Shilappadikaram

by Ilango Adigal

  When the warm sun, wedded to the western wind, entering the town of Madurai, causes summer’s rule to be undisputedly acknowledged, the forests, gardens, and hills become dry. Troops of elephants, bringing their young, wander near the city searching for drinkable water. The king’s rich concubines, their arms encircled with gold, spend lazy days in his embrace, and as reward receive carriages, palanquins, jewel-studded beds, yellow yak-tail fans, golden betel-boxes, and sharp steel swords. They spend hours of pleasure at the king’s side, drinking wine from cups of pure gold brought by slaves. In their drunkenness they beat their bodies at random in an attempt to drive away the flies busy around their flower wreaths. When they laugh, their white teeth seem rows of pearls shining in the jewel case of their red lips. They hum gay songs that forlorn hearts never sing, but when they try to sing, the eight modes from their throats sound coarse, and the listeners laugh. Then the corners of their eyes, long as oars, redden with anger till they seem like purple lotus flowers, and pearls of sweat gather on their foreheads, each adorned with a solitary red mark, while they bend the murderous bows of their brows. The sons of noble families look enviously at them, for they are meant for the pleasure of only the lord of the universe.

  Kovalan wandered along the main street, bordered by luxurious villas, which ruling kings secretly visit, and which are the homes of courtesans exempt from the tiles duty, and dancers who are masters in the art of street performance (vettiyal) as well as palace shows (poduviyal), They knew the four kinds of music, the seven scales, the songs, the rhythms, the art of oboe playing, and that of accompaniment on leather drums. A singing mistress (toriamadandai) sang a melody (varam), while other women spun thread or wove beautiful wreaths. In the shops Kovalan noticed steel saws, tools for carving ivory, incense, pastes, and flower bouquets so rich and colourful that kings might have envied them.

  Kovalan then entered the jewellers’ special street that no enemy had ever plundered. There shining diamonds were sold, without flaw or stain or crow’s-foot, or any fault an expert could detect. The diamonds had the hues of the four castes—white, red, yellow, and black. Cloudless green emeralds, perfect in form and lustre, could be purchased. The rubies called red lotuses (padmam), the sapphires (nilam), the pearls (bindu), the crystals (sphatika)—all seemed of stainless perfection. A cat’s-eye (pushpa-raga), mounted on gold, cast glances that were just like a real cat’s. Attractive gold sardonyx shone like the sun, onyx seemed made of solid night, the two-coloured opals and the five lucky gems that come from the same mines showed all the colours of sunset. There were also heaps of white and pink pearls, and some of more subtle orient. None showed the defects that wind, sand, rocks, or seawater may cause. There were also branches of red coral, not twisted or with stones imbedded in them.

  In the broad street of the goldsmiths tiny flags marked the kind of gold sold in each shop—natural gold, green gold resembling parrots’ wings, and fine gold from Jambunada. In the street of the cloth merchants Kovalan made his way through piles of bales, each containing a hundred lengths, woven of cotton, hair, or silk. There was a street for grain merchants, busy with their balances, measures, and bushels. Bags of grain and pepper were to be found there in all seasons. Kovalan also visited the four residential quarters of the four castes. He saw crossings of three or of four roads, bazaars, squares, avenues lined with trees, and many smaller streets and lanes. Beyond the ramparts, he noticed bowers covered with green creepers that never let the sun’s burning rays penetrate. He felt pleased to have seen this splendid and glorious city that a noble Pandya king protects against all ills.

  CANTO FIFTEEN

  THE REFUGE

  Adaikkalakkadai

  Kovalan wandered through the vast old city of Madurai, famed for the equity of its kings, the blessings of peace it enjoys under their stainless parasol, and the daring conquests of the Kauriyar’s spear. Guided by providence, the king, who moves the unwieldy wheel of justice with circumspection, has never been betrayed by his faithful subjects.

  Kovalan returned to the grove beyond the walls, where the monks live and teach Dharma, the law of perfection. While he was depicting to Kavundi the splendour of the town and the prowess of the Pandya monarch, a good Brahmin named Madalan, learned in the four Vedas, came to their camp in the shady garden enclosed by a narrow ditch. He was from the village of Talaicchenganam, and wanted to rest before returning home after ritually bathing at the Cape and walking around the sage’s mountain.

