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  Whom does happiness always attend

  or misery always befall

  Man’s state on earth like the rim of a wheel

  goes down and comes up again.

  110

  With Vishnu risen from His serpent couch

  my curse shall be ended; closing your eyes

  make the four remaining months go by;

  then on autumnal night with moonlight

  we two shall taste together every desire

  eagerly imagined when we were apart.

  111

  And further he said this: once in bed

  asleep, still clinging to my neck

  you woke up on a sudden, weeping a little,

  and when I asked why again and again,

  laughing to yourself you said,

  —ah, you cheat, I saw you in my dream

  playing with another woman.

  112

  By this token of recognition

  know that I am well; and do not doubt me

  O dark-eyed one, believing idle reports

  that say for no good reason

  that absence destroys the affections;

  Ah no, the lack of pleasure makes

  the craving intense for what is desired,

  piling it up into love’s great hoard.

  113

  I trust, noble friend, you are resolved

  to do this kindly service for me?

  I cannot think your grave look forbodes refusal;

  without a sound you offer catakas

  the water they crave; the answer

  noble ones make is to do the thing wished for.

  114

  Having granted this wish so dear to my heart,

  strange as it may seem,

  for friendship’s sake or out of pity for me, desolated,

  wander, O Cloud, in all the lands you choose,

  gathering greater glory in the rains;

  may you never be parted from the lightning

  even for an instant.

  ‘Meghadutam’, from The Loom of Time: A Selection of Kalidasa’s Plays and Poems, translated by Chandra Rajan. New Delhi: Penguin Books, 1989. The original Penguin edition carried diacritical marks. These have been dispensed with in this edition for the purpose of standardization.

  The Approach of Spring

  Prince Ilango Adigal

  Canto Eight

  The Approach of Spring

  The celebrated god of Love, with Spring, his gracious friend, ruled the fertile Tamil land that spread from the northern Venkata hills, where Vishnu the saviour of the world resides, to the southern virgin sea. The country had four capitals: Urandai the luxurious, Madurai of the high ramparts, Vanji the strong, and Puhar the guardian of the sea.

  The approach of Spring was announced by its messenger, the south wind, blowing from green Mount Podiyil, that peak sanctified by the stay of Agastya, the sage all men respect. As if trumpeting the order—’Soldiers of the dragon prince, dress ranks!’—the cuckoo, bugler of the great army of Eros, sounded its shrill notes through the dense forest, which a curtain of creepers made impenetrable.

  After her break with Kovalan in the flowery pleasure grove by the sea, blossom-eyed Madhavi came back alone to her rich home, and climbed to her summer refuge, a tower near the sky. For her own pleasure, the elegant girl decked her heavy saffron-powdered breasts with pearls from the southern sea and sandal from the hills. Holding her faultless harp, she sang a tender melody that filled her heart with grief. Then, to forget, she sat in the lotus posture.

  Her right hand on the harp’s body took the flag position (pataka); her left hand lay resting on the instrument’s neck (madagam). She was an expert in sounding various notes strongly (arppu), softly (kudam), or tenderly (adirvu), avoiding all dissonance. She played the fourteen notes of the classical scale, beginning with the fourth (ulai) in the lowest octave, and ending with the third (kaikkilai). She carefully searched for the exact pitch of each note, tuning the second (inai) on the fifth (kilai), the sixth (valari) on the third (pakai) and the fourth (natpu). She sang, using as drone the harp’s fifth string (ili).

  Then she sounded the fifth and seventh (taram), beginning and ending first on the fourth, later on the tonic (kural). She practiced the four groups of modes (marudam), the ahanilai, the puranilai, the sixteen-stringed maruhiyal, and the peruhiyal with its thiry-two notes. Careful of the three shades of pitch, high, median, and low, that may colour the notes, she played some graceful melodies (tirappan). Soon this flowering liana felt weary and started elegant variations (venirpani).

