# The Tamils Eighteen Hundred Years Ago/Chapter 11

The Story of Chilapp-athikaram.
Far more interesting than the Muppal, are the epic poems Chilapp-athikaram and Mani-mêkalai, which contain very full and vivid accounts of ancient Tamil Society. The Chilappathikaram relates the tragic story of Kovilan and his wife Kannaki, and the Mani-mêkalai gives a romantic account of Kovilan’s daughter who became a Buddhist nun. The story of the Chilapp-athikaram may be briefly told as follows :—
One of the most flourishing of the ancient cities of Jambudvipa was Pukâr or Kâvirip-paddinam, the great sea-port at the mouth of the river Kâviri. It was a mart of many nations. Caravans from inland cities; far and near, thronged its thoroughfares; and merchant vessels from distant lands, whose people spoke strange tongues, crowded its harbour. Among the merchant princes of this city there was one noted for his deeds of charity, Mânâykan, whose daughter Kannaki was warmly praised by all who knew her, for the charms of her person, and the purity of her mind. In the same city, lived another merchant Mâchâttuvan, master of untold wealth, whose son Kovilan was a most accomplished youth, gay and handsome as the God of War. The two merchants having agreed to unite their children in marriage, the wedding of Kannaki and Kovilan was performed with such pomp as was rarely seen even in the proud city of Pukâr. Shortly after their marriage, the young couple were installed by their parents in a spacious mansion furnished with every luxury that wealth could command. A numerous suite of attendants served them, and ministered to their comforts. Kovilan loved his young wife, and called her his darling and his beauty, his peerless pearl and priceless gem. He vowed that she was more graceful than the peacock, that she stepped more prettily than the playful swan ever did, and that her voice was sweeter than that of any parrot. He chided her servant maids for adorning her with ​jewels and flowers, which could not add to her beauty, and whose weight, he complained, her slender waist could not bear. Beloved by her husband, Kannaki’s joy was full, and she entered upon her duties as mistress of his house with infinite delight. To feast her husband’s guests, to welcome the ascetics and Brahmins who visited the house, to feed the hungry and clothe the naked were duties always pleasant to her loving and tender heart. Ever busy in doing good to others, and beloved by all, her days were bright and unclouded; and the first few years of her married life glided away happily.
Karikâl the Great was then the monarch of the Chola kingdom. He had fortified Pukâr and made it his capital. As he was the most powerful and enlightened ruler in Daksbinapatha or Southern India at this period, his friendship was sought by the kings of Avanti, Malava and Magadha. His brilliant court was the scene of much revelry, and many an actress sang and danced in the presence of the monarch to amuse him and his courtiers. Màthavi, a young and beautiful actress, who claimed descent from the celestial actresses in the court of Indra, made her first entry on the stage in the presence of the king, his nobles and the rich men of the city. She sang and danced with such exquisite skill and grace that the monarch awarded her the highest prize given on such occasions, that is, a necklace of 1,008 gold coins. Kovilan who was an accomplished musician, and passionately fond of music, was charmed by her performance and wished to make the acquaintance of the young actress. In a fit of enthusiastic admiration for the sweet songstress who ravished his ears, he purchased the prize necklace which was offered for sale, and presented it again to her. Admitted to her presence, he was struck with the beautiful and dazzling form of the actress, which appeared most attractive when least adorned. Her radiant face and sparkling wit were so fascinating that, forgetting his faithful wife, he fell in love with the actress, and was unable to quit her society. Mathavi accepted the young rich merchant as her lover, and day after day he spent in the company of the bewitching actress, and lavished upon her all the wealth amassed by his ancestors. In course of time Mâthavi gave birth to a lovely daughter. ​the fifth day after the birth of the child, one thousand dancing girls met at Mâthavi’s house, and with great ceremony they blessed the child and named her Manimekalai, as desired by Kovilan, the favourite deity of whose ancestors was Manimekhala, the goddess of the ocean. Kovilan gave away handfuls of gold to the Brahmins who assisted at the ceremony. The birth of the child seemed to strengthen the ties of affection between Mâthavi and Kovilan, and he became more attached to the actress than ever. A few years of the gay and luxurious life he led drained his resources. Having spent all his patrimony, he began to remove and sell one by one, the jewels of his wife, who willingly parted with them, in order to please her husband whom she continued to love as faithfully as she did in the days when no rival had estranged his affections.
