Sumana B Jayanth describes a time where darkness and depression descended on her for want of a matchstick After a long day at work, all I can think about a relaxed evening at home. My roommate and I make ourselves comfortable on our favourite beanbags, catch up on the silliest and most unbelievable gossip flying around, and giggle into our drinks. Life lookes good, especially in the company of a certain well-preserved Old Monk. <img alt="" src="/imagedata/2009/may/matches.jpg" align="right" border="1" />Everything is fine till we flip open our pack of cigarettes. We exchange expectant glances. "Of course, you have a light, pass it on," we silently urge each other.u00a0 There's a pregnant pause and several pained looks pass back and forth, but there is no hope of light at the end of the tunnel. We are not carrying matchboxes in our trouser pockets. Taking a deep breath, I heave myself up and comb the house for a match. My room is a smoker's hub, and I am sure to find one lying around somewhere. I pull open drawers, rake up sleeping dust bunnies, rummage through piles of laundry and even look under the kitchen sink...in vain. It's past midnight andu00a0 this city, which shuts down at 11.30 pm, offers no hope. All shops are securely shuttered. To add to our mounting desperation, the cooking gas cylinder splutters and coughs and dies on us. There goes ouru00a0 only hope, we sigh. We launch a search-and-comb operation in each other's bedrooms. And guess what? We return with not one, not two butu00a0 four matchboxes all empty! I am tempted to wake up the neighbours, but disturbing a newly married couple in the dead of the night is not a nice or wise thing to do. Our nicotine craving is driving us insane. I look up from my sorrow and find my roommate, buried in her cupboard as clothes, shoes and other accessories come flying out. Fifteen minutes later, she emerges, triumphant, brandishing a single stick which she holds aloft like the Olympic torch! The clock strikes one and we hunker down, lit cigarettes in hand. We are back to feeling that all is right with the world. We go back to giggling about boy friends, bosses and the first strands of grey that's peeking out of our conditioned and styled hair. At this moment, the candle, our one and only source of light during the powerless night, lets out a shudder and collapses in a heap of wax. We scream, "Not again!". Counting our blessings and not banking on another miracle that will yield a match, we hit the sack, floating in smoke-filled dreams that feature tinder boxes and tin soldiers.

Sumana B Jayanth describes a time where darkness and depression descended on her for want of a matchstick


Light my fire, now!

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Light my fire, now!

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