Shilappadikaram

by Ilango Adigal

  With the crowned heads the demons built a huge fireplace. For cauldrons they used elephant skulls. Shoulder blades were their spoons. The demon-cooks gave a banquet to all the spirits of darkness. Drunk after their feast, they sang:

  ‘Long live the king whose mighty and ever-righteous sceptre has won a just battle.’

  Shenguttuvan of the ever-victorious spear had led his army in a glorious combat. Calling his messengers, he told them:

  ‘Go and courteously assure of our favour all those in the northern country who honour our sacred books, and who, leading a sinless life, nourish the sacred fires with offerings.’

  The protecting king had won the battle and attained his goal. A few regiments, under the command of Villavan-kodai, were sent to wrench from the crown of the Himalayas, the great stone in which the image of the goddess of faithfulness was to be carved.

  CANTO TWENTY-SEVEN

  THE BATHING OF THE STONE

  Nirppataikkadai

  The stele of stone was wrested from the proud Himalayas. It was given the shape of the Devoted Spouse who forced open the gateway of heaven. The statue was placed on the brilliantly crowned heads of Kanaka and Vijaya, to punish them for having dared fight Shenguttuvan, the king of the ferocious lance, who wears on his ankle the circlet of heroes. For eighteen nadis (seven hours), he had taken the place of the cruel god of death, devouring all the Aryan kings who had not acknowledged the supremacy of the proud southern Tamils. This battle was added to the three historic ones that had lasted respectively eighteen years, eighteen months, and eighteen days.

  With the aid of his troops, armed with victorious spears, Shenguttuvan had in a single day destroyed the countless armies of his assembled enemies. He returned to the bank of the Ganga, where the stone, already shaped to the likeness of the goddess of faithfulness, was bathed, in accordance with sacred rules, by priests expert in the art of ritual. On the south bank of the river, where the waters are clear, the king settled in a vast camp built for him by the Aryan kings. There were magnificent arches, golden aisles, flower pavilions, apartments, vast gardens, lotus ponds, dance halls, all constructed with great art in honour of the suzerain king.

  He sent for the sons of all the warriors who had died fighting the ambitious rulers of those vast lands, and had received husbands’ wreaths from the nymphs of heaven. These soldiers had fought valiantly, never losing courage; they had lain, their heads severed, their spines broken, in pools of blood. They were but mercenaries, yet they had killed countless enemies before being hewn to pieces. They were still clinging to their swords as they fell dead, and in their stead the demons with sunken eyes danced the dance of victory and congratulated their ancestors. They had lain near their comrades, followed in death by faithful wives wearing all their jewels. As the vanguard of the army, they had placed victory flowers on their headgear before exterminating the forward units of the enemy troops. They had fallen near the mighty chariots, each with a painted staff for its pennon. Blood had dyed their bodies with its auspicious vermilion.

  The king sent also for all the soldiers who had been heroes in the fight, who had severed the crowned heads of many an enemy whose courage could not be denied. The god of death himself felt pity when he saw the wounded, with their broad chests ripped open through their armour. The triumph of the victorious king was sung by poets and bards. To each of them he gave an albizia flower in gold, a present more precious than those distributed on the royal birthday. He adorned his own chest, as was his custom after a victory, with a wreath of palm leaves and aspera flowers.

  While he was seated on his throne, Madalan, the Brahmin entered. He said:

  ‘Long live the king! A song on the seashore has brought a heavy burden to the crowned heads of Kanaka and Vijaya. Mighty king, conqueror of the sea-girt world, may you live forever!’

  The king said:

  ‘You speak in riddles, and the enemy kings may not grasp your purport. Explain the meaning of your words, Brahmin learned in the four Vedas!’

  Madalan, the Brahmin replied:

  ‘A girl named Madhavi was quarrelling with her lover on the seashore. Inspired by Fate, she sang some songs used as themes for her dance. Instead of mending their quarrel, the songs caused them to part. The lover returned to his wife and took her away to the ancient fortress-city of Madurai. There a leaf-garlanded king, who had committed a mistake, left the world after having killed this Kovalan. The wife of the victim, O ruler of the Kudavar, came into your country. It is because of all this that her image is being transported today on the heads of northern monarchs.

