Diwali -- Home & Away
So I went to the market half an hour back. In my haste to get milk and groceries, I had totally forgotten that it was Chhoti Diwali (or small/little Diwali, the day preceding the festival of lights). Even the exploding crackers outside didn’t lead me to the realisation.
Anyway, I went to the Plaza market, not to get sweets or crackers or all the little knick-knacks associated with the festival. I had gone to procure milk. Being single and alone in the city, rations and necessities are the first things that come to mind. And since it’s going to be utter madness for the next two days (until Govardhan Puja on Thursday when entire markets will be closed and roads will be desolate), it was absolutely imperative that I stock up my fridge and kitchen before taking a well-deserved break.
The markets were full of people. And I mean it in every way conceivable. Absolutely FULL. Choc-a-block. Bursting to the seams. Packed like sardines in a tin. And whatever other cliché or metaphor you may want to use. There were family folks, children, old men, young people, friends, couples. But mostly there were women. LOTS of them. Thousands of them. It seemed as if all the women of East Delhi had descended on the two markets in my locality. The shops were crammed full of goods to cater to the growing demands during the festival. The main mithai shop had extended its boundary and had put up tables creaking under the weight of boxes of sweet, confectionaries and dried fruits. A man was sitting beside a table in a corner, with a stack of probably hundreds of ‘Celebrations’ boxes, fast and furiously packing them in gaudy wrapping paper. Small-time vendors had set up shop on the pavements – flower sellers, those selling diyas and candles and idols of the gods and goddesses. There were children screaming for attention, wives calling out to the husbands who had wandered away, probably tired of all the commotion around, just like me.
In a way, I miss home during this time. I was thinking that it would be epic to stay back in my flat for two days and just recover from the frequent travelling I have done since August. But what I didn’t count upon was the fact that I would actually be missing family and home. Not terribly, because I am quite used to being alone at times. But in small ways that prick when your thoughts take you back home and you think of all the activity unfolding there.
I know for a fact that, at this moment, my parents would be out in a market as well, scouring around for the perfect idol of Ganesh-Lakshmi. Mum is paranoid about finding the ‘perfect’ statues, though I haven’t been able to figure out until now what she means by that. She keeps looking for a statue with ‘that expression’ in its eyes. “Dekhte bhaalo, kintu Lokkhi er chokh gono vishesh lagche na,” is her common refrain. Dad is much the same, being a pretty spiritual guy. And sometimes, when they don’t see eye-to-eye, there are epic arguments. Especially during festivals. When nerves are jingling and the brain is working on an overload of information, processing all the things that need to be done on/before time. After the idols, they will buy kheel-batashe, those white, round-shaped, flat sugary sweets, eaten with puffed rice (I think that is what kheel is called in English). They also buy lots of colours for the alpana, candles, diyas, ghee, oil – all the requisites needed to make the house brighter, and the festival a special occasion.
During Diwali (as with every festival celebrated in my household), mum delegates certain responsibilities to everyone. Of course, these are based on individual capabilities and willingness to carry out those duties. So while my kid brother takes the time to play the fool and burst crackers, I have more pressing issues to worry about. I am always in charge of creating the main alpana in the house. Ever since I created a masterpiece in the 8th standard and all the guests who ever stepped into our house after that appreciated it, wide-eyed, marvelling at the colours and design. “Moonmoon, beta, you have really done that beautifully. Must have taken you a very long time no? Dr Ghosh, your daughter is so very artistic, with such capable hands (LOL).” And listening to all this, I would want to run into my room and never appear again, simply because I am terrible at taking compliments. I get all fidgety and never know how to react appropriately.
Anyway, I digressed. So it is my duty to make the alpana. I quite like it, since I’ve always loved painting and sketching. (Maybe it is my artistic genes, since both my grandfathers were artists). So I start envisioning the design since the previous night and have a clear enough idea by Diwali day. Frantic activity starts around 3pm. Mum, as usual, is bustling around from the kitchen to the pooja room to the living room and then the drawing room, making sure everything is spick and span when the guests come in. Dad is being ordered around by her, picking up baskets of flowers that have been called for, and generally being the handyman around the house. After a certain point, he starts to sulk and mumble, especially when he has had enough of the orders, or after mum has snapped at him for not understanding a particularly simple command.
In the meantime, it is my job to unravel and untangle the hundreds of garlands that have come in. Fresh marigolds, plump chains of bright orange and yellow. Also the strings of mango leaves, considered auspicious and all that jazz. I have to decorate the entire house, lobby, porch and garden with them, hanging them on doors, windows and every available surface possible. But they should be aesthetically pleasing to the eye, else I will have to listen to mum’s relentless complaining. So while I stand on a high chair and try to reach the window, my brother tries to push a spider up my leg. More often than not, this leads to some hysterical screaming and jumping, which in turn leads to a guest appearance by my mother. Cue more screaming and ranting and scolding and generally being yelled at.
