The first Diwali memory that reaches me is a smell: khoya browning slowly in a pan, stirred until it darkened and caramelised, with only a little sugar, a scattering of chironji and cardamom rising like a warm breath through the house.

That fragrance travelled with us from Delhi to Nagpur, where we hosted Diwali for three years. It found its way into the curtains, the cupboards, the clothes laid out for the evening. Long before the first diya was lit, Diwali had begun in the kitchen.

Our home was filled with relatives, neighbours, friends, Papa’s colleagues and people who came simply because there was room for them. Deepa Bhua and Pupaji would finish their puja and arrive with Chinky and Pinky Didi and Junoo Bhaiya. Nina Aunty and Rishabh Uncle came after their prayers in Jangpura. Abha Aunty, Ajay Uncle, Archana, Aiyana and Ruchi joined us. Kavita Aunty and Dr Chaudhry would arrive with her son Prashant.

Each family had prayed at home; then they came to pray and be with us. The Ramayana opened.…