That year's annual festival of the town’s Literary Association was unlike that of any other year.
The announcement “Ilakkiya Kadal (Ocean of Literature)” Sundaralingam would be delivering the special address" made a sense of excitement surge through the town
To Tamil literary enthusiasts, Sundaralingam was no ordinary scholar. His very name carried the weight of reverence. People whispered with pride, “In our time, no one has studied Tamil literature as profoundly as he has.”
Sundaralingam had delved into countless works—from the great
epics to obscure manuscripts known only to a few. Not only did he grasp their
layered meanings, but he could also summon thousands of verses from memory, his
voice ringing with the power of poetry.
On the day of the festival, the hall overflowed. Members
of the Association filled the front rows, while townsfolk crowded every corner of the hall.
So great was the anticipation that many were forced to stand at the back,
straining to catch a glimpse of the man they called the Ocean of Literature.
When Sundaralingam rose to speak, the hall fell silent.
His words carried both scholarship and warmth, weaving knowledge with charm.
“Let me test your memories,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “If
I ask you ‘Which epic contains the line—Like a man in debt, the King of Lanka
was disturbed?’ what answer will you give?”
A chorus of voices rang out: “Kamba Ramayanam!”
Sundaralingam laughed heartily. “That, my friends, is the mistake so many of us make! This line is not in the Kamba Ramayanam.
Generations have repeated it so often that the error has taken root like a
stubborn weed. Some attribute this line to Arunachala Kavirayar. But that too is
incorrect. The truth is—it comes from Thanipadal Thirattu, an anthology of
anonymous verses. And the correct line is: ‘Like a heart in debt, the King
of Lanka was disturbed.’
“Such are the misconceptions that creep into our
tradition, passed down until they are mistaken for truth.”
The audience leaned forward, enthralled.
Sundaralingam paused, his voice softening. “Before I
conclude, let me recite a hymn about Hanuman, from Kamba Ramayanam. It goes
like this—
Born of the wind,
He crossed the sea,
He soared through the sky,
He beheld Sita, daughter of the earth,
And set fire to Lanka.
He, who embodies the five elements, will protect us.
“This verse,” Sundaralingam explained, “links Hanuman’s
deeds to the five elements—wind, water, sky, earth, and fire. Such is the
grandeur of our literary tradition.”
Applause thundered through the hall. The scholar’s words
had touched both the minds and spirits of the audience, as it were.
That evening, the members of the Literary Association
hosted a dinner in honor of Sundaralingam in a hotel. After the dinner was over, one after another, admirers
came to his side, showering him with praise, before leaving the venue.
At last, when the gathering had thinned, a young man
approached Sundaralingam hesitatingly. His voice was low, sounding unsure.
“Sir… your speech was wonderful. But… I have a doubt.”
“Go on, my boy,” Sundaralingam encouraged him, smiling
benignly.
“The verse you recited about Hanuman—I heard that
scholars don’t accept it as Kamban’s work…”
“How do you know that?” asked Sundaralingam, a little
startled.
“When I was in school, my teacher told us so. He said devotees would find this verse pleasing to hear, but it was not written by Kamban. The verse doesn't have the refined poetic structure characteristic of Kamban's poetry. I myself don’t have much knowledge about literature, though” said the young man, sounding apologetic about contradicting the scholar.
Sundaralingam’s smile faded. He looked at the youth
with a flicker of surprise. Before he could say anything, the Association’s secretary
arrived. “Shall we leave, sir?” he asked.
Sundaralingam began to move but turned to look at the young man, his
expression unreadable. Without a word, he walked away.
Later that night, alone in his study, he reached for his
treasured copy of the Kamba Ramayanam. With trembling hands, he searched
page after page, verse after verse.
At last, the truth lay before him.
The young man had been right.
Sundaralingam closed the book slowly, his heart feeling heavy. He
sat in silence, the weight of his discovery pressing upon him.
“How could I—who have studied so deeply—have overlooked
this?” he whispered to himself.
The Ocean of Literature, for the first time in years, felt like tasting the salt of doubt.
Assess Before Accepting
inmai aridhE vrLiRu
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