Shilappadikaram

by Ilango Adigal

  ‘Should you wish to enter the cave, you should first go to pray to the god of the hill, meditate on his lotus feet, then walk three times around the mountain.

  ‘Near the sacred river Shilambaru, which ploughs its furrow through the earth near a blossoming kongu that scatters its petals, you will meet a yakshini nymph, fairer than a golden liana, more dazzling than the lightning flash, with hair darker than rain clouds. High near her shoulders she wears notched gold armlets. Of all the passers-by she asks riddles:

  ‘“Tell me, what is the source of happiness in this world and in the world beyond? What eternal life is not of this world nor of the world beyond? I live on this hill and my name is Varottama. I will become the bondmaid of those who can answer my queries. Wise travellers, if you can give the right answers, I will unlock for you the entrance to the nether world, where you will see several passages closed by doors and then a double gate. Beyond the gate a virgin will appear, frail as a liana, precious and rare as a picture. She will ask you, “What is the meaning of eternal life?” If you know the answer, you may make three wishes, one of which shall be fulfilled. Should you remain silent, no harm shall come to you. Go your way! I give you my help and my support.”’

  ‘The nymph leads those travellers who can answer, to the three ponds, then she vanishes. After bathing, one should make three wishes, and then sit and meditate, uttering with fervour the two sacred mantras of Shiva and Vishnu, as revealed in the scriptures, which have five or eight syllables. Thus, one gains with great ease such celestial blessings as the most severe penance could hardly, in this life, obtain.

  ‘Those who do not seek worldly gain may simply meditate on the lotus feet of the god who resides on the hill. Soon they have a vision, and can see his standard, bearing a black eagle. He who obtains this rare vision is liberated forever from the cycle of lives. So go now to Madurai, the glorious Pandya capital, and rejoice at the thought of the vision you may have on the way!

  ‘Should you not like either of the two roads I have mentioned, there remains the last one, which wanders through clean villages nestling among the honey groves, and traverses a thorny jungle. Ahead stands a genie who does no harm to travellers, he will speak gently and let you go on. Once you pass him, the road to Madurai is open before you. So start now, while I go to worship the footprints of the god who crossed the universe with but three strides.’

  Having listened to the Brahmin’s description of the roads, the saintly Kavundi replied:

  ‘O priest, versed in the four Vedas and employed in good deeds! We have no desire to enter the subterranean road. The doctrine revealed by Indra, who lives longer than other gods, is part of our sacred books. When we wish to know some event in our past lives, it is easier for us to look for its effect in present happenings. Is there anything that cannot be accomplished by a man who seeks the truth and longs only for charity? Go on your pilgrimage in search of any god you choose; as for us, we shall follow our path.’

  Having given to the Brahmin the answers he deserved, she spent the evening taking her rest with Kovalan, noble of soul, who now never strayed from the path of duty. The next morning they resumed their journey.

  One day, while the wise Kavundi and dark-eyed Kannaki were resting near the road, Kovalan saw a narrow path leading away from the main thoroughfare. He followed it and found a lake. He came down to its shore to quench his thirst. There a forest nymph, who, stung by lust, had taken the form of Vasantamala, the maid of Madhavi, drew near, hoping that Kovalan would satisfy her lewd longings. Shedding deceitful tears, she cast herself down at his feet, and, trembling like a creeper, said to him:

  ‘Madhavi told me: “There was nothing improper in what I wrote on the wreath of flowers. You must have told some lie that caused Kovalan to be harsh and cruel to me.” Then she fainted away under the burden of her grief. When she regained consciousness, she told me: “The worst profession is that of a courtesan. Learned and pious people avoid her as they would a diseased person; those who prefer good to evil turn away from her path.” My mistress wept and lamented. Pearl-like tears fell from her soft, hazy eyes. She suddenly tore her splendid pearl necklace to pieces and let the pearls scatter. Then she sent me away. I met some travellers setting out for Madurai, the ancient city, and they spoke of you. So I joined them and came with their caravan. Generous soul, what will you do to save me from my great distress?’

