Shilappadikaram

by Ilango Adigal

  Arangerrukadai

  Agastya, a famous sage who dwells on the sacred Mount Podiyil, had once cursed the son of the god Indra and the nymph Urvashi for their unseemly behaviour. But Urvashi was forgiven when she displayed her exquisite art on the stage. It was to this noble and adventurous pair that a beautiful girl named Madhavi was born. Her art as a dancer was unequalled. Her shoulders were wide, and her flowing hair was always adorned with flowers. For seven years she studied dancing, singing and etiquette, and became accomplished in all these arts. At twelve, she was asked to dance for the ruling monarch, and saw on his ankle the heavy circlet that only victorious kings may wear.

  The teacher who had trained Madhavi was an expert in the two kinds of dance. He knew how to attune the rhythm of the body to the flow of the song. He taught the rules that keep the eleven positions of the breasts independent from the movement of the limbs. He knew the words of every song and could play every instrument. He was a faultless master of movement, gesture, composition and rhythm. He knew which gestures should be made with one or with both hands, which movements are used for mime, and which belong to dance. Familiar with the most subtle secrets of this great art, he always kept the simple gestures separate from the complex, and never confused pure dance with character dancing. In footwork he carefully distinguished pure rhythm from rhythm suited to song.

  Madhavi’s music master was an expert performer on the harp and the flute. He could vocalize, and could draw from the drums well-rounded sounds, mellow and deep. He could adapt the music to the dance, and understood which style best suited each technique of expression. He had a profound knowledge of the subtle intricacies of the classical melodies, yet he could invent new variations. He taught the various styles of dance and of music, and brought out the most subtle shades of the composer’s intention.

  There was also in Madhavi’s entourage a bard whose perfect Tamil was renowned in the Dravidian land that borders on the restless ocean. It could be seen from his works that he was a poet adept in the two forms of theatrical art, psychological drama and tragedy. A severe critic of all faults of style in the works of others, he knew how to avoid any flaw in his own.

  The young drummer who accompanied Madhavi when she danced before the king was familiar with all the types of dance, musical notation, and singing. He knew prosody, modes, and rhythms, the blend of beats and counterbeats, and the defects that may arise from their contrast. He was well acquainted with popular tunes, and he could firmly establish the desired rhythm patterns on his drum, using an artful double stroke to mark important beats. He intertwined his rhythmic fantasies with the twang of the lute, the lament of the flute, and the soft accents of the songs. He controlled the voice of his drum so that the more delicate instruments could be heard, though, at the proper times, he would drown out all music under a deafening thunder of brilliant strokes.

  The flute player of the group was also a scholar who knew all the rules of diction and the way that hard consonants are softened to please the ear. He knew four kinds of trills, possessed the science of modes, and adjusted his pitch to the deep sound of the mulavu timbal. He took care that the drums be tuned to the fifth note of flutes. He artfully followed the singers, improvising new variations within the bounds of modal forms, and showed his art of melody by setting off each note so that it might be clearly distinguished.

  Then there was the harp master who played a fourteen-stringed instrument. To establish the mode (palai), he first plucked the two central strings, which gave the tonic (kural) and octave (taram). From these, he tuned the third (kaikkilai); then the low strings from the octave and the high strings from the tonic. After tuning the sixth (vilari), he played all the fourteen strings, showing all the notes of the mode from the low fourth (ulai) to the high third (kaikkilai). The sequences that form the modes appeared in succession. Starting from the third, the scale of the mode (palai) known as Padumalai was obtained. From the second (tuttam), he started the Shevvali mode, from the seventh (taram) the Kodi mode, from the sixth (vilari) the Vilari mode, and from the fifth (ili) the Mershem mode. Thus the various groups of intervals were arranged. On the harp, the low sounds are to the left. It is the opposite with flutes. A good harp player is able to blend low and high tones with median ones in a manner pleasing to hear.

  The site of the stage where Madhavi was to dance for the king was chosen according to the rules of divination. Soothsayers first studied the nature of the soil. To measure the stage, a kol rod was made from a bamboo grown on a sacred hill. The space between each joint had to equal the span of the architect’s hand. Its total length was twenty-four thumbs. The stage was eight rods long, seven deep, and one high. It had two doors. The wooden floor was four rods wide. In its centre was placed the image of a genie before which the dancers gathered for dedication and prayer.

