Festive: Diwali Delights

Get Into the
Mood of the
Festive Season!

Do you sometimes feel that your
festivals like Navratri, Diwali, Dussehra,
Gudi Padwa, Durga Puja, and others
come and go while you are stuck
in your American workdays? Are you
left reminiscing about the good times
in India where the whole of your
world would be on vacation for the
festive season?

Let’s face it, to a large extent Indian
festivals can be meaningful and enjoyable
in our adopted homeland only to
the extent that we take the initiative to
go to community events, meet friends
and family, and keep traditions alive,
despite our environment—our work,
our neighborhoods—being largely
unaware of our festive calendar.

Well, we are doing our part to kick-start
the holiday mood of our desi
calendar. In the following pages, you
will find touching narratives, thought-provoking
perspectives, memories
of holiday trips, fiction, food, and
even art—all surrounding the upcoming
festivities.
Here’s wishing our readers a Happy
Diwali as well as the many more fall
festivals that are around the bend.

CONTENTS BELOW: A FESTIVAL BONANZA FOR
READERS…AND CELEBRANTS:
1) Delivering Diasporic Diwali Dreams
a nostalgic essay on Diwali in America, by Dr. Rajesh C. Oza

2) a remembrance on
The Legend of Vaishno Devi, by Dr. Monita Soni

3) The Gift of Memory,
a reflective piece on a cynical girl’s discovery of Diwali, by Preeti Hay

4) A Dash of History and a Dollop of Love:
a Foodie’s Review of Lakshmi’s Table,
recipes for the festival season, by P. S. Lakshmi Rao, reviewed by Maya Harita

5) The Missus’ First Diwali,
a short story about a new immigrant, by Nandita Godbole

and even
6) What the Festive Season Means to Me,
a perspective on what this time of the year means to an American convert, by D. B. Dillard-Wright.

1) Delivering
Diasporic
Diwali Dreams

DR. RAJESH C. OZA gives a nostalgic family history of how Diwali has evolved for
him, both in his appreciation of this joyous holiday and in how the appreciation has
been delivered to loved ones through different mediums. His parents moved from
the South Asian subcontinent to the North American continent in the mid-1960s,
never to again celebrate Diwali in the country of their birth. But over the past 50+
years, they’ve never failed to light diyas, do pujas, enjoy mithais, and convey Shubh
Diwali to their loved ones.

Bombay Baby and Calcutta Maybe
Although my parents had a comfortable life in
Bombay (not yet called Mumbai by English newspapers),
Papa left for Ontario, Canada, in early 1965 as a
scout of sorts, to get a lay of the snowy-white new land
that would pave the path to prosperity. Mom stayed
back in Mulund, Bombay with her four children, awaiting
the green light to move the family across the kala
pani, the dark waters that her father insisted would result
in familial fracture. While that feared fracture never
quite happened, India and Pakistan fought yet another
of the subcontinent’s internecine wars which ended
days before Diwali, 1965. With our parents separated
by an ocean, my brothers, sister, and I tried to make
sense of our changing world: windows of our apartment
flat in Mulund were darkened with brown paper
to ensure that Pakistani fighter planes could not see the
light inside our home; my elder brother, who was then
not yet ten years old, had to fight his way home from
school one day when all the trains and buses stopped,
causing great worry for Mom; and my five-year-old self
fought with inner demons at night as I would sleepwalk
throughout our 3rd-floor flat looking out of our
balcony for my absent father.

I imagine that Papa and Mom telepathically communicated
all these troubles along with their more
hopeful visions in the way of young people in love separated
by long distances.

After the war was over, on the eastern side of India
that makes the shape of its map look like a woman
holding a sari aloft on her outstretched arm, there was
a girl about my age who was celebrating Dhanteras, the
first day of Diwali. While the rest of her family members
in diya-lit Calcutta had their eyes closed during the
Lakshmi puja, praying to
the Goddess of Wealth, this
bold lass saw her mother’s
jewelry on a silver tray and
quietly hid the jewels so
as to protect them from
anyone who might not
be a well-wisher for the
family’s prosperity. But as
open as that girl’s watchful
eyes were, they could
not have been as open as
my own eyes when Mom
prepared me for our flight to Canada.

Canadian Cold
Our stay in Chatham, Ontario was a makeshift one,
with the only other South Asian family in our town
being the Hasnains from Pakistan. As such, in those
early years there were no Indian grocery stores close
to home, though an uncle in a nearby town owned a
French-Indian restaurant. My memories of Diwali celebrations
in Chatham are blurred by the struggles of
my parents making their way in the world. Both would
work multiple jobs including picking tomatoes as farm
hands, Mom sewing clothes as a tailor, and during an
economic downturn, Papa, trained to be a procurement
manager, was laid off from his multinational firm and
took on odd jobs as a security guard and then as an
orderly at a mental hospital. All I can really remember
about India was the pavilion at Expo 67 in Montreal and
blue aerogrammes to and from family back home in Rajasthan.
For those of you not old enough to know about
aerogrammes, following is a default template that we
would follow:

(left) The
aerogramme, now a relic,
was once the staple of communication
for immigrants,
keeping them in touch with
loved ones back home. Receiving
and sending one was a
momentous event, especially
during festivals like Diwali.

• The aerogram—a thin,
lightweight piece of blue paper
approximately the size of
a standard printer paper, 8.5”
x 11,” was folded into three
sections as if you were enclosing
it in an envelope.

