𝔎𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔦: The virtue of infinite love

Chapter 9

Dawn had not yet breathed its first sigh over Srivilliputhur. The night clung still, soft as the underside of a lotus leaf, the streets silvered with the last whispers of fading stars. In Periyalvar's home, silence pooled like spilled milk—save for one who woke before even the temple lamps were lit.

"Nārāyaṇā!"

The name spilled from her lips—not spoken, but woven, each syllable a golden thread in the tapestry of the waking world.

Kothai had risen.

No longer the child who chased peacocks through monsoon puddles. Here stood womanhood incarnate—a form so radiant the morning itself hesitated to touch her. Had the sculptor of the gods carved her from moonbeam and desire? Her face glowed like the first sliver of dawn on Shiva's matted locks, her eyes twin flames that could melt the wax wings of celestial bees. Those brows—arched like Kama's bow, drawn taut with divine mischief. That waist—slim as Vishnu's conch, yet curved like the sacred river bending to meet the sea.

What peacock dared spread its fan before her? Its jewels turned dull as roadside pebbles beside the molten gold of her skin. What swan could match her gait? Each step flowed like the Yamuna over smoothed stones, her anklets chiming a melody that made the very wind pause to listen. When she spoke, even the myna—that thief of sweet sounds—fell silent, ashamed of its crude mimicry.

Why burden such perfection with gems or flowers? The Ganga wears no ornaments, yet all rivers bow to her. Her hair—black as the space between stars—cascaded down her back in liquid waves, putting every garland to shame. Let the only adornment be the sandal paste upon her breasts, where each morning she painted Kama's bow anew—a challenge flung at the god of love himself: "Dare compare your arrows to my devotion."

And yet—

This vision who could make apsaras weep with envy carried water from the well, the brass pot balanced on her hip like a second moon. She scrubbed vessels till they mirrored her own luminous face, washed her father's robes in water scented with crushed tulasi. All the while, her lips moved—not in complaint, but in ceaseless mantra, each chore a love letter to Narayana.

Her fingers wove garlands of madhavi and malligai, their perfume swirling with the southern wind that carried secrets from lily ponds and champak groves. The courtyard lay carpeted in surrendered petals—as if the trees had stripped themselves bare to honor her passing.

When she walked through Srivilliputhur's lanes, the marketplace froze mid-breath. Potters forgot their spinning wheels. Goldsmiths let molten metal cool untouched. Even the fishwives' sharp tongues stilled behind parted lips. Old women crossed trembling hands over their hearts: "Is this a maiden or Mohini come again?" Young men fixed their gaze upon the dust—knowing some fires are not meant for mortal eyes.

But Kothai?

She saw none of them.

Her eyes—those bottomless pools—sought only the horizon where her Dark One waited. The world with its noise, its hunger, its petty dramas, dissolved like mist before her single-minded radiance.

Thus did the sun find Srivilliputhur that morning—already outshone by a girl aflame with a love so fierce, it scorched the boundaries between earth and heaven.

The temple bells rang.

The priests chanted.

And somewhere beyond mortal sight, a blue-hued god smiled—

For His beloved had awakened.

The sun, heavy with the weight of day's labors, poured its final ghee-offering upon Srivilliputhur's streets. Kothai moved through the honeyed light, her basket cradling the day's leftover flowers—their perfume mingling with the musk of her sweat, the sacred and the human entwined like jasmine around a temple pillar. Her anklets whispered secrets to the dust with each step, their silver voices fading as twilight swallowed her shadow whole.