6 Ways to Make Diwali Decoration Items Feel Festive and Bright — Diwali Decorations at Home

I was going to skip decorating this year. Seriously. Last Diwali I blew almost Rs 9,000 on readymade sets and half of it was junk by evening — one LED strip just died, no reason, and a plastic toran looked so fake my neighbour said so to my face. Shazia aunty.

Lovely woman. Brutal honesty. So this year Ammi — seventy-two, up before everyone, chai first, questions later — said just use the old things. The things in the taped box on top of the cupboard.

The box that says DIWALI in my handwriting. Bad handwriting. Anyway, she was right.

These six diwali decoration items are what actually went up in our living room. Not a catalogue. Our living room.

Prices included, because I wrote them on the back of an electricity bill and then lost the bill and then found it in my kurta pocket. The stained kurta. Of course.

Way 1: Clay Diyas — Diwali Decoration Items That Light the Room

Diyas first. No diyas, no Diwali. Simple as that. Stall near the sabzi mandi, same man every year, blue cart, moustache — I still don’t know his name, four years on, I just say “bhai” — Ammi talked him from Rs 15 down to Rs 10 in about forty seconds.

She has a gift. Two dozen plain diyas: Rs 240. A dozen bigger ones: Rs 180. Mustard oil: Rs 320 a bottle, half used, rest back in the kitchen.

Cheap. And then I dropped the bag in the car. Four chipped. We used them anyway, at the back, where nobody looks.

Pro tip, free of charge: chipped ones go at the back. Then Hamza — four, nephew, tornado in human form — knocked three filled diyas off the coffee table. Oil everywhere. My sister wiped it up with newspaper.

Hamza said sorry fifteen times. We all said “koi baat nahi” fifteen times. By the fifteenth time we meant it. So: fill them late, plate underneath, buy double.

I keep saying this. Nobody listens. I didn’t listen, the first time. Learn from me.

Way 2: One Brass Stand

Rs 2,850. Old market. Three tiers. Brass.

The shopkeeper called it something — deepam? Maybe. There was a bhajan blasting outside and I was distracted, so don’t quote me. What I do know: it’s heavy.

I nearly dropped it when he handed it over. Heavy is good. Heavy means Hamza can’t tip it over just by running past, and Hamza runs past everything. Polish it the day before, not on the day.

I did it on the day once — lemon, salt, Ammi’s method — and my hands smelled like salad all evening. Every laddoo tasted faintly of lemon. Not the end of the world. Annoying, though.

Light all three tiers and the room changes. The light goes up. Onto the ceiling. Onto people’s faces.

It stops being a room with stuff in it and starts being, I don’t know, awake. That’s a weird word for it. Awake. But that’s what it felt like.

Shazia aunty bought one after seeing ours. Hers is slightly taller. She mentioned it. Twice.

Casually. I noticed. Also — tongs. Keep tongs by the stand.

My cousin adjusted a wick with his bare fingers once. Once. We all learned something that day. Especially him.

Way 3: Lanterns on the Floor

Two brass lanterns. One was a gift from my father’s friend, years ago, occasion forgotten. The other: Rs 1,100, marked down from Rs 1,800, and yes, I still tell everyone, because a bargain is a bargain. For years they sat on the coffee table, in the middle of everything, and your eye just skipped them.

Too much stuff on the table. Diyas, sweets, a plate of something — there’s always a plate of something. This year my sister — credit where due, she’ll check — said put them on the floor, either side of the sofa. On the floor.

Sounds wrong. Isn’t wrong. Light comes up from low. Hits the red sofa.

Hits the gold cushions. The dark corner glows. People drift towards it. Like moths.

Speaking of moths: one got inside a lantern once. Banged against the glass for ten minutes. We let it out. That’s real life with real lanterns.

One lantern’s glass is cracked — fell off a shelf last year. Kept it anyway. At night you can’t see the crack. You see the flame.

Ammi said the same thing. When Ammi and I agree, that’s usually the answer.

Thick candles, by the way. Thin ones burn out in an hour.

I spent half an evening in 2024 on my knees with a matchbox, in the dark, while guests arrived. Never again. Never.

Way 4: Marigolds

Early morning flower market. 8 am, which on a holiday counts as early, don’t argue. Smells amazing in there. Wet earth and flowers.

