Growing up in New Delhi, power outages, were (and still are) commonplace.
‘ Light gayi’ meant everyone getting out of their homes and onto the neighborhood streets. It was a legitimate excuse for us kids to snap shut our textbooks, and head outdoors; An excuse to take a break from the endless studying (or mugging) for the never- abating slew of tests and exams – weekly tests, semester exams, finals, and whatnot; we really had to study very hard.
So it was hardly surprising that, as soon as the electricity went out, the entire ‘colony’ (housing complex) would be plunged into darkness. But definitely not our spirits. Hand pushed ice cream carts with their trademark striped canopies would trundle up the street. The chuski sellers , with their crushe- ice popsicles bathed in thick, sweet colored syrup, were equally in demand. We children would beg our parents for the few rupees it cost to buy ourselves an orange bar, a ‘cola’ bar, or the pricier indulgences – a choco -bar, or the mango-duet. Mmmm, my taste buds have certainly not forgotten.
The younger kids busied themselves with games of tag, hopscotch, or hide and seek. The teenagers, too cool for these childish games, would just ‘hang out’ . The girls would stroll hand in hand, giggling and swapping secrets. The boys would saunter about cockily. The parents, knowing that the kids were near by and safe, would chit-chat among themselves. The ‘uncles’ would invariably discuss politics. Their opinions and pronouncements on corruption, the upcoming elections, and the maladies afflicting the State of India, were bandied about in deep, all-knowing tones. For each man considered himself no less than a total authority on the Indian Political System and the “gorment”. The aunties would be discussing their bais or maids, or the sabzi vaala (vegetable vendor) and his tampered-with weighing scale. Sometimes these batti-less evenings turned into impromptu potluck dinners. All the mommies would bring out what they had cooked for that evening’s dinner – a daal or a sabzi, a mutton or chicken dish, or a pulao. The rotis would be pooled in too, and always, the verandah of the ground floor flat would become the venue. We kids would be told to bring in the plates, katoris (bowls) and spoons from our respective homes, and the feast was on! Every household’s everyday, homemade fare would be pooled together to make for a sumptuous spread. As Mrs Khanna’s rajma chawal was spooned onto glistening stainless steel dinner plates, or Mrs Aggarwal’s aloo ki sabzi (potato curry) was scooped up with fresh made phulkas, everyone got to dig into food that tasted different and therefore yummier from the daily fare served up in their homes. Never mind if all Mrs Mathur had cooked tonight was khichdi;
Teamed with another family’s raita, and some tangy lemon pickle, it was lip-smacking.
And then, as suddenly as it had ‘gone’, the electricity was back on. One could hear a collective cheer of “aa gayi” (it’s back), and everyone hurried back indoors, albeit reluctantly. Tonight, the party was over. But never mind, we all had the utmost faith in our permanently beleaguered government-owned electricity provider, the Delhi Vidyut Board. Come tomorrow evening, it would surely deliver – another power cut, and another impromptu evening with the neighbors.
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