Why In Some Villages of India, Diwali Is Dedicated to Yama, Not Lakshmi

In most Indian homes, Diwali means Lakshmi Puja, lamps glowing, new clothes, and prayers for wealth and good fortune. But travel into certain villages in India, and you’ll find something strikingly different. Here, people light lamps not for Lakshmi, but for Yama, the god of death and justice. On the eve of Diwali, families place small clay lamps outside their homes, facing south, the direction of Yama, praying not for riches, but for protection from untimely death and for peace to their departed ancestors. It sounds almost opposite to what Diwali has come to symbolize, yet in truth, it completes the meaning of the festival. These villagers haven’t forgotten Lakshmi. They’ve simply remembered that light has no meaning if we refuse to face darkness.

The ritual of lighting a lamp for Yama on Chhoti Diwali or Naraka Chaturdashi is among the oldest forms of Diwali worship. It appears in early traditions that predate the Lakshmi-centered puja most urban Hindus know today. But this isn’t about “death worship.” It’s about life and about understanding what truly gives life its value.
In Hindu thought, Yama is not a figure of terror. He is Dharmaraja, the lord of righteousness. His role is not to punish, but to restore balance. He reminds every soul that life is short, actions matter, and no one escapes the truth of karma. When villagers light the Yama Deepam, they are not just asking to be spared death, they are acknowledging it, peacefully. They are saying, “I know I must one day go. Until then, let me live rightly.”
The village tradition carries a psychological depth that modern life often forgets. We are eager for Lakshmi, for success, beauty, comfort, and validation, but uncomfortable with Yama, who reminds us of loss, impermanence, and endings. Yet Hindu philosophy has always taught that both must be embraced. The light of Diwali is born out of darkness, just as courage is born out of fear, and peace out of acceptance. How can you truly appreciate Lakshmi’s blessings if you’ve never sat with Yama’s lessons? In these villages, people don’t skip straight to celebration. They begin Diwali with humility. Before asking for prosperity, they pray for purity. Before calling wealth in, they acknowledge the limits of life itself. Only then do they light their homes for Lakshmi. That order matters, because the one who forgets Yama while calling Lakshmi ends up living in anxiety, greed, and illusion. But the one who honours Yama first receives Lakshmi without fear, because they’ve already accepted what life can take away.

The Kathopanishad tells the story of a young seeker, Nachiketa, who meets Yama himself and asks, “What happens after death?” Yama tests him, offering wealth, long life, and pleasures. Nachiketa refuses them all, saying, “These are fleeting. Tell me what is eternal.” Yama then reveals the highest wisdom: that the Self (Atman) is indestructible, beyond birth, beyond death. What dies is the body; what lives on is consciousness itself.
The villagers who light lamps for Yama are, knowingly or not, living that same truth. They recognize that life’s outer forms will perish, wealth, youth, relationships, but something within remains untouched. To remember this is not to become gloomy, but to become free. When you no longer fear endings, you begin to live more deeply. You love more honestly, speak more kindly, and waste less time chasing hollow things. That is the hidden blessing of Yama Deepam: not protection from death, but freedom from fear.

You don’t have to live in a village to understand this wisdom. You just have to pause, in the noise of the festive season and ask yourself a few quiet questions.

• When was the last time I truly faced what I fear losing?
• Do I chase prosperity because I’m grateful, or because I’m afraid of lack?
• If everything I have were taken tomorrow, would I still feel whole?

These questions aren’t meant to darken Diwali. They deepen it. The point of worshipping Yama before Lakshmi is simple: it grounds prosperity in perspective. It reminds us that abundance is not what we own, but how peacefully we live. And that peace comes not from denial, but from awareness, from knowing that both Yama and Lakshmi walk into every home, hand in hand.

When the villagers light their Yama Deepam and place it outside the house, they do not decorate it, they do not boast of it, they simply let it burn quietly. It is a humble act, but also the most profound. That small flame is a conversation between life and death, a reminder that everything we love is temporary, and yet, every act of goodness outlives the body. Maybe that’s what Diwali was always meant to be, not just the celebration of wealth, but of wisdom; not just the conquest of darkness, but the acceptance of it; not just Lakshmi’s light, but Yama’s truth.
So this Diwali, while we light our lamps and pray for prosperity, perhaps we can also light one for Yama, not out of fear, but out of gratitude. Because only those who’ve made peace with death truly know how to live.