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Many Americans will soon decorate their houses with festive, colorful bulbs to celebrate holidays like Christmas, Hanukkah and Kwanzaa. As a kid, I didn’t realize that the twinkling forest-green lights in our home held a double meaning, as they’d been up weeks before Thanksgiving.
Diwali, the festival of lights celebrated by millions of Hindus around the world, has always been part of my family’s holiday season, even though it was outshined by Halloween and Thanksgiving.
In our multicultural household — of Indian, Puerto Rican and Italian American heritages — the holiday season was joyous as we drank hot chocolate and masala chai most evenings, alongside homemade struffoli, which are Italian honey balls, and barfi, a milk-based Indian sweet.
Food connected our family to our cultures. Religion played no part during those final months of the year. Although my mom was raised Roman Catholic, she never took us to church. My dad never took us to a Hindu temple, either. My brother, Ravi, and I — both half-Indian American — had only a small understanding of religion, which was relegated to acknowledging Christmas and Diwali, but with little education about the holidays.
There was one steadfast tradition, though. My dad would invite Ravi and me to his office. Dressed in a kurta, he lit candles and incense on his desk. Photos of his parents stood upright beside the flickering glow. Songs by classic Hindi singers like Mohammed Rafi and Asha Bhosle played from a small boombox.
A bowl filled with milk sat next to a box of assorted Indian sweets. Inside the bowl were a handful of Indian coins soaking in the milk. We were instructed to fish a coin out of the white liquid and tap it against our teeth three or four times. We each took a turn as he held the bowl. When we were finished, he handed the bowl to one of us as he took his turn, tapping a coin to his teeth seven times.
He’d then tie a thin red-and-yellow string around each of our wrists, one son at a time, as he softly recited a prayer. After the bracelets were secure, he’d ask us to close our eyes, bow our heads, clasp our hands and ask for something in the year ahead.
I’d think hard about my request, trying not to ask for myself but for someone else, though sometimes I’d be selfish. When we raised our heads and opened our eyes, he’d ask us to take a sweet from the box and try to sell it to him, as he pulled $20, $50 and $100 bills from his pocket.
Though we thought it was silly, Ravi and I feigned enthusiasm for the sake of my dad’s Sindhi tradition that he participated in when he was kid, as we pretended to haggle. Eventually, he’d accept the sweets and place the money in our hands. His gift to us.
Our entire relationship with Diwali was summed up in one evening in a 20-minute ceremony.
As I entered my 20s and started dating my now-wife Michelle, her curiosity about my Indian heritage led to basic questions I couldn’t answer, like “What is Diwali?” and “What does your family do for Diwali?” Michelle was special, unlike other people I knew on Long Island who cared little for Indian culture. She was determined to help me better appreciate my heritage.
It was complicated, though. As a mixed-race person, I’d always felt like an outsider in all three of my cultures, and not welcomed by extended family members. But whenever we were invited to an Indian wedding, Michelle was by my side. She also taught herself how to cook Indian dishes, just as my mom had in the early ’80s when she married my dad.
My dad noticed Michelle’s efforts, as well my growing interest in our culture, and started holding a more elaborate Diwali ceremony for the entire family. It was nothing fancy, though Ravi and I did occasionally wear kurtas that my dad bought for us, and there was an expansive spread of food: samosas, chicken tikka, kebobs and pani puri. Other years, we went out to an Indian restaurant after the ceremony.
There was more discussion about the meaning behind the holiday, too, about the concepts of victory of light over darkness, good over evil, knowledge over ignorance and hope over despair. I wish I were taught more about these values when I was younger. I was grateful our growing family was finally participating in a version of Diwali, but I couldn’t help but wonder why it took us so long to get here.
In 2021, Michelle and I moved to Florida to be closer to her parents. Diwali celebrations initially paused for the next couple of years. Eventually, we tried to create a small ceremony on our own, but it wasn’t the same without my parents there to lead the festivities and the introspective discussion.
I’ve since found a thriving Indian community, with multiple Hindu temples, but I’m still too nervous to introduce myself. That feeling of not being “whole” still lingers even though my heart assures me I would be welcomed. In the meantime, Michelle and I have begun flying back to New York each November to celebrate with my family.
Maybe I also just miss them, and as my dad enters his 70s, I know my connection to him and our culture is fleeting. Or maybe I’m scared I’ll lose a piece of myself without him. But I know my father doesn’t dictate how I experience being Indian American. He’ll always be the reason I nurture this part of myself. And thanks to Michelle, I’ve become a prouder desi — and Diwali has become a touchstone, reminding me of who I am.
Raj Tawney writes about race, identity and culture. He is the author of the memoir Colorful Palate: A Flavorful Journey Through a Mixed American Experience and the forthcoming Middle Grade novel, All Mixed Up. He is currently working on a manuscript for a YA novel.
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