The Deepavali Celebration of Little Spoorthi
The Deepavali Celebration of Little Spoorthi


As the autumn breeze swept through the town, Spoorthi could hardly contain her excitement. Her father had just shared some thrilling news: her paternal grandparents were visiting for Deepavali, the festival of lights! Spoorthi adored her grandparents, especially since they didn’t visit often. This Deepavali promised to be extra special.
The next morning, Spoorthi was up before dawn, her heart racing with excitement. Her grandmother, with a warm smile and a bundle in hand, had brought her a beautiful red silk skirt and blouse from the village.
Spoorthi twirled around in her new outfit, feeling like a princess. As she caught her father’s eyes, he gave her an affectionate nod and said, “Come on, Spoorthi! It’s time to buy crackers.”
The local market was buzzing with activity. Spoorthi’s father held her hand as they navigated the rows of stalls, each filled with boxes of colourful crackers, sparklers, flower pots, and the more thunderous Lakshmi bombs. Her eyes sparkled as she picked out her favourites, her father chuckling as she carefully examined each packet. After they returned home, Spoorthi’s father brought out a bundle of newspaper from the attic. He sat down with sports and carefully sorted the crackers into two bundles, one for first day and one for third day of the festival.
The delicious aroma of sweets came from the kitchen, where her mother was preparing an assortment of treats. Sports peeked in, eagerly awaiting her favourite – the crispy, golden kajavah and the sweet, soft Mysore pak.
As Spoorthi’s family sat together for lunch on the first day of Deepavali, her grandmother, or Ajji as Spoorthi lovingly called her, began to share the stories behind each day of the festival. Spoorthi’s eyes sparkled with curiosity as she listened, her plate heaped with special treats her mother had prepared for the
Ajji leaned forward, her voice filled with warmth and wisdom. “Do you know, why we celebrate Deepavali?” she asked with a gentle smile. Spoorthi shook her head, eager to learn.
“Well, Deepavali isn’t just a single celebration. It’s a festival that stretches across three days, each with its own story,” Ajji began, adjusting her saree as she settled comfortably on the floor beside Spoorthi.
“Today is Naraka Chaturdashi,” Ajji continued. “This day celebrates the victory of Lord Krishna and his consort, Satyabhama, over the evil demon Narakasura. Narakasura was a powerful but wicked king who had imprisoned sixteen thousand women and terrorized the heavens and earth. His strength grew so great that no one could defeat him. So, Lord Krishna and Satyabhama decided to put an end to his cruelty.”
Spoorthi listened, her eyes wide with admiration for Krishna, her cat who shared the same name. He wasn’t as brave as Lord Krishna though, especially around crackers. Spoorthi had crafted him a cozy nook under the main bed, knowing he’d hide there as the noise started.
Spoorthi’s eyes widened as she pictured the scene: Krishna, her hero, wielding his mighty Sudarshana chakra, accompanied by brave Satyabhama. “In the battle,” Ajji explained, “Narakasura was so strong that even Lord Krishna needed Satyabhama’s help to defeat him. Together, they vanquished the demon and freed all the women he had held captive. This day, reminds us that no matter how powerful evil may seem, goodness and justice will always triumph.”
Spoorthi nodded, captivated by the story. She imagined the brave Satyabhama standing beside Lord Krishna, fighting with strength and courage. Her mind danced with images of warriors and battles, a story of heroism that filled her with pride.
Ajji took a sip of water before continuing. “Tomorrow is Amavasya, the new moon night. This day is considered very special for Lakshmi Pooja, especially by merchants and those who believe in Lakshmi Devi, the goddess of wealth. On this day, they worship her to bring prosperity and fortune into their homes and businesses.”
Spoorthi knew that her family didn’t perform the pooja on Amavasya, but she was fascinated to learn about how others celebrated it. Ajji explained, “Lakshmi Devi is believed to visit clean, well-lit homes on this night. That’s why people light lamps and keep their homes beautiful – to invite her blessings. For those who celebrate, this day is a time to reflect on the abundance in their lives and show gratitude for what they have.”
Spoorthi thought about the brightly lit houses she’d seen in her neighbourhood on Amavasya nights, each one shimmering with tiny oil lamps, creating a pathway for the goddess. The image was magical, a world of warmth and light amid the darkness of the new moon.
And finally, Ajji said, “we come to the third day, Bali Payami.”
Her voice softened as she explained the significance of this day, rooted in an ancient tale of humility and devotion. “Many years ago, there was a great king named Bali. He was wise and just, and he ruled his kingdom with a kind heart. But he grew proud of his power and wealth. So, Lord Vishnu, in his avatar as a young Vamana, a dwarf Brahmin, decided to teach him a lesson.”
Spoorthi’s brows furrowed, intrigued by the idea of a god taking on the form of a small, humble person. “Vamana went to Bali and asked for three paces of land as a gift,” Ajji continued. “Bali, thinking it was a modest request, agreed. But as soon as he granted the wish, Vamana grew and grew, so large that he measured the entire earth with one step, the heavens with another, and for the third step, there was nowhere left. Bali then realized the greatness of the god before him. Humbled, he offered his own head as the place for Vamana’s final step.”
Spoorthi gasped, picturing the noble king bowing his head to
Vamana’s towering form. “Seeing Bali’s devotion, Lord Vishnu was pleased,” Ajji said, her eyes twinkling. “He granted Bali a boon: once a year, he would be allowed to visit his people on earth. And so, on Bali Padyami, we celebrate this return, honouring his legacy of humility and devotion.”
