Sarala Life — Life in Chapters: Careers, Canines, Cabernet & Courage

Light Finds Us — A Modern Woman’s Divali

I was raised as the daughter of a Hindu pundit — in a home where divinity had a rhythm. Thursdays meant temple, Sundays meant satsangh, and the year was punctuated by yagnas, pujas, and festival after festival. Faith wasn’t something you sought; it was something that lived in the walls, the incense, the rituals.

And yet, somewhere along the way, my connection to God grew quieter — more personal. I may not attend every service now, but I speak to God every day. Sometimes in gratitude, sometimes in exhaustion. My worship isn’t always wrapped in sandalwood and flowers; it’s often silent, in between emails, or on a walk with my dogs. But it is constant. It grounds me.

When I lived in the UK, Divali looked different. The grand processions and temple bells were replaced by the hum of a London flat. The weeks of fasting, prayer, and community took a softer, more solitary shape. I didn’t observe every festival, but Divali — Divali was non-negotiable.

It became my anchor. The one day I cleaned the house like my mother did. The one day the prayer felt most sincere. I made my own prasad, lit tea lights in quiet corners, and prayed alone — but never felt lonely. The glow of the deyas reminded me that light doesn’t need a crowd to matter.

Over the years, my celebrations have evolved. From filling deyas with oil to switching to wax and tea lights. From smudging my ceiling with smoke after an over-zealous havan (note to self: never again near the kitchen island) to learning how to keep the fire and faith alive — safely. From celebrating with a large family to sharing the rituals with my husband, who now fasts and joins me for our 6 p.m. havan, and to dressing up our dogs in their festive bandanas because joy deserves to be shared.

Each Divali feels different — but somehow, always the same. The same warmth, the same gratitude, the same chance to begin again. Some promises I’ve kept, some I’ve missed. But every year, I find myself whispering the same prayer: that I never lose sight of the light, even in my quietest seasons.

Divali, to me, isn’t just about religion — it’s about renewal. It’s about making space for meaning in the middle of modern life. In corporate boardrooms and client calls, in leadership and in love — Divali reminds me that faith looks different for everyone, and that’s okay. Just as we bring our individual strengths to work, we bring our own ways of connecting to the divine. What matters is the sincerity, not the form.

So this year, I’ll light my wax deyas and LEDs, offer my prayer, and give thanks — for work that fulfills me differently, for a home that feels like peace, and for the lessons learned in both reverence and laughter.

And when the night settles in, I’ll eat my ladoo, enjoy my roti, and smile at the soft glow of my tea lights. Because even after all these years, Divali still reminds me of this truth:
No matter how life changes — the light always finds us.

“I no longer chase perfection in my prayers — I just light my lamps, whisper my gratitude, and trust the light to find me where I am.”