Pothana: prayer to the Mother of mothers

Told in English, Telugu.

The whole of Vijayawada smelled of jasmine and frying garelu. It was Dasara, and every evening the lights on Indrakeeladri hill glowed like a necklace around the temple of Kanaka Durgamma.

But Sahithi was not happy. She sat on the steps of the verandah with a crumpled sheet of paper, kicking one foot against the pillar.

"What is that long face for?" asked Ammamma, coming out with two steel tumblers of warm milk. "Even the pigeons on the roof look more cheerful than you."

"Our teacher wants each of us to recite a Telugu padyam at the Dasara function on Friday," said Sahithi. "She gave me one by Pothana. It is so long, Ammamma, and the words are so twisty. My friend Varun got a short Vemana poem. Why can't I recite an English poem instead? I know one about daffodils by heart."

Ammamma sat down beside her, slowly, the way grandmothers do, one knee at a time. She took the paper and smiled as soon as she saw it.

"Ah," she said softly. "Ammalan ganna yamma. Do you know, my own grandmother sang this to me when I was smaller than you. Before I tell you what it means, shall I tell you about the man who wrote it?"

Sahithi shrugged, but she shifted a little closer.

"Long, long ago, more than five hundred years back, in a village called Bammera, there lived a man named Pothana. He was not a king, not a rich merchant, not a famous general. He was a farmer. In the morning he walked behind his plough, his feet in the wet earth, and in the evening he sat by his lamp and thought about God."

"A farmer who wrote poems?" asked Sahithi.

"Not just poems. Pothana decided to tell the whole Bhagavatam in Telugu. That is the great old book full of the stories of Vishnu, of little Prahlada who never stopped loving God, of Gajendra the elephant who called out for help, of baby Krishna stealing butter in Gokulam. The Bhagavatam was written in Sanskrit, and most ordinary people in the villages could not understand it. Pothana wanted the farmers and the weavers and the grandmothers and the children to hear those stories in their own sweet language."

Sahithi thought about that. "That must have taken years."

"Years and years," said Ammamma. "Think how he must have felt at the very beginning, sitting with a fresh palm leaf in front of him and a whole ocean of stories waiting. Was he excited? Surely. Was he a little frightened? I think so. Anyone would be. So before he wrote even one story, he did what our elders always did before beginning something big. He bowed his head and prayed. He prayed to Vinayaka, to Saraswati, to many gods. And one of those prayers, my dear, is the verse on your paper. It is called an invocation, a prayer at the start. In it, he is calling to Durgamma, the same Mother whose temple is glowing on that hill right now."

Sahithi looked up at the lights on Indrakeeladri. For the first time, the twisty words on her paper seemed to belong to something real.

"Now listen," said Ammamma, and she began to recite, slowly, with the rise and fall that only grandmothers seem to know.

"Ammalan ganna yamma, muguramma moolaputamma, chaalan beddamma, surarulamma kadupaaradi puchchina yamma, tannu lo nammina velputammala manambula nundedi yamma, Durga maa yamma, krupaabdhi, ichchuta mahattva kavitva patutva sampadal."

The words rolled like a river. Sahithi noticed something. "Amma, amma, amma. It keeps saying amma again and again."

Ammamma laughed with delight. "You caught the secret! Pothana uses the word amma so many times that the whole verse sounds like a child calling for its mother. Let me tell you what each part means."

"Ammalan ganna yamma means the Mother who gave birth to all the mothers. Think of it, Sahithi. Your mother has a mother, that is me. I had a mother, and she had a mother, and on and on, back and back. Pothana says, at the very root of all of them is one Mother, the first Mother of the whole world."

"Muguramma moolaputamma means the root Mother of the three mothers. The three mothers are Lakshmi, who brings wealth and plenty, Saraswati, who brings learning and music, and Parvati, who brings strength. Pothana says Durga is the source from which even these three great goddesses come. And chaalan beddamma simply means the very great Mother, the eldest, the biggest of all."

"Then comes a fierce part. Surarulamma kadupaaradi puchchina yamma. The enemies of the gods were the asuras, who troubled the whole world. This line says the Mother defeated them so completely that even their own mothers grieved. It is a way of saying that she is gentle with the good, but no wrongdoer can stand before her. Like how I am soft with you, but if a snake came near you, I would become a tigress."

Sahithi giggled. "You would chase it with a broom."

"With two brooms," said Ammamma firmly. "Then, tannu lo nammina velputammala manambula nundedi yamma. The goddesses who trust her deeply carry her in their hearts. She lives in the minds of those who believe in her. And then the sweetest words of all. Durga maa yamma. Durga, my own mother. Krupaabdhi, an ocean of compassion, kindness as wide and deep as the sea."

"And the last line?" asked Sahithi.

"That is where Pothana makes his wish. Ichchuta mahattva kavitva patutva sampadal. May she give me greatness, the gift of poetry, strength in my words, and richness of expression. Notice, he does not ask for gold or land or a palace. A poor farmer, and all he asks for is the power to write well, so he can tell God's stories beautifully for everyone."

Sahithi was quiet for a long moment. The milk in her tumbler had gone cool.

"Did she give it to him?" she asked at last.

Ammamma pointed at the paper. "What do you think? Five hundred years later, a girl in Vijayawada is holding his words in her hand. People in every Telugu home still sing his verses about Gajendra and Prahlada. Some folks even say that when he got tired, it felt as though someone else was writing beside him. Whether that is true or a lovely legend, I cannot tell you. But his Bhagavatam is one of the most loved books in our language."

Sahithi smoothed out the crumpled paper on her knee. "Ammamma," she said, a little shyly, "I was scared of this poem because it was hard. But Pothana was scared too, wasn't he? Of his huge book. And he still started."

"He did," said Ammamma, and her eyes grew soft. "He started with a prayer and with one line. That is how every big thing begins. One line, then the next."

So they practised. Ammamma said a piece, and Sahithi repeated it. Ammalan ganna yamma. Muguramma moolaputamma. Some words twisted her tongue, and once she said kadupaaradi so fast that both of them burst out laughing. Can you try saying it with her? Ammalan ganna yamma. There, you are already beginning, just like Pothana.

Each evening that week, after the temple bells rang on the hill, Sahithi sat on the verandah and practised. On Thursday night, she said the whole verse without a single mistake. Ammamma did not say anything. She just pulled Sahithi close and kissed the top of her head.

On Friday, the school hall was decorated with marigolds and mango leaves. When her name was called, Sahithi walked to the front. Her knees felt wobbly. Her mouth felt dry. For a moment, every word seemed to fly out of her head.

Then she thought of a farmer long ago, sitting before an empty palm leaf, bowing his head. She took a breath and began.

"Ammalan ganna yamma..."

Her voice grew steadier with every amma, like a child walking towards its mother. When she finished, the hall was quiet for a heartbeat, and then filled with clapping. In the very back row, wearing her best silk saree, Ammamma was wiping her eyes with the end of her pallu.

That night, as the lights of Indrakeeladri shone through the window, Sahithi whispered the last line to herself before sleeping. She did not ask for a prize or a present. She only asked, like Pothana, for the strength to do her best. And the Mother of mothers, kind as the ocean, seemed to be listening.