A Church fest that didn't happen saved children from Thrissur firecracker unit blast

Hours before a deadly blast ripped through the firecracker units at Mundathikode on Tuesday, Satheesan, the licensee for Thiruvambady Devaswom's fireworks, had happily chatted with Fr. Sobin, the vicar of St. John the Evangelist Church in Kottakulam. The tragedy struck on a day that was meant to bring the village together. The church was set to celebrate the first festival after its recent renovation. Satheesan had prepared fireworks for the celebration as well.

“He had come to ask about the festival and had sponsored firecrackers worth ₹1 lakh. We are saddened that the celebrations didn’t happen as expected and the festival was limited to mere rituals. But what is more painful is the loss of so many lives, including people we knew,”  Fr. Sobin said. Satheesan, who suffered severe burns in the explosion has been put on ventilator. 

Even the church was not spared, sustaining minor damage from the shockwave. At an Anganwadi about 400 metres away from the blast zone, worker K Malathi and helper KV Girija had a narrow escape. “We had just locked up and stepped out when it felt like a jolt ran through our legs. We couldn’t even decide which way to run. For a few seconds, we just stood there. The air quickly filled with smoke,” they said.

They also pointed out how narrowly a larger tragedy had been avoided. “Usually, four or five small children from our Anganwadi walk back home along that narrow path near the unit. But because of a church festival, they didn’t come yesterday. If they had, they would have been right there during the blast. We cannot imagine the rest,” Malathy said.

The Anganwadi building itself suffered damage, with a door and window broken. 

In Mundathikode, where life once revolved around fields, festivals and familiar routines, the silence now feels heavy. Conversations trail off into memories of that single afternoon. The smell of explosives still lingers in the air. The images refuse to fade. For survivors like Subhadra Kottayil, the questions are simple yet haunting. “We were just working happily like any other day. How did everything end like this?” she asked. 

The first thing she remembers is the sound - a deafening, earth-splitting roar that seemed to rise from beneath her feet and tear through the sky in the same instant.

At 68, she had just managed to get up slowly after hours of sitting on the ground, working with explosive chemicals under the harsh afternoon sun. Around her, it was business as usual inside the fireworks unit at Mundathikode, a place that, for years, had quietly powered the grand pyrotechnics of the famed Thrissur Pooram organised by Thiruvambady Devaswom.

Minutes later, it turned into a scene of devastation that this small village is still struggling to comprehend.

A routine afternoon turns catastrophic
It was around 3.25 pm on Tuesday. Nearly 40 workers were spread across a two-acre patch in the middle of the Kuttan Kulam paddy fields, sitting in small groups and preparing different components of fireworks.

Subhadra, along with others, had been working on fuse wires, carefully mixing explosive powder and chemicals by hand. It was meticulous, risky work, but deeply familiar.

Despite the dangers, there was an ease to the afternoon. Workers chatted, sang folk songs, and laughed. Crews from various TV news channels had visited earlier in the day, capturing their preparations for the upcoming Pooram.

Before the blast, Subhadra’s group had spread the finished fuses out on the ground to dry in the sun and decided to pause for tea. That pause may have saved their lives.

“I had just stood up,” Subhadra said, seated now at the sit-out of her home, her voice still unsteady. “Suddenly there was a huge explosion. It felt like an earthquake. For a few seconds, we didn’t know what was happening,” she told Onmanorama.

Then came the realisation and followed by panic. “Someone shouted that it was a blast. Everyone started running and I ran with my sister,” she said.

As she fled, something heavy struck her head, in fact something that was thrown up in the air due to the force of the explosion, came down and landed on her head. “I don’t know what it was but I fell down. There was thick smoke everywhere, and crackers were bursting one after another. I somehow got up and ran again toward the open field. By the time I reached safety, my head was bleeding badly and I needed three stitches,” she said.

Behind her, the unit had already turned into an inferno.

