The Light of the Past

I remember the evenings when the world felt much slower. When I would sit on the balcony with my grandmother, Ba, and listen to the stories of a town that no longer existed. I can still hear her voice, strong yet tender, as she painted pictures of a time when our town was small, with narrow streets and only a handful of houses. This was before the modernity of electricity, before the public garden, the cricket ground, the government hospital, and the small shops selling everything from clothes to sweets. All of that, she would tell me, was built after she had arrived here as a young bride.

She would sit with her hands folded in her lap, her eyes glinting with the quiet wisdom of years gone by, as the evening light softened the lines on her face. We’d talk about everything under the weather, as she liked to say, meandering through topics like the state of the world today and the simplicity of her youth. It was during these conversations that I learned more about her life, our town, and the world before I had come into it.

I looked down from the balcony at the bustling streets below. The vendors sold more than just peanuts now—there were vada pav, ice cream, pani puri, samosas, and chana all calling to the people. A sharp contrast to the simplicity of the past. Ba’s eyes, however, would often wander to the horizon, where the memory of the town she had known lingered in the fading light.

“Do you remember,” I asked her one evening, “how different everything was when you first came here?”

Ba chuckled softly. “Oh yes, my dear. Our town was nothing like this. No gardens, no cricket grounds. Just a few houses scattered around the banks of the river. It was a quiet place, and there was no electricity. The only light we had came from the lamp posts.”

I could almost see the town in my mind’s eye, as Ba spoke of it. I imagined the thick stream of the Kaveri River winding its way through the town, children laughing as they swam in its waters, and women washing clothes along its banks. I could almost smell the fresh earth, the scent of the river mixed with the musky odor of the fish caught there.

“The Kaveri was our lifeline,” Ba continued, her voice softening with nostalgia. “It provided us with water, with fish for food, and we washed our clothes in its waters. You know, my dear, the river was much wider then. It flowed freely. Now... now it’s just a trickle.”

I nodded, knowing how true it was. The river’s girth had been reduced over the years due to the construction of dams upstream, making the once mighty Kaveri a shadow of what it had been. But in Ba’s stories, the river still flowed wide and strong, its waters sparkling in the sunlight, just as they had in her youth.

“The lamp posts,” Ba mused, “they lined every street, not just by the river. Ramlal, the lamp lighter, would walk down every evening with his long pole, lighting each lamp. Every home would glow in the soft light, and people would gather outside, talking, reading, working. There was no other entertainment in those days. No television, no internet. Just the light of the lamps and the warmth of the community.”

I could see it in my mind—the streets bathed in a soft, golden light, people sitting under the lamps, sharing stories, exchanging news, gossiping about their neighbors, and catching up on the events of the day. No one was ever truly alone in Ba’s town. Everyone knew everyone, and their lives intertwined like the branches of an ancient tree.

“But wasn’t it difficult?” I asked her, curious about how life had been back then. “Not having electricity, not having all the things we have now?”

Ba paused for a moment, her eyes distant as she reflected on the years gone by. “Yes, it was difficult. There was no running water, either. We had to fetch water from the well. And we didn’t have the convenience of appliances like refrigerators, mixers, or washing machines. Everything was done by hand, slowly, carefully. We didn’t have hospitals with modern facilities either. But we had a doctor, and he did everything—treated illnesses, and performed surgeries. And for entertainment, we had festivals, and we had storytelling. People gathered to tell stories in the evenings, and that was enough.”

I imagined it, the simplicity of it. How the evenings would stretch on, with nothing but the soft murmur of voices and the flicker of the lamps. I thought about how different things were now. The hustle and bustle of the streets below, the endless noise of traffic, the distractions of smartphones and television. The life that Ba had known, a life so much slower, so much more intimate, seemed like something from another world.

“But you still worked, didn’t you, Ba?” I asked. “You didn’t just stay at home like other women.”

Ba smiled a small, proud smile. “No, I didn’t. My father-in-law trained me in the family business. We made cotton sarees, and my work was as important as anyone else’s. I was never confined to the four walls of the house. In fact, it was the work that kept me going. We were a respected family in the town. Our looms were known all over. And I became the matriarch of our family, the one everyone turned to when there was a problem. I was always strong, always working.”

Her voice was steady, but I could hear the pride in it. Ba had never been the type to sit idle. She had been a part of the fabric of the town, weaving not just sarees, but a legacy of strength, resilience, and determination.

“And your marriage, Ba,” I said, my curiosity piqued. “How was it?”

Ba’s expression softened, and for a moment, she was lost in thought. “I was married when I was very young. I hadn’t even started menstruating yet, and my elders decided to wait until I did before sending me to live with my in-laws. It was the custom at the time. I was just a girl then, about fourteen or fifteen. My husband, your grandfather, was already in the business. Like every other young bride, I was expected to take on the responsibilities of running the household. In addition, I was also expected to learn the trade. It wasn’t easy. Being married so young meant that I had to grow up quickly.”

I could hear the quiet strength in her words. She had lived through so much—through a time when girls were married young when life was hard, and when the world moved at a much slower pace. And yet, she had never wavered. She had carved out a place for herself in a world that often had little regard for the ambitions of women.

As Ba continued to talk, I realized that the town she had known was a world that had been left behind in the march of progress. It was a place where people were connected, where stories were shared under the lamp posts, and where everyone knew each other’s business. But that world was gone now, replaced by the fast-paced, impersonal world of today.

“Do you think we’ve lost something?” I asked, glancing out at the busy street below.

Ba’s gaze followed mine, and she sighed. “Yes, we have. Progress is important, and I don’t regret it. But I do think we’ve lost the sense of community, the closeness we once had. People don’t know their neighbors anymore. They don’t sit outside, chatting under the lamps. And the river, the heart of our town, is no longer what it was. It’s just a trickle now, swallowed by the dams that have been built.”

“But Ba,” I said, “the world has changed. We have electricity now. We have running water. The town has grown. People have opportunities now that they didn’t have back then.”

Ba smiled, but there was a hint of sadness in her eyes. “Yes, my dear. We have all of that. But it’s important to remember where we came from. To remember the people, the stories, the way we lived before. That’s what keeps us grounded, what gives us a sense of identity.”

I nodded, understanding now. Ba’s stories weren’t just tales of the past—they were a way to preserve the essence of who we were, who our town was, and what made us human. The lamp posts, the river, the simplicity of life—it was all part of a legacy that needed to be passed down, generation after generation.

“I remember,” Ba said quietly, “when the town was just a handful of houses and the sound of the river was all we knew. But I also remember the warmth of the community and the strength of our family. And that, my dear, is what I want you to remember.”

And as I sat there, watching the modern world unfold before me, I knew that Ba’s stories would never fade. They were the light that would guide us through the changes of the world, the stories that would keep us connected to our past.