Raised by Dots, Curves & Stories : A KOLAM-ified Childhood

Every morning of my childhood, I watched my mother wake up before the rest of the household. As the sky slowly shifted colours—from deep indigo to pale gold—I would lie half-awake, listening. First came the rhythmic swish–swish of the eerkamkombu / eerkili, the broom made from coconut leaf midrib, sweeping the courtyard clean. Then followed the soft, rhythmic sprrsh–sprrsh of water being sprinkled to settle the dust. Finally, the familiar shhhk–shhhk of rice flour moving inside a metal bowl announced what would come next.

She would bend down and begin drawing kolams. From a handful of white powder, she conjured galaxies of dots and lines—order emerging from emptiness. And then she would light the lamp near the tulasi plant.

My mother told me to join in. As I practised my first hesitant loops, my mother didn’t just correct my hand—she told stories.

The kolam and the story flowed simultaneously. As the pattern expanded, so did the narrative. At that time, I realised she wasn’t simply teaching me an art form, she was offering me a tool for life.

To my young eyes, it was just art.
To my mother, it was ritual.
Looking back through the lens of adulthood, I now see those dawn hours as my first classrooms—for resilience, emotional regulation, and many beautiful philosophies.

Some of the most powerful lessons of my life were outside classrooms, workshops, or books. They were taught quietly—at the threshold of my home—at dawn, with rice flour, dots, and stories.

Different Stories at Dawn

My mother never taught kolam in silence. With each design came a story. Sometimes it was from mythology, but many were quieter: stories of our ancestors, their ways of living, of neighbours helping one another, of ordinary kindnesses that quietly held a community together.

A lotus kolam led to stories of resilience and rising above adversity. Endless loops became metaphors for life’s cycles.

This was intergenerational knowledge transfer in its purest form—wisdom passed not through lectures, but through lived moments. These stories didn’t feel like lessons; they felt like conversations. They created a safe emotional space where curiosity was welcomed and mistakes were allowed. Long after the kolams got erased or washed away, the stories and the meanings stayed with me.

Kolam as a Living Philosophy

A kolam is never just decoration. It is an invitation—to abundance, harmony, and connection. Drawn with rice flour, it feeds ants, birds, and insects before it pleases the human eye. In that simple act , it acknowledges a profound truth: we are not the centre—we are participants of a larger shared ecosystem.  This is where kolam beautifully embodies the  idea of  “Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam”—One World, One Family in action.

Kolams taught me that life, too, is a pattern of relationships—interdependent, interconnected, and constantly evolving. Meaning is created not by standing apart, but by learning how to connect.

Kolam and Emotional Well-being

Positive Psychology speaks of savouring—stepping back to appreciate an experience. My mother taught me this instinctively. After completing an intricate sikku kolam, she would stand back, hands on hips, quietly admiring the symmetry.

Kolam is mindfulness in motion. This gentle discipline trained me to slow down, to be mindful, to find joy in small, ordinary moments —not as techniques, but as lived experience. Long before I encountered positive psychology concepts, kolams taught me patience, gratitude, focus, and calm attention.

It showed me that happiness is not always about grand achievements. Sometimes, it is about being fully present while drawing one careful line at a time.

Looking back, I now see how kolam time nurtured emotional intelligence which Transactional Analysis describes as healthy ego states. My mother corrected without criticism, guided without control, and encouraged without pressure. She spoke from the Nurturing Parent state, inviting my Free Child to explore, while strengthening my Adult capacity to observe, adjust, and try again.

This helped me develop an inner voice that is kind rather than harsh. I learned to self-correct without self-attack, to accept imperfection, and to grow without fear of failure. These are skills that continue to support my communication, relationships, and inner balance.

Resilience, Rejection, and Beginning Again

Sometimes the dots don’t align. Sometimes wind, rain, or a stray foot ruins a masterpiece halfway through. My instinct would be to give up. However, my mother never panicked. She brushed it away gently and began again.

Kolams taught me that mistakes are not permanent. Also it taught me that worth is not tied to a single performance. In a world obsessed with perfection, kolam quietly teaches emotional resilience.When I felt upset, kolam calmed me. When I was confused, patterns brought clarity. When life felt chaotic, symmetry restored order. Failures were no longer endings; they became invitations to restart.

Kolams with Intention: Day, Deity, and Inner Discipline

Some kolams in our home were purposeful—associated with specific days, deities, or inner needs. These were not drawn at the threshold, but inside the house, near the puja space.

My mother asked me to draw kolams:

• for Hanuman, to build steadiness, courage, and focus
• for memory, especially during learning years
• for clarity, when emotions felt overwhelming

Often, a shloka accompanied the drawing. Only later did I understand what was happening beneath the surface.

Repetition trained attention.
Symmetry demanded presence.
Intention anchored the mind.

Kolam became an inward ritual—aligning hand, thought, and emotion.

Impermanence, Loss, and the Courage to Continue

The deepest lesson came with loss.

A kolam is meant to be walked upon. By evening, it fades. This art embraces its own disappearance. Each morning’s fresh kolam is an act of faith: honour what was, and still choose to live.

When grief entered my life, when I lost my near & dear ones, kolam philosophy held me. It taught me that while the form of those we love may vanish, the pattern and the memories we have of them they leave within us remains. We create beauty not because it lasts forever, but because it is meaningful now.

Kolams taught me that beauty doesn’t need permanence. What is erased tomorrow can still be meaningful today. This understanding made it easier to let go, to accept change, and to trust the process of life.

Carrying the Kolam Forward

Today, when I reflect on those mornings, I realise that my mother was preparing me for the world—not by shielding me from difficulty, but by equipping me with inner strength. She gave me stories to think with, patterns to return to, and values to live by.

Today, I sit beside my daughter in the same quiet way my mother once sat beside me. I place the dots, she follows them with careful joy, and in that shared silence, something precious is passed on. As she struggles and laughs, I tell her stories—of her grandparents, of kindness, of patience.

I am not just teaching her how to draw a kolam; I am offering her a way to slow down, to focus, to trust her hands, and to begin again without fear. She delights in the process, proud of every curve she completes, unbothered by imperfections.

I hope she carries this forward, not only as an art or a tradition, but as a source of comfort, strength, and belonging—something she can return to, as a guiding inner compass during moments of uncertainty or loss.

As I draw kolams today—or share stories with others—I know this is a lineage I am honoured to continue. A quiet, powerful tradition that says: We belong to a larger system. We learn from each other. We grow together.

One world. One family. One beautiful pattern—drawn, erased, and redrawn with love.