Diwali: The Fesitival of Lights & High Anxiety

For the past few days, Mysore has been a war zone. The air has been filled with a barrage of shots loud enough to rattle your ribcage and echo in your eardrums for several minutes following; even the silence is wrought with an electric anxiety of the next crashing boom. The roadsides are piled so high with debris they look like city dumps. A few people, including children, have been seriously injured. Many others have suffered mild burns. Yes, it’s that time of the year again: Happy Diwali, India!

As I sit at my desk, pleading cooperation from an Internet connection as staccato as the festival soundtrack outside my window, scratching maniacally at random mosquito-chewed appendages, jumping sporadically at gunshot firecracker bursts and quivering in the intermissions in anticipation of my ears’ next punishment, I am quite happy there are no video cameras around. If this instance was replayed without the sound, I think I could cameo as some evil villain’s slobbering, dim-witted minion.

Just days before the festival weekend started, a group of schoolchildren on bikes shoved pink fliers into my hand as they flew by. “No crackers on Deepavali!” the papers beseeched me. It took me a good minute to realize that the “crackers” were not of the Ritz or Keebler Elf variety, but actually referred to fireworks (a fact which surely only encouraged my flippant treatment of the issue). Crackers, according to the sheet, can cause all sorts of damage to the welfare of the environment and Mysore citizens. The smoke gets stuck on trees and limits their abilities to photosynthesize, as well as causing flare-ups of asthma, bronchitis, and eye troubles. The litter fills up drains and contaminates water supplies. The sound inspires headaches and fear.

The American in me scoffed, my mind summoning serene Fourth of July scenes involving sparklers protruding from sandcastles. Oh, India. How ridiculous! How could an innocent sparkler stand between a tree and its sunlight? And perhaps those party poppers filled with confetti or the round white snappers you throw against the ground could cause some litter, but certainly not enough to damage drainage systems!

I chuckled at the fliers, passed them onto one of the workers here at the Dhvanyaloka Centre for Indian Studies, and liberally made fun of them. I can only say that I was naïve; the American in me had a lot to learn about Diwali.

In America, fireworks are a restricted and government-regulated item. In India, there is no such thing as an illegal cracker. It’s every man for himself, as it seems civilians can purchase and set off even the grand-daddy incendiaries of extravagant Fourth of July shows. Indians really don’t seem to understand that they’re wielding explosive devices: they release screamers horizontally across busy roads with no regard to the cars passing by, and children deposit burning sticks of cracker-dynamite onto the end of their driveways just as jumpy pedestrians approach. You take your life in your hands when you go walking on Diwali. I can’t even imagine trying to drive with fire soaring through the air around me and unexpected, decibel-heavy bangs startling me every few minutes.

I am not exactly sure what is being celebrated on this weekend in October. I have heard rumors that Diwali marks the end of the rainy season and the start of a stretch of time during which it becomes socially acceptable for husband and wife to resume the baby-making efforts (makes sense, in that case, why such an event would be welcomed with riotous explosions). The holiday’s subtitle is “the Festival of Lights,” which is definitely no hyperbole. Indians seem united in the effort to keep a steady glow going. Crackers are set off intermittently throughout the day, although I can’t say I see the use of making white fire in the daylight. As night falls, however, it’s a constant soundtrack of booms, bangs, crackles, and pops for hours. Dusk happens around 6:30pm here, and Mysore hasn’t let up until well past 11 for each of the four festival days. My nerves were as shattered as the drain-clogging cracker debris long ago.

I once commented that Indians, like American college students, knew how to party. In light of Diwali (no pun intended), I rescind that statement. Compared to Indians, Americans celebrate like crotchety and fragile-boned misers in rocking chairs. I think one Diwali is plenty enough for my eardrums and mental stability, but I must give Indians their props. We’ve experienced a procession of elephants for Dasara, melting clay statues for Ganesha, premature deafness and temporary anxiety disorders for Diwali, plus days off galore for all. The States may commercialize at will; it’s definitely India who gets the most out of their unforgettably unique holidays.