The taxi moved smoothly along the waking streets. Newspaper boys cycled past with bundles of newsprint, stray dogs stretched lazily in the sun, and shopkeepers rolled up their shutters. Bani leaned back in her seat, watching familiar buildings pass by—places she hadn't seen in weeks, yet felt etched into her heart.
By 8 a.m., she reached her lane. Her mother opened the door even before Bani could knock, as if she'd sensed her daughter's arrival. The smell of fresh idlis and coconut chutney drifted out from the kitchen.
"Come, eat first," her mother insisted, pulling her in.
Her father, reading the newspaper, looked up with a smile that was small but full of warmth. Her uncle joined them soon, teasing her about her "film star schedule."
They all ate together, the clink of steel plates mingling with the chatter of morning. For Bani, it was a kind of luxury no award could replace.
After breakfast, she slipped into her old bedroom, the curtains still the same shade of pale blue she had chosen as a teenager. She fell into bed, promising herself she'd nap for just an hour.
When she woke, sunlight had shifted across the walls. Her mother's voice floated in from the living room, along with the unmistakable sound of festive bustle. It was Diwali, and something in the air felt brighter.
The house was alive with festival energy. A new rangoli bloomed across the floor in the living room, marigold garlands framed the doorway, and the scent of ghee lamps mixed with the sweetness of laddus cooling on the counter.
Her father and uncle sat in the veranda, sipping coffee and talking in low tones. As Bani stepped outside, she caught the tail end of their conversation.
"…yes, Melukote temple," her uncle was saying. "It will be good for the whole family to go together."
Her father nodded. "We'll hire a TT. That way everyone can come comfortably."
Bani smiled. Temple trips were not new to her, but visiting on Diwali made them feel different—more like a blessing than a routine. Melukote, with its winding steps and ancient charm, was a place she'd always loved.
The arrangements were made quickly. Calls were placed, seats counted, and snacks planned for the road. Even her cousins, who usually groaned at early morning departures, seemed unusually excited.
As evening approached, Bani sat on the veranda, watching the first diya being lit. The flickering flame caught in her eyes, reflecting a quiet contentment she couldn't quite put into words. She was home, with her family, in the middle of a festival that had always meant more than just fireworks.
Tomorrow would be for Melukote. Tonight was for the glow of togetherness.
The morning of Diwali arrived with the scent of incense and the faint echo of crackers bursting in the distance. Bani awoke to a house buzzing with activity—doors opening and closing, vessels clattering in the kitchen, and voices calling out instructions from room to room.
Her mother and aunt were in the kitchen early, mixing freshly cooked rice with thick homemade curd. The creamy mixture was brightened with ginger, green chillies, coriander leaves, and a tempering of mustard seeds, curry leaves, and a dash of ghee. They spooned it into large steel containers, each sealed tight with lids for the journey ahead.
On the veranda, her father was on the phone. His tone carried the warmth reserved for old friends.
"Happy Diwali, Swamy! Yes, we're coming to Melukote today… Ah, you're doing the morning pooja? That's perfect. Can you book puliyogare prasadam for us—in larger quantities? We'll have it for lunch along with the curd rice we're bringing. Yes, after the pooja… under that big neem tree near the steps."
When he hung up, he gave Bani a satisfied nod. "Everything's arranged. The puliyogare will be ready when we finish darshan."
The hired Tempo Traveller arrived shortly after. The family loaded their bags—steel containers of curd rice, bottles of water, mats for sitting, and pooja items for offering at the temple.
As the TT pulled away, the cool morning air carried a mix of marigold and sandalwood from the houses they passed. Bani leaned against the window, already picturing the temple steps and the green shade where they would eat together.
The drive to Melukote was a journey through festive Karnataka. Villages were alive with colourful rangolis at every doorstep, women in bright silk sarees carrying pooja plates, and children darting about with sparklers still in hand from the night before.
They reached the temple base mid-morning, where the golden gopuram rose proudly against the blue sky. Vendors lined the streets, selling coconuts, flowers, and brass lamps.
The climb began—stone steps worn smooth by centuries of devotees. Bani stayed close to her mother, helping her navigate the steeper parts, while her cousins raced ahead. A soft breeze rustled through the trees, carrying the sound of bells from the sanctum above.
When they finally stepped inside the temple, the cool stone floor soothed their bare feet. The deity stood radiant, adorned in fresh jasmine garlands, silk drapes, and shimmering ornaments. The priest blessed them, placing sandal paste on their foreheads and handing out small portions of sweet prasadam.
Outside, her father spotted Swamy, his old friend. The poojari greeted them warmly and handed over several packets of freshly prepared puliyogare prasadam, still warm and fragrant with tamarind, curry leaves, and roasted peanuts.
The family carried the prasadam down to the base, where a sprawling neem tree cast a wide green shade. The spot was perfect—cool, breezy, and away from the crowd.
They spread out mats, and the steel containers of curd rice were opened, releasing a fresh, tangy aroma. The puliyogare packets were unwrapped, the rich golden rice glistening with oil and spices. Everyone washed their hands and sat cross-legged, forming a loose circle.
Lunch began in the simple, joyful way that only family picnics can. Curd rice balanced the tangy heat of the puliyogare, and the occasional crunch of peanuts made the meal even more satisfying. They passed water bottles around, laughed over old temple trip stories, and teased the younger cousins about how much they were eating.
A few stray cows wandered nearby, hopeful for scraps, while temple bells rang faintly in the distance. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, dappling the mats in shifting patterns.
When the meal was done, they packed up carefully, making sure not to leave any litter. The neem tree's breeze made them linger for a few minutes longer before starting the journey back.
Bani leaned back, feeling full—not just from the food, but from the rare peace of being surrounded by family, faith, and a moment that no amount of magic could ever recreate.