How Onam went national, and its lessons for re-imagining our festivals

India is a country of festivals. Not a month goes by without one celebration or another. Most of these are associated with religion, such as Navarathri, Ramzan and Easter, and widely celebrated across the length and breadth of the country, but largely within their respective communities. Some religious revelries are further limited by caste specificity. Along with these traditional celebrations, there are festivals associated with the nation and personalities who contributed to its social, cultural or political fabric. Some of these ‘holidays’ are also state-specific. Very few festivals, such as Deepavali and Christmas, are truly pan-Indian, smudging religious and regional demarcations.

In the past decade or so, another festival seems to have joined this exclusive club. This is Onam, an annual harvest festival in Kerala that welcomes King Mahabali back to his kingdom after having been banished by the god Vamana.

Until recently, Onam remained within the cultural consciousness of Malayalis alone. The rest of the country, even people in the neighbouring states of Tamil Nadu and Karnataka, rarely took part. But today, Onam is a national phenomenon. Pictures of women in white sarees with the golden border, men in veshti, and the sadya lunch flood all our social media feeds. College students, corporate employees, and cinema personalities from various regions in India can be seen enjoying this Kerala festival. Many may not even know the mythical story behind it, its connection with harvest, or the regional-national political dynamics that it has come to represent.

In terms of its sartorial style, Onam is unusual. In a country where vibrant colours such as orange, red, yellow, green and burgundy are found in abundance and every festival compounds the presence of the same colour palate, here is a festival that flaunts the white and visually minimalistic.

Though this aesthetic has been the same from the time I remember, it has attracted the attention of non-Malayalis only now. It is possible that the classiness that is now associated with simple design, clean lines, limited visual intricacies, is a draw. This is especially true in urban spaces where the technology company Apple’s white palate, along with its unadorned design, has captured our imagination. Celebrating this contrasting beauty has become even more desirable because Bollywood has, through the 1990s and the early part of the new millennium, made the overly colourful and heavy clothing the norm. Onam provides visual relief!

The universalisation of Onam is also a testament to the entrepreneurial nature of Malayalis. A common joke — often with a snide undertone — was that you could find a Malayali selling tea even on the moon. Yet, it also highlighted the community’s adaptability and fearlessness. This daring attitude was intimidating to others. You can certainly find Malayalis across the globe, even in the remotest locations. Their presence covers an enormous canvas of livelihood activities, including administrative and corporate positions, start-ups, cinema, visual arts, armed forces, healthcare, writing, and blue-collar jobs.

The Malayalis migrated for work much before people of other states did, often being one of the first outsiders in a new town or city. This has steadily led to greater exposure for Malayalam culture, and also made Malayalis far more expressive about their identity. This assertion is also visible in the way Malayalam cinema today presents itself to the rest of the world. They have always had an incredibly nuanced storytelling manner. But, in the past, they understated their brilliance. Today, Malayalis are unapologetic about how they think or make art and celebrate this distinctiveness even on the screen. This has had a tremendous impact on other cinema cultures. With cinema being such a dominant cultural communicator, Malayali cultural habits have become known to the larger community.

In the socio-political sphere, the mythology of Mahabali and Vamana is often interpreted as a Dravidian-Aryan battle, giving this festival a sociological accent. Leaving aside the debates that surround this perspective, the fact of the matter is that for many Malayalis, Onam is symbolic of their unique regionality. It is fascinating that this representation has not deterred people from other parts of India from partaking in Onam. This is primarily because, despite its mythological foundations, Onam as a cultural celebration is non-sectarian. The flower arrangements and special meals do not have religious conditionalities that need to be adhered to.

Rituals are an essential way in which we create personal continuity, build communities, and construct social cohesiveness. Festivals are rituals that help in reiterating community bonds, limits and differentiation. This results in keeping certain sections of society out of the gamut of particular rituals and festivals. Onam is an anomaly. Because its religious and mythological foundations are not obsessed over, Onam has created a ritual that is not socially segregating. Instead, it demonstrates a possibility, a way of reimagining religious festivals in a democratic and secular country.

I am not suggesting that the religious roots of festivals need to be muted. But we must try to re-choreograph methods of celebrations, making them more welcoming to all, irrespective of their socio-cultural-religious background. This allows the faithful to still hold on to their beliefs, even while the redesign makes it open to every citizen of this country.

We are living in times when a Brahminical Hindutva mode of viewing and practising the Hindu faith is being propagated as the only way of being Hindu. In such an environment, Onam is a counter narrative. A geographically specific observance that, through its neutral aesthetic practice, is inviting people of an entire country to participate in the joy that it generates.