The town of Puhar possessed a spacious forum for storing bales of merchandise, with markings showing the quantity, weight, and name of owner. Since there were no doors or guards, robbers might have been tempted. But there was an invisible watchman, a genie, who blinded any would-be thief so that he was left staggering about with his burden on his head, unable to find his way out. Hence, at the mere thought of stealing, everyone was struck by fear.
There was a miraculous pond, where the lame, the mute, the deaf, or the leprous, by bathing in its waters or walking round it, could recover beauty, strength, and health. In an open square stood a tall polished monolith. Men driven mad by an excess of drugs, paralysed by poison, bitten by sharp-toothed snakes, or possessed by ghosts, found instant relief by walking round it and worshipping it. There was a crossing of four roads where lived a fierce genie. His voice could be heard ten leagues away when he shouted that he would bind, beat, and devour impostors dressed as monks to dissimulate their misdeeds, crafty women addicted to secret vice, dishonest ministers, lewd seducers of others’ wives, and all bearers of false witness and gossip. There was also a square where stood a rare statue, the lips of which never parted, but which shed tears when the monarch transgressed the law or failed to render justice. In these five notable places daily sacrifices were offered by wise people who understood their mystery.
The drum of augury, taken from the temple of Vaccirakottam, was carried on a colourfully caparisoned elephant to the temple of the white elephant. This rite announced the commencement of the feast of Indra. A great banner picturing a white tusker was raised high in the air before the temple of the wishing tree.
Wooden stands had been constructed on the balconies of the great mansions. They were studded with emeralds and brilliants, and had pillars of coral. At the entrance to each mansion were placed hangings embroidered with sea dragons, and elephant tusks bearing auspicious marks. Strings of pearls swung from large and artfully wrought rings. In the streets, gold vases filled with water and amphorae of glazed pottery had been set out as for a marriage feast. Metal lamps shaped like girls, golden flags, feather fans, scented paste, and fragrant flower festoons were everywhere to be seen.
Then there assembled the royal councillors of the five estates, the eight bodies of courtiers, the princes, the sons of noble merchants, swift horsemen, elephant drivers, and the charioteers who carry to far-off lands the dominion of the glorious monarch. From the estuary of the Kaveri, one thousand and eight kings brought on their heads jars filled with the sacred water, scented with fresh pollen. With this water the image of the god of gods was bathed, for the joy of earth and the glory of heaven.
The people made merry on Indra’s chosen day. Great rituals were performed in the temples of the Unborn Shiva, of Murugan, the beauteous god of youth, of nacre-white Valiyon, brother of Krishna, of the dark Vishnu, called Nediyon, and of Indra himself, with his strings of pearls and his victorious parasol. A festive crowd invaded the precincts of the temple, where Vedic rituals once revealed by the god Brahma were faultlessly performed. The four orders of the gods, the eighteen hosts of paradise, and other celestial spirits were honoured and worshipped. Temples of the Jains and their charitable institutions could be seen in the city. In public squares, priests were recounting stories from the scriptures of the ancient Puranas.
The king’s chariot, its banners flying, passed triumphantly, reminding all of how the king had subjugated his rivals. Through the city oboes and tambourines could be heard. The voices of the bards blended with the soft accents of the harps. Night and day the rhythm of drums filled every corner of the city with merriment.
Joyful to be near her lover, beautiful Madhavi, her ears weighted with precious rings, lost nothing of her charm. A soft breeze from the hills wafted the odour of wild and garden jasmine, of mayilai, of blue water lilies, and of the aphrodisiac purple lotus to Madhavi, herself the rarest of flowers.
Charmed by the sight of the lovers’ rapture, the breeze wandered through gardens of delight faintly scented by tender buds too shy to open yet; it roamed through the market noisy with frolic, where it gathered the perfumes of incense and sandal paste; and, entwining itself with the laughter of lovers, it scattered their secrets as it passed. Gently warmed by the young summer, it kept company with wandering bees, whose murmur resembles the ili, the fifth note of the harp. And like the breeze, Kovalan too wandered through the busy streets with singers, oboe players, and companions expert in seeking adventure.
