Shalmoli put the shaped dough in the oven, as the Bhaji boiled in the pressure cooker. Another smaller batch simmered on the stove, cooking at a slower rate. The plan to cook it all in a massive InstaPot had failed, since the wire of the pot burnt midway through. Two of her friends slaved away on a mountain of bread, applying butter and toasting them on a pan.
Her guests sat outside, applying Rangoli. She had invited them to their first Deepavali party. They were a bit clueless, but they managed to do a fine job, making beautiful math symbols. “There she is!”, they whooped, as she finally stepped out of the kitchen. She was wearing a green kurta. “Wow, thats such an exquisite dress!”, one of them said. She smiled, embarrassed. She did not mention that this was regular wear in India. In fact, she did not have anything that would count as festive wear.
Earlier in the day, she had spoken to some relatives, who had prepared a feast, and looked at her with pity. She was, after all, in a faraway strange land, where Deepavali was an alien concept. She had determined then that she too would have a Deepavali feast, done her way. So, the miser bought Dhaniya, hiking halfway across town for it, even though it cost 5 times more than what she would have paid in India.
Dinner was finally ready. It was what some Indians might snack on twice a week: Pav Bhaji (with bread instead of Pav) and Chaat. To Shalmoli, though, this was celebration in a bite. Shalmoli decorated her Bhaji with onions, lime juice, butter and Dhaniya, and was in instant bliss. Her guests savored every mouthful, sitting in a cramped manner around the round table, on the carpet. This was not something they could eat in the only Indian restaurant in town. The huge containers emptied at lightning speed!
Shalmoli had not had time to cook dessert. Stuck in the middle of two worlds, she decided to make the best of both. She emptied cans of rice pudding (which were easily available in-store) into a pot, heated it, added some milk, and garnished with nuts. Voila! She had Payasam.
Conservatives would tut. But they didn’t spend the first half of the day buying grocery and walking with heavy bags until her hands went purple. They didn’t spend the second half cleaning, cooking and putting out fires constantly, so Shalmoli told the voices in her head to shush.
One of her friends had surprised her with a pack of firecrackers. All of them stepped out onto the balcony. They lit the sparklers, waving them around giddily like children. As the sparks of ecstasy faded, it was time for the main dish.
Shalmoli brought out the oven rack, containing oddly shaped diyas (little lamps) baked from flour. The diyas in the store didn’t match her vibe. These weird diyas, each of which had been designed by these lovely people, filled her heart. Once the first diya was lit, the lights were turned off. As the wicks took to the flame, a warm calm spread through the room, each person eaten up by the bluish yellow flicker.
Shalmoli narrated the story of Deepavali to her attentive audience. Deepavali, she told them, marks the occasion when Prince Ram is said to have come back home after a long and tedious journey, bringing back peace, joy and light to his kingdom. As she said this, she realized that she had always thought his travels were meant to symbolize exile and unrest. Perhaps it was not as uncomfortable as it sounded. Perhaps it was what filled him with the peace, joy and light that he brought.
Once the person whose diya lasted longest was proclaimed champion, the guests fizzled out. When the last person left (after helping Shalmoli clean), she sat down, grateful, calm and satisfied.
Thus ended Shalmoli’s very happy Deepavali, done her way.
