Dharaneeswar
Tag(s): Family, Festivity
“Watch out! You’re going to spill it!” Ma called out to Aria from the corner as I dodged a puff of the bright pink rangoli powder Aria blew in my direction.
“The rangoli has to be perfect,” Aria said with a mischievous grin.
“Perfect? You just spilled half the pink!” I teased her, wiping a stray streak from my cheek.
I watched her for a moment, remembering the way Dadi used to make us sit cross-legged by her side when we were younger, teaching us how to pour the powder just right so that the patterns would flow together. “Rangoli is like life,” she would say, “You start with a blank space, and with each stroke you add, it becomes something beautiful. Every color and every line has meaning.”
Inside the house, I could already smell the warm aroma of Dadi’s ghee-laden treats–sweet golden ladoos, syrupy barfis, and the flaky, sugary decadence of jalebis–wafting through the air. My stomach growled, and I couldn’t help but feel a wave of nostalgia wash over me, reminding me of countless Diwali celebrations filled with laughter and sweets. The family had already gathered around the small shrine we set up in the living room. The idols of gods stood in the center, adorned with marigold garlands. Dadi led us in the aarti, embodying the very essence of the festival. We circled the flame around the gods, praying for prosperity, health, and happiness for the coming year. The clinking of bells signaled the end of the puja, and Ma handed out the small offerings of sweetened rice and fruit.
“You’d better hurry! The fireworks will start soon!” Aria urged, tugging at my sleeve.
“I know, I know!” I replied, dashing outside with her.
As we stepped out onto the balcony, Ma began lighting the diyas one by one. The little clay lamps flickered to life, each flame fierce like the hot core of a star. It was said that these lamps had once guided Lord Rama home after defeating Ravana, following his long exile. I imagined the streets of Ayodhya lined with millions of diyas to welcome the hero’s return. The story, and many more like it, had been told for centuries through whispers and songs. But tonight, the tale came to life in the light.
“Rama’s return wasn’t just about defeating Ravana,” Ma said, her voice as soft as the diya’s glow, “It was about the return of light and hope. That’s what the lamps symbolize. They weren’t just flames; they were promises.”
Without warning, the first of the illuminations burst into the sky. Pa and Uncle were lighting them up downstairs. “Pa, light another one!” Aria called out with excitement. He smiled and set off another rocket, this one soaring over the skyline of Mumbai in dazzling streaks of gold and silver.
More rockets followed, each one brighter and louder than the last, until the night was lit with joy. It was as if the world was on fire with blissfulness. Red, yellow, green, blue, and an occasional purple danced across the black vastness, merging into one another and cascading down on us like rain.
I looked around at the small crowd gathered in the yard. Neighbors stood with their families, laughing and chatting as they passed around sparklers and small firecrackers. The noise was deafening enough to make everything else feel like it had melted away, leaving only this moment. The earth vibrated with a pulse that connected us to the celebration and to each other.
I turned to Aria, who was gazing at the sky with a contented smile and widened eyes. Together, we stood beneath the quiet sky, with the dense air warm from the remnants of the firecrackers. As the last of the festivities fizzled into silence, a sense of tranquility washed over me. Even in darkness, I realized, there is always potential for light–hope for tomorrow, and the promise of love that binds us. I hold that light close.