Stories
It was a bright afternoon when we visited my friend’s house in a small village in Tamil Nadu. The aroma of freshly brewed filter coffee lingered in the air, mingling with the hum of the countryside. We had barely settled in when my gaze fell upon a stack of notebooks resting on a low table. The covers were adorned with intricate, symmetrical patterns—mesmerizing at first glance.
“What’s in these books?” I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.
My friend’s grandmother, who had been observing us with a kind smile, walked over and picked up one of the notebooks. Her eyes sparkled as she said, “These are my kolams. Would you like to see them?”
We nodded enthusiastically, and she began flipping through the pages, each one revealing a new pattern, more beautiful than the last. With each turn, she shared not just the designs but also stories, history, and science behind the ancient art of kolam.
Kolam, she explained, is more than just decoration. It is an integral part of Tamil Nadu’s cultural and spiritual fabric. Drawn at the thresholds of homes each morning using rice flour or chalk powder, kolams serve multiple purposes.
“They bring good energy to the home,” she said, tracing a delicate curve on a page with her finger. “The designs are welcoming, and the rice flour feeds birds and ants. It’s our way of living in harmony with nature.”
She went on to describe the deeper significance of kolams:
“But,” she added with a tinge of sadness, “the practice is slowly disappearing.”
In her younger days, she explained, she would rise before dawn to draw kolams on the ground outside her home. “It was part of our daily routine. Every woman in the house would take her turn.” However, as time passed and her health declined, it became difficult for her to continue the tradition on the ground.
“That’s when I started drawing them in these notebooks,” she said, gesturing to the stack. “It keeps the tradition alive for me.”
Each page in her notebook was a masterpiece. There were Pulli Kolams, where patterns are created by connecting dots in intricate grids, Freehand Kolams with flowing, abstract shapes, and Festival Kolams, which featured large, ornate designs. Some had lotus motifs, others had spirals or waves, and every one of them was a labor of love.
“This,” she said, showing us a particularly elaborate design, “is a festival kolam I used to draw during Margazhi. The streets would be filled with such patterns—like a gallery under the open sky.”
Her notebooks were more than just a collection of designs. They were a testament to her quiet determination to preserve an art form that was fading in the face of modern life.
“Fewer people draw kolams now,” she lamented. “In cities, there’s no space, and people don’t have the time. Even in villages, it’s becoming rare. Young girls don’t learn it anymore. They’re busy with other things.”
Her words painted a picture of a tradition at risk. Kolams, once a daily ritual passed from one generation to the next, are now vanishing. Urbanization has replaced courtyards with concrete floors, and the fast pace of life has left little room for quiet, meditative practices like kolam.
But she has not given up. Her notebooks, she explained, are her way of fighting back. “If I can’t teach it on the ground, I’ll preserve it here. Maybe someday, someone will find these and learn.”
Her family often flips through her books, marveling at the patterns. Neighborhood children visit her to see the designs, their eyes wide with wonder. In her own quiet way, she has become a custodian of Tamil culture.
What struck me most during our visit was the depth of meaning behind kolam. It is not just art; it is science, spirituality, and mindfulness all rolled into one.
She explained how kolams are rooted in mathematics. “Each pattern is like solving a puzzle,” she said. “You start with dots, and the lines connect them into symmetrical shapes. The designs have perfect balance—it’s like geometry in motion.”
The process of drawing kolams is also meditative. “You have to focus,” she said, mimicking the motion of drawing. “Your mind becomes calm, and your heart feels lighter.”
And, of course, kolams are deeply tied to nature. The rice powder used to draw them feeds ants and birds, embodying the principle of sharing and coexistence. “It’s a small way to give back to the earth,” she said.
As we flipped through the last few pages of her notebook, I couldn’t help but feel inspired. Her kolams were more than just patterns—they were a bridge between the past and the future, a reminder of the beauty and wisdom embedded in tradition.
“You must try drawing a kolam yourself,” she encouraged us. “Start small. It’s not just about the art—it’s about feeling connected.”
We left her house that day with a new appreciation for kolam and the quiet resilience of a woman who refused to let her culture fade away. Her story stayed with me, a reminder that even the simplest acts—drawing patterns on paper—can hold the power to preserve history, connect generations, and inspire the future.