In a small town in south India was a very old woman, who lived in a small house that nestled the walls of the local temple. She spent most of her days on the tiny porch seated in a rickety chair observing the lazy pace of small-town life. She marked her long, endless days with waiting – eager for the moment when her beloved goddess and her consort would emerge from within the temple walls and stop before her house. She drank in the divine sight of their richly adorned bodies: her gorgeous crown, his dashing turban; her bright green parrot, his flashing discus; her sinuous form, his mysterious smile. She could recall from memory the vision of her gods, Viṣṇu and his bride, Āṇṭāḷ. Her sightless eyes followed their beautiful forms, even as they disappeared around the corner to continue their sojourn around town.

People around town said that there was no greater devotee of Āṇṭāḷ and Viṣṇu than this old woman, whom they revered as a matchless poet and scholar. They still speak in awed whispers of the poem she once addressed to Āṇṭāḷ pleading with her to end a formidable drought. “It rained the very next day, and for seven days thereafter. Such is the power of our Āṇṭāḷ!” the locals enthused. The old lady used to wave away such fanciful thinking: “Her grace is boundless and causeless!” she insisted. “I am just her vehicle” she often added for good measure.