Then comes alpana time. Or rangoli, call it what you may. Sprawled out on the marble floor, I painstakingly sketch out the borders, only for one of my kittens to come and plonk herself bang in the middle. Cajoling and threatening doesn’t work. She needs to be forcefully lifted and placed on her favourite chair. When I return, I find the entire outline has been erased, courtesy the devil of my brother. After much cursing and giving him a sound beating (which leads to my mother putting in another guest appearance, albeit a longer one this time), I start off again. It takes me close to two hours to finish the alpana, and by the end of it, I am pretty satisfied and happy with it. I admire it from various angles and am much relieved when mum approves it, uncensored.
Then it is time to make the little Lakshmi feet around the house. According to tradition, that denotes the Goddess (and prosperity with her) entering the household. So I get down to that business. I have to ensure that the mixture of chalk and water is just fine, not too runny, not too thick. The feet are S-shaped, with five little dots on top (denoting the toes). This is done near the pooja-room, the entrance, and every door in the house. By this time, mum has set up everything for the pooja. Dad has left to light up the clinic and perform a small pooja ceremony there. It is time to shower and dress up in all the festival finery. So I cannot wear slippers, shorts and a tee that says “Husband and cat lost: Reward for cat”. It is an epic sign of glares and some choice curse words by mother and grandmother. Reluctantly, I pull on a silk kurta and churidar and “dress up”, whatever that is.
Pooja happens. Diyas are lit. I love lots of them, so we place them around the entire house, porch, garden, etc. Then it is time to go out and burst crackers. Relatives descend in hordes, kids in tow, me looking out for possible deaths due to a sweet overdose. Zilch. Little cousins tugging at my arm and cooing to me, while I want to go in, change out of the uncomfortable attire and watch a game of football. But mum seems to have understood my noble intentions, telepathy FTW. From the corner of my eye, I see her frowning at me, shaking her head. Sigh.
Turns out I will be sleeping the entire day on Diwali, surfing the net, reading, and generally chilling out. Ordering pizzas, counting beer cans in the fridge to see if they will last me for a week. It will be quiet and peaceful, minus the manic, last-minute activities at home. Somehow, in a strange way, I will miss them.
Anyway, I went to the Plaza market, not to get sweets or crackers or all the little knick-knacks associated with the festival. I had gone to procure milk. Being single and alone in the city, rations and necessities are the first things that come to mind. And since it’s going to be utter madness for the next two days (until Govardhan Puja on Thursday when entire markets will be closed and roads will be desolate), it was absolutely imperative that I stock up my fridge and kitchen before taking a well-deserved break.
The markets were full of people. And I mean it in every way conceivable. Absolutely FULL. Choc-a-block. Bursting to the seams. Packed like sardines in a tin. And whatever other cliché or metaphor you may want to use. There were family folks, children, old men, young people, friends, couples. But mostly there were women. LOTS of them. Thousands of them. It seemed as if all the women of East Delhi had descended on the two markets in my locality. The shops were crammed full of goods to cater to the growing demands during the festival. The main mithai shop had extended its boundary and had put up tables creaking under the weight of boxes of sweet, confectionaries and dried fruits. A man was sitting beside a table in a corner, with a stack of probably hundreds of ‘Celebrations’ boxes, fast and furiously packing them in gaudy wrapping paper. Small-time vendors had set up shop on the pavements – flower sellers, those selling diyas and candles and idols of the gods and goddesses. There were children screaming for attention, wives calling out to the husbands who had wandered away, probably tired of all the commotion around, just like me.
In a way, I miss home during this time. I was thinking that it would be epic to stay back in my flat for two days and just recover from the frequent travelling I have done since August. But what I didn’t count upon was the fact that I would actually be missing family and home. Not terribly, because I am quite used to being alone at times. But in small ways that prick when your thoughts take you back home and you think of all the activity unfolding there.
I know for a fact that, at this moment, my parents would be out in a market as well, scouring around for the perfect idol of Ganesh-Lakshmi. Mum is paranoid about finding the ‘perfect’ statues, though I haven’t been able to figure out until now what she means by that. She keeps looking for a statue with ‘that expression’ in its eyes. “Dekhte bhaalo, kintu Lokkhi er chokh gono vishesh lagche na,” is her common refrain. Dad is much the same, being a pretty spiritual guy. And sometimes, when they don’t see eye-to-eye, there are epic arguments. Especially during festivals. When nerves are jingling and the brain is working on an overload of information, processing all the things that need to be done on/before time. After the idols, they will buy kheel-batashe, those white, round-shaped, flat sugary sweets, eaten with puffed rice (I think that is what kheel is called in English). They also buy lots of colours for the alpana, candles, diyas, ghee, oil – all the requisites needed to make the house brighter, and the festival a special occasion.
