Mid-summer Nights and Memories of Load-shedding
It is a hot, dry evening. It reminds one of hot subcontinent evenings, when after taking an entire day’s beating, both man and mammal yearn for the respite normally brought by the setting of the sun. However, some nights even such respite would be denied. A breeze, if there was one at all, would remind you that you remain at the mercy of nature. All man’s intellect and maneuvers could not cause it to blow any stronger, or cooler. It could make you feel like a panting dog and wish that someone would throw a bucket of water over your head and put you out of your misery.
Tonight also reminds me of our old home in Pindi, and of load-shedding (power outages for those uninitiated). Each summer, the government ensured that load-shedding hit its peak in perfect harmony with the rise of temperatures. A crescendo of anguish. “Phir say chali gai/it’s gone again,” was an oft-repeated cry through these oven-baked nights which lasted from May until the end of August. In those days, no one had generators at home, so a silence would descend upon the entire neighbourhood. It would be interrupted only by the sound of families calling out to each other, the occasional vehicle passing by.
Most folks would become agitated, but despite the heat, I found these nights to be glorious. Everyone would come out of their rooms, and the ensuing commotion would push bedtime ahead by a few hours. “Zara mom-batti lana!/bring out a candle” one of the elders would yell, and one would be off to rummage through drawers and kitchen cabinets to produce one. Often, we would all step out into the gardens or for a short walk on the street outside. So would the neighbours, bringing the streets to life. With the elders outside, the combination of night and nature would open up a whole new world of possibilities. For children, this included chasing siblings and cousins around the lawns at lightning speed, trying to pinpoint crickets, catching frogs with plastic bags (for they would pee in your hands), and chasing jugnoos, or fireflies around. Laughter and screams would pierce the stillness of night.
Jugnus would add a magical element to the night, intermittently emitting a bright green glow, and then fading away as they made their mysterious rounds across the lawns.
In our ancestral home, there were two towering guava trees. On moonlit nights, they would cast great shadows across the lawns, and majestic silhouettes across the sky. During summer, their branches would be heavy with fruit, which would also attract terrifyingly large bats (chimgadardh is the sonorous Urdu word for bat). We would watch the night sky with eyes peeled to spot them flying between the trees.
Occasionally you would catch a glimpse of their magnificent wings powering them through the air. If unable to spot them, we would listen for their movement through the trees, and at the faintest rustle, whisper to each other, “do you think that was a chimgadarh/bat?”
These were nights of adventure. In turning off the electricity, load-shedding set us free to explore the world with our own creative energies, inventing it anew with each chase of a jugnoo or spotting of a chimgadarh. They brought people out from the confines of their rooms to mingle with their families and communities, bringing conversation back to life.
Sometimes, when the summer heat becomes intense, and the din of air-conditioners fills the evening air, I wish that the power would just go out altogether, so that we could remind ourselves, how it once felt to be free.