Shilappadikaram

by Ilango Adigal

  ‘May the joys of heaven await the Pandya queen whose soul departed even before she felt the pain of separation from her lord. And may the new goddess of faithfulness, whose presence sanctifies our kingdom, be forever honoured as she deserves to be.’

  The king, whose parasol is adorned with flowers, approved of her wisdom. Then he turned to his counsellors. They suggested:

  ‘To make a proper image of the goddess of faithfulness, a stone will have to be brought from the immortal mountain, Podiyil, or from the great Himalayas on which the bow, emblem of your clan, was once carved. These two mountains are equal in sacredness, for one is purified by the flow of the Kaveri, the other by the celestial Ganga.’

  The king answered:

  ‘For a prince of my rank, of what prowess would it be to go choose a stone from Mount Podiyil to bathe it in the Kaveri? On the Himalayas, king of all mountains, there dwell twice-born Brahmins and sages with long matted hair, with garments never dry from ritual bathing, and with chests adorned by the three-threaded cord. They wield untold powers derived from the three fires they feed with offerings. Should the king of mountains refuse to give up the stone we need to carve a beautiful image of the goddess of faithfulness, we will leave our country, wearing a wreath of wild fig leaves, and we will demonstrate the precariousness of their lives to the evil men who dared survive our former massacres. We will climb the high peak of the Himalayas who gave his ever-youthful daughter to the god Shiva, he who wears the moon on his forehead. Many were the suitors who courted the daughter of the king of mountains. He refused her to all. We will launch our attack against this northern king. We will cleave asunder his mighty crown on which the rays of the nocturnal planet gleam. We will fell all trees that dare cast flowers of kino or mandara at his feet. We will wrest from his neck the wreath of victory.’

  With these proud words, the king ordered that, to celebrate the day, garlands of fig leaves be brought for all his soldiers, fierce as war elephants, and that the royal parasol be carried round in a procession.

  There are several wreaths of fig leaves, all emblems of victory. One is used to recall the suzerainty of the Chera. Another is worn to commemorate their establishment as kings of kings. A third recalls their ability to feed large rations to their brave soldiers. A fourth is used on anniversaries of the sacking of foreign cities. The last one is worn after battle when the victory song is sung on enemy territory.

  The king soon ordered the army to put on its battle array and wear fresh garlands of palm leaves. He then addressed the troops:

  ‘Before the walls of our golden city, ever young, we shall wear wreaths of new flowers plucked from wild fig trees. These wreaths shall he the only sweethearts of our swords till we return.’

  The chief minister, Villavan-kodai, answered for all:

  ‘May your virtuous rule last for many years! On the blood-drenched battlefield of Konkan, you bravely fought your adversaries till they had to surrender their standards bearing the emblems of the tiger and the fish. The fame of these great deeds has already spread to the four corners of the earth that eight celestial elephants support. Never shall I forget the sight of your war elephant advancing in the midst of the Tamil legions which had destroyed the assembled armies of Konkanars, Kalinjars, cruel Karunatars, Bengalars, Gangars, Kattiyars, and Aryans from the north.

  ‘Never shall we forget the courage you showed when, with the pious purpose of bringing your mother to bathe in the furious waters of the Ganga in flood, you fought alone against several thousand Aryans, so fiercely that the god of death was stunned, and stood as motionless as a stone.

  ‘No one can stop you if you choose to impose Tamil rule over the whole sea-encircled world. Send your message to the northern countries: “The great king advances towards the north to bring back a Himalayan stone in which the image of a god is to be carved.” Let the message bear your own baked-clay seal on which are shown the bow, the fish, the tiger-head, all royal emblems of the Tamil kings, and be dispatched to all northern monarchs.’

  The ruler of Alumbil then suggested:

  ‘All the kings of this rosewood continent maintain spies in Vanji, your great capital. They will themselves dispatch the news to their own kings, famous for their richly caparisoned war elephants. We need only announce your expedition, to the sound of drums, throughout the city.’

