Guest at my own home

As I stood at the main gate of my building watching the procession of Ganapati Bappa on 7th day of the festival of devotion, my smile did not, for even a second, feel shy of the large crowd of young boys dancing, playing dhol and taal, the elder ones managing the crowd and traffic, ladies praying for the last time to Bappa who was being taken to lake for visarjan in grandiose trucks adorned with flowers, leaves, balloons  and all the fancy glittering items. There. The kid in me sprang with enthusiasm with every handful of gulaal being thrown in the air toward the dark evening sky. My unwillingness to go back home, where my mom and sister were warmly playing hosts to the guests, was the evidence of my joyous emotions. I stood right there in the center of the widely opened main-gate watching the dance, listening to those loud percussion instruments being played, wondering how I used to do the same when I was a kid and staring at those orange flags, those symbols of a culture, fight and pride. I stood there firmly as if I were reassuring myself of my roots and identity. Although I resonate the most with that vibrant festival where nobody feels shy of shouting "Ganpati Bappa, Moryaa!" there still is a sense of disconnectedness. This yearly ritual is like a mini year in itself! I had missed it for 3 consecutive years. Even when I am not here, the festival continues to be celebrated with equal pomp and show. Every five years new faces will be added to the procession dance, the regular ones will be seen -- with fat necks, cheeks and tummies, -- managing the crowds, while only few of the older crowd will be seen standing and moving slowly along with the procession and I will be unaware of all of it.....From a sincere devotee to a mere spectator, I wonder if this relegation is experienced by others as well.