Sushant Thapa
Before switching on the light of his home for the evening Sagar always stood for a while. He was considered somewhat unholy and switching the light on for the evening was always regarded as a sacred affair. Pauses in the evening also start like the morning sun that boils and spills itself above the hill in the horizon—the pauses rise, they get detached and tangled with contradictions. The neighbourhood woman always passed her unholy comment about the light of the evening whenever Sagar would switch it on. She would say: PRAYERS FIRST. The woman was holy; her home had a temple like steeple structure, trident and the large orange coloured wavering flag. You know when people renounce living, when they even leave their husband and family and live as a saint. Somehow people are capable of changing like that. The woman did not want Sagar to turn on the light bulb of evening in his home which she believed was holy. The holiness imposed on the light was supposed to be sacred like the light emitting, absorbing, reflecting sun and the moon and nobody was allowed to touch the light without being holy or saying their prayers.
Sagar would dwell in the grassy front yard of his residence. He read Whitman and also had an American taste in music. He had some illness in his throat which made him the silent observer of the town. He could not talk for longer hours. He could have joined teaching but the doctor had advised him to talk less. Ramesh had been his classmate in college. Sagar had always been receptive, but was reserved more often. Ramesh was exactly opposite. Ramesh was extrovert and Sagar never thought about such kind of vocabularies which came direct from the books like Word Power Made Easy. These personality traits were like disguises that clouded peoples’ habits and bended those habits and fixated a dead end. Ramesh was surprised when he learned from Sagar about this holiness of the light. The neighbourhood woman came as an element of shock—a foreign and strange air blew and mixed with the neighbourhood.
Sagar and Ramesh were preparing for their civil service examinations. They needed light in their room and there was a power outage. Now there was darkness everywhere and the neighbourhood was not visible and there was no trace of the neighbourhood woman. Here, in the night something similar was rising in the traits of these two students. It was fear thumping like a silent explosion—only nobody heard anything. The initial days of the examinations had been transparent like an ice cube, now its chill was felt. Sagar began working on his introvert ideal even while preparing for the civil service exams. He was reading a British Novel and was amazed how the vocabulary was gripping and new. Although Sagar was not fan of the British accent in movies his American conviction opened doors and shaked hands with his British oeuvre now. Ramesh on the other hand gathered the lightest bag-pack to hit the road—he was planning to materialize that after the very last evening of their exam. Sagar was still standing like a statue in the middle of his room and freezing with unknown fear. The image of the neighbourhood lady disturbed his ears—powerful and strange was that moment which could ferment the image into the sound. That trident, the orange coloured flag and the snakes coiling in his dreams all flashed in the darkness that evening. Except for crickets ringing in their ears, every moment was asleep.
A drunkard man was leaning against the mound near the temple like house of the neighbourhood lady. His silvery image in the dark was reflected by the moon light. The man seemed to be chanting some mantras in the darkness which was only faintly heard and thinly seen. The man was accompanied by another man who was smoking a cigarette. They seem to vouch for each other. They were drinking and smoking beside the temple. Sagar was trying to figure out what holy sermons the drunkard was chanting. Lugubrious was not the last word which could describe the scene here. Frank and drunken, loud and bossy—the man swelled his voice. He was humble only later when the cigarette smoker had smoked his last puff and when the last drip of his bottle was gulped. This was happening in the court of the temple.
What was wrong here, drinking in the temple premises or the faith with which the temple was constructed? —the boys were in dilemma. The temple was constructed above the residence.
“No blame on the temple,” said Ramesh.
“Human error in constructing a holy place and differentiating it from home,” Sagar added.
“No demolition of the steeple is needed, ” Ramesh said.
There was light everywhere after that line was uttered by Ramesh. The drunkard and the cigarette smoker had wiped themselves from the scene in the temple. The neighborhood woman’s house and the temple was lighted with the wire lights which they used during festivals.
Sagar and Ramesh did not feel the need to argue with the woman and construe their ideas with her about lightning the holy light. They felt their heart was also too dark, and they got a chance to see what happened in the temple which opened their eyes. The woman was chanting her loud and clear sermons and playing the damaru—she was performing the evening arati as if things were still really concealed. She was also accompanied by another common devotee. Temple court brings various characters from the society. The two young boys observing the drunkard in the temple in the dark that is where this story really begins and ends. Realizing that the temple needs offering which demands spill of blood and even butchering of animals is something wrong to think. Not everyone sees the spill of blood and forgets. Drunken holy chant of a drunkard is not an essential attribute in plain terms but what the two boys saw that night and realized was worthy. Lights and temples are languages of realization; they only speak with faith. However, the question remains: who is really holy here, the temple builders or the temple goers?
[Sushant Thapa is a Nepalese poet who holds a Master’s degree in English literature from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi, India. He has published two books of poetry entitled “Abstraction and Other Poems” and “The Poetic Burden and Other Poems” from England and New Delhi. ]