Chapter IV — Alavandar's Spiritualization

Ramamisra had been silently watching the rapid rise of Alavandar. When he heard of Akkiyazhvan's humiliating defeat and of Alavandar becoming a king, his joy knew no bounds — he danced with flags in hand. Now he determined to carry out the mission entrusted to him: to make Alavandar the future apostle of the faith.

He went to the palace, but the guards blocked him. He found his way into the kitchen instead, and befriended the cooks. From them he learned which pot-herb Alavandar loved most — Tuduvalai. He took this herb to the kitchen daily, uninterrupted, for six months. Yet no notice was taken of him. Wearied, he stayed away for a few days.

When Alavandar suddenly missed his favorite dish from his meal, he asked the cooks the reason. They told him that an old Brahman had brought the herb faithfully for six months and had now stopped for a few days. "If he returns," the king commanded, after chiding them, "inform me at once."

Ramamisra thought he would try again, and so, after some interval, appeared once more with the favorite vegetable. The king was informed immediately and ordered the venerable visitor brought into his presence. When he arrived, the king rose, bowed, and seated him with every mark of respect, asking how he might reward him — with money or with lands.

Sri Ramamisra said:

Alavandar was taken out of himself by this unexpected revelation, and instructed his men to admit the worthy visitor freely without any ceremony.

Sri Ramamisra now began to teach Alavandar the Bhagavad Gita — the essence of all the Upanishads. As Alavandar listened attentively through the eighteen chapters of this sublime poem, his spiritual sense was awakened, and a craving arose in his heart to realize God as He is spoken of there.

"How shall I realize Him?" Alavandar asked his Acharya.

"That is taught in the great Charama Sloka (the final, climactic verse of the Gita in which the Lord promises liberation to those who surrender)," responded the teacher, and he taught its significant mysteries.

The more Alavandar meditated on these teachings, the more deeply they entered his heart. The saving grace taught there inclined him more and more to surrender himself to God and to cultivate the sense of resignation to His will. His soul bent toward the Lord with the nourishment of these teachings — just as ripening grain-stalks bend as they receive more milk.

As days passed, Alavandar's love for the Merciful grew warmer, and as this love grew, his attachment to worldly things grew weaker. The teacher watched his disciple's spiritual progress and judged that the time was ripe to lead him to the promised patrimonial wealth.

He led him to the holy shrine of Srirangam. Pointing to God reposing there in the serene glory of His presence, Ramamisra said:

With the spiritual vision bestowed by God's grace, Alavandar saw in the holy image of Ranga the treasure of the universe enshrined. He exclaimed, with:

And Alavandar exclaimed:

After this, he resolved to renounce the world and take the robes of a Sanyasin, since love of the world and love of God are incompatible with each other. From then on, he devoted himself entirely to divine contemplation and service.

Alavandar's spiritual fame drew many disciples to him. The notable ones were:

Twenty in all — learned men who became evangelists of the faith.

Manakkal-Nambi (Ramamisra), for his part, had five disciples:

Now he was to deliver his last message to Alavandar:

Having delivered this charge, he passed away with his heart fixed upon the holy feet of his guru.

Alavandar spent his time happily in propagating the faith and composing works. Those that have survived are the Stotra-ratna, the Siddhitraya, and the Agama-pramanya — the bulwarks of Visishtadvaita Vedanta.

At this stage Alavandar thought of visiting Kurugaikavalappan. Accompanied by his disciples, he set out, and on arrival found Kurugaikavalappan absorbed in yoga. Alavandar approached the sanctuary with the utmost caution and reverence, and placed himself just outside the wall against which Appan was seated.

Then Appan suddenly exclaimed: "Is there one of the Sottai race — a descendant of Nathamuni — standing there?"

Startled and fearful, Alavandar ventured: "Holy sir, yes — I am a most humble scion of that race. My name is Yamunaitturaivar (Yamunacharya). I have come to do obeisance to you." So saying, he went forward and fell at Appan's holy feet.

Rising after being blessed, he asked Appan how — despite all his caution — he had been detected. Kurugaikavalappan said:

Alavandar was delighted at this account and begged Appan that the yoga-mystery be revealed to him, as his guru Manakkal-Nambi had directed; for that was why he had come.

"Certainly it is intended for you, son," said Appan. "But I can only impart it at the moment of my death. That moment will come next Pushya month, Guru-pushya-yoga, Abhijin muhurta. Take this scrap on which the time is noted, so that you will remember. Come precisely at that moment."

Yamunacharya prostrated to Appan and returned to Srirangam.

The Adhyayan-otsava — one of the great annual festivals in connection with the Srirangam temple, in which all 4,000 verses of the Alvars' Prabandhas are sung antiphonally — came round. In the course of the recital, the Araiyar, the chief chorister of the temple, sang the verse of Tiruvaymozhi known as Kaduvinai (X.2.8), in which occurs the passage Nadamino namargalullir, meaning:

This verse, reiterated by the Araiyar, struck Yamunacharya as a sign that he must visit the shrine of Anantasayana (Thiruvananthapuram, the shrine so dear to Saint Nammazhvar). He rose immediately, placed his disciple Teyva-vari-y-andan in charge of the matham (monastery), and went on pilgrimage to Anantasayana, where he had darshan of Lord Seshasayana through the three-doored sanctum.

Time passed. Suddenly Yamunacharya remembered the scrap of paper Appan had given him. Calling for it, he found — to his dismay — that the very moment he was supposed to be with Kurugaikavalappan receiving the yoga-mysteries had already come. With indescribable sorrow he chided himself for his forgetfulness and longed, in his anguish, for a pushpaka-vimana (the mythical flying chariot) to waft him instantly to Appan. Helpless and in sheer anguish, he left Anantasayana and set out for Srirangam.

In Srirangam meanwhile, Teyva-vari-y-andan could not bear the separation from his guru, Yamunacharya. He fell ill and wasted away day by day. His friends brought physicians to examine him. All declared that some deep mental affliction lay at the root of his sickness. "Is it some worldly affection — perhaps a woman — gnawing at your heart?" they asked.

"No affliction troubles me," he said, "but only the love I have for my guru. If you take me to him promptly, I may hope to live."

Despairing of his life, his friends laid him on a stretcher and carried him toward Anantasayana. As they went, Andan daily grew stronger, until at last he could walk on foot. At the bank of the Karaimanai river, the guru and disciple met. Seeing his guru, Andan fell flat, overcome by joy.

Finding him lying motionless, the guru addressed him:

This sarcastic remark pierced Andan's heart. By leaving Srirangam against his guru's command, he realized, he had disobeyed him. Speechless, he lay there.

The guru took compassion — his anger at the disobedience now abating — and said:

On hearing this, Andan rose, trembling with fear, and stood silent. The good men standing nearby remarked that Andan's temperament was like that of Lakshmana, who said that separation from Rama would be like taking the fish out of the water (Ramayana II.32.31). Hearing this, Yamunacharya said:

So saying, he softly stroked him and bade him go and visit Anantasayana.

"You are my Anantasayana. I know no other," Andan burst out, opening his mouth for the first time.

Yamunacharya was struck by the extraordinary character of his disciple, recognizing in him the soul described in the verse:

He led Andan back to Srirangam, where all arrived in due course.

In the company of his faithful followers, Yamunacharya was now engaged in the prosecution of his spiritual mission. But a thought began to harass him: to carry on the great work he had begun, no competent soul had yet appeared among his disciples.