Tiruppavai Pasuram 16

 

Tiruppāvai — Pāśuram 16

நாயகனாய் நின்ற நந்தகோபன் உடைய

கோயில் காப்பானே கொடி தோன்றும் தோரண

nāyakanāy ninra nanda gōpan uḍaiya

kōyil kāppānē koḍi tōnṟum tōraṇa

And now, after fifteen full days of the Pāvai Nōnbu, after moving patiently from house to house, waking, persuading, correcting, and gathering every sakhi, Āṇḍāḷ finally stands at the threshold.

These fifteen days have been days of sustained guidance. Āṇḍāḷ has asked the sakhis to rise early, to set aside comfort, to learn discipline of time, care in speech, and responsibility in action. She has carried them through hesitation and delay, through sharp words and their repair, accepting responsibility, shaping not just a group that moves together, but hearts that are ready.

That long preparation now leads them here — to the house of Nandagopan,

The abode of Krishna 

This has always been the destination. Not an abstract shrine, not a distant goal, but Krishna’s own dwelling, the place where he is present, where he may be seen, where one may simply be with him.

The tone changes at once.

Āṇḍāḷ no longer calls to awaken sakhis. She now addresses the gatekeepers of Nandagopan’s house. Flags and festoons mark the entrance. This is a guarded space, a place where one does not enter unannounced or unexamined. Speech here must be measured. Intention must be made clear.

She asks for the jeweled doors to be opened. She explains who they are — simple cowherd girls — and why they have come. They seek the parai, the gift promised to them. More than that, they have come to awaken Krishna and be in his presence, trusting the word he himself gave the previous day.

They speak without demand. They come pure — not merely outwardly, but in purpose. There is no insistence, no claim of entitlement, no reliance on their own effort. They ask only that they not be turned away at the threshold.

At another level, this moment reveals the true posture of devotion. The gōpis stand outside, fully aware that longing alone does not grant entry. They do not presume closeness. They wait, they ask, and they submit. The gatekeeper stands as the one who discerns readiness, who guides, who decides when the way may be opened. In pausing here, the gōpis show humility — the knowledge that one must be led in, not walk in on one’s own.

The door they ask to be opened is firm and steady, meant to protect what is precious. Āṇḍāḷ asks that it be opened not by force, but by recognition of love and preparedness.

At the end of this pāśuram, the entire journey comes quietly into view.

From Pāśurams 1 to 5, Āṇḍāḷ set down the vow — its purpose, its discipline, its inner direction.

Through the next stages, she shaped the collective — waking one sakhi after another, correcting tone, building unity, teaching patience and humility.

From Pāśurams 13 to 15, urgency, order, and responsibility were resolved, ensuring that the group could move together without fracture.

Only after all this does Āṇḍāḷ arrive here — at Nandagopan’s house, the abode of Krishna — not alone, not early, but with every sakhi prepared.

Pāśuram 16 marks this moment of arrival. Preparation gives way to approach. Instruction gives way to surrender. What has been built patiently over fifteen days now stands quietly before Krishna’s door.

Āṇḍāḷ Thiruvadigalai Śaraṇam

Tiruppavai Pasuram 15

 

Tiruppāvai — Pāśuram 15

எல்லே இளங்கிளியே இன்னும் உறங்குதியோ

சில் என்று அழையேன் மின் நங்கைமீர் போதருகின்றேன்

ellē iḷangkiḷiyē innum urangudiyō

cil endru azhaiyēnmin nangaimīr pōdaruginrēn

In this pāśuram, Āṇḍāḷ arrives with her sakhis and her parrot at the house of a sakhi who is still asleep. The morning is quiet, and the call that goes out is meant simply to wake her.

But the sakhi inside is disturbed. What reaches her ears feels sharp, almost harsh. She reacts immediately, questioning the tone of the call. Why speak so strongly? Why break the stillness this way?

At that moment, Āṇḍāḷ steps in.

She does not defend the call. She does not argue about intention. Instead, she softens the moment at once. She asks that there be no harshness in speech. And then she makes a statement that stands at the heart of this pāśuram:

“You are capable ones. Let the responsibility be mine.”

This is not a casual apology. It is a deliberate acceptance of responsibility. Āṇḍāḷ chooses to own the disturbance, even if it was not meant, even if it arose in the act of devotion itself. Her leadership shows itself not in correcting others, but in taking the burden upon herself.

This moment finds a natural echo in the Rāmāyaṇa, in the figure of Bharata.

Āṇḍāḷ and Bharata: Two Forms of Responsibility

Bharata did not send Rāma to the forest. Yet when he learns of the injustice, he refuses to distance himself from it. He takes the weight of the act upon himself—for his family, for the kingdom, and for dharma. His response is one of self-effacement and sacrifice.

Āṇḍāḷ’s responsibility arises differently. Hers is chosen, not imposed. She accepts accountability out of love and devotion, not obligation. She does not step back; she steps forward.

