This is an origin story – a story about my origins, because it is based on stories told about my ancestors. This is a slightly fictionalized account of family lore handed down over the years – most of this is true and of course, the main core of this story, the story of divine intervention, is family legend, and we will never know how much of that is true.

I wrote this entirely, in one sitting, while on a flight from India to US in 2001, and since then, I have been reluctant to edit it or make improvements to it – though I acknowledge that it will probably benefit from being extensively edited. There is also a very crucial factual error in the story, but fixing that would need a serious rewrite of the story. As shown in my family tree site, Venkataraman was the son of Anantharaman, and not the other way round as in this story. Other than that, all the characters in this story, and the incidents related about them are largely accurate.

The pictures at the end of this story were taken by me in Nadukkaveri

This story dates back to around 1850 – the exact date of 1851 has been suggested, but is yet to be corroborated. But wait – we may begin the story even earlier – about 30 years earlier than that date. The peaceful village of Nadukkaveri, set in the middle of the fertile lands around the river Kaveri is the setting for this piece of our family history. The Aggraharam, the central street in the village, the place where the Brahmins of the village live – is abuzz with the latest sensational story to hit the town. Within minutes of sunrise, the story has travelled up and down the short street of less than 20 houses – the incident of the previous night that is both scary and satisfying to the community of landowners and priests that make up the powerful brahmins of Nadukkaveri.

To the brahmins of Nadukkaveri, Raman has always been an intriguing, if powerful personality. His dark complexion and hefty build, uncharacteristic of the fair-skinned and lightly built Brahmin community has always made him stand out and get noticed. Today, his exploits of the previous night are the talk of the town – and the boys in the aggraharam gather round him again to hear the story in his own words.

Raman describes his journey of the previous night – he had traveled to the market in the neighbouring town to buy the week’s stock of vegetables – the sun was already setting when he started the long walk back to Nadukkaveri. Now all that lay between him and home was the thick patch of forest on the outskirts of the village – and he had heard of the band of robbers that lay in wait for stragglers like him in that forest. He quickens his steps as he enters the forest path – constantly looking over his shoulders. He can hear the stealthy footfalls in the forest following him – and he anticipates the rush when the four villains jump out of the bushes in front of him. He quickly throws away the bag of vegetables and grips his long walking stick in both hands – and using sheer strength, singlehandedly beats up and drives away the four robbers. The listeners are awed – physical strength and ability is not common among them, and Raman becomes a hero in the town from that day on.

30 years later – Rama Iyer, the legendary strongman of the village, is now dead. His son, Venkatarama Sastry has now inherited the large house and land holdings. Venkatarama Sastry, however, is much more interested in scholarly pursuits, and his study of the Ramayanam, the epic that has been told and retold over the centuries, makes him a popular exponent of the art of ‘katha-kalakshebam’ – the art of storytelling that has kept the epics alive in oral tradition for thousands of years. He travels the length and breadth of the Thanjavur area, telling the story of God-King Rama and his exploits and during the annual festival of Ramanavami, the nine nights of Rama, he tells the story, in song and verse in one continuous sitting. As always, the climax of the story is the narrative of the ‘Pattabishekam’ – the coronation of Lord Rama in Ayodhya, the triumphant return of Rama to his kingdom, glorious from his feats of defeating the demon Ravana, celebrated joyfully by the citizens of Ayodhya, his faithful consort Sita by his side, followed by the loyal Lakshmana and devoted Hanuman – those who hear the story relive the happiness of Ayodhya and feel that they have been transported in time back to that day. And no one tells the story better than Venkatarama Sastry – so much so that he is known throughout as Pattabhishekam Venkatarama Sastry, the story and the name inextricably linked forever.

