In the tender folds of childhood, there are nights that shine brighter than others—not because of fireworks or festivities, but because of something far gentler: moonlight, laughter, and shared food beneath the open sky.
Chitra Pournami was one such night. It wasn’t just a date on the calendar—it was an experience. As children, we knew it as a time when families gathered in courtyards or temple grounds, bringing with them chitrannam—a variety of seasoned rice dishes, each carrying the flavour of its maker’s home. There would be tangy lemon rice, coconut rice speckled with mustard seeds, tamarind puliyodarai, curd rice cooled with cucumber and coriander. Laid out on banana leaves, these offerings became a tapestry of taste and togetherness.
We ate under the cool gaze of the full moon, our laughter rising with the scent of jasmine and camphor. We played games, sang old songs, and tried to catch moonlight in our hands. The elders would sometimes hum a melody or tell us that the moon on this night was special—but we didn’t yet ask why. It was enough that the night was luminous, and the world felt kind.
It was only later that we began to understand the deeper current beneath this moonlit joy. That Chitra Pournami was not only about celebration, but also remembrance and reflection. That it was sacred.
According to tradition, this full moon is dedicated to Chitragupta, the celestial registrar of karma, who serves alongside Yama, the god of death. It is said that Chitragupta records every action of every being—a divine accountant of dharma, unseen yet ever watchful. On this night, his presence is said to be closest, and worshipping him brings clarity, repentance, and karmic purification.
As we grew older, the moonlight that once meant only fun began to mean something more intimate, more eternal. The full moon became not just a companion to games, but a symbol of memory, of love, of longing. The same moon that watched over our laughter now bore witness to our silences.
In classical Sanskrit poetry, the moon is often the beloved, or the messenger between separated lovers. Kalidasa, the master of poetic longing, evokes this tenderness in his Meghadūta, where even the moon appears briefly—like the memory of a lover—offering cool nectar to the heart, only to retreat again.
मूर्ध्निभ्रूलेखयासहजनयन्किङ्करीवस्मरार्ते
पीयूषंत्वंशशिनइवदत्त्वापुनर्लोकमास्ते॥
The moon, like a devoted maid to the lovesick,
bestows nectar-like comfort for a moment—
then departs, leaving only longing behind.
But time moved on, and with it, the simplicity of those moonlit gatherings faded into memory. The city, with all its concrete brightness, left no room for starlight or stillness. The nights became just another pause between busy days. Yet somewhere within, a longing remained—a quiet, persistent ache to sit once more under the open sky, to feel moonlight not through glass windows but upon the skin, to hear silence, and within it, the soft breath of the divine.
And then, the magic happened.
A move to a rural setting brought back more than just quiet—it brought memory, clarity, and a renewed yearning to celebrate, to belong, and to seek. With each full moon, I found myself returning not just to the past, but to the sacred. The child’s joy and the seeker’s devotion began to meet under that same moon.
But every place tells its own tale. Every hill, stream, and shrine has a voice, if one only listens.
Pournami, in its luminous fullness, is not just a moon—it is Devi herself. The radiant goddess, full and overflowing, benevolent and watchful. It is said that to worship Her on this night is to open oneself to blessings manifold, to invite grace into the shadows of one’s life.
Wherever I go now, I look for the stories—the sthala purāṇas, the whispered legends held by grandmothers and granite walls alike. And here, in this new home, nestled among hills and waterfalls, I came upon a remarkable tradition that takes root in the land of Coutralam.
The temple is that of Shenbaga Devi—a wild, luminous, and fiercely local embodiment of the goddess. Here, in the cool mist of the Western Ghats, amidst gushing streams and fragrant blossoms, Chitra Pournami is not just remembered—it is lived.
Chitra Pournami is observed on the Pournami tithi (full moon) of the Chithirai month in the Tamil calendar, which usually falls in April or May—right in the heart of summer. The heat has parched the land, rivers begin to run dry, and the early stirrings of the monsoon still feel like a distant promise. In regions like Coutralam, famed for its waterfalls and spiritual retreats, this is a time of waiting—between seasons, between certainties.
The pilgrim flow has thinned—the Ayyappa devotees who filled the town in the cooler months are long gone. The tourist season has not yet begun, and the earth lies hushed and sun-scorched. For the traders, local businesses, and small vendors, this in-between time is one of uncertainty. Their livelihoods, like the land, depend on renewal.
