Thiruvathira: A Kerala Festival Where Memory, Womanhood, and Movement Become Ritual

Before the World Watched Women Run, Kerala’s Women Already Danced

Across civilizations, women have carried within themselves a quiet yet enduring tradition of ritual movement. In ancient Greece, young maidens once gathered every four years at Olympia to run the Heraean Games in honour of the goddess Hera, events that symbolised feminine grace, discipline, and purity. Their steps across the sacred ground spoke of devotion and physical culture intertwined.

And yet, even when viewed beside such celebrated traditions, Thiruvathira of Kerala stands apart. Here, Malayali women do not merely participate; they lead, shape, and embody the ritual. Their bodies become instruments of devotion, their movements repositories of memory, their collective rhythm a testament to Kerala’s unique cultural landscape. Thiruvathira is not simply a festival, it is a living chapter of feminine strength, spiritual remembrance, and indigenous physical culture.

Long before the world began observing a Women’s Day, and long before conversations on feminine spaces entered modern life, Kerala had carved out a day that belonged almost entirely to its women.

And long before the modern Olympic Games, where women were initially denied the right to participate, Malayali women had already nurtured a physical culture of their own, rooted in ritual, rhythm, and collective movement. Thiruvathira stands as one of the earliest expressions of this embodied heritage.

Echoes from a Bygone Thiruvathira

To understand how deeply Thiruvathira was once woven into the social fabric of Kerala, we turn to a vivid account by Sri Gopala Panicker in "Malabar and Its Folk" (1900), published by G.A. Natesan & Co., Madras. This rare description, now preserved in the Internet Archive of the University of California, Los Angeles, offers a glimpse into the festival as it unfolded more than a century ago.

 “In ancient times, Thiruvathira was one of the three great national occasions of Kerala, especially Malabar. It generally comes off in the Malayalam month of Dhanu (December or January), on the day called Thiruvathira. It is essentially a festival in which females are almost exclusively concerned and lasts for but a single day. It has behind it a traditional antiquity stretching back to times almost out of mind.

According to the Puranas, Kamadevan, the God of desire, was consumed by the fire of Siva’s third eye, leaving him with only a spiritual existence. His memory, especially among women, is kept alive through the annual celebration of Thiruvathira, which honors this poignant myth and its deeper emotional resonance.

About a week before the day, the festival practically opens. At about 4 in the morning, every young female member of the Tharavad with pretensions to decency gets out of her bed and takes her bath in a tank. Usually, a considerable number of these young women gather at the Tharavad or the nearby pond for the purpose.

Then all, or almost all of them, plunge into the water and begin to take part in the singing that is presently to follow. One of them leads off with a peculiar rhythmic song chiefly pertaining to Cupid. This singing is simultaneously accompanied by a curious sound produced with her hand on the water. The palm of the left hand is closed and kept immediately underneath the surface of the water. Then the palm of the other is forcibly brought down in a slanting direction and struck against the surface, so that the water is completely ruffled and splashed in all directions, producing a loud, deep noise.

This process is continuously prolonged together with the singing. One stanza is now over along with the sound, and then the leader stops a while for the others to follow her in her wake. This being likewise over, she caps her first stanza with another, at the same time beating on the water - and so on until the conclusion of the song. Then all of them make a long pause and begin another. The process goes on until the peep of dawn, when they rub themselves dry and come home to dress themselves in the neatest and grandest possible attire.

They also darken the fringes of their eyelids with a sticky preparation of soot mixed with a little oil or ghee, and sometimes with a superficial coating of antimony powder. They wear white, black, or red marks lower down the middle of their foreheads, close to the part where the two eyebrows meet. They chew betel and thus redden their mouths and lips.

Then they proceed to the enjoyment of another prominent item of pleasure - viz., swinging to and fro, what is usually known as Oonjal. A long bamboo piece is taken and split asunder from the root end, leaving the other end whole and untouched. Two holes are bored, one on the cut end of each of the two parts into which the bamboo is split. Now another, smaller piece of the same material, about a yard in length, is divided along the grain into two equal parts. One of these is taken, and its ends are cut into points which are thrust into the two holes of the long bamboo pieces mentioned before. This is securely nailed and strongly attached to the long bamboo, which is then hung by means of a very tight, strong rope to a horizontal branch of a neighbouring tree.

Then the maiden seats herself on the small piece attached between the split portions, which are firmly held by her two hands; and the whole thing is propelled by someone from behind. These ladies especially derive immense pleasure from this process of swinging backwards and forwards, sometimes very wide apart, so as to reach the other and higher branches of the tree. Nevertheless, accidents are few and far between.

