Growing up in India, Diwali was my most favourite festival. India, truly a land of festivals, has something to celebrate every other week. A few holidays have the entire country — all age groups and all religions — in their grip, as does Diwali. It is also the loudest and the brightest of celebrations, thanks to the bursting crackers and shimmering lights.
So when I left India as a young girl, excited to be a world traveller, the one day that I missed my homeland the most was Diwali. Every year I longed for the bright and the “real” Diwali. I have now spent about half of my life outside of India. And for years I waited for a Diwali that matched the memories of my childhood, when the preparation started not weeks but months before Diwali.
I lived in Botswana and the US before moving to Fiji. One year I even spent a few days in London during the Diwali season. In Botswana, since the Indian population was sporadically spread throughout the country, I never got the feeling of a consolidated community like we have in Fiji. The artificially created Diwali in the US seemed more like a high school function, only with a higher presence of grown-ups. Yes, there were streamers and catered food, and we did dress up one Saturday evening to gather in a school or community hall to commemorate the passing of Diwali — but we did not exchange homemade sweets, nor did we contemplate for weeks the colour of our Diwali outfit with our friends, nor did I ever hear of “Diwali cleaning.”
Oh, how I craved the long extended Diwali preparations of India that continued for weeks, and the actual celebration that lasted for almost four days. The day before Diwali, when we “almost” celebrated Diwali, was labelled Chhoti Diwali — “little Diwali.” On Choti Diwali, we dressed up just not as bright as for Diwali, we had fireworks just not as loud or for as long, we ate special sweets just not the ones being offered to the deities. We were preparing for Diwali.
So not until the Diwali of 2006, which I celebrated in Fiji, did I feel the thumping of my heart for the festival of lights with the same intensity as it did in India. The Diwali of 2006 almost replicated the Diwali of my childhood. Just like the Diwali of my childhood there was also a building up to the final celebrations — slow, gradual, extended, and with much anticipation and hope.
Although there were no Ramlilas being staged, I first felt the warm electric spark of Diwali when the lady at the Hare Krishna restaurant, right across from USP, dropped the plate she was serving me in to rush to the balcony. “What, what happened??” I asked, panicking. “Oh, she loves fireworks!” exclaimed the other hostess as she ran out as well. I followed the eager spectators, nearly tripping on the side tables. I shared their joy as they revelled in the faint sounds of fireworks about half a mile away — and just smiled in reminiscence. The bursting joy, the cracking sounds, the fragrant memories, the flickering magical lights of the Diwali of my childhood had returned. That was almost three weeks before Diwali.
Slowly, over the next three weeks I would see symbols of celebration spring up — bhajans replaced boisterous Bollywood songs, the stores in Suva were beginning to sell Diwali paraphernalia, diyas in all sizes and colours, family-size packets of incense, camphor and other puja material were on display. Special hand-painted Ganesha and Lakshmi adorned the sales windows of Indian shops. Bright lights went up on houses and shops, temples decked the idols in new and even brighter clothes, visitors to temples had increased — and there was a general air of happy anticipation around. And something that I had not witnessed anywhere else but in India: Diwali ads on Fiji TV.
I knew then that I was in for a memorable Diwali.
That I was invited to the nine-day affair of Navratras — when women dance in temples for nine straight nights — was surprising enough, but the fact that I had invitations to the celebration at three different venues was unbelievable. Even in Delhi, where I grew up, I had never attended a Garba dance. I chose to attend the function at the Lakshmi Narayan temple in Suva. Almost three weeks before Diwali, women of all ages were already dressed in their finest threads. These delicately and richly clothed women danced with such poise that I almost forgot to take pictures.
The Suva Indian Association, almost a week before Diwali, had a celebration at the Kshatriya Hall on Devoux Road. But it was the morning that set the celebration as typically Indo-Fijian. Instead of busily ironing sarees, reading newspapers or watching morning cartoons, men, women and children were gathered the morning of the celebration to cook food for the evening. The food we ate that evening was cooked by people who had known each other for decades. I overheard stories of new brides who were now mothers of twenty-year-olds. Being an outsider and a newcomer to Fiji, I had nothing to share but all to imbibe. That morning in Suva, I got a whiff of that long-sustained Indian community in Fiji. And that evening, when I saw young Indo-Fijians dancing along with Fijian and Chinese children, I knew that this small island country is not just maintaining the old but working very hard to incorporate the new and different into its present.
The day before Diwali, I was in town and was awestruck to see almost everyone on the street dressed in bright clothes. That day was one of the most memorable shopping days for me. I got served by women clad in silk and chiffon and adorned in intricate jewellery. The bank teller, the hostess at the restaurant, the helper at the shoe store, and even the woman selling me vegetables were all dressed like Bollywood actresses. The Diwali fever had spread to non-Hindus as well — Fijian women wore salwar-kameezes, Muslim women wore shinier hijabs that matched their outfits. It really was not a religious holiday. Diwali seemed synonymous with celebration.
The Diwali day itself was just as busy, bright and boisterous as I remember in India — phone calls from friends, gifts, boxes of homemade sweets, Rangoli outside the houses! And it is a national holiday! Finally Diwali was Diwali, celebrated on the actual day with great pomp and show — complete with the sound of firecrackers and the smell of gunpowder.
Later that evening, my friend Kirti, who is an Indo-Fijian, took me for a Diwali drive to see the lights and we took plates of homemade sweets to our neighbours. We visited her parents and ate delicious homemade food, and we took pictures.
In Fiji that year, I became a ten-year-old again — excited at every sound, smell and taste of Diwali, and yet sad that within a few hours it would all be over. So I kept awake till late, listening to the firecrackers. I lay on my couch with the contentment of a well-fed, well-gratified person — for my craving for a real Diwali had been appeased.
But it was months after Diwali, when I truly acknowledged what a unique experience I had had, when in mid-December I saw a sign at the Prouds in Suva. The sign, bright and red, pasted on the window where a huge idol of Ganesha was displayed, simply said: “We wish you a Merry Christmas.” And to the memories of my ideal Diwali, another image of the beauty of unity in celebration, regardless of religion, had been added. Only in Fiji.
Leave a Reply