Diwali Crackles of Note…

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Just like the rest of my life has an ample sprinkling of disasters like the colourful papaya pieces in a tuti-frutti bread slice, my festivals too end up being special occasions of entertainment to my family. At my expense of course.
My initial Diwalis were spent hiding somewhere where I won’t end up jumping at the sudden bomb blasting in my neighbourhood or watching my father light the flowerpots with the phooljhari, at a safe distance. I remember one Diwali in Kolkata when I was in Std1. I’d ventured out to the balcony to call Mom for something & bam! Next thing I know am on the floor…the big bomb blast that made me jump & end up with a throbbing rear end making it difficult to sit down in school the next day and a vow never to move outside the confines of the bed on Diwali night.

As I became old I became more daring… I actually managed to light the colourful matchsticks! But the Diwalis I spent during my 2yr stay in Goa were most memorable for the way we used to burst the bombs. Sarah my friend would close my ears, her ears would in turn be closed by Shriddha & the most daring of us, my sister would stand without her ears being closed, holding on to Shriddha’s eardrums. Then I would throw those tiny 50p worth mini-bombs on the floor where they would go phatt! Like a tire bursting…
My best friend used to find this sight really funny and once outraged of his continual teasing I decided to light up a snake. This wasn’t one of those tablet snakes which resembled the excreta of some animal with a really long intestine. This was a something of a rocket albeit ground missile. I stood there the phooljhari in hand, staring at the monstrous snake & lighted its end thinking of wiping off that sarcastic smirk from his face forever. The smirk widened into a grin & then enlarged into raucous laughter as I danced around the place for a full 20 seconds…the snake had chosen me as the target since I’d so intelligently stood at the wrong end of the missile.
My Diwali of 2009 was the most humiliating till date. Apart from the usual jumping and falling and running away from the crackers, it had stuck a blow to my culinary skills (or rather the lack of them). My besan-ladoos were insulted by all and sundry & I’d ended up sulking the entire night.
Now I’m a normal sane person, though I still use jute sticks to hold phooljhari lest the sparks fall on my hands. This year however I was forced to hold them in my hand ‘coz my long-suffering BF absolutely refused to come over on his bike holding the long sticks in his hand…
So that’s Diwali for me… more a festival of errors than lights!