Banding together against Shaadi Bands

As is wont, post-dinner and a recap of the day’s news bulletin, last night hubby and I began our nightly schedule – walking, that is (What did you think?). We were barely into our second round of the neighborhood park when we spotted a glittering string of fairy lights making its way slowly, strains of a decidedly loud sound system accompanying the light show.

A wedding procession - groom in tow on a white mare, an assortment of animated pink-turbaned men, heavily-embroidered saree / suit clad women dripping with jewellery (never mind that Christmas was a good months away), and some gleeful children - threaded its way to the venue.

It was a usual enough scene.

Except that a few seconds later, the band and the procession stopped right before the main entry gate of the Trauma Care Speciality Center, belting out tunes from the latest Bollywood chart busters. This was the cue for the relatives to plunge into a riotous dance routine, all shaking a leg merrily and making a nuisance of themselves right outside the medical center where hundreds, if not thousands, lay on the road to recovery (or maybe not).

So while inside the medical center, grim surgeons wielded shiny surgical equipment; outside a number of shiny instruments - trumpets, French horns, euphoniums, clarinets, cymbals, saxophones, trombones, drums, boomed and kept the audience on its feet. A few other members of the red-white-blue-and-generously-sprinkled-with-gold uniformed band members shuffled their feet carrying kerosene-spewing light fixtures. An oily-looking thirty-something cleared his throat and looked ready to launch the next song from his endless repertoire.

And then there was silence.

For a moment, a feeling of unbespoke relief swept over me. Perhaps some near and dear ones of the victims that lay inside the trauma center, had taken it into their heads to come and give the giddily-happy wedding party a piece of their mind. The disturbing anomaly of glee looked extremely inhuman outside the gloomy walls that spelled accidents, comas, and frightful deaths. Probably a lathi-charge would not have been out of place for these insensitive ecstatically-cheering and dancing souls, who chose to stand right outside those walls inside which so many people battled for life right that minute.

But that was not to be. The band had stopped only because some inebriated people in the procession had a few music requests for the band. And unlike my gym which frowns upon any music requests, the band was only too happy to comply, knowing that there was no dearth of heavily-lined pockets that would disgorge currency notes any minute. Rightly so. As the crescendo built up, notes of different nominations were flung into the air, much to the delight of the band people who clutched them. Dizzy with dancing men cried hoarsely to the visibly red-faced groom, whose 5-year nephew gave him company on the weighed-down poor white mare.

And the music became louder. Probably to drown out the honking of the cars behind the procession.

A yelling match looked promising. But was soon dissolved as it was time for some pyrotechnics. One after the other, several firecrackers from last year’s Diwali (Festival of Lights) hissed and fizzed to life, zooming off into the skies above, before disintegrating into a million sparkles. Of course, the sound of all these was hardly mild, to say the least.

That, coupled with the still-earsplitting music was enough to drown out my protests….

Good Bye (and Good Riddance?)

There it was again – another sleep-inducing, farewell email from a fellow colleague, who had no doubt done a not-so-neat cut-copy-paste routine from his predecesor not so long ago.

I dissed it, barely glancing at what I knew would have read somewhat like this:

Hi All / Dear Friends,
With mixed feelings of happiness and sorror (yeah right!), finally the time has come for me to bid you a fond farewell / As some of you may know, today is my last day at XYZ Company.
It has been a professionally rewarding experience here (tongue-biting). Thank you for the unending support you have constantly provided me during my golden (huh?) carrier (yeah some of ‘em do write that) here.
I hope you stay in touch with me. Though my official email id would get deactivated by today evening, please keep in touch with me at abc@yahoo/gmail/hotmail.com
Good bye!

Is it the boredom of reading a done-to-death valedictory email? Is it the sheer repetitiveness of it all that shrieks Fake Fake Fake in bold lettering? Whatever be the case, this is the exact moment when my eyes get droopy and leaden, yawning gets the better of me, and I roll my eyes exaggeratedly.

Of course I can cut the guy some slack – on his last day at work, there are a hundred pressing issues to be dealt with – accounts, tax, clearance certificates, reference letters, the last shared coffee and lunch, much hand shaking and back-thumping…leaving the poor chap with hardly any time to compose a farewell email.

