It has not quite yet been a month since this prolonged, nearly three-month-long festivity came to a halt, yet the fatigue persists. I just coined it, PFE. Its full form: post-festival exhaustion. To make a quick list in a bit, while chuntering around a frost-bit house and postponing laddering up the attic to bring down the radiator, heaters to warm up the place, with the air-purifier still vacuuming in the pollution—the talk of the town.
The list, on its way, since I was fishing out those fingerless gloves to tap away, and while doing so, from God knows where, the picture of balaclavas conjured itself (the woollen garment covering the entire head and neck, in case it is too archival to recall!). Would not a balaclava double-up as a face warmer and a pollution mask? Pulling it down to cover the mouth, and viola, out-smart both death-breath and Delhi’s dry, coughy cold.
However, not to lose sight of the cataloguing: Shradhs, I know, cannot be put in the celebratory docket yet… Yet that’s when one witnesses an actual climatic change. Shradhs, are observed for our ancestors, a thanksgiving of sorts or sometimes a way of placating them for the wrongs committed and often an appeal to them to continue showering their blessings upon the generations to come, remaining the steadfast guiding light… So the chants of pandits filling the air, temple bells are rung with more vigour and frequency. This over, then commence Navratras now better known as Navratri… Eggs and non-vegetarian fare swept out of the fridge, to be dumped in the bin. Fasting and feasting days… Those who are fasting, sustaining themselves on a diet of fruits, milk and come evening, a special vrat thali, delivered at your doorsteps, courtesy Swiggy, Zomato. And these nine days, going by the official pronouncement, are auspicious to buy all things new. A Shopper’s Paradise Period. Skipped mentioning that Navratri are vigilantly health monitoring days, reining in one’s alcohol, salt, fat intake; consequently cleansing the colon in the process. Then there is Ashtami, where little girls are gathered around from the neighbourhood, paid obeisance to, and fed on a staple poori halwa breakfast, and given 11 rupees or more.
(An aside: a friend suffering from paucity of time and not one to break the tradition, fearing her Ma-in-law’s wrath, came up with a novel way of doing Ashtami—a pack of Maggie noodles, a packet of biscuits, a bag of chips, a fruit drink and the girls went gleefully skipping home with the treats, and the friend made it to office on time without sweating and panting.)
Then there is Dusshera—the day Good Triumphs over Evil, with Ravana being set to flames. And this is the season when our worked-to-the-bones mobiles are made to do overtime—clicking away picture after picture for those Instagramming moments, but not before filtering away those blemishes or having those crow’s feet, crinkling the corner of the eyes, performing a vanishing act. Instagram appearances usually tampered with. Half the supposed fun and ga, appropriated by the phone, picturing frame-by-frame, “the quantum of enjoyment” taking place. Men wearing kurtas, shervanis, and their counterparts in-an-out of heavily brocaded lehngas in clashing colours, with ear-ripping jhumkas to be changed with each costume switch.
Dusshera, Karva Chauth, where wives from head to toe are dressed up to the nines. Dhanteras (which was originally about buying some kitchen utensil to keep the rasoi ghar prosperous throughout the year, not about acquiring jewellery good enough to light up a Christmas tree!) Chotti Diwali, Diwali…
Deepawali preparations begin early on—overhauling of the house, creating a dust-storm in a bid to make everything spic-’n’-span. By the time the house is squeaky clean, Diwali is barely 48 hours away and panic sets in. The mandatory gifts had to be bought, one typing in the list of recipients—the domestic help on the top. Cannot afford to rock the boat and run full-time the kitchen and the office, thus the duo of maids have to be kept in good humour. (A different matter that the rest of us are receiving no festival bonus and salaries have been on a standstill for too long, and the way things stand, the halt seems permanent.)
With the clock ticking away at an alarming rate leaving oneself in cold sweat; the neighbours had everything in control, with their fairy lights twinkling away, carpeting the whole house and taash parties in full-swing. Or was that just a facade?! They too, in a panicky race against time…the thought is comforting enough to spur one into further action, and not letting go of the resolve to remain on an anti-acidic diet involving the craziest stuff, but how else would one fit into that slip dress or carry off that chiffon sari, without those tiers making an embarrassing appearance on the final day?!
Dog-tired, the Puja Sthan is set up with a polished-to-a-shine Lakshmi Mä and Ganpati looking over you. In most cases, I would believe setting eyes on one sympathetically. This over, and one concluding fiesta, Tikka, better known, as Bhai Dooj, where sisters streak their brothers’ foreheads with a kesar tilak. This day reserved for celebrating the unbreakable bond between brothers and sisters. (Methinks, a day marked for brushing sibling strife under the carpet…) After this closing jollity, weariness seizes one, but on the upside, one at last exhales, an alleviating feeling, clearing the respiratory system.
As I said at the offset, the exhaustion of these laboured, overdone festivals hangs on, and with Blue Monday tomorrow, think shall further put off clambering up the loft to cart down the heating appliances. For now, a hot water bag would do—it is snuggly, warms the bed, and most important, it can be cuddled around like a toasty Teddy!
Dr Renée Ranchan writes on socio-psychological issues, quasi-political matters and concerns that touch us all