The afternoon sun bakes the dusty streets of Panaji, Goa. Inside a cool, whitewashed kitchen, the air smells heavy with melted jaggery, cardamom, and fried dough. Prema stands over a wide, black iron pot of boiling oil. She dips a brass iron mold into the batter, then plunges it into the oil. With a soft hiss, a crisp, star-shaped rose cookie releases and floats to the top.
Her twelve-year-old son, Rahul, sits at the wooden table. He is surrounded by steel trays piled high with kuswar. There are snowy white coconut sweets, deep-brown neureos, and golden kulkuls. He is supposed to be counting them into decorative cardboard boxes, but his hands are still. He stares at a vibrant red poinsettia plant sitting in a clay pot by the window.
"Ma," Rahul says, his voice flat. "Why do we make so much? The manual work takes hours, and my hands hurt from pinching the kulkul dough."
Prema wipes her sweaty brow with the back of her wrist. She fishes out the rose cookie and places it on a paper towel. "It is for Bada Din, Rahul. The Big Day requires a big heart. We give these to everyone on our street. The lights and the sweets belong to all."
Rahul points a sticky finger toward the open window. Across the narrow lane, their neighbour, Mr. Sharma, is washing his scooter. "Mr. Sharma does not celebrate Bada Din. He does not go to midnight mass. Last year, he just said thank you and put our tray on his porch. He didn't even eat the coconut sweets while I was looking."
"He does not have to celebrate the way we do," Prema replies gently. She drops another mold into the oil. "The gift is in the giving, not the response."
"It feels like waste," Rahul mutters. "We spend all our money on flour, sugar, and expensive ghee. We could just buy a small fruit cake for ourselves and rest. Look at the rooftops. Nobody else is staying up all night to fry cookies."
Prema sighs. She turns off the gas stove and sits opposite her son. She takes a warm, sweet-scented kulkul and breaks it in half, handing him a piece. "Listen to me, beta. Bada Din is not just about our church or our house. Look at our windows tonight. What do we place next to the colorful electric stars?"
"Clay diyas," Rahul answers, chewing.
"Exactly," Prema says. "We light diyas because they represent the warmth of our land. The red poinsettias decorate the altar at midnight mass, but they bloom in everyone’s gardens here. The kuswar we make is a bridge. When you cross a bridge, you do not ask if the other side is identical to yours. You just walk across."
Rahul looks down at the rows of empty boxes. "But Mr. Sharma never gives us anything back."
Just then, a sharp knock echoes at the front door. Rahul walks over and pulls it open. Mr. Sharma stands on the threshold, wiping sweat from his forehead. In his hands, he holds a large, heavy brass lantern and a small terracotta pot filled with fresh marigolds.
"Namaste, Rahul," Mr. Sharma says, smiling broadly. "I see your mother is frying the Christmas treats. The whole street smells wonderful. I brought this lantern for your rooftop. It matches the clay diyas you light every year. I thought it would look beautiful next to your paper star."
Rahul blinks, stunned. He steps back to let the neighbor in. Prema comes out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. "Namaste, Sharma ji. Please, sit."
"No, no, I must go. My family is arriving," Mr. Sharma says, placing the lantern and flowers on the table. "But I wanted to ensure you have these before the big day tomorrow. Merry Christmas to you all."
After Mr. Sharma leaves, the room is quiet. Rahul looks at the brass lantern, then at the boxes of kuswar. He picks up a cardboard box and packs it to the very brim with the best rose cookies and coconut sweets.
"Ma," Rahul says quietly, his anger entirely gone. "I think this box is for the Sharmas."
Prema smiles and touches his shoulder. "Pack it well, Rahul."
The story shows that joy grows only when it is shared without expectations. True celebration lies not in keeping traditions to oneself, but in using them to build community and bring people together.