  A very large oil lamp stood in front of the stage, so that the pillars would cast no shadow. The stage curtain, and the curtain over the door between the pillars on the right, were drawn aside by cords; so was the big drop curtain. There was a painted frontispiece from which were hung strings of pearls and other ornaments. Thus the stage on which Madhavi danced was both beautiful and novel.

  The place of honour on the stage was reserved for the talaikkol, a sacred rod made of bamboo. This phallic column, now used as the shaft of a magnificent parasol, was part of the booty that the monarch had taken from another proud and powerful king on the field of battle. It was gilded with pure gold from Jambunada and in its joints were set nine different gems. The talaikkol stood as the emblem of Jayanta, the victorious, son of the god Indra, and was the object of a cult in the palace of the royal Chola, whose unstained parasol is borne high as the symbol of the security he ensures to the realm. Each time a royal dancer gave a performance, she sprinkled the sacred bamboo with holy water brought in a golden vase and wreathed it with garlands of flowers. It was then carried to the theatre on a huge elephant, whose broad brow was adorned with sheets of gold and draperies embroidered with glittering spangles.

  To the sound of drums and horns, the king, accompanied by the five estates of his ministers, walked around the tall elephant. Then he handed the bamboo to the royal poet, seated alone in a chariot. All then went through the city in procession, and, entering the theatre, led the sacred talaikkol to its place of honour.

  The musicians sat in the aisle. The dancer, starting with her right foot, came in, stopping near the pillar on the right of the stage, in accordance with an age-old custom. Some older dancers stood near the pillars on the left. First, two hymns were sung as a prayer that virtue might prosper and sin wither away. At the end of each verse the musicians loudly sounded all their instruments together. Then the harp was tuned to the flute, and the drum to the harp. The oboe gave its drone at the drums’ pitch, and the cymbals were adjusted to match the clear sound of an earthen jar.

  When all the instruments were tuned, the tempo was set as two strokes for one beat. Eleven beats were silently counted in accordance with a rule sacred to all actors. After an instrumental interlude (antarakkottu), the auspicious prologue (palaippan) was sung without any change in tempo. The four parts of this short introductory song followed one another in the proper sequence. Begun on a ternary rhythm, it continued on a simpler one. On a graceful cadence the introductory dance ended.

  Madhavi interpreted first a Vaduku, a northern dance from the Andhra country, then a variation on a fivefold rhythm. The two forms of the dance were merged into one of captivating loveliness. The dancer’s movements were so graceful that she seemed a liana come to life. The perfection of her dance charmed the king, protector of the land. He gave her a wreath of green leaves and eight thousand kalanju gold pieces. Such was the gift, fixed by custom, that he presented, the first time they appeared before him, to those dancers worthy of carrying the sacred talaikkol.

  Deer-eyed Madhavi then ordered her hunchback maid to stand on the main street, where rich merchants pass, and offer them a wreath, saying: ‘He who buys this wreath
of leaves for a thousand gold kalanjus shall become the master of my mistress, more supple and lithe than a liana.’ And on the wreath of leaves was painted the portrait of Madhavi, the lotus-eyed.

  It was Kovalan who bought the wreath, and, following the maid, entered Madhavi’s apartment. When he took her in his arms, he felt a joy so keen that he forgot everything and could not leave her. He forgot his faithful young wife and the unstained name of his house.

  Frail ankles bejewelled with circlets,

  Madhavi, that beauty of Puhar,

  displayed upon the stage her dance,

  her precise diction, subtle sense of time,

  her knowledge of all rhythmic patterns,

  of the five sorts of temple songs,

  of the four systems of music,

  of the eleven kinds of dance.

  Her fame spread to the ends of the world.

