Premiered at Upasana arts OJAS Sangam project that revisited and recontextualised poetry from the glorious Sangam Age.
Mother’s Pride
(Interpretation based on Sangam poetry ‘SiTTrill’)
In the centre of the house,
Stood a pillar long
His little feet were no match for the woman frail
As he hid under his mother’s veil.
“Where is he? That little rascal!” came a voice, out of breath
As she hung on to the pillar, breaking out in a sweat.
“Who? Him you seek, the tiger’s cub? He has long left the womb”
Said the mother with a wink, a twinkle and with obvious aplomb.
In the centre of the house,
Stood a pillar long
Like the only barrier between the little fellow
And his father, thundering, in no mood to be mellow
“Where is he? That little imp! He has had it for today”
He smouldered and growled, as if looking for a prey.
“Who? Him you seek? Your own little cub? That has long left the womb!”
She quivered; she trembled yet spoke with aplomb.
In the centre of the house
Stood a pillar long
When women from the neighbourhood knocked on her door
They whimpered, they whined, till she took it no more.
“Where is he? That menace maker, that heart breaker, all friends no foes”
And they took it in turns, they spilled out their woes.
“Who? Him you seek? A tiger’s cub! He has long left the womb”
Frustrated and peeved, yet defiant with aplomb.
In the centre of the house
Stood a pillar long
Glided a young damsel a countenance full of love
With shy eyes full of hope, yet despair hanging above
“Where is he? The one I look for, whose presence I can feel
Yet tired eyes have searched in vain, his absence cannot be!”
“Who? Him you seek? He is a tiger cub that has long left the womb”
In the direction of the battleground she pointed with aplomb.
In the centre of the house
Stood a pillar long
She rest her grey head, sat embracing the emptiness,
When around came a pair of tiny hands that rested on her chest.
“Where is he? My father- has he gone long and far?
No one else can tell me, but has he indeed become a star?
“Who? Him you seek? That tiger? He lived in my womb,
He grew, he slayed and now, he, my pride, sleeps peacefully in his tomb.
– Anuradha Venugopal