Sacred Stones, Spaces, and Stories: Divya Desams Part 24

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Thiruppadagam Temple, Kanchipuram, Tamil Nadu
In Kanchipuram, where several Divya Desams lie close to each other within the sacred landscape of the town, Thiruppadagam carries a story drawn directly from the Mahabharata. The presiding deity here is Pandava Thoothar Perumal, a form of Krishna, with Rukmini Thayar as the goddess. The name Thiruppadagam itself is linked to the Tamil word padagam, which refers to something vast or expansive. The temple takes its identity from the unusually tall image of Krishna inside the sanctum, where the Lord stands in a commanding form that fills the space. The moment this form represents is not one of battle, but one of diplomacy, the moment when Krishna went to the Kaurava court as a messenger for the Pandavas.

The story behind this temple takes us back to a tense moment in the Mahabharata. Before the Kurukshetra war began, the Pandavas made one last attempt to avoid conflict. They sent Krishna to the court of the Kauravas to negotiate peace. His message was simple and reasonable: the Pandavas were willing to settle for just a small portion of land rather than claim the entire kingdom. Yet the Kauravas refused even this modest request. Worse still, they attempted to capture Krishna in the court itself. At that moment, Krishna revealed his divine nature. Expanding into a vast cosmic form, he filled the hall with radiance and power, making it clear that no force could contain him. The image of Krishna in Thiruppadagam reflects this moment of revelation, the messenger who stood firm when diplomacy failed.

Inside the temple, the idol of Pandava Thoothar Perumal stands unusually tall, rising far above the height typically seen in temple sanctums. The form immediately captures attention, not because of elaborate ornamentation but because of sheer presence. The posture is upright and confident, suggesting both authority and calm restraint. This is not the playful Krishna of Vrindavan nor the charioteer of Kurukshetra. This is Krishna, the statesman, the messenger who carries the weight of justice while still offering peace. The expression on the idol reflects that balance: composed, firm and unwavering.

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Historically, Thiruppadagam reflects the long religious history of Kanchipuram itself. The earliest structure of the temple likely dates back to the Pallava period, when Kanchipuram served as a major centre of learning and worship. The Pallavas supported temples dedicated to both Shiva and Vishnu, creating a landscape where philosophical traditions flourished side by side. Later Chola rulers strengthened the structure and supported ritual practices, while Vijayanagara patrons contributed mandapams and architectural refinements. Even with these additions, the temple retained a relatively modest scale compared to some of the larger shrines in the town. The focus remained on the sanctum and the striking image of Krishna.

Architecturally, the temple follows the familiar layout of South Indian temples but with an emphasis on vertical space. The sanctum is designed to accommodate the tall idol of the Lord, creating a sense of upward movement when one steps inside. The gopuram at the entrance is dignified but not overwhelming, and the courtyard leads naturally toward the main shrine. Rukmini Thayar’s sanctum lies nearby, bringing a sense of warmth and balance to the temple environment. While Krishna’s form inside the sanctum carries authority, the presence of the goddess softens the atmosphere and reminds devotees that compassion accompanies justice.

The daily rituals at Thiruppadagam follow the Vaishnavite tradition, with worship unfolding through the day in a steady rhythm. Suprabhatam opens the morning, followed by alankaram and neivedyam. Evening aradhanai gathers devotees once again before the temple closes. During major festivals such as Vaikunta Ekadasi and Krishna Jayanthi, the temple becomes more active, with processions and special prayers drawing larger crowds. Yet even during these celebrations, the sanctum retains its quiet gravity. Standing before the tall form of Pandava Thoothar Perumal, devotees often feel a sense of perspective. The image seems to remind them that the challenges of the present moment are part of a much larger story.

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For pilgrims visiting Kanchipuram’s Divya Desams, Thiruppadagam offers a distinct experience. After visiting temples associated with light, protection or philosophical clarity, encountering Krishna as the messenger of peace introduces another dimension. The temple speaks of responsibility and moral courage. Krishna did not go to the Kaurava court as a warrior. He went as a negotiator, willing to prevent war if possible. Only when peace was rejected did the path of conflict become inevitable. This message resonates strongly even today. It reminds devotees that strength is not always expressed through confrontation. Sometimes it appears through patience and reason.

