January has never been my favourite month. It’s like dreaded Mondays. After a good long relaxing weekend, (in this case December), you’re back to the ‘chakki pissoing’ . Sigh!
Luckily for me, nothing pumps me up like a mid-week holiday . And hence the vibrant, colourful festival of Lohri never fails to pep me up.
And as I write this, my phone danced to a bhangra beat of a fun Lohri rhyme:
Twinkle Twinkle yaraan di car, Khadke glassi in the bar, Punjabi Bhangra de chicken fry, tuhanu Lohri di lakh-lakh vadhaai.
Yes, I’m all Lohri-fied!
It’s not just because it’s my first Lohri as a newly-wed, it’s the warmest, sweetest memory of my childhood.
As a child, I used to anxiously wait for the big bonfire party. It was my ticket to stay up late and to stay out under the blanket of stars (yes, those days you could see a few stars in the Delhi sky). But before every Lohri, I had to sign a letter of agreement with my parents, which included:
%20I%20should%20not%20stand%20close%20to%20the%20bonfire.2)%20I%20should%20not%20waste%20too%20much%20food%20by%20offering%20it%20to%20the%20fire.3)%20I%20should%20not%20go%20%E2%80%98nuts%E2%80%99%20with%20popcorn%20and%20peanuts.4)%20I%20should%20be%20polite%20to%20my%20big%20Punjabi%20clan%2C%20which%20would%20soon%20descend%20upon%20our.jpg?auto=format%2Ccompress&fmt=webp&width=720)
If I agreed to the above terms and conditions, which I always did, I would be allowed to sit outside with all my relatives and enjoy the warmth of the fire. My mum’s fingers would drum the dholki, as my aunts sang Sunder Mundriye Ho.
I never understood the song, but it was the beat and the whole “we are family” feel that made Lohri so special. Well, until the next day when my stomach went nuts.
As years passed on, the “letter of agreement” disappeared, and so did the grand Lohri celebration. It soon became a small, family thing with my parents and me. Also because my father was in the armed forces and was transferred out of Delhi. But we never forgot to pack the memories with us, whenever we moved.
This year, somehow, a sort of Lohri-ism began to crawl upon me. The six-year-old in me suddenly started counting the days. I’ve already got my bright, colourful clothes ironed. I’ve already raided the supermarket for gajjaks, peanuts and popcorns.
This was going to be my big fat Lohri, till...
...the Friday morning editorial meeting at work. A colleague interrupted the daily breaking news routine to inform my editor, “Sir, this year Lohri is on 14 January, not on the 13 because it’s a leap year.”
The Punjabi in me began to huff and puff, and shifting uncomfortably in my seat I christened my colleague the Lohri Grinch. “You cannot delay MY Lohri celebrations by another 24 hours,” said the six-year-old me.
“Says who?”, I questioned. “Lohri is always celebrated on 13 January. The leap year effect only comes in play from March,” I continued.
The Lohri Grinch said, “ I agree with you it falls on the 13th, but not this year. According to Drik Panchang, a Hindu calendar, Lohri is on the 14th this year. I always refer to this calendar for any festival.”
The 29-year-old me angrily exclaimed, “What calendar is this? The ultimate authority on all earthly matters – Google – says it’s 13 January.”
The Lohri Grinch said, “Don’t look at Google. We need to take into consideration the alignment of stars because it’s a leap year.”
All of a sudden, everyone in the meeting started feverishly tapping on their mobile phones.
Finally, someone spoke up, the Punjab Government listed 34 gazetted holidays for 2016 and Lohri features as a restricted holiday on 13 January.
I squealed with joy.
Ahaa! In your face... I echoed Matt Damon from The Martian.
And for once, I couldn’t agree more with a state government in India.
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