There is a particular cruelty in things that used to be beautiful. A song you danced to, heard after the person is gone. A street you walked together, empty now. In this chapter, the separated woman turns her fury on the most universal of phenomena: evening itself. The hour that once meant reunion — the cattle coming home, the lamps being lit, the lover walking through the door — has become an executioner. Valluvar gives her ten kurals to prosecute her case against dusk, and she holds nothing back. She calls it a killer, a stranger on a battlefield, a weapon. She cross-examines morning and evening as if they were witnesses at a trial. She watches her grief bud at dawn, ripen through the day, and bloom into full flower at nightfall. The chapter's genius is its central move: the woman does not merely describe her suffering. She personifies the hour and fights it — accuses it, mocks it, pities it, and finally surrenders to it. Evening wins. It always does.