BLOG POST-41 The Changing Face of Festivals

 

                           The Changing Face of Festivals

                                                                                              Have We Lost the True Spirit?

 

Festivals in India were never just occasions marked on a calendar. They were the heartbeat of our homes, the warmth in our kitchens, and the laughter that echoed through our neighbourhoods. But somewhere between then and now, something has quietly changed — and it's time we talk about it.

Cast your mind back to the festivals of our childhood. The excitement began days in advance, and the kitchen was where it all happened.

Take Holi. The preparation was an event in itself — a day-long affair where every family member had a role. Someone would get the dough ready, another would roll it out, someone would carefully fill the gujiya, and then came the most anticipated part — frying the lot on a slow, just-right flame. Gujiyas, namak paare and shakkar paare would pile up, golden and fragrant. Small talk, jokes and laughter filled the air. Sometimes the preparation stretched late into the night, and nobody minded.

Then came the dahi badas and thandai. After playing with gulal and water till you could play no more, there was a hearty lunch and a well-earned afternoon nap.

That was Holi in its fullest, truest form.

Diwali brought its own language of sweets and gifts exchanged with genuine affection. Karwa Chauth meant the comforting smell of pooris and pua. And Eid — the aroma of biryani slow-cooking and sewai loaded with dry fruits, filling the home with warmth long before the guests arrived.

Each festival had its own particular flavour. And that flavour was made at home, with love, and shared freely.

Today, festivals increasingly feel like obligations to be fulfilled. Exchange gifts. Click pictures. Post online. Move on.

Fetes and food stalls pop up on every occasion — convenient, colourful, but somehow hollow. Visiting relatives has become a checklist rather than a moment to cherish. The celebrations have not disappeared; they have simply grown louder. But somewhere in all that noise, the soul of the festival has gone quiet.

Progress is wonderful — but not at the cost of our values.

Diwali, Holi, Eid, Karwa Chauth, Dussehra — each carries centuries of meaning. Raksha Bandhan was never just about tying a thread around a wrist; it was about the bond between siblings, the promise to stand by one another, and the joy of coming together as a family. Each teaches us something: about light over darkness, love over hatred, and togetherness over isolation.

                                          

But look around during any festival today. The children are on their phones. The teenagers have their earphones in. The adults are half-present, glancing at notifications between conversations.

We live-stream our Diwali puja but don't sit through it fully ourselves. We post Reels of our Holi celebrations mid-play, breaking the moment to capture it.

We are so busy documenting the festival that we forget to feel it.

And our children, watching us, learn exactly that — that the festival is content, not experience.

A Netflix show waits on the television, and somehow the family that gathered to celebrate ends up watching it together instead. The screen has quietly become the centrepiece of the room, where once it was the kitchen, the diya, or the puja thali.

The question is not whether technology is good or bad. It is whether we are allowing it to replace something irreplaceable.

Are we passing on the lessons these festivals carry, or merely passing on the date?

Many of us in my generation got swept up in Western culture during our college years — and there is nothing inherently wrong with that. We listened to Western music, watched Hollywood films, and sometimes thought of our own traditions as old-fashioned. The pressure to seem modern was very real. Festivals felt like something our parents did, not something we needed to own.

But with age comes clarity.

You begin to realise that the cultures we so eagerly borrowed from have their own deep roots — and that ours go deeper still. Our festivals are not superstitions or rituals done out of blind habit. They are carefully preserved wisdom — about seasons, community, and the human need for joy, gratitude and togetherness.

We found our way back.

But our children are yet to make that journey — and unlike us, they may not have a foundation to return to if we don't first give them something to return to.

That pride in being Indian, in belonging to something ancient and alive all at once, is something they deserve to feel. And it begins at home, at the festival table, in the kitchen circle.

Culture is not taught — it is lived.

Lighting diyas by hand. Sitting around the kitchen together. Staying up late and laughing at nothing in particular. These things ingrain values far more deeply than any textbook ever could.

If we stop living it, we cannot expect the next generation to carry it forward.

Festivals have also become expensive in ways that add little meaning.

The pressure to dress up for every occasion, fuelled by social media, is very real. We buy new clothes not because the occasion calls for celebration, but because the camera does. We spend on gift hampers wrapped in cellophane and ribbon — exchanged quickly at the door — when once a small box of homemade sweets carried more love than any curated package could.

With online shopping available all year round, festival spending has spread across twelve months and, paradoxically, made the occasions feel less special. When you can buy anything anytime, the act of buying loses its meaning.

The commercialisation, the performance, the spending — it is all pulling us away from the same thing: the simple, unhurried, deeply felt experience of celebrating together.

The warmth was never in the packaging. It was in the making, the sharing, the staying up late.

That cost nothing. And it gave everything.

I will be honest — I am not ready to let these traditions fade.

Even today, in my own home, I make gujiyas for Holi, prepare the thandai, and gather my family around the kitchen just as my elders once did. My son watches, participates, and without even realising it — learns.

I am not just cooking sweets. I am handing him a piece of his identity.

I want him to grow up with these memories so deeply embedded that one day, when he has children of his own, he will naturally reach for the dough, set up the circle, and carry it all forward.

That is how culture survives — not in museums or textbooks, but in kitchens, in laughter, in the smell of something frying on a slow flame on a festive morning.

Pride in our heritage is not optional — it is essential.

Let us celebrate not just the occasion, but the culture it carries. Let us bring back the warmth, the genuineness, and the kitchen aromas that made these days mean something.

Because a festival without its soul is just another day off.

What are your fondest festival memories? Do you still make gujiyas at home, or have the sweet shops taken over? Share your traditions in the comments — let's keep the conversation alive.