Around the world in eighty words

Okay, I lied.

This is not about the world you learnt about in geography class; rather, this is about the world I inhabit.

It is a smaller world; its latitudes and longitudes are defined by what I live through, both in India and here; and what I read about in newspapers and Web sites and books and in the dozens of chatty, informative emails that stream into the mailbox here on a daily basis.

And -- lie number two -- this is not going to be 80 words, either; my late father, and my occasionally exasperated editor, have time and again told me I am so verbose, I can't even say 'Good morning' in 80 words.

Having said that, welcome to my world.

What were you guys doing on July 4?

Here in New York, I walked the length of 34th Street, from my home between 8th and 9th Avenues, to the East River-front on 1st Avenue, to check out the Macy's Fireworks Display.

It was supposed to begin at 8; two hours before that time, the cordoned-off area between 1st and 3rd Avenues had already begun to fill up.

You had singles moving around, chatting up other singles and making friends; families camped on blankets spread on the road, picnicking on snacks and cold beer; courting couples schmoozing and dozens of police everywhere, frisking people at the barricades before letting them into the viewing area, patrolling the perimeters, perching on high rooftops complete with sniper rifles...

It was one giant outdoor picnic -- and its collective spirit seemed intact even as 8pm came, and went, without so much as a damp squib, never mind a fireworks display.

The actual display began 45 minutes behind schedule; some six barges strung out along the river unloosed their pyrotechnics while the crowd ooh-ed and aah-ed. Last year, I had missed the display thanks to work; this year, I caught the whole half-hour show -- and in strictly aesthetic terms, I was disappointed.

The display alternated between rockets that went up and exploded in mushrooms of red, white and blue, and others that burst into filigree patterns -- and that was pretty much that.

I couldn't help comparing it -- unfavourably -- with the pyrotechnics on show at Thrissur, in Kerala, during the annual Pooram festival.

The three-day Pooram festival concludes with the pyrotechnic display. Essentially, what they do is in the huge open space between the two temples in the middle of Thrissur town, they erect bamboo poles in concentric circles. An endless chain of firecrackers made of palm leaves is strung on those poles, in one unbroken line.

Below these, at evenly spaced intervals, are placed the rockets; essentially, hollowed out coconut shells that master craftsmen have worked on, to create magic.

At the appointed hour, one end of the firecracker chain is lit with great ceremony. From then on it is automatic. As they burst, the sparks fall into the coconut shells placed below, igniting their contents; rainbow-coloured rockets race into the skies, exploding in multiple layers, each explosion producing a different figure until soon the sky is one giant canvas against which a colourful pageant is being played out.

Days before the festival, the cops go around the city, warning pregnant women and people with heart problems to get out of town for the duration. The first time I witnessed the festival, I realised why -- the show, which lasts well over an hour, is as deafening as it is visually spectacular; for hours after it is over, your ears ring with the echoes of those explosions.

It is a pulse-pounding, breath-taking celebration the Macy's fireworks show doesn't even come close to equalling. And yet, as I watched, I felt wistful.

It was not about the rockets going up along the East River, frankly. The show was about the people who had come to watch. While the fireworks exploded above them, the crowd -- comprising, seemingly, half of New York and most of the surrounding neighbourhoods -- cranked up the volume on its boom boxes, got together in groups, applauded, sang, danced. It was one spontaneous, joyous coming together.

I found myself thinking. When did we ever celebrate August 15 with half this spirit?

From experience, Independence Day for us has meant just one thing -- a scheduled break from the workaday week (and, in the years when it fell on a Saturday or Sunday, grist for the grumble mill, with people sighing about the 'lost' holiday).

Typically, the biggest crowds, the evening before I-Day, are outside liquor shops as people stock up in anticipation of the 'dry' day to follow. The day itself begins with a sigh of relief -- ah, no need to go to work today. A leisurely breakfast later, the children are off to play cricket in the streets and the father has settled before the TV -- more often than not carefully skirting the news channels that air repeated clips of 'I-Day being celebrated with unparalleled fervour' in various parts of the country, and see if they can find some good movie to watch while the more 'provident' among us make sure to book bootleg CDs of the latest Hindi films days ahead of time.

Meanwhile, the nation 'officially' celebrates. Unfortunate schoolchildren are, by official fiat, expected to turn up and stand in line, under the blazing sun, while some dignitary or the other unfurls the flag, makes a speech the kids neither listen to nor can understand, and then everyone goes home. If the kids are lucky, they get a toffee after the speechifying is over; the less fortunate get a headache from standing around in the sun.

Meanwhile, the bigwigs -- our President and prime minister and chief ministers and assorted other ministers, parliamentarians, state assembly members et al -- find various platforms to spout from to captive audiences who assemble out of a sense of duty; the speeches are recycled versions of those delivered in previous years (at times, even the lines, and the 'clever' quotations, are the same).

Nowhere, on this day, do you sense the joy you would expect from a young nation celebrating its birthday. Nowhere do you find people spilling out on to the streets in spontaneous celebration. Nowhere do you see people coming together, strangers united by the occasion, getting together for some communal fun.

It makes me wonder -- a nation that attained independence in 1776 celebrates its 227th anniversary with undiminished joy; another nation, whose leaders talk ad infinitum of nationalism, and patriotism, and pride, and suchlike high-toned ideals, stays at home.

Isn't there something wrong with this picture? What do you think? Write me, at prem@us.rediff.com

On my way out the door, a few quick takes on what this blog, of sorts, is all about.

It is, firstly, about creating a platform for exchanging thoughts and ideas -- and having some fun while we are about it.

It is not about 'I talk, you listen' -- I am, in fact, hoping that as it picks up tempo, this will become an arena for lively, and wide-based, discussion involving readers all over (or, to put it another way, I'm hoping that in time, you guys will do all the work while I sit back and have fun reading and, just occasionally, chipping in).

It is split, for convenience, into this general section, plus subsections on the three things I most enjoy -- cricket, books, and movies. Not all sections will be updated every day, but barring weekends, one or more categories will certainly feature new content every 24 hours, so do check back.

And finally, just so I don't mix things all up, be great if you could in the subject matter of your emails indicate which of these sections you are mailing about. The email address, again, is prem@us.rediff.com