Earth Day Musings

"But it is illusion to think that there is anything fragile about the life of the earth; surely this is the toughest membrane imaginable in the universe, opaque to probability, impermeable to death. We are the delicate part, transient and vulnerable as cilia." (From: The Lives of A Cell, by Lewis Thomas)

The observance of Earth Day seems to be a feeble attempt to draw attention to the deleterious effect that we, human beings have had (and continue to have) on the environment. Like the fool sitting at the end of a branch and cutting it off the tree at the same time, we have been exploiting the earth's resources at enormous cost to our own long term survival . But now, we seem to be scurrying to find ways to save ourselves. As in many of our endeavours, we need a larger than life symbol to rouse us from complacency. Mother Earth fits the bill and Earth Day certainly sounds nobler than Human Day.

The idea of earth day brings a slight chuckle to me. I mean, here we are, very recent arrivals on the face of this earth, trying to mount an effort to save the earth. Obviously, the only reason for our concern is our own survival. I do not think it matters to nature whether human beings make it as a species or not. In the incredibly long cosmic calendar, we may be but a momentary flash. Nature will no doubt shrug us off and carry on. Another species capable of surviving the harsher environment may appear some day. It is unlikely that the rest of the universe will mourn the passing of homo sapiens.

We like to set ourselves apart from nature though we know that we are part and parcel of it. We are just a little cog in the macro-organism called Earth, like the flora and fauna that inhabit the human body. I wonder if the billions of teeming bacteria in my body will ever decide to observe a day in my honour. I mean, I have been faithfully feeding them all my life. I would hope that they reciprocate in kind by keeping me in good health. Does Mother Earth not deserve similar consideration from us? So it is fitting that we observe Earth Day.

We are perhaps the only species with the awareness to realize our precarious situation even if it is of our own making. It may sound ridiculous, but I cannot help considering myself (and humanity) to be the centre of the universe. I think we are programmed to think that. Throughout our short history on the planet, we have assumed that we have the power to shape our destiny. This has helped us achieve incredible things and it may also be what will save us or doom us now.

Worrying, it seems, is another unique trait found only in our species. Normally, I am mostly concerned about me and my family. Occasionally, however, I worry about big things like the future of humanity. What will we do when the liquid gold we keep mining out of the earth runs out? Will we have developed alternate fuels to the necessary extent? Will we have found a substitute for plastic? And so on. At some level, I feel certain that the genius of the human mind will come up with the innovations required. It is likely that the way out will involve the rich countries scaling back on their consumption. At the same time the newly developing populations feel that this is their time to acquire the trappings of wealth. How will we balance their aspirations against the rising tide of global warming?  Such thoughts fill my mind on this Earth Day.

I guess the critical question is whether humanity will muster up the collective will to act in time. I am optimistic that we will rise to the challenge. We have only been here for a moment of geological time and surely still adjusting to our new life. We may not quite know how and there may be some pain along the way, but nature will show us the way, if only we would listen. Like the bacteria in our bodies, I am sure that we do perform some useful function for Mother Earth. We just need to be willing to accept her embrace.

About the Image: First ever image of Earth Taken by Mars Color Camera aboard India’s Mars Orbiter Mission (MOM) spacecraft currently orbiting Earth prior to upcoming Trans Mars Insertion engine firing. Image is focused on the Indian subcontinent and captured from an altitude of 70,000 kilometers. Credit: ISRO (More at: http://www.universetoday.com/106761/indias-mom-mars-probe-images-earths-children-prior-to-nail-biting-red-planet-insertion/

Kasi Chombu

We had a little bit of rain today. It was not the kind of rain that I described in Summer Tempest. No, this was a silent rain, the kind that creeps in quietly, descending as a very fine mist, recognized only by the wet ground later. Living in San Diego, I have become accustomed to long dry spells, but this year has been particularly dry. I remember the first rain during the year we moved to San Diego. I was at the grocery store when all of a sudden people were rushing to the front. I was surprised to learn that the commotion was caused by the fact that it had started to rain and quite sharply. Apparently, it was a novelty for water to come out of the sky here. 

