Every Christmas, I wake up early in the morning, take a shower and then walk into a Jewish bakery to buy a plum cake. I take it home, eat it and have a perfectly good time.
On the same day, I also worship Hindu gods as a part of my nityakarma (daily religious offerings).
Does that make Christmas a Hindu festival? Or does my participation in it make it a secular one? Obviously not.
Fine. Let’s try another thought experiment.
I eat biryani on Eid. I sit with my Muslim friends, wish them Eid Mubarak and enjoy the food. Does Eid suddenly become a secular festival because I, a Hindu, participated in it? Of course not.
So here is the question I keep coming back to: why does this basic logic seem to disappear when we talk about Onam?
Because apparently, when Hindus, Christians and Muslims celebrate Onam together, we are expected to conclude that Onam is no longer a Hindu festival. It has apparently gone through a religious background check, seen the diversity of its guest list and emerged as “secular.”
That’s a rather convenient definition of secularism.
By that logic, all I need to do is invite enough people from different religions to a festival and….. Poof! Its history disappears.
But festivals don’t work that way.
Who celebrates a festival and where that festival comes from are two completely different questions.
And if we’re going to have this conversation about Onam, perhaps we should start with the slightly inconvenient question:
Where did Onam actually come from?
The “Everyone Celebrates It” Argument
The argument is simple enough.
Onam is celebrated by Hindus. Christians celebrate it. Muslims celebrate it. People across Kerala participate in the festivities.
Therefore, Onam is secular.
I understand the first half. I even like the first half.
There is something genuinely beautiful about people from different communities sitting together, eating the same sadya, decorating their homes and celebrating a festival together.
But the second half doesn’t follow.
If people from different religions celebrate something, that tells me who celebrates it today. It doesn’t tell me where it came from.
Otherwise, we might as well start issuing festivals secular certificates based on attendance.
“Congratulations, Christmas. Enough non-Christians attended this year. Your Christian origins have been revoked.”
“Congratulations, Eid. A Hindu ate biryani. You are now officially secular.”
It sounds ridiculous because it is.
A tradition becoming popular beyond its original religious community doesn’t erase its history. It simply means the tradition has travelled.
And before I slap the word “secular” on Onam, I think I owe the festival the basic courtesy of finding out what its story actually is.
When I look at Onam today, I see a spectacular celebration.
I see pookalams outside homes. I see people dressing up. I see the Onam sadya. I see boat races, dances, family gatherings and social media flooded with photographs of elaborate meals.
And that’s wonderful.
But a festival is rarely just what we see on the surface. There is usually a story underneath it.
There is a reason a particular day is celebrated. There are traditions that explain the rituals. There are beliefs that gave the festival its original meaning.
So before I decide that Onam is simply a secular cultural festival, I want to go back to the beginning.
And that beginning takes me to Mahabali.
The Origin Story Behind Onam
The traditional story of Onam centres around Mahabali, the powerful Asura king and grandson of Prahlada.
And Mahabali isn’t remembered as some cardboard villain. Quite the opposite.
He is portrayed as a powerful, generous and beloved ruler. His kingdom is remembered as prosperous, and his people are deeply attached to him.
But Mahabali’s growing power eventually brings him into conflict with the divine order.
Vamana places his foot on MahabaliEnter Vishnu, appearing as Vamana, a dwarf Brahmin.
Vamana approaches Mahabali and asks him for three paces of land. Mahabali, known for his generosity, agrees. And then the story takes a rather spectacular turn.
Vamana expands into a cosmic form. With his first step, he covers the earth. With his second, he covers the heavens. Now there is nowhere left for the third step.
Mahabali has given his word. So he offers his own head. Vishnu places his foot on Mahabali’s head and sends him to the netherworld.
But the story doesn’t end there.
Mahabali is granted a special privilege: he is allowed to return once every year to visit his people. And that annual return is at the heart of the traditional Onam story.
Now, I can believe this story literally, metaphorically, spiritually, or not at all. That’s a different debate. But whether I believe a religious story is true has absolutely nothing to do with whether that story is the religious origin of a festival.
I don’t have to be a Christian to understand the Christian origins of Christmas. I don’t have to be Muslim to understand the Islamic significance of Eid. And I don’t have to believe the Mahabali story to acknowledge that it is central to the traditional Hindu understanding of Onam.
