I still remember the exact hour the street went dark—two days before Diwali, right when the kids were testing their new phooljhadis on the balcony and every shop had half their fairy lights up. One loud pop, then silence. The lane fell into that strange kind of darkness that makes everyone speak in whispers.
I stepped out with a torch. Neighbours gathered, palms open, looking up at the pole like it might answer back. Someone muttered about the transformer, someone else said “kal tak ho jayega,” and a third person began listing all the things that wouldn’t happen if the light didn’t return—rangoli, last-minute cleaning, that one auntie’s famous besan laddoos production line.
Then a white pickup rolled in. Three men climbed down with tool bags and a coil of cable. The leader—Imran—looked around once, the way a good cook looks at a cluttered kitchen and already knows what to do. He didn’t give a speech. He just said, “Chaliye, time kam hai,” and got to work.
I don’t know why I stayed. Maybe because the darkness made the lane feel smaller, more intimate, like a home after everyone’s fallen asleep. Or maybe because I wanted to see what it takes to bring a whole neighbourhood back to life.
Imran sent one teammate to the junction box and another up the pole. He checked the line with a small meter, nodded to himself, and started giving short, crisp instructions. Nothing dramatic. No heroic music. Just the rhythm of people who know their craft—gloves on, wire stripped, connection tested, retested.
And then something beautiful happened, the kind you only see when work is honest and public: the lane gathered around to help in the only ways we knew. Uncle from the corner shop brought a steel kettle and paper cups. “Chai garam,” he announced like a bandmaster. A boy from the third floor, still in his school shorts, ran down with a box of biscuits. Two aunties turned up with laddoos on a plate covered with foil—“Meetha khaye bina kaam kaise chalega?” A taxi driver parked his car in a better angle to throw light from his headlights while they worked the cable. Nobody told anyone to do any of this. It just… happened.
At some point, Imran glanced at the plate of laddoos and smiled. “Aaj hi roza hota toh tod bhi deta,” he joked, then popped one in his mouth and got back to the line. We all laughed, the way neighbours laugh when something small and kind breaks the tension.
From our balconies, the lane didn’t look divided. It looked like a set—props, light, sound—waiting for the show to start. Kids asked a hundred questions. “Bhaiya current kaise aata hai? Bhaiya, itna wire kyun?” Imran kept answering between tasks: “Seedha seedha nahi aata, beta—pehle safe aata hai.” That line stuck with me. Before it’s bright, it’s safe. Before celebration, someone makes sure it won’t hurt you.
Around 11:30 pm, they tested the line. A flicker ran along the cables like a bird shaking off rain. Then another. Imran looked at his meter, signalled once, twice, and the teammate at the junction box reset the switch. A heartbeat later, one string of lights blinked on. Then another. Then the entire lane—like a wave rolling from one balcony to the next—lit up.
I swear the cheer that went up didn’t sound like a crowd; it sounded like relief turning into joy. The kids jumped. Somebody clapped so hard their palms must’ve stung. The aunties did that happy little “arey wah!” in perfect chorus. Even the stray dog wagged like he’d just been praised.
Imran didn’t do a victory pose. He wiped his hands, took a last sip of now-cold chai, and asked the team to check each connection twice. “Kal sab log lights full raat rakhenge,” he said, “galti ki gunjaish nahi.” Before leaving, he told us to call if there was any flicker. He left a number, and left us our lane, bright again.
That night, I stood a little longer on the balcony. The fairy lights looked new, but the feeling was old—neighbours who know each other’s routines, the sound of steel plates from late dinners, the whistle of a pressure cooker somewhere. It felt like Diwali had already begun, even though the calendar disagreed. Maybe Diwali starts exactly there—in the quiet work that makes joy possible.
The next evening the lane went full theatre. Marigold garlands appeared like they had grown there overnight. Somebody played old Kishore songs; someone else complained and switched to “Diya Jale.” Children raced up and down with sparklers that traced quick silver letters in the air. A priest in a crisp dhoti paused by the pole, put his palms together for a second, and then looked around, confused, as if searching for the men who had fixed the light. They were already on another street, I suppose, chasing another dark lane.
I kept thinking about how we often praise the moment the lights come on—but forget the hours before that, the work that no one will frame for Instagram. I kept thinking about how help arrives without asking what you pray or don’t pray, how laddoos don’t need introductions, how a plate passed from a Hindu kitchen to a Muslim electrician is just a plate, and a thank you is just a thank you.
If you ask me what “festival spirit” looks like, I’ll show you that night. Not the grand fireworks, not the biggest lantern, not the loudest song. I’ll show you a lane gathered around three people doing their job well. I’ll show you chai served in paper cups that steamed like tiny clouds. I’ll show you a number written in pen on a torn bit of cardboard: “Kuch bhi ho, call karna.”
And if you ask me what I learned, it’s this: before the lights, there is always someone making sure the lights can happen. The celebration starts earlier than we think. It starts with service. It starts with trust. It starts with hands that know what they’re doing and hearts that show up with laddoos and tea.
This year, when I switch on my fairy lights, I’ll think of Imran and his team. I’ll think of our lane, briefly a workshop, then a stage. I’ll think of how Diwali didn’t arrive on the calendar—it arrived when the dark street turned bright and everyone, for a second, saw each other clearly.