Culturally, Thiruppadagam holds its place through the hymns of the Alvars, who recognised the temple as one of the sacred Divya Desams. Their verses describe the Lord who stood tall as a messenger, embodying both compassion and authority. Over the centuries, this image has shaped the way devotees understand Krishna’s role in the Mahabharata. The temple emphasises not only the victory of dharma but also the effort made to preserve peace before conflict began.

In modern times, Thiruppadagam continues to function as an active place of worship within the living fabric of Kanchipuram. Renovations have preserved the sanctum and strengthened the structure while keeping the temple’s original character intact. Pilgrims visiting the Divya Desam circuit still pause here to stand before the towering form of Krishna. The experience often leaves a lasting impression, not because of elaborate decoration but because of the powerful simplicity of the image.

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Thiruppadagam ultimately represents the dignity of standing firm for what is right. Pandava Thoothar Perumal reminds devotees that the pursuit of justice begins with dialogue, patience and the willingness to seek peace. Only when those efforts fail does the path of confrontation arise. In the larger Divya Desam journey, this temple offers a lesson drawn from the Mahabharata itself — that true strength lies not in the ability to fight, but in the courage to stand tall for dharma even when the world refuses to listen.

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Nilathingal Thundam Temple, Kanchipuram, Tamil Nadu
In Kanchipuram, where sacred spaces sit close to one another and centuries of devotion overlap in quiet ways, Nilathingal Thundam stands with a story that is both gentle and unusual. The presiding deity here is Nilathingal Thundathan Perumal, with Nilathingal Thayar as the goddess. What makes this Divya Desam distinct is its location within the famous Ekambareswarar Temple complex, one of the largest Shaivite temples in Tamil Nadu. In a town where the worship of Shiva and Vishnu has long existed side by side, Nilathingal Thundam quietly reflects that shared sacred geography. The name itself holds the key to its identity. “Nilaa” refers to the moon, “thingal” also points to the moon’s cool radiance, and “thundam” suggests a fragment or beam. Together, the name evokes the image of a soft ray of moonlight.

The legend connected with this temple speaks of that very cooling light. According to tradition, Vishnu once performed intense penance in this place, standing beneath a sacred tree. The austerity generated such heat that the surrounding space grew almost unbearable. The gods grew concerned that the intensity of the penance might disturb the natural balance. To calm the situation, Shiva directed the moon to shine its cooling rays upon Vishnu. The gentle light softened the heat and restored harmony. Because the moon’s glow brought relief, the place came to be known as Nilathingal Thundam. The story carries a quiet message. Even divine intensity sometimes requires soothing grace. Heat must be balanced by coolness, effort by compassion.

This idea shapes the way devotees experience the shrine. The form of Nilathingal Thundathan Perumal reflects calm rather than grandeur. The idol stands with quiet composure, holding the conch and discus in the familiar Vaishnavite manner. Yet the atmosphere of the shrine feels slightly different from that of others in Kanchipuram. Perhaps it is the story of moonlight, or perhaps it is the fact that the shrine exists within a larger Shaivite complex. Either way, the space carries a sense of gentle balance rather than dramatic devotion.

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Historically, Nilathingal Thundam shares the long timeline of Kanchipuram’s temple culture. The Ekambareswarar temple complex itself expanded through the Pallava, Chola and Vijayanagara periods, and the Vishnu shrine remained part of that evolving structure. Its presence within a Shaivite temple reflects the older spiritual landscape of the region, where sectarian boundaries were less rigid than later interpretations sometimes suggest. Devotion flowed across traditions, and temples often housed multiple expressions of the divine. Nilathingal Thundam quietly preserves that memory.

Architecturally, the shrine is modest compared to the vast corridors and towering gopurams of the Ekambareswarar complex. Visitors often reach it after passing through the larger temple’s courtyards, which makes the space feel almost hidden. The sanctum is simple, and the focus remains firmly on the deity rather than elaborate decoration. Nilathingal Thayar’s shrine adds warmth to the environment, reinforcing the temple’s underlying theme of soothing grace. Together the two sanctums create a space that feels calm and balanced.