I can question a story without pretending the story never existed.
“But Isn’t It Just a Myth?”
This is usually where someone will say, “But it’s mythology.” Yes. Let’s assume it is.
And?
Religious traditions are full of stories that communities have preserved for centuries. Calling something a myth doesn’t magically make it irrelevant to the history of a festival.
If I tell you the story behind Christmas, I will talk about Jesus. If I explain Eid in its religious context, I will talk about Islam. If I explain Onam in its traditional religious context, I have to talk about Mahabali and Vamana.
That’s not propaganda. That’s called knowing what you’re talking about.
Whether someone personally believes in Vishnu, Vamana or Mahabali is beside the point.
If tomorrow I decide I don’t believe in the historical claims surrounding Christmas, Christmas doesn’t suddenly become secular.
My personal disbelief doesn’t rewrite the festival. And neither does someone else’s participation.
That distinction seems remarkably easy to understand everywhere else.
So why does Onam get a different treatment?
Why “Onam”?
There is another part of this story that makes the idea of Onam being completely detached from Hindu religious tradition even harder to sustain.
Onam is the short for Thiruvonam, the sacred nakshatra (constellation) associated with Vishnu. The day is traditionally connected with the annual return of Mahabali to visit his people.
Sravana nakshatra, known as Thiruvonam in the south.And this isn’t a story that appeared yesterday on social media.
The Mahabali-Vamana narrative appears across Hindu sacred literature, including the Srimad Bhagavata Purana, Vamana Purana, Matsya Purana, Kurma Purana, Narada Purana, Skanda Purana, Padma Purana and Brahma Purana.
Again, I am not saying everyone has to believe these texts.
I’m saying something much simpler: If the story, symbolism and traditional meaning of a festival come from a religious tradition, you cannot erase that tradition simply because millions of people outside that religion also celebrate it.
And this is where I think the conversation about Onam gets confused.
Onam may have become a festival celebrated across Kerala. It may have become a shared cultural occasion. It may be enjoyed by people of every faith. All of that can be true.
But none of it changes the fact that there is a Hindu religious story sitting at the foundation of the festival. Shared celebration does not mean shared origins.
And if we can understand that when we talk about Christmas and Eid, surely we can apply the same standard to Onam.
“But Everyone Celebrates It!”
Now comes the strongest argument against everything I’ve said so far: “But Onam is celebrated by everyone in Kerala.”
Fair enough. I won’t argue with that.
If a Christian family puts up a pookalam, celebrates Thiruvonam and sits down for a sadya, good for them. If a Muslim family does the same, wonderful.
If Onam has become part of Kerala’s shared cultural identity, that’s something to celebrate, not complain about.
But here’s where I draw the line: People participating in a festival does not change the festival’s origins.
I can walk into a church on Christmas. I can light a candle. I can sing along to a carol. None of that makes Christmas Hindu. I can sit at an Eid gathering and eat enough biryani to require medical supervision. Eid doesn’t suddenly become secular because I showed up hungry.
So why should Onam be different?
If anything, I find the insistence on calling Onam “secular” strangely patronising. It almost suggests that a Hindu-origin festival becomes more respectable once we scrub the Hinduism out of it.
Why? Why can’t we simply say what is perfectly obvious?
Onam has Hindu religious roots, and people of different religions celebrate it today. There is no contradiction between those two statements. In fact, that’s precisely what makes a shared culture possible.
Biryani and Plum CakeRemember my analogies in the beginning?
So if my plum cake or plate of biryani doesn’t erase the Christian roots of Christianity or the Islamic roots of Eid, why should someone else’s sadya erase the Hindu roots of Onam? A festival can be shared without becoming rootless.
I’m not asking anyone to exclude themselves from Onam. I’m asking us to stop pretending that inclusion requires erasure.
When a Festival Becomes Just Food, Flowers and Photos
There is another problem here.
When we reduce a festival to its visible elements such as food, flowers, clothes, dances, holidays and Instagram photographs, we risk forgetting why the festival exists in the first place.
A festival isn’t just a day off with better food. The sadya is wonderful. The pookalam is beautiful. The boat races are spectacular. The celebrations are vibrant.
