Dear Diary,  
 
Marigolds I knit, become fragile art, 
just like how my dreams are knotted in my fragile heart 

Lamps I light display glow divine, 

Yet nobody see the labor that's mine. 

Dussehra burns, the flames ascend, 

My work, unseen, will never end. 

As the early morning sun rises, the air is filled with the aroma of marigolds and smoke, with firecrackers bursting off in almost every corner, it’s almost Dussehra and my home right now feels like a never-ending battlefield of chores and preparation. I take a moment and stare at the Rangoli and wonder how pristine it is, with its curves promising festivity.  
 
While I was having this moment for myself, I heard steel clatter, and the adding up noise of hissing pressure cooker. Long story short, this is my Dusshera diary, not any victory parades but just the unseen labor that makes the festival real. 

Its 5:00 am and I am up before the sher is, and I slowly begin accepting that I have to wake up and get started with the chore. It begins with dusting dolls anxiously wondering, what am I going to be cooking for the day and the list never ends.  
 
I then began polishing brass lamps, arranging fresh marigolds from the market. The vendor, an old woman, called them extra vibrant this year. I smiled, but my mind was already racing, thinking about having to soak chickpeas for chana masala, grind coconut for chutney, fix the fairy lights.  
 
My husband, still asleep, will wake to filter coffee and ask, Everything ready? I’ll nod. I always make it look effortless, even when it’s tiring. As the festival nears, the weight falls onto me, making sure everything is ‘as per tradition’ as it did on my mother, my grandmother. I love the chaos, the colors, the togetherness.  
 
I try taking as much help i can from my children, but again they are in their own moments dressing up and clicking pictures. My husband hung one string of lights and called it a day. Meanwhile, I’m knee-deep in dosa batter, counting mouths to feed. Twenty? Twenty-five, I lost count.  

The emotional load is heavier. I remember my mother-in-law’s sugarless tea, my cousin’s child’s peanut allergy, the neighbour’s expected invite. I help my daughter with her outfit, also pay attention to my husbands work stories, all while stirring sambar, and forgetting if I added enough salt. I’m the keeper of their comfort, the architect of their joy. 

The men aren’t lazy, and I most certainly don't want to rant about it. My husband will carry the puja thali if asked; my brother-in-law will fetch sweets if reminded. But the asking, the planning, it’s mine. My question is why it should be asked or reminded, when its family, shouldn't it be a part of all that I do as it's a family at the end of the day. They experience the festival; I orchestrate it. They’ll cheer at the Ramlila; I’ll see the dishes piling up. 

And at this very moment, it may look like a cry for pity, but No, I want acknowledgement. This labour is cruciating especially how it ties family to tradition.  
 
Tomorrow, as Ravana’s effigy burns, I’ll clap with my family, proud of the magic I’ve woven. Maybe I’ll ask my husband to wash dishes, my son to grind chutney. Small steps toward sharing the unseen. 
 
With Love 
Me

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