The daily worship follows the Vaishnavite tradition even though the shrine stands within a Shaivite temple complex. Priests conduct the rituals in a steady rhythm, beginning with the morning prayers and continuing through the evening aradhanai. Festivals connected to Vishnu are observed here as well, though often in a quieter manner compared to the larger celebrations elsewhere in Kanchipuram. Devotees visiting the Ekambareswarar temple frequently make their way to Nilathingal Thundam afterwards, acknowledging the presence of Vishnu within the same sacred grounds.

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The pilgrimage experience at this temple often unfolds unexpectedly. Many visitors arrive at Ekambareswarar primarily to worship Shiva, and only later discover the Vishnu shrine within the complex. When they step into the small sanctum of Nilathingal Thundathan Perumal, the shift in atmosphere is noticeable. The intensity of the larger temple gives way to a softer presence. The story of the moon’s cooling rays begins to make sense in that moment. The space itself seems to invite a slower pace.

Culturally, Nilathingal Thundam stands as a quiet reminder of harmony between traditions. The Alvars sang of the Lord here, recognising the Divya Desam even within a Shaivite setting. Their verses acknowledge the gentle grace of the deity who received the moon’s cooling light. Over centuries, this story has shaped the way devotees interpret the shrine. It suggests that devotion need not compete with itself. Light from one source can soothe another without conflict.

In modern times, the shrine continues to function within the living rhythm of Kanchipuram’s temple life. Pilgrims following the Divya Desam circuit include Nilathingal Thundam in their journey, even though its physical presence is smaller than many others. Renovations and maintenance within the Ekambareswarar complex have helped preserve the shrine, ensuring that the story it represents remains accessible to new generations of devotees.

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Nilathingal Thundam ultimately represents the gentle balance between intensity and calm. Nilathingal Thundathan Perumal stands as the Lord who received the moon’s cooling light, reminding devotees that even the strongest spiritual effort benefits from grace. In the wider Divya Desam journey, this temple offers a quiet lesson. Strength does not always come from force. Sometimes it arrives like moonlight, soft, steady and exactly what is needed to restore harmony.

In My Hands Today…

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Myths of Geography: Eight Ways We Get the World Wrong – Paul Richardson

Is geography really destiny?

Our maps may no longer be stalked by dragons and monsters, but our perceptions of the world are still shaped by geographic myths. Myths like Europe being the centre of the world. Or that border walls are the solution to migration. Or that Russia is predestined to threaten its neighbours.

In his punchy and authoritative new book, Paul Richardson challenges recent popular accounts of geographical determinism and shows that how we see the world represented often isn’t how it really is – that the map is not the territory.

Along the way we visit some remarkable Iceland’s Thingvellir National Park, where you can swim between two continents; Bir Tawil in North Africa, one of the world’s only territories not claimed by any country; and we follow the first train that ran across Eurasia between Yiwu in east China and Barking in east London.

Written with verve and full of quotable facts, Myths of Geography is a book that will turn your world upside down.

Festivals of India: Karam Festival

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In the eastern stretches of the subcontinent, when the monsoon begins to loosen its grip, but the air still carries the weight of rain, villages gather around a tree branch. The soil is dark and damp. The fields are not yet ready to yield. There is a pause in the agricultural cycle, a moment where nothing is certain, and it is precisely here that Karam takes place.

In Jharkhand’s forested belts, in the agrarian rhythms of Bihar and Odisha, in the quieter rural pockets of West Bengal, and across to parts of Bangladesh, this festival arrives without spectacle. There are no grand processions or towering structures. Instead, there is a clearing, a branch of the Karam tree, and a circle of people marking something less visible but no less essential.

Karam is often described, somewhat too neatly, as a “harvest festival.” The label is not wrong, but it is insufficient. It suggests completion when Karam is about continuity. It suggests yield, when Karam is equally about restraint. It centres on crops, when the festival itself is about relationships between people, generations, and most importantly, between human life and the natural world.

Across regions, details shift, but the structure holds. A branch of the Karam tree is cut with care and brought into the community space. It is planted, decorated, sung to, and kept at the centre of the gathering. Young women, in many communities, take the lead. They fast, prepare the rituals, and sing songs that carry both devotion and memory. There is music, dancing, and storytelling.

The ritual is not performed for an audience. It is lived.

It is important to say this plainly. Many of these practices emerge from Adivasi cultural worlds, where land is not treated as a resource but as something one lives within. Yet when Karam enters mainstream narratives, it is often absorbed into a broad idea of “Indian culture.” The specificity softens. The communities that have sustained these traditions, often with little visibility, are mentioned briefly, if at all.

