Lopsided Diwali!

When it’s this time of the year, sometimes I wonder, mostly fleetingly, what Diwali is all about. Grandpa says it is celebrated to mark the homecoming of Lord Ram after his victory over his nemesis, Ravana. I wonder again, how many of us know that.

It used to be a cheerful festival of lights but not anymore. For today it’s a festival of serial blasts….well, that’s what it sounds like with all the fire crackers going off or should I say going on and on and ON. Apart from that, it’s a time when people try to show off and they drape their houses rooftop to basement with a mesh of electric lights. That’s not pretty at all, that’s lewd just like an overdone bride.

Year after year, as a kid, I would look out of the window of my ancestral house, the wide market road transformed into a fare. Special though it was, it never struck me. It seemed the normal sight if any other child peeped out of his window too. And so, I can’t recall one single occasion when I went Diwali-shopping – buying kheel, bataashaas, khilaunas, gujariyas, diyas, candles and stuff. That was grandpa’s job. Besides, these sugar khilaunas were way too sweet for my taste even then.

After the customary poojas and visiting all our grandparents, uncles and aunts we used to take a round of the fare. It took a lot of cajoling for this treat for papa despised crowds and mummy would be way too tired after all the cooking. We would often come across my sister and friend Chhavi with her parents and brother and we would all buy dhanush baan and folding saanp with a painted dull red tongue. Chhavi loved those brown ceramic cookery sets, she would buy one each Diwali. Bhai liked red and blue yoyos.

It so happened that this year, our Ganesh Lakshmi clay idols got chipped, you need to replace them and we noticed the damage very late. Papa and I went to get another set, a rather late Diwali shopping. Well, there was another too, when we went buying some nick-knacks late at night.

So, thus began a journey which flooded all these memories. On the way, there was not one single house which was decorated with diyas but for one little thatched hut on an un-constructed plot. The sight was so pretty, so pristine, almost over-whelming.

For one moment, I too thought whether diyas were passé, or worse, whether they were meant for the poor. Then scolding my self for such a thought l contemplated my options. Which did I like better? Meshy-messy electric light houses? Or decent single string electric light houses? Or best of all, diyas outside the thatched hut or diyas on a trolley or diyas on the panwalla’s stall. There was a sense of sincerity and earnest in the glow the diyas cast around. So real so contrasting to the former breed.

The point is, what became of the lovely festival and the spirit. I really don’t know. Peep inside a Tanishq and there is no space even for the nail of your little toe. It’s about arrogant decorations. It’s about howling to the world through the deafening crackers. It’s about buying goodies at the store, preparing them at home is boring, time-taking and bourgeois.

My thoughts became stronger as I went around placing diyas and candles in spite of the electric lights. It made a difference, at least to me. While I write this, I hear impatience in the sound of the doorbell. And then a cross “Koi patang nahi giri hai” followed by prattle, “Aunty, hai…dekhiye na.” It seems there is still hope.