Many centuries ago, when Mahendra Pallava Chakravarthi ruled in Kanchipuram, he made arrangements for the Mahabharata to be read throughout the land. Owing to the spread of Buddhist and Jain philosophies, the people of Tamil Nadu had become gentle and ascetic; to rekindle and spread the spirit of valor, he made these arrangements. He built Bharata Mandapams in many towns specifically for the recitation of the Mahabharata. The tradition he began continued unbroken in the Thondai region. At night, people would gather in the mandapams or in open spaces to listen to the stories of the Mahabharata. Many bards arose who could narrate the great epic and its sub-stories in song, verse, and prose, with stirring heroism.

When Arjuna went on his pilgrimage, he encountered Chitrangi, the princess of Manipur, in a forest near Manipur. The two fell in love. To Chitrangi was born a beloved son, Aravan. Being the son of Arjuna and a princess of the hill country, Aravan was a mighty warrior. When he learned that the great war of the Mahabharata was about to begin, he joined the Pandava army. Before the war commenced, it was said that a young hero possessing all auspicious qualities must be offered as a sacrifice for victory. At that moment, Aravan stepped forward and declared, “Here I am; offer me as the sacrificial victim!” As there was no greater warrior than Aravan among the Pandavas, and since he had volunteered, it was decided that he should be the one sacrificed.

The tale of the valiant Aravan, who gave his life for the victory of his side, captured the hearts of the Tamil people. Wherever temples were built for Draupadi Amman, shrines for Aravan were also constructed nearby, and festivals were held in his honor.

That night, near the Five Rathas of Mamallapuram, the story of Aravan seemed to have come to an end. “Long live Sundara Chola Chakravarthi, lord of the three worlds!” “Long live Kopparakesari Aditya Karikalan!”—such shouts arose from many voices and floated through the air. Those who had been listening to the story began to rise and disperse.

“The story is over. Malayaman will return in a little while,” said Karikalan. “The tale of Aravan has ended; but the story you were telling us is not yet finished, is it?” asked Parthiban.

“Look at the resolve of Malayaman at this age! He intends to stay awake until midnight, listening to stories!” said Karikalan.

“Is it such a wondrous thing to remain alive into old age? There are so many elders in the land. They too stay up at night, unable to sleep, listening to tales…”

“Would you compare Thirukovalur Miladudaiyar to such ordinary old men? How many battlefields has he witnessed? It is doubtful whether we will even be alive at his age. Even if we are, we will not possess his strength of will.”

“Sire! There is a reason why the men of olden times were so steadfast…”

“And what is that reason?”

“They did not get ensnared in the wiles of women. They did not lose their hearts to the daughter of a mere priest and spend their days pining for her. If ever their hearts did stray towards a woman, they would seize her by her hair, bring her to the harem, and then turn to other matters!”

“Parthiba! Nandini is not truly the daughter of a priest; there must be some secret about her birth…”

“What does it matter whose daughter Nandini is? Whether she is a priest’s daughter, a king’s daughter, or even an orphan—what difference does it make? Look at that other elder, Periya Pazhuvettaraiyar! He saw her somewhere along the way, immediately seized her, and locked her up in the harem, adding her to his wives…”

“Friend! When I think of it, I find it astonishing!”

“What do you find astonishing? That the old man fell into her snare?”

“No, no! What amazes me is how a woman who once claimed to love me, then loved Veerapandiyan and tried to save his life, could agree to marry this aged nobleman. That is what I find so astonishing.”

“That does not seem at all surprising to me, my lord! It is your own actions that strike me as truly astonishing! The Pandiyan, the mortal enemy of the Chola dynasty—though he became more cowardly than a coward, fleeing and hiding after his defeat, yet still called himself ‘Veerapandiyan’—when a woman who had sheltered him and begged for his life sought your mercy, you simply let her go unharmed! That, to me, is more wondrous than any marvel. You ought to have done one of two things: either struck her down there with your sword, or, if you did not wish for that, at least bound her hands and feet and brought her as a captive! Yet you did neither, but left her free and walked away!… Now I remember it clearly, O King! At the entrance of that hut, you brought and laid down Veerapandiyan’s body. We all, like men possessed, raised shouts of victory. Amidst those cries, a sound of weeping came from within the hut. ‘Who is that?’ I asked. ‘Some women from the priest’s family. They are already terrified and distraught. None of you should go inside!’ you said. In our frenzy of triumph, we paid it no heed. At once, we all took up Veerapandiyan’s head and set off; you came with us. But you did not join in our joy and celebration as much as the rest of us. You seemed subdued, lacking in enthusiasm. When I asked you the reason, you gave me some vague reply. I even remember now that I suspected you might have suffered some grievous wound!”

So spoke Parthibendran.

“There was no wound upon my body, Parthiba! But in my heart, a wound was struck that will never heal. The sight of her standing before Veerapandiyan’s deathbed, hands folded, begging me for his life, has never left my mind. My heart trembled,