• The top fold was for
parents to pay respect to elders
in India, write that “all
izz well” in Canada, and for
special holidays wish everyone
“Happy Diwali,” “Happy
Holi,” or “Happy Raksha
Bandhan.” Just keep things
joyous, suggesting that Goddess
Lakshmi is smiling
upon us in this land of milk and honey. Hidden from
family in India were the hardships, the hard facts of our
cold Canadian Diwali: no time with an uncle who was
too busy with his restaurant, no agarbati to fill our home
with sandalwood incense, no exploding firecrackers to
let neighbors know about “our Christmas,” no flickering
diyas to guide Lakshmi to our home, no shining jewelry
or dhan except the maple-leaf pennies that my parents
earned; all we had were the six of us performing the
puja around a silver coin of Lakshmi safeguarded from
India, our foreheads dotted with kumkum powder carried
in Mom’s suitcase as a vermilion reminder of our
ancestry, and our mouths sweetened with saffron-less
rice pudding pretending to be kheer with wrinkled black
raisins substituted for plump golden ones.

• The middle fold was for more serious matters:
replying to previous requests to send more money;
sharing news about children’s educational accomplishments;
and deferring the visit home to Rajasthan
with a “we will soon return when we have accrued
enough vacation” (while never disclosing that Goddess
Lakshmi’s smile had been a bit pinched, and we didn’t
have funds for tickets to fly back to India; the illustration
of an airplane on the front of the aerogramme
was as close as we would come to a flying machine for
almost a decade).

• And squeezed into the bottom fold on the inside
of the aerogramme was space for the elder two siblings
to write their pranams; inevitably the respectful salutations
bow down to the end of the page and climb over
to the other side where the younger two siblings (my
younger brother and myself) wrote in larger font to
grandparents, uncles, and aunts whose fully-fleshed
memories slipped away into two-dimensional black
and white photos.

• Lastly, the address section on the front had Papa’s
confident upper-case hand-written memory of his or
Mom’s village homes, before the gummy edges of the
paper were moistened with parental saliva, pressed together,
and the aerogramme was dropped in a mailbox.

Chicago Communities
After Papa was laid off from his job, he explored
an opportunity in Chicago. In 1969, the same year that
Apollo 11 made like a powerful Diwali firecracker and
rocketed the first men to the moon, our family made
like Diwali phuljharis and sparkled our way to the United
States. While the Windy City was as cold as Ontario,
its Midwestern heart felt so much warmer. Cosmopolitan
Chicago had universities with graduate students
from India, had a group of Gujarati friends that reminded
Papa of Pravin Parikh, his best friend in Bombay, had
a Patel Brothers grocery store to cater to the growing
Indian population, and even had a Hindu temple.

In Chicago, Mom found other women who wore
saris everyday, just as she had in Canada and would
continue to do for decades in the United States. But
these were not Indian women whose jet-black hair
flowed down to their waists over the saris’ pallu. They
were fair-haired wannabe gopis of the ISKCON movement.
But no matter, my parents had a temple, albeit
a temple shared with former hippies chanting “Hare
Krishna, Hare Rama.” And we had a place to go on Diwali,
before returning home to feast with newfound friends
and dance in dandia circles.

(Left) The author’s father, Chhaganlal,
and mother, Vijayalaxmi, doing
Lakshmi Puja.

Just as Papa and Mom built an Indian community
that enabled them to recreate a semblance of what
they had left behind, their children turned toward another
community, playing baseball with our American
friends and singing rock-and-roll songs that our parents
did not appreciate. Filial piety demanded that we
attended family pujas, but while Mom and Papa celebrated
Diwali with their friends, we rolled our eyes
during prayers and began to surreptitiously make fun
of our parents’ friends’ funny clothes and oily hair,
and, out of adult earshot, mimicking the thick Gujarati
accents in a way that presaged Hank Azaria’s diminishing
Apu character on The Simpsons by a
couple of decades. We were becoming defiantly
Americans while steadfastly remaining loyal to,
and protective of, our parents’ core values.

As the years went by, it appeared that Yankee
defiance might win out: Blue jeans left no space in
our closets for kurtas and pyjamas; Hollywood pushed
Bollywood into the distant background; and for a
while it seemed that television families like The Brady
Bunch were the norm that we aspired to. The so-called
“boob tube” delivered cultural context and our Americanized
tongues became more comfortable saying
“Happy Thanksgiving” rather than “Shubh Diwali.”
While my parents did not overtly show anxiety around
cultural loss, it must have seemed to them that their
Diwali diyas could not hold a candle to Nat King Cole’s
Christmas lights accompanied by chestnuts roasting
on an open fire; while the former was easily extinguished,
the latter illuminated much more of our Midwestern
zeitgeist.

Silicon Valleys
College was a turning point. The summer before
my freshmen year, our family returned to Rajasthan for
the older two siblings’ weddings. I returned to the U.S.
with a commitment to learn about India, to be more of
an Indian, to never remove my janoi, the sacred thread
with which I had been invested days before my elder
brother’s wedding. At college, only the Indian graduate
students seemed to know anything about our shared
heritage. There were three other undergraduate Indians
in my freshman class, and all of them were on
the right side of the Indian-American hyphen. It was
only through coursework in Indian history, political science,
art, religion, and anthropology that I found my
way to my own Indian identity. And then there was
Satyajit Ray’s Apu Trilogy that clinched the deal with
its masterful cinematic verisimilitude. On my road to
self-discovery, I discovered Pather Panchali, the Song of
the Little Road. I fell in love with village India and with
the Bengali aesthetic. I saw Diwali through Apu’s eyes
in Aparajito (The Unvanquished), the second of these
three classic films. I found a way to vanquish my years
of exile from India.

Upon graduation from college, I returned to India
for my own wedding. I married Mangla, that notquite-
Bengali girl of Rajasthani heritage who in the
mid-1960s had safeguarded her mother’s jewelry on
Dhanteras. Through the years, my wife has taught me
more about Diwali then all the professors, books, films,
and years that preceded her. Like so many mothers before
her, and we pray so many mothers after her, Mangla
has safeguarded much more than shiny baubles.
She has kept alive the traditions of our ancestors and
passed them along to our children and their spouses
like a treasure that can be held only in one’s heart.

