“Sir, no excuses Sir, so far I have been negligent in writing in the blog about India. I will do better going forward, Sir!”
Let’s spend the next few blogs on our India experience. This one is about India’s most popular holiday, Diwali. Diwali is the Hindu festival of lights celebrated every year in autumn. In 2016, it began on Oct. 27 for a duration of five days, peaking on the 31st.
On the 30th, we took advantage of the relative lack of traffic on the long weekend to go downtown and visit some places that we had been planning to see but had put off. First destination was the Dilli Haat, a government-run bazaar featuring goods and clothes from around India’s regions. It’s aimed at tourists: one-stop, all-of-India represented convenience—even Hilary Clinton had dropped in for peek during a state visit. Because it was targeting foreigners as customers, it featured products like silk scarves, bronzed statues of Hindu gods or lacquered elephants. We enjoyed meandering around and haggling with the store owners. Marina and I bought a small figure of Lakshmi, the Hindu goddess of good fortune and prosperity, because the vibe just felt right.
After this, we literally crossed the road to visit the Indian National Army Market, which was more in line with our “wild India” image. It had frenzied masses of shoppers frequenting the small shops. Imagine narrow stalls with varying dimensions all crammed into tight, dark passageways, with a soundtrack of squawking chickens in hutches, skinned animals hanging in the air surrounding by buzzing clouds of insects, touts trying to get your attention and draw you in for the kill…err…sale. It was a terrific experience. Colorful, loud, vivid. This is the real India.
But Diwali's Grand Finale was right at our apartment complex. You see, India goes bananas in celebrating Diwali. We had been warned by skittish long-term foreign residents of Delhi to hunker down in the apartment for the night. Psssshaw! No way we were going to miss the real Diwali fireworks. As we have come to expect, the start of the fireworks fiesta began late, but man oh man it was worth the wait. Here’s why…
We live in a very nice block of apartments with a landscaped garden that is zealously guarded by a small army of private security and curious groundskeepers, all of whom address me politely and unfailingly as “Sir.” The residents are invariably well-heeled locals and expats. It is a safe and staid residential complex, and we are lucky to live there.
But not on Diwali. Once the sun set, the banshees came out for a hullabaloo. Normally demure family men unloaded their cache of fireworks and whole families lost their minds. It was true anarchy. Laws? Waazat. Safety concerns? Fuggedaboutit. Grown men and women with jobs and responsibilities had the look of merry mayhem in their eyes and eschewed all semblance of propriety, instead lighting and shooting rockets into the sky, running over and through low starbursts, cackling while lighting screeching circle smoke blowers and big, loud pipe bombs. It was a sight to behold. The Rising Daughters were aghast at the way little kids were empowered to light off these monstrosities. Dads were running around with armfuls of serious-looking rockets and smoke bombs, lighting them, and kicking them around or aiming at the fields. It was like the scene from “2001: A Space Odyssey” where the apes were flinging bones at the heavens. Primal. I wished I had something to make explode. We just kept back to marvel at the whole spectacle.
I’ve seen some terrific fireworks in my life to date. I was reared on Canada Day fireworks in my hometown. I have been amazed by the precision and choreography of Japanese fireworks during Obon (especially the Miyajima fireworks festival). But in terms of the sheer spectacle of it all, this was the most fun I have just sat and witnessed in a long, long time. We all enjoyed the pandemonium. As the explosions grew in intensity, through the thickening smoke we could see other nearby neighborhoods were all collectively doing the same thing.
After a long day of sightseeing and shopping, then this visceral show of violence, bright streaks of light and joy, we were all tuckered out. Our Indian neighbors, though, were just getting started. Indians take their Diwali fun seriously—these fireworks went on for hours. I cannot really capture the entire vibe of the evening with words. Joy. Mayhem. Love. Explosions. Families together. The threat of injury. All rolled into one massive, nationwide yelp at the heavens amid the festival of lights. It was a beautiful disaster, a night to remember!
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| Courtesy of NASA. This is just a cool look at India at night from space |
After this, we literally crossed the road to visit the Indian National Army Market, which was more in line with our “wild India” image. It had frenzied masses of shoppers frequenting the small shops. Imagine narrow stalls with varying dimensions all crammed into tight, dark passageways, with a soundtrack of squawking chickens in hutches, skinned animals hanging in the air surrounding by buzzing clouds of insects, touts trying to get your attention and draw you in for the kill…err…sale. It was a terrific experience. Colorful, loud, vivid. This is the real India.
But Diwali's Grand Finale was right at our apartment complex. You see, India goes bananas in celebrating Diwali. We had been warned by skittish long-term foreign residents of Delhi to hunker down in the apartment for the night. Psssshaw! No way we were going to miss the real Diwali fireworks. As we have come to expect, the start of the fireworks fiesta began late, but man oh man it was worth the wait. Here’s why…
We live in a very nice block of apartments with a landscaped garden that is zealously guarded by a small army of private security and curious groundskeepers, all of whom address me politely and unfailingly as “Sir.” The residents are invariably well-heeled locals and expats. It is a safe and staid residential complex, and we are lucky to live there.
But not on Diwali. Once the sun set, the banshees came out for a hullabaloo. Normally demure family men unloaded their cache of fireworks and whole families lost their minds. It was true anarchy. Laws? Waazat. Safety concerns? Fuggedaboutit. Grown men and women with jobs and responsibilities had the look of merry mayhem in their eyes and eschewed all semblance of propriety, instead lighting and shooting rockets into the sky, running over and through low starbursts, cackling while lighting screeching circle smoke blowers and big, loud pipe bombs. It was a sight to behold. The Rising Daughters were aghast at the way little kids were empowered to light off these monstrosities. Dads were running around with armfuls of serious-looking rockets and smoke bombs, lighting them, and kicking them around or aiming at the fields. It was like the scene from “2001: A Space Odyssey” where the apes were flinging bones at the heavens. Primal. I wished I had something to make explode. We just kept back to marvel at the whole spectacle.
 |
| Courtesy of WSJ |
After a long day of sightseeing and shopping, then this visceral show of violence, bright streaks of light and joy, we were all tuckered out. Our Indian neighbors, though, were just getting started. Indians take their Diwali fun seriously—these fireworks went on for hours. I cannot really capture the entire vibe of the evening with words. Joy. Mayhem. Love. Explosions. Families together. The threat of injury. All rolled into one massive, nationwide yelp at the heavens amid the festival of lights. It was a beautiful disaster, a night to remember!
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