Politics of Discernment by a Saiva Poet Saint Vallalār in 19th Century Tamil Nadu
Dr. M. D. Muthukumaraswamy
Within Vallalār’s syncretic spirituality, the concept of discernment shimmers, a multifaceted jewel. It is not, as in some Western traditions, a hard, cold light of the intellect alone. Vallalār’s discernment pulses with warmth, both ethical and spiritual. It springs forth from his central principle, Jīvakārunyam — a compassion so vast it washes over all beings like the sea. To possess true compassion, he insists, one must possess something akin to an ‘eye of grace.’ An eye that blinks away mere surface things — those divisions that wound humanity so deeply — and stares, unblinking, at the divine light that flickers within each soul.
But this discernment is not a thing of passive observation, no mere seeing, however profound. One must act. Vallalār rails against those illusions, those dogmas that keep inequality thriving. A mournful sigh escapes him as he witnesses the devotion to the husk of religious scripture, while its true message, its pulse of universal love, lies ignored. For Vallalār, to discern is to do. It is not merely to think in the quiet of one’s heart but to stride forward, a beacon in a shadowed world.
He sees with terrible clarity those ritualistic practices that suffocate true worship like weeds choking a garden. The true offering, he proclaims, lies in nurturing compassion, in serving others. Can you not hear it? Discernment for Vallalār is a battle cry for breaking free of the narrow confines of sect. It is an embrace of a spirituality so expansive, recognizing the sacred spark that dwells within all — regardless of their station, or what name they call the divine.
To understand, to truly understand the revolutionary force of Vallalār’s politics of discernment one must glimpse the world he moved within. The 19th-century Tamil Nadu, a tapestry woven with British colonial threads — strange new patterns of power laid upon the old. The caste system, not a ghostly remnant of the past, but a living, breathing thing, strangling opportunity, twisting sacred words into weapons to wound and exclude. The old gods, the keepers of the texts, still wielded immense power, their voices echoing down through the centuries to reinforce the power of the few.
Vallalār’s critique of caste, a searing indictment, arose from this landscape of tangled contradictions. He saw, with a clarity that must have pierced his heart, how the lines of caste were not merely social but weapons — denying entire communities their dignity, their chance to learn, to rise. The notion of purity, that shimmering illusion, was wielded like a cudgel by those in power, further crushing those already ground into the dust. The reform movements themselves often led by those of high caste, a bitter irony. There was a rustling, a desire for change, but too often it was a matter of rearranging the rooms in the same grand house, not tearing it down to build something just.
But Vallalār, his voice rising clear and unwavering, did not simply challenge unjust laws or customs. His words struck at the very heart of the religious beliefs propping up the system. He roared, one’s spiritual worth was not determined by the circumstances of their birth! In a world where ancient texts were twisted, their verses ringing harsh with exclusion, Vallalār saw something else. His re-reading was like a cool breeze, whispering of universal love, of a compassion that erased the cruel borders men had drawn.
Understanding this, this churning, conflicted world Vallalār lived within, we begin to grasp the true force of his ideas. They were a defiance, a beacon lit against the darkness. His challenge was not merely about society but about the gods themselves, about the rotten roots from which injustice grew.
In his writings, his vast Thiruvarutpa (Songs of Divine Grace), we find a treasure. Not of gold or jewels, but of the weapons of the spirit turned against oppression. Here he wages his war against caste-based ideology in so many ways — a tapestry of defiance.
There is that burning appeal to compassion, yes. How could any heart touched by Jīvakārunyam accept such cruelty inflicted upon another? His words flay bare the hypocrisy of those who speak of loving God, yet despise their fellow beings. He writes, a sentence that echoes with righteous sorrow, “Those who lack compassion and discriminate based on caste, shall never attain the abode of Supreme Grace-Light.”
As always, he returns to the lie of caste-based purity, striking at its hollow core. “There is no caste distinction within the radiant divine light,” he proclaims! Purity, he insists, is not a matter of birth or ritual, but of the heart, of the striving toward love and good.
Vallalār stands firm, his voice a clear counterpoint to those who twist sacred texts, their interpretations dripping with the poison of caste divisions. He does not turn away; instead, he dives back into those same ancient words, his eyes seeking a different truth, a melody of compassion, of equality, of the profound truth that all creation is bound in one. And when he resurfaces, he bears a pearl of defiance, proclaiming, “All beings belong to one caste, the caste of the Supreme Divine.”
One must not think Vallalār’s words dwell solely in the realm of high philosophy — his heart bleeds onto the page. He does not paint suffering in vague strokes but with terrible detail, the lived realities of caste oppression laid bare. His empathy becomes a blade, cutting through his reader’s comfortable distance. Here, his work is not merely a critique born of the mind; it is the wail of a soul demanding we acknowledge a shared humanity.