It is true that we no longer wait twelve days for
our Diwali letters to cross the ocean and do the postal
handshake/namaskar. Yes, we’ve been blessed by all
the Silicon Valley innovations like email, Skype, and
WhatsApp that enable us to have our Diasporic Diwali
dreams delivered to us in an instant. And for those
of us who are old-school, we now even have a Diwali
stamp should we be inspired to send our loved ones
Diwali greetings that consist of more than ephemeral
bits and bytes.

(Left) The author, with wife Mangla,
doing Lakshmi Puja.

Of course, the numbers of Indians in North America
have gone up exponentially through the years. Unlike
my parents and the Hasnain family of 1960s Chatham,
Mangla and I have nearly a dozen Indian families living
within walking distance from our Palo Alto home, each
celebrating their own vision (and each other’s version)
of Diwali/Deepavali: North India, South India, East India,
and West India all centered around our California
abode. Despite our neighborly friendships, our past has
its hold on us and we hold on to vestiges of ancestral
tribalism with our RANAs (Rajasthan Association of
North America), GCANAs (Gujarati Cultural Association
of North America), TANAs (Telugu Association of North
America), CABs (Cultural Association of Bengal), etc.

To be sure, there have been some clunker Diwali
celebrations like the RANA function in the early 1990s
when I read out loud every word of Vikram Seth’s “Diwali”
poem, leading almost the entire audience to head
for the food before it was ready (I think Mangla was the
only one who listened to my every word). But we’ve
come a long way, crossing the bridge between here
and there. Here might be Atlanta, and there might be
Ahmedabad. Perhaps here is modernity, and there is
tradition. And courtesy of our multiple and virtual Silicon
Valleys that are anywhere, here and there could be
everywhere, facilitating the building of our own Rama
setus, our own bridges to (re)discover the loves of our
lives. And we merely need a diya to light the sky, to
show us the way back home and make peace with our
disquieted heart.

Rajesh C. Oza, who for many years wrote Khabar’s “Satyalogue”
column, truly hopes one day soon to celebrate Diwali in India,
perhaps with a grandchild in tow. As Founder and President of OrganiZationAlignment
Consulting Group, Inc., he specializes in helping
senior executives better align their organizations to achieve success.

2) The
Legend of
Vaishno
Devi

With Navratri around the
corner, the author remembers
her childhood visit to the
goddess who resides in a
million-year-old cave.
By Monita Soni

(Left) The Vaishno Devi shrine in Jammu and Kashmir.

A timeless place where Bhairon stumbled and was
beheaded by Vaishnavi—for hundreds of years pilgrims
have climbed over his head to enter this splintered
mountain into a cave, an eternal shrine of purity.

The year was 1972, the longest leap year ever
(by two leap seconds). My dad Swadesh Kumar Kapur
was a regional manager for Merck India pharmaceuticals
and was posted in Amritsar. I was twelve years
old. My sister Samita was eight, and my friend
Shiwani ten. It was the time when Luna 21 and Apollo
17 landed on the moon and the legendary movie The
Godfather was released.

We were renting the front house of the Bhatia
Bhavan compound on Hukam Singh Road in Amritsar,
Punjab. It was a safe neighborhood, and we often visited
neighbors. We knew the aunty who made the best
stuffed parathas, the mother who served the tastiest
lemon pound cake, and whose mango ice cream was
topnotch. Life was good. Sacred Heart school did not
overburden us with homework. Afternoons were full
of hide-and-go-seek, jump rope, seven-stone (pithoo),
land-or-water, and culling raw mangoes.

Along with birthdays, we kids looked forward to
the Kanjaka
ceremony, on
the eighth day
of the Navratri
festival (Ashtami).
At this
celebration of
Goddess Vaishno
Devi, young
girls were special
guests. Not
only did we get
mouthwatering
snacks of
puri, aloo-chhole,
and halwa, but
we also received
shiny
coins, colorful
bangles,
parandis (ribbon-like hair
ornaments), and dupattas. My mother would sow khetri
(wheat) in a pot and water it with love and devotion
every day for nine days. On Ashtami my dad washed
our feet; we were offered flowers and Mata’s prasad. We
sang “Jai Mata Di” with gusto and ate our prasad. The
taste of mom’s freshly made halwa-puri still lingers in
my mouth.

Dad organized a pilgrimage to Vaishno Devi. The
pilgrims were Kapurs, Bhatias, Sehgals, Peshawarias,
and the kids. The goddess’ shrine is about 250 km from
Amritsar. It took us 5-6 hours by the Punjab Roadways
deluxe bus to Jammu, the winter capital of Jammu
and Kashmir. You can also take a train from Delhi or
Kalka to Jammu. Then a local bus drove us 1-2 hours
from Jammu to Katra, a small bustling town on the
banks of the Banganga River. My ears are still ringing
with the shrill horn the driver used at every turn, but
this auditory infliction on the passengers’ ears was a
much-needed built-in safety device to avoid collisions
on the treacherous mountain road. Our mothers were
knitting; Dad was reading; and the girls were busy playing
games. There were no laments of “Are we there yet?”

After resting in a clean dharamshala (guesthouse),
next morning we marched single file behind Dad. Our
shoes laced, faces eager in anticipation for this adventure,
we were ready to see Vaishno Devi. First, we spilled
into a quaint shudh bhojanalaya (breakfast place—no
eggs or chicken here; the goddess is Vaishno—pure
vegetarian) and curved around a large wooden counter
to watch the
cook fry hot
parathas on a
giant griddle.
After downing
our parathas
with tall glasses
of steaming
warm milk
or hot tea, we
swung out in
a semicircle
holding hands,
commenting
on an eclectic
community
of monks and
pilgrims from
all over the
country. My
sister Samita
(the youngest)
had to be rescued a few times as we zig-zagged
through fluttering kits of pigeons, docile droves of
donkeys, lurking troops of cheeky monkeys, and stubborn
holy cows.

