There is a kind of argument that has no interest in resolution. The lover who quarrels this way is not trying to win — she is trying to prove that love is inexhaustible, that every word he speaks can be turned inside out to reveal the thing she fears most: that she is not the only one. What Valluvar maps in this chapter is the logic of erotic paranoia — brilliant, self-defeating, and entirely aware of its own absurdity. She finds betrayal in a sneeze. She hears infidelity in a compliment. He says 'I will never leave you,' and she weeps because that means he will leave her in the next life. He stares at her in adoration, and she demands to know whose face he is comparing hers to. Each kural tightens the trap: there is no word he can say, no silence he can keep, no look he can give that she will not dismantle into evidence of disloyalty. And the devastating joke of the chapter is that she is never wrong — not because he is unfaithful, but because love this fierce can survive only by inventing its own threats.