Diwali- Away from Home
“Beta, it’s Diwali tomorrow.” Mom tells me over phone.
"Yes maa, I know.” I say softly.
“Why do you sound sleepy? It’s 10 a.m. Get up already. I hope you have bought the lights and lamps.”
“Yes maa. I have.”
“But you must have forgotten the oil for the lamps. When are you going to buy it?”
“I will buy it t-today.’ I faltered.
“Get up early tomorrow, take a bath, pray and then go to office.”
"Yes mom. How are you celebrating Diwali at home?”
“What is Diwali for me? I’ll pray for you and your brother.”
“Not cooking anything special, mom?”
"Beta, you are not here and papa’s cholesterol level is rising. What will I cook? I’ll cook him oats porridge.”
I was left grinning as mom hung up the phone. I stared at the ceiling, trying to fall back asleep again. I’d been abruptly woken up by mom’s phone call. I looked around. My room was a mess, the fan was rotating slowly, my laptop was getting overcharged and there I was, lying on the bed thinking about life. I’d lied to mom. I hadn’t even realized the next day was Diwali. Diwali outside home could never be Diwali. I was interrupted by another phone call. It was my brother this time.
“Hello bhaiya. Happy Diwali.”
“Same to you bro. Called you because I knew you’d never lift your lazy hand to call me yourself.”
I laughed. “I miss you here, bhaiya.”
“Never thought I’d say it, but darn I miss you too.”
“I had never imagined that there’d be a day when I would be away from home and mom would have to call to remind me about Diwali.”
“Mom wouldn’t need to remind me. Always knew you were a little slow.”
I rolled my eyes. “Is this why you’ve called me disturbing my sleep?”
“I sometimes think you stopped growing after five.”
I smiled sheepishly, “Bhaiya I miss everything. Your taunts. Mom. Dad. Everyone. Remember how you used to make fun of me because I was scared of crackers.”
“I am sure you still are.” Bhaiya laughs.
I press my lips. “I have to go to office. Please keep your sarcasm safe. I am sure I’ll need it sometime later.”
I had to change for office. I decided against taking a bath. “Have to bathe tomorrow, anyway.” I thought.
As I was leaving for office, I noticed a small parcel outside my door. I was almost going to ignore it but I decided to pick it up anyway. Inside it was a familiar tiffin box, a new t-shirt, a small lamp, and a note. “We miss you very much son. We love you. Diwali without you can never be Diwali for us. Wear this new t-shirt tomorrow after taking a bath. Don’t forget to light the lamp. Yes, we know you didn’t buy any lamp or lamp oil. Check the tiffin too. It has your favourite dish. Hope you still remember the taste of home cooked food. Lots of love-Maa, Papa, Bhaiya.”
The Heart Wants What It Wants
Holi for me, as a kid, began a day before when we all sat in a circle listening to tales my granny had to share of the Holi she celebrated, back in the day. “It wasn’t this sophisticated.” She would shake her head and grin. “My mother once failed to recognize me when I returned in rags covered with mud and pond water smelling of algae.”
The giggles would be interrupted by my mother who would walk into the dining space with a small steel plate brimming with steaming hot, crispy vadas. As we ran to claim as many as we could, mom would reprimand us softly. “You all behave as if you’ve seen food for the first time and I don’t feed you at all. You can take as many as you want, the rest I will dunk in curd for the dish.”
As we munched on the delicious snack, we would walk outside waiting for father. After all, it was his responsibility to buy us pichkaris (water guns), and colours. He would also turn up with buckets because mom had made it clear that no bucket from the house would be given to us children to be unevenly coloured, man handled and broken.
Holi mornings were perhaps the only day our parents didn’t have to nudge us out of bed. We were up with excitement, even before they knew. As my mom took a chair and settled down, we lined up near her so she could slather us with oil. Each time my younger sister made a face, mom said, “Better this, than colour on your face for weeks.”
