Childbirth room? It’s next to the period room … the astonishing Kerala homes designed for women’s bodies

Childbirth Room? It’s Next to the Period Room: The Astonishing Kerala Homes Designed for Women’s Bodies

Childbirth room It s next - My journey to understanding the tharavad began with a serendipitous chat with a relative. That casual exchange led me to Palayil, the name of my ancestral home, a term that refers to a dwelling structured around the needs of women. The house, known as Palayil, had stood in some form since the 17th century, its origins rooted in the matrilineal traditions of Kerala. My great-grandmother, Palayil Sreedevi, was the last woman in my family to reside there, in the village of Tholanur. She belonged to the Nair community, a caste historically recognized as a warrior aristocracy, serving the royal families of the region.

For generations, Nair boys were sent away at age twelve to train as soldiers, often to join the Travancore royal service. When they returned, they typically stayed in separate structures—outhouses—while women continued to inhabit the tharavad. These homes were not just living spaces but carefully engineered environments reflecting the rhythms of women’s lives. My research for Herlands, a book exploring societies where women shape systems of care, inheritance, and mutual support, brought me back to these traditions. Though I hoped my exploration would conclude with Palayil, it ended in a way I hadn’t anticipated.

Palayil had been demolished over a decade prior, as the matrilineal system that shaped it began to fracture. Laws crafted by men gradually eroded the customs that once defined these homes. When I visited in 2024, I found only remnants: a modest groundkeeper’s house, a serpent shrine, and an old gate, alongside neighbors who remembered the original structure. The tharavad’s physical presence had faded, but its blueprint lingered in the memory of others. Across Kerala, similar homes still stand, preserving the grammar of a design that was once central to women’s lives.

The Nalukettu: A Spatial Symphony

The tharavad, or nalukettu, translates to “four corners,” a term that reflects its unique layout. These homes were rectangular structures built from jackfruit wood and teak, with a roofless central courtyard—nadumuttam—acting as the heart of the dwelling. Each side of the courtyard housed distinct blocks, oriented to the cardinal directions. This design wasn’t arbitrary; it was deeply symbolic, encoding the lived experiences of women in its very architecture. The spaces were crafted to accommodate the full spectrum of a woman’s existence: her cycles, labor, grief, and even the sounds of her voice.

“It has been designed,” said Sudevan Bhagwaldas, the custodian of Kandath, a surviving tharavad 20 minutes from Tholanur, “so that, acoustically, no word spoken by the women can be heard by the men and vice versa—even if you should shout.”

Bhagwaldas, who shared stories over ginger tea, pointed me toward the purathalams—raised, cushioned platforms positioned diagonally across the courtyard. This arrangement created a subtle yet deliberate divide, allowing women and men to gather in separate areas, their conversations shielded from one another. The kitchen, located in the northeast, was not just a practical choice but a reflection of Kerala’s climate. As architect Benny Kuriakose explained, the placement of the kitchen aligned with the direction of monsoon winds, ensuring that hot air was carried away from the main living spaces. This kept the western side, where women’s bedrooms were situated, cooler and more serene.

Within the tharavad, smaller rooms served specific functions. One was reserved for childbirth, another for menstruation. These spaces were more than physical areas; they were sanctuaries for the body’s natural cycles. A girl might rest in the menstruation room, her mother having given birth in the adjacent space. This proximity symbolized the intertwining of life’s phases, a design that honored the female body’s complexity. In a tharavad restored as part of the Muziris Heritage Project, the architectural plan still labels these rooms, describing them as “a corridor with spaces for menstruating women and pregnant ladies.”

Reclaiming the Design: A Feminist Reflection

As I revisited these homes, I was struck by how their design was not just functional but deeply feminist. While male artisans crafted the structures, the vision for their layout was driven by women. The tharavad’s architecture was a testament to the power of spaces shaped by women’s needs and experiences. Today, as we celebrate International Women in Engineering Day on June 23, the tharavad prompts a broader question: What happens when buildings are designed with women’s lives at their core?

The built environment has always been a mirror of societal values. The tharavad’s legacy reminds us that architecture can be a tool for both protection and empowerment. By isolating women’s conversations and creating spaces tailored to their bodies, these homes offered a form of autonomy. Even in a world where men often dictated the rules of design, the tharavad stood as a counterpoint, a place where women’s authority and experiences were central. This is not merely a historical curiosity—it is a blueprint for understanding how spaces can shape and reflect gender roles.

My research into societies where women create systems of care revealed patterns that resonate with the tharavad’s ethos. The separation of spaces in these homes mirrored the social structures that supported women’s roles as nurturers and leaders. The tharavad’s design was an early example of this principle, encoding care and protection into its very form. As the Nair community’s matrilineal traditions evolved, so too did these homes, adapting to changing times while retaining their foundational purpose.

Today, the tharavad’s influence can still be felt. In Kandath, Bhagwaldas maintains the homestay, ensuring that visitors grasp the significance of its layout. His stories, paired with the quiet dignity of the surviving structure, underscore the enduring relevance of these spaces. They remind us that the built environment is never neutral—it is a record of whose lives are deemed worthy of shaping the world. The tharavad, with its focus on women’s bodies and voices, challenges us to reimagine how we design for all. By honoring these traditions, we might find new ways to create spaces that reflect the full spectrum of human experience.