  ‘Kindly listen to the reasons that brought me here, king of kings, whose hand bears an illustrious spear. I had gone on a pilgrimage around Mount Podiyil, sacred abode of the great sage, and had bathed in the sacred waters of the Virgin’s ocean. I was returning home when, inspired by Fate, I passed through Madurai, ruled by King Tennavan of the ever-sharp sword.

  ‘When Madari heard that the beautiful girl left in her care had defeated the Pandya, with his immense army, just by an ankle bracelet, she came to the meeting-platform of the cowherds and spoke to the tribe there assembled: “Cowherds! Kovalan did no harm. The king committed a mistake, and I failed to protect a girl entrusted to my care. The royal parasol and the virtuous sceptre have gone astray from the path of justice!” Having spoken, that night she threw herself into a bonfire and thus ended her life.

  ‘At first the saintly Kavundi, well known for her virtues, was overcome by anger. When she heard of the death of the valorous king whose sceptre had always stood for the rule of justice, she calmed herself and thought: “Such is the fate of those who were my companions.” She resolved to fast unto death, and thus in a few days she ended her life on earth.

  ‘I heard of these events and of the disaster that destroyed the glorious city of Madurai, ruled by a noble Pandya king who rode in a carriage of gold. Overwhelmed by sorrow, I returned to Puhar, my native city, the Chola’s ancient capital. I informed all the notables of these events. Kovalan’s father asked to be told the details of the whole tragedy that had overtaken his son and his daughter-in-law as well as the virtuous ruler of Madurai. Filled with despair, he distributed all his wealth, and entered the Sevenfold Monastery of Indra. There he leads an ascetic life with three hundred pious monks who spend all day in prayer, having renounced the world in the hope of escaping from the cycle of existence. His wife was unable to stand the news of her son’s tragic death: broken by her sorrow, she died. Kannaki’s father, too, gave away his riches and entered the order of the Ajivakas, in which men of wisdom lead a life of fasting and penance. His noble spouse left the world a few days after his departure.

  ‘When Madhavi heard of all these tragedies, she said to her kindly mother: “As of today, I renounce all the pleasures of life. Do not allow Manimekalai to become a courtesan, for such a life leads to unhappiness.” She shaved off her garland-entwined hair, and entered a nunnery to study the teachings of Lord Buddha. It was I who had brought them the fatal news. That is why I have come to bathe in the waters of the sacred Ganga. Mighty king, may you live forever!’

  The great Chera monarch, who wears an ever-fresh garland of palm leaves, wild fig blossoms, and diospyros, then asked:

  ‘May I know what happened to the wealthy country of the Pandya after its king had died?’

  Madalan, the Brahmin answered:

  ‘Long live the ruler of the world! You once destroyed in a single day the nine parasols of nine great kings, your enemies, who had formed a league to dethrone your brother-in-law, Killivalavan, and refused to acknowledge his rights as legitimate heir to the kingdom. They had planned to destroy his prosperous country. You had to intervene and reset the wheel of destiny on its axle.

  ‘O Poraiyan! You then wore a garland of palms to mark the success of the sword your right hand firmly holds. On another occasion, you uprooted the old margosa tree in whose branches the power of Palaiyan was hidden. Have patience to hear me.

  ‘The victorious Ver-S
heliyan, king of Korkai, sacrificed several thousand goldsmiths in a single day at the altar of the goddess of faithfulness, who tore away her breast, and by whose curse ancient Madurai was put to shame and overwhelmed by the misfortunes that usually follow when a king fails in his duty. Another Pandya, also a descendant of the Moon’s dynasty, took upon himself to protect the kingdom of the south. He was installed on the throne of Madurai. He is like a new Sun, risen in the glory of dawn on his one-wheeled car drawn by seven tall stallions whose harness bells ring joyfully. May you, great king who protects our country, live long and rule over the world for centuries to come, and may your name be immortal!’

