Shilappadikaram

by Ilango Adigal

  forcing your passage in between.

  Accept these sacrifices, overdue,

  offered to you by the cruel Eiynars,

  who live by plundering of others’ wealth

  and carry, everywhere they go,

  a tale of hunger, of despair and death.

  INVOCATION

  Let the Pandya, anxious to win in the battle

  against the enemy armies’ powerful array,

  place on his crown the red ixora flower,

  symbol of successful conquest. May we

  be led to victory by the mighty god

  of Mount Podiyil, where resides,

  equal to Brahma, the sage Agastya, who revealed

  the Book of Wisdom to the world.

  CANTO THIRTEEN

  THE NEIGHBOURHOOD OF MADURAI

  Puranceriiruttakadai

  After Shalini, the dancer, had gone, Kovalan bowed before the saint and said:

  ‘This young girl can no longer bear the fierceness of the burning sun. Her tender feet cannot endure the stones. This land belongs to the Pandya monarch. The story of his virtues has spread to the four corners of the world. Here the savage bear does not dare to crush the busy hives, the striped tiger is the friend of the swift deer. Snakes, ghosts, and crocodiles, waiting for their prey, dare not touch innocent wayfarers. Therefore, instead of travelling by day, let us cross the forest by night, by the light of the moon, gentle to all creatures. We need fear no danger.’

  The saint gladly agreed to this wise suggestion. They waited for the sun to set, as courtiers wait for a tyrant to retire. The Moon, ancestor of the Pandya kings, soon appeared with its train of stars, and dispensed the milk of its rays. Before falling asleep with a sigh of relief, the Earth plaintively said:

  ‘Up to this late hour, dots of sandal paste have not, like a necklace of stars, stained the breasts of this fair girl. Her hair has not been studded with lilies and other blossoms pouring forth their sweet pollen. Her lithe body, tender as a flower bud, is not adorned with wreaths of rare petals. A southern breeze, born in the Malayan hills, and grown up in the town of Madurai, where it has danced over the tongues of poets, seems to call her and to caress her body tenderly. To soothe her, the Spring moon pours down its abundant milky rays.’

  To his young wife, weary after the long journey, Kovalan said:

  ‘Tonight we shall see striped tigers crossing our path, we shall hear the hooting of owls, the grunts of bears, and the crash of thunder. You must not be afraid.’

  He drew over his shoulder her graceful arm loaded with gold bracelets. Then they set off through the forest, piously listening to the words of wisdom spoken by the saintly Kavundi, who was learned in all things divine, until a bird, hidden in the sun-dried bamboo forest, called to tell them that dawn was at hand.

  Soon they reached a large village inhabited by Brahmins. These Brahmins wore the sacred thread, but were addicted to music and dancing. For this sin they had lost their rank. Kovalan left his frail wife and the saint in a secure and sheltered place, and, after slipping through hedges of thorny bushes, he walked along the road in search of clean water for their morning ablutions. He thought of the journey through fearful forests that he had so lightly undertaken with a frail woman. He sighed like a goldsmith’s bellows and felt a pain so keen it seemed as if a fatal wound had been dealt his soul.

  Now it happened that a young priest from Puhar named Kaushikan had been dispatched into the forest by Madhavi to search for Kovalan. But he did not recognize him at first, so changed was Kovalan’s appearance by sadness, and the young Brahmin went on talking to the tree under which he was resting:

  ‘O tree, so dear to Madhavi, you cast away all your flowers, unable to bear the hardship of this deathly season. In your distress you resemble Madhavi of the long, dark eyes, overwhelmed by fearful sorrow. She cannot bear to live away from Kovalan.’

  Kovalan overheard the Brahmin Kaushikan, and called: ‘Where have you come from?’

  Young Kaushikan approached, and joyfully exclaimed: ‘My worries are ended, for I have met you at last!’

