Happy Halloween, Día de los Muertos, Vikram and Vetal: The Night When the Departed are Remembered
- We celebrate them all, knowing that faith, folklore, and family anchor us.
Every year, when the autumn air turns sharp and the orange half-moon hangs low over our cul-de-sac, our porch transforms into a small theater of light, shadow, and story.
By mid-October, the neighborhood begins its metamorphosis. Giant skeletons guard rooftops. Surreal jack-o’-lantern families grin from porches. Spiders the size of zebras crawl across driveways, ghouls dangle from trees, and bones, grinches, and glowing ghosts line the sidewalks. Fog machines sigh, purple lights blink eerily, and a hidden Bluetooth speaker lets out a wicked cackle. Halloween here is a carnival— a coming together of the young and the young-at-heart.
Our porch has its own character — a mosaic of cultures and eras. My friend’s hand-painted clay ghosts sit beside smart-bulb pumpkins that change color with a swipe. fragile paper witches from the 1980s hang beside a holographic specter that moans when the wind stirs. Ancient meets animated.
In our house, we play by rules — not out of superstition, but reverence. We honor every tradition that recognizes the thin veil between worlds. For us, Halloween, Día de los Muertos, and Bhoot Chaturdashiin Bengal share the same spirit: the night when the departed are remembered, when light defies darkness, and when stories are shared. We celebrate them all, knowing that faith, folklore, and family anchor us.
Rule One: Always Wear a Costume
Halloween, like any good legend, demands transformation. I’m always the first to dress up — the self-appointed keeper of tradition. This year, I unearthed my old prince’s robe, its velvet crushed at the edges, its silver thread dulled by time. Around me, the younger ones glow like moving neon art: an octopus with LED tentacles, a butterfly with stained-glass wings, a Grim Reaper with a glowing scythe, skeletons in fiber-optic suits, and one unforgettable Renaissance portrait come to life, face cracked like oil paint under candlelight.
Rule Two: Always Hand Out Candy
The doorbell rings nonstop. I drop chocolates, pumpkin caramels, peanut-butter cups, and pretzels into buckets shaped like skulls and pumpkins. Between the shrieks of “Trick or treat!” and the rustle of costumes, I hear another voice — one that haunted my childhood through Amar Chitra Katha and the old Doordarshan serial:
“O King Vikram, answer my riddle — or your head shall be blown to smithereens!”
That voice belongs to Vetal, the ghostly trickster from Indian lore, forever riding on the back of King Vikramaditya — one of the most celebrated rulers of 57 B.C., famed for his intelligence, justice, and patience. Their dialogues, preserved in the Baital Pachisi, are riddling tales of morality and wit — stories that seek not easy answers, but enduring wisdom.
In another ancient tale, when King Bhoja tried to sit upon Vikramaditya’s jeweled throne, legend says thirty-two celestial statues came to life, each asking Bhoja to recount each, and every one of Vikram’s virtues before allowing him to take the seat. Only when Bhoja proved himself equally wise and just could he ascend the throne, a reminder that greatness must be earned.
Rule Three: Never Blow Out a Jack-o’-Lantern Before Midnight
When the last of the children vanish into the fog, we gather around the flickering pumpkins and candles, their flames trembling in the Diablo breeze. We settle into our circle — mugs of cider in hand, candy counted — and open the night’s book, I picked up from my recent trip to India, “Vikram and Vetal: Indian Fantasy Retold,” its 43 vivid illustrations transporting us back to childhood.
It’s story hour — our favorite ritual.
The Three Sensitive Queens
Vetal begins: “In King Vikram’s court lived three queens, each so delicate that the faintest disturbance wounded her heart.” One queen weeps at a crushed flower, another faints at a fallen leaf, and the third collapses merely hearing of it.
“Tell me, O King,” Vetal asks, “who is the most delicate of them all?”
We pause to debate — is sensitivity strength or fragility? Vikram decides that the one who feels without seeing possesses the truest empathy. The story ends in silence. Awareness is as heavy as ignorance.
The Four Princes and Their Dead Friend
Four princes, masters of science, use their skills to reassemble a creature from bones, skin, and breath. But when it awakens, it is not human — it is a beast that devours them.
“O King,” Vetal challenges, “who among them was the wisest?”
Vikram answers that the one who refused to take part was the only wise man — for wisdom lies not in knowledge, but restraint. Around our circle, we murmur agreement. Even now, we build, invent, and resurrect without always asking if we should.
The Brahman and the Demon
A greedy Brahman lures a demon into service, promising freedom, then cheats him again and again. Finally, the demon traps his master into eternal servitude.
“O King, who was more wicked — the deceiver or the deceived?”
Vikram replies, “The deceiver, for he corrupted even the trickster’s trust.”
Vetal laughs and flies away, as always, satisfied that the king has spoken truth — but cannot yet rest.
These tales, though ancient, feel startlingly current — reflections on power, greed, and cleverness that echo around us.
Rule Four: Always Respect the Dead
When I close the book, the room quiets. The jack-o’-lanterns flicker, candles tremble, and the veil between worlds thins.
Outside, the cul-de-sac glows with an eerie silence. Inside, we sit in a reverent stillness, aware that we’ve been in conversation not only with Vetal’s riddles but with every culture that honors this season of remembrance.
We speak softly of Bhoot Chaturdashi, Día de los Muertos, and Halloween, and how each celebrates the same truth — that tradition, and memory outlast flesh, and light of courage must burn, however briefly, against the dark.
At midnight, we let the flames die naturally. The pumpkins collapse into soft orange mounds. Standing beneath the pale orange moon, I realize that Vikram’s riddles and Halloween’s rules share the same rhythm: A respect for mystery. I hear Vetal’s voice in the wind that swirls through the Redwood trees:
“O King, the story is never truly over… until you answer.”
With one foot in Huntsville, Alabama, the other in her birth home, India, and a heart steeped in humanity, Monita Soni writes as a contemplative practice. She has published hundreds of poems, movie reviews, book critiques, and essays, and contributed to combined literary works. Her two books are My Light Reflections and Flow Through My Heart. You can hear her commentaries on Sundial Writers Corner, WLRH 89.3 FM.