Diwali’s Five Days: The Spiritual Meaning Behind the Rituals
Spirituality is the foundation of Indian culture. That’s why most Indian festivals carry spiritual significance. What’s happened, though, is that with a veil of ignorance covering spirituality, even spiritual festivals have turned into “historical” ones in our minds. We’ve begun to believe that we celebrate Dīpāvalī because Lord Rāma returned to Ayodhyā after slaying Rāvaṇa, or—per the Jain tradition—because Mahāvīra attained nirvāṇa that day. We say we observe Dhanteras because, during the churning of the ocean, Lord Dhanvantari emerged carrying the pot of nectar; and that we do Govardhan Pūjā because Lord Kṛṣṇa lifted Mount Govardhan on his finger to protect the people of Vraja from Indra’s storm. These are Purāṇic stories. Our taking them only as history—without grasping their symbolism—is deep ignorance. Still, it isn’t surprising that we’ve folded “history” into our festivals; perhaps this ignorance is part of the vast cosmic cycle, where essential knowledge is covered for a time but never destroyed. With even a little grace and sincere effort, that knowledge eventually reveals itself.
We should make that effort for every festival, but right now we’ll focus only on the spiritual essence contained in Dīpāvalī. All festivals are spiritual; today we’ll speak about this one. Dīpāvalī is among India’s major festivals and is celebrated over five days: Day 1 as Dhanteras, Day 2 as Rūp Chaudas (Naraka Chaturdaśī), Day 3 as the Festival of Lamps (Dīpāvalī), Day 4 as Govardhan Pūjā, and Day 5 as Bhāī Dūj. People across India celebrate these five days with great enthusiasm, following the prescribed rituals. But in celebrating, we’ve forgotten the vital wisdom hidden behind those rituals, and are left holding only the outer shell. So it’s time to sift the ritual and draw out the knowledge within, and then celebrate while keeping that insight in view—letting both run together.
The first of the five days is Dhanteras. There’s a strong custom—especially where I lived in the North—of buying utensils and jewelry on this day. But the word bartan (utensils) doesn’t actually mean a physical pot. It’s a distorted form of vartan, which means “conduct” or “behavior.” Likewise, ābhūṣaṇ (jewelry) at the spiritual level stands for “virtue.” To “buy” something means to pay a price to obtain it. The signal here is: adopt pure, noble conduct in life, and adorn yourself with the jewelry of virtues—even if you must give up some comforts as the “price.” For instance, if you bring truthfulness into your conduct, you may face inconveniences, but even after paying that price, you must bring in higher behavior. That is the first step in personality development. So, by all means purchase utensils and jewelry—but let it remind you to purify your conduct (vartan) and to acquire the ornaments of inner virtues. That is Dhanteras.
The second day is Rūp Chaudas. On this day, people apply ubtan (herbal paste) and scrub away the body’s grime. We clean the physical body daily, but now we must remove the subtle grime—the toxic, negative thoughts lodged in mind and intellect—by scrubbing them off with the ubtan of superior thoughts. So Day 1 is filling ourselves with purity; Day 2 is expelling wasteful, poisonous thinking. In some places, people also light the “lamp of Yama” that day. Through that rite, the hint is to remember the law of karma—cause and effect—which we can call the law of action and fruit. At its root is this: thoughts are energy. Whatever thought-energy we generate for others—positive or negative—returns to us. If we send out positive thoughts, positivity returns; if we send out negativity, negativity returns. It’s a universal law. Therefore, always watch what kind of thought-energy you’re creating. Making your thought-energy positive is the second step in personality development. So on Rūp Chaudas, remember two things: yes, remove the body’s dirt with ubtan, and also cleanse the subtle body—mind and intellect. And by lighting Yama’s lamp, keep the law of karma in view. Action begins with thought. Purify your thinking, because what you send out will come back.
