But this year, Diwali was just not how I would have liked to spend it.
I grew up in a place where everyone lived in unity. I did not celebrate Diwali, but my friends sure did. Every year, they would call me over to their homes, and I would spend the evening surrounded by warm lights, good food, and endless games of Uno.
I loved those evenings. Not because I celebrated the festival myself, but because I got to be a part of something that made the people I loved happy.
This year, however, things were different.
I had left home for boarding school, and Diwali holidays were not really a thing here. After all, it was just one day, and we had classes to attend the following morning.
The school was beautifully decorated. Little fairy lights hung from the balconies, and the corridors glowed with tiny lamps. Someone had put up paper lanterns near the dining hall, and the whole place looked as though it had stepped out of a storybook.
Yet, as I walked past the decorations, I found myself missing home.
I missed my mother’s voice calling me for dinner. I missed the familiar sounds of our neighbourhood and, strangely enough, I even missed the noise my friends made when they argued over who had cheated at Uno.
That evening, I sat on my bed, looking at pictures of home on my phone, when my roommate walked in.
“Why do you look like someone stole your dinner?” he asked. I laughed and told him I was missing home.
He sat beside me for a while, then suddenly got up and said, “Come downstairs. We have a little surprise.” I followed him, not expecting much.
But in the common room, a few of our hostel friends had gathered. Someone had brought sweets from home, another had managed to get packets of chips, and a boy from the next room was trying very hard to arrange a few paper lanterns without making them fall.
There was no grand celebration, no fancy dinner, and certainly no family waiting for me at the door. But there was laughter.
Someone suggested we play Uno, and within minutes, the room was filled with accusations of cheating, dramatic complaints, and laughter so loud that our warden had to remind us to keep it down.
We shared our sweets, told stories about our homes, and talked about the little traditions our families followed during festivals. For the first time that day, I stopped thinking about how far away I was.
I realised that missing home and finding happiness somewhere new could exist together.
When I returned to my room that night, the fairy lights outside my window were still glowing. I called home, told my parents about the evening, and fell asleep with a smile.
Perhaps a hostel is not the best place to spend Diwali.
But sometimes, home is not just the place you return to. Sometimes, it is the people who notice you are sad, save you a seat, share their sweets, and make room for you in their little celebrations.
And that Diwali, far away from home, I learnt that happiness has a funny way of finding you. Sometimes, it comes dressed in fairy lights. Sometimes, it comes in a packet of sweets.
And sometimes, it comes with a friend shouting, “Draw four!” while you desperately try to save your last Uno card.
– Christina K Sangma