Part 1: The Pancha Bhoota Temples

Chidambaram-Akasha Tatva

Everyone carries within them a treasury of stories—tales shaped by their experiences, perceptions, and the environment they were raised in.

I count myself fortunate to have grown up in a semi-religious household. Semi, because while both my parents were working professionals and didn’t drape the panchakacham or madisaar every day, tradition was far from absent—it was lovingly preserved for special occasions and followed with quiet sincerity.

Every holiday became an opportunity for a temple visit. As children, we would eagerly look forward to these trips. They weren’t just about darshan; they were immersive experiences. There were stories—always stories—shared in cars or trains, tales of gods and sages, glimpses into our parents’ childhoods, their nostalgia interwoven with the vibrant hues of temple sculptures, the clinking of bells, and the thrill of buying curios from little stalls outside. These journeys also served as rich material for the inevitable school essay: “What I did during the summer vacation?”

Now, as I begin recounting my ongoing journey through these sacred spaces, I seek the blessings of Mahadeva—Shiva himself—to guide this sacred endeavor of sharing and reflection.

Bharat’s sacred geography is vast and layered, home to countless temples and teerthasthalas. Among these, the Panchabhoota Sthalams of South India hold a place of unique reverence. These five ancient temples, each dedicated to Lord Shiva, embody the five great elements of nature—Earth, Water, Fire, Air, and Ether (Prithvi, Apas, Agni, Vayu, and Akasha).

The Panchabhoota Sthalams are:

• Ekambareswarar Temple in Kanchipuram (Earth – Prithvi)
• Jambukeswarar Temple in Thiruvanaikaval (Water – Apas)
• Arunachaleswarar Temple in Tiruvannamalai (Fire – Agni)
• Kalahasteeswarar Temple in Srikalahasti (Air – Vayu)
• Chidambaram Nataraja Temple (Ether – Akasha)

Among these, Ether—or Akasha—holds a special significance. It is the subtlest of elements, yet it encompasses and permeates all the others. Shiva’s manifestation as the Akasha Tattva is not merely symbolic; it points toward a deeper spiritual truth. To perceive it is to move beyond illusion (maya) and recognize that the divine dwells both in the vastness of the cosmos and within the self. यथा ब्रह्माण्डे तथा पिण्डाण्डे (Yathā brahmāṇḍe, tathā piṇḍāṇḍe) —as in the macrocosm, so in the microcosm.

Chidambaram—seat of the Akasha Tattva, my mother’s native place, and a temple etched deep into my heart—has always held a quiet, constant presence in my life.

I never truly realised how deeply I was emotionally bound to that sacred space until I visited it with my daughter. This time, there was no mother beside me to narrate her childhood stories, no familiar voice to guide us through the temple’s corridors with warmth and nostalgia.

And so, I chose to step into that role.

I told my daughter the same stories my mother once told me—an attempt to keep the tradition alive, to root her in memory, meaning, and love. In doing so, I hope to offer her more than just tales: a place to call her own, a temple to cherish, a journey to undertake, and maybe, someday, the wisdom to share it all with her own friends. Perhaps she too will draw them—gently, naturally—into the Sanatana fold.

Sometimes, it’s as simple as sitting quietly in front of the deities and meditating—just as my mother did, her mother before her, and now my daughter and me. A lineage of silent devotion carried forward across lifetimes, absorbing the energy of the divine and the blessings of ancestors, forming an unbroken chain of love and surrender. It is a bond that transcends time, a joy too sacred to be expressed in mere words.

Recent events—controversies^[1] surrounding the temple and the heavy-handedness of government officials—have reopened old wounds. Tears come unbidden. But even in the pain, I am reminded of the importance of memory. I wish to hold on to the beauty, the grace, the good that Chidambaram has offered me, and to pass that on before bitterness seeps in.

If these memories, shared simply and sincerely, can awaken even a spark of pride or devotion in the hearts of those who hear them—especially in the next generation—then I consider my purpose fulfilled, and this journey of remembrance and return, well begun.

(Figure 1: Lintel of Chidambaram temple entrance)

Chidambaram is not just a place. It is Chit and Ambaram—consciousness and sky.

Chit is the inner awareness, the witnessing presence within. Ambaram is the vast sky, the unbounded ether. Together, they reveal a truth: that the sky is not the limit—it is the gateway. When one turns inward, the consciousness expands like the sky. That is the invitation of Chidambaram—to soar within.

