Estimated reading time: 3 minutes
Every year before Diwali, I make a quiet pilgrimage, not to Tirupathi but to Cherians, the Indian grocery store in Georgia. I tell myself I’m only here for cardamom, for the gulab jamuns I promised to make, but I know better. I come for memory, for the ache steeped in nostalgia.
I walk the aisles like I am walking on eggshells, past cumin and turmeric, red Kashmiri chili and coriander seeds, until the tilted, citrus-sweet scent of cardamom finds me. It is the perfume of my childhood kitchen, where Amma and Avama ruled side by side, like Elizabeth I and Mary Queen of Scots, an uneasy truce held together by love and grudging mutual respect, each festival a negotiation in flour and fire.
The spice jars glitter under white American lights, their labels stamped with distant ports. They have crossed oceans, like I did, carrying the scent of home in their sealed glass. I see Avama rolling dough for jamuns, long like fingers.
Amma winks. “Jamoons should be round, like the moon,” she says, with the authority of someone who knows fully well that the name comes from jamun, the Indian blackberry, dark and round. Avama ignores her, keeps rolling. Her jamuns will look nothing like the moon. Their bangles clink like spoons in strawberry Kissan Jam, which leaps off the shelf into my cart as if summoned.
Then comes the Mysore sandalwood soap, a sharp ambush of scent. That perfume, the breath of our bathroom. Shikakai tangled in my hair, muslin towels waiting, Amma’s voice trailing behind me: “Dry your hair, kanna. Don’t sit on the swing with it wet.” But I always did. I would curl into the beautifully hand-carved and silk-cushioned walnut wood bench, still dripping, still dreaming, reading Amar Chitra Katha tales of gods and warriors. At the same time, Amma coaxed sambrani smoke to rise into my hair like blessings caught mid-air.
The aisle of diyas reminds me that it is Diwali again. What am I doing here, buying too much as usual? Memory travels fast and cruel, across aisles brimming with coriander, mint, eggplants, and ladies’ fingers, past shelves sagging with sweets wrapped in silver and nostalgia, the kind we exchanged at festivals and gave at births.
Yet another tug at my heart: my birth, my special connection to Diwali. I was born to the sound of fireworks and a nation rejoicing. “She is lucky,” they said, the undertone clear, even if she is a girl. “Born on an auspicious day.” Yes, spoilt, petted, and pampered, I was lucky enough to celebrate two birthdays, one by the lunar calendar and one by the Gregorian. Am I still? I wonder.
Now my cart overflows: Mysore sandalwood soaps, Amma’s mango thokku, Osmania biscuits once baked for Nawabs, Anand Bhavan mixture Appa loved with his tea, green bananas for old-time-sake bajjis. Not good for your cholesterol, but who cares? It is Diwali. Everything we loved has crossed the seas and lives on now in jars, tins, and cellophane, waiting to be remembered.
I step into the parking lot. The sky is indifferent. My cart is full. My heart is heavier.