Thoothukudi

A JOURNEY THROUGH THE SALT-SWEPT SHORES OF THOOTHUKUDI AND THE TEMPLE-TOWN CHARM OF TIRUNELVELI

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The first thing that greets you in Thoothukudi (formerly called Tuticorin) isn't a view, it's a scent. A curious, sharp mix of salt and smoke. The air tastes briny, tinged with diesel, dry fish, and something deeper—the smell of labour, of time. The town doesn't shout. It simmers, like the seas it cradles.

The roads unfurl beside dry salt flats and faded colonial bungalows. Palms lean wearily toward the coast. Trucks rattle past, stacked with sacks of salt or bundles of coir, their drivers squinting into the white-glare heat. The sky is an endless mirror, washed pale by the sun, and below it, Thoothukudi moves to its own rhythm.

They call it the “Pearl City,” but pearls aren't the only treasures here. I came in search of stories and found them in the pristine white salt pans, the clanging of temple bells, the quiet of churches, and the bustling lagoons teeming with birdlife.

In the old town, time clings to buildings like moss. I wandered through streets lined with weathered facades that once bore the marks of Dutch, Portuguese, and British hands. Faded names above shuttered shops spoke of spice traders and pearl merchants long gone. A tea stall stood under a tree, its metal pots whistling, a radio playing Ilaiyaraaja in the background.