Diwali’s Got Entourage: 5-day greeting assault to drive you crazy!

Ah, here I stand, the valiant recipient of the never-ending WhatsApp parade, bearing the relentless onslaught of festive fervor. One would think that each digital greeting might warm the cockles of one's heart, but alas, it only heaps bricks upon an already inundated soul. In the words of Antony in the bard’s Julius Caesar, “...Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war!...”—only here, the dogs are pixelated gods, goddesses, one holy figure after another, and of course, candles and lamps, storming forth in hundreds with gilded frames and music that reverberates from a realm Mozart himself dared not tread.

 

Must I truly prime you to sympathize with my hapless plight? Perhaps so. Recall, if you will, my earlier outpourings on this very theme—the chronicles of my bewilderment as I braved the relentless onslaught of well-meaning wishes, reproduced at the end for those interested to gauge my cup of woe. But lo, these humble laments seem as whispers to the wind, for they have yet to touch the hearts (or, rather, restrain the thumbs) of the blessed, finger-happy souls who feel it their solemn duty to shower me with an unceasing stream of greetings till my very salvation. Indeed, as the villain Shylock ticks Bassanio off in The Merchant of Venice of the bard, “I am not bound to please thee with my answers” and yet here I am, perplexed, wondering if I have to respond to each digital blessing like a shipwrecked soul clinging to every buoyant emoji. Or adopt a more diplomatic response, albeit with some artifice of a standard two word missive, as Chachā (uncle) Ghālib taught us:

Qāsid ke aate aate ḳhat ik aur likh rakhūñ

maiñ jāntā huuñ jo vo likheñge javāb meñ

(Ere the messenger returns, a letter I should prepare, as I am aware what she would reply)

Then comes the faithful reminder from our learned well-wishers that Diwali time is not merely a single candle-lit night. No, it is a sprawling serial celebration spanning 5 days with Dhanteras, Narak Chaturdashi, Deepavali, Govardhan Pooja, Bhai Dooj, Roop Chaudasi, and Annakoot. So, with each new ping, you brace yourself as this torrent of cheer floods your devices, leaving you gasping for peace.

And when, pray, does it end? The deluge is, inevitably what Macbeth described for us, in arguably less tragic circumstances, “…a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” After all, there must come a point when the jubilant notes cease, when the digital lamps are dimmed, and all that is left is silence. But no, for as one final goddess Laxmi gif fades, another arrives, as if summoned by some great cosmic folly, each sender blissfully unaware of the hundred others who have already lit this digital diya (earthen lamp) in your honour.

But a greater pestilence than all is that tireless global greeter, who with reckless abandon flings his greetings into a group, caring not a whit that half within know him as little as they know Adam. Shakespeare did not say this but he might well sigh, “The world is grown so full of these heedless messengers, like whispers in a windstorm, clamorous but without weight.”

So there you are, ensnared in a relentless typhoon of well-meaning greeters, each more determined than the last to stake their claim in your notification centre, with 493 messages peering at you. Your thumb quivers, daring not to scroll further, and you murmur, “What fresh hell is this?”—a desperate whisper that would make even Shakespeare nod in sympathy, notwithstanding his characters like Mistresses Page and Quickly of “Heaven give you many, many merry days”  and “Heaven send thee good fortune” banalities from Merry Wives of Windsor.  For the festival circuit is unyielding, an endless parade where, alas, mercy makes not even a cameo in the chronicles of WhatsApp.

And then, in that moment of chaos, enlightenment descended like a divine, albeit ironic, revelation. Eureka! Wisdom, wearing a sly grin, sidled up and whispered the answer. What did I do, you may ask? Ah, dear reader, let that remain cloaked in mystery, tucked away like the unread messages of cousins thrice removed. But know this: when the next flood of digital tidings arrives, as it inevitably will around New Year’s, I will be ready. And this time, armed with newfound resolve, I will have the last laugh—or at least, a smug silence. Please, for the nonce, do with this hyper-corrected sher of the chachā:

Ranj se ḳhūgar huā insāñ to miT jaatā hai ranj

Mubaarake.n mujh par paḌīñ itnī ki āsāñ ho ga.iiñ

(Once someone becomes accustomed to grief, then the pain is erased. So many greetings fell upon me that they became easy to deal with.)

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Earlier on the subject:

 

https://anindecisiveindian.blogspot.com/2024/09/oh-serial-greeters-no-more-aur-nahin.html

 

http://anindecisiveindian.blogspot.com/2022/06/oh-they-kill-with-kindness.html

 

http://anindecisiveindian.blogspot.com/2020/12/hbd-forsooth.html