Diwali, Childhood and the Glow of Connection
When I was a little girl-so little I thought I wanted to grow up-I would scurry after my dad as he grabbed his weathered old match-box ready to set the house alive. He would let my tiny, cold, fingers dipped in the Autumn air that wrapped our playground clutch his enormous, inviting fists a he lit lotus lamps round the fireplace. One by one, slowly and surely, as if we had all the time in the world. It made me feel like a grown up. And it made him feel like I was still his little girl.
Diwali-a festival of peace, love and unity, celebrating the beautiful culture of a fascinating country full of rich stories, kind hearts and generous people. A festival symbolising hope in moments of darkness and faith that the light will always find a way to find us again. A festival which, to me, is dripped in the sweet honey of childhood nostalgia.
If the feeling of togetherness had a scent, and if peace and excitement could co-exist simultaneously, it would be our home at Diwali during the golden years. When my brothers and I would let off fireworks from the roof and string lights across the door to guide the Goddess Lakshmi into our home for good fortune and prosperity.
When my mum would transform our kitchen into a blossoming puja room with flowers, dipas and jewelled dieties, transporting us to what felt like a sacred temple in the foothills of South India. The most mouth-watering dishes passed and perfected over generations-their aromas would tell us it was time for dinner before she even had to.
My dad would play his cathartic, curated list of melodic Hindi songs which wrapped the walls of our home. When I was a little girl-so little I thought I wanted to grow up-I would scurry after him as he grabbed his weathered old match-box to set the house alive. My tiny, frosted fingers-enveloped in this fresh November air-would find their way into his palms as he lit lamps round the fireplace. One by one, slowly and surely, as if we had all the time in the world.
It made me feel like a grown up. And it made him feel like I was still his little girl.
And after we were comatosed on the sofa with a belly full of sweets, my grandma would lie our heads on her stomach, telling us centuries-old stories about the ancient myths and urban legends associated with Diwali.
India is a country made beautiful by the beauty of its people. And this is a festival made magical by the sense of community it creates-where strangers feel like family and family become friends.
Three years on, my dad, grandma and uncle are no longer with us. But I need only close my eyes to feel the warmth of my granny’s voice; the glow of that crimson-leaf red that lit up our home by my dad’s gentle hand.
