A prominent wall fixture in our homes is picture or pictures of deity or deities. The next in prominence is the picture of our grandparents and parents who have departed. The pictures of our fore parents took the proud of pace in our drawing rooms. They appear in many forms—black and white or colour, paintings, photographs, even etchings on brass. Yet, the one that stands out most vividly in my memory is the portrait of my grandmother, our beloved Valliyammachi, that hung in the ancestral home.

This portrait awakens a flood of memories and reflections within me. This blog is an attempt to preserve and share those thoughts, before they fade from my memory and are lost with me. What I record here is not merely for our family, but carefully chosen so it may hold meaning for others as well.

Allow me, then, to gather these thoughts and present them under the following headings.

The portrait, painted in black and white and nearly as large as the picture of the Sacred Heart, was the result of painstaking craftsmanship. An artist from a nearby town was invited, and over several sittings with our Vallyiamachi, he carefully etched her likeness onto canvas. She sat on a chair draped with a bed sheet, while the artist captured every contour of her face and form, details so finely executed that they surpass even the precision of a photograph.

These portraits are more than mere images; they are treasured legacies of a bygone era, created by skilled hands that knew how to infuse life into art. If you zoom in on the image, you can read the name of the artist—KSA Rahuman, Alleppey—inscribed at the bottom center. His name will remain etched there long after the identity of the subject may fade from memory.

I can only imagine the effort my father invested in finding such an artist and commissioning this portrait. This was a tradition born before photography became commonplace, and time has proven its worth, these works still endure, offering a depth and richness no camera could fully match. Truly, a masterpiece to be admired.

The portrait serves as a window into a bygone era, allowing us to reminisce about customs and fashions that have since faded away. It captures a slice of our cultural heritage, ornaments and attire once treasured, now out of vogue.

Lower ear Lobe Gouge
The lower lobes of the ears were pierced and then gradually enlarged by suspending small weights over time, eventually creating a distinct, hanging hole. In the 1940s, this was considered a fashionable statement among Nasrani (Syrian Christian) women. The earlier heavy ornaments worn in these lobes stretched them into what we might now call a lobe gouge. This custom, once so prominent, eventually disappeared.

Upper Lobe Ring
At the upper lobe, note the striking gold earring, the Mekkamothiram or Kunukku, a signature ornament of Nasrani women. This heavy, gilt, circular earring traces its roots back to ancient Biblical times. Historical records mention similar crescent- or sun-shaped ornaments worn by Israelite or Hebrew women (Genesis 35:4), likely adopted from surrounding pagan cultures. These ornaments were often symbolic, associated with the worship of the Sun or Moon in ancient Egypt and Arabia. Over time, the tradition seems to have been passed down to the Malabar Christians, alongside other Hebraic customs. Interestingly, Cochin Jewish women also wore Mekkamothiram-like earrings in much the same fashion.

Neckwear
Around her neck hangs a thin gold chain, a rosary, and a scapular*. The rosary worn was the one she used for daily prayers; my siblings and cousins have pointed out that in the portrait, one of the decades on her rosary contains only nine beads instead of ten.

Garments
The blouse she wears is the Chatta, a white, V-necked top traditionally worn by Christian women. Its origins are debated, but likely West Asian, as a similar garment is also used by Muslim Mappila women and the Malabar Jews, though not by Hindu women. The Chatta may have evolved from jackets worn by early West Asian traders—an association that fits, since Syrian Christians, like Jews and Mappilas, were often mercantile traders. In the portrait, Valiyammachi wears a long-sleeved Chatta, covered modestly with a Thollumudu (a cloth draped over the blouse). When going out, a shawl called the Kavani would be thrown over the shoulders and bosom.

Though not fully visible in the portrait, the Mundu, the lower garment, is another distinctive feature. It is a white cloth, seven yards long and about one and a quarter yards wide, worn around the waist. At the back, the Mundu is gathered into a fan-like appendage called the Njori, both modest and artistically elegant.

Changing Times
The family photograph taken in 1966, six years after Valliyammachi’s passing, records the shift in ornaments and attire. Only two women, the eldest among them, have the ear-lobe gouge and wear Kunukku, and both have on long-sleeved Chatta. The remaining five shown do not have ear-lobe gouge or Kunnuku, but are dressed in half-sleeved Chatta. The other ladies (not shown here) in the group photo wear saree. This signals the gradual change in fashion during this span of time.

My Valliyammachi’s name was Mariamma, wife of Mammoottil Scaria, and she hailed from the Kandankary family, Angady, the same branch as Rev. Fr. Cyriac Kandankary. Her ancestral home stood a few houses up from the St. Michael Shrine, about 500 metres directly in front of St. Mary’s Cathedral, Changanacherry. Today, a reconstructed house occupies the site, now the residence of the family descendant, Dr. Antony Mathew (Sony Kandankary), former Head of the Department of Mathematics and former Vice Principal of St. Berchmans College, Changanacherry.

For us children, in 1950s and early 1960s, visiting that house every 15th of August, the Feast of the Assumption of St. Mary, patroness of the Cathedral, was a cherished tradition. We went to witness the solemn Eucharistic procession from the Cathedral to the Shrine. The road would be adorned with overhead decorations, and carpets rolled out for the passage of the Blessed Sacrament. As the procession passed, we lined up inside the compound wall and would kneel or stand in prayer. Each year’s visit became more than just a religious observance; it was also a quiet measure of our own growth, marked against that wall.

Vessels of the Time
My memories of Valliyammachi are faint. I mostly remember her lying in bed, with elders from far and near coming to visit her occasionally. We children were told to keep away from her room and from the visitors.
Once, during one such visit, a lady’s chair tipped over and she dropped and broke the koppa in which coffee had been served. The koppa—a porcelain, hemispherical cup—was kept exclusively for guests. There was much talk about the incident, as only a few koppas were left in the house.

Services at the House of the Deceased
My last memory of Valliyammachi is her demise on 15 August 1960. We lived in the house behind our shop, in Changanacherry market. There was no space for a pandal. All the goods from the shop were stacked elsewhere, and the empty shop became the hall where her body was laid for people to pay their respects.
Through the night, I watched a group of men and women singing continuously. I could not understand their chants, but they were treated with special respect. Later I learned that they had come from Tamil Nadu and were singing Thembavani.