When the dark-blue ink stained brush was dipped on the dusk sky, when the silhouettes of bats and owls flew across the sky - we knew darkness had arrived. Evening crept through the veins of the coconut leaves,brushing against the leaves and so, our courage withered. Evenings came with the inevitable load-shedding. And who didn’t know that in the darkness, the ones who sat by the path leading to the pond- their feet were turned backwards.  Near the attic, a shadowy figure slithered away swiftly. And a  hushed whisper concealed the droning buzz of the crickets. On the way from the verandah to the kitchen, the sound of a muffled cry or a twisted laughter pierced the quiet silence. A single word was enough to burst the bubble of our bravery: load-shedding!

When I try to write about my childhood, load-sheddings sneak in invariably. Like the light of the soot covered lantern flickering through the railings - the moments after the load-shedding appear in my memory with a shiver. Growing up in a village in West Bengal in the ‘00s, load-sheddings were a daily occurrence. Were my childhood not woven in such light and darkness everyday, I never would’ve realised in my mid-20s that it is darkness that gives birth to light. And load-sheddings gave birth to countless memories. As the youngest member in a joint family, it was without doubt that a little too much love was bestowed upon me.  In the dim light of the lantern I sat with my brothers and sisters on the long veranda beside the yard, listening to our aunts telling stories. Sometimes it was the stories of Umno-Jhumno or Ekanore or at times the tales of our neighbours chased by ghosts.  Though it may sound absurd now, in that sombre light we believed these stories to be absolutely  true. I shuddered, trying to look beyond the yard on the left. It felt as if I saw an other-worldly being standing with one foot atop the papaya tree and another on the tiled roof of the neighbouring house. 

The night grew darker. Ma and my aunts grew busier. They had to prepare food before baba and uncles returned from work. My school had not fully started yet. My elder siblings were immersed in their studies - memorising tables or reciting the Kishalay or confronted by class 7 physics. And far from all this, I was on my own in the pitch darkness, trying to make sense of my newfound fears. Like messengers from the unknown depths of the darkened world a bunch of green fireflies emerged. As the light of the lantern dimmed, the shimmering fireflies became more distinct. The Kalpurush  gleamed above in the sky and near its foot, the steady Lubdhak . The croaking of frogs was heard from the taro patch nearby(kochu bon) and fireflies danced over the pond. People gathered on the rooftops to chat , fanning themselves under the light of the kerosene lamps and lanterns. Seen from above, the houses looked just like fireflies themselves. The night deepened. Electric light returned soon after the grandfather clock marked the tenth hour of the night. The darkened world seemed to appear like a scene from a previous life. The shadows on the wall disappeared abruptly, like the shadowy figure near the attic.

Looking back on those days, two decades ago, load-sheddings now seem like a time for solitude. It seems, all nocturnal beings are quite lonely - be it the ghost by the pond or the bat returning home. They didn’t come in groups. Perhaps they came near a group of people, not to frighten them but in hopes to find company. Lest people are scared by their presence, they kept  an eye on them instead, secretly from afar. And foolish people brought lights and sat close to scare them away. Load-sheddings made the supernatural beings more lonely, brought the humans together. At present, there is an abundance of light and people are no longer together. That camaraderie is nowhere. Instead, men who walk tiredly with their stooped backs remind me of the ghosts by the pond. 

Alone. Misfit. Dejected. 

Translated from Bengali by Dipanwita Bhattacharyya