In the Ārām Thirumarai, — the Sixth Thirumarai, we find a testament, a song of defiance, and a blueprint all in one. This collection, a vibrant mosaic of hymns and prose, dares to offer a world where caste becomes a meaningless word, transcended by the power of discernment and compassion.
A key thread woven throughout the Sixth Thirumarai is Vallalār’s insistence on the direct experience of the divine. His spirituality is a wild, beautiful thing, not bound by ritual or the pronouncements of priests. He calls for an inward revolution — to find the divine spark within our very selves, and by extension, within all beings. This focus on the boundless potential of experience shatters the false walls erected by caste, which dared to control who could seek the sacred, and how.
The Sixth Thirumarai breathes life into Jīvakārunyam. Here, Vallalār’s call for the abolition of animal sacrifice and his compassionate embrace of vegetarianism ring out not as mere ideals but as a path to walk. And in the Satya Dharma Sālai (Abode of True Charity) in Vadalūr, his words take form. Its doors open to any who hunger, the lines of caste dissolving in the act of feeding, of recognizing a fundamental need. In these acts, we see discernment transformed from theory into a force that disrupts, that heals, that challenges the old, cruel order.
The Sixth Thirumarai becomes more than a collection of devotional words; it blazes forth as a vision, a manifesto demanding a just world. Within its pages, we see that discernment, compassion, and the drive for change are not separate strands, but tightly woven into the fabric of Vallalār’s transformative philosophy.
His practice of light worship (Arutperumjothi Agaval), oh, this is the heart of it — a beacon amidst shadowed philosophies. The radiant, formless light, a symbol of the supreme divine (Arutperumjothi), a light so pure it defies divisions, a light that shimmers equally within us all. Here, Vallalār’s emphasis moves away from deities locked in the shapes of men, instead offering a spirituality as boundless and accessible as the vast sky.
And this worship of light, it echoes like a thunderclap, a fierce rejection of the old temple ways with their iron gates of caste. Can you not see it? His Satya Gñāna Sabhā (Temple of True Wisdom), with its curtains shimmering with all the colours of the spectrum… it is an embrace, an invitation. Within its heart, a single, humble lamp — this is the divine made plain, accessible to any who yearn, no matter their birth or creed.
But this light is not merely something to gaze upon; it is a tool, a key to the world within. Vallalār urges meditation upon this inner light, a practice he believes will awaken discernment, dissolve differences. He sees this journey as a stripping away of illusions, the illusion of ‘otherness,’ leaving only the shared divinity blazing within. And here, the priests with their pronouncements become irrelevant — the path to the sacred lies within each individual’s grasp.
How could such a light not pierce the darkness of a society poisoned by caste? Vallalār insists — this light within us all is the truth, the antidote to those lies of purity and superiority, those justifications for cruelty. His teachings of light are not otherworldly dreams, but a demand for a world where all are seen as sacred, as worthy. Oh, and so the worship of light becomes a weapon, a beautiful, defiant weapon wielded in the name of his politics of discernment.
And this politics, this philosophy, finds its true form in the Satya Dharma Sālai (Abode of True Charity) at Vadalūr. Born from a wellspring of compassion for the suffering, the hunger all around him, Vallalār did not just write or preach. Instead, he built a place where any may come, may be nourished, their caste, their beliefs, fading into insignificance before a plate of food. Such a radical act, such a blow to centuries of entrenched cruelty, such a tangible cry that worth has nothing to do with the circumstance of one’s birth.
The Satya Dharma Sālai is not merely a place where the hungry find respite. It is a fortress of defiance, a place where the old, comfortable idea of compassion as a matter of individual charity crumbles. Here, compassion blazes forth as a right, a responsibility woven into the very fabric of society. And Vallalār, with his unwavering emphasis on alleviating poverty, did not solely attack the symptom; he sought to tear it at the root. The act of feeding is, in this light, a battle cry against those systems that perpetuate inequality, that leave so many to starve while others turn their faces away.
(Dr. M.D.Muthukumaraswamy has been working as the Director of National Folklore Support Centre, Chennai from its inception in 1997. His publications include “Folklore as Discourse”, “Folklore, Public Sphere, and Civil Society”, “Voicing Folklore: Careers, Concerns, and Issues” “One Nation Many Voices”, and “Seraikella Chhau”. He edits “Indian Folklore Research Journal” and “Indian Folklife”. He has curated an exhibition on Tamil cultural histories for the Linden Museum in Stuttgart, Germany. As a Tamil writer, he has published poetry, short stories, critical essays and plays. His published books of translations include poems Lao Tzu, Basho, Fernando Pessoa, Mahmud Darwish, Paul Celan, Jorge Luis Borges and Ko Un. He is currently working on writing a semiotic analysis companion text for Kurunthokai, Tamil ancient classical poetry.)
