A Small Price To Pay

People often looked at me as if I had lost my mind when I told them that I found Diwali depressing. Those who were kindly inclined decided that I must have suffered a personal tragedy during the festival. I could see the sympathy in their eyes which said “I can understand, you poor child. Such incidents taint even the lights of Diwali”. The reason for my dislike was not as dramatic as they imagined. It was just that I did not care much for the rituals associated with it.

For starters, I was not a morning person. Having to wake up even before the crack of dawn, when I had fallen asleep only about an hour before and taking a bath was a modified form of the water torture for me. I was a savory kind of person and the mounds of sweets which were prepared and which I was made to sample by visiting aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents set my teeth on edge in the worst way possible.

With so many beauty products available in the market, I could not imagine why Mom was fixated on using ubtan, oil and locally made fragrant soap. Mom was quite hard hearted about the ritual bath and turned an absolutely deaf ear to my entreaties. I wailed and pleaded. I begged and cajoled. But she always had the same reply, “At least support the small local industries during the festival. They need to dispel the darkness too!”

I shuddered when I recalled the past Diwali. At seventeen and a half, I thought I was quite grown up and expected Mom to respect my wishes of waking up at my usual time of eight in the morning, festival or no festival. After all, holidays were meant for sleeping in! I had decided that I would use my new jojoba oil infused body lotion and frangipani shower gel. But Mom was quite inflexible. I woke up to find her gently but firmly shaking me at five thirty in the morning. This was the last straw. “I am glad I will not be here next year for this nonsense. The hostel seems far more inviting already”, I said in in as vicious a tone as I could muster. Her eyes held just a smidgen of hurt. “Next year is far away. Now get up. Have a bath like a good girl and put on your new Kurta”, she said as she left the room.

I stamped my foot, cursed the festival, cursed everyone under the sun and finally emerged in a black top, paired with a pair of black jeans studded with diamante` on the seams. I knew she couldn’t do much. It was my way of cocking a snook at her dictatorial ways. It was not a happy time. We bickered over local and branded, traditional and international for all four days of the festival. Both of us stuck to our guns. So much for the festive good cheer and bonhomie!

But that was the past. ‘Be careful what you wish for’, they say and this year I was to spend my Diwali all by myself in the hostel. Having enrolled in The National Law University Jodhpur, I had exactly three days of holidays and heading home, which was more than a thousand kilometers away was out of question. Mom had planned to come visiting, but with an air of false bravado, I expressly forbade her. The convenient excuse of mid term tests was trotted out. If she saw through the blatant lie and felt hurt, she did not let on. “I will send your favorite savories by courier”, she said. “Maybe I can come in November after your tests are over”. I had answered with a non-committal “Let’s see. I will let you know”.

I had already planned my day. I was going to wake up after nine in the morning, have a bath around noon with another new bottle of shower gel from The Body Shop, and not eat a single sweet. I was going to do what I chose. For once, Diwali was going to be an extended holiday with ‘nothing official about it’. I was an adult and meant to spend my time the way I wanted. A shopping spree in the evening was just what the doctor ordered! The Body Shop, Pantaloons and a million other shops beckoned with their latest trendy offerings. I thought about the sleeveless vest top which I had chosen with glee. It would go well with my cuffed pants. Mom would not be able to fix me with her disapproving stare. The only slight concession to tradition was the silver jewelry which I planned to buy in the local market. It would go well with the Gothic look I had going. Since a couple of my friends had recently been victims of online fraud after using their cards in the smaller shops, I had prudently withdrawn cash to pay for my purchases.

As luck would have it, the last lecture was cancelled.  What could be better? I returned to the hostel earlier than usual, wrapped in a happy haze. The door of my room stood slightly ajar. “Of course! Phulwa, the maid must be hard at work”, I thought as I pushed the door open. It was Phulwa all right, but she seemed to be cleaning out the contents of my cupboard rather than the room. My happy haze was instantly replaced by the red one of anger. Stealing! Two days before Diwali! After I had given her the mandatory ‘Bakshish’, before anyone else!

Storming in, I grabbed her by the shoulder. “Phulwa! How dare you?”, I was rendered momentarily speechless by my righteous anger. My carefully saved little hoard fell from her limp fingers. I snatched it up from the floor and decided that this was no time for explanations. I had made up my mind to drag her to the warden and see that she was immediately dismissed. She seemed incapable of speech too. None of the expected dramatic weeping and breast-beating with wailing requests for a pardon. She stood quietly as if turned to stone. Was that a gleam of relief that I saw in her eyes? The lawyer in me suddenly woke up to this strange aspect of a very-open -and -shut case. I shut the door and stared at her.

“Why were you stealing Phulwa? I gave you the Bakshish didn’t I?  Warden Madam might hand you over to the police. Your job is as good as gone.”. “I want to be handed over to the police, Didi”, she said in a low voice. I couldn’t believe my ears. “No one from the hostel is going to apply for bail on your behalf”, I commented acridly. “If I am punished for a year, at least I will get food to eat and a place to sleep, Didi”, she replied. “What do you mean?” I was genuinely curious. After all, Phulwa had never given anyone cause for complaint before. She was a good worker according to my seniors, and had been working in the hostel for the past two years.

“What is the matter? If you think jail is a walk in the park, then you are mistaken!”, I said. “But if I stay outside, I will meet a worse fate”, she replied in the dull voice of a person who was beyond caring.  “Sit down”, I drew up a chair and perched myself on the bed. “Tell me the real reason why you were stealing or pretend stealing or whatever it is that you were doing!”, my curiosity got the better of me. “I won’t let you go until you do”.

“Bapu owns a small store at the outskirts of the city, Didi”, she said. “We make Bandhej products like dupattas, sarees and turbans. Products normally sell well during Diwali, but the trend has been reducing for the past couple of years. Last year, our workshop caught fire. Bapu went to a cooperative credit society for a loan. But he is semiliterate. Once someone found out, they changed something in the documents. We have been paying back every month, Didi. But yesterday, some people came home and threatened us. We have to pay twenty thousand rupees in four days, or else they will take possession of everything, even our house. We have managed to raise fifteen thousand, Didi. I tried talking to all the Didis here, but nobody was ready to buy anything. I came to your room, saw your key lying on the table and before I knew it, I had opened the cupboard and taken out the money. I swear on Bapu’s head, Didi, I only took five thousand rupees.”

I counted the little bundle in my hand. Five thousand rupees. The rest of it was still in my cupboard. I had never felt more conscience-stricken in my life. Here was I, ready to blow up this money and more on some products which I could well do without, while another girl, just a little older than me stood to lose everything for want of so little. I was not ready to light diyas because I wanted fancy fairy lights which would look trendy and cool, and here she was, trying to light a small diya for her father. Someone else, who was much older and wiser had decisively won the global versus local case which had been raging since last Diwali. My arguments did not have a leg to stand on.

Mom received a selfie of me dressed in a Bandhej saree, holding up a diya, while Phulwa fed me a morsel of ghewar, at the crack of dawn on Diwali day. As I scrolled through my photos later and came across the photos of Phulwa beaming in gratitude and Mom, with unabashed pride, I knew that Diwali was always delightful, never depressing. To receive so much love, following the traditions and going local was indeed a very small price to pay.