Vishukanni
I’m sitting at my dining room table writing this. My dog is by my feet, resting peacefully, the only sound being the clinking of his name tag against the ring every time he stirs. My husband, a few feet away on the couch, has his eyebrows furrowed, no doubt solving something someone else can’t, or faithfully getting through all of his emails for the day. The music he had been playing while he cleaned the kitchen continues its rotation, transitioning from Kanye’s Streetlights to Diplo’s Win Win in the minutes since I started to write. It’s been a long day and I should probably go to bed, but tomorrow is Vishu, and in the familiar ordinariness of this evening I can’t help but think of how different the night before used to feel when I was a kid, living at home with my family.
My mom would have spent the evening scrubbing and sparkling all of the diyas in our pooja room, sweeping and tidying the entire house until there was not a speck of dust in sight, and neatly organizing everything she had prepared for the Vishu celebrations. My dad would have made sure he had gone to the bank earlier to withdraw fresh dollar bills, and been responsible for the grocery run, collecting all of the produce, fresh flowers, betel leaves, and coconuts. And I would have simply made sure that I was showered and in bed early, probably reading a book with Nila sleeping by my feet.
The night before Vishu was always a mix of joy and restlessness, knowing we would have to awaken early. But there is nothing that quite compares to waking up on Vishu morning. For the past few years, I’ve been waking up in my own home on Vishu morning, and I almost always feel this same sense of somberness, knowing that something about the Vishus of my childhood can never quite be recreated. I only hope that one day I can make it feel just as special for my future children as my mom and dad always made it for us.
Vishukkani
As I followed my mother down the stairs, she reminded me to keep my eyes closed. Just as I had done year after year, I grasped the wooden banister with one hand and my mother’s arm with the other. Carefully, she guided me down each step, my bare feet cool against the floor, until I shuffled my way into our pooja room. My eyes remained closed, but the darkness that had muddled my senses began to soften into a familiar reddish hue, warm even through my eyelids. She guided me into the room, reminding me to watch my step so as not to step on what I knew to be numerous offerings of sweets and fruits, placed meticulously on multicoloured fabric and banana leaves. The air carried the scent of incense, fresh flowers, and the sweet aroma of unniyappam, a Vishu delicacy she would have fried fresh that morning before any of us awoke. She positioned me to face the diyas and moved to stand by my side.
“Happy Vishu, Molle,” she whispered.
Opening my eyes, I saw the light from a dozen tiny flames illuminate the little room and all of its contents, washing over the fruits, flowers, and the brass lamps arranged so carefully before us. A familiar sense of joy soaked my entire being as I stood mesmerized by the scene. Bringing my hands together in prayer, I looked to my mother and smiled.
“Happy Vishu, Ma.”
Vishu is the Malayalam New Year, and Vishukkani means “that which you see first on Vishu.” Every year, on the morning of Vishu, my mom arranges our family’s pooja room with a number of auspicious items among idols of the Hindu deities. On the morning of Vishu, she awakens first, and all of this is meant to be what we see before anything else as we embark on a new year. Vishu has always been one of my favourite traditions because the feeling that overcomes me when I open my eyes to such an incredible sight is truly one of a kind.
Happy Vishu 🙂
