This article is written by a student writer from the Her Campus at Krea chapter and does not reflect the views of Her Campus.

The one thing that would get me out of bed, on even a Sunday morning, would be the loud bursts of crackers outside my window, accompanied by the smell of gunpowder in the air. Not because it was noisy, or overstimulating, or unhealthy for the environment–but because it meant that the day of Diwali had finally arrived, and with it came a sense of unparalleled gaiety exclusively associated with the festival. Now, as everyone starts to view this festival through a pair of slightly more mature eyes, the moods and perspectives toward Diwali have started to change, which raises the question: Did Diwali change, or did we?

The days leading up to childhood Diwali held as much significance as the day itself. Shopping for clothes would take up at least 6 hours to complete–that is, if you were shopping for just one person. Then came the famous food preparations, with mothers and grandmothers developing a fierce competitive spirit to ensure that the “good quality” ingredients were acquired before they inevitably disappeared from the shelves. Houses would slowly start to light up, displaying more LEDs and Diyas with every day inching closer to the festival. It was like neighbourhoods were gearing up to become the most picturesque backdrops for each family portrait.

And finally, the moment that every child had prepared their whole life for: going cracker shopping. Growing up in Chennai, I became accustomed to the Standard Fireworks shops scattered across almost every locality, waiting for the day I could finally step into one and shop to my heart’s content. The hardest dilemma back then was whether to opt for regular sparklers or coloured ones- and even though I knew that the red and green fumes always made me cough, I ended up making the wrong choice anyway. Flowerpots and chakras became symbols of beauty and festivity, while ‘100 Wala’ crackers carried with them a sense of thrill. We would always return from these shopping trips with overflowing bags and an intent to have as much fun as humanly possible.

The day of Diwali was an artistic montage of its own. Fireworks would light up the night sky, temporarily transforming it from a blank slate to a coloured canvas. People would wear their best clothes, sporting Kurtas and Anarkalis while making shapes in the air with their sparklers. Everything seemed lighter, more beautiful, under the glow of the Diyas. We would start planning the next Diwali’s cracker collection before the current one even finished.

Things were different back then, when people prioritised actual memories over digital ones. As the years have gone by, I feel like the essence of Diwali has changed; not necessarily for the worse, but because the world around it has changed too. Children have become teenagers, and teenagers have become adults. We’ve started to transform our “Pattaasu” (Cracker in Tamil) sessions into Diwali house parties, and in doing so, we step into the shoes of the grown-ups who once used to curate our celebrations for us. We gain an understanding of the fact that a festival is not only about its activities, but about the people we choose to spend it with.

Phone cameras and Desi photoshoots have taken precedence over youthful play, merely because we now want to preserve these picture perfect memories to look over once the moment has passed. There is also an undeniable urge to make our settings and outfits social-media ready to share with our distant family, friends and acquaintances.

The modern world places a great amount of emphasis on freezing time through photos, which is ironic (and beautiful) considering the rapid pace at which it is developing.

Despite all these changes, I argue that the heart of Diwali has remained constant- only the perspective in which it is viewed evolves over time. As we grow up, our excitement about it becomes entangled with gratitude, nostalgia, and perhaps a consideration for our environment as well. We start to create new rituals for ourselves and our families, starting with something as simple as lighting a single Diya on our windowsill no matter where we stand. Most importantly, we start to appreciate the people who make Diwali what it is, asking “Who will be there?” instead of “What gifts will I receive?”

Maybe Diwali never changed at all. The lights on the street still sparkle the same, and the festival waited patiently, as we grew, to welcome who we became.

Diwali Grows Up

We wanna slide into your DMs