Another Deepavali. Tepid, Covid Deepavali.

As kids, it was the day of the year to look forward to. Firecrackers, bombs, light and sound. We competed with friends in the neighbourhood to be the first to set off a bomb early morning (as early as 3:30 am!) to announce the start of festivities. The mandatory oil-bath would be completed hurriedly, and new clothes donned before stepping out.

There were always enough and more firecrackers to last the whole day, and still have some left for Karthigai. ‘Lakshmi vedis’ were sought after and dreaded at the same time. They were deafening when set off. The 1000-walas would be the grand finale, bringing the evening session and Deepavali to a close. Re-entering home, we would glance one last time at the heaps of paper – the remnants of wrappers, crackers and bombs strewn outside – a glance that told us who had won the contest for most firecrackers burnt.

Within the home, Deepavali meant that my mother would get busy making sweets and savouries a day before the festival. We were a large family, and this meant a long day in the kitchen for her, getting tins of eats ready. Elaborate meals were readied on Deepavali and after the morning’s excitement with fireworks, food was the next order of business.

Deepavali was also the day to visit grandparents, cousins and other family. When we were young, my father would lead the way; three daughters and a son in tow, trying to keep pace with him. In my teens, I would take my bicycle and go around town, ride as much as fifty kilometres in all, meeting folks, greeting, and sampling their eats.

Festival binges, new clothes and fireworks didn’t hold interest after a while. In my twenties, Diwali was significant because it was a holiday from work. I could sleep till late in the morning. No need to rush and board a chartered bus at quarter-to-seven. As a bachelor in a Delhi barsaati, I invited myself to friends’ and colleagues’ festival celebrations.

Things changed after marriage. Chandrika, not in any sense religious, would without fail light a number of diyas on Deepavali evening. Carefully done, thoughtfully distributed within the house, laid out in a simple formation at the entrance to our home. Bright lights were avoided. The lamps glowed, flickered in the breeze, cast their dancing shadows, and beckoned a drink or two.

With Chandrika gone and Meghna away some years, my mother now lights just a handful of lamps each Deepavali and busies herself with her pujas. Now, we no longer wait for occasions like Deepavali to buy new clothes. The fireworks come in the way of a brisk evening walk. As for eats, it is a toss-up between Grand Sweets and Sri Krishna Sweets. Dwindling appetites and diabetes mean that we are happy to part with the things we buy. I settle down with a single malt and later wrap up the day – dinner done, kitchen cleaned, and a bag left dangling on the front door for the next morning’s milk supply.

The gods smiled all these years. They continue to.

It is 10.30 pm.

A bomb goes off in the distance. Damn.

Image source: Pxfuel