As day breaks at Valiyasala Gramam, chants of universal well-being reverberate through the premises, infusing a serenity that lingers through the day. Evenings are equally serene, as dusk sets the stage for music to merge with prayers for peace and prosperity.
This practice, defining the lifestyle of the once-migrant Tamil population, remains frozen in time on these streets — arguably Asia’s largest residential street — and offers a sojourn into the past.
Yet, the charm is not just antiquity or the lifestyle of the residents, whose ancestors settled here around the historically significant Kanthalloor Mahadeva Temple — said to have once headquartered the grand Kanthaloor Sala, a university believed to have rivalled Nalanda and Takshashila.
“The settlements might be over 1,000 years old if one goes by the norm that such community life is often found around temples and learning centres. So, if Kanthalloor Temple is 1,200 years old, the settlements should be as old,” says Uma Maheshwari, a researcher in the Mathilakam Records of Travancore.
The streets were centres of culture, where art flourished alongside the study of philosophy, literature, and music. Until about four decades ago, they reverberated with Carnatic music, with each house nurturing either practitioners or enthusiasts.
The street housed doyens of music, whose homes were nerve centres of art. Among them were Carnatic vocalists Parassala Ponnammal and Vechoor Harihara Subramania Iyer, and flautist K Sivaramakrishnan, fondly known as ‘Flute Swami.’
“Not just them, there were many who led bhagavatha katha and sampradaya bhajan teams,” says octogenarian N Rajagopalan, whose family has lived at Valiyasala for four generations.
The seemingly small houses, opening into spacious, cool interiors with well-lit rooms built in the unique agraharam style, also made space for youngsters who wished to stay and study art, in a gurukula model.
One such student was Ayyankudi Mani, who stayed at Vechoor Harihara Subramania Iyer’s house to study music. The house remains, with remnants of memories, but what is more palpable, according to Mani, is the magnanimity and ardent devotion to art that still lingers in the street.
“This is why I decided to stay back here. I want to be around his presence,” says Mani, who grew into a musician of repute and a teacher.
Sivaramakrishnan’s son, S Janardhanan, recalls how his house was once filled with music.
“Even otherwise, there was music everywhere. We kids played cricket on the street, which was less crowded than now. Years have passed, yet the ambience of art still remains, though not to the extent it once did,” he says.
“Still, the future is a question mark. A lot has indeed changed.”
Outside on the street and inside the homes, a lot has changed. The thinnais (verandahs) have been pulled down to make space for car parks, and the interiors are tiled and furnished in a modern style.
“Every house had an open thinnai. It gave space for travellers who had no place to stay for the night and also served as a congregating space for families sharing walls,” says Rajagopalan.
Yet, the yesteryears refuse to vacate. There is still a nostalgic dimness that lingers in the homes, around the daylight pouring in through the roof openings. There is the tulsi plant in the inner courtyard, and outside, kolams (traditional floor drawings) still display their artistry. Spaces by the car park still have lemons drying to make pickles. And as stoic remnants of the ancient, the past peeps through houses on the verge of collapse or those locked away.
Painkuni uthram
For over a century now, Painkuni Uthram has put the street into full festive mode. This year marks the 100th anniversary, celebrated over a week from April 4 to 12, unlike the customary three days.
“There was support from many — those who remain and those who have left. Many came just to attend the festival,” says Janardhanan.
P Krishnan, aka Rajuswamy, who leads a team of Sasthampaatu singers, adds, “When we were young, the festive fervour mattered more than the festivities because money was hard to come by. To collect enough funds for the festival, we would go from house to house, singing bhajans not just here but even as far as Nagercoil.”
Art that evolved
Sasthampaattu is an art form that emerged from the agraharams, blending the ritualistic traditions of Kerala and the artistic acumen of the migrant Tamilians.
“It has a set of songs on Ayyappa, sung in Tamil. It must have evolved in Kerala, for there’s no trace of such a tradition in Tamil Nadu. You can find Sasthampaattu across Tamil settlements in Kerala,” Rajuswamy explains.
Painkuni Uthram festival, too, is believed to have evolved from the activities of Sasthampaattu singers, who would gather every week to sing.
“We were trained by our elders, and now I train the youngsters. Earlier, the festival that worships Ayyappa on Uthram day of the Tamil Painkuni month was held inside the Kanthalloor temple. But as singers weren’t allowed elaborate festivities inside the temple, they brought it out to the street,” Rajuswamy says.
This year’s festival featured cultural activities and performances by both amateurs and maestros.
“The earlier ambience was something else,” recalls Rajagopalan.
“What is now seen as heritage was once our way of life. I wish future generations realise this and take steps to preserve it. The community has evolved too — there is a universality among its members now. If only there were prompt steps to preserve this… the government could consider declaring this street a heritage village, akin to Kalpathy in Palakkad.”
