Can one interaction between a maker dad and a reluctant daughter shape an outlook?

My cousin and I  took great interest in dressing up the family Ganesha idol for the festival of Chaturthi. She had decorated her idol ahead of time with a cheery yellow umbrella-canopy, interspersed with tinsel, sequins, and tassels. Necklaces of shiny beads and fake gemstones, spiral mobiles of colorful foil, winked and twinkled away. How I loved that yellow, sparkly umbrella sold by the dozens in the stores all over the city that festive season!

A day or two later, we got out our foot-high clay idol stored in the sliding teak cabinet. It had been in our family for years. Our Ganesha had seen better days. He deserved something shinier . So, I proposed on buying that glittering yellow umbrella.

 “Store bought?” he bellowed upon hearing my proposition. He could get a bit dramatic, my maker/engineer Dad. “We will plan and make our own.”  I groaned with displeasure. I wanted the store bought shiny. But he was not going to do it any other way.

“Watch me,” he said, as he got out thick chart paper and traced an umbrella shape.I colored it with several designs and patterns after cutting it out. We turned the thing over. Together we built up the skeletal spokes of the inner umbrella. Then we made a handle with metal wire and rolled it with electrical wire of some sort. We even fashioned a U-shaped handle. I liked it, but visions of the store-bought crepe paper canopy with sequins and tinsel made this look a little, how do I say it, hmmm, homemade. This wasn’t the gossamery yellow canopy the stores sold in dozens.

We found some colorful beaded necklaces at home. Then, we propped up the idol and garlanded it with flowers, leaves, and blades of grass. I threaded white packing peanuts to make another necklace. We covered spaces with a variety of fruits. My talented older sister created colorful floor patterns. I admit I loved all of that. Yet, I wanted the shiny yellow canopy sold in stores all over the city.

Still convinced the cousin’s decoration looked spectacular, I kept asking him for a store- bought decoration, while he went about with the merits of effort over store-bought convenience. “This would be a joint dedication of our family effort,” he continued, as we worked together on that item. He would have no more of my peevishness, and abundantly made that clear with a familiar warning look.  This time I quietly muttered to myself, “Family effort?  Where is the rest of the family, anyway?”

We finished our handiwork, but the umbrella I still wanted was the shiny, yellow one sold all over the place. I got the honor of putting it above the elephantine face before our prayers. I wanted to add some glitter, but I forgot.

We celebrated with offerings of sweets and savories cooked lovingly by my mother, aided by my helpful siblings. Our entire family added decorations of fresh flowers, fruits, and colored rice. We lit the camphor together to dispel ignorance. In that glow of the oil lamps, with that sound of the bell, positive thoughts crept into my mind and all disgruntlement slipped away.

Finally,  it was time to eat. My parents concluded that the happy festivity  was the result of “family involvement,” as we all enjoyed the meal. I still think they loved to overuse these two words. As I bit into the sweet modak, loaded with coconut and jaggery., I looked at our umbrella. Could that whimsical little thing actually have a personality? My cold heart slowly began to thaw.

Soon after, that umbrella was put back with the Ganesha idol for next year in a sliding teak cabinet which also housed some books.

The next year I got a shiny yellow, store-bought umbrella  sold in dozens all over the city without consulting him. As soon as I tried to put it up, it developed a rip on its crepe-like paper. “Store-bought!” I caught myself exclaiming with a degree of disdain. I thought I sounded like someone I knew. Suddenly, the back-up got the respect it deserved. Our trusty home-made umbrella waiting patiently in the wings got to bask in the well-won limelight.

Time rolled by, and I went on to other things from teenage, college to marriage and motherhood. One day while rustling through the teak sliding door cabinet in my parents’ home filled with books and photo albums, I came across the umbrella near the clay idol of Ganesha.  I played with the handle, twirled it, and showed my kids what granddad and their mom had worked together. They loved it, and wanted to make something like that with me.

 That virtually indestructible umbrella even survived inquisitive hands playing with it.  I began to smile, and the memory of the flimsy, shiny, store purchased yellow umbrella sold in dozens all over the city set like the sun.

 Through the years we have seen many yellow umbrellas trimmed with tinsel and sequins come and go. I never asked for one again. I’ll probably never know the exact reason for his insistence in making that lovable, tough umbrella together. It would have been a lot easier to buy a generic umbrella and call it a day.

The maker dad checked out after a fulfilled run to meet the Maker.

Decades later, I revisit that teak cabinet with the hope I might find it. The photo albums of the expanded, extended family have now taken over all empty spaces. Sadly, the umbrella’s nowhere to be seen near the idol. With my heart’s eye it is still there. I mentally flex and unflex that cute little handle lovingly wrapped up with electrical wire, while a sensory memory remains colorful as that umbrella.