Article by Abhirami Ravichandran
Edited by Angel Kolady & Jenica Amalita

Right after completing my master’s degree, I joined the Tropical Botanical Garden and Research Institute in Kerala as a Junior Research Fellow. I became part of an interdisciplinary team of ten members – five botanists and five Ayurveda doctors, working to study and document traditional knowledge systems across the state. Our research focused on understanding how local communities use plants in food, medicine, and other cultural practices. What began as a scientific documentation project soon evolved into a journey through Kerala’s living traditions.

Our fieldwork took us across several districts, engaging closely with communities and local governance bodies. One such visit brought us to Panjal, a quiet village in the Thrissur district of Kerala. Until then, I had never heard of Panjal. Yet, from the moment we arrived, it felt unforgettable. Surrounded by lush paddy fields, quiet temple ponds, and age-old shrines, the village retains a deep sense of continuity with its past.

Among its temples, the most revered is the Lakshmi Narayana Temple, locally believed to be nearly 7,000 years old. The presiding deity is Lakshmi Narayana, an inseparable form of Lord Vishnu and Goddess Lakshmi, symbolising prosperity and preservation. Architecturally, the temple is modest: stone-built walls, a sloping roof finished with terracotta tiles, and an unadorned exterior that reflects the restrained aesthetic of many traditional Kerala shrines. It does not host major annual festivals today and is remembered for once functioning as a paathshala, where the Sama Veda was taught. 

In contemporary usage, the word mana is still primarily associated with traditional Namboothiri Brahmin households, even if the structure has been renovated or modernised. However, newly built modern houses belonging to Namboothiri families may still colloquially be called a mana if they continue the lineage identity. Other castes in Kerala also historically had distinct names for their traditional homes. For example, tharavadu refers broadly to ancestral homes, especially among matrilineal communities such as the Nairs, while certain royal or aristocratic residences were known as kovilakam. These names, like mana, carried social and cultural meaning beyond simple architectural description.

The village thus carries a timeless charm. Some ancestral manas stand abandoned, their tiled roofs weathered and courtyards overgrown, while others have been carefully adapted to contemporary life, with polished floors, painted walls, and renewed wooden beams, balancing heritage with modern comfort.

As part of our methodology, we began by meeting officials at the local panchayat office to understand the village’s social fabric and cultural landscape. Conversations with ward members and elders revealed a community deeply rooted in agrarian rhythms and temple-centred life. Daily routines often revolved around seasonal agricultural cycles, temple observances, and household rituals. We learned about the continued use of medicinal plants in home remedies, the role of traditional healers in treating ailments such as snakebites, and the transmission of ritual knowledge through specific families. 

Within this context of living tradition, we were gradually introduced to something far more rare and extraordinary – the ritual of Athirathram.

Unlike the routine temple rituals and annual ceremonies commonly observed in the region, Athirathram is an elaborate and highly complex Soma sacrifice that requires precise adherence to ancient injunctions and the participation of trained ritual specialists. Its performance is exceedingly rare in contemporary times due to the scale of resources, expertise, and ritual continuity required.

Until then, my only familiarity with the term had been through the Malayalam film Athirathram starring Mammootty. Encountering Athirathram not as a cinematic reference but as a living, though infrequent, ritual tradition revealed the extraordinary depth of practice that still quietly persists within the village.

What we encountered, however, was something far more profound. The villagers spoke of Athirathram with pride and reverence. Panjal, they told us, was renowned for this ancient ritual, drawing scholars and seekers from across India and even abroad. Our curiosity deepened, and soon we were introduced to Krishnan Namboothiri, a key figure connected to the ritual, marking the beginning of a deeper exploration into one of Kerala’s most extraordinary living traditions.

Athirathram is an ancient twelve-day fire ritual, regarded as one of the oldest surviving spiritual traditions in the world. Rooted in the Vedas, it is performed to invoke universal peace and to restore harmony between humans and the natural world.

When I think of Athirathram, I do not first see the eagle-shaped altar or the rising smoke, I see Krishnan Namboothiri. He was a tall, imposing man with salt-and-pepper hair that had almost turned completely white. A thick, long beard framed his face, giving him a dignified, almost sage-like presence. His sharp eyes, greyish in tone, stood out vividly against the deep lines and wrinkles of his aging eyelids, suggesting both wisdom and intensity.

Altogether, he looked like a man deeply rooted in tradition, strong, disciplined, and unmistakably dignified.

