Acta Orientalia

ACTA ORIENTALIA

EDIDERUNT

SOCIETATES ORIENTALES DANICA FENNICA NORVEGIA SVECIA

CURANTIBUS LEIF LITTRUP, HAVNIÆ HEIKKI PALVA, HELSINGIÆ ASKO PARPOLA, HELSINGIÆ TORBJÖRN LODÉN, HOLMIÆ SIEGFRIED LIENHARD, HOLMIÆ SAPHINAZ AMAL NAGUIB, OSLO PER KVÆRNE, OSLO WOLFGANG-E. SCHARLIPP, HAVNIÆ

REDIGENDA CURAVIT CLAUS PETER ZOLLER

LXXIII

Contents

ARTICLES

S. GANESHRAM: Daśāvatāras in Tamil bhakti literature and programme of sculptures in Vijayanagara-Nāyaka art ...... 1 OTARED HAIDAR: The poetics the Iraqi War: Between Discursive Conflicts and Diasporic Discourse ...... 17 VIRGINIE PREVOST: Mağmāğ et les sept savants : la création du Dīwān al-‘azzāba ...... 35 R.K.K. RAJARAJAN: Antiquity of the divyakṣetras in Pāṇḍināḍu ... 59 JULIAN RENTZSCH: The evolution of Turkic modal verbs ...... 105 STELLA SANDAHL: The seven oceans in the Purāṇas and elsewhere ...... 151 DMITRY SHLAPENTOKH: Afanasiy Nikitin’s Journey Beyond the Three Seas: An Orthodox Russian in Medieval India ...... 173 STEFAN BOJOWALD: Zum ägyptischen Lautwandel zwischen „a“ und Gutturalen ...... 193

BOOK REVIEWS

BASSIOUNEY, REEM (ed.). Arabic and the Media: Linguistic Analyses and Applications, reviewed by Torkel Lindquist ...... 207 VIBEKE BØRDAHL AND MARGARET B. WAN (eds.). The Interplay of the Oral and the Written in Chinese Popular Literature, reviewed by Christopher Rosemeier ...... 213 Wörterbuch der tibetischen Schriftsprache, 16 fascicles (to be continued), reviewed by Per Kvaerne ...... 216

Daśāvatāras in Tamil bhakti literature and programme of sculptures in Vijayanagara-Nāyaka art

S. Ganeshram Sri S.R. Naidu College, Sattur, Tamilnadu, India

Abstract

The term daśāvatāras stands for the ten incarnations of Viṣṇu. They are Matsya, Kūrma, Varāha, Nṛsiṁha, Vāmana / Trivikrama, Parasurama, Rama, Balarama, Krishna and Kalki. These are noted in the hymns of Āḻvārs in orderly or disorderly pattern. The first part of the article discusses the significance of a set of daśāvatāra images in the Kaḷḷarpirāṉ temple at Śrīvaikuṇṭam in Tirunelveli district. Such images in separate enclaves were set in Vijayanagara-Nāyaka period (15th–18th centuries CE) temples in Tamilnadu, e.g. Tātikkompu and Aḻakarkōyil. To this milieu the images examined in the article add a new dimension.

Keywords: Āḻvārs, Śrīvaikuṇṭam, Viṣṇu, daśāvatāra, Matsya, Kūrma, Varāha, Nṛsiṁha, Vāmana / Trivikrama, Parasurama, Rama, Balarama, Krishna, Kalki, Vijayanagara-Nāyaka.

2 S. Ganeshram

During the Vijayanagara-Nāyaka period the daśāvatara sculptures came to be programmed in a continuous array.1 Śāstras may talk of the daśāvataras in a sequential order2, starting with Matsya and ending with Kalki but sculptural representations in such an order may be rare. An early example of such a fixation may be found in the Pāpanāseśvara temple at Alampūr of the Eastern Cālukyan denomination, dated around the 8th century CE (Kalidos 2006: I, 187– 88). Set within a square maṇḍala, the Buddha appears in the center.3 Such a setting of the daśāvatāra images acquired popularity in Vijayanagara-Nāyaka art.4 The present communication examines such a group of sculptures from Kaḷḷarpirāṉ temple at Śrīvaikuṇṭham. This huge temple complex takes its origin during the later Pāṇḍya period in the 12th–13th century CE but most of the maṇḍapas therein are Vijayanagara-Nāyaka additions (Ganeshram 2010: Chap. III). The daśavatāra sculptures under note are set in one of the maṇḍapas. The same type of images appear in the Viṣṇu temples at Tātikkompu5 near

1 The daśāvataras are Matsya (Fish), Kūrma (Tortoise), Varāha (Wild Boar), Nṛsiṁha (Man-Lion), Vāmana-Trivikrama (the Dwarf and Virāṭ), Paraśurāma (Rāma with the Battleaxe), Balarāma, Kṛṣṇa, Dāśarathi-Rāma and Kalki (Basham 1971: 304– 49). 2 See the Śrītattvanidhi (1.2. 47–57) for such an order. The list includes both Kṛṣṇa and the Buddha. It is possibly cited from the Padma Purāṇa. At the end of the list the varṇa of each avatāra is given. The personalities (colour within parentheses) listed are the following: Matsya (sphaṭika), Kūrma (svarṇa), Varāha (nīla), Nṛsiṁha (white as moon), Prahlāda (golden), Vāmana (nīla or black), Paraśurāma (svarṇa), Rāghava (green), Bharata (green), Lakṣmaṇa (golden), Satrugna (red), Sītā (svarṇa), Māṇḍavī (red), Ūrmilā (green or blue), Sṛtakīrtī (white), Hanumat (kanaka, pale red), Aṅgada (red), Sugrīva (svarṇa), Jāmbavat (of the colour of nīlotpala), Guha (kanaka), Bibhiṣaṇa (black), Balarāma (milk white), Revatī (red), Kṛṣṇa (megavarṇa), Rukmiṇī (kanaka) and Kalki (white). The Buddha is not brought under this list. 3 The Māmallapuram Pallava inscription includes the Buddha among the daśāvatāras of Viṣṇu (Srinivasan 1964: 173) and omits Kṛṣṇa. Others are Matsya, Kūrma, Varāha, Nṛsiṁha, Vāmana, the three Rāmas and Kalki. 4 Raju Kalidos (1989: 338–40, figs. 35, 43; cf. 1988: 98–125) has reported not less than 47 occurrences in the temple cars of Tamilnadu. Most of these temple cars are of the Nāyaka or post-Nāyaka period. 5 This temple is noted for its artistically set maṇḍapa with sculptural pillars in the shrine for Lakṣmī (Gopalakrishnan 1996: 415-31). The temple was rebuilt during the period of Veṅkaṭpati Rāya and is dated in Sālivāhana era 1551 (CE 1629) that falls during the time of Tirumalai Nāyaka (CE 1623–59) of Maturai. Daśāvatāras in Tamil Bhakti Literature 3

Tiṇṭukkal, and Aḻakarkōyil6 near Maturai, both called Saundararāja and both are of the Nāyaka period. The canonical setting for the presentation of the images may be found in the Tamil bhakti hymns of the Āḻvārs of the early medieval period (c. CE 550–850)7, which literature had a far reaching impact on the arts of the land.

Daśāvatāras in Tamil Bhakti Literature

Before taking up the images for an examination, the literary mandate may be discussed to begin with. Tirumaḻicai, Nammāḻvār, Periyāḻvār and Tirumaṅkai Āḻvār make a note of the clusters of the daśāvatāras. Casually it may be noted here that the works of the Āḻvārs is collectively called Nālāyirativviyappirapantam, shortly Nālāyiram “the 4,000”. Among the above mentioned four Āḻvārs, Tirumaṅkai is said to have converted the Pallava Emperor, Nandivarmaṉ II (CE 731–96) to Vaiṣṇavism, who in his work Periya Tirumoḻi notes the sequential order of the daśāvataras in a number of places. Periyāḻvār seems to have converted the Pāṇḍyan Emperor Śrīmāra Śrīvallabha (CE 815–62). Tirumaḻicai and Nammāḻvār belong to an early group and may be dated in the 7th or early 8th century CE. Nammāḻvār notes not less than five of the avatāras in an order. They are Matsya (Tamil Mīṉ), Kūrma (Tamil Āmai), Nṛsiṁha (Tamil Naraciṅkam or Ciṅkappirāṉ – Periyāḻvār Tirumoḻi 5.2.4), Vāmana (Tamil Kuṟaḷ means “dwarf”, also called Māṇikkuṟaḷaṉ – Periyāḻvār Tirumoḻi 1.4.1, 5.2.5, māṇi means brahmacāri, Kuṛaṭpiramaccāri – Periyāḻvār Tirumoḻi 4.9.7), Varāha (Tamil Ēṉam) and Kalki (Tamil Kaṟki): Mīṉāyāmaiyumāy naraciṅkamumāy kuṟaḷāy Kāṉārēṉamumāyk kaṟkiyāy (Tiruvāymoli 5.1.10). Periyāḻvār notes the Haṁsa, Matsya, Siṁha, Vāmana and Kūrma in a sequence:8

6 During the historic past, the place was known as Māliruncōlai (the place where Māl/Viṣṇu) resides, noted in ancient Tamil literature such as Paripātal and Cilappatikāram (Rajarajan 1996). 7 For a comprehensive picture of the Nālāyiram bearing on Vaiṣṇava iconography see Kalidos 2006: Chap. I. 8 The aṁśāvatāras according to the Devī Bhāgavata are Sanaka, Sanandana, Sanādana, Sanatkumāra, Nārada, Nara-Nārāyaṇa, Kapila, Dattātreya, Yajna, Ṛṣabha, 4 S. Ganeshram

Aṉṉamum mīṉuruvu māḷariyum kuṟaḷum Āmaiyumāṉavaṉē… (Tirumoḻi 1.7.11). In these references the avatāras are not noted in the set order. Tirumaḻicai in two stay occurrences notes the Mohinī and Matsyāvatāras. Mohinī is called aḻakiyaṉ “He, beautifully she”.9 The Fish is one that gives life, mīṉāyuyiraḷikkum (Nāṉmukaṉ Tiruvantāti v. 22). The Vāmana and Trivikrama (Tamil Tirivikkiramaṉ – Periyāḻvār Tirumoḻi 1.8.9) avatāras are beautifully coagulated in the phrase, Ciṟiyaṉ mikapperiyaṉ “the small (Dwarf) but at the same time very big (Virāṭ)” (Nāṉmukaṉ Tiruvantāti v. 71). Periyāḻvār brings the ten in a hymn as noted in the following order: Mīṉ, Āmai, Ēṉam, Ari (Siṁha), Kuṟaḷ, the three Rāmas10, Kaṇṇaṉ (Kṛṣṇa, Prākit Kanha) and Kaṟki: Tēvuṭaiya mīṉamā yāmaiyāy Ēṉamā yariyāyk kuṟaḷāy Mūvuruvilirāmaṉāk kaṇṇaṇāyk Kaṟkiyāy muṭippāṉ… (Tirumoḻi 4.9.9).

Pṛthu, Mohinī, Garuḍa, Dhanvantari and Vyāsa (Kalidos 1986: 183n). Haṁsa as an avatāra appears often in the Nālāyiram. The hymns note a “dancing bird”, called Āṭaṟpaṟvai (PT 9.9.10, Tiruvāymoḻi 8.2.4, 8.8.9). It is not clear whether this is Garuḍa (Chandramohan 2008: cover plate) or Haṁsa. Besides, the Rāmayaṇam (Bālakāṇḍam, 5. Tiruavatārappaṭalam, v. 22) of Kampar considers Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa, Bharata and Satrugna as the avatāras of Viṣṇu Ādiśeṣa, śaṅkha and cakra. Another avatāra-like form of the Lord is Hayagrīva (Kalidos 2006: I, 16), the Horse-headed. He is said to have admonished a horse-headed demon: Pariyōṉ mārvakam paṟṟippiḷantu (PT 7.7.5) “Caught hold of the chest of the horse (-demon) and cleaved it (cf. Nṛsiṁha and Hiraṇya);” Nālvētapporuḷaiyellām parimukamāy aruḷiyaperumāṉ (PT 7.8.2) “The Lord who divulged the meaning of the four-Vedas as the Horse-faced (hayaśiras or hayagrīva).” 9 Aḻaki means a damsel. Āṇ is a masculine suffix. Nammāḻvār adds: Āṇallaṉ peṇṇallaṉ “He is neither a man nor a woman” (Tiruvāymoḻi 2.5.9). Again it is added he is neither a man, nor woman and eunuch: āṇallaṉ peṇṇallaṉ allāl aliyumallaṉ (ibid., 2.5.10). Tirumaḻicai adds: Āṇiṉōṭu peṇṇumāki allavōṭu nallavāy “He is both man and woman and neither of these, i.e. eunuch.” 10 The Vēlūr temple car houses an image of the three Rāmas appearing in a row (Kalidos 1989: fig. 43). The order is Paraśurāma (holds the paraśu), Dāśarathi-Rāma (carries the dhanus and bāṇa) and Balarāma (carries the halā “ploughshare”). Daśāvatāras in Tamil Bhakti Literature 5

Tirumaḻicai in his Nāṉmukaṉ Tiruvantāti notes the Matṣya and Haṁsa avatāras of the Lord. The Haṁsa is one who ordained the precious Scriptures: Aṉṉamāki arumaṟaikaḷ aruḷ (Periya Tirumoḻi hereinafter PT 5.1.9). Aṉṉamākiyaṉṟaru maraikaḷ payantavaṉ (PT 5.3.8, 5.7.3). Periyāḻvar (Tirumoḻi 1. 10) elaborates the mythology saying that the gloom of pralaya encircled the cosmos. The four Vedas disappeared. The Lord incarnated as Haṁsa in order that the gloom vanishes and that the Vedas are recovered. Tirumaṅkai quite often brings the avatāras in clusters. The Swan, Fish, Lion, Dwarf and Tortoise appear in a disorderly order: Aṉṉamum mīṉurumāḷariyum kuṟaḷum Āmaiyumāṉavaṉē… (PT 1.7.11). The word that denotes avatāra in this statement is āṉavaṉ “he became”.11 In another context the Boar, Fish, Tortoise, Lion and the Dwarf listed: Ēṉamīṉāmaiyōṭariyum ciṟukuṟaḷumāy Tāṉumāya… (PT 5.4.8). Tāṉumāya here means “he himself became”. Tirumaṅkai calls the Boar Paṉṟi “pig” in another context. The avatāras listed here are Pig, Fish and Lion: Paṉṟiyāy mīṉāki yariyāyp Pāraippaṭaittuk kāttuṇṭumiḻnta paramaṉ (PT 7.8.9). “The Eternal He came as the Pig, Fish and Lion to create the worlds, sustain, swallow and spit.”12

11 The Tamil equivalent of avatāra is avatāram (cf. avatari in Kampa-Rāmāyaṇam, Bālakāṇṭam, 5. Avatārappaṭalam, v. 20). The Maṇimēkalai (17. l. 9), a 6th century Tamil epic, deploys the word mayaṅki (contextually transform, literally “swoon”): Neṭiyōṉ maṅkinilamicaittōṉṟi (“The Tall [Trivikrama] transformed himself and appeared on earth”). 12 The pancakṛtyas (sṛṣṭi/tōṟṟam “creation”, sthiti/kāttal “sustenance”, saṁhāra/ caṅkāram “destruction”, tirodhana/maṟaittal “embodiment” and anugraha/ anukkirakam or viṭuvittal “release”) are attributed to Viṣṇu in this hymn. Cf. the Bhagavat Gīta (Chap. IV, vv. 7–8) version: Yadā yadā hi dharmasya glānirbhavati 6 S. Ganeshram

The Lion, usually called Ari, is called Ciṅkam, transcription of the Sanskrit siṁha, in a hymn: Mīṉōrāmaiyumāy…ciṅkavuruvāy… (PT 8.4.4). “The forms are Fish, Tortoise and Lion.”13 Besides these cryptic references, Tirumaṅkai has a hymn each on Varadarāja, Mohinī and Kṛṣṇa that appear in PT (8.9): v. 1. Kaimā matayāṉi yiṭar tīrtta karumukil “The black cloud that removed the hardship of the elephant (Varadarāja).”14 v. 2. Tirumālai yammāṉai yamutattaik kaṭaṟkiṭanta perumāṉai “Tirumāl/Viṣṇu, the Father, the Dignified who extracted the ambrosia from the ocean (Mohinī).” v. 3. Viṭaiyēḻaṉ ṟaṭarttu vekuṇṭu vilaṅkaluṟa Paṭaiyāḻi taṭṭa paramaṉ Parancōti “That day he admonished the seven wild bulls, the Eternal he holds the armed-disc, He is the Eternal Lamp (Kṛṣṇa).” Another decad (PT 9.1) brings the Matsya, Varāha, Vāmana/ Trivikrama and Paraśurāma in four hymns in an order: v. 3. Mīṉuruvāki viripuṉalvariya kaṭṭatoḷittōṉ… “As a Fish he contained the inundating waters within his shell (Matsya).” v. 4. Paṉṟiyāy aṉṟu pārmakaḷ payalai tīrttavaṉ… “That day he removed the hardships of the Earth Maid, Bhūdevī (Varāha).”

Bhārata/ Abhyutthānamadharmasya tadātmānaṁ srujāmyaham// Paritrāṇāya sādhūnāṁ vināśāya ca duṣkṛtām/ Dharmasamthāpanārtthāya saṁbhavāmi yuge yuge// “Bhārata (Arjuna) whenever dharma is destroyed and adharma shoots up, I make me born again. In order to protect the righteous, to admonish the evil and to establish righteousness, I am born again and again.” 13 For a comprehensive picture of Nṛsiṁha from the Tamil bhakti hymns see Kalidos 1999: 168–78. 14 This form is counted under the līlāvatāras in the Bhāgavata Purāṇa (Kalidos 2006: I, pp. 39–40). Daśāvatāras in Tamil Bhakti Literature 7

v. 5. Maṉṉavaṉ periyavēḷviyiṟ kuṟaḷay mūvaṭi nīroṭuṅkoṇṭu Piṉṉumēḻulaku mīraṭiyākap perunticaiyaṭaṅkiṭanimirntōṉ… “He appeared as a Dwarf (Vāmana) in the big sacrifice of the King (Mahābali) and got sanctified the gift of three spaces of land; later grew Tall and compressed (measured) the seven worlds in two strides.” v. 6. Maḻuviṉal avaṉiyaracai mūveḻukal maṇimuṭi poṭipaṭuttu utirak Kulavuvār puṉaluḷkuḷittu veṅkōpam tavirttavaṉ…15 “For twenty-six generations he (Paraśurāma) toppled the crowns of kings on earth and punished them with a battleaxe and got himself appeased.” Kulacēkara Āḻvār (Perumāḷ Tirumoḻi 10) compresses the entire Rāmāyaṇa from the Bālakāṇḍa to the Uttarakāṇḍa in decad bearing on the Cittirakūṭam (Citrakūṭa) of Citamparam.16 Tirumaṅkai extols the Rāmāyaṇa’s little heroes in his PT 10.3. The personages do exalted are Sugrīva (called Sūrya-putra), sons of Sugrīva, the vānaras (monkey horde), Hanumat, Aṅgada, Nala, Kuṁbhakarṇa, besides Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa. The pride of the demons Rāvaṇa and Indrajit were curbed.

Tirumaṅkai in his PT (8.8) summarizes the daśāvatāra activities in each of the hymns of a decad.17 The conventional order followed is Matsya, Kūrma, Varāha, Nṛsiṁha, Vāmana/Trivikrama, Paraśurāma, Śrī Rāma, Balarāma, Kṛṣṇa and Kalki. The sthala is Kaṇṇapuram in Cōḻanādu. The summary of the ideas may be presented as follows:

1. The lotus-eyed he appeared a Fish and rescued the gods when the primeval waters inundated the cosmos. He was the same Lord who appeared as Kṛṣṇa.

15 Elsewhere it is said he cut the shoulders of 1,000 kings with the paraśu: Maṉṉanccavāyirantōḷ maḻuvil tuṇittamaintā (PT 7.2.7). 16 For a summary of this decad see Kalidos 1997. 17 This decad deploys the following terms to mean an avatāra (cf. n. 9): vantu “came”, āy, āki or āṉāṉ “became”, eṭuttu “took (contextually appeared)”, tōṉṟi “appeared”, vantutōṉṟi “came and appeared” and piṟantu “born”. 8 S. Ganeshram

2. He appeared as a Tortoise when the Ocean of Milk was about to be churned and supported the Manthara mountain on his back. 3. When the primeval waters engulfed the worlds, the Lord appeared a Boar (in order to protect the Goddess of Earth). 4. The Lord presented himself a ferocious lion (agnilocana “fire- emitting face” NA 8 or jvālāmukha NA 23) mixed with the form of a man at which the gods were terrified. He cleaved the chest of Hiraṇya with his sharp diamond-like nails (vajranakha NA 54 or mahādamṣṭra NA 30). 5. He appeared a Dwarf whose form arrested the reverence of those that viewed the Lord and bagged three strides of land as a gift. 6. He appeared Paraśurāma carrying the dreadful weapon battleaxe and for twenty-six generations admonished the race of kings (kṣatriyas). 7. He appeared Rāma when the mass of the worlds adored his sacred feet and he being the Lord worships none. He staged a war with Laṅkā and extradited the evil-beings. 8. He wears a kuṇḍala in an ear and holds the ploughshare, his arm. It was he who appeared as Balarāma (name not mentioned) and sent the soldiers (kṣatriyas) at war with him to the heavens. 9. He (Kṛṣṇa)18 was born in midnight to ward of the perils to which the Goddess of the Earth (metaphorically Draupadī) was subjected and staged the Bhārata war. 10. He became the Fish, Tortoise, Boar (kēḻal), Ari (Lion), Rāma (Paraśu) the First, Rāma (Dāśarathi) the Second, Dāmodhara19 and Kalki. He is the Lord of Kaṇṇapuram.20

18 Kṛṣṇa is the most popular hero in the hymns of the Āḻvārs (Kalidos 2006: I, 11–16). Kṛṣṇa and Dāmodhara are again equated in PT 10.5.3. 19 Dāmodhara (cf. the KA epithet 96 Dāmodhara) is the equal of Kṛṣṇa. He is one among the dvāsaśa and caturviṁśati forms of the Lord. Interestingly both Kṛṣṇa and Dāmodhara do form members of these two groups of Vaiṣṇava iconography (Caturviṁśatimūrtilakṣaṇa, p. 5). The dvādaśa are clustered in few of the Nālāyiram decades (e.g. Tiruvāymoḻi 2.7. all hymns). 20 Each of the hymn in this decad is addressed to the Lord of Kaṇṇapuram (Kannan 2007). K. Kannan 2007 deals with the following Viṣṇu temples in the Kāviri delta: Kaṇṇapuram, Kaṇṇamaṅkai, Ciṟupuliyūr and Nākapaṭṭiṉam. Daśāvatāras in Tamil Bhakti Literature 9

Tirumaṅkai repeats the sequence of avatāras in PT 11.4. In this order Balarāma and Kalki are omitted and Haṁsa included. The summary of ideas forthcoming from the decad may be summarized in the following account.

1. The waters of pralaya engulfed the worlds in such a way that there was not even a span of land to stand. The gods trembled and reported the matter to the Lord, seeking refuge under him. The Lord assured them lebensraum and drew all the waters into his stomach.21 He is the Lord Mīṉ/Matsya. 2. The gods churned the Ocean of Milk having tied the mighty Vāsuki to the Manthara. In order that the churn-stick, the Manthara, may stand firmly the Lord provided a basement to it as Āmai/Kūrma. 3. During the primeval times the Lord appeared as Ēṉam/Varāha in order to protect the Earth.22 Sūrya, Candra, the devas, the celestials worlds seven, the Meru hill, six mountains and seven seas constituted the hoof of the Boar.23 4. Garlands of flowers hung on either side of his (Nṛsiṁha) eyes that emitted fire (cf. NA epithets supra). He is the most ferocious Lion who cleaved the chest of the demon (Hiraṇya). 5. As though a genuine Vedi (Vāmana), he went to the yāgaśālā of Mahābali and begged three strides of land. Once the grant was sanctioned his (Trivikrama) striding leg rose up above the

21 This is part of his Viśvarūpa activity. Periyāḻvār in his Tirumoḻi adds: Aṇṭamum nāṭu maṭaṅka viḻuṅkiya “He gulped the cosmos and the lands” (cf. Maxwell 1983: 213–34, 1993: 97–110, Gail 1983: 297–307). The Nālāyiram in a number of places sheds light on the Viśvarūpa of the Lord. T.S. Maxwell and A.J. Gail may not have an idea of the Tamil vision (cf. Kalidos 2006: I, p. 19). 22 This event is said to have occurred during the Varāhakalpa. In Hindu cosmogony “the cosmos passes through cycles within cycles for all eternity” (Basham 1971: 325– 26). The basic cycle is kalpa, a “day of Brahmā” that constitutes 4,320 million human years. The night of Brahmā is of equal length. A year of Brahmā consists of 360 such days and nights. He lives for 100 such years. The present Brahmā is said to be his 51st year. Each kalpa consists of four manvantaras that last for 306,720,000 years. We are now in the seventh manvantara of Manu Vaivasvata. Each manvantara consists of 71 mahāyugas or aeons. A kalpa consists of 1,000 manvantaras. Each mahāyuga consists of four yugas or ages, called Kṛta, Treta, Dvāpara and Kali, each of 4,800, 3.600, 2,400 and 1,200 “years of the gods”. Each year of the god is equal to 360 human years. 23 Cf. the colossus of zoomorphic Varāha from Eran (Williams 1983: figs. 198–200). 10 S. Ganeshram

summit of the Manthara Mountain, which was worshipped by the God seated on flower (Brahmā). 6. He (Paraśurāma) admonished the rulers of the earth on twenty-one occasions by employing the terrific weapon, paraśu. He is the Lord of Nilamaṅkai (Bhūdevī), Malarmaṅkai (Lakṣmī) and Pulamaṅkai (Nīlādevī).24 7. He (Śrī Rāma) is our Guard who identified the māyāmṛga (Mārīca) and shattered the army of the King of Laṅkā. 8. Once upon a time the seven worlds were immersed in darkness. The gods could not find out where the beginning is and where end is (ādi and anta). The Vedas disappeared. The Lord (Aṉṉam/Haṁsa) took pity on the gods and sages, appeared as Swan and preached the Scriptures. 9. At one point of time the Lord (Kṛṣṇa) sucked the teats of the ogress (Pūtanā) and when he stole butter he was tied to a mortar that he pulled and caused the two maruta25 trees to fall (Yamalārjunabhaṅga). 10. This hymn ends with exaltation of Kṛṣṇa as the Lord who admonished Kuvalayapiṭha and Rāma who shattered Laṅkā to pieces.

From the above account it is clear the Āḻvārs on a number of occasions refer to the daśāvatāras in clusters. It is not clear whether the Sanskritic literary sources meet such a need for bringing together the avatāras into a capsule.

Sculptural Presentations

The images in the Śrīvaikuṇṭham temple are arranged in the following conventional order: Matsya, Kūrma, Varāha, Nṛsiṁha, Vāmana, Paraśurāma, Dāśarathi-Rāma, Balarāma, Kṛṣṇa and Kalki.

24 This is a rare instance of the Lord associated with three Devīs (cf. Kalidos 2010). Prof. Raju Kalidos has reported an image of Garuḍārūḍa-Viṣṇu with three Devīs and identifies the third with Nappiṉṉai. 25 Queen’s flower tree (Terminalia arjuna). According to the Bhāgavata Purāṇa (Skanda 10, Chap. 10), Kṛṣṇa pulled down the Arjuna trees that were the guhyakas, Nalakubara and Maṇigrīva, cursed to be trees and redeemed them (Kalidos 2006: I, 43). Daśāvatāras in Tamil Bhakti Literature 11

Matsya and Kūrma are in zoomorphic form. The images being under active worship, it was not possible for us to remove the garments that cover the images. Matsya has the big head of a local variety of carp fish, Tamil keṇṭai (supra) (fig. 1). The head alone is visible. Kūrma is also zoomorphic. The head peeps out of its shell (fig. 1). Varāha is theriomorphic (fig. 1). The Lord is seated in sukhāsana. He has a human body, fitted with the head of a Boar. The head is decked with a karaṇḍamakuṭa. The hands are four. The parahastas bear the cakra and śaṅkha. The pūrvahastas are in abhaya- and varada- mudrās. Bhūdevī is missing. This type of kevala image is called Pralaya- Varāha that appears in the garbhagṛha of the Śrīmuṣṇam temple (Rajarajan 2006: 70–72).

Figure 1. Matsya, Kūrma and Varāha, Kaḷḷarpirāṉ temple, Śrīvaikuṇṭham. 12 S. Ganeshram

Figure 2. Nṛsiṁha, Vāmana and Paraśurāma, Śrīvaikuṇṭham temple.

Nṛsiṁha is cast in the same mould as Varāha (fig. 2). Theriomorphic, he has a lion head and human body. The mane around the face is arranged in a circular fashion. The head is fitted with a karaṇḍmakuṭa. Seated in sukhāsana, the hands are four. The parahastas hold the cakra and śaṅkha. The pūrvahastas are in abhaya- and varada- mudras. Lakṣmī is missing and so he may be called Yoga-Nṛsiṁha or Kevala-Nṛsiṁha.

Vāmana is a Dwarf (cf. the other images of Paraśurāma to Kalki iconometrically). His head is shaven like a brahmacāri (fig. 2). Two- armed, he seems to hold a puṣtaka in the right hand and kamaṇḍalū in left hand. The image is samapāda-sthānaka.

Paraśurāma is also two-armed (fig. 2). He holds the paraśu in right hand and the left is in ūruhasta mode. He wears a karaṇdamakuṭa. The image is samapāda-sthānaka. Śrī Rāma holds the dhanus and bāṇa is two of his hands (fig. 3). The image is slightly dvibhaṅga. The Lord wears a kirīṭamakuṭa. Balarāma holds the halāyudha in his right arm. The left hand is rested on a gadā. He wears a kirīṭamakuṭa. The image is samapāda-sthānaka. Da!"vat"ras in Tamil Bhakti Literature 13

K(&na is also two-armed (fig. 4). The right arm seems to hold a ce$)u “horse- whip”. The right arm carries a lump of butter. The headgear is peculiar and arranged like a bun. It is called k/$#a$ko$)ai (bun of K(&$a) in Tamil. This type of bun became popular in the art of the Vijayanagara-N"yakas. The images of *$0", are set with this type of headgear in Tamilnadu (Rajarajan 2006: II, pl. 72: *$0", in K"lam6kap Perum", Temple, Tirum1k'r, near Maturai).

Kalki is horse-faced (fig. 4). His body below neck is human. He is two-armed and carries the kha(ga and khe)aka in right and left hands. He wears a k!r!)amaku)a. Figure 3. D"!arathi-R"ma, .r/vaiku$0ham temple.

Figure 4. Balar"ma, K(&$a and Kalki, .r/vaiku$0ham temple. 14 S. Ganeshram

It is interesting to note that excepting Varāha and Nṛsiṁha all others are dvibhuja. Very interestingly, the Tamil bhakti hymns associate Paraśurāma with three Devīs. In sculptural art, he is never accompanied by Devīs. The images in the Tāṭikkopu temple are housed close to the tirumatil (wall of the inner prākāra) at the edge of the Raṅgamaṇḍapa of the Tāyār shrine (Gopalakrishnan 1996: Plan 2).26 Maṭsya and Kūrma are zoomorphic. Varāha is fitted with the face of a boar and theriomorphic. He is four-armed and carries the cakra and śaṅkha in parahastas. Vāmama, Paraśurāma, Śrī Rāma, Balarāma and Kṛṣṇa are cast in the same mould as in the Vaikuntam temple. It appears the same śilpācāryas have worked in the two temples. Kalki is seated on a galloping horse, carrying the sword and shield in hands. It is very interesting to note that in the place of Nṛsiṁha, Hayagrīva with horse-face appears. He is theriomorphic. Seated in sukhāsana, he carries the cakra and śaṅkha in parahastas. Hayagrīva replacing Nṛsiṁha is an iconographic marvel that has its roots in the Tamil bhakti hymns (supra).27 In conclusion it may be added that the type of Daśāvatāra images in a sequence has its roots in the Tamil bhkati tradition. One set of stone images alone could be reported with photographic evidence in the present article since the other images in the Tāṭikkompu and Aḻākarkōyil temples are strictly prohibited for photography. Few clusters have been reported from the temple cars of Tamilnāḍu (Kalidos 1989: fig. 36 of Matsya, Kūrma and Varāha & 43 the three Rāmas). More such images could be discovered if a systematic survey is undertaken.

26 The temple has undergone drastic renovation since S. Gopalakrishnan wrote his article in 1995, published in the East and West 1996. Another wall has been added and some modern buildings built. The original temple’s format has not been altered in any way. Dr R.K.K. Rajarajan is working with another paper on the changing phase of the Tāṭikkompu temple. 27 The temple administration did not allow us to make a photo during a recent visit. Daśāvatāras in Tamil Bhakti Literature 15

References

Basham, A.L. (1971) The Wonder that was India. Rupa & Co., Calcutta. Caturviṁśatimūrtilakṣaṇa, Sarasvatī Mahal Library, Thanjavur 2002. Chandramohan, P. (2008) Garuḍa in Medieval Art & Mythology. Sharada Publishing House, Delhi. Gail, Adalbert J. (1983) On the Symbolism of Three and Four-faced Viṣṇu Images: A Reconsideration of Evidence. Artibus Asiae, Vol 44:4, pp. 297–307. Ganeshram, S. (2010) Vaiṣṇava Divyakṣetras in the Southern Pāṇḍya Country (Ph.D. thesis, Madurai Kamaraj University). Madurai. Gopalakrishnan, S. (1996) The Raṅga-maṇḍapa of the Taṭikkompu Temple A Study of an Iconographic Programme of the Vijayanagara Tradition. East and West, Vol. 46: 3–4, pp. 415– 32, figs. Kalidos, Raju (1986) Viṣṇu’s Mohinī Incarnation: An Iconographical and Sexological Study. East and West, Vol. 36: 1–3, pp. 183– 204. ——— (1988) The Wood Carvings of Tamilnadu: An Iconographical Survey. Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain and Ireland, No. 1, pp. 98–125. ——— (1989) Temple Cars of Medieval Tamiḻaham. Vijay Publications, Madurai. ——— (1997) Antiquity of Tillai-Cittirakūṭam. South Asian Studies, Vol. 13, pp. 17–24. ——— (1999) Nṛsiṁha in Early Medieval Literature and South Indian Art. Annali dell’ Istituto Orientale, Vol. 59: 1–4, pp. 168–82. ——— (2006) Encyclopedia of Hindu Iconography: Early Medieval, Vol. I Viṣṇu. Sharada Publishing House, Delhi. 16 S. Ganeshram

——— (2010) Tamil Literary Traditions: their relevance in the Study of Indian Arts. Conference Paper: Exploring Indian Culture. A Collection of Essays in History, Art and Literature. Rome. Kannan, K. (2007) Viṣṇu Temples of the Tiruvārūr Region (Ph. D. thesis, The Tamil University). Thanjavur. KA: Kṛṣṇāṣṭottara. In Anadimangalam K. Narayanasvami Ayyar ed. Sarvadevatāṣṭottarasadanāmāvalimālā, Chennai 1990. Maxwell, T.S. (1983) The Evidence for a Viśvarūpa Iconographic Tradition in Western India, 6th–9th Centuries A.D. Artibus Asiae, Vol. 44:3, pp. 213–34. ——— (1993) A Gūrjara-Pratīhāra Image of Viṣṇu Viśvarūpa. Art the Integral Vision (A Volume of Essays in Felicitation of Kapila Vatsyayan), pp. 97–110. New Delhi. NA: Nṛsiṁhāṭṭottara. In Anadimangalam K. Narayanasvami Ayyar (supra). Nālāyiram: Nālāyirativviyappirapantam, Māyaṉ Patippakam (Publications), Chennai n.d. ——— The Little Flower Company, Chennai 1984/2008. ——— 4 vols. with summary in prose M. Narayana Velu Pillai, Mullai Nilayam, Chennai 2000/2008. Nāṉmukaṉ Tiruvantāti of Tirumaḻicai Āḻvār, part of Nālāyiram. Rabe, Michael D. (2001) The Great Penance at Māmallapuram. Intitute of Asian Studies, Chemmanjeri/Chennai. Rajarajan, R.K.K. (1995) Aḻakarkōyil in Literature and Art (Masters’ thesis, Madurai Kamaraj University). Madurai. ——— (2006) Art of the Vijayanagara-Nāyakas: Architecture and Iconography, 2 vols. Sharada Publishing House, Delhi. Rāmāyaṇam of Kampar, Kampaṉ Kaḻakam ed., Chennai 1976/1977. Srinivasan, K.R. (1964) Cave Temples of the Pallavas. Archaeological Survey of India, New Delhi. Williams, Joanna G. (1983) The Art of Gupta India: Empire and Province. Heritage Publishers, New Delhi.

The poetics the Iraqi War: Between Discursive Conflicts and Diasporic Discourse

Otared Haidar University of Oxford

Abstract

This study attempts to explore the contemporary poetic scene in Iraq during the last two decades that witnessed two prolonged wars, and to investigate its prospects and challenges. What prompted and motivated this study is the discursive tension going on across the poetic community in which the only commonplace seems to be the continuous complaint of both the poets and the critics about the shortage of support and of marginalization. The internal conflict across the poetic community focuses on two issues: the authentic portrayal of the situation in Iraq, and the poetic excellence. Drawing on many approaches taken from socio-cultural studies, textual studies and comparative poetics, the paper follows an interdisciplinary theoretical approach to defining and constructing the contemporary Iraqi cultural scene as a field meriting study by contextualizing a set of representative poetic texts. By studying and analyzing the literary and extra-literary relations of the text, this study aspires to define and classify the main trends and tendencies of the contemporary Iraqi poetry. Reading these texts within their socio- cultural and institutional contexts will cast a light on the contemporary 18 Otared Haidar

Iraqi poetic reading and writing culture which involves not only readers and writers, but also censors, publishing houses, official and unofficial authorities, newspapers, scholars, cultural administrations, and a host of other individuals and institutions besides. The critical reading of the poems aspires to manifest that in view of the general atmosphere of confusion and frustration during this period that witnessed the collapse of the cultural institution among other institutions, the contemporary Iraqi poetic discourse in Iraq hold some keys to the reading of the socio-cultural wartime experience, and more importantly it holds insights into what will follow in the post-war period.

Keywords: Iraq War, Iraqi and international war poetry, Iraqi poets and literary critics, Iraqi media, discursive conflicts, home and diaspora, exilic literature, women writing.

The last two wars on Iraq (1991–2003) were a shock to all generations that witnessed them across the Arab World. Unlike the preceding period that witnessed many wars and upheavals, the last twenty years subjected Iraq and the Iraqi people to a continuous state of war and thus is often referred to by Arab and International media as “the War on Iraq or the Iraq War.” Furthermore, these two wars were characteristically marked by the heavy casualties, brutal new weaponry and most importantly the mass collapse of the cultural institutions that were standing as a symbolic representation of the rich cultural history of both modern and ancient Iraq. One of the major casualties of the war was the literary institution that was once standing at the vanguard of the Arab cultural institutions. The difficulty of getting a well defined and precise picture of the ongoing state of affairs in Iraq today have a crucial bearing on all research topics of the contemporary Iraqi cultural life. Therefore, the research topic of the contemporary Iraqi poetry is more demanding and has a greater complexity than researching any other contemporary Arabic poetry. This is partly due to the impossibility to survey and document the recent developments in the Iraqi poetic scene. Apart from the few anthologies, which were widely contested in the Iraqi media, the main sources on the topic are the Arab and Iraqi printed The Poetics the Iraqi War 19 and electronic media which require regular tracking and searching, and their analyses require more complex methodological strategy. This paper is a part of a wider interdisciplinary study that I intend to undertake in order to explore the contemporary literary scene in Iraq and to examine how the institution of literature responded to, and interacted with the war, and how it was altered by this cultural mobilization. The present paper examines the Iraqi poetic discourse during the last twenty years that witnessed two prolonged wars, thus my argument will be referring to these two decades as “the contemporary period.” However, I will place the contemporary poetic experience within its historical context and I will investigate its prospects and challenges. In its foundational stage, the movement of modern Arabic poetry followed closely the course of the free verse movement which was started by the two works published in Iraq in 1947 and written by the two Iraqi poets Nāzik al-Malā’ika (1923–2007) and Badr Shākir al-Sayyāb (1926–64). The Iraqi pioneership of the free verse movement placed the Iraqi poetry at the forefront of Arabic literature and gave the Iraqi poets the lead in the movement of modern Arabic poetry for decades.1 Throughout the third quarter of the twentieth century, Arabic literary circles were under the influence of both the formal as well as the thematic models and prototypes that were produced by the Iraqi diligent experimentations. Some Iraqi poems such as al-Sayyab’s “The Song of Rain” were considered as a historical poetic landmark by the historiographers of modern Arabic literature. Characterized as being ground-breaking, experimental and highly politicized, the supremacy and popularity of the Iraqi poetry was based on both its formal innovations as well as thematic features. The leading Iraqi poets at that stage showed a new understanding of both the poetic techniques and the role of the poetic discourse in the cultural and the political life of their society. Their works were also highly acclaimed by critics for reflecting the aspirations of generations of Arab people, and for placing the national issues as central to the poetic discourse. Under the continuous strains and turmoil of the Iraq War, the current

1 See ‘Abdulla al-‘Udhari, Modern poetry of Arab World, Introduction, and Jayyusi, Trends and Movements, vol. 2, pp, 534–560. 20 Otared Haidar poetic scene in Iraq, such as the other Iraqi cultural scenes, relates a completely different story. Going through long phases of complete silence, or shattered between feelings of guilt and confusion, a big number of the renowned Iraqi poets both at home and in Diaspora, are struggling to keep alive the legacy of the Iraqi pioneers and their lineage to it. Some of them recognize and admit their insufficient interaction and response, and their statements are overwhelmed with a pronounced sense of the tragic. Others complain of the inadequacy of language to speak about the shocking experience of the mass death and the prolonged wars. Nonetheless as they state in their articles and interviews, they are striving to turn their works into a discursive engagement in the socio-cultural and political life of their society.2 To have a better view, the following part will analyze the ongoing feverish debates in and on the poetic community in order to reconstruct the contemporary Iraqi poetic scene. Throughout the last few decades, the Iraqi cultural life was shattered between two groups: those who are living in Iraq and those who settled abroad. They are referred to in the Iraqi media as kuttab al-dakhil and kuttab al-kharij, the writers of the inside and the writers of the outside. Referring to these two groups respectively, my study will use the two terms of Home-poets and the Diasporic poets. The antagonistic relation between the two groups revolves around the continuous disapproval of this division by the Home-poets in particular, who view it as representative of two different “Iraqs” and as “an ideological attempt to destabilize.” “For them, Home is the heart of the whole issue, and the Diasporic poets are writing about this Home.”3 By the help of the new media, it is possible to identify the two major clusters of the Home-poets and the Diasporic poets. Whereas the second group “the Diasporic poets” appears more crystallized, stable, definable and more accessible, the Home-poets group is difficult to mark out and define distinctly. Nonetheless, with the help

2 See “Umsiya Li-Qasa’id ‘Iraqiyya fi Madrid, Shu‘ara’ fi Siyaq al-Hadarat, (Evening for Poetry Reading of Iraqi Poems)”, by Malak Mustafa, Al-zaman Newspaper, London, Issue 1496, (5/5/2). 3 See http://www.iraqiwritersunion.com/modules.php?name=News&file=article&sid=1075 0 The Poetics the Iraqi War 21 of other sources of this study such as reviews, interviews, critical articles and manifestoes, The Home-poets can be classified into two different blocs: on the one hand those who feel that Iraq and the Iraqis are living through a historical critical moment in which the literary culture and institutions have a vital role to play in this moment. Accordingly, these poets worked within the existent official and semi official networks, and struggled throughout the successive different periods and under different political systems to maintain their independent voices. On the other hand, the second bloc includes those poets who distanced themselves against what they consider to be an organized attempt to appropriate their works and activities by the cultural institutions throughout the different phases and by different authorities into an ideology glorifying the political period.4 However, it is almost impossible to draw a precise line between these two sub- groups of the Home-poets due to the fast changing political life inside Iraq, the inaccessibility of the institutional files and the constant mobilization which destabilizes the cultural scene continuously. Another characteristic feature of the Iraqi contemporary poetic culture is the discursive conflict going on across the poetic community, in which the only commonplace seems to be the continuous complaint of both the poets and the critics about marginalization and shortage of support by both “the social groups and the government”. 5 As for the critics, the majority of them pronounce transparently their disappointment by the inability of the contemporary Iraqi poetry to produce a wide scale phenomenal experience that match the glorious pioneering history of the Iraqi poetry as well as the critical historical situation today. Moreover, critics sometimes express their resentment about what they call “the inadequacy of the dominant poetic forms” and “the lack of the poetic innovation.” 6 What is more, several Iraqi critics in recent years asserted repeatedly that the works of hundreds of contemporary Iraqi

4 For example see the interview with Khaz‘al al-Majidi by Kadhim Hassuni in the Journal Al-Sabah, 1-July-2003, on http://www.alsabaah.com/paper.php?source=akbar&mlf=interpage&sid=8052the. 5 For more, see “Malamih wa Ittijahat al-Adab al-‘Iraqi fi ‘Ahd al-Ihtilal, (Features and Trends of the Iraqi Poetry under the Occupation),” by Wadi‘ al-‘Ubaidi 31, August 2006, in http://www.diwanalarab.com/spip.php?article5782. 6 For an example, see “Interview with Iraqi poet Shakir Lu‘aybi”, by Rayya Ahmad and Sawsan al-Barghuthi, in http://www.perso.ch/slaibi/avec%20rayya.htm. 22 Otared Haidar poets have little merit both as poetry in the general sense and as a poetic representative of the wartime experience in particular. As for the poets, they repeatedly admit that the Iraqi poetry crucially needs the help of the literary criticism in order to progress.7 Some of them blame the critics and accuse them of neglecting their traditionally assigned duties and in particular the continuous evaluation of the poetic production. Other poets complain that the literary criticism is falling short from following the significant advances in the contemporary literary history of Iraq. As for the poets’ community itself, the internal conflict which is manifested on poetic inter- discourse focuses on two goals: an authentic portrayal of the situation in Iraq, and a new criterion of poetic excellence. Hence, all the arguments seem to be revolving around one major question: “How to write today a master text about Iraq?” Throughout its history, the Iraqi modern poetry progressed along two different major courses: the first aspires for literary excellence, aesthetic accomplishment and acquiring universal recognition by concentrating on experimentation and by constantly interfering in the process of standardization and canonization. The second tendency perceived the poetic process as merely a writerly engagement with politics and social issues. To a large extent, the two tendencies had their distinct representative poets and poetics. The first group established and developed their experimentation basing it on the prose poem. The second one continued with the classical-form qasida and the metrical free verse poetry. The tension between these two tendencies was and still, in control of the poetic scene, and sometimes of the individual careers and works of the Iraqi poets. Nonetheless, the diligent and persistent ongoing attempts by the Iraqi poets seem to be attaining more balance on this issue. The most recent theoretical writings mention an undergoing development of a new poetic form of poetry at the hands of Arab poets in general, in which the Iraqi poets are contributing actively. The new form combines the prose poem with elements taken from the metrical free verse.8

7 See the debate between Poets and critics during a seminar in the Iraqi poetry Society in Baghdad in 30-December-2010: http://www.alsabaah.com/paper.php?source=akbar&mlf=interpage&sid=95609. 8 See http://www.perso.ch/slaibi/avec%20rayya.htm. The Poetics the Iraqi War 23

The second part of this paper will attempt to complete the constructed picture of the contemporary Iraqi poetic scene as a field meriting study by reading and contextualizing a set of representative poetic texts that I especially translated for this paper. Since it will be difficult to select a set that can represent all shades, the illustrative texts are chosen according to the findings of my textual and extra-textual analyses and to the definitions and classification of the main trends and tendencies of the contemporary Iraqi poetry that I tried to establish in my study. The similarities and the differences according to which I will categorize the poems and the poets are not only formal and thematic but are indicative of the contextual and associative attributes that I have underlined in my paper. Reading these texts within their socio-cultural and institutional contexts will cast a light on the contemporary Iraqi poetic reading and writing culture which involves not only readers and writers, but also censors, publishing houses, official and unofficial authorities, newspapers, cultural administrations, and a host of other individuals and institutions besides. This reading of the representative texts is an attempt to find a point of entry to the most recent developments in the movement of modern Iraqi poetry. Furthermore, the critical reading of the poems aspires to manifest that in the light of the general atmosphere of confusion and frustration, during this period which witnessed the collapse of the cultural institution among other institutions, the contemporary Iraqi poetic discourse hold some keys to the reading of the socio-cultural wartime experience, and more importantly it holds insights into what will follow in the post-war period.

The Home-poets

“Chants, Suggesting Homeland” by Khalid al-Sa‘di. He was named the Young Poet of Iraq 2002, the president of the Young Iraqi Writers Association, and UN goodwill ambassador. He returned to Iraq in May 2009 after two years in the Gulf and was killed when his car was bombed on 29 May 2009. He received many Iraqi and pan-Arab 24 Otared Haidar awards including the first award in the Arab Youth festival on 2008 for this poem:9

وﺟﮫُ ِاﻟﺤﻨﯿﻦ ٌﺷﺮاع ﺗﺎﺋﮫٌ أﻓَﻼ/ َوﻗﻠﺒﻲ اﻟﻄﻔﻞُ ﻓﻲ ِأﻛﻤﺎﻣﮫ ذﺑﻼ / وﺟﮫ ِاﻟﺤﻨﯿﻦ..ﺑﻼدي..دﻣﻊ ﻗﺎﻓﯿﺘﻲ/ وﺻﻮت ٍﻧﮭﺮ ﯾﺘﯿﻢ ﺧﻠﻔﻲ اﺷﺘﻌﻼ/ ﻛﻨﺖ اﻟﺒﻼد اﻟﺘﻲ ﻏﻨﺖ ﻣﻨﻤﻘﺔ/ ﺑﺎﻷﻣﻨﯿﺎت..وﻛﻨﺖ اﻟﻌﺎﺷﻖ اﻟﺒﻄﻼ/ واﻵن ﻻ ﻋﯿﺪ ﻓﻲ درﺑﻲ وﻻ ﻓﺮح/ ﺗﺤﺎﻟﻒ اﻟﻤﻮت ﺿﺪ اﻟﻮرد واﺣﺘﻔﻼ. The face of nostalgia is a lost sail fading/ And my child-like heart has withered in buds/ The face of nostalgia is my homeland, the tears of my rhyme/ And the sound of an orphan river blazing behind me/ You were a country, singing, ornamented with wishes/ And I was the heroic lover/ And now there are no feast on my road, and no joy/ Death had allied against the roses and celebrated.

ﺳﻠﻢ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺑﻐﺪاد َﻛﺮﺧﺎً واﻟﺮﺻﺎﻓﺔ/ ﺳﻠﻢ ﻋﻠﻰ (اﻟﺠﺴﺮ) اﻟﺬي ﯾﺸﻜﻮ ارﺗﺠﺎﻓﮫ/ ﺳﻠﻢ ﻋﻠﻰ اﻟﻨﮭﺮ اﻟﺤﺰﯾﻦ/ وﻋﻠﻰ اﻟﻨﺴﺎء ﻧﺰﻓﻦ دﻣﻌﺎ ﻓﻮق ﺧﺪ اﻟﯿﺎﺳﻤﯿﻦ/ ﺳﻠﻢ ﻋﻠﻰ ِﺷﻤﺲ اﻟﺼﺒﺎح / ﻓﺎﻟﺸﻤﺲ ﻓﻲ (ﺑﻌﻘﻮﺑﺘﻲ) أﺣﻠﻰ ﻣﻦ اﻟﺸﻤﺲ اﻟﻐﺮﯾﺒﺔ/ ﺳﻠﻢ ﻋﻠﻰ أﻣﻲ اﻟﺘﻲ ﺟﻔﺖ ﻣﺂﻗﯿﮭﺎ اﻟﺴﻜﯿﺒﺔ/ ﺳﻠﻢ ﻋﻠﻰ ِاﻟﻌﺸﺎق واﻟﻔﻘَﺮاء واﻷدﺑﺎء واﻟﺬﻛﺮى اﻟﺤﺒِﯿﺒﺔ/ ﺳﻠﻢ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺻﻮت اﻷذان ﺑﺠﺎﻣﻊ (اﻟﻔﺎروق) ﯾﺤﺘﻀﻦ اﻟﺴﻤﺎء. Greet Baghdad’s Karkh district and the Rasafa District/ Greet the shaky bridge/ Greet the sad river/ And women who bled tears on jasmine-like cheeks/ Greet the morning sun/ As the sun in my Ba’quba is prettier than the stranger sun/ Greet my mum whose pouring eye-corners had dried up/ Greet lovers, poor people, literati, and the lovely memory/ Greet the sound of the call for prayer in al- Farouq’s mosque embracing the sky.

ﺳﻠﻢ ﻋﻠﻰ ﻛﻞ ِاﻟﺒﺴﺎﺗﯿﻦ اﻟﺴﺠﯿﻨﺔ ﺧﻠﻒ أﺳﻼك اﻟﺬھﻮل/ وﻋﻠﻰ اﻟﻤﺴﺎﺟﺪ َواﻟﻜ ِﻨﺎﺋﺲ 10 ِواﻟﻤﺪارس واﻟﺤﺪاﺋﻖ واﻟﺤﻘﻮل/ ﺳﻠﻢ ﻋﻠﻰ اﻟﺴﻮق اﻟﻘَﺪﯾﻢ... ﻋﻠﻰ (اﻟﺴﺮاي) Greet all the fields imprisoned behind the fences of bewilderment/ the mosques, churches, schools, parks and fields/ Greet the Old Souk and the Saray. “Acquiring a profession” by Ibrahim al-Khayyat: He held the post of the director of media department in the Ministry of Culture which he resigned from in 2005. He is now a president of the Writers’ Union.

9 For more about al-Sa‘di and his poetry see, and his poem see: http://www.beider.se/print.php?id=1977, http://www.alnoor.se/article.asp?id=54406. 10 Saray: is a historical building turned into the provincial centre for the writers union. The Poetics the Iraqi War 25

The poem is published in his last collection “The Orange Republic” (2007).11

ھﻞ ُﯾﺼﻤﺖ ﻓﻲ ﺣﻮار اﻟﻨﺒﯿﯿﻦ ؟ ھﻞ ـ ﺗﺮاه ـ ﯾﺨﻠﻊ ﺳﺘﺮة اﻟﻤﻌﺎرف اﻷﻧﯿﻘﺔَ ؟/ ھﻞ ﯾﺪﻓﻊ ﻏﯿﻤﺔَ ﺧﻮﻓﮫ إﻟﻰ ﻓﺴﯿﻔﺴﺎء اﻟﻤﻨﺎﻓﻲ؟/ وﺑﻌﺪ ذﻟﻚ/ ـ أو ﻗﺒﻞ ذﻟﻚ ـ/ ھﻞ ﻻ ﯾﻘﺘﻠﻮﻧﮫ. Should he be silent in the dialogues of the prophets?/ Will he take of the neat jacket of knowledge?/ Should he push the cloud of his fear towards the mosaic of exiles?/ and after that/ or before that/ Do they not kill him? “To Christopher Marlow’s Dream” by Ahmad Ali Yunis: A self- educated poet, he wrote his first collection by hand and distributed it by hand in his early twenty, forcing the literary establishment to acknowledge his work, he published his first collection in print on 1993. In this poem, he follows on the steps of “The Iraqi Poets of Rebellion,” who established their poetics in the middle of the twentieth century.

ﻣﻦ ﯾﻘﻒ إﻟﻰ ﺟﻮارك اﻵن/ ﻓﻲ ظﻠﻤﺔ اﻟﻘﺒﺮ/ اﻟﻨﻮاﻓﺬ اﻟﺘﻲ أﻏﻠﻘﺖ ﻣﻨﺬ زﻣﻦ ﺳﺤﯿﻖ/ ﻓﺘﺤﺖ./ ﻓﻲ داﺧﻠﮭﺎ ﻛﺎن ﺷﺒﺤﻚ/ ﯾﻘﻠّـﻢ ﻋﺘﻤﺔ أﺑﺪﯾﺔ./ رﺟﻞ ﻣﺜﻠﻚ ﯾﺨﺮّب ﺣﯿﺎﺗﮫ/ ﺑﮭﺬه اﻟﻄﺮق اﻟﺘﻲ ﺗﺨﻠﺐ اﻷﻟﺒﺎب/ ﯾﻤﻨﺢ اﻷﻣﻞ ﻟﺴﻤﺎت ﺗﻮﻗﮫ./ ﻓﻲ ﻧﮭﺎﯾﺔ ﯾﺪك ﺣﺰن/ وﻓﻲ ﯾﺪ اﻟﺤﺰن ﺣﺰن/ ﯾﺰن ﻣﻮاھﺒﻚ اﻟﺜﻘﯿﻠﺔ./ ﻷن اﻟﺠﻨﺎﺋﺰ ﺗﻤﺮ ﻋﻠﻰ ﻛﺘﻒ اﻟﻌﺎﻟﻢ/ وﻷن اﻟﻌﺎﻟﻢ ﯾﻄﻠﻖ ﺻﻔﯿﺮاً/ ﺑﺎﺗﺠﺎه وﺟﻨﺘﻚ اﻟﺸﺎﺣﺒﺔ./ ﺛﻘﻮب ﺻﺪرك ﺗﺠﺮح اﻵن رﺟﻼً ﯾﺴﯿﺮ ﺑﺎﺗﺠﺎه اﻟﻔﺮات/ﯾﺤﻤﻞ ﻗﻠﻨﺴﻮة ﻓﺎرﺳﯿﺔ. Who is standing next to you/ In the dark of the grave/ The windows that were closed long time ago/ Are opened/ Inside them, your ghost trimmed an eternal dark/ A man like you, destroying his life/ In heart- capturing ways/ Gives hope to the features of his desire/ There is a grief at the end of your hand/ And a grief at the hand of the grief/ Weighing your heavy talents/ Because funerals cross over the shoulder of the world/ And because the world is sending a whistle/ Towards your pale cheek/ The holes in your chest are now wounding a man walking towards the Euphrates/ Carrying a Persian hood. Al-Sa‘di’s poem reconstructs the picture of Iraq and the collective memory of Iraqi people. It interacts with different poetic forms and rhythms and it has rich intertextual links with the intellectual and

11 Ibrahim al-Khayyat, Jumhuriyyat al-Burtuqal, (The Orange Republic), (the Union of Writer and Ministry of Culture, Bagdad 2007). 26 Otared Haidar cultural history of Iraq. It also resonates with echoes of the pioneers’ tunes and themes, and the well established thematics of war and Diaspora in Arabic poetry in general, such as the waiting and crying mother. It relies on an extensive cultural and literary tradition and is intensified by evoking the powerful scenes of a long line of the waiting mothers of the master Arab poets including the most famous ones such as the mothers Mahmud Darwish, and Muhammad al- Maghut, etc,. Tim Kendall in The Oxford handbook of British and Irish war poetry, examines the scene of the wives waiting for their husbands to return in a poem of Thomas Hardy’s “the Going of the Battery,” as typical to war poetry.12 The poem also includes references to Gaza bringing together the Iraqi and the Palestinian tragedies, an association that is deep-rooted in the public discourse and in the cultural discourse across the Arab World. Al-Khayyat’s poem intertextualizes with a classical model of the intellectual struggle with the official patronage. It also experiments with combining lyrical and narrative unites, and prose and metrical rhythms. It is a remarkable poetic experiment with form, which is partly eclipsed by the graphic depiction of the harsh reality and the thematic total indulgence. The poem portrays the home- politics and speaks out the confusion and anxieties of the cultural producers in Iraq today and the difficulties they have in keeping track with the fast-changing events, rules, guidelines, redlines, sensors and sponsors. Yunis’ poem about the British author who died in a duel has strong autobiographical echoes from the life of the poet who lived most of his life marginalized and in poverty, unable to establish connections neither with the official nor with the oppositional networks that can help him at least to publish his work. The poem interacts with a wide humanistic view and the scene of the overlooked funerals alludes to Iraq. The poem flirts with death and self- destruction by relating to one of the fascinating stories of death, well- known among educated Arabs as it exists in the educational curricula. In a celebrative mode, the poem laments the life of the intellectual that is wasted in a coincidental occasion, and ends worthless, meaningless with no big cause and no glory. By combining all these formal and

12 See Tim Kendall in The Oxford handbook of British and Irish war poetry, p. 49. The Poetics the Iraqi War 27 thematic elements, Yunis establishes a solid ground on which he builds his own version of the war poetics.