And so, as it has been for generations, people turn to the sacred waters. On this full moon night, entire communities gather near rivers, waterfalls, and temple tanks—not just for ritual, but for prayerful invocation. They seek the well-being of land and life, asking for rains, for healthy crops, for thriving cattle, for a bountiful year ahead. It is both an act of surrender and of stewardship, a reminder that prosperity is not separate from nature but born of harmony with it.
And it was during one such full moon—not long after I had moved to the hills—that I found myself drawn into something deeper. What had begun as a gentle return to memory and moonlight suddenly opened into a call to pilgrimage.
I was fortunate to be part of a local yatra—a journey threaded with devotion and breath, sweat and song. Our destination: the sacred falls of Coutralam, and nestled within the forest path, the temple of Shenbaga Devi.
It was not just a trek—it was an offering. We walked with bare feet and open hearts, through whispering groves and over glistening stones, the scent of champa flowers mingling with the mist of the falls. As the sun dipped and the moon began its ascent, the atmosphere thickened with bhakti—the kind that doesn’t need language, only presence.
(Figure 1: The trekking path)
What awaited at the shrine was more than darshan—it was an encounter with a fiercely local and luminously divine presence. But before I speak of that, let me tell you her story. For the legend of Shenbaga Devi is inseparable from the very soil and stream of this place.
The Legend of Shenbaga Devi
The legend of Shenbaga Devi is intertwined with the land’s natural beauty, particularly the famous Shenbaga Tree (Michelia champaca) that flourishes in the area. According to local folklore, the goddess Shenbaga Devi was born of the divine union between Lord Shiva and Goddess Parvati.
In one version of the legend, it is said that Lord Shiva and Goddess Parvati were once in a fierce battle with demonic forces. During this battle, Shiva’s third eye opened in a mighty burst of cosmic energy, and from this energy sprang Shenbaga Devi, a goddess of unparalleled beauty and power. She was given the task of protecting the sacred grove where the Shenbaga tree grew—a tree revered for its divine fragrance and its connection to the goddess.
Over time, Shenbaga Devi became the guardian of Coutralam, overseeing the well-being of the rivers, waterfalls, and the people who sought refuge in the hills. The goddess’s protection extended to the harvests, ensuring that the crops flourished, the waters flowed, and the people lived in harmony with nature. It is said that Shenbaga Devi’s presence is closely tied to the sacred waters of Coutralam Falls, which are believed to possess healing properties. It is believed that Shenbaga Devi even predates Agastya Muni’s visit to these parts of the South.
Shenbaga Devi and Chitra Pournami
On Chitra Pournami, the goddess is particularly revered, as this night is considered auspicious for seeking blessings for prosperity, health, and harmony. In this region, where the temple and the waterfalls are sacred, prayers to Shenbaga Devi on this night are believed to ensure a bountiful season, much like the rituals around the full moon and water sources.
This night, much like other moonlit celebrations, honors the goddess’s connection to the land, the waters, and the people. As Chitra Pournami heralds the transition from one season to the next, prayers are offered to Shenbaga Devi for the earth’s blessings, for crops, cattle, and for the well-being of the community.
The legend lingered in my mind as we approached the shrine—a temple that opens its arms to devotees only for ten days each year, during the sacred window around Chitra Pournami. The rest of the time, Shenbaga Devi remains veiled in silence, cradled by the forest, her presence felt but unseen.
On those ten days, though, the air is electric. Pilgrims arrive barefoot, bearing not gold or garlands, but humble packets of food—specifically, pazhaiyachoru, rice cooked the previous day. This offering, simple yet deeply symbolic, carries the wisdom of the land. In the scorching heat of peak summer, when the body burns with the sun’s fire, cooling food becomes both sustenance and medicine.
It is believed that Devi herself prefers this cooled rice, not out of austerity but out of compassion—for her children who must endure the blazing season. To offer her pazhaiyachoru is to offer her rest, relief, and refreshment, much like we seek from her.
I was fortunate enough to receive this prasadam—no lavish feast, just a quiet handful of rice, tangy and cool, offered from the heart of the hills. It reminded me of my own childhood, of summer lunches eaten on cool floors, of shared meals that carried more love than spice. In that moment, I realised: this was not just prasad. It was a memory. It was healing. It was home.
