26 posts tagged with "festival"

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.

Diwali always feels different when there are people to share it with. The lights, sweets, and decorations matter, but they gain meaning only through company. This year, as the festival begins, I’m reminded of how much the feeling of festivity depends on the people around you—family, friends, or even colleagues who carry the same excitement. The next three days promise a mix of familiar rituals and casual gatherings, and I find myself looking forward to them more than usual. There’s something grounding about being surrounded by people who share the same rhythm of celebration, the same pause in their otherwise busy routines. Diwali in that sense is less about the event and more about the shared slowing down.

The build-up to the festival has already started taking shape in small ways—the society lights going up, local markets buzzing late into the evening, and the constant background hum of planning who’s visiting whom. Even the workplace feels lighter, conversations shifting from deadlines to decorations and snacks. These transitions matter because they mark time in a way that the rest of the year doesn’t. Festivals like Diwali bring everyone onto a common wavelength, even if only briefly. When shared with a team, it turns into a collective reminder that beyond work, people still value connection. Small gestures—like sharing sweets, lighting diyas together, or just taking a break to talk—end up meaning more than formal celebrations.

At home, the preparations carry their own rhythm. Family gatherings tend to follow a predictable pattern—cleaning, cooking, exchanging gifts—but every year it feels slightly different because the people change. Kids grow older, new members join, and others return from far away, and those shifts redefine what the festival means. This year, I’m especially aware of that continuity. It’s easy to get caught up in logistics—what to buy, where to go—but when the lights come on in the evening and the house smells of food and incense, all of that fades into the background. The act of simply being together starts to matter most.

What I like most about Diwali is the brief window of stillness it creates in an otherwise fast calendar. The days leading up to it are always hectic, but once it begins, the sense of rush softens. Even people you barely know seem a bit more open, a bit more patient. The energy in cities like Gurgaon or Delhi shifts subtly—the same streets look brighter, and the same people seem to carry less weight. There’s a reminder in that mood about how community still matters, even when most of life feels fragmented into screens and schedules. Sharing that feeling, whether with family or the team at work, makes it more real.

The next few days will pass quickly, as they always do, but I’m hoping to stay present through them. Festivals like Diwali have a way of resetting attention—not by asking for reflection, but by creating moments worth remembering. It’s not about grand gestures or perfect photos, but about noticing small things: the light spilling from a balcony, the laughter over a shared meal, the sound of fireworks in the distance. These are simple, repeatable experiences, yet they define what festivity feels like. I’m looking forward to the next three days, not just for the celebrations themselves, but for the reminder that joy multiplies when shared, and that some of the best parts of Diwali are the quiet ones spent together.

The pre-diwali festivities in Gurgaon have a way of pulling me back into a quieter kind of joy, one that doesn’t depend on grand plans or travel but unfolds in small corners of familiar spaces. This year, the celebration felt more complete because my brother, sister-in-law, and their little daughter, Idika, were here from Dubai. The society where I live organizes a Diwali mela every year, and I had always treated it as background noise—music echoing through the buildings, laughter from stalls, and an occasional burst of fireworks. But with family around, the same space felt warmer. We walked down to the mela in the evening, the air thick with food smells and faint traces of burnt crackers. It wasn’t extraordinary, but it felt grounded and good.

I hadn’t seen Idika in person for a long time, and watching her reactions to the lights and crowd became the highlight of the evening. At almost four years old, she’s at that age where everything is both new and magical. She tugged at my hand, pointing at the balloon vendor and a bright stand of bracelets that caught the light in pink and gold. I bought her one of each, and she wore the bracelets over her sleeves like they were treasures. My brother laughed, and my sister-in-law took pictures, and I found myself quietly observing how easily moments like these form memories. The mela wasn’t particularly large, but it had the essentials—chaat stalls, toy stands, and an abundance of people in festive clothes.

