Diwali: A Festival of Light That Celebrates an Epic Homecoming

Diwali came with a 21-day school break. It’s a week-long festival—at least in North India—starting with Dhanteras, a day when people pray to the goddess of wealth and fortune, Lakshmi, and ward off misfortune by buying metal items. This translates into gold and silver for the rich, utensils for the rest. These days, though, sale signs go up on everything from smartphones to cars, and all the big online retailers hold discount festivals.

Then comes Chhoti Diwali (literally, “small” Diwali), which falls on the 14th day of the month of Kartik in the Hindu calendar. This is followed by the main event, Diwali. The day after is Govardhan Puja, during which Lord Krishna is worshiped and offered plenty of plant-based food, and the last festive day is Bhai Dooj, which celebrates the brother-sister bond. This last part is where celebrations at our home diverged from the norm.

Home was a small, nondescript town set amid a barren desert landscape in the western state of Gujarat. In this neck of the woods, locals consider Diwali as the year’s end, making the day after New Year, or Bestu Varas in the local tongue. (For what it’s worth, “Happy New Year” never sounded off to my ear in October—until I moved states for college and the wish met raised eyebrows at best, genuine concern at worst.)

If you’re at all familiar with India, you’ve surely seen photos of earthen lamps lighting up homes, markets, and even entire towns. While that is how Diwali is supposed to light up our lives, modern-day celebrations in most places are loud and fiery, with firecrackers ringing throughout the week. In small towns like mine, these celebrations often took the form of unspoken one-upmanship games. Families competed to claim the bragging rights for the loudest firecracker; the most dazzling sky display (often the most expensive one); and the longest celebrations. I often participated in these juvenile contests, under the supervision of my grandfather, lest anything go wrong. (And it often did. The empty land behind our backyard caught fire—more than once—because of fireworks that fell out of the sky, still aglow with embers.) There was also the small matter of kids lighting the wick of firecrackers in their bare hands to watch them blow up middair, startling unsuspecting motorists along the way. Not to mention the faulty fireworks that blew up prematurely or incorrectly, causing scores of burn injuries every year.

Nothing could discourage me, though. Nothing, except a dog. On Sammy’s first Diwali, he cowered under the sofa and trembled violently, terrorized by the explosions outside and repulsed by the gunpowder stink. That was all the persuasion I needed to wash my hands of fiery Diwali festivities. That, and the death of my grandfather. In Hindu households, a death usually leads to an abstinence from celebrations for weeks or months; a subjective mourning period. For me, this loss spelled the end of fireworks for a lifetime. But the earthen lamps quietly and eventually flickered back to life in our household. It’s true, light finds a way.

Thirteen years on, my career as a travel journalist has shown me just how different Diwali is across the country. In the western state of Maharashtra, close to home, Diwali begins with Vasu Baras (or Govatsa Dwadashi), a day to worship the cow—a sacred animal in Hinduism. People also observe Tulsi Vivah, a ceremonial wedding of Tulsi (holy basil) with God Shaligram, or an Amla branch (a personification of Lord Vishnu), which marks the beginning of the wedding season. In the nearby state of Goa, famous for its tourist-filled beaches, Chhoti Diwali takes the form of Narakasura Chaturdashi and marks the celebration of a mythological battle: Lord Krishna and two other deities defeating the demon Narakasura. Huge effigies of the demon are created across the region—in a competition to make the biggest and scariest—and paraded through the streets before being set alight at dawn.

Further south, in the state of Karnataka, two days are markedly unique: Ashwija Krishna Chaturdashi and Bali Padyami. On the former, Kannadigas celebrate the slaying of the demon with an evil-cleansing oil bath. It’s a tradition that they share with the people of Tamil Nadu and Kerala—and with Lord Krishna, who is said to have taken one after the kill. Meanwhile, the latter is a day dedicated to the worship of King Bali, who was killed by an avatar of Lord Vishnu, and involves making forts of cow dung.

Over in East India, the deities change shape but the tales carry the same theme of good-conquering-evil. In West Bengal, people congregate in temples—Kalighat, Belur Math, and Dakshineswar being the biggest—and pandals to worship Goddess Kali, who is the second deity credited with killing the demon Narkasur. (The third is Satyabhama.) While lamps keep their place in the festivities, the food offered to the Goddess Kali includes meat and fish besides rice and lentils. In the southeastern state of Odisha, Kauriya Kathi is a ritual reminiscent of Mexico’s Día de Muertos in that people worship their dead ancestors and invite them for blessings.

The celebrations in North India are anything but homogenous. One of the most sacred cities in Hinduism, Varanasi—in the state of Uttar Pradesh—celebrates Dev Deepawali (literally, “Diwali of the Gods”) a fortnight after Diwali. A spectacular Ganga Aarti (ritualistic worship of the holy river Ganga) precedes the lighting of millions of clay lamps that are set afloat on the river. Diwali holds significance for members of the Sikh community too, as it coincides with the 17th-century release of the sixth guru, Guru Hargobind Singh, who had been imprisoned by Mughal Emperor Jahangir. The day is known as Bandi Chhor Diwas (“Prisoner Release Day”).

In Delhi, the capital of the country and my current home, the air before Diwali is inevitably thick with smog—a deadly phenomenon that has become an annual affair thanks to a coming together of ill-advised agricultural practices, weather patterns, geographical quirks, and urban pollution. The result: off-the-chart PM2.5 levels. But that doesn’t deter locals from lighting up firecrackers by the dozens. Long before the world woke up to the efficiency of N95 masks in keeping the novel coronavirus at bay, Delhiites were using them to breathe better while firing up their light-and-sound-and-smoke show.

I may have lost my affinity for fireworks, then, but some traditions have endured. My mother’s tendency to deep-clean the house before Diwali—a common practice to usher in Goddess Lakshmi—has been passed on faithfully to me, albeit with the practical purpose of an annual cleanup à la Marie Kondo. Earthen lamps are still lit on Diwali in every room; my spouse loves making elaborate rangolis—colorful floor designs with traditional motifs—near the entrance; LED streamers run down the facade of every house in the neighborhood; gifts and sweets are exchanged with abandon. And even though we aren’t entitled to a weeks-long Diwali break anymore, we book our vacation days and trips home weeks in advance. I still don’t subscribe to myths of exiled gods, but the festival remains a joyous homecoming.