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 of birds, could be heard now and then throughout the garden.

But Kundavai and Vanathi alone did not laugh. The laughter of the others did not particularly please them. Nor could it be said that they spoke much more than the others.

From one of the vine bowers, a young woman began to sing. Was it not Krishna’s birthday? The song she sang was, of course, about Krishna.

In the moonlight, the sound of the flute is heard. It torments a maiden who loves Krishna. She opens her lips and pours out her sorrow. From a branch above, a parrot offers her comfort.

Maiden: In the moonlight that brings me pain— Who is the flute-player here? Is it a virtue for my lordless, foolish heart To be tormented so?

Parrot:

May the heavens and the earth be filled with joy— O Lord, the music of the flute, Sweet as honeyed speech, Does it torment you, O maiden, With a pain unknown to this world?

Maiden: O flower! I will worship you— I will pluck the finest punnai blossoms and adorn you— In the hour when my soul is shattered— Is it to offer me solace that you have come?

Parrot: O beauty with the slender waist! By your love— I have come to speak of the sorrow of our Kannan— From the day he parted from you— Even the sweetest butter has turned bitter to him!

Kundavai, who had been listening intently to the latter part of the song, said as soon as it ended, “It is well that our Kannan has become the deity of this land of pure Tamil! If he spends his days eating butter, playing the flute, and idling with women, what will become of all other matters?”

She turned to Vanathi, who had remained silent, and asked, “Why this silence, girl? Have you too been enchanted by Kannan’s flute?”

“Akka! What did you say?” asked Vanathi.

“What did I say? Where had your attention wandered?”

“It did not wander anywhere. It was with you.”

“Ah, sly one! Why do you lie? Truly, your mind is not here at all! Shall I tell you where it is?”

“If you know, do tell!”

“I know it well. He has gone to the battlefield in Eezha Nadu. There, my younger brother—such an innocent soul—your mind is scheming how to bewitch him, what new spell to cast upon him!”

“There is some truth in what you say, Akka! My mind does wander often to Eezha Nadu. But I have never thought of casting any spell upon him. I only wonder how much hardship he must be enduring on the battlefield, how many wounds must mark his noble body, where he lies down to rest, what food he eats—such thoughts fill my mind. When I think of him suffering there, while I remain here, eating in comfort, dressed in fine clothes, sleeping on a soft bed, it pains me. If only I had wings, I would fly to Lanka this