Naturally, today's bit of rain made news. But it was certainly not significant. It did not cause water to run in streams or collect in puddles. And so I was surprised to find water running down the street when I walked out after the rain. It turned out that it was actually the runoff from someone's lawn where the sprinklers had come on! I thought it looked like a miniature river as it flowed down the side of the street. I walked alongside for some time as the water meandered down toward the storm drain that would eventually take it to the Pacific ocean. I felt a childish pleasure watching that  little stream of water on the street, remembering the days when we used to sail paper boats down such streams.

I wondered if rivers actually began their journey in this humble manner. Or did they dash down madly all at once? How magical it would be to witness the birth of a river! King Bhagiratha did just that (as related in the Ramayana) when he got the celestial river Ganga to come down to the earth. Of course, it was no easy task getting Ganga to descend from heaven. It took many years of hard penance. Finally, when she came down, she was swallowed up by Shiva's matted locks and was released in seven gentle streams so that the world would be spared her destructive force. Of these, one followed Bhagiratha's chariot.

Descent of Ganga (Mahabalipuram Sculpture)

"The effulgent royal sage Bhagiratha, sitting in a divine chariot, moved ahead and Ganga followed him."(Valmiki Ramayana 1-43-30/31)
"In whichever direction Bhagiratha went, Ganga followed"
(Valmiki Ramayana 1-43-33)

This is the part that really thrills me even today. Ganga followed Bhagiratha faithfully, full of vigour, dancing to his tune, overflowing the banks here and there as he made his way to the ocean.  Imagine being present to watch the first drop of water emerge from the river's source. Imagine guiding the river down the hills, along the plains and into the ocean. I wonder if Bhagiratha said, "Alright, let's take a left here around these villages here and there, hang a right by the woods", and so on. Were there natural channels for the river to flow into or did she carve out the banks instantaneously? Did Bhagiratha really lead her or just ride along as she made her way? Either way, it was a sight like none other. It is said that there was a veritable stampede in the sky as celestial beings jockeyed for the best viewing positions.

Born in heaven and sanctified further by her contact with Lord Shiva, the Ganga is held sacred by Hindus and a pilgrimage to Kasi and other holy places on her banks is a must for devout Hindus. While Bhagirtha might have brought the river from heaven to earth through extraordinary effort, ordinary people take her water to their homes in far flung parts of the country with much greater ease. Those who go on the pilgrimage to Kasi carry back some Ganga water in sealed copper pots or 'Kasi Chombus' (chombu - pot or vessel) as they are known when they return. They would also bring lengths of black threads called 'Kasi kayaru' (Kayaru - rope/string) which were given to kith and kin to wear as bracelets around the wrist, symbolizing a pledge to make the pilgrimage one day.

It is common to see the little sealed pots alongside idols and pictures of God and Goddesses in the pooja room in traditional homes. When I was young, I used to be intrigued by these little 'Kasi Chombus' . They were part of the retinue in the altar and obviously held an important place. You could shake them and hear the liquid sloshing inside. The pots were never unsealed or at least it seemed that way. I did not understand their purpose until the day my grandmother passed away. On that day, one of the pots was opened so that she could be given a little Ganga water which is believed to purify one of all sins. When I heard the story of Bhagiratha, I learned that he too had brought the Ganga down to earth so that her waters could wash over the ashes of his dead ancestors and enable their souls to go to heaven.

Some have suggested that the Ganga that had been locked up frozen in the folds of the mountain during the ice age, had started flowing again with the warming of the earth and this might have been immortalized in the story of Bhagritha and Ganga. Stories apart, the importance of the Ganga, a lifeline to hundreds of millions, is very real and tangible. Like the rain, the Ganga too has her origin in the heavens. Like the rain, she too sustains life on this earth. But unlike the rain, it is said that she takes care of our lives in the next world too. She provides both external and internal purification. She is Mother Ganga. May we respect her and keep her waters pure.