The chaat was as messy and satisfying as always. We stood balancing plates of golgappas and aloo tikki under a string of fairy lights. There’s something about eating standing up, surrounded by sound, that makes the food taste more alive. Idika was too distracted to eat properly, but she liked the idea of holding a paper plate, dipping a golgappa in the spicy water with both hands, and then deciding she didn’t want it after all. My brother finished the rest with his usual patience. We moved from one stall to another, not looking for anything in particular—just letting the evening decide the pace. The lights from the diyas and string bulbs reflected on her balloon, and for a second, I caught myself remembering Diwalis from when we were kids, when the excitement came from the same kind of simple things.

As the night went on, the crowd thickened. People were bargaining for decorations, teenagers were clicking selfies, and there was a stage where children performed a small dance. The air carried a mix of smoke, incense, and food—a typical festive blend that somehow smells the same every year. Idika’s energy started to fade, and she clung to her mother’s arm, her balloon now trailing behind. We stopped for ice cream on the way back, because that’s her version of closure for any outing. Watching her eat it, face smeared and happy, made me think about how festivals often become meaningful through children. Adults go through the motions—lights, sweets, visits—but for kids, it’s discovery, and that rediscovery through their eyes brings back a forgotten innocence.

The lights in every apartment flickered in some rhythm of togetherness. It was a short moment but one that will probably stay in memory longer than most. Family changes the shape of such evenings. When they’re not around, festivals can feel like just another long weekend. But when they are, even the ordinary feels fuller. Diwali this year didn’t stand out because of anything unique—it was special simply because of presence. The same surroundings, the same routine, but shared differently. And maybe that’s what most festivals really mean, not the ritual but the reminder that joy doubles when it’s witnessed together.

The festivities are starting again, and the signs are everywhere. Buildings are lit with decorative lights, shops are filled with offers, and the days ahead promise the familiar cycle of gatherings, food, and ritual. Diwali sits at the center of this season, but the atmosphere spreads beyond a single festival. It feels like the year turns different during these weeks, when routine gives way to preparation and anticipation. Evenings in particular carry a brightness that is less about light alone and more about the shared sense that celebration is near.

The commercial side of the season is difficult to miss. Sales go live across all platforms, and every brand competes for attention with discounts and campaigns. For many, this is the time when major purchases are planned, whether it is clothes, electronics, or household goods. The ritual of buying something new has become part of the tradition, just as central in its own way as the religious ceremonies. It reflects how festivals evolve, blending cultural memory with modern consumption. This mix is not always simple, but it has become a defining feature of the festive period.

Food, however, remains the clearest marker of celebration. Sweets and snacks take over households, often prepared in advance or bought in bulk to share with guests. Eating becomes more frequent, more indulgent, and less disciplined than in ordinary weeks. It is not only about the food itself but about the act of sharing—boxes of sweets exchanged, plates served at gatherings, and meals that stretch longer because conversation holds them together. This abundance is part of what makes the festivals distinct, giving them texture beyond ritual and commerce.

What also stands out is the collective energy that festivals create. Even for those who do not participate directly, the atmosphere is impossible to ignore. The lights, sounds, and gatherings fill spaces that otherwise remain ordinary. In housing societies and neighborhoods, decorations and events bring residents together who might otherwise remain distant. This temporary shift in how people interact shows how festivals function as more than religious observances; they are also tools of social connection. The festive season gives structure to community life, reminding people that they are part of something larger.

The celebrations bring joy, but they also bring disruption to routines, indulgence that replaces discipline, and an intensity that eventually fades. Perhaps that is part of their importance—they remind us that life moves in cycles, that brightness and abundance come in bursts before quiet returns. The buildings lit at night, the sales flashing online, and the plates of festive food all point to this rhythm, marking the shift into days defined less by work and more by celebration.

Dushera always brings a reminder of how festivals carry both cultural meaning and personal reflection. It marks the victory of good over evil, most often remembered through the story of Lord Rama defeating Ravana, but its importance extends beyond the myth itself. The act of celebrating Dushera is about affirming values that persist through time—truth, discipline, and resilience. In many places, effigies of Ravana are burned, and that symbolic act connects communities in a shared acknowledgment that wrongdoing can be overcome. Saying happy Dushera is not only a greeting but also a recognition of why the festival exists, as it brings people back to the idea of choosing righteousness in daily life.

