As a child, Dasara—whether you called it Dussehra or Vijaya Dasami—was always a puzzle for me. Other festivals came with clear markers: Ganesh Chaturthi had its oil-free food, Diwali its firecrackers, Ugadi and Sri Rama Navami their signature dishes, and Sankranti—the biggest festival for us—overflowed with traditions. But Dasara? It seemed all over the place.
My earliest memory is of my father waking me up late one evening (well, “late” for a child—around 9 pm) to see a grand village procession: Lord Rama’s idol riding on a real elephant. Years later, while passing through Uttar Pradesh, I discovered that Ram Leela performances were the heart of Dussehra there, celebrating Rama’s victory over Ravana.
In Hyderabad, though, the “celebrations” mostly meant a series of stage shows—often loud and vulgar—where actors mimicked film stars dancing to item numbers. In the villages, it was different again: sometimes Ram Leela, sometimes makeshift outdoor movie screenings. Telangana had its own flavor—Bathukamma—where women danced around colorful floral arrangements for days. Andhra celebrated with “bommala koluvu,” households proudly displaying toy and idol collections, each family competing to outdo the others.
Textbooks taught me another layer: that teachers once collected their dues from families during this time, often in grain or produce. Later, I read that the Pandavas’ return from exile was tied to the festival. Arjuna, also called Vijaya, hid his weapons in a shami tree; in Telangana, exchanging its leaves is still a tradition. And then, much later, I encountered yet another story: the goddess defeating Mahishasura, the buffalo demon—Durga as Mahishasura Mardini. It struck me that Dasara isn’t about one narrative but about a cluster of myths, all circling the same theme: the triumph of good over evil.
Over time I’ve come to see festivals less as religious stories and more as seasonal markers. Ugadi and Chaitra Navaratri celebrate spring. Ganesh Chaturthi aligns with the monsoon. Diwali follows after, marking the post-monsoon. Sankranti follows the solar cycle and ushers in winter. Dasara, sitting in between, perhaps simply celebrates the end of monsoon, when harvest and abundance make festivity natural.
This brings us to food and the endless debate of vegetarian versus non-vegetarian. In Andhra, Sankranti and Dasara are both meat festivals. In Bengal, Durga Puja feasts unapologetically include meat. Yet social media brims with outrage about what’s “allowed” or “forbidden.” Somewhere between the slogans of vasudhaiva kutumbakam and unity in diversity, we’ve forgotten that India’s strength lies in its plurality.
Traditions are older and more fundamental than religion, and they differ even across neighbors. I know people from Andhra who avoid marrying into Telangana families because wedding customs clash—Andhra insists on vegetarian rituals while Telangana weddings, like Punjabi ones, revel in meat and drink. Neither is “purer” than the other; both are simply authentic to their regions.
Even in deeply religious spaces, traditions defy uniformity. Take Ahobilam, sacred to Vaishnavites. Many Vaishnavites are strict vegetarians, yet one of the Ahobilam temples, frequented by local tribes, accepts only meat offerings to Lord Narasimha. For them, meat is not unholy—it’s simply another gift of nature.
Education reminds us to think about sustainability, compassion, and efficiency in our diets. Still, it’s hard to ignore that humanity evolved in part because of animal protein. These habits are carved by millennia, not decades.
So, in the end, I wish we could move past judgment and embrace diversity—in food, faith, and festivals. India’s true beauty is not in a single tradition imposed on all, but in the mosaic of many.