Unpacking Diwali

“Hazra, can you help with the diyas?” Ma called me from the kitchen. I stretched on the couch, scrolling through memes with half my mind on the festival outside. Diwali was always predictable: cleaning the house, lighting diyas, performing the puja, munching on sweets, and finally, fireworks lighting up the sky. It was easy, comforting, even. “Sure thing, Ma,” I yelled back, getting up reluctantly. As I was heading towards the table filled with candles and lamps, the doorbell rang. “Who could it be now?” When I opened the door, an unexpected figure stood there. My uncle, Rishi, grinning wildly under his mop of curly hair. His avatar was as unconventional as ever—flower-print shorts, mismatched socks, and a neon green tee begging for attention. “Rishiii Uncle!” I said, trying to mentally prepare for unexpected events set in motion by this whirlwind of a man. “Hazzie boy! Ready for some Diwali thrills?!” He announced, barreling inside. Ma appeared from the kitchen, looking slightly stunned. “Rishi! You didn’t call!” He waved her off, saying, “What’s a festival without surprises?” before dropping a load of boxes he had tucked under each arm. Curious, I peeked inside—they were loaded with an extravagant selection of firecrackers. “No sparklers today, Hazzie! Only the big stuff!” He grinned. “Uncle, what about the tradition?” I couldn't help asking. “Traditions can wait; we need to celebrate like it’s the best in our lives!” Uncle Rishi insisted, leading me to the garden. Forced to join him in his shenanigans, I soon found myself experimenting, lighting the crackers and dancing to make sense of Rishi's rhythm. He even showed me tricks to light multiple crackers, one of his signature flashy stunts. We laughed until dinner. Seated around the dining table, once again, Uncle Rishi took center stage regaling stories of his latest adventures. “Did I tell you about that mountain with no name I climbed?” I shook my head even as Ma rolled her eyes playfully. “It’s life, Hazzie; keep climbing unnamed peaks!” As much as I adored him, his energy was exhausting. Exhausting but refreshing. After dinner, Ma reminded us of the puja waiting to be done. “Okay, let’s do this,” Uncle Rishi agreed, surprisingly settling down. The prayers felt different tonight. Rishi brought an unconventional spirit that somehow felt more meaningful than the usual solemn words. I caught him winking at me mid-prayer, and I stifled a laugh. Once over, he silently slipped away, leaving behind firecracker dregs, and half a box of gifts with Ma. I found him lying under the night sky, gazing upwards. “Come here, Hazzie. Look, the stars are out tonight.” I lay beside him on the grass, wondering. “Why, Uncle…why do you always do things differently?” He chuckled, “Because life is too short to measure in a set pattern. Live those moments…it’s like opening different boxes of fireworks. Each one’s a new surprise, a sparkle you never expected.” I pondered his words as fireworks exploded around us, vibrant colors lighting up our traditional home. “This must be the best Diwali,” I confessed, suddenly grateful for the unpredictability. “The beauty of life, Hazzie, is that it isn’t written; it’s scribbled. You?” Together, we laid there until the evening melted into night, and the deep black sky embraced us. Maybe today hadn’t been full of rituals and norms. But, as Rishi whispered stories of chance encounters, no world had seemed more magical. I wouldn't have changed a thing.