  Kovalan bowed, and the Brahmin, adroit in dialectics, told him:

  ‘After Madhavi, more tender than a mango shoot, had obtained, in reward for her dance, the precious gift of your substance, she became pregnant and gave birth to a delicate girl. You showed some interest in the babble of old dancers who were pondering about a good name for the child. You told them: “One of my ancestors was on a ship that sank during the night in the middle of the ocean. He had numerous noble deeds to his credit and found in them the strength to remain afloat several days.” The goddess of the sea then appeared to him and said: “I come at the bidding of Indra, king of the gods. People call me Precious-Girdle (Manimekalai). Do not fear! The merits of your good actions have not been lost: they shall help you to cross this vast ocean of pain.’ And she saved him, leading him to the shore. This goddess has long been the divinity who protects my clan. I want her name to be given to the infant.” Then more than a thousand courtesans, their girdles studded with rare gems, came and blessed the child, naming her Precious-Girdle.

  ‘You were near the happy Madhavi, giving gold coins to everyone with your beautiful hands. A Brahmin, bent under the weight of age, who had attained the highest peaks of wisdom and virtue, came leaning on a staff to receive your presents. As he was approaching, an angry elephant, throwing off his mahout, ran furiously about. Warning drums were sounded. The elephant knocked down the elderly Brahmin. Then, generous hero, you jumped up with a gasp, and saved the noble man. Disentangling yourself from the beast’s trunk and seizing its tusks, you jumped up on its neck and mastered its fury. You looked like an angel of wisdom standing on a mountain of sin.

  ‘On another occasion, a Brahmin left for the north, abandoning his wife, who had unintentionally killed a little mongoose. When she wanted to follow him, the Brahmin scolded her: “All food that your hands can prepare is now, for me, forbidden food. Take this palm leaf, on which is written a Sanskrit verse. You may show it to men of sound virtue.” The Brahmin’s wife wandered through the bazaars where the rich merchants had their homes. There she cried: “He who shall buy away my sin shall acquire great merit.” You sent for her, and you inquired: “Why are you in distress, and what is written on this leaf?” The poor woman explained her plight, and said: “Please buy this leaf on which a verse has been inscribed, for, when you purchase it, my fault shall be redeemed!” You replied to her: “Be at peace, for I shall relieve you of your grief.” So that her fault might be absolved, you performed the charities prescribed by tradition, and her plight was ended. You are strong, and so rich that your treasure seems inexhaustible. You recalled the husband from his forest retreat and endowed them both generously with a small part of your wealth.

  ‘Once a virtuous woman had been wrongly accused. A false witness, who had told lies to her husband, was captured in a net by a bhutam, a fearful genie who devoured all villains of his sort. Though the fault was grave, moved by the great sorrow of the man’s old mother, you threw yourself into the net and said to the honest and well-meaning genie: “Give back this man’s life and take mine instead.” He refused, arguing: “There is no rule that may permit me to exchange a good man’s life for that of a scoundrel. Should I obey you, I might lose the happiness that will be mine in future lives. So give up this scheme.” When the genie, in your presence, had eaten up the culprit, you, O master of great wealth, accompanied the heartbroken woman home, and for many years, like a son, you kept her from hunger.

  ‘I know of countless noble deeds you performed in this life. Yet for some error
s committed in a past existence, wise Kovalan, you shall fall into fearful calamities, bringing misfortune to your precious and innocent consort, beautiful as Lakshmi, the goddess of fortune.’

  Kovalan answered him:

  ‘Half asleep in the deepest night, I had a fearful dream. In this town, over which a righteous king rules, through the fault of a scoundrel this girl with the five fragrant plaits underwent a fearful agony; while I, stripped of my garments by some stranger, was riding a huge buffalo with black horns. But later, with my gentle wife whose hair curls so gracefully, I reached a divine land where those freed from terrestrial bonds may dwell. I also saw Madhavi giving her child, Precious-Girdle, to a Buddhist nun, while the god of love in despair could find no target but the naked earth at which to shoot his flowery arrows.’

