Kovalan said:
‘We have no tale to tell. We are going to the ancient city of Madurai, saintly woman, to seek our fortune.’
The saint answered:
‘The tender feet of this girl cannot stand the roughness and the sharp stones of this path. Such a beautiful young woman should not travel in the forest. Yet, even if I so asked you, you would not give up your venture. I too have always wished to visit Madurai, the stainless town of the southern Tamil land, renowned for its beauty. There I could pay homage to Arivan and listen to the law being taught by the holy monks who, through their severe penance, destroy all traces of evil in their hearts. I shall come with you. Let us set out.’
Kovalan bowed before the venerable saint. Raising the palms of his hands, he told her:
‘Saintly woman! If you do us this great favour, my fears for this girl, whose feet are adorned with ornate anklets, will be greatly lessened.’
‘But I must warn you, Kovalan,’ Kavundi answered him, ‘that you will meet many hardships on the way. Listen! If we take the road that wanders below the flowering trees, so as to protect this delicate girl from the burning rays of the sun, we may not be able to avoid the deep trenches that are dug by the eaters of some roots that people here call valli, which grow deep under the earth. Often these holes are hidden under heaps of faded flowers. But, intent on watching for these piles of petals, you may hit your head against the heavy breadfruits that are hanging from the trees. Or, going through the rich land where ginger and saffron are grown, you may step upon the sharp, hard breadfruit seeds that lie half hidden in the dust.
‘Tender husband of the lady with the carp-shaped eyes, should you prefer to go through the fields, she will be frightened by carp-chasing otters quarrelling in the ponds or catching the long-backed valai fish that play in marshy pools thronged with eels.
‘The wind may disperse swarms of bees clustering against sugar canes and tumble their hives into the ponds—which will then become sticky with bees and honey. Our weary companion, to quench her unbearable thirst, might drink from the cup of her hands this insect-polluted water.
‘The peasants, pulling up weeds, will have thrown watercress taken from the streams into ditches around the fields. In the cress’s damp green coolness insects of all colours may be sleeping, drunk with the flower pollen they have devoured. Unwittingly your feet may crush them as you walk. But should you then decide to follow the embankment of the canals, you may walk on the crabs and snails and cause horrible suffering.
‘The best way is one that wanders through the fields and through the forest. Friend, you wear the curly lock of hair on your head that tells me you come of a good family. Think over all I have said, and try to avoid these dangers while you are travelling with this beautiful girl.’
When she had finished speaking, the venerable Kavundi took up her begging bowl and the knitted bag she carried on her back. Holding the monk’s fan of peacock feathers, she invoked the gods, asking that the five sacred words might be their guide on the way. Then Kavundi, unrivalled for her experience and her merits, accompanied the young pair on their adventurous journey.
Neither angry Saturn, nor the comets wandering in the sky, nor brilliant Venus whose descent towards the southern star is a sign of drought, can perturb the river Kaveri, born of a thunderbolt in the wind-swept, rain-blessed mountains of Coorg. Spreading prosperity wherever she passes, she runs towards the swelling tide that brings into her bed the treasures of the sea. When some obstacle appears in her path, the river leaps with a deep sound in the brisk swiftness of her youthful spate. Her roar covers the noise of buckets and water-locks, the squeak of the balancing-poles of wells, the rustle of palm-leaf baskets used to water the fields.
In the deep forest, where lotuses raised their heavy heads above the marsh encircled with fields of sugar cane, the travellers could hear a distant clamour as if the armies of two rival kings were fighting. This uproar was made by the shrilling of insects and the cries of waterfowl, shrieking cranes, red-footed geese and green-footed herons, flying birds, and water birds of many kinds. In the damp fallow lands buffaloes ran wild, their scanty hair plastered with mud, their eyes red. They rubbed their backs against the stacks to break the long straw withes so that the grain would fall. The broken ears of rice resembled fly whisks made of the hair of the river’s grey yaks.