This, as well as the songs and early bath, all close on the festival day, when still greater care and scrupulousness are bestowed upon the various elements of enjoyment.

On the festival morning, after their bath, they partake in a light chota - an early breakfast and at noon, the family lunch is voraciously attacked. Then, till evening, dancing and merry making are ceaselessly indulged in.

The husbands are inexcusably required to be present in their wives' houses before evening, as they are bound to do on the Onam and Vishu occasions; failure to do so is looked upon as a step or rather the first step on the part of the defaulting husband towards a final separation or divorce from the wife.

Despite the rigour of the bleak December - January season, during which the festival commonly falls, heightened inevitably by the constant blowing of the cold east wind upon their moistened frames, these lusty maidens derive considerable pleasure from their early baths and their frolics in water. The biting cold of the season, which makes their persons shiver and quiver like aspen leaves before the breeze, becomes to them, in the midst of all their ecstatic frolics, an additional source of pleasure. In short, all these merely tend to brace them up to an extent the likes of which they can scarcely find anywhere else.

Thus, at this stated season of the year, the morning hours are invariably filled with the melodious warblings of certain indigenous birds, diversified by the sweet, cheering songs of our country maidens, and constantly disturbed by the rough crowing of the domestic cock, all of which drag their pleasing length along until the morning dawns upon them and bathes them in the crimson effulgence of the orb of day, driving off the country’s face the mist of night which enveloped them in its hazy cover; thus forming the signal for the party to retire to their accustomed abodes for the day’s festivities.

The two items described above - viz., the swinging process and the bathing in the water - have each its own distinctive significance. The former typifies the attempt which these maidens make to hang themselves on these instruments and destroy their lives in consequence of the lamented demise of their deity of desire, Kamadevan. It is but natural that the depth of sorrow will lead men to extreme courses of action. The beating on the water symbolizes their beating of their chests in expression of their deep felt sorrow at Cupid’s death.

Such, in brief, is the description of a festival which plays a conspicuous part in the social history of Malabar. Naturally enough, while within the Christian fold the festive pleasantry and mirth of the Christmas season are going their jolly round, within the limited circle of Hindu society, a mournful occasion which time has completely altered into one of mirth, constitutes one of the best enjoyments of our national life.”

One evocative detail not captured in Sri Gopala Panicker’s otherwise vivid account is the graceful ritual of Thiruvathirakali, also known as Kaikottikali'. On the night of Thiruvathira, women gather in joyful communion to perform this elegant circular dance. Adorned in their finest attire and ornaments, young maidens form a ring, moving rhythmically to the lilting strains of Thiruvathirappattu, traditional songs passed down through generations. Their synchronized steps and the gentle clapping of hands create a mesmerizing harmony, embodying both devotion and delight. In some regions, this celebration extends beyond a single night, with daily performances held for up to eleven days leading to the festival’s culmination.  

While ancient Greece forbade men from witnessing the sacred races of women, in Kerala, men were not only permitted but expected to witness these nocturnal performances. The presence of husbands and kin was part of the ritual fabric, an affirmation, not a transgression. This enduring art form, rooted in collective memory and feminine grace, remains an integral thread in the festive tapestry of Thiruvathira.

The Overlooked Dimension: Thiruvathira as Indigenous Physical Culture

Though celebrated for its beauty, symbolism, and devotion, Thiruvathira holds something deeper, a profound connection to Kerala’s indigenous physical heritage.
Long before yoga studios, gymnasiums, or school PT classes entered Kerala’s social landscape, Thiruvathirakali served as a natural physical discipline for women.

Benefits woven into tradition:

• Improved flexibility through circular steps and gentle torso bends  
• Balance and posture, cultivated by slow, deliberate rhythms  
• Enhanced respiratory rhythm, shaped by synchronized group movement  
• Controlled breathing, echoing pranayama like patterns  
• Strengthened joints, especially knees, ankles, and waist  
• Light aerobic activity, sustained through long rhythmic sequences  

The repetitive stepping, clapping, and revolving synchronize breath with motion, akin to yogic practice. Women who regularly performed Thiruvathirakali often retained remarkable flexibility and stamina well into old age.

Thus, Thiruvathira stands as one of Kerala’s earliest systems of women’s physical culture, a harmonious blend of grace, fitness, spirituality, and communal bonding.

Conclusion

Thiruvathira is more than a date on the Malayalam calendar. It is a celebration where myth and movement entwine, where sorrow transforms into joy, and where women step into the heart of culture with dignity and grace. From the icy waters of the morning pond to the soaring arcs of the Uzhinjal swing, from the rhythmic beat upon water to the slow, revolving steps of Thiruvathirakali, every gesture carries memory, meaning, and beauty.

