“Have you heard the story of Nagaraja, the protector of the land?”
My dearest friend Aswani asked one summer afternoon as we wandered through the backyard of her ancestral home in Palakkadu.1 Our feet muddled through the soil while the creak of palm fronds whispered above our heads. She curled her fingers around mine, pointing toward a grove a little distance from the yard – a stretch of untouched land, lush and green. She continued,
“Ammamma (grandmother) says the Serpent King resides in the Kaavu (groves) there. We worship them.”
It was the first time I learned about Kerala’s rich tradition of Sarppakaavu – sacred groves dedicated to serpent worship. My friend’s grandmother often spoke of how these groves were not just places of worship but also sanctuaries of nature, filled with ancient stories that intertwined human, nature and the divine.
Kerala has a rich tradition of storytelling. Snippets of legends and myths occasionally slip into everyday conversations, weaving people and places into extraordinary narratives. The act of storytelling, or Kadhaparachil, is something every Keralite delights in, influencing a vast array of art forms, from traditional to contemporary. It is through these stories that communities come together, whether in the lively banter of tea stalls or the solemn gatherings in temple courtyards. These shared narratives nurture a sense of belonging, where everyday spaces transform into hubs of collective memory.
(Image by Stuti Mohanta)
The legend of the serpent race traces back to the Mahabharata, to the tale of two sisters, Kadru and Vinita, both married to Sage Kashyapa. When Kashyapa, pleased with their devotion, offered them boons, Kadru wished for a hundred powerful sons, while Vinita asked for just two sons who would surpass Kadru’s sons in strength and valour. Kadru became the mother of a hundred serpents – the ancestors of the entire serpent race – while Vinita gave birth to Aruna and Garuda.
“Then who is Nagaraja?” I asked, straining my ears, half-hoping to catch the sharp, ancient sibilance of a hidden presence, as I grasped a hanging root of the banyan tree and let it sway beneath my touch.
“Among Kadru’s children were Lord Anantha and Lord Vasuki, known as Nagarajas, or serpent kings. They are significant figures in Hindu mythology,” my friend explained, gripping another banyan root and attempting to swing higher, her laughter mixing with the rustle of leaves above us.
The connection between humans and the serpent race is rooted in the story of Lord Parashurama, who created the land of Kerala by casting his axe into the sea and pulling out a land both wild and rich. Yet, what awaited the people who came to settle was not paradise but peril – forests thick with venomous snakes. Distressed, Parashurama sought guidance from Lord Shiva. Shiva advised him to worship Anantha, the eternal king of serpents in Hindu mythology.
According to the Puranas, Anantha or Adishesha supports all the planets of the Universe on his vast hoods and is a devoted follower of Lord Vishnu, constantly chanting his glories. It is believed that when Adishesha uncoils, time begins, and creation unfolds. When he recoils, time halts, and the Universe ceases to exist. He is often called Ananta Shesha, meaning “the one who endures when all else perishes”.
With offerings and deep devotion, Parashurama called upon Anantha. Pleased with the homage, he appeared.
“Let there be Sarppakaavu – groves untouched by human hands. Sanctuaries where serpents may dwell, and peace shall reign,” Anantha instructed. He directed Parashurama to establish snake worship across Kerala and dedicate protected forests for their preservation.
Since then, many traditional Kerala homes have had these groves adjoining their properties. Known as Kaavu or Sarppakkavu, these sacred spaces are preserved in their natural state, untouched by human interference.
“What kind of rituals are performed here?”
“There are plenty!” Aswani whetted my appetite as we both walked towards the Kaavu.
Every Sarppakaavu is associated with mystic rituals, one of the most popular being ‘Sarppam Thullal‘ (snake dance), performed by the Pulluvan community to appease the snake gods and bring prosperity and wealth to the family. The ritual begins with the drawing of a Kalam (floor art) using natural powders, often featuring figures of Naga deities, typically created in the courtyards of homes. The songs are accompanied by traditional instruments such as the Pulluvankkudam, Pulluvan Veena, and Ila Thalam.
