so as the shiny stalks bend, and point towards
the surrounding gardens, flying cranes think
the rice is mocking the flowers.
I.67
Rice stalks bend down towards the abundant red lotuses
that surround the ripe paddy ready for harvest,
and as the breeze spreads out across the drained fields
prickly rice thorns brush up against soft flower petals
as if thirsty roots had come up to drink that sweet lotus honey.
I.68
At the foot of jackfruit trees
fruits as big as boulders burst open with pulp
and attract a string of honeybees from every direction
like Spring’s royal elephant gone wild, oozing liquid
from dusty temples, held in check by iron chains.
I.69
In the plantain groves of Śrī Villiputtūr
clusters of yellow bananas hang down
like big round wreaths, woven with leaves
and flowers from giant chrysanthemums.
Blackened banana tips almost touch the ground
like intoxicated bees who become powerless and faint
having smelled the sweet fragrance of overripe fruit.
I.70
Like an embracing lover, a betel vine wraps itself
around the trunk of an areca palm, and as if saying—
‘Let our love grow through a red aphrodisiac,’
the creeper moves from a sagging branch to a nearby sugarcane stalk
splitting it open, spilling juice and pearls into a nearby hearth,
used to prepare sweet molasses and lime.
I.71
In the mango orchards of Śrī Villiputtūr
ancient water tanks smelling of camphor
are filled with purple lilies, white lotuses
and green moss so thick you could walk across.
Water fowl crying ‘kŏl, kŏl, kŏl’
curve and dip their necks into the water
to feed on round fat catfish playing below.
I.72
In the evening near the edge of a garden pond
white-winged herons jump from a thicket to their nests.
The sound of their flapping wings going‘paṭ paṭ paṭ’
and their voices crying‘ kre, kre’
are echoed by the resounding call
of ceremonial drums and trumpets
reverberating from the local temple of Viṣṇu.
I.73
A gentle wind passes through a northern temple to Viṣṇu
picking up the fragrance of honey-sweetened prasādam,
along with the purifying scent of holy basil
wafting from the garland that adorns his chest.
From here the wind moves to Śrī Villiputtūr
and brushes past red water lilies
that slip from the hair of temple dancers.
I.74
Throughout the night, a fragrant gale gushes
past the gopuram’s fluttering flag,
occasionally rattling the dangling bells.
And at the edge of the golden temple wall
night birds rest on chrysanthemum branches
and begin their chirping to signal the dawn
prompting quarrelling couples
to stop their bickering, and begin making love.
I.75
Drāviḍa girls sit and guard freshly harvested rice,
laid out to dry in sun-filled courtyards.
And meanwhile girls from the village arrive
carrying wicker baskets with lilies for sale,
and as the girls begin to barter,
a spotted temple fawn starts to gobble up the rice
until the girls rush back to scare it away.
I.76
Having travelled a great distance, weary pilgrims enter the town
and are immediately greeted with full-body prostrations.
They are asked about their well-being
and given water to wash their feet
before being led to sit on coconut-fibre mats.
Broad banana leaves are laid out in a row,
and the devotees are served a feast
of fine rice and lentils streaming with ghee, along with
various curries, milk and yogurt,
all served in little bowls made of woven areca leaves.
And after they rinse their mouths,
they are treated to a foot massage and offered fresh tāmbūlam.
Then the devotees make donations to the temple
in hopes of good fortune
and when they say ‘We’ll be going now,’
the villagers walk them to the edge of town,
only to return home, sad and lonely.
Like special guests in their humble homes,
this is how the people of Śrī Viliputtūr
treat visiting pilgrims.
* * *
VIṢṆUCITTA
I.77
In that town lived a pious bhakta named Viṣṇucitta,
and true to his name, he always kept Viṣṇu in his thoughts,
like an elephant bound by the chains of yoga.
The sacred Viṣṇu mantra was always on his lotus lips
and though unread in the Vedas and Upaniṣads
he understood the great knowledge within
and went beyond all dualities to dwell
in single-minded devotion to his Lord.
I.78
By the grace of god, Viṣṇucitta’s good deeds from countless past lives bore fruit in the form of a guru’s blessing. He was secretly given a wealth of knowledge through which he understood that he was separate from the physical world, and separate from God. He knew that the connection between himself and the Lord, between part and whole, was eternally existent and without beginning.
