Letting go, whether of excess or of resentment, is an act of generosity we offer first to ourselves, writes Vickram Sethi
In recent years, the weeks leading up to Diwali, Akshay Tritiya, Gudi Padwa, Baisakhi, Eid and Christmas have begun to feel less like a gentle countdown and more like a carefully choreographed campaign towards a shopping festival. The moment the calendar turns, shop windows sparkle with promises of indulgence — boxes tied with golden ribbons, glossy cakes, chocolates, mithai, and almost anything that can be bought. Everything seems to convey the same message: celebration must be purchased.
What quietly gets lost is the simpler pleasure of making things at home, or sharing what has always been familiar. A homemade sweet often carries more warmth than the most elaborate box. Yet advertising rarely celebrates restraint or tradition; it thrives on novelty, abundance and the fear of missing out. When we step away from relentless marketing, we may rediscover a quieter, more personal celebration — one where sweetness comes not from sugar alone, but from sincerity.
There is something about a festival that stirs the heart more than most days of the year. Perhaps it is the scent of something cooking in the kitchen, or the soft glow of the evening that invites reflection. Festivals are emotional landmarks, reminding us who we are and where we have come from — and often, who we have loved and lost along the way. Yet for all their warmth, such occasions can also reopen old wounds. Family gatherings have a way of bringing unresolved tensions to the surface: a careless remark, a misunderstanding never addressed, a silence that has slowly hardened. These things do not disappear just because the lights are lit and the table is laid. In fact, they often sit quietly beside us, like uninvited guests at the feast.
During a recent road trip, I came across a sign that read: “Don’t jump about like the Bua, sulk like the Fufa.” It made me smile, but it also struck a chord. Most family grudges begin with hurt. Someone feels overlooked or criticised. Ego steps in where conversation should have followed. Time passes, and what could once have been resolved over a hug or a cup of tea becomes a fixed narrative. We tell ourselves, this is how they are, and this is how they will always be. A festival offers a rare pause — a moment when routines soften and hearts are a little more open. We need not forget the past, but we can loosen our grip on it.
Letting go of a grudge does not mean the pain was imaginary or unimportant. It means recognising that carrying it year after year weighs more heavily on our own chest than on anyone else’s. Often, the person most exhausted by long-standing resentment is not the one who caused it, but the one holding on to it. Reconciliation rarely begins with the other person changing; it begins with a shift within ourselves. A little introspection — asking what part we may have played — can soften the rigid edges of blame. Festivals do not require grand speeches or emotional confrontations. Sometimes a casual remark is enough to open a door, without forcing anyone to walk through it.
Not every relationship can be magically repaired in a single moment. Some wounds need time and repeated efforts before trust returns. Many family conflicts persist because everyone is waiting to be understood, while no one is fully listening. Listening has a quiet power. When someone senses they are being heard, their need to defend or prove a point often fades. Forgiveness, too, is frequently misunderstood. It is not an announcement, nor a favour granted from a position of strength. It is an internal decision to stop reliving the injury every time we think of the person. Forgiveness can be silent; it can happen without words. It is less about settling the past and more about freeing the present. Setting boundaries is equally important — choosing not to revisit old arguments, steering conversations towards safer ground — allowing harmony without reopening scars.
There is a quiet courage in being the one who reaches out first. A phone call made before Christmas Day can make all the difference. Families are imperfect by design — collections of different temperaments, where friction is inevitable. But so, too, is the possibility of renewal. Sometimes it is a simple conversation, one that avoids old traps and carries genuine warmth, that allows relationships to breathe again.
As seniors, we understand the value of time perhaps more keenly than most. We remember those who once sat at the table with us — their laughter, their words, their presence. When we imagine a future where a chair stands empty, many grudges begin to feel smaller, less deserving of the space they occupy. This does not mean tolerating disrespect or silencing oneself for the sake of peace. It means choosing carefully which battles deserve our energy, and which have already taken too much. It is worth asking ourselves a simple question: what kind of memory do I want to carry forward — not for others, but for myself?
In the end, a festival is not measured by how full the shopping bags are, but by how light the heart feels when the day draws to a close. Beyond the glittering boxes and carefully marketed sweetness lies a deeper invitation — to pause, to soften, and to reconnect. When we step back from the pressure to consume, we make room for what truly endures: shared memories, familiar rituals, and the comfort of being seen and heard by those who matter.
Letting go, whether of excess or of resentment, is an act of generosity we offer first to ourselves. It frees us from carrying the same emotional baggage from one year to the next. In choosing simplicity over spectacle, and understanding over pride, we reclaim the true spirit of celebration — one that lingers long after the lights are switched off and the last sweet has been shared.
