Now our political leaders have a habit of saying all the right things at all the right times, without me-aning half of what they say, of course. But the gist of his appeal bothered me. I looked at the little kids next door, clapping and shouting as yet another anar lit up the surroundings. I thought about the pe-ople in another part of the country whose lives have been plunged into darkness. Those who won't have anything to celebrate. For a long, long ti-me tocome. The rescue workers mi-ght succeed in getting some aid across to the lucky ones, the administration might help rebuild the devastated ci-ties and townships. But the deaths, the sufferings, the irreparable losses...

"Happy Diwali. Aren't you celebrating?" my ever-smiling landlady had asked just some time back. I wondered what there was to celebrate. The loss, the pain, the deaths? As I had wondered when the day before I was mailing Diwali greetings to my friends. It's a custom, I had argued, trying to convince my rebellious conscience. A way of life.

Now observing the gaiety, the cheers and the lig-hts, my conscience seemed to be mocking me. A way of life, where a national calamity, thousands of deaths and miles of devastation fail to disturb our usual rhythms? A custom that compels us to blow up lakhs of rupees on crackers when thousands of our fellow human beings move around like animals crying for food and shelter? Have we become so insensitive?

I looked at the kids next door again, this timebusy with phooljhadis. Those hardly-10-year-olds here in Chandigarh wouldn't know about the cyclone. They might not even know where Orissa is. My eyes fell on the parents standing next to them, more crackers in their hands, broad smiles on their faces.What about them? Have we really become so insensitive?

My mind kept drifting. A year back. I was in Ah-medabad then. We were having a party that night, when sudden showers brought much-needed relief on the hot sultry night. As we rushed out to welcome it, little did we know what we were greeting. We never knew till we walked into the office the next day.

Our "much-needed relief" had turned into a nightmare for many. News had started trickling in by then. Death, devastation, and more deaths. A cyclone had hit Kandla. The photographs, as the photographer sat gloating over his prized clicks a few days later, showed heaps and heaps of bodies vaguely resembling the human species, so distorted and decomposed they were. "The whole place was full of stench... Milesand miles..." The reporter on a four-day tour to the area was visibly shaken, as we sat there listening to him. "To likhona. Yaar, that is the story. Thank God, it happened, at least for some time we don't have to bother about filling up the pages." We all turned to look at the speaker. The colleague returned our stare nonchalantly. Have we become so insensitive? I had thought then.

As I thought now, turning my head to look at another neighbour's house. Two cars screeched to a halt, as people rushed at each other with huge boxes (of sweets and crackers, I guessed bitterly) and the usual Diwali greetings. A rocket went up, briefly lighting up the place. More lights this side. The kids were dancing around a chakri now. I remembered the front page headline in one of the newspapers some days back Orissa cries for more aid.