(हा भाग मराठीमध्ये इथं वाचता येईल.)
Part 2: Vivekanandapuram
Since I reached Kanyakumari in the afternoon, it didn’t make sense to rush to the "Rock" (Vivekananda Rock Memorial) right away. I could have gone, of course, but by the time I reached, there wouldn’t have been much time to linger. So I decided to spend the first day leisurely exploring Vivekanandapuram.
To my pleasant surprise, there was still hot water available for a bath even that afternoon. The next morning, however, the geyser refused to cooperate. When I went to the reception to leave my room key for repairs, I was told they didn’t keep keys. Carrying a room key while wandering all day always feels like a small burden to me — but so be it. The receptionist called the electrician, who promised to come “in five minutes.” But, as we all know, in India “five minutes” rarely means five minutes. After waiting for about fifteen, I gave up and boarded the bus heading towards the Rock.
While waiting for the bus, I met an elderly couple from Thrissur, Kerala. They told me they had been visiting Kanyakumari every year for the past several years. Over the next two days, we crossed paths a few more times — they were gentle, warm-hearted people. The lady was quiet; the gentleman, with a kind smile, would often let me move ahead in the queue or offer me coffee. My travels across the country have taught me one thing — whether in the north or south, east or west, Indian hospitality towards strangers remains genuine and alive.
Vivekanandapuram wasn’t particularly crowded. July is, after all, school and college season — not the peak of tourism. With that expectation, I went towards the Rock, only to discover how utterly wrong I was.
There were two separate queues — one for those who paid ₹100, and another for those who paid ₹300. The ticket included the ferry ride to and fro across the short stretch of sea. When I had come here in 2011, there was no such distinction. The entry fee was ₹50 then — the rise in prices is understandable, but two different lines?
At pilgrimage centers, temples, and tourist spots, it’s nothing new for the wealthy to pay extra for bypassing the queue. Yet, to encounter this sort of discrimination at memorials dedicated to Swami Vivekananda — who preached equality — and Thiruvalluvar — who spoke of the oneness of humankind — felt ironic, even disheartening. It said something about how deeply ingrained and normalized our social hypocrisy has become.
The ferry service is run by the Poompuhar Shipping Corporation, under the Tamil Nadu government. There’s also an online booking system, which I hadn’t known about earlier. Later, I found out that this dual-fee arrangement had only started recently — on 5 June 2025, to be exact. People love to save time, and many will pay extra to do so. Which means the ₹300 queue is here to stay.
Naturally, I joined the ₹100 line. If you ever wish to understand a country, stand for a while in one of its ordinary queues — they are windows into the nation’s soul. You see everything there — impatience, resourcefulness, small acts of kindness, and flashes of irritation. People were trying to move ahead even when the line didn’t; some slipped in extra family members midway. There were loud phone conversations, crying children, small quarrels, and a constant hum of noise. A miniature version of our overpopulated country, right there.
And yet, the moment the ferry started rocking on , all that external noise disappeared. The cool breeze on my face, the rhythm of the sea — there is something mesmerizing about being out on the water. The Rock is barely 500 meters from shore, so the ferry ride was brief but refreshing.
The history and significance of the Rock Memorial are well known and well documented, so I won’t dwell on them here.
At the Rock, the crowd was immense. Every corner was filled with people posing for selfies and group photos. This, of course, has become the new normal everywhere — nothing can be seen anymore without people standing in front of it. Tourism today seems to mean: take photos, post them instantly, and move on.
I remembered the days when cameras weren’t allowed at the Rock. You could truly take in the experience then — the architecture, the silence, the sea. Once everyone began carrying mobile phones, that rule lost its relevance. Still, after visiting the main hall and the meditation chamber, I found a quiet corner. Watching the changing colors of the waves, feeling the wind’s steady force — that still remains as enchanting as ever.
Next, I crossed to the Thiruvalluvar statue. The Vivekananda Rock Memorial was inaugurated on 2 September 1970. Almost thirty years later, on 1 January 2000, the towering statue of Thiruvalluvar was unveiled beside it. The Rock entry ticket costs ₹30; there’s no separate fee for visiting the statue. Not long ago, both required separate ferry trips, but now a glass bridge connects the two — yet another attraction for tourists.
