A bit of cheer had set in, for it was Navratri. And it meant singing and sundal , in that order.

There was a time when I resisted the kitschy element that Golu brought with it. But I’ve succumbed to the homespun charms of Golu during Navratri these days. The struggle to gather ungainly pieces of furniture, boxes, and cleverly stack them to make a ziggurat-like display of clay dolls; growing bonsai versions of mustard fields; setting little dolls and figurines, all add to the general bustle of celebrations and festive fever.

It’s interesting to note the variety in celebrating an occasion meant to mark the power and glory of women and the awesomeness of the goddess. In Gujarat, women dance and feast on sweets and elaborate meals. In Bengal, women shut the kitchen down and attack the pandals in their best saris, and the spread includes the best of meat and sweets. After the Navratri fast, many North Indian women do what they like doing best: Dress well, dance to film music and eat out, else host parties at home for friends and family.

Given the circumspect nature and propriety observed in celebrations, the Tamil woman is busy through the day cooking, decorating her home with clay dolls, getting the gift bags, dressing recalcitrant little girls of the family, hastily throwing on a sari for the evening to welcome a female gathering. Given that the Golu is primarily a hen party for the women to hang out at each other’s homes and enjoy a good chinwag and merriment, the poor menfolk who chauffeur their spouses and land up with their wives, try to melt into the background, assaulted by the smell of sesame oil and cracked singing voices, not quite sure of their role in the festivities.

News that washed ashore here from Injambakkam says that the last word has not yet been uttered on the surreptitious nexus of recycling blouse-pieces from one Golu gift bag to another, that’s even worse than the sagas of wine bottles that get circulated as gifts.

Growing up, my pet peeve during the nine days was the sundal potalam — the one in which konda kadalai was packed in a soggy square of newspaper. It would nestle, warm and lumpy, in our fists as we sped from one home to another, singing our way to gather more sundal , squishy bananas and betel leaves. My discomfort with the potalam increased especially after I was privy to an illuminating conversation between my cousins when I was but 13.

“ Dei , how do they look on me? Got them tailored yesterday,” Cousin R asked, arms akimbo, in his new pair of trousers.

Cousin K took a long hard stare at the zipper area and then pronounced: “ Wery bad da . It’s too tight, bunching like a sundal potalam around your groin.”

Thanks to NRI sisters, in recent times we have been saved by another kind of zippers. The nifty ziplock bags — which are easy to drop in the carry bags along with betel leaves, nuts, and stuff — have made sundal seem more edible and the neo- potalam aka ziplog bag tolerable.

But I still have a problem with the sundal . While the women of other regions have a merry time outside the kitchen for Navratri, our women land up running chores and cooking meals all day long. What is the poor Tamil woman’s menu for the nine days she celebrates? A modest salad, thank you! Besides, it’s not custom to serve the measly stuff to our guests. We pack and give them away like a McBurger ‘to-go’ eat.

And the humble snack would not be above dissing. At homes, all the various potalams from assorted Golus would be unpacked and nibbled at and the comments would vary from, “very oily’, “not just so”, “par-boiled”, “too much salt” to “ chhi , aiyo , eww ” and “she can’t make sundal or what?”

Dussehra is well-divided these days for me between a Tamil Navratri start-up and a round-off with a Bengali Puja. I build my Golu — the tiniest, if the Limca Book of Records needs statistics — and invite the small gaggle of Tamil women in the neighbourhood. I got the mums to frog march the kanya (little girls) out of their homes for a poetry recital or two; a couple of maamis with lilting voices had us enthralled, and the rest of the gang tried their best to add to the simple fun. My takeaway bag had the usual betel-leaves, fruits and little gifts — but, sorry, no sundal to-go. Here in my fiefdom, you’ve got to sing your way to eat your sundal .

So to all the young kanya ponnus , and the lovely women, and some really interesting young men and bright gents who come calling with your wit and wisdom, please accept my best wishes for this season.

If it’s okay with you, I shall courier the sundal — in the potalam of your choice.

Sudha G Tilak is a Delhi-based journalist