a conqueror laying siege
to the fortress of an enemy king.
Evening!—that renders me insane. You sneak in
when the ruler of the day has gone away,
bringing sadness to a world that only asked
to close its eyes and to forget.
You trouble my thoughts and someone drives me mad.
The earth is sad, the evening demented. Be at peace!
THE MAID INVOKES THE SEA GOD
SO AS TO BE OVERHEARD BY THE LOVER
Lord of the sea! I bow to your lotus feet.
Once on a fiery and unkind evening
that drove us all quite mad,
our lover left, forgetting oaths
he made before you in a flowery garden,
and his sweet words misled our anguish.
May you forgive his lack of faith.
While he listened, Kovalan thought: ‘I sang only fairy tales, but this perfidious girl has woven lies into a song made for some other love.’ Inspired by fate, for whom the harp appeared a suitable pretext, he gradually withdrew his hands from her body, radiant as moonlight. He said: ‘The day has ended; the time has come to depart.’
But she remained motionless upon the couch.
When Kovalan had gone with all his retinue, Madhavi rose. She stopped the babble of her maids, and left the flowered enclosure. Seated in her carriage, she went back to her home, alone and sad. She sang:
The Chola monarch Shembiyan
rode on an elephant brilliantly adorned;
compelled the monarchs of the earth
to bow themselves before his feet
in terror of his sword of fire;
and spread his flower-garland-laden
parasol’s protecting shade up to
the earth’s encircling mountains.
CANTO EIGHT
THE APPROACH OF SPRING
Venirkadai
The celebrated god of love, with Spring, his gracious friend, ruled the fertile Tamil land, that spread from the northern Venkata hills, where Vishnu the saviour of the world resides, to the southern virgin sea. The country had four capitals—Urandai, the luxurious, Madurai of the high ramparts, Vanji, the strong, and Puhar, the guardian of the sea.
The approach of Spring was announced by its messenger, the south wind, blowing from green Mount Podiyil, that peak sanctified by the stay of Agastya, the sage all men respect. As if trumpeting the order—‘soldiers of the dragon prince, dress ranks!’—the cuckoo, bugler of the great army of Eros, sounded its shrill notes through the dense forest, which a curtain of creepers made impenetrable.
After her break with Kovalan in the flowery pleasure grove by the sea, blossom-eyed Madhavi came back alone to her rich home, and climbed to her summer refuge, a tower near the sky. For her own pleasure, the elegant girl decked her heavy, saffron-powdered breasts with pearls from the southern sea and sandal from the hills. Holding her faultless harp, she sang a tender melody that filled her heart with grief. Then, to forget, she sat in the lotus posture.
Her right hand on the harp’s body took the flag position (pataka); her left hand lay resting on the instrument’s neck (madagam). She was expert in sounding various notes strongly (arppu), softly (kudam), or tenderly (adirvu), avoiding all dissonances. She played the fourteen notes of the classical scale, beginning with the fourth (ulai) in the lowest octave, and ending with the third (kaikkilai). She carefully searched for the exact pitch of each note, tuning the second (inai) on the fifth (kilai), the sixth (vilari) on the third (pakai) and the fourth (natpu). She sang, using as drone the harp’s fifth string (ili).
Then she sounded the fifth and seventh (taram), beginning and ending first on the fourth, later on the tonic (kural). She practised the four groups of modes (marudam), the ahanilai, the puranilai, the sixteen-stringed maruhiyal, and the peruhiyal with its thirty-two notes. Careful of the three shades of pitch, high, median, and low, that may colour the notes, she played some graceful melodies (tirappan). Soon this flowering liana felt weary and started elegant variations (venirpani).
She then made a garland of champak, mixed with madhavi, tamala, jasmine, and fragrant roots, in which perfect lilies alternated with the red petals of hooked pandanus flowers. Taking a long bamboo stylus, she dipped it in a writing paste made of lacquer mixed with glue, and inscribed a message inspired in her by Eros, who, armed with his flowery shafts, was imposing his rule upon the world:
THE LETTER
Spring, the world’s worst tyrant,
is an irresponsible lad
who hurls one on another
most ill-assorted lovelorn hearts.
