Now that the monsoon deigned to make an appearance, those of us in Anaikatti have to deal with the corollary: power cuts. Once the rains begin, our local EB guys get jittery. What if a tree falls on a line? What if the pole breaks? Their answer to all these and many other what-ifs is to turn off the power.
This week was typical. When thunder roared and lightning flashed on Sunday evening, we knew the lights would go off soon. What we did not anticipate was how long they would stay that way: four whole days. What I did not expect was how much I enjoyed being in the dark, as our emergency lamps and torches soon gave up their ghosts.
Thunder and lightning seemed louder and brighter here than in the city. Each flash lit up the campus and threatened to rend the ground beneath our feet. We watched in awe as flickering bolts crept up and tore clouds apart. As for thunder, I resurrected a game we played in my childhood: what does the sound remind you of? So if one clap was a wardrobe falling down the stairs, another was a bunch of cricket balls being rolled across the floor.
Once the lightning stopped the darkness took over. I’ve heard and read not being able to see the hand before your nose but this was the first time I actually experienced it. Despite the skylights in the roof, the night was black; the moon obscured by thick clouds.
Other senses expanded and compensated for the lack of sight. Walking back home through the raindrops, a faint fragrance teases my nostrils. There’s some memory associated with it but I cannot recall it immediately. I stop and take deep breaths trying to place both the smell and the memory that lurks just out of reach in the innermost recesses of my mind.
“What are you sniffing at?” asks my mother-in-law from the doorstep. “Can’t you smell it?” I ask in return. “The frangipani?” she answers with another query. And the images come flooding into my mind: picking its flowers with my grandfather; learning about the parts of the tree; climbing a tree (the frangipani with its fairly smooth trunk and low height was particularly useful for a child learning to climb); the trees on the Marina…
There are other smells too: that of the wet earth when the first drops hit the ground; the fresh clean smell once the downpour stops, which I always associate with greenery, and of course, the smell of wet clothes that never goes away.
Sounds too are a lot clearer. There’s no hum from the fridge; no videos playing on laptops and no screaming television anchors. Instead, the night birds are calling; an owl screeches somewhere; the insect chorus is loud and clear… The sound of raindrops is the best soporific; you don’t know at what point the noise faded away and you slipped over the edge into dreamland.
This week also gave me the chance to catch up with people: my son, husband, a young friend… Conversations ranged from serious to downright silly. At dusk, we sat around the dining table, two of us wrapping our fingers around hot cups of tea while the others helped themselves to grains of sugar. A couple of youngsters were wondering how to deal with the inevitable “why aren’t you getting married?” routine. “Get married if you like,” I advised, “but don’t have kids.” They looked past my shoulder rather nervously. I turned to see my 18-year-old leaning on the pillar behind me and listening avidly. “That goes for you too,” I told him. “But I like children,” he said. “But they don’t stay children for very long,” I replied. “They grow up.” My son’s standard answer to an argument he can’t win is a hug and the conversation degenerated rapidly into a scuffle.
Another night, we played cards in flickering candlelight because by now, cheating outrageously because we couldn’t see the cards in dim light. Word games were in favour another time and I listened in amazement to my son’ vocabulary. “I didn’t think he’d know so many words,” I whispered to my husband. Of course my son overheard and soon we were locked in a familiar argument about whether reading improved vocabulary or not. (Note: My son won’t read even if he has a gun pointed at his head.)
When power was finally restored, I wasn’t sure whether to cheer. Yes, the fridge and washing machine were back and I could charge my phone. But I had learnt that they were not the necessities we seem to think they are.
