Happy Diwali!

He pressed his nose against the cold window, the sharp, biting chill of the glass seeping through his skin. The winter air outside was crisp and still, its coolness wrapping around the edges of his body like a forgotten promise. His breath misted on the window, a small, foggy reminder of his presence in the warmth of the room. But outside—outside, the night stretched endlessly, a deep, inky shade of indigo that seemed to devour the stars, leaving only the scattered light from the city behind. The darkness was profound, almost suffocating, yet there was beauty in it, a sort of quiet majesty. He felt as though the night itself had wrapped its arms around the world, holding it close in a still, peaceful embrace.

Yet it wasn’t the darkness that caught his breath. It was the vibrant, shimmering world below—the Diwali celebration that had transformed the ordinary street into something extraordinary. The festive night had brought life to the sleepy corners of the neighborhood, bathing everything in the warm, colorful glow of celebration. The houses, once simple and unassuming, now seemed like tiny palaces, each one dressed in strings of glowing lights. Red, blue, and gold twinkled in brilliant harmony, hanging from every window, every balcony, every rooftop. It was as if the stars had fallen to earth, filling the air with their shimmering brilliance. Lanterns hung from every corner, casting their soft, flickering light into the night, their colors shifting with the breeze. They swayed gently, whispering stories of the past and dreams of the future.

Above it all, firecrackers erupted, bursting in the sky like fireworks of magic—explosions of orange, gold, and crimson that crackled and sparkled, weaving through the dark canvas like streaks of fire. Each explosion was followed by the sharp scent of gunpowder, and the air seemed to vibrate with the sound of celebration—sharp pops, distant booms, and the hissing rush of more fireworks being set off, rising high above the trees, bursting into a final, brilliant burst of light before fading into the night.

The sounds of the street were alive, alive with the chorus of voices raised in joy, in song, in laughter. Music filled the air, from the distant hum of a drumbeat to the melodic tunes of traditional songs that echoed from house to house. It was the sound of togetherness, the heartbeat of the neighborhood, the unspoken connection that tied each person together in a shared experience. Laughter bubbled from every corner, filling the air with warmth, even against the coolness of the night. The sound was infectious, and as he stood by the window, he could feel the energy of the street pulling at him, like the pull of the ocean tide, beckoning him to join in.

He could hear the children, their high-pitched giggles cutting through the night like the tinkling of bells. Their faces were alive with excitement as they ran through the streets, their small hands clutching sparklers, their bodies dancing with the rhythm of their joy. The sparklers hissed and crackled in the air, trailing sparks like tiny fireflies that lit up the dark. The children were running in circles, their laughter ringing out, their shadows flickering and dancing in the warm glow of the streetlights. It was as if the night had come alive with them—like mischievous spirits playing in the moonlight, caught between the earth and sky, expressing freedom in the purest form. Their energy was contagious, a reminder that even in the midst of the quiet, there was room for pure, unfiltered joy.

He stood there, transfixed by the sight of them, his heart a little heavier with longing. There was something about watching them run, so free, so unburdened, that made him ache. A small part of him—perhaps a part he had long forgotten—wanted to be out there with them. To run under the night sky, to chase the sparks, to feel the air sing with the rush of movement and the heat of firecrackers. But here he stood, watching from the safety of his warm room, a part of the world, but somehow apart from it, separated by a pane of glass and the distance between what was and what could be.

The air was thick with the smells of burning fireworks and something else—something sweet and earthy, like marigolds. He could smell the fragrance drifting in from the temple nearby, mingling with the scent of gunpowder and smoke. The temple had been beautifully lit, its oil lamps flickering in the gentle evening breeze, casting a warm golden glow that reached out into the night. The air was fragrant with incense and the delicate petals of marigold flowers, their vibrant orange and yellow hues a symbol of purity and blessing. It was a scent that was both grounding and uplifting, a reminder of tradition and the sacredness of the moment.

In the distance, he could hear the faint hum of bells, the soft chanting of prayers, rising up from the temple, a serene counterpoint to the chaos of fireworks and laughter. The music of the street seemed to intertwine with the sacred sounds of the temple, creating a harmony that felt both timeless and profound. It was as if the whole night—every sound, every sight, every smell—was a celebration of the very essence of life itself.

And then there was the food. The sweet, familiar smell of ladoos and the sticky, syrup-soaked jalebis wafted in from the kitchen, where his mother had been preparing the sweets all day. The kitchen was alive with the scent of ghee, the sweetness of sugar, and the richness of cardamom. His stomach growled at the thought, but it wasn’t just the food that he craved. It was the feeling of being part of something larger, of being connected to the celebration, to the home that was filled with warmth and love.

It wasn’t just the taste of the ladoos or the sight of the fireworks that called to him—it was the feeling of belonging. Of being part of something bigger than himself. The streets were alive with the collective energy of the neighborhood. He could feel the warmth of the community even from inside, as if it was a tangible thing that could wrap itself around him and pull him closer. There was a unity here, a sense of shared experience that transcended the individual. He watched as neighbors exchanged greetings, shared sweets, and laughed together, their faces lit with joy. The air was alive with connection, with a sense of togetherness that made the night feel even brighter.

In that moment, he realized it wasn’t just the fireworks, the lights, or even the food that made Diwali special—it was the sense of home. It was the feeling of being part of something larger than oneself, of being a part of a collective joy that filled the air and made everything seem brighter. Diwali was more than just a festival of lights; it was a celebration of life, of love, and of community.

As he stood there, watching the world outside, he felt a quiet sense of peace wash over him. It wasn’t the fireworks or the sweets he needed—it was this: the warmth of the people, the sense of togetherness, and the beauty of being a part of something greater. In that fleeting moment, he realized that even in the darkest of nights, there was light. Even in the silence, there was joy. And that was the true magic of Diwali.

But then, as his gaze lingered on the flickering lights below, an unexpected realization crept in, as if the warmth of the night itself had finally reached him. It was as though the entire world had become still, just for a moment, and he saw everything clearly.

He wasn’t merely observing the world around him—he was a part of it. He wasn’t separate, removed, or on the outside looking in. He wasn’t just a boy standing at a window, watching others run, laugh, and celebrate. The truth washed over him like a soft, tender wave:

He was the light.

The small, flickering diya, burning brightly in the darkness, a single flame among many, offering warmth, hope, and a quiet reminder that even the smallest light could illuminate the world.

Happy Diwali!