He was walking barefoot along the narrow mud road, veshti folded, speaking softly as if the paddy fields themselves were listening. He lived near the old temple in Panjal, and when we first met him, he received us not as researchers but as children who had come home late. In the backyard of his house lay the preserved outline of the Chiti, the great fire altar once shaped like Garuda.

Over three consecutive days, my teammate and I sat with him, mostly on the veranda. What I now recount about Athirathram is not a structured lesson but fragments of his voice returning to me. He spoke of Panjal as if it were chosen long before any of us were born, its land aligned by vastu, its ritual lineage unbroken, its Namboothiri households breathing the Sama Veda as naturally as air. “A yaga,” he told us, “is not for a man’s prosperity. It is for the balance that holds the sky and soil together.”

He spoke of the seven Somayagas, a specific group of ancient fire rituals centred on the sacred Soma offering, the way someone might describe the seven stages of a human life. (While yaga is a general term for a sacrificial ritual, Somayagas refer particularly to those in which Soma, a ritual plant extract, is ceremonially prepared and offered. In that sense, all Somayagas are yagas, but not all yagas are Somayagas.)

He listed them slowly: Agnistoma, Athyagnistoma, Ukthya, Shodashi, Vajapeya, Aptoryam, and finally Athirathram.

He explained that Agnistoma is the foundational Soma ritual, the model upon which the others are built. Athyagnistoma expands upon it with additional chants and offerings. Ukthya introduces further hymns (ukthas), enriching the liturgical complexity. Shodashi adds a special set of sixteen chants, deepening the ritual structure. Vajapeya, more elaborate and prestigious, incorporates royal symbolism and was historically associated with kingship and spiritual authority. Aptoryam extends the ritual even further, lengthening the sequence of recitations and offerings, preparing the ground for the final and most demanding rite.

When he reached the last name, he paused.

“Athirathram,” he said with a smile, “means the night refuses to sleep.”

Unlike the earlier Somayagas, which conclude within a structured span of ritual time, Athirathram stretches continuously through the night. The sacred fires are kept alive without interruption; chants flow across the boundary between day and darkness. It is not merely longer, it transforms time itself into an offering. The progression of the previous six rituals builds toward this culmination, each adding layers of liturgical depth and duration, until in Athirathram the ritual no longer fits neatly within the day. It crosses into the night, suggesting transcendence, where time, wakefulness, and devotion merge into one unbroken act of sacrifice.

He spoke about his wife and that he and his wife had never stepped out of their home together. One of them always remained behind to tend the lamp they had lit on their wedding day, a flame that, like their vows, was never meant to go out.

“Fire is household,” he said. “Without her, the altar is incomplete.”

The seventeen Rithwiks surround them, each embodying a Veda and a function so exact that a misplaced syllable could unsettle the rite. He spoke their names – Pratiprasthata, Maitravaruna, Udgata, Adhvaryu, Hotha. In the ritual, each priest has a clearly defined role. The Hota recites hymns from the Rig Veda, serving as the voice that calls upon the gods. The Udgata sings verses from the Sama Veda in a measured melody, filling the space with sacred sound believed to carry the offering upward. The Adhvaryu, guided by the Yajur Veda, performs the physical work like measuring the ground, preparing the altar, and placing offerings into the fire, ensuring the ceremony unfolds correctly. Assisting them are the Maitravaruṇa, who listens and maintains accuracy in recitation, and the Pratiprasthata, who helps prepare offerings and arrange the ritual space. Together, their coordinated speech, song, and action bring the sacrifice to life.

When he described the yagasala, he was speaking of the temporary sacred space built specially for the ritual, a kind of open-air temple made of thatch, wood, and carefully measured ground. It is not a permanent structure, but a precisely constructed enclosure where every post, rope, and direction has meaning.

Within this space, the Pracinavamsa refers to the western section of the ritual area. It is usually a covered shed where key preparations take place and where certain priests sit. The name literally means “the old or ancient line facing west,” and it marks the more inward, preparatory side of the ceremony.

The Mahavedi is the large, specially shaped altar ground laid out to the east of the Pracinavamsa. It is an open, extended area of carefully measured earth where the main offerings occur. Think of it as the central stage of the ritual, broad, geometric, and symbolically aligned with cosmic directions.

The Garhapatya fire is one of the principal sacred fires placed within this space. It is a round fire altar, representing the household fire brought from the sacrificer’s home. Unlike some other ritual fires that may be extinguished after the ceremony, the Garhapatya symbolises continuity, it is steady, constant, and associated with domestic life and lineage. From it, other ritual fires are kindled, which is why it is often described as the ritual’s heartbeat.

