Scroll through Instagram this week, and it is almost impossible to miss the sea of cream-and-gold kasavu sarees, elaborate flower pookalams, and banana leaves crowded with colourful curries. King Mahabali is visiting his people, as the old story goes, and Delhi seems ready to welcome him—with a feast.
Onam, Kerala’s annual harvest festival, is about much more than the legend of a beloved king returning to his kingdom on Thiru Onam. At its heart is the idea of everyone sitting down to eat together, irrespective of caste, religion, or social standing. The Sadya is, quite literally, an edible expression of equality.
That spirit has travelled rather beautifully to Delhi. Writing this column, I have already attended two Onasadyas, with two more still to go. At Nadoo, in Gurugram and Greater Kailash, Chef Shri Bala welcomed us on a torrential afternoon. Delhi was grey and sodden outside; inside, fresh flowers, a vibrant pookalam, and a generous Sadya offered their own kind of sunshine. Shri Bala also shared how the meal changes across Kerala, including the rare appearance of meat in Malabar’s otherwise vegetarian spread.
At Varq at The Taj Mahal Hotel, the experience was more theatrical. The restaurant had been transformed into an ootupura, with staff in crisp kasavu sarees and mundus and a Kathakali dancer adding a touch of Kerala’s performing arts tradition. Then there is Kerala House in Janpath, where the Sadya remains humble, inexpensive, and invariably sold out within minutes. From five-star dining rooms to modest canteens, and from Draavin Canteen and Mahabelly to OMO, Jamun, and Kopparai, Onam has firmly found a place on Delhi’s dining calendar.
But for many Malayalis, its soul remains in the simplicity of the meal. Idris, a resident of Saket, who grew up in Kottayam, tells me that the beauty of a Sadya lies in its communal rhythm: everyone sits together, eats with their hands from banana leaves, and takes turns serving and being served. There is no hierarchy at the table—a meal rooted in equality, abundance, and inclusion was never really meant to be a luxury.
Perhaps that is the interesting tension in the way Onam is being celebrated in Delhi today. There is something undeniably lovely about seeing a regional festival embraced with such enthusiasm by a city that is, by nature, constantly borrowing, adapting, and making things its own. But there is also something worth remembering about what gets lost when a communal tradition becomes a dining experience.
The post-COVID-19 years have made us more conscious of the things we missed when we were apart—the long meals, the crowded tables, the rituals that brought people together simply because they belonged to the same place, or sometimes just because they happened to be there. Perhaps that is why festivals such as Onam have found such an easy home in a city like Delhi. We are increasingly curious about one another’s traditions, and more willing to participate in them without needing them to be our own.
In a city made up of people who have arrived from everywhere, belonging was never really going to be about where you came from. Sometimes, it is simply about whether there is a place for you at the table.