The Diwali That Stays in My Heart

Fairy lights, earthen lamps, candle lights, lanterns, smell of faral getting prepared and fresh flowers, the warmth of families, friends and the chill of the upcoming winter season (even if this time it’s extended monsoon ;) that’s how we paint a perfect picture of Diwali

A five day festival is fast approaching and brings with it a whole spectrum of emotions: joy, prosperity, love, togetherness and celebration.

But every year, as Diwali arrives, it gently pulls me back to those golden childhood days — when life was simpler, slower, and every small thing felt magical.

Back then, our school exams would usually start around Dussehra and end around a week before Diwali. That last paper always felt like freedom — a doorway straight into festive excitement. The very next day, we’d rush to the local cracker factory, our pockets jingling with the few saved coins we’d proudly call our “Diwali budget.”

We even used to make a yadi — a handwritten list of crackers to buy — just like a grocery list. On our cycles, we used to go almost four kilometers to the cracker factory, which was near the farmland road. Me and Sagar mostly used to go together — that ride itself felt like part of the celebration, filled with excitement and endless talks about which crackers we’d buy this time.

Diwali back then had its own special magic. The excitement started with the Diwali Ank — a magazine everyone eagerly awaited, flipping through its pages as if it held the secrets of the festival itself. Little delights like Moti Soap and Ubtan added an extra sparkle, making every Diwali feel even more special. Even today, strolling to Appa Balwant Chowk and picking up a Diwali Ank brings back that same rush of childhood joy. And then there was Faral — for breakfast, lunch, snacks… it was everywhere! Chivda, Chakli, Karanji, Ladoo, Shankarpale… the aroma, the taste, and the sheer abundance of it all made Diwali feel like a celebration for all the senses.

Appa Balwant Chowk

Diwali Ank

There was a big open ground near our house — a world of its own during those times. My friends — most of them a few years older than me — would gather there every evening. That same ground also doubled as our cricket pitch, and once Diwali began, it turned into our fireworks arena. By the end of the festival, the green grass would be half burnt or buried under layers of paper from the crackers we’d burst. Sometimes, when the grass was too dry, a small spark would set it on fire — and we’d immediately worry that the tents on the other side of the ground might catch it. That’s when we’d turn into a mini fire brigade — running with buckets of water, stamping the flames, and laughing through the chaos.

We also had an open water tank adjacent to the house, which honestly was used more for spinning Bhui Chakras than storing water.

Lighting crackers was an art in itself — almost like a test of courage and timing. We used to hold those small single bombs, fondly called Tota, carefully in hand, wait for the right second, and throw them in the air. If timed perfectly, they would burst mid-air, lighting up the sky; if not, they’d explode near the ground — sometimes around the small patches of dry grass or near the zudup (bushes). Every successful throw felt like a tiny victory, and every miss was followed by laughter and teasing.

And our creativity didn’t stop there — we even stretched a rope from our house window to the opposite one and sent railway crackers sliding along it like mini fireworks trains.

And oh, those rockets! They had a mind of their own. Instead of going straight up, sometimes they’d shoot off horizontally, landing in someone’s courtyard or balcony, giving everyone a moment of shock before turning into laughter all around.

Then came our “time bomb” experiments — pure childhood innovation! We’d tie the fuse of a Sutali Bomb to a burning agarbatti, and then wait, not knowing when it would go off. Sometimes it would take a few minutes, sometimes half an hour — the suspense was half the fun. We’d sit around, pretending to forget about it, only to jump and burst out laughing when it finally exploded.

Together we’d light firecrackers, laugh endlessly, and sometimes even build grand mud castles from wet clay, decorating them with tiny flags, diyas, and imagination. The scent of smoke, earth, faral, and happiness filled the air.

Those evenings had a rhythm — the crackle of sparklers, the giggles echoing through the cold breeze, and the faint aroma of sweets and snacks wafting from nearby homes. We never cared about time or tiredness; the joy of being together was enough.

