Diwali Celebration in Delhi

My childhood was filled with stories from Thakumar Jhuli. The popular collection of Bengali folklore by Dakshinaranjan Mitra Majumdar was first published in 1907. My favorite story features Kiranmala, a princess who goes on a long and dangerous journey to find her missing brothers Arun and Barun. Both have been turned to stone by an evil spell, and when she reaches the two princes she sprinkles magic water on them and multiple rocks, transforming all into living people.

I grew up believing a sister’s love can bring back consciousness. So, while I am in Delhi, I read to Amit every day. He is under around-the-clock care from a skilled nursing staff. When he sees me, he raises a thumb to say yes or a forefinger to say no. That is his only mode of communication.

Before the accident, he had one of the finest brains in the country. He was a professor of computer science at the Indian Institute of Technology Kanpur. After the accident, the best neurologists and neurosurgeons in Delhi and Mumbai and Chennai all rallied to save his precious brain. But the doctors compared Amit’s brain scan to that of the Formula One champion Michael Schumacher following his skiing accident. Pray for a miracle, Amit’s neurosurgeon advised.

Every year, especially at Bhai Phota, I do just that.

Papa is energetic as we walk out to the balcony. The golden light of the sun is filtered through the leaves of the mango tree that shaded my girlhood. When my father bought this plot of land, it was in an undesirable part of Delhi called the East Pakistan Displaced Persons (EPDP) Colony. Wolves howled at night. His family had abandoned their ancestral home in what is now Bangladesh following the partition of India. His widowed mother faced a life of poverty in newly independent India, with seven children to feed. He left home at 14 to make a living.

An insulting term, EPDP separated the poor families of the partition from the families who had lived in Delhi for generations. Now this area is named Chittaranjan Park, and it falls within upscale South Delhi. Yet Chittaranjan Park remains at heart a Bengali para, a communal space where we know our neighbors, and Bengali is the default language of the shopkeepers.

My elder brother, Sumit, who lives with his family just three houses away, joins us on the porch. Sumit, who once served as a colonel in the Indian army, had been working at a tech firm. After Amit’s accident he resigned from his corporate position to manage the complex medical situation surrounding Amit and my aging parents. He is always there, for festivals and emergencies alike—unlike myself and my younger brother, Atish, who lives in Boston with his young family and is unable to be here this year.

Despite the smog, the winter sunshine is magic. It carries the weight of years of sitting on charpoys, breaking hot peanut shells with our teeth and sipping chai. It carries the fragrance of kochuri made with tender winter peas and spiced potatoes eaten on an open balcony, just as we are doing today. Fat crows fly from the ancient bel tree to the shajna, old childhood friends.

Sumit and I discuss the menu for Bhai Phota. In our family, it is always beer and biryani. The only thing we must decide is where to order the food from. Hindutva politics, which has grown increasingly fanatical, tries to enforce vegetarianism as the default way to celebrate Hinduism. But that movement is part of North Indian traditions which are foreign to Bengalis. We refuse to compromise on Paet Puja (literally translated as the worship of the stomach) as an important way to honor our heritage. We decide on Kolkata mutton biryani—with chunks of potato and boiled egg—and chicken kebabs.

Papa approves of our menu decisions. He still enjoys his beer; at his age, it is rarely available.

This is how our festival calendar unfolds: First comes Choti Diwali, Little Diwali. For Bengalis, Choti Diwali is also Bhoot Chaturdashi, when 14 generations of kind ancestor spirits roam the earth. We light 14 lamps at the corners of our homes, illuminating dark nooks and crannies to attract ancestral blessings. The next night is Diwali, when all homes in Delhi blaze with lights. On Diwali night, Bengalis also celebrate Kali Puja, chanting prayers to the goddess Kali throughout the night. Then, two days after Diwali night, in the morning, we have Bhai Phota to celebrate our bond with our siblings.

Diwali is still a week away. Tinni, Sumit’s 24-year-old daughter and my parents’ only granddaughter, comes with me to an open-air weekend craft bazaar at the Sunder Nursery. Tinni is never far from the family Labrador, Bhombol Bumble, who also tags along. On Diwali all houses must blaze with lights so that the goddess of plenty, Lakshmi, finds her path clearly lit. So, we’re at the bazaar to buy diyas, traditional terracotta lamps that are fragile but flicker all night with the prettiest lights. Bhombol ignores us as we shop, eating whatever is proffered and falling asleep at the stall that sells canine treats.

The Sunder Nursery complex is an archaeological site surrounded by the stunning Humayun’s Tomb and the historic Purana Qila. The old coexists with the new. Among modern greenhouses the remains of Mughal structures are scattered. The names are like poetry—Lakkarwala Burj, Sunder Burj, Sunderwala Mahal. We pause to admire the curls of Quranic writing. Sandstone lattice screens, open to the sun, light our way.

We explore as much as we can, but all 70 acres are too big to cover entirely. The Archaeological Society of India has teamed up with the Aga Khan Trust for Culture to restore and preserve the site. When earthworks revealed a 16th-century lotus pond that would have stood within the garden of the Sunder Burj and Sunderwala Mahal, they rebuilt it so that the lotuses once again bloom in the pond. Inside, on the domed ceiling, depictions of red and blue flowers burst from the stonework.

The day before Diwali, the streets are full of colorful flower garlands, religious figurines and handcarts with plump fruits. In the Bengali fish markets, rows of sweet river fish—ilish and rui and pabda—bump against pomfret and glistening king prawns. This is the time for feasting.

I make a last visit to diyas at Project Why, which sells lamps to support its mission of educating and feeding street children in Delhi. The fearless teachers are currently teaching the children in groups of five. Despite the holiday, they can keep learning—and having a daily meal—even though internet connections and computers are impossible at home. The diyas the teachers make are artistic and cheerful: blues and yellows and reds and greens and purples merging with sequins and glitter. And everything is heaped delightfully on bright trays like candy. It’s hard to stop buying.

