As the crackers exploded with a thunderous sound causing sparks to fly far and wide, the smoke emanating from it, rose thick into the air. Peering through the smoke, I was transported far away, into another world - a child’s world…

Dressed in our best attire after a steaming oil bath, there we stood atop a hillock to usher in the festival of lights in the early hours of dawn. From the distant line of houses of the plantation workers, flashes of light lit up the surrounding darkness, followed by deafening sounds of explosives, shattering the peace and heralding the day. Frightened out of their wits, the shrill clucking of hens from the hencoop mixed with the frightened yelping of the dogs rose from the backyard.

The preparations for the big day had begun at least a fortnight earlier. The workmen had been all about the place and had departed, leaving the house looking quaint with its new coat of paint, the windows, dainty with the floral curtains and the floors scrubbed clean. From the outhouse behind, trails of the most delicious smells used to tickle our nostrils when we returned from school – murukkus, rose cookies, kalkals, laddus, mysore pak, mixture and cake baked in a crude oven placed on a tray of sand over a hearth. All to appease the Goddess of wealth and prosperity! And finally the day had arrived…

As we stood soaking in delight over the sparkling lights and explosions around, mother’s call from the kitchen would have us hurrying down, for the prayers and to the breakfast table where a sumptuous spread awaited us - hot steaming idlis and crisp dosas with a variety of chutneys and spicy mutton curry. The joy and happiness as the excited chatter of uncles, aunts and cousins rented the air remains etched in my mind.

School was fun though not the early morning waking up. The quick breakfast, the sleepy rides in the bus that picked us up first, the long journey through winding roads before we reached school, and the tiring journey back, all vivid, as if it were yesterday. Not to forget the long practices leading to sports days where even a single trophy equaled an Olympic award, the cookery classes where we dished out the fanciest dishes and the stitching classes where we were taught all kinds of stitches, ending in a smocked baby dress.

The fun-filled holidays spent reading classics, playing rounders, taking part in friendly sports competitions in the sprawling fields, fishing in the streams , playing catch catch, cooking food in milkmaid tins and serving on little leaves, watching a movie out in the open or scorching others with rubber seeds rubbed hot against the ground. The thrill of the most awaited outing which took us to town, to shop for festival clothes and the bookshop where we were drawn to the Enid Blyton series, for all of which even now “my heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains, my sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk…”

Ah, for those good old days!