The body keeps the score. Long before modern psychology gave us that phrase, Valluvar understood that separation writes itself on the skin. In this chapter, a woman watches pallor — pasalai, the sickly yellow-green hue that Tamil poetry treats as love's signature bruise — spread across her body the moment her lover departs. But this is not a medical report. It is an argument between a woman and her own flesh. She consented to his leaving. She thinks of nothing but him. She speaks of nothing but his virtues. And still her body betrays her, turning the color of grief faster than she can explain it away. The chapter's deeper nerve is the injustice of visibility: the whole town sees her pallor and blames her for pining, but no one accuses the man who left. By the final kural, she has stopped fighting the pallor altogether — let it come, she says, so long as no one speaks ill of him. Love has become a willingness to wear the wound so the one who caused it goes unblemished.