Diwali through generations—a festival that is timeless and yet evolving

I wake up to the faint sound of the shehnai music playing from my father’s phone. It’s the Swades title track, in contrast to what his father played: Ustaad Bismillah Khan. It's 8:30 in the morning. I laze around in bed until I’m nudged by my mother to get ready—it's the Hindu New Year. My parents have been up for hours—they stepped out of the hotel room just as the dawn set in and the night sky changed hues. They wouldn’t miss the first sunrise of the new year. I get dressed in my newest ethnic outfit that I had bought from a store in the mall, hurriedly amidst the din of city life. Uncles, aunts, cousins, grandparents—the whole jingbang gathers in the garden outside my dadu’s room, the eldest member of the family. Plates and make-do boxes of cashews, almonds, raisins and mithai are placed, first on the coffee table and then circulated. Then, starting from the eldest member, I touch their feet to seek blessings for the year that is to come. I have a stack of envelopes in my hand—the palpable evidence of these blessings. We embrace each other tightly as we wish each other ‘saal mubarak.’ My chachi tries to gather everyone for a family photograph. After 45 minutes of quirky poses, incessant commentary and half-shut eyes, we have a decent picture.

These are the traditions that have some semblance to the Diwali of yesteryear—the one that my parents and grandparents reminisce about, the one of innocence and joy, the one without worries and obligations and the one that they try to inculcate in every way they can, for the younger generation of the family (a combination of millennials and Gen Zs) to experience.

 

 

What was the Diwali of yesteryear like?

 

“Diwali Dasra, hath Pai Pasra,” my nani says, “It means relax, enjoy and indulge in the festivities.”

 

“It was innocent,” says my nana (maternal grandfather) when I asked him about his Diwali celebrations as a child. Its joy lay in the simplicity of festive practices: cleaning the house, wearing new clothes, eating favourite festive food and bursting firecrackers. In those days, Diwali began much before the actual day of the festival. Every nook and corner of the house was cleaned. “My mother would take the lead, and my sisters would be given some tasks - cleaning the utensils, wiping all the doors and windows. The boys were usually given a free pass, they would usually do what they wanted.”

For other households thereon, the roles and responsibilities were equally divided—the boys would help the fathers clean the house and string up the decoration, girls would make the rangolis and mothers would look into the culinary affairs of the festive season. “Everything was done together—whether it was cleaning or preparing the food. And it was a compulsory thing. My brother and I were put in the loft area to clean,” my chachi recalls, “And when it came to food, it was a magnanimous task.” Today, the weekend before Diwali (or any weekend of the year) is spent cosying up in bed with my favourite TV show.

Without the food, there was little to look forward to. “As kids, we only looked forward to the food,” says nana. Diwali was never about partying all night and winning a hand at Teenpatti. It was about spending time with the nearest and dearest while gorging on traditional snacks like chakris, fafda, pooris, vadis and ladoos made with utmost care and love by the mothers because going out was never an option. Celebrations were for an occasion and not a habit. Today, indulging in my mid-week dessert cravings is made ordinary by the touch of a finger. “It was only during Diwali that we enjoyed chivda, rava ladoos and anarsa (Layered sweet) to our heart's content,” recalls nani. “For the five days of Diwali, starting from Dhanteras, we would eat only pooris and it was the one thing we were always excited about!” says nana.

 

 

At my chachi’s home in Ahmedabad, cooking wasn’t one person’s job. “Making snacks like Mathiya and Fafda (savoury fried snack) is extremely time-consuming—so my mother would make each of us knead the dough for fifteen minutes each, otherwise we wouldn’t get to eat!” She even recalls how making sweets like karanji and mohanthad was a competition amongst friends and family, who each had their own recipe.

Speaking of habits, retail therapy or heading out to the nearest mall to buy a ready-made outfit was never the norm. “My mother would get an entire roll of fabric and she would call the tailor at home, and from the eldest sibling to the youngest sibling, he would make new clothes for us. The tailor would stay with us for the entire day, sewing our dresses,” recalls my nani.

Days such as Dhanteras, Narak Chaturdashi and Hindu New Year held different significance in different households across the country. In the town of Umreth in Gujarat, Dhanteras was celebrated by washing silver coins imprinted with a figurine of Goddess Laxmi, taking out ancestral jewellery from the lockers and placing them before the idol during the Laxmi Pooja, recalls my second grandmother Daksha, who now lives in Ahmedabad. “In fact, before leaving the house, my father would touch my mother’s feet, since it was believed that the woman of the house was a form of Goddess Laxmi,” she says.

 

For nani, who spent her childhood in the city of Dharwad in Karnataka, the day of Dhanteras involved cleaning the house and bathing area. “On the evening of Dhanteras, the entire house would be cleaned; a large vessel with water would be heated on a wood fire after which it would be adorned with a marigold garland. This was all prepared for the early morning bath the next day which was Narak Chaturdashi. Early the next morning, we would apply oil and ubtan powder. And the tradition goes that my father would be given a bath by my mother and after that, we would all take a bath,” nani recalls.

On the day of the New Year, everyone would wake up early. My nana recalls waking up before dawn, bathing and then bursting firecrackers with his friends who lived in the same colony. For my chachi, her New Year ritual was one that was told to her by her own grandmother: “My dadi used to tell me that waking up before sunrise gave a good start to the new year. So, we were all ready by 5:30 am, wearing new clothes, meeting our neighbours, sometimes even waking them up because of the firecrackers and then going to the temple.”

On this day, doors of homes would be open from morning till late at night; it was the time for extended relatives and closest friends to come over and have a good time. My nana recalls how he would visit the elder relatives of the family. “The exciting part was getting money—we would be rich!!” My chachi speaks of how there would be guests at home all day, kilos of ice cream and endless chatter. “Then all the kids of the society would go around visiting people’s houses and we would know who got the highest bonus or made the most profit from stocks by the amount of money they gave us,” she laughs and reminisces. The celebration continued for days after New Year too, shops would be shut, and streets would be lit up. There was no need to take out time from a busy schedule, it was a given. “There was joy in everything that we did—no one was worried about their diet or work or school. It was pure enjoyment,” says chachi.

And firecrackers were a must; Diwali wouldn’t be the same without it. “We were nine siblings and we had to share the firecrackers that were given to us. So, we would separate each cracker from the whole ladi so that they would last us through the evening and there would be enough for us all.” My chachi explains that while today we realise that bursting crackers is not good for the environment and animals too, back in the day, they weren’t conscious of the same. 

 

When I look back at my Diwali, I see both similarities and stark differences. That my parents and the elder members of the family were able to carry forward some traditions and create new ones such as going away for the weekend. In the constant hustle of our daily routine, festivals and traditions seem obligatory, pressurising even—to wear the latest trend and attend every dinner on the social calendar. But, what would happen if we didn’t? What would happen if we took time off and celebrated the festival of lights in its true spirit? Maybe it’s not really about the label we wear or the gifts we exchange. Maybe it's about lending a helping hand to ma the next time she cleans the loft on her own or trying your hand at some homemade mithai no matter the result. Maybe it's about giving ourselves the time to take in the warmth and light of Diwali just as it has been done for generations together.