<p>People celebrated festivals with great jubilance and panache in the past. The preparations kicked off weeks in advance with the entire house getting a makeover. Elders got their act together by cleaning, shopping, and churning out assorted sweets and savouries in the kitchen. They took care to keep the goodies--tucked away in tall tin boxes--out of reach of children. </p>.<p>The festival days saw the courtyard washed clean with cow-dung and adorned with eye-catching rangolis. Fresh mango buntings spruced up the doorway. The non-Hindu festivals saw our Muslim and Christian brethren reciprocate our gesture.</p>.<p>The Pongal or the harvest festival was my favourite for two reasons --it coincided with my birthday, and it was a time when sugarcane was available in plenty. I loved to chew on the juicy cubes or drink the sweet juice with a dash of lime. The sweet Pongal--a delicious south Indian dish made with rice, moong lentils, ghee, jaggery or sugar, cardamoms and nuts--was something to die for.</p>.<p>The word environment pollution did not exist in our lexicon back then, and the Deepavali or the festival of lights saw the kids strut their stuff and plunge headlong into celebrations by exploding crackers. We were trigger happy, aiming our little toy guns, loaded with roller caps, at our neighbours a la James Bond. The innovative among us manufactured low-intensity bombs made of gunpowder which when loaded into a metal container and banged hard on to the ground with the aid of an iron pole created a deafening blast, strong enough to scare the living daylights out of the faint-hearted.</p>.<p>The nights turned magical with lit diyas and splendorous fireworks. Many homes had a niche in the wall near the gate to house the oil lamps. Neighbours competed to out bomb each other. The festival lasted three days, and the D-Day culminated with the bursting of a 5000 wala, which witnessed frightened passersby freeze in their tracks.</p>.<p>I recall how a lady who lived nearby and had spent her years as a youth in war-torn Germany, remained bolted indoors during Deepavali; ears plugged with cotton buds. The ear-shattering sounds of firecrackers startled her and reminded her of the horrific days of WWII when German towns and cities came under Allied air raids. But her adamant teenage son hardly spared a thought for her travails and cheerfully went about firing on all cylinders!</p>.<p>The vibrancy, colour and joy of the festivals permeated every aspect of life, and the bonhomie that existed then among people from all communities is sadly absent today.</p>
<p>People celebrated festivals with great jubilance and panache in the past. The preparations kicked off weeks in advance with the entire house getting a makeover. Elders got their act together by cleaning, shopping, and churning out assorted sweets and savouries in the kitchen. They took care to keep the goodies--tucked away in tall tin boxes--out of reach of children. </p>.<p>The festival days saw the courtyard washed clean with cow-dung and adorned with eye-catching rangolis. Fresh mango buntings spruced up the doorway. The non-Hindu festivals saw our Muslim and Christian brethren reciprocate our gesture.</p>.<p>The Pongal or the harvest festival was my favourite for two reasons --it coincided with my birthday, and it was a time when sugarcane was available in plenty. I loved to chew on the juicy cubes or drink the sweet juice with a dash of lime. The sweet Pongal--a delicious south Indian dish made with rice, moong lentils, ghee, jaggery or sugar, cardamoms and nuts--was something to die for.</p>.<p>The word environment pollution did not exist in our lexicon back then, and the Deepavali or the festival of lights saw the kids strut their stuff and plunge headlong into celebrations by exploding crackers. We were trigger happy, aiming our little toy guns, loaded with roller caps, at our neighbours a la James Bond. The innovative among us manufactured low-intensity bombs made of gunpowder which when loaded into a metal container and banged hard on to the ground with the aid of an iron pole created a deafening blast, strong enough to scare the living daylights out of the faint-hearted.</p>.<p>The nights turned magical with lit diyas and splendorous fireworks. Many homes had a niche in the wall near the gate to house the oil lamps. Neighbours competed to out bomb each other. The festival lasted three days, and the D-Day culminated with the bursting of a 5000 wala, which witnessed frightened passersby freeze in their tracks.</p>.<p>I recall how a lady who lived nearby and had spent her years as a youth in war-torn Germany, remained bolted indoors during Deepavali; ears plugged with cotton buds. The ear-shattering sounds of firecrackers startled her and reminded her of the horrific days of WWII when German towns and cities came under Allied air raids. But her adamant teenage son hardly spared a thought for her travails and cheerfully went about firing on all cylinders!</p>.<p>The vibrancy, colour and joy of the festivals permeated every aspect of life, and the bonhomie that existed then among people from all communities is sadly absent today.</p>