Chithirai Thiruvizha 2011 — Summer, Sweets, and Stories

It was May 2011.
I had just completed my 6th standard, annual examination leave had begun, and I was at home, ready for the one thing I always looked forward to in May — Chithirai Thiruvizha.

In our native place, the Chithirai Thiruvizha isn’t just a festival.
It’s a season — five days of non-stop joy, noise, and the smell of incense and jasmine flowers floating in the air. The streets transform. Houses get cleaned and decorated. And most importantly… relatives arrive.

The Arrival of Relatives

The day before the festival starts, our house turns into a mini railway station. Every hour, someone new arrives. Uncles with their teasing laughs, cousins running inside with their bags, aunts carrying steel tiffin boxes filled with snacks from their towns. The house becomes crowded — but in the best way possible. You can hear conversations overlapping, vessels clanging in the kitchen, and the TV in the corner playing Songs in Sun Music.

The Family Fight

Every year, some small issue somehow becomes the “main drama” of the festival.

One year, it was me and a relative. I can’t even recall what triggered it — maybe a harmless comment, maybe refusing to share something — but it turned into a cold war. We wouldn’t make eye contact, and even when passing food or water, there was a silent stiffness in the air. But, as always, by the end of the day, a random joke or shared laughter would melt everything away. That’s the thing about family fights — they disappear quicker than sweets at a festival.

Food, Sweets, and More Food

Chithirai Thiruvizha is when my stomach works overtime. Every corner of the kitchen smells of something delicious — murukku, adhiresam, and endless varieties. Meals are grand — steaming white rice, sambar, vatha kuzhambu, crispy appalam, fresh pickle, and poriyal made from vegetables brought from the nearby grocery store. The fridge can’t close properly because of all the milk sweets stacked inside.

The Walk to Bhadra Kali Amman Temple

Evening is my favourite time. The sun cools down, the breeze carries the faint scent of agarbathi, and the streets are filled with people in colourful dresses. We walk together to Bhadra Kali Amman temple — some barefoot, some in slippers, everyone chatting and laughing. On the way, street vendors sell sugarcane juice, roasted peanuts, bangles, balloons, and toys. I never go back without at least one small toy or a packet of spicy sundal in hand.

The temple is glowing — lamps lit everywhere, the goddess decorated in bright silks and flowers, the air filled with devotional songs. We stand in line for darshan, talk to old neighbours, and sometimes join the crowd for a night’s ther procession.

The Nights

At night, everyone gathers in the hall. Some relatives spread mats and sleep early, some sit outside under the stars, telling stories from the old days. I always stay awake longer, hoping to catch the late-night laughter of the elders, sibilings[ Me, Pradeepa, Priya dharshini, Rajiv Prasad] and maybe another round of snacks.

More Than Just a Festival

Looking back, I realise Chithirai Thiruvizha was never just about temple rituals or sweets.
It was about the people — how the festival brought everyone together, even if there were small fights, even if we saw each other just once a year. It was about walking through streets that felt alive, about the smell of jasmine, about the weight of bangles clinking on the wrist, about the happiness of being surrounded by my people.

2011 might be gone, but every May, I still feel the same excitement.
Because Chithirai Thiruvizha isn’t just a festival I attend — it’s a memory I carry.

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It is now May 2025. The years have slipped by quietly, almost without me noticing, carrying with them so many faces, voices, and places that once felt permanent. Life has moved forward, as it always does, reshaping my days in ways I never imagined back then. Some bonds have grown distant, some moments have turned into faint memories, and the laughter of certain days now echoes only in my mind.

Today, I sit in our home — with my mother, my father, my grandmother, and Pradeepa — under the same roof that has seen our joys and our silences. The air feels different now, slower, softer, touched by the weight of time. Conversations are quieter, glances longer, and there’s an unspoken understanding that the world outside has changed, and so have we.

Time has a way of fading the sharp edges of the past, blurring them into something gentler, almost like an old photograph losing its color. And yet, in this moment, we are still here — together. Life may have changed its shape, and memories may have lost their clarity, but the essence of being here, in this space, with these people, remains… even if everything else has faded.

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Author’s Note:

Some memories don’t fade — they only soften with time. This story is a piece of my own life, a small window into the joy, chaos, and warmth of our Chithirai Thiruvizha in 2011. Festivals are not just about rituals; they are about the people who fill them with life. Today, as I look around and see how much has changed, I realise that those moments are more than just memories — they are my roots, quietly holding me together.

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