After Dark - Comes Light.

I love the dark; there, I have said it. I am no witch or familiar and neither October nor Halloween hold any deeper meaning for me. Yet I must confess, I am secure in the dark.

I always felt freer in the dark, appearance was of no matter there. In India, there was a great importance placed upon beauty, especially fair beauty, I guess this was then an instinctive rejection of all those judging and weighing looks. I could neither accept approval for my fairness nor could I accept rejection of my darker sister. Why did the outward make so much difference to the world around us? For both of us, the darkness was always a kind place, a time to put aside this inequity. By day I might be tired of being responsible for her misdeeds as well as mine, evening brought shared empathy. By day she might resent me, at night I was her refuge - elder sister and playmate of old.

One pair of photographs taken in childhood says it all. We were visiting this uncle whose hobby was candid photography. A picture taken in the harsh light of tropical afternoon shows us squared off at either ends of the terrace, playing at 'house' with shared toys but space set clearly apart, our mutual glares marked off territory. Another one taken that very same evening shows us seated on a bench on that same terrace, the setting rays highlight two heads close together, a moment when we were in our own world. Arms are entwined around the other's waist, two pleased smiles show one enjoyable moment.

So, night was a time for whispers and shared confidences; we’d talk of things we could not express to our parents. By day I was the aspiring medico, busy with tomes and patients, juggling empathy with learning. She was the banker in her first job, earnest and unsure, bright and yet intimidated. At night we were giggling girls together, wondering what the future held and expressing sibilant dreams and doubts to each other. We’d fight over having the window open or closed with a silent grimace and a petulant hunched shoulder, but we'd be so comfortable in that shared darkness. Dark to me has always had that feeling of being close to my sister, even when she moved continents away.

I also found solace in it, especially when I was at a time when my days were darkened by abuse. It was a verbal abuse that needed waking hours to be effective, night brought blessed relief. As he finally lay snoring beside me, I could escape into a softer world, a kinder world. Blessed tears would be allowed to give relief; the silence would heal as nothing else could. I would creep out to the shadowed porch and watch the moon riding palely above and ponder upon imponderable things. The wind would give me the caressing comfort of parents long-gone, the stars would give me sibling comfort. The old-fashioned street lamp would send just the barest twinkle into my front yard, outlining the bushes that held no charm for me in daylight. At night those dark outlines of leaves and their intricate shadows on the ground, said I was not alone. I’d creep back later, somewhat renewed; I would drift into an uneasy sleep, taking my life one day at a time.

Darkness gave me free rein, my imagination could soar, and I peopled it with those I missed most. My father would come and run a kind hand over my brow, my grand-father would give his understanding smile. My mother would give me her grave look of concern that said "Sit down, you look tired", as she pulled up a chair and sat beside me. I would pen things down in an old journal after the house was quiet, all tasks done, the children snuggled up to the stuffed toys in their beds. No one could say I was 'wasting time', this time was all mine.

Sounds reigned supreme in the dark, comfortable familiar sounds; there that was the sound of the people coming home from the late night movies at the only cinema hall in the colony. Their cheerful good-nights wafted in through the open window and I would mentally whisper a benediction to them. There, the crickets had started their song; the humans were all asleep. Now the mid-night mail train hooted gently in the distance. The old diesel generator would cough and sputter as the faint street lights did their nightly dance of now on and off. Electricity was the one thing you could depend on to be undependable in those days. Morning would be announced more by the factory siren, a piercing sound that penetrated my ears; better than the rose pink light of pre-dawn could - to my now suddenly tired and reluctant lids.

I hated waking up. The only thing I did not like; after the dark, came the dawn! The day would bring the same troubles, the same promises to be broken once more, the same defeats to be re-lived. I'd live those days, one night at a time.