Yet, in all objectivity, how much time would it really take to put together a brief, decent paragraph? Nothing fancy, mind you. Just a simple draft in which he a) bids farewell b) mentions the memories he takes ahead with him and c) includes the personal email address bit? And leave the recipients to nod their heads and smile in unison instead of making them gag in disbelief at the OD display...

He needn’t mention the fairly obvious truths he may have come across in his work-spell, like Chris Kula, the comedy writer, whose farewell speech was ripped and re-hashed by a guy from JPM and floated across the Firm in a stinging email, burning bridges in the process. Both make for equally amusing reading, but are strictly avoidable, unless you fancy the idea of your F&F payment never making it to your bank account.

Now, while many would not be as game (or as good) as him in whacking the management with a malacca cane, is it really asking for too much to abstain from one of them a dime-a-dozen B-O-R-I-N-G Good bye emails that sound like soporific movie award speeches?

Nobody really pays attention to the cine stars as they clutch their awards and rave about who all helped them achieve their dream, their (over)generous thanking of everyone under the sun (dog included), and the all-too-obvious-contrived tears..(Years of hastily-applied glycerine looked primed for a decided death).

Can we please at least have some genuine-sounding Bub-Bye emails, if not the flashing-the-middle-finger-boldly ones?

Though we’d like to add that we do enjoy the occasional witty verbal treat too, you see. Thank you.

Watching spooky flicks - a 'ghost' of a chance for me...

I grew up on a regular diet of books. You could call me your regular bookworm. However, there was one stack of books I never did touch - my brother’s collection of horror novels (No he wasn’t a bookworm, he just kept them to keep me from fiddling in his shelf).

The only ghost I could see without scaring people half to death with my bloodcurdling scream, was Casper. And he didn’t really count – cute, white, slightly obese kid-ghost. That he stayed in a gravestone only added to his quirkiness…
So here I am - an incurable phasmophobe. In simpler words, I fear ghosts. Many might share my fear, I know. It gives me some solace that there are many others like me whose hearbeats increase rapidly, a feeling of dread descends, their mouths go dry - when they as much as hear a friend narrate a particularly spooky story in the middle of a night.

Best friend is a sucker for horror, spooky tales. And movies. If she’s watching one at home, chances are that it would be along the likes of The Exorcist, The Haunting, Poltergeist, Blair Witch Project, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, the Evil Dead, or Ring. And to think that during the most scary parts, she calmly pops popcorn into her mouth. More recently – she’s been gushing about the home-video Paranormal Activity, a spooky flick about a young couple who have a demonic presence in their apartment. Even hubby dearest is partial to this very same movie. Argh!

Which brings me to that eternal question – why do people pay big bucks at theaters to get terrified?
Is it the thrill of getting to assess their threat levels?
Does it elicit some primal behavior?
Do they like the escapism factor?
Do they get an adrenaline rush akin to like going on a rollercoaster ride?
Do they like the idea of watching someone’s fear unfold in a controlled environment?
Or do they like to count their palpitating heart beats?

Beats me!

What's your say?

Kissing a much-loved TGI Friday's Good-Bye

My first memories of TGIF are of my skipping along Connaught Place’s Inner Circle, playing with the columns, and standing to stare outside a bar (at that time, we were unfamiliar with the words pub / watering holes / lounge), painted in red and white stripes.

Music wafted from the inside, as did a delicious aroma of what were probably potatoes in melted cheese. Slurrrrrrp! A steady stream of tourists kept stepping in, affording me a better look into the interiors – a fascinating place with wooden floors, red and white table cloths, bartenders with cocky hats taking orders merrily, colourful posters on the walls and very exciting-looking drinks.

The notice outside the bar which stated sternly that minors weren’t allowed, and the admonishments by my parents to get my nose (which was pressed against the bar’s tinted windows) away, were two primary reasons that accounted for my melancholic face, a face that continued to droop till the time we entered the more ‘tame’ Nirulas, and the pull of the Hot Chocolate Fudge took over, overruling my initial resentment at being whisked away from the object of my Peeping Tom-ism.

However, I didn’t forget TGIF.

Not for once.

Circa – first year of college -1998. Four girls walked jauntily into TGIF, CP, well remembering to carry their college IDs lest the bartenders or the management wanted to check their eligibility to enter the pub. Smart move! As they did check. Thankfully, all of us had already celebrated our respective 18th birthdays. And we weren't turned away, as was the similar-aged group which tried to enter around the same time, but their lack of IDs turned out to be the dampener. Too bad for 'em!

