Lights and snowflakes

There is something magical about the tail months of the year. The world and its peoples seem to lose their strife to the much-awaited jingle and cheer of the festivals of lights. Often, in those wintry nights, I relive the exciting Diwali moments of my childhood years. At the crack of dawn we would light fireworks that would soar to the skies exploding in a blaze of colours. The thrill of it all was to watch joyous faces light up behind fiery flowerpots that would gush in a hundred crackling sparks only to die down on the concrete floor.

Living in Thailand, I never missed that November day, walking along the crowded banks of the Chao Phraya River even as families drifted banana boats — krathongs — laden with candles, flowers and joss-sticks wiggling in the stubborn waters. Thais prayed that bad luck would be banished with the rush of the currents. Hanukkah is celebrated in December with candelabras representing those eight nights that a single flame miraculously flickered away in the ancient temple before the lamps could be lit again.

Nature too celebrates these months in quiet majesty. High above the Arctic Circle, the sun sinks into torpid slumber as winter buries villages in months of secret darkness. Suddenly, she splashes her canvas of skies with wavy bands of green, lilac, blue and purple in an ethereal display of light and colour. The cheerful auroras have returned, lighting up a desolate world.

Despite wars and worldly strife, humanity magically comes together during these festive months. From those lights of Loi Krathong to the glitter of Diwali or the spectacle of the Arctic skyline, festivals of lights bond us all together with hope and cheer of yet another joyous season.