Eventful Diwalis and the errant 'busvanam'

Siblings have their little weapons tucked away. The one I hold against my brother is the somewhat misleadingly cheerful 'busvanam'. Even today in the midst of all the Diwali 'atom bombs' and rockets, the one thing he actually pales a little bit in front of, is the 'flower pot' or the 'busvanam' (pronounced boo-svaa-nuhm). The reason goes back to that one eventful Diwali many moons ago, as they say.

Diwalis at Gokulam were a crowded riot. Sooner or later, aunts, uncles and cousins would converge to take thatha-patti's blessings. We waited expectantly for the cousins, mainly. While the adults wished and blessed us etc. and we fell flat several times at the feet of elders, the youngsters were in the thick of Diwali galattas and the crackers, sweets, noise and laughter too converged. With most of us about 25 cousins coming together (and yes we regularly counted ourselves) this was a real event. 

It was one such Diwali evening, which became more eventful than we planned for. My parents had some errand or visit to run, which really did not matter too much to us. Through childhood there were two aunts and a married cousin living next door and it was pretty much like an extended family. Those who have experienced a joint family know what it's like - there's a lot of familial things happening, from gossip, to food to playtime, or even wars! My sister would frequently for instance march off to one of my aunts to request for 'pottu kadalai' (fried gram) - seating herself down with a cup, without much ado. I would have standby hairdressers in my relatives whenever the need arose. So it went without saying that Diwali would be all across. 

We continued playing with crackers and as it became dark, there were a lot of the sparklers, chakras and flower pots now coming out. Among the fireworks, it was common sometimes to get a 'buss' - that is a cracker that didn't go off and we would just kick it away to the side and continue. My brother, boisterous as ever, was trying to make the most of every firework. In this instance he came across a flower pot that did not light. Pushing to ensure paisa vasool, instead of kicking it away, he tried to light it once more with a sparkler. The next thing we heard was a big bang and my brother was screaming. Used to his acoustics, very often I would not take his shouts seriously, imagining him to be playing the fool or just making a scene. Mind you, both happened very often. Here too, I almost started clapping to cheer him - this was usually also a mechanical reaction to anything he did - when I realised this was not play. 

We saw in horror that his hand had taken the impact of the blast and he was, actually in pain. My elder cousins rushed to help and his hand was immediately doused in water. But it was clear he needed medical help. My aunt and uncle - pattathai and athimber as I called them - also rushed. Very rarely had I seen my uncle look flustered or worried, but this was a unique situation. They took him in their black Ambassador car to the doctor to get his burns treated. My parents returned and heard all, but even before they could wonder about how he was, the brother also returned, hand covered in bandages and very often as is the case, looking more proud and heroic, than in pain. The scars and the burn healed very quickly, though the skin on his hand looked much paler for several days after the incident. My brother continued to milk it for all it was worth talking about the entire incident like an adventure; however, so did the whole family. 

We returned to business as usual, that year and the subsequent years, bursting the usual assortment of firecrackers though my brother ensured that he steered clear of the busvanams. 

Looking back it was possibly a narrow escape from what could have been a much nastier accident. In addition to any risks associated with crackers, what kept us feeling more safe and sane is the idea that there is a family and an extended family safety net that takes care of you. More than ever, Diwali or festival times are when these bonds get strengthened. The rituals around taking blessings of elders or the practices of sharing sweets and gifts are a way of reinforcing and reassuring ourselves of people who care for us, all around us. Here's to the spirit of family and the Diwali spirit!

You can read more about Diwali at Gokulam in an earlier post here.   

 

 

   

Cracker Contests and Other Diwali Tales

The highlight of Diwali was always the ‘who-will-do-it-first contest’ – the rush of trying to be the first ones out with the noisiest bang as early as you could on Diwali morning. We were also usually provoked by the Diwali-eve taunts of ‘Hah, it’s not going to be you for sure’. At Gokulam, this challenge was with everyone within audible distance. It wasn’t going to be easy, because to technically win the war, you had to be the first one lighting the cracker AFTER your bath (the Ganga snaanam acha? one).  

