Kurinji Malar

by Na. Parthasarathy

Genres: Literary Fiction

Synopsis

On a rock on the road to a hill temple are carved the names 'Aravindan' and 'Poorani'.

Barely out of her teens, Poorani is plunged into crisis with the sudden passing of her father. As she brings her life back on course, fate arranges a meeting with Aravindan. Gentle and idealistic, Aravindan makes it his goal to right the wrongs in society. Spirited and refined, Poorani blazes a trail to recognition and renown with her public-speaking knowhow. Their friendship soon blossoms into love. But can a world riddled with opportunism and deceit ever hold their dreams and ideals?

Written more than six decades ago and set in Madurai and the surrounding areas of the Tamil land, this classic romance - peopled by an array of compelling characters - was first serialized in a magazine in the 1960s, and later attained further popularity on-screen. Believed to be Na. Parthasarathy's magnum opus, Kurinji Malar is a sweeping saga that conjures an unforgettable landscape of hope and heartbreak - a delicate balance only a master storyteller can offer.

Release date: September 20, 2024

Publisher: Hachette India

Print pages: 480

Sample

First published in Tamil in 1960 by Tamil Puthakalayam

This translation first published in India in 2024 by Hachette India

(Registered name: Hachette Book Publishing India Pvt. Ltd)

An Hachette UK company

www.hachetteindia.com



This eBook published in 2024

Original text copyright © 1960 Na. Parthasarathy

Original text copyright © 1987 The estate of Na. Parthasarathy

English translation copyright © 2024 Malini Sheshadri

The moral rights of the author and the translator have been asserted.

The legal right of the copyright holder has been asserted.

Author photograph © The estate of Na. Parthasarathy

Translator photograph © Malini Seshadri

All rights reserved. No part of the publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system (including but not limited to computers, disks, external drives, electronic or digital devices, e-readers, websites), or transmitted in any form or by any means (including but not limited to cyclostyling, photocopying, docutech or other reprographic reproductions, mechanical, recording, electronic, digital versions) without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The views and opinions expressed in this book are the author’s own and the facts are as reported by him and have been verified to the extent possible. The publisher and TNTB & ESC are not in any way liable for the same.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events or locales is purely coincidental. Certain place names have been used to retain the historicity and/or character traits in the text as far as possible.

Paperback ISBN 978-93-5731-568-5

Hardback ISBN 978-93-5731-486-2

eBook ISBN 978-93-5731-547-0

Hachette Book Publishing India Pvt. Ltd

4th & 5th Floors, Corporate Centre,

Plot No. 94, Sector 44, Gurugram 122003, India

Originally typeset in Dante MT Std 11/14

by R. Ajith Kumar, New Delhi

TRANSLATOR’S NOTE

The kurinji flower blooms only once in twelve years, covering the hills of the Western Ghats in a carpet of violet-blue splendour. Na. Parthasarathy’s novel with that eponymous title is forever in bloom, his protagonists as rare and unforgettable as this mountain flower.

It has been a privilege to bring this celebrated novel to the English-reading public. A privilege, but also a challenge in equal measure! For instance, the author’s style is expansive, poetic, sometimes verging on the florid. It was a tightrope walk to retain the essence of these attributes while presenting this period novel to contemporary English-language readers, accustomed to a rather more terse and less stately style.

The book also features excerpts from ancient Tamil poetic texts that act as curtain-raisers for each chapter. I have attempted, with some help along the way, to blend poetry, substance and, hopefully, some echoes from centuries long past, in translating the ‘teaser’ verses. In this task, I received valuable guidance from Sujatha Vijayaraghavan, well-known writer and music scholar.

In the mid-twentieth century, several successful and popular novels by various writers were serialized in Tamil magazines. This story too originally appeared as weekly chapters in the Tamil magazine Kalki, and was a sensational success. A story written as a serial in a magazine tends to evolve as it unfolds, generally enjoying the luxury of lingering over descriptions of people and events. It is much like a bicycle ride through the countryside with plenty of stopovers to smell the flowers, rather than a quick motoring along a highway.

