Thai Pongal and the Meaning of Kannu
Every Thai Pongal celebration in my life has come with my favourite ritual — Kannu. I love keeping Kannu because of its lofty thought: wishing well-being, protection, and goodness for one’s brothers. In many ways, one could equate it to Rakhi or Bhai Dooj, but Kannu carries its own quiet dignity. It is not just about siblings; it is also about gratitude — gratitude to agriculture, to the fields, and to the farmers who work tirelessly so that food reaches our households. Pongal reminds us that sustenance is sacred, and Kannu reminds us that care must extend beyond ourselves.
Listening to the Inner Guide
I usually trust my inner guiding light when it comes to Kannu — whether to keep it at home, at a family friend’s place, or with an inviting neighbour. Personally, I prefer to keep it at home. When I do, I take charge of the entire event, right from preparation to cleaning. I never let the maid handle it. I believe that since it is my karma, I should do it myself. Over the years, I would keep Kannu for my sister as well, which meant preparing four sets of offerings. In doing so, my sister-in-law was also included. Inclusion has always felt essential to the ritual.
Offerings to the Ancestors
An important part of Kannu is the offering of seven portions of seven dishes for the crow, which is considered the pithrugal — our ancestors visiting the house. In recent years, the crow population has reduced, and I find myself watching keenly to see if a crow will eat even a few grains of cooked rice placed on the balcony. I know one is not supposed to hover like a helicopter while making the offering, but I enjoy watching crows. They have always fascinated me.
Conversations on the Terrace
In the old independent house where I grew up, on alternate Saturdays I would go up to the terrace. Near the headroom, I would hide quietly just to listen in on what I imagined were the crows’ community meetings. Their meeting spot often alternated every week, and whenever it happened on our terrace, I would listen intently. To some, it might have sounded like confused cawing, but not to me. To me, it sounded like discussions about food systems and water channels. I loved listening to them.
Life Beyond Humans
These days, in our flat, there are fewer crows. Mostly, there are pigeons. Occasionally, a squirrel hurries past during peak mating season, or you hear them practising their calls early in the morning. I often watch their antics while drinking chai at the dining table. There is so much life around the flat — a stealthy cat prowling like a tiger along the neighbour’s beam, parrots whose cries can be heard even in a shut house in the evening. Sometimes I wish they were my brothers and sisters too. In essence, I realise that when I keep Kannu, I keep it for everyone in this world — related or not.
Karma, Prayer, and Healing
At times, I wonder whether this global view of the ritual emerged after my exposure to Twin-Heart Meditation in 1997. Though I never practised as a healer, I quietly carried the idea of doing good karma so that the accumulated goodness could be offered for healing others. Without announcing it to anyone, I would pray silently, believing that the power of good intention multiplies when it is shared.
Choosing Where to Keep Kannu
This year, my choice of where to keep Kannu came from that same inner nudge. I chose my cousin’s friend’s family, who are also my friends. My dear friend had recently returned from a difficult phase of ill health, and watching her inner resolve was deeply moving. I am usually awkward in any place other than my home. Despite an initial unsettled moment within my mind, her parents and her son accepted me warmly as a guest. Slowly, the awkwardness thinned, and I realised that some relationships expect nothing more than one’s presence.
Slokas, Guidance, and Grace
The ritual itself unfolded over two days, each carrying its own grace. On the evening before Kannu, slokas were played through the television and YouTube. Mami guided me gently, helping me follow the text as we listened to Sri Vishnu Sahasranamam, Sri Lalitha Sahasranamam, Kandha Sashti Kavacham, and Kandhan Anuboothi. There was no pressure to perform — only to listen and receive.
On Kannu day, her son recited slokas from memory before leaving for work. His sincerity was striking. The previous day Mami spoke about how her father would cycle them to school in their young age, while reciting slokas aloud, and how those verses had stayed with her. As she chanted, I felt I could almost see the deities invoked by each Sanskrit prayer. Throughout my visit, I felt my mother’s presence strongly. Something felt just right, and I let God guide me.
Energy, Anxiety, and Being Held
Social interactions often drain me. Some people leave me depleted and demotivated, but this did not happen on Pongal or Kannu day. There was a sense of divine presence that steadied me. I rarely visit people even when invited, as I work best in one-on-one family interactions. A couple of weeks earlier, I had declined a luncheon invitation because beyond a few family members, the rest were strangers, and my nerves were unsettled.
That day, my stomach was also upset, which partly explained my absence. Yet during Kannu, even when my tummy wobbled momentarily, I felt carried through by grace. I returned home with undeterred confidence. I have come to recognise that some divine intuition supports my nervous system through challenges.
Living Alone, Moving Carefully
Since Appa and Amma are no longer with me, I have grown accustomed to living alone and following my own routines — whether they are good or bad, I do not always know. When my inner voice tells me to socialise, I find the strength to do so. Even during this visit, though I worried about keeping time and felt nervous during the cab ride, something calm within me whispered not to worry about outcomes.
I am best experienced in moderation. I need space the moment I feel unrest, and my inner cues rarely follow the world’s social order. I plan my returns carefully, manage time anxiously, and cook slowly — often at 4 a.m., on low flame. These habits are not always understood, but in this space, I was not judged.
Returning to the Ordinary
Returning home after Kannu meant returning to ordinary life — washing, dusting, and fixing dinner by reheating food cooked earlier. The cab ride back was tense; the driver’s family was in a heated argument over the phone. I wished him well, got down safely, and settled down with a book — Devdutt Pattanaik’s story on Shikhandi. There is nothing like reading to restore emotional balance.
Carrying Grace Forward
This time, Kannu was memorable. I felt I missed nothing of the Divine. Though I had originally planned to keep Pongal at home, the sudden change felt like a divine call. I went with the flow and found a calm I rarely experience, even in my own family home. As the Pongal evening passed in slokas and shared silence, I felt close to Ambal and Perumal, held in their grace.
This morning, after breakfast, I will step out to attend The Hindu Lit Festival, for the third time. I look forward to the quiet joy of books, conversations, and the familiar hum of people gathered around words and ideas. As I leave home, I carry with me the calm that Kannu offered — not as ritual completed, but as grace that continues. From offering food to crows, from listening to slokas, from being held gently in another’s home, to walking into a space filled with stories, everything feels connected. Life moves on, as it should, but with a little more attentiveness, a little more gratitude, and a sense that the Divine, once welcomed, walks beside me into the ordinary day.
Credit: Polish by Mira (AI Powered ChatGPT)
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