The fire spread rapidly, engulfing sheds that stored large quantities of fireworks. Explosions followed in quick succession, each more powerful than the last. Bodies were torn apart and flung across the fields.

A lifetime of work ends in seconds
Velayudhan Vettikattil (65), another member of the same group, is still trying to process what he witnessed.

“I want to tell you everything, but my mind is not steady yet,” he said, his words slow and fragmented. “A ‘Kuzhiminnal’ exploded right where I was sitting. It happened in a second and I ran out of fear. I ran toward the north. While I was running, another explosion happened just about 50 metres behind me. That sound… it’s still inside my head,” he said.

Velayudhan has worked at the unit for nearly 20 years, starting during the time of the current licensee Satheesan’s father Mani. However, he had never seen anything remotely similar.

“In that chaos, I left everything, including my cycle, purse, and my phone. That doesn’t matter. What hurts is how we lost our people. I don’t think I can ever go back to that work. I will have to find something else for livelihood,” he added.

A village runs toward disaster
For residents living nearby, the blasts were as terrifying as they were confusing. Kananayikkal Thoma Francis, who lives about 400 metres from the unit, was asleep when the first explosion hit. 

“There was a huge sound and our windows shattered. We thought it was an earthquake. When we came out, we saw thick white smoke rising. Then came the loud cries. People were shouting ‘Chathichallo Daivame’ and running toward the fields. We also ran,” he said.

But what awaited them was beyond anything they had imagined. “The entire area was filled with smoke. There was a strong smell of explosives and burning flesh. Explosions kept happening continuously. Even though the police, fire force and ambulances reached quickly, no one could go near,” Francis said.

It was only around 6 pm, nearly three hours later, that the blasts subsided enough for people to approach. “What we saw then… it was unbearable,” he said.

They found bodies or what remained of them, scattered across the fields. “We found severely burnt people about 300 metres away. That means they were thrown that far by the blast. We took them to the hospital, but none survived,” he said.

Others who escaped with critical burns stumbled toward nearby houses. “Their bodies were completely black. Skin was peeling off,” Francis said.

Shockwaves felt kilometres away
The force of the explosion rippled far beyond the immediate vicinity. Kottayil Sukumaran, who lives nearly 2 km away, initially mistook the first blast for a routine firecracker test, something the unit did regularly.

“But when the second explosion came, we knew something was wrong,” he said. “There were three major blasts. The shockwave damaged houses even 3 km away. My doors and windows were damaged.”

Closer to the site, the destruction was even more severe. Sudhakaran Thachangot, whose house lies about 600 metres away with a clear line of sight to the unit, described a terrifying moment.

“I saw a huge fireball coming toward my house. The sound was so loud that, being a heart patient, I thought I might die from the shock itself,” he said.

His home bore the brunt of the blast. “Windows shattered, walls bulged, doors broke. The ash from the blast and chemicals covered our house. For some time, we didn’t even understand what had happened,” he added.

Trauma that lingers
For many, the physical damage is only part of the story. The psychological impact runs deeper. KK Nalini, who was making beedis at home, said the experience left her shaken.

“I felt like I couldn’t breathe. It was as if I was falling. The house shook like it was collapsing. Even now, when I close my eyes, that sound comes back and hits my chest,” she said.

Children carry the fear
For children in Mundathikode, the memory of the blast has been equally disturbing. Nirmal Krishna, a Class 6 student, was at home when it happened. “Glass pieces from the broken window fell on my brother’s face and injured him. We usually play near the fields. Yesterday we stayed at home. Stones fell exactly where we play,” he said.

Parents say the trauma is visible. Elzeena Francis, who has lived in the village for over four decades, said the firecracker unit had always been part of their lives. “We never felt unsafe before. But now, we cannot forget that sound,” she said.

Her son, Stebin Francis, said his children are still struggling. “They are very scared. They haven’t been eating properly. They may need counselling,” he said.