As we took in the interiors and the customary hats and boots, wide-eyed, one thing caught our eye – the shiny, whacky buttons that the bartenders wore on their uniforms. The friendly bartender guessed it was our first time there - we looked the average college-goers who didn't have too much money to spare, and for him we were probably just a group of hood-rich teenagers.

He very kindly suggested we wouldn’t be disappointed if we tried the Mozzarella Sticks. We weren’t. And I also suspect he put in a few extra pieces for us (God bless his soul), as the bloke who ordered for the same at the next table, got a smaller serving than us. Our very first Screwdrivers didn't let us down either, though they did reinstate our having scraped our pocket allowances to be able to afford our treat’ there.

From that day, we were hooked!

Of course the regular visits began only when we started earning, and didn’t have to pinch pennies to down a drink there.

The memories are the sorts that one cannot forget in a hurry.

Like the time I celebrated a birthday there once, and it became lovelier, thanks to the FREE FREE FREE finger-licous chocolate cake by the management (they did check my ID to verify it really was my birthday). And the merry song-and-dance routine by the bartenders that accompanied the cake.

Or the time when a totally-sloshed me, knelt in front of a hugely-embarrassed bartender at TGIF, Basant Lok, begging him for one of his badges. (I’d like to think it was my persistence that paid off, as he handed me not one, but two of ‘em – my friends begged to disagree though, citing various reasons for his having done so, the most frequently-cited one being his unwillingness to grapple with a half-crazed, high-on-energy (read drowned in Long Island Iced Tea) chick.

Or the time when a friend, much to my horror, spilled the last of the ‘Buy-One-Ger-One-Free’ Happy Hours tequilas, and we couldn’t spend on more. Fingers were pointed, scowls were exchanged, and the management – taking pity on us, gave us a free one.

Or the time when yet another friend decided to notch up his experimenting quotient by ditching his customary scotch on the rocks for an Everclear cocktail, a move that let’s just say, ended on a sour note, my clothes being soaked in puke that would make a skunk proud. Oh, and did I mention that fine detail that it was winter?

Or the time when a good friend, very very partial to her Strawberry Daiquiri, kept giggling throughout the course of our hour-and-a-half time there, much to the curiosity (and then amusement) of the patrons sitting nearby.

Or the time when my friends and I would wait outside patiently for the clock to strike 5pm, and then step inside to be able to get one-on-one Mojitos. Hey, we are smart, not cheap! Grrrr!

And now, I hear that the TGIF in Basant Lok looks ready to follow in the footsteps of the CP one, which closed sometime back. It is downing its shutters this Monday - June 22, to reopen in one of ‘em dime-a-dozen malls in Vasant Kunj.

While this may not exactly be in the nature of a national calamity or bring the roof crashing down on my head, it does move me.

Quite a bit.

Since I associate TGIF, especially the one in Basant Lok, with very very fond, sloshed memories.

So while many people, including hubby dear, call it a commercially-hyped establishment, one where there is no VFM (Value For Money), where the red and white stripes only induce a dizzying effect (and the dim lights don’t help much either), and flagging a bartender makes flagging a cab down in a congested area a cakewalk – I still remain a staunch loyalist.

After all, how can I forget, among other things, it was TGIF that invented the Long Island Iced Tea and Loaded Potato Skins.

Besides coining that word which brings a smile to our lips – ‘Happy Hours!’

Who made all the rules about post-marriage mores?

In a world where marriages are the defining point in your life (and I don’t disagree with that), some people definitely get carried away with its very concept.

I speak with authority.

I am a bride of just over a fortnight.

Married to my beau of over two years, I take great pride in him and his family, who accept me the way I am – a spunky, light-hearted, twinkle-eyed, cheery bride, who still swears by her faded jeans, and who, even when she is in one of her many giggling spells, does not goof up her etiquette norms.

However the hunky-dory picture is marred by comments by acquaintances, sometimes colleagues, all of who have taken it as a matter of my personal impudence and effrontery by not following what they term ‘tradition.’

So I can just barely keep from biting their heads off when I hear comments to the tune of:

Where is your Mangalsutra*? You have one, right? Why don’t you wear it?

You should have at least worn the ‘Chudaa’** for a month. You took it off after a day!! Tut tut (incredulous stare)

Gawd! Doesn’t your husband object? Doesn’t he ASK you to wear them? I’m sure he WANTS you to.

