Diwali through my eyes: part 1

Oh boy! This weekend is stretching out to be a bit longer than what I thought it would be.

Two days ago, my dad had bundled me, a five year old hyperactive ‘munchkin’, in a car and drove 3 hours to reach this weird, old but amazingly huge house, where we were to ‘spend a couple of days, enjoy and celebrate Diwali.’ Great! A change of pace; a break from the monotonous life. 

Two people- a slightly older version of mom, and a grey-haired dad- had emerged from the house, followed by a herd of relatively less important (younger) members of the clan. I guess that the owners of this majestic bungalow had ‘grand’ aspirations to be grand when they grew up, and hence forced us to call them grandpa and grandma. (A bit unimaginative and lacking in grandeur, if you ask me)

My parents, who were tasked with looking after my well-being, ignored their responsibility and had jumped head-first in the afore-mentioned herd. I was put in the ‘grand’ centre of the shenanigans, and was forced to sit through a tormenting session of cheek-pulling and adhere to instructions of bending over backwards (literally) to touch (lightly massage?) the feet of ‘elders’. After these people were bored of their new toy, aka me, we could get on to the best and most important part of Diwali- great, tasty, oily food.

While eating my fifth (or maybe sixth) serving of ladoos and churma, I had a few minutes of peace to take in all our surroundings. The house we were in was at least 13 times bigger than our matchbox flat back home. I could spy almost a dozen other people who I sort of know (they are called family members? Semi-strangers? People you are stuck with for life? Something like that, I don’t remember). Almost all of these people are way more ancient than I am. 

The car ride and the heavy meal had exhausted me, and I was ready to spend the next few hours in peaceful slumber. I usually snuggle between mom and dad in a comfortable bed, covered in a warm blanket, being read stories or sung lullabies till I drop. (perks of being an only child.) Here, I and some of the less ancient people of the family (cousins? Remote-snatching monsters?) were bundled on a mattress on the floor, told to ‘behave ourselves’ and shushed off. The two other ‘roommates’ were up till 2, playing games on the console they had snuck under their blankets, making noises and fighting over whose turn it was to play. Why wasn’t I playing? Well, apparently the console was to ‘priceless’ to be allowed in ‘my’ hands. (I guess half-a-decade of experience in surviving life isn’t enough.)  

Next day, I was sure that the ‘elders’ have officially lost it. They were doing stuff that if I had tried to do I would have been grounded for life. They chose different corners and started painting ON THE FLOOR. The red colour they used will surely leave permanent stains. I kept waiting for THEIR mother to emerge and reprimand them, but Grandma just sat and giggled in the background. (psst! Apparently they were making Rangolis? Like, what’s that? What a dumb excuse. Double standards.)

Then at night, a horde of strings of lights illuminated the windows. They would change colours, or blink in unison- they were fascinating. But no, elders were not satisfied with that. They needed to light these small boat shaped candles, which hardly flickered or lighted up the area. They were small, had no impact in front of the gorgeous fairy lights, but we can’t argue with stubborn toddlers, can we?

‘We’ then went down to burst ‘green crackers’. But only the earlier mentioned idiotic roomies got their hands on some of the ‘less harmful Diwali polluting agents’ and burst a couple. I was too young to do anything, it seems. I am too young to do anything fun, too old to have any tantrums – what a tough time to survive.

We changed into our finest traditional wear to get ready for pujas. This was the first time I actually remember sitting through such a strange ceremony. People spend hours to get ready, to sit and chant mantras in front of a tray of candles/diyas, and then proceeded to spend longer on getting the perfect angle in their hundred pictures. They seemed to assume me to be their prop, once again. I was made to pose awkwardly with a ton of people, and was told to make faces which would be captured in photographs to last an eternity. Well, at least I would get good food at the end of it all.

I take back my stance of food. Even though they seem to be heaven for my taste-buds, they create a ruckus later down the digestive track. I was guilt-tripped into eating multiple helpings of meals, which then forced me to spend extended amounts of time on the pot- valuable time that could be spent running around and getting into everyone’s way.

I had sacrificed my sleep, my bed, my stomach-needs, encountered adult-hypocrisy and agreed to be a human prop for almost 48 hours, and now I’m at the edge. I’m even ready to go back to school if we can just go home right now. Dad, please lets bundle up in our car and call it ‘quits’ on Diwali.