This Diwali doesn’t feel like the old ones, and I can’t figure out why. But then, something, or maybe someone, changed the way I see it. Avni shares her story with Teenbook.

Last year on Diwali, the loudest thing in my house wasn’t the crackers outside, it was my cousin Rohan screaming because someone cheated in cards. My nani was yelling from the kitchen, “Do NOT enter the house with your slippers on!” My uncle was showing off his “scientific technique” to light rockets safely and then promptly burning his eyebrows.

It was chaos. It was crazy. It was home.

But this year? It’s different.

No cars lining up outside. No cousins fighting for the good mattress. No smell of burnt chaklis or over-fried gulab jamuns. Just… a quiet house with fairy lights trying their best to glow like nothing’s wrong.

My phone wasn’t exploding with “Aaj ka plan kya hai?” messages. Instead, it was full of “Sorry yaar, can’t come this time.”

Rohan shifted to Bangalore for college. My bua’s family has some “issues” going on, so they’re skipping this year. And my little brother, who once danced like a malfunctioning robot to every Diwali song, now had only one plan – a gaming tournament at 8PM. Do Not Disturb.

I tried to distract myself. I helped mom clean, I hung the lantern outside, I even arranged diyas like Instagram aesthetic reels… but midway through, I just stopped. I stood on the balcony yesterday, fairy lights shining around me, and for the first time ever… It didn’t feel like Diwali.

Was it just me? Was I being dramatic? Do festivals stop feeling festive when we grow up? Or was this what everyone secretly felt but never admitted?

The conversation

I didn’t say anything to anyone, but my mom noticed. Moms have that superpower. 

She walked in with a box of diyas and paused. “Tu theek hai na?” 

I tried to fake it. “Yeah yeah, just tired.”

She raised an eyebrow. Moms can sniff lies better than dogs sniff biscuits.

After a moment, I sighed. “It just… doesn’t feel like Diwali. I thought festivals were supposed to be fun. But this time I’m just… not feeling it.”

She didn’t give me a lecture. She didn’t say “Be grateful! At least we’re together!” No emotional blackmail. Instead, she sat beside me and quietly said: “You know, when I was your age, I felt exactly like this.”

That surprised me. Moms feeling like us? Rare content.

She continued, “One year, everyone got busy. No relatives came. The house was clean, food was cooked, lights were on… but my heart felt switched off. For a moment I thought,  maybe Diwali is only fun when you’re small.”

I looked at her. “So what did you do?”

She smiled slightly. “I cried a little. Then I got angry. Then I got up… and decided if the old Diwali wasn’t coming back, I’d make a new one. I invited the neighbours for tea, played music loudly, made laddoos with Papa. Guess what? It was different. But it was still Diwali.”

It wasn’t easy but I decided to take charge of Diwali myself. 

I picked up my phone and texted my cousins:

“9PM. Video call. Ludo or Truth-or-Dare. Don’t be boring.”

Rohan sent five skull emojis and a “Loser will do a Diwali dance challenge.” Accepted.

I barged into my brother’s room and declared, “We’re making a new Diwali playlist. EDM meets Aarti version.” He rolled his eyes but secretly smirked.

Then I sat outside and started making a rangoli, not perfectly, not beautifully. Just honestly.

And you know what?

The silence didn’t go away. But it didn’t feel lonely anymore.

If you’re feeling this too…

Maybe your Diwali looks different this year.
Maybe fewer people. Maybe someone is missing. Maybe you are in a new place, trying to smile when your heart isn’t fully there.

It’s okay.

Festivals don’t stop being special just because they’ve changed. Sometimes… they’re just waiting for us to grow into a new version of them.

So if this Diwali feels different. Light your diyas anyway. Call your people anyway. Laugh even if it’s quieter.

Because Diwali isn’t only about who’s around you.

It’s also about the light you decide to keep inside you.

Happy Yours-Your-Way Diwali.