From Childhood to Adulthood: Why Onam Feels Different as We Grow Older

There was a time when Onam meant waking up early with one very important mission: flowers. Not buying them. Not ordering them online. Actually finding them. We would run around looking for different colours, carefully pluck flowers, argue over who found the prettiest ones, and return home with our little collections. Someone would draw the outline for the pookalam, someone else would start arranging the petals, and somehow, without anyone really planning it, everyone would end up sitting together on the floor, contributing something. The pookalam may not have been perfect, but it was ours.

And then came the sadya.

As children, we didn't know anything about the cultural significance of twenty different dishes, the symbolism of the banana leaf, or whether a particular preparation was traditionally made a certain way. We simply knew that there was a banana leaf in front of us and an unbelievable amount of food on it. We waited impatiently for the next serving, mixed everything together in ways that would probably horrify the adults, and saved the best part for last. Onam was food. Onam was flowers. Onam was new clothes. Onam was games, laughter, cousins running around the house and adults telling us to sit properly while we absolutely refused to.

Then, somewhere along the way, we grew up.

The flowers became something we buy instead of something we search for. The pookalam became a picture we admire rather than something we spend an afternoon creating together. The family WhatsApp group wakes up with a stream of “Happy Onam!” GIFs, forwarded images and beautifully designed greetings. We send wishes to people we haven't spoken to in months, sometimes years, with a tap of a button.

Even the sadya has changed.

For many of us, it is no longer about sitting at home while several family members move around the kitchen preparing dish after dish. It has become about which restaurant has the best sadya, who is hosting, whether we need a reservation, and whether we should take a photograph before eating. There is absolutely nothing wrong with that. Life changes, families change and convenience matters. But somewhere between the restaurant reservation and the Instagram story, we sometimes realise that we miss the chaos of the old version.

Perhaps this is why festivals can feel strangely bittersweet as we grow older.

It isn't necessarily that Onam has become less beautiful. We have become different people experiencing it.

As children, we experienced festivals through our senses. We felt the texture of flowers between our fingers, the excitement of putting on new clothes, the anticipation of food, the noise of relatives and the simple security of knowing that everyone would be there. We didn't have to make the celebration happen. Adults created the world around us, and we simply lived in it.

Adulthood changes that equation.

Suddenly, we are the ones checking schedules. We are travelling from different cities. We are coordinating with friends and family. We are working through festivals. Some of us live away from home. Some have lost grandparents who once made the house feel fuller. Some have families that have changed through marriages, separations, migrations or simply time. Some people are celebrating Onam for the first time in a completely different place, surrounded by people who weren't part of their childhood.

And that is when nostalgia quietly enters the room.

We don't necessarily miss the flower arrangement itself. We miss who we were when we were arranging it.

We miss the cousin who used to steal flowers from our pile. We miss the grandmother who insisted that everyone eat one more serving. We miss sitting beside siblings without needing to coordinate calendars three weeks in advance. We miss the version of ourselves that didn't have emails waiting, bills to pay or a phone buzzing every few minutes.

There is something psychologically powerful about rituals because they give us continuity. They connect who we were with who we are now. When familiar rituals disappear or become digitised, we can sometimes feel as though a small piece of our personal history has disappeared with them.

But perhaps growing older doesn't mean we have to choose between the old Onam and the new one.

Maybe we can bring a little of the old magic back.

Pluck a few flowers instead of ordering everything. Make a tiny pookalam, even if it isn't perfect. Sit on the floor with family. Cook one dish together. Put the phones away during the sadya. Call someone instead of sending a GIF. Tell children the stories behind the celebration instead of simply dressing them up for photographs.

Because perhaps the real beauty of Onam was never just in the flowers, the feast or the new clothes. It was in doing things together.

And maybe adulthood doesn't have to mean leaving that behind. Maybe it simply means that now, we get to become the people who create those memories for someone else.

Written By : R. Sagarikaa, Editorial Head