’s the exact opposite of what I feel for the wonderful gods they worshipped and handed over to us all. I can never break with the gods. They are too beautiful and they go too deep.’
‘Yes, that’s how it seems to work for me,’ said the mother. ‘You can say anything to me about my attitude and behaviour as a Hindu and I will sincerely try to correct myself if your accusations are truthful. But the minute someone insults or mocks the gods, I find that I’ve switched off in my head.’
‘It’s complicated all right,’ said the guru, ‘and my guess is that you’re doing exactly what other moderate, peaceful, progressive Hindus do. Being Hindu the way we understand it is the new “love that dares not speak its name”. Never mind, I’ll tell you some nice, cheerful stories about Shiva next time.’
At their next gathering, the guru looked fondly at the father.
‘I kept thinking of what you said—that you wanted more of Mahadev in person. Today, I want to share some other tricks he played to support those who loved him.’
‘I love him too!’ said the child.
‘Yes, I know you do. And I’m sure he loves you. It’s because of you that we’re here together to talk about him.’
‘Well, once upon a time, Varaguna Pandyan was the king of the Pandyas with his capital at Madurai. He was a strong, sincere king who ruled his subjects with affection and justice.’
‘At that time, Hemnath, a gifted singer and veena player from somewhere to the north of Madurai, went around from kingdom to kingdom, challenging all the best musicians of the land to compete in music with him. It was a point of honour not to refuse, so of course, nobody could say no. Hemnath was not only a brilliant artiste but also had great presence. He was a fine figure of a man who dressed very well and presented himself with great confidence. He had a troupe of accompanists, all trained to the pitch of perfection, that went everywhere with him. He looked like a king himself when he sat down to sing in a king’s court. Many singers lost their nerve just looking at him and were defeated. Hemnath always walked out the winner.’
‘He arrived grandly in Madurai to challenge its musicians. He spoke arrogantly and boastfully. Now, Madurai was a proud city. Its people were very artistic and talented, as you’ve heard, and had a very good opinion of themselves. Here was a worthy challenge. Varaguna Pandyan asked for a song from Hemnath to exhibit his skill to Madurai. Hemnath, with a wave of his hand, made his disciples play a tune instead. They were so good that everyone grew worried. Bhanabhadra, the court musician, was very good, too. But if Hemnath’s accompanists were so skilled, what would the master-singer be like?’
‘The competition was fixed for the next morning. The king took Bhanabhadra aside to ask him if he could defeat Hemnath and save Madurai’s honour, and Bhanabhadra promised faithfully to do his best.’
‘That night, Bhanabhadra, who worshipped Mahadev as Lord Somasundara, prayed as he never had before: “Please help me defeat Hemnath. I am not at all confident that I can do this on my own. I badly need your grace”.’
‘Mahadev decided to help him and also have some fun. He assumed the form of a woodcutter. For an extra touch, he made his hair grey. He tied rags around his head and body, hefted a great bundle of firewood out of nowhere and plucked a fine veena out of thin air. Carrying both, he made his way to the guest house where Hemnath and his troupe had been housed by the king. He made himself comfortable on the verandah of the guest house. He yawned, stretched and loudly hummed a few notes. These noises disturbed Hemnath, who woke up irritated.’
‘Meanwhile, the woodcutter began to play the veena. Such heavenly notes poured into Hemnath’s room that he froze in wonder. Soon, whoever was outside began to sing a melodious song in a raga never heard before. Hemnath could not bear the suspense. He came out and was shocked to see a shabby woodcutter on the verandah.’
‘“Hey, woodcutter! Who are you, man?” he said.’
‘The woodcutter stopped his music. “I? I’m a servant of Bhanabhadra, the court-singer of Varaguna Pandyan. He shared his music with me. But when I grew old, my master said I had better stop singing and playing. He said I was not up to the mark. So I play well away from him, whenever the fit takes me.”’
‘Hemnath asked the woodcutter to sing again, which he did, bringing tears to Hemnath’s eyes. The woodcutter then took leave of Hemnath and disappeared into the night.’
‘Hemnath thought frantically to himself, “I have never heard this raga before. This is no raga known to man. It’s a divya raga. If that old fellow, a servant, could sing a divine raga so well, what must his master be like? I cannot face Bhanabhadra. Let me leave Madurai at once.”’
‘Hemnath woke up his troupe, made them pack swiftly and left town in the middle of the night.’
‘Mahadev then appeared in a dream to Bhanabhadra and said: “Don’t worry! I took the form of a wood-cutter, sat on the verandah of the guest house where Hemnath stayed and played some music. He left Madurai at midnight.”’
‘When Bhanabhadra woke up, he went as always to the temple and worshipped Lord Somasundara before going to the king’s court. The king sent a servant to fetch Hemnath. The servant looked all over the place until the people who lived next door told him, “All we know is that a woodcutter came to the guest house verandah and sang. After that, we saw Hemnath leave at midnight”. The servant went back and reported this quietly to Varaguna Pandyan in an ante-room at the palace.’
‘The king called for Bhanabhadra and asked, “Could you tell me what you did after you left me
?”’
‘Bhanabhadra said, “Your Majesty, I went home and prayed to Lord Somasundara to help me defeat Hemnath. He appeared in my dream and said, ‘Don’t worry! I took the form of a woodcutter, sat on the verandah of the guest house where Hemnath stayed and played some music. He left Madurai at midnight’”.’
‘Varaguna Pandyan realized at once that this was a lila by Mahadev. He gave Bhanabhadra many rich presents and said, “Our Lord God is truly the servant of those who love him. May you sing his praise for many years!”’
‘Imagine Shiva bending the rules like that. How eccentric of him! Is this from the book of sixty-four stories?’ said the father.
‘Yes. The book is called Tiru Vilayadal, which means “Sacred Games”. Shiva did two things in this lila. He not only saved a devotee’s honour but also taught an arrogant man a lesson in humility. He is known to do that. He disguised himself as a humble labourer in Kashi and
put himself in the path of none other than Adi Shankara, the master philosopher, our beloved Acharya
himself.’
‘Shankara was a fearless child prodigy and found many admiring followers in Kashi. Perhaps Mahadev thought he needed a reality check at that point? One day, on his way to bathe in the Ganga, Acharya found his path blocked by this labourer and automatically waved him away.’
‘“What should I move?” said the labourer sweetly, “my body, which is made of the same five elements as yours or my immortal soul, which is exactly the same in me as in you? Is there a difference between the reflection of the sun in the Ganga and its reflection in the ditch in the quarters of the labourers?”’
‘Acharya knew at once who stood before him and fell at his feet, grateful for the lesson. The labourer vanished and they say that Acharya instantly composed five verses about this conversation that we know today as the Manisha Panchakam—the Five Verses of Conviction.’
‘Mahadev doesn’t spare anyone, does he, however great?’ said the father.
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