Diwali...as it is celebrated in my home state of Goa. Resharing.. It is the day of Diwali. The morning is yet a dreamlike hazy grey. The diffused light from the Akashkandil hanging outside my room creates pretty swirls of light on the window panes. I wake up and run barefoot to the toilet, skipping lightly over the stepping stones. In my mind, I am Hanuman, leaping over the bridge to Lanka like in the story Kesharatya told me last night. Our bathroom is a separate outbuilding with bare laterite walls and a sloping Mangalore tiled roof that sits a little away from the main house. It is big enough to play cricket in! As I burst breathlessly inside the dimly lit structure, I find Kesharatya already there, tending to the fire that heats up the bath water. Kesharatya is Papas older sister and my favourite aunt. She is our guest this Diwali. The water is drawn from a well the old fashioned way, using a pulley and a rope and stored in an enormous Hando, a copper vessel of an antiquated age. The Hando has been scrubbed clean for Diwali using liberal amounts of ash and soaked tamarind the previous evening and bears the auspicious white marks painted on using rice paste. There is a garland of white sadafuli flowers and a karit; a bitter fruit, adorning the neck of the Hando. However, the lower half of the Hando continues to be a stubborn black, caked as it is with the calcified remains of years of wood fires. Kesharatya has already got a good fire going. She is methodical, putting the biggest logs of wood first, forming the base. The next layer is of kindling, the dried twigs of Bendal, the parasite that grows so plentifully on mango trees in Goa. The topmost layer is of dry leaves and dried coconut tree fronds that burn easily. Nothing goes waste here. All the wood that is burned is from our own garden. I finish brushing my teeth and throw myself upon Kesharatyas ample back, putting my full weight onto her shoulders, my arms wrapped around her neck. Her nine-yard sari smells of soap and spices. Instinctively, she slides backwards, away from the fire. She rocks me gently, stroking my arms while blowing into the fire. The flickering flames give out a soft glow that makes her long white hair look the colour of luminous gold! The air is ripe with the rich, spicy-sweet smell of wood smoke. Bluish grey tendrils of smoke escape the rafters and flow towards the sky like wind horses whispering the prayers of all sentient beings. I could stay there for hours, being rocked by Kesharatya, my cheeks turning red from the heat of the fire. I She then gives me a long, relaxing oil massage before the big Diwali ritual bath. I walk into the bathroom, my bare legs glistening with oil, clutching my new clothes to my heart. I love what comes next. Opening a brand new Moti Sandal soap, feeling its circular shape in my hands, smelling the sweet notes of sandalwood and feel the whorls of lather dissipate into nothingness in my hands. We may use other soaps the rest of the year, but on Diwali morning it is always a brand new Moti Sandal! After the bath, I put on my new clothes and run to the Devakud, the pooja room, to break open the karit, a bitter fruit that is symbolic of Narkasur, the demon that was killed by Lord Krishna the previous night. There is a kind of perverse pleasure in pressing the fruit with my left toe till it bursts and the juice and the seeds splatter around. I dip a finger gingerly into the juice and place it on my tongue. The taste is bitter, but not altogether disagreeable. I then step into the Pooja room. There is a lamp already lit and fresh hibiscus flowers in white, pink and red adorn the Gods and Goddesses, their delicate translucent petals glowing like silk. The rest of my family is already there. My Aai, looking pretty and graceful in her new sari, her hair loosely gathered together in a single plait. My brothers shuffle uncomfortably, awkward and gangly in their new clothes. At the head of the line stands Papa, proud and handsome as ever! I take my place at the end of the line. Papa gives me some money to give to my mom. I wait, clutching the fifty rupee note tightly in my fist. Aai is ready with the Arati Tabak, a brass plate scrubbed clean with two silver niranjans, kumkum, haldi, khavchi paana and some rice. She puts a Tika on each of us, her eyes alight with love. She then gives us the khaavchi paana (betel leaves) and performs the Arati on each one of us, starting with my father. They exchange a glance when he puts the money and the vido back into the plate. I am only six, but even I cannot miss the profoundness of the moment. My mom blushes. So many unspoken thoughts have been exchanged in that one fleeting moment! Next is my brothers’ turn for the arati. I wait impatiently for my turn, shifting my weight from one leg to another. Finally, my mother turns to me, bending slightly to look into my eyes as she does the arati. I deposit my vido with the money into the plate and she smiles. I feel like a million lamps of Diwali are lit inside of me! Happy Diwali Everyone ! - Shefali Vaidya
Posted on: Wed, 22 Oct 2014 07:00:00 +0000
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