Festival of Lights

Deepavali, or Diwali, is the largest Hindu festival of the year, commemorating the story of the lord Rama's return from a fourteen-year exile, and the defeat of the demon-king Ravana. It is named the "festival of lights" after the celebretory act of the people of Ayodhya, who brightened the kingdom with earthen oil lamps and fire crackers to welcome Rama along with Sita and Lakshman.

The first flames that I saw that evening of the Puja were the candles that lit my friend's darkened room when the power went out (as it does every night). We were in the middle of applying our festival make-up. For the holiday, I had been invited to the home of Jorna, a young Hindu woman who cleans at the university. Before heading over to her home on the public bus, I stopped by AUW to have my lovely Sri Lankan student Aaraby (below) help me perfect the pleats of the red silk sari I wore for the occasion. Having others tend to me by dressing me in the several yards of fabric makes me feel like Mary Lennox in The Secret Garden.

Jorna and I arrived at her humble home to be greeted by her beautiful five-year old daughter Tisha who would be the subject of most of my photographs that evening. Tisha saw my sari and promptly hopped up on the bed to be wrapped in her own bright orange fabric. I learned that evening that Tisha lost her father five years ago. Jorna, who is older than me by no more than a few years, is already a widow of five years, working long days to provide for her daughter who is the world to her.

After the saris were on, little Tisha and I were ushered into the home across the alley to have our faces made up like dolls... I've opted not to show any close-up shots of the bright pink eye shadow that my new friends insisted on spreading thickly from lash to brow. I didn't argue - we were all having fun. However I also made a point of not looking in the mirror, as I didn't want to risk offending my artists by giving away my embarrassment through an accidentally expressive facial reaction. It's just that pink isn't really my color.
When the darkness was heavy over the town, we stepped out into candle-lit the streets that were quickly filling with neighbors clad in glitter and sequins.

My friend Jorna was beautiful in her bright teal sari with golden embroidered beads. Her usual cleaning-service garb consists of a red polo shirt with black pants and scarf. Up close the synthetic sari fabric and plastic jewelry betrayed the poverty of its owner, but in my opinion, together with her brightly dressed Tisha, Jorna looked like royalty.

Then came the viewing of the shrines set up around the neighborhood. We three walked proudly through the small streets, throwing our heads back at the hilarity of the comments people were making about the bideshi, the only foreigner present, dressed in a sari. Jorna's brother was our chaperone, soon accompanied by his "best friend" who became the third person of the day to ask if I could take them to America. It's a common question, and admitedly a hard one to respond to. My claim that America would not give them the perfect easy life that they imagine is a hard one to sell.
At every shrine, a whole company of curious onlookers would move aside and insist that the Bideshi madam take a photo in front of the victorious Rama.

After the fifth or sixth stage, little Tisha was wilting and Jorna and I took turns carrying her (not easy to do in a sari, I learned! How'd my mom manage to keep kempt all those years with three little ones?) Jorna's brother was very upset that I should be carrying the child. "Put her down!" he kept shouting, while Tisha and I bounced happily along the edges of the crowded streets. Several times the elder brother's insistence won out and poor Jorna had to reclaim her weary daughter, handing back my much lighter purse.

At one point we were directed into the home of the brother's friend, to whom (I'm sure) the brother had promised a visit from the bideshi lady. I know Jorna was thankful for the chance to rest her feet though, so we sat and enjoyed diluted mango juice served by the man's mother.
Tisha suddenly revived when the outside music began to drift through the windows of the small home where we were taking our brief rest from festival-viewing. As she lifted her tiny hands to dance, a precious smile spread across her small face. Watching her twirl and laugh, I wished to be a child again...

Back at Jorna's mother's home, the other women of the family were preparing some rice, lentils, and roti. Jorna kept trying to express how ashamed she was to be serving me such a humble meal, but I enjoyed every bite of it - in fact it was wonderful to have a break from the fried foods that are the typical fare of special occasions.
At the end of it all, on the CNG ride home with Jorna and her brother, I was absolutely exhausted. I dropped my tired head onto Jorna's shoulder, and she wrapped her sisterly arms around me. I realized that was the closest I'd felt to anyone in quite some time; and yet we stand worlds apart in terms of wealth, education, life experience, language and faith. What I longed for most of all that evening was to have the language comphrehension to hear more about her sorrows and triumphs as a single mother. Then I would tell her how that evening she had blessed me with a welcome that surpassed even the lights of Rama's Ayodhya.