TIHAR - TENZING GYATSO

What I’d give for the joys of Tihar,

in those golden days of yore,

when I was a carefree young buck.

All decked out in my festal garb,

dhaka topi at a rakish tilt,

the waistcoat snug and the tapering suruwal.

The crimson dab of tika,

the swaying marigold mala,

sacred talismans of a doting sister’s deference.

Yes, I was a picture of dashing, careless elegance.

The thud-thudding throb of the maadal

in sync with my festive verve.

The clime and setting has not changed,

the same languid November air prevails.

Only back then, the old home town

was unfettered by the snarl of cables, cars and chaos.

It’s a digital Deoshee these days;

electric guitars, blaring speakers and filmi dhun;

somehow too crass, too trite and too impersonal.

It simply doesn’t mesh with the spirit and cheer

of the Tihar I knew.

Where is the homely ambience of the good old days,

and the infectious spontaneity

sparked by bouts of laughter and home brew,

as we sang and danced far into the starlit night…

Old dastoors seemed a cumbersome load

that I cast by the wayside

in my frantic rush to progress.

Now all too late, I retrace my steps

to retrieve this precious bundle.