Big Bang Theory

Considering his boss has just ordered him to teach me the ropes, his attitude is justified.

The first shed I’m taken to is a crucial step in the production. A combination of explosive chemicals (potassium nitrate, barium nitrate, sulphur) and aluminium powder are packed into cardboard tubes, varying in size, depending on whether it is an oosi vadi (the smallest cracker)—the cylindrical tubes are almost as thin as a needle, hence oosi—or the bigger cylindrical ones used for the beautiful aerial displays. An old man, M Karuppiah, and three ladies are already at work. They look up in shock when they are told why I’m here.

‘‘This will be difficult for her,’’ Karuppiah tells the manager in a scathing tone. ‘‘Of course, if the boss said so then I suppose we can help her,’’ he says sulkily. The women giggle. Rather offended, I sit down on the floor that’s generously coated with black chemical powder, determined to prove I am not helpless. One of the women, with a smirk on her face, passes on a tube filled with aluminium powder (which produces the sound in fireworks). I pick up a small cup of explosive pellets and pour them into the tube. I handle it rather gingerly and place it on a tray. The tube promptly falls down spilling the contents. At that moment, the manager suddenly remembers to warn my photographer not to use the flash (the heat from the flash might cause combustion). Images of recent fire accidents flash across my aghast mind. As if sensing my fear, Sendu, a worker with 14 years of experience, who had condescended to help me, looks at me mockingly: ‘‘It doesn’t matter. Nothing will happen.’’

After a few fills and more spills, I am ushered out of the shed. The manager’s pace quickens. He seems eager to take me to the other sheds. Here, flowerpots are being finished, colourful labels pasted on to them. The cylindrical tubes are packed, three each, into cardboard boxes. There’s even a shed devoted entirely to piercing the wick into the cylindrical tubes. The manager is happiest when he leads me to the ‘tube’ room, where cardboard tubes of various sizes are made. This is a strictly non-explosives section and located some yards away from the other sheds.

After being cold-shouldered by the other workers, Vasanthakumari, the supervisor here, appears eager to let me try my hand in her section. I soon understand why. The job is so simple, even a three-year-old could do it. I just have to press a lever.

‘‘You were not too bad. You will pick up the skill in a week’s time,’’ the manager tells me later. And I smile for the first time that day. As I quickly bend to jot down his remark on my notebook, I catch him surreptitiously remove a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and wipe his brow. Hurt, I look the other way.