The annual festival in honor of Indra was celebrated with much pomp and splendour in the city of Pukâr. The joyous city put on its gayest appearance during the festivities which lasted eight and twenty days. On the first day of the festival the king attended in person the opening ceremonies. He started from his palace, surrounded by an imposing cavalcade consisting of the chief officers of State, the five great assemblies, the eight groups of attendants, and the nobility and gentry of the city, mounted on horses, elephants or chariots, and proceeded to the banks of the Kâviri. In the presence of the king, the sacred water of the river was filled in golden pots by youths of the royal family, and the procession then marched to the temple of Indra, where the image of the king of gods was bathed with the sacred water amid the acclamations of the multitude, and the flourish of musical instruments. At the close of the festival, the princes and nobles with all their retinue bathed in the sea at the mouth of the river Kâviri. On the last night of one of these festivals, Mâthavi wished to see the spectacle at the beach, of people bathing and sporting in the sea. She decked herself with her magnificent jewels, in the most charming style, and drove in a carriage, accompanied by a few of her female attefldants. Kovilan rode on a mule followed by a number of his footmen. They wended their way through the market road to the beach, where ​were many gay parties bathing in the sea or seated in the open air, and they rested themselves on a sofa, which had been placed by their attendants, within an enclosure of painted canvas, under the shade of a Punnai tree, which was then in full blossom. After resting a while, Mâthavi received .from the hands of her maid Vasantamâlai, her favorite lute, It was beautifully painted and polished and a garland of fresh, flowers was wound round its handle. She tuned the instrument and handed it to her lover, begging to know his wishes. Kovilan who was tempted by the gay scenes around him to give vent to his joyous feelings in song, began to play on the lute, and sang, in a fine melodious voice, a few sonnets in praise of the river Kâviri, and the ancient city of Pukâr. Then he poured forth a number of love songs describing the alluring beauty of a girl of the fisherman tribe, whose eyes were as sharp as arrows in piercing the hearts of men, and who was herself a ‘cruel murderess, for those who set their eyes on her died broken-hearted. Mâthavi, who listened with pleasure to the masterly manner in which Kovilan sang and played on the lute, fancied that the verses were meant to refer to herself, and that her lover was beginning to dislike her. Receiving the lute from her lover’s hand, she began to sing in a voice so sweet and enchanting that it soothed and gladdened the hearts of every one who had the good fortune to listen to it. She too sang of the river Kâviri and of the city of Pukâr, and then a few songs which describe the lament of a girl of the fisherman tribe for her absent lover, as follows :—
Pretty flower! bright and blooming,
Oh! how happy art thou sleeping:
While with sleepless eyes and lonely,
Waiting for him I am weeping.
Lovely flower! full of honey,
Art thou dreaming that my lover,
In this moonlight soft and pleasant,
Cometh back into my bower?
The birds have flown away to roost
The glowing sun has set:
But still I wait with streaming eyes
Where last my love I met.
The moon doth shed its light so mild
All over land and sea
This pleasant eve, our trysting tine
Doth not my lover see?
The wild pine shades the sandy banks
Where he my love did woo:
Now, all my sports I have forgot,
And all my playmates too.
Though he has gone forsaking me,
I hold him in my heart:
His dear image shall not fade,
Till death my life doth part.
These verses were sung with such deep pathos, that Kovilan who was all attention and intoxicated with the thrilling music of her voice suspected that Mâthavi had set her heart on another man, and wild with jealousy, he quitted her abruptly, observing that it was very late, and went away followed by his attendants. Mathavi, who was grieved at the strange conduct of her lover, returned home immediately in her carriage.
It was early summer now, a season in which Love reigns supreme in the Tamil-land. The southern breezes which set in at this season carried his messages throughout Love’s chosen realm: and the cuckoo which warbled in every flowery grove acted as his trumpeter. Mathavi who was unhappy owing to the absence of her lover, went up to her summer bed room, in the upper storey of her mansion, and seated on a couch tried to console herself with the charms of music. She took the lute in her hand and essayed to sing, but such was the agitation of her mind that she could not hum more than a few words. She began to, play on the lute, and struck a mournful tune; and even in this she failed. Longing to meet Kovilan, she took the thin bud of the Piththikai, and dipping it in red cotton paint, wrote a missive to her lover on the fragrant petal of a flower of the wild- pine. “Mild summer,” she wrote, “who turns the thoughts of all living creatures to Love, is now the prince regent. The silvery moon who appears at sunset frowns at lovers who are parted from each other. And the great monarch Love will not ​fail to shoot with his flowery darts every maiden who is not united to her lover. Bear these in mind, and have mercy on me.” Calling her maid Vasanta-Màlai, she gave the letter into her hands, bidding her to present it to Kovilan. Vasanta-Màlai took the epistle accordingly, and meeting Kovilan in the market road, offered it to him. He declined however to read it, and told her "I know your mistress too well. Trained to act any part on the stage, she is capable of every kind of dissimulation, you may take the letter back to your mistress.” Vasanta-Mâlai retraced her steps with grief and informed her mistress that Kovilan had declined to receive her letter and Mathavi retired to bed, sorrowfully saying to herself, “He is sure to come in the morning, even if he does not appear to-night.”
On that same evening, Kannaki was seated in her mansion alone and gloomy, she was now a prey to melancholy. Her eye-lids were not painted: her hair was not combed and she wore no ornament save the marriage badge on her neck.
