Issue 7 - May 2008 - Prose
Festival of Lights by Anurag Chatrath
Episode One - Pehli Kisht: Row of Lights... It was as though an impromptu battle had just been waged. Aryan put his hands into his trouser pockets and looked down at the pavement - everywhere there were small scraps of paper, of all tints and hues. He glanced sideways and saw the entire street coated with remnants of firecrackers, chakris, and anaars – the vestiges of a not-as-yet completed night of religious revelry and relentless merriment.
He took a tissue from his pocket; it felt wet and soggy even before he wiped away the sweat running down his temple. After Aryan folded it, he looked up towards the window and wondered if Rachna and Raghav were still having dinner. As if to answer his question, the kitchen bulb was switched off. They shouldn’t have - at least not tonight.
“On Diwali night, we should always leave all the lights on,” Aryan’s mother used to tell him, “How else will Lakshmi-jee find our house?”
Dad would chip in, “Of course, the Goddess of wealth is dying to enter our home, right?”
“Aryan, don’t listen to your father. It’s important that you understand our traditions.”
“He just needs to work hard when he grows up. And wealth will automatically come into the house. All this light-shight will not help,” Aryan’s dad said and waited for mother’s inevitable riposte.
Aryan smiled as he remembered how, that day also, mother got in the last word. He walked a few steps to the left and looked up again; the white pane of Raghav and Rachna’s bedroom window stood out in the natural inkiness of the moon-less night. But then it wasn’t dark tonight - rows and rows of candles, diyas, and in recent years, strings of bulbs, illuminated every wall, window, and ledge.
He looked at the methodically-arranged row of candles on that bedroom windowsill and could make out a few gaps - some of those little pearls of fire had burnt out, or been put out by the wind. He counted them – there were thirteen. Aryan took a deep breath and couldn’t help inhaling the pungent air. Tonight, it was like being in a large open-air, yet completely smoke-filled, bar. And just like the cigarette stench of a pub never seems to go away even long after one has left, this overbearing smell of firecrackers would also stick - like a bad memory. A breeze blew through the street and the candles wavered and another one got extinguished.
A group of boys, with two large polythene bags, came out onto the street from the house next door. They looked around and Aryan could sense their disappointment on seeing him - tonight they wanted the whole street to themselves. One of them placed an empty bottle on the road and then lit a tiny rocket. It whooshed up in the sky with a trail of sparks following it and when it burst, a colourful umbrella of sparkling diamonds opened in slow motion. The embers slowly disappeared as they gracefully bowed to the force of gravity – a scintillating curtain of pearls snowing down. In the distance, another rocket exploded like a sparkling bud opening up and then another one. These sprouting flowers and magic umbrellas lit up the entire sky tonight.
Aryan looked up towards the window - he saw movement. Rachna? No. It was Raghav who was holding something in his hands; he stopped admiring it for a moment and Aryan was careful not to move even though Raghav wasn’t looking down on the street but had craned his neck towards the sky. Tonight, the heavens were like the green images one saw of Baghdad being bombed. But there were far too many bangs and firecrackers going off in the firmament tonight. And unlike in those green images, these noisy pops were about joy and togetherness.
Aryan’s mother used to tell him, “Diwali is the festival of joy. You should always spend it with family, and the people you love.”
That was exactly what Aryan was trying to do.
Was it a bottle in Raghav’s hand? Shit. A red, hopefully, and not a white. It was with Aryan that Rachna had started drinking the whites - those unpronounceable French or Chilean names. Aryan would order one, and as the waiter would bring a glass to taste, he would, with the demeanour of an accomplished wine-taster, smell it, shake the glass gently, take a sip and then smile to the waiter, “Yes, it has a certain lightness to it. I like it. We’ll have it.” Rachna knew Aryan couldn’t differentiate between a good wine and grape juice but he always performed the whole routine. He had done it to impress her on their first dinner out. But that night, as soon as the waiter had gone out of earshot, Aryan confessed to her that he knew nothing about wines. It was there and then that Cupid’s arrow hit its mark even before Dionysus could spirit up her passions.
Please God let it not be a white.
