By the time the Tempo Traveller pulled into their street, the sun had begun its descent. Houses glowed in the soft amber of early evening, and the faint smell of fireworks hung in the air. The family stepped out, tired but happy, carrying leftover prasadam and small temple purchases.
Inside, the house was already transformed. Fresh rangoli patterns sprawled across the doorway, marigold garlands framed every arch, and diyas had been arranged but not yet lit. Bani's mother went straight to the kitchen to check on the sweets and snacks prepared earlier—golden boondi laddus, crisp murukkus, and trays of kaju katli shimmering like silver coins.
Bani freshened up quickly, washing away the sweat and dust from the temple steps. Her father emerged from his room in his new rymond shirt and pant, while her cousins appeared in bright, festive kurtis and sherwanis.
The first diyas were lit at the entrance, their flames flickering in the evening breeze. Neighbours came by to exchange sweets and Diwali greetings. Children darted through the lane with sparklers, giggling at the tiny showers of gold in their hands.
Bani stood at the doorway for a moment, just watching the glow spread across the street. This was home—not the glamorous sets or the hotel rooms she stayed in for shoots, but the simple warmth of family and tradition. Tonight would be for celebrations, laughter, and the quiet pride of giving.
As the diyas multiplied, the air in the house grew warmer, both from the flames and the excitement. After the evening pooja, the family gathered in the living room. It was time for Bani to bring out the gifts she had purchased days earlier—the ones she had chosen without using her space magic.
From a neatly packed bag, she drew out a Fastrack watch for her brother and cousins. Their faces lit up instantly, the metallic sheen catching the lamplight. For her father, uncle, aunt, and mother, she handed over boxes containing elegant Titan watches, each wrapped with care.
The room was full of chatter as everyone tried on their gifts, adjusting straps and showing them off. Bani slipped away quietly to her room and used her ability to copy two watches for herself—a Fastrack belt watch and a Titan chain watch. She tucked them into her drawer, smiling at the thought of wearing them later.
Once the gifts were exchanged, it was time for fireworks. The younger cousins rushed out first, armed with sparklers, flowerpots, and chakras. The elders followed, keeping a safe watch but occasionally lighting a sparkler themselves.
The lane was alive with bursts of colour—red fountains, green blooms, golden trails that fizzled into the night. The scent of gunpowder mingled with the fragrance of ghee lamps and jasmine garlands.
Bani stood near the gate, holding a sparkler that drew glowing circles in the air. She looked up at the stars, feeling an odd connection between their steady light and the brief beauty of the fireworks. Life, she thought, was a bit of both—moments that burned bright and fast, and others that glowed steadily through the years.
Later, the family gathered inside again for sweets. The curd rice and puliyogare from earlier were brought out for a light dinner, followed by hot cups of filter coffee. Laughter spilled into the night as stories from past Diwalis were retold—some so often that they had become family legends.
As the last diya flickered low, Bani realised that the day had been perfect in its simplicity. No film shoots, no schedules—just the rare joy of being fully present in the moment.
Tomorrow, life would return to its usual rhythm. But tonight, the glow would stay.
The Diwali morning had already been filled with activity — the temple trip, the laughter over lunch under the green shade, and the comforting tiredness that comes after a day well spent with family. By evening, Bani was relaxing at home when she heard the sound of a two-wheeler pulling up outside the gate.
Her father went to check, and a familiar voice called out from the street. "Anna! It's me!"
It was her younger uncle. He had grown up in their native village, spending most of his life close to the fields, the cattle, and the slow rhythm of rural life. But a few years ago, he had moved to Bengaluru, determined to build a new life in the city.
Still, an unspoken undercurrent existed between the brothers. Their father, long before he passed, had told the younger one that the family's agricultural plot would be his. But the younger uncle had never fully believed it. In his mind, his elder brother might have been making polite promises he didn't intend to keep. And somewhere deep down, he thought, Anna doesn't really want me to settle here. He wants me to stay in the village, far from his city life.
That suspicion had hardened into a belief — that his elder brother was selfish, unwilling to help him or his children.
When he first came to Bengaluru years ago, he had walked straight to this same house with his two young daughters in tow. Bani still remembered the scene, even though she had been small at the time. Her uncle had stood in the doorway with a grin and declared, "From today onwards, these two will be your daughters."
Her father, amused, had replied without missing a beat, "I already have my own two children to look after. As their father, you need to be the one who takes care of them, not me."
They had all laughed, but the words had a weight that only the adults understood.
Now, as he stepped inside the house this Diwali evening, the same easy smile was on her uncle's face. He was carrying a small bag with homemade sweets wrapped in banana leaves, their warm, sugary scent filling the air. His daughters, now teenagers, followed behind him, a little shy but smiling at Bani.
"Come in, come in," her father said, ushering them to the living room. Tea was brewed, plates of snacks were brought out, and soon the room was filled with conversation — half teasing, half serious — about village life, crops, and the rising cost of living in the city.
Bani watched quietly. She could sense the small barbs hidden in their joking, the years of misunderstanding between her father and uncle. But alongside it, she also saw something warmer — the bond that still survived, even if bruised.