“The greatness of a culture can be found in its festivals.”
– Siddharth Katragadda, artist
AS I sat down to write this Gasak Ajak shortly after midnight on Sunday (Nov. 8), the familiar sounds of firecrackers and fireworks outside my condo in Kuala Lumpur reminded me that Deepavali, the Festival of Lights, had arrived once again. Suddenly, my thoughts travel back more than half a century to my childhood in Sibu, when Deepavali was an occasion filled with excitement, laughter, delicious food and unforgettable family traditions.
There is an occasional linguistic debate in Malaysia over whether the festival should be called Deepavali or Diwali, although I have never understood why anyone should lose sleep over the distinction. Both are perfectly acceptable, with Deepavali being the more familiar term among Malaysians.
Deepavali literally means a row of lights, symbolising the triumph of light over darkness, knowledge over ignorance and goodness over evil. It is among the most significant religious and cultural festivals in the Hindu calendar.
For southern Indian Hindus, the celebration commemorates Lord Krishna’s victory over Narakasura, a demon whose cruelty brought suffering to countless innocent people. Northern Indian traditions associate the festival with Lord Rama’s triumphant return to Ayodhya alongside Sita and Lakshmana after fourteen years of exile and the defeat of Ravana.
Whatever the religious interpretations, the underlying message remains remarkably universal: goodness must prevail, ignorance must surrender to wisdom, and hope must overcome despair. Perhaps that explains why Deepavali continues to go beyond religious boundaries, bringing together families, neighbours and friends in a celebration of shared humanity.
But enough of the religious explanations, because what I really want to share today is how Deepavali was celebrated in my family during the 1960s and 1970s. Those were simpler times when celebrations did not depend on expensive decorations, elaborate social media postings or photographs designed to impress people we hardly knew.
My parents regarded Deepavali as the most important celebration in our household, and preparations usually began at least two weeks beforehand. Every family member had responsibilities, and being a child certainly did not qualify me for exemption from the annual cleaning, gardening and decorating exercises.
I helped clean the house, tidy the compound and attend to whatever instructions came from my parents, although I occasionally wondered whether Deepavali was primarily a festival or an excuse for spring cleaning. Nevertheless, the excitement of the approaching celebration made even those household chores bearable, especially when I imagined the wonderful food awaiting us.
My father also entrusted me with another important responsibility, which was to visit practically every household in the Rubber Road government quarters in Sibu and invite the occupants to our Deepavali celebration. Whether they eventually turned up was immaterial to him, because what mattered was extending an invitation and making everyone feel welcome.
Looking back, I reckon approximately 45 percent of the families in our neighbourhood visited us, alongside my father’s colleagues and several of my classmates. Imagine that atmosphere, with people from different ethnic and religious backgrounds gathering under one roof, exchanging greetings and enjoying food without anyone questioning another person’s beliefs.
And what food we served! There were thosai, idli and roti canai accompanied by mouth-watering mutton, chicken and prawn curries, enough to make even the most disciplined visitor temporarily abandon any ambitious dieting programme.
My mother was an extraordinary cook, and I say without hesitation that I have yet to encounter anyone who could match her mastery of mutton, chicken and prawn curries. Her varuval, that wonderfully spicy dry-roasted preparation, was another irresistible favourite among our visitors, regardless of their race or religious background.
Another unforgettable Deepavali tradition was the compulsory pre-dawn gingelly oil bath, regarded as a sacred ritual of physical and spiritual purification. The customary bath, associated symbolically with the holy River Ganges, meant waking up around four in the morning, something no sensible five-year-old would willingly consider an enjoyable experience.
I vividly remember one particular Deepavali when my mother was rubbing gingelly oil onto my body before the bath, and I apparently decided that sleeping was more important than religious observance. Believe it or not, I actually dozed off in the bathroom and received a sharp knock on my head from mum, who clearly had little patience for sleepyheads during sacred rituals.
I cannot remember whether that knock awakened my spiritual consciousness, but it certainly awakened me physically, and rather effectively too! Those were the days when parental discipline required neither lengthy negotiations nor psychological consultations, and children quickly understood that arguing with mum was seldom a winning proposition.
After the ritual bath came another eagerly anticipated moment: putting on our brand-new clothes, carefully purchased by our parents for the occasion. I particularly remember my father buying me Saddle King trousers, a fashionable brand during those years.
Unlike today’s celebrations, when colourful money packets have become almost compulsory across numerous Malaysian festivals, there were no Deepavali angpow packets in our household. We occasionally received a few coins from our parents, but honestly, the excitement of new clothes, fireworks, delicious food and visiting friends was more than enough.
There is, however, one Deepavali incident from 1967 that remains permanently etched in my memory, and I must confess that it involved a rather mischievous act of deception. I was then in Primary Three, and because Deepavali was not a public holiday in Sarawak, I was expected to attend school while my family prepared to celebrate at home.
Now, imagine being a young boy sitting inside a classroom while knowing that your house, barely 200 metres away, was filled with festive excitement and delicious food. Naturally, concentrating on lessons became almost impossible, and after enduring two periods, my restless young mind began devising an escape plan.
I decided to pretend that I was feeling dizzy and about to vomit, hoping my teacher would take pity on me and allow me to return home. My class teacher, Mrs Ting, was understandably concerned and promptly excused me, completely unaware that her supposedly sick pupil was actually suffering from an acute attack of Deepavali excitement.
I happily walked home, probably recovering from my mysterious illness somewhere along those 200 metres, only to face another unexpected problem when my parents questioned my early arrival. Without hesitation, I told them that my teacher had kindly released me early so that I could celebrate Deepavali.
For several glorious hours, everything appeared to have worked perfectly, and I must have congratulated myself on executing such a brilliant operation. Unfortunately, my triumph was short-lived because around 1.30 that afternoon, after school had ended, Mrs Ting appeared at our doorstep to pay us a festive visit.
Imagine my horror when she innocently asked my father how I was feeling, explaining that she had allowed me home because I was unwell. At that moment, I probably wished the ground would open beneath my feet, because my carefully constructed story had collapsed faster than a poorly made Deepavali firecracker.
Fortunately, my parents spared me the expected lecture, perhaps understanding that their young son had simply wanted to celebrate the occasion with his family. I have never forgotten Mrs Ting’s kindness and genuine concern, although I suspect she would have been considerably less sympathetic had she discovered my little performance.
Those memories remind me how much celebrations have changed, even as their underlying meaning remains constant across generations. Today, we have grander decorations, more sophisticated fireworks, digital greetings and elaborate festivities, but I sometimes wonder whether modern conveniences have diminished the simple joys we once treasured.
Deepavali should also remind us that Malaysia’s greatest strength lies in the friendships and mutual respect shared by its diverse communities. My father’s insistence on inviting every neighbour taught me more about genuine unity than countless speeches about racial harmony ever could.
Happy Deepavali to everyone celebrating, and may the Festival of Lights bring peace, happiness, compassion and renewed hope into every home.
The views expressed here are those of the columnist and do not necessarily represent the views of Sarawak Tribune. The writer can be reached at rajlira@gmail.com