  He told Kovalan the news of Puhar. His wealthy father and his aged mother looked like dried-up snakes that have lost the jewels from their brows. All his relatives and friends seemed drowned in oceans of sorrow, as if their minds had been withdrawn from their bodies. His servants had gone in all directions in search of him, hoping to bring him home. The whole of the great city of Puhar had lost its head, and was lamenting like Ayodhya when the great hero Rama left to lead the life of a recluse in the forest, and said: ‘A kingdom is not worth the great sin of disobedience.’ Madhavi, when she heard the news from a report of Vasantamala, had lost her colour and turned green. She had fainted on her precious bed in the love-chamber of her rich mansion. Kaushikan said: ‘Grieved at the sight of her sorrow, I attempted to console her. In her anguish she cried: ‘Look at me, prostrate at your feet! Put an end to my suffering!’ With her graceful hand she wrote a message and handed it to me, saying: ‘Go! Take this sealed palm leaf to him who is dearer to me than my own eyes.’ The priest, leaving altar and sacrifice, had wandered about the country carrying the letter with him.

  Kaushikan spoke with emotion, and placed in Kovalan’s hands the leaf that, in her grief, liana-like Madhavi, her long hair adorned with flowers, had entrusted to him. The mere sight of the seal reminded Kovalan of the sweet scent of her tresses, burnished with fragrant oil, when he had been her lover. He paused before breaking the ring, then opened the palm leaf and read:

  ‘Lord of my life! I lie prostrate at your feet. Forgive me for being importunate. What was my fault that you were led to depart one dark night with your most noble wife, without telling your good parents? I am unable to understand, and my heart is broken. Help me, noble and sincere heart! And bless me with wisdom.’

  Having read her message, Kovalan thought: ‘She did no wrong. I alone am to blame.’ He gave back the letter to Kaushikan, for it would explain his sudden departure, and said:

  ‘The contents of this sealed palm leaf must be read by my wise parents. I bow before their lotus feet. Go, young Kaushikan! Bring this letter to them to relieve their anxiety and free them from anguish.’

  After his return to the shelter where the saintly Kavundi and his innocent bride were waiting for him, Kovalan met some wandering minstrels who were singing a hymn depicting the war dance of the fierce Durga, the goddess beyond reach. He borrowed a lute called shengotti, and, to adjust its scale (shentiram), he slid the gut-string knots on the curved arm (tantri-karam). He carefully adjusted the frets along the finger board (parru), then tuned the strings, beginning with the fourth and ending with the third. He then verified the tuning of the mode (ashanriram) that had seven notes in its descending scale and but five in ascent (patarpani)—a mode that, sacred to the goddess Durga, should be played with three variations (tanam).

  After singing hymns with the rustic bards, Kovalan asked them the distance to Madurai. They answered:

  ‘Do you not feel the southern breeze blowing from the city and bringing us the mixed fragrance of sacred black akil and sandalwood? This breeze comes here laden with the odours of saffron, chives, sandal paste, and musk. On its way it may have wandered near newly opened buds of sweet water lilies pouring out their abundant pollen, or trailed among champaks in bloom, or lost its way in groves of jasmine and madhavi, or caressed the buds of garden mullai. It brings us a smell of good food, for it went through the fumes of big bazaars, where pancakes are fried in countless little stalls. It brings with it a heavy odour from the terraces where men and women crowd close together. It is thick with the smoke of sacrifices and many other pleasing smells. It blows through the palace of the great Pandya king, who wears on his broad chest a chain of gold that the king of the gods once gave him. This breeze that carries strange and varied smells about the country is very different from the other wind that blows from the Podiyil hill, whose glory was sung by the faultless tongues of the Tamil bards. The wealthy city is
not far off, and you need have no fear. Even if you go there alone, you will meet no danger on your way.’

  Accompanied by the saint, famous for her virtues, Kovalan and Kannaki completed the last night of their journey. Towards morning they heard, like distant thunder, the sound of drums being beaten in Shiva’s great temple and in the sanctuaries of all the other gods, as well as in the great palace of the famous king whose renown has travelled to the ends of the world. They could hear the Vedas being chanted by the learned Brahmins and the prayers being recited by the monks, filling the morning air with their holy murmur. They could hear the roll of victory drums (mulavu), which are beaten daily in honour of the warriors, armed with swords, who never come back from the battlefield except as victors. They could also hear trumpeting elephants, captured in the field of battle, and the cries of wild tuskers caught in the deep forests, the neighing of horses in their stalls, the noise of kinai, the small drums used to accompany dancers practising at dawn, and many vague sounds arising from the city, which recalled the murmur of a perfidious ocean. To the tired travellers these sounds seemed friendly calls of welcome, and made them forget the hardships experienced on the way.

