Running in meandering lines along the street, next to lit up buildings and stray firecrackers.

Laughing, sometimes genuinely and other times in a fake hollow manner, amidst family and food. Hugging and grinning and being happy. In the end, the happy times drowned out the hollow voices.

Lying on the bed and watching the lights and lamps on nearby buildings flickering, casting long and mildly pretty shadows on us.

Coming home to a building with big blue lanterns and orange lights; a staircase with oil lamps and candles at every doorstep.

Then eventually giving in to sleep, with inexplicable dreams of bats, food and second degree burns, to the background of crackers and cheer. 

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.

The people here are looking like Christmas trees. There are post-festival celebrations and everyone possibly got hit by a glitter gun on their way here. Our desks are lined with marigold flowers which are crumbling and making an orange-yellow mess on my clothes.

One such Christmas tree wrapped in gold brocade came by to invite me for some “fun time” in the cafeteria. I wasn’t fooled by the loose use of the word fun. I said I’d be there just to get out of any conversation but the tree kept looking at me with big, unblinking eyes. I started to smile but then it dawned on me that there were some monetary requests coming my way. “Have you made your contribution for the fun event?” The tree asked me; her tone lacked cheer all of a sudden. “No, I didn’t know it was happening today.” She said “200 rupees” as a passing remark and walked away.

I got called in for a meeting and was mercifully spared of what I hear was “lots and lots of enjoyable items” Then I spent the rest of the day telling people the specifics of the meeting, hoping to convince them that there really was one. Turns out the tree had told everyone that it was because I didn’t want to spend money. While it wasn’t completely untrue, I didn’t want to deal with any more sparkling people who are known to pursue a topic till tears run down your guilt ridden cheeks.

The roads were empty. The sidewalks were cluttered with plastic bottles, paper cups, plates and other remains of last night's festivities. The swaying people had liquor on their breaths. They sang disconnected tunes, like broken music systems in old homes.

The immersion parties in trucks drove back into the warm morning light, chattering in delirium about the brilliant lights and the jarring music.

The elephant god, a city favourite, walked into the sea and swam back out with the tide.

He lay in the sand, now just another piece of garbage. The hype like all other things was washed away into the salty water. 

The festival lights are a throbbing  mess. Against the black night and the sleeping buildings, they bare their teeth; like a small-time, children's book demon. Through the drawn curtains of my room, they are making patterns on the walls. Lines that come and go and slowly make my head hurt.

The festival day is behind us. The people in their sunny clothes have left. The elephant God has fallen asleep. The food has been put away in air tight containers. The holiday has come to an end, as it always does.

At the end of everything, what remains is the sound of laughter that rings through the room - like a lost echo on the hillside.
By the time it fades, some wandering traveler comes by and screams again, doing almost everyone a disguised favour.