Together, the yagasala is the sacred setting, the Pracinavamsa its preparatory western chamber, the Mahavedi its main altar ground, and the Garhapatya the enduring fire at its core.

And at the center, the Garuda Chiti – an eagle facing east. He told us there are three forms of this eagle, like stages of growth: the newborn Pidan, the young Pancapathrika, and the full-winged Sadpathrika. The altar is built in five layers, brick by brick, each brick measured, named, invoked. “Some bricks are bulls,” he laughed gently, “some are circles of the cosmos, and one is a woman without ears – Vikarni. Even silence has a place in the fire.” When he says “some bricks are bulls,” he is referring to bricks symbolically associated with strength, fertility, and generative power. In traditional symbolism, the bull often represents vitality and cosmic energy, the force that sustains life. Placing such a brick in the altar is not decorative; it is a way of embedding that life-force into the ritual structure.

When he speaks of bricks as “circles of the cosmos,” he is referring to bricks whose shapes or symbolic meanings represent the sun, time cycles, or the wholeness of the universe. The altar itself is designed as a miniature cosmos. Its measurements correspond to days of the year, lunar cycles, and cosmic directions. In this way, building the altar becomes an act of rebuilding the universe in sacred form.

The brick called “Vikarni,” described as “a woman without ears,” also has ritual meaning. In the altar construction, certain bricks are given anthropomorphic (human-like) identities. A brick “without ears” symbolically suggests one that does not hear, representing silence, restraint, or the absence of distraction. It may signify that not everything in the ritual is sound and chant; there must also be stillness. Silence, too, is ritually placed and acknowledged.

He also spoke of responsibility. When a Namboothiri resolves to perform Athirathram, word is sent to the Raja of Kollengode, who must provide Soma, the antelope skin and some sacred woods required for the rituals. In 2011, when the skin could not be found locally, it came from Varanasi. “Tradition travels if the intention is pure,” he said. Since the ancient Soma creeper is no longer available, Sarcostemma brevistigma stands in its place. 

What stays with me most is how he explained the twelve days step by step, as a process of preparation.

The first phase is the Diksha period, which is the initiation of the Yajamana, the main sponsor of the ritual. During these days, he takes formal vows and begins living under strict discipline. He follows specific rules about food, behaviour, and speech, and separates himself from ordinary daily life. This period marks his symbolic entry into the ritual, almost like a formal spiritual beginning.

After this come the Upasad days. These are days of continued discipline and increasing focus. The rituals performed are more repetitive and controlled, and the Yajamana maintains his vows with even greater care. “Inward and disciplined” means that the emphasis during these days is on self-control, mental concentration, ritual purity, and restraint rather than public display. The purpose is to prepare both the mind and body for the more intense rituals that follow.

He then described the Pravargya ritual, in which ghee is heated in a special clay vessel until it becomes extremely hot and bursts into flame when offered. This is a physically demanding and symbolically powerful moment in the ceremony. It represents energy, transformation, and readiness. When he said, “The fire must leap before the man can,” he meant that the external act of fire rising reflects the inner readiness and commitment required of the Yajamana to complete the sacrifice.

Layer by layer, the eagle altar rises until the ninth day when Agni is awakened anew. And then, on the tenth day, the Soma Yaga begins, unbroken by sleep.

“Imagine,” he told us, “chants flowing at midnight, stars above, fire below. The universe listens.” The final recitations, the Stuti Sastras are offerings of sound as much as substance. “In the end,” he said quietly, “it is speech returning to silence.”

On our last evening, he invited me to watch Kathakali at the temple, my first time witnessing it in person. I still see the oil lamps trembling against vividly painted faces. He and his wife were visibly excited, their anticipation almost childlike. I wasn’t sure if it was entirely my world. I have never really been a temple person. Faith, in its devotional sense, does not come easily to me. But culture does. I am drawn to the artistry of it, the discipline, the gestures, the centuries of memory held in movement and sound. I may not believe in the rituals, yet I admire them the way one admires a masterpiece, aware of its depth, even from a distance.

As the night grew later, I remember quietly waving goodbye to him and slipping away halfway through, the drums still echoing behind me.

Almost five years have passed since those conversations, yet Panjal remains vivid, the smell of wet earth, the geometry of the altar, his gentle laughter. Athirathram, he taught me, is not merely the building of a fire altar. It is the building of attention. The fire that never sleeps is not only in the Yagasala; it is in memory, in discipline, in the quiet conviction that some traditions endure not because they resist time, but because they burn steadily within it.