The Diasporic poets

“Nashid Uruk” by ‘Adnan Sai’igh: the Poet left Iraq in 1993 to Amman then Sweden, He received Hillman Hamit award 1996 and Rotterdam award for international poetry in 1997.13

ْﻛﺎﻧﺖ ﺗﻀﯿﻖ ﺑﻨﺎ ﻛﻮة ِاﻷﻓﻖ، ﻧﻮﺳﻌﮭﺎ ﺑﺎﻷﻏﺎﻧﻲ/ ﺗﻀﯿﻖ اﻷﻏﺎﻧﻲ، ﻓﻨﻮﺳﻌﮭﺎ ﺑﺎﻷﻣﺎﻧﻲ.../ﻓﻤﻦ ﯾﻮﺳﻊ اﻵن ﻛﻮة ﻣﻨﻔﺎك.. When the horizon skylight narrowed upon us, we expanded them by songs/ When songs narrowed, we expanded them by wishes/ But who is going to expand now the skylight of your exile.

ﻻ ﺷﻲء، ﻏﯿﺮ اﻟﺴﻤﺎء اﻟﻤﻌﺮاة ﺗﺴﺤﺐ ﻗﻄﻌﺎﻧﮭﺎ اﻟﺒﯿﺾ / ﻓﻮق ﻣﺪارج ﺟﻔﻨﯿﻚ / ﻧﺤﻠﻢ ﻓﻲ ﺷﺠﺮ وارف/ ﺳﯿﻈﻠﻞ ﺑﯿﺘﺎ رﺳﻤﻨﺎه ﻣﻨﺬ اﻟﻄﻔﻮﻟﺔ / ﺧﻠﻒ ﺳﯿﺎج دﻓﺎﺗﺮﻧﺎ / واﻟﺮﻣﺎل اﻟﻤﻨﺪاة ﺑﺎﻟﺒﺤﺮ.../ ﯾﺎ أﯾﮭﺎ اﻟﺒﺤﺮ ﻣﺎ أﺑﻘﺖ اﻟﺴﻨﻮات اﻟﻤﺮﯾﺮة ﻣﻨﻚ ﺳﻮى ﻧﺼﻒ ﻧﺎﻓﺬة / ﺗﺘﻸﻷ ﻓﻮق - - اﻟﺴﻔﻮح اﻟﻐﺮﯾﺒﺔ / أرﻗﺐ ﻣﻨﮭﺎ زﻓﯿﺮ اﻟﻤﺪﯾﻨﺔ ﻓﻲ آﺧﺮ اﻟﻠﯿﻞ ﺗﻘﻄﻌﮫ اﻟﻤﺮﻛﺒﺎت وﻧﺎي اﻟﺤﺒﯿﺐ/ وﯾﺎ ﺧﺒﺰ أﻣﻲ اﺷﺘﮭﯿﺘﻚ/ ﻓﻲ ﺑﺮد ﻣﻨﻔﺎي، اﻟﺸﺎي، اﻟﺸﺎي أﺑﺮد ﻣﻤﺎ ﺗﻈﻨﯿﻦ، / أﺑﺮد ﻣﻦ ﻣﻘﻞ اﻟﻌﺎﺑﺮﯾﻦ ﺳﻨﺸﺮﺑﮫ ﻓﻲ اﻟﻤﻘﺎھﻲ ﻋﻠﻰ ﻋﺠﻞ / وﻧﺬوب ﺑﻤﻮج اﻟﺰﺣﺎم / ﻓﻤﻦ ﺳﯿﻌﺪ اﻟﻌﺸﺎء ﻻﺑﻨﻚ/ ﺣﯿﻦ ﺳﺘﻨﻔﺪ ﻣﻨﮫ اﻟﻨﻘﻮد/ وﻟﯿﺲ أذل ﻣﻦ اﻟﺠﻮع ﻓﻲ ِﻣﺪن اﻟﻐﺮﺑﺎء Nothing but the heaven, denuded, drawing its white flocks/over the routes of your eyelids/we dream about blooming trees/that will spread their shadow over a house we have drawn since childhood/beyond the fence of our notebooks/and the sea-dewed sands/O Sea the bitter years left nothing of you but a half window/glittering over the strange slops/from which I watch the exhalation of the city-during the end of the night-interrupted by vehicles and the flute of the loved one/O my mother’s bread, I desire you/in the cold of my exile, tea! And tea is colder than you think, colder than the eyes of the passersby, we will drink it in cafés in a hurry/and melt in the waves of the crowd/ so who is going to prepare dinner for your son/when he runs out of money/and nothing is more humiliating than hunger in the city of the strangers.

13 http://www.adabfan.com/interview/1695.html. 28 Otared Haidar

أأﻗﻀﻲ ﻋﻠﻰ وﺣﺸﺘﻲ ﺑﺎﻟﻜﺘﺎﺑﺔ؟ / ﻟﻜﻦ إﻟﻰ م؟ / أﻗﻮل ﻟﻜﻠﻜﺎﻣﺶ: ﻟﻮ رأﯾﺖ اﻟﺬي ﻗﺪ رأﯾﻨﺎ / ﻟﺒﻠﺖ ﻋﻠﻰ ِرأس ھﺬي اﻟﺤﯿﺎة/ وأﺳﺄل: ھﻞ ﻋﻤﺮﻧﺎ ﺳﺠﻨﻨﺎ؟ / ھﻞ ﻛﺘﺎﺑﻲ ﺿﺮﯾﺤﻲ؟ / ھﻞ أرى اﻟﺒﺎب ﺣﻠﻤﺎً أﻧﺎم ﻷدﺧﻠﮫ؟ / ھﻞ أﺟﺮب ﻣﻮﺗﻲ ﻟﻌﻠﻲ أرى ﻋﺎﻟﻤﺎً / ﻟﻢ ﯾﺼﻮره ﻣﻠﺘﻮن / أﺧﺮج رأﺳﻲ ﺑﯿﻦ ِاﻟﺴﻄﻮر ﻷﺑﺼﺮ: أطﻔﺎﻟﻨﺎ ﯾﻠﻌﺒﻮن ﺑﻤﯿﺮاﺛﻨﺎ ﻣﻦ ﺣﻘﻮل اﻟﻘﻨﺎﺑﻞ / واﻟﻔﺘﯿﺎت ﻋﻠﻰ ﻧﮭﺮ دﺟﻠﺔ / ﯾﻐﺴﻠﻦ أوﺟﮭﮭﻦ / ﻓﺘﻤﻀﻲ اﻟﻤﯿﺎه ﻣﺮﻗﺮﻗﺔ ﺑﺎﻟﺠﻤﺎل ﻟﯿﻜﺮﻋﮭﺎ اﻟﺒﺤﺮ / ﻛﻢ ﻛﺮع اﻟﺒﺤﺮ أﺣﻼﻣﻨﺎ / ﺟﺎﻟﺴﻮن ﻋﻠﻰ ﺣﺠﺮ اﻟﺤﻜﻤﺔ اﻟﺒﺎﺑﻠﯿﺔ/ ﺗﻤﻀﻲ ﺑﻨﺎ ﻋﺮﺑﺎت اﻟﻄﻐﺎة/ إﻟﻰ ﻏﺮف اﻟﻨﻮم واﻟﻤﻘﺼﻼت وﻻ أﺻﻞ.... / اﻟﺒﺤﺮ ﻋﺎت ﺑﺄﻣﻮاﺟﮫ - واﻟﺠﺮاذﯾﻦ ﺗﺄﻛﻞ ﻣﻦ ﺳﻔﻨﻲ / وأﻧﺎ أﺗﺼﺎرع واﻟﻤﻮج رﺑﺎه – / ﻻ وطﻦ ﻓﻲ اﻟﺴﻔﯿﻨﺔ" Should I eliminate my desolation by writing/but to whom?/ I say to Gilgamesh: if only you had seen what we had seen/you would have pissed over the head of this life/and I ask: is our life our prison?/is my book my grave?/ should I see the door as a dream that I sleep to enter?/should I try my death so that I might see a world not depicted by Milton/I bring my head out of line to see: our children are playing with our legacy of the bombs, fields/girls on the Tigris river washing their faces/so waters run flowing with beauty and the sea gulp them/How often! the sea gulped our dreams!/we are sitting on the Babylonian- wisdom stone, the tyrants chariots take us on/to bedrooms and guillotine, and I don’t arrive../rats are eating up my boats, and I am wrestling with the waves, -O my lord-/ there is no homeland in the boat. Hashim Shafiq, lived in Poland then UK: He gave a reading in the Poetry Café in Covent Garden London, organized by Pen the international Association of Writers, Winter 2009, in which he read this poem:

ﻣﺎ ﻛﻨﺖ أﻋﺮف أﻧﻲ ﺳﺄﻧﺰل ﻣﻦ ﻋﻠﯿﺎء اﻟﺤﯿﺎة/ ﻣﻮﻋﺪي ﻣﻊ اﻟﻤﺘﻨﺒﻲ/ أزاﺣﮫ اﻟﻤﻨﻔﻰ/ وأرﺑﻜﮫ ﺣﺮس اﻟﺴﻤﺎء/ ﻣﻮﻋﺪي ﺑﺎﻟﺴﮭﻞ واﻟﺠﺒﻞ/ ﺑﺎﻟﺮﯾﺸﺔ اﻟﺘﺎﺋﮭﺔ/ ﺑﺎﻵﻟﺔ اﻟﻤﺤﺘﺮﻗﺔ/ ﺑﺘﻔﺎﺻﯿﻞ ﻷﺑﻲ ﻧﻮاس وﻣﻘﮭﻰ اﻟﺒﻠﺪﯾﺔ ﺑﻘﻠﻌﺔ ﻛﺮﻛﻮك/ ﺳﻨﺒﻠﺘﻲ اﻟﻤﻄﺮﻗﺔ ﻗﺒﺎﻟﺔ اﻷھﻮار/ ﺑﺤﺒﻲ اﻟﻤﺆﺟﻞ ﻓﻲ اﻟﻐﯿﻮم/ ﺣﻄﻤﮫ ﺣﺬاء ﺟﻨﺪي أرى ﻣﻦ ﺳﻘﻔﮫ سماء ﺑﻼدي.

I did not know that I am going to descend from the heights of life/ My date with al-Mutanabbi/ Was driven away by the exile/ And was confused by the guards of the sky/ My date with the plain and the mountain/ With the straying quill/ With the burnt instrument/ With details of Abu Nuwas and the city council café in the castle of Kirkuk/ My spike bowing its head in front of (the marshes of) al-Ahwar/ With my love pending in clouds/ Which as destroyed by a soldier shoe, from which ceiling I see the sky of my homeland. The Poetics the Iraqi War 29

“Andalusian Poems for the Wound of Iraq” by Bushra al-Bustani, USA.14

ﻓﻲ أرﺟﺎء اﻟﻤﺘﺤﻒ واﻟﻤﻨﻌﻄﻔﺎت/ ﻛﺎﻧﺖ ﻗﯿﺜﺎرات../ ﺳﻮﻣﺮ ﺗﻌﺰف ﻟﺤﻦ اﻟﺤﺰن In all sides of the museum/ The lyres…/Of Sumer played the tunes of sadness.

ﺟﻨﺎﺋﻦ ﺑﺎﺑﻞ ظﻤﺄى ﯾﺮﺗﻌﺶ اﻟﺼﻤﺖ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺷﻔﺘﯿﮭﺎ/ وﻋﻠﻰ ﻛﺘﻔﯿﮭﺎ ﯾﺬوي اﻟﻮرد. Babel’s Gardens are thirsty, and silence is trembling on their lips and on their shoulders, the roses are withering.

اﻟﺠﻨﺪي اﻷﻣﯿﺮﻛﻲ/ ﯾﻄﻠﻖ ﻧﺎراً ﻓﻮق ﺟﺒﯿﻦ ﺻﺒﻲ/ ﻣﻨﺘﻔﺦ اﻟﺼﺪر/ ﺳﻘﻂَ اﻟﻄﻔﻞ ﺑﺒﺮﻛﺔ دم/ إذ ﻓﻜﻮا ﺻﺪره/ ﻛﺎﻧﺖ أرﻏﻔﺔ اﻟﺨﺒﺰ/ ﺗﻨﺰف ﺗﺤﺖ ﻗﻤﯿﺼﮫ The American soldier/fires on the forehead of a boy/ Who has a bloated chest/The child falls in a pool of blood/ And when they unbutton his chest/ The bread loafs/ Were bleeding under his shirt. The three poems are characterized by their wide panoramic view extending both formally and thematically in all directions. In all of them, the lyrical intersects with the narrative. The three poems attempt to drag the reader into the imagination of the suffering of the Iraqi people both at home and in Diaspora. The two different places corresponding to two different times are organically connected by using different devices. The first poem links them through one of the most powerful representatives of this dichotomy: the image of the waiting mother that I discussed earlier, attending with its traditional associative images and vocabulary, bread, food, tea and coffee, etc, that would always without pretension or heroism, ease the sufferings. This second poem established intensely and densely the Diasporic images of Iraq, historical references to the castle of Kirkuk, literary references: al-Mutanabbi and abu Nuwas, landscape, al- Ahwar, the mountain and the plain. It combines different forms that ranges between metrical verse and the prose poem and employs narrative and lyrical techniques. The third poem depicts the tragedies of the Iraqi war and the suffering it inflicts upon individuals, particularly innocent civilians

14 http://www.asharqalarabi.org.uk/ruiah/qutuf-65.htm. 30 Otared Haidar and it attempts to bring them to the world's attention. In addition to presenting the poet’s personal experience, the work makes use of many unconventional sources such as the media reports about the daily tragic events on streets and in institutions. The rich intertextual links draw on the classical and modern history of Iraq and landscape imagery. The Diasporic images of Iraq imply a departure from an approach that considers Diaspora to be melancholic and passive reaction to misplacement, stressing the potentials of the Diasporic poetry to energize the collective memory of the uprooted people living far from home on the one hand, and of those who live inside their homeland. However, The challenge that will face the Diasporic poet is to be aware of the fact that his representation of the wartime experience, unbeatable as it would seem, cannot be communicated to the Iraqi generations who lived through the daily ordeal of the three- decade war. As observed by the readers of Women War Poetry in English, some of the most provocative, and consequently problematic, poems are produced by the women war poets. Sensing their second- hand experience in the masculine context of War politics, women poems can at times result in poems which are sentimental in their account of the happenings of war and they can be more elegiac and visceral and physical in their account of loss.15

“The Phoenix” ‘Abd al-Qadir al-Husni, a poem by a Syrian poet delivered in al-Marbid Poetic Festival, Baghdad, 1998:16

"أطﻮي درج اﻟﻠﯿﻞ واﺻﻌﺪ/ أﺣﻤﻞ ﺑﯿﻦ ﯾﺪي ﺟﺬاذات ﻣﻦ أﻟﻮاﺣﻲ/ زﻗﻮرات ﻋﺎﻟﯿﺔ، وﺟﻨﺎﺋﻦ ﻋﻠﻘﮭﺎ أھﻠﻲ/ ﺑﯿﻦ اﻷرض وﺑﯿﻦ ﷲ/ ﺟﻨﺎت ﻣﻦ اﻋﻨﺎب وﻧﺨﯿﻞ/ ﻟﻦ ﺗﻈﻤﺄ... وھﻲ ﺷﻔﺎه / ﺗﺘﺼﺒﻰ ﻣﺎ ﻓﻲ اﻟﻐﯿﻢ ﻣﻦ اﻷﻣﻮاه… I rush up through the stairs of the night and ascend/ Carrying in my hands fragments of my tablets/ High ziggurats and gardens that were hanged up by my folks/ Between the earth and God/ Paradises of grapes and palms/ That will not thirst, as they are lips/ Enticing the waters in clouds The poem employs the typical imagery and references about Iraq as represented historically by other Arab poets. The pastoral imagery

15 See Tim Kendall, p. 109–110. 16 http://www.nizwa.com/browse26.html. The Poetics the Iraqi War 31 refers to the typical elements of the Iraqi landscape: the olive trees and the palm trees. The same references and symbols are consolidated in the works of the Iraqi poets. This indicates that the Iraqi poetry interacted actively, influenced by and influenced other Arab poems about Iraq.

Conclusion

The Home-poets experience is more complicated and hindered by the confusion and the mutual accusations going between the different groups which indicate that the war and the conflict are still going on. Diasporic poets detached themselves from the direct indulgence in the discursive conflicts at home and aspired to write a self-directed “war narrative.” The Diasporic voice is evolving into a recognized coherent discourse and the Diasporic experience is producing highly praised poetic works that are independent yet are by no means uninvolved, nonaligned or unmediated artefacts. The challenge that will face the Diasporic poet is to be aware of the fact that his representation of the wartime experience, unbeatable as it would seem, cannot be communicated to the Iraqi generation who lived through the daily ordeal suffering traumas and strains of three decade-war. The poems give an entry point to understand how the events in Iraq and the experience of the Iraqi people during this period would be written and read, and how the Iraqi poetry interacts with and represents this crucial period in the history of Iraq. In comparison to the representation of war in Arab poetry, the cruelty of the civil war undermined any possibility for romanticization and undercut any glorification. Nonetheless despite the impossibility to produce a grand epic war discourse like the discourse of the independent war, and despite the unfeasibility to unify and orchestrate a credible and impressive discourse like that of the Palestinian wars, the ongoing Iraqi poetic experience is endeavouring to establish its own definition of war poetry. In addition to gaining more experience on interacting with all those institutional and socio-cultural forces that mediate the dissemination of poetry both at home and in Diaspora, the current Iraqi poets in general, and in Diaspora in particular, are getting more recognition than most of their regional peers and they seem to be 32 Otared Haidar producing first-rate works that are published, translated, and are getting international and regional awards. The illustrative poems that I selected and translated are live testimony to the active and interactive project of the contemporary Iraqi poetic writing. The discursive conflict that was unleashed since the outset of the second Gulf War exacerbated with the fast spread of internet as the main cultural medium in Iraq and among the Iraqi literary communities in Diaspora. Conducting a discourse-analysis of the ongoing debates and dialogues is the only way in which we can shed a light on the undercurrents of an ongoing literary and discursive war over the public discourse and representation of the war. This analysis also highlights the fact that what will follow this period will be a literary conflict and an institutional war inside Iraq over shaping and directing the public perception of the experience. This conflict will implicate the Arab as well as the international, and in particular the Western, cultural and the academic discourse over different interpretations and representations of the Iraq war and of the different political periods in contemporary Iraq. In the longer term, as the paper intends to emphasize, the most significant repercussion of this interdiscursive conflict will be an extended post-war conflict over the post-war national, Arab and international discourse. A conflict that will haunt not only the Iraqi, but also the Arab and the international cultural and political institutions, for a long time to come.

References

Books Jayyusi, Salma Khadra. 1977. Trends and Movements in Modern Arabic Poetry, vols.1&2. Leiden: E. J. Brill. Kendall, Tim. 2007. The Oxford handbook of British and Irish war Poetry. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Al_Sa‘di, Muhammad. 2010. Harb al-Dimuqratiyya: Ahdath wa Siyasat, (The War of Democracy: Events and Politics). Fishon Media: Sweden. The Poetics the Iraqi War 33

Al-‘Udhari, ‘Abdulla. 1986. Modern Poetry of the Arab World. (Reading: Penguin Books Ltd, 1986).

Newspapers and e-journals Al-Zaman Newspaper, London http://www.alsabaah.com http://www.asharqalarabi.org.uk http://www.adabfan.com/ http://www.alnoor.se http://www.beider.se http://www.diwanalarab.com http://www.perso.ch

Mağmāğ et les sept savants : la création du Dīwān al-‘azzāba

Virginie Prevost Bruxelles

Abstract

The mysterious Dīwān al-‘azzāba was an Ibāḍī juridical encyclopedia that consisted of twelve volumes. Written around 1000 AD, it was composed in Jerba by seven scholars brought together in the artificial cave Mağmāğ. As Faṣīl ibn Abī Miswar’s thought, that work certainly led the basis of the ḥalqa or council of the ‘azzāba which was to be founded shortly after by Abū ‘Abd Allāh Muḥammad ibn Bakr. In the first part, this article studies the historical context of the Dīwān al- ‘azzāba’s creation and the seven scholars. The second part is devoted to the cave Mağmāğ and to the importance of the cave worship by the Ibāḍīs.

Keywords: Ibāḍīs, Mağmāğ, Jerba, Ouargla, Jabal Nafūsa, Dīwān al- ‘azzāba, caves.

L’île de Djerba a vu la création d’une prestigieuse encyclopédie juridique en douze volumes, le Dīwān al-‘azzāba, aujourd’hui perdu. Sept savants ibadites se sont réunis dans la grotte d’Amağmāğ – aujourd’hui Mağmāğ – pour rédiger cette œuvre. De nombreux 36 Virginie Prevost mystères entourent sa rédaction, que l’on peut expliquer par les faibles informations données par les sources ibadites. Le présent article a pour but de rassembler ces rares indications et de tenter de déterminer à quel moment a été rédigée cette encyclopédie, pourquoi il a paru nécessaire aux sept savants de se réunir dans une grotte pour l’écrire, et quel a été leur rôle dans la création de l’organisation des ‘azzāba, ou ḥalqa, qui a permis aux ibadites de s’organiser après la chute de la dynastie des imams rustumides de Tāhart en 909. Une fois l’État rustumide anéanti par les chiites, la majorité des régions ibadites tombent sous la coupe du nouvel État fatimide. L’île de Djerba demeure indépendante et devient le nouveau fer de lance des ibadites, grâce au savant Abū Miswar qui s’y installe au début du Xe siècle et fonde, avec de nombreux disciples, al-ğāmi‘ al-kabīr, une grande mosquée qui devient un centre d’enseignement important. Son fils Faṣīl poursuit son œuvre.1 En 358/968-969, ce dernier soutient la révolte menée par les ibadites du Djérid contre les Fatimides, dans l’espoir de rétablir un imamat ibadite. Ce soulèvement tourne court et les ibadites sont vaincus à Bāġāya. Faṣīl, convaincu désormais que la révolte est impossible et que l’ère de l’imamat est révolue, réfléchit à un système qui pourrait permettre à ses coreligionnaires de reconstituer un État clandestin sans capitale ni imam, qui maintiendrait la cohésion entre les différentes régions, organiserait leur vie interne et raviverait la foi ibadite. Il imagine alors les principes de la ḥalqa, une organisation dans laquelle chaque communauté géographique élit un conseil de ‘azzāba (reclus) dirigé par un cheikh, ces conseils devant communiquer entre eux. Lorsque son projet est achevé, Faṣīl se trouve trop vieux pour le mettre lui- même en place et décide de confier cette tâche à son élève Abū ‘Abd Allāh Muḥammad ibn Bakr ; il lui envoie des émissaires qui le rejoignent dans le Djérid. En 409/1018–1019, Abū ‘Abd Allāh Muḥammad ibn Bakr gagne l’Arīġ, l’actuel Oued Righ, avec ses disciples et s’installe dans une grotte qui a été creusée à son intention. C’est là, dans cette grotte située à Tīn Īslī, à Ağlū, qu’il fonde la première ḥalqa. La ḥalqa se développe ensuite à Djerba et dans d’autres régions ibadites.2

1 Sur l’œuvre d’Abū Miswar et de Faṣīl, voir Prevost, 2004. 2 Pour le détail de ces événements, voir Prevost, 2006a, 2006b, et 2008a, pp. 203–209. Dīwān al-‘azzāba 37

Le plus ancien texte évoquant la grotte de Mağmāğ est celui d’Abū Zakariyyā’ al-Wārğalānī (fin du XIe-début du XIIe siècle). Abū Zakariyyā’ mentionne la grotte dans la biographie qu’il consacre à Abū Muḥammad ‘Abd Allāh ibn Mānūğ al-Lamā’ī : ce dernier, qui étudia la jurisprudence (fiqh) à Djerba, « fut l’un des sept faqīh appelés « gens de la grotte » (ahl al-ġār)3, la grotte d’Amağmāğ, Amağmāğ étant un endroit connu à Djerba. Parmi eux se trouvaient Abū ‘Imrān Mūsā ibn Zakariyyā’, Abū Ğubayr, Ğābir ibn Sadarmām, Kabāb ibn Muṣliḥ – ces quatre [savants] étant tous des Mazāta – ainsi qu’Abū ‘Imrān al-Numaylī et Abū Zakariyyā’ Yaḥyā ibn Ğūnān al- Nafūsī. ».4 Plus tard, al-Darğīnī (après 1253) et al-Šammāḫī (avant 1522) donnent quelques précisions supplémentaires, qui concernent surtout le rôle joué par Abū ‘Imrān Mūsā ibn Zakariyyā’ al-Mazātī.

Les sept savants

1) Abū ‘Imrān Mūsā ibn Zakariyyā’ : al-Wisyānī nous donne les récits d’Abū ‘Imrān Mūsā ibn Zakariyyā’ al-Mazātī al-Damrīnī de Tīğdīt.5 Al al-Darğīnī lui consacre une biographie sous le nom d’Abū ‘Imrān al-Mazātī et le classe dans la neuvième ṭabaqa (400– 450/1009–1059).6 Al-Šammāḫī lui accorde également une biographie, sous le nom d’Abū ‘Imrān Mūsā ibn Zakariyyā’ al-Mazātī al- Dammarī.7 Ces trois historiens vantent longuement les mérites de ce savant : c’était un excellent homme de lettres, fin, savant et pieux, comptant parmi les meilleurs de son époque.8 C’était l’un des chefs de la doctrine et le plus érudit de ses savants, qui avait compris les cheikhs dont il a rapporté les connaissances et les traditions.9 C’était

3 Sur le terme ġār (grotte), voir Meouak, 2010. 4 Abū Zakariyyā’, 1985, p. 284 (l’éd. donne erronément Amağmāḥ). 5 Al-Wisyānī, 2009, pp. 342–344. 6 Al-Darğīnī, 1974, pp. 409–412. 7 Al-Šammāḫī, 2009, pp. 589–590. Plus loin, p. 699, il donne la biographie d’un certain Abū ‘Imrān Mūsā ibn Zakariyyā’, dont il ne sait pas s’il s’agit du même personnage que celui qu’il décrit plus haut. Il parle, p. 705, d’Abū ‘Imrān Mūsā ibn Abī Zakariyyā’. 8 Al-Wisyānī, 2009, p. 342. 9 Al-Darğīnī, 1974, p. 409. 38 Virginie Prevost l’un des étendards et l’un des chefs de la doctrine, l’un de ceux grâce auxquels Allāh a illuminé l’obscurité et les ténèbres de l’ignorance.10 Il fit ses études à Djerba chez Abū Ṣāliḥ Bakr ibn Qāsim al- Yahrāsanī : en effet, une anecdote indique qu’Abū Muḥammad Wīslān regrettait de ne pas avoir suivi les leçons d’Abū ‘Imrān car ce dernier s’était instruit chez son propre père, Abū Ṣāliḥ.11 Lorsque les émissaires djerbiens envoyés par Faṣīl ibn Abī Miswar arrivèrent à Taqyūs, peu avant 409/1018–1019, ils rencontrèrent Abū ‘Abd Allāh Muḥammad ibn Bakr qui arrivait de Kairouan où il avait appris la grammaire et la langue arabe ; il voulait désormais se rendre chez Abū ‘Imrān à Tağdīt pour étudier le fiqh.12 Al-Darğīnī, après avoir énuméré les sept savants, précise que « la raison de leur relation avec la grotte d’Amğāğ (sic) est que c’est à cet endroit qu’ils se sont rassemblés et qu’ils ont composé un ouvrage célèbre dans le domaine du fiqh, comptant douze volumes. Abū ‘Imrān s’est chargé de le recopier après qu’Allāh l’eut avantagé en vertu de la qualité de son écriture. On lui a attribué la composition du livre mais, par rapport aux autres savants, il ne se distinguait que par le service rendu par le bout de ses doigts, il avait le même mérite que les autres en ce qui concerne l’élaboration ». Il ajoute qu’Abū ‘Imrān avait vu pendant son sommeil sa main se transformer en lampe. Il a raconté son rêve à quelqu’un qui excellait dans l’interprétation des rêves, et ce dernier lui a dit : « voici un homme qui ressuscitera la religion d’Allāh par sa main ».13 Al-Wisyānī ajoute qu’Abū ‘Imrān

10 Al-Šammāḫī, 2009, p. 589. De nombreuses anecdotes le mettent en scène : ainsi, alors qu’il se présente dans une assemblée de savants, Abū Nūḥ Sa‘īd ibn Zanġīl s’exclame « il vient d’arriver quelqu’un qui vaut mieux que nous ! ». Abū Zakariyyā’, 1985, p. 302 ; al-Darğīnī, 1974, pp. 410–411 ; al-Šammāḫī, 2009, p. 590. On le voit à Qasṭīliyya, c’est-à-dire à Tozeur ou dans le Djérid. Abū Zakariyyā’, 1985, p. 298 ; al- Darğīnī, 1974, p. 410 ; al-Šammāḫī, 2009, p. 590. 11 Abū Zakariyyā’, 1985, p. 352 ; al-Darğīnī, 1974, p. 410 ; al-Šammāḫī, 2009, p. 558 et p. 590. 12 Abū Zakariyyā’, 1985, p. 253. Voir aussi al-Darğīnī, 1974, pp. 168–169 qui dit Tāğdīt et parle de la science des furū‘. Pour al-Ğa‘bīrī, 1975, p. 169 et Ibn Ya‘qūb, 1986, p. 98, il était natif de Tīğdīt / Tāğdīt, au sud d’Arīġ. 13 Al-Darğīnī, 1974, p. 409 ; texte similaire chez al-Šammāḫī, 2009, p. 589. Selon al- Wisyānī, l’un des douze volumes de l’ouvrage était perdu. Al-Ğa‘bīrī, 1975, p. 260. En plus de son rôle dans la rédaction du Dīwān, Abū ‘Imrān est l’auteur d’un ouvrage sur al-furū‘ (les questions déduites des principes). Al-Barrādī, 1302/1884-1885, p. Dīwān al-‘azzāba 39 plaça un jour l’ouvrage au-dessus de leur grotte et qu’un chien mangea un des volumes, de sorte qu’il resta seulement onze volumes.14

2) Abū Muḥammad ‘Abd Allāh ibn Mānūğ al-Lamā’ī : Abū Zakariyyā’ lui consacre une longue biographie, comptant de très nombreuses anecdotes. 15 Al-Darğīnī, rappelant qu’il est l’un des célèbres faqīh liés à la grotte d’Amağmāğ, lui consacre également une biographie et le classe dans la neuvième ṭabaqa (400–450/1009– 1059).16 Il était d’abord berger, puis il se repentit alors qu’il était déjà âgé, et se rendit à Djerba pour étudier auprès d’Abū Miswar, d’Abū Ṣāliḥ [al-Yahrāsanī] et d’Abū Mūsā ‘Īsā ibn al-Samḥ [al-Rubbānī] ; c’est là qu’il étudia le fiqh et qu’il devint l’un des sept savants de la grotte.17

3) Abū ‘Amr al-Numaylī : Abū Zakariyyā’ le nomme Abū ‘Imrān al- Numaylī.18 Al-Darğīnī lui consacre une biographie et le classe dans la huitième ṭabaqa (350–400/961–1010). Il est considéré comme l’une des sommités de l’île. 19 Al-Darğīnī affirme qu’Abū ‘Amr al- Numaylī vécut jusqu’à l’âge de 120 ans et qu’il mourut en martyr, tué par les Banū Watrān de Zawīla ; lorsqu’ils l’égorgèrent, une sorte de lait s’écoula. Ces gens qui le tuèrent faisaient partie des soldats envoyés par al-Mu‘izz ibn Bādīs, qui massacrèrent de nombreux cheikhs de Djerba.20 Il s’agit de l’expédition envoyée par le souverain

220, évoque le livre d’Abū ‘Imrān Mūsā ibn Abī Zakariyyā’, dont il n’a pas eu connaissance. Voir sur ce livre Lewicki, 1961b, p. 46 ; Motylinski, 1885, p. 24. 14 Al-Wisyānī, 2009, p. 34. 15 Abū Zakariyyā’, 1985, pp. 283–292. Ibn Ya‘qūb, 1986, pp. 99-100 et al-Ğa‘bīrī, 1975, p. 168, écrivent Mānūḥ au lieu de Mānūğ. Il semble qu’il était originaire d’al- Bādiya, une région proche du côté occidental de l’île. Al-Ğa‘bīrī, 1975, p. 172 et note 5. 16 Al-Darğīnī, 1974, pp. 400–403. Voir aussi la biographie d’al-Šammāḫī, 2009, pp. 584–585. 17 Abū Zakariyyā’, 1985, pp. 283–284 ; al-Darğīnī, 1974, p. 400 ; al-Šammāḫī, 2009, p. 584. Al-Wisyānī, 2009, p. 318, précise qu’il épousa la fille d’Abū Ṣāliḥ. 18 Abū Zakariyyā’, 1985, p. 284. 19 Al-Darğīnī, 1974, p. 364 ; al-Šammāḫī, 2009, p. 555. 20 Al-Darğīnī, 1974, pp. 364–365. Il ajoute une anecdote selon laquelle, la nuit suivant la bataille, un homme se rendit sur le lieu du massacre pour rechercher une éventuelle 40 Virginie Prevost ziride al-Mu‘izz ibn Bādīs contre Djerba en 431/1039–1040.21 Al- Wisyānī et al-Šammāḫī, qui nomment ce personnage Abū ‘Amr al- Numaylī al-Zawāġī, fournissent les mêmes renseignements. 22 Le tombeau de ce savant est toujours visible, au nord de la ğāmi‘ al- kabīr.23

4) Abū Zakariyyā’ Yaḥyā ibn Ğarnāz al-Nafūsī : son nom varie selon les auteurs, bien que tous s’accordent sur son ethnique « al-Nafūsī ».24 Abū Zakariyyā’ l’appelle Abū Zakariyyā’ Yaḥyā ibn Ğūnān al- Nafūsī.25 On lit Abū Zakariyyā’ Yaḥyā ibn Ğarnān al-Nafūsī chez al- Wisyānī.26 Al-Darğīnī donne Abū Yaḥyā Zakariyyā’ ibn Ğarnān al- Nafūsī.27 Al-Šammāḫī le nomme Abū Zakariyyā’ Yaḥyā ibn Ğarnāz al-Nafūsī et lui consacre une biographie, dans laquelle il indique qu’il appartenait aux compagnons de la grotte, ceux qui ont écrit le Dīwān.28 Il raconte ensuite une anecdote dans laquelle on voit ce savant rendre des fatwā à Tripoli.29 De tous les savants de la grotte, c’est le seul qui témoigne d’une collaboration entre Djerba et le djebel Nafūsa. Ce personnage apparaît d’ailleurs dans une liste des cheikhs de cette région, nommée Tasmiya šuyūḫ Nafūsa, qui a été rédigée à la fin du XIIe ou au début du XIIIe siècle par un ibadite anonyme. La victime qui respirerait encore, lorsqu’il entendit une voix qui implorait, en langue berbère, Dieu de châtier celui qui avait tué Abū ‘Amr al-Numaylī. 21 Voir Prevost, 2008a, pp. 194–196. 22 Al-Wisyānī, 2009, p. 307, parle des Zuwayla Īwanzānan. Al-Šammāḫī, pp. 553– 555, évoque les Banū Wātrātan de Zawīla. 23 Il est photographié dans al-Ğa‘bīrī, 1975, p. 175. 24 Al-Ğa‘bīrī, 1975, p. 168, le nomme Abū Yaḥyā Zakariyyā’ ibn Ğarnāz, mais il le cite ailleurs sous la forme Abū Zakariyyā’ Yaḥyā (p. 196 et p. 287). Ibn Ya‘qūb, 1986, pp. 100–101, le nomme Abū Zakariyyā’ Yaḥyā ibn Ğarnāz al-Lālūtī, ce qui indique qu’il serait natif de la ville de Lālūt (Nālūt) dans le djebel Nafūsa. Bābā‘ammī et al., 1999-2000, II, p. 456, le nomme Abū Zakariyyā’ Yaḥyā ibn Ğarnān et le classe dans la neuvième ṭabaqa (400–450/1009–1059). 25 Abū Zakariyyā’, 1985, p. 284. On trouve, p. 329, Abū Zakariyyā’ ibn Ğūnān al- Nafūsī et, p. 343, Zakariyyā’ ibn Ğarnān. 26 Al-Wisyānī, 2009, p. 337 et p. 343. 27 Al-Darğīnī, 1974, p. 409. Il le nomme, pp. 393–394, Ibn Karnān. 28 Al-Šammāḫī, 2009, p. 591. 29 Abū Zakariyyā’, 1985, pp. 343–344 ; al-Darğīnī, 1974, pp. 393–394 ; al-Šammāḫī, 2009, p. 580 et p. 591 (où il situe l’anecdote à Djerba). Dīwān al-‘azzāba 41 liste mentionne Abū Yaḥyā Zakariyyā’ ibn Ğarnāz de Masannān.30 C’est peut-être également lui qui apparaît sous le nom d’Ibn al-Ğarnāz dans une anecdote rapportée par al-Buġṭūrī.31

5) Ğābir ibn Sadramām : Abū Zakariyyā’ indique qu’il appartient à la tribu des Mazāta. 32 Seul al-Šammāḫī lui consacre une courte biographie, dans laquelle il vante sa renommée, sa valeur et sa science. Le reste du passage rapporte une anecdote qui est également racontée par les autres historiens.33

6) Abū Muğbir Tūzīn / Abū Ğubayr : Abū Zakariyyā’ le nomme Abū Ğubayr et dit qu’il fait partie des Mazāta, al-Darğīnī l’appelle de la même façon Abū Ğubayr al-Mazātī.34 Al-Wisyānī parle d’Abū Muğbir des Mazātiyya (sic).35 Al-Šammāḫī le nomme Abū Muğbir Tūzīn et est le seul qui prend la peine de lui consacrer une biographie, qu’il partage avec Kabāb ibn Muṣliḥ. Il indique que ces deux savants ont étudié la science chez les cheikhs et lui ont été utiles. Ils font partie de ceux grâce auxquels Allāh a illuminé la religion. Ils appartenaient aux gens de la grotte d’Amağmāğ et il n’existe pas de prestige plus grand que celui-là.36

30 Lewicki, 1961a, éd. p. 95. Lewicki pense, p. 110, que la forme correcte de son nom est Ğarnān plutôt que Ğarnāz. Sur Masannān, une ville du Djérid qui abritait une colonie de Nafūsa, voir p. 112. 31 Al-Buġṭūrī, 2009, p. 135. 32 Abū Zakariyyā’, 1985, p. 284. Gouja, 1984, p. 104, note 2, donne Ğābir ibn Sadirmām. Bābā‘ammī et al., 1999-2000, II, p. 111, le classe dans la dixième ṭabaqa (450–500/1058–1107). 33 Al-Šammāḫī, 2009, pp. 590-591. L’anecdote figure aussi chez Abū Zakariyyā’, 1985, pp. 299-300 ; al-Darğīnī, 1974, pp. 411–412 ; autre évocation chez al-Šammāḫī, 2009, p. 747. 34 Abū Zakariyyā’, 1985, p. 284 ; al-Darğīnī, 1974, p. 409. Bābā‘ammī et al., 1999- 2000, II, p. 106, dit qu’Abū Muğbir Tūzīn ibn Mūlīt al-Mazātī se rendit dans le sāḥil de Mahdiyya pour se consacrer pleinement à la dévotion avant de se rendre à Djerba. Curieusement, il est classé dans la dixième ṭabaqa (450–500/1058–1107). Gouja, 1984, p. 104, note 2, donne Abū Muğbir Tūzīn. Lewicki, 1990, p.111, donne Abū Muğabbir Tūzīn. 35 Al-Wisyānī, 2009, p. 343. 36 Al-Šammāḫī, 2009, pp. 591–592. 42 Virginie Prevost

7) Kabāb ibn Muṣliḥ : Abū Zakariyyā’ indique qu’il appartient à la tribu des Mazāta.37 On ne connaît de lui que les rares informations données par al-Šammāḫī, rapportées ci-dessus.

Datation du Dīwān

Deux dates fournies par les sources ibadites permettent de dater approximativement le Dīwān al-‘azzāba. D’une part, il est certain qu’il est terminé en 431/1039–1040, date de la mort d’Abū ‘Amr al- Numaylī. D’autre part, nous savons que c’est peu avant 409/1018– 1019 qu’Abū ‘Abd Allāh Muḥammad ibn Bakr veut aller étudier le fiqh chez Abū ‘Imrān Mūsā ibn Zakariyyā’, ce qui laisse supposer que l’ouvrage était alors terminé, Abū ‘Imrān en ayant tiré sa notoriété. Une autre indication importante est donnée par al-Darğīnī : au début de son ouvrage, il évoque les personnages célèbres compris dans la neuvième ṭabaqa (400–450/1058–1107) qui correspond selon lui « à la naissance des ‘azzāba » ; il cite Abū ‘Abd Allāh Muḥammad ibn Bakr, Zakariyyā’ et Yūnis (les deux fils de Faṣīl ibn Abī Miswar), ‘Abd Allāḥ ibn Mānūğ, Wīslān ibn Abī Ṣāliḥ, les gens de la grotte d’Amğāğ (sic), Abū Ğābir ibn Sadramām, Abū ‘Imrān Mūsā ibn Zakariyyā’, Kabāb ibn Muṣliḥ et Abū Yaḥyā Zakariyyā’ ibn Ğarnān (sic). 38 Il considère donc implicitement que tous ces savants ont collaboré à la création de la ḥalqa. Plusieurs anecdotes montrent clairement le lien fort qui existait entre certains savants de la grotte et Faṣīl ibn Abī Miswar qui fut, on s’en souvient, le concepteur de l’organisation des ‘azzāba. Ainsi, Abū ‘Imrān Mūsā ibn Zakariyyā’ disait, en l’évoquant par sa kunya : « s’il y avait à cette époque un imamat des musulmans, Abū Zakariyyā’ [Faṣīl] le mériterait ».39 De même, Abū Muḥammad ‘Abd Allāh ibn Mānūğ disait : « si à cette époque, la révélation descendait sur quelqu’un, Abū Zakariyyā’ mériterait qu’elle descende sur lui ».40 Ce

37 Abū Zakariyyā’, 1985, p. 284. Gouja, 1984, p. 104, note 2, donne Kabāb ibn Maṣlaḥ. Abū Zakariyyā’, 1985, pp. 378–379, évoque un certain Kabāb, des Banū Yāğrīn, mais il semble plus tardif. 38 Al-Darğīnī, 1974, pp. 8–9, qui reprend ici les ṭabaqāt d’Abū ‘Ammār ‘Abd al-Kāfī al-Wārğalānī. 39 Abū Zakariyyā’, 1985, p. 242 ; al-Darğīnī, 1974, p. 160. 40 Abū Zakariyyā’, 1985, pp. 241–242. Dīwān al-‘azzāba 43 même savant mettait ses enfants en garde de ne pas se détourner de l’islam41, partageant manifestement les craintes de Faṣīl. Tout cela témoigne de ce que ces savants adhéraient à ses idées et accordaient un intérêt tout particulier à la réflexion qu’il menait sur l’avenir des ibadites.42 Al-Wisyānī évoque une ḥalqa de ‘azzāba à propos d’Abū Muḥammad ‘Abd Allāh ibn Mānūğ. Ces ‘azzāba étudient les traditions, la littérature et les œuvres des anciens tous les lundis et les jeudis. Abū Muḥammad ‘Abd Allāh ibn Mānūğ leur conseille de s’entraider et de porter secours aux pauvres et aux faibles.43 Il faut comprendre ici le terme ‘azzāba dans le sens d’étudiants qui sont attachés à un maître. Toutefois, le fait que les prédications soient limitées au lundi et au jeudi anticipe ce qui sera instauré plus tard dans l’organisation de l’enseignement par le fondateur de la ḥalqa. Cette anecdote suggère qu’Abū Muḥammad ‘Abd Allāh ibn Mānūğ a vécu la période de la préparation de l’organisation des ‘azzāba et que le Dīwān al-‘azzāba a peut-être fait partie des premiers travaux que la communauté a réunis.44 Selon nous, c’est donc au moment où Faṣīl ibn Abī Miswar menait sa réflexion pour préserver les communautés ibadites d’une éventuelle disparition, que les sept savants se sont réunis dans la grotte de Mağmāğ, afin de consigner le patrimoine ibadite dans une vaste encyclopédie juridique. Il paraît certain que leur travail d’écriture a préparé en grande partie, au même titre que la réflexion de Faṣīl, la création de l’organisation des ‘azzāba. Si les historiens ibadites ne mentionnent pas la coopération entre les sept savants et Faṣīl, il est très probable que leurs démarches ont été simultanées. Ainsi, le Dīwān al-‘azzāba aurait été terminé à la fin du Xe ou au

41 Abū Zakariyyā’, 1985, p. 286. 42 Qūğā, 1996, p. 85, souligne que les sept savants, qui provenaient de milieux différents, avaient choisi Djerba en raison de la réputation de Faṣīl et de ses compagnons et de l’autorité que l’île commençait à avoir. 43 Al-Wisyānī, 2009, p. 321. Abū Zakariyyā’, 1985, pp. 288–289, mentionne aussi des ‘azzāba . 44 Al-Ğa‘bīrī, 1975, p. 173. 44 Virginie Prevost début du XIe siècle, précédant l’élaboration de la ḥalqa par Abū ‘Abd Allāh Muḥammad ibn Bakr.45 Plusieurs historiens contemporains affirment que le Dīwān al- ‘azzāba aurait été composé en 405/1014–1015.46 Cette date ne se retrouve dans aucune source ancienne. Il semble qu’elle soit tirée de l’ouvrage de Sālim ibn Ya‘qūb, qui comporte une erreur. Ce dernier écrit en effet que le Dīwān al-ašyāḫ, appelé aussi Dīwān al-ġār, aurait été créé au début du Ve/XIe siècle, en 504/1110–1111.47 À notre sens, un des historiens a corrigé 504 en 405, pour que la date corresponde au XIe siècle, et les autres ont recopié cette date fautive.

Remarques sur l’ouvrage

Le Dīwān al-‘azzāba est connu sous plusieurs autres noms – Dīwān al-mašā’iḫ, Kitāb al-ašyāḫ ou simplement Al-dīwān.48 Cela provoque une confusion avec un autre ouvrage qui porte sensiblement les mêmes noms49 : en effet, al-Darğīnī donne de nombreux détails sur un livre nommé Kitāb al-‘azzāba dans la biographie d’Ismā‘īl ibn Yadīr classé dans la dixième ṭabaqa (450–500/1058–1107). Il rapporte que les ‘azzāba se sont rassemblés pour rédiger un ouvrage en vingt-cinq parties, portant sur la doctrine et destiné à faciliter sa mémorisation par les débutants. Il cite les quatre auteurs des parties consacrées à la prière, au mariage, aux menstrues et aux testaments, ainsi que plusieurs auteurs supplémentaires qui ont collaboré à l’ouvrage,

45 Ces conclusions rejoignent celles exprimées par al-Ğa‘bīrī, 1975, p. 171, p. 176 et p. 260. Il ajoute, p. 170, que le rêve d’Abū ‘Imrān, qu’il voit comme le début de la rédaction de l’ouvrage, a sans doute eu lieu au moment où il a terminé ses études à Djerba, c’est-à-dire peu de temps avant la fin du IVe/Xe siècle ou un peu après. Qūğā, 1996, p. 86, estime aussi que c’est suite à la défaite de Bāġāya que Faṣīl a coopéré avec les savants de Mağmāğ, lieu secret où a été couvée l’organisation des ‘azzāba, ou qu’il leur a tout au moins suggéré cette rédaction. 46 Index d’al-Šammāḫī, 2009, p. 932 et p. 1003. Bābā‘ammī et al., 1999–2000, II, p. 456 entre autres. 47 Ibn Ya‘qūb, 1986, pp. 97–98. 48 Al-Ğa‘bīrī, 1975, p. 261 ; Qūğā, 1996, p. 84. 49 Ainsi, Mu‘ğam muṣṭalaḥāt al-ibāḍiyya, 2008, p. 394, évoque le Dīwān al-ašyāḫ créé dans la grotte de Mağmāğ et le Dīwān al-‘azzāba créé à Arīġ. Voir aussi sur ces deux ouvrages Custers, 2006, II pp. 44–49. Dīwān al-‘azzāba 45 provenant du djebel Nafūsa, de Tağdīt ou d’Arīġ. 50 Al-Šammāḫī reprend les propos d’al-Darğīnī mais nomme le livre Kitāb dīwān al- ‘azzāba.51 De son côté, al-Barrādī mentionne un Kitāb al-ašyāḫ qui comportait six petites parties ou trois grandes.52 Selon les travaux de Farḥāt al-Ğa‘bīrī, cette seconde encyclopédie juridique – que l’on attribue généralement au djebel Nafūsa – aurait été composée à Ouargla en 461/1068–1069. Il se base sur un document intitulé « Qism al-ṭaharāt », formant l’une des parties du Kitāb al-ašyāḫ, qui se termine par la mention de cette date et de Ouargla ; ce document a été imprimé au Caire en 1315/1897–1898. Un second document nommé « Qism al-ṣalāt », autre partie du Kitāb al-ašyāḫ, porte également la mention de Ouargla et la date de 461/1068–1069. De nombreux savants ibadites estiment que « Qism al-ṭahārāt » ainsi qu’une autre partie du Kitāb al-ašyāḫ intitulée « al- aḥkām » sont issus de l’œuvre composée par les savants de Mağmāğ.53 Cela semble erroné mais il faut admettre que la confusion règne au sujet de ces deux ouvrages – l’un créé à Mağmāğ et l’autre manifestement à Ouargla – tant ils sont proches par le sujet étudié, par la date de leur rédaction et par le fait qu’il s’agit d’œuvres collectives.54 On notera que le nom sous lequel l’ouvrage de Mağmāğ est resté principalement connu, Dīwān al-‘azzāba, annonce également la création de la ḥalqa.

