Mother places a tiny lamp next to the tulsi in the balcony. She has been doing it every evening from the time I can remember. Now past 70, feet and hands unsteady with Parkinson’s, mind hallucinated, she thinks her lamp looks dark. Other balconies in the apartment seem all lit up for Diwali. Is it Diwali today? She wonders. Her memory is no longer to be trusted. But now it is all dark again, darker than before. She hears chants that seem familiar; some sound like the Gayatri Mantra. Or was that the Hanuman Chalisa? Did someone just say ‘Pakistan Murdabad’?
She looks at the starless sky and shudders. Suddenly, she hears voices in her head, and they are driving her insane. Voices warning her about Muslim bakers selling contaminated bread. Voices asking her to boycott Muslim vegetable vendors spitting to spread disease. Voices asking her to light lamps of unity. Voices of hungry stomachs growling on the roads to nowhere. Faint voices of scriptures of love and kindness. Voices of dark winds blowing away her lamp. She feels dizzy, wants to go back to her bed, but it is too dark to walk back. She struggles to light her lamp with her unsteady fingers, one more time...