In the distance, the boys ran to one side of the road. And then the ladis, a succession of countless little bombs, started their ceaseless machine-gun rat-tat-tat. Did this set have five thousand or ten thousand crackers? Everything else seemed to be relegated as the entire street resonated with the light and dissonance of those small bangs one after the other.
Whooooosh. Another rocket went up and this time the boys clapped loudly. They followed it up by lighting an anaar - the whishing sound mounted in intensity as the fountain of lights flashed the illusion of daylight. Aryan could even see the colours of the cars and the kids’ shirts. The houses on the street suddenly seemed to be clothed in pale phosphorescence as the pulsating shadows cast themselves onto the walls. Aryan, like everyone else, wondered if there was a bang at the end of this anaar. As the fountain became smaller and smaller, he tightened his grip on the tissue paper but the explosion never came. “Saala, phus ho gaya,” came a disappointed voice from one of the boys.
The boys decided to get back to rocketeering, which seemed to be their forte. As the next one ascended into the darkness, followed by sparkling embers lighting up its path, Aryan heard Rachna’s voice, "Which is the softest part of my body?” Aryan screwed his eyebrows together when he recalled the time she had posed this tantalizing query.
“Let me go by empirical evidence and tell you," he had said, his lips brushing against her cheek. There, cuddled up with her, he came up with that grandiose statement. She tapped his forehead and said, “You know I love you because of what you have in there. Anyway, you still haven’t answered my question.”
Her voice still resonated in his head as a car passed on the street. Wasn’t it unsafe? He remembered reading last Diwali about an accident where a vehicle had caught fire on Mahatma Gandhi road and exploded. Much like in the movies, the Times of India had said. This car, though, was going slowly - the occupants probably looking for an address - with everything irradiated with candles and the necklaces of small bulbs, it was easy to lose one’s sense of perspective. Despite the rumbling of the bombs and the whooshes of the rockets, Aryan could hear the music from the car. He couldn’t make out the song being played but at least it wasn’t Feels like a woman or Someone like you.
Fortunately, the car did not stop to ask him for directions - he was in no mood for magnanimity anyway nor did he want to catch sight of happy expectant faces wearing starched Kurtas or multi-coloured sarees on their way to distribute mithai. To their ‘loved’ ones.
After the car turned round the corner, Aryan looked up again - Rachna had also come near the window and was standing withRaghav. They were both looking at the sky, his hands on her shoulders. Aryan could make out the large earrings, the bindi on Rachna’s forehead, and the kaajal - those eyes looked even more slender whenever she smiled - Aryan used to always try and make out if the narrowing of her eyes preceded or trailed her lingering smile. The last time they were together, he had kissed her smiling lips starting from one end and worked his way right through to the tip of its curve. If only that divine moment would come back - Aryan now tugged in his trousers and sighed. Tonight, she looked as beautiful as the day when he had first been introduced to her at a mutual friend’s party. They had got talking and afterwards, when he dropped her home, sat with her in the car outside her house, exactly where he was standing now, and talked till the morning light overwhelmed the dark sky.
Raghav pointed out something to her. As she was looking for it, her eyes drifted from the sky onto the street in Aryan’s direction. She didn’t flinch but continued to peer through the darkness - Aryan knew that she was requiting his stare.
Raghav walked away from the window, but Rachna remained there. She tied her hair back and looked towards the sky again. As she reached out to draw the curtains, Aryan was convinced she smiled at him.
She still loves me.
Aryan stood there, his hands still tugging in his trouser pockets. Her voice came to him again, “So what do you think is the softest part of my body?”
A few minutes later, the police car pulled into the street.
Episode Two -- the wine... He looked towards Rachel, “To be honest, I’m glad they cancelled the street party. It would’ve been a real mess tonight,” he said.
“I know, and I’m tired too,” She picked up the plates and walked towards the sink.
“How ’bout a bottle of wine then?” Roger said, emptying the remnants of a bowl into the bin.
“Aye OK. I’ll have a wee glass”
“White or Red?” He winked.
“What do you think?”
