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)

Bringing Pillayar home – Ganesh Chaturthi at Gokulam

Bringing Pillayar home for Ganesh Chaturthi meant an early morning trek to the bustling Patel Road market – the team of kids led by thatha on the morning before the puja. “MaNai” in tow, we trotted behind thatha holding the wooden seat for Ganesha carefully. Patti’s elaborate kolam in wet rice flour was already on it, now dried, decorating the space on which Ganesha was going to sit. Choosing the Pillayar would be a tricky affair, though. 

Rows and rows of street shops had emerged overnight, each displaying an array of pillayars, various shapes and sizes – all in traditional clay. Each of us, tried to pitch our choice. “That one, thatha – looks very good... No, this is really bigger than the rest.. this one has such a kind face.. this one has a different design.” Yet, usually thatha made the choice “Give me this one,” he would command the nervous shopkeeper as they hurried to pack his choice. Carefully placing the idol on the manai, we would pick up all the accessories – the umbrella, the garland, the flowers etc and trot back home, chattering excitedly. “Why did you pick this one thatha? Was it better than the rest?” He would always say “No, this is my pillayar, that’s why.” “How can you be sure?” “I just know it” – at which we wouldn’t know what to say.

It was thatha’s constant story each year – there was one pillayar that belonged to him and returned year after year to his puja. We never tired of listening though we frequently tried to break through this argument. “All the pillayars look alike... we don’t see any difference; how did you make out?” “He winks at me to tell me that he’s the one.” 

“We didn’t see it, we were also with you.” “That’s because he winks only at me. He doesn’t want anyone else to notice.” 

“Come on thatha...” 

“Really. Didn’t you see I picked him almost right away?” and so on.

It took a busy hour to decorate the Pillayar – the little dhoti, the cotton “poonal” the coin in his belly-button, the holy ash applied delicately on his forehead and limbs – after which he looked content and complete. Post puja, we gathered around and with kozhakattais stuffed in our mouth, too satisfied with the treats to really go back to the Ganesha story. 

For two days, thatha’s Ganesha stayed with us in our puja room, then it was time to immerse it. I always worried about this bit. “Do we have to immerse him? He’s so much a part of the puja room now.” “Don’t worry,” thatha would reassure me. “He has already told me where he will be next year and how to find him.” As thatha dropped the Ganesha we watched it swirling and then going out of sight in the waters of the well in our backyard. 

Perhaps I did not completely believe him, but these reassurances made me feel less bad about losing the winking Ganesha who adorned our puja room for three days every year. I felt comforted by the thought that he would be waiting for us in the Patel Road market again next year, waiting to give thatha his signal and come back home to us. 

In an unconscious way, it also instilled in me early in life, the idea that one could have personal connections with God. Thatha’s stories brought the thought that beyond the custom and tradition of bringing a clay idol home, this was a way to relate to God coming home to us. It made the Ganesh Chathurthi idol buying walk, a spiritual journey in itself. 

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. 

Mami Maestros: The Music Matriarchs of Family Gatherings

It was a regular cultural spectacle – the numerous mamis who descended into our home every few days. Each of these 'Mamis' in a manner of speaking could have been called aunt, grandmother, elder sisters or any such thing. However, mami kinda encompasses the gamut of women who bring a waft of traditional flavour with them – silk or traditional cotton sarees, diamond nose-rings and ear-rings, heavy gold chains, large red bindi, jasmine flowers, the works. If you could say anything at all, they were definitely quite a colourful lot adding flavour to our family gatherings.

The objective of these mamis, however, was in one nodal person – our own patti - grandmother. Armed with her “harmonium box” as she called it, she was quite a VIP in those parts, sitting at the lead of an army of mamis – an army it seemed to us little kids running around, playing, chattering, generally getting in the way of all those who came in.

Us grandchildren were usually warned, well in advance to behave ourselves – meaning, stay quiet, stay away, stay put. With so much of colour and clamour, however, it was a little difficult to keep us away for too long. The music gathering readied itself – seated on jamakkalams in our living room – facing patti on one side, the army of them on the other. It took a while for the clamour to settle, after which the music began. This was the interesting part. I don’t mean the actual making music as patti chased me down and made me learn these separately, so the actual purpose of the meet was not that captivating. What made it interesting was to watch each of the women as they sang.

