you must not frown, for people say, O fish-eyed beauty,
that to retain your smile although he courts the Ganga
is just the greatest asset of all faithful wives.
Long live the Kaveri!
And when our monarch, with his unstained parasol
adorned with garlands of fresh flowers, starts
his march to bring to far-off lands
protection of a sceptre never known to bow,
and marries on his way the virgin of the south,
Kanya Kumari, Cape of the Virgin, at India’s southern tip,
you must not yield to sadness, O Kaveri,
for I have heard it said, O fish-eyed river,
that to keep smiling when he courts
the virgin of the cape is far
the best of policies for a faithful consort.
Long live the Kaveri!
O Kaveri! You roam about the fields,
and listen to the ploughman’s vulgar songs,
and to the lock-gates’ wail,
the call of waterfalls,
the clamour of a festive crowd
that’s come to celebrate your freshet.
The patience of our king, whose soldiers’ tongues are sharp, with your unchaste behaviour, shows his heart is good.
Long live the Kaveri!
THE SERVANT GIRL TO HER MISTRESS’S LOVER
Good day, my lord!
How can we, small people, understand
why some unscrupulous gentlemen
so often lead our mistresses,
whose eyes are like dark flowers,
to the altar of the sea god, there
to lavish pledges never kept?
We’re from Puhar, where water lilies smile,
and open when you show them pearls,
or even bracelets of cheap nacre, which
they surely take to be the Moon
or some star pouring milky rays.
How can we know, my lord, who are
the men who follow us along the strand?
Their hands are heavy with their presents,
but they prove to be odd foreigners who
expect us to pay dearly for their gifts.
We’re from Puhar where demented bees mistake
the blue eyes of its girls for lotus blossoms
gazing along the moonlight’s path.
We’re from Puhar where conchs from the sea,
bruised by the shameless waves,
are thrown upon the beach and crash
upon sandcastles that our girls have built.
The flowers fall out of their undone hair.
Angry, they tear the lilies from their wreaths
to beat the shells. And passers-by,
at sight of all these flowers, take them for
alluring glances from unnumbered eyes.
THE LOVER’S FRIEND
To hide the furrow in the laboured sand,
in which a conch shell is concealed,
the punnai tree lets fall upon the shore
its pollen-heavy flowers.
Fish-shaped eyes set in a moon-pale face
may cause a languor only to be cured
by tender touch of sandal-painted breasts.
SONG OF THE FAIRY
A youthful maiden, wreathed with flowers,
taken from the tender jasmine vines,
is struggling with a black bee-swarm.
She means to drive away the birds
attracted by the strong smell of her fish
spread out to dry upon the sun-warmed beach.
Really she is a fairy who has come
out of the fragrant garden of the genii.
If I had known she might be near at hand
I never should have dared to come.
OTHER SONG OF THE FAIRY
Beside the fisherfolk’s low huts there lies
a terrace where the nets are left to dry;
and Death, concealed within a young girl’s form,
her eyes as sharp as deadly arrowheads,
sits on the shore, there where the shining sand
is beaten by the lustful waves. She holds
a wreath of lovely flowers in her hand,
and sells her fish. Had I been told
she might be near, I had not dared to come.
THE LOVER’S SONG
Here is the perfect picture of them all:
the Moon’s become a face, with black
fish painted on it for its eyes,
a bow for brows, and clouds for hair,
in which the power of Eros hides.
Tell me, is it true that when the Moon
fled the fierce dragon that devours it in eclipse,
it found a refuge in a fisherman’s hut?
These eyes are spears. See their points stained with blood,
piking some conch the sea has cast away.
For us they are the direst peril of them all.
For cruel Death, disguised as a lithe, frail girl,
has come to live here in a fishing hamlet
on the shore of the restless sea.
Look there!—a woman trying to disperse
birds crowding near her drying fish. And all
who see her feel a curious malady. She is
a lewd, fell goddess feigning a naive village girl;
her hair is parted, modest, in five braids,
and she sits on sharp-pointed hare-leaves,
spread on the shore of the fearful sea.
THE LOVER TO HIS CONFIDANT
The fragrance of a garden’s flowering shrubs,
the soft cool smell of vast extents of sand,
the chosen words uttered by tender lips,
rich youthful breasts, a moonlike face,
a brow’s fine arch, a waist thin as a thunderbolt’s
challenge the painter and induce my grief.
A sandy shore, raped by the waves,
wastes of pale sand,
flowers that spread their cloying fragrance far,
the pleasant shade of trees,
the scent of long hair all undone,
a moonlike face with carp-shaped eyes,
have filled my heart with melancholia.