My approach, therefore, was to read it in instalments as the original readers would have done, and to translate as I went along, so as to relive the original reader’s experience to the extent possible. This plan has worked for me even with novels that were not serialized. Here, I think it has worked even better. I believe it has helped to retain the immediacy, the here-and-now, of each week’s offering. In this novel, for instance, we get to read the diary of the protagonist, Aravindan, and listen in on the soliloquies of the other main character, Poorani. We go into the homes of the dramatis personae, live their lives and dream their dreams.

The novel is set in the middle of the previous century, not very long after Independence, in and around Madurai, an ancient town in the southern Tamil land. The society was largely patriarchal, with girls being groomed from early life to become homemakers and mothers. Scholars and academics were highly respected, though often poor. Patriotism for the Tamil land took the form of championing the Tamil language and working for the upliftment of the poor.

Poorani, the eldest child of a doting scholar-professor-author, has grown up among books and uplifting discussions with her father. She is ahead of her times in her aspirations and goals; at the same time she is very much a creature of the ambient norms of society. Aravindan has had a difficult childhood and is a self-taught savant who writes poetry and champions non-violence. They are both conflicted because of the disconnect between their dreams and the harsh realities.

The tone of the novel is idealistic, and its protagonists, Poorani and Aravindan, are almost other-worldly in their commitment to the betterment of society; and yet they walk on this earth and feel life’s pains and pleasures. The other characters are also well fleshed out and relatable.

I hope this translation has managed to convey the tones of love and loss, righteousness and deceit, loyalty and greed, that are the hallmarks of the plot of the story. I also hope that the characters that the author has created and animated on the pages of his novel live on in the pages of this translation.

I am grateful to the Tamil Nadu Textbook and Education Services Corporation (TNTB & ESC) for having given me this challenging but joyful opportunity. I am also very thankful to Meera Parthasarathy, the author’s daughter, who read the drafts with great care and offered inputs.

As the author says: Long live Poorani and Aravindan!

Malini Seshadri

INTRODUCTION

Among all the days in my life that mark the beginning of important undertakings, the day I plunged into the writing of Kurinji Malar holds a very special place. The period in my life during which the idea for this novel sprouted and grew was a golden period for my inner self. I am a writer who wants every one of his works to send out a loud and clear message – ‘This story was born out of the Tamil soil; it propagates Tamil tradition and culture; it celebrates the sweet essence of the Tamil language.’ Accordingly, in each of my stories, I want to stress the greatness of this language, this land, its history and its rich culture. One could even say, this wish of mine is the hallmark of my writing.

I am one of those who earnestly believe that this Tamil land of ours, steeped in a glorious tradition, marked by its rich culture and language, should be strengthened by literature that raises the awareness of the people. I take pride in writing for this noble cause.

Many Tamil writers choose to set their stories only in Chennai or neighbouring areas. As a result of this trend, the incredible variety of shades and patterns in the lifestyles of the people in the South remain unnoticed. Keeping this in mind, I selected Madurai and the neighbouring regions of the South as the focal point of my novel Kurinji Malar. I wanted it to be a novel steeped in the Tamil essence, the special Tamil aroma, from the first page to the last. I believe that I have succeeded in achieving that goal.

When I started writing this novel as a serial in the weekly Tamil magazine Kalki, I wrote under the pen name ‘Manivannan’. I thought, ‘Whatever the name in which it is done, a good deed is always a good deed.’ Yes, I considered this a ‘good deed’ that I was doing. My readers decided it was a ‘very, very good deed’ indeed! They were filled with enthusiasm and eager anticipation.

The marikkozhundu (marjoram) plant is aromatic right from its root to the very tip of each leaf. Whichever part of it you pinch and smell, it is scented. I wrote this novel intending to make every part of it resound with the message that honesty and righteousness are essential hallmarks of an ethical society. Readers confirmed that my writing achieved this. ‘I have done a valuable service,’ I told myself in satisfaction. I also wanted to remind readers that the young boys and girls of today, in schools and colleges, are the seedlings that will grow to be the new crop of Tamil people. In this task too, I have been successful, judging from the feedback I received from readers.

The marriage of Thilakavathy (the elder sister of Thirunavukkarasar, a celebrated sage of the Saiva sect) with Kalippagaiyar was never consummated. If one keeps in mind Thilakavathy’s story or those of similar couples, one can understand some aspects of my story better and appreciate the resonances of history within them.

