The faint wisp of pale smoke would curl through the top hole in our covered tin can like a weak, wavering genie, as we sucked in our breaths, impatiently waiting for the big blast. Across our mixed neighbourhoods in the villages of South Georgetown, a series of satisfying booms would echo from the small pebbles of cheap white ‘carbon’ that were soundly spat on, well shaken and then lit by jostling groups of excited children, coughing from the smog and the sharp smell of the chemical reaction.
During the hectic Hindu festival of Deepavali and in the busy weeks leading up to the next big holiday of Christmas, the city streets turned restless, hazy and noisy as we screamed over our homemade carbon “bombs” ignited in recycled cans or fresh pieces of bamboo. At night, the displays proved spectacular, when we lit easy homemade fireworks in swirling showers of glowing steel wool carefully stuck to a piece of wire, cut from a converted clothes hanger, sneaked from the musty family closet.
Gripping the empty end, we would take turns spinning the plain wads over our heads, as if our lives depended on it, knowing that we did not have much time before the flimsy filaments flared and faded. Wayward pieces occasionally dislodged, indiscriminately singeing hair and bare skin, and leaving tell-tale black holes in our precious clothing.
