I can’t describe the exact feeling and perfect is just too frivolous
a word. But it’s like if I died this minute, this second, I wouldn’t feel bad
at all, no grudges, no regrets, no unfulfilled wishes and definitely no coming
back as a ghost to haunt this world. I curl up more and feel the soft
upholstery of the chesterfield chair & an even softer woolen shawl
against my leg. I don’t want to get up-ever. I am in an invaluable painting, and
have been painted in a spot and a color that makes the painting a masterpiece.
Moving even an eyelid would render it a fake. Thankfully I don’t have to get-up
just yet. There is nothing for me to do this lovely-ideal-idle-bright-sunny-yellow-after
morning of Diwali. The cleaning of the house was already done, the 15 earthen
lamps bought last week were washed, dried and placed, like me in perfect
locations around the house, the rangoli I had made yesterday was still intact
and the festive festoon already tied on the front door.
From the other end of the room I hear my father saying that
I will disappear into the chair if I don’t get up. I know what he means… I am
snuggled up on this perfect chair in our dining room, having just finished my third stuffed paratha, with the soiled plate still on my lap. Sitting is a
figurative term, because literally I am curled like a ball and it’s hard for
anyone to tell where the chair ends and the human begins.
Oh what a lovely feeling! I tilt my head a little bit to see
my dad reading newspaper. I squint my eyes, trying to see the headlines of the
newspaper. “SC rules for an Environment Safe Diwali” it screams
and jolts me ....I feel a purplish scratch in my yellow … and
a sinking cold feeling develops in my stomach. I know this familiar
journey-of-thoughts very well now; I know how it starts and I am old enough now
to know that fighting the flashback is not the way to kill it, rather that the
only way to survive it is to let it wash over, to re-live it and cure myself of
them till the next time they are triggered.
My earliest memory of any festival is that of the festival
of lights- Diwali. Except for me, it was always the festival of light and sound
- mainly from sparkles and green bombs, packed neatly in small cardboard boxes with
colorful and dubious branding such as murga-chaap , bandar-chaap...
In those days, the newspapers would contain more ads than
news. My elder sister would be pestering my mother to buy her a new dress or a new
accessory, my mom would want to buy a new home appliance, my dad would be busy
planning our winter holiday visits to family right after Diwali. But not me. I would
only be thinking of which crackers I would burst, in which order and quantity
and days and time…I would keep a lookout in the supplement newspapers about any new
cracker introduced in the market and insist my father buy it for me.
Within a week of Diwali, I would start seeing the temporary
tents that cropped up on my school bus route and feel that tinge of excitement
in my stomach and clench my fists in nervous anticipation. When the doorbell
would ring I would rush to open it thinking that maybe papa had gotten crackers
in wholesale from those tents and would not be able to hide my disappointment
if that was not the case. Papa also would enjoy this routine… he would pretend
that there is nothing and just as I would go back to my room he would say “
Arrey…I think I forgot something in the car..” We –and mostly I - would squeal
like pigs and then the whole family would go down to get the bags. Yes- always
bags. Full of sparkles, fountains, Spinners, Hunter, Pencil, Rockets, packet of
small bombs and the prized green colored “Atomic Bomb”.
From that day onwards I would mentally track the crackers
keenly keep a watch on the number of them mom gave it away to any street kids
or what my sister burst. I would patiently cut the paper of bombs to make a
fuse, collect bottles for rockets, get a big thali for spinner and would feel
so cheated if any of them didn’t burst properly or didn’t match the light and
sound I had imagined in my head.
But what was pushing me down the memory hole was a very
particular Diwali day not too long ago. As usual the routine of Diwali was
followed…the ritualistic cleaning, cooking decorating, praying, dinner and finally
finishing all the crackers. I was particularly satisfied with the lot, it
lasted a week and an hour and a half that day, my unique musical crackers were
a super duper hit and everyone wanted to take one. Papa had gone up early and
by the time I finished it was quite late and the crowd was thinning. I don’t
quite remember when, but by the time I reached my floor an overwhelming sense
of exhaustion filled me and I dragged myself to our apartment and dozed off.
The next thing I remember is breathing cold air into my cold nose and a dryness
in my eyes. I didn’t immediately open my eyes, rather turned myself towards the
bedroom window to feel the sunlight in the particularly cold morning. But I
didn’t feel the familiar yellow comfort of sunrays instead I felt a distinctly
dark grayish color of phlegm in my throat and a burning red in my eyes. I
squinted my eyes open, it was still dark outside. With my eyes still
squinted, I tried to make out the time- 11:00 AM…why did it feel like 6? And
then I heard my father coughing in his bedroom. I closed my eyes again and laid
in the bed for few more minutes, trying to go back to sleep but I couldn’t
breathe deeply before coughing. The cold clouds hiding the sun also didn’t
help. I reluctantly pushed the quilt aside, got up and walked slowly towards
the window. The sight was strange…There were no clouds, it was smog …and I
could see it from the 4th floor of my house. I went into my parent’s
bedroom and saw papa sitting up- also trying to go back to sleep in vain and
having difficulty breathing. I covered my nose with a shawl and crossed their
room and into the balcony to see the park. I expected to see at least some shade
of green, but when I looked down I could make out only newspapers… half burnt
pieces of newspapers from the crackers, candle stubs, empty match boxes and lot
of ash. Just then a strong wind blew and more of the dust went into my face and
I could smell the gunpowder even from my covered nose.
I never explicitly made a resolution, at least I don’t
remember ever telling myself anything. But that was the last time I ever burst
crackers. Soon Diwali became a different kind of festival for me, still my
favorite but always for the time spent with family, with God, with giving and
receiving, with awesome food and even more awesome friends. It was years later
that I realized just how scared I was when I heard that sickly coughing, that I
was shocked when I saw smog till 4th floor, that I went to balcony
to see some of greenery to give me hope, that I had internalized the guilt of
having contributed to most of the air pollution and to the ash and smoke that
blew into my face that day and that there was no way of taking back the
ugliness that I had sent into this world.
Back to present, I pull my face away from this thought-whirlpool and
look at my dad also very still, reading newspaper and taking deep breaths. I
tilt my head the other way now, again adjusting the shawl and feel the buttery yellow
sunlight like the butter on my stuffed aloo paratha. I begin to photosynthesize
like the plants that cure themselves in the sunlight and again the
stuffed-idle-ideal state returns in our house.