Field labourers, their arms blackened by exposure, came running with the farm owners. Their shouts could be heard from a distance. The travellers could also hear the simple melodies of low-born women singing in drunken voices, their fish-shaped eyes casting lewd glances as they stood in alluring poses and cried obscene remarks to passers-by. Their broad shoulders and large breasts were soiled with mud. Having cast away the flowers from their hair, they were sticking the tender sprouts of the new rice into the water-soaked ground. These graceful and daring figures seemed like bronze statues sprung from the mire of the fields. Then the pious hymns sung by the honest ploughmen were heard. They walked behind their sharp ploughs, which ripped open the soil. They adorned the furrows with garlands of rice ears, with lotuses and glazed arugu grass.
From afar the travellers could hear the cowherds’ threshing songs as their herds trampled the harvest to separate the grain from the straw, and the cheers of those who were listening to mud-soiled drums played by vigorous young minstrels. Listening to all these sounds along the riverbank, Kannaki and Kovalan relaxed and forgot their weariness.
Everywhere along the path they could see the smoke of offerings that priests were sacrificing in the fires of altars. The smoke seemed to cling to the roofs of the rich and the homes of the high priests, as the rain-laden clouds attracted to the hills hang on their slopes as fog. The peace of this country was the gift of the Chola ruler, from whose chariot flies the dreaded tiger, standard emblem of his prowess.
Later the travellers could see ancient and wealthy villages inhabited by the powerful Kaveri’s descendants, who are kind to the poor and helpful to their kin. On their constant labour the prosperity of the realm is founded.
They visited other regions with sparse hamlets, where thick smoke arose from the raw sugar melting on stoves erected near the stacks. The smoke formed a compact cloud clinging to these mountain-like stacks. But they could not walk more than four leagues a day.
After a few days they arrived at the famous city of Shrirangam, where the river suddenly disappears. Built near the garden of heaven, the city was a place of delight, fragrant with the odour of the rarest flowers. On all sides were gardens thronged with tall trees and bordered by windbreaks of bamboos swaying gracefully in the breeze. There they met a wandering monk known for his eloquence and his learned discourses on the sacred law that the Great Teacher once revealed to the world. He too was travelling from Puhar, where he had taught near the polished stone erected by the Aryas in the heart of the city.
Kavundi sensed the saint’s approach. She lay down on the path at his feet. Her companions did likewise, saying: ‘May we be free from sin.’ The saintly man knew the past, the present, and the future. He saw fate leading them on their last pilgrimage, yet he felt no sadness, for his mind dwelt far beyond the worlds where love and hate abide.
He spoke to them:
‘Illustrious Kavundi! You know that no one ever stopped the course of destiny. No one can fail to reap the harvest grown from the seeds of his actions. Each deed brings forth its leaves and its flowers. In this body, life is like the flame of a lamp that a desert wind may suddenly blow out. Our Teacher, who knows all, is the incarnation of Dharma, the eternal law. He stands beyond understanding. He alone is our friend, the great lord of wisdom, the instrument of salvation, the all-powerful god, the support of the law. He is virtue itself, the spirit of truth, pure, ancient, and wise, victorious over anger. He is the king of paradise, the lord who grants the pleasures of heaven. He is the source of all merit, the light that shines in the high spheres. He is true and humble. Wandering at his whim, he is the source of life, the powerful yogi, immense, miraculo
us, the seer who dwells in all, the supreme sovereign whose form is the nature of the entire universe. All honours go to him, fount of all prosperity and master of the sacred sciences. He is the source of charity, a divinity endowed with the eight sublime powers—boundless knowledge, limitless vision, limitless strength, limitless happiness, existence beyond name, space and time, indestructibility. He is the indivisible, the primordial substance, the cosmic quiddity to which the three sacred scriptures of the Jains bear witness. He is the light that dispels ignorance. No spirit can escape from its prison of flesh without having attained the sublime vision of the truth revealed to us by him whose praise I sing today.’
