The writer once celebrated Deepavali with joy, fun and festive food, but living abroad has left her yearning for the warmth of family traditions. — Freepik
Growing up, Deepavali was always a time filled with joy, fun, new clothes, and traditional Indian delicacies – the chief among them being the crunchy, oh-so-delicious murukku.
It was also a time of great stress for the womenfolk of my household – my mum, grandmother, and aunt – who took on the cooking, cleaning and endless preparations.
That was my carefree view of Deepavali until 2011, when I was 19.
On Oct 25, the eve of Deepavali that year, we received devastating news about my father – a recurring renal tumour, confirmed by a urologist at Singapore General Hospital.
It remains one of my darkest memories. Yet, strangely, the moment that still stands out vividly all these years later is of a friendly young Malay immigration officer at the Malaysian border, wishing us “Selamat Hari Deepavali” with a warm smile.
Sitting next to my father in the passenger seat, I struggled to hold back my emotions.
That year, Deepavali came and went in a daze. Our family sat together quietly – there was no cheer, and we put up a brave front for the few uninvited guests who came by.
The Deepavali that followed were never the same again. Four years later, we lost dad.
Now, 14 years on, every Deepavali eve brings me back to that fateful day – and, somehow, to that immigration officer’s simple kindness.
This year, though, my reflections are different: I find myself missing home.
Back in Malaysia, there were years I couldn’t make it home to Johor because of work as a medical professional. Yet I never felt as bereft as I do now, away from the country altogether. Even when I was working in Perlis, everyone I met – Malay, Chinese, or Indian – would wish me a cheerful “Happy Deepavali”, adding warmth to the season.
Indian families there invited me into their homes, sharing their family recipes and traditions.
One year, my Chinese best friend used the long weekend to travel up north, and we spent Deepavali joyfully in Langkawi.
I miss the air of excitement that builds across Malaysia in the weeks leading up to the festival – the bazaars of Brickfields, Klang, and Ipoh, bustling with colours and scents.
Even when I couldn’t visit, just reading about them in the news was a serotonin boost.
This year, I follow the coverage from afar, with a wistful sense of longing.
I also miss our family traditions – our early morning prayers before breakfast, and visiting our neighbours of over 50 years, whose family has stood by ours in good times and bad, just as we have stood by theirs.
Later, they would come over to our home for dinner. Deep, time-tested connections like these are what Deepavali truly celebrates – bonds of love, friendship, and shared humanity.
This year marks my second Deepavali away from home, and I find myself missing not just the festival, but Malaysia – for all her imperfections, she is still home.
To Hindus and Sikhs everywhere, I wish a joyous and blessed Deepavali. May this Festival of Lights illuminate our hearts with contentment, hope, and the warmth of togetherness – wherever we may be.
