People stood on chairs, arms in the air, screaming, cheering, and whistling. They sang, danced, and partied like it was their last night on earth. Preyanka Gothanayagi reports from Diwali Festival of Lights at TSB Arena.
The party started in the Uber on the way over. “Are you going to the Diwali festival today?” I asked our driver Sanjay, as my mum settled herself into the back seat.
“My wife is nudging me to go, so I’ll go with her this evening,” he said. “It’ll be my first one. I’ve been in Wellington for 10 years now, but I’ve never been.”
“My daughter’s performing today,” my mother cuts in, stage mum that she is.
“I can see your excitement!” Sanjay says. “Can I ask – who goes to this festival?”
It’s a good question. Growing up in Auckland, the Diwali festival sometimes felt like it was aimed more at people outside the Indian community than those within it. It was a way for us to share our culture with the city we lived in, separate from the way we celebrated Diwali ourselves. Families bring their children, politicians come to shake hands, and everyone mills around watching performances, eating food, and waiting until dark for the fireworks.
But for the past few years, the Wellington Diwali Festival has felt more like it’s by the community, for the community. Case in point: unlike in previous years, there was no prominent wall of text explaining the significance of the festival. Only a large statue of Lord Ganesha by the entrance, and a few photo walls bearing the words “Happy Diwali!”
Mum and I arrived early enough in the day that it wasn’t too crowded. We made our way around the small marketplace in the back, highly tempted by the diyas (oil lamps) and South Indian-style saris on display. I was distracted by some beautifully crafted wooden altars and lost my mother to a jewellery stall – but we met up again by the volunteers asking us to register to donate plasma.
We pushed through the growing crowd into the food hall. Stall after stall sold version after version of street food favourites: pani puri (small crunchy shells with various fillings), vadai (fried, spicy, savoury onion doughnut), idli (soft, fermented, steamed bread), and pav bhaji (toasted white buns spread with butter, and a potato-based curry). A young boy in a grey hoodie walked through the crowd with a tray of jalebi, my favourite ever treat (shoutout to Tesher x Jason Derulo). There was even ice golla, a shaved ice and syrup treat that my friend Sharvari had three of the weekend before at Auckland Diwali.
The crowd was mixed between connoisseurs and those new to the cuisine.
“I ordered a chole bhature,” I overheard one boy telling his friend.
“What’s that?” his friend asked.
“I have no idea,” he replied. Meanwhile, my mother made a beeline for the dosai and sambar (South Indian crispy, savoury crepes and a spicy sort of curry).
We joined some friends, sharing food from our plates with our hands and watching the crowd mill around us. A few Bharatanatyam dancers stood near us, wearing shawls over their costumes and jandals between their red-painted toes. My mother struck up a conversation with the man next to her, who showed her videos of his wife and daughter who’d performed on stage earlier that day. Just like other festivals, there was no delineation between performers and the crowd. If we were here to dance, we were also here to watch our friends and family share their skills and crafts with us in a shared celebration of our culture.
The event planning was nothing short of genius, organising a myriad of community groups and acts into several contained sections throughout the day – from kids’ performances to classical arts to dance styles from different regions in India and everything in between. When we finally sat down to watch the stage, we were treated to traditional arts like Kathak dances and Carnatic music, as well as a group from Kerala wearing saris, sunnies, and sneakers. The crowd never stopped cheering.
As the day went on, more and more people filtered in. By the time I went backstage to join my dance group, the Shivam Dance Academy, there weren’t many seats left. The final section of the night is what a lot of the community waits for each year (well, that and the fireworks). It’s back-to-back crowdpleaser acts, filled with popular songs and film-style performances.
I’m not going to lie – I’m not really a performer, and huge crowds make me nervous. But the Wellington Diwali Festival is one of the best gigs around because the audience is just so darn rowdy. By the end of the night, everyone is out of their seats, singing, dancing, cheering, whistling. The high is uncontainable. It’s the closest I’ll ever get to selling out Spark Arena.
As we waited for our turn, we cheered on the last few acts before us. A group of small children inexplicably dressed as Disney characters took the stage. They lip-synched to romantic classics like ‘So This is Love’ and ‘A Whole New World’, and a tiny Flynn Ryder stole my heart. Then a South Indian group, Popperz Crew, brought the fire, dancing to the biggest Tamil hits. The crowd went completely wild for them. It felt like the night couldn’t get bigger.
Our turn. We were the penultimate group for the night, and we were ready to go. Our performance was a mashup of Hindi and Telugu songs, old and new. The crowd roared at the Indian equivalent of a beat drop, and we went as hard as we possibly could. I stole a look at my friends’ faces, and as we danced, their smiles were as broad as mine.
If you’d told me a few years ago that this was what I do in my spare time, I would never have believed you. But the Wellington Indian community is all about culture, connection, and opportunity. And here I was, dancing (!) in front of thousands of people (!) and loving every second of it.
We hit the last pose, breathing heavily, pausing for applause. Then we tidied ourselves off the stage in preparation for the final group of the evening, Bhangra Kingdom. For the uninitiated, bhangra is a North-Indian style of music and dance made famous in the Western world by Punjabi MC. It’s full of energy, purpose, and grace, and the North Indian community turns. Out. For. It. Every Diwali festival I’ve been to in recent years has finished with a bhangra number – and for very good reason.
The crowd dissolved into one continuous roar. People stood on chairs, arms in the air, screaming, cheering, and whistling. They sang, danced, and partied like it was their last night on earth. When the music stopped, we kept going, rocking the arena with our noise and energy. I was lost in the moment, and so was my mum. I couldn’t find her anywhere.
“Please make your way outside for the fireworks,” said a voice over the loudspeaker, and we all began shuffling out. My cousin stood on a bench outside and waved frantically so I could spot her in the sea of faces and light-up balloons that had magically appeared. She’d had my mother with her, and they gave me a hug before slipping me a well-earned jalebi. We stood under the night sky with hundreds of others and watched the fireworks light up the waterfront. Perhaps even Lord Rama couldn’t have asked for a better welcome home.
As for the question of who the Wellington Diwali Festival is for, I think it’s for all of us – those of us who are hundreds of miles away from family and those whose families are right here in Pōneke. The community groups and performers, the singers and the dancers – even Andrew Little, who was spotted more than once waiting for food. It’s an event made magic by the community it’s for, and I can only see it getting bigger and better in the next few years.
Deepavali valthukkal, Pōneke!
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