  While the king was carefully listening to the Brahmin, night was spreading over the land. When the sun had gone, a rich sunset reddened the western horizon. The crescent moon appeared among the stars. The wise monarch admired the splendour of the sunset. The court astrologer stood up and spoke the long-expected words: ‘Thirty-two months have passed since we left the city of Vanji. Long live the ruler of the world!’ The king went alone through the camp, crossing the road of the chariots, lined with posts supporting canvas screens. He looked at the countless tents, small and large, resembling hills spread on the plain. Returning to his tent in the transversal avenue, he ascended again to his high throne, wrought from gold by palace craftsmen. Having sent for Madalan, he asked:

  ‘Now that the old ruler of the fertile Chola kingdom is dead, does the new king act with justice and with prudence?’

  The Brahmin Madalan calmly answered:

  ‘May you live forever, O king! How could the Chola spear, that destroyed the three fortresses to the amazement of the gods adorned with sumptuous jewels, ever go astray from the path of righteousness? Could the sceptre of a virtuous monarch, who cut off his own flesh to feed a starving kite and protect an innocent dove hopping on its tiny feet, now go astray from the path of duty? Even in times of great adversity, no fatal wrong can overcome the ruler of the land where the Kaveri flows.’

  At these words of the wise Brahmin, the great monarch who bears a lance and wears a wreath of palms, was pleased and said, ‘Brahmin Madalan, take this gift.’ And he gave him fifty tulams of gold, a weight equal to his own.

  He then allowed Nurruvar Kannar and the Aryan kings to return to their prosperous countries. He ordered that a thousand emissaries known for the pride of the answers they gave to the haughty questions of enemy princes, be sent ahead to the Tamil country, taking with them the captured army chiefs who had attempted to escape from the battlefield in disguise. Each of these was bound to an Aryan pedi, a male prostitute with drawn-in cheeks, black tufts, sunken dark eyes reddened at the corners, large earrings, red lips, white teeth, thin bamboo-like arms loaded with gold bracelets, fake breasts, thin waists, and circlets on their shapeless ankles, that made people laugh. One was chained to each of the prisoners, Kanaka and Vijaya, who had foolishly challenged the valour of the Tamil king, whose emblem is a garland of palm leaves.

  At daybreak, after a quiet night, the bees in the vast lands watered by the Ganga began to hum, with the soft sound of harps, a song imploring the lotus to open its petals. Over the eastern hills the young sun appeared, lavishing his magnanimous gifts upon the lands. The victorious ruler of the western kingdom, adorning his neck with a garland of albizia and northern diospyros, walked for the last time through his city of tents. Then, leading his victorious army, he set out for the south.

  In the many-storeyed palace that rose into the sky, the goddess of prosperity had made her permanent abode. The women’s apartment was hung with rare gold tapestries, the work of able craftsmen, showing flowers festooned with pearls. Here and there, adroitly fastened by thin gold thread, were clear diamonds and sparkling gems. The gold bed of the queen showed exquisite workmanship. Its cushions had been filled with the feathers that the mating swan drops in the fields. The queen lay there restless, unable to find sleep in the absence of her beloved husband.

  Maidservants had heard rumours of the great victory that the chariots and infantry led by Shenguttuvan had won on the field of battle. Expert in the art of imparting good news, they wished the queen long life, praised her, and said: ‘The melancholy days of solitude are over.’ The dwarfs and hunchbacks also came and said to her: ‘May beauty shine again! A great king has returned. Adorn your hair with flowers and perfume. Put on the ornaments suited to a great day.’

  Soon the songs of the hills, sung by the wild Kurava girls, could be heard:

  Short be the road of him who returns,

  mounted on his racing elephant,

  wearing the wreath of albizia

  and northern diospyros.

  Seated on the hillside slopes, the girls laughed as they greeted the forest guards. Drunk on the honey taken from the hives bees build in the bamboo forest, they forgot to throw stones at the wild elephants leaving the dark jungle to rest in the millet fields.

