There is a lot said about ‘speaking truth to power’. One amazing instance of it is the story of Nakkirar. I cannot think of a single example like it. Scholars say he lived between the third and eighth centuries, which is a vast span of time to choose from. However, Nakkirar’s book is celebrated. He is the author of the first known and most ancient volume of bhakti or devotional verse. It is dedicated to Lord Murugan and describes the six temples in Tamil Nadu known as the ‘Aarupadai Veedu’, where the major incidents took place in Murugan theology. These six temples still form the pilgrim circuit for devotees of Murugan. They are: Tiruttani, Pazhani, Pazhamudhircholai, Tiruchendur, Tirupurankundram and Swami Malai. They are vibrant, beautiful temples and an important part of cultural history, involving the deep sentiments of millions.
Nakkirar is said to have belonged to a family of conch cutters in Madurai that specialised in a craft dedicated to the Supreme Goddess who presided over the city. Her neck was famously praised as
being ‘smooth as a conch’. The impression one gets of the people of ancient Madurai is that they were very sensitive and cultured, and luxuriated in the sweet smell of ‘Madurai malli’ or jasmine. Though a sturdy race, with spears blunted in many a battle, they lived a good life in their green and pleasant land nourished by the river Vaigai.
Madurai was especially famous as the epicenter of poetry. The traditions of the Sangam or Academy Era or fine verse were by no means over when Nakkirar found a place at King Shenbaga Pandyan’s court as a poet of eminence. He became, over time, the leader of the academy. It is said that anyone who could compose well had a claim on the court and on the academy that set the standard for language and literature.
Being deeply in love with his queen, King Shenbaga Pandyan decided one day to hold a poetry competition on the eternally pleasing theme of ‘woman’, with a thousand gold coins as the prize for the winner. The town crier made the announcement and Madurai began to hum as contenders set to work, scribbling on palm leaves or striding up and down the banks of the Vaigai, hoping for inspiration.
In this hubbub, a day before the poets’ assembly, a poor and not particularly bright poet called Darumi, wandered into the great temple where Lord Shiva was worshipped as Kalathinathar, the Lord of Time.
“You’re a fine one,” he told the god, who lurked at ease in his shrine, sure of being offered camphor, water, milk, bilva leaves and quantities of fruit and flowers several times a day. “You don’t care that I’m hopelessly inadequate as a poet but know no other trade. The city expects everyone to be good at what they do, especially poetry. Did you have to hold the first Sangam of antiquity in my city?”
A little cough sounded behind him and he saw an old man offering him a scroll. “A verse for you, then,” said the mysterious old man with the faintest wink, and vanished suddenly. Darumi could not believe his luck. Poets’ assembly day. Almost all of Madurai gathered in the great temple near the big tank. The competitors declaimed their verses to the king and the members of the academy. All too soon it was Darumi’s turn. He blinked when roars of applause greeted his verse and the king decided to give
him the prize. But Nakkirar stood up and said no.
“Why not, noble poet?” said the king.
“There is a fault in his verse. He speaks of the natural fragrance of a woman’s hair. There is no such thing,” said Nakkirar. “While the academy grants a due measure of poetic license, we do not mislead the public.”
The king frowned and the public chuckled. Darumi panicked. “It is not my poem,” he stammered and bolted to the temple, calling frantically for the old man. The old man obligingly appeared and went to the assembly with Darumi. Nakkirar, at a nod from the king, repeated his objection. “Very well,” said the old man smoothly. “Perhaps not in the case of an ordinary woman. But surely the queen of our fair realm has naturally fragrant hair?” The crowd gasped at the impertinence.
But, “No,” said Nakkirar with frigid politeness. “Our noble queen, though the queen, is a mortal woman.”
“What about the celestial maidens then, the apsaras?” said the old man, smiling faintly.
“We have no means of verifying that possibility,” said Nakkirar.
The king laughed suddenly and so did the public. Darumi stole a look at the old man and cried out in fear. The old man stood very straight and his limbs glowed with unearthly lustre. A vertical crease shone on his forehead, glowing a fiery red.
“The Lord God!” whimpered Madurai and fell to its knees. Only Nakkirar remained composed.
“Tell me, Nakkirar,” said the old man sternly. “Would you say that even Parvati whom you worship daily as Poonkodai, the goddess who wears flowers, has no natural fragrance to her hair?”
Nakkirar bowed low to the old man. “Even if it’s the Lord with the eye on his forehead, a fault is a fault,” he said humbly but firmly.
It’s said that Nakkirar then took a flying leap into the tank to escape being scorched to death by Lord Shiva’s third eye. But he came to no harm for Lord Shiva liked it that Nakkirar, though a puny mortal, had stood up to him with such polite conviction and even rebuked him indirectly for dragging Goddess Parvati’s name into it. As a matter of fact, Lord Shiva went away greatly pleased that a lesson had been imparted to all to think things through and respond appropriately.
In gratitude, Nakkirar asked the king to give the gold to Darumi although it was not his poem at all and remained as faulty as ever.
RENUKA NARAYANAN
(shebaba09@gmail.com)