Dad had related the legend before we embarked
on our trip. Vaishno Devi is a Vaishnava goddess, the
Yog Maya of Vishnu, and a manifestation of the Hindu
Mother Goddess Mahalakshmi. Worshipped as Mata
Rani, Trikuta, and Vaishnavi, she resides in a holy
cave or bhavan in the three-peaked mountain Trikuta,
at 5,200 feet. This is not one of the shatipiths (energy-sources),
but it is an ancient shrine mentioned in the
Rig Veda from the Puranic times. It was discovered 700
years ago by Shridhar, a Mata devotee. Now it’s is the
second most visited temple in India (second to Tirupathi
in Andhra Pradesh).

Our 12 km trek up the mountain began. My
sister was hoisted piggyback on a porter or pithu.
The rest of us were on our feet. No palkis (palanquins)
or mules for us.

At halfway point or Adhkuwari, Dad told us that
Lord Rama, the seventh incarnation of Vishnu, in
7306 BC during his fourteen-year exile, happened to
visit Vaishnavi. She recognized him immediately and
asked him to accept her so that she could merge into
the supreme creator. Lord Rama, knowing that it was
not the appropriate time, dissuaded her by saying that
he would visit her again after the end of his exile, and
at that time if she succeeded in recognizing him, he
would fulfill her wish. True to his words, Rama visited
her again after being victorious in the battle, but this
time in the disguise of an old man. Vaishnavi was unable
to recognize him. She was distraught. Lord Rama
consoled her, saying that her time would come in Kaliyug
when he would be in his incarnation as Kalki.

After Ardh Kumari there was a steep climb to Hathi
Matha, a large rock shaped like an elephant head.
Views on this stretch were panoramic but the climb
steep and scary, for if you slipped you would hurtle
4-5,000 feet down the side of the mountain into the
valley. I took a minute to hurl a pebble but could not
gather the courage to look down. Many landslides
occur and have caused a few tragedies, but we kept
trekking on, encouraged by the chants of “Jor se bolo
Jai Mata Di.” Now you can take a helicopter ride from
Katra for 700 rupees.

(Left) The author’s rendering of the Mother Goddess in the sanctum of the holy cave. (Painting by Monita Soni)

At the culmination of their pilgrimage, we were
blessed with darshan (viewing) of the Mother Goddess
in the sanctum of the holy cave. She is in the shape of
a five-and-a-half-foot rock with three rock heads or pindies
that represent the holy trinity of goddesses Vaishno,
Kali, and Lakshmi. The cave entrance was narrow
and we had to crawl into the cave, and our feet were
numb from stepping in the freezing waters of the river
Banganga. I remember holding my sister’s hand in the
dark cave lest she be swept away in the river. A pilgrimage
to the Holy Shrine of Shri Mata Vaishno Devi Ji is
considered to be one of the holiest pilgrimages of our
times. She is known as “Moonh Maangi Muradein Poori
Karne Wali Mata,” she who fulfills her children’s every
wish. I wonder what my parents wished for. I wished
for the health of my family.

As I think of this special pilgrimage, I know that
this Ashtami I will read the story about Mata Vaishno
Devi being an embodiment of Maha Kali, Maha Lakshmi,
and Maha Saraswati to my grandson Ayush. The
three divine energies coalesced their spiritual prowess
into a beautiful young girl born in the Ratankar
family in South India. From childhood she displayed
an unquenchable quest for spirituality. I will tell him
how Vaishnavi looked inward for self-knowledge and
learned the art of meditation, relinquishing household
comforts and going deep into the forest for meditation.
I am sure we will both hear the fervent chants of
devotees and my Dad singing a bhajan in his beautiful
voice: “Na main dhan chahoon, na ratan chahoon” from
the film Kala Bazaar. Dad was a true devotee who did
not ask for money or jewels but a refuge at the feet of
the goddess, and his wish was granted. True treasure is
a good heart, the only thing the soul can carry with it
beyond the cycle of life and death.

Back at base camp, Dad completed his story. As
predicted by Lord Rama, Vaishnavi’s glory spread far
and wide, and devotees flocked to her ashram to seek
her blessings. One day MahaYogi Guru Goraksh Nath
became curious of Vaishno Devi’s spirituality. He sent
his disciple Bhairon Nath to probe the truth. Mesmerized
by Vaishnavi, resplendent in red garments, armed
with bow and arrows, and riding a ferocious lion, Bhairon
Nath began to pester Vaishnavi to marry him.

At that time Sridhar, a prominent Mata devotee,
had organized a bhandara (community meal) in which
the whole village and Guru Goraksh Nath and his followers
were invited. Bhairon Nath attempted to grab
Vaishnavi, but she fled into the mountains. Bhairon
Nath chased her to the holy cave, where the goddess
was compelled to behead him. His severed head fell on
a distant hilltop. Realizing the futility of his mission,
he prayed to the deity for forgiveness, and the merciful
goddess granted him a boon—that every devotee
would have to have darshan of Bhairon after having darshan
of the goddess, and only then would the pilgrimage
be complete. Vaishnavi then shed her human form
and merged into a rock for meditation forever.

We were not conditioned to take this mountainous
journey, but with Dad’s planning and encouragement
we made the daunting 24 km roundtrip trek safely. Our
legs felt full of lead. The most excruciating leg cramps I
have ever experienced were the day after the trip. How
I wished I had actually played tennis rather than just
pick tennis balls for the famous IPS officer Kiran Bedi
(then Peshawaria) and her fiancé Brij Bedi. My wish was
granted, too: my calves have not hurt that much ever
since. Jai Mata Di!

Monita Soni is a pathologist who diagnoses cancer in her day
job. Reading and writing poetry is a passion that splashes her literally
with a sparkling abundance. You can hear her commentaries on
“The Sundial Writers Corner” on WLRH 89.3 FM/HD, Huntsville, AL.

