This article is a part of #OnamWithTNM Series, powered by Panasonic and co-sponsored by Kalyan Jewellers.
By the time Bindu and her family reached their ancestral home in Kadakkavoor, a village north of Thiruvananthapuram, the swings would be ready, tightly tied between coconut trees. That was the first Onam day – there are four, starting from Uthradom. The second Onam day, Thiruvonam, is the main one, when the mythical king of Kerala, Mahabali, is believed to visit and watch over the people of a land he had once ruled.
Bindu’s story begins in the 1960s and we shall go over the decades with her and others, on how the celebrations for Onam have changed but the festive spirit has persisted through all of it.
Bindu, a writer based in Thiruvananthapuram, was then a child visiting the mother’s village for Onam. There’d be all the cousins and aunts and uncles, about 20 people living in the house with a huge compound. In the evening, they’d all take baths and wear new clothes made of the same material for everyone in the house, including the members of the family and the domestic workers. It would seem they stuck to the folklore that came with Mahabali – when the king had ruled, all people lived as one.
There’s more of it. All the preparations for Onam and the feasts (except the final cooking) would be done before the first Onam day. Mahabali, it is said, didn’t want to see his people labour on Onam day.
“There would be different rituals in different villages and towns across Kerala. In our village, there was Thumbi Thullal, performed by women. One woman would sit at the centre with a cloth covering her head and holding a thumba poo (Ceylon slitwort) in her hand. Other women would sit around her and begin to sing and clap their hands. It would be songs about the thumbi – dragonfly. After a while, the woman in the centre would begin to shake (thullal) and move around vigorously till she is exhausted and falls, often passing out,” says Bindu.
Watch Thumbi Thullal:
Rituals changed with places. Thumbi Thullal changed to Karadi Kali in Kollam, Kummati Kali and Puli Kali in Thrissur, Paana Paatu and Onathappan in Palakkad (which are described below). Everywhere, women danced to Thiruvathira and children swung in the oonjal.
The more-popular athapoo (or pookalam which is a circular floral design laid outside houses) continues to this day, one of the few rituals – apart from the Onam sadya (feast) – that did not get lost in time. It follows a curious pattern, growing by one circle every day. The athapoo begins as one little circle of flowers around ‘Thrikkakara Appan’ – a clay structure symbolosing Lord Vamana, who, in the myths, pushed down Mahabali to the netherworld. The second day, there will be another circle of flowers around it, the third day one more and so on for 10 days. The first day begins on ‘Atham’ day of the Malayalam month of Chingam.
Kummattikkali by Aruna, Wikimedia Commons
In some places, the atham is removed on the tenth day after placing an ada (rice dough with sweet fillings) at the centre and shooting it down with a homemade bow and arrow.
Back then, there would be all-night dramas that families went to watch, walking all the way, with no fear of vehicles on the road (‘because there were hardly any’). “The plays would begin at 10 or 11 in the night and go on till early morning. I remember watching one called 7 Rathrikal (seven nights). Once my uncle Abu put up a children’s play in a shed using my grandfather’s torch as a revolver and muthassan (grandfather) was very upset about his draining battery,” says Bindu, laughing.
The Kadakavoor trips stopped when the children grew up and began celebrating the festival in Thiruvananthapuram where the parents worked. Like it did for many families living away for jobs.
It was in the 1970s that the whole capital city began to get illuminated with LED bulbs hanging down buildings and trees across roads. The government put out grand festivities for four days before ending it with a huge procession of ‘floats’. People got out on the streets all night and walked with abandon. There would be cultural programmes at every hall and stadium, old traditional arts and new music.
Pookalam Circles by Manoj K, Wikimedia Commons
Girly, another Thiruvananthapuram native who later moved to Kochi, particularly remembers ganamelas (music programme) at the central stadium by veteran playback singers KJ Yesudas and P Jayachandran, and shares a little anecdote.
“Every year Yesudas would sing on the first day and Jayachandran would sing the day after him. Once in the early 1980s, Yesudas sang a film song called ‘Ragangale Mohangale’. When he kept singing the chorus over and over again, some miscreants in the audience booed at him. In retort, Yesudas sang it a few more times but stopped coming to perform from the next year. It took him 11 years, it is believed, to sing for Onam in Thiruvananthapuram again!” Girly says.
In the 1980s, Onam also became about movie releases in theatres. “Even earlier, there would be new releases during Onam. But it brought new thrills as the years passed. I remember in 1981 I watched five movies for five days during Onam!” says Kumar, a retired government official.
