Festivities? Damp Squib

It's that time of the year again when spring cleaning successfully turned into cleaning mania; paint jobs became the talk of the block and polishing brass/wood/iron wraught furniture was a daily chore for weeks. Lights came out and became a competition among who has the most garish ones. Only to culminate into a watered down evening when all things should be supposedly perfect.

With 88 houses in our apartment complex, the story isn't any different. Yet, there is something missing. It isn't the 1990s, or even early 2000s. The crackers have become big boomers and the mel-milaap into text hugs and smileys. What I remember of the Diwali of yesteryears is really about festivities. We were young and we were carefree. For us it meant getting dressed up, getting together with friends and enjoying the fireworks as one big happy family.

Candles, earthen lamps around each house was something to be dealt with fast so that we could get together sooner. All separate 'explosive' stash was added to a pile and then enjoyed by all.Lanes were not cramped with swank cars then and we had enough space for our sparklers and 'charkris'. Bottles were hunted to be our rocket launchers and we all booed or egged our firecrackers.

Now, for the past few years, Diwali crackers mean all about the sonic boom. The more irritably loud bang it is, the better your cracker is. A sparkler or fountain cracker is so 'yesterday' for the kids of today. Nothing is enjoyed untill you make a lot of noise and do it all separately.

Of course, all this 'Say No To Crackers' campaign hasn't really helped the celebrations. The conscience doesn't really help a lot with all this pollution details. Yes, the noise from the 'bombs' are pollution. For that there is a different tact, which our sad bureaucracy hasn't yet stumbled upon. And putting a time limit on enjoying your sparkler is a bit too harsh.

This year has been bittersweet and fraught with memories. Of people who were there but have grown older, of people who could be there but were caught up somewhere else; of people who should have been there but would never be around. And of people who would grow older to not realise the true meaning of celebrating Deepawali together.

Cruise Therapy

Staring at the computer for an hour and producing just a non-committal paragraph is not what a reporter running against deadline is supposed to do. The non productivity leads to nail biting, singing off key with Iron Maiden, walking around and then out of an empty house only to stop at your familiar balcony. Unfocussed sight zeroes in on your parked car. Bingo. You want to go for a drive.

But it's the middle of the afternoon and you don't want to tackle the sun or the traffic. You wait. Bide your time. Time crawls past and finally the sun has set. But there is still the traffic to consider. You wait some more.

It's past nine now. Now you need an excuse to get out of house. Feed Dad dinner followed by a lame story about some assignment and then hightail it out of home. Phone a friend you are picking him up to just drive around aimlessly. The night is planned.

The car is in top gear cruising smooth at 50-60 kmph. The friend is cribbing but you are glad for the nagging. At least there is someone in the passenger seat. Light a smoke, take a drag, pass on the butt. Drive some. The friend is still cribbing so much so that he makes you pull over and then hijacks the car. The car goes in top gear again. This time on double speed. You cringe as the needle passes 100, 110, 120. It stays steady somewhere between 110 and 120. You let go of that breath that you didn't even realise you were holding. He and you talk, and talk some more. He gives you pop psychology talk and is brutal about it. You cringe some more. But then you realise it's the truth. Acceptance and then relaxation.

Windows rolled down and the cold autumn night air in your hair. Smell of grass, truck exhaust and the Delhi aroma. Bliss. Mirza Ghalib in stereo is changed to Rock On! songs. Feel like a coffee. Drive over to an all-night coffee shop. Cappuccino in paper cups and shared cigarettes. More general talk. Then an unexpected visitor. Not unwelcome, but not exactly invited. The mood changes to social niceties. It's a few minutes past midnight.

You move out of the coffee shop and drop your friend back home.

"I don't feel like going home."

"Don't do anything stupid, just go home."

"All right, DAD. Goodnight."

Halfway to home, you change directions. Drive away from home. NH 24 to Nizamuddin Bridge and then to India Gate. Sher Shah Road is peaceful with its boulevard of wind-bent trees. Finally India Gate, but the lights are turned off. Fine mist has set in. The memorial is faint in its silhouette. Drive around it and then take the road back home. At the turn, you drive straight instead of left. Slumdog Millionaire is blaring from the stereo. Change tracks. Freedom. Drive towards Ashram.

The chill has given your goosebumps. A shiver. Winter's setting in. Windows rolled back up. There is a long line of trucks and trailers in the opposite lane. Change of route again. Left to DND. The car is steady at 60. Afraid To Shoot Strangers. Afraid.

Only Iron Maiden and you and few cars. The digital clock blinks 00:45. Angst and anxiety. Road back home. More trucks. Still feel like driving, so take the longer route home. Once inside the gate, more angst. No parking space. The watchman is sweet. Finds you a space. Gather your stuff from inside the car and a neighbour accosts you. Talking about your loss. Switch to social niceties.


"So you are the one at home."
"(Unfortunately, yes.) We are to do what we are to do."
"It's always comes back to the woman in the house. Now you are it."
"(Thanks for the news flash, ma'm.) No, I left after 10. It was all taken care of before I left home."
"Okay. But it must be tough."
"(Tough is what I am doing right now, trying to get away from you, woman.) Life's like that." And thank god, your block is here. "Goodnight, aunty."
"Goodnight beta."

Four flights of stairs and then home. The slow search for keys to the house. Slower still is the motion of turning them to unlock the door. The warmth cocoons you. Silence is bliss and you are home.