I heard Akanksha Grover’s cover of Hum Tere Pyar Mein Sara Alam Kho Baithe, and it stayed with me longer than I expected. It’s always tricky when someone touches an old Lata Mangeshkar song — the nostalgia around it is heavy, and the comparisons come fast. But her version feels different. It doesn’t try to outdo the original or modernize it unnecessarily. It just sits in a space between then and now, holding the melody with quiet confidence. The tone is softer, more conversational, and it gives the song a kind of freshness that doesn’t erase its age. It reminded me that old songs don’t need big rearrangements to sound new; sometimes they just need someone to sing them with honesty.

Listening to her, it felt like she understood the calmness in those old tunes — the pauses, the unhurried phrasing, the way emotion was left half-expressed. There’s no force in her voice, just a smooth ease that lets the words breathe. I think that’s what made it work. So many covers today focus on technical strength or big production value, but Akanksha’s version sounds like it was sung in a small room, maybe late at night, with the focus on feeling rather than performance. That kind of simplicity has its own pull. It makes the song feel less like a tribute and more like a personal note passed quietly through time.

The more I listened, the more I noticed small details — how she stretches certain syllables, how she avoids overdoing the vibrato that’s so common in current renditions. It’s respectful to the original without being rigid. There’s something refreshing about hearing a familiar song and not feeling weighed down by nostalgia. Instead of taking me back to the era of Lata’s voice, it kept me in the present, letting the song exist on its own. That balance is rare. It’s easy to either copy too closely or wander too far. She found the middle ground and held it steady.

It also made me think about how the memory of songs changes over time. When Lata sang it, the recording itself had a kind of warmth that came from the limitations of that era. Akanksha’s voice, cleaner and more modern in tone, brings that warmth from interpretation rather than tape hiss. The feeling stays, even if the texture changes. Maybe that’s what defines a good cover — not how faithfully it reproduces the past, but how gently it reshapes it for now. Music doesn’t have to stay locked in its decade; it just needs to be handled with care.

I’ve played her cover a few times since, and it still feels unforced. That’s rare. Some songs fade after one listen, but this one lingers, quietly, without asking for attention. Maybe it’s because she didn’t try to make it about herself. It’s just her voice carrying an old melody forward, keeping it alive without dressing it up too much. There’s comfort in that simplicity. In a way, it reminded me why old songs still find new listeners — not through reinvention, but through reinterpretation that sounds effortless. Akanksha Grover managed to do that, and that’s not easy.

The flu has to be the most annoying illness ever designed. It’s not serious enough to get proper sympathy, but it’s just bad enough to make everything miserable. You’re not bedridden in the dramatic way that a movie might show, but you also can’t do anything normal without feeling like your body is holding a quiet protest. It’s a strange middle zone between health and collapse. The nose decides to turn into a tap, your throat starts to sound like sandpaper, and the head feels packed with cotton. Yet, somehow, people expect you to “power through.” It’s the kind of sickness that demands attention but doesn’t get any. Maybe that’s part of the flu’s twisted sense of humour.

Every time I get it, I tell myself it’s just a small thing. Then, within a few hours, I’m regretting that optimism. There’s something theatrical about the flu — it always arrives with a quiet cough that seems harmless, then slowly takes over everything like an uninvited guest who keeps extending their stay. The body tries to fight it with half-hearted sneezes, as if hoping that enthusiasm alone will send it away. I’ve tried all the usual tricks: steam inhalation, hot soup, random herbal teas that claim to “boost immunity.” None of them seem to make a real difference. What does seem to work, ironically, is doing absolutely nothing — just lying there and waiting for the body to get bored of being sick.

The most frustrating part isn’t even the physical discomfort; it’s how it distorts time. A single day with the flu feels longer than a workweek. You try to nap but wake up feeling worse, and every small task — like standing up to make tea — starts to feel like a full workout. The mind slows down to match the body, and suddenly even simple thoughts take effort. You start measuring progress in sneezes per hour. People text to ask how you’re feeling, and you find yourself replying with strange levels of detail about mucus colour and throat dryness. The flu turns normal adults into part-time medical reporters.

There’s also the weird social aspect. If you go out, people look at you like you’re carrying the plague. If you stay home, you start feeling like a hermit. It’s a lose-lose situation. Everyone pretends to be understanding, but no one really wants you around. I can’t even blame them; no one likes being near a walking cough. But there’s something faintly absurd about how we all handle it — acting as if the flu is both trivial and terrifying at the same time. One sniffle in a meeting, and suddenly the entire room wants to work remotely. Yet when you take a day off, someone inevitably says, “It’s just the flu.”