Back home, as evening comes, we dress in saris and light 14 lamps around the house. I light five lamps outside Amit’s bedroom, one for every year since the accident, inviting the ancestral spirits to come into and spread the light.

On Diwali night, the city switches on all its lights. Even the Sikh gurdwaras and Muslim mosques are decorated with twinkling fairy bulbs. Flower-patterned rangolis cover homes. Bengali porches welcome visitors with white alpona designs—flowers, animals and geometric patterns drawn with rice flour that will feed ants for days to come.

The loud conch shell and ringing bells of the Kali Puja come from the main Kali temple in Chittaranjan Park all night. The temple rises from a hill in a blaze of lights, a huge white lotus flower glowing at the entrance. The roof shines red and yellow. The terracotta decorations on the walls glow, showing dancing gods and joyful lovers and grazing cattle. It's a world where there is peace and beauty at every turn.

My mother wakes me earlyphonta, on Bhai Phota morning to prepare. There is the dhan durba (trident-shaped grass and unhusked rice) to be gathered. The bell, metal tray and copper lamp need to be polished. Tinni arranges sweets around the lamp, fitting in the dhan durba. I hold a mango leaf smeared with ghee over an open flame, and the fire makes a smoky kajal, a traditional kohl. We grind sandalwood paste and collect it in a tiny stone bowl, then daub vermilion paste on another leaf.

Why has Bhai Phota brought me back to Delhi every year? It's not just to chant a mantra and put a mark of vermilion on my brothers’ foreheads. I understand that words don’t grant immortality—although, as a writer, I know of nothing else that so effectively does. But I choose to believe that there is magic in the brass lamplight, the smoky blackness from ghee on the underside of a mango leaf, the pastes we grind, the flowers plucked fresh and the lucky grass and grain.

Most of all, there is magic in the unwavering love that makes us all come together to pray for wellness, if not immortality. Our mantra goes:

Bhaier kapale dilam phonta,
Jamuna dae Jomre phonta,
Ami di amar bhaike phonta,
Jamduare porlo kanta.

I put a phota on my brother’s forehead,
Just as Jamuna gives a phota to Jamdoot,
I give a phota to my brother,
And bar the door to death.

The six of us dress in new clothes, except for Bhombol Bumble who Papa shoos away from the plates of food. Amit gives a big thumbs-up when he sees everyone. I give a phota to Amit, then one to Sumit. Things are light-hearted as my parents argue about the words in the mantra and I forget the order of the lines. Papa gets a phota from Tinni, then Bhombol gets one too.

I feed my brothers sweets from the prayer tray, to sweeten their lives. I am careful to feed Amit only a smidgen, since he chokes easily. I dip a finger into my beer and place a drop on his tongue. He swallows.

The biryani follows, the recipe dating back to when the Nawab of Awadh was dethroned in the 19th century. Poverty forced the cook to add eggs and potatoes to the meager meat and rice. Lovers of Hyderabadi and Lucknowi biryani shudder at the blasphemy of potatoes, but Kolkata biryani is delicious and we eat every bite.

Our celebration is communal because Bhai Phota embraces family that are not related by blood. I address everyone as Bhaiya, “my brother”: the male nurses who care for Amit night and day, the attendants who help them and the house helpers who look after my parents. We feast on savory dishes and finish with three kinds of sweets, including mishti doi—a yogurt sweetened with a rare date palm jaggery that’s available only in winter.

I soak in every minute with my family—especially with Sumit. I see how he manages the delicate ballet of staying upbeat in the face of a tragedy that he can’t fly away from, ever. The miracle is in the depth of our love for each other, for our parents and for Amit. We squeeze each other tight, not letting go. Being able to do this, in these years of losses and heartbreaks, makes this holiday even more precious.

Where to stay

The Imperial Hotel opened its doors in 1936. Discussions on the partition of India and creation of Pakistan were held within its halls and bar. The Imperial is in Janpath—the tourist heart of New Delhi—but feels like a portal into an older time with its turbaned guards in cummerbunds and its priceless art collection from the 1930s. Prices start at $198.

What to eat

On a beautiful rooftop in South Delhi, Fig & Maple is known for its Sunday brunch. There's also excellent modern cuisine all week by chef Radhika Khandelwal, who uses sustainable ingredients and zero-waste cooking. Try the signature salad with mustard and figs, the gondhoraj, lemongrass-infused gin and the Axone smoked pork.

For a more down-to-earth experience, try a langar (community meal) at the Gurdwara Bangla Sahib. This Sikh temple, not far from Connaught Place, serves free plates of curry, dal and chapati to tens of thousands of people every day of the year. The meal is extra-special during Diwali.

Things to do

There are several ways to take part in the Diwali festivities. Nearly every place of worship will be lit up, but some of the more spectacular light displays are around Lutyens’ Delhi and Connaught Place. To dig a little deeper, try to catch live classical music and dance at a venue like the India Habitat Centre or Kamani Auditorium.

Of course, the best way to celebrate is to get invited into an Indian home. Expect to gamble over teen patti, a popular card game, deep into the night. Remember, if Lakshmi brings you luck on Diwali, she will not abandon you in the coming year.

What to buy

Looking for a Diwali souvenir? The Dilli Haat market and Dastkar Bazaar in South Delhi both have traditional crafts. That includes woven fabrics, patachitra paintings and artisanal pottery from all over India. Shop at the Blind School Diwali Mela, which is run by the Blind Relief Association and is found near the Sunder Nursery complex. There's also Project Why in Govindpuri, which helps fund educational opportunities for underprivileged children.