50 Al-Darğīnī, 1974, pp. 455–456. Propos similaires dans Siyar al-mašā’iḫ, 2009, pp. 703–704. 51 Al-Šammāḫī, 2009, pp. 627–628, qui nomme le personnage Abū Ṭāhir Ismā‘īl ibn Yīdīr. 52 Al-Barrādī, 1302/1884–1885, p. 220. Sur cet ouvrage, qui aurait en fait compté 24 ou 25 volumes, voir Motylinski, 1885, pp. 25–26. 53 Al-Ğa‘bīrī, 1975, pp. 261–262. Selon al-Bārūnī, 1998, p. 86, n. 144, l’ouvrage composé à Mağmāğ, qu’il nomme Kitāb al-ašyāḫ, existe sous forme manuscrite dans la bibliothèque al-Bārūniyya de Djerba, sous le n° 156. Il en donne la composition, p. 89, citant quatorze parties parmi lesquelles on retrouve les parties nommées « al- ṭahārāt » et « al-aḥkām ». 54 Le principe de l’œuvre collective est récurrent à cette époque. Ainsi, dans la seconde moitié du Ve/XIe siècle, le Kitāb al-waṣāyā wa-l-buyū‘ (livre des testaments et des contrats), a été rédigé par huit élèves d’Abū Muḥammad Wīslān qui ont noté ses leçons sur des tablettes. Al-Ğa‘bīrī, 1975, p. 265. 46 Virginie Prevost

La grotte

La grotte de Mağmāğ existe toujours non loin de Wādī al-Zabīb et de Bāzīm, dans la partie occidentale de l’île. Creusée dans la pierre, elle se trouve à quelques mètres de la mosquée appelée ğāmi‘ al-ġār ou ğāmi‘ ibn Bayān, du nom de la famille qui s’occupe de son entretien. Cette mosquée, caractérisée par les deux contreforts qui encadrent l’entrée, se trouve au centre d’une cour entourée par un mur bas ; la salle de prière compte deux mihrabs, ce qui témoigne d’un agrandissement de l’édifice. La cour comprend également un local à ablutions, plusieurs pièces de services partiellement en ruine, les vestiges d’une galerie à arcades pourvue d’un mihrab et, enfin, la grotte qui forme manifestement l’élément central de ce lieu de culte. Elle a été creusée à cinq mètres de profondeur, dans une couche formée d’un mélange de pierre et d’argile. On y entre par une rampe d’accès comptant douze marches, couverte par une voûte à partir de la quatrième marche. L’intérieur de la grotte, haut de près de 2 mètres et très modeste, est conçu en forme de T, avec une sorte de hall d’entrée long d’environ 4 mètres qui aboutit à une salle perpendiculaire, formant deux petites pièces de part et d’autre du hall. Contrairement à d’autres grottes fréquentées par les ibadites, elle n’a pas de mihrab et ne ressemble donc pas aux mosquées souterraines censées accueillir une assemblée de gens en prière.55 Selon les travaux de Riyāḍ al- Murābiṭ, la place disponible à l’intérieur de la grotte n’est pas suffisante pour abriter les sept savants évoqués par les sources56 ; il nous a semblé, quant à nous, que c’était tout à fait possible, d’autant que l’on peut imaginer qu’ils ne travaillaient pas tous en même temps. Pour Farḥāt al-Ğa‘bīrī, Mağmāğ signifie en berbère « une communauté de gens qui se mélangent comme s’ils étaient une seule personne » et il est donc probable que ce sont les savants de la grotte qui ont donné ce nom à cet endroit. « Mağmāğ » est la prononciation égyptienne ; au Mzab on dit « Atamağmūğ » et l’on peut aussi

55 Description de la mosquée et de la grotte dans al-Murābiṭ, 2002, pp. 236–241 ; Ğarba ğazīrat masāğid, 1992, p. 11 ; al-Ğa‘bīrī, 1975, p. 167. 56 Al-Murābiṭ, 2002, p. 241. Pour al-Ğa‘bīrī, 1975, p. 167, elle ne peut contenir plus de dix personnes. Dīwān al-‘azzāba 47 prononcer « Atamağmūğan » 57 . Selon une autre source, ce mot berbère a pour sens « la réunion, le groupement autour de quelque chose » ; on dit dans le Mzab « Ītmağmağ » dans le cas d’un seul individu et « Atmağmğam » (sic) pour un groupe.58 Après avoir accueilli les sept savants, la grotte de Mağmāğ devient une madrasa célèbre, comme d’autres madrasas créées à partir de la ğāmi‘ al-kabīr ; elle héberge les meilleurs cercles d’étudiants et propose toutes les disciplines scientifiques dont ces derniers ont besoin.59 À la fin du XVIIe siècle, un savant djerbien envoie une lettre au sultan d’Oman Bel‘arab ibn Sulṭān dans laquelle il lui communique une liste de vingt madrasas scientifiques dénombrées à Djerba à cette époque : la madrasa de Mağmāğ figure en troisième position sous le nom de madrasat al-ġār fī ḥawmat Mağmāğ. Les deux premières madrasas citées sont la ğāmi‘ al-kabīr fondée par Abū Miswar, puis la madrasa de Wādī al-Zabīb, qui correspond à la mosquée Walḥī.60

Le culte des grottes chez les ibadites

Le culte des grottes est très répandu en Afrique du Nord. 61 Le Maghreb présente une longue tradition de grottes creusées par la main de l’homme, qu’il s’agisse par exemple des grottes funéraires (haouanet) très fréquentes dans l’Antiquité, ou de la plupart des grottes servant d’habitations aux troglodytes. Dans les régions ibadites, de nombreux édifices sont souterrains comme les huileries, les ateliers de tissage djerbiens, ou de nombreuses mosquées dont les salles de prière sont souterraines ou semi-souterraines. Certains historiens expliquent cela par une volonté de se protéger contre d’éventuelles persécutions ; cela ne nous paraît pas crédible car ces bâtiments – et c’est le cas de la grotte de Mağmāğ – sont tout aussi visibles que les constructions élevées sur le sol et ne témoignent d’aucune volonté de dissimulation. Il semble évident par contre que

57 Al-Ğa‘bīrī, 1975, p. 167. Lewicki, 1961b, p. 46, donne également les graphies Amğāğ et al-Ğamāğ. 58 Mu‘ğam muṣṭalaḥāt al-ibāḍiyya, 2008, p. 42. 59 Qūğā, 1996, p. 83. 60 Al-Ğa‘bīrī, 1975, pp. 239–240. 61 Voir Meouak, 2010. Basset, 1999, p. 8, souligne que le culte se déroule généralement à l’entrée de la grotte, et non pas à l’intérieur. 48 Virginie Prevost les salles souterraines présentent de grands avantages climatiques, offrant une température quasi constante tout au long de l’année. Cet argument ne semble toutefois pas suffisant pour expliquer l’importance que les ibadites ont accordée aux grottes. L’enfoncement de la grotte dans la terre permet la communication avec les divinités chtoniennes et peut-être même avec Dieu, puisque certains contemporains de saint Augustin croyaient se rapprocher de Lui en s’enfonçant dans des souterrains. 62 De nombreuses grottes, en ce qu’elles sont une ouverture au monde des morts, sont réputées pouvoir offrir la fécondité et sont fréquentées par les jeunes filles en âge de se marier.63 Il existe également de rares exemples de grottes censées apporter l’inspiration aux poètes grâce aux génies qui les habitent.64 Tout comme le culte des rochers ou des pierres, celui des grottes est l’un des plus anciens cultes berbères. Dans l’Antiquité, elles étaient considérées comme la demeure des divinités et en Numidie, le Dieu des grottes le plus vénéré était Bacax. Après l’islamisation, les Berbères sont restés fidèles au culte de grottes et l’ont intégré, en général mais pas obligatoirement, dans celui des musulmans réputés pour leur piété.65 Les ibadites vénèrent particulièrement les grottes, et cela dès l’époque rustumide. Ainsi, vers 1940, la colonie mozabite de Tahert se rend toujours en pèlerinage à la grotte où venait prier le dernier imam et conserve pieusement les traditions relatives à la capitale rustumide.66 La région de Ouargla semble tout spécialement marquée par le culte des grottes. Abū Ṣāliḥ Ğannūn ibn Īmriyān, le chef ibadite de la région de Ouargla, possédait, en guise d’oratoire, une grotte située au pied du djebel Krīma qui est toujours connue aujourd’hui.67 Selon Laurent-Charles Féraud, le djebel al-‘Ībād, une formation analogue à celle du djebel Krīma, devait être le lieu consacré au culte par les Sadrāta ibadites ; on lui a assuré qu’il existait encore plus de

62 Camps, 1995, p. 146. 63 Servier, 1985, pp. 53–54. 64 Basset, 2001, pp. 194–195. 65 Lewicki, 1967, pp. 15–16. 66 Capot-Rey, 1941, p. 180. 67 Bābā‘ammī et al., 1999–2000, II, p. 116. Sur ce personnage qui accueillit l’ancien imam rustumide Ya‘qūb ibn Aflaḥ après la chute de Tāhart, voir Prevost, 2008b, pp. 138–139. Dīwān al-‘azzāba 49 cinquante niches servant d’oratoires où les Mozabites de Ouargla et d’ailleurs allaient tous les printemps en pèlerinage faire « leurs dévotions mystérieuses ». 68 Ces pèlerinages à la « montagne des adorateurs de Dieu » sont encore effectués dans les années cinquante par les ibadites, après qu’ils ont retrouvé sous les sables les ruines de l’ancienne mosquée de Sadrāta.69 Les textes évoquent fréquemment dans cette région des grottes nommées gār ou ġīrān Ağāğ par Abū Zakariyyā’, ġīrān Banī Ağāğ par al-Darğīnī, et ġīrān Banī Ağğāğ par al-Šammāḫī. Dans la biographie d’Abū Ṣāliḥ Tabrakat al-Yāğrānī, qui vivait sans doute dans la première moitié du XIe siècle 70 , Abū Zakariyyā’ raconte cette anecdote d’après un certain Yūnus ibn Ağāğ : « nous sommes allés avec un groupe de ‘azzāba chez Abū Ṣāliḥ dans les grottes appelées « grottes d’Ağāğ » et nous avons passé la nuit chez lui. Les ‘azzāba lisaient des rimes et les djinns y répondaient ».71 On sait d’autre part qu’Abū Ṣāliḥ al-Yāğrānī avait un muṣallā dans une de ces grottes : alors qu’il venait y adorer Dieu, pendant la nuit, il y trouva deux lampes, mais ne sut pas qui les avait allumées.72 Enfin, les historiens rapportent qu’Abū ‘Abd Allāh Muḥammad ibn Bakr « reçut la visite de Muḥammad ibn Sulaymān al-Nafūsī et de Muḥammad ibn ‘Umar al-Yarūtanī, qui étudiaient les livres dans la grotte d’Ağāğ. Il les interrogea sur leur situation et sur ce qu’ils faisaient dans les grottes d’Ağāğ. Ils lui apprirent qu’ils étudiaient les livres dans ces

68 Féraud, 1886, p. 270 (la graphie arabe ‘Ībād figure p. 263). Tarry, 1883, p. 28, évoque une seule grotte artificielle, dans laquelle a vécu pendant des années un anachorète dans la prière et la méditation, ce qui en a fait un lieu de pèlerinage pour les Mozabites. 69 Van Berchem, 1960, p. 295, qui parle de plus de cent niches en lisant mal Féraud. 70 Il assistait en effet aux assemblées d’Abū ‘Abd Allāh Muḥammad ibn Bakr. Abū Zakariyyā’, 1985, p. 311 ; al-Darğīnī, 1974, p. 372 ; al-Šammāḫī, 2009, p. 562. 71 Abū Zakariyyā’, 1985, p. 311 ; al-Darğīnī, 1974, p. 373. 72 Al-Darğīnī, 1974, p. 373 ; al-Šammāḫī, 2009, p. 563 (qui ne précise pas que c’est à Banī Ağğāğ). Abū Zakariyyā’, 1985, p. 312, écrit qu’il [sans doute Abū Ṣāliḥ] disait : « les preuves et les bénédictions ont disparu et seules deux lampes brûlent encore pour moi dans la grotte, l’une à droite du côté de l’Occident et l’autre à gauche, à l’Orient de la grotte ». 50 Virginie Prevost grottes ». 73 Selon al-Darğīnī, elles sont situées à l’extérieur de Ouargla.74 Il s’agirait d’un lieu de culte berbère antique.75 Le fameux savant Abū ‘Ammār ‘Abd al-Kāfī al-Wārğalānī, de la première moitié du XIIe siècle, est enterré en plein désert à 5 km au nord-ouest de Ouargla. À quelques dizaines de mètres de son tombeau se trouve son maqām, une grotte de plusieurs mètres de diamètre, au pied d’une montagne, sans signe distinctif à l’extérieur, où il passait selon la tradition de longs moments à prier et à réciter le Coran. Au début du XXe siècle, chaque année au printemps, les ibadites de Ouargla rendaient une pieuse visite (ziyāra) à cette grotte et au tombeau d’Abū ‘Ammār pour y accomplir leurs devoirs rituels.76 La fondation de Ghardaïa, principale ville du Mzab, par les ibadites, est elle aussi liée à une grotte. La ville tire son nom de ġār Daïa, du nom d’une femme qui y demeurait seule. Au début du XXe siècle, l’endroit est toujours connu, sur l’un des flancs de la colline qui porte la grande mosquée. Les femmes visitent fréquemment la grotte de celle qu’elles vénèrent sous le nom de Lalla Sahla, y allument des bougies, frottent les murs avec du henné et des parfums, afin qu’elle intercède auprès de Dieu en leur faveur.77 Une anecdote se rapportant à la grotte de Tīn Īslī dans l’Arīġ – dans laquelle a été fondée la ḥalqa – montre qu’Abū ‘Abd Allāh Muḥammad ibn Bakr (m. 440/1048–1049) et ses étudiants dorment à l’intérieur et que cette grotte, sans doute assez vaste, est pourvue de piliers, de colonnes et d’un mihrab.78 On lit dans le Siyar al-mašāyiḫ qu’Abū ‘Abd Allāh Muḥammad ibn Bakr est mort dans cette grotte et que son tombeau se trouve face à elle.79

73 Abū Zakariyyā’, 1985, p. 327. Anecdote similaire chez al-Darğīnī, 1974, p. 389 ; al-Šammāḫī, 2009, p. 576. 74 Al-Darğīnī, 1974, p. 373. Pour Bābā‘ammī et al., 1999-2000, II, p. 104, la grotte est encore visible non loin d’Abū ‘Ammār ‘Abd al-Kāfī (voir infra). 75 Lewicki, 1967, p. 17. 76 Lewicki, 1961b, p. 34 ; 1961a, p. 90. 77 Voir à ce sujet Cuperly, 1971, p. 27 ; Anonyme, 1919–1921, pp. 95-96 et p. 103. 78 Abū Zakariyyā’, 1985, p. 322. L’anecdote du balayage est reprise par al-Wisyānī, 2009, p. 366. 79 Siyar al-mašā’iḫ, 2009, p. 581. Voir aussi al-Wisyānī, 2009, p. 368. Al-Wisyānī, 2009, p. 363 et al-Šammāḫī, 2009, p. 578, parlent de la grotte située à l’est d’Ağlū (ġār Ağlū al-šarqiyya). Al-Wisyānī, 2009, p. 368, évoque aussi la grotte à l’ouest d’Ağlū (al-ġār fī Ağlū al-ġarbī). Dīwān al-‘azzāba 51

Le Sud tunisien compte également quelques exemples de grottes.80 Dans la première moitié du Xe siècle, lorsque le rebelle nukkārite Abū Yazīd revient d’Orient, il creuse une grotte à Qal‘at Šaddād, dans laquelle il se réunit avec ses compagnons ; cette grotte de la région de Tozeur est connue à l’époque d’Abū Zakariyyā’.81 Abū l-Rabī‘ Sulaymān ibn Yaḫlaf al-Mazātī (m. 471/1078–1079), un des élèves d’Abū ‘Abd Allāh Muḥammad ibn Bakr, est l’un de ceux qui contribuent à fonder la ḥalqa à Djerba. Plus tard, il s’installe avec ses étudiants dans une grotte à Qal’at Banī ‘Alī dans les montagnes du Sud-Est tunisien, puis il colonise une seconde grotte. 82 Lorsqu’il gagne Tamūlast un peu plus tard, c’est à nouveau dans une grotte qu’il s’installe.83 Le djebel Nafūsa est manifestement la région qui compte le plus de grottes vénérées par les ibadites. Le grand savant de la première moitié du IXe siècle, Abū Mirdās Muhāṣir al-Sadrātī, avait un lieu de prières (masğid) dans une grotte (kahf), où il adorait Dieu. Al- Šammāḫī raconte qu’il a vu lui-même, au-dessus de ce muṣallā qui se trouve dans la grotte, une trace de pied sur une roche lisse ; ce lieu est bien connu jusqu’à son époque des habitants de la région, qui considèrent qu’il s’agit de l’empreinte de pied d’Abū Mirdās et qui s’y rendent pour obtenir des bénédictions. Ailleurs, il évoque trois traces de pieds.84 Certaines grottes sont le lieu de miracles qui permettent de sauver ceux qui les fréquentent : ainsi dans la première moitié du Xe siècle, Abū ‘Āmir al-Sadrātī dormait dans sa grotte lorsqu’il entendit une voix venue de l’extérieur qui s’adressait à lui ; il sortit mais ne trouva personne, rentra dans la grotte et vit qu’un rocher s’était détaché du plafond pour tomber à l’endroit où il dormait.85 Voici un

80 La légende des gens de la caverne, faisant référence à la sourate XVIII du Coran, est particulièrement développée dans le Sud tunisien. Voir Prevost, 2008a, pp. 315– 316 et Meouak, 2010. 81 Abū Zakariyyā’, 1985, p. 169. 82 Abū Zakariyyā’, 1985, pp. 271-272 ; al-Darğīnī, 1974, pp. 193-194, qui dit Qal‘at Abī ‘Alī. Sur ce personnage, voir Prevost, 2006b, pp. 114-116. 83 Abū Zakariyyā’, 1985, p. 276. 84 Al-Šammāḫī, 2009, p. 303 et p. 771. Al-Buġṭūrī, 2009, p. 58, écrit seulement qu’il avait une grotte (kahf) dans laquelle il adorait Dieu. Sur le terme kahf, voir Meouak, 2010. 85 Al-Buġṭūrī, 2009, p. 37 ; al-Šammāḫī, 2009, p. 455. 52 Virginie Prevost exemple d’autre miracle : une esclave venue du Sūdān, convertie à l’islam pendant son trajet vers le djebel Nafūsa, y fut achetée par un ibadite chez lequel elle travaillait la journée. Pendant la nuit, elle se rendait à des assemblées religieuses puis gagnait son muṣallā située dans une grotte (kahf) où elle priait ; deux lampes y étaient allumées à son intention. Son maître finalement l’affranchit et, après cela, elle ne trouva plus qu’une seule lampe.86 La liste Tasmiya mašāhid al-ğabal énumère plusieurs grottes (ġār) qui font partie des sanctuaires du djebel Nafūsa : la grotte de Tinālūtīn, la grotte de Tānūt Nislī, le muṣallā d’Abū Ḫalīl et sa grotte, et enfin la grotte de Tūkīt.87 La première n’est connue que par ce texte. La seconde désigne la grotte « du puits d’IsIī », tirant peut-être son nom d’un personnage inconnu de l’époque préislamique.88 La grotte d’Abū Ḫalīl doit sans doute être mise en rapport avec un lieu de culte fréquenté par le fameux Abū Ḫalīl Ṣāl, également connu sous les noms d’al-Daršalī ou d’al-Darkalī, qui a vécu dans la première moitié du IXe siècle. Il s’agissait peut-être d’une grotte vénérée avant l’ère musulmane qui aurait, pour cette raison, été fréquentée par Abū Ḫalīl.89 Enfin, la grotte de Tūkīt, du nom d’un village du djebel, est évoquée par d’autres sources ibadites : c’est là qu’Abū ‘Amr Maymūn ibn Muḥammad al-Šarūsī pria Dieu pour obtenir le départ d’une armée ennemie.90 Ainsi, les Berbères ibadites – et cela dès l’époque rustumide – célèbrent tout comme leurs ancêtres le culte des grottes, quelle que soit la région dans laquelle ils se trouvent. Les exemples présentés ci- dessus, puisés parmi les très nombreuses anecdotes rapportées dans les sources ibadites, montrent bien les différentes fonctions de la

86 Al-Buġṭūrī, 2009, p. 98 ; al-Šammāḫī, 2009, p. 357. 87 Basset, 1981, p. 372. 88 Lewicki, 1967, p. 16. Basset, 1981, p. 378, émet l’hypothèse que cette grotte se trouvait dans la localité de Tīn Īslī évoquée par al-Šammāḫī, mais cet endroit se situe à Arīġ et non pas dans le djebel. 89 Lewicki, 1967, p. 16. Les historiens ibadites rapportent qu’un jour, Abū alīl fut attaqué par des bandits de grand chemin et blessé à dix-sept reprises. Il entra dans une grotte et y demeura pendant quarante jours sans manger ni boire. Al-Buġṭūrī, 2009, p. 92 ; al-Šammāḫī, 2009, p. 349. 90 Al-Buġṭūrī, 2009, p. 87 ; al-Šammāḫī, p. 431 (sous la forme Tukīt). Une autre anecdote concerne la grotte de Tūkīt : al-Buġṭūrī, 2009, p. 45 ; al-Šammāḫī, 2009, p. 517. Ce dernier, p. 803, mentionne la mosquée de Tukīt (sic). Dīwān al-‘azzāba 53 grotte : elle peut être un simple endroit de prière et de dévotion, ou un lieu dans lequel se déroulent des miracles, qui peut apporter des bénédictions à qui le fréquente. Elle est le séjour des djinns et des lampes allumées par des forces mystérieuses y attendent les fidèles. De pieux personnages s’y enferment pendant de longues périodes pour prier et réciter le Coran. C’est dans une grotte qu’il fait creuser à cette intention qu’Abū ‘Abd Allāh Muḥammad ibn Bakr fonde la première ḥalqa et vit avec ses ‘azzāba, créant un précédant pour d’autres ḥalqa. La grotte favorise manifestement l’étude et la concentration, elle semble être pour les ibadites le lieu de réunion savante par excellence. Cela permet sans doute de comprendre pourquoi le Dīwān al-‘azzāba a été rédigé par les sept savants dans une grotte spécialement creusée à cet effet.

Figure 1. La grotte de Mağmāğ, vue de profil et entré – © Virginie Prevost.

54 Virginie Prevost

Figure 2. La grotte de Mağmāğ, vue de profil et entrée – © Virginie Prevost.

Figure 3. La mosquée ibn Bayān – © Virginie Prevost. Dīwān al-‘azzāba 55

Figure 4. La ğāmi‘ al-kabīr – © Axel Derriks.

Bibliographie

Abū Zakariyyā’ (1985), Kitāb al-sīra wa-aḫbār al-a’imma, éd. ‘A. Ayyūb, Tunis, Al-dār al-tūnisiyya li-l-našr. Anonyme (1919–1921), « Légendes du M’Zab », Bulletin de la Société de géographie d’Alger, XXIV-XXVI, pp. 93–115. Bābā‘ammī, M. et al. (1999–2000), Mu‘ğam a‘lām al-ibāḍiyya min al-qarn al-awwal al-hiğrī ilā al-‘aṣr al-ḥāḍir, qism al-Maġrib al-islāmī, Beyrouth, Dār al-ġarb al-islāmī, 2 vol. Al-barrādī (1302/1884–1885), Kitāb ğawāhir al-muntaqāt fī itmām mā aḫalla bi-hi kitāb al-ṭabaqāt, Le Caire, éd. lith. commissionnée par Muḥammad ibn Yūsuf al-Bārūnī et Sulaymān ibn Mas‘ūd al-Mağdalī. Al-bārūnī, Y. (1998), Ğazīrat Ğarba fī mawkib al-tārīḫ, éd. S. al- Bārūnī, s.l. Basset, H. (1999), Le culte des grottes au Maroc, rééd. Clichy, Éditions du Jasmin. ——— (2001), Essai sur la littérature des Berbères, rééd. Paris, Ibis Press – Awal. 56 Virginie Prevost

Basset, R. (1981), « Les sanctuaires du Djebel Nefousa », réimpr. in Cahiers de Tunisie, XXIX, 115-116, pp. 361–395. Al-Buġṭūrī (2009), Sīrat mašā’iḫ Nafūsa, éd. T. al-Šaqrūnī, s.l., Mu’assasa Tāwālt al-taqāfiyya. Camps, G. (1995), Les Berbères, mémoire et identité, Paris, Errance. Capot-Rey, R. (1941), « La migration des Saïd Atba ou la Zénétie ressuscitée », Revue Africaine, LXXXV, pp. 170–186. Cuperly, P. (1971), Aperçus sur l’histoire de l’ibāḍisme au Mzab (al- Risāla l-Šāfiya fī ba‘ḍ tawārīḫ ahl Wādī Mīzāb de Muḥammad Aṭfayyaš), Mémoire de Maîtrise présenté à la Faculté des Lettres de Paris (Sorbonne). Custers, M. (2006), Al-Ibāḍiyya, a bibliography, Maastricht, 3 vol. Al-Darğīnī (1974), Kitāb ṭabaqāt al-mašā’iḫ bi-l-Maġrib, éd. I. al- Ṭallāy, Constantine, Maṭba‘at al-ba‘t, 2 vol. Féraud, L.-Ch. (1886), « Les Ben-Djellab, Sultans de Tougourt », Revue Africaine, XXX, pp. 259–274 et pp. 367–391. Al-Ğa‘bīrī, F. (1975), Niẓām al-‘azzāba ‘inda l-ibāḍiyya l-wahbiyya fī Ğarba, Tunis, Institut National d’Archéologie et d’Art. Ğarba ğazīrat al-masāğid (1992), Houmt-Souk, Ğam‘iyyat ṣiyānat ğazīrat Ğarba. Gouja, M. (1984), Étude du Kitāb as-siyar d’abur-Rabī‘ Sulaymān al- Wisyānī, étude, analyse et traduction fragmentée, doctorat de 3ème cycle polycopié sous la direction de Jean Devisse, Paris I- Sorbonne. Ibn Ya‘qūb, S. (1986), Tārīḫ ğazīrat Ğarba, Tunis, Dār al- ğuwaynī li-l-našr. Lewicki, T. (1936), « Mélanges berbères-ibāḍites », Revue des études islamiques, X, pp. 267–296. ——— (1961a), « Ibāḍitica, 1. Tasmiya šuyūḫ Nafūsa », Rocznik Orientalistyczny, XXV, pp. 87–120. Dīwān al-‘azzāba 57

——— (1961b), « Les historiens, biographes et traditionnistes ibāḍites-wahbites de l’Afrique du Nord du VIIIe au XVIe siècle », Folia Orientalia, III, pp. 1–134. ——— (1967), « Survivances chez les Berbères médiévaux d’ère musulmane de cultes anciens et de croyances païennes », Folia Orientalia, VIII, pp. 5–40. ——— (1990), « Les noms propres berbères employés chez les Nafūsa médiévaux (VIIIe–XVIe siècle). Observations d’un arabisant », Folia Orientalia, XXVII, pp. 107–137. Meouak, M. (2010), « Le vocabulaire des grottes et des cavernes dans le Maghreb médiéval à la lumière des sources écrites », à paraître dans Cuadernos de Madīnat al-Zahrā’, 7. Motylinski, A. de Calassanti (1885), « Bibliographie du Mzab. Les livres de la secte abadhite », Bulletin de Correspondance Africaine, III, pp. 15–72. Mu‘ğam muṣṭalaḥāt al-ibāḍiyya (2008), Mascate, Wizārat al-awqāf wa-l-šu’ūn al-dīniyya, 2 vol. Al-Murābiṭ, R. (2002), Mudawwana masāğid Ğarba, Tunis, Wizārat al-taqāfa - Al-Ma‘had al-waṭanī li-l-turāt. Prevost, V. (2004), « La renaissance des ibāḍites wahbites à Djerba au Xe siècle », Folia Orientalia, 40, pp. 171–191. ——— (2006a), « La révolte de Bāġāya (358/969) : le dernier soulèvement des ibāḍites maghrébins », Journal of Near Eastern Studies, 65, pp. 197–206. ——— (2006b), « Genèse et développement de la ḥalqa chez les ibāḍites maghrébins », Acta Orientalia Belgica, XIX, pp. 109– 124. ——— (2008a), L’aventure ibāḍite dans le Sud tunisien. Effervescence d’une région méconnue, Helsinki, Academia Scientiarum Fennica. ——— (2008b), « Une tentative d’histoire de la ville ibadite de Sadrāta », Mélanges de la Casa de Velázquez. Nouvelle série, 38, 2, pp. 129–147. 58 Virginie Prevost

Qūğā, M. (1996), « Al-ab‘ād al-ḥaḍāriyya li-ğāmi‘ Abī Miswar fī ğazīrat Ğarba », in Dirāsāt ḥawla ğazīrat Ğarba, Houmt-Souk, Ğam‘iyyat ṣiyānat ğazīrat Ğarba, pp. 78–88. Al-Šammāḫī (2009), Kitāb al-siyar, éd. M. Ḥasan, Beyrouth, Dār al- madār al-islāmī, 3 vol. Servier, J. (1985), Tradition et civilisation berbères. Les portes de l’année, Monaco, Éditions du Rocher. Tarry, H. (1883), « Excursion archéologique dans la vallée de l’Oued Mya », Revue d’ethnographie, II, pp. 21–34. Van Berchem, M. (1960), « Sedrata et les anciennes villes berbères du Sahara dans les récits des explorateurs du XIXe siècle », Bulletin de l’Institut français d’archéologie orientale, LIX, pp. 289–308. Al-Wisyānī (2009), Siyar al-Wisyānī li-Abī ’l-Rabī‘ Sulaymān ibn ‘Abd al-Sallām ibn Ḥassān ibn ‘Abd Allāh al-Wisyānī (6 H./12 M.), éd. ‘U. Bū ‘Aṣbāna, Mascate, Wizārat al-turāt wa-l-taqāfa, vol. I, pp. 225–517.

Antiquity of the divyakṣetras in Pāṇḍināḍu

R.K.K. Rajarajan Gandhigram Rural Institute – Deemed University, Tamil Nadu, India

Abstract

The Āḻvārs in their hymns, the Nālāyirativviyappirapantam, have listed 108 sacred venues or centers of worship of Viṣṇu in the Indian subcontinent, called divyadeśa. The 108 are brought under certain topographical segmentations such as Malaināḍu (Kerala), Pāṇḍinaḍu (south of River Kāviri), Cōḻanāḍu (Kāviri delta), Vaṭanāḍu (North India) and so on. Among these 18 are found in the Pāṇḍya country. The hymns present a cavalcade of data bearing on these sthala/kṣetras, dealing with the Mūrti, tīrtha, vkṣa, ecology, landscape, flora and fauna, pūjās and utsavas, mythologies bearing on Viṣṇu and so on. The impact of the Vedas and Sanskritic purāṇas such as the Harivaṃśa and Viṣṇu Purāṇa may be found in them. Besides, the Āḻvārs have recast the theme to the Tamil taste to suit the local cultural traditions. The present article presents a summary of data bearing on the 18 divyadeśas, trying to locate the roots in an ancient poem, called Paripāṭal. The date of the Āḻvārs is briefly discussed. Among the twelve only seven have extolled the divyadeśas in Pāṇḍināḍu. Of the 24 integral wings of the Nālāyiram eleven talk of these sthalas. The Āḻvārs have presented a picture of the deśas as they found these around the 6th-9th century CE. Later the temples under 60 R.K.K. Rajarajan study have developed at the hands of the successive rulers of the land down to the 18th century CE. The photographic evidences we have presented relate to such a later phase while in some cases such as Tirumeyyam the early medieval rock-cut temples and images are to be found. The text is supported by maps and photographic evidences.

Keywords: Pāṇḍinādu, divyadeśa, sthala, kṣetra, Āḻvār, Paripāṭal, Nālāyiram, Māliruñcōlai, Kōṭṭiyūr, Meyyam, Pullāṇi, Taṇkāl, Mōkūr, Kūṭal/Maturai, Villiputtūr, Kurukūr, Tolaivillimaṅkalam, Cīvaramaṅkai, Puḷiṅkuṭi, Pērai, Vaikuntam, Varakuṇamaṅkai, Kuḷantai, Kuṟuṅkuṭi, Kōḷūr, sayana, sthānaka, asana.

The expanded version of the title to the present article may be “Antiquity of the Vaiṣṇava Divyakṣetras in Pāṇḍināḍu (precisely Pāṇṭināṭu) at the southern-most extremity of the Indian subcontinent.” By immortal tradition, it is believed that the Vaiṣṇava divyakṣetras or divyadeśas are 108.1 The Tamil Vaiṣṇava mystics, the Āḻvārs, have extolled the praise of all these places in their hymns, called Nālāyirativviyapirapantam (shortly Nālāyiram), known as the Drāviḍa-veda.2 The Āḻvārs were twelve in number. They are Poykai, Pūtam, Pēy, Nam (T. Caṭakōpaṉ, Skt. Ṣaṭagopa), Maturakavi (Skt. Madhurakavi), Kulacēkaraṉ (Skt. Kulaśekhara), Tiruppāṇ, Toṇṭaraṭippoṭi, Tirumaḻicai, Periya (T. Viṭṭucittaṉ, Skt. Viṣṇusiddha), Āṇṭāḷ and Maṅkai (Kaliyaṉ, also Ālināṭaṉ), all names suffixed with āḻvār. Āḻvār means one deeply immersed in love with Viṣṇu, T. Māl or Tirumāl (Kalidos1976: 103). The Āḻvārs were held in very high esteem by the Tamil Vaiṣṇavas in sofaras they were considred to be the Lord Viṣṇu himself or his various aṅgas, deified and festivals held in their honor, especially on the day of their natal star. According to a purāṇic concept Nam and Pūtam were the tiara of Viṣṇu, Poykai and Pēy the Lord’s eyes, Periya the face, Tirumaḻicai the neck, Kulacēkaraṉ and Tiruppāṇ the hands, Toṇṭaraṭippoṭi the chest,

1 A later compilation, Śrītattvanidhi (6. 335) of Kr̥ ṣṇarāja of Mysore (19th century), lists 112 kṣetras that includes Ahobalam, Yathotkāri, Śrīmuṣṭṇa (Śrīmuṣṇam), Maṉṉarkuṭi, Mahiṣūrsthān (Mysore) and so on (Kalidos 2006: 307, cf. Hardy 1983: 256–61). 2 For an alphabetical list of these places, listed by R.K.K. Rajarajan, see Kalidos 2006: 303–308. Antiquity of the Divyakṣetras in Pāṇḍināḍu 61

Tirumaṅkai the umbilicus and Maturakavi the sacred feet (Devanathan 1971: Annexure p. 85). Nātamuṉi codified their magnum opus, collectively called Nālāyiram, at about the 10th century AD (Aiyangar 1940: 260, Hardy 1983). This work consists of 24 pieces. They are:

Author Name of the work Poykai Tiruvantāti I Pūtam Tiruvantāti II Pēy Tiruvantāti III Nam 1. Tiruvāciriyam 2. Tiruviruttam 3. Periya Tiruvantāti 4.Tiruvāymoḻi Maturakavi Kaṇṇinuṇciṟuttāmpu Kulacēkaraṉ Perumāḷ Tirumoḻi Tiruppāṇ Amalanātipirāṉ Toṇṭaraṭippoṭi 1. Tirumālai 2. Nāṉmukaṉ Tiruvantāti Periya 1. Tirumoḻi 2. Tiruppallāṇṭu Āṇṭāḷ 1 Tirupāvai 2. Nācciyār Tirumoḻi Tirumaṅkai 1. Periya Tirumoḻi 2. Tirukkuṟuntāṇṭakam 3. Tiruneṭuntāṇṭakam 4. Tiruveḻukūṟṟirukkai 5. Ciṟiyatirumaṭal 6. Periyatirumaṭal (cf. Kalidos 1999a: 223-24n).

The date of the Āḻvārs is not so vexed a question. Kamil V. Zvelebil (1974: 101–104) dates Poykai, Pūtam and Pēy at CE 650–700 and Āṇṭāḷ, including Toṇṭaraṭippoṭi, in the 9th century (cf. Hardy 1983). Kalidos dates Poykai to Pēy in the 5th–6th century, Nam to Tirumaḻicai in the 7th–8th century and Periya to Maṅkai in the 8th– 9th century. Poykai to Pēy, known as Mutal Āḻvārs “Early Āḻvārs”, are more likely to be dated in the 5th–6th century on a logical sequence of the Tamil bhakti literature for which the Vaiṣṇavas and their counterparts, the Śaivas have contributed. Some of the Śaiva mystics, e.g. Kāraikkālammaiyār, are dated in the 5th century CE. An important question to be posed here is: who inaugurated the saga of composition of the bhakti literature in Tamil? Whether did the 62 R.K.K. Rajarajan

Vaiṣṇavas or Śaivas? If the Mutal Āḻvārs are to be dated in the later half of the 7th century CE as suggested by Zvelebil, it is understood that the Śaivas began the Tamil bhakti earlier since Kāraikkālammaiyār is dated in the 5th–6th century CE (Zvelebil 1974: 91 dates her in CE 500). The rudiments of Vaiṣṇava bhakti may be found in the Paripāṭal, a post-Caṅkam work, assigned to the 4th century CE by Zvelebil. Its continuation occurs in the Āycciyarkuravai of Cilappatikāram, dated in the 5th century CE by Zvelebil (for a comprehensive analysis of these poems see Hardy 1983), which most art historians, including Raju Kalidos accept. The Mutal Āḻvārs took up further work only in the later half of the 7th century if Zvelebil’s date is considered. Thereby, there arises a hiatus in Vaiṣṇava bhakti during CE 550–650. Logically, in a historical sequence it could not be so. It is a known fact that bhakti is the outcome of the Bhāgavata movement in the North that may be fixed in the early centuries of the Christian era (cf. Bhandarkar (1913/1995). It is likely to have percolated to the South and had its impact on composers of the Paripāṭal and Iḷaṅkōvaṭikaḷ, author of Cilappatikāram, in the 4th–5th century.3 The Mutal Āḻvārs must have continued the tradition in the later 5th or early 6th century CE so that from the Paripāṭal to Mutal Āḻvārs, there is an unbroken Vaiṣṇava bhakti activity. The Nāyaṉmār enters the scene around the 5th

3 Brockington (1981/1991) advocates a controversially debatable thesis that the origin of Tamil bhakti is in the Tirukkuṟaḷ (Brockington’s 1991: 130–31 date 4th century AD), which is a didactic work that could also be a blend of dharma-, artha- and kāma-śāstras. The author of the work, Vaḷḷuvar, has no pretext to talk about God, excepting in the invoctory part that invites the presence of the Muse, which talks of God in generic terms and mentions no name of a personal God such as Viṣṇu or Śiva. Interpretations may bring Śiva, Viṣṇu or Brahmā into the piture but these are vague. For example, Malarmicai ēkiṉāṉ (Tirukkuṟaḷ v. 3) “one who is mounted on a flower”, i.e., Brahmā (cf. Malaravaṉ or Malarṉōṉ, Tēvaram 3.276.9, 1.7.9), Taṉakkuvamai illātāṉ (Tirukkuṟaḷ v. 7) “the Lord to whom none is a match” maybe either Śiva or Viṣṇu (cf. Muṉikāṇmūrtti “Seer seen by the seers”, Tēvarkulakkoḻuntu “Sprout of the House of Gods”, Tēvāram 7.4.3, 1.50.4), Aṟavāḻiantaṉaṉ (Tirukkuṟaḷ v. 8) “the righteous person (brāhmaṇa)”, i.e. Brahmā. Tirukkuṟaḷ v. 10 notes God with the generic term iṟaivaṉ. The author vaguely notes Brahmā that might suggest he is a brāhmaṇa. If one advocates such a fascinating theory, a fanatic Tamil scholar may declare a jehad because the author, Vaḷḷuvar (soothsayers’ caste), belonged to a pañcama family (Hanumanthan 1996–97: 51). Jain scholars consider Tirukkuṟaḷ a piece of heterodoxical work (Bhaskaran 2001: 33). Again, the intense devotionalism that melts the tissues of a devotee as in the Tēvāram or Nālāyiram (cf. Kalidos 1996: 78–89) is totally missing in the Kuṟaḷ. Antiquity of the Divyakṣetras in Pāṇḍināḍu 63 century. At this place, it may be noted that there is no exclusive literature on Śiva or Śiva-bhakti down to the 5th or early 6th century. The Caṅkam and post-Caṅkam literature has an exhaustive work on Murukaṉ, the Tirumurukāṟṟuppaṭai, including Paripāṭal, and Devī in the Vēṭṭuvavari section of Cilappatikāram. Where is the place of Śiva in these works? He is not even considered to be the god of a particular tiṇai (e.g. kuṟiñci, cf. Jeyapriya 2004). Śiva’s personality is projected only after the time of Kārakkālammaiyār, particularly in the hymns of the Tēvāram-trio (cf. Kalidos 1996: 13–56). The antiquity of Māliruñcōlai could be pushed a few centuries back as it figures prominently in the Paripāṭal (vv. 1–4, 13, 15, Paripāṭal-tiraṭṭu v. 1). The first verse invokes the Lord in the nāmāvali pattern as follows:

Thou are dharma, Thou are Blessing, Thou are Righteousness, Thou are trouble to trouble-mongers, Thou are the Sun, Moon and Fire, Thou are Śiva and his action, i.e. saṃhāra, Thou are the Veda, Thou are Brahmā and his action, i.e. sṛṣṭi, Thou are the pañcabhūtas and Thou are the Himālayas. (Paripāṭal v. 1 II. 37–48)

The Lord’s Viśvarūpa is visualized in v. 3 II. 1–10, saying his hands are two to ten, 1000, 10,000 or 1,00,000. Māl’s archaic name is Mā- ayōy (Paripāṭal 2 I. 1). The Viśvarūpa visualization is again repeated in vv. 4 II. 70–73, 13 II. 16–22. A clear impact of the Bhagavatgītā could be discerned as it is said:

Thou are Cold in Fire, Thou are Fragrance in Flowers, Thou are a Gem among stones, Thou are Truth in words, Thou are Love in dharma, Thou are the Child of Heroism, Thou are the Veda of the Vedas, Thou are the First (i.e., land) among bhūtas, Thou are the Light of Sūrya (sun), Thou are Frigidity in Candra (moon), 64 R.K.K. Rajarajan

Thou are All, Thou are the inner Meaning of All. (Paripāṭal v. 3 II. 63–68, cf. Bhagavadgītā, Adhyāya 10, vv. 21–38)4

Māliruñcōlai is called Neṭuṅkuṉṟam, Iruṅkuṉṟam and Māliruṅkuṉṟam (Paripāṭal 15. ll. 4, 14, 17, 23). Interestingly, Vēṅkaṭam fails to appear. On the other hand, two other kṣetras, Iruntaiyūr and Kuḻantai are notified in Paripāṭal-tiraṭṭu v. 1. II. 5, 63). Even if Vēṅkaṭam fails to appear in a Pāṇḍya country literature as is the Paripāṭal, it appears in earlier Caṅkam works, e.g. the Akaṉānūṟu (e.g. vv. 27, 61) and Puṟanānūṟu (v. 391). Therefore, its antiquity could be taken back to the early centuries of the Christian era, one or two earlier in the BCEs. Therefore, Vēṅkaṭam happens to be the earliest Vaiṣṇava divyakṣetra, predating Araṅkam and Māliruñcōlai. It may note that even if traditional scholars bring Vēṅkaṭam under North India and that it today falls in Andhra Pradesh, in those time of Paripāṭal it was within the decent limits of Tamiḻkūṟumnallulakam “the good land where pristine Tamil is spoken” (Kalidos 1999: 146), i.e. Tamilnadu. Kuḻantai is the same as it happens to be one among the 18 in the Pāṇḍya country. Even if it occurs only in the hymns of Nammāḻvār, its antiquity could be sent to the 4th century AD. Iruntaiyūr’s identification is a problem. It appears in an earlier Caṅkam literature, the Kuṟuntokai v. 335, assigned to c. 200 BCE to CE 200. Some consider it Māliruñcōlai because the Lord is iṟunta “seated” (and so Iṟuntaiyūr) in this kṣetra. It could not be taken for granted because Viṣṇu is seated in four places of the Pāṇḍyan sphere. Āṇṭāḷ in her work has a reference to the rise of Venus (Śukra, T. Veḷḷi) and fall of Jupiter (Bṛhaspati or Guru, T. Viyāḷaṉ); veḷḷiyeḻuntu viyaḷamuṟaṅkiṟṟu, Tiruppāvai v. 13. Astronomical calculation says, it falls in CE 731 (cited in Kalidos 1976: 104). Therefore, Āṇṭāḷ may be dated in the 8th century. Periyāḻvār being her foster-father belongs to the same century. Periyāḻvār in his hymns notes the Pāṇḍyan Emperor, Neṭumāraṉ (PTM 4.2.7), identified with Jaṭila Parāntaka Neṭuñcaṭaiyaṉ alias Varaguṇa I, dated in CE 765–815 (Sastri 1929/1972) or 765–783 (Pandarathar 1974). The scheme adopted by Pandarathar would keep Periyāḻvar within the limits of the 8th

4 The original is worth quoting: Pūviṉuḷ teṟal nī pūviṉḷ nāṟṟa nī / Kalliṉuḷ maṇiyu nī colliṉuḷ vāymai nī / Aṟattiṉuḷ aṉpu nī maṟattiṉuḷ maintu nī / Vētattu maṟai nī pūtattu mutalu nī / Veñcuṭar oḷiyu nī tiṅkaḷuḷ aḷiyu nī / Aṉaittu nī aṉaittiṉuṭ poruḷu nī. Antiquity of the Divyakṣetras in Pāṇḍināḍu 65 century. Periyāḻvār was ripe old who out-lived Āṇṭāḷ. She passed on to the Vaikuṇṭha (the Vaiṣṇava heaven) willingly at a young age. Her foster-father would not have survived long after the demise of his beloved daughter. Maṅkai received the favours of the Pallava Emperor Nandivarmaṉ II (CE 731–96). Maṅkai must have been young at the time of his association with the Pallava Emperor and lived down to the early 9th century CE. In any case, all the 12 Āḻvārs could conveniently be placed within the time scale of later 5th or early 6th to early 9th century CE. Their literary dramatics lasted for nearly 300 years.

Map 0.1: Vaiṣṇava divyakṣetras: Around Maturai.

Regarding the key-theme of investigation, it may state at the outset that Pāṇḍināḍu is the land that falls to the south of the River Kāviri (see map 1). The Koṅku (western Tamilnadu) and Putukkōṭṭai (northeast along with coast of the Bay) altered their allegiance to either the Pāṇḍyas or Pallavas, depending on the fortunes of these powers in the concerned zones. Most of the divyakṣetras in Pāṇḍināḍu, 18 in total, fall to the south of Māliruñcōlai (now called Aḻakarkōyil in suburban Maturai). Meyyam is midway between Putukkōṭṭai and (Tirup)Pattūr (cluster of ten villages? or Puttūr hamlet 66 R.K.K. Rajarajan of anthills?) on the Maturai highway. The other centers are Kōṭṭiyūr (Skt. Koṣṭiyūr), (Tirup)Pullāṇi (splinter like nail?), (Tirut)Taṇkāl, (Tiru)Mōkūr, Kūṭal (Maturai), Villiputtūr, Kuṟukūr, Tolaivillimaṅkalam (now called Tollaivillimaṅkalam),5 Cīvaramaṅkai, Teṉtiruppēreyil, Vaikuntam (Skt. Śrīvaikuṇṭham), (Tirup)Puḷiṅkuṭi, Varakuṇamaṅkai, (Tiruk)Kuḻantai, (Tiruk)Kuṟuṅkuṭi and (Tiruk)Kōḷūr. Kūṭal, Mōkūr and Māliruñcōlai are within the limits of Greater Maturai. Kōṭṭiyūr and Tiruppullāṇi are to the east, centering on Rāmanātapuram. Taṇkāl and Villiputtūr are on the way from Maturai to (Tiru)Nelvēli. All other places hover around Nelvēli. The popularization of the kṣētras around Nelvēli was mainly due to the inspiration of Nammāḻvār who had his base at Kuṟukūr (now Āḻvārtirunakari), his place of birth. At this place, it is pertinent to note that the 108 divyakṣetras are scattered over the topographical segments of Tamilnadu, Āndhradeśa, North India and the Heavens. Within Tamilnadu and outside the distribution pattern is:

Pāṇḍināḍu 18 Cōḻanāḍu 40 (e.g. Tañcāvūr) Malaināḍu (Kerala) 13 (e.g. Anantapuram) Toṇṭaināḍu 25 (e.g. Kāñcīpuram, including Vēṅkaṭam) Vaṭanāḍu (including 9 (e.g. Dvārakā, Mathurā) Āndhradeśa) Mythical 3 (e.g. Pāṟkaṭal, Skt. Kṣīrābdhi)

The above statistics would prove the Vaiṣṇava bhakti was intensive in the Cōḻanādu and Toṇṭaināḍu regions, Pāṇḍināḍu coming third in the order of numerical priority of the kṣetras. Of all the kṣetras in the Cōḻanāḍu region, three are early. They are Araṅkam, Kuṭantai (Kuṃbhakoṇam) and Viṇṇakaram (Oppiliyappaṉkōyil). Ten are early in the Toṇṭaināḍu region. They are Kōvalūr, Kacci (Kāñcīpuram), Vēlukkai (Kāñci), Pāṭakam (Kāñci), Veḥka, Nīrmalai, Kaṭaṉmallai, Allikkēṇi and Kaṭikai (Cōḷiṅkar). Three figure in the early list of North India and the mythical list. They are Vēṅkaṭam (strictly speaking falls within the bounds of ancient Tamiḻakam, supra),

5 This is the traditional sequence of the places. It could better be Meyyam, Pullāṇi, Kōṭṭiyūr, Mōkūr, Māliruñcōlai, Kūṭal, Villiputtūr, Taṇkāl, Kuḷantai, Puḷiṅkuṭi, Varakuṇamaṅkai, Vaikuntam, Tolaivillimaṅkalam, Kurukūr, Tiruppērai, Kōlūr, Cīvaramaṅkai and Kuṟuṅkuṭi. Antiquity of the Divyakṣetras in Pāṇḍināḍu 67

Pāṟkaṭal and Paramapatam (Vaikuṇṭha). Out of the 108, 22 are early kṣetras, extolled by the Mutal Āḻvārs. Excluding two of the mythical list, taking Vēṅkaṭam into account 20 places are historically important as centers of Vaiṣṇava bhakti that could be dated to the later 5th and early 6th century AD. Among these Māliruñcōlai, Araṅkam and Vēṅkaṭam are very important as graphic descriptions of the kṣetras appear in the Cilappatikāram (5th century AD).

Of the twelve Āḻvārs, seven have extolled the kṣetras in the Pāṇḍināḍu region. Those who have missed the kṣetras are Pūtam, Maturakavi, Kulacēkaraṉ, Tiruppāṇ and Toṇṭaraṭippoṭi. Of the 24 integral wings/poems of the Nālāyiram, 13 do not note the kṣetras in Pāṇḍināḍu. They are Tiruvantāti III, Kaṇṇinūṇciṟuttāmpu, Perumāḷ Tirumoḻi, Amalanātipirāṉ, Tirumālai, Tiruvāciriyam, Tiruviruttam, Periya Tiruvantāti, Tiruppāvai(?) and Tiruveḻukūṟṟirukkai. It is interesting to note that Periyāḻvār is supposed to have composed the Tiruppaḷḷieḻucci (Sacred Arousal [of the Lord from Slumber]) in the Kūṭal Aḻakar temple at Maturai but there is no literary or epigraphical support for this notion. The concerned text also fails to say anything about it, excepting a vague clue to Maturai. Again, Periyāḻvār and Āṇṭāḷ are supposed to be residents of Villiputtūr, Periyāḻvār being its high-priest. Among the few hundreds of hymns composed by both these mystics, two have a bearing on the kṣetra (infra) at Villiputtūr. The kṣetra in the Pāṇṭināḍu zone that could be dated to the 7th century is Kuṟuṅkuṭi. Mōkūr, Villiputtūr, Kurukūr, Tolaivillimaṅkalam, Teṉtiruppēṟai, Vaikuntam, Puḷiṅkuṭi, Varakuṇamaṅkai, Kuḻantai and Kōḷur could be dated in the 8th century. Meyyam, Pullāṇi and Kūṭal appear in the hymns of Maṅkai that could be dated in the 8th–9th century. It may note that Meyyam and Taṇkāl are centers of early medieval rock-cut temples. The rock- cut cave for Śeṣaśāyī-Viṣṇu at Meyyam has been assigned to a much early date, may be the 6th century CE on art historical considerations (Rajarajan 2006: 59–61, Latha 2005: 29–32). Fact must have been that Meyyam did not receive popular appreciation until the time of Maṅkai who was the first to versify the place and thereby added value to its cult. The structural additions to the original cave temple could be dated since the early Pāṇḍya period in the later half of the 9th century, particularly during the later Pāṇḍys down to the Vijayanagara-Nāyaka period as attested by the epigraphical sources (vide, Rajarajan 2006, 68 R.K.K. Rajarajan

Latha 2005) and literary clues. Therefore, the temple that received the attention of Maṅkai was the original rock-cut cave, including few structural additions. Taṇkāl figures in the hymns of Pūtam and Maṅkai. That is to say, the cave temple on the site must have been existing by about the early 6th century. Of late scholars (Rajarajan 1991, 2006; Latha 2005), question the theory that Maṇṭakappaṭṭu was the earliest cave temple in Tamilnadu. Basing on the Piḷḷaiyārpaṭṭi inscription in the rock-cut cave therein, dated at the end of the 5th century CE (cf. Mani 1990: 37–38), it is argued the cave temple tradition in the Pāṇḍināḍu region begins somewhere at the end of the 5th century CE, following the Guptas at Udayagiri in Central India. Therefore, even if Meyyam appears in a later literary work, its earlier origin could not be disputed. Māliruñcōlai appears in the hymns of Pūtam, Nam, Periya, Āṇṭāḷ and Maṅkai. The mūlabera in the temple is sthānaka. The vimāna is of special importance because from the base, upapīṭha, to the grīva the geometrical shape is circular. Kōṭṭiyūr appears in the hymns of Pūtam, Pēy, Maḻicai, Periya and Maṅkai. The mūlabera is in bhujaṅgasayana mode. Meyyam (supra) and Pullāṇi appear in the hymns of Maṅkai. The mūlabera at Meyyam is sthānaka as it appears in the later structural temple. The original dedication was to sayanamūrti (Kalidos 2006: Pl. III).6 The mūlabera at Pullāṇi is in āsana mode. The later structural temple at Taṇkāl houses a sthānaka image while the original dedication was to sayanamūrti in the small cave temple therein (Kalidos 2006: Pl. 5.2). The Mōkūr temple houses a sthānaka image but its original dedication was to sayanamūrti that appears in a subsidiary chapel. The ground floor of the Kūṭal Aḻakar temple houses a āsana-Mūrti. The vimāna here is aṣṭāṅga and houses all-three forms, the sthānaka and sayana appearing the upper storeys. Villiputtūr appears in the hymns of Periyāḻvār and Āṇṭāḷ. The mūlabera is believed to be vaṭapatrasayana, the Lord who reclines on the leaf of vaṭa (T. āl, Ficus bengalensis). The temples at Kurukūr, Tolaivillimaṅkalam, Cīvaramaṅkai, Teṉtiruppēreyil, Vaikuntam, Puḷiṅkuṭi, Varakuṇamaṅkai, Kuḻantai and Kōlūr appear in the hymns of Nam (see map 2).

6 We will take up this problem for discussion later. The question is why the original dedication should alter in a later age. We want to take the literary clues in the Nālāyiram and the type of Mūrtis that appear today. Antiquity of the Divyakṣetras in Pāṇḍināḍu 69

Map 0.2: Vaiṣṇava divyakṣetras: Around Tirunelvēli.

The following house sthānaka-mūlaberas: Kurukūr, Tolaivillimaṅkalam, Vaikuntam and Kuḻantai. The following house āsana images: Cīvaramaṅkai, Tiruppērai or Teṉtiruppēreyil and Varakuṇamaṅkai. The following house sayana images: Puḷiṅkuṭi and Kōḷūr. The Kuṟuṅkuṭi temple is extolled in the hymns of Maḻicai, Nam, Periya and Maṅkai. The mūlabera is sthānaka. The total of sayana-mūlaberas is four. The total of āsana-mūlaberas is five. The present study finds the total of sthānaka-mūlaberas is nine. Sthānaka dominates the scene in the Pāṇḍināṭu zone, followed by āsana and sayana. All the mūlaberas are anthropomorphic. Zoomorphic or theriomorphic forms do not occur. The Āṉaimalai cave temple, close to Mōkūr houses Nṛsiṃha in its garbhagṛha. 7 This place is not counted under the divyadeśas. The Ādivarāha-Viṣṇu-gṛha in Māmallapuram houses Varāhamūrti. The Kōvalūr temple houses Trivikrama. Such occurrences do not find shelter in the Pāṇḍyan zone. In the pan-Indian context, out of the 108 divyakṣetras 27 are āsana, 60 sthānaka and 27 sayana. Sthānaka-mūlaberas come first, followed by sayana and āsana (Ragunath 2005: Chap. I).

It may be pertinent now to examine what the Āḻvārs have to say on each of the individual kṣetras in Pāṇḍīnāḍu.

7 Such images appear in the garbhagr̥ ha of the cave temples at Nāmakkal and Ciṅkaperumāḷkōyil. 70 R.K.K. Rajarajan

Māliruñcōlai The name Māliruñcōlai appears redundantly (T II 48, MOLI 2.10.1, 3, 5–10, ANT 4.1, 9.4,5, MPT 1.8.5, 2.7.7). Other forms of the name are Tirumāliruñcōlai (MOLI 10.7 all hymns), Teṉtirumāliruñcōlai (PTM 4.2.1, 2, 4.2.7,8), Māyiruñcōlai (PTML l. 249), Iruñcōlai (MPT 1.8.5), Malai (PTM 1.5.8), Poṉmalai “Golden Hill” (PTM 4.2.3) and Tirumalai “Sacred Hill” (MOLI 2.4.10). The temple of the Lord is called Aḻakartaṉkōyil “Temple of the Handsome Lord” (MOLI 2.10.2). This phrase gives clue to the present name of the place that is called Aḻakarkōyil. The temple was big, Peruṅkōyil (MOLI 2.10.9). The Lord is supposed to be seated, vīṟṟirunta (PTM 4.2.10) or standing, niṉṟāy (PTM 5.3.1, ANT 9.4,5, MPT 9.9.3, 4–7). It is the place where the Lord is pleased to slumber, paḷḷikoḷḷumiṭam (ANT 4.1). The present mūlabera is sthānaka and east facing (see fig. 1).

Figure 1: Gold-cast vimana of Māliruñcōlai (recent work).

Periyāḻvār’s three eloquent hymns on the kṣetra are worth quoting:

… Aḻakaṉalaṅkāraṉmalai Kulamalai kolamalai kulirmāmalai koṟṟamalai Nilamalai nīṇṭamalai Tirumāliruñcōlaiyatē (PTM 4.3.5) Antiquity of the Divyakṣetras in Pāṇḍināḍu 71

“… It is the hill of the decorated handsome (Lord), The clan-hill, bedecked-hill, the great frigid-hill, Sovereign-hill, Hill on earth, long-hill, this is the grove where Tirumāl resides.”

Āyirantōḷ parappi muṭiyāyiramiṉṉilaka Āyirampaintalaiya aṉantacayaṉaṉāḻummalai Āyiramāṟukaḻuñ cuṉaikaḷ palavāyiramum Āyiram pūmpoḻilumuṭai Māliruñcōlaiyatē (PTM 4.3.10).

“His 1000-shoulders spread out, his 1000 tiaras shine and shine, He is ruler of the hill who (reclines) on the 1000-headed Ananta, There are 1000s of rivers, several 1000s of ponds, And 1000 flowering lakes, this is Māliruñcōlai.”

Māliruñcōlaieṉṉum malaiyuṭaiyamalaiyai Nālirumūrttitaṉṉai nālvētakkaṭalamutai Mēliruṅkaṟpakattai vētāntaviḻupporuḷiṉ Mēliruntaviḷakkai viṭṭucittaṉ virittaṉavē (PTM 4.3.11)

“He is himself the hill who takes possession of the Hill upon which Māl resides, He is himself the Aṣṭamūrti, He is the ambrosia of the Ocean of Four Vedas, He is up above, the all-giving Kalpaka tree; He is the meaning of Vedānta, He is the Lamp atop that Viṣṇusiddha8 explains.”9

All resorts of Viṣṇu are the abodes of nature’s blessing with lush green groves. Pūtam initiates the nature-loving saga with the saying that at Māliruñcōlai mūṅkil (bamboo, Bambusa arundinacea) trees shoots up above the skies (T II 48). It abounds in good many numbers of lakes (MOLI 2.10. 1, 3, 5-10). In view of the presence of the huge quantity of water, it is the Tiruppāṟkaṭal “Sacred Milk Ocean”:

Tirumāliruñcōlaimalaiyē tiruppāṟkaṭal (MOLI 10.7.7) “The Sacred Ocean of Milk is the Hill where Tirumāl abides.”

8 This is the Sanskritic name of Periyāḻvār in its Tamil form. 9 The importance of Viṣṇu as Aṣṭamūrti has been elaborated (Rajarajan 2004: 86–91) in an article with special reference to this hymn. 72 R.K.K. Rajarajan

It is really a fascinating poetic visualization because at Araṅkam the venue falls in between two ocean-like rivers, the Kāviri and Koḷḷiṭam, the blessing of nature’s wonder. The same hymn adds, Tiruvēṅkaṭam is the veritable Vaikuṇṭha:

Tirumāl vaikuntamē taṇtiruvēṅkaṭam.

It is because Vēṅkaṭam lies on the top of seven hills, saptagiri, comparable to the mythical Meru. The lakes are full of flowers since the lotus plants fill the venue (cuṉaiyil centāmarai ANT 9.5). The flowers generate a rhythm of scented smell (naṟumalar ANT 9.4). The pleasant breeze moves gently, arousing a sweet aroma (teṉṟal maṇam kamaḻum ANT 9.7). The rich flora and fauna add a classical charm to the venue. Birds such as cuckoo, peacock (kuyil mayil ANT 9.4), cluster of bees (vaṇṭiṉam ANT 9.5) and a gaṇa of black birds (kariya kuruvikkaṇaṅkaḷ ANT 9.8) make their presence felt. They sing the praise of the arrival of Māl (Māliṉ varavu colli pāṭu ANT 9.8). The presence of perennial water is due to not only the poor monsoon but also a river that cuts across the hills. It takes its origin on top of the hill in an artesian well and flows downward. Even today, the flow of water does not stop during the acute summer. The river is called nūpura(anklet)-Gaṅgā, Cilampāṟu in Tamil “Anklet River” (PTM 4.2.1, 4.3.9, ANT 9,10, MPT 4.9.9). The river does not flow with water but honey (tēṉāṟu pāyum PTM 4.2.4). The Lord is invoked with eloquent nāmāvalis. He is Aḻakar “the Handsome” (MOLI 2.10.2), Skt. sundara or saundara “lovely [or] lively.”10 The other epithets are Māyavaṉ “Illusionist” (MOLI 2.10.8), Tirumāl (MOLI 3.1.1), Ñāṉavētiyaṉ “Wisdom-expert in the Scriptures” (MOLI 3.1.11), Parañcōti “Eternal Light” (MOLI 3.1.2– 3), Kōvintaṉ/Govinda (MOLI 3.1.3), Kaḷvaṉ-Māyaṉ “Burglar- Illusionist” (MOLI 10.7.1), Teṉṉaṉ “Southerner” (MOLI 10.7.3),11 Ūḻimutalvaṉ “the First-born Primordial” (MOLI 10.7.9), Ēḻicaiyiṉcuvai “Melody of the Seven Music” (MOLI 10.8.2), Cōlaimalai-aracu “King of Hill of Groves” (PTM 1.5.8), Maṇivaṇṇaṉ “Gem-coloured” (PTM 4.3.2) or Māmaṇivaṇṇaṉ (MPT 9.8.10), Kaṭalvaṇṇaṉ “Sea-coloured (blue)” (PTM 4.3.3), Nampi (ANT 9.3),

10 Today the Lord is called Saundararāja “King of Loveliness”. 11 It is a favourite epithet of the Pāṇḍya. Antiquity of the Divyakṣetras in Pāṇḍināḍu 73

Cuntaraṉ (Skt. Sundara [supra], ANT 9.10), Māyaṉ (Skt. Māyā or T. Māyī; 12 MPT 2.7.7, 7.9.7, PTML l. 249), Karumāṇikkamāmalai “Great Hill of a Black-gem” (MPT 9.9.3), Mūvarilmuṉmutalvaṉ “First and foremost among the Three (the Trimūrtis)” (MPT 9.9.1), Kōvalarkōvintaṉ (Skt. Gopāla-Govinda MPT 9.9.1), Mutalmūrtti “Lord First” (MPT 9.9.2), Vāṉavarkōṉ “King of the Celestials” (MPT 9.9.5), Aṇṭarkō “King of those in the Cosmos” (MPT 9.9.3–7), Kēcavanampi (Skt. Keśavanambi (MPT 9.9.6) and so on. Several mythological events are associated with the Lord. To note briefly at random:

He lifted the big hill, perumalaieṭuttāṉ, Govardhandhāri (MOLI 2.10.4); He eats the butter from the pots, uṟiyamar veṇṇai uṇṭavaṉ (MOLI 2.10.6); He mounted the bird, Garuḍa, puḷḷūrntu (MOLI 3.1.9); He ordains all the worlds, punishes, eats and vomits ulakellām paṭaitiṭantuṇṭumiḻntāy (MOLI 3.1.10); Śiva13 and Brahmā14 attend on him (MOLI 3.1.10, 10.7.7, PTM 5.3.6); He took into service a monkey (Sugrīva) and did away with the life another monkey (Vāli), oruvāraṇam paṇikoṇṭu oruvaraṇam uyiruṇṭāṉ (PTM 4.2.5); He recovered Rukmiṇī (and married her), Uruppiṇī naṅkai mīṭṭāṉ (PTM 4.3.1); He did away with Kañcaṉ (Kamsa), Kāḷiyaṉ (Kāliyamardana), kaḷiṟu (the elephant, Kuvalayapīḍa), marutu (toppling the trees, Yamalārjunabhaṅga) and erutu (the bull, Dhenukāsura-vadham) (PTM 4.3.2); Lord of Dvārakā, Tuvarāpatiemperumāṉ (ANT 9.8);

12 These three are very popular personal names among the Piṟamalai-kaḷḷar people who live in the region around Maturai. The Kaḷḷar in the Tañcāvūr region hold Tirumaṅkai-āḻvār in high esteem and observe a fast (by not taking non-vegetarian food) in the Tamil month of Puraṭṭāci (September-October), holy to Viṣṇu, especially Vēṅkaṭeśvara as his brahmotsava takes place in this month at Tirupati-Tirumala, the cherished Vēṅkaṭam. 13 Śiva is called Piṟaiyēṟucaṭaiyaṉ “He with matted locks of hair that bears the crescent” (MOLI 3.1.10), Mukkaṇṇaṉ “three-eyed” (MOLI 10.7.7) and Erutukkoṭiyāṉ “holder of the banner of bull” (PTM 5.3.6). 14 Brahmā is called Nāṉmukaṉ “the four-faced” (MOLI 3.1.10) and Piramaṉ (MOLI 10.7.7, PTM 5.3.6). 74 R.K.K. Rajarajan

The Dwarf who elongated as Trivikrama, Kuṟaḷāynimirnta tirivikkiramaṉ, (MTM 9.9.5); Born in north Madhurā, Vaṭamaturaippiṟantāṉ (MTM 9.9.6); Dancing bird, āṭaṟpaṟavai (infra, cf. Kalidos 1999a: 229) (MPT 9.9.10) and so on.

