Festival of Lights

I’ve only ever imagined war zones, but I am hearing what I can only imagine one sounds like. Massive booms, crackling pops, epic blasts. The night air rattles with a constant crash. It’s Diwali (Dee-vaal-ee), the Hindu festival of light. And do they ever know how to do light. Without the restrictions of government, all order of fireworks are available to the everyman, who spends four nights using the street as his personal launch pad for flare. The festival explodes with excitement.

But it is the end of a long day, the last and most celebrated of Diwali. It started in Aundh, a booming neighborhood west of downtown.

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My second Diwali trounced my first one – and my first was really good. Recently, arrived in Mumbai from DC I woke up and took off for the island of Elefanta. The atoll houses ancient temples carved directly from the island rock. A beautiful spectacle evoked in me some awe, adventure and archeology. Indiana Jones fantasies. After exploring the island, I hopped the boat ride back. As the sun faded behind the Mumbai haze and night took over, a blast of fireworks roared over the city. An absolute magnificence.

This morning started different. No jet lag and in Pune, not Mumbai. After meeting her a month ago in Panchgani, we had arranged to take the crew to meet Sister Lucy, a nun working with orphans and destitute women around Maharashtra. We piled back into a Sumo and cruised across Pune to find her there.

We lost our way on the country roads and ambled by village and bullock-cart in search of Maher, Hindi for “Mother’s Home”. When we finally arrived, a group of women and children in holiday best, lined up to welcome us. Custom in India says that “Guest is God” and we undeservedly (at least in my eyes) incurred the loving the warmth of the souls being cared for by Sister Lucy and her gang. They were not an easy crowd to love or look at. They were mentally disturbed women, exiled from their homes and considered to be carrying demon spirits. Most had been tossed out on the street by husbands or families who considered their mental problem shameful. Other has been victims of domestic violence. The children were mostly street children, taken from busy Pune intersections and given a new chance to live in the village compound.

I walked down the sari-lined path to the main building on the campus. They showered rice on me and one lady gave me a fresh-made garland of marigold flowers and betel leaves. Bedazzled by the event, I focused carefully on each woman I passed, many just reaching out their hands to me to say hello and wish me “Happy Diwali”. I devoted energy into each “namaste” with an affection I don’t ever recall. I felt to trust each utterance as the only thing I might be able to do for these women in my life and I honored the responsibility with full heart. When the procession concluded, I walked in to spend more time with the residents there.

The story of Sister Lucy deserves more attention and I hope to give it some later on. My days in India will be filled with stories of incredible people who change society for the better, sometimes on mere faith alone. She started her work with 20 rupees (fiddy cent) and now runs 19 rehabilitation homes and vocational training centers. It’s an inspiring and challenging story.

After meals we left to celebrate Diwali with presents and treats in a nearby slum, a short visit in the heat of day to offer something to the kids there. We then passed through the dusty outskirt street to arrive in the first home of Maher where we briefly surveyed the home that started it all. But I was restless and tired, cooked from the heat, I couldn’t take it anymore and left the hall to see the kids playing outside. We made quick friends and after trying my hand at some Maher version of tennis (played with two pink rackets and a hollow plastic ball) I was invited for the most important of all games in India: Cricket.

I liken my Diwali cricket experience to playing football on Thanksgiving Day. It’s more than a game, its tradition.

As a sports enthusiast, I’ve tried my hand at almost every sport and found success with some (baseball, soccer, wiffle ball, bocce [yes, that’s a jab at Papa and Dad]), little with others (basketball, wrestling, swimming) and for some the verdict is still out. Cricket fits in the last category. It should match up well with the old baseball skills, but with the ball bouncing and the game often defensive minded, well, I do what I can.

Despite my warnings, the captain picked me first calling “Uncle!” loudly to razz his rival. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he had picked the guy with the most power, but the least accuracy. No matter, they handed me the bat and set me to the stump to give a go. The bowler, an Indian bloke of similar age stared me down. His spin bowling didn’t hold up on the surface and I sent his first offering for a six, which is the equivalent of a homerun. This had never happened before. Usually, I just miss everything and make an out right away. Instead, I launched this ball (the way I used to swat tennis balls in Princeton Oaks straight out of the tennis court with my tennis racquet and shout “home run!”). My young teammates, all 10 and under, went wild, the way one does when Uncle scores big. Confused at my own feat, I slapped their hands and returned to the stump. My glory would be short-lived however, as I bounced out on the next bowl. But by that point I had already won their loving approval and I basked in the joyous ritual that is village boy cricket. It’s the purest sporting event on the planet.

The dinner bell rang and we transported back to the main site. I carried my 6-year old teammate who’s bum toe disabled him in the latter half of the tie. Our good spirits arrived to offer the Pooja to Laxmi, the goddess of wealth. We lit lamps and placed about 50 in the dining hall before we read scriptures. Sister Lucy does not seek to convert her patrons and she welcomes all religions to be practiced in her houses, despite her vow to Catholicism. It’s a beautiful freedom she has and many were moved by the reading from Gita, Bible, Koran and Buddha’s teachings.

At somepoint, the post-sunset light hung glorious blues and yellow in the sky and my bare feet walked along the tiled terrace while I carried a bowl of soup. The dry air coupled with the perfect evening temperatures reminiscent of southern California in the late summer. Basking in glory, I smiled knowing full well that I had stumbled upon another one of those moments when life feels full beyond measure.

After dinner, the whole event went to romper room. We danced and played and sang with everyone present. A huge Diwali party. When dark fully set in the fireworks began and sent us home on our way. My heart went out for them. A couple cried as we left, including my main mate from the cricket ground. Orphaned, he struggles with abandonment and I could do little to console him, knowing I couldn’t fulfill any promises I might want to make. We embraced and I got in the Sumo, struggling with the moment.

The drive home memorized. Rolling through the crowded streets seemingly exploding on their own. Massive blasts pummeled the side of the jeep with thunderous bolts of sound while light filled the sky in epic fluorescent explosions. Our packed jeep seemed to be running the gauntlet of Diwali. I lapped up my view from the front seat, watching as it all unfolded in front of me.

Diwali: the festival of lights. The celebration of light overtaking darkness.