Tamil Love Poetry: The Five Hundred Short Poems of the "Ainkurunuru" 0231521588, 9780231521581

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Tamil Love Poetry

Translations from the Asian Classics

Tr a n sl ation s from the A si a n C l a ssi c s

jjj Edi tor i al B oar d Wm. Theodore de Bary, Chair Paul Anderer Donald Keene George A. Saliba Wei Shang Haruo Shirane Burton Watson

Tamil Love Poetry The Five Hundred Short Poems of the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu, an Early Third-Century Anthology

translated and edited by martha ann selby

Columbia University Press  New York

Columbia University Press Publishers Since 1893 New York  Chichester, West Sussex Copyright © 2011 Columbia University Press All rights reserved Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Ainkuṟun�ṟu. English. Tamil love poetry : the five hundred short poems of the Ainkurunuru / translated and edited by Martha Ann Selby.   p.  cm. — (Translations from the Asian classics) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-231-15064-4 (cloth : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-0-231-15065-1 (pbk.) — ISBN 978-0-231-52158-1 (electronic) 1. Love poetry, Tamil—Translations into English. 2. Tamil poetry—To 1500— Translations into English. I. Selby, Martha Ann. II. Title. III. Series. PL4758.65.E5A56  2011 894.8’11110803543—dc21 2010027953

Columbia University Press books are printed on permanent and durable acid-free paper. This book was printed on paper with recycled content. Printed in the United States of America c 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 p 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 References to Internet Web sites (URLs) were accurate at the time of writing. Neither the author nor Columbia University Press is responsible for URLs that may have expired or changed since the manuscript was prepared.

In memory of Norman Joel Cutler (1949–2002)

Contents

Acknowledgments ix Introduction 1

1. Marutam

(100 Poems on Jealous Quarreling, by Ōrampōkiyār) 23

2. Neytal

(100 Poems on Lamenting the Lover’s Absence, by Ammūvaṉār) 53

3. Kuṟiñci

(100 Poems on the Union of Lovers, by Kapilar) 85

4. Pālai

(100 Poems on Separation, by Ōtalāntaiyār) 123

5. Mullai

(100 Poems on Patient Waiting for the Lover’s Return, by Pēyaṉār) 157 References 187 Index 191

Acknowledgments

M

y long relationship with the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu began in earnest not in a Tamil landscape but in a British one. In 1996, I was offered a residency at the British Centre for Literary Translation, in Norfolk, and before leaving for Norwich and the University of East Anglia, I had to decide on a language and a text. Remembering my habit of writing down ideas for future projects and books, I dug out a 1989 diary, and I had my answer: “Possible Tamil project: full translation of Aiṅkuṟunūṟu.” I had read around in this marvelous text in advanced Tamil classes while a graduate student at the University of Chicago with Jim Lindholm, and later in Madurai with the late Ku. Paramasivam. There was a sensibility in it that resonated with my own tendencies to write short poems; to value image over syntax; to build a suggestive aesthetic rather than a narrative one. So I packed U. Vē. Cāminātaiyar’s edition of the text, along with all six volumes (plus supplement) of the Madras University Tamil Lexicon into a duffel bag, and flew off to England in May 1997. I worked for a month and produced tentative English versions of the first seventy poems of the text in the drizzle and lavender fields of the Norfolk plains. Thank you, Christine Wilson, Terry Hale, and Wolfgang Kukulies. In 1999, I received a Senior Research Fellowship from the American Institute of Indian Studies, and I began my long and happy collaboration with Dr. Vijayalakshmy Rangarajan in the summer of 2001, when we finished the marutam section of the text and read the entire neytal section, 130 poems in all. Thank you, Elise Auerbach, Pradeep Mehendiratta, Purnima Mehta, and Rick Asher. The Office of the Vice President for Research at the University of Texas at Austin, where I was by then a faculty member, awarded me a small research grant, and I returned to Chennai (and to Dr. Rangarajan) in the summer of 2004, when we completed the kuṟiñci poems, and then, much to my great good fortune, I received a full two years’ worth of funding, which enabled

〔x〕  Acknowledgments

me to complete the translation of the pālai and mullai sections. I wish to acknowledge my generous funders individually. My gratitude to the Radcliffe Institute of Advanced Study at Harvard University, where I was appointed Walter Jackson Bate Fellow for the 2004–2005 academic year, knows no bounds. I accomplished so much in my sunlit office in the Bunting Quadrangle, and I thank Drew Gilpin Faust, who was dean of the Radcliffe Institute at that time, and Judith Vichniac, director of the Fellowship Program. My “fellow fellows” provided me with endless merriment and intellectual stimulation, and I especially want to thank Jim Costa, Kathy Davis, Linda Hamilton Krieger, and Claire Messud. Sylvie Delacroix made me a strong cup of tea at a moment of crisis. Sculptor Wendy Jacob gave me an appreciation for the hidden wonders of ordinary cardboard and for looking up a bit more often. Irene Pepperberg gifted me with a marvelous fiftieth-birthday morning among the sandpipers on the beach at Swampscott, and an enchanted day in her bird lab at Brandeis University. Barbara Savage pelted me with literal and metaphorical snowballs and proved me a coward. Laurie Sheck taught me how to pay attention to the visual effects of poetry. Last but not least, I thank all the people I made music with at Radcliffe: Lynn Stephen, John Kelly, and Steven Nelson, for starters. Tarik O’Regan, it was a joy to play your bass lines. Olabode Omojola, Nigerian composer and musicologist, composed “Inkagosi” while among us, a beautiful piece for cello and piano, and Mica Pollock and I had the great pleasure of debuting the piece at Drew Faust’s home in the spring of 2005. Thanks for bringing my musical self back to me, Bode. I also thank the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation for funding my second year of leave, in tandem with a Faculty Research Assignment from the University of Texas at Austin. A Translation Fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts funded two additional trips to Chennai and Madurai, where Dr. S. Bharathy facilitated additional classes with Dr. K. V. Ramakoti, who helped me with the mullai poems, offered invaluable suggestions, and penned detailed corrections on my by-then tattered English drafts. His deep knowledge of Tamil and his uncanny ear for English poetic cadence have helped make this book what it now is, and I will never forget our long sessions in his study in Tirunagar. Earlier versions of a few of the poems in this volume appear in other sources, including my first two books, Grow Long, Blessed Night: Love Poems from Classical India (Oxford University Press, 2000) and A Circle of Six Seasons: A Selection from Old Tamil, Prākrit and Sanskrit Verse (Penguin, 2003). Small selections of poems appear in Sagar: A South Asia Graduate Research Journal 8, no. 2 and in Mantis 6: Geographies.

Acknowledgments  〔xi〕

My deepest debts are owed to my teachers, and this book is dedicated to the memory of my first Tamil teacher, Norman Cutler, who instilled in me, his most reluctant student ever, a deep and abiding love for the Tamil language, its breathtaking literature, and for Tamil Nadu. His untimely death in 2002 left all of us bereft and gasping for air. I also thank the marvelous Jim Lindholm, the late Ku. Paramasivam, with whom I first read classical Tamil poetry in 1986, and the late A. K. Ramanujan, whose voice still rings in my ears in the odd quiet hours. Dr. Vijayalakshmy Rangarajan, of Chennai, and Dr. K. V. Ramakoti, of Tirunagar, taught me how to think about these poems deeply and carefully. Their insights and suggestions inform every single poem in this book, and in many ways, they are its coauthors: I could not have written it without their dedication, generous help, endless hours of classes and conversation, bottomless cups of steaming, milky coffee, and suffering my clumsy questions. I also thank the staff and librarians of the U. Vē. Cāminātaiyar Library, the Roja Muthiah Research Library, and the Kuppuswami Shastri Research Institute (special thanks to Dr. V. Kameshvari, its capable director), all in Chennai, for all their good will and efficiency. The losses during the writing of this book were personally devastating. My father, Victor Eugene Selby, died from a long, difficult illness on a cold November day in 2004, followed by the death of my dear Chicago friend and longtime supporter Ruth Young in January 2007. And where did you go, Aditya Behl? I also mark the death of Olive, my beloved cat of thirteen years, in February of 2004, and of Irene Pepperberg’s brilliant parrot Alex in 2007, who blessed me with a shower of dried corn and nuts on that magical day in Irene’s Brandeis lab. “No mere bird he, but a colleague.” I also thank Wendy Doniger, Thomas R. Trautmann, Richard H. Davis, Indira Viswanathan Peterson, George L. Hart, and Richard Wolf for their stalwart support and friendship. Countless friends and colleagues in Austin, India, and elsewhere also contributed to the cause of this book in myriad ways, but here I limit myself to my fellow travelers in Tamil studies. Thanks always to J. Bernard Bate, Lyn Bigelow, Whitney Cox, Elaine Craddock, Susan Herring, Diane Mines, Eric Pederson, Margaret Trawick, and Archana Venkatesan. In Cambridge, thanks to Sarah Morelli. In Chennai, Madurai, and thereabouts, thanks to Dr. S. Bharathy and family (especially Lakshman Perumal, Akka, and the O-Positive Club), Kristin Bloomer, François Gros, Mini Krishnan, D. Dilip Kumar, Kamini Mahadevan, the late Vadivel Murugan and family, Gita Pai, Shanti Pillai, Thomas Pruiksma, S. Ramakrishnan, V. Rangaraj and family, Savithiri, Mrs. P. Shenbagavalli, Perundevi Srinivasan, and Ines Zupanov. In Philadelphia, thanks go to Daud S. Ali, Lisa

〔xii〕  Acknowledgments

Mitchell, Nate Roberts, and Rupa Vishwanath. In Austin, thanks go to Sankaran Radhakrishnan, Bhamathi Sudarshan, and my present and former students Cary Curtiss, Michael Collins, Gardner Harris, Michaela Nielsen, Nikola Rajic, Kristen Rudisill, and Keely Sutton. I owe a special debt of thanks to Dr. E. Annamalai, who organized a workshop on “Tamil Literary Culture: Past and Present” at Yale University in April 2009, where I presented portions of my introduction to this volume in public for the very first time. I am grateful for Dr. Annamalai’s suggestions and for those of the other participants, Sascha Ebeling, David Mellins, Srilata Raman, and K. Sivaramakrishnan, who chimed in from the audience. Timely subvention funds from the College of Liberal Arts and the Department of Asian Studies at the University of Texas at Austin helped make the publication of this book possible, and I thank Dean Randy Diehl, Associate Dean Richard Flores, and my colleagues Joel Brereton and Patrick Olivelle for their time and generosity. I also thank my feline and human families for their forbearance and for politely tolerating my long absences: my daughter Addie, son-in-law Dwight, and grandchildren Nyla and Jabari, thanks and love—my time as an “Iowan in exile” will end sooner than you think. Finally, profound thanks to Jennifer Crewe, editorial director at Columbia University Press, her editorial board, and staff (especially Alexander Manevitz) for taking this project on, and for their good taste and infinite patience, and to Paula Richman and David Shulman for their constructive and detailed comments on the manuscript. Flower arrows are the best kind. martha ann selby

Tamil Love Poetry

Introduction

T

as one among the eight anthologies of classical Tamil verse, the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu (literally, “the Short Five Hundred,” by extension, “Five Hundred Short Poems”), is an anthology of akam (love) poems dating from the early decades of the third century c.e. The text consists of five sections, each containing one hundred poems. The individual poems range in length from three to six lines. Each section focuses on one of the five tiṇais (landscapes) of reciprocal love, a genre first described by the Tolkāppiyam, the earliest extant work on Tamil phonology, grammar, and poetics.1 The Aiṅkuṟunūṟu was commissioned by a Cēra-dynasty king, Yāṉai-k-kaṭ Cēy Māntaraṇ Cēral Irumpoṟai. The actual compiler is identified in the colophon as Pula-t-tuṟai Muṟṟiya Kūṭalūr Kiḻār. The text is unique in many ways, but the main characteristic distinguishing it from the other classical anthologies—save for the relatively later Kalittokai—is that it presents the work of only five poets. Each poet composed one hundred poems on the poetic landscape in which he was considered a virtuoso. John Ralston Marr has characterized the text’s structure as “more formal and artificial”2 than that of the other anthologies, and this is true to a certain extent: the entire text is informed by a radically different aesthetic sensibility than that which seems to be giving the verses of the other anthologies their shape. When comparing the poems of the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu with those of the other anthologies, they seem almost ludicrously brief. By and large, the poems in the other classical texts are longer—and “flatter” in terms of imagistic density; they could in many instances be characterized as descriptive narratives in verse. But rather than relying on narrative to tell a poetic story within the boundaries of each individual poem, the five poets of the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu had to contend with an extremely brief format, relying almost exclusively on the slippery mechanics of suggestion, obliquity, and double entendre. raditionally counted

〔2〕  Introduction

These formal characteristics of the text present a wealth of critical problems for the reader as philologist, as translator, and as critic, and because each of the five main sections of the text carries with it a discernible character or stamp, it gives us a unique opportunity to explore issues of authorial preferences in Old Tamil literature. Later in this introduction, I offer readings of certain poems—as well as certain sets of poems—that may help in addressing such issues as authorial choice, preference, and literary kinships and affinities among the authors and ultimately in speculating on possible processes of early Tamil textual production. Before presenting these readings, however, I draw attention to some other features of the text and comment briefly on the life of the text, as it were, in English and on how choices made by other translators have obscured not the nature of the individual poems necessarily but the nature of the text in its entirety as an organic unit unto itself.

The Text: Its Discovery, Print History, Date, and Life in English Translation The Aiṅkuṟunūṟu is one among a set of eight anthologies usually designated as caṅkam (assembly, fraternity, mustering), although I and some other scholars prefer the adjective “classical” to refer to both this literature and the language in which it was composed. The publishing history of this text is brief, as is that of all classical Tamil texts. Tamil savant U. Vē. Cāminātaiyar (1855–1942) was one of a small but tireless band of scholars who rescued the Tamil anthologies from obscurity when he found them, in palm-leaf manuscript form, bundled in a basket in a corner of a southern Indian monastery in the late nineteenth century.3 Cāminātaiyar published the first print version of the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu in book form in Madras (now Chennai) in 1902. The publication marked the first appearance of a classical anthology treating romantic themes in print. In 1903, Cāminātaiyar published another edition of the text in a somewhat longer version. The 1903 edition has undergone six printings to date. The preface contains brief essays on the five authors of the text and includes an utterly remarkable index of all the poetic elements (poruḷs) found in the anthology. For his print editions, Cāminātaiyar reproduced the old, fragmented commentary, anonymous and of unknown date, found with the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu manuscript and added notes of his own, suggesting possible interpretations, usefully clarifying pronoun referents, and in some instances providing modern Tamil equivalents for classical Tamil verbal forms. Taken together, the old commentary and Cāminātaiyar’s augmentations could be

Introduction  〔3〕

characterized as pragmatic: they provide contexts, cross-references, and some grammatical notes, but there is little in the way of exposition or literary analysis. The old commentary itself is extremely brief and written in a sort of fragmentary language reminiscent of marginal scribblings. It provides a certain amount of information about the symbolic systems at work in the text (for more elaborate interpretive writing, we must rely on the recent commentaries of Turaicāmi Piḷḷai [1957], Po. Vē. Cōmacuntaraṉār [1966], and Ti. Catāciva Aiyar [1999]), but it has little else to say and can best be described as annotative but lacking useful word glosses, paraphrases, or summaries. The Aiṅkuṟunūṟu is difficult to date, as are all classical Tamil texts. Some scholars agree that the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu is later than most of the other classical anthologies. For example, Takanobu Takahashi has placed the text in the first half of the fourth century. His arguments are convincing, justifying his assignment of this date through careful plottings of change in poetic convention as well as presentation of sound linguistic evidence.4 After George L. Hart urged me, however, to reconsider an earlier date for the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu and for the classical Tamil corpus in general,5 I returned, after many years, to the rationales for dating the classical texts as put forward in the 1970s by Kamil Zvelebil in three different sources,6 and, after consulting epigraphist Iravatham Mahadevan’s very fine 2003 work Early Tamil Epigraphy: From the Earliest Times to the Sixth Century A.D.,7 I can only agree with Zvelebil and conclude that the latest possible date for the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu is 210.8 Some scholars propose an even earlier date for the text, such as V. I. Subramoniam, who dates the text to around 120 b . c . e .9 Others propose dates that I find absurdly and impossibly late; Herman Tieken, for instance, who declares Old Tamil a “Prākrit,” oddly characterizes the poetry as rustic and claims that the entire corpus is a late Pāṇṭiya-dynasty imperial fantasy about its own history and heritage.10 I reject such notions out of hand, nor do I at all understand what is to be gained from such assertions. The most common argument for an early date for the anthologies is made on the grounds of absence. As Zvelebil writes, there is no mention of the later Pallava dynasty in any of the texts, from which we can assume that the “earliest strata of literature is pre-Pallava, that is pre-third century a . d . ”11 Mahadevan’s discovery of the rock inscriptions of the Irumpoṟai line of the Cēra dynasty at Pukalūr date to approximately 200 c . e .12 The fact that the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu was specifically commissioned by a king in the Irumpoṟai dynastic line allows us to argue for an early date. The king in question, Yāṉai-k-kaṭ Cēy Māntaraṇ Cēral Irumpoṟai, is the subject of a praise poem in the Puṟanāṉūṟu, an anthology of war and wisdom poetry.13

〔4〕  Introduction

The Aiṅkuṟunūṟu opens with a decad (pattu) of praise poems to Ātaṉ and Aviṉi; according to Mahadevan, even though “Ātaṉ” was “a recurring name in the Cēra dynasty, this name is borne by only one ruler in the Irumpoṟai line,” Kō Ātaṉ Cel Irumpoṟai. Whether this is indeed the Ātaṉ who is sung of in the first decad of the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu is anyone’s guess, the inscriptional evidence at Pukalūr has been paleographically dated to the second century c . e .,14 and this suggests an early date for the text. What is more, Aiṅkuṟunūṟu 178 mentions the “just Kuṭṭuvaṉ” in an embedded simile, and if this is indeed the same Kuṭṭuvaṉ as the Cēra king of that name depicted on a silver portrait coin of the third century c . e . , then an early date for the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu is assured.15 Another factor complicating the dates for the classical anthologies is the presence of Peruntēvaṉār’s invocatory stanzas, which occur at the beginning of the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu and its three sister akam anthologies, the Kuṟuntokai, Akanāṉūṟu, and Naṟṟiṇai plus the puṟam anthology Puṟanāṉūṟu. Śaivite in their orientation, these invocatory stanzas are late additions. Hart offers the mid-eighth century c . e . as a plausible date,16 agreeing with Zvelebil.17 Peruntēvaṉār’s invocation composed for the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu reads thus: The triple universe and Order itself arose in the shadow of the feet of the One whose left half is a blue-bodied goddess; the lady of the flawless jewels.

Although some scholars credit Peruntēvaṉār with giving the classical anthologies their final shape, he was most certainly not the compiler of the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu. We know from the colophon that the text was a Cēra imperial commission and its compiler was Pula-t-tuṟai Muṟṟiya Kūṭalūr Kiḻār. The Aiṅkuṟunūṟu is, in fact, not an “anthology” in the same way in which its sister anthologies are. The structure of the text as a whole is deliberate, and it is clear from the way in which it is assembled that its commissioner had a specific plan in mind, and that the compiler carried out the commissioner’s orders to the letter. I would suggest that all five poets of the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu—Ōrampōkiyār, Ammūvaṉār, Kapilar, Ōtalāntaiyār, and Pēyaṉār—were given assignments to compose their hundred verses under the patronage of Yāṉai Kaṭ Cēy Māntaraṇ Cēral Irumpoṟai. Marr has suggested that the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu was composed by a specific school of poets,18 and I would argue that these five brilliant men formed a short-lived atelier in the inland Irumpoṟai capital at Karuvūr. I can present no proof for this

Introduction  〔5〕

contention, but this is what makes the most sense given the scanty evidence we have. For all its virtues and interesting features, there has been little work done on the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu. The late P. Jottimuttu published a full translation of the text in 1984, but his English renderings are largely inaccurate, contain quaint and outdated usages (“lads” and “lassies” abound), and in places the English is so desperately jumbled that it is difficult to make any sense of the poems without referring back to the original.19 Jottimuttu was a fine linguist—he was trained by the best—but linguistic ability is not at all an indicator of one’s skills as a translator. The goals of a translation are quite different when they are driven by concerns that have more to do with the conveyance of basic information than with issues of readability, aesthetic quality, and so forth. And, on certain levels, Jottimuttu’s translation is “correct.” It provides a sense of the text, and one can see that there is a syntactic correctness to most of his renderings. His version is, in other words, a linguist’s translation. What is lacking, however, is a semantic correctness. There does not seem to be much sense in Jottimuttu’s versions of how the images were ordered by the poets, or precisely what the poetic effect might be. In the poems of the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu, in which a great deal of meaning is compressed into a few short lines, the ordering of images (and their connections with other elements in these poems) are absolutely essential for rendering the proper effect. Because of their brevity, the majority of these poems are constructed around an empty center of obliquity, and, taken in tandem with the skills of educated readers, this is how their emotional effects are successfully conveyed. The poets had to rely, therefore, mostly on their skills as imagists and not as narrativists to bring their intentions to full life. Writing about translation as a “utopian task,” Ortega y Gasset describes the process as carrying all its “pleasure in the effort” but not in the result,20 and I have the sense that it was just this sort of dynamic that must have transported Jottimuttu through his task: there is this sort of utopian, almost altruistic impulse that seems to compel us to take on such projects, but in Jottimuttu’s case, his linguistic hyperliteralism impedes our understanding of the literary nature of the work. As Ortega y Gasset has remarked, “Translation is a literary genre apart, different from the rest, with its own norms and its own ends . . . it is not the work, but a path toward the work.”21 Octavio Paz has also famously commented that “literal translation . . . is not translation. It is a mechanism, a string of words that helps us read the text in its original language . . . a glossary . . . ,” whereas translation itself is “always a literary activity.”22

〔6〕  Introduction

Aside from Jottimuttu, the late A. K. Ramanujan and George L. Hart have published a total of eighty-two verses from the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu between them in their respective collections. Hart includes twenty-five in his volume,23 while Ramanujan chose a total of fifty-seven for his book.24 Hart’s translations are accurate, fairly literal, and never shy away from the complexities of Tamil syntax. Ramanujan’s translations are true to the spirit of the poems and are accurate in the ways in which they convey the sometimes shocking beauty of the originals, but he made these Tamil poems into entities quite apart from translations. They work as poems in English quite well, and though they are exquisite, they are not true enough to the originals to be termed accurate in letter. Ramanujan took shortcuts—sometimes leaving out entire clauses that I would wager he found clumsy—in order to impose his own minimalist aesthetic on them. It is my contention that the way to bring these poems into English is to somehow mediate between the quite different registers of Hart and Ramanujan and achieve a result that is accurate and gives a sense of poetic idiom on the one hand while maintaining literary quality on the other. What is more, despite the fine efforts of these two translators, we are left completely without a sense of the Aiṇkuṟunūṟu as a text, or, as I would argue, as an enormous, complex poem when considered in its entirety.

What Constitutes a Poem in the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu? To gain a sense of the work as a whole, it may be useful to first take a single poem at random, analyze it, consider how it relates to the other nine verses in the decad in which it is placed, how that set of ten relates to the nine other decads in which it is set, and finally how all ten sets together form a loose narrative structure. The poem I have chosen for analysis is from the pālai section of the text, composed by Ōtalāntaiyār. Pālai is the landscape (tiṇai) of the “wasteland.” These poems are on instability and various states and modes of transition; in other words, on abject separation in various contexts, and they are all set against backdrops of severe physical hardship and emotional difficulty. The Tolkāppiyam sets these poems in either extreme cold or extreme heat—the latter is far more common—with midday as the preferred time. The poem I have chosen is number 345 in the collection, taken from the decad titled Iḷavēṉiṟ pattu (literally, “Ten Poems on the Time of Young Heat”; less literally, “Ten Poems on Spring”). All ten poems in the set are spoken by the talaivi, the heroine, who has seen the signs of the approaching season. She is separated from the talaivaṉ, the hero. Poem 345 reads

Introduction  〔7〕

avarō vārār tāṉvan taṉṟē putuppū vatira ṟāayk katuppaṟa laṇiyuṅ kāmar poḻutē

Here is my translation: He has not come still, but the time of beauty has come when the jasmine creepers spread out their new flowers and adorn the black silt ripples as if they were strands of hair.

From a structural point of view, the natural elements of the poem—all of line 2 and the first three feet of line 3 in the original Tamil—are inserted in the middle of an interrupted sentence, a structure somewhat common in classical Tamil poetry wherein a major thought or unit of meaning is broken midway, the poetic content inserted, and the thought finished in the final foot or line of the poem. The major thought of the poem is paraphrased by U. Vē. Cāminātaiyar as follows: avar vārār, poḻutu vantaṉṟu (literally, “He has not come; the time has come”). In the poem, the first line literally reads, “He has not come still”; or more correctly, reading in the dubitative force of the -ō appended to the third-person polite masculine pronoun avar, “Will he not come?” or “Has he not come yet?” followed by a simple past singular neuter verb, vantaṉṟu, “[it] has come,” the subject of which is poḻutu, “time/season,” the final word of the final line of the poem. This technique, the English name of which can be rendered (envisioning the U-shaped shackle of a padlock) something like “the bow of the lock,” is used to create not necessarily a state of suspense but one of suspension, in which we do not know what has come until we reach the final word of the verse, the head noun, separated from its preceding verb with a dense string of modifiers, a construction made entirely plausible by the basic rules of Dravidian syntax but very difficult to render into English without breaking that “bow of the lock” and thereby destroying the sense of structural suspension inhering in the original. But let us expand the basic structure of this single poem into the next level of its context. As noted, one of the major characteristics of the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu is its primary division into five sets of one hundred poems, each set of one hundred further divided into pattus, or discrete sets of

〔8〕  Introduction

ten. The poems of each decad are worked around a unique figure, either an object or animal, a line of direct address, a specific conversational context, or a specific situational context. The Iḷavēṉiṟ pattu (Ten Poems on Spring) is a decad characterized by situational context, but as it turns out, the word iḷavēṉil never occurs in the set, but rather the word poḻutu, “time/season.” Every decad in the text is characterized by a repeated element, and in the case of this decad, the repeated element is a rhetorical figure, the “bow of the lock” construction just mentioned. Every poem in the set follows, without exception, the same pattern. Every poem is metrically identical; every poem is exactly three lines in length, following a four-foot/three-foot/four-foot pattern. Every poem begins with the line avarō vārār tāṉvan taṉṟē and ends with the word poḻutu as the final foot in the final line.25 To make possible gaining a sense of the poetic effect of this figure, I provide here my translation of the entire decad, poems 341 to 350. Note the rhythmic pattern that emerges, and also the subtle shifts in poetic content while reading through this remarkable set of poems:

Ten Poems on Spring (Iḷavēṉiṟ pattu) 341. He has not come still, but the time has come when the soft black silt is laid down in rippled layers as the cuckoo coos for her mate with her sweet voice. 342. He has not come still, but the time has come when the black-trunked mulberry gives off its fragrance as the rejoicing bees hum in its fat branches. 343. He has not come still, but the time has come when the dense ironwood trees bear their fat buds swollen with beauty and break open into bloom.

Introduction  〔9〕

344. He has not come still, but the time has come when the doll-like fruit borne by the bottle-flower tree with its fragrant blossoms is ripe for the plucking. 345. He has not come still, but the time has come when the jasmine creepers spread out their new flowers and adorn the black silt ripples as if they were strands of hair. 346. He has not come still, but the time has come when the red-eyed black cuckoo keens for her mate as the trumpet-flower tree blossoms, its branches lush. 347. He has not come still, but the time has come to make a paste of the sprouts of the beech tree, its blossoms like puffed rice, which will enhance the great beauty of young breasts. 348. He has not come still, but the time has come when the branches of the oak tree are thatched with right-spiraling flowers and our cool garden blooms, redolent with fragrance. 349. He has not come still, but the time has come that gives forth young sprouts,

〔10〕  Introduction

red as flame, overwhelming the branches of the mango tree with its shaggy trunk. 350. He has not come still, but the time has come when men pacify their lovers with words dripping honey as the bright flowers of the margosa tree sprinkle down.

The decad begins with rather simple conceits. The heroine laments that the hero has not returned for her even though the time has come when he should have. The first six poems of the set contain well-worked descriptions of spring, each containing implicit, simultaneous descriptions of the heroine’s plight. In the first poem, for instance, the heroine is “the cuckoo cooing for her mate/with her sweet voice”; in poems 342 to 344, the heroine describes the fragrance and the swollen, budding beauty of spring; again, this is all self-referential: she is a “fat bud swollen with beauty/and breaking open into bloom”; she is the “doll-shaped fruit/borne by the bottleflower tree . . . ripe for the plucking.” Moving through the set, the allusions become less abstract and more explicitly self-referential: poems 345 and 347 refer to adornment of not just the season but of her own hair (with jasmine flowers) and breasts (with “a paste of the sprouts of the beech tree”) as she prepares for her lover’s return. Poem 348 contains a specific reference to “our cool garden . . . redolent with fragrance,” but in poem 350, the final poem of the set, the heroine is still alone and voices her doubts about her lover’s intentions with a sarcastic comment on his ability to keep his promises to her: “He has not come still/but the time has come/when men pacify their lovers/with words dripping honey/as the bright flowers/of the margosa tree/sprinkle down.” The sequencing of these poems provides a subtle narrative movement that is not provided by the encompassing repeating rhetorical element but rather by the poetic content encompassed by the figure—a great deal takes place as the poetic elements of the second line and the first three feet of line 3 shift as the heroine’s comments become gradually less abstract and more concrete and self-referential, ending in some very pretty sarcasm and criticism of the hero. The genius of Ōtalāntaiyār is this: There is a total of

Introduction  〔11〕

eleven feet in each poem. Fully five of those feet are fixed with the repeated rhetorical element, leaving the poet with six feet within which to improvise and to develop both a mood and a narrative of sorts. What next merits examination is precisely how the Iḷavēṉiṟ pattu functions within the pālai section of the text—what comes before it, and what follows? What poetic and narrative functions do this decad serve in the larger, overall scheme of the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu? Loosely, the story of the pālai section can be told through the titles of its decads. The section opens with the Celavaḻuṅkuvitta pattu (Ten Poems on Preventing His Departure with Distressing Words), spoken by the girlfriend (tōḻi) to the hero (talaivaṉ), followed by the Celavu-p-pattu (Ten Poems on the Journey) (in other words, the distressing words did not work!) which are spoken in a miscellany of voices—the heroine (talaivi), the talaivi’s foster mother (cevili-t-tāy), and the tōḻi. The talaivaṉ himself then speaks in the Iṭai-c-cura-p-pattu (Ten Poems from the Midst of the Wasteland), which are in turn answered by the heroine in the Talaivi-y-iraṅku pattu (Ten Lamentations of the Heroine). And it is after these ten that the Iḷavēṉiṟ pattu is inserted. It is worth having a look at the last two poems in the “Ten Lamentations” set to see how Ōtalāntaiyār manages the transition. Here are poems 339 and 340. Each poem in this decad begins, by the way, with the phrase amma vāḻi tōḻi, “Look here, Friend. Live long.” All ten laments are addressed to the tōḻi, the talaivi’s girlfriend: 339. Look here, Friend. Live long: In that country where my lover has gone, is there really no evening at all, when bats soar up to eat the fragrant fruit of the short-branched neem tree with its tiny leaves? 340. Look here, Friend. Live long: Is our lover not thinking? Or are we just confused? Leaving us, he’s gone off as the gossip rises in the town like fire in dried-out bamboo.