Another important dimension of the mythical accounts is that the Lord is supposed to have presented the kuṭakkūttu “pot-dance” and the dancer is called Kūttaṉ (cf. Kalidos 1999a), Kuṭaṅkalantāṭik kuravai muṉkōtta kūttavemmaṭikaḷ “Dignified Dancer” (Naṭeśvara? MPT 9.8.6), cf. āṭaṟpaṟvai (supra). The rituals, services, nityapūjās and utsavas that took place on the venue are described graphically:

Damsels present their dance recitals, teyvamakaḷirāṭum (PTM 4.2.1); The kuṟatti damsels (hill-folk, gypsies) cultivate the dance, kuṟamātar naṭampayil (PTM 4.3.4); The āyar sing and dance his praise (PTM 3.4.5) that recalls the Āycciyarkuravai of Cīlappatikāram; The festivities were instituted by the cowherds, āyarkūṭi amaittaviḻā (PTM 4.2.4); Neṭumāraṉ, the King of Kūṭal, celebrates the Lord, Neṭumāraṉ teṉkūṭaṟkōṉ teṉṉaṉ koṇṭāṭum (PTM 4.2.7); The six-legged bees recite the 1000 names and sing the Lord’s glory early in the morning, aṟukālavaṇṭiṉaṅkaḷ āyiranāmañcolli ciṟukālaip pāṭum (PTM 4.2.8); The bhūtas (mass) offer red-blood and conduct the evening bali,15 ceṅkurutikoṇṭu pūtaṅkaḷ antippalikoṭuttu (PTM 4.2.9); The food offering included 1000 pots of butter and 1000 pots of a sweet dish called akkāravaṭicil16 (ANT 9.6).

From the above account, it is quite clear the cult orientation of the Māliruñcōlai temple gets back to the 4th century AD and today it continues to be a living tradition. There could have been some setback during the days of Islamic depredation in the 14th century and after as

15 The author (Rajarajan 2006: 15) has noted the non-vegetarian food served in the Maṉṉārkuṭi temple, a divyakṣetra in Cōḻanāḍu. In addition to chicken, several varieties of cooked birds and fishes were offered. 16 It is delicious sweet rice, now available in a hotel on the south gate of the temple at Śrīraṅgam. Antiquity of the Divyakṣetras in Pāṇḍināḍu 75 some destroyed maṇḍapas are found within the present temple complex and the fact that the present temple in its entirety was the outcome of the Vijayanagara-Nāyaka period (Rajarajan 1995) and no trace of pre-Vijayanagara architecture is present, excepting the literary clues.

Kōṭṭiyūr Since the kṣetra figures in the hymns of Pūtam and Pēy, it is clear the antiquity of the temple gets back to the later 5th or early 6th century AD. Others to extol the place are Maḻicai, Periya and Maṅkai. The place is called Tirukkōṭṭi (T II 46, 87, PTM 4.4.5), Kōṭṭiyūr (NTV 34, PTM 1.1.1, 2.6.2, MPT 10.1.9, PTML l. 250) and Tirukkōṭṭiyūr (PTM 1.1.10, 4.4.1, 4.4.1, 3-4, MPT 7.1.3). The Lord is called Kōṭṭiyar (PAL 11) and Kōṭṭiyūrāṉ (MPT 9.10 all hymns), He of Kōṭṭi. He is Maṇivaṇṇaṉ (PTM 4.4.2), Tirumālavaṉ (PTM 4.4.3), Naraciṅkaṉ/Nṛsiṃha (PTM 4.4.6, 9), Kōvintaṉ/Govinda (PTM 4.4.8), Kēcavaṉ/Keśava, Puruṭottamaṉ/ Puruṣottama, Kuṟaḷ “Dwarf” (PTM 4.4.10), Iruṭikēcaṉ/Hṛṣkeśa (PTM 4.4.11), Neṭiyāṉ “the Tall” (MPT 9.10.5) and so on. He is viewed as a dancer, kuraikaḻaṟ-Kūttaṉ who wears the anklets (PTM 10.1.9). Nothing regarding stance of the Lord is said. It is simply added that the Lord resides, uṟaikiṉṟa (PTM 4.4.8). It may note that the vimāna is aṣṭāṅga today, housing the āsana, sthānaka and sayana images in its three vertical tiers. The temple is east facing. The utsavabera is sthānaka (see fig. 2).

Figure 2: Kōṭṭiyur, utsavaberas. 76 R.K.K. Rajarajan

The kṣetra was surrounded by groves, aṇitikaḻum cōlai (T II 46). Again, it was full of fertile paddy fields (PTM 1.1.10). Red lotuses abounded in the fields, ceṅkamalavayal (PTM 4.4.4). The city all the time felt the nice smell of jasmine and other scented flowers, mullai (Jasminum auriculatum) mallikai maṇakkum (PTM 9.10.7). It was full of tanks, nīrttirukkōṭṭi (PTM 4.4.5). It is an araṅkam “stage (for dance)” where the Lord cultivates dance, payiṉṟataraṅkam (T II 46). The city was filled with palatial building, māṭaṅkaḷcūḻ (PTM 1.1.1). Though in the plains, the mystic finds it a sea or hill, kaṭalē malaiyē tirukōṭṭiyūrē (MTM 7.1.3). Few of the purāṇic episodes are associated with Lord. It was he whose foot measured the worlds, aḷantatiruvaṭi (T II 87). He is the Lord who moves everywhere by leaps, plays and dances: eṅkuntirintu viḷaiyāṭum (PTM 2.6.2). He is the one who gulped the seven worlds, yēlulakuṇṭa (PTM 4.4.2). He willingly offered half his body to Śiva and thus became Harihara, Īcaṟkicaintu uṭampilōr kūṟutāṉ koṭuttāṉ (MPT 9.10.4). He is pleasing to Śrīdevī, Tirumāmakaṭkiṉiyāṉ (MPT 9.10.2). He was the dancer who plucked the tusk of an elephant, Kuvalayapīḍa. While enacting such a heroic feat, the Lord performs a dance, kuraikaḻarkūttaṉ (MPT 10.1.9). He lifted the mountain and protected the world form the rains, māmalai niṉṟu kāttukantāṉ (MPT 9.10.7). His tiara was high, nīṉmuṭi (MPT 9.10.5). The cult orientation is specified. It is a known fact that the kṣetra in a later date was linked with Rāmānujācārya who is said to have gone to top of the temple and uttered the aṣṭākṣara, the eight- syllabled mantra, so that every one, including the pañcama, could utter it.17 It was a brahmadeya with large settlement of brāhmaṇas. Periyāḻvār, himself a brāhmaṇa, avers the place was full of those who study the Vedas for making a livelihood, vētampayiṉṟuvāḻ (PTM 4.4.1). The experts in the four Vedas extol the praise of the Lord day and night and live here, nāṉmaṟaiyōrirāppakal ētti vāḻ Tirukkōṭṭiyūr (PTM 4.4.7). Those wearing the purinūl/yajñopavita sing the Tamil and dance the kuṭam. This may confirm the fact that intra-sectarian tug-of-war such as vaṭakalai-teṉkalai did not peep into the pictur at

17 It was part of the vaṭakalai-teṉkalai rivalry. According to the orthodox vaṭakalais (Northern Order) the brāhmaṇas alone were entitled to mutter the sacred aṣṭākṣara (Om Na Mo Nā Rā Ya Ṇā Ya) who depend on the Sanskritic Vedas and purāṇas. The teṉkalais (Southern Order) held any lover of Viṣṇu could utter the sacred mantra who depend on the Tamil Veda, the Nālāyiram. Antiquity of the Divyakṣetras in Pāṇḍināḍu 77 that time since they gave equal importance to Tamil and Sanskrit. The experts in Vedas perform the five kinds of vēḷvi/yajña, nāṉmaṟaivāṇar…aivakaivēḷvi (MPT 9.10.9).

Pullāṇi Maṅkai has two patikams on the kṣetra (MPT 9. 3, 4). The place name is Pullāṇi (MPT 9.3–4 passim). The Lord is called Pullāṇitteṉṉaṉ “Southerner at Pullāṇi” (PTML. ll. 261-62) and Māyaṉ-maṇivaṇṇaṉ (MPT 9.3.6). Nothing is told of the Lord’s stance. Today the mūlabera is seated and east facing (see fig. 3).

Figure 3: Pullāṇi, mūlabera and utsavabera.

The Āḻvārs’ description mainly concentrates on the ecological setting of the venue. Pullāṇi is beautiful, abounding with puṉṉai (Colophyllum inophyllum) plants18 and ponds that yield pearl, puṉṉai muttam poḻil cuḻntu aḻakāya pullāṇiyē (MPT 9.3.1). The fact that the venue was full of lakes and ponds are affirmed again and again (9.3.2–5). The ponds are called variously as taṭam or taṭākam (MPT 9.3.3), nīr (MPT 9.3.2), paḻaṉam 9.3.6) and poḻil (MPT 9.3.10). Black bees hum about the flowering water sources, karivaṇṭiṉam pāṭum

18 This plant sheds flowers that arouse carnal feelings. 78 R.K.K. Rajarajan

(MPT 9.3.8). The ponds teem with pearls, corals and enchanting lotuses (MPT 9.3.1). Gold sediments are found (MPT 9.4.8). The urban status of the venue is attested with reference to the palatial structures on the site, maṇimāṭappullāṇi (MPT 9.4.7). Rarely few mythological scenes are alluded. The Lord came as a Dwarf and conquered the worlds in three steps, kuṟaḷuruvāy mūvaṭimaṇkoṇṭa (MPT 9.4.2). That he cleaved Hiraṇya, having comes a lion, Iraṇiyaṉ…Ariyuruvāykkīṇṭāṉ (MPT 9.4.4). The presence of brāhmaṇas is affirmed because the Vedas and veḷvis were cultivated incessantly (MPT 9.4.9–10).

Meyyam Figuring in the hymns of Maṅkai, the place is called Meyyam (MPT 2.5.8, 5.5.2, 6.2.3, 10.1.5, 11.7.5, TKT 19) or Tirumeyyam (MPT 3.6.9). The Lord is Tirumeyya-malaiyāḷaṉ (MPT 3.6.9) or Meyya- malaiyāḷaṉ, meaning ruler of the Meyyam hill. Mey means “body”. Mey also means “truth” and so the epithet gives the meaning “Lord Truth”. Talking of the Lord at Māliruñcōlai, Periyāḻvār says “He is not true to anybody”, nī yoruvarkkum meyyaṉallai (MPT 5.3.2).19 These epithets would contextually suggest that the hill itself is an abstraction of the Lord’s body. Therefore, the Lord is Meyyāṉ and Meyyamalaiyāṉ (MPT 11.7.5). The Lord is said to be in the reclining mode, taṭavaraimēl kiṭantāṉ (MPT 2.5.8). The mystic says he is gratified for having seen the Lord in such a tranquilizing slumbering mode, kiṭantāṉai…kaṉṉāṉai kaṉṉārakaṇṭukoṇṭēṉ (MPT 2.5.8). This phrase suggests that the Lord is dear to him as the eyes, kaṇṇāṉai, thereby opening an avenue to explore the meaning of the darling Tamil name Kaṇṇaṉ, which means “one dear to the eyes.” The Lord is also said to be in seated mode, Meyyamarnta-perumāṉ (MPT 6.8.7). The hint to the reclining mode is definitely to the rock-cut image. The note on seated mode would suggest that by about the time of Maṅkai some structural addition, housing a seated image of the Lord is likely to have ushered into the scene. Today the mūlabera in the structural temple is sthānaka and in the cave temple a sayanabera (see fig. 4).

19 Why? It is because he had to resort to foul means under certain compelling circumstances to overcome evil forces; e.g. deception of Mahābali, dislodging Vāli, killing Duryodhana and so on. The way he decepted Mahābali forces Namāḻvār to call the Lord a cheat, vañcaṉ (MOLI 3.8.2, cf. Kalidos 2006: 8). Antiquity of the Divyakṣetras in Pāṇḍināḍu 79

Meyyam was full of water resources; puṉalcūlnta Meyyam (MPT 2.5.8) and today the visitor may find an ocean-like concourse of water close to the hill, especially during the monsoon.

Figure 4: Meyyam, utsavabera in rock cut cave.

Few references underline the mythological setting of the kṣetra. The Lord came as a damsel and coveted the ambrosia that denotes the Mohinī aṃśāvatāra (MPT 2.5.8). He is said to have increased as a fierce lion, Siṃha or Nṛsiṃha, aṭalariyāy perukiṉāṉ (MPT 2.5.8). He was chiefly instrumental in setting fire to the Kāṇḍava forest as a prelude to the Mahābhārata war, kāṇṭavattai tīmūṭṭi (MPT 6.8.7). He was the Lord who annulled the imprecation on Śiva who was wandering at others houses a mendicant, holding the begging skull in a hand and eating, maṇṭaiyētip piraṉmaṉai tirintuṇṇum uṇṭiyāṉ cāpam tīrttu (TKT 19). He was the chief of the gods, vāṉavartam talaivaṉ (MPT 5.5.2). His mien was dark as the collirum-like sea, black hill, rain-drenched cloud, the kuvaḷai (blue lily, Nymphaea nouchalia) flower and kāyā (Memecylon edule) flower, maiyārkaṭalum maṇivaraiyum māmukilum/ koyyārkuvaḷaiyum kāyāvum pōṉṟiruṇṭa (MPT 11.7.5). Today if you look at the image of Śeṣaśāyī in the rock- cut cave the depth of this statement could be understood (Kalidos 2006: Pl. III) because the pale pink coloured rock-cut image is made 80 R.K.K. Rajarajan dark as collirum by the application of herbal stuff during abhiṣeka on the image.

Taṇkāl Talking of Taṇkāl, Pūtam says the Lord’s residences are at Tañcai, Araṅkm, Taṇkāl, Māmallai (Māmallapuram), Kōval (Kōvalūr) and Kuṭantai (Kuṃbhakoṇam) (T II 70). The place name is Taṇkāl (T II 70, CTML l, 141, PTML , TNT 17) or Tiruttaṇkāl (MPT 5.6.2). The Lord is Tirutaṇkālūraṉ “He of Tiruttaṇkāl” (MPT 5.6.2). The people sing and dance the praise of the Lord (TNT 17). Nothing is told of the Lord’s stance. The mūlabera in the structural temple is sthānaka and sayana in the cave temple (see fig. 5).

Figure 5: Taṇkāl, mūlabera and utsavabera in structural temple.

Antiquity of the Divyakṣetras in Pāṇḍināḍu 81

Mōkūr The place name is Tirumōkūr (MOLI 10.1.1, 4, 7, 10, CTML l. 147). The Lord’s names are 1000, a clue to sahasranāma. He is reclining on a snake, pāmpaṇai pallikoḷvāṉ (MOLI 10.1.4). His name is Kāḷamēkam. Today the Lord is called Kāḷamēkap Perumāḷ. The mūlabera is sthānaka (see fig. 6). The place is surrounded by fertile fields, vaḷavayalcūḻ (MOLI 10.1.7). The fields in eight directions are full of fishes where rice and sugarcane grow, eṇṭicaiyu mīṉ karumpōṭu peruñcennelviḷaiya (MOLI 10.1.5). The Lord’s eyes are lotus-like or flower-like and the mouth fruit-like or coral-like, kamalakkaṇ kaṉivāy (MOLI 10.1.1), malarkkaṇ pavaḷaccevvāy (MOLI 10.1.9).

Figure 6: Mōkūr, utsavabera.

Few mythological events are linked with the kṣetra. He measured the three words, aṇṭamūvulakaḷantavaṉ (MOLI 10.1.5). He destroys the demons by taking a lascivious form, i.e. Mohinī, vallacurarai… kāmarūpaṅkoṇṭu eḻuntaḻippāṉ (MOLI 10.1.10). He destroys the three worlds in the presence of Brahmā, Śiva and the gods, Nāṉmukaṉ araṇōṭu tēvarkaḷ nāṭa/mūvulakaḻittu (MOLI 10.1.3). Few references notify the dancing aspect of the Lord. The Lord is Kūttaṉ-Kōvalaṉ, dancer-cowboy (MOLI 10.1.7). He is the Dancer 82 R.K.K. Rajarajan who performs the pot, kuṭamāṭukūttaṉ (MOLI 10.1.11). The dance recital by the Lord was so ecstatic that the devotees were enamoured to imitate him by presenting an orgiastic group dance by circumambulating the temple, kōyil valañceytu ikkāṭutum kūttē (MOLI 10.1.5, cf. Kalidos 1999: 232). The venue abounds in the presence of the experts in scriptures, maṟaivāṇarvāḻ (MOLI 10.1.2). This is to attest the cultivation of the Vedas and the sacrifices.

Kūṭal Maṅkai alone has a rare reference to the place that names the venue Kūṭal (MPT 9.2.5). The Lord himself is a gopa, kōvalarēoppar. He holds the śaṅkha and cakra. His lips are coral-like, and the body is a coral hill, pavaḷakkuṉṟu (MPT 9.2.5). The vimāna of the Kūṭal Aḻakar temple is aṣṭāṅga and houses all three stances in its three vertial tiers. The ground floor houses a seated mūlabera (see fig. 7).

Figure 7: Kūṭal, utsavabera and the rear view of the vīmana.

Periyāḻvār is supposed to have composed his Tiruppallāṇṭu at Kūṭal, especially in the Kūṭal Aḻakar temple. Scholars are of opinion that there is no authentic evidence to prove this fact. However, the Antiquity of the Divyakṣetras in Pāṇḍināḍu 83

Great (Periya) Āḻvār refers to Tirumaturai (Tiruppallāṇṭu v. 10) where Rāma bent the bow (? [Mithilā] to take the hand of Śītā) and pounced on the five-hooded cobra (Kāliyamardana), tiru maturaiyuḷ/cilai kuṉittu aitalaiya painnākat talai pāyntavaṉ. It may be an indirect clue to the composition of the hymns at Maturai/Kūṭal. It may also note that Maturai in this reference is believed to refer to Mathurā in the north. It need not be so. There is no positive clue to this assumption. The Tiruppallāṇṭu is the most sacred among the hymns of the Āḻvārs that extols the praise of the Lord’s sacred feet for several years, several more years, several thousands of years and several thousands of millions of years:

Pallāṇṭu pallāṇṭu pallāyirattāṇṭu palakōṭi nūṟāyiram Mallāṇṭa tiṇtōḷ Maṇivaṇṇā uṉ cēvaṭicevvit tirukkāppu (v. 1).

It is the most sacred of the hymns that extols the praise of not only the Lord Viṣṇu but also his consort:

Vaṭivāy niṉ valamārpiṉil vāḻkiṉṟa maṅkaiyum pallāṇṭu …cuṭar āḻiyum pallāṇṭu…ap pāñcacaṉṉiyamum pallāṇṭu (v. 2).

“Let the Maid who resides in your right chest (Śrīvatsa) be extolled for several years… the shining disc for several years… and the Pañcajanya (conch) for several years.”

The other hymns extol the praise of the Lord for pallāṇṭu “several more years”:

Pallāṇṭu to the Lord who toppled the flanks of the demons of Laṅkā v. 3. Pallāṇṭu to all those that sing the praise of Nārāyaṇa v. 4. Pallāṇṭu to those that mutter the Lord’s sahasranāma v. 5. Pallāṇṭu to the Lion (Nṛsiṃha) who slaughtered a lion-like demon, Hiraṇya v. 6. Pallāṇṭu to the Lord who overcame the demon, Bakāsura v. 7. Pallāṇṭu to the enemy of snakes, Garuḍa v. 8. Pallāṇṭu to the Lord who reclines on the snake at the time of tiruvōṇam festival v. 9. Pallāṇṭu to the Lord who pounced on the five hoods of a demon- snake, Kāliya v. 10. 84 R.K.K. Rajarajan

Pallāṇṭu to the Lord’s devotees who mutter the aṣṭākṣara with devotion v. 11. Extol the pallāṇṭu to the Lord of pallāṇṭu v. 12.

Even though the data on Kūṭal is less, the Pallāṇṭu adds to its credit.

Villiputtūr Periyāḻvār and Āṇṭāḷ have only two hymns on Villiputtūr.20 The Lord is pleased to be seated when damsels play a melodious music. The Great Āḻvār eloquently says what a penance his mother should have undertaken to beget him as her son, empirāṉ nī piṟanta piṉṉai/ettaṉṉaiyum ceyyappṟṟāy (PTM 2.2.6). Āṇṭāḷ says the Lord resides at Villiputtūr, villiputtūruṟaivāṉ (ANT 5.5). Uṟaivaṉ (uṟai literally “freeze”) is likely to denote the reclining Lord. The Lord was a bedecked parrot that was fed with milk-rice. He skipped the worlds as Trivikrama. Today the mūlabera in the temple is in sayana mode (see fig. 8).

Figure 8: Villiputtūr, mūlabera and utsavaberas Vatapatrasayi and Antal.

20 I (R.K.K. Rajarajan) first visited the place with my father (Prof. Raju Kalidos) and Prof. Vidya Dehejia when a school going boy at the age of 15. It was this visit that aroused in me a curiosity to select art history for higher studies that finally honoured me with the Alexander von Humbolt post-doctoral Fellow at Berlin. Antiquity of the Divyakṣetras in Pāṇḍināḍu 85

Āṇṭāḷ composed the Tiruppavai at Villiputtūr for the sake maidens (T. pāvais) to cultivate a fasting in favour of the Lord and take a good husband. Āṇṭāḷ’s dream was to take the hand of Māl/Viṣṇu himself, much more erotically (Friedhelm Hardy’s virahabhakti) adumbrated in the Nācciyār Tirumoḻi (Kalidos 1997: 117–38). Though the scene of Āṇṭāḷ’s dreams are set in Āypāṭi (Mathurā) and Tuvārakai (Dvārakā), the actual scene falls within the bounds of Villiputtūr.21 Therefore, all the 30 hymns of Tiruppāvai may be counted under the kṣetra Villiputtūr.

Kurukūr Kurukūr (today’s Āḻvārtirunakari) has gone deep in the Vaiṣṇava matrix of the Tamil country as the birthplace of Nammāḻvār. He has no mania to adumbrate the glories of his nativity, as it was the case with Periyāḻvār and Āṇṭāḷ. Nam has a patikam MOLI 4.10 on the kṣetra. The place name is Tirukkurukūr (MOLI 4.10 all hymns). Today the mūlabera is sthānaka. The beautiful venue was full of palatial buildings, proclaiming its urban status, maṇimāṭa nīṭu Tirukkurukūr (MOLI 4.10.1), māṭamāḷīkai cūḻntaḻakāya (MOLI 4.10.2) and was fitted with a lovely fort, matilcūḻntaḻakāya (MOLI 4.10.4). The Āḻvār is nostalgic of the beauty of the place, aḻakāya (infra). The place was full of muddy fields in which paddy and lotus blossoms, cēṟṟil cennel kamala mōṅkum (MOLI 4.10.7). Palm trees surrounded the venue that decorated it, vēṉuvaṉam (vēṉu “bamboo”?), paṉai cuḻntaḻakāya (MOLI 4.10.9). Paddy and sugarcane grew richly tall in that fertile soil, cennel karumpōṭōṅku (MOLI 4.10.10). The Lord is called Ātimūrtti (Skt. Ādimūrti MOLI 4.10.7). Today the presiding God is called Ādinātha. He is the Kuṭakkūttaṉ, one who performs the kuṭakkūttu (MOLI 4.10.10). He is said to be seated or standing, amar (MOLI 4.10.9) or niṟka (MOLI 4.10.10). He is the creator who ordained the gods, the worlds, Nāṉmukaṉ and all the living organisms (MOLI 4.10.1). He created all and at the same time swallowed and spit the same, paṭaittu aṉṟuṭaṉē viḻuṅki/karantumiḻntu (MOLI 4.10.3). He is the Nāyaka of Brahmā and Civaṉ/Śiva (MOLI 4.10.4). Let the experts in Liṅga Purāṇa, Jains and Buddhists deliberately debate with him (regarding the high status of their cults) but he is the Lord of all, iliṅkattiṭṭa purāṇattīrum

21 For an analysis of the Tiruppāvai see Kalidos 2006: 84–9. 86 R.K.K. Rajarajan cama+um c"kkiyarum valintu v"tu ceyv!r (MOLI 4.10.5). 22 He is himself the six-religions, a-ucamayam avaiy"ki and was himself the *dibrahm" (MOLI 4.10.9). N"r"ya$a is the Ultimate God who blessed M"rka$%eya (MOLI 4.10.8).

Tolaivillima)kalam Today’s name Tollaivillima3kalam is a meaninglessly corrupt jargon; tolai means “distant” or “far away” and tollai “trouble” or “disturbance”. Nam has a patikam 6.5 in MOLI on the k#etra. The place name is Tolaivillima3kalam (e.g. 6.5.1,4). The place was on the northern bank (of the River T"mirapara$i), va)akarai (MOLI 6.5.6, 8). The Lord is called T6vat6vapir"- (Skt. Devadevam'rti MOLI 6.5.2), Tevapir"- (Skt. Devam'rti MOLI 6.5.11), Ka,,apir"- (MOLI 6.5.4), Ma$iva$$a- (MOLI 6.5.6, 9) and Mukilva$$a-. Today the m&labera and utsavabera are sth"naka (see fig. 9). The place was fitted with towering palatial buildings, m"ma$i m")amo1ki (MOLI 6.5.1). It was full of ponds in which several flowers as if kuva*ai (blue lily) blossomed (MOLI 6.5.1). It was also full of fields in which paddy, sugarcane and red lotus grew abundantly, karump4)u cennell41ku cent"marai (MOLI 6.5.6). Rarely the Lord’s pur"$ic l!l" is hinted: ticai ñ"lam t"viya.antu “He leaped and measured the directions and the worlds (as Trivikrama)” (MOLI Figure 9: Tolaivillima3kalam, m&labera and utsavabera. 6.5.3). His consorts were the daughter of the earth and the

22 Rival parties of various religious groups in India of those times engaged in v"tu (Skt. tarka) to establish the supremay of one over the other. Here is a clear notation of sectarian dispute. Indian religions never engaged in armed conflicts as it happended in the West, e.g. the Crusades and Hundred Years or Thirty Years War, cf. today’s protracted war between Israel and Palestine. Antiquity of the Divyakṣetras in Pāṇḍināḍu 87 auspicious maid, Śrī, nilamāmakaḷ tirumakaḷ (MOLI 6.5.10). Experts in the scriptures inhabited the kṣetra, nāṉmaṟaivāṇar vāḻ Tolaivillimaṅkalam (MOLI 6.5.4). They fostered the refined Vedas and performed sacrifices, tiruntu vētamum vēḷviyum (MOLI 6.5.8). All the time the noise of festive celebrations reverberated on the venue, viḻavoli (MOLI 6.5.2).

Cīvaramaṅkai Nam has a patikam MOLI 5.7 on the kṣētra. The place is called Cīvaramaṅkai-nakar (Śrī -varada [boon offering] -maṅkai [maid], MOLI 5.7.1, 3-4). The Lord is called Cīvaramaṅkalanātar (MOLI 5.7.5), Vāṉamāmalai “the Celestial Big Hill” MOLI 5.7.6), Cīvaramaṅkaivāṇaṉ (MOLI 5.7.8), Teyvanāyakaṉ (Skt. Devanāyaka, “Hero of the Gods” MOLI 5.7.10, 11) and Tirivikkiramaṉ (Skt. Trivikrama MOLI 5.7.11). The Lord is supposed to be seated, vīṟṟirunta (MOLI 5.7.1, 4) or irunta MOLI 5.7.9). Today the mūlabera is seated and the utsvabera sthānaka. The Lord is invoked with other pet epithets such as Aravintan (the flower, aravida MOLI 5.7.1), Ammāṉ (the Father, MOLI 5.7.1), Karumēṉiyammāṉ (the black-hued Father, MOLI 5.7.5), Vāṉanāyakaṉ (the celestial hero, MOLI 5.7.6), Maṇimāṇikkaccutar (light of the great black stone, MOLI 5.7.6) or Karumāṇikkaccuṭar (light of the black gem, MOLI 5.7.9), Vāṉavarkoḻuntu (sprout of the gods, MOLI 5.7.7) and Tāytantai (Mother-Father, MOLI 5.7.7). The Lord’s attributes were the caṅku (śaṅkha), cakkaram (cakra) and puṭkoṭi (pakṣidvaja or Garuḍadvaja) (MOLI 5.7.2–3). The ecological setting of the venue is told in few hymns. The muddy fields were full of lotus, paddy and sugarcane; cēṟṟuttāmarai cennel (MOLI 5.7.1), karumpum cennelum (MOLI 5.7.11). The urban status of the venue is pointed out with reference to the gem-like palatial buildings, maṇimāṭam (MOLI 5.7.8). Few references note the mythological setting. Kr̥ ṣṇa conducted an illusionary war to curb the pride of the 100 Gauravas, nūṟṟuvar maṅka… māyappōr paṇṇi (MOLI 5.7.4). The Lord cleaved the mandibles of a bird, puḷḷiṉvāypiḷanta (MOLI 5.7.8–9). He dislodged seven fierce bulls, erutēḷaṭarnta (MOLI 5.7.9). Cīvaramaṅkai was a sacred venue as it was inhabited by so many experts in Vedas, maṟaivallavar palarvāḻ (MOLI 5.7.3). The 88 R.K.K. Rajarajan

Vedas and yajñas were endlessly cultivated, v2ta v2.viya-" (MOLI 5.7.4, 7) by the experts in the four Vedas, n"+ma-ai vall"r (MOLI 5.7.9).

Te*tirupp+reyil Nam has a patikam on the k#etra MOLI 7.3. The place name is Tirupp6reyil (p2reyil means “big fort”, MOLI 7.3.1–2), now called Tirupp6rai. The Lord is called Ma$iva$$a--Ka$$a- (MOLI 7.3.2), Ka$$apir"- (MOLI 7.3.9) and Accuta- (Skt. Achyuta MOLI 7.3.11). He is in the seated mode, v!--irunta (MOLI 7.3 all hymns). Today the m&labera is seated (see fig. 10). Palm trees surrounded the place, ta$pa$aic&l (MOLI 7.3.2). Paddy plants in the fields toss like c"maras, cennelkavari v!cum (MOLI 7.3.6). Towering buildings added an urban status to the venue, cikarama$i ne)um")am (MOLI 7.3.10). The Lord wore the makaraku$(alas in his ears, makarane)u1ku*aik k"tu (MOLI 7.3.10). He was armed with the disc in a hand. His colour was the same as the primeval ocean (MOLI 7.3.11). The experts in four Vedas were present to perform sacrifices, n"+ma-aiy".arum v2.viy4va (MOLI 7.3.6). The Figure 10: Te-tirup6reyil, utsavabera on voice of the Vedas and festivities Ga/uda vahana. were resounding endlessly, v2tavoliyum vi*"voliyum (MOLI 7.3.1). The festivities were ongoing every month and every day without fail, ti1ka.um n".um vi*"va-"ta (MOLI 7.3.3). Antiquity of the Divyakṣetras in Pāṇḍināḍu 89

Vaikuntam Nam has noted the kṣetra in two verses (MOLI 9.2.4, 8). Nam says the Lord is reclining at Puḷiṅkuṭi, seated at Varakuṇamaṅkai and standing at Vaikuntam. Today the mūlabera is standing. The Lord’s posture was so enrapturing that the congregating devotees created a scene by presenting a dance recital, nāṅkaḷ kūttāṭi niṉṟārppa (MOLI 9.2.4). The mystic adds the Lord is present at Tiruvaikuntam (Skt. Śrīvaikuṇṭham), tiruvaikuntattuḷḷāy tēva (MOLI 9.2.8).

Puḷiṅkuṭi Nam has a patikam MOLI 9.2 and few stray verses on the kṣetra. The mystic adds the Lord is pleased to slumber at Kōḷūrakam and Puḷiṅkuṭi, Kōḷūrakattum puḷiṅkuṭiyum nī tuyin mēvi makiḻntu (MOLI 8.3.5). Today the mūlabera is reclining. The place name is Tiruppuḷiṅkuṭi (MOLI 9.2.1–3, 5–7). Repeatedly, it is added the Lord is reclining, kiṭantāy (MOLI 9.2. 3, 5. 7). The mystic adds: For how long a time did you recline? kiṭantanāḷ kiṭantāyettaṉai kālam kiṭatti (MOLI 9.2.3). Palm trees and fertile fields surrounded the place, paṇaicūl, kalivayal (MOLI 9.2.1, 6). Golden forts surrounded the venue, poṉmatilcūḻ (MOLI 9.2.2). The Lord’s tiara resembles a bunch of paddy crop, katirmuṭi (MOLI 9.2.6). His consort was seated on a lotus, tāmaraimaṅkai “Maid (seated on) Lotus” (MOLI 9.2.3). The Lord was one who churned the ocean, kuraikaṭal kaṭaintavaṉ (MOLI 9.2.11). He measured the three worlds, ulakammūṉṟaḷantāṉ (MOLI 9.2.11).

Varakuṇamaṅkai The venue is practically not described. Nam notes the Lord seated at Varakuṇamaṅkai (Skt. Varaguṇamaṅga? “Maid whose ethos is to grant boon”), varakuṇamaṅkayiliruntu (MOLI 9.2.4, supra Vaikuntam). Today the mūlabera is seated (see fig. 11). 90 R.K.K. Rajarajan

Figure 11: Varakuṇamaṅkai, utsavaberas.

Kuḷantai Earlier notified in the Paripāṭal (supra), very little is told of the venue. Teṉkuḷantai was fitted with a fort in the tower of which a banner was flying, māṭakkoṭi matiḷ (MOLI 8.2.4). The Lord is called Māyakkūttaṉ, one who performs an illusionary dance. He rose high in a war as a dancing bird, Āṭalpaṟavai.23 He was driver of a chariot, bearing the disc. This is likely to be a reference to Pārthasārati. The mūlabera is sthānaka (see fig. 12).

23 This subject has been earlier discussed Kalidos 1999: 229. According to Raju Kalidos, Āṭaṟpaṟavai “the Dancing Bird” is Garuḍa, one among aṃśāvatāras of Viṣṇu (Kaidos 1999: Fig. 5). Antiquity of the Divyakṣetras in Pāṇḍināḍu 91

Figure 12: Kuḻantai, mūlabera and utsavabera.

Kuṟuṅkuṭi The kṣetra figures in the hymns of Maḻicai, Nam, Periya and Maṅkai. The place name is Kuṟuṅkuṭi (CAN 62; MOLI 1.10.9, 3.9.2; MPT 1.6.8, 5.6.2, 6.3.3, 9.5.1, 3; PTML ll. 228–29; TNT 14), Tirukkuṟuṅkuṭi 5.5.1–2) or Teṉkuṟuṅkuṭi (MOLI 1.10.9). The Lord is standing, niṉṟa (MOLI 1.10.9) or reclining, tuyilum (MPT 9.6.2). Today the mūlabera is sthānaka (see fig. 13). The Lord’s epithets are Tirumūrti “Sacred Lord” (MOLI 1.10.9), Ātiyañcōti “Primeval Light” (MOLI 1.10.9), Kaṇṇaṉ (MOLI 3.9.2), Kuṟuṅkuṭinampi “Darling of Kuṟuṅkuṭi” (MOLI 5.5. all hymns), Poṉmuṭi “Golden Crown” (MOLI 5.5.4), Māl-Maṇivaṇṇaṉ (MPT 9.5.3), Pēraruḷāḷaṉ “Giver of Eternal Bliss” (MPT 9.5.4) and Kōvalar-Kūttaṉ “Dancer-gopa” (MPT 9.5.8). 92 R.K.K. Rajarajan

Figure 13: Kuṟuṅkuṭi, utsavabera.

Something is told of the ecological setting. Fertile fields surrounded the place, kaḻaṉicūḷ (MOLI 3.9.2). It was filled with groves, cōlai (MOLI 5.5.2, 4, 6). Peacocks were practicing dance, mayil payilum (MPT 9.5.3). The sweet smelling mullai flowers were abundant, mullai pulku (MPT 9.5.6). The red-legged stork was in search of food for its partner, ceṅkāl ittuṇai nāraikkiraiteṭi (MPT 9.6.3). Parrots were training to talk, kiḷḷai pēcum (MTM 9.6.5) Few references note the mythological feats of the Lord. He was the Lion who cleft Hiraṇya into two halves, Iraṇiyaṉ…iraṇṭukūṟu ceytukanta ciṅkam (CAN 62). He devoured the seven seas, seven mountains and the seven worlds, kaṭalēlum malaiyēḻivvulakēḻuṇṭu (MPT 5.6.2). He was the first to stand, having crossed the frontiers of the three worlds, mūvulakuṅ kaṭantappāl mutalāy niṉṟa (TNT 14). The Lord’s attributes are described. He bears the caṅku/śaṅkha and nēmi/cakra, and the eyes are lotus-like, tāmaraikkaṇ (MOLI 5.5.1, 5, 8). He wears the shining sacred thread, kuṇḍalas on ears and bears Śrī on chest, miṉṉunūlum kuṇṭalamum mārvil tirumaṟu (MOLI 5.5.2). He wears a golden tiara, poṉmuṭi (MOLI 5.5.4). It was tall, Antiquity of the Divyakṣetras in Pāṇḍināḍu 93 nīṇmuṭi (MOLI 5.5.9). His body itself was shining like gold, poṉmēṉi (MOLI 5.5.7). The hip was slender, ciṟṟiṭai (MOLI 5.5.8).24 His face resembled the moon matipōlmukam (MTM 6.3.3).

Kōḷūr Nammāḻvār has a patikam on the kṣetra MOLI 6.7. The place name is Tirukkōḷūr (kōḷ is a planet, graha, ūr residential zone, MOLI 6.7.1–2, 4-5, 7).25 The Lord is in reclining mode, kiṭanta (MOLI 6.7.4, 7). Today the mūlabea is reclining (see fig. 14).

Figure 14: Kōḷūr, mūlabera and utsavabera.

24 This is an attribute of maids usually in Tamil literary tradition. 25 Those on the banks of the River Tāmiraparaṇi are collectively called Navatiruppati (Nine Sacred Venues) and held in high esteem in the region (Ganeshram 2010 – deals with select six temples). The Navatiruppatis are Kurukūr, Tolaivillimaṅkalam (called Iṟaṭṭaitiruppati “Twin Temples” that lay on the northern and southern banks of the river), Cīvaramaṅkan, Pēreyil, Vaikuntam, Puḷiṅkuṭi, Kōḷūr, Kuḻantai and Varakuṇamaṅkai. Each one of the sthala is linked with a kōḷ/graha “planet” among the navagrahas. 94 R.K.K. Rajarajan

The Lord is called Kaṇṇaṉ (MOLI 6.7.1) and Matucūtaṉaṉ/Madusūdana (MOLI 6.7.11). The Lord’s face was soft as the aravinda (a lotus, Nelumbium speciosum or Nyphaea nelumbo) flowers, aravintalōcana (MOLI 6.7.10). With tears in eyes, the devotees throng to the temple (MOLI 6.7.5–6). The Lord is the food that they eat, water that they drink and the betel that they chew, uṇṇum cōṟu parukunīr tiṉṉum veṟṟilai (MOLI 6.7.1). The parrots on the venue do nothing but to sing the nāmāvali of the Lord and get up (early in the Morning), kiḷikaḷ …Tirumāl nāmaṅkaḷē kūviyeḻum (MOLI 6.7.3).

Argument

Of all the 18 divyadeśas in the Pāṇḍya country, Māliruñcōlai is the earliest, getting back to the 4th century AD. The data bearing on it is abundant in view of its cult value, increasing though the centuries. At the pan-Indian level, the first Vaiṣṇava divyadeśa is Vēṅkaṭam that fell within the modest limits of the Tamil country of those times. Its antiquity gets back to the early centuries of the Christian era or even still earlier in the BCEs. The poetic imagination of the mystics would permit them to place Cōlai on a par with Pāṟkaṭal and Vēṅkaṭam with Vaikuṇṭha. Kuḻantai comes next as it is notified in the Paripāṭal. Meyyam and Taṇkāl follow suit with earlier rock-cut temples (figs. 4, 5 are rockcut images of the 7th century CE). It is perplexing to note what happened to these deśas during the 5th–7th century. It is a mystery as they reappear only in the hymns of Nammāḻvar and Maṅkai. Taṇkāl figures in the hymns of Pūtam in the late 5th or early 6th century and may be the rock-cut temple emerged around the end of the 6th century, falling in line with Meyyam. Kōṭṭiyūr first appears in the hymns of Pūtam. Kuṟuṅkuṭi may be dated in the 7th century as it is notified in the hymns of Maḻicai. Kurukūr, Tolaivillimaṅkalam, Cīvaramaṅkai. Pēreyil, Vaikuntam, Puliṅkuṭi, Varakuṇamaṅkai and Kōḷūr gained popularity with the versification of Nammāḻvar in the 8th century. Pullāṇi may be dated in the late 8th or early 9th century as it appears only in the hymns of Maṅkai. An important dimension of the data gleaned from the bhakti hymns is that some of the later names appear in early hymns, e.g. Kāḷamēkam (Mōkūr), Vāṉamāmalai (Cīvaramaṅkai), Aḻakartaṉkōyil Antiquity of the Divyakṣetras in Pāṇḍināḍu 95 and Meyyamalai (Skt. Satyagiri [Sanskrit satya, Tamil mey]). Scholars proficient in the bhakti hymns must have given these names in later times. Another important dimension is that in most of the places the Lord is associated with dance and called Kūttaṉ who performed the pot-dance. The dancing aspect is overwhelmingly linked with Viṣṇu in the Pāṇḍināḍu zone that adds credit to the thesis of Raju Kalidos (1999) whose “Dance of Viṣṇu” gets further strengthened. The Lord’s performance was so enrapturing that the devotees imitated the same to propitiate the Lord as it was done in early times by the āyar in Cilappatikāram. Since the āyar are said to be founders of the festivities at Māliruñcōlai, in all probability the sojourn of Kaṇṇaki in the Cilappatikāram on arriving at Maturai was close to the hill of Aḻakar where the famous āycciyarkuravai took place. Why the stance of the Lord should alter in later times while the early tradition was something different? E.g. in Tirumeyyam the original reclining Lord made to sit in later times. The following is the picture of what the Āḻvārs have to say on the stance and how they appear today:

Place Āḻvār’s perception As it is Today Māliruñcōlai all three (sthānaka, āsana and Sthānaka sayana) Kōṭṭiyūr none of three, simply uṟaikiṉṟa aṣṭāṅgavimāna all three, balibera: sthānala Pullāṇi nothing told Āsana Meyyam sayana/āsana Sayana, sthānaka Taṇkāl nothing told Sayana, sthānaka Mōkūr Sayana sthānaka Kūṭal nothing told Aṣṭāṅgavimāna, all three Villiputtūr āsana or uṟaikiṉṟa sayana Cīvaramaṅkai Āsana āsana Tiruppēreyil Āsana āsana Vaikuntham Sthānaka sthānaka Puliṅkuṭi Sayana sayana Varakuṇamaṅkai Sthānaka sthānaka 96 R.K.K. Rajarajan

Kuḷantai Kūttaṉ “Dancer”26 sthānaka Kuṟuṅkuṭi Sthānaka, sayana sthānaka Kōḷūr Sayana sayana

Among these Māliruñcōlai, Meyyam regarding sayana (instead of āsana, sthānaka appears), Villiputtūr (if uṟaikiṉṟa is sayana), Cīvaramaṅkai, Tiruppēreyil, Vaikuntam, Puliṅkuṭi, Varakuṇamaṅkai, Kuṟuṅkuṭi and Kōḷūr agree with the original programme of the Āḻvārs. Out of eighteen, ten agree with the original visuvalization while in eight the mode differs. This may be due to cult need and the willingness of a donor who wants to see the Lord in a mode suitable to his taste at a time when the temple was rebuilt. Śiva-Naṭarāja in the Cōḻanāḍu circle lifts the left leg while in Pāṇḍyan tradition it is the right. To this effect a myth was inserted as recorded in the Tiruviḷaiyāṭaṟpurāṇam (episode 32) wherein a mythical Pāṇḍya king requests the Lord to alter the usually lifted left leg lest the right may ache. The truth behind may be that the Pāṇḍyas did not want to imitate the Cōḻa model. Similarly, there should have been some compelling reason to alter the stance of Viṣṇu in later times in certain circles. This may apply to other regions such as Cōḻanāḍu and Toṇḍaināḍu. The Āḻvārs were lovers of nature. They had a fascination to highlight environmental and ecological setting of the deśas, the flora and fauna, in unequivocally eloquent terms. No kṣetra is exception to this common genre. The delightfully dancing peacocks and pet parrots’ mutterings the nāmāvali of Viṣṇu are aesthetic poetic vividities. The bees or beetles are gaṇas and the Cilamapāṟu flows with honey. The Āḻvārs were not only in a frantic-ecstatic search for the beauty-Aḻakaṉ but also the aḻakiya “beautiful” setting of his abode in the then temples. All the places were the homes of experts in the Vedas who nurtured the Vedic sacrifices. Pūjās and festivals were busy all the time in addition to offerings, both vegetarian and carnivorous, to the gods as it is told in case of Māliruñcōlai. Āṇṭāḷ calls the brāmaṇa lads pārppaṇacciṭṭārkaḷ and the folk were bhūtas

26 Pioneers in iconographical studies note three modes such as āsana, sthānaka and sayana. Raju Kalidos (1999a: 226, 2006: 17) notes several more from the Tamil Vaiṣṇava hymns. The stances noted are kiṭantu (recline), iruntu (sit), eḻuntu (stand), naṭantu (walk), paṟantu (fly), kuṉintu (stoop, contexually dance). This is from the MPT 5.2.4. The MOLI 6.9.3 notes naṭantu, kiṭantu and iruntu. The latter account fails to note sthānaka. Antiquity of the Divyakṣetras in Pāṇḍināḍu 97 that offered the kutippali “blood sacrifices”. Therefore, there was no inhibition in either offering the akkāravaṭicil, a delicious vegetarian dish, or ceṅkuruti “(cold) red blood”. To be brief, the Āḻvārs open new avenues of the divyadeśas and religious mysticism and traditions of their times. Those were the halcyon days as in the later half of the 14th century Gaṅgādevī talks of the foul smell of beef roasted by the vadalistic Muslim at Citamparam, Śrīraṅgam and Maturai (cf. Kalidos 1997a: 20, Rajarajan 2006: 5). Before concluding few relevant questions could be raised and answered. How historically/geographically accurate these praises of the sthalas by the Āḻvārs might be? This is something like asking what we read in the Psalms and how we view Jerusalem today. There may be some euphemism in what the Āḻvārs view each of the sthala, added with poetic imagination. But a sthala should be a reality. The Āḻvārs consider those not on earth sthalas, e.g Pāṟkaṭal and Paramapatam, due to intuition. They are genuine imaginations. One sould be a Āḻvār to undergo such a mystic inspiration. Mortals could not imagine those god-given revelations. All the sthalas came to be attested by epigraphical sources in due course (see Meyyam, Mōkūr and Cittirakūṭam in Rajarajan 2006). To be crisp the Ālvars’ vision is hazy. We do not find a Meyyam today of what Tirumaṅkai saw in the 9th century. The visual we have presented (photographs and plans; figs 4, 5 are early medieval rockcut images, contemporaneous with the Āḻvārs) are as we find them today. The Āḻvārs had no knowledge of the modern visuals. Today’s Jerusalem is not what the Psalms view but Jerusalem should have been a reality at the time of the Psalms. Saint David would not believe his own eyes if he were to come alive and say today’s Jerusalem is not the pilgrim center that he saw in his time. The same should be the experience of a Āḻvār if he visits Mōkūr or Meyyam today. The artistically built tank of the Tirumeyyam temple was in those times a natural water reservoir. Many of the structural additions did not exist in the Meyyam of those times. We may ask whether the Ālvārs talk of a real temple or idealized vision of a temple that is Viṣṇu’s home on earth. This carries weight because there could have been no Pāṟkaṭal (Ocean of Milk) or Paramapatam (the Vaiṣṇava heaven, Vaikuṇṭha). As a devotee of Viṣṇu I may have a faith these and believe they exist but as a professor could not establish the reality of these imagined sthalas in a classroom with visual aids. The same yardstick need not be applied to 98 R.K.K. Rajarajan historical venues such as Kurukūr and Vaikuntam. Another problem is could the Āḻvārs have visited Ayodhyā, Dvārakā and Mathurā in their time. Even if they did not visit, their accounts may be based on what they heard from pilgrims coming from those distant places. It might be “oral history” in a sense. Did not pilgrims visit Rāmeśvaram in the 9th century or did not pilgrims from the south visit Kāśī. If a Śaṅkarācārya could visit Kāshmīr and Kāśī, why not Tirumaṅkai visit Vatariyācciramam (Badrinatha)? Eric Issac 1960 called the sacred venues “the landscape of myth”, which may or may not be applicable to all the divyadeśas or tiruttalams. The Āḻvārs and Nāyaṉmār have not told us a fairy tale. They may say 50% is 100% but nobody dare say it is 0%. Another important question is how the sthalas came to be canonized in the Āḻvār tradition and Śrīvaiṣṇava tradition. In fact there is no such two “Āḻvār tradition” and “Śrīvaiṣṇava tradition”. The Ācāryas in their Sanskritic or maṇipravāḷa lore commented on what the Āḻvārs earlier said. What was told by the Āḻvār in two lines might have been interpreted by the Ācāryas in 200 pages. We may even add imagination flies at a bullet-train speed in the Ācārya accounts (e.g. Āṇṭāḷ taking the hand of Raṅganātha who refers to this sthala in her hymns – Āṟāyirappaṭi pp. 45–50). But, if there were 108 divyadeśas in Āḻvār literature, it was not 1,008 in Ācārya literature. One thing is certain, the Araṅkam (Śrīraṅgam) of the time of Toṇṭaraṭippoṭi as told in his Tirumālai (8th century CE) was not the Araṅkam of Rāmānujācārya (12th century CE). The Araṅkam of Rāmānuja’s time is not what we find today. After the Islamic depredations of the 14th century, the temple had undergone drastic changes at the hands of the Vijayanagara-Nāyaka rulers of South India. The same must have been the case with several other sthalas such as Kūṭal/Maturai and Cittirakūṭam. The Cittirakūṭam did not exist during the 12th–17th century due to fanatical activities of a mythical Cōḻa called Kṛmikaṇṭha as told in the Ācārya guruparamparāprabhāvam. It was rebuilt during the time of Achyutarāya (CE 1529–42) in the 16th century. We may also consider whether these are the main temples or a sporadic listing of temples. Dr Jeyapriya Rajarajan 2012 has worked on this question and communicated an article to the IAHA, Java. She says during the Early Āḻvār Period (6th–7th century) only 16 sthalas are listed. During the Middle Āḻvār Period (7th–8th centuries) 42 were Antiquity of the Divyakṣetras in Pāṇḍināḍu 99 added, total 16 + 42 = 58. The total 108 reached fruition at about the 9th century by the time of Tirumaṅkai. It is added that the Śrītattvanidhi of Kṛṣṇarāja Uṭaiyar (19th century) of Mysore presents a list of 117 divyadeśas, citing the Brahmāṇḍa Purāṇa (CE 350–950, O’Flaherty 1994: 17). The total 108 seems to have risen to 117 in the 10th century. Today it might be incredibly more.27 So, what the Āḻvārs chose to extol were the choicest venues. This as well applies to the cult of Murukaṉ. Prof. Raju Kalidos raised this question in an international conference at Mauritius. The Tamil Tirumurukāṟṟuppatai (c. 3rd century CE) talks aṟupaṭaivīṭu (six houses or sthalas) of the Murukaṉ cult in Tamilnadu. Were they only six? Defintely it was not. What the poet, Nakkīrar, did was to extol the most prominent among the various other sthalas. The same applies to the Āḻvārs. The vital point for consideration is: what kind of history we deal with? What kind of information we get? And how we learn by the larger import? The data I have presented in based on the Āḻvār literature. This kind of data is not known to the scholars in the west and North India. While talking of Vaiṣṇavism, they go either to the Bhāgavata Purāṇa or Gītagovinda (Bhandarkar 1995). Why not consider the the roots of these two Sanskritic sources that we find in the Tamil Nālāyiram (cf. Hardy 1983, Kalidos 1999a). My emphasis is on the Tamil source that is very much neglected in North India and the west. Few scholars in the United States, e.g. A.K. Ramanujam 1981, who work on Śrīvaiṣṇavism do not compliment their presentations with authentic art historical material, which I have done. Prof. George W. Spencer, writing in 1970 on Śaiva “sacred geography”, said a similar work on Vaiṣṇavism is warranted. To quote: “a study of Vaiṣṇavite sacred geography… is obviously feasible” (Spencer 1970: 233). This is what exactly I have done after 40 years of the dream of a learned Tamil scholar. This in a way is a pioneering study and more work could be done on Cōḻanāṭu, Malaināṭu, Toṇṭaināṭu, Vaṭanāṭu (cf. Jeypriya 2010).

27 For a survey of the temple cars of Tamilnadu, Raju Kalidos (1989: 261–73) listed 64 Viṣṇu temples of which 18 were extolled in the hymns of the Āḻvārs. That means 45 were not canonized. 100 R.K.K. Rajarajan

Abbreviations

ANT Nācciyār Tirumoḻi of Āṇṭāḷ CAN Tiruccantaviruttam of Tirumaḻicai CTML Ciṟiyatirumaṭal of Maṅkai MOLI Tiruvāymoḻi of Nam MPT Periya Tirumoḻi of Maṅkai NTV Nāṉmukaṉ Tiruvantāti of Tirumaḻicai PAL Tiruppallāṇṭu of Periyāḻvār PTM Tirumoḻi of Periyāḻvār PTML Periyatirumaṭal of Maṅkai Skt. Sanskrit T. Tamil T I Tiruvantāti I of Poykai T II Tiruvantāti II of Pēy TKT Tirukkuṟuntāṇṭakam of Maṅkai TNT Tiruneṭuntāṇṭakam of Maṅkai

Note: The author’s have slightly modified the abbreviation scheme of Hardy 1983 and Kalidos 1999.

Acknowledgement

The author dedicates this small piece of work to Prof. Friedhelm Hardy, thanks to his path-finding study on Tamil Kr̥ ṣṇa cult. The author is grateful to Prof. Raju Kalidos of the Tamil University of for guidance in interpreting certain enigmatic passages in the Nālāyiram.

References

Aiyangar, S. Krishnasvami (1940), A History of Tirupati, 2 vols. Madras. Āṟāyirappaṭi-Guruparamparāprabhāvam, ed. S. Krishnaswamy Ayyangar, Tiruchi n.d. Bhagavadgītā (1977), Ramakrishna Mutt ed., Tiruparaitturai. Bhandarkar, R.G. (1913/1995), Vaiṣṇavism, Śaivism and Minor Religious Systems. New Delhi. Antiquity of the Divyakṣetras in Pāṇḍināḍu 101

Bhaskaran, G. (2001), Jain Philosophy as Expounded in Mērumandara Purāṇam. In Haripriya Rangarajan et al. eds. Jainism: Art, Architecture, Literature & Philosophy. Delhi. Brockington, J.L. (1981/1991), The Sacred Thread. Edinburgh. Ganeshram, S. (2010), Vaiṣṇava Divyakṣetras in the Southern Pāṇḍya Country (Ph.D. thesis, Madurai Kamaraj University). Madurai. Hanumanthan, K.R. (1996-97), Evolution of Untouchability in Tamilnadu upto AD 1600. In: The Indian Historical Review, XXIII: 1–2, 41–65. Hardy, Friedhelm (1983), Viraha Bhakti: the Early History of Kr̥ ṣṇa Devotion in South India. Delhi. Issac, Eric (1960), Religion, Landscape, and Space. In: Landscape, Vol. IX, pp. 14–18. Jeyapriya Rajarajan (2004), A Note on Vaccirakkōṭṭam. In: East and West, 54: 1-4, 291–302. ——— (2012), Pre-Medieval Phase of Viṣṇuism in Tamilnadu. Abstract, p. 64. The 22nd Conference of International Association of Historians of Asia (Java). Kalidos, Raju (1976), History and Culture of the Tamils from Prehistoric times to the President’s Rule. Dindigul. ——— (1989), Temple Cars of Medieval Tamiḻaham. Madurai: Vijay Publications, Madurai. ——— (1996), Naṭarāja as portrayed in the Tēvāram Hymns. In: Acta Orientalia, 57: 13–56. ——— (1997), The Hymns of Kōtai: An Essay in Eroticism. In R. Kalidos ed. Sectarian Rivalry in Art and Literature, pp. 117–38. Delhi. ——— (1997a), Antiquity of Tillai-Citirakūṭam. In: South Asian Studies, Oxford & IBH, 13, 17–24. ——— (1999), the Sātavāhanas and the Caṅkam Age. In: Ajay Mitra Sastri (ed.), The Age of the Sātavāhanas, pp. 144–55. New Delhi. 102 R.K.K. Rajarajan

——— (1999a), Dance of Viṣṇu: the Spectacle of Tamil Āḻvārs. In: Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society, 3:9:2, 223–50. ——— (2006), Encyclopaedia of Hindu Iconography: Early Medieval, Vol. I Viṣṇu. Delhi: Sharada Publihsing House. Latha, Velu (2005), Cave Temples of the Pāṇḍya Country… Delhi. Mani, V.R. (1939/1990), Sons of Sivas: A Study in the Religious Cults of Gaṇeśa and Kārttikeya. Delhi. Nālāyiram: Nālāyirativviyapirapantam, ed. V.N. Devanathan, Madras 1972 (all the citations on the texts listed under the abbreviations are from this edition). O’Flaherty, Wendy Doniger (1975/1994), Hindu Myths. Penguin Books, New Delhi. Pandarathar, K. Sadasiva (1974), Piṟkālaccōḻar Varalāṟu (History of the Later Cōḻas) in Tamil. Annamalai Nagar. Ragunath, M. (2005/2008), Nāyaka Temples of Central Tamilnadu (forthcoming). Sharada Publishing House, Delhi. Rajarajan, R.K.K. (1995), Aḻakarkōyil Art and Mythology with special reference to the Kalyāṇamaṇḍapa (M. Phil thesis, Madurai Kamaraj University). Madurai. ——— (2001), Further Light on the Tirupparaṅkuṉṟam Caves. Annali Istituto Orientale, Naples, 51: 4, pp. 295–408. ——— (2004), Nālirumūrtti-Aṣṭamūrti: the Aḻakarkōyil Tradition. In P. Chenna Reddy (ed.), Brahma Sri Researches in Archaeology, History & Culture in the New Millennium (Dr P.V. Parabrahma Sastry Felicitation Volume), 2 vols, pp. 86– 91.Sharada Publishing House, Delhi. ——— (2006), Art of the Vijayanagara-Nāyakas, 2 vols. Sharada Publishing House, Delhi. Ramanujam, A.K. (1981), Hymns for the Drowning. Princeton. Sastri, K.A. Nilakanta (1929/72), The Pandyan Kingdom. Madras. Spencer, George W. (1970), Sacred Geography of the Tamil Shaivite Hymns. In: Numen, Vol. 17:3, pp. 232–44. Antiquity of the Divyakṣetras in Pāṇḍināḍu 103

Tēvāram (1972), 2 vols. Kaḻakam ed. Madras. Tiruviḷaiyāṭaṟpurāṇam of Perumpaṟṟappuliyūr Nampi, Chennai 1906/1972. Zvelebil, Kamil V. (1974) Tamil Literature under History of Indian Literature ed. Jan Gonda. Stuttgart.