Devanti, a Brahmin woman who came to console Kannaki, sprinkled grass and rice on her, and blessed her saying “may you regain the love of your husband.” “Alas! I fear I shall not enjoy that happiness again,” said Kannaki, “I dreamt that my husband took me to a great city, and while we were there, strangers accused us of a grave crime. My husband met with a serious misfortune, and I went to plead his cause before the king. Evil befell the king and his great city; but I and my husband attained a bliss which you would not believe, if I told you.” “Your husband does not hate you,” rejoined Devanti, “In your former birth, you failed to keep a vow, The evil effects of that sin may be removed, if you bathe in the two tanks sacred to the Sun and Moon, at the mouth of the river Kaviri, and worship the God of Love at his temple. We shall go one day and bathe in those tanks.”
“It is not proper for me to do so,” said Kannaki. A servant-maid then announced that Kovilan had entered the house, and Kannaki hastened to. meet her lord. Kovilan entered his bedroom, and drawing his wife near to him, noted her sad look and thin body worn by grief.
​“I am ashamed of myself” said he, “I have wasted all the wealth given to me by my parents on a deceitful actress.” “There is yet a pair of anklets” said Kannaki smiling, “you can have them.” “Listen to me, dear girl,” he said, “with these anklets for my capital, I wish to trade again and recover my fortune. I intend going to the famous city of Madura, and thou shalt go with me.” Kannaki’s joy was great to see her husband come back to her, renouncing the actress, and she was prepared to accompany him to any corner of the world.
Long before daybreak the husband and wife quitted their home without the knowledge of their servants. In the dark and still night, they drew the bolt of the outer gate without noise, and came out into the street. They passed the temple of Vishnu, and the seven Buddhist Viharas believed to have been erected by Indra, and approaching the pedestal of polished stone on which Nigrautha monks used to sit and preach their doctrine, they reverently went round it, and walked down the broad road leading to the fort gate. Coining out of the fort they passed through the royal park and reached the bank of the river Kâviri: then turning westwards along the northern bank of the river, they walked on for a distance of about a kavatham and arrived at a nunnery of the Nigrantha sect. Here they halted in a grove: and Kannaki who was panting, after her unusual exertion, gave rest to her aching feet. She then asked her husband in her artless way, “where is the ancient city of Madura?”
“It is five, six kavathams beyond our country, it is not far,” replied Kovilan, laughing at the ignorance of his wife. He ought to have said it was five times six or thirty kavathams away: but being afraid that she may be frightened at the distance, he disguised the expression, so that she may believe it was only 5 or 6 kavathams. It being daylight now, they both entered the nunnery and saluted a kavunthi or nun, who was lodging in it. The nun observed with surprise the handsome features and noble appearance of the pair, and enquired why they had quitted their home, and like destitute persons journeyed on foot.
​“I have nothing more to say than that I wish to go to Madura to seek my fortune there,” said Kovilan.
“It will be no easy task for this delicate lady,” said the nun, pointing to “Kannaki to walk over rough roads and through wild woods, the long distance you have to go. I beseech you to desist from this adventure: but you seem bent on going to Madura. I too have been for some time past wishing to visit Madura, and to learn the doctrines of Argha as taught by the wise and learned men of that city. I shall therefore accompany you: and we shall start together.”
“Reverend nun!” said Kovilan thankfully, “if thou art pleased to go with us, I need not feel any anxiety for the safety of my wife.”
The nun dwelt on the dangers and difficulties of the road to Madura, and warned Kovilan specially to be on his guard against causing pain or death to living creatures, however small or insignificant, as it was a sin denounced as heinous by the Nigranthas. Praying to Argha for a safe journey, she slung her ahns-bowl on her shoulder, and taking a bundle of peacock feathers in her hand, she too started on the journey. By short marches they travelled through a fertile country where fields covered with waving corn, luxuriant plantations of the sugarcane, and green woods with hamlets nestling in their shade met their eyes on every side. They forgot the fatigue of their journey, when they heard the roar of floods rushing through sluices and locks into the channels branching from the Kaviri, the joyous chorus of women working in the bids, and the merry songs and shouts of men driving the oxen yoked to their ploughs, or urging the buffaloes which were treading the sheafs of corn reaped from the fields. After travelling for many days they arrived at an island in the middle of the Kaviri, where in a garden which was full of sweet-scented flowers, they met a Nigrantha monk, at whose feet they fell and prayed for his blessing. The sage, who could read by the light of his serene mind the past and future lives of those who stood before him, addressed the nun in the following manner: “Mark my words, thou pious nun! No one can escape the effects of his good or evil deeds. Even like the seeds which are sown and yield a harvest ​of their kind, our deeds react upon us. Like lights set upon a plain which go out when the wind blows, our souls go out of our bodies. Only those whose minds have been enlightened by the truths preached by Argha can save themselves from this prison of re-births.”
“To the end of my life,” replied the Kavunthi reverently, “I will worship none but Argha and believe in no precepts but those revealed in his Agamas.” The monk was pleased with the words spoken by the nun and blessed her and her fellow passengers saying, “May you be freed from the bonds of desire!” The travellers then got into a boat and landing on the southern bank of the river entered the city of Uraiyur.
