Diwali officially began on Thursday, but children started shooting rockets into the air long before that, and they haven't stopped since. Their missile launches have only gained strength by both ferocity and frequency, so that by the end of last week even in the daytime I'd pass by groups of youngsters, huddled round a pringle-tin size box, striking a match and sprinting away in the mere seconds given to them by the cracker's impatient fuse. They look like a firework themselves, running away like that, spiraling in all directions like the arms of a Catherine Wheel. Then an ear-splitting bang pulses down the street, backed by the chorus of car alarms and barking dogs, received by the cheers and applause of seven year-old boys and the admonitions of annoyed neighbours. That's what has become of my otherwise pleasant Punjabi neighbourhood over the past few weeks, culminating in the festival to top all festivals, the beginning of a new year - Diwali.
Diwali, or Dipavali as it is also called, is celebrated as a national holiday but interpreted differently based on different religions. For Hindus, the majority of the population, it is marked to celebrate the return of Rama to his kingdom after fourteen years of exile in his pursuit to defeat the demon Ravana. The people of Ayodhya welcomed him home by lighting rows (avali) of oil lamps (dipa), hence the name dipavali and the tradition of this festival of lights. It was a special holiday for me too this year, as I was invited by my friend Komal to spend Saturday night with her family in South Delhi - my first Indian family experience since my arrival here.
But before that night, there were several other little celebrations first. The five day festival started with a day called Dhanteras, an auspicious day to celebrate wealth. Traditionally, everybody goes out to buy something new for the home, be it as lavish as a widescreen TV or as small as a spoon. When I got off the Metro in the evening, returning from Hindi class, My street was packed with all kinds of people buying and selling and generally making things even more chaotic than usual, but the holiday spirit seeped into me too and I found myself buying a teacup on the way home.
Friday was Chhoti Diwali, which means 'small Diwali,' the day before the big celebrations. At a loss for how to celebrate it, my friends Komal, Regina, and I travelled to a market in South Delhi called Sarojni Nagar - probably the cheapest place to buy clothes in Delhi and packed with amazing stuff. Needless to say, my shopping endorphins went into sensory overload. Most of the clothes there had been made for export - most of them had the tags cut off but on occasion I came across a recognizable Gap top or an Urban Outfitters dress. Sometimes the police would wander by and scared shop owners would rush around to move their displays out of the little streets, making me wonder whether some of the goods were stolen. But hey, is it so wrong to be giving money directly to the sources our clothes in America really come from, or would it be better to pay twenty times as much to the department store they end up in? Well, I suppose it's that kind of thinking that ends with one dishing out 1500Rs, but I have a lot to show for it!
The next day on Badi Diwali, or 'big Diwali,' Komal and I set off for her family's house deep in South Delhi. I felt excited and nervous to be a part of their celebrations, not knowing whether the reputed quiet holiday at home would be too private an affair for me to join in on. Then I met her relatives and they were lovely to me. The house was Komal's maternal uncle's, but being a shared family home it housed over three floors her aunt and uncle, their two sons plus the wife of the elder one (the younger brother is soon to be married and will then welcome his new bride into the household, too), AND both sets of grandparents, as well as household staff. It seems such a foreign concept to me to have all extended family under one roof, as I've grown up with mine always living a long plane ride away, but I loved the closeness of everyone. Accordingly, I'm sure the idea even of an extended family is a foreign concept to them. Everybody from the aunt and uncle down could speak English very well, but the conversations were mostly in Hindi, so I had a fun time keeping myself engaged and listening out for familiar words in an attempt not to blend in with the furniture. I'm happy to say I think I got the jist of it.
In the evening we all gathered in a room that housed the family's shrine to perform puja, a ritual blessing offered to various deities depending on the occasion. Going into it I was worried, as I really had no clue what to do as the only non-Hindu there. But once again, the whole family welcomed me into their festivities and helped me along. I was surprised at how merry the atmosphere was in the room - as Komal's uncle lit the incense and prepared statuettes and coins for their blessing, the cousins joked around, pinching each other and giggling. Komal and I had nothing to cover our heads so took a bit of tinsel edged cloth from the cupboard and wrapped it around our heads and faces like demure Muslim girls, batting our eyelashes and making everyone laugh at our expense. When the prayers and singing began, Komal's aunt was nice enough to turn around at the end of each verse and offer me a translation. On the main night of Diwali you offer blessings to the gods Lakshmi and Ganesha - one the goddess of wealth, the other the god of prosperity. Her uncle bathed little figures of them in milk, along with coins from several different countries, then placed piles of sandalwood before them and dotted their foreheads with vermillion powder. We, too, got a crimson dotting. At the end of the ceremony each of us carried a plate decorated with candles in the shape of a Hindu swastika, moving it in circles before the gods. Hopefully I did the whole thing right - it'd be nice if the gods of prosperity and wealth looked favourably on me this year...
At dinner we ate some delicious homemade Indian food - sabzi, chana, roti and rice, some amazing mint chutney and aloo paneer. I took my fill but soon learned that guests in an Indian home really aren't allowed to refuse anything offered to them, no matter how many times one protests, so I ended up right stuffed. The kesar pista (saffron pistachio) ice cream and khaju burfi really finished me off - I thought they'd all have to roll me through the door to watch the fireworks outside.
The scene in the street took me back to memories of New Year's Eve in the Philippines, minus the scary after hours news footage of people in the hospital with their hands blown off... On the ground level children lit spinning 'chakris,' which whistled as they spiraled around on the road spitting sparks. On the rooftops other families had lit rows of oil lamps just like we had, and brave people set off big rockets in rapid succession. It felt like we'd stepped into a war zone, just with prettier, twinkly explosions. One of the cousins commented on how much better it was this year (in terms of less fireworks being set off) because people were more concerned about air pollution these days. I had a little laugh to myself about that one - if you saw the kind of stuff you blow out of your nose at the end of a long day spent in the smoggy heart of the city, you'd know why. We watched for a long time until my ears were practically ringing, but were eventually forced inside by the falling cinders of one neighbour's low flying rockets - one of the pieces even fell on my cheek. What a night!
In the morning light the street was a tired and soot covered reminder of the majestic night before, full of empty rocket cans overturned in the street and run over by cars. Another delicious but huge breakfast was forced upon me by my fantastic hosts, but soon it was almost time to go. Komal went into another room to pack her things and I waited awkwardly in the foyer with the grandparents who spoke no English. But then her Nani unexpectedly grabbed my hand and guided me over to the sofa, asking me to sit beside her. She apologized for not speaking much English, but I told her that she could speak Hindi and I would try to understand. It was amazing how much we could actually converse. Nani pulled out a big photo album and flipped through the pages, introducing me to every one of her many relations, and I meaneveryone. In translation it would be like "this is my husband's brother's daughter's sister-in-law. She's married to the Minister of Defense and comes from Madras." I nodded and smiled and she kept hugging and holding me as if I was one of these extended family members now too, it was really lovely. She even told me that I should stay in India for longer so that we could teach each other our respective languages. Probably my favourite moment of the whole weekend.
We left to many protestations on the family's part and promises on our behalf to come back again soon. I also left with presents in my hand, a box of mango cookies and a coin with Lakshmi and Ganesha on it. I can only hope that this very happy Diwali of mine is a sign of some good fortune and prosperity to come. Who knows? Maybe those mischievous kids in my neighbourhood will give up their rockets and go back to the serene kite-flying I love them for. Wishful thinking.
