I’m sitting in office finishing off last minute pages, wishing colleagues hurrying off home a very happy Diwali and thinking of the different Diwalis I’ve had. Strangely, despite being a Bengali, it’s Diwali and not Durga Puja that always has me excited.
I’m not a ritual-friendly person and often get scolded at various functions by family aunties for not knowing the right way to put a tikka on someone’s forehead and 'important' stuff like that. But I’ve always loved the rituals, the activities and the sense of urgency associated with Diwali — from cleaning up the house with mom as a kid to helping her shine her much loved silverware to perfection to soaking the mitti ka diyas.
I love yellow lights — candles, diyas, even nice fairy lights which I love winding around my plants. As a kid, the highlight of my Diwali celebration was lighting up one part of the house just the way I wanted to. In fact, when we lived in Goa, I once lit up a corner with such enthusiasm that dad had to almost call the fire brigade!
My lighting up activities were perfectly alright with the bro who had a free go at the crackers, something I largely stayed away from. Still, it was fun to light up your ‘anar’ and see if the sparks went up higher than the neighbours'. By late night, mom and dad's friends would start dropping in, dad and his friends would sometimes sit down for a quick round of cards, the drinks and mithais would come out, some aunty would bring out a casserole of ‘chhole puri’ and it would suddenly be an impromptu potluck dinner.
When I lived in Bombay, I mostly went home for Diwali. When I stayed back, it was usually spent at my friends H or An’s place, in much the same way as it was at home but with the essential people missing — mom, dad and brother. Diwali is when homesickness hits me the most.
An lived close to Worli Seaface and we would drive down to watch the fireworks across the sea. One magical Diwali night was spent driving from Bandra Bandstand to Marine Drive, chasing the fireworks as we called it. It seems magical now but come to think of it, must’ve been crowded then. When I started staying in Delhi, Diwali acquired an entirely new dimension (traffic jams, a profusion of dry fruits, large scale gifting and cards!) and I discovered a new side to the man. Diwali card parties are huge in Delhi and this is when P’s inherent Delhiite comes out. I’ve to endure the entire season listening to perplexing terms like ‘teen patti,’ ‘blind ki chal’ ‘flash’ etc.
The last four and half years I’ve been in Delhi, I’ve been home for Diwali only once. In Delhi, it means an elaborate dinner at P's parents' place. This is preceded by an equally elaborate ‘puja’ earlier in the evening, performed in utter seriousness by my father-in-law, watched indulgently by my mother-in-law and bhaiya and bhabi. I’m the fumbling participant (which finger do I use? Ghee or chandan? Yikes! Wrong stuff!). P, our niece and my brother who lives in Delhi, pretend to look serious and wait impatiently to start with the food and the crackers, which nowadays mean nothing loud or polluting. The niece is very eco-friendly and stares with disgust at her uncle when he suggests noisy stuff. I wait for the noise, the visitors and the rituals to fade out, go out on the balcony and relish the sudden silence, the flickering diyas in the adjacent balconies, the end of a festival and the beginning of a new year, which I don't quite follow. I call home, speak to mom and dad and hope that next year either I make it home or they make it here.