This Diwali, the House Is Full
The warmth of family, the gift of presence, and the quiet faith that light always returns
The door swung open with a gust of cold air, and our youngest stepped in, bag slung over his shoulder, grinning.
“Two days,” he said. “And I’m starving.”
Behind him, the middle one shouted from the kitchen, “Who finished the paneer?”
Our daughter called back, “Who finished the patience?”
The house – quiet for weeks – suddenly filled with motion: shoes at odd angles, coats on the banister, laughter bouncing off the walls like light itself had found its way home.
Outside, the trees are starting to shed leaves and preparing to go bare. Darkness comes early now – the kind that feels heavier than just weather.
But inside, every bulb glows, every corner hums.
Later today, the kids’ friends will arrive – our daughter’s friends who need a warm home and a change of pace, one of them holding steady through more than her share of challenges; some of my sons’ friends far from their own families. The thought of this house full of young people again – music, noise, stories – makes my chest ache in the best way.
This year, I’ve had more time than I expected. Time to think, to worry, to hope.
Being out of work can make the days quieter than you want them to be.
But the quiet has also made me see things more clearly – what’s here, who’s here, and how much light still finds its way in, even when the career lights flicker.
My wife has kept the house alive through it all. She hums when she cooks – old songs, half remembered, half reinvented.
She sets up trays of diyas with the same precision she brings to every other part of our lives.
These days, we mostly use battery ones – small, flickering, convenient – but she insists on a few real flames.
“For smell,” she says. “And soul.”
So we light both kinds: the practical and the sacred. The certain and the fragile.
I stand on top of the outside steps, where the air bites a little. The first diya shakes in the wind before settling.
It reminds me of our first Diwali together – thirty-two years ago in a tiny apartment with paper lamps taped to the wall and a somewhat stale box of sweets.
Back then, we didn’t know what we were building.
We just kept lighting up small things, hoping they would add up.
From the corner of my eye, I can see her watching me now – busy in constant motion, soft smile – the same one that once convinced me everything was going to be fine, even when it wasn’t.
Inside, the music shifts. The kids are arguing about playlists again – Lata, Arijit, or Karan Aujla. Memory or mood.
The smell of ghee and cardamom fills the air.
Someone drops a spoon; someone else laughs too loudly.
It’s all perfectly messy, perfectly alive.
When we sit down to eat, the table is too small for the number of dishes and stories it’s expected to hold.
The kids talk over each other; I try to follow but give up.
My wife looks around the table, her eyes shining – not from tears exactly, but from everything that has led to this moment.
I see it before she does – her eyes starting to well.
I reach for a handkerchief (yes, I’m one of those who still carry them) and dab them gently, pretending it’s nothing, though mine are glassy too.
We share a look that says everything words can’t.
Thirty-two Diwalis.
Thirty-two times, finding our way back to this same, steady warmth.
We’ve known years of abundance and years of restraint.
Years of good work – and this one, strange and uncertain, but no less blessed.
The difference is that now, I see the gift more clearly.
Later, when the plates are cleared, we will step outside again. I love this repeatable and changing rhythm every Diwali.
The battery diyas will glow in their perfect, predictable rhythm.
The real flames – the ones fed by ghee – will bend and dance in the wind, alive in a way electricity can’t imitate.
The kids will light sparklers and shout over the crackle.
A few of their friends will join in, scarves around their necks, cheeks flushed from the cold.
Someone will start filming; someone else will wave the camera away. Someone will shriek in joy and one of the neighbors will look out their window with a smile.
I stand back for a moment and take in the memories - old and the ones we will create tonight: the sound of laughter layered over music, the smell of something faintly burnt but comforting, the sight of light reflected in young eyes that still believe in everything.
My wife slips her hand into mine.
“Full house,” she says.
“Full heart,” I answer.
When the sparklers fade, we will stay outside a little longer, just talking.
The air is crisp enough to make every word visible.
Soon these kids will scatter again – back to campuses, cities, jobs, and new beginnings.
The house will return to its quieter rhythm.
But today, it feels like the universe made a small exception for us – pressing pause long enough for everyone to remember what home feels like when it’s complete.
I don’t know what comes next.
I just know we’ll face it together, the way we always have – one small flame at a time.
As we will head inside later tonight, my wife will leaves the porch light and one diya burning near the door.
“For luck,” she will say.
I will smile. “For light,” I think.
We light lamps not because the darkness is gone, but because we’re still here to see through it.
Joy isn’t a celebration of what’s perfect – it’s gratitude for what’s still possible.
And tonight, the house will be full.
That’s more than enough.
May your paths be lit with kindness, your tables surrounded by laughter, and your hearts open to the gentle miracles of every ordinary day.
A Diwali – and a year ahead – full of light that endures.
Enjoy your loved ones and the rest of your Sunday!
And thank you for spending some of it with me.
Warm regards,
Adi
Happy Sunday from here. Stay blessed