At the level of form, the temple is soaked in divinity—its architecture, its art, its intricate carvings all speak the language of sacred theatre. The world, after all, is a stage, and Chidambaram becomes Chitrambalam—the hall of consciousness, the stage where Shiva dances as Sabhanayagar, the Lord of the stage. Surrender to him, and you do not simply observe the dance—you become part of it. That is the beginning of understanding the Shiva Tattva.

Our ancestors spoke of this temple as the Lotus Heart of the Universe—Virat Hridaya Padma Sthalam. Some even say it marks the centre of the earth’s magnetic equator. But my faith does not depend on such claims. My truth is simpler: here, in this very space, I felt a stirring. In fifteen minutes of silent meditation before the deity, something opened within me—a quiet bliss, an inner resonance. It was subtle, but unmistakable. A gentle push from the divine, nudging me onto the path of deeper seeking.

To the younger generation, our recollections often sound outdated—those familiar words, “in those days…” now met with indulgent smiles. But in those days, we didn’t need gyms or Zumba classes to stay fit. A temple visit did wonders for both body and mind. We would walk barefoot across vast temple courtyards, climb sacred steps, breathe in the air thick with incense and chant, and let our senses be immersed in sacred rhythm.

I still remember how we would enter through a specific gopuram, and for us kids, it was like a treasure hunt to find our way back to the same entrance. If we succeeded, the reward was never far behind—a glass of chilled, local juice, a warm snack from a street vendor, or the ultimate prize: a hot, ghee-laden serving of Pongal with Chidambaram Kothsu—our family’s treasured version of Baingan Bharta.

These memories aren’t just nostalgia—they are nourishment. And as I pass them on to my daughter, I hope she too will feel the pulse of the temple, the heartbeat of tradition, and carry it forward into a world that still needs sacred stories.

Chidambaram was always a puzzle to us as children—a grand labyrinth of meaning and mystery. The temple has nine gateways, each one representing the nine orifices of the human body, signifying that the temple is not just a sacred space—it is a metaphor for the human form itself. And then, there are the five gopurams, each aligned with one of the five elements of nature as per Hindu philosophy:

• The eastern gopuram symbolizes earth
• The southern represents water
• The western stands for fire
• The northern signifies air
• And the towering Rajagopuram, rising at the center, embodies space or ether

Together, they mirror the very blueprint of the cosmos—Bhutākāśa, the elemental world, reflected in Chidākāśa, the sky of consciousness. To walk through these gateways was to walk through a universe, both outer and inner.

Each gopuram is a gallery of stone and story, intricately carved with depictions from the Itihasas and Puranas. Every visit felt like stepping into a living epic. Our parents or elders would narrate tales drawn from these sculptures—some familiar, others entirely new—and slowly, over the years, these stories seeped into our bones. Perhaps it is those very stories that have quietly walked with us through life, becoming our inner compass.

The eastern gopuram, in particular, held a special fascination. It bears sculptures of all 108 karnams—the postures of Bharatanatyam, the classical dance of Tamil Nadu. We often saw foreigners with sketchbooks in hand, intently tracing the contours of the poses. Watching them, our own curiosity would awaken, and we’d be swept into the grace of the Nritya. Bit by bit, we came to understand that this wasn’t just art—it was a philosophy in motion.

For here, Shiva is not just a deity—he is Nataraja, the cosmic dancer. His dance is not performance; it is the rhythm of the universe itself. With every movement, he enacts the Pancha Kriyas—the five sacred acts of:

• Srishti – Creation
• Sthiti – Preservation
• Samhāra – Destruction
• Tirobhāva – Concealment
• Anugraha – Grace

These aren’t abstract metaphors—they are living realities, unfolding through us, around us, within us. And in the presence of the dance, the gopurams, the stories and the stillness, something within begins to move, to awaken.

(Figure 2: The Raja Gopuram)

Chidambaram must once have been among the grandest of temples—its scale, its stories, its sacred geometry all speak of a world deeply tuned to the divine. The temple is said to have nine concentric prakaras, echoing the nine layers of the human body and subtle sheaths of consciousness. Today, only five of these prakaras remain accessible for circumambulation. Yet even these are enough to leave one awestruck.