We usually made long drawn-out plots. “4 am”, my brother would whisper, conspiratorially “no 3.30, let’s set the alarm and wake up before anyone else”. This was some sort of an impossible feat, since he needed to be kicked thoroughly to wake up even at 4 pm! However, gamely we always nodded heady for battle.

Our wake up time also meant that amma and patti had to wake up much earlier than our target, to make sure the boiler was lit (no geysers then), our clothes arranged, the oil, nalangu and the incomparable ‘Diwali Lehiyam’ all in place. After some groggy disoriented moments, we usually trooped in a line waiting for patti to massage our heads.

For the non-beauty parlour going population then, patti’s oil massages were a patented experience. On non-Diwali days, we would keep begging her to keep massaging. Laughing, she would always narrate a story of how so-and-so slept off during an oil massage and had to be woken up (quite plausible). On Diwali, however, we were in a rush. Enough patti, quickly, finish it patti – all available short-cuts were taken to finish the nalangu, patti’s oil massage song and the betelnut. We could only think of the cracker contest finish line. A short bathroom argument later, we would hurriedly fall flat at amma’s and patti’s feet to collect our mandatory blessings and new clothes.

Even before they could speak so much as a word, let alone bless us with the 'study well' etc. (we didn’t care about studies in any case) we would race off to change and rush out, ‘saram’ in hand. It was usually just a few minutes that separated the winner with the also-rans. Either we would groan hugely and blame everyone around including those in the house who were still asleep, or we would whoop and jump around to celebrate our being THE ONE. However, after that early morning excitement and hyperactivity, things would kind of dull down a bit. A series of sarams, kuruvi vedis and Lakshmi vedis later, we were usually whittled down to fidgeting with bijlis the smallest, cheapest and most loyal of all crackers, by the time the sun rose.

In this melee, where were the men of the house? Thatha usually woke up but sat oiled but unbathed, watching the ruckus or giving an odd shout here and there at someone. Appa of course, was a different story, wonderfully managing to sleep through all the noise and firecrackers till it was quite light. Except, that is, on that one Diwali.

Converging after the peace of the cracker contest, with cousins and neighbours, with the heaviness of sweets inside, we started off on rockets. Stuck into a bottle, a scientific forum like discussion preceded the safest angle to light it in. During one launch, though, our predictions seemed to have gone all wrong and the rocket, suddenly turned and sped with the greatest determination right into an open bedroom window. It had chosen carefully, the room where my dad slept.

As we all raced up the stairs, we were only partly worried about where it fell mostly it was apprehension about the shelling we were sure to get from all the elders. A sleepy-eyed appa viewed us rubbing his head, trying to figure out what had woken him up. The extinguished rocket lay on the floor, satisfied apparently at having achieved its goal. Fortunately, the only damage done was that appa was abruptly woken up.

We got off, lightly that time, partially because amma and patti found this to be a hilarious story. Irked at being the earliest risers year after year, watching the men wander around or sleep, I suspected that they might have even deviously considered making this errant rocket an annual ritual!

Fortunately for appa, that was the only year this rude awakening happened for him. He woke himself up early enough to stay out of the way of rockets, thereafter. The story of the rocket through the window circulated with great speed as we wandered around wishing and getting wished. Along with the bijlis and the cracker contests the story got spicier and more fascinating. 

There were many more tales during Diwali - the 'Vengaya Vedi', (onion crackers that you throw and burst), the cape and gun that heralded the festival a month in advance, the 'collection' we got from hordes of relatives who came. Read also about the errant busvanam story in another of my posts. However, some stories stand out, and the rocket-dad is one of them.  Today, it is a part of the numerous ‘tellable’ tales of the Gokulam folklore.

(pix courtesy: creativecommons)

Gokulam Chronicles: A Tale of Summer Theatre and Childhood Memories

Holidays at our ancestral home, 'Gokulam' were a much-looked forward to affair. There were the usual games – playing with tops, cricket, seven stones (or 'puncture-the-back' as we called it), kites and of course the eternal Hide and Seek. Most of all, during summer holidays – there was also an extra grand spectacle – The Gokulam Theatre Production.

