Happy Diwali to all those who celebrate!
Every year, I hope that whatever day Diwali falls on, there’s no wind. Some years we’re lucky, and the diyas stay lit throughout the night, but other years, I’m running into the autumn cold with a lighter every few minutes, just to keep them alive. I’ve been celebrating Diwali for as long as I can remember, dressing up in a colorful Churidar that sometimes is a little too itchy, and my mom adorning me with special jewelry. Diwali has always felt like a holiday, but until this November, as a 19-year-old out-of-state college student, did I realize how much its celebration meant to me, because this Diwali, I came home.
Diwali, or Deepavali, is one of India’s biggest holidays of the year. Celebrated by Hindus, Jains, Sikhs, and many Buddhists, Diwali is India’s “festival of lights,” and its triumph of good over evil, light over darkness, and knowledge over ignorance. Many families celebrate in different ways, but common themes include lighting mini oil lamps, called diyas, drawing rangolis, or colorful art decorations near entrances, doing special rituals, called pujas, with loved ones, and lighting sparklers or firecrackers with family.
In my family, my parents, my older sister, and I have always lit our diyas, eaten traditional foods, and played with sparklers outside, but over the last few years, Diwali never felt like old times. With my older sister away at college most years of my late adolescence or family members traveling to India, something was always missing. So, when I decided to book a train home in early November, I wasn’t expecting much, just hoping to receive the comfort of family. However, in addition to that, I received so much more. With both immediate and extended family welcoming me home, bright lights visible from down the street, and beams of joy on everyone’s faces, I felt like a kid again this Diwali.
From time to time, waves of nostalgia hit me, and I find myself thinking a lot about my childhood. Everything was good, everything was safe, everyone was always near me, and my culture was just this thing always present in my life. Now, being 19 and away from home, I’ve grown to realize, like many 1st generation Indian-American kids, that certain parts of my identity are up to choice once you grow up. Although it’s not always black or white, you’re allowed to feel as connected or disconnected from the worldviews you grew up in when in a big college town, feeling boundless independence for the first time in your life. When home means suburban Illinois, and attending The University of Michigan, I’ve understood just how much I miss the sounds of chilis crackling over the stove, or those Churidars I’d slip into every nice occasion, however itchy they might be. Having the privilege of coming home for the holidays has made me understand that those happy memories of Diwali I fondly hold in my heart are, and will always be there– visible in the glow of the diyas in my mom’s eyes or the crackling sounds of sparklers mixed with my dad’s laughs. And as we left my aunt’s house that windless November night, I received a few heartwarming hugs and “I’m glad you came home”, and beamed as I saw fireworks popping all over the city, knowing that families just like my own found joy in their own Diwali celebrations.
As I sit here writing this piece, back in my university bubble, I find comfort in the perspective that a singular weekend at home, celebrating my culture with my people, made this year infinitely better. The night after Diwali, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tearing up on my way to the train station. However, nothing brought me greater joy at that moment than a bag of mom-approved Indian food for the road, looking through the weekend’s pictures, and putting my Google Calendar to work, already planning to come home on November 1st, 2024– the date of Diwali next year.