(Figure 2: The Prasadam offered and partaken)
Before we climbed the final steps toward the shrine, we paused at the base of Shenbaga Devi Falls. The waters here tumble not just over rocks but over centuries of belief, imbued with the sanctity of the goddess who watches from above. These falls are no ordinary cascade—they are a living theertham, a place where pilgrims have bathed body and soul for generations.
We sprinkled the cool, clear stream over ourselves, letting it soak into our skin and spirit. The summer heat seemed to vanish. We sat there on ancient stones, silent, listening to the music of water on rock. Some meditated, others simply breathed deeply. It was more than peaceful—it was a presence, soft yet unmistakable, as if Shenbaga Devi herself were near.
Then, as twilight softened the sky, we ascended to the sanctum sanctorum, where only earthen lamps cast their warm flicker on stone walls. And there she was.
Shenbaga Devi—resplendent, silent, utterly radiant.
(Figure 3: Shenbaga Devi in her many forms)
She did not need words. Her stillness spoke volumes, her eyes carved with such grace and gravity that we were held in place, mesmerised. In that small stone sanctum, we stood bathed in her gaze, imprinting every detail into memory. A darshan beyond sight—a knowing, a communion.
As we neared the shrine, the path whispered stories—not all of them mythic, some achingly real.
We heard of an old woman, now in her twilight years, whom the locals remember with quiet reverence. They say she came to Shenbaga Devi as a young girl and simply never left. She chose to make the forest her home, the goddess her only companion. In earlier days, when the temple was open year-round, she would live on the offerings brought by devotees. And when the footfall ceased, she turned to fruits, roots, and wild herbs, sustaining herself on what the forest gave—a tapasya not born of hardship, but of love.
Even during the monsoon, when floodwaters roared through the rocks, she remained within her cave, undisturbed, tending to the deity with quiet devotion. For decades, she served the goddess with no audience, no recognition—only the trees and stars for witness.
Now, they say, forest officials have gently relocated her to the nearby town, concerned for her health in her advancing age. But those who saw her speak of her as if she herself were part of the legend, a living sutra in the goddess’s unfolding story. Some even whisper that her soul never truly left—that it still lingers in the trees, the stones, the stillness.
And so, when we reached the temple, we carried not just our own prayers but the silent echoes of hers—the woman who became a devotee, a guardian, a daughter of the Devi.
Nowadays there are devotees who stay back the 10 days of the festival season to serve her with utmost devotion and gratitude. Others visit the Goddess to seek her blessings on Pournami tithis when the temple opens for worship.
(Figure 4: Devotees who stay back and serve the Goddess)
As we descended from the hills, the echoes of the waterfall still in our ears and the Devi’s gaze still glowing in our minds, something had shifted.
Chitra Pournami was no longer just a memory of childhood feasts under moonlight, of laughter and lemon rice shared with friends. It had grown into something vaster—a living journey, a devotion that stretches across time, linking the innocence of youth, the resilience of an old woman in a cave, and the fierce, quiet presence of a goddess who waits in the heart of a forest.
City life, with its constant rush and muffled skies, often left me yearning for stars I couldn’t see and silences I couldn’t hear. But in that moment, I understood—the moon is not gone, the Devi is not distant. We only need to remember. To return.
Chitra Pournami, in its essence, is just that: a return.
To simplicity.
To surrender.
To silence lit by moonlight and flickering lamps.
To the divine feminine that waits not in grandeur, but in cool rice and quiet streams, in stone shrines and remembered songs.
Every place has its own legend. But what binds them all is the gaze of the Devi, full and resplendent like the purnima moon, watching over us as we walk—sometimes unknowingly—back to her.
And in that journey, we are truly never alone for she walks with us.
चन्द्रप्रभाम्चारुवपुंत्रिनेत्रां
शीतांशुकल्पांशरणागतानाम्।
शैत्यंप्रदात्रींशिवसौम्यरूपां
शृणोतुनित्यंशृणुतेनमस्ते॥
Chandraprabhām chāru-vapuṁ trinetrāṁ
Shītāṁśu-kalpāṁ śaraṇāgatānām ।
Shaityaṁ pradātrīṁ Shiva-saumya-rūpāṁ
Śṛṇotu nityaṁ śṛṇute namaste ॥
(O radiant one, glowing like the moonlight, with a beautiful form and three eyes,
Clad in soft, cooling grace like the moon’s gentle rays, the refuge of all who seek her.
Bestower of peace, embodiment of Shiva’s serene compassion—
May she ever listen to our prayers, and may we always bow to her.)
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