It is early evening and the rays of the sun gently stroke the waters of the Tamiraparani flowing between two villages — Kalladaikurichi and Ambasamudiram — in down South Tamil Nadu. The ridges of the Western Ghats surround the river, enfolding her, but the river flows freely through the rocks, forming a path of her own.
There is always something mysterious about a river as it springs from a mountain, drops from cliffs and flows gently along plains before joining the sea. Rivers have been the foundation of many a civilisation. As their courses changed, dynasties were built and capitals shifted. The river beds have always hidden many a treasure as several temples have been unearthed from them. We worship rivers, deeming them as goddesses and talk about stories and myths around them. Ask the farmers, and they will tell you rivers can make or break their lives. But then, it is not just the farmers, several communities live and die by the river, as their livelihoods depend on it.
Driving down the villages of Tirunelveli, I realise the Tamiraparani has been nourishing some of the dying local arts and crafts there. In a small hamlet called Pathamadai, are a few families weaving mats from kora grass that grows on the banks of the river. “At one time,” says Sulaiman, “there were several families in the village weaving these mats, but now there are just a few.”
The wedding connection
Showing us a mat being woven for a wedding, with the bride and bridegroom's name in the border, he says: “We used to get orders for every wedding in the community as the mats were included in the girl's seer .” I nod, remembering my ‘wedding mat'. “Pathamadai paai ”, my mother said when she gave it to me. Soft and woven with fine grass, the colours are a melange of red, purple and cream. As I watch the women at work, I think about my mother's and aunts' wedding mats…
We visit another shop belonging to Sulaiman's uncle, who had recently passed away. The weavers are selling boxes and bags besides mats. However, I see more photographs and citations than mats. One of them shows Queen Elizabeth giving a citation to the old man. “There is no demand now, nobody even knows us beyond a few villages, and if it is not for the Tamiraparani, even the little we do now would not be possible,” adds Sulaiman as we buy a few mats and boxes from him and carry on to another village, where another community thrives today, thanks to the Tamiraparani.
The potters of Karaikurichi, referred to as the ‘mann paanai society' say the clay for their pottery comes from the riverbanks. “The clay has medicinal properties,” says one of the potters as we walk inside a huge warehouse filled with pots of various sizes and shapes. I see a family at work. The father is busy as his four-year-old son waits for him to finish making the pot, and gently holds it in both hands and leaves it by a corner.
Outside, a truck arrives and the pots are being loaded, headed to Kerala. “There is a huge demand there,” says the driver. We leave the potters at work, and as I turn back, I see a glimmer of hope, fear and pride in the four-year-old's eye as he delicately balances the huge pot in his tender hands and walks with it towards his mother.
