Lying is dramatic. Slander has a victim. Harsh speech leaves a bruise. But the fourth sin of the tongue is the strangest one: saying nothing wrong, nothing cruel, nothing false — and still sinning. Valluvar has already dealt with the spectacular failures of language in previous chapters. Now he turns to its most insidious one: words that commit no crime except existing for no reason. The chapter's logic is merciless. Empty speech does not merely waste time. It actively dismantles the speaker — stripping reputation, severing goodness, downgrading a human being to chaff. By the midpoint, Valluvar delivers a verdict more savage than anything he said about liars: at least a liar had a purpose. The babbler has nothing. And then the chapter executes a turn that no reader expects. Having spent six kurals cataloguing the destruction, Valluvar grants a strange permission: speak harshly if you must — even that is forgivable. But never, ever speak to no end. The final couplet is not a prohibition. It is a chisel: carve away everything that does not serve, and what remains is speech worth hearing.