What rubbish!

I hate Diwali. It is not because this is the first year without my mother, who always observed certain rituals that I knew and looked for even if I was not speaking to her. It is not because of the noise – which, mercifully, was rather less noisy this year! And it is not because of the gratuitous expenditure and the conspicuous consumption, since I am as capitalist and shopaholic as any. But I hate the day after the event, truly. I drove out of the gate of my apartment building yesterday morning, after two days away from work, and found the road totally and plushly carpeted in leftovers from the frenzy of firecracker bursting of the days before. There were sanitation department (or whatever it may be called here) workers diligently sweeping up, piling up the waste paper and burned fuses in a huge heap in one corner, while the dump truck collected it slowly from all down the street. I honked gently at one, as she stretched her broom out to snag some rubbish that was floating lazily down the fast lane and saw her face as I drove past – tired, bored, deprived, joyless.

And the crew was back this morning, after a prolonged blast of firecrackers last night, too. They had already accumulated teetering lots of debris in corners, and were sweeping up more from under cars, along gutters and around trees. Tomorrow morning, after Id is done celebrated, will there be more for them to clean up? And what do they get in return? Apart from a little baksheesh from every building - which is obliged to give, or else their garbage will not be collected for weeks afterwards – do they find a little pourboire in their pay packets at this time of year, or do they have to beg for it? But that is what they know and always do, isn’t it?

Indian festivals are startlingly messy affairs. There is always rubbish to clean up, especially when there is a communal celebration, and the aftermath is not just repellent, but wasteful as well. Consider Holi – it starts a few days before the actual date, and walking even just out of the apartment block is fraught with all kinds of peril. I have been hit by water bombs from the terrace nine floors above, I have been sprayed with coloured water from behind cars parked in our compound and I have been fogged by clouds of coloured powders that settled brightly and burningly into my clothes and sinuses and, worst of all, ears. And for days after Holi morning, which is a manic orgy of colour, water, paint and bhang, the roads are tinged with unnatural shades of red, pink, green and blue, stray dogs wear coats that could be Joseph’s and people have strangely tinted parts – ears, toes, scalps and fingernails.

Navratri is neater, but only in a manner of speaking. There are wilting and rotting flowers from pandals and home pujas thrown into running waters – the creek, the sea, even sewage canals – there are bamboo frames bridging over roads and blocking gateways and, over it all, there is the miasma of plant decay, spoiled milk and un-drying clothes. By the end of the nine-day festival, ears are ringing with the tinny electronic drone of dandiya music and tempers are running high with a lack of sleep and temporary deafness.

In spite of it all, there is a joy that comes from celebration. There is the food, the family togetherness, the bonding with friends and neighbours and a special feeling of virtue in excess. Does that balance the negatives? I think so!