When she had listened to the inspired message of the wandering monk, the austere Kavundi, joining her hands on her forehead, made a new vow:
‘My ears shall be closed to all words save the words of wisdom revealed by him who conquered man’s three enemies—desire, anger, error. My tongue shall not call on other names than the thousand and eight names of him who defeated Eros. My eyes shall contemplate only the feet of him who could master the power of the five senses. My superfluous and vain body shall not seek rest upon the earth except in the presence of him whom superhuman virtue and grace adorn. My hands shall be clasped with respect only before him who mastered wisdom and who explained the Law to the adepts. My head shall be adorned with no other flower than the lotus-feet of the saint who walks upon flowers. Henceforth my mind shall recall no other memory than the revealed words of the God whose substance is eternal joy.’
Having listened with favour to this eulogy, the wandering monk left the ground and rose to a height of two cubits. From there he blessed Kavundi, saying: ‘May the bonds that have fastened the chain of your lives be loosened.’ Then he went away by the heavenly path while the travellers were praying: ‘May we be freed of all bonds.’
At the pier they took a ferry. Clouds, heralds of rains, were gathering above the river’s course. The saint and the young couple crossed the holy waters and reached the majestic temples that stood on the southern bank. There they took a few days’ rest in a quiet grove carpeted with flowers.
Shortly after they arrived, a young swain, repeating commonplace compliments to the girl of his fancy, entered the flowery garden. Curious to know the origins of Kannaki and Kovalan, who so resembled Kama (love) and his mistress Rati (desire), the couple approached Kavundi and the young man asked her:
‘Who are these young people following you in your travels?’
Kavundi answered gently:
‘They are just my children, human beings. Leave them in peace. They are weary after a long journey.’
The visitors giggled:
‘Saintly woman, you who seem to know the holy scriptures so well, did you ever notice that children of one bed behave like man and wife?’
Kannaki shut her ears to these improper words, and stood trembling near her husband. But Kavundi, rich in the powers she had gained through her penance, cursed the two intruders:
‘May you henceforth be two jackals roaming in the thorny jungles.’
This curse had come from a great saint. Soon Kovalan and his wife could hear the howl of two jackals. Trembling with fear, they said:
‘Truly, those who leave the path of virtue are apt to speak indecently. Yet, do you not think, great saint, that these youngsters did not fully realize what they were saying? Tell us when these unfortunates, who misbehaved in your saintly presence, may be freed from your curse?’
The saint answered:
‘Those to whom it happens that they fall into low forms of life because of evil deeds must wander in pain for one year. Till then they shall live in the thick forest under the walls of Uraiyur’s fortress. After that they will recover their previous appearance.’
Once the duration of the curse had been pronounced, the saintly Kavundi, taking Kovalan and his wife with her, entered the town of Uraiyur, which people also call Varanam, the city of the elephant. There once long ago a hen, armoured only by her feathers, defeated in single combat a rogue elephant whose ears were bigger than the baskets used for winnowing.
Book Two
MADURAI
CANTO ELEVEN
THE FOREST
Kadukankadai
In the deep shade of an ashoka tree that inclined its flower-laden branches towards him, the old god Arivan—born of himself and more splendid than the sun rising in the east—was reclining. Above him a triple parasol resembled three moons sheltering one another. The saint Kavundi first kneeled at his feet, then arose and expounded words of wisdom and charity that the holy monk, in olden times, had spoken before the sages assembled near a temple of the young god Murugan in the gardens of the venerable city of Arangam.
The travellers spent the whole day in their place of repose. But, anxious to start towards the south, they left Varanam before the next dawn, when the eastern sky was still blushing at the sight of the sun. Passing through a fertile country, they came to a pillared hall surrounded by trees and gardens. In all directions they could see rich rice fields scattered between shining sheets of water. And all around them tender crops were undulating in the breeze.
They met a most venerable Brahmin, prone to sing the praises of the Pandya king—ruler over the central Tamil kingdom—whose noble name has remained ever unsullied:
‘May the great king live forever, protecting the whole earth for all ages to come. Long live our Tennavan, ruler of the southern lands, to which he annexed the Ganga and the northern Himalayas. To show his valour to other monarchs, he hurled his spear against the furious sea, which, in its rage, devoured the river Pahruli and the land of the Kumari together with its vast circle of mountains.