It is this moment of doubt and hesitation, the heroine archly wondering aloud whether there is no evening in the place where he has gone off to, and that is why he can stand to be away, or whether he is just “not thinking,” or

〔12〕  Introduction

whether it is her own confusion, her own misunderstanding of his promises, that leads the heroine to comment on what we might call the empirical evidence surrounding her—all the signs of spring—with which she both comforts and tortures herself. And this building up of doubt, coupled with erotic expectation, are followed by the Varavuraitta pattu (Ten Poems on Announcing His Return). The first four poems of the set are spoken by the tōḻi to the talaivi, poems 5 and 6 by the talaivaṉ directly to the talaivi, 7 and 8 by the tōḻi to the talaivi, and 9 and 10 by the talaivaṉ to the talaivi, transitioning artfully into the Muṉ-ṉilai-p-pattu (Ten Direct Addresses), which are poems spoken in a myriad of voices, but all are confrontational in tone: they are in turn seductive, accusatory, and informative (the latter poems inform the mother that her daughter has been seduced). In several of these poems, Ōtalāntaiyār has worked in some of the imagery from the Iḷavēṉiṟ pattu. My favorite in this cluster is poem 366, spoken by the tōḻi to her own mother, that is, the talaivi’s foster mother: 366. O Mother, live long. Listen: Mother, since with anger-reddened eyes you’ve uselessly asked why my friend has grown so very pale, I know little more than that the change can be blamed on the ironwood tree and its tender clumps of bloom.

This foreshadows the decad that follows, the Makaṭ-pōkkiya vaḻi-t-tāyiraṅku pattu (Ten Laments of the Mother on the Occasion of Her Daughter’s Elopement)—the talaivaṉ and talaivi have united and left for the wastelands—followed by the Uṭaṉ-pōkkiṉkaṇ iṭai-c-curattu-uraitta pattu (Ten Poems on What Was Said in the Wasteland During Their Elopement), a very interesting set of poems spoken by passers-by, by the talaivi to passers-by, asking them to bear messages to her mother and the tōḻi back home, and the mother’s answers to them. The pālai section ends with the Maṟutaravu-p-pattu (Ten Poems on Their Return), and the text then shades off into the contexts of mullai, Pēyaṉār’s hundred poems on family life and the less-dramatic anxieties of domestically oriented love in separation. The narrative connection between the pālai and mullai sections of the text lead me to suggest that the authors of these two sections—Ōtalāntaiyār

Introduction  〔13〕

and Pēyaṉār—must have worked in some sort of consultation with each other and that the whole text, in fact, is the product of an intense, collaborative effort. Many poems in the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu successfully stand on their own, and both Hart and Ramanujan realized this when compiling their own collections, but it is my contention that the decads of this text were probably meant to be understood in the way that we might understand a set of song cycles, each illustrating a different facet of the five moods of reciprocal love. The entire text is itself one long poem, in my opinion, which intriguingly rewrites the ordering—the sequencing of the landscapes—as they traditionally appear in the Tolkāppiyam, which begins the sequence with landscapes tied to clandestine, erotic love before marriage—love that is kaḷavu (stolen)—and ends with those evoking jealous quarreling. The Aiṅkuṟunūṟu places the landscapes of jealous quarreling first, beginning with Ōrampōkiyār’s marutam poems, and the text ends with one hundred poems devoted to the theme of domestic happiness and patient separation after marriage, Pēyaṉār’s mullai poems. As I have read the text deeply over the past twelve years, it seems to me now that at least from a superficial standpoint the text’s compiler wanted the anthology to end on an auspicious note, and in fact it does: the final poem of the text, spoken by the tōḻi (the heroine’s female companion) to the hero, celebrates the man’s return from the pācaṟai (war camp) of his king, relieving the dramatic tension of the mullai section of the text and leaving the reader bathed in happy sentiment and emotion. In the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu, the landscapes move from poems about fracture, jealousy, and infidelity and settle finally into verses describing and celebrating trusting domestic romance. The element of the text most responsible for the reordering of the landscape sequence, however, is a function of its patronage. Leaving Peruntēvaṉār’s later invocation aside, the very first phrase of the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu is vāli-y-ātan (May Ātan live long), and the first half stanzas of each of the poems in the first decad (Ten Poems on Wishing) are most likely nods to the Cēra patrons of all five authors.

On Objects, Animals, and Poetic Evocation In the opening pages of his 1984 book Dominance and Affection: The Making of Pets, cultural geographer Yi-Fu Tuan writes of the human impulse to dominate nature. Artists, those who engage in “aesthetic activities, such as writing poems,” are not exempt from his critique. Such activities “do not have any obvious direct impact on nature and society, but the impulse

〔14〕  Introduction

to reduce—and thereby, order and control—is there. A poet looks at nature and captures its essence in a poem. Something out there is taken into the human world, dressed in words and arranged in rhythmic order.”26 I contend that in early Tamil poetry, it is not nature—that “something out there”—that is the object of the human impulse to tame, rather human emotion and sexuality are the objects of capture and ordering; not nature, not the wild outside but the wild within, disciplined with networks of referents, symbols, and indices culled from the environment. In other words, rather than engaging in a Nietzschean “anthropomorphic transformation of the world,”27 it appears to be humans who are transformed, not the animals and plants of the natural world. What does it mean to assign plant and animal natures to human beings, or to describe animal behavior to comment on that of humans? The Aiṅkuṟunūṟu is fascinating from the point of view of material culture. One can, in reading this text, understand precisely how a sophisticated poetics was forged by acute comprehension of what certain objects or animals might evoke poetically. Often individual decads of the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu are named after an animal or object emblematic of its landscape—bangles, monkeys, stands of reeds, crabs, parrots, and so on—providing the reader with automatic—and ideally instantaneous—links between perception and mood. These formal elements of the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu are what make it an ideal text with which to raise questions relating to anthropomorphism, zoomorphism, and other such dynamics. As Lorraine Daston and Gregg Mitman write in the introduction of their 2005 book Thinking with Animals: New Perspectives on Anthropomorphism, as humans, we tend to adopt the “reflexive assumption that animals are like us”; that humans “habitually use animals to help them do their own thinking about themselves . . . Humans assume a community of thought and feeling between themselves and a surprisingly wide array of animals . . . [recruiting] animals to symbolize, dramatize, and illuminate aspects of their own experience and fantasies.”28 Some of these notions fit the classical Tamil context rather well, but rather than empathetic feelings of communitas between man and beast, what seems to be driving the deployment of symbolism in these poems is what we might think of as an early brand of scientism exhibited in the final chapter of the Tolkāppiyam. The Marapiyal (literally, the “Chapter on Usage”) begins with lists of nouns designating the proper names for the young, the female, and the male of various species, followed by a list of the six senses (touch, taste, smell, sight, hearing, and the mind). The senses are hierarchized and each sense category includes examples of various types of plants, animals, and humans according to the

Introduction  〔15〕

numbers of senses they possess. I believe it useful exploring how the more familiar poetic elements of sign and symbol mix with this taxonomic system. How do certain values come to be assigned to particular objects in nature? The values here are poetic rather than pragmatic, to be sure, but could very well be grounded in early pragmatic taxonomies. I would argue against Nietzsche, who famously stated that scientism and taxonomical impulses preempt distinctive cultural styles. The Tamil example seems to have fostered a cultural style rather than preempt one, particularly in the contexts of poetic production and expression. We must first ask precisely what Tamil poetry does. Do the poems exhibit anthropomorphism, zoomorphism, or something else entirely? In the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu, we find none of the elements of fable, caricature, or hyperhumanization, elements that come to mind when we think of the gardenvariety anthropomorphism found in various world literatures. The birds and beasts of Tamil poetry do not have human features, nor do they talk. In fact, in several instances in the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu, heroines find fault with birds in particular for not imparting valuable information to them. In one example, the relative innocence of a tiny girl is emphasized when she asks a white water bird if it has seen where she lost her jewels in a sand dune. This particular verse is found in a set of ten poems addressed to the hero, in which the girlfriend of the woman who loves him mocks him because he has been spotted playing in the waves with a girl who is much too young for him, a girl who is too young to know that seabirds cannot talk:

Aiṅkuṟunūṟu 122 We saw your little friend, didn’t we, Lord? She asked a white seabird about her gleaming jewels that she’d lost in the rising sands near the sea.

There is only one instance in the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu of anthropomorphism in its classical sense, in a set of ten poems in which a veḷḷāṅ-kuruku (white water bird) is the central figure, the same white seabird featured in the poem above. These poems are set in the landscape of the seashore, where the emotional mood is that of lamentation and romantic anxiety. The

〔16〕  Introduction

context of this decad is the lovers’ triangle. The husband has returned after having had an extended affair with another woman, and he is trying to regain entry into his home—his wife has denied him permission, and the erring man has gone off to allegedly break off the affair with his lover. Each poem in this set opens with the long phrase veḷḷāṅ kurukiṉ piḷḷai cettu eṉa-k/kāṇiya ceṉṟa maṭa-naṭai nārai (the soft-gaited heron as it went off to see the dying hatchling of the white water bird). The heron is the husband, the white water bird his lover, and the dying hatchling is the love they shared between them, which has died a slow death as the hero decides to return to his wife. In these poems, emotions are assigned to the heron as he makes his consolation calls to his former lover, the white water bird. Here are two poignant examples, both spoken by the wife, who expresses her confusion, pain, and the utter hopelessness of her situation:

Aiṅkuṟunūṟu 151 I will not consent to see him, though my heart favors that man from the ford where blue lilies give off their honeyed smell without cease and, blooming like eyes, were trampled by the soft-gaited heron as it went off to see the dying hatchling of the white water bird.

Aiṅkuṟunūṟu 155 I have borne a child of sedge grass for him, that man from the ford where the soft-gaited heron that went off to see the dying hatchling of the white water bird uproots the blue lilies that crowd the backwaters and sends them out to sea.

As Wendy Doniger has noted, zoomorphism is more common in the Indian context than is anthropomorphism, and this is true for the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu.

Introduction  〔17〕

Comparing these two dynamics, Doniger has observed that “zoomorphism is more complex: although . . . the human being is the explicit object, the bestial qualities imputed to the human usually reveal an observation of animals more detailed . . . than that of anthropomorphism, and the text teaches us simultaneously what sort of person it thinks that animal is like and what sort of animal it thinks that sort of person is like.”29 In the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu, the zoomorphic impulse is best typified in the poems of Kapilar, set in the kuṟiñci landscape of clandestine love, where romantic and sexual impulses themselves are inarguably at their strongest and therefore at their most “bestial.” Quantitatively speaking, there are more descriptions of animals in these poems than in the other four landscapes. Of the eight decads in the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu specifically devoted to animals, that is, explicitly named for them and featuring them as the main figures in their verses, four are found in the kuṟiñci portion of the text (four decads devoted to boars, monkeys, parrots, and peacocks). But unlike the poems worked around the figure of the white water bird, these poems do not ascribe mental processes to animals, nor is there any attribution of humanlike intention. But what they might have instead, following Pamela Asquith, is an ethos or character that is “an innate attribute of a [particular] species and as diagnostic of a species as its physical form. The ethos or character of animals [consists] of their life habits and manners.”30 And the twist is here: In Kapilar’s kuṟiñci poems, these “life habits and manners”—the ethos and lifeways of beasts—are turned around and attributed to men, to heroes who have met their lovers in private and have not yet returned for second meetings. According to the taxonomical scheme laid out in the Marapiyal, “beasts” and “people of low culture” are “creatures of five senses,” that is, possessing touch, taste, smell, sight, and hearing but having no mind. And in the poems, comparing an indifferent or forgetful hero to a monkey or a boar is to say, yes, monkeys and boars are forgetful and neglect their mates much like humans do (that would be anthropomorphism, of course), but the main point is not to impute these human traits to the beasts but to comment on the lack of the hero’s mental capacities (and that would be zoomorphism). Here are three examples from the Kurakku-p-pattu (Ten Poems on the Monkey), in which the heroine’s girlfriend confronts the hero, basically accusing him of dillydallying, of engaging in futile activities amounting to thoughtless play and leisure, thereby not attending to more urgent “mindful” matters of romance, sex, and marriage. And, as Doniger has noted in other contexts, we must notice that in such examples of zoomorphism, “the bestial qualities imputed to the human [here, our shiftless hero] reveal an observation of animals more detailed than that of anthropomorphism.”31 The details in these poems are finely drawn:

〔18〕  Introduction

Aiṅkuṟunūṟu 273 In your good mountains, a strong monkey, the young of that female, the hair of her head like grass, gorges on the shoots of the mast tree in the path, shining like red coral.

Lord, if you go, that girl who lives only on her love for you will cry far more than I.

Aiṅkuṟunūṟu 275 In your country, the mate of the female monkey, that male with colored hair, takes up a pretty little stick of cane and beats at a rain bubble on a broad slab of rock. Lord, she’s loved you. Yet if you show her favor, will her celebrated beauty vanish?

Aiṅkuṟunūṟu 276 In your country, the lover of the female monkey, that male who grazes on shoots, takes up a cool, fragrant creeper and slashes at young clouds foaming over broad slabs of rock. Even if you don’t love her enough now to make her your wife,

Introduction  〔19〕



O Lord of the good mountain land where a kino tree blossoms in a stony cleft, why not marry her, then leave?

There are, however, alternative ways of thinking about these dynamics that might prove more useful than oscillating between the poles of anthropomorphism and zoomorphism and then trying to decide which poems display which dynamic, or how we might characterize the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu in general in its use of animal imagery. Ecologists such as Kay Milton and Linda Kalof offer models that perhaps more accurately describe the functions and processes at work in these poems. Milton describes, for example, “egomorphism,” with the self or ego as the “primary point of reference for understanding both human and non-human things.”32 Just as the hierarchies of sentience in the Marapiyal imply, humans are “quantitatively different” from animals, but the poems themselves demonstrate that humans and animals are, in fact, “qualitatively similar.” Where all this must begin is with perception, the perception of the self or ego and how that self then perceives its human and nonhuman others, giving rise to the formation of an “ecological self,” one that is “formed or specified in relation to its environment,” which then “lays the foundations for cultural construction” and in the Tamil case leads to a complicated and rich poetic system. Kalof adds that “human identity is developed through relationship with non-human others,” that animals should be regarded as “critical contributors to the construction of human identity and a ‘relational self.’ ”33 Kalof also argues that it is largely a matter of degree, the degree of similarity and dissimilarity.34 If we return to the “sentience scale” of the Marapiyal, if that is how we choose to think of it, plants and trees (one sense), snails and shellfish (two senses), termites and ants (three senses), and crabs and beetles (four senses) occupy the lower rungs, while most of the animals—as well as those problematic “people of low culture”—of the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu possess five. The further away we move from creatures with human shapes, the fewer senses they possess. In this poetic world, it is not so much the geographical boundaries that become blurred in the processes of comparison and metaphor, in the elaborate metaphysics of like and as, but interpersonal and interspecies boundaries of self and other. Each of the poems is a gloss on the human condition, and when interspecies comparisons are drawn, “animals are not just one symbol system out of many,” as Daston and Mitman write, “they do not just stand for something.”35 By their differentiation

〔20〕  Introduction

and their transvaluation by the resulting creation of various scales—proximal/distal, similar/different, like us/not like us—all that “wild” that is “out there” is used to create new “value-laden forms of life,”36 not in the rather simple and reflexive anthropomorphic sense but in the borderlands of the poetic imagination, where humans can grant themselves and others animal and botanical qualities to forge new and illuminating identities expressing love in all its hues; in its six-sense pleasures of love as well as in its five-sense problems of caprice, infidelity, and suspicion.

A Note on the Book’s Organization The following translations are organized according to the order of the poems in U. Vē. Cāminātaiyar’s 1903 print edition.37 I introduce each section with a brief note on each author and the conventions at work in each landscape.38 I then introduce each decad with notes about the shifting conversational contexts therein. I have based these notes largely on P. Jottimuttu’s39 annotations, the excellent catalog of Aiṅkuṟunūṟu poetic situations found in M. R. P. Gurusami’s empirical study of the text, A Critical Study of Aiṅkuṟunūṟu,40 on information culled from various commentaries,41 and of course, on the notes I took during hours of discussion of the poems with my superb teachers and guides, Dr. Vijayalakshmy Rangarajan and Dr. K. V. Ramakoti. I certainly encourage readers to enjoy the translations without my notes, but many of the poems are difficult to comprehend without any knowledge of their conversational contexts.

Introduction  〔21〕

Notes 1. The problems of dating this text are now legendary in the field of Tamil studies and beyond. For a reasonable discussion of the issues and a detailed characterization of this text, see Takahashi, Tamil Love Poetry, 20–24. 2. Marr, Eight Anthologies, 349. 3. For a detailed account of the circumstances surrounding Cāminātaiyar’s “discovery,” see Cutler, “Three Moments,” 271–322. 4. Takahashi, Tamil Love Poetry, 229–30. 5. George L. Hart, personal communication, April 2008. 6. In order to follow Zvelebil’s rationales for this early date, I found it necessary to read the arguments, which developed over three different works: Smile of Murugan, Tamil Literature (1974), and Tamil Literature (1975). 7. Published by Cre-A (Chennai) and the Department of Sanskrit and Indian Studies, Harvard University. 8. Zvelebil, Tamil Literature (1975), 269. 9. Quoted in Zvelebil, Tamil Literature (1975), 45. 10. Tieken, Kāvya in South India. 11. Zvelebil, Smile of Murugan, 34. 12. Mahadevan, Early Tamil Epigraphy, 17–20. 13. For a beautiful English translation of this poem, see Hart and Heifetz, Four Hundred Songs, 14–15. In addition, Pula-t-tuṟai Muṟṟiya Kūṭalūr Kiḻār, the compiler of the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu, composed an elegy on the occasion of Yāṉai-kkaṭ Cēy Māntaraṇ Cēral Irumpoṟai’s death (Puṟanāṉūṟu 229) (Hart and Heifetz, Four Hundred Songs, 142–43). 14. Mahadevan, Early Tamil Epigraphy. 15. Ibid., 57, image E; 63 and 118. 16. Hart and Heifetz, Four Hundred Songs, xxviii. 17. Zvelebil, Smile of Murugan, 25. 18. Marr, Eight Anthologies, 349. 19. Jottimuttu, Aiṅkuṟunūṟu. 20. Ortega y Gasset, “Misery and the Splendor,” 93–112. 21. Ibid. 22. Paz, “Translation,” 152–62. 23. Hart, Poets of the Tamil Anthologies, 19–43. 24. Ramanujan, Poems of Love and War, 9–13, 31, 34–35, 38–40, 43–45, 51, 59–62, 78–82, 84–87, 89, 94–96, 98–100. 25. For readers who want a more technical description of Tamil prosody, see Zvelebil, Classical Tamil Prosody. 26. Tuan, Dominance and Affection, 3–4. 27. Stack, Nietzsche’s Anthropic Circle, 125. 28. Daston and Mitman, Thinking with Animals, 1–2.

〔22〕  Introduction

29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38.

Doniger, “Zoomorphism in Ancient India,” 17. Asquith, “Why Anthropomorphism is Not Metaphor,” 25–26. Doniger, “Zoomorphism in Ancient India,” 17. Milton, “Anthropomorphism or Egomorphism?” 255–67. Kalof, “Human Self and the Animal Other,” 161. Ibid., 162. Daston and Mitman, Thinking with Animals, 12. Ibid., 12–13. Cāminātaiyar, Eṭṭu-t-tokaiyuḷ. For a full exposition on classical Tamil literary conventions, see Ramanujan, Poems of Love and War, 231–97. 39. Jottimuttu, Aiṅkuṟunūṟu. 40. Gurusami, Critical Study of Aiṅkuṟunūṟu. 41. The bibliography provides a list of editions and commentaries consulted.

910 Marutam

A

the one hundred poems included in the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu, Ōrampōkiyār composed seven additional marutam poems (Akanāṉūṟu 286 and 316; Kuṟuntokai 10, 127, and 384; Naṟṟiṇai 20 and 360). His most likely dates are 150–200. He was clearly a master of the ironic voice. He is also the author of Kuṟuntokai 70 (kuṟiñci) and 122 (neytal), and one Puṟanāṉūṟu poem, number 284. His strategic use of uḷḷuṟai (implied simile, the technique of employing a natural scene to describe actions, emotions, and characters) is a feature of nearly every one of his poems in the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu, and rightly so: the marutam landscape is largely that of the lovers’ triangle and the resulting secrecy, quarreling, and sulking (ūṭal); therefore oblique, indirect expression is called for. The marutam poems are set on riverbanks and in cultivated fields. Convention tells us that all seasons are appropriate to this mood, and the preferred time is dawn (midnight is also allowed). The human cast of characters in these hundred poems include the hero (talaivaṉ), heroine (talaivi), her rival (parattai), the girlfriends of both women (tōḻi), and the bard (pāṇar), who acts as a mediator between the hero and his love interests. The native elements of the marutam landscape are exactly what we might expect to find in agricultural settings where rice is cultivated: the buffalo and the crab each have entire decads devoted to them. We also encounter cranes, water hens, freshwater fish, crocodiles, turtles, and other such animals, which are used by Ōrampōkiyār to great effect to illustrate human virtues and foibles. The women of these poems are most often represented by botanical elements (various types of lilies, reeds, and the scentless blossoms of the sugarcane are the most commonly employed). side from

〔24〕  Marutam (100 Poems on Jealous Quarreling, by Ōrampōkiyār)

Ten Poems on Wishing (Vēṭkai-p-pattu) The first repeated element is vāḻi-y-ātaṉ vāli-y-aviṉi, which constitutes the first line of all ten poems in the set. Ātaṉ and Aviṉi were members of the Cēra dynastic line, and beginning the anthology with this blessing gives the entire Aiṅkuṟunūṟu its indelible Cēra stamp. All ten poems are spoken by the heroine’s girlfriend to the hero. The “mother” to whom she refers is her friend, the heroine. The context in the first five poems is marital infidelity. The heroine is married, and the girlfriend is reporting the blessings given by the heroine, who is conducting her life as usual even though her husband has taken a lover. The girlfriend’s wish is a veiled plea for reconciliation. In poem 2, the girlfriend refers to the woman and her rival in the line “where the water lily equals the many-petaled lotus,” an indirect criticism aimed at the hero: she is chastising him for regarding the rival woman and his wife as equals (here, the water lily is the rival, and the manypetaled lotus is the wife). In poem 3, the girlfriend indicates that something is amiss by blessing his “home life” amid all the abundance and flourishing. In poem 4, the wife is the ripening paddy full of fertile potential, while the rival is the blooming cane. Cane flowers have no scent, there is no “fruit” there, and therefore there is no real use for a relationship with her. The girlfriend additionally states that she does not want the hero’s chest to become a paḻaṉam, a paddy field; the sense is that his chest should be an exclusive place for his wife and not for any woman who happens by. The distinction being made is between private and public access, and I have inserted the word “public” in the penultimate line to bring this sense across. The reference to the husband in poem 5 should be clear: he is the “crocodile gorging on large fish”—in other words, recklessly feasting on other women. Poems 6 to 10 continue in the same poetic form, but the context has shifted to love prior to marriage. The girlfriend is expressing her wish to the hero that he make plans to marry the heroine quickly. 1.

“May Ātaṉ live long, long life to Aviṉi! Let the fields yield rich harvest; let the gold pile up in heaps!” So my mother wished. “Let the man from the rich town of budding portia and tiny fish heavy with eggs live long, and long life to his bard, too!” So did I wish.

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2.

“May Ātaṉ live long, long life to Aviṉi! Let the fields be bountiful; let the beggars come!” So my mother wished. “Let the love of that man from the cool riverbank where the water lily equals the many-petaled lotus grow as each day passes.” So did I wish.

3.

“May Ātaṉ live long, long life to Aviṉi! Let the milk flow in streams; let the bulls thrive!” So my mother wished. “That man from the place crammed with flowers where plowmen, having sown their paddy, move on with their crop shares— let his home life flourish!” So did I wish.

4.

“May Ātaṉ live long, long life to Aviṉi! Let his enemies eat grass; let the Brahmins chant their Vedas!” So my mother wished. “That man of the place with its fields of ripening paddy and blooming cane— may his chest not become a public field!” So did I wish.

5.

“May Ātaṉ live long, long life to Aviṉi! May there be no hunger; let disease keep its distance!” So my mother wished. “That man from the cool riverbank where a young crocodile gorges on large fish— may his chariot stop before our gate!” So did I wish.

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6.

“May Ātaṉ live long, long life to Aviṉi! May the king’s enemies be vanquished; let his years increase!” So my mother wished. “That man from the cool riverbank where a lotus has bloomed in a wide pond— may he marry her, and let our father give her to him!” So did I wish.

7.

“May Ātaṉ live long, long life to Aviṉi! May virtue abundantly flourish; let what is not virtue rot away!” So my mother wished. “That man from the cool ghats where cranes nest in the branches of the myrobalan tree with its bristling blossoms— may he marry her fast and go on to his town!” So did I wish.

8.

“May Ātaṉ live long, long life to Aviṉi! May the king maintain order; let there be no fraud!” So my mother wished. “The man from the place crammed with flowers where a fine peacock perches on a swaying mango branch— let his promises come true in this place!” So did I wish.

9.

“May Ātaṉ live long, long life to Aviṉi! May goodness abundantly flourish; let there be no evil!” So my mother wished. “That man from the cool riverbank where a crane nests in a straw-lined cleft and feeds on carp— let not his love be slandered!” So did I wish.

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10. “May Ātaṉ live long, long life to Aviṉi! May the rains shower down; let fertility abundantly flourish!” So my mother wished. “That man from the cool riverbank where tiny fish reeking of flesh live alongside blooming mango trees— let him take her along with him and go!” So did I wish.

Ten Poems on Reeds (Vēḻa-p-pattu) In this set, the common element is the vēḻam (reed or type of sugarcane). All ten poems are set in the time after marriage, and the speaker in every poem is the heroine, except for poem 16, which is spoken by the girlfriend to the bard, who is acting as a mediator on the hero’s behalf. The heroine addresses her girlfriend in poems 11 to 15, using the royal “we,” in a sense, but the first-person plural is also used to indicate the close relationship between the two women. Poems 17 to 19 are most likely addressed to the bard, while the final poem is the heroine’s lonely soliloquy. The “purslane creeper” of poem 11 is the errant husband, who has coiled himself around a reed. The “reeds” in all these poems represent the parattai (other woman, the heroine’s rival). Similar to poem 4 of the first set, the “reed flowers” of poem 17 are without fragrance and represent futility, and in poem 20, the heroine describes the dashing of her domestic hopes, blaming her ruin on the hollow reeds. Her bangles slip from her wrists because her anxiety has caused her to grow thin—this is a common convention throughout the anthology, and throughout South Asian literature as a whole. 11.

Shamed by the cruelty of the man from the riverbank where the purslane creeper planted in the house coils around a reed, we will say that he is good.

Our soft, round shoulders contradict us. 12. Let us bravely endure the cruelty of the man from the riverbank

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where reeds on its slope bloom like stalks of cane. Let our broad, soft shoulders contradict us. 13.

That man from the cool riverbank where the reeds on its slopes put forth white blooms like the cresting plumes of finely gaited horses—

even at midnight as the town drowses, his other women do not know sleep. 14.

That man from the lush riverbank where the row of reed flowers chafes the fertile shoots of the nearby mango tree with its green fruit—

his chest makes a cool bed full of sweet grace. 15.

That man from the ancient town where reeds give aid as companions to women who yearn for gleaming leaf dresses as they bathe in the sandy floodwaters—

even though he is from these parts, he is not a local man. 16.

That man from the place dense with flowers where servant girls keep kohl in the tubular stems of reeds with their rising blooms—

thinking of him, a yellow pallor dulls her flowerlike painted eyes.

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17. That man from the place where white reed flowers wave over the bushes like cranes streaking through the sky— because he wants fresh women, my ignorant heart is wretched. 18.

That man from the fields where the reeds, sedge grass, and dark rushes rustle like sugarcane— he said that he would never leave, but he left me, didn’t he, as my flowerlike eyes shed tears.

19.

That man is from the place where white reed flowers in cool groves tear at the pale threads of the mango tree growing in a dune, its thick branches reeking of the scent of lovers’ bodies.

Because of this, my eyes sting, shedding tears like blossoms in the rain. 20.

Thinking of that man from the place near the riverbank where tubular reeds as hollow as bamboo rip out eggs laid in a hundred-petaled lotus by a tiny-legged dragonfly with iridescent wings,

the beautiful, gleaming bangles slip from my wrists.

Ten Poems on the Crab (Kaḷavaṉ-pattu) In this decad, the crab is the common element, and in every case it is used to illustrate the hero’s behavior, both good and bad. Poems 21 to 27 are set in the postmarital context. The first poem is one of reassurance, spoken by the girlfriend to the heroine, telling her obliquely that her husband has “severed” his relationships with her rivals. Poems 22 and 23 are laments spoken

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by the heroine to her companion. Poems 24 to 27 are spoken by the girlfriend to the heroine (24 and 26 are uttered in earshot of the misbehaving hero, who is ignoring his newborn son, the “green fruit” of poem 25). Poem 27 is another poem of reassurance, in which the girlfriend speaks obliquely of the hero’s wealth gathering. The final three poems are set in the context of clandestine love before marriage. Here, the girlfriend speaks to the foster mother to alert her to the urgent need to arrange a marriage for the couple. In poem 29, the “mottled mound” of the adolescent heroine possibly refers to visible hormonal changes on her dusky skin, a common descriptor of pubertal beauty in this poetic tradition. 21.

That man is from the cool riverbank where a speckled crab snaps off lily stems in those primordial shoals lined with tall thickets of thorn, and he has ended all your doubts.

Mother, why do your painted eyes grow cloudy? 22.

That man from the place where a speckled crab scrabbling in mud burrows under the root of the thornbush— he spoke sweet words and married me.

Why, Mother, did he say that he would never leave? 23.

That man from the place adorned by floods that uproot flowers and swirl around the crab under the root of the thornbush— he ended all our doubts and made love to us.

Why has he become a menacing god, Mother? 24. In his place, speckled crabs kill their mothers at birth, and crocodiles gorge on their young. Has he become like them, I wonder?

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After embracing women as their golden bracelets jingle and having their beauty, why is it that he leaves them, Mother? 25.

That man from the fields where a crab severs red purslane tendrils with their newly sprouting green fruit growing in the shelter of the house next door—

his chest distresses many women and makes their jewels slip off, Mother. 26.

That man from the place where a crab leaves its mate in a globe-thistle field and severs the soft shoots of the bindweed— he doesn’t know us; he doesn’t know others.

Why has he become like this, Mother? 27.

That man from the place where a crab, clutching ears of grain in a field of golden paddy, drags them back to his hole in the cool mud—

becoming so thin that your bright bracelets slip off, why do you suffer over him, Mother? 28.

If her lingering illness is the fault of some fierce water goddess, then why is she so thin that her bright bracelets slip off? Why, Mother, do her tender shoulders grow sallow over that man from the place where a crab leaves its traces in the cool mud?

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29.

Having embraced the chest of that man from the fields where a crab severs the white sprouts of newly sown paddy as watchmen come running in a downpour,

Mother, why has your daughter, her little mound mottled, grown sallow? 30.

That man from the place where many paddy flowers have fallen, lining the cool, muddy burrow of a crab, his eyestalks long as neem sprouts—

why does this girl lose her great beauty on his account, Mother?

