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Diwali, a festival of lights, is celebrated with religious solemnity, but Ruchira’s experiences shaped a complex relationship with the festival. An exclusive for Different Truths.
The festival of lights, or Diwali, as it is commonly called a major crowd-puller, particularly in the northern areas of the country. The residents of the southern states (I speak from experience) exude a solemn religious fervour on this occasion, while their counterparts elsewhere exhibit a penchant for mindless revelry, drinking, and gambling bouts interspersed with shopping extravaganzas. Nevertheless, overall, it is a joyous occasion for everyone—to forget their woes momentarily, try and purge their hearts and minds of all the dross and dispel darkness from their lives.
Looking back at my life, as far as I can remember (believe it or not), I don’t seem to possess any happy memories associated with Diwali. Over the years, the festival has brought with it a series of mishaps and tragedies. When I was a student in Grade Two, a classmate (read, a friend) of mine, Nina Abrol, succumbed to severe burn injuries on Diwali night itself. Sheer lack of vigilance and supervision on the part of her parents and guardians. What else? This incident shocked me to no end. On the last day before Diwali break, we had a lot of fun. And now she was gone forever! For weeks, her empty desk and chair in the classroom continued to haunt me.
… two of my favourite aunts from my father’s side lost their lives on Diwali night within two consecutive years.
Similarly, two of my favourite aunts from my father’s side lost their lives on Diwali night within two consecutive years. Uncanny coincidences, aren’t they?
I was too young to remember the details. However, the word-of-mouth version said that the lower parts of their saris had caught fire from diyas and candles placed on the ground in and around their homes. However, due to personal issues like sterility, financial hardship, and more, the family rumours were that they had committed suicide.
It was a cruel irony of fate that the deafening noise all around drowned out their agonising cries for help. By the time their immediate family members could arrange medical aid, it was already too late.
Many years later, a drunken man riding a scooter struck my ten-year-old brother as he was playing outside with the remaining firecrackers. He escaped with a fractured collarbone but got laid up for nearly two months.
I must mention yet another untoward incident that occurred on Diwali night of another year. In those days, we lived on the first floor of a double-story apartment. We children (including three cousins) were agog with excitement and were looking forward to the evening. Now, my parents had gone out on an important errand, having deputed my kuttie kaku (very young uncle/chacha) to look after the kids and the house as well.
Though there was open ground in front of our building, the woolly-headed fellow (uncle) refused to lead us there.
Though there was open ground in front of our building, the woolly-headed fellow (uncle) refused to lead us there. Rather, he told us to play on our spacious balcony itself. Without checking out the discarded stuff (newspapers, old mattresses, petrol cans) piled up in the courtyard below, he encouraged us to stretch out beyond balcony railings and burn the sparklers. We hadn’t realised it, but a few sparks must have landed on the junk; shortly, a medium-sized fire broke out. The occupants of that wing rushed out and doused the fire promptly, all the while vehemently hurling the filthiest of expletives at us.
To date, I thank Providence for saving us from perishing in the blaze.
Picture design by Anumita Roy