Encircling the temple lies the Ratha Veedi, the chariot street. The temple’s ratha—a majestic wooden chariot used during festivals—is a marvel in itself. Its intricate carvings, mythic scenes, and towering presence make it an essential part of the Chidambaram experience. Watching it being pulled through the streets during festival days is to witness centuries of devotion roll forward on sacred wheels.

Each prakara within the temple complex is not merely a corridor but a universe of shrines—koshtas, each housing a different manifestation of Shiva or a key figure from the Shaiva pantheon. You’ll find:

• The colossal Mukkuruni Vinayaka, an awe-inspiring icon of Ganesha,
• The serene Dakshinamurti, the silent guru under the banyan tree,
• Jalakanteshwarar, embodying the presence of Shiva in water,
• The fierce Kalasamharamurti, destroyer of Time,
• The hauntingly beautiful Bhikshatana, the divine mendicant,
• Gangadhara, holding the river goddess in his locks,
• And Gajasamharamurti, the vanquisher of the elephant demon.

Then there is Shivagamasundari, consort of Nataraja, known to the Shakta tradition as Mahāshodashi—a form of Devi radiant with the fullness of all energies. Her shrine emits a charged stillness, a sanctified power that speaks to those attuned to the subtler rhythms of worship.

Nearby lies the sacred Sivaganga tank, which carries the legend of King Shwetavarman. Afflicted by an incurable disease that turned his skin pale and leprous, the king is said to have bathed in these waters after offering prayers to Shiva. Miraculously healed, he emerged with a golden hue, earning the name Hiranyavarman. To this day, the story lingers like the echo of a blessing, drawing pilgrims to the tank with silent hope.

To truly understand Chidambaram is to spend time—not just hours, but days. Each icon, each shrine, each mural is a portal to a story, a philosophy, a mystery. I do not delve deeper into the individual deities and their myths here, for that is a journey each must undertake on their own. Chidambaram does not yield its secrets to haste; it invites stillness, attention, and surrender.^[2]

The Chidambaram temple complex^[3] is among the rare few that enshrine both Shiva and Vishnu. Within its sacred walls stands the shrine of Lord Govindaraja Perumal, accompanied by PundareegavalliThayar. This shrine, known as Thillai Thiruchitrakootam, is counted among the 108 Divyadesams^[4]—the holiest abodes of Vishnu sanctified by the hymns of the Azhwars in the Naalayira Divya Prabandham.

Within the sprawling complex, one can find both a 100-pillar mandapam and a 1,000-pillar hall, each echoing stories from ages past. But the place etched deepest in my memory is the Otha Kaal Mandapam, the hall with a single pillar, home to the image of Thirumoola Vinayagar. It is here that Sage Thirumoolar, who gifted the world the teachings of Ashtanga Yoga, is said to have attained liberation.

Where there is Shiva, there is always a Nandi, waiting patiently, unwavering in his gaze toward his Lord. And near him, an eternal witness to devotion that transcended societal chains—the story of Nandanar, also known as Tirunalaippovar.

Born into a so-called lower caste, Nandanar’s heart burned with devotion for Nataraja. Forbidden from entering the Chidambaram temple, he nonetheless made the pilgrimage. His journey was not easy—marked by hardship, resistance, and the deeply entrenched cruelty of caste. But his shraddha—his faith—was relentless.

At Chidambaram, he was again denied entry. But when he prayed with all the longing of lifetimes, Lord Shiva Himself appeared. The divine granted Nandanar a vision of the Ananda Tandava, the cosmic dance witnessed only by the gods. And in that moment of grace, Nandanar merged with the divine, dissolving all boundaries—of caste, birth, and form.

His tale is not merely legend—it is testament. It proclaims that devotion knows no hierarchy, and that in the eyes of the divine, bhakti alone matters.

There are countless such stories, etched into the walls and gopurams of this temple—waiting to be discovered, remembered, and retold. But I will stop here, choosing only to reveal a few facets of this sacred jewel, and leave the rest for the seeker in you—to walk those prakaras, listen with your own heart, and discover the mysteries Chidambaram holds in silence.

There would come a moment in our visit—quiet, breathless—when we’d be led to the very front of the garbhagriha, the sanctum sanctorum. And every time, I remember being awe-struck. The Nataraja, resplendent in bronze, dances beside his consort Sivagamasundari, radiating a force that arrests the senses and silences the mind. He is rightly called Sabhanayakar, the Lord of the Stage, for here, on this sacred stage, the cosmic performance unfolds.