Ganga's Descent Image Courtesy: http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/6/69/Descent_of_the_Ganges_01.jpg/320px-Descent_of_the_Ganges_01.jpg

A Ramble On Walking

I like to walk. To be accurate, I should probably say, I like to go for walks, because walking is now a deliberate activity. I hardly ever walk to go any place. Everyone is so used to the car that we now have web sites (like this one) to teach us how to walk. But luckily, I have not forgotten this apparently fast disappearing skill and more importantly, I thoroughly enjoy it.

Walking provides more than physical exercise. If my mind is agitated, walking tends to have a calming effect. If I am relatively calm, then it puts me in a contemplative mood often adding a spiritual dimension. A quick stretching of legs outdoors can serve as a refreshing tonic in the middle of a tedious work day. Just going about myself, on the neighbourhood streets, in the park, by the beach, or in the woods, accompanied only by my thoughts, I am quite content. Having a companion to walk along with you is certainly a bonus. However, I find a bigger group distracting. Three is definitely a crowd in this case.

Even on cloudy days, when it is kind of depressing to stay in, walking can lift our moods. With a stiff wind rushing past my ears, and a faint hint of rain (and only a hint - walking in actual rain is not my cup of tea), I find a brisk walk positively bracing. The faster you go, the louder the roar of the wind gets and soon you are enveloped in it and forget the ambient noises, and with it, any negative feelings.

Occasionally, I would go to the beach for my walk. On the beach, where you have the water on one side and the road on the other, the sound of the waves provides a soothing contrast to the noise of the traffic. There is always a lot of people on the sidewalk, some jogging, some on bicycles, and others walking their dogs. Then there are the surfers getting into their wet suits. It is fascinating to watch them ride the waves. The one drawback for me with walking by the beach is that I have to actually drive to get there in the first place.

One of my favourite places to walk is the nearby canyon preserve. Just minutes into the preserve, you are transported to a different world. The sound of traffic can be heard no more. Instead, there is the pleasant babble of a small stream and of course the sounds of birds. I am grateful to be living in close proximity to these peaceful woods. Even though it is in the middle of a large metro with a population of almost two million, the preserve is never crowded. It is even possible to encounter the odd coyote there.

On this crisp February morning, I chose to walk in my own neighbourhood. The air was thick with the giddying scent of pink jasmine blossoms, occasionally broken by the pungent smell of alliums. As I walked past the houses with manicured lawns and bougainvillea bushes with flame-coloured blooms, the birds were out in full strength and seemed to be gathering for their morning conference. The air was cool but the bright sun muted its sting. A light breeze made the walk very enjoyable. Every now and then, a car rolled by. I walked at a brisk pace and up the climbing road. By the time I reached the bridge over the freeway, I was feeling quite exhilarated.

As always, I paused at the bridge to look at  the freeway traffic. Cars and trucks were rushing down the freeway in both directions in a deafening roar. I lifted my gaze to the western horizon, where, when it is absolutely clear, I can catch a glimpse of the distant ocean. Some evenings, you got to see a gorgeous sunset or hot air balloons making their way across the sky. On cloudy days, however, it is impossible to make out the horizon in the enveloping grey. Today, there were some low clouds covering the sky to the west, even though the sky was otherwise clear. To borrow a phrase from Forrest Gump, "I couldn't tell where heaven stopped and earth began".

I turned my eyes to the east and was greeted with the morning sun bathing the hills near and far and rooftops on the street below. It was curious to see the houses from the higher point. The steep gradient and the twists and turns of the street, made them appear randomly placed. While you would see a neat row of houses when you are walking on the street, the view from above resembled a jumbled heap.

