In the highly commercialized America--well, the entire world--retailers always want to promote some holiday or other, even if those special days are far, far away.
In my early years in America, there was nothing said about Halloween until the last week or so of October. Those were the old days.
Now, right after Labor Day, people start talking about pumpkin spice latte. Stores begin to promote Halloween. A few homes already have Halloween decorations all over the houses and front yards!
(No, there weren't any Rosh Hashanah sales. I don't expect to see Diwali deals either.)
It is not like I look forward to Halloween. Or Diwali, for that matter. I stay in character as General Malaise!
In the old country, there was no Halloween. Maybe things have changed now, like how many aspects of life have changed: "Some forever, not for better | Some have gone and some remain."
I suppose the "fancy dress" parties in the old country were the closest to wearing strange costumes at Halloween. From the colonizers, the elites picked up the idea of high tea and fancy dress (costume party.) The wannabe elites in the township too had to have these. Of course, I did not participate in any fancy dress competition.
Until I came to the US, I had no idea about Halloween when kids go trick or treating and load up on candies. Strangely enough, I don't recall any of the fictional works that I read referring to Halloween. But then Steinbeck and Saroyan had weightier issues to write about.
The Hindu life in which I was born and raised offered plenty of "fancy dress" and ghosts throughout the year. No special day was ever needed.
As a kid, I was terrified of the image of Bhadrakali. I had yet to learn that those were not photos of the god but were artistic renderings of vivid imaginations. I was sure that Bhadrakali would make my young life miserable if I did anything wrong. Yes, I have always been a wuss; thanks for asking.
According to people, ghosts were everywhere, especially in tamarind trees. For whatever reasons, some believed--yes, believed--that tamarind trees were the favorite "haunts" for ghosts.
One of the many charming aspects to our home in the township was the number of trees in the compound. I forget the precise count, but, as I recall now, there were six tamarind trees, eight mango trees, one cashew nut tree, and a couple of trees that did not yield any edible fruits. It was a jungle out there, come to think of it. By the gate was a giant tamarind tree. It was the biggest of them all.
Even in the best of the lighting, the compound was in semi-darkness after the sun set, and some of the trees were in utter darkness. Most of this huge tamarind tree by the gate was in the dark. It is, therefore, easy to imagine that some of the school friends coming over wanted to get past the tree as fast as they could.
But, my siblings and I were never afraid of that tamarind tree. The tree was always there from the time we remembered the world. We didn't think about any spirits there.
Every single night was Halloween spooky only to those who saw the tamarind tree differently!
And then there were those times when ghosts presented themselves through people. Like how my dead grandmother "appeared" through my cousin. I watched the spectacle, which is what it was to me. I was convinced then, as I am now, that dead people don't re-appear. The cousin was putting on one hell of a Halloween show, and had his fifteen minutes of fame in the family lore.
A couple of decades ago, a middle-aged friend died after an unsuccessful battle with cancer. He and his wife talked about and sorted out the practical issues, especially dealing with their two young girls. The wife also told him that if there was a way that he could communicate with her after his death, well, he should. He agreed. But, she never heard from him.
The older I get, there are times when I wonder, like my father recently did, if what I recall are events that happened or whether they are merely figments of my wild imagination.
Aging is one hell of a strange experience and is the ultimate trick-or-treat event in life, with different costumes and make-up at every stage!
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything
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