Another lazy Sunday evening in Bangalore, the place that is now home. We were watching ‘Queen’ for the umpteenth time when power went off. The curtains were not drawn, it was pitch dark for a moment. Lights came back almost instantly, rest of the family promptly went back to Rani and her drunken antics. Not me, I had travelled miles by then. More than six hundred kilometers away. Where the moon throws her silver anklets into the river and she smiles coyly in return, flowing gracefully, like the languorous moves of a Mohiniyattam dancer.
Is it when you cannot have something anymore, that you yearn for it endlessly? In moments of ecstatic happiness and soul breaking sadness, I go home. In my mind and spirit. To Kavalam, to those days that are gone forever. The house wears a forlorn look, like that of a mother who longs for her kids who are far away. My home, where I go in search for my soul as it keeps wandering back. It just refuses to let go.
Our grandfather must have longed to be a school teacher. That’s how he built his home, one long line of rooms, with an endless veranda that went around. With doors in the front and back and endless windows. Not the tiniest bit of sunlight nor the gentlest breeze could escape, they went in and out the whole day. Nights were special. And those hours of power cuts, official and unofficial. One tiny candle shedding its light in the sitting room, we would all gather on the veranda, one of us would be walking up and down the yard. Talking about nothing in particular, or something serious.
And those silences in between. They came creeping in with the sound of the crickets, gently wafting in with the aroma of tender mango flowers. The rustle of the coconut leaves and the thud of falling mangoes now and then, the scary howl of wind and an owl here and there, sometimes the satisfied grunt of the cows from their shed as they stirred in their half sleep, those were the lullabies that would lead us into half stupor. It was on one of those evenings that darkness totally engulfed me.
The night was pitch dark, unusual even for a village where the only public lights were those blinking ones mounted on a tree trunk. The leaves were still, the river lay placid. Even the fishermen were silent, their boats just floating along, the oars gliding smoothly through the water. Going through a particularly difficult time in life, the darkness was seeping into my soul as well. As I lay supine on the thatched mat, my eyes slowly drifted beyond the yard. From the silhouettes of the trees, up above the coconut trees, searching for some light within and out, my glance turned, as though guided by a divine force, to a group of trees that grew up together and were the best of friends even in their old age. One tiny light among the branches, it slowly spread and split into hundreds and then thousands, as if the stars that went hiding from the sky that night had come down to meet me. To lift me up, to show me the path, to remind me that even a tiny star can give solace to a wounded soul.
And that it is in our darkest hours that we see the magic of fireflies.
picture courtesy : fireflyexperience.org