I decided to take one of the lower streets today. Although the street was in the shadow, some of the houses were catching the light reflected from somewhere. The thing with sunlight, is that it bounces off various surfaces and somehow makes its way into the house quite unexpectedly. All we have to do is keep the blinds open and light will surely find its way in just as knowledge finds its way into an open mind. It reminded me of the Gayatri mantra: "We meditate upon His (the Sun's) most effulgent light. May He stimulate our intellects".

Reading Rekindled

When it comes to gadgets, I am no early adopter. I wait for the new technology to shake off the initial problems and get stabilized first. Even then, I may decide to hold out - case in point, I still use a flip phone. Naturally, when eReaders first came out, I was in no rush to get one. This was not some newer, better way, but a fundamentally different way of reading books. Surfing the internet and reading articles is one thing, but the idea of reading an entire book on a screen takes some getting used to. And there is much more to books than just reading.

When you buy a book, it is primarily for reading, but like with many things we enjoy, the other senses too play a part. The feel of the book, the  rustle of the pages when you turn them, the glossy cover and the new book smell - all these add to the whole reading experience. You can also discretely broadcast to others what you are reading, in the process, perhaps impressing them, without having to say a word. Your collection of books can be displayed neatly on shelves with pride of ownership. A wall of books is so inviting, is it not?

My father had a fairly large library housed in several shelves. This collection was quite impressive with books in English, Sanskrit and Tamil on many different subjects from Silappathikaram to Shakespeare. You would find literary classics as well as some contemporary authors. Those books are an important memory from my boyhood. When I picked up one of them and opened it, I would see my father's name, sometimes along with the date when it was purchased. Many of them had been published and purchased well before I was born. Every time we moved, which was once every three years or so, the books would be packed carefully in wooden crates. The shelves themselves were disassembled and packed for the move as well.

When you look through an old book, you get a sense of shared history. Many hands must have browsed the same pages. There may be some notes in the margin by readers past. There may be an old photograph or letter tucked between the pages. You may also find a feather, a leaf, or a bookmark there. The book may have passed from one generation to another. Some may be collector's items, being the first edition of the book or bearing the author's signature; some with old dust jackets intact, others with a calico or leather binding, and so on. Each book seems unique in some way.

Higginbothams, Chennai

I used to acquire books pretty regularly at one time. Every time I went on a business trip, I would buy a book from the little bookshop at the old Bangalore airport just before boarding the plane. It was a little hole in the wall, but the collection in that shop was considerable and amazingly varied. Almost all the PG Wodehouse novels I have, were acquired there as also a few Edward de Bono's and such. Even when travelling by trains, we had the old Higginbothams (the oldest booksellers in India) stalls at many stations ready to provide reading material for the journey. The Higginbothams building in Chennai, which is a historical landmark, was a favourite haunt of mine.

Over the years, I seem to have lost the reading habit. Instead, television and the internet have taken over my spare time. Keen to revive my reading, I recently decided to give eReaders a try with the idea that the novelty would act as a catalyst. I knew that I had to forego the whole gamut of experience that I have had with printed books. Plus, the eReader has come with its own idiosyncrasies. For instance, when I pick it up to read a book, I cannot tell you how many pages the book has. But I can see that I have completed 23% and the estimated time to finish is 7 hours and 34 minutes. If I wish to thumb back to a page I have already read, it is a complex task involving several buttons and a search engine. Reading a book from cover to cover has become more of a figurative thing. While I have several books stored in the Kindle, only one person can read at a time. It is ridiculously simple to purchase an eBook (spending money is always easy), but if you want it signed by the author, tough luck. You are limited in the choice of languages. And so on.

I have managed to read a few books in the last three months and seem to have sort of got used to the device and its quirks. The ability to carry a large collection of books in my hands is certainly an advantage as I am able to switch among several books that I am reading now. I am also able to download free of charge many old classics (including some newer ones that are more than 70 years old) for which copyright has run out. Most importantly, I am once again reading books. I think that is a good thing, whether I read them the old fashioned way, or under a nook using my Kindle. And if I really like a book, perhaps I will go out and buy a hard copy for my collection!

