I can smell Diwali in the air

I can smell Diwali in the air.

That probably sounds unnecessarily profound, but if you really think about it, it's true. There are certain nights when you step out and and you can feel the approach of winter. A moment of ecstacy. Then of course, thoughts are quickly diverted to the fact that a whole new winter wardrobe needs to be arranged or the fact that tickets need to be booked for the Goa trip (funny how we crib about Delhi summers right from April to October and flee the Delhi winter when it finally arrives) or that you'll have to carry a light shawl to work tonight-the air-conditioner is just too damn effective!

But the awareness of that fleeting moment remains.

The awareness of Diwali round the corner.

Of card sessions, and dinners, and pujas, and shopping, and gifts, and pathakas, and music.

Card sessions where the stakes vary from matchsticks, to "5 rupaiye ki blind, 10 ki chaal", to glass bowls that contain enough money to fund a round trip to Mauritius, to nights where car-keys and girlfriends' lingerie items are tossed into the betting ring- fair game.

Dinners where everyone excitedly dresses up, adhering to most hosts' strict instructions ("Keep in traditional guys!"). Where Laxmi reveals herself in stiff gaddis of crisp bank-notes. Where good food and good alcohol and good-looking people blend into one another, creating a symphony of warmth and companionship and joy. Where P. Uncle insists on getting drunk within the first half an hour and then religiously makes a trip to the bathroom every 15 minutes. Where chairs are often abandoned, and everyone settles down comfortably on gaddas and cushions, closer to the marble, and by implication closer to the earth. Where backless cholis and enticing navels and expensive aftershave create threads of desire that link nearly everyone in the room by the time two drinks have been had. Where P. Aunty is greeted with cheers when she brings out her famous kebab platters (accompanied by moans and groans from the vegetarians in the room!). Where, occassionally, the game is forgotten and money takes precedence; suddenly it's not just a grand or two at stake...it's a friendship. Where conversation sparkles and laughter rings deep into the night. Where N. and G. decide to take a midnight walk together, fully aware of the fact that the morning will be overcast with regret. Where wealth, friendship, festivity, laughter, alcohol and the onset of winter collide into each other; with a little bit of luck and enough talent on the part of the players, everything is still intact (albeit with subtle, sometimes nearly invisible changes) after the last 3 open rounds for 'health', 'wealth' and 'prosperity' are played, after the gracious hosts are thanked, after the last car has purred away, after an unsettling silence finally settles over the stage...

Are things still the same??? But let's go back to the dinners for a bit...

There are roughly three categories of people one meets during the regular Diwali celebrations.

There are friends of the moment, the kind you're interacting with day in and day out at that point in time.

Then there is the comfort zone; my personal favourite! Old is gold and all that jazz. Friends whom you've been meeting nearly all your life at the parties your parents go to. Friends who come together barely once a year now (we're all grown up and don't accompany our parents to social gatherings anymore! Diwali is a rare exception). Yet, when we're all in the same room, distance and time become irrelevant, and nostalgia takes priority. Memories of sneaking into the kitchen and stealing the snacks before the 'adults' finish them. Winter picnics complete with sandwiches, badminton, cricket and the one-odd Aunty who'd insist on packing aloo-puri in massive steel containers.The high levels of excitement when we'd go to a house with a computer in the early 1990s and spend hours playing 'The Prince of Persia'. A slight sense of awe as the older children reached the Board Classes, and started asking us to amuse ourselves while they studied in their rooms. Envy when we'd learn that other kids were allowed to talk on the phone for as long as they liked. A renewed bonding when the youngest person in the large circle became acquainted with the concept of 'sex'- the lowest common denominator had been achieved and now we could all sit together and talk again. The only time we meet now, these witnesses of our lives, who could testify to all the awkwardness of our adoloscent years, is Diwali. And it is sheer, mellow joy!

And then of course, there are acquaintances. the kind you've met at a couple of other people's places and shared an interesting conversation or a memorable dance with. People you want to get to know better!

Diwali doesn't discriminate. All three types come together, and hostility and elitism take a backseat as glasses sparkle with shimmering bubbles and dupattas glitter with sequins (clothes from Lajpat Nagar and Ritu Kumar's showroom are eerily alike!) and old Hindi film songs warble in the background. Till the inevitable happens and someone makes a smart-ass comment about someone's college/clothes/car/companion/whatever. Before you know it...resentment simmers, sarcasm glimmers and then- fireworks!! Or maybe not. There are times when the lava doesn't erupt; it simply slinks back into the depths of the earth where it came from. But something alters, the universe shifts JUST a little bit, and we know we're one step closer to ruining something beautiful.

Diwali brings us one step closer to a perfect world. Diwali is a disaster waiting to happen. Diwali is a consumerist mela that speaks of love and family and friendship and joy with the same ease with which it peddles televisions and paints while appealing to our desire to keeping up with the ostentatious neighbours. It is only too easy for the cosmos to spiral out of control in the unstable season that is Diwali. But to not like it, to ignore it, to hate it, or to fake your way through it is like not falling in love because you're afraid of getting hurt.

Every Diwali changes us.

And that is because it is a symphony of extremes- the best and the worst and plenty of grey thrown in. The flames only remind us of the surrounding darkness. But where would we be without the diyas??

J. Aunty's home-made biryani is diametrically opposed to K. Uncle's insistence that the food be catered from the most expensive outlet in town in order to make sure that everyone knows the bank account is overflowing. L.'s jaded flirtation with T. is poles apart from W. and M. who fall in love over red wine and Nusrat's songs. The hue and cry over child labour creates a situation where the same children now starve due to unemployment. The noise of the firecrackers and the silence of small betrayals come together. Mithai, dry fruit, chocolates, Danish cookies, Tropicana exist in close proximity and the clash of civilizations is suddenly an oxymoron (or is it?). Drunken nights and early morning pujas are regular events in the same house. A truly well-meaning gift to your neighbour will not necessarily eliminate the stab you feel when you receive a present that is three times more expensive. The honest laughter you share with your new found friend will not help you completely overlook his tendency to control the card-game.

To deny this is to deny ourselves.

To deny this is to deny the reality of contradictions.

It is an odd season. There's a nip in the air but you still need to turn on the AC in the car. A time of transition. Winter fruits trip into summer vegetables. A time when opposites co-exist in the same dimension.

Celebrate the contradictions. Celebrate life. Celebrate Diwali.