Set Mundu, Sadya, Kathakali: Who Gets to Define Kerala?

On every November 1st and especially during the celebrations of Onam, Kerala stages itself - not through festivities, but through an image regime. A woman in white-gold kasavu sari, a sumptuous sadya spread on a banana leaf and a stylised green face of a  Kathakali actor -  these are not mere festive markers but curated symbols. They adorn government hoardings, tourism ads, school walls and Instagram feeds. But as cultural theorists remind us, no symbol is apolitical.

These images are not merely celebratory icons; they function as mechanisms of cultural selection, circulating within an affective economy that assigns emotional value and legitimacy to particular representations. Rather than reflecting Kerala, they actively regulate who is allowed to represent as authentically Keralite. Through this process, some bodies and identities are folded into the dominant cultural imagination, while others are excluded from its glowing frame, rendered invisible or inauthentic. 

This is not a blog that seeks to vilify Kerala’s rich cultural heritage. Rather, it seeks to read it — against the grain. To historicise what we have come to call ‘tradition.’ To ask whose cultural labour constructed these symbols? Whose erasure made them appear universal? How does a supposedly secular and modern Kerala still carry the deep imprints of caste, patriarchy and power in its everyday visual culture?

Cultural Icons as Instruments of Power

Antonio Gramsci viewed culture as a terrain where hegemonic power is naturalised. Raymond Williams famously defined culture not only as a ‘whole way of life,’ but also as a site of contestation. In Kerala, this terrain has been shaped historically by a savarna imagination that has, through statecraft, pedagogy, and tourism, constructed a narrow frame around what is considered ‘authentically Keralite.’

Whether it is the set mundu, the sadya, or the Kathakali - these are not neutral artefacts of a shared past. They are caste-inflected, class-curated and gendered performances. They function as what Stuart Hall would call ‘systems of representation’ that produce not only meaning but also social exclusions.

Set Mundu as a Cultural Uniform

The call to wear set mundu on Kerala Piravi is not simply a nostalgic gesture. It is a state-sanctioned aesthetic, a visual disciplining of the body. Originating from upper-caste and royal households, the set mundu was historically inaccessible to Dalit and Adivasi women, economically and socially.

Complex histories of the textile industry reveal that kasavu weaving in Balaramapuram, Chendamangalam and Kuthampully thrived under the patronage of temple authorities and aristocratic families. Dalit and Adivasi women, often denied entry into temples and punished for transgressing dress codes, could neither weave nor wear this garment without dire social consequences. Even today, as feminist scholars like J. Devika note, the set mundu continues to operate as a sartorial ideal of ‘feminine purity,’ reinforcing upper-caste codes of modesty and propriety.

So, when public institutions celebrate Kerala expecting women to wear set mundu, it is worth asking: Is this attire inclusive or exclusionary? Is it tradition or performance of upper-caste nostalgia?

Sadya: The Politics of the Plantain Leaf

The sadya - a plantain-leaf feast of vegetarian dishes - is widely romanticised as a communal celebration, especially during Onam. But this feast too has its roots in Brahmanical rituals. Codified by Namboodiri customs of sattvic purity and temple feasting, the sadya excluded meat, fish, and even certain vegetables deemed polluting.

In 19th century Kerala, caste apartheid was so deeply entrenched that Ezhavas were not allowed to consume jaggery, sugar, upperi (a deep-fried banana chips ), and fried pappad. Dalits were relegated to separate food spaces, often forbidden from even approaching caste Hindu homes during Onam. As the proverb goes, Onam vannalum, Unni pirannalum, Koranu kanji kumbilil thanne.

In this context, the sadya becomes a symbolic geography of exclusion. When we circulate stylised photos of a 26-item vegetarian feast on social media, we must ask: Historically, who has been invited to this table? Who still remains excluded?

Moreover, in a pluralistic Kerala that includes diverse communities like Jews, Christians, Muslims and others with rich culinary heritage - can Onam be celebrated with non-sattvik food without cultural policing? Is sadya the only path to Malayali authenticity?

Kathakali and the Aesthetics of Exclusion

Kathakali is Kerala’s pride. Yet it was, for centuries, performed within temple premises by non-polluting castes, accessible only to those deemed ritually clean. This art form, steeped in Puranic narratives and Sanskritised dramaturgy, was not only exclusionary in its audience but also in its aesthetic codes.

Dalit and Adivasi performances such as Porattukali and Mangalamkali  were systemically devalued as folk or impure. Even today, while Kathakali enjoys state funding and global visibility, grassroots Dalit and Adivasi art forms struggle for survival and legitimacy.

Are we willing to expand our imagination of ‘Kerala’s cultural heritage’ to include non-brahminical art forms? Or should a performer always wear green face paint to be taken seriously?

Visual Culture and the Brahmanical Gaze

Kerala’s official cultural imagery is mostly normative and elitist. In a hypervisual era, the politics of representation becomes even more powerful. Visual theorists like Nicholas Mirzoeff remind us that what we do not see is often more telling than what we do. Every photograph of a set mundu-clad woman having a sadya or that of a Kathakali dancer standing in the backdrop of lush green landscape constructs a fantasy of harmony—but this harmony is caste-coded. As the well-known intellectual Sunny Kapikkad argues, Kerala has not yet exited a Brahminical epistemic framework. What we call ‘tradition’ is often a repetition of caste hierarchies, glossed over with visual glitter.

Towards a More Ethical Cultural Memory

The challenge before us is not iconoclasm but introspection. What would it mean to reimagine Kerala Piravi or Onam through a genuinely inclusive lens?

• Could a tribal mural be placed next to a Kathakali mask in a school exhibition?

• Could kanji in a mud pot be served with as much pride as payasam in a brass bowl?

• Could Dalit rappers, Muslim chefs, and Trans-theatre collectives  be the ‘face’ of Onam celebrations?

The point is not to erase the existing symbols but to enrich them. To add layers of history, labour, and struggle to our celebration of culture.

Culture Is Not Just a Song, But Also the Silence Between the Notes

Kerala is more than three symbols.

It is also the muddy footprint of a sanitation worker, the chant of an agricultural labourer struggling to make both ends meet, the drumbeat of Panchari Melam played by a Dalit boy in a government school band. 

It is time to rewrite the script - find a new vocabulary, grammar and political imaginary - to truly conceptualise what it means to be a Malayali today. Not just the starched mundu or the Onam sadya, but the unsung accents, struggles, and stories that have long been edited out of the frame. For, these exclusions are not innocent oversights; they are ideological mechanisms that mask the material conditions of inequality and naturalise the dominance of the few.