Six-year-old Saanjh Malhotra has been talking about Diwali for weeks. Every afternoon on the way back from school, he spots neighbours hanging fairy lights and says, “Look, Mumma, they’re putting the lights up too, when will we do it?” His mother, Anmol, laughs. “Soon, beta,” she says, watching him lift his little body above from his car seat so he can see the lights better.
For Saanjh, a third-generation Indian-Australian, Diwali isn’t a story from an old book or something far away in India. It’s here, in the Sydney suburb of Box Hill – wrapped in lights, sweets, and laughter. He doesn’t know every ritual or know the deeper meaning behind them, but he knows what Diwali feels like. And that, in his world, is what really counts.
“The best ones are the poppers!” he says, eyes lighting up at the memory of his favourite firecracker – the small white ones you throw on the ground that make a sharp little crack when they explode. “You can hold a lot in one hand,” he explains with the seriousness only a six-year-old can muster. “Then you throw them, and they go pop pop pop and then Mumma says, ‘Bas, enough, Saanjh!’ But I keep doing them.” He likes those ones because they’re the ones he’s been using since he was a toddler. “The big ones in the sky are very nice too, but we only saw them in Daadu-Daadi’s house in India,” he admits.
His four-year-old sister Meher usually watches the fireworks from behind her mum, clapping and squealing every time a rainbow sparkle bursts in the sky. “She thinks they’re stars,” Saanjh says, his tone half teasing, half laughing. third-generation indian on Diwali
In the week leading up to Diwali, the Malhotras’ home begins to look like something out of a dream. Flower garlands drape across the front door, fairy lights fall along the roof, and the smell of incense lingers long after the morning “jai-jai.” That’s what Saanjh calls the small pooja his family does together. “We say thank you to God,” he explains. “Mum lights a candle, Dadda rings the bell, and we close our eyes. I always say thank you for laddoos. And Scooby.”
Scooby is their small brown puppy – the newest member of the family and, according to Saanjh, “the naughtiest one.” He gets a tikka for Diwali, which he Meher usually likes to do. “Mumma says even Scooby wants to do jai-jai,” Saanjh laughs, tugging on the puppy’s ear gently. third-generation indian on Diwali
For Saanjh, no Diwali is complete without Naani – his grandmother – who arrives a day or two before the festival, carrying four goodie bags. “She’s like Santa,” he says, eyes wide. “One has sweets. One has presents. One has clothes. She always brings new clothes and toys for me and Meher. ” Last year, Naani brought him a toy car. “It was blue and very fast,” he says proudly. “This year, I would like a bigger car.”
But what Saanjh doesn’t quite realise yet is that Naani also brings something else with her — the connection between the family’s past and present. When she tells him stories about how she celebrated Diwali back in India – lighting diyas on the terrace, visiting neighbours with plates of sweets, staying up till midnight to watch the night sky glow — he listens intently, even if some words slip past him. Sometimes he asks, “Did you also have a Scooby like us?” His Naani laughs and says, “Sadly, we did not!”
When Diwali finally arrives, the Malhotra household is a whirlwind of sound. Laughter, chatter, the sizzling of cooking in the kitchen, and the occasional crash when Scooby gets too close to the table. “Mum says not to touch the laddoos before the pooja,” Saanjh confides, “but I always try to [sneak one] when she’s busy. Meher tells on me though.”
By evening, friends begin to arrive. His school friends and their parents come too. “They bring sweets as well, but my favourite is the orange laddoo. I can have the whole box,” Saanjh says, grinning. “And we play [in the backyard] until Mumma says come inside.” Scooby races around them, the lights from the garden reflecting in his eyes. “He’s the fastest one,” Saanjh insists. third-generation indian on Diwali
When asked what Diwali means to him, Saanjh thinks for a moment. “It’s when everyone says thank you to God,” he says. “And the house looks beautiful and smells nice.” He doesn’t mention Rama or Ravana, doesn’t recall the legend of good versus evil – but in his way, he already understands the spirit of the festival. To him, Diwali is about togetherness, generosity, and the joy that fills the spaces between people when they gather to celebrate. “It’s like [when you have] a birthday,” he adds after a pause. “But it’s everyone’s birthday!”
His parents smile when they hear that. “I think that’s the best explanation anyone’s ever given,” says Gaurav, his dad, watching Saanjh recount Diwali from his perspective.
As the evening winds down, the family moves to the front yard for the last round of sparklers. The night air hums with music, the sparkle of fuljhadis and all the houses on the street celebrating. Saanjh twirls his sparkler carefully, drawing circles in the dark. “Look, Mumma! I wrote Scooby’s name!” he says. When he’s done, he runs to the table, grabs a laddoo, and announces, “This one’s for Meher.” He takes a bite. “And this one’s for me.”
Ask him to compare Diwali to Christmas, and Saanjh has a very clear opinion. “Christmas only means presents and no school,” he says, counting on his fingers. “But Diwali means Naani comes, my friends come, Scooby gets treats, and everyone is happy. So Diwali is better.” He grins mischievously before adding, “But I [still] want Christmas presents too.”
And maybe that’s the beauty of being a child of second-gen Indians – growing up in two worlds, celebrating both with equal joy, and finding his own small way to connect them. He doesn’t know the story of Rama returning to Ayodhya, or why diyas are lit, or why people clean their homes before the festival. But he knows something deeper – when the lights come on, and everyone gathers together, the world feels brighter.
And in that simple, six-year-old truth, Diwali finds its purest meaning.
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