  CANTO FOUR

  THE SUNSET

  Antimalaissirappucceykadai

  The twilight had come on. Clad in her oceans, the Earth was lamenting in plaintive tones, like a widow who has abandoned herself to her grief: ‘No longer can I see the unchallenged discus of my Lord, emblem of his power, spreading its light over land and sea. Where is the Moon whose cool radiance dispels the darkness of the sky?’ Earth’s four faces paled, tears filled the flowers of her eyes, beads of sweat covered her prostrate frame. As a criminal chieftain leading his rebels raid the country while the king is away, carrying disaster into the homes of loyal subjects, so the evening triumphantly stormed the ancient city of Puhar. It brought with it grief to faithful wives whose husbands were away, and joy to those waiting to meet their secret lovers. This was the hour when the shepherd plays the song of the forest on his flute, when the bees tumble down, drunk on the blood of wild jasmine.

  The soft southern breeze gently brushed the brutal six-legged bees away from the tender buds they were trying to force open so as to release their secret fragrance to the air. Girls with gleaming anklets were preparing the lamps.

  It is said that all Pandya kings, from youth on, have the power to drive away all enemies. Now, like them, their ancestor the Moon appeared and put the twilight to rout. The silvery king of the stars, without debasing his pride, spread over all men his milky rays.

  The couch of Madhavi was strewn with wild blossoms from the forest, fragrant jasmine, and odorous petals. In the love chamber she seemed unaware that her girdle was undone and her thin garment slipping from her lovely hips. Lustful, she came out onto the terrace bathed in moonlight. All night only loving quarrels would interrupt the passionate embraces of Kovalan.

  Madhavi was not the only one blessed with love’s sweet joys. The breeze gently caressed many a lotus-eyed woman lying voluptuously against the strong chest of her lord. Before falling asleep, the women burned incense, blending the white ayir from the western hills with the black agar from the east. They anointed their bodies with sandalwood paste from the southern mountains, crushed on northern sandstone. They wore garlands of leaves, twined with lotus stalks and blossoms, and blue water lilies interwoven with strings of pearls. In the ardour of love, the pollen fell on beds strewn with fragrant petals.

  But the heart of Kannaki was oppressed by sadness. No anklets adorned her shapely feet. No girdle held in the folds of the light plain garment wrapping her tender hips. No costly vermilion had been used to colour her breasts. She wore no ornament other than her beauty. No jewel brightened her ears, no pearl of perspiration adorned her moon-pale face, no eye-black lengthened the line of her fish-curved eyes, no red mark glowed on her forehead. The tender smiles that once had been Kovalan’s delight had long abandoned her lips. No sweet oil burnished the dark curls of her hair.

  Women, separated from their beloved lords, sighed heavily, like squeezed-out goatskins. They withdrew from their summer apartments into darkened winter rooms. Their grief was the more bitter because they dared not adorn their breasts with sandal paste and strings of pearls. No longer might they lie on couches strewn with flowers gathered in the gardens and the humid meadows, or on beds made of the soft white down the swan casts off at mating. Unhappy women, who in tender quarrels with passionate lovers had rolled their eyes from nose to ears, became addicted to the melancholy of loneliness. Pearl-like tears fell from their reddened eyes.

  The shimmering lake, spread out before their eyes, seemed a graceful maiden—the silent wake of the swans was her walk, the honey-laden flower buds her fragrance, the opening lotus her rosy lips, the waves of black sand her long hair, the red water lilies her eyes; the bees were serenaders waking her at dawn, the rooster a messenger from her love the day. At times, the birds in the sky cried out like conchs blown or drums beaten, to announce that dawn was coming to lift the darkness from the sleeping city, spread wide as the murmuring ocean.

  When dark grew deep, the god of love,

  his pennant bearing a symbolic fish,

  came wandering vigilantly through the town,

  holding his bow of sugar cane

  and arrows made of flowers.

  CANTO FIVE

  INDRA’S FESTIVAL

  Indiravilavureduttakadai

  The Sun appeared, peering over the eastern hills. He tore off the mantle of night, spread his warm and friendly rays over the pale Earth, which seemed a lonely virgin, uncomely and forlorn. The ocean waves were the folds of her robe, the hills her breasts, the rivers her strings of pearls, the clouds her dishevelled hair.

