Vishu is the day when I wake up too early, but dare not open my eyes. It is torment, waiting for mother to lead me to the first sight of the year, the Vishukkani. I hear her opening my door and I shut my eyes even tighter. It hurts. Her left hand covers my eyes and her right hand gently guides me by the shoulder.  We walk carefully down the stairs and into the pooja room, where, working late into the night, she has laid out the Vishukkani. She makes me sit on a low stool covered with a white cloth and quickly moves away asking me not to open my eyes until she is out of the room. 

I open my eyes on her command and see myself in a large mirror. Its edges are decorated with sandalwood paste. The light from the coconut oil lamps illuminates the room. My New Year opens with sights of plenitude. The mirror doubles the effect. I am surrounded by nine types of grains, five base metals, betel nut, split coconuts, golden cucumbers and other vegetables, seasonal fruits, blood red hibiscus and fragrant jasmine. Mahavishnu, the creator, is resting on his serpent; Mahalakshmi, goddess of wealth, is showering gold with two hands while twirling lotus flowers with the other two; and Saraswati, goddess of knowledge, is playing the lute. They smile beatifically down at me from the walls.  A large uruli contains uncooked rice, and joss sticks impaled on tiny yellow bananas, fill the room with fragrant smoke. A fired clay pot is full of sweet neyyappam and I eat as many as I want: the only day I am allowed to eat in the morning before brushing my teeth.  The smell of jasmine melds with those of sandalwood and hot coconut oil. It lingers. I feel the softness of my mother's feet as I touch them to receive her blessings and the usual gift of one silver rupee. 

Twilight breaks. The neighbourhood erupts in celebration and the sky is painted with rainbow flares; the smell of sulphur and whistling flowerpots frame the scene. A wanton sparkler sets ablaze our stock of fireworks. The sky descends into our veranda. Crazed rockets ricochet off the walls, wildly spinning catherine wheels whip around my legs and cascades of angry explosions shower me with their sparks.  There is dazzling brilliance all around and deafening bangs. I shut my stinging eyes, but the darkness remains when I open them again. I cannot hear my own screams.

I am left with memories nearly as good as sight: Vishukkani, mother's smiling face and fireworks.