Every April, when the Punjabi New Year—Baisakhi—arrives, I find myself craving two things: the rhythmic beats of a dhol and a plate of piping hot jalebis. I didn’t grow up in Punjab, surrounded by endless fields of golden wheat swaying under the sun. Instead, I lived in Delhi, where traffic jams replaced fields, and the closest thing to a rural landscape was the neighborhood park, occasionally visited by a stray cow. But that never stopped us from celebrating Baisakhi with all the excitement of a true Punjabi village fair—just without the village itself.
My earliest Baisakhi memories involve being woken up at an ungodly hour by my parents, who insisted that the day had to start with a trip to the gurdwara. Half-asleep and stumbling, I followed the scent of sweet wheat pudding, the ultimate motivation for any child to sit through an hour of devotional hymns. The gurdwara was a sight to behold—adorned with fresh flowers, glowing divas, and a never-ending queue at the community meal. The beauty of it all? No matter how crowded it got, there was always space for one more person at the table, and always an extra ladle of lentil stew if you asked nicely (or just looked really hungry).
Once our prayers were done, the real festivities began. Delhi may not have the vast village squares of Punjab, but our community fairs transformed even the smallest parks into vibrant festival hubs. Rows of stalls sold everything from colorful bangles to handcrafted scarves, while the air filled with the mouthwatering scent of sizzling fritters and sweets. Men in brightly colored turbans and long tunics performed energetic Bhangra routines, their movements fueled by an unspoken competition to see who could last the longest.
But nothing fascinated me more than the Gatka performances. I would watch in awe as martial artists spun swords and sticks with incredible speed and precision, their expressions calm and focused. The clash of metal and the swift, fluid movements were mesmerizing. Inspired, I once considered learning Gatka myself—until I remembered that I could barely swing a cricket bat without nearly injuring myself. I decided I was much better suited to being an enthusiastic spectator.
Baisakhi wasn’t just about the performances or the fun—it was a day of gratitude. In Punjab, farmers celebrated the end of the harvest season, thanking the land for its bounty. In Delhi, we celebrated in our own way—by treating ourselves to extra helpings of spiced cheese dishes and giving up on any plans to eat healthy for the day. Walking past the food stalls, it was impossible to resist the sight of golden, crispy jalebis being pulled from the fryer or the temptation of hot, flaky pastries stuffed with spiced potatoes.
As evening fell, the streets came alive with processions carrying the Guru Granth Sahib in beautifully decorated palanquins, led by groups of devoted volunteers sweeping the road ahead—a symbol of devotion and service. The rhythmic chants of prayers blended with the usual honking of Delhi traffic, creating a uniquely urban version of spirituality. Elders sat in circles, sharing stories of Sikh history and the significance of Baisakhi, their words adding depth to the day’s celebrations.
By nightfall, my feet ached from hours of running around, my stomach was full to the brim, and my heart felt light with festive joy. Yet, as I sat with my family under the open sky, listening to the distant echoes of dhol beats still playing somewhere, I realized something. Baisakhi wasn’t just a festival; it was a feeling—one of belonging, celebration, and warmth. And no matter where I go in life, that feeling will always stay with me, as long as there’s music in the air and laughter in the crowd.
PHOTO: Courtesy Vikram Malhotra
(Devansh Malhotra, 14, is a high school sophomore 10th grader at the West Windsor Plainsboro High School South)