By the time it finally fades, you don’t feel grateful — just relieved that the constant congestion soundtrack is gone. The body returns to normal, pretending nothing happened, and you start making plans again as if you weren’t a biohazard two days ago. The worst part is knowing it’ll come back eventually, right when you least expect it. Maybe that’s why the flu is so annoying — not because it’s painful, but because it’s predictable. You know the pattern, you know the cure (time), and still, you fall for it every year. There’s something oddly human about that cycle — trying to beat something that can only be endured.

Sunday afternoons have their own kind of quiet. The week’s noise has faded, but the next one hasn’t yet started. It’s that short window where the body feels ready to pause and the mind is willing to slow down. I’ve noticed that a nap during this time works differently from any other day of the week. It’s not just rest — it’s a reset. A Sunday nap seems to carry a higher return, the kind that clears out leftover fatigue and leaves space for the next week’s thoughts to settle. When I wake up from it, I feel more in control, sharper, and somehow lighter. It’s easily the most productive nap of the week, not because it adds energy, but because it clears the clutter that builds up quietly across days.

It usually starts with the same small decision — to lie down for just twenty minutes. Most of the time, it stretches longer, but that doesn’t bother me anymore. The room feels different on Sundays, a mix of daylight and stillness that doesn’t exist on weekdays. The world outside moves slower, and that calm seeps into the way I rest. Even if I don’t fall asleep right away, just lying still feels useful. The thoughts that come up are softer, less structured, almost like they’re testing their weight before the next stretch of work begins. Sometimes ideas for the week appear in that half-sleep, without the noise that usually comes with active planning.

When I think about it, this habit probably started because Sundays often lack structure. There’s no clear task list, no fixed schedule, and that absence of pressure creates room for reflection. The nap fits perfectly there — neither indulgent nor lazy, just something that happens because it feels right. I used to resist it, thinking it would make me sluggish, but it’s done the opposite. The short break splits the day neatly into two parts: the morning that still carries traces of rest, and the evening that starts to lean toward the week ahead. That balance makes it easier to transition from weekend to work mode.

Sometimes the nap becomes more than just rest. It turns into a kind of quiet planning session, though it doesn’t look like one. I don’t sit with a notebook or a list; the ideas just appear when everything else slows down. I can see what the week ahead looks like — what needs attention, what can wait, and what I want to start differently. It’s never formal, and yet it feels more reliable than writing things down. Maybe that’s because the mind, when half-asleep, filters out the noise and keeps only what matters. It’s strange how often good planning comes from doing nothing at all.

By the time I get up, the sunlight has usually shifted, the air feels cooler, and the sense of the next week is clearer. It’s one of those small rituals that doesn’t need effort but pays back more than expected. I don’t take Sunday naps out of fatigue; I take them because they help me feel reset in a quiet, measurable way. It’s a pause that doesn’t feel like a break, a simple space between two stretches of movement. Every time I wake up from one, I’m reminded that sometimes the most useful thing to do is to stop — not for long, just long enough to see things differently.

Today was one of those cricket days that look fine in motion but feel wrong in the result. I was bowling with good pace, maybe the best I’ve had in weeks. The ball came out quick, hit the gloves hard, and there was that nice feeling of rhythm through the shoulders. But it didn’t count for much. Too many balls drifted wide, too many sat up. Every small miss in line or length found its way to the boundary. I could feel that I was trying hard, maybe too hard. The effort was there, but the direction wasn’t. The funny thing about cricket is how the body can feel ready while the game goes in another direction entirely.

After the first over, I could tell I wasn’t where I needed to be. A couple of good balls, then one too short, then one too full. The pace was there, but it stopped mattering because the control wasn’t. Once the batsman gets a few away, everything speeds up in your head. You try to force it back, but that only makes the next ball worse. I kept thinking about hitting the deck harder instead of finding the right length. Sometimes the game asks for calm, but adrenaline takes over. It’s strange how quickly that happens — one over you’re in charge, the next you’re just trying to survive.

