Baby, you're a firework
If you’ve ever wondered why fireworks ‘go on a bit’ – the pets have just recovered, the baby’s gone back down, and… BANG! That’s Diwali.
A week after Bonfire Night here in the UK, and all around the world, we Indians celebrate a festival of lights with a feast of fireworks and food. It’s actually observed by Hindus, Jains, Sikhs and Buddhists too – with a masala of meanings.
But it’s going to be different this year, of course – and different for us too, now we’ve got a little half-Indian to pass traditions down to. The only problem is I don’t really remember what they all are. So, I’m doing some research, and looking back at Diwalis past.
One of my earliest memories of Diwali is celebrating in our new home in Telford. We’d moved from a market town to the leafy suburbs, and thanks to a faulty pack of fireworks, had announced our arrival by nearly setting fire to our neighbour’s conservatory. It was a pretty bold move for the only family of colour on a new housing estate. But, thankfully, our neighbours were a tolerant bunch. (Or I’d be writing about the 1991 Telford race riots.)
Diwalis in Telford were almost always celebrated with the Gulatis, family friends whose acquaintance was made in a double-take encounter on the high street. “I thought we were the only Indians in the village,” my mum had said. And, like that, they were friends for life: Aunty Pinky, her husband ‘Uncle’ (some Indian men are only ever really ‘Uncle’), and daughters Smridhi and Abhiti.
Before the food and fireworks, we’d sit cross-legged on the carpet and sing a prayer (or pooja) for Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth. This would inevitably set us kids off on a fit of stifled giggles, as Uncle sang with the kind of bass rude boys fill their car boots with; the kind of bass you can feel in your stomach. We buried those giggles deep into our chests, heads down, hands clasped. Our parents would have thought we were really into those prayers, had our shaking shoulders not given us away.
A couple of years we celebrated in India, where Diwali is like Christmas or Thanksgiving. Families travel to be with one another, exchange gifts, and head out onto the streets and into a Health and Safety inspector’s nightmare. Fireworks are lit with such little regard for personal property that even Guy Fawkes would say “you were only supposed to blow the bloody doors off”.
Well, we can’t travel to be with family this year, and we’ll miss the Gulatis and Uncle’s singing voice. But we’ll remember Diwalis past, look forward to the future, and start new traditions with our new edition. Happy Diwali!