Like the Heraean maidens of ancient Greece, Kerala’s women too - long before - shaped a ritual where the body became a pathway to devotion. But unlike many cultures, Kerala offered them a festival that was wholly theirs: emotionally, physically, and spiritually.

In recent decades, as lifestyles shifted, nuclear families replaced joint households, and urban rhythms overtook rural ones, Thiruvathira began to lose its once unshakeable centrality. The early morning baths in temple ponds dwindled. Uzhinjal swings grew rare in courtyards. The long, resonant songs faded from the dawn skies. Even the symbolic meanings behind the rituals slipped into quiet obscurity.

Yet Thiruvathira endures, as a symbol of cultural continuity, feminine strength, and the soft, enduring heartbeat of Kerala’s heritage. To revive it is to honour not only the past, but also the generations to come, ensuring that the dawn songs, the water rhythms, and the circle dances continue to glow in Kerala’s collective memory for centuries more.

References.

1. K. Gopal Panikkar - “Malabar and its Folk”
2. K. P. Padmanabha Menon - “History of Kerala” Vol. 4
3. Margaret Lyall - “Women's Rituals in Kerala: A study of Thiruvathira" Indian Folklore Studies, Vol. 35
4. Smriti Srinivas - “The Body in Indian Rituals: Movement, Symbolism and Devotion” (Comparative insights)
5. Pausanias' Description of Greece, translated by W.H.S. Jones and H.A. Ormerod - Loeb Classical Library (Harvard University Press)

Coming up next: SUNDAY FIELD & FLAME – 11 January 2026: The Dreamer and His Dream - Coubertin’s Olympic Vision of a Better World

Seeds of Sport in Kerala’s Soil

In Kerala, movement was never merely an act of the body, it was the language of living itself. Here, play grew from the very rhythm of daily life. Every gesture, leap, and splash echoed the pulse of the land. Games were not devised by rule or regulation but were born of the soil, the rain, and the tides. They carried within them the essence of Kerala’s culture, its resilience, its imagination, and its unbroken link with nature.

Before the age of schools and gymnasiums, before the whistle and stopwatch, the people of Kerala learned movement from the world around them. The climate itself was the first coach - warm, humid, and generous with rain. It demanded adaptation, endurance, and balance. Seasons shaped the routines of work and play alike. Monsoons tested stamina; the harvest taught timing; the lull after sowing offered time for recreation. Thus, life and play were never separate, they were two rhythms of the same melody.

In the ancient landscape, thick forests stretched across the highlands, where clearings became the first playgrounds. Children learned agility from the monkeys, endurance from the hunters, and alertness from the rustle of unseen creatures. Rivers and streams invited dives and swims; paddy fields after harvest became open stages for traditional games, and playful rivalry. The terrain itself was a living teacher, its challenges forming the earliest curriculum of physical culture. The body was trained not in isolation but in harmony with the earth that sustained it.

Along the coastal belt, where the Arabian Sea met lagoons and rivers, play took new forms. Here, life unfolded to the rhythm of the waves and winds. The sea offered its own lessons, balance upon boats, strength against tides, rhythm in rowing, and unity in effort. Fisherfolk found both livelihood and joy in the same element, and play often mirrored the sea’s moods - calm, fierce, or festive. In this landscape, sport was never separate from survival, nor was survival devoid of play.

Kerala’s harbours and estuaries, open to the world, became bridges between cultures. From the earliest centuries, Arab seafarers, Chinese merchants, Roman vessels, and later European fleets all touched this shore in search of spices and treasures. They came not only with goods but with customs, gestures, and diversions of their own. During their long stays, waiting for monsoon winds, they spent evenings by the water’s edge, flying kites, testing balance, or simply joining in the recreations of the locals. Over time, the port towns became playgrounds of exchange where laughter transcended language, and pastimes became silent ambassadors of friendship. The playground, like the market, was a meeting place of civilizations.

Yet, the true strength of Kerala’s play lay within its villages. In courtyards shaded by banyan trees, on earthen grounds beside temples and churches, on riverbanks after the day’s toil, people gathered not to compete but to commune. Elders, youth, and children played together; participation mattered more than victory, and laughter more than rules. These moments of shared joy built a sense of community and belonging. The games were mirrors of social life, collaborative, rhythmic, and inclusive. They carried moral lessons, discipline, and respect for elders, yet they never lost their innocence.

Traditional games demanded little from the material world. A ball could be woven from leaves, a goal drawn in sand, and a race begun with a shout. Their richness lay not in equipment but in imagination. Knowledge passed orally, from elder siblings and neighbours to the young. Each generation inherited movements, songs, and strategies without the aid of manuals. Every gesture carried memory, linking the past with the present and childhood with culture. Through these games, the body became a living archive of Kerala’s collective wisdom.