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This is not neutral. It allows appreciation without responsibility.

At its core, Karam is not simply about thanking nature. It reflects an understanding that human life is entangled with the natural world in ways that cannot be controlled. The timing matters. It takes place before harvest, not after. It acknowledges uncertainty. Growth is still underway. Outcomes are not guaranteed.

What we might call ecological intelligence sits quietly within this structure. It is visible in the centrality of the tree, not as a symbol but as a presence. It is visible in collective participation rather than individual display. It is visible in songs that carry knowledge forward without naming it.

And yet, this is where the tension begins.

Modern life has a way of preserving what it erodes. Festivals like Karam are documented, occasionally celebrated, and sometimes showcased. But their function shifts. A living ritual becomes a cultural display. Something rooted in everyday life is repositioned as heritage.

There is also a quieter discomfort. Many urban readers, myself included, encounter Karam from a distance. It does not appear in textbooks or dominant cultural calendars. Unless one belongs to these regions or communities, it is entirely possible to grow up without hearing of them.

When we do encounter it, we admire what we see. The sense of community. The closeness to nature. The simplicity of the ritual. But admiration can slip into romanticisation. We notice what feels different but do not always ask what sustains it or what pressures it faces.

The forests that anchor these practices are under strain. Land use is changing. Economic pressures are reshaping livelihoods. Migration is altering communities. In this context, the continued presence of Karam can suggest continuity, even as the underlying world shifts.

Even the language we use reflects this distance. To call Karam a “harvest festival” is to make it legible within a familiar framework. It allows it to be categorised and compared.

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But this convenience comes at a cost.

The term centres outcome over process. It shifts attention to yield rather than the relationship. It fits the festival into an agricultural narrative that prioritises production, even though Karam is rooted in interdependence.

Why does this framing persist? Perhaps because it aligns with how modern systems understand land in terms of output and efficiency. In that sense, the label does not just simplify Karam. It reveals the lens we are accustomed to using.

In Bangladesh, where Karam is observed among certain communities, the patterns feel familiar even when visibility is lower. The rituals adapt, but the logic remains. A branch, a gathering, songs carrying memory across generations.

What stands out is not uniformity, but persistence.

Despite borders, administrative differences, and varying recognition, the relationship between land, season, and community continues to shape the festival. And yet, its relative invisibility raises a question. Which traditions are recorded and amplified, and which continue quietly, sustained only by those who live them?

To write about Karam is to sit with discomfort. The festival continues, but the conditions that sustain it are not guaranteed. Appreciation, on its own, is not enough.

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And yet, it would be too simple to end there.

Karam resists reduction. Despite pressures, it continues not as a relic but as a practice. People gather. Songs are sung. The Karam branch is placed at the centre of a shared space and treated with care.

Perhaps what Karam offers is not a model to replicate, but a way of seeing. Relationships with land, community, and time cannot be abstracted. They have to be practised. Celebration is not separate from responsibility. Memory, when held collectively, can still shape how a community moves forward.

In a world that prioritises speed, extraction, and individual achievement, this can feel like an older language.

But it has not disappeared.

It is still there, in the gathering around a tree branch, in songs that carry devotion and memory, and in the quiet understanding that human life does not stand apart from the world that sustains it.

In My Hands Today…

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By Steppe, Desert, and Ocean: The Birth of Eurasia – Barry Cunliffe

By Steppe, Desert, and Ocean is nothing less than the story of how humans first started building the globalized world we know today.

Set on a huge continental stage, from Europe to China, it is a tale covering over 10,000 years, from the origins of farming around 9000 BC to the expansion of the Mongols in the thirteenth century AD.

An unashamedly ‘big history’, it charts the development of European, Near Eastern, and Chinese civilizations and the growing links between them by way of the Indian Ocean, the Silk Roads, and the great steppe corridor (which crucially allowed horse riders to travel from Mongolia to the Great Hungarian Plain within a year). Along the way, it is also the story of the rise and fall of empires, the development of maritime trade, and the shattering impact of predatory nomads on their urbanneighbours.

