Kids who move abroad, leaving behind their families, their friends, the language they have spoken their entire life, their culture and their festivals learn to live with the shadows of nostalgia constantly following them. I am one of those kids and this blog is slowly turning into diary entries I make to log my living abroad experience that I will forward to my sister’s kids when they decide the building they call home is too small to fit their big personalities.

If you have been on this journey with me long enough, you know all about my family and my childhood but in case you are new here, I grew up in a 5-floored house that felt too small because of the size of my family. My grandma, my uncles, aunts and the crazy bunch of cousins who had nothing in common besides their faces with big foreheads (thanks grandpa!). We were raised to be god-fearing humans, constantly reminded that all our karma will catch up to us in this lifetime. All the festivals were big and important.

Traditions meant everything.

My grandfather built a business in his mother’s name and my father, along with his brothers, was raised to fill in their father’s shoes. Imagine Hum Saath Saath Hai, but add more melodrama and that is what the first 10 years of my life were. We then moved into smaller houses but we still remain obsessed with traditions; everything has to be done how it was done by our ancestors, we have big shoes to fill. I have sat at the same spot next to my oldest uncle in all 19 Diwali pujas I have attended. Do you get what I mean by traditions and legacy (I had to google what is parampara in English)?

Traditions might sound too strict and claustrophobic but it is not like that. It is this safety net; when the world around you is changing so quickly, you know a few things at home will remain the same. It is accommodating; they made space and rituals for girls, for the generations before had been governed by the hands of men. It is comfortable; you have done this ever since you were born, and now it’s just muscle memory. It is greater than life; generations before you did this and generations after you will, you are merely a character in this tale. It is what makes me, me. I am the great-granddaughter of a freedom fighter, the cherry on top of this cake is that I am talking about my great-grandmother. In our family, she was the revolutionary.

Dussehra is about Ram and Ravan and Sita but in my mind it is also waking up at 5 am, tired from last night’s garba. Hearing my sister complain about only getting 3 hours of sleep, then getting dressed to go downstairs and wait. Wait for one of my uncles because he has hated early mornings forever. My aunt would angrily scream for him to come down, my dad would call him 10 times and when the family was finally together, the eldest son would light the diya in our tiny temple in the kitchen. We would pray for good luck and then grandma would put kumkum ka teeka on our heads. Now this had to be done in chronological order or else the world would cease to exist in my head. After this, the men and now the daughters would go to the factory. My sister was the eldest girl so she got to do the saathiyas at the main entrance and my cousin and I would do the back entrance. There is this red Lions Club pouch with crisp 10 rupee notes and 1rupee and 25 paisa coins my grandfather collected. This pouch only gets pulled out on Dussehra and Gujarati New Year. This pouch is worn off. This pouch is older than my eldest brother. This pouch is ancient. For the longest time, my sister was in charge of putting the 11.25 rupees on each machine in the factory. She then moved away for her Masters. Aastha, my cousin, older than me by a year and a few months took over that esteemed responsibility (I was just waiting for her to leave because I was next in line. Just kidding!) Aastha and I left home the same year. The eldest of us five was my brother who more interested in collecting coconut water from all the dried coconuts we would use in the puja than the puja. When he was moving, he tried teaching all four of us sisters his technique and only I learned. But now, by default, our youngest- the only one at home has to do it all.

This Dussehra, my father dealt with the flowers, took care of the red pouch and had to ask an office clerk to collect the coconut water.

He called me in the afternoon. He was mad at me, my brother and my sisters. He was so mad at us for leaving home, I could tell but he didn’t say that. He said we should schedule a family Zoom call in the evening and maybe have a beer together all of us, from all timezones. A happy family that conquers the entire globe and manages to stay close no matter the distance will be the legacy you leave. That can be the new Madhu Packaging Dussehra ritual.

You see, in my family, traditions mean everything.