Konna Poovu

There are certain aromas, food items, music and inanimate objects that have the magical ability to throw you right back into your childhood. Some of these memories are happy, some nostalgic and some bitter. The happy, nostalgic ones are the best. You're taken in back in time and your eyes instantly get that hazy, faraway look that most often, puzzles people.

The Konna Poovu (Cassia Fistula, in Malayalam) does this job for me. Each time I see a Konna Poovu in full bloom, my heart does a happy flip-flop and my brain goes into a nostalgia overdrive. I'm overcome with a mixture of happiness and sadness, all at the same time. I'm happy, because it reminds me of my ammumma (grandmother in malayalam) and the gorgeous Vishu Kani (Vishu arrangement) she would meticulously set up in the prayer room, every single Vishu season. I'm sad, because I can never be that carefree, overweight kid again. 

Vishu is the Malayalee new year. Every year on Vishu day, I would be woken up between 4 and 5 am, with a blind-fold on my eyes and only my grandmother's hands, to guide me into the prayer room. The minute I enter the prayer room, she would remove the blind-fold, whereby allowing me to feast my eyes, on the beautifully arranged Vishu Kani. A typical Vishu Kani, comprises of copious amounts of Konna Poovu, decorated imaginatively around the idols of the Gods, along with  offerings of fruits, flowers and money. 

When the start of the day is so beautiful, you just know that you're going to have a splendid day. The rest of the day, post the Vishu Kani goes by in a blur activity, comprising largely of eating a senseless amount of food and receiving clothes and money from all the elders in the house. A couple of visits to relatives are also squeezed in, depending on the amount of Sadhya (a large celebratory Kerala meal, typically eaten on a Banana leaf) you've thulped down. 

Each year on Vishu, I would roll around proudly with a large leather handbag, stuffed with notes of money. Just for that one day, I would feel like an important banker, who had the responsibility of safeguarding, collecting, counting and re-counting the notes, to ensure that no-one pinched anything from the precious bundle, each time I took a pee, lunch or siesta break. 

I would dream of all the burgers, medu vadas, Kerala fried chicken and Sharjah shakes I would devour with my Vishu loot. Unfortunately, that dream would only remain a dream, because my clever mother would lure me into her bedroom by nightfall and tempt me with shiny, jiggly coins. She would convince me that Re 1 equates to a Rs 100/- note. I readily believed her each year, because coins anyway had more weight than untidy, smelly notes. I would quickly shove the bag of notes towards her and greedily bring out my pink piggy bank, from the hiding spot in my closet. I would watch her like a hawk, to ensure that she puts me in the right number of Re 1 coins into my piggy bank. Rs 5000/- meant she had to put in fifty Re 1 coins and Rs 10,000 meant she had to put in a hundred Re 1 coins, and so on. After counting and re-counting the notes and coins, I would have a sound sleep with my piggy bag, placed next to my pillow.

Unfortunately all good things come to an end. So does Vishu. I would wake up the next morning, with my Vishu hangover blaring in full blast in my head, and try on all the clothes I would have received from my family, only to discover that they would all invariably be either too tight or too lose for me. Typical fat kid problems. Sigh! 

(Image Source : http://decodingeswari.blogspot.in/2018/04/blog-post_27.html)