  The king, whose army is invincible, gave his approval. As soon as he returned to the glorious city whose wealth, increased by the booty acquired in countless wars, has never known decline, a drummer perched on a tall elephant proclaimed the edict through the town:

  ‘Long live our gracious king! May he protect the world for centuries to come. The king will set out for the Himalayas, on which his seal, the bow, is already carved, to bring back a stone. All kings of the north must submit and bring him their tribute, recalling the great deeds of him who conquered Kadambu beyond the sea, and who carved his emblem on the glorious brow of the Himalayas. Let them either heed this suggestion or abandon sons and wives and retire to live as hermits in the forest. Long live the vanguard of the troops, dearer than his own eyes to the valorous king who wears on his ankle the golden circlet of victory!’

  CANTO TWENTY-SIX

  BRINGING BACK THE GREAT STONE

  Kalkotkadai

  When the drum was sounded, the king arose and mounted to the throne of his ancestors. The high priest, the chief astrologer, the royal ministers, and the army commanders approached. First they acclaimed the monarch, calling him king of kings. Then they asked for his instructions about the march to the north.

  The Chera, whose white parasol is borne higher than those of other kings, thus made proclamation:

  ‘It would be unworthy of us to let pass unnoticed the disrespectful talk of these few northern kings—talk reported to me by some sages who came to our land in pilgrimage from the Himalayas. I, therefore, call on the gods to lead my own people to their doom if ever my unfailing sword is unable to sow terror in our enemies’ camps and in their leaders’ warlike hearts, and to compel their kings to bring down to us, carrying it on their very crowns, the great stone in which we will carve the image of our beloved goddess.’

  The high priest counselled him:

  ‘Mighty victor in many a hard battle, your proclamation can apply only to the Chola and the Pandya, who wear garlands of fig leaves and margosa and adorn their heads with precious crowns. No king of the northern lands dares face the storm of your anger. None could wish to offend you. Therefore, appease your wrath.’

  Next came the chief astrologer, who possessed all the secrets of the stars’ mysterious power. He knew the planet that rules each day, the hour of the stars’ conjunctions, and the effect of the zodiac on the lives of men. He rose and said:

  ‘Noble and mighty monarch! Be firm in your resolve, for the hour is auspicious! You can compel all the kings of the world to bow down before your lotus feet. Do not delay, but start in the direction on which your mind is set.’

  As soon as he heard this oracle, the king ordered that his sword and parasol be borne ahead of him towards the north. The din of the big war drums and the cheers of the soldiers burst forth so deafeningly that the great snake that bears the world had to lower his head. Lamps set with rubies dispelled the darkness of the night. Banners waved in the wind. The army, eager to destroy the enemy, joined the members of the five assemblies, the priests, the tax gatherers, and all the administrators of this land rich in swift stallions and towering war elephants, in a mighty cheer: ‘Long live the ruler of the world!’

  The royal sword, terror of men, and the white parasol were carried off on a tall elephant, fed by attendants with enormous balls of rice. They were borne to a chosen camp site beyond the city walls. The king, distinguished by his wreath of palm leaves and wild fig flowers, entered the great hall of audience, where he offered a banquet to the army commanders, exalted by the prospect of carnage.

  The king adorned his crown with rare jewels and fig leaves from Vanji, the town that b
ears the fig tree’s name. Meanwhile the morning drums were sounded at the city gates to warn all the kings of the world that the time had come to bow down before the Tamil power.

  Within the wreath of fig leaves, symbol of victory, the king placed on his head the sandal of Shiva, upon whom the world rests, and who wears in his tangled hair the crescent of the moon. The king, who never bowed down before a man, made the circuit of the temple and then prostrated himself before the image of the god. The flowers of his wreath faded in the dense smoke that arose from the ritual fires ceaselessly fed by the temple priests. And then at last he mounted his war elephant and departed.

  Brahmins, with offerings from the temple of Adakamadam where the god Vishnu sleeps in yogic trance, drew near and blessed the king: ‘May victory ever follow in the path of Kuttunadu’s king, lord of the western land.’ Since he was already wearing in his crown the sandal of the god in whose tangled hair the Ganga is born, he placed the offerings of this other divinity on his handsome shoulder, loaded with splendid ornaments.

  As he rode away in majesty and magnificence, the dancers from all the theatres came and lined his path. With arms crossed, they cried: ‘Triumphant king! Seated under your parasol on your war elephant loaded with garlands of palms and lianas, your grace so troubles our hearts that our bangles fall from our arms.’