The evolution of Turkic modal verbs

Julian Rentzsch Szeged

Abstract

This paper investigates the mechanisms underlying the grammaticalization of Turkic modal auxiliary verbs. Special attention is paid to the linking device between main verb and auxiliary, i.e. the segment that corresponds to the infinitive in many Standard Average European modal constructions. Turkic modal constructions display a considerable variation regarding this linking device, which, however, can be reduced to a set of seven structural types, the origin and development of which will be investigated. It will be argued that interacting analogous mechanisms that build on formal and semantic principles contribute to the evolution and distribution of these types.

Keywords: Auxiliary verbs, root modality, grammaticalization, variation, analogy, Turkic languages.

1. Full verbs and auxiliary verbs

Turkic modal constructions are predominantly morphosyntactic units consisting of a main verb and an auxiliary segment, which may be of 106 Julian Rentzsch either nominal or verbal origin. This paper focuses on auxiliary verbs, although some constructions that entail a nominal auxiliary will be mentioned as well. The constructions to be discussed in the present article mainly pertain to the semantic domains of root possibility and willingness. As root modality does not constitute a closed formal class in the Turkic languages but resorts to morphosyntactic patterns that occur in other semantic domains as well, a non-modal type of construction that displays a similar behavior as the modal constructions to be investigated will also be considered in order to provide a broader formal and semantic context. This non-modal type is instantiated by a construction that denotes inception, i.e. ‘to begin’. All Turkic modal auxiliary verbs originate in full verbs. The lexical properties of full verbs include, besides their semantic value, specific syntactic characteristics, namely their argument structure, which implies specific government patterns. In the event that a full verb assumes auxiliary functions, in other words if it combines with another verb, some strategy is needed to link the main verb to the auxiliary. One option that is available in the Turkic languages is to build a nominal form from the main verb, i.e. a verbal noun, and to integrate the resulting nominal form into the original government pattern of the auxiliary. This strategy is in fact frequently found in the Turkic languages, but it is by no means the only one. Other widespread strategies include converb constructions, a shift in the government pattern and subjunctive uses of voluntative or optative forms. Hence, auxiliarization of an original full verb necessarily involves the choice of some linking device. This choice may be different in individual linguistic varieties, and some varieties may even permit several options, but in any event it is conventional in any given variety. Conventionalization of lexicosyntactic and morphosyntactic patterns is tantamount to grammaticalization (cf. Himmelmann 2004: 31). 1 Needless to say, the selection is not

1 For the purposes of this paper, grammaticalization is thought to entail all kinds of conventionalization processes that produce (simple or complex) grammatical items, i.e. developments from lexical items to grammatical ones, from lexico-grammatical combinations to grammatical items and from grammatical items to more grammatical ones. The starting point for every conventionalization process (lexicalization, idiomaticization and grammaticalization) will be labeled arbitrarity, which here Evolution of Turkic Modal Verbs 107 completely random but makes use of components that are already available in the language. On the other hand, the available components may change some of their morphological and syntactic properties. The following discussion pays special attention to the linking device between main and auxiliary verb, identifying the main types available in the Turkic languages, elaborating on their diachronic evolution and showing their approximate synchronic distribution within genetic and areal groups. Setting aside the details, the Turkic languages can be subdivided into four major branches – Southwest Turkic (Oghuz), Southeast Turkic (Karluk-Uyghur), Northwest Turkic (Kipchak) and South Siberian Turkic – plus three languages that cannot be directly linked to one of these branches – Yakut (and closely related Dolgan), Khalaj and Chuvash. For the purposes of this paper, a rough diachronic division into Old Turkic (8th–12th c.), Middle Turkic (13th–19th c.) and Modern Turkic (since 20th c.) will be sufficient.

2. Old Turkic full verb prototypes and their use in auxiliary constructions

Almost all Turkic modal auxiliary verbs may function as full verbs as well, and many of them are attested either as full verbs or as verbs with both full verb and auxiliary functions in Old Turkic, i.e. either in the Turkic Runic inscriptions of Siberia and Mongolia or in Old Uyghur. Old Turkic verbs that became involved in Turkic modal constructions include u- ‘to be capable’ (Clauson 1972: 2), bil- ‘to know’ (Clauson 1972: 330) and bol- ‘to become’ (Clauson 1972: 331) for the semantic domain of possibility and küse- ‘to wish, desire, long for’ (Clauson 1972: 749), tile- ‘to seek’ (Clauson 1972: 492) and iste- ‘to seek, pursue’ (Clauson 1972: 243) for the semantic domain of willingness. Inception as the non-modal category consulted for comparative purposes is expressed by bašla- ‘to begin, to lead’ (Clauson 1972: 381–382), which is originally a denominal verb from baš ‘head, beginning’. The present study will focus on these seven signifies the spontaneous combination of lexical and grammatical items without a pre- existing model. 108 Julian Rentzsch verbs. All of them are attested as full verbs, so their argument structures and government patterns can be identified for the Old Turkic stage. Bol- as a verb denoting a change of state does not govern any (marked) case; its arguments (maximally2 two) are in the direct case, which is morphologically unmarked in Turkic. All other verbs mentioned could take direct objects in Old Turkic, which appear in the accusative case or, if unspecific, in the unmarked direct case:

(1) Šimnu küč-iŋe qop-uγ u-γay. NP power-POSS.3.DAT all-ACC be.capable-FUT ‘By the power of Ahriman he will be capable of everything.’ (Old Uyghur, M II 5, 10–11; cited from Clauson 1972: 2)

(2) Eki yiltiz-ig üč öð-ki nom-uγ bil-t-imiz. two roots-ACC three time-REL doctrine-ACC know-ASP-1.PL ‘We knew the two roots and the doctrine of the three times.’ (Old Uyghur, Xwāstvānift L 158–159)3

(3) Burxan qut-ïn küse-deči bodisatv-lar maxasatv-lar Buddha fortune-POSS.3.ACC desire-PTCP Bodhisattva-PL Mahāsattva-PL ‘Bodhisattvas and Mahāsattvas, which desire the Buddhahood’ (Old Uyghur, Altun Yaroq P1.02.02.r14–15)

(4) Alqu-dïn sïŋar nom-uγ tile-yü all-ABL direction Dharma-ACC seek-CV ‘Seeking the Dharma everywhere’ (Old Uyghur, BT13.19.A.1.l.A01–02)

(5) Ïraq-ta iste-d-i tözün-ler iz-in. far-LOC seek-ASP-3 Ārya-PL trace-POSS.3.ACC ‘In the distance he sought the traces of the Āryas.’ (Old Uyghur, Xuanzang Biography VII: 1465–1466)

2 Argument slots can be left empty in Turkic. 3 If not stated differently, Old Turkic examples are cited according to the VATEC database (see sources). The transcription has been adapted to the principles of Johanson & Csató (1998: XVIII–XIX). Evolution of Turkic Modal Verbs 109

(6) Öz-üŋe öŋ iš-in bašla-γïl. self-POSS.2.SG.DAT front work-POSS.3.ACC begin-IMP.SG ‘Begin with the work which confronts you.’ (Old Uyghur, TT I 150; cited from Clauson 1972: 382)

Some of these verbs are already attested in auxiliary functions in Old Turkic. Root possibility is commonly expressed by the auxiliary u-, which combines with the main verb by means of a converb (gerund), which is suffixed to the main verb stem: . In Runic Turkic, the converb is -(y)V (see ex. 7), whereas both -(y)V and -GAlI occur in Old Uyghur, the latter form being much more common (ex. 8). Another possibility marker that is very frequent in Old Uyghur (though nonexistent on Runic monuments) consists of the converb in - GAlI and the auxiliary bol- (ex. 9).4 It seems to be confined to participant-external possibility (for the terminology, see van der Auwera & Plungian 1998). Additionally, there are rare early occurrences of -(y)V bil- as a marker of participant-internal possibility (ex. 10).5

(7) Yaγï bol-up ėt-in-ü yara-t-un-u enemy become-CV organize-REFL-CV be.suitable-CAUS-REFL-CV u-ma-duq yana ičik-miš. can-NEG-PTCP again submit-ASP ‘Having become enemies [of the Chinese Qaγan], they who were unable to organize themselves submitted again.’ (Runic Turkic, Köl Tėgin East 10; Berta 2004: 145)

4 von Gabain (1941 [31974]: 127) and Erdal (2004: 259) report the existence of -(y)V bol- as a possibility marker besides -GAlI bol- and cite the example ör-ü bol-maz ‘it is impossible to rise’. However, not a single occurrence of this item can be traced anywhere in the VATEC corpus, and it seems doubtful whether the sole example cited by the two scholars is significant. The claim that -(y)V bol- is “the normal positive counterpart of -U uma- [...] in Uyghur” (Erdal 2004: 259) is not supported by the data. 5 A single occurrence of bil- with another converb as a marker of possibility is even found in the Toñuquq inscription, one of the oldest Turkic texts (726 A.D.): tė-yin bil- mez ermiš ‘one obviously cannot say’ (Toñuquq 5–6, Berta 2004: 46). 110 Julian Rentzsch

(8) Belgürtme et’öz-üg belgürt-geli u-yur. manifestation body-ACC make.manifest-CV can-ASP ‘He can emanate the Nirmāṇakāya.’ (Old Uyghur, Altun Yaroq B01.25.v05–06)

(9) Ol yol-ča bar-ïp arïtï sansar-dïn oz-γalï DEM way-EQU go-CV completely Saṃsāra-ABL escape-CV bol-maz. become-NEG.ASP ‘Walking on that path it is completely impossible to escape from Saṃsāra.’ (Old Uyghur, Maitrisimit 0.08.r29–30)

(10) Bir-ig išle-t-ü bil-mek-i üze ink.brush-ACC work-CAUS-CV know-VN-POSS.3 above ‘As he manages to use the ink brush’ (Old Uyghur, Xuanzang Biography VIII: 1042)

As regards volitive modality (Palmer 22001: 76–78), the auxiliary that is usually employed in Old Turkic is küse-, which follows the -GAlI converb of the main verb (11). The other Old Turkic verbs that developed into widespread volitive auxiliaries, tile- and iste-, do not seem to occur with the auxiliary function in Old Turkic.6

(11) Yėrtinčü-te eðgü qïlïnč-ta yorï-γalï küse-ser world-LOC good deed-LOC walk-CV wish-COND ‘If they wish to dwell in the world in good Karma’ (Old Uyghur, Altun Yaroq P1.02.19.v01–02)

6 A possible exception is iste- in the passage that has been reconstructed as Til[e-geli] iste-ser tüpker-geli bol-maz töz-in tüp-in ‘If one wants to seek it one cannot fathom its root and its base’ (Old Uyghur, Xuanzang Biography VII: 0044–0045). It seems more likely, however, that the reconstructed part should be read Til[e-ser] iste-ser ‘If one seeks and searches’. Tile- and iste- often co-occur in identical form as a hendiadyoin, in which case both members function as full verbs. Evolution of Turkic Modal Verbs 111

Inception is expressed by the auxiliaries bašla- (transitive) and bašlan- (intransitive), which combine with the main verb by means of the converb either in -(y)V (12) or in -GAlI (13).

(12) Ač-maq tupul-maq-lïγ edrem öz-in ač-ïl-u open-VN penetrate-VN- virtue self-INS open-PASS-CV DNN bašla-n-tï. begin-REFL-ASP ‘The virtue of opening and penetrating started to unfold by itself.’ (Old Uyghur, Xuanzang Biography VIII: 0519–0521)

(13) Yoog šastr nomla-γalï bašla-mïš. yoga śāstra preach-CV begin-ASP ‘He has begun to preach the Yogācārya-śāstra.’ (Old Uyghur, Xuanzang Biography III: 0815)

Despite rare possible examples to the contrary (Schlüter 2010), grammaticalization is almost always irreversible (Haspelmath 1999). We may therefore confidently infer that with those Old Turkic verbs that occur both as full verbs and as auxiliary verbs, the full verb function predates the auxiliary function, even if the auxiliary function is significantly more often attested than the full verb function, as is the case with u-. This idea will be pursued throughout the article, hence the combinatory properties of the full verbs will be considered prior to those of the auxiliaries. Moreover, the Old Turkic stage, inhomogeneous as it is due to its temporal extension and its dialectal diversity, will serve as the background against which younger data will be evaluated. Therefore, the situation reflected in the Old Turkic data will be considered the “original” one, from which other situations “deviate”, although we cannot be sure of the state of affairs in equally old but unattested Turkic varieties. This modus operandi may seem somewhat incautious and dissatisfying, but it is unavoidable as we must rely on data that are actually available. The data reveal that two converbs, -(y)V and -GAlI, connect main verb and auxiliary. Neither converb is restricted to auxiliary constructions. Both can occur independently to form adverbial clauses. In this case, -(y)V denotes the intraterminal (imperfective) 112 Julian Rentzsch aspect (von Gabain 1941 [31974]: 123; for the terminology, see Johanson 1971, 2000), while -GAlI has a purposive meaning (‘in order to’). The distribution of these two converbs varies between the individual auxiliaries: while some auxiliaries allow only one converb, others can combine with either of the two. The distribution is shown in Table 1. The data for u- from Runic Turkic and Old Uyghur might suggest that -(y)V is the older formative in auxiliary constructions, but this remains speculative absent data for other auxiliaries. Not at all attested in Old Turkic are constructions involving verbal nouns (with the possible exception of

Table 1. Auxiliary verbs and linking devices in Old Uyghur.

u- bil- bol- küse- bašla(n)- ‘to be capable’ ‘to know’ ‘to become’ ‘to want’ ‘to begin’ -(y)V x x x -GAlI x x x x

3. Later stages

Some of the Old Turkic auxiliary constructions survive in individual later Turkic varieties, others have been replaced by diverging structures. Modern Uyghur preserves -GAlI bol- (with slight phonetic changes in the converb segment) as a marker of participant-external possibility (14) and -GAlI bašla- as a marker of inception (15). The converb in -(y)V developed into -(y)A or -A during the Middle Turkic era,7 but apart from this change some of the auxiliary constructions that employ this converb continue to exist. A reflex of *-(y)V u- survives in the Modern Turkish marker of negative possibility - (y)AmA-, e.g. oku-yama-dım ‘I could not read it’ (Clauson 1972: 2), while *-(y)V bil- became quite popular in the Middle Turkic era and is today mainly attested in Western Oghuz as well as in some Kipchak

7 The niceties of phonetic developments in the individual Turkic varieties as well as the morphophonological variation that is triggered by stem features will generally be ignored in this paper except where relevant to the present topic. Evolution of Turkic Modal Verbs 113 languages, including Tatar and Kazakh, from which ex. (16) is cited.8 -A bašla- occurs in the Kipchak group (e.g. Tatar, Bashkir, Kazakh and Kirghiz) as well as in Uzbek (the Karluk-Uyghur group). Example (17) is from Uzbek. Besides these combinations, which continue an old type of formation, *-(y)V has been a very productive linking device in various auxiliary constructions, especially actionality operators (Aktionsarten), some of which evolved further into aspect markers (see e.g. Johanson 1995), but it occurs in some innovative modal constructions as well, especially in the highly prolific possibility marker -A al-, the auxiliary segment of which originally denoted ‘to take’ (Clauson 1972: 124). The first attestations of -A al- are found in the Codex Cumanicus (Kipchak Turkic, early 14th c., see ex. 18). This marker was also very common in Chaghatay Turkic (15th–19th c.). Today it is the general marker of possibility in Southeast Turkic and a large number of Kipchak languages (see ex. 16 for a Kazakh example). A very marginal appearance of -(y)A in a volitive construction is found in a Middle Azerbaijani transcription text from Isfahan (17th c.), where it combines with the verb iste- ‘to seek’ as auxiliary (19).

(14) Bu aptobus-qa oltur-idiγan-lar nahayiti köp, öčret-te DEM bus-DAT sit.down-PTCP-PL extremely many row-LOC tur-mi-sa bėlit-i-ni al-γili bol-ma-ydu tėxi. stand-NEG-COND ticket-POSS.3-ACC take-CV become-NEG-ASP.3 even ‘Those who want to travel on this coach are extremely numerous; one cannot even obtain a ticket without standing in line.’ (Modern Uyghur, Šal 2006: 51)

(15) Eti-si u-lar mėn-i yene soraq qil-γili bašli-di. next.day-POSS.3 DEM-PL I-ACC again question do-CV begin-ASP ‘The next day, they started interrogating me again.’ (Modern Uyghur, web-1)

8 In Tatar and Kazakh, this marker denotes participant-internal possibility, while in Western Oghuz it covers participant-internal, participant-external, deontic and (in specific constellations) even epistemic modality. 114 Julian Rentzsch

(16) “Sawat-ïŋ bar ma?” dep sura-ydï. “Žaz-a literacy-POSS.2.SG existent Q QUOT ask-ASP.3 write-CV bil-e-siŋ be?” “Sawat-ïm bar, žaz-a known-ASP-2.SG Q literacy-POSS.1.SG existent write-CV bil-e-min,” de-ydi Bäkir. Öz-i orta mektep-te know-ASP-1.SG say-ASP.3 NP self-POSS.3 middle school-LOC sabaq ber-etin muγalim eken. “Orïsša ma, qazaqša ma?” class give-PTCP teacher evid Russian Q Kazakh Q “Azdap orïsša da žaz-a al-a-mïn.” a.little Russian too write-CV take-ASP-1.SG ‘“Are you literate?”, he asks. “Can you write?” “I am literate, I can write”, says Bäkir. He is a middle school teacher. “Russian or Kazakh?” “I can also write a little Russian.”’ (Kazakh, web-2)

(17) Hali yigirma-ga ham bor-ma-g‘an=dir, mo‘ylab-i yet 20-DAT too go-NEG-ASP=EPIST moustache-POSS.3 ham endi-gina chiq-a boshla-g‘an. too now-just come.out-CV begin-ASP ‘He will not even be twenty; his moustache has just begun to grow.’ (Uzbek, Qodiriy 1926 [1994]: 32)

(18) Ol ilan boy-na iamanlich et-se, DEM serpent body-POSS.3.DAT evil do-COND ǵan-ina et-e al-mas. soul-POSS.3.DAT do-CV take-ASP ‘Even if the serpent does harm to the body, it cannot do harm to the soul.’ (Middle Kipchak, Codex Cumanicus 125; Kuun 1880: 168)

(19) Gandi giouab et-oub dee-di gud-é iste-menem s/he answer do-CV say-ASP go-CV want-NEG.ASP.1.SG on-dan sonra puchman ol-oub gueti. dem-ABL after repentent become-CV go.ASP ‘He answered: I do not want to go. Later, he repented and went.’ (Middle Azerbaijani, AZR 94, 14–15; Mt 21.29) Evolution of Turkic Modal Verbs 115

Besides the two converbs mentioned so far, some other converbs play a role as linking devices in modal auxiliary constructions, particularly the converb in -(V)p, which combines with bil- ‘to know’ (Turkmen), bol- ‘to become’ (Chaghatay and a large number of modern languages) and al- ‘to take’ (Shor) to designate various types of possibility, with iste- ‘to seek’ (rarely in Chaghatay) to designate willingness and with bašla- ‘to begin’ (Noghay) to mark inception. Also, the conditional (Old Turkic -sAr, most later Turkic varieties -sA) is involved in some modal constructions, e.g. together with bol- ‘to become’, as a marker of participant-external and deontic possibility. Auxiliary constructions with -(V)p and -sA become increasingly popular from the Middle Turkic period onward, although some even occur in Old Turkic (see Section 8). In the Middle Turkic era, a new type of modal construction emerges in which the modal value materializes in a matrix clause while the action to be modified by the modal value appears in a subordinate clause. The verb in the subordinate clause takes a mood suffix, typically optative, voluntative or conditional,9 which functions as a subjunctive. The modal value of the matrix clause is either encoded by nominal elements, such as mumkin ‘possible’, imkān ‘possibility’ (both borrowed from Arabic) or *kergek ‘necessary, necessity’, or by verbal elements, such as tile- or iste- ‘to want’. Example (20) is cited from Chaghatay, example (21) from Anatolian Oghuz (both texts from the 16th c.). The underlying structure of both examples is completely identical, with a finite form of the verb tile- in the matrix clause, a complementizer ki(m)10 and an optative form with the subjunctive function in the subordinate clause.11 It was partly

9 Examples (from the Chaghatay Baburnama) for different mood forms: optative: Mumkin ėmes ėdi kim alarγa bėril-gey ‘It could not be given to them’ (51b10–11); voluntative: Kėrek kim ... čiq-sun-lar ‘They must set out’ (360b1–2); and conditional: Kėrek kim ... kėl-se-ler ėdi ‘They should have come’ (185b14). 10 Ki is formally identical to the Persian complementizer, while kim has been grammaticalized from the Turkic interrogative word ‘who’. In some Middle Turkic texts, such as the Dede Qorqud Oγuznameleri (from which ex. 21 is cited), kim and ki are interchangeable. 11 The same construction exists with the auxiliary iste- as well (although not with identical geographic distribution), e.g. Dirse Xān iste-d-i kim oγlanǰuγ-ï-nuŋ üst-ine güvle-yüp düš-e-ydi ‘Dirse Khan wanted to cast himself upon his little son’ (Middle Oghuz, Dede Qorqud 13b3–4; Tezcan & Boeschoten 2001: 41) from the same source as ex. (21). 116 Julian Rentzsch contact with Persian, which possesses similar structures, that gave rise to this type of construction (on other factors see Section 8).

(20) Tile-dük kim bu qiš ‘āriyat-i bėr-gey. wish-ASP.1.PL COMP DEM winter loan-POSS.3 give-OPT.3 ‘We wished that he would lend it to us for this winter.’ (Chaghatay, Baburnama 59a4–5)

(21) Deli beg dile-d-i ki Dede-yi depe-re čal-a. lunatic nobleman wish-ASP-3 COMP np-ACC head-DIR hit-OPT.3 ‘The lunatic nobleman wanted to hit Dede Qorqud on the head.’ (Middle Oghuz, Dede Qorqud 44a9–10; Tezcan & Boeschoten 2001: 75)

In this sort of construction, the subject of the wish-verb need not be identical to the subject of the subordinate verb (in ex. 20 it is different, in ex. 21 it is identical). Consequently, it encompasses not only the relation expressed by the English construction to want to, but a more broad volitive relation Si wants Si/j to X. While this construction type survives in areas with intensive Turkic-Iranian contact (Kıral 2001; Stein 2010), there is also a structure that displays a stronger degree of integration and involves other auxiliary verbs besides tile- and iste-. This structure dispenses with the complementizer ki(m) and features an auxiliary verb in a finite form and a full verb in a mood form, which serves as a subjunctive. This type of construction is typical of Turkic varieties in the Balkans and adjacent areas (Johanson in print),12 e.g. Gagauz and the Western Rumelian Turkish dialect of the city of Vidin in Bulgaria (henceforward Vidin Turkish), from which examples (22) to (24) are cited.13 The subvariant with iste- (in which the semantics of the auxiliary and the linking segment are most easily reconcilable) has also made its way into the less formal registers of Standard Turkish, where the auxiliary segment always follows the main verb, while in

12 The loss of the complementizer is also frequent in the Turkic varieties of Iran, but the range of auxiliaries does not seem to have expanded (cf. Kıral 2001; Stein 2010). 13 The text was recorded between 1931 and 1938 (Németh 1965: 11). Evolution of Turkic Modal Verbs 117

Vidin Turkish the word order is flexible.14 While the subjunctive function in the periphrastic constructions with a complementizer could be performed by various mood forms (see above), the Balkan structure developed paradigms with predictable mood forms in the individual persons (e.g. 1st and 3rd person: voluntative, 2nd person: optative in the Standard Turkish paradigm; see Rentzsch 2010: 218).

(22) Ben yi-yeyim sen-i iste-y-im. I eat-VOL.1.SG you-ACC want-ASP-1.SG ‘I want to eat you.’ (Vidin Turkish, Németh 1965: 251)

(23) Bu hayvan-nar oqu-sun bil-ir=mi? DEM animal-PL read-VOL.3 know-ASP=Q ‘Can these animals read?’ (Vidin Turkish, Németh 1965: 185).

(24) Qïs bašla-r aγla-sïn. girl begin-ASP cry-VOL.3 ‘The girl starts to cry.’ (Vidin Turkish, Németh 1965: 144)

A completely different strategy of linking main verb and auxiliary involves verbal nouns. Verbal nouns have been common derivational tools during all documented stages of Turkic. Word forms that consist of a verb stem and a verbal noun suffix can fill any syntactic slot that is suitable for nouns. Verb stems usually preserve their argument structure, with the common exception that subjects frequently appear in the genitive instead of the unmarked case. (In this case, the verbal noun phrase is re-analyzed as a nominal phrase with its double marking [dependent→genitive, head→possessive] features.) Given that verbal nouns are suitable for any nominal slot, they qualify for all kinds of arbitrary and conventionalized constructions, including modal ones. Strikingly, in Old Turkic, verbal nouns are hardly ever

14 Original Turkic word order principles prefer the auxiliary segment to follow the main verb. This tendency is often violated in varieties under strong contact influence, an issue that is irrelevant to the present discussion. 118 Julian Rentzsch used in modal constructions with verbal auxiliaries. They frequently occur, however, in constructions with nominal auxiliaries such as kergek ‘necessary, necessity’ (25), where a selection of four different verbal nouns can be found in Old Uyghur alone, namely -mAK, -sVK, -GU and -mIš (Erdal 2004: 526–527). In terms of syntactic function, the verbal noun phrase acts as the subject and the nominal auxiliary as a predicate, thus reflecting a perfectly normal Turkic sentence structure without any formal change.

(25) Bir ay čaxšapat tut-maq kergek erti. one month commandment keep-VN necessary PST ‘It was necessary to observe the One-Month Commandment.’ (Old Uyghur, Xwāstvānift L 274–275)

Although virtually unattested in Old Turkic, employing verbal nouns as a linking device between main and auxiliary verb is a most natural choice, which is actually extremely common almost everywhere in the Turkic world since early Middle Turkic times. Very often, the verbal noun phrase is integrated into the matrix structure according to the original government features of the auxiliary. Although deviations can be observed very early (see below), it is very likely that this is the initial stage of the linking strategy that uses verbal nouns. Example (26) from Middle Oghuz instantiates a possibility marker comprising the verbal noun -mAK in the unmarked case and the auxiliary verb ol- (<*bol-) ‘to become’, which can roughly be rendered ‘X-ing is (not) possible’.15 The verbal noun phrase occupies the subject slot in this construction, thus complying with the usual argument structure of (b)ol-.

(26) Oγul, ṣabāḥ var-ub öylen gel-mek ol-maz, son morning go-CV noon come-VN become-NEG.ASP.3 öylen var-ub axšam gel-mek ol-maz. noon go-CV evening come-VN become-NEG.ASP.3

15 Whether or not the auxiliary verb is negated is irrelevant to the present study, although it may become structurally relevant in some constructions. (In some languages, for instance, -(V)p bol- exists only in negated form and *-(y)V u- survives in Turkish only as a marker of negative possibility.) Evolution of Turkic Modal Verbs 119

‘Son, one cannot simply leave in the morning and return at noon, or leave at noon and return in the evening.’ (Middle Oghuz, Dede Qorqud 88a4–5; Tezcan & Boeschoten 2001: 124)

Except bol-, all the full verbs mentioned here that grammaticalized to auxiliaries originally governed the accusative, and most of them (except u-, which is almost completely obsolete) appear in auxiliary constructions with a verbal noun in the accusative as well. In Uzbek and Turkish, for instance, there are markers of possibility of the type (ex. 27–28) and volitive markers of the type (ex. 29–30). 16 Bašla- ‘to begin’ is occasionally attested with a verbal noun in the accusative as well (see ex. (31) from Kazakh). In volitive constructions the pattern can be slightly varied in order to express the wish that the action be performed by a different subject (Si wants Sj to X). This is realized by expressing the subject of the action (i.e. Sj) with possessive suffixes, which are inserted between the verbal noun and the accusative suffix: . This is a very widespread strategy. Occasionally, this structure is also employed in same-subject wishes (Si wants Si to X = Si wants to X); see ex. (32) from Yakut (with another auxiliary baγar- ). Here, the double marking of the personal referent renders a redundancy on the one hand but unifies the patterns for same-subject and different-subject wishes (Si wants Si/j to X) on the other, thus covering the same broad volitive relation as the subjunctive pattern (cf. ex. 20–22 above). The pattern can serve as the starting point for further grammaticalization as in the Tuvan same-subject volitive construction shown in ex. (33), which contains a fossilized third person possessive marker irrespective of the person of the auxiliary. (The auxiliary küze- in this construction is etymologically identical to the wish-verb küse- already familiar from Old Turkic and preserves its original government pattern.)

(27) Ana, o‘g‘l-im, biz-ning xalq-ning hol-i-ga behold son-POSS.1.SG our people-GEN condition-POSS.3-DAT

16 The semantic niceties that distinguish these markers from other, more frequently used markers of the same modal umbrella categories will be commented on below (Section 8). 120 Julian Rentzsch

yig‘la-sh-ni ham bil-ma-y-san, kul-ish-ni ham! cry-VN-ACC too know-NEG-ASP-2.SG laugh-VN-ACC too ‘Behold, my son, you can neither cry about the state of our people nor laugh!’ (Uzbek, Qodiriy 1926 [1994]: 37)

(28) Tek gerek-en bekle-me-yi bil-mek. single be.necessary-PTCP wait-VN-ACC know-VN ‘The only necessary thing is to be able to wait.’ (Turkish, Şafak 2009: 226)

(29) Kumushbibi shu choq-g‘a-cha qara-ma-g‘an va NP DEM time-DAT-LIM look-NEG-ASP and qara-sh-ni ham tila-ma-gan edi. look-VN-ACC too wish-NEG-ASP PST ‘Kumushbibi had not looked at him until now and had not wanted to do so.’ (Uzbek, Qodiriy 1926 [1994]: 60)

(30) Ne-ler ol-acağ-ın-ı bil-meden ve bil-me-yi what-PL become-VN-POSS.3-ACC know-NEG.CV and know-VN-ACC iste-meden var güc-üm=le ilerle-d-im. want-NEG.CV available power-POSS.1.SG=with move.on-ASP-1.SG ‘I moved on with all the power I had, not knowing what would happen and not wanting to know.’ (Turkish, Şafak 2009: 118)

(31) Antropov gol soγ-uw-dï basta-d-ï. NP goal shoot-VN-ACC begin-ASP-3 ‘Antropov has started to score.’ (Kazakh, web-3)

(32) Aččïk ïït-alïax-pïn baγar-bap-pïn. hungry send-ITER.VN-POSS.1.ACC want-NEG.INTRA-1.SG ‘I do not want to send them away hungry.’ (Yakut, Matthew 15.32) Evolution of Turkic Modal Verbs 121

(33) Ekiriir-in küze-p=tur sen be? recover.VN-POSS.3.ACC want-INTRA 2.SG Q ‘Do you want to recover?’ (Tuvan, John 5.6)

A variant of this strategy that seems to be particular to volitive expressions displays the verbal noun not in the accusative, but in the unmarked case. This variant conforms to a Turkic syntactic rule that assigns the unmarked case to unspecific direct objects (cf. Johanson 1977). Some of the verbal nouns that are part of this construction are frequently labeled “infinitive” in the Turcology literature (especially - mAK: Brockelmann 1954: 254; Clauson 1972: XLIV), but they lack the modal semantic component of what Haspelmath calls the infinitive (cf. Haspelmath 1989: 288). -mAK, an item that is attested since the Old Turkic stage, is a pure nominalizer (sometimes also said to form “abstract” nouns: von Gabain 1941 [31974]: 73). The other verbal noun found in such constructions, -(V)r, originally denoted the intraterminal aspect (“imperfectivity”, “present tense”, “aorist” etc.; cf. von Gabain 1941 [31974]: 74, 111–112) and is roughly comparable in meaning and function to the English gerund in -ing. Example (34) from 16th-century Western Oghuz displays the verbal noun in -mAK with the auxiliary iste- (originally ‘to seek’), while example (35) from Tuvan shows the verbal noun in -(V)r with the auxiliary boda- (‘to think’, a borrowing from Mongolic). Although traceable in Turkic varieties of very remote geographic areas and of different genetic branches, this type of volitive construction is only rarely grammaticalized in the Turkic languages.

(34) Qarγa quzγun qan gör-üp oγlan-uŋ üstine crow raven blood see-CV boy-GEN on qon-maq iste-r-idi. settle-VN want-ASP-PST ‘The crows and ravens saw blood and wanted to land on the boy.’ (Middle Oghuz, Dede Qorqud 15a9; Tezcan & Boeschoten 2001: 43)

122 Julian Rentzsch

(35) Olar Ooŋ-bile čuγaala-ž-ïr bodaan čüve-dir. they s/he-GEN-with speak-COOP-VN think.PTCP PTCL-PTCL ‘They wanted to speak to him.’ (Tuvan, Matthew 12.46)

4. The dative shift

Another development that affects auxiliary constructions with verbal nouns as linking devices can be interpreted as a mutation of the types and . The derived construction deviates from the primary ones in that it displays the verbal noun not in the accusative or the unmarked case, but in the dative case. This development, which will be labeled the dative shift in this paper,17 is attested since the early Middle Turkic era. The earliest occurrences that I am aware of are from the 14th-century Kipchak Turkic text, Codex Cumanicus, where there are volitive constructions with the auxiliary tile- and the linking device -mAGA (a verbal noun in -mA and the dative in -GA, ex. 36). At least since the 17th century, the same type (with the auxiliary iste-) is also attested in Oghuz Turkic, e.g. in Istanbul Turkish (ex. 37) and Azerbaijani (ex. 38).18

(36) Tile-r-sen bil-ma-ga, söve-r-sen tengir-ni ge want-ASP-2.SG know-VN-DAT love-ASP-2.SG god-ACC or söu-mes-sen, sor-gil sen-ing congl-ni, söv-er-mi love-NEG.ASP-2.SG ask-IMP.SG you-GEN heart-ACC love-ASP-Q tengri-ni. god-ACC ‘You want to know whether you love God or whether you do not love him. So ask your heart whether it loves God.’ (Middle Kipchak, Codex Cumanicus 123, Kuun 1880: 162–163)

(37) Gair kimße-ler-den ßor-mag-a ißte-mem

17 Needless to say, this phenomenon is completely unrelated to the so-called dative shift in English. 18 In Oghuz Turkic, the segment -mAGA (which looks identical to the Kipchak one) has to be analyzed as the verbal noun in -mAK and the dative in -(y)A. Evolution of Turkic Modal Verbs 123

other somebody-PL-ABL ask-VN-DAT want-NEG.ASP.1.SG ‘I don’t want to ask anybody else.’ (Middle Ottoman, Hazai 1973: 156)

(38) Iste-mez=di youda-nun ulke-ci-na guez-mag-a want-NEG.ASP=PST Judea-GEN land-POSS.3.SG-DAT wander-VN-DAT chunki gifout-lar iste-r-ler=idi oz-i-ni uldur-mag-a. because Jew-PL want-ASP-PL=PST self-POSS.3.SG-ACC kill-VN-DAT ‘He did not want to go to the land of Judea because the Jews wanted to kill him.’ (Middle Azerbaijani, AZR 165, Jn 7.1)

The same type (partly with other verbal nouns) continues to exist in several modern languages such as Tatar (Kipchak branch, see ex. 39, this example is from the Mišär dialect19), Vidin Turkish (Oghuz branch, see ex. 40) and Uzbek (Karluk-Uyghur branch, see ex. 4120). Compare particularly ex. (41) with its twin construction with the accusative (ex. 29), which is taken from the same text. Both types are clearly free variants in this text.

(39) Bu-lar min-ĕ tanï-r-γa tile-mi-ler. dem-PL I-ACC know-VN-DAT want-NEG.ASP-PL ‘They don’t want to recognize me.’ (Mišär Tatar, Kakuk 1996: 106)

(40) Čoǰuγ-um-i al-ïp Kja:be-ye git-meg-e iste-y-im. son-POSS.1.SG-ACC take-CV Kaaba-DAT go-VN-DAT want-ASP-1.SG ‘I want to go to the Kaaba with my son21.’

19 The text was recorded by Ignác Kúnos between 1915 and 1917; see Kakuk (1996: I). 20The Uzbek example is taken from a novel from the 1920s, i.e. a time when the standardization of the Uzbek language was less advanced than today. The variant with the dative is not considered acceptable in Modern Standard Uzbek. 21 While čoǰuq is the normal word for ‘child’ in many Turkish varieties, it apparently means ‘boy, son’ in this dialect. It stands in clear contrast to qïz ‘daughter, girl’ in the context of the passage cited. The neutral word for ‘child’ in this dialect is maqsïm (from Arabic ma‘ṣūm ‘innocent’; see Németh 1965: 384, 395). 124 Julian Rentzsch

(Vidin Turkish, Németh 1965: 206)

(41) Bu maktub-da o‘z ot-im-ni yoz-ish-g‘a DEM letter-LOC own name-POSS.1.SG-ACC write-VN-DAT ham tila-ma-d-im. too wish-NEG-ASP-1.SG ‘I also did not want to mention my name in this letter.’ (Uzbek, Qodiriy 1926 [1994]: 117)

The dative shift is not confined to volitive constructions but occurs with the auxiliaries bil- ‘to know’, bol- ‘to become’ and bašla- ‘to begin’ as well. Expressions of possibility consisting of a verbal noun in the dative and the auxiliary bil- are attested in Middle Ottoman and Middle Azerbaijani (see ex. (42) and (43) from the 17th century), as well as in Vidin Turkish (ex. 44) and (pre-standardized) Uzbek (ex. 45). Compare particularly the Uzbek examples (45) and (27), as well as the Turkish examples (42) and (44) on the one hand and (28) on the other, where there is no perceivable difference in meaning between and .

(42) Arpa.ßu bu vilajet-ler-de jap-mag-a bil-mez-ler barley.water DEM province-PL-LOC make-VN-DAT know-NEG.ASP-PL ‘They can’t make beer here (i.e. They don’t know how to make beer here).’ (Middle Ottoman, Hazai 1973: 68)

(43) Nechun bil-menem chimdi ca-a tabe why know-NEG.ASP.1.SG now you-DAT following ol-mag-a become-VN-DAT ‘Why can I not follow you now?’ (Middle Azerbaijani, AZR 198; Jn 13.37)

(44) Oqu-maγ-a bil-iy-se, hatim read-VN-DAT know-ASP-COND complete.reading.of.the.Qur’an bašla-r, oqu-r. Evolution of Turkic Modal Verbs 125

begin-ASP read-ASP ‘If he can read, he starts reading the Qur’an, and he reads.’ (Vidin Turkish, Németh 1965: 343)

(45) Bu xabar-dan quvon-ish-g‘a=da bil-mas va DEM news-ABL be.glad-VN-DAT=too know-NEG.ASP and xafalan-ish-g‘a ham yo‘l top-mas edi. be.sad-VN-DAT too way find-NEG.ASP PST ‘He was unable to be glad about this news, but also did not find a way to be sad.’ (Uzbek, Qodiriy 1926 [1994]: 227)

Several Kipchak languages, such as Kumyk, Noghay (46), Kazakh (47) and Kirghiz, demonstrate expressions of possibility of the type . Outside the Kipchak group, the same type is also attested in Modern Uyghur (Karluk-Uyghur group, ex. (48)). The verbal nouns that surface in these constructions are -MA in Noghay, - Uw/-UU in Kazakh and Kirghiz and -(I)š in Uyghur. The non-shifted model that seems to underlie this construction entails an unmarked verbal noun (cf. ex. (26) above).

(46) Ol bu qullïq-tï et-pe-ge bol-ayaq. DEM DEM work-ACC do-VN-DAT become-FUT ‘S/he will be able to do this work.’ (Noghay, Baskakov 1956: 310)

(47) Bul oqu-w zal-ï-nda barlïq qažetti DEM read-VN hall-POSS.3.SG-LOC all necessary kitap-tar-dï oqu-w-ïŋïz-γa bol-adï. book-PL-ACC read-VN-POSS.2.PL-DAT become-ASP.3.SG ‘In this reading room, you can read all the necessary books.’ (Kazakh, Sulejmenova et al. 1997: 58)

(48) Šeher-de bir qača duγ-ni beš mo-din bir yüen-gi-če city-LOC one bowl Lassi-ACC five Máo-ABL one Yuán-DAT-LIM ič-i-miz, čöl dep ikki koy-γa sat-sa-ŋlar 126 Julian Rentzsch

drink-ASP-1-PL desert say-CV two Kuài-DAT sell-COND-2.PL čüšin-iš-ke bol-atti, üč yüen bolsa understand-VN-DAT become-ASP.PST.3.SG three Yuán top bek qimmet=ken, insap soda qil-iŋlar. very expensive=EVID fairness trade do-IMP.2.PL ‘In the city, we drink a bowl of Lassi for five Máo to one Yuán; if you sell it for two Kuài because we are in the desert one could understand it, but three Yuán is very expensive, please do fair trade.’ (Modern Uyghur, Šal 2006: 54)

In the Oghuz group, the auxiliary bašla- ‘to begin’ also combines with verbal nouns in the dative. This construction is very pervasive in this branch and has even changed the government pattern of the corresponding full verb, which takes nominal complements in the dative instead of the accusative. The following example is from Vidin Turkish, but the same type is found in Gagauz, Standard Turkish, Azerbaijani and Turkmen as well. Bašla- can also combine with a verbal noun in the dative in Modern Uyghur (alternative to the combination with the converb -GAlI, see ex. 15), but in this language bašla- maintains its original government features in full verb functions.

(49) Qïs bekle-r gjȧl-sin, yoq, bašla-r aγla-maγ-a. girl wait-ASP come-VOL.3 unavailable begin-ASP cry-VN-DAT ‘The girl waits for him to come, but he does not, she starts crying.’ (Vidin Turkish, Németh 1965: 133)

Like the subjunctive strategy already mentioned, the dative shift represents a fundamental deviation from grammatical behavior normally expected in the Turkic languages. Converbs are attested as linking devices in auxiliary constructions since the oldest layers of Turkic, and verbal nouns in the accusative and the unmarked case do not violate the grammatical principles of arbitrary combinations of full verbs and nominal arguments. In contrast, a dative shift violates existing government rules in the Turkic languages. Possible reasons for this phenomenon as well as the synchronic distribution and some diachronic issues will be discussed below (Section 9). Evolution of Turkic Modal Verbs 127

5. The “infinitive”

As a result of a phonetic reduction of verbal nouns in the dative, a few Turkic languages display genuine “infinitives”, i.e. synchronically unanalyzable non-finite modal forms, one of the main tasks of which is to form complements to matrix predicates (cf. Haspelmath 1989: 288–289).22 Chuvash has a so-called infinitive in -mA (Pavlov 1965: 260–264), which Clark describes as “a purposive adverbial form, indicating the goal or result of the action expressed in a second verb” (Clark 1998: 447). The same morpheme is found in Karaim and Kumyk. This morpheme, albeit identical in form to a deverbal noun - mA that is attested in Old Turkic (von Gabain 1941 [31974]: 72, 78) and has become a fully productive verbal noun in some languages (cf. ex. 28 and 30 from Turkish and ex. 36 from the Codex Cumanicus), is strikingly different in meaning and function. The verbal noun in -mA is clearly a nominal element and can take possessive suffixes and case markers, while the infinitive in -mA is an uninflectable adverbial element. Etymologically, the infinitive in -mA is a verbal noun in the dative (*-mAGA, which represents the verbal noun -mAK with the dative -A in Oghuz, and the verbal noun -mA with the dative -GA in some non-Oghuz varieties). This origin is particularly transparent in those languages where -mA and -mAGA constitute free variants (e.g. Koman, Kumyk). With its adverbial characteristics, the infinitive can be classified as a converb (more on that issue below). Example (50) from Chuvash displays the infinitive in an expression of possibility with the auxiliary verb pultar- ‘to bring about’ (originally the causative of *bol- ‘to become’). Besides as a linking device in auxiliary constructions, the Chuvash infinitive can also function as a predicate in purposive adverbial clauses (i.e. as a purposive converb). Example (51) demonstrates that this morpheme occurs as early as in the Codex Cumanicus (14th c.), where it alternates freely with -mAGA (cf. ex. 36). Intermediate variants between -mAGA and -mA are also attested in several Turkic varieties, such as -mAA in Gagauz.

22 Obviously, Haspelmath’s conception of the infinitive covers only a subset of items that are labeled thus in the literature (albeit a very prominent one); cf. items like Turkic -mAK, which does not demonstrate any modal semantic component and is still labeled infinitive in the literature. 128 Julian Rentzsch

(50) Tură śak čul-senčen te Avraam ači-sem God DEM strone-PL.ABL too NP child.POSS.3-PL tu-ma pultar-at’. do-INF can-INTRA.3.SG ‘God is able to create children unto Abraham even from these stones.’ (Chuvash, Matthew 3.9)

(51) Iazuk-le kizi kim tile-r kensi iazuch-in ayt-ma sin-DNN person COMP wish-ASP own sin-POSS.3.ACC say-INF ‘A sinful person who wishes to confess his sins’ (Middle Kipchak, Codex Cumanicus 125, Kuun 1880: 167)

6. Excursion: Variation of linking devices with nominal auxiliaries

Developments that parallel those identified with verbal auxiliaries occur with nominal auxiliaries as well. This option will not be explored exhaustively here; only a few examples that are in concord with the observations made so far will be cited. Subject-predicate structures with a nominal predicate serve as the prototype for these constructions: the main verb appears with a verbal noun suffix that is unmarked for case and functions as the subject of the sentence. The auxiliary is a nominal item (noun or adjective) and functions as the sentence predicate (X-ing is a necessity, X-ing is possible, etc.). This type of construction is normal in Old Turkic (see ex. 25 above) and found virtually everywhere in the Turkic world. However, deviations from this origin are attested as early as in Old Uyghur, where the nominal auxiliary kergek ‘necessary, necessity’ occasionally combines with the converb -GAlI, which is suffixed to the main verb (52), thus rendering a construction that closely resembles the most frequent verbal auxiliary construction type in Old Uyghur (see Section 2).

(52) Bu nom erdini-g bošγun-γalï tut-γalï oqï-γalï oqï-t-γalï DEM teaching jewel-ACC learn-CV hold-CV read-CV read-CAUS-CV biti-geli biti-t-geli ögret-ig qïl-γalï kergek. write-CV write-CAUS-CV teach-DVN do-CV necessary ‘It is necessary to learn this Dharmaratna, to keep it in mind, to read it Evolution of Turkic Modal Verbs 129

and have others read it, to write it and have others write it and to teach it.’ (Old Uyghur, Altun Yaroq P1.00.12.v15–17)

*Kergek is also attested with subjunctives such as the voluntative in the Middle Azerbaijani example (53), and with a verbal noun in the dative as in the Kumyk (Kipchak Turkic, Caucasus) example (54):

(53) Ciz-un nour-unz guerek beila ichieuk you.PL-GEN light-POSS.2.PL necessary so light ver-cun kalk yug-un-da. give-VOL.3 people front-POSS.3-LOC ‘Your light shall shine before the people.’ (Middle Azerbaijani, AZR 11; Mt 5, 16)

(54) Al-ïn-aγan tüšüm-nü tiyišli baga-sïn-a sat-maq take-PASS-PTCP harvest-ACC necessary price-POSS.3-DAT sell-VN učun imkanlïq-lar boldur-ma-γa gerek-biz. for opportunity-PL create-VN-DAT necessary-1.PL ‘We have to create opportunities to sell the harvest being gathered at the necessary price.’ (Kumyk, WEB-4)

Nominal auxiliaries other than *kergek may also display deviations from the original subject-predicate pattern in individual Turkic varieties. In the Modern Uyghur example (55), the adjective mumkin ‘possible’ (borrowed from Arabic through Persian) combines with a verbal noun in the dative. The option to do so is extremely striking from the common Turkic perspective. The original subject-predicate structure (i.e. yėyiš mumkin) is equally possible in Uyghur.23

23 Example (55) is complicated by the fact that the auxiliary construction forms part of a subordinate clause (an object clause). This, however, is irrelevant. In Modern Uyghur, virtually all constellations are possible. Both and are attested in finite and subordinate clauses alike, with as an additional variant in subordinate nominal clauses (e.g. yė-yiš-niŋ mumkin bol-ma-ydiγanliq-i). I am unable to say whether all these attested options are equally acceptable to all speakers. 130 Julian Rentzsch

(55) Yolučilar γudira-š-ti=yu, bu yer-din bašqa traveler-PL grumble-COOP-ASP=and DEM place-ABL other yer-de tamaq yė-yiš-ke mumkin bol-ma-ydiγanliq-i-ni place-LOC food eat-VN-DAT possible be-NEG-VN-POSS.3-ACC hės qil-ip leγmen-ni yė-yiš-ke bašli-di. feel-CV lā.miàn-ACC eat-VN-DAT begin-ASP.3 ‘The travelers grumbled, but realizing that it was not possible to eat at another place, they started to eat the Leghmen.’ (Modern Uyghur, Šal 2006: 55)

Thus, practically all types of auxiliary constructions that occur with auxiliary verbs are attested with auxiliary nouns as well, albeit much less frequently. Note that the starting point for nominal and verbal auxiliary constructions (which survives in many varieties) is fundamentally different, the former typifying subject-predicate structures, the latter verb-complement structures.

7. Survey of abstract structural types

From the data presented above, the following abstract types of constructions can be identified:

AUX-1 AUX-2 AUX-3 AUX-4 AUX-5 AUX-6 AUX-7

Note that except in AUX-2, where the auxiliary always precedes the complement clause, the order of the constituents separated by the symbol <+> may vary according to language-specific rules or even be free in some varieties. The order chosen for the schematic representation reflects the most typical Turkic word order properties, in which auxiliaries follow the main verb. Evolution of Turkic Modal Verbs 131

AUX-4 is heterogeneous in that it comprises complements (verbal nouns) that formally represent either subjects (AUX-4A) or objects (AUX-4B). The structures of AUX-2 and AUX-3 closely resemble one another; the latter very much looks like a derivation of the former (but see below). AUX-6 clearly derives from AUX-4 and AUX-5, and AUX-7 from AUX-6. AUX-5 is the only type that is intrinsically incompatible with nominal auxiliaries, as Turkic nouns do not usually govern the accusative. Table 2 shows the seven auxiliary verbs central to this paper and the structural types in which they occur. The findings are based on the data available to me. Some more combinations might be found in further sources but they seem not to be documented in the literature. Especially AUX-7, which is just a phonetically reduced variant of AUX-6, shows potential for the retrieval of more combinations from additional text corpora.

Table 2. Auxiliary verbs and structural types.

AUX-1 AUX-2 AUX-3 AUX-4 AUX-5 AUX-6 AUX-7 bašla- x x x x bil- x x x x bol- x x x (x)24 iste- x x x x x x küse- x x tile- x x x x x u- x

The survey shows that the most prolific types are AUX-1, AUX-5 and AUX-6. (Note, however, that the table does not address frequency and dissemination; it merely shows which combinations are attested.) As shown above, aux-1 represents the usual strategy of linking auxiliary verbs to main verbs in Old Turkic and AUX-5 reflects the normal government rules of the underlying full verbs that are involved in the auxiliary constructions, so it is not astonishing that these types are very common. More striking is the versatility of AUX-6, as it violates the Turkic government rules. So there must be good reasons for this structure to have come into being at all (on this issue, see Section 9).

24 With the causative suffix in Chuvash. 132 Julian Rentzsch

8. Diachronic issues and distribution

Up to now, prominent types of auxiliary constructions have been identified on an empirical basis, resulting in a rudimentary taxonomy of the options that are available in the Turkic languages. In order to refine the picture, some diachronic, diatopic and frequential information needs to be added. It has already been mentioned that AUX-1 is the dominant type for linking main verbs to auxiliary verbs in Old Turkic, so it is not astonishing that converbs constitute an important tool in the auxiliarization of former full verbs in many Turkic varieties. When it comes to the converbs actually used for auxiliary constructions, however, significant changes have occurred. The converb -GAlI, which was of eminent importance in Old Uyghur, is completely marginal in modern Turkic auxiliary constructions.25 The only modern Turkic language that utilizes this converb in auxiliary constructions is Modern Uyghur, where it is used in constructions with (A) bašla- ‘to begin’, (B) bol- ‘to become’, (C) qoy- ‘to put’, (D) tur- ‘to stand’ and (E) yat- ‘to lie’, which signify inception (A and D), participant- external possibility (B), permission (‘to let’, C) and imminence (‘to be about to X’, E) (see Friederich (2002: 208–209)). All these combinations except (C) are documented in Old Uyghur as well (see Section 2 and von Gabain 1941 [31974]: 127, 132), with a potentially different meaning for (D). (A) and (B) can alternatively be constructed with a verbal noun in the dative (aux-6). A possible explanation for the striking similarity between Old Uyghur and Modern Uyghur regarding the linking segment in auxiliary constructions could be that Modern Uyghur continues a linguistic tradition that was peculiar to the dialect(s) of the Old Uyghur tribes (as opposed to other tribes like the Türk, Kirghiz, Oghuz etc., who might have used the converb -(y)V instead; support for this possibility is provided by the data in the Runic inscriptions). On the other hand, we cannot rule out the possibility that -GAlI was common to several Old Turkic tribes and replaced by other linking devices in all languages except in the extreme southeast of the Turkic-

25 It does survive, however, as a predicator of adverbial clauses in many Turkic languages. In some languages, especially Oghuz and South Siberian Turkic, it has undergone a semantic development from purposive (‘in order to’) to abtemporal (‘since’), which makes it less suitable for auxiliary constructions. Evolution of Turkic Modal Verbs 133 speaking area. Both the mutual relation of Old and Modern Uyghur and the dialect situation in Old Turkic remain unresolved problems.26 What can be stated, though, is that in Karakhanid Turkic (Karluk, 11th c.), the usability of -GAlI in auxiliary constructions is radically reduced in comparison to Old Uyghur and does not occur with any of the auxiliaries mentioned so far (cf. Mansuroğlu 1959: 105).27 In Chaghatay (Eastern Middle Turkic), it is virtually confined to construction (C), which is amply attested e.g. in the Baburnama (16th c.). Whether this is the result of the loss and replacement of -GAlI in these environments or of the continuance of a different dialectal tradition is unclear. Except Modern Uyghur, modern Turkic languages employ other converbs in AUX-1. This may be the intraterminal converb -(y)V, which appears in Runic inscriptions (with the auxiliary u-) and is also amply attested in Old Uyghur auxiliary constructions (including modal ones with u- and bil- as well as many non-modal (actional etc.) constructions, such as those with bašla- and many others (cf. von Gabain 1941 [31974]: 129–132)). It is also frequent in Middle Turkic (Ottoman, Kipchak, and Chaghatay), partly in updated form (-A in Kipchak and Chaghatay), and appears both in old and younger constructions. As an independent marker, the converb -(y)V (and its younger variants) has lost much of its productivity in almost all modern Turkic languages. It hardly forms predicates of adverbial clauses any more, and in some languages it is completely confined to grammaticalized or lexicalized items.28 This trend can be increasingly observed since the early Middle Turkic era. This situation has led to the fact that particularly younger auxiliary constructions tend to resort

26 Uyghur scholars usually take a direct lineage from Old Uyghur to Modern Uyghur for granted, while Western Turcologists tend to view such a simple relation with scepticism (cf. Johanson 2003). It is at least possible that in spite of many foreign (e.g. Karluk) influences, Modern Uyghur preserves some features of an Old Uyghur stratum. For remarks on Old Turkic dialects and the problems involved in identifying them, see Erdal (2004: 11–18). 27 It does occur with the auxiliaries qal- ‘to remain’ and er- ‘to be’, the former denoting ‘almost to X’, the latter maybe ‘to intend’ (Erdal 2004: 250). 28 A comparatively widespread productive residue entails the double use of -(y)V with either two different verb stems or the same verb stem, which, however, is a conventionalized construction in its own right and not identical to the productive use of single -(y)V. 134 Julian Rentzsch to the converb in -(V)p instead.29 -(V)p was originally a postterminal (“perfective”) converb. It lost its postterminal value during the Middle Turkic era (Johanson 1990: 139–142) and developed into a highly versatile converb. The differing availability of the various converbs in stages when grammaticalized constructions were still morphologically transparent and especially during the formation of new auxiliary constructions has led to a considerable variation between individual Turkic languages with respect to the converb used, e.g. Azerbaijani -A bil- vs. Turkmen -(I)p bil- (possibility), Modern Uyghur -GAlI bol- vs. Altai -(I)p bol- (possibility), Modern Uyghur -GAlI bašla- vs. Uzbek - A bašla- vs. Noghay -(I)p bašla- (inception). Another converb that is available for auxiliary formations since the late Old Turkic stage is the conditional in -sA (< -sAr), which combines with bol- as well as with the nominal auxiliary kerek in Karakhanid (Erdal 2004: 259, 527). The conditional poses a classificational challange. It was probably originally a finite marker (i.e. a mood marker; cf. von Gabain 1941 [31974]: 187; Brockelmann 1954: 240) and maintains some marginal finite usages in all documented stages of Turkic. On the other hand, it is most commonly used to build dependent adverbial clauses, in which case it can often be exchanged with other, clearly non-finite adverbial markers (e.g. Turkish -dIğI takdirde, Uzbek -ganda etc.). Yet it also occurs in constructions where it assumes subjunctive-like functions and is interchangeable with optative or voluntative items (see above, footnote 9). For our present purposes, it is convenient to classify -sA bol- as aux-1 (analogous to -GAlI bol- and -(I)p bol-) and kėrek kim X- sA as aux-2 (analogous to kėrek kim X-sUn), keeping in mind that the conditional manifests hybrid properties that would allow us to classify -sA bol- as aux-3 as well.30 New types of auxiliary formation appear in early Middle Turkic times (early 14th c.) in volitive expressions. In Khorezmian Turkic,

29 A few auxiliary constructions (though no modal ones) were formed with -(V)p even in Old Turkic (see von Gabain (1941 [31974]: 131–132)). 30 However, classifying -sA bol- as AUX-3 would be in conflict with the assumed evolutionary link between AUX-2 and AUX-3, in which the former constitutes the antecedent of the latter. There is no empirical evidence to suggest that -sA bol- was preceded by a construction like *bol- kim X-sA. Hence, the classificational affiliation of auxiliary constructions that contain the conditional is ultimately historically motivated. Evolution of Turkic Modal Verbs 135

AUX-2 (ex. 56) alternates with AUX-4 (ex. 57), while AUX-6 (ex. 36) and AUX-7 (ex. 51) are attested in Koman.

