The festive season was upon us, and the air was thick with excitement. Diwali was just around the corner, bringing with it a wave of colorful decorations, the sounds of laughter, and the tantalizing aroma of food wafting through the streets. As I walked to work, the sight of vendors selling bright marigolds and intricate lanterns filled me with nostalgia. Diwali had always been one of my favorite times of year, not just for the vibrant celebrations but also for the opportunity it provided to reconnect with family.

My thoughts drifted to my mother, who loved this festival. She had a penchant for sweets, especially kaju katli, the diamond-shaped delicacies made of cashew nuts and sugar. It struck me that I hadn’t seen her in a while, and this year, I felt an overwhelming urge to visit her and share a piece of my life that had changed so much. So, I decided to make some kaju katli before heading to my mother’s house for the holiday.

As the sun dipped below the horizon and the evening settled in, I returned to my apartment, energized by the thought of surprising my mother with something special. I had watched her make these sweets countless times, and though I’d never attempted them myself, I felt confident I could recreate her magic. The kitchen felt familiar and comforting as I gathered my ingredients, the preparation becoming a meditative process that connected me to my past.

First, I measured out a cup of cashew nuts and placed them in a dry pan over low heat. The nuts sizzled gently, releasing their rich aroma. I stirred them occasionally, ensuring they roasted evenly, watching as they turned a light golden brown, which would enhance their flavor.

Once they were roasted, I let them cool for a minute before transferring them to the blender. I pulsed them until they turned into a fine powder, careful not to overdo it—cashew butter was not the goal. After blending, I sifted the powder through a fine mesh strainer to ensure there were no larger bits left behind. The silky texture of the powder was satisfying, a sign that my efforts were starting to pay off.

Next, I turned my attention to the sugar syrup. I poured half a cup of granulated sugar into a non-stick pan and added a quarter cup of water. As I turned on the heat to medium, I stirred the mixture until the sugar dissolved completely. Watching the transformation was mesmerizing, the clear liquid slowly becoming syrupy. Once it reached a one-string consistency, I knew it was time to move on. This was a critical moment; the syrup could easily turn from perfect to too thick if I wasn’t careful.

I added a pinch of cardamom powder to the syrup, letting its warm, fragrant aroma fill the air. It was a scent that reminded me of home, of childhood Diwali celebrations filled with laughter and love. I could almost see my mother’s face lighting up at the thought of this sweet treat. If I had saffron strands, I’d soaked them in a tablespoon of warm water earlier, so now I poured this into the pan as well, watching the golden hue blend beautifully with the syrup.

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Once the syrup was ready, I gradually added the cashew powder, stirring continuously to avoid lumps. The mixture thickened almost immediately, transforming into a dough-like consistency. I could feel the heat radiating from the pan, a tangible reminder of the labor of love I was putting into this dish. As I mixed, I became more aware of the joy it would bring my mother, and that thought pushed me to keep stirring until the mixture pulled away from the sides of the pan, signaling it was ready.

With a bit of patience, I let the mixture cool slightly before transferring it to a greased surface. The warmth was comforting in my hands as I kneaded it, feeling the dough become smoother and more pliable. The sight of the light golden mass reminded me so much of my mother’s kitchen, where everything was filled with love and laughter.

Once I shaped the dough into a ball, I used a rolling pin to flatten it to about a quarter-inch thickness. The smooth surface glistened in the light of my kitchen, making me feel proud. I cut it into diamond shapes with a sharp knife, and as I separated the pieces, I couldn’t help but imagine my mother’s delighted expression when she saw my handiwork.

Finally, I thought about adding edible silver leaves for decoration, a touch of elegance that my mother always appreciated. I carefully placed a leaf on each piece, taking a moment to admire the transformation. I packed the kaju katli in a decorative box, feeling a sense of accomplishment wash over me. This simple act of making sweets had become a bridge to my past, a way to reconnect with my mother during the joyous festival.

Feeling satisfied, I cleaned up the kitchen, the remnants of flour and sugar reminding me of the work that went into making something special. The evening sky was already darkening outside, and I took a moment to enjoy the quietness of my apartment. I was excited to see my mother, but a flicker of nervousness crept in. Would she notice the little changes in me? I pushed those thoughts aside, focusing instead on the joy of reunion that awaited.

As I stepped outside, the air was cool and fragrant, filled with the scent of flowers and the distant sound of laughter from my neighbors celebrating Diwali. I made my way to the bus stop, the box of kaju katli cradled carefully under my arm. With every step, I could feel the anticipation building. I thought about how I would share the sweets with my mother and how she would recount stories from my childhood, reminiscing about the celebrations we used to have.

Lost in my thoughts, I almost missed the bus that arrived, its headlights cutting through the dark. I boarded, finding a seat by the window. The city lights flashed by, illuminating my path back home. My heart swelled with happiness, imagining the evening we would have together.

But fate had other plans.

As the bus made its way through the streets, I felt a sudden jolt, a sharp crash that shook the entire vehicle. The sound of metal crunching and glass shattering filled the air. A mixture of panic and confusion surged through me. I turned to see people screaming and frantically trying to escape. My heart raced as I grasped the box of kaju katli, my only connection to the evening I had planned.

The world spun around me as the bus tipped over, and everything became a blur. I felt a searing pain shoot through my body, and in that moment, all thoughts of Diwali and my mother faded away. I was overwhelmed by darkness, the sweetness of the evening replaced by a chilling silence.

In those fleeting moments, memories of my mother flashed before my eyes—the warmth of her embrace, her laughter filling the house, and the sweet taste of kaju katli that symbolized our connection. The last thing I felt was the weight of the box slipping from my hands, the contents scattering across the floor, much like my hopes and dreams for that evening.

And then, there was nothing.