The Emotional Anatomy Of A Perfect Onam Sadhya

I have been eating meals on a banana leaf since I was a wee little toddler. It's a rite of passage when you're born in any southern part of this country. Of course, when I was a child, I hated it — the patience required to sit in front of that leaf and eat sambhar rice, the very same thing I'd eaten for lunch the previous day, seemed boring and futile. And of course, when I was younger, a fancy meal usually meant a slice of pizza or a Happy Meal from McDonald's, so I would wonder why we were getting all dressed up tp just eat rice: my mom in her fanciest saree, my dad in his crispest veshti, and me in my most uncomfortable and itchy langa davni (skirt-top).

It's only in the last 7 or 8 years that I have started appreciating the banana leaf meal and actually savouring it. I was always under the impression, as a Kannadiga girl, that all banana leaf meals looked the same across the country — that was until I went over to my Malayali neighbour's home, who was more like family than just someone we shared a floor with, on Onam to have Onam Sadhya. I was around 8, and since then, I've probably eaten a sadhya meal every year. I am by no means a Mallu Ammachi, a savant in the art of crafting the perfect sadhya, but I think I know my way around a banana leaf. So this, according to me, is the anatomy of my perfect Onam meal.

Firstly, it's necessary to note that the most perfect sadhya you will ever have will never be at a pop-up curated by a fancy restaurant. It will be at your neighbour's house after you helpthem make their pookalam (a rangoli of flower petals), and finally sitting down hungry and ready to devour the almost 20 dishes in front of you. Or it will be at your Malayali friend's house, whose mum invited you along with all your friends because no one should celebrate Onam alone, even if they're away from home.

Now, there are tens of dishes that make up an entire sadhya meal, and everything from their placement to the order they're served in is intentional. There is a rhythm to the meal, almost like a dance, starting with the leaf being placed with the pointed side facing left. The dishes may vary from home to home, but there are some constants. The rice takes centre stage, quite literally, mounded in the middle of the leaf, with parippu (a kind of dal) and a generous pool of ghee poured over it to kick things off. Sambar comes next, ladled over a fresh mound of rice once the first round is cleared, followed by rasam (it's also imperative to ask for extra to drink straight out of the cup — its peppery tang will clear your throat for days), which is almost always accompanied by a crisp pappadam crushed into it. Around the rice sit the curries in their designated spots, and when each one is mixed in, it yields an entirely unique flavour with each bite. My personal favourite is the avial, a mixed vegetable dish made with grated coconut and curry leaves.

And of course, the other main artery absolutely necessary in the anatomy of the perfect sadhya: payasam. I had a particularly rocky relationship with payasam growing up. Something about it just didn't sit right with me — it was possibly the texture that confused me. But now? Payasam and I are very good friends, particularly payasam made with rice and coconut milk. And yes, the perfect sadhya meal also ends with a cup of buttermilk to wash it all down and give your stomach a kickstart and help it digest all the delicious food you've slurped up.

But beyond the food, Onam is really a celebration of coming home, both literal and mythical. Legend has it that the festival marks the annual return of King Mahabali, a benevolent asura ruler whose reign was so prosperous and just that his subjects lived in complete equality and abundance, with no sorrow, no caste, no crime. When the gods, threatened by his popularity, sent Vishnu (in his Vamana avatar) to banish him to the netherworld, Mahabali's one request was that he be allowed to visit his people once a year. Onam is that visit. 

That's perhaps why the sadhya never quite feels the same, eaten alone, or ordered off a menu. It's a meal built for a full table and a homecoming, for people both old and new, who've been waiting all year to sit cross-legged in front of a banana leaf, elbow to elbow with the people they love. I've spent Onam away from home more times than I'd like to admit, but I've never spent it without a sadhya. And maybe that's the real anatomy of a perfect Onam meal: it's about always finding the people who insist you sit down and share a meal with them, even when you're a long way from home.

If you enjoyed reading this, here's more from Homegrown:

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Celebrate 'Onam Swag' With A 5-Year-Old Skateboarder From Kochi

5 Punjabis & 2 Malayalis: An Onam Like No Other In A Culturally-Blended Family