Memories of Diwali with my friend

I'll never forget the Diwalis I spent at Amit's house during our childhood years. His home became my second home during these festivities, and through his family, I learned to love and appreciate this beautiful festival of lights.

Amit and I would start counting days to Diwali weeks in advance. His mother would laugh at our excitement, telling us that real preparations couldn't begin until the house was properly cleaned. I remember how he would groan at the cleaning duties, but we managed to turn even that into a game, racing each other to dust the furniture and sweep the corners.

The real fun began when Amit's mother started the Diwali cooking. We would hover around the kitchen, supposedly helping but mostly stealing hot gulab jamuns. His grandmother was surprisingly tolerant of our theft, often pretending not to notice when we snuck away with extra pieces of barfi. She would tell us stories while making sweets—tales of Lord Rama's return to Ayodhya, of good triumphing over evil, and why they lit so many lamps on Diwali night.

Amit's sister taught us the art of making rangoli, though mine never quite matched the beauty of his family's designs. We would sit for hours on their doorstep, creating patterns with colored powder. His sister would add the finishing touches with flower petals, transforming our amateur attempts into something magical.

The day before Diwali was always dedicated to light preparations. Amit and I would clean dozens of clay diyas, carefully filling them with oil and arranging cotton wicks. His mother would supervise as we placed them around the house—along the walls, on window sills, and around their small temple. There was something peaceful about this ritual, even for me, a non-Hindu friend who was simply there to participate.

Diwali evening at Amit's house was pure magic. His mother would insist I wear traditional Indian clothes that she kept specially for me. Dressed in kurtas, Amit and I would rush from one exciting activity to another. We lit diyas together, ran around with sparklers, and set off fireworks under his father's watchful eye. The sky would come alive with colors, and our faces would glow with joy and the reflection of a thousand lights.

The feast was always spectacular. Sitting cross-legged on floor cushions, we would devour everything from spicy snacks to sweet delicacies. Amit's mother made sure I took home a huge box of sweets for my family, insisting that sharing brought good luck.

What I loved most about these celebrations was how speccial Amit's family made me feel like. They included me in every ritual, every prayer, and every celebration. Through them, I learned that Diwali wasn't just about lights and fireworks—it was about togetherness, about sharing joy, about celebrating life itself.

Years have passed, and now when I see Diwali celebrations in our city, I'm transported back to those precious childhood days. Amit and I live in different cities now, but every Diwali, we make sure to call each other. We reminisce about those magical evenings, the stolen sweets, the rangoli competitions, and the endless fireworks.

Thanks to Amit and his family, Diwali holds a special place in my heart. They taught me that the true spirit of any festival lies not in its rituals or celebrations, but in the love and joy we share with others. Even today, when I light a diya or see children playing with sparklers, I smile, remembering those beautiful Diwali nights at Amit's home.