In this story, I have presented Poorani and Aravindan as attractive characters. They are exemplars of ideal Tamil womanhood and manhood. Here and there, I have also touched upon the government’s impact on the lives of the common people. By the time the story ended, many readers wrote to the author ‘Manivannan’ to seek his blessings for their sons, whom they had named ‘Aravindan’, or their daughters, whom they had named ‘Poorani’. It was clear that the readers had developed a deep affinity with the story and its characters.

In order to spread awareness of Tamil literary heritage, I appended a verse ahead of every chapter as it was being serialized. Some of these were my own creations, and it gave me immense satisfaction to know that the readers had welcomed and appreciated these embellishments to the novel.

I planned the novel such that it started in the Kurinji land of Thirupparankundram and ended in the kurinji fields of Kodaikanal. In the novel, the first time the kurinji is in bloom, the mind of the heroine, Poorani, blossoms through her dialogues with Aravindan. On the other hand, the second time she visits the hill in the kurinji season, it is the end of the story. She is alone and grieving. In this novel, Poorani is a rare flower among women. She is like the kurinji flower that blooms in high places. Death cannot touch her. Poorani will live forever.

It is the author Manivannan’s earnest prayer that every young Tamil man should be an Aravindan, with simple tastes and high thinking, wedded to the principle of service to society. and that many kurinji flowers like Poorani should blossom among the women of this Tamil land.

Within a few days after the novel was completed, my first daughter was born. She is a ray of sunshine in my home. I dedicate this story in book form to my daughter, whom I see as an incarnation of Poorani.

Na. Parthasarathy

CHAPTER 1

That which was true, in the fullness of time, emerged as

Falsehood, myth, mere imagination.

– Mella Ponadhuve

Another new day. Nature is blossoming anew. The Margazhi season is at the door, peeping in, waiting to enter. The world is a bower of roses, petals glistening with fresh dew, bathing the air in a cool aroma. In harmony with the cool fragrance of blossoms wafts the warm smell of damp earth, as though woven into the same tapestry. It is the cusp of daybreak. The night has ended, and the day is awaited. On the eastern horizon, dawn has not yet applied the turmeric paste for her morning bath…

Poorani stirred, rubbed her eyes and sat up in bed. Through the window of her room, the kolam at the entrance of the house across the street appeared pale at that early hour. It was a large white one, embellished with pumpkin flowers here and there. Against the white of the kolam design, the flowers glowed like burnished gold, freshly melted and poured out from the furnace. As Poorani gazed at that kolam, painful memories assailed her senses. Her heart felt heavy. Her eyes turned moist with unshed tears.

A whole year would have to go by before she could draw a kolam like that outside her front door. It was not as though she couldn’t get pumpkin flowers. There were cartloads of them in her own backyard. But who would pluck them? And where would they be placed? (This was a land that had regulated even the acceptable rituals of grief and laid down rules for the observance of associated dos and don’ts. The banyan tree that is Tamil life and culture continued to be propped up by these aerial roots of ancient and outmoded traditions.)

Poorani dried her eyes, got out of bed and turned on the light. ‘If Appa were still alive, would the house be dark and silent at this hour?’ she thought. ‘He would have been up at four thirty for his early morning cold water bath followed by recitations of Thiruvachagam and Thiruvembavai. Every Margazhi morning the house would be redolent with the swirling smoke from the burning incense powder. Appa’s sloka recitations and the sheer beauty of the Tamil language would add to the fragrance.’

Where now are those fragrant Tamil words that came off his tongue? Where is that towering mountain of knowledge? The thousands of students he nurtured with love and commitment, the years of respect and renown… Alas, that mortal body has turned to dust. The tall, wide bookshelf of his… Was that the only inheritance he left to his daughter? That and inconsolable grief? No, he left behind a great responsibility, one that those young, twenty-one-year-old shoulders would have to bear.

Poorani walked over to where her younger brothers and sister were lying asleep, curled up like millipedes against the cold. They all lay on the floor, with sheets and pillows scattered all over the place. As she looked at her siblings sleeping peacefully, Poorani grew conscious of a great responsibility. She was young and unmarried, true, but she would have to be a mother to these children.

She straightened their sleeping forms, put pillows under their heads and covered them warmly. As she rose, her gaze fell upon a large picture of her father on the wall. He was smiling at her. She stood unmoving, looking at the picture. Was he looking at her, telling her something?