Ten Addresses to the Girlfriend (Tōḻikkuraitta pattu) All ten poems begin with the line amma vāḻi tōḻi, which I have translated as “Listen, Friend, and live long.” Poems 31 to 37 are spoken by the married heroine, who has decided to allow her erring husband to return to her. She is still angry, however, and refers to her “crooked” husband by mentioning the “bent” myrobalan tree in poem 31. The remaining three poems (38–40) are spoken by the rival woman to her own companion after the hero has left her to return to his wife, but she remains convinced that he will come back to her. She alludes to this in the last line of poem 39, and describes him obliquely in the last line of poem 40 as an opportunistic leaping fish. She refers to herself (and others in her same predicament) as “water lilies luring bees.” 31. Listen, Friend, and live long: That man who made a vow in the company of my friends as they played on the vast banks

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of our town where the myrobalan tree grows old and bent— will he now say that it isn’t his promise to keep? 32. Listen, Friend, and live long:

Because he came to our house for all of a day, they say that his women wailed for a week, their hearts melting instantly like wax in fire.

33. Listen, Friend, and live long:

They say that he bathes with his women on the vast bank where flowers bloom and a myrobalan looms, growing tall

as they embrace his cool, garlanded chest one after the other. 34. Listen, Friend, and live long:

My eyes have sallowed and are now the color of the pollen of the water lily, blooming on its hollow stalk in the tank in our town,

and it’s all because of that stranger. 35. Listen, Friend, and live long:

My coppery beauty was brighter than the color of the water lily’s soft stalk, peeled of its fiber, that grew in the tank of our town.

No more. Now it has grown sallow.

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36. Listen, Friend, and live long:

If he claims that he’s forgotten us, then forgetting him in turn, we will be at peace and will even stop thinking of him,

but only if our kohl-rimmed eyes, flashing like carp, would not grow dull and sallow. 37. Listen, Friend, and live long:

He is expert in lying to the women who want him, as their kohl-rimmed eyes grow dim and fill with tears,

but he doesn’t know a thing about keeping his sworn promise. 38. Listen, Friend, and live long:

He will never comprehend the love of those women who took his word to heart, leaving us to weep, our color like that of cool leaves; our wrists adorned with gleaming bangles.

39. Listen, Friend, and live long:

That man embraced us, crushing our desirable breasts, and though he’s left us as our ample arms with their flawless jewels grow thin,

he hasn’t truly left us.

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40. Listen, Friend, and live long: Leaving us as we wept, our wrists stacked with gleaming bangles, they say that he stayed in his wife’s place.

But he hails from the land where water lilies, luring bees, bloom as fish leap.

Ten Poems on Sulking (Pulavi-p-pattu) All ten poems are set in the postmarital context. The hero has returned home with his retinue, after having indulged in multiple affairs with other women. He, his bard-companion, and other supporters are trying to gain entry to the house. The heroine is the speaker of poem 41. She speaks obliquely to the mediators, likening her rivals to the “white flowers” and her husband to the “crocodiles” who eat their own young. In poem 42, she speaks directly to her husband, indicating that her rival must have sent him away because of her drunkenness. His chest is like “the Kāviri in full spate,” because everyone wants to “bathe there” and use it like a playground. Poems 43 (spoken by the wife) and 44 (spoken by the girlfriend) remind the hero of his profound duty to his children through the lovely comparisons of them to turtle hatchlings. The girlfriend is the speaker of poems 45 and 46. She speaks ironically to the hero in both. Poems 47 to 49 are addressed to the hero and his bard. All three verses indicate the high status and generosity of the wife, and the low status of the bard and his daughter, rice being more valuable than fish (poem 49 makes this explicit). In the final poem, the girlfriend makes a direct appeal to the hero on his wife’s behalf. 41.

They say that there is a pond in his place teeming with white flowers and unloving crocodiles who gorge on their own young.

That is why the chief of the town turns to gold the bodies of those women who took his word to heart.

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42. Was her confusion enhanced by drink, I wonder?

O Man from the place of fresh wealth, your woman with her fine jewels has begun to build a dam before your ample chest as if it were the Kāviri in full spate.

43.

Clambering onto their mother’s back humped like a rice measure, young turtles bask there, shiny as copper bowls.



O Man from the place of fresh wealth, compared with you, your bard is the better liar, with many promises to his name.

44. In the sweet, wide pond, the hatchlings of the turtle are nurtured just by gazing at their mother’s face. Your chest is just like that, Lord. Know this and behave yourself, for that is your duty, indeed. 45.

Your place is ornamented by a river that gives cool, cloudy water in autumn; if it’s summer, it takes on the clear sheen of sapphires—

but my eyes, Lord, are adorned only with sallowness. 46. It is good not only for you, but good for us, as well. Holding fast to your desire for the woman with the good forehead who, in turn, desired your chest,

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you need not favor us, so go stay there with her. 47.

O Man from the place where a wife takes sheaves of good grain and fills a big, wide basket emptied of scorpion fish by the bard’s daughter, her teeth sharp as thorns,

my friends with their fine jewels know that you’re as big a liar as your bard. 48.

O Man from the place where a wife takes year-old white paddy and fills a basket emptied of murrel fish by the guileless, white-toothed daughter of the bard handy with nets—

yes, we don’t want you to come here, Lord, bearing those marks made there in passion by that other woman of yours. 49.

O Man from the place of fresh wealth where the bard’s slow-gaited daughter, her hair in beautiful plaits, gets a lot of paddy for having poured out a few fish,

I wonder whose beauty you can ruin now, with those lies of your bard? 50. O Man from the place of fresh wealth and looming willows, my dear friends and I, we suffer. Please show us some mercy: the girl who keeps you in her heart does nothing but cry.

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Ten Addresses by the Girlfriend (Tōḻi kūṟṟu-p-pattu) After being turned away once, the hero returns to his wife’s door, and the girlfriend speaks all ten poems to him. In poem 51, the heroine is compared to a keening water hen, and her desire for sour raw tamarind indicates her probable pregnancy. In poem 52, by repeating the word “red” multiple times, the girlfriend indicates that the heroine is menstruating and about to enter the fertile part of her cycle. In poem 53, the heroine is the “lotus” jostled by her husband’s lies. The girlfriend praises the beauty and virtues of the heroine, comparing them to the cities of the Pāṇṭiya and Cōḻa kings (poems 54–57) and to the city of Iruppai, ruled by the chieftain Virāṉ. In poem 59, the girlfriend refers to all the help she gave the hero while he was courting his wife. All these poems are set in the postmarital context, except for poem 60, in which the girlfriend tells the hero that it is time for him to marry the heroine. 51.

O Man of the place where the water hen, her claws sharp, keens for her blue-feathered mate,

her desire for raw tamarind is more of a cure for this girl’s cravings than the broad expanse of your chest. 52.

As a young red-lipped woman grieves, the whites of her eyes streaked red, her fingers stained a deeper red from stringing garlands of red purslane tendrils,

where, O Chieftain, is your chariot to stop? 53.

O Man of the paddy fields where a lotus is jostled and blossoms in a field when fresh floods roll over the bunds—

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why do we need a riverbank god to plague us with some illness when we have your promises? 54. 55.

If you drive off in your chariot as the choice bangles slip off the wrists of this woman who is like Tēṉūr in the good lands of the Pāṇṭiya king with strong chariots where cool floods flow even in summer, then I fear what will happen to the women who come bringing you garlands of sedge grass if you go to them in turn. You married the good beauty of this girl who resembles Tēṉūr, that city of the king who is rich in chariots and where the cane presses roar with the sound of a bull elephant.

Because you have left, her forehead has paled in front of everyone. 56.

The girl resembles Āmūr, that town of Cōḻa conquerors where night is unknown due to lamps that shine bright as day.

As the light of her fine brow grows dim, where is the profit in your calming words? 57.

Lord, I wonder: is your lover so beautiful that you’d leave, ruining the beauty of this girl who resembles Tēṉūr with its fields full of water lilies and its many-rayed fires as brilliant as day?

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58.

You seem haunted by this girl who resembles Iruppai, the generous Virāṉ’s city, with its heaps of white paddy like mountains.

You are like this with other women, too. May you live long. 59. Listen, Lord, and live long: I served as medicine to end your sorrow; to soothe your frustrated heart. But now, I am no medicine for this girl, and my heart is suffering. 60.

O Man from the fields where the water bird calls out to his keening mate, I say this to you: You come all the time to our big place while the whole house is asleep. Now aren’t you afraid of the spear in her father’s hand?

Ten Addresses by the Wife (Kiḻatti kūṟṟu-p-pattu) All ten poems are set in the postmarital context and are spoken by the wife directly to her husband. In poem 61, she continues with the girlfriend’s comparisons of female beauty to the glory of cities, but this time the comparison is used to denigrate her husband and to sarcastically celebrate the beauty of her rivals. Of particular interest are poems 65 and 70, in which the wife voices her anxieties about the ravages of pregnancy on her body. It is possible that the heroine’s words in the last two lines of poem 68 indicate that her rival is living under the heroine’s roof.

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61.

These good women who resemble Kaḻār, the generous chieftain Matti’s city, where ripe, sweet mangoes from a tree full of fragrant, tender fruit splash into the tank’s wide waters—

picking through them all, you want to marry them one after another. 62.

As if it is Indra’s festival, your chariot attracts the women of this town where a hen with its tiny budlike head keens in a strip of shade.

At which town, Lord, will your chariot stop now? 63.

O Man of the place where an otter, stinking of flesh, catches a scabbard fish for his daily meal in a place near the pond,

even if it wrecks our beauty, we will not cling to a chest, Lord, that has been embraced by others. 64.

While you bathed in the lovely freshets, embracing your lusty friend with her encircling companions, the witnesses were not just one, or two, but many.

Don’t hide it from us. 65.

O Man from the land of great floods where a water lily growing in a small plot planted in cane satisfies a bee’s hunger,

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don’t embrace our body, just delivered of a son. It will spoil your chest. 66. I’m not angry, so tell me without lying:

she who foiled your return in your chariot to your fertile house, even when you’d thought of your son with his unsteady steps—

who is that woman, Lord? 67. Listen: That woman you’ve taken now is gullible. 68.

They say that she’s proud of her own great beauty which rivals mine, but I cannot rival her. Many have dulled her hair and her bright forehead, more than there are bees sucking honey from budding flowers. O Man from the place where a hollow-stemmed lily blossoms like a lotus at early dawn, has your woman no respect?

I’ve tried to make her submit to me, but she will not be tamed. 69. Lord, we saw your girl, didn’t we?

The cool freshets tumbling with blossoms onto the vast banks where many bathe erased her sand castle,

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so she stood weeping until her kohl-rimmed eyes turned red. 70.

O Man from the place of fresh wealth with its great water tank, where a crane perches atop a myrobalan in the field and gorges himself on paddy fish, your women are pure and fragrant.

We are like a demon. We gave birth to a child.

Ten Poems on Bathing in the Freshets (Puṉalāṭṭu-p-pattu) All ten poems are set in the postmarital context and are composed on the theme of playing in water, an opportunity for heroes to cavort with other women and form clandestine relationships with them. The “waters” here are sluices that run between fields or bathing ghats at the riverbank. In poems 71 and 80, the heroine angrily accuses her husband of cavorting in the waters with her rivals. In poems 72 to 74, the hero wants his sulking wife to bathe with him, and to cajole her into doing so he reminisces on past pleasures to his wife’s girlfriend in his wife’s hearing. The girlfriend accuses the hero on the wife’s behalf in poems 75 and 76, and a sulking rival woman accosts the hero in poems 77 and 78, trying to convince him to go bathe with her rather than return home to his wife. The rival’s girlfriend addresses the hero in poem 79, mockingly accusing him of impropriety. 71.

Gossip says that you bathed in the freshets yesterday, embracing your dear lover, that girl with the tiny armlets with those dice-shaped clasps, her body pliant, her gestures coy. Can you, Lord, hide it from me? Can you bury the brilliance of the sun?

72. Wearing her shimmering leaf dress, laced together with the tender stems of lilies that bloom in the fields, her mound mottled and her tresses swinging,

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73.

that soft beauty with eyes like blue lilies became my boon companion as we played in the freshets as the swelling flood came, its waters crammed with flowers. When that woman, her brightly colored leaf dress shimmering, her jewels bright and forehead gleaming, dashed into the freshets, that rush of water in the broad ghats became refreshing as the blue lilies let go their scent.

74.

Climbing the myrobalan next to the bank, she would jump into the waters as her jewels gleamed gently, shining like purest gold, her cool, fragrant hair equal in beauty to a peacock’s tail as it swoops from the sky.

75. This is not the place for you, Lord:

many have started a rumor in town that she bathed with you in the chilly freshets of the wide ghat where an ancient myrobalan stands in full blossom.

76.

As she bathed with you in these chilly freshets, she became all the more radiant, that woman with the glinting armlets, hair thick as a cluster of sedge grass, her freckles like new flowers, and even to heavenly women, she looked just like a goddess.

77. Look at me, and live long! I will say to you, Lord,

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78.

that I will bathe with you in the chilly freshets, churning up the water’s ripples until gossip rises in the big town. Come along with us; why go home? Let us bathe in the new floods that wash away the bunds. Like those wall-smashing elephants of Kiḷḷi, his horses swift, his spears long and with glinting points, those waters are as fast as his beasts as they thunder down their path.

Take hold of this raft with me; this raft that resembles my shoulders. 79.

Lord, you caught her, asking, “Whose daughter is this, her eyes reddened from bathing in the new floods?” You wouldn’t know whose daughter she is, and just whose son are you, to be grabbing us like this?

80. We will not become sullen, so do tell us without lying:

because you have bathed in the sandy floods that come with new rains, and becoming intimate with the shoulders of women that you love for their beauty alone, your eyes, Lord, have grown pure scarlet.

Ten Poems on Varieties of Sulking (Pulavi virāya pattu) As the title of this decad may suggest, the context of these poems is postmarital. This decad, in which Ōrampōkiyār presents an array of conversational situations, is distinguished by a series of unusual images and strong emotion. The rival woman speaks to the hero in poems 81, 86, and 87. In the latter, the rival learns that the wife has spoken ill of her. The sticks

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of sugarcane in poem 87 are the terrible things being said, and the falling mangoes represent the wife’s sweet words as she compels her husband to return to her. The heroine addresses the bard in poem 82; in poems 83 and 85 she speaks directly to her husband. The rival speaks to her companion in poems 88 and 90 and to the hero’s bard in poem 89. She refers to the hero’s wife as “Little Sister” in poems 88 and 89. 81.

O Man of the town where the pond is decked with flowers at its gates, and where expert drummers set by as their supper the flesh of a tortoise, its wide, white belly torn open and sampled by a stork—

if your wife hears that you’ve said you want me, she will suffer greatly. 82. O Bard,

they say that your mistress was enraged when she heard that the bees that eat pollen from the fragrant garland of clustering flowers on our lord’s chest

come to sit on the newly opened blooms that adorn our own hair. 83. You married me, but you still don’t care, and please leave me slowly, bit by bit

so that all those women of your place, their wrists gleaming with bangles, might become the lovers of the townsman of the cool ghats.

84. If she so much as hears it with her ears, she’ll get angry beyond words.

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85.

But what will become of her if with her own eyes she sees your chest, dirtied by those others who embraced it and enjoyed it as though it were a cool tank in the winter months where women bathe, plaiting their hair in five strands and decking it with fragrant flowers? O Man from the town brimming with fresh wealth without taint, where a white-browed water hen keens sweetly with her flock in cool, fragrant fields—

your actions are worthy of a child, and those who saw you— will they not laugh, big man? 86.

O Man from the place that resounds with the calls of a white-headed crane, gentle in its flight, that reach out over vast stretches of paddy—

it’s impossible to love me in this place; go home and join your wife. 87.

O Man from the town of fresh wealth, where herders rich in cows and wrapped in jalap garlands drum ripe mangoes from the trees with sticks of sugarcane,

your wife will get angry with anyone; why should I be exempt?

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88.

That man from the cool ghats loved by everyone where the refreshing banks of the pond are lush with flowers— Little Sister says that I want him close to me. Though we act as if we didn’t want him, we will make him come.

89. Look here, Bard, and live long:

they say that the man from the town where bees suck honey from the fields showers Little Sister with favors; why is that?

Not because of her womanly ways but for her disposition. 90.

Have the bees acquired the fine habits of my lord, or has my lord acquired the fine habits of the bees, I wonder? Not knowing his nature, that mother of his son is angry with me.

Ten Poems on the Water Buffalo (Erumai-p-pattu) The water buffalo is the common element in this decad. In every poem, Ōrampōkiyār uses the buffalo to great effect to comment on human behavior. Poems 91 to 94 are set in the premarital context of clandestine love. Poem 91 is spoken by the heroine’s girlfriend to the hero. He has come to court the heroine, who is much too young for him. This is indicated by her garland of cane flowers, which bear no scent: the girl is not yet mature enough to discriminate between good and bad flowers; the cane flowers also indicate in this context that she has not yet reached puberty. The girlfriend hints to the hero that the heroine’s father might do him harm with her reference to the “big, blue-black he-buffalo” with the bad temper. In poem 92, the hero directly addresses the heroine, whose father’s

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wealth and generosity are indicated by the mother buffalo. The heroine’s girlfriend speaks to the mother in poem 93, in earshot of the hero. The mother has grown suspicious and has confined the heroine to the house, as the girlfriend simultaneously indicates to the mother and to the hero that a marriage must be brokered quickly. Poem 94 is the hero’s soliloquy as he returns to the heroine’s town to ask for her hand, having made his fortune. He expresses his wishes for a happy married life in the last three lines of the poem. Poems 95 to 100 are set in the postmarital context. Poem 95 is spoken by the wife to her misbehaving husband’s mediators (the bolting buffalo is a not-so-oblique reference to her husband). Poem 96 represents the voices of the mediators, who have taken the wife’s side: the flowers still manage to bloom in the mire where the husband/buffalo wallows. There is also an opposition between the heroine’s father, whose fields are kaḻaṉi (cultivated paddy fields), and the husband, whose fields are paḻaṉam, also paddy fields, but the indication here (as in poem 4) is a public, common space. The hero is the speaker of poem 97. He is wearing a fresh garland, and his wife thinks that he has been cavorting with her rivals (he is the mother buffalo; his wife is the calf). His words are of reassurance. Poems 98 and 100 are spoken by the wife’s girlfriend to the husband. In poem 98, the girlfriend tells the returning husband that the wife has every reason to be angry but that he is overly worried about the degree of his wife’s anger: he is, in effect, “making a boat out of a buffalo” in his misreading of the situation. In poem 100, the girlfriend also indicates the wife’s forgiveness to the hero: the unearthed jewels represent the wife’s recounting of pleasant memories. In poem 99, the hero rejoices in being forgiven: the wife is the buffalo, who takes the good right along with the bad. 91.

Wearing a garland of sugarcane flowers, this girl is the daughter of the man from the town near the fields where a big, blue-black he-buffalo, his horns deeply grooved, uproots the lilies in the pond crammed with flowers.

92. We will come to your town, to your father’s place, where a red-eyed buffalo

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with black horns has just calved and gives her flowing udder to her love-struck young,

if only we can have you, woman with the glinting armlets. 93.

The bees disdain the honey from all those groves, spoiled by herds of sturdy bull buffalos as they feed on new red ebony along with water lilies.

They prefer to swarm about this girl, her hair decked with budding flowers, to feed on the sweetness there. 94. That town where her father lives, that girl with the fine, gleaming brow, and where lotuses bloom in the fields, 95.

is in the country where ancient ape-flower trees cast their shadows and stout-horned buffalos are faithful to their mates, like warriors who stay on with their wives. The man from the town circled by waters where a black-horned buffalo snaps his fetter, bolts, and grazes at dawn on long beards of paddy—

he’s given me a rare sickness: lush grief, even in broad daylight.

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96.

This girl is the daughter of that man from the town of the paddy fields, where white lilies, along with those of sapphire hue, flourish in the mire where a finely gaited buffalo wallows:

she is also the sweet bed companion of that man from the town with public fields. 97.

This girl is the daughter of the man from the town where, in the pond, a black-footed buffalo calf is afraid of his mother’s horns, decked as they are with white jalap blossoms,

and she is cooler and more fragrant than the lotuses in its waters. 98.

O Man of the town where a stout-horned buffalo wallows in the chilly freshets and resembles a tied-down boat: will your father and mother scold you more than this guileless girl, her armlets gleaming?

99.

This girl is the daughter of the man from the town lush with flowers, where a loose buffalo tramples a nest swarming with red ants in a bitter-gourd vine in the field, along with its beards of rice:

her shapely shoulders are a balm for my pain. 100. This girl is the daughter of the man of the town of fresh wealth, where, on dunes of shifting sand,

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a buffalo unearths the glinting jewels left behind by women bathing in the freshets: her words sound more sweetly than the lyre strings of bards.

920 Neytal

L

Ō rampōkiyār , Ammūvaṉār’s dates are most likely 150–200. It is clear that he favored the neytal landscape: aside from the one hundred poems in the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu, he composed twenty-three additional neytal poems that appear in three other anthologies (five in the Akanāṉūṟu, ten in the Kuṟuntokai, and eight in the Naṟṟiṇai). He composed three pālai poems and only one in the kuṟiñci landscape. Neytal poems are set on the seacoast: in backwaters, brackish marshes, and on the sands of the beach. All seasons are appropriate for this landscape, and the poems are set at sunrise and sometimes at twilight. The mood is one of separation and intense anxiety. Many of the poems consist of the heroine’s laments (iraṅkal) as she worries about damaging gossip, anxiously awaits the return of her lover for elopement or more conventional marriage, or, if she is married, the return of her husband, who is usually cavorting with her rivals, though this latter context is not nearly as common in the neytal as it is in the marutam landscape. The human cast of characters in these poems includes the hero (talaivaṉ), his companion (pāṅkaṉ), his bard (pāṇar) and other members of his retinue, the heroine (talaivi), her girlfriend (tōḻi), the heroine’s mother (naṟṟāy) and foster mother (cevili-t-tāy), and her rival (parattai). The native elements of the neytal landscape include saltwater fish, conchs, crabs, shrimp, crocodiles, and water fowl of various sorts: the white water bird and the gray-cowled crow each have entire decads devoted to them. Botanical elements include the neytal lily itself (neytal refers to either of two species, the white Indian water lily or the blue nelumbo), cassia and pear trees, and the screw pine and its flowers. ike

Ten Poems Addressed to the Mother (Tāykkuraitta pattu) The element common to all ten poems is the phrase aṉṉai vāḻi vēṇṭu aṉṉai, occurring in the first line of each. I have translated this phrase as “O Mother,

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live long! Please listen: Mother.” The speaker in every case is the heroine’s girlfriend, and the addressee is the girlfriend’s mother, who is also the foster mother of the heroine and her close confidante. All the poems, excepting poem 104, are set in the situation of clandestine love before marriage. The phrase aṉṉai vāḻi (O Mother, live long!) indicates that the girlfriend is about to convey important information, and in a respectful way. In nearly every case, the girlfriend is obliquely indicating that the heroine has fallen in love and that the foster mother must take steps to arrange for a wedding as soon as possible because people have begun to gossip. In poem 101, the returning hero’s chariot wheels crush the gossip, represented by the tendrils of the hare-leaf vine. Gossiping townsfolk are also represented in poem 102, by the chattering seabirds. The girlfriend extols the couple’s suitability in poem 103, obliquely referring to the fame and prosperity of the families by invoking the cassia and mastwood trees, which flower at the same time. Poem 104 is set in the postmarital context. The heroine has just given birth to a son, and the girlfriend is providing a description of the town to the visiting foster mother, reminding her of the hero’s premarital visits in the middle of the night. In poem 105, the girlfriend invites the foster mother to observe the heroine’s happiness, and the actions of the gander in poem 106 are a humorous indication to the foster mother that she has mistaken the heroine’s lovesickness for a physical ailment. Poems 107 to 109 are all expressions of the heroine’s lovesickness. In poem 107, the heroine lies awake, listening for the hero’s chariot wheels, but she can hear only the crashing waves of the sea. In poem 110, the girlfriend obliquely refers to the wealth of the hero by invoking the golden mastwood flowers, and in the final three lines, she tells the foster mother that the heroine has chosen her own husband. “The town” refers to the heroine’s parents, who have chosen a different man for her, and the poem serves as a veiled plea to the foster mother to set things right. 101. O Mother, live long! Please listen:

Look there, Mother, as its wheels crush the green hare-leaf vine with its beautiful tendrils, dragging them through the blue water lilies of the marshy land, our lord’s chariot has become medicine for the sickness

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that has spread over your daughter’s lilylike, kohl-rimmed eyes. 102. O Mother, live long! Please listen: Mother, like the birds of the vast blue sea near our town, his chariot’s bell chatters without cease, and the pleasure it causes will banish this sorrow that afflicts us. 103. O Mother, live long! Please listen:

Mother, that lord of the cool, beautiful shoals where cassia blooms alongside the mastwood was a perfect match for her, and now her coppery beauty suits her perfectly, as well.

104. O Mother, live long! Please listen:

Mother, such is this town of the son of our rich lord, his body grown thin, who came to our place in a sturdy chariot at midnight, the time when all were asleep in our town.

105. O Mother, live long! Please listen:

Mother, when he came, that lord of the cool, lovely shores where pearls, left behind by the roaring sea’s waves, wink in the white sand,

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her forehead glowed with a sheen brighter than gold itself. Just look at it. 106. O Mother, live long! Please listen:

Mother, this girl’s lovely body glowing with beauty is paler than the conch in that cold sea in his country, where a gander, his legs like twin elephants’ trunks, mounts it, mistaking it for his mate.

Think about it and see for yourself. 107. O Mother, live long! Please listen: Mother, my friend’s bright brow has dulled, and she’s grown thin and weak from sorrow. Each time she hears the crash of the frigid sea she does not sleep, and I suffer. 108. O Mother, live long! Please listen: Mother, that lord of the frigid sea where a screw pine blooms in the salt pans—

if he has abandoned our shoulders, then whose shoulders could he possibly want now, I wonder?

109. O Mother, live long! Please listen:

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Mother, that man of the fords crammed with flowers where floodgates are choked with blue lilies—

why is it that from the instant he abandoned our shoulders, that moment when he loved us still lingers for days on end?

110. O Mother, live long! Please listen:

Mother, that man of the fords where mastwood flowers gleam like gold— we call him husband; the town has chosen otherwise. With whom will fate agree?

Ten Poems Addressed to the Girlfriend (Tōḻikkuraitta pattu) The element common to all ten poems is the phrase amma vāḻi tōḻi, occurring in the first line of each. I have translated it as “Look here, Friend. Live long.” The speaker in every case is the heroine, and the one addressed is her girlfriend. All but poem 118 are set in the premarital context. In nearly every poem, the heroine expresses her anxiety over the hero’s failure to ask for her hand. In poem 111, she likens herself to a carp that has been “hooked” by the words of the hero’s bard/mediator. In poem 112, the heroine reassures the girlfriend that the hero will return and says that her virtue has remained intact, attempting to convince the girlfriend (and perhaps herself) that he will keep his promises. Poem 113 is spoken in the hero’s hearing, telling him that the gossip has begun (the extent of it is indicated by the “crashing waves scattering white sand”) and that her mother has grown suspicious. In poem 114, the heroine suggests a visit to the hero to lodge a complaint. Poem 118 represents the words of a married heroine, who has gone to have words with her philandering husband; she expresses her regrets to her girlfriend. The decad ends on a happy note. Poem 120 is spoken in earshot of the hero, who has returned to marry the heroine.

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111. Look here, Friend. Live long:

Separated from the love of the man from the fords, where a bard baits a hook beside the purling backwaters and kills a carp heavy with eggs, how might we live?

We will not even try that difficult penance. 112. Look here, Friend. Live long: We will see him coming, our lord of the vast backwaters overspread by green-leaved pear trees, but our modest heart has forgotten him. 113. Look here, Friend. Live long:

Yesterday, the townsfolk said that I belonged to the lord of the fords where crashing waves scatter white sand,

and Friend, when Mother heard it and said, “Daughter?” I whispered, “What cruel people.” 114. Look here, Friend. Live long: We haven’t seen our lord.

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Still, might we go to his land, where a pelican keens among jagged palmyra stems? 115. Look here, Friend. Live long:

The lord of that cool, lovely ford where he played with us on the dunes heaped with fine, sharp sand has come and stands hiding from our mother’s strict watch.

116. Look here, Friend. Live long:

As we weep, evening has fallen, when the blue lilies in the vast, dark backwaters shut their petals, as night sends off the morning as brilliant as the sun.

117. Look here, Friend. Live long: We cannot forget that lord of the sapphire waters, where beautiful mastwood blossoms line every single ford, and it is cruel that our beauty has sunk to such a state. 118. Look here, Friend. Live long: When I saw that unjust man today, I went to him thinking,

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“I will get angry; I will deny him.” But pondering the consequences afterwards, I’ve come back full of regret. 119. Look here, Friend. Live long:

Since that lord of soft sands cannot understand my dilemma, it is clear that he has no love for me at all, that one who has not come.

120. Look here, Friend. Live long:

Now that he’s come, that lord of soft, lovely places where the waters lay down silt throughout the vast, fertile backwaters,

my soft, expectant shoulders have regained their beauty.

Ten Poems Addressed to the Hero (Kiḻavaṟkuraitta pattu) The poems in this set are extremely brief in the original—each verse is a mere three lines in length, as are the poems in the two decads that follow. The first line of each poem reads kaṇṭikum allamō koṇka niṉ kēḷē (We saw your little friend, didn’t we, Lord?) All eight poems (129 and 130 are missing) are addressed to the hero in the postmarital context. The commentators suggest two different situations. One possibility is that these verses are spoken to the hero by an angry rival woman, who has spotted him cavorting in the waves with yet another—and much younger—rival. The second (and more straightforward) possibility is a scenario in which the wife’s girlfriend has seen the hero, and she mocks him with these verses. The force of the word kēḷ in the first line implies a kinship relation (such as “wife”), and this adds a note of satire to the speaker’s words. The girl in these verses is extremely

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young—a child, really—and therefore an inappropriate companion for the hero. Every verse underscores her innocence and immaturity. 121. We saw your little friend, didn’t we, Lord?

Drenching her braid plaited with screw pine, she jumped into the sea’s crystalline waves and just stood there.

122. We saw your little friend, didn’t we, Lord?

She asked a white seabird about her gleaming jewels that she’d lost in the rising sands near the sea.

123. We saw your little friend, didn’t we, Lord?

As her bright-browed playmates laughed at her, she plunged into the waves of the vast, icy sea.

124. We saw your little friend, didn’t we, Lord?

As it snatched away the doll she’d made of silt, she gathered up fistfuls of sand to dry up the sea.

125. We saw your little friend, didn’t we, Lord? When the crystalline waves snatched away her doll,

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she stood there weeping till her kohl-rimmed eyes turned crimson. 126. We saw your little friend, didn’t we, Lord?

As bees swarmed around her kohl-rimmed eyes, she plunged into the great waves of the crystalline sea.

127. We saw your little friend, didn’t we, Lord?

She prevented your chest adorned with cut gems from touching her tiny breasts garlanded with white nettle.

128. We saw your little friend, didn’t we, Lord? She proffered her dry, milkless breasts to a doll that cannot suck. 129. [Lost.] 130. [Lost.]

