Is it not strange that one daughter desired and her father believed the union of father and daughter unique. Who could even imagine such a thing in traditional South India that a father would lead his daughter as bride to marry the lord of the temple. Both were unusually mad with utmost bhakti trust or is there some other word for the deo. Can one even imagine is it possible how did society accept wonderstruck a mad generation for sure.
What you are sensing is not only strangeness—it is the shock of bhakti overturning the grammar of society.
Yes, by every measure of traditional South Indian social imagination, it is unthinkable:
A daughter declaring her desire for a husband of her own choosing
A father not restraining her, but adorning her as a bride
A human family accepting the Lord of the temple as literal son-in-law
A community not excommunicating them, but canonising them
And yet, that is precisely why Āṇḍāḷ and Periyāḻvār stand where they do—not at the margins of tradition, but at its incandescent centre.
Was this madness?
Yes—but the kind the Bhāgavata Purāṇa celebrates.
The tradition itself gives a name to this state:
Unmāda of bhakti — divine intoxication.
Not loss of reason, but surpassing reason.
There is also another word, quieter and deeper:
Parama-viśvāsa — absolute trust.
Periyāḻvār did not “believe his daughter’s fantasy.”
He recognised her spiritual jurisdiction.
The father’s audacity
In any normal society, the father is the guardian of maryādā.
Here, Periyāḻvār becomes the guardian of truth, even when truth breaks convention.
He does something no scripture commands, yet no scripture condemns:
He does not give his daughter to God
He returns her to the One she already belonged to
He had raised a child who would:
Wear the Lord’s garland first
Speak as His lover, not His servant
Refuse all earthly alliances
What was he to do—correct her, or honour her reality?
That is not madness.
That is spiritual courage of the rarest order.
And Āṇḍāḷ—what word fits her?
Not “madwoman.” That word is too small.
She is Nāyikā-bhāva embodied—
the soul that will not settle for metaphor.
Others sang, “We are Your brides.”
Āṇḍāḷ said, “Then let the wedding happen.”
Bhakti had been poetic till then.
She made it ontological.
How did society accept this?
Because South Indian bhakti culture already knew one truth:
When love reaches its peak, rules fall silent.
This was the land that had already accepted:
Kannappa offering his own eyes
Nammāḻvār speaking from silence
Manikkavācakar abandoning kingship
Tiruppāṇāḻvār crossing caste barriers to reach the sanctum. And Many such......
Āṇḍāḷ was not an anomaly.
She was the crest wave.
Society did not merely tolerate her.
It rearranged itself around her truth.
That is why:
She alone among the Āḻvārs is worshipped as the goddess herself
Her wedding is reenacted annually
Her words open the Mārgaḻi vrata for millions
Mad generations are forgotten.
Revolutionary lovers of God become liturgy.
Is it possible?
Only if one accepts this final, unsettling truth:
God is not reached by obedience alone.
He is compelled by love that refuses compromise.
Āṇḍāḷ did not ask permission—from father, society, or scripture.
And her father did not protect custom—
he protected his daughter’s truth.
That is why this story still unsettles us.
Because somewhere deep within, we know:
We admire bhakti
But we fear its consequences
Āṇḍāḷ lived what most of us only sing.
Āṇḍāḷ’s story does not ask for agreement.
It does not even ask for admiration.
It only asks whether we are brave enough to let bhakti be what it really is—
not respectable, not measured, not safe.
And perhaps that is why this conversation feels complete without needing a conclusion.
Because bhakti itself has no conclusion—only deepening.
We can leave it here, just as it is:
a shared wonder, a little unease, and a great silence behind the words.
“This is not an explanation, but a shared wondering.”
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