“Danger is relative, my dear,” he laughed. “Your grandfather used to light 50 diyas (clay lamps) with mustard oil. One spark and we’d have been a bonfire. This is luxury.”
One year later, on Diwali, Aanya returned to Varanasi. Her platform now worked with 500 weavers. She sat on the ghat next to her grandmother, who was no longer wearing white. Shanti had surprised everyone by buying a bright orange sari with gold brocade.
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On Diwali night, Aanya wore a silk Banarasi sari—a family heirloom woven on a handloom just three streets away. The gold zari (thread work) shimmered like liquid sunlight. She drew a rangoli at the doorstep, a lotus made of colored rice flour and crushed petal powders. As she lit the lamps, her phone buzzed. Her boss, Anjali, had sent a message: “Aanya, the autumn mood board needs to be less ‘ethnic.’ Think Scandinavian. No bindis, no elephants.”