The pre-diwali festivities in Gurgaon have a way of pulling me back into a quieter kind of joy, one that doesn’t depend on grand plans or travel but unfolds in small corners of familiar spaces. This year, the celebration felt more complete because my brother, sister-in-law, and their little daughter, Idika, were here from Dubai. The society where I live organizes a Diwali mela every year, and I had always treated it as background noise—music echoing through the buildings, laughter from stalls, and an occasional burst of fireworks. But with family around, the same space felt warmer. We walked down to the mela in the evening, the air thick with food smells and faint traces of burnt crackers. It wasn’t extraordinary, but it felt grounded and good.
I hadn’t seen Idika in person for a long time, and watching her reactions to the lights and crowd became the highlight of the evening. At almost four years old, she’s at that age where everything is both new and magical. She tugged at my hand, pointing at the balloon vendor and a bright stand of bracelets that caught the light in pink and gold. I bought her one of each, and she wore the bracelets over her sleeves like they were treasures. My brother laughed, and my sister-in-law took pictures, and I found myself quietly observing how easily moments like these form memories. The mela wasn’t particularly large, but it had the essentials—chaat stalls, toy stands, and an abundance of people in festive clothes.
The chaat was as messy and satisfying as always. We stood balancing plates of golgappas and aloo tikki under a string of fairy lights. There’s something about eating standing up, surrounded by sound, that makes the food taste more alive. Idika was too distracted to eat properly, but she liked the idea of holding a paper plate, dipping a golgappa in the spicy water with both hands, and then deciding she didn’t want it after all. My brother finished the rest with his usual patience. We moved from one stall to another, not looking for anything in particular—just letting the evening decide the pace. The lights from the diyas and string bulbs reflected on her balloon, and for a second, I caught myself remembering Diwalis from when we were kids, when the excitement came from the same kind of simple things.
As the night went on, the crowd thickened. People were bargaining for decorations, teenagers were clicking selfies, and there was a stage where children performed a small dance. The air carried a mix of smoke, incense, and food—a typical festive blend that somehow smells the same every year. Idika’s energy started to fade, and she clung to her mother’s arm, her balloon now trailing behind. We stopped for ice cream on the way back, because that’s her version of closure for any outing. Watching her eat it, face smeared and happy, made me think about how festivals often become meaningful through children. Adults go through the motions—lights, sweets, visits—but for kids, it’s discovery, and that rediscovery through their eyes brings back a forgotten innocence.
The lights in every apartment flickered in some rhythm of togetherness. It was a short moment but one that will probably stay in memory longer than most. Family changes the shape of such evenings. When they’re not around, festivals can feel like just another long weekend. But when they are, even the ordinary feels fuller. Diwali this year didn’t stand out because of anything unique—it was special simply because of presence. The same surroundings, the same routine, but shared differently. And maybe that’s what most festivals really mean, not the ritual but the reminder that joy doubles when it’s witnessed together.