There is something almost comic about blaming your own eyes — except that the comedy is the only way left to speak about a pain that has no remedy. In this chapter, the separated heroine turns on her own body with the focused fury of someone who has run out of external targets. Her beloved is gone. The town may gossip. But the real defendant in this courtroom is her own gaze, which first spotted him, first melted, first refused to look away. What follows is a ten-kural prosecution, in which the heroine cross-examines her eyes, mocks their tears, curses their sleeplessness, and finally — in the devastating closing admission — confesses that they have already betrayed her secret to the entire village. The chapter belongs to the great Tamil literary convention of the heroine arguing with her own limbs, but Valluvar strips away the ornamental frame and leaves only the raw interrogation: you did this to me, and now you weep? The laughter that keeps surfacing — she actually laughs at her own crying eyes — is not joy. It is the gallows humor of someone who has identified the arsonist and discovered it was herself.