Chettinadu, situated 2 hours from Trichy / Thanjavoor/ Madurai is known for the Architectural Marvels of the Chettiars - the business tycoons of the South who made their lively hood in Burma in the last century and famous for it astrological talents and of course the Chettinadu Cuisine.

An article on Chettinad:

The feeling of travelling back in time starts on the overnight train from Chennai to Karaikudi. In a compartment that’s straight out of the Raj, with its foldaway washbasin, coat-stand and flunkey. And the sensation of time standing still is reinforced inside every mansion you visit in Sivaganga, the approximately 1,000-sq km district in the heart of Tamil Nadu, much better known simply as Chettinad.

About 40km inland from the Coromandel coast, Sivaganga is no seaside district, finding itself instead in a relentlessly hot, dry and unforgiving stretch of the state. A guest at The Bangala, a heritage resort in Karaikudi, I am loath to step from its cool interiors into the blazing white morning. Actually, for serious lotus-eaters, resorts like this and the new one at Chettinad—Chettinadu Mansion--are excuse enough to visit Karaikudi, with their charmingly old-fashioned rooms and hospitality, and amazing food.

Stepping out, it’s barely seven in the morning and the sky is already bright enough to hurt the eyes. I am not surprised to learn that the climate drove the Nagarathar men out, to make their living in lands overseas. Not farmers, the Nagarathars, or ‘townspeople’, had migrated to this Pandya land after some ancient quarrel with the Cholas, their previous patrons. Known also as the Nattukottai Chettiars, their metier was trade and finance. They were shrewd bankers, credited with having invented the double-entry system of bookkeeping, but could not possibly have eked out a living from the harsh soil here.

Leaving families behind, they moved out--to Burma, Mauritius, Sri Lanka, Indochina, Cambodia and South Africa--as merchants, bankers and moneylenders, and made fabulous sums of money. Between 1850 and 1940, they were at their pinnacle and were being called the ‘official moneylenders of the Empire’. Their wealth was shipped home, in the shape of timber, marble, tiles, vessels, trunks, chests, toys and artefacts, back to their villages, where it was all poured into creating fabulous, palatial homes, each more grand than the next, each intended to be a resilient symbol of the Chettiar’s might.

You’re usually told to expect ‘beautiful architecture’ in Chettinad but nothing quite prepares you for the sheer number of extravagant houses lining the narrow streets of these otherwise ordinary South Indian villages. Now, as I exit the umpteenth such house I have visited since coming here, the overwhelming feeling that stays with me is one of waste – stupendous, heartbreaking waste. Massive, beautifully built homes, elaborate with carvings and paintings, lie uninhabited, slowly folding in into themselves, their vast spaces echoing with bats’ wings and fractured by sunlight refracted through fine cobwebs.

Less than 70 years back, these houses would have reverberated with life. No house comes with less than two vast kitchens, not to mention several giant grinding stones and rows of fireplaces in the last courtyard – all meant to entertain gigantic gatherings. Old family retainers tell you of feasts when these houses hosted hundreds with ease. The mansions themselves contained extended families, often 70-80 member strong.

So, where did all the Nagarathars go? At the height of their success across South and South-East Asia, World War II broke out. The British government requisitioned all foreign companies engaged in any form of commerce, and the Chettiars were forced to return home, stone-broke. Apart from the immoveable wealth they had accumulated in their hometowns, they had little else. Now, whole families locked up their mansions and left for the cities to seek their fortunes again.

I am being shown around by Meenakshi, who acts as guide for The Bangala, and is herself a descendant of a once wealthy merchant family. She includes her own palatial father’s house in Pallathur in the tour. Her house, like the others, is inhabited by some leftover family, a lonely aunt or uncle who has stayed back as caretaker. Often, small portions have been partitioned and rented out, as much for security as for the money.

The houses are built on a rectangular, traversal plot that stretches across two streets, with the front door opening into the first street and the back into the second. Looking in from the main threshold, your eye travels in a straight line across a series of inner courtyards, each a diminishing rectangle of light, leading out to the back door.

