with the great doings of the hero
who, in three strides, encompassed the three worlds
become too narrow for his fame; and who,
together with his younger brother,
went through fearful jungles.
His lotus feet were bruised.
In battle he destroyed the fortress,
and razed the walls of ancient Lanka.
Vain are the ears that are not filled
with the exploits of the great god.
Vain are the eyes that do not see the god,
the dark god, the mysterious god.
For from his lotus navel the three worlds bloom.
His eyes are red. Red are his feet,
red his hands, and red his lips.
Vain are the eyes that do not see
the dark beauty of the great lord.
Vain is the tongue that does not sing the praise
of him who countered Kamsa’s dark intrigues.
Accompanied by singing of the Vedas,
he went to meet the hundred Kauravas
as messenger from the five brothers.
Vain is the tongue that does not sing the praise
of him, Narayana, the shelter of mankind.
May the god we honour through his love-dance here
show mercy on us now,
for fear has spread upon our herds.
The Pandya king, who wears rich ornaments
across his broad shoulders,
defeated Indra, whose mighty arm
was the dread thunderbolt.
May the sound of the drum of his glory
strike terror in the hearts of all his enemies,
and may he every day announce new victories.
CANTO EIGHTEEN
THE WREATH OF AGONY
Tumbamalai
Other hardy and shapely cowgirls had been bathing in the deep waters of the Vaigai. On their return they worshipped Vishnu, offering him flowers, incense, sandalwood, and fragrant wreaths. Towards the end of the love-dance, a girl who had heard some rumours in the city returned in haste. She stopped, silent and motionless, at some distance from Kannaki, who asked:
‘Will you not speak to me, my friend? Tell me. My husband has not yet returned, and my heart feels oppressed. My breath is as hot as that from a blacksmith’s bellows. Have you not brought some news from the city? Long may you live, my friend.
‘Though the sun is still high, I am trembling. Why has my beloved not come back? My heart is becoming heavy with fear. Since you see that I am worried by his absence, please distract me with some gossip from town. May the gods bless you, friend.
‘Shall I beg your help? My lord has not yet returned. I fear he may be in danger. My mind is bewildered. I feel anxious. Are you hiding something from me? Pray speak to me, my friend. Tell me what people who live in your city, strangers to me, have said.’
At last the cowgirl spoke:
‘They abused him. They said he was a thief, come secretly to steal a wonderful ankle bracelet from the royal palace. They accused him, calling him a robber, mysterious in his behaviour. And the royal soldiers, those who wear noisy anklets, put him to death.’
On hearing this, Kannaki leaped up in her anger, then collapsed to the ground. It seemed as if the moon had risen in the sky, then fallen, shrouded with clouds. She wept, and her eyes became still redder. She clamoured: ‘Where are you, beloved husband?’ and fell in a swoon. When she came back to her senses, she lamented:
‘And must I die of sorrow, like the wretched women who take fearful oaths upon the pyres of their beloved husbands? For I have lost the man who dearly loved me, by the fault of a king his own subjects must despise.
‘Must I die of despair, like the lonely women who carry their grief from pilgrimage to pilgrimage, and bathe in holy rivers, after the death of husbands who wore fragrant flower-garlands on their broad chests?
‘Must I die, an embodiment of meaningless virtue, through the fatal error of a ruler who bears the sceptre of injustice? Must I languish in loneliness, like the forlorn women who, after their tender husbands have vanished in the funeral pyre’s smoke, remain, half alive, in abject widowhood?
‘Must I, with broken heart, suffer an endless agony, because in tragic error the sceptre of a Pandya king has gone astray from the path of right?
‘Look at me! Hearken to my words, you honest cowgirls here assembled! It was with just foreboding that you danced the dance of love. Now hearken to my words! Listen to me, cowherds’ daughters!
‘Sun god, whose rays are flames! You, the eternal witness of all the deeds committed on the sea-encircled earth, speak! Could my husband be called a thief?’
A voice was heard, coming from the sky:
‘He was never a thief! Woman of the carp-like eyes, this city shall be purified by fire!’
