to save a poor dove’s life.
This was the king, O wooden ball,
from whom a cow asked justice.
We sing the charming city
of Puhar, the capital
where great kings rule, O wooden ball—
they who carved a tiger head
upon the Himalayas’ face.
The elephants that give support
to the corners of the sky
observed his feat, and did not blink.
O wooden ball, the king who carved
a tiger on the northern peaks
was the same conqueror who spread
the shade of his great parasol
over the whole world.
Wooden ball, we sing the praise
of the beautiful Puhar,
capital of famous kings.
Wooden ball, why do young girls,
putting on their jewellery,
sing songs in their homes,
while they hold hard wooden balls?
The purpose is, O wooden ball,
to obtain from the mighty king
who wears a wreath of flowers
a kiss on their alluring,
well-rounded, nascent breasts.
And while the king bestows a kiss
upon these tempting youthful breasts,
we shall sing a little song
unto the glory of Puhar,
city of love, O wooden ball.
SONG OF THE PLAYING BALL
Kanduka
Girl, flexible as a liana,
your gold necklace tinkles in harmony
with the light girdles that confine our waists
slender as lightning-bolts.
Run! Strike the bouncing ball!
Cheer: Long live the Pandya! Long may he live!
We shall strike the bouncing ball,
and we shall sing, we shall sing:
Long life to him who wears on his broad chest
the necklace of the king of gods.
Come! Go! Sit! Dance!
—front, back, and everywhere,
as if a brilliant lightning-bolt
were falling from Heaven to Earth.
We shall strike the bouncing ball,
and we shall sing, we shall sing:
Long life to him who wears on his broad chest
the necklace of the king of gods.
The bouncing ball does not stay in the hand,
it does not fly to Heaven, it does not leave the Earth.
Come, strike the ball and sing!
Cheer: Long live the Pandya! Long may he live!
Strike the bouncing ball and sing:
Long life to him who wears on his broad chest
the necklace of the king of gods.
SONG OF THE SWING
Sit on the painted swing, hung from thick ropes.
Standing near Aiyai we shall push, with outspread hands.
We beat the time, and sing the praise
of that great king who conquered Kadambu.
Let’s swing the swing and roll our eyes
like swaying palm-tree leaves.
Let’s swing the swing and sing
the bow carved on the mountain peak.
We’ll praise the courage, valour, glory
of Poraiyan, the monarch of the hills,
the noble Chera who provided such
abundant rations to his soldiers in the war
of the five against the hundred.
Let’s swing the swing, our hair
floating like clouds around us.
We shall sing, as we swing,
how Kadambu was overthrown.
Let’s sing the praises of our king,
the ruler who protects the world
up to its end, the Virgin’s Cape.
His standard bears three emblems,
the bow, the tiger, and the fish;
his might spreads even to the fertile land
of the crude Greeks, who speak a barbarous tongue.
Let’s swing the swing, bending our waists
frail as a lightning-bolt; let’s sing
the prowess of the king who carved
the bow, his emblem, on the peaks.
SONG OF THE PESTLE
The girls of Puhar gather under the shade of the portias in bloom to crush rare pearls, using sugar cane sticks as pestles. They sing the praise of Shembiyan’s car, and they worship the wheel, the emblem of his power. They praise his broad shoulders loaded with flower wreaths. They know no other song. Truly, this is the only song the girls of Puhar know how to sing.
The girls of Madurai, that city of the high towers, crush pearls with coral pestles celebrated by poets. They sing the praise of Panchavan, whose emblem is the fish, and who wears on his broad shoulders the beautiful necklace of the king of heaven. They know no other song. Truly, their only song tells of a wreath of margosa and a Pandya monarch.
The girls of Vanji crush their priceless pearls in mortars of sandalwood, with pestles made of ivory. They sing the praise of the Chera who wears the wreath of victory since he defeated Kadambu beyond the sea. They know no other song. Truly, their only song is that which depicts a wreath of heart-gladdening palm leaves.
Those who fail to worship the sacred feet of Poraiyan, whose bow is tall, miss their chance to bless the sovereign of the world. Kannaki, famous daughter of a monarch, blessed him: ‘Long live Shenguttuvan.’
CANTO THIRTY
THE CONSEQUENCES
Varantarukadai
The great king who conquered the countries of the north had a vision of Kannaki in her celestial form. He looked at Devandi and asked:
‘Who is Precious-Girdle, of whom you spoke with affection? Why did she renounce the world? Please tell me her story.’
Devandi blessed the king, then said:
‘May your glory always increase and your kingdom be ever prosperous!’ She told him how Precious-Girdle, already renowned among the dancers, whose hips are always decked with ornaments, had renounced the pleasures of the world. She depicted her abundant black hair, parted into five plaits, and her cool eyes with their corners charmingly reddened. She spoke of her innocent grace. ‘Her pearl-like teeth, sheltered behind her tender coral lips, were not yet fully grown, her breasts had just begun to rise, her hips were taking shape, her waist was growing slender, and her charming sex had started to blossom. Her thighs were rounding out; her tender feet could hardly bear the weight of her anklets; her skin was like satin. Yet the young men of noble families did not treat her as they treat dancing girls, and no dance master had taught her his art.