  The sunshine lighted up the open terraces, the harbour docks, the towers with their loopholes like the eyes of deer. In various quarters of the city the homes of wealthy Greeks were seen. Near the harbour seamen from far-off lands appeared at home. In the streets hawkers were selling unguents, bath powders, cooling oils, flowers, perfume, incense. Weavers brought their fine silks and all kinds of fabrics made of wool or cotton. There were special streets for merchants of coral, sandalwood, myrrh, jewellery, faultless pearls, pure gold, and precious gems.

  In another quarter lived grain merchants, their stocks piled up in mounds. Washermen, bakers, vintners, fishermen, and dealers in salt crowded the shops, where they bought betel nuts, perfume, sheep oil, meat, and bronzes. One could see coppersmiths, carpenters, goldsmiths, tailors, shoemakers, and clever craftsmen making toys out of cork or rags; and musicians, expert in each branch of the art, who demonstrated their mastery in the seven-tone scale on the flute and the harp. Workmen displayed their skills in hundreds of small crafts. Each trade had its own street in the workers’ quarter of the city.

  At the centre of the city were the wide royal street, the street of temple cars, the bazaar, and the main street, where rich merchants had their mansions with high towers. There was a street for priests, one for doctors, one for astrologers, one for peasants. In a wide passage lived the craftsmen who pierce gems and pearls for the jewellers. Nearby were those who make trinkets out of polished nacre and seashells. In another quarter lived the coachmen, bards, dancers, astronomers, clowns, prostitutes, actresses, florists, betel-sellers, servants, oboe players, drummers, jugglers, and acrobats.

  In wide fields near the town were encamped horsemen and their swift mounts, war elephants, chariot drivers, soldiers fearful to look upon. Near these were palaces of knights and princes. Between the quarters of the workers and the nobles lay an open square, large as a battlefield, where two great armies might have met. There, under rows of trees, the sheds of a market were set up. The haggling of buyers and sellers could be heard there all day long.

  On the first day of Spring, when the full moon is in Virgo, offerings of rice, cakes of sesame and brown sugar, meat, paddy, flowers, and incense were brought by nubile girls, splendidly dressed, to the altar of the genie who, at the bidding of Indra, king of heaven, had settled in the town to drive away all perils that might threaten Muchukunda, its ever-victorious monarch. Hands on their generous hips, these virgins gyrated madly as if possessed by obscene devils, and then in a circle performed the dance of lust, the Rasa Lila, which the go
d Krishna had performed with the cowgirls. As they went away from the altar, the dancers cried: ‘May the king and his vast empire never know famine, disease, or dissension. May we be blessed with wealth—and, when the season comes, with rains.’

  Brave warriors, billeted in the workers’ quarters, and army commanders, living in noble homes, crowded near the altar, shouting in harsh voices: ‘May danger flee before our valiant king. O genie, be ever with us warriors, come to honour thee with hecatombs!’

  The slingers and lancers, their shields fouled with blood and human flesh, beat their shoulders with shouts of joy. It seemed that their ferocious red eyes might burn to ashes any on whom they should alight. Offering their fierce heads to the sacrificing priest, they cried: ‘The king will return victorious!’ and their dark hairy heads fell upon the altar. The roar of the raw-leather drums seemed to be their voices howling back from afar: ‘Accept, O great genie, our lives, offered to thee in sacrifice!’

  Once King Tirumavalavan wandered along all the frontiers of his realm, vainly seeking a monarch deserving the honour of battle. In the far north, he thought, he might meet adversaries more worthy of his sword. So on an auspicious day he ordered that his lance, his parasol, and his war drum be brought. He prayed to his genie, asking for the favour of an opponent mighty enough for his shoulders. Then he marched northwards and ever northwards until only the Himalayas, the abode of the gods, was able to stop him. There he carved on the face of the king of mountains his own emblem, the lion, and returned in glory.

  The king of Vacciranadu, whose empire extends eastwards to the boisterous sea, offered him as tribute a dais studded with pearls. The king of Magadha, deft in swordplay and hereditary enemy of his clan, gave him an audience hall. The king of Avanti, as token of his submission, presented him with a sumptuous archway. These gifts, heavy with gold and gems, made with a skill unknown to the best of craftsmen, were the work of Maya, the architect of the genii, who had once given them, for some service rendered, to the ancestors of these kings. When their gifts were all gathered together, they formed a harmonious ensemble, admired by all men of taste.