Though not free of defects, the Moon
arises, kindling ardent wants
that evening soon makes unendurable.
Eros may well, in sport,
assail with deadly flower-darts
a few hearts that are lonely,
be they lovers that have parted, or
those waiting for a certain one’s return.
or former lovers who have gone away,
the once dear cherished face forgot.
Please try to understand my pain.
Thus pale Madhavi, perfect in the sixty-four arts, wrote on the wreath, showing the naked depth of her passion. While she was carefully writing, she hummed, like a small child, a mode (pann) and its prelude (tiram).
When the evening had brought her peace, she sent for Vasantamala, her handmaid, and bade her go to Kovalan, to repeat before him all the words inscribed on the wreath of flowers, and to bring him back to her arms. Vasantamala, who had long eyes like arrowheads, carried the garland to Kovalan’s home near the grain merchants’ residences. She herself placed it in his hands.
Kovalan refused the garland and murmured:
‘A dancing girl in love once performed the prelude (kankuduvari), with a red mark on her brow and flowers in her hair. Her thin eyebrows were dark—her eyes, resembling two water lilies, sent alluring glances. Her nose was like a kumil bud, her lips a kovvai flower.
‘Then this girl with the long dark eyes showed us an inviting variation, the kanvari, coming forward but shyly withdrawing again, her moon-like face oppressed by the weight of her hair, heavier than the rain clouds. Her eyes were like quivering carps, and her enticing smile showed the pearls of her teeth set in the coral of her lips.
‘She next revealed a character dance (ulvari). Her piercing eyes were sharp as spears—she could well see that after our quarrel I was desperate and forlorn.
‘Feeling weary, at the hour of low tide, she appeared disguised as her own servant girl, comforting me with words sweeter than a parrot’s. Her walk was as graceful as the swan’s, her grace subtler than the peacock’s.
‘Intoxicated by desire, she danced the brief, lewd dance of lust (puravari). Her frail body could not bear ornaments—she danced on the steps of my home to the rhythm of her swaying belt, the music of her ankle bells. She knew I desired her but would not embrace me. She performed the dance of indignation (kilarvari). Her innocent forehead was framed by curls of hair, which with its load of flowers and pearls, whipped her shoulders. The weight of her breasts forced her frail waist to bend. She appeared unconcerned that her tresses were undone. When a messenger placed at her feet a letter telling her my love, she feigned to misunderstand it.
‘Then she danced the theme of anguish (terccivari), crying out to the four winds the pain caused her by our parting and the unbearable desire that draws her towards me. She committed the impropriety of revealing her anguish to members of my family. Next, wearing a wreath that drew swarms of bees to her, she performed the dance of despair (katcivari). She told her misery to all the passers-by. She pretended to faint (eduttukkolvari), and, more than once, did lose consciousness. Those into whose arms she fell recalled her to her senses and tried to comfort her.
‘But for this girl, adorned with jewels, whom I once dearly loved, such dances are a daily performance. She is only a dancing girl.’
When Kovalan refuse
d to take the wreath that the beautiful and jewel-laden Madhavi had sent him, and the message written on its talai and pandanus flowers, Vasantamala was overwhelmed with grief. She ran to her mistress to tell her all that had happened. But Madhavi of the long flower-eyes answered her:
‘Lovely girl, if we do not see him today, he will come tomorrow at dawn.’
Yet with heavy heart she lay sleepless all night on her couch strewn with fresh flowers.
CODA
Vasantamala speaks
When Spring comes, the red lotus blooms,
the mango’s tender leaves begin to tremble,
the noble ashoka bursts into flower.
Who can describe the pain that lingers in
my mistress’s tender eyes, shaped like sharp spears?
The cuckoo trumpeted his command:
‘All lovers who have quarrelled
shall rush into each other’s arms.
