Every year, for Deepavali, the world glows a little warmer. Houses shimmer in fairy lights, the doorways become runaway of colours, kitchens smell of ghee and cardamoms, the air hums with the rustles of new clothes, and the sound of sparklers competes with laughter. From grand mansions to tiny homes, each household has its own rhythm, and its own warmth.

Then, there’s this house.

Small, cheerful, and the music crackling from the television can be heard throughout the neighbourhood undoubtedly. Right at the doorway, two sisters kneel, chatting and giggling as they begin their favourite Deepavali ritual — creating rangolis. The elder sister carries a basket of fresh flowers: roses, jasmines, and chrysanthemums. The younger sister brings out packets of coloured rice powders: bright yellow, striking pink, navy blue, and cherry red. They work side by side every year, never competing, always laughing.

But what the sisters don’t know is that down there, on the ground before the doorway, their creations have opinions. When the sisters head inside for murukku break, these rangoli divas come alive.

The floral rangoli is a soft, fragrant diva. All poise and class.

“Ah, another year of elegance. Nothing beats the natural charm of roses… and jasmines… and chrysanthemums.”

The rice powder rangoli smirks.

“Charm? You’re just a wilted centerpiece by sunset.”

“At least I smell divine,” 

Floral rangoli retorts, voice sweet but sharp.

“Meanwhile, you’re a buffet for ants before the diyas are even lit.”

Rice powder rangoli grins proudly.

“Exactly. I serve a purpose. I feed. I share. I contribute. What do you do? Sit around and shed petals like a dramatic old lady.” 

Floral rangoli gasps. 

“Excuse me?”

Their colours seem to pulse with their tempers — white and pink swirling in tiny sparks of rivalry. Then, a warm, lazy voice cuts through.

“Girls, really?”

 Diya says, flickering between them. 

“You two are only beautiful when I am placed.”

Both turn toward her, exasperated.

“Oh, here she goes,” 

Rice powder mutters. Then both rangolis roll their eyes in perfect sync.

 “Sure, sure,” Floral rangoli says. “Here comes her annual monologue.”

And just like that, the doorway becomes a drama stage again. Every year, it's the same bickering. 

But this Deepavali, something feels different. Same doorway. The sisters exchange a look mischievously.

“You know, we always make them separately.” 

One says thoughtfully,

“Yeah, let’s mix them this time!”

The other nods cheerfully.

Mix? 

Before anyone can protest, flowers shower over the powders and powders sprinkle over the flowers. Orange meets chrysanthemums. Blue dusts the edges of jasmines.

“Wait—what’s happening?” Floral rangoli yelps.

“Your petal’s trespassing on my border!” Rice powder rangoli cries.

“Your powder’s on my rose!”

“Well, your rose is crushing my symmetry!”

Diya laughs, her flame swaying.

“Ah, drama. My festival is never dull.”

Finally, when the sisters step back to admire their creation, even the bickering stops. The new rangoli glows under diya’s light. A radiant fusion of softness and sparkle. Not floral. Not powdered. Something… together. The sisters sigh, satisfied.

“Best one yet,” one says.

“Definitely,” the other agrees.

As guests arrive, compliments float in.

“This one’s gorgeous!” someone says. 

“So unique!”

Phones flash. Laughter sparkles. The diya burns brighter, pleased. Down below, the rangolis rest content.

“Maybe we’re better together,” one admits softly.

“Maybe we always were, because we both bring prosperity together.” the other smiles.

As the night deepens with bursts of laughter and fireworks, the home fills with golden glow. Outside, the doorway gleams — a harmonious blend of flower, powder, grace, and pride.

And, just like that, this Deepavali, these rangoli divas don’t just decorate the entrance, they don’t just rewrite their history, they welcome light, prosperity, and each other.