So now we come to the story we started out to tell – in 1851, or thereabouts. Venkatarama Sastry is returning from one of his several trips and is looking forward to getting back to his house in Nadukkaveri. This time, however he is much more concerned during the journey, for he has traveling with him his wife and infant son. For generations, every male member of the family has always been named after the Lord Ramachandra – his father named simply Raman, had named him Venkataraman – and following that family tradition, he had named his only son Anantaraman. As they get into the frail boat that will take them across the Kaveri to the village of Nadukkaveri, he looks uneasily at the sky, so full and dark, threatening to pour down in one of those sudden thunderstorms that are common. Almost as soon as they start, the rain starts, and Venkatarama Sastry says a silent prayer, looking at the choppy waves that lap against the boat. The river Kaveri, simultaneously the biggest benefactor and the biggest threat to the citizens of the rich and fertile area, could suddenly engulf, in a flash flood, the frail crafts that were used to ford it.

Today, the waters of the Kaveri rose rapidly, quicker than Venkatarama Sastry had ever seen them rise. He cradled his son in one hand, and held tightly his wife’s hand in the other, cowering under the thunder and lightning that briefly illuminated the river. One huge wave, and the boat capsized – and time seemed to slow down for Venkatarama Sastry. His whole life seemed to play out before his eyes as he felt himself entering the chill waters. He wondered if this was to be the end of his whole lineage, for if both he and his son were drowned today, there would be no male member to carry on the line. It was then that it happened -something that he would always credit to divine intervention – the image of Prasanna Mariamman, the village goddess that appeared before his eyes. Then, he prayed- and prayed as he never had before. In the instants that had elapsed since the capsizing of the boat, which still seemed like an eternity to him, he formed a prayer to the goddess Prasanna Mariamman – swearing eternal fealty to her, and promising her that he and his descendants would adopt her as their ‘Kula Deivam’ – the family god, if only she would save them now – save his lineage from extinction and get him and his only son to the shore.

It was only seconds later – that interval of time that seemed like a long period to him – that his hand struck something hard – a log of wood that was shaped very oddly – narrow at one end but curved and broad at the other. Clinging to the log, Venkatarama Sastry and his family floated through the choppy waters, till they were thrown ashore, within sight of the village of Nadukkaveri. Breathless and bedraggled, Venkatarama Sastry still knew what his first actions should be when he realized that he had been miraculously saved – gathering up his son Anantaraman in his arms, he ran to the abandoned temple of Mariamman on the outskirts of the village. There, he fell at the feet of the goddess, giving thanks for his miraculous escape. As he looked up, he saw the hooded snake coiled around the head of the idol – and as he looked harder, he gained absolute proof – he remembered how the log of wood that he had clung to in despair in the river was shaped – exactly the shape of the hood of the snake towering over the idol of the goddess. He wept, and prayed again – the goddess had shown him exactly how she had responded to his frantic prayer in the stormy river, and proved to him, beyond all doubt, that what had happened that day was her personal intervention in the fate of man. Once again, he swore to the goddess Mariamman – you are my god, and you will be the god of my family, to protect them the way you protected me today.

Ventkatarama Sastry died soon after, and his son Anantaraman grew up and inherited the large house on the Aggraharam. It is his eldest son, Ramachandran who became Nadukkaveri’s most famous son – the first to travel to Madurai to attend the American College to study for his BA. Ramachandran was every bit the idealist that his name indicated him to be – proud of his lineage and the Brahmin tradition, yet eager to absorb and become part of the new trends that the western educational system was bringing to India. He was incensed at the proselytizing activities of the Christian missionaries who often visited the college, and was always among the most passionate defenders of what he perceived to be an assault on his native culture. He was most affected when his closest friend declared that he was converting to Christianity – this pushed young Ramachandran to open conflict with the authorities. He was punished for attempting to lead a general strike to protest against the missionary activities, and by the draconian laws of the time, was disbarred from applying for admission to any educational institution in the entire Presidency of Madras, which, at that time, described all of south India.

Undaunted by this, Ramachandran set out for Calcutta in the east, the capital of British India. There, he gained his degree in Law, and triumphantly returned to Madurai as a barrister. The story of his rapid rise into fame, finally achieving a position as Government Pleader, a high position in the government are part of our family legend. As the patriarch of the family now, he ruled with an iron hand his large family of 10 children, instilling in each his passion for education and the law. Tragically, however, he died at the relatively young age of 56. Like many successful men however, he had not planned as well for his children – inevitably, even his considerable wealth proved inadequate when divided among his eight sons and two daughters.

