Arjun Mehta

Last night, the ghats at Dashashwamedh: evening aarti, the bells, the river full of little floating lamps. Seventy-one years old, and in my dreams I am still nine and holding my father's hand.

Kheer under the moon on Sharad Purnima

Sharad Purnima is almost here, the night the moon is said to shine with all sixteen of its kalas, and in my house that means one thing: kheer under the moon. You make rice kheer slowly, with full-fat milk, a little cardamom and a few strands of saffron. Then the bowl goes out on the balcony for a few hours in the moonlight, covered with fine muslin so the moonlight gets in and the insects don't. It's offered first, then shared, and everyone swears it tastes sweeter. In Bengal they say Lakshmi walks the earth that night asking 'Ko jagarti?' Who is awake? My grandchildren are determined to be awake this year. I give them until 10:30.

Chai, the way my mother argued about it

Every family in India has a chai recipe and every family is wrong except yours. Here is mine, which is my mother's, which she defended against my father for forty-one years. For two cups: one cup water, one cup milk. Bring the water up with a thumb of ginger, crushed (not grated, she was very firm), four green cardamom pods cracked open, a small piece of cinnamon, two cloves and three black peppercorns. Add two spoons of strong Assam and a few tulsi leaves from the pot on the windowsill. Pour in the milk and let it rise three times, pulling it off the heat each time before it boils over. Sugar to taste, then strain. The first small cup goes to the little Krishna on my puja shelf. He has never once complained about the ginger. My father, on the other hand...

The boatman who knew my name

A story my grandchildren ask for every Diwali, so I'll tell it here too. I was nine, in Varanasi, and I'd wandered away from my family at the ghats during the evening aarti. Thousands of lamps, bells, conch shells, and one small lost boy crying near the steps. An old boatman with a white beard and eyes like river stones crouched down and said, 'Arjun, your mother is at Dashashwamedh, near the third umbrella.' Then he went back to his boat. I had never seen him before. I hadn't told him my name. She was exactly there, at the third umbrella, frantic. When we went back to thank him, the other boatmen said nobody like that worked that stretch of the river. Sixty-two years I've wondered. Maybe a kind man who overheard my mother shouting. Maybe Ganga Ma looking after her own. Either way, I bow to the river every time I think of it.