  The Vaigai (or Madurai) River, daughter of the sky, wanders ever on the tongues of poets, who sing the generous gifts she bestows on the land she has blessed. Most cherished possession of the Pandya kingdom, she resembles a noble and respected maiden. Her dress is woven of all the flowers that fall from the date tree, the vakulam, the kino, the white kadamba, the gamboge, the tilak, the jasmine, the myrobalan, the pear tree, the great champak, and the saffron plant. The broad belt she wears low around her hips is adorned with lovely flowers of kuruku and golden jasmine, mixed with the mushundai’s thick lianas, the wild jasmine, the convolvulus, the bamboo, the volubilis, the pidavam, and Arabian jasmine. The sandbanks, edged by trees in blossom, are her youthful breasts. Her red lips are the trees that spread their red petals along the shore. Her lovely teeth are wild jasmine buds floating in the stream. Her long eyes are the carp, which playing in the water, appear and vanish like a wink. Her tresses are the flowing waters filled with petals.

  As if she knew the sad fate that lay in store for young Kannaki, the Vaigai had put on her best veil made of precious flowers, and could not hold back the tears that filled her eyes. After passing along narrow paths through the woods, Kannaki and Kovalan reached the bank of the river. Both cried out in wonder:

  ‘This is not a river but a stream in blossom.’

  They avoided the crowded piers where the boats were moored, some shaped like horses, others like elephants or lions. With the saint, they crossed the river on a ferry and reached the southern bank near a garden fragrant with the rarest flowers. To earn some merit, they first walked, as pilgrims do, around the walls of the town where the gods dwell. They followed the ramparts, covered with thick overgrowth. At the sight of them, the water lilies and the pale lotuses in the ponds seemed to shudder on their stems and shed tears as if they foresaw the tragedy awaiting them. The bees hummed a funeral dirge. The banners, reminders of former victories, floating high above the ramparts, waved in the wind like hands warning them not to approach the town.

  The weary travellers entered a suburb of the old city, famed for the virtues of its citizens. Rice fields full of birds could be seen between the tall mansions. Around the large shimmering ponds were rows of bamboo huts. They took rest in a cool coconut grove where bananas and tall areca palms were growing.

  CANTO FOURTEEN

  THE SIGHTS OF THE CITY

  Urkankadai

  The sun, worshipped by the whole world, arose to the music of morning birds that dwell in suburban gardens, among shimmering ponds and fields where a rich, ripe harvest waved in the wandering breeze. At sight of the sun, the lotuses opened in the lakes and pools. Through the morning haze it woke from their sleep the people of the proud city, where the Pandya king rules and whence he sets out to destroy enemies by the power of his sword. The thunder of the morning drums and the sound of the conch arose in the morning air from the sacred temples of Shiva, the three-eyed, of Vishnu, who displays a bird on his standard, of Baladeva holding his plough, and of young Murugan whose banner bears a cock. The chanting of prayers was heard in the homes of the priests, conversant with celestial law, and in the palace of the ever-victorious king.

  Kovalan approached Kavundi the saint, and he bowed at her feet. Clasping his hands, he said:

  ‘O noble saint, famed for rare asceticism! I once strayed from the path of duty. Now I feel desperate when I see this frail woman who with me has scoured faraway lands over such arduous paths. I feel myself the source of all the sufferings that this flower, whom I tenderly love, has endured. May this wife of mine stay under your protection until I return from a visit to the princely merchants of this ancient city? O saint, I know that nothing untowards can happen to her while she is in your hands.’

  Kavundi replied:

  ‘The merits you had stored up in previous lives are exhausted. You and the one you love must prepare for the most terrible misfortune. In this world the sages sound in vain a drum-call of warning when they say: “Avoid the tempting path of sin, for a man shall reap what he has sown.” But those men who are weak do not listen to their advice, and when, the evil deed performed, fate claims its dues, they drown in a sea of despair born of their blindness. The saintly and the wise shed no tears when such men reap the fruits of their deeds.