The festival also represents the conclusion of Navratri, tying together ten days of devotion and fasting with a celebration that unites families and neighborhoods. For those who observe, this transition carries a sense of renewal. It shows how cultural rhythms are set to remind people of cycles of effort and reward, devotion and joy. In that sense, Dushera does not stand alone but is part of a sequence of festivals that guide both community and individual through the year. It is important because it helps to mark time with meaning, ensuring that tradition remains woven into modern life.

Remembering the story itself is significant because it is less about the historical figure of Ravana and more about the symbolism he represents. Arrogance, greed, and misuse of power are traits that continue to exist in society, and the burning of his effigy serves as a collective act of rejecting those qualities. At the same time, Rama’s victory highlights the value of patience, strategy, and trust in allies. These lessons are carried forward not as rigid rules but as cultural memory, shaping the way people interpret moral choices in the present. The importance of Dushera lies in its ability to keep these reminders active, not as distant mythology but as living tradition.

On a personal level, festivals like Dushera often bring a pause from routine. Even without participating in the larger gatherings, there is an atmosphere of reflection that settles in. It becomes an occasion to think about where personal struggles lie and what patterns need to be discarded. The symbolic burning of negativity can be understood at the level of individual habits, making the festival both communal and personal. In that way, Dushera offers a chance to align private life with broader cultural symbolism, creating a bridge between inward reflection and outward celebration.

This year, wishing happy Dushera feels like an acknowledgment of both continuity and change. The core meaning of the festival remains intact, but the way it is celebrated adapts to the times. Large gatherings may shift in form, and the methods of observance may vary, yet the essence stays. The importance of Dushera is not measured by the scale of celebration but by the persistence of its message. It endures because the need to affirm truth and resist wrongdoing is always present. Remembering that through festival rituals makes the tradition relevant even today.

The ISKCON temple on Sohna Road in Gurgaon transforms into a logistical marvel during Janmashtami celebrations, demonstrating that religious devotion and event management can coexist remarkably well when proper planning meets enthusiastic volunteerism. Haryana's deep-rooted devotion to Lord Krishna becomes evident during this festival as thousands of devotees converge on the temple complex, creating crowds that would challenge any venue but somehow get managed through systematic organization and community cooperation. The temple administration's approach to handling massive influxes of visitors reveals institutional learning that has evolved over years of festival experience, resulting in smooth operations despite the scale of attendance. The combination of spiritual significance and practical execution creates an environment where devotees can focus on worship rather than logistics, which represents no small achievement given the complexity involved in managing religious gatherings of this magnitude. The success of these arrangements reflects both the temple's operational competence and the broader cultural infrastructure that supports religious celebrations across the region.

The parking arrangements during Janmashtami demonstrate the kind of forward thinking that would make urban planners proud, with additional lots secured well beyond the temple's normal capacity and golf cart services coordinated to move devotees efficiently between parking areas and the main complex. Volunteers stationed at every intersection guide vehicles with the precision of air traffic controllers, preventing the gridlock that typically accompanies large gatherings in Gurgaon's already congested road network. The sight of devotees walking considerable distances from parking areas to the temple creates a modern pilgrimage experience where the journey becomes part of the devotional practice, though one suspects the exercise component was not intentionally designed as spiritual enhancement. Traffic management extends beyond the immediate temple vicinity to coordinate with local authorities, ensuring that the celebration does not paralyze surrounding neighborhoods where residents might be less enthusiastic about religious festivities disrupting their weekend routines. The effectiveness of these arrangements becomes apparent when comparing them to typical Gurgaon traffic situations, where even minor events can create hours-long delays and frustrated commuters questioning their life choices.

The volunteer coordination at ISKCON during Janmashtami resembles a well-orchestrated corporate event, with hundreds of individuals manning different stations from crowd control to book distribution, each apparently briefed on their specific responsibilities and equipped with the patience required to handle thousands of excited devotees. The free book distribution operation alone represents a logistical achievement that would challenge commercial enterprises, involving inventory management, strategic positioning, and volunteers who can explain complex philosophical concepts while managing queues that stretch for considerable distances. The barricading system creates orderly pathways through areas that would otherwise become chaotic bottlenecks, demonstrating understanding of crowd psychology and flow dynamics that prevents the crushing situations that have unfortunately characterized some religious gatherings elsewhere. Volunteers appear to have been trained not just in their specific duties but in maintaining the cheerful demeanor that keeps the overall atmosphere positive despite the inherent stress of managing large crowds in limited space. The coordination required to deploy this volunteer workforce effectively suggests organizational capabilities that extend well beyond typical religious institution management.

