The stairs creak violently as my sister twirls down them, smiling brightly. Her dark hair is braided into a heavy rope that hangs on her shoulders and her wrists are littered with thin gold bracelets that clatter as she moves. Her eyes are lined with badly drawn kohl, looking as if she lost a boxing match. I roll my eyes in annoyance at her overly-enthusiastic demeanor. I, myself, would much rather stay at home. She skips over to my waiting mother and whispers excitedly in her ear, “When are we leaving?”
“Right now” my mother replies indulgently, dressed in a vibrant blue. We stumble out into the biting October chill, hastily wrapping thin scarves around our shoulders. The car starts with a roar, and the night air cannot be felt. We begin to drive: the trees whisk past in the night, and the moon is barely visible amongst thick clouds. The smooth road lulls me to sleep and I dream of nothing.
I close my eyes as I enter the old school building. It has transformed into a bazaar-like place, complete with vendors calling out wares, as if we were roaming the dusty Indian streets. Eyes, an array of colors and shapes, turn toward the newcomers as we step into the long winding hall, a maze of diversity. A rainbow of ethnicities decorate the school hallway. Green and gold stars adorn the walls, looking as though they have been taken from a kindergartener's A+ test. The small cafeteria is filled with a wave of people, eating and talking. That is where we go first, famished from a two hour drive. Cardamom, cinnamon, and cloves flood the air with their unmistakable scent. We buy food that tastes like home. The delicate flakes of a samosa crust fall to reveal the spicy peas inside. A sweet syrup with sparkling sugar crystals rests on my tongue, the scent like rose petals and holy water. This reminds my mother of her days in India; sitting with friends on a dirty porch sharing the food they bought with spare rupees and scraped-together change. The whistling of a rice pot in the back kitchen pierces our ears as we rise to leave.
The walls of the stuffy gym are lined with stalls selling cloth from Madras, pickled mangoes from Kerala, candied satsumas from Goa. Plush pillows from Gujarat feel like imperial velvet against soft fingers, embroidered with images from the holy book and the Gita, and studded with smooth rhinestones. Brand new saris hang brightly from the rafters of another stall. The edges are lined with gold thread that reflects the fluorescent gym lighting. All around us are women talking loudly about prices, bargaining. They walk with purpose, scanning goods, their silk dresses swishing impatiently. I buy a small bangle, a token from the colorful state of Rajasthan. Soon a large crowd of people floods the gym from various places in the school. People fill the room, all talking and laughing. I snatch my bracelet from the vendor, find a quiet chair, sit down and watch, away from all the noise. Later in the night, someone passes out dandiya sticks, and everyone is smiling as they beat the sticks together, dancing the “sword dance”. Feet stomp louder than elephants as music begins to play. Girls grab hands and spin in circles, their expensive skirts rippling in the air. Men sit on the old gym bleachers, taking no notice of the strange yellow stains, and talk about trivial things like cricket players and politics. Old women waltz on their aching feet, dreaming about the days when they had young, smooth faces and long hair. Sometime during the night, somebody whisks me towards the dancing people. I do not know who it is, but it doesn’t seem to matter as we dance together, spinning and clapping.
The ancient gym floor creaks violently as my sister ambles towards my mother, who is smiling brightly. I can tell she is exhausted. Her dark hair is messy and falling out of its once-neat braid, and she has lost three of her gold bracelets while dancing. I roll my eyes fondly at her carelessness. Her kohl-lined eyes are weary, but content. She limps over to my mother, her feet sore like a thousand needles have taken to them, and asks drowsily, “When are we leaving?” My mother’s answer goes unheard in the large crowd. I, on the other hand, am having much too fun to hear her. I realize now why Diwali is called the festival of lights. Old bulbs hanging from the high ceilings illuminate happy faces and carefree hearts. In the midst of all the commotion, nothing seems more beautiful than a thousand people rejoicing to be alive.