Viṣṇucitta thought, ‘If one has complete understanding and is absorbed in the ecstasy of the highest yoga, what is the point of arduous study riddled with difficulties? For someone without clear perception Logic is toxic, Sāṁkhya is charming and Mīmāṁsa is harming, philosophy is alchemy and grammar is blasphemy. Even if one attempts to study, there is never enough time, and obstacles always get in the way. All that hard work is futile. But even then, if one learns a little, his arrogance grows huge. If however, one does finish his studies and becomes a true scholar, the material world becomes meaningless and is relinquished, just as one who has grain rejects the husk, or one who has honey abandons the honeycomb. What’s the use in reading through texts only to forget them in the end? What’s the purpose of study for a recluse like me who’s already completely at peace? Some men, who are bound to be reborn, try to defeat rival scholars or receive the praise of kings, but for a man like me, that kind of fame is like a plague, for gain is pain and wealth isn’t health!’
In this way, Viṣṇucitta was like the humble brahman Bharata who long ago earned the respect of King Rāhūgaṇa of Sauvīra and taught him the path to salvation.
Viṣṇucitta also understood that the highest goal of man is to serve the many auspicious forms of God, just as the Lord’s divine attendants do in Vaikuṇṭham. And so with great love and devotion, Viṣṇucitta lived a humble life in Śrī Villiputtūr, making and offering garlands to his Lord.
And moreover …
I.79
With his hard earned savings that great yogi served food
to all the groups of visiting Vaiṣṇavas
who came and went along the road that stretches
from the northern Snow Mountains to the southern Sandalwood Hills.
I.80
During the rain-drenched days when the sky was like a bubbling spring
Viṣṇucitta’s wife would expertly prepare a fire
using dried coconut husks,
never allowing the smoke to touch her eyes. She would cook the food
and he would lovingly serve it, all with a co
conut-shell ladle—
fine cooked rice soaked in ghee served with peeled red lentils,
four or five well-seasoned curries, crisp black lentil chips,
dried vegetable stir-fries and yogurt.
I.81
In the hot summer, devotees first smeared with sandalwood paste
to ease the heat, are served a refreshing meal—
warm white rice, jaggery-flavoured broths,
sweet and savoury porridges,
sugarcane juice, fresh coconut juice, sweet cakes, various fruits,
cool scented water, thin buttermilk, and tender green mangoes
that fall to the ground from the heat.
I.82
In the winter, hot meals are served to stave off colds—
fragrant steamed rice with ground black pepper and hot ghee
that burns the hand, various curries
sizzling in earthenware dishes,
green vegetables flavoured with mustard powder, pickled fruits,
rice pudding and a little ocean of frothy milk.
I.83
Groups of Vaiṣṇavas from various regions
arrive in Śrī Villiputtūr on Saturdays
for just one chance to bathe in that holy river,
but first they massage and anoint themselves
with items prepared in Viṣṇucitta’s home—
mahua flour packed deep into banana flower cups
and oil, filled to the brim in big clay pots.
And after their bath they walk back to his house
with clean washed clothes hanging over their shoulders.
I.84
At midnight, just outside that great bhakta’s home
one can hear the sounds of the Divya Prabandham being recited,
the sacred stories of Viṣṇu being told,
and Viṣṇucitta’s own voice saying—
‘Forgive me, there are not many curries, nor are they very hot.
We have no cake and the meal is not that great,
but please, please come and eat.’
I.85
In this way, the great Ālvār Viṣṇucitta
lovingly served all the devoted pilgrims.
And without even knowing it, he easily gave
whoever needed whatever they wanted, and was happy.
* * *
CHAPTER II
II.1
You defeated the Daityas
and returned vast riches, robbed from the gods!
O lovely Lord of Vĕṅkaṭa,
the flood of moonlight from Śrī’s lotus eyes
makes your face glow with a gentle smile.
II.2
Listen to what’s happening in the Pāṇḍya kingdom …
MADHURA
II.3
In what city do women spread camphor over their breasts
to remove the smell of oysters from their new pearl necklaces?
In what city do they use the finest sandalwood trees
to build their mansions and sell the scraps to neighbouring kingdoms?
In what city does the breeze carry the musk of Sinhalese elephants
towards the north to excite the female elephants of Spring?
In what city does the king don the finest green emeralds, only to pass them on to lesser lords?
Only in southern Madhura! Shining in all her glory
amidst the dense surrounding forests.
The towering city gates with doors of gold and pearl,
and the celebrated citadel with its high rampart walls
so impregnable, that even monkeys as tall as mountains
could not enter that city under Sugrīva’s command!
II.4
The gilded wall that surrounds the city
is like the golden mountain Meru,
held in Śiva’s powerful arms
when he destroyed the Triple City.
II.5
Slowly looking up at the high city walls
the golden crenellations appear in a row
like Lakṣmi’s garland of yellow campakas
hanging down from the highest heaven.