These recreations also followed the rhythm of the seasons. Post harvest fields offered space and time; festivals marked the return of joy after labour. The soft mud of monsoon was not an obstacle but an invitation to run, to slip, to rise again. Thus, the calendar of play was written by nature herself. The unity between body, season, and soil made Kerala’s traditional games not merely a pastime but a philosophy of living.

Beyond the physical, these games were vessels of story and spirit. Songs sung in rhythm, chants shouted in chorus, and gestures repeated over generations carried echoes of folklore and faith. Many games were linked to rituals and festivals, blending devotion with recreation. Movement became worship; coordination became discipline; laughter became prayer. In this way, physical culture and spiritual life flowed together seamlessly, each enriching the other.

Viewed from different standpoints, these traditional recreations reveal the many dimensions of Kerala’s social and cultural life. They may be classified as follows:

• Physical, Intellectual, and Aesthetic - Some games strengthened the body, others sharpened the mind, while some delighted the senses through rhythm and beauty.
• Military and Civil - Certain recreations trained courage, reflexes, and strategy - echoes of a time when defence and discipline were essential, while others promoted harmony and social bonding.
• Religious - Games played during temple festivals or seasonal rituals carried symbolic meanings, often representing cycles of creation, endurance, and renewal.
• Indoor and Outdoor - Some found their stage in courtyards or riverbanks, others in shaded verandahs and quiet evenings of rest.
• Land and Water - The geography of Kerala inspired two worlds of play, the solid earth for running and jumping, and the water for swimming, rowing, and synchronized rhythm.
• Masculine, Feminine, and Infantine - Distinct spaces and expressions existed for each, yet all were united by the joy of participation. Together they formed a continuum of growth, from childhood play to adult recreation.

This diversity reflects not only the creativity of the people but also their understanding of balance between strength and grace, competition and cooperation, labour and leisure. In every form of play, there was both art and purpose, freedom and restraint. The human spirit found its fullest expression in movement, whether in solitary concentration or in the joyful chaos of community gatherings.

Kerala’s traditional games thus represent the earliest seeds of organized sport. They prepared the body for endurance, the mind for focus, and the spirit for harmony. In their spontaneous patterns lay the foundations of modern physical culture, the same principles later refined by schools, gymnasiums, and institutions. Yet, unlike the regimented routines that followed, these ancestral games celebrated the wholeness of life. They trained without dividing, taught without preaching, and healed without medicine.

Today, as we look back through centuries of evolution from forest clearings to stadiums, from communal pastimes to global competitions, it becomes clear that the essence of sport was never foreign to this land. It grew here, quietly and naturally, in the laughter of children, in the rhythm of festivals, and in the shared pulse of living together. The soil of Kerala did not merely produce crops; it nurtured movement, imagination, and resilience. It taught its children to play, to dream, and to strive - not for medals, but for meaning.

Thus, the story of Kerala’s sport begins not with organized rules or imported games, but with the whispers of its rivers, the echoes of its forests, and the songs of its people. These humble recreations were the first teachers of physical culture, the original choreography of a civilization that understood, long before the world spoke of “fitness,” that play itself is the purest form of learning.

References

1. K.P. Padmanabha Menon - History of Kerala, Vol. IV (notes on Visscher’s letter from Malabar) 
2. A. Krishna Iyer - Social History of Kerala: The Pre Dravidians (1968)UNESCO - Traditional Sports and Games
3. Kerala Folklore Academy - Folk Games of Kerala

Coming up next: SUNDAY FIELD & FLAME – 07 December 2025: Sanctuaries to Stadiums: How Churches, Priests, and Christian Institutions Shaped Modern Sport

Kerala Piravi: A Land Born, A Spirit in Motion

 Yesterday, on November 1, Malayalis across the world celebrated Kerala Piravi, the birth of Kerala. Today, as we pause a day later, we remember that Kerala Piravi is not merely a date on the calendar, but the living spirit of a people united by culture, art, and sport.

 
The Birth of Kerala – Why November 1 Matters
Kerala Piravi - the birth of Kerala - is not merely a date in a calendar; it is the day when a scattered people discovered themselves as one. Before 1956, Malayalis lived under different crowns and administrations, spread across Travancore, Cochin, and Malabar, their lives shaped by varied rulers but bound together by one language, one rhythm of festivals, and one cultural breath.
 
When India reorganized her states on the basis of language, Kerala was born, uniting the princely states of Travancore and Cochin with Malabar and Kasaragod. This was more than a political map being redrawn; it was the recognition of an identity that had existed for centuries. November 1 is thus a day of remembrance and renewal, a reminder that Kerala was not created by decree alone, but by the spirit of her people.
 
