PATTY: Attention! Attention everyone! Settle down! I would like to announce that we have a new addition to the group. Remember how hard it was on your first day at PAA to confront your addiction, so please give our new member a warm welcome and listen to her with open minds and hearts.
EMMA stands up in her chair, biting her lip as she stares at the sallow faces wilting under the harsh fluorescence, the slumped bodies in battered plastic chairs, the crumbling walls of Pyro-Addicts Anonymous. Squaring her shoulders with the last shred of dignity she has left, she takes a jagged breath and begins to speak.
EMMA: It is official. There is no way I can deny it any more… My name is Emma Latham and I am a pyromaniac in need of salvation.
GROUP (in unison): Welcome Emma!
PATTY: Emma. You have taken a big step just by coming here. Why don’t you tell us a bit more about where this all began?
EMMA: Ever since I could remember I have been addicted—I was a little girl with a love for fire. Back then it was just matchsticks and candles. I was able to control myself, keep my infatuation hidden from my family and friends. I didn’t get into the hard stuff until I came to India.
PATTY: Hmm… Tell us more about what happened in India.
EMMA: It all started when I met my host family. The first night I was eager to make a good impression, nervous meeting my new brother and sister, so I let my guard down. I was expecting some awkward silences, some laughing at my patchwork Hindi, and a delicious welcome feast but nothing more. So, when my new bhai Deep took my hand and led me to the roof, yelling “Dekie! Dekie! Muje pas crackers aur bombs hai!” (Look! Look! I have crackers and bombs!!), I just wasn’t prepared. The next hour was spent giggling and running as we lit firecrackers and hurled them into the street, basking in the exhilarating rush as they exploded with a bang and sinking into the dismal lows when yet another dud fizzled out with a sigh.
And it didn’t end there… the next night, 50 rupees in hand, we ran to the closest cracker-wala and bought even more, our mouths watering over the rows and rows of dangerous potential. We bought volcanoes that sent a bouquet of sparks whizzing through dark, spinners that spewed dazzling sparks as they whirled, tiny bombs that detonated with a terrifying roar, rockets that—
PATTY: Stop! Stop! Please tell me that was it!
Emma looks at her feet, her eyes recounting unspeakable stories of pyromatic hedonism. Around her, the PAA members sit enthralled in their seats, hungering for more.
EMMA: That was only the beginning and I am quickly losing control. This week is Diwali, the Hindu festival of lights celebrating the return of Rama. The story originates from the Ramayan, an ancient epic recounting the tales of the Rama as he is banished from his kingdom, fights a demon with his army of monkeys, (and more stuff in between). To celebrate, the streets of Benares are strewn with millions of twinkling lights and dancing flames of terracotta dias, the ground decorated with the intricate designs of the ramgoli—blooming flowers and swirling silhouettes made of colored sand. And of course, fire crackers.
So tonight, yet again, I found myself back in the cracker store.
“Okay Emma,” I said to myself. “It’s a holiday… Its Diwali! You have to buy crackers. But restrain yourself! You will only spend 200 rupees.”
I don’t really remember what happened next—everything is a hazy blur of 500 rupee bills and glinting gold packages. But the next thing I can recall is finding a brimming bag of hundreds of firecrackers in my room and an empty wallet. After that happened, I came her as fast as I could. Everything has gone so quickly out of control. What should I do?
A door slams and EMMA is jerked out of her reverie. The room is empty, chairs abandoned on the floor, bags and coats forgotten. Lying on the floor is a scrawled note: “After hearing your tantalizing stories, we just couldn’t resist. Happy Diwali, our fellow pyro!”
An American In Benares 