Mantra, Mantra House, 16/332 A, Bhagavathy temple road (2026)

25/02/2026

At MANTRA, colour is not dictated by season. It reflects where we stand.

Our brand colours predate trend cycles by millennia — colours that have moved through the Indus Valley, temple corridors, merchant homes, textile looms, and everyday ritual. Lapis drawn from stone. Jade that speaks of influences from across the sea. Henna from the earth. Kohl from soot and oil. Ivory from cotton and lime.
These are not aesthetic accidents. They are materials of memory.

By adopting these 5,000-year-old colours as our own, we are not looking backward in nostalgia. We are acknowledging continuity — that Indian design has always emerged from geology and climate, trade and craft, history and culture, artisanship and community.

Our palette is, quite simply, an inheritance we choose to carry forward.

Chosen with care, in collaboration with our brand strategists

24/02/2026

A number of Chettiar mansions in Chettinad today reveal a quieter chapter of the community’s history — Athangudi tiles bearing the marks of time, once-busy courtyards settling into a quieter rhythm, rooms built for ceremony now sitting dim and largely unoccupied.

The story of these homes cannot be separated from the story of the Nattukottai Chettiars — a mercantile community that, at its height, built a vast financial network across South and Southeast Asia. Their rise was marked by formidable business acumen, transnational banking systems, and an architectural language that reflected global exposure and local confidence.

In the book, 𝗙𝗼𝗿𝘁𝘂𝗻𝗲 𝗦𝗲𝗲𝗸𝗲𝗿𝘀, historian Raman Mahadevan chronicles that arc — from expansion and wealth to the gradual unravelling that followed shifting political borders, nationalisation policies, and the end of colonial trade routes. As overseas operations contracted, the economic engine that sustained these mansions slowed. What remains today is architectural memory. These houses are not just ageing structures. They are records — of risk, ambition, adaptation, and eventual retreat. Their weathered surfaces speak as eloquently as their once-polished floors. To walk through them is to witness both grandeur and impermanence.

And perhaps to understand that communities, like architecture, are shaped by cycles — of ascent, transition, and quiet afterlife.
james

21/02/2026

The front room at Mantra House came alive this morning. Over cups of warm coffee, with the fragrance of 𝘮𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘪 lingering softly in the air, poetry was read aloud amid soulful musical renderings that echoed the emotional landscapes we were exploring.

Nearly two thousand years ago, the Tamil country witnessed a remarkable flowering of literature known as the Sangam period. The poetic corpus of this era was broadly classified into 𝘢𝘬𝘢𝘮 (the inner world) and 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘮 (the outer world).

We witnessed another kind of intellectual flowering in our room. The designers at Mantra House combed through the 𝘮𝘶𝘥𝘢𝘭 𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘶𝘭, 𝘬𝘢𝘳𝘶 𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘶𝘭, and 𝘶𝘳𝘪 𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘶𝘭 — the three essential elements of these ancient poems — sometimes with a sharp analytical lens, sometimes with deep emotional warmth, and occasionally with a touch of humour.

The Sangam poets believed that the physical environment had a profound impact on the mind and, through their poems, gave us intimate portraits of human emotions set alongside vivid snapshots of nature. The descriptions of the five 𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘪 (regions) of the Tamil land are as pictorial as they are lyrical.

We explored this subject mainly through A.K. Ramanujan’s translations, which kept the Tamilness of the poems intact. His scholarship is such that his words do not anachronistically take the reader away from the two-thousand-year-old scenes even for a fraction of a second. Landscape architect Uma Sankar Sekar’s essay on The Tinai of Kuruntogai gave us such a comprehensive spatial description
that we needed to look no further.

To call it a beautiful session would be an unevocative understatement unworthy of the event. Sangam poetry is far more than a sum of beautiful words and reading these poems was an awakening of sorts: each phrase bringing young shoots of ideas to life, each verse watering tiny buds of joy in the soil of our minds. As the passages settle on us like diaphanous mountain mist, we realise that human experiences of love, passion, betrayal, and sadness transcend the individual and become universal, pre-existing across centuries. They are as timeless as the landscapes they inhabit.

