COLUMN: Learning to celebrate my roots and embrace my future

College is a constant push and pull between expanding my identity and clinging onto old memories that shaped my childhood. A blossoming appreciation for the opportunities I have in college, but occasionally regretting the missed experiences that are inevitable when moving away. One of the most memorable and quintessential parts of my childhood was celebrating Diwali, the Indian Festival of Lights. During the month of October, my parents and I would go to a Diwali party, if not multiple, every weekend. The schedule would be decided months in advance, with squabbles over who got to host on which date resolved back in April.

Every year, almost without fail, my family hosts our own Diwali party, with a preparation process that is an experience in and of itself. My mother spends weeks working out the menu, taking requests from family and friends to make her legendary dishes. My grandma and mother share the kitchen, divvying up the responsibilities between desserts and appetizers, and my dad and I would pop in to lick the bowl of condensed milk or steal a kachori, a spicy Indian snack.

When I was younger, my mom would draw out the Rangoli, the art with colored rice and powder that you put in front of your door. My little hands would mess up her intricately drawn designs. Over the years, I learned from her. My hands became more stable, and it was finally my responsibility to draw all the designs. I put out the diyas, little tea-light candles, all around the house. I would walk around in my Indian clothes, seeing the entire house lit up, soaking in the silence before our house was filled with laughs and hugs and full stomachs.

Diwali may be the festival of lights, but for me, it was always, and continues to be a celebration of community. While it sounds cliche, they say it takes a village to raise a child, and this night was always a gathering of my village. Everyone who came to this night played a role in defining my identity, whether I saw them every weekend or once a year.

Every vivid detail has been etched into my mind, an amalgam of my experiences over the years. The laughs of excitement, as we wrote our names with the sparklers, across the background of the dark sky. The little beads and sparkles that would be left on our floor from our Indian clothes. The sounds of our bangles clinking against each other, as we ran from one room to another, playing hide and seek. The taste of my Mom’s paneer and Biryani, and my uncles and aunts going back to get more food, while chorusing, “I’m stuffed.” And finally, getting permission from my parents to change out of my itchy Indian clothes, just to watch the parents play cards into the early hours of the morning.

I haven’t been able to go home for Diwali in the past few years. Since I go to school relatively close to home, my parents expected that this would be one of the experiences I wouldn’t miss. Unfortunately, both years, my Model United Nations team has had our conference on the same weekend as my parents’ party. If not for the incessant calls I got from my family, urging me to come home and the isolation I feel from seeing the pictures at my house, I would say that this coincidence is serendipitous. The night that was an assemblage of my community back home has now become a celebration of one of my most important communities here at USC.

This weekend, as I run from room to room, imagining scenarios for a post-Cold-War National Security Council, I will undoubtedly get hit with bursts of nostalgia, as my family friends dress up in their lenghas and my mom reminds me of the food I’m missing. But I’ll also be thankful that I have those experiences painted so vividly in my mind, and that I can hold them close to me as I make new memories. I will carry those relationships and memories with me throughout my college career. My parents will always welcome me with open arms, reminding me that I will always have a place to call home, and a night to celebrate the people who made me who I am — even if I won’t always be there to physically experience it.

Nayanika Kapoor is a sophomore majoring in journalism and political economy. Her column, “In-Transit,” runs every other Friday.