Tkl 3 2 14

Created by Jijith Nadumuri at 11 Oct 2011 11:18 and updated at 11 Oct 2011 11:18

TIRUKKURAL of Tiruvalluvar, the Tamil poet




3.2 The Post marital Love


3.2.14. Desire for Reunion

Gladness at the thought, rejoicing at the sight,
Not Palm tree wine, but Love, yields such delight.
To please by thought and cheer by sight is peculiar, not to Liquor but Lust.

When as Palmyra tall, fulness of perfect Love we gain,
Distrust can find no place small as the millet grain.
If Women have a Lust that exceeds even the measure of the Palmyra Fruit, they will not Desire (to feign) dislike even as much as the millet.

Although his will his only law, he lightly value me,
My Heart knows no repose unless my lord I see.
Though my Eyes disregard me and do what is pleasing to my Husband, still will they not be satisfied unless they see him.

My Friend, I went prepared to show a cool disdain;
My Heart, forgetting all, could not its Love restrain.
O my Friend! I was prepared to feign disPleasure but my mind forgetting it was ready to embrace him.

The eye sees not the rod that paints it; nor can I
See any fault, when I behold my Husband nigh.
Like the Eyes which see not the pencil that paints it, I cannot see my Husband s fault (just) when I meet him.

When him I see, to all his faults I m blind;
But when I see him not, nothing but faults I find.
When I see my Husband, I do not see any faults; but when I do not see him, I do not see anything but faults.

As those of rescue sure, who plunge into the stream,
So did I Anger feign, though it must falsehood seem?
Like those who leap into a stream which they know will carry them off, why should a Wife feign dislike which she knows cannot hold out long?

Though shameful ill it works, dear is the Palm tree Wine
To Drunkards; traitor, so to me that Breast of thine!
O you rogue! your Breast is to me what Liquor is to those who rejoice in it, though it only gives them an unpleasant disgrace.

Love is tender as an opening Flower. In season due
To gain its perfect bliss is rapture known to few.
Sexual delight is more delicate than a Flower, and few are those who understand its real nature.

Her eye, as I drew nigh one day, with Anger shone:
By Love o erpowered, her tenderness surpassed my own.
She once feigned dislike in her Eyes, but the warmth of her embrace exceeded my own.

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