In Tamil households, the arrival of Diwali is first felt not in the skies with fireworks, but in the kitchens with fragrance. A week before the festival, Paati would roll up her sleeves, light the oil lamp, and begin her marathon of making deepavali bakshanam — the sweet and savory delights that define this season of joy. The house filled with the warm, buttery aroma of Mysore Pak, the golden glow of Adhirasam, and the cheerful crunch of Murukku.
For Paati, every sweet had a story. Mysore Pak was the grand centerpiece, a melt-in-the-mouth block of gram flour, ghee, and sugar that always carried the weight of pride. She would cut it into neat squares and store it in shining stainless-steel dabbas, but not before letting the grandchildren steal a warm corner piece straight from the tray. Adhirasam, made with jaggery and rice flour, was Paati’s personal favorite. She said it was the soul of Diwali — sweet, earthy, and made with patience, as the dough needed days of resting before it blossomed in hot oil.
If the sweets represented love, the karam items represented laughter. A jar of Thattai was always waiting to be cracked open during card games. Ribbon Pakoda, with its delicate, golden spirals, was as much fun to make as it was to eat, with Paati expertly pressing the dough into the hot oil while children giggled at its dancing shapes. And of course, Murukku — crisp, spiral coils that snapped with a crunch loud enough to be heard across the street.
But Diwali in Tamil Nadu wasn’t just about eating — it was about sharing. Paati would pack boxes with a mix of sweets and karam, wrap them in butter paper, and send us off to every neighbor’s house. The act of giving was as sacred as the act of cooking. Food wasn’t just sustenance; it was affection, friendship, and community woven into every bite.
One Diwali, when Meenamma was just a little girl, she decided to help Paati fry the Adhirasam. With tiny hands and big excitement, she tried to press the dough into the hot oil. The Adhirasam slipped, splashed, and made a messy little circle that looked nothing like Paati’s perfect rounds. Everyone burst out laughing, and Paati gently said, “It may not look right, but it carries your love — and that’s all that matters in a festival.” That lopsided Adhirasam became the most treasured sweet of that Diwali, remembered long after the fireworks faded.
And that’s what Diwali is — not just the perfection of recipes, but the imperfect, beautiful moments that become stories for generations.
