The Kathirkula of Kerala: Agriculture and Spirituality in Handicraft

Conversation with a Kathirkula craftsman in the Palakkad district of Kerala.

Site: Palakkad district

Notable aspects of heritage: Kathirkula, handicraft, village craftsmanship, traditional knowledge, animism, harvest, natural environment, decoration, spirituality

Challenges: Climate change, changing demographics and interests, continuity, lack of institutional support, handicraft invisibility

Researcher and author: Devaki Vadakepat Menon

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“What can you tell me about yourself, your profession, and your craft and its history?” I asked.

“My name is Shankunni. I am a physical therapist that applies traditional knowledge in my work. That is my main profession. But I also make handicraft known as kathirkulas,” he said as he dangled a golden ornament in the air. “The reality is, this is my best source of income”.

I met Shankunni at his house. I had learned about his work from an auto rickshaw driver with a penchant for traditional handicraft. Shankunni lives in the district of Palakkad with his wife, son, and caretakers who attend to the family’s granary. Sat on the newspaper-covered marble countertop of his porch are the results of hours of work of the members of this household: the domed, golden kathirkula. 

“The nelkathirkula or kathirkula is made by weaving, braiding, and tying together strands of paddy and hay. Dried rice kernels are the essential component of the kathirkula. I’ve made these since I was a young boy. I likely picked this art up from the elders in my family. Maybe that is why I am still making them at my current age. This process connects me to the olden ways of life in Kerala, and also to my ancestors.”

“Can you tell me about the cultural or spiritual significance of this item?”

“They are hung at the entrance of houses or in the room of worship. This practice is deeply rooted in the widespread agrarian culture that Kerala had until recent decades. It is also based in spiritual beliefs related to harvest and nature. Back in the day, farmers would put aside some paddy sheaves from the year’s harvest to weave into bunches. It served as an extra source of income, in addition to selling rice as food.”

Rooted in animist and Hindu beliefs, many in Kerala consider rice grains (nellu) to be living entities that have agency over the domestic lives of villagers, thus attaining spiritual significance over time. Nellu is also associated with goddesses of harvest and prosperity that overlook each village. The belief in the living nellu relate to a perceived vitality that all products of nature contain, which then, like batteries, can imbue the inanimate with life.

“What does the kathirkula do for a house, exactly?”

“These kathirkulas are seen as bringing aishwaryam (prosperity and blessings) to one’s household. You can liken hanging it in your house to the practice of lighting a lamp: to clear a house of negativity and invite pure thoughts. Fire cleanses a space, and similarly the grain has a role too. It fills the house with plentitude. It fills the belly of a house. When the house is no longer hungry, it has the energy to do things. A house makes us calm, feel safe. It can radiate aura of prosperity, or auspiciousness.”

The nellu decides if it will grow this year and feed villagers, or wither and starve them. Shankunni recounted on how these decisions rely on the treatment of the nellu from the moment of sowing to harvest, and to storage. “The nellu needs human touch in crafting – I cannot imagine machinery replacing what I do by hand. Not only do I think that machinery will struggle to replicate the care and detail that goes into making this, but I think it strips the kathirkula of half its meaning, which is to venerate the grain and give it a new, beautiful form.”

Kathirkulas are also hung in Hindu temples, remarked Shankunni, whose customer base encompasses environmentally-friendly decor seekers, furniture salesmen, priests, devotees and temple administrators. “People use the kathirkula as a form of venerating the goddess of harvest. It is used to prepare rice puddings as an offering to temple-goers. The idea of the grain and spirituality has more to it, though. I consider it holy, because beyond their ceremonial significance, Kathirkulas have also healed many of us. These grains have medicinal value. In rural regions, they were used to create remedies for ailments such as upset stomachs, diarrhea, and fevers. They served as traditional medicine for those without access to formal healthcare. If somebody was sick, you’d just pluck a few strands off the kathirkula and make a healing concoction with it.”

Shankunni then remarked that such reasons are why Kathirkulas were important to kinship and gift-giving practises. “They are exceptional gifts. They were especially popular during a time when agrarian lifestyles were central to village life. Traditionally, the presence of a kathirkula in a household symbolized wealth in terms of food security, particularly during times of drought. When needed, the sheaves are untied to provide rice or porridge, sustaining families in difficult times.”

“Why do people still buy it? Kerala’s rapidly moving away from an agrarian economy.” I asked. 