Before Kerala Was Born - A Shared Heritage
The story of Kerala is not one of sudden creation but of gradual convergence. Travancore, with its royal patronage of education and arts, nurtured a refined cultural climate. Cochin, small yet vibrant, became a crossword of trade and intellectual ferment. Malabar, under British rule, saw the rise of missionary schools and modern institutions that quietly sowed the seeds of organized sports. Though politically distinct, the heartbeat of these regions was strangely synchronized, the same songs were sung at harvest, the same pride in local strength, the same joy in communal gatherings of play.
 
Kerala’s culture has long been alive with motion. From the rhythmic steps of dance to the disciplined gestures of ritual performance, folk theatre and traditional artforms trained the body as much as they expressed the spirit. In temples, village squares, and festival grounds, the movements of artists - bending, leaping, balancing, stamping - became a living vocabulary of strength, agility, and coordination, preparing generations for both play and performance. Physical culture was never alien here. Village courtyards, temple grounds, church compounds, and mosque festivals often doubled as arenas where youth tested their agility, endurance, and courage. The games played were not merely for recreation; they carried within them the wisdom of the land - exercises that tuned the body to the demands of rivers, forests, and fields. Thus, when Kerala was finally born as a state, it inherited not only the Malayalam tongue, but also an unbroken rhythm of cultural and physical vitality.
 
Land of Rivers, Hills, and Hidden Strength
Kerala has a geography that trains its children even before they step onto a playground. The backwaters that ripple silently demand skill to row and balance; the hills that rise on the horizon challenges the body to climb and conquer; the endless stretches of paddy fields teach patience, endurance, and teamwork. The coastline, with its ceaseless tides, sharpens resilience in those who depend on the sea for life.
 
It was only natural that games and physical activities evolved to mirror these surroundings. They were not imported pastimes but organic expressions of survival and celebration. Every child who ran through paddy ridges, swam across streams, or wrestled in the sand was unknowingly preparing for a life of stamina. This natural training ground has, for centuries, been Kerala’s silent coach, shaping a people whose bodies and spirits carry hidden reserves of strength.
 
From Tradition to Organized Sport
As the mid-twentieth century unfolded, the winds of change carried Kerala from tradition to modernity. Military contonment, Missionary schools, princely rulers, and early colleges introduced organized sports such as cricket, football, hockey, volleyball, basketball and athletics. The culture of play that had always existed found new forms and structures. By the time Kerala Piravi was celebrated in 1956, the foundations of a sporting state had already been laid.
 
In the decades that followed, the people of Kerala walked confidently from local playgrounds to national arenas. Athletics, football, volleyball, shuttle badminton, swimming, and hockey became the state’s proud signatures. The discipline inherited from cultural traditions found fresh expression in structured training, while the spirit of unity born on Kerala Piravi pushed young men and women to compete not just for personal glory, but for the pride of their land.
 
Kerala’s Athletes - Cultural Ambassadors
Sports in Kerala have never been only about medals; they have been about representing a culture. Every athlete who carried the flag onto national or international arena also carried the ethos of Kerala, humility in victory, grace in defeat, and discipline in effort. They became cultural ambassadors, telling the world of a small state that stood tall through its people.
 
From the sandy football grounds of Malabar to the athletic tracks of Thiruvananthapuram, from village volleyball nets to cricket pitches, Kerala’s children have kept alive the rhythm of motion that began centuries ago. Each achievement is not isolated but rooted in a collective heritage. To speak of Kerala’s sporting excellence is to speak also of her rivers and hills, her festivals and rituals, her communal spirit of play.
 
And among these torchbearers shine the proud women of Kerala. Their presence is seen not only on athletic tracks and courts, but also in the realms of art, dance, and literature, where discipline of body and depth of spirit unite. They have carried forward traditions while breaking barriers, proving that Kerala’s strength is not confined to one gender but shared by all. In their grace and grit, they embody the true spirit of Kerala Piravi, a land where culture and courage walk hand in hand.
 
Kerala Piravi - A Living Call
Kerala Piravi is not a backward glance into history but a living call into the future. It reminds us that identity is not static; it grows when nurtured. Just as Kerala united politically in 1956, so too must we unite today in building healthier generations. Our children stand at the crossroads of opportunity  with talent flowing through their veins, but needing structured support, scientific guidance, and disciplined monitoring to reach the highest podiums.
 
