Evening had settled in, calm and radiant. The sea at the edge of Kodikkarai lay still, its waves subdued and resting. Fishing boats and rafts drifted gently toward the shore. Birds that had ventured out over the ocean in search of prey were now returning home. A stretch of white sand extended along the coastline, and beyond that, for a great distance, the forest spread thick and wild. The branches of the trees did not sway; not a leaf stirred. Silence reigned in every direction. The red-gold sun hastened downwards, toward the place where sea and sky merged. Clusters of clouds, trying to veil the sun’s crimson rays, caught his light and glowed with borrowed brilliance.

At the water’s edge, a small boat floated on the sea. The gentle ripples of the ocean rocked the boat as softly as a mother might rock a jeweled cradle for her child. In that boat sat a young woman. At the sight of her, we are reminded of the way Sendhan Amudhan once described his uncle’s daughter. Yes; this must be Poonguzhali. True to her name, a petal of the fragrant thazhampoo flower adorned her hair, shining with delicate beauty. Her long, dark tresses curled and cascaded down, adorning her well-shaped shoulders. She wore ornaments fashioned from the shells and conches that the waves had cast upon the shore. Yet, it was not these ornaments that lent her beauty; rather, it was her beauty that gave these ornaments their charm. When beauty itself takes form, what jewel can further enhance it?

Poonguzhali reclined gracefully in the boat and sang. It seemed as though the sea had stilled its waves just to listen to her song! As though the wind, too, had ceased to blow and crept softly, not to disturb her melody! Even the distant forest trees appeared to stand motionless, listening intently to her voice, not a leaf stirring. The sky and the earth seemed entranced by her song, pausing in silent wonder. Even the sun, it seemed, hesitated at the horizon, reluctant to plunge into the ocean and vanish, drawn by her melody.

Let us lend our ears for a moment to that song, sweet as honey, floating through the air:

“When the waves of the sea are stilled, Why does the ocean within me surge?” When Mother Earth herself lies in slumber, why does my heart alone throb restlessly? The birds that dwell in the forest have all sought their nests! The hunters and bowmen have returned homeward; The sky and the earth are sunk in deep silence— Yet why does a tempest rage within the heart of a doe-eyed maiden? While the ocean lies still and the breeze creeps softly, Why does a whirlwind stir within the soul of this dark-haired girl?

Who can say what sorrow has made its home in the heart of that young maiden? Who can tell what mingled bliss and anguish tremble in her melodious voice? Or perhaps, when the song was first composed, the poet mixed tears with the words—who knows? But when we hear her sing that song, why does our own heart swell and threaten to break?

Poonguzhali ceased her singing. She dipped the oar into the water four times. The boat drew near the shore. Poonguzhali leapt lightly from the boat and landed on the bank. She pulled the boat up onto the shore. There, several bundles of timber lay in a heap. She propped the boat against them so that it rested securely. Leaning against the tilted boat, she cast her gaze all around.

There! Atop the lighthouse, a fire had been kindled. The flames leapt high. All through the night, that beacon would burn, warning the ships at sea: “Do not come near!” At the edge of Kodi Karai, the sea is shallow. Only timber rafts and small boats can approach the shore in that place. If a ship or a barge draws near, it will run aground and sink into the sand. If it strikes the shore with force, the hull will split and shatter. Therefore, the lighthouse at Kodi Karai is of utmost importance to sailors.

On the other side, in the midst of a dense grove of stunted trees, a temple tower rose above the canopy. At its base, the Kodi Karai Kuzhagar temple stood. Nearly two hundred years ago, Saint Sundara Moorthi Nayanar had come to this very Kodi Karai. In the heart of the forest, he had visited the solitary shrine of Kuzhagar.

“Oh Lord! How is it that you dwell alone, without companion, in the midst of this wild coastal forest? Was there no other place for you? When there are so many holy sites where throngs of devotees gather to sing your praises, why did you come to this lonely Kodi Karai and endure such hardship?” Why does the temple stand alone in the midst of the forest? Why have these wretched eyes of mine been fated to witness such a sight!” she sang, her heart melting in sorrow.

“When the swift sea-wind comes rushing to the shore, Is it a fault if the hut stands alone by the sands? These wretched eyes have seen you, O Lord of Kodikkarai, Were you not always alone, with none to share your side?”

“To the south of the sacred, fragrant-encircled forest, Where many devotees once gathered in song, O Supreme One, Why did you, Lord of Kodikkarai, amidst blossoming groves, Dwell in solitude? O my Master, why?”

Even two hundred years after Sri Sundaramurthi Nayanar had come and worshipped here, the Lord of Kodikkarai remained in the same state. (And even a thousand years later, to this day, the Lord of Kodikkarai endures in that same solitude!) Around the temple, the forests had grown even denser. In those woods, from the hollows of the trees, owls and nightjars hooted and wailed. Only a few fearsome hunters, wild in appearance, had built scattered huts in the heart of the forest and lived there.

Yes,