J.Panicker

I am irrationally attached to the much beloved Kurunthokai 40. So when I randomly noticed a brick-red, earth-toned nail polish at a drugstore a few days ago, I stopped. Was this the hue of sempulapeyal nīr (செம் புலப் பெயல் நீர்), red earth drenched in rain? I was not entirely sure. Recognising the colour felt like an intimate way of keeping faith with the poem. The nail polish did not disappoint, drying into a lush, iron-rich brick red, close enough to imagination.

Kurunthokai 40 belongs to the Sangam akam tradition, an ancient poetics of interior life in which landscape functions as an emotional code. Feelings are rarely stated; instead, they are elegantly rendered through terrain. No blunt declarations of “I love you” here!

யாயும் ஞாயும் யார் ஆகியரோ?
எந்தையும் நுந்தையும் எம் முறைக் கேளிர்?
யானும் நீயும் எவ் வழி அறிதும்?
செம் புலப் பெயல் நீர் போல
அன்புடை நெஞ்சம் தாம் கலந்தனவே.

The poem’s imagery of red earth and pouring rain has travelled far, appearing in novels, songs, and translations. Sometime back, when I mentioned my attachment to the poem to my mentor, he suggested I translate it myself.

It felt audacious, especially since A.K. Ramanujan’s rendering, with its unforgettable line, “mingled beyond parting”, felt definitive. But translating the poem required me to set aside prior interpretations and attend to the poem as if encountering it for the first time. What is translating a poem, if not a way of romancing it? A way of mingling with it, becoming one with it.

And mingle I did not without some friction. I chafed against its certainty. Who really loves like this? Now, or ever? “Beyond parting,” as if. It sounded like limerence rather than lived experience. I searched for the colour of rain-soaked red soil. Possibly brick red, terracotta hues. I sat with this poem, learning its cadence, its song, the way it felt on my tongue.