A beach with gathered shells in heaps,
the breeze’s fragrance in a garden,
soft petals falling from too opened flowers,
secret retreats that she alone has found,
young teeth like freshest kumil buds,
a face to which the Moon alone can be compared,
and tender breasts—all these induce my grief.
BOY TO GIRL
Your elders do their fishing in the sea,
and live by killing blameless creatures there.
You do your fishing in my heart,
and live by causing me to die.
O pray, be careful not to break
your waist, too frail to bear the weight
of young breasts growing opulent!
Your father kills the buoyant fish
caught in the ambush of his net.
But you delight to kill all living things
caught by your lovely eyes’ most deadly snare.
O pray, be careful not to break
your waist, thinner than thunderbolts,
for it may yield beneath its load
of heavy breasts and strings of pearls!
Your brothers in their swift canoe
go hunting creatures that have done no harm.
But you kill with the arched bow of your brows;
your fame increases with the grief you cause.
O pray, protect the slimness of your waist,
that’s growing strong beneath the burden of your breasts!
A COMPANION TO THE LOVER
A girl, eyes reddened from her sleeplessness,
holds in her hands a coral pestle. She
crushes white pearls in her little mortar.
The greedy eyes of a girl crushing p
earls
cannot be compared with innocent lilies.
These red eyes are cruel.
I saw a girl with reddened eyes,
advancing with a swan’s slow gait
under the shade of punnai trees
along the putrid and wave-beaten shore.
The red eyes of a girl, pacing the shore
with a swan’s gait, are fearful and bring death.
A red-eyed girl, heavily garlanded
with purple honey-laden flowers,
tries to disperse the birds who congregate
around the nets that dry in the warm sun.
The red eyes of the girl who tries
to chase the birds—they are not harmless darts,
but deadly arrows shot at us.
ANOTHER SONG
Witless swan! Keep away!
Do not come near!
Your gait cannot compare with hers.
Innocent swan! Do not approach!
Do not come so near to her!
You never can compete.
Stolid swan! Remain far from her!
Her game is men, and, for the hunt,
she haunts the confines of the earth
encircled by a tremulous sea.
Oh, keep away!
Long-eyed Madhavi had patiently listened to all these sailor songs. But she felt they showed a change in Kovalan’s feelings. Angry but pretending to be pleased, she took the harp. To change their mood, she sang an ancient ode to the river, of a beauty so startling that the Earth goddess was bewitched. All those who could hear marvelled at her skill and were charmed by the sweetness of her accents, the blend of her voice with the vibrant sounds of the harp.
ODE TO THE KAVERI
Hail, Kaveri!
Robed with flowers, swarmed by singing bees, you roam,
sinuous and fanciful,
casting dark glances from your swift
and carp-like eyes.
Your gait and charming looks are the pride
of your lord, whose virtuous sceptre’s never gone astray.
Hail, Kaveri!
Hail, Kaveri!
When you meander through the countryside,
swinging your hips to rhythms of a flower wreath.
the peacock dances in the fields,
the cuckoo shrieks with joy.
I heard it said that your enticing gait,
when you go wandering to your garlands’ swing,
was learned at point of a strong husband’s spear.
Hail, Kaveri!
Hail, Kaveri!
Just as a mother feeds her child,
throughout the ages, you have fed the fertile land
of a king whose fortune shall remain
until the furthest end of time.
The blessings that you shower on our dear land
are fruits of the wheel of justice
held by our monarch, scion of the sun.
Hail, Kaveri!
SONG OF PUHAR
Sir! Like the god of love you come
and try each day to give us pearls.
Your pearls have not the brightness
of our dear lady’s spotless teeth
set between coral lips in her moon-white face.
We’re from Puhar where an ambitious sea
barters its brilliant pearls against our wreaths.
Gold bracelets on the shapely arms
of sturdy daughters of our fisherfolk
show they are married, but in secret.
Naive, we fail to understand.
We’re from Puhar, where water lilies
hiding the bustling bees within their hearts,
open their petals when they see a swan,
perched on a blossoming punnai tree,
thinking it is the moon among the stars.
In this our country, where the good wine
makes him who drinks of it so drunk
he cannot hide his drunkenness,
how can we know why there’s no remedy
for that queer enlarging malady you cause our girls,
We’re from Puhar, where a male sea rapes
the sandy castles that we girls construct,
and eyes, as sharp as spears, on full-moon faces,
shed bitterest regret’s too tardy tears.
We take up sand by handfuls, throwing it
against the impudent waves, trying to fill the sea.