Her father had been a handsome man. His intellect and deep learning had enhanced his good looks. His eyes were very attractive, as though made to order for the man he was. They were eloquent eyes. Embracing everything and everyone in benevolence, they spoke of love, compassion and gentleness. His nose was proportionate, with the nostrils flared just right. His lips seemed to wear the beginnings of a smile even when he was not smiling. That face had endeared him to all his students over the years. Even later, irrespective of their high status in life, however tall the pinnacles of success they had attained, those who had once been his students took pride in recalling that they had had the good fortune to learn from Tamil professor Azhagiya Sittrambalam. That was the real measure of her father’s achievements.

Poorani heaved a sigh. She turned off the light and sat on her bed in the darkness. She wanted to let her mind dwell on her father’s death. She wanted to sob, weep and wail. Were not tears supposed to melt grief? Was not weeping a means to lighten the burden of loss?

She rose once more, moved towards her father’s picture on the wall and stood close to it. Like a devout worshipper standing in front of a favourite deity in the sanctum sanctorum of a temple, Poorani felt goosebumps as she stood and examined her father’s face. Tears blurred her vision. Once again, she was lost in her thoughts. ‘Those subtle signs of ageing had started appearing on Appa’s face only after Amma died. But even when Amma was dying, Appa never broke down or wept. We children refused to eat and were sobbing for three whole days. Maybe his deep learning and wide experience had built a barrier for his emotions.

‘I remember how he embraced me and spoke tenderly to me as he stroked my hair. “Poorani! If you break down and sob like a little child, who will comfort your younger brothers and your baby sister? Learn to put aside your own sorrow. From now on, for these children, you are more than a big sister. You have to take on the responsibilities of a mother and raise them. I think of you as a level-headed, sensible girl. If you wallow in grief and carry on like this, what would I do? How can I bring comfort to others if you do not help me?”’

Not only did Appa rise above grief and sorrow but he also did not dwell much upon happy events or joyous moments. His life had centred around the college classrooms and his bookshelf at home. Everything else receded from his attention. Just as fruits ripen over time and are eventually shed from the tree, his intellect had banished from his mind the lesser considerations. His was a life of absolute discipline and unwavering focus.

‘Appa is no more.’

That wide ocean of Tamil knowledge, that exemplar of duty, commitment and self-discipline was reduced to dust – soon to become a mere memory or myth. It was difficult for the mind to grasp the reality. It is always difficult to accept the death of loved ones. There was a poem that her father often repeated to illustrate the uncertainties of life: ‘He existed, he stood, he fell. He departed, leaving his loved ones bereft.’ Appa’s life could be summed up similarly. He lived to teach. He stood near his bookshelf, and one day, just like that, he died, leaving his family in the depths of grief.

How easily he attained death! No fuss, no pain, no suffering, no hassles; he did not go like someone who was dying. He went like someone getting ready for a secret meeting. Poorani replayed the scene in her mind. ‘That evening, when he returned from the temple, he seemed unusually tired. In a break from his normal routine, he went to bed. I was confused. “What’s the matter, Appa? You seem very tired today,” I asked. He answered with a smile, “It’s nothing, Poorani. Just a slight pain in my chest. Bring me some hot water with crushed, dried ginger, and I will be fine.”

‘I went to fetch the hot water. The older of my two brothers, Thirunavukkarasu, was doing his homework in the hall. My younger brother, Sambandan, and my baby sister, Mangaiyarkarasi, were playing in the street just outside the front door. As I was crushing the ginger, Appa called out, “If Thirunavukkarasu is there, please ask him to come to me.”

‘Thirunavukkarasu heard Appa and ran towards the hall, “I’m coming, Appa.” From the kitchen, I heard Appa asking my brother to bring the Thiruvachagam, sit next to him and start reading aloud. I hurried back with the hot water. Appa was clutching his chest with both hands. Pain was etched on his face. My brother was reading from the Thiruvandam section:

Like the fragrance in flowers His fame spreads everywhere, praise be upon Him

The resplendent Lord came to me today with compassion

Bestowed His grace upon me and removed all my future births, praise be upon Him.

