Commentary/Varsha Bhosle

The Ghost of Diwali Past

Childhood. A time to laugh, a time to play; not a care in the world, no penance to pay. Who'd have believed that life changes? That Diwali itself would change? Even so, the wisdom of children never ceases to amaze me; we all come equipped with instincts which we then gradually smother with the passing years. For instance, I had my own primeval way of keeping track of inscrutable calendars and panchaangs...

I was an oily kid, literally. Aai religiously applied "two fingers" of coconut oil to my scalp before packing me off to the nursery. And that daily bowl of oil would be the first happy harbinger that Diwali was a-nigh -- when a thin skin began to appear on its surface. I knew, when it had to be thawed, we'd be well into the ten days of merriment.

Ten days? But of course! Just as global warming has played havoc with the nature of Bombay's now-nonexistent winter, so have the pace and stress of modern city-life with the length and essence of our Diwali. Actually, the mood of festivity stretched far longer than that. And it had nothing to do with shops putting up seasonal sales and flashing neon lights, or corporations advertising a stale and rancid we-wish-our-patrons in newspapers. It was purely an insider thing.

It began on the day when my grandmother, Mai, ordered her most reluctant daughters to lend a hand in the rolling of besanache laadu. Show me a religious festival that does not centre around food, and I'll show you a sham. Whether it's a Christmas pudding, Thanksgiving turkey, Eid sevaiyyan or Passover matzah, no celebration can be complete without gourmandism. Come to think of it, no festival can even commence without the presence of a grandmother.

For a reason I've never fathomed, in our home, the making of Diwali pharaal (snacks) began at late evening, extending well into the night. And there was no way that Aai could order us to bed -- Mai always knew best for us. The work-area was always the floor: ladies would be huddled around the huge paraat, gossiping and carping while turning the sweet spheres, or pressing out chaklis onto carefully cut squares of newspapers which were instantly handed to the frying in-charge. We breezed in and out, pinching a raisin here, yanking a plait there and getting smacked everywhere.

There's something about the not-quite-brittle, not-quite-soft texture of a freshly-fried chakli that defies all attempts at description: once you get a taste for it, even the day-old one seems vapid. It's the same with a pliant and warm laadu or a sizzling-hot and crisp baakhar-vadi. If there's one thing I've truly come to detest, right from the pit of my stomach, it's the trend of buying ready-made snacks. It was unthinkable in Mai's reign.

But even before the production of the all-important munchies, Mai would be out buying gifts for the battalion of house and building staff. Much as I hated shopping with Aai (she's too quick and simply won't take advice), the spree with Mai was one I rarely missed: she was a real pushover when it came to "Asha's children" -- much to the consternation of Asha. I absorbed Bombay's Marathi ethos with her: nav-vari saris from Shahade Athavle in Girgaum, mohan-maal from Pethe Jewellers, dudhi halva from Kirtikar (to sustain my interest in the outing), shirts from Variety Stores in Dadar, fabrics from C Master... The parcels were then stored away till Vasubaras when Mai...

I don't suppose you'll have heard of Vasubaras -- it happens to be the formal start of Diwali. It's the day when cows are paid homage, when rangoli is first spread outside doors. Whatever its design, the rangoli had to be topped with those little inverted- heart shapes symbolising bovine hooves. Sure, I eat rare steaks now.

Rangoli was always Ushamavshi's department (what with her being the official artist of the house), and I was her official apprentice (what with both of us harbouring great notions about my budding genius). First, the geru, a wet mud-paste, was spread and dried outside the threshold, while the apprentice sorted out the wicker basket holding the colour-powders and tinsel. Then, the artist mused for inspiration, and shrugging aside all advice from menfolk, commenced upon a freehand design... I was allowed to powder-in the large and safe spots -- all the while jabbering, probing, questioning. And at the end of the 2-hour job, it felt like I'd done everything all by myself. Daily occurrence, for two weeks.

Naturally, I still pooh-pooh those atrocious metal moulds from which the white dust drops in uniform designs. Lately, I've even seen a stick-on plastic rangoli, for chrissake -- I turned purple with disgust. As I see it, every facet of Diwali was a gregarious, long-drawn affair: apart from passing on household traditions, whether cookery or drawing, it brought the family closer together.

What does a jhat-pat rangoli achieve? Why does it even need to be in place if the basic aim of camaraderie is to be subverted? It's not that I was a placid child, ever ready to do everyone's bidding. I often rebelled -- but never as frequently as with that one hateful aspect of Diwali: the abhyangasnaan, the pre-dawn bath on the four special days. It seemed totally monstrous that I should be awoken at 4 am on a holiday, anointed with yucky oil, scraped with utna (a perfumed body scrub), dressed in prickly finery, and made to eat stale stuff at the break of dawn. It was all beyond my comprehension.

But as much as a softy Mai was, we could never get round her on this score. Wake up, we had to. Then Aai, under directions from her mother, would massage us with Catherine Hair Oil (that label is etched into my memory), and so on, till we were seated on a paat, an aarti done, and laadus fed. By which time, I admit, we had entered the swing of things and looked forward to what we believed was the raison d'etre of Diwali: Waking up the whole neighbourhood with firecrackers.

These days, I curse firecrackers even at 8 pm: "noise pollution", "immaturity", "no civic sense", "burning of money," etc, are the preferred phrases of rather joyless people who've forgotten their childhood. It's possible that this quest for civic sense, however lacking and necessary among us, may also wipe away the meaning of being an Indian... Scandalous thought, no? But let me ask you: do you honestly and truly feel comfortable and unintimidated in a posh restaurant abroad?

Most Indians don't -- regardless of how well-travelled, refined and poised they may be. Neither do I. And it's because of the absence of loud chatter and the presence of Western table-manners -- it's unIndian, it isn't really us. Whether we've put on a Dior tie or a LaCroix dress, inwardly, each of us longs to be back in Sher-e-Punjab, I think.

I've quite resolved to condone noise pollution of an Indian origin (which does NOT include the mobile phone, loud-speakers and electronic "banjo music"). Besides, instead of constantly ruing an over-Westernised younger generation, we should look for the root- cause: it always lies in the attitudes of the previous one.

Take the illumination for the Festival of Lights: the collection of thick glasses (filled with a mixture of water and oil on which the wick floats) and clay lamps took up so-o-o much valuable closet-space the rest of the year. It was such a pain to replace them since they were constantly getting knocked down. So I substituted them with electric lights. Practical, but so boring; not to mention, garish. A string of coloured bulbs is, of course, ugly -- it can never match the gentle glow of flickering oil diyas. As a child, it was my job to roll the wicks and monitor the lamps -- and how I miss their classy appearance now. too late. These days, my Diwali is not even a ghost of its past. Ushamavshi is no longer able to stoop over the rangoli for long hours. Aai cannot stay up late frying chivda. The old staff has retired. Shops take orders on the phone and deliver plastic containers and mithai boxes to a list of one's acquaintances: Who carries silver thaalis, covered with crochet napkins and filled with home-cooked goodies to one's friends, anymore?

I can't escape it: When the sustaining of Diwali traditions fell on our 'mod' and 'practical' shoulders, they proved to be singularly weak for the cultural load. Perhaps, it's just the times. But no one even rises at dawn any more. For, Mai -- she's no more.

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