By the late 1990s however, the celebration switched to the living rooms when the television would be switched on and multiple channels promised movie premieres, exclusive interviews of celebrities and more entertainment. Only the grand Onam sadya and the simple athapoo were duly followed.
However, even with the television invasion, people continued roaming freely into the roads, men, women and children, for once forgetting social curfews and norms. Late into the night, people would be on the road, as small vendors were scattered all over, selling balloons and toys and water guns, chaats and more. “It is a strange mix of colours and lights, you feel it’s another world altogether,” says Bindu.
But rituals had continued in village pockets, says Ammu, who grew up in the 1990s. “We used to go to my mother’s native place in Kollam for all 10 days of Onam. In the evenings, a few young lads would come to the house and perform an act called Karadi Kali (bear play). They would be dressed as bears with bear masks and leaves stuck all over the body. They would be singing songs that family members would sing along with. On Thiruvonam day, they would bring Mahabali with them – like we have children dressed as Santa Claus visiting homes for Christmas,” says Ammu, a techie who later moved to Beijing for her job.
Ammu
Such traditional acts – the origins of which are not easy to trace – might still continue in pockets of Kerala but people engaging in them have dwindled with every passing year. Ammu stopped the visits when studies kept her at home in high school and college. “In college, however, there was a whole different kind of celebration with pookalam and vadamvali (tug of war) competitions, wearing saris and mundus, eating feasts sitting on the floor. It became a celebration with friends. The same followed at the workplace. It is in China when a few Malayalis got together to celebrate that I tasted different Onam dishes from different parts of Kerala!” Ammu says.
The rituals too varied from town to town. Thumbi Thullal and Karadi Kali in the south were replaced by the famous Puli Kali of Palakkad and Thrissur. However, Thiruvananthapuram had Kaduva Kali – where boys, painted with tiger prints, danced around till a hunter would come and shoot them. Cruel practices, very likely innovated by miscreants over the years, figures Girly.
Whoever came to perform at houses would be gifted with money or food. In Palakkad, men dressed as Onathappan (another name for Mahabali) with a huge paunch would visit, says Lilly, a homemaker who grew up in Ottapalam. Families would be woken up in the morning by the visit of ‘Pananmar’ – a community of people who sang Onam songs about folklore and mythical characters. They would sing with the villu (a bow shaped string instrument). Children would then go out to collect flowers for the athapoo singing the Onam song ‘Poove poli poove’. Grown men meanwhile wrestled in memory of old wars in a sport called Ona Thallu.
In central Kerala, there was Uriyadi in every junction of the town, says Anita, a schoolteacher. Uriyadi is a ritual where a pot of tamarind water hanging high is broken by a bunch of men standing on top of each other, with one of them reaching for the pot with a stick. “There would be on one side uriyadi for married men and the other side would have bachelors climbing up. The winner would get a bunch of bananas!” Anita says.
Another schoolteacher in Thrissur, Omana, remembers decorating Thrikkakara Appan inside the house, with rice flour like one would make a pulkoodu (Christmas crib). Again like for Christmas when you wait for Santa Claus to come into the house, for Onam, you wait for Mahabali. “Men would shout arpo (usually common for Onam boat races to imply high spirits) after setting the Thrikkakara Appan. During the four days of Onam, people would visit houses to perform Kummati Kali (dance with performers wearing colour masks) and Puli Kali. There would be Vallam Kali (boat race) at the Kandashan kadavu on Avittam day (third day of Onam),” says Omana.
But Vallam Kali is more common in Kuttanad of Alappuzha, known for its yearly Nehru boat race during Onam. Central Kerala celebrated the festival spiritedly and it was a very different time even 15 to 20 years ago when smartphones had not come to the hands of children. Siraj, who grew up in Onattukara of Alappuzha district, remembers how religion never came in the way of festivities. His neighbour, old Swami Appuppan as the children called him, made banana chips, rice cookies called achappam and rice balls called kaliyodaka. “We’d wait for him to finish cooking and make off with some snacks in our pockets. Children would gather somewhere and everyone would have stuffed their pockets with snacks from their homes. We’d eat and exchange and make merry. Those times are gone now when Onam switched to packet chips and cookies and there were no more old people like Swami Appuppan who knew to cook them all at home.”
Onam, pre-internet days, was also a time for ‘cultural exchange’, Siraj says. Old friends caught up. Kids met with kids from other states and countries, and understood different cultures.