The third day is the Festival of Lamps (Dīpāvalī). The tradition prescribes lighting a flame with oil in an earthen lamp. Nowadays we often forget the clay lamp and use candles or decorative metal lamps. But the custom is oil in a clay lamp, and there’s a deep meaning behind it. Truly, this body—made of the five elements—is the earthen lamp. Our noble, positive thoughts are the oil we pour in. The wick is love. With love as the wick, we light the flame of the Self. Are we lighting it—or have we forgotten? The point is: we have forgotten our real identity as the Self. We must remember it. The soul’s flame is present within every body—always has been. Because we’ve forgotten “I am the soul,” we mistake ourselves for the body. This festival of lamps reminds us to recall our true form: I am the soul—of peace, power, purity, knowledge, love, and joy. The body is mine, but I am not the body. I am the charioteer, the master of this body-chariot, and I can direct it where I wish. So as you light the lamp with oil in the clay vessel, remember: this flame represents me—the inner light—never extinguished, only forgotten.
On this same day there’s also the worship of Lakṣmī and Gaṇeśa. But if Lakṣmī is worshipped, shouldn’t Viṣṇu be with her? Gaṇeśa belongs to the family of Śiva and Pārvatī, not Lakṣmī’s. So why pair Gaṇeśa with Lakṣmī? Let’s understand both symbols. Lakṣmī is called the goddess of wealth—but wealth isn’t only material. Wealth has many forms: the wealth of virtues, of learning, of knowledge, of beauty, and more. Thus Lakṣmī stands for wealth in all these forms. Gaṇeśa symbolizes viveka—discrimination, wise judgment. We worship Gaṇeśa before any undertaking to succeed—success that comes when we apply viveka to our plans. Pairing Gaṇeśa with Lakṣmī signals that any wealth must be used with wisdom. Why? Because any wealth can feed the ego, and ego is the greatest binding defect. To save us from ego’s rise, the tradition prescribes worshipping Gaṇeśa alongside Lakṣmī on Dīpāvalī. As you light lamps and worship Lakṣmī-Gaṇeśa, keep in mind: whatever wealth I have—of money, knowledge, or virtue—I must use it wisely. Without viveka, wealth is easily misused, and ego is a misuse of dharma.
The fourth day is Govardhan Pūjā. The word Govardhan breaks into go and vardhana: the upliftment of go. Here go symbolizes consciousness; vardhana means lifting upward. So Govardhan means the elevation of consciousness. In simple words, uplifting consciousness means ennobling our outlook—our way of seeing. When our perspective becomes higher and more positive, we can say consciousness has been uplifted. A person’s character rests on their thinking and perspective. With a noble outlook, actions become noble; noble actions shape a noble personality. So while performing the Govardhan rites, keep remembering: through Govardhan I must keep raising my consciousness. Only when it rises will my personality rise.
So far we have four days: Day 1 (Dhanteras)—tend to your conduct; deliberately adopt great virtues. Day 2 (Rūp Chaudas)—scrub away wasteful thoughts. Day 3—recognize your true Self. Day 4—keep lifting your consciousness higher.
The fifth day is Bhāī Dūj. On this day the brother visits the sister, and she serves him a meal. What’s the meaning? “Brother” stands for the feeling of brotherhood—bhrātṛtva. This means replacing the sense of separateness with the sense of oneness: not “we are all different,” but “we are one.” That is bhrātṛtva, captured in the ideal Vasudhaiva Kuṭumbakam. In our symbolic language, “sister” represents Nature (prakṛti). So the brother (brotherhood) coming to the sister’s house (Nature) means: let the feeling of brotherhood descend from mere thought into our very nature and personality. It must not remain an idea only; it must be lived. When brotherhood settles into one’s personality, life fills with happiness, peace, love, and joy—which is the aim of human life. But we must put in the effort: when brotherhood inhabits our nature, we stop seeing ourselves as separate and begin to live in oneness. The sister “feeding” the brother means: keep nourishing this feeling of brotherhood; not just once, but continuously.
Thus, the five days of Dīpāvalī, wrapped in ritual, beautifully present five steps of spiritual practice. If, while celebrating, we keep this inner wisdom in mind, the festival becomes truly beautiful—and our life’s purpose is advanced. This year, Dīpāvalī comes after four preparatory days. Remember as much as you can across these five days: perform the rituals, yes, and also keep the knowledge behind them alive. Then the festival gains meaning. Otherwise, mere ritual changes nothing—our thoughts don’t purify, our conduct doesn’t refine, and we fail to recognize our true Self. Year after year Dīpāvalī comes and goes the same way. But if we hold this understanding while we celebrate, gradually the festival gains depth—and so does our life.