Returning home for Diwali

The months of October and November fill the air with the fragrance of raat ki rani, a rather small white flower for its name. Delhi continues to experience warm days but as the sun begins to set down, the air around gets a little cold. Every year around this time I return to my home and things feel awkwardly similar. I love strolling the streets to shop for Diwali with my mom. The market is lined up with all sorts of shiny, sparkly home decor items. One could find peddlers selling rangoli colours piled up as heaps in plastic bags; they even have stencils for those who are not trained in this art. Aunties would carefully pick diya pieces checking its build in every aspect. They sell a variety of diyas, starting with the most basic mitti diyas which are my favourite, others decorated with stones and some painted in primary vibrant colours. Then comes the lai batasha vendor, they showcase different toy figurines of batasha, a very sugary sweet. This unique combination of puffed rice and batasha is a staple snack that lasts long after diwali is gone. I am not particularly bothered by crackers, in fact, I am rather scared of the ones that make loud sounds. What does fascinates me is the novelty and advancement of crackers, some turn to snakes while some need no fire like pop pop. It’s almost magic to see the rocket sparkle up the sky, and the phool jhadi cracking up stars. This is the joy that the market beholds during Diwali. As far as your eyes can see, all that would be seen looks as adorned as a newlywed bride. 

I never reminisced about the festival as I do now. It is as if it has become symbolic of the time I get to be at home, to be on a break away from work and closer to who I was. The streets, buildings and every corner of the locality becomes colour coded, not in a set design but an array of art. Blue LED paired with purple, bright yellow lights, lights that light up in pattern, blinking lights, jarring combination of blue, red and greens, some people even put kandil or the star lantern from last Christmas in balconies. Me and my cousins would often rate which house has got the best light. It’s called the festival of lights for a reason but I believe that more than lights it is about how you put up the lights. A task that brought the elderly and kids together. I used to hold the tape while my uncle stood up on the stool to fix the lights. My sister was commanded to go and press the switch on to check whether the lights from last diwali worked or was it time to shop for new ones with a different style. Everything about this festival is centred around people, which comforts me.  

The day after Diwali feels like a breakup, there are leftovers everywhere, used mitti diyas with the dead oily wick, the air still smoky from crackers and the box of mithais on the table. The months of October and November aren’t just filled with the fragrance of raat ki rani but the smell of ghee in which hot puris are getting fried by my mom and mami and suddenly I’m sitting on the sofa, asking for one more to eat.

aditi 

powapaints