My Memoir -A Candlelit Memory

 

A Candlelit Memory

Growing up in our village, electricity was more of a luxury than a certainty. Power cuts were so common that we were practically on a first-name basis with darkness. On one particularly memorable night when I was around 14 or 15, my younger sister Kavita, who was five years my junior, and I were huddled together in our room, completely absorbed in a thrilling movie on television.

The suspense on the screen mirrored the tension in the room. We were both on the edge of our seats, hearts racing with every twist and turn. The shadows cast by the flickering TV light made everything seem even more eerie, but neither of us wanted to look away, despite being frightened. It was one of those rare moments of pure, shared excitement that only siblings can fully appreciate.

Suddenly, without warning, everything went pitch black. The power had gone out. We sat there in stunned silence for a moment, the abrupt darkness making the room feel even more claustrophobic. I told Kavita to stay put while I went to fetch a candle. The familiar path through the house felt strangely foreign in the dark, but eventually, I returned, holding a lit candle in both hands, its soft glow casting dancing shadows on the walls.

As I approached Kavita, an idea popped into my head. With my eyes wide open, trying to look as spooky as possible, I said in a low, dramatic voice, "What do you think? I am Geeta? I am not Geeta, I am Prakash," invoking the name of our deceased mother.

For a moment, Kavita's eyes widened in genuine terror. She started to cry and, in a mix of fear and desperation, she began to plead, "Geeta, say you are Geeta! You are not mommy!" Her small hands fumbled around, and she grabbed a slipper, swinging it at me in blind panic. Each time she hit me with it, she repeated, "Say you are Geeta! You are not mommy!"

After enduring a few more whacks with the slipper, I finally admitted defeat, laughing and rubbing the spots where she'd hit me. "Okay, okay, I'm Geeta! I was just making a joke."

Kavita's tears slowly turned into reluctant giggles, and soon we were both laughing, the tension of the night dissolving in our shared amusement. The candlelight continued to flicker, casting playful shadows around the room, but the fear was gone, replaced by the warmth of our sibling bond.

That night, despite the darkness, became one of the brightest memories of my childhood. It was a perfect blend of fear, fun, and family—elements that defined so many of our experiences growing up in that village. And every time I think back to it, I can't help but smile at the mischief and the love that made that moment so special.

BY GEETA BHANWALA