All this while, the goddess Prasanna Mariamman waited, forgotten and abandoned, at Nadukkaveri. Ramachandran, the grandson of Venkatarama Sastry, had abandoned his village and family house when he moved to Madurai. Subramaniam, his brother, had also moved and never come back to the ancestral village. The last remnants of Venkatarama Sastry’s family were the step brothers of Ramachandran. They too, moved away, after the tragic incident of the suicide of their only sister. Mariamman’s temple continued to deteriorate, with only the three walls surrounding the idol remaining intact – the stone roof having been lost long ago – only rough thatch now protected the idol from the elements. Concerned villagers, every now and then, got together to try and rebuild the temple. Following an age-old tradition, the villagers would assemble to ask the deity’s permission to rebuild the temple – but the signs and auspices were always the same – the goddess declined! It was as if she was waiting for somebody or something – some one who would come to redeem a long-forgotten promise, and only then, would she consent to having her temple rebuilt.

Calcutta Ramachandra Iyer’s descendants spread themselves through the world in the twentieth century – the first generation of lawyers followed by the next generation of accountants and government servants who were then followed by the computer scientists and investment bankers of the third generation. It was left to another Ramachandran – one of the several grandsons named after the illustrious grandfather – to initiate the movement that brought things full circle again to Nadukkaveri. This Ramachandran, had been gripped by the wanderlust typical of the clan and had spent several years in Ethiopia and Kenya before returning home to Madras. There, amidst a busy practice as an accountant, he still devoted much of his time to spirituality and religious practices. One day, he comes across a holy man, who tells him of a debt that he has inherited, something that he and his entire extended family has forgotten. He hears of the deity in the ancestral village who has been promised fealty by his forefather, and of how that has been forgotten for generations.

Curious, Ramachandran travels to Nadukkaveri – returning once more to the land of his forefathers. He sees the fields that are still fertile and lush around the village, the unspoilt Aggraharam and the large house where his grandfather was born. There are people still living there, who remember his grandfather, the famous Calcutta Ramachandra Iyer. Drawn as if by a magnet, he walks to the outskirts of the village, to the dilapidated temple of Prasanna Mariamman. There he gazes on the forlorn idol, open to the elements without a roof on her head, and senses the history of the place come alive in front of him. Suddenly, an old man sitting in the courtyard of the temple starts shaking and shivering – other passersby gather to watch. This is a familiar sight to them – the phenomenon that seems to them as natural as anything else – the phenomenon when the god enters a man and speaks through his words. The old man starts speaking – addressing Ambi, as Ramachandran is known – telling him that he indeed has come home. This is the voice of the goddess herself – she reminds him of the promise made so long ago, and how she has waited for so long. She tells him of how she has watched over the ten siblings over the years. S/he talks of how the snake, her mascot came to live in the house of one of them – Ambi remembers the oft-told story of the ‘vazhum pambu’ – the house-bound snake that was said to live in his eldest uncle’s house. Now he realizes that all of this is now proven beyond doubt – that this indeed is the forgotten god of his family, the ‘kula deivam’ that has been forsaken, and now rediscovered.

Thus, has the goddess called her own back, reminding the descendants of the promise made long ago. Now, the villagers of Nadukkaveri again look for the signs, and miraculously, now the goddess has indeed consented to have the temple rebuilt. A wall will soon come up around the old temple, and ‘kumbabhishekam’ – the consecration of the dome, will be performed. Thus will the grandchildren of Calcutta Ramachandra Iyer, the descendants of Venkarama Sastry, redeem the pledge made that stormy day, and once again restore to her rightful place the goddess Prasanna Mariamman.

