Pushed along on a wooden cart are rows and rows of shimmering lanterns.

They’re made with the paper that loud gifts get wrapped in. The morning sun lights them up and they trot along, like spoilt little brats at a party. The festivities are everywhere. There are heaps of flowers lining alleys and streets and women walking by with marigold garlands wrapped in newspaper. In their homes, they tuck it away in the fridge to keep them fresh. The next day, they will hang it on their doors and cars, standing on quivering stools on their toes. A couple of days later, a few flowers will leap only to be crushed under the foot of a sprightly child returning from cricket or a disgruntled maid who has to clean up the post festival mess.

There are fairy lights covering trees. Houses have lights in their windows, blinking in their epilepsy inducing glory. They form shapes and figures and cling onto newly cleaned grills to call out to passers-by. It’s a call for joy and attention.

In the midst of plates of sweets and dry fruits, are children stuffing their faces. Their mothers pat their backs encouraging them to eat more until they can’t move for a while. Ten years later, they waddle around, still unable to move.