Together, they show two complementary ways of bearing responsibility: one rooted in dharma,the other rooted in bhakti.

The pāśuram then moves forward. The sleeping sakhi is urged to rise quickly. What else is holding her back? Everyone else has already arrived. Let her come out and see for herself.

The call turns into praise.

They are asked to sing of the Lord who removes obstacles, who destroys opposition, who enchants the heart—and who once brought down a mighty elephant.

The Elephant: Kuvalayāpīḍa

The “strong elephant” remembered here is Kuvalayāpīḍa, placed by Kamsa to block Krishna’s path. The elephant stood as a living barrier, meant to terrify and destroy.

Krishna met it without haste. He evaded its charge, endured its force, and finally overcame it completely, turning an obstacle into a sign of divine strength.

In this pāśuram, the memory of that act reassures the devotees:

no obstruction—whether external or within—can stand before the Lord who protects those who turn to him.

Pāśuram 15 brings together three quiet strengths:

sensitivity to speech,

responsibility accepted without argument,

and trust in divine protection.

It shows us that devotion is not only about calling out—it is also about listening, adjusting, and taking responsibility when our call unsettles another.

Āṇḍāḷ Thiruvadigalai Śaraṇam

Tiruppavai Pasurams 14

 

Tiruppāvai — Pāśuram 14

உங்கள் புழக்கடைத் தோட்டத்து வாவியுள்

செங்கழுனீர் வாய் நெகிழ்ந்து ஆம்பல் வாய் கூம்பின காண்

Uṅgaḷ puzhakkaḍai tōṭṭattu vāviyuḷ

Ceṅkaḻunīr vāy neḷiḻndu āmbal vāy kūmbina kāṇ

In this pāśuram, Āṇḍāḷ comes with her sakhis to wake a sakhi who had promised to rise early and wake the others—but has now fallen asleep herself.

The call begins gently, not with accusation, but with observation.

They point to the world outside her house. In the pond in her backyard, red lotuses have opened, while blue lilies have folded themselves shut. Nature has already marked the hour. One flower opens to the sun; another withdraws. Dawn has clearly arrived.

They then point beyond the garden. Ascetics, dressed simply, are already on their way to the temples to begin their morning worship. The day has moved forward not only in nature, but also in human life and ritual.

Finally, they remind her of her own words. She had said she would wake them first. Her speech had carried promise and confidence. Now they ask her to rise—not harshly, but firmly—because words once spoken carry responsibility.

The sakhi is addressed affectionately, even playfully. She is called one without hesitation, one gifted with speech. But that gift, the pāśuram suggests, must be used truthfully and at the right time. Sweet speech is not meant to delay others—it is meant to lead.

The call ends by turning all attention to the Lord they have come to sing about:

the one who holds the conch and the discus,

the one with wide, lotus-like eyes.

Pāśuram 14 quietly brings together three reminders: the discipline of nature,

the discipline of daily worship,

and the discipline of one’s own word.

It tells us that devotion is not only about feeling, but also about attentiveness—to time, to others, and to what we have promised.

Āṇḍāḷ Thiruvadigalai Śaraṇam

 

Tiruppāvai — Pāśuram 13

புள்ளின் வாய் கீண்டானைப் பொல்லா அரக்கனை

கிள்ளிக் களைந்தானைக் கீர்த்திமை பாடிப் போய்

Pullin vāy kīṇḍānai polla arakkanai

Kiḷḷik kaḷaintānai kīrttimai pāḍip pōy

In this pāśuram, Andal comes again with her sakhis to wake one more friend who is still asleep.

Andal and the sakhis walk through the village, speaking of Krishna — his strength, and how he destroyed those who came to harm him and protected everyone around him, whether it was Śakaṭāsura or Pūtanā, or even Rāvaṇa. These are stories they sing together as they move from house to house. By now, all the other sakhis have already gathered and gone ahead as one group.

Morning has clearly arrived.

The signs are everywhere. The sky has changed. The stars that belong to night have faded. Birds have begun to sing. The world itself feels awake and alive.

And yet, this sakhi is still lying inside.

Andal and the sakhis call out, gently but firmly. Why stay curled up in the cold when the day has already begun? On a day meant for bathing, prayer, and togetherness, why hold back?

There is warmth in their voices, but also honesty. This is no longer about sleep. It is about delay. About pretending not to hear when the call has already been made.

The pāśuram ends with a simple appeal. Let go of excuses. Let go of pretending. Come and join us.

Pāśuram 13 reminds us that sometimes everything around us is already awake — the world, the moment, the people moving together.

What remains is our own response.

Andal Thiruvadigalai Sharanam

Tiruppāvai — Pāśuram 12

Kanaiththu iḷam kaṟṟerumai kaṉṟu kkirēṅgi
Ninaiththu mulai vazhiyē ninṟu pāl sōra

The young buffaloes, longing for their calves, stand with milk flowing freely.

In this pāśuram, Andal describes a scene that feels very real and very close to daily life.

