Halloween Hokum Meets Diwali Delight
As Fall kicks in, haggard desi moms like myself are not only busy cleaning and shopping, but also toiling away in the kitchen, concocting secret recipes for honeyed candy and Marshmellow peeps, possibly, alongside laddus and barfis. Fall brings with it a new hope, of color, and merriment. And while the entire citizenry around us in this land of big bucks is busy stocking up on gifts and goodies, we are busy choosing Halloween costumes and Diwali candles (unless, ofcourse, diyas are reasonably available and safe to use). For us it’s not just about pumpkin pies and cranberry sauce, but also about halwas and vadas. Our string lights are not only to adorn the Christmas trees, but also to illuminate the ‘Puja’ corners, tucked away in a closet somewhere, or another nook that the kids can keep from.
We pride ourselves on the plum cakes we bake and turkeys we stuff, just as much as we do on our Dushhera sweets and Diwali treats. If Fall means bringing out the wool and fleeces, it also means dusting off the silks and silver. If the Magnificent Mile represents the quintessential holiday embellishment, Devon Avenue helps our suburban Chicago homes light up. In these homes, stars and candles glimmer in harmony; meringues and mithais sit pretty on the tables, in multi-colored bowls; the welcome wreaths lead you to the tinkle of the sacred bells; the stockings and garlands brim just as fresh; and, underneath the spiffiest and scariest of tiny Halloween costumes, a trinket or two clinks, waiting to complement kurtas or lehengas that may well follow suit.
Yet, in all this fervor, there is a void somewhere that lurks, and reminds us of our roots. Call it what you may, but the pleasure that derives from knowing that a festival like Diwali is arriving in all its glory on a weekend, is second to none for us. That, or if a severe snowstorm is looming large, forcing everyone to stay indoors, and usher the festival of harvest, Pongal. Diwali, for one, is not as much fun without the sounding and spattering of firecrackers. Which is why, in all likelihood, one might catch a bunch of desis reveling in a fourth of July fireworks display, likening it, in whatever minuscule manner, to their own Diwali dhamakas back at home. Every Diwali, I am reminded that my little one will never get to experience all the excitement and thrill of Diwali like we did when we were children. She won’t even, possibly, get to impulsively light off a sparkler, or blast off a ‘rocket’ into space. That’s not to say I’m not a light green, or that I would love to see the atmosphere defiled.
And then there are the lights. I remember lighting scores of diyas and helping my mom arrange and display them around the house, punctually refueling them when the oil dried out. Living now in a suburban multiplex across the seas, the most I can do is light up candles, and remember to turn them off before the wax melts down and messes up the carpets, or worse, spreads the fire and triggers off the alarm. Of course, there is no hope for anything as fiery and dangerous as ‘fire’ to stay put at an elevation of three feet or below, to begin with, given the curiosity of my little girl. Sure, there are electric lamps, and there are fancy earthern diyas, but they don’t seem to befit the sternness of these walls and the rigidity of these statutes.
Last but not least, there’s the food. No festivity is complete without the “mooh meetha” tradition. But the only difference is that we don’t exactly enjoy sweating it out in the kitchen like our moms do. So we turn to our Sukhadias and Haldirams. Sure, we miss the authentic homemade ghee and Milkmaid flavors, but we make do for the sake of the festivity, and on occasion when we do hit the stove, we substitute them with cottage cheeses, or half-and-halfs. Of course, cholesterol and health consciousness never bothers us, and anyhow, we look for summer to hit the treadmill, just so we can fit into the beachwear, only to distend and bulge again in the Fall and Winter - it’s like a vicious circle. As they say, all this food talk is making me hungry, and it’s time to queue up at the temple for a quick ‘darshan’ and a bite of the ‘prasadam.’ And yes, I will have to carve out the pumpkins, whisk up the meringues, and spook up the house, but not before I’ve dug into my paneer rolls and rasmalais.
We pride ourselves on the plum cakes we bake and turkeys we stuff, just as much as we do on our Dushhera sweets and Diwali treats. If Fall means bringing out the wool and fleeces, it also means dusting off the silks and silver. If the Magnificent Mile represents the quintessential holiday embellishment, Devon Avenue helps our suburban Chicago homes light up. In these homes, stars and candles glimmer in harmony; meringues and mithais sit pretty on the tables, in multi-colored bowls; the welcome wreaths lead you to the tinkle of the sacred bells; the stockings and garlands brim just as fresh; and, underneath the spiffiest and scariest of tiny Halloween costumes, a trinket or two clinks, waiting to complement kurtas or lehengas that may well follow suit.
Yet, in all this fervor, there is a void somewhere that lurks, and reminds us of our roots. Call it what you may, but the pleasure that derives from knowing that a festival like Diwali is arriving in all its glory on a weekend, is second to none for us. That, or if a severe snowstorm is looming large, forcing everyone to stay indoors, and usher the festival of harvest, Pongal. Diwali, for one, is not as much fun without the sounding and spattering of firecrackers. Which is why, in all likelihood, one might catch a bunch of desis reveling in a fourth of July fireworks display, likening it, in whatever minuscule manner, to their own Diwali dhamakas back at home. Every Diwali, I am reminded that my little one will never get to experience all the excitement and thrill of Diwali like we did when we were children. She won’t even, possibly, get to impulsively light off a sparkler, or blast off a ‘rocket’ into space. That’s not to say I’m not a light green, or that I would love to see the atmosphere defiled.
And then there are the lights. I remember lighting scores of diyas and helping my mom arrange and display them around the house, punctually refueling them when the oil dried out. Living now in a suburban multiplex across the seas, the most I can do is light up candles, and remember to turn them off before the wax melts down and messes up the carpets, or worse, spreads the fire and triggers off the alarm. Of course, there is no hope for anything as fiery and dangerous as ‘fire’ to stay put at an elevation of three feet or below, to begin with, given the curiosity of my little girl. Sure, there are electric lamps, and there are fancy earthern diyas, but they don’t seem to befit the sternness of these walls and the rigidity of these statutes.
Last but not least, there’s the food. No festivity is complete without the “mooh meetha” tradition. But the only difference is that we don’t exactly enjoy sweating it out in the kitchen like our moms do. So we turn to our Sukhadias and Haldirams. Sure, we miss the authentic homemade ghee and Milkmaid flavors, but we make do for the sake of the festivity, and on occasion when we do hit the stove, we substitute them with cottage cheeses, or half-and-halfs. Of course, cholesterol and health consciousness never bothers us, and anyhow, we look for summer to hit the treadmill, just so we can fit into the beachwear, only to distend and bulge again in the Fall and Winter - it’s like a vicious circle. As they say, all this food talk is making me hungry, and it’s time to queue up at the temple for a quick ‘darshan’ and a bite of the ‘prasadam.’ And yes, I will have to carve out the pumpkins, whisk up the meringues, and spook up the house, but not before I’ve dug into my paneer rolls and rasmalais.
posted by Ranjini | 12:17 PM
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