In India, we seem to have invested in a motto reminiscent of ‘Faster, Higher, Stronger’ of the Olympics when it comes to celebrating our festivals. Each year, everything in connection with our many, many festivals gets bigger, showier, noisier, and more colourful. It doesn’t matter which community you belong to or which part of the country you come from. You could be a Keralite living in Bihar, a Bengali living in Karnataka or a Gujarati living in Odisha. You will still find groups of your own ‘kind’ getting together for Onam, Durga Puja, Navratri and other occasions for an extravaganza of prayer, ritual, decoration, music, song and dance.
And with the creation of new states in the country, suddenly small local festivals that were not heard of earlier get the spotlight and are promoted in a big way. Perhaps to celebrate getting noticed at last, perhaps as a rallying point for ‘state’ fervour – and another day is added to the already long list of holidays we enjoy.
I don’t remember so much happening so often in the past. And definitely not on such a large scale. We had friends from across the spectrum of community, state, religion, economic status and language preference. We found our friends in school and college; we bonded because of similar interests — and that was it. It was only when we visited our friends’ homes that we got an inkling of the traditions they followed there. And we threw ourselves into them with enthusiasm – enjoying being with their families and learning how differences can bind just as strongly as similarities do. Festivals were for families and a few friends in those days.
Feeling of happiness
With the population boom, it is (I suppose) only natural that ‘friends and families’ overflowed from individual homes and one had to take recourse to community centres. But we didn’t notice that change because for decades we lived in small towns where small gatherings were still possible. Then, suddenly, we were back in a city — and the upsurge caught us by surprise. What had happened to those ‘homely’ little parties in our house or the neighbour’s backyard, when we lit a bonfire or a few fireworks, told a couple of stories, sang songs and got back home with a warm fuzzy feeling of happiness at sharing food and festivity with loved ones?
There was no more of that closeness. Now, way in advance, someone in the neighbourhood forms a committee and volunteers come calling to collect money for celebrations on the horizon. Unless you are a part of that committee, no one asks you your preferences. The programme has already been decided: And you can bet it is going to begin some days before the actual festival and carry on for some days after. There will be flowers, there will be brilliant lights going on and off, changing colour and form and making you go cross-eyed in confusion. And most of all there will be loudspeakers blaring out music, guaranteed to deafen you. It doesn’t matter that the rules say you have to shut down the noise by 10 pm. By that time your ears are already ringing and you are not likely to get to sleep for another couple of hours. Then, on the big day itself, you totter off to the neighbourhood venue. You’re already tired from the pre-festivities, but you put on a happy face, sure you’re going to have a good time and bond with friends and neighbours as you did long ago.
But where are those friends and neighbours? In the crowd, you cannot locate any familiar faces. And so, you wind your way home again wondering whether bigger, showier, noisier, and more colourful is really better.
Cheryl Rao is a journalist based in India.
