Opinion Let there be light: This Diwali, let’s embrace the unfiltered glow of community and connection
Light has no religion. It simply shines wherever it’s given a little oil and a little heart
This Diwali, when we clean our homes and decorate our thresholds, let’s proudly reclaim the messiness of our mingled past, the imperfect but glowing faith that believed joy is more contagious than fear Let me tell you, I love the dark. The hush of the night forest pulsating with the heartbeat of the living dark. The peace that comes when the world stops competing to shine. But, for that one night of Diwali, I’d trade a night forest for wicks that tremble like small acts of rebellion against absolute darkness, or perhaps, against absolute certainty.
Eid and Diwali have always been my two favourite festivals. But if push came to shove, I’d say Diwali holds a special place in my heart. On Eid, we would dress up like dandies and go about pinching our Eidi from indulgent adults. Diwali, though, began a day earlier, when my Dadijaan would roll baatis and soak the diyas in water overnight. It has no ritualistic significance, this soaking of diyas, as every Indian would know. It is our quietly pragmatic yet ungenerous act to stop the thirsty mud from drinking up the oil meant for the flame. Placing diyas on thalis, we would go to the terraces, the boundary walls, the steps, the gates, the jharokhas to ensure no part of the home remains forgotten by the Diwali night, a tradition that I follow to date with my husband Aditya. There’s something moving about a night that insists on remembering the sun. I grew up at a time when there was no talk of “interfaith dialogue”. Just shared laddoos, mathari, burnt fingers and light that didn’t check surnames. Our annual, pan-Indian celebration of glow.
The Bohras of Bohrawadi exchanged sweets with the Purohits of the next lane. The Jain uncle would welcome us at home, but only before sunset. In our family lane in Udaipur, my Dadijaan would not leave a single corner unlit on the Diwali amavasya, though it required hundreds of lamps, just as my aunt Habiba never forgot to make gujiyas on Holi, both, perhaps, whispering a small “bismillah” before beginning their festive missions. They were the generation of the blissfully unaware who practised pluralism by instinct, not instruction.
The lamps have multiplied, but their glow feels more curated now, like the colour-coordinated outfits on Instagram posts that sparkle but don’t warm. The word “syncretic” now sounds like something you’d need antibiotics for. And joy is a gated community. Maybe what we need is not grand ideas of secularism or tolerance, but small, shared absurdities. The Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Sikh boys running away from their girl classmates on Rakhi day. Punjabis and Bengalis arguing over who makes the best biryani (and we haven’t even taken Hyderabad into account). Fernandes Aunty claiming to be a better gossip than Sharma bhaisahab. This is the India that has refused to grow into neat categories. Our languages share proverbs, our Hindu gods grace Biblical calendars, our festivals share calories. Somewhere between Holi colours and Christmas confetti, the horizon shimmers with an unlabelled light of countless festivals.
Darkness, as Kabir might say, doesn’t come from the absence of gods but from the absence of empathy. And empathy was once as effortless as wishing your neighbour on a festival you didn’t celebrate, yet somehow did.
This Diwali, when we clean our homes and decorate our thresholds, let’s proudly reclaim the messiness of our mingled past, the imperfect but glowing faith that believed joy is more contagious than fear. Just laughter, laddoos and a collective sense of belonging.
So, this Diwali, when we polish our silverware and line up our diyas, let’s light a lamp for Ram, a lamp for Rahim and perhaps one for reason.
After all, light has no religion. It simply shines, wherever it’s given a little oil and a little heart.
Tehsin is the author most recently of, The Witch in the Peepul Tree, and The Great Indian Safari
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