CANTO NINETEEN
THE MURMURS OF THE CITY
Urshulvari
The Sun had given its verdict. The woman with the bright armlets stood up. Holding in her hand her remaining ankle bracelet, mate to the one she had given to Kovalan, Kannaki went to the city, and walked through it, crying:
‘Virtuous women who live in this city ruled by a nefarious monarch, listen to me! Today I underwent unspeakable agony. What must nowise happen has happened. Never shall I accept this iniquitous injustice. Was my husband a thief? No, he was killed to avoid paying him the price of my ankle bracelet. Can there be a more flagrant denial of justice? Should I ever see the body of the man who dearly loved me, I shall not hear from him the words I need to hear, saying he is not at fault. Is that justice? He can no longer protect me, so why don’t you come and accuse me too of some invented crime? Do you hear me?’
The people of the rich city of Madurai were dismayed at the sight of this distracted woman. In their stupefaction, they exclaimed:
‘The just and virtuous sceptre of our king has been forever bent. A crime that nothing can undo has been committed against this innocent woman. What shall this lead us to? Tarnished is the honour of Tennavan, the king of kings, who inherited an infallible spear and a stainless white parasol. What are we to think? The parasol of our victorious king was protecting the land, keeping us cool under its shade, and now the fierce rays of the sun may devour us. What are we to expect?
‘A new and mighty goddess has appeared to us. In her hand she carries an ankle bracelet made of gold. Is this a portent from heaven? From the desperate woman’s eyes, red and running with black collyrium, tears are flowing. She seems possessed by a genie. What must we think?’
Thus bewildered, the people of Madurai gathered around her, showing their good will and attempting to console her. Everywhere indignant words could be heard. In the midst of this disorder, someone showed Kannaki the body of her dear husband. The liana-like woman saw him; he could not see her.
The Sun was unable to bear this sight. Suddenly it extinguished its rays, hiding behind the hills. The veil of night covered the earth. In the evening dusk, Kannaki resembling a frail reed in bloom, lamented, and the whole city resounded with her cries. That very morning, between two kisses, she had received from her husband a flower wreath he was wearing, and with it she had adorned her tresses. Now on the evening of the same day she looked down at him lying in a pool of blood that had flowed from his open wound. He could not even see her grief. She cried out in anger and despair:
‘O witness of my grief, you cannot console me. Is it right that your body, fairer than pure gold, lie unwashed here in the dust? Will people not say that it was my ill luck that led a just king to a mistake that was the fruit of his ignorance? Is it just that in the red glow of the twilight your handsome chest, framed with a flower wreath, lies thrown down on the bare earth, while I remain alone, helpless and abandoned to despair? Shall people not be led to say that it was my own predestination that compelled the innocent Pandya to such an injustice when the whole world could easily see that he had committed an error?
‘Is there no woman here? Is th
ere no real woman, or only the sort of woman who would allow such an injustice to be done to her lawful husband? Are there such women here?
‘Is there no man in this land? Is there no honest man, or only the sort of man who nourishes and protects only the sons of his own blood?
‘Is there no god? Is there no god in this country? Can there be a god in a land where the sword of the king is used for the murder of innocent strangers? Is there no god, no god?’
Thus lamenting, Kannaki clasped her husband’s chest that fortune had so dearly cherished. Suddenly Kovalan arose and exclaimed, ‘Your moon-like face appears tarnished.’ With affectionate hands he wiped away the tears that burned her eyes. The lovely woman fell to the ground, weeping and moaning. With bracelet-laden hands she grasped the feet of her beloved husband. But he departed, rising into the air. Surrounded by hosts of angels, he shed his mortal frame and disappeared. His voice could still be heard, fading away:
‘Beloved! Stay there, stay! Remain peacefully in life!’
She thought: ‘Is this an illusion of my demented mind? What else could all this be? Is some spirit eager to deceive me? Where can I discover the truth? I shall not search for my husband before he is avenged. I shall meet this inhuman king and ask for his justice against himself.’ She stood up, and then she remembered her vision. Tears fell from her long carp-shaped eyes. She stiffened, and recalled her anger. Wiping away her burning tears, she ran to the majestic gate of the royal palace.
