Two mornings unfolded https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diwali . One smelled of sesame oil, temple flowers, and sweet jaggery; the other of reheated coffee and wet October air. One began with blessings before sunrise, the other with a laptop login. Only one felt like Diwali. And it wasn’t mine. Welcome to “They Called It Diwali : I Called It Monday”.

They celebrated Diwali while I slept, their joyful wishes contrasting with my routine. I felt a bittersweet ache observing their joy, realizing my world held only a sense of absence from their vibrant celebration.

To know the deets of cherished moments of Diwali during our childhood, click on Cherished Memories: Reliving Diwalis’ Festive Traditions – Wander, Feast & Thrive

I Called It Monday : They Called It Diwali

No matter how far we travel or how much we grow, Diwali pulls us back to our childhood. It’s a day that doesn’t age with us. While years move on, that festival morning at home stays the same—alive with rituals, food, laughter, and the certainty of belonging. Not being with them leaves an emptiness that no video calls can fill.

We think we’ve grown up and build lives elsewhere, but in our parents’ eyes—and deep inside ourselves—we are still the children who eagerly awaited that first oil bath before dawn and rushed to wear new clothes. No matter our age, that version of us still exists, waiting for Diwali like it always did.

The hardest part is not being able to touch those moments anymore. We can’t sneak into the kitchen for a piece of murukku, the spicy snack that always called our name. I can’t sit cross-legged with family, surrounded by warmth and the sweet, savory smell of sweets frying in ghee.

We can’t taste the familiar spread of Diwali meals, each dish a labor of love, from rich gulab jamun to fragrant biryani, all prepared with laughter and joy. Laughter echoes through the halls, reminding us of cherished traditions as we watch from afar, our hearts weighed down by the knowledge that this day is happening without us, leaving us longing for a taste of the past.

Hardest Part Is Not Being Able To : I Called It Monday

They called it Diwali; I called it Monday. The words still taste strange together. Their world moved in celebration, mine moved in routine. Between those two movements lay everything I missed — the smell of oil baths, the noise of cousins, the comfort of being seen without needing to speak. I watched their joy through a screen, smiled like I was there, but my heart stayed heavy. The festival came and went. My day just kept going.

This day hits hard. It doesn’t matter how strong we pretend to be; there’s a heaviness that settles in, an ache of distance mixed with nostalgia, and the sting of missing something irreplaceable. It’s not just about a festival; it’s about family and belonging—the truth that nothing else comes close.

No matter how much we try to hide it, as night falls, we feel the pain of being distanced from loved ones, aware that while they celebrate life, we remain on the outskirts. The silence amplifies our absence, and no technology can close that divide.