Lights and Little Things

Sachin knew there was something magical about Diwali. The way the city donned itself in twinkly lights, colorful rangoli designs that seemed to dance on every doorstep, and the smell of freshly fried samosas that filled the air made it his favorite time of year. The only problem? He had no time for it. His routine was practically pre-programmed: wake up, hustle through breakfast, drive through maddening traffic to his IT job, come home, and then repeat. But this year, he promised himself some breathing space. Today, he was taking a break. With the sun’s first rays warming the city, Sachin blended into the crowd at the Raj Path Diwali Market, a colorful assault of stalls, vendors, and festive spirit—a concoction completely missing from his everyday cycle. A cheerful clang of a bicycle bell diverted his attention, and, turning, he was nearly knocked over by a young woman clutching a precariously balanced stack of diya boxes. "Sorry about that!" she said, flashing a dimpled smile, her voice lively and friendly. "All good," Sachin replied, steadying her. "Getting warm-ups for an Olympic-level obstacle race?" She chuckled. "You could call it that. Name's Meera," she introduced. From the onset, Sachin noticed her enthusiasm; she moved through the market with quick deliberation, greeting vendors like old friends. They quickly struck a rapport over shared haggling misadventures. "Think I got my year's worth of cardio," Sachin joked as he tried to catch his breath after haggling for colorful lanterns. "You know," Meera said, handing him a pataka, "Diwali's not just about the big things. Sometimes it's about the small sparks." That evening, emboldened by Meera’s catchphrase, they noticed an elderly street vendor struggling to load his cart. Somehow, in the chaos of stalls, he seemed fragile, out of sync with the world. They helped him stack the remaining lanterns and downed hot cups of chai as he regaled them with stories from Diwalis long past. "People don’t come to hear my stories anymore," he smiled wistfully. "Well, today we're here," Sachin said, raising his terracotta cup in solidarity. The twilight fell, and Pune began to glow. Laughter drifted from families lighting strings of electric lights or setting off fireworks as Sachin accompanied Meera to watch the festivities from higher ground. Looking down at the bustling city aglow, it felt different. Grateful. "Tell me, Sachin," Meera said, clinking her cup lightly against his, "what’s your Diwali wish?" "You know what? Just some more of this," he motioned around at the glittering skyline, "These moments." Connecting with Meera and the vendor made the chaos meaningful—it added a depth to the holiday beyond the superficial tapestry. As Sachin headed home under the cover of vibrant fireworks, he knew this year's Diwali wasn’t built on massive celebrations or a rush of expensive plans. It was the heart-filling interactions, laughter amidst chaos, unexpected friendships, and the light that came from the little things that he'd come to cherish the most.