As it has become a tradition with me, I’m late speaking on celebrations passed, moments bygone, and life events already lived. That’s not a bad thing, though. Because when there are celebrations to be celebrated and moments that require me to participate, I’m present. You’ll find me fully immersed in the experience of life - whether good or bad - and that’s a more meaningful existence than abandoning life’s milestones midway through, all to go and blog about what was an almost moment, an almost feeling, and half an experience. So, here I am, a day late, writing my post-Diwali sentiments.
Since I’m still within the alluring grip of light and renewal, I’ve decided to wear a full-length gold ensemble to my writing desk. It’s super glam. My Anarkali dress, bought while living in one of my favorite cities, Jaipur, has a mirrored sequined bust and teardrop rhinestones on the hem, making my Monday outfit outrageously ornate. Which, in all fairness, is exceedingly appropriate for one of my favorite festivals: Diwali, the Festival of Light. I was going to pair my beautiful dress with the gold bangles that I bought in the Dili Haat market but apparently, my 41-year-old wrists are no longer a match for the dainty wrists that I bore in my twenties. Shocker.
At one point in my life, I belonged to an Indian family. Sure, I’m not Indian myself, but as a white-passing and ethnically ambiguous person who’s composed of stock from different stirring pots, it seemed a natural transition to merge into a culture whose foundations are similar to my own. The Chopra’s are a blended family of Hindus and Sikhs. Through them, I was invited into two worlds that fused together across North Indian farming lands; sometimes lovingly and sometimes with opposition.
Diwali is a beautifully vibrant festival. The preparations would begin weeks in advance; Mama-ji would rope me into cleaning and cooking duties, as well as washing and preparing the home Temple of those honored. One of my favorite pre-Diwali events was when the Chopra family – an assortment of blood relatives and in-laws, adult adoptees, and friends alike - would come together to make rava ladoo. The Indian-styled bonbons, made from semolina flour, coconut, and cardamom, have always been a favorite. Even more so when there’s a room of women singing and dancing and laughing while sifting flour, stirring sugary and spiced ingredients together, and folding mixtures into large bowls before frying in ghee. The jovial atmosphere of those kitchen diaries, encouraged by Diwali’s promise of new light and new beginnings, was deliciously infectious. As delicious as Mama-ji’s rava ladoo.
Since moving to America, I haven’t experienced those big and enthralling and gloriously loud celebrations of Diwali, or indeed any of my own culture’s festivities. I don’t live in the most racially diverse part of America and have been stranded without a sense of community for far too many years now. Nonetheless, I keep the traditions alive that are doable for solitary celebrations, and after such a twatty year of fucking-hell-on-wheels, I decided this Diwali was going to be a little more spectacular than just lighting a jasmine-scented candle that I bought from Walmart. No offense Walmart.
Diwali is the celebration of the Hindu, Sikh, and Buddhist New Year. As with any celebration of a new year, whether it be Nowruz, Hijri New Year, Lunar New Year, Rosh Hashanah, and so on, it marks a time of abundance and festivity. A time of self-reflection and excitement for reformation. A time to illuminate our homes with friends and family, great feasts, merriment, and light. In a sense, the promise of a new year is a gift, and we honor that gift with both gratitude and generosity.
With that in mind, I conjured my inner Mama-ji - Mrs. Sulaksha Chitnavis Chopra to you – and rolled up imaginary sleeves before tying my Union Jack apron around my waist. Rummaging through my pantry while discovering bottles of liquids long forgotten about, as well as unearthing a bag of expired rose hips, I seized jars of textured ingredients, throwing them onto my kitchen table. I settled on making gulab jamun – or if you’ve got a smutty brain like me, milky balls – and puran poli, stuffed with coconut and dried apricots. Although my festive treats couldn’t compare to Mama-ji’s cooking, my efforts paid off and I was quite happy with the results. Happy enough to have almost finished gobbling up the entire batch all by myself, which means I’m preparing myself for the extra weight gain for this week's weigh-in.
Aside from eating something that reminded me of a home that I once knew, I littered my living room with tealights and emptied a vase of faux marigolds onto the floor. Using colored chalk to create something symbolic of a rangoli, I positioned the faux marigolds in between the diyas (oil lamps) and framed postcard of Goddess Lakshmi, who was swathed in a red and gold silk jhalar (a decorative fabric used during Diwali). I was once told that there are three typical rangoli styles: the most common being the lotus flower, representative of wealth and fertility, which reinforces the celebration of light over darkness; paglya (footprints), which invokes the Goddess Lakshmi; and owls, which represent blessings and auspiciousness. Instead of following tradition, I drew a garden of sunflowers on my living room floor; a flower that I have loved and that has loved me back twice as hard, and a flower that I grow each spring.
Setting intentions for myself, I was able to enjoy some beautiful music played by Ravi Shankar and Yehudi Menuhin, all whilst the weight of this year's trauma evaporated from the storage in my bones. Well, a little, at least. This Diwali I prayed for peace. After all, the world is bankrupt of peace. Whoever's the collector of my prayer, I do hope they assign it to the right department and that someone up there, above the fields of endless sky, will honor it. One can only hope, right?
Happy New Year, friends!
(Artwork: Marcia Baldwin)
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