"Open Sesame"
Children were playing outside in the street. Don't be surprised!
You might say, "When do children play outside? They are always indoors with their mobile phones."
No, this isn't about today. This is a story from years ago.
So, the children were playing in the street.
Their game was interesting. Some were pasting paper scraps together, trying to make an effigy. Others were busy decorating it with colors and paint. Some were cleaning the spot on the street where the effigy was to be placed.
A few children were gathering wood, bushes, and dry grass so that when the effigy was set on fire, the flames would rise high. One kid was in charge of handling the firecrackers that would be stuffed inside the effigy.
There were other children as well.
One child ensured that those working hard had water to drink, fetching a pot of water from a nearby house. Another child, instead of helping, was just playing around, disrupting the work, and getting scolded by friends.
I was among those children too.
That day was Dussehra, and all the kids in the neighborhood were busy making an effigy of Ravana to burn in the evening. For the past few days, this had become their favorite game. Games like kabaddi, gully-danda, and cricket had taken a back seat.
Each child had found some task according to their interest and ability. If nothing else, some were making paper airplanes from leftover scraps and flying them. Others were picking up smooth, straight sticks from the gathered wood and enjoying throwing them as far as possible.
Everyone was having fun.
Just then, the door of a nearby house opened, and a girl's voice called out loudly.
Everyone paused for a moment and looked in that direction, but then quickly went back to their work—except for me. Because that voice belonged to my sister, and it was coming from my own house.
I guessed that she was calling me for lunch. But I wasn’t hungry at all since I had eaten a heavy breakfast in the morning.
Festival mornings were like that—special meals that kept you full for a long time. So, I waved my hand from a distance to signal that I wasn’t coming. But from her face, it seemed like she had something else to say.
I walked toward home.
When I reached, I saw that her face looked pale. In a hushed voice, she told me that Father had received news that our uncle (Taujī) had passed away early that morning.
Like my sister, I too felt sad, but I still didn’t understand why I had been called inside. Couldn’t they have told me later when I came home on my own?
But within moments, I understood everything.
There was a rush inside the house. Mother said that we all had to leave for Agra in the afternoon train. Father, mother, elder brother, and sister were all busy preparing for the journey. I was also asked to take out my clothes for packing.
But… what about our Ravana Dahan program in the evening?
We had been preparing for this for days. We had gone door-to-door in the neighborhood collecting donations. Then we had bought paper, firecrackers, sweets, and items for the ritual. All morning, the kids had worked hard to put everything together.
Now, if I suddenly disappeared, what would my friends think? I had been the one leading the fundraising! How would people react when I wasn’t there?
But at home, my voice had no effect.
Our uncle, who had been ill for a long time, had passed away that day. Father was grieving. Mother was solemn. There was no question of staying back.
When I handed my one set of clothes to my sister, who was packing the suitcase, she got annoyed. She snapped, "Do you even realize? We won’t be back for fifteen days! We have to stay for the entire mourning period. Will you just roam around in these clothes the whole time?"
I went back to the cupboard to take out more clothes.
Lunch was eaten hastily. Father didn’t eat at all. And when he didn’t eat, Mother didn’t either.
All the sweets and festive dishes that had been prepared that morning were discarded. It was the first time that we were leaving for uncle’s house without carrying any fruits or sweets. Everything was given away to the maid and the cleaning staff. In such sorrowful times, we couldn’t distribute the food among neighbors, nor could we leave it at home. The house was going to be locked for two weeks anyway.
But one thing puzzled me—if we couldn’t eat the sweets because of our uncle’s passing, then how could the maid and the cleaner eat them?
Maybe, since they were "small people," grief didn’t affect them as much?
I asked my mother, "Can I take some sweets for my friends too? They are small too, just like the maid and the cleaner. And they have been working hard since morning."
Mother snapped, "Idiot! Your own uncle has died, and you want to distribute sweets in the neighborhood?"
We left for Agra.
When we reached, I learned that since Uncle had passed away on Dussehra, our family would never celebrate Dussehra again.
The priest who conducted the rituals said that our Dussehra was now "covered" (meaning it was prohibited for our family). We could never celebrate this festival again.
All our relatives had gathered at Uncle’s house. People came from far and near. The house remained quiet and solemn. The meals were plain and tasteless. Every evening, there was a reading of the Bhagavad Gita. No one laughed, the TV and radio remained off.
I felt lost.
With no work to do, everyone just sat around the house. Visitors kept coming to pay their respects.
I kept wondering—Dussehra is said to be the festival where truth triumphs over lies. So, if we could no longer celebrate it, did that mean truth would never win again in our family?
Did Uncle’s death somehow erase Lord Ram’s victory over Ravana?
Then why did people call his passing "God’s will"?
I would often find the priest alone and ask, "Panditji, can’t I burn Ravana with my friends anymore? Why did you cover our festival?"
The priest would chuckle and hand me an apple, a banana, or a piece of sweet.
After Uncle’s thirteen-day mourning period, we returned home. For years, our family did not celebrate Dussehra.
Now, many years have passed. I am over seventy years old.
No one in our family even asks why we don’t celebrate this festival anymore. Maybe the last three generations don’t even know the reason.
Today, suddenly, I received a message from my younger brother in Australia. He is organizing a grand ritual in a huge temple there.
He said that if a child is born in the family on the same date as the "covered" festival, then the ban on celebrating it is lifted. His family was expecting a baby, and they planned to have a C-section delivery on Dussehra day. Several renowned priests were conducting the ceremony to bring back the tradition of celebrating Dussehra in our family. A huge event with lakhs of rupees being spent.
He wanted me to attend. But due to my health, I couldn’t travel. I gave him my blessings.
As I sat having breakfast, my little grandson came up to me and asked, "Dadu, if Dussehra was covered, why didn’t you remove the lid like Chhote Dadu (uncle)?"
I handed him a piece of apple from my plate and said, "You’re very naughty, aren’t you?"