  Warned by the learned Brahmin of the danger from charming nymphs who haunt these lonely woods, Kovalan started to murmur the sacred words that dispel all weird charms. He uttered the invocation to the goddess who rides a deer. As soon as she heard his prayers, the nymph ran away, confessing:

  ‘I am a spirit of the woods who attempted to lead you astray. Do not mention my evil deed to your good wife, more beautiful than a peacock, or to the saint, but go your way.’

  Finding a green lotus leaf, Kovalan brought water in it to the fatigued women, and quenched their thirst. Seeing that it was not possible to walk at that hour under the burning sun, Kovalan and frail Kannaki, with the curved anklets at her feet, walked up to a garden in bloom, where they could see flowers of kurava, kadamba, kongu, and vengai. There they found a temple, dedicated to Kali, the goddess of death, whose eyes are tongues of fire and who lives in heaven, worshipped by all the gods. In this place that the rains never bless, dwelt bandits who were skilled in handling fearful bows and arrows and lived by despoiling travellers of all their possessions. As if guided by Yama, the king of Hades, they raided neighbouring countries, brandishing their bows. The goddess gave them victory and expected a bloody sacrifice as a reward for her favour.

  CANTO TWELVE

  SONGS OF THE HUNTERS

  Vettuvavari

  The Sun ceaselessly poured down its burning rays that made all travel an ordeal. Fragrant-haired Kannaki’s tender feet were blistered. She gave way to tears and moans. They stopped near a lonely village in which was the temple of Aiyai, the goddess of hunters.

  Shalini was born in the fierce Maravar tribe, whose warriors have never laid down their arms. One day, possessed by a genie, she began to dance. Her hair stood on her head, her hands were flung up in wild fervour. The forest folk looked at her with awe and stupefaction. She danced in the Manram, the common eating ground, in the very centre of the Eiynars’ stronghold, protected from all attacks by thorny hedges. She spoke, and her words seemed to echo the inner urge of all who heard her:

  ‘The herds prosper in all enemy villages, while the communal storehouses of the Eiynars appear empty. Have the fierce hunters of the Maravar tribe lost their strength and courage? They follow after virtues that are good for peasants, and forget the glorious art of stripping travellers of their wealth. When the goddess who rides a stag is starved of offerings, she does not send her servant, Victory, to guide warriors’ arrows to their mark. For the brave Maravars, virtue lies in the heartlessness of plunder. If you seek happiness, do your duty. Go! Get drunk on strong wine and bring the goddess her dues.’

  The sons of the ancient Eiynar tribe prefer a glorious death on the field of battle to a village funeral pyre. From time immemorial the goddess had chosen to become incarnate in a virgin of that courageous tribe. In her short hair, tied in a tuft, there appeared silvery snakes entwined round the white crescent-shaped tusk of a boar that had destroyed all the tender plants in well-kept enemy gardens. Her necklace was made of the teeth of a lusty tiger. Her short skirt was a leopard’s hide with the spots and stripes on the outside. In her hand she carried a bow of well-seasoned wood. She rode a stag with black antlers. Eiynar women came to lay at her feet dolls, parrots, soft-feathered cockerels, blue peacocks, and playing balls and black beans for divination.

  They followed her, carrying powders, fragrant unguents, boiled grain, pastries of sesamum seeds, rice cooked with meat, flowers, incense, and perfumes, while she was led to the temple of Anangu, who feasts on cruel sacrifices and gives victory in return. There one could hear the deep sound of the drums used in the armed exploits of the d
acoits, and the trumpets that had often given the signal for plunder, mixed with the music of sacred bells and songs.

  The virgin prostrated herself before the goddess who rides a stag. Suddenly she became inspired. Looking at Kannaki, who was standing near her husband on her tiny feet bruised by the journey, she cried:

  ‘She has come, the princess of the Kongunadu, the Tamils of the north, the sovereign of the western hills, the queen of the southern Tamil land! She is the flower of virtue, a matchless jewel crowning the Earth.’

