Representative image of a demon.
Credit: iStock
Growing up in Bengaluru until my teen years with my siblings and many cousins, there was no dearth of festivals in my traditional home. Apart from the story that never failed to enchant me as a child, narrated colourfully by my Ajji, of Narakasura, the evil demon slain by Lord Vishnu, this day meant waiting with bated breath for my father to come home with patakis in boxes. That this was a serious adult task for him to sort and hand them to children according to their ages did not alleviate my impatience. I would watch for hours, my mother decorating the doorframe with flowers, drawing colourful drawings on the front porch and polishing silver articles to a shine that could shame a mirror.
The much-awaited Deepavali trundled in slowly overnight, dawning into a day of endless celebration. Rituals handed down for generations mandated most, if not all, activities of the day. It would begin with viscous castor oil warmed up just enough, applied to the scalp and hair, and massaged by my mother, whose strong hands belied her petite being, all to be washed off with hot water straight from a big water heater, the Handai. Wrapped in a towel that only enabled us to waddle like ducks, brand new clothes would claim us soon as the rightful owners. Feasting on the day with savouries and sweets, new recipes that straddled the traditional ones made their way out of the kitchen, multiple aromas wafting in perfect harmony. Evening had little clay lamps lit and lined up on the walls, their tiny little flames swaying to the gentle breeze.
Never was there a time that I waited for darkness to fall more than on the night of Deepavali. For fireworks. The horse crackers, the smallest ones of the lot, came strung in hundreds, causing the entire string to pop once lit, all the way to the end. The elephant crackers were twice the size and noisier; even bigger ones followed, reserved for the older children. Innocuous ones like the snake would hiss around the floor when lit, and simple matchsticks or mathapu burnt coloured flames. Drawing imaginary figures in the air off the carefully held long sparklers was magical. The conical flowerpots would spew beautiful rainfall of sparkles for a few seconds of sheer joy. The wheels would spin around while making patterns of beautiful spirals of colourful sparks, mesmerising me. The rockets perched meticulously in an elevated spot and lit by a responsible adult would blast just like a rocket and sail into the dark nightly air with a bright trajectory following its path. Reality would strike us at the end when the boxes that once overflowed with treasure now sadly showed the bottom.
For over thirty years now, while I lovingly celebrate this day in my own home, several thousand miles away, I ponder. What is sweeter than the sweetest of desserts? Richer than the richest of treasures?
Memories. Memories of childhood. Of stories. Of sights. Of touch.
To my memories and yours, Happy Deepavali!