Orphan Diwali
I was born in a land of colours, spices, festivals, throat-choking superstitions and unbelievable high-societal norms. I grew up in the streets where stray cows and dogs lived, flourished, and had high-ambitions. The streets were always full of shades of people pacing up and down in an aimed, mad chaos and indulged in a million activities. The streets were flanked by a myriad of shops occupying ground floors of the houses – confectionary, stationary, fresh vegetable and fruit stores, tailors, barbers, phone booths, banks, clothing stores, photographers, electricians, fresh dairy products, handloom products and occasionally interrupted by mosques, temples, Gurudwaras and parks. Seldom, the streets hosted orange draped moving guests. There were bicycle postmen delivering mails and stopping by at designated houses for ‘chai’ and ‘chats’. Hawkers with their sunken eyes, sun-dried skin, and operatic lungs making their day by selling all sorts of things one can think of – from fresh vegetables to pre-stitched clothes, from vivid spices to sufficiently durable cooking dishes, from low key make-up material to collect and buy recyclable waste, from spicy street foods to dazzling snow cones. This list never ended. Rather it got original, creative and occasionally extravagant.
The usual morning hours comprised of melodic music symphonies, loud mantras and verses chants, deafening milkmen motorbikes, clattering school buses, rickshaws, and auto rickshaws with sometimes overloaded with sheep in school uniforms, honking cars with people who always run late, hawkers singing selling-songs, kids crying at nooks and corners for not going to school, dogs barking, cats meowing, and birds chirping, all woven together in a boisterous cacophony. This orchestra performed around the year and all day long with occasional dips during lunchtime, nighttime, and certain days of the year.
During festivals, the orchestra performed on high pitch and frequencies. There were dancers, singers, theatre groups, feeding into festival themes. October is the time when festivities across most of India peak for a month. Everyone awaits for this month and so did I. The first event of this month is ‘Dusshera’ celebrated as ‘Durga Puja’ in eastern parts of India marking the victory of righteousness and truth over dark evil demons. ‘Diwali’ or ‘Deepavali’ follows this festival after 20 days. Diwali is a major festival of Hindus but takes many other forms in other religions and sects. It signifies the dissolution of the dark by light, of ignorance by knowledge, and of despair by hope. The people venerate these 20 days of warmth and festivities. It is Indian Christmas time with special markets, decorated shops, extravagant foods and sweets, and swarms of people shopping with irresistible bargains. The streets smell a blend of caramelized sugar, milk, cashews, almonds, dried fruits, pickles, firecrackers, incense sticks, perfumes, new clothing, sindoor, books, jaggery, fresh roses, jasmine, lotuses, and shades of marigold, chocolates, spicy street foods like ‘gol gappe’ or ‘tikki’, mud idols of ‘Lakshmi and Ganesha’, earthen lamps, leather, stainless steel, dogs, and cows. Musically loud processions take over the city and add to the crowded street charm. There are figures, idols, and people in shimmering silky and tacky costumes as gods and goddesses. Flocks of ‘Hijaras’ dressed in their bests finally enjoy a few days of their rights, dancing and enjoying with their iconic double claps and proudly asking for money. Families clean extensively, repaint, and refurbish their homes. Houses no matter how big or small are displayed with lights in nets, circles, bulbs and some houses exhibit a blinking light show. Two days before Diwali, the season is at its highest. Families meet families and exchange gifts.
I have experienced and participated in this madness every year until I moved to another city for my undergraduate studies. However, I would come back home one day before Diwali. On the day of Diwali, there was always a pompous procession through the city. The streets covered in a blanket of roses and lotuses. Kids merrily toured the neighbourhoods and burned firecrackers while their parents shouted and sent warning calls. My favourite part was to steer through the crowded streets and get fresh flowers from our favourite store with dad and the put them around the house. In the evening, I helped mum and sister in putting oil and wicks in earthen lamps and we would wander all over the house lighting literally every corner of the house. It is breathtaking thinking about that every inch of the house was covered in earthen lamps and so was neighbours house and their neighbours. We sat together to do some ceremonial worshipping and then ate good food. We went to our rooftop terrace to stare at the lead and Sulphur packed sky glittering with magnificent fireworks. My family was not keen on fireworks for many reasons and I respect and support their decision to not propagate the air pollution wilderness and set up a wrong culture in their children. Learning from what had become of Delhi last year- the festivities had resulted in a dark poisonous and dangerous breathing cloud, I hope people are careful and sensitive this year.
Today, I feel a bit lonesome for there are an intimacy and connection with the people you spend festive Diwali time with. There are no gifts from cousins and relatives. Neither there are earthen lamps nor the sound and smell of festivities. All the grown-up things I wished for, now I am part of. Maybe that is an adult life with an Orphan Diwali.