When the first batch of earthen lamps and candles
Got into their places on walls, terraces
And window panes,
Aunty came with her
Eight-month old grandson clinging to her body,
her white hair unkempt and flying.
The little boy looked around with his round black eyes,
His familiarity with stranger speaking of
His acceptance of a truth,
That mom was not going to be around very soon,
May be for two, three years,
She had a job,
and no time to look after a baby.
Candles or lamps could not remove
The darkness that overhung so many trees
And hills,
But they brought light anyway,
They lit up the hearts of the people
Who remained cooped up
In their matchbox houses after dark
And often forgot the world of the living,
Voices and laughter emerged from the caves
For chosen moments
And accepted life,
The candles and earthen lamps burned,
Shone in the darkness like little beacons,
And died away,
Their death was not lamented,
Nor any effort was made for resurrection,
Coops were reoccupied.
The ritual had been done.
The day’s promise was kept.
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