Someone — I think it was my wife —said it was Diwali, but it was difficult to tell for the smog. We’d draped delicate fairy lights over the house — Chinese, I’m sorry Modiji — but they failed to pierce through the haze of pollution that descended over the capital, failing to act like a beacon for the guests invited to our annual jamboree. It was as difficult to guide them when they called for directions. “Where are you,” my son would ask, when I handed the phone to him to suggest optional routes. “In a traffic jam,” a hapless guest wanting the use of a toilet urgently responded. “Help, quick.” Could she spot any landmarks? “I think a cow just walked past,” the spectral voice complained, “or maybe it was a man on all fours looking for the road.” It’s been little better in the week since Diwali. This morning, I lost my way commuting to work, one polluted road looking like another in the absence of familiar sights in the ghostly soup. Perhaps that’s why the police detained Rahul Gandhi and Arvind Kejriwal — they lost their way and meandered up to the wrong place at the wrong time.
My wife’s response to the crisis has been to fill every nook and crevice in the house with potted plants, so we can manufacture our own oxygen. I don’t know if it has had any results yet, though it has made navigating in the house difficult. Last evening, I lost my way trying to go from the living room to the bar and wandered into one of the children’s bedrooms instead — it was difficult to tell whose — where a party seemed to be in progress. Did someone forget to tell them Diwali was a week ago?
Friends might have lost their way coming home, or leaving, but the family seems to have taken leave of its senses with their demands for an extravagant “bonus”. My daughter presented herself with a watch, the price of which caused me to faint. Apparently, it’s a common enough reaction at the store where we were shopping, for the solicitous manager was handy with smelling salts. After that, I preferred to hand over a credit card to my son and wife; it’s better not knowing how much they’re spending till the bills come in the post. Hopefully, my wife’s indoor garden will help me breathe at the time.
Would it be right to say Diwali baksheesh is the country’s biggest extortion scam? The domestic staff demand but are unhappy with their takeaways, but what of the scores of strangers who arrive home, or in the workplace, or accost you in the car park and as you walk the dog in the park, threatening you with the withdrawal of services till you grease their palms with the proverbial bag of silver. From security staff at malls to the barista, who froths your cappuccino, everyone hints at the magic powers of gratuity. I’ve done my bit shoring up the Indian economy, all without receipts, for who provides evidence of graft?
Meanwhile, I’m left wondering, if everyone got something out of Diwali, what about me? I posed the question to my family, fattened on inexhaustible supplies of chocolates, nuts and mithai lying in piles wherever there was space between the overpowering indoor jungle. They considered the request and resolved it by way of an awkward group hug. Not bad for a Diwali where everyone seems to have lost sight of reason, or way — in more ways than one.
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