Just three kilometers from Nagercoil, along the Nagercoil–Thiruvananthapuram road, lies Chunkankadai—a village of green fields, still ponds, and steady hands. Here, pottery isn’t merely work; it is memory shaped into form.
The craft begins in water. Potters draw a dense clay known locally as kalimannu from the beds of village ponds. Not all clay is the same, they’ll tell you; each pond has its temperament. Knowing where to dig—and for which kind of pot—is knowledge gained over decades, learned more by touch than by book.
The clay is sun-dried, sifted free of stones and roots, and mounded for later use. Two clays are often blended with podimanal (river sand) to curb shrinkage and strengthen the body. In courtyards and small workshops, manual kick-wheels of wood and iron spin to a familiar rhythm. The work is physical, human-scaled, and precise. Texture, moisture, and color guide every decision, the way a baker reads their flour.
Shaped pieces rest in the shade until ready for the kiln—an open, wood-fired furnace of brick and mud. Firing begins late morning with a timid flame that gathers courage through the day. Too fast, and the pots will crack; patient heat makes them strong. After three to three-and-a-half hours of firing, the kiln is sealed to cool through the night. By dawn, the long wait yields pots in deep reds and burnished siennas—durable, useful, quietly beautiful.
Chunkankadai is an ecosystem. Some families specialize in clay preparation, others in shaping vessels, a few in tending the kiln. Children help clean clay or paint festive designs. Shops at the settlement’s edge sell directly to locals and travelers, reducing middlemen and paying artisans more fairly. Much of the village’s work journeys west, to Kerala towns like Guruvayur, Thrissur, and Kottappuram.
But the story carries weight. Kalimannu grows scarce as traditional ponds dry or give way to development. Mass-produced plastic, steel, and aluminum crowd the market. Younger hands drift toward city jobs with quicker certainty. “We cannot force our children,” says Selvam, “but it hurts to think this might end with us.”
Even so, hope takes shape. Designers and NGOs increasingly collaborate with rural potters, exploring new forms and markets. Eco-conscious buyers are coming back to clay for water storage, cooking, and décor. For those who stay, the wheel keeps turning—less a livelihood than an act of remembrance and continuity. Each pot is a refusal to let meaning slip away.
In Chunkankadai, every vessel holds a story: of earth drawn from water, of patience and heat, of families who measure time not just in days, but in the gentle rise of a kiln’s breath. Here, clay becomes culture—and community is fired to last.
