Illumination

Thinking back to the ride back from the first day out in the field, returning from a small rural Indian village.  Chennai snuck up on us, growing out of the countryside gradually until fields had been completely replaced by apartments mashed together and disorganized shops.  Darkness had fallen, a true darkness so unlike the false twilight that had accompanied the thunderstorm which had come and passed.

            Busses brought workers back into the city after a days toil in the manufacturing plants.  We had passed by a row of faces each time we barreled past a bus.  Tired men and women searching for comfort amidst the other bodies and the hard plastic seats.  Limp fingers draped out windows, heads resting on shoulders, hard stares bridging the space between the cool, confined artificial air of our van and the wet hot breeze passing through their pane-less windows.

            Our hotel-bound path brings us past one of the more desolate parts of town where some of the busses deposit their breathing cargo for the night.  Workers stand around in the dirt, waiting, presumably, for the next form of transportation, for someone else to take them from this cold place to their homes.  It is dark.  Busses drive away, empty, with the hiss of hydraulic doors and diesel farewells.  Distant bulbs provide just enough light for shadows, textures of darkness.

            One light breaks the monotony.  A spindly food cart illuminated by the single harsh fluorescent bulb that hangs over the confectioner’s head sits in the darkness, taking advantage of the waiting workers.  Its front is lines with warped glass jars full of foods not familiar to me, and packages and fruits hang from the roof , framing the confectioner’s busy form.  He moves back and forth, hands darting in and out of jars, in and out of pockets, in and out of the cold glow of his cart. 

            The workers gather to the lit cart likes moths to a flame.  A cliché metaphor to be sure, but fitting nonetheless.  Clichés become that way because they communicate some recurring idea especially well, and repeated ideas contain something that closely resembles truth.  The workers bring their money, clutching tattered bills and grimy coins and trade them in a brusquely handled exchange for a fleeting moment of human interaction.  They gather around that spot for reassurance, for proof positive of humanity beneath the dark abandoned buildings and concrete monoliths  Man hides from his own creations, seeking the voice of another human being, the bustle of the transaction, the interaction of otherwise unrelated lives.

            All of this seen, or imagined, in the instants it took to drive by, as we rushed to our hotel.  And I saw more of this, as we continued through dimly lit city streets and tried to keep strait in my mind the labyrinth of unintelligible names and symbols.  Shops painted in an incandescent  glow as customers make evening purchases.  Glowing embers shed warm light while simultaneously bringing oil to past its boiling point.   Single candle flames feebly shed photons and reveal shambling houses and squatters’ claimed patches of sidewalk.  Islands of illumination floating in the dark sea of the city, islands of concentrated humanity.  People define their spaces, define their home, and seeks the comfort of human contact and companionship within this space. 

This happens all the time.  In our minds we draw lines and borders, make our home and fill it with our heart, and hopefully in the hearts of others.  It is only at night, when the darkness arouses some primitive fear within us and draws us towards the light, towards other people to share in our emotions and in the trails of our lives, that this becomes visible.  Illuminated by wavering flames, glowing filaments and the nearly imperceptible vibrations of noble, exotic gasses.

We reached our destination and piled out of the van.  We stepped into the pools of light surrounding our hotel and climbed the stairs, wearily returning to our rooms.