Above all, as this immense historical panorama unfolds, we begin to see in clearer focus those basic underlying factors – the acquisitive nature of humanity, the differing environments in which people live, and the dislocating effect of even slight climatic variation – which have driven change throughout the ages, and which help us better understand our world today.

Short Story: The Woman Who Waters Her Plants at Midnight

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Kyoto, Japan | Autumn

The first time Haruto noticed her, he nearly choked on his instant noodles.

It was twelve minutes past midnight, and he had been sitting at his desk in apartment 4B of the Tanaka Residence, a narrow six-storey building wedged between a convenience store and a drainage canal in the Fushimi ward of Kyoto. He was not supposed to be awake. He was, in fact, supposed to have submitted three chapters of his thesis on Heian-era court poetry to his supervising professor by nine that morning, a deadline he had missed with the cheerful negligence he applied to all deadlines. The noodles were consolation. The window was open because the radiator was broken again.

That was when he saw her.

The apartment directly across the narrow alley: 4C of the mirror-image building, close enough that on humid nights Haruto could hear his neighbour on the left side snoring; it had been dark for three weeks. He had assumed it was empty. The building manager, a retired postal worker named Ogawa-san who seemed constitutionally opposed to sharing information, had said only that “someone new” was moving in “sometime.” Haruto had nodded and gone back to being useless.

But now the window across the alley was lit with a single lamp, amber and low, and beneath it stood a woman. She was perhaps forty, perhaps older, with long dark hair tied loosely at her neck. She wore a pale grey yukata, the kind people wear at home, not for ceremony. And she was watering her plants.

This would have been unremarkable — neighbours had plants; plants required water — except that there were so many of them. The windowsill was dense with pots: monstera, trailing pothos, small ferns, something with waxy red blooms Haruto couldn’t identify. She moved among them with a small copper watering can, methodically, silently, her expression unreadable.

At midnight.

Haruto watched for a moment, decided it was none of his business, and went to sleep.

He noticed again the following night. And the night after that.

Same time. Same lamp. Same unhurried circuit of the windowsill. She never looked up. She never appeared to notice him watching. He told himself he wasn’t watching, he was simply present at his desk, which happened to face the window, which happened to face her window. He was working. He happened to glance up. Repeatedly. For twenty minutes at a time.

By the fifth night, he had named the plants. The monstera was Kenji. The trailing pothos was Michiko. The thing with the red blooms he called the Senator, for no reason he could articulate.

By the seventh night, he had begun to find it unsettling.

It wasn’t that watering plants at midnight was, objectively, sinister. People had insomnia. People had unusual schedules. Haruto himself regularly ate dinner at two in the morning and considered this normal. But there was something in the precision of it: the same minute, the same order, the same tilt of the copper can, that felt less like habit and more like ritual. Like obligation. Like something that had to be done, or something bad would follow.

He mentioned it to his friend Daisuke over the phone.

“She’s watering plants,” Daisuke said flatly.

“At midnight. Every night. Like clockwork.”

“Haruto. You know what this sounds like? A man who hasn’t left his apartment in two weeks and has started anthropomorphising houseplants.”

“The Senator has a very commanding presence.”

“Go outside.”

He did not go outside. He did, however, begin to research.

The internet, he discovered, was full of folklore about midnight and plants. Certain traditions held that plants absorbed spiritual energy more readily at night, when the air was still and human interference minimal. Others suggested that water given under moonlight carried properties that daylight could not offer. He found a forum: deeply niche, fiercely earnest, dedicated to “lunisolar horticultural timing,” whose members charted their watering schedules against moon phases with the seriousness of hedge fund analysts tracking indices.

He also found, buried in the folklore of rural Kyoto, a belief he had not encountered before.

It was a fragment, cited in a 1973 academic paper on Fushimi folk customs, attributed to an unnamed elderly resident: the woman who tends to the dead at midnight does so because the dead must not wait, and the garden remembers every name.

Haruto stared at that sentence for a long time.

The dead. Must not wait.

He looked across the alley. The lamp was on. She was there.

Kenji and Michiko and the Senator caught the light.

He began watching more carefully. He told himself he was being responsible, that a lone woman engaged in mysterious midnight rituals in a building where he lived was, at minimum, worth understanding. He was not, he assured himself, becoming obsessed. He was gathering data.

The data was strange.

