It’s World Environment Day on June 5, and many thoughts flood the mind of our relationship with Nature. ‘Paari and the Jasmine’ is a favourite story from the ancient Tamil Sangam era. It vivified my childhood with its touching message and the values it conveyed, not by preaching but by shining example.
King Vel Paari ruled the lush, mountainous kingdom of Parambu Nadu, stretching from today’s Sivaganga district in Tamil Nadu to Palakkad in Kerala. Valour and talent were celebrated in his land and generosity was valued as the greatest virtue. Love and appreciation of the good earth and its gifts were a life code. A tough soldier, Paari was also a sensitive person. He loved poetry and music. Singers and poets were drawn to him, including the feisty old lady Avvai, who wandered all over the land scolding backsliding kings—scholars now wonder if ‘Avvai’ was in fact a consolidation of three ancient women poets. Whatever the case may be, her poems and aphorisms are still recited 2,000 years later.
One day, Paari was out in his horse-drawn chariot when he saw a delicate mullai or jasmine creeper lying on the ground. Someone had cut down the tree that had supported it and abandoned the creeper to its fate. Paari was upset to see the prettily-flowering, sweet-smelling creeper lying forlorn in the dust, left to be trampled on and die. “This is not right,” he thought. There was no sure way that he could uproot the creeper and give it the prop of another tree or fetch another support for it. So Paari detached his golden chariot, draped the creeper over it and went home on foot, leading his horses. He did not see it as a waste but as a necessary duty fulfilled. My granny used to say that at its deeper level, this incident was a poetic teaching story about helping all helpless beings—plant, animal or human.
This deeply ingrained sense of being part of Nature and being responsible for it was also expressed in seemingly miraculous ways. For instance, it’s an old Indian belief that there are certain holy men who can make it rain simply by their lustrous personalities. In the Ramayana, sage Rishyashringa is said to have made the rain fall on parched land merely by his presence. As recently as the 20th century, the late M G Ramachandran, when chief minister of Tamil Nadu, reportedly besought Kanchi Mahaswami, a luminous sage revered across the South with devotees even from far lands like the King and Queen of Spain and Princess Irene of Greece, to save Tamil Nadu from a blistering drought. The saint was on a padayatra in Karnataka at the time but felt duty-bound to return at once to Tamil Nadu. The story goes that soon after he crossed the border into the state, grey clouds began gathering out of nowhere in the burning sky, and it actually rained.
Such personalities are part of the legitimate lore of the land and give us a personal standard of behaviour, an affirmation that good thoughts and good deeds enable the well-being of a country and its people. Further, if we look closely at the Indian calendar, we’ll see that amid the busy timetable of holy days, there’s a conscious plan to bond society by providing many festive opportunities to interact pleasantly.
The best punya or merit gained on a holy day is when we are friendly and affectionate to all, and don’t shortchange those to whom we owe money and manners. So the punya is of two kinds—one gained by doing the good things that build a cordial society and the other by not doing the bad things that vitiate the atmosphere.
These good intentions are framed by Nature, which is why Indian festivals follow the seasons, and festival foods reflect our rootedness in the land. Even grass is valorised through story and craft.
Grass figures in at least four incidents in the Ramayana. The first is at Chitrakoot, where Jayanta, a son of Indra, becomes a crow and attacks Sita when Rama is resting with his head on her lap. Sita’s blood drips on Rama, waking him. He charges a blade of grass with a mantra and sends it after the crow, which ultimately seeks sanctuary at his feet.
Lakshmana uses kusa grass to thatch the perfect cottage that he builds at Panchavati. Sita, trembling with fear but staunchness personified, places a blade of grass between herself and Ravana in the Ashokavana. And heartbreakingly, Rama makes himself a mat of grass by the seashore on which to undertake prayopavesa or a severe fast to entreat Varuna, lord of the waters, to help him cross to Lanka.
As just one exquisite instance in national life, Bihar’s golden Sikki grass is used to make baskets, boxes, trays, toys and hanging mobiles. Sikki-ware, available online, adds refinement, colour and beauty to urban Indian homes. Rural brides in the Mithila region are said to weave dainty boxes from Sikki grass for their trousseau, and it’s a skill to be proud of.
Also, fine, silky mats, called paai in Tamil, have been made for centuries from Korai, the river grass on the banks of the Kaveri. I remember, as a child, seeing that Tamil newlyweds were given these mats with their names and wedding date in English woven into the design.
Our culture revels abundantly in Nature. We could easily do so, too, if we but make the resolve and show our bounteous land some love.
Renuka Narayanan | FAITHLINE | Senior journalist
(Views are personal)
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