Growing up, festivals didn't mean to me what they meant to my mother.
I've always dragged my legs when it comes to rituals; I've always dreaded these days.
They remind me of itchy, shimmery clothing, uncomfortable jewelry, hours of sitting cross legged while my foot falls asleep over and over again and my tummy rumbles from fasting that feels like starvation, rude pundits, verses in languages that are not meant to be understood but simply recited, unaccomodating traditions and rigid compulsions that could not be altered according to your interests and wishes.
So naturally this year too, just like the last, I didn't participate in the mad fight to handover my duties to someone else, leave the hospital and go home to spend Ganesh Chaturthi with my family. Forgoing the holiday, I stayed at the hospital for a regular day at work.
We had a small Ganesh pooja here at the hospital. For the first time, it made me cherish the memories of my childhood festivals, the traditions that I grew up following, and more than anything, they made me miss my mom and being able to witness how much this day means to her.
My mom... She always thinks of festivals with anticipation, a sense of duty to fulfill, responsibility to be carried out, with ablutions to be finished early in the morning. The most charming attire and ornaments are to be worn, the house adorned by fragrant leaves and flowers all around, making clear to any by-passer that devotional merriment is in the air, good food to be painstakingly made even if takes until well into the day, willingly fasting until it's all served to God; the entire family is to be uniformly devoted to this purpose, happy to be home from work or school and devotedly doing their own part in the customary celebrations.
Prayer is a sign of togetherness in a loving, God-fearing (God-loving is the term we prefer at home) family like our own. The day spent together in the name God is the best sort of family time to my mom.
I miss home.