  ‘The torment of being far away from the cherished one, the desire to possess the object of love, and all the sufferings the god of love inflicts, are known only to those who lose their self-control in the embrace of fragrant-haired women. These pains cannot even touch the sage who observes chastity. In this world, countless are the unfortunates who fall into fearful predicaments in their mad pursuit of women, of wealth, of pleasure. That is why the sages renounce all desire for worldly things. It is not starting from today but from the moment of his first creation that man has been the victim of all the traps that lust lays in his path, and must, as a consequence, undergo fearful suffering. Do you not know that Rama, who went into exile with his most faithful bride to comply with his father’s wish, and who felt such unbearable pain when he was later torn away from this woman he loved, was the very father of him who revealed all wisdom to mankind? This tale comes down from the most ancient times.

  ‘Have you not heard the story of Nala and Damayanti? Nala staked his kingdom at gambling, and lost, and he had to wander in the dense forest with the frail Damayanti, the girl he would not abandon. It was not her selfishness, nor indeed any fault of hers, that finally tore them apart, but a merciless fate that compelled him to leave his loved one in a jungle one sombre night. Now tell me, was Damayanti guilty of any crime? You are more fortunate, for you are to remain beside your beautiful wife for all time to come. Do not weep! Go see Madurai, a city of great kings. Come back to us when you have discovered the new home that you are seeking.’

  Kovalan entered the city through a winding passage near the huge gate where the elephants pass, waving their trunks. This passage crossed the broad moat filled with shining water, bordered by thick brushwork, forming a secure protection. Unnoticed by the Greek mercenaries, armed with swords, who kept watch at the gate, he passed the bastion, covered with jungle-like overgrowth, over which the banners waved in the western wind. Suddenly he could see the splendour of the city, as if the treasure of the thousand-eyed Indra had miraculously been spread out before him.

  In the streets he saw courtesans shamelessly accompanying the wealthy men who kept them towards pleasure-gardens shaded by great maruda trees on the dunes bordering the abundant Vaigai. There boys were playing in the water, some seated on skiffs or large houseboats, others swimming, holding on to little floats.

  In the garden of the old town, common prostitutes were gracefully walking, their hair adorned with fresh jasmine, water lilies, and new lotus blossoms. They wore garlands of white jasmine and red lilies held by strings of rare pearls from the
port of Korkai. They had rubbed their fair bodies with sandal paste from the Malayan hills.

  At night the young women sat on moonlit terraces, their beds strewn with flowers. Their lovers soon made them forget the hard work of the day, till the king of the clouds, appearing with the southern breeze, spread his scarlet veil over the city. Everywhere garlands of many hues could be admired. Clad in flowers, ancient Madurai could boast of its riches to Indra, who with his thunderbolt had once clipped the mountains’ wings.

  During the rainy months, all the women of the city wore around their hips transparent veils of red silk embroidered with flowers. They adorned their hair with olive foliage, strobilanthes flowers, and red blossoms of tali grown on the Shirumalai hill. They painted on their breasts a filigree of sandal paste over which their coral necklaces and long garlands of red shengodu gleamed.

  In the great mansions, built by renowned architects, which appeared to touch the sky, timid maidens in the cool season sat beside braseros burning incense wood; near them were their lovers, whose chests were white with sandal paste. The windows were closed by curtains of woven reeds.

  In the season of dews, many women who at other times often spent the night with their lovers on the high roofs bathed in moonlight, now came up only to enjoy the soft warmth of the sun that spread its morning rays towards the southern sky and dispersed the furry clouds. They said:

  ‘Where is the king of the late dew of Spring? Shall he not come to see the festival of archery with which we in the Pandya capital honour Neduvel, the cruel-hearted god of pleasure? Shall he not come, driven by eastern winds, bringing a convoy of great ships laden with incense, silk, sandalwood, perfumes, and camphor, sent from Tondi as tribute? Where else than in the joyful town where the great Pandya reigns could we see the ruler of Spring, who inspires love? Shall he not come, brought on the desert wind that blows from the Podiyil hill over our southern land? Shall he not bring with him a rich harvest of madhavi flowers? Shall he not fill the now bleak bushlands with many-hued flowers that make the air fragrant?’ Thus the women, frail as lianas, recalled the cycle of the seasons while relaxing beside their lords.