(Image Courtesy: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Higginbothams.jpg)

Stubble Trouble

As I moved the shaver across my cheek, the humming noise filled my ear and tended to block out the rest of the world. It has been almost two years since I switched to the electric shaver. I paused to reflect on my decision to abandon the traditional razor. While I find the electric variety quite satisfactory, I kind of miss the whole warm water and lather experience. My electric razor can be used with water and soap, but it is not quite the same. It is also bulky and noisy.

Shaving is a chore that I can do without, but paradoxically, I generally enjoy shaving. There is something about the warm water, the lather, the sound of the razor against the stubble, the sting of the after-shave splash and so on that is purely masculine. Shaving also holds a unique place in a man's life. It is one of the markers of passage into manhood. Young boys watch their fathers shave and cannot wait for the day when they too will join the privileged club.

Like most in my generation, I first started shaving with a safety razor which remains the most important milestone in the world of men's shaving. Before its invention, shaving oneself with a straight razor was a dangerous affair with some serious risk of slicing one's neck and hence, a task best left to professionals. I think that beards were popular then more out of compulsion than choice. By the way, barbers who were experts at wielding the scalpel, or the razor, also doubled as surgeons in the not too distant past. Barber surgeons used to perform minor surgery apart from cutting hair and shaving.

When the safety razor made it possible for all men to shave on their own without risk of decapitation, shaving became a daily routine for many - assembling the razor, dipping the brush in warm water, swiping it on the soap and then applying the soap on the face to work up a lather, etc. But this tends to take some time, time that is usually in short supply in the morning when you are scrambling to get ready for class or work.

Enter the instant lathering cream/gel and the need for a brush was eliminated, thus saving time. This was followed soon by shavers that came with cartridge blades which did away with the assembling and dismantling of the razor and saved even more time. The most important innovation to me was the twin-blade cartridge. This really improved the quality of the shave over a single-blade cartridge razor. Two edges worked better than one. No surprise there, I suppose.

Then, the floodgates apparently opened. We started getting cartridges with more and more cutting edges added. I thought six blades (or is it five?) is about as far as you can go. Well, apparently not, if this is real (yes, that's a twelve blade cartridge). I get the impression that I can keep opening the thing like a bellows to reveal more and more blades. You can watch this MadTV video for a hilarious take on the proliferation of cutting edges.

But exactly what are we getting with these razors? Just the thought of six blades shearing my face one after the other makes my skin crawl. I wonder if you can even ensure that all the cutting edges actually make contact with the skin. I mean, look at the geometry of the thing, the angle of the blades, the gap between them and the terrain they have to cover. The thing defies science. More than likely, the space between blades will get clogged with stubble or worse, bits of skin. If a proper analysis is carried out, I am sure it will be very revealing. But assuming you did make the necessary contact, what value could more blades bring other than leaving your skin raw and smarting with razor burns?

Advertisements used to say that the second blade cuts the hair missed by the first one. What about the third and subsequent blades? How much do the first two miss and leave for them? Do they have any stubble left to shave or do they start scraping the skin? Some aficionados like to point out that shaving with a three-blade cartridge is equivalent of shaving thrice with a single blade, but in a third of the time taken. I don't know why anyone would shave thrice in a row let alone doing it six times at a go. I don't even bother shaving six times in a week.

With the old models of blade cartridges becoming scarce, one is forced to buy the newer ones at ever increasing prices. This, I am sure, is real the motivation behind all those fancy newer cartridges. Some even 'tell' you when to change cartridges (that is, when you need to do your share to replenish the manufacturer's profit, I suppose). I finally got frustrated enough to put aside my razor and purchase an electric shaver.