We would return hours later, coloured and drenched only to be greeted by our domestic help's icy stare. “I cleaned the house just now,” she would lament. “Go and take a bath quickly and come back for lunch before I complain to mummy.”
Tons of oil and vigorous scrubbing notwithstanding, we would look a mixed shade of green and pink as we marched towards the dining table, famished. It was a feast for us. From spicy hot curries, to melt in mouth sweets, fragrant pulaav, accompanying breads, we ate to our heart’s content.
Evenings were a riot, after we’d had enough time to recharge our batteries in the afternoon. Dropping evening snacks to neighbours’ houses, creating a mess in our own houses with gulaal (dry colour), becoming hungry again for a different feast.
Holi for us in a city perhaps wasn’t as fun as people in the village would share theirs was, perhaps it wasn’t as glamorous as the upscale parties I get to go to, once in a while now. But it was fun, there was food, you had your family together. And that’s perhaps enough, enough to last a lifetime, enough to make me yearn for it year after year, enough to make me wish there wasn’t sophisticated cutlery on the table but maybe a stainless steel plate filled up to the brim with vadas.
Gratitude
I asked my mom if my dad had ever thanked her for the tea she made for him everyday after he came back from office.
"Never." She said. "But I've never thanked him too for the vegetables he's gotten from the market after working all day.
Never thanked him for the bagfuls of groceries he gets every alternate day. Not for the bulbs he's changed, not for the luggage he carries every time we go out, never for the seats he's offered me in the bus when there's only been one."
Indian Cricket Captain M.S Dhoni in tears as he leaves the field
For millions and millions of Indians, M.S Dhoni is a character straight out of their dreams. Perhaps if God was human, they'd believe Dhoni looks almost like him. Born into a middle class family, MSD's story was strikingly similar to most of ours. A middle class family, pressure to take up a ticket collector's job to bring food on the table, an extraordinary talent that could have just gone to waste. Except that it didn't. This is where Dhoni was different, this is where he carved a path different from everybody else. Make no mistake, he wasn't ever perfect, he had his flaws just like us, but he did so well to use his strengths to near perfection. He invested in his passion and reaped rewards that he himself hadn't imagined in his wildest dreams. First he became his own hero, then he became our hero. We have tears in our eyes today, not only because we lost, not only because he was our captain, but because MSD is everything that we have ever wanted to be. When we saw Dhoni playing, a part of us that we had killed long back came alive, and roared and whispered that someday we could be the heroes of our own story. For that, and for countless memories, I wipe a tear that escapes my eye as our captain wipes his.
Alone on New Year's
There's something about clanking steel plates and spoons. Sometimes they were painted red and blue. Sometimes it was expensive cutlery taken out for special occasions. Something about hot fritters straight out of the frying pan. Sometimes my younger brother calling mom for some more green chutney. Sometimes noisy guests and trays full of cups of steaming hot chai. Television screens blaring with some award show. Maybe Salman Khan, or Shah Rukh Khan dancing. Hrithik Roshan bursting on the same screen at 12 to wish a Happy New Year. Maybe a new diary gifted by dad's insurance company, or a new calendar by the small bookstore at the end of the street. Mom looking harried with constant demand for snacks. Her scolding us that she won't give us any more because we would be too full for dinner. Dad entering the house with big bags, perhaps a toy, perhaps a new dress for us, perhaps some onions, ginger and garlic mom had ordered. New year eve meant something those days. New hope, new me, newer circumstances, new life, a wiped off slate to start clean.
This new year is all about nostalgia. Video call tells me my parents are still doing the same. Mom's making a dish. Perhaps with no sugar. Dad's hair is whiter. He still has a bag. With no toy, but some onion, ginger and garlic that mom had ordered. The television is still blaring. Some actor is still dancing to his songs. Mom smiles, "we're celebrating new year." Dad chimes in, "But it feels incomplete without you here. My insurance company gave us some diaries. I've saved one for you, I'll give it to you when you come back."