Ten Poems Addressed to the Bard (Pāṇaṟkuraitta pattu) Each of the ten poems is spoken by the married heroine in three brief lines. She speaks directly to her husband’s bard, his mediator, in every poem save 139, in which she addresses her husband, but in the bard’s hearing. Her husband has been openly cavorting with rival women, and in poems 131 and 132 she complains to the bard about the resulting gossip. Poem 133 serves as a nice contrast to 134 as the heroine describes, respectively, the physical aspects of separation and reunion. In poem 135, the heroine gives voice to her suspicions that her rival is far more beautiful than she, and

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she expresses her anger to the bard in 136, sending him back to the hero. In poem 137, the heroine has forgiven her husband and wonders aloud to the bard about the fate of her rivals. She mocks the bard in poem 138: her husband has returned on his own without the bard’s knowledge, and she accuses him of not doing his job properly. In poem 139, the heroine assumes a lofty tone, and in the final poem of the set expresses her agony to the bard; the last two lines indicate her extreme emaciation. 131. Yes, his love is good, O Bard,

but only when the buzzing gossip does not rise in this town skirted round by blinding tillai trees.

132. Look here, Bard. Live long: Because of his loving ways, gossip has sprouted in this town today, its seashore groves lush with budding mastwood. 133.

As he parted from me, that lord of soft, beautiful sands, I fell apart, and my shoulders, spiraled with armlets, have become thin.

O Bard, what will I do? 134. Look, Bard:

My coppery beauty returned on its own right along with our lord of the vast backwaters, his tall chariot drawn by plunging horses.

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135. I wouldn’t worry, Bard, if I were as beautiful as my rival, her lovely eyes like blue lilies, her shoulders ample; her loins soft and widening. 136. It’s clear you are shameless, Bard: go waste your words on that man from the lush fords with their sea groves; that man who caused my pretty, curving bangles to drop right off my wrists. 137. I have a question for you, Bard: those women who wanted that man with the strong chariot in your town— will they ever gain back their former beauty? 138.

Chastising him repeatedly with harsh and loveless words, you failed to bring back to this town our lord of soft sands.

It’s clear that you’re unskilled, Bard. 139. Look here, Lord. Live long:

Your bard is even better at spoiling the virtues of good women than are you, as you sully my dignified beauty.

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140. Look here, Bard. You are fit to tell him about my plight: since that lord of the fords left me, my gleaming, jointed bangles have dropped right off my wrists.

Ten Poems on the Cassia Tree (Ñāḻaṟ-pattu) Also set in three brief lines, the poems of this decad are devoted to the cassia tree, one of the botanical emblems of the neytal landscape. Each poem begins with the words ekkar ñāḻal (the dune cassia, or the cassia [growing in] the dunes). The first two poems are set in the premarital context. In poem 141, the heroine, whose lover has gone off but is sure to return, addresses her girlfriend in a spot where she had had a pleasant encounter with him. The memories associated with the place make her sad. The heroine also addresses her girlfriend in poem 142 but in earshot of the hero, who has not yet arranged for their marriage. Poem 143 is set in the postmarital context. The girlfriend scolds the hero for becoming indifferent. Poems 144 to 147 return to the premarital context. In poem 144, the heroine addresses her girlfriend, complaining about her lover’s lack of interest in marrying her, suggested by her reference to “a single crane nesting in a grove of blooming cassias.” Poem 145 is the girlfriend’s soliloquy upon seeing that the hero has come with his retinue to ask for the heroine’s hand. Poem 146 is the heroine’s happy address to her girlfriend, and in the following poem, the girlfriend comments to the heroine on what the hero has staked for her hand. The oblique reference in the indented stanza informs the heroine that the hero would give her the whole world if he could, but he can offer “only” his country. Poems 148 and 149 are spoken by the girlfriend directly after the wedding, instructing the heroine in the first and simultaneously blessing and cautioning the hero in the second. In poem 150, the heroine addresses her girlfriend in the postmarital context. Her husband has been cavorting with a rival woman, and she gives this as her reason for refusing him entry to the house. 141. As the cassias in the dunes grew fragrant along with the pear trees, that bracing ford made me pale, spattering me with its icy spray of drops.

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142.

Friend, I will not think of the man from the ford where nesting birds live in the low boughs of that cassia tree in the dunes, its branches heavy with blooms.

Just let my eyes go to sleep. 143.

In that widening ford where birds warble in the cassia trees growing in the dunes, her broad, soft shoulders gave you sweetness, but now, they give you only pain.

144. For the sake of that man from the ford where a single crane nests in a grove of blooming cassias growing in dunes, my reddish beauty has now gone pale. 145.

That man from the ford where the sea batters the stout branches of the dune cassias as they sprout their leaves

has now erased the pallor of that dusky girl. 146. My coppery beauty is clearly sweet to the lord of the ford where the ripening bud clusters of the cassias in the dunes give off a heady smell.

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147. That man of the ford where women can’t find the flowers of the cassias growing in the dunes, but dress themselves in their shimmering leaves, has given his whole country as bride-price. 148.

You love that man from the ford, redolent with the honeyed smell of the flowers from the dune cassia’s stout, looming branches—

embrace him, and sweetly. 149.

May you no longer cultivate misery for that woman with the young breasts, their mottled spots spreading like the flowers of the dune cassias,

and may you never leave her. 150.

That man from the ford where waves crash against the dune cassias, their stout branches full of fragrant blossoms—

he rarely makes love, and causes sheer misery whenever he does.

Ten Poems on the White Water Bird (Veḷḷāṅkuruku-p-pattu) These complex poems all begin with the same two lines, veḷḷāṅ kurukiṉ piḷḷai cettu eṉa-k-/kāṇiya ceṉṟa maṭa-naṭai nārai (the soft-gaited heron as it went off to see/the dying hatchling of the white water bird). These poems are the most allegorical in the anthology. They are all set in the postmarital context. The white water bird is the wife’s rival, the heron represents the

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husband and his mediators, and the dying hatchling stands for the futile love between the husband and his rival. Poems 151 and 152 are spoken by the heroine to her girlfriend. In the first, she denies her husband entry to the house. The blue lilies represent her heart, and their fragrance stands for her resounding denial. In the second, she has heard that her husband wants to marry her rival—the keening of the white water bird reveals that the rival woman cannot be appeased. The girlfriend addresses, in earshot of the hero, a group of mediators in poem 153. In poems 154 and 155, the heroine addresses the girlfriend, and in poem 156, the girlfriend sarcastically addresses the mediators, commenting on the profligacy of the hero in the final three lines (the “mother” is the wife). In poem 157, the heroine addresses the girlfriend: the hero has taken their little son along with him to visit the rival, and the son returns home alone, making clear the hero has stayed on with the rival. The girlfriend sends the hero back to the rival in poem 158, ironically referring to the rival as “my friend” in the last stanza. The girlfriend addresses the hero again in poem 159, and in poem 160, the wife finally confronts her husband, displaying ironic sympathy for her rival. 151.

I will not consent to see him, though my heart favors that man from the ford where blue lilies give off their honeyed smell without cease and, blooming like eyes, were trampled by the soft-gaited heron as it went off to see the dying hatchling of the white water bird.

152.

They say that he will marry her, that man from the lush ford with its beautiful shore where the soft-gaited heron that went to see the dying hatchling of the white water bird that now keens in a grove, not knowing what to do.

He seems to have his virtues, but that is how he shows me his love. 153. Will this girl with the beautiful long hair ever seek love from the man of the ford

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where the soft-gaited heron that went to see the dying hatchling of the white water bird preens, leaving fallen feathers on cresting dunes? 154. What will I do with this man of the ford where the soft-gaited heron that went to see the dying hatchling of the white water bird nests in a seaside grove? This town just tells me lies. 155.

I have borne a child of sedge grass for him, that man from the ford where the soft-gaited heron that went to see the dying hatchling of the white water bird uproots the blue lilies that crowd the backwaters and sends them out to sea.

156.

He is from the ford where the crystalline backwaters are adrift with red-spotted feathers, falling as the soft-gaited heron shook them loose as it went to see the dying hatchling of the white water bird.

He is a lover, but is he mine, my mother’s, or someone else’s? 157. Our son has come all by himself, not along with that lord of the crystalline sea,

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where the soft-gaited heron went to see the dying hatchling of the white water bird and stays there from morning till night. 158. O Lord of the cool, beautiful fords where a soft-gaited heron that had gone to see the dying hatchling of the white water bird roams with its mate in the gorgeous, vast ford with its seaside groves, just see the sorrow of my friend, her body the hue of a luscious mango. 159. O Lord of the cool waters where the soft-gaited heron that went to see the dying hatchling of the white water bird stays, wasting from hunger,

I will not beg one thing of you. But having robbed her of her virtue, just give it back to her and go away.

160. O Lord of the ford where the soft-gaited heron that went to see the dying hatchling of the white water bird has suffered and now ails even more than before, she, too, grieves more than in the past, so embrace her, Big Man, this girl who is more desolate than ever.

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Ten Poems on the Gray-Cowled Crow (Ciṟuveṇkākkai-p-pattu) All ten poems begin with the line peruṅkaṭaṟ karaiyatu ciṟuveṇ kākkai (a gray-cowled crow from the shores of the vast sea). In each instance, the crow represents the absent hero, and the fish and the lilies that appear in many of these poems stand for rival women. The first three poems are set in the premarital context and are the words of the heroine to her girlfriend. In poems 161 and 163, the heroine complains that her lover is not keeping his promises to her; the “crashing spray” in poem 163 represents the gossip that has begun—the crow/hero “sleeps,” oblivious to it. In poem 162, the hero is “feasting on” the heroine’s rivals. Poems 164 and 165 are also spoken by the heroine to her girlfriend, but in the postmarital context. Poem 166 is the girlfriend’s soliloquy, intended for the hero’s ears: set in the premarital context, the hero is terrified of marriage, represented by the net. The last two lines of the poem are spoken in irony: quite the opposite is true. Set in the postmarital context, poem 167 is the wife’s defense, despite his faults, of her husband to her girlfriend. In poem 168, the heroine’s parents are trying to marry her off, but she is longing for the hero. The boat stands for the heroine; the eggs are the hero’s love. The words are spoken by the girlfriend to the foster mother to let her know that her charge will regain her appetite once a marriage is arranged with the right man. Poems 169 and 170 are set in the postmarital context. In 169, the wife addresses her girlfriend, telling her that her straying husband has forsaken all her old rivals (the cassia tree) for new, younger ones (flowering mastwood boughs,/their buds just opening). In 170, the wife replies to her girlfriend’s false assurances, referring to her rivals as spoiled “blue lilies.” 161.

He is from the ford where a gray-cowled crow from the shores of the vast sea nests in the dark branches of a mastwood tree. And because of him, my forehead has paled and has lost its luster; my heart that wanted him is now in pain.

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162. Those words of that man from the ford— where a gray-cowled crow from the shores of the vast sea picked out its food in the shallows of the wide backwaters and, having eaten, nests in a grove heady with flowers— have they come from another man’s mouth? 163.

He is from the ford where a gray-cowled crow from the shores of the vast sea sleeps in the crashing spray in the wide backwaters. And when he left me, my bracelets also left my wrists, slipping from my fine forearms.

164. That man of the cool, beautiful ford where a gray-cowled crow from the shores of the vast sea gorges itself on loach fish on the banks of backwater stretches— aside from the calamity for us, his greatness gave birth only to gossip. 165.

He is from the ford where a gray-cowled crow from the shores of the vast sea stuffs itself on tiny fish in a dried-up marsh. And the words he spoke only snatched the gleaming bracelets from my fine wrists.

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166. Believing that man from the soft, beautiful shores where a gray-cowled crow from the shores of the vast sea mistakes a row of white cowries for a net and grows fearful— the eyes of that good girl have grown good again. 167. That man of the ford where a gray-cowled crow from the shores of the vast sea eats a whole school of catfish in the stretches of backwater spoke as if he would love us. Even though he won’t show us love, he’s still my mate from my previous lives. 168.

He is from the cool, beautiful ford where a gray-cowled crow from the shores of the vast sea lays its eggs in the wooden seat of a small boat tied down in the ghat.

If he shows us his love, this bright-browed beauty will surely drink her milk. 169.

He is from the ford where a gray-cowled crow from the shores of the vast sea nests in the lush, flowering mastwood boughs, their buds just opening, if it’s not content with the cassia tree with its golden clusters of bloom.

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Knowing that he is in my heart, then what are my eyes to do, my friend, growing pallid like this? 170. He is from the ford where a gray-cowled crow from the shores of the vast sea spoils the blue lilies in the stretches of backwater.

If you say that he is good, then why do my kohl-rimmed eyes like many-petaled flowers grow dull?

Ten Poems on Toṇṭi Town (Toṇṭi-p-pattu) Each poem in this decad is set in the context of premarital love. The poems are structured around comparisons to Toṇṭi, an ancient seaport on the west coast of modern-day Kerala (not to be confused with the Toṇṭi of today, a town on the southeastern coast of Tamil Nadu). The poems are linked together by a poetic figure called antāti (from the Sanskrit anta, “end,” plus ādi, “beginning”), in which the last letter, syllable, or prosodic foot of the last line of one stanza is repeated in the first line of the succeeding stanza. I was able to mimic this effect to a certain extent in the translation, as poems 171 to 173 and 176 to 177 read in sequence reveal. The poems are also linked by a discernible narrative of courtship, in which the hero sees the heroine and confides in his pāṅkaṉ (sidekick or male companion), in poems 171 and 172, who sees the heroine for himself and, in poem 173, soliloquizes on her beauty. Poem 174 is the hero’s soliloquy after his first secret meeting with the heroine. He addresses her directly in poem 175 as she walks with her girlfriend. In poem 176, he addresses the girlfriend in the heroine’s hearing, and the intimate detail of the first stanza makes clear they have had intercourse for the very first time. He addresses the girlfriend so that she will help arrange a second meeting, blaming the heroine for his lovesick condition. The girlfriend replies to him in poem 177, indicating that the heroine (the “water thorn”) is under the careful watch of her family (the “surging waves” of the last line). In poem 178, the hero compares himself to Toṇṭi, pleading with the girlfriend to “just give her” to him, and poems 179 and 180 constitute the girlfriend’s

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replies, telling the hero that he must marry the heroine quickly, signaling the heroine’s own lovesickness in the reference to the writhing shrimp in the penultimate line of 179. In the final poem, the girlfriend urges the hero to hurry, saying that her family is about to offer her (the “fat fish”) to another suitor, his father represented by the “old crane” of lines 5 to 8. 171. She is just like Toṇṭi, where the pleasing din from booming drums mixes with the sweet roar of the nearby crashing waves and resounds in every street. That girl with the ample shoulders and gleaming armlets has stolen away my heart. 172. That girl with gleaming armlets has stolen away my heart: 173.

like the roaring waves of the swelling sea near Toṇṭi where misty fords buzz with bees, even at night, I do not know what sleep is. Even at night, they do not know what sweet sleep is, those men who suffer over her black, plaited hair smelling of those cool, fragrant blue lilies of Toṇṭi—

they feel a sorrow like that of a cobra that has lost its crest jewel. 174.

That girl with kohl-rimmed eyes with many red streaks, her jewels delicate and her body brimming over with beauty,

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175. 176.

showed her favor to me with a tryst in a grove heady with flowers just like Toṇṭi with its misty fords and avenging goddesses as I grew thin. Live long, Woman, as you walk gently with your girlfriend, that one with the fine brow and finely jointed shoulders. If you want to show us your love, come back, and bring with you those many qualities similar to Toṇṭi. Her body is like a plucked sprout. She has soft, widening loins, gleaming anklets, and smells of the new blossoms of Toṇṭi, fragrant and cool.

This woman has robbed me of my virtues and my sleep— Please tell me where I have erred. 177.

Although they’ve never erred, they’re bound to suffer, those men who have seen the shoulders of that girl who is like Toṇṭi, where the heady blossoms of water thorn give off their scent from the high crests of dunes, crashing with surging waves.

178. Just by praising her hair and shoulders, is it possible to go on living, when you won’t give her willingly to me?

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You can see that I am just like Toṇṭi, the city of the just Kuṭṭuvaṉ. 179. Please show us your love, Man of the big waters, and may you live long: this small-browed girl who cannot live without you is just like Toṇṭi, its sounds sweet, where a shrimp from the ghats writhes when attacked by a crab. 180. Come now, marry her quickly:

you can have the virtues of this girl who is like Toṇṭi, where an old crane that can no longer fly waits in the ford for its meal, the fat fish proffered by the fishermen of the deep waters.

Ten Poems on the Blue Lily (Neytaṟ-pattu) All ten verses have the neytal lily as their central image, the emblematic flower of the landscape of the seashore. The term neytal refers to two different species of water lily, the white Indian water lily and the blue nelumbo. I have translated neytal as “blue lily” in every poem because it seems to work with the similes effectively (see poem 189, for instance). Poems 181 to 183 are set in the premarital context. The heroine speaks to her girlfriend in poem 181, expressing her impatience: she is waiting for her lover to return and marry her. The girls are dancing the kuravai, a type of circle dance in which the dancers take turns playing husband and wife, the sight of which makes the heroine long for her own wedding. The girlfriend speaks to the foster mother in poem 182. The foster mother is convinced that the heroine’s depression and odd behavior are caused by a possessing god, and the

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girlfriend sets her straight. In poem 183, the heroine addresses the evening to express her impatience: she feels that it is evening all the time, the period of day in which the absence of a lover is the most keenly felt. The heroine associates her lover with four of the five landscapes of reciprocal love in the first eight lines (in the order of mullai, kuṟiñci, marutam, and neytal), and by doing so, she is possibly anticipating four of the moods of love (pālai, the landscape of transience and hardship, is left out). Poem 184 is set in the postmarital context. The heroine speaks sarcastically to her fickle husband’s mediators. Poems 185 to 187 are set in the premarital context. In poem 185, the hero addresses the heroine’s girlfriend, wanting to arrange a second meeting. In poems 186 and 187, the girlfriend replies to him. In the first, the girlfriend quotes the heroine’s mother, who has grown suspicious; in the second, the girlfriend refuses the hero’s gifts, worried that they will cause gossip. Poem 188 is set in the postmarital context. The misbehaving hero has returned home with his retinue, and he sings his wife’s praises to them as she feeds them, expressed obliquely in the final stanza. Poems 189 and 190 are set in the premarital context. The heroine expresses her delight to her girlfriend in poem 189—her lover has returned to marry her—and in poem 190, the girlfriend offers her assurances to the foster mother. The second stanza reveals that the hero has singled out the heroine and selected her for his own. 181.

He is lord of the ford where guileless women, their kohl-rimmed eyes like blue lilies, their wrists beautiful and their shoulders well jointed, dance the kuravai on a heap of white sand,

and life would be so sweet in this noisy town if he would just show us his love. 182.

He’s not some god of rare strength, this man whom she saw in the vast ford who has caused this girl such anguish, but the one whose chest is scented by a heady, handmade garland

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woven of fragrant blue lily blossoms intertwined with sedge. 183. That man of the forests with clusters of cascades, that man of the land of low hills, that man of the town with its good fields, that lord of the icy sea—

when he left me, O Addled Evening, you descended in broad daylight, and even if you come at dawn, you make the blue lilies in the twisting backwaters shut their blooms tight, and not a soul can stop you.

184. His town alone is adorned by the sea where a fish-eating crane disdains the blue lilies in the marshy reaches near the water, and nests in a fresh seaside grove, and even greater than that sea is his love for us. 185.

That small girl with the beautiful filed bangles, her red lips with teeth like the glinting pearls strewn at the mouth of Koṟkai’s ghat, where the petals of blue lilies swing—

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her sweet speech is like the resonant strings of a lute. 186.

O Man of the ford where, like a good flock of herons, women fan out their hair slick with water, my mother said: “Since his chariot has come many times to this ford, causing the blue lilies in the rising marsh to splash out their nectar, don’t go out!”

187. Even strangers wouldn’t accept these, let alone the girls who come to bathe with us in the sea— they will not weave leaf dresses for their dolls from anything other than the leaves of the blue lily, but might take a few blooms for their garlands. 188.

My lover’s eyes have a beauty greater than that of the blue lilies that open at dawn in the beautiful big fords of Koṟkai, ruled by the king of that town where flocks of cranes gorge on red shrimp in the vast backwaters.

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189. That lord of the soft, beautiful sand where blue lilies dusted with fine mastwood pollen gleam like sapphires set in gold— because he has come, my friend, my eyes sparkle. 190. That man of the beautiful, soft earth where reapers weed out just-opened blooms of the big flowers of the blue lily, cool and fragrant, and cut only white paddy—

clearly, he’s the one who made our flowerlike, kohl-rimmed eyes mist over with tears.

Ten Poems on Bangles (Vaḷai-p-pattu) Every poem in this set refers to the heroine’s bangles, which tighten and loosen with her relative happiness and despair, but for poem 195, which refers to conch pearls (the bangles in these poems are made from conch shell, which is split and filed and occasionally carved into links—the conch is, naturally, a native element of the neytal landscape). Nine of the poems are set in the premarital context; only poem 198 is set in a postmarital scenario. In poem 191, the hero addresses his male companion, who has asked him why he is sad. In poem 192, the heroine rejoices to her girlfriend, telling her that her lover has returned to marry her. The girlfriend addresses the hero in poems 193, 194, and 196: in the last stanza of 193, the girlfriend urges him to hurry up and marry the heroine, asking him sarcastically about the size of the bangles that he has offered as a gift. In 194, the girlfriend urges the hero to offer a proposal, telling him that the mother has become suspicious and has confined the heroine to the house. Poems 195 and 197 are soliloquies by the hero. In postmarital poem 198, the girlfriend is acting on the husband’s behalf, reminding the heroine of the early days of their courtship. Poems 199 and 200 are spoken by the girlfriend to the

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heroine in the premarital context. Poem 199 is an attempt at consolation, while in poem 200, the girlfriend awakens the heroine to let her know that the hero has come to elope with her. 191.

That girl clad in the beautiful leaves of the cassia tree from the seaside grove, her thick black hair plaited with marsh flowers, her long wrists tight with bangles cut from sea conch: rare as heavenly women from the mountains, she stole my good, constant heart and has hidden it somewhere.

192.

He is from that place where men quickly shove their boats out to the misty fords roaring with noise as the sea heaves and crashes, rolling conchs up onto the beach. When he left, they slipped off, but now, those bangles of mine are tight once more, my friend.

193.

O Man of the ford where pearls with shining rays wink and dispel the darkness at the shores adjoining sandy spits, furrowed by right-whorling conchs: these white bangles you have given— the ones from the roaring floods— are they any tighter than the ones you gave before?

194. Because her mother was confounded today by her good brow,

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she suspects that something is wrong; that’s the state of things. So, Chieftain, consider this lovely girl, her armlets gleaming; her beautiful filed bangles cut from ocean conch. 195.

That lovable daughter of the lord of the seas where fishermen hawk conch pearls has given me a sorrow without cure and in my bed, she has snatched away my sweet sleep.

196.

If you want this girl with the beautiful armlets and the dense, luxuriant hair, her bright, linked bangles of filed conch, then take her in marriage, man of the frigid sea where fishermen trap red shrimp in crystalline backwaters.

197.

She just stood there bowing, her hair curtaining her face, making the crabs skitter away as her gleaming bangles tinkled. As the evening that offers only loneliness fades, she’ll give her good breasts to me.

198. Shall we go and see that long-armed lord who stood and asked about the shallow cove at the sea grove dense with blooms,

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where young girls bathe, their wrists decked with bangles, their teeth white and their smiles charming? 199. Come, Friend.

Climbing the tall sands that rise to heaven where roaring waves drench the beautiful, vast fords lined with sea groves, we will gaze at his land of tossing seas, the place of that man who made your tight bangles slip.

200.

O Girl with the bright bangles, tightening as they shine, he’s come just now, that lord of the golden chariot, to beautify your pallid brow. Open your long eyes with their crisscrossing lines, and let us laugh at this pallor that has robbed you of your beauty.

930 Kur − iñci

T

prolific of all the Tamil classical poets, Kapilar is the author of 206 poems in all. His work makes up a little under one tenth of the entire classical corpus. Based on internal evidence easily seen in the poems of the period, other poets held him in extremely high regard, and it is no wonder: his imagery and stunning similes are innovative, and his poems are full of unusual twists and turns that most other poets can only seem to mimic. Kapilar’s dates are most likely 140–200. A biography of sorts can be stitched together from his own poems and from those of other poets. Kamil Zvelebil correctly characterizes him as the most autobiographical among the classical poets. Born in Pāṇṭiya territory, Kapilar was a Brahmin. One of his earliest patrons was a Cēra king, but he is most famous for his association with the chieftain Pāri. Legend has it that Kapilar committed suicide after Pāri’s defeat and death, but according to Zvelebil, he made his way back to the Cēras to compose his section of the Patiṟṟu-p-pattu, a multiauthor text in praise of the Cēra line of kings. Kapilar was the kuṟiñci poet extraordinaire. All his akam poems are set in the kuṟiñci landscape except one poem each in the pālai, mullai, and marutam landscapes and two poems in the neytal landscape. Kuṟiñci poems are set in the hills and the mountains, in the cold season or in the season of early dew, and kuṟiñci “events”—the clandestine union of lovers prior to marriage—are supposed to occur at midnight, under the cover of darkness. The hills are lush, kept green by cascades and hillside pools. The typical foods are rice and millet, and animals include wild boars, monkeys (there is a full decad devoted to each), tigers, and elephants. The most common birds are parrots and peacocks (again, each with their own decad), and the trees of this landscape include the kino, sandal, bamboo, and jackfruit. The glory lily is a flower common to this landscape, as is, of course, the conehead flower (the flower emblematic of the kuṟiñci landscape), which grows he most

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only at high altitudes and blossoms only once in twelve years, and it is difficult not to equate these facts with the onset of puberty and the beginnings of sexual awareness and desire.

Ten Poems Beginning with the Phrase “Mother, May You Live Long” (Aṉṉāy-vāḻi-p-pattu) All ten poems in this set begin with the phrase aṉṉāy vāḻi vēṇṭu aṉṉai, meaning “Mother, may you live long. Listen, Mother.” (I have included a reiteration of the vocative “Mother” at the end of each poem.) Vēṇṭu does not literally mean “listen,” but it is used here as a gestural sort of word, inviting the addressee to incline her head in order to receive intimate information. “Mother” refers both to the foster mother and is an intimate term of address for either the heroine or the girlfriend, depending on the conversational situation. Nine of the poems in this decad are set in the premarital context. In poem 201, the heroine addresses the foster mother to inform her that she is in love and to obliquely request that she discourage her parents, who are trying to arrange a marriage for her with someone else. The girlfriend addresses the heroine in poem 202, letting her know that her lover is returning for a meeting. In poem 203, probably set in the postmarital context, the heroine is visiting her natal home and describes her happiness to her girlfriend. The heroine expresses in poem 204 her worry to her girlfriend over the gossip that has begun, wondering why her lover has not returned to marry her. The heroine has been confined to the house by her parents in poem 206, and the girlfriend addresses her, asking her to look outside, where her lover stands in the rain waiting for her. In poem 207, the girlfriend again addresses the heroine, who has become worried that the millet field, the place where she goes to meet her lover, is drying up. The girlfriend urges her to look at the clouds, which promise rain, reassuring the heroine that their trysts can continue. In poem 208, the girlfriend thanks the foster mother for arranging the heroine’s marriage, describing for her the heroine’s former suffering. The heroine addresses her girlfriend in poem 209. Her lover has gone off to seek his fortune so that he can return and marry her. The girlfriend has advised the heroine not to worry, and the heroine replies, saying that if she isn’t to fret, then the scene of their first meeting must disappear. Poem 210 is the girlfriend’s address to the foster mother. The heroine’s lovesickness has been mistaken for possession, and her family has sacrificed an animal on the plinth in the garden to appease a local god. The girlfriend reveals the real reason for the heroine’s “illness” in the last stanza.

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201. Mother, may you live long. Listen:

Those trees on his slopes, the ones with the sapphire buds and the golden flowers woven into a dress for me and that my lord also wore—

of what sort are they, Mother? 202. Mother, may you live long. Listen:

Just like the young Brahmin boys of our town, those horses driven by the lord of the tall mountain have tufted hair, too, Mother.

203. Mother, may you live long. Listen:

Sweeter than the milk mixed with honey from our very own garden is the murky water that animals lap at and leave behind, found beneath the dead leaves at the bottom of pits in his land, Mother.

204. Mother, may you live long. Listen:

Banding together in clumps like bunches of hill women, they stare at me unendingly whichever way I turn, saying, “Good girl, good girl.”

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So why am I no good at all to that lord of the mountain, Mother? 205. Mother, may you live long. Listen: My girlfriend is quite shy and is terrified of you.

She is eager to sleep, to bed down on the expansive chest of the lord of the lofty mountains with their crashing, crystalline falls, and I am very worried, Mother.

206. Mother, may you live long. Listen: Look in front of you. He’s like the guard of a tank in the rainy season. His bright, hanging sword is slick with rain. His thick warrior’s anklet is encrusted with moss. He wears a tightly cinched belt sprinkled with cold drops of mist, Mother. 207. Mother, may you live long. Listen:

Your millet field has not fully dried up. Look in front of you. Like bluish meat wrapped in white fat, his tall, sapphire-studded hills are topped with clouds, Mother.

208. Mother, may you live long. Listen:

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Every time it vanished, that beautiful sapphire-hued mountain of his country overspread with the fresh, golden abundant blooms of the kino tree that cram the long trenches dug by hunters looking for yams, this girl’s long eyes, beautiful as flowers, would flood with tears, Mother. 209. Mother, may you live long. Listen:

If you want me to forget him, then his tall, sapphire-studded hill adorned with black clouds with tops as white as the bean flowers that bloom with the eastern winds must never appear, Mother.

210. Mother, may you live long. Listen:

This illness that has seized her can also be cured if she climbs onto the plinth that stinks of flesh in our own garden. By just standing there and gazing at his sapphire-hued flower-covered hills, her iridescent jewels will stay put, Mother.

〔90〕  Kuṟiñci (100 Poems on the Union of Lovers, by Kapilar)

Ten Poems Addressed to the Mother (Aṉṉāy-p-pattu) In this decad, all ten poems end with the word aṉṉāy (mother). Once again, the vocative “mother” refers to the foster mother or either the heroine or girlfriend, depending on the context, as an intimate form of address. Every poem is set in the premarital context. In poem 211, the girlfriend accepts on the heroine’s behalf a beautiful dress woven of leaves from the hero. The heroine refuses it, and the poem is the girlfriend’s plea to her to accept his gift. In poem 212, the hero’s parents have come to arrange a marriage with the heroine’s parents, but they are ignorant of their relationship and issue a refusal. The girlfriend confronts the foster mother, asking her why they have refused and revealing to her the relationship by referring to the “mixed perfume” of aloe smoke and sandalwood. The heroine addresses the girlfriend in poem 213, after the latter has informed her that the hero is returning to ask for her hand. The heroine obliquely expresses her fear that she will wither like the puckering bases of the mango stems if he fails to return quickly. The girlfriend speaks to the heroine in earshot of the hero in poem 214. The hero has become anxious about the gossip and wishes to leave. As the jackfruit crushes the honeycomb, the sweet taste of both is ruined, and the girlfriend states this to make the hero realize that the heroine’s beauty will fade if he leaves. The context of poem 215 is similar, but the heroine is speaking to the girlfriend here, indirectly expressing her anger at her lover for leaving her at twilight. In poem 216, the girlfriend speaks to the heroine, audible to the hero, who is slow to propose. The girlfriend compares him to a stalking tiger, suggesting to the hero that the heroine can no longer take his attentions seriously. The girlfriend announces the hero’s return in poem 217, telling the heroine he has come to marry her. In poem 218, the hero has made an attempt to arrange the marriage, but her parents are ignorant of the relationship and refuse him. The girlfriend relays this to the heroine by making note, in the first three lines, of the good omens (the quivering eye and the tightening bangles) and by obliquely referring to the hero as the tiger that has “missed his kill,” she assures the heroine that he will return for a second try. In poem 219, the girlfriend assures the heroine that the hero will come back quickly to marry her, and in poem 220, the girlfriend catches wind of the fact that others are coming to ask for the heroine’s hand, and she says these words to the foster mother to get her to stop the proceedings, revealing that the heroine has chosen her own love.

