Poems with Plot ( Ponniyin Selvan)

Your name in my heart

A story of Vandhiyathevan and Kundhavai Nachiyar

The sun was setting over the lush gardens of Pazhayarai, casting golden hues over the palace corridors and bathing the stone steps in a warm, honeyed glow. Vallavaraiyan Vandhiyathevan had just arrived, a scroll tucked into his waistband, sweat glistening on his brow from the long ride. His mission was secret, delicate. But his eyes were already drawn not to stone walls or thrones but to a presence that felt like moonlight even in the brightening dusk.

She stood in the garden, instructing a group of handmaidens as they tended to the sacred tulsi. Draped in a soft silken saree that swayed like the breeze itself, Kundhavai Pirattiyar, the Chola princess, seemed untouched by the chaos of court politics that Vandhiyathevan had been swimming through since the day he'd accepted Aditya Karikalan's command.

He had heard of her, of course. Who hadn't? The daughter of Sundara Chola, the sister of the beloved prince Arunmozhi Varman, the pride of the empire. A woman as feared for her mind as admired for her beauty. And now—there she was. Real. Breathing. Alive.

"Who are you?" she asked, not startled, but assessing, her eyes sharp like the edge of a veenai string. She had noticed him standing silently, watching.

Vandhiyathevan bowed with his usual flair. "A humble messenger from Kanchi, sent by Prince Aditya Karikalan. I seek the grace of the Chola princess."

"Grace must be earned," she replied, arching one brow. "And I do not offer it to those who watch from behind trees."

He chuckled, undeterred. "Forgive me, Devi. I was simply struck by the beauty of the garden."

"And nothing else?" she asked, eyes narrowing but the corners of her lips curved, ever so slightly.

In that moment, something passed between them. A pause that wasn't awkward, but charged like the air before the monsoon.

The next day, Vandhiyathevan was summoned again not to the court, but to the inner palace, the private gardens where the princess often walked alone. He was surprised. And curious.

"You rode here alone, across enemy lands. You faced danger to bring my brother's words to us," Kundhavai said, walking slowly beside a lotus pond. "You must be reckless or fearless."

He walked beside her, careful not to step on the edges of her shadow. "Both, perhaps. And yet, I fear one thing."

She looked up, interested. "What is that?"

"Your silence," he said simply. "It unsettles me more than the spears of Pandya rebels."

That made her laugh—a soft, unexpected sound, like the first rain after a harsh summer. "You are bold, Vandhiyathevan. Too bold, maybe."

"I have been told that before," he admitted. "But what use is a sword that never dares to strike?"

"Or a tongue that never holds back?" she countered.

They smiled at each other then no longer as warrior and royal, but as something else. Something unnamed.

Days passed. The palace bustled with secret meetings, rumors of conspiracy, and tension over the fate of the empire. Yet in between all that, Vandhiyathevan found moments with her in gardens, hallways, and the hush of twilight. He never dared say the words aloud, and she never asked him to. But there was understanding.

He noticed the way she touched the veena before playing, like a prayer. She noticed how he stood taller when he spoke of her brother. He learned to read the change in her eyes when worry crept into her heart. She learned the rhythm of his silences, rare but telling.

One evening, she asked him, "If the prince ordered you to die for the Chola kingdom, would you?"

"Without question," he replied.

"And if I asked you to live for something quieter, smaller, but lasting?"

He turned to her. "I would live for that. I would live for you."

The words escaped him before he could stop them. For once, Vandhiyathevan felt exposed vulnerable, even. But Kundhavai didn't flinch. She looked at him steadily, and though she said nothing, her eyes softened. She did not rebuke him. That was enough.

Yet their love, if it could be called that yet, was no fantasy. There were no stolen kisses in dark chambers. No whispered oaths. Only quiet glances across corridors and words wrapped in layers of caution and devotion.

When Vandhiyathevan was sent away again, back into danger, she met him one last time in the moonlit garden.

"You may not return," she said, not hiding her worry. "This path is dangerous."

"All paths in your kingdom are worth walking," he said. "If I fall, I fall with your name in my heart."

She stepped forward, and for the first time, touched his hand just once. Brief. Chaste. But enough to shake the very core of him.

"If you return," she whispered, "I will be here. Waiting. Not as a princess but as a woman."

He could say nothing. His throat was too tight. He only bowed not with flair this time, but with reverence and walked away into the night.

He would return. And so would she.

வருவேன் என சொன்ன கண்களில்,
தாமரை பூக்கும் நிமிடம் வரை,
தனிமையின் வலியில் உறங்குகிறாள்.
போரில் அவன், பூவில் அவள்;
வானம் தான் சாட்சி, காதல் பேசாதது.

"In the eyes that once said 'I'll return',
She sleeps in the ache of solitude until the lotus blooms again.
He in war, she in blossom—
The sky is witness; love needs no words."

And that, perhaps, is the most powerful kind of love there is.