Last Thursday was Deepavali 2024. The first without my mum and brother number 1.

There’s a photo of the two of them smiling whilst sitting on my mum’s blue sofa, taken last Deepavali. Each with an oxygen cannula attached for easier breathing. I never thought or didn’t let myself think that it would/could be my final Deepavali with them.

Deepavali was my mum’s favourite celebration. She was in her element when Deepavali came around each year. She was like a little girl in a Barbie or sweet shop. The excitement and joy. The meticulous preparation. And, yes of course, the star ingredient of the festival, green peas. Everyone in the family knew about the green peas. It had to be shelled, washed, dried, and grounded. Ready for her ‘palavarams’ or Indian cakes. My mum remarked that even my dad, who had other priorities, knew how important the festival was to her. He made sure she had all the ingredients from the green peas, flour, ghee, rice, oil, spices, milk to butter in large quantities, and ahead of time.

As I started to write this, I was transported to the Police Quarter’s house in Jalan Langgar, Alor Setar. This was when my dad was still working in the police force. My mum was probably in her forties and we, my siblings, were still in school. I think my sisters gave tuition to earn pocket money. I did my primary and secondary education, until form five, in that house. Then we moved to Taman Golf after my dad retired. Hmm.

I have images of my mum and sisters busily making Indian cakes, in the evening and late into the night. My mum was in-charge, the master chef. She prepared everything, especially the all-important dough. Which, naturally, had varied ingredients and flavourings for the plethora of Indian cakes on her to-do list each year. Sometimes, she supervised. Sometimes, she was part of the ‘palavaram’/cake making team.

They sat on little wooden stools on the floor. Within reach, were utensils like long-handled ladles with holes, ladles with scoops, long thin skewers, large pastel coloured bowls, and moulds. There were different moulds for different ‘palavarams’ like ‘murukku,’ ‘achuan’ and ‘pakoda.’ Think Sawa, the Swedish cookie press. The Indian cake mould needed more elbow grease. At least that’s what it felt like to me, yes, moi. I actually made Deepavali cakes during the pandemic because by then my mum was unable to manage it herself. Also on that floor, was a deep wok of feverishly hot oil, over a charcoal-burning stove.

The usually two-person ‘palavaram’/cake making team comprised a squeezer and a retriever. The squeezer put the dough into the mould, squeezed it onto a ladle and into the hot oil. Once cooked, the retriever picked up the browning, crispy cakes, and sat them on a holey-ladle to drain any balance oil before they were deposited into the large bowls. After they had cooled down, the ‘palavarams’/cakes were stacked in commercial/bulk sized 3.5kg biscuit tins. I kid you not. The festival’s must-haves like ‘murukku’ and ‘achuans’ have been known to fill three to five large biscuit tins respectively. A lot, yes.

For me, the piece de resistance was my mum’s ‘nai orundu.’ It’s the best. A stickler, she followed the handed down recipe from her mum, my grandmother, Tulasi, to a T. She produced the perfect balance between sweet and salty in every one of her ‘nai orundus.’  And, she made hundreds of them. And, she counted them. Why? I’m not sure. But there was excitement and pleasure from counting the cakes – mainly the round ones – ‘nai orundus’ and ‘porlanga orudus.’ Sister number 3 carried on this ‘tradition’ when she visited every year to help/support my mum make cakes for Deepavali. The two were happy as clams.

Other than traditional cakes, sister number 2 made biscuits with the Sawa cookie press. The ones I liked were the round ones rolled in dried coconut with a glazed cherry on top, the flower-shaped, the flat-rolled out ones, and pinwheels.

It was like a production line at Deepavali. My mum did not know how to bake/cook less or just right. That said, there was no wastage. Food, cakes, and drinks were eaten and drunk. They were served to guests, who dropped by anytime of the day and evening on Deepavali day. Hence the term open-house. The front door was literally open all day. Cakes were packed for on-site guests and distributed to multitudes of my dad’s friends and work colleagues near and faraway. We also delivered them to relatives, who reciprocated with their own fare.

It wasn’t just the cakes, my mum also personally tailored new curtains and cushions for the celebration. There was so much happening back then. She was so busy, but so able and capable of doing everything. Deepavali was her happy time. I remember…