I say this without hesitation: Diwali is one of my favourite festivals. It’s one of those occasions when you feel the warm, enclosing presence of your elders—it’s like your whole history and culture is there with you. Protecting you, making you who you are in so many ways. My cousins, Mama, Mami, Nana, Nani and parents all collect to spend the evening together. We’re all dressed in our best clothes and moods...so are our houses, which look beautiful after dusk! One of my favourite memories is sitting on the floor with Mami as she creates a beautiful rangoli pattern. I take a pinch of colour between my fingers and make a smaller design next to hers. My lines and figures come out all shaky, but everyone recognises it as mine and looks proud. We children fill our hand-painted diyas with oil and go outside with Nana and light them all around the house. The soft flickering on the faces, lit by the moving light of the diya—that’s the special picture that always stays with you.
Diwali is one of the rare days when we all sit together to pray. Nana is in charge and we all watch as he washes the coins and tiny idols in milk, with a plate of fruits and sweets placed on the side. We will each come forward as he puts a red tika with rice grains on our forehead. Nani and Mami will lead us as we sing the prayer song. In the end, we all get to choose something from the plate of sweets.
Then the peace is shattered by the loud burst of firecrackers. Smoke fills the air outside and we can barely see anything anymore. My mother will come to me with a cotton dupatta and wrap it around my nose and mouth. Even with those protective layers, it gets to me. I will still go home coughing and will stay in bed the next day.
The thing that sucks about having childhood asthma is that it gives you a really low immunity and the smallest thing will start you coughing and give you the sniffles. A change of season, even.
You go through your life with the ever-present awareness of one fact: your lungs are weak.