She never received visitors. She left the apartment, as far as he could tell, only during the day. He sometimes heard footsteps in the hall in the early afternoon, a plastic bag rustling. She cooked: he occasionally caught the smell of something warm drifting across the alley, soy and ginger, something slow-simmered. But the lights in the main room were always off by ten. And then, at midnight, the lamp came on. And she watered.

One night he noticed something new. She spoke to them. Not loudly, he couldn’t hear words, only the shape of her mouth moving, the slight incline of her head as she brought the can close to a pot. She paused at each one. She seemed to be telling them something. Or asking.

Haruto’s throat felt dry.

He thought about the paper. The garden remembers every name.

What names?

He ran into Ogawa-san in the stairwell on a Wednesday and, with great effort of will, asked about the new tenant in 4C across the alley.

“Shimizu-san,” Ogawa-san said, already moving past him.

“Does she…has anyone mentioned anything unusual about her schedule? She seems to be up very late.”

Ogawa-san stopped. Turned. Looked at Haruto with the expression of a man who had been asked whether the ocean was damp. “She works nights,” he said. “Hospital. Shifts end around eleven. Takes the train back.” He resumed his descent. “Don’t you have a thesis to be writing?“

Haruto stood in the stairwell for a moment. Then he went back upstairs.

She worked at a hospital. Night shifts. She came home at eleven and watered her plants before sleeping.

He sat at his desk. He looked at the dark window across the alley. He thought about all of it: the lamp, the copper can, the careful mouth forming words, the research he’d done, the names he’d invented, the 1973 paper with its fragment about the dead.

At midnight, the lamp came on.

He watched her begin her circuit: Kenji first, then the trailing Michiko, then down the row. She paused at the Senator, and he watched her lips move. He had spent eleven days constructing a mythology around this woman. Eleven days of dread and fascination, of whispering to Daisuke about dark rituals and sleeping soil and names the garden remembers. He had, he now understood, written an entire ghost story inside his own head and cast a hospital nurse in the lead role because he had not been outside in two weeks and his thesis was nowhere near finished and his brain had apparently decided that paranoid folklore was more interesting than Heian-era court poetry.

The Senator caught the lamplight. Red blooms, waxy and cheerful.

He wondered what she was actually saying to them. Probably something like: you need more sun, I’m sorry I can’t do anything about that at midnight, please don’t die on me, I’ve had a long shift and I can’t lose you too.

He wondered if she even knew someone across the alley had named her plants, built her a mythology, and spent the better part of two weeks convinced she was communing with the dead rather than, as it turned out, just keeping the one living thing in her apartment alive after a twelve-hour shift in an ICU ward.

He closed his laptop, picked up his phone, and called Daisuke.

“I figured it out,” he said. “She’s a nurse. She waters them when she gets home from work. That’s it.”

A pause. “I told you,” Daisuke said.

“You were right.”

“How does it feel?”

“Like a man who named a plant ‘the Senator’ and lost eleven days of his thesis.”

“Go outside, Haruto.”

“I’m going outside.”

He hung up. Looked across the alley one last time. The lamp was still on. Shimizu-san was still there, finishing her circuit, and now she set down the copper can and stood for a moment with her hands resting on the windowsill, looking out at the alley: at the canal, the convenience store signs, the narrow sliver of Kyoto night between the buildings.

Then she looked directly at his window.

Directly at him.

And waved.

A small wave. Perfectly ordinary. The wave of someone who has known for eleven days that her neighbour has been watching her water her plants and has been waiting, with immense patience, for him to be embarrassed about it.

Haruto, thesis student, plant-namer, architect of midnight mythologies, slowly raised his hand and waved back.

She turned off the lamp.

He sat in the dark for a moment, then opened his laptop and, for the first time in two weeks, began to write; not about court poetry, but a note he intended to slip under the door of 4C in the morning: I’m sorry for staring. Your plants are lovely. The one with the red blooms is particularly dignified. I have been calling him the Senator.

He paused, then added: I think he has potential in local government.

He read it back. Deleted the last line. Kept the last line. Deleted it again.

Kept it.

The canal outside made its quiet sound. Somewhere down the hall, his neighbour began to snore. Haruto Watanabe, twenty-six, currently failing his doctoral programme with distinction, started writing about Heian-era poetry at twenty past midnight, and for the first time in weeks, felt entirely fine about being awake.