Onam is Homecoming: For Mahabali, and For Me

Onam has never belonged to just one state or language—at least not in the way I’ve experienced it. I am not Malayali. I didn’t grow up in Kerala or in a home that spoke Malayalam or cooked avial with every harvest moon. But I have friends who did. Through them, I found my way to this festival—not as an outsider looking in but as someone slowly invited into its rhythm, its colors, and its meanings. And I accepted it the only way I know how: with reverence.

Onam celebrates the annual homecoming of Mahabali, the beloved asura king of ancient Kerala, whose rule was marked by fairness, abundance, and love. His reign was so ideal that it made even the devas insecure—and so Bhagwan Vishnu descended as Vamana, the Brahmin dwarf, to measure the king’s humility in three strides. And when Mahabali offered all he had, including his head for that final step, Bhagwan Vishnu did not cast him aside. He blessed him. And allowed him to return once a year to see his people and to walk once more among those who had never forgotten him.

That return is Onam. 

I’ve come to realize that Mahabali’s story isn’t just mythology. It’s a metaphor for belonging: that no matter where you are and no matter how far you’ve wandered from your homeland, your ancestors and your traditions, you can still return. You will always be welcomed.

In school, I’d watch my friends bring banana chips and jaggery sweets in stainless steel tiffin boxes. I’d sit cross-legged on the floor with them during lunch, joking and comparing how many curries fit on a single ela (banana leaf). And then one year, they invited me home for sadhya— the traditional Onam feast. I still remember the smell of roasted coconut and cumin wafting through the air, the sound of Malayalam drifting between laughter and instructions, and the way their mothers made sure my plate was never empty. That day I learned that Onam doesn’t just fill your stomach, it fills your heart.