No one writes about not being home for Diwali.
They’ll write songs and stories and poems
So full of pathos
For the tragedy
Of not being home
In festive December.
But November
Keeps getting shortchanged.
November, lonely November
When darkness falls
A little too early-
November could use some cheer.
Some lights, as it were.
Some fireworks, some diyas,
Some fairy lights, perhaps?
There’s never too much
Tradition or pomp in Diwali
Back home.
But there are fairy lights
And diya
designs to be made
Brightening the house
So the goddess Lakshmi doesn’t miss it
(And I can afford to rip my father off
For the rest of the year).
There is good food, good cheer
And good company
(As good as family gets).
I haven’t burst crackers
Since I turned 13
And turned righteous.
But it was nice to climb the roof
Stand with my sister
Have some coke
And watch the streets
Grow molten
With light and life.
It was good to remember
The joy of an anaar
flaring
To the skies
The sparkle of a phooljhadi
Aloo bombs
making
Screaming, giggling children
Run back
Charkhis
painting the road
There is always
The taste of ash and chemicals
That mingles with fresh oxygen
And means, home.
There is a cowering dog
To be comforted
And laughed at
(Just a bit).
There is my mother
Stuffing me with food
Till I collapse
My father waving around
Boxes of barfis and ladoos
Insisting I have them all
Teasing my mother-
Bargaining with her on how many she’s allowed.
Gossiping about our crazy family
With my sister
Pretending we are the normal ones
(We aren’t).
Perhaps I’d please my daadi
And roll my eyes
And wear something ‘traditional’
Muttering about how stupid it all was
(Secretly, it looked so lovely).
Lights drip down the ivory and onyx
Exterior of my house
And wrap around bushes
(My dad and I were being artistic).
If I sniff hard enough,
There is jasmine in the air
Wet earth
From earlier
When I helped the maali
water the garden.
There is so much joy
And exhilaration-
Unabashed laughter
I feed on it
And can’t help but smile
Indulgently
At the children
Yelling themselves
Sore; In the streets
While thinking
I am above these youthful shenanigans
(I am not).
There are gifts to be given
In shiny wrapping paper
And so much to be
Brattily demanded
And boxes of dry fruits
To be opened
And all the kish mish to be stolen.
There is so much
That happens
In just a few hours
That I could never
Run of out words
To describe it.
There is so much to miss
And so much to crave.
So much light, love, happiness.
So much thanks to be given
(Perhaps a quick word to someone up above?)
So much to write about
And yet.
No one writes about not being home
For Diwali.