When it ended, I looked at the figures and they didn’t look kind. The number of runs against my name said enough. It’s easy to blame the pitch or call it a flat day, but that’s not what it was. It was a day where I didn’t tune into what was actually happening. The batsmen weren’t doing anything special. I just didn’t adjust. The ball was coming out fast, but not in the right spots. In hindsight, maybe it was a day to slow down a bit, hit a tighter line, and think more about where the ball should go rather than how quick it was coming out.

Cricket has a way of showing you what you ignore. I ignored the small things — the wind pushing the ball away, the field setup that didn’t match the plan. Everyone talks about rhythm, but rhythm only matters when it matches awareness. Once that slips, everything feels just slightly off. There were moments when I could feel it — that sense that the ball should go there, but it didn’t. The margin is so small, and yet it changes the whole day. You finish knowing exactly what you should have done, but by then the chance has gone.

Now that I think about it, maybe pace isn’t always the point. There’s something to be said about knowing what kind of day it is and adjusting to it. Today wasn’t a fast day, even if it felt like one. It was a day to bowl smart and steady. Instead, I kept chasing that extra yard. Sometimes it’s not about how hard you bowl, but how aware you are of what the game needs. I’ll remember that the next time I run in. It’s a small thing, but in this game, small things decide everything.

Fasting for twenty-four hours has become a regular practice for me every few months, and each time, I notice a familiar sense of recalibration in how my body feels and functions. It isn’t about losing weight or chasing a trend; it’s a deliberate pause - a kind of biological housekeeping that reminds me how dependent we become on constant feeding. When I start the fast, usually after dinner, the first twelve hours are almost effortless. The body is still working off the previous meal, and glucose remains available for energy. After that, hunger starts to surface, but not sharply—it’s more like a passing wave. By the twenty-fourth hour, something shifts in the system. The body transitions from glucose metabolism to fat oxidation, and that shift is perceptible in both mental clarity and reduced restlessness. There’s a quietness in how the body behaves when it isn’t digesting. It’s not spiritual for me, but it is undeniably physiological, and it’s enough reason to keep doing it once every few months.

The science behind this feels both simple and humbling. During a fast, insulin levels drop, allowing stored fat to become a primary energy source. The process of autophagy—where cells clear out damaged components—begins to accelerate. This is often cited as one of the most important benefits of fasting, not as a detox, but as a natural biological response to energy scarcity. The body is designed for such cycles of plenty and deprivation. Modern eating patterns rarely allow for the deprivation part. Food is available on every corner, and the cultural expectation to eat three structured meals a day leaves little room for metabolic flexibility. Fasting gives the digestive system a break, reduces oxidative stress, and resets insulin sensitivity. These aren’t abstract benefits; they are measurable, and the research keeps confirming how short fasts improve metabolic health markers like glucose control and lipid levels. I think about this when the day feels long during a fast—it’s not suffering, it’s recovery.

After breaking a twenty-four-hour fast, I always feel an unmistakable lightness, not just in the stomach but in the overall system. The first meal afterward tastes sharper, almost exaggerated in flavor. The body seems more responsive to signals—it recognizes real hunger rather than habitual eating. Over time, fasting every few months has become a quiet check-in with how resilient my body feels. It’s not sustainable to do it every week, and it’s not necessary. The body doesn’t need extremes, it needs variation. A few well-timed fasts in a year help balance out periods of overindulgence or mental fatigue. The simplicity of the method—just abstaining from food—contrasts with how complex the internal processes are that respond to it. The heart rate drops slightly, growth hormone levels rise, and inflammatory markers tend to reduce. It’s remarkable that something so primitive still works as a modern health intervention.

There’s also a psychological side to it that I can’t separate from the physical. Fasting forces awareness of how much I rely on food for rhythm, distraction, and comfort. The hours between meals are usually filled with small snacks, tea, or coffee, all of which create a sense of routine. Removing them brings a kind of mental friction that reveals how conditioned my habits are. The body can adapt faster than the mind, and it becomes clear after a few fasting cycles that much of what we call hunger is just habit. By the second half of the day, the sharpness of thought often surprises me. Without food, energy feels more evenly distributed. There’s less of that post-meal lethargy that often defines the afternoon. I’ve read about ketone bodies fueling the brain more efficiently during fasting, and while I can’t feel molecules, I can feel the result—cleaner focus, steadier mood. It’s not euphoria, just balance.

