Dangerous Diwali

To properly explain the epic nature of my first Diwali, I will have to tell this Tarantino-style and start with the end.

My Diwali ended with me crouching in the street, huffing and puffing the tears away while my friends and a few random others crowded around to get a look at my hand, in which I had just exploded a firecracker. 

Yup. A firecracker. In my hand. Blood blisters and everything.

That's right folks. So now's you know. When a polite Welshman offers you a bomb and a cigarette to light it with, it ends badly. Be warned. Never trust a British accent.

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Diwali is the festival of lights in India, their biggest holiday of the year to celebrate Lord Rama's homecoming. Imagine the 4th of July on amphetamines. Everyone in Delhi – all 13 million people – are stocked up on rockets, grenades, poppers, crackers and everything else that goes 'bang'.

So we had to get involved. 

The party that night was on the terrace, some apartment that has become party central for the human rights lawyers I now associate with. It had a perfect 360-degree view of the sky exploding around all of us. For maybe an hour I just sat and stared at the sky as it slowly became more and more thick with smoke and pollution until the fireworks were glowing in the smog. But, romantic smog nonetheless.

The party went off as most parties do. The lawyers and NGOers dancing and twirling about, the journalists turning it into a photo shoot. And while I should not discuss in great detail everything that goes on in these Delhi parties, I can say this - Gangnam Style happened. Chocolate cake fights happened. Bottle rockets happened. 

And it wasn't until we were one our way home – Saads, me, and the guys – the evening really became a proper Delhi story. One where I can now say, "Hey, have you ever thought it was a good idea to play with dodgy Indian fireworks?" and that's all one can ask for… a good story.