The sky is a prickly pink, the kind you’d find unused in a packet of cheap watercolors. As the sun sets, it feels as if the one responsible for painting the sky must’ve knocked over their mug of muddled water—now seeping into their bright pink canvas. But my hand reaches for my phone nonetheless, hoping to immortalize this ‘mistake’.
My nani is chanting prayers, and I can smell the ghee, the flame, the burning—the diya. It surrounds me even as I sit rooms away, on the stairs right outside the front door. I can still picture my naniji doing the same the summer before. The air is light, and I can feel my cheeks ache from all the smiling. Kids race around the galli that might not fit a car, but it is big enough for their fun. My sister, still in middle school, looks like a gentle giant amongst our young cousins and their friends. But as the sun sets, it feels as if they might be the same after all. Their shadows blurring together, their breath raspy yet energetic, their hearty laughter so full of life.
My nani beckons me, her glasses sitting at the tip of her nose, and I know exactly what to do. As I’ve done for the past week, I carry back with me warmth—gently placing the diya she had lit just a while ago near the tulsi that welcomes all that visit our house. The windows and doors that had been left open all day because of the humid heat must now be closed (or the mosquitoes terrorize us throughout the night!). So I close the door and slide down, yet again sitting on the stairs, basking in the dawn that gives the world a salmon undertone.
The sky is a rich purple before it grows darker, and the streetlights flicker on. The energy of all the kids playing has yet to diminish, and I feel a spark of wonder light up within me as I watch over them. So I holler and head on over to join them in whatever game they’ve made up today. For now, their fingers grab my t-shirt, shrieks fill the street as I chase them around, and I can feel the sweat run down my neck. Maybe next summer, they’ll feel too grown-up, too busy for such games. But for now, my heart is as warm as the diya near the tulsi and as pink as the watercolors I was gifted as a child.
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