CANTO TWENTY
THE CALL FOR JUSTICE
Valakkuraikadai
The Pandya queen spoke:
‘Alas! I saw, in a dream, a sceptre bent, a fallen parasol. The bell at the gate moved of itself and rang loudly. Alas! I also saw... I saw the eight directions of space wavering, the night devouring the sun. Alas! I also saw... I saw the rainbow shining in the night, a glittering star falling by day. Alas!’
THE OMENS
‘The sceptre of justice and the white parasol fallen to the hard ground, the bell ringing alone at the gate of a victorious king’s palace, my heart trembling with fear, the rainbow in the night, the star falling by day, the directions of space vacillating—all these are portents of a fearful danger at hand. I must inform the king.’
Adorned with resplendent jewels, she went to the king’s apartments, followed by maids who carried her mirror and her various trifles. With her went her hunchbacks, dwarfs, deaf-mutes, and buffoons, carrying silks, betel, cosmetics, pastes, garlands, feather-fans, and incense. The ladies-in-waiting, with flowers in their hair, sang her praise:
‘May the consort of the Pandya, who protects the vast universe, live many happy days.’
Thus the great queen, followed by her guards and maids singing her praises and bowing before her feet, went to King Tennavan, on whose chest Fortune rests. He was seated on the lion throne. She told him her sinister dream.
At the same moment cries were heard:
‘Hoy, doorkeeper! Hoy, watchman! Hoy, palace guards of an irresponsible ruler whose vile heart lightly casts aside the kingly duty of rendering justice! Go! Tell how a woman, a widow, carrying a single ankle bracelet from a pair that once joyfully rang together, waits at the gate. Go! Announce me!’
The watchman bowed before the king and said:
‘Long live the ruler of Korkai! Long live Tennavan, lord of the southern mountains, whose fair name calumny and scandal have never touched!
‘A woman is waiting at the gate. She is not Korravai, the victorious goddess who carries in her hand a glorious spear and stands upon the neck of a defeated buffalo losing its blood through its fresh wounds. She is not Anangu, youngest of the seven virgins, for whom Shiva once danced, and she is not Kali, who dwells in the darkest forests inhabited by ghosts and imps. Neither is she the goddess who pierced the chest of the mighty Daruka. She seems filled with a mad fury, suffused with rage. She has lost someone dear to her, and stands at the gate clasping an ankle bracelet of gold in her hands.’
The king said: ‘Let her come in. Bring her to me.’ The gatekeeper let the woman enter, and brought her to the king. When she drew near the monarch, he said: ‘Woman, your face is soiled from weeping. Who are you, young woman? What brings you before us?’
Kannaki answered sharply: ‘Inconsiderate king! I have much to say. I was born in Puhar, that well-known capital, the names of whose kings remain unsullied. One of them, Shibi, in ancient times sacrificed his own life to save a dove, in the presence of all the gods. Another, Manunitikanda, when a cow with weeping eyes rang the palace bell in search of justice for her calf, crushed under a chariot wheel, sacrificed his own son, guilty of the act, under the same wheel. There in Puhar a man named Kovalan was born. He was the son of a wealthy merchant, Mashattuvan. His family is known, and his name untarnished. Led by fate, O king, he entered your city, with ringing anklets, expecting to earn a living. When he tried to sell my ankle bracelet, he was murdered. I am his wife. My name is Kannaki.’
The king answered: ‘Divine woman, there is no injustice in putting a robber to death. Do you not know that that is the duty of a king?’
The beautiful girl said: ‘King of Korkai, you went astray from the path of duty. Remember that my ankle bracelet was filled with precious stones.’
