Though I grew up in a town with over 100 temples, each competing to make the most noise during the festive seasons, I have always been afraid of fireworks. My neighbourhood temple, Kanankulangara in Tripunithura, had relatively modest fireworks in those day, but even that used to send me hiding under the cot, with my eyes shut tight. Now, even this temple boasts of earth-shaking fireworks. For as long as I can remember, temples like Maradu and Puthiyakavu, five or six km away, would shake the foundations of my house when they held their displays. Fortunately, the main temple of Tripunithura, housing the deity Purnathrayeesa, held no fireworks for its long festival; legend says the deity abhorred them. Instead, it featured exquisite arts and the classical Panchavadyam and Thayambaka drumming orchestras for its long festival season. While I enjoy percussion, I was always moved by the plight of the gentle giants, chained for almost 24 hours for nine long days. These elephants were subjected to continuous torture—standing in blistering heat amid the cacophony of festive crowds with drums blaring in full gusto—and my heart always went out to them.
When I moved to Thrissur for my engineering degree, I avoided the days of the famous Thrissur Pooram, despite its rich cultural extravaganza. The festival features some of the country’s greatest pyrotechnic displays, with two competing temples spending a fortune to create the loudest possible noise. The heat is unbearable, and the crowds are uncontrollable and frenzied. It looks spectacular on screen, as the screen doesn’t capture the heat, the rancidity of saltpetre, the pungent scent of wet elephant dung, mixed with the body odour of many hundreds of thousands of people, jostling in a small area, many of them in an inebriated condition. Noise levels during the fireworks resemble more a medieval battle scene, with cannons booming all around. It is a miracle and a tribute to the engineering skills that the temple and many buildings around it are still standing after being subjected to such carpet bombing pyrotechnics. The town prides itself not on the beauty of the pyrotechnics, but on the concussive, atomic-level force of the blasts. A highly competitive culture, rivalling that of South Indian film star fan associations, fuels this frenzy year after year. With the state’s growing economic stature and crass commercialisation of the festival, the decibels have only risen. Recently, the Nenmara Vallangi Vela in Palakkad went viral globally; the mushroom cloud formed by its fireworks would put the explosions over Hiroshima and Nagasaki to shame. I fail to understand the pleasure derived from this destructive spectacle. It is as if people are ashamed of Kerala’s relatively low AQI and want to experience Delhi air in the pristine villages of this emerald slice of land.
Arts like Kathakali, Ottamthullal, Carnatic music, Mohiniyattam, and Koodiyattam take a backseat to this celebration of sound and fury. When festivals become a business rather than an act of devotion and social gatherings, disasters are inevitable. India lacks the will to implement the regulations that exist on paper. Sivakasi in Tamil Nadu, the hub of the fireworks cottage industry, frequently sees fatal accidents that barely make the headlines. Locally in Kerala, temples often commission custom-made fireworks in addition to what they bring from Sivakasi. This April, an explosion at a workshop creating crackers for Thrissur Pooram killed 13 people. Two weeks prior, an explosion at an unlicensed factory in Sivakasi claimed 26 lives.
Globally, pyrotechnics is an art form executed with safety features, electronically controlled triggers, and computer-designed displays. In many places, drone shows have replaced fireworks, ensuring safety and minimal human intervention. In India, however, labour is cheap, and human life is cheaper. Nothing—neither devotion, culture, nor law—stands a chance against the desire to show off and the commerce involved in all these. This crude display of hubris leads to disasters, killing the poorest workers who earn a subsistence wage manufacturing these explosives. Temple elephants often go on a rampage in various festivals in temples and churches of central Kerala, taking many lives.
The torture elephants endure in these temples is beyond description. Anyone not intoxicated by the thrill of pyromania can recognise that these high-decibel, country-made explosives are enough to cause a heart attack to man or beast. Imagine the plight of a chained elephant, which possesses hearing significantly more acute than ours. They are forced to stand for hours in the hot sun before a screaming crowd, jiving to the rhythm of a hundred drums. If there is a hell for elephants, it is the festival grounds of Kerala, where they are chained like slaves with not an ounce of sympathy. It is time this madness ends. No one is asking to stop the beautiful Panchavadyam or Thayambaka orchestras, but why must elephants be involved? There is nothing in Hindu scripture that mandates their presence. The claim that elephant usage is an immutable ancient ritual holds little water when scrutinised against historical timelines or scriptures; much of the current pageantry was solidified during the colonial era or expanded recently for profit. If our ancestors were capable of constructing monumental cities and intricate temples without reliance on deafening blasts or animal exploitation, why are we failing to preserve a spiritually fulfilling atmosphere today? We honour deities associated with Shiva, Krishna, Devi, and Rama, and claim to be a culture that sees divinity in every river, mountain, bird and beast, yet we show utter disdain for the very creatures often linked to these symbols. Meaningful and kind alternatives are available if we only choose to see them. Many temples in Kerala already operate without them, and we should pivot to robotic elephants or chariots. We need strict laws to free these animals—once the battle tanks of royalty, now obsolete—from being chained for festivals. Finally, there must be a cap on fireworks spending, with strict requirements for modern safety standards and electronic triggers. Otherwise, the commercialism driving these festivals will continue to expand in its vulgarity, claiming more lives in the process.
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