SS #1
There was a boy
who liked lights—lights of most kinds, from most sources—he just liked lights.
Of course he had his preferences; he loved lamps with shades and particularly disliked
naked white fluorescent tubes, for example. One day he came across an old oil
lamp in an antique store. It seemed to talk to him, perhaps as no other light
had. He brought it home. He found it quite interesting. Then he found it
fascinating. He started loving it, perhaps almost as much as his lamps, perhaps
even more, or perhaps only as much. The problem with oil lamps is, as you know,
they are messy. They require care. The oil, the wick, the flame, the smoke, the
soot. He loved taking care of it. Adding the oil, pushing up the wick,
protecting the flame from the wind, removing the soot and even enjoying the
smoke. The old oil lamp flickered, wavered in the breeze, almost died out. But
the boy always made sure he went back to it and tended to it, so that the flame
never died out. He spent hours and hours basking in its warm gentle glow, and
he felt good about himself, about everything in his life. He loved the fact
that when there was no electricity, his beautiful oil lamp would still give him
light—rare as those moments were, he absolutely adored them, moments with just
him and his oil lamp.
Lights kept
getting added to his surroundings, and to his own collection. There were bright
lights, the coloured lights, small lights, large lights, flickering lights,
LEDs, CFLs, fluorescent ones, tungsten ones and of course the lamps with pretty
shades—ethnic and modern—the kind he loved; and of course there were the older
ones too. The other lights occasionally needed to be tended to as well. The
bulbs had to be changed, the shades had to be dusted, the wires had to be organized,
and the decor too had to be enlivened. The old and messy oil lamp no longer fitted
into the scheme of things all the time— and he also started particularly disliking
the fact that so much attention had to be given to it—he preferred when his lights
just gave him pleasure on his terms,
when he wanted to with them, and not
when they required or demanded his
attention. Their job was to give him pleasure, and not ask for maintenance.
Yes, the oil lamp was interesting, fascinating, warm, beautiful, and he loved
spending time staring at it, talking to it, loving it, enjoying its unique glow.
But there were so many other lights, lamps that required his attention very
occasionally, and more importantly, also
gave him a lot of pleasure. There was the fascination of the new bright ones
with the pretty shades beckoning to him, and that fitted the ambience better
perhaps. And none of these required so much attention, even the old tungsten
bulbs lasted for a decent amount of time, and of course the CFLs lasted for
almost an eternity without even a fragment of attention. Moreover the best
thing about these lamps was that he could easily put them away for a while, and
then retrieve them when he wanted, or when he suddenly remembered them—just
dust them a bit, change the bulb if required, find a plug point, and there they
were glowing beautifully as if they had always been there. Why would this old
miserable oil lamp require so much of attention? Was it really worth it? He
still loved the antique oil lamp, but he was frustrated with the mess, its
demands, the oil refill, the wick, the vulnerability of its flame. And in any
case, its faint light was hardly noticeable amongst the other brighter and
colourful lights. Power cuts were rare and he refused to turn off the
electricity only to enjoy his moments with his oil lamp—actually he no longer
even remembered those moments he had once adored. In fact, now when he thought
about it, the old oil lamp did not even fit in with the ambience of the room.
Gradually it was moved to a corner of the room. He still tried to check it out
once in a while, since he still was fascinated by it whenever he came near it.
But there were others. He had less and less time and patience for this one.
One day the oil
ran out, and without the oil, the wick completely burnt out. He had not noticed
this amidst the brightness and the colour that surrounded him. Dust started
accumulating on the old oil lamp without the oil without the wick and of course
without a flame. Grime started building on it. When the boy finally discovered
it again, it was ugly. Really, irritatingly ugly. And of course, since there
was no flame and there was no light emanating from it. What was the use? The
boy liked lights, not ugly non-lights. He missed the oil lamp of course, but
what could be done. There were other lights to be fascinated with, of all
colours, types, shades, brightnesses, lights that were much easier to handle. He
did not have the time or the patience to clean and restore the oil lamp, to
relight it. It just was not worth the effort. He threw the old and rotten oil
lamp into the bin. He was used to throwing away old broken lights and bulbs
into the garbage bin anyway. He was proud that he could be brutal about this,
just throw away stuff that he did not require any more, or did not give him as
much pleasure any more, or would require too much time to be repaired and all
that. Yes, he would indeed miss the oil lamp and cherish the memories he had
spent with it, perhaps even remember how he had adored it, he would certainly,
albeit vaguely, remember the moments without electricity when it was just him
and it; but he was also sure he would come across another prettier oil lamp
sometime, perhaps one that was less demanding, less messy, and easier to handle.
In the meantime there were enough bright lights around —way brighter
actually—and lots of the regular lamps that he liked. He was sure there would
be other lamps that would talk to him. He had been missing the darkness of the
power cuts as well because of the oil lamp that would continue to glow, he
would love to experience again the darkness, and being alone with himself
without any light at all. Why bother about a decrepit grimy oil lamp in the
garbage bin? Yes, he had spent hours and hours of pleasurable moments with it,
but that was the past. Move on, he said to himself—it was not difficult at all,
and he was used to this, he reminded himself again. And his attention was drawn
to the beautiful lamp with the orange shade.
They collected
the garbage in the morning.
28 Jun 2013