Thiruvalluvar the great Tamil poet-saint, is honored fittingly by this monument. And yet, when viewed together, the proportion feels a bit off. The Vivekananda Mandapam rises about 55 feet, but next to it, the 133-foot Thiruvalluvar seems almost overpowering. Perhaps a slightly shorter figure would have preserved the balance — but our obsession with building “the tallest” remains unbroken. The height, they say, symbolizes the 133 chapters of Thirukkural, Thiruvalluvar’s timeless text.
Standing on the Rock, gazing at Thiruvalluvar’s statue — and then, from the statue, looking back at the Rock — was a very moving experience.
The return queue brought its own drama. A couple of people pushed their way in, sparking heated arguments. Behind me stood a group of Nepali schoolteachers who were visiting India during their holidays — they told me they had been to Maharashtra too. Ahead of me, a Telugu-speaking family from Solapur. We chatted lightly. Two hours in the queue went by almost unnoticed — the sea was company enough.
Later, I signed up for a half-day local tour organized by Ranade Tours & Travels. The fee was only ₹200.
The trip covered the Wax Museum, Tirupati Venkatachalapati Temple, Sai Baba Temple, the Brahma–Vishnu–Shiva temple at Suchindram, the Musical Fountain, and the Sunset Point. It wasn’t a particularly meaningful tour, since there was no guide to explain anything — the driver would simply stop, say, “Be back in thirty minutes,” and move on. I was reminded, once again, why I avoid such tours. Still, it gave me a basic overview of the area.
Some of the wax figures were beautifully crafted — I especially liked the one of M.S. Subbulakshmi.
There was also an engaging section of “3D paintings” on the floor — if you stood in the right spot, it looked like a tiger was behind you, or an elephant was splashing you with water. A fun and clever display. The lady attendant mentioned that 3D painting is a traditional art form of Kerala.
The Tirupati Venkatachalapati Temple was grand and majestic, its architecture commanding. From its elevated platform, the view of the sea was breathtaking — I could have sat there for hours.
At the Sai Baba Temple, there was a long line. I noticed that most of the religious structures in this area stand on raised platforms. This temple too was clean and well-maintained. But, like many modern temples, it felt too shiny, too corporate — more like an office building than a spiritual space. Outside, a food court displayed menus in four languages, which felt inclusive and welcoming.
It reminded me how easily cultural pride dissolves when economic interest takes precedence.
The Suchindram temple — also called Shuchindram — is truly magnificent. I had visited it earlier, so I remembered a bit. Without a guide, it’s hard to grasp its mythology. The temple’s name, Sthanumalayan, combines Sthanu (Shiva), Mala (Vishnu), and Ayan (Brahma).
According to the Brahmavaivarta Purana and Padma Purana, Indra once deceived Sage Gautama by taking his form and approaching his wife Ahalya. Cursed by the sage, Indra sought redemption here by worshipping the Trimurti. After regaining purity, he built this temple — hence the name Shuchindram, the place where Indra was purified.
Inside are the famous musical pillars that resonate with notes when struck — sa, re, ga, ma… Photography is not allowed inside the temple, but even from outside, the temple’s grandeur is evident. Its large sacred tank too was clean.
I have seen the sunrise at Kanyakumari many times, but this was my first opportunity to view sunset from another beach. The beach was crowded, noisy, full of people shopping, snacking, and trying to capture the perfect view. The massive boulders and the enormous statue of Mary there took me by surprise. I told myself I must come back again, quietly, just to sit and watch.
All in all, the tour felt rather superficial. I realized that next time, I should plan better — and perhaps explore with a local guide. There is still so much left unseen.
Moving through these places, I felt anew that Kanyakumari is not just a pilgrimage site, nor just a place of nostalgic memories. It is a collage — of sculptures and wax figures, temples and seashores, meditation and music fountains. After the calm of Vivekanandapuram, the town revealed its vibrant, many-colored self.
Each visit, this old town shows me something new.
That is why I keep returning — not to see the same places again, nor to meet the same people, but to rediscover different versions of myself.
So even though I tell myself, “this is the last visit to Kanyakumari,” I know, deep down, that I might return once more.
The next and final part — soon.
