Two thousand years ago, the Chola king Karikala Peruvazhuthan raised embankments on both sides of the Kaveri River. For a long time, those banks remained in good condition, keeping the Kaveri’s waters under control. Later, the strength of the Chola dynasty waned. The Pandyas, Pallavas, Kalabhras, and Vaanars rose in power. During this period, the Kaveri, left without a vigilant guardian, frequently breached its banks and broke through its confines. On some occasions, when the embankments broke on a large scale, the very course of the river would change, flowing in new directions. The old Kaveri would become the new Kaveri; if the river’s path changed entirely, the former riverbed would sometimes turn into fertile land, or at other times, become stagnant pools, surging and foaming like the sea.

To the south of the Chola palaces in Pazhaiyarai, adjoining the royal compounds, there was such a watercourse.

This channel, formed due to the altered course of the Kaveri, had been deliberately deepened and widened by the Chola kings, so that water always brimmed within it. For the palace, and especially for the inner quarters, this broad waterway served as a formidable line of defense. No one could easily approach by that route. Only those closely associated with the palace could come by boat.

The beautiful pleasure gardens of the palace women were laid out along the banks of this waterway. The ladies of the palace would stroll there at any hour, without fear. They would gather together, frolic like peacocks, sing like nightingales. Sometimes, they would descend into the channel to bathe. They would row boats and play upon the water.

Whenever a king of the Chola dynasty passed away and another ascended the throne, it was customary to build a new palace. The queens and children of the deceased monarch would reside in the old palace.

Among the palaces of Pazhaiyarai, next to the residence of Sembiyan Maadevi, the palace of Princess Kundavai stood out in beauty and grandeur. Was it not the palace where Sundara Chola himself had once resided? After he departed for Thanjavur, Kundavai became the mistress of that palace. Behind that palace, the garden bloomed in splendid beauty. Towering banyan trees stretched towards the sky; delicate, tiny flowering shrubs clustered below. Creepers wound themselves in and out, embracing the trees, and there were bowers woven from flowering vines.

It was the custom of Kundavai and her companions to spend most evenings in that very garden.

At times, they would all gather in one spot, sitting together, exchanging stories, and bursting into laughter.

At other times, they would split into pairs or groups of three, wandering off to share secrets in private.

For some days now, Kundavai and Vanathi had formed the habit of separating from the rest and conversing alone.

That day, the two of them sat together on a swing made of vines, tied to a great banyan branch, swaying gently as they spoke.

The cheerful laughter of the women, vying with the chattering