Many decades ago, on a not-so-bright Diwali night, my sister, mom, and I were out on the balcony, the remnants of our sparklers and crackers scattered around like confetti after a party no one could quite remember.
As we stood there, trying to get our sparklers to ignite while simultaneously dodging the smoke from the crackers, Mom surprised us with a story. Now, my mother isn’t known for her storytelling skills; that was my granny’s territory. So, when she began to recount her childhood, we were more amused than anything else.
She shared how, growing up, her family made do with just two pairs of new clothes a year—one for Diwali and one for Pongal. The rest of the time? Hand-me-downs from cousins, near and far, or—gasp—clothes recycled from the previous year. My sister and I exchanged glances of disbelief. “Two pairs? How did you survive?” we thought. Teenagers are, after all, experts at the art of dramatic exasperation, a skill I see mirrored in my own children today.
Looking back, though, those anecdotes from my mother’s life made me realize something profound: relationships are the fabric of our lives, not the designer threads we wear. Thanks to technology—and her newfound enthusiasm for social media—she's now connected to a plethora of cousins, sharing everything from poems to YouTube forwards. It’s a bit of a culture shock, really. One minute, she was all about practical clothing, and the next, she’s spending time on technology like a schoolgirl.
In those simpler times, there was a certain justice in minimalism, an elegance to the equal distribution of wealth (at least among the working class). Love abounded, and that feeling of community was palpable. We would wake up early for our mandatory Ganga Snanam—a ritual bath that was basically the adult version of a morning wake-up call.
The high-decibel crackers exploded into the early morning air, marking the start of a day filled with homemade sweets and savory delights. Who could forget those damp sparkler disappointments, forever haunted by the “always rainy Diwali” of our hometown?
Or the glorious explosion of Lakshmi Pattas and Vishnu Chakras lighting up the sky, all purchased with the (almost always) meagre income that families managed to scrape together. It felt like a royal treat, even if the fireworks were funded by our last savings!
Fast forward to today, and it seems the children of today have already seen and done it all by the age of ten. Born with an iPad in one hand and a smartphone in the other, they glide through life wrapped in a cocoon of consumerism. Diwali now resembles a glossy magazine spread, featuring curated gift-wrapped packages and the world’s finest chocolates—none of which we can pronounce. There’s fine wine, exquisite crockery, and collectibles delivered right to our doorsteps, as if Santa had just taken a permanent vacation in our living room.
Meanwhile, I’m left wondering if I should be impressed or slightly annoyed - yes I do have my gratitude prayer in place, just wondering if the gen of today (or even us folks) can discern the difference between need and want. No Pressure, of course.
After all, there’s a fine line between abundance and excess.
Like many homes today, our home overflows with dry fruits, and yes, that not-so-popular Kaju Katli (you know, the new-age Soan Papdi that tries too hard). We’ve got unopened packets of luxury teas stacked up like trophies, all vying for attention as we decide whether to actually open them or just pass them off to the maids, drivers, or that friendly neighbor who has a penchant for exotic teas.
As I observe this chaotic display of “generosity,” a thought creeps in: we seem to have transformed the essence of celebration into a competition of sorts.
Who has the flashiest gifts? Who can outdo whom in the quest for gourmet treats? At times, it feels like we’re throwing a party for the sake of appearances rather than for the love of family and friends. I mean, when did we start measuring the warmth of relationships in the weight of a gift?
Yet, there’s something oddly amusing about the whole situation. We’ve gone from sharing a single sweet among a group of friends to distributing luxury chocolates as if they’re candy bars. “Here, take three! No, wait, take five!” We’ve turned generosity into a sport, and I find myself chuckling at the absurdity of it all.
Perhaps it’s this strange dichotomy that defines our current celebrations: a mix of heartfelt memories wrapped in layers of glitter and glamour. We’ve traded in genuine connections for social media likes and shiny gifts, and yet, as I stand back and take it all in, I can’t help but think about my mother’s stories.
Maybe it’s not so bad after all.
As we light the diyas this Diwali, perhaps it’s worth a thought or two about what we’ve gained and what we’ve lost in this whirlwind of consumerism. But then again, who has time for such reflections when there are luxury treats to be savored and flashy outfits to flaunt?
And in the end, isn’t that what the festive season is all about? At least until the fireworks go off and the lights dim, leaving us with the echoes of laughter—and perhaps, just perhaps, a hint of nostalgia for simpler times.
What are your thoughts this Diwali?
Till next time,
Cheers
Kalyani