How urban Indians are yearning for the Navratri of their childhood

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In an age of flashing DJ lights, viral reels, VIP passes, and curated Indo-Western wardrobes, a quiet counter-movement is taking shape across urban landscapes. Young city dwellers are trading commercial party grounds for ancestral kitchens, flickering clay lamps, and intimate community circles.

Why are urban Indians craving an old-school Navratri? As festivals grow grander and more commercialised, many miss the soul of the celebration: deep-rooted rituals, home-cooked fasting meals, and unpretentious togetherness. We asked creators, educators, and professionals what they miss the most about festive celebrations, and why returning to our roots matters now more than ever.

The magic of childhood rituals

For many urbanites, the true essence of Navratri and Pujo lives on in sensory memories—an early morning broadcast, a mother’s cooking, or a simple community gathering.

For urban Bengalis, the festive season is a sensory overload beginning long before pandals open. Kolkata-native Suchorita Roy, creator, notes how festival fashion remains tied to timeless cultural milestones, “For me, Durga Puja excitement begins with shopping! We plan our Pujo looks well in advance, and ten days mean ten outfits. Deciding what to wear each day and imagining all the pandal visits is when the real excitement begins. Then comes Mahalaya, when we wake up at 4 am to Birendra Krishna Bhadra’s Mahishasura Mardini. That familiar voice marks the beginning of Pujo, and living away from home, I miss waking up to that feeling so much.”

The sacred rhythm of Ashtami morning carries a meditative quality for Roy. “One of my most cherished traditions is Ashtami Anjali. We wake up early, take a shower, get dressed in beautiful traditional outfits and go to offer Anjali to Maa Durga. There is something so special about praying together and soaking in the festive atmosphere. After returning home, enjoying freshly made luchis and alur dom prepared by my mother makes the day even more memorable. It is such a simple meal, but it tastes different during Pujo because it carries so many childhood memories,” she recalls. 

Harshita Kamra remembers waking up early with my mother to look for a particular red flower offered to Durga Maa.

Neighbourhood camaraderie and sacred kitchens

Growing up in Mumbai’s tight-knit societies meant Navratri relied on neighbourhood camaraderie rather than ticketed events for creator Harshita Karma. At 24, she reflects on how simple childhood rituals shaped her fondest festive memories, “When I think of Navratri growing up, my fondest memories are of the little traditions that made these nine days so special. One of the biggest highlights of my childhood was Kanya Bhojan. People in our society would invite us to their homes every day, and my sister and I would wake up super excited. The aunties would wash our feet, apply alta and mehendi, put a little tika on our foreheads, and lovingly feed us delicious food, plus we were always most excited about the 2 rupees or 20 rupees we would get, along with chocolates!”

Beyond neighbourhood feasts lay spirited family rituals that turned mornings into playful quests and filled homes with rich culinary traditions. She remembers, “Another beautiful memory is waking up early with my mother to look for a particular red flower offered to Durga Maa. There were very few trees with those flowers, so it almost became a friendly competition in our society. Whoever woke up earliest would find the most flowers.”

In traditional Indian homes, food and faith share an intimate relationship. “My mother and family would fast on Ashtami and Navami, and our home would be filled with traditional fasting delicacies like sabudana khichdi, halwa and kheer. My childhood Navratri memories are so closely connected to these recipes, eagerly waiting to taste everything being prepared at home. There was something so pure about these simple rituals, the food, and the feeling of everyone coming together.”

Sujal Thakkar, creator from Ahmedabad, contrasts village simplicity with high-decibel party grounds.

The decline of authentic folk Garba

As cities modernised, traditional community gatherings gave way to ticketed events, choreographed dance classes, and status-driven spectacles—a bittersweet shift for those raised on authentic folk Garba.

The commercialisation of Garba has hit Gujarat’s heartlands hardest, shifting focus from spiritual devotion to grand events. Sujal Thakkar, creator from Ahmedabad, contrasts village simplicity with high-decibel party grounds. “As someone who grew up in a village, I’ve always celebrated Navratri in a very traditional way. No Indo-Western outfits, no Bollywood or non-Garba songs, no DJs. Just traditional Gujarati Garba, traditional Gujarati outfits, and worshipping all nine Shaktis. I remember as a kid, I used to go to everyone’s house in my society to collect funds for Navratri. Once we had all the funds, we’d plan the prasadi. I never had to buy passes to play Garba,” the 22-year-old fondly reminisces. 

