As soon as she parted from Vanathi, the young princess made her way straight to the Pazhayarai prison. She left her guards outside and went alone to the place where Vandiyathevan was confined. He was locked in a solitary cell. Staring up at the ceiling of his prison, he was singing a themmaangu folk tune with great enthusiasm.

“The stars in the sky Saw you, my dear, My body shivers with delight – I stand entranced, lost in wonder!”

Only after Kundavai came near and cleared her throat did he turn to look at her. At once, he stood up and said, “Welcome! Welcome, Princess! Please, be seated upon the throne!”

“Upon which throne shall I sit?” asked the princess.

“This is your palace. Here, your rule and your command prevail. The throne here—whichever you wish—please, sit as you desire,” said Vallavaraiyan.

“Sir! When your ancestors ruled the three worlds by their decree, perhaps the Vallam palace looked just like this! In our city, this place is called a prison,” said the princess.

“Lady! In our land, there is now neither palace nor prison. Kings from many countries joined together and razed both palace and prison to the ground, a hundred years ago…”

“Why? Why? What angered them so much against the Vallam palace and its prison?”

“All because of a poet’s mischief!”

“Oh! How so?”

“In the days when my ancestors ruled as emperors of the southern lands, from time to time, officials would capture kings who failed to pay tribute and bring them here. On either side of the palace courtyard, they would imprison those kings…” There were prisons. The petty kings, hoping that the Emperor would one day take pity on them and summon them, would wait patiently, thinking they could beg forgiveness and return to their lands. The chance to see the Emperor was not easily granted to them. While they watched and waited, poets and bards would proceed to the Emperor’s royal hall. In the presence of the Emperor, they would recite their verses, receive gifts, and depart. At such times, the petty kings waiting in prison would exclaim in wonder, “Ah! Look at the fortune of these poets! See the gifts they carry away!”

“One king would say, ‘Alas! Is not that poet taking away my white parasol of victory?’ Another would lament, ‘Oh dear! That bard is leaving seated in my palanquin!’ Yet another would cry, ‘Oh no! He is taking away my royal elephant!’ Still another petty king would say with a smile, ‘That is my horse! One day, surely, my horse will throw down this poet!’

After all the poets had come and gone, yet another poet arrived. He overheard the conversation of the petty kings in prison. Listening to them, he went before the Emperor and sang this song:

‘My poem is my palanquin, My shield, my banner, My elephant, my steed— So say they! Let the kings behold The bard who, by the grace Of the great king Vaanan,