3) The Gift of Memory

A cynical little girl’s journey to find
meaning in Diwali.
By PREETI HAY

There was a little girl who hated all festivals and would rather have spent her time reading Enid Blyton. Holidays annoyed her: the social expectation, the opulence, the pressure, even the overeating. It was most importantly the disruptions that festivals imposed on the monotony of her own life that she could not stand. Why couldn’t life just be boring enough so she could spend her time writing and daydreaming about being a writer? Poor kid, she had no idea that life and memories create stories, not the lack of them. That little girl was me.

I grew up in Bombay, an only child in a family that was odd, as all families can be. My paternal grandparents whom I adored, came from the Brahmo Samaj school of thought, and hence, were pretty much indifferent towards traditional Hindu festivals and celebrations. My father was rather unenthused, except for binging on mithais, especially as midnight snacks. It
really was my mother who adored festivals! She grew up in the foothills of the Himalayas in Dehradun.
Marriage had brought her to Bombay. Even though she loved the freedom and pace of the southwestern city, she sorely missed the grandiose and collective excitement of festivals from her north Indian childhood in Dehradun. So she’d skip the insipid festival time with a family of “garlic faces” and escape to Dehradun for Diwali every year.

We boarded the Dehradun Express for our two-day journey. Looking back, I feel pity for my mother having to accompany me, a jaded little girl who had not made up her mind about festivals. How would I? I felt equally pulled in two directions, in a constant tug of war between the Yay and Nay camps. On the ride over, as she chattily prepared me for the big event (crackers, pujas, dinners, card parties, and exclusive extended family time!), I buried my head in Nancy Drew novels. She
reminded me of names of second and third cousins, as I made reluctant mental notes lest I offend anyone. Over the two days, we spent quality mother-daughter time over spotting peacocks in the Rajasthan landscapes, having special milk in Baroda, eating puri bhaji in Ratlam, and watching the ruggedy sadhus in Mathura. Looking back, that train ride was so quintessentially India in all its hot, chaotic, and messy splendor.

When we got off in Dehradun, we were a tired, dusty mess. Arriving in the chill of the morning fog at my maternal grandmother’s home, Bibiji (that’s what I called her) was waiting at the verandah door with big hugs and hot, cream-layered chai. All the cousins were on Diwali vacation and came over to see us that
morning. They called my mother Bombay Bua and I was Bombay Didi. They were completely fascinated
with my Bombay Hinglish just as I was with their
fast-paced, purist Hindi.

We zipped around downtown Dehradun on mopeds buying mithais and gifts such as suit pieces and saris for aunts and farsaan or chocolates for uncles. For cousins we always bought firecrackers. Each child had a set limit of firecrackers they were allotted by their parents. Anything additional could come only as a gift. My allowance was Rs. 100. To my little mind, that was a huge amount and for once I was very excited. In my imaginary tug of war, the Yay camp won this particular battle.

One year, on Diwali night, a burning chakri somehow hopped over loops and landed straight on my foot. I shrieked in terror as the whole family brushed it off my foot, then poured numerous bottles of water on the affected area. I was carried back into the house, away from the festivities. As I lay in the solitude that I had always hoped for during Diwali, a little part of me missed the lights, the laughter, and the feeling of being part of a whole. While everyone still rejoiced, my grandmother Bibiji nursed my wound and sang me to sleep amongst the noises of the night.

Bibiji had mothered and raised eight children and grandmothered seventeen! Her matriarchal commitment to the unity of the clan across individual differences made her a prime figure in my mother’s family. Her strength to know when to give in and when to stand up for herself was interesting to watch as a little girl. Towards me, she was not all rosy; she reprimanded me for bad behavior, she was frank about my
fussiness when it came to food and manners, and yet she indulged me in ways she found appropriate. As a little child, I could not appreciate her wisdom. I judged her and at times tried getting back at her.

Every year for Lakshmi puja, it was the family tradition to write the names of all men in the family who would carry forward the family name and lineage. That year was a special Diwali because four boys had been born into the family—any Indian grandmother’s dream! Her wall seemed fuller that year as she added the new names to the list. She also bought a special gold idol of Baby Lord Krishna in a baby swing to commemorate the occasion. Somehow the focus on the boys and the play of events upset me. So I surreptitiously added my name to the list. Bibiji simply erased my name from the list; women did not belong on the list. With the vengeance of an ignorant child, I went back and threw her baby Krishna idol on the floor. The echo of the now broken idol resonated all over the house. I was reprimanded, cursed, and spanked. This could not be a good omen. Bibiji did not say a word. After the dust settled, she went about her puja, held the integrity of Diwali, and we never talked about it again. Looking back, her actions surprised me. She looked forward to that day for years and I had destroyed it in a few minutes. She taught me to be able to be around things and situations without agreeing with them. It is good to question things, but sometimes, for the sake of others, it is better to let go—a lesson I still value and try to use in my adult life at home, work, and larger community.

Bibiji passed away the year after. That was our last Diwali together. I never could apologize and tell her how much I learned from her. Diwali was never the same for my mother and me. We started skipping
years and within a few years my mother died most unexpectedly as well. With her passing, Diwali and its joys were over for me. I never could bring myself to go to Dehradun for Diwali again, even though I did visit at other times. It was due to our yearly Diwalis together that I became close with my cousins and still am.

Now in America, years later and miles away, what do the holidays involve? Family, love, gifts, shopping, exhaustion, credit card debts, post festivity dieting, and failing at it! After my careful lists, I have concurred that the greatest gift of festivals is memories. During Diwali every year, I have flashes from those cold October and November nights of celebrations in Dehradun:
images of chuckling little cousins jumping at the sight
of anars, having rasmalai-eating contests, waking up with tummy aches after, and winning and losing our child fortunes in gambling games past midnight. Now, I am thankful for those times.

As my son turns two this year, the cynic in
me wants to take a backseat for his sake. I want his festivals to be full of light, joy, hope, and prosperity,
everything they truly represent. His fate I cannot
decide, but what I can do for him is to create memories, the greatest gift of festivals.

