A blast from the past and blistered bottoms

Gaston de ROSAYRO

We are well into the first week of the New Year. With the season of jollity behind us our ears still resound to the thunder of firecrackers. I am not referring to the echoes from the bangs of the recent seasonal celebrations either.

But by the sound of things it seems evident that some people are still bent on prolonging the holiday bash with a deafening blast. Sri Lankans love to blast off with firecrackers any time of the year. They ensure they get the biggest bang for their bucks and that is why they prefer the loudest explosives. They make sure that celebrating any occasion calls for a blaster's ticket to generate bedlam in a sleeping neighbourhood while sending pets into a howling, stressful frenzy.

I for one will certainly never forget a painful blast from the past which weaned me off fireworks for good but nonetheless made me the hero of the day. I was in my early twenties then and enjoying a drink at a seasonal bash. The host's home had been completely refurbished with spanking new furniture, lace curtains and all.

The women folk were chatting inside the sitting and dining area. The little ones were mostly sprawled on carpets busily occupied in some parlour games.

It was a peaceful setting complemented with good food and drink. There was merriment and laughter everywhere.

I was sitting on the balcony clinking glasses with several friends and the party was in full swing. Looking out at the starlit sky it seemed as if everything was all quiet on the northern Colombo front. Someone was pointing out a falling star and as I glanced skywards I observed a sky-rocket come hurtling in my direction. The confounded fire-spitting projectile came careering only a foot or so over my head and was heading unerringly into the house.

Had the flame-sputtering missile followed its course there would have been no saying what damage and chaos it might have caused. But at that very moment I instinctively stretched my left hand out and impeded its progress. But the blasted missile kept whooshing and thrusting while spitting sparks into my palm.

For what seemed an interminable time it became a contest of push and counter push.

This freaky fiery shaft appeared to have more zap and staying power than any of its whizzing, whistling peers which usually zip 15 seconds into the air and then explode in a showery cascade of colourful embers.

Everyone looked on helpless as my soft palm pushed against the forceful thrust of the equally determined fiery serpent.

It whooshed and I pushed and I dared not swipe it away through fear of causing damage to my face or risking the danger of it entering the house.

Fortunately for me when it went off with an ear-splitting explosion it must have been a few centimetres away from my resisting palm which was now partially black and blistered. With its spent shell lying dormant but still spewing acrid smoke I was mobbed by the host and other guests. My split-second reaction to impede the rocket's progress was purely instinctive impulse. I did not believe there was anything heroic about it because I had hardly time to think.

But the best part of the drama was being surrounded by a bevy of vivacious damsels whose solicitous ministering would have constrained any young buck to have done it all over again. The emergency medical team was admirably efficient. My blistered palm was given the cold water and cold gauze compress treatment with tender loving care.

Then it was time for the party fireworks where our friend Patrick, nicknamed Patsy, took over operations as the Master Blaster. Now Patsy certainly did know about fireworks but he obviously did not know a darn thing about firework safety. And he forgot to remember the cardinal rules. Number one is never indulge in lighting up fireworks when you are already 'lit up.' Firewater and fireworks can make an explosive cocktail.

After setting off his bottle rockets, roman candles, and those things that fly into the air and shoot sparks - and for some reason always flew directly at your head - he would prepare his grand finale. From his box of tricks he would produce a small red cylinder with a fuse attached that he referred to as an 'M-100,'which later I would learn was basically a rocket with what seemed a quarter stick of dynamite.

Typically when setting off these beasts, Patrick would light the suspiciously short fuse and flee. But this one was stubborn and did not even go off after the fuse appeared to have burned all the way down. And where there should have been an earth-shattering quake nothing happened.

Patsy inched his way closer to the red cylinder deeming the area safe. Unsatisfied with his grand finale, he stood over the now useless firework and debated whether he should try lighting another one.

The danger had passed so he foolishly let down his guard and naturally, it was right around this time that the dormant dynamite decided to come to life.

Then came the 'Whoopsie Daisy' of the Day when a booming blowup and spreading flame set off all the fireworks simultaneously. The opening volley was a series of fast and furious deafening bangs and flashes. You could have called it a grand finale all in one. It was a real time-saver, if you ask me!

The burst was accompanied by a large flame which seared his bottom and the side of his head. Someone held a garden hose to quench the flames licking at the seat of his pants. Blinking his eyes and rubbing them for good measure, he staggered around a while and then ran his fingers over his face.

Astoundingly there was no evidence of burns. His face was unscathed and his eyesight seemed okay. It was only after he had bathed his face that we noticed that one half of it was devoid of both eyebrows and lashes.

The seat of his pants was burnt and his buttocks scorched. Patsy then ran for his life as the attractive volunteer medical emergency team approached. However soothing their tender ministrations and cold compress may have felt there was no way Patsy was going to expose his blistered bottom to a gaggle of giggling girls.

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