I love festivals

We three have been there for each other since I can remember. We were each other’s safe place and happy place. The eldest took care of feeding us, the youngest Chutki of being the baby and I the middle one took the role of the glue. I challenged the elders authority and bullied the young. The quintessential middle child. 

We looked forward to Diwali when grand mother would come visit us. She had called us to tell there was a surprise for us and we would love it. She was a school principal and thanks to her occasional visits our education was going well. We waited with baited breadth playing a guessing game about the gift Paati will get us. We wanted new clothes, some books and lovely toys. Oh Paati, come soon we echoed in excitement. 

She arrived on Diwali morning. She called us to the central courtyard and introduced us to a middle aged woman. The woman was wearing a sky blue cotton saree. Tiny hands appeared on her waist as a little girl made her way to her side, peeking with her curious eyes. She must be older to chutki. Behind them stood an elderly couple of our Paati’s age. 

Grandmother made us come and say Namaste to the woman. Her name was Seema and her daughter’s name was Malati. She was to marry our father and take her role as our mother in the household. That little girl was her daughter from a previous marriage. My little sister was tugging my hand wanting to go to the new girl and play with her. I wasn’t sure I was ready to leave. I wasn’t sure why this was happening. 

Who was this woman? Paati had a high headed righteousness and generally forgot about human emotions. She told it as a matter of fact as if there was no reason to ask how we felt. First I was a middle child and now I had to share that too with another. The younger didn’t understand and the elder followed orders. My elder sister was already getting the lunch ready for everyone.

They had planned the wedding on the auspicious day of Diwali. In the evening my father and her will exchange the wows. I had seen a wedding ceremony before at a neighbors house. The boy and girl dressed up, sat around a fire while a pundit rattled the hymns. All I cared was about throwing flowers and eating desserts at the end of the ceremony. Then why did I feel different now. I wanted to say it was too soon. But there was something. 

I had barely started to read and found these letters in my father’s bedside drawer. The blue envelopes with three folds and glued sides. They were carefully opened and kept as a precious possession. These letters had started showing up in the past six months. They were also addressed by someone named Seema. 

My father is a good man. Running a book shop while being both a mother and father wasn’t easy. My elder sister did most of a mother’s job but my father tried to be there always. He would take us to school and bring us back. He would make sure he was there for breakfast and dinner. Even serving and feeding us with his hands sometimes. 

But other times he would get late. When the shop would be open till late hours to sell to the visiting tourists. The busy season. My father loved his work and reading was his passion. We inherited his love for books and writing letters for him was an art. He would write letters on behalf of our elderly neighbors. 

He would keep a collection of books in native languages and from internationally acclaimed authors. Each book unique. People thronged his shop as a landmark in our tourist hill town. They would ask him for book recommendations and buy boxes of books for family and kids back home. The book shop was our paradise. We sat in the kids corner leafing one book after another. Now we will have to share it with someone. I don’t know this person and this girl. 

The house had gone into a frenzy. Not Diwali frenzy but the wedding frenzy. Decoration of flowers appeared. Variety of sweets and new clothes exchanged hands. A caterer set a food stall while Pandit Ji set the Havan for the fire ceremony. 

The new woman took the two little girls with her to get them ready. While my grandmother took my sister and me. As we all came out resplendent in our dresses it felt we were matching each other. The dresses for each of us were chosen by our new mother. They were in bright colors with delicate designs and stylish silhouettes. Different from the practical and easy wear clothes our father used to buy for us. She then engaged us into making a beautiful rangoli of flowers, Diya and colors. Guiding and teaching us to draw beautiful patterns in the easiest way. 

The ceremony was simple. My new mother wore a yellow saree with red border and my father wore a cream Kurta suit. There was a gentle smile simmering on their faces. A subtle happiness which seemed like a Halo around their faces. They were both older than the couple who got married in our neighborhood. And they both had been married before.

The sudden realization sneaked on me that we are a family. We have come together both out of circumstances and choices. We can not always choose our family but some times we can. 

Am I sounding too wise for my age? Well not any more, I am attacking the dessert session with my little sisters. Let’s see, we will have rasmalai first, and then rasgulla, probably a rabdi jalebi and wrap up with a kulfi falooda. Oh no, there is gulab jamun too. I just love festivals!