  Kannaki, shyly hiding behind her husband’s broad shoulders, smiled at such fancies. She thought: ‘This soothsayer speaks out of ignorance.’

  Shalini, now transformed into an apparition of the consort of Shiva, came nearer. The crescent moon shone in her matted tresses. The eye in the centre of her forehead gazed unblinking. Her lips were blood red, her teeth shone. Her neck seemed black with poison. Vasuki, the serpent whose rage is never satiated, was coiled round her loins. She held the bow of the northern mountain. The skin of a venomous snake covered her breasts. An elephant’s hide hung from her shoulders and that of a lion formed her skirt. She brandished a blazing trident in her hand. A heavy circlet adorned her left ankle. Small bells tied to her foot seemed to foretell a victory. Deft in swordplay, the goddess stood over a black genie with two broad-shouldered torsos. Worshipped by all the gods, she was called the virgin, the white one, the end of life. Younger sister of Vishnu, the all-pervader, she was blue. Victorious in all battles, bearing high her fearful axe, she was truly Durga, the goddess beyond reach. Born of a stag, she was both Lakshmi, fortune, and Saraswati, knowledge—the most valuable gifts that may be sought. Ever virgin, she was ever young. Before her, Vishnu and Brahma bowed with humility. All who saw her could attest that the form and the appearance of Shalini, possessed by the goddess, was prodigious.

  THE GLORY OF THE SHRINE

  Uraippattumadai

  Cinnamon and sweet narandai grew before the altar where sacrifices are offered to the goddess who sits at the side of the three-eyed god Shiva. Here and there were groves of sal and sandal, which, like the mango trees, had put on their richest foliage. Before the shrine of the goddess, whose hair is adorned with the moon, the kinos poured down a rain of golden petals. Red cottonwood trees seemed crushed under their rich burden of flowering branches. Pongamias scattered their white blossoms on the ground. Before the sanctuary of Vishnu’s young sister, the kadamba, the bignonias, the punnai, kuravu the fragrant verbena, and kongu the red hopea, were in bloom. The soft murmur of swarms of bees on the branches resembled the gentle sound of a lute.

  IN PRAISE OF SHALINI

  The merits of the girl with the gold ornaments are boundless.

  Her form and her vesture are those

  of the goddess of victory.

  The only name that stands for unsullied courage

  is the name of the hunters’ tribe.

  There the maiden with the gold anklets was born.

  The virtues of the girl with the golden ornaments are boundless.

  Her pubis is like a cobra’s hood.

  She wears the ornaments of Aiyai, goddess of death.

  Born in the glorious tribe of the Eiynars,

  who shoot their deadly arrows with unrivalled skill,

  this girl, her ankles laden with most splendid circlets,

  seems to be possessed of all the attributes

  of that goddess one sees at dusk crossing the path,

  riding a stag more swift than lightning.

  The lovely maiden with the rich anklets

  was born in the fierce Eiynar tribe,

  whose bows are made of strong bamboo.

  OTHER HYMNS TO SHALINI

  A Description of the Goddess Durga

  Before you the gods humbly bow.

  Your arm has never known defeat.

  You are the wisdom of the Book of Books.

  How came you to appear,

  robed in a tiger skin, standing

  on the black head of a wild buffalo,

  with an elephant’s tough hide for your cloak?

  You shine as a flame

  in the heart of Vishnu, who destroys all pain,

  in the heart of Shiva, the destroyer of the world,

  in the heart of Brahma, lord of vastness.

  You came wandering on a stag

  that proudly bears black antlers.

  You hold in your bracelet-laden hands

  a sword dripping with blood

  after you killed the buffalo demon.

  The Vedas sing your praises, for you are

  consort of him who bears the Ganga,

  a third eye gazing from his brow.

  Why must you stand on a fierce lion

  whose eyes shoot darts of flame,

  holding in your frail lotus hand

  a discus and a conch?

