A wall of light, gathered for Mrs. Anjali Iyer.
“For the woman who lights the first diya every year, before anyone else is awake — gathered by the children who learned to do the same.”
11 wishes — placed across the night sky, one diya at a time.
My darling daughter — you have been a mother now for thirty-eight years and a doctor's wife for forty-three and the keeper of this house for longer than your father was alive in it. I am ninety-one and I am tired and I am proud of you. Light the lamp for Appa as well. He used to say you were the only person in the family who knew exactly how much oil to use.
Amma. I lit the diya on the kitchen windowsill in Manchester this morning at 6.40am, before the hospital. The neighbours saw it on my way out and asked what it was for. I told them — for my mother, who taught me that the first light of the day belongs to her. Then I went and did rounds. Happy Diwali, Amma. I will come for Pongal. I promise this one.
Amma, the courtroom in San Francisco does not let you light diyas at the bench. I lit one in the kitchen at the flat at 9.45pm last night, on Diwali eve, just before the closing arguments. We won, by the way. I have always thought the lamp you light is the one that wins. Three more weeks and I am on the plane. Save me your filter coffee, not the instant one Vikram pretends to like.
Amma — the twins are four. This is their first proper Diwali. We told them the lamps were so that anyone walking home in the dark could find the way back. Aaditya asked if you would also find your way to Toronto. Meera said yes. I said maybe. Please come. The kids made you a card and we will scan it later.
DEAR PAATI! WE MADE FOUR DIYAS. ONE FOR AMMA. ONE FOR APPA. ONE FOR YOU. ONE FOR THE DOG NEXT DOOR (HIS NAME IS BISCUIT). WE LOVE YOU PAATI. APPA SAYS YOU HAVE TO COME NEXT YEAR. MUMMY SAYS YOU HAVE TO BRING THE SWEET ONES. PLEASE BRING THE SWEET ONES.
Amma. The youngest. The one who never finished the engineering degree and somehow turned out fine. I came down from Bangalore on the night train, as you knew I would. The diyas were already lit when I got to the door, as you knew they would be. Forty-one years old and I still cry at the same moment every year — when you put the first lamp on the threshold and say his name out loud. Thank you for keeping that going for him. For all of us.
Anjali madam was my landlady in the upstairs flat for nineteen years before I bought my own place down the road. She did not raise the rent once. Not once. Every Diwali she sent up a steel tiffin with sweets, and a small clay diya for the kitchen, "in case you forget." I never forgot. I light it from her flame every year.
Anjali — I was your husband's registrar at Apollo in 1991. He took me home for Diwali because he said I was too far from Kerala to spend it alone. You fed me, you teased me about my Tamil, you sent me back to the hostel with enough laddu to last a week. Forty years on I am the head of department and I still send my own registrars to your house when they look homesick. They come back happier. Light the lamp for Dr. Iyer from me as well.
For Anjali akka — who has played the harmonium at our Diwali bhajan for thirty-one years, never missed one, never asked for thanks, and once, in 2009, played through a power cut by candlelight while the rest of us forgot the words. May your lamps burn long and may your children come home soon. We will save a seat at the front, as always.
Anju, fifty-two years of friendship and I still cannot remember which of your sons-in-law eats coconut and which doesn't. I came round this morning with the murukku. You were already on the phone to Rahul. Some things do not change, and thank God for them. Happy Diwali, my friend. The neighbourhood is quieter this year and that is your children's fault, not yours.
Patti — I am seventeen, I am in boarding school in Delhi, and Appa would not let me skip the term-end exams to come down. I lit a diya in the dorm window. The warden was very confused. I told him my grandmother lights the first one every year and someone in the family has to light one for her, and that this year it was me. He let me keep it. Happy Diwali, Patti. I will be a better grandson when I am older.
Amma —
We could not all be in Chennai this year. Rahul is on call at the hospital in Manchester; Priya is mid-trial in San Francisco; Vikram and Meera have the twins in their first proper Diwali in Toronto. We tried. We will keep trying.
What we could do was this. We have lit our diyas at every doorway, in every time zone — Rahul at 6.40am, Priya at 9.45pm her time, Vikram the moment the school bus pulled away — and we have written, instead, what we wanted to say to you across the long table at the flat in Mylapore.
You taught us that the first lamp lit at the doorway is always for someone who is far from home. We are all far from home this year. The lamps you lit this morning are also for us.
We will be there next year. Please save the rasam.
With all of our love, Your children, their partners, and your grandchildren
“Light the lamp anyway. Wherever you are, that is where home begins.”
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