Oooh. How do you step out of your house without Sindoor*** in your parting? (Horrified look)

And one of the most despicable–

You were born in the wrong country. Our country is still traditional (there you go, you have the word again), you know. Why are you such a rebel?

For someone who believes in keeping to herself, far, far away from the public eye; getting thrown pell-mell into the limelight (and not in a good way at that), these days are certainly not the most pleasant ones for her.

I fail to comprehend how people think that I love him less as compared to the average ‘Pati-vrata’**** new wifey who diligently goes out to her regular kitty-parties, bedecked in jewellery, flaunting all the ‘trappings’ of a married woman.

Add to that the aghast looks I get when I proclaim that stories are the only things I can cook, as compared to the more ‘traditional’ cooked fare, and you have all the trappings of my very own personal episode of ‘The Bad Bad Bride’ – Series 1.

Of course, it doesn’t help either that I am surgically inseparable from my (before marriage) garb. So you have the team of people who try to cajole me into wearing ethnic Indian attire to work. The pachyderm that I am, I snub them, refusing to give people the opportunity to double up with unrestrained glee at my expense, by dolling myself up like a previous year’s Christmas tree.

Too bad they wouldn’t get to see me attired in an atrociously-garish, Swarovski-laden something which closely resembles something the goldsmith would only be too happy to display in his stall at the jewellery souk.

Too bad that I can grin merrily, instead of barely being able to smile, for fear of creasing a pan-caked face - a face which has seen all the make-up items in my vanity case being made abundant use of. (Now my face is not sans-makeup, but at least you can see my skin...)

Too bad that instead of whispering coyly and shuffling feet in awkwardness, eyes down, I smirk and stare at them insolently.

Bring it on folks.

See if care!

* An auspicious thread or cord, usually made of a string of black beads on a gold chain
** A set of red and white bangles
*** Red powder (vermilion) applied at the beginning or completely along the parting-line of a married woman’s hair
**** A woman staunchly loyal to her husband

The apple of her father's (roving) eye

The little girl looked up adoringly at her father, as he hoisted her up onto his broad shoulders to afford her a better view of a marriage procession that trotted in accompaniment to the loud beats of a drum.

She stared wonder-eyed at all the beautifully-dressed people, as they danced gaily, with full abandon, on the streets.

A stray firecracker caused her to shudder involuntarily and blink rapidly. And even when the father gently put her down onto the ground, she clutched at his warm hand for reassurance, looking out trustingly at him from her doe-shaped eyes.

Just when you think this is going to be one of those misty-eyed-leaving- father-daughter-happy stories, a vile twist changes it all.

The father who wouldn’t probably have dreamt of hurting his princess, does the unthinkable.

The same hands that held her hands protectively, paw her private parts.

The same mouth that had mouthed bedtime stories to her, ravages her frail body.

The little girl, who would utter screams of delight when in the company of her father, now whimpers at the very sight of the monster, as he gratifies his insatiable lust with her as she, a reluctant tool, shudders while being drilled into by him. Pleasure is writ large over his crazed-by-perversion face.

The girl’s eyes that had once looked up trustingly into the man’s she once called father, looked with contemptuous pain, rage and shock, as he openly leered at her young body.

The trauma goes on.

Day after day.

In some places, the mother is a mute spectator (as in the Mumbai case), silenced by a so-called Man of God, who claims that the incestuous relationship would assure prosperity to the family, and in the bargain, got a fair share of plundering the little girl when the father was sated, over and done with her (till the next time he came to bed her); in other cases the mother was dead, or as in the Austrian dungeon case, had come to terms with her ‘missing daughter,’ oblivious to the fact that her traumatized daughter lay hidden, for over 24 years, in a basement in the family home itself. Where other kids of her age were playing with doll houses, she was being preyed upon by her biological father.

Who fathered seven children with her. Illegitimate children who would't know how to come to terms with their salacious father / grandfather who brought them into the world, and would be more than willing to chop him into little pieces and feed to the dogs.

What comes upon such men to do such dastardly, violating, puke-inducing, twisted, unforgivable acts?

And is there even a fitting punishment for such sick bastards?

The Have-Nose-Will-Dig Syndrome

A couple of days back, while TOOMA* and I were (im)patiently waiting for the traffic signal to turn green, we chanced to espy the woman sitting at the wheel of the car on our left.

