Lead, Kindly Light

One of my oldest memories is that of lamp-light. Golden, warm, a perception of infinity. India gets incandescent again this week with the Festival of Lights, celebrating the return of the victorious Ram to Ayodhya and light itself becomes a metaphor for the triumph of good over evil.

The Deepavalis of my childhood in Malabar were impressions of sumptuous brilliance; a festive tumult of radiance which defined the shape and borders of everything around. Millions of lamps which flickered in a night devoid of electricity designed night's tapestry; defining trees, terraces, walls, rooftops and patios as the landscape itself became a divine chiaroscuro.

I was born in an old house that stood in the middle of paddy fields which was an eternally sibilant green sea. There was no electricity in that village. The first light of dusk was the lamp which was always lit by the women of the house; a big five-tongued nilavilakku which announced the advent of the night. It was placed in the middle of the doorway, its brightness keeping the shadows at bay like a mystic sentinel. What was visible during the day disappeared into the folds of the night transforming all forms into unrecognisable mystery.

Later, when electricity came and wooden poles were put in the courtyard, an electrician-it was a new career those days-came from the town to hang bulbs on the rafters where the lanterns used to swing from. My grandfather went searching in the attic for the Belgian glass chandeliers he had brought back from the Great War, but found that they had been broken in transit.

But along with the advantages of electricity, like refrigeration and air-conditioning, I also discovered that one's perception of the night itself had begun to change. Textures acquired a reality they did not possess at night, which had lost a lot of its mystery. The moonlight was no longer a source of enchantment, and the sky had begun to acquire a lightness, a fluorescent evaporation from the myriad lights of the distant town. And for the first time, people began to use strings of coloured electric bulbs for Deepavali. It was more, well, modern. Then, designer candles came into vogue, tastefully packed and carrying names of retired filmstars. And now, at last, the little earthen lamps have returned too, redesignated as ethnic light.

Lamps change, as light remains constant. But what gets transmuted irrevocably is darkness and its mysteries. And to many, Deepavali has become an urban legend of light accompanied by whisky and kebabs.

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