Looking back now, I realize that Diwali back then wasn’t just about lights or sweets — it was about belonging. About the innocent excitement of waiting for new clothes, the thrill of lighting that first sparkler, and the comfort of knowing that joy could be found in the smallest of things.

Father’s Day: Your Father is Your Superman

On this Father’s Day, I’m reminded that a father can turn into anything — a guide, a protector, and sometimes, a real-life superhero.

In the summer holidays of 2009, our family planned a trip to a temple in Kolhapur. I got to Nagar in the morning, ahead of everyone else to handle the bus reservation. After booking the tickets, I headed over to my cousin Swapnil’s place. Lunch, casual catch-ups, and then—because we had time to kill—Swapnil offered to show me his new movie collection. I picked Ghajini. The movie was amazing, but the ending? Totally incomplete in your mind. You keep wondering, 'What if Kalpana knew the truth about Sachin being Sanjay Singhania?' For hours afterward, my brain was still running mental replays. 

Soon, my family arrived, and we boarded the night bus to Kolhapur. After a long night of travel, we finally reached in the morning, checked into the hotel, and went to the temple for a divine darshan.

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To be published

Mother’s Day

Today, on Mother’s Day, when we talk about mother, it is not a formality at all.

A mother's love is perhaps the only truly independent and constant thing in a world where 'change is the only constant.' It remains untouched by status, success, or struggle — whether you are a superstar, a struggler, or a common person, that bond stands the same, pure and unconditional.

A mother’s love doesn’t need validation or recognition — it simply exists, quietly shaping who we become. She is the first person to celebrate our smallest victories and the one who silently absorbs our failures. Her presence gives meaning to the word home — not just as a place, but as a feeling of being understood without saying a word.

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To be published

Velhe - Torna Road Trip

There is a story about Velhe - Torna visit, few of my friends had an idea of arranging Reunion at some resort near Torna fort.

Roshan challenged to rode a bike via Velhe.

A rocky, dirt road, rain at it's best, few kilometers edge of mountain range with some parts only 10 feet wide.

After partying for weekend who saw this was coming, bikes conked out with rain water in tank!

When the rain is heaviest, mobile network is lowest, bikes are at worst and garages are farthest, an engineer thrives!

Engineering Hostel Classic: The 3 AM Dhaba Run

There are nights in hostel life that begin as ordinary and end up etched in memory — not because something grand happened, but because something ridiculous did.

It was around 8:30 PM in our engineering hostel room — our 'mini theatre,' where that CRT had played everything from Chak De India to Troy.

Below the book is our 'mini theatre' CRT

That night, someone had passed around a pen drive with a fresh copy of Jannat 2. I just came back from dinner and thought, 'Why not?' My roommate joined in too, saying he'd watch for 'just 15–20 minutes' before heading to dinner.

Well, that '15 minutes' turned into the entire movie — and dinner became a distant dream.

By 2 AM, Nikhil realized he was starving and our room had zero food stock, not even a forgotten Maggi packet — the kind of crisis every hostelite understands.

He looked at me with that engineering hostel emergency face and said, 'Rohan, chalo, let’s go to the dhaba near the medical college.'

The Hostel

Now, this dhaba was about 5 km away — 4 km on NH3 highway and then 1 km inside a smaller road.

At 2 AM, that distance feels equal to an expedition, but somehow, in hostel life, such plans always sound exciting.

So, we rode off into the night. Cool breeze, empty highway, and the thrill of a secret food hunt — life was simple, and happiness came fried with extra onions.

My roommate finally got his midnight feast while I sipped chai, watching truck lights fade into the distance. Life was peaceful — until karma asked for its cut.

While returning around 3 AM, Just a few minutes into the highway, the bike started coughing.

He looked down, paused, and muttered the words that can drain your soul at 3 in the night: 'Petrol sampla.'

Perfect timing!