The temple decorations during Janmashtami represent artistic achievement that transforms the already impressive architecture into something approaching theatrical grandeur, with elaborate floral arrangements, lighting installations, and themed displays that create immersive environments for worship and reflection. The attention to detail in decorative elements suggests months of preparation and significant financial investment, creating visual experiences that enhance the spiritual significance of the occasion while providing Instagram-worthy moments for devotees who document their temple visits with modern enthusiasm. The balance between traditional aesthetic elements and contemporary presentation techniques demonstrates cultural adaptation that maintains authenticity while appealing to diverse audiences including younger generations who might otherwise find religious observances less engaging. The decoration themes apparently change throughout the day to reflect different aspects of Krishna's life and teachings, creating multiple visual experiences for devotees who spend extended time at the temple during the festival period. The coordination required to execute these decorative schemes while maintaining normal temple operations and accommodating massive crowd increases represents project management skills that would transfer effectively to commercial event planning.

The overall success of ISKCON Gurgaon's Janmashtami celebration reflects institutional maturity that has learned to balance spiritual objectives with practical necessities, creating experiences that satisfy both devotional needs and basic human requirements for safety, comfort, and organization. The temple's ability to maintain its core religious functions while scaling up operations to accommodate festival crowds demonstrates adaptability that many organizations struggle to achieve when facing significant operational challenges. The positive atmosphere maintained throughout the event despite obvious stress on facilities and personnel suggests cultural values that prioritize collective wellbeing over individual convenience, creating community experiences that reinforce social bonds alongside spiritual practices. The economic impact of these celebrations on the local area, from increased business for nearby shops to employment opportunities for temporary workers, illustrates how religious institutions can contribute to broader community prosperity through well-managed events. The team responsible for coordinating these arrangements deserves recognition not just for their devotional service but for their professional competence in executing complex logistical operations that serve thousands of people while maintaining the dignity and significance appropriate to important religious observances.

This year, Holi brought a much-needed reunion with my close friends in Jaipur. It had been a while since we all gathered together, and the occasion felt special, not just because of the festival but also because of how our lives have evolved over the years. What stood out this time was the inclusion of our families in the celebrations. Our wives, who were once strangers to each other, have now become friends, sharing their own conversations and laughter. The bond we share as a group remains strong, but it’s interesting to see how it has expanded to include the people who are now an integral part of our lives. The dynamics have changed, but the core of our friendship—trust, comfort, and shared memories—has stayed the same.

One of the highlights of the day was spending time with the kids. Watching them play, laugh, and interact with each other was a reminder of how much they’ve grown. They’re no longer the shy, hesitant children we once knew. Instead, they’re confident, observant, and unafraid to express their thoughts. Their conversations were a mix of innocence and surprising maturity, often influenced by the internet and the digital world they’re growing up in. It’s fascinating to see how technology has shaped their perspectives, making them more aware and curious about the world around them. At the same time, it was refreshing to see them enjoy the simple pleasures of Holi—playing with colors, running around, and indulging in sweets.

The day was filled with the usual Holi rituals—throwing colors, sharing meals, and reminiscing about old times. But what made it unique was the sense of togetherness that came from having everyone under one roof. The kids added a new layer of energy to the celebrations, while the adults found comfort in the familiarity of each other’s company. It’s rare to find moments like these, where you can truly disconnect from the chaos of daily life and just be present with the people who matter most. Holi, in many ways, became a celebration of not just colors but also of the relationships that have stood the test of time.

As the day came to an end, I couldn’t help but feel grateful for the friendships that have remained constant despite the changes life has brought. Celebrating Holi with friends and their families in Jaipur was a reminder of how important it is to cherish these moments. To everyone reading this, I wish you a Happy Holi. May your celebrations be filled with joy, laughter, and the company of loved ones.

