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Journalism of Courage
The last time I had fun on Diwali was over 20 years ago. The year after, an overly pious teacher made us take a pledge not to burst crackers — the reason then was child labour, not so much the climate apocalypse — and that was that. We never had a puja at home, I don’t like gambling or playing fancy dress as a grown-up. Without noise, fire, destruction and light, it was just another day to feel left out.
Most festive occasions are, for the privileged urban Indian, either a chore or a bore. We have a litany of complaints — the traffic, loud crass music played off trucks, the “safety concerns” brought out by the throngs of subaltern devotees and now, for some, that every procession is laced with a distinct after-taste of Hindutva. The recent Durga puja/Dussehra, was a good example, the kawad yatra before that, a better one. The margins snap at our heels, and a carefully crafted sense of chagrin masks the most basic social insecurity — our lives are based on an injustice, and they are coming to get theirs’ back.
But across classes, political beliefs and bigotries, Diwali is universally welcomed, at least in north India. It is when we are at our most comfortable because we are not challenged.
For many anthropologists and sociologists, the festival is society’s safety valve, a time of revelry and release when its inequalities melt, allowing the have-nots to bear their drudgery another season, and the haves to know their limits. This breaking of social boundaries, though, isn’t pretty. Take Holi, the other major holiday in this part of the world. It is, when done right, a kind of socio-moral bungee jump. There is sanctioned, widespread inebriation accompanied by anonymity and violence. Water, the most precious of resources in an agrarian society, is wasted. In many rural communities, women and lower castes used to ritually beat the land-owning maaliks and husbands, a little more enthusiastically than was ritually necessary. Women’s safety is now a legitimate concern. And, of course, there is drunken, bhaang-induced groping irrespective of sex or class. Then, the next day, hungover, social superiors gain their status back. And an unlucky few remember their comeuppance.
Diwali, on the other hand, sets up the jajmani system, the lines of feudal reciprocity. That’s the other half of the festive pie — the gift. Every year, the middle-class households calculate the “Diwali bonus” they receive — some employers are cruel enough to cut it from their salaries every month and give it back, without interest — vis-à-vis what they will have to pay out. Maids, the garbage man, watchmen, of course. But also the now-defunct postman, the colony gardeners, the presswallah, etc. Each bundle of notes handed out is a tacit admission of the fact that the relationships involved are not contractual or professional, merely feudal. There are also packages that arrive in offices, from clients and business associates. These, too, are an attempt at establishing and confirming social pressures, to ensure that the intricate web of reciprocity that they establish traps us in a way that makes any true sense of freedom impossible.
The legends around Diwali, too, are stale attempts at justifying inequality. Rama returns from the wilderness, a king of kings, caste hero, set to establish a rigid social order. Lights are lit and homes cleaned in pursuit of Lakshmi, of wealth. Baksheesh is handed out to ensure that people know their place.
This is not to say that revelry is not possible during autumn’s new moon. But it is a celebration centred around wealth and status. Every Delhi child has either witnessed first-hand or heard of gambling parties where homes and BMW keys are casually gambled away. Or, there are enticing offers for cars and flat-screen TVs, bought on EMIs that wager on the fact that jobs will remain for their duration.
There is, of course, every likelihood that the festival is what it seems. A time for family, hat-doff to ritual, for new clothes and auspicious beginnings. But for the rootless, those without religion or tradition to hold on to, and not much family to speak of, all that the festival holds is childhood memories of wanton destruction. Of anars, charkhis and bombs. The latter could be used to blow up letterboxes, scare middle-aged men with briefcases or even for the pleasure of walking through the sweet, acrid smell of charred gunpowder. It was a sort of mindless acknowledgement of the futility of everything — money, gifts, drama — that preceded it, and a submission to what really holds it all together and might bring it all down. Violence.
But crackers have become passé for the upper classes and the “aware”. Without the playacting at nihilism, all that’s left is the temple and the mall.
This article first appeared in the print edition on October 27, 2019 under the title ‘Give and take’.
