Shilappadikaram

by Ilango Adigal

All lovers and their mistresses enrolled in the army of the young god of lust, the great archer whose arrows are made of flowers. The god of lust established himself as the supreme ruler of all the terraces that the moon bathed in its cooling light. He triumphed also in shadowy groves, carpeted with fallen petals, in dance pavilions where fine sand had been spread, under dark fragrant bowers, on soft beds, on cool verandas. The gentle moon drew over all lovers her silvery mantle of cooling light. Round the centre of the ancient city stood high ramparts decked with flags. The audience hall of the golden palace rose as massive and splendid as Mount Meru, the great polar mountain, surrounded on all sides by the ocean.

  Venmal, the virtuous queen, came to look at the moon. She was followed by maids wearing brilliant bracelets, who carried lamps. There were also girl musicians, playing drums tuned with clay paste and harps shaped like bows, and singing tender and moving melodies. Then came dwarfs and hunchbacks, bringing musk and white sandal paste. Eunuchs, dressed like women, carried incense sticks and perfumes. Young girls brought mats strewn with flowers, while servants carried the mirrors women constantly need, as well as fresh garments and brightly painted jars. It was to an exquisitely furnished roof that the king, lord of the sea-encircled world, ascended with his queen.

  To amuse the king, a Brahmin boy dancer from Puraiyur, famed for the art of its priests learned in the four Vedas, performed the dance of the hermaphrodite which the god Shiva once danced after uniting with Uma in a single body. The circlet at his right ankle rang, a small drum resounded in his swiftly moving hand, his reddened right eye expressed changing moods, his tuft of matted hair shook briskly when he moved; yet all the while the anklet bells on his left foot remained silent, the bracelets at his wrist showed no movement, his belt did not vibrate, his breast did not quiver, the jewels did not swing on the feminine half of his person. His carefully set hair did not uncurl.

  When the dancer had sung the praise of the world’s supreme sovereign, a secretary informed the king of the arrival of Madalan, the good Brahmin, together with Nilan. The king entered the audience hall and sent for them, together with the other officeholders. After paying his respects to the king through the officers of the throne, Nilan told him:

  ‘King who wears the garland of diospyros and the anklet of victory! We went, with the captive kings, to the city of the Chola Shembiyan, and sent him our respects through his palace officers. Seated in the splendid audience hall built for him by the kings of Vajra, Avanti, and far Magadha, he made an improper remark to the commander of the chariot corps, the first of the army: “I can hardly see the merit of capturing on a battlefield those who, having shown their courage, then abandoned their parasols and swords to hide in civilian clothes.”

  ‘We soon took leave of the magnanimous Chola on whose breast gleam magnificent jewels. We then went to Madurai, the famous capital of the Pandya, whose spear is powerful. He told us: “We fail to see the meaning of a victory in which kings who gave up the fight to don monastic robes are the victims of anger and hatred. It also seems improper that Shenguttuvan should have taken the staff of the white parasol that the Aryan kings place on the necks of their tall elephants, to turn it into a phallic emblem of Jayanta, son of Indra, while he himself had gone to worship Shiva and his consort Uma at Kuyilaluvam in the Himalayas.”’

  While Nilan was reporting the disparaging words of the two kings, Shenguttuvan laughed at first; but soon his eyes were casting flames. Madalan, his wise counsellor, stood up and said:

  ‘King of kings! Your renown is immortal, and we hope you may live for many years to come. When you destroyed the mighty kingdom of Viyalur, famed for its lotus ponds and for its elephants that roam on the mountains where pepper grows in abundance, you won a famous victory on the field of Nerivayil over nine kings who wore garlands of wild fig leaves. Leaving your army of heavy horse-chariots in camp near Idumbil, you fought for many days upon the sea, following your enemy to a great distance. Later you defeated the Aryan kings advancing to the banks of the furious Ganga.

  ‘King! Today you wear a victor’s garlands and you possess a mighty army. You are like a lion among men, and already you know all the things a great man need learn. Give up anger! And may the days of your life be as many as the grains of sand in the bed of the cool and famous river An-Porunai.