Postscript (2022) – Murugaiyan’s story

As I mentioned in the top of this page, this story was written over 20 years ago, and I left it at that, except for an occasional share with family members and friends. In February 2022, after almost 10 years, I visited the temple again, and realized that this story omitted one very vital character. This postscript is to redress that, and also reflect on why this part of the story has been missing from the collective memory

The Nadukkaveri Mariamman temple (as you can see in the picture above) is now a nicely-built temple, on the main road from Thanjavur, and presents a neat and pleasing sight. Although this is a regular temple – which remains open mornings and evenings for those who wish to come and pray, like the hundreds of temples in the area, it is also, uniquely, a ‘family’ temple. Essentially, it belongs to, and is administered by members of my extended family, and although none of us live in the area, we visit it occasionally. When I visited in February 2022, a message was sent to the priest of the temple, Murugaiyan, that there would be members of the family visiting.

On the appointed day, this is what Murugaiyan did – he woke up at 4.30 am and came to the temple and performed a thorough cleaning of the temple and courtyard. Then, he went to a nearby market to purchase supplies for that day’s ‘puja’ – flowers, milk, sandal and other items required for the ritual ‘abhishekham’ to be performed that day. Then, he returned to his home where he and his wife cooked the ‘prasadam’ for the day – sakkarai pongal (a sweet rice dish), panjamritham (fruit pieces in jaggery) and curd rice. All this before we arrived at the temple, when he started the ritual abhishekham for the idol of Mariamman and the assorted idols in the temple. He conducts these ceremonies like a man on a mission, literally running between the different stations – lovingly folding and pleating the saree that will be draped, and preparing the flowers that will bedeck the idol. Then quantities of water, oil, milk, sandal paste are poured over it, and it is then dressed and decorated. The entire process takes a couple of hours, until he performs the ‘deeparadhanai’ – a ritual process of exhibiting the idol to the devotees, and then distributing the ‘prasadam’.

Now, all of this would be familiar to people who have visited temples in South India – except for one aspect of the service that is very different. At the beginning of the proceedings, Murugaiyan switches on the music system, which continuously plays several devotional songs in Tamil. Other than that, there is no chanting of mantras – the priest himself is only engaged in a profoundly devotional, almost loving service to the idol of the deity – washing it, dressing it and decorating it. None of this is performed with any chanting of Sanskrit shlokas, and there is very little of the ‘Brahminical’ rituals that we see in many of the bigger temples. This was the refreshing difference that I saw in this temple – the person tending to this temple does not belong to the traditional priestly caste.

I spoke to Murugaiyan after the service, and asked him about how he became involved with the temple. This is what he told me –

“My father-in-law, for about 80 years, was attending to the Amman in the thatched hut. He would light a single lamp in front of her, and occasionally, when someone asked him to would perform a service like placing flowers on the idol. People from the village would occasionally come and pray here. I came from a different town called Uppiliappankoil, and became his son-in-law. Then, when he died, I started doing the same thing, serving the Amman in the thatched hut, coming here on Fridays and Tuesdays, tending to her when people came to pray here. Then, many years later, when all the people from your family came here, and built this temple, the idol was moved from the thatched hut into this temple, and I continued to perform the work here”

Nadukkaveri, and the Mariamman temple there is an endearingly magical place. It is nestled among the lush, brilliantly green fields that are a feature of the Thanjavur area. The few hours that we spent there seemed to flow at a different rate – time slows down, and nobody there seems to be in much of a hurry. On the road outside the temple, there is an occasional truck or car that goes speeding by, but mostly, you see people walking or riding a bicycle – going about their business, but without the busy-ness that we see in the cities.

Finally, a reflection on Murugaiyan’s story, and why my earlier story had no mention of him. That story was written based on the accounts given to me by older relatives, and written after I first visited the place, when there was only a thatched hut that served as the temple. Thanks to the generous donations from members of the extended family from around the world, the temple continues to thrive and be maintained very well, and is a point of pride for many members of the family. However, this visit, and my conversation with Murgaiyan sparked this thought – if Murugaiyan, his father-in-law and others before them had not maintained that thatched hut with the idol of Mariamman over those many decades, would there have been a temple, a Goddess and a family deity for our family to rediscover?