In this episode, we listen to a mother’s words of love, as portrayed in Sangam Literary work, Aganaanooru 117, penned by an anonymous poet. Set in the ‘Paalai’ or ‘Drylands landscape’, the verse brings out the tender thoughts in a mother’s heart at the juncture of her daughter’s elopement.
மௌவலொடு மலர்ந்த மாக் குரல் நொச்சியும்,
அவ் வரி அல்குல் ஆயமும், உள்ளாள்,
ஏதிலன் பொய்ம்மொழி நம்பி, ஏர் வினை
வளம் கெழு திரு நகர் புலம்பப் போகி,
வெருவரு கவலை ஆங்கண், அருள்வர,
கருங் கால் ஓமை ஏறி, வெண் தலைப்
பருந்து பெடை பயிரும் பாழ் நாட்டு ஆங்கண்,
பொலந்தொடி தெளிர்ப்ப வீசி; சேவடிச்
சிலம்பு நக இயலிச் சென்ற என் மகட்கே
சாந்து உளர் வணர் குரல் வாரி, வகைவகுத்து;
யான் போது துணைப்ப, தகரம் மண்ணாள்,
தன் ஓரன்ன தகை வெங் காதலன்
வெறி கமழ் பல் மலர் புனையப் பின்னுவிட,
சிறுபுறம் புதைய நெறிபு தாழ்ந்தனகொல்
நெடுங் கால் மாஅத்து ஊழுறு வெண் பழம்
கொடுந் தாள் யாமை பார்ப்பொடு கவரும்
பொய்கை சூழ்ந்த, பொய்யா யாணர்,
வாணன் சிறுகுடி வடாஅது
தீம் நீர்க் கான்யாற்று அவிர்அறல் போன்றே?
It’s more about the lady than the drylands in this trip and we hear these words spoken by the lady’s mother, after the lady has eloped away with her man:
“Without thinking about the chaste tree with dark leaf clusters, upon which wild jasmine vines spread and bloom, or her playmates with beautiful, lined waists, believing in the lies of that stranger, she has left her well-etched, prosperous mansion in loneliness, and departed to that fear-evoking path, where climbing atop a black-trunked toothbrush tree, the white-headed kite calls out piteously to its mate, in the expanses of those wastelands. Here, she walks swaying her hands, making her golden bangles jangle, and the anklets on her red feet tinkle. When I used to comb her thick tresses, coated with dried sandalwood paste, split it into parts, and adorn it with flowers, she would refuse to let me apply the ‘agarwood’ paste. Now, when her esteemed lover, who has a great love just like hers, ties many different flowers, wafting with intense fragrance, on her tresses, would it hide the small of her back and descend down, appearing akin to the radiant sand on the shore of the wild river with sweet waters, which flows to the north of Vaanan’s ‘Sirukudi’, with unending fertility, filled with ponds, where tortoises with curved legs, along with their little ones, nab the fallen ripe, white fruits of the tall-trunked mango tree?”
Time to hear the sad cry of a drylands kite! Mother starts by declaring how her girl didn’t spare a thought either for the ‘nochchi’ tree that she grew with love, or her dearest playmates, with whom she has spent many an hour of joy, and just believing in the false words of a strange man, she has left them all, leaving their wealthy mansion to cry in loneliness. Then, mother turns to briefly mention where the lady is walking and this happens to be drylands path, where a white-headed bird of prey, possibly a Brahminy Kite, is crying out to its mate, sitting atop a toothbrush tree. Here, mother sees her daughter walking vigorously with her bangles and anklets tinkling. Then, her mind rewinds to that past moment when she would adorn the lady’s hair with flowers and try to apply a paste referred to as ‘thakaram’, and at that moment, the lady would refuse to let her mother do that. A moment to pause and investigate this ‘thakaram’ mentioned! On researching, I learnt that this could be either a paste or an oil made from ‘agarwood’, a natural resin, which is referred to as ‘liquid gold’ for such is its worth, and apparently, this ingredient is found in many hair products, and it seems to endow numerous benefits such as providing strength and nourishment for the hair, and also controlling dandruff and lice too! These ancient mothers seem to have realised the many benefits of this wood, exploited by the cosmetic industry currently!
Returning, mother’s thoughts seem to turn from the past, where she was grooming her girl’s hair, to the present, when she imagines the lady’s lover to be tying many different, fragrant flowers to the lady’s head, and she wonders if her girl’s tresses would descend down, and appear like the silty sand on the river shores, to the north of a town called ‘Sirukudi’, belonging to a lord named ‘Vaanan’, where there were many fertile ponds, and the tortoises living therein would savour the fallen fruits of the mango tree. In short, mother weaves a garland between that past moment of her caressing her daughter’s hair to this present moment, where another, the lady’s lover, has taken over. A moment of realisation in mother that her young girl was no more hers to protect, but someone whose joy has now passed on to the care of other hands!