We were about 3 km away from the hostel. Thankfully, the road tilted slightly downhill toward campus — so for the first 1 km, we coasted smoothly, powered by gravity and regret.

After that, it was manual labor — pushing the bike through the silent highway night.

Now, here’s where it got funnier (and scarier).

If we took the main highway, there was a chance patrolling police might spot two engineering students pushing a bike at 3 AM — guaranteed drama.

If we took the service road, it was home to the street dogs of doom — the real kings of the night.

We looked at each other, laughed helplessly, and kept pushing — whispering 'please don’t bark' every time we heard a sound in the dark.

We chose a mix of both — half caution, half stupidity — and kept pushing, whispering prayers and laughing at our fate.

Hiking boots!

We had no idea how descending this fort top was gonna be, eventually we realized getting on top was optional but now getting down is mandatory.

It all began that afternoon at 'Blue Airport' — our college’s unofficial waiting area, where those blue cushioned chairs had seen everything from last-minute assignments to random laughter. We were just sitting there, doing nothing in particular, when someone suddenly said, 'Let’s go to Ramshej Fort!' And as it happens in college, one random idea quickly became a solid plan.

Within minutes, we pulled our bikes out of the parking and hit the road — no hiking shoes, no water bottles, no proper planning. Just the pure thrill of an unplanned adventure. The weather was perfect, the road was open, and the feeling was that typical 'Engineering last years' vibe — when every small plan somehow turns into a lifelong memory.

We stopped at a small shop to grab some snacks — Vada pav and cold drinks — calling it 'food for the top.' The hike itself was fun. None of us were serious trekkers, but that didn’t stop us. Between the endless teasing, photo breaks, and dramatic pauses where someone would say 'Bas yaar, last 5 minutes!' (for the tenth time), we easily made it to the top.

And once we did — wow. The view was breathtaking. The wind, the calm, and that quiet sense of achievement made it all worth it. We sat there for some time, exploring the most adventurous cliffs at the top, the fort gates, and the water storage area — perfect spots for a photoshoot. Quirky photo capturing began. Clicks, poses, funny faces, and a lot of teasing — the fort top was buzzing with chaos as we went around trying to capture all the crazy shots we could.

But then came the real challenge — the descent. What looked easy on the way up turned into a slippery puzzle on the way down. The rocks were loose, the path uneven, and every step felt like it had its own surprise. We don’t know if the descent road was really that difficult or if we had just taken the wrong path, but suddenly it felt impossible. Even though we weren’t vloggers, it became such a challenge that all you could hear in the audio of our recorded videos were abusive kinda words! One small slip and you’d suddenly invent a new dance move. We held onto each other, laughing and slipping our way down like a slow rescue squad. And that’s when we realized — those fancy, heavy woodland shoes? Totally useless for sliding down a fort!

At one steep patch, we actually debated whether to sit and slide — and yes, a few of us did exactly that! Some of us even ran down, and once we reached a kinda safe stretch of the slope, we all breathed a sigh of relief. Dusty jeans, scraped elbows, and laughter that just wouldn’t stop — that’s how we made our way to the base.

By the time we reached back, our legs were trembling, our clothes were messy, and our shoes had officially retired from service. But our hearts? Full.

Engineering - Final Year

It was a training and placement meeting on a bright, hot day in May, and the clocks were striking eleven.

Students were present in good numbers — maybe they were serious about their careers, or maybe they had already started missing college. Just two days ago, we had finished our TE exams, and suddenly came the realization that only one year was left. A slight seriousness was in the air — this was the beginning of professional life. Many of us had already set our focus on projects, and everyone seemed excited to chase their dreams.

The final year of engineering — it sounds grand, but it carries its own mix of emotions. Between project reviews, campus drives, and late-night submissions, there’s an invisible thread tying us together. We knew we were at the edge of something — the end of an era and the start of something new.

The hostel at 1 AM - Engineering submission grind in full swing, deadlines turning it into a battleground.

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to be published