On an Onam Day
Every festival has two stories, the one we celebrate, and the one we carry silently
It was an Onam day.
The sun was already high.
Morning had passed quietly for the girl.
She had started early,
before sunrise.
She walked through small lanes and open roads,
carrying a basket of flowers on her head.
Jasmine, roses, and small yellow flowers for Onam.
She had been selling since morning.
Some people bought a few flowers.
Some said they already had enough.
Some closed the door before she could speak.
Now it was almost noon.
Her legs ached.
Her neck hurt from the weight of the basket.
Her stomach was empty.
She counted the money in her hand.
Only two hundred rupees and a few coins.
Not enough.
She felt afraid.
She wondered how she would manage the day.
Her house was small.
Very small.
A single room with a leaking roof and a mud floor.
There was no door, only a cloth.
She thought of the empty pot at home.
She thought of the rice that was almost over.
Poverty, she felt, is not just a lack of money.
It is the fear that follows you everywhere.
She walked faster.
She wanted to reach home.
She wanted to cook something,
even if it was just rice and salt.
Her grandmother would be waiting for her return.
She had no parents and lived with her grandmother.
It was Onam.
The town was full of colour.
Banana leaves were laid out in houses.
Music floated through the air.
As she hurried along,
she stopped near a big house.
Inside the compound,
children of her age were playing.
They were wearing new clothes.
Girls wore kasavu dresses with flowers in their hair.
Boys ran around in clean white mundu.
They laughed loudly.
They chased each other.
They did not worry about time or money.
A large pookkalam lay on the ground.
Bright flowers were placed carefully in circles.
The girl stood still for a moment.
She thought,
“They are celebrating life.”
“And I am only trying to survive.”
She wondered how different two childhoods could be,
even on the same festival day.
Life, she felt, does not give the same morning to everyone.
She adjusted the basket on her head
and moved away.
She walked faster now.
The little money in her hand felt heavy with worry.
She feared it would not be enough.
Still, she told herself,
“As long as I can walk, I must keep walking.”
That was the rule her life had taught her.
The sounds of laughter faded.
The afternoon grew quiet.
She hurried home,
carrying her flowers,
her worries,
and her small hope.
Somewhere above,
King Mahabali must have passed silently.
Those who walk through hardship carry tomorrow softly in their steps.