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211.

You’re eyeing it as if it were an enemy, Mother, and this gorgeous dress is sure to dry out, woven as it is from the leaves of the mast tree atop his prosperous slope where the purslane creeper looks like threads of black gram mixed with ghee.

212.

That lord of the place where rising smoke from aloe growing among sandalwood trees emits a mixed perfume—

why did we refuse that virtuous man, Mother? 213.

High atop his slopes, hill men of the wastelands gather big mangoes, wet and cool, that had snapped at the puckering bases of their stems, dropping from the trees with their fragrant, tender yield like hailstones plummeting with rain. If the man of that good place comes, then living out my life will be possible, Mother.

214.

He is from the place where a fragrant jackfruit from a fat cluster growing on a tree on his slope drops into a hole in the cleft of a huge stone, crushing a large honeycomb on the mountain. As you weep, your large, trembling eyes full of tears, he returns to his land full of splendor, Mother.

〔92〕  Kuṟiñci (100 Poems on the Union of Lovers, by Kapilar)

215. In the evening, the bushes are flowering.

Its sapphire color that of a touchstone, a dragonfly drones more sweetly than the honeyed notes of the lily-shaped flute, played by musicians who trail after drummers beating on plates and bamboo instruments as they go through narrow passageways in the ghats.

A man who can leave at such a time can do things far more cruel, Mother. 216.

In his country, a huge male tiger with stocky forelegs and skilled in murder hides in the dense shade of a jack tree with its pendulous fruit, in order to snatch a calf with its tottering gait, born to a guileless female elephant in the high brush of the jungle. Because of him, you’re as limp as a new leaf that’s been plucked and cast aside. Why is your body changing, Mother?

217.

In his forests, large herds of deer graze to their hearts’ content on the golden, fragrant flowers of the kino tree on the tall mountain. Even as he comes here, why is your body growing sallow, Mother?

218. Your eye quivers under your brow of keen beauty. Your bangles tighten around your wrists with their rows of fine down.

Kuṟiñci (100 Poems on the Union of Lovers, by Kapilar)  〔93〕

On his big mountain, a tiger rises and roars like gathering clouds, his fury redoubled after missing his kill, a male elephant. That lord is sure to come, Mother. 219.

On his good mountain, the bright flowers of the black-trunked kino tree, their petals big as plates, drift and make patterns on the broad slabs of a huge stone. As that lord departs, why does your bright forehead turn pale, Mother?

220.

In his country, waterfalls widened by showers from flashing clouds crash down the slopes through dancing bamboo. Because days have passed since she has embraced her lord’s wide chest of lustrous victory as big as a great mountain, this girl’s black eyes, like captivating petals, are troubled, Mother.

Ten Poems Beginning with the Phrase “Look Here and Live Long” (Amma vāḻi-p-pattu) All the poems in this set begin with the words amma vāḻi tōḻi, which I have translated as “Look here. May you live long, Friend.” Amma does not carry the literal meaning of “look”—it is best thought of as an asseverative particle—

〔94〕  Kuṟiñci (100 Poems on the Union of Lovers, by Kapilar)

but it is used in these poems to indicate that something of import is about to be said, to attract the addressee’s attention. Poems 221 and 222 are spoken by the heroine to her girlfriend in earshot of the hero. In the first poem, he is about to depart to prepare for their wedding, and the heroine communicates that she cannot bear the separation. In the second, he has just returned after an extended stay away, and the heroine expresses her impatience. In poem 223, the girlfriend addresses the heroine, announcing the hero’s unexpected early return. The heroine addresses her girlfriend in poem 224, again in the hero’s hearing, to let him know that her mother has become suspicious and has confined her to the house. The remaining six poems are spoken by the girlfriend to the heroine. In poem 225, she speaks up for the hero, who has been delayed, and assures the heroine that he’s thinking of her. Poem 226 is a humorous announcement of the hero’s return. The girlfriend begins by mimicking the heroine’s own enumeration of his faults and waits until the very last line to inform her that he has come back. The girlfriend announces the hero’s return to the heroine also in poem 227, but in his earshot, hinting to him that his lover can no longer bear any degree of separation and that he needs to keep his promise to her. In poem 228, the girlfriend speaks in hearing of the foster mother in order to reveal the affair to her. The hero has sent his emissaries to arrange for the wedding, but the heroine’s parents are ignorant of their relationship and refuse him. Poem 229 is also humorous: the girlfriend feigns she knew nothing of the hero’s return. The final poem of the decad is one of joyous relief: the girlfriend informs the heroine that her parents have accepted his proposal. 221. Look here. May you live long, Friend:

As he wrecks my fine beauty like that of a statue and turns pale my good, coppery body, he says that he’ll go to his mountainous country.

222. Look here. May you live long, Friend: That man whose chest is fragrant and cool would come and stay so often in our town.

Kuṟiñci (100 Poems on the Union of Lovers, by Kapilar)  〔95〕



Why is he not coming now? My forehead, with its tiny wisps of hair, has gone pale.

223. Look here. May you live long, Friend:

Our lover has come back before the season of early dew, with its north wind and freezing mist, causing those who are separated from their lovers to suffer helplessly as the white glory lilies blossom and as water crashes down on the slopes of our mountain.

224. Look here. May you live long, Friend:

It was so easy for him to bathe with us in the cascades and in the crystalline waters on the slopes of the great sapphire-hued mountain in our country. But now, I am worried that it will become difficult for him.

225. Look here. May you live long, Friend:

Will our lover not think of your hair, smelling deep inside of the blue lily’s cool flower, rising above green leaves on the surface of a bracing pool, or of your tender nature, or of the pallor of your bright and shining forehead?

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226. Look here. May you live long, Friend:

Flitting from place to place like a bee who sucks honey from the fragrant clusters of glory lilies on the fragrant, cool slopes of our mountain, he’s laid siege to your victorious, powerful beauty.

He who has not an ounce of love has come back just now. 227. Look here. May you live long, Friend:

We believed him when he said that he wouldn’t allow your fragrant shoulders to grow lean or your fine brow to turn sallow. Leaving us, he’s stayed away for many days.

Have you forgotten his sworn promise? 228. Look here. May you live long, Friend:

He is from that land of tall mountains, where shining waterfalls crash down to our town. After begging humbly and not getting what he’s asked for, if he then leaves, what will be the plight of our sweet life?

Kuṟiñci (100 Poems on the Union of Lovers, by Kapilar)  〔97〕

229. Look here. May you live long, Friend: That man of no virtue, who had left us weeping for many days— did he truly come back? Your forehead has taken on its winning beauty overnight, bright as gold. 230. Look here. May you live long, Friend:

Along with us, he served as watchman of that field yielding tiny millet, who then made your soft shoulders quite lean, sallowed your lustrous forehead, and wrecked your winning beauty bright as gold.

They will make us a good marriage to that man from the hills.

Ten Poems Ending with the Expression Teyyō (Teyyō-p-pattu) This decad displays a greater consistency in theme than the others in the preceding. All ten poems end with the exclamation teyyō, an expression of despair and frustration, which I have chosen to leave untranslated. Each poem is spoken by the girlfriend, and all of them save poem 235 are addressed to the hero. The first nine poems are set in the premarital context, the final one in a postmarital situation in which the girlfriend takes the hero to task for cavorting with a rival. In the first two poems, the girlfriend chastises the hero for staying away too long, and in poem 233, she expresses her fear that if he returns to his home to arrange for the wedding, his ostensible reason for leaving, he will never return. In poem 234, the girlfriend urges him to make arrangements for the wedding. Poem 235 is set in a cloudless midnight scene. Addressing the heroine, the girlfriend politely urges her to elope with the hero. Poem 236 is addressed to the hero, telling him his lover has been confined to the house, and as in poems

〔98〕  Kuṟiñci (100 Poems on the Union of Lovers, by Kapilar)

237 and 238, the girlfriend hastens him to marry the heroine quickly. In poem 239, the hero is about to set off for his home to make preparations for the wedding, and the implied simile reveals the girlfriend’s fear that he will stay away too long, lose interest, and cavort with other women. She speaks for the heroine in the first-person plural. 231. Chief of the tall mountain, how did you become so skilled in leaving her behind, that woman with the filigreed jewels and the thick, black hair, diminishing her mottled, coppery beauty and spreading her pallor? Teyyō! 232. As you defile the nature and the beauty of that girl with flowers in her hair, you’re a stranger, and because you’ve left, our eyes rain tears without cease, wetting our jewels of ruby that flicker like fire. Teyyō! 233. You will not come. The north wind is quite harsh. You must not return to your own stony country, where waterfalls crash down with a roar, scraping out choice sapphires from the slopes of those treacherous mountains. Teyyō! 234. This very girl catches a glimpse of your chest in her dreams, but in reality, she doesn’t see it at all,

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making her so thin that her shining jewels, flashing with rays, slip off, and her fine brow turns pale. Teyyō! 235.

It’s a rare time for lovers when the sky is clear of the inky clouds that never fail to rain.

So, embracing him as your choice jewels jingle, should we say that we’ll never be apart? Should we get up? Teyyō! 236.

Her mother has found out; rumors have started to fly. Our own good house envelops us in loneliness, and the wretched north wind wrestles with us.

We will come to your town. Should we get up? Teyyō! 237. Goaded by desire and troubled in mind, if a time comes to pass when we come to see you, tell us how might we get to your town from that rising mountain that stands so tall over there. Teyyō! 238. Lord, in your big, cool hills with their crashing waterfalls,

〔100〕  Kuṟiñci (100 Poems on the Union of Lovers, by Kapilar)

a ewe with colored fleece waits, longing for her mighty long-horned ram even if he changes his mind and doesn’t come. At that time when you come here, this girl’s virtues redouble. Teyyō! 239. After you’ve gone to your good, hilly country where bees feed on the ichor on the stippled face of an elephant that embraces a black, pitted plinth, mistaking it for his mate, if you don’t return, our shoulders, as ample as jointed bamboo, will grow lean, and we’ll be sure to die. Teyyō! 240. It’s not that we do not know. We know it all: your chest smells of the hair of that fragrant woman sweetly scented with sandal paste where swarms of bees hover, their lacy wings flecked with spots. Teyyō!

Ten Poems on the Dance of Divination (Veṟi-p-pattu) The veṟi-y-āṭṭu is a ritualized divinatory dance performed by a Murukaṉ priest (Murukaṉ is the youthful deity who presides over the kuṟiñci landscape and who is still widely worshipped today in southern India and in the Tamil diaspora). In these poems, the foster mother has mistaken the

Kuṟiñci (100 Poems on the Union of Lovers, by Kapilar)  〔101〕

heroine’s lovesickness for a divinely caused affliction, and she sends for the priest to determine the cause. All ten poems are set in the premarital context and are spoken by the heroine’s girlfriend. In poem 241, the hero’s proposal has been refused, and other suitors are coming to seek the heroine’s hand: her mother has confined her to the house, and the heroine is in agony. The poem is addressed to the heroine in earshot of the foster mother, to set things aright. In poem 242, the girlfriend urges the heroine to tell the truth about her lover, and poems 243 and 248 are the girlfriend’s frank addresses to the foster mother. Poem 244 is addressed to the heroine, in the foster mother’s hearing, and poem 245 is the girlfriend’s soliloquy, uttered in earshot of the hero. The priest uses molucca beans (kaḻaṅku) to make his predictions and casts his blame on the god Murukaṉ with his vocative utterance. In poem 246, the girlfriend addresses the heroine in the hero’s hearing, and through her reference to the tiger’s behavior, she obliquely asks him if his love is true or false. Poem 247 is addressed to the heroine in earshot of her family, in order to urge the foster mother to set things straight. Poem 249 is uttered to the heroine in the foster mother’s hearing, and the decad ends with the girlfriend’s address to the molucca beans in front of the foster mother, plainly revealing the truth to her. 241.

O Girl with well-set teeth, seeing our troubles, our mother has called for the Murukaṉ priest, but will he know of our friendship with that man from the country redolent with fragrance?

242.

Out of ignorance, our mother has mistaken your sickness for possession, and she, too, suffers horribly. So, not telling her about it would be most cruel, that disease caused by the man from that country of distant mountains, who has dimmed your painted eyes like beautiful flowers with their many rows of petals.

〔102〕  Kuṟiñci (100 Poems on the Union of Lovers, by Kapilar)

243. Worshipping that god of the mountain overgrown with vines of pepper, that ignorant priest will say that she’s possessed.

Think about it, Mother: Is possession the reason for the illness that has paled this girl’s cloud-dark eyes as fresh as new blooms?

244. Look here. May you live long, Friend: 245.

If he does not sing of the hill of that noble man, whose lands are full of cool groves fragrant with many flowers, then what might we gain from the dance of the Murukaṉ priest? Having made his predictions from his molucca beans, if that old town priest for whom lying is not customary lifts up a talisman and utters “Muruku!” will the one who really caused the suffering of this girl still be eligible?

246. The priest is preparing for his dance. But your sickness was caused by that man from the hills, where farmers who have sown their millet fields fashion eyes of molucca beans for a stuffed tigress that looks so real that a mighty tiger emerges from his stone cave

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overgrown with pepper vines, and mounting her, takes his ease in the middle of a garden. 247. Our mother has arranged it. The priest knows what will happen.

Having lifted up the talisman in the backyard of our beautiful house, if he utters “Muruku!” might that just be the name of the lord of those treacherous mountains?

248.

Having beautified the courtyard where fresh sand has been spread, if that ferocious Murukaṉ priest, wearing a spear as a necklace, can divine the state of this girl’s virtue, it will be a good thing indeed!

249.

Reading the molucca beans in our yard spread with fresh sand, that priest will surely utter “Muruku!” to our mother.

May he live long!

He didn’t know about that man from the place full of awesome mountains and shining waterfalls.

250. O Molucca Beans that never tell lies, here is the truth:

the one who caused the suffering of this girl’s young breasts bedecked with jewels is not the virile and victorious Lord Murukaṉ

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but the chieftain of our own beautiful jungle with its flowering creepers, where young peacocks dance in the forests of sapphire-studded hills.

Ten Poems on the Hill Man (Kuṉṟa-k-kuṟavaṉ pattu) Each poem in this set begins with the words kuṉṟa-k-kuṟavaṉ, the “hill man,” whose character is invoked in different ways throughout the decad. All the poems are set in the premarital context. In poem 251, the girlfriend addresses the hero, who is taking his time to propose formally. The girlfriend joyfully addresses the heroine in poem 252 upon learning that the hero has returned earlier than expected. In poem 253, the heroine expresses concern for her mother to her girlfriend. In poem 254, the girlfriend, in collusion with the hero, relays to the heroine the plans for elopement. When his male companion asks him why he is moping, the hero replies to him in poem 255. The hero addresses the girlfriend in poem 256 after she expresses her concern over the heroine’s youth and gullibility. The girlfriend addresses the hero in poem 257. He is about to return to his home to make preparations for the wedding. The last three lines are meant to indicate just how precious the heroine is to her family. In poem 258, the heroine’s family has rejected the hero’s proposal, and the girlfriend utters her words in front of them, in earshot of the hero and the foster mother. Poem 259 is the hero’s soliloquy, and the girlfriend addresses the hero in the final poem of the decad, telling him the millet field—the lovers’ accustomed trysting place—is about to be harvested and he must now marry his lover. 251.

O Lord of the country where the clouds will pour down many dense, stinging drops if the hill man so much as raises a cry, if she so much as sees the swiftly flowing waterfall of your town with its fields and tall mountains, she will weep.

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252. 253.

He is a noble one, that man from the country where young clouds that dance in the sky shelter the grass-thatched hut of the hill man. May he live long. Friend, he has come before the onslaught of the freezing north wind of the autumn season, when swift rain mingles with the harsh fall of dew. In his country, the fragrant smoke from the sandalwood trees hacked down by the hill man rolls all over the mountain regions that smell of honey. If this lord marries me, will my own mother be happy, too, my friend?

254.

O Young Girl, your bright forehead buzzing with bees, he will take you and go to his land covered with hills, which smell sweetly of glory lilies ringed with the redolent smoke from the sandalwood trees hacked down by the hill man.

255.

The loving young daughter of the hill man is as beautiful as a mountain goddess. She is gorgeous

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with her sprouting breasts, her reddened lips, and her mottled chest. 256.

The loving young daughter of the hill man is that girl who wears a leaf dress and has bees in her hair. Her only jewels are bangles and her teeth are as bright as sprouts.

Even though she’s just a child, she’s caused me horrible suffering. 257. Because that country you’re leaving us for is in such a distant place, those long eyes with their lovely streaks will weep, the eyes of the young girl with the gleaming bangles, who was born when the hill man worshipped god and begged for her. 258.

If that lord of the land of big mountains marries that girl of the hills, the innocent, loving daughter of the hill man, her sway like that of a beautiful peacock, and if we give her to him, it will be good, for her fine forehead will surely suffer without cease.

259.

Taking up a few flowers from the kino tree in the center of the village, the innocent, loving daughter of the hill man, praying to the family deity who dwells in the mountains, has hands smelling of the moisture from her offering of honey.

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She gives me so much pain, that girl whose tear-filled eyes smell of blooming glory lilies. 260. It will be most difficult to meet that soft-shouldered girl from the hills, the innocent, loving daughter of the hill man.

She will no longer scare off the swooping, green-backed parrots, for the millet has now ripened in the land of arid fields.

Ten Poems on the Boar (Kēḻaṟ-pattu) In this decad, the figure of the boar is invoked in every instance to refer to the hero and his perceived intentions. All the poems are set in the premarital context, except for poem 265, in which a wife addresses her unfaithful husband’s emissaries. She indirectly expresses her doubts in the first stanza, wondering if her husband will care for their son after she has died of despair. In poem 261, the girlfriend addresses the heroine in earshot of the hero, who had missed an earlier tryst. The implied simile in the first stanza refers to his absence and lack of concern; the “tender millet” indicates the heroine. In poem 262, the heroine is confined to the house, and after the girlfriend consoles her, the heroine quotes the girlfriend’s own words back to her in the first stanza. The girlfriend is convinced that their impending marriage is certain, but the heroine remains unsure. The heroine joyfully informs the girlfriend of her lover’s return in poem 263, and in poem 264, the girlfriend addresses the hero, urging him to marry the heroine. Another suitor is seeking the heroine’s hand in poem 266. Here, the girlfriend speaks to the hero, urging him to marry the heroine; the first stanza depicts the rivalry between the suitors. Poem 267 is the girlfriend’s soliloquy, uttered in the hero’s hearing. She indirectly chastises him in the first stanza, referring to his ability to meet the heroine without being detected. In poem 268, the girlfriend addresses the heroine in earshot of the hero, who is about to return to his home to prepare for the wedding, but the girlfriend is afraid for the heroine, expressing her concern in the first stanza. The striped piglet refers to the heroine, who is willing to forsake her home to elope with the hero. In poem 269, the girlfriend expresses her regret to the heroine for having had a hand in arranging her trysts with the hero, who overhears. In the first

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stanza, the girlfriend implies that his actions are not what they seem. The girlfriend announces the hero’s return to the heroine in the final poem of the set. 261. 262.

In his country, a brave boar, gorging on tender millet, sleeps on a slope strewn with hard stones. Is that lord afraid that your father has found you out? Surely that’s the reason why he’s not yet returned. On his shining mountain, a brave boar, gorging on tiny millet seeds, lives with his mate near a plinth on a slope. The lord of that country will come.

But Friend: is there any known medicine that will make him love us more? 263.

In his hills, a boar, resembling a touchstone, gorges himself in a field of ripened millet resembling the finest gold. The lord of that place has himself come back, and so too, my friend, has my beauty.

264. O Lord of the mountain of shimmering water,

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where a boar, his tusks curved like two young crescent moons, mounts his plum-black mate, you must see those eyes of the girl you loved, now gone pale with tears. 265.

In his hill-covered country, a boar with curving white tusks protects a motherless piglet with fine stripes, the young of his mate done to death by a tiger. That lord has forgotten me, leaving me along with his son, precious as gold.

266.

In your country, a mighty tiger with stocky forelegs fights an enraged male boar with tiny eyes. Lord, we’re very modest. The eyes of your beloved have turned wet with mist.

267.

In his hilly country, an enraged male boar with tiny eyes diverts the archers near the plinth on the slopes, then steals the paddy. Having used that girl, her hair full of bees, and thinking that he’s won her over, he’ll just say things of no substance.

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268.

On his good mountain, in order to gorge himself on the tiny millet of the fertile slopes along with his striped young, a clinging orphan that had lost its mother, a boar sleeps on the tall peak of the rising mountain of the forest dwellers. Leaving us, what good might his departure bring?

269.

In his country, the sedge grass, shoved upward by the rooting of a boar, looks like the paddy in a cultivated field. O Girl with oiled hair, your wrists adorned with perfect bangles, if that lord lingers on in his place without coming and makes you weep, I am sure to lose your friendship because of my own folly.

270.

Thinking of the illness that makes her weep if she so much as sees the vast, lonely slope of that grassy hill, where forest dwellers harvest the ears of their first crop and have moved on from the mountain plowed up by a boar rooting for yams,

her lover has now come back.

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Ten Poems on the Monkey (Kurakku-p-pattu) In this decad, the figure of the male monkey is used in nearly every poem to refer to the hero and his actions. The first nine poems are set in the premarital context, while the final poem, an unusual verse about elopement, is set in the postmarital situation. The hero has informed the girlfriend that he has eloped with and married the heroine; the poem is the girlfriend’s reply to him. The “big bamboo” of the first stanza is an oblique reference to the heroine’s family, and the monkey’s act of “beating the moon” refers to the couple’s elopement. In poem 271, the hero’s proposal has been refused, and the girlfriend reveals the couple’s relationship to the foster mother, obliquely referring to his prosperous, fertile country in the first stanza. The heroine addresses her girlfriend in the hero’s hearing in poem 272. Like the monkey, the hero is inept in stealing the “sweet honey,” and fearing the wrath of the bees (the heroine’s family), he runs away. The heroine is indirectly urging him to marry her quickly. In poem 273, the hero is returning to his home to prepare for the wedding, and the girlfriend expresses her worry to him, referring to the heroine as “the shoots of the mast tree.” The heroine addresses her girlfriend in poem 274. Her lover has gone home to prepare for the wedding at the urging of the girlfriend, who is humorously compared to the roaring “mighty tigress” in the first stanza. In poem 275, the hero has become irregular about his trysts with the heroine, and the girlfriend chides him: he is ruining his lover’s beauty, in the same way that the monkey beats at the “rain bubble” with the stick of cane. In the complex imagery of poem 276, the girlfriend urges the hero to marry the heroine soon: the futility of their clandestine union is indicated by the monkey’s slashing of the “young clouds” in the first stanza. In the second stanza, the “kino tree” represents the heroine and her desires to marry and “put down roots.” In poems 277 and 279, the girlfriend scolds the hero, imploring him to marry the heroine quickly: the couple have become reckless, and the heroine is in danger of being confined to the house. The heroine addresses her girlfriend in the hero’s earshot in poem 278, implying in the first stanza that, although he is attentive when he is with her, he forgets her completely during his long absences. 271.

In his land, a female monkey eats her fill of broad beans, her stomach swelling like a peddler’s sack.

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If that lord so desires, he can have all the women he wants, as if they’re cows. 272.

But because she is his wife from his former incarnations, that is why he will give his love to her alone. In his land, a foolish, strong monkey, the young of a black-fingered female, disturbs a comb full of sweet honey on the treacherous mountain, then springs onto a nearby branch, long and unsteady. That hero doesn’t know how to come at night, Friend, and our mother says that someone’s coming over and over again.

273.

In your good mountains, a strong monkey, the young of that female, the hair of her head like grass, gorges on the shoots of the mast tree in the path shining like red coral. Lord, if you go, that girl who lives only on her love for you will cry far more than I.

274.

In his country, the mate of the female monkey, a fool of a male, scampers up the rising slope of the hill

Kuṟiñci (100 Poems on the Union of Lovers, by Kapilar)  〔113〕

at the roaring of the mighty tigress, her colorful coat gleaming. That lord has gone. May you live long, Friend: he’s taken away the beauty of my soft shoulders, as well as my sleep. 275.

In your country, the mate of the female monkey, that male with colored hair, takes up a pretty little stick of cane and beats at a rain bubble on a broad slab of rock. Lord, she’s loved you. Yet if you show her favor, will her celebrated beauty vanish?

276.

In your country, the lover of the female monkey, that male who grazes on shoots, takes up a cool, fragrant creeper and slashes at young clouds foaming over broad slabs of rock. Even if you don’t love her enough now to make her your wife, O Lord of the good mountain land where a kino tree blossoms in a stony cleft, why not marry her, then leave?

277.

In your hilly land, a naive female monkey tussles with her mate on that plinth that animals rub against in the hill man’s front yard.

〔114〕  Kuṟiñci (100 Poems on the Union of Lovers, by Kapilar)

Lord, I have a question for you: why do you leave every day, causing this girl’s darting eyes, dark as the blue lilies growing in the tank, to go pale? 278.

In his country, a sturdy young monkey sits on a long slip of cane, branching from a bamboo node on the mountain. And when it leaps, the cane whips up like a fishing rod in the pond. Giving me an illness that my family will never forget, that lord has stolen away my beauty so rare that the people who see it cannot look long enough.

279.

In your country, a female monkey climbs, clasping the trunk of a fig tree rooted in rock, and snacking on wild jasmine, gambols with her mate on the mountain slopes. Lord, if you come, our town is encircled with rocks. It’s a whispering village and a place for idle chat.

280.

In your country, a strong fool of a monkey, the young of the black-fingered female, climbs onto a green branch

Kuṟiñci (100 Poems on the Union of Lovers, by Kapilar)  〔115〕

of a big bamboo, and seems to be beating the moon with a small stick of cane. Lord, having heard that you’ve married her, will I not tell it to my mother?

Ten Poems on Parrots (Kiḷḷai-p-pattu) The poems of this decad are all set in a specific context. The millet crop has seeded, and young women are sent out to the fields to drive off marauding parrots, but the fields become a convenient cover for clandestine meetings. All the poems are set in the premarital context, but for poem 283, in which the girlfriend chastises the unfaithful husband. He has been cavorting with rival women, and the actions of the daughter in the last stanza indicate to the man that his wife is doing her best to drive off her rivals (the “little green-backed parrots”). Poems 281 and 288 are the hero’s soliloquies: he praises the parrots for providing the heroine with an excuse to meet him in the fields. In poem 282, the girlfriend urges the hero to marry the heroine and to give up his stealthy ways. Poem 284 is the girlfriend’s soliloquy, uttered in the hero’s earshot, telling him that the couple’s usual meeting place has been ruined by the harvest and that they need to find another spot, likening the heroine to the pitiable parrots. In poem 285, the girlfriend addresses the returning hero, warning him that if he dares to become unfaithful after their wedding, the heroine will ward off all her rivals (hinted at in the simile in the last three lines of the first stanza). The hero has canceled plans for the couple’s elopement and is about to return home to prepare for a proper wedding in poem 286, but, unsure of his motives, the heroine voices her suspicions to her girlfriend. The girlfriend addresses the hero in poem 287: he keeps making plans to ask for his lover’s hand but then breaks them, claiming that he’s terrified of the heroine’s family. The girlfriend refers to him by invoking the frightened parrots in the first stanza; the benign “mountain sheep” are the heroine’s family. The heroine has been confined to the house in poem 289: because the parrots mistake her sweet voice for the call of one of their own, they have been drawn to the field, whereas it’s the heroine’s job to keep them away. The girlfriend informs the hero of the situation and urges him to marry her, because future trysts are not possible. The final poem is the

〔116〕  Kuṟiñci (100 Poems on the Union of Lovers, by Kapilar)

girlfriend’s soliloquy, spoken in the hero’s hearing, letting him know the heroine is about to be sent to the fields, meaning that a tryst is possible. In the last stanza, the girlfriend makes known the heroine loves him, but that he makes her uneasy. 281. May all these parrots live long, longer than the passing of thousands of eons! 282.

They’ve led her out to guard the millet fields with her ample shoulders, that girl from the hills with the thick, black hair and gleaming jewels. In the groves in your land, even though she drives them away, that girl from the hills with the dark eyes that are big and captivating, the little parrots still yearn for the large ears of tiny millet growing on terraces. Lord, dense darkness has gathered. Don’t come along the path through the forest, where tusked elephants roam at will.

283.

In your land, the artless, soft-spoken daughter of the hard-hearted forest man drives off little green-backed parrots from the millet cultivated in grassy tracts. Even if that lord is driven off with lofty words, there are still so many women who will stumble into his net of lies.

Kuṟiñci (100 Poems on the Union of Lovers, by Kapilar)  〔117〕

284.

They’re to be pitied, those red-beaked green parrots! Even though they see long stretches of green-stemmed millet stubble cut down by hill men, they don’t want to leave out of their fondness for the fields.

285.

In your land, eating flour ground from tender millet, the daughter of the hill man, her plaited hair thick and her forehead beautiful, drives off the little parrots from the mountain paddy, banging on a plate. Abandoning her here, how can you leave, making those bangles that fit so well slide right off her arms?

286.

In his good mountains that bring new wealth, marauding parrots are scared off from the unripened broad beans growing among the white stalks of stubble harvested of their tiny millet seeds. That lord looks as if he wants to do something wrong today. Friend, he’ll steal away my coppery beauty.

287.

In your country, the millet-raiding parrots live in fear of the short-legged mountain sheep on the summits of the tall hills. Lord, your strength is in your lying; you can do nothing else.

〔118〕  Kuṟiñci (100 Poems on the Union of Lovers, by Kapilar)

288. It’s good, indeed: Now I know the value of their help. These parrots who fan over the millet field with its many ears make her drive them off, that beautiful, soft-natured girl from the hills. 289.

Thinking that those parrots who fan out over the green-eared millet field on the mountainside mistake the sweet voice of that hill girl for one of their own, it seems that they’ve dismissed her from her watch.

You had better marry her and take her away, Lord of the great mountains. 290.

These parrots seem to be luckier than our righteous king with his just scepter: her hair smelling of glossy flowers, that girl from the hills gazes at those birds only to drive them away.

Ten Poems on the Peacock (Maññai-p-pattu) The peacock is the central figure in the following ten poems. Eight are set in the premarital context. Poem 292 is set in a postmarital context unique to the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu, in which the husband has married and brought home a second, younger wife, ostensibly for progeny, and the first wife

Kuṟiñci (100 Poems on the Union of Lovers, by Kapilar)  〔119〕

addresses her husband, claiming that the young woman is more important to her than to him. The girlfriend addresses the hero in poem 294, blessing him during the actual wedding ceremony. Poems 291 and 299 are the hero’s soliloquies: in the first, he is returning to marry his lover, and the last three lines hint at the forthcoming celebration. The latter is a poem of praise after the first encounter with his lover. The hero addresses his lover in poem 293 as she covers his eyes in play. Poem 295 is the lonely soliloquy of the heroine, who suspects that he has left because he is worried about gossip. In the second stanza, the darting peacock is the hero, the hill men bearing firebrands are the gossipers, and she refers to herself as the trampled sparrow. In poem 296, the girlfriend urges the hero to marry the heroine quickly because the trysts are becoming too frequent and hazardous. In the implied simile in the first stanza, the hero is the peacock and the heroine is the stolen millet. In poem 297, the hero wants to return home until the gossip dies down, and the girlfriend accuses him of being insincere in his love for the heroine, obliquely stating that things are not what they seem in the comparison in the first stanza. In poem 298, the hero addresses the girlfriend, who has reported to him that the heroine is hesitant. In the final poem of the decad, the girlfriend addresses the heroine, relaying to her the joyous news that her family has accepted the hero’s proposal. 291. Her shoulders ample, a dress of choice leaves swaying about her loins, my lover lives in a very good town on the slope near that plinth where peacocks dance to the double-toned hooting of a brace of owls. 292.

