Next Sunday is Deepavali. The first without my Sinnavan.

No matter how unreal it feels and seems, it is. It really did happen. She’s no longer with us. I know I shouldn’t go on like this but it’s harder still especially when Deepavali comes around.

First, it was Deepavali without my mum. Now it’s Deepavali without my Sinnavan. The two people, in my life, who turned Deepavali into a celebration. They brought light to the festival of lights. I’m not that big on the big day but the twosome made it a big deal, and a festival to look forward to.

My Sinnavan was not a stickler for tradition or rules. If anything, she skirted around them much to my mum’s amusement and annoyance😊. But they worked so well together because they both loved Deepavali and everything associated with it.

The excitement of the preparation, the genuine delight in making the many ‘palavaram’/cakes, cooking an assortment of dishes and curries, and flipping multiple ‘tosais’, the plural of tosai, on Deepavali day.  

The pre-preparation that invariably involved large quantities of green peas that needed to be washed, dried and grounded. For my mum it was her biggest bugbear, even when the grinding was outsourced to Narayana Moorthy Flour Mill. She needed to get that process out of the way, and the ground green peas safely in her hands. Then it was all systems go.

For my Sinnavan, everything was easy-peasy. Nothing fazed her. If she had to grind green peas in the home grinder, she’d just get on with it. And she did. One Deepavali at our mum’s condo, a fine film of greenish powder settled on the floor, and all the surfaces. It looked and felt like the aftermath of an experiment gone wrong. No matter, it was all cleaned up before the festival.

For my mum, Deepavali meant commercial-sized production of ‘palavarams.’ She made hundreds of ‘murukkus’, ‘nai orundus’, ‘achi murukkus’ etc., and stacked them in large biscuit tins, the kind still found in the old-worldly wholesale shops that sell a variety of things.

As she got older and less able, I remember she fretted about making the ‘palavarams’, and worried about cooking the different dishes for the Deepavali eve prayer meant for family members who had passed, and preparing the on-the-day special meals.  

For my Sinnavan, taking over the reins from our mum was a natural transition. And, she did it in a kind and thoughtful way. She made sure she informed and involved our mum in the Deepavali goings-on. She knew our mum was still very much interested and excited, and was heart-and-head willing although her body wasn’t.

I remember her discussing and stopping to show our mum what she did each day. Like mum, like daughter, my Sinnavan also made extra cakes that were not-on-the-sanctioned-list like her signature dual-colour coconut candy, halwa, lemon flan and runny ‘wajik’. As always, my mum tsk’ed- tsk’ed her but was quietly happy to present a wider selection of cakes for the festival.

The runny ‘wajik’ was intentional as it was planned for those fortunate enough to be present at the time of the making/cooking/baking to drink, slurp or lick the swimmingly super-sweet syrupy ‘wajik.’ Yummy.

She’d also organise with brother number 1, when he was well, and later with brother number 2, to buy many kgs of chicken, mutton and prawns for the dishes served on Deepavali eve and on the day. Everything was bountiful as was her generosity and kindness.

I didn’t know then … but 2023 was the last Deepavali that I’d have with our mum and my Sinnavan. And, brother number 1. He passed later that year.

It certainly wasn’t a happy time as brother number 1 was already very unwell. He was discharged from hospital on Deepavali eve, and although he wanted to be present for the evening prayers at our mum’s, he was too weak.

When that plan was abandoned, my Sinnavan and I, arranged delivery to brother number 1’s home with our long-standing airport services driver, Hayat, who sadly has also passed. Hayat took a photo of the two of us carrying two bags of food, which I captioned as Deliveroo. Thankfully, brother number 1 was able to spend a few hours with our mum and us on Deepavali day.

We cancelled Deepavali in 2024. My mum passed in May that year.

For Deepavali 2025, my Sinnavan had sent photos of herself shelling green peas to make ‘murukku’ and ‘nai orundu.’ She said she’d make only 20 of each of the ‘palavarams’ as she had a small customer base. Who knew it would be her last.

I don’t expect Deepavali to ever be the same again but I think it’s as good a time as any to get together and appreciate the people who matter in my life.  

Who knows …