Landed. Bags still dragging https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pongal_(festival) on the tarmac, but the city air hits first. Two days only, and already the edges of my thoughts are stretching toward something I can’t yet name. So, welcome to “From Tarmac To Turmeric City In Two Days : A Raw Pongal In Erode”.

Dear self, We find ourselves here, just two days from the openness of the sky to the vibrant streets, from the smooth tarmac to the warm embrace of turmeric city. Nothing has yet settled, and everything feels like it’s unfolding before us. I write to capture this moment, before stories begin to fill the spaces we inhabit.

To know the deets of harvest harmony with pongal across oceans, click on Harvest Harmony : Pongal Across Oceans – Wander, Feast & Thrive

A Raw Pongal In Erode : From Tarmac To Turmeric City In Two Days

Tarmac. Suitcases. Erode. I feel the plane’s echo beneath my feet as we walk to the gate. The air smells like beginnings, though nothing has started. Jetlag presses against my temples, but my heart has left my body somewhere between Toronto and here. My family waits with open arms. I hug them, letting the months melt into warmth.

Unpacking feels ritualistic, each zipper and fold a celebration. Repacking my suitcase for Pongal in two days—the first festival of the year with its vibrant colors and rituals: Bhogi, Pongal, Kanu Pongal, Maatu Pongal—conjures scents and sounds from childhood, moments of anticipation for my return.

Tickets had been a gamble. Months in advance, numbers were high, and waitlists long. We debated driving and weighed jetlagged logic against instinct. In the end, it was the bus—Chennai to Erode. A steady ride to the city that hums beneath my skin before my first step on its streets. But, tatkal proved to be fruitful and West Coast Express carried us from Chennai Central to Erode junction.

The suitcase still drags, but anticipation drags harder. Returning to Chennai on the 17th with parents and chores waiting, but for now, none of that matters. The focus is Pongal—my mother’s cooking, my aunt’s hands preparing the feast, laughter spilling across rooms, and my father’s and my uncle’s pride and warmth. The mix of joy and chaos is intoxicating, feeling both new and familiar each year.

Kanu Pongal Is My Favorite And Whose Isn’t : A Raw Pongal In Erode

Kanu Pongal is my favorite. Early mornings on the terrace, ritual after ritual, head bath, new dresses, the secrecy and surprise of what lies behind the closed eyes of the first morning. The mixed rice—the coconut rice, the lemon rice, the curd rice—replaces the ordinary daily menu. Sambar and rasam take a pause, giving way to celebration, abundance, and color.

Childhood memories flood back with warmth: running alongside my father and uncle to the factory, witnessing the sacred cow pooja, with prashad held close in my hand, feeling the exhilarating joy of belonging to something larger than ourselves, a connection that still resonates deep within me.

Even amid jetlag, I am awake to everything. Every smell, every sound, every movement which carries me forward. The festival is not just a ritual; it is a heartbeat, and I am in rhythm with it, even as my body protests. I am here, present, and yet already elsewhere—somewhere between memory and anticipation, between the tarmac we landed on and the turmeric city that welcomes me like a story waiting to be lived again.