Onam Sadhya: The feast that connects cultures and generations

I hate Onam sadhyas.

Let me back up a bit. I’m a Malayali expat living in the UAE for the past 20 years. But here’s the twist. I was born and raised in Kolkata. The coconut oil, appam, Malayali genes trapped in a city that worships macher jhol, kati rolls (still a favourite) and Durga Pujo. Which means Onam was always this shiny, exotic festival nobody else in my para (neighbourhood in Bengali) celebrated. That feeling of exclusivity? Priceless. “Oh, I have Onam,” I’d be smug. Like flaunting a membership badge to a secret society. What’s not to love?

Then came Dubai. Sharjah. Take your pick. Two decades in the UAE and Onam is everywhere. Every restaurant, every WhatsApp group, every Malayali friend wailing that banshee wail: “Sadhya, sadhya, sadhya.” Imagine perfectly sane, mature, level-headed uncles, aunties, relations, friends, reduced to drooling over banana leaves, with no inhibitions, but rather a rigorous nudge at exhibitionism, delivering rice, avial, sambar and paysam from leaf to mouth in copious amounts using the South Indian hand swirl method. Never heard of the South Indian hand swirl?

Sacrilege. Let me explain.

Start sadhya by quickly (the operative word is quickly, be fast, be impatient to prove you are on a mission to obliterate banana leaf and contents) separating morsel-worthy amounts of rice, sambar, parippu and random dishes of one’s choice, ensuring consistency is more runny than solid (I challenge you to make a morsel, but never mind, every effort is admirable in the eyes of your host). Constantly shore up immediate portions with little nudges of your open palm. Once happy with portion size, flip wrist and invert palm to form a Hadrian’s Wall with your palm on leaf, gather portion in and with a swirl (aha!) of your palm, enclosing ingredients in a clutch, allowing sufficient liquids and squashed vegetables to ooze through fingers and run into kurta sleeves. Proceed to ingest. Repeat.

Don’t forget to lick curry trails off your hands, and occasionally, kurta sleeves. You may be a Malayali gourmand, but this proves you are a clean and hygienic one.

And of course, I married a Malayali. So now there’s no escaping all this. She collects sadya invites like airline miles. By mid-August, we’re booked solid.

Worse, sometimes we host. That’s when the madness erupts like a rash. The apartment is a war zone. Every relative in the UAE materialises. First cousins. Second cousins. Random uncles who apparently flew in “just for Onam.” A woman in the kitchen stirs something ferociously. I have no clue who she is. The wife’s distant relative. A neighbour. But she’s yelling about coconut scrapings like she owns the place.

I try sneaking in for tea. I’m elbowed out. My official role? Banana leaf logistics. Place them, straighten them, nod solemnly when someone barks, “Tip should face left.” Or was it right? Depends which overqualified relative is your teacher and guide.

And the food marathon? It’s organised mayhem as 26 dishes (or is it 28? Or 60? I’m through counting.) pile up on the leaf. “You are feeling full? Have more avial, very healthy, it will make space in your stomach.” “Did you try the kalan?” “Another ladle of sambar?” I say no. They grin and dump it on anyway. Then come the payasams. One. Two. Three. By the fourth, I’m in the netherworld, awaiting Mahabali’s return.

But here’s the problem. I cringe, I whine, but I’m smitten. By the sheer madness of it all. The chaos, the smell of coconut oil, the laughter, the endless debates about pulissery being better than rasam (tips for Onam dummies: it’s a fair conversation starter). Even the mystery relatives who show up to represent. In the end, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with a room full of Malayalis, some I know, some I don’t, still feels like home.

The sadhya is the culprit. But it’s also the charm, tying together a childhood in Kolkata, two decades in the UAE, and my Malayali roots.

I love Onam sadhyas. But, I guess I told you that already. Now, pass that avial.