That night, in one of the ancient Pallava emperors’ palaces at Mamallapuram, those three illustrious heroes took their rest. After they had finished their evening meal, the Malaiyaman king, having heard that the tale of Aravan was being recited near the Five Chariots, went there to listen. Aditya Karikalan and Parthibendran ascended to the upper terrace of the palace.

From the terrace, Aditya Karikalan gazed for a while at the nightscape of Mamallapuram. Here and there, a few lamps flickered dimly, casting a faint glow. Silence reigned over most of the streets. In the temples, the midnight rituals had ended, and the outer doors were being shut. The roar of the sea sounded with a mournful note, echoing “Ooo…” By the Five Chariots, the ballad singer and his troupe were performing the tale of Aravan; the crowd gathered around them, listening intently, appeared as dark, shadowy forms in the lamplight.

“At this age, the old man has gone off to listen to stories! See that? Whatever else may be said, men of the old days were truly men! Who among us today possesses their strength of body and firmness of mind?” said Aditya Karikalan.

“My lord! Have you too begun to praise the greatness of the olden days? What feat did those men of the past accomplish that we have not matched in our own time? Even in stories and epics, I have not heard of anyone who, in his youth, performed deeds of valor on the battlefield as you have,” said Parthibendran.

“Parthiba! You are a man of true heart. I know well that you do not speak one thing while harboring another in your mind. Otherwise, you would not be my friend; I would suspect you to be a secret enemy. Yet, you flatter me so much! Nothing else can cast a man into the deepest pit of hell as surely as flattery!” said Aditya Karikalan.

“Sir! If one, with selfish intent, invents and utters false praise about another, that is flattery. If I were to go to Madurantakan, who is now a slave to the Pazhuvettarayars in Thanjavur, and say, ‘You are the bravest of the brave,’ that would be flattery. If ever you find me doing such a thing, kill me at once with the sword in your hand. In what I have said about you, not a word—” “Not many words, are there? In ancient times, what hero achieved such great deeds at so young an age? If one must name someone equal to you, perhaps your great-grandfather, Rajaditya—who sleeps atop his elephant—might be mentioned; but even he cannot be said to have surpassed you…”

“Stop, Parthiba, stop! Where is Rajaditya, and where am I? Who are we to even speak of Rajaditya, who, with a small force, stood against the vast, surging armies of the Rashtrakutas—raging like the great ocean—and destroyed them utterly, attaining the hero’s heaven? To compare ourselves to him? Leave aside the Chola lineage; even in your own Pallava clan, what great souls once lived! Will this land ever again see the likes of Mahendravarman or Mamallar? Where is Narasimhavarman, who, from the Tungabhadra in the south to the Narmada in the north, ruled under a single umbrella, defeated Pulikesi, destroyed Vatapi, and erected the pillar of victory? And where are you and I? In our time or in the ages to come, can anyone create a dream-city like this Mamallapuram? Ah! Just look around you, Parthiba, look well in all four directions! See there, the villu paatu is being performed—look closely! Were those who carved such wondrous chariots from living rock mere ordinary men? When I think of what a glorious spectacle Mamallapuram must have been three hundred and fifty years ago, my very body thrills! Do you not feel such emotion? Do your shoulders not swell with pride when you think of your ancestors?”

“Your Majesty! Just now you accused me of flattery, did you not? Sometimes you forget that I also point out your faults. This madness for sculpture, painting, and art has seized you as well! It was this very madness that rendered all my ancestors’ victories fruitless. After Mamallar went to Vatapi, erected the pillar of victory, and returned—what did he do? He sat carving stones and hollowing out rocks! And what was the result? In a short while, the Chalukyas rose again, flourishing. They returned with great armies to take revenge. They destroyed Kanchipuram and Uraiyur. They marched as far as Madurai. If Nedumara Pandiyan had not halted and defeated the Chalukya army at Nelveli, would not the whole of this southern land still be under Chalukya rule today?”

“No, Parthiba, no! We have never heard of any royal dynasty in this world that endured forever. Even the Ikshvaku line, in which Rama was born, came to an end. To overthrow the Chalukyas, the Rattamandalam kings arose.

It is the nature of kingdoms that sometimes they rise to great heights, and at other times they fall into decline. Some kingdoms, after flourishing in glory for a time, vanish without a trace. Look at my own ancestors! Karikala Valavan, Killivalavan, and other Chola kings—how illustrious and renowned they were! What do we know of them now? Only because a few poets sang their praises do we even know their names. Did those bards truly sing the truth, or did they, after indulging in strong drink, sing whatever came to their minds? We cannot say.

But Mahendra Pallava and Mamalla—did they not create this city of sculptures? For thousands of years, this city will proclaim their greatness to the world. What have you and I done to match their deeds? We have slain thousands on the battlefield; we have caused rivers of blood to flow. What else have we done to make our names endure in this world?”

Hearing these words, Parthibendran stood stunned for a moment, wondering if it was indeed Aditya Karikalan who spoke thus. After a deep sigh, he said, “My lord! If you