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.

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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