  At his side went the Magadha poets, panegyrists, and bards, proclaiming his mighty deeds on many battlefields, while elephant drivers, horsemen, and foot soldiers with their flashing swords shouted praises of the royal spear’s great prowess.

  Passing before Vanji, his capital, the monarch resembled Indra, the ruler of heaven, setting out from the celestial city to attack an army of nefarious genii. The army, with its commanding staff and its van, seemed to cover the whole sea-girt land. Under its weight the spines of the mountains bent and the plains shook. The king rode in advance of impetuous cavalry and brightly coloured chariots. Soon they neared the Blue Mountain, the Nila Giri. There, while the fierce elephants swung their trunks angrily, the charioteers, the horses, the hardy soldiers, encamped for the night, protected by their sentinels. The king, more brilliant than the sun, granted Earth the favour of placing his foot upon her face. Then, withdrawing into his tent, he received the homage of his valiant troops.

  Inspired by a desire to see the master of the world, of splendour equal to that of heaven’s king, some sages, travelling through mid-air, appeared before the royal council tent. Their bodies shone like lightning-bolts. The king welcomed them with respect. They said to him: ‘Hear us, Chera king, born in glorious Vanji by the grace of Shiva, the god with tangled hair. We are on holy pilgrimage to the Malaya hills where learned Brahmins dwell. To protect them is your sacred duty.’ They gave him their blessings and departed.

  Then came dancers from Konkana in the Mysore country. They cried: ‘Long live the ruler of the sea-encircled world!’ These wild Karunatars wore the picturesque dress of their country. The girls had twined lustrous garlands in their long black wavy hair. Their young breasts were adorned with golden chains. Their long eyes were curved like a graceful carp. They sang a summer song that pictured their longing:

  When the blackbird starts his song,

  above the humming of the bees,

  so like the murmur of a harp,

  then summer comes, the buds burst out,

  and we—we long for lovers’ arms.

  A delegation came also from Kudagu, another part of the Chera empire, bringing dancing girls with rich bracelets and rolling carp-shaped eyes. These sang a love song to the theme of a winter dance:

  Lady with elaborate armlets,

  arrayed in all your finest gems,

  look at the clouds that war against

  each other with swift lightning-bolts!

  His dangerous mission done, my love

  has sped back to me in his hurtling car.

  Members of the Ovar tribe came too, blessing the monarch thus: ‘May the king, whose sword is ever powerful, lead his expedition to triumph. May he live for all time, and may friends, panegyrists, and courtiers flourish in his palace.’

  The king, before whose lance all enemies tremble gave rewards to those who sang his praises—to each in fitting degree as suggested by the lord of ceremonies and pageants. He lavished many precious jewels on them. As the king was resting in his tent, a guard reported: ‘Great king, bearer of a righteous sceptre, on whose standard a bow appears! Led by Sanjayan, there have just approached your camp, coming from the northern kingdoms, two hundred dancing girls, two hundred and eight musicians, a hundred jugglers excelling in the ninety-six forms of illusionism, a hundred large war cars, five hundred joyful elephants, ten thousand horses with cropped manes, twenty thousand chariots loaded with bales of gifts with a picture on each parcel showing the nature of its contents, and one thousand brilliantly dressed kanjuka, boy prostitutes with long carefully burnished hair.’

  The king said:

  ‘Bring in Sanjayan and the officeholders, together with the dancing girls and the players of instruments.’

  Sanjayan was ushered into the splendid tent of the noblest of kings. He bowed low and praised him with great art; he presented the main officeholders and the two hundred musicians. Then he said:

  ‘King, bearer of a most virtuous sceptre! Prince Nurruvar Kannar, through whose country the Ganga flows, sends you the most friendly greetings and this message: “If the purpose of the Chera’s expedition is to carry back a stone in which an image will be carved, we can wrest from the proud Himalayas a great rock that we shall with our own hands bathe in the Ganga and personally bring to him. It would be a pleasure to undertake such tasks on his behalf.” May you rule forever over the sea-encircled world.’