When I schedule these fasts, I treat them like maintenance rather than intervention. Every three to four months seems to be the right rhythm. It’s enough to trigger adaptation without pushing into depletion. I hydrate well, avoid strenuous workouts, and plan light tasks for the day. The fast ends naturally—no elaborate refeeding, just simple food in modest portions. Over time, I’ve realized that this occasional fasting practice helps maintain a sense of bodily trust. The body, left undisturbed for a while, knows what to do. In a world full of supplements, metrics, and optimization trends, this feels refreshingly straightforward. I don’t expect fasting to extend my life or transform my metabolism, but it does remind me that the body thrives when it’s occasionally challenged. It’s a reset button that doesn’t need equipment or expense—just time and patience.

I have been thinking about how productivity differs between remote work and office work, and the contrast has become more visible over time. When a team works remotely, everyone may be fully committed in terms of hours, attendance, and visible engagement, yet the actual output often feels slower. It’s not about the lack of intent or effort—the dedication is usually there—but rather about the way collaboration happens. Conversations that might take a few minutes in the office tend to stretch into long threads of messages or back-and-forth calls when working remotely. Decision-making becomes more sequential than simultaneous. Even small clarifications or brainstorms end up needing structure, while in the office they would happen naturally in the course of the day. The work moves forward, but less fluidly.

In an office environment, the physical proximity of team members still adds something intangible to productivity. It’s not necessarily about supervision or visibility, but about immediacy. Discussions begin and end faster, and collective problem-solving feels more organic. Even unplanned interactions—like a brief chat near the desk or during coffee—often help resolve issues before they turn into larger coordination gaps. Remote setups tend to lose this background layer of informal communication, replacing it with more deliberate scheduling. Meetings have to be planned, and messages need structure. The result is that communication becomes clearer but also heavier. The sense of shared momentum gets diluted, as people operate in focused silos rather than in a shared rhythm.

The other factor is time. Remote work is supposed to provide flexibility, but it also makes synchrony harder. Different people take breaks at different times, and even with overlapping hours, it’s rare that the entire team is mentally aligned in the same moment. The natural flow of collaboration that happens in an office becomes fragmented. When someone finishes their part of the work, the next step might get delayed simply because the other person isn’t immediately reachable or focused on something else. Over days and weeks, these small gaps accumulate. Productivity, as a measurable outcome, doesn’t necessarily drop sharply—but the energy of teamwork, that subtle efficiency that comes from working side by side, becomes thinner. It’s more visible in creative or problem-solving tasks than in purely operational work.

That said, remote work has its strengths. It offers autonomy, fewer interruptions, and a sense of personal control that some people thrive on. Many tasks that require focus and concentration benefit from this setup. The challenge lies in coordination, not individual performance. A well-organized remote team can maintain output if systems are strong and communication tools are used intentionally. But structure alone doesn’t replace shared presence. In-person collaboration carries a natural tempo that’s difficult to replicate digitally. It’s not that people work less effectively remotely—it’s that they work differently, and the sum of individual efficiency doesn’t always equal collective productivity. Over time, this difference becomes noticeable, especially in projects that depend heavily on iteration, feedback, and rapid adjustment.

I’ve come to see that the ideal setup might not be about choosing one over the other, but about understanding where each works best. Remote work serves well for stability and focus, while in-office collaboration drives momentum and problem-solving. The hybrid balance, though difficult to perfect, offers a reasonable middle ground. But for now, I still find that the energy and speed of a co-located team remain unmatched. The visible alignment, the shared urgency, and the quiet reinforcement of being around others still make a measurable difference in how work gets done. Productivity, in the end, is less about the number of hours and more about how seamlessly those hours connect across people.

The drive from Jaipur to Gurgaon along the expressway remains one of the most pleasant routes I have taken in India. The stretch feels smooth, familiar, and efficient, combining both comfort and scenic rhythm in equal measure. Leaving Jaipur early in the morning has its own advantage - the air is cooler, the light softer, and the traffic almost non-existent for the first hour. It’s in these early hours that the Aravalis appear at their best, their muted ridges forming the backdrop of the drive. The long stretches of highway allow for an uninterrupted flow that few other routes in North India can match. For anyone who enjoys long drives, this road feels like a continuous line of calm, a reminder that travel doesn’t have to be hurried to be enjoyable. The expressway connects two busy cities, but the journey itself feels detached from their pace.

