Celebrating Diwali, Deepavali and Kali Pujo

https://www.gharwalidiwali.com/

   

I come from a multi-lingual background where my mother is a Tamil and my father is a Bengali. Their distinct customs and rituals meant that every festival in our house was celebrated in a manner in which both their traditions were amalgamated in a way in which neither felt deprived over the other. But Diwali was an exception owing to its distinct way of celebration by both of them. My mother called it Deepavali while my father called it Kali Pujo. Either way, it was a festival we celebrated as a community with a host of people coming together to share sweets and burst crackers.

New clothes were a regular feature during the festival of Diwali with my brother and me getting to buy two pairs of the choicest of clothes this one time of the year. The budget for purchasing fireworks was usually small and all that was bought would have to be divided between my brother and me into accurate halves for otherwise we would end up fighting cats and dogs. As a child, I remember how I’d feign courage when I’d actually be frightened when it came to lighting those ‘atom’ and ‘hydrogen’ bombs because there were girls in our colony watching us from behind.

In keeping with my Tamil tradition, we would wake up early in the morning just before the break of dawn, take an oil bath, and burst crackers just as the first rays of light would begin to appear in the sky. Again as a part of Kali Puja, I would wear on my Bengali self to celebrate Diwali with sweets and crackers late into the night. My multi-lingual background actually made me enjoy a double dose of Diwali.

Sweets and savories were another hallmark of the festival with my mom preparing a host of them which would then be packed neatly and distributed by us among our neighbors after a special pooja. She would place the gas stove on the floor to begin making the Boondis which she would later shape to make round round ladoos. If that wasn’t enough, she would go on to make Rava ladoos, home-made mixture/farsaan and the delicious murukku/chakli. Every time we tried to take a bite, she would whack us telling us to wait till the pooja got over. Somehow the laddoos that we stole and ate tasted better than those given to us later after the pooja :-).

Pepsi and Kurkure – Ghar Wali Diwali

Diwali in those days was a festival. The excitement of wearing new clothes and going to every house in the neighborhood to distribute sweets was an excitement of its own for us children.

With the changing times, festivals truly have lost their essence. The festival of lights which lit our hearts and souls is slowly losing its charm with people using all their time to shop on account of festive discounts rather than wanting to spend time with their extended family.

Being away from home owing work, I want to say that I love you so much ma. I miss your laddoos. Wish I could steal a few of them like I always did. I Hope I get to celebrate a Diwali just like the old times next year.

Happy Diwali, Deepavali and Kali Pujo.

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How much does one 'poor' life really matter?- A confrontation at Gadchiroli

A tingling sensation of the slap had continued to persist on my cheek many minutes after it had been rendered upon me by an angry young man who had walked into my lodging without warning. He had immediately been whisked away by a group of youngsters who had been conversing with me.

It was as a part of my course field work that I had come to stay in a tribal village in the infamous Gadchiroli district of eastern Maharashtra. The first semester of my Masters in Social Work had been rather uninspiring and I was looking forward to making the most out of this end-semester field work.

I had packed little and had prepared myself to journey through the dense jungles of this forest covered district as best as I could. But the start had been rather daunting and I was still recovering from the slap. It had only been an hour since my designated NGO at Kurkheda had dropped me off at Khidiritola village in Korchi block.

Amid all this tension, Krishna kaka the head of my host-house began to frantically apologize to me. I managed to meekly smile and reassure him with a ‘thike hai’ (it’s ok). He had sensed my unrelenting unease and sat in silence with a lowered head and a crestfallen face which continued to hold an innocent smile of embarrassment.

After a few moments of silence, Krishna Kaka began to ask questioningly, “You are comfortable in this house na baba? I know it is small but I hope you are happy. We do not have much to build a finer house.”

I reassured him again saying how despite the heat outside, it remained cool inside their home. This was the magic of a mud house.

After a brief moment of silence, I enquired, “Who was that boy?”

Kaka replied in his broken Hindi, “Kaun (who) Ganesh? He’s a good lad. Just a little disturbed. His name is Ganesh. Do forgive him baba.”

He slowly began narrating to me the anguish of Ganesh whose brother had been diagnosed with mouth cancer a year ago. A certain health centre which shared a name similar as that of the NGO I came from had allegedly cheated him of a lot of money. They had promised to bring his brother Suraj in good health. But soon after they took him into a hospital in the block town of Korchi, his situation began to get complicated and they claimed that immediate surgeries were required to be carried out.

Later that evening, a weeping and apologetic Ganesh told me how after a week the doctors had told them that Suraj's life could not be saved. He told me how the doctor treating Suraj had all along kept the family uninformed about what was exactly happening with him. Ganesh later observed stitch marks on Suraj's abdomen indicating that the doctors had operated upon him there. He failed to understand why a patient admitted for mouth cancer had to be operated upon on the abdomen. The doctors had failed to answer his questions about why they had done so and had instead demanded for the remaining medical fees to be paid before the body could be handed over to the family. The medical expenses had led Ganesh into a large debt. I was told later that he had been a little unsettled ever since.

Ganesh continued to speak incoherently of the various problems that had befallen his family. I began to picture a moment three years ago when I had met with a bike accident late into the night. Serious injuries had led to a cerebral hemorrhage which needed immediate attention. I woke up alive after 10 days of complete sleep in the ICU of a posh hospital in Chennai. A team of top-class neurologists and Anesthesiologists had been treating and operating upon me all along keeping my parents informed at every step about any developments in my condition.

