The Yam Diyari (Lamp of Yama)

 Memoir 

(My grandmother(Nani) passed away in the first week of January this year. Remembering her...)

It was October-November 2012. I was posted in the Collectorate of the Nalanda district in Bihar under one of UNDP project. My own village is in the Bhojpur district, and most of my relatives are in Bihar. The festival season was here, and Diwali was approaching. For two weeks, I had been preparing myself to do something special. I hoped my office would grant me leave at least a week early. I had made up my mind: I would celebrate Diwali at my maternal grandmother’s (Nani) house. She lived alone in the village. It had been five years since my grandfather passed away, and my grandmother was around 80 years old then.

But things rarely go as planned! I did get leave, but it was late—on the eve of Diwali, at four in the evening. Initially, I thought I’d leave the next day. But then, for some reason, I felt it was best to leave right away. The last train was at six. I looked out the office window. All the staff were leaving, carrying their belongings, their faces happy. A wave of sadness washed over me. I had a meeting with the District Magistrate at 4:15. His meetings usually dragged on. I was sure I wouldn't be able to leave today, which meant the next day would be my only option—and I’d have to return early the day after Diwali because the offices would open. My heart sank.

Then, the orderly came in: "Sir is calling." I went into the DM’s chamber with my files, expecting to spend at least half an hour there and miss my chance. Thankfully, the conversation was very brief. I wished him a happy Diwali with a slightly lighter heart and left the room.

Bakhtiyarpur was the closest station. A friend was leaving in his office car for Patna, so we were both at Bakhtiyarpur by around five o'clock. The announcement for the Mokama-Patna Local train had been made. The Jaynagar-Anand Vihar Garib Rath was an hour later. We decided to catch the Local. The plan was that it would get us to Patna by seven, where I could catch the Garib Rath for Ara. I was a bit worried because local trains here are unreliable, but this one proved us wrong! It got us to Patna City in just over an hour.

At Patna City, the train was shunted onto a siding platform. My friend only had to go to Patna, but I had to reach Ara. We decided to take an auto-rickshaw to Patna Junction, hoping to catch the Garib Rath arriving there shortly.

I asked an auto driver how long he’d take. He simply said, "Hard to tell." Steeling my resolve, I got in. The roads were incredibly crowded. The markets of Gulzarbagh were glittering. Fairy lights were twinkling, sweet shops were bustling, and earthen lamps (diyas) and small clay pots (chukke) were being sold everywhere. We only really see the clay lamps during Diwali and Chhath. My heart filled with joy. My desire to reach home was boiling over. Seeing children holding their elders' hands in the market brought back my own childhood Diwalis. I hadn't felt this happy in months.

But the joy didn't last. The auto and I were stuck in the crowd when the Garib Rath passed right by Gulzarbagh. I urgently pleaded with the driver to hurry. The train stops at Patna Junction for about twenty minutes. The driver pointed out the overbridge ahead, saying it caused jams every evening. He was right. We soon picked up speed on the open road, but too much time had been lost.

The driver dropped me near the Hanuman Temple at the station. I almost ran inside, scanning the platforms from the overhead bridge for the green Garib Rath Express. Just then, a train started pulling out of a platform. I rushed down. As I reached the platform, the train’s last coach was passing by. My heart sank. I sprinted for about 300 meters after the train, hoping it might stop, but I soon realized it was a mirage—running after it was futile. I stopped running. The thought crossed my mind: maybe getting to my grandmother's house today won't be possible.

The next train was at eight. I quietly boarded it, with half an hour left until it departed. I called my uncle to tell him I might have to stay in Ara for the night, as there would be no buses to my grandmother's village so late.

The train left Patna about ten minutes late. The cold was setting in. The train picked up speed, and in about forty-five minutes, it was approaching Ara. I couldn't contain my anticipation. I regretted not reaching my grandmother's place, but I knew I had tried my best.

As the city drew closer, I opened the compartment door and stood there, watching the outside world. The quiet villages in the dark seemed to whisper. Looking at the houses, both concrete and mud, near the railway tracks, I saw the Yam Diyaris placed outside every door. I realized it must be very late. People must have finished their meals because the lamps were shimmering outside every home—one lamp for Yama, the god of death, to prevent untimely calamity. I remembered as a child, my mother would feed us early on the night before Diwali so we could place the Yama lamp outside.

I hadn't been home for Diwali in years, so the memories were faint, but I felt the pull of the past. I was a grown-up, yet my emotions were still wandering in the alleys of my childhood.

I reached the station, and my uncle (Mausa Ji) was there to meet me. I couldn't go to my Nani's house, but it was still comforting to be at my uncle’s place.

The next morning, I reached my Nani’s house (While writing these lines, I keep remembering that the place I refer to as my grandmother's house isn't her house at all; it's actually in a different village). My sisters insisted I make a rangoli. I couldn't think of a theme quickly. The image of the "Yam Diyari"—which I had seen from the train, placed outside countless homes—was still fresh in my memory. I drew that very lamp in the rangoli.

I couldn't stay at my grandmother's house on Diwali night as I had to be back at the office early, but in my heart, I knew that the lamp I had drawn was surely lighting up that Diwali night there.