The Dhanteras shopping list was beginning to look rather ambitious. Gold was out of the question, silver was fast becoming a luxury, and I was seriously considering steel spoons. After all, what could be a more sensible investment? They were affordable, durable, and practically indestructible—built to survive decades of scrubbing and family dinners without losing their shine.
Because they disappear, but because life simply has other priorities, not. It had been a while since I had started thinking of myself as a working woman again. After years of navigating the wonderfully unpredictable life of an army wife, I had recently restarted my professional journey. Returning to work sounds like a straightforward decision, but finding your feet again is quite another story. Army life makes you an expert at beginnings. New postings, unfamiliar towns, packed cartons, new schools, and fresh friendships are routine. You learn to make a home out of almost anywhere, often before you have even unpacked. You celebrate your soldier’s milestones, hold the fort during long absences, and quietly rearrange your own life around the demands of service. Somewhere along the way, your ambitions learn to wait patiently. So, when the opportunity to return to work came along, it felt like opening the door to a familiar room I hadn’t visited in a decade. And now, here I was, searching for a Dhanteras purchase. A dinner set was my first thought. But then I remembered the delicate bone china my grandmother had lovingly passed down to me. Those cups and plates held family stories, Sunday lunches, and memories of a time when elegance came wrapped in newspaper and carefully stored away. Another dinner set felt unnecessary. In the end, I chose a steel tiffin—a humble, compartmentalised dabba. Yet, as I brought it home, I felt an odd sense of satisfaction. This was not a purchase for the household or a family occasion. It was for the woman who would leave home each morning, go to work, earn, learn, make decisions, and step back into the world. It was, in its own small way, a celebration. There is something deeply reassuring about earning your own bread—and having enough left over to butter it, too. Of course, this takes nothing away from the years spent raising a family, supporting a partner, or running a home. Those contributions may not appear on a payslip, but they are no less meaningful. I still cherish being an army wife. But I have also learnt that standing beside someone does not mean losing sight of who you are. This Dhanteras, my purchase may not sparkle. It comes with a lid, a few compartments, and the promise of many packed lunches. Every morning when I pick it up, it will remind me of a simple truth: I can build a home, stand beside my soldier, nurture my family, and still build a life that is entirely my own. [email protected] The writer is a Hoshiarpur-based freelance contributor