With one dexterous finger, she wove in and out of her nose like the way a seasoned archaeologist spades in an excavation ground, convinced that his quest to unearth the highly sought after treasure chest was about to come to an end.

Except that instead of the mandatory applause and admiring looks, the lady in question got an amused look from TOOMA who proceeded to mock-ape her shovelling act, and an extended ‘Ewwww’ from me.

Such was the reaction her activity elicited.

She is not alone - probably joined by thousands who have absolutely no qualms in digging out those boogers from within their nose, in full view of anyone looking in their direction.

Talk about having no inhibitions.

In the midst of a pondering spell, they carelessly take out some ‘booty,’ play with it, and with the same kind of nonchalance, toss it. Talking over the phone, they lovingly scrape their itching noses. While sitting in the bus, they unselfconsciously do some serious digging action.

Oblivious to the gagging sounds you are making, and your saucer eyes that threaten to pop from their sockets any minute.

Do they think that their greenish-brown boogers (okay okay – I get the drift, let me not get into specifics here) are loose cannon balls that need to be hurled into the vicinity of two meters?

Or do they harbour a fondness for playing with the aforementioned slimy glob between their index finger and thumb?

Eitherwhichways, a loud, consistent ‘Blech’ is all that they get from me.

Tapping into science, I found that the term for digging up that loot from your nose using your fingers, is called rhinotillexis - people who do so compulsively are called rhinotillexomaniacs. The next line is ickier - there are some who actually, take it out from their nose, and uhmmm...put it into their mouths – mucophagy they call it. Are you retching yet?

And then you have the Austrian Doctor, Friedrich Bischinger, who strongly campaigns for mucophagy in children, declaring that doing so helps them in fortifying their immunity. *wrinkling nose*

I wonder what’s next – a socially-acceptable talent round of very very public farting and belching?

Or perhaps sneezing / depositng phlegm from a choked throat into other people’s dinner plates at snooty restaurants?

*TOOMA-The Object Of My Affection

Breathing down your neck

Akin to a dragon who is spewing orangey-ginger flames, almost singing your hair – such feels the breath of people who breathe down your neck. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

And boy! Isn’t it wildly annoying?!

Irrelevant of whether a boss does it to you, making you feel like the most-wanted-criminal-who-just-got-caught-and-must-now-be-escorted-to-the-gallows; or a nosy Parker who edges closer to you at a party to look down your ermm…twin assets; to the person elbowing you exasperatingly while you stand in line at a relatively-uncrowded multiplex to purchase tickets to the new flick that is playing – most of us have been there, i.e. been at the receiving end of such excruciating torture, an inordinate urge to skin, or better still, strangle the life out of that creep.

But we don’t.

Instead we shuffle our feet awkwardly, hoping the infuriating dolt gets the hint. Or give a sheepish, watery smile, and take two paces backwards, hoping he would follow suit. Fat chance! Even if you do move two spaces rearward, he would walk two spaces – FORWARD.

Making you grit your teeth in sheer frustration.

Quite some time back, I ticked-off a woman at work who would stand too close for comfort, almost breathing down my neck – making me feel extremely uncomfortable, and crotchety. Not only did she invade my personal space but she also brought me within arm’s length (pun intended) to that demon who can read one’s soul. So while she would talk to me with a soul-stare, I would shuffle my feet awkwardly, invoking all the Gods from above to bring the blessed conversation to an end.

The ticking-off went off worse than anticipated. She was clueless about the existence of such a phrase as ‘personal space.’ Accused me of being a mean, icy-hearted woman. And topped it all off with a teary-eyed outburst.

I ran as fast as my feet could.

It goes without saying that that was the last day she talked to me (and Thank God for that).

Wish life were as simple as ticking off a person.

At the unrivalled way I can tell off people, my life would definitely be the least bumpy.

(Un)happy hours

The world’s largest democracy was dealt a disgraceful slap, when just two days before its 60th Republic Day, a self-appointed moral brigade roughed up some patrons at a popular watering hole in Mangalore.

The audacity of the attack! Only women patrons were targeted.

So, besides henna, kohl, and bindis, Indian women were ‘blessed’ with another ornamental piece – the black-eye.

The group of 40 attackers, who claim affiliation to a fundamentalist, right-wing Hindu group, Sri Ram Sena, asserted that they had received complaints from the public, and were only protecting their ‘mothers and daughters,’ insisting that those beaten up, richly deserved so, indulging as they were in depraved activities, and going against our ‘rich heritage and culture.’

