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A plan of Sehrai, Madhya Pradesh.

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Indore, through the lens of Ar. Pallavi Bais.

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That Diwali and Then The Rest

Getting down from the congested, shabby bus was a relief only for a change of scene. The discomfort of unfamiliarity had followed us through the deserted highway, beneath the overhead sun, into the fork we took for Sehrai: a village in the Ashok Nagar district, near Guna. I never knew what to feel about our Diwalis at Dadaji's place. A sweat-drenched Megh, who slumbered in my arms, didn’t help matters either. Ahead of me walked a luggage-laden woman in a yellow saree, a man in shirt and trousers. If it weren’t for their voices, I wouldn’t place them as my parents.

 The overgrown wilderness on the left seemed right out of a timelapse video, except in extreme slow motion.(It was the opposite of the carefully gardened shrubs at my school – and yet, there was something about the wilderness that kept calling my attention to it.) But, soon, as my energy level flagged, I was starting to notice how five-year-olds weren’t that light. Meanwhile, pulling the luggage on wheels with one hand, while trying to keep the pallu (incidentally, it was also Ma’s pet name!) was a constant struggle for Ma. And walking on a stone-studded kutcha road, with one heel higher than the other due to his childhood polio, was not easy for my father. It had always kept him from treks.

 “Ram Ram Keshav Bhaiya, Ram Ram Bhabhi, give us the bags, you must be tired!” A sudden encounter as we turned left startled me, we were suddenly face to face with two men. They were in their mid-40s, wearing dhoti, kurta and gamchha. They quickly bent down to touch my mother’s feet and then mine as I took a step back in embarrassment and managed an inaudible namaste with my palms together and my head slightly bowed. This was to  soon become my routine. “Bhai, pick these up, come on,” said one, motioning to the other. “How are you doing Bhaiya, how is Indore?” He chattily led the way, with his companion and my father following, while Maa busily tidied herself up. At each step, someone would greet us and offer help. It didn’t make sense. How was it possible for everyone to know us?

 On both sides of the street appeared houses made of bricks, painted in single solid colours. While they are colorblocked purely for convenience, they would be considered “aesthetic” in urban social spaces. The shops were mostly an appendage to the houses, situated on the ground floor, opening right onto the road. They mostly sold packaged goods. Two little boys were waiting to receive their colas. Later, Maa told me these were jelly toffees that tasted like orange soda, the taste of which still lingers in her mouth. The Uncle inside looked at Papa and waved with a grin of recognition. Women, strictly in sarees, could be seen working with the cattle tied to the side of the houses, or involved in other household work. It appeared that calls had been made, and within a few minutes, people appeared on motorbikes, offering us a ride home as our house was the other end of the village, right next to the river and the Khaliyan, the granary.

 Maa and Megh sped away, leaving me to walk aimlessly behind Papa. Together we reached a large open space right in the middle of the village. It was the local Chowk, surrounded by houses that all had ground-floor shops and roads radiating out on several sides. The left quarter had a temporary stage built, above which loomed the branches of an imposing banyan tree, that shaded most of it. Now, sheets were spread on it, lined with fresh vegetables.The weekly haat was in progress, where, until a week ago, the Ramlila was being enacted.  The stage had travelled from Ayodhya to Lanka, and was now back to Sehrai. Papa stopped to buy a toy, a tikdi gun for Megh, which now, in hindsight, seems too dangerous to be in any boy’s hands, at any age!

 My eyes alighted at a tall man all in white, including the hair on his balding head, bargaining with a puja samagri seller for dhoop. It was Dadaji. I made a quick dash across the chowk and tapped his hands, as his shoulder was evidently out of reach. “Arre! You have come? It took you long enough.” As we walked past a shop,, I noticed the range of bells, ribbons, colors, agastyas on display. “Dadaji, I want a bell like that,'' I pointed to an aquamarine blue one, “We will put it up in the temple back home.” People around us burst into laughter. Eventually, the news was broken to me that these decorations were for the cattle, since the third day of Diwali is for Govardhan Puja. It is an equally important event in these parts. As I grinned broadly to deflect the embarrassment, the seller inquired, “Mat Sab, who is this here?”

 “Oh, this is my son Keshav’s daughter, the one who is an architect in Indore? He is back home with bahu.” I mimicked my routine from before, joining my hands in namaste, mouthing the word without really saying it aloud.

   *

 Years later, I would realize what that walk on that autumn evening through the bittersweet lanes of the village with my father and grandfather had meant to me. That Diwali was one of growing up, of learning that my father was a success story here. My grandfather, Mat Sab or Master Sahab, was the Principal in the village school, and his son who had left in the fifth grade to study is something of a local celebrity. Given that his wife worked as a Professor made me a walking dream.

 But the most vivid memory of that day in my head is that once we reached the familiar environs of home, I forgot the discomfort, sweat and grime of the journey in an instant. Just like that I claimed my place on the otla, a raised platform outside the house where people could sit and chat – the biggest in the village – and learnt to play kanche, a game of marbles, with my cousin and his friends.