Moving to an urban centre exposes the sharp contrast between authentic participation and event culture, where smartphones and staged routines replace organic folk dance. “But when I shifted to the city, Navratri suddenly started feeling very different. Everything became about the decor, premium food, Indo-Western outfits and DJs. And especially, people stopped playing dandiya. At this point, if I find a place where people are actually playing dandiya, I might just cry. I grew up playing Garba with a matki and dandiya sticks, and now I see people playing Garba while holding their phones. It genuinely feels like the meaning of Navratri has changed. Everything has become about trends. But culture is not a trend. It doesn’t change every year. It’s called culture because it’s authentic,” Thakkar observes.

Abhishek Kotecha, Devina Kaur and Kritarth Bhasin

When celebrations become social media performance

Navratri is a core pillar of cultural identity for Gujaratis. Jamnagar’s Abhishek Kotecha, customer solutions specialist at TPG Telecom, recalls when community Garba centred on shared devotion rather than social media clout. “I still remember the Navratri of my childhood. As the sun went down, the sounds of garba would fill our streets. People gathered for aarti, families came together, and children ran around in excitement. Nobody cared about wearing designer outfits or having the perfect makeup. It didn’t matter whether your chaniya choli was expensive or simple, or whether you knew every garba step. Everyone was there for one reason: to celebrate.”

As digital platforms reshaped public life, the pressure to curate online personas altered how youth engage with sacred spaces, risking the festival’s core spirit. “And then, slowly, things began to change. Today, Navratri preparations often begin weeks in advance – not just for devotion, but for outfits, makeup, photography, Instagram reels, VIP passes, celebrity appearances, and the perfect picture to post online,” says the 28-year-old.

This push for online perfection has quietly changed the festival grounds, turning genuine moments of raw spiritual connection and togetherness into staged performances. “Sometimes, it feels like people are more concerned about capturing the perfect garba video than actually enjoying the moment. The focus has shifted from dancing together to looking better than everyone else. The problem isn’t that Navratri has changed. The problem is if we forget why we celebrated it in the first place. Because Navratri was never about the most expensive outfit, the biggest event, or the most Instagram-worthy moment. It was about devotion, unity, happiness, and the feeling of belonging to something bigger than ourselves.”

Carrying tradition across borders and cities

When moving away from home, whether to a new metropolis or overseas, celebrating festivals transforms into a deliberate act of cultural preservation. Born and raised in Assam before moving to Montreal, mental health educator and author Devina Kaur reflects on how distance deepens emotional ties to her roots. “Navratri has always felt like more than just a festival to me. Growing up in India, it was closely connected to family, food, familiar faces and the simple excitement of celebrating together. There was something very comforting about the way festivals brought everyone closer. Today, living in Canada, Navratri looks quite different, but in many ways, it has made me appreciate those old traditions even more.”

Celebrating abroad requires creative adaptation, turning unconventional venues into surrogate cultural hubs to bridge the geographic divide. “Here, celebrations are often organised in spaces that are very different from what I remember growing up. One of the things we look forward to is attending Garba nights organised at a school gym. It sounds very different from home, but the energy is wonderful. People come together, dress up, dance and celebrate. For a few hours, it feels as though the distance from home becomes a little smaller.”

Beyond the shared dances in makeshift halls, keeping traditions alive across time zones often comes down to simple, quiet moments of connection. Kaur shares, “During Navratri, we also make it a point to call family and friends back home. These calls may seem like a small gesture, but when you live far away from home, they become important. They help us hold on to relationships and traditions that could otherwise get lost in the busyness of everyday life.”

Longing for the roots we left behind

Craving an old-school Navratri isn’t about rejecting modernity, but finding balance by slowing down to reclaim the intimacy urban life squeezes out.

In fast-paced hubs like New Delhi, corporate hustle can alienate individuals from their heritage. Kritarth Bhasin, director of design firm Madihah Home, observes how longing for traditional celebrations stems from a need to reclaim lost intimacy.

“I feel the desire to return to an old-school Navratri comes from a collective sense that the essence of festivities is getting lost. Celebrations were once about families gathering at home, traditional rituals, and recipes passed down through generations. Today, while celebrations are bigger and more elaborate, the intimate moments that made them special are becoming fewer.”

When relocation separates people from their hometowns, small ancestral rituals serve as vital identity anchors. ” Living in a city often means living away from your roots. During these moments, lighting a traditional clay garbi, preparing an ancestral fasting recipe, or recreating a family ritual becomes a way of reconnecting with where you come from. The food we grew up eating and the rituals our families followed carry a sense of belonging that a grand celebration cannot replicate. Returning to these traditions allows people to preserve their identity and feel connected to their roots, wherever they may be.”

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