Sky Full of Fireworks – A Walk in Nostalgia
Durga Puja holds my heart, but Diwali follows close behind. Holi never quite fit my bill—too loud, too messy, and those colours overstayed their welcome. Saraswati Puja, though, was sacred—pristine, sweet, and soaked in the charm of intellectual pride. But for me, it was a prayer before the storm. Final exams loomed, prep was rock bottom, and Anjali was the only hope for divine grace.
The Electric Thrill of Diwali
Diwali, or Kali Puja, was electric—light, sound, smoke, and a thrill that danced with danger. The hand chakri’s warmth kissed your cheeks, chocolate bombs thudded too close for comfort, and rockets took wild, rebellious paths.
It wasn’t just a celebration—it was a reminder that you were alive!
Buying fireworks (we called them crackers back in the day) was eagerly awaited all year. I always preferred the bombs and rockets to the sparklers, torches, charkis, and tubris (flower-pots). Buying fireworks was such a joy in the weeks leading up to Diwali, and with the tight Bengali budget on phataka, there wasn’t a lot of variety—no matter how much haggling we did.
Baba’s motto was always, “Buy few but buy quality,” but I would try everything to get the numbers higher. We would ultimately have a peaceful, happy handshake and come back with a bag full of chilli phatka, taal phatka, packets of small and big chocolate bombs (aka smiles), a wasteful pack of phuljhuris (sparklers), a handful of chakris, and the most argued-about—rockets.
Bollywood Wrappers and Tubri Experiments
Each packet was a mini Bollywood poster! Sridevi, Bhanupriya, and Meenakshi Sheshadri, draped in dreamy saris, holding sparklers like they were flirting with the stars. Some packs even had rockets and phatakas arranged so perfectly, it looked like a meteor shower trapped inside (I kid you not).
Once you acquired the fireworks, you had to take care of them so they remained dry and ready to crackle—which meant putting them on straw trays (kolas), keeping them under the sun, and spending hours gazing at them, calculating what would go off when on Diwali day.
Sometimes—and these were red-letter years—inspired by our very proficient non-Bengali family friends, we embarked on an expedition to make tubris at home. The vision was grand: to create a designer fountain with golden sparks that ended in a massive surprise blast.
This was not easy. It started with getting the right masala for the tubri from Grihasthi, then mixing it in the right proportion and filling the tubris with it. It had to be a Goldilocks moment—not too tight (or it would burst) and not too loose (or it wouldn’t catch the spark). It took many attempts to build, test, and launch before we got it right.
Pretty sure that’s when I got my first crash course in Product—build, test, and learn.
Lighting Up the Night
And of course, no Diwali was complete without caps and alu phatakas! Strips, solos—tap them with a toy pistol or hammer, no questions asked.
Diwali was coming. Oh, what fun I was going to have—and I did. Didi and I were quite the early birds in lighting the candles and starting the crackers. Other friends had to do puja at home before they could start, so we had a head start.
The first phase would be a trial run of everything except the chocolate bombs and rockets. To make the evening last as long as possible, we’d take the kali phatkas out of the string and light them one at a time. It was relentless joy.
The second phase was with friends, on the street, where the heavy artillery (chocolate bombs, flower-pots, rockets) came out. The finale was setting off an entire string—250 kali phatkas in one go! That was pure revelry.
A Feast to Remember
Like every home has its own tradition, we had one for Diwali/Kali Puja day. Maa would make malpua and serve it with labra. It isn’t a common combination, but the sweetness of malpua and the savoury freshness of the vegetables made a delectable pairing.
Without fail, the dessert that evening would be chanar payesh, and nothing could beat that three-course meal.
Diwali isn’t just a festival—it’s pure magic in the air!
Even if we ran out of our stock of crackers, we’d still have fun visiting family friends, joining their fireworks and food. The neighbourhood was full of lights, sound, smoke, pranks, and giggles. As the night wore on, the blasts slowed, and we would drive to visit the local Kali Puja pandal.
The Morning After
Diwali and Kali Puja mornings were winter’s gentle hello—dew on the grass, fog curling through sleepy streets, and the smoky perfume of last night’s fireworks still hanging in the air.
Without fail, Baba would set off on his scooter to bring bhog from Rhyma Club’s puja. That warmth, those flavours—they still fill me with gratitude.
Then and Now
Thirty-five years hence, and a lot has changed. Crackers have been outlawed because they cause sound pollution. Things, I realize, will never be the same. And the main reason for that, of course, is that I have changed.
The carefree kid who would stuff herself with food, play antics with rockets, dance about as a charki whizzed past her feet, and light and throw a chocolate bomb in a split second has been replaced by a wary, minute-counting, pollution-checking, devoted middle-aged woman.
She’s juggling candles, clothes, and the clock—school and work waiting at the finish line. In her head, fireworks feel less like adventure and more like risk management.
Wisdom now says carcinogens aren’t punchlines, and experience whispers what Kali Pujo—and life—both teach: careless people get hurt, and there’s nothing heroic about that.
The Magic Remains
I do feel guilty sometimes—not recreating the Diwali and Kali Puja excitement for my kids the way my parents did for us. The children don’t have even a fraction of that excitement for Diwali.
But hey, times change—and so have we.
Life’s moved on. Maybe the magic just wears a different outfit now. They have Halloween looming, and Christmas trumps it all.
Which is why I don’t try to recreate my past.
I simply revel in it.
