Avani Avittam and Raksha Bandhan — Two Festivals on same day

In Delhi, August was the month when the city was still recovering from the monsoon and everyone seemed to have something tied around them.

On one morning, we would see brothers walking around with coloured threads on their wrists, sisters carrying boxes of sweets, and families going about their business as though the day's important work had already been completed.

We were dressed differently.

The men wore silk veshti or pancha kacham, a shirt and angavastram. Vibhuti was put carefully on the forehead. Children were dressed up too, whether they understood why or not.

We were on our way to celebrate Avani Avittam.

Both festivals fell on the same day.

Raksha Bandhan seemed to involve a coloured thread, some sweets and a promise from the brother to protect his sister.

Avani Avittam involved a bath, silk clothes, a trip across South Delhi, a temple, several rituals and the changing of the poonal.

As children, we did not need much time to decide which festival looked more enjoyable.

We usually went to Pillayar Kovil in Sarojini Nagar.

Why Pillayar Kovil and not Malai Mandir, I never knew. For everything else, we went to see Muruga. Avani Avittam belonged to Pillayar Kovil. That was enough explanation.

At the temple, the men of the community discarded their old poonal and put on a new one.

There were mantras.

There were rituals.

There was a great deal of standing.

And, eventually, there was the new poonal.

We children stood around and waited.

Somewhere in Delhi, we imagined, a Raksha Bandhan ceremony was probably taking place in much less time.

A sister tied a rakhi.

A brother ate a sweet.

Perhaps there was another sweet.

And that was more or less the festival.

We, on the other hand, came home hungry.

Fortunately, Amma understood that religion had its limits.

Waiting for us was vadai, payasam, poli and a full three-course meal.

At this point, all comparisons with Raksha Bandhan were forgotten.

We ate until there was no room left for further religious discussion. Then we went to sleep.

For us, that was the proper ending to a festival.

Only later did I understand that these two festivals were really a small picture of the world we were growing up in.

We were Tam-Brahm children in Delhi.

We went to Hindi-speaking schools, rode DTC buses, played with children from everywhere and celebrated Deepavali with our neighbours.

At home, there were Tamil words, rituals, poonal, vibhuti and food that had travelled north with our parents.

Outside, there was Delhi.

Nobody explained how the two were supposed to fit together.

We simply moved between them.

On most days, it was easy.

On some mornings, it meant walking through South Delhi in silk clothes while everyone else was dressed for an ordinary August day.

We did not think much about identity then.

We were more concerned with whether there would be enough vadai.

But somewhere between the DTC bus, the temple, the poonal and the plate of payasam, we were learning something our parents never had to explain.

You could belong to Delhi and still carry a little piece of Tamil Nadu with you.

And sometimes, the best way to manage the whole arrangement was simply to finish the vadai before your siblings did.