You may wonder why I cannot give up shaving altogether and grow a beard, putting an end to all this. Ogden Nash once said, 'God in his wisdom made the fly, And then forgot to tell us why'. I feel the same way about facial hair. There is a basic question that nags me. Why do we have facial hair? I mean, what purpose is served by it? I cannot really see the reason for it. No offence to those sporting a beard, but a beard is mostly a nuisance and rarely looks good. Besides, it still needs grooming. I have reached the conclusion that it exists only to be shaved. But still, I tried growing a beard once in a weak moment. The resulting look got mixed feedback. By mixed, I mean that it was divided evenly between 'hideous' and 'revolting' and I decided that I would not grow a beard again.

The Packing Pickle

'That suitcase is not going to fit in that car', I thought to myself, as I waited for my ride outside the terminal. The woman who had arrived with it had been met by the man driving the car. She looked like she was his aunt or something. She got into the front seat and left him to deal with the bags which included a gargantuan suitcase. Jokes about how to get elephants into a car came to my mind. It was going to be interesting. I sat down on the bench and looked on with some excitement.

For the next five minutes, the man waged a keen and absorbing battle with the suitcases. I watched him rapidly try different combinations and sequences to load the bags into the trunk. Nothing seemed to work. It was like solving a jigsaw puzzle except that there was an extra piece which you could not leave out. The large case simply would not fit into the trunk whether straight in or sideways. Finally, in desperation, he pushed it into the backseat where it was a really tight squeeze. For a few tense seconds, it looked like it as going to get stuck midway, but miraculously, it slid in between the front and back seats. I was so intently watching the whole drama that when he closed the trunk and turned around he caught my eye and I had to do something. I gave him a thumbs up. Accepting it with good humour, he came over and gave me a fist bump. As he drove off, I was certain that he was going to have an even bigger challenge extricating that suitcase from the back seat.

Even though airlines have restrictions on the size, suitcases seem to have grown larger over the last several years. The wheels do make it easy to pull them along, but these suitcases are shaped in all sorts of odd ways making it difficult to load them into cars and unload. At the same time, cars are now trending smaller promising more and more scenes like the above.

At the airport, checking the bags is of course fairly easy. You just need to get them to the counter. But it is quite a task picking up a big suitcase from the baggage carousel at the destination. I often see people struggling to get hold of the handle which is always on the wrong side as the suitcase speeds along the belt. For some reason, perhaps as a cruel joke, the handlers load them on to the belt with the handles out of the reach of waiting passengers. I can almost picture a small framed passenger being pulled on to the belt while trying to get hold of a big suitcase.

It is not just loading and unloading that presents a challenge. Have you noticed how taxing it is to pack those huge molded suitcases that open like clam shells? First, you have to ask everyone else to leave the room before you can open one because it will occupy the better part of a room when opened all the way. Then, you have to pack the two sides separately. You walk back and forth across the room to get it filled. Once it is packed, you have to lift the heavy top side (or bottom as usually you cannot tell which is which) and close it over the other. In this process, some of the items always fall out. Some others will stick out just enough to prevent the sides from closing cleanly. Even if there is the slightest obstruction, the latch cannot be engaged. Sometimes, you have to sit on the suitcase to make it close. And if you have to reopen it to pack some more things, well, you get to perform this dance all over again.

My own preference is to travel as light as possible. So I select the smallest suitcase that can serve the needs of a trip. I also go with the soft bags. They are easier to lift, load and unload. It is also easy to pack a smaller bag really full so that the contents remain stable during the journey. They can be opened easily without requiring extra room. There is no confusion about which side is up. And, while I have no evidence to support this, I suspect that soft bags are handled less harshly by airlines staff since they don't look like tanks as the hard ones do. I could go on, but I guess it is ultimately a matter of personal choice. If you ask for my advice, pick a case you can pack without getting into a pickle.

Deepavali Flash(back)

This one is especially for all Indians living abroad. I wrote this several years ago when I wanted to explain what Deepavali was all about to children growing up here in the US. 

For children in India, Deepavali is a time of magic. As in everything else Indian, there are a number of regional flavors to it, but Deepavali is truly a national festival.

