As the din of Dahi Handi Janamashtami — when youths form human pyramids to break suspended vessels of Krishna’s favourite, curd — rises in Mumbai, Ganeshas of every size parade across Chowpatty beach. Tall 10-headed Ravanas in pink and purple finery and hooped skirts brandish swords at cheering crowds on maidans, while the streets of Old Delhi turn into a place of gastronomic delight with the break of Ramzan. The rhythmic claps and percussion of the dandiya in Ahmedabad resonate in the conch-blowing at Kolkata’s Durga Puja pandals. It all culminates in the coloured patterns and sparkles of Diwali that bring the night sky down to earth.
This pageant of gods, ceremonies and processions takes place not in isolation but in succession, and sometimes simultaneously, in the spaces that make up our cities.
Ask any Indian how many festivals are celebrated every year, and the answer will range from a sheepish smile/raised eyebrow/shrug to any number from 16 to 150. Despite the divisions of caste, religion and class, the crowd has not withdrawn to the comfort of the living room. Unlike cricket matches and Republic Day parades, people prefer to experience these festivities in person. The pro-urban demographic shift have turned festivals from foci of religious fervour into community events.
As a melting pot, the city consumes in order to grow and recreate. During celebrations, however, Indian cities are themselves devoured. The roads clog with crowds, the sky darkens with firecracker smoke, the sea and rivers choke with immersed idols, and open spaces are littered with debris and waste from all the festivities. People die in toppled human pyramids, in stampedes or while chasing kites on rooftops. Emergency services are few and stretched; ambulances are immobilised by the mass celebration. One might forgivingly call these things the ‘collateral damage’ of traditional behaviour, or the result of a lack of civic sense — but one cannot dismiss them.
Unlike the Commonwealth Games that require traffic drills and mandatory holidays, these mass events happen every year. Why is it that our cities cannot accommodate them, and simply collapse? Why is the city not an active participant, rather than a passive martyr?
We need to re-examine the social needs of the urban-dweller, who wants to belong and to commune. The festival then becomes means and excuse. Yet the multiple parallel tracks of urban life demand that one festival not hold up everything else: work, shopping, recreation.
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Imagine, then, that maidans or stadiums are used for Pongal and Eid celebrations; that fairgrounds and expo centres are given over to dancing during the Navratras and Teej; that local parks accommodate Ramlila and Lohri; that bazaars, retail plazas and atriums serve on Rakshabandhan and Dhanteras; that the open space around monuments is opened for Karva Chauth and Onam; that streets have extra-wide sidewalks for alpanas and rangoli. These are all under- or ill-used spaces. Using them in this way will help turn festivals from family or community events into larger ones that celebrate all the values the occasions stand for.
Special transport facilities for commuters, public conveniences and even security can be enabled; pedestrian corridors can be created; signage, lighting and retail can reflect events. This will add a bounce to the city’s step, enrich the city and encourage trade and tourism.
Indian cities would then acquire the palpable electricity of the Carnival in Rio de Janeiro, Mardi Gras in New Orleans, the Chinese New Year in Hong Kong or the Seville Fest in Spain. New exchanges will allow all levels of our traditionally stratified society to rub shoulders. New festivals may come into being, involving dance, drama, art, music, design, ecology and food.
The possibilities are endless — if the city and its authorities treat each festival as a mediation and not a collision between the city and its citizens.
[Suparna Bhalla is a Delhi-based architect]