For so does Eros order.’
You enjoyed her tender words
in that enclosure by the sea,
but shut your ears to the appeal she wrote
on those frail petals this day when her heart
was ravished by the frenzy of the Spring.
CANTO NINE
THE DREAM
Kanattiramuraittakadai
Evening approached, the day faded away; women, their waists lithe as lianas, scattered grains of paddy and open jasmine buds on the floors of their homes. They lighted lamps studded with glowing gems. And they changed into the clothes they wear at night.
Once, long ago, Malati gave a cup of milk to the young son of the second wife of her lord husband. The boy choked, had spasms in his throat, and died. She was terrified, for she knew that her Brahmin husband and his new wife would unquestionably accuse her. She took the dead child in her arms and carried it to the temple where the kalpaka, the ‘tree of ages’, is worshipped. From there she ran in succession to the temples of the white elephant, the pale god Balarama, the Sun, Shiva, the god of the city, Murugan, the spear-bearing god of youth, Indra who wields the thunderbolt, and the god who dwells beyond the city walls. She also visited the Jain temple and the temple of the Moon. She beseeched all the gods:
‘O mighty ones! Give me your help in my terrible trouble!’
At last Malati reached the sanctuary where the famous god Shattan had made his residence. Shattan was skilled in the art of magic; she resolved to ask his advice. At that moment a young woman appeared—a girl of such startling beauty that she made all others look plain. She said to Malati:
‘Innocent girl! The gods do not grant their favours without a sacrifice. This is no lie but truth. Give me the child.’
With the words, she snatched the dead body from the startled woman and ran off into the darkness towards the funeral pyres. There the demon Idakini, ravener of corpses, seized the child and devoured it. Malati shrieked like a peacock at the roar of thunder. The divine Shattan came and tried to console her:
‘Mother, be calm! Give up all fear! Look straight before you and you shall see the child come back to life.’
To fulfil his promise, the god took the form of a boy asleep beneath the cuckoo-haunted trees. Malati, mad with joy, grasped this supposititious child. She clasped it to her heart and brought it back to its mother.
This divine Brahmin boy grew up and became learned in all the sacred scriptures. At his parents’ death he observed with piety the rites to ancestors. He was so wise that people made him a judge in their quarrels. He married a woman of uncommon beauty named Devandi. Before approaching her, he prayed:
‘May the flowers of your eyes be able to withstand the fire of mine!’
One day he revealed to her the fact he was immortal, and then, requesting her to visit his temple, he disappeared. Before he left, he had taught her certain mysterious magic words. After that, Devandi went each day to worship him in his sanctuary. To those who asked news of her husband she would say:
‘He has gone on a pilgrimage. If you meet him, please bring him back to me.’
She had once heard about the unhappy life of virtuous Kannaki, the loyal wife abandoned by Kovalan; it saddened her. Bringing to the god an offering of arugu grass and rice, she beseeched him to intervene. She went to Kannaki, blessing her:
‘May your husband return!’
Kannaki replied:
‘He may come back, but my trials will not end. I had a fearful dream. The two of us were walking hand in hand towards a vast city. Some people told a lie, so that Kovalan was accused of a crime. When I heard it, I felt as if a scorpion had bitten me. I ran to the king, and threatened him and his city with disaster. I should say no more. It may be only a bad dream. O woman with narrow bracelets, when you hear about the harm done to me and its happy results in the end for my husband and me, you may laugh.’
Devandi said:
‘Woman with gold anklets! Your husband did not reject you. All this is the result of a vow that remained unfulfilled in a past existence. To counteract the curse that vow has brought upon you, you should visit the sacred site where the Kaveri flows into the sea. Near a few neydals in blossom there are two ponds, dedicated to the sun and moon. Women who bathe in these ponds and then worship the god of love in his temple shall spend all their lives close to their husbands and later enjoy the pleasures of Paradise. So let us go bathe there today.’