  She then made a garland of champak, mixed with madhavi, tamala, jasmine, and fragrant roots, in hooked pandanus flowers. Taking a long bamboo stylus, she dipped it in a writing paste made of lacquer mixed with glue, and inscribed a message inspired in her by Eros, who, armed with his flowery shafts, was imposing his rule upon the world

  The Letter

  Spring, the world’s worst tyrant,

  is an irresponsible lad

  who hurls one on another

  most ill-assorted lovelorn hearts.

  Though not free of defect, the Moon

  arises, kindling ardent wants

  that evening soon makes unendurable.

  Eros may well, in sport,

  assail with deadly flower-darts

  a few hearts that are lonely,

  be they lovers that have parted, or

  those waiting for a certain one’s return,

  or former lovers who have gone away,

  the once dear cherished face forgot.

  Please try to understand my pain.

  Thus pale Madhavi, perfect in the sixty-four arts, wrote on the wreath, showing the naked depth of her passion. While she was carefully writing, she hummed, like a small child, a mode (pan) and its prelude (tiram).

  When the evening had brought her peace, she sent for Vasanta-mala, her handmaid, and bade her go to Kovalan, to repeat before him all the words inscribed on the wreath of flowers, and to bring him back to her arms. Vasanta-mala, who had long eyes like arrowheads, carried the garland to Kovalan’s home near the grain merchants’ residences. She herself placed it in his hands.

  Kovalan refused the garland and murmured: ‘A dancing girl in love once performed the prelude (kankuduvari), with a red mark on her brow and flowers in her hair. Her thin eyebrows were dark; her eyes, resembling two water lilies, sent alluring glances. Her nose was like a kumil bud, her lips a kovvai flower.

  ‘Then this girl with the long dark eyes showed us an inviting variation, the kanvai, coming forward but shyly withdrawing again, her moonlike face oppressed by the weight of her hair, heavier than the rain clouds. Her eyes were like quivering carps, and her enticing smile showed the pearls of her teeth set in the coral of her lips.

  ‘She next revealed a character-dance (ulvari). Her piercing eyes were sharp as spears: she could well see that after our quarrel I was desperate and forlorn.

  ‘Feeling weary, at the hour of low tide, she appeared disguised as her own servant girl, comforting me with words sweeter than a parrot’s. Her walk was as graceful as the swan’s, her grace subtler than the peacock’s.

  ‘Intoxicated by desire, she danced the brief, lewd dance of lust (puravai). Her frail body could not bear ornaments: she danced on the steps of my home to the rhythm of her swaying belt, the music of her ankle bells. She knew I desired her but would not embrace me. She performed the dance of indignation (kilarvai). Her innocent forehead was framed by curls of the hair which, with its load of flowers and pearls, whipped her shoulders. The weight of her breasts forced her frail waist to bend. She appeared unconcerned that her tresses were undone. When a messenger placed at her feet a letter telling her my love, she feigned to misunderstand it.

  ‘Then she danced the theme of anguish (terccivari), crying out to the four winds the pain caused her by our parting and the unbearable desire that draws her toward me. She committed the impropriety of revealing her anguish to members of my family.
Next, wearing a wreath that drew swarms of bees to her, she performed the dance of despair (katcivari). She told her misery to all the passers-by. She pretended to faint (eduttukkolvari), and, more than once, did lose consciousness. Those into whose arms she fell recalled her to her senses and tried to comfort her.

  ‘But for this girl, adorned with jewels, whom I once dearly loved, such dances are a daily performance. She is only a dancing-girl.’

  When Kovalan refused to take the wreath that the beautiful and jewel-laden Madhavi had sent him, and also the message written on its talai and pandanus flowers, Vasanta-mala was overwhelmed with grief. She ran to her mistress to tell her all that had happened. But Madhavi of the long flower-eyes answered her:

  ‘Lovely girl, if we do not see him today, he will come tomorrow at dawn.’

  Yet with heavy heart she lay sleepless all night on her couch strewn with fresh flowers.

  Coda

  Vasanta-mala speaks

  When Spring comes, the red lotus blooms,

  the mango’s tender leaves begin to tremble,

  the noble ashoka bursts into flower.