As we celebrate Kerala Piravi, let it be more than songs and speeches. Let it be a pledge: to strengthen the body as we nurture the mind, to honor tradition while embracing modern science, to ensure that every child has the chance to discover their strength in play. The world is waiting for more champions from this small strip of land. With unity of purpose and dedication, Kerala can continue to surprise the world, a land small in size, but vast in spirit.
 
A Pledge for the Future
As we look back on Kerala Piravi, celebrated yesterday, let us also rise to responsibility. Let us dream of a state where playgrounds are as sacred as classrooms, where sports is as valued as academics, where health and discipline walk hand in hand with culture and tradition.
 
Let us envision a tomorrow where the children of Kerala, born of rivers and hills, step confidently onto world arenas, their footprints carrying the mark of a land that has always been in motion.
 
Kerala Piravi is not just about the birth of a state; it is about the rebirth of hope each year. And hope, when nurtured with discipline, can indeed climb the world’s highest podiums.
 
References
Enlite IAS. Kerala Piravi. https://www.enliteias.com/kerala-piravi/

Coming up next: SUNDAY FIELD & FLAME – 09 November 2025: How Sports Got Their Names: A Study in Etymology

Aranmula Vallasadya

Aranmula, a village nestled on the banks of the sacred Pampa River in Pathanamthitta district, is known across Kerala for its ancient Parthasarathy Temple and its awe-inspiring ritualistic feast  -  the Vallasadya.

Here, ritual meets rhythm, and devotion flows like the river itself.

The Name and the River: A Tale of Origins

The name Aranmula carries the fragrance of myth and memory. One version says Bhagwan Sree Krishna arrived here on a chadakudam (raft) made of six bamboo poles - “aaru” means six, and “mula” means bamboo in Malayalam. Another explanation stems from the term Thiru Aarum Vilayil - “Thiru” denoting sacredness, “Aaru” for river, and “Vila” for fertile land.

The sacred Pampa River, revered in Hindu traditions, flows as the lifeline of this land. It is along its banks that the village flourished - culturally, ritually, and spiritually.

When History Wears the Garb of Myth

Like most traditions rooted in time and faith, Aranmula’s legacy is not a straight line. History and mythology mingle here like tributaries in a river - inseparable, flowing together.

During a historic conflict between the kingdoms of Kayamkulam and Chembakassery, King Devanarayan of Chembakassery turned to a legendary craftsman - Kodipunna Venkida Narayanan Assari. Based on the ancient text Sthapathya Veda, the craftsman designed a remarkable war vessel: the Chundan Vallam - long, sleek, and built to glide like a serpent.

Measuring between 100 and 138 feet, the boat’s rear towers nearly 20 feet high, while its front narrows to a pointed elegance. Built with 83 foot long planks precisely six inches wide, these boats, with their centuries-old blueprint, are still built exactly the same way, living testaments to Kerala’s mastery of sacred engineering.

The Story Behind the Feast

Behind this majestic legacy of oars and water lies the legend of the feast.

In the Mangattu Illam of Kattoor, a tradition called Kalukazhikichooti was observed on Thiruvonam day - washing the feet of Brahmins and offering them food. One year, not a single Brahmin came. Distressed, Mangattu Bhattathiri prayed fervently. Then, a young Brahmin boy appeared, and the host fulfilled the rituals.

That night, Bhagwan appeared in Bhattathiri’s dream and said, “From now, bring your feast to Me at Aranmula.” Thus was born the tradition of carrying the Onasadya to the Parthasarathy Temple via the river, in a boat called the Thiruvona Thoni.

The Sacred Boat with Garuda on Its Bow

The Thiruvona Thoni is no ordinary boat. Adorned with a figure of Garuda, the divine vehicle of Mahavishnu, it begins its journey from the Kattoor Mahavishnu Temple, located about 12 kilometers from Aranmula. Each year, it departs on the Uthradam day, reaching the temple by dawn on Thiruvonam, bringing with it all the provisions for the sacred feast.

One year, the vessel was attacked mid-journey by robbers. But local snake boats came to its defense and rescued it. From that day onward, community escort boats joined the sacred mission - a tradition that grew and grew. Today, 52 Karas (village regions) send their boats to escort the Thiruvona Thoni - a flotilla of faith, gliding in synchronized reverence.

The Oarsmen: Disciples in Disguise

The men who row the Palliyodams - the sacred snake boats are not just athletes or performers. They are ritual participants, entering into a sacred discipline before taking to the water. This discipline is known as Vridham, a sacred vow that includes:

Abstinence from meat, liquor, and sensual indulgence

Purity in body, mind, and word

Obedience to temple traditions and elders

These men live together in simplicity, rising early, engaging in prayer, practicing their boat movements in sync. Their strength is not aggressive, it is meditative. Each oar stroke is a surrender; each movement, a form of prayer.

