Fabric of Our Lives

Was your Diwali a happy one? I only ask because mine could’ve been happier.

While mom and the children caught up with friends at a potluck, I spent Saturday night alone, watching an indisposed dad yawning and picking his nose while watching ESPN.

Mom’s idea of celebrating Diwali, or any other festival for that matter, is to have somebody else do all the prep. work. As there were no grandmas around this time of year, she took it easy and just turned on all the interior and exterior house lights and wished everybody a happy Diwali.

“But who is Diwali?” asked a bewildered Kuki, who associates “happy” only with birthdays. “Is it a boy or a girl? And why is there no cake?”

Leaping on the chance to impart some culture, mom solemnly sat the children down to narrate an abridged version of the Ramayana. But before she got to the part about Kaikeyi throwing a fit, the kids wandered off and had to be threatened with cabbage kootu for dinner, instead of pizza, if they did not stand still and look pious while she lit the lamp.

Growing up, the only festival mom would look forward to with glee was Saraswati puja. It was a special day of the year because it was the only day her mother would not hound her to bury her nose in her books every waking moment of the day. At all other times, grandma would yell, “Padi; Padi; Study; Study!” from the kitchen, as mom sat with an open book and doodled her and her latest crush’s name on a page, crossing common letters off while softly chanting, “Love; Like; Hate; Adore ....”

The main reason Diwali appealed to her was neither the sweets nor the fireworks nor time off from school, but rather, new clothes.

New clothes were practically events during mom’s formative years – they were considered treats that were doled out only on special occasions. Bought or stitched weeks in advance, their labels permanently stained with dots of haldi-kumkum, new clothes required divine benediction before and immediately after donning.

Old clothes, on the other hand, were never discarded. They were worn until they faded, were outgrown or ripped beyond repair. The outfits were then passed on to younger, shorter, thinner cousins or recycled as pillowcases. As a second to last resort, they were offered to the servant. And if the servant rejected them, as she often did, she was dubbed as arrogant and the clothes, as a final resort, were turned into rags to dust the furniture or swab the floor.

These days, new clothes barely register a blip on my human's excitement radar screen. Outfits have become as ordinary as ice cream in the freezer, as disposable as Styrofoam plates tossed away at parties. Unused and gently used clothes are stored for a few years out of compunction, before they too are discarded.

Mom's wedding trousseau, however, remains intact.

Like Diwali and other festivities, the saris are briefly aired once a year and then stored away, to be dragged out of hidden recesses only on special occasions - like velvety, wispy memories.