I don’t get excited any more. I don’t think even my much younger nieces and nephews get excited. The one person in the family who does is my mum. We know Deepavali is happening because of the almost childlike excitement my mum exudes. Her joy and enthusiasm are palpable. She gets into prep mode, well before the first mentions of the Festival of Lights. And, she prepares for Deepavali with military precision.

She amazes me and worries me.  At over 80, she tells me she can’t be bothered to go out for lunch or do some shopping, on our once-a-week outing, because it tires her out to wear a sari, an attire she has worn all her life, until recently. She now opts for the easier blouse and sarong combo when she is at home. Gentle persuasions, lead times and lunch venues are negotiated to dissuade her from reneging on our weekly date.

As to be expected, my mum is now much slower, achier, forgetful and short of hearing, all symptoms of advancing age. But every Deepavali, she transforms into the busy and vibrant mother that I remember as a child. I have this image of my mum as a young woman, and that is what springs to mind. In reality, her desire is not matched by her actual energy.  Still, she manages to charge her old batteries, how I have no idea, and summons the required strength when needed.

My mum has a schedule. She is a stickler for convention and her recipes are followed to a T. Her cakes are identical in appearance, taste nostalgically the same and are predictably delicious.  My mum doesn’t like buying pre-made cake mixes as they don’t meet her high standards. She washes and dries her own green peas, grinds the green peas into a flour, and adds spices and condiments to form the cake-mix or base for her Deepavali delicacies. It is one long tedious process but she won’t have it any other way.

These days, we, her children, help where ever and how ever we can. My brothers, take turns, to wash, dry and assemble the tins, bottles and plastic containers she uses to store her cakes. After all these years, my mum still keeps them in old cream cracker tins and assorted containers. Each year, my sister arrives from England to help my mother with the cakes and meals for the celebration. Of my four older sisters, this one enjoys the baking and cooking as much as or even more than my mum does. The two are kindred spirits, and have a smashing time together as they roll out the goodies. To be fair and correct, it’s my sister who rolls them all out, briskly and efficiently, while my mum does the prep (which is a fair bit of work) and happily oversees the process. My sister also bakes different types of biscuits, lemon flan and glutinous rice cakes for variety and ‘just because’. Ah well, what are festivals for if not to indulge and bulge?

Deepavali eve is the busiest day for my mum. Evening prayers for family members, who have passed away, comprise their favourite foods, clothes and a selection of Deepavali cakes. It involves a lot of chopping and cooking, and washing up afterwards. The eve is also when we get our first nibble of her cakes. My mum does not allow any of them to be eaten earlier. Her moratorium is strictly enforced, and while I used to lobby for it to be lifted, I don’t anymore because I know I’d lose and  I think in this instant gratification world we live in, a little wait is not a bad thing. Admittedly, I am not a great fan of the festive cakes.  Still, my mum makes the best muruku and nai orunda in the world, and I am not biased. Her signature nai orundu is best eaten with muruku.  One bite of the sweet nai orunda followed by a bite of the savoury muruku. Yum!

We have prayers on Deepavali morning for Lord Krishna, slayer of the evil Nargasura. The festival of lights is the celebration of good over evil, which is a wonderful premise and reason to rejoice not only on one particular day in a year but every day.  A practice my late maternal grandma initiated, and now my mum  encourages, is for all of us to be up before sunrise for the morning prayers. Am not sure why exactly, maybe to get a head start to the day. As children, we used to light-up sparklers and fire crackers, there were no grand fire works then, immediately after the prayers, to usher in the festivities. This was followed by an oil-bath; consisting a little oil and shikakai (couldn’t find an English equivalent) placed on the top of our heads and rubbed into our hair like shampoo.  Once showered and clean, we wore our finest, as we still do today.

Whilst living in Alor Star, my brothers and I, yes this is true, used to visit seven temples, including one Buddhist and one Chinese temple every Deepavali morning. The only upside to this ritual was, traffic was almost non-existent then, which meant we could get home around mid-to-late morning. After that we delivered Deepavali cakes packed in plastic bags to some 100 or so neighbours and friends, near and far. In current terms, my brothers and I were already doing a FedEx. My sisters helped pack the cakes that they together with my mum, baked and cooked on an industrial-scale to facilitate this exercise. One Deepavali, my grandma, who was visiting, forgot to include her special ‘pulut kacau/pulut tai tai’ or glutinous rice cake in the cake packages, and asked if we could make a second delivery.  Hmm… If this sounds like a whine, well, it is both a whinge and a whine. All of us agree that they weren’t two of my late father’s better ideas. That said, my mum, siblings and I laugh and sometimes, cringe, when we revisit our shared festival experiences.

My family’s traditional Deepavali breakfast is always thosai with chicken and lamb curries. After greeting, chatting and handing out ang-pows (money packets) to arriving family, my mum’s energy level always dips. By mid-day, my mum is so exhausted from the cooking and sleep deprivation, she is ready for a long nap. This is my mum’s routine each year. Deepavali day is normally Amawasa or a vegetarian day for Indians, which poses a small problem as my mum does not eat any of the food, both meat and non-meat dishes, she prepares and cooks because of  ‘contamination’.  Instead, my mum has takeaway Chinese vegetarian on Deepavali day. Makes sense?  Not really.

We tell our mum that she should focus less on feeding us, and just enjoy the day, awake, with the family. She, in turn, tells us, her pleasure and happiness comes from cooking and feeding us rather than eating. As my mum is the family glue and light of Deepavali, what she says goes.  As at every Deepavali, the family gathers, we eat, laugh, play card games, graze for cakes and munchies, nap or doze a little and eat more of my mum’s distinctively delectable home cooking. Each year, my mum makes Deepavali memorable for all of us. And, each year, Deepavali with my mum is increasingly more precious.

Happy Deepavali.