They lodged in a Nigrantha monastery at Uraiyur, and worshipped the resplendent image of Argha, which was placed under a triple umbrella, beneath the shade of an Asoka tree. They stayed one whole day in the monastery, and on the next morning they started with the early dawn, and travelling till sunrise they arrived at a pleasant garden surrounded by cool tanks and verdant meadows. While they were resting in this garden, a Brahmin pilgrim also happened to arrive. He said that he was a native of Mankadu in the Chera country; that he had travelled through the Pandyan land and was going to worship the images of Vishnu at Arankam or Venkadam. Kovilan enquired of him the different routes to Madura and the nature of the roads. In reply to him the Brahmin said, “It is a pity you have come with this lady at a season when the fierce rays of the sun dry up and heat the surface of the earth: and travelling is far from pleasant. The road from Uraiyur up to the great tank at Kodumbai lies through rocks and narrow refiles; and thence there are three routes to Madura. The route on the right hand will take you through a wild region, where water is scarce, and lawless tribes harass the passengers. On that side you will see the Sirumalai hills, on which every kind of fruit tree grows in abundance. Keeping to the left side of the mountain you will arrive at Madura. If you take instead the route on the left hand, from Kodumbai, you will have to travel ​through fields and jungles and weary wastes to the mountain, whose summit is crowned with a temple of Vishnu, and whose base is washed by the river Silambu. Near that mountain, there is a valley, which is guarded by a goddess who may give you trouble. Praying to Vishnu for heIp you should pass through this valley and reach Madura. Between these two routes there is a middle path which is more convenient, as it passes through woodlands and hamlets, and you may safely take that road.” Having ascertained the easiest route, they pursued their journey to Madura. In the course of their journey, Kannaki having complained of her sore feet and fatigue, one day they had to stop at a Kali temple, in a village inhabited by Vedas. Here they witnessed the weird dance of - the priestess of Kali, who, attired like that dread goddess, stood up in the village common, and trembling all over as if she was possessed by a devil, declared in terrific tones that the goddess Kali was incensed, as the Maravar had not offered any sacrifice at her temple, for some time past, and that they should now bestir themselves, and attack the herds of cattle in neighbouring villages. Having learnt that in the land of the Pandyas, there was no fear of robbers or wild beasts on the highways, Kovilan proposed that they should travel at night instead of during the day, as Kannaki was unable to bear the heat of the sun or to walk on the hot ground. The nun having agreed to this plan, they started from the Vedar village after sunset. Though there was a bright moon, the timid Kannaki, afraid to walk out at night, followed close to her husband, resting one hand on his shoulder, while the Kavunti beguiled the way with many a story which she had learnt from her religious books. Travelling all night, they arrived early in the morning at a Brahmin village. Leaving his wife with the Kavunti in a garden, he lifted the thorny branches which formed its fence, and went towards a pond. Kausika, a Brahmin who approached the pond at the same time, being doubtful as to whether he was Kovilan, exclaimed as follows, pretending to speak to a flowery creeper: “Thou creeper, why art thou faded? Dost thou suffer from the heat of this early summer, like thy ​namesake the long-eyed Mathavi, who pines for her absent lover Kovilan ?“ Hearing these words Kovilan asked Kausika what he meant by his exclamation. Recognizing Kovilan at once that Brahmin informed him that as soon as it was known that he and his wife had left their home, his servants were sent out in all directions to search for him and bring him home. His aged parents were sunk in profound grief and all his relations were unhappy. Mathavi having come to know of his disappearance was overcome with grief. Hearing of her distress, the Brahmm went to visit her and she entreated him to carry a letter to her lover, who was dear to her as the apple of her eye. Taking charge of the letter he went to many places, in search of Kovilan, and had the good luck to meet him there. Saying thus, the Brahmin handed to him a roll of palm-leaf. The perfumed leaf reminded him of the fragrant tresses of the actress, and with no little tremor he unfolded the palm-leaf and read it. “I fall at thy honoured feet,” wrote Mathavi, “and beg you will graciously read my simple words. I know not any fault on my part which could have led you to quit thy home in the night, with thy gentle wife, and without the knowledge of thy parents. May thy pure and noble heart be pleased to remove our sorrow.” He read it with pleasure and felt relieved, as he was now satisfied that his suspicions against Mathavi were ill-founded: “Make haste” said he to the Brahmin, “and let my parents know that I am safe, and tell them not to grieve for my absence.” Returning to the garden where his wife and the nun were staying, he joined a band of musicians, and pleased them by his skilful play on the lute. From them he learnt that Madura was within a few hours’ journey and that they could travel without any fear. As on the previous day, the three again travelled at night, and in the early dawn they were delighted to hear the distant sounds of drums. Walking on, they heard the trumpeting of elephants, the neighing of steeds, the chant of Vedic hymns, and the songs of war-bards coming to their ears in a mingled roar, like the noise of waves on the seashore. Their hearts were elated with joy, and when they approached the classic stream of the Vaigai, the theme of many a poet’s song, they felt they were treading on sacred ​ground. Avoiding the public ferry where a continuous stream of passengers crossed the river on boats whose prows were shaped like the head of a horse or a lion or an elephant, they went to a small ferry, which was less frequented, and crossing over on a raft they reached the southern bank of the river. Keeping to the left of the city, they went round to the eastern gate, and entered a village, which was outside the walls of the city, in the midst of groves of areca and coconut plams, where only ascetics and men devoted to religion resided.