Driving out of Jaipur at dawn gives the experience a different texture altogether. The city is still waking up, and the road opens up just past the toll gate with a clarity that’s rare during the day. The early morning light reflects gently off the Aravali slopes, creating subtle color shifts that seem to move with the car. There’s something predictable yet satisfying about the route—the gentle curves, the sparse traffic, and the occasional sight of trucks parked at rest stops. By the time the sun rises fully, the highway has settled into its rhythm. What I’ve always liked about this drive is how it offers both speed and serenity. You can maintain a steady pace without feeling rushed, and the wide lanes make the experience almost effortless. It’s one of those routes where the act of driving itself becomes the purpose.

The expressway also benefits from its well-planned infrastructure. Between Jaipur and Gurgaon, there are several clean and accessible break points—fuel stations, food outlets, and rest areas that are spaced just right. Stopping midway for tea or breakfast feels almost like a tradition now. The convenience of these stops adds to the overall ease of the journey. There’s a certain predictability to it that I’ve grown to appreciate—the same roadside signs, the same clusters of trees marking distance, and the occasional sight of the Aravalis appearing again as the highway bends. Even when traffic picks up closer to Manesar, it rarely feels chaotic. Compared to other highways that connect major cities, this one maintains a kind of balance between movement and calm.

The Aravalis remain the defining feature of this route. Their outline follows you intermittently through the drive, breaking the monotony of the plains. It’s easy to forget that they are among the oldest mountain ranges in the world, yet they stand quietly along the expressway, framing the view without demanding attention. During monsoon months, they turn greener and slightly misty, while in winter, the light hits them differently—clearer and more angled. There’s something grounding about driving alongside them, a reminder of permanence in contrast to the speed of the highway. The long road feels connected to both geography and memory. I find that each trip between Jaipur and Gurgaon brings back a different feeling—sometimes reflection, sometimes focus, but always a quiet appreciation for the steadiness of the route.

Reaching Gurgaon after such a drive always feels slightly abrupt. The expressway gradually merges into the city’s denser roads, the calm of open driving replaced by the hum of daily movement. Yet even in that transition, there’s a sense of continuity. The journey leaves behind an impression of balance—between travel and rest, between nature and infrastructure. The Jaipur-Gurgaon expressway is more than just a connection between two urban centers; it’s a space where the act of driving becomes meditative. Each trip reinforces how well-planned roads can change the experience of distance itself. With the Aravalis alongside, clean stops along the way, and the simplicity of an early start, the drive continues to be one of the best in India.

Diwali this year has not just been a festival of light but also a reflection of strong consumer confidence across India. Reports suggest that festive spending has crossed $70 billion, marking one of the most active retail periods in recent years. Markets across cities were crowded, online platforms reported record sales, and sectors ranging from automobiles to electronics showed visible growth. The rise in spending feels tied to a broader sentiment of recovery and optimism. One noticeable contributor to this trend is the recent reduction in GST across several categories, which has eased consumer prices and encouraged more discretionary purchases. The link between taxation and spending becomes more obvious during the festive season, where a small percentage cut translates into meaningful savings across millions of transactions. Diwali, being the largest spending period of the year, becomes an economic signal in itself—an informal indicator of how people feel about their financial stability.

The decision to lower GST rates has had a tangible effect across segments. Sectors like household goods, consumer electronics, and clothing have benefitted directly from these reductions, which translate to better prices for end consumers. While tax policy often feels abstract, its impact becomes visible when people choose to buy an extra appliance, upgrade a phone, or spend more on gifts. For small retailers, this change has meant faster turnover and higher volumes. Even larger chains have used the opportunity to push festival discounts further without cutting too deep into margins. The policy shift aligns well with the timing of Diwali, when consumption peaks and liquidity flows freely through both formal and informal channels. The immediate effect is visible in the crowds, but the longer-term benefit is in the confidence it builds—people are more likely to spend when they feel that taxation is fair and predictable.

There’s also a broader economic perspective to consider. Lower GST rates do reduce short-term government collections, but they tend to stimulate spending and production, which eventually brings the tax revenue back in other forms. A balanced GST framework supports both business growth and consumer welfare. It reduces friction in the movement of goods and makes compliance easier for smaller sellers who form a large part of India’s retail ecosystem. During Diwali, when demand spikes across the country, such policy stability becomes essential. The smoother the tax structure, the faster goods move from warehouses to shops and homes. What’s remarkable this year is that despite inflationary pressure in some sectors, spending has not slowed down. The willingness to buy—whether through EMI options, digital wallets, or direct payments—reflects a sense of trust that the system is becoming more manageable.

