(Published in Mint Lounge, April 11 2026)

Among the earliest records of women’s voices in India is the Pali Therigatha from well over 2,000 years ago. It is an anthology of poetry by Buddhist nuns, covering a variety of topics. There is, for instance, some predictable content around destroying desire. There is writing on death and grief, as well as lessons of the type one gets in moral science lectures. One poet, thus, speaks of her sin of adultery in a previous life, resulting in rebirths as a monkey, goat (castrated), and calf (also castrated). Elsewhere an aspiring lover woos Subha by declaring how much her fawn-like eyes turn him on. She is not impressed. As she replies (in Charles Hallisey’s translation): “Eyes are just little balls…and milky mucus comes out of it.” Yet another nun, on hearing that dipping in water washes away sins, cheekily asks if this means frogs, turtles, and crocodiles are all destined for heaven. But my favourite is Mutta, who is “freed”. Specifically, she declares herself liberated from “three crooked things”: “Mortar, pestle, and husband with his own crooked thing.”

It is a bit of a cliché to evoke the richness of Indian poetry, but the cliché exists for a reason. After all, in our many languages, these writings contain a whole spectrum of human thought, from metaphysical ideas to pointedly wicked humour. In his Sivaratri Mahatyamu, for example, the 15th-century poet Srinatha tells the story of a rakish chap, Sukumara. His sins are many—breaching caste, sleeping around, incest, consuming hashish, and even peeing standing up (a big no-no traditionally). In the end he is cleansed by serendipitously being at the right place on Sivaratri, the point being that devotion to Siva is all one needs. But the joy in reading Srinatha lies in Sukumara’s journey. For he—like many of us—tries to rationalise his errors. A Brahmin who consumes alcohol, he learns, will be reborn as a worm. “So what?” he asks, in V.N. Rao and David Shulman’s translation. “Don’t all these creatures have their own ups and downs…?” Elsewhere before transgressing yet another rule, he states that having resoundingly smashed so many already, “why should I hesitate to break one more?”

Then there is a whole genre called ninda stuti. Stuti stands for praise, while ninda signifies insults. In other words, this is devotional poetry, but uses sarcasm and bitter language to get god to act or take notice of a bhakta. The 17th-century poet Bhadrachala Ramadasu is a case in point. A follower of Rama, this Brahmin was a bureaucrat in the Golconda sultanate. The story goes that seeing the broken-down temple in Bhadrachalam, he reconstructed it with state funds. Imprisoned for embezzlement, he spent his time composing devotional poetry. But as the years in jail stretched on, his faith sometimes wavered. Once, listing out all the riches he had stocked in that temple for the deity, he reminds Rama acidly that these were not delivered to him by his (Rama’s) father-in-law. No, it was Ramadasu who showered those riches and he hoped Rama would not forsake him. Tyagaraja in the 18th-19th centuries also wrote ninda stutis. In one, cross that god doesn’t live up to all his promises, he asks what the point is then? Sita, for instance, wanted a happy life, but had to endure exile. Surpanakha came to Rama with desire only to lose a part of her face. God, sometimes, made no sense to even his staunchest votaries.

Female poets often highlighted resistance to and frustration with social pressures, but in sharp, laughter-inducing verses. Janabai, thus, wrote in 14th-century Maharashtra of her desire for freedom from domestic drudgery. In Arun Kolatkar’s masterful translation: “God, my darling, do me favour and kill my mother-in-law. I will feel lonely when she is gone. But you will be a good god won’t you and kill my father-in-law [too]?” The sister-in-law is added to this list of targets next. And to what end? “I will be free,” explains Janabai. And “we will be left alone, just you and me.” Two centuries earlier, Akka Mahadevi (as translated by Mukunda Rao) expressed similar views in Karnataka. “Husband inside, lover [i.e., god] outside, I can’t manage them both. This world and that other, cannot manage them both.” Hadapada Lingamma, meanwhile, caricatures the tradition of a man tying a wedding locket around a woman’s neck as she recalls her own escape from domesticity. “Born on earth in a man’s world…I was immersed in darkness. My mother tied a husband to my neck” and that was her fate until she found her way to freedom via a spiritual path.

God, in much of this poetry, is a vehicle to express dissent. But even with conventional devotion, poets developed ever more creative forms of expression. In Telugu padams of the early-modern period, the divine appears in the form of a lover, while the devotee plays the role of courtesan or even a madam. There is much romantic chiding: “I can see all the signs of what you have been doing till midnight, you playboy,” goes one by Kshetrayya. “Still you come rushing through the streets, sly as a thief to untie my blouse.” Annamacharya in the 15th century, also translated by Rao and Shulman, meanwhile assumes the role of a dismayed lover. “When I am done being angry, then I’ll make love. Right now, you should be glad I’m listening. When you flash that big smile, I smile back,” he continues. “It doesn’t mean I’m not angry.” Elsewhere he declares: “I get excited when we talk—and it’s not enough. I keep staring at you—but it’s not enough. We keep making love—and it’s not enough. How did you make me fall for you?”

But lest we assume that our forebears only thought of love in terms of the divine, it is important to throw into the mix poetry concerning fellow mortals. In a collection by Suhas Mahesh and Anusha Rao, we find some absolute gems. One from a 15th-century text is a request to the heavens. “God!” it begins, “Please don’t create me again. If you must, then not as a human being. If you must, then no love, please. But if you must, then no long distance.” The Gaha Sattasai, a text that is well over 1,000 years old, is a bit more naughty. “I’m quite sure,” goes one, “that the thick reeds by the river chuckled with my ex-boyfriends on my wedding day, listening to the solemn recitation of hymns blessing the virgin bride.” “Dear God,” begins another, “make him hang out with other women more. He does not seem to realise what a catch I am.” And to top it, perhaps the winning piece: “Ah, the strange ways of time. The young man I loved once…now recites scripture. I too leave for my husband’s.”