19/02/2026

𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐯𝐞 | 𝐂𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐚 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟓
𝐈𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐁𝐲 𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞

A throwback to our first outing at India Fashion Week — then titled Amazon India Fashion Week (AIFW SS15).

Our collection titled 𝘐𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘯 𝘉𝘺 𝘊𝘩𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 questioned why colour names in fashion leaned toward colonial references when our own vocabulary — Krishna blue, Mehendi green, Anar red, Haldi yellow — carried centuries of cultural memory. It argued that regional textile traditions were not “ethnic sidelines,” but central to contemporary design language.

The collection brought together handwoven textiles from across India — not as revivalism, but as evolving elements in a textile collage.

Thank you to and for writing about that early moment and featuring us in the aptly titled 𝘜𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘙𝘢𝘥𝘢𝘳 column. We remain grateful for the attention to our cause and craft — both of which more often than not unfold away from the public eye.

Looking back, 𝘐𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘯 𝘉𝘺 𝘊𝘩𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 was deeply resonant of MANTRA’s design identity — not something inherited passively, but chosen, articulated, and sustained over time.

Adding a lovely touch to our narrative in those days was
(in the picture) in our first edition of Song of the South.

To read the article, copy paste this link in your browser :

https://www.livemint.com/Leisure/HtZoSIwVVdqv55nEXrKi0J/Indian-by-choice.htmhttps://www.livemint.com/Leisure/HtZoSIwVVdqv55nEXrKi0J/Indian-by-choice.html

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17/02/2026

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 | 𝐀 𝐂𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬
𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘍𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘵 𝘔𝘈𝘕𝘛𝘙𝘈 𝘏𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦

The Roundtable is a weekly session for cultural immersion. A shared intellectual ritual for our designers. A space where art, literature, cinema, festivals and traditions are studied not as reference, but as design vocabulary.

At The Roundtable, ideas are filtered, art savoured, poetry read aloud, films critiqued, and stories passed on.

Consider it a weekly dip into a cultural millpond — one that stokes curiosity and stirs creativity in equal measure.
Each Friday, we gather to listen, to question, and to shape the seasons ahead. Much will unfold over coffee.

In our first month, The Roundtable turns toward the South. We begin with selections from Sangam poetry — among the oldest surviving literary works of the Tamil world — and its profound mapping of emotion onto landscape.

The five 𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘪 — 𝘬𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘫𝘪 (mountain), 𝘮𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘪 (forest), 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘮 (farmland), 𝘯𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘭 (coast), and 𝘱𝘢𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘪 (arid land) — remind us that love, longing, separation and waiting were once understood through terrain.

As we read, we ask: how does geography shape feeling? How does landscape become colour, texture, silhouette? In studying these ancient poems, we begin to see design not merely as aesthetic choices, but as emotional maps.

We’re keeping this circle open to fellow design and culture enthusiasts.
To join The Roundtable, write to Parwathy at [email protected]

16/02/2026

It’s easy to lose track of time in the antique shops of Karaikudi. Shelves spill over with anachronistic curios, floors glow with Athangudi tiles, and the walls feel like a Mad Hatter’s party—moustachioed Chettiars, Victorian ladies, and Hindu deities, all in gilded frames.

And yes, the residents of this town were wealthy. You don’t find iron safe shops scattered across Chettinad without fortunes that needed keeping safe.

15/02/2026

This journey feels less like travel and more like pilgrimage—a personal camino undertaken to find my voice again.

In The Artist’s Way, Julia Cameron reminds us that creative people must learn to be self-nourishing. We must replenish what we continually draw from—restocking the trout pond, or, as she also puts it, filling the well. Creativity requires the active pursuit of images and experiences that refresh our reservoirs.

Art is born in attention. Its midwife is detail.