  The rough peasants, too, could be heard singing as they ploughed their fields:

  Then after he had razed the fortresses

  of northern kings, the Kudavar ruler

  sent donkeys to plough up the ground

  where the proud towns of enemies had stood,

  and sowed white millet on their sites.

  And now he has returned. O my bullocks,

  you shall be freed from yokes today.

  It is the birthday of the king,

  and every prisoner will be unchained.

  On the steps leading down to the river An-Porunai, soap paste, scented powders, and the flower garlands of the bathers spread their colours like a rainbow. From there could be heard the clear sounds of the shepherds’ flutes and voices raised in song:

  The archer has returned,

  bringing a herd, well fed,

  from the famed Himalayas.

  Dear little sheep, you

  shall play with these foreigners.

  In their tufts of hair the shepherds tied charming garlands of lotuses, dear to the bees, and sweet-scented water lilies. After bringing the royal flocks to drink at the river, they stood on the pandanus stalks.

  From further away, the lusty songs of the sailors could be heard:

  King Vanavan has come back to tickle

  the shoulders and the shapely nipples

  of his young queen. O lovely girls!

  Now we can sing him the heroes’ song.

  To get the reward of his victory,

  he will give up his wreath of flowers.

  The daughters of the fishermen sang love songs on the beach, seated under the shade of punnai trees, on sand brought in by the foaming waves. They played with balls, and with hands loaded with bangles they stole lustrous pearls from gaping oyster shells.

  Listening to these songs with strange emotion, the all-powerful queen once more slipped over her wrists her well-fitting bracelets. Seated on a swift elephant, Shenguttuvan, wearing his most stately crown, with an albizia garland round his neck, entered Vanji. The citizens welcomed him with a procession of chariots drawn by elephants.

  CANTO TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE CONSECRATION

  Nadukarkadai

  Evening, which incites flowers to open and inspires men to pray, took possession of the ancient town of Vanji, famous for the conquests of its monarchs, for their victorious sword and proud golden parasol, like the full moon, that covers the earth with its shade.

  Young girls with shining gold bangles placed offerings of fresh flowers before the bright glow of the lamps they had lit. They prayed: ‘May the gods bless the ruler of the universe.’ Women, their eyes darkened with collyrium, their young breasts firm and round, passionately embraced the warriors whose swords had led them to victory and who were now returned from their adventure wearing palm garlands, gold chains, and flower wreaths. Some had had their chests pierced through by the sharp tusks of furious elephants, some showed deep scars made by a sword’s sharp edge, some had had their lustrous breasts struck by painful arrows, and some had had their broad shoulders, n
ow adorned with wreaths, split by lances.

  Towards these men the women cast burning glances resembling the flowery arrows shot by the god Kama, whose pennant bears a fish. These arrows were sped by the bows of dark lashes, set in faces like the moon shining among clouds of lustrous hair fragrant with incense and perfume. These arrows brought the love messages of tender hearts to the warriors, loaded with chains of gold. The soldiers cheered the twilight, which they called the soothing balm of lonely hearts. The girls’ bodies seemed as soft as new mango shoots. Smiles of pleasure appeared on their red lips; their long, carp-shaped eyes slitted as if to touch their ears. Their bodies were a feast for the lewd gaze of thirsty warriors so long deprived of love’s sweet games.

  The evening brought the soldiers new prospects of pleasure— women with youthful faces who wore the dot of musk on their foreheads. Their curly hair, their flower wreaths round which the bees clustered, were thrown into disorder during the love-play. Looking into small mirrors, they straightened their garments. With perfect grace, each took from its case a harp ornamented with subtle art. On the strings fastened to its precious neck each began by playing the basic scale in which C is taken as tonic. Then they played in the kurinji mode in which the second note is taken as the drone.

  Evening vanished, abandoning the world to the gentle rule of the moon, which, as it rose, received the homage of the earth. To the people of glorious Vanji, the moon recalled the face of King Shenguttuvan, as he appears in the great audience hall, his ankles brushed by the hair of the defeated kings.