This is Tapasya - austerity in motion. The body becomes the first temple. The act of rowing becomes an act of worship.

Body, River, and Ritual - A Harmony in Motion

The beauty of the Aranmula tradition lies not just in spectacle, but in its inner meaning. From the vow of purity to the thundering rhythm of the snake boats, to the divine feast, every step is part of a ritual choreography.

This is not feasting after fasting.
This is feasting as fasting where service, discipline, and community lead to collective fulfillment.

The feast is not a reward for pleasure. It is an offering born of restraint, a sacred circle where body, community, and divinity meet in celebration.

Growing Glory: From Local Ritual to Global Attention

Today, Aranmula is celebrated far and wide - not just for its Onam rituals, but also for its Aranmula Kannadi (the famed metal mirror), which has received the Geographical Indication tag for its uniqueness.

With each passing year, the number of devotees and cultural admirers grows. The name Aranmula is now a symbol - of devotion, discipline, tradition, and living heritage.

Vallasadya: The Sacred Feast

The Vallasadya is a grand, ritualistic feast offered to Parthasarathy, organized by devotees and boatmen. It is conducted on several auspicious occasions, mainly:

Ashtami Rohini Vallasadya

Held on the day of Sri Krishna’s birth, this version of the Vallasadya is open to all - a true annadanam, where every devotee present is fed with love and reverence. It symbolizes Krishna’s divine hospitality and generosity. On the eve of Ashtami Rohini, Aramula waits in devotion and anticipation. The boats rest upon the Pampa, the temple readies it's lamps, and the village prepares it's heart for Krishna's joyous day.

Onam Season Vallasadya

During Onam, the Vallasadya is offered especially to the Palliyodakkar - the oarsmen - and selected invitees. Devotees can register and sponsor this offering. Although the names differ, the spirit remains the same: offering to the Bhagwan by serving His people.

The feast is served on banana leaves after the Ucha Pooja (noon ritual) in the temple, with over sixty-four traditional dishes. Each leaf becomes a sacred canvas, painted with the colors, tastes, and textures of Kerala’s culinary heritage.

References:

1. Parthasarathy Temple Festival Records
2. Oral Narratives from Aranmula Oarsmen (Palliyodakkar)
3. Kerala Folklore Academy Notes on Vallam Kali
4. Cultural Ecology and Ritual Feasts of Kerala, Anthropological Survey of India, 2022
5. Sacred Geography of the Pampa River, University of Calicut Folklore Dept., 2017
6. Journal of the Anthropological Survey of India
7. Menon S. A Survey of Kerala History (1967), Sahithya Pravarthaka Co-operative Society
8. A Study on Aranmula – The Land of Six Bamboos by Sreekanta Parida, Amrita Vishwa Vidyapeetham

Coming up tomorrow (14 September 2025): Ashtami Rohini – The Divine Birth of Krishna and Kerala’s Celebrations

Anizham – When the Festival Finds Its Flow

The Turning Point of Onam

Today is Anizham - the fifth day of Onam.

The festival, once budding in whispers and petals, now flows freely through courtyards, kitchens, and riversides. The air thickens with purpose. The land listens. The people respond.

Children, barefoot and bright eyed, scatter across fields and gardens, collecting mukkutti, thumbappoo, chethi, and thetti. Their hands speak the silent language of flowers. Their laughter drifts between hibiscus hedges and jasmine vines.

The Pookkalams, once small yellow circles, now spread like living mandalas, layer upon layer, colour upon colour. In each home, the design has deepened, just like the feeling.

Chithira – The Ground is Made Ready

The day after Atham is Chithira, a quiet but essential step.

In homes across Kerala, courtyards are swept, cleaned, and sanctified. A thin film of cow dung mixed with water is spread across the earth, a traditional act of purification still practiced in many rural households.

With this, the second ring of the Pookkalam is laid. More flowers, more colour, more joy. What began as a simple yellow bloom now unfolds like a story.

The heart of Onam is beginning to stir.

Choti – The Festival Gains Texture

On the third day, Choti (Chodi), the preparations grow bolder. While some consider this a domestic day, where families gather utensils and household items for the days ahead - it is also when traditional games and early rituals begin appearing in community spaces.

Children continue plucking flowers. Elders supervise the thickening Pookkalam. Anticipation builds - but still, the festival holds its breath. The sounds of celebration are near, but not yet here.

Vishakam – When the Celebration Roars

By Vishakam, the fourth day of Onam, the hush is broken. The land begins to sing and shout.

In Thrissur, roads come alive with the wild rhythms of Pulikali.
Men paint their bodies like tigers, yellow, black, and orange stripes and dance through the streets to pounding Chenda Melam. This folk-theatrical art form blends muscular movement with primal energy. Children gasp. Drummers thunder. Crowds roar.