On the first evening, with her father by her side, Spoorthi held a sparkler for the first time. The spark
les danced in her eyes as she waved it in circles, feeling a rush of excitement. She hesitated when it came to the Bijali crackers, tiny but loud.
Sensing her fear, her grandmother stepped up, lighting one and tossing it confidently. Inspired, Spoorthi gave it a try, her laughter ringing out as she threw her first Bijali cracker.
Ranga, the milkman’s son and Spoorthi’s friend, joined her for the festivities. They set off flower pots, watched ground chakras spin in mesmerizing circles, and marvelled at colourful rockets soaring into the sky. Krishna the cat, meanwhile, had found his sanctuary under the bed, safe from all the noisy fun.
Seeing Spoorthi’s excitement and curiosity, Ajji decided to share yet another story, a tale that was close to every Indian’s heart.
“You know, Spoorthi, Deepavali is celebrated in different ways across India,” Ajji began, smiling warmly. “In many parts of the country, Deepavali is also known as a celebration from the Ramayana. It marks the return of Lord Rama to Ayodhya after fourteen long years of exile.”
Spoorthi’s eyes grew wide. “Why was Rama in exile, Ajji?”
Ajji nodded, pleased with her granddaughter’s question. “Ah, it’s a very special story. Lord Rama was the eldest son of King Dasharatha of Ayodhya. But due to a promise that Dasharatha had made to his wife Kaikeyi, Rama was sent into exile for fourteen years, along with his devoted wife Sita and loyal brother Lakshmana. They lived in the forests, far from the comforts of their palace.”
Spoorthi could picture Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana wandering through dense forests, living a simple life, far from the luxuries of the kingdom. “And then what happened, Ajji?” she asked, leaning forward eagerly.
Ajji continued, her voice steady and full of reverence. “During their exile, a great tragedy struck. Sita was kidnapped by the demon king Ravana and taken to his kingdom, Lanka. Ravana wanted to make Sita his queen, but Sita remained steadfast, devoted only to her beloved Rama. Meanwhile, Rama was determined to rescue her.”
Spoorthi could feel her heart racing as she imagined Rama setting out on the perilous journey to save Sita. “With the help of his loyal friend Hanuman and an army of monkeys and bears, Rama built a bridge across the sea to reach Lanka. After a fierce battle, Rama defeated Ravana and rescued Sita. Together, they returned to Ayodhya, where they were welcomed with great joy and celebration.”
Ajji paused, her eyes bright as she shared the next part. “The people of Ayodhya were overjoyed to see their beloved prince return. To celebrate his homecoming, they lit rows of oil lamps all across the city. The entire kingdom shimmered with light, symbolizing the victory of good over evil, and the end of Rama’s hardships.”
“Wow!” Spoorthi said, picturing the kingdom of Ayodhya illuminated with countless diyas, the sky lit up with stars and lamps, and the streets filled with people rejoicing in Rama’s return.
Ajji continued, “That’s why we light diyas on Deepavali. We celebrate the return of light, love, and peace, just as the people of Ayodhya did for Lord Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana. The lamps remind us that even in the darkest times, light will always return, bringing hope and joy.”
Spoorthi glanced at the small rows of clay diyas her mother had placed around their home, their soft, warm glow filling the rooms. Now, those lamps seemed to carry a deeper meaning, a connection to a timeless story of love, devotion, and resilience.
“Ajji, ”Spoorthi said softly, her heart full of pride and admiration, “Deepavali really is the most special festival, isn’t it?”
Ajji nodded, patting her on the head with affection. “Yes, my dear. Deepavali is more than just lights and sweets; it’s a reminder of the victory of good over evil, of the power of love and loyalty, and of the light that will always guide us home.”
The next day, Amavasya, brought a slightly different atmosphere. Some neighbours celebrated with fervent Lakshmi Pooja, but Spoorthi’s family preferred a quieter observance. That evening, they were invited to their merchant neighbours’ Lakshmi Pooja. The family admired the glittering diyas in the neighbour’s shop, casting a warm glow over the goods displayed. At the end of the pooja, Spoorthi was thrilled to receive a giant motichoor laddoo – her absolute favourite.
As night fell, Spoorthi and Ranga climbed up to her terrace to watch the skies. The neighbourhood was alive with fireworks, the rockets bursting into a colourful display against the deep, dark sky. Spoorthi counted each one, marvelling at the bright colours and the sound that echoed across the town.
Finally, Bali Padyami arrived, the last day of Deepavali, marking King Bali’s annual visit to earth. Spoorthi and her family visited the temple in the morning, where they offered prayers and listened to the story of Vamana, the form Lord Vishnu took to send Bali to the underworld. As her grandmother recounted the tale, Spoorthi could imagine the kind king and his promise to return.
That evening, they ended the festival with one last round of crackers, joyously lighting up the streets around them. As Spoorthi watched the lights fade into the dark sky, she felt a warmth in her heart, a blend of love, excitement, and gratitude.
As the last light of day faded, Spoorthi looked up at her grandmother. “Ajji, thank you for telling me these stories. I feel like I understand Deepavali so much better now.”
Ajji patted her head affectionately. “My dear, festivals are not just about the lights, the sweets, or even the crackers. They’re about remembering the values we hold dear – courage, humility, and gratitude. May each Deepavali remind us of these stories and bring us closer to our roots.”
With her grandparents’ stories, her father’s laughter, her mother’s sweets, and Ranga by her side, this Deepavali was one Spoorthi would remember forever. The sounds, sights, and scents of the festival lingered in her mind as she drifted to sleep, looking forward to the next time her family would gather to celebrate the beauty of life and light.