Diya Battis & the Sparkling Night

Its past 12 am, Diwali is over but the diyas are still warm and the warmth passes onto my hand as I hold it gently. Patches of colourful wax lumps decorate the ledge of my balcony. The smell of crackers is still in the air. The kaju barfis lie on the table, with the dry fruits and the colourful, bit-too-shiny gift packs. The rangoli I made at the entrance is smudged a bit, but looks pretty – the diya on it has somehow not died yet – it faintly throws light, illuminates it, stays like a faithful caretaker.

We didn’t socialize too much this year. We reached home for Diwali at 7 pm – Simla is cold, I was wearing a cardigan, a thick oversized sweatshirt and shivering to death – I think it was my open feet – mom used to say that if you keep your feet warm, your entire body will be warm – and yet I am a fan of open footwear via which I exhibit my perfectly pedicured feet and hence literally get cold feet.

Utter chaos broke at home henceforth – mom trying to get us to have a bath after the long journey, we cringing at the thought of a bath in this weather, getting the mandir ready for puja, making me look presentable for the colony aunties (ew how much I despise them), rushing to make the alpana and the rangoli, dad and brother taking charge of the diyas and candles and amidst it all, the house-help Minnie being the most in demand from all areas! But all in one hour flat we managed to do it all – and had a decent diwali after all.

Diwali for me has always been a riveting point in my life – something significant has always happened – some realities acknowledged, some realizations dawned, some hearts broken, some resolutions mended, some priorities reordered – Diwali has always managed to make me grow a year wiser if not older, and a tad more worldly yet optimistic. Diwali has always been a festival of joy. Diwali has always lingered in me longer than any other festival – like the colourful lamp that will hang in the balcony and fade slowly until next Diwali arrives.