– Priyam Moonka
As Indians, we are a lucky lot. There is a popular Bengali saying – “Baro Mashe Tero Parbon” – which translates to “twelve months, thirteen festivals”. I think it wouldn’t be so far-fetched to concur that this goes for most of other parts of India, too. We are the celebratory kind, and why not?
Isn’t that what festivals are for? To remind us the happiness we as human beings are capable of experiencing? To stir us out of our stupor of mundanity? To reaffirm that joie de vivre (joy of living) is not so much of an unrealizable possibility? To lend us reasons to cheer up and moments to look forward to? To come together and reinforce the need for and bliss of human connection? Perhaps the old and the wise knew that eventually we would forget to smile, and to celebrate and be grateful for the gift of life; above all, innate to our nature as social beings, our mutual connectedness; and left behind legacies and traditions that continue to nurture this land of festivals and the lives of its inhabitants.
In this piece, I reflect on what Diwali, the king of festivals, is experienced in many of the families. Though Diwali is one-day festival in our institute calendars, it is almost like a short season in itself. It arrives before it has arrived. My Diwali used to start with the annual routine of deep cleaning at home. Furniture being moved, tiny objects which were lost and hopelessly forgotten, finally recovered the house bustling with helpers, rooms and cupboards emptied, and it goes on. In fact, I now so distinctly remember how, when something was really nowhere to be seen, my mother would say, Rehne do, Diwali ka safai mein milega, and for real, when the yearly ritual of moving the bed around, so much was found behind it!
As a mere spectator, this chaos was extremely comforting (my adult-self, while writing this, sighs and chuckles alternatively). Technically speaking, I still feel Diwali begins when the lights are put on, which is at least a few days before the official Diwali day; and not just when our own homes are lit up. We feel it in our soul when we see our neighbourhood aunties’ balconies sporting lanterns and fairy lights. Traversing the city, the decked-up houses and shops, even on streets, though we know nobody, it make our hearts smile. In those moments it feels as though we share a tender familiarity with their unknown owners, a sense of collectivity and impending joy that belongs to us all. This year, I happened to visit Phoenix Mall a week before the festival, the warmth of the decorations heralded the arrival of Deepawali, gently calling out to all passersby – “It is that time of the year!”. In that instant, a part of me was taken back home, a little less than a thousand miles away.
“Wherever you are, you’ve got to come back home on Diwali”. And so, I did, around the same time as many others from across the country who, too, may have headed home, wherever their hometowns were. Diwali, therefore, is many things, but it is also homecoming, not marked by a single event but spread over several moments; Dadi calls on the day of my scheduled arrival, asking where I had reached, discussions on plans of buying crackers with my sibling while I was still on the way, seeing my father at the railway station, being greeted by the exterior of our house adorned in warm golden, and this act of writing of homecoming, the last of them. I think about how deeply embedded this festival is in the idea of home, in the togetherness of family. Quite literally too, many Hindu families believe that on the day of Diwali, after the Lakshmi Puja, Goddess Lakshmi visits homes that are well-lit and clean, with members of the house waiting to welcome her together.
For me, however, the days approaching Diwali have always felt more special and joyous than in itself; my favourite being Choti Diwali which is placed right at the peak of the festive season, while it still holds the promise to stay. When we were younger and still lived in the same apartment building, my childhood friend and I would spend the latter hours of this day going around the building to look at the rangolis outside each house, especially watching the Didis and aunties of the third floor make their own magnificent one, which took hours. Often, after sitting on the stairs late into the night, we would return to our homes only to see the finished version the next morning. That was, to this day, one of our fondest memories growing up together.
I may fail to capture the essence of Diwali in the language of words, but to put it simply, it is in the air. Even when you are not directly participating in the preparatory hustle, you feel it within you, the heightened sense of activity, an excited anticipation, and infectious energy that consumes all things. The boxes of confectionery and snacks waiting to be delivered to loved ones, the sweetmeats, packs of dry fruits, and gifts our father brings each time he returns home were sent with greetings of the season by friends and family. We could buy our own kaju katlis (sweets made of cashews) and consume them, and they could buy theirs, but it is in this exchange of love and gratitude that we relish and find value and meaning. The sight of my little brother (who is growing up too fast) bursting crackers at night with his friends, as I fall asleep, their noise merging with faraway booms and crackles, becomes my lullaby, and the winter breeze gently whispers to the skin the message of its forthcoming arrival.
The Diwali routine remains essentially the same, customs uniformly followed year after year. The food menu remains almost unchanged; traditional Rajasthani festive delights – Kanji Vada and Moong Dal ka Halwa – are staples. Even so, as families get together, each year, new little rituals begin to take shape. For instance, over the past two Diwali seasons, my siblings and I have, in an impromptu turn of events, been watching a film together late into the night. It so transpires, that one (or more) of us happens to fall asleep halfway, and all three of us end up sleeping on the same bed – a little cramped but very hearty. Christmas movies are a thing, yes, and I absolutely love watching them around that time of the year. This year, however, a few days before Diwali, (for perhaps the first time?), a Hindi Diwali film was released, Greater Kalesh – which seems perfect for our ritual in hindsight. Almost a month later, the film remains unfinished because this time, both my siblings fell asleep. No, nothing about the film is sleep-inducing. This is just part of the “ritual”.
What I also love about Diwali is that it continues to linger after it is officially gone. The essence of Diwali is not snatched away from us in an instant; it is allowed to stay until relatives keep trickling in, sweets are still left over, the rangoli is taken off because someone stepped on it, and the light decorations are still on. And so, to prolong the feeling of what it is like to be home during the Diwali season, for days after I was back in Chennai, I wanted to know, and found comfort in knowing that the house across the street from ours (while I mysteriously and surprisingly did not see a soul walking out of or entering it the whole time I was around) still hadn’t taken down their Diwali lights. That perhaps, although miles away, at home, it is still Diwali.
Edited by: Ann Mary | Design by: Vivechna Kain