Kannaki at once answered the well-meaning woman:
‘This plan is not proper—a married woman should worship no other deity than her husband.’
A few moments later, a young servant approached and said:
‘Our dear Kovalan has come to our door. It seems that from now on he will look after us.’
Kovalan entered. He was struck by pain when he saw the pallor of the graceful Kannaki. He said:
‘Living near a woman bred on falsehood and for whom truth and untruth are alike, I have lost all the wealth my ancestors gathered. I feel great shame at the dire poverty that I bring into this house today.’
Welcoming him with a clear smile that lit up her face, Kannaki said:
‘Do not be anxious, you still possess the gold circlets that weigh on my ankles. Accept this modest gift.’
Kovalan answered:
‘Honest girl! I accept these precious ankle bracelets as a new capital from which we shall regain all the jewels and all the riches I have squandered in my folly. Let us get ready, woman with the flower-adorned hair! Come! We shall go to Madurai, a city known for its towering walls.’
Inspired by fate, he decided to start at once, before the day should come to disperse the night’s dark veil.
CODA
The nightmare of a faithful wife
emptied of their purport the words
of Madhavi, whose oval eyes were dark.
Before the Sun should dissipate
the darkness of the night, they left,
impelled by fate that had devised
for ages past their final destiny.
CANTO TEN
COUNTRY SIGHTS
Nadukankadai
Darkness covered all things during this last quarter of a tenebrous night. The sun’s eye was not yet open in the heavens. The moon had left the brilliant circle of the stars. Led by fate, Kovalan, accompanied by his young wife, started his long journey.
They left the house through the high gate, closed by two huge, heavily locked doors on which a carved goat, yak, and soft-feathered goose wandered together in friendship. They walked around the great temple sacred to Vishnu, the sapphire-hued god who sleeps, in omniscient unconsciousness, on a great serpent coiled to form his bed. They passed near the five-pillared halls built by Indra, where the saints of heaven, who come by aerial paths, teach the Law of Dharma that the Buddha revealed when he preached under the tree of wisdom, whose five branches point towards the sky as the symbols of knowledge.
They walked around the highly polished black stone installed by the Jain citizens as a pulpit for the wandering charanar monks who come to the
temple on festive occasions. These monks would arrive on the days when the river began to rise or when the huge temple car was pulled out in procession. They sat on the high stone platform, under the golden shade of their sacred ashoka trees in bloom. There was the meeting point of the five aims of life, sought for by the five kinds of yogis. Near the monks were assembled other virtuous ascetics who, according to their vow, could never eat flesh or tell a lie. Purified of their sins, masters of their senses, they had found the true path leading towards liberation.
The travellers passed the postern, winding through the high walls like a stream in a mountain gorge. They reached the parapet beyond a moat that enclosed the royal gardens. The great trees were in bloom, and they seemed a tribute sent to the king by the god of love through his two messengers named Spring and Mountain Breeze.
They followed a broad avenue leading to the steps that descend into the stream where people come to bathe. The avenue was lined with huge trees spreading their cool shade far and wide. Walking westwards for about ten miles, they reached the dense forest that covers the northern bank of the river, often swept by the Kaveri’s floods. They saw a grove of trees in bloom, where a saintly nun named Kavundi lived. The frail girl with the fragrant hair had already lost her breath and felt weary. Her feet were bleeding. Showing her teeth in a faint smile, she asked in a faltering voice if they were yet near Madurai, the great city. Kovalan laughed gently. Concealing his emotion, he replied:
‘Woman with the five fragrant plaits, it is not too far off—only three hundred miles from our ancient city!’
They went to pay homage to the venerable and saintly Kavundi. Both humbly prostrated themselves at her feet. Seeing them approach, the saint welcomed them with gentle words:
‘You both appear handsome, well born, and well mannered. It seems that you observe with care the rules of life prescribed by the holy books of the Jains. Why then are you in distress, why did you leave your home to travel in this wilderness?’
Shilappadikaram Page 5