Early on the next day when the sound of the morning drum at the palace and at the various temples in the city was heard outside the city walls, Kovilan approached he nun and saluting her reverently, said “Pious nun! Having forsaken the path of virtue, I was the cause of much misery to my poor wife, and we have suffered great hardships in travelling through unknown countries. I shall now go into the city and make the acquaintance of the merchants there. Until I come back, may I leave my wife in thy care?”
“Many have suffered in the past for the woman they loved” replied the nun, “Know you not the story of Rama who obeying the commands of his father, went into exile with his wife, and losing her, was for a long time a prey to intense grief. Another king played at dice and lost his kingdom: then fleeing into a forest with his wife, deserted her at midnight. You at least are not so unfortunate as those kings. You have still got your wife with you. Be not disheartened, therefore, but go into the city, and enquire where you can find a suitable lodging and return.”
Having taken leave of the nun, Kovilan entered the city passing through the gate which was guarded by Yavana soldiers who stood with drawn swords. With wonder he beheld the grand city, its broad streets, and the storied mansions of the opulent classes. Till midday he strolled through the market, the merchants’ streets and the public squares, and unable to bear the heat of the noon-day sun, he walked back under the shade of the numerous flags which lined the streets. While he was describing to the nun the grandeur of Madura, the happiness of its ​population and the power of the Pandyan king, Madalan, a Brahmin pilgrim from Thalaich-Chenkanam, a village near Pukâr, arrived at the grove where they were staying. Kovilan who had known him before saluted him. The Brahmin was surprised to learn that Kovilan had travelled on foot, with his wife, to Madura. He praised the many generous acts done by Kovilan while at Pukar, and wondered why one, who had been so kind and benevolent to the poor and the unlucky, should himself suffer misfortune. Both he and the nun advised Kovilan to enter the city before sunset and secure suitable quarters among the merchants’ houses, as it was not proper for them to stay outside with ascetics and religious mendicants. During their conversation, Mathavi, a shepherdess, who was returning to Madura, after worshipping the image of a goddess outside the city, saluted the nun.
"Listen to me, Mathavi!" said the nun who thought it best to entrust Kannaki to the care of the shepherdess, “If the merchants of this city come to know the name of the father of this lady’s husband, they would hasten to welcome him to their house, and deem it an honour to have him as their guest; but until he makes their acquaintance and finds a proper lodging I entrust this lady to thy care. Take her to your house, and let her bathe and change her dress. Paint her eyelids, and give her flowers to wear in her hair. Take care of her as if she was your own daughter. Brought up in affluence, her soft little feet had seldom touched the bare ground in her native city: and yet in the long journey she has now made she felt not her own fatigue, but grieved that her husband exposed himself to the hot sun, and was ever attentive to his wants. So loving and faithful a wife I have not seen. Take her with you, and do not tarry.” Mathavi was Only glad to render any assistance to so amiable a young lady as Kannaki; and about sunset when the shepherds were returning with herds of lowing cows from their grazing grounds, she accompanied by Kannaki, and followed by a number of shepherdesses, entered the city, and led Kannaki to her house.
Mathavi, who was really proud to have such noble guests as ​Kannaki and her husband, vacated for their use a neat little cottage, which was fenced round, and the walls of which were painted with red earth. She assisted Kannaki in bathing and changing her dress, and introducing her daughter, said ‘Fair lady! my daughter Ayyai shall be thy maid-servant, and we shall see that thou and thy husband are in want of nothing while you stay here.’ On the next morning, she provided new vessels for cooking, fine white rice, vegetables such as the tender fruits of the mango, pomegranate and plantain, and milk fresh drawn from her cows. Kannaki set to work at once to prepare the morning meal. She sliced the fruits carefully, and Ayyai assisted her in lighting the oven. She cooked the rice and vegetables to the best of her knowledge, and as she exposed herself to the heat of the oven, her eyes became red and drops of sweat trickled down her face. Having finished the cooking, she invited her husband to take his meals, and placed a small mat, prettily made of white dry grass, for his seat. After he had washed his hands and feet and taken his seat on the mat, she sprinkled water and cleansed the floor in front of his seat, and spreading out a tender plantain leaf on the clean floor, she served upon the leaf the food prepared by her. Kovilan offered the usual prayers which are prescribed to the merchant caste, and then ate the food set before him. When he had refreshed himself, and taken his seat apart, Kannaki offered him betel leaves and areca-nuts to chew. Inviting her to come near him, Kovilan said, “How much our aged parents must have suffered at the thought that thy tender feet could not walk over the rough paths we have travelled? Is this all a dream or the effect of my sins? I shudder at the thought what fate yet awaits us. Will heaven yet smile on a sinner like me, who loved the company of idlers and rakes, who scorned the advice of my elders, who failed in my duty to my parents, and caused no little pain to so young and virtuous a wife as yourself? Never did I pause to think what evil course I pursued: and yet you readily followed me when I asked you to venture on this distant journey. Alas! what have you done?”
