This wasn’t the Sanskrit slokas everyone else recited. This was Virutham —a lyrical, free-flowing poetic outpouring, where meter gave way to raw devotion. In Telugu, the language of the masses, the Virutham painted Goddess Kamakshi not as a distant cosmic queen, but as a loving mother, a playful girl, and a fierce protector.
Venkataraman smiled, his eyes twinkling. "Child, the Kamakshi Virutham in Telugu is not a textbook hymn. It was composed centuries ago by a devotee who could not speak Sanskrit. He spoke Telugu, the language of his heart. He asked the Goddess: 'Why should I pray in a language you gave to others? I will pray to you in the language you gave to me.' "
Years later, when Meena became a classical musician, she didn’t open her concerts with formal Sanskrit hymns. She began with the Kamakshi Virutham in Telugu . And every time she chanted: "Neeve gati, neeve gati, Kamakshi! Vere gati evarura amma?" (You alone are my refuge, you alone. Is there any other refuge, O Mother?)
And somewhere in Kanchipuram, the old priest Venkataraman—now long gone—would smile from the stars, hearing his mother Kamakshi whisper back in Telugu: