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.