Holi, one of the most significant festivals in the Hindu calendar, marks the arrival of spring and the end of winter. It is a time of renewal, both in nature and in spirit. The festival is celebrated with colors, music, and food, but for me, its true essence lies in the sense of belonging it brings. Holi, much like Diwali, is a festival that draws me back home. Being in Jaipur during this time feels like returning to my roots, a reminder of where I come from and the people who make life meaningful. The festival is not just about the rituals or the colors; it is about the warmth of family, the laughter of friends, and the joy of being surrounded by loved ones.

Holi is a time of renewal, both in nature and in spirit.​

The change of seasons that Holi signifies is symbolic in many ways. Winter, with its quiet and introspective energy, gives way to the vibrancy of spring. The fields come alive with new crops, and the air carries a sense of hope and rejuvenation. For me, this transition mirrors the emotional shift I experience when I go home. The chaos of daily life fades away, replaced by a sense of calm and contentment. Holi, with its playful energy, feels like a celebration of this renewal. It is a time to let go of the past and embrace the present, to reconnect with the people and places that ground me.

Today, as I prepare for my road trip to Jaipur, I am reminded of why I like this festival so much. The journey itself is a part of the experience. The roads leading to Jaipur are familiar, yet every trip feels different. The anticipation builds as I get closer to home, and the sight of the city’s landmarks fills me with a sense of comfort. Holi in Jaipur is a unique experience. The city, known for its rich culture and traditions, comes alive during the festival. The streets are filled with people celebrating, and the air is thick with the scent of gujiyas and thandai. It is a sensory experience that I look forward to every year.

As I write this, I am filled with gratitude for the opportunity to be home for Holi. It is a reminder of the importance of staying connected to one’s roots, of finding joy in the simple things, and of celebrating life with the people who matter most. To everyone celebrating, Happy Holi. May the festival bring you happiness, peace, and a sense of renewal. And to Jaipur, I look forward to seeing you soon, to being home, and to creating more memories that will last a lifetime.

Growing up in Jaipur, Makar Sankranti was never just another winter festival - it was the day of kites. The preparations would start weeks before, with trips to the local patang shops to stock up on kites and manjha. The excitement would build up as the festival approached, with practice sessions on the terrace becoming more frequent. The day of Sankranti transformed our usually quiet neighborhood into a battlefield in the sky. From sunrise to sunset, everyone - kids, adults, even the elderly - would be on their terraces. The morning would start with the ritual of setting up our kite-flying station. A comfortable spot would be chosen, usually near a wall for back support, and the manjha would be carefully arranged to prevent tangling. The early morning sky would already have a few kites, like early birds testing the wind. By mid-morning, the sky would be dotted with kites of all sizes and colors. The familiar calls of "woh kata" would echo across terraces as kites were cut and fell from the sky. Lunch would be eaten hurriedly, often on the terrace itself, to not miss any action.

The real thrill was in the aerial battles. Each cut kite was a victory celebrated with shouts that would carry across terraces. The afternoon sun would make the manjha glisten as it caught the light, creating an almost magical effect. There was an unspoken code among kite flyers - certain challenges couldn't be refused, and winning or losing was part of the game. Sometimes, entire afternoons would be spent trying to cut one particularly skillful opponent's kite. The community aspect was strong - neighbors would share kites, give tips, and celebrate victories together. Even those who didn't fly kites would come to their terraces to watch and be part of the festival.

This year in Gurgaon, Makar Sankranti feels different. The sky here remains empty of kites, and the festival passes like any other day. The absence of kite-flying culture in this city is striking, especially for someone who grew up with it being such a significant part of life. The festival marks the sun's northward journey and the start of longer days, but without the kites, it loses its special charm. While Gurgaon has its own culture and celebrations, the missing sound of kites cutting through the wind and the absence of that familiar anticipation of aerial battles leaves a noticeable void. It's these moments that make me realize how deeply rooted some traditions are in specific places, and how moving to a new city means adapting to different ways of celebrating the same festival.