This sabha, where the Lord resides, is called the Chit Sabha—the Hall of Consciousness. But it is only one of five sabhas that structure the symbolic landscape of Chidambaram.

The Chitsabai, or Ponnambalam, the golden sanctum, represents the spiritual heart—reached by five symbolic steps known as the Panchakshara Padi, named after the indestructible five-syllable mantra: Si-Va-Ya-Na-Ma.

Just before the sanctum lies the Kanaka Sabha, where the daily rituals are performed. From this vantage, one can glimpse both Nataraja and Govindaraja Perumal, a vision rare and unique to this sacred space. The Kanaka Sabha stands on 28 pillars, each representing one of the 28 Agamas, or foundational scriptures of Shaiva worship.

The roof above is supported by 64 beams, symbolizing the 64 kalas—the divine arts. Crossbeams represent the innumerable blood vessels that thread the human body. Above them, 21,600 golden tiles shimmer, each etched with the mantra Sivayanama, marking the number of breaths a human takes in a day. These tiles are fastened with 72,000 golden nails, mirroring the 72,000 nadis, the subtle energy channels flowing within us. And at the very top, nine golden kalashas crown the structure—signifying the nine forms of energy, the Navashaktis.

There is a copper roof and a golden roof—identical in form, differing only in color. This subtle distinction is no accident; it reminds us not to be dazzled by surface brilliance. The real gold, the true radiance, lies within. The eye may be drawn to gold, but it is truth that illumines.

And that truth is held in the Chidambara Rahasya—the Secret of Chidambaram. The sanctum holds the divine in three forms:

• The tangible form (sakalathirumeni), the anthropomorphic Nataraja;
• The semi-form (sakala-nishkalathirumeni), the crystal Chandramouleswararlingam;
• And the formless (nishkalathirumeni), the mysterious empty space—hidden behind a curtain, known as the Chidambara Rahasyam.

This space, sacred and bare, is not a void but a fullness—representing not absence but presence. It is said to embody the union of Shiva and Parvati, or more subtly, the pure awareness and wisdom accessible within the heart of each seeker. For those who dare to look within, it becomes the very mirror of consciousness.

(Figure 3: Golden roof of the Garba Gruha)

To the south of the dwajasthambam, the sacred flag mast of the temple, lies the Nrithya Sabha or Natya Sabha—the Hall of Dance. It is here that Lord Shiva is said to have danced in contest with Goddess Kali, a cosmic duel of rhythm and transcendence. The stone pulses with that eternal vibration. Even today, the Chidambaram Dance Festivals held in this hall witness some of the most sublime performances—where the mortal meets the divine through art.

Then there is the Raja Sabha, the famed Thousand Pillared Hall, which rises in grandeur and stillness. This sabha is said to represent the Sahasrara chakra, the thousand-petalled lotus at the crown of the yogic body, where the individual merges with the infinite. To stand in its presence is to feel the brush of vast, unseen dimensions.

The Deva Sabha, as its name suggests, is the Hall of the Gods. It houses the Pancha Moorthis—the five principal deities:

• Ganapati, the remover of obstacles;
• Somaskanda, the serene seated form of Shiva with Parvati and the child Muruga;
• Sivananda Nayaki, the divine consort of the Lord;
• Murugan, the youthful commander of the celestial forces;
• And Chandikeswarar, the fierce guardian and chief among devotees.

Each murti, each icon, holds within it an ocean of myth, philosophy, and power. One could fill pages describing them, yet words often fall short. For Chidambaram is not just to be read about—it is to be walked, breathed, and experienced. When one knows the story behind each manifestation and then stands before it, the icon ceases to be stone—it becomes presence, pulse, deity.

Architecture: A Temple of Timeless Wisdom

The temple of Chidambaram, like its deity, is a rhythm suspended in stone. While dynasties rose and fell—the Cholas, Pandyas, Pallavas, Cheras, and Vijayanagara kings—all left their indelible mark upon this sacred space. Each contributed not only to the physical structure but also to the temple’s spiritual and ritual tapestry. And yet, even today, much of Chidambaram’s architectural history remains an enigma, a secret wrapped within its gopurams and granite.

One of the most remarkable features of the temple is the symmetrical height of its gopurams (gateway towers), despite the fact that they were built during different periods. It is as though the temple willed a harmonious skyline, aligning its thresholds with celestial geometry.

