By Mehak Gupta
September, we welcome Bappa home—
Atithi Devo Bhava.
“Red or green,” Dadi would say,
Are his colours that bring us together
For puja, twice every day.
He brings her to me year on year
Without fail.
And we chat,
And sing,
And host.
I show her the tikka on my forehead.
“Red”—isn’t it supposed to be?
Then why did Panditji put yellow for Mamma instead?
Why did he tie the mauli on her right hand instead of left?
Dadi would’ve reminded me lovingly if she were here—
That widows get colours
Sparingly.