Preeti Hay has a Master’s degree in English Literature and a Bachelor’s degree in Mass Media. Her articles have
appeared in publications including The Times of India,
India Currents, Yoga International, Yogi Times and
anthologies of fiction and poetry.

4) Cuisine: A Dash of History and a Dollop of Love:
a Foodie’s Review of Lakshmi’s Table

The book is more than just a collection of recipes. It’s a testament to the author’s determination, as a pioneering immigrant in the 1960s, to recreate in her new country the unparalleled legacy of the South Indian food traditions she had left behind.
By MAYA HARITA

Cooking. Some call it art, some claim it as passion, some do it as a hobby, and for others, it is just a necessity. My favorite description is from a good friend who once defined the art of cooking as “an offering of love.”

(Left) The book’s author, Mrs. P. S. Lakshmi Rao.

Lakshmi’s Table, a book I was recently tasked to
review for Khabar magazine, is one such offering of love. While I am captivated by the cookbook itself, my encounter with Mrs. Lakshmi Rao, the book’s author, her life experiences, and approach to food has become a profound inspiration for me, both in my kitchen and in life. Mrs. Rao, I found out, is no stranger to the Indian community of Atlanta. She and her now deceased husband, Dr. P. V. Rao, were amongst the pillars of the Indian community that was just starting to form in the 1960s. She has been publishing a food column in NRI Pulse, the local desi
newspaper, for a few years now.

I met with Mrs. Lakshmi on a
beautiful, warm Atlanta evening. In the few hours that we chatted, I was mesmerized by her deep understanding and knowledge of Indian and
other cuisines. She radiated a warm, kind, and humble spirit infused with
effortless humor.

While the book Lakshmi’s Table was published in 2012, the journey of Mrs. Lakshmi’s
own table started back in 1961. That year, a young
Mrs. Lakshmi and her toddler from the village of
Kumaradevam, West Godavari District in Andhra Pradesh, boarded one of the first 747 flights ever built to join her beloved husband, Mr. P. V. Rao in Eugene, Oregon, a researcher who would eventually become a renowned nuclear physicist.

It was in the small town of Eugene that Mrs. Lakshmi began a lifelong journey into experimenting and offering food. She reminisces that, with no Indian stores around and not even the basic dals, spices, and pulses available, she used to get freshly baked French bread from a nearby bakery to have along with her soups made of yellow split peas and sautéed vegetables. Have you ever felt hungry when some
people talk about food? Mrs. Lakshmi is
most definitely one of those people.

The cookbook itself was written out of her passion for making
authentic South Indian food. But there’s even more to Lakshmi’s Table. The recipe collection is a happy blend of the conventional items cooked by generations of Indians, along with
tantalizing surprises like Zucchini Curry, Stuffed Brussels Sprouts, Yellow Squash
and Bell Pepper Curry, and Cranberry Yam
Chutney, to name a few.

Recipe writing is an art in itself and here, too, Lakshmi’s Table aces it with well-organized sections and easy-to-read-and-follow preparation methods.There are helpful tips and variations as well,
to help one achieve the right flavor and consistency.

The book begins with Snacks and Appetizers, quite appropriately, like the start of a grand meal. The Black-eyed Beans Wada, Chegodies, and Mung Murukulu are one-of-a-kind appetizers
that are quick, easy to make, with a nice,
creative touch.

Mrs. Lakshmi’s long list of chutneys, with well measured proportions of ingredients, is a testament to how important chutneys are to a meal. There are traditional favorites like Ginger Chutney and Gongura Chutney, as well as unique ones like Cranberry Yam Chutney. She offers fun variations to try out, too. For example, add sesame or ajwain seeds to Ginger Chutney, she says, and you have a cool, new stuffing for bajjis.

What is an Indian meal without pickles? Be it a side for the main entrees or to spice up a comfort bowl of yoghurt and rice, just a spoonful of pickles can make a meal divine! Ever since I first browsed the pickles section, I catch myself dreaming of Pulihora Avakayi. Its color, texture, taste, and the bold aroma arising when the hot tadka is poured onto the mango and red chili powder marinade…oh, heavenly! Pickles are melodramatic in nature and they carry a delicate balance of salt and chili spice. One wrong move and you are doomed to a place of self-doubt and depression! Lakshmi’s Table hand-holds the reader through a variety of pickles that are made from scratch, zesty, but not daunting.

There’s an expansive list of dry and gravy-based curries, dals, and soups. Besides time tested staples like Green Banana Curry, Cauliflower Curry, and crowd pleasers like Gongura Pulusu, this section is brilliantly studded with a host of fusion recipes. The Spicy
Orange Soup and Cranberry Dal are some truly
creative examples that I just couldn’t resist trying out.
The enticing aroma of Eggplant Stuffed with Cilantro
Leaves (finely blended cilantro, green chilies, salt, and cumin seeds, stuffed into eggplants and pan roasted) bursts through the roasted eggplant plopped on a bed of rice with a hint of ghee.

The scrumptious dessert selection has been
curated to appease both novice and experienced chefs—Almond Burfi, Baked Almonds with Honey,
and Lavanga Triangles, anyone? There’s also an
Ugadi special. With the upcoming fall festival
season of Dussehra, Navratri, Diwali, Thanksgiving,
and Christmas, the desserts in Lakshmi’s Table offer multiple options to try out.

But back to my encounter with the author herself. Her obvious dedication and love for serving good food was heartwarming. In a time when ideal ingredients were scarce or simply unavailable, she improvised and served wholesome meals to all who sat at her table and perfected her recipes over five decades! I have since read her book several times over. It takes me back to an earlier time when young couples with a rich cultural heritage migrated to a foreign land. For decades,
they have endeavored to retain the essence of Indian traditions while assimilating into their new home.

