Reflection on a Hindu childhood

Written by Vrishti Salvani

Illustration by Korey Griggs

One of my fondest memories growing up was how we celebrated Diwali. Even though some states in the US now have their public schools take the day off, this wasn’t the case where I grew up in Guangzhou, Southern China. But that didn’t stop my parents from taking my sisters and me out of school for one day every Fall just to celebrate the “Festival of Lights.”

We’d start our day off in our dad’s office. My sisters and I would be decked out in bright Churidars, and you’d hear our ensemble of bangles ring as we’d run between the cubicles. Our grandmother would be in a conference room setting up an altar for the Diwali prayers—a coconut, rice, and homemade sweets all placed in front of Hindu deities. She’d light the Diya she made, a wick sitting in a candle holder filled with ghee. After all the chanting and singing prayer songs, my mom would wave her hand over the warmth of the flame and caress mine and my sisters’ heads as a way of giving us blessings.

There was something warm and cheerful about a room full of middle-aged Indian men yelling ‘Happy Diwali’ to everyone who attended the prayers.

My family would eventually make our way into their office’s dining room which would only fit about 10 people at a time. The catering team made sure to make dishes with seven vegetables, a Diwali tradition. We’d go home in the evening and eventually do the same prayer just between us as a family and end the night on the phone celebrating with some of our most distant relatives that we’d only talk to this time of the year.

I moved to Atlanta shortly after Diwali, back in 2020. Last year was my first year spending it away from most of my family.