‘The good mother of Madhavi asked her: “Tell me your intentions! What should I do?” Madhavi called Precious-Girdle: “Come, dear modest girl!” She cut off her tresses still entwined with flowers. Enraged, the god of love threw away his sugar-cane bow and his flowery arrows. Precious-Girdle then entered a convent and accepted the severe Buddhist rule.
‘When the king and the citizens of the town heard this news, they were as sad as if a priceless jewel had been dropped into the sea before their very eyes. The saintly man who accepted her into the fold said gently: “The charming girl has expressed her wish to leave the world. I lamented at the sight of this lovely girl deprived so young of her beauty.”’
After she had answered the king’s question, Devandi seemed to enter into a trance. The flowers in her hair fell to the ground; her contracted eyebrows began to throb; her lips, drawn against her white teeth, showed a strange contraction. Her voice changed, and her face became covered with pearls of sweat. Her large eyes grew red. She flung her arms about in threatening gestures. Suddenly her legs moved; she stood upright. No one could recognize her. She seemed in a state of stupor. Her dry tongue uttered inspired words before the king and Madalan, his learned counsellor.
‘In the group of women, good, beautiful, and shy, who came here for the installation of the image of the goddess, are two twin girls, born of the lovely wife of Arattan Shetti. Here also is the grandd
aughter of the priest Shedak-Kudumbi, employed in the service of the golden temple where the Lord of the Universe sleeps, resting on the coils of a divine serpent. Near the temple of Mangala-devi, the goddess of luck, there is a hill that rises to the sky. On its red summit there is a rock surrounded by marshes. From it spring several streams whose beds are composed of white stones, resembling rice but small as mustard seeds, mixed with pebbles red as coral-tree flowers.
‘Those who bathe in these streams recall all the events of their past existence. I went there, filled a pitcher with the water, and left it with you, good Brahmin Madalan, while you sat near a temple door, asking you to take great care of it. This is the pitcher you are carrying today in your net bag. This water shall never lose its power till the day the sun and moon shall vanish. If you sprinkle it over the three girls, they will remember their past lives. I am Shattan, the Magician, speaking through the body of a Brahmin woman.’
Shenguttuvan was stunned by amazement. He turned to Madalan, who told him joyfully:
‘King! We are now reaching the end of this great adventure. A young woman, Malati, once gave some milk to the son of her husband’s second wife. Fate turned against her— the child died. In her despair she prayed to the Magician, who, to help her, took the form of the child. He said: “Mother, give up all fear!” And he took away her sorrow. After this miracle, Shattan the Magician grew up as that child under the care of a tender mother and the co-wife, in the well-known family of the Kappiya. He married Devandi, going with her round the sacred fire. After living with her eight years, he revealed himself to her in his celestial form of eternal adolescence. Then he disappeared, telling her: “Come to see me in my temple.”
‘When I went to visit the shrine of the goddess of luck, the Magician, taking the form of a Brahmin, appeared beside me and left under my care his net bag with a water jar. Today this great sage has appeared again before our eyes, and, through the mouth of a Brahmin woman, he orders me to use the water of the jar. King! Shall we sprinkle it over the girls, and thus learn what this is all about?’
After the aspersion, the children recovered the memory of their past existence. One of them began to lament:
‘My daughter! My only comfort! Without saying a word to me, who had shown you my sympathy in your hour of trouble, when your husband had left you and was misbehaving, you went to a foreign city in the sole company of your lord and there you disappeared in an ocean of suffering. Dear child, will you never come back again to share my worries?’
The second girl also began to wail:
‘You left during the night, taking away my dear daughter-in-law who had long lived with me. I became like a madwoman after your departure. I can bear my pain no longer. Shall you never come back, dear son?’
‘I had gone to bathe in the waters of the Vaigai in spate. When I returned, I heard the news from some boys in the town. I did not find you in my hut O dear, dear child, where did you hide?’
The little girls, with bangles on their wrists, cried and lamented with their lisping lips. Tears filled their eyes; they talked as grown-up people do, to the astonishment of the victorious king whose chest was covered with gold ornaments. The king, who wore the garland of palm leaves and the victor’s anklet, raised his eyes towards Madalan, who wore a sacred thread across his chest. The priest blessed him and said:
‘King among kings! May your days be countless!’ He related what he had remembered. ‘The three women were attached to Kannaki in their previous lives. Kovalan obtained a place in Paradise because he had once saved a Brahmin’s life by seizing the tusks of a mad elephant. But these women had no meritorious deed to their credit, so they could not follow Kannaki to her new heavenly abode. Because of their deep attachment to that liana-like woman, who had fearlessly come to the town of Vanji, these two mothers have been reborn as two twin girls, to the great joy of the simple and modest wife of Arattan Shetti. As for the old cowherd woman, who became so attached to the charming young bride and danced for her the dance of love, she is today the granddaughter of a priest of Vishnu, named Shedak-Kudumbi.