The South Gopuram, built by KadavarkonKoperumsingam, is adorned with two swan flags—the swan being a symbol of wisdom. Lord Nataraja, who faces south, is the embodiment of that ultimate knowledge. To enter through this gopuram is to walk towards light. Gnanasambandar, the radiant child-devotee of Shiva, is said to have entered through this gate, symbolizing the path of intuitive knowledge, or gnana.

The West Gopuram, attributed to Jatavarman Sundara Pandyan, bears the legacy of a king who offered his victories at the feet of the Lord. It was through this entrance that Appar^[5], the humble devotee who walked the dasamargam—the path of service—entered the temple. This gopuram carries in its niches vivid sculptural depictions of Shiva in his myriad forms, an ode to surrender and servitude.

The North Gopuram, the work of Krishnadevaraya, stands testimony to imperial devotion. Through this gate entered Sundarar, the mystic who saw Shiva as his sakha, his closest friend. His was the yoga margam, the inward path that seeks union without distance.

The popular East Gopuram, constructed by Vikrama Chola, is perhaps the most iconic. It displays the figures of architects themselves, immortalized in stone—a rare tribute. Manickavasagar, the poet-saint and one of the 63 revered Nayanmars, entered through this portal. His path was that of gnana, a devotion that is quiet, inward, and blazing like fire.

Each gopuram is not just an entrance, but a directional yantra, resonating with one of the five faces of Shiva. The gopurams do not merely allow passage; they condition the devotee for what lies within.

Since 1947, a unique ritual has emerged—on August 15th, a Dikshitar climbs the East Gopuram to hoist the tricolour, a celebration of both national and spiritual freedom.

Interestingly, during festivals, the Utsava Murtis—the bronze processional icons of the deities—are never taken through the Gopurams, for they are considered the divine faces of Shiva himself. Instead, these sacred forms are brought out through a smaller, less conspicuous gate. It is a quiet gesture of reverence, acknowledging that even the Lord’s festival form bows before the sanctity of the cosmic face.

(Figure 4: Stories carved on the Gopuram)

Legends: The Dance of Divinity

Chidambaram, also known as Thillai, is a land where the sacred intertwines with the timeless. The forest surrounding this holy place, thick with the overgrowth of the Thillai tree, which thrives in mangrove ecosystems, once flourished as a vast expanse of wilderness, now preserved in the Pichavaram wetlands. But this sacred space was also known as Vyagrapuram or Puliyur, named after the revered sage Vyagrapada, whose devotion to Lord Shiva was so intense that he was granted the boon of tiger legs. With these extraordinary limbs, he could silently pluck the flowers for Shiva’s worship before even the bees could touch them.

Among the many legends that emanate from the temple, one stands out—the story of the rishis of the Thillai forest. This group of ascetics, once devoted and pure, had grown arrogant with their ritualistic power. To teach them humility, Lord Shiva descended upon them in the guise of a Bhikshatana, a mendicant, resplendent even in his beggar’s form. Accompanying him was Lord Vishnu, who took the form of Mohini, the enchanting maiden.

Enchanted by the beauty of Mohini, the rishis’ wives became smitten, while the rishis themselves, filled with jealousy and rage, tried to drive the beggar away. They invoked serpents, wild animals, and even demons to attack him. Yet, none could touch him. In response, Shiva performed the Ananda Tandava, a divine cosmic dance, to obliterate the demon. The rishis, finally realizing their folly, surrendered to the beggar, who revealed himself as none other than Lord Shiva.

Another legend unfolds when Lord Vishnu, lost in the memory of Shiva’s celestial dance, shared his joy with Adishesha, who longed to witness it too. Disguised as the sage Patanjali, Adishesha descended to earth to witness the Ananda Tandava. Meanwhile, Vyagrapada, also yearning to see the divine dance, meditated for Shiva’s grace. The Lord granted their request but with a condition: Kali, the guardian goddess of the land, challenged Shiva to a dance contest. The stakes were high—whoever won would stay in Chidambaram.

A dance-off between the Lord of Dance and the Goddess of Dance is a cosmic spectacle. During the contest, Shiva raised his legs in an Urdhva Tandava, lifting them high into the sky, a move Kali could not replicate, as her form, as a woman, was not built to elevate her leg so high. Defeated, Kali retreated, but not without leaving her mark. She became Thillai Kali, the guardian of the borders of Chidambaram, an enduring presence on the outskirts, protecting the sanctity of the sacred space. One must seek her permission to approach the Lord.

