At the request of my parents, I came back to Saratoga late last night. Deepavali mornings have been the same at the Chandran household for time immemorial. My brother and I wake up to my mom opening our bedroom doors. As the modest glow in the windows indicate, she has woken up the sun too. She girlishly squeals Happy Deepavali!- maybe accompanied with a clap- but always coupled with a kiss on the cheek, and in recent years, a statement of how happy she is that her kids are home for this day. We hear the nadaswaram blaring on the living room surround sound speakers. On a normal day, the nadaswaram is aggressive with its deliberate cacophony. But on days like this, it makes me want to burst into glitter. Brosky and I brush our teeth. We, unaccustomed to morning lucid pleasantries, walk down the hallway cracking jokes and say Happy Deepvali without actually saying it. It comes out more like Hi you little halabaloo and a ruffle on my mess of curly hair and his cheeks being pushed in. My dad says his Happy Deepavali and gives us dad hugs, mine a little longer than what my brother receives purely because I am the girl. We say our 30 second hellos and whats up to the gods. The brother and I sit on wooden planks next to each other, and my mom smears our feet with kungumam and chandanam, appropriate war paint for Niners games but banned on UCLA days. Then she slathers the coconut oil- lots of it- in our hair, while wishing us good fortune and telling us the same tidbits, year after year, of how her mother would invocate the day. My dad takes pictures and makes dad jokes, then says something like Hurry and take a shower! Youre going to be late to school. This year, he said work instead. Upon completing our showers- showers that require lots of labor and bubbles to get the lipid layers off, we emerge in sweats and he gives us our new clothes. We change into our garb, have another quick and meaningful exchange with our metaphysical friends. Moms spread of sweets and snacks, made over the past week, are now in my face. Parents say, Start your morning with a sweet. I say, Ew, sweets! I cant eat that whole piece. Give me a fourth. She dejectedly complies; I do too. Every year. We gulp our tumblers of filter coffee, morph into the Silicon Valley-types with yet another wardrobe change, and rush off for the day. 15 minutes can save you 15% on... you know. It also can be the concentrate of everything worth something. And diabetes. Happy Deepavali to you all!
Posted on: Wed, 22 Oct 2014 17:11:50 +0000
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