After Diwali
Diwali hasn’t even fully arrived, and yet the chant of “After Diwali” is already echoing in every gali-mohalla. Weddings, gauna, engagements, studies, writing, bride-showing ceremonies, debt collection, nirai-gudai (weeding), morning ghumai (walks), bill payments, EMIs, eye-flirting, love affairs—anything that’s left pending or anything one has no mood to do—there’s only one excuse: “Now, after Diwali.”
At home, kids’ new-old demands are halted with it, the husband postpones outings from his tight budget with it, and the wife preserves her household authority with it: “Arre, don’t you see Diwali is on our heads? After Diwali.”
And husbands, mind you—special advisory! Right now is the dress rehearsal for Diwali’s five-day Test Match: cleaning, painting, polishing. And you’re lying upside down on the bed asking your wife, “Darling, can we have paneer tikka today?” Swear on God, if you don’t immediately hear, “Sharam nahi aati? Paneer tikka at this time? Can’t you see your Shridevi has become Phoolan Devi with all this cleaning? Don’t just laze around, climb up on the taak (attic shelf), grab a jhaadu, and order food from the hotel. From now, every single demand of yours—‘after Diwali’.”
The shops for crackers and phuljhadis haven’t yet lit up, mithai platters are still being stacked, but the crackers of “After Diwali” have already started bursting. People wrap up their excuses in shiny “After Diwali” wrappers and stuff them in each other’s mouths—like feeding sweets that actually seal lips shut.
As Diwali nears, the seasoned warriors of excuses seem to get a magic amrit packet. Especially those who borrow money—their real Diwali begins now. They can roam the bazaar fearless, shameless. And if by mistake the lender dares to ask for his paisa back, he’ll get an indignant reply: “Bhai, no sharam? Asking for money before Diwali? This matter will only be seen after Diwali.” Translation: don’t just stop asking, better loosen your pocket a little more so our Diwali goes well too!
The poor lender is left wondering about his own Diwali—gone to the tel lene. Meanwhile, all the colour and sweetness of Diwali belongs to the borrowers. Shopkeepers too wait patiently, hoping a few debts will finally get cleared after Diwali. But in reality, the buyer’s universal cheque—‘After Diwali’—is permanently mortgaged at the shop counter.
I sit in my OPD, patients lining up. Thanks to Lakshmi’s blessings, even patient-count swells around Diwali. Not my observation, theirs. Cleaning, painting, climbing roofs, falling from ladders—suddenly fracture patients shoot up like rockets.
But excuses never end: “After Diwali,” “After elections.” Officials too push every file beyond the election code, files sobbing under the weight of these delays. Even publishers delay books—always the same reply: “After Diwali.”
Once, a patient nearly lynched me because I declared after the X-ray that his bone was fractured. He snapped: “Doctor saab, no sharam? Fracture, at this time? Diwali is here and you’re talking plaster? Do you think we’ll do Lakshmi Pooja with a plastered leg? What an apashakun (ominous sign)!” Somehow I convinced him plaster was necessary. He agreed, but with the rider: “Doctor saab, make it udhari. We’ll settle accounts after Diwali. Right now Lakshmi shouldn’t leave the house.”
Meanwhile, the neighbour is smirking, and I’m stuck wondering whether to reply to her smile now—or after Diwali. My wife is already listing Diwali shopping, while “Bumper Dhamaka” sale jingles blast in the house.
The sarkar and courts may ban crackers, but no ban exists on these sale-explosions. And frankly, these are the real bombs—the ones that explode in your pocket. Every news channel and newspaper blasts offers, and my hand automatically checks my wallet. I muster all courage, thinking maybe one day I’ll tell my wife: “Darling, Lakshmi mustn’t leave home on Diwali—it’s an ill omen. So this year, let’s do the shopping after Diwali.”
Of course, the universal excuse is “We’ll do it in the New Year.” But that’s reserved for resolutions: joining a gym, losing weight, learning a hobby. For the lazy, it’s nothing less than sanjeevani booti.
—Dr. Mukesh Aseemit
(mail: drmukeshaseemit@gmail.com)