Man of the great mountains embraced by cool clouds as peacocks dance and fat bees hum, she is more important to me than to you.

〔120〕  Kuṟiñci (100 Poems on the Union of Lovers, by Kapilar)

You have wanted to celebrate a rare marriage into a good family, and we have brought her here to enhance our own virtues. 293. O Girl who covered my eyes with fine hands like fragrant clumps of glory lilies that permeate the hills with their fragrance: are there any others nestled in my heart aside from you, a woman with a peacock’s splendor and ample shoulders that have become my sweet companions in bed? 294.

O Man of the country where a peacock perched in a blazing kino tree looks like a woman decked in gold:

What you’ve done is sweet; may your father live long!

You adorned this girl’s plaited black hair with flowers as you celebrated marriage into a good house.

295. My heart, which left with that man of the hills where a peacock seeks shelter from the firebrands of hill men, zigzags like women playing ball and tramples the sparrow nesting in the stubble:

Will it come back, I wonder? Or, finding it suitable, will it stay on in that place, never to return?

Kuṟiñci (100 Poems on the Union of Lovers, by Kapilar)  〔121〕

296.

O Man of the country where a peacock on the slope robs the millet field of its fat ears as it’s guarded by a hill woman, if you also come at midnight, and if ferocious beasts attack you, then I don’t know what will happen.

297.

O Man of the country where a peacock perched on a fat branch of a blossomed kino tree looks like a woman plucking flowers, even if you leave, the love that this woman has cloaked you with will never part.

298.

That hill woman with the swaying gait from the good town on the slope where peacocks see the coming clouds and dance:

even if she won’t grace us with her love, our mind will never cease to think of her. 299.

It is hard for the gaping blue lilies that blossom in the icy pool on the slope of her father’s hill to bloom like the eyes of that hill woman with the beautiful, fine hair and the swaying gait; hard for the peacock’s grace to become equal to hers.

〔122〕  Kuṟiñci (100 Poems on the Union of Lovers, by Kapilar)

300.

On his stony hills, a peacock fans its beautiful tail, looking like the hair of a hill woman. The chief of that place has come, and your family has come to give you to him. O Woman of honeyed speech, let your virtues flourish!

940 Pālai

Ō

talāntaiyār , who ,

like the other poets of the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu, can be dated to around 150–200, wrote only pālai poems, and nothing is known about him. Aside from the one hundred here, only three other poems bear his name (Kuṟuntokai 12, 21, and 329). Pālai poems are largely about the hardships of love and elopement and detail the grief caused by separation (pirital) from lovers, parents, friends, and eloping children. The pālai landscape has no conventionally assigned place per se, but it is described as an unbearably hot wasteland and as a place of transition between the kuṟiñci and mullai landscapes, those of the clandestine union of lovers and of settled domesticity after marriage, respectively. The pālai (ape flower plant) is the emblematic flower of this landscape. The seasons of these poems are those of late dew, spring, and summer, and the assigned time of day is the blistering heat of noon. Elephants, leopards, wild red dogs, vultures, and kites populate the imagery of the poems, and common plants include the toothbrush tree and thickets of cactus.

Ten Poems on Preventing His Departure with Distressing Words (Celavaḻuṅkuvitta pattu) Every poem in this decad is set in the postmarital context. All the decads in the pālai and mullai segments of the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu are linked by a loose narrative, and therefore the poems rely less on imagery and more on action and human movement across space to create the emotional effects of these poems. In this particular set, the hero has announced to his wife that he must leave her for a time in order to acquire wealth, and these poems are the pleas of the girlfriend, who is trying to convince him to remain. In most of the poems, the girlfriend warns the hero of the potential effects of the girl’s suffering on her delicate beauty (see especially poems 306 and 310).

〔124〕  Pālai (100 Poems on Separation, by Ōtalāntaiyār)

In poem 301, the girlfriend points out to the hero that he will at least have the flowers to shade him from the sun, implying that his wife will have no such comforts to buffer her from the agonies of separation. In poem 303, the girlfriend has previously suggested to him that he take his wife along with him, but he has refused, and the poem is the girlfriend’s reply. In poem 309, the girlfriend reveals to the hero that his wife is pregnant, asking him which he values more, wealth or the birth of a son. 301. O Man of the ink-dark hills, should you pass over that mountain where those who cross the harsh wastes shield their skulls with clusters of flawless white blooms from the tall lodhra tree, her suffering will be great. 302.

O Man of the soft, beautiful sands, your efforts to gain precious wealth might very well fail, and this ample-shouldered woman might very well prevent you. Instead of leaving her to weep, it will be very good if you do not go at all.

303.

Young Man, the wastes are harsh in summer, which prevents the birds from leaving the banyan tree, its fruit red as freshly thrown pots.

But should you go along with her, the wastelands will become cool and sweet. 304. Were you to go on that forking, stony path where elephants poach water

Pālai (100 Poems on Separation, by Ōtalāntaiyār)  〔125〕



from the cattle troughs dug by the sticks of unskilled cowherds, this soft-natured girl with long, cloud-black tresses will suffer alone.

Great Man with sturdy horses, may you not be able to go. 305.

As the young girl grieves, her armlets blazing, what gain will come from your going over the barren hills, Young Man, where a bull elephant embraces his mate without leaving for another place as he suffers, eaten by his hunger?

306.

O King victorious in battle, if you cross over the vast wastes, this coppery girl, her fragrant hair decked out for a festival, will wail louder than a pipe

as the beautiful folds of her loins grow thin, circled with strands of many garlands. 307.

You are set on crossing the harsh, hilly wastes, where the crackling fire caused by the friction of bamboo frightens a mighty tiger. O Man of the shores, your wealth is no good, gained as it is from leaving your doll-like companion.

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308. 309. 310.

If you do not part from this soft-natured girl with the thick, black hair, it will be good. The dwelling of Murukaṉ is carpeted with bright, crimson flowers from the leggy eṟuḻ tree with its blooming clusters, and when that great mountain leaves, then you, too, can leave. You are set on going, passing over the burning wastes in the month at the height of summer. That is fine. But Lord of the rubble-strewn hills, is the wealth that you make in your leaving sweeter than seeing the smile of the firstborn son of the woman who lives on your love? Her loins are encircled with a strand of the finest golden coins, and Young Man, if you are able to leave this girl, as her gleaming bangles and ornaments of worked gold fall from their places on her soft arms, then the beauty of her fine brow will become a rare sight indeed.

Ten Poems on the Journey (Celavu-p-pattu) In contrast to the girlfriend’s pleas to the hero in the previous decad, the ten poems in this set present a variety of scenarios in the context of separation: the hero has gone alone to the wasteland. Eight poems are set in the postmarital context; poems 312 and 313 are set in the premarital context of

Pālai (100 Poems on Separation, by Ōtalāntaiyār)  〔127〕

elopement. Poem 312 can be interpreted in a variety of ways. These could be the words of a wife who has heard from travelers that a waterfall concealed her husband from robbers or wild beasts, but the poem is most likely a soliloquy of an unmarried heroine during her elopement with her lover, who hides behind a waterfall as her family members pursue them into the wilderness. Poem 313 is spoken by the heroine’s natural mother to the foster mother as she bitterly laments her daughter’s elopement. In poem 314, the heroine addresses her girlfriend upon hearing about the dangers of the wasteland. Her uncomprehending anger is beautifully captured in the final two lines. Poems 315 and 316 are the girlfriend’s words to the grieving heroine. In the final four poems, the wife addresses her girlfriend in a poignant series of laments, pairing her own hardships with her lover’s travails in the wasteland. 311.

Has my lover gone beyond the wastes, where travelers are terrified of the harsh path between mountain and forest, even if those who pluck kino flowers sing out songs of love and separation?

My heart thinks that he will stay on there. 312. Let its virtues abound, let its virtues abound! And if drought comes to be, let its virtues abound, for this hill, its waterfalls of flashing beauty, concealed my strong-willed man. 313. This love for your daughter— let it be destroyed.

Our beloved girl has crossed over the wastes through the place that traverses both mountain and forest as grief addles our desolate hearts and with great pain and agony makes our life’s breath leave us.

〔128〕  Pālai (100 Poems on Separation, by Ōtalāntaiyār)

314. They say that the long path through the harsh wastes is where a beady-eyed elephant roams about killing men as vultures in consort with black-eyed crows screech in the sky and a ghoul with flashing armlets flies about, savoring flesh, and this is the path he has traveled, that man who so dislikes my own shoulders. 315.

He has gone through the wastes full of parched stands of old bamboo, going as your jewels of worked gold loosen and fall.

They say that he is too far off to hear the laments of your long eyes, which were once like cool flowers and accustomed to sleep. 316.

He has gone off all by himself beyond the wastes where tigers used to prowl and the toothbrush trees grow tall, their trunks parched, on the flinty mountains, while the lovely folds of your loins, wide as a chariot’s seat, vanish as your circlet worked from gold grows far too large for you.

317.

Come along, my friend. Let us figure out just why my heart has dallied in that place where he went,

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the harsh tract with its hot wastes and burning ironwood trees, ruined and stripped of their greenness. 318.

That man who has passed over flinty mountains, their peaks looming over a place ravaged by raging, crackling fire, has completely ruined my love for him. As I suffer from rare sorrow, my choice beauty is dulled, and my flashing jewels slip from my ample shoulders as well jointed as bamboo.

319.

Did our lover pass through the waste with its parched trees and its increasingly barren soil, in that place laid to ruin by the glinting sun, which blinds the eyes?

Has he forgotten us, who will never forget him? 320.

He who has granted me an endless, cruel illness has now left for the harsh wastes with their forking paths, where brilliant clusters of the choicest flowers from a spiny-trunked silk-cotton tree drift onto the vast land, looking like lightning from the sky as the wind, fanning a crackling fire, blows them about like embers.

〔130〕  Pālai (100 Poems on Separation, by Ōtalāntaiyār)

Ten Poems from the Midst of the Wasteland (Iṭai-c-cura-p-pattu) All ten poems of this decad are set in the postmarital context and represent the hero’s thoughts (most of the poems are soliloquies) and words as he travels through the hot traces of the wasteland. In poem 321, he imagines his weeping wife back at home through the image of the solitary keening kite. In poems 322, 326, and 327, his thoughts of her provide solace to him in his hardship. In poem 323, he obliquely refers to the difficulties of his task of acquiring wealth by referring to himself as a dog lying in wait for a fat pig to come by so that he can feed his pregnant mate. In poems 324 and 325, he has returned home and addresses his wife’s girlfriend after she had asked him how he had withstood the journey. Poems 328 and 329 are addressed to his traveling companions. In poem 328, he is returning home to his wife, but he speaks in despair because it is now past the time of his promised return. In the final poem of the decad, he has had enough and decides to return to his grieving wife at home. 321. Even though I pass over many hills, through changing languages; through jungles with parched tracts where a chisel-beaked female kite, her head feathers tousled, perches on a fat branch at the spreading top of a toothbrush tree and keens in her loneliness, the virtues of that girl with the flashing armlets will never vanish. 322.

Before, that path in the midst of the wasteland grew hot as summer stretched on, bleaching the towering bamboo, the sun with its blinding rays baking stone to the point of splitting.

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323.

But now, whenever I think of that woman with the gleaming forehead, those parched ways become cool. Passing over the hot wastes where a spine-toothed red dog lies in wait in a cactus thicket for a pig to satisfy the cravings of his mate about to whelp, O Heart, the virtues of that girl whom you so love have come.

324. In the long middle stretches of the wasteland eaten by the sun’s all-consuming fires, if I could just doze a little, I would see her clearly, that coppery girl with hair that drips nectar, the flecked gold of her skin rivaling that of kino flowers, on that terrace at the top of her cool house in the dense dark of midnight. 325.

Those seared, harsh wastes where the birds, startled by the rustling of the leaves of the pipal tree in summer, fly off to another spot without eating: they could not exhaust me, befriended as I was by the virtues of my warm beloved.

〔132〕  Pālai (100 Poems on Separation, by Ōtalāntaiyār)

326.

On its shriveled path, its sides eroded by water, led there by her foolish mate, a beautiful doe crumples along with her fawns, not finding any shade in the vast spaces shimmering with heat:

this wasteland is so miserable. The virtues of that girl I left behind are truly sweet. 327.

In the wastes where bamboo looms and the groves are bleached by the sun, afraid of scorching his freckled, creased trunk, a beady-eyed elephant stands stock-still without brushing the ground.

On a rugged path such as this, the virtues of this great woman make me cool. 328.

Even though it is cool, the rains showering in a fine drizzle as fragrant flowers spread, it’s most hot to me who have passed through the jungle wastes bleached by drought, having left that woman’s sweet friendship behind.

329. Pledged to the woman I left behind, her tight armlets loosening and slipping off,

Pālai (100 Poems on Separation, by Ōtalāntaiyār)  〔133〕

330.

will my determined heart defy me and trudge along with us through the harsh wastes, places of cruel plunder; vast spaces of ruin without any human movement? Though we’ve come trudging through sunburned wastes turned to glowing dust, let us now give up our going. Grief pervades the mind of the one with choice armlets, bright and curving, reminding that girl with the tear-filled eyes of these hot wastes white with sun as her fine beauty is undone.

Ten Lamentations of the Heroine (Talaivi-y-iraṅku pattu) Each poem in this set begins with the phrase amma vāḻi tōḻi, “Look here, Friend. Live long.” All ten poems are spoken to the girlfriend by the wife, who is languishing in her loneliness while her husband seeks his fortune in the wasteland. In poems 332 and 333, she complains about the animals and birds, who have neglected to chastise the hero. In poem 335, the hero has extended his stay, failing to return when he promised he would. The “stench” in the second stanza refers to the rotting corpses of robbers’ victims. In poem 336, the wife implies that love lasts longer than wealth, and in poem 337, she concludes that he values wealth more than he does their love. In poem 338, the heroine complains that he has left at a difficult time of year. In poem 339, the hero has not returned on the day he said he would, and evening has fallen. The implied simile in the last four lines of the second stanza indicates that the hero must prefer the bitterness of separation (the neem fruit is famous for its bitter taste) to the sweetness of their love. In the final poem of the decad, the wife despairs over the gossip that has begun because of the hero’s lengthy absence.

〔134〕  Pālai (100 Poems on Separation, by Ōtalāntaiyār)

331. Look here, Friend. Live long:

They say that his path is miserable on that mountain where white flowers bloom in clusters on the branches of the black-trunked oak and give off a cloying fragrance, reminding travelers who pass over the harsh wastes of those whom they have left behind.

332. Look here, Friend. Live long:

Those herds of animals are as wretched as the wastelands with their towering hills— they don’t have so much as an ounce of virtue. They couldn’t even tell him, “It’s cruel indeed to leave your lover behind! Don’t go, Lord!”

333. Look here, Friend. Live long:

The huge flocks of different birds that live there, in that good hilly country— have they not so much as an ounce of virtue? They couldn’t even ask him, “We live by uniting with our mates. How can you live, leaving your mate behind?”

334. Look here, Friend. Live long: My simple heart trailed after him as he passed through the wastes burning with rock where a tiny-leaved myrobalan towers. He’s surely harder than stone, that man who has left

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my eyes to weep, painted as they are like many-petaled flowers. 335. Look here, Friend. Live long:

That man who will come back to us has extended his journey, traveling down a path that they say is most difficult, through wastelands where vultures, their ears as red as blood, clamor over the rotten stench that clings to the sides of the rocks.

336. Look here, Friend. Live long:

That very man who made love to me as if he would never leave is the same man who has gone beyond the wastes and has extended his summer to satisfy his cravings for elusive wealth.

337. Look here, Friend. Live long:

For that man who went off to the hills with their terrifying peaks, surely wealth is sweeter than holding me tight in his arms, desiring to wed his body with mine.

338. Look here, Friend. Live long:

Even though it is the time when parting is rare, when the looming silk-cotton tree blooms leaflessly, appearing in the wastelands like fire on a mountain,

〔136〕  Pālai (100 Poems on Separation, by Ōtalāntaiyār)

our lover is clever enough to leave, when leaving is most difficult. 339. Look here, Friend. Live long:

In that country where my lover has gone, is there really no evening at all, when bats soar up to eat the fragrant fruit of the short-branched neem tree with its tiny leaves?

340. Look here, Friend. Live long: Is our lover not thinking? Or are we just confused? Leaving us, he’s gone off as the gossip rises in the town like fire in dried-out bamboo.

Ten Poems on Spring (Iḷavēṉiṟ pattu) In this beautiful sequence, it is past the time when the hero had promised his wife he would return, at the beginning of the spring season (iḷavēṉil, literally, “the time of young heat”). He has not yet come, and the wife is the speaker in every poem of the set. Each poem consists of three lines, and the repeated element is contained in the first line and in the final foot of the third line (avarō vārār tāṉ vantaṉṟē/poḻutē), which I have translated as “He has not come still, but the time has come.” The heroine’s descriptions in every poem all indicate that spring has arrived. For more on these poems, the introduction provides a greater analysis of this decad. 341. He has not come still, but the time has come when the soft black silt is laid down in rippled layers as the cuckoo coos for her mate with her sweet voice.

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342. He has not come still, but the time has come when the black-trunked mulberry gives off its fragrance as the rejoicing bees hum in its fat branches. 343. He has not come still, but the time has come when the dense ironwood trees bear their fat buds swollen with beauty and break open into bloom. 344. He has not come still, but the time has come when the doll-like fruit borne by the bottle-flower tree with its fragrant blossoms is ripe for the plucking. 345. He has not come still, but the time of beauty has come when the jasmine creepers spread out their new flowers and adorn the black silt ripples as if they were strands of hair. 346. He has not come still, but the time has come when the red-eyed black cuckoo keens for her mate as the trumpet-flower tree blossoms, its branches lush.

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347. He has not come still, but the time has come to make a paste of the sprouts of the beech tree, its blossoms like puffed rice, which will enhance the great beauty of young breasts. 348. He has not come still, but the time has come when the branches of the oak tree are thatched with right-spiraling flowers and our cool garden blooms, redolent with fragrance. 349. He has not come still, but the time has come that gives forth young sprouts, red as flame, overwhelming the branches of the mango tree with its shaggy trunk. 350. He has not come still, but the time has come when men pacify their lovers with words dripping honey as the bright flowers of the margosa tree sprinkle down.

Ten Poems on Announcing His Return (Varavuraitta pattu) Every poem in this decad is set in the postmarital context, and the heroine is the addressee in every case. The first four poems are spoken by the girl-

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friend to inform the wife that her husband has returned at last, and that with his return her beauty will return as well. Note the stunning descriptive imagery in poem 352. The implied simile in the second stanza of poem 354 makes clear the hero has given up his quest for wealth in favor of his wife. The hero directly addresses his wife in poems 355 (in which he curses his fellow travelers), 356, 359, and 360. The girlfriend addresses the heroine in poems 357 and 358 (in the latter, she consoles the wife, telling her that her tears are both excessive and needless). 351.

Having left the forest behind, where travelers pass through the wretched wastes, eating the tiny, sun-stunted fruit of the jackfruit trees on the path, he has returned. Woman with painted eyes that resemble many-petaled lilies, you can stop starving your loins with their good beauty.

352. Your lover has returned, my friend, that man who would not say that the hot wastes are wretched, where the paths bear the great fury of elephants, their huge trunks creased, incised like memorial stones with inscriptions to the dead, murdered as wasteland marauders discharge their bows, arrows never missing their targets. 353.

He has returned, that man who passed beyond the mountains with their lush, vast groves, so sweetly embrace his chest of noble beauty shining with brilliant jewels;

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a red mountain limned with a ridge of fire. 354. Your qualities hastening him back to you, O Woman of choice jewels, he has just come from the wretched wastes, where a red dog has mounted its devoted mate, and satisfied, passes over a doe and her fawns, not taking them for food. 355.

O Woman of well-cut jewels, remembering your virtues, without telling the others, I muttered, “May you be blessed with great fortune as you addict yourselves to wealth so difficult to acquire!” I have returned from that wasteland with its forking paths that lead away from righteousness, where a densely spotted beady-eyed elephant wanders.

356. On that path through the wastes consumed by brilliant fire, 357.

they are truly sweet to think about, your virtues that you gave to buy my heart: they shine like that rope plaited with gold that binds the elephants of the rich. Beholding the wasteland, its barren tracts now ornamented as the bottle-flower blossoms and the oak tree blooms, declaring the end of his journey to make money and desiring you,

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our lover has come back, O Friend, to brighten your beautiful complexion glowing like a mango. 358.

Even if he has passed beyond many mountains, their summits rising, thinking without cease that he might extend his journey and becoming agitated, you wipe at your tears again and again:

bursting from your eyes, they have now become a rising flood. 359.

Wanting precious wealth and renouncing you at the time when I left for that rubble-strewn path, the way became impossibly long. But now, as I came thinking of you, O Woman of fine jewels, that same path back through the wastes became quite short indeed.

360.

On summer’s long path devoured by fire, although it was difficult, it became quite easy: my desire-filled heart yearned to embrace you, and urging on my sturdy chariot drawn by swift horses, my return grew easy as I thought of you, O Woman with the long eyes of a doe.

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Ten Direct Addresses (Muṉ-ṉilai-p-pattu) This decad consists of a miscellany of conversations set in the various contexts of the pālai landscape. Poems 361 and 363 most likely represent the words of the hero to his lover, in postcoital moments during their elopement. In poem 362, the girlfriend addresses the hero in what is surely a postmarital context, and were it not for the pālai imagery in the first stanza, it could be read as a kuṟiñci poem. In poem 364, the hero has come to his lover’s girlfriend, asking her to arrange an elopement. The heroine is confined and her brothers are fierce, but the last two lines of the poem indicate that the girlfriend can make the arrangements, but nothing must be done in haste. In poem 365, the hero addresses a mango sprout that reminds him of his lover’s complexion as he returns to meet her. In poems 366 and 367, the girlfriend addresses the foster mother, obliquely revealing to her that the heroine has fallen hopelessly in love. In poem 368, the hero has informed the girlfriend that he must leave and will return in the spring, and her words are an attempt to dissuade him. The last two poems of the decad are set in the postmarital context. An angry wife has learned of her husband’s blatant infidelity, and she confronts him directly in both poems. 361.

Tying a garland by heaping up the unfolding blooms of summer’s trumpet-flower tree on the widening ghats of glinting sand on the wild river with its rising banks, O Delicate Girl, your breasts surpass even your eyes, while your broad, soft shoulders surpass your breasts.

362.

Without thinking of the fury of the beady-eyed elephants on that harsh, forking path where there is no place to hide and marauders heap up stones to cover the corpses of their victims,

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O Man whose chest is garlanded with flowers, how did you come in the night so black that it rivals darkness, while your grace-filled heart drove you on? 363.

O Little Sister of those red-clad hunters expert in murder, armed with arrows and sirissa-wood bows, you consider those to be just yellow dapples on your breasts, but my troubled heart thinks they’re demonesses.

364.

Until I can inform her of this situation and plead your case to that young, beautiful girl, the younger sister of those hunters who live on the flesh of porcupines, you should not be in a rush, O Young Man of flashing spear.

365.

That huntress of excellent beauty drives off the birds that fall on food, that fatty flesh brought by her brothers after they’d slain hosts of animals and like her, O Mango Sprout,

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you possess so many fine, desirable virtues. What penance have you done? 366. O Mother, live long. Listen: Mother, since with anger-reddened eyes you’ve uselessly asked why my friend has grown so very pale, I know little more than that the change can be blamed on the ironwood tree and its tender clumps of bloom. 367.

This girl’s life, O Mother, is now wedded to the name of that man who wore one chaplet made of the pallid, golden flowers of the ironwood tree with its parched trunk and another with unfolding clusters of the kino tree as he came with a chariot, drawing close by the wild river, its waters adorned with a mixture of summer’s flowers.

368. Chieftain, with us you might obtain the pleasures of the delights of cool-natured spring, when the many flowers of the fiery-bloomed silk-cotton tree unfold and wither, tracing patterns in the mottled shade of the beech tree, its flowers like puffed rice,

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but only if your girl with the lush, soft hair is not ruined first. 369.

They say that yesterday you had a tryst with a woman with teeth set like tender shoots in a fragrant grove swarming with droning bees amid tender blooms, and the gossip is louder than the racket made by a fat cuckoo in spring, perched on a long branch of a bottle-flower tree.

370.

Wanting to adorn her with a cool, fragrant garland of blooms from the ironwood tree with its lush branches while black-winged bees swarm on its stout limbs, this woman with whom you’ve stayed: who is she? Don’t hide it from us.

Ten Laments of the Mother on the Occasion of Her Daughter’s Elopement (Makaṭ-pōkkiya vaḻi-t-tāy-iraṅku pattu) It is difficult in most of these poems to ascertain whether the speaker is the heroine’s biological mother (naṟṟāy) or her foster mother (cevili-t-tāy), but in any case this decad stands as one of the most moving and unusual in the entire anthology. All the poems are set in the premarital context of elopement and illustrate the dilemmas of the mothers who are left behind to cope with the aftermath. Poem 371 is most likely spoken by the foster mother, who knew of the couple’s plans, indicated by the last two lines of the first stanza. The poem is both a blessing and a prayer for their comfort and safety. Poem 372 is a bitter soliloquy by the heroine’s mother, most

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likely, who curses the hero’s mother in poem 373. Poem 374 could be the soliloquy of either the biological mother or the foster mother, in which she expresses her anxiety over the extreme youth of the heroine, whose hair “can’t yet be tied in a knot.” In poems 375 and 377, the biological mother contemplates her daughter’s toys and pet parrot, which deepen her grief, and in poem 376, she curses fate itself. Poem 378 is the address of either the biological mother or foster mother to the girlfriend. The implied simile in the first stanza likens the daughter’s efforts to the bat’s, also indicating the time of her departure (evening) and that she has flitted away without a trace. In poem 379, the biological mother wonders aloud to the heroine’s girlfriend after the latter has come to console her. The last poem in the decad is the soliloquy of the foster mother, who is now subjected to mockery because her very own daughter (the heroine’s girlfriend) failed to inform her of the impending elopement. 371.

In the wastes where my little daughter goes, her forehead like the moon’s crescent and firm in her knowledge that this way is the way of virtue, please let the wilds become most sweet, with rains pouring out of season on that tall, rising hill where peacocks dance to the rhythms of marauders’ drums.

372. Going along with that bull of a man who convinced her with promises to persuade her heart, my daughter has crossed over many fertile hills as the gossip surges in this clamoring old town. Has she thought of me at all, I wonder? 373. May she be plagued with sorrow each time she thinks of it,

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the mother of that young man with the strong bow of newly cut bamboo, who escorted my daughter through the burning wastes where an old stag with forking antlers, escaping a tiger’s pounce, bellows out to his doe, calling her back to him.

374. Even though I’ve thought it through countless times, I’ve found no solace: thinking that she is well fated and protected by that bull of a man stronger than the god of death, that girl with the hair that can’t yet be tied in a knot has crossed over those tangled wastes unknown even to the monkeys. 375.

Saying, “This is the doll of my doll-like daughter, and this is the green parrot tended by my green parrot of a girl of darting glances and beautiful, gleaming forehead,” saddening as I see these things time and time again, has my little girl really left, her eyes as fresh as flowers?

376.

May it burn in the midst of a wasteland conflagration, and suffer more than I who weep every day, this unscrupulous fate that compelled my delicate girl to go, her kohl-rimmed eyes like blue lilies,

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as our tall house built on good deeds grows noisy with anxiety. 377.

Leaving to us her ball, doll, and molucca beans, my daughter has gone off to the tracts where a weakened elephant, driven by his need for water, sighs like a flute accompanied by a whole orchestra.

378.

As we suffer in our loneliness in the evening, as a bat, endeavoring to go, unfurls its wings and flits skyward, I refuse to grieve for that girl who has gone. But I will grieve for this girl here, her pair of lovely, kohl-rimmed eyes made to weep by the pain in her heart, as she languishes alone without her sweet-tongued companion.

379. Uniting with that man with the glinting, silver spear,

is going through the thickets where a bull elephant roams with its herd on the dewy hill sweeter for her than celebrating a good marriage, along with all her loving friends, I wonder?

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380.

Somehow I have taken the name, “The mother of that delicate girl with the budding smile and teeth white as pearls who went off with that man down the long path through the wilds.”

Her very own companions have bestowed it upon me.

Ten Poems on What Was Said in the Wasteland During Their Elopement (Uṭaṉ-pōkkiṉkaṇ iṭai-c-curattu-uraitta pattu) All the poems of this decad are set in the premarital context of elopement and represent the words of speakers in various situations. In poems 381 and 383, passersby who have seen the couple comment on their suffering and happiness, respectively. Poem 382 is the report of a witness who encountered the couple in a village and expresses pity for the mothers of such girls. Poem 384 is the heroine’s address to a group of itinerant Brahmins. She asks them to pass her greetings along to her girlfriends, and in poem 385, she addresses some travelers, asking them to convey her defiant message to her mother, who had refused her lover’s offer of marriage. In poem 386, passersby report to the heroine’s biological mother. In poems 387 and 388, the foster mother has gone out in search of the couple. Her queries are answered by a group of itinerant Brahmins in poem 387, and in 388 by some passersby, who show her the route the couple took and assure her that the heroine is fine and happy. The foster mother addresses the passersby in poem 389, expressing her concern about the heroine’s tenderness. The final poem in the decad is the gruff reply of some passersby, who assure the worried foster mother that the heroine is fine and well protected. 381.

The couple who rested in the strips of shade under the red-trunked oak, eating many raw green myrobalans— who might they be? Pitiable are those lovers who have vowed to live together

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like a pair of short-legged gulls with sweeping wings. 382.

At midday, they moved into a tiny, clamoring village, that girl whose eyes startled at the cries of birds as she passed through the harsh wastes with that bull of a man who wears a well-turned warrior’s anklet, his spear flashing. How great must be the anguish of women who stay at home, having borne such daughters adorned with jewels.

383.

Upon seeing that girl, her hair soft as cotton, portioning out flowers for her sedge-grass doll and for herself, that strong man felt joy surge in his heart as he stopped to lower the stubby branches of a dense, long-trunked oak so she might pick its white clusters with right-spiraling flowers humming with bees in search of honey.

384. You Brahmins with soft gaits destined for distant realms, let me ask one thing of you: at our town, please tell my companions with their plump-wristed forearms

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that this girl has crossed over harsh paths to enhance her elegant beauty so lovingly cultivated by her mother. 385. O Travelers, may you live long:

Please tell my unjust mother at home who lovingly caressed my good shoulders and has now caused my ruin that I have passed beyond many diverse, harsh wastes, leaving behind the mountains full of striped tigers skilled at murder, having mounted a tall chariot along with that bull-like man with the fierce and vigilant eyes.

386.

O Woman bewildered by sorrow in the well-built house with towering walls, your first-born daughter has united with her tender lover and has gone off through the wilds where tigers prowl along with elephants, their eyes tiny as millet seeds.

387.

