Growing Up Middle Class in India: My Diwali Without Fireworks and the Lesson It Taught Me

Growing Up Middle Class in India: My Diwali Without Fireworks and the Lesson It Taught Me

At the age of ten years, my family was experiencing one of the worst periods in our lives. We were a middle-income family residing in a small rented house where a rupee counts. Diwali is a festival of lights to most people. It is the festival of celebrations, sweets, and fireworks. However, it was a festival to us, which softly reminded us of our struggle.

When Diwali Felt Like It was a Foreign Country.

At that time, we never had enough finances to have a Diwali like other people. Lighting crackers was a thing of the past, it was hard even to get decent food on the table. When my neighbors were on the verge of decorating the houses, setting off fireworks, and laughing with their families, I would simply be standing by the window and watching the sky as it was being lit up in colors that I could not physically touch. I can recall the stench of burning crackers floating airborne, the screaming of laughing children running down the streets and the gentle presence of diyas on all doorsteps except our own. Despite their weariness and concern, my parents always made an attempt to make our Diwali special. They did not want to waste a lot of money in splendid parties, but they never made us feel like outcasts. They would always ensure that my brother and I received new clothes during Diwali every year. They would be hoarding here and there, scrimping themselves, simply that we might have something to put on the festival of lights. Although we did not have sweets and fireworks, that little action made us feel wealthy in love.

The Crackers That We Couldn't Buy.

Watching other kids burst crackers was the worst part for me as a child. Everyone was happy, and the sound was so sparkling that I wished I could have been part of it. I knew that my parents could not afford it. Dad would take me and my brother to the cracker shop, where we only window shopped. I can recall that his eyes immediately focused on the price tags and he was being a hard-working computer on the calculation inside his head.

He would smile, pat our shoulders and say in a low voice, Next year we will buy more. But I was aware he was telling us so, to reassure us. I would even pity him, how he would have liked to leave us the world and was unable. Nevertheless, there was always something that he could afford to spend on small crackers. In ten or fifteen minutes we would then burn them and laugh at them as though we were the owners of the night sky. Then my brother and I would be standing at the window again, and the world would be getting lit up. And our crackers were killed but our smiles were not. Because we were aware that our parents had provided us with all they could, and more.

The silent power of the middle-class family.

It is a silent story in the middle-class families, of unspoken sacrifices and unspoken joys. It is true that our parents may not have provided us with everything we desired but they provided us with everything possible. That is what renders the life of the middle classes so beautiful and so painful simultaneously. It may be nothing to the average world to buy a box of crackers, but to us as a family, it was a dream, a luxury that was bound up in the laughter and the light. And all the same, though there was hard work, there was so much love at home. Our diyas were not the brightest; our fireworks were not the loudest but we had something better something that no darkness could take away its luster.

When the Craze Wanes, Yet the Lessons Lure.

Years passed, and I grew up. Life changed. We labored and gradually, we were able to improve our financial situation. Nowadays, we can afford all the crackers that we desire. We are able to beautify our house, purchase sweets, gifts, and celebrate Diwali in a big way. But oddly enough the childish eagerness is lost. Now, when Diwali arrives I no longer wait to hear the fireworks. I do not rush to the window and look at the color in the sky. The festival, which used to make me dream, now merely seems another day, a day to remind me of where and how far we have gone. I sometimes think, perhaps that is what life is, it teaches you that you do not need to have everything to be happy, but to appreciate what you possess. At the very least, we could hardly get along without a small sparkler. And now that we have all of that, that magic is absent.

The Real Light of Diwali

Whenever I look around at Diwali in the hands of children dashing about with crackers in their hands, their faces radiant in the glow of a thousand sparks, I smile. I still see that ten-year-old me somewhere inside, standing at the window and looking at the sky and dreaming. And I understand something: the true Diwali never had anything to do with crackers or lights. It was concerning the individuals who were there when you had nothing. It was concerning parents who lost their joy so that you could smile for a few minutes. It was on seeking comfort in the basics. The middle-class might not necessarily be the brightest Diwali but they have the brightest hearts. They also teach us that money is no better than love and that light is not necessarily something that is produced by fire; at times it is something that is produced by hope.

Conclusion

Life changes. Circumstances change. Yet the lessons we get when we are children remain everlasting. Today, I will not find myself hankering after crackers, but whenever Diwali, I will remember my parents, their struggle, their sacrifice, and their silent love.

They provided me with the best gift of all the one to teach me that happiness does not lie in the things that you can buy, but the people that surround you. I just wish Happy Diwali to all people, including the middle-class families, who have the true light of Diwali in their hearts.