My grandfather, after every meal, would utter the Sanskrit thanksgiving, “Annadata sukhi bhava” (“May the provider of food be well and flourish”). From the days of wood and coal-fired ovens to today’s modern
kitchens, generations of Indian parents have been
annadatas, when they sit next to their families and guests and serve them home cooked food. There is an intrinsic joy to serving and eating good food. Lakshmi’s Table goes beyond its recipes—it’s also a delectable slice of history!

Maya Harita, a self-proclaimed foodie, also blogs
nostalgically about life from a distant past in India.

5) Fiction: The Missus’
First
Diwali

A young immigrant wife,
longing for the warmth,
light, and color of this
most beloved of Indian festivals, bravely attempts to
recreate a traditional Diwali, in a new and vastly
different cultural landscape. By NANDITA GODBOLE

As Diwali inched closer on the calendar, Ana began
to see how her ‘first Diwali’ as a married woman would
be different in the United States versus if she was ‘back
home’ in India.

A ‘back home,’ Indian Diwali meant being guided
by elders, bonding with in-laws, shopping for festive
finery, being pampered. It was fragrant and deliberate, a
pause from the daily grind, when worldly worries took
a backseat to family, over five leisurely days.

A traditional Diwali meant cooking treats together
and exchanging them with friends. Ana’s mother
would make several large bins of Diwali treats, sometimes
combining efforts with Ba (Ana’s maternal grandmother)
for larger batches. Sooji laddu was her mother’s
favorite dish. Spending hours laboring over tender and
crumbly laddus, these round globes of roasted semolina
were hand-shaped with creamed ghee and sugar.
Ana missed sitting with everyone on their kitchen
floor, portioning out the sandy mix and attempting
to form the laddu in vain. Papa loved chivda and it
was a Diwali staple. Diwali meant he got time off;
it meant more visitors, and offering them cups of tea
and special Diwali treats.

Ana’s maternal grandfather Dadaji sometimes visited
to make mohanthal specially for Papa during Diwali
and bring Ba’s karanjis. To Ana, they signified the essence
of the festival, because they appeared only during
Diwali. These crescent-shaped, coconut filled, fried
pastries reminded Papa of his mother, his childhood.
While his mother’s karanjis were crisp and crumbly,
Ba’s karanjis were softer and decadently tender. Regardless,
chomping them down meant needing small
saucers to catch
the crumbs, and
then shamelessly
dragging one’s finger
across it to pick up the last bits of sweetness, the
closest permissible way to licking one’s plate clean.

Diwali meant bowing to receive heartfelt blessings
of elders, partaking in the iconic joys of indulgent dining,
decorating a home with rangoli, lamps, and enjoying
fireworks. It meant sharing time: cooking, shopping,
decorating, giving and receiving, making memories.

Ana had enjoyed it all. Now, she missed it more.

She and Ravi were far away from family—there
would be none of this. Theirs was a love marriage—
for some, not an ideal match. If Ana wanted anything
special for Diwali, she sensed she would have to shop
for it herself. Ravi was too busy to indulge her in rituals.
So she planned her first Diwali alone, purchasing a
new formal shirt for Ravi, while longing instead for a
traditional silk tunic, and finding a new skirt for herself,
in place of a formal silk saree, consoling herself that
these were practical. She now had token new clothes
for Diwali and their Hindu New Year.

“Make at least five festive Diwali dishes, one for
each day,” Ana’s mother insisted (over their umpteenth
international call). Her simple urging felt like subtle
pressure for Ana to take on ‘traditional’ fixings, an
assumption that Ana had the skill, patience, or motivation
to do it all by herself. Rather than recognizing
the confidence her mother felt towards her abilities,
Ana felt cornered and alone.

Alone. That hateful word taunted her more often
than she cared. Her nostalgia for the festival became
tainted with sadness, longing, and a twinge of annoyance
at their loneliness. Ana had made practical
choices over traditional ones.

Like their love marriage.

Like the clothes she just picked for their special
‘first Diwali.’

The deep divide between what Ana was supposed
to do and what was achievable became apparent; the
realization scared her and mocked her attempts. She
felt a sense of cultural erosion, as though she was
cheating while observing a token Diwali, that her
traditional Indian Diwali would have to remain tucked
away as a memory.

Ana looked up several recipes for chakli, a savory,
swirling, crunchy, fried snack that paired with tea, but
she did not have the right tools. Ravi’s mother made a
boondi laddu: ghee-fried drops of chickpea flour, doused
in simple syrup, hand-molded into large globes studded
with golden raisins; those seemed difficult to make.

Ana hadn’t realized how much she missed Diwali
until she reminisced about it alongside Ravi, who had
missed it just as much. She had struggled while taking
recipe notes over long phone calls to her mother. Preparing
for Diwali alone made everything seem difficult.
Sensing her restlessness, Ravi eased the pressure, backing
away from special requests: Diwali meant bringing
together traditions, not causing worry. They assessed
their long list of favorites, reminiscing and salivating
over memories of past Diwalis. Ravi offered to make
Mysore pak, a warm and earthy stovetop dish that tasted
like cardamom-flavored shortbread cookies.

As Diwali neared, they came to terms with what
was possible: a puffed rice chivda, Mysore pak, and a
date and pistachio log. Ana would make Ba’s ksheera
for their Diwali prasad or religious offering, Ba’s own
mother-in-law’s laapsi for the pre-dawn New Year’s
Day prasad, puri and fruit custard for lunch, and dahi
wada for New Year’s dinner.

Ana decided to add something not on her mother’s
traditional roster of Diwali sweets, combining plain
puffed rice with jaggery into one of her own favorites: a
puffed rice chikki. Her mother often made this crunchy
bar-like treat as an after-school snack. This easy addition
to Ana’s Diwali preparations felt comforting.

Ana’s mother was tickled at the idea, “Surely
Ana, you can make something more decadent, something
less ordinary.”

Ana wasn’t aiming for decadence but accessible
and easy, even if it was ordinary. And yet, there was
nothing ordinary about it: it was quite Indian and more
importantly, reminded her of family and ‘back home.’

