Maosi laia – these two small words could pull me out of slumber, retrieve me from the depths of my beloved siesta and have me instantly join the cacophony of voices hollering down the corridors of my father’s home at any given moment.It was Chinese New Year, 1982. I was all of eight years old, growing up in a large house in south Kolkata, surrounded by tottering grandparents and their friends, a bevy of middle-aged aunts and uncles and a sea of chattering children, siblings, cousins and cousins twice removed, and some new faces who I suspect, just waltzed in to join the frenzy, because our front door was always open.For three days every year, the house was buzzing and we, seven siblings in all, were allowed to miss school because the family must be present to welcome good fortune – and the ‘maosi’. For weeks before, new clothes would be tailored, aangpaos (little red paper envelopes with money) would be wrapped, snacks would be prepared, every little speck of dust would be banished, red paper decorations would be strung, images of our ancestors would be polished, firecrackers would be piled up and the refrigerator would be bursting at its hinges.And yet, somehow, when the day finally arrived, the excitement seemed all too much for little me. I missed my friends at school, detested having my cheeks pulled repeatedly by visitors and was on automation for most of the day, answering typical questions like, how old I was, which class I was in, what I liked to do etc. I still woke up early, got ready for the day and just sat around reading, with my ears continually scanning sounds in the air to hear the familiar “Maosi laia” and the growing thump of the signature drumbeats and cymbals. These sounds announced the arrival of the dragon dance troupe from Teritti Bazaar in north Calcutta.“Maosi laia”, the dragon has arrived!These words energised me enough to charge through the corridors, simultaneously apologising to all the tottering seniors I almost knocked over in my enthusiasm. I had to get to the first-floor balcony first because that meant I would be the first to see the truck and bow to them, and be the first to wish the dragon “Kung hei fah choi” in the loudest voice I could muster, all while jumping up and down with excitement. And this, my friend, is no mean feat. The bow had to be respectful and elegant. So, the jumping up and down had to be toned down, even while my inner being was doing cartwheels worthy of an Olympic gold.Illustration: Pariplab ChakrabortyThe dragon alighted from the truck. The drum beats set up the tempo, the clang of the cymbals carried a sense of urgency as the dragon entered our house to pay respect to our ancestors. The entire house, guests and random add-ons got together on the verandah and crammed in, leaving not the slightest gap, like a well-played Tetris board.Public buses on the route stopped and passengers peered out to catch the show. Roadside food vendors smiled because the assembling crowd meant better business. No one complained about this traffic congestion. It seemed like the festive spirit had wafted out of our house and onto everyone on the road. The stage was finally set.My pa tied the Chinese lettuce and the customary ‘aangpao’ to a long string attached to a stick and lowered it. And the dance began. With deft footwork and stealthy jumps, the dragon tried to get the lettuce, while pa deftly raised the ‘bait’ at just the right moment. I flashed my 22 and half (had lost a few along the way) teeth and didn’t bat an eyelid for fear that I would miss the moment the dragon snapped off the food. When that happened, the string of firecrackers would go off. And the dragon danced with joy, shredding the lettuce and throwing it in the air so it could shower good fortune on us all.To my horror, many years later, I realised that the word ‘maosi’ didn’t actually exist in the Hokkien dialect we spoke at home. To date, its origin remains shrouded in the dust of unquestioning. For all I know, it was made up!Yet, this meaningless word meant the world to me for years. I continue to refer to dragons as ‘maosi’, and my daughter now smiles every time I use that word. Maybe it’s because she knows the word has a certain magic. Nobody knows how or why but we still love it.Chai Gake Law is a people watcher, storyteller, language lover and an overall kind person.We’ve grown up hearing that “it’s the small things” that matter. That’s true, of course, but it’s also not – there are Big Things that we know matter, and that we shouldn’t take our eyes, minds or hearts off of. As journalists, we spend most of our time looking at those Big Things, trying to understand them, break them down, and bring them to you.And now we’re looking to you to also think about the small things – the joy that comes from a strangers’ kindness, incidents that leave you feeling warm, an unexpected conversation that made you happy, finding spaces of solidarity. Write to us about your small things at thewiresmallthings@gmail.com in 800 words or less, and we will publish selected submissions. We look forward to reading about your experiences, because even small things can bring big joys.Read the series here.