Pulikali is not just performance - it is catharsis. It channels the spirit of masculine play, of public spectacle, and of ancient pride.

Elsewhere, temples host Kummattikali performances, and masked dancers parade through lanes, scattering joy and blessings. This is Onam leaping from verandahs to village squares.

The Kitchen Awakens, Onakkazhcha Begins

Vishakam also marks the culinary awakening of Onam.

Markets swell with activity. Banana leaves, pumpkins, yams, red chilies, and tamarind fill baskets and counters. Women begin preparing pickles, roasting spices, drying papadams. The Onasadya, though days away, now begins to breathe.

It is also during Vishakam and Anizham that an old agrarian custom returns: Onakkazhcha.

In this time honoured tradition, tenants bring offerings to landlords - rice, fruits, vegetables, and the best yield of the season. These were not mere gestures of loyalty but obligations built into leases and land arrangements. In return, the Janmis would provide a sumptuous feast before the festival ended.

Every village artisan, too, paid homage to the Karanavar of noble tharavads.

• The carpenter brought a handmade wooden toy.

• The blacksmith offered a small knife.

• The potter rolled in with new vessels.

These were accepted with dignity, and returned with gifts of cloth, rice, or curry goods. It was an economy of respect, not commerce but kinship.

Anizham – When the River Begins to Move

Now comes Anizham, the fifth day. The river joins the celebration.

In the backwaters of Kuttanad, Champakulam, and Aranmula, men gather around their gleaming chundan vallams, the legendary snake boats of Kerala. The air is filled with vanchipattu - boat songs rising like prayer. Oarsmen chant, stretch, and test the waters. These are not yet races. But they are more than rehearsals.

Anizham is when the water remembers its rhythm.

At Aranmula, where the Parthasarathy Temple watches from the banks, the river becomes a theatre of reverence. The boats are decorated like deities. The men who row are not just athletes, they are custodians of a sacred tradition.

Games of Strength and Spirit

On the temple grounds and village greens, another rhythm emerges.

Thick ropes are uncoiled for Vadam Vali, Kerala’s form of tug-of-war. Teams grip with calloused hands. Bodies lean. Ankles dig. Cheers rise.

In parallel fields, an ancient ball game comes to life - Thalappanthu, the ancestral play of strike and rhythm. With no nets or goals, players slap the ball with open palms, each strike a burst of laughter and skill.

And these are only two among many.

Across Kerala, traditional games like

• Kutu Kutu (Kabaddi),

• Kayyankali (a combat-style wrestling),

• Kilithattu Kali,

• and Ambeyyal (archery)

return to schoolyards, village greens, and temple arenas.

These are not imported sports. They are games rooted in soil, memory and muscle.

As early as the 1700s, the European missionary Fra Bartolomeo recorded these martial traditions:

“The men, particularly those who are young, form themselves into two parties and shoot at each other with arrows... These games have a great likeness to the ceralia and juvenalia of the Ancient Greeks and Romans.”

But these games, of course, predate even Bartolomeo’s accounts. They are legacies - threads in Kerala’s long tapestry of play, discipline, and joy.

Voices Rise, Lamps Glow

As evening falls, the festival retreats gently into its homes.

The nilavilakku is lit. Shadows dance on the walls.
Women in kasavu sarees begin their Onappattu, songs of harvest, homecoming, and Mahabali. Their voices rise, carried by wind and memory.

Children gather to hear again the story of the noble King, the just ruler who lost his kingdom but won a place in every Malayali heart.

Elders tell it not like a tale but like a truth.

And the land listens.

Conclusion – When Joy Finds Its Flow

From the doorstep to the river, from the petal to the paddle, Onam now flows freely.

• Chithira readied the earth.

• Choti gathered texture.

• Vishakam roared with drums, drums, and Pulikali stripes.

• Anizham stirred the rivers and called the boats to rhythm.

This is the moment where ritual becomes celebration, where preparation becomes play, where memory becomes movement.

Onam is not just remembered. It is rehearsed, relived, reawakened.

References:

1. Fra Bartolomeo – Observations on the Malabar Christians, early 18th century
2. Census of India 1961, Vol. I – Monograph Series: Onam – A Festival of Kerala
3. T. K. Gopal Panicker – Malabar and Its Folk, 1900
4. Kerala Government Archives – Land Tenure and Agrarian Customs
5. Local oral histories from Thrissur, Kuttanad, and Aranmula

Coming Up Next on 3rd September – As the Feast Nears, Joy Finds Its Voice
(Thriketta, Moolam & Pooradam special)