- When my papa was a little boy, my Dada was a poor man. He would buy long, long cloth when it was time to buy new clothes for the entire family. My Dadi would stitch skirts, pants, blouses, and petticoats for everyone out of it. Then like a school uniform-ed family they would go about their lives. I would hear it in stories many years later.
- I have a friend who remembers years in Diwalis. We have known each other for two Diwalis now, he says. “I dated her for one year, Diwali to Diwali.” I like how time starts at different places but halts at similar spots for all of us.
- For Diwali, each year we go to the house my papa grew up in, making the place pretty and sparkly. We put lights everywhere, in different forms and shapes. We make our own lanterns. I make sub-standard Rangoli in the evening while my family stands around, offering advice and keeping time.
- I spend my Diwali nights looking at family photos of friends and walking around the lit village streets, looking at Rangolis outside the houses. I like to imagine the stories behind them, similar processes of unique families. It feels like a fuzzy invisible blanket encompassing us all.
- This Diwali is extra special. We came undone from our tight tangle of health issues at this stray reason to celebrate. We celebrated extra hard, and washed down our hospital memories and insecurities, with tremendous gratitude.
- When I was a child, I wanted to hug Diwali. I still do.
