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Back in my hometown of KwaZulu-Natal, my hippie aunt used to tell me as a kid, “Whatever you find bhakthi in – do.”
Bhakthi, of course, means devotional worship that brings one spiritual peace. My aunt was trying to tell me that whatever gave me peace and helped me feel a little closer to God, I should go ahead and do just that.
Her teachings might just be questionable, seeing that she chugged marijuana tea as much as she would masala tea, but I found a similar premise in a book I read by Neale D Walsch, called ‘Conversations With God’.
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The book suggested that the highest form of communication between God and man was through the vehicle of experience and feeling.
… If something feels right in your spirit, then I guess you just go with it…
And if the Big Bang theory gave rise to the world as we know it today, then perhaps the collision of seemingly conflicting ideas can birth new perspectives, expanding our understanding of the universe and the intricacies of existence.
And so, I became one of these new-age spiritual individuals who embraces bits and pieces of all sorts of religious practices and traditions—so long as they sat right with me.
I was born into a Hindu family but grew up embracing Christianity while still holding on to my culture and values. Interestingly, one of the traditions that I did not let go of was celebrating Diwali.
It was just such a kaleidoscopic occasion in our community and the festivity of it all was always contagious and fascinating to behold.
My late mother always ensured we had new clothes—vibrantly coloured and heavily sequined—and she would start a week before the actual festival, baking and making sweetmeats.
On the driveway, she would draw a rangoli outline with chalk and decorate it with brightly lit clay lamps.
My dad, on the other hand, always made sure he got us enough fireworks for a bright and balmy night of light and pyromania.
We would sit on the ‘stoep’ of our quaint little railway house and watch with breathless anticipation as my dad lit cracker after cracker—the sound of the shower of sparks intensifying the charged air with a sense of excitement and expectation. Meanwhile, my mother, a maestro of sparklers, would gracefully instruct us in the art of crafting luminous circles that danced in the night.
Never have I felt more peace in this life than I did when I was with my family in this way.
My dad passed away in August this year, while my mum left us a year before that. Traditionally, it is our custom to not really indulge in the festivities of Diwali for at least a year after a loved one’s passing. My only sibling and I agreed to follow this custom out of respect for our deceased parents.
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But the idea of foregoing Diwali for another year just did not sit right with me. And so, using my adept persuasion skills, I managed to sway my brother at the eleventh hour to allow me to buy burfee, poppops and sparklers for his kids—just so they don’t experience as much FOMO come Diwali night as their favourite aunt did.
Celebrating Diwali in KZN is very different from how we celebrate it in Gauteng. Everyone gets in on the celebrations regardless of race, colour and creed.
A large portion of my black friends knew a lot more Hindi phrases than I did and it was not uncommon for my white brother Bradley to rock up looking slick in his sherwani (traditional suit for men), giving the likes of Sharuk Khan a run for his money, and slipping me ice cubes to suck on because the chilli bite he bit into and told me was fine had left my mouth on fire. Of course, he threatened to revoke my brown card all while we nursed my tastebuds.
Diwali in Gauteng was a lot more of a closed-community experience and a lot more expensive. While the goods and groceries generally associated with Diwali are sold at every and any corner of the familiar neighbourhoods back home, the items you may need are not so easy to come by here in Johannesburg.
As such, they are priced quite steeply when you eventually do find them in stores. Nevertheless, it was tradition and like most KZN Indian economic refugees like myself out here, we pay the price to pass on the traditions of our parents to our children.
I decided that Friday I would use my lunch hour to venture out to find a place that sold fireworks in Johannesburg.
I called up my friend Ash to ask her if she knew of any places out here.
“Try this place in Midrand, but try not to talk so much when you ask for it,” she told me.
Not the first time I received this sort of advice. Back in KZN, I was also always told to not let my dialect show, to reveal which neighbourhood I lived in, which could generally lead the more unscrupulous salespersons to bump up the price of anything I asked by a R100 at least.
“Got it,” I told her, and set forth on my mission.
It reminded me of a time when I was a young journalist and had to go undercover to find the fireworks outlets that were still selling the big bangs, when it became illegal for them to do so.
The good thing about Johannesburg fireworks outlets were that they hardly stocked the big bangs with so little demand for them, as I heard the elderly lady—a place in front of me in the line of the queue to enter the store at that eleventh hour—ask the salesman if he had a “complex-living-friendly” pack.
He indeed did, and showed her the one with the soft flares, which was R200 more than the one with the noisier bangs. Talk about burning money!
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Of course, both she and I paid the R200 extra – did we really want Karen from the estate’s community WhatsApp group—the one who asked me if I spoke ‘any Indian’—breathing down our necks the next day? More important than not getting on Karen’s easily aggravated nerves was not scaring Miko… my niece and nephew’s pet bunny.
R200 for all light and no sound—yeah, it’s a deal we wanted, a deal we needed, a deal we would pay for. R200 extra to keep Miko safe, keep our traditions alive and keep Karen happy—possibly even share with her a custom or two and teach her how we speak either Hindi, Tamil, Telegu or Gujarat and not quite just ‘Indian’, while piling her saucer with more channamagaj—or the peanut-butter-tasting one as she calls it. Hell, I’d even offer to loan her a saree to wear for the day if she felt up to it.
I would like to think that, like all traditions and religious holidays, Diwali is evolving as the years of life pass me by. As much as it offers me the nostalgia of my youth, it teaches me the tolerance of the new and the beauty of diversity.
Sure, its become expensive and invites somewhat exploitative practices, but in this evolving tapestry of traditions, Diwali embodies a bridge between the past and the future, between the familiar and the unknown.
Its essence lies not only in the brilliance of lights but also in the symphony of cultures merging, embracing, and understanding one another. It symbolises not just a celebration confined within cultural boundaries but a testament to the inclusivity that defines humanity. The evolution of Diwali, with its radiant glow and expanding embrace, mirrors our own growth, urging us to cherish our roots while welcoming the variegated hues of the world.
To ring in the celebrations in the most diverse way I know, I leave you with my favourite Diwali song by Michael Scott from The Office.
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