‘Woman,’ the king answered, ‘what you have said is pertinent. For ours was filled, not with gems, but with pearls. Let it be brought.’ The ankle bracelet was brought and placed before the king. Kannaki seized it and broke it open. A gem sprang up into the king’s face. When he saw the stone, he faltered. He felt his parasol fallen, his sceptre bent. He said: ‘Is it right for a king to act upon the word of a miserable goldsmith? I am the thief. For the first time I have failed in my duty as protector of the southern kingdom. No way is left open to me save to give up my life.’ And having spoken, the king swooned. The great queen fell near him. Trembling, she lamented:
‘Never can a woman survive her husband’s death.’ And, placing the feet of her lord on her head, the unfortunate queen fainted away.
Kannaki said:
‘Today we have seen evidence of the sage’s warning: The Divine law appears in the form of death before the man who fails in his duty. Consort of a victorious king who committed a deed both cruel and unjust! I too am guilty of great sins. Be witness to the cruel deed I perform.’
CODA
The poet speaks:
With terror I saw Kannaki, tears streaming from her blood-red eyes, holding in her hand her remaining ankle bracelet, her body lifeless, her undone hair resembling a dark forest.
I saw the sovereign of Kudal become a corpse. I must be guilty of great crimes to be witness to such fearful events.
The lord of the Vaigai saw Kannaki’s body, soiled with dust, her black dishevelled hair, her tears, and the solitary ankle bracelet in her fair hand. Overwhelmed with sorrow, he listened to the words Kannaki had said in her rage. He could not bear to remain alive, and fell dead.
CANTO TWENTY-ONE
THE MALEDICTION
Vanjinamalai
Kannaki then spoke to the dying Pandya queen:
‘Wife of a great monarch! I too am a victim of fate. I have never wished to cause pain. But it is said that he who has wronged another in the morning must, before darkness falls, repay his debt.
‘A woman with abundant hair one day asked and obtained that at midday her kitchen and the oven’s fire should take human form to testify to her purity.
‘Once, as a joke, her friends told a virtuous and naive widow, whose pubis showed some stripes, that her husband was a sand effigy modelled on the bank of the Kaveri. The faithful woman stayed near the image. The rising tide, which had surrounded her, stayed aloof, not daring to approach.
‘A daughter of the famous king, Karikala, once jumped into the sea that had carried away her husband Vanjikkon, calling to him, “Lord with shoulders like mountains!” The god of the sea himself brought back her husband to her. Clasping him like a liana, she led him to their home.
‘Another
good woman changed herself into stone and remained in a garden near the shore gazing at the approaching ships. She recovered her human shape only on the day when her husband returned home.
‘When the son of a co-wife fell into a well, a woman threw in her own son and succeeded in saving both.
‘Because a stranger had glanced at her with lustful eyes, a chaste woman changed her moon-like face into that of a monkey. Only when her husband returned did this flower-like woman, who treasured her body more than a jewel, take back her human face.
‘There was also a girl, fair and lovely as a statue of gold. She heard her mother say to her father, “Women’s settlements unsettle all things.” Once, as a joke, I told my maid, “When I have a daughter, and when you, maid with pretty bangles, have a son, my daughter shall be your son’s bride.” The maid kept this in her memory, and today she asked me for the girl. I am at my wits’ end, not knowing what to say. How unfortunate I am!” When she overheard this, the girl like a golden statue put on a silk dress, tied her hair, and came to the maid’s son. She knelt before him and placed his foot upon her head.
‘It was in Puhar, the city from which I come, that they all lived, these noble women with fragrant braids. If these stories are true, and if I am faithful, I cannot allow your city to survive. I must destroy it, together with its king. You shall soon see the meaning of my words.’
Kannaki then left the king’s palace, shouting:
‘Men and women of Madurai, city of the four temples! And you, gods of heaven! Listen to me! I curse this town whose ruler put to death the man I dearly loved. The blame is not mine.’
Suddenly, with her own hands, she twisted and tore her left breast from her body. Then she walked three times round the city, repeating her curse at each gate. In her despair she threw away her lovely breast, which fell in the dirt of the street. Then before her there appeared the god of fire in the shape of a priest. His body was all blue and encircled with tongues of flames. His hair was as red as the evening sky, his milk-white teeth shone brightly. He said:
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