So another Onam will pass without the early morning trip to the temple wearing Onakkodi , without a delicious banana leaf sadya and, saddest of all, without my mother’s benign presence as she ladles the payasam into generous-sized bowls. Here in London, Onam was always just another day; a hop on the bus to work, a sandwich grabbed at lunchtime (vegetarian as a festive concession), and, quite probably, getting caught in an autumnal shower on the way home, signifying the cold weather to come.
For Malayalis like me, second generation diaspora scattered all over the world, the numerous near-on compulsory trips back and forth to Kerala have conferred just enough knowledge of custom and practice for us to develop a comforting sense of belonging and kinship, strongly laced with romance. Many such idealistic notions were swiftly dispelled, however, when I recently spent two years living in Kerala once again.
I’m westernised enough to applaud the fact that domestic help has become a rare commodity in Kerala for this is exactly what all of India should aspire to. The stubbornly feudal ways of the North continue in homes like that of my in-laws in Delhi who still enjoy the comforts provided by an entire family living in servants’ quarters on the premises. Hot chappatis at the ring of a bell, who could resist!
Nevertheless, I could not help a small surge of pride while watching the maid brigade in Thiruvananthapuram crowding the bus stops in the evenings as, chattering and joshing like commuters nowhere else in the world do, they all made their way back to their own homes at the end of the working day. But, ask any householder in Kerala about their travails in negotiating a modern-day Onam when all the home-help has collected their Onakodi and bonuses only to disappear for a whole week.
My octogenarian mother started talking about the difficulties of managing Onam a few years ago, telling me of the organisational difficulties in giving herself a decent meal at Onam, leave alone enjoying a full-blown sadya . We investigated all possibilities but found no decent equivalent, even in the capital city, of meals-on-wheels or dabba services.
Fortunately, there is the safety net of a large, warm, extended family, thanks to a growing band of cousins who have chosen to retire from far-off places like Mumbai and Vadodara to settle in the homeland. Having struggled through a few bleak Onams, the more enterprising amongst them decided to suffer in solidarity and hence the birth of the potluck Onam.
Last year, my mother only had to make thoran – and had the presence of mind to get her maid to chop the cabbage and grate the carrots and bag them up in the fridge beforehand. My aunt next door did the avial and so on and so forth, while phones buzzed and messaged the logistics across town. The cousin with the largest dining table hosted the lunch and made the payasam as it was the only dish that would not have travelled well. Best of all, thanks to Kerala’s age-old, eco-friendly ways, no one had to wash any dishes and some passing cows would no doubt have got their bellies filled up nicely too. It was a raucous, riotous gathering, similar, I suppose, to the big family Onams of old, except without the army of retainers who previously made this enjoyment possible.
An English friend marvelled when I explained it, recalling her own family Christmases when, not only was it inevitably an intolerable burden on one person to cook the entire meal, the mountains of post-repast washing-up often led to bickering and argument that people remembered years later.
Indians are pragmatic people, familiar with making-do. So, rather than lamenting the loss of times past, we will go on inventing and innovating. And, somehow or the other, our festivals will continue to be fun.
Jaishree Misrahas written eight novels, including ‘Ancient Promises’. She is the grand-niece of legendary writer Thakazhi Sivasankara Pillai.