“Your revered parents,” replied Kannaki, "whenever they visited me, and found me receiving them with a smiling face, praised my patience, and consoled me with kind words, as they ​knew that heavy sorrow weighed down my heart and that I neglected even the household duties in which I had once taken great pleasure. Because I did not express my grief, and tried to conceal it from them, they appeared all the more distressed. Though you led a life which no one liked, I had not the heart to refuse even your slightest wish and I could not but follow you when you asked me to do so.”
“You left your dear parents, and your devoted servants and friends, and with only your virtues for your safeguard, you followed me and shared my sorrows. You have been indeed a ministering angel to me in my distress. Let me now take one of your anklets for sale, and until I return, stay you here and be not afraid that I leave you alone,” said Kovilan, and embracing her tenderly, he took one of her anklets, and left the cottage. Tears dropped down his manly cheeks, but he brushed them aside before thy one could notice it; and with staggering steps he walked through the shepherd street and passed on through the road where courtezans reside, and reached the market road. He met there a man coming up the road, followed by a number of workmen and distinguished by his dress which consisted of a long coat in addition to the usual dress of a Tamil. Learning that he was the chief jeweller to the Pandyan king, he approached the goldsmith and enquired "Can you value an anklet fit to be worn by the queen?”
"Your servant“ replied the jeweller saluting Kovilan with both his hands, “may not be able to estimate the value correctly, but he manufactures crowns and other jewels for the king.”
Kovilan took the jewel out of the cloth in which he had folded it, and showed it to the goldsmith, who was amazed to find it to be a superb anklet set with emeralds and diamonds and engraved most beautifully. “None but the queen is worthy of wearing this jewel,” exclaimed he, “Stay here near my humble abode, I shall inform the king and let you know his wishes.” Kovilan took his seat accordingly within the enclosure of a temple adjoining the goldsmith’s house. The goldsmith thought to himself, “this jewel resembles exactly the queen’s anklet which I have stolen; I may therefore accuse this stranger of having stolen it, before the king finds any reason to suspect me of the theft” ​and went direct to the palace. He approached the king as he was about to enter the queen’s apartments, and falling at the king’s feet reported as follows :— “The thief who without a crowbar or a shovel, but with only the help of, his incantations, caused the palace guards to fall asleep, and stole the queen’s anklet: and who eluded the vigilant search of the city guards hitherto, is now in my little cottage.” The king called some of the guards and commanded them to see if the anklet is in the thief’s hands, and if it is, to kill the thief and bring the jewel. The goldsmith, glad to find that his scheme succeeded so well, led the guards to Kovilan’s presence, and told him, “These soldiers have come to see the anklet under the orders of the king.” Kovilan showed the jewel to them. They looked at the jewel and at Kovilan, and taking the goldsmith aside, said “This man’s appearance is noble: he certainly is not a thief.”
“Thieves are armed with spells and drugs,” said the cunning oldsmith “if you delay carrying out the king’s orders, he may make himself invisible by his incantations, or he may throw you into a profound sleep by the use of his drugs. In any case, you will incur the displeasure of the king and suffer punishment.”
"Have any of you,” he further asked them, “traced that thief, who during the day sat at the palace gate, attired like the courier of a foreign king, and after nightfall entered the palace in the disguise of a servant maid and walking along the shadow of the pillars, found his way into the bedroom of the king’s brother and removed the necklace from the prince’s person : and who, when the prince awoke and drew his sword to cut down the thief, defended himself with the scabbard, and disappeared dexterously behind a pillar, leaving the prince to wrestle with that pillar of stone,” “Thieves are extremely cunning,” said one of the’ soldiers, "I remember on a dark and rainy night, when I was going my rounds in the city, there appeared before me suddenly a burglar armed with a crowbar, and prowling like a hungry tiger. I drew my sword, but he snatched it from my hands and in the darkness of the night I found neither him nor my sword again. Comrades! we must decide quickly what to do: or we shall be surely punished by the king.” Scarcely had he ceased speaking when another soldier, an illiterate youth, drew his sword, ​and with one stroke of the shining blade beheaded Kovilan. His body dropped down and the crimson blood gushed out on the earth.
