Counterpoint - September 10, 2003

Every issue, every event – global, national and local – has a point and a counterpoint. You are given the point all the time in news and analyses. Now get the counterpoint


When the lights go off…

We were watching Christina Aguilera on MTV, rocking the stage during the awards night. At one long-drawn out oooooooooh, the TV blinked, hiccupped and closed its eyes. The light faded. It took us a few seconds to realise the air-conditioner had stopped humming. Then we knew — like residents of North America — we were in the middle of a power failure. Our fuse had blown.

Tinkering with the fuse box didn't help. Tinkering with the mains box brought us back to life and light. But just for a couple of hours.

Around 2am I woke to an ominous silence. The air-conditioner had stopped again. The fan was not whirring and the refrigerator was quiet. We were again plunged into darkness. Worse, plunged into heat.

No amount of working on fuse boxes helped. Our watchman gave the final verdict: You have to wait until tomorrow morning.

We held a quick council of war. Decided our best chance lay in keeping doors and windows closed, trapping the cool air inside as long as possible. We shrugged off bedclothes and lay down, waiting for the bed to get warm.

It did. Fairly quickly. Surprisingly, our children, born into air-conditioned comfort, adjusted remarkably well. They actually found it an adventure and laughed at their own sweat.

I started telling them stories about days without light and fan and soon I was remembering power cuts back home in India.

Once, 15-20 years ago, power cuts were regular in my city of Kolkata. We called it "load-shedding" and spoke knowledgeably of over consumption and poor grid/supply. A whole new industry grew up around the blackout. People sold battery-operated lights and fans, mini generators, and, of course, hand-held bamboo/coconut palm/wooden fans. And yes, lanterns, fat candles and "petromaxes" – evil smelling torches fuelled by kerosene.

When the lights went off in the evening we poured out into the street. Schoolbooks were hurriedly put away. You can't possibly ask us to study in this poor light and spoil our eyesight, we told our parents, looking sad and bullied. No, no, they said hurriedly, do your homework when the power is back.

So we went out and met our friends or talked on the phone. Clapping at mosquitoes in winter, wiping sweat in summer, but enjoying it. Anything to stop us from studying.

You knew the lights were back by a shout that went up from every house. Yayyyyyyyyy, the neighbourhood shouted, lights back, lights back. Usually it was too late to study. So we just ate our dinner and tumbled into bed, sleeping happily under a busily whirring fan.

Next day we had a good excuse for our teacher. Couldn't do our homework ma'am because the lights were out. But we played this card once too often. At one time I trotted out the same excuse, quite forgetting my maths teacher lived just a couple of houses away.

First she said fine. I danced back to my desk. A few minutes later, she called me again. We didn't have any load-shedding last night, she pointed out sternly. I hung my head.

I not only had to finish the earlier homework but had six extra sums to do that night. I never used blackout as an excuse again. Not with that teacher…

With a start I came back to the present. Dubai. A late summer night. No air-conditioning. Our daughters had fallen asleep, lulled by my story-telling voice. I poked my head out of the window. Still warm. I closed the glass, blanked my mind and tried to sleep. Surprisingly, I did.

Next morning our family gave the electrician his biggest ever welcome. Now we truly appreciate the miracle of electricity.