The days before Diwali always carry a quiet rush, an energy that seeps into markets, homes, and even thoughts. Every year, I find myself walking through rows of shops filled with lights, colors, and endless choices for gifts. It’s a predictable pattern now, yet it never feels old. Shopping for sweets, dry fruits, and small household gifts turns into a practical form of celebration, where intention feels more important than extravagance. Diwali remains a festival of giving, and the act of selecting something for everyone, however small, feels like restoring balance. The tradition of gifts, lights, and shared meals connects one year to the next with a sense of continuity that keeps the festival alive even when life changes shape.
Every Diwali, I revisit the habit of wearing a kurta and pyjama. The choice is less about fashion and more about comfort, familiarity, and belonging. There’s a quiet dignity in traditional clothing, something grounding about cotton or silk against the skin while diyas flicker across the courtyard. Putting on a kurta for Diwali feels like acknowledging the rhythm of the season, a simple acceptance that this day is different from others. The attire brings with it a kind of readiness for connection—when relatives gather, when sweets are shared, when photographs are taken without warning. The festival demands no uniform, yet there’s a shared understanding that traditional dress adds warmth to the collective mood. I’ve come to see this not as a rule but as an unspoken agreement, a way of entering the festive space with intention and ease.
Shopping for clothes, especially before Diwali, has its own meaning. Stores overflow with options, but it’s the small details that matter—the fit of the kurta, the weight of the fabric, the simplicity or complexity of embroidery. There’s usually a moment when I question the need for a new outfit at all, but the thought dissolves quickly once I remember that festivals exist to break routine. The act of buying, wearing, and then storing the garment becomes part of the ritual cycle. Sometimes I choose white or cream for calmness, sometimes bright maroon or mustard to match the lights around me. It’s less about standing out and more about feeling aligned with the celebration itself. The kurta becomes a marker of the moment, worn briefly yet remembered long after, like a photograph that recalls the scent of incense and sweets.
The exchange of sweets during Diwali remains my favorite part of the festival. Boxes of laddus, barfis, and soan papdi move from one household to another, carrying greetings that require no words. There’s a shared understanding that sweetness, both literal and symbolic, should circulate freely during this time. Preparing or buying sweets has its own rhythm—the smell of ghee, the heat from the stove, and the clatter of tins waiting to be filled. Even those who do not cook find themselves visiting sweet shops, standing in queues that feel oddly festive. Snacks like namkeen and mathri complement the sugary indulgence, balancing taste and texture as guests come and go. It’s a cycle of offering and accepting that blurs boundaries between giving and receiving. Over time, these small gestures of food have become more memorable than the gifts themselves.
Diwali greetings, whether spoken in person or sent digitally, continue to carry weight. Even a short message sent at the right moment can feel sincere. What used to be physical cards and visits has now become a blend of calls, texts, and brief doorstep meetings. Yet the spirit behind each greeting remains intact—the wish for light, peace, and renewal. After the lamps are lit and the firecrackers fade, there’s always a lingering quiet that feels cleansing. The house smells of incense and sweets, and the new kurta rests folded for another year. Each Diwali passes with similar patterns, but the repetition never dulls the feeling. It’s a reminder that festivals like this are not about novelty, but about reaffirming small, shared acts of care. These customs—gifting, dressing, eating, greeting—tie the festival to daily life in a way that feels both ordinary and sacred, an annual reaffirmation that light and generosity belong together.