  The good Brahmin and Kavundi then quickly said:

  ‘This shelter outside the ramparts is meant for the rest of saintly monks. Go to the town. Look for a proper place to stay. Some merchant, when he hears your name, will be glad to offer you his hospitality. Go, before darkness comes, and enter this city of many rich mansions.’

  Madari, an old woman who herded cows, was just coming home after bringing an offering of milk, as was her daily practice, to a yakshini, a flower-eyed young fairy who dwelt in a small shrine outside the ramparts, near a field where the monks assemble for their meditation. She bowed to Kavundi. In her heart the saint felt the life of these cowherds, who attend to dumb animals and offer to the gods the produce of their herd, is pure of all evil. This old woman is still as innocent as a child. She is virtuous and kind. There can be no danger in leaving Kannaki in her care.

  So she said to Madari:

  ‘When the merchants of this city discover who is the father-in-law of this girl, they will invite her and her husband into their well-guarded homes, considering it a privilege. Until we can bring her to these wealthy mansions, keep Kannaki under your protection. Give her a good cool bath and put black collyrium on her long, reddened eyes. Rearrange her hair with fresh flowers. Dress her in a well-washed garment, as is proper for people of her rank. Be her servant, for she is of high birth, but be also her mother and guardian. Take care of her. Our mother Earth has shown no pity for her tender feet during our long journey. Thirst made her faint in the hot sun, yet, forgetting her pain, she thought only of her husband. There was never a goddess more radiant than this woman, made for heaven, who keeps the vow of faithfulness by which a wife is bound to her husband. Have you not heard the saying: ‘Where a woman’s virtue is safe and unsullied, the blessings of rain never fail, prosperity never declines, victory is ever a slave to the monarch!’

  ‘Listen! However small the sum entrusted to your care by a saint, it multiplies a hundredfold. A wandering yogi, a charanar, once taught Dharma, the Law, in a city overlooking the Kaveri. He sat on a polished rock throne, erected by pious shavakas, under the shade of an ashoka in blossom. Standing before the sage while he preached, there was a god, radiant as the sun, handsome and strong, adorned with flowers, gems, and gold finery. He shone like the rainbow, and several other gods were seen to worship him. Yet one of his hands was black and like a monkey’s. The pious shavakas, who came to bow before the sage, often wondered about the apparition of this remarkable god. One day the sage told them:

  ‘“Long ago there lived a merchant named Etti Shayalan. Many were the people who came to converse with him on fast days. Once the lady of the house had received with great honours a very saintly monk. At the same moment a monkey had entered and thrown himself at the feet of the holy man. Hungry, he ate remnants of food and some water left by the monk, and then sat motionless in deep contemplation. The wise yogi had attained perfect peace. He rejoiced in his heart and said to the woman: “From now on, this monkey shall be your son.” The good lady obeyed the order of the saint, and, when the affectionate monkey died, she distributed to the monks that part of the patrimony that is set aside for a son, praying that all the monkey’s sins be remitted. This monkey was reborn as the most worthy son of Uttaragautta, the king of Benares, in the central country. Famous for his beauty, his wealth, and his wisdom, he died at the age of thirty-two. Later he obtained the status of prince among the gods, and he has returned to life with his black monkey hand so that virtuous Jains may know the secret of his achievements. He is here to tell us: “My fortune and felicity are fruits of the kindness of her who gave me protection and love. Previously I was just a monkey, my metamorphosis is the wonderful gift of Shayalan’s good wife.” All the people who listened to the monk realized that his words were inspired. The ascetics of the country, the virtuous Jains with their wives, the good Etti and his consort—all were granted immortal life.”

  ‘Now that you have heard all these tales, take this woman, whose hair is loaded with flowers, along with you. Waste no time.’

  At Kavundi’s words, Madari was filled with joy. She paid her respects to the saint, and at sunset took her leave. Beautiful Kannaki, with her tender breasts, shoulders like bending reeds, and gleaming teeth, followed the good cowherd woman. As they went she heard cows mooing to their calves. Soon they met the shepherds, with lambs on their shoulders, carrying axes and long staves from which hung jars full of pure milk. All the cowherd girls wore showy bracelets.

