A Deya is a Doorway to Another World
My Grandfather, a Long Night, and the Love We Light for the Dead
My father’s father, Suruj Ramlochan, died when I was 9. He was a harmonium player, and he had a massive heart attack while playing the instrument at a puja. I wasn’t there, but when I think about the hour of his death, I feel that it could not have been more possible for him to be closer to God. As alive as it’s possible to be, before your life gutters out like the flickering flame of a deya on Divali night.
I am the one who has performed Divali puja in my Las Lomas home for the past five years. My grandmother always brings a framed photograph of my grandfather to attend the puja, but if she did not, I would fetch him, place him beside Lakshmi Maa and Shri Ganesh, rest a fresh hibiscus at his feet, anoint him with chandan and after the puja, look long at his face, silhouetted by deya light.
I don’t know what my grandfather would make of me now. What he would think of who I am in the world, what I’ve written, what I’m about to write.
But I remember him with all my heart.
One of my most intense Divali memories is of staying up late to relight all the deyas on our bannisters and steps, carrying a jug of oil and a handful of wicks upstairs and downstairs, kneeling to kiss deyas together, singing my fingertips every now and then. I did this til I lost track of time. Til somehow it was early morning, and when I looked downstairs, there was my grandfather, looking up at me. Smiling. Another watcher in the long, deep night of Deepavali. Another keeper of the flame.
You will learn more about my aja in Unkillable. And in writing about him, I hope to keep lighting something between our souls, alive and dead, but neither forgetting.
A Writing Prompt, for Summoning Light
Sit in an empty room, with a light source that is not your phone nearby: a lamp, a candle you can light, a deya, anything that is only a light source. Have pen and paper nearby, and situate yourself close to the overhead light switch.
Have with you also a physical photograph of someone you love who is no longer here: physically, emotionally, absent through death or dislocation.
First, look at the photograph of your loved one for five minutes. Do not look away if you can bear it. Now, turn off the overhead light.
With the impression of your beloved in your mind’s eye, sit in the dark for another five minutes. Resist the urge to fidget; trust in your stillness.
Now, light your lamp, your candle, your deya. Not the overhead light. Take up your pen and paper and write, for as long as feels right, about the expression on your beloved’s face, knowing it may be the last time you behold it in this life, but also knowing that what you write into the world now is forever, and always, enfolded in the love of your light.
In radiance,
Shivanee
Achingly beautiful…
I'll do this. I need to do this. Thank you Shivanee