One of the young men thus celebrated his beloved lady:
The Moon, in fear of Rahu, monster who
devours her on the days of her eclipse,
fled from the sky in search of shelter.
Framed in the dark clouds of your hair,
she reappeared then as your pallid face.
She chased away the hairs from your fair cheeks,
painted two soot-black fish-shaped eyes,
and in the middle placed a kumil flower,
that since then passes for your pretty nose.
Another lover sang to his love:
You are a lightning-flash, born in the sky,
that Eros, a fish upon his pennant, hurled
when he descended on this earth in search
of his annihilated body, drinking all the nectar
that the pale Moon distils us drop by drop.
Another sang:
Once a lotus, with its honey-brimming heart,
seeking its mate, that goddess fortune,
disguised itself as two shoots of black hemp,
growing at each side of a kumil flower.
It blossoms also in the jasmine’s form
and in the red flower of the cotton tree,
showing that fortune has set up her camp
in this our wealthy city, favouring a king
whose power covers all the universe.
And still another sang:
Are you, though costumed as a girl,
Yama, death’s lord, destroyer of all life,
who, out of fear of our most virtuous king,
discarded his male semblance, thus to hide
under your bashfulness? And does he smile
and speak, through your lent voice, those words
more tender than a harp’s sweet notes?
With their frivolous talk, the broad-shouldered gallants won easy victories over their lady-loves, though all were virgins, chaste as the unshakable Arundhati. Like a battalion in which every man was an Eros, they captured the fleeing girls and held them tight in their arms. Their broad chests were streaked with the red sandal with which the girls painted their breasts. Pleasure and restless nights reddened the women’s lotus eyes that once were white as water lilies. Virtuous citizens asked: ‘If offerings to the genie do not cure the malady that reddens the eyes of our girls, where is a remedy to be found?’
The great day had arrived when the king of the gods is honoured. The dark left eye of Kannaki, and the red eyes of Madhavi suddenly filled with tears and their lids began to flutter, Kannaki’s with sorrow and Madhavi’s with joy, just as the blue water lily trembles and pales when honey overflows in its heart.
CANTO SIX
ON THE BEACH
Kadaladukadai
Once the god Vidyadhara, he who is called the Angel of Wisdom, in the fragrant garden of Chedi, the celestial city on Kailasa, the mountain of pleasure, was celebrating the feast of Eros with his beloved, she of the long fish-shaped eyes.
He suddenly realized that the festival of Indra, king of gods, would begin on this day in the faraway city of Puhar. He said to his love:
‘Let us go visit that famous site where a great genie comes to feast on sacrifices offered in thanksgiving, for, on orders from Indra, he once diverted arrows shot by the Titans against Muchukunda, the victorious monarch and hero among men, whom fear had disabled while, tiger-like, he kept watch at the gate of Amaravati, the capital of Paradise.
‘There we can see the five halls of assembly,
famed for their splendour. Gifts of Indra, and symbols of his gratitude, they were built for the present king’s ancestor, who kept watch at his gate.
‘Once the fair nymph Urvashi danced before Indra, the thousand-eyed. But a melody played by the sage Narada on his harp so displeased the prophet Agastya that he cursed both musician and dancer:
May the dancer be reborn
and the harp be silent.
‘And that is how Madhavi was born, with a pubis like a cobra’s hood. We shall go to see her dancing.
‘Wasp-waisted girl with coral lips! Come to the festival of the king of heaven.’
They set out, and on the way he showed his beloved the countless peaks of the Himalayas, the ever-abundant Ganga, the city of Ujjain, the forest of Vindhya, the hill of Venkata, and the plain of the Kaveri, rich in fields. Soon they reached the city of Puhar, nestling among flower gardens. After they had worshipped the image of Indra with the prescribed ritual, he showed her the city. They took part in all the ceremonies and games of the festival, held in this oldest and richest of cities.
