The most dangerous person in any society is not the one who commits evil openly. It is the one who commits evil while dressed as virtue. Valluvar has spent the preceding chapters building the architecture of renunciation — what must be given up, what discipline demands, what austerity costs. Now he turns and looks at the wreckage: men who put on the robes, shaved their heads or matted their hair, stood in sacred rivers and emerged dripping with holiness — and then, behind closed doors, pursued every appetite they publicly renounced. The chapter is merciless. Valluvar does not merely condemn hypocrisy; he anatomizes it. He shows the impostor's own body laughing at him, his own conscience devouring him, his disguise functioning exactly like a hunter's blind or a cow wrapped in a tiger's skin. And then, in the final three kurals, he pulls back to deliver something unexpected: not just condemnation but a diagnostic tool and a cure. Judge by deeds, not surfaces. And if you want to be holy, skip the costume — just stop doing what the world already knows is wrong.