Shiva’s energy, however, remains embodied in Sivagamasundari, the consort who breathes life into the potential of the divine. She is always present in Chidambaram, offering grace and inspiration to those who seek it.

Festivals and Rituals

The temple also hosts vibrant festivals that celebrate the sacred rhythm of Shiva’s presence. The Aani Tirumanjanam and MargazhiTiruvaadirai are among the most significant. The Thirumanjanam is a grand event where more than 16 cold ingredients—milk, sandalwood, curd, paneer, and water—are used to bathe the deity, following the meticulous rituals laid down by Sage Patanjali.

A unique aspect of these festivals is the collective participation of the community. In the temple’s rituals, a divine command—or Kattalai—calls upon different communities to take up the responsibility for offerings, whether it’s the flower sellers, the grocery shop owners, or specific caste-based groups. The unity and shared devotion of the community make the festival an inspiring testament to collective faith.

The Dikshithars: Guardians of the Sacred

The temple’s rituals are overseen by the Dikshithars, a hereditary class of Vaideeka Brahmins, entrusted with the care and daily worship of the temple. These guardians were brought to Chidambaram by Sage Patanjali, who founded the temple’s worship traditions. Unlike the Sivachariyars, who follow Agamic rituals, the Dikshithars follow the Vedic rituals for the worship of Lord Nataraja.

In ancient times, these Dikshithars were known as the Muvaariyavar, or the “3000 of Tillai.” According to the Chidambaram Mahatmyam, they arrived in Tillai just as Lord Nataraja began his eternal dance, making them the chosen ones to perform his worship from the very inception of the temple.

The legend of the Brahma Yagna is also closely tied to the Dikshithars. When Lord Brahma invited the Dikshithars to perform rituals during his yagna, they completed their task but, following their custom, refused to partake in any food before first offering prayers to Lord Shiva. Realizing the importance of the offerings to Brahma, Shiva appeared as a Ratna Sabhapathy, a ruby lingam, allowing the Dikshithars to perform puja. Afterward, when they attempted to return, they found that only 2999 Dikshithars had returned, with one missing. A divine voice declared that Lord Shiva himself was the 3000th Dikshithar, forever embodying the sacred spirit of worship.

At Chidambaram, the convergence of cosmic energy, divine presence, and sacred ritual is palpable. It is a place where the ego dissolves, and spiritual evolution unfolds. There are many more legends embedded in this sacred land—each layer of myth reveals a deeper truth.

I invite you to embark on this spiritual journey, for only by stepping into this sacred space can one truly begin to peel away the veils of Maya, unveiling the hidden truth within.

^[1]https://www.opindia.com/2023/06/government-interferes-with-rituals-of-chidambaram-temple-hrce-plan-to-take-over/

^[2]https://ramanisblog.in/2015/04/06/chidambaram-geomagnetic-centre-of-earth-universe-study/

^[3]Tune into https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8mZPxdzpZ6U by Madhusudanan Kalaichelvan (Madhusudhanan Kalaichelvan, is an architect and an active heritage enthusiast who is well versed in fields of art, architecture, heritage, cultural studies, and vernacular practices . He also is a popular speaker on topics associated with heritage, religion and literature.)

^[4]https://www.divyadesam.com/108-divya-desams-srivaishnava-vishnu-temples.php

^[5] (During the 6th through 9th centuries, South India was home to 63 fervent devotees of Lord Siva who became known as the Nayanars (or Nayanars). Several among these pious souls, coming from all segments of society—potter, fisherman, farmer, merchant, priest, hunter, washerman—composed devotional hymns that are sung to this day by devotees worldwide.

Three of the most prominent Nayanars—Appar, Sambandar and Sundarar (composers of Thevaram hymns)—along with Manikkavasagar are called the Samayacharyas (teachers of the faith) referred to in Tamil as Nalvar, “The Four.)

References:

1. Chidambara Mahatmyam
2. http://www.chidambaramnataraja.org/deekshithar.html
3. https://templeworshippers.in/chidambaram-temple-the-podu-dikshitars/
4. https://hinduism.stackexchange.com/questions/24327/what-is-chidambara-rahasyam

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