Adapting Old Diwali Celebrations To A New World

The first time I saw my dad cry, it wasn’t because he’d lost our house, his job, or even his sanity to gambling. Nope, it was over a missing kurta — the one he always wore for Diwali, a keepsake from his late father.

There he was, this once rock-solid man, breaking down over a piece of fabric he thought had been lost in the move.

But hey, at least he made it home.

Diwali is more than a festival in Trinidad— it’s a marathon of family duties, competitive lamp-lighting, and enough sweets to send your pancreas into early retirement.

We’d spend days cleaning the house from top to bottom, making it spotless for Mother Lakshmi’s visit. You see, Diwali is also about welcoming this goddess of wealth and prosperity into your home.

The irony wasn’t lost on me — here we were, broke as can be thanks to Dad’s gambling, yet carefully preparing for a divine visitor who clearly hadn’t RSVP’d in years.

Okay, that was a joke, folks.

In all seriousness, after years of celebrating, I came to understand that Lakshmi’s blessings weren’t just about money in the bank. It was about the wealth of family, tradition, and hope — even when times were tough. Maybe she had been visiting all along, and we just hadn’t noticed.

And my dad, bless his debt-ridden heart, was our MVP — Most Volatile Participant.

Lessons from a not-so-perfect family

He’d disappear for weeks before Diwali, leaving us wondering if he’d turn up in a cloud of smoke or in a ditch somewhere, courtesy of loan sharks. But, as if working on a timetable, he would manage to show up on the day of Diwali, smelling contrite and playing the part of the prodigal dad to perfection.

I’m sure you expect me to share a Hallmark-esque lesson about forgiveness or suggest that the message of light overcoming darkness during Diwali reflects our family’s little redemption story.

But this is no Hallmark special, and I’m not here selling any neatly wrapped tales.

The truth is, those Diwali celebrations were lessons in contradictions: huddling together into the warm glow of diyas, the smell of incense, promises of new beginnings, while our family problems lurked in the background, much like uninvited guests.

Fast-forward to America, and I am staring at the invitation to a Diwali party with roughly the amount of enthusiasm a cat shows when staring into a bath. It promises “authentic celebrations” and “a taste of home,” but it’s all South Asian festivities without a single family member in sight.

I am West Indian. We have our way of doing things, our little celebrations and traditions.

Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the effort. But these smooth, immigrant-friendly celebrations of Diwali? They’re like watching a Bollywood film where someone’s edited out all the dance scenes. It’s just not the same.

And yet, I go.

Why? I suppose it’s that kind of nostalgia — sweet at first, but with a hint of disappointment and just a pinch of cultural guilt mixed in.

They say Diwali celebrates the day Lord Rama finally returned to Ayodhya after 14 years of exile. He’d been through quite the ordeal — surviving in the forest, fighting off demons, rescuing his wife — you name it, he faced it.

When he finally returned, the people of Ayodhya lit up the entire city with lamps, turning it into a glowing welcome home party. But I can’t help but wonder — after all that time away, facing off with rakshasas and dealing with divine drama, did Ayodhya still feel like home to him?

As he looked around at all those flickering lights, did he think, “Thanks for the lights, folks, but something feels… off”?

Life has a funny way of changing us, and after everything we go through, even the places we know best can start to feel a little different.

Between a memory and a moment

Here I am, standing at this Diwali celebration. It’s supposed to be joyful, but it feels more like a facsimile — well-meaning yet strangely empty. And as I look around, I can’t help but think of Lord Rama.

I wonder if he ever struggled with that same feeling of not belonging.

Okay, I get it — it’s a bit much, comparing my immigrant life to a god-king’s grand return from exile. But there’s something about those childhood stories — they have a way of clinging to you.

They shape your perspective, even when the place you’re looking at is nothing like the one you grew up in.

Nostalgia is strange, especially when it’s tangled up with culture. The more I idealize those Diwalis from my childhood, the more the present falls short. It’s like being stuck on a cultural treadmill — constantly chasing this perfect memory that always seems just out of reach.

Back in Trinidad, Diwali was pure magic during my childhood — bright lights, delicious sweets, and that buzz of excitement in the air. But as the years went by, those moments started to lose their glow. They became routine, almost scripted.

My dad’s money troubles added another layer to it, turning those once-sweet memories a little bittersweet.

In our strict Hindu household, fasting wasn’t optional. Every celebration had a certain gravity — sometimes, it felt downright harsh.

Sure, those rituals were a big part of my upbringing, but sometimes, the joy they were meant to bring got lost in all that seriousness. I had these beautiful memories that still felt a little out of reach.

Fasting was expected for everything.

Phagwa? Fast.

Navratri? Obviously.

Karva Chauth? Yup, you guessed it.

Sometimes, I didn’t really understand why I was denying myself food.

And I really loved the food.

I respected the devotion behind it, but as a teenager, I often found myself just going through the motions — lighting the diyas and saying the prayers — without knowing what it meant.

And, funny enough, there’s actually some research that backs up this feeling. It turns out immigrants often find themselves missing cultural traditions they didn’t fully appreciate back home. Leaving that familiar place somehow makes us unreliable storytellers of our past.

So here I am, missing a celebration I never fully appreciated, longing for family connections that were often dysfunctional, and feeling like an outsider in my old and new worlds.

The question is: Am I genuinely mourning my lost culture or grieving the idealized version I’ve created in my mind?

Maybe what we’re really losing isn’t just those childhood Diwalis. Maybe it’s the chance to create new traditions that fit who we’ve become instead of clinging to a past that’s always out of reach.

Finding light in the messy middle

As the evening drifts on, I end up chatting with another cultural misfit. She admits, with a half-laugh, that she’s never felt “more Indian” than she does here in America — ironic, considering she’s let go of so many traditions she grew up with.

We share a knowing smile, two displaced souls bonding over this odd sense of not quite belonging anywhere.

And then it hits me, like a firecra… I mean, a “safe and eco-friendly light display.” Maybe this is our new version of Diwali: not a flawless re-enactment of the past, but a messy, mixed-up celebration of who we are now.

We’re cultural in-betweeners, clinging to a past that might never have been as perfect as we remember.

On my way out, I find myself reflecting on another Hindu story — the one about Lord Ganesha and the mango. Now, for those who didn’t grow up hearing bedtime stories about elephant-headed deities, let me give you the cliff notes version.

Ganesha, with his elephant head on a human body, is the god of new beginnings and the remover of obstacles. He’s known for his clever thinking.

In one of the stories, Ganesha and his brother, Kartikeya, are challenged by their parents, Shiva and Parvati, to circle the world.

Kartikeya jumps on his peacock and sets off on an adventurous journey around the world.

But Ganesha? He simply walks around his parents and declares himself done.

His logic? To him, his parents were his entire world, so circling them was just like circling the globe.

It’s a charming story, but it’s got a deeper message — it speaks to what truly matters and how we define our own “world.” When faced with a grand challenge, Ganesha didn’t play by the usual rules. He saw things through his unique lens, and that’s how he found his way.

Maybe that’s what we’re doing here, too — trying to carve out a new reality that resonates with us.

So here’s to Diwali in America — may it be as beautifully imperfect as we are. One day, our kids might look back on these “unique” community center celebrations with the same nostalgia we feel for our childhood memories.

Because isn’t that the essence of being human?

We stumble through life in search of meaning, somehow finding light in the darkness — even if that light comes from a battery-powered diya we picked up during Amazon’s Prime Day sale.

Happy Diwali — may you always find light in your life!

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