‘Is it not strange to observe that those who have performed pious works can enter the heavens, while those whose attachments are to the things of this earth are born again? Good and evil actions must bear their fruits. All that is born must die, and all that dies must be reborn. These simple truths are nothing new.
‘Since your birth you have been under the protection of him who rides a divine bull, and you have built your own reputation among the monarchs of the world. You have seen, as clearly as an object held in your hand, the results of actions and the forms of heavenly saints. May you protect the land for many years to come. May your days be countless, gracious king!’
Pleased with the words of Madalan, the king presented sumptuous gifts to the temple of the goddess of faithfulness who had torn off her breast and engendered the flames that destroyed the resounding capital of the celebrated Pandya whom all poets have sung. He ordered that there be worship every day in the shrine, and that Devandi be responsible for offerings of flowers, incense, and perfume.
The world’s king walked three times around the sanctuary, and bowed before the image. He was followed by the Aryan kings, freed from prison, and many other ruling monarchs, such as the prince of the Kongus, the king of Malva, the king of Kudagu, and even Gajabahu, the king of Ceylon. They had come to worship the goddess and to ask her blessings:
‘Manifest your divine presence in our country, as you did on the auspicious day of Imayavaranban’s sacrifice!’
A clear voice was heard from the sky, saying:
‘All your requests are granted.’
Shenguttuvan, the other kings, and soldiers of his valorous armies sang hymns to the goddess with as much enthusiasm as if she had granted to them to be freed from the cycle of their lives.
Accompanied by Madalan, the Brahmin speaker of the truth, and by kings loaded with anklets that made a constant din when they bowed before him, Shenguttuvan entered the sacrificial hall. I followed him. Devandi, possessed by a god, approached me. She said:
‘In the rich audience hall of ancient Vanji, you once sat beside your father. You frowned when the astrologer suddenly predicted that you would inherit the throne. This caused a shock to your brother, Shenguttuvan, famous leader of the army’s chariots, who wore a wreath of fragrant red cottonwood flowers. You wanted to become a monk, and you entered the monastery of Gunavayirkottam. Standing with great humility before the chapter of the monks, you formally renounced the burdens of this world, to gain a crown of happiness beyond the conception of the human mind.”
[I, Ilango Adigal, replied:]
‘Wise and virtuous people! You have already heard the words of good will be spoken by this child of the gods, who, in her kindness, agreed to tell us her story. You should now raise your thoughts above pleasure and pain. Here are some of the rules of behaviour meant for all the inhabitants of the vast and prosperous land:
Seek God and serve those who are near Him.
Do not tell lies.
Avoid slander.
Avoid eating the flesh of animals.
Do not cause pain to any living thing.
Be charitable, and observe fast days.
Never forget the good others have done to you.
Avoid bad company.
Never give false evidence.
Do not disguise the truth.
Stay near those who fear God.
Avoid the company of atheists.
Do not associate with other men’s wives.
Care for the sick and the dying.
Uphold domestic virtues.
Get rid of your bad habits.
From this day on, abstain from drink, theft, sensuality, falsehood, bad company.
Youth fades, wealth vanishes, this body is only a temporary dwelling.
The days of your life are numbered.
you cannot escape from your fate.
Seek the help of everything that leads you to the ult
imate goal of life.
CONCLUSION OF THE CHAPTER
Among the three monarchs, the western king, born in the immortal Chera line, wore the garland of suzerainty. The Book of Vanji has related the great deeds of his reign, his virtue, his courage, his rare accomplishments. We have described his ancient and wealthy capital with its festivities, the apparitions of the gods, the prosperity of the realm, the fertility of the land, the abundance of stocks, the music, dances, and theatre, the army and its fierce sword-wielding warriors who won all their battles so decisively, their victories against an enemy who had to be pursued far on the raging sea, and the expedition to the Ganga.
Thus ends The Lay of the Ankle Bracelet. It contains in brief the story of Precious-Girdle (theme of another novel, the Mani-mekalai). Like a mirror reflecting the mountains, this story reflects the cool Tamil land that extends from the Virgin’s Cape to the Venkata Hills, and is bound both to east and west by the sea. This land is divided into several countries. In some, people speak pure Tamil; in others, various dialects. In its five main regions, men and gods dwell, seeking to fulfil the three aims of life—virtue, wealth, and pleasure.
In clear and restrained language made into faultless verse, this story pictures aham, love, and puram, war. It contains songs, and describes stringed instruments, music and musicians, the theatre and its rules, the various forms of dance, and lays down the classical rules for pure dance, the love-dance, and character dances.
APPENDICES
APPENDIX I
PREAMBLE
Kuravas from the hills gathered near the Kunnavayil temple, dwelling place of the venerable prince who was the brother of Kudakkoccheral Ilango, Chera king of the west. This prince had preferred a hermit’s life to the throne. They reported to him the following events:
‘A woman who had lost one breast was seen under a kino tree covered with gold flowers. Suddenly the king of heaven arrived, followed by the woman’s husband. Before our eyes they rose together into the sky. We came here to inform Your Grace of these remarkable events.’
Shattan, the great Tamil poet, was with the prince. He said:
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