I belong to the same culture, and I’d like to know which of the Holy Scriptures instructs these so-called ‘God-men’ to mishandle woman and outrage their modesty.

Calling themselves keepers of religion and culture, these hooligans took the law into their hands, punching and pulling the hair of the unfortunate women. Emboldened by the fear that surrounds the victims, some of whom have received threatening calls, and playing upon the psyche of thousands others, they have also issued ultimatums for the approaching Valentine’s Day.

Quite a few glowing testimonials, you'd agree, won't you?

Misbehaviour is not unfamiliar with the Sena, which, last year, vandalised an exhibition of M.F. Husain’s paintings in New Delhi, besides targeting fashion shows, and ransacking and damaging the central office of a political party.

All the while, religion becomes a politicised issue, yet again. And politicians, they of the glib tongues, folded hands and handcrafted clothes, shake their heads in mock-disbelief, promising that the perpetrators would be seriously dealt with.

However, the next day will dawn bright and clear, and the very same politicos will fold their hands yet again, ascending the steps to another jet that will fly them into the welcome, beckoning arms of an alluring, foreign nation – one where they can ‘afford’ (at our expense) to forget all these trifling troubles.

My blood is boiling.

For crying out 'loud'

Since when is it ok to shout over your phone?

Continuing upon my (extensive) list of pet peeves is yet another – obnoxious people who will insist upon you hearing every gory detail about the lame-assed manager they have been cursed with, that erm..little problem that is affecting someone in THAT area, what they ate for dinner the previous night, what conversation they had with the hot neighbour, what you will. No matter how much you want to ignore them, you can't.

Their louder than louder voices ensure that each bit of their conversation faithfully breezes into your reluctant ears.

Leaving you looking like a mix between a flaming tomato and the exact crimson shade of the Persian rug that sits prettily in your aunt's sitting room. Smoke drifts out from your ears and nose, and you have woken up to the thrills of snorting like the stout buffalo from the Spanish matador's nightmare.

You decide that being a murderer is just not your style, and instead just concentrate on perfecting that that unbecoming scowl on your face.

You can't help but grin you teeth in annoyance when random people holler into their phones as if it is one of two cans held with a string, the kinds that children play with.

I wince each time they increase their decibel, wishing there was a tank or a pond nearby into which I could drown their phone, or better still, they.

While I am tempted to repeat their conversation word for word as they are in the middle of it, my gumption encourages me not to work upon that original plan. Instead I clear my throat impatiently, an abrupt cough rising to the occasion, raise my perfectly-arched eyebrow and give them a death-stare, the kind that always works well.

Except in this case, sometimes it doesn't, and those people who should probably have had silencers fitted into their throats in the first place, also need to invest in a pair of hearing-aids, since they are seemingly oblivious to my (loud) exaggerated cough / clearing my throat.

Which leaves me with the last option…

Now where did I leave my sturdy mahogany cane?

Blast from the past

Today morning, while walking to my colony gate where the office cab comes to pick me up faithfully everyday, I saw a group of children, dressed in all their finery, gathered around a house.

With yesterday and today being days for Kanjak, the Puja wherein pre-pubescent girls are ceremoniously worshipped, their feet washed, and they are offered sweets, gifts, and money, I wasn’t too surprised at the sight.

Smiling at them, I walked on.

And then there was a booming sound.

I froze dead in my tracks, my mind racing to the slew of bomb blasts that had the length and breadth of the country shivering in mute terror.

My first thought was of the children who were chattering excitedly among themselves.

Hoping for the best, fear writ large over my face, I swung around.

Where I saw a boy, aged no more than 10 years, circled by the admiring group of children, beams resplendent on their rosy cheeks.

Apparently, he had lit a firecracker, much to the delight of his friends.

An innocuous firecracker had succeeded in driving fear into the innermost chamber of my heart.

With the festival of lights - Diwali, fast approaching, I can't help but shudder thinking of the times when a firecracker would fizzle and then burst, causing nearby people to freeze in whatever they were doing, the dread of blasts uppermost in everyone’s minds. Chaos is inevitable, a stampede more than a possibility.

Or worse, in the eventuality of an actual blast, people might continue milling around, carrying on with their routine chores, misconstruing it for a display of loud pyrotechnics. Putting themselves and others in grave danger.

Both cases chill me to the very core…