As the furor around Diwali built up inside their
little apartment, fiery fall colors took over the town. Apples
became cheaper, so Ana attempted making apple
pies. She decided to bake one for Diwali, just not as a
traditional centerpiece, for the prasad.

Their doorway received a refresher at Diwali: Ana
hung a toran, a traditional doorway garland, and christened
the doorway with auspicious red vermillion,
kumkum, to bless the apartment.

Unfortunately, it raised eyebrows among her Midwestern
neighbors. What kind of pagan practice was
that? Was that blood? The swastikas—were they anti-Semitic? A letter from the apartment management
company arrived. Ana took the toran down and wiped
the auspicious swastika and traces of kumkum away.

Their first Diwali was quiet. Ravi’s work did not
allow him special time off as people in India
received. Ana spent all five days of Diwali alone in
their apartment, waiting until evenings when they
could do something special together.

They lit lamps in the evening but missed the smell
of fireworks.

They had made the “eats” but ate alone.

Ana wanted rangoli outside their apartment, but
the corridors were carpeted.

Observing such an important religious festival
without people who reciprocated their enthusiasm
made it feel like a colorless, flavorless celebration; it
would not soothe the heartache of missing the love and
care of their elders.

So, they did the next best thing: surrounding
themselves with memories, through the foods that
reminded them of the family they had left behind,
of ‘back home.’ In their odd mish-mash of festive
treats, observances, and longings, Ravi and Ana made
new memories. And just like that, their first Diwali
was over, like a much-anticipated yet short-lived
meteor shower.

Nandita Godbole is an Atlanta based author of many cookbooks
and a food novel. This short story is adapted from her recent
novel: Not For You: Family Narratives of Denial & Comfort
Foods (2018).

6) Perspective: What the Festive Season Means to Me
By D. B. Dillard-Wright

I came to the dharma late in life as a convert
from Christianity, but the more I look back over
my life, the more early influences I find
that led me to be curious about
Indian culture. I spent my
early elementary years in Atlanta,
near the Greek Orthodox
cathedral on Clairmont
Road, in the 1980s. I made
friends with Neena Ketkar,
the Gujarati / Chicagoan
girl who moved in across
the street, in second or
third grade. Most of the
time we just rode bikes in
a circle on the asphalt, but
whenever I went inside her
house, Neena’s mom would
never let me leave without a
sweet. She kept some chocolates
on hand just in case a
guest would arrive.

That was also the first time
I laid eyes on Lord Ganesha,
whose murthi was displayed in
a prominent location in the
living room of the tidy ranch-style
home. When much
later, I ate dinner at their
house, I remember how the
food just kept coming. Neena
whispered to me, “Make sure to
leave some food on your plate—otherwise she will just keep bringing
more.” I still recall the sweet taste of gulab jamun
and the way that Mrs. Ketkar reminded me of my
own South Carolinian grandmother, who also had a
propensity to load down her guests’ plates with food.

When I think about Diwali and Durga Puja, I think
about Lord Ganesha and his bowl of sweets that reminds
us of the good things in life—the food, shelter,
and clothing that we so often take for granted. I also
think about the intangible things, like the love that
we share with our families and friends. The hospitality
that Mrs. Ketkar demonstrated makes all of our
lives richer, when we give to one another. Life becomes
plentiful when we are generous, as we become
less sparing in our desire for a better world. As
we perform the puja ritual with offerings
of fire, incense, water, food, flowers,
clothing, and wealth, we return
something back to the devas that
they have given to us. This, in
turn, reminds us of the cycle of
blessings at work both in
society and in nature at
large. Giving and receiving
are intrinsically related:
we learn to receive by
giving and vice versa. The
holidays are a chance to reaffirm
our participation in
the general flow of give and
take that upholds the worlds.
My own guruji’s words ring in
my ears, “Make sure to give
more than you take.”

By giving, whether of our
time or talents, money or service,
we balance the cosmic accounts,
making up for any selfishness that
we have displayed during the year.
We put aside the ways of the past and
look for more merit in the year to come,
so that we hasten the journey towards liberation.
This is the drama portrayed in Rama’s
battle with Ravana and in Durga’s battle against
Mahishasura: the triumph of the divine soul over
the forces of egotism, fear, and doubt.

The scriptures portray the central mystery of human
existence: how to live in the material world without
succumbing to the myriad temptations that we
face every day. I recognize that the word “temptation”
might give away something of my Protestant upbringing,
but I do think that maintaining a dedication to
the spiritual life in our culture of constant distraction
can be a real difficulty. But then Durga is the Empress
of Difficulties, she who subdues the difficulties.
And Lord Ganesha is the Defeater of Obstacles. The
devas symbolize the possibility of overcoming all
adversity and living our ideal lives despite the forces
arrayed against us.

In our fragmented, individualized lives in late
consumer capitalism, we can find it hard to connect
to tradition and family. It can be difficult to perform
home puja or make it to the temple. We get so busy
with work and ferrying kids to their different activities
that we lose track of meditation and spirituality.
There are bills to be paid, to-do lists to complete.
But as the holidays approach, let us remember to
set aside some time to think divine thoughts and
recalibrate our lives towards generosity
and goodness. As we give
to the gods we also give to ourselves
the gift of a respite from busyness
and minutia. As we purify the mandir,
we also purify our hearts for the divine
indwelling.

Despite the general crumminess
and corruption of some aspects of our
society, we are nonetheless privileged
to live in a world in which there is still
kindness to be found. We should make
it our goal in the year ahead to extend
this kindness and make the world a bit
less cruel, less uncaring and unthinking.
The return of Rama to Ayodhya is
the reconciliation of consciousness from division and
hatred to unity and peace. May the holidays and the
year ahead be a blessing for all beings!

D. B. Dillard-Wright is a professor of philosophy and religion at
the University of South Carolina, a former United Methodist Minister,
a Hindu by choice, and author of the book, At Ganapati’s Feet.