Meanwhile, in the shepherd’s quarter of the city, the shepherd lasses held a sacred dance for the good of their cattle and for the amusement of Kannaki. One of the girls personated Krishna, their national hero, another represented Baladeva, his elder brother, and a third appeared as the shepherdess, who was the favourite mistress of Krishna. Seven of the shepherd lasses stood in a ring clasping each other’s bands, an danced and sang merrily for some hours. When the dance was over, one of the lasses went with flowers, incense and sandal to bathe in the Vaigai river, and to worship the feet of the God Vishnu. She heard a rumour in the city that Kovilan had been killed, and hurried back to Kannaki’s lodging. She whispered to her neighbours what she had heard, but stood mute in Kannaki’s presence, unwilling to break the sad news to her. Kannaki who had been eagerly waiting for the return of her hasband, enquired of her “what is it, friend, that my neighbours whisper? It is long since my husband went out, and I am alarmed about his safety.”
“Your husband,” replied the shepherdess, “has been killed, because he had stolen an anklet from the palace.”
Kannaki who heard these words, burst into tears and sank to the ground crying “Oh my husband! my husband!“ Wild with anguish, she stood up again and cried out “Listen to me all ye girls who danced the Kuravai! Thou Sun, who knowest all that takes place on this wide earth! be my witness. Is my husband a thief?”
“He is no thief,” said a voice in the air, “this city is doomed to be destroyed by fire.”
Taking the other anklet in her hand, she walked out of the shepherd’s quarter, with tears streaming from her eyes. She told the people that followed her that her husband was not a thief, and that he had taken for sale one of her own anklets and had been unjustly killed. As she went sobbing and crying through the ​streets, men and women rushed out of their houses, and gazed pathetically at her, expressing their consternation and horror for the unjust execution of her husband. The sun had set when she approached the place where her husband lay a corpse. She embraced her husband’s body and was shocked to find it cold. She fell down weeping by the side of the corpse, an her lament was heard throughout the long night.
“See’st thou my sorrow,” cried she, “alas! thy handsome body now rolls in the dust. Alone and friendless, I am weeping by thy side, in the dark night, and thy body lies on the bare earth. Tears flow from my eyes, when I see blood dropping from thy wound, and thy body covered with dust.”
In the frenzy of her despair, she again embraced tue body of her husband, and fancied that he stood up and wiped the tears from her face, and as she clasped his feet he told her to remain, and his spirit ascended to heaven. She had hoped to be the faithful companion of his life, to be the partner of his joy and sorrow and to solace his grief, but these hopes were now dashed to the ground. She thought of her dream which had come to pass all too soon. She had no wish to live; but one burning passion now possessed her, and it was to prove her husband’s innocence, and curse the wicked king who had caused his death.
During the same night, the Pandyan queen had frightful dreams and saw bad omens. She hastened, therefore, on the next morning to the king’s presence, surrounded by the dwarfs, eunuchs, hunchbacks and women who were her usual attendants. She found the king already seated on his throne and related to him her dream While she was relating it, Kannaki appeared at the palace gate, “Thou guard!“ said she addressing the sentinel at the gate, “Thou guard who servest the stupid and senseless king who knows not his duty to his subjects! say to your king that a woman who haw lost her husband is come, carrying an anklet in her hand."
One of the guards went to the royal presence and making, the usual obeisance, addressed the king: “Long life to our king of Korkai! long life to the lord of the Pothiya hill! long life to the Cheliya! long life to the sovereign of the southern region! long ​life to the Panchava that never stoops to an unjust deed! Furious as the goddess Durga or Kali, a woman who has lost her husband is at the palace gate and seeks an audience holding a golden anklet in her hand.”
“Let her come, bring her here,” said the king. Led by the guard Kannaki entered the hail, where the king was seated on the throne with his queen. Her long flowing hair hung loose and in disorder; her body was covered with dust, and tears flowed fast down her cheeks. The king, who was moved with pity at the sight of her, enquired graciously. “Who art thou maiden, that appearest before me bathed in tears?”
“Rash king! I have to speak to you,” began Kannaki, utterly unable to control her anger, her voice broken by sobs “I come from Pukâr, the kings of which city are famous for their impartial justice. One of them cut off the flesh from his own body, to save a dove: another drove his chariot over his dear son, because he had killed a calf. My name is Kannaki, and I am the widow of Kovilan, the son of that well-known merchant Machathuvan, who came to thy city to earn a livelihood, and was killed under your orders, when he went to sell one of my anklets.”
“Lady,” responded the king, “it is no injustice to kill a thief; but it is the right of the ruler of a country.”
“Thou erring king of Korkai! my anklets are filled with diamonds,” said Kannaki. “Well hast thou spoken,” exclaimed the king, “our anklets are filled with pearls. Bring the anklet and let us examine it.”
The anklet was placed before the king, and as Kannaki broke it, the diamonds which were in it, spattered out, some striking even the king’s face. The king was unnerved, when he saw the sparkling gems. He was now convinced that he had been deceived by his jeweller.
