Vandiyathevan slept through the night like a log and awoke only after the sun had risen in the morning. Even after opening his eyes, he lay there, reluctant to get up. The breeze from above blew briskly, and the branches and leaves of the trees and shrubs rubbed against each other, producing a soft, continuous ‘sho’ sound. In harmony with that natural music, the sweet voice of a young boy sang a Thevaram hymn of Sundaramurthi Swamigal in a melodious tune:

“O golden-hued one, who girds the tiger skin about your waist, O wearer of the radiant konrai blossoms upon your shining, ruddy locks!”

Hearing this, Vandiyathevan opened his eyes and looked around. Before him, in the flower garden, the konnai trees displayed their golden blossoms, swaying gently. Sendhan Amudhan, holding a basket in one hand and a sickle in the other, was plucking konrai flowers while singing, his voice rising with the morning. Having risen early, bathed, and smeared himself with sacred ash, Sendhan Amudhan resembled the devoted Markandeya himself. As he listened to the boy’s sweet and melodious voice, Vandiyathevan thought with a tinge of envy that his own mother had not given him such a gift. Why could he not, like Amudhan, tend a flower garden, serve Lord Shiva, and spend his days in bliss? Why must he wander from town to town, sword and spear in hand? Why must he always be prepared either to kill or be killed? Such thoughts arose in his mind.

But soon his mind changed. Could everyone in the world become a devotee of Shiva like Sendhan Amudhan? Thieves, robbers, tricksters, and those who found joy in tormenting the innocent would always exist. There must be a government to restrain such people and establish justice and dharma. To run a government, there must be kings and ministers. To protect them from danger, there must be guards and soldiers. And for kings, there must be messengers like himself to carry their letters… Yes! Today, he must see Emperor Sundara Chola at any cost. He must see the Emperor before Periya Pazhuvettarayar returned; otherwise, it might become impossible…

After bathing in the lotus pond beside the flower garden, Vallavarayan adorned himself with his finest clothes and ornaments, dressing with great care. Could he go to meet the Emperor in an ordinary manner? For this— Did he adorn himself simply out of habit, or was it because the thought of seeing the young mistress of Pazhuvoor once again lingered in his mind that day? We cannot say for certain.

After the morning meal, when Sendhan Amudhan set out with a basket of flowers for the midday pooja service, Vandiyathevan too departed, intending to seek an audience with the Emperor. The two of them walked together. Vallavarayan had already decided not to take his horse inside the fort. It was necessary to give the animal ample time to rest. Who could say—he might need to use it for a swift journey at any moment. In any case, it was best for the horse to remain here. As they made their way toward the fort gates, Vandiyathevan conversed with Amudhan, gleaning a few more details.

“Other than your mother, do you have any other close relatives?” Vallavarayan asked.

Amudhan replied, “Yes, I do. My mother has a brother and a sister, both born to the same mother. My aunt passed away some time ago; my uncle serves at the temple of Kuzhagar in Kodikkarai, tending to the flowers. At night, he also lights and guards the lamp at the lighthouse… He has a son and a daughter; the daughter…” He paused.

“What about the daughter?”

“Oh, nothing. There’s a peculiarity in our family. Some are born mute; others possess the sweetest voices and sing beautifully…”

“Your uncle’s daughter isn’t mute, is she?” asked Vandiyathevan.

“No, no!”

“Then say she sings well. Does she sing better than you?”

“Your question is amusing—it’s like asking, ‘Does the cuckoo sing better than the crow?’ When Poonguzhali sings, even the king of the ocean halts his roaring waves to listen in silence. The cows, goats, and even the wild beasts of the forest stand transfixed, forgetting themselves…”

“Is your uncle’s daughter’s name Poonguzhali? What a beautiful name!”

“Is it only the name that is beautiful?”

“She must be beautiful as well; otherwise, would you speak of her with such rapture?”

“The sky and the peacock must beg for alms of beauty from her. Even Rathi and Indrani would need to perform penance for many lifetimes to attain such loveliness as hers.”

Vallavaraiyan could see that Sendhan Amudhan’s heart was not wholly immersed in his devotion to Shiva.

“In that case, tell me who would be a suitable bride for you. Since she is your uncle’s daughter, she is your cousin, isn’t she? When is the wedding?” asked Vandiyathevan.

“Never shall I claim that anyone is suitable for me. In no way am I worthy of her. If, as in the olden days, a swayamvara were held for Poonguzhali, kings from fifty-six lands would come to compete for her hand! Just as gods descended from the heavens to wed Damayanti, so too would they come for her. But perhaps, in this Kali Yuga, such things do not happen…”

“In that case, even if she wished to marry you, would you refuse her?” asked Vandiyathevan.

“That would be something! If the Lord himself appeared before me and asked, ‘Will you come to Kailasa with this body like Sundaramurthi, or will you remain on earth with Poonguzhali?’ I would say, ‘I wish to live with Poonguzhali.’ But what use is it for me to say so?”

“Why do you say it is of no use? If you are willing, then the marriage is as good as done, isn’t it? Does everyone marry only after asking the woman’s consent? For example, Periya Pazhuvettaraiyar married after the age of sixty-five! Do you think that marriage took place only with the queen’s consent?”

“Anna! That is