The god said:
‘Let us hear the hymns to Vishnu, and the prayers sung to the genii of the four castes. And, after these, the people will sing a ballad to the moon that wanders through the sky for the benefit of all men.
‘Near the fair Uma, who beats the time, you will see Shiva dancing in a graveyard the dance of destruction and the swift dance of Time—the same that he performed with faultless rhythm, at the request of all the gods, when an arrow of fire, guided by his will, destroyed the three flying cities of the Titans.
‘You will see the white dance of Shiva, in woman’s attire, before the four-faced Brahma standing on his chariot, the elephant dance that dark Krishna performed after upsetting the perfidious designs of King Kamsa, and the wrestler’s dance he performed after killing Bana, the black demon. You will see also the dance of triumph of the god of youth, Murugan, using the ocean as a stage, danced after he killed Shura, who had taken refuge in the ocean’s depths; the parasol dance, in which, to slight them, he lowered his white parasol before the routed Titans coming to surrender their arms; the dance of the amphora that Vishnu, with his long stride, performed when wandering in the streets of the great city of Bana; the epicene’s dance that the god of love performed after giving up his male form to become a hermaphrodite; the war dance that the goddess Mayaval performed when the depravity of the Titans became unbearable; the dance of the statue that Lakshmi, the goddess of fortune, performed when the Titans surrendered their weapons and gave up the fight; and the bracelet dance that the consort of Indra performs in the fields near the northern gate.
‘You will see, beloved, these various styles of dancing, accompanied by songs, that dancers in costume mime with gestures, keeping their bodies erect or bending them, according to the rules of their art.
‘Look! There is Madhavi, who claims descent from the illustrious Madhavi I mentioned while we were still in our garden scented with most fragrant pollens.’
Thus spoke the wise Vidyadhara, charmed at the prospect of the coming spectacle.
Kovalan was in quarrelsome mood, sorry to see the end of Indra’s festival, with its carnival, its dances, and its constant tinkle of anklets, which even the inhabitants of heaven came incognito to attend.
To please him, Madhavi bathed her fragrant black hair, soft as flower petals, in oil mixed with ten kinds of astringents, five spices, and a blend of thirty-two pungent herbs. She dried it in the smoke of incense and anointed each tress with heavy musk paste. She then adorned her tiny feet, their soles dyed red, with well-chosen rings on each of her slender toes. She loaded her ankles with jewellery made of small bells, rings, chains, and hollow anklets. She elaborately ornamented her shapely thighs, fastened round her hips a girdle of thirty rows of pearls set on blue silk and embroidered with figures and flowers. Armlets studded with pearls, and bangles made of carved precious stones, embraced her arms.
Priceless bracelets, on which rare stones were set among sparkling diamonds, shone over the fine down on her wrists. Above and below the bracelets she wore slender circlets, too, some of fine gold, others of the nine auspicious gems, still others of coral beads, and one of pearls. Her rosy fingers, delicate as kantal flowers, disappeared under ornaments shaped like fish-jaws, and under rings of dark rubies and flawless diamonds. Her frail throat was adorned with a chain of gold, exquisitely wrought, and with a garland. She wore also an ornament of precious stones, held by a loop, which covered the nape of her neck and her shoulders, as well as earrings of emeralds and diamonds. Shell-like jewels called shidevi, toyyakam, and pullakam were woven into her black tresses. Within her elaborate love-chamber, she offered Kovalan pleasures ever renewed and the joys of tender quarrels.
Very late one night under the full moon she noticed that the people of the ancient city were walking towards the beach in search of amusement. Madhavi, scented with talai, thought of following them. This was the hour when the swan’s call is heard among the lotuses of the ponds, when the cock takes his brilliant trumpet to summon the dawn, when the star of love shines high in the sky, and when darkness is prepared to die.
