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: Because Every Dad Is a Superman in Disguise

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 the Mahalaxmi 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 and checked into the hotel. Coincidentally, our uncle — Sudhir Kaka and family — were also staying in the same hotel that day. We met them before going for darshan, which made the morning even more special. Then we went to the temple for a divine darshan.

Mahalaxmi Temple, Kolhapur

After the darshan, while Aai and the rest of the family were busy shopping near the temple, I could barely keep my eyes open. I had been on the move since the previous morning and hadn’t slept properly in almost two days. So, I took the room key and went straight back to the hotel. Within minutes, I was fast asleep — the kind of deep sleep where the world could end and you wouldn’t know.

About half an hour later, my family returned. They knocked on the door, but I didn’t wake up. Aai and Baba started to worry — maybe I’d fainted or something had gone wrong. Even the hotel staff gathered outside the door, trying to help. There was noise, chaos, and repeated knocking — but I was too tired and in such deep sleep that I didn’t respond at all. That’s when the 'Superman' in my father decided to take over.

Our room was on the fifth floor. Without a second thought, Baba climbed up from a staircase window on the second floor, using the window grills and drain pipes for support — scaling the building from the outside! Within minutes, he reached our window. I was still sleeping peacefully, completely unaware of the chaos unfolding outside. The window was slightly open, and as Baba reached it, he stretched his hand through the gap and gently nudged me. I was in such a deep sleep that it took a few pushes before I finally stirred. Half-awake and disoriented, I went straight to the window, thinking I was opening the door — only to freeze for a second, confused about how someone could even be standing there. Only then did I realize it was Baba! Still half in shock, I rushed to the door and opened it, and Aai and Renuka quickly came inside the room while others — including the hotel staff — watched from outside, relieved.

But here’s the twist — the moment I woke up safe and sound, Baba’s worry vanished, and that’s when the real test began. As the rush of fear faded, he suddenly realized where he was standing — on the fifth floor, high above the ground, with barely any real support to get down. What had started as pure instinct now turned into a real-life Ishq-style moment — like Aamir Khan hanging on a pipe and suddenly realizing the height.

Getting up there was pure adrenaline, but getting down? That required strategy — and a lot of courage. Baba somehow managed to trace his way back down, gripping the same pipes and window grills he’d used to climb up. Everyone from the hotel staff to random onlookers had gathered below, watching with bated breath. There were gasps, instructions, even a few scoldings — but eventually, he made it down safely.

That day, I truly understood what people mean when they say, “A father is perhaps the only man who wants you to do better than him.” Fathers may not always express their love through words, but when it comes to their children, they act — without hesitation, without fear. Whether it’s scaling a building or facing life’s toughest challenges, they somehow find the strength to do the impossible.

We often think superheroes exist only in movies or comics, but the truth is, we’ve all lived with one — right at home. He may not wear a cape or fly across the sky, but in every moment that matters, he shows up — quietly, selflessly, and with unshakable love.

So this Father’s Day, here’s to every dad who’s ever turned into Superman — not because he had superpowers, but because love gave him the courage to try!

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