Pon-GALA

Today, by God’s divine plan, we were in Kerala for the annual Attukal Pongala Festival. This unique holiday occurs somewhere between February and March, when congregations of women gather from different parts of India and around the world to give thanks by offering boiled rice in an earthen pot. Each female gathers for her own personal reason, some to offer gratitude or to receive blessings, to appeal for material gains or request the health of family. As Sebastian and I strolled to our favorite local restaurant for breakfast, rows upon rows of sari-dressed women were setting up in preparation for the big event. Throughout the entire city, down every street and alley, in every nook and cranny, magnificently dressed women of varying ages withstood the sweltering, unrelenting sun to pay homage on this holy day.



The traffic and blaring horns that I have become so accustomed to had ceased. Instead, large speakers of blaring devotional music filled the streets with a spirit of celebration. Every spare space of sidewalk, curb and street was occupied. Each woman set a brand new clay pot on top several bricks. Dried bark from coconut trees laid in bushels ready to be burned for fire. There were banana leaves as pot covers and coconut shells as ladles. The smell of incense permeated the air. Crowds were gathered, children stood excitedly, and at ten o’clock, the chief priest lit the fire from which all others ignite.


Women began boiling water in order to make paisam, a sweet Indian dessert, to be offered at the temples. Plantains sliced with expertise, overflowing handfuls of cashews stirred in, coconut kernels carefully added to make this thickly sweet and dense rice pudding. The air became opaque, full of rising smoke from each cooking station. As I walked in meditative amazement, my eyes burned and teared as I struggled to observe as each woman tended to her bubbling pot, carefully churning, stirring, shimmering. Some prayed as they cooked, others methodically blended the fresh ingredients together while the occasional woman howled like a wolf lost in the wild.

The cooking ritual continued for several hours, completed when the chief priest, known as the melsanthi, sprinkled sacred water from the temple. It was only then that the food was dispersed and shared with others.



We were given a large banana leaf plate teeming with syrupy balls and bulges of mashed, sticky goodness. Eating with our hands, we sat curbside in disbelief and wonderment at the incredible festivities, so thankful that we were lucky enough to be a part of such a memorable holiday.


Within a couple hours, there was no trace of the celebration. Everything in the city was systematically cleaned up, despite the extraordinary expansiveness of it all. Though I aspire to convey the depth, richness, and magnitude of such an unimaginable moment, one must experience it firsthand to truly understand something so phenomenal.