  Madari, with her protégée, passed the city gate where every day a new pennant was raised to announce a victory. The ramparts were topped with jungle-like overgrowth as additional protection. There was also a moat, above which they could see arbalests for shooting arrows great distances. There was a catching device with its black pincers, catapults for throwing stones, huge cauldrons to hold boiling water or molten lead, hooks, chains, and traps resembling andalai birds (with a man’s head and a beak that breaks skulls) There were also other weapons of many kinds—iron arms, sharp spears, heaps of arrows and nails, rams, sharp needles to pierce eyes, machines resembling kingfishers used to put out eyes, wooden balls covered with sharp nails, machines to strike blows, heavy weights, huge beams, maces, and projectiles. Finally, Madari led Kannaki into her cottage.

  CANTO SIXTEEN

  THE SITE OF AGONY

  Kolaikkalakkadai

  Madari, the cowherdess, had joyfully taken charge of the frail Kannaki. In the sheltered cottage to which she led her, cowgirls lived who wore shining bracelets. The cottage was dark red. In front was an open courtyard. Thorny hedges kept it private from other huts inhabited by the cowherds who sold buttermilk.

  Madari prepared a cool bath for the stranger and paid her compliments:

  ‘You have come here, adorned only by your beauty, to render ridiculous the cosmetics and costly jewellery of the city women. My daughter Aiyai will be at your service, and I shall protect you like a precious object. O girl with fragrant hair entrusted to my care, the virtuous saint has relieved you of the weariness of your journey, and led you to a safe retreat. Your man need not worry.’ Turning towards the girls, she said: ‘Her master observes all the rules of the pious Jains, who do not eat after sunset. Bring at once our best saucepans so that Kannaki may help Aiyai to prepare a good meal.’

  The cowgirls brought new utensils, as is done for wealthy people, and some ripe fruit from the never-flowering breadfruit tree. There were also white-striped cucumbers, green pomegranates and mangoes, sweet bananas, good rice, and fresh cow’s milk. The girls said:

  ‘Lady with the round bracelets, accept these modest gifts.’

  Kannaki sliced various vegetables with a short knife—her tender fingers grew red, her face was perspiring, tears came to her lovely eyes. She had to turn her face away from the oven. Over a straw fire lit by Aiyai, Kannaki began to prepare her husband’s evening meal.

  Kovalan seated himself on a small expertly woven palm-leaf mat. Then Kannaki, with her flower-hands, poured water from a jug to wash her master’s feet. As if attempting to awaken our mother Earth from a swoon, she sprinkled water on the ground and lustrated the beaten soil with her palms. Then she placed before her husband a tender plantain lea
f and said:

  ‘Here is your food, my lord! May you be pleased to eat.’

  Having performed with care the rites prescribed for the sons of merchants, they ate their dinner together. Aiyai and her mother looked at them with delight. They exclaimed:

  ‘The noble lord, eating this simple food, must be Krishna himself, whose complexion is like newly open pepper flowers. Krishna too, was fed in a cowherd’s village, by Yashoda. Is not this lady of the many bracelets the beacon of our caste, who once rescued the god who is the colour of blue sapphire near the Jumna River? We cannot open our eyes wide enough to enjoy this rare sight!’

  To tall Kovalan, pleased with his dinner, Kannaki of the gleaming black plaits then offered betel leaves and chopped betel nuts. He embraced her and said:

  ‘My parents would never believe that such tender feet could have trodden paths littered with pebbles and hard stones. Would they not pity you if they knew that we had together crossed such vast and cruel country? It all seems to me like a dream, like a game played by fate. My mind is dull. I fail to understand. Is there any hope left for a man who wasted his youth in the pernicious company of debauched friends, laughing at vulgar deeds and scandals, seeking mischief, and neglectful of the warning words of his wise elders? I neglected all my duties towards my good parents. I was a source of shame to you, so young in years yet so rich in wisdom. I did not see the extent of my faults. I asked you not to leave our city, yet you came with me on this long journey. What sufferings have you not already borne for my sake!’