The girls come to wake up a friend in the cold Margazhi morning. As they stand outside her house, they notice something unusual. The buffaloes inside have not been milked. They are restless, calling out for their calves, and milk is spilling freely, making the floor wet and messy.

This is not how a careful household usually functions. And that is exactly what Andal wants us to notice.

The girl’s brother has chosen devotion over routine. Instead of attending to daily chores, he is fully absorbed in serving the Lord. The song does not criticise this. It quietly appreciates it. His house may be untidy, but his priorities are clear. True wealth, Andal suggests, is not about keeping everything perfectly in place it is about knowing what comes first.

The girls waiting outside are already awake and ready. Their hair is wet with dew, their feet cold on the ground. They stand at the doorstep and sing, calling their friend to join them. They sing about Rama the one who defeated the king of Lanka reminding her of the Lord’s strength and protection.

Even though Tiruppāvai is closely linked with Krishna, Andal brings Rama into this moment without effort. For her, the form does not matter as much as the presence. The same divine care appears in many ways, answering the same longing.

But the door does not open.

The girl inside remains asleep. Her sleep is described as very deep not just physical rest, but a kind of delay. The others are puzzled. Everyone else seems to be awake. Why is she still unmoved?

So the call becomes more personal now. “Wake up,” they say. “At least now.” It is not a scolding. It is said with affection. You belong here. Don’t stay behind.

This pāśuram gently asks us the same question. When devotion is already close to us in our home, in our surroundings, in the people around us what keeps us from waking up?

Andal does not explain this in many words. She simply shows it through unmilked buffaloes, a muddy floor, a closed door, and voices waiting patiently outside.

This style is now locked in.

______________________________

Andal Tiruvadigale Sharanam 

Tiruppavai: Where Bhakti Became Living Experience

Andal's Tiruppavai 

Śrī Viṣṇu-kula-nandana kalpa-vallīm

Śrī Raṅga-rāja-hari-candana-yoga-dṛśyām

Sākṣāt kṣamām karuṇayā Kamalām ivānyām

Gōdām ananya-śaraṇaḥ śaraṇaṁ prapadyē

Añcu kuḍikku oru santatiyāy āḻvārgaḷ

tam seyalai viñci niṟkum tanmaiyaḷāy piñcāy

paḻuttāḷai āṇḍāḷai bhaktiyuḍan nāḷum

vaḻuttāy manamē magiḻndu

How bhakti became a living experience 

Every Margazhi, Tiruppavai returns to our lives—not as a text to be studied, but as a presence to be lived with. Before we speak of its poetry, its structure, or its philosophy, we must pause before the one who gave it to us, Andal.

Andal is unlike any other saint in the Tamil bhakti tradition. She does not stand apart from devotion and describe it. She enters it, lives it, and draws us in with her. In her, devotion is not an abstract idea—it is longing, joy, discipline, impatience, surrender, and love, all at once.

According to tradition, Andal appeared as a child beneath a tulasi plant in Srivilliputhur, discovered by the saint Periyazhwar, who raised her as his own. From childhood, she grew up hearing nothing but the names, deeds, and play of Krishna, his childhood in Vrindavan, his tenderness, his mischief, his compassion, and his protection of those who sought him.

It is therefore natural that Andal’s heart turned fully toward Krishna, not the distant cosmic lord alone, but the intimate, accessible, beloved Krishna of the gopis.

One incident defines her forever. Periyazhwar would weave garlands daily for the Lord of Srivilliputhur. Andal, drawn by devotion, once wore the garland herself before it was offered. When her father discovered this, he was distressed and prepared a fresh garland instead. But the Lord refused it. He desired only the garland worn by Andal.

From that moment, she became Choodikodutha Sudarkodi, the radiant creeper who first wore the garland and then offered it to the Lord. This single act tells us everything about Andal. Her devotion was not cautious. It was intimate. Fearless. Personal.

Tiruppavai arises from this spirit.

During Margazhi, Andal undertakes the Paavai Nombu, a sacred vow, and through thirty verses she invites her companions, and through them, all of us to rise before dawn, bathe, sing together, give up excess, and turn our hearts toward Krishna. Yet Tiruppavai is not merely a ritual manual. It is a journey. A movement from waking to seeking, from seeking to surrender.

What makes Andal extraordinary is that she never separates poetry from practice, emotion from discipline, or devotion from daily life. In her verses, village sounds become sacred music, friendship becomes theology, and longing becomes the path to liberation.

This blog series is not meant to analyze Tiruppavai verse by verse as a scholar might. Instead, it is an attempt to walk alongside Andal, to listen to her voice during Margazhi, and to reflect on how her devotion still speaks quietly but insistently to anyone willing to listen.

In the coming posts, we will explore Andal’s relationship with Krishna, the pastoral world she inhabits, the movement of the Tiruppavai pasurams, and moments where her poetry reveals depths that unfold only when we pause and stay with them.

For now, let us begin where all journeys with Andal must begin with wonder, humility, and love.

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Andal Tiruvadigale Sharanam