A Guest Week in a Family House at Diwali

Editor’s note: This is a guest post. The author’s name and biography will be added before publication. Travel Viewpoint welcomes first-person accounts from readers; the views and experiences here are the writer’s own.

I had been invited to spend Diwali with a friend’s family for years before I finally said yes. Every October the message came: “Come this time. My mother insists.” And every October I found a reason not to. Work, money, the trains. Last year I ran out of excuses, booked a ticket, and spent a week in a family house in a small town, as a guest who was not quite a stranger and not quite family. This is what I learned.

Arriving before the festival

I arrived four days before Diwali, which turned out to be exactly right. The house was in the middle of its great annual clean. Furniture had been pushed into the courtyard, curtains were off, walls were being whitewashed. My friend’s mother greeted me, handed me a cup of tea, and then, within the hour, handed me a duster. I had imagined being a guest. I was, it turned out, an extra pair of hands.

I would not have it any other way. Cleaning the house together is part of the festival in many families: an invitation to Lakshmi, the goddess of prosperity, who is said to favour clean and well-lit homes. By the end of the second day I knew every corner of that house, and the family knew I could be trusted with the good china.

Dhanteras

On Dhanteras, the day of buying something new, we went to the market as a family. My friend’s father bought a steel pot, as he does every year. His mother bought a small silver coin. The market was packed, bright and loud, and we were there for hours. I bought a set of clay lamps and a box of sweets for the household, which my friend’s mother accepted with the polite reluctance that I later learned meant she was pleased.

The kitchen

The days before Diwali were spent largely in the kitchen. The family made sweets and snacks at home: some fried, some made with milk, some with gram flour. My contribution was limited to rolling, folding and carrying trays, but I was allowed to taste everything. I learned that each family has its own recipes, and that a sweet everyone seems to make is never made quite the same way in two houses.

Rangoli

On the morning of the main festival, my friend’s younger sister drew a rangoli at the front door. She had practised it for days on paper. The design was intricate, with lotus petals and a border of small footprints leading into the house, said to be the goddess’s footsteps. I was asked to fill in one section with colour. My section was not the best part of the rangoli, but nobody said so.

The puja

In the evening, the family gathered for Lakshmi puja. I sat at the back, unsure of what to do. My friend’s grandmother noticed and called me forward, showing me where to sit and when to fold my hands. Afterwards she pressed a sweet into my hand and said something I didn’t understand, which my friend translated as: “Now you belong to this house too.”

I will not pretend I fully understood the ritual. But I understood that I had been included in something private and precious, and I was grateful.

Lamps

After the puja came the lamps. Dozens of clay diyas were filled with oil and lit, then carried to every corner of the house: the gate, the stairs, the roof, the windows, the well in the courtyard. We worked in pairs, one person carrying the tray, the other placing the lamps. When we finished and stepped into the lane to look back, the whole house was outlined in tiny flames. So were the neighbours’ houses. The street glowed.

The neighbours

Then came the visiting. We went from house to house with boxes of sweets, and in each house we were given tea and more sweets in return. I met perhaps twenty people that night. Each wanted to know where I was from and whether I liked the food. By the end of the evening I could barely move, and I was happier than I had been in a long time.

The days after

The days after Diwali were slower. There was Govardhan Puja, with its offering of food, and then Bhai Dooj, when sisters pray for their brothers and brothers give gifts. I watched my friend’s sisters perform the small ritual for him, and then, to my surprise, for me. I gave them what I could, and they laughed at my embarrassment.

What I would tell another guest

Arrive early, before the festival, and offer to help.
Bring a gift for the household, and something small for the children.
Ask before photographing the puja or family members.
Eat what you are offered, slowly. There will be more.
Learn a few words of the local language.
Let the family guide you; every household has its own customs.
Write a thank-you note when you get home.

Coming home

I left the house a week after I arrived, with a bag full of sweets, a red thread on my wrist and a standing invitation to return. On the train home I realised I had barely taken a photograph all week. I had been too busy taking part.

The food I still think about

I cannot leave out the food. Breakfasts were long and lazy, with fresh puris and a potato curry that my friend’s mother made in a huge iron pan. Lunches were simple, because everyone was saving room. And the sweets kept coming, from morning to night, each one offered with the same insistence: just one more. I came home a little heavier and much happier, and I have been trying, without success, to recreate that potato curry ever since.

A week in a family house at Diwali is not a holiday in the usual sense. You will not see many sights. You may work harder than you do at home. But you will see the festival from the inside, as it is lived, and you will understand why so many people travel so far to be home for it.