II.6
Women play water games in the city moat,
their swollen breasts smeared with perfume and paste
made from conch shell and musk, and sandal and aloe
so fragrant, the smell travels down to the home of the snakes.
Don’t you see? This is how Bhogavati the underground river
got her name as the River of Perfume.
II.7
Moss-covered rocks along the banks of the moat
glisten like the so-called garuḍa emeralds,
and as subterranean serpents rise up through the water
to usurp the Earth, the mere thought of Garuḍa
quickly scares them back, back to their watery lair.
II.8
Lily pads and algae coat the moat water
emanating a faint emerald hue,
as if Brahma had squeezed a potent green extract
from alchemical plants when he turned that fort into gold.
II.9
From its solid foundation
the citadel of Madhura rises into the sky
to rival Amarāvati, city of the immortals.
It was as if these two cities were fighters in a wrestling match,
cannons extending like fingers, ready to grab
the waist band of Gaṅga and topple that heavenly city.
II.10
Imagining the gold-plated gate with its lotus bud knobs
as a beautiful young woman in a bright yellow blouse
and the neatly stacked firewood as her incense sticks,
the sun and moon remain entranced, revolving
enamoured around the city entrance.
II.11
The mansions of Madhura rise high above the clouds
and on the topmost floor, where young couples make love,
torn pearl necklaces and withered flowers
fall to the floor below.
And in the morning as it begins to pour, the attendants think—
‘These shiny white pearls must have rained
down from that stormy ocean of hovering clouds!’
II.12
Giant mansions cast shadows on the river in the sky
and in that watery reflection, Amarāvati and Madhura
glimmer like ships upon the ocean,
their city banners entwined by the wind
like merchant vessels using long wooden poles
to exchange their fine silk textiles.
II.13
When the sun goes down, young women shut their window doors
and trap little stars that enter through mansion skylights.
They pretend to make holes in the floating pearls
and weave them into garlands to hang from their canopy,
but later, when exhausted from love, they open the windows for air
the lovely star necklaces scatter back to the sky.
II.14
High in their mansions in the sky
maidens with hair as beautiful as wild peacock plumes
hear the roar of rain clouds, far far below.
And by singing an ālāp in Rāga Megharañjani
they draw the clouds up to their lofty height
so the thunder can keep beat
for their dancing pet peacock.
II.15
The high-flying flags of Madhura’s mansions
flutter in front of the lotus bud cupolas
that top the City of the Unblinking Gods.
And thinking the flag bells are a jingling gold bracelet
women look up and see, the playful eyes of Śrīlakṣmi.
II.16
Compassion, like the gentle old wives of the Seven Sages
quells the nightly squabbles of quarrelling couples.
So as morning approaches, the wives rush to adorn themselves
a
nd when they make up, to make love to their husbands
they make fresh kāṭuka by holding steel plates
out to nearby lightning clouds, they melt civet sticks
with the heat of the coming sun, and braid their hair
with tender red lotuses that open with a touch
of the fading dawn moon.
II.17
Tall timber rafters rise into the sky and massage the feet of Viṣṇu
like loving friends who cover the sun with their cīras
and caress the bride-to-be. And as she sweats with anticipation
like a misty fountain, they quietly chatter like warbling pigeons
as they lead her to the groom. The dark-scented smoke
makes a perfect night, for a wedding night inside a Madhura mansion.
II.18
The high noon sun is a deep rich red,
reflecting the glow of red lotus gems
that decorate the surrounding city spires,
as if Brahma the Creator had forgotten to remove
the redness of the sunrise
as the Lord of the Day rose into the sky.
II.20
The charming flattery of handsome young men
melts the hearts of the flower sellers
who show their modesty
with water-lily glances and jasmine smiles—
floating the men a garland in the air,
strung together with an invisible thread.
II.24
As the mahouts scream at an elephant in rut
he flaps his ears and lifts his head
his trunk to the sky is rising, rising …
his back scrapes the portal
his roar breaks the sky, his shackles are flailing
as he terrorizes the handlers he is chasing and chasing …
with liquid at his temples, he swells up with pride
as drums are beat to scare him
but he strikes back, at the frightened drummers
with the stones he is hurling and hurling …
and knowing the terraces are cool and calming
he stands near the gates and swings at the crowd
his trunk ever reaching, reaching, reaching …
Beaten away with bamboo canes
the elephants start to flee
but hearing the roar from another path
they stop and turn
and with pride they stride, behind their women
arriving at a new city limit, like Lords of Death
ready to be unleashed upon their enemies.
II.25
In the city’s gardens, untamed elephants chained to giant trees
constantly splash water on their mud-caked backs,
The Giver of the Worn Garland KRISHNADEVARAYA'S AMUKTAMALYADA Page 5
