She doesn't remember everything about Onam.
She remembers the little things.

The flowers they gathered.
The crowns they made.
The leaves they played with.
The plants they stopped to touch.
The smell that came from the kitchen.

Maybe that is what happens when we grow older.
The festival becomes a memory, but the little things stay.

Thodi is a collection of those little things.

The little flowers she gathered before the Onam morning began.

She remembers waking up early, before the house was fully awake, and going out to gather flowers for the pookalam. Mukkutti was always among them, tiny and golden, easy to miss until she looked closely.

Even now, that little flower takes her back to those mornings, when Onam began with bare feet, sleepy eyes and a basket full of colour.

The flowers she turned into little crowns.

She remembers finding Krishna Kireedam among the flowers and making little crowns with them. They would put them on their heads and carry on with their games, feeling important for no particular reason.

She doesn't remember what they were playing. She remembers those little crowns.

The leaves they played with.

She remembers the Plaavila from the backyard. They would pick the leaves, fold them, and make little things out of them while they played.

She doesn't remember what they made. She remembers sitting there together, making something out of nothing.

The familiar scent of Onam coming from the kitchen.

She remembers the kitchen on Onam mornings. Someone was always cooking, something was always being ground, and the whole house seemed to smell different.

She doesn't remember everything that was made. She remembers the smell of kurumulak, drifting out of the kitchen and telling her that Onam had arrived.

The little plant she could never resist touching.

She remembers the Thottavaadi growing by the path. Every time she passed it, she would touch its leaves and watch them fold.

Then she would wait for them to open and do it again.