‘His young voice rang sweet and clear. “Appa, you seem to be in a lot of pain,” I said anxiously. “Shall I go and call the doctor?” Appa smiled weakly but did not speak. Without waiting for his permission, I hurried to get the doctor. As I re-entered the front door with the doctor, my brother’s loud wailing, “Oh Appa!” fell on my ears. My last glimpse of Appa alive was that wordless smile as I had turned to leave.

‘Appa was gone. He had left me alone to bear the loss, the grief and the great responsibility of caring for my siblings. The whole town mourned him. Hundreds of his admirers, his students from the past and present and colleagues from his college accompanied his funeral procession. All the local colleges declared a holiday as a sign of respect for him. Letters and telegrams are still arriving from all over the world, from his old students, his acquaintances, his admirers.’

Fifteen days since Appa died. Fifteen days had gone by in a haze. Each day brought more letters of condolences. Many visitors dropped in to offer their sympathy. All those emotions, expressions of sympathy and efforts to console wallowed in Poorani’s all-encompassing ocean of grief.

The sound of the cowbell at the front door was followed by the milkman’s call. Poorani wiped her tear-swollen eyes and stepped out to buy milk. As he was leaving, the milkman said, ‘Amma, every morning when Periyavar came out to buy milk, with the sacred ash on his forehead and the verses of the Thiruvachagam on his lips, it was like receiving the Lord’s darshan right here.’

His words stirred her sorrow afresh. Appa was always the first to rise in the morning, and he was the one who brought in the milk. From the milkman to the woman who came to sweep the street outside the front door, everyone had a special affection and respect for her father. Everyone addressed him as Periyavar. They all referred to him only that way. She had hardly ever heard anyone address him differently. Only a couple of his fellow teachers, his intellectual peers, addressed him by name.

‘In every sense, Appa was a Periyavar, a great man. He had won the gratitude and admiration of generations of students, not only because he was such a fine teacher but also because he helped needy students with his own money. Although he was generous with financial help to others, his self-respect would not let him accept help from others. His right hand would often reach out to give but never seek to receive. His mind was incapable of low thoughts. Never by word or deed had Appa ever crossed the boundaries that he had set for himself.

‘On one occasion, a few learned Tamil scholars asked Appa for suggestions about starting a movement to prevent the incorrect usage of spoken and written Tamil. Appa told them with a smile, “Why talk only about how the language is spoken and written – from Vengadam in the north to Kanyakumari in the south, if the people of this whole Tamil land could live their lives correctly, ethically, with discipline, how wonderful it would be.” I remember how calmly he spoke those words of wisdom, and I remember the goosebumps they gave me. Honour, duty, discipline were Appa’s watchwords all his life.’

It was now broad daylight. Discordant noises rose from the street, like an ill-tuned radio set, intruding into Poorani’s thoughts. Like the low voice of conscience that speaks from the depths of the human heart, drumbeats echoed faintly from the temple in the distance. Poorani stood and walked towards the well in the backyard to take her bath.

From the highway close by, the busy traffic to and from Thirupparankundram and Thirunagar added its share of noise. Thirupparankundram, situated quite close to the town, has retained its village charm despite its fame as a major spiritual centre. Even though it lacks the grandeur and majesty of Madurai, it has its own modest beauty. The child god Murugan, forever young, always ready to bless his devotees, resides in his temple abode atop a hillock, bringing fame and renown to the village. Maybe centuries ago, the hillock would have been covered with lush vegetation. Today it is a smooth, bare rock, like a bald man’s head. To the north, at the foot of the hillock, there is a small dome, a beautiful gopuram. The main temple is accessed through many rock-cut steps. From the temple entrance, the town is laid out for view below, as though it was created for the sole purpose of paying obeisance to the deity. To the west of the hillock is a small railway station. Next to it is a row of identical houses, the living quarters for mill workers. Further west is Thirunagar.

As though designed to showcase the beauty of Thirupparankundram, two lakes brimming with water lie to the north and south. The village itself lies among farmlands, coconut groves, sugarcane fields and banana orchards. The beauty of the setting suggests that it has been centuries in the making. It has somehow retained the flavour of thousands of years of Tamil life and culture. Despite the fact that the college where he was teaching was in Madurai – and most of his colleagues and friends lived in Madurai city, which had many more facilities and comforts – Professor Azhagiya Sittrambalam had chosen to live in Thirupparankundram. The intangible cultural richness of the village must have been the cause of his decision. Additionally, the pure air for good health, greenery all around to please the eye and the Murugan Temple to satisfy the soul.

