The calendar turns, the moon dips low into a velvet sky, and suddenly, the neighbourhood transforms into a war zone.
Somewhere down the street, a mortar screams upward and blooms into a deafening, concussive CRACK that rattles windowpanes and sets car alarms wailing. Across the living room, a golden retriever digs its trembling claws desperately into the couch cushions, panting in sheer, unadulterated terror. In the nursery, a six-month-old infant jerks awake, screaming, cortisol flooding a nervous system far too fragile to process the assault. Down the block, a combat veteran freezes, the sudden concussive blast instantly teleporting their mind back to the dust and terror of a roadside ambush.
And somewhere out there, people are smiling, shouting over the roar, and telling themselves they are celebrating.
I can’t answer for Guy Fawkes. History tells us that in 1605, a disgruntled Englishman tried to blow up Parliament with thirty-six barrels of gunpowder, failing miserably, which act sadly resulted in the curse of an eternal night of blazing effigies and a combustible spectacle of madness that possesses many, being forced on millions of victims across Britain, as if Guy’s ghost is still on an explosive rampage. (Why anyone would want to celebrate an attempt at mass murder by explosives, with explosives, is beyond understanding.) Fawkes may not shed any spectral tears over what his actions have caused.
But we aren’t in 17th-century London. And in many parts of the world today, the skies are set ablaze not for Fawkes, but in joyous reverence of Lakshmi—the Hindu goddess of light, abundance, wealth, and prosperity.
Yet, I am willing to bet a lifetime of good fortune that, unlike the murderous Fawkes perhaps, the goddess Lakshmi takes zero delight in this.
Think about her iconography. Lakshmi is serenity personified. She is depicted seated upon a pure lotus blossom, the universal symbol of rising above the muddy waters of chaos to find peace and purity. Gentle white elephants bathe her in cascading water. Golden coins slip effortlessly from her open, giving palm, symbolising generosity and sustenance. Her presence is meant to invite tranquility into the home—lighting a quiet, steady diya (oil lamp), sweeping the floors to welcome cleanliness, and opening doors for grace to enter.
Does a screaming, earth-shattering shell of flash-powder sound like her vibe?
It requires a profound disconnect to invoke the deity of light and peace by hurling explosives into the air that plunge households into panic. The irony is staggering. We celebrate the triumph of light over darkness by shrouding our cities in thick, toxic sulfur smoke. We celebrate prosperity by burning through millions of pounds in single-use munitions that litter the streets with plastic debris the next morning. We honour the sacredness of life by terrifying the most vulnerable among us into states of cardiac arrest.
Ask any shelter worker who spends 4th July, Guy Fawkes Night, Diwali or New Year’s Eve sitting on a concrete floor, holding a shivering, panic-stricken stray dog. Ask any parent of a neurodivergent child whose sensory processing system is sent into meltdown by hours of unpredictable sonic booms. Ask any wildlife rehabilitator who finds disoriented birds fallen dead from the sky, having slammed into buildings in blind terror.
None of them are feeling blessed.
Celebration does not require decibels. Joy does not need to register on the Richter scale. The most profound moments in human history—and the deepest spiritual connections—have almost always been quiet. They happen in the soft glow of a candle, the shared warmth of a meal, the quiet hum of a prayer, or the breathtaking stillness of a star-filled sky.
Guy Fawkes got his gunpowder. But Lakshmi deserves better. She is the mother of abundance, not the patron saint of tinnitus. If we truly wish to invite prosperity and light into our lives, perhaps the best offering we can make is a little bit of peace, a little bit of mindfulness, and a night where the only thing shaking is the gentle flicker of a flame.
