Karaikudi gets its first museum dedicated to Chettinad jewellery

Life doesn’t hurry in Karaikudi. It unfolds through quiet conversations over brass tumblers of filter coffee, through the rustle of saris drying in the courtyard breeze, and through the distant clang of temple bells that have rung for centuries. Every corner seems to hum with history, from the red dust rising beneath your feet to the carved wooden doors that guard ancestral homes.

We arrived one golden afternoon at this heritage home. Our first stop was for lunch at Annalakshmi, where we sat around a banana leaf spread that was a love letter to Chettinad’s culinary soul. The Chettinad delicacies arrived at our table (or rather leaves) one after the other. These included bottle gourd koottu, keerai masiyal (spinach-based), and vazha poo vadai (banana plant vadai) apart from the warm breads and rice. We ended the meal in true Chettinad fashion—with banana and betel leaf.

We checked in soon after to The Bangala, an institution in itself. A relic of heritage and hospitality, The Bangala made us fall in love with it at first sight. Bougainvillea poured over the garden walls in a pink profusion, while underfoot, cool Athangudi tiles shimmered with muted colours. The rooms we stayed in were equally impressive—steeped in old-world charm. The wooden furniture, starched linen, a balcony overlooking the garden and that wonderful stillness that reminded us of our ancestral homes. 

Our evening began with a drive to Pillaiyarpatti Temple, one of Tamil Nadu’s oldest rock-cut shrines. The journey there, with cashew trees flanking both sides of the road and the red soil glowing beneath them.

Upon entering the temple, we found the significance behind the deity interesting. A natural stone sculpture of Vinayakar that changes hues through the day, appearing dark in the morning and golden by sunset. Every inch of the temple speaks of meticulous craftsmanship: delicate carvings, natural vegetable dyes, and stone pillars worn smooth by centuries of touch. 

It was almost dark by the time we were done marvelling at the temple architecture and the interiors. We called it a day with a delightful dinner at Thappa Gardens. That night, we had a peaceful sleep with the whir of ceiling fans lulling us into dreams of courtyards and tiled corridors.

The next morning began with a breakfast that could easily inspire poetry—soft pongal, crisp podi dosai, and a bowl of kavuni arisi payasam, the famous black rice pudding made with jaggery and coconut milk. A comforting breakfast, it tasted like home even to those of us who had never grown up with it.

But the highlight of our Karaikudi sojourn awaited us that day—Pettagam, luxury jewellery designer Meenu Subbiah’s newest venture and perhaps one of the most pivotal cultural spaces to open in Chettinad in recent times.

“Pettagam”, Meenu explained as we walked in, “means treasure chest. And that’s what this is—a place that holds not just objects, but the spirit of our community.” 

The museum, part display and part design studio, has the lower floor with the museum space — an exquisitely curated collection of antiques, heirlooms, and artefacts that tell the story of Chettinad life through generations. Upstairs, a select collection will be available for sale, giving visitors a chance to take home a piece of history. “The idea”, Meenu said, “is to let people engage with these objects, not just observe them. Heritage doesn’t belong behind glass; it belongs in living spaces.”

We wandered through rooms where the past seemed to shimmer back into being—old tools used for jewellery making, wooden chests, and even fragments of jewellery that once adorned brides from Karaikudi’s grandest families. Each piece had a story, and together they painted a portrait of Chettinad as a place of trade, artistry, and refinement. 

We were fascinated by Meenu’s symbolic collection of Chettinad jewellery. Unlike the delicate modern ornaments we wear today, Chettinad jewellery is hefty; it feels like it’s meant to last generations. Each piece, Meenu pointed out, was handmade using ancient techniques that few artisans practise anymore. These ornaments,  she said, were more than decoration—they were identity.

We stepped out into the sunny streets of Karaikudi while sipping a refreshing goli soda. From Pettagam, we went straight to The Vaadhyar’s House for lunch, a place renovated in the Chettinad architecture style. A traditional prawns sappadu was served to us. The meal was so homely that it felt like a meal cooked by a doting grandmother. A short stroll away was a weaving unit—a kaleidoscope of colour and sound. Looms clicked rhythmically as threads of silk intertwined into exquisite saris. Banana silk, among other kinds of saris, salwar sets, rolls of cotton bedspreads and fabric lined the shelves. Before we knew it, we had picked out two saris to take home as tactile memories of Karaikudi’s craftsmanship.

En route to the day’s next events, we found ourselves marvelling at the Chettinad Palace from outside, a sprawling mansion with 70 rooms and three courtyards, each framed by columns and gothic-style windows fitted with Belgian glass. The symmetry, scale, and sheer opulence are breathtaking—a reflection of how the Chettiars once lived, their fortunes built on trade that reached far beyond India’s shores.

The Athangudi Palace, or Lakshmi Vilas, built about 95 years ago by Nachiappa Chettiar, was just as mesmerising. Its English-imported tiles gleamed underfoot, while Japanese roof tiles glistened in the sunlight. Inside, the walls were painted with natural vegetable dyes, and mirrors from Belgium reflected a soft, timeless light. Even the dining hall, with its famed Athangudi tiles, seemed to tell stories of feasts long past—of weddings where a thousand guests might gather, of laughter echoing through the corridors.

We later stopped by one of the many Athangudi tile factories. There are about 60 in the region, we were told. The process of tile making is as fascinating as the result. The ratio is sacred—three parts sand to one part cement. Each tile takes 10 days to make, and artisans craft around 150 tiles a day, each one unique. Watching them swirl colours and patterns by hand, we understood why these tiles have endured. They aren’t just made; they’re imagined.

Our last temple visit was to an Ayyanar shrine, dedicated to Shiva’s protector avatar and his fierce generals, the Karuppars. Rows of terracotta horses stood guard, offered by devotees as vehicles for the god to ride while protecting his people. The mythic Yalis—with horse bodies, tiger tails, lion faces, eagle claws, and elephant trunks—stood frozen in mid-leap. 

That night, back at The Bangala, dinner was slow and satisfying. From the comforting pal paniyaram, which is a Chettinad special dish made with milk, to mutton biriyani and chicken kuzhambu, it was a complete feast. We devoured the whole meal before we could even realise. We ended with a quiet stroll under a star-sprinkled sky, after indulging in the Bangala special homemade ice cream, where apples and pears soaked in rum were folded into a creamy perfection.  

The next morning’s breakfast of dosai and paniyarams, both sweet and savoury, was the final indulgence before we packed up to leave.

Driving away, the Karaikudi landscape turned into a sepia memory—a beautiful blur of terracotta horses and shimmering tiled roofs. The region’s true beauty lies not just in the details, but in a feeling that stays with you, like an heirloom of old gold.

Email: apurva.p@newindianexpress.com

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