Diwali memories of my grandmother’s home

There is festivity in the air with the Festival of Lights just a day away. Shopkeepers have adorned their shops with colourful knick-knacks, taking up more space for the same by putting additional tents and tables with least of a worry about causing road congestion and traffic jams. No one is complaining either for everyone is in a festive spirit never mind if Diwali has become more materialistic over the years.

As a child, I used to accompany my parents to the village where we lived in a joint family. My grandmother, the matriarchal head, ran the family with a firm hand. In her benevolent and affirmative presence, the family stuck together despite differences that were always reconcilable, for her will prevailed. On Diwali, the sweets, the crackers and a motley assortment of gifts all were handed over to her before she, with a dignified poise, divided everything equally among everyone.

For me, those Diwalis were memorable for they came with simple rituals and a riot of laughter over petty fights among cousins. We happily lit diyas on rooftops and greeted neighbours, who too would be doing the same on the adjoining roof. The roofs looked too close for comfort with shared walls but no one ever complained and we found warmth in common spaces.

My grandmother’s room was kutcha (built with mud brick) for she detested every attempt to move into a furnished room. That room remained untouched by any kind of adornment throughout her life. It was a big, airy room with several cots so that all family members could be accommodated in one sitting. They came handy during monthly meetings of the family when financial transactions were discussed and Bebe ji (my grandmother) presided over such assemblies with the flair of a diplomat. After listening to everyone, she would give her unbiased opinion on a solemn note and everyone would abide by her decision.

Every Diwali, she would take out a miniature mud hut adorned with diyas and it was the family tradition to get blessings by placing a silver rupee at the door of the hut. And then we would get our share of dry fruits, homemade laddoos and intensely sweet khoya burfi. I craved for more but would never get more than my fair share. I found the ritual offerings by Bebe ji and the environment mystical. I looked forward to it every year.

After Diwali, the miniature art work would go back into her majestic trunk only to be taken out the next year.

After her death, Diwali was no more magical and methodical. The tenuous thread with which she held the family broke and everyone went their ways. Though the family still gathers at the village for Diwali but the special ways in which my grandmother exuded her charm and charisma into the festivities is missing. Yet Diwali brings a smile with a memoir of memories that enthralled my childhood.

THOSE DIWALIS WERE MEMORABLE FOR THEY CAME WITH SIMPLE RITUALS AND A RIOT OF LAUGHTER WITH COUSINS. WE HAPPILY LIT DIYAS ON ROOFTOPS AND GREETED NEIGHBOURS