Meera unlaces her red sneakers at the airport doorway and steps into warm golden light.
A string of diyas blazes along the floor, leading toward a room thick with cardamom and melting ghee.
'Ready?' asks her mother, pressing a small clay lamp into her palm. Meera holds the diya and follows the glowing path.
Meera kneels on the cool tile and tips her wick. The flame catches — then sneezes, burping a tiny black puff of smoke.
She giggles and relights it carefully. Across the courtyard, cousins race with sparklers, leaving streaks of orange light on the night walls.
Meera runs through a burst of pink powder and pops bright green water balloons. Colors fly everywhere —
someone squirts yellow at her shoes and she yelps and hops, one foot, then the other, splashing through a rainbow puddle.
Laughter rings out as her friends tackle her in a happy heap.
Meera carries a plate of round sweets up to a neighbor's door. The door opens and an elderly man beams, offering her a sweet right from the stack.
She takes it, bites in, and juice runs down her chin. 'From my house to yours,' he says, and hands her a second plate back through the doorway.
'From my house to yours,' he says, and hands her a second plate back through the doorway.
Meera sits on her bedroom floor surrounded by a diya, a handful of colored powder, and an empty sweet box. She taps the diya gently,
sprinkles a dot of pink powder, and holds up the sweet box like a tiny stage.
Then she grins, stands up, and marches toward the door — because tomorrow there might be another festival waiting.
