Margazhi Makes Me Soft in a Way Nothing Else Does

There is something about Margazhi that makes my heart wake up before I do.

Even before the alarm rings, the house feels different. The air is cold, but gentle. The kind of cold that doesn’t hurt — it holds you. I step out before sunrise, the floor still damp, the sky still undecided between night and morning.

The first thing I notice is sound.
Conches. Temple bells. Someone’s radio softly playing a Thiruppavai. Somewhere, a distant chant floats in the air like it has always lived there.

Margazhi doesn’t announce itself loudly.
It just arrives.

Rangoli Is Not Decoration. It Is Emotion.

Every morning, I draw kolam slowly — not to finish it, but to feel it.
White powder against the dark floor. Fingers moving without thinking. The designs don’t need to be perfect. They only need to be honest.

Then come the colours.
Soft blues. Warm reds. Gentle yellows.

I don’t rush. Margazhi teaches patience without teaching lessons.

By the time I finish, my hands are cold, but my heart feels warm — like I’ve already prayed without folding my hands.

The Smell That Feels Like Home

Inside, sambrani smoke curls upward, thick and comforting.
Agarbhatti burns quietly — jasmine, rose, sometimes sandalwood.

That smell doesn’t just fill the house.
It fills memories.

It smells like childhood mornings.
Like my mother moving softly so the house wouldn’t wake too soon.
Like days when life felt held together by rituals.

Flowers wait patiently — mallipoo, rose, tulasi leaves still wet with dew. I touch them before offering them, like greeting old friends.

Dressing for Devotion Feels Like Dressing for a Wedding

Margazhi mornings feel festive — not loud, but rich.

Wearing a pattu saree before sunrise feels special. Not for anyone to see — just for the moment.
The rustle of silk. The weight of the fabric. The way it makes me stand a little straighter.

It feels like preparing for something important.
Because it is important.

Devotion deserves beauty too.

The Temple Feels Like a Celebration Every Day

By the time I reach the temple, it’s already full.

Women in bright sarees.
Men with wet hair and folded hands.
Children half-asleep, half-excited.

It feels less like a temple visit and more like attending a wedding — every single day.

Crowds don’t irritate me during Margazhi. They comfort me.
So many hearts coming together for the same reason.
So many silent wishes rising at once.

The queue is long, but nobody complains.
Because Margazhi teaches waiting with grace.

Happiness, Without a Reason

That’s the strange part.

There is no big celebration.
No grand announcement.
No one tells you to be happy.

Yet happiness arrives anyway.

In small things.
In cold mornings.
In shared glances.
In ringing bells.
In flower-stained fingers.
In tired feet and a peaceful heart.

Margazhi doesn’t promise miracles.
It offers peace.

And somehow, that feels bigger.

When I return home, the day hasn’t even begun properly — yet my heart feels full, like something sacred has already been completed.

This is not just a month.
It’s a feeling.

And once Margazhi touches you,
you wait for it all year —
without even knowing why.

Check this if you want thats saree: https://amzn.to/49lDefP

🧠 Disclaimer:

✋ No AI Here:
This blog post was written 100% by me, Subhasri Devaraj, without the use of AI writing tools.
Every word is real, personal, and written from scratch — just like a proper conversation over filter coffee. ☕
No bots. No auto-generated fluff. Just me, talking to you

⚠️ No content here is copied or auto-published. I don't post anything I wouldn’t say to a friend.

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