The cultural and economic sides of Diwali have always been connected. For most families, spending during this time isn’t just consumption—it’s participation in a shared rhythm. Whether it’s new clothes, gold, sweets, or household upgrades, these purchases carry symbolic meaning, representing renewal and prosperity. Policy decisions like GST reduction add a layer of accessibility to this sentiment. They make the celebration feel more inclusive, where even modest buyers can participate without feeling burdened by inflated prices. In many ways, the government’s decision to reduce taxes just before the festive season can be seen as both practical and psychological. It supports spending momentum and reinforces the idea that festivals contribute positively to the economy. When people spend, businesses expand, jobs stabilize, and supply chains stay active.

As Diwali lights fade, the economic afterglow remains visible. The $70 billion spent this season isn’t just a number—it’s a sign of economic resilience and policy responsiveness. While debates around tax rates will always continue, the current balance between encouraging consumption and maintaining fiscal health seems to be working. The GST system, despite its early challenges, is evolving into a more adaptive framework that supports growth instead of constraining it. A reduction in rates, when timed well, acts as a stimulus that keeps markets active and sentiment high. The season of light thus becomes more than a cultural event—it becomes a pulse check on economic health, showing that lower taxes can indeed translate into broader prosperity.

This Diwali felt quieter in thought but fuller in experience. I spent it in Jaipur with family, surrounded by familiar rituals that are special. The city itself transforms during this time, with every shop, lane, and rooftop outlined in strings of light. Even after all these years, the sight still feels deliberate, like the city reminding itself to glow no matter what else happens. Being home during Diwali brings a certain comfort that no other festival manages to replicate. The evenings were filled with conversation, sweets, and the faint smell of incense that lingers long after the diyas burn out. It’s a period that forces a slower rhythm, when the usual urgency of life is replaced by the simplicity of shared moments. The festival of light feels less symbolic and more tangible when spent with family in the warmth of a familiar home.

Jaipur during Diwali carries a distinct charm that goes beyond decoration. The pink city glows under layers of light, from the arches of old markets to the windows of modern homes. Walking through Johari Bazaar and Bapu Bazaar before Diwali was a study in human energy—crowds moving in different directions yet all drawn by the same anticipation. Every year, I tell myself I’ll avoid the rush, but it’s impossible not to get pulled into it. The lights hanging over the old facades make the city look like a different place altogether, less a tourist attraction and more like a living festival. What stands out most is the balance between noise and calm. Inside the house, the lamps flicker quietly, but outside, the air is filled with music, laughter, and the occasional burst of fireworks echoing across rooftops. It’s chaotic but beautiful in its own way.

The highlight this year was watching the fireworks from the roof. As soon as dinner was over, we carried a few chairs upstairs and sat under the open sky. From there, the city stretched endlessly, each neighborhood bursting into light at different moments. Fireworks cracked and shimmered at a distance, painting the skyline with temporary stars. For a few hours, the noise faded into the background, and all that remained was the view—a reminder that celebration can be both collective and deeply personal. The younger ones shouted every time a new pattern appeared in the sky, while the older ones stayed quiet, just observing. There’s something grounding about that perspective, being above it all yet fully part of it. The roof becomes a kind of observation point, where noise turns into rhythm and the city feels united by light.

Family gatherings during Diwali carry a certain predictability that I’ve come to appreciate more with age. The same jokes resurface, the same dishes are served, and the same memories are repeated until they become part of the celebration itself. It’s less about novelty and more about the continuity of affection. I noticed that everyone, in their own way, contributed to keeping the tradition alive - whether through arranging diyas, preparing food, or simply being present. There’s comfort in these repetitions. They offer a sense of stability, a reminder that time can pass yet still allow for sameness. Jaipur amplifies this feeling. The city’s older homes, with their courtyards and terraces, seem built for festivals like this, where light fills every open space.

After the fireworks faded and the diyas were extinguished, the night returned to stillness. The streets outside were quieter, and the faint smell of gunpowder lingered in the air. I stood by the window for a while, looking at the last few lamps burning low. It’s in these small, quiet moments after the noise that Diwali feels most meaningful. The festival is often described as a celebration of light over darkness, but it’s also about finding that light within the ordinary—between people, within homes, and across the fading sounds of celebration. Spending it in Jaipur this year made that meaning clearer. There’s something about seeing your own city illuminated from the rooftop that makes the idea of renewal less abstract. The lights fade, the noise ends, but the memory of that shared brightness lingers far longer.

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.