  ‘King of the sea-encircled world, may you live many years! Pray hearken to my words. Fifty years have already passed since you undertook the charge of protecting the land, yet you have not offered up any great sacrifice to please the gods; you have only contributed to the hecatombs of war. Sword in hand, you have accomplished all you desired.

  ‘One king of this city already won fame for destroying the Kadambu country beyond the sea. Another showed his prowess by carving his emblem, the bow, on the Himalayas. Still another, as reward for a few poems, enabled the Brahmin Palai Gautamanar, well versed in the Vedas, to obtain a place in heaven. Yet another compelled death’s messengers to overtake their prey only in the order that he would allow. And it was a Chera who penetrated the hills where the rich kingdom of the barbarian Greeks lay hidden.

  ‘Still another Chera, after having chased his enemy and his army far from the battlefield, had the strength to capture him in the town he had fortified. One more king of your illustrious clan bathed in the river Ayirai whose water mixes with that of both oceans. Another bade the genie Chatushka come to Vanji and offered him a sacrifice of wine.

  ‘Yet none of these great men was able to escape death. You know that this body cannot last forever. You were able to see, in your battle with the Aryan kings who had insulted the courageous Tamils, that fortune cannot be trusted by any man who lives on generous Earth.

  ‘Just king! There is no need to remind you that youth cannot be eternal. Protecting king! The hairs upon your chest where the goddess of fortune rests have now become pure silver. We know that sometimes divine souls become incarnated in men’s bodies, and that the souls that leave dumb animals may be reborn in the pitiful bodies of demons. Man is but an actor. He cannot always play the same role. It is not false to say that our life after death will be determined by our actions in our present life. King, whose chest is adorned with a necklace wrought of seven crowns, may the wheel of power add ever more noble actions to the list of honours of your illustrious family!

  ‘Wielder of a mighty sword! If I dare speak before you as I am doing now, it is not to obtain a rich present. It is because I cannot bear to see a fine soul in a fine body being dragged down towards the low paths of common behaviour. King! You have reached the limits of knowledge. Your aim now should be to perform sacrifices, with the aid of good priests learned in the four Vedas. Thus you would please the gods.

  ‘You may always postpone a good deed till tomorrow, but your soul, gradually fashioned by the study of the scripture, may abandon your body at any time. In the whole sea-girt world no one can say for how long he will live. May you and your queen remain with us for many years, flattered by kings who wear the ring of submission and bow at your feet. May our good king live long, protecting our lovely land century after century.’

  The tongue of the Brahmin, learned in the four Vedas, ploughed the king’s mind and sowed its wisdom there. Soon these seeds bore fruit. Desirous of gathering a richer harvest of merits, the king, who wears ringing circlets on his ankles, called priests expert in the ritual of sacrifice, who had learned their art from teachers well versed in the traditional explanation of the Vedas. He ordered them to prepare a great sacrifice, following all the instructions of Madalan.

  He then ordered that the prisons, where the Aryan kings had been held, should be thrown open; he had them removed from Vanji, that ancient and glorious city, to the home of Velavikko, surrounded by lakes and gardens. He promised these kings that they might return to the land of their birth on the day after the end of the great sacrifice. He was happy to say in their presence: ‘Friend Villavan-kodai, take care of their comfort. Treat them as befits great princes.’ Orders were sent to Alambi
lvel and Ayakkanakkar that the prisons be opened and cleaned, and that taxes be refunded to all citizens.

  The Chola king, who wears a garland of fig leaves, pointed out the noble path of duty. The Faithful Wife, whom the whole world now worships, had proved the truth of the Tamil proverb that says: ‘The virtue of women is of no use where the king has failed first to establish the reign of justice.’ Kannaki had compelled the Pandya, protector of the southern country, to recognize that a king can no longer live when his sceptre has gone astray from the path of duty. The Chera, king of the western lands, had shown that his anger could never be appeased until the weight of his vow had crushed the northern kings. The anger of the Faithful Wife, transformed into a flame born of her breast, had destroyed ancient Madurai. This unhappiest of women then entered our country, where she was seen under the shade of a golden kino. In honour of this great woman, wise Brahmins, priests, astrologers, and artisans built, according to the prescribed rules, a temple whose design was approved by all architects. In this temple there can be seen today the image of the Faithful Wife, carved with great art, after worship of the god Shiva who dwells on the highest peaks of mountains, in the great stone brought from the Himalayas, where the gods have their abode. The image is adorned with priceless ornaments, models of perfect craftsmanship. It is worshipped with daily offerings. At the entrance to the temple stand the images of the rulers of the four directions in space. The lion among men who had established his sway over the northern countries came in person to perform the rites of the consecration of the image. He left orders that every day the goddess be worshipped and oblations be offered at her altar.

