Thanni vandhuruchu, doi!”— the joyous cry echoed across villages and riverbanks. A little before the start of Aadi this year, videos flooded our feeds: people praying, children dancing barefoot in slush, women placing beetle leaves and turmeric-soaked lemons at the river’s edge, and elders watching in quiet reverence as the mighty Cauvery returned. One such video alone touched nearly two million views, capturing the raw emotion of people.
It was more than a seasonal spectacle. It was an ancient way of aligning with nature, giving thanks to what sustains life, and praying for continued balance between the earth, rain, and the river. For the people of Tamil Nadu, the Cauvery is a giver, a guardian, and therefore, a goddess.
Aadi Perukku, celebrated yesterday — the 18th day of Aadi — is a tribute to this life-giving goddess. It marks the swelling of the river, timed with the monsoon rains, and is observed with rituals far removed from the urban rhythm of the city; but central to the cultural identity of Tamil Nadu. CE speaks to those who live along and worship Cauvery, to remind us city-dwellers of a tradition rooted in oneness with nature.
According to Srivatsan Ramkumar, the celebration is central to the abundant water that gushes through, providing much respite from the harsh summers. “It is celebrated because it provides irrigation for the farmers but the river also has religious significance. Since the arrival of water adds greenery to the landscape and enables new vegetation, people believe the river to be a personification of goddess Amman,” he says.
Nandini Arasi, a resident of Chennai, who used to live in Tiruchy, says that the rituals centre around taking a dip in the river, placing fruits, beetle leaves, and flowers on a banana leaf at the river’s banks, and praying to the river for prosperity. Karthiyayini, a resident of Karur, adds, “At Karur, on the banks of Cauvery, there are steps and usually on Aadi Perukku, 18 steps would be filled with water. Here, we believe the river to be the Kannimar deivam — seven goddesses.”
Before the 18th day of Aadi, in Karur’s households, nine grains are sown and watered. As tiny shoots begin to sprout, they are carefully gathered and released into the river on the 18th day with a prayer that they must take root and flourish along her fertile banks. “This is called the Molapaari,” says Karthiyayini, adding that married women also tie threads smeared in turmeric around their necks while the others tie them around their wrists after praying to the river.
Sakunthala, a resident of Tiruchy, informs that many newly weds even preserve their wedding garlands and exchange them once again, bearing the river as their witness.
Aadi on a plate
No festival is complete without food and Aadi Perukku is no exception. While it’s mostly lemon, coconut, and tamarind rice, there’s more to the celebration than these vibrant lunchbox staples. These rice varieties became tradition largely because they were easy to prepare, pack, and share along the riverbanks, where families would offer prayers and then eat together under the open sky. These rice varieties are also often what’s offered as prasadham in temples.
But for many, Aadi Perukku is also fondly remembered for something more — a celebratory mutton feast, bringing loved ones together over slow-cooked flavours and stories passed down with every bite. Yazhini, who goes home to Karur every year for Aadi Perukku says, “We don’t pack food to the river side. Instead, after worshipping, we return home and sacrifice a goat. We prepare a feast and eat together.”
Whether it’s waking up early to cook and pack meals or returning home after rituals to prepare a feast, the physical labour women put in — essential to the celebration itself — is rarely acknowledged for what it is: unpaid, invisible work that quietly upholds tradition and togetherness.
Yet, even as these age-old customs continue through their efforts, the way we celebrate has begun to shift. Today’s festivities often leave behind an unfortunate footprint — plastic bags discarded into the river, and waste scattered along its banks.
Acts meant to honour nature, risk harming it; turning devotion into disregard.