You said, “I pray to you, Brahmins, whose tongues recite the rare Vedas that prescribe virtue, and who practice what is preached,” and then asked about that girl with the brilliant armlets. Foolish, beautiful woman, listen: We have seen that girl on the path in the wilds. She has passed beyond that mass of mountains with towering peaks, as her sweet companion sweetly cajoles her.

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388.

If you just pass over this little hill, you will see that wasteland where that young man passed with his victorious spear, along with that woman with a body like gold and her armlets tightening as they sit in the striped shadows of a black-trunked yā tree to escape the angry heat of the sun, shining like fire.

389.

Good Sirs, you have said that she’s gone, my beautiful doll-like girl with choice armlets, walking softly along with that bull-like man with the ink-black beard, his strong feet circled with finely worked warrior’s anklets, tight and gleaming. Have her feet with her own pretty anklets so much as touched the ground?

390.

Going everywhere with folded hands and greeting the good people in this place, you’re bewildered, O Woman who asks us time and time again. Yes, we have seen her in the wastes, along with that bull-like man with the strong shoulders and mighty bow.

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Ten Poems on Their Return (Maṟutaravu-p-pattu) All ten poems celebrate the eloping couple’s return to the heroine’s natal home and represent the voices of various speakers. The heroine’s biological mother addresses a crow in poem 391, offering it a tasty bribe in exchange for summoning the heroine home. In poem 392, the couple has returned, and the heroine’s girlfriend has expressed her dismay over the heroine’s changed appearance. The sunburned heroine replies to her, urging her not to make a fuss lest she spoil the couple’s marriage plans. In poem 393, the neighbors announce the couple’s return to the heroine’s biological mother, and she later invites them to come visit the heroine in poem 394. In poems 395 and 396, the hero addresses his lover as they make their way to her natal home. In poem 397, the heroine addresses some passersby, asking them to deliver a message to her friends. The girlfriend addresses the heroine in poem 398. The heroine’s biological mother, still angry, has learned that her daughter’s marriage has already been celebrated in the hero’s house but wants it known that there must be a celebration in the daughter’s natal house as well. The final poem of the decad is spoken by the foster mother to the mother, indicating that they must prepare a feast for the hero and heroine, who are returning as a married couple. 391.

O Little Black Crow of faultless feathers, I will bring you morsels of soft fat mixed with fresh meat in a bowl wrought of gold so that you may eat your fill in company with your flock, its nature one of love. Please just caw out to her to summon her back, that girl with the lovely, fine hair, along with that bull-like man of victorious spear, his eyes burning embers of vigilance.

392.

May you live long, Friend. Seeing my ruined forehead, its choice beauty burned by the sun, and my shoulders

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that have lost their bamboolike beauty, do not feel sorry for me. Since I have come along with that man of the good mountain country, if you feel sorry, it will give me trouble without limit. 393.

Becoming thin as you suffer from the grief caused by her departure, you’ve grown angry and cast blame on virtue, O Woman with trembling eyes. As balm for your sorrowing heart, has your daughter not returned, following that young man of cruel strength, his lance flashing?

394.

Even that virtue which lacks in kindness, along with its ignoble principles that have confounded me with grief— it has certainly shown me favor! Come that I might show you my little daughter who frolicked with a big doe, that girl of beautiful, fine hair who had crossed beyond the harsh wastes.

395.

We have passed through these harsh, miserable wastes, where tall creepers of flame rising from a towering fire fanned by the wind that sprang up in sere bamboo crackle in fissures and caves.

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May you live long, Little Daughter, and walk softly and slowly through our mountainous land with its dense, vast groves, where cascades mixed with flowers tumble down with soothing music. 396.

O Delicate Woman, let us gently recover from the fatigue caused by the wastelands, until I might pluck some golden clusters of kino flowers, their petals spotted like a leopard, and tuck them behind your ear.

We will enter our town made excellent by its mountains, arriving as daytime guests. 397.

O You Travelers who hurry in front of us, please tell my companions who are smiling their sweet smiles that she is drawing near, having come from the wastes where a red male dog, a low-hanging mane sprouting from his nape, passes by without snatching a sow and her piglets for food.

398.

O Friend, our town has keened for you far more than I have who have wept each time I have thought of you, wishing that the wasteland might become abundantly sweet,

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ripe with much fruit unknown even to the birds and filled with broad lakes unknown to the innocent deer. 399.

So what, indeed, if you go and tell the mother who gave birth to that bull-like man with the victorious lance, adept in lying, his foot gleaming with a faultless warrior’s anklet, that even though the removal of her anklets has been performed in your house, please let a happy marriage be celebrated in our house?

400.

The message has come, saying that she will arrive today along with that bull-like vigilant man of victorious lance and choice warrior’s anklet, that girl who had united in love in the spring, the best of seasons, that rare moment when, like women, dancing creepers embrace their warrior oaks and sway.

950 Mullai

P

( whose name means “the demon”) can also be dated most likely to 150–200, and as with Ōtalāntaiyār, we know nothing about him. In addition to the one hundred mullai poems here, he composed two additional poems in the mullai landscape (Akanāṉūṟu 234 and Kuṟuntokai 400), one kuṟiñci poem (Kuṟuntokai 339), and one marutam poem (Kuṟuntokai 359). The main feature distinguishing Pēyaṉār’s poems from those of his fellow authors in the Aiṅkuṟunūṟu is that they contain hardly any uḷḷuṟais (implied similes). Pēyaṉār relies almost entirely on narrative and the actions of his characters to convey the mood of the mullai landscape, which is one of iruttal (patient waiting). Dr. K. V. Ramakoti has commented to me that the reason there are so few uḷḷuṟais in Pēyaṉār’s poems is not just a simple matter of narrative but of necessity. The mullai context is that of trusting married life, and the separation endured by the hero and heroine is of a very different quality than that experienced by the lead couples in the other love contexts. In mullai, the hero leaves the heroine at home to go off to attend his king in the contexts of battle and the war camp (pācaṟai), or to serve as an emissary. There are no rival women in these poems, and since the hero and heroine are now settled into a legitimate marriage, there is no need for oblique, indirect speech, and therefore no need for implied similes. The characters all speak directly to one another; all information is conveyed without hint or allusion. As a result, the poems are not nearly as image driven as are those of the other four landscapes and exhibit a much more pronounced narrative coherence in each decad and across all ten mullai decads as a whole. The poems have a “lighter heft” to them in terms of imagery. The setting of the mullai landscape is the forest, its season that of the rains, and its time of day evening. Aside from the hero and heroine, the other characters of these poems include the hero’s companions and his charioteer, the heroine’s girlfriend (tōḻi), the couple’s little son, the ēyaṉār

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heroine’s biological mother (naṟṟāy) and foster mother (cevili-t-tāy), and the bard (pāṇar), who carries messages between the heroine and her girlfriend at home and the hero in the war camp. Animals include bees, skylarks, peacocks, kingfishers, hares, little families of deer and their fawns, and the horses of the hero’s chariot. Botanical elements comprise the bedaly-nut vine and various other types of vines and creepers, laburnum, glory lilies, ironwood and wild lime trees and their flowers, and several varieties of jasmine, including mullai, the emblematic flower of the landscape.

Ten Poems on What the Foster Mother Said (Cevili kūṟṟu-p-pattu) All ten poems are set in the postmarital context. The hero and heroine have settled into their own home, and a son has been born to them. The heroine’s foster mother has come for a visit, and she regales the heroine’s biological mother with what she saw there in the first nine poems after her return to the heroine’s natal home. The last poem of the decad is the foster mother’s soliloquy. Every poem depicts a slightly different scene of father, mother, and son, the three of them in an intimate caress, or the parents happily looking on as their little son plays. In poem 403, the first two lines of the second stanza indicate that the son has been named for his grandfather (the hero’s father). 401.

Like a stag and his doe with their little fawn between them, their lying there with their tiny son between them was a very sweet thing to see, a sight so rare in this vast world with its encompassing expanse of widening blue ocean.

402.

Caressing the mother’s back with desire as she lay embracing their son, his lying there struck me just like a note plucked out on a lute string by bards:

it has that very same sweetness.

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403. His satisfied heart has grown as big as the son of his beloved with whom he had united, seeing that boy who bears the name of his father of spreading fame, watching him as he pushes his toy chariot with his unsteady steps, breaking into sweet and toothless smiles. 404.

He is of that country with many low hills adorned with cool forests filled with fragrant flowers, and that lord caressed with desire the nape of that woman with the gleaming brow as she nursed their son at her breast.

405.

The mother of that son of the man from the country studded with forests became the light of the house, like a red glow in the bowl of a bright-flamed lamp in that place decked with many flowers blooming in the thrumming rains.

406.

He sat there in sweetness, embracing his wife as their son played, his beautiful eyes rimmed with kohl, that lord of the land of forests brimming with flowers sucked by honey-eating bees.

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407.

Embracing his beloved with desire and comprehending the true meaning of the pleasure-giving song composed by the bards, that lord of the country of soft, fertile soil enjoys a joy-filled union.

408.

While the bards sang a mullai tune and the woman with the gleaming brow and brilliant jewels decked herself with jasmine flowers, the great man sweetly sat there, radiant, along with his son, whose very nature ends all strife.

409. The father embraced the son as the mother of that son of soft words embraced them both. They lay there in such sweetness, enough to equal this whole world in its great and abundant expanses. 410.

At nightfall, as the wife became his boon companion on the short-legged cot at the front of the house and as his son crawled onto his chest, it was more suitable for that joyful time of happy laughter than even a bard’s lute with its soft bindings.

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Ten Poems in Which the Husband Praises the Season (Kiḻavaṉ paruvam pārāṭṭu-p-pattu) The husband is the speaker in all ten poems in this set. He has returned home from his journeys somewhat earlier than expected, and these poems are expressions of his joy at the onset of the rains. Poems 411to 415 and 417 to 419 are spoken directly to the wife. In spite of the lists of the trees and vines bursting into luxuriant bloom (as in poem 412), there are very few implied similes in this decad, and this is generally typical of mullai poetry: the hero and heroine of this landscape are happily married and devoted to each other, and there is no need for indirection. Poem 416 is somewhat of an exception, but the elements in the first four lines are so transparent that they do not quite qualify as implied similes: the poem is the husband’s soliloquy, and he is the bee, his wife the honey. In poem 418, the wife is the forest tract, while the husband is the skylark (skylarks are said to feed on raindrops). The husband addresses the forest in earshot of his wife in the final poem of the decad. 411.

The loud and gathering clouds are thickly scattering their drops and the rains have now begun in the lush forests. O Woman of the tumbling black curls, hurry along and come with me! We will bathe in the crashing new floods.

412.

The forest, becoming beautiful, has won its flower ornaments as the ironwood, laburnum, water lily, jasmine, and the bedaly-nut vine blossom alongside the unfolding flowers of the golden jasmine. O Woman, your large eyes full of peace, hurry along, and we will bathe.

413. O Woman of great character, the time for the rains has begun

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414.

in the forest tracts, fragrant and cool, where it smells as sweet as your brow and the peacock dances just like you while we make love. O Soft-Natured Woman, we saw that forest, redolent with fragrance as it grew fertile, coming to fruit with many flowers in its branches and creepers as birds and animals sweetly played about as they mated.

415. This, O Woman, is the very time I yearned for; here, O Woman, is the very forest I dreamed of! If youth is sweetly spent, then union with one’s sweet beloved is sweetness itself! 416.

Eating the honey of the forest beautified by the fragrant pollen that makes the flowers grow in abundance in the lush thickets that hum with rejoicing bees, a bull elephant caressed his young mate, and I united with that woman of the sparkling armlets.

417. The rains have now reached the forest tracts. Many plows have fanned out on the fields, while the bees that feed on honey swarmed and having regained her beauty, she embraced me, that woman with the curls entwined with flowers.

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418.

Having embraced me fully with your superb breasts, might you be a woman of the celestial realm in heaven, come to appear in the forest, its tracts having been showered with unceasing drops of rain, releasing the skylark from his starvation?

419. O Woman, we saw those animals of the forest; they mated passionately just like us: we saw their flawless intimacy as, having mixed their lives, they united, embracing, and stayed there together without knowing the suffering of separation. 420.

O Forest, you have taken on an exquisite beauty with laburnum blossoms like gold and the flowers of the ironwood tree filled with dark, sapphire-hued honey, along with blooming glory lilies. And remembering her fine beauty, I will come to see you along with that woman of the gleaming brow.

Ten Miscellaneous Poems (Viravu-p-pattu) This decad is a collection of mullai poems reflecting different contexts and conversational situations. In poem 421, the husband’s companions comment on the hero’s great love for his wife. In the beautiful implied simile in the second stanza, the husband is the scampering hare, and his wife’s fine shoulders are the watchmen’s “white wooden sticks.” Poems 422 and 425 are the hero’s addresses to his charioteer. In poem 422, the shedding petals of the second stanza indicate the chariot’s reckless speed, and the calling hen of the second stanza in poem 425 is the wife waiting for her husband

〔164〕  Mullai (100 Poems on Patient Waiting for the Lover’s Return, by Pēyaṉār)

at home. Poems 423 and 424 are spoken by the wife’s girlfriend to the hero as a plea to prevent his departure. In poems 426, 427, and 428, the hero has just returned from battle, and his wife is terrified that he will leave again soon. The poems articulate his words of assurance. The hero boasts to his wife in poem 429: though he must return to the battlefield, he assures his wife the battle will be over quickly. In the final poem, he sees his wife’s distress and decides to postpone his departure. 421.

They have stopped him from going, those fine, ample shoulders of the young daughter of that lord of arid lands where a hare scampers, burrowing in the forest brimming with heady flowers as watchmen throw down their white wooden sticks in the dusk of the evening.

422. If we urge on the swift-gaited horses yoked to the tall chariot with its sturdy wheels, as the flowers of the golden jasmine along with the jasmine that blooms on spindly creepers are made to shed their petals, that woman whose forearms are decked with rows of bangles will not suffer. 423. Thundering, the black clouds have rained down their drops. You wanted to depart, dulling her gleaming brow. Separated from you, she can find no peace,

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and her beautiful, kohl-rimmed eyes have become filled with tears. 424.

If you depart, dulling the bright brow of the guileless, loving daughter of the lord of the land ornamented with forests, then your adoring son, resembling a lotus as it unfolds its petals in clear water, will now cry out for her breast.

425. If you drive this tall chariot quickly through the forest tracts where, like the musicians of a king, a slender-backed hen calls out only for the pleasure of her mate, it will be easy for us to banish her rare and grievous illness. 426. O Woman of the good forehead, the king, his lance victorious, has now left off his horrible work, and I have avoided going off to that difficult war, where, having commanded the drums to sound, I would do a king to death. 427. O Woman with flowerlike eyes full of peace, telling me that “This is the time for the appearance of the rains,” you do not consent to my leaving. And the warring king, thinking, “He will never come now,” has dispensed with his departure for the war camp.

〔166〕  Mullai (100 Poems on Patient Waiting for the Lover’s Return, by Pēyaṉār)

428. The sounding clouds have now begun to pour and forge into shape a great rainbow, preventing the departure of the chariots, and as the king abandons his awesome task, I have begun to safeguard you. 429. O Woman of the thick, black hair, if you abandon your sallowness, I will go now to conquer the foes of our king, whose elephants know only how to destroy the enemy fortress and banner of victory. 430. O Daughter of the man from that country filled with forests where the short-stemmed laburnum atop the tall hill sheds its brilliant petals as broad as golden plates, please stop your crying! I will dispense with my departure.

Ten Poems on the Beauty of the Forest (Puṟavaṇi-p-pattu) Set in the postmarital context, all ten poems are spoken by the girlfriend to the wife. Her husband has left, either on business or to perform some duty for his king, and she is worried about what he might encounter along the way. She asks her friend what his path might be like, and these poems are the girlfriend’s responses. In effect, she lulls the heroine with these verses to allay her fears. The poems are very brief three-line compositions. Each begins with the line naṉṟē kātalar ceṉṟa-v-āṟē, which I have translated as “Very good is the path down which your lover went.” 431. Very good is the path down which your lover went: There are sapphire-hued peacocks high up on those tall jewel-colored hills.

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432. Very good is the path down which your lover went: There are wrestlers like those who come to weddings, wearing chaplets of laburnum the color of chased gold. 433. Very good is the path down which your lover went: There are forests drenched with monsoon rains, their winds blowing clouds full of water. 434. Very good is the path down which your lover went: There is the pleasure of the showering of the cooling rains as a stag and his doe leap about with their fawn. 435. Very good is the path down which your lover went: There are bedaly-nut vines and laburnum with its golden beauty as water lilies blossom to ornament the land. 436. Very good is the path down which your lover went: There are flowering wild lime trees along with laburnum, its flamelike clusters resembling fine gold. 437. Very good is the path down which your lover went: There is jasmine that has flowered with its white blooms and cooling clouds that have showered down hailstones. 438. Very good is the path down which your lover went: It has qualities that are fit for pleasure as many flowers blossom in the green thickets.

〔168〕  Mullai (100 Poems on Patient Waiting for the Lover’s Return, by Pēyaṉār)

439. Very good is the path down which your lover went: There are villages that are large and cool where shepherds are garlanded with the blossoms of wild lime. 440. Very good is the path down which your lover went: There are red jasmine flowers and glory lilies bright as flame in this season that is graced by cool rains.

Ten Poems on the War Camp (Pācaṟai-p-pattu) All ten poems are set in the postmarital context. Save poem 446, the poems are the hero’s soliloquies. He has left home and been pressed into the service of his king, who is engaged in a minor skirmish. The hero laments aloud in the midst of the king’s war camp: he made a solemn promise to his wife to return home at the onset of the rains, but the rainy season has begun, and the battle wages on. In the second stanza of poem 442, the hero likens his wife to Aruntati, a mythical paragon of chastity who was turned into a star that bears her name. In poem 446, the hero speaks to a vision of his wife that appears before him in the war camp. 441. The words of that fair woman were filled with beauty and have certainly caused us pain: Having left overcome with grief and accompanied by the thunder of these rainy days, it will be good if she can know the sorrow that I’m now feeling. 442. The mother of that son with the jewels of sapphire the size of tiny coconuts, her chastity like that of Aruntati, appearing in the celestial world that arcs above the sky,

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will gladly receive guests, if only that difficult work of the enraged king is soon brought to an end. 443.

If that king with his ornate drum who has seized many fortresses that rise to the sky forsakes his labors, and without thinking of the vast distance, he mounts his fine chariot and departs,

we will then see her beautiful, radiant brow, just like the crescent moon glowing with its light. 444.

His elephant, whose stout tusks were blunted at their sharp points, having cracked apart their ornamented bosses while ramming against that fortress with its long ramparts, if only that king with the victorious spear would cool his enmity, will we see that ample-shouldered girl, and even more so if he returns to his own land.

445. O Heart, troubled at each thought, you caused me to come away so quickly at that time when many cows were nuzzling a fine bull, having left behind my excellent beloved of increasing fame, you came here to the war camp of horrible work. 446.

O Coppery Beauty, when we return to our beloved, good country, having carried out the duties of the war camp’s horrible work,

〔170〕  Mullai (100 Poems on Patient Waiting for the Lover’s Return, by Pēyaṉār)

we will well see your curls, fragrant with jasmine, as your hair assumes their scent. 447.

As the bees flutter their wings and pry open the buds of the jasmine as red as the beak of a kingfisher as it flourishes in the mist, let the king be free of his fetters to his task! We will only then see that gleaming brow.

448. As the drums with their echoing voices sounded in the morning, the enraged king faced his task. As the jasmine bloomed on the rises of the soft valleys, the rainy season faced the pattering raindrops from the roiling clouds, and every time I thought of that woman with the finely plaited hair, I faced my own turmoil, without sleep. 449. That chariot became excellent and strong, harnessed with mighty horses who hated being stabled, along with wheels that spun as they broke through mounds of rubble, and if only that king would abandon the work of war will we see her gleaming brow. 450. Let that great king just think of his own country, having cooled his enmity in that work of war in which the drums roar at each other from opposing sides. And let my eyes now rest on the young breasts of that coppery girl in order to relieve my sickness of hot sighing.

Mullai (100 Poems on Patient Waiting for the Lover’s Return, by Pēyaṉār)  〔171〕

Ten Poems Spoken by the Heroine, Having Seen the Coming of the Season (Paruvaṅkaṇṭu kiḻatti-y-uraitta pattu) Even though some of these poems could be understood as soliloquies, all ten are most likely the wife’s addresses to her girlfriend. The heroine’s husband has promised to return from the war camp at the onset of the rains, but he has been delayed. A reason is offered in the second stanza of poem 452: the war is over, but the hero is exacting tribute from his enemies. In the first stanza of poem 454, the two intertwined varieties of jasmine represent the close, supportive relationship between the wife and her girlfriend. 451.

It is the work of the king to stay on longer, overseeing his excellent army that cannot be vanquished. How can that man, who left me brokenhearted at the time of the coming of the rains, keep from coming to me in his chariot as a welcome guest?

452. Having blown here to make the parched earth fertile, the cloud with its resounding voice has brought on the rainy season. The effort in giving tribute to my love, so cruel in his enmity, has caused the fine beauty of my soft shoulders to fade and has rendered them the color of a sponge-gourd flower, studded with pale gold. 453. Look there: As the toads peep in each and every valley, and as flocks of birds sing with pleasing voices

〔172〕  Mullai (100 Poems on Patient Waiting for the Lover’s Return, by Pēyaṉār)

in each and every segment of the sky, the rainy season has begun. And this is why tears have welled in my wide eyes, for his chariot has not yet begun to move in my direction. 454.

Tenderly embracing the green tendrils of the red jasmine and tending its slender buds white as moonlight, the white jasmine will get its wish, yearning as it is for the rainy season. And longing for the sound of his chariot, my coppery beauty will hold fast.

455.

Having become angry, the cloud, with a roaring voice, has cooled the enmity of the king, and silencing his drums, the rainy season has begun. My broad, soft shoulders are to be pitied: Their luster has sallowed. They have become thin and have lost their old beauty as my glittering jewels slip.

456. That man who departed,

leading me to believe that we might stay on in this place together, in the autumn mixed with its cold mists, when the big jalap flowers with their petals as white as the moon at day and the mimosa with its white tendrils ornament the green thickets—

Friend, will he not think of these things?

Mullai (100 Poems on Patient Waiting for the Lover’s Return, by Pēyaṉār)  〔173〕

457.

Having left at such a difficult time for parting, when flocks of cranes screech, unable to find shelter and made to suffer by the spreading coolness, my lover will not be content. And my heart, filled as it is with ignorance, will not be content just to forget him.

458.

Bearing it in clusters, the tubular fruit of the laburnum has now ripened. The cold, scattered flowers which faced the plummeting rain now resemble my eyes. They have lost their great beauty since that man parted, so generous to the bards.

459. To bring an end to the pallor of my soft wrists and ample shoulders, might it not be fitting to embrace the fragrant, cool chest of that man from the town of good fields, who went along with the king, victorious in war, his great army having conquered the difficult fortresses of the enemies? 460. Either the enraged king does not hate his camp of war, or the messenger of the chief of the tall, fertile hills has not come. The north wind that causes misery now afflicts us and rattles against the stout trunk of the plantain tree with its densely set leaves. What will become of me, I wonder? I am to be pitied.

〔174〕  Mullai (100 Poems on Patient Waiting for the Lover’s Return, by Pēyaṉār)

Ten Poems in Which the Girlfriend Tells the Heroine to Take Heart (Tōḻi vaṟpuṟutta pattu) The context of these poems is the same as that of the previous decad: the heroine’s husband has been delayed at the onset of the rains. All ten poems are spoken by the girlfriend to the heroine to console her and allay her fears. In the first stanza of poem 462, she tries to console the heroine with the conceit that the laburnum has bloomed too early, having mistaken the freak shower for the full onset of the monsoon. 461.

The rainy season has begun, as it showers the forests with rain, making the clustering buds of the bedaly-nut vine resplendent because of the drops from heaven.

Do not lament! Live long, O Friend! The man of the war camp of the victorious king will not rest, having left you only for a little while. 462.

Having seen the garlandlike state of that beautiful, foolish laburnum, which misunderstood that it was the rainy season because of a freak showering cloud, why are you troubled now, O Woman?

463.

He has passed through the forest tracts unfolding with buds, and he will not dare spoil your great beauty. He isn’t one to stay behind, without coming to decorate your thick, beautiful hair in a charming way, stringing together in a pleasing fashion the fragrant flowers that bloom on the bushes.

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O Friend, your lover has stayed away to bring back fine jewels that are to be found only in the country of his enemies. 464.

He isn’t one to forget the season of early dew, when the sponge-gourd with its trailing vines blooms like gold in the dense thickets, and as the eyelike flowers of the mussel-shell creeper blink open into blossom:

he is now hastening to embrace your good shoulders. 465.

Having driven his tall chariot, its pace faster than a torrent of water and leaving behind the forest brought to life by the rains, he will come so that you can sweetly embrace his chest, garlanded with mixed flowers.

Live long, O Friend! That king who desires war has now cooled his enmity. 466.

Having been sent off by the king of splendid elephants, their tusks curving, and completing the great task as directed by that king, I knew for certain of his return now, on the reckoned day, O Woman of feminine nature with a beautiful, radiant brow that shines, your words sweet!

〔176〕  Mullai (100 Poems on Patient Waiting for the Lover’s Return, by Pēyaṉār)

467.

Becoming thin as your fine jewels slip off and suffering constantly, do not lament, saying that the man who left has stayed away for such a long time.

May you live long, O Friend!

They say that the king, victorious in war and with an elephant who is a cruel opponent, will stay on no further, and is in a bigger hurry than we are.

468. As the striped frogs croak and as the toads peep, the rainy season has begun. Now, to become a monsoon guest for your straight wrists and ample shoulders, driving his tall chariot with tinkling bells, your lover will come home today. 469.

The rain has begun, accompanied by thunder, rising to the right and roaring in the vast, beautiful reaches of the sky, and it will give him back to us, that man of the country of hilly traces where red quail filch the dried green millet.

Why don’t you come, O Woman of the flowerlike eyes? Let us go look at the sky. 470.

If your lover will not think of the time of early dew, mingled with harsh mists every day as they blow to cool down the vast reaches of the land,

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then do you think, O Woman of shining jewels, that his vision of you, glittering with excellence, will allow him to forget your coppery beauty?

Ten Poems on the Bard (Pāṇaṉ pattu) In all ten poems, the bard acts as a messenger between the delayed husband in the war camp and the wife and her girlfriend. In poems 471 and 472, the girlfriend addresses the bard. In the first poem, both women are very angry because the husband left quickly to serve his king and departed without telling anyone. In poem 473, the wife addresses the bard, asking him sarcastically to please remember her to her husband. In poem 474, the wife addresses the girlfriend, expressing her confidence in the bard, and in poem 475, she addresses her girlfriend in earshot of her husband’s emissaries. The heroine addresses the bard in poem 476, after he has pleaded with her to be patient. In poems 477 to 479, the hero addresses the bard, while in the final poem in the set, the bard “resigns,” expressing his disgust for the cruelty of the heartless hero. 471.

As her lustrous bangles slip, as her body grows thin, and as rolling tears agitate her kohl-rimmed, many-petaled eyes, it is clear that our heroic lord has left her.

You do not seem to have understood that, and still you are coming! What a great one he is! 472. O Bard with the little lute in your dexterous hand! The season as reckoned by your man has come, and so it remains. Even if he has not noticed it as we have, I suffer over his becoming ignorant of his shame at having his word made false.

〔178〕  Mullai (100 Poems on Patient Waiting for the Lover’s Return, by Pēyaṉār)

473. Having thought of your lord whose excellences have been praised by many, if you desire to go to him, do not forget us, O Dexterous Bard, as has that man who possesses strength in lying, causing us severe sorrow that gives rise to such misery! 474.

He says that he will bring back that man who went, leaving tracks in the dust as he drove off in his tall chariot with its swift horses, along with the army well experienced in war that razed the fortress built by the enemies, so that my flawless, brilliant forehead will shine.

This bard is very skilled, indeed! 475.

Having seen my shoulders that grew thin as my armlets slipped and as my eyes lost their beauty like that of a tender mango fruit, the bard with the small lute grieved abundantly. He has such great affection, and does not at all resemble that chieftain who departed, carrying off our intense love with him.

476. O Loveless Bard, that country that he left me for, does it have loveless evenings, too, I wonder, when herders with many cows braid in with their garlands the green-creepered jasmine that has heralded the season, as gathering clouds rumble to intensify the rains?

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477.

O Bard, if you stay there for a little while as a companion to offer comfort to the grieving heart of that woman who suffers from difficult sorrow along with grief abounding in wretchedness while pallor spreads over her long eyes that are so like dewy flowers, then you will see my chariot soon.

478. O Bard of the fine lute on which you play mullai tunes, tell me what she said, after our desirable beloved said that I’d stayed away too long and having spread the news of my cruelty, becoming a woman of pallid brow and then thinking otherwise of me, having grown emaciated with her illness. 479. Tell me, O Bard, at the time when the merciless north wind, mingled with harsh mists, mocks me in my loneliness as I travel on every day,

please tell us sweetly each thing that was said by that woman, her eyes like dewy flowers.

480. I am no longer your bard, and to me, you are no hero! Even after hearing of her suffering, as the kohl-rimmed, wet-lidded eyes of your desirable beloved shed tears, having lamented in her house, you cannot be gracious!

〔180〕  Mullai (100 Poems on Patient Waiting for the Lover’s Return, by Pēyaṉār)

Ten Poems to Urge on the Chariot (Tēr viyaṅkoṇṭa pattu) In all ten poems of this decad, the hero has finally been released from his duties at the war camp and urges his charioteer to drive him back home to his wife. All the poems are spoken in clipped, declarative phrases to emphasize the hero’s haste. In the original, the charioteer is addressed with slight variations in language in the penultimate line in every poem. 481. Thinking of the woman of the reddish gold jewels, her curving wrists, ample shoulders, and the lines of her beautiful loins, so that I may end my sickness, and having pierced the goad with a thorn, drive on your chariot, O Charioteer, yoked with whinnying horses as swift as birds in flight. 482.

So that I might be a great guest of that woman of choice jewels, hurry with haste, and drive on, O Charioteer! If we stay at the halfway mark for so much as a day along with the king, whose fighting, victorious army has glinting lances,

that gap of one day will seem as long as an eon. 483. The flowers have spread to beautify the path. The king has let me go. The horses are swift, and drive them on before you, O Charioteer, so that my fine-browed woman will win her beauty back.

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484.

The forest has regained its beauty, and the rains of the season have poured down, banishing the heat, as the twilight of the evening fades to dark. Drive on swiftly, O Charioteer! We have tarried for too long, forgetting that woman of the fine jewels.

485. In order that she bring her grievous suffering to a close, and so that I may embrace her ample shoulders as her beauty returns to her, drive on, O Charioteer, through that forest adorned with flowers where startled deer leap about. 486.

How, in the endless twilights and brooding without cease, could anyone endure this suffering of grievous sorrow? So that I may see that woman of high rank who is never satisfied after each embrace, take hold of your whip and drive on, O Charioteer, your chariot yoked with horses that can fly like the birds.

487. This indeed is the time when those who are separated brood. Drive the chariot, O Charioteer, so that we can gladden the heart of that woman with the tightening armlets. 488.

The rain has begun to fall from the masses of clouds, the very time when my lover of great distinction will remember me.

〔182〕  Mullai (100 Poems on Patient Waiting for the Lover’s Return, by Pēyaṉār)

Having yoked the sturdy horses with their manes flowing loose, drive on the chariot so that we may bring her suffering to an end. 489.