“No king am I,” said he with deep humility and remorse, “who believed the words of my goldsmith. I am the thief: I have done an act which sullies the fair fame of the long line of kings who ruled the southern land. Better for me is it to die than to bear this disgrace,” and swooned on the throne. The Pandyan queen fell at the feet of Kannaki, praying for pardon, knowing that she could offer no consolation to a woman whose ​husband had been killed. “This king shall die and his palace shall be destroyed by fire,” said Kannaki in the bitterness of her anguish, and invoked the wrath of the god of fire. The palace was soon enveloped in flames. The guards were astonished to find dense smoke issuing from the palace gates. Elephants and horses burst from their stables and rushing out of the palace, escaped from the fire. The high priest and ministers and other officer of state hastened to the palace not knowing that the king and queen had died, and tried in vain to put down the flames.
The goddess of Madura then appeared to the vision of Kannaki and beseeched her to appease her wrath and save the city from total destruction “Your husband was killed,” said the goddess, ”by the effect of the sin he had committed in a former birth. Vasu and Kumara, kings of Simhapura and Kapilapura respectively, in the Kaling a country, were once waging a fierce war with each other, and none approached their cities within a distance of 6 Karathams. Sangaman, a merchant, greedy of large profits, secretly entered Simhapura with his wife, during the war, and was selling his goods, when Bharata, an officer in the service of king Vasu, seized Sangama and reporting to the king that he was a spy, had him unjustly executed. That Bharata was reborn as Kovilan and suffered for his former sin.”
Kannaki broke her bracelets at the temple of Durga, and went out of the city by the western gate, saying to herself, “With my husband I entered this city by the eastern gate, and alone I go out, by the western gate.” The unhappy widow found no rest by day or by night. Distracted with grief and unable to eat or sleep, she walked along the northern bank of the Vaigai river and ascended the hills sacred to Murugan. There in the midst of the villages, inhabited by Kurava, on the fourteenth day after the death of Kovilan, her pure spirit, which had harboured not a single evil thought, but had drunk deep of the cup of misery in this life, ascended to heaven.
When the sad news of the execution of Kovilan and the departure of Kannaki reached the ears of the nun she was so over ​whelmed with grief that she declined all food and died soon afterwards. The Brahmin pilgrim, Mâdalan, conveyed the news to Pukar on his way to his native village. Kovilan’s father was so shocked with the tragic fate of his son that he renounced the world and took the vow of a Buddhist monk; and his mother died broken-hearted. Kannaki’s father gave away all his property in charity and joined the ranks of Ajivaka ascetics: and her mother died of grief. The actress Mâthavi, who heard of these events, vowed that she would lead a religious life, and devoted her daughter Manimekalai also to the life of a Buddhist nun.
From that memorable day on which Kovilan was beheaded, there was no rain in the Pandyan kingdom; and famine, fever and small-pox smote the people sorely. Verri-vel-Cheliya, who held his court at Korkai, believing that these misfortunes were brought on by the curse of Kannaki, sacrificed one thousand goldsmiths at her altar and performed festivals in her honor. Copious showers of rain then fell and famine and pestilence disappeared from the kingdom. Kosar, king of Kongu, Gajabâhu, king of Lanka, and Perunk-killi, the Chola, erected temples and performed festivals in her honor, and their kingdoms were blest with never-failing rain and abundant crops.
The Chera king Chenkudduvan conducted an expedition personally to the banks of the Ganges, and with the help of the Karnas, kings of Magadha, obtained stone from the Himalayas, bathed it in the Ganges and brought it to his capital Vanji, where it was fashioned into a beautiful image of Kannaki. He consecrated the image with grand ceremony in the presence of the kings of Kongu, and Malava and of Gajabahu, king of Lanka.
In conclusion the author points the moral of the tale that the laws of morality are inexorable: no prayer, no sacrifice, can atone for our sins: we must ourselves suffer the reaction of our deeds. “Beware, therefore, ye people of this world! youth and riches and our life are fleeting. Waste not your days: but take heed in time, and acquire the merit of good deeds, which alone will help you in your future life! “
* ↑ That portion of Asia which is south of the Himalayan plateau was known as Jambudvipa
* ↑ Chilap-athikaram Cantos 1 and 2
* ↑ Ibid - Canto XV., ii. 21-41
* ↑ Ibid-Canto 5.
* ↑ Ibid, Canto VI.
* ↑ Ibid, Canto VII.
* ↑ Ibid., Canto VIII
* ↑ Ibid., Canto IV, ii. 47 to 57.
* ↑ Ibid., Canto IX.
* ↑ Kanti is the designation of a Nigrantha nun or female devotee
* ↑ Chilapp-athikaram, Canto X.
* ↑ Now known as Kodumpâlur
* ↑ Chilapp-athikaram, Canto XI.
* ↑ Ibid., Canto XII.
* ↑ Mathavi is also the name of the flowery creeper
* ↑ Chilapp-athikaram, Canto XIII.
* ↑ Ibid., Canto XIV.
* ↑ Ibid., Canto XV.
* ↑ Ibid, Canto XVI.
* ↑ Ibid., Canto XVII.
* ↑ Ibid., Canto XVIII.
* ↑ Ibid., Canto XIX.
* ↑ Ibid., Canto XX.
* ↑ Ibid., Canto XXI and XXII
* ↑ Ibid., Canto XXIII