Candle-light Vigils.

         “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.”

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