(56) Rasūl ‘A.S. tile-d-i kim bu kursī-ni messenger peace.upon.him wish-ASP-3.SG COMP DEM seat-ACC kör-se, āyatu’l-kursī-niŋ savāb-ïn bil-se. see-COND verse.of.the.throne-GEN merit-POSS.3.ACC know-COND ‘The Prophet, peace be upon him, wished to see the throne and thus to know the merit of the Verse of the Throne.’ (Qiṣaṣ al-Anbiyā’ 218v8–9; Boeschoten & Vandamme & Tezcan 1995: 497)

(57) Yüz-üŋ-ni bir kör-mek tile-yür-men. face-POSS.2.SG-ACC one see-VN wish-ASP-1.SG ‘I want to see your face just once.’ (Qiṣaṣ al-Anbiyā’ 108v19; Boeschoten & Vandamme & Tezcan 1995: 220)

The development with the verbal auxiliary tile- is paralleled by a similar development with the nominal auxiliary kėrek ‘necessary’, which is equally attested in AUX-2 constructions in Khorezm Turkic and in AUX-6 constructions in Koman. In Chaghatay, the borrowed Arabic adjective mumkin ‘possible’ also appears in AUX-2 constructions. Remember that the nominal auxiliary kergek was already typically being constructed according to the AUX-4 type in Old Turkic. This strategy survived in the Middle Turkic era in Chaghatay and Ottoman (but not Koman) and continues to exist in many modern Turkic varieties as well. While AUX-2 is not attested in Old Turkic modal constructions, complex sentences involving a matrix predicate and a complementizer are quite frequently attested in Old Uyghur. The subordinate clauses are e.g. relative, purposive, causal and temporal clauses. The predicates of the subordinate clauses may have various inflectional forms such as aspect markers (indicatives) or the conditional in -sAr. Voluntatives are not yet common in these constructions in Old Uyghur. The complementizers that appear in these structures are originally question words such as kim ‘who’, qayu ‘which’, qačan ‘when’ and ne ‘what’ (von Gabain 1941 [31974]: 189–192). Of these, 136 Julian Rentzsch kim assumes eminent importance in Middle Turkic, developing to a highly frequent complementizer in Islamicized Turkic languages, often in free variance with the similar-looking Persian complementizer ki. The Old Uyghur structures with complementizers pave the way for Middle Turkic modal constructions of the AUX-2 type. In early Chaghatay (late 15th c.), the widespread AUX-2 type was already being supplemented by AUX-3, i.e. subjunctive constructions without a complementizer (58). This type is clearly younger and was initially less frequent. It became very popular in some Turkic varieties in Iran and Rumelia (Stein 2010: 243–245; Johanson in print). In the latter region, AUX-3 has expanded its scope to some non-volitive constructions as well (see ex. 23 and 24). AUX-2 on the other hand, although extremely common in Middle Turkic written documents, survives mainly in some spoken Turkic varieties that have had intensive contact with Persian, e.g. in Iran and Uzbekistan.

(58) Iste-r-em alin qil-sa-m seǰde ve want-ASP-1.SG front do-COND-1.SG prostration and öp-se-m lab-iŋ. kiss-COND-1.SG lip-POSS.2.SG.ACC ‘I want to prostrate before you and to kiss your lips.’ (Chaghatay, Navā’ī, cited after Brockelmann 1954: 413)

As regards AUX-4, the first clear cases with a verbal auxiliary are attested in the Khorezmian Turkic construction -mAK tile- (see ex. 57 from a document finished in 1310). In this construction, the verbal noun fills the object slot of the auxiliary. The expression of possibility -mAK ol- (where the verbal noun fills the subject slot of the auxiliary) is attested in Middle Oghuz, e.g. in the Dede Qorqud Oγuznameleri from the 16th c. (ex. 26), but there might be earlier occurrences as well. Even in Old Uyghur there are examples of a verbal noun with a possessive suffix and bol- that might instantiate an initial stage of this construction. The interpretation in terms of possibility is not certain, however. In some contexts the same construction can only be interpreted as ‘X-ing happens’. In the example provided here (59), the Evolution of Turkic Modal Verbs 137 interpretation of bulmaqi bolur in terms of external possibility (‘it is possible to find’) seems suitable, but it is far from secure.

(59) Ančulayu oq arïγ süzük yėg bilge bilig-ig so.much EMP pure clear best wise knowledge-ACC bul-maq-ï bol-ur. find-VN-POSS.3 become-ASP ?‘To that degree one can find the pure and clear supreme wisdom.’ ?‘The discovery of the pure and clear supreme wisdom happens to that degree.’ (Old Uyghur, Altun Yaroq P1.02.22.v26)

As was stated before, AUX-4 was the dominant type of construction with the nominal auxiliary kergek in Old Turkic (in which the verbal noun formally functions as the sentence subject), and it is not inconceivable that the existence of this structure with a very frequent nominal auxiliary contributed to its spread with verbal auxiliaries. AUX-5 presupposes an auxiliary verb that can take a direct object in its non-auxiliary usages, which excludes bol- (and of course all nominal auxiliaries) from the set of potential candidates. It was shown that from among the auxiliaries on which this paper focuses, AUX-5 is in fact attested with all but bol- and the very early obsolete u-. On the other hand, given that combinations of verbal nouns in the accusative are amply attested in Old Turkic as the direct object of full verbs and given that AUX-5 neatly fits the grammatical principles of Turkic syntax, this construction is strikingly marginal in the Turkic languages. Not only is it hardly attested in pre-modern Turkic, but it is even quite infrequent in most modern languages. It is only widespread in different-subject wishes (Si wants Sj to X), where Si is indicated by a personal marker at the wish-verb and Sj by a possessive marker at the verbal noun. This is a highly common strategy in most major standard languages, not only with the verbs iste-, tile- and küse-, but also with other wish-verbs such as xwāhla- (originally a denominal verb from the Persian noun xwāh ‘wish’). Different-subject wishes can also be expressed by AUX-2 and AUX-3, which are particularly popular in Rumelian Turkish (AUX-3) and languages in intensive contact with 138 Julian Rentzsch

Persian (AUX-2), besides the use of some other strategies.31 Same- subject wishes (Si wants Si to X = Si wants to X) are much less frequently expressed by AUX-5; examples of languages that often resort to this strategy are Yakut, where the wish-verb baγar- combines with a verbal noun in the accusative (ex. 32) or, alternatively, with a converb (AUX-1), and Tuvan (ex. 33, auxiliary küze- < küse-).32 AUX- 5 in same-subject wishes occurs in languages like Uzbek (ex. 29), Modern Uyghur, Kazakh and Turkish (ex. 30) as well, but in these languages same-subject wishes are more commonly expressed by other strategies (AUX-4 in Turkish, suffixes in the other languages mentioned). In these languages, AUX-5 expresses a wish that is semantically marked or emphasized (‘even to have the wish to X’), often but not exclusively in negated form. AUX-5 is also rarely attested with the auxiliaries bil- ‘to know’ (ex. 27 and 28) and bašla- ‘to begin’ (ex. 31), but from a general Turkic perspective these are rare exceptions. enjoys a systematic status in Turkish and Uzbek in that it specifically denotes participant-internal possibility, supplementing the more general possibility markers -(y)Abil- (< -(y)V bil-, Turkish) and -A ol- (< -(y)V al-, Uzbek), which both typify the pattern aux-1. The variant with a verbal noun in the accusative is a recently grammaticalized renewal of possibility that resorts to a fully productive construction pattern. Instances of AUX-5 with bašla- are scarce compared with AUX-1 and AUX-6 and may be considered only weakly conventionalized though not entirely arbitrary. Generally speaking, while the underlying structure is very old, grammaticalized AUX-5 constructions seem to be quite recent formations that are not very widespread and in most cases manifest a rather weak degree of grammaticalization. AUX-6 is attested with the majority of those auxiliary verbs that have been chosen as the focus of this paper. The earliest attestations (Codex Cumanicus, 14th c.) of this pattern are with the auxiliary verb tile- ‘to wish’ as well as the nominal auxiliary kerek ‘necessary’. In the modern Turkic languages, AUX-6 is most frequently attested with

31 E.g. a mood form, which is followed by a quotative marker (typically a converb of *te- ‘to say) and a wish-verb. The quotative marker functions as a complementizer. There is a huge range of subtypes of this strategy. 32 These volitive constructions of Yakut and Tuvan display some additional characteristics that are mentioned in Section 3. Evolution of Turkic Modal Verbs 139 bašla- ‘to begin’ and bol- ‘to become’. Bašla- combines with a verbal noun in the dative in Western Oghuz33 (Standard Turkish, Standard Azerbaijani, dialects; some Western Oghuz varieties demonstrate aux- 3 instead or as a free variant) and Modern Uyghur (with -GAlI bašla- (aux-1) as an (older) alternative form).34 Bol- in the AUX-6 pattern is frequent in Kazakh, Kirghiz and several Western Kipchak languages as well as – probably as a result of contact with Kipchak varieties – Modern Uyghur (where it co-occurs with older -GAlI bol-). In addition to bašla- and bol-, AUX-6 appears erratically in various historical stages and regions: in Koman (Middle Kipchak) with tile-, in Middle Azerbaijani with tile-, iste- and bil-, and in Middle Ottoman with iste- and bil-. In Vidin Turkish, iste- and bil- occur in AUX-6 as well (alternatively to AUX-3; iste- occurs in AUX-4, too). Except with bašla-, AUX-6 has disappeared from the Turkish and Azerbaijani standard languages. The examples of tile- and bil- in aux- 6 that have been cited from an Uzbek novel from the 1920s (ex. 41 and 45) represent stray alternative variants of AUX-5. In Standard Uzbek, AUX-6 is entirely absent. In Khakas, the verbal noun -(I)r in the dative case (rendering -(I)rGA) appears in two volitive modal constructions (with the auxiliaries xïn- ‘to wish, to like’ and saγïn- ‘to think’, the latter corresponding to synonymous Old Turkic saqïn-, which is attested as an auxiliary with the converb -GAlI in Old Uyghur) as well as with the nominal auxiliary kirek ‘necessity’ (< kergek), thus fitting the pattern AUX-6. However, in Khakas (as well as the other Yenisei Turkic language Shor), -(I)rGA demonstrates a significantly broader versatility than verbal nouns in the dative in the other Turkic languages and is much more commonly used in non- grammaticalized environments to serve “infinitive” functions. The development that gives rise to this situation can certainly be seen in context with the grammaticalization of AUX-6 in other languages. To sum up, AUX-6 represents a pattern that is actually scarce in the Turkic language family as a whole but tends to appear very stubbornly across time and space. Auxiliary constructions involving a verbal noun in the dative usually fall into disuse shortly after their appearance. They constitute a tendency that surfaces again and again and are obviously still felt to violate the (written or unwritten) rules of

33 Eastern Oghuz (Turkmen) features -(I)p bašla- (AUX-1). 34 Closely related Uzbek displays -A bašla- (AUX-1). 140 Julian Rentzsch the grammar. Only in individual cases do AUX-6 constructions come to persevere, with clusters of several specimens in the extreme southwest (West Oghuz) and southeast (Modern Uyghur) of the Turkic area as well as, with serving in a broader context, Yenisei Turkic. Individual Turkic languages differ greatly in terms of which abstract structural types of auxiliary formation they permit and how these types correlate with the individual auxiliary verbs. Given the large number of living modern Turkic varieties and the innumerable documents in pre-modern Turkic varieties, which behave very differently regarding the phenomena studied here, only findings based on a small selection of varieties can be presented in this framework. From the Middle Turkic era, the variant of Chaghatay that is represented in the Baburnama (16th c., A) and Middle Azerbaijani as represented in text AZR (17th c., B) are considered. For Modern Turkic, the situation in Standard Turkish (C), Vidin Turkish (D), Uyghur (E), Uzbek (F), Kazakh (G) and Khakas (H) is presented. To recall auxiliary verbs and structural types in Old Uyghur, cf. Table 1. Note in particular the similarities and differences between Standard Turkish and Vidin Turkish, which are closely related genetically, and likewise between Chaghatay, Uzbek and Uyghur. Table 3 and table 4 reflect the same linguistic facts from different perspectives. Both tables show which combinations of auxiliary verbs and structural types are attested in the eight languages selected. Table 3 is arranged according to the seven structural types, while table 4 is organized by the individual languages. Remember that the tables display the situation in eight languages only, not in the complete language family. The auxiliary verb küse- is not attested in any of these eight Turkic varieties, nor is the AUX-7 structure.

Table 3. Distribution of auxiliary construction types.

AUX-1 AUX-2 AUX-3 AUX-4 AUX-5 AUX-6 AUX-7 bašla- AEFGH D FG BCDE bil- BCDGH D CF BDE bol- AEFGH CD G iste- AB BD CD CF BD küse- tile- A CEFG B Evolution of Turkic Modal Verbs 141 u- CD

Table 4. Survey of auxiliary construction types in individual Turkic languages.

A B C D E F G H bašla- 1 6 6 36 16 15 15 1 bil- 16 15 136 5 1 1 bol- 1 4 16 1 16 1 iste- 1 136 45 36 5 küse- tile- 2 6 5 5 5 5 u- 1 1

9. Motivating the linking devices

Several factors have contributed to the emergence of the seven auxiliary construction types that have been identified in this article. Conventionalization requires structures to build on, regardless of whether these structures are autochthonous or borrowed. In AUX-1, the oldest attested type, the origin in a more general (and still productive) clause linking strategy that connects a subordinate predicate to a superordinate one is still transparent. AUX-4 and AUX-5 integrate the main verb into nominal phrases which then comply with the syntactic rules of nominal elements. In AUX-4, the verbal noun either functions as the subject in a subject-predicate construction, which at the same time conforms to the predominant Old Turkic pattern for nominal auxiliaries, or it functions as the unspecific direct object of the auxiliary verb. Both options comply with the productive rules of Turkic syntax. AUX-5 adopts the productive strategy to form object clauses, with the main verb in nominal form in the object slot. AUX-2 is modeled on a structure in Persian, which is an important contact language for those Turkic varieties that feature this type. But even this type draws on components that were already available in Old Turkic, where (possibly under the influence of other contact languages) subordinate clauses could be introduced by question words, including kim ‘who’, which displays a similar shape as the Persian complementizer ki. Finite mood forms from the Old Turkic morphological inventory are employed in the subjunctive function in this type. AUX-3 is basically a remodeling of AUX-2 by elimination of 142 Julian Rentzsch the complementizer. In some Turkic varieties, word order has been restructured according to Turkic rules by moving the auxiliary segment to the end (obligatory in Standard Turkish, optional in Vidin Turkish). In some varieties, AUX-3 has spread from volitive constructions to other auxiliary constructions (Vidin Turkish). Contact with Balkan languages has given rise to the prominence of AUX-3 in the westernmost varieties of Turkish (Johanson in print). While AUX-6 and AUX-7 seem to lack a formal model within the Turkic languages at first sight, note that the dative of the verbal noun in -GU (i.e. - GUKA) is attested in Old Uyghur as forming purposive subordinate clauses (Erdal 2004: 490–491), that is adverbial clauses with purposive semantics. In this function,35 -GUKA is very similar to the converb -GAlI, the main formal difference being that -GUKA is synchronically analyzable while -GAlI is not. It is quite obvious that - GUKA paves the way for converbial usages of other verbal nouns with datives (-mAGA, -UwGA, 36 -(I)šKA and -(I)rGA), which then are available for grammaticalization processes just like the converb -GAlI in AUX-1. As Haspelmath has shown (1989), purposive action nouns are typical sources of infinitives. This finding provides us with a semantic stimulus for AUX-6, for in some of its usages is a purposive verbal noun. The purposive meaning of arises from the goal-oriented (directive) semantics of the dative case combined with a non-factual verbal noun (factual verbal nouns, which exist as well in Turkic, cannot be grammaticalized into purposive items). The semantic parallel between the segment in AUX-6 and the converb -GAlI in AUX-1 is striking: in (Old and Modern) Uyghur AUX-1 constructions, -GAlI is a suitable converb precisely because of the universal tendency to employ purposive items as “infinitives” in irrealis complement clauses, which in turn constitute the infrastructure for the auxiliarization processes leading to the pattern AUX-1 and AUX-6. Essentially, AUX-6 is merely a subtype of AUX-1.

35-GUKA serves another function as well, namely forming complements of verbs or postpositions that govern the dative. In this case, -GUKA is a free combination of a verbal noun with a case suffix (cf. Erdal 2004: 456–457; 360). 36 Note that the Kazakh form -UwGA (as well as its other Kipchak Turkic variants) is etymologically identical to Old Turkic -GUKA. Evolution of Turkic Modal Verbs 143

The semantic analogies in effect in Turkic auxiliary construction types go even further. The mood items that perform subjunctive functions in AUX-3 are the conditional, voluntatives and the optative. Voluntatives and optatives express an inclination of a conscious subject towards the action, i.e. the performance of the action (by whoever is indicated by the personal marking, which can be the first or third person with voluntatives and any person with the optative) is presented as desired, approved etc. 37 They (metaphorically) “aim” at the action and share a common hyperonymical notion with purposive items, which is goal-orientation. Using vol and opt as linking devices in auxiliary constructions can be regarded as an adaptation to AUX-1 on the basis of metonymy: vol and opt are used “in place of” a purposive item, drawing on the common hyperonym of goal-orientation. Hence, AUX-1, AUX-3 and AUX-6 (as well as AUX-7 as a more grammaticalized variant of AUX-6) can be said to build on semantically analogous principles. The seven types of auxiliary constructions with their different distribution across the Turkic languages not only typify individual constructions that evolved in diachrony; they also represent formal patterns that can spread within a broad class of loosely associated semantic notions that center on root modality, without being historically motivated. Most Turkic varieties use more that one linking strategy in modal and related constructions with the result that a given pattern can potentially be imposed on structures that are perceived as semantically related. This mechanism can be described as a formal analogy. E.g., AUX-3 was initially confined to volitive constructions, a situation that is still mirrored in Turkic varieties in Iran, but spread to expressions of possibility and inception in Vidin Turkish. While the precise historical evolution that led to the picture in Vidin Turkish is not entirely clear, it is striking that the correlation of AUX-3 and AUX- 6 to the auxiliary verbs is exactly identical, suggesting that AUX-3 and AUX-6 did not develop independently in this variety but were “harmonized” at a certain stage. In Modern Uyghur, AUX-6 was first introduced by semantic analogy to AUX-1 with the auxiliary verbs bol- and bašla- and spread to the auxiliary adjective mumkin by formal analogy to these.

37 The conditional seems to originally have carried a hypothetical (“irrealis”) meaning (‘suppose that’), which makes it suitable for subjunctive functions as well. 144 Julian Rentzsch

10. Summary

The grammaticalization of Turkic modal constructions evolves according to seven structural types that can be realized by different morphological material in individual Turkic varieties. The majority of structures are already predisposed in Old Turkic syntactic patterns, which are applied to auxiliary constructions. Specific language contact situations have contributed to the emergence and/or preferred use of some patterns (AUX-2, AUX-3, potentially AUX-6 and AUX-7). Some of the patterns are evolutionally interdependent. AUX-3 is derived from AUX-2, while AUX-7 is just a phonetically reduced variant of AUX-6. AUX-6 at least partly presupposes AUX-5 (as in the Uzbek examples of tile- and bil- with versus ) or AUX- 4 (as in Vidin Turkish iste- with versus ). Three of the types, AUX-1, AUX-3 and AUX-6, are semantically analogous and build on purposive linking devices. As non-factual verbal nouns in the dative are re-analyzable as purposive converbs (as long as they do not fill an argument slot of a verb or postposition), AUX-6 with its complex genesis is in effect a variant of AUX-1. In AUX-6, the wheel of grammaticalization has come full circle to AUX-1. “Infinitives” as they occur in AUX-7 are derived from a verbal noun in the dative. Formal and semantic analogy operates in concert with the effect that a given structural type can spread to other auxiliaries. A cluster of areal, genetic and historical factors results in a highly diversified picture in individual Turkic varieties as regards their auxiliary constructions.

Acknowledgement

The research for this paper was made possible by a grant from the Alexander von Humboldt Foundation.

Abbreviations

This article uses the standard abbreviations listed in the appendix to The Leipzig Glossing Rules with additions and modifications mentioned below. Evolution of Turkic Modal Verbs 145

Ø Zero ASP Aspect COOP Cooperative CV Converb DIR Directive DNN Denominal noun DVN Deverbal noun EMP Emphatic EPIST Epistemic EQU Equative EVID Evidential ITER Iterative LIM Limitative NP Proper noun OPT Optative PTCL Particle S Subject VB Verb VN Verbal noun VOL Voluntative X (represents an arbitrary verb stem)

Sources

AZR: Middle Azerbaijani transcription text, 17th c., cf. Johanson 1985. Baburnama: Chaghatay Turkic text, 16th c., ed. Beveridge 1905. Chuvash Gospel: Moskva: Institut Perevoda Biblii 2009, http://www.ibtrussia.org Qodiriy, Abdulla 1926/1929 [1994]. O‘tkan Kunlar/Mehrobdan Chayon. Toshkent: G‘afur G‘ulom nomidagi adabiyot va san’at nashriyoti. Şafak, Elif 2009. Aşk. İstanbul: Doğan Kitap. Šal, Qeyyum Abduqadir 2006. Šopur, yoluči, öčret. Qumul edebiyati 2006/1, 51–55. 146 Julian Rentzsch

Tuvan Gospel: Moskva: Institut Perevoda Biblii 2001, http://www.ibtrussia.org VATEC: Vorislamische Alttürkische Texte: Elektronisches Corpus, http://vatec2.fkidg1.uni-frankfurt.de/

WEB-1: http://forum.uyghuramerican.org/forum/showthread.php?6766- Men-Eng-Axerida-Esirge-Chushken-Idim (retrieved on August 12, 2010)

WEB -2: http://www.egemen.kz/9792.html (retrieved on September 24, 2010)

WEB-3: http://www.alaman.kz/?p=13357 (retrieved on March 3, 2011)

WEB-4: http://yoldash.etnosmi.ru/one_stat.php?id=7931 (retrieved on July 6, 2010) Yakut Gospel: Moskva: Institut Perevoda Biblii 2008, http://www.ibtrussia.org

References

Baskakov, Nikolaj Aleksandrovič 1956. Russko-nogajskij slovar’. Moskva: Gosudarstvennoe Izdatel’stvo Inostrannyx i Nacional’nyx Slovarej. Berta, Árpád 2004. Savamat jól halljátok. A türk és ujgur rovásírásos emlékek kritikai kiadása. Szeged: JATE Press. Beveridge, Annette S. (ed.) 1905. The Bábar-náma. Fac-simile. Leyden & London. Boeschoten, Hendrik E. & Vandamme, Marc & Tezcan, Semih (eds.) 1995. Al-Rabghūzī, The Stories of the Prophets. Qiṣaṣ al- Anbiyā’. An Eastern Turkish version. 2 vols. Leiden & New York & Köln: E.J.Brill. Brockelmann, C. 1954. Osttürkische Grammatik der islamischen Litteratursprachen Mittelasiens. Leiden: Brill. Evolution of Turkic Modal Verbs 147

Clark, Larry 1998. Chuvash. In: Johanson, Lars & Csató, Éva Á. (eds.). The Turkic languages. London & New York: Routledge, 434–452. Clauson, Gerard 1972. An etymological dictionary of pre-thirteenth- century Turkish. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Erdal, Marcel 2004. A grammar of Old Turkic. (Handbuch der Orientalistik 8/3.) Leiden & Boston: Brill. Friederich, Michael 2002. Uyghurisch Lehrbuch. In Zusammenarbeit mit Abdurishid Yakup. Wiesbaden: Dr. Ludwig Reichert Verlag. Haspelmath, Martin 1989. From purposive to infinitive – a universal path of grammaticalization. Folia Linguistica Historica 10/1–2, 287–310. Haspelmath, Martin 1999. Why is grammaticalization irreversible? Linguistics 37, 1043–1068. Hazai, György 1973. Das Osmanisch-Türkische im XVII. Jahrhundert. Untersuchungen an den Transkriptionstexten von Jakab Nagy de Harsány. Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó. Himmelmann, Nikolaus P. 2004. Lexicalization and grammaticization: Opposite or orthogonal? In: Bisang, Walter & Himmelmann, Nikolaus P. & Wiemer, Björn (eds.). What makes grammaticalization? A look from its fringes and components. (Trends in Linguistics. Studies and Monographs 158.) Berlin & New York: Mouton de Gruyter, 21–42. Johanson, Lars 1971. Aspekt im Türkischen. Vorstudien zu einer Beschreibung des türkeitürkischen Aspektsystems. (Studia Turcica Upsaliensia 1.) Uppsala. ——— 1977. Bestimmtheit und Mitteilungsperspektive im türkischen Satz. Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft, Suppl. III: 2, 1186–1203. ——— 1985. Isfahan – Moskva – Uppsala. Kring några medelaserbeidjanska handskrifter och stationerna på deras väg. Svenska Forskningsinstitutet i Istanbul, Meddelanden 10/1985, 26–44. 148 Julian Rentzsch

——— 1990. Zur Postterminalität türkischer syndetischer Gerundien. Ural-Altaische Jahrbücher N.F. 9, 137–151. ——— 1995. Mehrdeutigkeit in der türkischen Verbalkomposition. In: Erdal, Marcel & Tezcan, Semih (eds.). Beläk bitig. Sprachstudien für Gerhard Doerfer zum 75. Geburtstag. (Turcologica 23.) Wiesbaden, 81–101. ——— 2000. Viewpoint operators in European languages. In: Östen Dahl (ed.). Tense and aspect in the languages of Europe. (EUROTYP 20/6.) Berlin & New York: Mouton de Gruyter, 27–187. ——— 2003. Old Uyghur, Eastern Turki, Modern Uyghur. Orientalia Suecana 51–52, 257–266. ——— (in print). Mood meets mood: Turkic versus Indo-European. In: Stolz Thomas & Vanhove, Martine & Otsuka, Hitomi & Urdze, Aina (eds.). Morphologies in contact. (Bremen Festival of Languages). Johanson, Lars & Csató, Éva Á. (eds.) 1998. The Turkic languages. London & New York: Routledge. Kakuk, Zsuzsa 1996. Mischärtatarische Texte mit Wörterverzeichnis. Aufgrund der Sammlung von Ignác Kunos herausgegeben. (Studia Uralo-Altaica 38.) Szeged. Kıral, Filiz 2001. Das gesprochene Aserbaidschanisch von Iran. Eine Studie zu den syntaktischen Einflüssen des Persischen. (Turcologica 43.) Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Kuun, Géza 1880. Codex Cumanicus bibliothecae ad templum divi Marci Venetiarum. Budapest: Editio Scientiarum Academiae Hungaricae. Mansuroğlu, Mecdut 1959. Das Karakhanidische. In: Deny, Jean & Grønbech, Kaare & Scheel, Helmuth & Togan, Zeki Velidi (eds.). Philologiae Turcicae Fundamenta. Vol. 1. Wiesbaden: Steiner, 87–112. Németh, Julius 1965. Die Türken von Vidin. Sprache, Folklore, Religion. Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó. Palmer, F.R. 22001. Mood and modality. Cambridge. Evolution of Turkic Modal Verbs 149

Pavlov, Ivan Pavlovič 1965. Xal’xi čăvaš literatură čĕlxi. Morfologi. Šupaškar: Čăvaš ASSR Kĕneke Izdatel’stvi. Rentzsch, Julian 2010. Zur Modalität im Türkischen. In: Hendrik Boeschoten & Rentzsch, Julian (eds.). Turcology in Mainz/Turkologie in Mainz. (Turcologica 82.) Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 209–224. Schlüter, Julia 2010. To dare or not to: Is auxiliarization reversible? In: Iinden, An Van & Verstraete, Jean-Christophe & Davidse, Kristin (eds.). Formal evidence in grammaticalization research. Amsterdam & Philadelphia: John Benjamins, 289–326. Stein, Heidi 2010. Optativ versus Voluntativ-Imperativ in irantürkischen Texten (15./16. Jh.). In: Boeschoten, Hendrik & Rentzsch, Julian (eds.). Turcology in Mainz/Turkologie in Mainz. (Turcologica 82.) Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 230–255. Sulejmenova, Eleonora & Kadaševa, Karlygaš & Akanova, Dana 1997. Suxbat. Qazaq tili/Kazaxskij jazyk. Učebnyj kompleks. 2- oe izdanie. Almaty: Izdatel’skij Dom “Žibek Žolï”. Tezcan, Semih & Hendrik Boeschoten 2001. Dede Korkut Oğuznameleri. İstanbul: Yapı Kredi Yayınları. van der Auwera, Johan & Plungian, Vladimir A. 1998. Modality’s semantic map. Linguistic Typology 2, 79–124. von Gabain, Annemarie 31974 [1941]. Alttürkische Grammatik. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz.

The seven oceans in the Purāṇas and elsewhere1

Stella Sandahl University of Toronto

Abstract

It is unclear when the notion of seven oceans originated. The Vedas have only four oceans. However, the seven oceans are present in the much later Purāṇas. The oceans seem to represent a fantasy about the good things in life, such as milk, curd, ghee, wine, and sugar cane juice. The same picture is present in the Mahābhārata with the exception of the sugar cane ocean. These oceans also represent a transition from cattle-herding nomadic society to a settled agricultural society. Although there is a description of a ritual called the saptasāgaramahādāna in the Matsyapurāṇa, performed by merchants before sailing out on a trading expedition, the Purāṇas were written by Brahmins for Brahmins. The seven oceans in the Buddhist literature are very different, even though they share the same names to a certain extent. Here we are clearly dealing with merchants crossing dangerous oceans in pursuit of riches, which in its own way corroborates the fact that Buddhism was an anti-brahminical sect with its main following among vaiśyas and kṣatriyas.

1 This article is a considerably extended version of a paper presented at the XIIIth World Sanskrit Conference in Edinburgh in 2006. 152 Stella Sandahl

The much later 16th century Avadhī poem Padumāvat by Mālik Muhammad Jāyasī reverts back to the purāṇic oceans, but here the oceans represent the trials and tribulations the hero, king Ratan Sen of Chittaur has to go through in his search for Princess Padmāvaṭī, whose enticing beauty had been described by a parrot brought all the way from Sinhaladvīpa to Chittaur by a poor Brahmin. In the two latter cases the oceans differ from the purāṇic ones insofar that there are no islands separating each ocean. It would be impossible to sail from one ocean to another in the purāṇic versions, since one will have to traverse an island to reach another ocean.

Keywords: fantasy oceans, trade, dangers, riches, nomadic society to agricultural society to trading society, quest for love and beauty.

“Just imagine the oceans were vodka, and the brooks all Bavarian beer, and our springs would pour forth Chianti, with cognac in pond, lake and mere.”2 “Tänk om alla sjöar vore brännvin, och alla bäckar vore bayersk öl, vin och öl i vāra källor, och konjak i varje liten pöl.” This is the beginning of a Swedish drinking song. Its relevance for this paper is not as obscure as it seems – as will be made clear later.

It might seem odd that the ancient Aryans – whether they came from the North-West or were always there – had anything to say about oceans at all. However, the word samudra is well documented already in the Ṛgveda,3 and, more interestingly, the Vedic Aryans seemed to have believed that that were four oceans. However, the Vedic Aryans seemed to be landlocked and nomadic, so there cannot have been any trade over oceans.4 It seems, as we shall develop further below, that the notion of seven oceans was connected with trade on dangerous waters. There are, however, seven rishis, seven rivers, seven sins etc.

2 This is a more poetic but slightly inexact rendering of the Swedish original. 3 See chapter III.3 “Der Weltozean im Veda“ and III.4 “samudra der Indische Ozean“ (pp. 92–111) in Lüders, Heinrich: Varuṇa I. Varuṇa und die Wasser, Göttingen 1951. 4 Ibid. p.106 and 107. The Seven Oceans in the Purāṇas 153 in the Vedas, so the number seven carried some symbolic meaning which was not extended to oceans. The concept of seven oceans is, however, well established in the much later Purāṇas. They are enumerated in practically all of them, but not always in the same order. This is how Kirfel5 arranges them:

1st group 2nd group 3rd group 1. Lavaṇoda, Kṣāroda 1. Lavaṇoda 1. Lavaṇoda 2. Ikṣurasoda 2. Kṣīroda 2. Kṣīroda 3. Suroda 3. Ghr̥ ta- (Matsya-) 3. Ghr̥ toda Dadhi-maṇḍoda (Varāha-) 4. Ghr̥ toda, Sarpis 4. Dadhi (Matsya-) 4. Dadhimaṇḍodaka Ghr̥ ta-maṇḍoda (Varāha-) 5. Dadhimaṇḍodaka, 5. Suroda 5. Suroda Dadhi 6. Kṣīroda, Dugdha 6. Ikṣurasoda 7. Svādūda(ka), Jala 7. Svādūdaka 6. Jalasāgara

Kirfel’s first group comprises most Purāṇas and the second group comprises the Bhaviṣya-, the Matsya- and the Varāha-Purāṇa. Kirfel’s third group, which consists of only the Padmapurāṇa and the Mahābhārata, has only six oceans, the missing seventh (or sixth, since all the lists seem to end with the sweet-water ocean) being the ikṣurasa ocean.6 The six oceans mentioned in the critical edition of the Mahābhārata are the salt ocean in Mah. 6.6.14 (lāvaṇena samudreṇa samantāt parivāritaḥ), the milk ocean in 6.12.9 (sāgaro 'pi vibhāgaśaḥ kṣīrodo bharataśreṣṭha yena saṃparivāritaḥ) and then, in Mah. 6.13.2 we find the clarified butter ocean, the wine ocean, and the buttermilk, not curd, ocean. The last one which Kirfel labels jalasāgara is not mentioned by that term. Instead we find a mysterious heat-ocean (gharmasāgara) 7 which we presumably have to understand as the sweet water ocean. Or else, is it the missing ikṣurasa ocean?

5 Kirfel, Willibald: Die Kosmographie der Inder, Hildesheim 1967, p.57. 6 Ibid. p.56. 7 Ghṛtatoyaḥ samudro 'tra dadhimaṇḍodako 'paraḥ / surodaḥ sāgaraś caiva tathānyo gharmasāgaraḥ Mah. 6.13.2. 154 Stella Sandahl

The Bhāgavata Purāṇa8 tells us that the seven oceans were created when Priyavrata rode his chariot around the earth seven times, and the ruts left by the wheels became the beds of the oceans, separating the large continent into seven dvīpas. Only one of these oceans is what is ordinarily understood to be an ocean, namely a vast expanse of salt water. All Kirfel’s groups agree that the first ocean surrounding Jambudvīpa is the kṣāra or lavaṇa ocean, i.e. the salt ocean. Then follows pure fantasy: the sugarcane juice ocean, the liquor ocean, the clarified butter ocean, the curd or buttermilk ocean, the milk ocean and the sweet water ocean, the svādūdaka samudra, which is sometimes said to consist of pure holy water from tīrthas. All these liquids, with the exception of the salt ocean, are very precious substances, something one could not indulge in except on festive occasions, just as the Swedish drinking song fantasy quoted in the beginning, although what was precious for the old Indians is of course somewhat, but not entirely, different from what is precious for the contemporary Swedes and other Scandinavians.

The milk, curd and ghee go back to a cattle-rearing possibly nomadic tribal society which we call the early Aryans. The sugarcane requires a settled, agricultural society. Sugarcane did not exist in the Western world until the Arabs brought it from India into the Mediterranean around the 8th century A.D. So the ancient Aryans who are said to have migrated into India did not know about sugarcane, which originated in southeast Asia, in Papua New Guinea. 9 The word ‘kuśara’ in Ṛgveda I.191.3, claimed by some to mean sugarcane10 is glossed by MW as ‘a kind of reed’ (and under ku- which might mean it was a bad weed) and not at all found in Āpte. However, the word ikṣu is attested in Atharvaveda 1.34.511 and the much later Kautilya

8 Bh.P. 8.4. 9 Achaya, K,T.: Indian Food. A Historical Companion, OUP, Bombay, Calcutta Madras 1994, p. 215ff. This is contradicted by G. Watts, who postulates a South Asian origin of sugercane (see G. Watts: The Commercial Products of India, London 1908, pp. 930ff.). 10 Prakash, Om: Economy and Food in Ancient India. Part II: Food, Delhi –Varanasi, 1987, p. 75, note 3. 11 Ibid. p. 75, n. 4. The Seven Oceans in the Purāṇas 155 mentions a whole range of sugar products from sugarcane. 12 So sugarcane must have been cultivated at an early stage, maybe by the non-Aryan peoples of India. The Vedic Aryans used honey, madhu, as sweetener. The surā samudra, which follows the ikṣurasa samudra in most of the Purāṇas, should perhaps not be translated as wine ocean, since wine from grapes has only been made in India in recent years. Grapes are said to have been were grown by the Aryans in “lands which were frequently flooded,”13 a somewhat strange statement. They were likely brought in by the Greeks, but there is no conclusive evidence that wine was made from grapes.14 Surā is usually liquor made from distilled, fermented barley, or wild paddy, flowers, or just about anything that can be fermented. Of course, it could even be fermented distilled ikṣurasa, in other words rhum. Drinking was always popular, although it is considered one of the seven transgressions, sapta maryādāḥ – another group of seven! – in R̥ gveda X.5.6. The three oceans made from milk are curiously in inverted order. The normal order is that one makes dadhi from milk, and then ghr̥ ta from dadhi. Not the other way around. The last ocean, the svādūdaka samudra, the tasty water ocean, is of course also very precious, especially if it consists of water from holy tīrthas.

The only really remarkable thing about the seven oceans in the Purāṇas is that, apart from the enumerations, nothing at all is said about them, whereas the islands dvīpas are described in lengthy details, their rivers, mountains, fauna and flora, inhabitants, etc. The purāṇic oceans are a pure fantasy which deliberately conceals the fact that the real ocean is very threatening indeed. Maybe by imagining the oceans as consisting of desirable liquids it was a way of averting its terrible force. This would explain the ritual of the saptasāgaramahādāna, a sacrifice described in detail in the Matsya Purāṇa chapter 287. V.S. Agrawala has written an illuminating article about this very sacrifice in an article published in the journal Purāṇa

12 Ibid. p.169-170, n. 7, p. 384. 13 Achaya, op. cit. p.31. 14 Cf. Om Prakash, op. cit. pp. 404–405 and p. 438 under mārdvīka with ref. to Kautilya, the Suśruta saṃhitā and theViṣṇudharmasūtra. 156 Stella Sandahl

1960.15 The sacrifice consists of putting salt (lavaṇa), milk (payas), clarified butter (sarpis), molasses (guḍa), curd (dadhi), sugar (śarkara), and finally holy water (tīrthavāri) in seven different basins or bowls (kuṇḍas) along with figures of Brahmā, which should be of gold, in the bowl with salt, Keśava/Viṣṇu in the milk bowl (kṣīramadhye), Maheśvara/Śiva in the ghee bowl (ghr̥ tamadhye), Bhāskara (i.e. Sūrya) in the molasses (guḍamadhye), Niśādhipa (i.e. the Moon/Chandra) in the curd (dadhimadhye), Lakṣmī in the bowl with sugar (śarkarāyām) and finally Pārvatī in the pure water bowl (jalamadhye). Then the sacrificer should put gems and grain also in each bowl. All this is presumably poured or thrown into a well with the appropriate rites. Note that in this passage (Matsyapurāṇa 287:5– 9) have here two kinds of sweet, guḍa and śarkara, but no liquor. A little later in the same chapter16 the list reads: ksīrodakājya-dadhi- mādhura-lāvaṇekṣusārāmr̥ tam (ikṣusāra could be a misprint for ikṣurasa). However, ikṣusāra is molasses, raw sugar, i.e. the same as guḍa. Here ikṣusāra and mādhura replace the guḍa and śarkarā from the earlier verses (287. 6 and 7). Mādhura is glossed by Āpte as the flower of the mallikā creeper (Jasminum sambac). This does not make much sense here – I suspect we should actually read either madhura, red sugar cane or molasses, same as guḍa, or maybe even madhūka, in other words the familiar spirit made of mahuā blossoms which I’ll discuss later. Agrawala says that this rite was performed for tradesmen about to undertake or returning from an arduous sea voyage.17 The Matsya Purāṇa contents itself by saying that this ritual, like all costly rituals, increases the wealth of the sacrificer and sends him to “the realm of Viṣṇu” and he “also liberates his sons, wife, father, grandfather etc. from sins and sends them to heaven from hell”18 – and fattens the Brahmins, the latter of course not said. Unfortunately, Agrawala doesn’t say how he found out it was tradesmen who performed this sacrifice. It seems a logical conjecture, but it would be interesting to find the source for this information. It is a fact that overseas trade was well established during the Gupta

15 Agrawala, V.S.: “The Seven-Sea Gift in the Matsya Purāṇa” in Purāṇa. Bulletin of the Purāṇa Department. All India Kāśirāja Trust, Vol. 1, No. 2, Feb. 1960, pp. 206– 212. 16 Matsyapurāṇa 287. 12, text rendered in Agrawala 1960, pp. 211–212. 17 Ibid. p. 207. 18 Matsyapurāṇa 287.13–15. The Seven Oceans in the Purāṇas 157

Empire (240–550 A.D.).19 Agrawala points out the existence of wells used for the purpose in Benares, Allahabad, Mathura, Ujjain and Patna.20 If those wells are still to be found, they are but decaying remnants of long forgotten anxieties.21

The Purāṇas were written by Brahmins for Brahmins, so the oceans could easily be relegated to pure fantasy as the above-mentioned lists demonstrate. Brahmins did not sail the oceans. Vaiśyas, kṣatriyas and the lower orders did. When oceans are dealt with realistically, or sort of, it is the dangerous aspects that predominate. The famous example is the Supāraga jātaka or Suppāraka jātaka22 where one dangerous ocean follows another. But they all contain great treasures, another oceanic fantasy. In the Supāraga jātaka23 we are dealing with oceans for seafarers, waters to be traversed for trading purposes. There are no concentric dvīpas here. The ship simply sails into an ocean after another, most of them fraught with danger like the real ocean. However, some idea of concentric circles may be underlying, since the Jātaka oceans end with the word –māla or –mālin, that is a garland which usually encircles something. The Sanskrit and the Pāli version differ slightly, as seen from the following:

The Jātakamālā oceans: The Pāli canon oceans: 1. mahāsamudra (14.3 ff) 1. mahāsamudda also called pakatisamudda = the real/natural ocean

19 Agrawala op.cit. p. 208, Majumdar (ed.), The History and Culture of the Indian People, Vol III. The Classical Age, Bombay 1954, p. 589 ff. 20 Agrawala, op. cit., p. 208 and Agrawala, V.S.: Matsya Purāṇa – A Study, Varanasi 1963, pp. 182, 383–384. 21 I visited the Mathura Museum on June 9, 2007. There is indeed a dried-up well 300 feet deep just outside the main museum building, but there is no way of knowing if that was the well used for the saptasāgaramahādāna. Two murtis were fished up from the well in 1914 and 1915 resp. One is a five-faced Śivaliṅga from the Gupta period (acq. no.15.516) and the other a Kushana Vishnu (acq. no 14.392–395 – it consists of four joined pieces). Neither of these two could possibly have been part of the saptasāgara sacrifice, since they are too big to have been put in a bowl. There were no little gold murtis found, expectedly. 22 Here I will be referring to the Sanskrit text in Aryaśūra: Jātakamālā, Varanasi 1994, pp. 188-202, and to the Pāli text in The Jātaka, ed. V. Fausboll, Vol. IV, London 1963, pp. 136–143. 23 For illustration of this Jātaka see www.borobudur.tv/jataka_014.htm. 158 Stella Sandahl

2. khuramālisamudra (14.13) 2. khuramāla samudda 3. kṣīrārṇava called dadhimālin 3. aggimāla/aggimālī (14.15) 4. agnimālisamudra (14.17) 4. dadhimāla/mālī 5. kuśamālisamudra (14.19) 5. nīlavaṇṇakusamāla kusamāla/mālī 6. nalamālisāgara (14.21) 6. nalamāla 7. vaḍavāmukhasamudra (14.31) 7. vaḷabhāmukhasamudda

The story goes as follows: Supāraga/Suppāraka, who of course is the Buddha in an earlier incarnation, is an excellent navigator, although old and blind. He is urged to come aboard a ship by the tradesmen of a city called Bharukaccha. They think that his mere presence on board will bring luck and guarantee success. They sail from one terrifying ocean to another, but with Supāraga, the Bodhisattva, on board it all ends well.

These oceans, full of silver, gold and gems, are very different from the purāṇic ones and seem to belong to an entirely different tradition: one where the ocean was feared. The troubles start immediately: the merchants traverse the mahāsāgara, the ordinary saltwater ocean, which the Pāli version calls the pakatisamudda, i.e. the real ordinary salt water ocean, encounter storms, hissing serpents, and all kinds of dangers. They spend some four months at sea. And it gets worse: after the mahāsāgara they then sail into the khuramāli samudra, Pāli khūramāla-samuddam where fish looking like men (or vice versa) with razor-pointed noses dive up and down: āmukta-rūpya-kavacā iva daitya-yodhā ghorekṣaṇāḥ khura-nikāśa- virūpa-ghoṇāḥ / unmajjanāvataraṇa-sphuraṇa-prasañgāt krīḍām ivārṇavajale ‘nubhavanti ke ‘pi // Surprisingly, Speyer24 translates khura-nikāśa-virūpa-ghoṇāḥ as “ugly noses that resemble a quadruped’s hoof” when it is more likely that these creatures have noses that are like razors, Sanskrit kṣura, here prakr̥ itized to khura.25

24 Jātakamālā 14.12–13, Speyer tr, (see bibliography) p.128. 25 See Āpte Dict. p. 640. Thanks to Prof. Renate Soehnen-Thieme for drawing my attention to this. The Seven Oceans in the Purāṇas 159

The Pāli text reads: ummujjanti nimujjanti manussā khuranāsikā “men with razor-pointed noses dive up and down.”26 It is likely that the seafarers are seeing either dolphins or sharks. After the razor-garland ocean they reach the milk ocean, kṣīrārṇava, also called the dadhimālī ocean, 27 which in the Jātakamālā is followed by the agnimālī samudra.28 The Pāli order is inverted: first aggimālī, then dadhimālī (see list above). The interesting thing here is that there is no difference between milk and curd, the milk ocean simply gets a garland of curd! Then they reach an ocean garlanded with kuśa grass, the kuśamālī samudra the nīlavaṇṇakusamāla in the Pāli version,29 then a mysterious nalamālī sāgara, Pāli nalamāla samudda,30 both further discussed below. Finally they reach the most terrifying ocean of them all, where the so called submarine fire resides, the vaḍavāmukha samudra, Pāli vaḷabhā-mukhasamudda.31 The Sanskrit/Pāli word literally means the mouth of the mare. The deceptively similar, maybe even cognate Swedish word mareld is defined as “the light given out from small florescent marine animals.”32 The submarine fire sometimes seen off the West coast of Sweden is described as …Noctiluca scintillans and it is a single-celled animal 1–2 millimeter long belonging to the plankton group dinoflagellata. … It lives all along the Swedish west coast and many other places in the world. But Noctiluca is not the only shining star neither in Swedish waters nor in foreign waters. In Sweden alone there are at least 35 [animals] related to Noctiluca that also can glow. Moreover, there are small crayfish (jumping crayfish) which [also] can get the sea to glow at night. …The light is caused by a chemical process called bioluminescence. When Noctiluca is disturbed the chemical balance inside the animal

26 Fausboll Jātaka Vol. IV, p. 139. 27 Jātakamālā 14.12–13. 28 Jātakamālā 14.15. 29 Jātakamālā 14.19, Fausboll p. 140, l.16. 30 Jātakamālā 14.21, Fausboll pp. 140–141. 31 Jātakamālā 14.31, Fausboll pp. 141–142. 32 Illustrerad Svensk Ordbok, Stockholm 1955, p. 933. 160 Stella Sandahl

changes so that two substances, luciferin and luciferas react to each other. An effective reaction gives light, but no warmth.33 The submarine fire could be some kind of firefly squid, Watasenia scintillans,34 found in the Western Pacific Ocean. This depends on how far around the Pacific the ancient Indian merchants sailed. However, it is a fact that submarine bioluminescence exists. The remaining mystery is why this is callad vaḍavāmukha.35 What does a mare have to do with the natural phenomenon of submarine fire? The seafarers actually do not reach this ocean in the Jātakamālā, and beat a hasty retreat from it in the Pāli version.

What are the significant traits of these Buddhist oceans, apart the fact that they are dangerous to traverse? All, except the first, the ordinary salt water ocean and the last, the dangerous mare-mouth ocean, contain jewels, silver and gold, and they all invoke a specific colour which is likely to reflect the colours of gems: khuramālī has diamonds, presumably because of the greyish-white colour of the dolphins or sharks, that agniṃāli has gold, the dadhimālī silver. The jewels of the kuśamālī ocean are more problematic. The Pāli version says tasmin pana samudde nīlamaṇiratanam ussannaṃ ahosi, reinforced by the term nīlavaṇṇakusamāla nāma samuddaṃ36 which seems to indicate saphires. However, the Pāli Text Society translation settles for emeralds, not saphires. 37 This is probably founded on the fact that kuśa grass is green, not blue. However, there is no real distinction between green and blue in Sanskrit, which makes it very difficult to know whether an emerald or a saphire is intended.38 So that must be true for Pāli also. In the Sanskrit version Speyer translates pariṇata-kuśa-parṇa- varṇa-toyaḥ salila-nidhiḥ katamo nv ayaṃ vibhāti / sukusuma iva

33 Uppslagsbok för alla, Stockholm 1910, translation mine. My thanks to Colonel Per- Arne Persson of the Swedish Armed Forces for this information. 34 See www.seasky.org/monsters/sea7a1o.html. 35 The vaḍavāmukha samudra is also mentioned in Mbh. 12.290.68. 36 Fausboll IV, p. 140. 37 Jātaka translation IV, p. 89. 38 See Filliozat, Jean; Classement des coleurs et des lumieres en sanskrit. Bulletin de l’Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes, IV section, Paris 1955, and Sandahl-Forgue, Stella: “Les coleurs des sentiments” pp. 144–154 in Le Gītagovinda. Tradition et innovation dans le kāvya, Stockholm 1977. The Seven Oceans in the Purāṇas 161 phena-bhakti-citrair anilajavākalitais taraṅgabhaṅgaiḥ // as “‘Which of the seas now appear to us? Its waters have the colour of the blades of ripe kuśa-grass. The breaking of its wind-stirred billows crowns it a many-coloured foam-ornament, and makes it look as if it were overspread with flowers.’”39 There is no real mention of jewels at all in the Jātakamālā, but one must assume that ripe, uncut kuśa grass is green, and the ocean is rather likely blue. Then the merchants approach the sixth sea: vaṃśarāga- vaiḍūrya-prabha-vyatikara-harita-salilam aparṃ samudram ālokya rendered by Speyer as “perceiving another sea, the water of which had a greenish colour like that proceeding from the united brilliancy of emeralds and beryls.”40 The rendering of vaṃśarāga as ‘emerald’ comes from the following śloka: marakata-harita-prabhair jalair vahati navām iva śādvala-śriyam / kumuda-rucira-phena-bhūṣaṇaḥ salila-nidhiḥ katamo ‘yam īkṣyate //…nalamāly eṣa sāgaraḥ41 // “‘The sea we now behold has yet another appearance. Its waters have a green shine of emeralds and resemble a splendid meadow; they are adorned with foam as lovely as waterlilies. Which sea is this again?’ … This is the Nalamālī ocean.”42

The Pāli version is much more problematic: nāvā… nalavanaṃ viya ca veḷuvanaṃviya ca khāyamānaṃ Nalamālaṃ nāma samuddaṃ pāpuni – “the ship came to a sea called Nalamāla, which had the aspect of an expanse of reeds or a grove of bamboos.”43 Nala means some kind of reed, maybe bamboo. But the commentary insists it has to be some kind of reddish reed: nalo ti vicchikanalo kakkaṭanalopi so rattavaṇṇo hoti, veḷu ti pavāḷass’ etaṃ nāmaṃ, so samuddo pavāḷussanno rattobhaso ahosi – “Nala is scorpion-reed or crab-reed44 [which are] red in colour. Veḷu is the name for coral (pavāḷa), this ocean was red like coral.”45

39 Jātakamāla 14, 18, Speyer translation p. 130. 40 Jātakamālā 14, p. 196, Jātakamālā tr. p.130. 41 ibid. 14. 20-21. 42 Jātakamālā tr. p. 130. 43 Fausboll IV, p.140, tr. IV, p. 89. 44 Must refer to a cooked crab, since uncooked crabs are greyish. 45 ibid. p. 141, translation mine. 162 Stella Sandahl

The description of this ocean concludes with tasmiṃ pana samudde vaṃsarāgaveḷuriyam ussannam 46 i.e. an ocean full of vaṃsarāga and veḷuriya. Vaṃsarāga is found in the PTS Dictionary and glossed as ‘the colour of bamboo, a term for the veḷuriya gem’, but not in any Sanskrit dictionary, which seems to indicate that the Jātakamālā is based on the Pāli jātaka, not the other way around. But the PTS Dictionary defines veḷuriya as lapis lazuli, which decidedly is blue, not at all the colour of bamboo. But scorpions and crabs can under no circumstances be blue (see note 41), so we must believe the commentator that we are talking about coral, i.e. we are dealing with a red colour. To add to the confusion veḷuriya is probably the same as Skt. vaiḍurya, i.e. cat’s eye, a chrysoberyl, which is yellowish, not at all lapis lazuli. Here again we have a confusion of colours: red and yellow are often confused, just as blue and green are.47

Whatever kinds of gem were found in these Buddhist oceans, they all represent wealth and seem to reflect a mercantile culture far away from the brahminical purānic fantasies which mainly cater to gourmandise or gluttony. However, the gold and silver statuettes and the gems that went into the bowls in the saptasāgaramahādāna48 bridge the two cultures, and both castes get their due. In later Sanskrit literature the seven oceans are merely a poetic convention. As such we meet all seven of them in the Naiṣadhīyacarita. They appear in sarga XI during Damayantī’s svayaṃvara. Different candidates are pointed out to Damayantī by Sarasvatī. Among them are the kings of the seven dvīpas which the oceans surround, so both the islands and the oceans are mentioned. First comes the sweet-watered ocean in XI.27: svādūke jalanidhau savanena sārdhaṃ bhāvyā bhavantu tava vāri-vihāra-līlāḥ, translated by K.K. Handiqui as “let the joys of thy water-sports with king Savana prove charming in the sweet-watered ocean” with the curious, and entirely wrong, foot-note saying “the ‘sweet-watered ocean’, i.e. the ocean of milk.’” 49 / 50 The milk-ocean (kṣīrārṇava) appears in

46 Fausboll IV.141. 47 See note 32 above. 48 It would be interesting to know which gems went into which bowl, but, unfortunately, the Matsyapurāṇa doesn’t say. 49 Handiqui p. 160. 50 See earlier discussion of this ocean. The Seven Oceans in the Purāṇas 163

XI.40: kṣīrārṇavas tava katākṣa-ruci-cchaṭānām anvetu tatra vikaṭāyitam āyatākṣi, rendered as “long-eyed one, there let the ocean of milk imitate the play of the beams of lustre issuing from thy glances…”51 In the following verse (XI.41) it is made clear that Viṣṇu, here called Madhu-bhid, lives there. The third ocean is the dadhimaṇḍa, usually rendered as the butter-milk ocean. In the Naiṣadhīyacarita we find dadhi-maṇḍa- payodhi-pūraḥ “the lake from the dadhimaṇda ocean” (XI.49). The commentator Nārāyaṇa explains dadhimaṇḍa as marīca-śarkarādi- miśraṃ mastu iti, i.e. sour cream or whey (mastu), mixed with pepper (marīca) and sugar (śarkara). What ādi (etc.) stands for one can only guess. Handiqui cleverly translates dadhimaṇḍa as the “Ocean of Spiced Curds.”52 A.N. Jani53 renders marīca as red pepper, which is misleading, since red pepper usually means chilli pepper which had not reached India at the time the Naiṣadhīyacarita was composed. The fourth ocean in XI.53 is the regular dadhi-mahodahi, the Ocean of Curds, and the fifth in XI.58 is the ghī ocean, ghr̥ toda-taṭīṣu “on the banks of the clarified butter ocean.” Then the liquor or wine ocean is mentioned in XI.67 dvīpasya śālmala iti prathitasya nāthaḥ / pāthodinā valayitasya surāmbunāyam // – “He is the lord of the famous island called Śālmala, encircled by an ocean whose water is wine (surā); and finally the sugarcane juice ocean is mentioned in XI.75: pītvā tavādhara-sudhāṃ vasudhā-sudhāṃśur na śraddadhātu rasam īkṣu-rasoda-vārām “having drunk the nectar of your lips the moon of the earth will not take to the juice of the waters of the sugarcane juice ocean.”54 Curiously absent is the ordinary salt water ocean. This in itself proves the point that the seven oceans are pure fantasy meant to conjure up something pleasant and enjoyable as in the Swedish drinking song.

