Amma and I: A tale of family traditions

 We were a small family: Amma, Appa and I. However, we were surrounded by uncles, aunts, cousins, and grandparents within fifteen minutes of us. My parents weren’t religious folks but we still celebrated all the festivals with zeal, every year. Some were celebrated in an elaborate way and others in an intimate setting. Amma was always the driver of all things related to the celebrations and Appa was mostly interested in those mouth-watering dishes that accompanied the festivities.  

Out of all those myriad Hindu festivals, the one that stands out in my mind is Gowri and Ganesha festival. Particularly Gowri festival which we refer to as Gowri Habba in Kannada. As I would learn later, this is celebrated by mostly people from Karnataka and is not as well known as its accompanying festival, Ganapathi Habba.

On a typical day of the festival, Amma and I woke up early in the morning and got dressed in bright-colored Indian clothes. While I reluctantly woke up at the crack of dawn, Amma would already be setting up all of the necessary Pooja items, and trust me there were MANY! She got dressed in a beautiful silk saree, gold jewelry, and a whole set of glass bangles which were bought specially for this occasion. She would drag me with her to a neighbor’s place up the road where about 8-10 women gathered to perform the Gowri Pooja. Appa offered an extra pair of hands to assist us with the bags of fruits, flowers, and everything in between.

During this long Pooja, which felt like torture for me at that time, she would ask me to do simple little chores. Hand her a flower or draw a small mandala or simply sit by her side and look interested! The entire house was filled with the scent of incense, and the symphony of ringing bells was incredibly soothing to the soul, especially during the grand finale. Despite being bored, as a child I remember feeling a sense of serenity just by being in that room.

At the end of the Pooja she would usually give me a nod to go ahead with my part in the ritual. That’s when I performed the ritual of 3 or 4 simple steps and was relieved that we could now go home to a delicious breakfast. She still lingered a bit to chat with the other women and exchanged bagina—today’s equivalent of party favors, a cute little container filled with trinkets especially suited for women, ranging from bangles, clothes, a comb, a small mirror, some cash, and the list goes on. This is where each person got creative by adding their own unique items but still maintaining the theme. I looked forward to this last part since the little girls got their own versions of bagina, filled with hair clips, ribbons and candies.

 The last time Amma celebrated Gowri Habba was in 1989. We lost her in June of 1990 and I was all of 18 years old at that time. I stepped away from those celebrations since then and life took a different turn altogether. The celebrations that we once looked forward to now became a painful reminders of her absence.

Years later, we started our own family here in the US and I said to myself, maybe I can bring back that celebration, that feeling, that vibe in this faraway land to my own little family. So every year I bring out Amma’s silver platter that has her name engraved and arrange fruits, flowers, sweets, and snacks on the day of Gowri Habba. I do the same 3 or 4 simple steps taught by Amma to perform the ritual as the mantras blare out of my speaker from a familiar youtube video. I cook an elaborate meal very similar to what she used to cook and share with my family. Doing all this, I yearn to preserve a piece of the day I spent with Amma celebrating  her favorite festival.

Sometimes traditions are followed either to remember the connections we had with those we lost or foster a deeper connection with those we are still fortunate to be around. As I stand there and ask my kids to place a flower on a deity, take Prasad in their right hand or do a namaskara clockwise or do their own 3 or 4 steps ritual, I hope I am able to pass on the tradition to one more generation. If Amma was around, maybe she would have made her grandkids accompany her to that place up the road to perform the pooja or she would have been in my house scolding them lovingly to assist her with the rituals. In these moments of celebration, I find solace in knowing that I've not just preserved a piece of my past with Amma but also created lasting memories for my own little family. Gowri Habba is a bridge that connects generations and continents, reminding us of the enduring power of tradition.

As I perform these cherished traditions—offering milk, fruits, flowers, and treats to a deity crafted from metal—my logical mind occasionally rebels and asks what the hell are you doing? Yet the profound comfort and peace they bring into our lives defies logic. I sit there in front of my modest mandir decorated with the tall silver Diyas and the walls scattered with the tiles of prominent gods and goddesses shipped all the way from India. I offer a prayer to the unseen to keep my loved ones safe, happy and healthy. Amma imparted a precious gift for her only daughter, instilling faith and belief in a higher power through her simple actions. I am forever grateful to be her daughter.