SONG OF THE HEROINE
Although he well can tell between
a male crab and a female one—
and he saw me in a garden thronged
with clusters of sly flowers—
a prince of the coastal province,
with all discernment lost, no more
takes any interest in girls with five plaits.
He went away, taking what he sought,
on his swift chariot that a fine horse drew,
and gave me never another thought.
O gracefully flowering hare-leaf vine!
O swan! Let him go far. But we
cannot forget him who’s forgotten us.
And like my eyes, at twilight shedding tears,
O heavy neydal flower, honey-laden,
you know not pain nor sleep’s sweet peace.
In dreams you do not see a dear
hard-hearted boy speeding along the shore.
When he set out, a bird in flight,
on his swift horse-drawn chariot,
the limpid water of the sea
soon wiped away the traces of his wheels.
O innocent waves of the sea!
You cannot understand my plight.
Who can assist me if you help
those who throw mud at my good name
with words more than unkind?
—waves that so soon efface the ruts
cut out by lovers’ strong, broad chariots.
Cool shade! Tall swan courting his mate!
O wave-wet strand! Can you not tell my love
how wrong his conduct may appear?
O blessed waves! you who erase the traces
of the chariot of my love,
you wipe away his memory,
yet claim to be my confidantes.
Unfriendly waves! I shall forever leave you.
THE MAIDSERVANT TO THE GIRL’S LOVER
The sea, adorned with coral and
with strings of faultless pearls,
has sent its waters far into the fields.
O ruler of the sea! In the white punnai-flowering garden
the arrow shot by dragon-mounted Eros
seems to have changed our mistress’s lithe form.
What shall we do then when her mother sees it?
O prince of the seashore!—where the strong waves,
showing their teeth of pearls
between their coral lips,
enter the courtyard where the fishers’ nets
lie drying in the sun. What will occur
when soon the mother of this blameless girl,
seeing her pale as the yellow pira flower
that blossoms when the weather’s cold,
asks the diviner and finds out the guilty one?
O prince of the seashore!—where the strong waves
sweep off the smell of fish from the beach,
and, entering the flower gardens’ coolth,
ebb backward, freighted with sweet-smelling blooms.
My youthful mistress is observed to pine
under an ailment of a cause unknown.
What shall I do then when her mother learns
the true name of her curious malady?
A GIRL TO HER MAID
Night spreads its darkness on the grieving earth.
The maker of the day has gone.
My eyes are filled with tears. My sorrow cannot die.
You, my maid with flowers in your dark hair, say:
Is this fiery sunset, that drives me mad
and swells the golden bracelets on my
wrists,
seen in the country where the dear deserter is?
The sun is vanishing and darkness spreads.
From unguent-heavy lids the hot tears fall.
My lovely maid with a young moon’s face!
Tell me, is the wandering twilight that has come,
vomiting a pale moon and eating up the sun,
seen in the country where the dear boy’s gone?
Birds’ songs are ended now,
the ruler of the day has gone.
Unending tears are tedious for pretty eyes.
Maid whose tresses are decked with flower buds!
Tell me, does this maddening twilight come
from the country where the absconder lives?
INTERRUPTED GAMES
Walking through the marsh, a lad
came through the garden’s thick
pandanus hedge, and disturbed our love-play.
He went away, thus having spoiled our joys,
but left my heart gnawed by a newer love.
Through the marsh, beside the garden, near the sea,
someone drew near us secretly, and said, ‘Be kind.’
Now everywhere our doe-eyes seek to find
the boy who asked us to be gentle to him.
And he who yesterday was looking at
a swan who made love to his mate,
he who all yesterday was waiting there, today
can now be driven from our hearts no more,
as a dark mole cannot be torn away
from our flesh.
TO THE CRANE
Go away, crane! Leave the garden!
Do not come near! Stay far away!
You have not told my love,
the prince of the seashore,
the torment that I suffer.
Go away, crane! Leave the garden!
After these songs in Kovalan’s manner, the lovely girl’s rosy fingers drew from the harp eight secondary modes. She played kaikkilai, short variations on the theme of unhappy love, taking as the tonic the first, lowest, string (kural) of the harp. Then, in faultless style, she improvised a melody (pann).
A GIRL SINGS TO THE TWILIGHT
Evening! In the pleasantly descending scale
sung by seafaring men,
you brought together thirds and fourths,
irreconcilable enemies.
Evening! If you create harmony
between a third and neighbouring fourth,
I am prepared to give away my life.
May you be pleased and endure forever.
Evening! You deprive of their illusion
those who seek consolation
in remembrance of the promises
of lovers taking leave.
When you surround them, cruel Evening, you are like
Shilappadikaram Page 4