51 Ibid. p. 162. 52 Ibid. p. 164. 53 Jani p. 216. 54 There are, of course, many other instances where the seven oceans are mentioned in the vast Sanskrit literature. These are just a few examples, not an exhaustive list. 164 Stella Sandahl

The final set of particularly interesting oceans to be found in the 16th century Avadhī poem Padumāvat by Mālik Muhammad Jāsyasī.55 The story is about king Ratan Sen of Chittaur, who, in the guise of a yogi in quest of love and beauty, sets out to Sinhaladvīpa to win princess Padmāvatī, here called Padumāvat. Jāyasī’s oceans follow the purāṇic ones very closely. Just as Kirfel’s third group, Jāyasī does not mention an ikṣurasa, sugarcane juice ocean, although sugarcane would most likely have been grown in Avadh in his time. This seems to indicate that he follows either the Mahābhārata or the Padmapurāṇa, but he adds in a seventh ocean to make the magic number seven. Maybe as a Muslim he also knows about Sinbad the Sailor and the seven oceans in the Islamic narrative tradition. As in the Supāraga jātaka, there are no dvīpas separating the oceans, they just follow one after the other: mile samuṃda vai sātauṃ behara behara nīra (PA 150.8b) – “the seven oceans meet, [but] with separate waters.” These oceans are very different from the ones described in the Supāragajātaka, but also very unlike the dry purāṇic lists. Jāyasī describes each and every ocean, tying the description of the oceans into Ratan Sen’s arduous and burning quest. Jayasī’s oceans are as follows: 1. khāra samuṃda – the salt water ocean 2. khīra samuṃda – the milk ocean 3. dadhi samuṃda – the curd ocean 4. udadhi samuṃda – the ghee ocean 5. surā samuṃda – the liquor ocean 6. kilakila samuṃda ? 7. mānasara samuṃda – the Mānasarovar ocean, i.e. the pure water ocean

The party sets out sailing the khāra samuṃda. Like Supāraga, Ratan Sen’s truthfulness guarantee that they hold out against storms with enormous waves, crocodiles and turtles.56 They then reach the milk ocean, which is – expectedly – white and contains pearls, rubies and

55 There are several editions of this text. All my ref. are to V.S. Agrawala’s edition – see bibliography. I have also used Mātā Prasād Gupta’s edition for comparisons. There is only one English translation of this text: Shirreff, A.G.: Padmāvatī, Calcutta 1944, which predates both Agrawala’s and Gupta’s editions. It is based on Grierson’s and Shukla’s editions. I will use the abbreviation PA for the Agrawala ed. and Sh. for Shirreff’s translation. 56 PA. 150.1–6. The Seven Oceans in the Purāṇas 165 diamonds,57 followed by the dadhi samuṃda. The first three do not require any explanation, but the remaining ones cry out for one. udadhi samuṃda cannot mean “the ocean ocean” or “the sea of ocean” as V.S. Agrawala, Mātā Prasād Gupta and Shirreff all interpret it,58 since that doesn’t make sense. Let’s first note that from milk we get curd, and the previous stanza seems to imply that the milk was first boiled before it was set to become curd. The curd is then churned to give butter, which in turn gives ghee. This is exactly what happens: udadhi samuṃda means the ghr̥ ta ocean. Neither Agrawal nor Mātā Prasād Gupta, these two eminent Hindī scholars, make the slightest comment about the “ocean ocean”, they just repeat the text’s udadhi samuṃda/samudra, and Shiriff, with some bewilderment and in total rejection of common sense calls it “the sea of ocean.”59 It is possible that Shirriff understands udadhi samuṃda to mean the fresh water ocean, jala samuṃda.

The word udadhi is used a relatively limited number of times in the Padumāvat.60 Mathur has only two examples of udadhi: In the first example PA 583. 4 udadhi surely means “ocean”: būṛati hauṃ dukha udadhi gaṃbhīra61 – “I am drowning in the deep ocean of grief”, but in the second udadhi is part of an enumeration of the seven oceans: khāra khīra dadhi udadhi surājala puni kilakilā akūta / ko caṛhi bāṃdhai samuṃda ye sātauṃ hai kākara asa būta //.62 It is worth noting that the seventh, the Mānasarovar ocean is omitted here, despite the number seven spelt out. I have found one more example where udadhi must mean ‘ocean’: kayā udadhi citavauṃ piya pāhāṃ – “In the ocean of [my] body I see [my] beloved near”63 but in udadhi

57 PA. 151.1–2. 58 PA 153, M.P. Gupta 153. Shirreff 15.4. 59 Sh.15.4.1, see also Sh.13.2.8. 60 I have drawn on Mathur, Ramesh: Padmāvata. An Etymological Study, Delhi 1974, as much as possible. Mathur’s Index Verborum, which refers to Agrawala’s edition, useful as it is, is unfortunately incomplete, which may be explained by the fact that it was compiled before the computer age. So there may be some udadhi I have missed, although I have added four more instances to Mathur’s list: PA 401.1, 516.5, 522.2 and, of course, in the chapter under consideration, PA chap. 15 sāta samudra khaṇḍa stanzas 150–158, esp. PA153, which is not listed in Mathur’s index. 61 PA.583.4=Sh. 48.3.4. However, Shirreff has another reading here. 62 PA.141.8=Sh. 13.2.8. 63 PA 401.1. 166 Stella Sandahl samuṃda jeūṃ laharaiṃ64 it is not clear what udadhi actually stands for. This is corroborated with another example: duauṃ samuṃda dadhi udadhi apāra, which Shirreff translates as: “They were like the two boundless oceans of milk and of water.”65 In both these examples the udadhi refers to the armies. In PA 522.2 Alauddin Shah’s army is described, in PA 516.5 the two armies, Ratan Sen’s and Alauddin Shah’s. If my contention is right that udadhi actually means ghee, then these examples would allude to the colour of the soldier’s garments, which would imply that Alauddin’s soldier wore something yellowish and Ratan Sen’s pure white.

To prove that udadhi can mean ghee, let’s return to the description of the udadhi samuṃda in PA 153. We first meet with the image of burning: āe udadhi samuṃda apārāṃ / dharatī saraga jarai tehi jhārāṃ – “They reached the boundless/shoreless udadhi samudra. Its flame/heat burns [both] earth and heaven.”66 This is followed by āgi jo upanī ohi samundā / laṅkā jarī oi eka bunda // – “from that ocean fire arose – one [single] drop of it could burn Lanka.”67Thereafter the stanza resumes the theme of the narrative, namely Ratan Sen’s separation from his beloved, which of course also is a burning experience, the fire of separation,68 and then the concluding dohā says: talaphai tela karāha jimi imi talaphai tehi nīra – “as oil bubbles in the frying pan, in the same way the water of it [i.e. the udadhi samuṃda] bubbled.” 69 This is a very down-to-earth and accurate picture of the actual melting or lightly frying of butter, which is extracted from curd, to separate the frothy impurities, i.e. the bubbles so that ghee is obtained. Jayasī himself says in the previous stanza about the dadhi samuṃda that ghī is extracted from dadhi: dahī māhiṃ mathi kāṛai ghīu – “having churned the curd, ghee is extracted.” 70 Furthermore, the normal words for fresh water in

64 PA 522.2=Sh. 43.7.2. 65 PA 516.5=Sh. 43.1.5. 66 PA 153.1= S 15.4.1. 67 PA 153.2=S.15.4.2. 68 Biraha kai jhārā PA 153.5. 69 PA 153.8. 70 PA 152.2. The Seven Oceans in the Purāṇas 167

Padumāvat are jala, nīra and pānī, not udadhi.71 Why, then, would fresh water be called udadhi here?

My next contention is that udadhi here actually stands for a hypothetical *avadadhi which would mean something like ‘coming out of dadhi’. *Avadadhi can become udadhi via audadhi. Au is undoubtedly a long vowel, but, as similar cases mentioned in Pischel72 show, a long vowel, in this case au can be abbreviated before a stressed syllable, and the stress in the word udadhi would fall on the second syllable /da/ distinguishing it from the udadhi meaning ‘ocean’, where the stress would normally fall on the first syllable /u/. So phonetically it is possible for *avadadhi to become udadhi. A further example of ava- transforming into a short /u/ is Hindi utarnā ‘descend’ from ava+TR̥̄ . The patent disadvantage of this interpretation is that nowhere is a word *avadadhi found as such, much less meaning ghee. It could, however, be an invention of Jāyasī who is very fond of punning. By interpreting udadhi samuṃda to mean the clarified butter ocean, the stanza has the advantage of making sense.

From this ocean Ratan Sen proceeds to the surā samuṃda, which Shirreff of course translates as ‘wine ocean’, and Agrawala and Gupta just leave as surā sumuṃda. This stanza at least proves – as if that was necessary - that surā means liquor, not wine. Jayasi makes that crystal clear: surā sumuṃda puni rājā āvā / mahuā mad chāta dekharāvā // – “The king came to the liquor ocean, it looked like an intoxicating cover of mahuā flowers.”73 Both Agrawala and Gupta translate mahuā as mahue ke phūl, i.e. the mahuā flowers which are still collected, fermented and distilled to make country liquor. Mahua liquor is very likely the kind of liquor Jāyasī would know about, since the tree grows all over the region

71 See Mathur’s Padumāvat word index, p. 66, 107 and 118. 72 Pischel, Richard: Comparative grammar of the Prākr̥ t languages, Delhi 1965, § 81, p. 75. 73 PA 154.1. My translation follows Agrawal and Gupta, Shirriff 15.5 has a slightly different interpretation. 168 Stella Sandahl where he lived, namely Avadh.74 The tree in question is Bassia latifolia . It is a tall, wide tree with large flowers which grows all over India up to an altitude of 4,000 feet.75 That the surā samuṃda here means a distilled liquor, not wine made from grapes is further corroborated by the word potī in PA154.6. Potī, (or potā in the text used by Shirreff) “is the technical term for a water-cooling jacket used in distilling.”76 The word mahuā occurs several times in Padumāvat,77 but so does the word dākha ‘grapes,’78 of particular interest is the line: tajai dākha mahuā rasa cākhā (PA 429.5) – “having abandoned the grapes [or wine] he tasted the mahuā [spirit].” It is not likely that wine was made from grapes in Jāyasī’s days. First, grapes do not grow in Avadh, which seems to be the only country Jāyasī actually knew,79 and even if grapes were known, it is not sure wine was made, nor that they were distilled.80 So we can probably assume that Jāyasī’s surā samuṃda is an ocean of mahua spirit.

From the surā ocean Ratan Sen proceeds to the sixth ocean, the kilakila samuṃda, which gets two full stanzas.81 This is a terrifying sea with waves high as mountains whirling around like a potter’s wheel. In the middle of this ocean there is a path dividing it “like the blade of a sword” khāṃḍai kai asi dhāra ninārā (PA 156.5). This path stretches for thirty thousand leagues tīsa sahasra kosa kai pāṭā (PA 156.6), but is so narrow that an ant cannot walk on it: asa sāṃkar cali sakai na cāṃṭā (PA 156.6). It is sharper than a sword, and thinner than a hair: khāṃḍai cāhi paini paināī / bāra cāhi pātari patarāī (PA 156.7). The Kilakila ocean is the final test, here is the path of life and

74 “In Oudh, four gallons of mahwa spirit, between 25° and 30°, can be made for Rs. 1.13, and from gur for Rs. 5and1/2.” Balfour, Edward: The Cyclopaedia of India, Vol. 2, p. 796. 75 Watts, George: The Commercial Products of India, pp. 116–117. Cf. Balfour, Edward: The Cyclopaedia of India, Vol. 1, pp. 289–290. 76 Shirreff tr. p. 102, note (i). 77 PA 28.5; 201.5,6; 429.5 (from Mathur’s Padumāvat word index). 78 PA 34.4; 546.4;553.5 (from Mathur’s Padumāvat word index). I have found four more instances: PA 154.4; 429.5; 436.3; 439.3. There may be others. 79 See Shirreff, A.G.: Padmāvatī, Calcutta 1944, p. vii. 80 See above notes 9 and 10. 81 PA 155, 156 = Sh. 15.6, 7. The Seven Oceans in the Purāṇas 169 death, of hope and despair: marana jiana ehī paṃth ehī āsa nirāsa / parā so gayā patārahi tirā so gā kabilāsa // – “Death and life are on this path: on it are hope and despair. He who falls goes to hell: he who gets across goes to paradise.”82 This Jayasi’s sixth ocean is clearly not a purāṇic one. Its terrifying nature is closer to the oceans described in the Supāraga jātaka. Not even by the wildest stretch of imagination can it be made to correspond to the one missing purāṇic ocean, the ikṣurasa, the sugarcane ocean. Why Jāyasī has left out the sugarcane ocean is not known, nor are there any Sanskrit or Pāli sources that can explain the Kilakila ocean. The word exists in Sanskrit, and it means a ‘cry of joy’ which certainly doesn’t fit the context here. It is actually used in the Padumāvat once in that sense.83 Is it possible that we should read kalakala, usually glossed as ‘indistinct or confused noise’, but seems to also mean ‘uproar, tumult’ 84 here instead of kilakila? This is possible, especially if we assume that Jāyasī originally used the Persian script.85 The description of the mighty waves corresponds to similar descriptions of the sea in storm found in the Daśakumāracarita, the Kathāsaritsāgara, and many other places and the imagery is commonplace. The only thing that matters here is that this is the most dangerous ocean of them all, before they finally reach the last and seventh ocean, the mānasara samuṃda. It seems obvious to me that this is the ocean which corresponds to the purāṇic pure/sweet water ocean. The fresh water used in the saptasāgaramahādāna is water from a holy place, tīrthavāri. And what can be holier than the Mānasa sarovara? It may seem odd that Jāyasī chooses the famous lake in the Himalayas to be the last ocean to cross before the ships reach Sinhaladvīpa, but Jāyasī the poet is not bothered by geographical exactitude: his Mānasarodaka is located in Singhaladvīpa! It is first mentioned in the Siṃhala dvīpa varṇana khaṇḍa,86 and further on receives a full chapter of its own, the Mānasarodaka khaṇḍa87 where

82 PA 156.9 = Sh. 15.7. 83 PA 638.6 = Sh. 54.1. 84 This seems to be the meaning in Mr̥ cch. 2nd act p. 94 in the Kale ed. 85 This is discussed in Shirreff, A.G.: Padmāvatī, Calcutta 1944, p. v. 86 PA 31. = Sh.2.7. The whole description of Siṃhaladvīpa has 25 stanzas: PA 25–49 = Sh. 2.1–25. 87 PA59–65 = Sh. 4.1–8. 170 Stella Sandahl

Padmāvatī and her friends go to swim and frolick. In the Sāta sumudra khaṇḍa Jāyasī simply wants to suggest that the dangers are over and king Ratan Sen is sailing into a sea of bliss. So the choice of Mānasa sarovara to represent fresh water is a logical one, in a poetic sense at least. The water from this lake must indeed be tīrthavāri par excellence.

These examples portray very different pictures of oceans from the brahminical fantasy about the good things in life to the dangerous oceans Supāraga leads his crew through in search of fabulous wealth, and finally the oceans king Ratan Sen as a penitent yogī has to traverse to win his Padmāvatī. Both Supāraga and Ratan Sen achieve their goals due to their truthfulness and purity of mind.

And whilst this paper was delivered all the rivers of Scotland became Scottish ale and the sea had turned into whisky. Talk about purity of purpose!

References

Achaya, K,T. 1994. Indian Food: A Historical Companion. Bombay, Calcutta, Madras: Oxford University Press. Agrawala, V.S. 1960. The Seven-Sea Gift in the Matsya Purāṇa. In Purāṇa. Bulletin of the Purāṇa Department. All India Kāśirāja Trust, Vol. 1, No. 2: 206–212. ——— 1963. Matsya Purāṇa – A Study. Ramnagar Varanasi: All- India Kashiraj Trust. Aryaśūra. 1994. Jātakamālā. Kashi Sanskrit Series 27. Translated by J.S. Speyer, reprint by Motilal Banarsidass (Varanasi 1971) (1st ed. Oxford? 1895). Varanasi: Chaukhamba. Balfour, Edward. 1885. The Cyclopaedia of India, Vol. 1–3 (3rd ed. London. Belvalkar, S.K. (ed.) 1947. Bhīṣmaparvan. Vol. 7 of the critical ed. of the Mahābhārata. Poona: B.O.R.I. The Seven Oceans in the Purāṇas 171

Filliozat, Jean. 1955. Classement des coleurs et des lumieres en sanskrit. Bulletin de l’Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes, IV section. Paris. Handiqui, K.K. Naiṣadhacarita of Śrīharṣa. English translation. [There are extensive notes and appendices.] Poona: Deccan College. Hanisch, Albrecht. 2005. Āryaśūras Jātatakamālā. Philologische Untersuchungen zu den Legenden 1 bis 15. 2 vols. Indica et Tibetica Verlag. Hazra, R.C. 1975 (2nd ed) (1st ed. Dacca 1940). Studies in the Purāṇic records on Hindu Rites and Customs. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass. Jani, A. N. 1957. A Critical Study of Śrīharṣa’s Naiṣadhīyacaritam. Baroda: Oriental Institute. The Jātaka (ed. V. Fausboll). 1963 (Trubner 1887). Vol. IV, PTS. London: Luzac. The Jātaka (tr. by W.H.D. Rouse, Ed. by E.B. Cowell). 1995 (Cambridge 1895). Vol. 4. Oxford: Pali Text Society. Jāyasi, Malik Muhammad. 1973 (2nd ed.). Padmāvata. Ed. and translation into modern Hindī by Mātā Prasād Gupta. Allahabad: Bhāratī Bhaṇḍār. ——— 1980 (3rd ed.). Padmāvata. Ed. and translation into modern Hindī by V.S. Agrawala, Sāhitya Sadan, Cirgāṃv, Jhāṃsī, 2037 V., (for English translation see under Shirreff below). Kantawala, S. G. 1965. Cultural history from the Matsyapurana. Baroda: Maharaja Savajirao University of Baroda. Kirfel, Willibald. 1967. Die Kosmographie der Inder. Hildesheim. Lüders, Heinrich. 1951. Varuṇa I. Varuṇa und die Wasser. Göttingen. Lundström, Bernhard and Montgomery, Albert (eds.). 1910. Uppslagsbok för alla. Ny upplaga omarbetad af Albert Montgomery, Fahlcrantz & Co, Stockholm. Majumdar (ed.). 1954. The History and Culture of the Indian People, Vol III: The Classical Age. Bombay. 172 Stella Sandahl

Mathur, Ramesh. 1974. Padmāvata. An Etymological Study. Calcutta, Delhi: Simant Publications. The Matsyamahāpurāṇam : text in Devanagari, translation and notes in English. 1983. Singh, Nag Sharan. Nag Publishers. The Matsya puranam, A taluqdar of Oudh. 1974. English, AMS Press. Molde, Bertil (ed.). 1955. Illustrerad Svensk Ordbok. Natur och kultur. Stockholm. Prakash, Om. 1987. Economy and Food in Ancient India, Part 1: Economy, Part II: Food (Part II was originally published in 1961 as Food and Drink in Ancient India.). Delhi, Varanasi: Bharatiya Vidya Prakashan. Pischel, R. 1900. Grammatik der Prākrit-Sprachen. Strassburg: K.J. Trübner. ——— 1965. Comparative grammar of the Prākṛt languages. Tr. by Subhadra Jhā. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass. Rhys Davids, T.W. and Stede, W. 1993 (reprint, original London 1921–1925). Pali-English Dictionary [=the Pāli Text Society dictionary]. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass. Sandahl-Forgue, Stella. 1977. Les coleurs des sentiment. In Le Gītagovinda. Tradition et innovation dans le kāvya. Stockholm. 144–154. Shirreff, A.G. 1944. Padmāvatī. Calcutta: Royal Asiatic Society of Bengal. Śrīharṣa. 1986. Naiṣadhīyacaritam. (Reprint from the Nirṇaya Sāgar Press ed.). New Delhi: Meharchand Lacchamandās Publications. Watts, George. 1908. The Commercial Products of India. London.

Afanasiy Nikitin’s Journey Beyond the Three Seas: An Orthodox Russian in Medieval India1

Dmitry Shlapentokh Indiana University

Abstract

Afanasiy Nikitin (?–1472) was a Russian merchant from Tver, a city not far from Moscow. Nikitin visited India in 1446–1472 and described his travels in a short travelogue known as The Journey Beyond Three Seas.2 The story was first discovered in a monastery by Nikolai Karamzin, one of the leading historians of 19th century Russia; and since that time, Journey has fascinated both Russian and Western historians, as well as political-thinkers who envisage Russia’s special role in Asia.3 In fact, a bibliography of Journey exists in the Western and Russian languages. What is the significance of The Journey Beyond Three Seas? Certainly, the importance of the

1 This article contains some incomplete sentences on pp. 184 and 192 which, unfortunately, could not be rectified. Since this is an interesting and important article, it was decided to publish it despite this imperfection (the editor). 2 Khozhdenie za tri moria Afanasiia Nikitina 1466-1472, Moscow/Leningrad: Izdatel’stvo Akademii Nauk. SSSR, 1948.* 3 Nikitin, for example, had fascinated E.E. Ukchtomskii, well-known Russian conservative politician Marlene Laruelle, “The White Tsar: Romantic Imperialism in Russia’s Legitimizing of Conquering of the Far East,” Acta Slavica Iaponica, Tomus 25, 2008, p. 131. 174 Dmitry Shlapentokh travelogue lies in the fact that not only had very few Westerners visited India at that time but that Nikitin was the first Russian who had seen India and provided a description of the exotic land. The Journey Beyond Three Seas, just as any other document, could be approached from different perspectives. For some observers, it provides interesting data about the itinerary of Nikitin’s travels and about 15th-century India. For others, Journey is a good example of the feelings of a person of one faith who found himself among people of entirely different religions.4 Still, in our view, one should look at Nikitin’s travelogue from another perspective, which is to place Nikitin’s narrative in a comparative context. Nikitin, as a representative of an Orthodox Christian civilization, was, in a way, a “Westerner,” at least in his relationship to the Indians. For this reason, Nikitin’s vision of India could well be placed in the context of the Europeans’ vision of Russia in the 15th through 17th centuries, at the time when Russia was for Europeans as exotic as India. There are structural similarities as well as clear differences in Nikitin’s views of India and Europeans’ views of Russia and the Orient in general; as a matter of fact, most Europeans look at Russia as being closer to Asia than to Europe.

Keywords: 15th Century Russian travelogue on India, early relationship Russia – India, orthodox Christianity and Hinduism, Western and Russian perspectives on cultural differences.

Nikitin and the Indians: Indians as Russians

One difference—what clearly differentiates Nikitin’s views of India from those of Westerners who visited Russia—was that in most cases the Europeans had never mingled with the common folk and felt deeply alienated from them. There was not much of an attempt to study the culture, traditions and, even less so, the language. This was the case with Adam Olearius, a 17th-century mathematician, geographer and librarian who was secretary to an ambassador sent by Frederick III, Duke of Holstein-Gottorp, to Russia (and to Persia)—in

4 G. D. Lenhoff and L. B. Martin, “The Commercial and Cultural Context of Alfanasij Nikitin’s Journey Beyond Three Seas,” Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas, Vol. 37, 1989, pp. 322–344. Afanasiy Nikitin’s Journey 175 the hopes of making arrangements by which the new city of Friedrichstadt should become the destination of an overland silk trade.5 He had permission to travel freely in Moscow and a chance to study seriously Russian culture or, at the very least, rudimentary Russian. He didn’t do either. His lack of interest in the Russian language was obvious, and he inserted in his book only a few Russian obscenities to underscore Russian barbarism. He was hardly unique in his approach, and the despise of the natives he exhibited was pretty much alive later in the 18th and 19th centuries when Europeans engaged in the process of steady colonial expansion in Asia and later in Africa. The British were hardly an exception from the general rule. Indeed, the same feeling of native barbarism and deep alienation from non-Europeans, Indians included, could also be seen later during the British rule of India. One, of course, should not be oversimplistic here. Some British, as well as other, European, observers of India and other non-European lands and people might view them as having some charm. This was related to a sort of Rousseauistic feeling of the “noble savages,”6 who could be primitive and whose mores could well horrify a civilized person but who, at the same time, had a sort of positive quality that, dialectically, was the positive side of the negative traits. The natives were, in most cases, truthful, curious and non-pretentious. This image of the “noble savage” was related with the emerging image of the “noble” peasant, the members of the lower classes in general. Since the 17th century, the elite had started to acknowledge that not only could the lower classes be exploited but also they could have the same positive qualities as found among the elite. French peasants in this ideological construction were no longer “dirty and barefooted laborers” but had become “ambitious, virtuous, and happy.”7 It was this change in the approach to European common folk that led some members of the European elite to discover the positive qualities of non-European natives. “Friday,” the protagonist of Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe, the famous novel about the

5 Olearius travelogue was translated into several languages, including English. See: Adam Olearius, The Travel of Olearius in Seventeenth-Century Russia, Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1967. 6 Terry Ellingson, The Myth of the Noble Savage, University of California Press, 2001. 7 Amy Wyngaard, From Savage to Citizen: The Invention of the Peasant in the French Enlightenment, University of Delaware Press, 2004, p. 13. 176 Dmitry Shlapentokh survival of a shipwrecked castaway who spent time on an island with a native as his only companion, could be a good example of one of the first natives described as a rather positive personality. He, for example, had almost an instinctive desire to share, including what he had regarded as the most valuable stuff—food.8 The British, as other Europeans, might also have been interested in India for its exoticism and might have had a genuine interest in some of those Indians, i.e., various priests who supposedly possessed mystical knowledge of the hidden, unrevealed by the pragmatic and one-dimensional mind of the Westerners.9 Thus, since the beginning of the modern era, the European elite, including the British, could find positive qualities in the common folk, who could occasionally look better than their fellow elite. The same could be said about the European common folk analogy outside Europe—the natives of Asia. Still, the Western elite, including the British, hardly saw the lower classes as peers. Moreover, the elite had increasingly counterbalanced their image of the noble and courageous commoners by another image of the common folk. Already in the 16th century, Baldesar Castiglione, in his book, The Courtier,10 had developed his particular notion of the elite and implicitly juxtaposed it to the image of the masses. While the elite should be refined and politely restrained in their behavior, the story is essentially different, as it was implied, with the common folk. One should expect that they would be unrestrained in their emotions and even in their bodily functions; in short, they had been bypassed by what Norbert Elias would call the “civilizing process.”11 One might state that this negative image of the natives had increased with the passage of time. The image of the commoners in Peter Brueghel’s paintings could be a good example. Brueghel presented the peasants as a sort of animals, mostly engaged in drinking, eating and having sex. Their image, in a way, alluded to the savages of distant lands. The

8 Mary Godolphin, Robinson Crusoe: In Words of One Syllable, Echo Library, 2008, p. 39. 9 This was, for example, the case with Romain Roland, well-known French writer. He studied “Hindu mysticism” and found “the connections between Indian mysticism and the music of Bach and Beethoven, German idealism, the principles of the French Revolution, and the metaphysics of Spinoza….” David Fisher, Romain Rolland and the Politics of Intellectual Engagement, Transaction Publishers, 2003, p. 138. 10 Baldesar Castiglione, The Book of the Courtier, Doubleday & Company, 1959 11 Norbert Elias, The Civilizing Process, New York: Urizen Books, 1978. Afanasiy Nikitin’s Journey 177 images of the peasants, often implicitly connected with the image of the non-European natives, were hardened by the 19th century. Framed in late 19th century Social Darwinism, the European common folk had emerged as vicious animals, a mortal threat of the civilized elite.12 This could also be said about the European elites’ approach to non- European natives. The image of the “noble” natives with its Rousseauistic sentimentality and, later, the romantic image of natives as noble bandits went along with the development of quite a different image of the non-European, as often brutal savages, with whom civilized folk could not socialize. The same could be seen in the British approach to India. Indeed, the British with all of their appreciation of and interest in India and Indians rarely interacted with the Indians on the basis of equals. And, as a matter of fact, regardless of all the fascination with Indian exotics, the vast majority of the British elite had never assumed that the Indians could be peers of British folk. Most British intellectuals and even average Britons approached Indians in the Kiplingian way as “half children” and “half devils” whose civilizing is a “white man’s burden.” There were other problems in the interaction between Westerners and Indians, especially in the 19th and 20th centuries. The problem here was the conflict between two ways of socialization and, consequently, two types of societies. 13 They were defined by Ferdinand Tönnis, the seminal 19th century sociologist, as Gemeinschaft and Gesellschaft societies. Gemeinschaft was based on the informal rule of interpersonal interactions. It emphasized the cardinal importance of bloodlines and friendship and personal interaction on a daily basis. The Gemeinschaft culture divided the world into two basic categories: “we” and “they.” And the level of “theyness,” so to speak, increased by the distance of the particular person from the close circle of close relatives and friends. The Gemeinschaft culture had developed certain rituals of socialization. It implied often personal interaction, partaking in food and drink invitations to one’s house, etc. The degree of inclusion in the circle of

12 H. G. Wells, the celebrated British science fiction writer, developed the notion of the elite and the masses as two different species to its logical end result. In his The Time Machine, the elite became a refined but powerless Eloi and the lower classes became Merlocks who used the Eloi as a source of “fresh meat.” 13 Ferdinand Tönnies, Community and Society, Dover Publications, 2002. 178 Dmitry Shlapentokh

“we” implied a sort of body language, i.e. smiles, handshakes, concern for one’s well-being, etc. All of this indicated that one was included in the circle of “we” and implied a certain level of existential trust, e.g., that the person who smiles at you would not do you any harm. Moreover, one could expect help from him. While the Gemeinschaft culture was the culture of traditional societies, Gesellschaft was the cultural/behavioral framework of Western societies (especially of today’s capitalist West.) For people of this society, personal interaction and ties had little if any importance. Most important was the formal agreements and law in its universalistic application. Body language also became rather polite formalities devoid of any inner substance. A smile in this context could well go along not just with the absence of any warm feeling toward this or that person but even with hatred for him. When a person from a Gesellschaft culture such as 18th and 19th century Britain, encountered a Gemeinschaft traditional society, his behavior could be quite confusing for the natives. Finally, when the natives would discover that what is sacred to them would be entirely irrelevant for the newcomers, they could become quite suspicious of him.14 These non-European natives would find the same thing in the character of those members of the European elite that could be discovered by the members of the lower European classes. The formal elements of sameness, i.e., the ability ot understand each other’s native language did not mean much. Indeed, the elite could speak the native languages; still, the framework of their behavioral model was entirely different from that of the natives. As a result, the Westerners rarely developed an existential trust with the natives, who would often regard Westerners, even those with formal knowledge of the native language and culture, as outsiders. Indeed, the absence of existential trust, replaced by the formal politeness that places a shield between Westerners and non-Westerners and, of course, between Westerners themselves, was very much felt by the Indians in the 18th and 19th centuries, especially of those Indians who still lived in the context of their traditional culture. This existential trust was also rarely acquired by Westerners who visited Russia in the 15th through

14 This could be said about the Western upper/middle class philanthropist who would approach either the Western lower classes—they preserved the Gemeinschaft arrangements for a much longer time than the European elite—or non-Europeans. Afanasiy Nikitin’s Journey 179

17th centuries. Indeed, besides the difference in the religions, the very framework of their interaction with each other created distrust. The Russians saw Westerners as being quite suspicious and not inspiring trust––and Westerners approached Russians in the same fashion. This could also be said about Westerners who went to Asia, including India. While Westerners and Indians were often alienated from each other, this could not be said of Nikitin. One of the major reasons was that the Gemeinschaft arrangement had embraced all members of Russian society. Both the elite and the masses had, in general, followed the same rule of social interaction, and would preserve this for a much longer period than the Europeans. And what had started in Europe, i.e., the division between the behavior of the lower classes and the masses already in the dawn of European modern history, had started to emerge in Russia only in the 18th century and became clearly visible only in the very end of the Russian ancient regime. The intrinsic Calvinistic aspect of the emerging capitalist culture that saw poverty as the legitimate punishment for laziness, drunkenness and promiscuity and riches as a sign of deserved blessings was also foreign to Orthodoxy and was definitely foreign to Nikitin. Consequently, one could find in Nikitin’s narrative an idea that was also foreign to any Western writings on Russia in the 15th–17th centuries. Different from Western writers, Nikitin had a definite sense of social justice; for example, he stated that he saw a huge difference between the Indian elite and the masses who lived in abject poverty; and he clearly saw this as being wrong.15 This understanding of the plight of the masses, regardless to whom the masses belonged, and Gemeinschaft culture made it possible for him to understand and mingle with people of traditional societies, including those of India. He pointed out that both Muslims, and especially, non- Muslims, had been quite open to him and introduced him to family members and even to their womenfolk and other individuals.16 Indeed, Nikitin interacted with people of various races, cultures and languages on a daily basis and, in the process, often developed in interaction with these people a sort of existential trust. The reason for this was simple. Despite the apparent differences in language, religion and

15 Khozhdenie, p. 60. 16 Ibid., p. 60. 180 Dmitry Shlapentokh general outlook, Nikitin was the product of the same Gemeinschaft culture; and he easily understood and appreciated the Gemeinschaft symbol of inclusion in the “we” circle, e.g., the invitation to visit one’s house, partake of dinner, etc. This sense of existential trust had led to a feeling that Indians were not inferior to Orthodox Russians but just represented a different culture. And this led to another aspect of Nikitin’s approach to Asia, including India: he exhibited genuine interest in the countries’ culture, history and languages. Indeed, entire passages in Journey were inserted in a non-Russian language. It was not a particular language but a sort of jargon, a combination of various tongues. One could argue that Nikitin’s interest in foreign languages was due to a practical consideration: he needed to live and trade with people who spoke no Russian. Still, there was another aspect of Nikitin’s approach to Asians, which could not be explained just by pragmatic considerations. It was seen not only in his interest in foreign cultures and religions but in the elements of a peculiar religious syncretism. Nikitin was clearly quite a devoted Orthodox Christian. Still, with all of this dedication to Orthodoxy and Russia, the readers of Nikitin’s narrative would find that at the end of his story he praised God with a Muslim prayer. “There is no God but Allah.” One, of course, could wonder why Nikitin had inserted the Muslim prayer in his text. Some assume that this could be related to Nikitin’s mimicry, an attempt to blend himself with the Muslim population when he “passed himself off as a Muslim.”17 Some, as was the case with a contributor to the Russian jihadist site Kavkazcenter, even assume that Nikitin was not actually a Christian but a Muslim, or at least that he converted to Islam by the end of his life; and this notion is supported by some Western scholars.18 This, of course, was not the case. Still, it indicates that Nikitin, possibly on a subconscious level, had engaged in a sort of instinctive syncretism, blending Christian and Muslin beliefs; and at that point, he possibly acquired “new syncretic Christian-Muslim habits.” 19 Indeed, his personal interaction with Muslims and a sort of depth of existential identification with some of his Muslim friends had led him to the conclusion that while there is

17 Mary Jane Maxwell, “Afanasii Nikitin: An Orthodox Russian’s Spiritual Voyage in the Dar al-Islam, 1468–1475,” Journal of World History, Vol. 17 (3), 2006, p. 245. 18 Ibid., p. 247. 19 Ibid., p. 257. Afanasiy Nikitin’s Journey 181 one God, people of different faiths could address Him in different ways. This could hardly happen with the Westernizers’ views of Russia, who often even doubted that Russia was a Christian country. There were other differences between Nikitin’s approach to India and the Western approach to Russia. The early Western travelers had never been interested in, or even less marveled at, any aspect of Russian culture or architecture. Moreover, some of them, such as one of the Italians who visited Russia in the 15th century, stated that Russians are unable to create anything of worth. And he added that if one saw the nice stone buildings in Moscow, he should be aware that they were the work of Italians. On the other hand, Nikitin made detailed descriptions of Indian temples, and he marveled at the craftsmanship. It is clear from the narrative that Nikitin had often been much closer to the Indians and understood, or at least tried to understand, their culture, more than Europeans who often approached India in the same way they approached Russians. Europeans saw both Indians and Russia as alienated foreign bodies. They might be exotic and some aspects of native behavior appealing; but still the natives, similar to the representatives of the lower classes in European countries, were at best “children” whose socialization with “adults” (elite) should be limited and who would always need the supervision of the elite. Nikitin’s approach to India was quite different, or, at least, in the narrative one could find the understanding and appreciation of India that hardly could be found in the early modern European approach to India and Russia. As a matter of fact, both Russia and India were seen as belonging to the same realm as the lowest class of Europe— uncivilized and often brutal. While one could find a positive image of India in Nikitin’s narrative, one should not assume that Nikitin’s image of India was entirely positive. The positive images coexisted with the negative ones and were related to the process that was related to geopolitical changes from the Atlantic to the Urals. Europeans’ negative image of India and Russia—both countries seen as a part of the non-European world—was conditioned by internal as well as external developments of European societies—the increasing gap between the behavioral model of the elite and the masses and Europeans dealing with the non- European world. Still, this was not the only reason for the Europeans’ particular vision of the Orient in the 15th through the 17th centuries, 182 Dmitry Shlapentokh when, on one hand, Europeans were engaged in a mortal struggle against the Turks and, on the other hand, in an offensive on their own. It was a time of the beginning of colonial expansion. The reason for Nikitin’s negative images of India, which existed parallel with the positive ones, cannot be understood unless some aspects of Nikitin’s life are taken into account. It led him to view Orientals in the same way as he did Europeans.

Nikitin’s negative view of India

In many ways, Nikitin’s view of India could be seen overall as being quite positive; and one could assume that, from this perspective, Nikitin was very different from most Western observers of Russia. However, this was not always the case; and one could see a lot of similarities between the Westerners’ negative approach to Russia and Nikitin’s view of India. The Westerners’ approach to the non-Western world in the 15th–17th centuries had been defined by two paradigms. The first model was that non-Europeans were uncivilized and, implicitly, had all the negative characteristics of the lowest class of European society. They were lazy, dishonest, promiscuous, etc. In this respect, the Western elite observed non-Europeans as it observed its own masses. The second implied that the West as a unified entity confronted the non-Western world because it was not Christian; and this model provided the framework for the European struggle against the Ottomans, who were the major threat for all of Europe during this time. The last reason was especially important for the people of Central and Eastern Europe. In the 15th to 17th centuries, the Turks seemed to have enjoyed an unstoppable advance. They looked even more dangerous in a way than the Mongols of the 13th century. Indeed, the Mongols had made a deep penetration into Europe and then disappeared. At the same time, the Turks had made steady inroads for generations. The advance of the Ottomans was a part of— or, at least, could be seen as a part of—the global Islamic onslaught, regardless of the fact that Muslim countries had been engaged in fighting with each other. Russia seemed to be also a part of the European struggle against the Muslim menace mostly because of the Russians’ struggle against the Muslim Tatars. Consequently, Nikitin’s Afanasiy Nikitin’s Journey 183 dislike of Muslims was well understood; the Russia of his time had been in a struggle with Muslim people and Islamic powers—first with the Tatars/Mongols and then with the Crimean Tatars and their great overlords—the Ottoman Turks. As a matter of fact, Nikitin lived at a time when Ivan III, the Moscow prince, had unified/re-conquered Russia, and, finally, in 1480 ended what usually is called the “Tatar Yoke.” It was in fighting the Tatars that the Russians had actually forged their identity, which was, in many ways, anchored in Orthodoxy. The Muslim world had emerged in Nikitin’s mind as a problem, not only in connection with Russia’s long struggle or, at least, uneasy, relationship with the Tatars/Mongols––often perceived by Russians as a foreign Muslim force––not only because of Nikitin’s personal tribulation but for other reasons. It is quite possible that Nikitin had perceived Muslims, regardless of their ethnic origin, as a threat to Orthodoxy and, implicitly, entire Christendom. The point is that in 1453, the Ottoman Turks had taken Constantinopole. This was not just the end of the Byzantine Empire and the taking of the very symbol of Orthodoxy by Muslims. It was not just a catastrophe for Orthodoxy, but was seen as a greater catastrophe for entire the European world, for entire Christendom, both the Western and Eastern parts of it.20 “The fall of Constantinople soon became a theme for traveling entertainers and popular ballad writers who were looking for materials to hold audiences in market squares and churchyards.”21 European public opinion had implied here that all Christendom should forsake its divisions and join hands in fighting against the common threat; and the leaders of the Catholic world was blamed for not helping its Orthodox brothers. “In one such work, the Lamento di Constantinopoli, both pope and emperor were blamed for the loss of the Holy Land and Constantinople, and with it the massacre of over two-hundred-thousand persons. The thirty-nine-stanza lament ended

20 Curiously, enough subjects of the collapse of the Byzantine Empire became quite a topical subject in the late Putin/early Medvedev Russia. A movie on that subject, The Death of the Byzantine Empire, was created by Archimandrite Tikhon, supposedly Putin’s confessor, which led to broad public discussion. As Tikhon implied, both the Catholic West and the Muslim East hated the Orthodox Byzantines. And, as Tikhon implied, they actually worked in cahoots in the destruction of the great Orthodox empire. 21 Frederick Quinn, The Sum of all Heresies. The Image of Islam in Western Thought, Oxford University Press, 2008, p.36. 184 Dmitry Shlapentokh with an appeal for repentance and a renewed effort to return Constantinople to Christian hands.”22 The span of the disaster was underscored by a graphic description of the aftermath of the Ottoman victory. “Accounts of the fall of Constantinople were filled with details of The narratives were full of horrific descriptions of Ottoman outrage. “Central to these accounts were lurid descriptions of the desecration of Byzantium’s central church, the Hagia Sophia, where the only Christian symbol that remained was a wooden statue of the Virgin Mary, used as a chopping block by Muslim executioners.”23 The graphic descriptions of violence were in abundance. “Women were raped, the chronicles continued, and men were beheaded and their bowels were ripped open.”24 The ugliness of the sheer violence and the looting of the Orthodox churches, emerging here as a potent symbol of entire Christendom, was emphasized by the forceful attempt to spread Islam. According to reports: “strong, handsome, young men were led off into slavery and forcibly converted to Islam. Lurid details multiplied.”25 These stories in this or that form most likely were known to Nikitin. Indeed, he was aware not just about Constantinople but even about the details of the city’s landscape.26 All of these images of Muslims as the mortal enemy of Christendom had certainly blended in Nikitin’s mind and had reinforced his patriotic feelings. This sense of patriotic favor was forged not only by fighting with foreigners but just by being in a foreign land. And it was this travel far away from Russia that made Nikitin a great Russian patriot. Just as there was no doubt that Nikitin was a devoted Orthodox Christian, he was also, undoubtedly, a great Russian patriot. Indeed, while coming from Tver, a city that was Moscow’s bitter rival for two centuries,27 he did not remember or even note the city. He thought about himself as Orthodox and Russian; and his sense of belonging to

22 Ibid. 23 Ibid. 24 Ibid. 25 Khozhdenie, pp. 35–36. 26 Ibid. 27 Michèl Toucas-Bouteau, “Le Voyage par-delà trois mers: errances et découvertes d’un marchand russau au Xve siècle,” Les editions du Cths, 2008 p. 125. Afanasiy Nikitin’s Journey 185

Russia, apparently, had increased by the very fact that he was far away from his native land. He remembered Russia with passion and proclaimed that Russia was a great land and none other could compare with it despite the fact that Russian nobles were unjust.28 While Nikitin engaged with non-Muslim Indians on a daily basis, he did not have racial prejudices, which had already started to emerge in European society with the beginning of colonial expansion and later the slave trade. He had nothing against people of different races and ethnicities; he, apparently, engaged in a sort of religious syncretism. Still, all of this coexisted with an apparent dislike of Muslims. To start with, one could see the implicit dislike of Muslims in the passion with which Nikitin reaffirmed his Orthodox belief; and his reaffirmation of his faith was often done in such a way as to demonstrate hostility to Islam by Christianity. He did, indeed, insert statements about the Muslim profession of faith in his narrative. Still, most of his notes about Muslims are quite negative. In descriptions of them, he used the pejorative term “basurmane,” often attributing a variety of negative characteristics to them, and actually believed that his major problems were due to their ill advice. Nikitin’s negative feelings toward Muslims could well be understood if one would remember the reason why Nikitin went to India. He had made it clear that he had had no desire to go there. Actually, he had wanted to trade with lands much closer to Russia. In his reluctance to go to a far-away, unknown land, Nikitin was quite different from many Europeans, such as the Spaniards and Portuguese, who were ready to go to unknown lands for the possible huge profits and because of sheer curiosity. India had attracted Europeans for a long time because it was seen as a place of immense wealth. This was the major reason why Europeans were in constant search of a way to the land. Indeed, the accidental discovery of “America” was made while Christopher Columbus was attempting to find a way to India. Most European merchants viewed India as an extremely wealth country, and by trading with India they believed they could easily enrich themselves. For this reason, they were eager to visit India. Russia was also integrated in this image of the rich Orient. Those foreigners who came to Russia in the 16th and 17th centuries often admitted that the

28 Khozhdenie p. 68. 186 Dmitry Shlapentokh country was quite rich in natural resources. They did not discover any depositories of precious metals or stones but often pointed to Russia’s animal world. Fur animals were the major attraction and were seen as the source of the affluence of the Russian ruler. The foreign observers implied that if they would tap these fur riches, they could be quite wealthy; and this is where their interest in Russia lay. The situation was different with Nikitin. Similar to those foreigners who visited Russia, Nikitin was fascinated with the Indian animal world. He wrote detailed descriptions of the elephants, which were paraded during the pageantry and processions of the rulers. He also mentioned the huge snakes and monkeys and duly recorded the story about a monkey king who controlled a huge army of monkey soldiers. Still, with all of his fascination with an Indian animal kingdom, Nikitin had never regarded these Indian animals as a source of potential wealth. The animals were the symbol of an exotic country and nothing more. He also acknowledged that India had a lot of natural wealth, and he was especially fascinated with the deposits of precious stones. Still, he came to the conclusion that these riches were not marketable goods, at least not for Russia.29 Thus, while Europeans started to explore the distant world outside Europe in search of wealth mixed with feelings of adventurism and sheer curiosity, Nikitin’s motivation for visiting India was quite different. Nikitin’s desire to go to distant lands was actually caused by a sort of desperation. While on his way, he was robbed in a nearby Muslim land by local Muslims; and he wrote this happened to him mostly because he was deceived by the “damned Tatars” (pogannye Tatary; “pogannye” could also be translated as “non-Christian,” or pagan).30 The local Muslim ruler expressed no desire to compensate him or other merchants who also were set upon. This struck him as a manifestation of Muslim injustice. Indeed, it was implied that the ruler who took fees from travelers for crossing his land was implicitly obliged to provide the travelers with security; and if they were robbed, he was to compensate them. This wasn’t done. This was a great shock to Nikitin and his fellow merchants, and he confessed that he burst into tears upon receiving the news. It was at this point that one of

29 Khozhdenie, p. 58. 30 Ibid., p. 53. Afanasiy Nikitin’s Journey 187 these “basurmane,” presumably a local Muslim acquaintance, proposed that he go to India as a place where Nikitin could easily enrich himself. And since he found no fortune in India, he was quite disappointed. Consequently, he blamed his Muslim advisor and proclaimed that all Muslims actually were dishonest, and he called them “dogs.” Not only did India not enrich him, and actually depleted his resources, he complained that life in India was extremely expensive— but life in India had endangered what was the most important for him, his Orthodox faith. He clung to the faith of his ancestors in most dramatic circumstances. During his trip, he was arrested by a local ruler, who, discovering he was not a Muslim, took his horse—the major commodity that he brought to India for sale—and demanded a huge amount of money from him. At the same time, the ruler stated that if Nikitin would convert to Islam, not only would he not demand anything from him and return his horse, but he would give him a considerable sum of money. Nikitin was hard-pressed but refused to give up his faith. As he implied, he was ready to be a martyr for his faith. Still, almost as a miracle, he was saved by the intervention of a Muslim friend. Nikitin’s fear of losing his faith did not abate as he continued his travels. Later on, when he thought about how to leave Asia and move back to Russia, he contemplated one route, which he later abandoned. He was afraid that this route would lead him to Mecca and, he assumed, he would be compelled to embrace Islam.31 Even when there was no fear of direct pressure, Nikitin was afraid that he could lose his faith because he did not remember when to fast or observe other rites of his Orthodox faith. And he implicitly blamed his Muslim environment for being disoriented in religious matters. He definitely was more suspicious to Muslim Indians than to non-Muslim Indians. This could be seen also in his personal encounters with individual Indians. It is true that he demonstrated exceptional tolerance in dealing with individual Indians, both Muslim and non- Muslim, and had friends of different faiths. Still, it is clear from his narrative that he mingled with more ease with non-Muslims. It was not just that his own non-Muslim hosts approached him favorably just because he was not Muslim but because Nikitin himself trusted them

31 Ibid., p. 68. 188 Dmitry Shlapentokh more than the Muslims. His relationships and, implicitly, other problems mostly with Muslims could be seen also by the fact that Nikitin made no critical statements in regard to the Catholic West. This either fell completely from his mind or, as is quite possible, Catholic and Orthodox were blended in his mind as a part of Christendom, which should be united in facing a common threat, all differences notwithstanding. Nikitin’s alienation from some of the Indians was due not just to the fact that at least part of them, mostly, of course, people of the north, were Muslims, but for other reasons. Similar to Westerners who would come to Russia in the 17th through 19th centuries, he had rather critical views of Indian morality. He blamed Indians, especially non-Muslims, for sexual promiscuity and what he regarded as the absence of a general sense of shame among the womenfolk. And, here, Nikitin was different from the approach of Europeans to Russia in the 14th and 15th centuries. Those foreigners who visited Russia in the 15th and 16th centuries did not touch on the country’s sexual culture; or, at least, it was not a popular subject of their narratives. There were several reasons for this. First, European society had experienced a societal and values meltdown following the speedy erosion of the traditional arrangements and value system of the Middle Ages.32 In a way, Europe of that time was quite similar to Russia in the very beginning of the post-Soviet era. In both cases, general immorality was quite widespread, and prostitution was rampant. Most important here, the values and behavior of the elite, i.e., patronizing brothels, was not much different from that of the common folk. An increasing sense that promiscuity, at least the scandalously visible, was just the attribute of the lower classes would emerge much later, at the time when Norman Elias’ “civilizational process” went much further and the norms of the middle class would be enhanced. The second reason for these 15th and 16th century foreigners ignoring of Russian sexuality was due to the fact they kept themselves aloof from ordinary Russians and thus had little personal experience in dealing with average Russian womenfolk. The story with Nikitin was different. He lived amidst Indians, and his suspicion of “basurmane” was related with the feeling of a sort of moral pollution, which was transmitted to all Indians,

32 Dmitry Shlapentokh, Societal Breakdown and the Rise of the Early Modern State in Europe, Memory of the Future, Palgrave Macmillan, 2008. Afanasiy Nikitin’s Journey 189 including non-Muslims. Those who read Nikitin’s narrative could note his details about the Indian womenfolk and general masses of society. He wrote that sexual access was quite easy, and one could easily obtain sex from the local women who served in the inns arranged to provide shelter for travelers. He also noted that one could easily buy women as sex toys; they were quite cheap.33 And he provided prices for different kinds of women.34 Nikitin also admitted that dark-skinned Indian women were quite fascinated with him because he was white-skinned and that they continually followed him. He stated that those who had white skin could have sex for free;35 moreover, they could even have sex with married women. These affairs could be arranged by a woman’s husband who wanted to have white-skinned children since a white skin was implicitly related with a higher caste. If the child of the appropriate skin color was born, the lover could even receive a substantial monetary reward. The detailed description of how one could get sexual access in India looked, in a way, like the same description of what one could find in post-Soviet Moscow, especially in Yeltsin’s time. Here, foreigners, who often visited Moscow as sex tourists, later provided practical advice on how one could get sex in the city and put this information on the Internet to help other Westerners who visited Russia for this very purpose. It is quite possible that Nikitin was not just an observer of the sexual mores in the country. Indeed, he lived alone in India, apparently without a female companion. He did have contact with ordinary Indians, and it is conceivable that he had liaisons with Indian women. And in this Nikitin was unlike most foreign visitors/observers of 15th–17th century-Russia. Most had never mentioned sexuality in relationship with Russia. Olearius might be one exception. Still, when he described sexuality in Russia, he related it with something ugly and unhealthy; and one could be sure he had not engaged in sexual relationships with local women. From this perspective, Nikitin, again, was different. He most likely had affairs with local women. Still, the fact that he had sex with them left no emotional impact on him; and, as one could assume, he believed that those women who slept with

33 Khozhdenie, p. 62. 34 Ibid. 35 Ibid., p. 57. 190 Dmitry Shlapentokh him hadn’t much emotional involvement in him either. For them, he was either one among many customers who paid for sex or was seen as an exotic white-skinned male, a sort of peculiar sexual object. Sentimentality was also not a part of the culture; the emotions were reserved for the sublime: god or country—not for sexual partners, especially if the partner was not a husband or wife and belonged to a different religion. It is clear that Nikitin hardly appreciated the local womenfolk. Moreover, in his narrative, he blasted Indian women for promiscuity and general immorality. He noted in this respect that they barely covered their bodies and that young children ran about completely naked.36 The image of Indian women’s immorality led him to see the entire Indian society as the embodiment of evil. And, in some cases, he went into a tirade that presented India and Indians in a most negative light. “All people here are black and all are villains; and the women have no shame; all over is witchcraft, thievery, lies, and potions that one can use to poison the rulers.”37 And, in another place in his travelogue, he stated about non-Muslim Indians, “They have no good mores and have no sense of shame.”38

Conclusion

Nikitin was most likely the first of those Orthodox Russians who had seen India in the 15th century and provided a fairly detailed description of the land at the time when Russia itself started to be visited by Europeans. What was the difference between Nikitin’s approach to India and Europeans approach to India and Russia? Both India and Russia were essentially the same in the eyes of Europeans. Both countries represented the exotic non-European world. The difference between Nikitin and Europeans’ approach to Asia was apparent. While Europeans were anxious to explore the non-European world as a place of potential riches and out of sheer curiosity, they increasingly encountered the non-European world as representatives of the alien Gesellschaft culture of emerging capitalism. They might have accumulated formal knowledge about the distant land and its people. Still, the cultural matrix of these Europeans and natives was

36 Ibid., p. 56. 37 Ibid., p. 58. 38 Ibid., p. 62. Afanasiy Nikitin’s Journey 191 absolutely different; and they rarely had developed a sense of deep existential trust. Being quite alienated from the natives, the travelers, at least in the early years of exploration of the non-European world, also were often not much interested in the native culture and, as was the case with Russia, often ignored it completely. This could be seen even in the work of Sigismund von Herberstein, a 16th-century traveler to Russia, and in that of the 17th-century Olearius, who plainly despised Russians as drunken, dirty and promiscuous barbarians whose talents could at best be manifested in the most unspeakable obscenities. One could assume that Olearius and similar members of the European elite quite possibly despised Russians in the same way as they despise the lower classes of their own countries. The situation was apparently different with Nikitin. He belonged to the same Gemeinschaft culture of the natives and easily could understand the Gemeinschaft arrangements of the Indians, developing with them a level of existential trust. The fact that his culture was not much different from that of the Indians had led him to mingle with them freely, go to their houses and sleep with their women. He often felt that their Indian hosts with their peculiar culture were different but not inferior to his, and he studied it with interest. Still, it would be wrong to see in Nikitin’s case proof of either a sort of inborn cultural tolerance of Russians or of their “turn to the East,” i.e. Russians’ natural gravitation to people of Asia, as would be claimed by a score of Eurasianists, from Nikolai Trubetzkoy to Lev Gumilev and Alexandr Dugin. Despite the fact that Nikitin had mingled with people of all faiths on a daily basis, he had definite suspicions of the “basurmane” (Muslims) and several times indicated in his narrative that he regarded Muslims as the source of his misfortune. His juxtaposition to the Muslim world is clear. Moreover, his interest in the Orient is actually limited. It is true that he had studied with interest Indian people and land and culture when he went there. Still, he went to India not because of curiosity or due to the desire to establish a permanent profitable business relationship but because of a sort of act of desperation. Moreover, his voyage to India, his itinerary and explanation of how to reach this land had evoked no interest among Nikitin’s contemporaries. This tells much about the views of the Russian elite. It is true that the Russian elite continued to be fascinated and influenced by the Asian world during the 15th through 17th 192 Dmitry Shlapentokh centuries. It would be influenced by the Tatars/Mongols and later the Ottoman Turks. Still, even at that time, the West would be a powerful competitor of Oriental influence. Indeed, it was the Italians not the Indians or Turks who built the Moscow Kremlin approximately at the time when Nikitin was engaged in his Indian adventure. And while Nikitin’s writing had been forgotten for centuries and the overall direct Indian influence was miniscule if any on Russian life, this was not the case with the West. Russians—as later, the Indians—could well be aware of the Western negative/skeptical views of their land. Russians could well express their hatred of the West but never ignore it as was often the case with distant Asian lands such as India, which none of them except, of course, Nikitin, had visited in the dawn of Russian modern history.

was conditioned by internal as well as external developments of European societies—the increasing gap between the behavioral model of the elite and the masses and Europeans dealing with the non- European world.

Zum ägyptischen Lautwandel zwischen „a“ und Gutturalen

Stefan Bojowald Universität Bonn

Abstract

In this article, the exchange of “a“ and gutturals is investigated in detail. Research so far has dealt only with the exchange of “a” and “q”. The current contribution extends the treatment to the two other gutturals “k” and “g”. It will be shown that the same rule applies to all three gutturals.

Keywords: Old Egyptian language, phonetic changes/shifts in the Egyptian language, phonetic change/shift between “a“ and gutturals.

