The Big, Fat, New Year Feast!

Frenzied assignment of duty, repeated supply checks, urgent instructions flying all over the place and a dedicated workforce in action. One would imagine a setting like this at a factory but it is actually a Gujarati household bracing itself for a huge new year’s feast planned in the evening. The commander in action is the 45 year old Gujarati housewife. In her synthetic printed salwar kameez, she was ordering her family members, the house help and the disgruntled cook to get her work done. The mission was not only to feed 40 people with a delicious meal (which was not good enough for her) but also to make the occasion memorable. So the responsibility to achieve the target was on the paid help and the unpaid one (which in this case were the poor souls called the family).

The daughter was made to go out to shop for ingredients and then the husband was send behind her to check whether the task was getting done correctly. She was also made to climb the ladder to put up the toran on the door and then after five minutes was told to remove it. The son did the climbing up to the old attic to take out old, rusted, cob webbed utensils. The continuous bickering of the cook and the arguments about the food and table arrangements made for the background music. Excessive cleaning was taking place simultaneously. Bed sheets were changed, mattresses were replaced, and the furniture was polished with a wet cloth. Corners of the house which the inhabitants don’t see or even bother to visit were cleaned up. Sigh! So much for the right impression on the guests… Truly Atithi Devo Bhava.

The door bell finally rang at 8 pm which began the welcoming of the first of many guests to arrive. With a little bit of apprehension, the door was thrown open to them. They walked in with a beaming smile, wishing the family, Saal Mubarak. Mr. M was wearing a silver shirt with grey stripes and Mrs. M was wearing a green silk sari. She had neatly tied up her hair to draw the junta’s attention to her new diamond studded earrings. Slowly after them, the door bell kept ringing and guests kept streaming in. Strangely every sari looked similar as if they all had bought it in bulk from a wholesale market. The ladies met each other with enthusiasm and the men too looked pretty pleased with themselves. The first half an hour of the gathering was exclusively devoted to the feet touching ceremony. One could see a few people massaging their backs after the ritual was over.

Discussions and arguments about who is the tallest cousin or which is the most affordable housing destination could be heard from the living room, while the kitchen was heating up with the debate over the number of puris required for dinner. By the time dinner was served, the tiny toddlers were half asleep in the last bedroom of the house. Everyone took at least two servings of everything which made the woman of the house beam with happiness and satisfaction. Slowly the guests started taking leave, thanking the host family for the good time and the appetizing food. The lights of the house finally went off at 12 midnight after the lady of the house retired to the bed with a smile.

Diwali’s temple visit

The street leading to the temple of a faraway suburb of Mumbai was glittering with the light and activity of Diwali. The hawkers on the street were all frantically trying to make a sale. The yellow bulb hanging on each of these stalls, made the puja articles shine like yellow and red mirrors. Agarbattis, garlands, flowers, religious books and many more small and big things were scattered over these stalls.

Middle aged women were thronging these stalls trying to make their pick. Some of them who had their children along were busy multi-tasking between scrutinising the items on one hand and pulling the disinterested children from running away on the other. The shopkeepers eager to convince the customers were explaining each item’s ‘USP’. One could hear aggressive sounds of bargaining even from a distance. Some women just glanced through the articles with some curiosity and then moved on to the next hawker. Eventually, everyone headed to the temple at the end of the street.

The temple premise was as full of activity as the busy street outside. The temple, decorated with colorful bulbs and flowers made the atmosphere truly festival like. Small children were scurrying around in their new clothes; women were praying, chattering and gossiping. The temple priests were busy preparing for the arati. They hurriedly moved in and out of the small backdoor of the temple which was restricted to the aam junta. In the corner of the temple, was a tiny old woman in a light blue saree. She with eager eyes was constantly wishing everyone who passed her; Jai Shri Krishna. One wouldn’t know why she was doing that till someone dropped a few coins in her hands. She would then carefully put the money in her pouch and continue with the routine again.

People entered the temple barefoot, closed their eyes for a few seconds praying to the closed doors (as the doors were still not open for the arati). They would then look for the known faces the crowd and suddenly start talking about their Diwali dinner plans and the shopping done. One could even overhear them talking about the recipe about the secret chatni recipe. But once the temple doors opened for the arati, everything was forgotten. Women pulled their children from the courtyard towards the temple and forcibly put their palms together for the prayer. Though the children looked rather unhappy and confused, they followed the instructions. The chattering of the crowd and the tiny old woman’s Jai Shri Krishna drowned as the high pitched arati and the ringing of the bells begun.