Kovalan adorned his broad chest with jewels and flower garlands. Looking like a generous cloud, he mounted his mule, while doe-eyed Madhavi climbed into her ox-drawn carriage. They crossed the bazaars lined with tall buildings in which millions of bales of precious merchandise were stored. Beautiful lamps shone everywhere, some adorned with flower garlands. Young women with glittering jewels were scattering flower petals, fresh blades of grass, and tender shoots of rice on their well-polished floors, to bring good luck to their homes. The goddess of fortune had indeed settled in this street, where people liked to wander all day long.
The lovers crossed the main street, with its warehouses of merchandise from overseas. Then they came to the low-lying quarters near the sea, where flags, raised high towards the sky, seemed to be saying: ‘On these stretches of white sand can be found the goods that foreign merchants, leaving their own countries to stay among us, have brought here in great ships.’ One could see the booths of dealers in colours, shoes, flowers, perfumes, and sweets of all kinds. Further on, the lamps of the skilful goldsmiths were shining, and those of the porridge-sellers, seated in rows. Peddlers of trinkets had heavy black lamps raised on stands. Further on were the lamps of the fishmongers.
Near the shore, lighthouses had been built to show ships the way to the harbour. Far away one could see the tiny lights of the fishing boats laying their nets in the deep sea. All night lamps were burning, the lamps of foreigners who talk strange tongues, and the lamps of the guards who watch over precious cargoes near the docks. Bordered by rows of aloes, the seashore was more enchanting even than the fields with their lotus ponds and streams. The lamps gave such abundant light that one could have found a single mustard seed had it fallen on the clear sand, spread evenly like fine flour.
Surrounded by her friends and maids, Madhavi passed near the harbour, where the ships, laden with the produce of the mountains and the sea, lay sleeping. At one end of the beach the princes were standing with their courtiers, and the noble merchants were busy with their agents. In a canvas enclosure dancing and singing girls were hidden.
The colourful garments, the din of voices, recalled the tumult of the first festival, when Karikala, the great king whose renown reached heaven, celebrated the freshet of the Kaveri, surrounded by the four castes of his people crowded on the narrow strip of land where the great river weds the sea.
Long-eyed, flower-soft Madhavi took from the hands of Vasantamala, her maid, a harp of rare melodiousness. Then on the fine sand, carefully spread under a tall mast-wood tree, in a small enclosure planted with pandanus, whose fragrance veiled the strong smell of the sea, on a white bed, surrounded by a screen and overhung by a canopy adorned with suggestive pictures, Madhavi gave herself up to pleasure in the strong arms of Kovalan.
CANTO SEVEN
SONGS OF THE SEASHORE
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Madhavi paid homage to the harp, then lifted off the embroidered covering that protected the body, neck, and strings of the completely perfect instrument. Covered with wreaths, the harp resembled a young bride, whose dark eyes are made darker by eyeshadow.
Madhavi then carefully followed the eight rules of perfect music—the tuning of the instrument (pannal), the caress of the strings to indicate the mode (parivattanai), the exact pitch of each note (araidal), the duration of rests (taivaral), the grave adagio (shelavu), the easy blend of the words of the song (vilaiyattu), the sentiment (kaiyul), and the elegant design of the vocalization (kurumpokku).
Her fingers, wandering on the strings with plectra carved in emeralds, evoked a buzzing swarm of bees when she practised the eight ways of touching instruments—the isolated pluck (vardal), the caress (vadittal), the hard stroke to bring out the resonance (undal), the passage from one string to the next (uraldal), the presentation of a theme (uruttal), the pull on the string to reach the note from above (teruttal), the chords (allal), and arpeggios (pattadai).
Then Madhavi handed the harp to Kovalan, saying: ‘It is not for me to give you orders, so may I inquire at which rhythm I shall accompany your songs?’ To her joy, he began to sing an ancient ode to the Kaveri, followed by lusty sailors’ songs.
ODE TO THE KAVERI
Long live the Kaveri! When the royal Chola,
white wreaths embellishing his moonlike parasol,
departed to impose upon some far-off foreign land
the sceptre of his justice, falls in love,
upon his homeward way, with the lovely Ganga,
Shilappadikaram Page 3