There are moments in life when memory feels warmer than sunlight. For me, Diwali is one such reservoir of warmth. Every year, as the season approaches, my mind wanders back to the bylanes of Delhi where I grew up. Life was simpler then, its rhythms slower, and festivals carried a deeper sense of anticipation.

The Glow of Simpler Times

In those days, Diwali’s arrival turned Delhi’s narrow lanes into glowing corridors of celebration. Incense mingled with the faint smoke of freshly lit firecrackers, a sensory symphony that announced the festival long before the calendar did.

For us children, Diwali was never a single day. It was a season. Weeks ahead, we pooled our meagre savings and counted our coins again and again, planning our grand purchase at the neighbourhood stall. Even a humble packet of phooljhadis felt like a princely reward.

Then came the moment that truly marked the festival: placing the first diya in the verandah. Its flame, trembling yet resolute, seemed to invite joy and prosperity into the home. Light, in those days, had weight. It had meaning. Today, surrounded by LED strips and sensor-controlled lamps, one almost has to switch everything off to rediscover the quiet splendour of an oil lamp.

The Irony of Abundance

Festivals then followed a natural rhythm. Firecrackers were reserved for that one special night. Sweets were made lovingly in home kitchens, or bought fresh from the local halwai and carried home in plain cardboard boxes, simple yet magical.

We waited for that first bite of kaju katli or boondi laddoo. Today those same delicacies sit nonchalantly in our refrigerators all year round. Amid the noise of modern life, from nonstop television debates to the relentless buzz of notifications, even the joyous crackle of a firecracker risks becoming just another sound.

Scarcity once made festivals special. Abundance has made them routine.

The Festival Economy of Yesteryears

There was a time when festivals were not merely cultural celebrations. They were economic engines — lifelines for countless households.

Sweepers cleaned the colonies with renewed dedication. Potters shaped mounds of fresh diyas, carpenters mended old furniture, coppersmiths polished vessels, and tailors stitched festive attire late into the night. Diwali was a festival of lights, but it was also a festival of dignity, purpose and livelihood.

As children, we followed our elders through bustling markets where artisans proudly displayed their creations. Bargaining was not an exercise in frugality. It was a gesture of mutual respect, one that sent everyone, buyer and artisan alike, home content.

That delicate ecosystem has since been disrupted. Factory-made, mass-produced goods dominate the shelves, and imported plastic lamps outshine the humble diya. The potter, once central to the festival, now watches from the margins as cheap LED alternatives flood the markets. Even families of limited means stretch themselves to buy smartphones, symbols of aspiration, while the crafts that once sustained our festivals fade quietly into obscurity.

The Fading Warmth of togetherness

One of my fondest Diwali memories is the warmth of human connection. Neighbours stepping in unannounced with plates of sweets. Elders placing their hands on our heads in blessing. Friends greeting us with genuine, heart-warming jadoo ki jhappis.

Today most greetings arrive as WhatsApp forwards: identical, impersonal, efficient and forgettable. Technology has made communication easier, but not necessarily warmer. Without careful intention, festivals risk becoming ornate shells, visually impressive but spiritually hollow.

A Blur of Festivities

Children today grow up in a world of malls, global brands, and standardized celebrations. Festive decorations in malls look remarkably similar, whether it is Diwali, Christmas, Eid, or New Year. Packaged gifts, promotional sales, and neon lighting dominate the landscape.

The essence that once made each festival unique, its rituals, symbols, flavours and textures, slowly dissolves in the homogenising whirlwind of globalisation.

Preserving the Soul of Festivals

Yet change is inevitable. Traditions evolve, societies transform and cultures adapt. The challenge is not to resist change but to guide it consciously, so that the soul is preserved even as the form evolves.

Perhaps the answer lies in a gentle balance, embracing the conveniences of modern life without letting go of the rituals that give our festivals their meaning. So decorate your home with bright LED lights, but also pause to light a single diya shaped by a village potter’s hands.

Send your digital greetings, but don’t forget the warmth of walking over to a neighbour’s home with a plate of sweets and a smile. Enjoy the comfort of store-bought delicacies, but make at least one dish at home, and share with your children the stories and memories that make it special.

Let celebrations be wide and vibrant, but let them also remain rooted in gratitude, intention, and the joy of community — for it is in that blend of old and new that festivals truly come alive.

Festivals are not about consumption. They are about connection. They are living heritage — the threads that bind generation to generation.

A Light for the Future

This year, as I place that first diya in my home, its flickering flame will carry with it my childhood memories — those evenings when a single lamp dispelled darkness and filled our hearts with wonder.

I hope that the generations after us, my grandchildren among them, will one day look at that tiny flame and find in it not just light, but a story, a legacy and an unbroken bond across time.

By embracing both tradition and modernity, we ensure that Diwali remains what it has always been: a celebration of light, love and the enduring spirit of togetherness.

Śubh Dīpāvalī.