Every Diwali, the flickering glow of earthen diyas reminds me of a nugget of wisdom casually imparted by my father; it gives me the courage to weather life’s darkest storms
When I look back at the countless Diwalis of my childhood, the memories feel warm, suffused with the gentle flames of a thousand earthen diyas, supplied by the potters whose houses lay a few furlongs away, casting their soft light into my heart. The houses surrounding our neighbourhood would become receptacles of light. Windows and terraces would burst into life, decked up with those hand-made diyas (the garlands of electric lights were not so ubiquitous then). Every corner, every home radiated with a golden glow, as if trying to hold back the night itself.
Though I was born into a Muslim family in a nondescript town in north Bihar (which I left at the age of 16), it never let religion or tradition stand in the way of something so beautiful as Diwali. I remember the excitement coursing through me every Diwali. When I’d look up at my father, his eyes would be knowing and faraway as he gazed at the light. He would often look out at the rows of luminous diyas, smiling in that way that made me wonder if he knew something I didn’t. He’d tell me, “Be like diyas, a light unto yourself. It burns to let there be light.” I was too young to grasp the depth of these words; they seemed esoteric and far beyond the reach of my childhood comprehension — it was as if my father were speaking a language that I had yet to understand — but they somehow got imprinted in my memory.
An occasion to be part of something splendid
I remember how, each year, I’d ask to light a diya or two myself. It was a small act, something I insisted on, having fallen in love with light; the houses of our Muslim neighbours would be conspicuous by their darkness and it would bother me no end. My mother would watch with indulgent smiles as I would fumble with the matchstick, my little hands trying hard to coax the wick into life. After a few attempts, I would succeed. For a few moments, I’d watch the flame dance, my child’s mind spellbound by its delicate strength. I was equally enchanted by my father’s calmness, the serenity he wore as he watched the lights twinkle around us, while I would be blissfully absorbed in the sights and sounds. It felt like a secret I shared with the diya — a secret only my father could understand.
Diwali was not a ritual of faith for us but rather an occasion to be part of something splendid and shared. It felt as though our entire neighbourhood was on fire — but a tender fire, the kind that brought a softness to the night, a warmth to each doorway and window. The streets I walked every day became unrecognisable at night; they glowed with the radiance of oil lamps, the air thick with the smell of incense, marigold loops and whatnot. My father’s friends — mostly the Jhas, Mishras, Chaudhrays and Thakurs — would open their doors with wide smiles, welcoming us in, offering sweets, and a few kind words. We were never made to feel like the other. In those moments of communal bonhomie, it was as if the world’s harsh edges dissolved, leaving only gentleness behind.
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As a child, this annual transformation of my neighbourhood was simply magic. I knew little of the holiday’s roots or the stories of Lord Rama’s return from exile, but I understood the language of light. My father had made sure of that. I would gaze at the diyas with a reverence that went unspoken; it was enough to feel. I could feel the beauty of those tiny flames, as fragile as they were powerful. They shivered with the slightest breeze yet somehow stayed alive, as though they had made a promise to hold on as long as they could. It was only much later that I began to understand what my father meant when he said to be like diyas.
A whisper from another world
As I grew older, life, in its steady erosion of innocence, began to reveal shadows my younger self had never known. In its usual, ruthless way, it unravelled the safe cocoon of childhood, and pulled at the seams of my family in ways that made me seek a light of my own. Responsibilities mounted, and the world grew darker in ways I had neither imagined nor anticipated. There were days so dark that I would sit in my room, my heart weighed down, wondering how one could ever find solace amid so much chaos. My father’s words would sometimes resurface in my memory, and I would wonder at their meaning, now tinged with an understanding that came only through experience.
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On one such evening, in the dim silence of my room, I lit an earthen diya, its wick soaked in the mustard oil, with an ounce filling its belly — just the way it would be in my father’s time. Its flame trembled in the stillness, but it held its ground, casting a warm glimmer onto the walls that felt as though it had come from somewhere deep inside me. As I watched it burn, I heard my father’s words again, like a whisper from another world. The light, though small, held a power I hadn’t appreciated until then. Each time I felt despair, I found myself returning to this ritual, lighting a single diya and watching it flicker in the dark. It was as if that light spoke to me, urging me not to be overwhelmed by the vastness of night. The diya taught me to honour the small light within, to protect it, to let it guide me, however feeble it may seem against the enormity of life or its vicissitudes. It taught me that resilience can also be the quiet resolve to keep shining, even when no one is watching.
Honouring the light within
After my father passed away, I never went back to our old neighbourhood. But time has woven new layers into the fabric of my memory, and the lights on every Diwali bring back something familiar. I hope someday, on Diwali, I would walk down those same streets, which would be now weathered with age, and watch the families celebrating together, their faces bathed in the incandescence of diyas or the string of electric lights. I know each doorstep would be lined with lights, illuminating paths leading to homes that I had visited as a child. Would they be the same old homes? Would I be welcomed with open arms as I was as a child? My heart tells me that whenever I do, I would, for a brief moment, see him — my father — standing in the doorway, a smile just for me, his eyes brimming with the pride of knowing I had learned to understand his words.
I light a diya, an earthen one, every Diwali. It urges me to honour the light within me. Life is relentless in its tyrannies, pulling and tugging, demanding so much that it feels as if the spirit will surely break. But when I light my diya, I am reminded that true strength does not blaze; it glows. It persists. It holds on, even when the world seems intent on snuffing it out. I am still learning, still struggling to embody my father’s words, to truly be a light unto myself. But in the tranquil moments, standing before that small flame, I feel as if he is beside me, as if the years between us vanish and I am once again a child in awe of the neighbourhood swathed in light, feeling, at last, the unflappable strength of my father’s wisdom settling deep within me.