We – the grandchildren – usually crept to the staircase that led up from the living room and sat peering through the coloured grillwork. It was a ringside view – and weren’t we rewarded! The music began and so did the various whispered comments and giggles from our end as we watched. Watched, not listened. For instance, the lady right in the front row had a reasonably thin and wobbly head. It was fascinating to see her shake and push her head in different directions, craning up as she hit a high pitch. She was the “wobbly mami”. Another was the “kannadi mami” so called because of her over-sized specs that dominated most of her face. Yet another mami was rather plump and usually out of breath. We usually waited, hoping for something dramatic while she strained and gasped through the songs. Fortunately for her, nothing of that sort happened. Rumour was that she put on this act so she could not be blamed for her out of tune voice. Children are usually the first to spread and hear such rumours.

The list of mamis was fascinating with the diamond-mami, the chungdi mami, the chuckling mami, the crying mami and so on. The list seemed endless and entertaining to us at the same time. After we became a little noisy, some adult or the other – the spoilsport – usually chased us out to play. Ya, we did have a large outdoors to play – cowshed and all.

On special occasions, the dramatics and entertainment reached a peak. Some mami or the other would start crying and the others would follow suit. Patti too would join them, wiping her eyes with the edge of her sari. We were told they cried as they were thankful to patti for teaching her the bhajans. I asked patti one day, “You teach me music also patti, so am I supposed to cry for that?” I did not understand why she found it funny. “I am nothing but a foolish old lady. All those women are making a scene for nothing. Go on with you” she would say. After stoutly defending her that she was not foolish, I would run off to play only to come back fascinated when the next batch of bhajan mamis came. Then our little group of siblings and cousins would gather at the staircase, our strong family bond aiming to predict what would happen next.

I’m quite sure patti enjoyed the classes and so did the mamis, but they would not have had as much fun and entertainment with the whole spectacle as we had, from our grandstand seat on the stairs. 

Spell-o-Fun: A Holiday Tradition with Thatha

It was usually a holiday trademark event and a family tradition when all of us gathered around the Spell-o-Fun board, the board game, picked the coins and started building the words. The image of thatha in the midst of it all - dominant, vociferous, usually good-humoured swings into the frame. She is too small to make the words on her own, they usually said and I and the other children had an adult to "supervise" and "help". Sometimes I got thatha. The start of the word-building game was always good. We were all well-behaved, seated on the floor, coins and board spread out and if there was something good one of us spotted, then a separate secret exchange to ensure that the word was right, spellings correct etc. As the pressure and the points started building, the elders usually took over the 'fun game', sometimes nearly snatching the coins out of our hand, making a grab for the dictionary to strongly contest an opponent's word and sometimes stealing sly glances through other possible bonus point words while turning the pages.

Thatha, of course had to steamroller ahead - in points, in words or in the way in which he finished. As the board filled, he would get restless, usually stand up and after a point lean over the board as if an aerial view would give him some clue - some brainwave that being seated on the floor eluded. Towards the end, when it was those critical last couple of words and letters left he would pick up the unspent letter and chase around the board with his eyes, looking for that gap or that space where it could fit. I would coax quietly or make a timid suggestion if I was on his team, but more often than not he would try to shout down the "opponent's" words or moves as being illegal, muting his protest when he found that actually he hadn't much of a case, or better still, the other move had given him an advantage. 

The classic finale of the family gathering, was the best . With all these vocal cord advantages, thatha was usually ahead in the game, but if anyone else dared finish their coins first while he was still struggling with those remaining letters, he had a simple but effective finishing touch. After the usual attempts at protest that he would unveil, if he did find no use in that, he would just bend over and swoop down on some two hours of labour and jumble the whole board with one sweep of his hand. Even as we watched aghast, he would pick himself up and walk off - "I have to rush for something important, I am not playing in this game" giving us a good long view of his receding back. 

As it was thatha, we usually never said anything. The next time around, when we played Spell-o-Fun, he was back, boisterous and enthusiastic as ever. Of course, we just played along.