But these are expressions of a tradition. They didn’t materialise out of nowhere. And I don’t think making a festival more inclusive requires making its history invisible.
Imagine if we did this everywhere.
Strip Christmas of Christ and call it a winter festival. Strip Eid of its Islamic meaning and call it a food festival. Strip Diwali of its religious traditions and call it a festival of lights.
At some point, we’re no longer celebrating traditions. We’re simply keeping the decorations and throwing away the story.
That’s not preservation. That’s repackaging.
Traditions can evolve. They can travel. They can be shared by people who don’t share the same faith. But evolution isn’t the same thing as erasure.
This is where I think the word “secular” is being used rather loosely.
If secular simply means that people of different religions can participate, then fine, Onam is certainly inclusive. But if “secular” is being used to claim that Onam has no Hindu religious origins, then the argument falls apart.
Because shared celebration and religious origin are not opposites.
Something can be culturally shared and still have a particular religious history. I don’t become the author of a tradition simply because I participate in it.
And a festival doesn’t lose its roots because its celebration grows beyond the community that gave it birth. Shared does not mean rootless.
And inclusive does not mean historically empty.
The Template: “It’s Not Hindu”
Once you recognise the pattern, it’s difficult to unsee.
First comes the celebration. Then comes the claim that the festival is “shared.”
Then comes the conclusion: “Therefore, it’s not really Hindu.”
And somehow, this formula gets applied almost exclusively when we’re talking about Hindu festivals.
Pongal? “It’s not Hindu. It’s Tamil.”
Bihu? “It’s not Hindu. It’s Assamese.”
Onam? “It’s not Hindu. It’s Malayali.”
Diwali? Soon enough, it becomes merely a “festival of lights.”
FabIndia’s infamous Jashn-e-Riwaaz Diwali ad (2021)And the religious traditions behind these festivals are quietly pushed into the footnotes.
I wrote an article making the case that Bihu has Hindu roots, and the response from sections of the Assamese left wasn’t exactly a seminar in intellectual courtesy. I received a barrage of slurs for saying something that should not require courage to say: that a festival can be deeply Assamese and still have Hindu religious and cultural roots.
And that’s what concerns me. Not the idea that these festivals are regional. Of course they are. Not the idea that people of different communities participate. Of course they do.
The problem is the repeated attempt to turn “shared” into “non-Hindu.” That’s where I think we need to be careful.
Because this is classic salami slicing. You concede one festival. Then another. Then another.
Every time, the argument sounds harmless: “Of course it’s a festival for everyone.” Fine.
“Therefore, don’t call it Hindu.” Fine.
“And don’t mention the religious traditions associated with it.”
And eventually, after enough small concessions, you’re left with a festival where everything remains except the tradition that created it.
That’s not inclusivity. That’s gradual historical erasure. And I don’t intend to concede that one slice at a time.
Celebrate Onam. Just Don’t Rewrite It.
So where does that leave me? Quite simply, I have no problem with anyone celebrating Onam.
If you’re Christian, celebrate it. If you’re Muslim, celebrate it. If you’re Hindu, celebrate it. If you’re simply someone who loves Kerala, its culture and an enormous sadya, please, by all means, pull up a chair.
I don’t think inclusivity is the problem. Pretending inclusivity requires historical amnesia is.
Onam PookalamOnam can be a Kerala-wide celebration and still have Hindu roots. Those two facts can coexist quite comfortably.
The question isn’t who gets to celebrate Onam. Everyone does.
The question is whether we need to erase Vishnu, Vamana and Mahabali from the story to make everyone feel welcome.
I don’t think we do.
I can eat Christmas cake without pretending Christianity doesn’t exist. I can eat biryani on Eid without pretending Eid has no Islamic roots.
And I can celebrate Onam with people of every faith without pretending that its traditional story came from nowhere.
So celebrate together. Eat together. Laugh together.
Just don’t confuse celebrating a tradition with rewriting its history.
Because if the only way we can call a Hindu festival “secular” is by removing the Hinduism from it, perhaps the problem isn’t with the festival at all.
Perhaps it’s with our definition of secularism.
(The author is the editor-in-chief of On Record India.)