He smiled as he opened the fridge and took out a bottle. Then, picking up two glasses as well, he went into the bedroom. On entering the room, he, as always looked at their photo on the dresser - it was taken, when they had first met while on a 13-day tour of the Gobi. “Imagine the odds of bumping into a fellow Scot in Mongolia,” she used to always remind him. In the photo, he had a large blue backpack on his broad shoulders and she sported a del on her delicate frame.
He put the glasses on the bed (he’ll remove them before she enters the room) and, with the bottle in his hand, walked towards the window. From behind the clouds, the moon occasionally peeked out like a child tentatively peering its face from behind her mother’s skirt. As the little one’s radiant, round face came into view, Roger could make out the wet cobbled street and the colours of the cars – red, grey and even an effulgent green. Then, as the moon hid again, everything was cloaked in darkness once more.
Through the chimneys, the spindly antennas and the mist, the faint outline of Arthur’s Seat was just about discernible, but the tabletop of the Crags seemed more dominant even though it was much lower. He looked at his watch; the fireworks would start in another twenty minutes. The news had said that because of the rain, there’d be fewer this Hogmanay.
The street below looked deserted, except for a group of boys who were braving the rain and chatting on the pavement. Some young men passed them, shouting and singing - Roger couldn’t identify the song. One of them ran towards a garbage bin, toppled it and raised his fists in the air as if he had scored against a formidable opposition. Another arrived next to him and both of them held hands and started dancing. The others laughed loudly, their guffaws somehow sounding crisper in the wet air. Roger sniggered as he saw their green and white striped sweatshirts.
“Hon, come and see this,” he said and put the bottle on the table.
“What?” asked Rachel as she walked into the room.
“Quickly.”
She came and stood by the window; Roger moved behind her and wrapped his arms around her. She let her head rest on his chest and purred a “What?”
“See that?”
“Where?”
“Near the traffic light.”
“Hmm…silly how alcohol is a necessary part of celebration. Speaking of which, where is the wine someone promised me?” she said as she turned her head towards him and raised her eyebrows a couple of times.
He responded with a kiss on her neck.
As her eyes wandered onto the other side of the street, she stiffened.
“What happened?” he asked without looking up, his eyes and lips still focused on the base of her neck.
“Nothin’” She freed herself from his embrace, opened her hair, ran her fingers through it and then tied it into a knot. All this while her eyes pivoted on the street - behind the van. Her chest moved upwards as she took a deep breath.
“It’s him again, eh?”
“Yes. I think so. Really fed up of all this.” She could feel a pair of eyes staring back at her - the figure in the dark did not move. She looked away.
“Don’t you think it’s time we called the police?” he said.
“But what do we say? He hasn’t done anything.”
“He’s stalking you for fuck’s sake. You want to wait till he rapes or kills you?
“Rog!”
“Hon, we’ve to be careful of this pig,” he said, lowering his voice.
“But we know who he is. I told you I met him once. At Gillian’s party. He seemed like a normal enough guy.”
“Normal? Bullshit. I’m calling the police,” he said as he walked away.
“Fine.” She drew the curtains and followed him.
Episode Three - Di San Ji: The Year of the Pig... (Opening Music)
Peggy: “This is HKTV… I am Peggy Cheung"
David: “…And I am David Lee. Welcome to the 8 O’clock News coming to you live from our studios in Hong Kong.”
Peggy: “Our main stories this morning: The New Year is here. Two Thousand and Seven, the Year of the Pig was ushered in yesterday as thousands of revellers lined the harbour for a dazzling display of fireworks.”
David: “In other headlines, a man was arrested late last night on Argyle Street in Mongkok. Authorities picked him up after a tip-off from a resident. It is suspected that the arrested man might be responsible for the gruesome murders of four women in the same area. According to police sources, he had also been arrested last year for indecent exposure in public. More on the developing story as we get it.”
Peggy: “And there’s some good news for wine lovers. Latest research results released by the Department of Biology at The Chinese University of Hong Kong confirm what oenophiles have known all along - a glass of white every day is also good for the heart.”
David: “I would say ‘cheers’ to that. But coming back to our main story for the day. Kung Hei Fat Choi. Happy New Year to all of you. The fireworks keep getting better every year. And despite the rain, this year was no exception. Jonathan Tao reports on the spectacular display that took place at the harbour last night…”