  CANTO TWENTY-NINE

  THE BENEDICTION

  Valttukkadai

  INTRODUCTION

  Shenguttuvan of Vanji once defeated the Kongu in a legendary battle, and then advanced to the famous Ganga. He was the son of King Cheralatan who had ruled from the south cape to the Himalayas. His mother, a daughter of the Chola, belonged to the illustrious descendants of the Sun. Shenguttuvan was a man of quarrelsome temper. Some holy men, returning from the land beyond the Ganga, told him that certain northern kings, assembled on the occasion of a princess’s marriage, had exchanged impudent remarks about the Tamil kings, who had already defeated them once, when they went to carve their three emblems—the bow, the fish, and the tiger—on the brow of the Himalayas. The Aryan kings boasted: ‘No head that wears a crown can vie with ours.’

  The decision to bring down a great stone from the Himalayas was like the stick that starts a hoop. It led Shenguttuvan to do battle against the kings of the Aryan country. After the great success of his expedition, he remained for some time near the Ganga, receiving all the honours due to a visiting emperor. He had insisted that a great stone should be brought from the Himalayas on the heads of the Aryan kings, and that it should be bathed, according to custom, in the sacred waters of the Ganga. His anger quenched, he returned to Vanji. There, with great magnificence, he consecrated a new temple in which there stands a tall image of Kannaki, whose youthful breast, torn away in her wrath, had been the source of all these great events. There the kings of the world worship her and bring her their offerings.

  Shortly after, Mashattuvan chose to become a monk. He had heard the noble Brahmin depict the terrible ordeal of Kannaki, whose moonlike face was drenched with tears that flowed incessantly from her dark, carp-shaped eyes. With hair unbound and soiled with dust, she entered the palace and cursed the king—responsible for the protection of justice—for the great injustice meted out to Kovalan, for his death at the hand of a vile soldier. She stood before his throne until the king fell dead, destroyed by his unjust action. And his wife followed him in death.

  On hearing the news, the nurse and foster sister of Kannaki, as well as Devandi, who had taken refuge with the divine Shattan, went together to the city of Madurai, hoping to bring Kannaki back. There, they learned of the disaster her breast had caused. They visited Aiyai, the cowgirl daughter of old Madari, who had died after the departure of the woman who had been entrusted to her care. All together, they followed the road that runs along the bank of the Vaigai. Climbing the mountain, they came to the palace of King Shenguttuvan, who had built a temple to the goddess of faithfulness. They explained their various connections with Kannaki.

  DEVANDI’S SPEECH

  You see in me the friend of the woman that three crowned heads worship. I am the companion of the goddess brought from the north and bathed in the sacred Ganga. I was the comrade of her whose wrists are covered with precious bracelets. Recognize me as the true friend of the goddess of the Chola country.

  THE NURSE’S SPEECH

  You see in me the nurse of the long-eyed lady who never showed anger towards the beautiful and lowly born Madhavi, and who did not fear to enter the dangerous forest in which all the wells had gone dry. Recognize me as the foster mother of the goddess of ever-cool Puhar.

  THE FOSTER SISTER’S SPEECH

  You see in me the companion of the lady with gold ornaments who, faithfully following her dear husband, went away without a word to the woman who had given her birth, or to the nurse who had brought her up, or even to her friend. She knew but one duty, that of a wife. Recognize me as the friend of the lady of Pumpuhar.

