Vishu Visheshangal

Every festival has a fragrance attached to it. Onam brings with it the clean smell of post-monsoon days and the wildflowers that make up the Atha poo kalam [a floral carpet made in the front courtyard of the house]. Diwali is reminiscent of the smell of firecrackers and colored sweets swimming in ghee. Whenever I think of Xmas, I am reminded of the pungent perfumes my Goan/Manglorean neighbors wore while dolling up for the midnight mass at the local Church grounds. Holi is all about the chemical smell of gulal and other bright dyes.
My favorite festival, though, is Vishu [also known as puthu varsha pathippu in Tamizh, Baisakhi in Punjab, Bihu in Assam, and so on]. Vishu made it to the top of my favorites list when I was a li'l gal, mainly because of the divine smell I associate with this very special day.
In Mumabi, where I spent all my childhood, the insistent rings of the paav-wala's [bread vendor] bicycle bell woke us up every morning. My mom would jump out of bed on most mornings and buy some paav for our breakfast and/or my "tiffin" box. At 5 a.m. in the morning, I would be somewhere between the stages of delicious REM sleep and wakefulness. My half-asleep semi-awake brain would register the paav- wala's early morning raga and his trills would become a part of my dream sequence.
On Vishu morning though, the sounds would be intertwined with the cloyingly sweet fragrance of fresh jasmine flowers, sandalwood incence and the slightly musty smell of a bed damp with the sweat my body had produced overnight.
Mmmmm...I can still recall the excitement and anticipation of being woken up by amma, her bony work-worn fingers covering my heavy eyelids that were still encrusted with sleep. When she let go, I would open my eyes slowly to what was an almost magical tableau. The tiny nilavillaku [brass lamp] glowing in the semi-darkness of the early dawn would lend an ethereal charm to the picture of Guruvayoorappan and Mookambika devi. The eyes of the stone idols would seem almost life-like for that one split second. Then, my mom would give me a shiny new five rupee coin as my kaineetam. Of course, that was only the beginning. By the time I had collected money from my dad, his older sister, my mom's younger brother and any and every elder I could think of, I would have hundreds of rupees in my piggy bank.
Times have changed. I am now a Malayali twice removed from my roots -- I don't live in Kerala or even in India. I have now donned the mantle my mom used to wear. I do my best to keep some of the older traditions alive. Although I did smell the incense this morning, it is not the same without the jasmine, the sweat and the paav-wala's shrill bells. Besides, no one gives me kaineetam anymore and I am the one lighting the lamp. There is no one to cover my eyes and then open up the blindfold to reveal the magical portent for the new year.