“Yet
another carton of candles? And one more packet of matches!” Shri Husband and
Bai Goanna spoke in unison.
I have no privacy in my
house. Whatever I order online, whatever gets delivered at home, whatever I
buy, is inspected and commented upon. Hai
mera naseeb. I’m going to complain to the television news channels
regarding violation of my rights. There should be a law against women being
spied upon in their homes. These channels have the ear of Parliament.
“Candles
are useful,” I whimpered. “Keeping a stock.”
Both
turned to me and snapped: “What’s this nonsense?”
“It’s
not,” I thought to myself. “Nonsense.”
As if
they read my mind, they chorused again: “It’s crazy.”
“We don’t have those
many power-cuts. Why does she need so many candles?” Shri Husband wanted to
know the answer from me, but addressed the question to Bai Goanna. None of his
business, but he must poke his nose into it.
“She’s
going for a vigil,” Bai Goanna told him sombrely, “In memory of the poor
innocent souls who died in …”
“…Kashmir? Bihar? The
USA, France, Germany, Turkey?” Shri Husband interrupted her, forcing her to leave
the sentence halfway.
Bai Goanna knew my
secret-- I’ve become a member of a Vigil Club-- but Shri Husband didn’t, until
she told him there and then.
“A Vigil Club?” Shri
Husband, who can out-advise me on topics like military strategies, the Railway
Budget and the best way to fry fish, confessed ignorance when it came to my
latest involvement.
Feeling superior that I
knew something about which he had nil knowledge, I said “Yes” confidently and
loudly.
“Why…” that famous
question-word to which I usually have no answer. “…have you joined a Vigil Club?”
I wasn’t stumped. This
time I was prepared. I knew the answer by heart. I uttered the vision statement
of my Vigil Club: “To back a cause, in memory of a massacre, to draw
attention to injustice, to show support to families who have lost their loved
ones or whose kids have gone missing in any kind of disaster, to remember brave
individuals…”
“How…” Shri Husband butted in
with his second favourite question-word, “...do you plan to do that?”|
My co-members are MBAs,
they have trained me well to tackle such ‘attacks’ from non-believers in
vigil-keeping.
I knew the answer, pat: “By
putting up fliers all around the neighbourhood, printing an advertisement or
press release in the newspaper, through social media and by word
of mouth.”
“What,” Bai Goanna was
feeling left out, I guess, so she asked this one, “will you achieve?”
“It’s the best way,” I
said, “to mourn
for loss, raise awareness about something and motivate people to bring about
change.”
“Have you,” Shri
Husband wanted to know, “included leptospirosis, tuberculosis, malaria, dengue
and polio in the list of topics for awareness? I mean, people die of them, you
know. Rabies, too.”
He’s always difficult,
Shri Husband is. These topics weren’t covered in our Vigil Club meeting. I told
him that.
“People lose lives,
families lose children, loved ones suffer because of these diseases, and you
haven’t included them in your agenda?” Shri Husband didn’t sound like he was
serious. “These are grave national issues and you’ve skipped them? |What’s the
matter with you?” He didn’t sound like he was joking, either.
Unsure of what to say,
I quietly began to open the parcels and comment on the quality of wax and the
price of matches.
“You should use wax
figurines,” Bai Goanna said.
Shri Husband agreed
with her: “Wax-grenades, wax-bombs, wax faces with masks, wax broken-limbs.”
“Mean you are,” I said,
almost in tears. Almost. I wasn’t giving up so easily. I said: “Slender
candles, flickering flames at dusk or under the stars, hundreds, even
thousands, of people prayfully holding them in silence and peace are powerful symbols
of change.”
“Hundreds—or any number
of people holding inflammable material, together in a single place, would be a
suicide bomber’s delight, a nightmare for the police to handle if something
should go wrong,” Shri Husband said. In some convoluted way, he always throws
hard-headed pragmatism at me. “Hope,” he added, “you keep the fire-brigade
informed when you have these get-togethers.”
“Don’t call it a
get-together,” I said, a trifle irritably.
“Ok, meetings,” he
said.
“Vigils,” I corrected
him.
Bai Goanna decided to throw
ice on the beginnings of a heated argument. She said: “How about touching
topics that are a danger to our daily lives?
Wax-buses and wax-trains stuffed with passengers? Melted wax in glasses
to represent contaminated water? Wax-casts of craters in roads? Wax-helmets and
seatbelts?”
“How about wax-gutka
packets with pictures of cancerous oral-ulcers?”
“Don’t jest,” I said,
my voice quivering.
“Not jesting,” both
replied shaking their heads from side to side.
“You could have
wax-bins to encourage the Swatchha Bharat campaign,” giggled Bai Goanna.
“Or one that looks like
RaGa for those that support him,” added Shri Husband.
“Or those that don’t,”
I said, trying to be fair. My apolitical family and friends crib against or
defend all parties/leaders great and small, depending on the mood and headlines
of the day.
“Aha, changing the
topic, are we?” said Bai Goanna, examining one of the candle packets. “Tell me,
don’t these things add to pollution in some way? What if one of the
participants is asthmatic?”
“Do you,” Shri Husband
typically butted into our conversation. “Have a vigil for asthmatics? For
keeping pollution under control? For adding to climate change with all the
smoke generated by these candles?”
“I’m going to ask my
Vigil Club friends about this one,” I promised.
“Whilst you’re at it,
do some homework on sponsored/ sponsoring vigils. You could have banners on
hired buses taking you to and from the venue. You could have candle-makers
subsidizing chai-nashta. That would encourage small businesses. You could have
people sponsoring candles and matches, too,” spurted Bai Goanna. “That’ll save
you money.”
“And,” Shri Husband
added, “pay Bai Goanna for her unusual ideas.”
Feedback:
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