31/10/2024
Coming home for Diwali this year felt different. Not because the decorations were any grander or the sweets any fancier, but because everything was exactly as I remembered it - and, somehow, that was the biggest comfort.
The day started like it always does: mom already up and busy, setting up diyas in the hallway; dad inspecting every light he’d hung, convinced one of them was going to short-circuit any second. And me, still half asleep, just absorbing the hum of it all. These little rituals, after months away, felt like they carried a kind of quiet magic.
By afternoon, the house was ready, and I’d somehow gotten roped into decorating. As I placed the diyas on the steps outside, I realized how much I’d missed this. Not just the festival, but the feeling of home - how my mom can always tell if a diya is even a bit out of place or how my dad roams around the house supervising the decorations. It's these small, ordinary things that hit me hardest.
Evening came, and we lit the diyas together. I found myself watching my family more than the lights. My dad humming a tune, my mom fussing over every last diya. It was these tiny and quiet moments that made Diwali feel real - not the lights, not the sweets, not even the fireworks. Just this sense of calm, of feeling grounded, like all was right in this little world of ours.
And as I stood there, looking at the house full of that familiar glow, I realized that Diwali wasn’t about grand celebrations or any kind of ritual for me. It was about a reminder that no matter where I go, there’s always a place where everything makes sense. Where I don’t have to explain myself, where I don’t have to be anything other than...me.
I don’t know how long I’ll stay here this time. But for tonight, I’m not going anywhere.
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