It is Pongal, and what comes to mind first? The earthen pot brimming with rice, stalks of sugarcane leaning against doorways, and uriyadi competitions on sunlit streets? Pongal is often remembered as a deeply visual festival. Yet, dwelling on what we see, we tend to forget the importance and joy of what we hear.
From early human history, sound has been central to communication. It has been used to signal, celebrate, warn, and bind communities, often beyond spoken language. Across eastern India, ‘ululudhvan’ in Bengal, Odisha, and Assam marks weddings, rituals, and moments of collective joy, with women using sharp, rhythmic ululations as a shared cultural signal. Similar vocal expressions exist in South Africa, where ululation forms an integral part of ceremonies and celebrations, expressing approval, excitement, and communal pride.
In Tamil culture too, this tradition takes the form of kulavai or kuravai, a high-pitched rolling call traditionally voiced by women in homes, temples, and fields. For Tamil people, it is inseparable from Pongal, rising as a sound of thanksgiving for harvest, abundance, and community.
According to Meenakshi Devaraj, a historian, mentions of kulavai are predominantly found in Sangam literature. “There are references of women using sounds made with their tongue and mouth to shoo away birds and other animals from the fields during the harvest season. There are also references of women making similar sounds during festivals and celebrations,” she says.
A Mangai, theatre director and scholar, also points to references in Sangam literature but also in Silappatikaram which mentions tribes performing kulavai. She adds, “I understand kulavai as a sound that is used at joyful occasions. It signifies the presence of women coming together and leading the whole community. It is a way of calling to nature and the universe.”
When asked for its etymological connection, Meenakshi says, many believe the term evolved from the kuravai dance, traditionally performed by women who moved in circles while creating rhythmic vocal sounds, particularly among women in agrarian communities. However, she personally believes it is merely a convenient etymological overlap, one that is easy to point to but not necessarily conclusive, adding how there is more scope for research to understand this vocal legacy.
Beyond the agricultural landscape, the practice gradually found its way into celebrations in everyday life. This shift, Meenakshi says, happened over time, as Sangam literature makes no mention of formal ceremonies or marriages. Instead, it speaks of two people falling in love, living together, and celebrating life events such as union and childbirth. Since kulavai was already associated with joy and auspiciousness, it could have naturally become part of social rituals, she adds. Today, it is heard at weddings, puberty ceremonies and in temples, long before structured musical accompaniments like the nadaswaram and melam entered the ritual space.
Gendered practice
Mangai says, “Kulavai, in terms of anthropology, is connected to fertility.” Therefore, it is traditionally practiced by women, who in ancient Tamil society were seen as symbols of fertility and life. “I believe that women are seen as guardians of life as they nurtured life for nine months within them. Not just in Tamil civilisation, any ancient civilisation like the Greek, saw women as symbols of fertility,” she informs.
She notes that despite the growth of civilisation, many traditional rites associated with agriculture have endured. One example is the seed-planting ritual associated with marriage in Tamil culture, where grains or pulses are sown in pots, nurtured for a period, and then the sprouts are immersed in water. This mulappari or paligai-type practice is still observed as a fertility and prosperity rite in some communities, symbolising growth, continuity and blessing for the couple’s life together. The ritual involves women tending the planted pots and often includes songs, kulavai, and dances, too.
Mangai, today, views kulavai as a feminist call, a way to reclaim and celebrate women’s voices. “In 1996, we held our first Kulavai Festival, bringing together women in theatre and performance, creating space for them to be seen and heard. We called it ‘Kulavai’ and discovered the power embedded in the word itself. When we revived ‘Kulavai’ in 2025, it became, for me, a way of owning the legacy of our foremothers, honoring their voices, their joy, and the power of women coming together in celebration,” she concludes.