  The king, whose army, vast as the ocean, could devour all rival kings and their lethal spears, answered:

  ‘Two sons of Bala-Kumara, named Kanaka and Vijaya, together with some other inconsequent northern princes who talk more than they should, made during a banquet some disparaging remarks about the Tamil kings, forgetting our great deeds. Our mighty army, embodiment of death, shall carry its fury to the north. Take our message to Nurruvar Kannar, and bid him prepare a large fleet of barges and boats so that the army may cross the holy Ganga without delay.’

  When Sanjayan was gone, the thousand fine-spoken ephebes presented the king with pieces of sandalwood and pearls from the ocean. At that moment the Pandya’s rich tribute also arrived. The protector of men ordered the scribes to address to all the kings receipts sealed with the baked-clay imperial seal.

  After the messengers had departed with these, the ruler of the sea-girt world received the homage of all the army chiefs. He then broke camp and marched to the Ganga. There the army could cross on the boats prepared by the prudent Kannar, who was on the northern bank to cheer him over. Continuing on, he penetrated into the marshy country of the hostile King Uttara, and marched towards the battlefield.

  Uttara, together with Vichitra, Simha, Dhanurdhata, Shiveta, and other northern kings, followed by Kanaka and Vijaya, advanced at the head of an army so vast that it seemed a boundless sea. They said: ‘We shall test the valour of this Tamil king.’ Seeing them approach, Shenguttuvan leaped up with joy like a hunting lion who, sick with hunger, sees a herd of elephants. Wearing his garland of portia, he hurled his main forces against the enemy army. Countless standards veiled the sky; the earth trembled with the clamour of taut war drums, strident conchs, clear trumpets, and shrill cymbals. And all the din was penetrated by the deep and noble voice of the fur-covered royal drums, which sounded ready to devour the countless lives offered to them in sacrifice.

  The dust that was stirred up—by the feet of the archers marching with their bows on their shoulders, the lancers, the infantry with great shields, the chariots, the carefully led elephants, and the swift horsemen—covered the field with clouds so dense that they jammed the bells hanging from the elephants’ necks, and reduced to silence the standard-bearers’ conchs, thus preventing them
from adding their clamour to the horrendous din of the battle.

  The vanguards of the two armies met and struck, and the battle was begun. Severed heads of soldiers went flying, and archers began to pile up the dead. Soldiers whose heads had been cut off stumbled on for a few steps as if dancing to the music of witches with eyes like drumheads. Troops of demonesses ran on to the battlefield to drink the blood gushing from the wounds of the dead and to eat human flesh.

  The brave Aryan soldiers, whose chariots had had the reputation of invincibility, were massacred. Their bodies soon piled up on the battlefield. Their chariots were smashed. Their dead elephants and horses were heaped together by the Chera’s order. The king wore his shining armlet, and with great ceremonial placed on his own head a high crown and a wreath of diospyros flowers intertwined with palms. On the field of battle he appeared to the Aryan kings like a new god of death riding his buffalo and devouring all the living in the span of a day.

  Those ablest of lancers, Kanaka and Vijaya, their fearful lances in their hands, together with fifty-two chariot-leaders who had dared speak ill of Tamil kings, were the victims of the anger of King Shenguttuvan. Attempting to escape, some braided their hair like women; others put on monks’ robes; others went naked like yogis, rubbing their bodies with ashes; others sat in meditation, as hermits do, with peacock feathers in their hands; some went costumed as minstrels, lutes on their shoulders and others dressed like dancers. Casting aside swords and lances, they ran away in every direction, trembling with fear.

  The thickly armoured elephants were shaking with terror. Shenguttuvan had them yoked, two by two, like bullocks. Using swords as ploughshares, he dispatched them to crush the enemy as sheaves of wheat are crushed to separate the grain from the straw. Demons ran out to applaud the ploughing up of the field of battle. With long trembling hands, loaded with bracelets, they lifted the crowned heads of dead warriors and placed them in long rows. Then they sang in praise of the god who had first performed the munrerkkuravai, the war dance. They compared the day to those famous ones when the ocean had been churned, and the isle of Lanka sacked, as also to that other day when, in a great battle, the ocean-coloured god had driven Arjuna’s chariot. The pinrerkkuravai, the victory dance, was performed among the funeral pyres on the field of carnage.