Der Lautwandel zwischen „a“ und Gutturalen stellt in der bisherigen ägyptologischen Forschung ein Randthema dar. Die einzige Behandlung scheint er bei Westendorf1 erhalten zu haben, durch den die wissenschaftliche Öffentlichkeit zum ersten Mal in größerem Ausmaß auf diesen Tatbestand aufmerksam geworden ist. In der Zeit

1 W. WESTENDORF, Grammatik der medizinischen Texte, Grundriss der Medizin der alten Ägypter VIII (Berlin, 1962), 19/20. 194 Stefan Bojowald davor hatte Sethe2 lediglich auf die Umstellung von „a“ und „q“ im Wort „Xaq“ „scheren“ verwiesen, das sich im Koptischen als „xwwke“ erhalten hat, aber noch nicht an den Lautwandel als Ursache dafür gedacht. In der Literatur ist offenbar sonst kein Hinweis auf dieses Phänomen zu finden. In der vor genau fünfzig Jahren erschienenen Arbeit hatte Westendorf nur den Wechsel zwischen „a“ und „q“ betrachtet, was zum Teil wohl an der begrenzten Textauswahl gelegen hatte. Die These hatte Westendorf auf drei sichere Beispiele stützen können. Im ersten Fall hatte er das Augenmerk auf die Schreibung „car“ in Sm 46 (15, 20) anstelle von „cqr“ „Schlag“ in Sm 46 (16, 13) gelenkt. Die Beweisführung hatte er durch die Heranziehung der Schreibung „arf“ „zusammenschliesen“ anstelle von „qrf“ fortgesetzt. Der Schlussstrich unter die Argumentation war mit dem Rekurs auf die Schreibung „qrf“ für „arf“ „Beutel“ gezogen worden. Die Erscheinung hatte Westendorf außerdem aus der „mna.t“3

2 K. SETHE, Das aegyptische Verbum im Altaegyptischen, Neuaegyptischen und Koptischen, Erster Band, Laut- und Stammeslehre (Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs’sche Buchhandlung, 1899), 90. 3 Zum Wort „mna.t“ „Amme“ vgl. C. PEUST, Egyptian Phonology, An Introduction to the Phonology of a dead Language (Göttingen: Peust & Gutschmidt Verlag, 1999), 236/238/255. Zur „mna.t“ – Amme im Allgemeinen und Ausländerinnen als „mna.t“ – Amme im Besonderen vgl. TH. SCHNEIDER, Ausländer in Ägypten während des Mittleren Reiches und der Hyksoszeit, Teil 2, Die ausländische Bevölkerung, Ägypten und Altes Testament 42 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2003), 285. Die „mna.t“ – Amme hat im Übrigen zwei Wortspiele gebildet, zu denen hier kurz Stellung genommen werden soll. Der erste Hinweis gilt dem Wortspiel zwischen „mna.t“ „Amme“ und „mni“ „hüten“, das bei H.-J. THISSEN, Der demotische Ammenvertrag aus Tebtynis (Tafel 32–34), in: H.-J. THISSEN/K.-TH. ZAUZICH (Hrsg.), Grammata Demotika, Festschrift für Erich Lüddeckens zum 15. Juni 1983 (Würzburg: Gisela Zauzich Verlag, 1984), 237 3, zu finden ist. Der gleiche Sprachgebrauch ist im Koptischen verwendet worden, wo in der sahidischen Version der Pachomviten bei L. TH. LEFORT, S. Pachomii vitae, Sahidice schriptae, Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum Orientalium 99/100 (Louvain: Imprimerie Orientaliste L. Durbecq, 1952), 181, 19, das Wort „moone“ „weiden“ ebenfalls für eine Amme gebraucht worden ist. Das zweite Wortspiel ist bei H. GOEDICKE/E. F. WENTE, Ostraka Michaelides (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1962), Taf. XV, zwischen „mna.t“ „Amme“ und „Imn“ „Amun“ entwickelt worden, indem es seine Kraft aus dem Lautwandel zwischen „a“ und „i“ bezogen hat; zu diesem Lautwandel vgl. K. SETHE, Das aegyptische Verbum im Altaegyptischen, Neuaegyptischen und Koptischen, Erster Band, Laut- und Stammeslehre (Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs’sche Buchhandlung, 1899), 88/90; C. PEUST, Egyptian Phonology, An Introduction to the Phonology of a dead Language (Göttingen: Peust & Gutschmidt Verlag, 1999), 103/104; W. Ägyptischer Lautwandel zwischen „a“ und Gutturalen 195

„Amme“ erschließen können, deren Gegenstück im Hebräischen gelautet hat. Der Lautwandel hat nach den Worten von “מנקת„ Westendorf darüber hinaus die Ursache für den Wegfall von „a“ nach „q“ in den Wörtern „nq.w“ (Eb 296) für „nqa.wt“ (Eb 102) „stechende Schmerzen (ebenso „nq.wt“ in Bln 94)“ und „nq.wt“ (Bln 35) für „nqa.wt“ (Eb 122) „geritzte Sykomorenfrüchte“ gebildet.4 Der hier vorgelegte Beitrag wird im Wesentlichen zwei Ziele verfolgen. Die Reihe soll auf der einen Seite um neue Beispiele für den Wechsel zwischen „a“ und „q“ erweitert werden. Die Untersuchung wird auf der anderen Seite auch die beiden anderen Gutturale „k“ und „g“ mit einbeziehen. Die beiden letzten Konsonanten sollen dabei ebenfalls auf die Möglichkeit eines Austausches mit „a“ überprüft werden. Die Informationen sollen dazu auf möglichst nachvollziehbare Art und Weise gebündelt werden. Der weitere Verlauf wird zeigen, dass das Lautgesetz für alle drei Gutturale gegolten hat. Die Austauschbarkeit5 der Gutturale unterein- ander wird hierbei ein Übriges getan haben. Das Alter der Belege geht aus den Angaben in den Klammern hervor. Die frühesten Beispiele datieren noch ins Mittlere Reich, während sich die Hauptmasse der Belege auf das Neue Reich verteilt. Der – summarische – Querverweis auf noch unveröffentlichte Arbeiten des Autors zu anderen Lautwandeln hat sich leider häufig nicht vermeiden lassen, weil die komplette Aufzählung jedes einzelnen Beispiels die Fußnoten hoffnungslos überfrachtet hätte. Der Leser wird dafür um Verständnis gebeten.

WESTENDORF, Grammatik der medizinischen Texte, Grundriss der Medizin der alten Ägypter VIII (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1962), 19. 4 W. WESTENDORF, Grammatik der medizinischen Texte, Grundriss der Medizin der alten Ägypter VIII (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1962), 18. Zum Ausfall von „a“ allgemein vgl. C. PEUST, Egyptian Phonology, An Introduction to the Phonology of a dead Language (Göttingen: Peust & Gutschmidt Verlag, 1999), 102; zur Schwäche des „a“ in anderen Sprachen vgl. R. C. STEINER, Early Northwest Semitic Serpent Spells in the Pyramid Texts, Harvard Semitic Studies 61 (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2011), 68 n. 45. 5 W. WESTENDORF, Grammatik der medizinischen Texte, Grundriss der Medizin der alten Ägypter VIII (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1962), 43. 196 Stefan Bojowald

Der Austausch zwischen „a“ und „q“

In Hinblick auf den Austausch zwischen „a“ und „q“ können der Liste noch drei neue Beispiele hinzugefügt werden. Das erste Beispiel ist das Wortspiel zwischen „aA“ „Leiter“ und „qr“ „qr – Schiffe“ in „aA qr“6 (NR) „Leiter der qr – Schiffe“, das durchaus mit dem Austausch zwischen „a“ und „q“ in Verbindung gebracht werden kann. Das Wortspiel ist außerdem auf Grundlage des Austausches zwischen „A“ und „r“7 zustande gekommen. Das zweite Beispiel besteht aus dem Wortspiel zwischen „qmA“ „schaffen“ und „aw.t“ „Vieh“ in „iri rmT qmA aw.t“ 8 (NR) „der (=Amun-Re) die Menschen machte und das Vieh erschuf“ sowie „ibA n=k aw.t qmA.n=k“9/„ibA n=k aw.t qmA.n=k“10 (NR) „das Vieh tanzt für dich (=Amun-Re), das du geschaffen hast“/„die Wildtiere, die du geschaffen hast, tanzen vor dir (=Amun-Re)“, das allerdings nur unter den nötigen Vorbehalten gegeben wird. Die lautlichen Ursachen für dieses Wortspiel könnten aber schnell benannt werden. Das Wortspiel hätte im Falle seines Bestehens nicht nur den Austausch zwischen „a“ und „q“, sondern auch den Austausch zwischen „m“ und „w“11 sowie „A“ und „w“12 beinhaltet.

6 J. OSING, Das Grab des Nefersecheru in Zawyet Sultan, Archäologische Veröffentlichungen 88 (Mainz: von Zabern, 1992), 57. Zum „qr“ – Schiff vgl. N. DÜRRING, Materialien zum Schiffbau im alten Ägypten, Abhandlungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts Kairo, Ägyptologische Reihe, Band 11 (Berlin: Achet Verlag, 1995), 141. 7 K. SETHE, Das aegyptische Verbum im Altaegyptischen, Neuaegyptischen und Koptischen, Erster Band, Laut- und Stammeslehre (Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs’sche Buchhandlung, 1899), 50; W. WESTENDORF, Grammatik der medizinischen Texte, Grundriss der Medizin der alten Ägypter VIII (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1962), 32. 8 M. M. LUISELLI, Der Amun-Re Hymnus des P. Boulaq 17 (P. Kairo CG 58038), Kleine Ägyptische Texte 14 (Wiesbaden: Harrossowitz, 2004), 2/25. 9 J. ASSMANN, Sonnenhymnen in thebanischen Gräbern, Theben 1 (Mainz: von Zabern, 1983), 27. 10 J. ASSMANN, Sonnenhymnen in thebanischen Gräbern, Theben 1 (Mainz: von Zabern, 1983), 363. 11 K. SETHE, Das aegyptische Verbum im Altaegyptischen, Neuaegyptischen und Koptischen, Erster Band, Laut- und Stammeslehre (Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs’sche Buchhandlung, 1899), 126/127; W. WESTENDORF, Grammatik der medizinischen Texte, Grundriss der Medizin der alten Ägypter VIII (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1962), 26. 12 W. WESTENDORF, Grammatik der medizinischen Texte, Grundriss der Medizin der alten Ägypter VIII (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1962), 11. Ägyptischer Lautwandel zwischen „a“ und Gutturalen 197

Die Schreibung „qH“13 für „qaH“ „Ecke, Winkel, Seite“ deutet möglicherweise ebenfalls auf den Austausch zwischen „a“ und „q“ hin. Die Assimilation von „a“ an „q“ kann zumindest als eine denkbare Option verstanden werden. Die Erklärung mit der Assimilation an „H“ aufgrund des Austausches zwischen „a“ und „H“ 14 ist allerdings ebenfalls nicht gänzlich von der Hand zu weisen.

Der Austausch zwischen „a“ und „k“

In den nächsten Zeilen wird es thematisch um den Austausch zwischen „a“ und „k“ gehen. Die hierfür in Frage kommenden

13 H.-W. FISCHER-ELFERT, Literarische Ostraka der Ramessidenzeit in Übersetzung, Kleine Ägyptische Texte 9 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1986), 9 a. 14 J. OSING, Der spätägyptische Papyrus BM 10808, Ägyptologische Abhandlungen 33 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1976), 236; J. OSING, Die Nominalbildung des Ägyptischen, Anmerkungen und Indices, Deutsches Archäologisches Institut Abteilung Kairo, Sonderschrift 3b (Mainz: von Zabern, 1976), 509; W. WESTENDORF, Pyramiden und Sonnenbahn, in: Festschrift Arne Eggebrecht zum 65. Geburtstag am 12. März 2000, Hildesheimer Ägyptologische Beiträge 48 (Hildesheim: Gerstenberg Verlag, 2002), 134; W. WESTENDORF, Grammatik der medizinischen Texte, Grundriss der Medizin der alten Ägypter VIII (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1962), 36; C. PEUST, Egyptian Phonology, An Introduction to the Phonology of a dead Language, Monographien zur ägyptischen Sprache Band 2 (Göttingen: Peust & Gutschmidt Verlag, 1999), 105/194. Zum Verhältnis zwischen „a“ und „H“ vgl. auch E. EDEL, Altägyptische Grammatik, Analecta Orientalia 34/39 (Rom: Pontificium Institutum Biblicum, 1955/1964), 54. Der Lautwandel könnte auch die Assimilation von „a“ an „H“ in den Wortspielen zwischen „baH“ „überfluten“ und „Hb“ „Fest“ bei M. SANDMAN, Texts from the time of Akhenaten, Bibliotheca Aegyptiaca 8 (Bruxelles, 1938), 91, sowie „baH“ „überfluten“ und „Hbb(.t)“ „frisches Wasser“ bei D. KURTH, Edfou VII, Die Inschriften des Tempels von Edfu, Abteilung I, Übersetzungen, Band 2 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2004), 213, in Gang gebracht haben. Zum Wort „baH“ „überfluten“ vgl. auch W. SCHENKEL, Die Bewässerungsrevolution im Alten Ägypten, Deutsches Archäologisches Institut Abteilung Kairo, Sonderschrift 6 (Mainz: von Zabern, 1978), 25f; G. TAKÁCS, Etymological Dictionary of Egyptian, Volume One: A phonological Introduction, Handbuch der Orientalistik, Erste Abteilung, Der Nahe und Mittlere Osten, Achtundvierzigster Band (Leiden/Boston/Köln: Brill, 1999), 330. Zum Wortspiel zwischen „baH“ „überfluten“ und „Hapi“ „Nil“ vgl. ST. BOJOWALD, A wordplay between the Egyptian words wbn “arise“ and nbw “gold“?, Acta Orientalia Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae 64 (3) (2011), 358f. 198 Stefan Bojowald

Beispiele werden mit der Schreibung „iknw“ 15 (NR) für „ianw“ „Kummer“ begonnen. Die Schreibung würde durch den Austausch zwischen „a“ und „k“ eine hinreichende Erklärung finden. Der Austausch zwischen „a“ und „k“ hat auch die lautliche Voraussetzung für das Wortspiel zwischen „aA“ „groß“ und „ikn“ „ikn16 – Krug“ in „ikn aA m bAk xArw“17 (NR) „großer ikn – Krug als Arbeit aus Syrien“ geboten. Das Wortspiel zwischen „aA“ und „ikn“ ist jedoch nicht allein auf den Austausch zwischen „a“ und „k“ zurückzuführen. In seinem Fall ist vielmehr das Zusammenspiel noch weiterer Faktoren zu beobachten, unter denen der Austausch zwischen „a“ und „i“ sowie „A“ und „n“18 zu nennen ist. Das Wortspiel zwischen „kA“ „Stier“ und „aAa“ befruchten“ in „kA.w Hr aAa iH.wt Hr qmA aAa=cn cTi=cn m qs.w“19 (Sptzt.) „Die Stiere begatten die Kühe, während sie den Samen erschaffen, den sie von Knochen ejakulieren“20 sollte ebenfalls in gebührender Weise zur Kenntnis genommen werden. Das Wortspiel könnte sogar noch weiter auf die „iH.t“ – Kuh ausgedehnt werden, wozu nur der Austausch zwischen „a“ und „i“ sowie „A“ und „H“ angenommen werden muss. Der Austausch zwischen „A“ und „H“ wird an anderer Stelle eine eigene Untersuchung erhalten.

15 I. MUNRO, Das Totenbuch des Pa-en-nesti-taui aus der Regierungszeit des Amenemope (pLondon BM 10064), Handschriften des Altägyptischen Totenbuches 7 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2001), 13. 16 Zum „ikn“ – Krug vgl. FR. CALICE, Grundlagen der ägyptisch-semitischen Wortvergleichung, Eine kritische Diskussion des bisherigen Vergleichsmaterials, Beihefte zur „Wiener Zeitschrift für die Kunde des Morgenlandes“, 1. Heft (Wien: Selbstverlag des Orientalischen Institutes der Universität Wien, 1936), 123; TH. O. LAMBDIN, Egyptian Words in Tell el Amarna Letter No. 14, Orientalia 22 (1953), 363; J. OSING, Die Nominalbildung des Ägyptischen, Anmerkungen und Indices, Deutsches Archäologisches Institut Abteilung Kairo, Sonderschrift 3B (Mainz: von Zabern, 1976), 733f; Z. COCHAVI-RAINEY, Egyptian Influence in the Amarna Texts, Ugarit – Forschungen 29 (1997), 95–96. 17 Urk. IV, 665, 16. 18 W. WESTENDORF, Grammatik der medizinischen Texte, Grundriss der Medizin der alten Ägypter VIII (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1962), 22. 19 D. KLOTZ, Adoration of the Ram, Five Hymns to Amun-Re from Hibis Temple, Yale Egyptological Studies 6 (New Haven, 2006), 149. 20 Andere Auffassung der Stelle bei C. KNIGGE, Das Lob der Schöpfung, Die Entwicklung ägyptischer Sonnen- und Schöpfungshymnen nach dem Neuen Reich, Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 219 (Fribourg: Academic Press/Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2006), 266. Ägyptischer Lautwandel zwischen „a“ und Gutturalen 199

Das Wortspiel zwischen „aA“ „groß“ und „kA“ „Stier“ in „ix wxA=k 4 kA.w nfr.w sp cn.nw aA.w sp cn.nw“21 (NR) „Seek out 4 bulls, very fine and very large“22 ist möglicherweise ebenfalls als Folge des Austausches zwischen „k“ und „a“ zustande gekommen. Die Neigung von „aA“23 „groß“ zu Wortspielen, für die in absehbarer Zeit weitere Beispiele vorgestellt werden sollen, ist bereits an den wenigen bisher genannten Beispielen zu sehen. Der Austausch zwischen „a“ und „k“ tritt auch im Wortspiel zwischen „awA“ 24 und „Akr“ 25 „Erdgott“ deutlich hervor, an dem außerdem der Austausch zwischen „r“ und „w“ beteiligt war. Der Austausch zwischen „w“ und „r“ ist zwar von Westendorf 26 als zweifelhaft bezeichnet worden. Wie jedoch an anderer Stelle gezeigt werden soll, scheint es gute Gründe für seine Existenz zu geben. Das Wortspiel zwischen „awA“ und „Akr“ ist außerdem auf Basis einer Metathese entstanden.

21 A. H. GARDINER, Late-Egyptian Miscellanies, Bibliotheca Aegyptiaca VII (Bruxelles, 1937), 80. 22 R. A. CAMINOS, Late-Egyptian Miscellanies, Brown Egyptological Studies I (Oxford: University Press, 1954), 305. 23 Das Wortspiel zwischen „aA“ „groß“ und „inb“ „Mauer“ in „inb aA“ „große Mauer (von Theben)“ bei L. GOLDBRUNNER, Buchis, Eine Untersuchung zur Theologie des heiligen Stieres in Theben zur griechisch-römischen Zeit, Monographiès Reine Élisabeth 11 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2004), 56, stellt sich dabei als mögliche Kombination aus den Lautwandeln zwischen „a“ und „i“, „n“ und „a“, „n“ und „A“ sowie „A“ und „b“ heraus. Die lautlichen Berührungspunkte zwischen „A“ und „b“ sollen in anderem Zusammenhang herausgestellt werden. Zum Wort „inb“ „Mauer“ und seinem arabischen Etymon vgl. FR. CALICE, Zur ägyptisch-semitischen Wurzelverwandtschaft, Zeitschrift für ägyptische Sprache und Altertumskunde 39 (1901), 146. 24 B. LÜSCHER, Totenbuch Spruch 149/150, Totenbuchtexte, Synoptische Textausgabe nach Quellen des Neuen Reiches, Band 6 (Basel: Orientverlag, 2010), 70. 25 Zum Wort „Akr” „Erdgott“ vgl. J. FR. QUACK, Zur Stellung des Ägyptischen innerhalb der afroasiatischen Sprache, Orientalistische Literaturzeitung 97 (2002) 2, 168. 26 W. WESTENDORF, Grammatik der medizinischen Texte, Grundriss der Medizin der alten Ägypter VIII (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1962), 22. 200 Stefan Bojowald

Der Austausch zwischen „a“ und „g“

Die nächsten Beispiele werden den Austausch zwischen „a“ und „g“ betreffen. Das Wortspiel zwischen „iab“ „vereinen“ und „Gb“ „Geb“ in der Verbindung „iab n=k qc.w=q xr Gb“27 (NR) „Vereinige deine Knochen bei Geb“ wird hier an den Anfang gestellt, bei dem die Er- klärung mit dem Austausch zwischen „a“ und „g“ zumindest vorsichtig in Erwägung gezogen werden kann. Die Möglichkeit ist allerdings nicht ausgeschlossen, dass in diesem Fall auch der Austausch zwischen „g“ und „i“ eine gewisse Rolle gespielt hat. Die Beispiele für den Austausch zwischen „i“ und Gutturalen sollen in einer eigenen Untersuchung behandelt werden. In der Zwischenzeit mag der Hinweis auf die Bemerkungen bei Klotz28 genügen. Das Wortspiel zwischen „gmi“ „finden“ und „aAm“ „Bauer“ in „bn-p=i gmi aAm …“29 (Sptzt.) „Ich habe keinen Bauern gefunden…“ wird hier an zweiter Stelle genannt, für das der Austausch zwischen „a“ und „g“ eine durchaus schlüssige Erklärung sein könnte. Die gleiche Deutung trifft auf das Wortspiel zwischen „gmi“ „finden“ und „aA.t“30 „Stein“ in „gmi aA.t“31 (MR) „aA.t – Steine finden“ zu, das sowohl mit dem Austausch zwischen „g“ und „a“ als auch dem Austausch zwischen „A“ und „m“32 begründet werden kann. Das Wortspiel zwischen „gmi“ „finden“ und „aA“33 „Esel“ in „gmi aA“ 34 (Sptzt.) „Esel finden“ ist auf Grundlage der gleichen

27 M. SANDMAN, Texts from the time of Akhenaten, Bibliotheca Aegyptiaca VIII (Bruxelles, 1938), 140. 28 D. KLOTZ, Adoration of the Ram, Five Hymns to Amun-Re from Hibis Temple, Yale Egyptological Studies 6 (New Haven, 2006), 121 n. 359. 29 W. SPIEGELBERG, Demotica I, Sitzungsberichte der Bayerischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, Philosophisch-philologische und historische Klasse, Jahrgang 1925, 6. Abhandlung (München: Verlag der Bayerischen Akademie der Wissenschaften in Kommission des G. Franz’schen Verlags (J. Roth), 1925), 21. 30 Zum Wort „aA.t“ „Stein“ vgl. J. R. HARRIS, Lexicographical Studies in ancient Egyptian Minerals, Deutsche Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Berlin, Institut für Orientforschung, Veröffentlichungen Nr. 54 (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1961), 21f. 31 MM. J. COUYAT/P. MONTET, Les inscriptions Hiéroglyphiques et Hiératiques du Ouadi Hammamat, Mémoires publiés par les members de l´Institut Francais d´ Archéologie Orientale du Caire, Tome Trente – Quatrième (Le Caire, 1912), 102. 32 W. WESTENDORF, Grammatik der medizinischen Texte, Grundriss der Medizin der alten Ägypter VIII (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1962), 11. 33 Zum Wort „aA“ „Esel“ vgl. W. VYCICHL, Grundlagen der ägyptisch-semitischen Wortvergleichung, Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts Abteilung Ägyptischer Lautwandel zwischen „a“ und Gutturalen 201

Modalitäten gebildet, so dass die Erklärung aus dem letzten Fall unverändert übernommen werden kann. Der Austausch zwischen „a“ und „g“ zeigt sich außerdem im Wortspiel zwischen dem Wort (?) mit Determinativ des „Speichelnden Mundes“ und „pcg“ „bespeien“ in „pa.t Hr pcg“35 (NR),

Kairo 16 (1958), 380; FR. CALICE, Grundlagen der ägyptisch-semitischen Wortvergleichung, Eine kritische Diskussion des bisherigen Vergleichsmaterials, Beihefte zur „Wiener Zeitschrift für die Kunde des Morgenlandes“, 1. Heft (Wien: Selbstverlag des Orientalischen Institutes der Universität Wien, 1936), 25; P. M. LACAU, Études d´Égyptologie, I. Phonétique Égyptienne Ancienne, Bibliothèque d´ Étude 41 (Le Caire, 1970), 13; E. EDEL, Beiträge zum ägyptischen Lexikon II., Zeitschrift für Ägyptische Sprache und Altertumskunde 81 (1956), 9–11; G. TAKÁCS, Etymological Dictionary of Egyptian, Volume One: A Phonological Introduction, Handbuch der Orientalistik, Erste Abteilung, Der Nahe und Mittlere Osten, Achtundvierzigster Band (Leiden/Boston/Köln: Brill, 1999), 54; R. C. STEINER, Early Northwest Semitic Serpent Spells in the Pyramid Texts, Harvard Semitic Studies 61 (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2011), 65. Zur Rolle des Esels in der Handwerkersiedlung von Deir el-Medina vgl. J. J. JANSSEN, Donkeys at Deir el- Medina, Egyptologische Uitgaven XIX (Leiden, 2005), VII–XI, 2–127. Beachte das Wortspiel zwischen „aA“ „Esel“ und „nHm“ „nehmen“ bei K. SETHE, Ägyptische Lesestücke zum Gebrauch im akademischen Unterricht, Texte des Mittleren Reiches, Dritte unveränderte Auflage (Hildesheim: Georg Ohms Verlagsbuchhandlung Hildesheim, 1959), 19; H. GOEDICKE/E. F. WENTE, Ostraka Michaelides (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1962), Nr. 2, das neben dem Lautwandel zwischen „a“ und „n“ auch die Lautwandel zwischen „a“ und „H“ sowie „A“ und „m“ einschließt. Zum Lautwandel zwischen „a“ und „n“ vgl. W. WESTENDORF, Bemerkungen und Korrekturen zum Lexikon der Ägyptologie (Göttingen: Hubert & Co, 1989), 109, außerdem die Schreibung „Sa.t“ für „Sna.t“ „Wert“ bei R. B. PARKINSON, The discourse of the fowler: Papyrus Butler Verso (P. BM EA 10274), The Journal of Egyptian Archaeology 90 (2004), 108/110, sowie das Wortspiel zwischen „aAa“ „ejakulieren“ und „nwn“ „Nun“ bei D. KLOTZ, Adoration of the Ram, Five Hymns to Amun-Re from Hibis Temple, Yale Egyptological Studies 6 (New Haven, 2006), 21. 34 W. ERICHSEN, Eine ägyptische Schulübung in demotischer Schrift, Det Kgl. Danske Videnskabernes Selskab, Historisk-Filologiske Meddelelser, Bind XXXI, Nr. 4 (Kobenhavn, I Kommission hos Ejnar Munksgaard, 1948), 9; FR. HOFFMANN, Der literarische demotische Papyrus Wien D 6920–22, Studien zur altägyptischen Kultur 23 (1996), 177. 35 A. GASSE, Catalogue des ostraca Hiératiques littéraires de Deir el-Médina, Nos 1676–1774, Tome IV, Fasc. 1, Documents de Fouilles, T. XXV (Le Caire, 1990), 1684 (x + 5). Zum Wort „pcg“ „speien“ vgl. FR. BEHNK, Lexikalische Beiträge zur ägyptisch-semitischen Sprachvergleichung, Zeitschrift für ägyptische Sprache und Altertumskunde 62 (1967/Neudruck der Ausgabe 1927), 81. 202 Stefan Bojowald der hier mit dem Austausch zwischen „a“ und „c“36 vermengt worden ist. In diesem Zusammenhang kann als Parallele auf die Schreibung „pag“37 für „pcg“ „speien“ verwiesen werden. Die Metathese „nga“38 (NR) für das ältere „nag“ „zerkleinern“ könnte ein weiteres Indiz für den Austausch zwischen „a“ und „g“ bilden. Die Schreibungen / 39 (NR) als Tätigkeitsverb der „cmn“ – Gans können unter Umständen als weitere Beispiele für den Austausch zwischen „a“ und „g“ interpretiert werden. Die Synopse bei Lapp macht deutlich, dass die Wörter in der einen Textversion für die Wörter „ng/ngg“ „schnattern“ in den anderen Textversionen eingesprungen sind. Das in die Schreibung hineingeschmuggelte „a“ könnte durchaus mit dem Austausch zwischen „a“ und „g“ begründet werden. Die Erklärung mit dem Austausch zwischen „a“ und „g“ stellt allerdings nicht die einzig mögliche Alternative dar. In gleicher Weise könnte der oben ge- nannte Austausch zwischen „a“ und „n“ für die hiesigen Zwecke instrumentalisiert werden. Die Formen müssten unabhängig von der endgültigen Entscheidung als unetymologische Schreibungen bezeichnet werden. Das zusätzliche „A“ könnte mit der von Westendorf 40 besprochenen Einfügung eines bedeutungslosen „A“ erklärt werden. Das gleiche Prinzip ist bei den Schreibungen „ngAgA“41 für den sonst „ngg“ 42 lautenden Vogelnamen sowie „ngAgA“ 43 für

36 W. WESTENDORF, Bemerkungen und Korrekturen zum Lexikon der Ägyptologie (Göttingen: Hubert & Co, 1989), 19. 37 WB I, 504, 15. 38 WB II, 349, 13; N. TACKE, Verspunkte als Gliederungsmittel in ramessischen Schülerhandschriften, Studien zur Archäologie und Geschichte Altägyptens, Band 22 (Heidelberg: Heidelberger Orientverlag, 2001), 114. 39 G. LAPP, Totenbuch Spruch 17, Totenbuchtexte, Synoptische Textausgabe nach Quellen des Neuen Reiches, Band 1 (Basel: Orientverlag, 2006), 244. 40 W. WESTENDORF, Grammatik der medizinischen Texte, Grundriss der Medizin der alten Ägypter VIII (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1962), 9. Die Hinzufügung von „A“ bei K. SETHE, Das aegyptische Verbum im Altaegyptischen, Neuaegyptischen und Koptischen, Erster Band, Laut- und Stammeslehre (Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs’sche Buchhandlung, 1899), 44, ist hingegen als phonetisches Komplement zu verstehen. 41 CHR. LEITZ, Magical and Medical Papyri of the New Kingdom, Hieratic Papyri in the British Museum VII (London: British Museum Press, 1999), 41 n. 80. Beachte die Schreibung „ngAgA“ für „nxAxA“ „strotzen“ bei E. EDEL, Altägyptische Grammatik, Analecta Orientalia 34/39 (Rom: Pontificium Institutum Biblicum, 1955/1964), 53. 42 Beachte die Nebenform „gg“ zum „ngg“ – Vogel bei WB II, 350. Ägyptischer Lautwandel zwischen „a“ und Gutturalen 203

„ngg“ „schnattern“ festzustellen. Die Erklärung des Wortes „ngAgA“ als Nebenform für „ngngn“ „schnattern“ bei Grapow44 trifft den Kern der Sache nur halb, da „ngngn“ seinerseits eine Nebenform für „ngg“ sein dürfte. Die Form „ngngn“ ist dem Wörterbuch45 zwar nicht für „ngg“ „schnattern“, aber dafür beim „ngg“ – Vogel bekannt. Der Austausch zwischen „a“ und „g“ spiegelt sich vielleicht auch im Verhältnis der Wörter „HAaa“ 46 „Verbum (von der Schifffahrt)“ und „HAg“47 „Verbum von der Schifffahrt“ (MR) wider. Die Nähe der beiden Wörter ist bereits von Vogelsang48 erkannt worden, dem „HAaa“ höchst verdächtig vorgekommen war. Das Problem hat Westendorf49 dadurch zu beheben versucht, dass er dem Wort „HAg“ eine Variante „HAa“ mit nur einem „Liegenden Arm“ gegenübergestellt hat. Die These beruht auf der Annahme, dass der ursprüngliche zweite „Liegende Arm“ von „HAaa“ in das Determinativ des „Schlagenden Armes“ zu emendieren ist. Der Austausch zwischen „a“ und „g“ war zwar Westendorf nach eigenen Angaben noch nicht begegnet. Die Schreibungen hat er aber vor dem Hintergrund der Tatsache erklären wollen, dass semitisches „a“ im Ägyptischen stellenweise in palatalisiertes „g“ oder aber „x“ übergegangen ist. Im letzten Fall wäre zusätzlich der ägyptische Wechsel zwischen „x“ und „g“ zu berücksichtigen. Der Austausch zwischen „a“ und „g“ hat aber durch die hier präsentierten Beispiele einen etwas größeren Grad an Wahrscheinlichkeit gewonnen. Der Umweg über das Semitische würde auf diese Weise unnötig. Die Erwähnung der Schreibungen „nag/nagg“ für „ng/ngg“ lädt abschließend zu einem Exkurs ein, in dem gezeigt werden soll, dass ein scheinbar überflüssiges „a“ auch in die Schreibung anderer Wörter

43 WB II, 350, Belegschreibungen. 44 H. GRAPOW, Beiträge zur Erklärung des Totenbuches, Zeitschrift für ägyptische Sprache und Altertumskunde 49 (1967/Neudruck der Ausgabe 1911), 45. 45 WB II, 350, Belegschreibungen. 46 WB IV, 30, 4. 47 WB IV, 35, 1. 48 FR. VOGELSANG, Kommentar zu den Klagen des Bauern, Untersuchungen zur Geschichte und Altertumskunde Aegyptens VI (Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs’sche Buchhandlung, 1913), 69. 49 W. WESTENDORF, Das strandende Schiff, Zur Lesung und Übersetzung von Bauer B 1, 58 = R 101, in: Jan Assmann/Erika Feucht/Reinhard Grieshammer (Hrsg.), Fragen an die altägyptische Literatur, Studien zum Gedenken an Eberhard Otto (Wiesbaden: Dr. Ludwig Reichert Verlag, 1977), 507. 204 Stefan Bojowald hineintransportiert worden ist. Das Phänomen ist im Prinzip nicht neu, da der Zusatz eines offenbar bedeutungslosen „a“ für das römische Demotisch bereits von Peust50 besprochen worden ist. Im Anschluss soll zunächst ein Beispiel nachgetragen werden, das Peust zu seiner Zeit noch nicht kennen konnte. Das neue Beispiel ist in der Schreibung „rmai“51 für „rm“52 „Fisch“ zu finden, die entweder mit dem Austausch zwischen „a“ und „i“ oder „a“ und „m“ 53 erklärt werden kann. Das Alter der nach bisheriger Meinung ganz späten Erscheinung muss aber nach dem oben zitierten Beispiel aus dem Neuen Reich wesentlich höher angesetzt werden. Der Eindruck wird sich durch die folgenden Beispiele noch verstärken. Die Schreibung 54 (NR) für „iwH“ „bewässern“ soll darunter als erstes genannt werden, die von dieser Gesetzmäßigkeit gleich doppelt betroffen war. Was zunächst das „a“ unterhalb des liegenden Antilopenkälbchens angeht, so könnte es durch den Lautwandel zwischen „a“ und „H“ oder „a“ und „w“ in die Schreibung gelangt sein. Die Hauptursache für das „a“ über den „Liegenden Wasserlinien“ hingegen ist laut Fischer-

50 C. PEUST, Egyptian Phonology, An Introduction to the Phonology of a dead Language, Monographien zur ägyptischen Sprache Band 2 (Göttingen: Peust & Gutschmidt Verlag,1999), 102. 51 B. MUHS/J. DIELEMAN, A bilingual account from late Ptolemaic Tebtunis, Zeitschrift für ägyptische Sprache und Altertumskunde 133 (2006), 60 n. i. 52 Beachte die Schreibung „rmT“ für „rm“ „Fisch“ bei J. ASSMANN, Sonnenhymnen in thebanischen Gräbern, Theben 1 (Mainz: von Zabern, 1983), 282. Die Bedeutung „Fisch“ von „rm“ konnte auch zu „Wassertier“ verallgemeinert werden, vgl. H. BRUNNER, Eine Dankstele an Upuaut, Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Institutes Abteilung Kairo 16, Festschrift zum 80. Geburtstag von Professor Dr. Hermann Junker, II. Teil (1958) 7; E. HORNUNG, Das Amduat, Die Schrift des verborgenen Raumes, Herausgegeben nach Texten aus den Gräbern des Neuen Reiches, Teil II: Übersetzung und Kommentar, Ägyptologische Abhandlungen 7, 2 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1963), 38. Das Wort „rm“ „Fisch“ war vielleicht auch für das Fischdeterminativ nach dem Wort „ram“ bei A. H. GARDINER, Ancient Egyptian Onomastica, Text, Volume II (Oxford: University Press, 1947), 253*, zuständig, dessen Bedeutung allerdings unklar ist. Das gleiche Wort könnte aber bei I. E. S. EDWARDS, Hieratic Papyri in the British Museum, Fourth Series, Oracular Amuletic Decrees of the Late New Kingdom, Vol. I, Text (London, 1960), 70 n. 26, vorliegen. Die einzige Sicherheit hat offenbar darin bestanden, dass es sich bei „ram“ um ein inneres Organ handeln könnte. 53 W. WESTENDORF, Grammatik der medizinischen Texte, Grundriss der Medizin der alten Ägypter VIII (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1962), 26. 54 H.-W. FISCHER-ELFERT, Literarische Ostraka der Ramessidenzeit in Übersetzung, Kleine Ägyptische Texte 9 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1986), 40. Ägyptischer Lautwandel zwischen „a“ und Gutturalen 205

Elfert in der Kontamination durch „iai“ „waschen“ zu sehen. Im Fall der Richtigkeit dieses Ansatzes würde die Verschreibung zwischen „i“ und „H“55 besonderes Gewicht erhalten. Das Wörterbuch56 dagegen hat hier fragend eine seit der 19. Dynastie belegte Nebenform „iwHa“ zu „iwH“ angenommen. Die Schreibung (NR) für die „mH.t“ – Feder ist als nächstes Beispiel zu erwähnen, bei der das zusätzliche „a“ mit der Kontamination durch „mHai“ „Flachs“ zu erklären sein dürfte57. Die Schreibung „faA.t“58 (Sptzt.) setzt den Schlusspunkt unter dieses Kapitel, die ebenfalls zu diesem Komplex gehören könnte. In ihrem Fall hat es sich offenbar um eine Schreibung für „fAii.t“59 „Kanal“ gehandelt.

55 Zu dieser Verschreibung vgl. E. EDEL, Altägyptische Grammatik, Analecta Orientalia 34/39 (Rom: Pontificium Institutum Biblicum, 1955/1964), 263. 56 WB I, 57, Vorbemerkung zu „iwH“. 57 M. RÖMER, Der Kairener Hymnus an Amun-Re, Zur Gliederung von pBoulaq 17, in: Jürgen Osing/Günter Dreyer (Hrsg.), Form und Maß, Beiträge zur Literatur, Sprache und Kunst des alten Ägypten, Festschrift für Gerhard Fecht zum 65. Geburtstag am 6. Februar 1987, Ägypten und Altes Testament 12 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1987), 423. 58 J. FR. QUACK, Rezension zu: Takács, Gábor: Etymological Dictionary of Egyptian. Vol. 2: b-, p-, f-. Leiden, Boston, Köln: Brill 2001. Handbuch der Orientalistik, Abt. 1: Der Nahe und Mittlere Osten, 48, Orientalistische Literaturzeitung 99 (2004) 1, 41. 59 Zum Wort „fAii.t“ „Kanal“ vgl. auch J. OSING, Die Partizipien im Ägyptischen und in den semitischen Sprachen, in: Jürgen Osing/Günter Dreyer (Hrsg.), Form und Maß, Beiträge zur Literatur, Sprache und Kunst des alten Ägypten, Festschrift für Gerhard Fecht zum 65. Geburtstag am 6. Februar 1987, Ägypten und Altes Testament 12 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1987), 341. Zum Wort „faA“ „Kanal“ vgl. auch J. OSING, Die Nominalbildung des Ägyptischen, Anmerkungen und Indices, Deutsches Archäologisches Institut Abteilung Kairo, Sonderschrift 3B (Mainz: von Zabern, 1976), 599.

BOOK REVIEWS

Bassiouney, Reem (ed.). Arabic and the Media: Linguistic Analyses and Applications, Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2010.

The present work aims at answering several different questions. At the top, we find if media, here mostly printed written media and audiovisual media related to information, influence the development of Arabic? A related subject is if media give rise to new “hybrid language forms”? And, finally, if media, or rather the language of media, conversely, is in fact influenced by Arabic? In order to address these questions as well as “to further our understanding of the mechanism at work in the development of modern Arabic…”, the present work pinpoints a number of crucial issues: one is if the language of newspapers differ from other media? Another, if the language of media is exclusive to MSA? A further issue to be focused on is if media affect language on a more general level? Finally, the present work focuses on how Arabic in media reflects the social and linguistic realities of Arab speaking audiences, and, how our knowledge of the linguistic realities of media in the Arab world contribute to teaching this language variant to foreigners. In short, the contributors aim at covering every aspect of media Arabic. Without in any way disregarding the great qualities the present work indeed has, as well as the many, in their own right, interesting contributions, it is still burdened by the obstacle to keep the many diverging directions together within the frames of the book. Indeed, most contributions are about media Arabic. Focus is, however, quite different from one author to the other, and, arguably, the common thread is not the most obvious to see. This is, of course, a recurring 208 Book Reviews problem with collections of this kind. If we, on the other hand, consider each section of the work separately subject harmony is a more dominant feature. The first section deals with language choice in newspapers. Starting with Jean Aitchison, and she is contradicting the last statement in that she does not deal with Arabic at all, even if she nevertheless presents a kind of introduction to a larger, universal, subject of media language. Her focus is on global similarities of newspaper language in style as well as to objectives that are irrespectively of language. Interesting as her analysis is, this book is no place for it, and, reflects perhaps a general trend in Arab studies to include studies of abstract theories and frames, rather than, indeed frequently without, measurable content, certainly without any Arabic. What remains from the first section is, on the other hand, very appropriate. Both Zeinab Ibrahim and Dilworth Parkison deal with related areas of Arabic media language. While using a small corpus Ibrahim nevertheless is able to present some interesting indications. Among these is that Egyptian colloquial is in varying degree, among opposition newspapers, appearing in the place of some variant of MSA. Even as the advancement of Egyptian colloquial as a language variant in media language has been observable for some time, the present article is interesting as it underpins arguments for code- switching in media with small, but informative statistics. Parkinson, with the last contribution in this section, that previously, among other things, has taken an interest in if media language is primarily to be considered of word order VSO or SVO, now writes on local variations of MSA in media. The fact of these variations, formerly established also by Van Mol in a corpus of radio broadcasts in different Arab states, is almost revolutionary, as it presents an embryo to a possible future appearance of distinctly separated (MSA) Arab languages. The scope of this article is limited to the use of lexical items only in Egyptian MSA, or, only in Lebanese MSA, respectively, such as grammatically correct variations in the writing of hamza, variations in the choice of the particle for future and smaller, almost insignificant distinctions of that kind, but the conclusion, so far, is abundantly clear: There is not one MSA in Arabic news, rather, we have a number of coexisting MSAs, where Lebanese media MSA will have features not found in Egyptian MSA and vice versa. Book Reviews 209

Part second of the work deals with language variation in Media Arabic, as in the two last articles, however, while the contributions of Ibrahim and Parkison deal with written media Arabic, this section, beginning with Marc Van Mol, is dedicated to studies on spoken media Arabic. In an attempt at bridging the last to this, Van Mol attempts in his article at defining what constitutes ‘Media Arabic’, surely no easy task to embark on, especially so since the term ‘Media’ in itself could arguably include just about everything. However, Van Mol, chooses to limit the definition with regard to the instruments where this language is expressed. The definition is not entirely satisfactory as an article on literature in a newspaper might have quite a literary language, and, a language quite distinguishable from the language in the news report. Be that as it may. Interestingly, Van Mol decides that such a definition is possible to agree upon, and, that the “typical substratum of written media is easier to define” than is its oral counterpart. Indeed, the basic problem with this article, disregarding how fascinating and interesting Van Mol’s work is despite that, lies in its main task, the definition. Oral media language, even when limited to certain fields of professions in media production is, as Van Mol emphasises, nevertheless, quite heterogeneous. Even if Van Mol in his attempt at defining oral media to media with information going top down (a journalist to the viewer) and responses to these, the difficulties seem to remain in e.g. satellite television as we are dealing not only with workers producing this language to the public and viewers, persons interviewed responding to that. Indeed, oral language encompasses the language of the sports journalist and the football player, the news anchor as well as the host in the program discussing modern trends in Arab literature, the host in children programs or the Mufti discussing what is sharī‘ah, and what is not. Seems to me an impossible task to define as one version of language, and, while Van Mol acknowledges the weakness of a possible definition, he insists on the possibility of one. That kind of political science argumentation is, in my view, contradicting to the normal transparency and clarity of his otherwise fascinating work. Perhaps the most rewarding aspect from the analysis of Van Mol is his critique of different systems of classifications in the study of media language, and, his open suggestion, without conclusion, towards a new approach when deciding on classification. 210 Book Reviews

Carol Myers-Scotton continuous her work on her influential theory of the Matrix Language Frame model, a model that first appeared in a context of code-switching between English and Swahili. Here she discusses some steps towards a developed theory fitting to Arab media language where we, instead of two distinctly separate languages as Swahili and English (or Hebrew-Arabic as in my own borrowing of her model), have two language variations within one language. What, asks she, is the grammatical structure regulating switches between MSA and local colloquial variants? A novelty here, in comparison to her previous model, is that both variants may contribute to the forming of the morpho-syntactic structure framing the clause. Somewhat irrelevant to the stimulating issue at hand (that of switching between two Arabic variants – possibly also in writing), albeit interesting for someone who is not that familiar with her model, she concentrates her presentation on code-switching with examples where one part is Arabic and the other some other language, as English. I will not comment further on this article except for the following note: Myers-Scotton does suggest a possible increase of code-switching between colloquial variants and MSA in the electronic media, to be followed by printed media. Well, as pointed out by Ibrahim in his article, this prediction is already happening. Certainly, apart from his observations, non-MSA elements in Arab blogs seem to be considerable. Interesting also, is that the term code-switching used originally for oral language, by Myers-Scotton is used with reference also to written language. Reem Bassiouney examines gender differences related to code- switching in five different Egyptian talk-shows. She distinguishes between an Egyptian colloquial Arabic (ECA) and the MSA where the former is represented by a prestige version of colloquial, mostly Cairene. The article gives quite a thorough presentation of both identity and gender issues connected to Arabic. Further, the results are illuminating even if the categorization leaves a few question marks unanswered, such as, what is the difference between a category “MSA” and another “Basically MSA”? Or, for that matter, why not mention also “MSA with insertions of ECA”. Suffice to say, that this kind of classification does not meet the Classical (Aristotle’s) stipulations. What, precisely, defines belonging and not belonging to a category, and, what to another? This obstacle is further aggravated by the fact, as Bassiouney also mentions, that MSA and ESA often use Book Reviews 211 the same terminology. The informed reader will anyway get a lot of interesting information when reading this article, with several informative examples, but it is most unfortunate with the chosen categorisation, as it really does not help our understanding of the subject. Madiha Doss connects in her article a bit to a previous subject, on news in colloquial. Here, of course, we focus on oral language as it is presented by the private channel OTV, in its programme of ‘State of the World’. She begins with a very informative presentation of previous studies on the field of oral news in colloquial Arabic, followed by an analysis of Egyptian TV resources and then an introduction to the language used in the program. Consequently, the article deals with the language, including its morpho-syntax, phonetics and lexica. Of special interest, I find, the analysis of how borrowed words are pronounced, as well as the choice of what MSA vocabulary that are to be included in the transmission, and what, by contrast, that are not. This problem is interesting, since the colloquial simply is insufficient to cover every part of the MSA lexica. The heterogeneity of media language is further emphasised by the following article devoted to the rhetoric (as well as to the non linguistic issue of his mediated charisma) of Nasrallah, spiritual leader of the Hizbollah. While Dina Matar writes a very interesting article on this personality and his ideology, and, even as, she makes interesting suggestion to the socio-political function, “the political frame”, of terminology like jihad within a Lebanese, or even a larger pan-Arab, media culture, I still feel that this article does not belong with most of the others. Still, and again, in its own right the article is both informative and well written. Also of weak connection to the main trend in the book is the following article by Munira al-Azraqi. It deals with, what is referred to as, Gulf Asian Pidgin (GAP). This is then a language spoken by Asian immigrants with a “mostly Gulf Arabic (GA) lexicon”. Al- Azraqi examines a data collected from TV-series, yet another possible subject of Media Arabic. The linguistic analysis is quite interesting, not least the parts on predication structures and on the particle/preposition fī. Still, what differs, only, between the recording of informants in research on dialectology and the material of this article is that this comes from a TV-serie. 212 Book Reviews

Nadav Samin’s article on Internet bulletins in Saudi Arabia focus both on the function and the content of these bulletins. They are a means for the Saudi authorities to absorb new information technologies under controlled forms. The article is illuminating both regarding basic information about Internet in the Saudi Kingdom as well as on how sensitive issues are being contained and, to some extent, guided to, for e.g. the clergy, acceptable directions. Soha Abboud-Haggar continues the book with her article on Arabic novels. Although, this is, arguably, also media, the present collection is no place for it. That having been said, Abboud-Haggar still makes some intriguing suggestions in the article. One of these is the need for modern writers to level colloquial differences in order to reach a wider audience. The examples on colloquial mixed with MSA feel, on the other hand, a bit like slamming in open doors, even if this practice is until today not entirely acceptable. I have been tutoring Media Arabic, defined as political Arabic of news and news analysis, as a special variant of Arabic in periods since 1998. Part of the task has of course been trying different books suitable for students. For that reason, the following section lies close to my heart. I agree, firstly, with Karin Christina Ryding in her article on Media Arabic, that is the following article, on, that the functional importance of Media Arabic is through process. The same goes when it comes to teaching it. We are not dealing with any kind of completed, static, end result. As a tutor of this form of language, I welcome the brief and concise presentation she makes of the most well known material we have today on the market, from Monteil (1960) to Elgibali (2007). A somewhat wider description of each of these, as well as advantages and disadvantages related to teaching them would have been even more appreciated. With clear reference to the previous, Raghda el-Essawy writes on another highly important issue in tutoring Media Arabic, that is the difficulties for student in learning vocabulary. Much of the content in the article is, nevertheless, I must say, of the more obvious kind. On the other hand, such a theoretical approach to pedagogy should not be entirely underestimated, as a suggestion of this kind actually may lead to a practical process of trial and error and, consequently, to real improvement of the tutoring. Every teacher has to find his or her own way and suggestions are always appreciated. Book Reviews 213

Mahmoud Abdallah returns in the following article to previous issues in relating the language of mass media to the real language situation in the Arab societies. He presents examples from newspaper texts and relates them to local situations. Abdallah, furthermore, makes some important pieces of advice for students of Arabic, and teachers, on how to use Media Arabic in a situation of tutoring and learning, stressing its importance also in a wider acquiring of Arabic. To sum up, I find the various contributions to be very interesting, everyone in it’s own right. But, as stated previously, they are too divergent to fit all in one volume, and, the present, and still very much worthwhile reading, work, would have benefited from a division into several volumes where each would enter deeper into one specified area.

Torkel Lindquist University of Uppsala

Vibeke Børdahl and Margaret B. Wan (eds.). The Interplay of the Oral and the Written in Chinese Popular Literature. Nordic Institute of Asian Studies, 2010.

The complex relationship between China’s written literature and its oral storytelling traditions is a fascinating field of research and the contributors to this volume all deal with interesting aspects of it. There are numerous problems confronting the modern scholar delving into this field. The spoken word is of course ephemeral and fleeting— vanishing the instant it is spoken. In modern times, recording equipment has been brought to bear upon this issue and while this certainly helps and provides crucial information, the very presence of the modern scholar with cameras and recorders might alter the nature of the performance delivered. In addition, performance traditions change between different regions as well as over time, reducing our ability to generalize. The written side is hardly fixed either, presenting us with multiple editions of key texts, frequently of murky or unknown provenance. Finally there is the problem of texts and oral performances mutually influencing each other in a criss-crossing relationship that is difficult to unravel and makes it hard to see which preceded the other. Oral performances have clearly influenced writing 214 Book Reviews practices, but the conventions of the written texts in turn seem to have influenced oral versions so no simple direction of influence can be determined. While we now have several good studies of late dynastic literature and a gradually increasing amount of scholarship on modern storytelling, the difficult relationship between the oral and the written is all too rarely explored as the main focus. It is perhaps partly because it is so difficult to say anything with absolute certainty in this field, that so few scholars have studied it. The contributors to the volume at hand are aware of the pitfalls in studying this topic and are to be commended for not leaping to facile conclusions. Unfortunately the conclusions that can be drawn are often somewhat speculative and that is perhaps not always as gratifying as one might wish. The introduction by the editors partly serves as an overview of the field and that is useful. The subsequent articles cover a fairly wide range of material including fiction, popular prints, folk ballads, and contemporary storytelling from the Ming dynasty to the present. André Lévy presents an affable overview of scholarship on the Jin Ping Mei 金瓶梅 from the 17th century to the present. He discusses how past and present scholars in both Western and Chinese have focused on appraising the novel’s literary and moral value. This focus on literary worth has in turn coloured discussions of the novel and whether or not it was the product of a single author or a refraction of various storyteller materials. Lévy largely argues for a mixed textual provenance with oral elements incorporated, but also a distinct authorial presence, partly due to the prevalence of standard storyteller phrases. Let us admit it: the more noticeable the presence of the storyteller in a vernacular story, the more likely is its conventional nature; the more skilful the re-appropriation of the storyteller’s language, the more likely is it to be an imitation without real oral sources (p. 22). Liangyan Ge tries to see whether there are meaningful links between Shuihu zhuan 水滸傳 and the prosimetric narratives or chantefables (shuochang cihua 說唱詞話) about Judge Bao from the 1470s. The premise is that any narrative overlap between such texts might indicate a “common storehouse” of fiction-making material in oral literature. Comparing a lengthy novel with a series of short stories mainly in verse seems initially odd, but some of the commonalities are Book Reviews 215 indeed striking. For example, the brigands and bandits that stalk hapless travellers also tend to be interested in eating their victims’ flesh. One can easily imagine this as a narrative technique to make such threatening encounters appear even more terrifying. Other commonalities are somewhat less convincing, such the frequent occurrence of significant encounters when travellers lodge at inns, manors, or monasteries. It seems to me that such unlikely encounters have been a staple of popular fiction in every age. Other commonalities include the punishing of sexual transgressions and similar descriptions of cities and urban life. In conclusion, Ge suspects that the gong’an 公案 story type may have served as a basis for narrative conventions found in both Judge Bao cihua 詞話 and Shuihu zhuan. Margaret B. Wan looks at drum ballads (guci 鼓詞)—another sort of chantefables—from the turn of the 19th century. She is interested in reading practices and the extent to which such texts require the reader to have prior knowledge of the oral performance. Unlike the novels targeting wider audiences, the drum ballads were mostly local productions. They seem to have been printed and circulated in separate volumes with single stories spanning several volumes. One volume might end with an advertisement for the next one. But while these texts were circulated as entertainment reading in their own right, they still often required a familiarity with drum ballad conventions to be understood. Wan studies a number of texts and finds that they seem to span a range of reading and writing practices. While some texts seem to be adapted to reading audiences, others are still very closely tied to the oral tradition, even to the extent of telling the reader the time of the next performance. Vibeke Børdahl presents a detailed comparison and analysis of various textual and modern recorded oral versions of the famous tale of Wu Song 武松 fighting the tiger. While textual versions tend to be full of “storyteller’s stock phrases” (handily compiled in appendices), it is interesting to note that actual performances have far fewer of these. This of course echoes Lévy’s comment above. Anne McLaren studies folk epics (shan’ge 山歌 or Wuge 吳歌) of the lower Yangzi delta. She compares contemporary performances of a specific story with written a manuscript version from 1854. A noteworthy difference between the older manuscript and the modern 216 Book Reviews performance is that the modern versions seem to drop the more explicit sexual content. This might be due to Cultural Revolution sensibilities and the wish by modern editors and amateur ethnologists to produce more respectable renditions. Other differences are interesting as well and illustrate a variety of song styles and practices, even within a single folk epic tradition. Since the narrative selected for study here deals with illicit love, McLaren also notes how such works departed from Confucian norms at the time. The volume is rounded off by Boris Riftin’s article on Qing dynasty popular prints (nianhua 年畫) containing images of performances and storytellers as well as pictures illustrating story events. There are practically no studies on this topic, so Riftin’s discussion of this material is welcome and it is accompanied by a number of images that are analysed and put in historical context. It should be noted as well that this volume is nicely produced and contains full colour images throughout. Despite dealing with quite diverse sources, the various articles come together in a fairly coherent manner. As a whole, this book presents detailed studies of some fascinating material and several articles break new ground in trying to link written texts with performance traditions. Unfortunately this is also inherently a field where solid conclusions are few and far between. As mentioned above, much of the research is quite speculative. But the authors and editors can hardly be blamed for this, and the book is an important contribution to a field which certainly remains in need of further research.

Christopher Rosemeier Asian Studies, Edinburgh University

Wörterbuch der tibetischen Schriftsprache, 16 fascicles (to be continued). Verlag der Bayerischen Akademie der Wissenschaften/ Verlag C. H. Beck, München, 2005–2011. 384 pp. (fascicles 1-6) + 523 pp. (fascicles 7–14) + 128 pp. (fascicles 15–1).

In recent decades, Tibetan lexicography has been enriched by the publication of many dictionaries—from Tibetan to other languages, Book Reviews 217 from other languages (mainly English and Chinese) to Tibetan, and, naturally, by dictionaries which provide explanations and synonyms in Tibetan (or in Tibetan and Chinese). It would be beyond the scope of this review to provide even a selective list of these works. Nevertheless, one dictionary deserves particular mention, viz. the Tibetan-Tibetan-Chinese Bod rgya tshig mdzod chen mo (“The Large Tibetan-Chinese Dictionary”), 3 vols., published in 1985 by The People’s Publishing House in Beijing, until recently the most comprehensive and useful dictionary of Tibetan. A promising start in making this work available to a larger number of users was the publication in 2001 of the first volume in the form of a Tibetan- English dictionary: An Encyclopedic Tibetan-English Dictionary, jointly published by The School of Oriental and African Studies, London and The Nationalities Publishing House, Beijing, in 2001. This volume covers the letters KA to NYA. Unfortunately, there would seem to be no information as to when the remaining two volumes will appear. In the meantime, however, an even more ambitious project has been launched by The Bavarian Academy of Sciences in Munich. This is a Tibetan – German dictionary of literary Tibetan (by which is meant archaic and classical Tibetan rather than modern literary Tibetan), initiated by the Tibetologist Helmut Hoffmann, probably a few years after he, together with Erich Haenisch (both professors at the University of Munich), had founded the Committee for Central Asian Studies (Kommission für zentralasiatische Studien) at the Bavarian Academy of Sciences in 1954. In 1964 Helga Uebach joined the project, from 1970 on a full-time basis. Collaborating since 1974 with Jampa L. Panglung (Panglung Rinpoche), Dr. Uebach was in most respects the driving force of this project until her recent retirement. During the first years of the project, the focus was on excerpting words from existing dictionaries, but starting from 1964, this was supplemented by systematic excerpting of words from a selection of Tibetan texts, numbering, in the end, more than 200. This gradually became the main focus of the project, which soon proceeded without interruption. In 1998 Dr. Uebach and Panglung Rinpoche published a presentation of the project: “The project “Dictionary of Written Tibetan. An Introduction”, in: Boris Oguibénine (ed.), Lexicography in the Indian and Buddhist Cultural Field, Studia 218 Book Reviews

Tibetica Band IV, Kommission für zentralasiatische Studien/Bayerische Akademie der Wissenschaften, München, pp. 149–163. This presentation has been supplemented and brought up to date in the “Einleitung” in fascicle 1 of the work under review (pp. ix– xiv). The Wörterbuch is unique not only in scope (the 16th fascicle and more than 1000 pages only brings it up to the entry gcags, i.e. roughly halfway through the fifth letter of the Tibetan alphabet), but above in being a comprehensive reference dictionary. It is the first dictionary of Tibetan to be rigorously based on philological principles, each word being documented by one or several phrases in which it occurs, with a German translation of the entire phrase and exact reference(s) to the relevant source(s). In all fairness it must be said that already H. A. Jäschke to some extent compiled his dictionary, published in 1881, on the same principles, but on a far more modest scale. The same may be said of Sarat Chandra Das’s dictionary from 1902 (A Tibetan-English Dictionary with Sanskrit Synonyms). For this reason the dictionaries of Jäschke and of Das, all things considered, have remained until now the most useful lexical tools for students of Tibetan, especially for learners, although their scope is on a far more modest scale than the Wörterbuch. To give but a single example, chosen at random, of the scope of the Wörterbuch as compared to earlier standard works, the word ka ca/ka cha may be chosen. Jäschke has a two-line entry, with the translation “goods, things”; S. C. Das (1903) has “articles, goods, effects, property, furniture”, adding two phrases where the word is used, and three synonyms, seven lines in all. The Encyclopaedic Tibetan-English Dictionary (2001) adds does not add anything, in fact it is rather more brief than Das, allotting only five lines to the entry. If, on the other hand, we consult the Wörterbuch, we find ka ca/ka cha dealt with in an article covering almost half a page, or 29 lines, with numerous excerpts from Tibetan texts as well as native dictionaries, always with exact references. This is simply something totally different from what we have had up to now. It is to be hoped that the publication of new fascicles of the Wörterbuch will continue at the same regular pace as has hitherto been the case (three new fascicles are expected to appear early in 2013). Tibetologists who do not read German will therefore have Book Reviews 219 every reason to acquire this skill, a challenge which should, after all, be far less daunting than learning to read Tibetan. The Wörterbuch is a timely reminder that whatever the merits of English, it does not, in fact, constitute a sufficient language skill for a scholar of Tibetan who is serious about his or her work, for the this publication is likely to become, in a literal and absolute sense, an indispensable tool for all Tibetologists.

Per Kvaerne University of Oslo