Deepavali is the Festival of Lights. It is supposed to be the brightest, most joyful time of the year — the house cleaned and decorated, the oil lamps lit, the smell of murukku and sweets filling every room, the family gathered for prayers before the day begins.
And then someone who was always part of that brightness is no longer there.
If you are dreading Deepavali this year — or finding it harder than you expected — this is for you.
The morning ritual
For many Malaysian Hindu families, Deepavali morning is sacred. The oil bath before sunrise. The new clothes. The prayers. The way the day begins with intention and ritual before anything else.
These rituals are built around the people who led them — the grandmother who made sure everyone was up early, who had the oil ready, who said the same prayers in the same order every year. When that person is gone, the ritual doesn't just feel different. It can feel like the very beginning of the day is broken.
Some families find that continuing the ritual — exactly as it was — is a way of keeping the person present. Others find it too painful to replicate without them there to lead it. Both responses are valid. The ritual will find its shape again over time. This year, just do what you can.
The first Deepavali
In Hindu tradition, a family in mourning observes a period of restraint — traditionally, no celebrations, no temple visits, a stepping back from the full festivity of the season. In practice, many Malaysian Hindu families today balance these traditions with what is emotionally and practically manageable, with some resuming temple visits after six months and adapting the level of celebration to what feels right.
If you are in your first Deepavali since the loss, be gentle with yourself about what you can and cannot do. There is no single correct way to observe the mourning period. What matters is what feels respectful to the person you lost and honest about where you are.
If your family is observing restrictions this year — no new clothes, no open house, a quieter celebration — it can feel strange to watch the world celebrate around you. It is okay to feel the contrast. It is okay to grieve what the day used to be while also honouring why this year is different.
The traditions that suddenly hurt
Every family has their Deepavali rituals. The specific sweets only one person made. The way the lamps were always arranged. The relative who arrived earliest and stayed to help clean up at the end. The one who made the whole house louder and brighter just by being in it.
Grief has a way of living in the specific and the sensory — a particular smell, a particular sound, the way the light looked when the lamps were lit and everyone was together. These moments can arrive without warning and knock the breath out of you.
Some families find comfort in making the same sweets, lighting the lamps the same way, continuing the traditions as a form of tribute. Others need to do things differently for a while — to change the arrangement, to skip the dish that is too associated with the person, to let the day look different until it feels less raw. Neither is a betrayal.
The lights
There is something about Deepavali specifically — the oil lamps, the kolam at the door, the deliberate act of bringing light into darkness — that carries particular weight after a loss. The festival's meaning is the triumph of light over darkness. When you are grieving, that metaphor is not abstract. It is lived.
Some families light an extra lamp in memory of the person who is gone. Others say a specific prayer for them during the morning puja. These small acts of including the person in the celebration — of refusing to let their absence make them invisible — can be one of the most comforting things you do on the day.
The family gathering
Deepavali means family. And family after a loss means navigating the complicated mix of grief and togetherness — the people who avoid mentioning the person, the people who bring them up at the wrong moment, the relatives who expect you to be fine because it has been a while.
You don't have to manage other people's discomfort. You don't have to perform being okay for the sake of the gathering. A simple "I'm taking it one day at a time" is enough for most interactions.
If you want to talk about the person who is gone — to share a memory, to laugh about something they used to do, to say their name out loud — do it. Most people are just waiting for permission. Being the one to bring them up is not morbid. It is love.
The kolam at the door
For many families, the kolam — the intricate pattern drawn at the entrance of the home — is one of the most visible symbols of Deepavali. The person who always drew it, who spent hours on the pattern, whose hands knew exactly what to do.
If that person is gone, the kolam this year might look different. It might be smaller, or simpler, or drawn by someone still learning. It might not be there at all.
Whatever it looks like this year is enough. The door is still yours. The home is still yours. Deepavali is still yours — changed, but still yours.
Giving yourself permission
The most important thing about getting through Deepavali after a loss is this: give yourself permission to feel whatever you feel.
Permission to find the morning ritual unbearable without them there to lead it. Permission to cry when the lamps are lit and everyone else is smiling. Permission to enjoy a moment of the day without guilt. Permission to find it harder than last year, even though you thought you'd be past the worst of it by now.
Deepavali is the Festival of Lights. But light and darkness are not opposites — they exist together. The lamps are lit precisely because darkness exists. Your grief and your love for the person you lost are the same thing, expressed differently.
You don't have to choose between celebrating and grieving. You can do both. That is what this day, this year, looks like for you. And that is enough.
Frequently Asked Questions
Is it disrespectful to celebrate Deepavali during the mourning period?
Different families observe different levels of restriction during mourning. Traditionally, the first year involves stepping back from full celebration and temple visits, though many families today adapt these practices to what feels right and manageable. There is no single correct answer — what matters is what feels respectful to the person you lost and honest about where your family is.
How do I get through the morning ritual when they were always the one who led it?
Do what you can. You don't have to replicate it perfectly. Even a simplified version of the ritual — a shorter prayer, a single lamp, a few quiet minutes of intention — honours the tradition without requiring you to perform something you're not ready for.
What if I can't stop crying during the family gathering?
Let yourself. Grief during a joyful occasion is not an embarrassment. Step away if you need to, take a moment, and come back when you're ready. Most family members will understand more than you expect them to.
How do I honour the person who is gone during Deepavali?
In whatever way feels right to you — an extra lamp lit in their memory, a prayer said specifically for them, their favourite sweet prepared in their honour, their name spoken out loud during the gathering. There is no prescribed way. What matters is the intention behind it.
Will Deepavali always feel this hard?
For most people, the intensity eases over time. The morning ritual becomes possible again. The lamps feel warm rather than painful. The grief doesn't disappear, but it gradually becomes something you carry alongside the celebration rather than instead of it.
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