Diwali mornings, every year similar scenes would be played out in our one room kitchen home. Mom would cajole me, threaten me and finally forcefully drag me out of bed. I would be required to find my way to bathroom and get ready before Mom lights up the house with clay diyas. I would trudge across laboriously taking a slight detour and make my way to kitchen instead. I would find it on the corner of a table kept in a large vessel, tightly covered.
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