Six garlands, orange and yellow, Rs 150 each — Rs 900 — plus a small seventh free, because Ammi smiled at the man, or because we’re regulars, either way: free. Doorway first, obviously, everyone does the doorway, your grandmother did the doorway. But the windows looked better. Fairy lights behind the petals — well, near the windows, close enough — and the petals glow.

Orange. Yellow. Little suns. Cheesy?

Yes. True? Also yes. Now the part nobody puts in articles: they shed.

By midnight the floor was covered. Petals in my shoes next morning. In my shoes!

Petals in the sofa. A dried petal in my kurta pocket a week later. The stained kurta again. It all comes back to that kurta. Put garlands up the same day, not two days early, or they wilt and shed double.

Broom behind the sofa. Hidden. You’ll need it. And skip the plastic ones.

I tried them once. In the shop: fine. At home: hotel lobby. A hotel lobby is not a home.

Diwali is about home. Ammi says so. She’s usually right. Annoyingly right.

Way 5: A Rangoli I Didn’t Draw

I can’t draw a rangoli. Tried once, years ago. Looked like a map of a country that doesn’t exist. My sister laughed until she had to sit down.

I haven’t tried since. No shame. Some shame. A little shame.

Anyway, my sister drew this year’s: round, petals — marigold, rose, small white jasmine, about Rs 350, bought on the same flower trip — three feet across. Not six. Not a peacock. Three feet.

Forty minutes. Guests stopped at the door to look at it. Every guest. One aunty photographed it.

A rangoli! I spent hours on lights and the photographed thing was a circle of petals. That’s life. That’s how it goes.

So: small. Petals, not powder. Powder gets everywhere — I found pink powder behind a door in March once. March!

Petals you sweep. Start two hours before guests, not thirty minutes. I started late once. Doorbell rang while I was still placing petals, knees on the floor, petals on my knees, and my sister opened the door, and the guests thought I was praying.

In a way I was. Praying they wouldn’t notice the unfinished corner. They noticed. Politely.

Polite noticing is the worst noticing. Everyone knows this. Nobody says it.

Way 6: Warm Fairy Lights and Gold Cushions

Cheapest big change on this list. If you do nothing else, do this. Fairy lights, warm white, 10 metres, Rs 450. Warm white.

Not cool white. I bought cool white by mistake in 2023 and Ammi said the room looked like a hospital. It did. Hospital lighting.

Never again. Warm white makes a room look like a home. That’s the whole difference, and it’s a huge difference. Draped them on the wooden shelf, around the window frame.

Then the cushions. Sofa: deep red, eight years old. Cushion covers: gold, four of them, Rs 600 each, Rs 2,400. Sounds like a lot.

Divide by the years — they come out every Diwali, live in a cupboard in an old bedsheet the rest of the year, so they don’t fade — and it’s fine. It’s more than fine. Gold on red, warm lights behind: it looks expensive. It looks like you tried very hard.

You changed four covers. Ten minutes. Minus the zip I broke forcing one on, in a hurry, always in a hurry, and sewed shut badly — stitches visible if you look close. Nobody looked close.

They were looking at the lights. Oh, and tape the extension wire down. My uncle tripped on it. Shazia aunty tripped on it.

Brown tape, matches the floor, more or less. Problem solved. Should’ve done it first. I always do things second.

Total, if you’re counting — and I counted, slowly, because maths is not my strong point, and I lost the bill twice: diyas Rs 420, brass stand Rs 2,850, garlands Rs 900, rangoli flowers Rs 350, fairy lights Rs 450, cushion covers Rs 2,400. That’s Rs 7,370. Ish. About Rs 7,400, if you buy everything new.

Less if you already own the brass and the lanterns, like we mostly did. And all of it comes back next year, except the diyas and the flowers, which is the point, really — the brass, the lanterns, the cushions, they live in the taped box, on top of the cupboard, and every year Ammi takes them out before I wake up, and every year I pretend I’m not surprised, and every year I kind of am, because I forgot what was in the box. I always forget. These diwali decoration items aren’t perfect.

Perfect is for photographs. Photographs don’t have moths in lanterns or petals in shoes or uncles tripping on wires. My Diwali has all three. And light.

A lot of light. And people walking in and saying “wah, kya roshni hai” without even thinking about it. That’s the point. That, and keeping Hamza away from the diyas until the guests arrive.

Seriously. Keep the small children away from the diyas. I said it last year. Didn’t work.

I’ll say it again next year. That’s what you do.

Read: 6 Ways to Make Ganpati Decor at Home Feel Warm and Blessed