Thirukkural: Moonbeams of hope, in the dark of the night

Thirukkural with the Times explores real-world lessons from the classic Tamil text ‘Thirukkural’. Written by Tamil poet and philosopher Thiruvalluvar, the Kural consists of 1,330 short couplets of seven words each. This text is divided into three books with teachings on virtue, wealth, and love and is considered one of the great works ever on ethics and morality. The Kural has influenced scholars and leaders across social, political, and philosophical spheres.
Motivational speaker, author and diversity champion Bharathi Bhaskar explores the masterpiece.
Across cultures and throughout history, the night and the full moon have been steadfast companions to those enduring the sorrow of separation. The night, with its vast, shadowed expanse, represents the mysterious realm of the subconscious. The moon—a quiet, celestial reminder that even in loss, there is always the potential for transformation.
English poet Percy Shelley portrays the moon as a solitary wanderer, climbing the heavens alone:

Valluvar too understood the pain of separation. In one of his verses, a woman pleads with the moon not to wane. Her beloved, now far from her, has left an emptiness in her heart, and until their reunion—perhaps in dreams—the moon must remain her only companion:


For those left behind, the night and the moon become a bridge between memory and hope, a quiet reassurance that love transcends even the longest of separations.
When my father passed away some years ago, I comforted myself that he had lived fully and freely, never confined to the sterile walls of a hospital, save for a minor cataract surgery. He had passed away in his home, surrounded by his loved ones. I resolved to celebrate his life rather than drown in grief.
During the rituals, my sisters and I were busy, and I believed I moved beyond the sorrow and was ready to return to my life.
Then, one evening, as I returned from work, I noticed the laundry still on the terrace and climbed up. It was a full moon night. The sky was paddled in silver light, and as I stood there, lost in the beauty of the moon, a verse echoed through my mind, one that has travelled across centuries.
The daughters of the ancient Tamil king Pari once penned these words, a poem marked as sung by Paari Magali. King Pari, a benevolent ruler known for his valour, was deceived and killed by a coalition of the Cheras, Cholas, and Pandyas. His orphaned twin daughters, grieving for their lost father and land, wrote:

As I stood there under the same full moon, I thought—last month, my father had seen this very light. He had been here. And now, he was gone.
In that moment, the floodgates of grief opened. It was not a quiet, measured sobbing, but a raw, uncontrollable release of sorrow. It felt as though Pari’s daughters, separated from me by two millennia, stood beside me, mourning in unison.
At the altar of time, life may wither like a fragile soap bubble, but the moon, in its eternal cycle, teaches us that even in the darkest of nights, there is promise of renewal. Each phase brings its own beauty—just as the night eventually gives way to dawn. The moon and the night also reflect a deeper truth: love is not bound by time or distance. It transcends separation, glowing in our memories, ever-present in the cycles of life.