Diyas are lit up in all their glory-
the dancing shadows of flickering flames.
The colourful curves spread by rangoli,
and the flowers blooming on doors and frames.
Sound of a firecracker before dawn,
the hot oil bath to cleanse the mind and soul.
Then the traditional finery to don
while the kitchen chugs with steaming sweet rolls.
House is abuzz with parental blessing
whose aroma would linger forever.
The handwritten notes with all the fussing-
Imprints of those will remain to savour.
Though I relish those memories as much-
I miss those feet in my dreams that I touch.
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