The flickering diya in my heart

Stretching out on the sofa on a lazy Sunday evening, I was going through the WhatsApp status' when one of the posts stopped me. It was by my friend about a skincare regime and in the corner, I could see a diya being lit with all its might with the flame dancing and shining. While I started getting restless as to why I was staying on that screen for more than two seconds, I could feel the lamp staring right back at me. I instantly knew why.

During Diwali, I still remember how I would anticipate lighting those lamps and seeing those fireworks light up the sky. The thrill of the holidays mixed with the festive vibes still lingers somewhere deep in my heart and my mind. Those times when my mother would run up an oil bath for us and tell us stories of how "good triumphed over evil". The stories were repeated every year and still every time she said them I heard it in awe. 

The cracker boxes that would arrive in the house was not something I looked forward to because bursting crackers scared the life out of me. Other than the sparklers and the flower pots and the crackers that were only beautiful enough to be lit up, I was and is still not a fan of those exploding bombs. I have sat locked inside my house while it was "crackers time" for the family. Then my family would drag me out and I would sit next to my mom with my ears and eyes closed with my family mocking me in the background. When nobody was noticing, I would run back to the house. Then someone would come searching for me and drag me out. The cycle repeated  The innocence and enthusiasm in childhood during Diwali remains etched in my mind. 

And then I grew up. The stories stopped. The holidays for the celebration were replaced with holidays for studying. Loaded with exams and assignments I still made time to light those diyas and ensure it never died out. Lighting them was so peaceful that I could actually feel the goodness of the world. I still did the drill of closing my ears and eyes but this time alone inside my house to shut off the noise so that I could study.

When I started working, Diwali was just another day at work. The ethnic attire used to remind rather painfully that it was Diwali. The night shifts made it impossible to light diyas at home but the blessing came in disguise as office celebrations. I never failed to light one and it stayed that way until I logged out of work. This time the crackers stopped and I was no longer shutting my eyes or ears.

The biggest difference in Diwali celebrations came after the wedding. It's been 4 years that I lighted a diya because I chose a happy marriage instead of the perfect one. Of all the things I miss about childhood and my way of upbringing, what I miss the most is the lamps. 

If I had known then that years later I might not get a chance to light a Diya, I would have lit more of them back then. I would have looked at those mighty flames a little bit longer. I would have told my mother to repeat those stories every year.

That eternal feel of lifting a delicate lamp and placing it on the window sill, placing a twisted cotton thread, pouring oil careful to not let it overflow, striking the match and lighting the thread while shielding the flame from the wind with one hand. Using one diya to light up another. Then another. Finally looking at the flame proudly with a sense of hope that good things still exist in the world. 

Although I have not lit a lamp for 4 years, the ones that I have lit in childhood never really died down yet. The flames still flicker in my heart reminding me to never let the fire inside me die.