A short ride over the Goshree bridges lands you in Ochanthuruth. It’s the kind of place you drive through without a second glance. But pause, ask a question or two, and suddenly the island starts speaking in folklore, faith, and a dozen conflicting origin stories.
“Maybe it means something holy,” suggests Maria Joseph, 42, who sells tea near the boat jetty. “There’s that old miracle church here… I feel like the name has something to do with that.”
Indeed, at the village’s core stands the Kurisingal Church, officially named Cruz Milagres.
In 1573, as a Portuguese ship floundered off the coast during a violent storm, its sailors hurled a wooden cross into the sea, praying for mercy. The sea, the story goes, stilled. The cross washed ashore here. Locals, wary but curious, tapped it with a scythe, only to witness blood spurt from the wood. Where it fell, a church eventually rose. The Kurisingal Church.
But the church is just the beginning. This unassuming stretch of land has given Kerala some of its most transformative religious voices.
Mother Eliswa Vakayil, born here in 1831, became the first religious sister in Kerala and later, founded the state’s first indigenous women’s congregation, the Third Order of Discalced Carmelites.
Eliswa’s brother, Fr Louis Vypissery, played his part by bringing out early Malayalam translations of the Bible, thereby making scripture accessible to all.
Adding to this line of legacy, Bishop Joseph Attipetty, the first indigenous Archbishop of Verapoly, hailed from Ochanthuruth.
As to how the place got its name, P Prakash documents in his work, Kochiyile Sthalanamangalude Charithram, that it traces the name back to Paliath Achan, a noble who allegedly had ties to the island.
The Paliath Achans were powerful figures and chief ministers to the Maharajas of Cochin. The area might once have been known as Achanthuruth, gradually morphing into Ochanthuruth through colloquial shifts over time.
Another version suggests a topographical twist: the word ‘ochuka’, in Malayalam, means to lift. Some believe this patch of land may have emerged from accumulated silt or been deliberately raised, inspiring the name.
One of the more culturally rooted explanations involves a sect known as Aochal (or Ukachal), a caste that traditionally performed Maddalam in temples. This community, also known as Pitari, worshipped a village deity — likely a form of Kali.
The name Ochan may be connected to this lineage of temple performers.
It’s also believed that Ochanthuruth could have once been temple property, granted to employees of the Elankunnapuzha temple, tying the name to ritualistic traditions and land grants.
For the people of Ochanthuruth, what remains clear, however, is that no matter how the place got its name, the island has always known how to leave a mark — quietly, insistently, and on its own terms.