As the songs progress, the devotees enter a trance state, adopting a frenzied dance form, mimicking serpent-like movements. In the final act, called Kalam Mayikkal, the devotees erase the Kalam using coconut flower bunches. This means the spirits of the sacred groves bestowing their blessings upon the family.
“That sounds really mystical! I would love to witness it one day”. The soft humming of Pullluvan veena gently sifted through the air.
“What are you girls doing here, Ammamma has been asking for you”. Aswani’s uncle, who worked in the forest department, came looking for us as we stood between the massive groves.
“I was telling her about the Kaavu. It’s her first time seeing one,” Aswani replied. Tired from standing, we had settled on a moss-covered rock, its cool surface offering much-needed relief. The soft sunlight trickled through the canopy, casting intricate, scattered patterns on the forest floor.
Uncle sank onto a rock facing us, using the back of his shirt sleeve to wipe the sweat beads from his forehead. Adjusting his glasses, he gazed around with a calm yet knowing expression.
“You know,” he began, “these sacred groves are far more than what we imagine. Sure, they hold spiritual and cultural significance, but for me, they serve a greater purpose.”
We leaned in as he continued, “In the Kaavu, disturbing the flora and fauna is forbidden, considered a great sin. That means no cutting down trees, no hunting. Humans are meant to respect the laws of nature here. In that way, these groves are a brilliant model for ecological conservation, don’t you think? A place where humanity learns to be decentred.”
“Uncle, does this idea of the Kaavu have anything to do with that proverb Ammamma always says?” Aswani asked.
“Which one?” he inquired, curious.
“Kaavu theendiyaal kulam vattum,” she recited. “Loosely translated, ‘Touch or disturb the Kaavu, and the ponds will dry up.’”
“Exactly,” A smile spread across his face.
“That old saying is rooted in wisdom designed to keep people away from harming the groves. The trees and plants in the Kaavu act as natural reservoirs, maintaining the nearby water bodies. Cutting them down disrupts this balance, causing wells, ponds, and streams to dry up. Communities believed that failing to preserve the groves would anger the deities, who would curse the land with drought. Of course, modern science now explains it as deforestation affecting groundwater levels – but the message remains the same!.”
“That’s incredible,” I said, awestruck. “It’s such a thoughtful way to ensure the ecosystem’s protection.”
Uncle’s insight made me join a few dots as the simplicity of the tradition struck me deeply. This ancient practice offered a profound ecological lesson, showing how humans must live in harmony with nature, not as its masters. It simply challenged the anthropocentric mindset, reminding us that our role was not to dominate but to coexist, to respect, and above all, to not disrupt.
“Aswaniii! It’s getting late. Bring your friend home – she must be tired!” Ammamma’s call rang out through the grove, her voice warm and grounding.
Reluctantly, we rose from the ground, brushing off bits of moss and leaves. The air had cooled down, sky glowed in a soft amber hue, and the grove stirred as its nocturnal inhabitants awoke.
To catch a final glimpse, before walking back home, I stepped closer to the edge of Kaavu, the cool shadows spilling over my feet. A sudden breeze slithered through, carrying the earthy scent of wet leaves and something more – something ageless. For a moment, I almost imagined the glint of eyes in the shrubs and the faint rustle of scales on the move. But it was still peaceful. We hurried back to meet Ammamma, while I was secretly eager to learn more about the Sarppakaavu and its sacred protectors.
(Illustration by Stuti Mohanta)
Palakkadu- It is the largest district in Kerala, is noted for its agricultural heritage and cultural diversity. It hosts a range of sacred groves, from ancient sites to sacralized spaces devoid of vegetation, associated with diverse ritual practices. These include primitive rites like Noorum Palum and Kalamezhuthupattu as well as Vedic rituals such as Sarpa Bali and Payasa Homam, reflecting the region’s syncretic spiritual traditions. ↩︎
