Keya Sarkar: Lighting up our lives

PEOPLE LIKE THEM

It started like any other day. Except that the normal cacophony of birds at 4 in the morning seemed a trifle subdued. But by 6 am last Saturday, Santiniketan woke up to a grey sky and a steady drizzle. By evening the drizzle had turned to rain and by Sunday it was a downpour.

Though there were occasional let-ups in the rain, not once did one see the blue sky even on Monday. If the young in Santiniketan, exposed to an overdose of cable TV, ever yearned for a disco, on Monday night the electricity office gave them a taste of what might have been.

The voltage fluctuated enough for people to want to dance to the strobe lights! But they knew that the play of lights was a Morse code for disaster.

As the rain was doing a mad dance to the gusty winds of the emerging storm, the residents slept uneasily on Monday night. By the time they awoke, the storm had taken its toll. There were trees uprooted in almost all gardens, which, in falling, had taken the overhead electric wires with them.

The electricity was off. But no one was complaining. They had felt the fury of the storm even in their sleep. And then there was plenty to be thankful for "" the phone lines were working. With no local radio the telephone network was the substitute. Good for figuring whether others were better off than you.

Whether they had food at home, whether their roofs were leaking, whether any tree had chosen to fall across their gate, trapping them inside and whether or not their phone had become "one way". I marvel at how one storm does what cell phone companies need sophisticated software to achieve!

Monday was a day of rest. The incessant rain was a wonderful backdrop for contemplation. But by Tuesday, the second day of life without electricity, laptops, cell phones, emergency lights had all run out of battery and the rain seemed not so romantic.

The phone network was then handy to figure out which cyber cafes were running on generators and which sweet shops/grocery stores were on generators and were kind enough to allow people to charge their mobiles. Rickshaws were doing brisk business, carrying "electronic" slaves to their altars.

By Tuesday evening the word was out. The electricity department had managed to restore the lines in one area. The rumours were flowing fast and thick. Some said fifty trees had fallen and some put the figure at a hundred.

But whatever the numbers, I had resigned myself to a life without electricity and running to the generator empowered cyber cafe for at least a week. So I was surprised to hear that the work of restoration had not only begun but was actually completed in certain areas.

It seemed as if all the field force of the electricity department had been drafted for the purpose. On every road you could see them either heaving uprooted trees, or atop trees shaving off offending branches, or changing the aluminium wires or checking the fuses at every transformer box.

By Wednesday almost all of Santiniketan and adjoining Bolpur had returned to its glory of being electrified, so to say. Then there was of course much exchange of notes as to which area got priority from the electricity department.

So on Friday I thought I should felicitate the silent heroes: the linesmen, who brave the weather to light up other people's lives. I bought a large pot of rasagoollas to feed them and trotted off to give it to the senior line men supervisor.

I cannot even begin to describe his expression when I handed him the sweets. I shall never know whether it is because my earlier interactions with his department had led the supervisor to expect detonators!