“So you’re heading back to ‘Elephant Boil’,” said a friend, as I prepared to leave Chennai a couple of weeks ago. When I turned an uncomprehending look on him, he explained, “Aanai = Elephant; Katti = Boil.” Even as I groaned at the horrible joke, I wondered what gave the place its name. When I got back, I started asking around about how the villages in the area got their names.
Take Anaikatti itself. There are two versions, the common factor being the fact that elephants were kept tied up in this area (aanai = elephant; katti = to be tied up). In one, it was the British who kept the elephants they captured tied up here. In another, the elephants meant for temple festivals were kept tied up here before being taken to Coimbatore.
The second version plays a role in how the village of Vadakalur got its name. Originally a part of the Anaikatti, it had a huge tamarind tree to which the elephants would be tied before beginning their trek to the city. Unfortunately, a storm uprooted the tree and, using the direction in which it fell, the villagers began to refer to their area as Vadaku Anaikatti (North Anaikatti). A few hundred years ago, there was a fight between two groups during the temple festival and the area split into two groups. The northern side became Vadakalur ( ur meaning village) and the southern side became Thekkalur ( therku = south). Over time, the suffix ‘Anaikatti’ was dropped.
As the stories began to come in, there was none as endearing as how Vattalakki got its name. Local legend has it that, during colonial times, a Britisher who was posted to the place learnt of a substantial legacy soon after he reached. “What a lucky place!” he exclaimed. And ‘what a lucky’ was soon corrupted to Vattalakki. Another one that caught my fancy was Thonnipalayam, drawn from the thonni (small tub-like boats) in which people crossed the river. The Siruvani is said to be very deep at this point.
Many names are drawn from the surroundings but have been corrupted over time. Kottathara, for example, is located at the confluence of the Bhavani and Siruvani. The local term for confluence, kooduthurai, soon became Kottathara. Gulikadavu has a similar story. Originally the place was Kulikadavu; Kuli referring to the trees that filled the area; kadavu because it was the place where people forded the river. One fanciful story asserts that the trees fell during a storm and formed a bridge across the river.
In some cases, the name seems particularly apt. Like Aalamaramedu. The aalamaram (banyan) is still found at the centre of the village. Medu means elevations. As you approach Aalamaramedu from either side, the road begins to climb. Not only is the village located on a slightly higher level than the others but it is also surrounded by hills on all sides. All you see around are elevated mounds. There’s also Arnatkadu (aaru = river, nat = mountain and kadu = forest) which abounds in the three elements that make up its name. And Mannarkadu, a combination of mud (mannu), river (aaru) and forest (kadu).
Some areas have lost the markers that gave them their name. Maankarai, for instance. In my ignorance, I split the name as Maan (deer) and karai (banks) and built up a lovely little image of herds of deer drinking at the river banks only to be informed that, while the river bank was correct, the Maan came from maanga (mango). There was a huge mango grove on the banks of the river. Today a couple of trees soon after the forest check post stand testimony to this tale.
Vettalakandi and Jambukandi are also cases in point. The first was named for the profusion of betel leaf vines (vetrilai) that grew in this area and the second for the number of jamun trees. Kandi means a dense growth. Those who settled in a dense grove of banyan trees (aalankandi) tacked on a pudur (new village) and thus Aalankandipudur got its name.
Some names are very literal. Latchamveedu means just that; one lakh houses. Obviously no one had the time or inclination to think of another name but decided to go with the government’s initiative to build one lakh houses in that area. And then there’s Pudur. No prefix or suffix. When people came and settled there, they began referring to it as pudu ur. And thus a name was born.
