Avvaiyar's Sayings: The Grandmother Poet of Tamil
Avvaiyar sayings from the Aathichoodi and beyond, remembered from a Chennai childhood and read again in New Jersey: short lines that still settle a busy week.
· 5 min read
In short
Avvaiyar is the name of more than one Tamil woman poet; the best known wrote the Aathichoodi, short sayings still taught to Tamil children.
Her lines, such as Aram seiya virumbu, desire to do good, work because they are short enough to remember in a hurry.
The jamun tree story, where Murugan teases her, shows a sage still willing to learn from a child.
The first Tamil sentence many of us learned by heart was two words long. Aram seiya virumbu: desire to do good. It came from a grandmother poet called Avvaiyar, and it was followed, in the little book we chanted in school, by a hundred-odd more lines just as short. Avvaiyar sayings are brief on purpose. They were meant for children, and they turned out to be exactly the right size for adults with too much on their minds.
Who was Avvaiyar?
Who was Avvaiyar? The honest answer is that there was more than one. The name, which means something like "respected old woman", belongs to several poets across Tamil history. One wrote in the Sangam anthologies, the oldest Tamil poetry we have, and moved among the kings of that age as a friend and sometimes an envoy. Another, many centuries later, wrote the Aathichoodi and its companion books of maxims for children.
In popular memory they have merged into a single figure: a wise old woman who walked from court to court, spoke plainly to kings, and was devoted to Ganesha. Her hymn to him, the Vinayagar Agaval, is still recited in many homes. My grandmother in Thanjavur never distinguished between the Avvaiyars. To her there was one, and she had opinions about everyone.
Avvaiyar sayings I still use
The Aathichoodi is arranged by the Tamil alphabet, one line per letter, which is how children memorise it. Aram seiya virumbu, desire to do good. Aarruvathu sinam, anger is to be calmed. Iyalvathu karavel, do not hide what you are able to give. Eevathu vilakkel, do not stop others from giving.
When people look for Avvaiyar's Aathichoodi in English, they are often surprised at how little there is to translate. Each line is a verb and an object. There is no argument, no story, no threat. Just an instruction, the kind a grandmother gives from the kitchen doorway.
I did not think about these lines for most of my adult life. Then, on a Monday on the train out of Edison, stuck outside Newark for twenty minutes while an announcement explained nothing, I noticed my jaw was tight and my phone was open to an email I wanted to answer badly. Aarruvathu sinam came back to me whole, in my grandmother's voice. Anger is to be cooled. Not suppressed, not denied. Cooled, like milk you leave on the counter before you pour it for a child.
Two words did the work of a sermon. I closed the email. I answered it at lunch, better.
The Aathichoodi is not complicated. That is its strength. A long teaching needs a quiet moment to recall. A two-word line arrives in a crowded train. Valluvar used two lines for each of his couplets; Avvaiyar often needed only two words. There is more on him in who was Thiruvalluvar.
Would you like a roasted fruit or an unroasted one?
There is a story about Avvaiyar that Tamil children love, and it is about her being wrong.
Walking on a hot road, tired and hungry, she stopped under a naval tree, the jamun tree with its small purple fruit. A cowherd boy was sitting in the branches. He asked her, politely, whether she would like a roasted fruit or an unroasted one. Avvaiyar, the great poet, thought this was nonsense. Fruit is not roasted. She asked for the roasted kind, to humour him.
The boy shook the branch. Ripe fruit fell into the hot sand. She picked one up and blew on it to clear the dust. The boy laughed. Is it too hot, grandmother? Blow on it to cool it down.
She understood, and she laughed too. The fruit in the sand was "hot". She had been outwitted by a child. In the story, the boy was Murugan himself, come to remind the wisest woman in Tamil country that wisdom does not always come from the old.
I have told this to my son several times. He likes that the grown-up loses. I like that she laughed.
One line on the fridge
The feminine voice in Tamil devotion is often a mother's or a grandmother's. My grandmother told the story of Karaikkal Ammaiyar, whom Shiva called Mother, as town gossip; women in Hinduism takes the wider look at the voices the tradition kept.
For this week, try something small. Pick one Aathichoodi line. Write it on a slip of paper, in Tamil or in English or both, and stick it on the fridge. Aram seiya virumbu is a good first choice. Aarruvathu sinam is a good second. Then see whether it gets said aloud at dinner, by you or, more likely, by a child who has read it and wants to know what it means. If you want more short lines for young children, there are simple mantras for kids too.
Questions people ask
What is the Aathichoodi meaning?
Aathichoodi is a collection of very short moral sayings by Avvaiyar, arranged in the order of the Tamil alphabet so children can learn them with their letters. The title comes from its opening invocation to the god who wears the aathi flower. Lines such as Aram seiya virumbu, desire to do good, and Aarruvathu sinam, calm your anger, are still taught in Tamil homes and schools.
Who was Avvaiyar?
Avvaiyar is a title meaning respected elder woman, and it was borne by more than one poet. An Avvaiyar of the Sangam era wrote poems in classical anthologies, while a later Avvaiyar is credited with the Aathichoodi, Kondrai Vendhan and the Vinayagar Agaval. Popular tradition often blends them into one wise, wandering grandmother poet.
Is there an English version of Avvaiyar's Aathichoodi?
Yes. Many translations exist, from simple versions for children to annotated scholarly editions. Because each saying is only two or three words in Tamil, translations vary in how much they explain. A good way to begin is to learn a few lines in Tamil with a plain English meaning beside them, and discuss one at a time with children.
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The Sunday column: festivals and rituals meeting ordinary weeks
Manikandan writes the Sunday column, where festivals and rituals meet commutes, hospital corridors and video calls with parents far away. Each piece closes with one small thing to carry into the week ahead.