‘Long live the king who, on his brilliant chest, wears the glorious garland of the King of Heaven, and has added many a noble deed to those accomplished in the past by the princes of the Moon’s dynasty.
‘Long live our king! For, when the clouds refused to give rain to the suffering land, he broke the ring shining on Indra’s crown and made all the clouds prisoners, that the country might prosper and rich crops be secured.’
Kovalan asked him:
‘Which is your native land, and what are you doing in this country?’
The Brahmin answered with unshakable pride:
‘I am a citizen of Mankadu, in the country beyond the eastern hills. I came here to fulfil a vow and to see, in the temple standing on the island that separates the fierce flow of the Kaveri into two streams, the glorious image of Vishnu, here worshipped while he rests, with the goddess Fortune against his heart, on the huge hundred-headed serpent like a dark cloud asleep on the polar mountain. I walked for many days in order to contemplate the beauty of this red-eyed god, holding in his hand the lotus, the discus that kills all his opponents, and the conch as white as milk. Clad in yellow, he wears on his broad chest a wreath of white flowers. He dwells on the hill of Venkata, whence many streams of crystal water spring.
‘The dark-blue god, holding discus and conch, is decked with colourful garlands. He resembles a majestic rainbow-hued cloud bejewelled with dazzling thunderbolts, of which one side flames under the burning sun, the other is cooled by the light of the moon. Since I could see, for the joy of my eyes, the glory of the Pandya king, I stayed here blessing the country. That is the tale of my journey.’
After listening further to the priest, who had performed many sacrifices in accordance with Vedic rites, Kovalan asked:
‘Best of Brahmins, tell us the road to take to Madurai.’
The Brahmin answered:
‘The season in which you are travelling with your wife is one when mountains and forests have lost life and colour and seem a desert waste. King Sun, and Spring, his minister, have become such misers that they permit only scanty rains on the earth. The roads’ smooth surfaces have been worn away, sharp stones wound weary travellers. The vast fields, parched with drought, suggest a kingdom whose ruler, at the instigation of corrupt ministers, has gone astray from the path of duty.
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‘During the journey, you will have to climb over rocks and hills, you will have to traverse dangerous mirages, cross dams crumbling under the thrust of swollen lakes, until, near an inland sea, you reach the town of Kodumbai, where the road divides into three, like the fierce trident of the god who wears the crescent moon on his brow.
‘Should you decide to take the road that goes towards the right, you will pass a kadamba with wide-spreading branches, then, near a dead tree, you will see a cleft vahai, withered bamboos, and an old maral, dry and black, its trunk split up by crevices. Your gaze will wander on to drought-parched jungles where forlorn deer search vainly for a pond. You will see the shelters of the cruel hunters before you reach, at last, the celebrated hill of the Pandyas that people call Shirumalai, the little hill, among fields of wild rice, sugar cane, ripe millet, and other rich crops that grow only in fertile soil. That region produces garlic, saffron, and lovely kavalai creepers. The best plantains, areca nuts, coconuts in clusters, mangoes, and cucumbers also grow there. Leaving the hill on your right, you will reach the great city of Madurai.
‘Should you prefer the left-hand road, you will cross some lowlands with fields and shady groves full of flowers, interspersed with rocks and jungles spreading as far as the eye can see. There the country is alive with the constant murmur of beetles and insects that seem to be humming in the mode called shevvali. Nearer to Madurai, you will reach a hill sacred to Lord Vishnu, through which a dark passage leads to a world where all illusions are destroyed. There will appear before you three miraculous lakes, whose virtues are sung even by the gods—called the Thicket-of-Arrows, the Fulfiller-of-Fate, and the Attainer-of-Desires. If you bathe in the Thicket-of-Arrows, you gain knowledge of the language revealed in ancient times by the King of Heaven. Should you immerse yourself in the Fulfiller-of-Fate, you will recall all the deeds of past lives, which are the sources of our present ones. If you enter the cool waters of the Attainer-of-Desires, any wish you may make will be at once fulfilled.
Shilappadikaram Page 6