That year, the monsoon did not begin at its usual time. Twice, it seemed as though the rains would start, but each time, after a brief drizzle, they ceased abruptly. The flow of water in the Kaveri river and its tributaries gradually dwindled. The newly planted paddy fields began to wither for lack of irrigation. “It’s all a calamity brought on by the malefic star!” the people began to murmur among themselves.

“It seems as though misfortune is visiting the land in every way,” “Confusion in the affairs of the kingdom,” “No news of the prince,” “And now, even the skies seem poised to betray us”—such were the words that Senthan Amudhan and Poonguzhali heard all along their journey.

The absence of rain, however, was something of a convenience for their travels. That day, the sun had blazed fiercely since morning. By afternoon, the heat was almost unbearable. Even as they walked beneath the cool shade of trees lining the royal road, sweat poured from their bodies.

“Does this feel like the month of Aippasi at all? Isn’t it more like the scorching month of Vaikasi?” they said to each other as they went along.

A short while after the palanquin from the palace of the Pazhuvettaraiyars had passed them by, a sudden cool breeze began to blow. The leaves of the roadside trees rustled and whispered in the wind. To the northeast, the sky darkened. At the horizon, dense, dark clouds began to gather. In a matter of moments, those masses of cloud, like a herd of maddened elephants, collided and surged upward in the sky.

The gentle breeze turned into a strong wind; in that wind, small drops of rain came hissing down. Soon, a light drizzle began, and within half an hour, with a roaring sound, a heavy downpour commenced. The trees along the roadside suffered terribly in the wind and rain. Branches snapped and fell with a crackling sound. The birds that had sought shelter in those trees now shrieked and scattered in all directions. The travelers on the road, too, fled helter-skelter.

Some ran to escape the rain and wind. Others ran, fearing that tree branches might fall upon their heads and bring death. Still others, frightened by the thunder that roared like the bursting of the heavens, fled in panic. In the grip of the rain, within a short while, daylight faded and night drew near. The thought of entering the Thanjavur fort that very night was abandoned by both Sendhan Amudhan and Poonguzhali.

They decided that it would suffice if they could reach Sendhan Amudhan’s garden hut that night. In the monsoon darkness, they encouraged each other and walked on cautiously.

“Poonguzhali! You have witnessed so many storms and heavy rains in the midst of the open sea! You are one who has sailed a boat amidst waves as tall as mountains! Why are you so afraid of this rain?” asked Sendhan Amudhan.

“No matter how fierce the storm or how heavy the rain in the open sea, trees do not break and fall upon your head, do they? If anything falls, it is only lightning that strikes,” replied Poonguzhali.

Even as Poonguzhali spoke thus and closed her mouth, a little distance ahead of them, they heard the sharp crack and crash of a tree breaking and falling. Sendhan Amudhan gripped Poonguzhali’s hand tightly and stopped moving forward.

“There is no use hurrying on now. There are some mandapams along the roadside here; let us stay in one of them for a while and proceed after the rain’s fury has lessened,” said Sendhan Amudhan.

“That is a good idea. But how will we find the mandapam in this darkness?” asked Poonguzhali.

“We can spot it when the lightning flashes. We must look carefully on both sides!” said Sendhan Amudhan.

A lightning bolt flashed, turning sky and earth into a golden blaze, dazzling their eyes.

“There! There is a mandapam!” exclaimed Sendhan Amudhan.

Poonguzhali too saw the mandapam. In that same flash of lightning, she also noticed, a little ahead of them, a large tree lying fallen across their path. Beneath the fallen tree, it seemed as if some people were trapped.

“Amudha! Did you see the tree lying there? Underneath it…” she began.

“Yes, I saw it. It looks like the same fate is about to befall us as well. Let’s hurry and reach the mandapam!” Saying this, Amudhan seized Poonguzhali’s hand and, pulling her along, hastened in the direction of the mandapam.

The two of them reached the shelter. They wrung the water from their rain-soaked garments. After squeezing out her clothes, Poonguzhali also wrung out her long hair. The water she squeezed out fell onto the floor of the mandapam and ran in little rivulets.

“Oh dear! We’ve made the mandapam all wet,” said Poonguzhali.

“It will do the mandapam no harm. You won’t catch a chill or fever from this! But you’re completely drenched,” said Sendhan Amudhan.

“I was born and raised by the sea. My other name is ‘Samudra Kumari’—the Princess of the Ocean. Rainwater can do nothing to me,” replied Poonguzhali.

At that moment, her heart leapt from the roadside mandapam near Thanjavur’s fort to the Choodamani Vihara at Nagapattinam. Was it not at that Choodamani Vihara that she was first called ‘Samudra Kumari’?

“Poonguzhali, my garden and hut are not far from here. Once the rain stops, we can go there. My mother will take good care of you,” said Amudhan. But his words reached Poonguzhali’s ears only half-heard.

Once again, a flash of lightning split the darkness. In its sudden glare, the scene before them, which had been only dimly visible before, now appeared clearly. Both of them were startled.

Almost directly opposite the mandapam, a great banyan tree had been uprooted and lay sprawled across the road. Its wide-spreading branches and aerial roots were broken and scattered in wild disarray. Caught beneath them were two horses and five or six people. Others were trying to