From the day he was appointed as a professor in the college at Madurai, he decided to settle in Thirupparankundram. That is where his wife later joined him, where Poorani and her brothers were born and where her mother died soon after giving birth to little Mangayarkarasi. Now, he himself had completed his life’s journey in that very house.

Like a great artist who has had to leave his masterpiece unfinished, he had departed the world, leaving a young family behind. He had been focused on seeking honour, discipline, righteousness all his life. If only he had also given some thought to the financial security of his family! But no, he did not. Living in very modest circumstances himself yet possessing a generous heart, he had saved no money.

What had he left behind to help his young family? Who was there to support them? All he could leave them were his scholarship of Tamil and the wide renown he had won… and Poorani as the keeper of that legacy. He went when Poorani was yet to attain the stature and maturity that comes with adulthood. Yet he had bestowed some strengths upon her – self-confidence based on knowledge and reasoning, a strong value system born of close association with her father and the resilience to withstand adversity. The arms that wore bangles would henceforth have to wrestle with life.

Poorani had been born to her parents when they were still young. Appa had been researching material for a book on heroic female figures of the past, who were mentioned in Tamil literature. The day his book was released was also the day his first child, a baby daughter, was born. The Tamil poetry he had been exploring had resonated with him as pure beauty, and he saw that same perfect beauty, pooranam, in his daughter’s face. Thus, he named her Poorani, the name rolling lovingly off his tongue.

Eight to nine months after his book was released, the university acknowledged the excellence of his work and honoured him with an honorary doctorate. He now had the title ‘Doctor’. But what gave him far more pleasure was the title awarded by his little daughter when she first lisped the word ‘Appa’.

As Poorani grew, her beauty and intelligence continued to be a credit to the name her father had chosen for her. She had inherited the sharp intelligence of Appa and the beauty of Amma. She grew tall and slender, like a graceful creeper. Her complexion, pale gold like the laburnum flower, seemed to have been created specifically to grace her beauty. Her face was like a lovingly created work of art, the masterpiece of a superbly gifted painter who had wielded his brush to express the romantic longings and dreams that crowded his young mind. Her expressive eyes complemented the beauty of her face. Long and narrow at times, wide as a blossoming flower at others, those beautiful eyes seemed to hold a hint of longing, as though on a quest for some lofty goal. Her wide forehead told the story of thousands of years of Tamil womanhood before her. Her expression gave a hint of the mental list she had drawn up of all the responsibilities that awaited her in this lifetime.

Only Poorani can look like Poorani – that was how people described her uniqueness. Her father had stopped Poorani’s education after high school. He had taught her grammar and literature from an early age at home whenever he had the time. Although progressive in his thinking in many ways, he had some fixed ideas about the education of girls. He firmly believed that like exposure to air causes camphor to evaporate, college education and wider exposure to society for girls would destroy their femininity. They would be turned into creatures with women’s bodies and men’s brains. This was why he did not send Poorani to college. Instead, he imparted knowledge and learning at home itself, which was four-fold of what any university could have done. Just as he had made the Tamil language grow and flourish through his teaching and writing, he had enriched Poorani’s mind.

It was nine thirty in the morning. The two boys finished their meal and picked up their school bags to set off for school. At the doorway, they hesitated and stopped. Poorani was bringing little Mangayarkarasi to the front door to get her hands washed. When she saw her brothers in the doorway, Poorani asked, ‘Enda, why are you both still here? Isn’t it getting late for school?’ The older boy started saying something in reply but mumbled and stopped. Poorani instantly understood.

‘Oh, is it the last day to pay the school fees? Wait, let me see.’ She washed the little girl’s hands, went back inside and opened a box. She counted the money, seven-and-a-half rupees. She checked the bank passbook; nothing left to draw. She called Thirunavukkarasu, gave him seven rupees and said, ‘Pay the fees today.’ The boys said goodbye and left. As she laid the half-rupee coin, the only money the family now possessed, carefully in the box, Poorani laughed to herself. It was a wry laugh born of despair. How was she to run the household?

Th