  Wreathed with venomous datura,

  a scarf of basil leaves on her shoulder,

  the chosen virgin dances for the god’s delight,

  scattering fear among the demon’s hosts.

  OTHER HYMNS

  With belt and bangles all of gold,

  the goddess danced the marakkal, the stilt-dance,

  with sword in hand, defeating

  perfidious demons armed with spears.

  One heard the tinkle of her anklets

  filled with golden chips.

  With sword in hand, she danced the stilt-dance

  to defeat perfidious genii armed with spears.

  Her face was the colour of the pepper blossom.

  The gods praised the goddess

  and showered a rain of fragrant flowers upon her.

  When a proud warrior, keen to win

  the victor’s scarlet garland of ixora,

  leaves his humble hamlet, and, braving all risks,

  seizes the cattle of the enemy,

  he calls for aid upon the goddess

  who destroys all with her glittering sword.

  Then the forest’s king crow, cawing

  his cry of ill omen, falls from the sky

  over the enemy villages.

  When the woman who sells palm wine

  will no longer serve the too-indebted hunter,

  he consults the flight of the birds

  and, seizing his bow, sets off in search

  of the herds of his enemy.

  Then the goddess spreads her conquering standard,

  on which a lion stands,

  and she walks ahead of the hunter’s bow.

  CHANT

  Maiden with lovely teeth!

  Look at the vast herd of cattle

  captured by our elders;

  today this booty fills the courtyards

  of our famous ironsmiths,

  our drummers, and our bards

  adept at playing on the harp,

  with whom the warriors have shared it.

  Maiden with lovely teeth!

  Look at the herds our elders have plundered,

  destroying the herdsmen who should have guarded them.

  Today they crowd the yards of our palm-wine sellers,

  of our mysterious spies who hide in the forests,

  and of our learned magicians

  who interpret the strange flight of the birds.

  Maiden! Your eyes are dark with collyrium.

  Your skin has the colour of the pepper blossom.

  Look at the herds our elders have captured,

  bringing untold hardship to the enemy farms.

  Today they crowd the yards of the heartless Eiynars,

  men with grey moustaches, coarse in their speech,

  who live beside their old and faithful wives.

  MINOR HYMNS

  Turaippattumadai

  We worship your feet! At sight of them

  the sages and the gods, who follow the wandering sun,

  forget the hardships of the way.

  Accept the blood that flows from our severed young heads,

/>   the price of a victory you granted

  to the powerful and valiant Eiynars.

  We worship the lotus of your feet,

  God darker than the blue sapphire!

  Before you all the gods, led by Indra their king,

  come to bow with humble respect.

  Accept the blood and flesh we offer you,

  in thanks for the great victories

  you showered on the Eiynars

  when they adventured out on raids

  to seize vast herds of cattle.

  Virgin goddess! Accept our blood, our sacrifice

  performed before your altar

  in fulfilment of the Eiynars’ vow.

  The tigerish warriors lie prostrate now

  before the lotus of your feet.

  Soon they shall start, some sombre night,

  sounding their clear small tudi drums,

  their deep-voiced parai, drums of war,

  and flutes that rip apart

  the starry vault of night.

  THE SACRIFICE

  O source of peace! Goddess of destiny!

  Blue goddess, wearing in your hair

  the red-eyed serpent and the crescent moon,

  accept the offerings of the Eiynars,

  whose bows are strong and arrows sharp.

  To recompense our sacrifice

  send many a traveller within our reach

  that our wealth may grow immense.

  All the gods worship you.

  You drank the nectar, and yet you died,

  rendered immortal by the fatal brew

  no god dared touch. Come!

  Feast on the offerings the hard-hearted Eiynars

  bring to you. Then, when the world’s asleep,

  we’ll raid some far-off farms, beating our drums

  before the plundering begins.

  You shower your blessings on the world,

  shattering with a stroke of your foot

  that fearful and Earth-crushing wheel

  your uncle launched upon its deadly course,

  uprooted too the twin trees in the fields,