First comes an outer thinai--large raised platforms on either side of the central corridor, where the host would entertain male guests. The platforms lead off on one side into storerooms and massive granaries and on the other, into the kanakupillai or accountant’s room. This area also usually leads off to the men’s well. From here, the huge elaborately carved teak front door, with the image of Lakshmi carved over the head and navaratna or nine precious gems buried under the vasapadi or threshold. The door leads into the first open-air courtyard, with pillared corridors running on each side that lead into individual rooms, each meant for a married son, each with a triangular slot cut into the wall for the evening lamp. Then comes the second courtyard with large dining spaces on either side. The third courtyard was for the womenfolk to rest and gossip, while the fourth, or nalankattai, comprised the kitchens, leading out to the backyard with its women’s well and grinding stones. The wealthier the merchant, the larger the house was, often spreading out to a second floor.

The walls are of baked bricks, plastered over by a secret recipe of roots, yolk and lime that leaves them silken smooth and washable, the tiles are Spanish, the floors of Italian marble or locally-crafted Athangudi tiles, and the pillars of Burmese teak. Many houses have small turrets and elaborate guardhouses on the terrace. The carvings and friezes are not just Hindu pantheon but include British soldiers, Victorian women, and scenes from the Raj. The Chettiar’s main intent was to make his house a statement of his social success and he put everything into it, but the pastiche of styles--Kerala woodwork, neo-classicism, Victorian, Anglo-Indian—is strangely not vulgar. The airy courtyards seem somehow to absorb and mute everything down inside. The outsides are not always so lucky—colours, curves, domes and arches often clash painfully but the message of splendour is not lost.

The display of wealth extended to other areas. At the Chettinad railway station (Chettinad is also the name of a big town here), exactly opposite where the Raja of Chettinad’s first-class coach would halt, a paved path leads through an arched gate to his private waiting room, where he went directly without having to mix with the rabble at the station. The waiting room and attached toilets are still furnished, with superb divans, recliners, bidets and washbasins, all in various stages of disrepair. There are three smaller such buildings around, for lesser personages and family guests.


The practical detail inside the houses is as rich: the courtyards supply ample light and air (pickles and papads were dried there) but leave the rest of the house in deep and cool shadow. The courtyards have tiles placed exactly under the storm-water drainpipes so that the stone floor is not damaged. Underground drains run right through the house, with stone stoppers carved exactly for their mouths. Large stone vats for water and wooden bins for firewood line the inner courtyards.

Walking through ghostly corridors looming with huge portraits and Belgian mirrors, feet crunching on years of bat droppings that cover the exquisite floor tiles… it’s easy to imagine these houses asleep in some sort of weird time capsule. But it’s unlikely they will stay that way. Already an immense portion of the Chettiar families’ belongings—pewter, brass, porcelain, glass, Burmese bamboo—is in the local antique shops and being shipped across the world. Houses are being dismantled and sold piece-meal, with carved doors, pillars and friezes in high demand in India and abroad.

Some Chettiars have stepped in to start the process of conservation. The Meyyappans have converted the family clubhouse into The Bangala, preserving its past graciously, while the SARM family has opened up some rooms in its vast family mansion to tourists for a home-living experience. Muthiah Chettiar, the Raja of Chettinad, has opened his house in Kanadukathan for public viewing, while his brother’s house next door has a floor converted to a museum that displays everything associated with the Chettiars—masala dabbas and Rukmini cookers, aruvamanais (choppers), coconut scrapers and travelling spice boxes. The Tamil Nadu government is making noises about converting this into a tourist zone, revitalising the lost art of Chettinad plastering, converting the bungalows into bed-and-breakfast outlets… we can only wait with trepidation to see the outcome of these plans.

While walking though the mansions, I find many rooms tightly locked, with the individual owners’ names carved on doorsills. The caretakers tell me the rooms are still full of vessels, artefacts, kitchen tools and furniture, waiting for their owners to claim them. Some families do return occasionally, for weddings and big days, but the occasions become fewer with time.

As the train to Chennai wheezes past Chettinad station, I crane my neck for a last glimpse of the Raja’s waiting room, as it waits forlornly for somebody to use its splendid trappings.