I read somewhere that Diwali was
also celebrated amongst other things, to mark the return of the Hindu God, Ram
from his 14 year long exile in the forest and the entire kingdom was lit up
with oil lamps to welcome him home. I am sure he must’ve been one happy
gentleman to have returned home to all those succulent boondi laddoos, hand
crafted gulab jamuns, crispy murukkus and a loving brother (umm, not necessarily
in that order). I can imagine it’d have been a welcome change from the vegan
fare at the woodlands. Anyway, the point
being; when I landed at the Bangalore airport on Friday night, with its own
little version of perennial ‘welcome home’ guiding lights on the tarmac, I had
a warm, fuzzy feeling about being home in November much like what I suspect the
returning King may have had all those centuries ago.
For the last seven years, I have
been following the murukku trail and turning up at home in Bangalore, in time
for Diwali. The festival of lights (and sound) has come a long way from my
formative years when it loosely translated to new clothes, firecrackers and
murukku to a more transcendental experience now - homecoming. It is a different matter that quite unlike my
counterparts in UK and US who seem like the poster-children for Axis bank’s NRI
Homecoming ads, I do trudge down to Bangalore every other month. But like my
friend Arjun emphatically says, “One can’t NOT be home for Diwali!” I’m sure my
roomie Shif would agree. She’s been striking off dates in her mental ‘Days-to-Diwali’
calendar with more zeal than Tom Hanks did in Cast Away! And going by all the
Facebook updates which have varying forms of ‘Nadaan Parindey Ghar Aaja’ as
status messages; I’m left with no doubt that most of the (social networking) world
agrees with Arjun.
But, there is something to be
said about turning up at work on the day before Diwali in traditional wear,
well-accessorized with blingy bangles and an equally appropriate suitcase that
completes the pre-Diwali look. Between demolishing the traditional sweets that
so generously do the rounds and applauding people on their enthusiasm as
reflected by their ensembles, one hardly notices the hours slip by and before
you’re ready to jot down that To-Do list for the day, viola… it’s time to print
out the ticket and scram to the airport. The airport itself seems to have
transformed into a homing ground for the American Tourister toting corporate
slaves sporting anarkali suits, Fabindia kurtas and beatific ‘I’m-going-home-for-Diwali’
grins.
When I reach home, the folks
welcome me with open arms and tins of murukkus. Boy, they do know what a girl
wants! That right there, Ladies and Gentlemen, is my happy place! The usual
trappings of Diwali do make their way into our home every year – new clothes,
firecrackers, murrukus, rava laddoos, the Diwali special super-hit movie on Sun
TV, the endless phone calls from family and friends and the good-humoured-bad-grammared-zealously-illustrated
wishes on SMS and Whatsapp (Yes, yes I know there is no such word as ‘grammared’
but hey, where’s that festive spirit?). But all of these are what add to the warmth
and bonhomie of the festival and that’s when you realize that the
warm fuzzy feeling in your heart is not from sitting too close to the Diyas : )
Happy Diwali peoplezzz!