During Diwali (as with every festival celebrated in my household), mum delegates certain responsibilities to everyone. Of course, these are based on individual capabilities and willingness to carry out those duties. So while my kid brother takes the time to play the fool and burst crackers, I have more pressing issues to worry about. I am always in charge of creating the main alpana in the house. Ever since I created a masterpiece in the 8th standard and all the guests who ever stepped into our house after that appreciated it, wide-eyed, marvelling at the colours and design. “Moonmoon, beta, you have really done that beautifully. Must have taken you a very long time no? Dr Ghosh, your daughter is so very artistic, with such capable hands (LOL).” And listening to all this, I would want to run into my room and never appear again, simply because I am terrible at taking compliments. I get all fidgety and never know how to react appropriately.
Anyway, I digressed. So it is my duty to make the alpana. I quite like it, since I’ve always loved painting and sketching. (Maybe it is my artistic genes, since both my grandfathers were artists). So I start envisioning the design since the previous night and have a clear enough idea by Diwali day. Frantic activity starts around 3pm. Mum, as usual, is bustling around from the kitchen to the pooja room to the living room and then the drawing room, making sure everything is spick and span when the guests come in. Dad is being ordered around by her, picking up baskets of flowers that have been called for, and generally being the handyman around the house. After a certain point, he starts to sulk and mumble, especially when he has had enough of the orders, or after mum has snapped at him for not understanding a particularly simple command.
In the meantime, it is my job to unravel and untangle the hundreds of garlands that have come in. Fresh marigolds, plump chains of bright orange and yellow. Also the strings of mango leaves, considered auspicious and all that jazz. I have to decorate the entire house, lobby, porch and garden with them, hanging them on doors, windows and every available surface possible. But they should be aesthetically pleasing to the eye, else I will have to listen to mum’s relentless complaining. So while I stand on a high chair and try to reach the window, my brother tries to push a spider up my leg. More often than not, this leads to some hysterical screaming and jumping, which in turn leads to a guest appearance by my mother. Cue more screaming and ranting and scolding and generally being yelled at.
Then comes alpana time. Or rangoli, call it what you may. Sprawled out on the marble floor, I painstakingly sketch out the borders, only for one of my kittens to come and plonk herself bang in the middle. Cajoling and threatening doesn’t work. She needs to be forcefully lifted and placed on her favourite chair. When I return, I find the entire outline has been erased, courtesy the devil of my brother. After much cursing and giving him a sound beating (which leads to my mother putting in another guest appearance, albeit a longer one this time), I start off again. It takes me close to two hours to finish the alpana, and by the end of it, I am pretty satisfied and happy with it. I admire it from various angles and am much relieved when mum approves it, uncensored.
Then it is time to make the little Lakshmi feet around the house. According to tradition, that denotes the Goddess (and prosperity with her) entering the household. So I get down to that business. I have to ensure that the mixture of chalk and water is just fine, not too runny, not too thick. The feet are S-shaped, with five little dots on top (denoting the toes). This is done near the pooja-room, the entrance, and every door in the house. By this time, mum has set up everything for the pooja. Dad has left to light up the clinic and perform a small pooja ceremony there. It is time to shower and dress up in all the festival finery. So I cannot wear slippers, shorts and a tee that says “Husband and cat lost: Reward for cat”. It is an epic sign of glares and some choice curse words by mother and grandmother. Reluctantly, I pull on a silk kurta and churidar and “dress up”, whatever that is.
Pooja happens. Diyas are lit. I love lots of them, so we place them around the entire house, porch, garden, etc. Then it is time to go out and burst crackers. Relatives descend in hordes, kids in tow, me looking out for possible deaths due to a sweet overdose. Zilch. Little cousins tugging at my arm and cooing to me, while I want to go in, change out of the uncomfortable attire and watch a game of football. But mum seems to have understood my noble intentions, telepathy FTW. From the corner of my eye, I see her frowning at me, shaking her head. Sigh.
Turns out I will be sleeping the entire day on Diwali, surfing the net, reading, and generally chilling out. Ordering pizzas, counting beer cans in the fridge to see if they will last me for a week. It will be quiet and peaceful, minus the manic, last-minute activities at home. Somehow, in a strange way, I will miss them.
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