A 7 a.m. walk through the bylanes of Kanadukathan serves precisely this purpose. A gentle saunter that is as inward as it is outward. Soft light on lime-washed walls. The geometry of Athangudi tiles framed by half-open doors. The slow opening of wooden shutters. A passing glimpse of the neighbourhood deity.

By the time I sat down for my morning coffee, my well felt replenished.

It is another matter that in the heartland of Tamilakam I was served filter coffee in a ceramic cup rather than the customary tumbler and davara—but one cannot have it all.
Wearing a peacock-and-turmeric original Chettinad handloom—barely twelve hours old, still warm from the loom.
james
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13/02/2026

Ten years ago, when I first visited Chettinad, the region was alive with the steady thrum of handlooms. You could hear them before you saw them. Today, it is difficult to find even one.

I met several suppliers of the kandaangi sari—the traditional weave of this region—but few could direct me to an active loom. The number of weavers has declined steadily over the past decade. After much persuasion, one supplier agreed to send me to a loom shed several kilometres away.

His assistant, Radhika, led the way. She had once been a weaver herself before moving into sales. When I asked why she left the loom, she spoke of the technical demands of the craft. Kandaangi weaving is not casual labour. It requires a deep understanding of loom mechanics, precise warping, careful tension control, and the handling of coarse cotton yarns that must be dyed, dried, and properly set before weaving begins.

Radhika explained that there was no longer anyone in the village with the expertise to troubleshoot looms or mentor younger weavers. When small mechanical issues arise or yarn quality fluctuates, production comes to a halt. Over time, many skilled hands have moved away—to steadier incomes and less physically demanding work.

Standing in the loom shed with its bright teal walls, I felt a mix of privilege and unease—privilege at witnessing the craft up close, and unease at sensing how fragile its continuity has become. What disappears first is not just production, but transmission—the passing down of knowledge that once moved as rhythmically as the shuttle itself.

It reinforces, quietly but firmly, the need to do our part in sustaining what still survives.
james

12/02/2026

Twenty-three years ago, on February 12, 2003, MANTRA began its journey in a suburban house in Cochin.

Today, as we pause and look back, what we see is not just a brand story, but a tapestry woven with people who believed in us, worked with us, wore us, and grew alongside us.

To every patron, employee, artisan, collaborator, friend, and well-wisher who has walked beside us — thank you for being part of our story. You are at the heart of everything MANTRA has become today. 🤍

Here’s to all that we’ve created together, and all that still awaits. 🥂🫶

Drop us a 🙌 in the comments if you’ve been part of our journey.

10/02/2026

I arrived in Chettinad by car from Trichy, armed with a tightly stretched, thoroughly researched itinerary. My first stop, after a quick check-in at the hotel, was the Athangudi Palace—Shri Letchmi Vilas—known colloquially as the Periya Veedu.

Built by N. AR. Nachiappa Chettiar in 1929, it was conceived not as a palace in the royal sense, but as a family residence scaled generously for ritual, hospitality, and inheritance, and was named after his mother and daughter. The house was designed to accommodate large joint families, religious ceremonies, and business visitors.

The palace takes its name from Athangudi village, which later became synonymous with the handmade tiles developed to serve these grand homes. Over time, the residence came to embody the architectural ideals of Chettinad—symmetry, axial planning, layered courtyards, and an unapologetic use of global materials, all doused liberally in Tamil aesthetics.
It is said that Meyyammai Achi, the lady of the house, took a deep interest in the design and construction of the Periya Veedu, encouraging a passionate workforce and nurturing their motivation through her care and involvement.

Hailed for their distinctive brand of social capitalism, the bankers of Chettinad sought to meld culture, craft, and commerce into everything they built—and Nachiappa Chettiar was no exception. He expanded the business empire established by his father, Arunachalam Chettiar, across South Asian countries through discipline and acumen. When the war broke out, he returned to his hometown and turned his attention fully to the Athangudi Palace. Nearly a hundred years later, that attention is still legible in every brick and tile of this house.
james

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