Festivals That Belonged to Everyone: When Eid, Diwali, and Holi Had No Borders
Festivals That Belonged to Everyone: When Eid, Diwali, and Holi Had No Borders
In the tightly knit fabric of the chawl or the bustling slum colony, there was a beautiful, unspoken rule about festivals: they belonged to everyone. There were no invitations, because invitations imply a boundary between host and guest. In our world, there were no guests—only family.
The beauty of growing up in a diverse, mixed community was that our festival calendar was impossibly rich. We didn't just wait for "our" festival; we eagerly anticipated them all. And in that anticipation, we learned something profound: joy multiplies when it is shared.
The Sweetness of Eid
Eid morning in a mixed neighbourhood had a distinct flavour. The aroma of sheer khorma (sweet vermicelli) and succulent biryani would waft through the air, escaping the narrow kitchen windows and inviting itself into every nostril on the block.
As Hindu children, we didn't wait for an invitation. We simply followed our noses and our hearts. We would run to our Muslim friends' houses, where we were greeted with warm hugs and heaped plates of sweets. "Eid Mubarak, baba!" the aunties would say, pressing sivayyan into our hands. It never felt like we were celebrating someone else's festival. It felt like our festival too.
And in return? When it was time for Diwali, the same friends would be at our doorstep, eyes wide with excitement, ready to burst crackers and grab a box of mithai. The exchange was never transactional; it was organic. It was love.
The Colours of Holi
Holi was perhaps the greatest leveller. The narrow lanes of the chawl would transform into a battlefield of colour. In Holi, identity was washed away completely. Covered in gulal and drenched in water, nobody was Hindu or Muslim, nobody was North Indian or South Indian. You were just a canvas of colour, laughing until your stomach hurt.
I remember the old Muslim uncle on the ground floor who would sit with a bucket of water, daring the neighbourhood kids to try and colour him. He pretended to be grumpy, but we knew he loved it. By the end of the day, he would be the most colourful of us all, grinning from ear to ear. That was the magic—no one was exempt from the joy.
The Lights of Diwali
Diwali in the chawl was a community project, not a private affair. Days before the festival, we would all pool in money to buy lights and decorations for the common corridor. The Christian family on the first floor would help string the lights, the Muslim family on the second would bring chai for the workers, and the Hindu families would distribute the first batch of faral (festival snacks).
When the night fell, the entire building glowed as one. We would go from door to door, not to "visit," but to simply be together. The diyas (lamps) didn't just light up individual homes; they lit up our shared existence.
The Feast of Christmas
And when December came, the Christian families in the chawl would become the centre of attention. The star hanging outside their window was a beacon for all of us. We would gather around their tiny Christmas tree, sing carols (badly), and wait impatiently for the cake to be cut.
For us kids, Christmas was just as exciting as any other festival. It meant more sweets, more fun, and more time with the people we loved. We didn't see religion; we saw celebration.
Why It Mattered
This cross-pollination of festivals did more than just fill our stomachs with sweets. It filled our hearts with an unshakeable belief in the goodness of humanity. We grew up knowing that joy has no religion, that laughter has no language, and that love has no community.
Today, in a world that often tries to divide us along these very lines, those childhood memories stand as a fortress. They remind us that we have shared more meals than we have arguments. We have celebrated more together than we have fought apart.
The festivals belonged to everyone. And because of that, we belonged to each other.
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