Holi is celebrated by the Hindus of the Indian subcontinent. Though it seems like most religions of the region have adopted it in some form or another. It is a day to reflect upon past errors and to reflect upon ways of ridding oneself of them. Time to resolve conflicts, and mending broken relationships by meeting those we are strained with. A time to forget old grudges, forgive others, and to go from angst to enlightenment.
Holi marks the start of spring. For many the start of the new year. For all, it is time to mark the changing seasons and giving life a new lease and fresh start.
For me there is celebration and renewal in the air, when I see mom and Panditji together in the kitchen. The browning of milk solids, and the smell that permeates the home, is my sign - of assured sweetness and time to think of renewal, of hope on the horizon, of repairing those relations that have somehow gotten fractured, of change coming that shall better life and bring it closer to what does work, of seasons changing, of new opportunities, of harvest, of feeling joy and pride. And of course, of deliciousness at the table.
"Holi celebrations start on the night before Holi with a Holika Dahan where people gather, perform religious rituals in front of the bonfire, and pray that their internal evil be destroyed the way Holika, the sister of the demon king Hiranyakashipu, was killed in the fire. The next morning is celebrated as Rangwali Holi – a free-for-all festival of colours,[9] where people smear each other with colours and drench each other. Water guns and water-filled balloons are also used to play and colour each other. Anyone and everyone is fair game, friend or stranger, rich or poor, man or woman, children and elders." Click here to read more.
My favorite part of the fire ceremony ritual, the night before Holi, is the fire roasting of the green chickpeas, fresh on their stalks. Roasted on the open flame, they have a broadly wondrous power to give satiety that few things in life can give. Perhaps like most things connected to muscle memory, it is all about being grounded in tradition, culture, habit and nostalgia. But what can I say, I am in its grip, and happy about indulging in them.
Watching my mom fete Panditji and his long tenure with our family as our family's chef, is a lesson in human resource management. Panditji is older to mom by a couple of years, has been with my dad's family longer than mom, and often thinks himself her father-in-law. Mom has been in the family upwards of fifty years. For him just about 60 if not more.
The browning of the milk solids (khoya) to make the gujiyas (sweet pastries shaped like empanadas, made twice a year, for Holi in Spring and Diwali in Fall) is as much ritual as a celebration, test and commitment of relationships, traditions and familial bonds.
Panditji and Mom, both septuagenarians, are getting there in years. If my joints hurt, I can only imagine how theirs must feel. He has the loyalty and dogged determination that has no bounds. He thinks nothing about the cost on body and patience that traditions might place upon our collective. For him these are moments that take us back in time, a flashback into memory lane when grandparents, and the extended family, would come together and keep rituals being performed as a way of keeping up with age old family legend and lore.
Mom, who should be exhausted having spent a year taking care at her age, of an ailing son, shows no sign of giving up on traditions either. Moreover, she also has to play nurse to me, but also manage Panditji's aches and pains, his hearing issues (Who wants to wear hearing aids when hard of hearing? Not Panditji!), his inability to keep up with tasks, his overall physical fatigue. She honors the chef by playing sous chef and also playing supporting actor that actually supports the star mentally and through sweat, by doing everything, but not allowing his ego to feel bruised by realizing his inability to perform.
This lesson given to us by my mother, a lesson in courage, strength, resilience, selflessness, honoring another, supporting them when they are least able to fend for self, to forget her own aches and pains and challenges so she can take care of tasks at hand - this too is the underlying but rather omnipresent message of Holi. The message of self-renewal and self-growth, and self-determination - all to ensure that good prevails and we defeat our inner demons, and those distractions mortal follies that can cloud our judgment and consume us rather quickly and wholly.
In Mom and Panditji's kitchen rendezvous, I see a beautiful living lesson on what we can all aspire to be and what we can all expect to become and what we should hope to find, when feeble, and still alive in our heads, but unable to react as we want to, or should.
You reap as you sow, and so, this Spring, let us all sow seeds of change and determination, that take us to those positive places of assured harvesting of good outcomes, respect worthy behaviors and blessed futures.
Once the milk solids have browned just enough to be sandy in texture, nuts are added as also raisins. Once slightly above room temperature, but not too warm, add sugar and mix. And with a lot of patience, and respect for tradition, and in my mom's case, baby sitting hours and resilience, the filling for Gujiyas is ready.
Two versions of the same gujiya. Rolled by hand. Made in a mold. Both wonderful. Of course the effort that goes into the hand made ones, makes them even more precious and dreamy. Again, it is the muscle memory that comes into play, making them ethereal where the same dough, same filling, same thickness of pastry, one rolled by hand, and the other pressed in a mold, will be rather different in taste. All due to the long and beloved associations that the mind conjures at each bite.
Chironji (called charoli as well) seed is lentil-sized, slightly flattened and has an almond-like flavour. Can be eaten raw, toasted or roasted before use, as it intensifies the flavor. Click here to learn more.
In between making Gujiyas and Mathri, mom had also made samosas for our dinner on the eve of Holi. Another task Panditji always did, that he remembered, but was anxious to take on, but unable to really work on. Again, Khaggi and mom came to his rescue. He watched as they made the samosas. Samir and I, as well as all that were at the house last evening, were the benefactors of their largesse.
Happy New Year, Happy Spring and Happy Holi, Everyone!!!
May you find inspiration, forgiveness, strength, resilience, love, courage, faith, hope and all things wonderful that you wish for, and which will keep your life inspired this Spring and in seasons forth.
Beautiful! Truly enlightening!
Posted by: Katharina | Thursday, March 21, 2019 at 04:17 AM
Just as your thesis shall enlighten readers to the vagaries and joys of the lives of the immigrants that have made the ports across Germany and the world a functional place, and thereby making life for most seem seamlessly livable.
Hope you can enjoy some time with your family in between all the hard work you have put in, Katharina.
Missed you this Holi. Next year we shall all play together.
Posted by: suvir saran | Thursday, March 21, 2019 at 04:26 AM