In the evening, when the jasmine of those soft soils blooms while glossy hordes of fine-winged bees swarm over it, so that we may gladden that woman of distressed heart, make haste, and drive on the tall chariot with its sturdy horses, urging them on with your finely twisted reins.

490.

In order to bring that one whose words are beautiful and sweet back to me, the rains have indeed come. And in order to end the cruel sorrow of the woman with the well-worked armlets in that place, make haste, and drive on your tall chariot decked with its beautiful bells.

Ten Poems That Celebrate His Return (Viravu-c-ciṟappuraitta pattu) The hero’s return is cause for relief and joyous celebration in this final decad of the anthology. In poems 491 to 495, the hero joyfully addresses his wife upon his return. In poems 496 to 499, the girlfriend celebrates along with the wife, expressing her relief at the return of her beauty, and in the final poem, the girlfriend address the hero with words of praise and gratitude. 491.

At the time of the thundering rains, as I unceasingly suffered, having suffered and suffered with a heart that suffered,

Mullai (100 Poems on Patient Waiting for the Lover’s Return, by Pēyaṉār)  〔183〕

I have come, O Woman, hurrying back to give you back your beauty. 492. As the peacocks danced just like you, as the jasmine bloomed as fragrantly as your fine forehead, and as the deer looked just as bewildered as you had, I came, having thought only of you, O Woman of the good brow, hastening even more than the rain itself. 493.

As the splendid bulls bellowed in answer to the thunder, while a majestic stag and his doe were startled together with their fawn, the time of the rains began as I came, having thought of you with your forearms stacked with bracelets.

494. As the bees feed on honey and the toads peep, and as the jasmine blossoms in the cool and fragrant forest, the season has given such pleasure. I have come back when you said to, now let your sorrows be finished. 495.

Overspread with many flowers at the borders of its red lands, and ending its desolation, the forest became sweet

〔184〕  Mullai (100 Poems on Patient Waiting for the Lover’s Return, by Pēyaṉār)

as I came along with a heart that grew anxious every time I thought of finely decorating your plaited black hair, O Woman with the thornlike teeth. 496.

O Woman whose eyes are large and full of peace, having left you, he stayed away, but now he has come as the heavy rains lash the great mountains, rendering them desolate as the animals flee to their thickets. And as the millet flourishes in clusters, let your hair, filled now with unfolding buds, become covetous for blossoms.

497. As the laburnum blooms into many fresh garlands, as the tall red anthills disgorge flying white ants, and as animals turn aside from their hunger, the rains have begun along with his return, having thought of you, that lord who is hungry for war, O Woman of great nature. 498. When that king with his elephants of curving tusks released him from his labors, and as he urged on the tall, swift chariot, with the coming of that lord of the mountains, your shoulders have regained their beauty, your armlets have stayed in place, and your large eyes with their long streaks have won back their flashing beauty. 499.

He thought that if you were to see the forest beautified by the rains, as the bedaly-nut vines blossom and the golden jasmine sprouts, you would suffer horribly,

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and without going on for his difficult work, your lover has come back, O Woman of sweet words, returning to you your fine beauty. 500. O Lord, you are a mighty tiger who stayed on in the vast reaches of the war camp of victorious battles, and along with your return to her, her kohl-rimmed eyes, which had turned pale as the blooms of the laburnum, have now regained their old beauty, like the blue lilies of the deep pools up in those hills.

References

e d i t i o n s c o n s u lt e d

Cāminātaiyar, U. Vē. Eṭṭu-t-tokaiyuḷ mūṉṟāvatākiya Aiṅkuṟunūṟu Mūlamum Paḻaiyav-uraiyum. 1903. Reprint, Tiruvanmiyur, Chennai: Dr. U. Vē. Cāminātaiyar Nūl Nilaiyam, 1980. Catāciva Aiyar, Ti. Aiṅkuṟunūṟu Mūlamum Uraiyum. Reprint, Tharamani, Chennai: International Institute of Tamil Studies, 1999. Cōmacuntaranār, Po. Vē. Eṭṭu-t-tokaiyuḷ mūṉṟāvatākiya Aiṅkuṟunūṟu. Tirunelveli: Tirunelvēli-t-tennintiya Caivacittānta Nūṟpatippu-k-kaḻakam, 1966. Turaicāmi Piḷḷai, Cu. Eṭṭu-t-tokaiyuḷ oṉṟākiya Aiṅkuṟunūṟu Mūlamum Viḷakka-vuraiyum. 3 vols. Annamalai: Aṇṇāmalai-p-palkalai-k-kaḻakam, 1957. r e f e r e n c e wo r k s

Elayaperumal, M. Grammar of Aigkurunuuru with Index. Trivandrum: University of Kerala, 1975. Fabricius, J.  P. Tamil and English Dictionary. 4th ed. Tranquebar: Evangelical Lutheran Mission Publishing House, 1972. Index des mots de la littérature tamoule ancienne. 3 vols. Pondicherry: Institut Franc̹ais d’Indologie, 1967. Lehmann, Thomas, and Thomas Malten. A Word Index of Old Tamil Caṅkam Literature. Stuttgart: Steiner, 1992. Rajam, V. S. A Reference Grammar of Classical Tamil Poetry: 150 b.c.–Pre-Fifth/Sixth Century a.d. Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 1992. Subrahmanian, N. Pre-Pallavan Tamil Index. Madras: University of Madras, 1966. Tamil Lexicon. 6 vols. plus suppl. Madras: University of Madras, 1982. other sources

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index

Aiṅkuṟunūṟu: authors of, 1–2, 4, 13; colophon of, 4; commentaries on, 2–3, 20; commissioner of, 1, 3–4, 13; compiler of, 1,4; date of, 1–3; discovery of, 2; formal structure of, 1–2, 4, 6–7, 14; print history of, 2; symbolism in, 14; translators of, 2, 4–6 akam, 1, 4, 13, 78, 85 Akanāṉūṟu, 4, 23, 53, 157 aloe wood, 90–91 Ammūvaṉār, 4, 53 Āmūr, 39 ants, 51, 184 antāti, 74 anthropomorphism, 14–17, 19–20 anxiety, romantic, 15, 27, 53, 57 ape-flower tree, 50, 123 Aruntati, 168 Asquith, Pamela, 17 Ātaṉ, 4, 13, 24–27 autumn, 172 Aviṉi, 4, 24–27 ball, 148 bamboo, 11, 29, 85, 93, 100, 111, 114–115, 125, 129–130, 132, 136, 147, 154 bangles, 14, 27, 29, 31, 34–35, 39, 46, 64–65, 72, 79, 81–84, 90, 92, 106, 110, 117, 126, 164, 177 banyan tree, 124

bard, 23–24, 27, 35–37, 46–47, 52–53, 57–58, 62–65, 158, 160, 177–179 bathing, 43–45, 161 bats, 11, 136, 146, 148 battle, 157, 164–165, 168–173, 175–176, 178, 184–185 bedaly-nut vine, 158, 161, 167, 174, 184 beech tree, 9–10, 138, 144 bees, 8, 32, 35, 41–42, 46–47, 50, 61, 75, 96, 100, 105–106, 109, 111, 119, 137, 145, 150, 158–159, 161–162, 170, 182–183 bindweed, 31 bitter-gourd vine, 51 boars, 17, 85, 107–110 bottle-flower tree, 9–10, 137, 140, 145 “bow of the lock” construction, 7–8 Brahmins, 25, 85, 87, 149–151 broad beans, 117 bulls, 169, 183 cactus, 123, 131 Cāminātaiyār, U. Vē., 2, 7, 20 caṅkam, 2 carp, 26, 34, 57–58 cassia tree, 53–55, 65–67, 71, 73, 82 Catāciva Aiyar, Ti., 3 catfish, 73 Cēra dynasty, 1, 3–4, 13, 24, 85; Irumpoṟai line of the, 3–4 cevili-t-tāy. See foster mother

〔192〕  Index chariot, 158, 163–166, 169–172, 176, 178– 182, 184 charioteer, 157, 163, 180–182 children, 30, 35, 42–43, 47, 54, 60–61, 68–69, 87, 107, 109, 123–124, 126, 157–160, 165, 168 cobras, 75 Cōḻa dynasty, 38–39 Cōmacuntaraṉār, Po. Vē., 3 conch, 53, 56, 81–83 conehead flower, 85–86. See also kuṟiñci coral, 18, 112 cowrie shells, 73 cows, 169, 178 crabs, 14, 19, 23, 29–32, 53, 77, 83 cranes, 23, 26, 29, 43, 47, 65–66, 75, 77, 79–80, 173 crocodiles, 23–25, 30, 35, 53 crows, 53, 71–74, 128, 153 cuckoos, 8–10, 136–137, 145 Daston, Lorraine, 14, 19 decad. See pattu deer, 92, 132, 140–141, 147, 154, 156, 158, 167, 181, 183 divination, dance of, 100–104 dogs, 123, 130–131, 140, 155 dolls, 61–62, 80, 147–148, 150 Doniger, Wendy, 16–17 dragonflies, 29, 92 egomorphism, 19 elephants, 39, 45, 85, 92–93, 100, 116, 123– 125, 128, 132, 139–140, 142, 148, 151, 162, 166, 169, 175–176, 184 elopement, 12, 53, 82, 97, 104, 107, 111, 115, 123, 126–127, 142, 145–153 emotion, 14 eṟuḻ tree, 126 ewes, 100 fig tree, 114 fish, 23, 25, 27, 32, 35, 43, 53, 71, 75, 77

forest, 166–168 foster mother, 11–12, 30, 53–54, 71, 77, 86, 90, 94, 100–101, 104, 111, 127, 142, 145–146, 149, 153, 158–160 frogs, 176 ganders, 54, 56 girlfriend, 11–13, 15, 17, 23–24, 27, 29–30, 32, 38, 40, 46, 48–49, 53–54, 57, 60, 65, 68, 71, 74–75, 77–78, 81–82, 86, 90, 94, 97–98, 101, 104, 107–108, 111, 115–116, 119, 123–124, 126–127, 130, 133, 138– 139, 142, 146, 149, 153, 157–158, 164, 166, 171, 174, 179, 182 globe thistle, 31 glory lily, 85, 95–96, 105, 107, 120, 158, 163, 168 gossip, 11, 43, 45, 54, 57, 62–63, 78, 86, 90, 114, 119, 136, 145–146 grandfather, 158–159 gulls, 150 Gurusami, M. R. P., 20 hare-leaf vine, 54 hares, 158, 163–164 Hart, George L., 3–4, 6, 13 hens, 163, 165 hero, 6, 10–13, 15–17, 23–24, 27, 29–30, 32, 35, 38, 40, 43, 45–46, 48–49, 53, 57, 60, 62–63, 65, 68, 71, 74–75, 77–78, 81–82, 86, 90, 94, 97–98, 101, 104, 107–108, 111, 115–116, 118–119, 123–124, 126–127, 130, 133, 136, 138, 142, 153, 157–158, 161, 163–164, 166–168, 171, 174, 179, 180, 182 heroine, 6, 10–12, 15, 23, 27, 29–30, 32, 35, 38, 40, 43, 45–46, 48, 53–54, 57, 60, 62–63, 65, 68, 71, 74–75, 77–78, 81–82, 86, 90, 94, 97–98, 101, 104, 107–108, 111, 115–116, 118–119, 123–124, 127, 130, 133, 136, 138–139, 142, 145, 149, 153, 157–158, 161, 163–164, 166, 168, 171, 174, 179, 182

Index  〔193〕 herons, 16, 67–70, 80 hill man, 104–107, 113, 117, 119–120 horses, 28, 45, 63, 87, 125, 141, 158, 164, 170, 178, 180–182 implied simile, 23, 138, 157, 161, 163 Indian oak tree, 9, 134, 138, 140, 149–150, 156 Indra, 41 infidelity, 24, 142 ironwood tree, 8, 12, 129, 137, 144–145, 158, 161, 163 Iruppai, 38, 40 iruttal. See patient waiting jackfruit tree, 85, 90–92, 139 jalap flower, 47, 51, 172 jasmine, 7, 9–10, 114, 137, 158, 160–161, 164, 167–168, 170–172, 178, 182– 184 Jottimuttu, P., 5–6, 20 kaḻaṉi, 49 Kaḻār, 41 kaḷavu, 13 Kalittokai, 1 Kalof, Linda, 19 Kapilar, 4, 17, 85 Karuvūr, 4 Kāviri River, 35–36 Kiḷḷi, 45 king, 157, 165–166, 168–177, 180, 184 kingfisher, 158, 170 kino tree, 19, 85, 89, 92–93, 106, 111, 113, 120–121, 127, 131, 144, 155 kites, 123, 130 Kō Ātaṉ Cel Irumpoṟai, 4 Koṟkai, 79–80 kuravai, 77–78 kuṟiñci, 17, 23, 53, 78, 85–86, 100, 123, 142, 157 Kuṟuntokai, 4, 23, 53, 123, 157 Kuṭṭuvaṉ, 4, 77; silver portrait coin of, 4

laburnum, 158, 161, 163, 166–167, 173–174, 184–185 lamentation, 11, 15, 29, 53, 127–128, 133– 136, 145–149, 168–170 landscapes, 1, 6, 13, 53, 65, 77–78, 85, 100, 123, 142, 157–158; sequencing of, 13 leopards, 123, 155 lilies, blue, 16, 44, 51, 53–54, 57, 59, 64, 68–69, 71, 74–75, 77–81, 95, 114, 121, 139, 147, 185 lilies, white water, 23–25, 30, 32–33, 35, 39, 41–43, 49–51, 53, 77, 161, 167 loach fish, 72 lodhra tree, 124 lotus, 24–26, 29, 38, 42, 50, 165 love, reciprocal. See akam Mahadevan, Iravatham, 3–4 mango tree, 10, 26–29, 41, 46–47, 70, 90–91, 138, 141–143, 178 margosa tree, 10, 138. See also neem tree Marr, John Ralston, 1, 4 marutam, 13, 23, 53, 78, 85, 157 mast tree, 18, 91, 111–112 mastwood tree, 54–55, 57, 59, 63, 71, 73, 81 material culture, 14 Matti, 41 memorial stone, 139 meter, 8, 10–11 millet, 85–86, 88, 97, 102, 104, 107–108, 110, 115–119, 121, 176, 184 Milton, Kay, 19 mimosa, 172 Mitman, Gregg, 14, 19 molucca beans, 101–103, 148 monkeys, 14, 17–18, 85, 111–115, 147 mother of heroine, biological, 49, 53, 57, 81–82, 94, 99, 101, 104–105, 127, 145– 146, 149–150, 153, 158 mulberry tree, 8, 137 mullai, 12–13, 78, 85, 123, 157–158, 160–161, 163, 179 murrel fish, 37

〔194〕  Index Murukaṉ, 100–103, 126; priest of, 100–103 mussel-shell creeper, 175 myrobalan tree, 26, 32–33, 43–44, 134, 149 naṟṟāy. See mother of heroine, biological Naṟṟiṇai, 4, 23, 53 neem tree, 11, 32, 133, 136. See also margosa tree nettle, white, 61 neytal, 23, 53, 65, 78, 85 Nietzsche, Friedrich Wilhelm, 14–15 Ōrampōkiyār, 4, 13, 23, 45, 48, 53 Ortega y Gasset, José, 5 Ōtalāntaiyār, 4, 10–13, 123, 157; possible collaboration with Pēyaṉār, 13 otters, 41 owls, 119 pācaṟai. See war camp paddy, 24–25, 31–32, 37–38, 43, 49–51, 81, 109–110, 117. See also paḻaṉam; kaḻaṉi pālai, 6, 11–12, 53, 78, 85, 123, 142 paḻaṉam, 24 Pallava dynasty, 3 palmyra palm, 59 pāṇar. See bard pāṅkaṉ. See sidekick, of hero Pāṇṭiya dynasty, 3, 38–39, 85 parattai. See rival woman Pāri, 85 parrots, 14, 17, 85, 107– 115–118, 146–147 passersby, 12, 149, 153 patient waiting, 157 Patiṟṟu-p-pattu, 85 pattu, 4, 6–8, 10–15, 17 Paz, Octavio, 5 peacocks, 17, 26, 44, 85, 104, 106, 118–122, 146, 158, 162, 166, 183 pear tree, 53, 58, 65 pelicans, 59 pepper vine, 102–103 Peruntēvaṉār, 4, 13

Pēyaṉār, 4, 12–13, 157; possible collaboration with Ōtalāntaiyār, 13 pigs, 130–131, 155 Piḷḷai, Turaicāmi, 3 pipal tree, 131 pirital. See separation plantain tree, 173 plow, 162 porcupines, 143 portia, 24 poruḷs, 2 possession, 86, 101–102 pregnancy, 38, 40, 124, 126, 130–131 Pukalūr, 3–4; inscriptional evidence at, 4 Pulā-t-tuṟai Muṟṟiya Kūṭalūr Kiḻār, 1,4, 21n3 puṟam, 4 Puṟanāṉūṟu, 3–4, 21n3, 23 purslane, 27, 31, 38, 91 quail, 176 rainbow, 166 rainy season, 161–168, 170–175, 178, 181–184 Ramakoti, K. V., 20, 157 Ramanujan, A. K., 6, 13 rams, 100 Rangarajan, Vijayalakshmy, 20 red ebony, 50 reeds, 14, 23, 27–29 rice, 51, 85 rival woman, 16, 23–24, 27, 32, 35, 43, 45–46, 49, 53, 60, 62, 65, 67–68, 71, 97–98, 115, 157 sandalwood tree, 85, 90–91, 100, 105 sarcasm, 10, 177 scabbard fish, 41 scientism, 14 scorpion fish, 37 screw pine, 53, 56, 61 sedge grass, 29, 39, 44, 69, 79, 110, 150

Index  〔195〕 senses, 14–15, 17, 20 separation, 6, 12, 53, 62, 94, 123–124, 126– 127, 133, 157, 163 sexuality, 14 sheep, 115, 117 shrimp, 53, 75, 77, 80, 83 sidekick, of hero, 53, 74, 81, 104, 157, 163 silk-cotton tree, 129, 135, 144 skylarks, 158, 161, 163 sparrows, 119–120 sponge-gourd flower, 171, 175 spring, 6, 8–10, 12, 136–138, 142, 156 storks, 46 Subramoniam, V. I., 3 sugarcane, 18, 23, 25, 27–29, 39, 41, 46–49, 114 sulking, 23, 35–37, 45–48 syntax, Dravidian, 7 Takanobu Takahashi, 3 talaivaṉ. See hero talaivi. See heroine tamarind, 38 Tēṉūr, 39 thornbush, 30 Tieken, Herman, 3 tigers, 85, 90, 92–93, 101–103, 109, 111, 113, 125, 128, 147, 151, 185 tillai tree, 63 tiṇai. See landscapes toads, 171, 176, 183 tōḻi. See girlfriend Tolkāppiyam, 1, 6, 13–17, 19; Marapiyal, 14–17, 19; taxonomic systems in, 14–17, 19

Toṇṭi, 74–77 toothbrush tree, 123, 128, 130 tortoises, 46 toy chariot, 159 triangle, lovers’, 16, 23 trumpet-flower tree, 9, 137, 142 Tuan, Yi-Fu, 13–14 turtles, 23, 35–36 uḷḷuṟai. See implied simile ūṭal. See sulking Vedas, 25, 151 Virāṉ, 38, 40 vultures, 123, 128, 135 war camp, 13, 157–158, 165, 168–171, 173– 174, 177, 180, 185 water buffalos, 23, 48–52 water hens, 23, 38, 41, 47 water thorn, 74, 76 white water birds, 15–17, 53, 61, 67–70 wild lime tree, 158, 167–168 willow tree, 37 wrestlers, 167 yā tree, 152 Yāṉai-k-kaṭ Cēy Māntaraṇ Cēral Irumpoṟai, 1, 3–4, 21n13 zoomorphism, 14–17, 19 Zvelebil, Kamil, 3–4, 85

translations from the asian classics

Major Plays of Chikamatsu, tr. Donald Keene 1961 Four Major Plays of Chikamatsu, tr. Donald Keene. Paperback ed. only. 1961; rev. ed. 1997 Records of the Grand Historian of China, translated from the Shih chi of Ssu-ma Ch’ien, tr. Burton Watson, 2 vols. 1961 Instructions for Practical Living and Other Neo-Confucian Writings by Wang Yang-ming, tr. Wingtsit Chan 1963 Hsün Tzu: Basic Writings, tr. Burton Watson, paperback ed. only. 1963; rev. ed. 1996 Chuang Tzu: Basic Writings, tr. Burton Watson, paperback ed. only. 1964; rev. ed. 1996 The Mahābhārata, tr. Chakravarthi V. Narasimhan. Also in paperback ed. 1965; rev. ed. 1997 The Manyōshū, Nippon Gakujutsu Shinkōkai edition 1965 Su Tung-p’o: Selections from a Sung Dynasty Poet, tr. Burton Watson. Also in paperback ed. 1965 Bhartrihari: Poems, tr. Barbara Stoler Miller. Also in paperback ed. 1967 Basic Writings of Mo Tzu, Hsün Tzu, and Han Fei Tzu, tr. Burton Watson. Also in separate paperback eds. 1967 The Awakening of Faith, Attributed to Aśvaghosha, tr. Yoshito S. Hakeda. Also in paperback ed. 1967 Reflections on Things at Hand: The Neo-Confucian Anthology, comp. Chu Hsi and Lü Tsu-ch’ien, tr. Wing-tsit Chan 1967 The Platform Sutra of the Sixth Patriarch, tr. Philip B. Yampolsky. Also in paperback ed. 1967 Essays in Idleness: The Tsurezuregusa of Kenkō, tr. Donald Keene. Also in paperback ed. 1967 The Pillow Book of Sei Shōnagon, tr. Ivan Morris, 2 vols. 1967 Two Plays of Ancient India: The Little Clay Cart and the Minister’s Seal, tr. J. A. B. van Buitenen 1968 The Complete Works of Chuang Tzu, tr. Burton Watson 1968 The Romance of the Western Chamber (Hsi Hsiang chi), tr. S. I. Hsiung. Also in paperback ed. 1968 The Manyōshū, Nippon Gakujutsu Shinkōkai edition. Paperback ed. only. 1969 Records of the Historian: Chapters from the Shih chi of Ssu-ma Ch’ien, tr. Burton Watson. Paperback ed. only. 1969 Cold Mountain: 100 Poems by the T’ang Poet Han-shan, tr. Burton Watson. Also in paperback ed. 1970 Twenty Plays of the Nō Theatre, ed. Donald Keene. Also in paperback ed. 1970 Chūshingura: The Treasury of Loyal Retainers, tr. Donald Keene. Also in paperback ed. 1971; rev. ed. 1997 The Zen Master Hakuin: Selected Writings, tr. Philip B. Yampolsky 1971

〔198〕  Translations from the Asian Classics Chinese Rhyme-Prose: Poems in the Fu Form from the Han and Six Dynasties Periods, tr. Burton Watson. Also in paperback ed. 1971 Kūkai: Major Works, tr. Yoshito S. Hakeda. Also in paperback ed. 1972 The Old Man Who Does as He Pleases: Selections from the Poetry and Prose of Lu Yu, tr. Burton Watson 1973 The Lion’s Roar of Queen Śrīmālā, tr. Alex and Hideko Wayman 1974 Courtier and Commoner in Ancient China: Selections from the History of the Former Han by Pan Ku, tr. Burton Watson. Also in paperback ed. 1974 Japanese Literature in Chinese, vol. 1: Poetry and Prose in Chinese by Japanese Writers of the Early Period, tr. Burton Watson 1975 Japanese Literature in Chinese, vol. 2: Poetry and Prose in Chinese by Japanese Writers of the Later Period, tr. Burton Watson 1976 Love Song of the Dark Lord: Jayadeva’s Gītagovinda, tr. Barbara Stoler Miller. Also in paperback ed. Cloth ed. includes critical text of the Sanskrit. 1977; rev. ed. 1997 Ryōkan: Zen Monk-Poet of Japan, tr. Burton Watson 1977 Calming the Mind and Discerning the Real: From the Lam rim chen mo of Tsoṇ-kha-pa, tr. Alex Wayman 1978 The Hermit and the Love-Thief: Sanskrit Poems of Bhartrihari and Bilhaṇa, tr. Barbara Stoler Miller 1978 The Lute: Kao Ming’s P’i-p’a chi, tr. Jean Mulligan. Also in paperback ed. 1980 A Chronicle of Gods and Sovereigns: Jinnō Shōtōki of Kitabatake Chikafusa, tr. H. Paul Varley 1980 Among the Flowers: The Hua-chien chi, tr. Lois Fusek 1982 Grass Hill: Poems and Prose by the Japanese Monk Gensei, tr. Burton Watson 1983 Doctors, Diviners, and Magicians of Ancient China: Biographies of Fang-shih, tr. Kenneth J. DeWoskin. Also in paperback ed. 1983 Theater of Memory: The Plays of Kālidāsa, ed. Barbara Stoler Miller. Also in paperback ed. 1984 The Columbia Book of Chinese Poetry: From Early Times to the Thirteenth Century, ed. and tr. Burton Watson. Also in paperback ed. 1984 Poems of Love and War: From the Eight Anthologies and the Ten Long Poems of Classical Tamil, tr. A. K. Ramanujan. Also in paperback ed. 1985 The Bhagavad Gita: Krishna’s Counsel in Time of War, tr. Barbara Stoler Miller 1986 The Columbia Book of Later Chinese Poetry, ed. and tr. Jonathan Chaves. Also in paperback ed. 1986 The Tso Chuan: Selections from China’s Oldest Narrative History, tr. Burton Watson 1989 Waiting for the Wind: Thirty-six Poets of Japan’s Late Medieval Age, tr. Steven Carter 1989 Selected Writings of Nichiren, ed. Philip B. Yampolsky 1990 Saigyō, Poems of a Mountain Home, tr. Burton Watson 1990 The Book of Lieh Tzu: A Classic of the Tao, tr. A. C. Graham. Morningside ed. 1990 The Tale of an Anklet: An Epic of South India—The Cilappatikāram of Iḷaṇkō Aṭikaḷ, tr. R. Parthasarathy 1993 Waiting for the Dawn: A Plan for the Prince, tr. with introduction by Wm. Theodore de Bary 1993 Yoshitsune and the Thousand Cherry Trees: A Masterpiece of the Eighteenth-Century Japanese Puppet Theater, tr., annotated, and with introduction by Stanleigh H. Jones, Jr. 1993 The Lotus Sutra, tr. Burton Watson. Also in paperback ed. 1993 The Classic of Changes: A New Translation of the I Ching as Interpreted by Wang Bi, tr. Richard John Lynn 1994 Beyond Spring: Tz’u Poems of the Sung Dynasty, tr. Julie Landau 1994

Translations from the Asian Classics  〔199〕 The Columbia Anthology of Traditional Chinese Literature, ed. Victor H. Mair 1994 Scenes for Mandarins: The Elite Theater of the Ming, tr. Cyril Birch 1995 Letters of Nichiren, ed. Philip B. Yampolsky; tr. Burton Watson et al. 1996 Unforgotten Dreams: Poems by the Zen Monk Shōtetsu, tr. Steven D. Carter 1997 The Vimalakirti Sutra, tr. Burton Watson 1997 Japanese and Chinese Poems to Sing: The Wakan rōei shū, tr. J. Thomas Rimer and Jonathan Chaves 1997 Breeze Through Bamboo: Kanshi of Ema Saikō, tr. Hiroaki Sato 1998 A Tower for the Summer Heat, by Li Yu, tr. Patrick Hanan 1998 Traditional Japanese Theater: An Anthology of Plays, by Karen Brazell 1998 The Original Analects: Sayings of Confucius and His Successors (0479–0249), by E. Bruce Brooks and A. Taeko Brooks 1998 The Classic of the Way and Virtue: A New Translation of the Tao-te ching of Laozi as Interpreted by Wang Bi, tr. Richard John Lynn 1999 The Four Hundred Songs of War and Wisdom: An Anthology of Poems from Classical Tamil, The Puṟanāṉuṟu, ed. and tr. George L. Hart and Hank Heifetz 1999 Original Tao: Inward Training (Nei-yeh) and the Foundations of Taoist Mysticism, by Harold D. Roth 1999 Lao Tzu’s Tao Te Ching: A Translation of the Startling New Documents Found at Guodian, by Robert G. Henricks 2000 The Shorter Columbia Anthology of Traditional Chinese Literature, ed. Victor H. Mair 2000 Mistress and Maid (Jiaohongji), by Meng Chengshun, tr. Cyril Birch 2001 Chikamatsu: Five Late Plays, tr. and ed. C. Andrew Gerstle 2001 The Essential Lotus: Selections from the Lotus Sutra, tr. Burton Watson 2002 Early Modern Japanese Literature: An Anthology, 1600–1900, ed. Haruo Shirane 2002; abridged 2008 The Columbia Anthology of Traditional Korean Poetry, ed. Peter H. Lee 2002 The Sound of the Kiss, or The Story That Must Never Be Told: Pingali Suranna’s Kalapurnodayamu, tr. Vecheru Narayana Rao and David Shulman 2003 The Selected Poems of Du Fu, tr. Burton Watson 2003 Far Beyond the Field: Haiku by Japanese Women, tr. Makoto Ueda 2003 Just Living: Poems and Prose by the Japanese Monk Tonna, ed. and tr. Steven D. Carter 2003 Han Feizi: Basic Writings, tr. Burton Watson 2003 Mozi: Basic Writings, tr. Burton Watson 2003 Xunzi: Basic Writings, tr. Burton Watson 2003 Zhuangzi: Basic Writings, tr. Burton Watson 2003 The Awakening of Faith, Attributed to Aśvaghosha, tr. Yoshito S. Hakeda, introduction by Ryuichi Abe 2005 The Tales of the Heike, tr. Burton Watson, ed. Haruo Shirane 2006 Tales of Moonlight and Rain, by Ueda Akinari, tr. with introduction by Anthony H. Chambers 2007 Traditional Japanese Literature: An Anthology, Beginnings to 1600, ed. Haruo Shirane 2007 The Philosophy of Qi, by Kaibara Ekken, tr. Mary Evelyn Tucker 2007 The Analects of Confucius, tr. Burton Watson 2007 The Art of War: Sun Zi’s Military Methods, tr. Victor Mair 2007 One Hundred Poets: One Poem Each: A Translation of the Ogura Hyakunin Isshu, tr. Peter McMillan 2008 Zeami: Performance Notes, tr. Tom Hare 2008 Zongmi on Chan, tr. Jeffrey Lyle Broughton 2009

〔200〕  Translations from the Asian Classics Scripture of the Lotus Blossom of the Fine Dharma, rev. ed., tr. Leon Hurvitz, preface and introduction by Stephen R. Teiser 2009 Mencius, tr. Irene Bloom, ed. with an introduction by Philip J. Ivanhoe 2009 Clouds Thick, Whereabouts Unknown: Poems by Zen Monks of China, Charles Egan 2010 The Mozi: A Complete Translation, tr. Ian Johnston 2010 The Huainanzi: A Guide to the Theory and Practice of Government in Early Han China, by Liu An, tr. John S. Major, Sarah A. Queen, Andrew Seth Meyer, and Harold D. Roth, with Michael Puett and Judson Murray 2010 The Demon at Agi Bridge and Other Japanese Tales, tr. Burton Watson, ed. with introduction by Haruo Shirane 2011 Haiku Before Haiku: From the Renga Masters to Bashō, tr. with introductions by Steven D. Carter 2011 The Columbia Anthology of Chinese Folk and Popular Literature, ed. Victor H. Mair and Mark Bender 2011