  Who can describe the pain that lingers in

  my mistress’s tender eyes, shaped like sharp

  spears?

  The cuckoo trumpeted his command:

  ‘All lovers who have quarrelled

  shall rush into each other’s arms.

  For so does Eros order.’

  You enjoyed her tender words

  in that enclosure by the sea,

  but shut your ears to the appeal she wrote

  on those frail petals this day when her heart

  was ravished by the frenzy of the Spring.

  Canto Nine

  The Dream

  Evening approached, the day faded away; women, their waists lithe as lianas, scattered grains of paddy and open jasmine buds on the floors of their homes. They lighted lamps studded with glowing gems. And they changed into the clothes they wear at night.

  Once, long ago, Malati gave a cup of milk to the young son of the second wife of her lord husband. The boy choked, had spasms in his throat, and died. She was terrified, for she knew that her brahmin husband and his new wife would unquestionably accuse her. She took the dead child in her arms and carried it to the temple where the kalpaka, the ‘tree of ages,’ is worshipped. From there she ran in succession to the temples of the white elephant, the pale god Balarama, the Sun, Shiva the god of the city, Murugan the spear-bearing god of youth, Indra who wields the thunderbolt, and the god who dwells beyond the city walls. She also visited the Jain temple and the temple of the Moon. She beseeched all the gods:

  ‘O mighty ones! Give me your help in my terrible trouble!’

  At last Malati reached the sanctuary where the famous god Shattan had made his residence. Shattan was skilled in the art of magic; she resolved to ask his advice. At that moment a young woman appeared—a girl of such startling beauty that she made all others look plain. She said to Malati:

  ‘Innocent girl! The gods do not grant their favours without a sacrifice. This is no lie but the truth. Give me the child.’

  With these words, she snatched the dead body from the startled woman and ran off into the darkness toward the funeral pyres. There the demon Indakini, ravener of corpses, seized the child and devoured it. Malati shrieked like a peacock at the roar of thunder. The divine Shattan came and tried to console her:

  ‘Mother, be calm! Give up all fear! Look straight before you and you shall see the child come back to life.’

  To fulfil his promise, the god took the form of a boy asleep beneath the cuckoo-haunted trees. Malati, mad with joy, grasped this supposititious child. She clasped it to her heart and brought it back to its mother.

  This divine brahmin boy grew up and became learned in all the sacred scriptures. At his parents’ death he observed with piety the rites to ancestors. He was so wise that people made him a judge in their quarrels. He married a woman of uncommon beauty named Devandi. Before approaching her, he prayed:

  ‘May the flowers of your eyes be able to withstand the fire of mine!’

  One day he revealed to her the fact that he was immortal, and then, requesting her to visit his temple, he disappeared. Before he left, he had taught her certain mysterious magic words. After that, Devandi went each day to worship him in his sanctuary. To those who asked news of her husband she would say:

  ‘He has gone on a pilgrimage. If you meet him, please bring him back to me.’

  She had once heard about the unhappy life of virtuous Kannaki, the loyal wife abandoned by Kovalan; it saddened her. Bringing to the god an offering of arugu grass and rice, she beseeched him to intervene. She went to Kannaki, blessing her:

  ‘May your husband return!’ Kannaki replied:

  ‘He may come back, but my trials will not end. I had a fearful dream. The two of us were walking hand in hand toward a vast city. Some people told a lie, so that Kovalan was accused of a crime. When I heard it, I felt as if I had been bitten by a scorpion. I ran to the king, and threatened him and his city with disaster. I should say no more. It may be only a bad dream. O woman with narrow bracelets, when you hear about the harm done to me and its happy results in the end for my husband and me, you may laugh.’

  Devandi said:

  ‘Woman with gold anklets! Your husband did not reject you. All this is the result of a vow that remained unfulfilled in a past existence. To counteract the curse that vow has brought upon you, you should visit the sacred site where the Kaveri flows into the sea. Near a few neydals in blossom there are two ponds, dedicated to the sun and moon. Women who bathe in these ponds and then worship the god of love in his temple shall spend all their lives close to their husbands and later enjoy the pleasures of Paradise. So let us go bathe there today.’

