Every September, our small backyard in Massachusetts turns into a very modest imitation of a Kozhikode courtyard. No marigolds or fresh jasmine this far north in early autumn, so the pookalam ends up built from whatever the local flower shop has that week — mums, carnations, the occasional stray rose. It never looks quite like the ones I remember from childhood, and every year I tell myself I’ll plan further ahead, and every year I don’t.
What surprised me, the first few years I did this alone, was how much of the ritual survives the substitution. The shape still matters. The order you lay the rings still matters. My mother still calls partway through to ask how it’s coming along, the same way she’d have checked in if I were down the hall instead of an ocean away.
Onam without a sadya feels unfinished, so we do our best there too — banana leaf if we can find one, banana leaf substitute if we can’t, and a call to family back home once everyone’s eaten, comparing notes on whose payasam turned out better this year. It’s never really a competition. It’s just an excuse to stay connected to something that doesn’t travel well but somehow always makes the trip anyway.