Chapter Twenty-One
Young elephants spar in Tirumaliruncolai,
in every jasmine blossom I see his smile,
whole clusters of dark Pata flowers mock me.
O friend to whom can I complain? This garland he wears
Nacciyar Tirumoli 9:2
There were mornings I made my way to the temple before dawn and it was deserted, the bell-studded doors to Andal’s inner shrine still locked, so I sat. The same old lady, haggard and hunched, came with her broom and her mutterings, giving me a remote look before starting to sweep—the dust, the rat droppings, the remnants of sunbeams from the day before, a sweet wrapper carelessly dropped by a child, the contents of my mind—all these she swept down the stairs, clearing the way for the cow and her calf, for Jaya Malika and the women who followed.
Jaya Malika is th