It was a whirl of colour, drama and activity to me, rather younger than my cousins who pulled this all together. Preparations were usually elaborate. Scripts were written, costumes planned and designed and most of all – practice sessions day after day to get the scenes right. I usually sat out, a watchful audience all through, too young to be actually given a role, but awed at the mammoth efforts that my cousins (who seemed huge and immensely professional) put in for these family gatherings.

The programme itself was presented in a make-shift stage – usually the cows and the cars were driven out of the two sheds, an area cleared for the performance and seating organized for the audience – relatives, friends, neighbours. It was a mini-event in the neighbourhood. Consenting friends were roped in to act and participate.

Sometimes these theatre productions even garnered enough attention from passers-by on the street, as they crowded behind the wall to witness this unexpected event, uninvited though they were. Once, in fact, the proceedings got very exciting when an unknown member from the janta outside, proceeded to fling a pebble over the wall and into the stage proceedings. There was a furore and while my male cousins swore vehemently to pursue the suspect, they were cajoled to give up and continue the programme indoors.

It didn’t matter to me much, whether the proceedings were disrupted or continued as planned. It was all dramatic and a very engaging childhood adventure.

An open-mouthed audience through practice and performance, I got the opportunity to potentially make my stage debut – at the tender age of about 5! While I was witnessing one of the practice sessions, my cousins were hard pressed for someone to play the role of a female character. The male-dominant production team had short supply of willing female players. In desperation they saw me sitting and watching and proceeded to enroll me into the act. “It’s nothing much” one of my annas said, “All you have to do is to strike a pose like this”. Director-like he mimicked the action that I was to enact. I agreed heartily.

My epic role consisted of standing in a corner of the stage in the manner suggested, while the remaining dialogues of that one scene, played out for the next few minutes. I practiced furiously for the next couple of days. (This was saying something, as actually I had nothing much to practice except stand and leave at my cue).

The day of the programme dawned. The preparations hit a feverish pitch. A short while before the production was due to be staged, thatha called out to me. “Going up to the shops for a few errands, would you like to come with me in the car?” Driving out in the car was always a delight and I loved hanging around when thatha went shopping. He usually commanded the shopkeepers and made determined purchases, so much that the shopkeepers looked doubtful, if they should charge him or actually pay him for shopping! Excited I jumped into the car behind him, forgetting completely that I was to make my maiden effort on stage soon.

A string of errands later, we returned, just in time for the magnum opus. A harried cousin met me at the door – “Where have you been,” he hissed “You were supposed to get ready for your role. Now we had to make emergency changes.” The emergency change consisted of my brother, doubling up for the role I was supposed to have played, attempting to look unconvincingly coy and feminine right after the scene of a battle.

I didn’t mind much not having to play the part, so long as I could see the programme. My cousins came and went in their assigned roles. I sat, right next to thatha during the show, enjoying every minute and laughing loudly whenever he laughed. There was some battle, some mythology, some religion all in it – none of which I understood, but nevertheless found exceedingly enjoyable. Soon the show ended. There was much mirth and excitement all around when it finished. My uncle, usually the one who gave the verdict and the critics’ views, especially on those who had acted well, commended the show and thereby it was declared a certified success.

Over the years, as my cousins grew older and as they began finishing school and college, the enthusiasm and focus given to the show steadily decreased. By the time I was old enough to actually participate or contribute in these shows in a concrete manner, they had virtually stopped as we, the younger lot of cousins, were not as enterprising as to put up our own show. 

Summer holidays still continued to be time of fun and games, gathering of cousins, laughter and ragging. With 25 of us, we were capable of much noise and disruption. 

Though I never actually made it to the stage in that childhood phase, till today, some of my most memorable childhood summers, my moments of nostalgia, remain the ones which had seen the staging of the 'Gokulam Family Summer Theatre Production'. It was an era, etched into my memory with the colour, glamour and glory of modern-day film productions, only at a much more personal level - a world where we could be producers, we could be kings & queens and we could be just a bunch of young people, living life to the fullest. It was our Gokulam family of happiness.