  THE LAMENTATION OF DEVANDI

  before the image of Kannaki

  My penance has borne no fruit, for I did not understand the meaning of your dream when you related it to me. What a fearful error was mine! Woman with the thick, braided hair! The day your mother heard the story of the disaster your torn-off breast had caused, she died, unable to bear her sorrow. Can you hear me, dear friend? Your good mother-in-law died too. Can you hear, friend?

  THE LAMENTATION OF THE NURSE

  Mashattuvan heard the story of the deathblow that an unworthy man gave Kovalan, and the story of the end of the Pandya king. Losing all taste for life, he distributed his vast fortune and entered a monastery. Did you hear all this, O Mother? Did you also hear the story of how Manaikan renounced the world, O Mother?

  THE LAMENTATION OF THE FOSTER SISTER

  Madhavi heard the news of her lover’s terrible death. She listened to the long story of your own sufferings. She overheard people in the street speaking of her with disgust and contempt. She lost courage. Often she went to the sermons preached by the monks under the bodhi tree. She gave all her wealth to the poor and became a nun. O my companion, can you hear? And friend, have you heard also that Precious-Girdle too renounced the world?

  THE LAMENTATION OF DEVANDI

  showing Aiyai

  This girl is the daughter of the woman who gave up her life in despair, who said: ‘I shall destroy my body by fire, for I failed to protect the girl who had taken shelter under my roof and who was entrusted to my care by the saint.’ Can you see, friend, this Aiyai with her lovely white teeth? Can you see, friend, your handsome niece? Shenguttuvan spoke:

  ‘I have seen... What is it...? Am I dreaming...? Ah...! In the sky, a marvellous vision...! A woman, slender as a lightning-flash...! Gold circlets gleam at her ankles. She wears a girdle, bangles at her wrists, sparkling diamonds in her ears, and splendid ornaments of finest gold.’

  Kannaki, goddess of faithfulness, told Shenguttuvan:

  ‘Those terrible events were not the fault of the Pandya king. He is today the honoured guest of the ruler of heaven. And I am treated as his daughter. I go to play on the mountain where Venvelan lives. My friends, will you join me?’

  One of the Vanji girls sang:

  ‘Girls of Vanji! Slender-waisted girls, like Vanji’s lianas. Girls with lacquer-reddened feet, living in the palace of a victorious king! Join your voices to mine! Come, sing! Praise the girl whose breast reduced Madurai to ashes and whose ankle bracelet destroyed a king. Let us sing the praise of the daughter of Tennavan. She came to our country, and our king revered her. He said: “A Pandya cannot live when the rod of justice has been bent in his hand.” Let us praise this beautiful girl. Come and sing hymns to the P
andya’s daughter.’

  THE GIRLS’ CHORUS

  The gods have called her daughter of a king.

  She’s lithe as a liana; people say

  she is the daughter of the Vaigai.

  We sing the praise of Vanavan,

  great-hearted Vanavan, the Chera king.

  The gods themselves shall sing the praise

  of him, the ruler of the Vaigai.

  Blessed be the king who abandoned life at the sight of the tears of a woman to whom merciless fate had brought misfortune.

  Blessed be the ancient dynasty that rules Madurai, the ancient city girt by the plentiful waters of the Vaigai. Blessed be the Pandya king.

  Blessed be the king who could compel the tall fair monarchs, rulers over the kingdoms of the north, to carry on their heads, made higher still by crowns, the statue he had wrested from the king of mountains.

  Blessed be the king who owns the happy land where the river Kaveri flows. Let us, all together, sing the glory of Puhar, girls whose tresses are entwined with flowers.

  SONG OF THE WOODEN BALL

  Ammanai

  Will you tell me, wooden ball,

  who he was, that mighty man

  who governed the entire world

  encircled by the sea,

  and once kept watch before

  the king of heaven’s fort?

  Do you know, hard wooden ball,

  that he, the guard before those gates,

  was the famous Chola king

  who brought down the three cities

  that were flying in the sky?

  Wooden ball, we sing in praise

  of Puhar, the great capital

  of the Chola conqueror,

  whom even heaven honours—

  he who sat in scales to give

  a full pound of his flesh