After 108 chapters of righteous conduct and the machinery of statecraft, Valluvar opens the Book of Love with a man who cannot form a coherent sentence. He has seen a woman. That is all. No conversation, no touch, no exchange of names — just one look across a public space, and his warrior's composure disintegrates in real time. Over ten couplets, he stammers through a taxonomy of what she might be (goddess? peacock? mortal?), watches his own gaze returned like an army mobilizing against him, discovers that Death has been wearing a woman's face all along, bargains desperately with her eyebrows, confesses that the battlefield prowess that terrified his enemies has been shattered by a forehead, and finally arrives at the chapter's devastating thesis: love does not need to touch you. It only needs to be seen. The word in the title is 'anangu' — not beauty, not goddess, but a sacral, tormenting power inherent in feminine beauty that overwhelms whoever beholds it. Valluvar has spent two books building systems of order. This chapter is what happens when a single glance tears those systems apart.