A Trip Down Memory Lane

Today is Vinayaka Chavithi, a festival very close to my heart.

In Indian tradition, Lord Vinayaka (Ganesha) is the first among gods. No auspicious work begins without invoking him. His life stories carry wisdom and management lessons, and I’m sure LinkedIn will be full of those today.

But instead of retelling myths, I want to share my own story, how we celebrated when I was a child. And maybe, years later, my daughter (who, after reading my earlier posts, told me I need to “check my grammar, commas, and full stops!” 😅) will know how her father grew up.

Morning Rituals in a Joint Family

In a joint family, even “getting ready” is an event.

By 5 a.m., my grandmother would already be boiling water in a giant pot over firewood. I loved sitting near the flames, feeding sticks into the fire, the warmth slowly shaking off my sleep.

Then came the oil bath ritual. A line of kids, waiting their turn, while my grandmother lovingly massaged us from head to toe with oil. Eyes stinging, bodies sticky and then came her secret weapon: shikakai.

Now, shikakai wasn’t just picked up at a store. My grandmother prepared it herself, drying shikakkai pods along with amla, hibiscus, fenugreek seeds, and a few other herbs out in the sun. Once perfectly crisp, she would take them to the local grinding mill, where they’d be turned into a fine brown powder. This wasn’t just shampoo. It was shampoo + soap + conditioner + scrub all rolled into one natural powder.

Basically, the “all-in-one body wash” of its time… except it burned your eyes and left you squeaky clean whether you liked it or not. Think of it as the original 4-in-1 product, no fancy bottle, no ads, just your grandma making sure you didn’t escape!

The fragrance lingered with me the whole day. Even now, when I think of Vinayaka Chaturthi, I first smell shikakai.

Dressing Up & The Market Walk

After the bath, my father or grandfather helped me wear my dhoti, carefully folding and tucking it in place. Then came the highlight of the morning: the trip to the market with my Uncle VJ.

The lanes were narrow but full of life, vendors under small tarpaulin sheets, each selling clay idols, flowers, fruits, sugarcane, banana plants, mango leaves. Some stalls tried to cover everything, but most were humble, just daily vendors trying to make ends meet, hoping the festival rush gave them enough for the day.

The most fascinating part for me was watching clay idols being pressed into molds right there on the street. Their hands moved with rhythm and speed, transforming clay into gods, felt almost magcal to watch.

And then, of course, choosing the umbrella for the idol. Every year new designs appeared, and as kids we argued over which one looked the best. Carrying the idol home in baskets felt like the proudest responsibility.

Prayers, Food & Quiet Love

Back home, my grandfather would lead the prayers. Kids always got the front row, elders sat behind us. While the rituals went on, my grandmother, mother, and aunts worked tirelessly in the kitchen.

Vinayaka is said to love kudumulu (steamed dumplings with coconut-jaggery filling). Honestly, I don’t know if Vinayaka loves them, but I sure did.

When the prayers ended, we all sat cross-legged on the floor in rows, eating from banana leaves. This wasn’t just about food, sitting down together, batch after batch, the kind that bonded us without words.

I usually ate fast, not to run off, but because I loved cleaning the floor for the next round and serving food to others. In a joint family, love wasn’t often spoken out loud. It was shown, in serving, in cleaning, in making sure the next person was cared for. That was my way of saying “I love you.”

We ended with paan, betel leaf folded with slacked lime and betel nut.

The Community Spirit

By afternoon, once the feast was over, our cycles were ready. This was our time. No phones, no watches, just a pack of kids riding through narrow lanes, each street buzzing with its own celebrations.

Every neighborhood had set up its own Vinayaka idol, often crafted with creativity and pride. Some were simple clay idols decorated with fresh flowers, while others were more elaborate painted in bright colors, holding little props, sometimes even themed to reflect a social message. For us kids, it was like a festival treasure hunt, who had the biggest idol, the funniest decoration, or the most colorful umbrella.

Chennai, where I grew up, kept the celebrations modest. But whenever I visited Hyderabad, the difference was striking. Idols were massive, sometimes towering over buildings, with drums, music, and processions filling the air. The most iconic of them all, the Khairatabad Ganesh once stood at nearly 50 feet tall. Watching such giants slowly being carried for immersion on the 10th day, surrounded by thousands of people chanting and dancing, was an experience etched into my memory forever.

For us kids, though, the joy wasn’t just in the grandeur. It was in the freedom of the cycle rides, the laughter with friends, and the shared awe of discovering each idol, as if every street was telling its own story of devotion.

Carrying It Forward

Last year, my daughter Pia gave a presentation to her classmates about Vinayaka Chavithi. She spoke about the stories, the rituals, and the joy I once knew as a child. And just like my grandmother and mother did for me, her mom, this time to make dozens of kolukattai (sweet dumplings) as a treat for Pia’s friends.

Needless to say, her classmates loved both the stories and the food. It felt special to see how these traditions, once rooted in firewood baths and banana-leaf feasts, now found their way into a classroom in California, the same festival, just told in a new voice.

Looking Back

As a child, I didn’t see the invisible labor, my grandmother drying shikakkai, my aunts cooking for hours, my parents making sure everything ran smoothly. Today, I see it as love.

When I think about it now, festivals were never just about rituals or offerings. To me, they were occasions to gather as a family, celebrate together, and spread joy. The rituals themselves almost seemed designed to bring people closer, sitting in rows to eat, serving each other food, visiting neighbors, and sharing stories.

Perhaps that was always the deeper purpose: creating a sense of togetherness, a reminder that joy multiplies when it is shared.

📖 This is Episode 5 of my weekly story series: Through My Quiet Lens, A space to explore quiet strength, a lens on life's small moments and small victories that shape us.

Over to you..

What’s one festival or tradition from your childhood that you want your children to remember?

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