Six decades ago, our village, Palluruthy, then a quaint and quiet hamlet in west Kochi, used to be shrouded in darkness after nightfall. Electrification had not reached us at the time. The nearest electrified home was located a good distance away. Pullardesam Road, the only pukka road in the vicinity, abruptly ended half a mile from our home.

A narrow winding alley passing through the courtyards of many houses ended in Pullardesam Road, a dusty, laterite stretch leading to the vast maidan where panchayat meetings took place. To add to our inconvenience, many canals criss-crossed the village. What passed off as bridges on the canals were narrow planks made of coconut wood. Walking on those rickety structures needed practice and luck in equal measure. During low tides, I preferred to wade through the knee-deep water rather than risk falling into the canal from the bridges.

We seldom ventured out after dusk as we feared the street dogs, snakes, and many invisible spirits that wandered freely under the cover of darkness. In certain areas, the village path disappeared under thickets. Night travellers passing through those areas would sometimes get the smell of cooked tapioca, which, they believed, signified the presence of chera pambu (rat snakes). They would walk briskly and cautiously, with firm steps, constantly watchful of the dangers lurking in the darkness.

We used kerosene lamps for light at night. The lit-up nilavilakku (a traditional lamp used for ceremonial purposes) would spread a golden glow in the living room until the evening prayers were said. Once night fell, we lit kerosene lamps. These were two-part structures: the base, made of thick glass, was the oil container, while the removable top was a flute of thinner glass with a bulge in the middle. We also had a dozen or more brass lamps with flat, circular bases and bulky bodies. All the lamps had adjustable wicks. When we turned up the wick for better light, thick fumes billowed out of the flutes of the kerosene lamps. My elder sisters and I would huddle around a lamp placed on the study table and do our homework.

The glass flutes gathered soot. Evening tasks of my sisters included wiping away the soot from each flute with a dry cloth, refilling the tanks with kerosene, and inserting fresh wicks.

My father had a torch powered by three Eveready batteries. It stayed under his pillow at night. The first thing he did each morning was remove the cells from the torch so that they did not melt inside and destroy it. In those days, a torch was a luxury item and one took good care of it. If the villagers had to go out at night, they carried flambeaus made of dried coconut leaves.

The village was agog

The first house to be electrified in our locality belonged to Puthampurackal Jerome, a wealthy sailor in the merchant navy. His magnificent double-storied residence, known as J&P Bungalow, stood in the middle of the village, beside a canal. Lush green paddy fields stretched behind the canal. In the distance, a tranquil, blue, nameless river meandered lazily under the clear sky, shimmering in the sunlight.

One day in the late 1960s, the neighbourhood was suddenly agog with the news that the home of Vypisserry Manuel was getting an electricity connection. His house was getting fitted with electric lamps in the prelude to the great event. On hearing the news, Amma paid Manuel a visit and asked him about the formalities involved in obtaining a private connection. He explained the cumbersome process, telling her that he had to install three electrical posts to access the nearest point. The cost was exorbitant and the running-around involved was tiresome.

An anxious Amma asked Manuel whether he would allow us to take a connection from the post that he had installed. He agreed without any hesitation, such was the strength and warmth of neighbourly feelings those days. He even introduced us to the electrician.

Soon enough, Sadanadan the electrician, a short, middle-aged man with a round face and chubby cheeks, came and surveyed our house. He handed Amma a long list of electrical items to be purchased, along with an estimate of the costs involved. The very next day, the work began, much to our joy.

I watched in awe as Sadanandan and his young assistant installed the wiring. It took them almost three weeks to complete the job, and Sadanandan did it with the precision of an artist. Once it was over, our old house got a new look, with beautiful plastic lampshades hanging from the ceiling. A tube light—a rarity those days—was affixed to the living room wall. When my father came home on leave a few months later, he brought two Orient ceiling fans with him, making us jump with excitement.

However, we had to wait for more than a year to get the electricity connection. When we had it at last, we celebrated at night by switching on all the lights in every room, even in the veranda, much to the envy of my friends, who continued to spend their nights in the flickering light of smoke-emitting kerosene lamps.

Born and brought up in Kochi, T.N. Venugopalan is the author of two memoirs, Kerala Kaleidoscope and A Village Before Time.

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