Sreekumari Ramachandran’s latest book The Forever Green Lore and Legends of Kerala is a great effort to capture the myths, legends, and cultural traditions of Kerala. From the birth of the modern state of Kerala to its various cultural, artistic and spiritual traditions, the book tries to gather its vast heritage into just about four hundred pages. The ambition is admirable, and the wealth of material undeniable.
Kerala the Land of Temples
The most valuable part of the book is its exhaustive collection of Kerala’s temples. The first few chapters provide detailed lists, descriptions, and short histories of sacred sites such as Ananthapura Lake Temple and Ambalappuzha Sreekrishna Swami Temple. For a religious traveller or pilgrim, this catalogue is immensely useful. It is practically a handbook to temple-hopping in Kerala. (I am definitely going to recommend it to my relatives.)
For a general reader, though, this encyclopaedic listing leaves little space for reflection, narrative, or personal connection. A temple may be described in careful detail, but rarely does the writing pause to linger on the atmosphere, the people, or the symbolic resonance of the place.
Another challenge that you might encounter as a general reader is the absence of a single narrative thread to connect various sections. The book moves from temples to performing arts to saintly figures in a cataloguing fashion, and while each individual section is rich, the whole never quite coheres into a single story. What could have been a cultural journey often reads instead like a reference manual.
Art, Culture, and the Countless Legends
The book also devotes large sections to the performing arts, both classical and folk. Ramachandran covers Koodiyattam, Kathakali, Velakali, Tholppavakoothu, and many others. The intention is to show how deeply these traditions are woven into the religious and social fabric of Kerala.
But here, too, the writing often falls into a generic rhythm, which might put you off at certain moments. Let me explain this point in some detail. Consider the paragraph below:
Kerala’s vibrant performing arts scene is a captivating blend of classical and folk traditions. These art forms, whether classical or folk, are a rich tapestry woven from the diverse cultures of various regions and communities that thrived in ancient and medieval Kerala. Each performance is a mesmerising journey through time, transporting audiences to bygone eras and offering a vivid glimpse into historical events.
On first reading, this seems polished and celebratory. But look again: the structure is modular, the adjectives interchangeable. “Captivating blend,” “rich tapestry,” “mesmerising journey” — these are phrases that could describe almost any cultural performance in any part of the world. This is where the suspicion of AI-assisted editing arises, something I have written consistently about, especially about this year’s non-fiction books. The prose is technically correct, even fluent, but it feels scrubbed clean of texture or individuality.
Let’s analyse another short paragraph:
The Kottiyoor Mahadeva temple, nestled in the picturesque Wayanad mountains of Kerala, boasts a history that stretches back to the mythical age. This revered Shiva temple, once known as Vadakkeshwaram is steeped in legend and tradition. The sacred Bavali river, often called the ‘Ganga of the south,’ flows through the valley, adding to the site’s spiritual significance.
Once again, its structure and word choice are formulaic in ways that resemble AI-edited prose. Notice the repetition of stock adjectives like “picturesque,” “revered,” and “steeped in legend,” which could be applied to almost any temple, anywhere. The phrase “boasts a history that stretches back to the mythical age” is especially generic — it signals grandeur without providing precise detail or storytelling texture. The use of “adding to the site’s spiritual significance” feels like a closing filler sentence, a common hallmark of AI-polished writing, where the prose tries to round itself off neatly instead of deepening the narrative.
Is this a moral question?
Absolutely not.
But what goes missing with the overuse of technology is the author’s voice: instead of narrating why the Bavali river is spiritually important (perhaps linking it to specific myths, rituals, or pilgrimages), the text settles for a high-level, almost promotional description. This creates a sense of “templated” writing. It is functional and smooth, but bland, interchangeable, and devoid of the historical specificity or local colour that could make the passage vivid.
You would also have noticed the overuse of certain words (something I found throughout the book): boast, captivating, mesmerising, tapestry. Their repetition dulls the effect and reinforces the sense of a formula rather than a distinctive voice.
The Challenge of Style
This is the book’s central problem. The content is vast, even staggering, but the prose is mechanical. The rhythm is repetitive: broad generalisation, followed by a descriptive list. The effect is less like listening to a storyteller and more like reading an edited cultural report. I can understand that for a scholar or a traveller, this clarity is fine, even useful. For a reader seeking immersion, however, it flattens the experience. What should feel like walking through temple courtyards or watching the oil lamps flicker before a Kathakali stage instead feels like skimming a list of data points.
The Forever Green Lore and Legends of Kerala is invaluable as a reference. Anyone looking to map Kerala’s temples, understand its festival calendar, or gain an overview of its performing arts will find it immensely useful. For pilgrims and religious travellers, it could even serve as a practical companion.
But as a work to be read for pleasure, it falters. Without a narrative thread, without a distinctive authorial voice, the book reads more like a cultural encyclopedia than a living portrait of a people. Ramachandran’s research deserves praise, but her prose has been flattened — whether by over-editing or by the heavy hand of linguistic tools. What remains is a book to consult, not one to lose oneself in.
Kalampedia 