  Kannaki at once answered the well-meaning woman:

  ‘This plan is not proper: [a married woman should worship no other deity than her husband].’

  A few moments later, a young servant approached and said:

  ‘Our dear Kovalan has come to our door. It seems that from now on he will look after us.’

  Kovalan entered. He was struck by pain when he saw the pallor of the graceful Kannaki. He said:

  ‘Living near a woman bred on falsehood and for whom truth and untruth are alike, I have lost all the wealth my ancestors gathered. I feel great shame at the dire poverty that I bring into this house today.’

  Welcoming him with a clear smile that lit up her face, Kannaki said:

  ‘Do not be anxious: you still possess the gold circlets that weigh on my ankles. Accept this modest gift.’

  Kovalan answered:

  ‘Honest girl! I accept these precious ankle bracelets as a new capital from which we shall regain all the jewels and all the riches I have squandered in my folly. Let us get ready, woman with the flower-adorned hair! Come! We shall go to Madurai, a city known for its towering walls.’ Inspired by fate, he decided to start at once, before the day should come to disperse the night’s dark veil.

  ‘The Approach of Spring’, from Shilappadikaram (The Ankle Bracelet) by Prince Ilango Adigal, translated by Alain Danielou. New Delhi: Penguin Books, 1993. The original Penguin edition carried diacritical marks. These have been dispensed with in this edition for the purpose of standardization.

  Love Poems

  Mayura

  1

  Before your father was a youth I was a young man, yet I went into the forest when I had seen you, to follow and find the coupling place of the tigers. His feet about the gilded one and his rod flushing out to crimson were as nothing to my youth, who am an old man and a King’s poet.

  2

  A procession of hills no longer impedes me, for I spring over them, and find the flower-covered bow within my hands. I discover under my hand the flowery bow of Kama, and break large branches out of my path. I have seen you, O daughter of a woman, and I break down branches. I cast great stones from my way.

  3

  Do
ubtless your feet are red with lac; certainly the flowers grow together to check your feet in the forest. The prints of the toes of your feet, as I follow, who am now a young man, are separate and beautiful and red in the dust.

  4

  Rain-scents of the coupling of the trees come to the assembly of poets again. You went to bathe in the river, and I took new interest in the King’s stallion. He roared for the quick mares to be brought to him, he drummed with his forelegs upon them, O woman moist with a boy’s love.

  5

  A yellow cloud of hornets is about the water-flower, and it is scented as it lies on the tumult of the pool. Your navel is a water-flower and lo! there is a cloud of saffron hornets about it. It is deep to look within, as if the depth of it had been painted with blue kohl.

  6

  Venturing I have seen you raise your garment and press your palms to your ankles, drawing your hands up, as if you were passing them over tall trees. I have been disturbed by your straight sweetness from ankle bone to the flower of your body.

  7

  Gradually the trees of the new year come down to drink at the river, and you are there washing between your gold thighs. You break the water of the pool into moons by kicking, and then play the fish, going down to kiss the hidden roots of the water-lilies.

  8

  No breasts are heavier than these, and yet they are as stable as gourds hardened for wine. Also there are set impregnable crimson castles on the hills of them.

  9

  I have been hit about the brow by the many sticks of your beauty, your navel had a stick, your haunches a great stick, your hair a bludgeon. I have fainted at the sight of this woman as a boy faints. Your breasts were two clubs, raining upon my head.

  10

  Let me come out from the poets’ assembly and cast about for the traces of your feet in the dust; I am more than any tracker since you came to me with wet arms, since you came to me out of the private chamber. Your feet had the appearance of gold with ten rubies. Your eyes were fainting.

  11

  Rearing the green flame of his tail, the peacock casts the hen beneath him in the dust of the King’s walk. He covers her, and we can hardly see her. She cries and he cries; and the copper moons in the green bonfire of his tail die down; and I am an old man.