Celebrating today’s Diwali with ghee lamps floating on the Rishikesh Ganges and old writing from Diwali 2020.

Diwali Delights

Day 1010

14 November 2020

Parvati Valley, Himachal Pradesh, India

My first Diwali injects me with an unexpected shot of nostalgia. The Hindu holiday is a blend of the Halloweens and Independence Days of my American childhood.

Halloween because the children are handed sweets from grown ups, but instead of going to the sugar, the sugar goes to them. After sundown in the village plaza flanked by temples, little humans frolic and shriek with delight whilst adults bring forth platters of assorted diabetes. ‘Prasad,’ or offerings, they say as they nudge me to have some.

Independence Day because the Himalayan valley fills with echoes of explosions. Despite government-issued bans on setting off firecrackers, some shoot up in the village and crack into green or red rain, fading as they fall back to earth.

Halloween because of the flickering diya lamps outside wooden homes, mimicking the glinting grins of our jack-o’-lanterns illuminated by candles inside the pumpkins, patiently sitting on porches throughout the residential neighborhoods of the United States every October 31st.

Independence day because boys are running to town and returning with sacks of firecrackers, kids burst pops in the alleys and girls spin with sparklers at home.

I buy a box of sweets—assorted burfis, gulab jamun, and other sticky wonders. Out of habit the quantity is excessive and I soon don’t know what to do with it. Kiki and I are just two small women. We take tea in a Nepali dhaba as the street outside bustles with last-minute shopping, pakora frying, jalebi doodling, and horn honking.

I taste several pieces of the diabetes. Kiki merely nibbles. Another traveler from Delhi joins and helps.

The squishiness of the cardamommy milk cake and the dried fruit burfi keep me returning for more bites. I order a second chai.

By the time we headed back up to our village, dainty diyas line the stairwells and doorways. These lipped clay cups (look out for the emoji in your phone) illumine the path for Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth and prosperity, to enter each residential abode.

Across the valley we see flickering yellows and listen to ringing blasts.

I offer some mithai to my guesthouse family before having a Russian guest take a small tower of diabetes. I go toward another known house.

I receive a lovely glimpse of a pooja in the main temple. The ritual for this special day is very smoky and austere and complete with the ding of the bell.

Then kids are running around throwing firecrackers in the plaza. The sight of my brightly colored cardboard box draws them towards me. My prop somehow making me more trustworthy. They help alleviate the weight of the sweets. They wish me a Happy Diwali and light more bombs.

Other adults are also armed with trays. They take from me, then add more to my box.

By the time I make it to Raju’s, I had treated half a dozen kids and nibbled some homemade ladoo from a beautiful woman.

I offer the daughters sugar, talk to mama Sheela who has prepared bhatura and paneer, and admire the colorful rangoli Ishita has made.

On the way home one gateway has a little boy was jumping in elation at a sparkler spinning like a top, moving with every aspect of a pee-pee dance.

My heart is nearly full. I am happy to have four pieces left. Just before I get home, four small girls cross my path, giggling at my foreign features. They thank me, each grasping a whole piece. Thats what I like about the kids. Unapologetically going for the the whole chunk. They are our greatest teachers.

My heart is full.

Diwali had actually begun with an invitation to a closed cafe, momentarily opened just for us.

Krishna treats us ladies to lunch with a drink and a smoke and a waterfall.

We arrive. I meet the cozy space. The little huts. Then Krishna announced he would make us a tandoori shakshuka. His teenage son appears out of nowhere with two Thunderbolt beers and a tray of eggs in tow.

We sip sweet mint tea in the sun, taking me back to Morocco. Kiki and I loudly chat about Austria, men not responding messages, and men in general.

We watch Krishna complete the slow preparation. Twice. He moves without a drop of hurry, patiently, chatting the whole while. Kiki explains the difference between a sour cherry and a cherry, fruits that don’t exist in our current location.

The table is set for a trio. Three glasses for beer. Three plates of shakshuka made by a Himachali papaji in between two off-map villages. I would never imagine.

It was hard to be waited on by Krishna’s wife. She appears a while after their son has disappeared. She doesn’t sit with us, and instead gathers trunks and trunks of trees for firewood. She guides the sheep accompanying her. Later she would do the dishes in the numbing stream when we finished our food.

I ask K how his son was named, how arranged or loved his children would marry, how his own marriage was set up. I tell him how the men were so wide-eyed off of whiskey at the recent wedding when they asked if we had enough rice. We all agree that children are addicted to the phone screens.

We toast to Diwali. Light over dark. Good over evil.

I sup the beer. We puff my first beedi. We eat slowly, savoring each bite of juicy egg and tomato.

What a treat.

What a kick off to my first Diwali.