A part of my skull was removed and a titanium mesh was placed instead to keep me safe. The doctors later informed me that had I been admitted any later than when I was, my chances of being alive would have been very unlikely.

The hospital I had been admitted to was just a kilometer and a half away from the place of my accident. The hospital nearest to Khidiritola was at Korchi 40 kilometers away. And the only means of transportation in the case of an emergency...

...a bullock cart.

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Experiencing Bombay High Court

My impression of a court and its proceedings were surrounded by the idea presented to me by Indian cinema and television. It was only when I attended a real court session in Bombay High Court during March this year that I figured how skewed my perception was.

The size of the courts was the first thing that struck me. They were way smaller and compact (and were air conditioned too). My picture of the courts being a high security zone turned out to be wrong as well, though I was told that security was often beefed up when high-level cases were heard.

Inside the courtroom I saw that tensions were high, but there seemed to be no hostility between the two lawyers fighting the case. At one instance, I even found them smiling and talking to each other. The judge listened to the prosecution’s case and the defendant’s point of view. But to my surprise, instead of just being a silent umpire who after hearing both arguments gives his decision at the conclusion, the judge would often nudge in between with counter-questions, asking them to justify what they had stated.

There was no “objection milord” or “order order” to be heard. In fact, the judge didn’t possess a gavel at all. Upon inquiring, I was told that the Indian judicial system had done away with the English system of judges holding a gavel long back.

Honestly, that saddened me a little. I guess a gavel would’ve helped greatly in adding some action to seemingly boring court sessions. It’s like them snatching the sole right of a judge to subtly tell a person, or a people inside a courtroom to shut the f*** up. It greatly reduces the action one expects in courts.

Though I must say, a natural calm existed throughout the proceedings in every court session. A lawyer sitting beside me told me that anyone who spoke apart from whom the judge had asked to speak could be held in contempt of court which was a somewhat serious offence.

People sitting in the courtroom spoke in hushed tones and a number of junior lawyers could be seen either taking hand notes or operating their cell phones inside the court room despite a board outside the court clearly asking people to switch their phones off while a court is in session.

In one proceeding, I saw two judges sitting which I was told was a divisional bench. It was interesting to observe that only of the two judges was actively involved in the hearing while the other seemed to continually assist him during the proceedings. I was told by a lawyer that this happens owing to the seniority of one of the judges compared to the other.

The judge looked into papers that were presented to her and after a short proceeding, gave a quick recap of the case and the arguments presented. She pointed out a few flaws in the prosecutions argument and finally said in her verdict that she had no choice but to quash the case, though she was ready to take what he had said on record. When the lawyer tried to press his point, the judge got rather annoyed and said “Don’t waste my time Mr. ###. I do not see anything in this case.” And the dismayed lawyer backed off.

It was a really interesting experience and I must say this that anyone with a valid identity card can go to court and watch a hearing if he/she so wishes to. Apart from a few cases which are held closed-doors, most cases are open to public.

The Bombay High Court building is magnificent and even basic structures like the wash basin stand testimony to its Victorian architecture.

And o yeah, the court building is full of cats. :-)

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Part And Parcel of Life

It was 10 in the night and I was returning home from a friends place. I caught a local train and stood at its entrance enjoying the cool breeze flowing in. Being a Sunday, the train was empty and was speeding down the track. A few people got down upon its reaching a station and I stood lazily praying that the train would reach my destination soon. All of a sudden, as if from nowhere, a polio affected kid in a tattered shirt, crawling as fast as he could, reached the entrance of the train and held on to the median pole trying to pull himself up. The train started to move slowly and the kid got frantic in his efforts to get in. I promptly caught hold of his shirt in an attempt to pull him up. The shirt began to tear and I shrieked with fright as the train started to gather speed. The kid showed no signs of letting the pole go. I got hold of his hand in a desperate attempt to save him and pulled him up. The kid lay inside exhausted and gasping for breath with his head facing the floor of the train. He looked up slowly as I began to shout angrily. Gazing silently through his watery eyes, he stretched his palm out. I froze realizing that he was begging for alms. The kid virtually remained oblivious to all the tension that had surrounded him just a few minutes back. He started tugging at the bottom of my pants embarrassing me further. I gave him a few coins and got off at the next station to board a different compartment.

I reminisced over all that had happened upon getting back home that night. Somewhere down, I felt disgusted to myself for having done so little. I had let indifference devour me. Had I really saved the kid's life? Why did I do no more than drop a few coins? Why did I not do anything to ensure he wouldn't face a similar situation again? I wondered what the boy would remember of his childhood when he grew up. Would nostalgia ever bring back pleasant memories to him? These questions kept bothering me as I lay on my bed. Was he hungry? Where was his mother? Did he have any friends? He would probably spend the night at the corner of some station, and here I lay sleeping cosily in the comfort of my bed.

Do we as a people really care about these things in the 21^st century or are they just what we have come to call ‘A part and parcel of life’. How nicer it would be if someone started a campaign called “I Am Mother Teresa”. There certainly is a need for us as a society to get progressive rather than letting philanthropic work stay in the hands of an enlightened few.

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