The festival season is upon us, though a bit subdued. If not for the pervading gloom of the pandemic, it’d be a reason to celebrate, spend time with family and friends, shop till we drop, and gorge on sweets till we’re stuffed to the gills. Maybe next year? Nevertheless, there is an aura in the air this time of year—it is the autumn light, I think. Not as harsh as the blaze of summer, not as gloomy as the skies of monsoon…there is a dappled glory about it, promising better days ahead.
As a child, I used to love every festival that came my way—be it religious or national. I’d spend a sleepless night before Holi plotting our team strategy to attack the kids from the other block and ensuring we had enough of an arsenal for the onslaught—buckets of gubaras filled and ready, pichkaris primed and tested, and so on. During the last five days of Durga Puja (or Navratri to the non-Bongs), I’d strut about in new clothes at the neighbourhood Puja pandal to watch the entertainment programmes, hoping to catch the eye of some PYT’s and then pretend not to notice them. On Diwali I would marvel at the heights to which the rockets would soar in the sky, and how the deceptively small, conical anaars would light up the darkness for those few magical seconds. Christmas reminded me of winter holidays, carol singing, receiving lots of greeting cards, plum pudding, and surreptitious sips of port wine at a friend’s home.
Then I grew up.
Now I can’t stand festivals. Is it just me, or are there any kindred spirits amongst you who feel the same way? Age may have something to do with it, but not everything, surely. There’s a lot to dislike now. Where do I start?
The noise, the noise! Diwali, Ganesh Chaturthi, Durga Puja are so cacophonous now that they are unbearable. The pounding of the drums, the ringing of bells, the conch shells, the firecrackers that sound like gunfire, the shouting at each other to make ourselves heard… maybe it’s always been like this, but I didn’t mind these once. Well, now I do. Just a look at your pet dog cowering under the bed, trembling, on Diwali night should make you think about this.
If there is noise pollution, can air and water pollution be far behind? The day after Diwali is a day I dread. It’s like smelling the cordite of artillery fire after a battle. In dusty, smoggy cities of north India already gasping for clean air, the AQI
goes up by several hundred units to dangerous levels. How many are falling prey to lung-related diseases daily? What about our rivers? From the visarjan of the Ganesh idols in western India to the Durga idols in the east—my own Delhi not far behind—no stone is left unturned to choke our rivers where the toxic paints and materials used to make these effigies are allowed to mingle in the water. What about the filth on the streets the day after—the debris left behind from the pyrotechnics? Does anyone care? The scant disregard for civic sense amongst us has to be seen to be believed.
Then there are the traffic jams. From Ganesh Chaturthi & Janmashtami to Eid, every festival starts with blocking all roads—in most cases a display of muscle-flexing from the local MLA or goons to show to the world that they can do it, so why not? And what about us— we the people—must we target every Puja pandal in the city in one night? If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all—trust me. How many ambulances or fire tenders get stuck on the roads stuck on nights like these, unable to make any headway?
Then the false bonhomie makes me gag. Neighbours and relatives who we’ve avoided successfully for the rest of the year—for valid reasons--descend upon us uninvited like locusts, leaving us to clean up their mess when they depart. I’m not talking about people we care for here—just all the others. And we have to dutifully pretend to be happy to see them and promise to meet more often. Yeah, the same promises every year. It’d be amusing if it wasn’t so enervating.
Holi? Don’t get me started. Holi is a festival of colours and joy, but this seems to apply to only one gender. It’s a nightmare for most single young women, when the eternally crotch scratching male population of north India, permanently in heat, takes to the streets hiding behind the slogan, ‘Bura na maano, Holi hai!’ Days before Holi we see young men with colours all over their faces and clothes roaming around, throwing colours, paint… or worse, semen filled balloons (yes! I read that report somewhere)… targeting and catcalling young women in particular. The saddest part about this is that this hooliganism has been normalized.
Last but not the least, is the unnecessary expenditure. There is tremendous pressure to spend, mainly peer pressure. Must we keep up with the Joneses and the Junejas? Hard-sell ads compel us to buy anything and everything from cars and gold to home appliances at heavy discounts. But how much do we need those things? There are no Diwali bonuses this year thanks to the economy, but Diwali loans—plenty of offers there—are on, to allow you to buy all the gold you don’t need. These festivals, despite the discounts, still empty our savings. There is little hope to revive. Save for another month and it’ll be time to spend on another festival or a wedding. How does one recover financially from a culture such as this?
Are festivals bad? No, of course not. Should they be banned? Not at all. But they’re just not the same anymore. We just need to celebrate them in the right way, at minimum cost to ourselves and our environment, with people who matter to us.
On that weary note, Season’s Greetings to all!
Beetashok Chatterjee is the author of Driftwood, a collection of stories about Life at Sea. A ship’s captain by profession, he joined the Merchant Navy at a young age and now misses it, having just retired after completing more than forty years at sea.
His book is available on Amazon. Click here.
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