New Ways

THIRTY-FOUR

Sigrid

It was the third day of Diwali and my family was in the midst of preparing for the Lakshmi puja, a customary ritual performed by Hindus to seek divine blessings from Lakshmi, the Goddess of Wealth in the evening of the third day of Diwali. I was given the pre-ritual task of placing and lighting the diyas, which were small cup-shaped oil lamps made out of clay near the entrance of our spacious loft home here in the Lincoln Square neighbourhood. According to the Hindu tradition, diyas should be lit to welcome the goddess as they were believed to light up her path.

The elevator bell chimed just as I finished lighting the last lamp. The doors opened and out walked Amery, pausing her footsteps at the sight of me crouching on the floor and peering down at me with a playful smile. "Happy Diwali!"

"If you continue looking as beautiful as this believe me you're going to get your own puja sooner or later," I complimented, studying my stunning girlfriend. She was clad in the long-sleeved baby pink salwar kameez which I had chosen and bought for her a week ago specially for this day. A salwar kameez is basically a traditional Indian costume for females consisting of a tunic, a pair of matching pants and a scarf. Amery's tunic had a resham print on it, she wore a straight cut pants and her white scarf rested neatly over her right shoulder. Her blonde locks hung loosely down her shoulders and to complete the look she wore a pair of grey suede Jimmy Choo pumps.

"Hello there, you must be Amery," my father appeared behind me. I stood up and shot a glance at Amery, nervous that she might have forgotten what I had previously taught her.

"Indeed I am. You must be Mr Sharma," she approached my father and the latter opened his arms to welcome her in for a hug, but was caught by surprise when she bent down in an attempt to touch his feet instead. He stopped her before she was done and patted her head lovingly. In Indian culture this act is common as a form of greeting towards the elderly, especially when the person doing the act is greeting the parents or grandparents of their partners.

"Such good manners, betee," my dad said, impressed. He winked over at me and gave me a thumbs up, congratulating me for teaching my girlfriend well.

"Thank you, sir. What a lovely place you have, and nice rangoli too," Amery gestured to the art on the floor of the entrance near the elevator. Rangolis are basically patterns or drawings of any kind that are outlined using white chalk and then filled in with colours using ingredients such as paint, coloured rice-water, coloured sand or also modern materials like crayons or dyes. The one that Amery referred to was a simple flower design with a peacock's feather drawn in the middle.

"Your girl made it herself," my dad smirked.

"Our girl," Amery corrected him and they both laughed. I was relieved at the fact that my dad was already liking the girl. Lucky for me, even though my dad was a proud Indian and also a devout Hindu, he was far from homophobic. He believed that everyone has the right to love anyone they want to, as long as that does not make them stray from their roots and their true purpose in life, which was to serve God accordingly. When my dad fell in love with my mom and wanted to marry her, my grandparents objected because my mom was, well, not an Indian girl. But he went through with his plan and wedded my mom anyway, proving to his parents that he still stuck to his ways as an Indian and finally gaining their blessings five years later.

I followed him and Amery into the living room, where Seth and my mom were setting the table for the ritual. Seth greeted Amery with a nod, his hands too occupied with an idol of the Goddess Lakshmi to offer the girl a hug. My mom was sprinkling handfuls of grain in the center of the table. Her eyes lit up when she turned and noticed Amery. The latter proceeded to greet my mom the same way she greeted my dad earlier and my mom too was surprised at the action, considering that they were both Caucasian but Amery still had the same amount of respect towards my mom as she had towards my dad.

"Happy Diwali," Amery chirped when my mom pulled her in for a hug.

"Happy Diwali to you too, dear. Now come, we were just going to start the puja," my mom said, clearly fond of Amery.

My dad returned with a pile of account books in his arms and gestured for me to take another diya. I did as told and passed the clay oil lamp to Amery.

"What do I do with this?" She whispered anxiously at me, confusion spreading across her face.

I smiled at how adorably clueless my girlfriend was with the practices of my tradition. "We usually light one up before we officially begin the puja. Today you shall have the honours."

And just like that, I saw my own goddess flash the happiest smile at me.