“I think some people still believe in the kathirkula bringing prosperity. Here’s a bunch I’ve prepared. Somebody should be picking it up this afternoon for their homes. Customer is a Christian, you know,” Shankunni smiled as he patted his countertop. “The kathirkula has no religious boundaries, everybody sort of believes in its power to bring them good things. There are misconceptions that it is only associated with Hindus. That’s not true. It can be an agent of religious harmony, too.”

“Do you have opinions on the commercialization of the kathirkula? Is it more than just a handicraft?”

Shankunni laughed, craning his neck and pretending to search for eaves-droppers. He leaned forward and whispered, “back then, it was an artform exclusive to farmer artisans. It gave us some sort of identity. Now, there’s a bunch of cottage industries belonging to the heritage industry in each district of Kerala. They are definitely commercialised.

“Look, I can’t say it’s not a good thing. It ensures that some people receive employment in the handicraft industry, but I think the industry could do more to inform buyers about the lives connected to this art. Perhaps even reducing it to just handicraft is insincere because it is more than that. There is a history of spiritual or domestic significance of these things. They tell stories about how life was in Kerala, just fifty years ago. Even today, agrarian life exists in many villages. What good is the kathirkula if it is separated from its roots that give it half its meaning? At that point it’s just like a table, or a chair, that you buy in the shop. These crafts have meaning that make it special.”

Shankunni took me to a warehouse on his property, a modest repurposed tharavad which stored stacks of paddy sheaves in each room. “The mud walls of this old structure help keep the rooms cool. The nellu needs it to be dry and cool.”

“What other materials do you use in the production of this item? Are there any challenges you face?”

“Firstly, many types of nellu are used in this handicraft. I work with a type of nellu called ponnumani, which does not wither easily. It’s got a long shelf-life. Harvest is usually in March, but I have noticed that changes in climate and shifting seasons makes it harder to cultivate this. Excess rainfall and flooding destroy my crops. I have to seek out nellu from the nearby state of Karnataka. It is not economical for me to do so but I have to make and sell kathirkulas to make an income.

“And as for materials… I use newspaper, to make packaging environmentally friendly. But people demand the use of plastic to make it more colourful, aesthetic or sturdier to hang. I wish there was a way to inform people that we must not use plastic in such a natural item. It is an irony! However, I will not argue with a customer. Last month, I paid off an impossible medical debt by selling kathirkulas. So this is income I will not refuse.”

“Here,” he placed a heavy knife in my hand. “These are the tools we use. Knives, scissors, and a lot of patience. I’m the only one in my village who knows how to weave the kathirkula. I will carry on for as long as my hands allow me, but after that…”

“…you worry that knowledge of this craft will slowly go away?” I asked.

“The industry will keep it afloat. There’s a trend of authentic village life handicrafts being in demand. But the age-old traditional ways of doing it, of imbuing the kathirkula with love? Yes, that is likely going away. The youth don’t care, they’re always on their phones, aren’t they?”

Finally, I asked Shankunni what hopes he had for the future of the kathirkula and related crafts.

“I keep hoping that like you, people will drop by to document the depth of these crafts. Like I said, there’s more to it than just weaving strands together. When you look at a kathirkula, there is history, spirituality, financial knowledge, traditional knowledge, and the identity of a craftsman or village woven into it. We must stop to consider these for every craft we see: what kind of life does this item have? Where did it come from?”

The Kathirkula has become a symbol of nature, spirituality, sustenance, resilience, health, and knowledge that enriches the lives of both those who purchase them and those who make them. However, like most traditional crafts in Kerala’s villages, it too is at risk of disappearing or losing relevance with time.

Shankunni opined that researchers, or professionals in cottage industries and handicraft-markets, especially under government supervision, should scout for village artisans in order to support them. Forms of potential support include the documentation of the craft, its materials and processes; or the setting up of workshops and schools to disseminate traditional crafts to youth and interested learners; host instructions online on how to learn to weave a kathirkula. These initiatives not only establish connections between learners and artisans, but provide both parties with sources of income and foster reative engagement.

“What really matters to me,” Shankunni said at the end of our conversation, “is that the next generation will continue to make and tell the story of the kathirkula. Its erasure from the world would not just be the loss of an object, but the loss of the memories, traditions, and lives of thousands of people from this small state of Kerala.”

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