Flickering Lights

The tiny votives flicker in windows as though the flame had real heat, as though these are real flames. However, much to my peace of mind, these are LED lights and their twinkling a kind lie. Today is Diwali again, and a year has passed since last Diwali, when I came home to find my home burned away. For some reason this day has affected me without warning, with more force than I had thought. The day has been uneasy and this unease has not left my side since my dawn dream, in which I didn't want to leave but just hold my child, the cats, my quilt, a doll I had forgotten about, all of them.

Fortunately, I could indulge my unease and stay with my house, puttering around, sweeping up, picking up, so the Goddess might be tempted, that she might step in with gentle feet. The little votives, like hopes, flicker around the colorful rangoli in my porch, in the same place as last year.

This year, my Diwali is quiet, if a little uneasy, and I am grateful for the quiet little lamps who seem reassuring, as they murmur shadows, whisper gleamings, their soft glimmer giggles spill and tinkle around the floor; after all, no Diwali should be silent. I am very grateful for their kind company, as I am grateful for all who have quieted my unease today. One of the many lessons I have learned as someone who lives alone is that all undefined unease must be publicly acknowledged, that one should not be allowed to feel alone when these airs raise the hair on one's nape, when these gulps drop to the bottom of one's stomach.

Usually, I have my child at home for Diwali. Usually, there are sparklers that sketch golden shapes that linger on eyelids after they have melted away. Usually, we get the camera ready and worship a few coins, a special puja to woo the Goddess. Today, I have no sparklers, and yes, I could have gone to the temple, where a welcome is assured, and yes, they'd have sparklers and other fireworks. I could have done the puja on my own. I could have taken pictures of my little rangoli.

However, today, I want to woo my home back to me: the Goddess cannot be wooed without one's own threshold. Last Diwali was unforgettable, loud, big; I want this one to be unmemorable, quiet, contained within my comfort zone.

The festival promises lamps to aid lost footsteps back home, on dark nights when heavenly lights, the sun and moon abandon us earthbound beings for other orbits. This festival reminds us that the lights that can be most relied upon are of this earth; extra terrestrial light sources have their own agenda and may often seem indifferent. The fault, then, lies in our failure to recognize our place in the larger cosmos, not in the orbs that we imagine have abandoned us. This festival reaffirms our kinship with little lamps whose flickering lights accompany us through different nights.

The twinkling lights of my windows and I, all of us wish my patient readers a very Happy Diwali!

 

Nothing, Again Nothing

Today is a rare day off; I gave it to myself. The changing weather has wreaked its wrath on my throat and I have been squeaking and croaking all week long, much to everyone's uncomfortable sympathy. Since there is no cure for the common cold, I decided to use this day as an excuse to lounge around the house, make friends with it again, and hopefully, the lengthening darknesses and pale, cold days with their warm blood seeped out will be easier to wait out till the sun returns next year.

To the same end, today, I moved into my room on the west top of my house. However, I have no furniture other than a bed and I cannot decide the configuration that would give comfort and help me own the space between the walls. I also wish I knew what I needed. I try to visualize some chests and tables around the room but I get exhausted at the thought.

Probably, all I should do today is nothing. After all, the accident report for a fender bender I was subjected to, won't be ready for another week; everyone else is at work; all my scrabble games have been addressed; the most urgent grading has been squared away; all care packages have been mailed and received; and the dishwasher is done. I look at the napping cats, feel the cold breeze, and a familiar somnolence steals over me so I can no longer tell the difference between sleeping and waking.

I mark today as the day when nothing shall happen. Today shall be remembered as the most forgettable of days. I shall not chase each thought that begins, to its coherent completion; I shall gather scraps of images, remembered moments, imagined times, as though for a new quilt whose finished structure I cannot imagine.

If my parents were here, they would shake their heads in helpless exasperation at my insistence of wasting my precious day, a day on which all my limbs work and my mind still retains is power. However, I would contend that it is lost scraps like today that make the most colorful of quilts, and nothing warms a pale, cold day like a colorful quilt.

It has been over a year since the unforgettable day on which my house burned away, leaving behind just ashes and memories. It has been almost two decades since the memorable day on which I held my brand new daughter in my arms, and she has flown off to her future as well. The list could go on, but for every unforgettable day, there must have been about fifty forgettable days. I can't say for sure, since, of course, I have forgotten them.

This post goes out as a paean to all that is forgettable, that colors our everyday, that warms us, holds us upright, and gives a richness to all that we cannot forget.


 

Of Hanuman, Anthony Gonsalves, and Crossed Streets

It is my favorite part: the jungle chirps in joyous excitment. We feel the static in the air as the entire cosmos awaits the monkey, with bated breath, breath that hitches every time this story is told, on street corners when the year begins to die, on TV screens, echoing down the millenia, from the tree shade where the telling was probably born. The story I speak of is the Ramayana, and the character, after whose arrival in the story nothing is ever the same, is, of course, Hanuman. I cannot have enough of this story, in spite of all the annoying, jingoistic propaganda that inevitably accompanies it.

I have referred to this tale at various times in this space and it is one of my guiding metaphors. Ever since the house fire, this tale has resonated with me on a deeper level, helping me articulate questions about where I belong (if anywhere), if such belonging comes with any rights and prices, even questions about what makes me human, and the age old exploration about the nature of the divine. It fascinates me that in this epic, the apotheosis is realised by Hanuman, not the human hero, Rama, who throughout his story insists upon and defines himself solely in terms of his humanity, and who, indeed, is admired for being human more than he is for his divinity.

I am getting used to living in this house that is yet to become wholly mine. The bright colors, familiar books, the furniture that comes well-lived from my good friends' and well-wishers' lives, and the remembered spaces, of course, are helping me own it. It is almost Diwali again and I have some new designs for the Rangoli sand art that I always decorate my thresholds with, hoping to woo the goddess of prosperity. I also have some votive lights (LED; flameless, of course) but as I sit here looking around the bright walls, it feels as though someone has switched on an internal light and night never need fall in my house ever again.

The cats have found their spots and they seem as comfortable here as though they have always been here. Maybe I should look to the Ramayana for my answers: the questioning is what separates the human from animals. Hanuman never questions his place, nor is he ever confused about his apotheosis or what the right thing would be and who'd decide that. Perhaps I should stop the endless questions, stop looking for guiding lights and close my eyes to let my instincts lead. It is these questions that lead me to fear the brightness of these walls, fear that the brightness comes from hidden flames, not sunshine.

So tonight, I shall try to quiet all questions and ignore the wondering. The Ramalila is done for tonight and I shall concentrate on one of my favorite fictional characters, Anthony Gonsalves (from Amar Akbar Anthony, a movie I try to  never miss, which, thankfully is being aired today). This character's uncomplicated joy of being himself, complete lack of self-doubt, and ease with himself often reminds me of Hanuman.

I stand at the West threshold of my not-burnt home, looking to the house that was never mine, where I spent my months of displacement. I remain unbelieving that the street has finally been crossed, that the lights in this kitchen do not beckon any longer but attest to my belonging to it.

The year has changed again and even though the darkness marched in before evening was done, night is taking a long time in falling. The cats sit around me, studying the grass behind our house and I wish for their non-wondering, their acceptance of shortened days, an acceptance that does not flow from the comfort and reassurance of old and new stories.

I remain acutely aware of my humanity, my helpless reliance on the tales. For me, turning of these seasons is never an easy thing and I shall need many stories to brighten these darknesses, even as I remain here, sick with relief that the light across the street has nothing to do with me.