I grew up in Tamil Nadu and have wonderful memories of Deepavali. This is a day when we wanted to get up early – I mean really early, say 4 am or even before – despite the fact that we had to have a bath immediately and an oil bath at that (there is always a catch, isn't there?). No, we were not crazy, as you will soon see. For those of you who may not have seen the hour of 4 am, believe me it was anything but quiet on Deepavali at 4 am. If you were still sleeping, you would wake up to the deafening sounds of firecrackers.

Being the first on the block to light up the fireworks gave one bragging rights. So my brothers and I got up early and took our oil bath. My mother would have prepared the oil the previous day and she would apply it to our hair. She had strong hands, so we were quickly awake and alert. Then came the bath in warm water with “cheekkai” (a herbal shampoo powder) to wash off the oil. In our hurry to get ready and light the fireworks, we would get the bath over so quickly that half the oil did not get washed off. The leftover oil would slowly descend to our faces during the rest of the day. We then got to wear new clothes, which were arranged neatly in the pooja room. Once we got our clothes on, we would rush out and light a candle from which we could light the sparklers or light up the incense stick with which to set off the loud crackers.

The whole idea was to light up the entire neighborhood with sparklers and other types of fireworks. Obviously, you had to do this while it was still dark. There was a wide variety of fireworks available - the flowerpot, the ‘Tharai chakram’ or ground wheel, the ‘Vishnu chakram’ or spinning wheel, rockets and so on. Rockets lit up the skies soaring over homes and palm trees. Flowerpots would give off intense colourful displays of fireworks. These displays would be punctuated with the loud bursting of some cracker or the other – these had names too, like the sparrow, the electric, Shivaji, Lakshmi and Vishnu. These crackers looked like sticks of dynamite and had fuses made of string and paper extending out. It was quite a thrill to light the fuse, retreat to a safe distance and watch the explosion – the flash and the bang. There was also the atom bomb (relax, they had no nuclear content), which was the loudest. My favorites were the string crackers. These came in strings of 50, 100, etc. to one with 10,000! You set off one off these and the individual sticks go off in tandem and the effect was magical. The 10,000-cracker garland sounded like a couple of motorbikes accelerating real hard and went on and on!

After a couple of hours of fun outside, we would come back into the house for an early snack of delicious sweets and savories. Deepavali was an occasion for making some traditional dishes as well as for trying out novel recipes. After this feast, there was the traditional Ginger lehyam (halwa of sorts), which was consumed to prevent indigestion. How thoughtful of our forefathers to think of everything! Actually, this was quite tasty in itself.

Mid-morning was a slow period spent exchanging notes with friends. We would also compare the amount of debris in front of different houses left from the firecrackers – these were packed with paper, bits of which got strewn all over when the tightly packed charge inside exploded. We would have exhausted most of the crackers (some were saved for the night) and would start unstringing the string crackers so we could light them one by one. There were the inevitable duds among these, which fail to go off for some reason. We would open these and empty the charge inside into a paper. When you lit the paper, it went up in glorious smoke, but this could be a dangerous game. There were always reports of some kid getting his hand burnt doing this.

This was also the time for some pranks. Some kids would light a string of crackers and throw an old pot over it for some special effects. The pot danced around with muffled sounds coming from inside. Or they would light an atom bomb and put a coconut shell over it. The shell would fly an impressive distance when the bomb exploded. You could say this was the educational side to Deepavali on the streets, trying out Newton’s laws of motion. And so the day went on with eating, chatting, playing, bursting crackers, visiting friends, and did I say eating?  Everybody had a great time. 

Deepavali literally means ‘Row of lamps’. According to tradition (one of many, I should add), Deepavali was the day when Lord Krishna slew Narakasura, a powerful demon. Before dying, Narakasura felt remorse for all the oppression he had inflicted and begged for forgiveness. He also requested that the day of his death should be celebrated by the people with joy and pomp. Hence, we celebrate the day as the festival of lights and sound. As far as kids were concerned, we had a soft corner for Narakasura because he gave us Deepavali and no other festival captured our imagination like Deepavali.