Every April, just before the sun prepares to blaze through, a quiet ritual begins in various corners of the city. In flower markets that burst with jasmine and roses and the occasional, accidental marigold, a few Malayali women begin the annual search. They are looking for something quite specific; konnapoovu, the blossoms of the Cassia fistula tree. If flowers were fictional characters, the konnapoovu would be that golden, soft-spoken grandmother, ‘Nostalgia’ from Inside Out 2 who shows up occasionally, demands no attention, and asks us to search for those forgotten memories.
Unlike in Kerala, she (Konnapoovu) isn’t filling namma roads with its golden charm.
You’ll find them — these women — pausing with hopeful eyes, lifting wilted yellow florets, asking flower sellers if they’ve seen the real deal. They walk through neighbourhoods, searching for a building that houses the konna tree. And stroll through the busy lanes of Koyembedu market, negotiating prices.
Having performed this ritual for 33 years in Chennai, Rejani Manohar, who is still tethered to Thalassery’s rhythms, describes the search. “Kanikonna is the most important part of Vishu, and we need to get it a day prior to the celebration. So we either buy it (That is if we find it in stores), or pluck it in bulk from areas like Shanthi Colony in Anna Nagar or Mogappair and then circulate it among the friends who haven’t got it already. We spray water on those flowers, keep them in the fridge and lay them out on the big uruli (vessels) in the morning for Vishukani.”
The kani — the Vishu arrangement of auspicious items seen first thing on the festival morning — is an act of visual storytelling. “In Kerala, it is a sunlit composition: golden kanikonna, cucumber, mirror, coins, grains, and the glowing face of a Krishna idol,” shares Rejani. In Chennai, it’s more like an act of keeping up with the traditions. Nisha Nirmal, who swapped Palakkad’s orchards for Korattur’s flats, shares, “Traditionally, nothing was bought — jackfruit, mangoes, cucumbers from our yard. That was how kani was prepared. Now we buy the vegetables from stores and arrange it.” The women also add that some choose to display plastic flowers and vegetables but they refrain from doing that.
This story isn’t about the flower, or about arranging it in the Vishukani. It’s about the memories that the flower and the kani bring. It’s about women who moved cities and quietly brought their festivals with them, packing rituals into kitchen drawers and steel vessels and reconstructing tradition with whatever the supermarket had left.
It’s about memory.
Vishu, like many festivals in migration, becomes a play of memory versus material. The dawn of Vishu in Kerala is cracked open with fireworks and the earthy tang of Vishu kanji. In Chennai, the crackers are hardly found in April. The kanji is optional. And still, the women gather, cook, arrange, and make space — for nostalgia, for payasam competitions, for one another, especially in organisations like Chennai Malayalee Kudumbashree exclusively catering to the welfare of women.
Swapna Anand, who also moved from Palakkad to Kolathur 25 years ago, remembers being woken up by her grandparents on the day of Vishu. “Muthashan (grandfather) and muthiyamma (grandmother) would blindfold me with their hands, lead me to the kani, and open them only then. We had all the items — rice, different kinds of grains, and coconut. Here, I miss them. I miss my parents, the olden days.” Here, these women become the architects of new traditions.
V Sudha, born and raised in Chennai, but with family in Chengannur, talks of hybrid rituals. “We’d do Vishukani, light the lamps, arrange Krishna idols. It’s similar to Puthandu in some ways. For Puthandu, we make rice, parippu and sambar. We keep it going. This year, both festivals are on the same day; plus it is also a holiday, so we can celebrate in peace.”
Rejani recounts Thalassery’s two-day Vishu. She says, “Non-veg feasts, unniyappam for neighbours, crackers at night is the pulse of the festival. Now kaineettam (gifting money) has become a GPay alert.”
A celebration with a community
The line between home and community has blurred. Roommates celebrate together. Neighbours are invited. WhatsApp forwards suggest hacks for kani arrangements.
“I celebrate with Kudumbashree now,” says Jitha Anu Thomas, who came from Piravom. “We have a payasam competition, and other cultural programmes. Since we are Christians, we didn’t always have a ‘proper’ Vishu. But now, in Chennai, we do what we can. In the morning, it’s at home, then with the community.”
The labour, of course, falls to the women. They hunt blooms, haggle for cucumbers, and field calls from relatives asking, “Did you remember the vaalkannadi (hand mirror)? Yet, in this labour, community sparks. “We have so much fun once in a while at festivals like this,” says Jitha. They collectively grieve what is missing: The house in Kerala. The grandmother’s hands, which are folding ela ada. The sound of vishupadakkam in the courtyard. The easy abundance of fruits on trees rather than price-tagged in Swiggy Instamart. The festival becomes a reminder of missing things.