My hands were tangled in strings of coloured Diwali lights. I sat on the sofa, patiently unwrapping the frenzied loops my mom had just passed me until they finally straightened into an ordered line of light. Somewhere between the tangled wires and the quiet hum of the evening, I realized how often joy hides in the simplest things. Just like Diwali evenings, sunsets too are equally warming. The sky morphs into a vast canvas with splashes of blue, orange, and yellow. I find myself relishing the paradoxical nature of sunsets. They happen every single day, yet linger only for a few minutes before vanishing into the darkness. But we often forget about the beauty of the ordinary, as our brains are wired to seek newness rather than contentment.
As humans, we feel a sense of elation to newness. Our mind lights up at the thought of receiving a new phone or a new dress you’ve had your eyes on all summer. Yet, our excitement quickly fades upon attaining them, and our brains experience a sharp drop in dopamine. After dismissing that brand-new iPhone 17 Pro as old, our brains quickly adjust and return to the “baseline” level of happiness. Psychologists call this concept the “hedonistic adaptation trap.” As a result of this trap, our brains get accustomed to the repetitive loop of seeking new, often temporary pleasures. This trap is often the reason why the act of acquiring new things and experiences never seems truly satisfying. It hints at the notion that happiness, as opposed to pleasure, is often long-term and rooted in purpose and meaning.
But every Diwali, I find myself breaking out of this trap by savouring the ordinary and the little things that often go unnoticed. With a fresh set of rangoli pigments in one hand, my sister and I look up Pinterest for “Best Rangoli designs”. My fingers naturally gravitate towards the most intricately designed rangoli from the collection of photos, silently praying that we possess even the slightest ounce of caliber to replicate it. My sister, giving me the stingiest side-eye, nods her head in disapproval as we begrudgingly settle on the simplest design, confident that we would nail this one (spoiler: we didn’t). We pick colours and go slow, focusing on the feel of the powder touching the cold, marbled floor of our living room. My mind is engrossed in the swirls of colour and the steady movements of my hands. I lose track of time as my overstimulated mind slows to a standstill, fully absorbed in the rangoli coming to life in front of me. We light diyas, their flickering flames setting every nook and cranny of our house aglow. The next day, the wind would snuff the light from the diyas and the rangoli would be swept away, yet the process of creating them felt blissful, knowing that it would cease to exist the very next day. Diwali taught me to find joy in impermanence.
The first sip of hot tea, the feathers of steam rising from the mug. Huddling under a warm blanket while it rains outside. The feeling of rewatching your favourite show with the comfort of knowing how it all ends. The first sunlight after a long season of cold monsoon. The beauty that lies in the brevity of stock pictures and polaroids, only to be stashed away in an abandoned gift box and opened on days when I’m feeling a little too nostalgic. The silly little art competitions with my sister during bouts of boredom, and the inevitable fights over whose is better. However small these things may seem, the joy they bring is immeasurable.
Like watching firecrackers light up the sky, the colourful rangolis lining each doorstep, or visiting my childhood favourite confectionery shop, Karthik Sweets, only to devour jalebis within seconds. I choose to find Diwali in the small things and to find joy in the mundane every day.